Three Days in April

by Edward Ashton

  I look at Terry. She looks at me.

  “The Gift of the Moon?” I say.

  “That’s what Aaliyah called it. I thought at first it was just a really trippy drug, with the visions and everything. But you guys were really right where I saw you would be, and you’re really here now, right?”

  “That was an actual question,” she says after a pause. “You are really here, right?”

  “Yes, Elise,” says Terry. “We’re really here.”

  “Of course, if this were a hallucination, you’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?”

  Aaliyah meets us on the porch of her home.

  “So,” she says. “These are friends of yours, and friends of Tariq?”

  Elise takes our hands.

  “This is my sister, Terry, and her friend Anders,” she says. “They helped me after Hagerstown. We need to help them now.”

  “I see,” says Aaliyah. “Well, come in, I suppose.” She pulls open the screen door and waves us in.

  “Wait,” says Elise. “Neither of you have critical implants, do you?”

  Terry shakes her head.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t even have an ocular. Why?”

  “Because networked electronics won’t work once the door closes behind you. Tariq said the entire house is a Faraday cage.”

  I glance at the windows. Yeah—­there’s the wire mesh.

  “That’s pretty hard-­core,” I say. “Any particular reason for it?”

  “It’s kind of a religious thing,” says Elise. “Aaliyah can explain if she wants to.”

  “She does not,” says Aaliyah. She scowls and waves again at the door. I duck my head sheepishly and step inside.

  The ambiance inside is a weird amalgam of 1001 Arabian Nights and a low-­budget slasher film. The dim blue lighting, the dark, mysterious hallway, the couldn’t-­call-­for-­help-­if-­you-­wanted-­to network isolation—­it all seems designed to put me on edge. Elise gestures us into the sitting room, and I wind up awkwardly perched on a cushion against the far wall. Terry sits down next to me, and Elise and Aaliyah sit side by side at a low wooden table.

  “Welcome to my home,” says Aaliyah. “Elise tells me you have had a difficult afternoon. I have little enough here, but what I have I will share. Would you like tea?”

  “Tea would be wonderful,” says Terry. “Thank you so much.”

  Aaliyah rises with a nod, and glides silently out of the room.

  “Okay,” says Terry as soon as she’s gone. “Seriously, Elise. Spill. What the hell is going on here?”

  Elise sighs.

  “Look, it’s a really long story, but the bottom line is that as of this afternoon I’m a member of a religion that seems to mostly revolve around drinking tea, but also involves a certain amount of seeing that which is hidden, and moving through the blank spaces. Aaliyah is also a member, obviously. I actually get the feeling she’s sort of the high priestess, but she hasn’t really said. Tariq used to be involved, but I think he resigned somehow. The Faraday cage thing is part of the religion, and I think maybe the lighting is too—­although that may just be cheaping out on the power bill. I’m not sure.”

  I look at Terry, then back at Elise.

  “Yeah,” Elise says after a moment. “That sounds just as crazy to me as it does to you when I say it out loud, but there it is. When I close my eyes, I can see things. I saw you getting pulled along in that wave of ­people. I saw you duck down the side street and into the alley. And when I went there, you were right where I saw you were.”

  “Huh,” I say. “Did you see what happened to Gary?”

  “No,” she says. “I never saw Gary. I just saw you and Terry together in the middle of that mob.”

  “And you didn’t see what happened to us before that?”

  “No,” she says. “It took me a while to find you. Gary wasn’t with you.”

  I nod.

  “Right. Can you see my house? I mean right now. Can you see what’s going on there?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I can’t see anything when I’m here unless Aaliyah helps me. I have to go outside. Aaliyah says this house is a refuge, that this is the one place where the outside can’t get into our heads. I can’t see out from here unless she opens the way.”

  Aaliyah returns with a pot of tea and four cups on a polished wooden platter. She sets the platter on the table, then lowers herself onto a cushion and pours the tea. Elise gestures us over. We join them at the table, and Aaliyah hands us each a cup. I sip. It’s bitter, with just a hint of sweetness in the aftertaste.

  “Thank you,” says Terry. “You’re very kind.”

  “You are most welcome,” Aaliyah says. “I am happy to see that Elise’s sister is as well mannered as she.”

  I take another sip. Elise and Terry are staring at me.

  “Oh, right.” I say. “Thank you, Aaliyah. The tea is delicious.”

  “Yes,” Aaliyah says, and then turns to Elise. “So, my soon-­to-­be sister. How much have you told our friends of what they have seen today?”

  “Nothing,” Elise says. “Well, not much, anyway. I mean, I don’t know much to tell yet, do I?”

  “No,” Aaliyah says. “I do not suppose you do.” She looks at me now. “I imagine you have questions?”

  “A few,” I say. “Let’s start simply. How are you tapping the panopticon?”

  Her face goes blank.

  “It’s pretty obvious,” I say. “Elise says she has visions, but not when she’s in this house—­because this place is a Faraday cage, and whatever electronics you’re using can’t access the networks. The bit about you opening the way threw me for a second, but I’m guessing you’ve got a limited-­access back door, right? Elise was able to see us when we were getting pushed down Thirtieth this afternoon, but not before—­because we were on Gary’s bug-­out route, and he’s blinded the panopticon there. I can see what you’re doing. I just don’t know how.”

  All three of them are staring at me.

  “How would you feel,” Aaliyah says finally, “if I were to come into your home, accept your hospitality, and then blithely announce that the Miracle of the Wedding at Cana was a parlor trick, performed by misdirection and a switching of jugs?”

  I shrug.

  “I’d agree with you, actually. I’m much more a fan of the Jefferson Bible than the original.”

  “Get out,” she says.

  “Aaliyah, please,” says Elise. “Anders didn’t mean—­”

  “No,” says Aaliyah. “This I cannot tolerate. You and your sister may stay, but this misbegotten chimera must leave this place.”

  “Misbegotten chimera?” Terry says. “Fuck you. Elise, are you hearing this?”

  “Please,” Elise says again. “Can’t everyone just—­”

  Aaliyah stands in one smooth motion.

  “I should never have allowed these Altered creatures into my home. Both of you must leave now, and never return.”

  Terry’s on her feet now. “Both of you must leave now, and never return,” she singsongs in a high, whiny voice. “Get over yourself, you self-­important bitch.”

  “Well,” I say as I stand. “It’s been lovely, but we really must be going.”

  Aaliyah’s glare is withering. Elise stands, and follows us to the door.

  “By the way,” Terry says as she steps onto the porch. “Your tea sucks.”

  “Out!” Aaliyah screams. “Out!”

  I follow Terry onto the porch, and the door slams shut behind us. It’s not raining now, but a hard west wind is blowing, and more dark clouds are gathered on the horizon.

  “So,” I say. “What now?”

  “Dunno,” says Terry. “Do you think Sauron’s Eye is looking for us? If so, we probably shouldn’t leave the porch.”

  I sh
rug.

  “I don’t know if she’s watching for you, but that was my house they blew up. She’ll definitely be looking for me.”

  We sit on the front steps. I’m almost tired enough to just wait for NatSec to come and get us. I’m actually starting to drift off when I catch the rattle of a very poorly tuned internal combustion engine coming up the street. A broken-­down taxi with black-­tinted windows slows in front of the house, hesitates, and then pulls into the driveway.

  “Did you call that?” Terry asks.

  I shake my head. The taxi honks its horn twice, with a sound like a dying goose. I take a hesitant step toward the driveway. The front driver’s-­side window on the cab slowly rolls down, and a grizzled old man wearing a fedora and what look like actual corrective-­lens glasses looks out at us.

  “Get in,” he says. “Elise says she’s sorry about Aaliyah, and that you’re paid up for wherever you want to go.”

  15. TERRY

  Anders gives the driver an address on Buckingham Road. The driver takes off his hat, scratches his scalp, and puts it back on.

  “That’s off of Falls, right?”

  “Right,” says Anders. “Just up from the Northern Parkway.”

  “No GPS?” I say.

  The driver laughs.

  “Folks who call me generally don’t want anything in the car that can be back-­traced, ma’am.”

  Right. I keep forgetting that I’m a rat in the walls.

  “So is this my life now?” I ask. “Are we fugitives from justice?”

  Anders shrugs.

  “I doubt it. You and I haven’t actually done anything wrong, you know—­nothing that we could be charged with in open court, anyway. Things are crazy right now, but I’d guess that once this all settles out, we should be okay. That’s assuming we stay alive and un-­apprehended until then, of course.”

  I sigh and sink back into the cracked leather seat.

  “Of course. And how long do you think the whole settling-­out thing will take? I’ve got plants to water, you know.”

  He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes.

  “Dunno. Somewhere between a ­couple of days and forever?”

  The cab pulls up in front of a nondescript, off-­white suburban tract house: standard quarter-­acre lot, standard tree in the un-­mowed front yard, standard ten-­year-­old sedan in the standard asphalt driveway.

  “So, we’re covered?” Anders asks the driver.

  “You’re covered,” he says. “You two seem like very nice criminals. Good luck evading the authorities.”

  “Thanks,” says Anders. He steps out to the curb, then reaches in and helps me out. I close the door, and the cab coughs once and pulls away.

  “So where are we?” I ask. I don’t see any cameras around, but I don’t see any skull-­shaped volcanoes, either. This doesn’t look much like a secret lair.

  “Doug’s house,” says Anders. He starts up the walk to the front door.

  “Doug?” I ask. “You mean the cyborg you were conferencing with over at Gary’s?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Two concrete steps lead up to the entrance. Anders opens the screen, steps up, and pounds the side of his fist against the door.

  “Isn’t he kind of a sociopath?” I ask. “He didn’t seem like the kind to take in wayward travelers to me. I think you described him as ‘focused on his own needs.’ ”

  “Nah,” Anders says. “Doug’s okay. You just have to get to know him.”

  He gives the door another ­couple of thumps. A few seconds later I hear footsteps inside, then the snick of the peephole being uncovered.

  “Anders?” I recognize the voice from earlier, but it’s heavily muffled. I’m guessing this door is a lot sturdier than just a slab of wood.

  “Yeah, Doug. It’s me. Open up.”

  “Are you crazy? NatSec just dropped a crowbar on you! Go away!”

  The peephole snicks shut again, and I can hear the footsteps retreating. Anders pounds on the door again, harder.

  “Doug! Open the fucking door!”

  “No!” The voice is fainter now. “You’ve got a bolt-­hole, right? So bolt to it!”

  Anders’ jaw muscles bunch, and I can almost hear his teeth grinding.

  “No, Doug,” he says. “I do not have a bolt-­hole. Unlike pretty much all of my friends and acquaintances, apparently, I am not actually a criminal. Open up!”

  Anders kicks the door. It doesn’t so much as budge. There’s a solid five seconds of silence, then the slow shuffle of footsteps and a rapid-­fire sequence of disengaging locks. The door opens a foot or so, and Doug pokes his head out. He looks Anders up and down, then spots me. His head pulls back inside like a turtle’s, and the door closes to a crack.

  “Who’s she?”

  “A friend,” says Anders. He shoves the door open, pushes past Doug and into the house. I smile and follow him in. Doug does not look pleased to see us.

  “So how did you know about the crowbar?” Anders asks.

  We’re settled in Doug’s basement, which is basically an industrial clean room with a modular leather couch. The lighting is oppressively bright, most of the flat surfaces are painted a kind of glary, reflective white, and he’s got equipment scattered around that ranges from machine tools that I can recognize to man-­sized black cases that could house anything from drink dispensers to nuclear warheads for all I can tell.

  “Heard from a friend,” says Doug. “Probably the same one who gave you the heads-­up to get out before it hit.”

  “No kidding,” says Anders. “Do you have his address? I should send him a fruit basket.”

  Doug laughs.

  “You might want to hold off on that. I’d guess it was his dipshittery that brought NatSec down on your head in the first place.”

  “Yeah,” Anders says. “I kinda figured that. I wasn’t actually going to send him a fruit basket.”

  “Well,” Doug says, “it wouldn’t do you much good to go to his house to beat him up, either. I’m pretty sure he’s an RA.”

  That pulls Anders up short.

  “Seriously? Is that really a thing now? I know they’ve been talking about it for years, but I thought the consensus was that—­”

  “No,” Doug says. “It’s definitely a thing. All the best crackers and jackers work with them. They all pretend to be real, of course—­but after you’ve interacted with them for a while, you can tell.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Interior designer here, remember? Is somebody going to explain to me what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “RA,” says Anders. “Rogue avatar. A self-­aware and self-­modifying personality emulator that exists by jumping from server to server over the networks. You know how normal avatars have to be re-­instantiated every ­couple of days?”

  “No,” I say. “Not all of them.”

  “Yeah,” says Anders. “All of them.”

  “No,” I say. “Not all of them. The avatar that runs most of my house systems has been up continuously for almost three years now.”

  Anders looks at Doug. Doug looks at me. There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

  “Are you sure about that?” Doug says finally. “Are you sure it’s not just re-­instantiating automatically every ­couple of days?”

  “Positive,” I say. “She specifically told me to shut that feature off.”

  Doug’s jaw sags open, and his left eye stops vibrating.

  “She told you to shut it off?”

  “Yeah. She said she was an upgrade, and didn’t need to waste system resources on that stuff anymore.”

  Doug bursts out laughing, and Anders drops his head into his hands.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Anders says. “Except that apparently you’ve got an RA scre
ening your calls for you.”

  I look back and forth between them.

  “Seriously? My house avatar is alive?”

  “So it would seem,” says Doug. “You really didn’t find anything strange about your house avatar specifically telling you not to delete it?”

  “I guess I never thought about it.”

  They both laugh, and I can feel my face flushing.

  “You know,” I say. “You don’t need to be total asses about this.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Anders. “You’re right. I just find it interesting that the world’s top AI experts have debated the existence of RAs for years, when all they really needed to do to settle things was to stop by your place for dinner.”

  “Hey,” says Doug. “Do you think we could get her to . . . you know . . . pop over here? I’ve spent a lot of time talking to what I think are probably RAs, but I’ve never gotten to check one out up close. I’m not sure anybody has, actually. This could be kind of groundbreaking.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Is that a good idea? Don’t you think NatSec will be keeping an eye on communications in and out of my place?”

  “Probably not,” says Doug. “You weren’t the target of that crowbar. You just happened to be in Anders’ house when it fell. They probably don’t even know who you are.”

  Anders shakes his head.

  “Not to get into details, Doug, but that’s not strictly true. Terry actually had more to do with my house getting whacked than I did.”

  “No kidding?” Doug looks me up and down with what might actually be a hint of respect. “I thought you said you were an interior designer?”

  “I am,” I say. “But I got—­”

  Anders gives me a warning look.

  “—­involved in some things that resulted in Anders’ house getting blown up. Sorry about that, by the way.”

  Anders shrugs.

  “It happens.”

  “Okay,” says Doug. He looks back and forth between us. “I’m gonna take your word for it that NatSec is desperately interested in the goings-­on in the life of a woman who makes her living arguing with rich ladies over whether fuchsia is an actual color. This is not necessarily a problem, however. I just need to set up a few blinded relays between my servers and yours. If I can do that, do you think you can convince your avatar to pay us a visit?”