Virtually True (13 page)

But it wasn’t her.

True was lucky he was found, wallowing in his own shit, nude, dehydrated, brain cells baked, and carted off to the hospital. Eden had indeed left him, that much was true. And all that is left of this time of True’s life is a stream of virtual memories and dreams, melted and indistinguishable from one another like possessions after a fire.

But now there’s Eden in disaster relief. Somehow it was fitting she left one disaster—him—and found another.

Reiner asks, “Is it true your agency has never dealt with a disaster of this magnitude?”

Eden’s mystical smile. “It’s true. It’s true, but we’re hoping to make a difference nevertheless.”

Each time he replays the interview and hears her say
true
, he shakes.

Now he knows where to find her. And when he’s ready?

He’ll have to wait until he’s ready.

CHAPTER 9

True notices her upon leaving his apartment. She’s there when he stoops under the breeze and crosses into Snake Alley, shadows him as he rises to the second floor walkways spreading as metal tentacles over and through the mall. When he slips down to ground level she’s still there. He thinks he may have lost her when he slithers through the crowds staring raptly at snake oil demonstrations. Circles back, but there she is again.

She’s quick through a crowd, as if she knows where he’s going before he does. A shimmering sight. True’s not even one hundred percent sure he’s being tailed, but his brush with Bong Bong has unnerved him. It’s possible she’s a razor assassin, concealing an array of weapons under her robe. True wants a closer look, but she’s covered head-to-sandals, wrapped in a saffron-colored robe.

Even by zooming in with his wrist-top camera, True can’t key in on her face. No DNA identification, no weapons check, no way of determining her motives. His wrist-top, he notes ruefully, isn’t up to the task of saving his hide. All True can see of her are blackpool eyes peeking out from under her hood. They look inquisitive but not judgmental, as if they’re saying she has a job to do and that’s it.

He sprints down an alley, and after crisscrossing a maze of connecting passageways, he’s back at his apartment complex. She can’t see him, but he can’t see her either, and this, in many ways, is more unnerving. Carefully sneaking toward Rush’s, sidling against the building’s façade, True keeps a wary eye. He slips up to Rush’s apartment.

“Look, Ailey,” Rush says after True’s inside, “I’ve been on the phone all morning with New York and Reiner. I’ve been ordered to Japan to help with the quake coverage.”

True looks around the expansive one-room apartment, taking in the brash tint, the mammoth entertainment system particular to bachelor life. He grimaces at the TV posters of Rush hawking shampoo, aftershave, a worldwide chain of plastic surgery salons. Commercials that are memorable because they’re so forgettable. True turns down Rush’s offers of vitamin shakes, protein drinks, the carbo-replacement fluid system, free-radical enhancement beverage technology, and mineral water. Then says, “Congratulations. I know that’s what you wanted.”

“Yeah, well, I have to tell you. Reiner doesn’t sound happy I’m getting in the closing credits. She told me she’d rather you came.”

“Oh?”

“But I told her your meatware’s defecto.”

“What’d she say?”

“What could she say? Orders are orders, although she’s got some kind of clout with the Board. I mean, they did free up enough bucks in her budget so she could hire that hacker.”

“An elegant solution. Whatever computer systems haven’t crashed there are vulnerable. Others that have been rebooted will be fair game. A good hacker could navigate through these systems, help her to set up one mammoth database from stuff you couldn’t touch a week ago.”

“Ailey, you’re deftly in the upside of yo-yo mode. That’s what she said, exacto. I’d never heard of him, but he’s a real bagbiter. Cut in on Reiner’s and my conversation. Reiner didn’t even tell him to. Said he could tress whenever he wanted. Attitude problem, but Reiner says he’s one of the best. His name is 16ea3e.”

“Or just Peace. It’s cyberspeak. P is the sixteenth letter of the alphabet, C is the third, so 16ea3e is Peace.”

But 16ea3e was only his moniker, the hackers’ lexicon of cool. His real name, True discovered in the days he warped through mirror worlds, was Odessa Flashfire, yet this too seems more moniker than real name. Once, while jacked into the infonet retrieving data on a candidate running for political office, True was smoked by Odessa, who locked him inside the candidate’s speeches, imprisoned him inside an electronic force field of halcyon promises—a balanced budget, better schools, more prisons, lower taxes, a return to family values. It seemed it lasted years; probably just minutes. But Odessa was only sending the message that he was the world’s hippest cyberjockey. True felt he could have tracked him if he’d been spliced with more genes of vengeance.

Rush says, “Tomorrow, two WWTV reps are coming to this DMZ.”

“Two?”

“You’re reassigned. To New York.”

True’s lips fade. “I’m flatlined?”

“That’s up to the Board in New York. All I know is it’s not working out here. Let’s face it: It’s been total bogosity, Ailey.”

True’s in another place, another time.

“I told you if you got in trouble, you’d get zapped.”

“You held my stories last night.”

“Bong Bong told me he’d turn me into particularly piss-poor protoplasm. Your stories reflect badly on his country.”

“A true patriot. He actually said ‘particularly piss-poor protoplasm?’”

“That was the gist. You want to talk to him? He’s liquid nitrogen, Ailey, an ice man in broken syntax. What could I do?”

“He denies the Luzonian government is ripping off refugees? He denies foreign aid food is glowing with radioactive isotopes?” True scarcely believes the naiveté of his own defense.

“He claims there are positive aspects to life in Luzonia, so why don’t we ever do stories on that? Book a plane ticket and submit your invoice to accounting. Don’t make this harder than it already is. Maybe the network will give you another chance.”

But True knows he’s soaked up all his chances and wrung them out. He’s overwhelmed by the injustice. Anger springs him into worthless action, and, before he can stop himself, he slams his fist into the edge of Rush’s table. Ruby-jewel drops trickle down his wrist onto the rug. But it doesn’t hurt; just a dull, electric sensation, as if his body can’t believe he’d sabotage himself.

Rush returns with a wad of toilet paper, tears off some squares. True wraps them around his hand, then drops to one knee.

“Go, Ailey. Get out of here. I’ll clean up your blood.”

True stands, waving toilet paper like parade streamers. Pathetic, he thinks. Rah, rah.

He trudges down the stale hallway to the elevator, and as he pushes the down button there’s a sound of smashing glass and a tremendous explosion. As True covers his face with his arms, the walls and ceiling crack into kaleidoscopes. True is heaved to the floor by a gush of blistering air. Heavy debris rains down. When his eyes blink open, he barely manages to avoid a girder knifing through the floor.

His ears buzz and ring in different pitches. He pulls himself out of the rubble and is, as far as he can tell, unscarred. Wades over to Rush’s, leaping through what was once his doorway. The wind spits inside—there’s no exterior wall. Seared to wall plaster is what’s left of Rush. True stares. A blood-red hologram appears in a swish of air, of True twisting in agony, screaming silently, disintegrating.

He knows he has to get away. He stumbles through the rubble.

CHAPTER 10

True contemplates vanishing into the countryside, or better yet, fleeing the country altogether. He doesn’t dare return home—nothing there worth the risk. Heads to the most crowded section of town, the mall, to lose himself in the throng. At a boutique he buys clothes, a baseball cap, sunglasses. He grabs reflections whenever possible to ensure no one’s following.

It’s also useless. He’s probably under electronic surveillance at this very moment. True ducks into an alley and flips open his wrist-top to monitor communications. As he quickly makes his way through the mall, changing directions, dodging bodies, winding his way through the crowds, he periodically checks it. But can’t isolate any communication patterns.

But this doesn’t add to his security because in the reflective front glass of a store selling artificial eyeballs he spots his tail again. True zoom-scans her image, then runs through the minions, glances back, only to see her follow. She’s talking into her hand. But when he checks his wrist-top, it records no conversation, no radio or any other communication waves. Just the perfect time for a malfunction.

He loses her when he joins a crowd of knotted-kneed tourists. The tourguide: “This, ladies and gentlemen, is Nerula’s Liberation Monument. Constructed out of coral mined from the surrounding sea.” True thinks he should mention that the removal of the coral reefs increased flooding, wreaked havoc with the local fishing industry, and increased soil erosion. He opens the maintenance door and tucks inside. It’s dark, probably the coolest non-air-conned place in Nerula, although True’s still sweating rivulets. He doesn’t think his shadow saw him, but can feel her move inexorably toward him nonetheless. He peers through a tiny porthole. Right outside she stops, standing guard. Or waiting for reinforcements.

True weighs climbing to the top, to maybe jump from the steeple top to the building across the way. Far, but maybe, just maybe. But the trap door leading skywards is blocked. Tries hitting it with all his might, but it’s sealed tight. Only one way out and she’s blocking it. Up higher, a window. He might just be able to squeeze through, but it’s too high. Looks for something to stand on, but the inside walls are slippery and there’s nothing to grip. If only he were on the outside looking in, he’d be able to climb up the beveled edges easily enough. Looks for a weapon. Nothing. Scuffling outside. Nowhere to hide, so True reaches for the door. Maybe take the assassin by surprise. Maybe she’ll  lose her balance, afford a narrow avenue of escape.

The handle turns and True notices a shadow over the brass knob glint. Odd, True thinks. His legs are wrenched violently from under him. He tastes cold concrete.

“Don’t say a fucking word if you want to live.”

The door creaks open and the robed woman steps inside. Closes the door.

“Okay.” The Rajput pulls down her hood.

“Okay,” Piña says.

“She working with Piña?” True’s sitting up now.

“Duh.”

“Hello, baba,” the Rajput says. “As always, a pleasure.”

Piña nudges True in the ribs. “You’re lucky Piña found you. Word says you into mountains of shit. You look like you landed in it already. Bong Bong really fucked you up, huh? Then that bomb. Piña thought you were dead, but the Rajput saw you leave the building alive.”

The Rajput peers out the porthole. “Some men are difficult to kill. They live their lives while those around perish. It is their karma. Perhaps it is your karma, baba.”

Piña shakes her head. “Don’t get all mystical. He’s just lucky his fucking karma wasn’t blown into the Pacific. You the target? Or that other guy?”

“Me.”

“How you know?”

“There was a hologram of me at the scene.”

“You
are
fucking lucky. That kind of missile doesn’t make many mistakes.”

“Any ideas who it is?” True asks.

“No. But if they go to that apartment and don’t find any of your DNA dripping down the walls, they’ll come after you again.”

“Or they’ll assume I’m dead already.”

Piña pats True on his head. “Would you?”