The Uploaded

by Ferrett Steinmetz

Partygoers danced up and down the tracks. Most of the attendees were within about ten years of Career Day graduation, yet there was a scattering of older people in their thirties and forties. The elder party people grinned as they headbanged to the music, but they stayed off to one side of the dance floor in a segregation I’d never noticed before today.

  Back before my Career Day, the partying elders had seemed a little too frazzled for my tastes. They didn’t make an effort to gussy up in good clothes – these forty-something enthusiasts showed up in their sweaty work outfits and danced like they longed to forget. That strained desperation to relax had always subliminally put me off, even though everyone was friendly; I’d dance with them if they asked, but I never asked any of them to dance.

  But now that I had my own crappy career to exhaust me? Those grownups seemed like heroes. That strained desperation was them fighting the weariness of a twelve-hour shift to shout, “I am going to go out after work and dance more.”

  I’d never appreciated their valor before – and yet, even though I had shown up in my stinking work clothes, I still was reluctant to drift over to that side of the party.

  I stepped onto the dance floor, sucking in breath to bellow my arrival a second time, hoping to be so cool that all sides would embrace me – but a thin hand grabbed my shoulder.

  “So you didn’t sell me out,” a friendly voice said.

  “They haven’t got a bribe big enough, Mama.” I flung myself past her bodyguards and into Mama Alex’s arms. She rubbed her wrinkled brown cheeks against mine, her beaded gray dreadlocks rattling on my shoulders.

  Technically, everyone at the Blackout Parties was equal – the oldest living person was still treated like a baby by the dead, so age wasn’t supposed to matter. But experience did matter, and so in practice the younger folks deferred to the ones who’d held parties without being arrested.

  The teaching elders were somehow different than the elders on the dance floor. When someone with years of experience took you by the hand and treated you like you were ready to be taught, the responsibility was flattering. And they stepped aside quickly, applauding at your successes, because the truth was that age didn’t matter: what mattered was holding the most awesome parties possible.

  And nobody held cooler parties than Mama Alex.

  “Oh, Amichai, I have missed you.” Then she held me at arm’s length, frowning. “But if you ever stay away from my parties for this long again, I’m gonna disown you. Disrespect the party, you disrespect me.”

  I blushed. It was like she knew I intended to join the LifeGuard. Her guards, five burly women, scowled in disapproval.

  “No disrespect, no disrespect,” I said.

  She poked me in the chest. “You get in trouble using one of my inventions, and don’t even send an encrypted mail to tell me I’m in the clear? Not fair, Amichai. Not fair at all.”

  “My sister’s in the hospital, Mama,” I apologized. “I have to look after her. But you? I keep forgetting anyone can get you in trouble…”

  “People get me in trouble, all right,” she said. “I just have the experience to wriggle out.”

  “So it’s said.” Mama Alex, it was rumored, Shrived Criminal – and given how many LifeGuards she’d pissed off, I believed it. Everyone knew her Career Day choice: maintenance. Sixty years ago, she’d won the right to be taught the mysteries of programming – and, after Boston, she’d quit.

  She had work for anyone who wanted it, as long as you didn’t ask questions. She’d give you good cash if you could find her a camera-free place to set up her labs. Rumor was she paid top dollar for smugglers and geneticists.

  She’d teach you anything you wanted to know… Although when she talked tech, most people clapped their hands over their ears, lest they be tainted with Programming.

  Still, Mama Alex never seemed nervous. She lived as gridless as a NeoChristian; no job, no bank account. Rumor was she’d hotwired a backdoor Shrive Point, one that circumvented the usual voting process. I thought that was bullcrap – partially because the kind of processing power you’d need to crack the dead’s codes were way above what any one woman could scavenge, but mostly because Mama Alex didn’t seem to care all that much about the Upterlife.

  She whapped me on the head. “And what’s this I hear about you wanting to join the LifeGuard? You never wanted to hear about my jobs.”

  Because what you do is dangerous.

  “I… just didn’t need the money that badly.”

  “And now you do? Why didn’t you come to me?”

  “It upsets Izzy.”

  She sucked air between her teeth. “If your sister’s so convinced my work’s bad, maybe she should slave for a while in the factories. Find out the downside of her precious Upterlife.”

  “My sister is not a tool in your revolution. She is my sister. If she spends her life ignorant and happy, then I have done my voiding job.”

  Her guards tensed.

  Mama Alex burst into laughter.

  “Peaches can put you in the uniform, but you’ll never be a LifeGuard.” She thumped my shoulder. “You’re a pain in my ass, Amichai, but I always know where you stand. I like that. So where’s my IceBreaker?”

  “Technically speaking, it’s not yours. I mean, I built it.”

  She glared at me. I’d come up with the idea of looping video, and I had assembled it, but she’d sourced the parts for me and given me black-market tutorials.

  “…and,” I added, after she’d stared me down to size, “It kinda broke when I thumbed the selfdestruct.”

  “How broke?”

  “Pieces.”

  “Recoverable pieces?”

  “Depends,” I said. “Who’s analyzing the evidence? You, or Wickliffe’s clowns?”

  “Fearless boy.” She clasped my hand in her bony fingers. When she removed it, a shiny new IceBreaker rested in my palm.

  I marveled at it; the old one had been a little bigger than a screwdriver, but this one was Thermos-sized, bristling with black microfiber antennae.

  “Oh, this is Christmas in my hand,” I murmured, punching up its stats – three times the range, a hundred times the recording capacity. It even came with a waterproof plastic case – who could afford plastic these days?

  “Don’t forget who you’re really working for on this mission,” she said. My heart skipped a beat: Will I be a LifeGuard spy for Mama? “If Peaches says she can get you in to the LifeGuard, that means you can do us all favors later on. Still, I wouldn’t trust that boy farther than my gals could throw him.”

  “Trust who?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That–” Someone tapped her on the shoulder, whispering about an urgent matter that demanded her attention.

  “Just be careful.” She kneeled down to whisper in my ear. “I don’t know about this Server. That makes it dangerous. It also makes you my eyes. Report back.”

  “I will.” What server? I wondered.

  I holstered the IceBreaker – it had a holster! – and headed towards the dance floor. A cheer went up as people noticed me making my way into the crowd. “Calm yourself, citizens,” I said–

  “Wooo, Pony Boy!” A girl in neon dancer-garb whirled me about in a big hug. A geriatric dancer pumped my hand, grinning like a mudshark, saying, “You – are – famous!”

  “For what?”

  “You crazy son-of-a-bitch, you made Sins of the Flesh!” Dare yelled in my ear, booze on his breath. “The whole Upterlife knows your name now!”

  Dare was effervescent, but my blood iced in my veins. Sins of the Flesh was heavyduty PR – the most popular show in the Upterlife. Despite Dare’s assurances, I wasn’t sure I wanted the dead to know my name.

  “How? We haven’t made a video in weeks–”

  “The dead made it for us!” Dare said. People whooped. “DJ! Show us the pony again!”

  A holographic screen flickered to life above us. There I was, leading Therapy through the hospital, there were the nurses sneaking up on me – and as T
herapy charged past the panicked staff, the video doubled in speed. We zipped around the corridors to the tune of “Yakety Sax.”

  The crowd doubled over with laughter.

  “Relax.” Dare squeezed my shoulder. “They slotted you into the ‘On the Lighter Side’ segment. The announcers said you were trying to cheer up your sister. The dead love it, man – you’ve gone viral.”

  He paused, then muttered: “Listen, if they interview you, could you mention my architecture plans?”

  “Let’s start the pony!” someone cried. A cheer went up: “Let’s pony it for Amichai!” Everyone put their right hand out as though they held a bridle and clipclopped their feet on the floor.

  The beat changed from a techno rhythm to an off-kilter salsa. Hundreds of bodysensors monitored the dancers, noted their speed and position, then dynamically generated music according to what they were collectively doing. Want a heavy metal riff? Bang your head. A slow dance? Grab a partner and grind sensually, and hope enough other people do the same.

  The pony clipclopping created this bizarrely intertwined riff, a hypnotic steeldrum rumba.

  “You even got your own dance, Amichai,” Dare said. “It’s freaktastic.”

  Then a hot boy started making out with Dare, and a cute girl grabbed me, and soon we all pranced in circles to this crazy beat, whinnying and snorting, some even jumping on each others’ backs to ride lasciviously.

  They must have been doing this all night, because people ran up with bowls of sugar cubes – transporting cane sugar this far north was hella expensive, who’d paid for that? – and started handing them out. I didn’t know why, until two girls I didn’t know pressed up against me, begging me to feed them.

  That’s when I saw Peaches, surrounded by four boytoys, grabbing each of them by the back of their hair like it was a mane. They sucked her fingers as she fed them sugarlumps.

  I looked away, sick with jealousy. I had pretty girls begging for my sugar, but seeing Peaches feeding someone else made me feel like a loser. That was crazy – this was my dance, wasn’t it?

  Dare’s head whipped to one side. Someone was yelling.

  Now, arguments weren’t unusual at Blackout Parties; the living were a scrappy bunch, and if you weren’t dancing then you were debating politics. But Dare waved his arms in the danger gesture, gesticulating over –

  – at Gumdrool.

  He was pressed up against a wall by Halitosis Harry, his face wrinkled in revulsion. Harry was bumping his clapboard up against Gumdrool’s chest like a baseball manager taunting an umpire, outraged by Gumdrool’s brawny body and Junior LifeGuard outfit.

  “All the dead do is bleed us dry!” Harry screamed. “They enslave us!”

  “You ‘slaves’ become the masters!” Gumdrool yelled back. “You think it’s coincidence there hasn’t been a war between Upterlife-enabled countries in two centuries?”

  “Slave-owners have no need to fight.”

  “Look at your flesh,” Gumdrool said, flicking a louse off Harry’s forehead. “You’re an insult to all those who ever voided for the Upterlife. Why, I should void you right now…”

  Harry lunged for Gumdrool. Gumdrool shoved Harry backwards with a contemptuous sneer, sending Harry crashing into a table full of drinks.

  The music crumbled into an atonal squawk as people stopped dancing. Gumdrool took a step forward. “Had enough, bag-of-bones?”

  I tackled him.

  I got lucky; he didn’t see me coming. Even so, he twisted as I caught him around the waist, his knee slamming into my ribs. I clawed at his eyes, hoping someone would help before Gumdrool cleaned my clock.

  Instead, someone hauled me off him. It took the remaining four of Mama’s guards to subdue Gumdrool.

  “All right,” Mama Alex said, waving the crowd back. “Keep dancing. We’ll handle this.”

  The dance lurched uncertainly back to life as Mama Alex knelt before me, making tsking noises.

  “You should know better, Amichai. First rule of Blackout Party: no violence.”

  “I was defending Harry!”

  “You were defending the man who swung first?” She jerked her chin towards Harry, who was being escorted out of the party. “Still I can’t deny Harry was provoked. Peaches, does Junior Fascist here have the pull he claims?”

  “If he doesn’t, nobody does,” Peaches said.

  Mama nodded, and an aide uncuffed Gumdrool. He rubbed his wrists, looking furious – but not furious enough to swing at anyone.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at Peaches. “Why in the void did you let Gumdrool in here?”

  “Ian Drumgoole,” Peaches said, putting her arm around both our shoulders. “Meet your infiltration expert. Amichai, meet your ticket into the LifeGuard.”

  12: THE BRUTAL NEGOTIATION TECHNIQUES OF PEACHES KHAN-TIEN

  * * *

  There are some sentences you don’t expect to hear, like Your left kidney has turned into a fish, or Everyone loves weasels in their butt.

  So when Peaches said, You’ll be working with Drumgoole, I had to unpack the sentence to sort the words into the proper order.

  Gumdrool just laughed.

  “Damrosch?” he chuckled, incredulous. “Of course. He got a taste of the void, now he’s a model citizen. Mr Beldon was right: everyone caves.”

  “I didn’t cave,” I spat back. “I’m–”

  Peaches’ nails dug into the scruff of my neck. “No insults, boys. Negotiation.”

  She hauled us down a tunnel to where an abandoned subway car, half off the tracks, lay against a wall. She wrenched open the doors; ancient lights flickered on, revealing a table propped mostly level that held three cups of steaming tea. She shoved us into the cracked bucket seats.

  I had Peaches whiplash. Five minutes ago, she’d been drunk and dancing. Now she was tucking her hair back into a sharp business ’do, eyeing us both like we were chess pieces.

  “Some people might see two enemies here.” Peaches gestured for us to pick up our tea. “I see two people whose futures depend upon each other. But should this turn into a dick-measuring contest, I’ll walk.”

  “I need people who’ll do the right thing,” Gumdrool said calmly.

  “And is showing up at a Blackout Party in your Junior LifeGuard uniform the” – she made the quote-bunny-ears with her fingers – “‘right thing’?”

  “I’m proud of what I do. I’m not going to hide it.”

  “Yes, a man on a stealth mission certainly doesn’t want to hide.” She rolled her eyes. “How about you, Amichai? Can you negotiate?”

  Her coldness made me feel small. Did our friendship matter?

  “Tell me what I’m here for,” I said.

  “A fine starting point.” She drummed her fingers on the table absently to the memory of the Blackout Party’s music. “Now. Amichai. You wanted someone with an in to the LifeGuard. Ian’s so in, I had to negotiate a special release from Mama Alex to allow him down here. Tell Ian why you want in.”

  “That’s none of his business,” I said.

  “This is all business, you idiot. Put your cards on the table.”

  I sighed. “My sister needs me to get a good job so I can help her. The LifeGuard is the best job.”

  Gumdrool leaned forward, examining me more closely. “Why, Amichai Damrosch. Are you telling me the boy who’s practically made a career out of luring people into sin will toe the line to preserve someone else’s Upterlife?”

  “I haven’t lured–”

  Peaches kicked me in the shin before I could start up another argument. “Yes, Amichai needs some guidance to calm his impulsiveness,” she said pointedly. “But you need someone stealthy – did you find evidence of any of his pranks? I know you’ve looked. And he broke all the way into the hospital, and would have broken all the way out again if he hadn’t blanked. He’s flexible, tenacious – visionary, even. Isn’t that potential why you’ve been trying to reform him?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “
I… can’t deny your talent, Damrosch. But are you potential for a good LifeGuard… or a Criminal Shrive in the making? We don’t want any more Mama Alexes, do we?”

  He gave me a smirk that dared me to contradict him.

  “… and?” Peaches urged.

  “I’m willing to acknowledge his usefulness,” Gumdrool allowed. “He did talk that Christian bitch down – even if she escaped later on…”

  “She escaped?” I squeed in total fanboy bliss. “Her breakout must have been legendary…”

  “So you admit Amichai can help you,” Peaches said. “Now tell him what your mission is.”

  He swallowed tea, considering. “I was hunting through New York’s camerafeeds for dark zones–”

  “Hang on, hang on,” I said, making the “time-out” sign with my hands. “You can view New York’s feeds? Not just in the orphanages, but everywhere in the city?”

  He blushed. “Mr Beldon lends me his access. Don’t worry, I can’t see anything untoward – modesty routines blur the indecent areas…”

  “Which means you’ve tried to look.”

  “I didn’t set out to. It happens when you’re camera-patrolling Wickliffe, though–”

  “Especially in the girls’ dormitories, I’d imagine–”

  “Boys, boys,” Peaches said, raising her voice. “You can either forget past sins, or you can forget my help.”

  Gumdrool sucked in a long breath, exhaled patiently. “In any case, I was scanning the street feeds for dark zones. Cameras die all the time: equipment failure, lens grime, rats in the wires. We’ve had problems replacing our street eyes, after the Bubbler’s manpower shortages. Still, one of the quickest ways to pinpoint criminal activity is to look for places where dead cameras overlap.”

  In other words, you were looking for our next Blackout Party, I thought. But I thought of Izzy, and said nothing.

  “This dead zone was in Little Venice – a two-day slog through flooded wreckage. But you know the black markets; they’ll set up shop in the least expected places. So I set out to see what was there.”

  “Was it a black market?”

  “No. It’s a server. A new server.”