Othella (Arcadian Heights)

by Therin Knite

"Touché, Marks." Cain wraps a lock of pale hair around her finger and twirls it into a tight spiral. "If this place is all it’s cracked up to be, I guess it’ll best San Francisco."

  "And Rio de Janeiro," says Dupree.

  "And Boston," Rocky and Porter say in unison.

  I have an itchy urge to let slip a bit of information about the community’s true nature. Because shaking this pot of explosives would be a blast. But I have a job to do, so I allow the itch to settle and resume surveying the carcass of Jackson City.

  The real attraction will come soon enough.

  2

  Marco

  "Pull into that parking lot on the left."

  The patrolman at the wheel follows my command, slowing to let a bus pass before it turns into an empty parking lot dotted with white dandelions and shimmering oil stains. It parks in the first available spot, shuts the car off, and waits for another order. With thirty percent of its autonomous programming structures disabled, it functions less like a capable warrior and more like an obedient guard dog. I’ll have to reactivate some of its dormant routines before I reach Jackson City, or the other patrolmen will tear it to pieces.

  I pop the car door open and step out into the cool day, yawning. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years, but I’ve barely caught four hours a night since Austin. The patrolman’s design was above me; the amount of trial and error necessary to decode the robot’s programming sucked up six weeks of my time. The next month and a half consisted of day-in-day-out recoding efforts. The number of ghastly errors I made would earn me a claim to the Guinness Book title of World’s Worst Programmer, if the thing was still being printed.

  Laps around the empty lot massage the cramps out of my knees and back. Sleeping in a car is unhealthy for extended periods of time, especially when you’re injured. My bum leg has healed in the last several weeks, but the scar is reminiscent of McClain’s war prisoner torture marks, and I’ll never be able to run full speed again without surgery. If my Heights operation goes downhill, I’m dead in the water.

  Lungs burning, I lean against a telephone pole to catch my breath. Across the lot, the patrolman is sitting in the same position I left it in, helmet pointed at the dark windows of what used to be some sort of restaurant, now boarded up and empty. Its hands grip the wheel at ten and two, and my ankle aches at the memory of that robotic fist squeezing it like an orange.

  A chill skitters up my spine. There’s a killing machine in the driver’s seat of my stolen car, and I’ve been sleeping next to it every night for two weeks. Somewhere in its original code was a command to hunt down and kill Marco Salt—I deleted that line, but who’s to say I didn’t miss a redundancy? Who’s to say I didn’t fuck up again? Like I did with Clarissa? Like I did with Reggie?

  The patrolman could reach over and snap my neck at any point. It will if I failed to reprogram it properly. It’s too dangerous a toy to trust, too complex a puzzle to solve. Reggie would have learned its ways better than I did in half the time, but he’s not here to help me now, so I have to run by instinct alone.

  And my instinct tells me I won’t succeed at this dangerous game without the war toy in my car fighting by my side.

  I brush shaggy hair out of my eyes and amble toward the vehicle. Halfway there, I catch sight of something lying in the tall grass patch between the highway and the lot. It’s an overturned restaurant sign. I raise to my tip-toes to view the flat yellow logo, obscured by dry brown grass that hasn’t been mowed in a good five years.

  Nausea slits my stomach. Acid spills into my bowel.

  I vomit what little I’ve eaten in the last twelve hours on the cracked and broken pavement. Once there’s nothing left to expel, I dry heave. Then cough. Then hyperventilate. At the end of the episode, five or ten minutes later—I lose track—I’m on my back with asphalt chunks threatening to spear my skin. Staring at thick, gray clouds streaking through the sky.

  I force my head to the left and let my eyes rest on the dirt-streaked windows of a place I’ve eaten at before.

  A Denny’s in the middle of nowhere.

  For a second, I feel compelled to kick the door down and take my seat at the same booth where Reggie and I ate breakfast that morning. Because there’s this vain hope in my heart that if I do, I’ll take three steps back in time and arrive right where I need to be to grab Reggie and run. To Canada. To Central America. As far away as I can get from Q.

  But the hope passes, and I half-stumble, half-crawl to the stolen car where my weapon is waiting to drive me to the battlefield. My muscles are liquid and sluggish, so I collapse onto the seat, strap myself in, and let my body go lax.

  "Take me to Jackson City, and make it quick," I say.

  The patrolman says nothing because it can’t speak. It simply starts the car and drives away from the place I began my darkest day.

  3

  Quentin

  Razor nicks skin on the curve where chin meets neck. Blood pools, spills over, and drips onto the counter. I dab at the cut with a wet washcloth until the flow subsides and then finish shaving my beard into its trademark shape. Afterward, I rub some quick healing ointment on the wound and let it sit for six minutes. By the time I’ve combed and dried my hair, knotted my blue tie, and slipped on my leather shoes, worn at the soles, the mark has scabbed over.

  My spokesman image is restored. Almost.

  I’m missing about ten pounds where Howard refuses to feed me a proper number of calories. Dark circles made lighter through an ancient trick—foundation—mar my standoffish executive aura. Despite my best efforts, I can’t summon the exuberant welcome smile I’ve been using for the past two decades to lure recruits inside the Heights. But what I can produce is at least twice as believable as last recruitment’s poor exhibit, which earned a chastising smack down from Howard.

  I have to please the Lord and Master until the time arrives to drive a knife into his heart and let him die. The monster, not the man he used to be. That man is sleeping in a box.

  My apartment door slides open, and the hard steps of a patrolman echo through the hall. Howard speaks from my living room audio system. "Quentin, are you prepared? The recruits will arrive for the procession in thirty minutes."

  I shuffle out of my bedroom and present myself in the hall where Howard can view me using the patrolman’s sensors. "I’m ready."

  The faceless helmet observes. Nods three seconds later. "Good. You look presentable this time. Follow me. I will escort you to the lobby. From there, you will take the same path as usual to the gates. Then you will recite the same speech. Then you will lead the recruits inside. To the dorms. On the tour. And finally, to dinner."

  He doesn’t mention the part where I retreat to safety in advance of the ambush. I suspect he doesn’t care whether or not I’m injured in the fray.

  The elevator ride is quiet, but when we reach the lobby, numerous droids are strolling by. They’re heading for their designated orientation stations, some to upper floors of the Center, some to other buildings on the premises. Anywhere the new recruits won’t see them.

  Every single droid bears the same bland expression. Except Clarissa Salt, who glances at me, smiles, and walks with a gait more confident than any standard droid could manage. Howard is blind to her actions through and through. The virus in his system has left him incapable of monitoring Salt and only Salt. She’s invisible.

  And yet, she’s made no move against the community. She’s free to do what she pleases with me under lock and key and Howard disabled, but she’s done nothing.

  Unless she’s waiting for a particular cue.

  "This way, Quentin." The patrolman motions for me to walk ahead of it, and I’m forced to march to the Sims Center entrance like a man on death row’s last day, my patrolman guard playing the role of executioner. Leading me to a ditch in a dark, dank forest to pop a bullet in the back of my head. Quick. Efficient. Callous.

  The patrolman stops its advance when I reach the open doors. I gaze past the threshold, at th
e courtyard, at the gates, at the ruined street beyond, where the same sorry bystanders wearing new masks wait for me to give a speech so old it’s too bitter to eat and too brittle to stand on its own.

  "Proceed outside in five minutes, Quentin," Howard says from somewhere in the high lobby ceiling.

  I count off the required seconds. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. One hundred Mississippi. Two-fifty Mississippi.

  At the indicated minute, I exit the Sims Center for the first time in six months. Place myself in plain view of a crowd eager to toss their hopes and dreams on my shoulders. In line with a group of new recruits who believe I’m some savior in a slick suit. In view of cameras that broadcast my image to every television screen in this damned and dying world.

  I stop my approach on the sixty-eighth walkway tile, between a group of yellow rose bushes and a bed of peonies. Hardened mucus sticks to the back of my throat, so I swallow until the flesh is wet, ready to release temptation into the wind.

  And so I begin.

  4

  Georgette

  Twenty-five in five lines we stand on a frosty day in March. Q’s regal in his spot, thirty feet ahead of us, Adam’s apple bobbing on every pause between his bittersweet lies. To my right is Edith Cain, lips pursed, hair ruffled by the wind. She catches my eye and flips me off. Bares her teeth like a pissed Rottweiler who’s been kicked one too many times. To my left is Omar Dupree, pretending not to look at me. But his shoulders are hunched curiously, and I foresee a confrontation in the near future.

  How quaint, a battle zone.

  How dangerous.

  Q blabs for his allotted seven minutes before he ushers us inside the gates. The colossal iron gates that obscure the world’s worst-kept secret: the Heights defense grid. A force field of sorts that engages whenever the gates are closed. It consists of thirty-eight individual "panes" of energy. According to Salt, one of them can be disrupted by an energy surge from a certain auxiliary power system near the back end of the Sims Center.

  My escape route. I’ll need it in a few hours. As soon as I’ve got the scoop of the year safely in my brain. And a few pieces of key evidence in my pocket.

  The line leaders slow shuffle past the gates, at least half the group losing more face each second—Rocky and Porter knock knuckles in what may be an aborted fist bump as they take the final step inside. This is doubt time, when you question whether or not it was smart to sign your life away to a facility not a single soul has entered and reemerged from. Except Q. But who can trust a guy with a villain-worthy goatee?

  I march, left foot, right foot, inside Arcadian Heights, my gaze glued to the open Sims Center doorway. No one is visible in the lobby except for a line of armed patrolmen. Faceless and alert. Prepared to shoot on command in case someone in the crowd gets a funny idea. The protestors are in full swing today—they’ve upgraded to plastic and whiteboard signs. Their messages are still in marker though. Guess they couldn’t afford printed words. Shit’s expensive.

  On the other side of the gates, the parents and siblings who had to fund their own flights here are waving goodbye. A few of them cry. Someone shouts, "Save the world, Lucy!" And Lucretia Melbourne, a mechanical engineer, turns bright pink in the cheeks. Embarrassing.

  Q, who’s now standing in front of the lobby desk, motions for us to enter the Sims Center through the open double doors. The man is looking slight; he’s lost weight. A lot of it, judging by the fabric bunching at his waist. Mid-fifties, he could be ill. Cancer or some other disease all the science of the Heights hasn’t managed to cure yet. But it’s deeper than that, I think. His demeanor has changed. His confident straight posture falters every few seconds. His voice, strong and pure in the past, is scratchy and dry, as if he hasn’t spoken on a regular basis in weeks. He’s wearing foundation that doesn’t quite match his skin to cover what must be discolored circles under his eyes.

  The community dynamics have shifted in recent months, and I smell a groundbreaking story getting sweeter and plumper by the minute.

  When the final stragglers cross into the Sims Center, the double doors close behind us, and some of the recruits glance back to watch the gates swing shut as well. Trapped like rats in a cage of horrors, my friends. And there’s not a damn thing you fools can do about it now. Should have stuck with Mommy and Daddy, but you had to be arrogant enough to believe you deserved the right to "fix" humanity’s future, didn’t you?

  Q clears his throat and gestures at the surrounding lobby. "Again, everyone, welcome to Arcadian Heights. I know you’re all eager to get working and eat good food..."

  A few people laugh. A few more smile. Edith Cain’s sharp expression doesn’t waver. Dupree’s lips tighten. I smirk.

  "...but first thing’s first. I’ll escort you to the temporary dormitory where you’ll be living until the end of your orientation period, after which you’ll move on to greener pastures."

  Two minutes in, and Q makes a death joke. This bodes well.

  "Once you’ve dropped your luggage off at your rooms, we’ll have a tour followed by your welcoming dinner. And then you can spend the evening unpacking and getting to know one another."

  Cain raises her hand.

  Q pauses, blinking a few times before he understands someone dared to interrupt his show. "Yes, Dr. Cain?"

  "Pardon me, Mr. Q, but I’m wondering: where are the other recruits? It’s a bit empty in here." Her voice grows louder with each word, the final few bouncing off the walls of a lobby deserted, save for us deserted souls. The walls of a building that must be empty in its entirety, if the number of bodies I have in a file folder is any indication.

  Q, bless his ailing heart (or whatever’s wrong with him), answers without a suspicious delay. "Good question, Dr. Cain. The rest of the community has been instructed to steer clear of the Sims Center for the evening. Tomorrow morning, everyone will welcome you as a group at an official ceremony. It’s a traditional Heights ritual."

  Everyone will welcome us. Everyone is welcoming us now. Q is everyone, isn’t he? Unless you count the speechless patrolmen.

  Huh. Must be kind of depressing to have no one to speak with but a bunch of anonymous brutes with guns. A lonely existence.

  He clears his throat again. "Don’t worry, Dr. Cain. You’ll have time to mingle with anyone you wish tomorrow. There’s a reception after the ceremony."

  Cain smiles, nods, and glances at me, nose scrunched. She smells a distinct foul odor, something out of whack with the world.

  Dupree smells it as well. He’s scanning the line of armed patrolmen that face the lobby windows, guns at the ready.

  Nice to know I’m in the company of people who aren’t complete sheep. They might come in handy if the going gets rough. And if it gets ugly, then I have a few extra shields, too. Lucretia Melbourne would make a good decoy for any heat-seeking weaponry.

  "If there are no more questions for now, then let’s head upstairs." Q claps his hands together and attempts to smile reassuringly. It comes out more like the grimace you make when you’re stung by a bee. "You have a very special night ahead. I don’t want anyone to be late to the party."

  5

  Marco

  Locked in a trunk isn’t the most comfortable way to travel, but when your destination is crawling with robots programmed to kill you, the standard options are even less savory. Every pothole in the road sends rough vibrations through my aching back, my bum leg, and my pounding head. Since my panic attack at Denny’s, I haven’t been able to think straight. It took me twice as long as planned to properly reconfigure my patrolman, to make it combat ready.

  By the time we arrive in Jackson City, McClain will already be inside the Heights. She’s counting on me to trigger the auxiliary power surge at her signal, which I imagine will be some sort of explosion. Or maybe a strip tease. I don’t know. McClain will do whatever the hell she wants and pretend what’s "effective" for her should be so for everyone else in the world. She’s cunning and clever and ruthless and reckless, an
d sometimes, that combo blows up in her face. But her luck runs are longer than her losses, so I guess she sees herself as an overwhelming success.

  Confirmation bias is fun, huh?

  Voices.

  I switch off my flex tablet—I was watching comedy reruns—and press my ear against the trunk hood. The car rocks to a stop over road debris, and someone approaches with heavy boots. But it’s not a patrolman—it’s a perimeter guard. As soon as he gets close enough to identify the driver, he stops cold. It takes him a minute to process what he’s seeing, to swallow the fear bubbling up his throat. I can’t see him, but I can picture him.

  Fat. Squat. A faded uniform with armpit stains. A flimsy mustache. A pig nose. Squinty eyes.

  I block out the smell of earth and trash and gasoline, concentrate on the fat perimeter guard. If I listen closely, I can hear him shuffling. Foot to foot on steel-toed boots, unsure of how to proceed. He’s from some nearby town or city, and he scheduled this gig for extra cash, expecting teens trying to sneak a peek at an event they weren’t invited to or banned press trying to get illicit images of the proceedings. Not a patrolman. The last thing any human being with the slightest sense of self-preservation wants to come into contact with is a patrolman.

  They seem inhuman. They move like machines.

  Because they are.

  Their existence strikes hard in the core of the uncanny valley, and—

  The guard backs away from the car. He shouts to the others, "Move the barricade!"

  There’s a ten-second delay before the car continues on and I pass into the dying breaths of Jackson City.

  A wave of shallow relief relaxes my muscles, and I flip my tablet on again to finish the season one finale of my favorite sitcom.

  One obstacle down. More than I can count to go.

  6

  Quentin