by Chris Hepler
"I read Shady Side of the Universe when I was an undergraduate. You probably saw the series when you were what, twelve?"
"My dad hated Ulan and everything about qi. I think it scared him." The memory is not a welcome distraction but a necessary one. "I snuck over to a friend's house for it, though. I can still remember Ulan demonstrating with magnets or something, and I was like, 'where's all the flying kung fu and the shooting qi bolts out of your hands?'"
"Sorry," says Roland, "I can hurt people with straight lines of yin qi, but they’re short. Bolts will have to wait. Flight… even worse."
"It's not possible?"
Roland smiles and does an Ulan impression, making his speech slow and breathy. "Just as William Gilbert, measuring a lodestone's field in the year 1600, could not predict the creation of computer disks, we cannot predict the consequences of measuring a biophysical field. Qi has changed me, and in my lifetime, it will change the world."
"You sound less Ulan and more Scarlett O'Hara." I pile toothpaste and other toiletries into the cart. "I gather that's in the book."
"It's the part with the magnets," he says.
I attempt to remain unruffled. "And now we know why I can't shoot qi beams."
"Anyone can do it. Passive qi is just life doing its thing. Making it active takes time and discipline."
"Says you with an M.D. and nano-wire in your body. How long did that take to implant?"
"About a year and another year to learn how to use. But you could do the same."
"If I had discipline, I wouldn't be shopping for food while hungry."
"You said you had a first-degree black belt in Brazilian jiujutsu," he says. "They don't give those out for participation."
"That's different." It is. "That's therapy. And if it were all just will and strategy, it'd be one thing, but turning them into math, it's moon language to me."
"It's mostly memorization, then eyeballing how hard to push. And everyone fails at it to some degree. Come on, you wanted clothes."
We browse quietly on the second level, where I pick out a do-rag to keep my hair and sweat out of my eyes. Then, it's back to the first floor to pick up food, which I get without comment from Roland. That's a minor triumph—a balance between the starvation diet of a vipe living on liquid and the high-calorie intake of vipes who eat anything they want when freed from nutritional constraint. Brown rice, eggs. Normal staples. If a weakness shows up, it's in my thirst—I pick up soymilk and plenty of a crossbred citrus GMO juice called Gen-Five.
"So, my fantasy was qi beams," I say. "What's yours?"
"I'm pretty happy doing what I do."
"Secret of adulthood: nobody's happy. Come on."
He makes eye contact, and for a second, it isn't cold. "Teaching," he says. "Jessica always had a leg up on me."
"I heard you run the classes for door entry and hand-to-hand."
"That's all right," he says. "Keeps us in shape. But BRHI in the early days… we weren't afraid to nerd out. Well, depending on the subject matter. I became… unpopular."
"Hah! Too geeky for academia. Love it."
"Quite the opposite. Ulan wanted theory. I wanted application. She tried to curtail my research, so in the spirit of freedom, I packed my bags and found another employer. They liked my tricks, but they made me shave my head."
"Military? Nice."
"Back when China was doing its thing with the Ryukyu Islands, they sent me to Okinawa. They gave me an aptitude test, saw what I could do with a stimweb… it was a lot of me showing very scary men and women where to put the needles."
What the snot does this guy consider scary? "You come out in one piece?"
"I don't like the sound of drones," he says. "Some bad dreams. You?"
"What, like…"
"You had a literal near-death experience. I should know if you're holding up okay." Pause. "As your partner."
"I don't have nightmares." It's a lie, a big one, so I clarify. "About work."
"Really?" he asks, and his eyes are unnaturally green and steady, as though he's genuinely concerned. I think I smell Edge Fresh Scent and Type A positive. He would taste fabulous.
"Mine is all kid stuff," I say, ruthlessly forcing memories back into the lead-lined mental boxes where I keep them locked. "I do have recurring dreams, though." I leap in with enthusiasm, grateful to have another subject. "I know it's all crazy Freudian. Just be quiet and listen. It's that I have a box filled with snakes, but they all want to go exploring. They crawl out, so I have to put the snakes back in the box, but some of them are poisonous, and some of them will eat one another. Consequently, I have to separate them, and it makes my job hard."
"Snakes," he says, with a little smile.
"It's not scary. I love snakes," I say. "I was in this photo shoot once where I wore pythons, and they were super cuddly. But in the dream, there's too many in the box, going in different directions—I told you it was Freudian. Stop giving me that look."
"What look?"
"Like the snakes represent, you know, dicks, or the box—"
"I was thinking vipes. Considering how close you came to being bitten."
"Oh." I feel myself blush and brush a lock of hair over my ear. It's been a long time since I last went red. "This started long before."
We finish with the groceries, making small talk while customers and clerks are within earshot. When we're out rattling the cart across the asphalt, the conversation picks up again.
"I'm surprised more victims don't come forward," he says. "It's one of the deepest human fears, cannibalism. But with vipes, it's different. Did you know the report rate on surviving victims is only about ten percent? No mind control. The victims just... don't seem to want to."
I park the cart by my car, looking at the ground. I'm not sure if it's because of the sun. "Doesn't surprise me."
"They probably think no one will believe them."
"That," I say, "and it probably fucks them up. I mean, most victims aren't strangers. You ever had a friend or a relative turn on you like that?"
"I'd rather not—"
"Okay, bad question, but you get the picture, right? When it's someone you know, it gets in your head, and it takes sorting out." Oh, boy. Uncomfortable silence incoming. I cover. "But listen to me. I'm getting weird when it's probably just what you said. They think no one will believe them." I start loading the bags into the trunk. How did I end up talking about this? Roland seems like he's mulling, which I don't want. Keep going. "You know, they tell us in training that there's supposedly this rush, and it's all sexualized and stuff, but there's something they never mention."
"Which is?"
"Being bitten fucking hurts," I say, slamming the trunk. "Bitten hard enough to draw blood? That's movie-lies, like how people are always having sex and falling off the bed, and they keep going, but when you actually do it, you start saying, 'Ow, Jesus, get off me.'" Roland laughs, so I keep it up. "Or kissing underwater. You're treading water so much your heart is going like this," I hit my hand rapidly against my collarbone, "and all you can think is 'air. Give me air.' The whole sexy bloodsucking thing—I don't buy it."
Roland's smiling. "There are opiates released," he says, like he's admitting something, "triggered by the yin-qi exposure."
"Oh, come on, there are better ways to get high. You can smoke, you can snort, you don't need stitches every weekend." That makes us both laugh, and I'm not sure whether to blame him or me for knowing it's all false. "I mean, if I had a boyfriend, and he took a bite of me, I'd be like, 'You're driving me to the ER, and when I get out, you will have tequila and ice cream waiting.'"
He takes the cart off and sends it rolling back into the rack, and the moment is gone, replaced by less giddy thoughts.
"I think this is where we take separate cars," he says. "I trust you'll be okay alone?"
"Yeah," I say, but his brow crinkles, and once again, I guess he might have some kind of qi function or whatever going on, detecting if I'm lying. I want to come clean.
Semi-clean.
"Maybe he did scare me a little," I admit. "I mean, I don't know how long I was out or how long I had left. If you'd gotten there a minute later..." I drift off and realize just how real it was. "Listen to me, getting all choke."
"Do you want to leave the containment team?" His voice is formal, but I can smell the slight tang of fresh sweat, a new flavor. I thought Morgan was crazy when I heard he'd checked himself into police protection, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it could be a strength. I'd never have survived my old traumas alone—sometimes you need to go to the cops, to the crisis centers, to your friends. And if you can trust them, if you can stick with it, like Morgan did, you can be groundbreaking news. But not me. I run.
Not today, though.
"No," I let myself say. "I had a talk with Kern already."
"Was there yelling?"
"No, none. I want to do some sanitization. Just… cleaning a lab."
Roland has on his Wait A Minute Face. "I should say, I don't know how you feel about germs, but for many people, a hot lab is more frightening than Lorenz."
"Not for me," I say firmly.
He looks at me, then away, fine-boned hands folding onto his elbows. He folds them weird—he leaves the hands resting lightly on top, ready for action, rather than tucked away under his biceps like a normal person. "Then, you two can bond while I handle our vipe."
I feel as if the words shrink me. Could I possibly have thought it would help Lorenz if I take my eyes off this man?
"We've got plans?"
"He's under police protection. Our usual methods won't work. Breunig and the squad are running down his location now. The news may have misinformation. Cops do that sometimes."
"When is this?" I ask. It might arouse suspicion, but I better risk it.
"End of next week, if not later."
Uh, what? "You want to delay?"
"Lorenz is hiding in the spotlight," Roland says, and his eyes are cold, green flakes. "I want him to discover all the problems being a celebrity entails."
Confusing images of paparazzi go through my head. A thought: "You want to dox him?"
"No. The Sikorsky tape is being released to the networks. If they air it, the question on everyone's mind will be, is Lorenz dangerous? He has made sure the whole world will be watching, but he has an addiction. What I intend to do is wait."
I like the sound of none of this, especially the high note in my voice, raised in reflexive protest. "The news said they're giving him blood."
"Cow's blood," says Roland. "They're draining hamburger packages into a cup and reheating it. Is that what vipes live on?"
I twitch my tongue, realizing the cold calculation. I've always seen Morgan as more competent than me or at least thought I bought him a lot of time. I can hunt tonight, put an end to the thirst. Lorenz just surrounded himself with cops.
"No," I admit. "He's going to have to feed."
20 - RANATH
August 24th
The security wand sweeping over me makes me feel neither nervous nor secure. I've been through so many security checks, the motions are like the opening moves of chess. Sure, they have consequence, but grand masters can do them so fast nothing matters until the midgame begins. The wand chirps at my belt buckle, but I remove it and, in a moment, am cleared. I retrieve my tablet from the clipper cop who has bolted a sleeve onto it, chip plugged into its slot like a mosquito feeding. The little computer is part of my disguise, as much as the two plastic-coated badges around my neck. The sleeve and the forms I sign are the price I pay to get close.
They're doing their best to weed out biomancers, with a double prong of metal detectors and their own team's detection functions laid over the entrance. The functions pick up the copper that the metal detectors don't. Without a web, biomancers have very short ranges indeed.
The guards' submachine guns aren't for the biomancers. They keep away criminals faint of heart.
They won't find a stimweb on me today. The one I usually wear over the skin is gone, but my amplifying bioelectric tracks still lie hidden beneath the surface. They aren't looking for those, nor would they be good at finding them, all nano-thin niobium wire and non-ferrous materials.
I don't carry metal needles, either, but my jacket has four tacks in it, made of a Swiss ceramic and thirty percent glass fiber. To find anything unusual, the security officers would have to resort to a strip search, not an ideal method when there are some sixty-odd media people and twice that many tourists waiting. I don't get so much as a second pat-down.
I leave my phone behind in a plastic bag labeled with a name—not mine, of course. The press credential badge is the easiest part of the act. I maintain a few contacts with a hobbyist crowd whose pastime is ensuring that such credentials are made available to the masses—a phone call was all that was necessary to register myself as Gary Rosberg, a blogger based in New York. When the staffer assigned to seating arrangements did not say I was already on the list, I knew Mr. Rosberg was not attending. An hour and a forgebox later, and I had a visitor's badge for the day and a seat far to the left, on the red benches reserved for low-grossing media.
The cameras scattered about the room are an entire ecosystem. No two are alike. They're on hands, on shoulders, gimbal arms from a gyro-mount or planted on tripods. No drones, probably because the fans make too much noise. There are also precious few directed lights: the overheads are sufficient for modern autocorrection to take up the slack.
It's not hard to tell who has a premium news channel or a local affiliate. The talking heads on television are fashion plates in person, and they clog the view from the rear.
They've set up amid the benches, no doubt due to some fire safety rule regarding blocking the aisles. Their cameras among the old wood and the monitor screens off to the side of the bench make it feel as if the 1890s have been invaded by some alien technological race.
Behind the judge's bench stands an American flag, a Virginian flag and, on the wall, the state seal. A woman with a spear, a helmet, and an unbound breast is trampling a man beneath her, with Latin words meaning thus ever to tyrants. John Wilkes Booth said that phrase when he pulled the trigger. Aidan Lawrence echoed those words when he detonated a vest filled with fishing weights and Semtex in the Supreme Court. And yet here the words stay, suggesting bloodshed is not only part of legal proceedings but somehow can give them a blessing.
"All rise," says the bailiff, and the judge enters to take his seat. His appearance is startling. I ran the judge's name through a search engine and found it among a list of people scheduled for mandatory retirement, having received two extensions already. But modern medicine has been good to Bayat. He moves as if he were twenty years younger, his hair is still in place, and his beard, though white, is neat and short. He would be at home named to a Cabinet post somewhere or drinking Chablis on a yacht after a day of SCUBA diving. Actors would want to age like this man.
"Good morning. Please be seated. Now calling for the record the case of Morgan Lorenz v. the Benjamin Rush Health Initiative." He reads off a docket number. "And if counsel would identify themselves for the record."
"Geoffrey Cho on behalf of the plaintiff," announces a dapper, black-suited, shaved-head attorney that I peg as younger than me. I can't see Lorenz. Instead, the room waits quietly as his defense attorney brings forth a small, pyramid-shaped device. "It is my honor to introduce Morgan Lorenz, who for security reasons will be attending virtually."
The gadget whirs and begins the chiming of something booting up. In a moment, an image appears in the air, a luminous ghost rendered layer by layer. Morgan Lorenz's virtual stand-in smiles and sits, clearing his throat as the projector's sensors record the room and play it back to the undisclosed location where the vipe is being held.
Fancy degrees notwithstanding, I'm an idiot. Virtual presence has been allowed in court for years, and Lorenz has motive. I have an app that might let me piggyback and trace the signal to its source, but I need my phone, which
is back in security.
The three dark-suited BRHI lawyers announce their names with bloodless formality. The only name I catch is Eloise Campion. Kern had said she would be doing cross-examinations. I turn to the woman sitting next to me, who is busily fixing her lightfield camera. "You don't have anything I could use to look up Cho, do you?" I whisper.
She smiles. "I don't need a machine for that. What do you want?"
"Why Lorenz hired his firm. Isn't Lorenz a lawyer?"
"It's not his specialty, so he's not representing himself." She clicks the camera's cover back into place. I tune back in for the opening statements. I missed what Cho had to say. Campion is up.
"The Health Initiative was aware of the existence of this disease for some time before it was made public," she says. "To follow up on the motion to dismiss for lack of standing, we will be presenting the testimony of experts in qi-related DNA change. They will prove that the resulting damage means that Morgan Lorenz cannot be considered human under the terms of Cagersheim v. Simmons. We will also presenting testimony as to the transmission rates of the disease and possible public health scenarios." Bayat shifts in his seat, and the lawyer immediately wraps up. "Thank you."
She sits down. I tap my elbow with my finger, right where a tack would go. Bereft of qi functions, I'll have to read the BRHI team cold. They appear confident, calm—they know the real work comes later. Cho, on the other hand, seems in his element but a little hasty.
"Interesante," says the woman next to me, recording everything. She'll choose what the camera focuses on later.
"What is?" I ask. I know a few words in Spanish.
"We're going to get the longest pre-trial motion hearing ever," she says.
"That doesn't mean a lot to me."
"It's that whole not-human line of hooey. They're going to present evidence and expert witnesses to see if Lorenz will even get to evidentiary hearings." Based on my blank look, the woman prompts me. "You know, the part of a trial called the trial?"