“Not necessary. I want to know the top twenty players of the top five titles over the last, say, five years.”
“Query complete. Would you like me to list their aliases?”
Alexei smiles beneath his visor. “I’ll probably regret this, but go ahead.”
“In ascending alphabetical order: 5N1P3R, 88Ninjas, A Peach, AssAssIn, Chemical Bacon, Dildo Dance Party, Don’t Blink, Dubious Cow, Foreign Devil, JesusDiedLOL, Manboobs, Mesh, Pig Benis, QueenCodeMonkey, Sweatyboner, The Muffin Man, Unholy Tide, UrMother, Weenie Tugboat, and Your First Pube.”
“Christ. Where do they come up with these names?”
“Many names are chosen for their ability to elicit humor or derision when one player kills—or frags, to use the common vernacular—another player, and are considered a passive form of ‘smack talk.’ In order to facilitate vendettas and grudges, most games inform players who they were just killed by using the phrase ‘You were just killed by’ and then substituting in the name of the victorious player. The result is a description of a scenario which could be considered comical due to the fact that it is grammatically correct, yet irrational and usually extremely unlikely. For example: ‘You were just killed by A Peach,’ or ‘You were just killed by UrMother,’ or ‘You were just killed by Your First Pube.’ Other names are chosen based on—”
“Thank you, Emma. That’s more than sufficient.”
“Did I make a mistake?”
“No. Never mind. Let’s call that group ‘candidates.’”
“Understood. I’ve created a group called ‘candidates’ containing twenty records.”
“Good. Now I want you to find each candidate’s most frequently used IP address and add it to his or her record.”
“Query and join complete.”
“Now query the Identification and Demography Index by IP address, and add the resulting data sets to each candidate’s record.”
“IDI records located for eighteen out of twenty candidates. Query and join complete. Eight thousand nine hundred eighty-two dollars transferred offshore to Anonymous Access, Incorporated.”
“Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong business.”
“Would you like to discuss new career opportunities?”
“No, thank you, Emma. Let’s try to stay on topic here. Tell me what fields are now contained in each record.”
“First name, middle name, last name, national identification number, date of birth, ethnicity, genetic profile, current address, all known previous addresses, marital status, IDI pointers to all known family members, employment status, employer name, employer address, IRS pointers to tax records, IRS pointers to the Federal Financial Transaction Index, total household income, pointers to all vehicle registrations—”
“OK, that’s enough. Using the ethnicity or genetic profile fields, find out if any of the candidates have African ancestry.”
“Four candidates are of partial sub-Saharan African descent.”
“Perfect. Call those four candidates ‘prime candidates.’”
“Understood. I’ve created a group called ‘prime candidates’ containing four records.”
“Which prime candidate has the lowest household income?”
“Andre Strasser has never had any combined family income.”
“How old is he?”
“Unknown.”
“Unknown? How can that be?”
“It is unknown how it can be unknown.”
“OK, Emma, before you get yourself stuck in an infinite loop, give me an approximation of his age.”
“Based on the creation date of his IDI record and the average age of the group ‘candidates,’ I would estimate his age to be thirteen years and three months.”
“Where does he rank among the original twenty candidates?”
“Which criteria would you like me to use to rank the original twenty candidates?”
“Average online ranking across all titles.”
“Andre Strasser is ranked number one.”
“Fucking brilliant. What’s his alias?”
“Andre Strasser’s alias is ‘Don’t Blink.’”
“Don’t Blink. I like it. Where does he live?”
“Baltimore, Maryland.”
“Where in Baltimore?”
“According to his last-used IP address, West Baltimore.”
“Sounds like a tough kid. Send a message to Ms. Blanchard. Tell her to have the plane ready to leave tonight.”
“Message sent.”
“Forward all the information you have on Andre Strasser to me.”
“Information forwarded.”
“Terminate my AAI session.”
“Session terminated. Message from AAI gateway: All personal data and transactional history deleted. Thank you, null. We hope you have a stimulating and productive afternoon.”
“I already have,” Alexei says. He leans forward and the machine beneath him adapts to his low and elongated position. “The last thing I want you to do is monitor my location. Until I’m off the Pacific Coast Highway, make sure I’m not disturbed.”
“I understand,” Emma says. “But may I make a request?”
“You may.”
“Please ride carefully.”
“Duly noted,” Alexei says, and then he flexes his wrist and the throttle twists.
CHAPTER NINE
Although Alexei is no stranger to ghettos, he clearly does not belong in this one. Before his silver Mercedes-Benz XLS even stops rolling along the curb, it is surrounded. The crowd steps back to let the gull-wing door rise and to give the big Russian room to step out and unfold himself to his full height.
Alexei feels relatively confident that he is not being observed from above since he has timed his visit such that it coincides with a narrow gap in the orbits of domestic reconnaissance satellites, and because he used the interferometer in his handset to sweep the skies for drones. He is acutely aware that his immunity will not last, however, since the flight paths of the autonomous Liberty and Freedom UAVs which photograph just about every square inch of North America every twenty-four hours are randomized.
There are any number of ways in which Alexei could have made contact with Andre Strasser which would not have required him to go anywhere near West Baltimore himself. But despite the risk—both from government surveillance and from the people whose territory Alexei is currently violating—he ultimately decided that West Baltimore was a part of America that he needed to see for himself.
What once constituted a collection of some of the most economically depressed neighborhoods in the country is now one of the fastest growing and highest producing urban agriculture centers in the world. The movement was primarily adopted out of necessity since the more isolated the region became—the fewer resources that were available, and the more shops that either closed or moved further out—the harder it was for residents to sustain themselves. What started out as potted vegetables in windowsills gradually evolved into acres of virtual communal farms dispersed across hundreds of backyards and common spaces. Abandoned parking lots were torn up and replaced by rows of fruits, vegetables, and legumes. The rotted out husks of old tree trunks dividing sidewalks from streets were pulled out, and in their places now grew apple, peach, nectarine, and pear trees woven into a continuous canopy of fragrant shade. Whereas most big cities are only marginally cognizant of the climates and ecosystems from which they arose, the humid subtropical zone of West Baltimore is now fully expressed in the verdancy of thriving agriculture, the leaf-tinted streams of sunlight, and the constant cacophony of cicadas in the trees overhead.
In the distance, Alexei can see what is considered by many to be the current pinnacle of the urban reclamation, local agriculture, and vertical farming movements: an old parking garage converted into one of the biggest and most successful aquaponic structures on the East Coast. The basement is home to thousands of salmon, tilapia, carp, bass, grouper, char, mackerel, and trout—all genetically adapted to thrive throughout the year in
the diverse mid-Atlantic climate. Water and sediment are pumped from the pools in the basement into a neighboring elevated tank where gravity creates the pressure necessary to deliver the nutrients directly to the roots of the crops dangling from terraces suspended throughout the levels above. Parabolic dishes on the roof focus sunlight into optical fiber lines which distribute it throughout the building according to the specific needs of each crop. Runoff and rain water find their way back down to ground level through the garage’s drainage system and are passed through a series of turbines which, along with inexpensive printed solar sheets, help to power the pumps that keep the tank at full capacity. After being passed through a series of filters, the stream is naturally aerated before being redirected right back down into the fish farms where the majority of it originated. This symbiotic integration of aquaculture and hydroponics has so far been capable of producing as much as sixty-five percent of all the calories required by the community that cooperatively maintains it.
The urban agricultural movement in West Baltimore has become so successful that it has actually yielded surpluses eight out of the last ten years which have resulted in generous returns from several peripheral grocery stores and weekend suburban farmers’ markets. However it has also provoked the inevitable ire of the industrial agricultural complex, which has repeatedly attempted to collect royalties on every calorie produced by what they claim is patented genetic technology. Several rulings have, in absentia, found against the people of West Baltimore, and in the minds of the GFAA (Genetic Farmers Association of America), justified the aerial release of viruses which have occasionally either destroyed entire crops outright, or introduced chromosomal aberrations sufficient to render their seeds infertile. Therefore, in lockstep with West Baltimore’s burgeoning independence, an intense and almost savage distrust of outsiders has coevolved. People like Alexei were once considered customers: the rich and the privileged who conducted business swiftly, efficiently, and even generously through half-open windows, and to whom the streets of the inner city were an adrenaline precursor to whatever substances they came in search of. But now, until proven otherwise, all outsiders are presumed ambassadors of a political, cultural, and economic system perfectly content to watch the people of inner cities starve to death in the streets.
Alexei now stands against his car, hemmed in by the crowd before him. Most are young men with pugnacious expressions, though there are also women posing in especially defiant postures. There are even several children among the congregation: a boy with beaded braids down to his shoulders and a sunken, milky-white eye; a girl with one side of her head shaved and the hair on the other side curling dramatically down beneath the chin she juts forward; an angelic albino who is even whiter than Alexei, her eyes a deep and cool sapphire blue, and her hair an eruption of radiant gold.
A bald and very broad man in baggy jeans and a tight black tank top stands ahead of the rest. His goatee is meticulous and his eyes are like shards, his expression and stance projecting authority over those behind him and the promise of swift vengeance toward those ahead. The de facto governor of these neighborhoods, perhaps. He leans to the side to examine the Mercedes, then looks back at Alexei.
“What’s your business here?” the man says. His tone is slightly more democratic than Alexei was expecting—more calculating than aggressive.
Alexei has a plan, but what he does not have just yet is a method of execution. He needs to get a feel for what he is dealing with here—to figure out exactly where the boundaries are. The centrifuges in his chest begin to accelerate as adrenaline molecules bind to the silicon receptors in his spinal cord, and he feels the irritating pricks of perspiration on his forehead. He grins a little too congenially at the man in front of him.
“It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
The governor is neither impressed nor visually annoyed by the attempted provocation. “That’s not been our experience,” he says plainly. His voice is as deep and smooth as a double bass and his enunciation is as precise as a single bowed note. “Now, I’ll ask you one more time: what is your business here?”
Alexei watches the man for a moment, then nods. He is clearly all business. As one of Alexei’s hands goes behind him, the collective mood of the crowd changes. There is movement and several men’s hands go up under their own shirts. Calmly and steadily, Alexei shows that all he is wielding is a small cryogenic canister about the size of a cigar tube. The governor’s eyebrows are raised in a clearly implied question.
“It’s an antigen,” Alexei says.
“Against what?”
“Genetic use restriction technology. Or more specifically, against the viral vectors that introduce it.”
The man shifts his weight and crosses his arms. “And you’ve brought it here why?”
“To immunize your crops,” Alexei says. He nods toward the aquaponic structure in the distance. “This is enough for an entire yield. Then all you have to do is use the resulting seeds for the rest of your crops and you won’t have anything to worry about for at least the next five years, maybe even ten.”
The man makes no move to accept Alexei’s offering. “How’d you get it?”
“The GFAA doesn’t produce pathogens without also producing antigens. It’s not as hard as you might think to obtain a sample, assuming you know the right people.”
“You’re telling me you have connections at the GFAA?”
“I do now.”
“Then how do I know that’s not actually a new pathogen?” the man says. “How do I know introducing this to our crops won’t destroy everything we’ve built?”
Alexei shrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
The man shakes his head. “That ain’t how it works,” he says.
“Then test it.”
“How?”
“Try it out on an isolated crop.”
“And?”
“And see what happens. See if it dies. Or see if the seeds are inviable.”
“And what if everything’s fine?” the governor says. “Then what?”
“What do you mean?” Alexei says. “Then you know it’s good, right? Then you can use it on the rest of the crop.”
“All I would know,” the man tells Alexei, “is that it didn’t kill that specific crop. And that it didn’t make those specific seeds inviable. But what about the next generation? Or the generation after that? Or in ten generations? Or a hundred? How do I know it isn’t designed to eventually mutate into something we can’t control?”
Alexei has begun nodding in concession. The man has introduced an angle he had not considered. It is clear from the way Alexei is standing there that he does not have a good answer.
“Leave the way you came,” the man finally says. “And don’t ever come back here again.”
“Wait,” Alexei says. “Just take it for emergencies. An insurance policy. If you never need it, fine. But if the GFAA succeeds in introducing something you can’t control, you’ll have nothing to lose, right?”
The man watches Alexei for a moment and the feeling of being appraised intensifies. “You never mentioned a price,” the governor says.
“There is no price,” Alexei says.
“Bullshit,” is the man’s response, and for the first time, Alexei detects a note of pure hostility.
“I just want to talk to someone.”
“Who?”
“A kid. His name is Andre Strasser.”
The man shifts his weight as his gaze becomes aggressively suspicious. “What do you want with Andre?”
“I’m here to offer him a job. A very lucrative job, in fact. I’ve been able to track him down to this neighborhood, but I can’t locate his house.”
The governor watches Alexei for a moment more, then points straight ahead over Alexei’s shoulder. “You see that roof with all the satellite dishes? That’s Andre’s house.”
Alexei isn’t exactly thrilled by the prospect of turning his back on the man, but he wants to believe that they a
re now working toward some kind of mutually beneficial agreement. He turns and looks at the row of houses behind him and sees that the governor is referring to an array of what appear to be spaghetti strainers fastened to the peak of one of the roofs, each turned at a slightly different angle. The display of the boy’s ingenuity amuses Alexei.
“I should have known,” he says as he turns back to the governor. “Very clever. Who else lives there?”
“Nobody,” the man says.
Alexei looks confused. “What about his family?”
“We are Dre’s family,” the governor says.
Alexei’s gaze wanders over the crowd. “In that case, anyone object to me going over and talking to him?”
“No need,” the man says. “He’s already here.”
The boy with the sunken white eye steps forward. The colors of the beads at the ends of his braids evoke a Caribbean vibe.
“Don’t Blink,” the boy says, presenting himself with an aggressive flair. “Now what the fuck you want?”
“Easy, Dre,” the governor tells the boy. “Ain’t no need for that.”
Alexei realizes he is probably doing a poor job of concealing his incredulity. He kneels and inspects boy. “Can you see out of that eye?”
“Not since I was three,” the boy says.
“What happened?”
The boy looks up at the governor.
“A domestic altercation,” the man explains. “It’s been resolved. As I said, we are Dre’s family now.”
Alexei watches the boy for a moment before continuing. “I don’t understand how you play so well with only one eye. What about your depth perception?”
“Ain’t no depth on a flat screen,” the boy says. “All that’s just an illusion.”
Alexei considers the boy’s response, then suddenly gets it. He grins as he gestures over his shoulder. “What’s that on your roof?”
“Ain’t much data out here, so I gotta catch what I can and synthesize it.”
“You built that yourself?”
“Most of it.”
“Let me ask you something,” Alexei says. “Have you ever heard of a game called MAD?”
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