Active Memory

by Dan Wells

  Keep us posted, sent Marisa, and followed Renata through another twist and up another ladder. Several turns later they were on the roof, seven containers high, with a smaller sort of penthouse block rising several containers higher in front of them.

  “Should be that one,” said Renata, pointing with her gun at the second container in the elevated row. It had a metal door, currently closed, though the padlock on the door hung loose and open.

  “No way she’s inside,” said Sahara. “Anyone who wanted could come by and lock her in.”

  “She wouldn’t have just walked away with the door unlocked,” said Marisa. “This isn’t that kind of neighborhood.”

  “Cheekbones, check it out,” said Renata. Omar cast her a sidelong glance, probably more annoyed at the nickname than the order, but he said nothing and held up his gun, approaching slowly. Marisa followed a few steps behind, taser ready, wondering what they would find inside: Zenaida, lying dead? Ramira Bennett, lying in wait?

  Or something even worse?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Omar opened the door with the tip of his foot, gun raised. Inside the container was the room they’d seen in the video, down to the last detail—including the salvaged seeker nuli she’d recorded with, hanging on the back wall. The only difference was a hole, at least half a meter wide, the edges still sizzling from an acid burn. The center showed clear sky and loading cranes in the distance. Marisa ran inside, looking out the jagged hole at the wasteland of La Huerta beyond.

  Across the street, only one building over, Ramira Bennett was scuttling up the side of another stack of shipping containers, her bare fingers and toes clinging to the metal as if gravity meant nothing. She looked over her shoulder, fixed Marisa with those inhuman eyes, and then turned back to her path and raced up the side of the containers. Marisa’s gaze tracked up, finding the roof of the makeshift building.

  There she was. Zenaida de Maldonado, dressed in combat fatigues, sprinting away at top speed.

  “There!” Marisa shouted. “She’s on the next building.”

  “Out of the way,” said Renata, and shoved Marisa to the side. She dropped her pistol, pulled her long rifle from her shoulder, and lined up a shot—not at Zenaida, but at Bennett. She pressed her eye tightly to the scope, her right hand on the trigger and her left arm propped up with her elbow on her knee, her left hand cradling the rifle. She slowed her breathing, drawing a close bead on her target. “Plug your ears.”

  “Careful!” shouted Marisa. “She’s got my dad’s liver.”

  Renata pulled the trigger gently, but just as she fired, Bennett dropped, letting go of the wall and then grabbing it again several feet lower. She had dodged the bullet perfectly; the projectile slammed into the side of the container, punching through like it wasn’t even there. The suppressor on the rifle dampened the sound, but not completely; instead of a deafening boom, it was merely a loud bang, like someone had whacked the inside of the metal container with a hammer. Zenaida looked back but gave no sign that she recognized them and kept running. Renata swore and resteadied her gun, ready to fire again, but Bennett scuttled to the side, rounding the corner of the container and disappearing out of view.

  “Lost her,” said Sahara.

  “Not . . . yet . . . ,” said Renata. She was still tracking the rifle smoothly, aiming at where Bennett probably would have been if the containers hadn’t been in the way. She fired again, shooting straight through the corner of the container, and as the bang died away they heard a cry. Marisa’s jaw dropped, and a second later Bennett reached the top of the stack, bleeding from her upper left arm and scowling at Renata.

  “That’s right, bitch!” shouted Renata, cupping her hand around her mouth. “These are AP rounds!”

  “The stasis bag is on her waist,” said Marisa. “Make sure you’re aiming high.”

  “She’s getting away,” said Sahara, but Bennett was already ducking behind one of the containers on the opposite roof. Sahara pointed out the hole and down, to a narrow catwalk connecting this stack to the next one. “Follow me.”

  Marisa balked, terrified of the height, but Omar was already throwing a blanket over the jagged edge of the hole and climbing out onto the ledge.

  “I’m going up,” said Renata. “I can give better sniper support from a few cans up.”

  “Hurry,” said Sahara, and followed Omar out. He’d shoved his pistol into his waistband, and was climbing down the ledge to the catwalk. Marisa looked at the next building over, fixing a spot in her mind and then blinking on it, setting a marker through her GPS. She sent the link to Anja and then opened a call to the entire group.

  “We found them,” she said, climbing out after Sahara. They were on top of containers stacked seven cans high, and Marisa did the math as she tried not to look down: that put them eighteen meters above the ground, with nothing but an I-beam catwalk between them and the ground. Omar was already working his way across the gap, with Sahara close behind. Marisa kept her eyes up, refusing to look down, and hoped that the person who’d welded the catwalk to the containers had been good at their job. “Go to my marker, and watch the tops of the walls.”

  “Got it,” said Anja. “What were those gunshots we heard?”

  “That was Renata,” said Marisa. She took a deep breath, let go of the wall, and started across the catwalk.

  “Shooting at who?” asked Bao.

  “You wound me,” said Renata. “Obviously I shot at the bad guy.”

  “I never doubted that,” said Bao. “I just want to make sure we define ‘bad guys’ the same way.”

  “Everyone shut up,” said Sahara, two-thirds of the way across the catwalk. “I’m trying to not plummet to my death.”

  Marisa swallowed her fear and focused on walking, one foot after the other, keeping her eyes on the narrow catwalk. Omar had already reached the other side, and moments later Sahara did the same. They stood at the edge, arms outstretched for Marisa, and when she was finally close enough they grabbed her hands and hauled her to safety.

  “We’re on the next building,” said Sahara. “Renata, can you see Bennett?”

  “I’m not at the top yet,” Renata answered. “Flying isn’t one of my superpowers.”

  “We can’t see anything from down here,” said Anja.

  Marisa blinked onto the internet, looking for a map site and then zeroing in on her current position, zoomed in to show the building they were standing on. She pinned it to the corner of her vision, in the same space the apartment map had been in. It gave her a better sense of the terrain as she raced off after Omar and Sahara, pelting across the rooftop. Most of it was open and clear, but here and there another container rose up one or two levels above the others.

  A sudden gunshot rang out, and the three of them dropped to the ground, scrambling for cover.

  “Is that you?” asked Bao.

  “Bennett,” said Omar, crouching in the lee of a container. “She’s got us pinned down.”

  “Then she’s pinned Zenaida, too,” said Sahara. “If she were still chasing her, she wouldn’t have time to ambush us like this.”

  “There’s a doorway in the roof over there,” said Marisa, looking at her map and pointing to the left. “It’s the only way in, so unless Zenaida just jumped off the ledge, that’s where she is.”

  “Bennett’s shots came from the right,” said Omar. “We’re in between them.”

  “Great,” said Sahara.

  “We’ve reached the street below your marker,” said Anja. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s jumped off your roof. Zenaida’s probably in the hole.”

  Marisa studied her map. “There’s another stack of I beams on the far side of this can,” she said. “More catwalks they never installed, I guess? We can crawl behind them in cover and get to the doorway that way.”

  “How old’s your satellite photo?” asked Sahara.

  “Couple of months,” said Marisa, checking the date. “Should be good.” She ran to the edge of the container, peeked aro
und the edge, and saw the beams. “Still there. I’m going to risk it.” She ran, and gunshots rang out from both sides. Marisa threw herself to the floor behind the steel beams, breathing rapidly. “Santa vaca.”

  “We’re definitely between them,” said Omar.

  “I’m trapped here,” said Marisa, crawling on her chest toward the far end of the I beams. The doorway she’d seen on the satellite photo was there—just a hole in the roof, with Zenaida and who knew what else inside of it. “There’s a good ten-foot gap between me and the doorway. I can’t make it without getting shot.”

  “Renata?” asked Sahara.

  “I had a complication,” snarled the mercenary. “Give me a minute.”

  Marisa shot a look back at Sahara, who shook her head suspiciously. What is Renata doing?

  “I’ll cover you,” said Omar. “Three, two, one: go.”

  Marisa heard more shots behind her, and hoped it was enough for Bennett to take cover. She jumped to her feet, sprinted across the last ten feet, and leaped into the hole. It had a wooden staircase inside of it, about two feet below the level of the roof, and Marisa tumbled down it in a series of painful whacks.

  “Freeze!” said a woman.

  Marisa held up her hands, too disoriented to know where the voice was coming from. “Don’t shoot. I’m looking for a friend.”

  “There’s no one else here,” said the woman, and Marisa’s eyes finally found her: standing in the far corner, one hand trying to unlock a door, the other holding a fat black pistol pointed square at Marisa. Instead of a normal magazine it had an ammo drum, like an old-style tommy gun, and Marisa shuddered to think how many bullets it could fire, and how fast.

  “It’s you,” said Marisa.

  Zenaida kept her gun trained on Marisa but said nothing as she continued fiddling anxiously with the lock.

  “You’re Zenaida de Maldonado,” said Marisa, and the woman stopped moving. She turned her head slowly, keeping the gun up.

  “How do you know that name?”

  “Because I know you,” said Marisa. She struggled to stand, keeping her hands up so the woman wouldn’t shoot. “And you know me, too.” She paused, thinking, and then used her human finger to point at her prosthetic arm. “I’m Marisa Carneseca.”

  The woman stared at her, and then lowered the pistol. “Dios mio.”

  “It’s really you,” said Marisa.

  Zenaida stared at her a moment longer, then shook her head and looked back at the door lock. “I don’t know how you found me but you need to turn around and forget you ever did—”

  “Omar’s outside,” said Marisa, and Zenaida froze again. Marisa risked stepping closer, and Zenaida didn’t stop her. “We’ve been trying to find you ever since ZooMorrow sent that assassin—that’s how we knew you were alive, because they were still hunting you.”

  “Then you should have stayed away,” Zenaida insisted. She crossed toward Marisa now, waving her gun and frowning. “Did your father ever tell you how you lost that arm?”

  Marisa grimaced, backing up and placing a hand on her prosthetic. “Yes.”

  “Then you should know better than to get yourself back into this mess. Move.” She pushed Marisa aside and climbed the first few stairs. She crouched down, just below the hole in the roof, and readied her gun. “I’m not going to let my boy die on this roof, so call your friends.” She popped up suddenly, holding the gun with both hands, and strafed the roof with bullets once again, pinning Bennett behind the container she was using for cover.

  “Run!” shouted Marisa, scrambling up after Zenaida and waving to Omar and Sahara. They saw her, and Sahara started sprinting toward the hole. Omar paused, frozen by the sight of his mother, but Marisa yelled at him again, gesturing wildly, and he ran. Marisa jumped down out of the way, and Omar and Sahara leaped down after her, both landing better than Marisa had. The camera nulis zoomed in with them. Zenaida ducked down after them, and she and Omar stood staring at each other.

  “. . . Mom?”

  Zenaida looked at him, and Marisa couldn’t read her face. After an agonizing silence, she looked back up at the hole in the ceiling, raising her gun in case Bennett came charging into view.

  “You have any bullets left?” asked Zenaida.

  “Spare mag,” said Omar. He ejected the empty one and slapped a new one into place.

  “Watch the hole,” said Zenaida, and went back to the door. She pointed her ammo drum pistol at the lock, pulled the trigger, and filled the room with a deafening cacophony of shots and sparks and ricochets. The lock and door tore open like paper, and she kicked the debris out of the way. “Go!”

  “Not without you,” said Omar.

  “You think I’m staying in this death trap?” growled Zenaida. “Go!”

  Marisa went first, and was surprised to find the container beyond filled with electrical equipment. Most of it was storage, but some was active . . . and some had been riddled with bullets.

  “Damn,” said Zenaida, shoving past her to look at the equipment. “Sorry, Rodney.” She looked over her shoulder at Omar. “You still watching our backs?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” said Zenaida, and started digging through a cardboard box full of cables and motherboards. “This belongs to a local named Rodney Burls; he uses it to look for aliens. Somewhere in here he’s got an encrypted radio—a handheld shortwave, like they used to use in the Coastal Defense Force. Though I guess that was before your time.”

  “Um, the only major invasion of United States soil,” said Sahara. “They kind of teach it in schools.”

  “Here it is,” said Zenaida. She pulled out a round white tube, maybe a foot long, and pressed a button on the side. A light started beeping red, and she nodded. “Time to run.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Marisa. “Who are you trying to contact?”

  Zenaida shook her head. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be when they interrogate you.”

  “Oh, not you too,” said Marisa. “Why don’t adults ever tell us anything?”

  “You can’t leave!” said Omar. “Not again.”

  “Watch the back door!” she shouted. She walked to the other door in the container and opened a heavy latch. “Let’s go. But I can’t lock any of these doors behind us, so watch our backs!”

  Suddenly the entire container rang like a bell, and Marisa felt a rush of air. She looked up in shock and saw a bullet hole in the ceiling; a finger of sunlight shone through, the beam pointing to another bullet hole that had just opened in the wall. The bullet had passed mere inches from Marisa’s face.

  “Is Bennett shooting through the roof?” asked Omar.

  “That was me,” said Renata. “It’s called covering fire.”

  “You almost shot me in the face!” screamed Marisa.

  “But I didn’t,” said Renata, “and now Bennett’s too scared to get near that hole you went into. She ran off the other way.”

  “We’ll watch for her,” said Anja from the street.

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Zenaida.

  “We’ve got friends outside,” said Sahara.

  “Loosely defined,” added Marisa.

  “Suffice it to say that our backs are being watched,” said Omar, lowering his gun and turning toward Zenaida. “Now, you . . .” He seemed as if he was going to ask her a question, but he either couldn’t find the words or he couldn’t bring himself to say them. “You’re here.”

  Zenaida didn’t meet his eyes. “If she’s circling around, you’re safer if you stay here.” She paused, looking at Omar, then put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry this couldn’t be . . . you know. I’m sorry. Say hi to your siblings for me.” Then she turned and ran out the door, and Marisa shot a pained glance at Omar before chasing after her.

  Sahara followed, and sent Marisa a message: I’m not sure what I was expecting.

  A paranoid survivalist? Marisa sent back. I feel like we should have seen that coming.

  Paranoid and ki
nd of a blowhole, sent Sahara.

  The door led into another container hallway, so narrow Marisa had to turn sideways to walk through it. She looked back, making sure Omar was coming with them, and then hurried to catch up to Zenaida, following the twists and turns and hoping they led somewhere useful.

  “How many exits does this container block have?” Sahara called out.

  “You’re safer if you don’t follow me” was Zenaida’s only answer.

  “We’re not leaving you!” shouted Marisa. She jumped down another staircase to find Zenaida paused at a junction in the tunnels, and stormed up to her with a frown. “I think we deserve some answers.”

  “Probably,” said Zenaida. “This isn’t exactly the time, though.”

  “Are you planning to stick around for a better one?” demanded Marisa. “We’ve torn this city apart trying to find you; not just for the last week but for the last fifteen years.” She saw Sahara and Omar drawing close to them, and laid into Zenaida with a fury. “This is your son!”

  “We don’t have time,” said Zenaida, and turned back to the junction. She chose the left tunnel, and walked down it with her gun raised. “I’m sorry you found me,” she called over her shoulder. Marisa and the others hurried after her. “It would have been easier for all of us if you hadn’t.”

  “We’re not very good at ‘easy,’” said Marisa.

  Zenaida stopped at an open door, looking out onto another catwalk. She turned back toward Omar. “I’m a terrible mother, and the last fifteen years have probably only made that worse; I’m not apologizing, I’m just letting you know. You look like you’ve become a decent young man, which I can only assume is in spite of your father’s influence. I’m glad of it. I . . .” She trailed off, and then stopped. “I don’t know what you’re expecting from me. I don’t need your help, and I don’t have anything to give you except my absence: I’m a wanted fugitive, and the farther you stay away from me the safer we’ll all be. If you . . . care about me at all, stay here, and keep these two with you.” She didn’t wait for a response; she raised her gun and ran out the door.

  “Wait!” shouted Marisa, and jumped to follow her, but the street outside was already ringing with gunfire, and she fell back inside; Bennett was shooting at the catwalk from somewhere, the bullets pinging off the metal as Zenaida ran. Zenaida fired back, her heavy machine pistol pumping out bullets at a ridiculous rate, sweeping them across the wall of shipping containers in a loud, sparking wave.