Outlier

by Kyle Harris

  The hug that followed made all the rest feel like imitations.

  “You don’t deserve your parents just because they’re your parents,” said Chaz, after they had separated and kissed. “They’re fucking monsters, Libby. They’ve done nothing to deserve your love.”

  “You are right, Chaz. Of course you are. You’re always right. Now please tell me what they put in my neck.”

  “Working on it.”

  The download finished. When Chaz refreshed the interface, Libby’s implant finally had a name: Panasonic subdermal, third gen. Chaz had never heard of it, so she pulled up a net search. Apparently the little bastard’s primary purpose had been as a nervous system regulator. The main batch of results talked about patients suffering from chronic pain, such as arthritis and lower back problems; the subdermal toned the pain down so they could get on with their lives. Mixed in those results were scientific articles hypothesizing that the subdermal could do the opposite: boost and even mimic nerve response. The technology could replicate the perception of limbs for people with prostheses, but it hadn’t gotten off the ground.

  Everything was fifteen, twenty years old. Ancient shit. A Crystal City Science Journal article discussed the disappearance of the subdermal tech. From what Chaz gathered, when the implants became a popular alternative to meds, the major pharmas had stuck their big-ass foot in the door and threatened to inflate prices. The hospitals caved, the subdermals were retired, and the painkiller business experienced a lucrative upswing.

  “What is it?” asked Libby.

  Chaz ran her tongue across her teeth, thinking. “Did you have a bad injury as a child? Something real nasty?”

  “An injury? Like when I injured my neck?”

  “I don’t know. But this fucking thing in your neck—it’s connected to your nervous system. I guess somewhere on your spine. If you had a bad injury, it would cut out the pain. Like switch it off.”

  Libby shook her head, now looking even more bewildered. “I don’t remember anything like that. But that’s what it does? It blocks pain?”

  It was possible she didn’t remember—either from being too young or the trauma being too much. But there was still that pecking in Chaz’s brain; the gears were trying to work, but they were caught on something. The scientific article—it said that perception and feeling could be mimicked. What about pain? Could that also be faked?

  Whatever was jammed in the gears came loose.

  The subdermal wasn’t in Libby’s neck to block pain; it was creating it. Whenever she had sex, everything that was transmitting signals of pleasure would switch frequencies. All of a sudden, pain. Fuckturd was using the subdermal to keep his daughter chaste. Or maybe it was to condition her out of being gay. Every time she was with another woman, she would only feel agony instead of arousal. If she didn’t know about the implant, her piece-of-shit father could just explain it as God punishing her for being a blasphemous homosexual.

  Chaz rubbed her eyes. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “What?”

  No sense in hiding it from her. “Libby. I think it’s the reason you feel pain during sex. Your lunatic father must’ve put it there years ago.”

  “But, I fell…”

  “You don’t remember it because it never happened.” Knowing these assholes, it wouldn’t have been a spontaneous doctor visit. They would try to cover it up. “Did you have surgery for something when you were thirteen, fourteen? Around whenever you came out to them?”

  Libby nodded. A tear broke free and streaked down her face. “Fourteen. My appendix. They told me it was my appendix. But I remember my confusion because of my father’s opinion of surgery. I think that’s when my mother first told me about the scar.”

  Fuck these fucking fucks. They deserved to go into the goddamn furnaces. Alive.

  The buzz came through on Chaz’s tasker—facial-rec had spotted Juliet just outside the elevator.

  “Shit, I gotta bounce,” said Chaz, rising from the bed.

  Libby pulled her in for one last hug. Each one was tighter than the previous. She said, “Please don’t ever stop being a good person, Chaz. You’ll come back in two days, won’t you?”

  “Count on it.”

  “And maybe you can fix me? So I can enjoy being with you.” She put a quick kiss on the corner of Chaz’s mouth. Her eyes searched around, anxiously. “Would you consent to me moving in with you?”

  Chaz considered. “I thought you didn’t like the apartment.”

  “I don’t, but…” Her voice trailed off. She found it again after a few seconds. “But I would be with you, and that’s all that matters. If I left my parents, what could they do? I’m an adult.”

  “You know my opinion,” said Chaz, glancing at her tasker again. Juliet was gone. Probably in the elevator. “Both your parents should be fired into the sun.”

  Libby smiled. “That would not be right with God.”

  “They aren’t right with God. But be absolutely sure before you decide.”

  Libby nodded. “Okay. You’re right.”

  One more kiss and then Chaz dashed for the exit and out.

  While she was still within range of the Panasonic, she tried to connect to it. It gave her an error message: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO ACCESS THIS DEVICE. But something did. Her chips were on the desk. The TCL shit was pretty hardcore; faking network credentials would be a pain in the ass. If it was even possible.

  But if she got that password, she wouldn’t have to worry about faking anything.

  Next time.

  A cold snap and wind-driven sleet kept everyone away from the homeless shelter on Tuesday, which was a relief. Nothing against the boys and girls and somewhere-on-the-spectrums, but Chaz needed a day to herself. Get some chores done, square some thoughts, establish a no-man’s-land between herself and the entire fucking human race. Preferably a few light-years, but the space in her apartment would have to do.

  After a late-morning shower and a breakfast of waffles, she tapped in a cleaning request on the wall terminal, tacking on the EXTRA SCRUBBING option for five dollars more. Not long after, one of her little robot friends emerged from the baseboard door, brushes soaped up and whirring.

  On the bed, she continued her research.

  Just about every result for the Panasonic subdermal reiterated the same, boring details. Design specs, company info, whatever. She modified her query to include the word “gay.” Knowing this fucking city, Pruitt wasn’t one of a kind. And using an old subdermal implant to discipline his daughter into being a hetero didn’t strike Chaz as the brainchild of a big financial company’s CEO.

  Bingo. The top result was from a Christian message board. The message chain that the link directed to included a list of doctors who would surgically insert the subdermal for something called “conversion therapy.” Reading through it made Chaz’s blood boil.

  After the Pruitts go into the furnaces, you fucks are next. She lit a cigarette.

  The technical shit was actually more complicated than she’d thought. The subdermal wasn’t just a node to the nerve network; it also monitored the bloodstream. When the software determined that sexual arousal was happening—sudden uptick of testosterone levels in men, estrogen in women—the subdermal sent out a pulse of pain along the nerve fibers straight into the brain stem. If the hormonal levels didn’t fall under a threshold, it would up the amplitude and frequency. It would hurt more.

  Chaz pulled her feet up as the robot scrubbed under her bed.

  She scrolled down. About midway through this shit show of self-described God-loving Christians posting antigay messages and blaming their son’s or daughter’s sexual orientation on filthy-minded media, government brainwashing, or fluoridation—some accused all three—she came across a success story. Chris Gaskie was thrilled to report that, after months of on-and-off use, his fourteen-year-old son, Peter, was finally normal. To prove it, there was an attached photo of Peter with his girlfriend.

  Peter Gaskie. She entered his name
into a new search query. Top result: Peter Gaskie had killed himself eighteen months ago. Sleeping pills.

  Way to go, Dad. Good fucking job.

  Chaz tapped back to the message board. Chris Gaskie’s account information was public, even to nonmembers. She opened one of her anonymous email accounts, copied his address from the profile to a new message, and typed what came to mind.

  Listen here, you steaming pile of pig shit. I’m the motherfucking Holy Gay Spirit. And I know what you did to your son. I hope someone puts an implant in your neck and tortures you for being straight. Then, after you’ve pretended to like sucking dick and taking it up the ass, you find a gun and blow your fucking brains out. Or maybe I’ll blow your fucking brains out anyway because the Holy Gay Spirit likes killing straight people. You better watch your back from now on, bitch.

  Sincerely,

  EAT SHIT

  P.S. —AND DIE

  Even if Chris Gaskie pissed his pants and ran to the cops, they couldn’t trace it. But if that asshole started looking over his shoulder whenever he went outside, she would chalk it up as a small victory.

  Chaz took a deep breath, closed all the active programs on her tasker, and did the same to her brain. Below her, the robot drove back and forth across the stained floor, scrubbing away, but the blood wasn’t coming out.

  Eventually it forfeited the impossible task, retracted its brushes, and scooted off toward the baseboard door.

  The apartment was quiet.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.

  Those fucking VanCom androids had been on her mind lately. After safely seeing Libby off the morning after the Begotten Sons’ attack, Chaz had gone home and triple-checked what data was passing through her firewalls. Fortunately, her paranoia had turned out to be unfounded—no hidden software or mysterious server was monitoring her browsing habits, and all internet activity on her desk and tasker was still being encrypted behind a secure VPN. At the time, that had put her worries to rest.

  But now, ping-ponging inside her skull again, was that same question: How did those androids know?

  She spent the better part of the next hour filtering through search results in the hope of finally finding an answer. But the great repository of information that was the internet had nothing to give.

  There was an interesting little kernel, though: VanCom was part of the Wehrlein conglomerate.

  Just like Simon Dodders’s father’s company, Chaz remembered. The same Simon Dodders who’d been a member of the Begotten Sons, the same gang that’d had a roster of ninety-seven thousand gay people living in Crystal City. A roster with Chaz’s name on it.

  And Israel Kennedy—Wehrlein’s general manager—had hired her because of her sexual orientation. Just like VanCom, just like the Begotten Sons, Kennedy knew. How in the fuck?

  Come to think of it, Kennedy had known a lot about the Begotten Sons. More than had ever been published in the news.

  Chaz had assumed Pruitt was involved. Because whoever had kept the activities of the Begotten Sons off the radar had to be in a position of power. And rich, possibly with ties to law enforcement. Someone like the head of a major corporation, or at least high enough in the ranks to wield enough influence. And who else in this shit heap of a city wouldn’t mind a bunch of gays and lesbians quietly being offed? It had to be Pruitt.

  So why was she continuing to find Wehrlein Industries’ name in all this?

  When Wednesday rolled around, the storm system had traded pelting sleet for blinding snow. Chaz bundled herself up and hopped aboard the Metro bound for Fascistville. Juliet’s yoga class apparently wasn’t dissuaded by the bad weather; according to Libby’s messages, her mother had departed at the usual time. And the Renell camera in the lobby confirmed it.

  Upon entering the apartment, Chaz took a look around and said, “Well, hell still looks the same.”

  Libby smiled. She wore a T-shirt that featured an overcooked, anthropomorphic piece of toast falling behind in a footrace. The text bubble near its head/body said I’M ALL BURNT OUT.

  She replied, “At least hell is warm.”

  “Whoa. Hey, careful with what comes out of your mouth.” Chaz aimed her eyes at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect karma score with you know who.”

  The kiss served as an adequate salutation. And an opportunity to map out a pair of extra-pointy hilltops with her hands. But only briefly.

  “If He is listening,” said Libby, when she had pulled away, “then He knows that its meaning was only in jest.” Her hands dropped to Chaz’s waist, where they clenched like they wanted to pull her back in. But they fell away after a moment. “I made hot chocolate.”

  “Fuck yeah. My nipples are ice cubes right now.”

  Libby laughed. She went into the kitchen and returned with a pair of steaming mugs, one of which she handed to Chaz. “Hopefully this helps.”

  Chaz took a sip and gave her the affirmative, and she followed Libby toward her bedroom.

  Now, back to work.

  Warm mug clasped in one hand, she used the other to thumb through her tasker and interact with the Renell’s built-in drive. There were roughly forty-seven hours of cached video for her viewing pleasure. Optimally, she would’ve had it live streaming to her private server, but the Pruitts might have noticed the spike in their internet’s data usage. Safer to store it local.

  Chaz started at the beginning of the timeline and fast-forwarded. With motion detection on, the playback would slow to normal speed when there was movement in the frame—namely when someone sat down and logged on.

  Libby: “My decision has not changed. If anything, God has only convinced me it’s the right choice. The thought fills me with joy, and what are we as humans if not souls that strive for joy in every part of our lives?”

  Chaz looked up. They were in the bedroom.

  “What do you think?” asked Libby. “Should we live together?”

  “It’s cool with me. But it’d be a tight fit. The closet barely has enough room for my shit.”

  “They are just things.” She looked down as if ashamed. It made Chaz think of a kid who’d been caught looting money from their mother’s purse. “John says that God’s love cannot abide in someone who hoards wealth and possessions, and looks contently upon people who have nothing at all. The inequality of comfort is not the Christian way. But.” She raised her hands in a gesture to her surroundings. “I think most people who assert that they are Christian are not Christian at all. God is a feeling. God is love. But Christianity—sometimes it’s just a nametag. Anybody can put on a nametag.”

  “Like your parents?”

  The smile appeared and vanished in a heartbeat. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to.

  On the glass behind her was a panoramic scene of a desert, wind kicking up long tails of dust off the wavy dunes. Feather-shaped clouds. Blue, blue sky.

  Then Libby said, “I wish I could be like you, Chaz. I wish I was as strong as you are. As spirited. I know God does not favor us when we envy, but I think this envy He would understand.” Blue, blue eyes. “I feel envy because you are a better person than I am. If I had only been like you, I would have seen what my parents really are, and I would have left them a long time ago. But you…”

  Chaz waited.

  “When you stood up for me in that club, I witnessed your courage. In your apartment, I saw someone who abides by temperance, who does not live in excess. I’ve seen your prudence when you watched over my friends with your cameras. And your support at the shelter is the Christian virtue of justice.” She gently placed her hand over Chaz’s heart; her eyes looked down again. “You are intelligent. You are kind. You are compassionate. I know you don’t believe what I believe, and I will never, never tell you what you should believe, but I see more of God inside you than I do in most Christians. You are the self. You are pure.”

  Her hand was shaking. Chaz lifted it and kissed the knuckles.

  Libby’s eyes came up, afte
r a time. “Why aren’t there more people like you, Chaz?”

  The moment was too intimate to reach into her joke bag, and yet: “Because all the other dipsticks are too busy being boring and straight.”

  “How do you do that?” said Libby, after laughing. “Your jokes. It would take me several minutes to think of something, and I wouldn’t know if it was funny or not. But yours are always funny.”

  Chaz shrugged. “Just one of my tricks.”

  “It’s not a trick. It’s a gift.” Libby bit her lip, thoughtfully. “I wish I could be…whole, for you. Not broken.” She looked away and watched the dunes. “Do you know if you can fix it?”

  Chaz looked down at her tasker. If the motion detector flag had been tripped, the recording should have been on Fuckturd at his desk right about now. Except it wasn’t. The footage being broadcast to her tasker said LIVE. And there was nothing in the notifications.

  Out of forty-seven hours of video, no one had sat down at the desk.

  Shit.

  Libby was still waiting for an answer.

  Chaz said, “I’m not sure. But I think I might know something.”

  Libby looked at her, hopeful. “Really?”

  There was still a way. Glaringly simple, but it might fucking work. But it required a new experimental method.

  “I did some research yesterday. I think the implant has to be connected to a host device. Something like a desk.”

  “Like the one in my parent’s bedroom?” said Libby.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Moment of truth. “Do you happen to know the password?”

  Libby nodded. “You want me to log on?”

  “If it’s, you know, no big deal or whatever.”

  She shook her head. “I used to get on all the time when I was younger. Come on.”

  Chaz made sure Libby didn’t see her huge grin. Notch one for my bomb-ass social skills. Who’da thought?