by Anne Tenino
“Seriously? That’s doable if we have our guy in Red Satellite Tracking build us an ID, but they can’t wait until he’s not being tracked in real time by AI anymore?” It was so much easier to work around the tracking chip of a level-two parolee being intermittently tracked by a computer. Computer tracking reports were only logged once every twenty-four hours.
“Nope. They want him back ASAP.”
“So why didn’t they go in after him when he was a POW or in re-education?” The military could get away with a rescue like that. Once he was no longer a military prisoner, it was an inexcusable act of aggression to send a military team in to rescue him, but contractors could get away with it. Or some political BS like that.
“They didn’t know where he was. His Blue chip was deactivated on the battlefield. If you take this job, you’re going in alone, Matt. It’s super down-low.”
“Okay.” Matt shrugged. He could do it. Infiltration was his specialty. Brute force? Not so much.
Just then Sid walked into the room, got a cup of coffee, and gave Matt a one-armed hug before sitting next to Lance with his coffee. “You guys talking business? Okay if I listen in?”
“Yeah.” Lance pretty much told Sid everything anyway. “Babe, can you hand me the tablet over there?” Lance pointed to the mini-comp on the other side of Sid. He brought up a file and projected it for Matt. “This is the file they sent me on the guy. Looks like they blacked out a lot of stuff, but the basics are there. You probably know him; he was a couple of years older than you and went to school in Weimer.”
“Probably? Lance, there were less than three hundred kids in the entire school system there. I definitely knew him.” He just couldn’t figure out who it might be. Please, don’t let it be Steve. Matt skimmed the usual military bullshit at the beginning of the file until he found the name.
“Oh holy fuck,” he muttered. Worse than Steve.
“What?”
“It’s James fucking Ayala!”
“That’s a weird middle name to saddle a kid with,” Sid said mildly.
Matt scowled at him. Smartass.
“Okay, so who’s James Ayala to you?”
“He’s a fucking homophobe, that’s who! He treated me like shit in high school for being gay.”
“Whadya mean, ‘like shit’?” Both grampas were instantly on alert. Their high school experiences had been so bad Matt felt like an idiot even bringing it up.
“Nothing, really. He just called me a fag and stuff.”
They blinked at him across the table. Fine, so he hadn’t been targeted for death by an organized bunch of homophobic Junior New Coalition for Christians members during the Split Between the States like they had. Not everyone could live a life of glamour.
“Ooooh, that’s bad,” Grampa Sid said. As far as Matt could tell, he wasn’t mocking him.
“Calling someone a fag is bad?” Lance asked incredulously.
Sid huffed at him. “Yeah. No one uses the F-word anymore, Lance, unless they’re gay themselves. Then it’s okay. You’re asking Matt to go extract a fucking homophobe. Th’fuck, Lance?”
“He’s gay!” Lance defended.
“That’s what the Red Idaho Authority says. Doesn’t mean he is,” Matt pointed out.
“Lots of kids in the closet did stupid shit to protect themselves. The biggest homophobes are probably all homos,” Lance pointed out.
“Yeah, but he did it to our grandson, babe. If you’re in the closet and using it to insult someone else? Definite F-word violation. Definitely over the line.” Sid was almost rabidly protective of his family. “Besides, in this day and age, no one should be using the word if they’re in the closet, because there’s no excuse for being in the closet. Not in the Blue.”
Grampa Sid was a bit of a militant old fag too.
“So he was a confused kid in a small town. You know Matt was the only out kid in his school when he was there. Maybe Ayala was scared. Maybe his family was unsupportive. Maybe he’s sorry for using the word when he didn’t have the fag seal of approval.” Lance was pushing it now. Matt cringed a little.
Sid pulled out all the stops. He whipped out the “hurt” face. “Lance,” he said in a quavery voice, “are you mocking me?” His big blue eyes looked wet, like he might even have tears in them.
Definitely over the top. Lance had to see through that.
“Oh, babe, you know I’m not mocking you!” Lance swallowed, because of course he was. “I’m sorry if it seemed like that. Here, let me get you some coffee.” He practically knocked over his chair getting up from the table.
“Hope you’re taking notes, boy,” Sid murmured to Matt once Lance was across the room.
Jesus, was it any wonder he was a smartass with role models like these? Yeah, he was taking notes: Grampa Lance is gullible.
Lance set Sid’s coffee down in front of him, running an apologetic hand across his back at the same time. He looked at Matt. “Listen, it’s a job. I can give it to someone else if you want. But we have to get him out or give the contract to a competitor. He may be gay, he may not, but someone’s gotta go in and save his sorry ass. Maybe being on the receiving end of their bullshit has made him more sympathetic if he isn’t gay.”
Sid suddenly broke out in a smile. “You know, even if he isn’t gay, you’ll be the one saving his sorry ass if you go, Matt.”
Matt stared at his Grampa. It would be nice to rub James’s face in it….
“Besides, like Lance said, the closet cases are always the biggest homophobes.” Sid winked at him. “You never know—you could even get revenge sex out of this job.”
Lance cleared his throat. “You know, babe, I can’t really condone sex on the—”
“Kinda cosmic justice, don’t you think?” Sid cut Lance off as if he hadn’t said a word.
Matt thought about it a little. “Ah, shit.” He sighed, still not sure, but…. “Guess I’ll do it.” He was a dumbass.
Sid smiled and stood up. “Really need to get back on that board now. I’ve got a new client coming next month and I need to be up on this shit.” He looked down at Lance.
“We all right, babe?” Lance asked. He had on his “contrite” face.
Sid leaned over for a quick kiss. “Of course, Lance. Why wouldn’t we be?” Sid was wearing “innocence” now.
As soon as Sid was out of the room, Lance leaned across the table and said in a low voice, “You see how I handled the husband, Matt? I hope you’re taking notes.”
Freaks. Both of them.
THE package. James was just the package. Admittedly, it was a term agents used when they couldn’t speak freely, but clients were sometimes called packages.
Matt sighed. Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d agreed to this extraction in the Grampas’ kitchen, and already he was regretting it. Not even the lure of revenge sex was very convincing anymore. He didn’t really want revenge sex. But he couldn’t back out, because he was disembarking the high-speed rail outside Ontario at the OR-ID border.
The truth was, he wanted the kind of sex he’d listened to Simon and his boyfriend having through the wall the other night. He didn’t think much of Simon’s boyfriend, but the way they were all gooey and lovey was… disturbing.
It wasn’t like Matt wanted a boyfriend—he was only twenty-three! He had years of being a dog ahead of him, if he followed his cousin Laslo’s example. It was just that Simon and his boyfriend (th’fuck was his name again?) were, like, all happy and shit.
Being around a couple like that, it was hard not to want that gooey, warm-inside feeling. Even if he didn’t want it, want it. Revenge sex sounded pretty cold after something like that.
Matt sighed again. He knew he wasn’t going to have revenge sex, even if it was on tap (which he kinda doubted). He’d had a thing for James in high school. Like, a big old stiff thing. And somehow it would be just too lame for words to ruin that stupid crush he’d had with revenge sex seven years later.
Dumbass. Him. Really.
WHILE he was waiting to cross the border into Idaho, a group of RIA militia marched past Matt, assault-Directed Energy Weapons on their backs. Older tech, although from China. Still could do serious damage. He knew he looked disinterested, but inside he shivered.
He still wasn’t familiar with their new uniforms. They looked… sinister. The Red had only just accepted they weren’t the United States of old and had given up the traditional US military uniforms. Now the Red’s unis were made of all-weather fabric, just like every other uni in the world, but they wore their body armor on the outside. That was the sinister-looking part. Please don’t let me meet up with those assholes or their buddies once I get the package.
Matt fucking hated border crossings with forged documents. No matter how good the forgery was, there was always the chance his fake ID wouldn’t hold up. Then they’d type his DNA and he’d really be fucked.
Or his secret tech pantry shielding would fail and they’d catch him with illegal military tech and then he’d still really be fucked. Really. He hated undercover border crossings.
He hated old buildings like this too. Ontario was one of the few places there had been actual fighting in Oregon during the Split Between the States. Washington and California had both gone Blue immediately, with few to no contested areas, just like Oregon. Nevada and Idaho were the only states bordering Oregon that had gone Red. There were no major towns on the OR-NV border. Ontario had been an Oregon municipality on the OR-ID border. Now it was a half-bombed-out wreck that belonged to Idaho.
The Red Idaho Authority Immigration Services building was northwest of Ontario, right off 84. It was made out of the recycled mix-crete typical of the mid-twenty-first century. Matt had seen some really nice buildings made with recycled masonry and mix-crete. The RIA Immigration Services building was not one of those.
It was built with pieces of bombed-out buildings and mix-crete mortar, with too few windows. On the other hand, it fit right into the whole immigration building oeuvre.
The bamboo-chip floor was yellowed, and the lighting was fluorescent, for God’s sake. They could have used antique glass as masonry, mix-crete as mortar, and day-spectrum lighting. He’d seen that somewhere. It was kinda cool.
He was far enough forward in line to see the Immigration agents. Actual people, not AI. Labor was so cheap in Idaho it wasn’t worth the investment in expensive foreign tech for the RIA. They still had the same comps he’d seen when he’d come through here last year. The datascreens sat on top of the desks instead of in them. They hadn’t made comps like that since the twenty-first century.
Matt made it through Immigration, barely earning a glance. He breathed a sigh of relief. But it was always that way. It was the getting out with the package that seemed to be the problem.
Chapter 2
HE WAS officially in the Red Idaho Authority, now. The people in the RIA never looked much different to him. Mostly just like poorer versions of the people he’d grown up around in eastern Oregon. Except for the very few who looked like much, much richer versions of the people he’d grown up around.
But they sure as hell acted differently. He’d been accosted by people wanting to earn enough (or steal enough) to make it through another day the second he stepped outside the Immigration building. Kids wanting spare bills (reminding him he was in Idaho where people actually carried money, and he might want to find a teller-bot). Rough-looking guys wanting to be his guide (for what didn’t matter, because they just wanted to guide him to a back alley and take his cash, paycards, and any other valuables he might have). Women wanting to do him for money. Boys wanting to suck his cock. Older people with holo-cards to sell. Whatever. He’d been through it so many times in so many Red states he didn’t even notice anymore.
Well, except for the boys with the long eyelashes and puffy lips who wanted to suck his cock. He noticed them.
Once through the gauntlet, Matt got a nutrition bar and cup of coffee at a kiosk. Jesus, he needed to start mainlining caffeine.
After paying with his hookup, Matt had to send the receipt to SpecOps Accounting. It was truly fucked that even on a covert operation he had to keep track of his spending in real time or QESA wouldn’t get reimbursed. The transmission was encrypted, of course, and he was set up to bounce off Red satellites to a “legitimate” business in California, but still.
Covert, his ass.
He found a seat at a bench nearby. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant place to sit, but most of Ontario wasn’t. They’d barely rebuilt after the battles here fifty years before. Red states were all the same.
A guy came along, breaking into Matt’s distraction. “Anyone sittin’ here?”
Matt gave him a quick once-over. Not the happy, gay kinda once-over. The “I’m a covert agent from the Blue” once-over.
Camo all-weathers, kinda outta shape, long hair, mid-fifties. Not military: everyone wore all-weathers, even civilians. You could wear all-weathers for weeks without them showing dirt or smelling (much). What was not to like? Idaho was a hunter’s paradise so camo wasn’t unusual. Probably wanted money. Matt decided he was harmless. “Nah. Go ’head.”
“Ya here for the huntin’?”
“Pretty much,” Matt said agreeably.
“Yeah, not so good the last few years. Back when they used to stock deer ‘n’ antelope, now that was some huntin’. Why, my Granddaddy—”
Oh, fuck me. A talker. Matt groaned. Audibly. Wasn’t like the guy was listening to him. After a half-hour treatise on how much better the hunting was in Idaho before either of them existed (“…and I don’t give a good goddamn what them Blue liberals say, it ain’t global warming! ’S’a conspiracy. Plain’s the nose on my face!”) Matt managed to fake a very important text.
As he answered, he picked up his pack, gave the guy a nonchalant wave, and took off to rent a crotch rocket. An environmentally harmless electric crotch rocket.
MATT made camp just outside of Payette that night. He easily could have made it to Boise just after dark, but he wanted time to think. And he liked camping. He even built himself a campfire. Completely unnecessary, and not that smart since it wasn’t quite the rainy season yet, but what the hell? He was feeling maudlin. It added ambience.
Apparently too much ambience. He barely had a decent fire going before another packer came along on the trail Matt had been following. It was deep dusk now, and most travelers had stopped for the night already, whether in one of the camping shelters or beside the trail like Matt had. When the guy stopped and asked Matt, “Feel like some company tonight?” Matt almost would have thought it was a pickup. Except no one who wanted to live long as a free queer would be that obvious in the Red. This guy must be just that naive.
“No,” he said shortly, and gave the guy an unblinking stare until he moved on. It was only as he was walking away, and Matt was checking out his ass—hey, he was a good looking-guy—that Matt saw the gray handkerchief peeking out of the guy’s pocket.
It was even 18% gray. At least it looked that way in the fading light. Most queers in the Red just settled for any old medium-gray square of cloth. But 18% gray had double meaning. The use of gray or grayscale handkerchiefs was to show someone was queer but living under the oppression of the Confederated Red States. The anti-rainbow flag.
Eighteen percent was a common background color for art stills, but in this case it had been co-opted to represent the 18% of all “gay” gene carriers who weren’t queers. Because that’s how most queers who lived in the Red had to live. Like the other 18%.
Matt always found the use of the 18% flag funny. Not even all gay men could tell the difference between 18% gray and any other medium gray. He always figured it was only the queerest of the queer who could. Survival of the queerest. Something like that.
Matt almost called the guy back, but he really wanted to be alone tonight. The guy would be all right. He was headed in the right direction, anyway—toward Oregon. If he was smart, that’s where he was going. And he’d be more careful with the picku
ps. It wasn’t like the grayscale flag was some kind of state secret.
He spent the time next to the campfire thinking over the extraction.
First Lieutenant James Ayala was captured by RIA troops during the Fall of Boulder in July. Boise’s very active Blue cell was probably what James had to thank for this rescue. He was barely out of re-education camp. A level-one parolee, tracked by AI in real time. Matt was going to have to do some fancy chip recoding to extract James, which meant he had to carry a recoder, along with all his other illegal tech.
Thank God for that hollow leg. Or rather, the landmine that led to the hollow leg.
WHEN Matt got up at the ass crack of dawn (he may be some kinda special agent, but he still liked to sleep in), he wasn’t feeling particularly grateful for the hollow leg. Or the landmine. Mornings like this, his thigh ached. It may look like a regular leg and act like a regular leg, but it didn’t fucking feel like a regular leg. So he opened an instant-hot coffee pouch and tried to be thankful that he’d stepped on an old-tech mine, and not an atomizer mine. He couldn’t be thankful for the shitty coffee.
It wasn’t until his second cup of coffee—and the NSAID kicked in—that he could work up to not being un-thankful. His fucking thigh still throbbed a little. He looked at his timepiece, and opened up the damn leg to get his vid hookup. A regular hookup was fine in Idaho, but the vid model wasn’t available to regular civilians in the Red, yet. So it meant another gadget in his fake leg. He was a walking tech pantry.
It would be really cool if he could just have a Brain-link feed the com directly into his neural network, but with tech like that he may as well have “Blue undercover agent: shoot at will” lased on his forehead. Besides, they hadn’t worked out the vid feed for that, yet. Too disorienting.
Andry was on vid when he called in.
“Where th’fuck are you?” Andry scowled.