by Liam Clay
Cans of peas.
Left on fire escapes, near windows and on the roofs of buildings - one for every crime scene. Some genius dubbed the killer Peace, and hysteria hit the ground running. At first, no one imagined that it was the actual girl killing these people. She had become a concept, and a real human being would only have distorted the message she embodied. The assumption was that some aspiring hero had taken up her undersized mantle.
Until the first sighting.
It was just a snippet of grainy video, distant and uncertain. It showed a slight figure with blonde hair and green eyes, garbed in shades of gray, lugging a gigantic gun over one shoulder. She was standing on a rooftop, peering down through the soup, unmoving. And that was it. Oh, except that in one hand she held what looked like a tin can.
Everyone really went nuts after that. I was about twenty at the time, so I remember the furor well. Some people were terrified, others almost jubilant, at the thought that Peace might be the real, flesh and blood girl who had keelhauled our imaginations years before. There were skeptics who cried hoax, of course. But then another video came out, this one longer, showing the same girl sighting through the scope of her gun. And there was audio this time, a wordless lullaby - lilted, haunting and sweet as syrup. The end is punctuated by a single gunshot.
Audio specialists switched immediately into overdrive, comparing the famous ‘sweet peas’ audio to the new recording.
It came back as a match.
Apoplectic might be the best word to describe reaction. No studio screenwriter could have conjured a more sensational storyline: the prodigal daughter, long thought lost, returned from the grave to take her vengeance one bullet at a time. The real question soon became, what would happen when she was caught? Anyone who tried to punish her would instantly become public enemy number one, but something had to give, because she just kept on killing people, basically non-stop.
An inter-district task force was created. They searched every canal, soup kitchen and housing complex in the Underworld, even venturing Topside at times. And found nothing. Then, just when people had stopped hoping, they caught up to her. In the act, no less. The task force was equipped with helmet mounted cameras, and so the ensuing chase was caught on video in its entirety.
It remains, to this day, one of the most viewed pieces of viral media in history. The girl turned out to be some kind of ninja. She was jumping off buildings, head kicking people, scaling walls like a pintsized spiderwoman. And just when the jackals were finally closing in, she vanished into the one place no one dared follow. Now the Prison is a story for another day, but suffice to say that people do not go into it, nor do they come out. It is a self-contained world, like Girders but highly militarized. Even the victims’ families failed to complain when the task force broke off pursuit.
And so the whole business ground to an ambiguous halt. A watch was placed around the Prison, but it reported no activity. Months passed, and then years. There were no more murders, and the Underworld gradually forgot about Peace all over again. But her presence here would mean -
“So the Topsiders really took out the Prison?” I ask Delez.
“Seems that way. And captured Opacity’s most famous vigilante while they were at it.”
“Unbelievable. Do you think they know who she is?”
“I doubt it, otherwise she wouldn’t be stuck in here with us. Girl’s probably heiress to some crazy Topside fortune - Porter would already be trying to bilk her out of it.”
“Sounds like his style. Are you sure it’s her, though? I haven’t watched any of the Peace footage in years. She’s got the hair and the eyes, but...”
“Oh, it’s her alright.” He manages to look confident and embarrassed simultaneously. “I, uh, kind of had a crush on her back in the day. So I’ve watched the videos a lot.”
We break off as Peace returns from the toilets and lies down, fingers laced behind her head. Delez gazes at her for longer than is perhaps appropriate, then shrugs and does the same. I follow their lead, but my thoughts continue to circle like vultures over a carcass.
If Peace is right and these are the Gulf Islands, then we could have a problem more immediate than a potential attack on the Hive. A brief history lesson may help to explain why. There was a period, about fifty years ago, when the Korezons’ hold over Opacity grew tenuous. The reasons aren’t really important (plus I can’t remember them). What is relevant is how the family chose to overcome this outlier in their normal distribution of power.
Using a series of sponsored PR pieces and native editorial advertising (read: lies passed off as real news) the Korezons convinced everyone that an unnamed foreign power was planning to invade Opacity. And according to the campaign, phase one of the enemy’s diabolical scheme involved occupying the Gulf Islands.
The plan worked, of course. The masses flew into a panic, and practically begged the Korezons to remain in power if only they would protect the city from harm. If anything the campaign was actually too effective, because fears continued to run high even after new ‘defensive measures’ were implemented. So our fearless leaders bowed merrily to public pressure and dirty-bombed the shit out of the entire Gulf Island chain. Bing, bang, boom, problem solved. And no one has thought twice about the episode since - until a year ago, that is, when Carlel announced his plan to reclaim the islands for farming purposes.
So to summarize: if my teeth start falling out and I can’t get it up, it will be more than old age setting in.
While my thoughts tread these pleasant paths, the three surviving members of Delez’s crew make themselves known. None of them seem to recognize Peace, but the two men - brothers, by the look of them - do pause to check her out. Until she checks them out back, that is; then they studiously ignore her. Apparently she has that effect on everyone.
I should really try to get some sleep. But I need to visit Kalana first, even though she probably wants to be left alone. I find her lying on a cot near the door, eyes trained on the canvas ceiling. Both adjacent beds are vacant. The daylight is fading outside the tent’s plastic windows, ushering in a stifling, foreign darkness. I squat down beside her, racking my brain for a suitable condolence. Nothing comes.
“Do you really think she’s still alive?”
Her voice is impassive, the despair exposed only in the cavities between words. My heart goes out to her. I’m worried about Sophie too (and affected by the Constant’s death as well, I’m surprised to discover) but it’s nowhere near the same.
“Yes I do.” is my truthful reply. “It won’t cost the Topsiders much to keep the kids safe somewhere, and they know that if we believe otherwise, their entire plan here is shot.”
“And what plan is that?”
Peace told me to keep her theory quiet, but I am infinitely more beholden to Kalana.
“We think they’re going to make us attack the Hive.”
Just saying it aloud quickens my heartbeat, but Kalana doesn’t even blink. Sophie is all that matters to her; I could probably have said Pluto and received as little reaction.
“Listen,” I say on impulse, “I know there are things standing between us. But you have my word, on the few good memories we share, that every decision I make from here on will be the one that gives Sophie the best chance of survival.”
At first I don’t think she’s going to reply at all. Then she turns a lifeless gaze on me.
“Anex, do you know why I left you?”
Her use of my dealer name makes me flinch. It implies distance, a gulf, and reminds me of what I am. I can only half meet her eyes as I answer.
“Because I’m not good enough for you.”
She cants her head to one side, looking confused. “Why would you think that?”
“Because of what you told me that day in the hospital, about wanting a relationship of equals.”
I see surprise in her expression, and then a fatalistic sadness sets in. “For all these years, that’s really what you thought I meant?”
“We
ll, yeah. What other way could I have taken it?”
“Jesus, how can I possibly explain this to you without...” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t any personal failing of yours that stole the equality from our relationship, Anex. The root problem is that in your eyes, I will always be the person who saved you from the Designer. And that in mine, you will always be... a reminder of my true reasons for getting us out.”
I’m speechless. Not wanting to be reminded of those days is completely understandable; I’ve repressed a lot of my Hive memories as well. That she could think I only ever loved her out of obligation though, is insane. But even as these emotions war across my face, her features are hardening, and I sense that she is steeling herself for something.
“But all of that I could have dealt with.” She adds flatly. “Did deal with, in fact, for almost a decade. The real reason I broke up with you is because you’re a drug addict.”
Stunned silence from me.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. You have always been a heavy user.”
“Well after you dumped me, yeah, but -”
“Can the sob story. Your problem may have turned visible after that, but it was always there. You used to go off the deep end for weeks after every job. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if you would ever come back, or who you would be when you did. And that’s why I left. Because I didn’t want our daughter growing up around that. Around you.”
My face has gone numb. “So you were fine with Sophie being raised by a paid killer, but the drugs were a deal breaker?”
“Yes. I know you won’t want to hear this, but you were good at your job. Calculated, professional - the kind of person I would have trusted with a child. It was only afterward that you fell apart.”
“But Kalana,” I whisper, “I was a fucking murderer.”
“So what? The drugs I design ruin thousands of lives, and the Constant was the person whose orders you acted on. Even Five has that bad batch of synth vodka he sold at Church on his conscience.” Her eyes bore into mine. “It’s time you got it through your head that morals are obsolete, a relic from the last century when people could afford them. These days you draw a circle around the people you care about, and treat everyone outside it as disposable.”
I want to ask if there was a watershed moment that made her this way, or if it was a gradual process. But I’m too chickenshit.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because of the lies you just spouted about doing anything to protect Sophie. You are an addict, Anex. Pretty soon you’re going to get the itch, and when that happens, finding the next fix will become your sole, all-encompassing priority.” She points a finger in my face. “And don’t try to tell me different. We’ve both made a living off the fact, haven’t we?”
I rock back on my heels as her words sink in. My dropper is long gone, my stashes are back in the city and there is zero chance of restocking here. In fact now that she’s mentioned it, I can already feel the need working away behind my eyeballs.
“I don’t care.” I tell her, trying my best to rally. “Sophie and the other kids need our help, and I plan to do everything in my power to give it.”
“I’m sure you do. But how much power do you expect to have when you’re wallowing neck deep in withdrawals?”
I have to bite back an angry reply. “Alright, point taken. But if you’ll just give me a chance to prove -”
But she’s already turning away. “Stick to worrying about yourself, Anex.” She says into her pillow. “The world will have to wait.”
This is a lost cause, I realize. Kalana is lashing out in her grief, and there is nothing I can do to change that. “Good luck.” She murmurs as I stand up to leave. I nod woodenly and cut a retreat.
CHAPTER 15
Back on my cot, I try to distract myself by blinking up my retcom display. But although the interface appears in my vision as normal, my connection has just one bar, not enough to access the net. Data might be getting out, but there is no way to be sure. All I can do is blank my thoughts and hope for sleep.
Full night has fallen when I wake up next. But a pale radiance is shining in through the windows, and I’m not the only to have been roused by it. Most of the tent is stirring. I rise and make my way to the exit, joined by Delez and a score of others. The agoraphobia hits me first. But when I discover the light’s source, my discomfort is instantly forgotten. The number of tents in the compound has tripled. But the new additions are ghostly things, sometimes merging with real tents to create hybrids, half of this world, half the next. It takes me some time to realize that I’m looking at holo. The tripods I noticed earlier must house 3D imagers, which are superimposing a real time schematic of another camp over our own.
A boy emerges from one of the projected tents. Catching sight of me, he trots over and waves a hand through my torso. To him, I am the ghost. When he runs back inside, I follow. There are dozens of cots here, smaller than ours but otherwise identical. So this is the proof Porter promised: we will be permitted to spend nights with the shades of our children.
I’m not sure when Kalana joins me; at some point she is just there at my side. We start the search for Sophie without a word spoken between us. It is a slow process. There are many, many children here, far more than were captured at the Kaleidoscope. More than lived in the entire West End, even. Wherever this place is in the real world, all of the Underworld’s children are being housed there. I keep an eye out for Jimmy as well, but to no avail.
Now, I do not often cry. But I come very close when Sophie and Kalana find one another. First from happiness, as their faces light up with relief and joy. And again as a result of something darker, when their embrace is cut short by the realization that they cannot touch or speak.
Instead they sit - Kalana in the dirt, Sophie on her cot - and simply exist together. I stand off in the periphery. Sophie seems to accept my presence if not to understand it, which is more than enough for me. Baby steps. I have no idea how long we remain like this. What I do know is that while we’re together, I am able to forget the withdrawal burn that has been building inside me. Maybe the presence of love truly can heal. And if you think that’s cheesy bullshit you’re probably right, but screw you just the same.
There comes a point, however, when I feel compelled to intervene. It will be light out soon, and god only knows what awaits us come daybreak. It’s hard not to feel like the bad guy, though. Sophie sheds silent tears, and Kalana looks ready to die on the spot. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” She keeps saying, but her daughter isn’t a lip reader and I don’t think the message is getting through. I have to physically pull her away in the end, which makes the return trip somewhat awkward.
When a distraction presents itself, it comes in the unhappy form of a gunshot in the night. I look at Kalana, the unspoken message clear: we can continue on to the tent if she wants, pretend we heard nothing. She looks tempted, but eventually shakes her head. We set out in the direction of the sound.
The body lies at the base of the fence, limbs protruding at improper angles. Red blood stains a black jumpsuit and gray ponytails. A small crowd has gathered nearby.
“Did she fall?” Someone asks hopefully.
Kalana points to the nearest watchtower. “No. Look.”
I turn my head and a red beam strafes my cornea, passing over me to touch Kalana and then the others. Something is moving atop the nearest tower, oscillating back and forth like a malevolent metronome. After a moment’s thought, I pick up a rock and toss it at the fence. A second gunshot sparks off the chain-link as we cover our ears, too late to shut out anything but the echoes.
And for the first time, I understand why people once prayed over the dead. It is a procedural activity - like blocking off a crime scene with tape - that says yes, a person just died here, but not to worry, everything is being handled, taken care of. A creature comfort for the soul. Unfortunately for us, most Opacians lack faith of any flavor. In the end all we can do is depart, leaving the Fractal�
�s body where it lies.
Falling back to sleep proves impossible, and not only because of what I’ve just seen. My muscles have started to cramp, my head is stuffed with tacks and my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. Score another point for Kalana. And so, lying rigid in the half light of a sweltering dawn, I am brought forcibly to terms with the fact of my addiction.
Like holocaust deniers, addicts find ways of refuting information they know objectively to be true. To prove my point, let’s study the clues I have managed to ignore until now. I take drugs every day. Not always in pursuit of a hard party, but in one form or another. I need relaxants to sleep. Uppers to stay awake. For stress relief, focus, nerves. You name it, there’s a drug for that. And yet I never thought of myself as addicted. Why, you ask? It’s all about setting: environment normalizing behavior. Almost everyone in my Topside circles was using - a fact I actually took pride in, as it meant I was doing my job properly. And with my supply guaranteed, I never had to face the prospect of drying out.
Until now.
When Red shouts us to our feet at daybreak, I’m shaking like a blender full of dice. Delez notices; Peace does too. We leave the tent and march across the compound. The sun is an overexposed, gaudy thing, the sky an obnoxious blue. The dim of the mess hall comes as a relief, our breakfast of carb slop and protein bars, less so. I can barely look at either.
Then it’s back to the parade ground. The place has been transformed since yesterday. Quadrants are marked out on the ground in holo, with each area featuring a different type of exercise equipment. It occurs to me that if this was a movie, the next few weeks would be summarized via a nifty montage. The reality promises to be exponentially longer and more unpleasant. Leading us to a stretch of open turf, Red points to a series of holographic lines laid across it.
“Form up!”
If there is anyone in the world who genuinely enjoys wind sprints, I would like them pointed out so that I can spit in their faces. They are the absolute shits. Five meters and back. Ten, back. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. Muscle mass and lung strength are the only things that get me through. Crossing the finish line at a stumble, I bend over and retch. My only consolation is that I’m not alone, although closer to it than I’d expected. Peace, for example, isn’t even breathing hard. “Well what do you know?” She taunts me. “Our little princess is a closeted bulimic.”