by Greg Rucka
“Parsing error.”
After a moment of consideration, she began typing again. Her first instinct was to do a search for any line containing the command to set variable to minus one, but she realized that would take far too long and would most likely result in several thousand results, if not hundreds of thousands. Instead, she began a scan of the individual memory modules, searching through them by designation and trying to cross-reference them with the modules that were already installed, each of them labeled as a separate set.
There’s one missing, she realized.
“Madame Director?”
She looked up from the terminal, saw that Shephard had stepped back into the lab.
“Madame Director, your breakfast is in three minutes. If we’re late, we’ll be behind all day.”
“Just a moment, Gabi.”
“I don’t mean to press, Madame Director.”
“I understand, I’ll be right there.”
Across the room, lit by the light of the core, she watched as the young woman nodded and backed out of the room.
“Arthur,” Cassandra said. “I have to go now. I’ll speak to you again soon.”
“I’ll speak to you again, soon.”
“Arthur, I want you to do something for me. We’re going to create a little program, just you and I.”
“Understood.”
“We’re calling this program ‘Anita,’ and I’m the only one who will be allowed to execute it, is that understood? You will key this program to my voice, and my voice alone. Confirm, please.”
“Program designated ‘Anita,’ execution limitation defined. Waiting for program parameters.”
“On execution, purge all memory modules. Repeat and confirm.”
“Program designated ‘Anita,’ execution limitation, activation by voice authorization only. Full purge, all memory modules.”
“Thank you, Arthur.” She rose from Ventura’s desk. “One last thing.”
“Waiting.”
“Delete and purge transcript file of the last five minutes, please.”
“Purging.”
Cassandra DeVries moved for the doorway, where Director Shephard and Colonel Leland Shaw were now visible, waiting for her, wondering if Anita Velez hadn’t been absolutely right.
Wondering if she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.
Home of Former dataDyne CEO
Zhang Li (Deceased)
38km SW Li Xian, Sichuan Province
People’s Republic of China
January 30th, 2021
It had hurt Jo more than anything she could ever have imagined, and in the end, when she had screamed, there had been no shame in it. Even as a child, even when she had been paralyzed for weeks, even months at a time, as surgeons and scientists had worked to repair the the defect in her spine, it was nothing compared to this.
She had screamed, and she had wept, and Chun Fan had stayed beside her through it all. She had held Jo’s hand and mopped her brow, put the end of the straw in her mouth to give her water that felt like broken glass as it slid down her throat. She had stroked her hair, and told her she loved her, and that she knew it hurt, but that pain was something they both understood.
The agony of it had been so extreme that Jo hadn’t really noticed the moment that Fan’s attitude changed. She didn’t really see the flaring hatred in the young woman’s eyes, the contempt curling her lip. She didn’t truly register the words the girl was saying to her, not until she began beating her around the head and chest.
“Whore!” Fan had called her. “Filthy, dirty, shameful whore! You failed him! You failed our father! Disgusting, foul bitch!”
And Jo had been in such pain already, the tears blur-ring her eyes and her whole being consumed with fire and ice, it hadn’t mattered that it didn’t make sense. She’d heard enough, heard the words failure and father, and that had only compounded her agonies. Even when Ke-Ling and three others had pulled Fan off of her, the woman still flailing, trying to scratch Jo’s eyes out, it had meant nothing.
It had been the worst pain Joanna Dark had ever experienced.
Right up until the moment she looked in the mirror when it was all over, and saw the face of the woman who had murdered her father staring back at her.
She was still staring at her reflection when the door to the small lab opened, and Chun Fan returned, followed by Ke-Ling and the girl who had spoken at the banquet, Shuang. Shuang carried a bundle of clothes in her arms. Fan held a MagSec, and Ke-Ling a SuperDragon, the latest in dataDyne assault weapons. They didn’t point the weapons at her, but they didn’t have to, either, so Jo figured it wasn’t because they were still trying to be polite.
Fan’s lip curled in disgust at the sight of her standing in front of the mirror, barefoot and wearing only a simple white shift. Before Jo could think to move or speak, the young woman had cleared her throat, spitting in her direction. Jo got a hand up, catching the sputum on her palm.
“You’re insane,” Jo said, and she was appalled to discover that her voice, like her body, belonged to Mai Hem.
“Don’t talk to me, whore,” Fan said with such ferocity that Jo expected her to raise the pistol and start shooting right then. That she didn’t she could only attribute to Ke-Ling, who stepped forward, interposing himself between the two women.
“Fan! Stop it!”
“I’m going to kill her, I’m going to—”
“Not yet! It’s not ready yet, remember the plan! Remember the timing!”
Fan struggled visibly to regain control of herself, and then, as if by magic, the fury seething in her seemed to vanish altogether.
“Jo,” she said. “Oh, Jo-Jo, I’m sorry. I’m … I’m sorry, you look just like her. I forget.”
“What have you done to me?” Jo asked, and again it was Mai Hem’s voice, and the fact that it was also hers and she couldn’t avoid it threatened to make Jo scream. “What did you do to my body?”
“It’s called Chrysalis,” Ke-Ling said, stepping back to let Shuang move past, watching as the girl moved to the procedure table where Jo had been strapped for the duration of the transformation. Shuang began laying out the bundle in her arms carefully, and Jo saw she was putting out a set of clothes, everything from lingerie on up. “Our father discovered it while pursuing the Graal. His search brought him many such wonders.”
“I want my body back!” Jo said. “You hated Mai Hem, you said so yourselves, why would you do this to me? If you want to kill me, kill me! Why make me look like her?”
“I told you,” Fan said, and it sounded genuinely innocent. “You stole my destiny. This is how I get it back.”
Jo stared at her, utterly at a loss.
“You killed Mai Hem,” Fan explained. “I was supposed to do that. You killed our father. You have to die for that. Now, when I kill you, I can do both things at once, defeat Mai Hem and avenge Master Li. See?”
“You’re crazy,” Jo said again, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re all absolutely off your nut.”
“The change isn’t permanent, silly,” Fan said. “I mean, if it was, I’d still look like you, wouldn’t I? It’ll end in a day or so. Or after you die. Whichever works.”
“No, this is sick,” Jo said, and still her voice was Mai Hem’s, and it was driving her mad, making her want to shriek, to tear at her throat, just to make it stop. “This is sick, this is … this is evil. You’ve turned me into the woman who murdered my Da!”
“But you’re the woman who murdered our Da. I think that’s only fair, don’t you?”
A sob burst from her throat, the sound of Mai Hem’s sorrow, and Jo had to turn away from Fan, fighting with everything she had to keep from letting the despair and grief and outrage from bursting forth. There was the sound of motion behind her, the shuffle of feet and the brush of silk on silk.
“It’s okay to cry,” Shuang told her. “We cried when we learned what you did.”
Jo covered her face with her hands, feeling her whole body shaking.
“Get dressed in the clothes we brought,” Ke-Ling said from behind her, his voice soft. “When you’re ready, come to the door. Don’t take too long.”
There was the sound of more motion, footsteps heading toward the door. Jo heard the hiss and click as it slid back, and then Fan’s voice as she left the room, saying, “I don’t understand why she’s so worked up. It’s not like she killed her father. Mai Hem did that.”
Then the door hissed closed, and she was alone again.
The clothes, as Joanna feared, were Mai Hem’s.
I can’t wear these, she told herself. I can’t do it.
But in the end, she did, because she knew that if she didn’t, Fan would simply walk back into the lab and shoot her to death.
This time, when she saw herself in the mirror, she did weep.
Ke-Ling, Shuang, and half a dozen other members of the Continuity walked her from the lab back to the main floor of the mansion, along corridors she had hoped she would never see again, to the grand entrance hall with its DeathMatch arena. As they walked, more and more of Zhang Li’s “children” fell in behind them, and Jo heard them muttering, mocking her.
But it’s not me they’re mocking, she thought. It’s Mai Hem. You’re not Mai Hem. Don’t forget that. Don’t let yourself forget that. You’re not the woman who murdered your father.
She faltered, stopped abruptly, and heard the sound of Mai Hem’s laughter.
You’re not the woman who murdered your father.
“Keep moving, please,” Ke-Ling said, pointing his Super-Dragon at her.
Jo put a hand to her mouth, nodding, trying desperately to stifle the giggles she felt welling inside her.
I am going mad, she thought. One second I’m weeping, the next I’m hysterical.
With difficulty, she managed to keep her silence, continued walking with the crowd of children who hated her. It was difficult, moving in Mai Hem’s shell. The woman had been taller than Jo, her legs longer, and her choice in clothing hadn’t made movement particularly easy, either. The heels on her boots had to be four inches, if not more, and more than once Jo was afraid she would fall and break her ankle.
And wouldn’t that make for a short fight, she thought, and again had to fight the need to giggle.
They entered the grand hall, and it was just as Jo remembered it, to such an extent that she wondered if Fan and the others hadn’t worked diligently to make it so, to recreate that night almost a year prior when she’d “killed” Mai Hem for the first time—locked in virtual combat for the dark amusement of Zhang Li. The DeathMatch beds were still in the same position, the large, heavily modified units unique to Zhang Li’s particular version of the game. The commercial rigs sold by dataDyne were far smaller, designed for portability and ease of use, consisting only of a visor and a tangle of biofeedback sensors.
The beds were something else altogether, metallic cocoons that encased the player entirely, with millions of sensors built into every surface. The sensors not only detected the player’s most minute muscle impulses for translation to the game’s virtual reality, they also acted as feedback sensors, relaying corresponding sensation. At full intensity—and Joanna knew this from experience—they would inflict physical trauma that would replicate any virtual injury.
It was called DeathMatch for a reason, after all, and it wasn’t because it made good copy. It was called DeathMatch because by Zhang Li’s rules, if you lost, you died.
Fan was waiting for them in the center of the room. She had tied her hair back into a short ponytail and had changed into a black jumpsuit. Her shoes, Jo noted with some envy, were flat-soled sneakers.
“That one,” Fan told her, indicating one of the beds.
“Not the one I used last time?”
“That’s right, that one,” Fan said. “Mai Hem’s.”
“Fan,” Jo said. “I’m not Mai Hem, I’m Joanna. Joanna Dark.”
“You sure look like Mai Hem,” Fan said with a laugh. Then the laugh transformed into a snarl. “Get into the bed, now, you sick whore, or I’ll kill you here.”
Ke-Ling and three others all raised the weapons they were holding, settling their sights on Jo.
“What happens if I win?” Jo asked.
“You won’t win. I’ve waited my life for this. You won’t win.”
“If I do,” Jo asked. “If I win, what happens? Do I come out of the bed and get shot anyway?”
“No, you fight to live,” Fan said. “Those are the stakes, as they always were for my father. You fight to live, or else you will not fight with your whole heart, with your whole being. If you win, you live. Get into the bed, Jo-Jo.”
Taking a last look around the room, Jo moved to the bed and lay down inside the molded recess. The odd, blue-green biomemetic gel that made up the interior squished beneath her weight, parting to accommodate her, wrapping her body. One of the children, a boy, leaned in and began attaching the feedback leads to her temples and fingers.
Across from her, Jo watched as Fan took her position.
“Are we tied in?” Fan asked.
From somewhere in the room out of her line of sight, Jo heard a girl answering. “All set. Ready to broadcast on your command.”
“What time is it in Paris?”
“Almost eleven o’clock,” Ke-Ling said. “Arthur goes live in an hour.”
“This won’t take an hour.” Fan grinned. “As soon as we start, upload the final packet.”
“What happens at noon?” Jo asked.
Fan looked at her, and Jo realized that, once again, the insane young woman was seeing Mai Hem, and Mai Hem alone.
“Everything burns, whore,” Fan said. “Everything burns. Cut us in.”
There was a hiss of static, the bed vibrating slightly as the top began to lower into position. Through the speakers beneath her head, Jo heard the trademark DeathMatch music fading in, the prerecorded announcement that she had listened to so many times in the past. For a fleeting moment, she thought about the people all around the world, their computers, their d-PALs all suddenly thrumming with messages saying the same thing, that a true DeathMatch was about to begin, Zhang Li–style.
The bed closed with a hiss of escaping air as the seals locked into place, and for a second, Jo was wrapped in darkness.
I’m Joanna Dark, she thought. I am Joanna Dark, I am not Mai Hem. And I can beat this bitch.
The world flashed white, turned to a dot, and then unfolded like an origami box.
When it resolved, Chun Fan was waiting to kill her.
Carrington Institute VTOL
Chameleon Class Dropship #001
2,085 Feet, Level Flight
English Channel
January 30th, 2021
Anita Velez, riding in the troop compartment of the dropship opposite Steinberg, removed her headset and shouted at him over the din of the engines.
“There’s a no-fly zone established that extends out a quarter of a mile from the DataFlow offices in all directions,” she said. “But there is a park to the north of the offices, just over that distance, point two-eight miles, surrounding the Allée de la Comtesse de Ségur. My people will meet us there with vehicles, we can cover the rest of the distance quickly.”
“How many of them will meet us?” Steinberg shouted back.
Velez shook her head, frustrated. “Only fifteen. Communications are being routed through the Hawk Teams, and I am afraid of what Shaw will do if he knows we are coming. I was able to contact only one of my deputies, but he is a good man, and he will be there. Once we reach DataFlow, I expect we will be able to muster more support.”
“Any idea how many Hawks we’ll be dealing with?”
“I am unsure, Mr. Steinberg. I would guess that Shaw has pulled his full complement to handle security, especially if he is, as we suspect, being duped into a coup attempt. According to my information, that could be as many as forty Hawks on the ground.”
“And they’re in close? All of them, they’re on the close pr
otection?”
“My information is that only half of the Hawks will be deployed within Hall A, the rest of them are on the perimeter. Shaw himself is on close-guard of Dr. DeVries. He is the priority target, Mr. Steinberg.”
“Your priority target, Miss Velez, not mine. My job is to shut down Arthur before he can do what he was programmed to do.”
Velez made a face, but nodded, and Steinberg couldn’t fault her for it. He didn’t much care for the woman, but he had to admit he respected her. She was a wolf, as far as he was concerned, and loyalty was something that counted for a lot in his book. If nothing else, Anita Velez was loyal.
Steinberg tapped the shoulder of the trooper riding beside him, a young black man named Dorsey that Steinberg had recruited from Los Angeles SWAT that past fall, motioned that he wanted the headset hanging beside him. Counting him and Steinberg, and omitting Calvin Rogers in the cockpit and Velez seated opposite, there were eight troopers aboard. If Velez was right about the numbers she could muster, the opening play would have to be done with serious precision to compensate for their lack of shooters.
Dorsey shifted a compact model Fairchild submachine gun into his lap, reached around, and handed the headset over. Steinberg settled the phones over his ears, adjusting the boom closer to his mouth, then pressed the transmit button on the cord.
“Papa Bear, Papa Bear, this is Goldilocks.”
“Go ahead, Goldilocks,” Carrington answered.
“Velez says she has fifteen, that’s one-five, CORPSEC that will meet us on the ground. Estimates Hawk forces at forty, that’s four-zero. Approach is overland, from the north.”
“Understood.”
“Sir,” Steinberg said. “I need rules of engagement, here. We’re going into a situation with media, dignitaries, civilians—there’re a lot of people going to be on the ground. I have to know when we’re weapons free.”
“This has to be done clean, no collateral damage, Jon.”
“We’re in plainclothes with light load-out, as you ordered, P9Ps and the cut-down Fairchilds, suppressors for both. But even at the best of times those things make noise, sir. If we can create a distraction of some sort, set fire to a building or something—”