Bottle Born Blues

by Conor H Carton

  I did get to learn an embarrassing level of detail about other volunteers’ lives, domestic and professional, and was glad to learn that everyone was busy making a mess of their lives, too. I still had an edge on them, just not as much as I’d imagined.

  Finally and inevitably, the day arrived, announced by a knocking at the entrance to my space. When I looked, there was a box waiting for collection; it threw itself at the door every few seconds to announce its presence and urgency. I picked it up and my arms were gripped by a rip-claw charm. If I wasn’t the person the parcel was intended for, I was going to lose my arms at the elbow. The charm took a blood sample and confirmed my identify before dissolving. Inside, wrapped in a plain piece of drab grey cloth, was the Shoshone Circlet. It was disconcerting to see it out of its usual context. I looked closely; there was no sign that it wasn’t the real deal, and for a second I had the fantasy that they’d stolen it so I wouldn’t have to. That vanished when I noticed the corner of my health card showing underneath the cloth. Damn. I’d still have to manage my plan.

  Folding the cloth over the copy, I put it in my work bag. Should I be terrified or excited? I headed for work, stopping at the voting box outside my unit, and after queuing for a few minutes, placed my vote. I did actually choose a UPCR candidate. There were running tallies and turnout numbers displayed on every available screen, but the real action wouldn’t happen until much later in the evening, when the safe seats were out of the way, and the turnovers and marginal ones came into play. We were planning on using that as our cover, which meant I still had to get through the next hours without imploding.

  This proved easier than expected. The demands for updates ceased; it was too late now. At work, the tension had largely drained from of everyone, and the actual event proved anti-climatic. A lull appeared as everyone eased themselves back into doing what they were supposed to have been doing … in preparation to start doing it again. I did a tour, mostly to get a chance to see if the shaft cover had been sprayed. It had. The rest of the locations were in acceptable shape, so I filled the gap to the kick-off by completing reports, approving and declining requests, and finally cornering the group financial lead and getting my expenses signed off before they were booked to a new period.

  Finally, the shift ended and I picked up my work bag, waved at Rosby and nodded at Akion, who was standing at Rosby’s desk. Akion nodded back and I ambled to the transit stop. After travelling to the square, I took a loop for two sweeps, keeping Lincoln’s instructions in mind as I watched for anyone doing the same. The transit emptied twice before I disembarked and then took a flyer to the unit where Lincoln had rented space.

  She greeted me at the door, and seemed perfectly calm and assured. She was wearing a loose unadorned robe, which she’d shed when she entered the tank. We silently compared watch settings and moved into the wet room. On the ground rested the tank; it was slightly longer and wider than Lincoln, and a metre-and-a-half high, filled with distilled water. Lincoln would have no room to turn in it. It was just a doorway that she had to be able to get into and out of quickly. Our watches chimed and Lincoln dropped her robe. Naked, she stepped into the tank, then lay face-up before vanishing. Work had officially started.

  12

  Lincoln was an Aquatic Ornamental and written into her was the ability to shift from one body of water to another. In their heyday, Aquatics would shift from one fountain to another across house grounds, synchronizing displays for the entertainment of their owners. It was base code for Aquatics, so it travelled with them no matter how they’d been bred. Ornamentals were among the few non-natural lifeforms who’d embraced natural reproduction; they wanted to preserve their looks.

  Someone attempted to steal the Shoshone Circlet once a month on average. This meant the protection system was in constant use and could be observed by someone employed at the Mengchi Centre for the Promotion of Historical Knowledge. The system was simple and fatal; when the breach sounded, the room sealed shut and was flooded with highly toxic water. The room filled instantly via an altered-state charm. There’d been a wide variety of liquids used, but water was finally established as carrying the most effective toxins.

  The thief didn’t drown, by the by. One string of toxins attached the clothing to the skin, another string removed the clothes and skin, and a third string illuminated every nerve in the flayed figure with horrifying pain, and the final toxin melted the body. The room was pumped out, the recovered clothes and skin analyzed, and all biological family relatives and legal relatives rounded up and interrogated. At any sign of prior knowledge, they were executed and became IPS staff.

  For my plan, the key was the water. Lincoln could shift from one known location of water to another, and this would drop her directly into the chamber without having to go through the front door. Just ahead of her shifting, we’d sent a probe to the chamber to break the altered-state charm so Lincoln could shift from water to water.

  Being naked, the first toxin string wouldn’t activate. The charm would provide a barrier for the time she needed to grab the case with the Circlet and shift back to the freshwater tank.

  That was the idea, but the only way to prove it would work was to do it.

  I’d had enough time to think of ways that the plan could go wrong—from the probe not springing the charm and Lincoln landing in a dry room and unable to get back, to her dying in agony. I was sick with those thoughts when she reappeared in the tank and tossed the case with the Circlet before sinking again. I pushed the bottle with the anti-toxin into the tank and then concentrated on placing the case into a carry-all. The case seemed to resist my efforts, probably due to a secondary security charm.

  I turned to look at Lincoln. She was stretched full out in the tank under the surface of the water and didn’t appear to be breathing. The anti-toxin had clouded the water a little, but not enough to hide the multiple marks on her body. She appeared to have been jabbed repeatedly by a single-unit burner. I stood beside the tank with her work suit, ready, mentally running a countdown. She came out of the tank exactly on the mark, as the first assault on the entrance started, and pulled on the suit without a word. I was already wearing mine ready for the exit.

  When the second assault came, the force reached the wet room as hoped. I opened the charm and it dropped us directly outside the entrance to the Rat Lines. I was about to say something when Lincoln grabbed the handles and pulled herself up without any apparent effort, and started to run down the line. I swung the carry-all onto my back and followed. I had no idea if the goblins had taken the bait or not. Lincoln had said that it was a classic amateur mistake to set something up and then check if it had worked. That check would simply alert someone to the fact that it was a set-up and blow the plan.

  It had to look natural and accidental. The goblins would take the bait, or not; you decided the risk and took it. This was easier to accept when it was being discussed in a safe location, but running down the Rat Lines made the risk appear unbalanced and pressing. I heard movements in the shadows all around, rustling and scrabbling, and the occasional grunt and groan. A drop, of what I hoped was saliva and not a tear, landed below my left eye. Thanks to the multitude of micro drug doses running through my body, I didn’t unravel on the spot. The writhing and screaming was all internal, and my body continued regardless.

  The safe-passages chips we wore wouldn’t stop a goblin team from attacking, but they did stop other residents from taking action. The goblins were just the most prominent lifeform in the Rat Lines, and enforced their dominance with the same efficiency as the Standing Committee did in the daylight above. The goblins, at least, ate you and that was that; others inhabited you while you retained full awareness, ebbing and flowing to ensure that you never achieved blessed numbness.

  It was those lifeforms that observed us running the lines and studied the safe-passage chips in the hope they would wink out before we passed out of reach. The DarkSights in the face covering gave us enough vision to see where we were steadily ru
nning. Lincoln heard them first and raised an arm to alert me, and then I heard the footsteps as well. At this distance, it was impossible to be sure if the security team had followed or if it was a goblin team, not that it mattered a great deal. Both would be a fatal problem if they found us.

  Lincoln had estimated that the security team would find us within minutes. They’d not know our destination, so they’d drop a troop into the Rat Lines and swamp us. The goblins were unknown; even if most of them swarmed into the warehouse, there’d still be some who wouldn’t have been able to get in before the close-down. They’d be returning to the Rat Lines and they’d be looking for prey. The best outcome was that the goblins and the security team encountered each other; the worst was that they both encountered us.

  Lincoln’s fabulously unhelpful description rattled in my mind. “You roll the dice and you scratch your balls.”

  My balls were so itchy I thought a colony of biting insects were roaming around my scrotum. Still, I ran, following Lincoln’s steady pace and trusting the medication in my blood to stop me from acting on fear and panic. That got harder as I felt, but didn’t hear or see, a line of lifeforms sprint alongside me before careening into a passage on the left. We were making no noise as we moved, because the suits were silent movers. What I hadn’t realized was that they also dampened our vibrations; we were as noisy as shadows.

  By my internal countdown, we were approaching the exit when the initial signs of a firefight became apparent. Like lightning, there were luminous flashes, followed with the rumbling sounds of heavily clashing weapons. A security team had encountered something, or somebody, who was happy for a confrontation. The struggle wouldn’t remain small for long, because other security teams would quickly be drawn, as would other inhabitants of the Rat Lines. We’d have to cross a battle zone to get where we wanted.

  Lincoln never faltered and continued at the same pace, heading for the exit with me close behind. There’d obviously been trouble, because I had to jump over a bundle of rags that once dressed a twitching body. We were on the fringes of the conflict; the bright flashes and strident sounds were more frequent and closer.

  Then, we were in the cauldron, dark and quiet, a tangled mass of vibrations. In an underground fight, noise or light gave away your position, which was a bad thing; they were also an unavoidable byproduct of weapons favored by those likely to find themselves in such a skirmish—weapons designed to kill instantly, no wounding. A wounded opponent could still kill you.

  The weapons were rigged with displacement units, which threw light and noise away from your location to a random one nearby. Of course, if you had a big enough fight going on, you might be illuminated by someone else’s light and then become a visible target. For anyone trying to sneak across the battlefield without being noticed, the chances of actually being noticed were rather high … and, as such, we were noticed.

  We raced past a goblin team stripping security staff, leaving them ready for a pick-up crew. They started to fire on us right away, and Lincoln tossed a SoundBlaster at them. Bits of them splattered my suit. We’d announced our presence. The security teams would be converging at full speed. However many goblins there were, there’d not be enough to slow the security forces sufficiently, so we had to make sure we made the exit before they did. This meant we could no longer travel around the perimeter of the conflict, but had to step through it.

  Lincoln had been explicit about this possibility. “We won’t get to the exit unopposed. There’s going to be blood work and you need to be ready. What do you prefer: blade or barrel?”

  I just gaped, having no idea. The prospect of physical violence always terrified me.

  “I think you’re a blade,” Lincoln stated, scanning my tense face. “A gun takes too much thinking, a blade is just reaction, and I think if you’re put in the right corner, you’ll start reacting. Give me your arm.” She grimaced when she took it. “You could do with some strength exercises. It’s a bit late now, but definitely go for it later. Open your fist and stretch your fingers. A Net Cutter for you, double-edged with a cutting point. Waving it in any direction will do damage.”

  Knife in hand, I resumed following Lincoln, but was caught off guard when someone swung in front of me and then swung their arm at me. I diverted the blow and the Net Cutter sliced through the limb without effort. The lifeform fell to the side. I felt no shock; I was too busy running and keeping Lincoln in sight. Glittery flickers fell into my field of vision and I swung my arm wildly at them, sprays of blood indicating contact. I felt like a prisoner in a foreign body, casually slicing lifeforms as I raced to the exit.

  If I couldn’t quickly establish a connection between my mind and my body, irreparable damage would be done. I was approaching the borderland of no return when I lost sight of Lincoln. She must have stepped through the exit, which also meant that it had to be in front and that I’d have to step through it, too. I did so and stopped running, and fell to the ground.

  Lincoln pulled back my hood and I vomited, screamed and shook—all at the same time. The vomit flowed like an acid volcano. I had no idea where it came from, given I’d not eaten for hours. Finally, it ceased. Vomit covered half my face and was clumped in my hair and on my suit. Blood threaded through the mess, but whether mine or someone else’s wasn’t important; the only important thing was Lincoln rubbing my back as she kneeled alongside.

  Lincoln stopped rubbing and I heard her rummage in the carry-all that she’d lifted from my back. Standing, she poured a wash-and-revive mixture over me, cleaning vomit, blood and anything else off my suit, and calming me sufficiently to understand the current situation. There was a keyhole only I could piss through and if I failed, there was more than my stupid life to be lost. I had to die on my own specific terms or I might as well have done nothing.

  I rolled over and pushed myself into a standing position and regarded Lincoln, who looked like she’d been to a rowdy party where guests had spilled drink on her. Her hood was pushed back and a mix of concern and cunning crossed her face. I had a horrible thought she might be reading my mind, but shrugged it off. The charm that blocked that had been implanted years before and was now fully developed. She was simply concerned about our timeline, because we hadn’t included a stop here in the calculations.

  The cauldron was readying to boil over. We needed to move from the exit to the stairs before it spilled. Lincoln walked to a wall and ran her hand over it, stopped and pushed; stairs fell from the roof. She was moving up them when I reached the base and had stepped outside before I was halfway up. The stairs started folding as I climbed, and when I emerged from the opening, we were standing on an empty second-floor retail unit with a large multi-paned window facing the street. Across the road was the UPCR HQ swarming with supporters who waved, cheered, and danced as count results flashed on screens outside the building. Every single person on the street was wearing a copy of the Shoshone Circlet. Reclaiming the Power was the tagline beneath a huge poster on the front of the headquarters. It showed the full name of the party—United Platform for Citizen Responsibility. The Shoshone Circlet hung from the “C”.

  “Very nice,” declared Lincoln, standing at the window and scanning the street. “If I had doubts, they’re crushed now. You have a future in marketing.”

  I walked over. It was dazzling yet confusing to see all those people wearing the Circlet. Suddenly, it had become the property of the enslaved instead of slave owners. Or maybe it was a cynical ploy to wash away history and give everyone a chance to wear a bauble.

  “Turns out that there’s no trademark or registered image owner for the Shoshone Circlet. It’s a Universal Heritage Product of Art, and no one can own it. Anyone can make a copy and sell it, provided the copy isn’t made for criminal purposes … no restrictions on political purposes. To be honest, I thought they’d pass on the idea as too radical; instead, they were only concerned about minimizing payments to me. I have to credit them. They saw heat in the idea right away, a universally recognizable im
age that’s now become their brand. There are a lot others wondering how they missed it and are flicking through gallery catalogues to find something for themselves.”

  Lincoln laughed, enjoying the multiple layers in the situation.

  “Any sign of them?” I asked. She’d know best what to look for.

  “Not yet. We’re on schedule, so they should be—ah. We have contact. The rest should be visible momentarily.”

  Following her pointing finger, I saw a courier entering the headquarters.

  “How did you manage the alert?” I asked while I waited for the drama to unfold.

  Lincoln tapped her chest and an audio file played. “I want to register for a security bonus if this information proves usefule. Some members of the UPCR party have created a plan to steal the Shoshone Circlet and display it at campaign headquarters after election polls close. It will be delivered by courier, so there’ll be no direct connection. They’ll claim they got a delivery and are as surprised as anyone. “

  “That didn’t sound like you.” I was impressed with her vocal skills.

  “It wasn’t me. An old-time player helped me when I was on first footing. This was a chance to route something to him. How good is the copy?”

  “Amazing. It’ll take a lot of analysis to prove it’s a copy, which is the defining proof that it’s been created for criminal purposes. The only way it could be that good is if an Avian was involved, and that in itself is presumptive proof of criminal intent. The actual theft will close the case—say, is that them on the roof?”