Viewschool

by Rajnar Vajra

  This wouldn't do. I adjusted the controller to remove both our proxies from each other's view and made a mental note to do the same with Cher later.

  He stared at me for a moment, then we both turned and scrambled up the boarding stairs into the plane. Fancy. Every seat had its own flatscreen and minibar. A pretty white woman dressed for a cocktail party waved us into a spacious pair of seats.

  "I'm Tracy,” she said with the sweetness of a Georgia peach. “If y'all want anything at all let me know. My call button is that yellow square at the bottom of your personal GPS display. Touch it and I'll come runnin'. We're jus’ now cleared for takeoff so y'all please buckle up.” She vanished behind a curtain toward the jet's cockpit without going through the buckle pantomime act. For that, I was grateful. We started to taxi.

  "Shit, Phillips,” said Q-Ball after we'd climbed up a few miles. “You something of a man. And I never figure you truly was a bro."

  Suddenly I was sick of it, sick of us. My people. Why are we still so hungry to fit into some half-assed in-group that we have to talk like our lowest common denominator? And the same damn words keep getting regurgitated, every generation thinking they've invented something fresh. Sure, my parents’ “peeps” are today's “cams” and “cribs” have reverted to “hangs,” but “bad” has returned from the grave along with “brother” shortened to “bro,” and a hundred others. In six months, white kids in middle-class suburbia will be mindlessly spewing today's ghetto crap, proving how cool they are.

  Q-Ball had a fine mind and did everything possible to hide it. I pulled out my controller, switched our voices out of the common channel and turned, ready to lay into him for the stupidities of the entire human race...

  His eyes stopped me. He was watching me with something deeper than respect. I'd become important to this boy. He didn't need yet another person pushing him away. And you don't go poking open wounds.

  Why had this suddenly pushed my buttons? Because of my fear for Daniel? Daniel wasn't my only responsibility. I switched gears. “You seem right at home in a jet, Q-Ball. I wouldn't have expected that."

  "Why not? Growin’ up, my main hang was a New Air 979. My momma—my real momma—was a pilot, you know."

  I didn't know but should have. I scrolled through the Bouden file on my OSP. No mention of his mother being a pilot, no mention of a stepmother. Something was screwy here.

  "Tell me about your momma. No one else can listen in right now."

  "What's to tell? She went down in that big New Air fuck-up. Shit happens and mostly to me. I was nine. Poppa went crazy and brought that whore home. That's when this started.” He pointed to his scarred forehead.

  He was sixteen, so he had to be talking about the worst accident in American aviation history: the two-jet collision that ruined New Air. If he was being straight with me, his file had been trashed. How was that possible?

  The boy sniffed and a tear eased down his nose. This, too, showed his trust in me.

  I put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. He leaned against me for a moment.

  "We're going public again, son,” I warned him, then reopened the general vocal link and changed the subject. “You know, Q-Ball, I'm surprised that ViewNet works this far off the ground. Strange, isn't it?” That was putting it mildly. Not only were five of my students visible both by eye and OSP, what really pinned the needle of the weird-o-meter was that I seemed to see directly through the Gulfstream's solid wall to where Buddha was floating in midair, drifting along with us like a jet-powered cloud.

  "Yeah, this be some crazy shit. Hey! Check out Brunhilde."

  He meant Madeline and I was surprised he knew the reference. I was more surprised by Madeline. Since class had begun she'd been slumped in her chair, apparently gazing at the ViewNet floor. All I'd been able to see of her proxy's head was blond hair, but in my OSP her expression was her typical tabla rasa. Now she was glowering at Cher, eyes blazing ... literally. Flames were shooting from her pupils, some a foot long.

  I found the implications incredible. Madeline must have thawed enough recently to go online and set up a new Internet e-con using her real face but adding visually emotive powers, then requested it as her ViewNet proxy.

  "Are you satisfied now, you monster?” she spat.

  Cher ignored her. I linked privately with Madeline although that wouldn't stop Q-Ball from hearing me. “Maddie, I'm not sure what you're talking about, but I can see Cher's real face and I think she's suffering enough."

  She turned back to face me and I barely recognized her. She was red-faced mad, but she was awake.

  "Mr. Phillips,” she said, “listen to me."

  The sky became bumpy. The jet lurched up, lurched down, and lurched up again. Usually, I'm a wreck in the air even if the ride is smooth, and my ears were hurting, which went nicely with my increasingly sore throat. Today I had bigger worries.

  "I'm listening."

  "Don't forgive what you don't understand."

  "Why don't you explain it to me?"

  Tracy chose that moment to check on her passengers. She stopped in the aisle exactly in the spot Kekipi appeared to occupy, which created an effect so outrageous that Q-Ball grabbed my arm and pointed.

  We both gawked at a kind of animated totem pole or something from a lost mythology: a four-armed snake with a woman's head on top. Tracy and Madeline were both talking at once and I missed every word.

  "We're all set, Tracy, thank you,” I said, hoping she'd leave us the hell alone, which she did with some haste, maybe due to the way Q-Ball was pointing at her. Then again, I might've been shouting to hear myself over the accidental duet.

  "Maddie,” I said, “could you repeat what you just said? I'm on a jet now and someone was speaking over you."

  "It's the pipe, Mr. Phillips."

  "What about it?” I wanted Cher's reaction to this so I added her channel to the mix.

  Madeline glanced at her classmate and her face registered so much emotion that I got goose bumps. God had breathed upon shaped clay and it had come alive....

  "What does it look like to you?” she insisted.

  "The pipe? Just a big white pipe. Meerschaum, I think. What are you—oh.” I'd finally noticed that the pipe's bowl had a peculiar “u"-shaped rim. “Reminds me of a toilet, I suppose. Is that what you mean?"

  She nodded. “That's how she's been messin’ with White Night's head."

  I eyed Daniel's proxy just long enough to assure myself he was still breathing. “You mean you know what happened to him?"

  "I made a good enough guess days ago, but now I don't have to guess. That bitch has been stickin’ it to him and Buddha and—"

  "Wait! Tell me about White Night."

  "You know he skipped two grades."

  "Yes, go on."

  "In High School, three kids crapped and pissed in a school toilet and held his head in the slop. Could be they didn't mean to drown him, but that's what happened."

  "Dear God."

  "Some teacher heard laughin’ from the bathroom and went in and pulled White Night out. Had to give him mouth-to-mouth. That must've been fun."

  "Maddie, how did you learn all this?"

  "It's in the police report. You were supposed to get it, but the bitch screwed you over, too."

  I stared at her. “How could Cher possibly edit any information coming to me directly from Enhancement? And how do you know about it?"

  Madeline sent another flame Cher's way. “She's blackmailing someone inside Enhancement, the man who raped her. The latest man, I mean; she had this sick uncle and later a sick neighbor. Now her latest rapist is her bitch. You know, I bet he fixed it so that White Night would see that pipe all the time—maybe even in his dreams—and bigger than we see it. And, of course, stuffed with shit."

  I regarded the pipe again. “Maybe I'm starting to understand you, Cher."

  "No, you're not,” Maddie snapped. “Some people are rattlers. Just the way they're born. Step on ‘em and they bite you for su
re. Hey nasty girl, don't you see that what you've been doing to White Night and to Buddha is just another kind of rape?"

  The comment finally stung Cher into response. “What do you know about it, rich girl?"

  "If you'd been able to reach all my records, you wouldn't have to ask. You're a smart little critter, but the FBI is smarter."

  "So straighten me out. What's your big secret?"

  "I'll be sure to let you know when I'm hot to join your victim list."

  I flipped Cher out of the link. “Maddie, Q-Ball can hear me talking, but no one except me can hear you right now. I'd like to know what happened to you if you're willing to tell me. I'll watch my mouth."

  She studied my proxy. “That isn't your real face, is it?"

  I adjusted the controller. “This is."

  Her eyes widened. “You're black."

  At least she was honest. “It comes from having black parents."

  "I'm just surprised is all. Hey, I'm not supposed to tell anyone outside the family, but I think you ought to know. I used to spend all my time online and I talked my mother into buying me a ... full touch-back rig.” Her voice had gotten very quiet and she sounded softer and younger. “I mean a full harness, Mr. Phillips. Ma didn't know what that meant."

  "I do. You don't have to explain.” Complete “feelie” gear had to be custom fitted and built differently for males and females because it included mechanisms for sexual satisfaction.

  "I met this nice man—they're pretty sure he was a man—in what was supposed a safe chat room, certified and all. He wasn't so nice. The FBI still doesn't know how, but he got control of my harness. He—he—I'll never use touch-back again."

  I was surprised she was even willing to get near a computer. Virtual rape! And some deviant exploiting a vulnerable teenager and an unknown software vulnerability. Had this girl been his only victim? No wonder the feds wanted to keep this under wraps! If the news got around, copycats could multiply like roaches.

  "I'm really sorry, Maddie. No one should have to go through something like that."

  "The FBI figured the bastard might try again. So they set up a ‘soft sting’ with my home computer. Any system pingin’ mine gets pinged. And they've got stuff that will crack a home firewall without a trace."

  I was beginning to put it together. “Cher had enough of your records to know your IP address. So you tracked and cracked Cher's computer when she tried to crack yours?"

  "And all by remote, too! The FBI software made it easy. The stupid bitch keeps all sorts of files in a visible folder labeled ‘Viewschool’ and wrote about everything she did and how much fun it was."

  "Hold on. They've got a computer for you to use in New Hampshire?” Certainly, the institute caring for her was expensive enough to provide the latest Mac for each client, but considering why she was there....

  She blew out her lips scornfully. “I'm not in New Hampshire, Mr. Phillips. Never was."

  Coldness ran down my spine. “I see.” The FBI thought her attacker might go after her in person. “Where are you, then?” Maybe they suspected it was someone she knew, someone with physical access to her gear.

  "I'm not supposed to say."

  At her father's house, perhaps. “Have you been faking your ... condition all along?"

  "No. Well, not completely. I've been scared, Mr. Phillips. Too scared to, you know, express myself. But when I saw how Cher was playing with White Night ... I could only take so much."

  Tracy called out “Landing in five minutes” from a safe distance. I acknowledged with a salute.

  "Maddie, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your sharing this with me. You're one brave young woman! What can you tell me about Buddha?"

  She shrugged. “If Cher hadn't cracked his home computer, I wouldn't know about him. It's not even in his school records. He's been hearin', you know, voices since he was six. His dad died and his mom's a drunk. When she found out about his problem, she beat him bloody and said he'd get put away for life if he listened to the voices or told anyone else about them. He believed her. Kids are so stupid. But he found out that if he kept his jaw clamped a certain way—"

  I looked over at Q-Ball and decided I could speak openly about this. “Christ! The poor kid isn't grinning he's just trying to block out the voices! And let me guess: Cher has been using ViewNet to give Buddha some extra voices to enjoy."

  Our jet was banking in for landing. A storm was coming in, too; raindrops lashed my window, streaking right through Buddha's proxy.

  "Maddie, you're a wonder. We're touching down now and I'm opening the general channel. We'll talk more later."

  As we disembarked, Tracy informed us that “people were already waitin’ on us” and I asked her to thank the pilot, whom I'd only glimpsed through the cockpit window. She wished us goodbye politely enough. Still, I noticed her throat working as we passed by. I suppose we had been acting a bit oddly from her perspective, but her nervous swallowing gave me an idea.

  Two police cruisers were sitting to one side of the private runway where we'd landed, each with a cop leaning on the hood like a bad ornament. The officers waved at us, but seemed in no rush. Q-Ball and I hurried down the boarding stairs and toward the cars. Before either officer could speak, I held up a finger in a just-one-moment gesture, pulled out my sat-phone, and recalled Jackson Duke's number.

  Before I could push redial, Duke called me. But not by telephone.

  "Dr. Phillips? This is Jack Duke, can you hear me?"

  "I hear you fine. How—"

  "I'm patched into your personal audio."

  "I didn't know you could do that.” The cops were eyeing me dubiously. “I'm on a ViewNet line,” I explained to them. “I need another minute."

  "Those last comments can't have been meant for me,” Jack said.

  "I was talking to two police officers."

  "You're already at Metro then. Good! Cher will be coming in to Windsor Airport; she should be in downtown Detroit before you, but we wanted you approaching the city from the east.

  "Here's the plan. Obviously, we're going to use three black-and-whites, one for each of you.” These cruisers were actually black and yellow. “My people are working with the local dispatcher to program a three-way search pattern into the GPS units of those cars. When that's done—should be soon—we'll shut down Detroit's repeaters and turn you and your students into third-class repeaters."

  "How will I know if I'm getting close to Daniel?"

  "We've reprogrammed your implants to add a clicking sound into your audio nerves whenever they get a handshake-request. The clicking can't kick in until we put your transceivers into repeater mode."

  "So I'll be a kind of walking Geiger counter?"

  "A riding one, and unfortunately the clicking won't increase with proximity. But any clicking will mean good news. As a repeater, your reception is going to be pathetic. You won't hear a thing unless you're within a few blocks. Any questions?"

  "Not now, but I had a thought. I assume some of the transceivers you put into your clients wind up near the vocal chords?"

  He barely paused. “Absolutely. Otherwise you wouldn't be hearing my voice right now."

  "Would it be possible to stimulate Daniel's throat nerves with ViewNet, to make him vomit?"

  "Interesting. Hang on."

  He was only silent for about ten seconds. “Dr. Phillips, I've got Dr. Leah Silbur on the horn. We don't have time to hook her up for a, ah, conference call but I've told her what you had in mind."

  "And?"

  "It's never been done, but she thinks it might be possible.” Another short pause. “Damn, she says it's too risky. We don't know enough and even if it works, he might suffocate."

  "Oh."

  "But she'll try to work out a method just in case our tracking system fails. Might be the only chance he's got."

  "Give her my thanks. Jack, have you ever used this ‘tracking system’ before?"

  "No. But I just got word that the GPS units are ready. Good
luck!"

  With a crackle, the police radios told the cops to get going in stereo. I warned my students that class was going to get interrupted at any moment then leaned close to Q-Ball.

  "You take the car to the right. Anytime you hear a click in your ears, you tell the cop right away. Got it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Q-Ball, you've been getting better and better at controlling your temper and I'm proud of you. Can you hold it together for this?"

  "Shit, yes."

  "Anyone gives you lip, don't give any back. Just tell me about it later. See you soon."

  The boy jumped into his vehicle and I jumped into mine. “I'm ready, Officer. Let's set the new land speed record."

  * * * *

  My current driver, Patrolman Ed Sorenson, seemed committed to utter every word my previous driver hadn't. He was genuinely friendly and insisted I call him “Eddie,” but between his jabbering and the siren I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to hear an internal click to save my life—or rather Daniel's life. The chatter was particularly impressive considering that Sorenson was wearing an earpiece hooked up to his GPS, presumably giving constant instructions and recommendations.

  At least, none of my students tried to speak with me. From the way Cher's head kept turning, I knew she was in her own speeding vehicle and I didn't bother reinstating Q-Ball's proxy. Buddha, Kekipi, and Maddie were staring at White Night like a deathwatch. I was grateful that with ViewNet, I could see the boy breathing....

  Again, a siren parted the automotive seas although the system had worked better in Chicago. Every minute or so, we encountered some driver who was either a born anarchist or deaf. Sorenson referred to such fauna as “clowns” without rancor as he was forced to swerve around them.

  "Normally, Doc, I work with the best partner in the world. You'd like him. But the captain didn't figure—would ya look at this clown?"

  Mercifully, the trip was brief.

  I hadn't been to Detroit for a decade and its skyline had ramified. Here was a city sprouting back to life. As I recalled, the abandoned Continental Motors site was around here somewhere. I was still trying to find it to use as a landmark when I felt the buzzing of my sat-phone. I accepted the call and held the receiver tight to my ear.