The Beam: Season One (15 page)

Enzo looked over at him, confused.

“We took ‘em offa some townies. You can haveem, right?”
 

The closest man lowered his blade. None of the three seemed to have guns, which had grown too scarce for all but the most high-falutin’ criminals. Oh, what Nicolai would give for his stunner. Fighting their way past road bandits with with a stunner would be like hunting squirrels with a bazooka.
 

“Bullshits,” said the man behind them. “You’s from here. They’s your shoes.”

Nicolai shrugged.
 

“Empty you pockets,” said the closest man, looking unsure. He’d clearly planned to kill them, but now it looked like they might get off with a mugging.
 

“You’re not getting my shit,” said Enzo, standing tall.
 

Nicolai closed his eyes briefly, despite the moment. It was exactly the sort of stupidly prideful thing a kid who wanted to die would say, and exactly how that kid would say it.
 

“C’mere bitchy,” said the first man. “Th’easier to cut you with.” He raised his knife again, once again sure of what to do with them. He took a step forward and used his free hand to knock Enzo down. Nicolai flexed forward, but Enzo was already on the grass and the other two men held their blades at his gut.
 

Enzo might have still had a chance, but he didn’t know when to lay down. He bolted upright, and one of the bandits stabbed him in the belly. Nicolai flinched as the man struck, ready to deflect the knife, but it happened too fast. Enzo’s mouth became an O. He gasped his final breath. The other highwaymen watched him, waiting. The murderer twisted his fist in Enzo’s gut.
 

Two blades. One opportunity.
 

Nicolai slammed into the closest knifeman, closing the short distance between them too quickly for the man to strike. As Nicolai knew he would, the second man jabbed his knife toward Nicolai’s back. Nicolai dragged the first man around, twisting him in place. The attacker stabbed his compatriot in the kidney, and before they could regroup and free their knives Nicolai pushed hard backward, hurling the stabbed man into his stabber. The man holding Enzo still hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t expected a challenge, and before he could react, Nicolai took off in a sprint. He was across a path and into a thicket before the men could move. Nicolai heard them yell, but they wouldn’t come after him now. There were homes to rob, easier targets to fall upon. The boy could go, and take his fight with him.

Staying even lower, walking even more cautiously and blocking the most recent horror from his mind, Nicolai chilled his thoughts and focused on setting one foot in front of the other. Homes burned around him. His family was the wealthiest on the coast, his house the largest and most obvious target. The estate was near the hill’s peak, as visible and opulent from below as a crown jewel. It was the first place the Squads would want to attack… but if the family was lucky, it’d also be the last place they’d be able to touch. Sophia, the home’s security system, was hooked into his father’s fledgling technology that he swore would change the world and put Italy on top of the new one. Sophia gave their home a brain, and getting at the Costas’ treasures would require more than crowbars and explosives.
 

They’ll be needed to open the safes and the vaults,
Nicolai told himself as he felt the red fog of panic threatening his mind’s edges.
Their knowledge of the system makes them important. They’ll be fine. It’ll be okay in the end, thanks to Sophia.
 

And for a few steps it even made sense, and Nicolai almost relaxed. How could the Squads get past the mansion’s security without hackers, especially considering they’d be hacking a next-gen network that few people in the world even knew existed? But his fantasy fell apart when he reached the estate to find the gates breached, the big wrought iron doors hanging askew. It looked like a tank had run through them. So much for needing hackers to pass the first perimeter; brute force was still obeyed by even the best technology.
 

The breach (caused by a vehicle that was now half in the pool, its rear poking into the air at the end of two long, dirty ruts through the manicured grounds) had set off the house alarms, but they must have been going off for a while by the time Nicolai arrived because all he heard was the occasional reminder chirp. The safety lights were still strobing, making the disorder he could see through the windows look like a riotous discotheque. And at the top of the circular driveway, the front door yawned open as if beaten in by a battering ram.
 

Nicolai walked the length of the central building, trying to scope the situation before going inside. He saw something dark on the walls, like an explosion of paint. In the flickering light, it looked almost black. Before committing to enter, Nicolai found a terminal and killed the alarm. Then he walked inside.
 

The house was upside down. Nothing valuable had been left, and nothing inconsequential was still whole and undamaged. The intruders — a group that probably included everyone by now, including the good people of the Amalfi Coast below — seemed to have been settling a grudge. They’d ripped open every cushion and befouled every plush carpet and piece of art. His family’s belongings were either smashed to bits or stolen. It looked like the aftermath of a bombing.
 

He found their bodies in the living room. They’d been killed with knives (his brother Vincenzo and mother) and with what was probably a homemade hand cannon (his father and twin sisters).
 

Ever since he’d begun walking up the hill with Enzo, Nicolai had been steeled for what he might find, but his wall crumbled when he saw them. His mouth came open and his eyes started to water.
 

Then something struck him from behind, and Nicolai saw nothing else as he fell to the floor.
 

Someone was snapping in front of his face.
 

It took Nicolai a long and excruciatingly painful moment to remember where he was and what had preceded his wrists being tied, his mouth being gagged, and his body being dragged down into the wine cellar. Memory returned in red chunks, slamming into him with the rhythm of those snapping fingers. He blinked to clear blood from his eyes. His head hurt and his scalp seemed to be bleeding.
 

“Heya. Heya, boyo. You commin’ around?” said the fingers. He saw a man behind them, his jaw seemingly twisted out of kilter. The roughneck had days’ worth of stubble and a new laceration on his cheek; fresh enough that there was blood at its edge. Nicolai wondered if he himself done it, or if it had been done by someone in his family. The thought reminded him of the bodies in the living room, so he pushed it down and tried to focus.
 

Nicolai grunted.
 

“Oy! He’s coming back up!” the man yelled over his shoulder. Someone else came walking over, this one in an ugly green shirt that was covered in burns and dirt. His face was long and narrow, as if stretched on a taffy machine.
 

“So he is,” said the newcomer, ripping Nicolai’s gag from his face. Then, to Nicolai, he added, “We need your eye.”
 

“To see what you did to my family?”
 

The man with the long face looked hurt. “Heya, we didn’t do that. They were that way when we found them. Some assfuck smashed through the gate and stole all your goodies. Shame that, right? No, I mean your eye. To open the safe.”
 

Nicolai wondered who the men were, but it didn’t matter. He could hear more of them moving around everywhere now — in the wine cellar and above in the house. There seemed to be dozens, maybe more. Had they been hiding when he’d come in?

“We don’t have a safe,” said Nicolai.
 

There was a sharp pain and Nicolai looked down to see that the man had poked a knife into his side. The stab was shallow, but the blade was long. Plenty of room to go further, and take his intestines as it went.

“I don’t think the safe will open if I hack your eye out and hold it up to the scanner, but I’m good to try,” said the man. “We know you gots a safe. But there’s not lots of time. Fortune favors the bold and speedy, eh? There’s other bands on this hill. Help with the safe or I kill you. Your choice.”
 

Nicolai wouldn’t satisfy the man by letting him know how much the knife in his side was killing him, but he did look up at his long face and decided that his offer was true. There would be no game-playing. If this group didn’t get the safe quickly, they’d have to fight other rioters for it. The safe mattered, but not enough to take the time needed beat the truth slowly from Nicolai’s body.

“How many people are in my house?” Nicolai asked. He swallowed and looked up.
 

“Enough,” said the man.
 

“Will you kill me afterward?”
 

The knife twisted. “I guarantee that if you
don’t
help, I’ll kill you now.”
 

Nicolai couldn’t help it; he cried out, nodding vigorously until the knife left his side. Then he looked at the wine cellar’s wooden ceiling, hearing the number of tromping boots increase with every passing minute. He thought of the security system, of Sophia, and of what his father had told him about concentric perimeters. How much had the looters destroyed? Would the safe even still work?
 

The long-faced man watched Nicolai, watched the other man. How many were in the group? There had to be dozens. Maybe as many as fifty. He might be able to get by one man, two men, maybe three or four. But the house was occupied like a besieged land by an invading army. Running was no longer an option. Still, Nicolai wondered if he should resist. Why should he let them into the safe? They’d probably kill him afterward, if for no other reason than to cover their trail. So why should his final act in his family’s house — be it his last before running or last before dying — be a betrayal of their most valuable possessions… and maybe even their biggest secrets?
 

The man, seeming to sense his hesitation, kicked him to action.
 

Nicolai teetered to his feet, then climbed the stairs in front of the man’s nudging insistence. Nicolai wondered if he could run. They’d untied his hands; his feet weren’t bound; he knew the house; he knew the area. Sure, the bandit might shoot him in the back (if he had a gun, which he might not), but at least he’d have a chance. Nicolai was agile; he could duck and weave and evade as well as anyone. But the fantasy dissolved when he reached the top of the stairs and found what looked like an army. Dirty men and women (some looking like a gang, plenty looking like townies spattered with blood and grime) milled through the hallways, assessing everything that remained. They were sprawled on his father’s favorite couch, in his mother’s pneumatic rocker. His father had an easy chair with a levitating ottoman — a prototype using the same technology that had flown Enzo’s paper airplane into Ms. Marco’s ass a lifetime ago. Two men were fighting over it, mystified by the floating cushion.
 

As Nicolai walked, the people in the house turned to watch him. The long-faced man was clearly the leader, and they knew where Nicolai was leading him. It was the only reason they’d stayed.
 

Feeling conflicted, his heart beating hard in his chest, Nicolai led the growing party into the master bedroom. A few milling rioters who’d camped out in the bedroom were clustered around the nightstand, where a scan panel had already been opened. Its panel was yellow, because Nicolai had put the alarm in standby before he’d entered.
 

He looked at the thirty or so menacing faces surrounding him in the large room — all of them waiting for the home’s heir to set his eye to the scanner.
 

With a final, rueful look around, Nicolai bent and set his forehead against the pad. The system was self-contained and would function even in a power or network failure. A red light flashed in his eye, and then there was the small chirp as Sophia’s (or her latest buffered identity algorithms if the connection was severed) recognized him as a Costa. A second panel slid open, and Nicolai keyed in a code. There was another chirp. Then, inside the open walk-in closet, a panel rose from the floor on a pneumatic lift. On it sat a large brushed aluminum safe.
 

“Boxes in boxes, eh?” said the bandit leader. “Open that one, too.”
 

Nicolai did as he was told, kneeling in front of the safe and feeling the pressure of scores of eyes over his shoulder. Would they swarm when he opened it? Would it become every man and woman for themselves, or was there clan honor among them?
 

Nicolai turned the dial, then pressed his finger against the small green pad on the safe. The mechanism clicked and he opened the door. The masses behind him sighed and leaned in, but they stayed back.
 

The man with the long face kicked Nicolai aside and moved forward. Inside the safe was only one item: a beautiful crystal box. The man pulled out the box, crossed to the bed, and set it on the bedspread. The others clustered around, watching. There was no lock on the latch. The man flicked the latch and opened the box. Inside were what looked like hundreds of silver marbles.
 

“What are these?” said the bandit, looking back at Nicolai.
 

Nicolai didn’t have to answer. As the crowd watched, the marbles began to rise from the box of their own accord. They began to revolve around one another, floating and swirling in patterns. They danced that way for a while, then formed a miniature cyclone, fizzing from the box in a wave. The silver balls spread out, moving throughout the room, throughout the crowd. Like the levitating ottoman, the rioters had clearly never seen anything like the flying marbles before. They staggered back, unsure. But after a few seconds, their curiosity got the best of them and they began to poke at the things, to try and grab them (the spheres zoomed away playfully, then returned like sparrows), and finally to laugh. The marbles continued to float, swapping one for another in pairs, bouncing, making vortices in the air. They paused, moved, paused again, like a dance.