Implanted

by Lauren C Teffeau

  I smile in thanks. At least there’ll be that.

  All the things I like about the Canopy – the light, the fresh air, the flowering plants – are even better in the Echelon. With its unencumbered view of the land beyond the glass, green with promise, it climbs up the sides of the dome, surrounding Skychapel. Each residential terrace has its own theme, trying to be more awe-inspiring than the next. Lush desert, tropical paradise, secret woods. All things you can experience in an arcade simulation, it’s true, but this is real. Or at least as real as it gets in New Worth.

  I check my pace slightly, trying to absorb as much shimmery light streaming down as I can. This close to the dome, I can make out the slight tint to the glass thanks to the microscopic metal strengthening each panel. But the quality of light more than makes up for that.

  Thankfully, my gawking fits right in with all the tourists up here, desperate for sun to warm their uplifted faces. But I don’t have much time to take in the sumptuous sights as I stick to Harding’s route, funneling me toward the most prestigious section of the Echelon where City Hall’s tucked up against the southeastern edge of the dome.

  The City Council’s tasked with governing New Worth, setting policies that keep us all thriving under glass. The Echelon houses special communications equipment that allows the Council to consult with other domed cities off-network, but ultimately each city must be a self-sufficient silo until Emergence. That was the only way to save humanity when the domed cities were first proposed. Now, with Emergence growing ever closer, I wonder how that will change.

  Luckily, the Council isn’t in session, so it’s not nearly as crowded up here as it would be otherwise. Security’s ready for me, and I’m able to bypass the line of visitors waiting to tour the building full of faux-colonial touches. I’m ushered deeper into the compound, down a hall warmed with wood wainscoting, and through a heavy door into an ornate conference room. I’m the last to arrive, based on the conversation that ends abruptly at my entrance between Tahir, Dr Finola, and an unsmiling black man in a suit who’s not broadcasting ID. I’m guessing Harding planned that on purpose since he’s the one who handed out our routes.

  “This is our operative for this assignment,” Tahir announces.

  The suit frowns down at me as he takes me in, his eyes lingering on my face. “I thought you said the replacement was one of your best. This one’s barely out of school.”

  “She is one of the best.” A slight edge creeps in to Tahir’s voice. “We wouldn’t jeopardize our working relationship with anything less.”

  The man relaxes his stance. “Well, I suppose she isn’t what anyone would expect.” That’s probably as close to a compliment as this guy can manage. He nods to himself. “Fine.” His eyes flick back to Tahir. “I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if something goes wrong.”

  “I assure you, she’ll see this through.” Tahir means it, which soothes the little part of me still bristling from the suit’s disdain.

  Dr Finola clears her throat. “I’ve brought our hemocrypt setup, as requested. I personally recalibrated it myself this morning.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that.”

  The door opposite the one I came in opens, admitting a man of Indian descent, somewhere in his twenties. Must be a tech of some sort. Dr Finola backs away from the table as he snatches up the kit, a digital scanner in his hand. In a few seconds, he’s dismantled everything, scrolling through his touchscreen’s readout. He grunts and places all the pieces back in the kit without bothering to do it properly.

  The tech and suit exchange a look, then he leaves without a word. “We’ll be more comfortable using our own setup,” the suit says to Dr Finola.

  She shakes her head, appalled. “Aventine uses a cutting edge, proprietary process that I’ve spent the majority of my career perfecting. Whatever techniques you’ve developed are inferior.”

  “We’ve come a long way, Doctor, don’t worry.”

  Dr Finola’s eyes narrow. “I worked with Edward Boothroyd in graduate school. He’s talented, but something like this is beyond his abilities.”

  “We’re using our own encryption methods, and that’s final.” The suit doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t have to – not with the quiet authority radiating from his frame.

  Finola looks like she’s going to say something else, then turns to Tahir. Their synch chat is fast and furious, then she breaks off in a huff. “Fine, but if your gear doesn’t meet my inspection, I’m calling it off.” She gives the suit a glare for good measure. “I have that authority, if I believe there’s unnecessary risk to the courier or the data.”

  The suit merely inclines his head. “Naturally.”

  Finola’s pique amplifies my own jitters. It’s taken months to get used to Aventine’s hemocryption, and I only just tolerate it now. I’m not mentally prepared for changes to the process, government-sanctioned or not. I prowl along the edge of the room, trying to banish the nervous energy swirling through me. Tahir catches my eye but doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He knows how blood affects me. But if I keep moving, count how many steps it takes to get me from one side of the room to the other, maybe I can convince myself there’s nothing to worry about.

  The tech returns with two more people. This time, he’s carrying a computer the size of a small crate while the others bring an array of medical gear to the table.

  >>Is the computer that big because of their heavy-duty encryption or because they don’t know how to replicate Aventine’s process?>>

  <
  Dr Finola’s lip curls with derision as she looks over the gear. “Five years behind, with an encryption process that’ll take an hour, instead of twenty minutes.” She levels a glare at the suit. “Still think all this is worth it?”

  So much for not worrying.

  The suit doesn’t answer, just waves to the techs to get started. Harding said Aventine started out as a government initiative before going independent, but I guess the government still needs their own way of securing data transmissions that don’t involve a third party. Though why they need us today, I’m at a loss.

  Under Dr Finola’s watchful gaze, they link the computer up to the unit that will encode my immune cells, followed by another unit that’ll duplicate the cells so there’s enough of them to pump back into my body. Unlike the hemocryption kit which compresses all these processes together black box style, they have to do each step individually. Seeing all the different units laid out in a row makes it harder to ignore what’s being done to me.

  But there’s no turning back, not after Harding picked me for this job. Even though I find myself going through the mental calculations necessary to escape the Echelon and put as much distance between me and the cumbersome hemocryption unit as I can. I force myself to breathe regularly, keeping tight rein on my emotions as I continue to pace.

  The first tech turns to Finola. “The blood base?”

  With a look that could curdle milk, she pulls out a bag of my blood from her satchel. The immune cells already programmed to self-destruct at the end of three days. Guess that safeguard the client couldn’t replicate. The base is added to the Rube Goldberg setup and the mechanism whirs to life, sounding rather anemic and all wrong as it starts the encryption process.

  “If you would?” The suit’s voice whips out at me, and I freeze.

  I rather wouldn’t, but I take a seat at the table and roll up my right sleeve, trying to remind myself I’m supposed to be a professional. I jump when one of the techs hands me a medical cuff. Shaking, I fit it to my wrist. They take over. Just as well.

  A few minutes later, the encrypted blood’s flowing. It starts off cold, then warms up. A nearly unbearable stinging sensation radiates up my arm as though my blood vessels are being burned up from the inside out.

  At my hiss, Dr Finola looks at my face and frowns. Then she whirls toward the suit. “Don’t trust my gear, fine, but n
ext time don’t pad your blood with additives during the encryption process. It creates unnecessary discomfort for our couriers.”

  The suit looks at her like she’s a pesky insect before she finally backs off. She turns to me. “The sensation should wear off shortly, but let me know if it gets any worse.”

  I give her a tight nod. Clenching my jaw, I stare at the far wall. >>Dash better recover quickly. I don’t want to work for these jerks again. I don’t care how much they’re paying me.>>

  Tahir’s lips twitch, a smile or a frown, I don’t know. <
  >>Who do they think they are with all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit?>>

  <
  >>“Curiosity killed the courier.” I know, I know.>>

  A wave of… something floods the connection before Tahir clamps down on it. Maybe that was too soon since Dash’s accident.

  An eternity later, spent in awkward silence given the company, the encryption winds down with a slow wheeze as the last bit of blood flows into me. I happily disconnect myself from the gear and get to my feet, stretching out my legs after sitting so long.

  Finola waves a sensor over my head, and once she’s satisfied with my readings, she hands me a wound-heal patch for my arm. “Looks like she’s tolerating it OK,” she says to Tahir, “but I’ll be making a formal protest that such crude measures are never used again.” She gives me a smile that does little to mitigate the acid in her voice. “See you back at headquarters.” She collects her abused hemocrypt kit with dignity and nods to Tahir before leaving the room.

  The suit keeps his arms crossed, maintaining his silence until the three techs pack up the rest of their equipment and exit through the same door they came in. When it’s just me, Tahir, and him, he clears his throat. “We’ll have someone with eyes on you until you receive the next set of instructions for the drop-off.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Tahir says. “You’re welcome to monitor her progress, but we cannot allow any interference in the field–”

  “We insist. I’m afraid this part’s non-negotiable.”

  I exchange a glance with Tahir. Do they not trust me? Or are they worried I’ll be a target once I leave the Echelon? Either way, I don’t like it. But what can I do?

  Tahir sucks in his cheeks. Frustrated, but not overly concerned by the request. “Very well. Just make sure your detail doesn’t get in her way.”

  The suit inclines his head, then turns to me. “Descend to the Understory. No trains, no stopping. You’ll be contacted once everything’s in place.”

  And that, it seems, is that.

  Tahir sees me out of the office. “There’s a lavatory off the main lobby.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He hasn’t spent this much time hovering over me since my first job. But he took Dash’s attack personally, so I guess his undivided attention’s to be expected.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t delay getting scrubbed after the drop. I don’t care how hungry you get, we clear?”

  “One time I put off getting scrubbed, Tahir. One time. And it was way past lunch.”

  “Save me from your stomach!” Tahir smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Our connection jangles with tension, even as he tries to reinforce it with reassurance. “Off with you, and be careful.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  So many people are packed into the main lobby, I worry I’ve stumbled into another tour group. But it’s actually much more interesting. Two men in body armor carry briefcases in their right hands. A loop of bone protrudes from their wrists, and a band of metal connects the bone to the cases. Armored guards tasked with transporting something extremely important, given the security agents buzzing around them as they make their way to the dedicated lift I took on my way up here from the Canopy.

  I wait for the procession to pass before I slip away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the City Hall, determined to enjoy my last few moments in the Echelon. Brita always talked about all the snooty bureaucrats, celebrities, and captains of industry who live up here. Her dad knew all the dirt. But that doesn’t change how beautiful it is. Like so many of the other tourists, I meander toward the so-called Hanging Gardens that zigzag back down to the Canopy proper. They’re the scenic route out of the Echelon, traversing different biomes – rainforest, temperate and tropical. In addition to the occasional glimpse of a high society home, the twists and turns and foliage will make whoever’s job it is to tail me that much more difficult.

  I can’t help grinning at that as I pluck a leaf off a low branch. Twirling it through my fingers, I take in the sights, memorizing the smell of the green living things all around me. Pretty sure that’ll be the only perk out of this particular job, so I may as well make it count.

  An hour later, I’m a few blocks away from Fountain Center. >>Any word on the drop?>>

  <
  >>Still upset about the lottery?>>

  <
  I scan the feeds for the preliminary reports. The government facility’s high security and off-network. Probably where data backups or physical records are stored. >>What would anyone gain from the attack?>> And such an escalation in tactics?

  <
  Which means I have time to kill. With a blink, I flick back to my city map. >>Then I’m going to hit up the Aquarium before it closes for the day.>>

  <
  >>That’s right. And if it makes their observation detail’s job harder, that’s not my problem.>>

  He sobers slightly. <
  I’ve only been to the Aquarium once before, a school field trip when I was younger. I brace myself for the possibility of kids running rampant, but luckily the late afternoon crowds are rather sedate – mostly family units and a handful of individuals here to ooh and ahh over the sea life displays.

  A freshwater exhibit’s up first, talking about the region’s natural waterways and habitats that were all but destroyed except for the preservation efforts of the Aquarium staff. The city’s Biopark and Aviaries function the same way, all of them helmed by scientists tasked with rehabilitation, ensuring healthy populations of native species in anticipation of the day when it’s safe for the glass to come down. I wonder how their responsibilities have changed now that Emergence is here.

  In the next room, fish all colors of the rainbow dart through a tank roughly two stories tall. Each specimen’s tagged, so I only have to zoom in on one to learn what it is and get a brief primer on their characteristics from my implant. One family’s meticulously going through each of the dozen or so species on display. But I’m not interested in facts. I’m far more enamored with the play of color, the fish gliding to and fro, as seaweed floats along on a lazy current.

  The hallway ends with another viewing chamber, this one a reproduction of a coral reef. My pace slows as I linger over the display. The frills of sea anemones, the clownfish that dart in and out of nooks and crannies of the coral, and the jellyfish that drift along the periphery, watching over all. A sudden thump shocks a school of angelfish into the depths of the coral reef. Near the edge of the display, two men grapple with one another, grunts and meaty sounds echoing off the glass and into the ro
om.

  Shocked murmurs propel visitors out of the way. A mother tugs her two children down the hall to the next exhibit, while a young man watches with open-mouthed interest, no doubt broadcasting the entire thing to his buddies via his ocular boost. I don’t blame him. Something like this almost never happens in this part of New Worth.

  An Aquarium employee pushes off the wall he was dozing against, blinks at the men in surprise, and dashes off, presumably for reinforcements. With his slight frame, he wouldn’t have a chance against these two, with their barrel-chested, muscular bodies that have been earned the hard way. The only difference between them is one’s pale and brown-haired with cheaply printed clothes, while the other has slightly darker olive skin and black hair, wearing a tailored shirt and slacks.

  I edge toward the exit. Maybe they haven’t noticed me yet.

  The brown-haired man slams the other against the glass. His dress shirt rides up, revealing a vest of body armor. Definitely not your average New Worth citizen.

  I send their images to Tahir, then back away. It can’t be a coincidence, can it? One of them must be my government tail, the other a competitor of some kind. But who’s who? >>Do you want me to stay on course or use evasive maneuvers?>>

  <
  I could punch through glass. I have a head start. I could leave them both in the dust if he’d just give me the go-ahead.

  The black-haired man pulls a taser out of his pants pocket, but his opponent bats it away, following up with a nasty uppercut that body armor won’t protect against.

  <
  Of course, he’s the one getting his ass handed to him. >>Meaning?>>

  <
  >>I wanted to piss them off for thinking they needed to watch me the whole time.>> He swears, and I’m blasted with all his nonverbal frustration as I slip into the hallway. >