City of Cinders

by Kendrai Meeks

  Batista’s eyes lingered on each person for a moment, as though he were validating them against a checklist. When he got to Cindira, she turned to her screens, even as her cheeks heated. Hopefully her light olive skin masked it, though she could have sworn his eyes stayed on her a little longer than the others, as though categorizing her took extra effort.

  Gone was the flirting he’d briefly displayed upstairs. The detective laced his hands behind his back and became the very model of professionalism. “Don’t you use aural interfaces? Are they actually typing into keyboards?”

  When had the façade dropped? In the elevator, perhaps? Cindira wouldn’t put it past her step-sister to make a move along the way, triggering a less agreeable man to withdraw. She’d done as much even when Cindira had been with her. She and Scotia still used the term “express lift” as a jaded euphemism.

  The cadence of keying slowed from a fierce squall to a gentle passing shower. Jeffrey Mackey in particular caught Cindira’s eye, pointing while he mouthed the words, who the hell is that? Cindira shrugged, taking shelter in her trench of a computer station and hoping she could still hear clearly across the distance. Luckily, Kaylie chose Mackey’s station for whatever show-and-tell she had planned, placing the couple right behind where Cindira worked.

  “There’s an AI assistant on standby, but believe it or not, the code writers prefer it.” Kaylie paused, leaning over Mackey’s workspace, pointing to the left-hand display filled with symbols, letters, and numbers. “Aural interfaces require natural speech. The Kingdom’s supplemental code is all written in Purusha+. The code writers say it’s quicker to input this way.”

  “It is quicker.” Mackey’s hands froze over the keyboard, the stream of key strikes ceasing with an audience watching. Suddenly, his hands went to his screen, spreading his fingers out wide to block as much of the view as possible. “I’m sorry, but this is a user’s private information. It’s not open for external review. Not unless you have a warrant.”

  Batista grimaced. This was a man who wasn’t used to being told no and hadn’t had a lot of opportunity in letting it go when he couldn’t. As though the detective realized others might be reading his social cues, he unbuttoned his jacket and cleared his throat before resuming a nonchalant attitude.

  “It wasn’t my intention to pry. My apologies.” He turned back to Kaylie. “Purusha+?”

  “It’s the language Omala Grover invented that GAIA is built on.”

  At the mention of her mother’s name, Cindira perked up. She almost stood. Almost.

  “I know what Purusha is,” the detective continued, “but I thought it was something only its creator knew.”

  Kaylie backed against one of the walls, using it to arch her chest out in such a subtle way, you’d have to know her tendencies to read her distracting devices. “I know that’s what everyone says, but it’s not entirely true. We’ve been able to ferret out enough of the language through the years to keep both The Kingdom and GAIA going. Grover might have thought she was doing something no one else was capable of, but we estimate we’ve been able to recover about ninety-percent of it. Parusha+ is more of a derivative, really. No one will ever be able to do everything she did, but we know enough.”

  “A gap of ten percent of a language sounds pretty significant, Miss Fife.” He turned his intense scrutiny on the coders with a slow sweep of his head. Cindira took eyes to her screen in desperation to remain invisible. “No one knows it all? Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Exactly what is it that you’re investigating, Detective?”

  Batista hesitated, his eyes filled with equations meant to measure Kaylie. Finally, he gave one miniscule nod and continued. “I’m investigating some recent developments which has us curious about the source code. I’m here representing GAIA Security. I’m afraid that’s all I’m at liberty to discuss.”

  GAIA security? Cindira’s fingers went to her throat, stroking a thumb over the indent in flesh.

  Kaylie continued, “I thought security officers were permajacked into GAIA?”

  “You must know that’s just a rumor. If we stayed permajacked, our bodies would atrophy, like a chiphead’s.” He held out his arms, inviting her to inspect his person as evidence. “As you can see, I’m not in any kind of diminished state.”

  No, he is not.

  “Fair enough. But still, why would GAIA want to know about the architecture of The Kingdom? The source code should be more or less the same.”

  “So the theory goes.” Any trace of gaiety drained from his features as he held up a hand and traced a finger down the wall, drawing an invisible line that used the contours of Kaylie’s body as a guide. “Miss Fife, have you noticed any subtle changes inside The Kingdom environment that you’ve found difficult to explain lately?”

  “That’s difficult to answer, Detective. It’s constantly changing. The fashions, the color palates, the clientele. It might be a vreal world based on a romanticized recreation of baroque opulence, but we still have to keep its visual appeal tracking in parallel to contemporary twenty-second century tastes.”

  The detective began to read fluently in Kaylie’s language. He leaned in, flattening his hand against the wall, just right of her forehead. Cindira should have been used to the way that men threw themselves at her step-sister. Not that Kaylie made herself a difficult catch as long as the man pursuing had the body, money, connection, status, power, and/or secrets to make him worth her time.

  Cindira grabbed her mug, faking a need to top off her coffee, to position herself close enough to hear.

  “Rumor is, most of those fashions change because of the styles you yourself debut.” He traced a finger over Kaylie’s bottom lip. “You’re quite the trendsetter, aren’t you? But where do you get all your personal things designed? Rumor is, no one can code their equal.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t share that information. If everyone knew who my designer was, she’d jack her prices sky high and never have time for me.”

  Rolling her eyes wasn’t a choice, it was a form of therapy. Cindira bit the inside of her mouth. Jack her prices up. Had Kaylie ever paid Cindira a single credit for the hundreds of hours of labor she’d done? No. The reward, she’d said, was in building a portfolio. The mystery of the unknown designer would only add to intrigue, and one day, when Kaylie was ready to share her, she would. Three years of promises had built up quite a debt, one which Kaylie was in danger of defaulting on.

  Batista leaned in, his lips inches from Kaylie’s. Cheese biscuits, the detective was as bad as her step-sister. It wasn’t just Cindira gawking now. Not a single keystroke or mouse click could be heard.

  “Can I at least see underneath?” He closed his eyes, as though he meant to kiss her, but didn’t actually move a single bit. “Let me see the code?”

  Though the two lust birds remained unaware, everyone else in the room turned on Cindira as slammed her mug on the table next to the coffee pot. Hell. No. She’d be damned if anyone was going to take a peek at her code. Not even Kaylie was allowed to see, not that she’d expressed any interest. Cindira hadn’t spent years fighting off hackers for some hot lips GAIA detective to swoop in and steal her designs.

  Luckily, Kaylie backed her up for once—

  “I’m sorry, but without a warrant or a direct order from my father...”

  —even if she did so while claiming Cindira’s dad as her own.

  “...no one is allowed to see any code. Even the coders in this room have to grant each other permission to see their own work.”

  Just as Kaylie got tired of waiting and leaned in, Batista swiveled, pulling away. “What did you mean when you said you’re coding in a derivative of Purusha?” The indifference had crept back into the detective’s voice. “The Kingdom has expanded since Omala Grover died fifteen years ago. How can you keep building if you don’t have the full code set?”

  Kaylie blinked away the confusion. She wasn’t dumb; the quick switch made it all too clear Batista
was attempting to play her. The only way to lose in this moment was either to renew her seductive taunts, or to appear hurt.

  Even if she might be.

  “What we do here is mostly cosmetic,” the blonde said plainly. “We can create buildings, design avatars—that kind of stuff. But we can’t figure out how the wind blows or why gravity still is present. Did you know that every snowflake that falls in The Kingdom or GAIA is unique? The code that actually lets The Kingdom function is restricted.”

  “Restricted from whom?”

  “Restricted from everyone.”

  Cindira couldn’t stop the half-grin that blossomed onto her face. Not everyone.

  Kaylie continued, “The Kingdom’s source code was directly copied from GAIA, and since GAIA’s source code was also only accessible by Omala Grover...”

  The detective balanced his chin on his balled-up hand. “Miss Fife, are you telling me that even Tybor doesn’t know how The Kingdom works?”

  “No one has ever known. Except Omala Grover, and the dead don’t talk.”

  He stepped forward, dropping his hand and his indifference. “If you were called on by the GAIA High Court, is that something you’d attest to?”

  The High Court only dealt with high international crimes. What in the hell was going on inside a hedonistic and frivolous world like The Kingdom that was being investigated with the same intensity as a war crime?

  Kaylie swallowed. “Are you threatening me, Detective?”

  “Not you.” Batista reached up, vanity beaming from his smug smile. “Thank you for the tour, Miss Fife. It was very illuminating.”

  4

  Fog, as welcome as it was rare, cloaked Cindira’s weary sojourn home. On nights like these, when the Kitchens kept baking code until after dark in response to some high roller’s request, she longed most for the home she once shared with her mother. It still peeved Cindira that she hadn’t been allowed to stay. Can’t happen, her father had said a few days after the funeral when she’d suggested her nanny would be happy to stay on. You just lost your mom, kiddo. I know it hurts to leave, but you need to be with family. An eleven year-old can’t live without a parent, and a nanny isn’t really a parent.

  A thought she almost found comforting, until the next fall when she was shipped off to boarding school. By that time, however, it seemed the lesser of two evils. Kaylie and Cade vacillated between indifference and intolerance where she was concerned. Five years their junior, their interests and concerns didn’t often overlap. Johanna in the meantime barely acknowledged Cindira’s presence, other than to occasionally reference her in the background of a conversation, during which she was customarily labelled either “Rex’s kid” or “that woman’s child.” Exceptions proved the rule, and on the rare occasion when her parentage wowed a guest, she was forced to doll up and parade through the room as “the great Omala Grover’s daughter.” It didn’t hurt that, other than having her father’s green eyes and somewhat fairer skin, she bore some resemblance to her late mother. Johanna fawned with faux pride and sympathy, as though she were a saint who’d adopted an orphaned princess.

  Cindira paused at the entry to her father’s home—or, more appropriately, to the path that led to the guesthouse in the backyard—taking off her ventilator and stuffing it into her bag. City air had been predicted to clear up enough for long-term exposure two years ago. When the fog locked in the pollutants of the day, however, it was still a good idea to switch to filtered. If it weren’t for GAIA, the ventilator might be a permanent necessity.

  As her eyes tracked up from her side bag, a flash of white scurried across her path, making Cindira jump back and muffle a shout. Her hands tightened into fists as she chided herself. “Damn it, Cindira, it’s a mouse, not a python.”

  Not that she’d care to run into one of those, either.

  The gate protested with an eerie creeeaaak. Beyond it, an elderly woman with a mop of gray hair floating atop a nightshirt wielded a rake.

  “Stop or else.”

  Cindira let the gate close behind her before crossing her arms over her chest. “Or else what, Auntie?”

  “Auntie?” The gardening tool lowered as another arm came up to sweep away a hairline and expose the wrinkle-wrecked face of Asla Duncan. “Oh, Cindira! Cindira dear! I’m sorry. I just thought... I—”

  “You were defending the house against thieves, thugs, and possibly, thespians. Yes, I know.” Cindira dropped her bag at her side and divested her one-time nanny of the rake, setting it aside. “But as you can see, it’s just me, as usual. You know that no one else comes in the back gate but the two of us.”

  Asla’s eyes fluttered. “Not true. Why, I woke up from my nap this afternoon someone was poking around.”

  Cindira took up her bag. “Did you draw blood?”

  “Ah! You make jokes. You never see the danger coming.”

  Cindira hooked her arm in the old woman’s and walked her toward the guesthouse they shared. While she may not have her father’s oppressive wealth, her mother had left her with an inheritance suitable that she could afford her own place. Only, Cindira refused to employ the woman she considered the closest thing to a mother she had on principle, and Asla, ever proud, refused not to work. The guesthouse location allowed Cindira some measure of separation from the rest of her family and gave Asla a way to keep working despite the challenges time presented for her mobility. Though if Asla ever found out it was Cindira and not the rest of the family paying her salary, all her efforts would be for nothing.

  The arrangement also let Cindira prevent situations where Asla would kill someone with her frightening ninja broom skills. Ever since the night when Omala Grover had died, the former nanny saw monsters everywhere. For fifteen years, every doctor was a conspirator, every driver an assassin. She refused to accept the truth; Omala’s death was nothing more than a tragic accident. Cindira’s mother had slipped off the dock on a foggy, damp night and was hit by the very boat coming to pick her up. It could happen to anyone. It had happened to Omala.

  Cindira decided to focus Asla’s attention to the remaining question. “So who was it then?”

  “Who was—Oh, some sort of delivery. A box with your name on it. I didn’t open it.”

  “Did the package have a return address?”

  “No, it wasn’t post. Is there even post anymore? A courier from Tybor came. I thought he meant to bring it to the main house for the family, but he swore it was for you.”

  “Why would Tybor go to the expense of sending something here, when they could just drop it to me at the office?”

  “He didn’t say. Just a quick ‘Is this where Cindira Tieg lives?’ and that was it.”

  The guesthouse Cindira shared with the aging woman had originally been built as a pool house, a hundred years before. During the worst of the droughts that had come when Cindira was a baby, outdoor pools up and down the west coast were outlawed and forcibly filled. Only the outline of the former feature remained, creating a buffer between them and the main house. Now that Asla had been assured that it was only Cindira at the gate and not a thespian, she shuffled off to bed, leaving the younger woman alone with some reheated chapati, some shepherd’s pie, and a box without an obvious way to open it.

  As she turned it over in her hands, rotating it, looking for a seam, Cindira’s imagination took off. Could it be a cake? A firesafe with a trove of money? A human head? Hopefully not that last one, though honestly, she wouldn’t be interested in finding a head of any kind. Curiosity burned, even as reality frustrated. There was no key hole, no crease, but it wasn’t empty. Every time the axis changed something moved within.

  She’d have to follow up in the morning with the office, figure out who had dispatched the cube to her home, and why. For the moment, she wanted nothing more than a hot shower and cool drink—

  Knock, knock, knock.

  —Which would have to wait.

  Kaylie was a woman born both annoyed and annoying. The moment Cindira opened the door, she plowed
past and spun around, fists on hips. Why Asla was so scared of actors, but evil-step-siblings-turned-bosses didn’t force her running into the room with broomstick in hand, Cindira couldn’t say.

  “I need a new dress.”

  “Please, make yourself at home,” Cindira deadpanned, closing the door behind her step-sister.

  A shaky voice called from behind a closed door. “Is it a thespian, dear?”

  “No, Ms. Asla, it’s only me, Kaylie,” Kaylie called out over Cindira’s shoulder before adding under her breath, “crazy old bat.”

  Cindira closed her eyes and huffed her frustration. She’d lecture Kaylie—again—about respecting the elderly, if she thought it would do any good. At least Kaylie rarely said anything rude directly to Asla’s face. What Cindira wouldn’t give for the same consideration.

  “Kaylie, I just got home. Just. And as I’ve told you ten times before, I can’t design something that complex from here. Security protocols won’t let me—”

  The blonde interrupted, “I know, tap into the network from a location outside of HQ or an approved satellite office. But you don’t understand. I need it. There’s a ball tonight, and I just found out Maeve Connor copied the design—by the way, what the hell? Don’t you have my designs copyrighted? — and is wearing it specifically to make me look stupid.”

  Not sure she needs to go to such lengths. “I do have your designs—” My designs. “—registered, but that doesn’t stop someone from making a pretty close knockoff. You know that. And I was just about to—”