Lincoln Tate put his hand to his head to secure his hat as the breeze picked up.
“What are you doing here?” asked Cyn.
His eyes fell to Cyn’s feet and came back up slowly.
“Nice to see you too,” he replied.
“Cut the shit,” said Cyn. “I asked you for some space. You agreed. So again, why are you here?”
Tate looked around at the sparse islet.
“Primitive,” he said. “No transmission lines, nothing to tie you to the mainland. Of course, there are always the satellites, but I’m guessing no one here has a receiver. You’re completely cut off, aren’t you?”
“It’s better this way,” said Cyn. “Far less noise. No feed in my ear all day.”
Tate leaned his head back and scratched his chin. “Must be nice to just opt out of the world. Let someone else deal with it, right?”
“You came all this way to lay some guilt trip on me?”
Tate stuck his cane in the sand and removed his hat. From inside, he pulled out a code card and offered it to Cyn.
“Things have been happening,” he said.
“I don’t give a shit what Perion is—”
“Not Perion,” said Tate. “It’s quieted down on that front. People are losing interest in your replays. This time next year, they will have forgotten all about it.”
“But I won’t,” said Cyn, crossing her arms.
Tate waved the card around as if it were a piece of candy.
Cyn grabbed it and shoved it under her armpit.
“I’m done feeding,” she said, looking out over the water again. “The scene is dead.”
“This has nothing to do with the feeds, nothing at all.”
“Then what?” asked Cyn. She pulled the card out, examined the hexagonal scales on both sides, and put it back.
“VNet,” said Tate, following Cyn’s gaze to the horizon. “Something is happening in VNet.”
“May it burn in hell.” She spit into the sand.
“One of my contacts got wind of a bounty, something I think you’d be suited for. The payout would be enough to secure an unprovisioned Ayudante chip.”
Cyn looked at Tate. There was a smile on his face, but he was serious.
“Yes, you know what that means,” he continued. “Memory suppression, complete synaptic control. All the advantages of ReTread without sacrificing every bit of your soul.”
Candice’s face rose out of the surrounding darkness, erupted into flames, and receded.
Cyn shook her head. “All this way just to offer me a job.”
“Wasn’t the only reason,” said Tate, reaching out to touch her face.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” She retreated a few steps. “You really believe you can get me a clean Ayudante? Top of the line? Next gen?”
“Yes. It will be waiting for you when you get back, so long as you retrieve the target.”
“And where exactly is the target?”
“South America, we think. For obvious reasons.”
Tate didn’t have to explain. If the target had fled to South America, they had done so to get away from Vinestead.
“Level of difficulty?”
“It would test you.”
Cyn nodded, thought it over. The idea of putting her augments to use again made her arms tingle.
“Believe me,” said Tate, “I see the appeal of staying on the bench. What you’ve got going here… the lack of tech, the slow pace, the boy toys.”
Cyn looked over her shoulder. Huy was standing on the porch of the cabana, a glass in one hand and a 9mm in the other.
“I can see the code crawling beneath your skin, Cynthia; you and I both know this isn’t enough for you. Sooner or later, you’ll want back in. You’ll want to walk through hellfire and come out unscathed. You’ll want to feel something more than this empty place. Do this so you can move on. We’ll swap in a new chip and scrape every last bit of VTech out of you.”
Tate touched her on the arm.
“Do this so we can move on.”
Cyn thought of the first day she had walked into Tate’s office in Umbra to demand a job. And now, here they were on the other side of the world with the tables turned.
“I’ll need to think about it,” she said.
“I know,” said Tate. “I’ll be on the boat. We leave in half an hour.” He uprooted his cane and slipped his hat onto his head. “Don’t be late.”
Cyn examined the code card as Tate turned for the pier. She glanced at Huy standing on the porch; he opened his arms in response.
“Linc…”
Tate paused, his expensive shoes sinking into the damp sand.
“What’s the target’s name?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, resuming his walk. “He just goes by G.”
CODA SIX
CAMERON GRAY
March 2016
“I’m asking you to reconsider. I can make you a very rich man, Cam.”
It was mid-morning in downtown Sacramento. Spring had recently returned to the city in the form of newly populated flower beds set in front of every other street-level business between Meridian Plaza and Capital Park Terminus. Each came with a small placard indicating they were part of a city beautification project, a way to counteract the dominance of asphalt and evercrete.
The citizens of Sacramento played along for the most part, standing outside their shops with watering cans, nodding to customers, fully aware direct sunlight would only come around noon when it was high enough to pierce the spiky growth of skyscrapers and towers. A few hours of sunlight a day were just enough to keep things growing, to keep small, red and yellow flowers blooming, breaking up the endless background loop of glass and gleaming metal.
“More money than you know what to do with.”
Cam switched his phone from one ear to the other and used the sleeve of his suit to wipe his forehead. The humidity was trying to suffocate him. Unlike other cities that built their grids in straight lines, Sacramento’s downtown streets meandered, cutting off the breezes that should have brought relief to the pedestrian traffic.
His suit felt warm, whether from the humidity or his nerves, he wasn’t sure. Being on the phone with Donato Banks made his heart race; he hadn’t taken a call from his former boss in months. Cam had answered the phone on the off chance he wanted to apologize.
Instead, Donato Banks was trying to negotiate.
A woman stood at the crosswalk with her toy poodle, dressed in jeans that ended at her shins and a pink tank top. She eyed Cam’s corporate uniform and smirked.
“I don’t want your damn money,” said Cam, winking at the woman.
“Then what do you want?” asked Banks.
The light changed and Cam followed the woman across the street.
Banks had asked a good question, but did he know how long Cam had already spent thinking of the answer? The last four months in hiding had produced numerous questions and plans and ideas about what to do next, where the money would come from, and how much he wanted to see Banks suffer for what he had done. Visions of assault and murder plagued Cam’s nightmares, but in the morning when he sat on the edge of his bed in some random hotel, he knew violence wasn’t the answer. Banks would never apologize. He would take the phrase it’s just business to the grave. It wasn’t until winter broke in California that Cam realized how he could hit Banks where it would hurt him the most.
“I want you out,” said Cam. “Resign your position.”
There was laughter on the other end of the phone.
Cam stopped at another crosswalk and observed Meridian Plaza on the other side of the street. Trees lined the outer perimeter; lawyers and financial analysts in smart suits and tight skirts walked between them, briefcases in one hand and steaming lattes in the other. Their destination was the Citigroup building in the center of the plaza, a thin, tan rectangle rising seventy stories, reminding Cam of a giant tongue depressor stuck into the earth.
After crossing the street and en
tering the plaza, Cam paused at one of the benches set inside the tree line.
“Men like me don’t resign,” said Banks. “Men like me run the world, whether people like you want to admit it or not.”
Cam idly counted the windows on the east side of the Citigroup building. Behind that tinted glass were the men Banks was referring to. They were the ones who manipulated the economy for their own massive profits, contributing nothing but reaping everything. The urge to walk into the building and start asking tough questions rose and fell.
“You think you’re untouchable,” said Cam. “But you’re not.”
“Neither are you,” said Banks. “You think because I come to you with an offer that you’re somehow better than me? I’m doing this as a courtesy because I like you, Cam. I’m giving you a chance to come down off your high horse and make a deal that will benefit both of us. Do this, and you will never have to work again. Just give me my story, and the world is yours.”
Cam touched the code card in his breast pocket.
“It’s my story,” he replied.
“Bullshit!”
Cam leaned away from the distortion.
“I financed the entire operation,” continued Banks. “They were my contacts that got you into the city, my connections that allowed you audience with Perion executives. Without me, you never would have made it past the front gate. You stood on my shoulders to get this story. I want my cut of the action and some goddamn appreciation!”
Cam looked at his sliver. He had ten minutes until his meeting across the street.
“Oh, I appreciate it, Mr. Banks. I appreciate you deciding my life was worth less than your story. You turned me into a fucking guinea pig.”
“You took the assignment willingly,” replied Banks.
“You tried to have me killed!”
“And what makes you think I’m done trying?” screamed Banks.
Cam looked up and took inventory of the crowd. Most people were power walking their way across the plaza, their minds lost to thoughts of how best to screw over the housing market or how to keep some corporate philanderer with deep pockets and a penchant for Ukrainian prostitutes out of prison. Cam could find nothing threatening in the stream of people; he chided himself for being so jumpy. It wasn’t as if Banks’ reach extended this far north…
“You should have taken the money,” said Banks.
The phone beeped twice as a dozen men suddenly broke rank to face Cam. They paused for a moment; one of them had his head cocked to the side, as if listening to instructions.
From his whisperer, thought Cam.
Shoving his phone into his pocket, Cam bolted for the street. Meridian Plaza stretched out in front of him, its occasional flagstones marking his lead-footed escape from his pursuers. His new shoes weren’t built for running; they slid as he weaved in and out of the crowd. Banks’ men pushed men and women aside, creating a rolling tide of screams and obscenities. Their lack of discretion told Cam they were being paid well, and he wondered if their instructions were to take him dead or alive.
The first shot rang out as Cam hit the curb. There was no crosswalk in the middle of the block, and the six lanes of traffic were moving just fast enough to be dangerous. He had intended to wait for an opening, but the shrill ping of a bullet ricocheting off a nearby lamppost spurred him into an impromptu game of Frogger. Cam ventured a glance backwards, saw the lawyers and bankers hitting the deck in their fancy clothes, and then stepped into the street.
A delivery truck nearly ended the game straight off, but Cam was able to pivot out of the way at the last second. A taxi screeched to a halt only a few feet away; the sound of its horn washed over Cam as he stutter-stepped to the side. He waited for another cab to pass by before darting for the solid yellow line in the middle of the street. Only three lanes of traffic separated him from safety, yet he found his legs would not move.
Unlike the Citigroup tower in Meridian Plaza, the Vinestead West building came right up to the edge of the block, leaving barely enough room for five people to walk shoulder to shoulder down the sidewalk. Entrances to the building were in the middle of the block and consisted of two sets of double doors flanking a revolving door large enough to wheel a gurney through.
Looking over his shoulder, Cam saw two men step into the road. They didn’t have their weapons out, just open hands waiting to grab hold of their target.
No, thought Cam. Banks wasn’t going to win this one. Now more than ever, his former boss needed to be put in his place.
Cam jumped back into traffic as the men neared. Horns sounded from all directions, drowning out the shouts from the frightened crowd. He made it past the two inside lanes without incident, but a bike messenger clipped him only a few feet from the curb. Cam fell, absorbing the impact in the palms of his outstretched hands. His chest hit next, but he was able to roll away from the street and regain his feet. He struggled for air as he pushed his way through the revolving door. One of the panes shattered in front of him.
Stumbling into the lobby, Cam immediately put his hands in the air.
There were seven automatic rifles pointed in his direction, each of them peeking out from behind one of the support columns that surrounded the atrium. Standing directly in front of Cam was a tall Indian woman with an oval face and deep red lips. She wore thin, black glasses that disappeared into a tight bun of black hair.
“You should get down,” she said, almost casually.
Cam hit the floor. He listened to the bullets whine above his head for several seconds before tapering off. Twisting on the floor, he looked back at what remained of the revolving door, now nothing more than a frame set atop a carpet of broken glass. Outside, cars stood in the street with their doors opened. Half a dozen gray suits lay prone on the sidewalk, while across the street, the rest were scattering. Cam took inventory of his body. Though his suit was dirty and torn along one cuff, his body had come through undamaged. He rolled onto his back and let out a deep breath.
“You must be Cameron Gray,” said the woman.
Cam groaned his way to a sitting position. He took a few deep breaths before standing up.
“That’s me,” he replied, brushing the dust from his suit. “And you are?” he asked, extending his hand.
The woman put her hands behind her back. “I am Anjali Harishandra, and I am very busy, Mr. Gray. I understand you have something for me.”
“You have no idea,” said Cam, reaching into his pocket.
“I could venture a guess,” said Anjali, looking past him to the swath of destruction stretching across the street.
“Here,” said Cam, offering her the code card, “load this.”
“I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, Mr. Gray, but I can assure you I didn’t get to where I am today by loading random cards from strange men who show up with armed assailants in tow.”
Cam sighed. “Just load it, lady. You’re going to want this content. VFeed is a joke, but this will change all that.”
Anjali stepped forward and gestured to one of the pillars. A member of her security detail stepped forward.
“If there is anything on this card that doesn’t sit right with me, this man is going to put two bullets in you. The first one you will feel. The second one you will not.”
Cam watched the man lift his rifle, holding it slightly lower than level.
“Understood,” said Cam, handing the card over. “It’s pure feed. Just the highlights.”
Anjali took the card and held it to her jackport. She inhaled sharply through her nose as she tilted her head back.
The rifle rose.
“Easy,” said Cam, putting a hand out towards the muzzle.
Anjali opened her eyes and smiled.
“Right?” asked Cam.
“Indeed,” she replied, waving the rifle away. “I suppose we should head upstairs and discuss payment options. We’re prepared to go as high as seven figures.”
Cam shook his head. “I don’t want your money.”
Anjali put her hands behind her back again and asked, “Then exactly what do you want, Mr. Gray?”
Cam looked around the atrium. A nearby monitor showed the Vinestead feed in all of its insignificance. Benny Coker had subsidiaries with more subbers than VFeed. Though Vinestead’s joke of a media feed was small, it did have potential, not to mention unmatched capital backing. Money, resources, connections; they were all at the disposal of VFeed aggregators. And yet, the subbers steered clear.
The Perion story would make VFeed number one overnight.
He pointed a trembling finger to the vidscreen.
“I want your whole goddamn feed.”
also by DANIEL VERASTIQUI
GUARDIAN ANGELS: A SHORT STORY (2012)
It was a bomb threat at the Vinestead West building in Sacramento that got senior programmer Rick Diaz the day off from work, but it was a woman he met on the train who made it the ultimate skip day.
Five years after the fall of the free Net, Vinestead International is on the verge of pushing through its controversial GA Bill, which will require all newborn and naturalized Americans to be implanted with the Guardian Angel biochip. With no X or Anela Zabora to carry the banner of freedom, who now will step up to challenge corporate tyranny?
VENEER (2011)
In the 22nd century, augmented reality is no longer a novelty, but rather a way of life for citizens of Easton. Children are taught at a young age to control the ubiquitous layer of reality known as veneer through a process called reconciliation. Those who learn to reconcile live in a constant state of redefinition, of the world and of themselves. Those who struggle are forced to stand by and watch the world change without them. For this skill, there are no shortcuts, no special glasses or handheld devices. The power to change comes from within.
Deron Bishop wants to live in the augmented world, to perform the magic of reconciliation like his peers, but controlling the veneer has always been a problem for him. Already resentful of the one thing he could never master, Deron doesn't realize how much he needs the veneer until a violent run-in with a childhood rival puts him in the hospital and robs him of his virtual sight.
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