by C. Gockel
James stared at her. Not looking at him, she glared at the screen. In a voice several decibels too loud she said, “I’m on more alien subcommittees than I can count on two hands and I can tell you all the top-secret information we have on sentient galaxy traveling ‘energy beings.’” Noa huffed, her nostrils flaring.
James blinked. “You can?”
Noa waved her hands. “Yes! Because there are none! None! Just a whole lot on non-sentient, stupid, heat guzzling, sunlight swilling, and H2O-choking blue-green algae-like organisms.”
Her tirade was oddly comforting—except for the strange non sequitur about blue-green algae. Of course the Luddecceans were being crazy. There were no alien djinn-like creatures hell-bent on controlling humans through their neural interfaces … He knew this like he knew Noa’s name … and when he thought about it, he realized it was so unlikely it was absurd. Humans themselves couldn’t control other humans through their neural interfaces, or even lower life forms. He had a grainy memory of trying to control a cockroach through an interface in a seventh-grade science experiment. It had worked for a little while, but the cockroach had eventually regained control of its tiny brain and started resisting James’s and his partner’s input. Human brains were much more complex than cockroach neural networks. There were neural interface viruses that occasionally snuck by ethernet and implant scrubbers—but none had caused massive epidemics of remote control—just massive epidemics of headaches.
The screen flashed, catching his attention. James turned back to find an advertisement for non-ethernet dependent washing machines. A tiny row of text at the bottom of the screen advertised that a romantic comedy was playing next. He flipped the device back to the menu.
Noa walked over and sat down on the couch. “What were we just watching? Some sort of two-dimensional holo?”
“The frequency was in between the 54 and 216 MHZ range.”
“Which is?” Noa said, bending her head to suck some soup from the packet.
“Television … TV,” James said, referring to the devices that in the past had used those frequencies.
One of Noa’s eyebrows shot up and her lips pursed. “Speak in Basic, buddy.”
James tried to formulate a succinct explanation, and settled on, “A two-dimensional holo.” He adjusted the laptop on his knees. “How much did you hear?”
Noa sagged down at the opposite end of the sofa. “Enough to know that my guardian angel is apparently an alien, and I am an alien sympathizer.”
James suddenly sensed that the laptop was about to fall off his thighs and moved his hands to stabilize it. He felt his nanos jump as he ran his hands over the cool plastic. The device was not unbalanced. “All the talk of demons, djinn, and devils ...”
Noa made a sound like, “Pfft.” His eyes slid to her and she said, “Political and public types here are always putting their speeches into ‘god’ speak. They don’t really believe it.” She winced. “Well, maybe some of the political and public types do, and a large portion of the populace.” Noa shrugged. “This isn’t like Earth. It’s a very religious place … in some ways it’s a good thing.”
James found he could only stare at her.
Leaning back, Noa put a hand over her eyes. “Solar cores … since before the Luddecceans founded the original colony on this planet, they have been railing against neural networks, and augmentation, and the search for non-human sentience since the Republic reestablished contact.” This time her voice was softer. Tired. Parting the fingers of her hand, she peered at him and gave a tight smile. “Now they’ve managed to combine everything they hate in order to scare the populace and gain control.” For a long moment she was quiet. “And you’re caught in the middle … I’m sorry.”
James’s brows rose.
“This is my home world.” Noa sighed. “I sort of feel responsible for their craziness.”
“Hmmm ...” was all he could manage. He suddenly knew what was missing from his memories of this cottage. He didn’t remember the smells—the pungent scent of the wood floor and paneling, the natural fiber of the rug that was thrown in front of the couch, the cold ticklish fragrance of stone and ash in the fireplace. And the reason he knew that was missing was because with Noa so close he found himself inhaling the scent of soap, wet hair, and her. She was familiar, and good. It made him feel … hope, anticipation … and the urge to pull her onto his lap. The last realization made him draw back. She was visibly unwell. Her skin was stretched tight across her cheeks and had an unhealthy tinge to it; her body was skeletal, her hair unkempt. Aside from that, she wasn’t his normal type: tastefully augmented, civilized, quiet, erudite …
Noa’s hand slipped from her face and dropped over the edge of the couch. Her eyelids slipped closed. From the rate of her breathing, James realized she was asleep. There was a raspy quality to it but it was steady and sure. He watched her for a few minutes, and then retrieved a blanket from the trunk. He draped it over her and her body relaxed. As she relaxed, he found he did, too. He turned the “television” back on and “surfed” the channels, the steady gentle rasp of Noa’s breathing giving him the same peace he’d had when she’d been asleep in his arms.
And then the peace abruptly shattered.
Chapter Four
Noa’s back was pressed against a wall. Timothy was leaning into her, his lips meeting hers. A bright light shone behind his head, and somewhere Kenji was screaming. In the twisted logic of dreams, Noa could see her brother, head bent, at the same interrogation table she’d been at, but this time they were using the pliers. She knew it was a dream—a nightmare—but she screamed, “Kenji!”
Her own voice woke her. She found herself staring at Tim. She screamed again, her legs bunching beneath her and pushing her backward. Tim reached toward her, lips parted, his eyes soft and worried. The expression was familiar, but his skin gave him away. It was nearly the same shade as Timothy’s … except that it didn’t change. Timothy was so expressive that even his skin betrayed his feelings. He’d flush when he was worried or happy, turn completely scarlet when laughing, or when he was angry, or in the heat of passion. Her ribs ached with the force of her breathing, and she felt soft cushions behind her back. The not-Timothy had a boxy contraption on his legs. “I think you were dreaming … about someone named Kenji?” he said quietly, carefully, in his highbrow Earther accent.
And it struck her—he, the not-Timothy, wasn’t a dream. She sagged into the cushion, recent events coming back to her. “My brother,” she said. “They’ve got him, too.” She bit her lip. She had to save him. And then she remembered Ashley and everyone else at the camp. She had to save them all.
From the “television” came the tinny sound of, “Update from the Briefing Room. The rebels in the Northwest Province have almost been neutralized.”
Noa huffed softly. “Well, that’s a load of lizzar droppings.”
James’s eyes slipped back to the screen. He put a hand beneath his chin and then self-consciously touched the edges of his lips. He’d said they were numb earlier … maybe they still were.
“It’s difficult to say.” He shifted in his seat. “It might be true, or may just be propaganda to dissuade others from going to the Northwest.”
“It’s propaganda,” Noa said confidently. “The Northwest has been home to a lawless element since the third-wave settlers arrived. The mountains there are filled with caves. Even dropping a nuclear bomb on the region wouldn’t take out the rebels.” She frowned. “Although, I wouldn’t call them rebels, so much as bandits.”
Eyes on the screen but not really seeing it, she said, “We might go to the Northwest … there have to be some dissidents making their way there.” Among them she might find someone skilled at hacking into data. She might be able to find where Kenji was held and alert the population about the camps via the landlines Bob Wang had mentioned.
“Do you think a landline could sync up with the population files somehow?” As she asked the question aloud, she tried to access the etherne
t for information—and failed. She immediately sent a query to her own data files, but drew a blank.
“A landline could be used for data access,” James said. “The original internet utilized landlines.”
Noa blinked at him.
“The internet was the precursor to the ethernet,” he said.
Noa gave him a smile. “I never realized how helpful it could be to have a history professor on hand.” He turned toward her, brows still drawn together. He looked as though he was about to say something; but then, shaking his head, he turned away. Outside, the wind howled. She wondered if he was in shock.
Cocking her head toward the window, Noa hopefully mused aloud, “Of course, how would I get there? The bike’s probably out of power.”
“There is a hover in the garage,” James said. “We could use that.”
She didn’t miss the word ‘we.’ It was the response she’d been fishing for, but still. “We? You’ll come with me so easily?” she said with a bemused grin.
James was staring back at the screen. “I’d like to stay alive. I’m safer, the further I am from Luddeccean authorities.”
Noa’s blood went cold looking at his chiseled profile. She remembered what they’d done to Ashley. What would they do to someone as augmented as James? Give him a quick death—or slowly take him apart bit by bit? Before she realized what she was doing, she’d sat up and put a hand on his arm. “We won’t let them get you,” she said.
James’s gaze dropped to her hand. Staring at her fingers, he said, “I sent the bike we were on to a settlement about 100 km from here. It should run out of fuel just before arriving in town. Hopefully, that will distract the authorities and keep them looking for us there.”
Not sure if her proximity was making him uncomfortable or just her, Noa leaned back. Her eyebrows rose. “That’s a nice bit of subterfuge, James.”
He glanced at her. “I learn quickly.”
She coughed involuntarily, not at his words.
His eyes dropped to her mouth. “We should probably pack and be prepared to leave.”
Pounding her chest, Noa said, “Yes, you’re right.” She moved to throw her legs over the edge of the couch, but James dropped a hand on her knee. She looked down. Not on her knee—his hand was on a thick white duvet covering her knee. “Stay here and sleep,” he said. “You don’t sound well.”
“I’m well enough,” said Noa, but she felt tired. Exhausted, for no real reason. She’d slept, eaten. In irritation, she tried to move. But his hand was heavy. She scowled up at him. He leaned back slightly and his jaw moved side to side—as though he couldn’t quite control it. One of his eyebrows rose, and he dipped his chin. “You don’t know where anything is.”
Noa took a breath, about to protest, but her lungs hurt and so did her injured side, and she was tired. She slumped back into the couch. He was right—she didn’t know where anything was, she’d get in the way—getting some rest would be a better idea. She closed her eyes, and tried to relax, but consciousness was a buzz of static sizzling down her spine, refusing to let her drift off. As James walked away, her eyes slid to a dusty hologlobe in the corner, and to the cable he’d used to jack into the tel-ee-vision. After Tim died, she’d gotten in the habit of going to sleep with holos on.
She started rifling through the entertainment files in her neural apps. She’d watch Lightyears!–– the sixty-three episode, true-life adventure, romance, drama of timefield pioneers Dr. Chandi Sood and pilot Raymond Bautista was practically a religion in the Fleet … it made even the toughest grunts get weepy.
Noa sat up, reached for the cable—and realized she couldn’t access any of her entertainment files—she couldn’t even listen to the story in her head. Her hands flew to her data port. Did she feel bent metal, stressed edges? She almost cried. The stupid screw they’d put in her! She fell back in the pillows, and felt the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes. They’d taken Lightyears! from her.
She put her hand over her eyes, and tried to breathe deeply. It was this sort of addiction to technology that her Luddeccean priests and teachers had always lectured against … She blinked at the dark ceiling. She tried to close her eyes, but she knew sleep wouldn’t come.
* * *
Noa awoke on a sunny cloud. For a moment, the room was dim. She heard a tinny voice in the background say, “It is too late for that, my son.”
Noa tugged at the cloud, and found herself on James’s couch. The cloud was the duvet he’d gotten her. The “laptop” was open on the ottoman-coffee-table-trunk. Noa put a hand to her head and grimaced. Her hair felt like it had been sheared by a blind barber. Dropping her hand, she stretched. At least she had slept. After finishing his packing, James had found her sitting in front of the laptop desperately trying to find something to listen to that didn’t feature augments possessed by aliens murdering their families. She’d needed background noise to sleep and James hadn’t even watched Lightyears!, but he had these “move-ees” in his data banks. Apparently, he’d made his name as a history professor by finding an abandoned town littered with time capsules. Time capsules were sort of a misnomer. They weren’t like the time bubbles created by time gates, but some low-tech things old Earthers used to do. They had put their favorite things in a box and buried it in the backyard. Noa had asked for something with space, adventure, and romance, and a lot of the capsules had the particular movies he’d selected in them—which was odd, because Noa hadn’t been particularly impressed. The hero had some sort of hover car that would have sucked his head off in the jet engines. But James insisted the move-ees were very popular. He’d rattled on a bit to her about papers he’d written on “hero arcs.”
Covering her mouth, she yawned. Last night she’d laughed when he’d gone off in lecture mode and had said, “Now you sound like a history professor,” because he had, and maybe there was a part of her that still found that impossible. He’d reached her at speeds that would have been difficult for Fleet tech, and he’d killed her captors by himself –– a lot for a history professor. When she’d made the joke, he’d turned to her and said, “Do I? I feel less and less like that person,” and then gazed around the house as though he expected to see ghosts.
She shook herself. They both had ghosts. A normal person had to be even more rattled than she was by this situation. And she was rattled. It was worse than the Asteroid War in System Six. She rubbed her eyes again. The best way to handle things like Six was not to think about them … to focus on the immediate present.
She looked around the room. There were some clothes laid out for her, and no less than four jars of peanut butter on top of the trunk, all scraped clean. There were several boxes of opened soy milk that she didn’t have to lift to know were drained, and empty soup packets. It was as though James had been the one who’d been in a work camp for weeks. He ate as much as several men his size.
Thinking about food, her stomach growled. Through the window she saw that snow still fell, but James was out shoveling. She could see the top of his blonde head among the drifts. She frowned and stood up. She’d been coddling herself long enough.
Pulling on the clothes laid out for her, she found her nose wrinkling up at the mess on the ottoman. By Fleet training, and an upbringing that had featured an explosion of rats among the native species, she did not like to leave a mess. After folding the duvet, she took James’s trash to the kitchen, found the household incinerator-crusher beneath the sink, and dumped in the garbage. As she lifted her head and looked out the kitchen window, she was hit by a bolt of sunlight through the clouds. Her jaw tightened in the cheerful light. The snow was slowing; but, with James’s earlier ruse, they probably had a few hours before company arrived. Just the same … she opened a soup packet and drained it swiftly, not even bothering to heat it up.
A few minutes later she strode into the living room just as James came in the front door. He was wearing a sweater rolled up at the sleeves. Covering his arms were tattoos. They looked like a twisting pattern of ivy a
nd shimmered slightly in the sunlight that streamed in the door behind him.
She blinked. “Where did those come from?”
Following her gaze, he said, “We have to—” He stopped talking and drew his arms toward his face. “What are these?” he whispered.
Through the open door came the distant whir of engines. With a thought, Noa prompted her Fleet apps to identify the sound. It was a low altitude old-fashioned Luddeccean hover-carrier, the type that had been used in her youth to obliterate pirates that had terrorized southern sea lanes. She didn’t remember one ever being used since then. They were huge and expensive. Her app placed it at twenty kilometers away—approaching at a speed of sixty kilometers an hour. It could go much faster—which meant they were using sensors … probably to search for them.
* * *
“I don’t remember how I got these.” James stared at the dark marks on his arms, the world around him forgotten.
“James? Are you in pain?”
James’s head jerked up. Noa’s hand was on his shoulders. She was looking him directly in the eye. He heard the ship outside, and he realized how he must look. He’d rushed in to rouse her, and now he was staring like an idiot at his arms … but he didn’t remember how he got the tattoos. His eyes skimmed the house that he knew every inch of but felt like a set piece, and he blinked. Noa had folded the duvet and cleaned the ottoman. Those details seemed more memorable than the room itself.
“We have to leave, James.”
The ship was getting closer. He met her eyes. They were no longer bloodshot. Her hands on his shoulders were firm.
“Yes,” he said, rolling down his sleeves, as though covering the mystery and ignoring it could make it go away. “This way,” he said, pulling away from her grip. She followed without a word. The lights flickered on as they entered the garage and he heard Noa breathe. “An LX 469.” Voice a reverent-sounding whisper, she added, “Older model, but nice, very nice.”