A lie. They both knew damned well that if Johanna had wanted to know, she would. Assuming she already didn’t. Nevertheless, one did have to follow polite social norms until given a reason to do otherwise.
“Oh? Very well, then.”
“He wanted to know about the architecture that underlays The Kingdom.” Cindira’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Kaylie told him, as I’ve told you many times, that most of what makes it function was only known to my mother.”
Another lie? Johanna wasn’t sure, and it was that uncertainty that kept Cindira both employed and alive.
“Did he believe that?”
The girl’s fingers curled around the arm of the chair in which she sat. “It’s the truth.”
“Of course, it is.” Johanna let out a long breath through her nose, pushing herself back from her desk. “But that resurfaces our old, unsolved problem, doesn’t it? We need to know how it all works. We can’t just keep throwing code on top of code. Eventually, we’re going to cross some tripwire or make everything too top-heavy, and it’s all going to come crashing down.”
“Do like I suggested, then. Open up the source code for hacking.”
“Hack into it yourself!”
Cindira guffawed. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. I’m not... I’ll never be able to do what my mother could.”
Not likely. One of the reasons Johanna Tieg had hated Omala Grover so much, was that she never lost appreciation for how talented she was. Even after Johanna had stolen Omala’s husband, her company, and her life, she had no doubt that a woman as intelligent as her husband’s ex-wife kept files on just how a struggling single mom of two had managed that. Legally and ethically weren’t terms that could be used to describe it. No, there was evidence somewhere in the system. Or at least, there was inside of GAIA, and what was The Kingdom but a GAIA clone monetized and dressed up to look different?
“You mean invite all those underworld tech scum who are constantly launching attacks into our product to do it for pay and with my blessing? I don’t think so.”
“Fine. Then we’ll just figure something out when it does come crashing down.” Cindira stood and made to leave, hesitating only a moment later, turning with a finger in the air. “There is one other thing the detective asked.”
Johanna’s eyes had already picked up where they’d left off on the message she’d been perusing. “Yes, what is it?”
“He asked Kaylie, if she was called in front of the GAIA High Court, would she be able to swear under oath that the source code is unbroachable by anyone.”
Johanna’s pulse ticked in her forehead. Was Rex’s shy and reserved daughter actually baiting her? Fine, if the child wanted to take a turn at the big girl’s table, she would give her a sample of the service. “For your sake, you’d better hope so.”
But the young woman failed to bend. In fact, Cindira seemed downright unflappable. “Should I talk to my father about this? Is he aware a GAIA security officer was here, snooping around?”
“He’s not, and neither you or I will disturb him with that fact. Your father’s under a lot of pressure right now. Let him have his space.”
Cindira shook her head, her eyes trained to the floor. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him for two months now. How much more space should I give him?”
“As much as he needs. He’ll let you know when he has time for a visit.”
“Good. And please, remind him that I literally live in his backyard. Whenever he has a moment, I’m available.”
With that, her step-daughter took her leave.
Johanna pushed back from the desk and tapped her comque, accessing the part of the memory where the image she’d received two months ago was stored. She wasn’t sure why she still kept it. She’d looked at it so often, the picture was burned into her mind, along with the message that had accompanied its receipt.
If you ever want to see him again, you know what to do.
But she couldn’t bring down GAIA without being able to access the source code, and she couldn’t access the source code without also endangering the stability of The Kingdom. She needed to find a way to hack it, in a way that kept as few people involved as possible. The person who undertook the deed could only be someone she could trust not to turn around and use it as leverage against her.
Someone who could stand up to the GAIA Congress, if it came down to it.
Someone like Cindira.
8
Cindira had been walking for an hour before she’d realized her ventilator’s air had soured, but by then, she was already half way across the city, her feet having picked out the path before her head had been clued in.
Even as dusk dissolved and night crept across the east part of town on broken legs and with outstretched hands, she endured. Her father, Johanna, her step-siblings... even most of the people she worked with forgot for whom her mother fought so hard. It was the rich and affluent who strode through marble halls and crystal palaces; it was for the poor and destitute who clung to their crumbling abodes even as the ocean had risen to wash away the old world.
Salt water mixed with city grime, creating a pungent cocktail that threatened to turn her stomach. Cindira walked faster, not from fear, but from determination. How had she allowed fear to become her comfort zone? You couldn’t walk with caution towards an awakening, you ran for it full force. Perhaps her agitated state, with her grimace and flexing fists, was the reason no one accosted her. Thinking back on what had happened earlier in the day in Johanna’s office further fed her distress.
The biggest difference between a vreal world avatar and an actual person was the tells. The electronic self only mimicked the macro: a hand reaching to pick up a glass, feet stepping in sequence in order to walk, even a sneeze. What it failed to capture and recreate were subtle, unconscious ticks built up over a lifetime: eyes widening when an attractive person came into view, shoulders going back when faced with an obstacle, et cetera. In Johanna’s case, a nerve on her temple pulsing when her blood pressure shot up, such as it did when she’d mentioned Batista’s question and the possibility of Kaylie testifying.
After the world embraced GAIA’s potential, the Ping-Bailenson Act of 2126 consigned all international relations – including wars – of member countries to the meta-authority body. “The hand that turns the screw, while also making all the screws, and the screwdrivers,” one journalist of the era had called it. That fact put Tybor, a privately-held company, in an odd position and called for many checks and balances. GAIA might be the one who used the tools which ran the world, but Tybor owned the garage. Under her father’s watch, Cindira trusted that the company upheld its promises to not become involved with Gaian politics or policies. Officially, Tybor only supported the VR system without any compensation. A charitable act. A humanitarian act. Cindira still believed that to be true, but what if things had gotten to a quid pro quo state? If that was the case, she wanted to know what that quid was, and for the that, she was going to have to find the quo.
The last time she’d been in GAIA had been fifteen years before. A lot could change in that amount of time. News reports couldn’t be trusted; she knew that much even as a child. She needed to see it with her own eyes. Something told her if she could unravel the mystery surrounding Batista, she’d have a better idea of what was going on.
He answered on the tip of the second buzz. “Go for Mack.”
Cindira turned down Market, heading toward the ruins of the San Francisco Ferry Building. “Can you go put in a cameo in the security office and run a little interference?”
“You know most people say hello when they call. It’s a basic courtesy.”
“So that’s a no, then?”
Back at his desk in Tybor, Mackey barked out a laugh on the other end of the comque. “That’s like asking me if I can breathe. Of course, I can. But why do you need me? Your clearance is even higher than mine.”
She made the final turn, looking four blocks ahead to where the unkempt majesty of ruined
skyscrapers dangled their foundations in the surf. A sunken block more, the clocktower still etched on many of the city’s tourist kitsch, illuminated under a gibbous moon, kissed its twin image on the calm waves beneath it. “I don’t want Tybor records tracing any breach back to a source near the Embarcadero.”
Apprehension shaded Mack’s voice. “You’re in that part of town at this time of night?”
“Don’t have much choice. If I jack in from one of Tybor’s machines, Johanna will know.”
“What you up to, Cin? Going to such lengths to get to a seedy jackpod?”
“Seedy has its advantages.”
“Yeah, but the Ferries are where all the bootleggers run their knockoffs that feed the chipheads.” Cindira pictured Mackey rubbing his right bicep with his left hand. “Where are you? I’m going to tag out and come down there. I don’t like you wandering into that part of town alone.”
“Absolutely not, I need you in security. Besides, the chipheads revere me. You think they’d ever do anything to hurt the daughter of their Goddess?”
“If you were actually public about that, maybe not. But don’t forget, Cin. Everyone reveres their goddess, until she abandons them.” His overly-dramatic sigh told her she’d won him over, even if reluctantly. “What do you need?”
“For no one else to notice the unregistered user walking around GAIA.”
“GAIA?” His voice pitched up an octave. “What in the Hell are you going in there for?”
“Because I’m the only one who can.”
SHE REACHED THE WATERLINE as the clocks rolled Tuesday into Wednesday. The Ferry Building had once marked the edge of the city, the place where land gave way to sea. About forty years ago, the sea took a share back, reclaiming sidewalks and cafes. Nearest the shore, you could still find pavers that had been laid down in olden times. Forty yards out, the walls of the first story of the landmark building were being eaten away slowly by saltwater, leaving only the steel girders that kept the upper levels aloft. In time, nature would nibble her way through those, too. Officially, the site was condemned. Unofficially, pirate jackers operated from the famous tower, aware that at any moment, an earthquake, tsunami, or plain bad timing could pushout the remaining building beneath them.
Cindira appreciated the reality of it. Foundations toppled all the time; a young girl whose mother died suddenly was all too aware.
“Need passage, love?”
She’d been so fixated on the building, Cindira had neglected to notice the boat bobbing a few feet out, tied to what may have been a lamppost once upon a time. From the darkness, two bloodshot orbs catching ambient light from the city stared out from a face sallow and thin.
“How much to get to the tower?”
“How much you got?”
A spark, then a flicker, and then a flame lit his features.
Cindira’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of a mangled twist of sinew and scar tissue, one prominent demarcation that ran from his collarbone, up his neck, and to where the corner of his mouth had healed poorly, leaving the bottom lip longer than the other. On his chin, a tattooed barcode occupied space where once a beard may have grown.
“You’re a convict.”
“No, love. I’m an ex-con. Survivors have scars.” He pulled a long tug from his cigarette and blew out the smoke in a long tunnel. “And heads.”
He wore no ventilator mask. The poor rarely had them and paid a debt greater than money for their poverty: shortened lifespans. Cindira stilled herself and silenced the tiny voice in the back of her head telling her only an idiot would get into a skiff with an admitted criminal and head into the night on the very waters where her mother died.
“I can give you sixteen for the trip out.”
“The trip out is free. It’s the trip back that’ll cost you.”
“Sixteen for that, then.”
“Twenty.”
“Eighteen.”
“Done.”
Pulling an oar from the bottom of the boat, he closed the distance over the calm water, offering out a hand at the shore. When Cindira reached for him, intending to slide her fingers over his to steady her step down. She almost fell over when he pulled back.
“Money first.”
“You said the ride out was free.”
“It is, but what if you never come back?”
She ticked up the agreed-upon fee into the bracelet on her wrist, but then paused before putting her finger on the print reader to slide the funds over. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“From the tower? You serious?” When she nodded, he continued. “Some don’t. Them’s the type that likes to get jacked in, but no intention of ever coming back out.”
Chipheads. Tybor had its competitors in the VR franchise, of course. Companies that offered an inferior product, like the arena Cindira fought in at The Stadium. Still, the lure of a better – if artificial – life was enough to tempt some people into abandoning reality for good. Not all VR forums had a stroke of midnight protocol like The Kingdom to kick out those who didn’t belong.
Cindira pushed the send signal, and the money transfer was done. This time when he offered his aid, she took it readily. Without sea legs, her arms went wide, holding out to the sides and steadying herself as she sat. “But don’t they know their bodies atrophy after a while?”
“They go there to die, love. It’s a bit of the point. I mean, all them Buddhists talking about Nirvana, isn’t that what they’re after? Freeing the mind from the body? Makes me wonder if them dead ones ain’t still alive somehow, inside those machines.” He looked out across the water, wistful in a way that bordered jealousy.
After a few moments, his focus drew back to her. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t waste your life away in some VR opium den or night club. You parlay the right folk, you could get a sugar, get inside The Kingdom even.”
The last thing she wanted was some richie who supplied her with jack time in exchange for money and/or lewd acts.
Her chest rose and fell. “I’m going to jack into GAIA.”
“The bloody World Order?” The oarsman guffawed. “Tell you what, I’ll give you back half your money and take you back now. No point on you going to the Ferries. None of them can get you in there.”
“I don’t need them to get me in. I just need use of their jackpods and an agreement to look the other direction.”
“The other direction’s the only way they know how to look in there.” He nodded, puffing on his cigarette even as he continued to row. “You’d need to have some serious connections to jack into a system like that. Or be a crack hacker.”
She turned back to the edifice towering above. “I do, and I am.”
9
“Don’t accept greens.”
The surly woman who met her at the door—or the gaping hole in the wall that had once been a window—curled a lip as Cindira’s finger hovered over her comque. U.S. Dollars, called “greens” for merely anachronistic purposes, still ruled legitimate markets, but this wasn’t exactly Union Square.
“I have crypto.” Cindira scrolled through her personal ledgers. “Do you take bot? Or rubbies? I can even pass you kartz, if you’re looking for something really exotic.”
A chill ran up her spine when the wrinkled woman’s claw clutched Cindira’s hand. “Lots of variety from someone climbing the tower. Who are you, and why would someone like you come about these parts? You think you’re setting me up?”
“I’m here for the same reason anyone else comes here.” Cindira loaded two hundred kartz into the transfer tray on her comque, then hit send. The Ferrier’s own device buzzed on her wrist, indicating receipt. “Because I’m not really here, if you catch me.”
The grizzled woman studied the numbers flashing on her wrist. “That’s twice the daily rate.”
“And all I need is two hours, a private jackpod, the highest bandwidth you got, and the ability to disable any security protocol you have in place.”
“No go. Without my walls, all that
dirty water comes slushing in.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to build new walls. Everything will stay high and dry.”
The Madame’s face cycled through resolution, doubt, temptation, and, finally, resignation. “Fine, but I’m going to have my hand over the power button, don’t care if the sudden evac scrambles your brain or not.”
“Fine by me.”
“Follow me then.”
They walked down a hall with broken tile floors and graffitied walls. Moonlight fell through what must have been an arched glass ceiling at some point. Now, only frame remained, blanketed over by tattered tarps blowing in the wind. Crossing a mezzanine, Cindira’s attention hooked onto a familiar set of eyes that pulled her like tractor beams in their direction. The subject of the mural sat in lotus position, her hands open, upturned on her knees. In one hand, a dead earth still smoldered at the edges, and in the other, she held a miniaturized rain forest, verdant and flowing with rivers.
The Madame took turns looking at the mural, then to Cindira. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like her?”
“We’re both just Indian is all.” Cindira tried to distance any speculation. “Who painted this?”
“Who knows? It’s been here longer than I have. The chipheads think she’s some kind of patron saint, like her image has the power to keep this building from falling down.”
Cindira looked back at the stout woman. “You sound like you don’t believe it.”
“I don’t. Just because she invented GAIA doesn’t mean she’s divine. This building will fall when the universe decides it should, no matter what we do. Just like this planet will die with or without us, no matter how many Omala Grovers it gives birth to.”
FOR FIFTEEN YEARS, one question had resurfaced in Cindira’s thoughts again and again. If she could ever bring herself to do it, if she could ever go back into that place forever tied to the memory of her mother, would it be like they’d left it on that long-ago September day?
City of Cinders Page 5