Equinox

by Christian Cantrell

  She passed the back of her hand beneath her nose and saw that it was streaked red. The pressure was behind her eyes now, and for a moment—as she tightened her grip on the arms of her recliner—she thought the capsule had been toppled from its base and was rolling before she realized that what she was experiencing was vertigo. And then came the searing pain erupting from somewhere deep inside her skull. That’s when it occurred to Charlie how incredibly stupid and careless she had been; how she had willingly allowed herself to be sealed inside a machine every bit as deadly as an industrial-scale cutter; and how all of this had been orchestrated, probably starting with the manipulation of Benthic’s mixture to get him out of the rotation.

  She knew she probably only had seconds before she blacked out—enough time to commit to one response. She looked at the emergency pull beside the hatch and tried to calculate the chances that the explosive bolts would function; tried to anticipate whether they were designed to be fail-safe, or whether they could be remotely disabled by anyone with sufficient permissions. Both of Charlie’s hands went up to her temples and her eyes cinched themselves shut. She wanted nothing more than to pull her legs up into her seat and submit to whatever was happening—to will it all to be over as quickly as possible—but she knew she still had one more thing to do.

  She slid out from behind her writing surface with the flask in one hand and the stack of silicon paper in the other. As soon as she was clear, she fell forward, though not toward the hatch. Instead, Charlie lunged toward the storage compartment with the false bottom. From the floor, she reached up and deposited the flask, then folded the stack of silicon paper as best she could and stuffed it down on top. With the last of her resolve, Charlie replaced the false bottom, closed the compartment, then curled up on the floor around a human-size ball of bright white pain. The last thing she experienced before losing consciousness was a peculiar but beautiful proximity to what she believed was the aura of her dead sister.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  EQUILIBRIUM BETWEEN FORCES

  LUKA DISCOVERED THAT CUPCAKE DECORATORS were much easier to assemble than they were to take apart.

  These types of trinkets and novelties were seldom designed with servicing in mind, since it was far faster and cheaper to simply assemble a brand-new one and have it delivered free of charge via EMATS than it was to fix an old one that had been knocked off a counter, or neglected for long enough after use that it had become hopelessly clogged. Not only was replacement a more practical policy from a time-and-caps perspective, but assuming it had been at least a month since your previous purchase, there was a good chance the replacement model would represent a significant upgrade. New and cleverly refined schematics for all types of gadgets were constantly being traded among merchants at broker posts and ports; algorithmic engineering heuristics were always suggesting innovative new ways in which devices and components could be both enhanced and optimized; and millions of physical testing simulations were constantly being run across dozens of kilocores, ensuring that new or modified products would probably function acceptably over a minimum number of applications.

  All this, even for a cupcake decorator.

  It was precisely this culture of disposal that accounted for Luka’s struggle to penetrate his multiaxis confection embellishment appliance. He had already exposed (and ingested) all the residual curious yellow that was accessible by removing the components that were designed for easy cleaning, but he knew there had to be more. He had finally taken to smashing the entire contraption with a mallet he used for sculpting, and was now fastidiously inspecting each and every chip, shard, fragment, and splinter for any sign whatsoever of a golden tinge.

  Luka would have never guessed that house arrest would be so much worse than Hexagon Row. Aside from the quiet room, his time beneath the Pacific Medical Center had not been nearly as bad as it could have been. His cell had been surprisingly comfortable, the food mostly the same as it was at home, and although he would probably never admit this to anyone but himself, there were worse ways to pass the time than talking with Ellie. If one was going to be unexpectedly thrust into withdrawal, one might as well go through the process in the presence of an infinitely patient emulated psychotherapist.

  House arrest, in contrast, placed incarceration entirely out of context. Luka felt strongly that prisons should look and feel like prisons instead of looking and feeling exactly like your transpartment. They should be separate, distinct, isolated locations that you entered with the belief—no matter how unrealistic or remote—that one day you will be allowed to go home again. Counterintuitive as it might seem, turning one’s home into one’s prison was far crueler. Luka believed now that one should never be detained or confined without ritual or ceremony—a rite of passage that inherently suggested an eventual rite of return. To simply wake up one morning and find a recorded message from the Judicial Committee, and then subsequently discover that one’s front door refused to open, was to be sentenced to more than just time; the real punishment was a lifetime of wondering whether every room you entered would be the one from which you were never allowed to emerge.

  Luka now understood house arrest to be as psychological as it was concrete. While his front door was now programmed to ignore both his presence and his commands, he had devised at least half a dozen ways he could probably escape: ask Tycho to let him out; set off the fire alarm, which would probably override whatever access directives were in place; use his sculpting tools to force the door open, probably without causing any more disturbance to his neighbors than reconfiguring his walls; rappel down the refuse chutes until he reached a maintenance hatch, then kick out the slats and find the nearest shower. Et cetera. But he also knew that it wouldn’t do him any good. In anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, he’d probably just end up back on Hexagon Row, which, while preferable to house arrest in many ways, would also mean giving up access to his workspace, and more importantly, any prayer whatsoever of excavating even just a few milligrams of curious yellow residue.

  So instead, Luka focused on distracting himself while trusting that Tycho would continue finding ways to delay his inevitable exile long enough for Charlie to get off saturation rotation, organize a rig-wide labor strike, and arrange for a full pardon. He’d sculpted the same refrozen block of ice several times, and even incorporated the melting of his self-portrait into a kind of melancholy performance art when played back at high speed; disposed of most of his material possessions—or at least those that fit through his refuse chutes—expecting, at some point, to suddenly attain some form of metaphysical enlightenment (and secretly hoping to find a forgotten, unopened envelope of powdered synthetic opioid); slept as much as his body could tolerate; committed to, and subsequently abandoned, strict regimens of meditation and yoga; made significant progress toward his goal of doing one thousand push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups over the course of ten days, though he was pretty sure he’d lost count of all three; somehow found himself exploring the esoteric but surprisingly broad domain of furniture made out of old recycled boat wood in the archives; and, of course, used a mallet to smash a device designed to spread, spray, deposit, or otherwise arrange an infinite spectrum of condensed sweetener through an array of dynamically shaped nozzles, then proceeded to sort and scour every last fragment, touching each side to the tip of his tongue and then rubbing whatever came off against the roof of his mouth.

  While Luka sat bent over his work, a notification intentionally similar to the warbling birdsongs of the Embarcadero emanated from the front of his transpartment. Although the door was completely nontransparent, the inside polymeth surface displayed an image of what was on the other side, applying a type of Gaussian blur filter and combining it with just enough opacity to suggest translucent frosted glass. Although the visitor could, of course, see nothing from his or her side of the door, the effect was designed to allow the resident to retain a sense of privacy while still discerning who had come calling.

  It was Matthew Two Bulls.

/>   Luka straightened himself. His speculation around why Two Bulls would risk coming to his flat—especially while he was under house arrest—was interrupted by his realization that the door might not even open, and that he might not even be able to admit the man behind the seemingly omniscient Tycho persona.

  “Come in?” he tried. The doors parted, and Luka involuntarily registered yet another potential way to subvert confinement.

  Two Bulls checked both sides of the hallway outside before stepping hurriedly through. The doors eased closed behind him, presumably recommencing Luka’s detention. Luka’s most recent impression of the substantial Lakota tribesman came from the virtual retina display that had made Two Bulls seem much taller and more authoritative than he looked now, perhaps because Luka had been sitting on the floor and looking up at the projection. Or maybe it was the distress in the man’s expression that made him appear a little more earthly and mortal, apparent even though his eyes were not visible.

  “Luka,” Two Bulls acknowledged with a nod. His hair and wraparound visor were equally dark and lustrous, both agleam in the bright white light of Luka’s entry.

  Luka stood. “What are you doing here?”

  “We can’t communicate electronically anymore,” Two Bulls said. He gave the flat a rapid appraisal. Luka had the impression that he was both verifying that they were alone, and satisfying his curiosity about how one of the San Francisco’s most notoriously eccentric citizens lived. “I believe Tycho’s been compromised.”

  “Well, that’s suboptimal,” Luka remarked. “But then what makes you think it’s safe to communicate in person? Don’t you think someone might be listening?”

  “I’m the Chair of the Judicial Committee,” Two Bulls reminded Luka. “I arranged for some cover.”

  “Cover for what, exactly?”

  Two Bulls allowed himself farther into the room, placing his broad hands on the back of the chair opposite Luka. “For talking about what we do next.”

  “What do you mean?” Luka asked hesitantly. “We wait, right?”

  Two Bulls shook his head. “I’m sorry about this, Luka,” he said, “but it’s too late to prevent your exile. The best we can do now is find out where they’re taking you and make sure the Accipiter Hawk is there to pick you up.”

  “Wait a second,” Luka said. “Back up. Why is it too late to stop my exile? What about the strike? What about shutting down the city, and demanding a pardon, and all that?”

  “The strike isn’t going to happen.”

  “What?” Luka exclaimed. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because . . .” Two Bulls began, then faltered. He bent and rested his forehead against his hands on the back of the chair.

  “Because why?” Luka prompted. “What’s going on?”

  Two Bulls straightened up and watched Luka for a long moment. “Because Charlie is dead.”

  Luka heard and understood Two Bulls’ words, but he wasn’t able to make sense of them. It was like understanding that there must have been a time before the beginning of the universe, but running up against your own cognitive limitations before being able to comprehend or internalize the fact. Or believing that, after you died, your consciousness simply ceased to exist, but then having that consciousness refuse to truly contemplate its own extinction. It seemed simultaneously feasible that the City Council would feel so threatened by a labor strike that they would have someone killed, and entirely impossible that that someone could be Charlie—the only person left on the entire planet who Luka truly cared for and loved.

  “I’m so sorry, Luka,” Two Bulls said. “But we don’t have much time. I need you to focus.”

  “Oh I’m focused,” Luka said. He watched Two Bulls with eerie placidity. “I’m focused on finding out who did this and ripping their fucking throats out.”

  “Revenge is not the answer right now,” Two Bulls said. “That’s what I’m here to make you understand. You have to accept your exile and never come back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Luka explained to Two Bulls. “Not until I send this entire fucking city to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Luka,” Two Bulls said. Luka saw his eyebrows rise from behind his visor. “If you’re anything other than one-hundred-percent compliant, they will kill you. All they need is an excuse.”

  “Then I’m happy to give it to them.”

  “Damnit!” Two Bulls said, lifting the chair by its back and slamming it down into the sound-dampening silicone mat beneath their feet. “This isn’t a goddamn game, Luka. They will waterlock you.”

  As they stared at one another across the table, it suddenly occurred to Luka how absurd all of this was.

  “Wait a second,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would they kill Charlie? It doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t they kill me and exile her? The whole reason she took the lead on the strike was because I’m the one they perceive as the bigger threat.”

  “Exactly,” Two Bulls said. “Charlie wasn’t enough of a threat to justify exile so they needed another way to neutralize her. If you were the one suddenly killed in an accident, it would look suspicious, but everyone knows how dangerous the life of a water rat is.”

  “So I’m the one who gets to live,” Luka said. “Again.”

  “If we play this exactly right,” Two Bulls stipulated. “But make no mistake. Although the City Council would prefer to keep up appearances, that doesn’t mean they won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head or waterlock you at the slightest provocation.”

  “So you think we should just let this go,” Luka said. “Just let them get away with murdering Charlie.”

  “I’m suggesting you let this go,” Two Bulls said. “Let me deal with this in my own time.”

  Luka smiled a touch maniacally. “You should know me better than that by now,” he told Two Bulls. “If you didn’t want me to do anything, then you shouldn’t have come here and told me. There’s no way I’m letting this go.”

  “Then you’ll be dead, too,” Two Bulls said plainly. “Probably by the end of the day.”

  Luka shrugged. “I accept that,” he said. “It’s not like I have anyone or anything to live for, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry that you feel that way,” Two Bulls said. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you have everything to live for.”

  Luka narrowed his eyes at the man across the table. “Like what?”

  “Like everything you’ve accomplished,” Two Bulls said. “Think about it. Without you, there wouldn’t be any gliders. Without you, we couldn’t have infiltrated Equinox. Luka, you’re the one who started all of this. The day you made the decision to shut the power off might just be remembered as the day that changed the entire course of human history. Don’t you want to see how all this turns out?”

  Luka didn’t answer. Once again, he’d heard everything Two Bulls said, but he was fixated on just three words: made the decision. Luka had always thought of his life as a series of events that had happened to him without his input or intervention—circumstances over which he’d never really had any control: being forced to leave Hammerfest; being separated from his parents; his life in China Basin; becoming an assembly technician; the loss of the baby; Val’s suicide; and now, Charlie’s murder.

  Maybe things were different for people who were born on the San Francisco, but Luka had figured out a long time ago that the best he could do with his life was just try to get through it—distract himself with sculpting, and keep the endorphins surging with curious yellow, and just hope he was lucky enough not to see the end coming, whatever form it took. But now there was evidence that this was not necessarily the truth of his life’s narrative. He had made the decision to invite Val up to his flat that evening; he’d decided to go down to deck two and shut the power off that day; and he’d made the decision—all on his own—to rescue Cadie, Cam, Ayla, and Omicron from the waterlock, and then support their plans to try to contain the Coronians. While it was certainly tr
ue that his life was not something he had entirely dictated, it was equally untrue that his life had simply happened to him without any conscious volition. He was starting to see that there was an equilibrium between the forces that defined his life, some of which were under his control, and some of which lay outside. Life was neither preordained nor entirely arbitrary, but rather the aggregate of infinitely complex dynamics, forces, and vortices to which you were free to contribute as much or as little energy as you yourself chose.

  When Two Bulls spoke again, Luka realized that he had been looking down at the ruin strewn across the table.

  “Luka, we both know that exile is a death sentence,” he said. “But we can get you a reprieve. I can find out where they’re taking you, and I will make sure Ayla is there to pick you up. And then once things have blown over, I’ll figure out how to get Cadie to you, as well. Luka, this is your chance to finally get out of here—to start an entirely new life. This doesn’t have to be the end. It can be an opportunity.”

  Luka looked up at Two Bulls and nodded. “OK,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  Two Bulls did not smile, but Luka could see the satisfaction and the relief in this features. The big man took his hands off the back of the chair, straightened himself up, and walked around to Luka’s side. Suddenly the man once again seemed as big as his projection had been, and when he reached out and grasped Luka’s shoulder, a feeling of warmth seemed to flow throughout Luka’s entire body.

  “I promise you that Charlie’s death won’t be for nothing,” Two Bulls said. “You have my word on that.”

  All of the loss in Luka’s life began to rise up inside him, triggering the familiar instinct to suppress it. He had just made the decision to let it happen—perhaps for the first time in his entire life—when the front doors slid apart.

  Two Bulls remained composed as Luka’s transpartment filled with officers, their compact assault rifles raised and sighted. He gave Luka a final nod as he let his hand drop to his side and stepped back.