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I was in a dreamy attic of delightful and thoroughly nonsensical thoughts after the anniversary party attack, thanks to an assortment of pills, bandages, and ointments from Cassie's remarkable pharmaceutical closet. Her old bot, Flo, had downloaded expertise from a medical portal and treated me.
Cassandra and Ajit had listened in horror to my story. I had limped the long distance from Central Park to Cassie's townhouse. Along the way, I hid in various doorways and subway stations to avoid the infrared beams as Homeland and Nuhope aircraft hammered the air overhead.
When I finally made it to Cassie’s and became visible, I was a miserable sight to behold. There was a long bloody burn from the DirecWep on my left leg. Luko’s death had crippled me up with grief, and I was exhausted. It was hard to even speak.
Venice was no longer around. When news surfaced that Luko was identified and killed, she’d raced off to a safe haven in Poughkeepsie. There was little doubt the security forces would come after her. All those powerful clients from her dominatrix biz must be raging with suspicions about her involvement with Theseus. Her picture had been featured, alongside Luko’s, in some news reports.
At my insistence, Flo began weaning me off the more hard-core drugs a day after the attack. It was clear that I needed to get back to work inside Nuhope.
“Your mind is still whacked,” Ajit said. “That makes no sense at all.”
“We have to find out what Zinder and the rest of Nuhope’s hierarchy are planning,” I said.
Cassie flicked her grey ponytail in irritation. “Your wound looks like raw hamburger. What good are you going to be if you can’t run away fast enough? What if you get caught? You need to heal.”
My friends’ frustration mounted as we continued to argue. But we couldn’t wait around. Too much could happen. So I limped out of the townhouse in ghost mode, knowing full well that I’d have to face their wrath later on.
The atmosphere around Nuhope had changed considerably since the party. The surrounding grounds and hallways were bristling with security bots. Their internal sensors could detect even the slightest movement that would indicate that a spy was about. At first, there were no signs that they knew they were dealing with an invisible one. But I needed to keep completely silent and refrain from moving even a speck of dust on a windowsill.
Twenty-four hours passed as I traipsed around Nuhope, but meaningful intelligence was alluding me. I filched some food in the company canteen in the split seconds when the humans and bots weren’t around and downed some of Flo’s pain killers periodically.
Finally, I hit “pay dirt,” first with a very private conversation between Reingold and Brown about the strength of the two Charismites’ powers, which I silently recorded for future use. Then I managed to eavesdrop on Nuhope’s head of security, Alfonce Santiago, as he told Zinder and Reingold about my ability to go invisible. Santiago also theorized that infrared was likely to detect me. He was in the process of stepping up Nuhope's security accordingly.
That conversation was quickly followed by Zinder’s office meeting with Petra Cardinale, the male Charismite and Ginseng Childe. (Despite the devastating news about Massot’s passing, it had been pretty amusing, listening to Zinder rail at me.) Then I listened in on Petra Cardinale’s private chat with Childe.
Leaving Nuhope, I had to dodge some infrared beams sweeping the grounds outside, but so far, they weren't being used within the building. My guess was that there were too many people for them to isolate out an intruder like me. And there might be concerns that trigger-happy bots using infrareds would hit the wrong person.
When I returned to the townhouse, Cassie and Ajit’s pissed-off state wore off quickly as I relayed all the intel. News of Massot’s death still hadn’t been reported by the media at that point.
“Christ,” Ajit said, head in his hands. Our great hope for some kind of sensible change in the U.A. had been all but extinguished. If there were other political leaders strong enough to oppose the status quo and gain support from groups like ours, they had yet to surface.
“We can’t let that slow us down. We need to make our next move,” I said.
“Which is?” Ajit asked.
“Massot’s death demands some kind of response. Strike early and strike hard.”
“But we’re down to three people,” Cassie said.
“Not a problem for the trick I got up my sleeve.”
My famished state was quickly sated by a spread of leftovers from Cassie’s cooler. I laid out my plan as I chowed down. After we went through a few more rounds of debate, they were finally won over, as long as I promised to rest and heal a few more days before doing anything.
In the meantime, other Theseus cells were massaging our egos by sending their only point of contact, Cassie, a great wash of enthusiastic praise for the anniversary-party sabotage, along with their sympathies regarding Luko. There were a lot of questions about how we managed to infiltrate the HQ building with such a grand-scale result. But our cell had no intention of telling the other groups about the ghost device. (And revealing the Juice's existence was out of the question.)
Part of Theseus’s strength was the ability of each unit to act independently but maintain a sense of shared purpose and community. It was something we all respected. So it was easy enough to deflect the other cells’ curiosity.
Maybe someday we could “spill the beans” to them about the ghost device. It would be amaz if I found a way to replicate it and create an invisible fighting force with people in the other cells. But figuring out how to actually duplicate Thom’s invention could take me a long time.
Other "what if" scenarios were concerning. For example, what would happen if a rogue agent within Theseus stole the only ghost device in existence and sold it to the highest bidder?
# # #
FIVE NIGHTS AFTER MASSOT's passing, I waited outside Nuhope's headquarters for a couple of tech-heads, GirlZ and Joss10, to arrive. I knew from past visits that they were in charge of monitoring Nuhope’s nighttime transmissions of news and entertainment channels.
GirlZ, a rangy 23-year-old Middle with milky blue eyes, showed up first, around 9 PM, so I followed her inside one of the elevators up to the 175th floor. I just barely managed to get inside the control room behind her as the door sliced shut.
She started at the sight of two bot guards, carefully watching every movement in the room. They looked like mechanical hound dogs walking upright on their hindquarters. "Jesus. I hate that model," GirlZ muttered.
Two working stiffs at the controls chuckled as they rose to give GirlZ a cocky salute. “They ain’t so bad,” said one of them. “None of their bells go off if you smoke.”
“Seriously?”
“They’re just interested in the really big stuff.”
“Well, that’s somethin’,” GirlZ said as they headed out.
I was coiled up like a spring but kept very still. The bot guards' visual sensors looked at me again and again, with nary a blip on their screens. The cameras in the wall paint didn't seem to be picking me up either. So far, my luck was holding.
Before long, Joss10 showed up. She was 6 feet tall and pudgy as a cherub with a halo of wiry hair.
GirlZ lit up a joint. “Want some?”
"Oooo yeah. Me likee." The duo traded the weed back and forth as they started doing their routine task. They monitored the technical quality of hundreds of channel transmissions as well as a vast number of wallscape holos on buildings in various Treasure Zones. But after about 10 feeds, they stopped on N1, a general entertainment channel, which was transmitting Dove Brown’s late-night talker. They practically drooled, watching the Charismite trade witticisms with Auntie Maim, a ghoulish looking old girl who hosted NH1’s horror-comedy show HeebieJeebies.
A pot-bellied supervisor sliced open the control-room door. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” Joss10 fanned the smoke away.
“Cut the dope.”
“It ain’t nothin’, Max. A real low-level high.”
“Well, I’ll level you right out the door if you don’t –”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” GirlZ ground out the stub.
The super fixated on the feed as applause rose up. Auntie Maim had gone, and now Brown was leading a pop star named Nix to a piano. They launched into a rendition of an old Rocket Science song about love gone wrong, but the country's always gone good. The Charismite laced the woman's husky voice with a falsetto. She nearly swooned as the emotions in the song seemed to strengthen his aura.
Had to be about 40 million viewers feeling the effects as well. The techies were certainly transfixed.
“Don’t forget the other channels,” the super barked as he took off. Joss10 and GirlZ didn’t even notice.
It was time to get to work. I moved across the room slowly and soundlessly without disturbing anything around me. So far, the bots didn’t detect me. Finally, I reached the techies’ coffee cups. I waited for the bots to sweep the room in other directions, then pulled out a vial containing a ground-up combination of sleep agents and anti-constipation drugs. The powder was hardly visible as it slipped into the brown liquid without even a ripple.
After another half hour of slow, painstaking movements, I plugged an external drive into the back of their keyboard console. I barely managed not to move any of the snaking cords behind the bank of equipment.
I needed to get out of there before the computer virus in the external drive took hold. Slurping through a door wasn’t an option. I waited impatiently for diarrhea to take the techies by storm. The room’s temperature rose. A drop of my sweat hit the floor, so small and soundless, but in an instant, the bot guards whisked forward, swiping their metal paws through the air above the speck.
“Christ on a cross. It’s just me. See?” The cherub held up her mug, dripping with coffee spillage.
GirlZ stood up, slurring: “I’m gonna explode. Be right back.”
“I’m comin’ too,” Joss10 said.
The door sliced open, and they stumbled outside. It was a wonder GirlZ didn't feel my breath on her neck; I was walking so closely behind her. Then again, she was close to unconscious. The door closed behind us, and Joss10 suddenly collapsed to the floor, completely snoozed out.
The security cams that were baked into the walls triggered a jangling alarm. I flattened myself against a wall as bots raced past. People poured out of other offices. GirlZ was on the floor now, too.
The super stormed down the hall. “Goddamnit! I told them to cut the weed.”
There was such a commotion in the hallway that I had to pass through some people to escape. But my slurps were muffled by the alarmed voices around me.
I ran through the open doors of an elevator. The doors sliced shut. As the car hurtled downwards, I held my breath, sensing the security cams searching the spaces between the four people standing around me. The doors opened, and everyone walked out onto the grounds around Nuhope.
I was in infrared territory now. Following just behind a worker headed for the subway seemed like the best option. But I must not have trailed him closely enough, because two red lines of light were tracking me. I couldn’t shake them, no matter where I moved.
Two human guards raced after me with high-powered guns that combined infrared and DirecWep laser beams. One silent zap turned my left arm into a burning hell as I fled. It hurt like a motherfucker. I gripped my arm to stem the blood flow as best as possible. Couldn’t let a drop spill to the ground in visible form.
The screaming siren of a firetruck provided some sound cover. I slurped through the walls of three buildings, crossing three streets in the process. Holding my breath, I waited. It soon became clear that the guards had lost track of me. I tore off my shirt and wrapped it around the wound. With my body still invisible, it wasn't possible to see how well the fabric was absorbing the blood. The only way to take stock of it was by touch, and if what I felt was any indication, the shirt was a limited-time solution. Pivoting in a new direction, I headed north up Sixth Avenue, then traveled west along a series of side streets.
Military aircraft ripped the air overhead, seeking me with those damned infrareds. I walked closely behind pedestrians coming out of restaurants and nightclubs. But people were scattering away, freaked out by the military's overbearing presence. It became more and more difficult to find human cover.
The shirt fabric was now completely saturated with blood. At any moment, it would start dripping on the pavement, leaving a trail for everyone to see. There was no way to bandage myself well without seeing what I was doing. And if I didn't find a safe haven pretty quickly, I just might faint from the blood loss. There was no choice but to become visible again and fix this. Now.
I stopped in front of a venerable old Greenwich Village brownstone with darkened windows on West 12th Street. The limbs of artificial Ginko trees danced gently in a breeze before it. The building was utterly silent. Maybe everyone inside was sleeping, or better yet, perhaps no one was home. The street was completely vacant, and it sounded like the aircraft overhead were east of me a few avenues. I slurped through the outer wall then froze, waiting for some kind of reaction to the sound. Nothing.
Dapples of faint light swayed on the windows from the trees outside. The room was entirely devoid of any furniture, although tiny blue lights on the floor identified where air chairs had been placed. I bit my lip in an attempt to stay focused, not to fall unconscious from the blood loss.
A bar was built into one corner. Shelves behind it that were loaded with enough liquor and glassware for a hundred guests to get plastered.
Slowly, carefully I closed the heavy brocade drapes across the windows to keep out any prying eyes or cameras. There might be some surveillance cams inside, but I had to take my chances. Then I became visible, grimacing at the sight of my arm as I took off the soaked shirt bandage. The laser burn had cut me deeply.
Opening the bar’s cabinet, I discovered a stack of thin white cotton towels. I ripped two of them into strips and wrapped up the wound, stopping the blood flow—at least for now. The bandages on my leg seemed to be holding up too.
“Stop! Stop!” someone shouted.
A brawny black mastiff with tiger-sized teeth raced through the door and lunged straight for me. I swiped myself invisible, and he plowed through me with a howl of surprise.
A terrible scream ripped through the room. A fat woman in a Japanese kimono was standing in the doorway. She’d seen me. The dog growled angrily, sniffing the air until it found me, then lunged. But it smacked against the wall as I slipped through it, going back outside.
The screams and yowls from the brownstone quickly faded as I fled north, up 20 blocks, walking in the wake of first one person and then another. Tourists were lined up in front of the 24-hour Madison Square Garden amusement park rides. Roller coaster cars hurtled down 30-story declines and yanked back up, zipping along a series of smaller spirals at breakneck speed before nosing up into the night sky again.
An impatient daddy waiting for his kids had a stopwatch visible on his air screen. Just 11 minutes left before my little show was about to begin at Nuhope. As the seconds ticked by, I followed some people west, then climbed a stairway to the elevated High Line park. It was possible to see directly into the fourth-floor windows of some very well-to-do apartment buildings. Most of the Elites had drawn their shades, but through one, a teen couple was visible, watching a soccer game on an air screen about five feet wide.
A homeless Chav stood on the path in front of their window. He peed against the wall, whistling between his teeth as he watched a goalie kick the ball high and long. I stood close to him, watching the shadows around us for cops on the prowl. So far, so good.
The kids inside shouted as their screen went black. Up sprang a hologram of Senator Massot. His long face smiled with ironic humor. I’d picked out the image with great care. Beneath his image blazed my message:
Boycott propaganda. Avoid watching Nuhope channels. Honor Andrew Massot’s life by supporting candidates who will fight for the equal rights of all U.A. citizens, not just the Elite. Vice President Ralph Zinder will not do that! Your future, and the future of United America, depend on your choices.
—The Theseus Group
The girl swiped her mobile controls, flipping from one channel to another, but my message was on each one. The sabotage was a beautiful thing to behold. I’d roadblocked the entire Nuhope U.A. media universe. Finally, she went to a channel owned by Victory and found an esports telecast.
It was so thrilling. But I was too weak from the loss of blood to enjoy it much. And the homeless man was stumbling away, down the path. I wanted to follow him but felt like I was about to faint. If that happened, those lasers would surely find me.
# # #
I DREAMED OF GETTING to Cassie's townhouse a million times before finally reaching it. Light seared my eyes as Flo, her trusty bot, opened the door. Ajit supported me on one side, and Flo on the other as everything went black.
"It's about time!" Ajit said as I came to. It was such a relief to be in the bedroom that had become my haven in recent days.
Cassie hovered in the background as Flo shot a long stream of blood into the inside of my right elbow. “You have blood on hand?” I asked.
Delight spread across Cassie’s face at the sound of my voice. “Do you think I would let you attack Nuhope without a major run to the hospital store?”
Her bot finished bandaging me and administered another anti-pain cocktail of drugs, sending me into a bottomless sleep that felt like heaven. I stayed in it for two days.
Loud, foghorn snores finally pulled me back up into the land of the living. Ajit was sleeping in a chair beside me, paunchy middle moving up and down with his air blast. It was amusing to just lie there and watch him.
“So you’ve come to,” Cassie said, entering the room.
Ajit sputtered awake. And before long, they were chattering away, bringing me up to speed. The Massot message had played incessantly for four hours before Nuhope figured out how to kill the computer virus I'd planted. Comments about the sabotage had lit up social media sites on the OuterNet and BaseNet. The entire country, along with the rest of the world, seemed to be in a state of shock. Comments about the attack numbered in the millions, mostly from the Elites and Middles. The Chav were too mind-numbed for much of that.
A variety of opinions were expressed—damning Zinder or staunchly defending him, condemning Theseus as a pack of thieves or heralding us as heroes. And there were a whole lot of people who just felt despair, believing that nothing would ever really change, no matter what anyone did.
There were also debates about whether or not the Chav were treated fairly, and what possible candidate could replace Massot. A half dozen leftist Senators and Congressman were discussed. Still, political pundits found plenty of reasons why they'd never attract massive support.
On a more personal level, Theseus cells from all over the country had checked in with Cassie to “war-whoop” and banter about all this. Ajit couldn’t have been more gleeful. “It’s a state of pandemonium—wide-eyed democracy.”
“That seems a little overly sensational,” I said. Cassie shot him a dubious glance too.
Ajit rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand the historical significance of all this.”
“Clue us in.”
"The only reason that all Americans still have the right to vote is because Nuhope influences them to support specific candidates. They put out blatant commercials, embed information in programming, or use subliminal messages. It doesn't always work, granted. But it’s pretty effective. Now one tiny group of info-terrorists has upended the thought controls. A little band of people can make the public actually think for itself and shift opinions.”
“Only because we have a certain invisible technology advantage,” Cassie said.
“True, true,” Ajit replied.
“Listen, I get it,” I said. “This is heady stuff. But we need to hit Nuhope again and again and again to really make a difference.”
Ajit and Cassie didn’t say anything at first. Neither wanted to get into another argument with me, at least not yet. Finally, Cassie said: "The thing that surprises me is that there hasn't been a peep about your ability to go into ghost mode. Not on the news and not from anyone in the U.A. government.”
"Maybe they think it would make them seem too vulnerable," I ventured. "Zinder's team may be waiting until they actually kill me and get their hands on the ghost device."
“True. Or maybe they’ll come after you with one of their own secret advantages—Luscious Melada. She hasn’t tried to turn the full extent of her power on you, yet,” Cassie said.
“True.” I had to wonder if that Luscious creature had made anyone aware of our conversation in the gallery and how I’d made her invisible. It had been a foolish risk to rescue her that way. Why the hell didn’t you find enough self-control not to do that? I asked myself. But of course, her powers had obliterated any sense of reason.
I winced at the pain in my arm. Cassie waved a hand, and Flo shot into the room. The bot thrust out some medicine, and I downed it dutifully.
“I do hope you’ll wait a bit before you launch anymore ‘special events,’” Cassie said. “You seem a little ...”
“Over-adventured?” I asked.
“I’ll go with that,” Ajit said.
“Everything you’re doing will go up in smoke if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“Point taken.” And with that, I fell back into the best medicated sleep that Flo had on offer.
# # #
THE DISTANT THROB OF police aircraft reverberated in the headache-gray night sky above the Bronx, glancing off old buildings that loomed up like decrepit teeth. In ghost mode, I followed behind an Elite couple who walked with a purposefulness. That made it easy to guess they were on their way to the same place I was: a secret memorial gathering for Andrew Massot.
About 10 days had passed since the Senator's assassination. And there were events like this one all over the country—several in various parts of New York City Zone—all running simultaneously. This Bronx party was the one that our Theseus cell had decided would be safest. We needed to mourn together with like-minded people.
My peripheral vision picked up more and more people walking down Fordham Road. They had a wary sense of purpose. The Bronx Chavs on the street gave only an occasional glance at these stranger Elites and Middles among them. True New Yorkers. They’d seen it all. Or so they believed.
Before long, the growing cluster of people reached its destination: a factory-like building that looked as if it had been abandoned long ago. It took up two entire blocks and was surrounded by a ragged chain-link fence. Someone spotted a hole that had been cut into it, and everyone crawled through.
There was no way to mourn Massot’s passing without speaking with people in the flesh. So I managed to become visible again when everyone’s backs were turned.
A dark hood obscured my face somewhat, but not enough to keep a striking young woman beside me from whispering, “It’s you!”
The others gasped with excitement. I put a finger to my lips. No one wanted to trigger the security cams that might be around, although they weren't as numerous in this part of the city. As the invitation had instructed, we walked to the building's southwest corner, navigating through rubble that had piled up over several years from its looks.
There was a narrow side entrance. Someone grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, but nada. That would have been too easy. Everyone was momentarily baffled. A fat water bug on the doorframe flicked its long antennae. I touched the outer black shell, sensing metal. A bot. Its wings clicked twice, then it scurried off.
The black metal door pressed open easily then; I could have been pushing over a kitten. Inside, all lights were snuffed out. Something about the room seemed cavernous, and alive with eyes and ears.
An overwhelming smell of dust and rat feces invaded our nostrils. We all activated the flashlight mode of our mobiles. Hulking contraptions with large metal plates, rolls of paper, and multiple gears sprang into view.
“Printing presses,” a man said in surprise. “So that’s what this place was: an old-time printing factory.”
"Like dinosaurs," a woman murmured. Dry scuttling came from the corners. Must be some of the feces droppers.
Click. Light blossomed along the room’s farthest wall, seemingly half a mile away, as a door opened. A silhouette passed through, and it shut again. The darkness ate up the sight.
We navigated past the machinery in the direction of the vanished figure. After a few minutes, our mobile lights made out a vault-like metal door. This time the lock bot was a little mouse, down on the floor. Once again, as soon as it detected the touch of my fingerprint, it raced off. The door sprang open, then sealed shut again after we had all walked through.
We were in an outer vestibule. A large pile of dark, somber-looking coats was piled up on the floor. We added ours to the heap. Another door presented itself, but this one opened readily. We went inside.
There was a noisy hubbub, and wild colors as two dozen people in fetching outfits approached me from all sides.
“It’s him!”
"Jarat Ellington! Oh, my God."
“What you did at Nuhope was just –”
A hand grabbed my arm: Ajit. Thank God. “Come on, man. You’re supposed to go to the other room.”
“What?”
“For VIPs. I’ll show you.”
A 50-ish blonde blocked our path, large bust pushed into an amazingly horizontal state. She held out a tray of various alcoholic and cannabis substances. "Mr. Ellington!" she breathed. "Care for something?"
“Take two. There’s nothing where you’re going. This place is not well organized at all,” Ajit advised.
I picked up a scotch and pocketed a smoking stick as he plowed through the crowd, clearing the way. The other guests couldn't say much more to me, given our accelerated pace. Still, the adulation in their eyes made me uncomfortable.
As we moved along, my peripheral vision studied the Elites and Middles collected there. They seemed to be mostly armchair renegades, probably seeking answers, seeking change. Nobody I'd want to buddy up with in a firefight.
In the background, mammoth air screens showed holograms of Massot intercut with projected views of other memorial gatherings. Quito, Mexico City, Chicago, Vancouver, Los Angeles, Miami, Buenos Aires, Montreal—nearly every U.A. Treasure Zone was present and accounted for. No one watching a streamed feed of this party would be able to tell where it was located. Our cell had made sure of that.
My mind froze as I saw Venice, standing with Cassie near a portrait of Luko that was silkscreened in fuchsia and aqua.
“She’s going back into hiding, directly after this,” Ajit whispered in my ear.
It was clear that dominatrix had lost her feline ferocity. She looked like a vessel of water near to overflowing with helpless fury. Cassie directed Venice’s attention to me. I was a shock to her system. Her military training as a killer was writ clear on her face as she directed her rage at me.
“Venice!”
“You knew it! You knew what would happen to Luko. It was a suicide mission,” she said.
“That’s not true. I did everything I could to save him.”
“You could have got a better car. For fuck’s sake. Your family has more money than God.”
It was a stab to my heart. Venice knew I would never ask my father for even one Americo. It was obvious she wasn't thinking clearly. Cassie gave me a helpless look. There was nothing to be done for now.
I followed behind Ajit as he led me to an open door leading to another room and another party, strictly for the A-list crowd. “See you later,” he said.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“Not invited.”
I rolled my eyes in exasperation. Ajit should be in there with me. The work he was doing to make sure the world's history was recorded accurately was incredibly important. But there was no use getting into that now.
“Don’t worry about Venice. She’ll come around,” Ajit said.
There was no sense debating that. “Tell me about the escape route.”
Ajit had made sure that there was an alternative way out before our cell agreed to meet there. "Through there," he murmured, eyes shifting to a glass door across the room. It seemed to lead out into some kind of exterior space. "You go straight through four other doors, then look for a trap door in the floor."
“Venice and Cassie know?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t look like anybody’s been through the rooms in years, but it’s for real.”
I collected my nerve and pushed open the door into the VIP room, which embraced me in an apricot-colored glow. It was filled with people, mostly holograms of dignitaries. They were physically located at one party or another throughout the U.A.
Many of them were leaders of various groups that had bashed themselves against the walls of power in attempts to bring about social change over the years. When they were in their prime, each of their organizations had been much more well-known than Theseus. But every one of the groups had been driven to their knees by the machinations of people in power who objected to their existence.
An aged, out-of-shape man who was there in the flesh ambled toward me: Ahmed Abraham, a member of the U.A.'s House of Representatives. Only a few elected politicians in New York had the guts to stick by Massot, and Abraham was one of them. The Congressman was clearly not cut from the same cloth as most of his brethren, who subjected themselves to countless body-sculpting procedures. His beaming smile had such a lovable quality about it.
“I almost shit my pants when you popped up on Nuhope’s wall at that party,” he said. I vaguely remembered seeing him there.
“Love the ballsy-ness of it all. Zinder must be apoplectic,” said a youngish woman with flying black braids—another real person, not a holo.
"Meet Magz Malloy," Abraham said. Fucking hell. The renegade journalist. "I invited her under certain conditions." He frowned a warning at Malloy.
“I’ve been leashed. Not recording a thing. All on background,” she said.
With a little luck, she was telling the truth. Magz Malloy had a reputation for showing up in places that other journos couldn’t figure out how to get into. She’d tried to ambush my father with interviews on the streets. Hadn’t gone over well. I vaguely remembered his PR handler talking about Malloy’s reputation. She spent too much money, drank too much booze, reported salacious scoops that her bosses told her to ignore. Little wonder she found it hard to work for anybody but herself.
“I didn’t recognize you,” I said. Last time I’d viewed one of her news reports, she hadn’t had those braids.
“I change up a lot.” She gave me some earnest concern. “You doin’ okay?”
“I’m fine.” Not that I was completely healed, but I wasn’t going to get into that.
“Listen. I know this isn’t the place or the time, but think we could chat? You know, for my new show?”
“Where do I find it?”
She leaned in toward me. "You can't—strictly pop-up style on the OuterNet. People never know when or exactly where I'll transmit. I'll push it to you."
Her breath was sour. I pulled back. “I’m not interested in doing interviews right now.”
Her eyes fixed on my ear stud. “Mind if I take down your deets?”
“Go ahead.”
She waved a hand close to the stud so her invisible keyboard could record my messaging coordinates, then she closed in again with that awful breath. “Take my advice and lose the deer-in-the-headlights look.”
“Didn’t know I had it.”
“You gotta get used to this kinda soiree. Because my money’s on you as the replacement for Massot on the Independent ticket.”
“On the ballot?” The idea was ludicrous. “I’ve never even run for public office.”
“Nobody cares, nobody that loved Massot, that is. Not anymore.”
“They can’t be that desperate.”
“Who the fuck else has your kind of rep? Somebody’ll get the cops to ease off you, and the party will take a vote.”
Glancing around the room, I realized everyone was focused on me. This wasn't good. One attack on Nuhope suddenly qualified me to lead the anti-government political party? A cluster of holograms came toward us. Their names didn’t spring to mind, but they were definitely Senators from south of the old U.S. border.
"I'm so moved by your patriotism," said an older dignitary with mango-colored hair and a Brazilian accent. He had to be over 100.
“Thank you for your bravery,” gushed another. Her skin was faintly dusted with old tattoos. “But now you must be careful about where you go and what you do."
I replied with a vague assurance as a man hurried toward us, thin hair curling up in wiry angles. “Mr. Ellington, I’m Guillaume Masters, the event coordinator. We are hoping that you’ll deliver a speech.”
“No, no. Can’t do that.”
“Just a few remarks. Don’t say no. Everyone will be so disappointed. I’ve placed you last in line.” The grand finale. Not a good sign. But I was trapped. Magz grinned at whatever my face was telling her.
“Ladies! Gentlemen!” Guillaume called to the room. “The ceremony is about to begin.”
After a few "good-byes," the holograms vanished, and the handful of actual humans made for the door. I walked back into the larger room and stood in the back, surveying the crowd for signs of danger.
As one speaker after another delivered their heartfelt remarks, it was like watching the history of failure. Every one of their determined undertakings to create a just and fair world for all Americans had been quelled by military interventions and smear-job news reports.
Theseus was just another domino teetering on its edge, and me with it. If I hadn’t highjacked Nuhope’s communication network to tout the Senator, maybe he wouldn't have seemed such a threat. Perhaps he would still be alive. Luko would be, too.
Theseus could build up the membership. Most of the people in the room would probably volunteer, if they weren’t working for other cells within the organization already. But Theseus would get snuffed out, in the end, and the ghost device would be found. It felt inevitable.
Man, did I need another scotch. As I headed toward the bar, I felt an unmistakable pull of longing and excitement. What the hell? How did the female Charismite get here? It wasn't as strong a sensation as I usually felt when I was near her, but my body was tingling.
Everyone else was looking around too. The poor bastards didn't know why they were feeling a strange thrill. I hated myself for craving her voice, her scent, her visible form. It was idiotic, but I couldn't stop the reaction. Who else had followed her here? Rico Reingold? Dapper Dove? Was she here on a mission to lure me into some kind of trap?
I could sense her just behind me now.
“Hi there.” It was the nosy reporter’s voice. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” This was no good.
“Luscious Melada.”
I turned toward them. The Charismite’s eyes were softly brilliant, like butterfly wings. She was thrilled to see me alive, or so it seemed. Little sparks flicked here and there on her golden skin. And that gap-toothed grin was pure as a kid’s on Christmas morning.
Magz sized up the vibe. “Can I, uh, get you two a drink?”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” the Charismite said.
Whatever she was after, I wanted to know it now. No pretenses, no distractions. “Will you excuse us?” I asked Magz.
Magz knew she wasn’t wanted, and she wasn’t crazy about it. “Yeah, sure.”
I motioned for the Charismite to follow me. The whole room full of people seemed to gravitate toward us like metal bits to a magnet as we moved toward the glass door that Ajit had pointed out earlier. I wanted to grab her arm, get her away from all of them even more quickly, but I wouldn’t give her that power of touch.
We passed the Theseus circle. Venice's anger evaporated. She, Ajit, and Cassie were wide-eyed at the sight of the Charismite. Some fool reached out to touch Luscious, but Ajit grabbed the hand. "No!"
“Excuse me? How dare you ...” The voice died out as the Charismite and I walked through the open glass door in a courtyard. I closed it and flipped the simple lock so that no one could follow.
# # #
MY HEART GALLOPED DELIRIOUSLY as the Charismite’s powers intensified. I tried to focus on the courtyard. Tall, dingy glass windows were fortified with chicken wire, and there was a door at the far end. Dried leaves surrounded crippled tables covered with several mounds that were barely discernable as plates and soda cans. It looked like they were covered with about 30 years of caked-on debris. Up above in the open sky, aircraft muttered faintly.
A piece of my brain urged me to fire up the cannabis smoking stick to calm-the-fuck-down. It didn't seem entirely wise, especially if Nuhope was using her against me in some way. Then again, I was so wound up.
I activated the tube, pulled in some smoke, and offered it to her.
“No. It doesn’t mix. You know, with the Juice. That is what he called it, right—the guy who made me into a—a Charismite?" She directed a beaming focus on me as if she just wanted to be liked—wanted to absorb everything I was thinking.
To hell with that. “Who told you how to get here?”
“Rico’s sister. She knows your friend Cassandra quite well.”
“What?” I could see Cassie’s weathered face through the glass door, watching us, like so many others peering out. How could she be so indiscreet?
“Cassie didn’t know I was coming,” the Charismite went on. “She thought Jizelle was asking for herself. They both did a lot of work for the Massot campaign; that’s how they know each other. Rico would have a heart attack if he knew Jizelle did that, or that I’m here.”
Could she be trusted? Was Rico really the one behind this visit, or some other manipulative slimeball at Nuhope? The Charismite was looking at me with such naïve candor. It was hard not to believe her innocence, but I was pissed. "Do you know how many lives you're endangering, coming here? God knows who's following you."
“I’m alone. I’m sure of it.”
I couldn’t help but snigger.
“Please take me seriously.”
“Jar-at, Jar-at, Jar-at.” Voices from the main room were demanding that I speak.
She took in my frown. “I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
Every cell in my body wanted her to stay, and at the same time, reason told me she should go. I sighed. Fatigue washed over me again as the crowd's chant grew more insistent. The odds I would fail—that Theseus would fail in its quest—were overwhelming. But I would force myself to do this speech. I made for the door.
“Christ on a cross,” the Charismite said. “Can’t you do better than that?”
“What?”
“You’ll scare everybody with that look on your face.” Little flames in her eyes poured into me. “You know as well as I do that every person inside, every person on those screens, needs to keep up their excitement. We can’t act like lily-livered peeps in goddamned surrender mode.”
I coughed out the smoke puff. “We?”
“Do I have to spell this out for you? I’m here to help.”
I laughed. “Right. See, the problem is, I know what you do to people. And ‘help’ isn’t the word that springs to mind.”
Something in her seemed to collapse. “Of course. Why should you trust me? Don’t spend time thinking about whether I’m good, whether I’m your enemy. Just think about them.” She shifted her eyes to the crowd. “Don’t disappear, for fuck’s sake.”
It had crossed my mind. “I’m not going to.”
She wasn’t entirely buying that. “They need your hope, Jarat. You are so brave. More than anyone I know. Give it to them.”
The power in her voice, her fierce illuminated face, her heat—probably even her goddamned sweat—poured into me. I forgot to breathe.
The memory of Thom’s voice surfaced: “A Charismite can be used for heavenly purposes.” What else had he said? It was impossible to think of it, with the crowd still chanting for me. The aircrafts seemed a little louder, but it was hard to tell.
The Charismite gave me another one of those gap-toothed Christmas grins. Thoughts about Massot’s fervent purpose in life surfaced. There was so much to tell people, so much to be thankful for and so much to do. I turned to the door.
Ssshhhh RRACK. An explosion shook the building. The blast seemed to be coming from another area.
“Good gravy!” the Charismite said.
Good gravy? If there was time, I would have laughed and tried to sort out the truth about her. Instead, I pointed at the door on the far wall and said, "Go through that. Then straight through three others. Look for a trap door in the floor. That will get you out of here."
“You sure about that?”
“No.”
She grinned. And then she was gone.
My body throbbed with all the energy she’d given me. I hurled open the other door and strode into the party like I had all the answers in the universe. Some people were flooding out another escape route while others were too shocked to move. Guillaume, the event organizer, was nowhere in sight.
Ajit rushed up. "Stormtroopers just bombed the front entrance." He gave me a view of his air screen, synced with the building's security system. Bright torch beams crisscrossed as the troopers marched past the printing presses in the first, mammoth room, drawing closer and closer.
The room was filled with anguished fear and barely curbed sobs. “We’ve got to go. Now,” Venice said.
"How can we go into escape mode with 50 people?" Cassie asked, looking at the guests. If only I could just make everyone invisible. My experiments had already made it clear that it wasn't possible. Two people at a time seemed to be my vanishing act's limit.
“They’ll kill us!” someone cried.
“No, they won’t,” I called out. The Charismite’s adrenalin surge was racing through me; the mere idea of fear and doubt made me impatient. “Follow me.” The party guests rushed after our Theseus crew, out the courtyard door and through the next one. We pressed through thick cobwebs in the blackness. The vague shapes of abandoned desks and chairs loomed up so fast it was hard not to walk into them.
Another blast sent a shudder through the walls. Ajit’s air screen showed an explosion tearing through the entrance to the party room we’d just vacated.
All the guests were beyond the panic level. We raced through another abandoned room and came abruptly to a staircase, looming overhead, descending down below. Which way should we go?
March, march of the troopers grew louder by the second. A woman beside me convulsed in whispered screams. The guests’ fearful faces made clear that they weren’t wired for this kind of adventure. “Breathe,” I whispered to them. “Collect your energy for the next dash. It could be the last one. We’re getting out of this.”
But how? The marching soldiers seemed to be one door back, maybe two. We had to decide. Now.
There was an invisible tug to my heart. I could tell that Ajit, Cassie, and Venice were feeling it too. None of the other guests understood what was happening.
“Shit. She’s really something,” Venice whispered.
“If you were a man, you’d be feeling double the shit,” Ajit said.
The Charismite’s face emerged from the stairs below, dirty as a coal miner's, a broad smile of bright teeth. She motioned us to follow.
We descended into a fourth room. It would have taken several minutes of investigation to find the trap door; it was so well hidden. But the Charismite had already done that. She pulled up on a metal ring and flung it open, revealing a ladder. Its lower rungs disappeared into the blackness below.
A woman started whimpering, then a man.
“Buck up, cupcakes,” the Charismite said. “You gotta go all zenitude. In two years, this is going to be nothing more than a very amaz story for your grandchildren.”
I went down the ladder and hit an earthen floor two floors below. I helped first one, then another and another person to get down. They moved off into the darkness to make room for others. The entire descent went very quickly, charged as we all were with the Charismite’s energy. Ajit lowered the door above our heads.
Faces showed out dimly in a few air screen flashlights. We were packed tightly together. The scent of dirt and rat droppings was overpowering. We strained to hear sounds from above. Nothing. Yet. The lights disclosed a tunnel, barely wider than two human bodies, and not much taller than a person on all fours.
Several people shuddered at the thought of what might be in it. But Venice stepped forward and led the way. Before long, we were all crawling through the tunnel. Everyone’s breath came out in bursts as we pushed forward into a very funky-smelling unknown. The word “sewage” sprang to mind. The others seemed to pick up on that too.
"Oh, c'mon. Relax! We're a freakin' tunnel of cool," the Charismite whispered.
I stifled a laugh. Her energy strengthened in the tight space, and the whole atmosphere was charged with her presence. Everyone lightened up. We were in a comedy adventure. Playing a silly party game. Goofing around like old pals, in a completely silent kind of way.
Venice whispered to the Charismite. “That’s one surreal thing you got going on.”
“Might as well have a little fun, don’t you think?”
We crawled on and on, jolly and hyper-focused on escaping, all at the same time. It felt like we must have left the building now and were traversing under the streets.
“STOP RIGHT THERE!” We craned our necks around and saw a trooper inching toward us from behind, a laser gun trained on us.
“Wo!” The Charismite sent a thrill through me as she pushed past, crawling in the man’s direction. I followed behind her protectively. “It’s about time,” she cried out, so softly flirtatious. “I was wondering when one of you would catch up. What’s your name?”
“None of your —”
“Oh, come on.” She touched his arm, ever so softly, and he let out a gasp.
“I’m Lore.”
“Lordy, Lore. What big eyes you have.”
Somebody laughed at that. I was just behind the Charismite. The soldier was so bedazzled that it didn't look like he was aware of me. Might as well have gone invisible. I pulled out my neo-knife. He spun around and shot it out of my hand with his gun.
“Get back!” he shouted, and I obliged. He picked up the knife and put it in his pocket.
“Wow, you’re so fast,” the Charismite breathed. “Where are your buds?”
“None of your –” Her fingers touched his cheek. He was shocky, eyes glazed over.
She let out a silky laugh. “Do we have enough time for some fun?” He glanced at the crowd of other faces. “Forget about them. They don’t care,” she said. “Let’s show ’em how it’s done.”
The soldier looked like he'd forgotten who he was, where he was. He grabbed her with both hands and kissed her with violent greed, pawing her breasts and stripping off her pants. I wanted to smash the asshole to a raw, bloody mess. But the Charismite looked at me directly over the soldier's shoulder, transmitting a glittering "no" that couldn't be refused.
Everyone watched as she unzipped the soldier's pants and fondled his cock. He let out a shrill whimper, drooling, and his gun dropped to the ground, completely forgotten. The Charismite smiled at me.
My fingers inched closer and closer to the glinting metal, which was beside the soldier's right hand. The Charismite tore open his shirt and bit a nipple. He jolted, in ecstasy. She pulled my neo-knife out of his pocket, and with one final thrust forward, I had his gun.
The man pulled back, in a stupor as he looked at the weapons in our hands. The Charismite’s eyes seared into him. “So sorry to cut things off, Lore. But it’s time for you to go back to your friends.”
Lore was crushed. “Couldn’t we just –”
"Listen to me. You gotta tell your pals there's nothing here. This tunnel is just a waste of time. And you're pissed off, 'cause somehow you lost your gun in the dark. Make it believable, hon. They can't come down this tunnel any further."
Lore shifted his gaze from the Charismite to the rest of us. “You gonna do that for me, Lore?” she asked. He didn’t move for a drawn-out moment, yearning to grab her again. “Go back to them now. Remember, nothing’s here.”
He slowly nodded “yes,” then crawled away quickly. Everyone collapsed with relief. The Charismite pulled her clothes back on. “And that, my friends, is how I make love and not war.”
# # #
WE CRAWLED ALONG THE tunnel for a solid 10 minutes, closer and closer to the light streaming toward us from a window up ahead. The battering aircraft came faintly from beyond it.
Ajit pulled up the navigational system on his air screen, but it wasn’t working. Nobody else in our group could get a lock on our location either. The buildings visible from beyond the opening were all nondescript in the black night.
I tried moving the metal grate crisscrossing the window. It was embedded too solidly in the cement frame. The Charismite handed me my neo-knife, and I seared the cement with the knife’s stream of gases, sending up an acrid smell. Magz flipped open her own neo-knife—a nasty little thing—and burned away at the other side. We choked back coughs. Fifteen minutes later, the metal barrier was gone.
"Let me," Venice said. Her skinny body slid through the opening, and she flitted over to the street corner, silent and shadow-like. Her military stealth training was serving us well. In hardly no time at all, her face appeared in the window. "This is 187th Street,” she whispered. “The printing plant’s down that way.” She glanced down the street to the right.
The chopping sound increased to a roar. Venice dove back into the tunnel a split second before a military aircraft zoomed into view and touched down a few feet away from our escape hatch.
Five troopers raced down the street toward aircraft. One of them stumbled off course toward our window. Lore's face flicked into view, looking bewildered as if he couldn't fathom what happened to him, or why he was off course. Another soldier cursed him, and he swerved back in the right direction. They climbed in the aircraft. Lore’s face pressed to the glass as it lifted up and away, joining a wave of other aircraft, moving off into the night.
Our bedraggled group waited a bit longer before staggering out onto the street. The Bronx air was chilly compared to the tunnel, which had grown hot with our compressed bodies. It was as if we'd jumped into a swimming pool. There was a promising sense of daylight about to break forth. The Theseus gang and the Charismite waved good-bye as the other party guests took off.
Magz lingered behind. “Can we have drinks some time and talk about what just happened?” she asked the Charismite and me.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
"I don't bite. You'll come, won't you?" Magz asked the girl.
“Sorry, darlin’.”
A silver sun touched the broken buildings as Magz took off.
Venice came up to me and squeezed my hand. It was the first time we’d ever touched. There was a hole in her that spoke to the hole in me—the loss of Luko. She was the sister I’d never had, in that moment. She pulled a hood up over her head and pushed off with Cassie and Ajit. They nodded a silent “thank you” to the Charismite.
“Take care,” the girl said, with heart in her voice.
There was no reason for the Charismite to stay with me, but still, she hesitated. It was astounding, how someone covered from head to toe with grime could still be extraordinarily magnetic. "Just working out how I get back home," she explained. "I've been gone so long Rico’s probably scanning every satellite cam in the Zone trying to find me, and I don’t want him to catch sight of me like this.”
“How did you hide your identity when you came here?”
“I discovered that if I wear a black coat and sunglasses, and limit the amount of chems in my system, I can slip away sometimes.” Her outer disguise must have been back at the entrance to the party, along with everyone else’s.
“Take my hand,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yep.” A euphoric jolt surged through me upon impact with her light touch. Maybe her dosage was low, but she still packed a wallop. We vanished from sight and walked about 40 blocks through the gathering day, with me fantasizing about having sex with her right there in the middle of the street. No one could see us.
Then again, one crushing kiss would do. That was crazy, pure fantasy to think she wanted that. But somehow, it felt like she did, like she was amazingly attracted.
“Tell me about your friend—the one who made me,” she said.
“His name was Thom Tseng.” She’d earned that.
“What he was like?”
I dredged up old memories of Thom, some of which were nearly forgotten. When I told her about all the crazy graffiti we'd collected, her laughter bounced me into a higher state of elation. It was a stunning day. It didn't matter that the crumbling cityscape was so ugly or that the sky was like iron smoke. It didn't matter at all.
In the distance, there was a taxi stand. It was far enough removed from the party to seem unrelated, if a satellite were to catch sight of her. As we reached it, I was telling her about Thom's last words—the part about Charismites being heavenly.
“I’m a real angel,” she said ruefully.
“Well, he did put it another way too.” I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten before.
“What?”
“He said they can destroy everything I hold dear.”
"Yes. I suppose that could be true. It would be horrible. It's an awful responsibility to be who I am. I didn't realize it at the start, how it would be." The silence was heavy between us for a moment. "I don't understand," she blurted.
“What?”
“Why did he create the Juice, if it would just create these—these seductive monsters?”
"He once stopped a war in Ethiopia. It was only for a day. And he would have tried to make it last longer if he hadn't been attacked himself."
“Stopping a war,” she marveled. “That would be something. That would really be something.”
She slid into the driver’s seat of a taxi and let go of my hand, becoming visible again.
“You look like a 19th-century chimney sweep," I said.
A laugh, like the cackle of a wild crow, burst out of her. I pulled a tissue out of my pocket. She rubbed at the dirt on her face with it. It was still a little grimy, but maybe the security cams wouldn't sound any alarms at the sight of her.
“See you around,” I said.
“See you around what?”
I looked back. “Sorry?”
“Why didn’t you say, ‘See you around, Luscious’? It doesn’t hurt, you know, to say my name.”
"Is that right?" I was still invisible and thankful that she couldn't see me flush. I wasn't ready to go into the realm of a personal name—couldn't get too close or forget what she really was.
“Just remember what I said. I want to help.”
“You got something in mind?”
“I don’t know. Watch out for things? You can’t be invisible everywhere at once, right?”
“Nope. No omnipotent powers.”
“Bangin’ word—omnipotent.” The air seemed to warm with the humor on her face.
Could I trust her? Could I? Maybe with a test. “I could use another set of eyes inside Nuhope.”
“How do I get in touch with you—you know, if I want to tell you about something?”
I thought a minute, then fished around in my pocket and pulled out a necklace, a string of dried beans that Lilya had given me a while back. I’d taken to carrying it around like a talisman.
It became visible as I put it in the Charismite’s hand. She looked at it in wonder. “That’s so dope. I used to make stuff like this,” she said.
“If it’s around your neck, I’ll know you need to talk.”
She grinned. “Even if I just want to shoot the breeze?”
“I don’t think breeze shooting is such a good idea.” Not with her. Not too close.
Her smile quirked with loneliness. “Okay.”
As I walked away, the thrill of being near her for so long didn’t lessen. Turn around. Look once more, something inside me said. And I did.
There was such teasing delight about her, like she'd focused on making me look back and knew that I must have, even though I was still invisible. But underneath her smile, there was a tremor of sadness.
She raised a farewell hand, and I mirrored it with an invisible hand of my own. Even though we were half a block away from each other, the sensation of palm touching palm was so real, as if nothing separated us.
# # #
BACK IN MY SECRET LAIR out in Queens, I kept coming back to my last moments with the Charismite and her poignant smile. It was impossible to get any sleep. I picked up one of my half-finished paintings, a portrait of a scrawny, bird-like teen with a crooked, gap-toothed grin. It was my imagining of what the female Charismite would look like if she'd never met Rico, never taken the Juice.
There were several holograms of her on the OuterNet taken by newshounds just after she'd saved that boy. She was so skinny and sickly in the holos, hacking out a cough now and then. Her fuzzy hair was wildly askew, and she had on baggy worn-out pajamas, and laughed raucously like a crow, as I'd heard on the street. Even now, she still had that untamable quality despite all that her handlers had done to make her seem cultivated and Elite.
My painting was the work of an ambitious amateur, nothing more. Professional artists would have rolled their eyes at it as well as all the other portraits I'd done. They were stacked up against a wall—renderings of Mama Neeta and her kids. One showed my idea of what Jewles would look like now. But no one would ever see them if I had my way.
The Charismite’s nose needed a stroke of brightness. I put some yellow acrylic paint on my pallet and mixed it with white. Was she Christmas or catastrophe? No sense laying bets on either one.
“Luscious.” I tried the name softly. “Luscious.”