Ashes of the Fall (7 page)

Carina stumbles out
of the auto-cab, insisting that I stay within the confines of the vehicle. I do as I’m told, peering out of the tinted glass in futility for a couple minutes before directing my attention to the screen.

This gray-haired bastard has had a long day. The wrinkles are showing beneath his make-up—they haven’t had the opportunity to slather on more. Full-on firefighting requires constant vigilance. They use their best and brightest for stories demanding damage control, but by the footage, anyone with a brain can tell that this is an issue that no amount of propaganda can fix. The ash cloud has spread well past Wyoming, now, the entire Northwest is a pile of jumbled dominos, and the police have been putting down minor uprisings throughout the day in New Manhattan—supposedly the safest city in the whole world.

I tap the screen and Old Silver Fox’s voice pipes in low, like a friend whispering in my ear.

“Circle officials indicate that reports of significant crop damage are unsubstantiated. Please do not engage in food hoarding. Any such behavior, or individuals caught marking up products for resale outside of official channels will be subject to severe penalties.”

The charade continues. I wonder how long it can last—like Chancellor Tanner in his shimmering tower, the whole illusion is about to come tumbling down like a house of cards. Tapping the screen with my knuckle, I lean back into my seat, enjoying the silence. Old Silver Fox keeps blathering on, but I’m not listening.

The day’s been so busy, I haven’t thought about Slick or my old crew back in Seattle. They’re probably dead, and for a second, my chest crushes inwards, and I can’t breathe. Which is why I haven’t thought about it. You want to survive in this business, you gotta compartmentalize. Friends have come and gone before, and they’ll come and go many times before I die.

One time, it’ll be my turn.

Still, Slick’s the only mentor I ever had, the guy who taught me everything after Pops passed—damn. I sneak a glance at the screen through slightly blurry vision, tell myself it’s from the liquor, and hope that somewhere in that maelstrom, Slick and my boys made it out.

I’m not too optimistic, though. The door clicks open, and I wipe my eyes.

“You miss me,” Carina says, her hands getting dangerously gropey for someone who believes in chastity, her hot breath heavy with booze, “I did what you wanted. They’re running it down now.”

“I don’t want the engineers hurt,” I say, moving away as she nibbles at my lip, “just find where they live.”

“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms and pouting now, “if that’s how it’s gonna be.”

“It’s not like that,” I say. Goddamn emotion.
Focus on the next part of the plan.
I still have a damn body to get rid of. My brother’s body—no, I can’t think of it like that.
A body
. A problem.

I sit up straighter, square my shoulders. Before I can speak, another breaking announcement comes on the screen, and Carina punches the glass window separating us from the front.

“Those bastards,” Carina yells, hitting the divider again. “Those…” I half expect her to start crying when her voice trails off, but when she looks at me, I can tell she’s just seething. If she had a gun, and Tanner was sitting right here, she’d paint the insides of this car with his brains, no hesitation.

Then she’s hitting
me,
screaming
you bastard
, over and over again, and I remember, for all she knows, I’m the goddamn big bad wolf—the incarnation of the Devil. In the Lionhearted’s little secret meetings, they probably burn effigies of the Inner Circle before every sermon while lecturing about the seven deadly sins.

I let her hit me, staring blankly into her dark hair. The spaces between the punches grow longer, finally dying out into weak flails. Just to remind me that I’m still an asshole. I’ll cop to that, but not to the reason behind the charges—that I’m an Inner Circle asshole.

“I’m trying to help,” I say, softly, and I do the only thing I can think of to diffuse the situation. I take her by her chin, and I kiss her. It only lasts a second, and after that, Carina looks up at me with wide eyes.

“Why’d you do that?”

“You looked sad,” I say, and it might be the first completely truthful thing I’ve said to another human being—without an agenda—since my brother left.

And I hold her.

There’s no crying. She’s not that type of girl. She’s like me. Holds it all inside, lets it corrode her, until she can’t do anything but scream. Which makes her dangerous.

Both of us, dangerous—but to
who
is the question. It might only be to ourselves.

I sneak a glimpse at the screen, to find out what set Carina off.

Today’s big announcement, after the shitstorm of bad news, is finally here. And it’s huge: the opening of the Otherlands. Scrolling text explains that, starting with the roll-out of HoloBand 6, all citizens of the North American Circle will be subject to a mandatory full level 2 scan. Those with genetic profiles and histories indicating a predisposition to criminal behavior will be shipped to the Otherlands.

Apparently, the Circle has renovated the South after Damien Ford’s little reign of terror twenty-two years ago. Appropriate that they would announce it today, on the anniversary of his execution. Everyone wondered for years what the hell the Circle was going to do with the South.

A little chill pulls at my heart when the scroll ends.

Because it says that the roll-out begins tomorrow.

I pat Carina’s head, really trying to comfort myself. I don’t have a plan for this, so the only thing to do is move forward.

“I need that second favor,” I say, “tonight.”

“Anything,” she says, in what she probably thinks is a seductive voice. It comes off as naïve, but that’s attractive in its own way.

“I need to get rid of a body.”

“Okay.”

Somehow, some way, that doesn’t kill the mood.

I still have to stay, but any latent curiosity regarding the inner workings of a bunch of religious nuts is superseded by an intense focus on my survival—to which these mandatory scans pose a serious threat. Racking my brain for solutions, I decide to do a check of Matt’s contact list.

I brace myself, booting up HoloNet for the first time—I’ve only heard about this feeling. Never experienced it.

Tapping the base of my neck, I feel the information flow through me naturally. No menus or blinking lights come before my eyes to indicate the seamless interfacing of man and machine. It’s a difficult sensation to explain, the sudden feeling of being jacked into a vast network that expands your capabilities beyond the human. Like a drug that allows you to access ridiculous stores of information—the entire catalog of human recorded information, your personal life, your memories, depending on the amount of storage you spring for.

Totally seamless, like you’ve experienced instant evolution. Humanity 2.0.

HoloNet might have been useful earlier, had it occurred to me to use it—the sudden knowledge that floods my brain is startling. Who knew that Chancellor Tanner’s favorite book was
1984
? Perhaps he read it as a how-to manual, rather than a terrifying treatise on the dangers of dictatorial fascism.

I didn’t actually know that. I’ve never read the complete book—didn’t have the patience. The mere thought of
1984
, however, triggers a cascade of information, in real-time, and suddenly I know all about Winston Smith being broken by the machine, shedding tears and falling love with his oppressors.

Spoilers, I guess.

I thought that the base HoloBand was intrusive, but this—goddamn. Thank goodness the basic functions don’t require HoloNet. Still, there’s little wonder why most people have HoloNet on all the time, full bore, calls routed directly through their synapses, news delivered right to their neurons. Everything subconscious, a fluid subsystem that acts like a natural extension of the brain.

It’s because the illusion of power and knowledge is intoxication. Me—it freaks the hell out of me, because I only got mine yesterday. After tomorrow, though, who knows. Adaptation is the hallmark of the human mind.

My mind races through Matt’s contact list with startling familiarity. I know none of these people, but information about all of them is instantly available at my fingertips—at least the official stuff, from the Circle intranet.

Matt’s memories are completely missing. I chalk it up as a glitch from the transfer process.

I wonder for a moment, how exactly to call Chancellor Tanner, and the software senses my desire, routes the call. Ringing sounds in the bottom of my ear, right where Old Silver Fox was telling me about the news earlier.

To my surprise, Tanner picks up after a ring and a half.

“News on HIVE?”

“What the hell is this, Robert,” I say. “I have to learn about the Otherlands from this moron on television?”

There’s a long sigh. It feels like he’s literally sighing inside my skull.

“You’re drunk again, Matthew,” Tanner says, “do I need someone to pick you up? Where are you—you’re in the outer districts? Why the hell would you be there?”

I realize I’ve made an error, calling him. Letting a paranoid man know I’m in a place I shouldn’t. But it’s too late now, and I need to know. “Tell me you’re not going to put the entire party through this scanning charade tomorrow.”

“We’re going to be the first to go through it,” Tanner says, with what sounds like glee, “I’ll do mine on a national broadcast. Cutting the red tape, so to speak. To show that I have nothing to hide. And then, the report will indicate that the rest of you have passed yours as well.”

“You know my dad was a con artist,” I say, going out on a limb that’s already dangerously close to breaking, “what’s that going to show?”

“Oh, relax,” Tanner says. “You designed the entire HoloBand system and its firmware. I’m sure you’re clever enough to avoid getting caught in your own net.”

I don’t answer.

I feel like Carina, earlier. I want to scream, and punch Tanner’s face in.

“Matthew,” he says, after the pause goes on longer, “clean yourself up before tomorrow. It’s a big day. And any news on HIVE that comes ahead of schedule is good news, in my book.”

The call cuts off.

That last part sounded like a threat. A week deadline becomes forty-eight hours becomes tomorrow. He’s sick of my shit—of Matt’s shit, whatever that was—and needs this project done.

For a dying man, an extended timeline won’t do.

Carina returns and drops something on the seat between us.

“I have what you asked for,” she says. The brown paper bag crinkles and unfurls slightly, but doesn’t open.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll find out,” she says, then slides on top of me.

When I’m alone
—after the nano-biohazard unit has broken my brother’s body down, sucked it into nothing—and I’m lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling, the smell of Carina clinging to my skin, the sensation of her bare skin against mine in the back of the auto-cab, it finally hits me in the face, harder than the sting of bleach burning my nostrils.

The black dog, the one I keep at bay with cons and gambles and drinks and woman, comes out from the corners of my mind, barring its teeth, clamping down in this pristine, perfect apartment where I’m utterly and completely alone.

I clutch the list of HIVE developmental engineers’ names to my bare chest, all of them crossed off except for one—all dead or missing, Tanner covering the project’s tracks—but right now, I’m not concerned about the future.

The black dog growls in my brain, my chest feeling like it’ll implode, the world going dark. I think about how far the fall will be from here if I plunge through the window, whether I’ll pass out on the way down.

He’s really gone.

Fuck.

Not a single person in the world knows who I am. Or cares.

Slick, the crew, Matt, Pops, mom. All that life does is take, take, take, until you’re emotionally broke, overdrafted into moral bankruptcy. Forced to assume the identity of a dead man, screw religious girls to save your own ass.

I hear all this through the black dog’s slobbery jowls, it telling me to do it. Get rid of yourself. Give it up, Stokes. You’re a piece of garbage, no hero, nothing at all. No one will miss you when you’re gone. There have to be knives here. Or just call up Tanner, fire up the HoloNet, tell him everything. He’ll have the gestapo here in two minutes. Bogden will slit my throat with a smile on his face, Sten looking aghast that he ever paid me any respect at all.

With a chill, I realize that this loneliness is the same as death. But not the real one, where you get to sleep forever in blackness. The Lionhearted’s version—hell. Where you’re aware of every passing moment, trapped in quicksand, getting just enough air through your cracked and bleeding lips to survive and continue the torment.

What’s the point?

The
even-ifs
fire through my brain relentlessly.

Even if I pass the scan tomorrow, I won’t have HIVE—or the beta.

Even if I get HIVE, I won’t have whatever Tanner needs to complete the project.

Even if I could get out of the city, I’d be headed into a broken wasteland of misery. If the West was lawless before, I can only imagine that the standard of living has dropped precipitously in the past twenty-four hours. Looting and pillaging have to be rampant.

Even if I can maintain the con, I’m stuck in skyscraper purgatory forever. And that’s if the ashes don’t claim us all.

Wait.

Reason and cold rationality chain my mental black dog down, leave it in the backyard, where a junkyard dog truly belongs, and I’m off to the races again.

That’s what I’ll do.

I’ll take it all down. This isn’t some Robin Hood act, where I reclaim Sherwood Forest from the evil powers that be to balance the social scales. This is pure Darwinism, becoming the best fit for the current environment. When you’re short-stacked in a game of hold ‘em and get an okay hand, but the blind’s growing and gonna bleed you out, you got no choice but to play aggressively.

Okay hand is generous for what I’m sitting on, but then I’m a con man. And we all lie best to ourselves.

I rewind the mental tape, back to my series of pitiful
even-ifs
. First thing—I gotta placate Tanner. Hook him on the opium drip of hope and anticipation. Get him so focused on HIVE, he doesn’t see the other hand coming around to stab him in the ribs. I take the list of engineers off my chest, and scan through the sea of red ink until I hit the second-to-last name.

The sole survivor. Jaime Aslan. The address is on the paper.

It’s ten o’clock, but I feel like I just woke up.

Time to pay this engineer a visit, before the Circle finishes the job.