by John Helfers
The thing was, she’d been beautiful once. If you could get past the shaved head, the faded hospital gown, and the medical equipment piercing her body in a dozen places, she was beautiful still.
Somehow that made it worse.
DJ hit him on the shoulder. Say something, he mouthed.
Stop it, Xia mouthed back.
DJ flashed him his You’re being an asshole look.
Xia just shrugged.
DJ fumed for a second then he turned to look at the thing in the chair. ‘‘You know, Grace, I’ve often wondered if Xia here would make a good oracle.’’
Xia opened his mouth. ‘‘I—’’
‘‘Really?’’ she said and Xia was horrified to hear a note of enthusiasm in her voice.
‘‘Sure,’’ said DJ smoothly, ‘‘I mean, he already thinks he knows everything.’’
She laughed.
Xia tried again. ‘‘I really don’t think—’’
‘‘I promise you wouldn’t miss your body, Jason. Sex is mostly mental, you know. And when you’re wired in, your consciousness stretches across the whole web. A hooked-up hookup is the best.’’
Cook was staring at him with eyes the size of dinner plates.
‘‘But—’’ said Xia.
‘‘Men are such big babies,’’ said Grace scornfully.
‘‘Always worrying about never again using their—’’
‘‘All right, that’s enough,’’ barked Xia.
‘‘I could show you,’’ Grace said, her voice suddenly shy.
Xia flashed his partner a panicked look.
DJ just shrugged.
‘‘Look,’’ said Xia in a desperate attempt to regain control of the conversation, ‘‘We just need to know the connection between Cook and the terrorists.’’
‘‘All business, huh?’’ said Grace. (Did she sound hurt?) ‘‘I don’t think we’ll find a link. Most of today’s political issues would’ve been unimaginable in the Thirties. Cook’s sympathies could scarcely be predictable.’’
‘‘Maybe an ultraconservative group,’’ said Xia.
‘‘Hey,’’ said Cook, ‘‘I’m a Progressive Conservative.’’
The oracle snorted. ‘‘Maybe fifty years ago.’’
‘‘Come on, Grace,’’ said DJ.
Grace sighed. ‘‘Okay. Callie Cook was the leader of a centrist third party known as the Progressive Conservatives.She was known for forging broad coalitions to resolve seemingly intractable problems. She pushed through the first national civil union legislation—’’
‘‘One of my personal favorites,’’ intoned DJ.
‘‘She sponsored automated national security warrants, providing law enforcement with realtime decisions while simultaneously hard coding civil liberty protections. She married tough carbon limits to safe nuclear power. Authored the immigration deal of ’28.’’
Xia shook his head. ‘‘So she’s a master at the grand compromise Not exactly the kind of person who’d be a natural ally to terrorists.’’
‘‘That’s what I’ve been saying,’’ snapped Cook.
‘‘She’s a dead end,’’ said Grace.
‘‘Hey, I’m right here,’’ said Cook.
‘‘But,’’ said DJ hopefully.
‘‘But,’’ said Grace, ‘‘the hotel in Santa Monica wasn’t. A sniffer on I-5 detected a chemical marker matching the explosive that went boom down on Ocean Avenue. I checked the surveillance pix and narrowed down 23 target vehicles to a single robodelivery truck.’’
‘‘Let me guess,’’ said Xia. ‘‘It serves a habitat.’’
‘‘See,’’ said Grace brightly, ‘‘you already think like an oracle.’’
‘‘We’re going to need a warrant,’’ said DJ.
‘‘Already processing,’’ said the thing in the chair.
Xia glanced at the blinking servers that made up Grace’s distributed mind. Somewhere in there she was translating the pattern she’d detected into a standard law enforcement protocol and feeding it to a Judicial AI.
‘‘Warrant downloading,’’ she said after a few seconds.
‘‘Thank you, Grace,’’ said DJ. ‘‘You’re beautiful.’’
Xia was already halfway out the door, but as it turned out, he wasn’t fast enough.
‘‘Don’t be a stranger, Jason,’’ the thing in the chair called after him. ‘‘Come back and we’ll have a good time. I promise.’’
What surprised Cook most about the maglev was its absolute silence. They were traveling across the countryside at better than 200 kph (apparently the U.S. had gone metric in ’42), and there was absolutely no noise.
Well, except for Xia and DJ’s bickering.
DJ studied the warrant scrolling across the screen of his handheld. ‘‘Man, your girlfriend does nice work.’’
‘‘She’s. Not. My. Girlfriend.’’
‘‘I don’t know why you have to be such a jerk. Just because she’s a little wrapped up in her work.’’
‘‘Wrapped up in her work? She’s not even human.’’
‘‘Yeah? Well, what the hell is she, then?’’
‘‘Post-human.’’
DJ snorted. ‘‘That’s a slogan, not an answer. Look, she’s lonely. She doesn’t have anything but her career. Would it kill you to be civil?’’
‘‘Hey,’’ said Cook. ‘‘Someone want to tell me what a habitat is?’’
Xia and DJ glared at each other for a moment, then Xia turned away.
‘‘America in the Fifties was a mess,’’ said DJ. ‘‘Four impeachments, domestic terrorism, riots, and then food and water started to disappear. Americans just couldn’t get along.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘So many people trapped in a world they didn’t understand, that they couldn’t believe in.’’
A dark chill wriggled down Cook’s spine. ‘‘What did you do?’’ she whispered.
‘‘Nothing monstrous,’’ said DJ. ‘‘We simply found a way for splinter groups to live by their own rules without affecting the rest of society.’’
‘‘In the habitats,’’ said Cook.
‘‘That’s right,’’ said DJ.
‘‘You put people in camps.’’
Xia shook his head. ‘‘They’re not camps,’’ he said sharply. ‘‘Only two rules apply in the habitats. One, no violence. Two, all adults are free to leave. Other than that, anything goes.’’
‘‘Sounds lovely,’’ said Cook.
‘‘It’s perfect for the delusional,’’ said DJ. ‘‘There’s a habitat in Cape Gerardo for people who still don’t believe in global warming, one in Kansas for creationists, Black Separatists in Watts, Neo-Nazis in Idaho. There’s even a habitat where the Cubs always win the series.’’
Cook snorted. ‘‘Everyone but Islamofascists.’’
‘‘Sunnis in Detroit, Shiites in Memphis,’’ said DJ.
Cook blinked. ‘‘How is this all possible?’’
‘‘You’ll see,’’ said Xia darkly, without turning.
Cook shook her head. ‘‘So instead of finding a way to live together, everyone went to their separate corners.’’ She suddenly felt hollow. ‘‘And you say that’s not monstrous.’’
‘‘The violence, the hatred . . .’’ DJ shook his head.
‘‘This was the only way.’’
Cook thought about that. A cancer eating away at the body politic. How did we turn into the Balkans? And then she remembered what the not-EMT had said: ‘‘Don’t trust Xia and Jackson. They’re FBI, but not your FBI.’’
She glanced at DJ. ‘‘Which habitat are we going to?’’
Xia turned, his face hard. ‘‘Dixie,’’ he said grimly.
It was like walking through a morgue. Rows upon rows of lifeless bodies, only here the dead dreamed. The people wore black body suits, their hands covered by gloves, their heads swallowed by helmets that leaked a tiny circle of blue light at the neck.
There was something wrong, but Cook couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
‘‘Why are they . . . ?’’ Her voice trailed off.
‘‘Those are VR inputs,’’ said DJ. ‘‘Their muscles are electrically stimulated and they’re nourished by feeding tubes. The whole system is regulated by an AI.’’
Something was still wrong, but she couldn’t see it in the general weirdness.
She shook her head. ‘‘It can’t possibly feel real.’’
‘‘Well, you’re going to see,’’ said Xia, tossing her a helmet.
And then it hit her. She’d missed it at first because the people’s hands and faces were hidden, but she could see their necks.
They were white.
All of them.
She put on the gloves and the bodysuit and the helmet, the system jolted her and suddenly she was walking across a green meadow, toward a forest of dogwood and ash, black walnut and white pine, the two fibbies beside her.
The soft grass tickled her bare feet. The air was warm and humid, perfumed with the scent of blueberry and azaleas and wild rose. It was like being in a bath. Somewhere in the distance she heard the rattle of a woodpecker, the cheerful whistle of cicadas.
She thought she might be in paradise.
Until she saw the line of men on horseback, dressed in white robes and hoods, leading an African American toward a tall, lonely sycamore.
The prisoner was dark-skinned and big, maybe six-two. He was stripped to the waist, his muscular body glistening with sweat.
Hands bound behind him.
‘‘What are they doing?’’ Cook whispered fiercely.
‘‘You cannot interfere,’’ said Xia, his voice hard.
‘‘Nonviolence,’’ she snapped. ‘‘I thought you said one of the rules was nonviolence.’’
‘‘Callie,’’ said DJ soothingly, ‘‘It’s not real.’’ He inclined his head toward the prisoner. ‘‘He’s not real.’’
‘‘Do you think I’m a fool?’’ she snapped. ‘‘Who would go to the trouble of lynching an imaginary black man?’’
And then she saw them. Half-hidden in the forest, a pair of boys, aged eight or nine.
Suddenly she understood.
She darted forward. ‘‘Stop it,’’ she shouted. ‘‘STOP.’’
Xia ran after her. ‘‘Callie.’’
She was sprinting now. ‘‘Stop. This is murder.’’
One of the riders broke away from the main group and came galloping toward her. ‘‘You are not allowed here, madam,’’ he bellowed.
‘‘We have a warrant,’’ said DJ from behind her.
‘‘Stop, you bastards,’’ Cook shouted.
‘‘Why, you’re Callie Cook,’’ said the man, amusement suddenly in his voice. He pulled off his hood, revealing a hard, tanned face. He had a thick black beard with tufts of hair behind prominent ears and baldness working its way around his head, leaving an island of hair on top. And the eyes. Brilliant and cruel at the same time. ‘‘Nathan Bedford Forrest, at your service, ma’am,’’ said the apparition on the horse.
And it was. Nathan Bedford Forrest. The Confederate general, founder of the Klan, and vicious racist. It was. ‘‘I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s not real either,’’ snapped Cook.
‘‘No, he’s real,’’ said DJ. ‘‘He just isn’t what he seems. This is the AI that runs Dixie.’’
Forrest nodded at Cook. ‘‘I am charmed, Senator.’’ His glittering black eyes marked DJ and Xia. ‘‘As for you two,’’ he growled, ‘‘you are welcome to leave at your earliest possible convenience.’’
‘‘We have a warrant,’’ said Xia coldly.
‘‘Very well,’’ said Forrest tautly.
‘‘Someone blew up a building,’’ said DJ.
‘‘That is shocking,’’ said Forrest mildly.
Behind him, his men had set the black man on a horse and tossed a rope over one of the sycamore’s branches.
‘‘We have evidence Dixie was involved,’’ said DJ.
‘‘You are wrong, sir.’’
‘‘Whoever set the explosion also wanted to give a platform to Senator Cook and her outmoded ideas,’’ said Xia darkly.
Forrest raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Outmoded ideas? When you say it like that, it sounds like we should be allies.’’ He peered at Cook for a moment, stroking his black beard. ‘‘You’re against the habitats, aren’t you?’’ He looked at Xia. ‘‘And you think I’m working with whoever revived her?’’ Do you think we want to destroy the habitats? Do you think we want to come live with you? Someone has sent you on a wild goose chase, sir. And you blue-bellies are too dull-witted to see it.’’
Forrest pulled back on his reins and his horse reared. He turned around and went galloping back toward his party. Forrest let out a terrible howl and one of the Klansmen slapped the flank of the black man’s horse.
Callie Cook had once run for the office of president of the United States and she was tough. So she didn’t flinch from the horrible sight.
Neither did the two boys.
After it was over, Xia turned to her, something like shame on his face. ‘‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’’
‘‘That’s the difference between us,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘I’m sorry it had to happen at all.’’
‘‘No one was hurt,’’ said DJ gently.
‘‘You’re wrong,’’ said Cook. ‘‘The boys were hurt.’’ She turned and glared at Xia. ‘‘And you were party to it.’’
‘‘Hatred is a disease, Senator,’’ said Xia angrily. ‘‘We’ve contained a deadly contagion. What it does to the people of Dixie is not my concern.’’
DJ shook his head. ‘‘What if
Forrest was right?’’
‘‘Forrest wasn’t right about anything,’’ said Cook savagely.
DJ met her gaze. ‘‘He might have been right about this being a wild goose chase.’’
‘‘All right,’’ said Xia, ‘‘But that just leads us back to the beginning. Who’s behind it all?’’
Cook looked from one man to the other. Don’t trust Xia and Jackson. The man who’d told her that had been trying to manipulate her. There were few things that pissed Cook off more.
She wasn’t sure she trusted the two fibbies and she was damn sure she didn’t agree with them, but they were Americans. You didn’t turn against your fellow citizens just because you disagreed with them. Wasn’t that her whole point?
She drew a deep breath.
‘‘I might know,’’ she said.
Xia stole a peek at the incomplete portrait hanging over Grace’s prone body. Round head. Dull eyes. Glasses. Not much to go on.
Still . . .
‘‘No,’’ said Cook, interrupting his train of thought.
‘‘That’s not quite right.’’
‘‘What’s the problem?’’ asked Grace.
‘‘The eyes weren’t quite that, ah, distinctive.’’
Grace sighed.
DJ shook her head. ‘‘It’s not her fault the terrorists picked an average-looking guy.’’
Xia stared at the bland face. There was something—
‘‘Uh-oh,’’ murmured Grace.
‘‘What now?’’ said DJ.
‘‘I’ve been monitoring the web and—’’ Grace sighed. ‘‘You’d better see for yourself.’’
Suddenly a window opened in midair, opposite the face. It framed a beautiful African-American woman in a smart blue pinstripe suit. ‘‘Hello, this is Kendra Zaïre of CNNFox with a news alert.’’