by Curtis Hox
38
Hark sat alone in an apartment building a few blocks south of the Mediaplex. The lights were out, as was the electricity. Dusk was falling. Through the huge mullioned windows, he stared at another building and another apartment. He saw a man sitting in a chair, slumped back, surely dead. The man had been reading. It looked like his throat had been torn out where he sat.
Outside, the wailing continued, the occasional scream, the piercing howl. The city was flipping, as they say in the business. Hark had chosen a chair in the quaint, compact living room. The one bedroom apartment was modern, with its high ceilings, and fancy furniture. The occupants, who looked like a handsome couple from the family photos, had left boiling peas on the stove. The water had evaporated, the vegetables burnt out.
The fall hadn’t hurt Hark, of course. He was experienced enough to have practiced a long fall and rapid cushion deployment of his carapace. He’d even landed on his feet, the impact abated seconds before with a massive amount of energy. He’d run and hid, finding this random apartment by luck. He’d let the afternoon minutes click by as he considered his next move.
Only one move, he thought, leaving a trace of emotion strong enough that Magdalena almost piped up. She loved to butt in with her opinion at the worst times. It was endearing, even pragmatic because it kept him from his darker moods, but sometimes he didn’t want any interference.
He rarely felt as he did now. In fact, he’d never felt as he did now. Something reckless about him had always lurked deep inside, as if the producers and directors had picked him because he wasn’t just a supreme hero—he was a professional who knew how to let the script go when need be. He’d have to do his worst to keep his word.
And I’m going to do it. So don’t try to talk me out of it.
Magdalena kept quiet.
Hark wondered why his brother and sister hadn’t popped in again. For some reason they were leaving him alone now, as if they were being hindered. He figured whatever deal was made meant they couldn’t come and go as they pleased. At least not yet. He assumed the authorities had turned Binda, used Krista to turn Celia, and were breaking all the Versim rules in the process. The host was part of the drama. That was unheard of. Miesha had also brought the boy, Saul, into the V. She had also created a backstory that made Hark the bad guy. All of this, of course, was designed to engage him as a principal in the drama. They were to hunt him, as he hunted them.
He glanced at a rough-cut cedar credenza against a wall. Atop it stood framed pictures, a piece of azure striped pottery with glass marbles in it, a bowl of dried rose petals. And there was his parachute: a book with him on the cover in bright, glossy true-color as the action hero. They knew how to stick it to him. The picture suggested, why would such a man ever use a parachute? It looked like an expensive coffee-table book, maybe the kind that detailed his illustrious career, full of photos and juicy information. All he had to do was open it and start reading.
Hark walked to the table. The sun had dipped behind the buildings across the street. Above them, an indigo sky was turning shades of peach. The diminishing rays through the clouds reminded him what wondrous makers this world had. Everywhere he looked, he saw details of their care. Even now, a flock of pigeons launched itself from atop a six-story office building to circle in the air once before disappearing down the street.
Hark had never used a parachute. Never even opened his book. But there it was. He was a bit curious why it was on display. His parachute was usually harder to find, like a host’s. Were they trying to tell him something? They’d gotten what they’d wanted: Hark had backed off. Jumped out of a window, actually. Everyone supporting this new direction was taking a deep breath, relaxing, happy to be in a world of monsters, where a new villain had run to hide.
Hark shook his head, then swiped at the table, smashing its contents across the room. The book flapped into a corner.
Might I suggest something, sir?
Magdalena always came bearing the gift of chemical calm. By himself, it would have taken him a few minutes to work through the menus for the exact cocktail to return him to equilibrium. She could release the proper cocktail from his synth glands in seconds.
No, Magda, today, it’s personal. And that means I want to be raw.
Hark spun on his heal and ran for the exit. As he did, he activated his Skinsuit’s helmet and mask, the material forming over his head and face. It allowed him to see and breathe normally, but now he knew he looked like some futuristic machine-man, a Blaster strapped to his chest, his Kit on his back. Inside the suit, with his carapace sizzling, Hark felt invincible. This wasn’t true, of course. But his concurrent setup was designed to face the worst the human imagination could conjure.
Twilight was falling on a city losing its bearings. Already its citizens had suffered the first onslaught; those who’d been infected had turned into Ervé’s infernal army. Hark could hear the sounds of resistance, though. Like a family of six two floors down who’d locked themselves in their apartment, weeping, hoping for survival. Normally, he’d have gone to help. But, not today.
Maybe later, sir?
Yeah, later …
In the street, the carnage had stilled, although everywhere he looked he saw the signs of destruction. A werething—this one, dark and slavering, with silver eyes that glowed in the dark—launched itself over cars. It increased speed, the sounds of its grunts more human than he’d expected. Hark hit it with a simple shot of his Blaster that took the top of its skull off. The thing careened over one last car, falling into a dead lump at his feet. He saw a name inside a plastic ID card pinned to a piece of cloth clinging to the beast’s chest—something you’d see from a convention center.
Hark began to run at a jog. Just a few blocks up was all he had to go. He dispatched several slow-moving brain eaters as they feasted on a corpse. Other fast-moving cannibals hadn’t deteriorated to ghoul status yet. Those he had to slow to finish. One mutant that looked more like a torso with tentacles instead of legs dropped from a streetlight. He stomped its head in, disgusted by what Miesha had done to the V’s constructed persons. That one’s upper body was intact. Looked like a pretty woman you might see working in a hair salon.
When he reached the Mediaplex, he began to sprint at V02 max, arms wide, Blaster in one hand, a short-distance spike forming in the other.
39
Hark moved through them like a knife through soft flesh. The variety of monstrous forms couldn’t resist his assault. It felt as if Miesha had made a mistake flipping this V, only to trick him into playing a part. She should have done it officially and contracted him to come in as a regular survivor. If they’d have limited him to 21st century weapons, with no bio enhancers, he’d have had a challenge. But each one came at him like a dutiful soldier from hell. Each one wanted its fangs around his neck. Each one wanted to rip his heart from his body. And each one died.
In the stairwell, he fought in close combat against the powerful werebeasts. These were larger. Meaner. Quicker. Several got lucky with random strikes at the right part of his body, his modulated carapace defending somewhere else and leaving him open. His Skinsuit managed most of the defense, but he felt the stings as the claws tore into his flesh.
Magdalena did a great job keeping him secure and calming with the right chemical dosages. She also managed his rapid healing.
By the time he emerged into the foyer of the CEO’s office, several rents in his suit were visible. They were mending themselves, sure, but he’d taken more damage then he’d have guessed.
How am I doing, Magda?
Splendidly, sir. Operating at ninety-two percent optimality. I would suggest an hour respite to recuperate.
No.
Hark didn’t wait to announce himself. He knew they had heard him coming. The door to the suite of offices was closed. He felt like blasting it to pieces. But that was a waste of vital energy. Instead, he pulled on the handle.
Inside, three large mutant things were protecting their masters. Th
ese were each appliances that had eaten into their hosts, changing them into circuited and electrical beings.
Hark let Magdalena handle his defense. His HUD registered the three hybrids as high-level dangers. They had energy sources. The encounter lasted only a few seconds. The salvo damage from his Blaster was enough to smash out the cabinets in the kitchenette and even rip tiles from the floor.
Behind the CEO’s desk, Ervé Wrighter stood. Hark walked through the smoking rubble he’d just created. His carapace was at twenty percent, and his AbSys barely at half. His Blaster was almost depleted. He was in better shape than he’d thought.
Go, Magda.
Hark let her blanket his mind, in essence, turning him into a drone. The defense formed just as Ervé raised his arms and began to mumble, his powerful presence filling the room like a dark fog. Everywhere Hark looked he saw a deepening of shadow. He retreated into the cool space Magdalena created for him. He felt her running his systems. She knew the drill. He’d sent her the commands even before they’d finished the fight in the stairwell. Once the soldiers are cleared, drone me, then put me within arm’s distance of him.
“Harken Cole,” Ervé said, as if he might offer his hand in greeting. “You are the bad guy now. Have you accepted your new role?” Hark continued to approach. “No? Well, after I smash you to the floor and make you beg me to release you, I will. I’ll put you in a hole in the middle of Times Square, where you’ll be ridiculed and mocked every day this V is in service. It will be grand—”
Hark was happy to see Ervé’s surprise as Hark’s hands wrapped around his neck.
“Try again.”
Magdalena knew their history enough to bring Hark nose to nose with him. In Ervé’s moment of confusion, she let Hark emerge for just a second.
He felt Ervé’s titanic presence, like the weight of a thousand stones on his chest. He pushed up through them as far as he could, just so Ervé would know it was Hark talking. Hark even smiled.
“Goodbye, antag,” Hark said. “If they bring you back, you get to carry this defeat around with you. Everyone’s watching.” And then Hark punched his hand through the man who’d flayed his friend over a fire.
He felt his fingers rip through fascia and bone, into the beating muscle of a faux heart. He ripped it out, somehow playing the part of himself and a pulp hero, to brandish the organ in the air in the most contrived display possible. He realized at this critical moment that he couldn’t help himself. He was a specialist, and he only knew how to perform in this manner. He tossed it aside as Ervé fell to the floor.
He guessed Miesha was probably fainting at this very moment. Her boyfriend was probably waking up in a stasis vat with cardiac arrest or in a schizophrenic scream. He’d be in cognoscrubber therapy for months.
I bet that wasn’t in their script.
Well done, sir. The woman’s up stairs.
Hark felt himself return to full control. The world around him rushed back, his heightened senses now working in crisp detail. The heavy shadows lifted to reveal the darkness of a true gloaming. Enough half-light entered through the tall windows so that he didn’t need his optics.
He walked up the stairs and saw Binda and Celia clinging to each other on a sofa. The boy was gone. Hark felt relieved Saul wouldn’t have to see what was to happen.
Their demon eyes glowed golden in the low light.
“Hark,” he heard his name, but neither of the women had spoken.
Krista?
He saw her standing in the corner. She stood in shadow near a railing. The upper floor was cantilevered over a portion of the office. The far corner was occupied by Binda and Celia’s sofa. Krista was in a perfect position to have watched Hark’s fight. Something in his gut suggested she’d been standing there the entire time.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You finished Ervé faster than everyone thought—except me. The bets were that he’d be able to put up a fight. They wanted your technical capacity to be taken down a notch to make it a fair fight. Maybe lose your AI. I argued you keep it all.”
“Argued?”
“You’re done with this waking the host business, Hark.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Here in the narrative? Sleeping somewhere safe. Truthfully? The real him is in transit because they haven’t immersed him fully yet.”
“To an official immersion clinic? So they’d only jumped him in temporarily. He’s safe, for the time being. But he’ll be back in this stink-hole in no time.”
Krista nodded. “Yep, they’re using him, Hark. I couldn’t stop it. Miesha’s directing this one.” She moved closer. “I knew you’d come back right away.”
Hark took a few steps toward Celia, who cowered on the sofa, as if whatever evil thing she was to become hadn’t fully emerged yet.
Krista did as well. “Hark, listen, there are millions of innocents still alive in this city.” She edged as close as she could without touching his carapace. “Hark, please, for once, be sensible. I need to know you wouldn’t destroy an entire V.”
“Stay back,” Hark said. “I’m sorry, Krista, for whatever assets or Spinner lore you’ll lose over at your library. EA told me I’m still under contract—”
Krista appeared to panic with a frantic waving of hands, something he rarely saw her do. “You know they’ve been setting this stage for years. He stays safe and is allowed to live as long as you play along. But he’s in the narrative now, as are you. That contract’s over. You did your duty. No need to kill the host.”
“Krista, earlier today I was told the contract’s still on.” Hark stared at her, sure his sister was lying to him. “He’s in transit. He’s not in-V … which means I can kill the host, and he won’t be harmed.”
Krista struggled with that as if it were her own death sentence. She’d probably thought he’d relent if the boy wasn’t in play right now. She’d miscalculated, he wanted to tell her.
“You’ll bring it all down, Hark?” He hated hearing that strident tone from his older sister. It usually got her whatever she wanted from him.
“I have to.”
Binda and Celia held onto each other, cringing. He could see they were as rational as they were before—only the eyes and faces had changed. They were the same women. But they were altered to glare at him with such hatred that neither had said a word.
Krista shook her head, as angry as he’d ever seen her. She looked like she might start one of her tirades. “You are such a thick-headed ass—”
“You should go, Krista. Go now.” He moved to his sister. “Seriously, call it in. Have Garce get you.”
“Garce isn’t tunneling me anymore, Hark.”
“What?”
“They found our clinic.”
“You’re legal?” She nodded. “You’re lying, Krista. Time for this to end. You haven’t been in long and you’re not deeply immersed. It won’t be a difficult recovery for you. Will you leave, please?”
She shook her head. “I’m staying.”
Hark leveled his Blaster at Celia and, without a thought, fired.
Krista’s hands went to her mouth, her face stretched into a mask of shock.
Binda screamed and jumped a foot in the air.
Hark didn’t look, but he saw the demon-queen topple over the back of the couch. He’d shot with enough power to take down a water buffalo. There wouldn’t be much left of her upper body. Binda was on the floor, scrabbling into a far corner, where she huddled, staring at Hark as if she were next.
Krista stood riveted, mouth open, lips quivering.
Hark placed his Blaster back on his chest and breathed deeply. He looked around, waiting for it to end, waiting to wake up in an immersion clinic with technicians tending to his recovery …
We’re still in, sir.
This V should have shut off already, Magda. I’ve never been in one when it happened. But I’ve heard it’s instantaneous. Something’s not right. I killed the host …
Krista’s
hands were still at her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes. “She’d been in-V for twenty years, Hark. That’ll be almost impossible to scrub.” She banged on his chest now that his carapace was muted. “You know that. Celia Preston … might never recover.”
“I had to.” Hark looked around, unable to comprehend he was still standing there. “Saul has a month before EA can legally allow him to live in the real world. This was my last obligation to fulfill. I had to either wake or kill the host of this V.” Hark looked over the suite, out the windows. The world outside seemed intact. “Besides, his father would never want him in a flipped, post-apocalypse narrative. This place will be a haven for nutbags with pain fetishes. Think of how many real psychos will immerse to ride along with a werewolf. You know that. I can get him out of here, let him have a real life—not one given to him by a Vox producer. Why are we still here?”
Hark looked around, waiting for something to happen. He assumed he’d see seams in the walls opening, or maybe in the floor, a world coming undone. Then, snap, he’d wake up in his immersion vat, probably disoriented, definitely in need of scrubbing. He looked at Binda and considered saying something comforting. But she was in character and bared her teeth at him. She was shivering in fright. Krista saw it too and wrung her hands.
I killed the host, Magda, what’s going on?
Krista stood in the same place, and even in the gloomy half-light from the white emergency-exit lamps, he could see she’d blanched. “You did it. I can’t believe you did it.”
Hark walked over to Binda, who cowered like a fearful animal. He reached down and gently grabbed her, trying to avoid looking into eyes transformed into something monstrous. He had no idea what she was now, or what they intended with her. But it was all going to be over soon.
“Who’s the host, Krista?” he asked his sister, but she wouldn’t meet his eye.
40
Binda lay in his arms like a child. She didn’t fight. She didn’t try to slither out. Krista followed silently. Hark knew he was going to suffer an earful at some point. Her apparent grief for the in-V death of Celia Preston, graciously, earning him a bit of quiet at the moment.