by Ethan Cooper
If my name means anything to Kami, she doesn’t acknowledge it. She sits down beside me. “That’s a nice name, dear. Now, do you want to tell me about it?”
“Ah, about what?”
Her gaze travels across my skinsuit.
“Your story. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve seen things out there in the city. Do you want to tell me? Listening’s a lost art, you know. Most people don’t know how to do it these days, but I do. My husband, he loved to talk, and lucky for him, I didn’t mind. I liked the sound of his voice.”
Here, she trails off.
I have so many questions—about who she is, and who the Pure are, and how they met up with Aran and his technomancers, and how they all came to be on this train, and where they’re going from here, and a hundred other questions that she probably doesn’t have the answers to.
So, I don’t ask any of those. I find that I do want to talk. I want to tell her my story. I want to tell her everything. Can’t explain this desire, because sharing your story with a stranger is a good way to end up face down in the dirt with all your pretty parts harvested. Not that this old lady, with her white hair falling to her shoulders like a light rain, and her soft, wrinkled skin, and her kind eyes, is capable of cutting pieces off of me. Like me, she’s just trying to survive.
I talk, and she listens. I start at the beginning; I don’t leave anything out. It’s her kind eyes. They have me sharing more than I should. And it’s not just her—everybody around can hear me. At some point, several wide-eyed children come up, bringing water and a medical kit. Kami listens and attends to my shoulder, which was the source of several rivulets of blood that had made it as far as my elbow without me noticing. In addition to treating my wound there, she repairs several holes in my skinsuit with some sort of tape. The hole at my shoulder requires the most. I run my hand over the tape.
“It will hold, almost as well as the original material,” Kami says.
“Thank you.” I reach into my backpack, feeling around for one of the food packages. When I find the one I’m looking for, I hand it to her.
She shakes her head. “I don’t need anything.”
“You should try a few anyway.”
Kami rips open the top of the small package and extracts a couple of the little beans. Her smile brightens the interior of the car after she pops one of the little treats in her mouth. The children in the car scurry over, their hands outstretched.
Kami laughs, touching my knee and giving me a glimpse of a much younger version of herself. “Now see what you’ve done.”
One of the children offers me a treat, so I take it. It’s sweet. For a few seconds, I can let my eyes drift close and pretend that things are different.
Cyberspace is still online.
I can remember who I am.
Tam is still human.
There are no riots.
The Bleed aren’t real.
This island isn’t dying.
I’m safe.
“You’re tired. You should rest.” Kami’s voice is soothing, like a mother’s cool hand against a fevered forehead. Against my better judgment—because I’m not safe—I let myself give into her urging, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest. My body doesn’t quite fit right reclining like this, but it’s better than where I slept last night.
I doze, never entering full unconsciousness.
When I wake—a couple hours later, no more—Kami is gone. In fact, there are only a few Pure left inside the train car. Should try to get more sleep while things outside are calm. If the violence really hasn’t reached this part of the city, then it’s only a matter of time. Sleep is the smart decision, but something tells me that it’d be futile.
I do a quick check of my backpack to make sure that none of the younglings decided to see if there was any more candy inside. Everything’s where I put it, so I step back out into the world.
A single technomancer—the one I want on my side in a fight because he’s the biggest one and has a cannon instead of an arm, which I must admit looks super cosmic—stands guard. There are Pure everywhere, clustered in tight groups around packs of provisions. Partway down toward the street level, Kami kneels as she attends to a cluster of children.
Not sure what I expected, but nothing’s changed out here. The city still burns. There’s no rioting in the immediate area. That said, I don’t need Aran’s enhanced optics to see that the wave of destruction is headed our way.
Giving the technomancer a wide berth, I move to the other side of the train. From this side, I have a view of the ocean over the tops of nearby buildings. The water twinkles briefly, reflecting errant rays of sunshine that manage to sneak through the clouds. I can’t see the mainland, though I can’t remember right now how far away it is. Seems like I should be able to see it.
(you need a boat angel maybe you should)
(go look for one just in case)
(Aran can’t help you)
(or isn’t who he appears to be)
Before I can give into my impulse to strike out on my own, a dark object in the sky snags my attention. It’s some sort of aircraft, flying low along the coast. The craft is such a sleek thing, wings swept back as it cuts through the air. I’m too far away, but I find my hand up, waving as if I could signal the pilot. One plane ride out of this hellhole, please.
It’s too pretty. It doesn’t belong here.
The rear of the aircraft spews orange fire as it banks abruptly.
It happens so quickly, I almost miss it, but just as the aircraft begins to turn, some object is launched from the ground. The pilot, banking, narrowly avoids a mid-air collision. Impossible to tell for certain from this distance, but that looked close.
Oh wait, that object just changed direction, turned toward the aircraft, and it’s actually catching up. This time, the pilot either doesn’t notice the danger, or there’s nothing they can do about it because the object punches through the rear of the aircraft. There’s an explosion, then something resembling an engine tumbles away in a different direction than the rest of the vehicle. It goes nose-up, tumbling as it arcs out of sight.
Not sure if it’s me or the automatic me that has me discarding common sense in favor of what I’m about to do, but I justify it because, just before I lost visual contact with the aircraft, I saw its pilot eject.
Been saved by others so many times, it’s time for me to see if I can pay some of that back. As I descend the mountain of debris, I pull the pulse dagger from my backpack.
54/Phoenix [T-minus 6]
2195.12.29/Midday
BLINK.
Deserted street after deserted street. The other sections of the city are filled with rioters. What happened here that caused the citizens to evacuate? Did the fall of Cyberspace drive them insane? Maybe somebody put something in the water, maybe it did something to their brains, made them leave their homes, made them violent, then they went out to work their wicked ways. Maybe that’s what’s happening to this city. Maybe nobody’s lived in this part of the city for a long time.
(so many things you don’t)
(understand)
Whatever the reason for the lack of population, traversing these city streets is much easier than the ones that are literally on fire and filled with rioting citizens. Still, I walk with the pulse dagger handle warm in the palm of my hand.
BLINK.
Just at the edge of my peripheral vision, I catch movement in the window of an apartment building, about three stories up. A gust of wind sends bits of paper trash tumbling around my legs. I pull stray stands of hair that have gotten stuck at the corner of my mouth, realizing that walking in the center of the street like I am makes me an easy target. This part of the city could house hundreds of thousands of people, so it’s logical that some of them are still here. Hiding, keeping themselves safe, sure, but also some of them might be waiting for their opportunity.
I change directions, cutting through an alley.
BLINK.
Every building
in this damn city is tall, because when you’re landlocked and you can’t build out, you build up. When I clear the last building, I’m pretty sure I’m close enough to throw a rock and hear it plunk into the ocean.
There was industry here once. There was life here. There was hope.
But no more.
No more.
That’s the way of things.
BLINK.
Various man-made outcroppings meet the ocean here, docks for boats, an elevated pier that extends out half a kilometer over the water, floating fishing platforms, the ruins of a bridge that probably once ran north, from the island to the mainland.
Hope, but no more.
BLINK.
Smoking wreckage from the aircraft is scattered across the ocean, with several large pieces smoldering on top of the pier. One of the wings landed on its end, embedding itself deep enough in the sand that it doesn’t look likely to fall over even though the surf is crashing against it. As the wreckage burns, the black paint peels away to reveal brightly colored designs underneath.
Somebody didn’t want their aircraft noticed.
In the middle of the street, where less than a month ago, endless streams of vehicles travelled, carrying their passengers around the island, two men are engaged in combat.
Best to keep my distance for now. There is a row of rusted metal barrels to my right, each of them displaying the intricate logo of the Takiyoma Corporation. I could take cover behind those, but I opt to cower behind the corner of the nearest building—a bright red monstrosity that looks to have been some sort of restaurant. Now, at least half of the building is a charred husk. Most of the roof is collapsed. A particularly eloquent piece of graffiti near my head gives explicit instructions on how and where I should violate myself.
One of the men is wearing a dark, metallic gearsuit, littered with all kinds of tools and devices. A yellow visor covers his eyes. He has no hair. My mind immediately screams, Dokk! But the gearsuit gives him away as an exomancer—a technomancer without all the implants and body part replacements. Their enhancements are superficial. He’s wielding a long blade. At times it’s difficult for me to discern whether he’s holding the weapon in his hand or if it’s part of his arm.
The other combatant is clothed in a long trench coat over a light blue jumpsuit. He has messy, light brown hair, and when he moves, it’s with a practiced, deliberate elegance, executing a series of furious attacks with his own unique weapons. They’re guns, but with a small trident attached at the end of the grip.
The exomancer charges. Blue Jumpsuit raises his guns, loosing a quick burst of silvery bolts. The exomancer’s body contorts as he attempts to evade—something he is largely successful at. A couple of those shots hit him, but they bounce away, deflected by his gearsuit.
I’d love to have one of those.
The gap between the two closes; the sound of clashing weapons echoes.
Blue Jumpsuit is fast, really fast, but the exomancer moves like the enhanced human he is. Blue Jumpsuit backs up, giving himself some space, but the exomancer presses the attack, his blade shifting forms every few seconds. It’s an amazing sight, to watch his weapon present a honed edge for one strike, then reform itself into a curved hook for the next, then a blunt club.
Where the exomancer is an enraged beast, Blue Jumpsuit is a calm, methodical fighter. His body moves with the muscle memory of a dancer. He adapts his fighting style and techniques as he struggles to hold his ground against a faster, stronger foe. The clang of their weapons colliding is interrupted by the occasional bark of gunfire. Blue Jumpsuit is especially adept at trapping the blade of the exomancer’s weapon with the prongs on the grips of one gun while squeezing off a couple shots with the other.
Blue Jumpsuit retreats back a few steps, tiring, his movements slowing. He grunts as the exomancer gets a glancing blow in on his shoulder. The exomancer presses his advantage, blade pulled back like a viper about to strike.
Dropping his ruse, Blue Jumpsuit springs forward, unleashing a speedy array of strikes that pummel the exomancer backward. Low shots, aimed at the legs, coupled with thigh and groin strikes, force the exomancer off-balance. He stumbles and starts to go down, his arms flailing.
Listen up, boys and girls, we have a winner.
Blue Jumpsuit raises both guns, tracking the exomancer as he falls.
bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!
The world is filled with a blinding blue light. There’s a force to that light, pushing at me, pulling at me. It wants me to move. I brace against the wall and maintain my footing. Blue Jumpsuit and the exomancer aren’t as fortunate, as they both end up sprawled flat on their backs. I take special note, as they get back to their feet, that neither of them lost their weapons.
I’m close enough that I can hear what they’re saying.
“That wasn’t you, was it?” Blue Jumpsuit asks.
“Nope. You?” There’s a buzz in the exomancer’s voice, as if there’s another audio signal being transmitted at the same time he speaks.
I don’t actually hear them both swear, but I see their lips moving. I know what they said.
Blue Jumpsuit has his head back; he’s looking up over the city.
“What the hell is that? A cyberdemon?” Blue Jumpsuit asks.
Cyberdemon. Either that’s a part of my memory that’s blocked, or I’ve never heard of one. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like something I’d enjoy encountering.
I guess now that there’s a clear winner to their fight, they’ve decided that actually following through with the killing-each-other part isn’t necessary? Men are difficult to understand sometimes.
“No. It’s a person…with wings,” the exomancer replies.
I don’t even have to look up. I know who it is. The crash of Blue Jumpsuit’s aircraft did not go unnoticed.
Blue Jumpsuit regards the exomancer as if he’s debating whether or not to go ahead and finish him off before dealing with the new threat.
“Hey, exomancer,” he says, which is probably rude, but I wouldn’t know what to call him either, “what do you say we postpone our fight until we take out this freak?”
“I guess I can wait a few minutes to kill you.”
With that, the exomancer turns, his arm out to send his blade hurtling toward Aran. Or, at least that’s what I think he intended, but a zigzag of blue energy reaches out and blasts the weapon from his hand.
Blue Jumpsuit gets two shots off—all consumed by Aran’s ravenous energy field—before he’s sent flying through the air by another jagged bolt. Pieces of the street rain down as Blue Jumpsuit comes down hard. He’s still breathing, but he doesn’t get back up.
Aran lands, and it’s quickly apparent that he and the exomancer know each other. They’re maintaining a respectful distance between them, but they’re just talking.
About their weapons.
You know, man stuff.
I probably shouldn’t go out there.
Aran’s wings go wide, briefly obscuring my line of sight to Blue Jumpsuit, so I can’t see everything that happens next.
What I do see is a brilliant flash of light. It’s bright enough that were it not for Aran’s wings, I would be blinded. Aran and the exomancer stagger back, arms up to shield their eyes. Aran shifts to one side, revealing Blue Jumpsuit, who has an arm around the exomancer’s neck and the barrel of his gun against his temple.
“Don’t move,” Blue Jumpsuit says. “Now that we can start talking about this like civilized human beings, I’d just like to ask one little question: What the hell is going on?”
“Let him go,” Aran says.
“I think your canned man friend here has some explaining to do.”
The exomancer’s posture is more akin to a person relaxing against a wall than somebody who’s one wrong word from getting their skull ventilated. “I’m an exomancer, not a canned man, and my name is K’Thos.”
“Wow! Canned man has a name. I wonder if manned can has a brain, and if he does, why wasn’t he using it
when he attacked me for no apparent reason?”
“It was nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal? Are you one of those g’ekks who goes around randomly attacking people for fun? I’ve always wanted to meet one of you—so I could kill you.” His eyes flick to Aran. “If you do anything stupid, I’ll probably get my chance.”
“Wait, I—” K’thos says.
“Aran, that’s your name, right? You really should pick better friends.”
“This is stupid,” Aran says, reaching out a hand.
I’m already running.
Me or automatic me?
I don’t like to put myself in danger, so it has to be her.
One day I’m going to remember her. I’m going to remember who I was. What I could do. And why I did it.
Aran’s hand crackle with that blue energy of his. This time, it’s a deeper, darker blue.
“Stop!” I shout.
I’ll admit, I’m shocked that it works. The sight of a blue-haired teenager racing toward them is enough to distract everybody from inflicting vast quantities of harm on each other. I make it all the way to the trio, inserting myself between Aran and Blue Jumpsuit.
“Syl,” Aran says, his voice hard. “Get out of here.”
I shake my head and point to Blue Jumpsuit. “Aran, this man was just minding his own business when your friend attacked him.”
“The eyebuzz is as correct as she is pretty,” Blue Jumpsuit says.
I give him a look that I hope conveys shut the fuck up and let me handle this if you want to live. I follow the first bluff I can think of: “Besides, I think I sort of recognize him. What’s your name again, Blue Jumpsuit?”
“Points off to you for not remembering after all we went through.” I can see it—he’s going through a list of names, trying to pick the proper one to present to us. “You can call me Phoenix.”
It’s okay, I once told a stranger my name was Ela.
Phoenix’s study of me is uncomfortably intense, and he’s using the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
(what about tam)
It’s uncomfortable because he’s looking at me like he recognizes me.