Clay Page 13

  “Enough.” Paul stands, his hand pulling out of his coat empty. Jamie is shaking. “She’s been through enough.”

  “It’s the truth. You can’t run forever. The road will eventually end.”

  “Let’s go.” He motions to her. “Come on.”

  “I’ll find you again,” the man says. “They will, too.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Paul says.

  For the first time, the man falters, covering up the thoughts behind his eyes. Patrons have taken notice of Paul looming over him, his posture rigid, fists clenched. Only children take no notice, shouting as they head out to the playground.

  It takes a false start before he gets the words out, looking directly at Jamie when he says, “You have something I need.”

  “What?” Jamie says.

  “Information.”

  “About the warehouse?” He doesn’t answer, but what else could it be? “You want to be halfskin?”

  He averts his gaze, perhaps hiding the answer. “What I want is irrelevant.”

  “Come on.” Paul yanks her across the plastic bench. “Follow us if you like, we’re not stopping.”

  “Where is the safe place?” Jamie asks.

  People aren’t pretending they don’t notice anymore. Paul beats back their interest with a sweeping glare. Jamie sits back down. The man still seems lost.

  Me. He’s come for me.

  “South,” he says. “About a day away. Maybe two, with the weather.”

  “And what is it?”

  “Just a place where M0ther can’t see.”

  Again, he ruminates. He’s honest, she can tell. She can feel it. What he wants isn’t selfish, it’s not petty. Still, he’s hiding much. He packs the food in the paper sacks and stands.

  “I have a white van. We’ll go southbound as long as the weather permits.”

  “And if we don’t follow?” Paul asks.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He hands him the bag. “Your time is limited; it’ll run out sooner than you think. It’s best if you follow me.”

  Perhaps he’s talking about their aimless driving, their endless road trip; but Jamie hears it differently. I’m going nowhere.

  Paul is grinding through his thoughts, dead set against following a weird stranger. Jamie snatches the bag, heads for the exit. A white van is next to their car, exhaust puffing from the tailpipe. She pulls her jacket around her throat, the wind stealing her breath. Her nose is numb when Paul finally comes out.

  They get in the car.

  They follow the white van without talking.

  26

  Sleet ticks off the windshield.

  Nix pulls up to a Super 8, the white lights illuminating the snow-crusted hood. He watches the rearview mirror for a dirty white sedan. After seventy-two hours without sleep, the faint hint of hot metal lingers in his sinuses. Even his biomites have their limits.

  It took a month to find Jamie. Her personal account had been closed following her “death.” However, she was jumping on and off public wifi, enough that he could track her down.

  Nix caught up to her near St. Louis. He pumped gas while Jamie sat in the sedan. She was in the passenger seat, head against the glass. And then a man returned.

  He didn’t look like her father, at least not the one in her history. They hardly spoke at restaurants and slept in separate hotel rooms. Nix spent his nights searching the man’s past.

  No facial recognition.

  His secrecy had the imprint of security. Public servants, like police, were required to reveal name, rank and affiliation. If he was federal, like CIA, that would explain it. He expanded the facial recognition to include similar matches. It resulted in several thousand hits that would take days to sort out. However, there was one in Seattle: Paul Jennings. Seattle Police Department.

  He was at the warehouse.

  Odd that facial recognition didn’t match the first time. In fact, his history had been erased. Nix needed more time to figure this out, but he’d been spotted. Jamie’s activity on public wifi stopped. They moved quickly after that. It took three days of catching up. If Jamie hadn’t accessed a public library connection in central Illinois, he might never have found them.

  They were desperate. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  Time is running out for all of us.

  Headlights shine in the rearview mirror. A car comes down the interstate ramp. The sleet blurs the white sedan sitting at the stop sign. The road is empty. Nix climbs out to wait at the back bumper. Fatigue pulls at him despite the urgency.

  After a long minute, the car eases into the parking lot.

  Jamie is laid back. Paul cracks the window. Dead air leaks out.

  “I’m sorry,” Nix says. “I can’t keep driving, the weather’s not good. I’m exhausted. I’ll get us three rooms.”

  Paul doesn’t answer.

  Jamie looks smacked out of her gourd.

  The window slides up. Paul hangs his hand over the steering wheel, stares through the windshield. Ice pellets streak through the high beams.

  The car rolls forward.

  Nix watches it cruise out of the parking lot. The left taillight intermittently blinks. The car creeps down the road. Nix doesn’t have the energy to give chase. It’ll have to wait until morning.

  However, the brake lights splash across the wet asphalt. They turn into the Best Western a couple hundred yards away. Beneath the bright awning, Paul goes inside the lobby.

  He’s playing it safe.

  Nix never intended to drive straight to the farm. Taking Jamie was a risk. Bringing Paul was stupid. It wasn’t likely they were being watched, but if they were he’d be leading them right to Cali. But they’re scared and nervous. They’re looking for an escape, he can feel it. The farm is exactly what they want, he knows it.

  Nix is running out of time. And his tolerance of risk is increasing, and now he’s dragging others into his careless pursuit. He doesn’t want to betray his sister, but it’s got to be now.

  Nix drags his feet, now wet and cold, into the hotel. He gets a room. There will be no visits to Dreamland. Not tonight.

  Tonight, he’ll rest.

  Tomorrow will be difficult.

  M0THER

  The Dance of Secrets

  Another dance recital.

  If the government declared them illegal, Abe Rondell wouldn’t argue.

  The parking lot next to the school was full. They found a spot across the road. So did the other parents that were running late. They waited at a stoplight. Fine green lines appeared in his vision and enclosed the passing license plates. The numbers were logged in to the column to the right of his vision.

  Once they crossed the road, the same green lines targeted the people they passed. Names hovered over their heads, along with registered occupations and whatever personal information that was linked to social networks.

  “Stop working,” his wife said.

  The green lines boxed her in. “Lindsey, Real Estate Agent,” floated over her head.

  Occupation, “Bitch.”

  You get a toy like this, you don’t turn it off. His promotion came with a subscription to the Global Facial Recognition database. It’s too expensive for the general public. Commercial applications, however, made the investment well worth it. He would never forget another name, always identify potential customers.

  Mind reading is no longer a fantasy.

  He dialed down the sphere of capture, pulling faces only from a five foot radius around him. The attendees funneled towards the front doors of the school. It wasn’t triggered by the back of their heads, only when someone turned around. It required a frontal view that analyzed spatial relations, skin tone, eye color, etc. Take, for instance, the lady holding the door.

  “Nikki Messing.

  Administrative Assistant for School District #2. 32 years old. [LinkedIn]

  Two cats, no kids. [Facebook]

  Recently divorced. Hiked the Appalachian Trail this summer. [Facebook]

&n
bsp; Active dating profile [eHarmony].”

  “Turn it off.” His wife squeezed his hand.

  He’d have to work on disguising that glazed-over look when he was working.

  They gave Nikki Messing their tickets and found their seats. The auditorium was stuffy. Abe settled into the creaky seat and prepared for two hours of mind-numbing boredom. When the lights went down and the first group of five year olds marched onto the stage holding giant lollipops and dancing to “The Good Ship Lollipop” (most of them staring at the crowd in horror), Abe fired up the facial recognition.

  Only three of the children had personal information, which meant the parents voluntarily posted it. And the older the groups got, the more he learned.

  His daughter’s act was the ninth one of the evening. All of them were linked to social media, except for Abe’s daughter, Jean. Tabitha, her new best friend, even streamed video from her Twitter and Instagram feeds that Abe watched superimposed over the dance routine.

  When the event was mercifully over, they waited outside. His wife was occupied with other parents, so he kept it rolling. He identified a few potential clients and stored this event away for future chit-chat.

  His daughter finally came out with Tabitha. Hugs and congratulations and flowers were exchanged. The girls were almost as excited it was over as the adults. Tabitha asked if Abe’s daughter could spend the night.

  “If it’s all right with her parents,” Tabitha’s mom answered.

  “Tina Martin. Cashier. 49.”

  “I don’t think so,” Abe said.

  “Daddy!”

  His wife looked shocked. He was usually thrilled to have an empty house. But it wasn’t the blurry tattoo on Tina Martin’s forearm that alarmed him or the unlit cigarette between her fingers.

  “Drug possession with intent to distribute. [Department of Corrections].”

  27

  Cigarettes are yesterday’s habit.

  Paul watches from the second story of the Best Western while sucking on a filtered Marlboro. He quit smoking ten years ago but he just didn’t have the biomite capacity to kill the compulsion. Too much clay pulled him back to the sweet drag of tobacco.

  A pack of twenty promised a reprieve from the daily grind, a little pick-me-up when life knocked you down. Cigarettes were the adult’s cookie.

  Then came along biomites.

  The nicotine pick-me-up was replaced by scripted positive thinking and customized hormonal release. With the right seeding, you just decided to stop smoking: no struggle, no withdrawal. Sweet relief was a thought away. Instead of inhaling a lungful of carcinogens, people had the ability to feel whatever they wanted.

  The cookie was internalized. No lighter needed.

  At least, that’s what the biomite designers promised. Humanity soon discovered that suffering doesn’t disappear when wishes are granted. Life doesn’t care how you feel and many came to find the internalized cookie was much more mesmerizing than a cigarette. To some, inescapable.

  Jamie comes out of her room, huddling inside her puffy coat. Her hair frizzes beneath her stocking cap. When it comes to those that can’t escape the empty promise of the biomite era, she is Exhibit A.

  Smoke burns his eyes that already ache with only two hours of sleep. He gave Jamie his chat identity, waited all night for her to call if the old man came to kidnap her. Sometime before sunrise, he bought a pack of reds.

  Paul slides his finger across his phone, waits for it to boot. He hadn’t turned it on, afraid to give away their position. But Jamie had been lying, just like he thought. She’d been on public wifi. That’s how the old man found them.

  But that means no one else is looking.

  The bricks would’ve beaten the old man to them. At least Paul’s identity was still locked. Despite missing in action for over a month, his was still absent from facial recognition. The old man, though, was hiding something. Paul can’t find anything on him.

  Jamie sniffs. “Have one?”

  Paul taps out a cigarette, lights it for her. Jamie exhales a column of white smoke. She bobs her head to her internal audio loop. Before biomites, the human race worked to tame runaway thoughts and unravel subconscious beliefs; now heads were filled with music and newsfeeds and lucid Dreamlands. It brought whole new levels of insanity.

  Exhibit B, the warehouse.

  “He’s coming,” Jamie says.

  “Who?”

  “The old man chatted me.”

  “How’d he get your identity?”

  “Same way you did, I guess.”

  That’s the funny thing: Paul doesn’t know how he got it. Ordinarily, she would have to give it to him. Somehow, he just intuited it.

  Jamie finishes her smoke, takes a second one from the pack. Paul lights another one for himself. He pulls a slow drag.

  “So you have a gun?” Jamie asks.

  “I’m a cop. That bother you?”

  “Not at all.”

  He finishes the smoke, drops the butt over the railing. A white van comes down the road, tires cracking fresh ice in the parking lot. The old man stops beneath them, looks through the windshield.

  “You sure about this?” Paul asks. “We can still leave.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere, Paul. At least this is something.” She grinds the cigarette butt under her heel.

  “If he chats you,” Paul says, “include me.”

  The van door slams. The old man goes to the stairwell, hops up the first couple of steps, a bit spry for his age. He stops on the top step. Several moments pass.

  “So where we going?” Paul asks.

  “Can we talk first?” He gestures to Jamie’s room.

  “What for?”

  “It’d be good if we talked about where we’re going. And why.”

  The stand-off lingers.

  Jamie kicks open her room, leaves it open on her way inside. The old man politely waits. “Go ahead, Paul.”

  “How’d you get my name?”

  “You’re a Seattle police officer. You were at the warehouse.”

  “Did they contact you?”

  “No. But I’d like to know why you’re with her.”

  “And I’d like to know who the fuck you are.”

  “Please.” The old man lowers his voice. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Go ahead.” He watches the old man go in the dark room.

  Paul crushes the box of cigarettes. Enough with old habits; he needs to think clearly. He checks the phone before following. There are no messages. No texts, no missed phone calls. Not from his family or work.

  It’s been over a month.

  And no one is looking for him.

  28

  “Move to the back.” Paul closes the door.

  Nix doesn’t argue. There was no way to move forward—no chance to make this morning work—without the truth. He had to expose his true nature, to become completely vulnerable and hope they would do the same. If he misjudged this moment, this wouldn’t go well.

  Nix stands beneath the fluorescent lights above the sink.

  “I know who you are,” Nix says. “I know your names and your backgrounds. I think it’s only fair that I tell you mine. My name is Nixon Richards.”

  He stares at the swirling patterns on the carpet, his heart thumping. If they haven’t heard of him, they’ll run a search. Jamie’s subtle unfocused look suggests she’s already downloading newsfeeds. Intensity rises across Paul’s face.

  “You should know that most of what you’re going to find isn’t true,” Nix says. “Twenty years ago, my sister engineered a new generation of biomites that operated on an evolving frequency unknown to M0ther. It was the first of its kind. They were invisible to her. You know them as nixes.”

  “You’re a halfskin?” Jamie asks.

  Nix nods. A long pause follows.

  “You’ve eluded M0ther for twenty years?” Paul says. “That’s not possible.”

  “You’re not picking up facial recognition because I’ve altered my app
earance. I’ve been forced to look like this for longer than I care to remember.”

  “You can transfigure?” Jamie asks.

  “I contain a significant level of biomites.”

  “What percent?”

  He hesitates. “Ninety-nine.”

  Paul moves a step closer to Jamie. Instincts are warning him.

  “You’re lying. If you’re Nixon Richards,” he says, “you wouldn’t tell us, not after twenty years on the run. There’s a reward on your head.”

  “Who are you going to tell? Taking her from Marcus Anderson makes you as wanted as me.”

  “There’s no way to trust you. You could be a brick.”

  “You would be dead if I was.”

  Nix faces the mirror, watching them in the reflection. He could show them his true face but what good would that do?

  “What do you want?” Paul says.

  “My existence depends on the pill you ingested.” Nix looks at Jamie. “Since the warehouse, Marcus Anderson has raided other halfskin dens. There’s always a survivor, just like you. I think he’s shutting them down just as someone takes the pill, timing it so the nixes don’t integrate with their bodies. They contain information he can use to find more dens.”

  “So what?” Jamie says.

  “I want to know what’s inside you.”

  Nix hopes that Paul doesn’t read the subtle deception. He didn’t lie, but he won’t reveal his true motivation. It’s true that Marcus’s new approach could lead him to discovering Nix and Cali, but that’s secondary.

  “Halfskin invisibility depends on evolving code, a continuous reconfiguration of the frequency that biomites communicate. It prevents her from establishing a connection with our identities, keeps us one step ahead of her. Marcus Anderson is quickly solving these encryptions.”

  “You want us to help you stay halfskin?” Paul asks. “Not our problem. You chose to become halfskin, you live with it.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.” There’s no way to convince him that the rumors Marcus Anderson and others leaked to the press were lies to cover their incompetence. Nix had become halfskin to survive an accident, but no one believes that excuse anymore.