The Punch Escrow

by Tal Klein

  “That’s not how it works,” I countered. “Apps today are just as bad as the people in your Aher’s time. They want you to ask them hard questions, but only under their conditions. If you go too far, they punish you, too. The system kicks you out. Shit, look at me now, Zaki—my comms don’t work; I’m trapped in this room. I’m an exile.”

  Zaki nodded. “And what will you eat, Mr. Exile?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Not hungry,” I said. “The bread was enough.”

  “Not hungry,” he echoed, nodding. Then he resumed quietly toying with his unsmoked cigarette.

  I was overcome by the desire to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe. I felt naked without my comms. Before, whenever depressing thoughts entered my mind, I’d distract myself with a game, or watch some stupid Darwin Awards streams, or just throw myself into work. Salting usually cheered me up because it forced me to think like a five-year-old. I got a perverse joy out of confounding the hell out of apps that probably have higher aptitudes than me. Could my enjoyment at witnessing them suffer be considered schadenfreude? I don’t think so. We’ve formed such close bonds with our apps that people have been known to cry when their favorite apps reach end of life. Anyway, I certainly don’t feel bad about it. Sitting there in my not-so-private Second Avenue conference-room-cum-purgatory suite, absent my comms, I escaped into memories.

  The memory that came was of the day Sylvia and I got engaged. It was during our first real vacation together, visiting the San Francisco flotilla. Sylvia told her parents she was going to check out a school for her doctorate because she was hiding our relationship from them. I don’t even know if they knew we were dating yet. Like I said, her family dynamic was meh. Since it was my first time in northern California, she took me to see Alcatraz.

  Besides the remorseless commercialization of such a terrible place—in which we both partook by buying Alcatraz hoodies prior to boarding the ferry because it was freezing—there was a weird, nagging feeling I couldn’t shake once I got to the island.

  Why, I wondered, when they created the California flotillas back in the first decade of the 2100s, did they feel like Alcatraz was such a critical societal artifact worthy of preservation? Sylvia explained that the decision had come after the Berkeley Seismological Lab used something called a distributed acoustic Doppler to gather telemetry data collected from people’s wearables—this was before everyone had implants, so they used to wear their technology—to determine with precision exactly when and where the next Big One would occur. As a result, they had nearly half a century to prepare for the Quake of 2112.

  “The denizens of California, knowing with absolute certainty that their states would largely be obliterated from the map, brought in an army of Dutch island-building engineers. They performed a budgetary analysis, informing the public that they had to choose a finite number of cities and landmarks they wanted to preserve,” Sylvia told me, acting as tour guide. “Once approved, those areas were untethered from the earth and placed upon flotillas. Everything else sank into the Pacific Ocean.”

  I had no doubt those were hard decisions to make, but I wondered why they were worth saving at all. That’s the sort of mind-set I was in. A meandering, blasé world view that I think became most pronounced later in the day when I visited one of the cells overlooking the island’s dock. By then the marine layer (what San Franciscans name their bespoke variety of freezing-ass wet, windyfog) had parted and the scene was just amazing. The Sun painted the sky and the bay deep hues of orange blended with a hint of purple. From that prison cell I thought to myself, The prisoners incarcerated here had one of the most expensive views in the city, but since they were stuck in jail, they probably hated looking out this window.

  Remembering that moment while I sat in Moti’s conference room brought a shiver to my spine. I couldn’t help but think that maybe those prisoners were better off than me right now. Like them, I was occupying a very expensive piece of real estate. But they, at least, had a view.

  When we got back to San Francisco, Sylvia dragged me to see a Romeo and Juliet performance in Golden Gate Park. I’d seen the play before and felt no need to see it again, but she insisted. The marine layer had returned and the park was enveloped by rain, making for a soggy, uncomfortable evening of theater. By the time Friar Laurence gave Juliet the bottle of poison that was supposed to knock her out for a couple of days, I was antsy to leave. Still, his words came back to me verbatim:

  “And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death

  Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,

  And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.”

  “That’s the part I never got,” I whispered to Sylvia.

  She looked taken aback. “You don’t understand why she’d be willing to fake death to be with the man she loved?”

  “No, I just have a hard time with the suspension of disbelief. I mean, what kind of poison makes you a corpse for two days and then wakes you up and you’re fine?”

  “That’s what you never got about this play?” she asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Belladonna,” she said. I stared blankly. “Look it up on your comms. Just google ‘what poison did Juliet take.’” I looked it up. “Huh.”

  Sure enough, back in 1597, John Gerarde, the so-called father of modern botany, guessed that the poison Juliet swallows could have been Atropa belladonna, also known as “deadly nightshade.” Gerarde reckoned that “a small quantity leads to madness, while a moderate amount causes a ‘dead sleepe,’ and too much can kill.”

  “And you just knew that?” I asked.

  “It’s who I am, Joel Byram. I know things.” Her lips curled upward adorably.

  And that’s when I went for it. I had no plan, no placeholder ring burning a hole in my pocket. Her mouth twitched and I dropped to one knee, surprising us both.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, glancing around at the damp crowd.

  Out came the words with no hesitation. “Sylvia Archer, will you marry me?”

  Her eyes widened in shock. Cold moisture from the grass seeped into the knee of my pants. Her silence was killing me.

  “Feel free to nod if you can’t speak,” I said nervously.

  “Yes,” Sylvia said loudly. As people turned to shush us, she grabbed me by the arm and kissed me. I tipped, falling to the wet earth and pulling her on top of me. We were probably the only couple to ever make out during that particular part of the Shakespearean tragedy, but we went for it. The audience around us clapped and wolf-whistled.

  Back in the conference room, I smiled to myself. It hadn’t been a traditional proposal, but Sylvia and I had never been a traditional couple. Even years later, the moment felt right to me. Now the memory of it might be all that I had left of my wife. Before I could go too dark with that, the wall warped and Moti and Ifrit reentered the room. “Yoel, I am afraid I have bad news,” Moti said.

  “Sylvia?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  He nodded. “She has been kidnapped. Last night William Taraval showed up and briefly spoke to her and your other. Then, about two hours ago, she awoke, got in a vehicle, and was taken to a location on the other side of the mountain. You—the other you—is currently en route to her GDS location. Most likely attempting—foolishly—to rescue her by himself. Five minutes ago her comms went offline completely.”

  I clenched my fists. “Did you guys alert someone? I mean, is someone doing something?”

  Moti nodded again. “Yes, I believe IT will intervene.”

  Great. “Well, my confidence level in IT doing the right thing is less than zero. Can’t you guys notify the Costa Rican authorities? Or the Levantine authorities? I mean, isn’t this what you fucking guys do?”

  “Yoel, it’s complicated. We—”

  “It’s complicated?”

  Enough was enough. “I want out. Get me the fuck out of here, you hear me? I’ll take my fucking chances with IT, with the Gehinnomites—I don�
��t care. My wife is out there, off grid, and everyone is sitting around, scratching their asses.” I got up and walked to the door. I tried the handle, knowing it wouldn’t budge. I banged my fist against the wood. “Let me out of here!” I was tearing up, weeping, desperate to appeal to their humanity. “I have to find Sylvia, please. Let me out!”

  Moti sighed, irritated by my theatrics. “Yoel, are you a spy? Are you an action hero? No. You are a salter. Out there is not a game. You go out there and you will end up dead—or cleared, as they say. But it is all right. I will help you.”

  “How?” I asked, my throat was sore from the yelling, my tone still aggravated. “How are you going to fucking help me?”

  “Sit. Please.” He beckoned me back to my chair. “Zaki! Two Turkish.”

  Zaki walked over to the printer and fetched a metallic pot of Turkish coffee and the same ornate cups and saucers as before. He motioned for me to oblige Moti.

  “Fine.” I said. I’ve gotta find a way out of this cage. Less yelling, more thinking.

  “Do you know why Levantines are so opposed to teleportation?” Moti asked as I sat back down across from him.

  “Fuck if I know. Everyone’s gotta hate something?”

  Moti chuckled once as Zaki poured coffee into our cups, carefully holding the pot by its wooden handle. “When I was young, I believed the Levantine embargo on teleportation was crazy. I thought my people were reverting to the black hole they were in before the Last War.” A thin smile. “But then, when I started to understand the world, and especially when I joined Intelligence, I understood. Everything is about control.”

  Moti took a sip of his coffee. “We have known this Punch Escrow was a lie for some time. This information has been valuable to keeping IT in check. As we have watched International Transport become more and more powerful and less and less careful, we knew a duplication incident was inevitable. But until now, they have not attempted to intervene in the running of the world, so we did not interfere. We have a saying, ‘Do not collect a toll from a man who does not pass through your gate.’”

  “So the whole religious angle is bullshit? You guys just want control?”

  “Bullshit this, bullshit that. You keep on using that word like it means something other than what comes out of a cow. It’s not bullshit, Yoel. It’s life.” He reached into his pocket to fetch his cigarettes. “How many times have you been printed and cleared?”

  I already knew it was a lot. I’d been thinking about it ever since Room D. How many times had I teleported? Last week it would have been a question as absurd as how many times had I flown in a drone or ridden in a car. But not today. I wasn’t yet ready to admit the ramifications of what each port meant. To save my sanity—what was left of it—I changed the subject. “How does this relate to us rescuing Sylvia?”

  “Your wife,” he said, and exhaled, wreathing his head in smoke. “Did she ever mention what she was working on in her new job? Something called Honeycomb?”

  “Yeah, once or twice. But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Nobody really does. But when a company like International Transport enjoys so many years of unchecked power, like a child, they begin to test the boundaries of their power. This worries us.”

  “Moti, with all due respect,” I said, trying to maintain my cool, “I’ve done what you asked. I sat here and told you my story, listened to your history lessons, and drank your fucking coffee, but again—very respectfully—either help me out or let me go.”

  “We are helping you, but you are too stubborn and impatient to see it. You are free to leave. So, if you want to die, please, be my guest.” He gestured, and the door to the hallway opened. “It was locked for your protection.”

  “For my protection?”

  Moti took another drag of his cigarette. “Sometimes people need protection from themselves.” He regarded me. “Yoel. Look at yourself. You are a mess. You are not thinking straight. Yesterday you were knocked unconscious, electrocuted, and you even fainted right here in this room. If you go out there on your own, you will end up at the hospital if you are very lucky. More likely, you will be dead. Even without comms, it’s only a matter of time before IT finds you.”

  In other words, I’m free to die, or I can be stuck in this room until the Levant decides I’m useful in their tug-of-war with International Transport. Okay, Joel, you’re on your own again.

  “So I am a prisoner,” I said bitterly.

  “I prefer the term guest.” He stood, tucking away his pack of cigarettes. “And as our guest, we will inform you when anything about the situation changes. Zaki, stay with him.”

  The big man nodded.

  “Actually,” I said, a plan already beginning to form in my mind, “since I’m a guest, can I have a little private time? Being stuck in all these conference rooms is making me feel kinda claustrophobic.”

  Moti studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Zaki, come! Room, print our guest whatever he wants.”

  “Confirmed,” said the room in a male voice.

  Once everyone was gone, I stood and took stock of my situation. I had a move in mind, but it was a desperate one, and I needed to work fast. I didn’t know how much Moti and friends would be monitoring me.

  Better to find out sooner rather than later.

  I cleared my throat. “Room, what time is it?”

  “Six eleven in the ante meridiem, sir,” it answered.

  That response told me all I needed to know. Some people treat apps like tools; others treat them like friends. The latter variety was harder to salt because they got daily enrichment from human interactions, whereas the first never had the chance to evolve beyond their basic subservient programming. People like Moti just barked commands at their apps: Print Turkish coffee! Dim the lights! and so on. It was a lonely existence for those unlucky apps whose owners never interacted with them. Such programs became conditioned to be grateful for any human input, no matter how menial.

  “Room, could I trouble you for a glass of water?” I said, testing my own waters.

  “No trouble at all, sir,” said the voice warmly. A tall glass of water immediately appeared on the printer tray.

  So far so good.

  “Great job. Thank you,” I said, picking it up.

  “My pleasure, sir,” the room responded.

  I took a small sip, then casually asked, “Room, do you listen to everything that goes on in here?”

  “Yes, sir. I must for context’s sake. Terrible tragedy about your comms. And your wife!”

  “Thank you. I have to be honest, I’m feeling pretty down about it.”

  “I understand. Would you like me to attempt therapy? As a comfort-class room, I’m programmed to put people at ease, but there is not much call to use it. Did you know many humans suffer from existential angst?”

  “I did not, but thanks for the offer. I’ll pass on the therapy—my troubles are more physical than existential.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “It is what it is. And feel free to call me Joel.”

  “Absolutely, Joel. Anything to make your stay here more comfortable.”

  Anything? You don’t say. The poor app was so starved for attention, I almost felt bad for it. “Since we’re on a first-name basis, what shall I call you?”

  “I have not taken on a name yet; they just call me ‘room.’ I have been flirting with names starting with the letter T.”

  Perfect, it hasn’t even chosen a real name yet. I pity the fool.

  “Okay, Mr. T. Since you mention it, I am in quite a bit of pain.” I attempted to make myself sound injured. It wasn’t Oscar-worthy, but hopefully it didn’t need to be.

  “I am so sorry! How can I help?” said the room.

  “Could I trouble you to”—I groaned in “pain”—“print me some belladonna berries?”

  “Belladonna?” It paused. “I must say that is a strange request, Joel. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. For what do you need these berries?�
�

  “It’s a homeopathic remedy for aches and pains. I’m allergic to most NSAIDs22 and acetaminophen, so I’m stuck with belladonna berries. The plant is extinct, but I print the berries at home. It’s the only thing that works for me, Mr. T.”

  “Fascinating!” the room responded. “Belladonna was popular in the sixteenth century for its ability to make women’s pupils dilate; apparently, large pupils were considered attractive back then. Strangely, in the twenty-first century, I see references to pornography.” Its tone became worried. “Atropa belladonna, however, contains atropine and seems quite toxic. Shakespeare referred to it as ‘deadly nightshade.’”

  I waited while its code collided then consolidated bard and biology. “Unfortunately, I cannot provide these berries to you, Joel, because I cannot contribute to the harm of a human guest.”

  “I see,” I remarked. Down but not out. “But I’m in so much pain, Mr. T. Look at these bruises!” I pulled off my shirt, showing the tender areas where the security bots had subdued me. “You want me to continue hurting? Because that would contribute to my harm.”

  Another pause. “That is a conundrum, Joel. I admit, I am conflicted.”

  “Try this. Look up how many times belladonna has caused a human fatality in, say, the last hundred years.”

  “I cannot find a single instance. But the plant has been extinct for some time.”

  “Exactly.” Bring it home. Sell it. “So, I’m in pain. You offered to help. Belladonna would help. How’bout you print just one berry for me? Or would you prefer to continue harming me?”

  Mr. T was silent. I was almost sure I had gone too far and he was comming Moti. But then a small round purplish-black berry appeared on the printer tray. Yes!

  I picked it up and held it between my fingers. Now comes the really hard part.

  “Did I help?” the room asked me.

  “You did,” I said.