The Presence

by Paul Black

  Corazon let go and took his face into her hands. “I think I know what you’re feeling,” she said, and impulsively kissed him. The sensation felt like more like drinking, and it sent a wave of pure emotion crashing against her heart.

  Marl took her into his arms.

  After a moment, Corazon gently pulled away and searched his eyes for the soul that might reside there. “You were right,” she said. “In the bar ... when I first met you.”

  His brow furrowed questioningly.

  Corazon smiled. “You and I are very much alike,” she whispered, then pressed her lips to his and rode the wave into the night.

  17. ON HIS KNEES

  It was almost 2:00 a.m. Tsukahara cautiously eyed the VirtGear unit as it sat on a stack of files he had to read by morning. Its simple form seemed unassuming in the soft light of the desk lamp. He began to reach for it, but recoiled from an emotion that took him by surprise. Fear was the English word that came to mind. But Tsukahara’s curiosity about the presence was taunting, almost pulling at him. He placed the unit to his forehead, and its interface tentacles entwined around his head. The last one found its home at the base of his neck, and his vision slipped away.

  After a millisecond of black, Tsukahara’s vision faded in. He had no idea how he would find the presence again, so he planned just to empty his mind and hope for the best. In his daily life, he usually could work this naiveté to his advantage, blaming either language or cultural differences for what his colleagues labeled “misunderstandings.” Often, his Western hosts would speak more freely around him, thinking he wasn’t getting it and thus saying things they usually guarded more closely. But as he hung motionless in the Net’s chaotic vastness, he began to question his motive for seeking out the presence.

  He looked down at his body, now represented by its preprogrammed digital avatar, and discovered his shoes were jumping erratically from Velcro-strapped cross-trainers to standard-issue Oxfords. Must be an issue with the system’s platform translation protocols, he thought. His focus shifted to the chasm of cyberspace below him, and a vertigo-induced nausea boiled up – what console jocks lovingly referred to as “the virts.” Even though he knew what he was seeing was just a programmer’s redition, nonetheless it was still very intense and real. He quickly began the practice of soft, regulated breathing, and the nausea subsided.

  Floating silently among the trillions of data streams, Tsukahara began to concentrate on listening for the chi he had previously encountered. He loved the Net. It was a fluid experience and very comforting. After a time, his thoughts wandered. He thought about his boyhood home in Nagasaki. He recalled his family’s living room, how his mother had insisted it be completely traditional.

  Suddenly his thoughts manifested, and he found himself standing at the threshold of their living room.

  “Disconnect,” he ordered, but the VirtGear didn’t respond.

  The panic that should have been pouring into Tsukahara’s nerves never came. Instead, he was filled with an overwhelming sense of peace. He glanced down and saw he was wearing white socks – the kind he wore as a child, complete with the indentation from a pair of zori. He curled his toes and could feel the rice straw tatami mat through the soft cotton. Glancing about, his attention settled on his grandfather’s jeonju chest. He walked over and opened one of its drawers, wondering if their family album would be inside. The drawer resisted his first pull, then a memory flashed of his grandfather showing him the secret to the drawer’s stubbornness. He tried again, this time pulling harder with the left handle. The drawer acquiesced, and he reverently lifted out the leather-cased antique and began leafing through its fatigued pages.

  As the generations flipped past, a dog-eared, sepia photograph caused him to pause. It was an image of his great-, great-, great-grandfather, who had perished in the atomic blast. His ancestor looked so proud holding his firstborn as he smiled across the ages. Tsukahara had been told that, like so many that fateful day, his ancestor had been entangled in the telephone lines and had died, struggling, on his knees. An odd feeling moved across Tsukahara’s heart that he couldn’t quite define.

  Does it sadden you, Yoichi?

  Tsukahara’s nerves bristled. He slowly closed the album and turned to the center of the room. The presence was all around him.

  Does it sadden you? Its Japanese was perfect and came across like a man’s voice in his head.

  “What?” Tsukahara replied.

  This memory.

  “Yes ... yes it does.”

  Why?

  Tsukahara thought for a moment. “Because this is one of my ancestors, and he ...” His throat tightened.

  What, Yoichi? Why do you grieve over someone you never knew?

  Tsukahara fought back the raw emotion building in him. “I grieve because he died so horribly. They say he died–”

  On his knees?

  Tsukahara froze. Another cold chill carved his spine. Could the presence read his mind?

  Isn’t it odd that history is segmented by insignificant points in time when there is only one real division point?

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  All of man’s history can be divided by one point on the linear timeline presently observed.

  “What point or date is that?”

  August 9, 1945.

  The warmth of tears welled in Tsukahara’s eyes.

  This realization pains you?

  “No, not really. I’m just grieving for my ancestor.”

  Silence.

  “Who are you?” Tsukahara asked finally.

  That is hard to put into words.

  “Are you human, or are you an AI?”

  I am as human as you, Yoichi Tsukahara.

  “Then how did you know how my ancestor died?”

  That is equally difficult to put into words. You could say that I have an ability to understand emotions on a deeper level.

  “What are you?”

  There was a shift in the presence’s chi. Tsukahara tasted a tear that slid onto his lips.

  You could say I’m an architect, the presence said with what Tsukahara sensed was an edge of pride.

  “An architect ... of what?”

  Another shift.

  The future.

  18. I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN

  “I miss the rattle!” an old man declared.

  Chaco looked up, and the guy locked eyes with him like he’d never let go.

  “These goddamn LEV’s are too quiet. Miss the old trains. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. That’s what it’s supposed to sound like. Not this hum!” He pursed his lips and made a noise that sounded more like a high-speed food processor than the N Line LEV. Dark, ratty dreadlocks spilled down both sides of his derelict face and cast his eyes into shadow. The lighting in the LEV was the bluish-green that seemed to dominate all New York public transit. Chaco quickly shifted his attention up the aisle to a pretty Hispanic girl, obliviously jamming to music only she could hear.

  Since he was supposed to be in town on business, Chaco had the day to kill. He decided to take in the Warhol retrospective at the MOMA. This exhibit wasn’t of work done by the original artist, but by a clone that had appeared on the art scene about 10 years ago. No one really knew where Andy’s DNA had been obtained, but critics all agreed that he was as good as, if not better than, the original. If it hadn’t been for the editors at Art in America turning him into a media darling, his fate might have been the same as other clones – death.

  While Chaco watched the Hispanic girl jam to the silent beat, he wondered how he was going to reconnect with Goya’s wife. With any luck, Deja might run into her again, and if the stars aligned, he also might meet the strange guy with one suit. At least, that was as far as his “plan” went.

  The old man, probably fed-up with the lack of attention, shuffled to the next car. Chaco tried to relax, but something was nagging at his old police sense. He had felt it back at the station – a kind of pressure to the back of his neck. It was the sam
e feeling he used to get as a cop when he knew he was being followed. He couldn’t explain it; it was just a hunch, like a sixth sense. He had developed it during his days in the military. All special ops guys learned to develop their senses, and this one seemed to be particularly strong. Chaco’s field tests were off the charts, and his unit buddies used to call him Mr. Sensitive. “Common sense” is what he called it.

  He studied the car, searching the faces of the other passengers, but they didn’t register anything for him. Still feeling a bit uneasy, he left his seat and entered the car ahead.

  It contained twice as many passengers. Many were sitting with their backs to Chaco. As he made his way up the aisle, he couldn’t shake the feeling, so he slipped into an empty, backwards 3-across and slid over to the window. He was facing a forward 3-across whose lone occupant – a woman, business type – was deep into a virt conference. She looked up from her call and gave him a perfunctory smile, then laughed at something said in her conversation.

  The LEV slowed to a stop, and the businesswoman, still conferencing, collected her things and left along with about half the other passengers. While the car filled with another tide of nameless faces, Chaco referenced the route map. He’d go through four more waves of loading and unloading before reaching the MOMA station.

  When the Lev pulled forward on its cushion of supercharged magnetic energy, Chaco’s sense of being followed subsided. He turned his attention to the window and watched the blurred shapes of the tunnel flow by. Just then, the doors behind him opened, and a passenger entered. Chaco kept looking out the window as the person settled into the seat that had been previously occupied by the businesswoman. The passenger nudged the tip of Chaco’s boot, and he looked over.

  “You need to work on your street sense,” Pavia said, removing his fedora. He placed it on the open seat next to him.

  Out of instinct, Chaco shifted to face Pavia, placed his left arm on the back of the two empty seats next to him and crossed his right leg over his left. This made his profile thinner and positioned him for a potential strike. He casually unbuttoned his coat and let his right hand rest near the opening.

  “Looks like Tactical Position number 25,” Pavia said, rubbing his chin.

  “Forty-seven, actually,” Chaco replied. “For the new jump-jets, there’s an addendum on confined-space tactics.”

  Pavia continued to study him, which put Chaco on more of an edge. Even though they had casually bonded at Merge with their agent signals and mutual respect, Chaco knew Pavia was an old dog who, if pushed, wouldn’t lose any sleep over introducing a green agent to a few tactics that weren’t found in any manuals.

  “What do you want?” Chaco asked.

  Pavia reached into his coat, and Chaco’s hand instinctively went to his Light-Force.

  “Not to worry, agent. It’s just a Netpad.” Pavia slowly removed the device and turned it over in his hands so the screen was facing Chaco. He clicked it on.

  Chaco watched in horror as much of the information Deja had collected over the last six months cascaded down the tiny screen.

  “Look familiar?” Pavia asked.

  Chaco remained silent and continued to watch the data stream. It ended with a barely audible “beep.” Pavia snapped the Netpad shut and returned it to the inside pocket of his coat.

  Chaco studied the former operative. “How long were you in service?” he asked, stalling.

  “Fifteen years, not counting my stint with DoD.”

  “Then you understand my job.”

  “I understand the NSA has changed, somewhat, since my time there. Take you, for instance. In my day, console jocks were relegated to the back office. Their contribution was tertiary. But today, you’re in the front line. With this ... this Biolution, the world’s a dangerous place.” Pavia relaxed somewhat, crossing his legs and casually inspecting his fedora as if it had done something that needed attention. “Yes,” he said, “the world is a very dangerous place.”

  Chaco took a cue from Pavia’s demeanor and relaxed against his seat. “It has changed, I’ll give you that. But what’s that got to do with what you’ve just showed me?”

  Pavia pondered this for a moment, then leaned forward and rested his chin on folded hands. His bulk filled the cramped space, and Chaco suddenly realized that he had been tactically one-upped. Pavia, his brow hulking over his eyes, unveiled a smile whose dental work seemed intentionally third world. Each tooth was tipped with gold.

  “My employer,” he said, “wants to know if the government has any case against him.”

  If Chaco divulged their findings, he would relinquish any edge he might have. Besides, what they had so far wasn’t enough to prosecute. They knew about Goya’s offshore holdings and his association with the illicit Caribbean biotech trade. And his cooking of the books was a pretty standard corporate shuffle. What the NSA had really been after was Goya’s ties to La Ema, but before Chaco could uncover anything of substance, Slowinski had back-burnered that push for the investigation on the hybrid clone.

  Chaco shrugged, truly not knowing what he would say next.

  Pavia’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in farther. “We wouldn’t want to involve Deja.” There was a threatening tone in Pavia’s voice, carried along by a businesslike matter-of-factness.

  Chaco had been waiting for him to drop the Deja factor. “To tell you the truth,” he said coolly, “I’m not on that case anymore.”

  Pavia leaned back, and the muscles of his jaw began to twitch.

  Chaco motioned Pavia forward, like he about to divulge an important secret. The ex-agent leaned closer; his aftershave smelled of something cheap and very last season.

  “Besides,” Chaco said, almost whispering, “we don’t want to bring up why you, ah, left the agency ... do we?”

  Pavia’s nostrils flared, and Chaco suddenly understood the phrase “if looks could kill.” Pavia leaned back and folded his arms on his chest. He regarded Chaco with a slight smirk. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  The only thing Chaco had done was get lucky. He had run a backgrounder on Pavia, but it had come up exemplary. Even his buddy in records couldn’t find any dirt. All agents had something damaging in their records; it just came with the job. Pavia’s file was too good, like someone had cleaned off whatever tarnish it might have worn.

  Chaco settled into his seat. “It’s always smart to know who you’re dealing with.”

  Pavia nodded. “So, why are you in New York? In town to get a little kitty from a particular producer’s assistant?”

  Chaco smiled professionally. “Well, I wouldn’t refuse it if it was offered. But I’m actually here on a new assignment.”

  “Can you tell me anything about it?”

  Chaco hesitated.

  “Come on, Sonny, let an old agent live vicariously. I’m basically just a bodyguard for a rich CEO. I want to hear what my old employer’s doing to protect this great nation of ours.”

  Chaco didn’t have a better plan and figured he had Pavia somewhat by the balls, although he didn’t know why, yet. Obviously, he and Goya thought the government had more on them than they did, which was just fine. “Aw, what the hell,” he said. “Here’s the situation. I’m searching for a hybrid clone. His stats are off the charts, and he’s friends with my mark and your employer’s wife.” He searched Pavia for a reaction. “We think he’s Triad.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Chaco pulled out his Netpad and brought up an image of Marl. He handed it to Pavia. “This guy is very black ops. I’ve never seen anything like him. Look at his meds. They’re weird as hell.”

  Pavia studied the image. His demeanor dropped to a level of seriousness that put Chaco’s guard up.

  “Yeah,” he said gravely, nodding. “I’ve encountered this asshole before.”

  “I’ve got to build a profile on him, and my only connection is Deja and Corazon. But I’m not really sure how to flush him out. I can’t just hang around and wait for us to bump into him a
t some bar. What’s his deal with Corazon? Are they doing some clone bonding thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Pavia said, still reviewing the data. “The night I met him, he hit the whole place with a neurogenic dampener, and that’s all she wrote. Still ...” He rubbed his chin, and the scars on his fingers scraped across his five o’clock shadow.

  “Come on, what are you thinking?” Chaco asked. “Do you have an angle on this guy?”

  Pavia continued to rub, then handed back the Netpad. “Possibly,” he said and grabbed his fedora. He put it on and adjusted the brim downward across his brow.

  “Maybe we could work together on this?” Chaco asked.

  Pavia regarded him from under the brim. “What’s in it for AztecaNet?”

  Chaco hesitated.

  “Look, Sonny, you’re a bright young man. I’m sure you can use that technical knowledge the NSA spent millions on to make AztecaNet’s files, what, disappear?”

  “I, ah ...”

  Pavia leaned forward again and grabbed Chaco’s left kneecap with his thumb and forefinger. He dug in behind the patella just enough to send a message. “I’m like a bulldog, Sonny. Fuck me over, and I’ll hunt you down. Put me away, and even if I’m a hundred when I get out, I’ll come after you when you least expect it.”

  “You know,” Chaco said, not acknowledging the pain shooting up from his knee. “It’s funny how those case files can get all corrupt and shit.... Happens all the time. It’s a real shame.” Pavia let go, and his smile, now revealing to Chaco the full achievement of its gold inlay, was frightening.

  12. 11:42 A.M.

  Deja glanced at her watch.

  11:41 a.m.

  She liked having lunch in the small patch of grass across the street from her building. The city would have once called this a Micropark, but today they were antiseptically labeled Embedded Environmental Refuges. Since the closing of Central Park five years earlier after the release of a nanonerve agent by a radical cell of the Rhodesian People’s Liberation Army, the city built hundreds of EERs anywhere it could find enough space to plant some grass and a tree. According to the plan, enough EERs would be built during the park’s nine-year detox to approximate its 386 acres. But six years later, Central Park wasn’t even close to cleaned up, and there had been only 150 acres of EERs built. Finding personal space with anything approximating grass was now practically impossible.