My augs were at their worst between twelve and thirteen years old.
It turns out that there are all these settings in a set of augs, and that they need to be adjusted. Constantly. Like, every six months, ideally. If they’re not, the augs don’t grow with you, and they end up the wrong size for your eyeball and eardrum.
Alice didn’t have this problem. She had a set that automatically ran the necessary diagnostics. They sized themselves every three or four weeks. Micro-adjustments.
I wasn’t so lucky.
By the time I was twelve, nothing was the correct size. It was all too small, and the migraines and tension headaches were overwhelming. It took over a year before we figured out what was wrong.
Once we did, it took five minutes to fix it.
Location Unknown, Provisional Reality ARC, Time Unknown
- - - - -
James is wrong.
It doesn’t take two minutes.
Even with James’s processing, the chemical formula language Provisional Reality ARC uses to store information is difficult to translate into something he can store. It takes him closer to eight minutes—and the whole time, the Radia AO-Four Silvers in my eye and ear redline. I get visual and aural warnings. Pings. Messages. Flashing alerts. But none of the automated safety features kick in. My augs don’t shut down or go into safe mode. They just keep burning and running and burning.
And burning.
By three minutes, I can’t see out of my augmented eye. Something pops painfully in my ear at four minutes. The burning sensation’s not just hot. It feels like my ear’s melting. But it doesn’t end for another four minutes after that. It just. Keeps. Going.
Forever. For so long that I get used to it. My Physical Anomaly Resistance levels up off of it.
[Skill Learned: Physical Anomaly Resistance 18]
So doesn’t my Anomalous Computing Systems. The whole time I’m in agony, I also get to ‘watch’ the information move through the aug and into James’s systems.
[Skill Learned: Anomalous Computing Systems 10]
I can’t process any of it, though. All I can do is hang on and watch—and wait. And wonder if James lied to me or if he made a mistake. The lying is more likely, but the mistake is…I hope it’s a mistake. That’s the truth.
[Claire. Claire!] James’s voice cuts through the pain. I can still hear him through my burned, scorched, melted ear. It should be fried. All the electronics should be destroyed—I never overclocked my old augs for this long, and according to the SHOCKS doctors, there was damage in my ear and eye. But I can still hear, and I can still…James’s messages are still coming in on my optic aug. I think I’ll be able to see once the tears clear.
[Claire, we have what we need. I’m Analyzing it now, but it’s going to take a while. We should get out of here.]
James is right. We should leave. But… “Do you know what we have at all yet?”
[No. I doubt we got coordinates for a secret base or anything, but we almost certainly know enough to start looking for a lead.]
“How long do we have?” My head hurts. As the searing pain recedes, a dull, throbbing ache takes its place. A tension headache/migraine combination. “I mean, how long in this reality?”
[Another three hours. Maybe a little less.]
I nod. Then I stare across the street. There’s another skyscraper there. It’s taller than this one, and thinner. It’d offer any computers inside it less protection from the heat anomaly’s blazing…heat. But it’s also shielded by this building. There might be a chance for more information. “Let’s check over there.”
By the time I’m ready to leave Provisional Reality ARC, James is starting to panic, we’re under four minutes on the timer, and my Anomalous Computing Systems, Physical Anomaly Resistance, and Mental Fortitude have all leveled up a few times. I’ve killed a handful of Mindbenders that survived in one of the buildings. They almost begged to die; they were covered in unhealed burns, like survivors of a nuclear bombing.
I killed them without any problems. They didn’t even mess with my mind that much.
And James has finished processing about half of the chemical language data we’ve pulled.
Only half, because the rest of it is variations on chemical formulae that he hasn’t seen yet, and it takes time to digitally synthesize the chemicals, create a simulated Claire, have her drink the hot chocolate, and see what happens. It turns out that when James simulates me, he doesn’t usually need to create an entire human brain. For this kind of work, he does, and it’s taking most of his processing loops.
I take a deep breath and Mergewalk away.
We land in Director White’s office. Doctor Twitchy’s not there. He doesn’t spend much time in the woman’s office, since without a computer, there’s no value to him there. Instead, he raids her drawers on the rare occasions he leaves the black sector.
I take a minute. Ten, actually. Director White’s got a little suite here, complete with a bathroom and a tiny, cramped shower. I’m covered in ash and dust—and Mindbender gore. So, ten minutes for a quick rinse and a new suit isn’t too much to ask.
When I’m finished, the tie’s tied in a four-in-hand knot, and I’ve got the Revolver back it its holster, it’ll be time to talk to Doctor Twitchy. I’ve got both things he needs—the lexicon and proof that Provisional Reality ARC is safe-ish. Or at least, that he won’t burst into flames the moment we Mergewalk in.
But there’s something that keeps bugging me. It bounces around my head the whole shower, and I can’t get rid of it. Once I’m dressed, I ask.
“James, why do we need to bring him?”
[We need him and his research team, Claire,] James says. [I don’t know everything. The research team has more access to the black sector than I do, and they’re all…you don’t need to know that. I’ve got it under control.]
“Need to know what?”
[Nothing. Actually, let me reevaluate. You might be able to do stuff I can’t here.]
I let it sit for a minute, mostly because the tie’s knot’s being a pain in the ass, even with James showing a video of what I’m supposed to be doing. Then, I let it sit for another while I get the harness on. Then a third, because I’m not leaving until James talks.
Eventually, he breaks. [Okay. Fine. They all shut their augs off when they go through the door. All of them except one. I’m in her augs, because she wants a permanent connection to…something. I’m not sure what. She’s also running a million firewalls, and she intentionally downgraded all her software. She doesn’t have any alternative visions or data recording, and she broke the download function completely. And she’s only ever near the entrance. But the rest of them? Nothing.]
“Doesn’t that…screw with their balance? The vertigo?” I ask.
[Yes. But they’re more concerned with keeping me out than with being comfortable, and they’re ready for it—pills, antinausea meds, and so on. As far as I can tell, they’re functional on the other side. And they’re aware of when you’re coming. I catch the communication coming in on that woman’s aug, but can’t do anything else about it.]
“So, we need to know what they’re up to, huh?”
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[Yes. Director Ramirez is…I don’t trust him.]
That makes two of us. I sigh. Then I stand up. If I want to put off talking to Doctor Twitchy, that leaves me with only a handful of people to check in with. “Let’s go talk to Mrs. Nazaire first, then we’ll deal with the researchers.”
Mrs. Nazaire isn’t surprised to see me.
The woman looks exhausted. She should be; there aren’t enough SHOCKS researchers and agents left to run the facility, even with James’s help. The entire first day after I killed the big spiders—for Mrs. Nazaire and her staff—was James getting into their augs and training them on basic SHOCKS containment procedures. Mr. Williams refused.
None of the other teachers did. They know what’s at stake. And they’re used to doing stuff they didn’t sign up for. After all, None signed up to deal with Sora and me.
But anyway, she looks beyond tired. “I’m glad you finally came to see me, Clarice,” she says. I don’t correct her. Anyone else? Yeah. Mrs. Nazaire? No. Not right now.
“You talked to Dad,” I say.
“I did. Is that what you want to talk about?”
“No.” I don’t want to talk about Dad at all. He’s still an unnecessary variable. But if I don’t take care of this, he might not stay that way. “But I need to. What happened?”
“Why don’t you talk to him about it yourself?” She doesn’t say it like a demand. It’s a neutral question. But it still hits like a sledgehammer.
“I…can’t. I’ve got too much to do.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Nazaire says sadly. Her head shakes. “You’re nothing like your sister. She was in my office weekly, you know? Once she realized that I was safe to talk to, she spent hours trying to figure out what she was supposed to do with you and your father. I wish I had given her better advice. She did her best—you all did—but I could only do so much.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Clarice, that you and your sister were in a bad place. If there’d been any justice in the world, you wouldn’t have had to be there. But the process moves slowly, and…you and Alice were both able to do great things despite your situations.”
What I need is to know what Dad said. I don’t need to hear Mrs. Nazaire tell me truths—even if they’re painful or comforting. Or some weird fucking combination of both. She takes a look at me and pulls herself together. “So, your father. He’s in serious trouble.”
“He’s a disaster,” I say. That hurts. He used to be a rock. My rock. But he’s been weathered down to almost nothing. A few pebbles in the mountains.
“He is,” Mrs. Nazaire agrees. I stare at her for a second. Teachers aren’t supposed to talk to students about their parents like that. “He’s only slightly in control of himself, and he needs—“
“I don’t care. I need him to stay under control for another three or four days.”
“Then you’d better start caring,” Mrs. Nazaire snaps. She looks furious for just a second, and I can’t help flinching. She’s never looked like that, even when I set the bleachers on fire that one time. Then she softens. “I’m sorry. You’ve grown up a lot, and it’s been…the last few weeks have been hard. But I’m not wrong. You don’t have to be kind to him. His decisions put you and Alice in bad spots over and over. But he’s your father, and he deserves something for that.”
“No,” I say it before I realize I’m going to. But it’s the truth. Dad left Alice to keep things running while he sat in his chair and stared at the TV—and, every once in a while, pretended to be a dad for a couple of minutes at a time. He doesn’t deserve anything.
“Okay. Maybe he doesn’t. But do you deserve better?” Mrs. Nazaire asks. “You want to be better than him. Some of that is figuring out what you need and what you deserve. I can’t tell you what that is, but you’re not the first student with a rough draw that I’ve talked to. Most of them feel better after they close the book on whatever’s hurting them. For you, that might mean having that conversation—even though you don’t want it. Rip the band-aid off, let it hurt, and start healing.”
I don’t have a response to that. There might not be a response to that.
Dad doesn’t deserve anything, and I don’t have time to figure out what I need. After a few more sentences, I say goodbye and disappear toward the black sector.
I don’t make it that far.
Before I can get there, Daley’s got me cornered. The RST trooper’s the last real fighter SHOCKS has left here, and while he’s not a friend, he’s not an enemy. I’m pretty sure he’s not in on the researchers’ plotting—whatever they’re doing. But I’m also sure he’d take their side if there was a fight. He’s a SHOCKS loyalist all the way.
“Rodriguez wants to talk to you,” he says.
[We really don’t have time for this,] James interrupts. [Rodriguez is out of the fight, and I can’t keep an eye on those scientists from out here. According to my latest Analysis, you need to be in there. Otherwise, I’ve got nothing.]
“Got it, James,” I say.
[Do you know what it’s like to not be able to see something you should be able to see?]
“Yes. You shut my augs down, remember?” I say. “Daley, where is she?”
“We got the med station set up here in the admin wing. It’s not as good as the infirmary in the dorm sector, but it works. Got her hooked up to some experimental stuff. She can talk. Kind of. You’ll see.”
I follow him through the halls and down a couple flights of stairs. There’s an elevator, but I’m not getting on it—not unless I have to. The medical station is way down in the guts of the admin wing, near a couple of doors labeled ‘Maintenance.’ It doesn’t look like it was used much; the floor’s got a thin layer of dust on it that’s been interrupted by boots but not completely cleared out.
Then he opens the door.
Lieutenant Olivia Rodriguez is on the only bed. Someone’s shaved one side of her head—the side that got unrealitied in Provisional Reality ARC. It’s covered in plastic and cloth pads and wires.
[Seriously, Claire, whatever’s going on in the black sector, we need to get it under control,] James says. He’s panicking a little. But so am I. Rodriguez looks…small. She was always so big, but out of her body armor, without a weapon, and in a hospital gown—and with wires and tubes everywhere and two eyes that won’t focus on the same thing—she looks small.
“She started talking about five minutes ago. The JAMES Unit is helping run the translation, because what she can do and what her brain thinks it can do are two separate things,” Daley says.
“James, are you going to interfere with this to get me out of here?” I ask. My heart’s hammering, and I don’t know why.
[No.]
“Then let’s hear what she has to say.”
SHOCKS Black Sector, Location Unknown - June 19, 2043, 4:22 PM
- - - - -
Everything was—finally—back on track for Director Ramirez’s plan.
If it hadn’t been for Claire’s unwillingness to kill him, and her extreme willingness to do the same to Alexander, everything he’d worked for would have been wasted.
He’d wanted to enter SHOCKS Olympia through the main entrance, not through the Mount Carrie Geren Wing entrance. That wouldn’t have saved him much time, but it would have been a lot safer; even with Alexander on his side, he had serious concerns about half of the anomalies in the Geren Wing. But after one or two conversations with the one-eyed, one-eared man, Paul had found himself following a different path.
Then there was the glacier. Paul was pretty sure that if they’d spent another few minutes out there, it would have started eating people—and even though he had an army of teachers from Claire’s defense of Lansdowne Middle School, he couldn’t afford to lose any more SHOCKS personnel. The glacier was Qishi-Danger, and the fact that it was breaching its containment on Mount Carrie’s slopes was a gigantic red flag for SHOCKS Olympia’s security.
But then Claire had appeared out of nowhere, wiped out an anomaly that Paul had never seen before—the big spiders—and saved the tram from the even bigger ones. And she’d killed Alexander, freeing him from what he immediately recognized as a shaped perception of reality. He hadn’t recognized it until after the fact, but to his trained eye, it was obvious what had happened.
That had been the first boon. The second was the black sector.
As soon as he’d realized what it was, Paul had gotten to work. His team and Claire were the only ones who knew about it. She was too secretive to share with anyone else, and his team had SHOCKS’s security infohazards ready to melt their brains down the moment they did. Even better, the JAMES Unit didn’t function properly inside.
It was perfect.
All he had to do was fight overwhelming waves of vertigo that pushed through the best medication the whole time he and his team were inside, and they had a semi-private world to work on Paul Ramirez’s master plan.
And, since he’d been more or less honest with Claire, she was on board with them. Better, she was gathering targeting data for him and setting up his team to get their own. They’d have to be careful, but if he could execute correctly, they could use the data they’d generate from Provisional Reality ARC to target the Halcyon System.
That was the key to this mess.
He’d known it the whole time. When the first reality merges rippled out from Albert Head, and that message had hit everyone’s augs at practically the same time, he’d known the System was responsible. But he’d been powerless to do anything about it. SHOCKS was still in place, Director Smith was still running things, and by the time he had control, all he could do was hang on and try to gather data.
Nuclear warfare was his first thought, but…he’d tabled it once they got Claire. The ability to walk into merges and start building a map was more important than the ability to hit back, and Claire would stop cooperating the moment he tried something like that. He needed to…to push her…but slowly. High-risk missions, putting people she knew in danger on Earth, getting her sister involved in the defense. All of those had been happy accidents. But they’d all been something he could use.
Sometimes, Director Paul Ramirez was so smart he astounded himself.
“Director, she’s coming in. Five minutes,” their lookout said over his truncated, almost-useless aural aug. The static was overwhelming. He’d figured that out, too, a separate network that only existed in this reality. The comatose, disconnected local JAMES Unit could run it. Barely. And they could hide it from the one that existed everywhere else.
That JAMES Unit knew they were up to something, but not what.
“She’s talking to Rodriguez. Is that going to be a security risk?” the same researcher asked.
Talking? To Rodriguez? As far as Paul knew, that wasn’t an option. They’d hooked her up to a voice synthesizer, but whatever came out, it wasn’t language. What had he told her? Was it enough to set this project up for failure? And how had the JAMES Unit translated the aphasiaic nonsense Rodriguez kept babbling—when she could even do that—into language?
No matter what, if she could communicate, that was bad news.
“Shut down and get everything packed up. Don’t give it any data to work with,” Paul ordered. Then he got ready to head Claire off and buy his people time.
The plan had to continue. At all costs.
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