by David Gullen
All the Cloud let you do was aggregate what had been published. Data, and data storage, became utility commodities. Commercials and governments run the cloud for free because they want your data, and they can make money, or gain leverage, from it.
Meeja, and especially Meeja-II, is a lot smaller, but there’s more of it. It’s standalone in usage, aggregated in concept. Paradoxical? Only on the surface.
Think of Meeja as a script. You’re the actor, and you’re also in the audience. In fact you are the audience. That guy sitting beside you, he’s you too. And so are all the other actors.
So who wrote the script? What script? This is the trick – there is no script.
– Carrie Styvesant,
‘An Introduction to Meeja Studies’
- 9 -
The border with Mexico at Ciudad Acuna was even more chaotic than usual. Long queues of goods trucks and passenger vehicles waited to cross on both sides. Several hundred pedestrians milled on the Mexican bank of the Rio Bravo.
‘I’m not sure this is such a frosty idea,’ Novik said as the lines of American traffic inched towards the bridge.
Up ahead lay the human-built obstacles to crossing from one country into another: American customs, interrogation and command posts; the twin eight-lane toll bridges across the river; the Mexican versions of the immigration and emigration customs and law-enforcement.
The near side of the river was flanked by chain-link fences, fifty feet apart, topped with razor wire. The space between was stripped of vegetation, the bare ground churned with the tracks of fast-pursuit vehicles.
Josie had tried to dress them for the car: a light suit, shirt and brown shoes for Novik, a calf-length grey skirt, buckskin boots, white blouse and dark jacket for Josie. Benny had refused to change, insisting the fabric of his clothing contained nanotech bio-flagellates that would keep it clean and in good repair. For certain his jeans, shirt and jacket looked smart and neat, his trainers gleaming white. As far as Novik was concerned that was because he had stood Benny up and slapped some of the dust out with his hands.
Josie fidgeted with her neck-line, doubtful of her costume change. ‘I feel like a criminal.’
‘That’s because you are,’ Novik said. ‘So am I.’
‘And I am the aspirational automobile for the career hoodlum,’ Mr Car said. ‘You not only are criminals, you look like them too.’
‘We just found some stuff,’ Josie said unhappily. ‘We found an abandoned, ownerless car, and there was some cash in the trunk.’
‘One hundred and ninety million dollars. It makes me pucker.’ Novik felt a little nauseous, a tic pulsed under his left eye. Two days of weird pastel beauty from the f-LSD combined with anxiety of pursuit had taken him to a flawed and paranoid paradise he was only just beginning to rationalise. The tic was invisible, he’d looked for it in the mirror but it wasn’t there. Novik didn’t get off on things happening to his body he could feel but not see.
Homeland security, smart in their teal-green uniforms and mirror-lensed sunglasses, patrolled the traffic lines. Every now and then they rapped on a vehicle window and questioned the occupants. Sometimes they just chewed the fat and moved on, other times they ordered a redirection to the customs interrogation bays.
‘They’re going to open us up, I know it,’ Novik said. ‘I got a vibe.’
Sprawled on the rear seat, Benny opened one eye. ‘No, they won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They just won’t. I know it.’ Benny yawned and stretched. ‘I got a vibe too.’
‘Sure you have,’ Novik hissed through his teeth. Something was going on, something he didn’t understand. Despite the Mr Car’s atmospheric controls, Novik’s palms were clammy, his pulse raced. On a sudden impulse, he got out of the car.
Outside, the air was humid and close. Sweat prickled Novik’s collar almost immediately. Even so, the heavy, warm breeze was more welcome than the chilled and claustrophobic climate inside the Cadillac.
He headed towards the bridge past lines of dented, rust-scarred pickups and battered saloons, each filled with families of poor white and Hispanic economic emigrants, young education refugees, and agricultural nomads. A quarter mile from the border the sound of the Mexican crowd surged like a breaking wave, the air-horns of the backed-up trucks like foghorns of distressed ships.
Chest-high rushes and grass covered the banks of the shallow Rio Bravo. Closer beside the bridges, non-native plants had taken hold – ornamental lilies and daisy cultivars, watermelons and sapling orange and apple trees, all grown from discarded flowers and half-eaten fruits thrown from vehicles, a rich mulch for new growth. The tattered leaves of wild bananas and young date palms tossed in the new, wetter gulf-winds that blew steadily from the south and east.
Novik saw a flat-bed truck up ahead with a payload of three boxy structures like low golf carts, each covered in a new green tarpaulin. The passenger window in the cab was down, a pale white elbow rested on the ledge. He felt a sudden affinity for the working truckers and went up to the open window.
‘Hey. Any idea what’s happening down at the crossing?’
As soon as he looked into the cab he wished he hadn’t. The owner of the elbow was white as a bug under a rock, his mouth twitched and jerked as he looked down at Novik through mirror shades. Like the driver, a grinning thick-necked woman with wrestler’s wrists, the passenger wore brand new blue overalls and a buzz-cut hairstyle.
‘Nope. No idea. None at all. Sure beats me.’ The passenger pulled in his elbow. ‘Is this a test?’
The driver laughed silently and winked at Novik. ‘No, Oakey, it’s not a test.’
‘I just thought–’ Oakey hooked his fingers together. ‘Could have been.’
The chaotic noise from the border surged louder. Novik saw low dark shapes patrol the sword-grass on the Mexican side. ‘Look at those robot things.’
Oakey’s voice filled with admiration. ‘Not machines, they’re first-gen Dawkins-dogs from Xalapatech. Mexi-cops got them last year. Smart puppies, loyal as hell.’
‘We got those?’
Oakey pulled a face. ‘We have got robo-canines. Congress supports home-grown tech.’
‘I read they trip over kerbs.’
Oakey stared into the middle distance and sighed. ‘That’s them.’
‘You know much about them?’
‘We don’t know anything at all,’ the driver said.
‘I knew this was a test.’ Oakey slapped the dash and turned to the driver. ‘Told you.’
‘It’s not a test.’ The driver stopped smiling. She took of her mirror shades and Novik saw a devil in her eyes. ‘Go away. Now.’
Her gaze froze him. Before he could move a sound like fire crackers burst from the crossing point.
Novik dropped to a half-crouch, he knew that noise. He’d heard it before, when Snarlow closed down the protests with the National Guard. He hadn’t believed it then, not at first. He didn’t want to believe it now. There was so very much of it.
‘Here we go!’ Oakey whooped. ‘Here we go.’
The truck driver leaned past Oakey and spoke calmly to Novik. ‘Go back to your car and lock the doors.’
Novik backed away from the truck but the need to see, to bear witness, pulled him forwards again. Keeping low, he crept towards the border.
The firecracker sound burst out again, then settled to an intermittent spatter. Down at the crossing truck horns blared, engines roared into life. Over it all came the howl of the Mexican crowd, a beast in pain.
Then Josie was in front of him, wild-eyed, pushing him back. ‘That’s gunfire,’ she yelled. ‘Get back to the car.’
All around them was madness as cars tried to turn out of the queue. Fenders locked, horns blared, drivers cursed, children grizzled in fear. Only Oakey’s truck pressed forwards into the gaps.
Josie dragged Novik back to the Cadillac and slammed the door shut. ‘Get us out of here.’
The line of traffic was bumper to
bumper. Novik thumped the steering wheel. ‘There’s no room to turn.’
‘Four-wheel steering engaged,’ Mr Car said.
Novik turned the wheel on full lock, dabbed the gas, and the Cadillac slid sideways onto the dirt beside the road.
Novik gunned the engine, the wheel still hard over, and the big car slewed round in a fast turn. They sped away from Mexico, against the traffic, their tyres spewing plumes of dust.
Novik felt cold. ‘What the hell is happening?’
Benny looked back through the rear window. ‘The beginning.’
‘That was gunfire,’ Josie said flatly. ‘I saw bodies on the ground.’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ Novik said.
‘I am equipped with a surveillance drone,’ Mr Car offered.
‘Deploy it,’ Josie said.
A metallic plang came from the roof, a flat black oval whirred up into the sky.
‘Gaining altitude. Assuming station. Streaming data,’ Mr Car said.
Up ahead, a coach began to turn, struck a flat-bed truck and shunted it across the speeding Cadillac’s path.
‘Hold on.’ Novik pulled the Cadillac further out into the scrub. Out of nowhere a dry gulch appeared, four feet deep and twice as wide. Novik braked hard, the Cadillac began to slide, there was not enough room to stop. ‘Holy crap, hang on,’ Novik cried.
‘Intervention,’ Mr Car said. The steering wheel went slack in Novik’s hands, seat belts snatched everyone tight against the seats as massive acceleration pushed them deep into the upholstery.
For an instant it was quiet. Novik and Josie watched the loose items on the dash float in the air.
Then they were back on hard dirt, the Cadillac jounced, fishtailed madly, and resumed its high-speed course. Josie screamed, Novik swore. Benny whopped and hollered. ‘Holy everything that’s Holy, that was fun. You sure give good tech, Mr Car.’
‘Standard GOOJ feature, sir. Other options, such as BriefFlight are not installed.’
Gasping with adrenalin, Novik impotently gripped the sloppy steering wheel.
‘You have the con,’ Mr Car said.
Responsive weight returned to the wheel. Novik eased off on the accelerator, swung across the road, through a gap in the median strip, and onto the correct side of the road.
Josie’s mouth hung open. ‘Mr Car, did you say you can fly?’
‘No, ma’am, but I could.’
‘I can see why naughty people like you.’
‘Thank you so much.’
Novik drove north at a steady sixty. ‘Let’s see that drone footage.’
The windshield became a screen. In shocked silence they saw USA border guards firing into the churning panic of the Mexican crowd with handguns, shotguns, automatic rifles. Bodies sprawled untidily in the dusty, dead space. Old folks, children, men and women.
Half a dozen Mexican Dawkins Dogs streaked across the border, big, black, man-sized animals. Robo-canines intercepted them, mini-guns twinkling. Two dogs made it through, leapt the wire fences and sprang at the armed police, rising onto two legs, snarling.
Novik watched the dogs tear the panicked men and women apart. Enormously fast, they shook them like terriers shook rats. And even though the people they killed were Americans, he was pleased. Then, too, the Dawkins Dogs were killed.
Two American heavy tanks emerged from concealment, rolled across the border and took up position among the dead and dying in the Mexican plaza. Low, multi-wheeled units passed between more desert-camo painted tanks and rolled towards the surrounding buildings. A double line of infantry deployed into the Mexican security complex.
Behind them rolled more tanks, more armour.
Novik felt cold. Never had he been so close to death, to so much killing. ‘Car, don’t ever show that to me again. Not ever, not even if I beg and say forget what I just said. Just never.’
‘All right.’
Josie took Novik’s hand and held it tight. Her face was wet, her voice held steady. ‘Don’t erase it, Mr Car. Upload it and let everyone see.’
‘Doing it now,’ Mr Car said. ‘Done.’
- 10 -
Eugene, Oregon: Urban Flash Farmers caused chaos overnight when a tuned myco crop fruited all down Franklin Boulevard.
Triggered by recent rain, two-meter diameter Portobello mushrooms pushed through concrete and tarmac rendering the road impassable. Rising as high as first floor windows, the giant, edible mushrooms formed a surreal vista.
‘We think they’re seeding the streets using doctored gum,’ Jefferson Ives, deputy Sheriff stated. ‘Kids chew the gum, spit it on the sidewalk and the spores go underground.’
DNA analysis is expected to confirm the flash farm was the work of the Natural Forces Combine. The notorious bio-activists have already claimed responsibility for this crop.
‘Tastes like chicken,’ local resident D’Wayne Cheeseman observed.
– Syndicated feed, KUWjones.org
Gould’s phone rang. The screen showed Jimmy Fee’s number but there was no picture. The Old-fashioned Boys had come down from Birmingham when Gould had set up in New Orleans. He liked them, they knew how things worked, expected shit for shit and dealt it straight back. Trusted soldiers, the kind that endured.
‘James. Speak to me.’ Gould said.
There was a hesitation, then: ‘Id’s, ah, Blag, sir.’
‘Blag?’
‘Bladk,’ the voice said very carefully, then tried again. ‘This is Black.’
Now he knew who it was, Gould found he could understand him. ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’
‘There was a dispute. It got physical.’
Gould’s voice grew flat with menace. ‘Tell me.’
‘Mother’s not going to make the show.’
Gould took a long slow breath. ‘Not at all?’
‘No sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s gone off with some new friends.’
‘Is Jimmy with them?’
Another hesitation. ‘No, sir.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
‘He’s, ah, late.’
‘Understood. Listen carefully, Mr Black. Mother is more important to me than anyone. I want you to catch up with her and make sure she’s safe. Find out who is looking after her and thank them properly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m sending you Manalito.’
‘We don’t–’
‘Don’t what, Mr Black?’
‘We’re still the Old-fashioned Boys, Mr Gould.’
‘And you still work for me. So does Manalito.’
Coldly furious, Gould ended the call. If some little bit-piece player had been in the room he’d have happily killed them just for stress relief.
A few girls were on the couches, bored and watchful. The more observant looked nervous.
‘Get them out of here, Manalito,’ Gould ordered. ‘And pack for Stateside.’
The girls filed out. The long-haired Asian was at the back, wearing an open-fronted bolero top, lilac silk micro skirt and platform sandals. Of them all only she dared give Gould a lingering glance.
So be it.
‘Not you,’ Gould told her.
At the door, Manalito looked back. Gould gave a curt shake of his head and the big Mexican ducked out the room and closed the door. Gould knew the girl had caught the exchange. He turned to the window and looked out across dead New Orleans, a drowned and rotten corpse. Out in the gulf Permanent Larry held steady, its own energies pitched against the prevailing winds.
Why was nothing ever easy? The plan had been simple enough: take the cash to Vegas and lose it in Gordano’s Casinos, a laundry operation that had worked well for years. What had gone wrong?
Gould realised the girl was saying something.
‘You want a back rub, Mr Gould? You look real tense.’
Gould fought down the urge to tell her to shut up and mind her own damned business. She was right, he was wound tight, and it was he who had told her to s
tay.
‘You any good at it?’ he said.
‘I’m a trained masseuse. You want to lie on the couch?’
‘No. Do it here.’ Gould reversed one of the upright chairs and sat down.
There was strength in her hands and as she worked on his shoulders he started to relax. She was good at this, he acknowledged. He hadn’t known that.
Knowledge was everything. That’s what had gone wrong with the money. Something had happened, something he hadn’t known about had come along and screwed with his plans. He had people, electronic eyes, and movement sensors all along the foreshore. Nothing happened on the coast that he didn’t know about. It was Gould’s own data cloud, a sensory web he took considerable effort to make sure remained private. Each year it reached a little further as he seeded buildings and landscapes with solar-powered micro-sensors, tac/strat bugs and mobile away teams. And each day, sometimes each hour, those teams and his home techs tracked down and ripped out soft hacks, data aggregators and transmission devices planted by military data sappers and persons unknown. Gould let the army patrols alone. Everyone else was open season.
And now the Old-fashioned Boys had screwed up. Gould clenched his fists. It was a good job Jimmy Fee was dead, otherwise he’d rip his lungs out.
‘You’re tensing up again, Mr Gould. Am I doing something wrong?’ the girl said.
Something snapped in Gould, he surged to his feet. ‘What is it with all the losers in the world that none of them can do anything right?’
She didn’t even falter. She just stood and did her best to look pretty and happy and his. ‘You really want me to answer that?’
‘No, you stupid bitch, I want you to shut the–’ Gould slammed his fist into his palm, ‘Forget that. This is absolutely not your fault.’ He bared his teeth, a forced smile. ‘I trusted some people, they let me down.’ He reached out into the air, his fingers like claws. ‘I just wish I could–’
She slipped out of her bolero, her waist length hair falling over her breasts. Then she took his hands and put them round her own throat.
‘Like this?’
That annoyed him. He’d apologised and in return she tried to play him. Spinning her round he locked his elbow round her neck, his other hand against her bare stomach.