Data Runner (5 page)

The image is of a Carrion Crow in flight. Drawn in black with just enough purple mixed in to give the plumage an iridescent sheen. Wings spread. Feathers splayed at the tips almost as if it's swooping. Beak slightly open, ready to caw. But the most captivating thing of all is the eye, the one visible eye that looks outward. Not at me but at the outside observer looking back at my arm. It stalks. Like the eyes in those paintings that appear to follow you wherever you go, the eye of the bird on my arm draws you in. Mesmerizes.

The eye does have a functional purpose too. It happens to be exactly where the chip is. “What do you think?” Snake asks.

“It's perfect.”

“It gets better,” he says, picking up the UV light. “Scorpions produce a fluorescent compound called
beta-Carboline
in their cuticles, which intensifies with each molting until the hardening of their final exoskeletons.”

Snake shines the UV light across my arm, and I am immediately awestruck by how the dark bird lights up. It glows indigo like some sort of mythical creature. All except for the vigilant eye that shines pale purple from the chip beneath.

“The Carrion,” says Cyril. “From here on out, that will be your tag.”

It isn't until Snake removes the UV light and the bird on my arm stops glowing that I recover my senses. “Okay, so what now?”

“Now you wait.” Cyril opens another package to show me one more item nested in foam. This one needs no explanation. It's a standard Superconducting Quantum Interference Device, or SQUID, interface. The same kind doctors use to communicate with surgically implanted components like pacemakers. “I assume you know how to use this.”

“There's not much to know,” I reply. It's totally noninvasive. All you have to do is stick the sensor over the implant. The link will form magnetically through the skin. Truth be told, I don't even need it because Martin and I already have every interface known to man down in his workshop. But ours are piecemeal, and those SQUIDs are expensive, and this one is brand new and surgical grade, so I'm not about to turn it down.

“When the chip in your arm vibrates, use the interface to link it to your thin screen. That will give you the pickup location. Go there. They'll load you up and give you the destination. Deliver the cargo. Once delivery is made, the job is done. We're going to keep you local for a while, so your runs will always be point to point within the Free City. Payment gets wired into your account upon completion of each job. It's that simple. If all goes well, you won't see us again for a while.”

“What if I need to get in touch with you?”

“Just like the business card, run your chip over any scanner ported into the aggrenet. The scanner will return a local error, but there's a trigger code in there that will get back to us.”

“Then what?”

“Then we'll find you.”

“This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my entire life,” says Dexter without a hint of exaggeration.

To be fair, it is the stupidest thing I've ever suggested in my entire life. “But you did bring it?” I ask anyway.

“It's in my bag,” he says. “But let me just say again for the record how completely moronic this is.”

The old public library is a three-story building that's been boarded over. This particular section of Main Street got hit pretty hard by the downturn, so the library is just one in a string of abandoned buildings that's been fenced off at street level. The only way in is from the top.

Three buildings over, Dex and I use the fire escape to get to the rooftop of the old gym. I guess it's kind of ironic. Back when the town had money, people would use machines with hologram projectors to simulate climbing up a wall when all they had to do was go outside and do it for real. Although looking at it now, I guess it could only be people like us who see the forest through the trees. All those open-faced buildings. All those heaps of rubble and half-crumbled walls. All those towers of vacant Blackburn Corps of Engineers scaffolding that are just enough to make it seem like a reconstruction effort is underway when really there is none. All those exposed pipes and jittery old fire escapes. All the steel cables running down empty elevator shafts. It all makes the perfect training ground for the Brentwood Dragons. That's what makes us different. While everyone else compares Brentwood to its former glory, we embrace it for what it is now. We see the beautiful playground beyond the blight. Because for us, there are no obstacles that are not challenges. Obstacles are like plateaus, and there are plenty of plateaus, but those plateaus are never limits. There are no limits.

From the rooftop of the old gym, Dexter and I gap jump the buildings to get to the old library.

All week long I've been tracing in dressy clothes with my body armor underneath to get used to both of them. I figure if I'm going to make it on the sneakernet then I'm going to have to blend in, and there is no way I'm going to do that in the Free City looking like a kid from Brentwood. The shoes were harder, but Dexter helped me find a pair of black lace-up boots that are both stylish and functional, protective but light. The new clothes I got used to quickly, since that was how I used to dress anyway. The armor is a different story. It's a big change, that's for sure. Particularly when rolling out of a landing. I've grown accustom to feeling the ground across my back as my frame absorbs the energy. But now I have this shell between me and the ground that doesn't absorb but transfers the energy, so each time I come out of the roll there is all this extra momentum popping me off the ground like a spring. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I might even use it to my advantage once I get used to it.

Dexter and I make our way down the stairwell to the third floor. The entire floor is empty. All that remains are the concrete pillars and load-bearing walls holding up the ceiling. Everything else is gone. Even the pipes in the walls have been gutted.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

“Cyril said that other runners have been shot at.”

“Shot
at
doesn't mean
shot
,” says Dex.

“Yes, but getting shot at means that sooner or later one of those bullets is going to hit the target. Think of this as a dry run.”

“Dry run in stupidity.”

“It's a controlled experiment.”

Dex shakes his head. “This is so stupid, Jack.”

“No, it's not. I have no idea what it feels like. The first time is going to be a shock no matter what, and I don't want that to happen out in the field. By doing it like this, I'll at least know what to expect. It's building the muscle memory, that's all. I'm just desensitizing my body to it.”

“Are you even listening to yourself? You're talking about desensitizing your body to a bullet, Jack. A bullet.”

“Not the bullet itself, Dex, but the impact.” Actually, now that I do listen to myself, the whole thing does start to sound a little crazy. But then aren't half the things we do crazy? “It's not like the bullet will pass through the armor.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because this gear is certified to stop a 9mm slug at point-blank range.”

“Says who?”

“I read the instructions.”

“Oh, that's different,” mocks Dexter. “If that's what the instructions say then this isn't stupid at all.”

“Give me a few feet just to be on the safe side.”

“I don't think there is a safe side here, but I'll give you five.”

Dexter opens his bag and removes an old pillowcase rolled into a tight bundle. He puts it on the ground and carefully unrolls it to reveal his uncle's gun. I just stare at it. All my life, this is the closest I've ever been to one.

“What kind is it?” I ask.

“It's a Beretta. I don't know the model.”

“But you're sure it's a 9mm?”

“If it isn't then we've been using the wrong bullets all these years.”

Because of the new gun-control laws, it is impossible to get a carrying license for modern weapons. However, because of the way the laws were written, any handgun manufactured prior to the formation of the North American Alliance is automatically grandfathered in. That's why the market for “loophole guns” is so big. The carrying permits for those are as easy to get as a driver's license. That's what makes them so valuable. The newer the loophole gun, the more valuable it is.

“I wouldn't do this for anyone,” says Dexter. The way he handles the gun, working the slide and hammer with confidence, you can tell he's an expert. There's a certain authority in the way he holds it, even in the way he always points it at the ground. He knows exactly what it is, what it's capable of, and how to use it. You can tell he respects it as much as he commands it. “No one else but you. You know I hate guns.”

“I know.”

Out in the squatter settlements, guns are a fact of life. Not only did Dexter have to learn how to use one at a very early age, he had to be ready to use it. Not because he was a thug, but just so he could protect his mother when his father and uncle weren't around. The things that can happen to a woman left alone in the settlements are unspeakable. Unspeakable. For that reason alone, Dexter didn't have the luxury of being her child. He had to be another man in the house.

In a way, I think that's why he and I get along so well. Our backgrounds couldn't be more different, but the one thing we do have in common is our independence. He and I both had to learn early on how to take care of ourselves. Another thing we have in common is our ambition. When the Drakes finally made it out, it wasn't just the settlements Dexter left behind, it was everything that went along with it, including all those facts of life he once had to live by. Like guns.

Dexter points the gun away and inserts the empty magazine, pulls back on the slide until it locks open, inserts one bullet directly into the chamber, and eases the slide forward. “Last chance to come to your senses,” he says.

There really isn't a soft spot to catch my fall, but that doesn't matter anyway. According to the instructions, I should let the bullet throw me off my feet and land on my torso. The way it's been designed, the ultramesh is supposed to disperse the energy of the bullet throughout the armor. The harder I hit the ground, the more energy is dispersed throughout the gear. Basically, the way the instructions read, if I do have to take a bullet, I should go with its trajectory and let the body armor do its job. To that end, I rock backwards onto my heels.

“Do it.”

With his finger well off the trigger, Dexter palms his grip-hand and raises the gun to my chest. Even in his oversized hands it looks large. This is when I begin to wonder if I really am crazy.

I flinch as Dexter pulls the trigger, but nothing happens. He tries again. Still nothing. Dexter thumbs the safety and points the gun to the side. Pulls back the slide about halfway and releases it. Returns it to my chest. Flips the safety off.

“What hap—”

The blinding flash strikes my chest so hard it throws me off my feet with a thunderous bang that I don't even hear until I am already sailing backward through the air. Much further than I ever would have imagined. I land hard on my back. The next thing I see is through tears. Dexter hovering over me.

“Jack! Jack! Don't move. Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” I gasp.

What does it feel like to get shot? Lying flat on my back, it feels like a 7-foot muscle man has just wielded a 10-pound sledgehammer over his head and brought it straight down onto my chest. Even though I've done exactly what I was supposed to do, I can feel the impact of the slug like a dent in my endoskeleton.

Dexter hovering over me, “Jack, say something.”

“You were right, Dex. This was a stupid idea.”

But I have to get up. Out in the field I won't have the luxury of catching my breath. I roll to my side and push myself back onto my feet—barely. Between me wobbling back and forth and the room rocking side to side, I'm amazed I can even remain upright, but I do. My entire body is sore, even my legs, and my chest feels like it has just been punched in, and there is one rib in particular that feels cracked.

I remove my sweater. Underneath it all, I am amazed at how small the bullet looks compared to how it feels. It's just this tiny little thing caught in the mesh. Dexter rifles through his bag and comes out with a pair of pliers. He grabs the slug and twists it out of the mesh, leaving behind a tiny dent in the weave. I hold out my hand and Dexter drops it into my palm. Such a tiny little thing.

“What was my down time?” I ask when I finally catch my breath.

“I don't know. Less than a minute.”

“That's from the shock.” I unbuckle the armor and reach inside to my rib. The bruise is so big that my fingertips run into it by accident.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I wince. “Yeah, I am. I think next time I should be able to roll out of it.”

Dexter's expression is something between shock and amazement.

“You've never been shot at while carrying a load?” I ask.

Dexter shrugs. “My loads aren't high value. I don't get paid as much, but I don't get shot at either. Anyway, I'm more concerned about that guy with the samurai sword who's running around the sneakernet cutting off people's arms.”

“
Katana
,” I correct. Just as I regain my balance I feel a tingle in my arm. I'm not even sure what it is at first. Until I suddenly realize, the chip inside has started to vibrate.

I'm not sure what to expect when I show up at the address given to me by my cortex chip, but the one thing I don't expect is that it will be such a dump. It isn't even a high-rise, just a crummy 12-floor walkup that smells old.

The suite is one large room in which people sit at long tables sectioned into workstations. There is nothing dividing one workstation from the next, so everyone can see and hear everyone else. The only private office is located in the back corner. Figuring that's where I'm supposed to go, I start down the narrow aisle between the last row of workstations and the wall, but before I get there a hand reaches out and pulls me to the floor. Normally it wouldn't have, but my legs are still weak from the bullet. Not to mention the bruise on my chest the size of a softball.

I try to get up but a second hand grips my shoulder and shoves me back down.

I glance up. Sitting above me are two guys in white shirts who look identical except for their chins and ties. One makes a shushing motion with his fingers. “Arcadian?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer, wondering if any of this is normal.

“Good,” says the other. “We've been expecting you.”

He motions for me to stay down as he does something at his desk that I can't see. A moment later he lowers his hand to pass me a SQUID sensor, and I wonder again if any of this is normal. I pull up my sleeve, exhale hot breath onto the contact and stick it over the crow's eye. For some reason, this is when it hits me that I am actually doing this. I am a data runner.

The data stream enters my chip in magnetic pulses that feel like the ball end of a sewing pin tapping Morse code into my arm. It has no discernable mass of course, but it's almost as if I can feel its weight loading into me. This goes on for about thirty seconds while the two guys above me act as if I'm not even there. Then comes a two second pause followed by a quick series of five rapid pulses, then nothing at all as the light on the sensor goes out. The same guy who handed it to me reaches down with a scrap of paper. Scribbled on it is an address. I try to take it but the guy won't let go. I try again but his fingers hold tight. I guess I'm supposed to memorize it. I do, then fold the SQUID into the paper and let him retract both.

The other one warns me to stay down. “I'll tell you when it's clear.”

I take a moment to admire the bird on my forearm before pulling down my sleeve. It really is a beautiful image. I have to be sure to give Snake my compliments when I see him again, if I ever see him again.

“There is a brown envelope taped under the desk,” he says. “Grab it.”

I see it immediately, a small padded envelope. I peel it off. The rip of tape is louder than either man is comfortable with; both look around the room nervously.

“What am I carrying?” I ask.

Now they eye each other. “We were told there would be no questions,” says the man with the address.

“That we could rely on it,” says the other. “We were told there would be discretion.”

“Alright,” I say. “So what do I do with the envelope?”

“That's your red herring.”

Red herring?
I wonder.

“It's your ticket out of here,” says the other. “Security will stop you on the way out. They will search you. When they find that envelope on you, they will take it. You should make a fuss over it, but let them have it. Then deliver the real package.”

I slide my backpack off my shoulder and stuff the envelope inside. “Anything else?”

Neither guy answers. Neither guy says anything until, all of a sudden, “Go now!”

I crouch-walk along the wall to the beginning of the row before popping back to full height. If anyone else notices me, they pretend not to. I nearly turn around and look back at the two guys but manage to check myself. I'm pretty sure that's the last thing they would want. Moving toward the door, I keep looking for the security they mentioned, but I don't see it anywhere. For a moment I think I might avoid it altogether, until I exit the suite and find him waiting for me outside. Not
that
big, as security guys go. He'd probably be about Dexter's size if not for all the artificial growth hormones.

“Stop right there!” He rips the backpack off my shoulder and pulls it open with far more zeal than necessary. I've hidden the envelope in the hydration compartment to make it look like I'm trying to sneak it through, but it doesn't take him long to find it. He removes the envelope and drops the bag.

Seriously, would it have been that difficult for him to just hand it back to me?

He turns the padded envelope over in his hands. “This is a secure work environment. All shipments in and out are processed through Consolidated.”

Consolidated, or what used to be the Postal Service. Nothing is secure in their hands. They're a huge part of the reason we have a sneakernet to begin with. Trust me, it isn't the Consolidated salary that's put so many postal carriers in luxury vehicles and vacation properties.

“Look, I've got a job to do,” I say and make an attempt for the envelope.

“All shipments are processed through Consolidated,” he repeats. “Your services are not required here!”

He whips it away and widens his eyes like we're about to have a problem. We aren't about to have a problem. I think I've played the part convincingly enough. I throw up my hands. “Okay, fine. But if you don't want me showing up then you should tell your people not to call. I don't have time for this crap.” As soon as I say it I realize I might have pushed it too far. The last thing I want is for him to start grilling me about which employee handed me the envelope. “Whatever, man. I've got another job downtown.”

I move to pass. He stops me. I step back and stare at him. Neither of us blink. I should be plotting my lane past him, but somehow I know it's not the right move. He has the envelope. I have no reason to run. Running now would only arouse suspicion. So I don't. Finally he lets me go. I move past him and down the stairwell.

Behind me, I hear him take the envelope back into the suite. This is of no concern to me. I make my way out the building and head for the nearest subway station. I have real cargo to deliver.