Cog (14 page)

He hung his head as a measure of breath escaped his nostrils. “Your room’s as you left it,” he said in a low voice.

She froze. After all this time. Then she knew. The off-kilter scent. The sickly yellow wasn’t a fashion statement, it was a medical statement. He was ill. He’d never admit it, of course. Any sign of weakness in a crime lord was a death sentence, but his outrageous fashion was more than a statement now. It was a camouflage. She squeezed his arm.

“When I get back, anything you need, it’s yours,” she said. Outlaws didn’t generally have medinites, as they were monitored by a service that could be subpoenaed.

His mouth set in a grim line, and he nodded his head. He walked over to the table and retrieved the gun. Fingering it, he spoke his plan.

“For the record, I wrestled the gun away and forced you to do this.”

“Any way you want it,” she said.

He raised the gun and waved her toward the door. When she emerged on the other side, Chris was cinched up even tighter by the two guards, as if they were waiting for Tuma’s body to be shoved out the door at them, whereupon they would exact their revenge on Chris.

“Escort our guests to her old room in the basement,” Tuma said. “She’ll be leaving in the morning.”

“You mean we,” Nicholle said.

“Hostage.”

Her heart sank. She should’ve guessed. He didn’t extend trust too far, especially to ex-thieves.

The guards shoved Chris toward the double doors and they flew open when he stumbled through the doorway. She and the two guards followed.

Nicholle shuddered at the thought of the basement. It had been more than a year and at times she still woke up drenched in sweat after nightmares about the place. She caught up to Chris and they walked in silence down both escalators. Each step echoed in her head, a steady reminder of what she was about to confront.

“Don’t go sabucci down there,” she said.

“You already told me.”

A flash of agony poked her mind. “A reminder never hurts.”

They turned past the gamblers on the first floor, the sounds of coins clinking and dealers calling for last bets filling the air. She recalled trudging up the stairs many nights, grateful for the sounds of mirth, happy that a world of hope still existed. Of course, that had been after a bad trip, but those had started coming more often just before she left. No matter how hard she tried to customize a skeemz, the trips kept getting worse and worse, which didn’t happen to other people. They went along their merry, trippy way, paying obeisance and funds to Tuma and receiving their due recompense.

The unmoving escalator descended into an ebony pit. Raw fear stroked her inward being. Her pulpy hands wrung together. She bit her lip. Flashes of color strobed the darkness, feeding the monochrome hunger of the basement residents. Pulsating music beat in time to the flashes, sending vibrations through her body. Nicholle paused when she reached the bottom, letting her eyes become accustomed to the dimness. It might have changed since she last saw it, but she doubted it.

The bottom of the steps opened to a cavernous room. The skeemz users sat lining the walls, immersed in their programming. Pakz users were more unpredictable. Some roamed the floor, some jumped and shouted, some sat quietly. In the distance, screams of ecstasy and agony pierced the dark.

A moldy smell blanketed the room, underlying all else. Even the acrid smell of the drugs the pakz users smoked or sniffed was overpowered by the musty odor.

A thin outline of a large serpent moved across the floor and curled up a column. Chris jumped back when he saw it. She’d done the same thing when she first arrived. The guards shoved them through the hologram. Spying the door to her room, she hooked Chris’s arm and took off across the floor, avoiding the roaming users who screamed at whatever demon floated into their line of sight. She motioned to the guards that he was with her and it was all right.

And Tuma was right. The room was as she’d left it. Long and narrow, painted pink. Multicolored curlicues twisted on the ceiling, moving in rhythm to whatever beat pounded the airwaves. A Yebedor print hung on the wall over the single bed.
Woman With Curves
. A small refrigerator stood in the corner on the floor. She feared to look at what was inside.

“Quaint,” Chris said.

“Thanks. Home away from home.” Quite different from a four-poster king-sized bed, but the mattress was good. She’d been happy on more than a few occasions to fall into that bed.

He held out a hand. She took his arms instead, leaning on his chest until they were wrapped firmly around. Ensconced.

“So what now?” he said.

“I have to go to a rival of Tuma’s and find out what new skeemz he has. Shut him down. He lives north of Baltimore in Owings Mills. Name of Lydo.”

Chris reared back. His hands cupped her shoulders. “Are you crazy? You could get killed. The hell does he want you to go there for?”

“Relax, I’ve been there before. I’ll just make him think Tuma and I are still on the outs and I’m looking to make some money on the side since I’m on the run. I had some connections back then, trading channels. If he thinks I’m there to turn on Tuma, he’ll probably welcome me with open arms. Piece of cake,” she said.

“I saw a movie once where that tactic didn’t work.”

“Probably, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

Chris edged closer, until her forehead touched his chin. He wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her in the cradle of his chest.

“Stay the night. You need your rest,” he said.

“I can’t. The sooner I go, the better. My father doesn’t have much time.”

She wished she could have stayed in Chris’s arms all night. Pop a skeemz where reality didn’t matter. Didn’t exist.

“Then stay an hour.”

“All right.”

Chapter 13

Nicholle pulled up to Owings Mills Mall, high beams on, since the building and parking lot were pitch black. It was Lydo’s ploy, to make it seem as if no one was there. Guard towers ringed the mall, connected with a barbed wire fence.

She pulled up to the fence and spoke into a speaker box posted on a rusted metal pole.

“Nicholle Ryder to see Lydo. I have a business proposition for him.”

She wasn’t sure if she’d be let in on that thin line, but when the gate began to creak open, she was pleasantly surprised. After she parked outside the main entrance, she walked up and old-fashioned doors slid open.

The smell of sweat and musty air accosted her nostrils. An alarm sounded throughout the hall. A shrill wail. Lights blinked. The sound of booted steps pounded off the walls, shaking the floor. She spun around to go back the way she came, but the doors wouldn’t open.

She twisted around to see the boots’ owners. Toothless open-mouthed faces stared back at her. Tubes ran from the backs of their throats and hung, limp, by their waists, dripping white liquid, as if they’d just been ripped from the source. Their eyes were covered in wraparound sunglasses. A blackened hole took the place of a tongue and teeth. Enlarged veins throbbed along the sides of the hole. The lips had atrophied—desiccated flesh that would peel away and fall off at any moment. A zig-zag of circuit boards rose like a city skyline on top of their heads, hairless flesh ending in slotted data.

The guards didn’t speak, but stepped to the side and pointed their weapons in the direction she was to go. She edged around them and cautiously took the lead.

They all stepped into a green glass elevator and one of the leech mouths pushed the button for the top floor. As the elevator rose, the layout of the building could be seen through the glass—a long hallway with dilapidated stores lining the corridor. Dirty pock-marked green marble tile covered the floor. In some places, chunks of marble were missing, revealing grey stone underneath. The exterior windows were blacked out.

A few storefronts were lit, illuminating guards walking about, carrying weapons. Strewn about were several mannequins, some charred, some missing limbs. The scene disappeared and the next one arose as the elevator climbed. Second floor. Better lighting. Drug-using customers staggered between store stalls, sampling the wares. One-stop shopping.

They rose to the third floor and the doors opened. Two more guards approached—human looking—and stopped in front of her. No one spoke. They must have communicated directly with one another. No need for speech. The end of a weapon jabbed her in the back and propelled her forward. She tripped and fell. One of the guards grabbed her up. She hobbled off the elevator and headed for the large glass door.

“Stop, Ms. Ryder. You will be interrogated in the Pea Pod.”

It wasn’t the words that stopped her, it was the tone. It rose and fell haphazardly, like the robots in old two-dimensional movies, as if the speaker wasn’t used to participating in conversation. Maybe Lydo’s empire was crumbling, she thought. Or maybe he was taking funds from maintenance and putting them in research and development. And what did interrogation consist of? Thumb screws and bamboo shoots? Or a truth skeemz?

“Interrogated for what?” she said. No answer.

The guard prodded her down the hall to a storefront that was the most lit of the gaping holes that lined the corridor. A path was swept in the middle of the debris that littered the floor—broken glass, dirty clothes, empty pakz.

She was forced along to the back where a row of barber chairs stood. A small stand sat by each chair, filled with knives, wires, chips, and pakz.

Thoughts raced, her mind jumbling sentences, images—too fast to register—a montage of pain and addiction. She braced herself, stiffening her limbs.

“No.” She shook her head. “No!” The guards lifted her by the arms and shoved her in one of the chairs. Straps circled her head, chest, and legs, pinning her down. Fear fired through her mind.

“What the hell are you doing? I have a business proposition for Lydo. I demand to see him!”

“In time,” came the reply. A disembodied voice, coming, it seemed, from the walls themselves—a voice that was beyond familiar. Lydo’s.

“Lydo! Listen to me! You want Tuma gone, right? I can help you.”

No reply. The guard picked up a pakz and stuck it to her arm. She tried to squirm as the ultrasonic waves opened her pores, but her arm was held fast. A cool spray of drugs entered her skin and suddenly all was right with the world. Peace and light suffused the air. Colors appeared. Hues of pink, orange, and blue swirled and coalesced, making a path beneath her feet. She wanted to step on the path and ride the colors. But something pecked at the back of her mind. This shouldn’t be happening. The pakz should have no effect on her. Her medinites should negate the effects, bleach out the colors. But if anyone could get her addicted again, it’d be Lydo. He must have reprogrammed her medinites, switched off the pakz block.

The straps that held her retracted, freeing her. The colored path beckoned, its mesmerizing hues bending and twisting as they spelled her name. She fell out of the chair and onto her knees.

“The medinites…block…drugs…” she stammered.

“Oh, they normally would.” The voice was close. His voice. “But Tuma gave me your code.”

The words resounded, echoing in her head as they bounced from left brain to right.
Good
. The floor contracted and flung itself from her. She jerked as she tried to grasp something to keep from falling. But then the floor returned to give her balance.

Part of the plan, but still, she couldn’t succumb. She had to pick the right time. So she didn’t step on the rainbow path, on the tangerine road to the emerald city. She envisioned a dark room, with herself crouching in the corner.

“You’ve changed, Nicholle. Usually you’d be dancing the pas de deux from Swan Lake by now. At least that’s what Tuma told me. He also told me you’d try to pull something like this. He doesn’t want a war.

“But perhaps you’ve built up a resistance. How about my latest skeemz? I got the idea after visiting a shaman in Peru. It’s supposed to drive out your inner demons. Manny, fry up the latest for Ms. Ryder.”

In an instant, the darkened storefront faded and she was in a hot, crowded room that smelled of herbs and sweat. The humidity stifled her, plastering a wet stickiness on her. Various masks decorated the wood-paneled walls.

She was sitting on a crude wooden floor, in a circle with ten other people. They all looked like typical backpackers—young, Bohemian, fresh-faced, enthusiastic. The shaman, what she assumed was the shaman, was a short, thin man who wore a colorful robe and a knit hat with large hanging tassels. He stared at Nicholle. His eyes a black that drew one into an emptiness.

“I’m glad you could join us,” he said. “It’s the start of an important journey you must take.”

“Riiight,” she said. She clapped her hands twice to get the exit menu, but nothing happened. The other participants stared at her with the same empty eyes.

One said, “You must stay.”

Nicholle clapped her hands again. Still nothing. Lydo had disabled the exit menu. She was in it until the end.

The shaman passed around ten wooden mugs, then held up a container.

“I will pour out the amount you must drink.” He got up and poured some in everyone’s cup. When he reached Nicholle, who was last, he handed her the jug.

“You drink this,” he said. She took the jug and sniffed the contents. A vile odor seeped up.

“Ugh. You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not drinking that.” She set the jug down and pushed it away. The sound of a plasma gun initiating filled the air. She turned and was greeted with the incongruous sight of a man dripping in tassels holding an ES47 lason rifle, trained on her head.

“Drink.” His voice was calm, almost inviting. She retrieved the jug from the middle of the floor, held her breath, and brought it to her lips. The liquid inside was a murky brown. She could only guess what was in it. She opened her mouth, tipped the offensive liquid in and swallowed.

“Chug, chug, chug!” the others chanted. The stuff tasted as bad as it smelled. She had to give Lydo recognition, though. This skeemz made reality seem fake. Smells, tastes, and sounds—all enhanced to a point of superhuman ability. If he just made it pleasurable, he’d have a trillion-dollar seller on his hands.

When she finished, she threw the jug across the room. It stopped in mid-air.
Kink in the program?
The others cheered. Then their cheers slowed and faded. The room tilted and contracted, skewing the view, elongating faces.

Then blackness. Silence.
Thank goodness
. But where was everyone?

“Hello?” she called. “Hello?”

A small voice sang in the distance. “It’s a cookin’. It’s a comin’. It’s a cookin’. It’s a comin’.”

Wha
?

Her mother used to sing that to her when she was cooking something for Nicholle. The telescopic image of a little girl came into view, which widened to show her in a room surrounded by dolls. The little girl was her. She was singing to her dolls as she used one hand to prepare water and grass for them to eat. Suddenly her parents’ voices boomed from the other room.

“I can’t believe you’re cheating on me again! I told you to get rid of your whore!”

“You knew what you were getting coming into this.”

The scene darkened. Her head whirled as voices spoke.

“Got the latest right here. This Asia Blue pakz will make you feel like you the fema.”

A drain opened beneath her and she circled around and around. Great bats circled with her, hissing as they went, spewing fire. She screamed and ducked, trying to avoid the flames. Other screams joined hers, shrieks of horrific anguish,
as if coming from hell itself. She caught the edge of the drain and clung to it. Her legs battered the walls of the drain as the force of winds pounded. A bat hissed, spitting flames on her hands. The heat blistered her fingers and she let go. She fell down the drain, toward the screams.
Damn, Lydo. This shit is beyond real.

Now
.

She accessed the source code using the commands Chris gave her. A phalanx of numbers and symbols scrolled down her vision. She waited for the correct sequence.
Still falling
. She tuned out the external, concentrated on what was in front of her, even as she turned end over end.
Not much time
. The lines of code a vague recollection. She didn’t know why. She was an artist, not a wihead. But no mistaking—there were programs for communications, skeemz, purchasing, R&D. Seemed Lydo ran a tight ship. No wonder he had the game on lockdown.

There
. She uploaded the sepsis between the data declarations and the functions. It glowed blue for a split second, then took on the orange of the scrolling code.

The low hum she heard when she first arrived ceased. She stopped falling. The lights dimmed, then went out. Flooded in black.
It worked
. She stood up, trying to remember where she was.

Third floor. Down the hall.

But how would she get out? Not even the light from a panel to guide her. She dragged her feet along to avoid stepping on something sharp, pushing debris to the side. Mentally laid out the map of the mall. She was by the Pea Pod.
Escalator to the right.

She held out her arms, waving them in front of her. Primitive radar. She made it to the door after stumbling over mannequin parts. Then the lights came on. Lydo stood in front of her. She stepped back, shocked. Tuma had told her the sepsis would wipe out the entire system. Even the backup.

“Nice try. I’ll give you that,” Lydo said. He held a gun on her, trained on her heart.

It pounded.
Thanks for nothing, Tuma
. “Lydo, look—”

“Shut up. Wills told me to chill your shit. Sorry, ba—”

The lights blinked out. For good this time, she hoped. She dropped to the floor, wondering what the hell Wills was doing talking to Lydo, but she didn’t have long to sit and contemplate. Blue flared above her. In the half-second of light, she found Lydo’s knee and rammed her heel in it. He fell; the gun clattered across the floor. She took off, right, then slowed, feeling for the escalator. Heat seared. She pitched forward and fell. The sharp edges of the steps cut into her as she rolled down, over and over.

She landed in a heap at the bottom, open wounds bleeding warm.

A dark figure moved on the floor above. She strained to get up. Ran down the hall and turned into a storefront. Footsteps followed.
Damn
. Her foot hit something and it slid on the floor. She bent down, felt for it. An arm. Plastic. She picked it up and stood by the entrance. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. The figure approached, slowly, gun at shoulder height. She eased down and felt for something small. A gambling chip. Some people still carried them around, even in this day and age. She threw it farther into the store to draw him in. He took the bait. Stepped inside. The arm made a sickening crack on the back of his head. He fell to the floor. Nicholle pried the gun from his hand and hurried toward the escalator.

b

She slept soundly on the trip back and awoke to Mozee banging on her window. She wiped the drool from the seat and her mouth and opened the window.

“Aww, Sleeping Beauty’s back,” he said.

“No, I’m Snow White and you’re Grumpy,” she said.

He reached in an arm, grabbed her by her shirt, and shook her. Her head snapped back and forth like a wihead on a bad skeemz.

“Zee!” someone shouted.

He gave her one last shake. Kicked the car door as she drove through the open gate.

“You need Jesus, Zee!” she yelled out the car window. He ran after her and kicked the trunk. She sped up, smiling at him in the rearview.

b

They sat in the food court at a dust covered table. Chris had long ago lost the tie and jacket. He sat, sullen looking, in a sweat stained button-down shirt open at the collar and sleeves. Tuma sank back in his chair, his self-assuredness cast aside like last year’s accessories line.