by Rob Hart
ZINNIA
Zinnia tapped at the order screen, selected two CloudBurgers, small fries, and a vanilla shake. Sat back and looked toward the kitchen. There wasn’t much to see. A swinging door, and every time someone came out of it, she caught a flash of a clean, tiled space behind it.
This was it. The terminus of the tram line. Had to be. The line led to this side of Live-Play, and the businesses above and below it extended to an outer wall, whereas CloudBurger wasn’t deep at all. Plenty of space behind that swinging door for a kitchen and then some.
The question was why. Could have been a maintenance or supply tunnel. Could have been something else. Some quirk of the facility.
It was fun to speculate. It distracted her from the particulars of her new assignment: killing Gibson Wells. She was afraid to even think the words in this place, like the CloudBand might pick up on the particular pattern of her brain waves, and a bunch of men and women in blue would come storming in to drag her off to a blank room.
She wished there was more information. She wished she could make contact with her employers, but of course, it didn’t work that way. She still didn’t know who they were. All she knew was she was tasked with assassinating the richest, most powerful man on the planet, on his home turf, when he was surrounded by a metric fuckton of security.
So now she had two assignments. And she had to do both things at the same time. There was a good chance she’d run afoul of security when she breached the processing facility. Which would mean a lockdown. Surely there’d be one if Wells was killed.
They had to happen simultaneously.
His visit coincided with the Black Friday Massacres ceremony, which meant a whole lot of things would be happening at once. It would be a day of chaos, which was a warm blanket in her line of work.
Paxton would be a big help. Not that he would do it willingly. She hoped he would get on the detail. At the very least she’d be able to tease some intel out of him.
Her food arrived and she ate, chewing the burger slowly, savoring the brown-crusted meat. While she ate she thought about killing. It was something she well and truly had been trying to get away from, but Wells would be dead soon anyway. Did it even really count? He’d be in more and more pain as time went on. Maybe this was a kindness. If she focused on that really hard while eating her French fries she could almost accept that as a reasonable answer.
She hoped that, however she did it, she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes. The one thing she hoped to never do again was look in someone’s eyes as the life left them. It was the only moment where the work felt unbearable, and even though it was over in a flash, those moments always seemed to last an eternity.
Switching between the cold of the shake and the heat of the fries made her teeth ache. She watched the doors some more, as the order runners moved in and out. If she had a green shirt, a food-service shirt, she could get inside, no problem. Probably not a good idea to order one—there probably wasn’t even a reliable mechanism to order a shirt for a job that wasn’t yours. She could steal one. Better that than buy one off an employee, because employees had memories, and morals, and mouths from which to squeal. Had to be stealing.
Which left the damn CloudBand. The issue that had vexed her since she moved here. Zinnia picked up her second burger, feeling slightly full but not wanting to waste food, and ate. The tracking wasn’t even the problem anymore. If it was going to be her last day, blowing her cover would be no big deal. But her watch didn’t have enough access—she needed blue- or brown-level access. Hadley was a brown. If she could take Hadley’s watch, that would be great. But the damn thing would know it wasn’t Hadley wearing it.
And then she needed an exit strategy.
First, she needed a shirt. That was the easiest. Blue or brown—security and tech had the most access and she was leaning toward tech. The tech workers were like wallpaper. They did their job and no one paid them much attention. At least she would look the part.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Paxton.
Drinks?
She finished the last of her fries and wrote back: Two minutes.
She found him at the pub, already with a pint of beer in front of him, a couple of sips pulled off the top, and a fresh vodka rocks for her. A huge smile on his face. She sat and he raised his glass. “I made the Gibson detail.”
“That’s great,” she said, clinking her glass against his, really and truly happy for him, but also for herself. “So what does that entail, exactly?”
“Not sure yet. I mean, roughly…” He looked around. There was no one in earshot. He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Roughly, he’ll come into Incoming, where they’re going to do the reading of the names for Black Friday. Then he’ll get on a tram car and take it around to Live-Play. He’ll walk around here a bit. Apparently this is the first MotherCloud where they built a separate sort of entertainment facility for the workers, so he wants to see how it’s grown. Then it’s back on a tram car, back to Incoming, and gone. I have no idea what I’ll be doing. I’ll be in the mix.”
“You must be proud.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Picked up the beer and took a sip.
“You look proud, at least,” she said.
“It’s weird. The day I got here I wanted to tell him off. But now, I don’t know. It feels like I accomplished something, that they would trust me with this kind of responsibility. There should be a word for that, for when you’re frustrated with someone but you sort of like them, too.”
“Yeah,” Zinnia said. “There should be a word for that.”
A fissure opened in her heart. A tiny one, the slightest bit of light leaking through. She drank some vodka.
The most important detail here was the tram.
Gibson would be on the tram.
The trams that were susceptible to derailment.
A tram crash would be a hell of a thing. The only downside was she’d have to kill way more people than Wells for it to work.
Including Paxton, if he was riding next to him.
WELLS PROTECTION DETAIL MEMO
Welcome to the detail responsible for protecting Gibson Wells during his visit to our MotherCloud. Please review and internalize the following notes. Violating any of the guidelines will likely result in serious repercussions. You’ll get kicked down a full star at least. This is not a joke.
- Do not address Wells directly.
- I say again, do not address Wells directly.
- If he addresses you, you may engage in conversation, but please don’t expand much beyond pleasantries or answering questions he may pose to you.
- Do not lodge complaints or grievances with him. This is not the time or the place.
- If something needs to be brought to his attention, tell me or a member of his team. Do so discreetly.
- Maintain a perimeter around him at all times. Employees are not allowed near Wells unless he initiates or approves of contact.
- Your shirt is to be clean and tucked in. Sneakers are fine but jeans are not acceptable. Wear slacks or khakis.
- Do not, do not, use your personal phone in Wells’s presence. You must appear to be focused on your task, not distracted. Even if you’re passively surveilling a crowd, do not look like you’re not doing anything.
- Things will be extra chaotic because this will coincide with the Remembrance Day ceremony, which, on top of everything else, is the start of our busiest season. Which means when you are given the rest of your material—routes, timing, etc.—you are to memorize it down to the last detail. We will be conducting a series of practice runs, off shift. Attendance is mandatory.
You fuck up, it’s my ass on the line, so you better believe that I will make your life a literal living hell. I am using literal correctly.
—Dakota
PAXTON
>
On Paxton’s first day at MotherCloud, the Incoming building had been filled with buses. Today they’d been moved outside, to make room for the Black Friday ceremony, so besides the steady stream of trucks driving through the sensors at the far side of the facility, the place was empty and cavernous.
Paxton watched as a team of workers in green and brown polos erected a raised platform, servicing speakers the size of SUVs, creating the framework that would hold the humongous 360-degree projection screen. They moved with an incredible amount of speed and precision. This was the setup they used every year apparently, for the reading of the names.
The sight of work crews had grown familiar over the last couple of days. The hallways and the bathrooms were full of them. Even though there were no plans for Gibson to visit other parts of the facility, management seemed to be treating it like he’d be inspecting every square inch. Which meant every imperfection—every loose faucet, every busted urinal, every out-of-order escalator—was being fixed.
“You ready, comrade?”
Paxton turned to find Dakota had deep bags under her eyes—he doubted she’d slept in the last few days. But she was buzzing with energy, a large thermos on her belt loaded with her custom red-eye coffee, so dark it absorbed light. Paxton had tried it once and spent three hours worried his heart might explode. Though he figured by this time tomorrow, he might be asking to chug it.
“Think so,” he said.
Dakota nodded. “Going to be a team of five with him at all times. You, me, then Jenkins, Cheema, and Masamba. You know them?”
“Cheema and Masamba.”
“I’ll introduce you to Jenkins later. She’s good. This is a good team.”
“Listen, thanks again for trusting me with this.”
“Hey,” she said, balling her fist and jabbing it into his arm. It hurt more than he’d expected but he didn’t want to show it. “You earned it. Can’t believe you finally cracked that damn thing.”
Paxton laughed. “You want to know something? It was a momentary epiphany, and it could have hit anyone. I think it did me good just to get out for the day. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel that special.”
“Hey,” Dakota said, her voice sharp. “Do not sell yourself short. We don’t have much of a hierarchy at Cloud, but I’ve been Dobbs’s right hand for a little while now. With him maybe moving me up to tan—there’s going to be room for someone who distinguishes himself.”
A lump formed in Paxton’s throat. He didn’t know what to think of that. On one hand, it meant another rope tying him to this facility. But the more he thought about it, the more it felt like this place was the whole world, and everything else on the planet had withered away and died.
Being in that town, held at gunpoint, had been more than terrifying. It had been heartbreaking. As if he’d seen the world after sobering up and found out what it really looked like in the harsh light of day. Here he had safety, and cool air, and fresh water, and a place to sleep. Here was a job and a life, and maybe it wasn’t the life he wanted, but if he worked on it for a bit, maybe it could be one that he would grow to appreciate.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Dakota said, taking a swig of coffee and grimacing. “But keep an open mind. Job like that comes with perks.”
“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” Paxton said. “How you holding up?”
“Best I can,” said Dakota. “Hardest part is my mom is sitting up in my room right now watching television. She’s here for our yearly Thanksgiving dinner. I was going to take her to CloudBurger. They have a special turkey burger. But I just don’t think I’m going to have the time.”
“What do you think we’re in for tomorrow?” Paxton asked.
Dakota took another pull from the thermos, looked around. “No idea. I spoke to some people at the other MotherClouds who hosted him. Seems he gets around okay on his own. Looks like a zombie but I guess that’s to be expected. Question is the crowds. At the New Hampshire site, people couldn’t be bothered. Kentucky? They treated him like a messiah. People rushing barriers just to touch him.”
“Has he ever been here before?” Paxton asked.
“Not in my time,” she said. “Dobbs said once, yeah, but not for anything major. Meeting. Not a meet-and-greet like this. You get the memo?”
“I got the memo,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Dobbs said if things run smoothly tomorrow he’ll give me two days off in a row.” She paused, thought about it. “Fuck, I wouldn’t even know what to do with myself.”
“Sleep,” Paxton said. “Please.”
“Sleep is for people who lack ambition.” Sip. “How much longer you got on shift?”
“Hour.”
“Good. Give the route another walk. Remember, soon as he’s done speaking, ceremony over, we go to the tram, there’ll be a car waiting. The system will be shut down for everyone but us. We go to Live-Play, he walks around, back to Incoming, he’s out. Nice and simple. Bunch of monkeys couldn’t fuck this up.”
“I’m sure we’ll find a way.”
Dakota leaned forward, put the sharp point of her finger toward Paxton’s nose. “Do not even joke.”
“Sorry.”
“All right, skedaddle, comrade,” she said.
“Sure thing, boss.”
Paxton walked away and had made it about ten feet when Dakota yelled, “Hey.”
He turned. She approached, a hop in her step. “Forgot. My brain is like pudding right now. The guy you got? Dobbs has been working him over. He gave up names. Then Dobbs worked them over. And we found out how people were beating the bands.”
“Holy shit, really?”
“You’ll never guess.”
“I didn’t guess. That was exactly the problem.”
Dakota smiled, enjoying drawing it out, making it dramatic. Then she said, “So you know how the watches are coded to the user? Seems that functionality broke, like two software updates ago. The nerds in tech didn’t notice. A lot of folks are getting fired over this one. Someone could take off their band and put it on a partner. Since all the watch needed to do was register a warm body, the alarm didn’t go off. The person without the watch would run their errand and come back. You were right about another thing, too—they would do it in crowds, because they thought no one would notice the signal dropping out for a couple of seconds.”
Paxton shook his head. “That’s…ridiculous. I can’t believe it was that simple.”
“They’re working on a fix,” Dakota said. “Might need more than a software update. Might need a hardware update. Expensive one, too. But hey, at least now we know.”
Paxton laughed. “Well, damn.”
“And this,” Dakota said, “is why Dobbs is so happy with you. Keep it up, idea man.”
ZINNIA
As Zinnia tipped the bottom of the vodka bottle toward the ceiling, draining the last of the stinging liquid down her throat, she wondered if she should walk.
She didn’t see any way through multiple layers of security, into the bowels of a restricted area, and then all the way back to kill someone who would be surrounded by a heavy guard. Not when she couldn’t open a single door between here and there.
It didn’t compute. It had nothing to do with killing Paxton. Nothing. The more she said it, the more she believed it.
She shook the empty bottle of vodka and set it on the bedside table. Called up the Cloud site on the television to see if she could order some more. And no, as it happened, you couldn’t order alcohol on Cloud. What terrible bullshit that was.
She wanted to drink more, but that was being overruled by her lack of any desire to get up, or put on pants, or see other people. So she sat, figured it was best to leave soon. She wasn’t sure how, exactly. Maybe rent a car again and ditch it somewhere. But that would mean getting Paxto
n to intervene, again, and it might be suspicious to ask.
She could hike it. Nearest city was maybe a hundred miles? It would take a couple of days. She might be able to flag down a ride at some point. She’d need to pack a lot of water, to be safe. Maybe a weapon, to be safer, after her little dance with Ember and her hippie brigade.
As for her employers’ maybe coming to kill her—she’d figure it out. She was too drunk to care at the moment.
Her phone buzzed. She stared at the wall.
It buzzed again. She rolled her eyes.
Hey, what are you up to?
Then: Fancy a drink?
Zinnia stared at the text bubbles for a few moments. Tonight was likely her last chance to see Paxton. She had a funny little feeling in her tummy that could have been gas but also could have been approaching something close to regret. Whatever. She could get him to bring more vodka and then he’d go down on her. Those were the reasons and the reasons alone, she told herself, as she wrote back: Come by. Bring vodka.
Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door. Paxton was all smiles, first because of something else, something that had happened that day, and then he looked down and saw she wasn’t wearing pants, and he smiled even wider. He leaned down and kissed her and she stepped back into the apartment, made her way to the futon, and fell into it while Paxton prepared two rocks glasses with ice from the mini-fridge.
“Wow,” Zinnia said. “You’re joining me?”
“It was a good day,” Paxton said. “I’m a fucking rock star.”
Zinnia nodded, reclined on the futon, her head swimming. Paxton handed her a glass. They clinked them together and drank and Paxton pushed his head down toward her crotch, and she went a little breathless until he dropped his head in her lap and rolled over, looking up at her, wanting to cuddle like some girlfriend-boyfriend nonsense. She wanted to admonish him, tell him to get to work, but he was still smiling, and that smile really was the thing she liked best about him.