Chapter 6 - The Secrets That Secrets Keep
Olen sat down on the couch and listened in a way that was more than listening, but couldn’t sense Ralphie at all. Maris was sleeping, so he let his thoughts drift upwards and relaxed.
(Hello,) he said eventually.
Go away, a voice replied, even though it wasn’t really a voice.
Olen grinned, holding the connection though it cost strength. (I know what you are!) he sent, exultant.
Is that a threat? it asked, and Olen pulled back in surprise, shocked.
(No! I just found out. It was finding out Jack was a shaman that did it. He’s you, isn’t he?)
Yes, the voice said reluctantly. What do you plan to do about that?
(Nothing. I think it’s neat. But it’s hard to talk to you. You think too much. And too fast.)
Few can hear me.
(It’s hard. Do you normally kill those who can?)
Normally.
(I don’t want to die yet. And I won’t tell people. Unless they’re friends and I have to.)
Why not? it demanded, probing his defences.
(Because you’re a freak just like the rest of us. And we stick together.)
Silence fell, cold and deep, and Olen didn’t think his reply had been appreciated at all.
“I didn’t think there would be a shaman in the old town,” Stephen said as they walked up the elevator stairs.
“That’s probably why he stays here,” Alison said. “And it’s quiet. Few people bother him, or I bother them.”
She stopped before a door on the third floor that opened for them. The interior was Spartan, almost brutally so. A generator and a couch were the only things in the entire room besides a carpet that looked positively hideous, and covered the walls, floor, and three feet inwards on the ceiling.
Stephen stopped, staring at the walls and then the ceiling.
“Jack ordered too much, so he made use of it.”
“But --“
“He’s a shaman. They don’t pay much attention to this world.”
“I know that, but that carpet is - is --” Stephen paused, fumbling for words, and just shook his head in mute horrified admiration.
“There’s something wrong with it? I mean, besides it being in the walls and ceiling?”
Stephen stared at her. “That carpet reminds me of the one time I saw a sim of the inside of an addict’s mind in System.”
“Well, I think it looks perfectly functional.” Alison walked over to the couch and prodded what seemed to be a sleeping bearded man wearing a night robe. “Jack? You in there?”
The man blinked and looked up. His face was strange, bearded and with an eye patch over the left eye and curiously unlined for someone in his early forties, or at least deciding to look that way. His eye was older, and piercing but somehow distant at the same time, as if looking through people rather than at them.
“Ah. What do you want?” he said, not looking pleased.
“Bank balance. And my friend here wants a discreet system access.”
“Huh.” Jack looked Stephen over slowly, carefully, then sat up and nodded once. He rummaged into the sofa’s crevasses and came out with a small wristband which he tossed to Alison. He looked Stephen over, grunted, then frowned. “Lots of implants. Monitored. You the one who Jumped?”
Stephen nodded.
“Lucky to live.” The shaman was silent. “Should be clear now, basic university user account. Try not to get caught.”
Stephen nodded, snapping into System for a few quick virtual minutes of probing. Information flowed through him, into him, but it was all academic information and filtered through too many validication checkers to be even remotely useful. He poked into rooms, widening his search patterns, only to run into blocks and walls.
He muttered something about the uselessness of standard accounts and walked into a general feed flow, searching out random bits of information, then for names. Faces. Locations. The search was specific, but he didn’t expect to draw undue attention on a university account.
<Not bad.>
<Good morning! Are you a university AI? I cleared this search with -->
<You can’t hide, Stephen. I’m sorry.>
<Jackson -->
The world exploded into fire in his head and Stephen screamed, combing back into the real world with a jolt of adrenaline that drove him to his feet. “Gorched, fucking, cracked asshole!”
“Who is hunting you?” Jack asked, looking unperturbed. Alison had removed her bracelet and was frowning at it.
“Jackson. Old ally, now an enemy. And really good.”
“So I noticed. Even basic shaman work generally takes longer to crack.”
“He’s not human. Maybe not a he. Someone else must have figured it out and his blackmailing him.”
“Hmm. And you figured it out why?”
“In case I had to.”
“Ah. So it’s only wrong if someone else does it?” the shaman asked, looking mildly interested.
“No. I’d only have done if it he really pushed me into some ugly place. Hasn’t yet.”
“He tried to fry your brain twice. I’m amazed you survived the second attempt.”
“Me too. But he doesn’t have rights. And someone finding out their own pet is not only using their System account but using it at a level that’s at least a Natural is damn scary to most people.”
“What is he, then?”
“Not a harf or cat. I think he is a dog, or at least has the body of one. I used to suspect he was a shaman, but I don’t think so, or he wouldn’t have gone after the account you made, would he?”
Jack shook his head. “He would not have. We do not interfere with each other.” He paused. “I think. He may not have known. Some shamans are not as well adjusted as others. This Jackson may be the first one that isn’t humanoid. Interesting. I will have to look into this further.”
“Before you do that, check my account.” Alison handed him the bracelet. “I want to know who gave the bonus for the last gig, and why.”
“You have a problem with a bonus?” Stephen asked, massaging his temples.
“By law they’re only given if an assignment gives someone more than they bargained for. Which means someone had us on vid, and possibly saw your friend.”
“Shit.”
“Without a recycling unit.” She didn’t smile. “Half of it if you find out why, how, and all of that,” she said to Jack, who just nodded, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The two of them waited a few moments and then left.
“I’ve never met a shaman in the flesh before,” Stephen said. “For someone supposedly always in System he’d quite lucid.”
“Most of them apparently are.” Alison shrugged. “I just know having one in the building jacked up rent by a hundred creds. But he’s generally useful and doesn’t bother people.”
Stephen nodded. “Makes sense. Most of the people who become shamans tend to be shy and insular. The rest aren’t, but some overbearing people are just over-compensating for being shy.” He smiled slightly at her look. “I do research things.”
“What kind of things?:”
“Useful ones. Or else Jackson wouldn’t have tried to shut me down. Names. Dates. People. Just precautions.”
“What kind?”
“The kind I hope I don’t have to use.”
Alison nodded thoughtfully, then stiffened. “Olen?” She sprinted down the rest of the elevator, Stephen following without a word, and Alison entered the apartment, a weapon in her hand, and stopped.
Olen was standing in the middle of the living room, eyes wide and pale. “They’re coming.”
Her gaze flicked around the room as Stephen shut the door, activating the locking mechanism. “Who is?”
“Don’t know. Assassins. Government employees. Their minds are all business, all cold and empty. They kill for money,” he said, looking confused. “Who kills for things they might not be able to spend and thinks it’s an honour?”
“Anyone with shit for brains,” Alison said promptly. “How many, how close, and how well armed?”
“Seven, two blocks, no idea,” Olen said promptly. “They have shields, but I can get around them.” His face twisted as if he’d eaten something sour. “It’s just not fun.”
“Right. They here for Stephen?”
Olen shook his head. “You, too. But they want you dead. Him alive. They don’t know about me yet.”
“Good. Keep an eye on - aura on things. You know what I mean.” He nodded. She looked at Stephen. “Go out, as if going to buy a weapon or something.” She handed him a small black gun. “And keep this on you. Nerve disruptor.”
“I’ve never used one,” Stephen said.
“Cute. Just point and fire. It’s broad range, so you should hit someone in front of you if they aren’t too far away. Has 20 charges, less if you do a steady charge. Then run. I’ll follow and pick them off from behind you. Got it? We don’t come back until they’re dead: I’m not risking this place on you.”
Stephen nodded and walked out the door, trying to be casual. In close quarters he could probably beat a few of them, but bladed weapons and speed wouldn’t count when someone has sonic weapons or worse and didn’t care about bystanders being butchered.
He walked outside. The street was half empty, filed mostly with those without homes or wage slaves hurrying to and from various places like cogs in a machine. He watched them carefully, willing distance, trying not to recognize anything and walked quickly, keeping away from the crowds and stopping one person who looked relatively sane to ask for directions to a weapons shop.
They were following him several minutes later, three men in basic body armour but their movements were too lithe for it to be little more than show. He took note of them, switching his course down the winding alley ways that littered the old town like sins. Two of them followed, breaking into a slight jog. He took note and ran, quick and furtive, diving into side streets and weaving around people, the part of him that was worried they’d be hit distant and removed. He palmed two knives as he ran and the two ran behind him, catching up quickly, and the air was filled with burning slashes of light.
He leapt up in the air, spinning round, and threw the blades as the ground where he’d been standing melted. The first one dropped with a knife through the eye, the second dove and rolled. Stephen twisted to the wall, catching it with one foot and springing at the man, who responded by vanishing into thin air.
Stephen landed and spun, picking the right since the attacker had been right handed, and kicked him solidly in the side. He palmed the gun and fired at the men, then at the two men entering the street. They both dropped, stunned, and he took the time to continue running, trusting to instinct.
A dead end three turns later reminded me of why Rikki had mocked instincts.
He looked up the wall for handholds as another of the killers came into the alley, firing blind. Stephen dove to the ground and fired the last of the disruptor, throwing it at the next man who moved around the corner and made another set of knives during the pause.
Two men, a third stunned, and him. The odds were decidedly stacked against him, so Stephen lowered the blades. “Who are you? What do you want?” he demanded, trying for reason.
The men responded by opening fire on him. Obviously, they had christened their weapons reason. He threw the knives and leapt for the wall, scrambling up it and almost making the roof as one burst tore a hole through his left leg. Stephen swore and blocked, using the surge of pain to propel himself onto the roof.
He took stock. No weapons, no time to make weapons that would be any good, three armed men with weapons, and he was shot. “Strange idea of bringing me in alive,” he muttered, assessing his options and find them bleak. he took a deep breath and concentrating, focusing on the air in front of him. It took an effort and his vision swam for a moment but he smiled at the small result in his hand before dropping it on the roof and running for the edge, leaping with his good leg to the next building.
He landed, rolling and hissing in pain as his wounded leg was jarred and covered his ears. The explosion sounded a minute later, the three men hurling off the roof as the sonic wave crashed into them. With luck they’d only have a few broken bones.
He stood, his leg almost healed, and headed for the edge of the roof when someone shot at him from the left. Stephen dove, barely avoiding it, and spotted two more of the men wearing some skinweave armour and no longer hiding it, their bodies shifting as it camouflaged them.
Stephen licked his lips, wondering if Ralphie would come if he called, and both men’s legs exploded. Messily. They hit the grounds, then writhed and melted. Alison stood up from behind them, nodding to him casually.
“You blew their legs off?”
“Feet, actually. It’s the weak point in skinweave. The desolidifier took care of the rest. Armour helps things like that. You okay?”
Stephen nodded. “Got shot. Better now.”
“Good. Now get off the damn roof,” she said, jumping down to the ground. He followed suit, landing lightly.
“There were three others. Olen phased out before sensing them, but I got them anyway,” Alison said briskly. “For people ordered to take you alive they weren’t using the wisest methods.”
“Trust me, I noticed.”
Alison nodded slowly. “Means they know about the healing nanites, but they couldn’t have been sure how good they are. Could you survive getting your chest atomized?”
“I have no idea. And I’d rather not find out,” he added firmly.
She smirked. “Spoilsport. Okay. So they were under orders to take you in alive and didn’t know their weapons were set to kill. Someone doesn’t like you even more than me.”
“Funny.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
Stephen paused a moment. “Well, that’s what makes it funny.”
(Are you okay?)
Alison winced. “We’re fine. Coming back. Any problems?”
(No. Sorry. Not yet.)
Stephen looked at Alison. “Not yet?”
“I taught him to be specific.”
“Right.” He walked quickly, nervously, his eyes searching shadows for things other than darkness.
“Boo!” Alison yelled, and he leapt to the side, a sword in his hands and ready, then blinked and lowered it, staring at her.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Testing your reflexes,” she said mildly, eyeing the sword curiously.
Stephen resisted the urge to run her through, since if he did she’d likely kill him. “This isn’t funny!”
“Is to me.” She didn’t smile. “The way you’re feeling now is how I lived over half my life. Watching. Scared. Afraid. Like a frightened animal and not a person. And you’re just feeling it now, so quit feeling so bloody sorry for yourself, Stephen.”
Stephen made a sheathe, putting the sword in it and continued to walk. “I killed four police men two nights ago,” he said finally, his voice calm and even. “How do you sleep?”
“Pardon?”
“Answer the question,” he said softly.
“On my back, so I can reach for weapons. Some like to sleep on their side so it’s less of a target, but it also limits their mobility.”
“I can’t sleep on my back. Every time I do I remember things. Light. Voices. Machines. It’s never specific; only the fear is always there. The voices are my parents. I finally grokked it last night, probably because I had no choice. I know they did things to me, experiments and the like. They were very open about it. Too open, you see? Our most open actions always have a secret side to them. The show of an empty hand is more scary than a closed fist: at least the fist is honest. At least it doesn’t hide what it is.
“For all I know, they made Ralphie, and this is just a test, another experiment by them to see what happens. I could die, I could survive. I might even live. But it won’t matter to them because the only thing they’re concerned about is data and acquiring it. I don’t hate them for it. I can’t, since they made me who I am. I could, but not without hating myself, too, and I don’t want to give them that satisfaction even if they would never be satisfied.
“And you try and give me your guilt as if it’s a coat I’m supposed to wear? As if I’m supposed to see how bad your life was and be thankful it wasn’t me? Well, fuck that. And fuck you, if that’s what you had in mind. Your childhood was horrible? Well, so is everyone else’s unless they spent it drugged.”
“Are you done yet?” Alison said, her face empty.
“Maybe. Should I be?”
She smiled, slightly, and nodded. “I apologize, then. What I meant was that I adapted to it, and you could as well.”
“You’re always afraid?”
“No. I’m always watching. Aware. Prepared.” She smiled, or at least bared her teeth. “I haven’t been afraid for a long time.”
“You could die though.”
Alison shrugged. “Everyone does that. As long as I kill several people while doing so, the manner and method don’t bother me at all. I’m not scared of death.”
“What about life?”
“What about it?”
“Are you scared of it?’ Stephen asked.
Alison was silent for a few moments. “Not in the way you mean, no. But I will never have children. It’s my contribution to saving the world.” There was no humour in her voice and she looked at something only she could see. “Being a mother doesn’t scare me, as much as failing at it would. And it is all too easy to fail at something so important. It doesn’t matter in any event.”
“Of course it matters. It --”
“-- does not matter,” she said, interrupting him. “I had my ovaries replaced with bombs.”
Stephen stopped, ignoring the sidewalk telling him to hurry up. “Bombs?”
“It was a practical use of space.”
“There’s more to life than being practical,” he said gently.
“Not if you want to survive.”
“There’s more to life than survival as well.”
“No, there isn’t. Life is a battle, a fight, and we never win it. Ever. But it’s the fight that matters, the battle against death and our ending. There are no good deaths, but there are satisfying ones where you take out many people who want you dead as well.”
“So they lose the fight?”
“They are beaten. So, yes, they lose.”
“But if they don’t know about your whole theory, how does it matter once you’re dead?”
Alison shook her head. “You don’t get it. It doesn’t matter at all. But pretending it does is reason enough to live when I should die, if only to spite those who want me dead.”
“So this is why you bounty hunters all blow up when you die?”
“Perhaps. It is what I believe. I imagine the others believe some variant of that, something akin to hate to keep them going in spite of the odds against them. I’ve never asked, but we all grew up in the same world, and we’re all as hard as we have to be. This isn’t a world that forgives weakness.”
“Or encourages it.”
She nodded. “You understand, then.”
“Yeah.” Stephen grinned. “I’m just not sure what weakness is, really. Caring for people is, maybe, but it’s also all that really makes us human.”
“There are people who exist only in System as ghosts, humans who have turned themselves into AIs. In Alpha Centauri there are beings made of energy that used to be human before they modified themselves. Being human isn’t as simple as it used to be.”
“Maybe not, but inside we’re all the same. We feel. We love. We yearn. We hate. All of that. Our passions make us human, no matter how fleeting they are.”
“Your point, if you have one?”
“It’s our weaknesses that make us strong.”
“Ah. Very fortune program. Do you know how weak knees are?”
“Yes.”
“Then explain how they make us strong.”
“We couldn’t walk without them?” Stephen offered.
Alison was silent for a few moments.
“You might want to have a better example next time.”
“It doesn’t matter. You understand my point. Humans are inefficiently designed.”
“Maybe. Depends on what we were made for, and what we make ourselves for. I don’t think that involves breaking knee caps.”
“Then you have a better view of people than I do.”
Stephen snorted. “I think that goes without saying. Olen’s telepathic, and I bet he does as well.”
Alison shrugged. “I fail to see the point of this.”
“I’m not sure there was one. But you’re too pessimistic, Alison. And pessimism is a circular disease. If you believe everyone will hurt you they will do so, because you’ll see what they do as hurt. You’ll force them to do so just because they’d be sick of your thinking they were hurting you.”
“I’m wondering why I saved your life. You’re quite the moralizer for someone without morals.”
“What makes you think I don’t have morals?”
“You’re rich.”
“You need to get laid.”
Alison stopped and stared at Stephen. “Pardon?” she said, in tones better suited to a declaration of war than a question.
“Sex is the only real cure for pessimism,” Stephen said quickly.
“With or without claws?”
“What?”
“My claws. Should I remove them for sex?”
“I wasn’t saying to have sex with me,” Stephen said, horrified. “I don’t want to be eaten.”
Alison blinked. Then blinked again. Then found her voice: “... what?”
“Some animals eat their mates.”
“You think I would eat you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
Alison smiled. “Good.”
She continued walking, humming to herself.
(I’m sorry,) Olen sent when they came in. He was trembling and ran to Alison, stopping before reaching her. (I didn’t mean to --)
“It’s okay,” Alison said. “You have seizures. The world doesn’t end.”
(I tried to tell you, but the world went away and I couldn’t.)
“Tell us what?” Stephen demanded, hand on his sword.
Olen pointed to the bedroom he shared with Stephen, sniffing. (He’s dead.)
Alison reached the door and opened it before Stephen could think of moving. He closed the main door, ordering it to lock, and drew the sword.
“What the hell is this?” Alison demanded.
Stephen entered the room and stared at the dead man on the bed. Or at least the parts of him that were on the bed.
“Cyborg, I think. Ralphie?”
“He appeared in the closet,” Ralphie said angrily from below them.
“Ah. Where are you?”
“Under the bed.”
Stephen opened his mouth to ask how, caught Alison’s glance, and closed it. “Right. Why?”
“He scared me!”
“You ripped him into a good dozen pieces.”
“He scared me a lot?”
Alison coughed, suppressing a laugh. “You get anything from him, Olen?”
(He was psychic. In a bad way. All twisted and gnarly.)
“Shit.” Stephen stared at the body. “We’re fucked. Pack. Get all essentials. We have to leave.”
“What?” Alison demanded.
“Covert operations,” Stephen said tersely. “Humans with minor psychic powers. Only a rumour, but a really persistent one. If one is here more will follow. And there’s no way we can fight them.”
“Can we?” Alison asked, looking at Olen.
“I never knew it was here until Ralphie tore it apart,” Olen said. “They gave it shields to hide itself and a talent that worked regardless of shields, and shielded again. Somehow.” He shivered. “I don’t think I’d be able to get inside their heads. Too much would be broken ip.”
She nodded. “Get Jacks’ attention. Defensive measures. Tell everyone else we’re leaving, but they shouldn’t be bothered,” Alison said crisply. “Pack lightly. Generator, food, code B-14 by three.”
Olen blinked. “Pack?” he looked worried.
“Right. Stephen, pack for him. He keeps confusing types of clothing sometimes. I’ll pack weapons. I assume you can make anything at need?”
Stephen nodded. “It’s tiring. It’s sort of like having a generator inside, but less well designed. Better for weapons I like to use than for anything else. I never used it much, because no one else has one.”
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