by Isaac Hooke
ATLAS
by Isaac Hooke
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
Postpartum
About the Author
Also By Isaac Hooke
Remember me in the dark nights, when all hope seems lost.
Remember me in the storm, when you think you can't go on.
— Shaw Chopra
CHAPTER ONE
I was standing at the bus stop, minding my own business, when a two-by-four cracked me a good one on the side of the head.
My bad luck that it had to happen on the day I'd finally saved up enough to buy myself a ticket out of here.
When I came to, a blurry white and black pattern filled my vision. It took a second for my eyes to fully focus, and then I realized that the pattern belonged to the wings of a moth. It was sitting on my nose, just lounging there without a care in the world. I shifted, and the thing fluttered away, quickly vanishing into the hustle and bustle of the city around me.
I took a long inhale of the air. Lots of healthy goodies in it today: Ash, dust, industrial smoke, vehicle exhaust, ozone, dried fecal matter. Great stuff. You packed fifty million people into fifteen hundred square kilometers, you were bound to get a few toxins cavorting about. The air filters just couldn't keep up. Not in this city, anyway. Breathing it was like sniffing smelling salts—really jolted you awake in the mornings. It was also useful after getting bashed in the head with a two-by-four.
Besides the throbbing pain on my scalp, the holster at my belt was empty. My augmented reality goggles were gone. My arm was nicely splayed out too, making the microchip embedded in my wrist easily accessible. That microchip was commonly referred to as an embedded Id, and it contained everything there was to know about me. Everyone had one. Normally, only you yourself could access your Id and authorize such things as bank transfers. Unfortunately, I'd received a notification earlier this morning from CryptoG, the Id manufacturer, that the encryption scheme for my make and model had been cracked again. The notification mentioned that their programmers were diligently working on a patch "at this very moment," but as of this afternoon the corporation still hadn't published one.
I felt fairly certain if I went to a terminal and checked the account linked to my embedded Id, I'd find a zero balance.
Beaten up and robbed of my life savings because governments wanted to encourage commercial software vendors to make their software "exploitable." Well that's fine and dandy for catching criminals I guess, but not so fine for everyone else.
Not that I was bitter.
Okay. Maybe just a little.
On the bright side, I guess I could take getting beaten up better than most people. I was a Dissuader. Or Disuasivo in the local lingo. Used to getting beat up. Usually for other people.
Let me explain. See, when you left home you either carried a sidearm if you looked like you could use it, or you hired a Dissuader. You really had no other choice when the city you lived in was one big ghetto.
Luckily, I was off the job today. If I'd let a client get robbed with me, that would've meant the end of my contract. And maybe worse.
Protecting someone, or "Dissuading" as we called it, was about the only work I could get around here. My skin was too white. I stood out—which is why I'd been robbed today in the first place. Usually the sawed-off at my side was enough of a deterrent, but not today apparently. People always thought I was smart and rich because I was a gringo. That I knew something they didn't know. But all I had to do was open my mouth, and when they realized I could speak New Spanish perfectly, I dropped a couple of notches in the respect category. No one spoke New Spanish like that, not unless they grew up here. The barrio residents still put on those fake admiring smiles once they knew, but I could always see the truth in their eyes. You're just a failure like the rest of us.
I wasn't planning on living this way forever.
I had a dream, damn it.
This "being robbed" thing, well, that was just another setback on the road. I could handle it.
At least the robber had left my leather boots and my long black duster, the trademarks of my profession. There were too many bystanders around to rob me of everything, I guess. Speaking of which, a few concerned citizens at the bus stop were hovering over me, all talking at once. One was offering me water while cradling my head, and others were saying something about bringing over a Guardia. I took a sip of the proffered water, and ignored everyone else as I struggled to my feet.
A wave of dizziness passed over me. I could feel the blood dripping down the side of my head. I touched it, and flinched at the pain. My fingers came away red. I realized that my trademark Dissuader hat was missing, and in a moment of disorientation I thought it had been stolen as well. But then I remembered I hadn't brought the thing. Never wore it on "off" days.
Good. Those hats were hard to find.
No point staying here. The automated bus wouldn't let me in, not with a zero balance on my embedded Id. Besides, where I needed to go now, no bus would take me.
I began the long walk, knowing that the rest of my day was ruined.
The boxlike buildings around me were one of three base colors: faded orange, faded brown or faded red. Laundry invariable hung from the balcony railings, or from clotheslines strewn between the window grills. There were a few dilapidated shops on the first floors of some buildings. The awnings of street vendors who'd decided to camp out on the sidewalks used up the rest of the space. There was a fold-up cafe serving coffee and tamales on dirty plates. A man selling burnt corn from a hot box. A pastry vendor whose churros looked like dried sticks of beef. There were a few clothes sellers, and the clothing looked relatively decent I had to admit. For knockoffs.
The streets were packed with the lunch crowd and the vendors were doing brisk business. Cheap fatty food was always a hit with people who made five microcoins a day. You'd think you wouldn't see so many happy faces, but here they were, smiling away as they ate and drank. That's one thing to be said about the people here, they were certainly resilient.
They all carried holsters, either on slings, or belts, the stocks of sawed-offs and the grips of pistols readily visible. I felt extremely vulnerable, walking those streets. Everyone seemed to be looking at me. I was White. And I had no gun.
Not that I had anything of value left to rob.
Except my life.
I turned onto a side-street, leaving behind the public face of the barrio, and things got more dilapidated. Very few people walked the street here. There were no vendors on the sidewalks. No open shops. Just a bunch of aluminum security doors and grilles rolled down and locked. The uneven sidewalk was littered in plaster that had chipped from the graffiti-covered buildings. One of the abandoned buildings was slathered in posters of putas competing for attention. Audio/video loops activated as I passed, and I was bombarded with solicitations: Big breasts, little breasts, long hair, short hair, young, old, shaven, hairy, however I wanted them, whenever I wanted them. Just look-up the embedded Id and send a message for the time of your l
ife.
I continued on my way. If I felt vulnerable before, now I was positively afraid. Not the best part of town to find oneself in without a gun.
I took off my holster, and slid it under my duster. Let any watchers think my weapon was hidden. I raised my double collar. The rim reached past the tip of my nose, making me feel a little like a bandido. It was the look I wore when on duty. All Dissuaders did. It would let any who watched me know who I was, and hopefully 'dissuade' them from bothering me.
I passed a police robot, one of the Guardias as the locals called them. Humanoid in shape, it was made of high-grade polycarbonate. Its blocky arms and legs were colored black and yellow, with grills in the back. The connecting joints—elbows, shoulders, knees, ankles, fingers—were circular. I could hear the subtle whir of servomotors in those joints with every step the thing took.
The head, which was about half the size of a human's, reminded me of the inverted scoop of some excavating machine, complete with serrated bottom. It had antennas and a yellow bar down the middle of its face with two small glass disks stacked one atop the other. A red dot above those disks acted as a laser sight for depth perception. On the very top of the head was a small, inactive emergency light, similar to the ones you found on cop cars. That head didn't contain the silicon brain—the large rectangular box on the chest was for that.
The sight of a police robot wasn't all that reassuring, and I definitely didn't feel any safer. Sometimes the kids liked to lure the Guardias into back alleys. When they had one cornered they'd pound the crap out of it with two-by-fours, pipes and baseball bats. It was risky, but the kids who survived made good coin selling the fragments. Robot parts went for a small fortune on the black market—3D printers were a rarity around here. And the mark-up one could expect on the magnesium-ion battery packs was ridiculous. Yeah, I guess it's pretty obvious I'd been one of those pipe-carrying kids.
The police robot swiveled its head toward me and I blinked as the laser sight flashed into my eyes. The police robot was confirming that my face matched the face in my embedded Id, and that I had no outstanding warrants. In moments it moved on.
I wasn't a threat, according to the robot. Just a penniless Dissuader with a fresh scalp wound. Harmless, of course.
Sure.
For a brief moment I considered making a grab for the robot's rifle, which protruded temptingly from the sling around its left shoulder. If I could get it in time to blast the brain case I might even succeed. If I got that rifle, I wouldn't have to go where I was going. All would be well.
Other than the fact that robbing the robot would be wrong.
Anyway, I'd seen how quick on the draw those robots were. Maybe when I was a kid and felt more invincible (and less moral) I might've made a grab like that. But I wasn't feeling all that invincible today. Besides, I'd heard the designers had added a locking mechanism to the newer models so that only police robots could draw and fire the rifles. I also heard that the things 'called home' now before they shut down, transmitting the Ids of any nearby people. If I took that robot out I'd wake up tomorrow to a whole troop of the things at my door.
Oh well. It was a nice thought.
I watched the police robot retreat. The 'lo mejor coño' graffiti some kid had sprayed on its backside made my day. That literally meant 'the best pussy.'
The few locals I passed left me alone. They recognized me for what I was. Good. This was where I grew up after all. I even had a few clients here.
In fact I saw one of my regulars walking down the barrio right now. Isabella was a graying woman who couldn't afford the rejuvenation treatments. She'd been a seamstress in a former life. These days she subsisted on what little money her daughters could scrape together for her. Sweet as hell. Always gave me extra pay.
I recognized the Dissuader with her immediately. Alejandro Mondego. He wore the black, ankle-length duster that all Dissuaders wore. He had his double collar raised just like I had and it covered the entire lower half of his face. The rest of him was characteristically Dissuader: Black tricorn hat pulled low, the triangular shape giving the subtle impression of horns. Long black boots shined to a luster. Sawed-off resting comfortably in the holster at his side.
Though most of his face was hidden, I knew it was Alejandro from the way he moved. When he got close, the eyes were the final giveaway. I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Black, haunted things, the thick set of the brows bent by the weight of unseen troubles. You would have never guessed those eyes belonged to a twenty-four year old.
One of the best Dissuaders I knew.
One of the best friends I had.
I nodded at Isabella and bumped fists with Alejandro.
"What happened?" Alejandro said in New Spanish. He was gazing at my scalp with concern. I wondered how big a lump I had.
"Tell you tonight."
"Is that you, Rade?" Isabella said.
I nodded, pulling down the edge of my high collar for a second so that she could see the rest of my face.
"You poor boy." Isabella reached up and I flinched when her palsied fingers touched the blood-clot on my scalp. The whole area started throbbing again.
"Get that looked after, understand?" Isabella said.
"Si." Problem was, there was no one who would look after it. Just to get into the hospital emergency ward cost a hundred microcoins. Actual treatment could run upwards of ten-thousand microcoins, or ten millicoins. And that was for treatment by a human. If you wanted the best treatment, the robot treatment, that would set you back another forty-thousand at least.
"Wait." Isabella pulled out a pair of aReal glasses from her purse. The glasses looked like an ordinary pair, complete with lenses. Except aReals were anything but ordinary.
aReal stood for augmented reality. You could use it to access the Net anywhere, anytime. It was up to you how much of your reality you allowed it to take up. A small postage stamp area in the lower right, or complete visual overlay. Wanted to know the weather forecast? Your aReal had it. Stocks? You got it. News. Yup. Wanted to know the history of some landmark? Pull it up on WikiQwiki. Wanted to know the price of an item in the grocery story? Look at it and the aReal automatically scanned the barcode and told you not only the price, but the ingredients, the macronutrient breakdown, the product history, gave you its WikiQwiki page and its rotten apples score, the number of verified reviews, and a 'most helpful' subset of those reviews—all without you even having to pick it up. Of course, no one really trusted the review section. Too easy to fake.
But anyway, one of the nice things about an aReal was the escape from reality it offered. Let's say you were waiting at a bus stop, and this really annoying dude started chatting you up. You could watch porn, read science fiction, listen to metal, play a multiplayer shoot-em-up—all at the same time. You'd completely forget about the dude. You wouldn't even notice him. Unfortunately, you also gave him the perfect opportunity to rob you. (Note to self: do not watch porn and play video games when an annoying dude starts chatting me up at a bus stop, even if that bus stop is located in a public, high-traffic place.)
Some people had Implants in their brains so they didn't have to wear aReals. Only drug lords and similar types could afford fancy mind gadgetry like that, though I imagine having an aReal in your brain would be quite the trip.
If you were into that sort of thing.
With an aReal you could access the account information tied to the embedded Id staplegunned into your wrist. The thing automatically downloaded the unique codes of any nearby embedded Ids, allowing you to send someone a message, or money, or a video, or whatever the hell you wanted, with just a look. And that's what Isabella was doing now.
She made a few quick bobs of the head. "Three microcoins. That should be enough to tide you over until supper."
It wasn't much, but given how little money she had herself, it may as well have been a fortune.
As I said, sweet woman.
I let them go, then made my way deeper into the barrio without incident
. My Dissuader look was working, even without the hat. Good.
I reached a building that was so clean and well-kept compared to the others that it was almost an intrusion. It was this sprawling, two story structure, with thick wooden columns beneath its portico, almost like a manor house. The outer walls were painted white, the window frames blue. Fresh paint, mind you. Not chipped or fading.
At the front door two muscular toughs stood guard with Uzis.
The home of Mito, my boss.
I lowered my collar, revealing my face, and I was escorted upstairs to Mito's sitting room.
He sat on the floor, revolving two Baoding exercise spheres in each palm with his fingers and thumbs. The spheres, slightly smaller than billiard balls, chimed quietly as they were rotated. I had tried the Baoding once, but the tendons in my wrist started to hurt after about twenty seconds. Seemed a great way to get carpal tunnel syndrome if you asked me, but Mito here could rotate the spheres for hours on end.
He dressed in a simple gray robe. He was completely bald, and clean-shaven. Hell, even his eyebrows were shaved. He was about a hundred years old, but you couldn't tell it by looking at him. He'd bought enough rejuvenation procedures to make his face as smooth and white as a baby's bottom.
Most locals, when they first met him, thought he was some kind of tripped-out addict. What they didn't realize was that he was one of those who had an aReal implanted directly in his brain.
When his eyes focused on mine, that distant look went away completely, and his features hardened. His gaze dropped to my empty holster, and the spheres in both hands stopped rotating. His knuckles turned white—he must have been squeezing the spheres damn hard.
"You lost your gun," he said in English.
"Yeah. About that. I wanted to ask you if I could have another one. You know, as a loan against future—"
"No."
"I got attacked from behind. Wasn't even on duty. No clients were harmed. The robber took everything I had. Took my gun, swiped my bank accounts. You keep up on the news right? The embedded Ids were compromised again. Guess I should have stayed home today. Anyway, Mito, you have to get me a gun. I—"