Sarah shook her head, looking off. “I don't.”
Now it was Ryan's turn to stare.
“Ryan, I was miserable. You were miserable.”
“But we had a chance—I so wanted to be happy. To have some peace.”
“Peace? Jesus, Laing. You know anyone at peace? You see it anywhere? It's a figment! The truth doesn't include peace.”
“Sarah—”
“Can you be here—truly—with me and know that you're never getting out of the storm? It's going to keep coming, Ryan, right up to the day you die.”
Ryan wanted to speak. He wanted to say he loved her, that he could be with her through anything. But that would be a lie—and she would know it.
Frank broke the tension, which he pretended not to notice. “We're on the next ferry,” he said.
Laing was glad for the distraction. Work pushed out the larger picture. Like that first move in rock climbing, his wider world dropped to back-ground static and he focused on what was to come.
“You link to the Sec Op?” he asked.
Frank grimaced, his annoyance obvious. “The CIA rep has officially informed The City of a credible terrorist threat.”
“And?” Sarah asked.
“And The City's Security Operations assures us that the threat will be processed.”
“What does that mean?” Laing asked.
“It means they could give a fuck about our intel. They're that sure of their precautions.”
“Well, when we get onboard, we can explain it out,” Sarah said.
Frank shook his head. “Sec Op has denied an official visit. Pretty much figured they would. No foreign intelligence in The City. No exceptions. We go in as civs.”
Sarah's annoyance grew to match Savakis's. “Well, can they tell us if Taylor is aboard?”
Frank shook his head. “Full anonymity for all City residents. You get aboard and there's no surveillance, no names.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“As far as catching Taylor? Yup. But it does make getting you onboard a lot easier,” Frank said to Sarah.
“Well, the CIA put me in this mess. You could damn well get me out. Pull the heat off me. Tell your cohorts to stop hunting me.”
“Like I said before—that's no problem. Just come back to Langley, submit to a month or two of debriefing, and you'll go clear.”
Sarah looked away, back out to the ship.
“Right then,” Frank continued. “I'll keep the fact that you're not a deranged terrorist to myself, and you can continue with us.”
“Even with The City's flaunted anonymity, I'd do some pigmenting. Your face has seen a lot of blog time,” Ryan said.
“They're really going to let me in? I mean they could DNA-check me.”
“No,” Frank replied. “They start with that and half the people on board would jump ship. The City banks on border control and cash.”
“But that won't stop every threat,” Ryan said.
Frank turned and looked out at the white mass pocking the smooth line of the horizon.
“Hear ya there,” Frank said. “I get a real Titanic vibe off that fucker.”
The hydro churned ocean, hurtling them out toward the monolith. They stood on the open deck with hundreds of other travelers. There was no baggage in sight. And the clothing—Ryan couldn't help but laugh. In the menagerie surrounding him, each outfit was more outrageous than the next.
Sarah giggled into his ear. “That's my favorite.” She pointed to a man decked out in an ancient suit.
“Is that naugahyde?” Ryan asked.
“Very possible.”
“You're overlooking the teacup.” Frank pointed to a woman at the stern, teetering in a plaz-molded blooming skirt.
“Good God, you're right,” Sarah said. “I stand corrected. Though you don't look too shabby yourself.”
Frank smoothed out the crinkles of his Hawaiian shirt, then did a little jump-kick in his matching jams.
“The high-tops set off your eyes,” Laing said.
The kicker on Frank's look was a pair of fuzzy laced shoes in dull mauve. “Hey, these were all the rage back in high school.”
Sarah patted him on the arm. “For the girls, Frank.”
Because no personal items were permitted in The City, anything an immigrant arrived with would be incinerated at customs. As such, a tradition had sprouted among those visiting The City. There were operators who did nothing more than follow the ship, set up their shops on the docks, and sell costumes to tourists. Of course, not everyone entered in such garb, but Ryan, Sarah, and Frank were tourists, and they needed to blend.
Frank stood back, taking Ryan and Sarah in. “You two shouldn't be talking.”
Sarah wore a pair of rat-gnawed jeans. On top, she sported a T-shirt that was more hole than fabric, the front of which sported the slogan NORM'S TITS.
Laing wore a matching wife beater. His shirt read NORM.
Sarah did a tight spin, showing off. “Well, I think it's divine!”
“Me too, darling!” an older lady shot in, wearing what appeared to be a dress made of doilies.
“Thank you!” Sarah replied.
“It really is horrible,” the woman gushed. “I love it!”
Sarah fell into conversation with the woman. Laing stared off, watching Tasmania fade into the distance. The battle within him had reached an un-easy stalemate. With effort, he was keeping the virus at bay, but his ability to utilize the drones remained severely limited. His body was shutting down, if slowly. He stifled a cough, an act that brought tears to his eyes.
Sarah wrapped an arm around him, putting her chin on his shoulder. Laing didn't turn.
“I always wanted to come back,” he said, scanning the coastline. “To try again. With you.”
“I promised myself, I'd never go back.”
She drew him away from the churned wake and the island fading into the distance. Turning, Laing got his first close look at The City.
It was one thing to check it in the flow—or even see it on the horizon. But to stare up at the edged prow vaulting into the sky was an awesome experience. The chatter on deck faded, everyone entranced by the sight.
The ferry approached the front of the monolith. The City's prow was a single sharp line rising five hundred meters into the air. Built on a mass of carbon steel cells welded together, The City had no hull to speak of. It looked more like a barge supporting a scraper on steroids.
The ship's flank extended for several kilometers, rising in levels of white plexi and clean deck. Laing could just make out the specks of people ambling along the open walkways that ringed each level. Green foliage and the occasional splash of flowers cut the white continuity. Far above, Laing saw airplanes cranking into the sky, launched off the rooftop airport.
After running the ship's length, the ferry reached The City's port, located in the rear of the structure. The port had two channels, with a central promenade where residents watched approaching ships. On either side of the canals, walls rose high, brilliant white and canted forward, generating a sense of movement. One canal was for private yachts, VIP guests, and the like. The other was far more crowded, with ferries packed one behind the other, loading and offloading an unending stream of humanity.
Ryan turned to Sarah.
—It's time.
Sarah nodded. She pulled the hawkeye and hurled it overboard. It might pass the screening, but they couldn't take the chance. The hawkeye inflated, hovered for a moment, then vaulted into the sky.
Laing tracked its ascent, then turned back to the ship. Electromags fired, drawing the ferry to hard lock. Passengers shuffled onto the ship in lockstep. Before Ryan, lines of gaudily dressed tourists crowded into the customs center. The splashy clash of colors contrasted with the crystalline cleanliness surrounding them.
As Ryan stepped from the boat, he sensed the deep push of The City's propulsion. Powered by over one hundred separate engines, The City pumped out just enough thrust to keep the ship on cour
se—a massive feat. The prop sat far under sea level. There was no sound of engines, no wake to be seen. There was only a sense of power—strong and pervasive. A will to push that was unstoppable.
“You feel it?” Laing asked.
“The engines? Yeah,” Sarah replied.
They took their place in the crush of people.
“I feel like a lamb heading for the slaughter,” Frank muttered.
“Bahahaaha,” Sarah said.
Frank turned to Ryan with a smile. “Norm, handle your tits, please. They're out of control.”
Sarah looked down to see that her outfit was quickly becoming X-rated. She blushed, adjusting herself.
“This sucker's first for the burn pile.”
“Not a moment too soon,” Ryan said, starting a laugh that evolved into a coughing hack.
They entered a vast room, lines of people extending out before them. A smooth, sterilized female voice hummed over the general hubbub.
“Welcome to The City. Please follow the lines to the first available customs locker,” it said. “No personal items are allowed in The City. On clearing customs, you will find all the goods and services you may require. Enjoy your stay.” A brief pause, then, “Welcome to The City . . .”
Fluorescent lines arced before each guest. Foot pressure triggered the touch-sensitive biocrete flooring. Each immigrant, on hitting the customs mall, got his or her own track leading to a locker. Ryan's arced off, away from Sarah and Frank. He shuffled along with it, stifling a vague panic. Something in the sterility, the smooth flow of people, the offload of all that was personal, jangled him.
He reached his locker and stepped inside. With a pneumatic hiss, the door shut behind him. From the customs mall's vast openness, the locker confined him in vertical white.
The voice spoke: “Please remove all personal material. Failure to do so will result in immediate expulsion from The City.”
Laing took some pleasure in ripping off the T-shirt. Once he was naked, a drawer slid from the wall. Laing placed his clothes inside and the drawer hissed shut. He could just hear the hot crackle of their incineration.
“Thank you,” the voice said.
From the ceiling, a small cylinder dropped. It resembled a shower-head. The sight heightened Ryan's discomfort. He breathed through the anxiety, experience conditioning his reactions.
The cylinder pulsed. Through drone-laced perception, Laing saw the room around him color with a hot shot of radiation.
“Forgive the discomfort,” the voice soothed. “Biocide complete.”
Another drawer slid from the wall. It contained a new set of clothes. He shuffled into them—very ready to get free of the box.
“With our compliments, please find a custom-tailored set of City-sanctioned apparel. Please consider these our gift to you.” The voice dropped a measure, growing conspiratorial. “They'll make a great souvenir of your time in The City.”
“Okay,” Laing said.
“Your ticket has been read and processed. We hope you've enjoyed your customs experience.”
“Umm, I have.” Laing wasn't quite sure if the voice was responsive, but didn't want to risk a lack of cordiality. In his experience, customs officials weren't to be fucked with. He didn't see why the machine should be any different.
“Proceed to the receiving area.”
At that, Laing breathed a sigh of relief—which grew bigger as the floor lowered slowly, taking him down a level and releasing him from the white coffin. He stepped into a sprawling atrium. Formal gardens spread out before him. Throughout, people mingled. He found Sarah bending over a blood-red rose, taking in its scent.
“Welcome to The City,” he said.
She smiled, stood, and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Let's find Taylor and get the hell out of here.”
“Amen to that,” Frank said, sidling up next to them. “Place gives me the creeps.”
33
THE CITY
Commodities were few in The City. Security mandated restricted intake. There were some trinkets for the tourists. Beyond that, The City traded in a single product: information. The entire population dressed in uniform, one person fading into the next. Here, you were who you said you were. All that was required for such freedom was money. With a full City-sanctioned credit chip, every tycoon and crook, dealer and diplomat was welcome to ply his trade.
Ryan and Sarah checked into their room, a standard tourist cabin, with Frank next door. With nothing to unpack, no toiletries to deal with, both stood in awkward silence. Sarah opened the sliding doors to a rush of ocean breeze.
From the room, Ryan watched her. The thin fabric of the uniform hugged her form, drawing out the clean curve of her neck. His eyes flowed with the whipping wind, catching the rise of her breasts, the smooth curve of her hip.
He stepped outside, sliding into her heat. He nuzzled Sarah's neck and she leaned back into him. The pressure of her on him, the rub of her ass, the sigh he barely caught in the passing air—it cut through his fever and pain.
She turned into him, her facial pigment shocking him out of the moment.
“Let it go,” he said.
Sarah looked confused for an instant. He ran a finger over her cheek. She pushed the tat, reshading her features. Light and shadow shifted. Ryan looked at her for a long time, locking her in his gaze.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It's not right,” he replied. “Not how it was.”
“I'm not ...I'm not doing anything now.”
“I know. It's the tech.”
“What does that mean?” Sarah asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“It changes you, Sarah. Becomes part of you. You are different.”
“There's an old expression about a pot criticizing the kettle,” Sarah said, crossing her arms.
“I say it because I know. I just hope you like what you've become.”
Sarah pulled away from the balcony and walked to the mirror in their small cabin. She studied her face, trying to remember.
She caught Laing's reflection behind her.
“Do . . .” she hesitated. Then hard determination washed her face. “Do you like it? What I've become?”
Sarah held still, bottling her tension. Laing locked her in the reflection. Then he stepped forward, wrapping her in his arms. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
Sarah relaxed into his embrace. She reached behind her, taking him in her hand, rubbing into him with slow, deliberate strokes.
Ryan ran his hands up under the gossamer fabric of her shirt, cupping her breasts, drawing a sigh from deep within her. He pushed closer, grinding into her. The move forced Sarah's arms to the sink. She pushed back, urgent.
Ryan stepped away, aching with the loss of contact. He pulled her shirt over her head, mesmerized by the tumble of hair down her shoulders. The smooth curve of her back transfixed him—wide shoulders into a slender waist and out again to her hips.
He removed her pants, revealing the twin indentations of muscle at the base of her back. The sight, the feel of her drove his need. Ryan dealt with his own clothing in a series of tugging rips. It was disposable.
He pushed close, flesh on flesh. She reached back and guided him. He sank, gasping with the sensation. Then slow thrusts, each building on the last. Harder. Faster. She arched back, driving him deeper.
In the mirror's reflection, Ryan watched emotion and carnal need play over her flesh in waves of color. The writhing, twining colors danced on her skin, pulsing as they fucked.
Shudders ran through her. No sound, but a cascading light show over straining muscles. And the clench-release of climax. He followed her.
Eyes tight shut, Sarah kept Laing close even as he slipped from her.
And even then, when it was all over, Ryan couldn't pull his gaze from her.
—Feels like old times, Ryan thought.
—I still don't see why I'm sitting back when you're the one who's fucked up.
—You're the only one who can hack
The City.
—Flattery, huh? I didn't know you were capable.
Sarah's quip brought a smile to Laing's face. Walking next to him along The City's port-side outer causeway, Frank watched Ryan's expression shift and grimaced.
“Cut that, man. Whisper sweet nothings on your own fuckin' time.”
“Sorry,” Ryan said. He walked on in silence. The cold tingle of action infused him with energy—something in short supply with the virus coursing through him. Having Sarah in his mind, at his back. Having a mission. It rang true. In its embrace, he could forget the past years. Life was simple. Find Zachary Taylor.
—All right, Sarah.
—Hold. I'm initiating the run.
Back to data rat status. Sarah wasn't a fan of the shift. She'd pulled her time. And she knew Ryan was just trying to protect her. Stupid move; she was healthy—far more of a match for Taylor than Ryan was without the drones and sick as a dog. Jacked up and well fucked, she felt so good—so focused! Sarah was ready to take on the world. The crushing helplessness of the past weeks, the past years, had evaporated. Confidence surged in her, clear and sharp, driving her forward. It wasn't Ryan. But maybe his presence had forced her to push the darkness away. She felt alive for the first time in years.
Through the hawkeye circling high above The City, she focused in on Laing, walking along the outdoor causeway. Something reassuring in watching that gait, long and deliberate, with Frank's choppy, thrusting steps cutting the tempo.
She flipped into the flow.
The City ran on a bubbled radiation transmission system. Outside the bubble, hacking its mainframe was nearly impossible. With Echelon, she might have had a shot, but those days were long gone. Now, she'd have to do it dirty.
She'd follow the shit. Literally.
The City was a zero-emission system. Were it not, a pool of solid waste would track the behemoth as it traversed the globe. Bad economic policy. With clean waters, The City could take on aquatic meat and produce without the expense of decontamination. Dealing with all the waste was thus a major issue. Each toilet on the ship included an incinerator. After each . . . deposit . . . the incinerator reduced the product to ash and gas. The gas was then vented, while the ash was used on the agricultural levels.
Empyre Page 24