The Book of Apex: Volume 2 of Apex Magazine

by Jason Sizemore

  Back in the day, this would have been an all-night affair, chugging coffee and stayawakes as crack after crack failed to breach the infrastructure. Now it’s down to a simple login—as long as he never shifts stuff around, the nanoceutical corporations never notice him. A ghost among giants.

  Once the modstick’s code downloads, he begins the real work: slicing and fusing lines, carefully reprogramming to remove certain safety features and incorporate his own. It’s more than just tripping the right biochemical switches—there are the secondary effects, the sweet afterglow that gives his mods the edge over everyone else’s. For a minute, he forgets about the business and lets himself be carried away by the beauty of it, the purity. Just code. No junkies. No pigs. No cash. Just code.

  He inserts the first stick and cues the burner.

  Cutting was everything. Amidst all the bullshit, the simple act of cutting was the one part of school that Ari truly enjoyed, and it showed. Time and again the teachers would hold up his latest creations and ask why he couldn’t apply the same level of commitment to, say, physics or history. How was he supposed to explain it to them? They might appreciate his code, but that didn’t mean they understood it. When one of them uploaded a bioexe, they saw expediency. Function. Utility. They never saw it in the way that he made it. Codecutting was art. Efficiency wasn’t enough—it had to be elegant.

  He’d been nicked jacking the editing software from the educational consoles, but that was only to be expected. He wasn’t a hacker like the petty script kiddies that filled the labs, joyriding across systems and leaving their graffiti everywhere. For him, hacking was a means to an end, and once he’d hidden the backups he handed over the software and did his time in juvie like a man. At eighteen the smear was wiped from his record, and Ari “Marvel” Magnusson was free from the stigma of youthful indiscretion.

  God bless America.

  It’s not like he was doing anything immoral. The store-bought nanoceuticals already ripped you apart and reformatted you according to their programming, he just removed limitations and changed objectives. Of course, it was the voluntary serotonin reuptake inhibitors that paid the bills—the happy sticks. Like all mods, bliss hacks were a temporary fix—once the programs ran their course, half a million years of cell memory took over again. But use often enough and the body forgot exactly where it left its natural set point, leaving you with a full-on case of the jones. By themselves, the hacks were harmless—as long as you had another mod headed your way, you could keep going indefinitely, and plenty of rich folks did just that. The problem was always the cash. Maybe you started out buying top-grade stuff, but once the need got its claws into you, you started to take what you could get, and sooner or later someone slipped you some bad code. The results could be seen in doorways up and down Madison or Seventh, when they hadn’t been rounded into a public health van and whisked away to finish festering in a nice quarantine somewhere.

  The whole thing was beyond stupid. Ari never touched the stuff.

  She’s cooking when he wakes up. From the doorway to the bedroom he can smell the eggs blackening, hear them growing crumbly and bitter on the Teflon coating.

  She smiles, a little shakily, but her eyes are clear and steady. The dreads are clean, and she’s found another shirt somewhere. He drops his coat and wanders into the kitchen. To his surprise, the eggs don’t look as bad as they could—as they would have, once upon a time. A pepper lies minced on the cutting board, waiting to be sacrificed to the flames.

  “Hey, Ari,” she says, and the smile makes her face a little rounder. She looks like she wants to say something else, but before she can he moves forward and wraps her up from behind. Her head nestles into the gap between his collarbone and neck, and their breathing slows into unison, eyes closed. Her hair smells like his shampoo.

  He reaches out and turns the burner down.

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  His first sale had him sweating bullets. What the hell was a nineteen-year-old suburban kid doing out on Madison after dark, lurking in the shadows with the crazies and the whores? The worst were the genuine clockers—leather-clad punks covered in piercings that street superstition said messed with the pigs’ alloy scans. If they had known that the ‘burb rat was trying to clock, not a mark there to make a purchase, they probably would have handed him his ass in a second, but the sweat on his forehead must have convinced them he wasn’t serious competition. Honestly, Ari didn’t think he belonged there either, but cutting equipment kept getting more expensive, and delivering pizza wasn’t going to do the trick.

  He’d only been there half an hour when he spotted his mark—a kid his own age, in slacks and a sweater, looking even less appropriate than Ari. Sensing a kindred spirit, the boy hustled over.

  “Hey,” he whispered, “you holding?”

  Ari leaned back against the rail and did his best to play it cool, hoping the damp patches in his armpits weren’t showing.

  “Hell no, man,” he spat. “I’m a paperboy. What you need?”

  The kid thrust a fistful of notes in his direction, whispering the laughable street name of a sexual performance mod. What a lack of imagination these kids had. Ari snatched the bills.

  “Get out of here,” he growled. “You think I do that trash?” He shoved past the boy, hard enough to knock him over. From the mud, the kid started to protest, only to realize partway through his tirade that his right hand now held a tiny grey stick. Down the street, Ari allowed himself a quick smile. He turned the corner.

  A stinking mass rose up and slammed him against the wall before he could cry out. Pinned by his shoulders, all Ari could see were yellow teeth and eyes. As his breath returned, so did his focus, enough to make out the pustule-covered face an inch from his own.

  “Whatcha think you’re doing, boy?” The old black man pinning Ari to the wall twitched with rage and withdrawal. “You think this is fun?”

  Ari shook himself, and little flecks of the man’s arm came off on his shirt. He fought the urge to vomit.

  “Please,” he gasped. “It’s not like that. I don’t do that.”

  The old man pressed harder against him. “Oh, really?” he asked, sliding his diseased cheek against Ari’s, letting him feel its oozing warmth. “You think that kid out there deserves to end up like this?”

  “No, please, no, I—” This time Ari did retch. “I don’t do that, I’m a good cutter, clean, I wouldn’t let that happen, I-oh-please-I-god…” Tears began to leak down Ari’s face. With a final shake, the old man let him drop, and Ari stumbled forward and past, sprinting to the end of the alley before turning back. The old man sat where he’d collapsed, blood oozing from open sores where his hands had held the soft fabric of Ari’s shirt. He put his head down on his knees and wept like a baby.

  Ari turned and ran.

  She’s not there when he gets home, but he can smell the remains of breakfast in the sink. Setting his coat down on the couch, it takes him almost an entire breath to notice that the door to the bedroom is open. Dishes clatter as his hip slams into the corner of the counter, but he doesn’t feel it, scrambling across the linoleum toward the doorway.

  She’s on the floor next to the computer chair, limbs twisted at strange angles by contracted muscles. He drops to his knees and puts an ear to her chest, listening for any flutter, but her skin is already cool and the drool on her cheek is a dry white trail. Her eyes are closed, face taut with a pleasure beyond bearing.

  “Maggie…”

  He wants to scream, to cry, to explain, but realizes as he opens his mouth that he has nothing to say. Instead he kneels over her bird-thin frame and cradles her head in his hands, rubbing swollen eyes through clean hair and breathing it in with each shuddering breath, as above them the computer hums softly with lines of sloppy code.

  They’re there by the bridge again, still thinking that a jacket and dyed hair can cover up the way they carry themselves, years of pride and academy training. Ari leans back against the rail and casually scra
tches his groin as they approach through the crowd, feeling the modsticks in his pocket, ready to be palmed, rubbed, and dropped.

  Choreographed, all of it. Just a flick of his wrist, and he’s free to walk away. Every day, the same dance.

  He leaves the sticks where they are and moves his hand away.

  Up against the wall, the pig jerks in surprise at the shapes in Ari’s pocket, then slams Ari’s face against the concrete and reaches for his cuffs. A voice in the background calls it in to the station. From his place on the sidewalk, Ari stares past the railing at the gurgling water in the culvert, endlessly carrying away the grime of the city. He smiles.

  It’s just business, baby.

  59 BEADS

  Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

  Air limousines floated by like ghosts in a night filled with a jangle of sounds. A mad juxtaposition of chords, wailing voices and crooned-out tunes mangled by the sound of honking horns, curses and the cries of the desperate filled the dark streets. Cordoba’s End, home to migrants and refugees.

  After their parents succumbed to the rot, Pyn and Sienna wandered the streets of Cordoba. Together, they trekked the back side of the posh quarter. Ecstasy street, Ilona’s Oord, Sonatina’s Point, the words tasted as exotic and beautiful as the places themselves.

  “You think we’ll ever be rich enough to live on High End?” Sienna asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pyn said.

  “We could join one of the lotteries and win a prize,” Sienna said. “I’d wear a long white dress and violets. We could go to the fair, and I would push a trundle cart with my dolly in it.”

  Pyn snorted.

  “You ever heard of anyone from Cordoba’s End winning a lottery?” Pyn asked.

  She pretended not to hear Sienna’s sniff, pretended not to see the tears trickling down her young sister’s cheeks.

  “Come on, Sien. Time to go.”

  It wasn’t fair, Pyn often thought. It wasn’t fair of Mama to die and leave Pyn to take care of her younger sister. Mama should have stayed alive; instead, she’d chosen to yield to the rot. Pyn didn’t mind scrounging for herself, but it hurt her to see the bloom on Sienna’s cheeks give way to grey grey haggardness that made her look older than her ten years.

  Summer brought searing heat. Dust and flies abounded, and Sienna’s skin broke out in sores that heralded the onset of rot.

  “It must have been something I ate,” Sienna said with a wan smile.

  Pyn nodded, but it was hard for her to ignore the circles under Sienna’s eyes, and when she laid her hand on Sienna’s forehead, the low burn frightened her.

  “You’ll be all right,” Pyn whispered. “Hang in there, Sien. You’ll be all right.”

  She held Sienna’s hand, promising her chocolates, and lollipops, and a thousand other things she knew she could never give. She sang bits of remembered lullabies and when Sienna finally fell asleep, Pyn sat staring at her sister knowing she didn’t have much time.

  Out in the street, the harsh glow of sun reminded Pyn that the recycle hounds wouldn’t be about until sundown at least.

  “Take good care of your sister,” her mother’s voice came back to haunt her. There was only one thing left to do now. Squaring her shoulders, Pyn set off for Farrier Corso’s cubby.

  A low building with polished black walls housed the cubbies of agents to Procurers and Healing Masters alike. Farrier was a legend in Cordoba’s End. She’d once been owned, but luck had been on her side and her former owner had given her freedom. Farrier’s story had captured Pyn’s imagination. If she could find an owner just like Farrier had, she would still have a chance at a good life with her sister.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Farrier Corso’s question jolted Pyn out of her reverie.

  Pyn stared at the older woman, wondering whether it was the built-ins that kept Farrier looking young.

  “Sien’s all I’ve got,” she said. “I can’t let her die.”

  “Healing takes time,” Farrier said. “There’s no guarantee she’ll ever be wholly restored to who she was. Rot’s a cruel thing.”

  “But a Healing Master can help her, right?”

  Farrier nodded.

  “She’s got youth on her side, and a skilled healer may be able to restore her. But treatment comes at a high price, Pyn.”

  “I just want her to get well,” Pyn said.

  “Do you have the credits?” Farrier asked.

  “I can get them,” Pyn replied.

  “I’d help you if I could,” Farrier said. “But my own funds are limited.”

  “I…”Pyn paused and stared at Farrier. “Can you wire Sebastian for me?”

  “You’ll be one of the owned,” Farrier said. “Sebastian won’t extend credit without you signing a contract with him.”

  “You found a way out,” Pyn said.

  “I was lucky. Not all owners are so generous. Many of those who were bought along with me wound up on the scrap heap. It’s a truth you’ll have to face, Pyn.”

  Pyn bit her lip.

  “Sien’s only ten,” she said. “If I can get her cured, she can have a better life than this.”

  Pyn waited as the older woman drew up the papers. She set her finger to the seal, and listened to the hum of the join boxes talking to one another. Farrier nodded as the boxes confirmed Pyn’s identity and the order was taken—one for speedy pick up.

  Thinking of the order floating away in the ether, Pyn wondered if she was doing the right thing. She steeled herself. If Sien died, what point was left in living?

  Farrier handed her a seal.

  “Pick up when payment is confirmed,” she said.

  “I’ll have the credit,” Pyn promised.

  Tears blurred Pyn’s vision as she left the building. Memories of Mama on her deathbed came back to haunt her. Mama’s face wracked with pain, the endless retching, and the pus that seemed to ooze from every pore of her body.

  “Mama, let me call the Healing Masters,” Pyn had begged.

  “No,” Mama said.

  “They can make you better, Mama. They’ll make the pain go away.”

  “At what price?”

  “There’s no price too great, Ma.”

  “I can’t do it,” Mama had said. “Let me go, Pyn. You’re a big girl now. You take care of Sienna.”

  “I’m fifteen, Mama. Please don’t leave us.”

  But Mama hadn’t listened to her pleadings. Pyn curled her hands into fists. Mama would say it was Sienna’s fate to die, but Pyn would be damned if she let her little sister rot to death.

  Ahead of her, the streetlight turned red. An air limousine floated past her, and a dilapidated land jeep screeched to a halt. She felt as if everyone on the street knew what she’d done.

  Sien would be better, she consoled herself. Sien would get well and she’d live a fairytale life.

  In her mind, she was already talking to Sienna.

  You won’t have to scavenge for food any longer she said. You’ll be okay, Sien. And if the Virgin smiles on us, we’ll be together again.

  So what if Sienna didn’t remember Pyn?

  She shook her head. Even if Sienna forgot, Pyn would always remember.

  She swiped at the tears pouring down her cheeks and hastened her steps.

  “Everything will be all right,” she whispered. “Everything will be all right.”

  Hotel Usurpia simmered in the noonday heat. Light prisms cast rainbows of color over the entire street. Here was where the city’s top procurer touched base. Pyn stopped and fingered the card in her pocket.

  Sebastian had come to Cordoba’s End one afternoon when Mama was still alive. He’d seen Pyn dancing on the street podium and, afterward, slipped the card into her hand. Mama turned white with fury when she saw the procurer, but he slipped away without answering her curses.

  “He’s a parasite,” Mama said. “Feeds off others to enrich his own pockets. I don’t want you listening to his lies.”

  Pyn had kept the card secret fr
om Mama. Now, she stopped and stared at the tall building, willing her heart to stop pounding. Her finger brushed over the embossed ribbons and the lone dancer printed onto the face of Sebastian’s card.

  “Talent and energy,” he’d said to her. “If ever you decide to leave Cordoba’s End, come to me.”

  Of course, there was a price attached. Pyn didn’t need Mama to tell her that. She’d hidden the card away because it was the best thing anyone had ever said to her. Talent, he’d said, and he’d told her she could be one of the best.

  She bit her lip, tasting dust and sweat. She was suddenly unsure. What if he’d forgotten all about her? Two years had gone by. Surely there were other talents on the planet. Despair gripped her heart. Since Mama’s death, there hadn’t been much time for dancing. Nevertheless, she didn’t dare back down now. There was only one chance left for Sien. The best she could do was try. If Sebastian had forgotten about her, surely there were others who would welcome a new girl into their fleet.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  “All or nothing,” she whispered. “Godson help me.”

  Nobody stopped her. Not the guards standing outside the carved crystallite doors, not the bright watch eye. She walked past them, conscious of the dust clinging to the hem of her tattered skirt, smelling her own fear and uncertainty.

  “So you finally made it here,” Sebastian Uraro said.

  Since she’d last seen him, his hair had turned silver-grey. He had grown a neat beard, and his skin changed color as he spoke.

  “It’s a perk,” Sebastian said, when Pyn didn’t speak. “The latest innovation. I wanted to try it out. Do you like it?”

  “It’s different,” Pyn said. She felt conscious of the layer of dust on her dusky skin, and she crossed her arms slightly.