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BLACKOUT.
If you lived in Chicago—or anywhere on Planet Earth—in the last twenty-plus years, you became inured to random and frequent losses of power. At the most maximally inconvenient times. Individual buildings used solar or wind (in some cases gasoline-powered) backup generators to power essential functions during these glitches. Essential functions like servers and emergency lights and dialysis pumps.
Freight elevators were not on that list.
I stood in the middle of a silent metal coffin, its dead, dark air pressing against my lungs and invading my eyes.
Claustrophobia compressed.
A rosy flush seeped through the door joint as the building’s emergency lights flickered to life in the hallway outside. At least I wasn’t stuck between floors. Probably. Maybe. The power of positive thinking. “I can get out, I can get out,” chanted the Little Engine Joe in my head. I had fought a cage match with Larry the Fatal Guy to get these doors closed. Could I pry them apart without power?
Well, let’s find out.
The joint where the doors came together left a fingernail-wide gap, enough for a few brave photons of light to make it through, but too narrow for my fingers to get a grip. I put a palm on each side of the gap, set my feet, drew a deep breath and pressed!
And nearly fell flat on my face when the doors whooshed apart without a hint of resistance.
“Well, that was easy,” I whispered. Too easy, something cold and evil whispered in the back of my mind.
“Shut the fuck up,” I told it.
My ride had frozen one long step below floor level. The emergency light revealed a vestibule stacked with boxes and trash bags, mop equipment and shelves of acidic-smelling cleaners. A metal plate riveted to the doorjamb told me I was on the 9th Floor. I hiked my leg up and climbed out of the elevator. I found a box, sat on it, and rubbed my face with tired, sore hands.
As a felon with no money, no home, no transportation, and no friends that I trusted, I could count my options on one hand and have enough fingers left over to play darts. Run for it, or go back and rummage for my missing bit-stick. Up one hundred and fifty-one flights of stairs. Yeah. Sure.
“Move, Joe,” I said. “Time’s running out.”
I jumped off the box and navigated through the cluttered maintenance room to the only exit. On the other side: vacant space. The entire floor had been cleared of all walls and furnishings. Overhead, a metal grid that once held ceiling tiles crisscrossed the room, and cables hung through the empty space like dangling vines in a techno-jungle. Scattered emergency lights, aided by the glow of the city through the windows, left the entire floor clouded with deep pools of primal darkness.
Something clinked in the distance.
“Well, this ain’t spooky at all.” My shaky voice echoed, and sweat dripped from my nose. I combed the hair back from my forehead with a jittery hand, and it came away soaked.
A meter away, an exit sign dangled from a loose conduit at head height. I quick-marched that direction, following the solid wall on my left. A low-hanging coil of wire brushed my neck. Nothing makes you a karate expert faster than a snake-like object touching your neck in the dark.
Five meters beyond the next exit sign, a metal door labeled “Fire Escape” in bold red letters appeared. Shouldering open the door, I discovered a short landing and utilitarian concrete stairs that zigzagged into the darkness above and below. Weak light flickered from orange bulbs at every zig. Mostly. They grew dimmer as I watched.
“Oh shit,” I muttered. “The generator’s going out.”
With a glance upward, I said a mental goodbye to my billions of dollars and bolted downward, feet pounding, with one hand on the rail for balance. One flight, two flights... three flights... four... flights. Where I drew up and sucked wind like an overridden horse. You’d think going down would be easy.
I bent over at the waist and panted until the blackness around my vision receded, then started down again, at a more measured pace. At the first floor, a rail separated the stairs, preventing anyone from accidentally going to the basement in case of a fire. A metal door with a push bar opened—I believed—onto the building lobby, from which the average escapee would flee to safety from the fire, or Godzilla, or crazed waiters with revolvers, or whatever chased them from the Huateng in the first place.
I put my hands against the cool metal and tried to extend my Spidey senses beyond the surface. Had the cops beat me here? Something... tingled. Maybe it was only gas, or maybe it was my nerves acting up, but I really didn’t want to go out that door.
I vaulted the rail and jogged down another flight of stairs to the basement level. There was no emergency light at this landing. No light at all except what filtered from above. Another door, another push bar, this one so shrouded in darkness, it appeared black rather than gray. I touched it with the same superstitious belief I had relied on earlier.
This time: nothing.
“Fuck it,” I said under my breath. I hit the door with my shoulder and the push bar with my hip. It screeched open, bottom dragging across the concrete. Light spilled from the other side; at least here they’d not scrimped on emergency bulbs. I shoved my way through and—
“Hello, Joseph,” said Agent Ramirez. “Glad you could join us.”
Behind Ramirez stood another agent, with blond hair and a chiseled face. Two more goons in black flak jackets held spotlights, which they now chose to shine in my face. Blinded, I threw an arm over my eyes.
“No!” Anger from losing my newfound wealth clicked with fear of imprisonment, and a switch tripped in my brain. I lashed out at the backlit, blurry targets, powered by the uncontrolled fury of a tanker-truck explosion. One fist connected—hard and satisfying—a dull, meaty thud that jolted my arm. Someone snapped out a bark of pain. I’m pretty sure it was Ramirez. Rational analysis drowned under a haze of red. Rage burned hot.
I was screaming.
Something jabbed me in the ribs. A billion bees stung me at once, all over. My muscles locked up, and fire exploded from my scalp.
Floor.
Ceiling.
Feet.
Lights.
Nothing.
***
RAMIREZ PROBED HIS split lip with the tip of his tongue. Every time he touched it, his annoyance with Mr. Joseph Warren clicked up one notch. The next few minutes would give him the greatest satisfaction he’d experienced in a long time. He occupied one of two seats in a room the size of a modest kitchen; the chair across the table from him waited for the arrival of the little shit in question.
Maravich leaned against the interrogation room door, not bothering to hide his amusement. “The goofy little shit tagged you a good one, didn’t he?”
Ramirez ignored the taller man and brushed at a dust smear on his faux silk jacket. The jacket cost more than Warren earned in six months of unemployment assistance; dirt and grit were embedded in the fabric after Warren punched him. Ramirez had tumbled across the dirty floor, more from surprise than the power of the blow.
Oh, yes, the next phase of this operation would be a pure joy.
The door opened, and two guards carry-marched their prisoner into the room and plopped him on the vacant chair. Warren slumped in his seat, hunched over, ankles and wrists cuffed and chained to a waist belt, wearing an orange jailhouse coverall and sporting a puffy, bruised eye. Lank, mousy hair fell around his face, and five o’clock shadow stubbled his hollow cheeks. Pale, thin and undoubtedly malnourished, their soon-to-be snitch reminded Ramirez of a thousand similar small-time crooks.
Pathetic.
“He looks,” Maravich drawled, “like something the cat vomited up. Tell me how this little puke knocked you down again, Agent Ramirez?”
Ramirez leaned forward and snapped his fingers under their prisoner’s nose. “Joseph?” Snap-snap. “Joseph, you in there?”
One brown eye glared through a tangle of greasy hair. “No, I’m at your mother’s house, watching her crap out more kids like you.”
“Hah!” Maravich barked. “I like this guy.”
Warren’s good eye flicked to Maravich and back to Ramirez. “How’d you find me?”
“Does it matter?” Ramirez unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. He needed some real calm to keep from snapping this little prick’s neck. “Let me lay out the charges, Mr. Warren,” he said once he got the gum going. “First, we have armed robbery, followed by conspiracy. Then comes fraud, then comes kidnapping, then we’ll probably add malicious destruction for shooting up the Huateng’s Revivant.” Ramirez worked his jaw and let the seconds tick past. The prisoner failed to react. Surprising. By this time most of them were squirming in their seat. “Joseph, remember the story I told you about being buried in a hole somewhere, never to see the light of day?”
An eye-flicker answered him.
“There are worse things, Joseph,” he intoned with as much menace as he was capable. “Much worse things.”
“Like for example,” Maravich chimed in, “have you seen the Gen Five nanos?”
Warren’s good eye slitted tight. His mouth stayed clamped in a grim line. Ramirez wanted to Taser him again and wipe that truculent expression away in a blaze of electricity.
“Nah, of course you haven’t. It’s top secret shit.” Maravich shuddered. “It ain’t pretty, dude. They call ’em Behavior Modification and Control Devices, and they’re used on live people, not the dead ones. The nanos, they, like... take over... the person from the inside and make ’em do whatever the controller programs them for.”
“What do you federal cunts want?” Warren gritted out. “I’m done playing the game.”
“Hardly done, I’d say.” Ramirez sniffed. “Why, we have lots for you to do. You failed to carry out my simple request from the last time we spoke. What was that, Joseph? What did I ask you to do?”
“You... Get close to the CoL people. Spy on them for you.”
“Very good, sir, very smart of you to remember. And did you do that simple task? No,” Ramirez continued without pause, “you did not do what I asked. Instead, you went off and committed numerous felonies. Let me ask you: do you consider yourself an American?”
The sudden shift seemed too much for Warren at first. “What kind of question is that?”
“Humor me. What do you think of being an American?”
“What the hell—”
“Humor me,” Ramirez repeated.
“I... I guess I never really thought about it. It’s just the place I was born. I mean, in school they taught us the white Europeans came here, obliterated the Native Americans, and stole their land. I’ve read a little bit, and I know it wasn’t all that cut-and-dried, but that’s kind of... you know... if you stretch it, that’s kind of our history. So is slavery and segregation. That part of being an American sucks more than a little.” Warren drew in a breath. “But I would say I’m better off than, for example, those people in China dying of bird flu and winding up in mass graves. Or any part of the radioactive dust swirling over the Middle East.”
“Yes, you are much better off than those people.” Ramirez leaned back and popped his gum. Behind him, Maravich shifted, and Ramirez could almost see the man’s eyes roll; he hated it when Ramirez went into an All-American rant. Warren stared at his hands with a sour expression. “This is a land of law and order, Joseph. As this nation has grown up, we’ve learned to do the right thing more and more often. We made reparations to the Native Americans you spoke of—what?—fifteen years ago. EEOC mandates have leveled the playing field for African-Americans. We’ve put the reins on unbridled capitalism and forced businesses to toe the line; they either do the right thing—for the environment, their work force, and the community—or they get de-privatized. We’ve built the biggest per capita government infrastructure the world has ever known for one purpose: to take care of the citizens of this country.”
“Ramirez?” Warren peered with his one good eye from under shaggy bangs. “Are you running for office? If you are, not a chance in hell you’re getting my vote.”
“No, sir. I am only a working stiff like you, trying to do the right thing—”
“Hah! Don’t make me laugh; it hurts my face from where your goons kicked me.”
“—and the right thing in this situation is to find the Children of Liberty. Dig them out by root, branch, and twig. They are a dangerous group, my friend, attempting to overthrow the United States government.”
“I’m not your friend, Ramirez.”
“I think he’s got that right!” Maravich crowed.
“No,” Ramirez said. His insides frosted over, and his face tightened. “You are most definitely not my friend. I, however, am about the only thing close to a friend you have in your pathetic little life, maggot.”
Digging out a small vid player, Ramirez placed it on the table and keyed it on. In a tiny, lifelike display, a scene popped up showing Marion Winston in a jail cell, wearing coveralls and socks but no shoes. He lay on a bunk with an arm over his eyes, but everyone in the room could see it was Winston.
“We caught your only friend, Joseph. And thank you, by the way, for leading us to him. We never would have found this character without your help.”
Warren slid forward, putting his face within centimeters of the diorama playing on the screen. “You’re saying you caught Ding? And I’m supposed to believe this because you show me some doctored-up video?”
At a signal, Maravich opened the interrogation room door and said, “C’mere.”
Ramirez watched his prisoner’s face go from a sneering, ferrety kind of bravado to gape-eyed surprise, followed closely thereafter by something like real horror.
“You didn’t,” he breathed.
“We did.” Maravich shoved the Revivant who was once Signe. The woman stumbled forward in a petite, see-through teddy and nothing else. Maravich grabbed the other Revvie, formerly Deandre, and dragged her next to the shorter blonde. Deandre was dressed in stockings and garter, with a push-bra. Both had vacant expressions and shiny, unwashed skin. “Gen Fives, buddy. Finest kind. Living, but, ah, reprogrammed. I did both of these gals, back before we turned ’em over. The blonde took it like a champ, never even cried. The black one, well, she fought it like a wildcat.” The agent touched a scratch on his chin. “Anyways, after that, we injected both these gals with the Gen Five nano, programmed as sex toys. Now they beg for it.”
Warren threw up on the floor.
After the prisoner finished retching—and it didn’t take long as he had nothing much to expel—Ramirez snapped his fingers to get the man’s attention. “Listen up, boy. Here’s what’s going to happen. This time, you will follow my instructions. You will find the group known as the Children of Liberty. You will report to me this success within five days. If you do not succeed in five days, your friend goes the same way as these two women. Comprende?”
A bit of drool hung from Warren’s lip, and when he nodded, it bounced but didn’t break.
“Second,” Ramirez continued, “you will infiltrate this group and find a file—”
“A what?” the prisoner croaked.
“Shut up. Once you have found this file, you will report back to me immediately on its location. Failure in this matter will be dealt with even more severely. Not only will your friend become a Gen Five Revivant, you will follow him in his fate. I will program your body to teach knife tactics at the Academy. Do you understand these instructions?”
The prisoner whispered something.
“What was that?”
“I said,” Warren rasped, “how can you get away with this? Creating slaves?”
“Lady Liberty gives me a lot of latitude in how I pursue my protection of her.” Ramirez smiled. He knew from previous testimony his face resembled skin tightened over a skull when he smiled. “It’s not all stick; here’s the carrot. Succeed in helping me recover this file, and the nanos in these women will be deactivated. Your friend goes free.” Ramirez sat back and let his face relax. “Now, do we have an understanding?”
In the center of the table, the holographic representation of Marion Winston remained alive. The corpulent crook had shifted to his side, curled up in a fetal ball. He appeared to be crying. Warren stared at the holograph of his friend. As Ramirez opened his mouth to ask again, the goofy little shit across the table stirred and looked up.
“You’ll let Ding go?” Warren asked. “You’ll fix Signe and Deandre?”
“Of course. I don’t want Winston. I want the video file in the possession of Millie MacCauley and her band of troublemakers. Nothing else matters to me at this point.”
Warren paused for a long ten count. “I’ll do it,” he whispered.