The Terminal State

by Jeff Somers

  She looked back at me, her eyes murderous little coals. “Don’t you be forgettin’ who owns your ass, Avery.”

  I nodded. “The Little Man brought me in to run this show. From now on, I’m runnin’ it. You want to pop a vessel in my head, show me who’s boss, do it now, because from this moment forward this is my show.”

  She stared down at me for a moment, squinting one eye a little more than the other, and for a strange moment I felt like I knew exactly what she was going to say. She was going to smirk, kinking her mouth up in one corner and say, All right, boyo, if that’s the way y’want it. I concentrated on the flashing exclamation mark and it expanded in my vision slightly, throbbing there. I wondered what would happen if I went ahead and triggered it. It was strange to finally have some control over my own augments.

  “All right, boyo,” she said, smirking. “Play it like that, if y’like.”

  Close enough. I kept my eyes on her for a moment, a strange feeling of been there, done that leaking through me.

  The Poet made a big show of sniffing the air. “My friends, that’s pungent. And really kind of boring. A pissing contest.”

  I glanced at him. Fucking kid. Everything was funny to kids. “All right, Mara,” I said, with my eyes still on Adrian. “We still have a go with your contact here? Guns? Transport?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Guns, yes. Intel, yes—though y’seem to have that part covered, huh? Transport—not on your fucking life. There’s no such fucking thing anymore. There are refugee trains still railing out, people herding out before the army drops the hammer. That’s all we got.”

  I relaxed slowly. “All right. Last reports the cops had put Londholm ... here.” I touched a flickering building with one finger and it swelled up, expanding to fill the whole virtual space. It was a tall, triangular-shaped building rising from a narrow stump, all bluish glass on one side. “A luxury hotel, the Shannara or some shit like that. Five hundred forty-three rooms, and he’s the only occupant.”

  Mara ran her eyes over it, all business. “At least it’s on the fucking coast. Security? ”

  “Private, freelance,” I said. “Talent—they say Japanese mercenary, which means—”

  “Takahashi,” Mara interrupted.

  “Dai Takahashi, yes,” I agreed. There were a dozen or so well-known mercenary outfits, ranging from a half-dozen assholes with a FOR RENT sign on their chests to big-time operators, and Takahashi was the biggest. I’d heard a hundred soldiers, big weaponry, high-class tech. “He’s running out of cash, and there’s a possibility his team will just try to kill him if he can’t pay their wages anymore.”

  She snorted. “Like hell. They’ll truss ’im up and sell ’im. Probably already thinkin’ on it, actually.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever. The cops aren’t up to date, really, because the whole fucking island is pretty much in rebellion. Local cops told SSF HQ to shit in their hat a few days ago, so no one’s taking orders over there right now.” I gestured and the hotel sank back down as the city rose up again, everything tiny but crisp. “The army’s got control of the mainland, and it looks like they’re going in soon, like within a few days. Most of the civilian population’s gone, with maybe a few thousand people left in the whole goddamn city.”

  Mara nodded. “The shit left at the bottom. Silt of the fucking earth,” she muttered, eyes roaming the model. “A few thousand well-armed, starving assholes with prison tats and infected, roughhouse back-alley augments, huh? Shit, even the ones not being paid by Londholm are gonna be gunning for us. It’s gonna be a fucking gauntlet.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I shrugged again. “Yep.”

  She squinted. “What’s to stop someone—us, someone else, shit, anyone—from just bombing the building, knock it down and everyone inside? ”

  I shook my head and stuck my cigarette back in my mouth. “The cops were all over that. Hong Kong’s got air defense matrices, and so far nothing’s been able to get in—the army’s even given up trying to bomb the place because everything gets shot down—that’s why they’re diving in, get some boots on the pavement and take some installations, open the air up. So you’d have to hump explosives to the site. It’s a pre-Unification building, okay, but it was a complete gut job ten years ago, bringing it up to modern code—earthquake-rated, intrusion-hardened, designed to resist collapse and preserve property—that’d be a lot of fucking explosives.” I shrugged. “Nothing for it but to get up close. Do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Guns,” she muttered. “We’re going to need...” She looked back at the Monk sharply. The Monk just sat there smiling. “All right, Avery, what the fuck is this bullshit, then? ”

  I winked. “That’s technical support. You ever hear of something called SPS? ”

  Her expression clouded up a little. “Sure, sure. Superstes per Scientia.” She shrugged. “Heard of ’em. Bunch of fucking hippie Techies, think the world’s ending, trying to gather data and tech to preserve it, who fucking knows how.” She pointed at the Monk. “It still functioning? ”

  I nodded. “It’s a member.” I tapped my head. “It doesn’t talk, but it’s still got a brain up here.”

  She squinted at it, leaning forward. The Monk just stared back at her, motionless, its creepy little camera eyes like pebbles. “I never liked these fuckin’ dummies. Why’s it here? You lookin’ to keep a pet? ”

  I studied her for a moment, wondering how old she’d been when the Electric Church had been “recruiting.” Ten? “She’s resources. Courtesy of the cops.”

  Mara straightened up and spat on the floor. “So let me get this: The System Pigs have been crackin’ heads trying to bury these SPS freaks for months now ... and suddenly they’re partners? They got a price on your head big enough to fund our retirement, and now you’re acceptin’ help from ’em? ”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Wouldn’t be the first time the SSF dug down into the sewer for some help, huh?” I sat forward and pointed my cigarette at her. “Relax, kid. It’s disarmed, mute, and I’ve killed more motherfucking Monks in my time than you can imagine.”

  “Relax?” she said, staring at me. “Kid?” She started laughing. “Hell, Cates, you’re half smart. You want a Monk starin’ at you while you sleep, fine, fine. But what’s it for? ”

  I looked down at my hands. “For starters, she hacked me. Jailbroke my Berserker Mode.”

  The little flashing exclamation point beat in time with my heart. I remembered the doctor back at the recruiting center telling me that I didn’t want Berserker Mode. Berserker Mode would blow my fuse in three, two if I was particularly unlucky. I didn’t care. I concentrated on the exclamation point again and watched it bloat up. I wanted to do it. I wanted to find out what it was like.

  Mara raised an eyebrow and looked back at the Monk. “Well, ain’t that impressive. How’d you manage that, then?”

  The Monk suddenly moved, pulling its little LED screen from within its coat and holding it up:

  THERE IS A VULNERABILITY IN THE EHA AUGMENTATION SYSTEM THAT CAN BE EXPLOITED, RESULTING IN THE SECURITY FLAGS BEING RESET TO 0. THIS HAS THE END RESULT OF GRANTING YOU DIRECT CONTROL OVER YOUR EHA OVERDRIVE SYSTEM.

  “Bully,” Mara said, “for fucking you.” She looked back at me, then at the Monk. “And I suppose you broke his anti-frag settings, too, huh? Set the bastard free? ”

  There was a hint of violence about her, suddenly, the sense that she might go for her gun or my throat. My HUD suddenly brightened as my augments went through what was becoming a familiar wind-up to action. But the Monk’s response was instant.

  THE BIOLOGICAL CESSATION HOOK-INS ARE SECURE AND CANNOT BE DISABLED OR ADJUSTED WITHOUT TERMINATING THE SUBJECT. THIS IS BY DESIGN. ANY ATTEMPT TO FLASH THE SETTINGS OR REMOVE THE TERMINATION THREADS WILL RESULT IN SUBJECT DEATH. HIS ANTI-FRAG SETTINGS ARE PRESERVED.

  Mara nodded, and then looked back at me, appraising me for a second. I thought, She’s wondering if that’s a lie, if the Monk is lying about it. If I
’m going to bide my time and make a move and then she’s shit out of luck. That’s what I’d be thinking.

  After a moment, she nodded. “Okey, Mr. Cates, you’ve got an ace up your sleeve now, huh? Bully for fucking you, too. So, if you’re in charge, what’s next? ”

  I flicked my wrist and the map of Hong Kong disappeared. “Get in touch with your guy. Tell him we need some heavy weapons.” I fished in my pocket and tossed her a dented, charred-looking data cube. “Then we figure out how to get near Hong Kong. Then we figure out how to get into Hong Kong.” I stretched, raising my hands high above my head and grunting. “Don’t worry about the details. If the universe wants me in Hong Kong, we’ll get into Hong Kong.” I looked at the Poet, who appeared to be practicing his badass poses for the Gunner trading cards I’d been hearing about. “You got an opinion, Adrian? ”

  He shook his head. “I am a Gunner,” he said. “Show me someone to be killed, and I’ll speak to it.”

  She snorted, popping the cube into her reader with a little difficulty. Her eyes widened. “Heavy weapons—fucking hell, Mr. Cates. What, are we going to take the whole damn city by force? And what the hell is this? ” she added, thrusting the reader at me and pointing to my one moment of genius.

  I grinned. “That’s a surprise. And we might need every bit of it,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette and reaching for the dregs of my drink. “According to the cops, Londholm implanted the God Augment into himself two days ago.” I raised the shot glass and toasted her. “The man’s a god now.”

  XVI

  A TRIUMPHANT MOMENT OF BAD DUMB LUCK

  We had come down in the world. The train leaving the “station”—which was just a big open space of blasted remnants of walls out of which rusty tracks sprouted like corroded veins—was so packed with people and their possessions it was hard enough to push our way into a car before we even tried to find a place to sit. Our tiny private cabin on the way in seemed like a dream, suddenly, even with the Poet’s body odor and random Psionics attacking us.

  The crush of folks trying to get out of the city was unbelievable. These weren’t the dregs, either, these were more or less prosperous-looking folks with some belongings and a soft look about them, getting harder all the time. Where the fuck they thought they were escaping to was beyond me, but I supposed when you started to suspect the army was coming to rain hell down on you for a few weeks straight, anywhere was better. The train had no listed destination; Mara told us that the trains just left, went as far south and east as possible on whatever track was still undamaged, and then put everyone off when it couldn’t go any farther.

  After a few minutes of jostling, I got tired of it and pushed my way to one side, where narrow bunks were bolted to the walls. Every bunk had been claimed and people sat cheek to cheek in them, like pigeons. I picked a spot randomly and grinned up at a thin, young man wearing last year’s suit, his coat sleeves a little frayed and his shoes beyond hope. A pretty blond girl sat next to him, clutching his arm; her face was pale and without makeup, but she’d made an effort with her hair. For some reason her energetic DIY hairdo made me hate her, so I kept my eyes on him.

  Avery, you’re an awful person, sometimes, Dolores Salgado suddenly whispered in my head, making me twitch.

  “Funny thing, friend,” I said briskly. “My ticket guarantees me a seat, and I don’t seem to have one.”

  His nostrils flared. “Non Inglese,” he said, a low, fluttery mutter. But he kept his eyes on me, which I gave him credit for. I eyed his hands, the stupid grin still on my face. They were soft and manicured—the man was fleeing the city for his life, but his fingernails were perfect. I reached up, took his nose between my forefinger and thumb, and squeezed.

  “Friend,” I said. “Would you mind? ”

  Immediately, the woman next to him released his arm and began screeching, beating her tiny hands against me. The Poet suddenly enveloped her, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the bunk bodily, holding her dangling in front of him as she continued to screech and beat her fists against the air.

  “Go for the wife first,” he said as a surprisingly large space opened up around us—I hadn’t thought it physically possible for the people in this train to make any more room. “It is a good rule of thumb. Women are vicious.”

  The man put his hands up and made a squeaking noise I took as compliance, so I released him. He grabbed two small leather bags from the bunk and dropped to the floor, expertly intercepting his wife as the Poet released her and she tried to lunge for me. The crowd swelled back into place around us, and the pair disappeared into it, muttering to each other as I pushed Mara up onto the bunk, liking the feel of her weight in my hands. I handed up our one large, heavy duffel bag, and then pulled myself up next to her.

  The Poet waved off my hand. “I’ll remain down here,” he said, turning his back on us and rolling his shoulders. “Stand first security watch. You just lost friends, huh? ”

  I nodded. I was a terrible person. I knew it. Everyone on the train knew it by sight. The Monk, wearing a heavy hood over its gruesome white head, took up a spot next to him. I looked around the bunks. A dozen people stared blankly back at me, with another dozen or so on the lower bunks below us. The bunks were just rough canvas, sagging dangerously under us, about as comfortable as being stabbed in the armpit. I looked down at the Poet for a moment and watched his flickering tattoos, a blur of color around his neck. I was hungry, but otherwise still buzzed with the unnatural energy and lack of pain of my augments. I’d thought the train insufferably hot when we’d first pushed our way in, but sitting on the bunk with Mara I felt fine, cool, and numb.

  I wondered if this was what it was like to be a machine. I was halfway there, after all.

  With my foot I nudged the Monk’s shoulder. “Tell me something. Why are you—your group—going after Londholm? Why work with the cops? ”

  The Monk didn’t turn or move its head. It immediately reached inside its coat and held the LED screen up behind it, more or less in my line of sight.

  WE PROTECT THE TECHNOLOGY. THE MOMENT HE USED IT ON HIMSELF HE LOST OUR PROTECTION.

  Immediately, it lowered its arm and stuffed the screen back into its coat.

  “And the cops? ”

  The screen came back out in one smooth motion.

  WE ARE AGNOSTIC CONCERNING RESOURCES.

  I grinned as the screen was hidden away again. Everyone thought they were using everyone else—I was the only honest man in the fucking room. I knew everyone was using me. “I like that,” I said to the back of its head. “I’m going to use that.” I shut my eyes and tried to imagine myself inside a clear glass bubble. For a while, when I’d had voices in my head constantly, I’d gotten pretty good at summoning the image, and it had helped, trapping everything outside of me and leaving me alone in a silent bubble, at peace. I was out of practice, but it didn’t take long.

  I thought about Michaleen.

  Cainnic Orel, Michaleen Garda—whatever his real name was. I pictured the Little Man back in Chengara, small and tight, leathery and cheerful. He’d played me in prison and he’d played me into this bullshit. I’d been sleepwalking, but my session with Hense and the Monk had left me feeling more in control than I’d felt in weeks. I had something under my control. A resource I might be able to leverage into turning my course back on the Little Man and making him eat it.

  My hands twitched. I concentrated on the bubble, on shutting everything, even my own thoughts, out. I hadn’t slept in days.

  “Avery.”

  My hand shot out and took hold of her wrist as my eyes opened. My HUD went from a pale, almost-invisible gray to bright.

  Mara made no move to snatch her arm back or fight me, so I relaxed, looking around. We were moving, the train car vibrating with speed. It was dark and at a glance everyone else looked to be sleeping.

  “My turn at guard duty? ” I asked, trying to stretch without jostling my neighbors too much.

  “I think we have a pr
oblem,” she said, gently pulling her arm back. She held out her tiny card-sized handheld, which she’d tuned to one of the few government Vids still operating on a regular basis. It was useless for real information; I hadn’t bothered tuning in even when I’d found myself back in civilization. I squinted down at it and saw the same picture of me the SSF had been using at the border crossing.

  “Your price has gone up,” Mara said. “You’re fucking valuable.”

  The reward had doubled, and now resembled a fortune, even if you needed a bag full of yen just to buy a cigarette these days. I gave Mara a grin calculated to be the sort of half-proud bullshit she’d expect from Avery Cates, Destroyer of Worlds, and winked.

  “I’ll kill myself and we’ll split the proceeds.”

  She put her blank eyes on me. “I suspect, you stupid fucking slab o’ beef, that we’re not the only people on this train who’ve noticed you’re worth more than all the crap everyone’s carting in their goddamn rucksacks combined.”

  I paused, my HUD immediately lighting up as the gloomy train car seemed to brighten up, clarifying. Almost everyone appeared to be asleep, their heads in their chests like birds, the standing-room-only section on the floor remaining upright apparently through friction and surface tension.

  Somewhere, nearby, there was whispering.

  The moment I noticed it, a hissing noise filled my ears and I could just make out every other word, my own name popping up three or four times in quick succession. I turned my head to the right and there they were, an entire bunk of people, staring at me. They weren’t rough; their coats were too new and too conservative, their collars popped up in the current style. And they were too old; I was the exception to the rule, but most people from my sort of neighborhood died young. These were just people, a little dirtier and hungrier than they were used to, but just civilians. I gave them a hard stare, carefully calibrated, and one or two looked away. The rest stared back, leaning this way and that to whisper at each other.