Kaleidocide

by Dave Swavely

  “But they can hurt your helpers,” Lynn shouted above the din, and then Terrey turned down the audio with his finger mouse. So she finished at a normal volume: “They have more than you, and they look pretty fancy.”

  “Yes, those are a more advanced model—Sikorsky Primes,” Terrey conceded. “Though more lightly armed, for stealth purposes. And they have even more of an advantage in numbers … look at that.” He pointed to the right-hand screen, where one triplet was looking at a telescoped shot of a group of four more teal SUVs emerging from another hiding place. They fanned out and as they did, panels on their roofs slid open and armored soldiers holding RPGs extended themselves and prepared to fire. Judging by the quality of the other warware I had seen so far, I knew that these would be the kind that could fire repeatedly without reloading, and their projectiles would also be guided, to some degree at least. I was beginning to wonder myself if the triplets were in over their heads, when one of them announced that there were also RPG gunners on foot now in various parts of the rubble. She said this calmly, however, not seeming worried in the least, and even added the superfluous detail that the foot soldiers were “also attired in teal body armor.”

  The three views became harder to watch as the triplets pushed their Hawks into the spaces between the higher buildings that were still standing. But though it was difficult to follow, it was absolutely fascinating watching these “super-Sheilas” work. From their relative concealment, they took out one of the enemies’ choppers before it realized it was a sitting duck in the open air. So now the three remaining Sikorskys entered the labyrinth of the higher ruins to play a cat-and-mouse game with the Hawks, and their ground forces were drawn into those areas as well, trying to get a clear shot at our three black birds. But when the teal forces fired, their shots always seemed to miss the Hawks, sometimes by inches, and explode harmlessly against the walls of the buildings, or the roofs if the triplets flew upward and circled back down toward their targets. On the other hand, the machine guns and rockets of the Hawks rarely missed, turning the ground vehicles into more sprays of metal and blood, and the mercs on foot into blotches of red on the concrete where they were standing or running. In a matter of minutes, another of the Sikorskys was down, too, having rounded a corner into the sites of a waiting Hawk.

  “My Trois see everything through one another’s eyes,” Terrey explained with pride. “And they communicate everything simultaneously with no noise or jamming limitations. So it’s like one pilot in three different locations. Like the perfect team, their movements perfectly synchronized. And they can see through the Eye as well.” He modified one of the displays to show us a view of the entire battlefield from above, with several inset screens showing up-close details of the location and movements of particular enemy units.

  “Your satellite system is also providing them warnings when entities and projectiles enter their proximity,” he continued. “Which they programmed it to do in about three minutes on the ride in.” He smiled like a father whose son has been drafted into professional sports, and as if on cue, two brightly colored indicators lit up on the Eye view to show that an enemy chopper and SUV had entered each end of a corridor between buildings, where one of the Hawks hovered in the middle. As soon as they saw our helicopter, the teal chopper fired from the air and the teal SUV from the ground. But Ni (I could see her name on the display) surged forward to a spot above the ground vehicle just in time, and the enemy rockets crossed paths and streaked into their counterparts, turning the blue-green into red flames.

  We were duly impressed, but Terrey wasn’t done.

  “And guess what else they can see,” he said, and changed the Eye display to another channel, which took me a few moments to identify. I soon realized it was a view from one of the two remaining enemy choppers, which I first thought was lifted from the HUD display or a forward camera. But then I realized the perspective was shifting, and it was coming from inside the cockpit.

  “The girls can hack basic cyberware,” Terrey explained. “Like this guy, who probably has an entertainment implant, for music, movies, porn. Some have comm imps for their InPhones … in those cases we can also access what they’re saying or hearing.”

  “Wow,” said Lynn, and like an exclamation point we watched from the Sikorsky pilot’s view as he flew right into a trap and was shredded by Go’s cannon fire. His head must have lolled to the side, because the perspective of the front of the cockpit was slightly askew as it dipped toward the ground and crashed into the debris.

  “Way to go, Go,” Lynn said with a nervous laugh.

  I rolled my eyes and Terrey said with a grin, “She’s never heard that one before.”

  Then we all stopped smiling, because of the display from the optic cyberware of the enemy pilot. His helicopter had not exploded in the crash, so his cocked view showed the wrecked front of the cockpit, lit by some outside light and some flames burning inside. The display was utterly still, so that meant that the man was dead, probably from Go’s bullets while still in the air. But though the man was dead his implant was functioning, so we could still see through his eyes.

  After an eerie moment of relative quiet, Terrey changed that display back to the Eye view, and we could tell that the one remaining Sikorsky had turned tail and was flying away from the battleground. All three Firehawks gave chase, bearing down from behind on the fleeing chopper like black wolves stalking some wounded prey. When in range, they opened fire with their cannons, and the beaten enemy met its end.

  “No way to take them prisoner,” I said half-heartedly to Lynn.

  “But we can capture the rest if you want,” Terrey said.

  “The rest?”

  “Yeah, according to some more ’ware that the Shimmies are scanning, some of them stayed in their base, which is in the bottom of that building.” He pointed to the structure that was on all three screens now, because the triplets were approaching it. It was about five stories tall, but much wider, and leaning less than the others around it.

  “That is the YWCA building,” Min spoke for the first time in a while. “Designed by Julia Morgan, who did Hearst Castle and other famous projects. She lived through the 1906 earthquake here, so she must have designed it to endure the next one.”

  “Good for her,” Lynn said. “A bright spot in Oakland’s otherwise miserable history.”

  The Firehawks hovered near the building on three sides, and Ni’s voice rang out on her bird’s PA system.

  “You are surrounded, with enough fire power to blow you all out. Please surrender, so we don’t have to further damage that nice historic building.”

  They came out, but not in the way we hoped. And the triplets had one more surprise for us as well.

  7

  NAPA CITY

  “You don’t get nothin’ for nothin’, piece.” That’s what Simon had said when Angelee realized what he was all about. The “free” place he had given to her seemed too good to be true, and it was. It had a separate room for her little boy, more than she could have hoped for, but now she knew why that room was necessary. Simon’s customers wouldn’t be interested in that kind of audience (at least most of them).

  At first she had blamed Mariah, the friend she made at the homeless shelter. But then she remembered that the big black woman had told her what was going on, in her own way.

  “He’ll get you some work,” Mariah had said while nodding her head slightly—the only way she could have relayed such sensitive information in that cramped and crowded environment. And all Mariah’s references to how pretty Angelee was were now starting to make sense. Angelee had thought her older friend was attracted to her, but she knew now that Mariah had been pointing to her only way out of that diseased death trap. But she wasn’t sure whether she should be grateful or hateful to her “Mama,” as Mariah liked to be called.

  Angelee knew that she needed Mariah, however, so she couldn’t tell her off, or otherwise spurn her “kindness.” Mariah was her only hope in case the handsome rich man ev
er made it back to the shelter. Mariah had promised to watch for him or one of his assistants, and Mariah knew where to find her, if necessary. And Mariah was simply the best person for this job, because somehow she had managed to live at the shelter for years, when most arrivals either left or died within weeks.

  Angelee lay on her new bed, the biggest thing in the room, and waited for her four-year-old son Chris to stagger droopy-eyed out of his room, which he did every once in a while until he finally got too tired and fell asleep. She looked around at the brownish colors on the carpet, curtains, and paint—Simon had said it was “like living in a sewer, pony, but without the smell.” Remembering that, she noticed for the first time that there was a nagging odor, and tried to figure out what it was for a minute or two before giving up.

  Then she closed her eyes and reviewed her meeting with the handsome rich man for the hundredth time, picturing it in her mind and savoring every detail to keep the memory alive. Even as she did, she wondered if this was good for her. Perhaps it was a dream that needed to die. But not yet—these were the last few hours she would have the room to herself (judging by what Simon had said), and the last time in her life that she would be Angelee. When the tricks started rolling in, she would become someone else, back to being just “Lee.” Back to being some kind of monster? She didn’t want to think that way—this was something she had to do, or else her little boy would never make it. But for right now she was still Angelee, and Angelee was the girl that the handsome rich man had come looking for …

  * * *

  They had tried to get him to wear one of those little masks that most of the visitors wore, but someone who saw him come in said that he had waved it off. He must have been a very important person, because the staff who saw him all followed him with their eyes—some of them even stopped working to watch him. (She got this information from other “residents” also, later on.) And then there was the seven-foot-tall Chinese man who stayed at the door, his eyes sweeping the room in a machinelike, measured cycle.

  “Are you Angelee?” he asked from behind her. (She was changing Chris’s diaper.) She looked back over her shoulder, and then did a double take because he was so good-looking and well-dressed—unlike anyone else she had seen at that place, including the staff. His voice was tinged with a slight accent, which someone later said was English. She didn’t know about that, but she did know that it immediately struck her as dignified, kind, and even sexy. Maybe she was projecting a feeling back on her memory of the moment, but thinking of it now, it seemed that right away she knew that he was unlike any other person she had ever met. This was one of the special people, the ones who seemed so unreal when you saw them on TV.

  “Mommy!” Chris had blurted out, and jerked her out of the seemingly eternal moment. The boy was old enough to be bothered by lying there with his diaper off, but unfortunately not old enough to be completely out of diapers yet. Angelee turned back to the little boy and finished with him, wondering if she should have said “Wait a minute” or “Excuse me” or something to the man, and wondering if he would still be there when she turned back around. While doing this, she briefly glanced up at some of her “bedmates” nearby, and noticed them staring past her at the man. Valya, a young Eurasian girl with only one eye, was moving a bandaged hand up and down in a futile attempt to beautify her greasy, matted hair.

  Finally, after what seemed like another eternity, Angelee turned around to face the man. She stayed seated, clasped her hands down between her knees, and grew painfully aware of how unkempt she was. Why couldn’t this have been shower day?

  “Angelee?” he said in that heavenly voice. “Are you the wife of Peter Kim?”

  Maybe it was the rush of odd emotions provoked by this unexpected visitor, or maybe it was because she had not heard a reference to her husband in a while, but she lost it. She began sobbing uncontrollably, her shoulders wrenching forward as though they were trying to touch each other. But she did happen to manage a nod or two in the midst of her blubbering and dabbing at her face with the bottom of her shirt.

  When he was sure that she had nodded, the dark-haired angel sat down beside her on the cot and put his arm around her. The shudders of grief were now joined by euphoric waves of pleasure, which seemed to spread through her body from where his arm was touching her. This was the first time a man had touched her since Peter died, a fact that provoked more sobs and delayed her further from any kind of rational interaction with the man. But he just sat with her, squeezed her shoulder now and then, and waited for her to come out of it.

  “Sorry. Very sorry,” she eventually got out, but then jumped in her seat when she looked up and saw the Chinese giant, blocking half the light as he towered over them. He had left his post by the door, glided through the beds with surprising ease—since he seemed too big for some of the spaces between them—and was now holding out a tissue for her.

  “Thank you,” she said as she took it. The bald, brown monstrosity just nodded slightly, then made his way back to the door, scanning the room the whole time. As she wiped her nose, she looked again at the handsome man, who had now taken his arm off her and twisted sideways so he could see her better.

  He chuckled, waving his finger toward the back of his head and said, “He has a bit of a leak from his upper cranial port.” His mild amusement seemed to fade as he realized she had no idea what he was talking about. “The tissues,” he added with a more serious expression. “That’s why he carries tissues.” He pointed to the one she was holding, and then grinned again. “We can engineer a cybernetic vascular system impervious to the common cold, but he still needs tissues. Funny.”

  He paused for a moment as she sat silent, studying his green eyes. Then he said, “Angelee, I came here to help you.”

  He explained that her husband had worked for his company and had provided some assistance to him personally before he had died “in the line of duty.” Wanting to make sure Kim’s family was cared for, and to thank them personally, he got their address and came to visit them in Napa City, only to find that they had been evicted because the BASS salary had been their only source of income. The apartment manager had mentioned the downtown shelters, because that was where he had directed the young mother when she asked, “Where can we go?”

  “So here I am,” the man concluded with that charming smile. “And I want to give you this.” He handed her a wad of cash, and squeezed her shoulder with his other hand. “That should take care of you and your son for now, but I’ll come back, or send someone to take care of you. I’ll have to think about what else I can do for you, and check on a few things.” He looked over toward the door.

  “Well, I have to go now,” he said, politely regretful. He gestured at the big cyborg by the door. “They have a security window for me—I can only be in public for so long. But I’ll see you again.”

  He smiled and walked away, dodging the miscreants and their makeshift homes, until he and the bodyguard had disappeared. Angelee sat with her mouth open, clutching the money, realizing that she never got the man’s name. Important people usually don’t need to introduce themselves, and an utter nobody like her was too intimidated to speak, let alone ask for his name. But none of that mattered to her at that moment, as her homeless neighbors gathered around her to begin the gossip and speculation that would give them all a reason for living in the days to come. And he said he would come back!

  * * *

  Now, lying on her bed in the brown room, Angelee was crying again, much like she did on that day when the beautiful man put his arm around her. But he wasn’t there to comfort her this time. In fact, more than a month had passed since he promised that he would come back, and apparently he had forgotten her. Thinking that he would be taking care of her, and knowing that holding on to that much money would make her a target for crime, she gave some of it to her extended family members who had qualified for federal housing. The rest she spent on food for herself, Chris, and Mariah, enduring the shelter until her knight in shining armor
would ride in and take her away. But that day never came, and the money ran out. So here she was, about to return to the oldest profession.

  “You got settled in by now, hoover,” Simon had told her earlier today. “So tonight you open for business. Get some sleep now, baby girl, cuz you won’t be sleeping much at night no more.” He groped her with both hands and added, “You won’t believe how they go for the new ones. Be real busy at first. But after a while, it’ll slow down some. Won’t be such new stew—be just like the rest.”

  She moved to take his hands off, but he drew his face up close to hers. “Ah, ah, stew,” he hissed through chemical breath, “You mine. An’ sooner you learn that, the better. You say no to me, or any my customers, you dead, and we put your kid to work. Simple as that, stew.” Finally, he drew back from her.

  “Sample some of the merchandise myseff,” he said, “but wouldn’t wanna dirty it for your first night. Expectin’ to get some big money on that one. Good marketin’ mierda, you know.” He moved his hand across the air in front of him, as if depicting a billboard. “Brand-new stew…”

  8

  PREY

  Not long after the triplets’ warning boomed out of the PA into the dusty Oakland air, about ten of the teal-armored mercenaries ran out of the bottom of the YWCA building through several different exits. Some took off on surface paths—they could hardly be called roads anymore—while others disappeared into nearby tunnels that had been discovered or dug in the debris by survivors of the quake. They probably figured that the Firehawks couldn’t shoot them all, and that we had no ground troops on site to chase after them. And on both counts they were right. But they didn’t count on what happened next.