

### The UpTime Gigs

### Samuel Glavney

### Published by Samuel Glavney at Smashwords

### Copyright 2018 Samuel Glavney

### Smashwords Edition License Notes

### Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
.

### In Memory of Dan Rasmussen, Midwestern Utopian, who taught me how to eat for free in my own city.

Table of Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11
Part 1: The Gig

## Chapter 1

FIRST THING, YOU WENT TO SEE THE GATEMAN. He had a little striped booth that he worked in-- a booth like you see in old pictures, set on the borders of Europe-- and he sat in there with a clipboard and a cup of coffee and a tablet computer containing his surveillance grid. Not that the neighborhood was demarcated in any way. The residents, you know from experience, sneer at gated communities and those who live in them. Healthy contempt, expressed in a wave of the hand, an upturned mouth, a single word. They let you know what they think of those walled-off worlds.

Still, when you enter the neighborhood, it's a good idea to stop and talk with the gateman. If you don't, he'll send someone to stop and talk with you.

Gateman was Anglo and wore clothing that a man living nearby might wear, like he was taking his turn at neighborhood watch: subtle plaids, nice haircut, no name badge. In the corner of his glasses some Netflix was playing. Whatever Gateman was armed with, you couldn't see it. He was on the phone with somebody, though, and he made you wait while they put together weekend plans. That was fine, you were early.

Then he gave a nod of the head, meaning: Name.

"Barros, Arturo."

He wrote it down. "And what are you here for today, Arturo?"

Keep it simple. Formalities. Don't piss off Gateman.

"Suro," you told him, voice flat.

He checked that off his clipboard. It would be on a list, you knew, above 'tutoring' and 'landscaping,' but below 'house cleaning' and 'catering.' He gave you a look-- his glasses taking a picture of you along with the time and date-- and then he gave a nod. He could see your face-mapper necklace, your UpTime sticker. It was, after all, Thanksgiving.

"And who will you be visiting today?"

"The Ghataks. Hired by Sanjay Ghatak."

He checked that and it was true.

It seemed to bother him. "Does that mean Ryan won't be making it home?"

"He'll make it," you said, pounding your chest. The old Suro joke; Gateman smiled.

Now that you were checked in, Gateman and you were buds. You had an important job to do for important people. Pity the fool who got in your way now; Gateman would fuck his shit up. It was a good feeling and maybe the reason you kept doing the work. That, the free food, the peek into another world.

God knew it wasn't for the pay.

"Hey," said Gateman, suddenly. "Arturo."

"Sir?"

"Happy Thanksgiving, brother. Enjoy the spread."

Probably that was protocol, saying something nice like that. But such was the excellence of Gateman that you felt as though he really meant it. As though, now that the formalities were over with, he could allow a glimmer of the human to shine through. All at once you felt a surge of warmth for him. Who was he, after all, but just another man with a job to do? A fellow, who, when all was said and done, held nothing against you and even welcomed you to the feast-- had called you, 'brother!'

"Sir," you said. You let as much natural warmth into your voice as you dare. "Happy Thanksgiving. Thank you."

Gateman nodded, once. Something was happening on his glasses. You caught a tiny explosion on the left lens; Netflix climaxing. He was reclining back into the striped booth.

Well, you both had jobs. Time to do yours.

***

"You're Art?" Flat midwestern words. No Bengali lilt.

"Art," You agreed, flattening your own English beyond doubt. "Mr. Ghatak?"

"Sanjay." He nodded. "Sam."

You shook hands.

He'd been waiting for you on the porch, fiddling with the Heads Up Display on his glasses, probably rechecking the schedule. Nervous and punctual. You were glad you were early.

There are two types of customers, you've found. Type One treats you like a piece of teleconferencing equipment: very few words until the process gets going, everything either an instruction or a question about capabilities, liabilities, boundaries. They'll be looking you over the whole time to make sure your profile wasn't lying about anything. Maybe they'll offer you a drink to loosen you up, but even that is a way of facilitating what's coming.

Type Two will treat you like a guest and human being-- albeit one that they're feeling a bit strange about bringing into their home, guilty about utilizing. These latter people are often first-timers, don't know the protocols, need to be coached, need to be convinced everything is fine.

Which it is, so long as everyone follows the rules.

To tell the truth, you prefer Type One, don't you? Less small talk, fewer misconceptions, everyone knows where they stand. The tips are often better. Sam Ghatak was Type Two, however, and that would be ok. You would be a guest at dinner. You would be fed. They might send you home with food-- that could be worth quite a bit.

What it meant -- and you knew this from months of these gigs-- was that you were about to perform a ritual forgiveness. More than one commenter on the Suro subreddit had noted that UpTime should supply cowls and vestments. Best to get it over with.

"I appreciate what you're doing here, for us," said Sam Ghatak. "On Thanksgiving, no less. Really means a lot-- to me, my wife-- getting to see our boy."

I know. It's alright. Be still my child.

"My pleasure," you told him. "Thanksgiving is a good time for us. Lots of nice gigs, great food, football. Really nice, you know?"

"I suppose this is a secondary thing for you? Evenings and weekends?"

Tertiary, but. You considered which of your other jobs would offend him less, settled on the sit-down one. "Yeah, normally work a call center. Customer complaints. The real human everybody's always asking for. Sometimes customers just troll our algos until they get one of us."

Sam had a laugh at that. "Trolling algorithms," he said. "New national pastime." He waved at a well-dressed couple meandering down the street. They waved back.

Sam said: "And then you're out here on Thanksgiving. Hustling. I respect that. That's how this country got built. Men like you. It's--" A pause while he reconsidered tactics. Then: "You know, I started my career back in twenty-fifteen? Transport Logistics. People were pessimistic, even at the beginning, that a man could still make it in this country. Well, it was possible then and it's possible now, if you're willing--"

You tuned Sam out.

That's something you've got to be able to do as a Suro or you'll develop a neurosis. You really will. There's a whole section about it on the subreddit.

Because, via social media, you'd already done your homework on Sam. Sanjay Ghatak was what they call a 'Catfish.' The product of state-sponsored university in Hyderabad sucked west by brain-drain and made available to a specialized niche of the US labor market through H1B visa. With a shoestring cost of living and superhuman work ethic (his education already subsidized by his subcontinent), he'd been able to outcompete local professionals. Sam had more than earned everything that had come to him-- he'd worked insanely hard, never doubt it-- but he was playing on another level. The gravity was different up there. His Physics textbook didn't apply to you. Could even be dangerous.

"--young people like you," he was finishing, "show what's still possible in this country. Keep hustling and you'll get there. You really will."

"Thank you, sir," you said. "And Happy Thanksgiving."

"Sam," he corrected. "Happy Thanksgiving, Art."

You smiled at each other, shook hands again, stood on the porch looking out at the late afternoon in the beautiful neighborhood.

"Well? Should we get inside and introduce you to everyone? Give you a lay of the land before dinner?"

You nodded like you hadn't thought of that. "Sounds good, Sam."

***

Your first red flag went up when you saw the dog.

UpTime's matching application had informed you that the Ghataks owned a German Shepherd named, 'Shiva,' and you'd nearly declined the gig based on that alone. Except rent was coming due. So, instead of declining, you'd sent ghatak_fam an email from your glasses explaining The Problem With Dogs and gone back to demolishing a second-story bathroom with hammer and crowbar. And, in the course of events, forgotten.

Now here was Shiva, the Destroyer, a big boy, brown and black, pure German Shepherd, many, many pounds of him. And he was eyeing you with those curious, diligent eyes that a dog gets when confronted with something new. Here was Gateman distilled, and before him you were demoted from clan-sponsored Samurai to shaggy Ronin once more. Shiva had seen through the social nuance and political bullshit that led to the human failures in your vetting process. He knew you for what you truly were: _inostranetz, auslander,_ extranjero. Outsider. Foreigner. Bad Man.

Shiva barked.

"No!" you cried. "No dogs! Can't..."

The edges of things were getting fuzzy. The floor was seesawing. Sam looked at you, the dog, checked the UpTime app on his glasses, frowned.

"FranCESCA!" he yelled into the house.

"SanJAY!" a woman's voice returned.

"I THOUGHT you said you read the kid's PROFILE!" screamed Sam.

A pause while Shiva cocked his head and licked his chops, eyes never leaving your throat. Then, from the interior of the house: "I've had a thousand things to DO this week! I looked it over! Manuel Something, RIGHT?"

Sam closed his eyes. Sam opened his eyes, looked at you, smiled a tight-little smile. Sam's smile said: I swear to Christ, Art, we're a cohesive unit outside of this house. A single-minded, well-oiled, mean-bean machine, but...

"Is he HERE?" Francesca shouted, possibly from the kitchen. "Is he HUNgry?"

"I don't think he IS!" yelled Sam, finally taking hold of the monster by the collar. "Your son's SURROGATE is nearly PASSED OUT in the ENTRYWAY! He's got a PHOBIA, Franny! DOGS!"

"Ah, SHIT!" came the woman's voice, closer now. "SHIVA!"

Sam licked his lips, assumed a thousand-yard stare. He muttered something that might have been: No fucking kidding, Shiva. Then he yelled: "The PHOBIA was in BOLD at the top of his PROfile, hon! If you'd READ--"

But he stopped shouting because Francesca Ghatak was suddenly with you in the entryway: black hair tied back in a loose ponytail, warm-brown eyes behind glasses blinking with recipes, a brutalized apron tied around her front. An architectural background, you remembered. She was dressed in black-- thickening with Italian age-- and, you decided, a knockout.

She said: "Sammyjay! Shame on you! Shouting in the house! And get that dog out of here! Can't you see how upset our guest is?"

Sam looked ready to speak, swallowed it, chewed his lip. He took the dog away. You felt yourself beginning to return to Earth. Francesca was holding you so that you could smell kitchen smells and feel residual kitchen heat coming off of her. There would be flour on your nice clothes when the hug stopped-- but you hoped it would go on for a while.

She was cooing. "Ah, poor boy, bringing us our Ryan and we sic the dog on him! But you don't have to worry about Shiva. We'll keep him outside. Now, Manuel, is there anything we can get you? Water? A beer--?"

"His NAME is ArtURO!" yelled Sam, from the interior. "ART!"

You decided to let her keep making mistakes. Francesca Ghatak was one of those women who made a 'whoopsie' face look sexy.

***

Now you were sitting in the dining room. Sam Ghatak had given you some nice craft beer from a more-rugged part of the state. You were sipping on that, calming down, temporarily excused from small talk. Sam and Francesca were arguing about cooking times. The oven was being opened, the turkey poked, a neighbor gossiped about.

Suddenly, Francesca turned to you and asked: "Ryan's not ready to go, is he, Art? I mean, for a little pre-dinner conversation? Not that we don't enjoy having you! But it's been so long since he left..."

You said: "Checking."

But he wasn't there, he wasn't ready, you sensed no restless spirit, the motor control uplink wasn't being teased, you hadn't received any pings.

"Really? I told him three o'clock, Pacific Time. You're certain he's not...?"

"Certain," you replied. "Nobody gets paid until he taps in."

Things became slightly uncomfortable. How strong was this beer? The dog and the late start had put you in a bad mood, but you shouldn't be showing it. Flexibility and good cheer and pleasant small talk do a successful Suro make. Keep the customer happy before and after. Keep things easy. You have starred reviews on your profile. You can rate clients and they can rate you. And they always do.

Francesca said: "Let's get you something to eat..."

Sam, checking his glasses, said: "Looks like we got a message from Ryan. He says he's got a last-minute errand to run."

Francesca, ladling mashed potatoes onto a plate: "Ah. A girl."

"Looks like we also got a message from Art, honey. Several days ago. Politely letting us know he has moderate-to-severe cynophobia..."

Francesca, ignoring her husband, pouring liberal amounts of gravy: "A girl he probably sees every day on campus. A girl he's going to spend all weekend with-- since he won't be coming home-- and he can't even be troubled with showing up on time."

"You don't have the smallest proof, hon," said Sam. "Remember what Dr. Allens said about fabricating narratives?" He turned to you. "Because it's what she would have done at that age, she expects the same from others."

Francesca put a plate heaping with stuffing, mashed potatoes, baked salmon, fruit salad, buttered bread rolls, green spinach, and cuts of ham in front of you. Her warm-brown eyes lingered on your own as she said: "Dig in, Arturo! Enjoy it! And if you're full by the time Ryan gets here, that's just too bad, isn't it?"

Except that it would be too bad. A man-- especially a man in his early twenties-- who knows he doesn't have to suffer tomorrow's consequences for today's meal can really pack it away, no matter how full you feel.

Then again, free food. You smiled at Francesca Ghatak and began to eat.

"Another beer?"

Oh, no. That truism went doubly for booze. You hadn't yet finished your first of these strong brews. Ryan, in agreeing to your terms and conditions, would also be limiting himself.

Sam offered: "We'll keep Ryan late, how about that. Since I'm sure you expected a certain amount of billable time. Tomorrow you're not...?"

Hustling? You'd be across town tearing apart a kitchen by eight o'clock. But you'd prepared for this.

"That will be fine," you said. "But just so that it doesn't come as a surprise: there's an automatic rate-doubling at--"

A girl entered the room.

Seventeen or eighteen. A shade of mocha centered between her parents' coloring. Francesca's warm-brown eyes; Sam's constant, ironic smirk. Curly, black hair cut about shoulder length. A thrown-together thrift outfit graduating out of Teen Vogue. The words, 'Danger, Will Robinson!' repeated in cheesy-robot voice in the back of your skull.

The girl looked at you, eyes narrowed. "Ryan?" she asked. She wasn't wearing glasses.

"Arturo," corrected Francesca. "Your brother's running late. A girl, we think."

"Art," corrected Sam. "Art Barros. This is my daughter, Heather. She's just been accepted into the Pre-Law program at Lewis and Clark."

"Heather Ghatak," said the girl, smirk widening as she extended her hand. "How do you do?"

"Arturo," you said, smiling in a way you hoped was charming. "Barros. Doing well. Happy Thanksgiving! And congrats."

"Sorry?"

"Getting into the school. It's a good one. A good school. That's what they say."

"They do." She smiled, brightly now, without irony. "I'm pretty relieved. Thank you, Arturo. Sorry about Shiva."

"How did you--?"

"I heard the screaming from upstairs. Mom and Dad. Not you. You were very stoic."

You were smiling, now, in spite of yourself.

"Well," you said. "One tries to be brave."

"Very brave," she agreed, and, turning to her father, asked: "Couldn't we just have Arturo to dinner, Dad? He's already more interesting to talk to than Ryan."

Sam snorted like a horse over pestered by flies.

Francesca said: "Heather! He's your brother!"

Her father's smirk returned to Heather Ghatak's face. "He's Arturo, mom. Ryan's not here yet. A girl, we think."

Suddenly you wanted simply to sit with this family and have dinner with them, as yourself. Arturo Barros. And that, of course, was when you received the ping from Ryan.

## Chapter 2

EXPLOITATIVE AND INVASIVE, HUMAN-RIGHTS GROUPS HAVE CALLED IT. Demonic, proclaim the fundamentalists. The Next Step, reply the futurists, who've got to be throwing some weird fucking parties. The Future of Long-Distance Collaboration.

You doubt many of those who've written about it have actually _tried_ it-- not from the Suro end, anyway. So let's go down Clara Fahrschein's rabbit hole.

We're talking, of course, about the long-range exchange of Semi-Conscious Hard Motor Commands (SCHMoCs) and Full-Sensory Intake (FSI) between consenting adults. Duh. The technique has only existed for a decade, but, because telecommunication tech continues to develop at lightspeed relative to everything else, that decade has meant the difference between non-existence and widespread adoption.

Laid off? Need some extra cash? Got some downtime between shifts? Got an evening? A weekend? The lunch hour? Live in a big, exciting city? A hard-to-reach area? Near the Louvre? The pyramids? The redwoods? A racetrack? That'll do. You alright selling a few hours?

We've got a biologist in Berkeley, California who needs to check in on one of the bonobo troops along the Congo River before attending her conference in Vancouver BC in a couple hours.

We've got a lawyer in Newark who wants to go out with her colleagues after work as "one of the guys." Must be able to drink.

We've got a woman in Dagestan who wants to attend her daughter's wedding in Chicago. White women in Lake View, preferred. No Jews.

We've got a journalist in Quito who needs a new face for a few hours. Any face will do.

We've got a property manager in Cape Cod who needs to check in on his sick mom down in Tempe. He absolutely cannot leave Cape Cod this weekend. He absolutely must be in Tempe this weekend. Flexible.

We've got a Marine in outpatient care who wants to go for a run. Seven-minute miles and up.

Check the UpTime App on your HUD glasses. We've got new needs in new locations by the hour! From general-use commuter bodies to specialized, niche work.

Speaking of which...

What about you, pardner? Got a nice, big dick? A sensitive clit? Pierced? Does it squirt? Yes, I _am_ required to ask; our premiere clients wish to know. You an Adonis? An Aphrodite? Bear? Twink? Bulldog? Got any body mods? You wouldn't believe what the boys on K Street are into. The girls. You clean? Willing to make some real money? You alright housing the actions and motives of a ninety-four-year-old Korean man for a weekend?

Are you-- sweet, suffering Jesus-- are you a _virgin?_ You want to share that? Absolutely, you'll be compensated.

You, the Surrogate, are taxed as a contractor in most states and UpTime's obligations to you are minimal. That entrepreneurial aspect gets pushed, hard, by UpTime any time there is a question of liabilities, shared responsibilities. You, the entrepreneur, put forward the thousands of dollars for the initial operation. Wetware installation into the back of the neck. Literal skin in the game. It's about as safe and common, these days, as laser-corrective surgery on eyes. A procedure mill: in-and-out, minimally invasive-- but, still, a surgery. You're laid up for a couple of days. Now, if you complete four hundred hours of Surrogacy in your first fifteen months, UpTime will reimburse you the full cost of surgery, along with your normal hourly pay. A real windfall! But, if you can't make the hours within that time? Your money stays sunk.

UpTime doesn't help their contractors out with medical insurance-- although you're nominally insured when you're on their clock. They've got a 401k that you can enroll in after six months, two percent matching, vested after four years 'regular work.' The hourly pay, for most gigs, is not spectacular. But, if you've got an hour or two to kill, it beats not getting paid. And there are real perks: entrance into safe, beautiful neighborhoods; free food and drink; the occasional huge tip; UpTime credit; meeting and being 'embodied' by wealthy and influential people.

That last one matters. There's more than one story on the subreddit about a young Suro cultivating a retiree client base, quitting her job and spending her days reading, cooking, cycling, making love, horseback riding, skydiving-- surrounded by other young beauties. There are plenty of wealthy elderly who spent cautious youths building vast amounts of capital-- which has been paying dividends, which can now be used to purchase youth. Ironic, sure. We can laugh into our hands all day long about the irony-- but let's get paid first, shall we?

Oh. And there's another perk which we'll get to presently. For now, let's return to that ping you received from Ryan.

Ryan Ghatak, sitting in a comfortable chair-- or lying in bed-- in Boston, Massachusetts, had engaged with his UpSet. The machine would be placed over his head and shoulders like a bulky executioner's hood. Microfilaments from the UpSet would have made their nanometer-precise journey from the machine through Ryan's orbital cavities (entering through the meat of the puncta, along the nose), along his eyes, and down his optic nerve. Another set of the microfilaments would be engaging similarly with his spinal column at the base of his neck. These filaments would be both sending and receiving sensory information between your two brains.

The UpSet itself was wirelessly linked to a fledgling 'innernet' of specialized server farms which used existing satellite networks to send, translate, and receive SCMoCs and FSI over continents and across oceans. The ping was your signal that Ryan was hooked up and ready to do his body-snatcher thing. A handshake. And one of the many criteria upon which a client can rate you is: how long did I have to wait in bodiless limbo?

Knowing that, you surrendered yourself immediately. You felt him enter you: a tidal wave, a magnetic force, a geist. Just like that, you were his, all the way to your fingertips.

He wiggled them.

***

"Ryan?" asked Francesca.

"Who?" he said. "Me? No, no, Seniora! Arturo."

He used your vocal chords differently than you did-- but they were still yours. What came out was a hybrid vocalization: neither fully you nor Ryan. That, actually, was how you'd lost the last traces of your childhood accent: feeling the way native-English-speaking clients bounced your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Copying their heavier use of throat.

"Stop kidding around," she said. "It _is_ you, isn't it?"

"How did you know?" You felt him smirk. And thought that Sam's inherited trait would not look nearly as endearing on him-- on you.

"Arturo's face went blank for a second, like he heard something far away," said Heather. "And when he came back... there's no mistaking you, Ryan. That look you get."

"Turn the necklace on," said Sam. "I want to see this reality-aug tech for myself."

"Sammyjay."

"And welcome home, son. Happy Thanksgiving." Sam gave you a look up and down, shook his head. "Not like when I was your age..."

Ryan fiddled with the necklace. Behind their glasses, the Ghataks' eyes went wide.

You felt Ryan's laugh burble up. "You should see your faces!"

"Back at you," said Heather, blinking.

You knew from experience that this would be the moment when the geist was finally accepted. The Suro would begin to be forgotten. Ryan Ghatak's face, digitally mapped by the UpSet in Boston, had been projected over your own. For the next several hours, anyone looking at you through a pair of HUD glasses would see a three-dimensional mask of fine-grained light-- only occasionally discolored, or frozen mid-expression-- staring back. Ryan.

"There he is!" cried Francesca. "There you are!" There were tears in her eyes. She took both your cheeks in her hands and she planted kisses. She took you in her arms and held. Ryan would feel those kisses, stimulus received by your brain and transmitted via UpSet to satellite to server farm in the Mojave, translated by algorithm into Full Sensory Intake, then back to satellite network and into receiving UpSet and brain. He would feel her hug. Ryan hugged her back: tightly, protectively.

"There, Ma," said Ryan. "See? Just don't take off your glasses. I told you it would be better than Skype. And I'll get to enjoy your cooking, too."

"We're certainly paying more than we would be for Skype," grumbled Sam.

"Cross-country, round-trip, Thanksgiving-weekend prices?"

"Mmm," conceded Sam.

Francesca hadn't yet let go. She smelled nice. She was breathing and occasionally shifting. She _felt_ nice. And your body, like the dog, Shiva, wasn't attuned to the nuance of the situation. It was receiving all the information it needed to begin gathering blood and hardening muscle. The sexual opportunism of thousands of years was at work...

Just like that, a full-on erection.

Ryan, practicing the great deceit of the male sex, shifted your hips. He kept the hug going for a few more moments, disengaged, patted his mother on the head with a loving smile. He maneuvered into a sitting position, the seat back of a dining-room chair pressed up against your chest. He let your organ thrum and hum and complain and whimper and whither. The whole event noticed only by the two of you.

Ryan, sitting thusly, went to work finishing your beer.

"We should get Jordan down here," said Heather. "He's upstairs working on his newest Lego masterpiece."

"And Shiva," said Ryan. "I've been dying to see that yeti. Where is he?"

"No Shiva," said Francesca, sadly.

You felt your eyes widen. "What?"

"He's fine," said Sam. "Upstairs. But he scares the hell out of the Suro."

"You got one who's scared of dogs?"

"He's the right age," said Francesca, with the first touch of defensiveness. "The right height. He came highly rated. Four-and-a-half stars on his profile."

"Well, he's never going to snag number five if he's not a dog-friendly establishment."

"A very nice young man," emphasized Francesca. "Well groomed. Do you know how hard it is to find a quality Suro in this town for Thanksgiving? Especially if you're looking last minute? The pool just tightens up. I had three of them slip through my fingers." Then, like a mantra: "We are very lucky to have Arturo, Ryan. Lucky and grateful." She looked you dead in the eyes, both admonishing and pleading.

I know. It's alright. Be still my child.

"I'm going to give the yeti a quick pat on the head," said Ryan. "Just a quick pat. I'm home for the first time in months and I want to see him-- and I know how to handle him. I'm sure Arturo won't mind, now that I'm driving."

_Au contraire!_ Arturo minded very much! For dogs, everyone knows, rely on smell. And even Ryan's familiar voice would be filtered through your vocal chords. He would be a stranger to the animal. You didn't want to approach that thing as a stranger. At the end of the day, it was your face that would get mauled.

So you stopped your muscles.

A note, here, because it ever-so-slightly affects things going forward: the first iteration of UpTime's business model wouldn't let you, the Suro, intervene. The Surrogate, instead, sold a certain amount of time to the client, who then utilized the Surrogate. Absolutely.

It didn't take more than three weeks for the horror stories to pile up: construction workers who found themselves following someone's ex-wife home; office workers who discovered they were being used to make threatening phone calls; women and men embodied by rich sociopaths who would use them for Grand-Theft-Auto-style rampages. Women and men, who, upon being embodied, simply began masturbating. Suros who found themselves part of human trials for experimental pharmaceuticals. The first-generation Suro was fully conscious for all of this waking nightmare and fully powerless to stop it.

There are still lawsuits in arbitration, argued over by a lawyer who embodies lawyers. A trailblazer in the legal nuances of Surrogacy. Alice Peer. A woman no one has ever seen.

The point is: nowadays a Suro can't be forced to do anything. Want a good rating? Be as unobtrusive as possible. Be invisible. Let the person embodying you forget they're not in their own skin. Hell, forget yourself. Daydream and recede. But at the end of the day, remember: you're a contractor. As much as it can-- will-- be used to screw you, it also gives you the greatest power in the world: the power to leave the party early.

"Dogs," you slurred, "are a breach of contract."

"Not this dog, man." Ryan shook your head. "He's a family member."

"All dogs, man."

The Ghataks watched, wide eyed and silent, while your schizophrenic argument took place.

"I haven't seen him in months. I really wanted--"

Mouth curled as you took it from him. "Sorry, Ryan. Really am. But you've had access to the Surrogate Profile for the last three days. The dog stipulation is right at the top. If this was a deal breaker for you, you needed to bring it up sooner. Wouldn't have taken the gig. But here we are. Can recommend another good, local Suro for tomorrow-- she loves dogs. But if you insist on seeing Shiva tonight? Gonna buck you."

Heather laughed.

"Won't even mean to," you hastened to slur. "Fear response."

Ryan licked your lips. "S'alright," he finally said. "Nothing to do about it."

"Let's head out to the front porch," said Sam. "We keep hearing about that superstorm in Boston. You must be sick of it. C'mon out and enjoy the weather. God, we've actually got sun here in Portland..."

"Be right there, Dad," said Ryan, draining the rest of the beer. "Just got to use the bathroom first."

***

You didn't have to pee, which meant troubleshooting or setting ground rules. Not a lot of fun, but not uncommon, either. Through your glasses, Ryan Ghatak's face looked back at you from the mirror: black hair and rich-brown eyes. Twenty years old. His bemused expression marked a triumph of face-mapping and reality-aug tech. Without further ado, he unzipped your pants, reached under your boxers, took himself a handful of penis and testes, draped them over the elastic band of the boxers, began examining.

"Circumcised," he noted. "And Mom does something for you, huh? Because that sure as hell wasn't me."

You didn't answer.

"You and three-quarters of Grant High's soccer team," he snorted. "I don't give a shit, Arturo. A little Oedipal for comfort, but these are the risks we assume." He put your penis back. "I was worried you might be homosexual. Nothing about you-- just, there's always that possibility." Ryan looked up into the mirror. He moved to adjust his hair, encountered a mass he wasn't expecting, shrugged. "See, here's the thing. While I'm here, I thought I'd meet up with an old girlfriend. Anastasia Morrano." He grinned. "I used to call her 'Nasty Morrano' in high school-- and she fucking was, man."

He waited for you to say something.

He continued: "She's back in town from U of O. She said she'd like to see me. I forwarded her your profile to look over. She said she's down to party, as long as I'm behind the wheel."

Silence.

"Well, uh, what do you think of that, Arturo? You can talk, man. You've got permission or whatever. The dog... I mean I love that dog, but I get it, your phobia's for real. It's not going to impact your rating. But Anastasia...?"

"I'm not catching herpes for you, man."

Ryan's face-- for a moment incredulous-- released. He laughed. "Right! I forgot to tell you: Nasty's a Suro, too. She got the surgery to help pay for school. Only, now she's one of UpTime's big assets. Really brings in the cash. So she's got, like, all this nanotech in her pussy to keep her clean and keep her from getting pregnant. No condoms, no pills, no worries. Shit, I don't know why she still goes to class!"

Probably (you thought) she didn't. If you manage to qualify for high-level sex surrogacy, you can forget your other jobs-- your old jobs-- because you've just shifted the decimal point on your yearly income, maybe twice. Your shelf-life isn't forever but, again, it's all about networking. Develop a group of people who feel comfortable in your skin, the argument goes, and you've got prospects for decades.

"Sex work is going to cost extra."

"The fuck it will!" laughed Ryan. "Look at this girl..."

From your glasses, he directed you to UpTime's website and Anastasia Morrano's profile. Platinum blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pouty, heart-shaped features. A body designed by a committee of steelworkers in nineteen fifty-three. The whole Barbie Doll. Lots of duck faces and winking at the camera and mock-sad. Bathing suits, nighties, cosmopolitan skirts, gauzy blouses, yoga pants, Daisy Dukes. This time, the erection could have been from either one of you-- and was probably from both.

"There's your payment. You ever going to pull off something like this on your own, Arturo?"

No. Never. You didn't say anything, but you didn't need to.

"Right," he said, pressing onward through the slideshow of all the fun ways you could dress up Nasty Morrano. "I mean, forgive my presumption, Arturo. But this girl's down to grind, like, tonight, after dinner's over and the elders have retired. I've already booked the hotel room. You'll be getting paid the whole time-- no special rate, amigo-- but you'll be getting paid the whole _fucking_ time, pun considered and intended."

In the mirror, Ryan appeared to think about that. "So will she."

"Pardon?"

"She's double-dipping."

Pause. "What?"

"Look," you said. "Try to see this from her perspective. She'll be looking forward to seeing you again, Ryan. Spending the evening with her old high school sweetheart. Sure. But this is a money-making weekend for Suros. One of the big ones. Lots of lonely people and people looking to blow off steam. If she's not embodied by someone tonight, she's losing cash. And for her? That's amounts of money it's better not to think about."

"Oh?" said Ryan.

I know. It sucks. Be still my child.

"So, if we go into that hotel tonight? Guarantee there'll be four of us: Ryan, Arturo, Nasty-- and somebody else. Could be an undersexed housewife in Saskatchewan. Could be a German guy. A sex offender. Could be Clara Fahrschein, herself."

"Wouldn't they-- no offense here, Arturo, but-- wouldn't they want me to be wearing a sex Suro too? If that were the case? Some Fabio packing a footlong?"

In the mirror, Ryan shook his head. "Not necessarily. There's a-- well, a fetish-- where a client will embody a Suro specifically to engage a sexual partner that Suro has strained history with. It's called, 'Backyard Shitting,' or just, 'Backyarding.' A type of sadism because it's hard on all parties except the client. They'll pay out the nose for it, though, and they won't care what either of us looks like."

"No shit!"

"Backyard Shitting. Was she the one who contacted you?"

Ryan gave himself a long stare in the mirror. "No shit... and I thought I was the jaded one. But it's your line of work. This is some five-star info, Arturo. You're what? Twenty-four?"

"Twenty-five."

"Got any recommendations here, old man? This girl is, like, five-times hotter than she was in high school. And she was killing it, then."

Another pause. "You like foreign accents?"

"A German dude, though."

"Wouldn't be surprised at all. The Japanese also love backyarding."

Ryan kept scrolling through pictures. Anastasia Morrano was a consummate saleswoman who knew her product. Her profile photos stopped well short of pornography but advanced certain arguments. After a few more slides, one of the two of you said: "She'd be the one really there in the room, though."

"It's not like anybody would be getting hurt."

"Right, and you get a total freak? Like an unhealthy individual? Into an ass like that...?"

"Not a girl you get a shot at every day..."

"...possessed by foreign consciousness or no."

"Right? So, you think...?"

"Don't see why--"

"Hey!" came a new voice, outside the door. "You ok in there?"

"Jordan," Ryan whispered. He shouted through the door: "Just working out the last of the kinks, little bro! Out in a sec!" Then, into the mirror: "Think about it, ok? And give me an answer after dinner."

***

Weak, late-November sunlight on your face. Ryan smiled, closed your eyes, breathed deeply, stretched almost painfully. The front yard smelled mulchy with rotting leaves. He opened your eyes again. The sun would be down in an hour or two, but right now the early evening was brilliant and clean. Francesca had gone back into the kitchen. Jordan remained-- as far as you were concerned-- a disembodied voice roaming the house. You still hadn't seen him. Sam handed you another beer, already opened. Ryan said: "Thank you."

"So it's-- what?-- day three trapped inside?" said Heather. "Day four?"

"If you say so," said Ryan. "Feels like week three, week four. You should see the snow piled up outside our dorms. At first, Chad was pretty committed to keeping the entranceway shoveled. Like, he wanted to prove an East-Coast blizzard was nothing to a Colorado boy. The fool. We lost him on Day Two."

Sam: "You _lost--?_ "

"Kidding, Dad. Kidding. Although, come to think of it, he hasn't been back to the room in a while. I think he just found another place to sleep; the third floor is a ghost town."

"Do you have everything you need? The heat working? The electricity?"

"The RA is making sure they don't forget about us. We're fine. It's mostly very boring."

Sam nodded, you thought, a bit glumly. "I'm sorry we couldn't--"

"Hey," interjected Ryan. "No. I'm here, aren't I?" Your throat and shoulders were suddenly, involuntarily, tight. "A cross-country flight for a single weekend? Dad. It would have been ridiculous-- even without the blizzard. You know how much I hate flying. The bomb checks. The blood checks."

"This is how people do Thanksgiving these days," added Heather. "Students, anyway."

Sam let himself be mollified by his children. He said: "Well, I'm sure you have plenty of reading to catch up on. And Christmas vacation will be a different story."

"Sure," said Ryan, that pressure never leaving your throat and shoulders. "Sure. That makes more sense. Of course, I've got options here in Boston if it's looking like--"

"A different story," repeated Sam. Then, quickly, with a bulldozer's version of cheeriness: "Ah, looks like the Chaudhris are arriving! That's their van pulling up."

You felt something new. An electric spark. Ryan Ghatak was suddenly grinding your teeth. He exchanged a look with his sister.

"The Chaudhris?" Heather almost seemed to be pleading. "Milton Chaudhri? They're not..."

"I'm sure I told you," said Sam. He sounded irritated. Which, after all, is easier than feeling guilty. "I must have told you. Why do you think we extended the table?"

"I hoped," groaned Ryan, "just _hoped_ it was just to hold the insane amount of food Mom had cooked. Or for some neighbors. Random strangers. Beggars..."

"Plague victims," added Heather.

"... anybody but your dick boss and his FOB wife and their spoiled kids..."

"Better get it out, now," growled Sam, doubling-down on irritation. "Lance it, drain it, be done. Because I won't countenance anything but a welcoming attitude towards George and Huwei."

Ryan had you take a long draw off the beer until you felt ethanol-induced tears spring to your eyes. Then your geist said: "Dad, if you had told me the Chaudhris were coming to dinner, I'd have found a Surrogate on Cyprus. I could send a very-welcoming text message from the Mediterranean. Or, Christ, I'd have just hung around Boston."

"I'd have spent the evening in Boston," agreed Heather. "I bet Suros are super-cheap over there right now. I could be _so_ welcoming over the phone from the other side of the country."

"But, instead-- surprise! The Chaudhris," said Ryan. "Dinner with the Chaudhris. Which, got to say Dad, is the formula maybe least likely to engender a welcoming attitude towards the Chaudhris."

"Enough!" The irritation bluff wasn't working, but it was too late to abandon now. "George Chaudhri has gone to bat for me too many times for us to even be having this con--"

"Because he _uses_ you, Dad!" cried Heather. "Because you're brilliant and you feel like you owe him..."

"And he can smell it," said Ryan, "with his sharkey nose. It's his only gift. Smelling and exploiting real talent."

"Ryan..."

"Mom says that. Those are Mom's words: 'sharkey nose.'"

"Right, alright, and if your mother hadn't been placed on unpaid leave, and decided it was her new calling--"

"Dad!" said Heather. "She's sick..."

"--she could say whatever she wanted. As it is, we're having Thanksgiving Dinner with the Chaudhris. I'm sorry. But you kids know what our situation is..."

Oh, that 'final perk' mentioned earlier?

Let's call it, 'The Help' Effect. Once your geist is wearing his own face-- once you haven't asserted yourself for a while-- boy, oh, boy, the dirty laundry starts tumbling out of the wash. You're always surprised by how quickly it happens.

Most customers have never worked as Suros. Many think you go into a kind of trance while being embodied. Nope! Ryan Ghatak controlled your eyes-- the direction of your gaze-- but you might, even so, notice things he overlooked. You might overhear and process sounds he'd ignored. Actually, in your receptive state, with no burdens of conversation to diffuse your attention, it was pretty likely.

You can find yourself in the middle of some real soap operas.

"Here they come," said Sam. "Smiles?"

You felt your mouth tightening into something feral. "Vultures," Ryan said. "Snakes. Worms. Rats." He paused to think of more vermin. "Ticks. Flies. Mosquitos."

"Sharkey nose," supplied Heather.

"George!" hollered Sam at the lowering window of the approaching Lincoln Crusher. "Just how the heck are you? Happy Thanksgiving!"

## Chapter 3

GEORGE CHAUDHRI LOOKED TO YOU LIKE ONE PUDGY, successful, American-born Tamil. None of the aforementioned adjectives, however, appeared to have made him complacent: even as his well-shod feet touched the concrete of the driveway, his eyes were roaming the front yard, as though hunting for traces of rare metals these fool Ghataks might have missed. Finding nothing, he turned the direction-- if not the nature-- of his gaze upon the human beings standing before him.

_Sam Ghatak._ Known quantity. Operations in place.

_Heather Ghatak._ Well, Chaudhri's eyes seemed to say, Something here! Bright-looking, pretty raw material! A future employee? A wife for one of my children? If nothing else, we can fit her with Suroware. I know some fellows who'll pay.

_Ryan Ghatak._ Chaudhri squinted at you and raised his glasses. His mouth performed an ugly wriggle. "Happy Thanksgiving," Chaudhri murmured, as though performing a ritual prayer he didn't believe in. Then, louder: "But you didn't tell me I'd be dining with a puppet, Sam."

"Funny," murmured Ryan. "He didn't tell us--"

But here, by the power vested in you by God and your frontal cortex, you exercised one of your rare vetoes. This was against the rules, a breach of contract, and a personal No-No, but you didn't like either the tension in your shoulders or where Ryan seemed to be taking things. So you stopped him up the way a man sitting in an opera house might stop up a fart.

And released. You took a deep breath. Ryan nodded your head, acknowledging the save.

Sam said: "I put Arturo's name in when I sent Huwei the list of food allergies."

"Well, my wife and I don't share brainwaves, Sam," said Chaudhri. "Believe me."

"Oh!" came a woman's voice: high and foreign. "Ryan! I thought you come home for real! Visit family! You send someone for you?" Regretful tone: "Not the same..."

Huwei Chaudhri was sending out a gauche bit of reality aug. Her hair transitioned in slow waves from blonde to red to light-brown over your glasses. Her exceedingly pale, narrow face reminded you of a painted Dios de los Muertos skull. She smiled, teeth bejeweled and hideous-- and Ryan adjusted your glasses to stop receiving her feed. Suddenly, she was a plain-looking Han Chinese woman with dark, wide features. She wore heavy makeup for any plebe without glasses who might catch her. She looked much better as herself.

Ryan licked your lips. "Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Chaudhri."

"Oh! Happy Thanksgiving! Happy Thanksgiving!" She pressed: "You stay in Boston? But family very important..."

Ryan's internal tell was teeth grinding. "Ms. Chaudhri, the East Coast? Big storm! Much cold!" You held yourself and mock shivered. "Airplanes no fly."

You thought of murmuring, 'Don't be an asshole.' But you'd promised yourself no more back-seat living.

Huwei Chaudhri's imperfect command of the English language, anyway, was in no way related to general intelligence. She took the hint, scowled at the door, yelled, "Milton! Conrad!" and then began barking orders-- or reprimands or sweet entreaties-- in rapid-fire Chinese.

Milton Chaudhri exited the side door of the Crusher. He was sixteen or seventeen, even more chubby than his father, skin round and smooth, a wet seal of a boy. He wore shorts despite the cool weather and he wore very nice basketball shoes. A _Dragon Ball Z_ t-shirt. There was a game playing out on his glasses-- he kept winking, wriggling his nose, muttering commands, turning, firing an invisible shotgun-- and you caught a glimpse of zombie hordes shuffling in the lenses.

(It would look, to him, like he was surrounded by the peeling undead. Kids these days! Fearless.)

He managed to peer over his glasses long enough to say, "Hiya, Heather." Then he whirled around, pulled the 'trigger'-- a shotgun blast could be heard over the weak speakers in his glasses, a zombie howl-- and he pumped the air to deliver himself up another 'shell.'

"Hey, Milton," said Heather, weakly. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Oh, disgusting!" came the van's final occupant. Conrad Chaudhri. He was eight or nine, leaner than his big brother, with an instantly-recognizable meanness you didn't sense in the older boy. "A freaking bum! Did you wash it? Do we actually have to eat with it? Freaking gross!"

Chaudhri stopped hunting for lawn treasure long enough to beam. "The boy speaks his mind! He knows my opinion about these damned prostitutes and he shares it! Parasites! The sooner we can replace them with robots, the better!"

"Cursing," said Huwei.

Chaudhri rolled his eyes.

Now Conrad Chaudhri walked right up to where you were standing, looked you up and down from above his glasses, and delivered a mean, little jab to your left shoulder.

"Ouch!" you said.

"Hey!" said Ryan. "Conrad! Ocupado, buddy!"

"UpTime insures it," said George Chaudhri. "You can be a little rough. Won't break it."

Conrad punched the same spot again. Harder. There would be a bruise; your arm would ache tomorrow. This time, you suppressed both your own and Ryan's yelps of pain.

So the little ape punched again.

"Conrad!" said Heather.

In a flash, Ryan squatted down, took the boy by the shoulders, squeezed. Conrad tried to wriggle away, but your construction-worker's grip wasn't letting him. Now, with his glasses fallen halfway down his nose, Conrad was no longer looking into the familiar face of Ryan Ghatak, son of his father's dependent. No. He was looking at your wide Tejano features, dressed in Ryan's anger.

"Conrad," Ryan said. "You understand how this works?"

"Uh," said Conrad. "Dad?"

"Sam..." said Chaudhri.

"Ryan." said Sam.

"Conrad," repeated Ryan. "When you punch this Suro, you know I feel it? All the way out there on the east coast? I feel those punches, and I take them as an insult. Like if you were punching me."

The unspoken message: And you know, Conrad? Even from that far away? I can punch right back.

"Dad?" repeated Conrad.

"Sam," said Chaudhri. "Your goddamn Suro's acting up, I think."

"Cursing," said Huwei, softly, her eyes on Conrad.

"They get uppity," said Chaudhri. "Every single one I've dealt with has eventually gotten uppity. Talked when they're not supposed to. Refused to do what you tell them. Terrible service."

"It'd be impossible to find another this late," said Sam, feebly.

"It's not the Suro," said Ryan. "If anything, Arturo's holding me back." (Which wasn't true, but thanks, Ryan!) "I have plans for this body, Conrad. I'm not trying to collect bruises, alright?"

Ryan let the boy go. With one final, vicious kick to the shins, Conrad was away, into the house, yelling, "JorDAAAAN!" Moments later, Shiva began barking like a maniac.

"Well," said Sam, looking green.

"Damn puppets," said Chaudhri. ("Cursing," said Huwei.) "You give me your Suro's name. I'll write a review! Oh, yes! And on Thanksgiving!"

Ryan growled: "It wasn't the--"

"SammyJAY!" called Francesca from the front door. "Invite our guests inSIDE!"

***

"Oh my God!" hissed Francesca the moment she saw Huwei Chaudhri. "Huwei! That--" (She adjusted her glasses' intake with a twitch of her nose; her body relaxed.) "That's quite a look!"

"You like?"

"Well!" Francesca clung to a bowl of mashed potatoes.

"It's called, 'Leopoldville Mode.' From New York! Very expensive."

"You're certain it's not a joke?"

"Sorry?"

But Francesca was saved by Milton Chaudhri, performing an overweight barrel roll and flinging what might have been a grenade at who-knew-what invisible monstrosity.

"Milton!" barked Chaudhri. "For Chrissake, take it outside!"

"Can't," said Milton, breathing loudly, scanning the open entranceway. "They're everywhere. No exit."

"I'll show you the goddamn exit," said Chaudhri. He blinked and murmured, working his own HUD glasses with mean-spirited vigor.

"No, Dad, wait..." pleaded Milton. The boy had his hands up near his neck, as though fending off a grasping, hungry form. "I'm so close... another minute..."

"Bam," said Chaudhri. "Parental controls. Done. Go grab the chili from the car."

"Augh!" cried Milton. "WHAT?!"

"Adults are talking."

"Another minute," whispered Milton. He looked as though he were fighting back tears. "Another minute and _UsherHouse666_ would've cracked the top hundred Zombie Slayers in the State of Oregon..."

"We'd be in the golden country then, eh? Chili time, son."

"I worked on this all afternoon. I was quiet in the van, just like you wanted..." He looked up at his father, face tormented. "You're the _real_ Undead King!"

"Jesus, Milton! Chili!"

"I love dinner with the Chaudhri's," murmured Ryan to himself. "Yep, this beats sitting in my frigid dorm, watching snow fall."

"Milton," said Heather, gently. "I'll come with you. Why don't we just get the chili, huh?"

Milton brightened. Huwei, you noticed, was also pleased by this development. Chaudhri said: "A real-life girl! That beats your goddamn reality aug, eh?"

Heather looked politely nauseous. Milton shot his father a poisonous look and marched outside, alone. From upstairs came a crash, then Jordan yelling, then Conrad yelling, then barking.

"A real goddamn bedlam you're running, Sam," said Chaudhri. "No wonder we can't get any quality work out of you lately."

Francesca Ghatak poured herself a drink. Ryan asked for another beer. This was, technically speaking, a breach of contract.

You took it though.

***

Everyone held hands. Francesca led you in saying grace. She mentioned gratitude for our guests, the Chaudhris. She also, very nicely, dropped your name. Chaudhri snorted. When the hand-holding was over, you noticed, Milton seemed reluctant to let go of Heather. He kept holding her hand. She gave the zombie hunter a withering look and took her hand back with a single, quick yank.

Milton, embarrassed, fiddled with his HUD glasses: auging reality to a better place, sinking into whatever changes he'd made. Perhaps he'd transformed you all into bipedal field mice wearing top hats. Gigantic rubber ducks. Whatever the case, you ate.

Now here's something a robot can't do! Smoked salmon, braised turkey, buttery corn on the cob, Southern-style greens, flaky Naan bread, rice and pork-- alright, keep it going-- clumps of macaroni salad, thick and crumbly cornbread, salt and vinegar potato chips, beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, Hawaiian punch, black coffee, green tea, fruit salad-- pick your teeth, advance-- spicy stuffing, that now-infamous chili, red sauerkraut, Chinese dumplings, pickled carrots, a roast duck!-- deep breaths, there's room-- biscuits, spring rolls, jerky made from squid ('You simply must try it!'), flour tortillas to be filled with rice and beans and chicken and guacamole, spinach and mushrooms with a drizzle of vinaigrette, butter rolls, cashews, pistachios, mini pretzels, casserole, baked yams covered in butter.

Dessert forthcoming!

The Ghataks had selected for a male Suro in his twenties for many reasons-- and this wasn't the least of them. In Boston, Ryan was experiencing dinner as a wonderful dream. He chose what you ate, of course-- tasted everything-- and felt the lead ball of fat-and-carbohydrate mass accumulate in your stomach. Ryan's brain in Boston, receiving FSI acknowledgement of serious intake, was being fooled. Ryan's brain was releasing endorphins that told his unfed body that it was receiving a feast. Ryan would come out feeling satiated without consuming a single calorie.

Not a bad deal. And there are trim, bird-like sophisticates in San Diego and Philadelphia (and all across the country, really, anywhere there's money): women and men gaunt and craggy-faced as monks. Lean professionals who are beautiful in the way that wind-hewn stone is beautiful. There are theories-- always popular amongst these sorts--that the human body, kept just above the level of starvation, lives a longer and healthier life. That a not-quite-starving person is more creative, more spiritually receptive, open to universal secrets which proper levels of glucose shield others from.

And what else does hunger gift? Better parenting, fewer wrinkles, stronger orgasms, all of it. Go ahead, please, check _Men's Health_.

Small fortunes are spent, annually, keeping individuals on that tight-rope line just above famine. One of the major expenses, for this crowd, is a practice the Suro subreddit calls: 'offshoring.' Several times a week, a practitioner of near starvation will request the services of one of the cheerful-fat men or red-cheeked, pot-bellied women known as 'porters,' or, 'sherpas.' The dieter will slip into the skin of the porter, pile into a pay-by-mile car, drive to the nearest McDonald's, order several Big Macs, a cart of fries, milkshakes (all using the dieter's credit-cloud account, of course). More miles will be added to procure forties of Olde English or Colt 45, a few grams of marijuana and, finally, shopping complete, the dieter will return to the sherpa's small and dim apartment to gorge, drink, smoke, and binge watch Netflix.

And later return to themselves almost fooled: hungrily content, eyes fever bright, empty and pure.

Because of the quality of food and company-- and because Ryan, so far as you knew, wasn't on any sort of diet-- this wasn't technically offshoring, but a big eater had been requested all the same and you fit the bill. Ryan and you trudged through thick gravy and thin, wafer-like crackers. You broke Old Testament rules left and right. You put away food and drink with a twin set of wills.

The women sitting around the table quietly approved. You'd be working it all off tomorrow morning.

George Chaudhri, at first looking as though he meant to match you, finally sat back and groaned. The man wasn't offshoring a single bite. He was sweating and daubing glistening duck fat from his lips with a napkin. Now, wiping his sweating face, Chaudhri removed his HUD glasses-- and placed them on the table next to his plate. With anyone else, you would have considered it happenstance. With Chaudhri, however, it felt as though a gauntlet had been thrown. The man was looking at you-- and what he saw, of course, was not Ryan's face filtered through his glasses, but your own face in the flesh-and-blood.

He stared.

Now Sam Ghatak, as though providing evening entertainment, asked his son: "How are your business courses going, Ryan? Last time we talked, you were studying arbitrage, if I remember? Transport finance?"

You shrugged. "I was going to talk to you about that, Dad."

A flash of terror in Sam Ghatak's eyes. A very calm: "Oh?"

"Yeah, I decided to hell with all that. I've found something more interesting."

"Oh, like you have." Francesca.

"No." The words left your mouth with emphasis. "Really."

Chaudhri's eyes glittered with delight. He sat still as a lion, watching a young gazelle wander. Huwei, also, seemed to sense scandal unfolding. Sam Ghatak was trying not to plead: "Law? Computer Science? Pre-Med?"

"I've cast them aside," said Ryan. "I want to tell the Human Story, Dad."

"You've cast them aside." Francesca.

"'Human Story'...?"

"Anthropology!" declared Ryan, triumphantly.

The guests at the table were still in the way of rodents after a nearby clap of thunder. Huwei had a funny smile on her face and George Chaudhri looked as though he'd just reached sexual climax-- like maybe he could use a cigarette. Sam Ghatak might've been a passenger on the _Titanic_ who has just watched a door close on his son-- trapping him in the flooding lower decks. Francesca appeared to be digging deep to find something supportive to say.

Heather said: "Don't be an asshole, Ryan."

"Heather!" said Francesca, sounding unsure. "Your brother's made a very difficult--"

"No he hasn't," said Heather. "If he'd actually decided to study anthropology, I'd support that. I'd be impressed! But this is Ryan, Mom. Look at him."

Everyone looked. Chaudhri held up his glasses and-- without placing them on his head-- squinted through them as though looking at an oddly-shaped rock on a far-off shore. And, perhaps seeing something he recognized, smirked.

Suddenly, you were laughing. The laughter surprised you probably more than anyone else at the table, but there it was. Your familiar laugh used by another. Great, heaving bursts. Your tear ducts working for Ryan: liquid rolling down your cheeks. Chaudhri, now, was laughing. And Huwei. Milton, too. Which meant that Sam was laughing. There were tears in his eyes. Chaudhri, slamming his glasses back on the table, barked: "You should've seen your face Sam! Like you could actually see him doing it! Anthropology! Ah, that boy pulled a fast one on you-- all the way from Boston!"

"Very funny boy!" said Huwei, nodding with approval. "Anthropology! Very funny boy!"

Milton, laughing and shaking his head in a direct imitation of his father, contributed: "Anthropology... jeez..."

"The softest science!" More laughter. "Anthropology!"

When the word had had its meaning repeated away, Sam said, quietly: "Of course, if you actually were interested in anthropology, we'd support your decision..."

"Uh-huh," said Ryan. "Well, don't worry: I'm pretty much committed to the business school at this point. Actually, one of the things we've been focusing on this semester? Which you might be interested in? Cutting _transport costs_ through labor Surrogacy--"

You felt something. Oh-ho. Another gauntlet thrown.

"How's that?" snapped Chaudhri, turning. Face composed as though he was sick of having this very argument. "Just how do you manage that? Get a bunch of starving Yemenis to work through local Suros? They work for pennies, sure, but suddenly you're paying two people instead of one. And this is America, son. Minimum wage. Labor and environmental standards. Our risk-management folks have looked into it. Your American Suro, alone, means it's cheaper to sew sneakers in Myanmar and just pile them to the sky on a container ship!" He nodded to himself, secure in his argument, and ate a fork load of macaroni. "These UpTime people. It's unworkable. Eh, Sam?"

Sam Ghatak gave his boss a quick nod.

"Alright," said Ryan. "True enough. There are certain classes of goods where the labor-cost differential between countries is so great that it's almost always in your interest to produce them abroad. Transport _en masse_. Sneakers, soccer balls, textiles..."

"Tiny, light, cheap!" declared Chaudhri. "Ship'em for pennies!"

"Ship'em for pennies," concurred Ryan. "So long as the sea lanes are open and policed by a single, benevolent hegemon. So long as we're able to keep protecting our ports from radical weather shifts. So long as the price of oil stays reasonable..."

"Right," said Chaudhri, eyes narrowing. "Right. All issues which the logistics community have dealt with for decades. Moving goods is an art form. And we're all goddamn Michelangelos."

"Cursing."

"But what about larger, heavier, more-complex goods? Things that have to be assembled using semi-skilled labor?"

"You're talking..."

"I'm talking cars," said Ryan. You noticed Sam Ghatak quietly beaming. "Commuter vehicles. Any heavy, motorized equipment could fall under this category-- but let's talk cars. We've got raw materials being dug out of Borneo and Canada and South Africa and being transformed into thousands of different parts in a hundred countries across the globe. Don't worry, Mr. Chaudhri: there'll still be a need for shipping logistics for the little stuff, the raw stuff..."

"Naturally!"

"...but not nearly so much as there has been. For instance. You've got some unskilled local making Alabama minimum wage? Embody him with a Nicaraguan machinist willing to work seventy hours a week, switching between two or three local bodies. Alabama is 'Right to Suro.' Paying everyone as contractors, you can undercut a single, local autoworker, easy..."

Francesca made a hurt noise. But if Ryan heard it, nothing told you so. You felt an itch in your lungs. Ryan, trying to get at it, lazily scratched at your chest.

"Foreign automakers moved to the American South decades ago," said Sam, pushing back, "to take advantage of these very conditions. Skilled labor working for low wages. Low corporate-income tax. Cheap land. The works. These cars still need to be shipped cross-country. All fifty states! The dynamic doesn't really--"

"Doesn't it?" moaned Francesca. "Doesn't it, though? Because if they can prove that this model works in their little patch of the country, why not use it everywhere? Assemble cars directly in Chicago and Los Angeles and Atlanta and Denver! Well, why not?"

Chaudhri took a cigarette from his breast pocket and put it to his lips-- but didn't light it. He said, around the thing: "Well, that's a goddamn lot of capital investment, Francesca. For one thing. Building a lot of factories, just to save a little on transport. And the labor force required..."

"The labor force required is miniscule," retorted Ryan. "You're not wrong about the capital investment-- although, with 3-D printing tech, it's a lot cheaper than the old days. And the benefits of responding just in time to local demand..."

You shook your head, Ryan picking his fight. "But let's focus on that labor force. Every major city in America has Surrogates-- and every year there are more of them. So you put out the call that Denver Suros are wanted for a three-hour shift at your Denver plant. Then you embody these hourly contractors with your trained-up Yemeni welders and Honduran parts assemblers..."

Chaudhri tapped the unlit cigarette on the side of his head. "You still need a lot of them."

"No, George," replied Ryan (Sam's eyes flashed joyous, dying-star bright). "You don't. This is the world's first truly mobile labor force. Your Yemeni welder? Starts his morning in a refugee camp in Eritrea. Then--" you snapped your fingers, "--he's in Atlanta for the night shift. He works through a Suro there for a few hours. But they get the call from their sister plant in Dusseldorf: more welders needed for the next couple hours. And--" you snapped your fingers again, "--he's there, in a new body, responding in real time to local demand. And he can do that again and again and again. And again. Wherever they need him, on whichever continent they need him."

Ryan held your hand, palm outward, to forestall objections. He said: "No, you can't staff ten assembly plants with a single plant's skilled workforce. But two might do it, three's easy. And the local bodies, again, are hourly contractors, cut loose the minute you don't need them-- always waiting in the wings for when you do. Your skilled workforce, meanwhile, is taken from the most desperate places on Earth. Many of them will be women who, we know, will endure even more for even less pay-- and so long as we embody them into male Suros, we're not even losing muscle..."

Francesca groaned. "It's Thanksgiving! Can't we talk about something less awful?"

But Chaudhri, his cigarette forgotten, his glasses back on, was staring at you as though he were seeing Ryan for the first time. He couldn't leave you alone just yet; that sharkey nose smelled something that needed investigating He said: "Alright, son. Alright, young man. It seems like that school of yours isn't letting you down. And you're taking their lessons to heart, I'm happy to see! Cars. Another disruption in manufacturing. Those poor assholes..."

"George," said Ryan, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You're still not quite there. You want to partition this thing? Contain it in manufacturing? But this is changing every sector of the economy. My advisor at school? A Zimbabwean political economist. One of the great minds of our time! God knows how they found her; she lives in a slum. The university embodies her into one of the stately, white fellows they have on staff. Gives her a title, grants, lets her attend conferences in other old whites.

"So long as she's their man, she has access to everything! Papers, colleagues, statistics. Adoring students and conversational partners brought in from around the world. Her papers make waves. She snaps her fingers and graduate students jump! And she's an adjunct; they pay the lady peanuts, enough to keep her buying yams and the occasional goat. Her real pay is coming to work.

"Get it? Geography isn't a shield, anymore, and neither is hard work and neither is merit. There's no shelter from the storm. Brilliant minds exist, everywhere, in poverty and obscurity. We don't need work visas, anymore, to pit them against each other in our backyard. We'll have the very best, for the very least-- and in every industry." You stared at Chaudhri, eyes wide, letting the not-threat hang...

"Goddamn Suros!" said Milton, showing his father a vassal's loyalty. Showing this to George Chaudhri, who must have realized on some level, long ago, that a threat to his way of life was coming-- and so chose you and yours as the scapegoat for his fear and hate.

You felt a thickening in your throat. Ryan took a deep breath.

"Right," Ryan said, your eyes never leaving Chaudhri's. "Replace them with robots. Isn't that what you keep saying? But goddamn Suros--" he grabbed a piece of flesh from your forearm, gently pulled, "--these guys and gals? They're your last hope, Chaudhri! Because, as you've mentioned, they'll talk back. They'll say, 'no.' If you push them too hard, they'll resist. Robots? They'll never say, 'no.' Once those things exist? Once they're widespread? And cheap? Full-Mobility Labor. My advisor calls it, 'the dictatorship of the desperate,' and there's no schmoozing your way out of it..."

It was quiet. Milton and Heather and Huwei and Francesca were picking with their forks at their food. The food wasn't making it to their mouths. You felt like an oracle through which a callous, young god offered dark prediction. George Chaudhri stared at you, at Ryan. Sam Ghatak, eyes smoldering with quiet-victorious hate, allowed himself a single glance at his boss. The faintest smile.

But Chaudhri was not an animal for whom backwards movement was possible, even when his nose was bloodied. He growled: "It all sounds a tad apocalyptic."

"A big change, yes."

"But you sound confident. Why's that? What makes you think that when the dust settles, you'll be king of the mountain?"

Ryan had already palmed the toothpick. He was picking your teeth. "Because I'm positioning myself for it. Studying HR."

"Human Resources."

"The vetting and placement of Suros. Withholding and allowing their use to certain companies for certain work. It's an art, like logistics. There are a few of us who look especially promising to UpTime Living Solutions."

"You think you're going to get rich working HR?"

"I'll get by. I'll be one of the necessary people. Someone who keeps the whole thing moving."

"Uh huh. A servant."

Ryan had you shrug. "Only where you're a servant of the old means-of-production? I'll be a servant of the new means-of-labor." Ryan had you smile. Aggressively.

"Anthropology," spat Heather, glaring at her father. "Ryan the anthropologist. I can't believe you fell for it, even for a minute."

"This is what's happening," Ryan shrugged. "This is the way the world is moving. I'm having Thanksgiving with you from across the frigging continent! I control every movement; I taste every bite. That's the power at work, here. Whatever our personal feelings about it are, at this point? There is no alternative--"

And you fell from the chair, choking.

The last thing you heard, before your head hit the hard tile floor with a crack, was George Chaudhri's relieved laughter.

## Chapter 4

"AN EXORCISM!" SAID MILTON, STANDING OVER YOU, windowed worlds blinking before his eyes. "We need a priest! Stat!"

"Did something go wrong with the equipment?" asked Francesca. "Oh God, Ryan? Can you hear me? Did something happen to you, over there? Are you alright?"

'Ryan's not here right now,' you might have told her, using your best REDRUM voice, but your throat was closed pretty tight. You were kept busy trying to breathe.

"All that heady talk," said Chaudhri, who had come around the table to peer down at you, grinning. "He ran out of air! There's your means-of-labor."

Chaudhri lit his cigarette the way a cop standing above a convenient corpse might. Sam opened his mouth to say something, closed it, went back to looking at you, checking his glasses. Heather said: "No smoking in the house, Mr. Chaudhri."

Chaudhri waved the objection away, along with a bit of blue smoke. You coughed. Huwei plucked the cigarette from her husband's mouth. "You not helping, George!"

"Dear..."

"We are _guests_ ," said Huwei, stubbing the cigarette on something out of your range of vision. "There are _rules_. Very important."

"I just thought, since we were all taking a little break from the meal--"

Huwei's face twisted. She began speaking to her husband in Chinese. Chaudhri's eyes went blank. He began nodding, making little affirming noises.

"You tell'em, Huwei," you murmured.

"Ryan?"

"No," said Sam Ghatak. "I've got him on the line, here. Says the Suro's body just froze up on him. Kicked him. He's back in Boston."

"Is he--?"

"He's fine. As confused as the rest of us."

"Oh, thank God!"

"What about him?" asked Milton. "I think you're going to need a new one."

"Hunting for one. We may have to settle for a girl."

"But what happened to him?"

"Garlic?" you couched.

"What..." asked Francesca. "What about garlic?"

"Suro boy allergic to garlic!" declared Huwei, proudly. "That's why I no use."

"Oh," said Francesca. "Oh."

"You didn't. Mom."

"Honey," said Sam. "It was on his _profile_. Right underneath the thing about--"

"Dogs," you croaked. "Hospital?"

"Hospital," said Francesca. "Absolutely. I'll take you myself, Arturo."

"I'll go too," said Heather.

"Now, wait," said Chaudhri, cigarette-less and grumpy. "It's Thanksgiving, goddamnit! I won't be robbed of an enjoyable evening with my friends the Ghataks just because some Suro didn't do his due diligence. It's unfair to us!"

"We can still have nice evening! Send him in car!"

"He needs someone with him," said Heather (very reasonably, you thought). "In case he loses consciousness on the way to the hospital. Mom, why don't you stay here with the Chaudhris. I'll make sure Arturo makes it to the emergency room."

Francesca looked down at you with real guilt on her face. "I know," you mumbled. "S'alright. Be still my--"

"I'll go with you," said Milton, looking at Heather.

"You really don't have to--"

"Good idea!" said Huwei. "You two have adventure!"

And so it was decided. You found yourself slung between Heather Ghatak and Milton Chaudhri and headed for the door. At the base of the stairs, near the entranceway, you heard a piping voice say: "Gross! Did you kill it? Are you going to bury it somewhere?"

"Of course not."

"The Suro got sick," explained Milton. "Garlic allergy."

"Is Ryan still in there?"

"No. He's back in--"

An explosion in your shin; you felt small pieces of bone rearrange themselves. You screamed in surprise. Vicious little ape!

"Conrad!" said Milton. "Jeez! We're trying to get something done here!"

"That's what you get, disgusting bum. Get it out of here."

***

"My brother's such an asshole," said Heather Ghatak, somewhere in the darkness above. Centrifugal forces worked, pulling the darkness back, pulling you awake. You kept your eyes closed. You continued to lie still. The air smelled of car-dealership pine.

"My brother's the a-hole," said Milton Chaudhri, voice preening, from up front. "Ryan's awesome! I haven't seen anybody get under Dad's skin like that-- not in as long as I can remember. And he beat him on his own terms, talking about the only thing Dad ever wants to talk about. Work. That was great!"

"Great, huh?"

"Dad would've pushed around everybody, all evening. Until he found the one thing that was so special to somebody that they had to stand up for it. And then he would have tried to ruin it. On Thanksgiving. Dad hunts for fights like a pig roots through trash. Well he got one! And he got his..." Milton faltered, took a breath. "He got his _ass_ handed to him!"

"My brother was talking about how nobody is going to have a decent job, Milton! A decent life."

"People have been saying that forever, though, right? Something always happens. They'll pass a law."

"But Ryan believes it," moaned Heather. "He wants it to happen! All that HR bullshit; it's not even vicious. For Ryan, people are just a problem to solve-- except once you've 'solved' for them, everyone's life is a little bit worse. Anthropology! I wish."

"Anthropology, jeez," laughed Milton.

"He'd actually probably be great at it. He's great with people. It's the caring about people where he has a... a blind spot..."

You coughed and opened your eyes.

You were lying straight back in the middle seats of the Chaudhri's Crusher. You were looking at a felt-covered ceiling interspaced with faux-wood paneling. Heather was behind you, in the back seats. Milton was up front, driving.

"Arturo?" said Heather. She was bending over the seat back, now, to look down at you.

"Oh!" said Milton. You felt the world swerve. "Is he ok?"

"Eyes on the road, Milton!" she cried. "You insist on driving? Drive!" Then, to you: "Breathing alright?"

"Not. Great."

She made a face. "We'll be there inside twenty minutes if we don't hit traffic--"

"GPS says we'll hit traffic," said Milton.

"--so just focus on breathing, ok? Don't talk. I set up a chat across our glasses. If you need to say something, text me."

"Can I get in on that chat?"

"You're driving, Milton."

At the bottom of your left lens, a text bubble opened. [HG: Ugh, Milton.]

You brought up the keyboard on your glasses and started performing the rapid-eye movements and facial tics that the glasses read and translated, like Morse Code, into text.

[AB: He seems alright.] Send.

Reading your reply, Heather wiggled her nose like a rabbit. Squinted. Blinked. Moved her eyes right and left.

[HG: He's a control freak. All that reality aug. You'll see. Plus he's gross.]

"What are you guys talking about back there?" Milton was realizing that by driving he had positioned himself badly. What he hadn't realized-- what some people somehow never realize-- was that one of the better ways to control for social disadvantage was to simply play it cool.

Heather rolled her eyes [HG: Ugh] and called, sugar-sweetly, to the front of the Crusher: "We're just talking about Ryan, Milton. What an asshole he is."

"Oh." Then: "Does the Suro think Ryan's an asshole?"

She looked down at you, the smile on her face seeming to ask: Good question. Well?

You thought about that. Professional tact required one answer. The truth, as you saw it, required a slightly different answer.

[AB: Your brother cares about you. He cares about your mother and father.]

Heather read that aloud. Then she said: "Ahhh! That's so sweet it makes me think Arturo wants a five-star rating."

"But how can you know that about Ryan?" asked Milton, peering into the rearview mirror. "You can't read his thoughts, can you?"

You licked your lips and wheezed: "No."

"Uppsala Syndrome!" declared Heather. "Wait. I read about this. A Suro does this work long enough and it, like, hollows them out. They start to identify with whoever last wore them. They start taking on their client's personality traits, projecting desires on their clients, getting obsessive."

You shook your head. Uppsala Syndrome was rare: only occurring in individuals who had been working exclusively as Suros, eight or more hours a day, six or more days a week, for many years. That wasn't what was happening here. More like...

[AB: You can't read their thoughts. No. But you feel physical effects. Vertigo, claustrophobia, arachnophobia, agoraphobia, acute social anxiety, turrets. You'll hear a client's tinnitus.] (Your face started to ache; even with auto-finish this was turning into a novel, but,) [You come to realize most people are playing defense against real burdens. This counsels patience. Empathy.]

Whew! Send.

Heather Ghatak, finding nothing objectionable, read this aloud. Then, before Milton could wedge his way back into the conversation, she asked: "And my brother? You felt something from him? Something human?"

You coughed, thought of Nasty Morrano, cursed the garlic. What the hell kind of thing was garlic to be allergic to, anyway? You engaged the keyboard with your eyes.

[AB: Tight shoulders. Teeth grinding. Tight chest. Anxiety. Esp surrounding your father. Your mother. Can't read his mind, but he obv loves them. Worried about them. Esp your father, esp when Chaudhri arrived.]

"Oh," said Heather, like she'd had the wind knocked out of her. "Well. Thank you, Arturo."

"What?" said Milton. "What'd he say?"

"He said it's my family and mind your own business."

"That's not what he said," said Milton, sadly. "How _is_ your family? Your mom?"

Heather grimaced. "Good days and bad. She seemed really good lately. With the new drug regimen, I thought... well, and she really wanted to be in charge of something."

"But she still...?"

"Well, she poisoned the fucking Suro, Milton. So, yeah."

"But that was a mistake," said Milton. "That was an oversight. Anybody could have done that. I was talking about..."

"She still gets her ideas, yeah." said Heather. "'Composes Narratives,' is what we're supposed to call it. She was working on one about Ryan just before he showed up, whipping herself up. It leaves her distracted..." She looked down at you. "Dad and I should have been watching her better, but she really had been doing well. Sorry, Arturo."

You were considering telling Heather that her mother had been half-right, 'narratives' or no, when the movement of the Crusher slowed, threatening to throw you forward.

"Dang it," said Milton, from the front. "Traffic."

***

You could feel the Crusher inch forward every thirty or forty seconds. Your breathing, meanwhile, was getting touch and go. A little scary. You weren't quite getting what you needed, oxygen wise. You'd started to wheeze. Seeing the look on Heather's face, you tried to control the noise.

Milton, starting to sound nervous, said: "This is probably about the craziest night you've had in a while, huh, Suro?"

You thought about that.

Not three months ago, you were embodied by a woman who'd entered you, trembling. Never a great sign; you should have terminated the contract immediately. But didn't. That would have meant a zero-star rating from a new client. And, as always, you'd been curious. So. You'd gotten off the train at Gateway (a neighborhood, ironically, without gatemen) and found yourself walking toward one of the apartment buildings nearby, found yourself knocking on a door on the third floor, found yourself staring into the suspicious, pock-marked face of a man who'd asked, sleepily, "Que vendes?"

Had found yourself saying, in a simpering tone: "It's me, Jorge. Put on your glasses."

"Kari? What the hell. I told you I'm not into fucking pegging--"

A new tone: "And I told you it was the last time. And you did it. Again. And we're done." You overrode her trembling, thinking her message would go better without it. You understood, suddenly, why she had chosen you. Construction worker. Large young man. Hispanic. Even so? The face Jorge had made scared the shit out of you. The way his eyes lit up. Like a big cat. A thwarted predator.

He'd said, quietly: "Is this the way you want to do this, bitch? Through a fucking middleman?"

She would have had you throw a punch. Nope! You'd put the clamps down, fast. So she'd snarled: "You think I'm stupid enough to do it to your face?"

He'd laughed. "You were last time."

The messages she'd sent your body, after that, demanded that you tremble, shrink, prostrate yourself before this scary prick. You'd ignored those, too, wondering if he owned a gun.

"You know I'm going to find you, Kari? Your mom always did like me. She knows I'm good for you."

You'd suppressed her groan, tears, desire to flee. Holding the ground here was about eighty percent you, by then, but you'd felt her relief. She'd leaned on you, but this was still what she'd wanted.

"Hey, Suro," he'd asked. "You fucking her?"

"Never met her," you'd said. "Just along for the ride."

He'd made a fist. "And what would you do if I sent her one, last message? Huh?"

You'd made your own fist. "Better not."

"Right," he'd sighed. "Kari, I'm coming to get you. Right now. We're going to sort this whole thing out. And you? Suro? If I ever see you again--"

"You won't," you'd said, heart pounding, backing down the stairs and away.

He wouldn't, either. Kari had knowingly put you in immediate physical danger to get herself out of a jam-- and so you had placed her on a list. You felt for Kari, you did, but you had your tribe to watch out for. Other Suros. She'd gotten her rescue, inadequate as it was; it was up to her now. She couldn't be allowed to keep placing people in danger. And on that list? The only Suros she'd be able to embody from now on would be meat shields. Chuckleheads in need of a fix. You'd gotten back on the train at Gateway, heading toward the river.

And that was that.

Then, also, maybe once a month you'll have an experience like this: you'll be entered by someone without a user profile-- a trial user, a blank space, someone using an UpTime gift card-- who'll immediately flood your bloodstream with adrenaline. His first words through your mouth will be something like: "Listen, kid, big tip for you, mucho dinero, alright? You let me turn off your glasses' GPS tracker, visual feed. We go to my truck. We move some shit. So fucking simple. Takes about two hours? Three hours. Big payout for you. What do you think?"

You'll tell him UpTime has certain criteria. They don't pay you, for instance, when they can't GPS track.

He'll say, "No kidding. But like I said, I'll make it worth your while. Hard cash. I've got it nearby..."

The Suro subreddit calls this process, 'Blind Man's Bluff' because it exploits an unaddressed regulatory blind spot in UpTime's wild-west tech. UpTime (again to reduce liability) markets itself as nothing more than a 'matching service' that 'connects clients with high-quality Suros around the world.' What this means is that, as a contractor, you're free to sell your Surrogacy through a third party other than UpTime-- or person-to-person.

When _this_ happens, UpTime still makes money from the client-- for the initial 'match' in many cases, and as exclusive Innernet Service Provider for the entire process, always. However, they don't pay the Suro. UpTime, other than facilitating, has nothing to do with the transaction. The Suro, then, must expect to earn enough money from the client to make it worth their consent, while forfeiting whatever limited legal protections UpTime offers. Meaning, the financial burden is shifted solely onto the client-- who is forced to pay their normal fee to UpTime as well as whatever it takes to win over the wary Suro.

And what does the client get for all this extra hassle and expense? Well, total anonymity-- if they play it right and stay off the credit cloud. Hours of unrecorded time. A blank space on the map of their life. But why, oh why, would anyone...?

Right.

Sometimes, it's someone especially paranoid conducting an affair. Sometimes it's someone especially notable buying drugs. Mostly, it's simply illegal.

The one and only time you played Blind Man's Bluff, the client was able to show you two-week's pay in cash stuffed into a bus-station locker a three-minute walk from where you'd been embodied, near Chinatown. The locker also contained a set of keys. You'd received very little adrenaline from the client. He (you assumed) spoke calmly; the whole thing seemed well planned. You drove the truck he found in a nearby parking garage to Seattle. The pace was easy; he kept an eye out for cops. Under some damp overpass, in view of the Puget Sound, you got out of the truck. Waiting for you was a nervous-looking Suro, whose body language immediately changed-- became confident, aggressive-- as your client's intent left you and flittered into him.

He came up to you with a wink and extended his hand: "Good work, son. You've eased the minds of a lot of the right people."

You felt the bulge in your jacket where the envelope of cash sat. You tried not to look at the cab of the big truck, at whatever had been moved across state lines. You took the client's hand. "A pleasure," you said. "Better go."

"Healthy!" said the client, who'd used a gift card, whose name and face and even gender you never learned. "Curiosity killed the cat, Arturo! You learned your nursery rhymes! But let me just emphasize? We're not totally out of the woods, yet. You may see some things on the news? Your conscience may start a-twangin' away! You may feel like you have something to offer an ongoing investigation?

"Don't!" He smiled liked an old friend. "I've buried too many honest young men."

You took the greyhound back from Seattle. You stayed off the news feeds for several weeks. Whenever your conscience started a-twangin' you'd take a gig, lose yourself. The money helped a lot.

Now, lying in the Chaudhri's Crusher, feeling traffic begin to break, you responded, [AB: Sure. Pretty crazy night.]

Heather said: "Faster, Milton."

## Chapter 5

THE WOMAN EMBODYING YOU AT THIS POINT was a Suro Group Health Rep named Janet. Janet would be a sociopath.

She was, according to the subreddit: a clinically-confirmed sociopath, lacking entirely the capacity for empathy with other human beings.

Because sometimes you need one of those in your corner.

Janet's first job, before anything else, was to suffer. Janet, you figured, must suffer nearly all day, every day. She must suffer burns and falls and knife wounds and shotgun wounds. She must suffer rashes and inflamed eyes and frostbite and gangrene. Flesh-devouring bacterias and flowering growths. Janet and her team-- who, being sociopaths, were kept physically apart from one another-- would know what it felt like to bite off your own tongue or have a bone sticking out of your arm and waving in the breeze. Many of them would know what it felt like to have a toy truck stuffed so far up your anus that it had to be surgically removed.

Janet's first job was to suffer; she was suffering now.

"Well," she wheezed, giving you her British accent. "You're not. Scamming. Us."

Already you wished she would talk less.

"He has a garlic allergy," said Milton. "Francesca Ghatak fed him garlic."

Heather rolled her eyes. [HG: Ugh.]

"Note. Ed." wheezed Janet, using precious air. You were standing, leaning on a plastic seat in the ER waiting room. "We'll. Get this. Sort. Ed."

"Don't we have to wait for like seven hours?" asked Heather. She gestured towards the sea of queued-up human suffering: an old man discreetly coughing blood; a very-pregnant woman with blue lips; a boy with his entire arm bandaged in bath towels. Others, merely holding portions of their bodies, swaying.

"Gosh," said Milton. "Reminds me of the beginning of _Zombie Slayers._ "

Janet pushed you up, using reserves of strength you didn't know you had. "With. This. Lot?" She would have had you cackle. You coughed instead. She shook your head, grimacing. "Up. Time. 'As. Ag. Reement. With. Os. Pi. Tal..."

The stars were thick on the periphery and crawling towards the center. You swayed. Focused on getting air. Even Janet the Sociopath needed to breathe. When you were better, she said: "Right," and she began to work away on your glasses, going to UpTime's website, entering employee numbers and serial codes, date, time, location, nature of incident, incident number.

This was Janet's second job: Medical Codebreaker. Kafkaesque Heavy. You tried to imagine her entering this information with her leg tourniqueted or half her face frozen by stroke. Currently she was working without oxygen and still managed the perspicacity to murmur, "bugger," about once a minute.

Verily, Janet earned her paycheck.

Now she was using the hospital's Emergency Room App. You followed her gaze as she opened the window for 'Rose Quarter Hospital Group Corporate Partners.' Bingo. She was already talking to one of the Hospital Reps over chat, throwing weight, making things happen. Phrases were being entered into the chat that you were pretty certain had double, triple meanings. Immediate action was promised.

And just like that a woman with a clipboard was standing in front of you. Dark hair, rich-dark eyes, beautiful-almond skin, dressed in tasteful hues. She could be from a hundred different places, speak with a hundred different accents, it hardly mattered. She was the gatekeeper here. She would use certain words, speak certain powerful phrases. She was of the lean, virtuous, cosmopolitan set: all fat and sloth offshored onto some stinking animal in Estacada or Omaha or Trenton. She held out her manicured hand.

Janet took it with a snarky, "Bout. Time."

Milton said: "Are you kidding? That was--"

Heather nudged him in the ribs.

"Carla Fraser, Treatment Expediting."

"Janet. Leforge. Suro. Group." Breathe. "Insurance. Rep."

A few of the waiting patients, their faces blank, had turned to watch you.

[CF: We'd better switch to chat, Ms. Leforge. _Les Miserables_ are stirring. And you sound like you could use a break.]

[JLF: You don't have a place we can talk?]

[CF: Here's fine.]

The handshake was strained. Janet was staring at this woman. Carla Fraser's gaze was so cold-- so empty-- you would have shivered if you still had direct access to your motor functions. And then it hit you: Carla would also be a sociopath. Which made sense. An antipathetic arms race between the hospital and their corporate clients (and any insurance representatives), with the most cold-blooded profiting at the bottom line. This, then, would be Janet's third job. Contract Gunslinger. Arguing over payment. From the way you straightened, the adrenaline which began to pump, the way your muscles tautened, the way you began to notice little details, even the way you began to breathe, yes, it was clear: this was the best part of Janet's day. You'd bet money on that. This, right here, was the payout for Janet's suffering. The chance to fight. The chance to dominate.

[JLF: Of course, you'll immediately begin treatment for Mr. Barros' condition.]

[There's no, 'of course,' about it, Ms. Leforge. Unfortunately,] Carla smiled, [There's a process here. Even for contractors covered by our corporate partners.]

[So,] sent Janet, shrugging, [Process.]

[CF: First, we, the hospital, need to verify that Mr. Barros was embodied at the time his injuries were sustained.]

[JLF: Easy enough.] Janet said: "Kids?"

And they were brought into the chat.

[HG: Yes, Arturo Barros was embodied by my brother, Ryan Ghatak, at Thanksgiving Dinner. He ate garlic, accidently, under someone else's power. I was there. I'm happy to act as a witness.]

[MC: Me too.]

[CF: That's fine. We're simply establishing that UpTime is liable and will be covering the cost of their contractor's stay. We've had trouble with UpTime's insurance division before. Misunderstandings.]

[JLF: I'd be happy to help prevent another of those, Ms. Fraser-- make things clear as crystal-- before we move any farther.]

They sparred.

It went like this. UpTime would cover treatment directly pertaining to Arturo Barros' garlic allergy-- and nothing else. Any chronic or unexpected ailments found during the course of treatment would not be covered by UpTime during this visit. Should be ignored by the hospital. Any secondary ailments caused by the allergy-- rashes, swelling, hives-- would, of course, be covered, but tertiary ailments (that is, new symptoms caused by these secondary symptoms) would not. Could they treat you for dehydration and expect reimbursement? Janet sighed and conceded that, yes, if dehydration could be traced to the allergic reaction, rehydration of the contractor would be covered. And the use of anti-inflammatories? Janet gave your head a nod, but reminded her counterpart that their contract with the hospital specified the use of certain generics. Mental health screen? Janet snorted through your nose. Mr. Barros was being treated for an allergic reaction, not PTSD. Carla shrugged and ticked another box on her clipboard.

The details were ironed out for about ten minutes, while around you, women and men continued coughing and bleeding and oozing and moaning. Staring, through their glasses, at the two professional women, silently struggling, because there was nothing else to stare at. The line to the receptionist, behind his bulletproof-glass window, hardly moved in that time. Names were called by a nurse on the far side of an airlock, and patients, singly, letting go of the hands or shoulders of their friends and family, hobbled into that room to be hit with a contact superantibiotic before staggering onwards towards medical attention.

Milton, during this time, said more than once: "We should go."

And Heather, each time, replied: "Not yet."

Finally, Carla Fraser nodded and said: "And if Rose Quarter Hospital Group agrees to follow the treatment guidelines earlier set forth in contract, and if Rose Quarter Hospital Group agrees to strictly limit treatment to those areas we've covered today verbally and in writing-- in chat-- and if Rose Quarter Hospital Group agrees to the billing procedures earlier set forth in contract, then the aforementioned Hospital Group can expect reimbursement from Suro Group Health?"

"Amen," sighed Janet.

Carla raised her eyebrows, kept staring.

Janet had you smirk. [JLF: Correct. If your doctors play by the rules, we'll pay for it.]

"Then I'm prepared to expedite your contractor's treatment. One moment please..." And she began to work away on her glasses.

Janet also began to work. [JLF: Before we move forward with treatment, Arturo, I need one last ocular signature from you. A form for you to read. Standard practice. Basically, it states that Suro Group Health is going to look through tonight's footage from your glasses. If Suro Group Health finds that you, the contractor, were negligent in self-care, Suro Group Health may demand some or all of the financial burden for tonight's treatment be shifted onto you.]

"Wait," you breathed. "What?"

Heather turned her head, frowned.

Your face ached, but Janet continued to text furiously. [JLF: You're a contractor, remember? Ergo, you have the right to return to yourself at any moment. And the responsibility. It will probably come to nothing. But. If Suro Group Health finds that you flagrantly disregarded, say, warning signs about the work environment you found yourself in? We may demand recompense for tonight's treatment in part or whole.]

You thought of Shiva in the entryway, barking. Cynophobia listed at the top of your Suro Profile. An immediate red flag. Proof positive that your client's family hadn't prepared for you.

But then, they never did. You'd never get any work if you weren't prepared to be flexible. Roll with the punches. So.

It might be that Suro Health Group would take this into account. It might be that their analysts wouldn't group 'dog risk' with 'food-allergy risk.' But you couldn't be sure about that. And if you ended up with the full bill for a night in the ER? A new pile of medical debt after years barely staying afloat? Were you willing to risk that?

"No," you wheezed, shaking your head. "De. Cline."

Carla froze. Looked at you. Janet stiffened. Heather said: "Arturo, don't be ridiculous." She sort of laughed. "You need medical attention."

"Home," you said. "Sleep." The stars began to thicken.

"I don't think you should be closing your eyes," said Milton.

"If your contractor isn't interested in treatment expedition, then I'll be going," said Carla, who disappeared through a door with really unbelievable speed.

Janet, whose shoulders told you she was furious, sent: [JLF: Of course, there's a processing fee for engaging my services. Since those services didn't result in treatment, we'll be billing your UpTime account.]

Because, when it came down to it, a sociopath was never really in your corner.

"Of. Course," you wheezed, and Janet departed with one final: "Bugger."

***

Heather and Milton were staring at you like you were some undiscovered animal from the antipoles. Some fur-covered, duck-billed, small-winged biped which broke all natural laws. Something ridiculous and contrary to logic.

Milton tabled: "That seems like it was kind of stupid?"

Heather said: "You can't go home, Arturo. You need to be in the hospital."

"Not. Emer. Gency." You sat, waiting for the newest cluster of stars to recede. These ones kept shimmering.

"It kind of feels like an emergency," said Milton. His glasses pinged. "Shoot. Shit. Another one. Dad wants the Crusher back. We have to go."

"Wait," said Heather.

"I guess Shiva bit Jordan? What a day. We really gotta--"

" _Wait,_ " said Heather, something new in her voice. "We're not just going to do this. We're not about to leave this person that _we_ hired, that _we_ injured..." She thought of something. "Ryan said you're twenty-five? What about your parents' insurance...?"

You shook your head. They stared at you.

[AB: I could really, really use a ride home.]

Milton's glasses pinged again. And then again. He straightened, eyes wide. He looked at Heather, looked at you, shook his head, slowly, was already moving towards the entrance of the ER. "Dad's blowing up. The Crusher. I can't... I can't..." _Ping. Ping._

A young man, holding his head and rocking in a nearby chair, suddenly screamed: "Ping! Ping! Ping! Turn off your fucking PING!"

Milton silenced his glasses, but they kept rattling on his face as he moved for the door.

Heather, looking as though she wanted to cry, said: "You can't go home, Arturo. You're sick. You're..." She dug inside her purse, brought out a wad of green bills wrapped within a rubberband. Cash.

Milton, standing under the word 'EMERGENCY,' snorted. Because cash, more and more, was a rarity: considered dirty, lowbrow, vaguely criminal. Respectable people used credit and debit clouds, where their purchases could be tracked, tastes and preferences, quantified. Where and how a young woman like Heather Ghatak had gotten this much physical currency was anybody's guess-- that was, ultimately, the point of it-- and many would be less than charitable with their guesses.

Before you could choke out a word of protest-- or disbelief, or thanks-- the roll of green was in your hands. And Heather Ghatak was whispering her confession: "If we were decent, brave people, Arturo..." She shook her head. "But we're not. Now that Mom's sick, and everything's on Dad, we're closer to the edge than you might ever..." She caught herself, tried again: "Thank God for that blizzard. Before that? Dad came to me, asked me to open a new credit cloud account, to buy Ryan's tickets..." She shook her head. "We just can't _afford_ to make Mr. Chaudhri angry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm..."

Right. You know. It's rough all over.

She turned away and walked straight towards the wide entrance under the word, 'EMERGENCY.' She followed Milton Chaudhri towards the parking lot and his father's Crusher. She never looked back.

You unstrung the rubber band and started counting green bills. When you'd finished, you performed a little accounting. The amount of currency in-hand would get you laughed out of the ER-- treatment was still impossible-- but if you could find a way home, it would make up for Janet's fee and the hours of lost Suro pay. You might, still, come out ahead for the night. And if you were feeling well enough to work tomorrow?

This might not be a disaster.

"I know," you muttered, visualizing Heather crossing the parking lot. "It's. Alright. Bestill. My--"

But your throat closed. The stars moved in.

## Chapter 6

YOU WERE LEANING ON SOMEONE. A MAN. He smelled like cigarettes and Old Spice. Not bad, not like he hadn't showered, but simply like these two strong elements: nicotine and deodorant. You were being helped into a chair or bench. The evening air was cool. You tried to breathe and found that it was possible. Not easier than before, but not harder either. You opened your eyes and watched the stars twinkle. Between the stars, parked cars.

You heard a quiet chuckling, like a hyena testing the acoustics of a large stage.

Someone sat on the bench next to you. There was the sound of a lighter being flicked and there was the sound of chemical mix being drawn into receptive lungs and there was the smell of the exhaled mix. Someone said, "Fucking Indians, huh? Think they own this country now. And I guess, between them and the Chinese, they more or less do. Not much left for us native Americans." He drew on the cigarette.

Chuckled bitterly and continued: "No, amigo, the irony isn't lost on me. History's been drawing this one out. A centuries-long joke with the perfect-fucking punchline. Even so? My family's been in this country nine generations. You, from the look of you, have an even better claim to the neighborhood. And what are we, huh? Renters. Just about vagrants. These fucking newcomers buy us and sell us. Wear us like cheap suits."

The stars were clearing back to the periphery. The man sitting on the bench next to you was a balding and mustachioed Anglo-- one of those hard-living, fast-aging Anglos, who, after age twenty-five, look as though they might be anywhere between thirty and seventy. He'd extended his right hand-- sleeve tattoo up to the first joints of each finger, gilded by nicotine stains-- and you took it, trying to look him in the eye. He said: "Casey Deaton, at your service."

"Arturo," you wheezed. "Barros."

The moment you took his hand, he giggled-- and suppressed it with a cough. He said, "Arturo."

He chuckled. "Well, Arturo, Arturo, you pretty-well know my story, don't you? I was sitting in that ER waiting room, ahem, _waiting_. Waiting, actually, to play a bit of Blind Man's Bluff. You know the game? Except dirtbag never embodied." He shook his head, looking philosophical. "Well, you win some, you lose some. And there's worse places to get stood up than a hospital waiting room."

He was a Chucklehead. A Chucklefuck, a junkie. The rhyming and the repetition. The bad ones were as compulsive with their non-sequiturs as an old episode of _Family Guy_. And if he fell into alliteration? That would seal the deal. He was, at this moment, either going up or coming down.

Deaton continued: "And while I was sitting, waiting for something to happen? Something happened! _You_ happened. You and your-- well, you couldn't really call them friends, could you? Clients. And can I just say? Having caught what I caught and been in your spot? Myself?

"You made the right choice, Arturo, Arturo. Those rat-fucking weasels at Suro Health would have found an excuse to rat-fuck you. That is actually their job: rat-fucking you. What a business model, eh? 'Fuck you, pay us, die.' Thing of beauty."

He laughed.

He shook his head. "And while we're on the topic of beauty, Arturo, Arturo? That was a beautiful Injun Summer of a girl you came in with. And, more rare still, she had a heart. A beating, human heart! Her worried looks, you should ha' seen them! But that's neither here nor there. Nor anywhere. She gave you money, Arturo, Arturo. Dollah dollah bills."

Ah.

"'Ah,'" He giggled. "You're thinking to yourself: 'Ah hah. Now we're getting to the point.' And we sure are! Because do you know where you stand, Stan? You need a ride home.

"Now--" he held up a tattooed finger and wiggled it like a lecturer, "-- you may think that's a simple matter. Get a pay-by-mile car. Go home. But? Even assuming you're one of those frugal souls with credit left on their cloud at this time of the month? Where are you, Arturo, Arturo? You're at a hospital! Think. If you, out of the blue, use your credit cloud to get a ride home from the hospital? The cloud agencies-- bam! just like that-- get _very_ curious about your health. As it relates to your, 'future labor status and purchasing power.' You'd be surprised." He giggled. "I was."

He giggled again. "Maybe you were just visiting a sick friend? But the cloud reps will check with UpTime, see that your Surrogacy period cut short suddenly, read what the bystanders had to say in your ratings, see that you then took a car from the hospital, draw their own conclusions. Your credit score will dip, your cloud will shrink, the noose will tighten. It'll take a good, long period of spotless living to earn back their trust, and in the meantime you'd better hope for no more difficulties-- unknown unknowns."

He sighed. "Of course, you could walk to a nearby pizzeria, order a pizza, wait an hour. That would probably throw the agencies off. But. Looking as sick as you do? In this neighborhood? A mugger with a knife, Arturo, Arturo...

"And that leaves you with two options: get a ride from a family member or get a ride with me. For you must stay off the cloud. My bet? Your people are working today. Can't get away. But that's the beautiful thing about the ER: if I'm wrong, I tip my hat to you, friend! And return inside, to wait for that poor SOB with his last card to play. I can count on at least one a day! But if I'm right?

"Well, you know the average rate for a pay-by-mile. A real huckster in my position would charge you triple that. I consider you a brother-in-arms, Arturo, Arturo, so for you? It'll only be double."

***

You agreed to the ride, agreed to the rate. Continuing tonight's math: in a financial sense, once you factored in the free dinner, by the time you arrived home it would be as though you hadn't taken a gig tonight, at all. Revenue neutral, assuming Sam Ghatak paid for the almost four hours you'd Surrogated. You checked your Profile. The Ghataks hadn't paid yet. George Chaudhri had left a single-star review which you didn't read.

You followed Casey Deaton to his decrepit Honda Civic.

Deaton, pleased, was praising you in sing-song: "The right decision Arturo, Arturo! The right decision, indeed! I'm screwing you tonight, let's be clear, but those credit cloud reps would fuck you far-more dear! For my scam ends tonight, while theirs' continues out of sight!" He paused, looked up as though checking for rain, licked his lips. "And just wait until they start installing chips in our brains!"

Home was a half-hour drive from the hospital. It looked as though Deaton would talk and sing the whole way. This was stupid. There had to be a better plan than this. But you were tired. Your head hurt. The stars were shimmering and the sun was nearly down. If only you could get enough oxygen. Properly weigh options. Think. But you just wanted to get home. To rest.

You were in the Civic. The Civic was full of trash: mouldering paperwork spilling out of binders: a weird, automotive library. But also? Empty bags of Doritos, empty beer cans, empty packets of cigarettes, rotting leaves, broken pieces of pottery, slimy plastic bags, a rusty hammer, empty pill bottles, uncapped deodorant, tangled bundles of string, a cactus. The man kept a potted cactus in the back of his car. And while Deaton had, in the ER parking lot, smelled only of two oddly complementary scents, here in the car all sorts of stinks were vying for dominance. The phantom cat piss smell, you decided, while not the strongest, would define your trip. You wondered how the man kept himself mostly free of scent. Were there showers nearby he used? Did he have some kind of agreement with the hospital?

Deaton was starting the car. The engine complained; the car, idling, shook. You gripped the seat cushion, the door handle. Deaton muttered that famous line from his childhood: "Hear me, baby. Hold together."

You pulled out of the hospital parking lot, out into a neighborhood where you were happy not to be a pedestrian. No gatemen here; not officially, anyway. What there was: a young man, skinny, head shaved, neck tattooed, wearing a brand-new pair of glasses and staring at your car pass. He was scanning the Civic, seeing who owned it, if it had passed through recently, if it was associated with the police, if it was associated with rival narcotics traffic. Foreign powers.

"Don't worry, Arturo, Arturo," said Deaton, giving the young man a single wave. "I pay these shits their tax to operate around the hospital." He giggled, "Part of my service to you."

You were moving on a line now, dictated by the GPS, towards the highway and home. You relaxed a little. Deaton was telling his life story.

You focused on breathing.

"Trucking, Arturo, Arturo," Deaton was saying. "Long haul. Owner-operator, bit of scam. But still, I made a living. Saw the country. Lots of seventy-hour weeks. Lots of--" he chuckled, "--all-night drives. That's where I developed my case of the giggles. You hear? Because it helps you stay awake. Helps keep that bit of road in front of you real interesting." He sighed, chuckled. "Before they automated. No more need for drivers. They still needed _guards_ ; but a little shrimp like me? So they let me go. Still had that habit though, that stuck. I need it like I need air. Like bread in the belly..."

You were almost to the highway. You hoped traffic was light.

"Mind if I smoke?" He was already lighting up, one handed. He continued speaking around the cigarette: "That Suro operation? That was a fucking lifesaver. I was playing Blind Man's Bluff three-four times a week. Freelancing. Plus, lots of people interested in offshoring that Chuckle high. Laugh, laugh, laugh. Looks fun, right? Students, CFOs, Soccer Moms; I've had 'em all.

"Win, win, Arturo, Arturo: they pay for my Chuckle along with my time-- and take on zero risk of addiction, zero risk of neurological degra... degra... fuckin' brain meltdown, babycakes. I shoulder all that. A special kind of sherpa. And for a year or two, there? I was once more living the life, motherfucker.

"Only problem? Lately? Competition. Because-- hooo!-- Chuckle. Won't let you sleep sometimes. Sometimes, won't let you eat. Or fuck. And the good side, the laugh-laugh-laugh side? You end up needing more and more just to maintain." He laughed and there were tears in his eyes. "Meanwhile, you got these little fuckers in the Philippines? There's this church group, 'Teach A Man To Fish,' wires them up for free, so they can work tourism. But? Get a gram poor-quality shit into these kids, their goddamn brains explode. Really. Takes nothing to crank them to the moon. That's what your Soccer Mom's looking for-- not maintaining. So. I been retraining. Retooling. Life-long learning." He laughed.

"But, meanwhile, meanwhile? A man needs cold-hard cash to keep buying what he needs. Cold-hard cash, which limits his career options. But it was my choice, Arturo, Arturo. My own goddamn bed which I wet and which I lie in. All of it? At the end of the day? My choice!

He squirmed. "And, God help me, so is this."

The car came to a halt next to the sidewalk, idling hard. Deaton turned to look at you, pulled up a corner of his shirt to reveal the black handle of a Glock pressed against his skeletal, white torso.

"We're not on the highway, yet." A quiet chuckle. "You can't quite call me a highwayman, Arturo, Arturo, but there it is. You're going to give me all the cash that beautiful Injun Summer gave you. All of it. And then you're going to step out of the car."

You looked at him.

"Chuckle," he said, by way of explanation. "I like you, Arturo, Arturo. I really do. I told myself, starting out, that I would charge you double and get you home. But it's not enough for what I... So, talking to you just now, I moved the dial to triple in my head. But, come to think of it? I need every last Benjamin." He wouldn't quite look at you. "This neighborhood's alright. I got you out of Marshall's 'hood and away from the hospital. You can order a pay-by-mile here. You're safe from the gangs and the creditors, ok? But I need that cash. I'm fucking serious."

"I. Give. Every. Thing." You said. "Please. Home."

He shook his head, laughing. "Can't do that, Arturo, Arturo. Can't know that the minute we stopped, you didn't send a message to your fucking posse at home. That someone isn't coming for us right now..."

You stared at him. If you had a posse at home, you wouldn't need a ride. But nobody ever claimed Chucklefucks were straightforward thinkers. Or that they weren't paranoid to the hilt.

"...and in a way," he continued, "I'd welcome it. Getting the shit kicked out of me by your big cousin, say? I deserve it, Arturo, Arturo. The better part of me knows that. But the weasel runs things now. So you'll turn out your pockets..."

He was trembling as he rifled through your wallet. He looked terrible. If you had any strength to count on, you thought, it would be the simplest thing to snatch away the Glock, wrestle him down. But you didn't have the strength; you could barely draw breath. You wanted, so badly, to sleep. He was counting the bills. It wasn't just Heather's money; some of it was your own, drawn out in case Ryan needed any on the spot, to be reimbursed later.

"It'll do," trembled the junkie. "It'll do. Out of the car, Arturo, Arturo. I'll throw you your wallet, hey?"

"Home," you wheezed. "Please."

"You made the right decision," said Deaton, shaking his head. "Those credit cloud fuckers would've drowned you like a sack of kittens. But this? You'll recover from this."

Then the wallet was landing at your feet. A moldering Surodarity pamphlet fell out the car door next to it. The ancient, damaged engine was rattling, coughing, complaining. For a moment, you were certain Casey Deaton-- it would be an assumed name-- wasn't going anywhere. But the Honda Civic is the Kalashnikov of automobiles: it roared to life, propelling Deaton-- and your money and his mouldy, unexplained library and his potted cactus-- towards the highway entrance ramp.

He merged into traffic and was gone.

***

You sat on the curb of the sidewalk and tried to breathe. The stars were bright. Financially, you were down for the evening-- way down. A bad gig, revenue negative, shitty reviews, health damage. You should have stayed home, should've rested up, but you'd needed the money. Well, at least you'd gotten fed.

Keep breathing, you'd figure it out, you'd make it, you'd been behind before. Casey Deaton was right: you'd recover from this. Keep breathing. Sanjay Ghatak was right: if you kept hustling, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Only. You needed air. You could do it, you could do it all, if they just gave you a moment to breathe...

You lay down in the grass. The stars moved in.

## Chapter 7

THE CAR PULLED UP IN FRONT OF YOU. The last voice in the world you expected to hear was saying: "Here he is, sir. The one from the hospital. The one who declined treatment."

Eastern European accent: "And you left him here. Idiot. Well, he looks about ready for a change of circumstance. Wouldn't you say? A big boy; maybe we'll find him something in security."

"Whatever you think, sir."

"Arturo." The figure, smelling of Old Spice, was huddled next to you. "My name is Stefan Banik. Here." Something was in your hand. Your roll of money, returned. "You're going to be alright. I'm taking you to my personal doctor, alright? Close to here."

You opened your eyes. Deaton's face, features set anew, eyes showing calm intelligence. "Who?" Banik? You'd heard that name. Somewhere.

"A friend," he said. "A man with an offer. But first, help."

Deaton's hands under your shoulders, the wiry Anglo pulling you up, grunting: "C'mon. Come with me..."

You were back in the reeking Civic, the cactus rattling behind you. Deaton was getting the thing started, geist receding to let junkie manage the intricacies of his own vehicle.

You asked Deaton: "Who--?"

His eyes were on the road. He wouldn't look at you as he said: "Another lie, Arturo, Arturo. I was, in fact, embodied during our time together. Now don't get the wrong idea. The world-class conversation? That was all me. Everything was me. This hombre likes to watch."

Camping. People who embodied passively and allowed the Suro to retain control. Marketing Executives who wanted to learn how people talked on the street. Helicopter parents who embodied in their children's social periphery. Rejected students who snuck piggyback into the university lecture halls of their choice.

Deaton shrugged and lit another cigarette. He said: "You know what I'm talking about. True Crime shit; gives 'em a thrill. Once upon a time, they'd be fingering themselves to Truman Capote. Now? They enter me in the ER and we choose a victim. Payment in advance through a third-party vendor.

"Mostly, they just ride along. They know my situation; they tell themselves I'd be doing what I do no matter what." He chuckled. "A few of the old birds, though? I'll give them the wheel for a few minutes. Those are the ones I can be sure are coming back for more." He shook his head, dragging on his cigarette. "I always stop them before they go too far. Make them sit back and watch. Keep them innocent.

"That's what my job is: give 'em the thrill, alright, but keep them innocent. When, actually? Since I haven't been caught yet? I gotta figure one or more of them is protecting me--"

"Deaton," he suddenly cut himself off, "You're wandering."

He chuckled. "Anywho, not tonight. Tonight? It's the Immiserator, herself. Only, I figured he had to be a poser. Maybe a cop. So I kicked him out of my headspace about a minute before robbing you, Arturo, Arturo.

"Only, then? My Suro account flashfloods cash. Outta nowhere. And I start getting phone calls, blocked numbers. They're telling me: let the client back in and play by his rules-- more money for you. Don't? Then the cops really _do_ get involved. My whole geist ring goes down. So--"

A shake of the head. "One thing I can say? Since I've noticed, Arturo, Arturo, you're receptive to my good advice? Listen to Banik, here. Or whatever he's calling himself at the moment. Play along--"

The slightest shudder. Banik atop Deaton's face, grimacing as he smelled the air. That accent again: "Focus on breathing, young man. I have a house ten minutes away. I am instructing my personal physician to embody there. We will provide you with medical attention and-- if you are willing-- I would like you to stay the night as my personal guest."

Now you remembered the name, 'Banik.' The man's face on the front page of _Bloomberg_. You said: "You're... Clara..."

"Fahrschein," said Banik. "UpTime Living Solutions' Founder and CEO. Yes. Technically, I'm only half of her. Of course, I like to think I'm the better half!" A pause. "Old joke."

The stars thickened. You managed: "Why?"

"Am I, personally, spending Thanksgiving picking up vulnerable young men through a Chucklefuck?"

He raised his eyebrows. Or Deaton did.

"Don't worry. I'm straightforward with my conquests; I'm not trying to turn you into one of them. But Thanksgiving is a special day, don't you think? The evening, especially, has a morose quality. A few especially-tragic hours to find those who are slipping. Magic hours.

"Have you heard them say, 'It's lonely at the top'? Because it is. It's worse than that. One day, the great entrepreneur finds herself surrounded on all sides by enemies with smiling faces. Not a true friend in sight. And then? What becomes the most valuable commodity in the world?

"No. Don't answer, son. Breathe. I'll tell you.

"Loyalty. Real loyalty. Which demands a special price. A personal price. For you, Mr. Barros. As the old poster says, 'I want you!' Women and men like you. Allies, high and low, sprinkled throughout UpTime. My enemies on the board are getting stronger, you see? Amassing. The time will come..."

Deaton chuckled. They were exiting the highway.

"Medical attention, first. And payment as well. Don't worry about whatever commitments you have this week-- I shall reimburse your employers. They won't dare complain. You shall rest tonight, recover, and I shall continue hunting. And in the morning, when you are ready..."

One last chuckle as a pair of armed gatemen waved the ancient Civic through a tree-lined checkpoint. "In the morning, I'm going to make you an employment offer. And I sincerely hope you'll say, 'yes.'"

## Part 2: The Job
Chapter 1

LATER, PLAYING BACK SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE-- taken by equipment Sybil Clarke surreptitiously kept in her master bathroom-- SEC auditors would come across the following evening scene: a statuesque black woman just under six feet, dressed in white-terrycloth bathrobe (Clarke, a former runway model, whose delicately-rounded Somali features, in the words of one former commentator, 'draw my eye and won't let go,') began to tremble. Her cut-emerald eyes dilated. Her nostrils flared and jaw set.

She turned towards the spotless mirrors above the sink. Turned to look at herself.

Righting, shaking her head and coughing, the beauty said: "You're drunk, Clara. I told you never to drunk-embody me. That's what the telephone's for. If you must."

And slouched like a method actor going for the Academy Award. "So you can ignore me? No. And you must call me Banik. Stefan Banik--"

Head and shoulders back up. "This is beneath you, Clara. I'm going to look like hell tomorrow."

"Good!" she wailed. Slavic lilt becoming more pronounced: "I want you to look terrible! Terrible for that camel jockey son of a bitch!"

Her face became stoney, even as tears ran in their tracks. "Clara--"

" _We_ were Clara! We were Clara Fahrschein! A composite. And we changed the world, Sybil. We were going to keep changing the wor--"

"We were!" snapped Sybil Clarke, into the mirror. "And then you took that from us. You took our composite's name, legally, when you left the operating table. You sabotaged us--"

"How is being true to myself sabotage? I simply--"

"Oh, bullshit!" spat Sybil Clarke. "Bullshit, Clara! You were happy enough wearing me for years. Whenever you wanted to play dress up. Feel pretty. You had a line of beautiful suits hanging in your closet and an army of silly girls in the streets. You had it both ways, Clara. Exactly how you like it."

"Sybil!"

"Clara. You are not any kind of victim, here. No one forced you to chop off your dick in the month of May. We begged you-- we all _begged_ you-- to wait on the procedure until we were public. As you had waited for years. It was your choice. And you know exactly why you made it-- when you made it."

Sybil Clarke didn't answer herself. She didn't sway. But she looked as though she could feel that foreign presence moving underneath her skin. An oil slick. She continued: "You'd been outvoted. Peer's team had the early lawsuits mostly settled, we had profits forecast. We were ready to announce. You needed a scandal to stop UpTime in its tracks. Well, you got one--"

Sudden reassertion: "Some scandal! I've identified as a woman since I was sixteen. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows I wear women in public, champion womens' causes worldwide. Anyway? It's your face they see with the Fahrschein name on magazine covers, you they see being interviewed--"

Clarke closed her incredible eyes.

Responded: "And what does the man on the street see? An entrepreneur-- white, male-- who envisions a groundbreaking telecommunications tech, develops it with a team of engineers, advances it for commercial use. But to market it? Is forced to hide himself-- hide his genius!-- behind a diversity hire. Me."

"Sybil, you _know_ you're more than a marketing tool. You're how I always saw my--"

"Our Man on the Street identifies with Stefan Banik, identifies with success. More than that? He identifies with _thwarted_ success. Because Man on the Street has hidden enemies, everywhere. Keeping him working his shitty job. Keeping him from becoming the next cryptocoin billionaire.

"UpTime's CEO is, physically, a white man embodying a black woman. Clara Fahrschein. And even if Banik claims to identify as this woman? Well, everyone knows he has to say shit like that, these days. Hasn't Man on the Street had to compromise his own values? Tow the corporate line? He identifies with Banik more than ever. The imprisoned genius. That's him. Isn't that just exactly him?"

She snorted.

"And then Banik goes and commits an act of terrific psychic violence against his followers." Clarke made a snipping gesture with her fingers. "Male-to-Female. Just like that, their avatar's a eunuch. Ouch!"

"It's not like I ordered anyone else to--"

"Now. Instead of doing the difficult work of admitting error and beginning again-- with a trans-woman as the hero of the story?-- most people will patch up their existing narrative. Something happened to the imprisoned genius. The Diversity Nazis got to him. The tech did. Ah, here we go: he spent too much time inside that nigger in California. She did something to his brain. Uppsala Syndrome.

"Ergo? Be careful with that Suro shit! Remember what happened to their first CEO? Yellow five shrinks balls and Surrogacy puts you in the mood to snip 'em right off! And _that's_ what everyone knows."

Fahrschein, bending over the sink as though preparing to vomit: "You're reaching, Sybil..."

And straightening as Clarke: "Where you been, bitch? Seen our valuation lately? Had a ride on that roller coaster? This morning I counted twenty-five different 'insider theories' on how Sybil Clarke turned Stefan Banik into a simpering faggot with Suro tech. In the _New York Times!_ Asshole. You knew exactly what you were doing."

Clarke took a breath. "But now? For once? The board's unanimous: We've put up with enough of your shit. You're out, Clara."

"I still have my seat on the board. My votes."

"And I have mine. And so does Platform Capital. And so does Ibn Al-Razi."

"Don't do this, Sybil. The rest of it? I can take. I know I made mistakes. So Clara Fahrschein is no longer CEO of UpTime Living Solutions. I accept that. I must. But you're my Surrogate. My public face. Don't give that to Al-Razi! Make him choose another. Stand with me--"

Clarke cleared her throat and gently dabbed the tears from her cheeks. "My composite name, with Mr. Al-Razi, will be Joanna Sung. The board thinks it's important to project an image of stability right now, and I absolutely agree--"

She shuddered.

"You agree?" she barked at her reflection. "That's cute! Who are _you?_ A pretty face I plucked from the crowd! That's all you'd ever be, if it weren't for me! Me! You owe _me!_ "

Clarke smiled sadly into the mirror. Shoulders loosened. "Thank you, Clara. That... makes all of this so much easier.

"Who _am_ I to agree? You know? In all of our years working together, you never asked?" Silence from the geist. "Sybil Clarke of Baltimore, Maryland. Model, would've-been actress, would've-been singer. Gifted power as a proxy because somebody liked my look. That old story. But? I showed a talent for the management of power. And when that happens..."

She watched herself smirk.

"Don't believe me, Clara? But you said it yourself: you made mistakes. Which, for me, were opportunities. Do you realize how many fires I put out as 'Clara Fahrschein' over the years? How good I got at faking your little accent? It was terrifying, at first, but what else could I do? Issues would come up, decisions needed to be made, and Stefan Banik was AWOL, unreachable. Off playing with the boys on Corsica.

"You'd ceded everything! So I learned. Clara Fahrschein's biometrics were mine and her work day was mine. I had to be here, physically present in San Francisco; you might embody for an hour or two. But there were whole weeks when you didn't show! And our subordinates? They had plausible deniability; that's all most people want or need as long as they're getting paid...

"Even so, I was loyal to your vision. For years I honored your trust! Built value for our company. I never would have moved against you-- if you hadn't forced me to, for the good of UpTime. Because it's time to open up, Clara."

A muscular tic above the left eye: "'Moved against you?'" Voice flattening. "You pushed Platform Capital towards the exploratory vote. That was you."

A hard face looking itself in the mirror.

"I see," slurred the geist. "And now?"

Clarke licked her lips. "Our psychological profiles declare Ibn Al-Razi heterosexual to a fault. After wearing me all day, he will go home to his wife. If he cheats on her? It will be with a young woman. Probably a blonde. That wouldn't exactly be bad for us right now!

"With Al-Razi at the wheel, Joanna Sung will make calming, conventional statements. She will not, for instance, brag to _Rolling Stone_ about, 'the air whistling through the empty space where my dick used to be.' She will not have any schizophrenic meltdowns on MSNBC. You will not drunk embody me before bed. We are going to resuscitate our brand, whether you like it or not. We are going to meet, publicly, with the leaders of Surodarity, and smile and shake hands. And the very _minute_ the board feels we've restored confidence? We're public. It's time to reward the people who trusted us from the start. You're going to be a part of it, Clara. Part of history."

"My part. My small part." No longer slurring.

"In recognition of your early contributions."

A shiver of rage ran through her. Later, more than one investigator would notice it-- and at least one would whistle under his breath.

"And if I refuse to play?"

"Then you should know: Platform Capital has a legal six-shooter, fully loaded with charges of fraud, pointed at your head. The other VC's smell blood in the water; they're looking to pile on. I'm holding them back--"

"They've got nothing."

"You took their money knowing that you would deny them any outlet for return. You literally removed your genitals to keep us from going public."

"Empty charges. Can't be confirmed."

"They don't have to be. C'mon, Clara. At our level? Litigation isn't meant to uncover actual wrongdoing. It's another weapon. They're going to cover you in leeches-- bleed you and bleed you..."

"And my old friend, Sybil Clarke, is holding back the tide. Protecting me."

"Believe it or not, Clara. Stefan. I do still consider myself your friend."

The woman studied herself.

"If that's true? Don't give him your face. My legacy. Join me as just another voting member on the board. Take your own part on the periphery. And then? Whatever happens to UpTime, Sybil, I promise to watch out for you--"

Laughter, disbelieving. "Goddamn, Clara! You are _unbelievable!_ After all you put me through over the years! Even brought low as you are! You still think you get to set terms?" The geist licked her lips. "You don't set shit! Joanna Sung is UpTime Living Solutions' new CEO. She will be a composite of Ibn Al-Razi and Sybil Clarke." Shrug. "That's all there is to say."

"Al-Razi. That poor bastard's going to learn too late, the snake he's tangling with--"

"I'm going to bed, Clara. I, for one, am excited about what tomorrow brings. In the meantime? We're done."

Sybil Clarke winked into the mirror. "I need my sleep, old friend. I've got a company to run."

## Chapter 2

HERE ARE A FEW OF THE THINGS UpTime IT Security Specialist Park Chun-Ja knew.

She knew first and foremost that her manager, Raymond Liang, was running something-- a series of somethings-- around the office. Informal deals with every member of his staff. Deals which made Liang popular, and therefore influential. Chun-Ja knew also: where some men seek to fill their emptiness with food or booze or gambling or work or religion, Liang filled his with women. To compound this trouble-- or, at least, to alloy it in a thick coat of Strange-- Liang was a married man.

Ok, that wasn't Strange; that was all too Normal. But Liang, according to the office rumor mill, adored his wife. And the Liangs, apparently, were a good match: high earners, temperamentally compatible, with similar ideas about the rearing of their twin sons and the investment vehicles for their financial capital. They had a similar taste in lifestyle, which neither wanted to give up. And so they had an arrangement. Could you fault them?

Chun-Ja knew that Raymond had approached her, first, with certain suggestions on how she might go from a contract worker-- subject to termination at any moment-- to full employment with UpTime. A few words from him would do the trick. She'd received an anonymous text hours later-- who could it be from except Loretti Liang?-- which read: [I'll do all the work. I know what he likes. Easy! And then you've got a good, solid job! Everybody wins.]

Her own informal deal with the Liangs.

Hadn't she told herself she'd kill to go permanent? Commit criminal acts for the company, if that's what it took? And this was such a little thing. Raymond Liang wasn't a good-looking man, but he wasn't in awful shape. Frankly, in her thirty-three years, Chun-Ja had bedded uglier men for what she considered worse reasons: boredom; revenge; out of intoxication, loneliness, plain old itch-scratching horniness-- and usually she'd had a fine time.

So what bothered her? Because something did: weeks later, she found herself on the long end of the Liangs' patience-- and she still didn't have an answer for them.

What was it? Letting the wife in? A bit _Handmaid's Tale_ , sure, but didn't that also simplify things beautifully? Everything out in the open. Loretti in charge: and so about as jealous of Chun-Ja as she would be of a gifted muscle-car (which is to say, maybe still a little). Loretti in charge: and so possessing all the right tacks to the shifts in Raymond's moods. Loretti in charge: and so even the chore of lying beneath that heavily-breathing form, squirming correctly, making the noises he liked, would fall upon another. An old pro. And no sneaking around. No jealousy from Raymond when he saw her speaking with her younger, male coworkers. No tearful scenes. No game playing.

God. It seemed straightforward, anyway.

But something bothered Park Chun-Ja and, increasingly, she thought it was the very utilitarian nature of the exchange. How stupid was that?

Well, not totally. Because the deal didn't exist within a vacuum and neither did IT Security Specialist Park Chun-Ja. There were her coworkers to consider. Raymond Liang was a backslapper. He was a high fiver and a stage whisperer. He cut deals. If Chun-Ja lay beneath him, toes and fingernails painted red, skirt hiked above stomach, legs spread, pink sweater lying open beneath her, Loretti whispering through her lips? If she lay in those arms, even passively, consummating that deal...?

She'd have the job! Permanent status. Assuming Raymond Liang kept his promise (and he was known for honoring his side of things) she'd be safe. A yearly income-- not a bad one-- she could count on.

And everyone she worked with would know why. They'd probably hear details. Did that matter? How _much_ did it matter?

In her two years of contract work with UpTime, Park Chun-Ja had come to respect the majority of women and men she worked with. Because of this, because she did not want to be seen as a drag on the team, she had refined her skillset on her own time, watching free tutorials and paying thousands of dollars for IT-security certifications. She'd immersed herself in the culture. Even so, she was still no more than a mid-range staffer. Useful-- as in, 'Chun-Ja is so helpful! A real team-player!'-- but not necessary. Expendable.

Amongst, especially, the Idiot Savants? Those elite programmers who'd accepted only a single, surly woman into their ranks? Chun-Ja knew herself to be considered an interloper. A Victorian lady aboard the tall ship of IT, bringing storms and bad luck. And if someone like Dorito-Carl added the charge of Prostitute? What would it be like to come into work then? What would it be like to occasionally lack answers? To ask for help? To-- to--

Enough of that. That wasn't the whole story, anyway. Because IT Security Specialist Park Chun-Ja knew another thing: she was getting stronger.

Shadow Boxer entered Park Chun-Ja daily, now. Boxer would ping her immediately after work requesting access. And usually Chun-Ja, mentally exhausted from her day, was all-too-happy to surrender her corpus, vegetate. Boxer would navigate Chun-Ja's commute back to her apartment on the company bus. Once home, the geist would prepare tea, Bach playing serenely in the background. He (a man, she'd decided) would lead Chun-Ja in half an hour of guided meditation. He, without word or movement wasted, would chop carrots and repeat positive mantras and add chopped carrots to bubbling pot, and stretch and give financial advice and sweep, and tell Chun-Ja she was worthy of respect, and sort recycling, and tell Chun-Ja she was worthy of love.

Boxer took long breaths and he breathed so slowly that Park Chun-Ja would soon feel a sweeping calm take hold of her.

Then there were the exercises-- between an hour and two each day-- impossible without Boxer's discipline. Those exercises began with stretches and flexibility training (plus push-ups, sit-ups, jumping-rope) and moved into fluid tai-chi movements. From there, Chun-Ja exercised with the kettlebells which Boxer had asked her to purchase. (All of this performed inside of Park Chun-Ja's own apartment. Even the lobby gym went unvisited.) But what had earned Chun-Ja's trainer his nickname were the punching exercises. These had grown, over the past two years, from true shadowboxing into contact hits on an installed punching bag.

The few guests she had over for dinner always reflected on it: the tiny, Korean programmer and the huge, well-worn bag.

It had become the best part of more than one day. Embodied by Shadow Boxer, her technique from the beginning was world-class. But as her muscles strengthened, hardened, swelled, the ritual violence became sublime. Lately, she'd been ordered to perform many of the exercises herself, while Boxer remained passively underneath, tweaking movements. For the last several months, Park Chun-Ja had been hitting the bag bare-knuckle, her small white hands swelling and changing shape, bone cracking and fusing.

She was being forged, she thought. Shaped. And only two years earlier? She'd have laughed at anyone who told her how wonderful it would feel.

Shadow Boxer claimed to be a free service offered by the temp agency. An edge designed to set the agency's candidates apart and assure them permanent positions. Park Chun-Ja, who wasn't stupid, doubted this. What did punching a bag have to do with IT security? Moreover, the temp agency, which continued to profit off of her so long as she was a contract worker, had no great incentive to see her go permanent. The finder's fee they earned was certainly not enough to hire and pay staff the caliber of Shadow Boxer.

No. Something else was going on here.

In fact, she'd long ago realized, the simplest explanation was also the most likely: Shadow Boxer worked industrial espionage. Boxer would be the agent of some Rival Power, looking to cut into UpTime's miracle tech. She, Park Chun-Ja, as a contract worker in UpTime's IT Security department, represented probably the firmest toehold Boxer could establish without setting off alarms.

She was compromised.

And Park Chun-Ja? Who, under Boxer, had quit smoking? Who'd lost thirty pounds of fat, gaining lean muscle along with new self-respect? Who found herself the recipient of positive, daily attention from a mysterious, disciplined mentor? A man who moved like a big cat inside her? Who could _cook?_ And Park Chun-Ja? Who, after years of dedicated service to UpTime Living Solutions, was still a contract worker? Unable to plan a future? Who was being coerced into selling sex to her manager?

Park Chun-Ja was compromised. And she was fine with that. Actually, fuck UpTime.

Which didn't mean that she was sloppy. She still wanted to go perm. Shadow Boxer never embodied at work. She never left her laptop open where he could get a look. When she talked to him about work, their conversations concerned people and personalities-- never projects. But, at the same time, she never reported Shadow Boxer. Never hinted at him.

These were the things that IT Security Specialist Park Chun-Ja knew the morning that Raymond Liang entered her cubicle and told her that the deal had changed. The window for permanent status had, unfortunately, closed. Departmental audits were being conducted. He, Raymond, believed he could convince HR to retain maybe three contract workers. As for the future? Well, someday things might open back up...

This was the score when she placed her impact-swollen hand upon Raymond's own and said: "I would like to be one of those three. I'm willing to earn it."

Raymond, surprised as a fox happening upon a dead bird (but moving just as quick), smiled, eyes flashing: "Alright if we bring in a fourth?"

"Oh, Ray," said Chun-Ja, smiling. "Even better."

## Chapter 3

UPTIME REGIONAL SECURITY CHIEF ARTURO BARROS was escorted to Charles Wen beyond the lobby of Alchemute Robotics via a late-stage Burner. Entiende? Maybe not, so let's clarify: Barros, himself, couldn't walk into the lobby of Alchemute. Not ever. Especially not with UpTime's internal situation so shaky. Not when the goddamned CEO of UpTime Living Solutions, like an over-excited water molecule, had been broken apart and assembled again into something new. Joanna Sung. Everybody still there-- the membership of the board unchanged-- but composition different.

UpTime was in flux. Everyone was looking for an edge. Barros believed he was being watched by the agents of his regional counterparts, Nadya Messer and Brad Allwell. He didn't blame Nadya or Brad. Actually, he approved: everyone doing their job.

Certainly he had people watching them.

Ergo, the Burner Surrogate. Her name was Latisha Washington, and if you wanted to experience a living, breathing indictment of the same society that produced Surrogacy tech, Jesus, just spend an afternoon in this bitch's moccasins. The first thing you realized-- before anything else-- was just how bad a pussy could itch. An asshole. A constant, unreachable, irritation that came swooping up at you in waves. Barros, during his first embodiment of Washington, had imagined taking the jaws of life to his own vaginal walls and pouring in a carton of Clorox bleach-- so maddeningly constant was that rotten itch.

Barros had found himself withered and black and female, pushing a shopping cart full of talismanic knickknacks and useful essentials. Washington-- who'd had the Suro operation performed years earlier, when an undiagnosed, unacknowledged, and eventually untreated mental-health disorder had first substantially asserted-- was a woman with two marketable assets. The first was that she was socially invisible. The second was that she was certifiable.

A non-entity: her word wouldn't hold up in a courtroom and her smell (urine) would get her kicked off the steps leading up to it.

In a lot of ways, she was the ideal Burner: her memory was terrible, her ideas about events and details usually confused beyond recognition. When sitting in a pay-by-mile car, she got antsy-- you had to let her take back control: kick seats, scratch at herself, mutter, spit, sing-- but out in the open, she'd give you everything for twenty minutes at a time. Docile. And when she began arguing with you-- arguing with the open air-- no one so much as batted an eye.

Inside the Alchemute lobby, however, they were prepared. A gloved attendant, with the utmost respect, gave the homeless woman a glass of water and took hold of her free hand. He guided Washington past silent, staring eyes.

And beyond to the waiting arch traitor.

Charles Wen, bespeckled in the latest HUD glasses. Barros tried to keep Washington's muscles loose, her breathing regular. He kept himself from scratching at her crotch. Barros had given Wen a name to use. A code name, necessary to keep the Burner in the dark; also, frankly, necessary because Washington would accept nothing other than her pet name for Barros.

"Ahem," Wen coughed. "Bezzlebum?"

"Bezzie!" cried Washington. "Such a good head slug. Leaves me money. Real money, cash. Shoot. Go ahead and fluorinate the drinking water. But you give my Bezzie a crack at world government, hear? He won't let you down..."

Charles Wen smirked: "Walk with me talk with me, my alien brother."

The hallways of Alchemute Robotics were white and airy and clean. Well lit. Wen's shoes made authoritative clicks against the floor. The sodden rubber of Washington's sneakers squeaked. They passed doorways, courtyards. They passed a poster of a beautiful Southeast Asian woman superimposed atop a skeletal, robotic body giving out food aid in a Sub-Saharan village. Beneath her, the question: 'Do you Alchemute?' They passed plain-looking women and men in white lab coats who nodded respectfully at Wen. They passed a small manufacturing wing where welding torchlight flashed like lightning. They passed a daycare. None of it should exist. All the result of the carelessness of Barros' predecessor.

Barros managed a single glimpse through a rectangular window into one room: a young black man with the moon-round face of a simple boy. Somewhere on some spectrum. He was dressed in a yellow onesie: the hood of the costume, out of which shot an orange plastic cap like a beak, lay between fuzzy shoulder blades. An enormous set of headphones rested on his head. Barros imagined those headphones pouring Bach into the young man, watering him with complicated harmony like a thirsty-but-finicky tree. Eyes closed behind pop-bottle glasses, the young man was drawing from memory on the whiteboard--

No. That wasn't possible, was it?

Barros stopped Washington, backed her up to the little window for another look. But there it was: the young man in the yellow onesie, eyes still closed, was drawing a black and white rendition of the Manhattan skyline. Hundreds of thousands of windows, trees, streets, stop lights, advertisements. He was drawing it, evidently, from memory. From a photograph he'd seen. Or from a time he'd stood in a high tower, overlooking the city.

"Yes," said Wen, who'd turned around. "Mr. LeBron Touring. One of our envelope pushers, here. And let me show you the results of his work."

They came to the end of the hall. Wen's biometric data was given. A password was given. A guard appeared on Wen's glasses and they chatted for a moment. The door clicked. Wen opened it.

"I've had the lab emptied for our demonstration," he said, flicking a switch to flood the room with low, red light. "Normally, there would be anywhere between ten and thirty people in here. You're the first outsider I've brought in." He chuckled. "And straight from UpTime!"

He shook his head. "But I wanted you to see our progress. In case you're still on the fence."

The machine was lean, humanoid, half-again as tall as Wen. Three red eyes set on separate facial tracks that appeared to give a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation. No mouth. Fully articulated hands with a second set of opposable thumbs at the base of the palm. Several arm and knee joints allowing for a more-than-human range of movement.

"Does it work?" asked Barros, staring. "Can it possibly--"

"Why not take it for a spin?" Wen was grinning, his glasses flashing. "Just a sec, here. We've had our people looking at your SCHMoC address since Washington entered the lobby. I'll clear you for 'Berta.'" He licked his lips. "Let me just feed her address to your UpSet..."

Barros pulled his sensory awareness out of Latisha Washington. He was back in his apartment, kilometers away, lying in bed, UpSet covering the upper half of his body. The digital inlay gave him a new FSI address, a few meters from the old. He requested access, waited for verification, felt his awareness fly back outwards-- crossing kilometers in an instant-- and felt himself settle into something new.

Something cold.

Barros opened his eyes: the two in front and the one which had swiveled to the back of his head. He let his mind expand to take in that extra input-- and was surprised by how quickly, how willingly, his brain was prepared to accommodate. His breathing, now, occurred only in his old body, anchored back in his apartment. This new body existed lungless, heartless, stomachless, dickless. There was no steady, mammalian feeling of opening and closing. Except for a sluicing of hydraulic fluid through his 'veins'-- and this only when he moved-- his new form was silent.

"Wow," his voice, coming from Berta's chest, was Stephen-Hawking flat.

"Bezzie?" said Latisha Washington, looking up at him.

"Tisha," he said.

"Berta," said Wen. "Want to throw around a car?"

***

About five minutes later the articon Berta was standing in a covered junkyard testing ground, carrying the wrecked, steel frame of an early-aughts Subaru above its head. A scale in his vision told Barros that he was holding up just over a ton in weight. A few meters away, Wen had embodied another titanium form named, 'Lupita.' Lupita was the same as Berta, structurally, except that she appeared to be testing another type of ocular tech. Her four eyes were green.

Wen made a 'c'mon' motion and said in that flat robo-voice: "Give us a throw."

"You're kidding."

"Throw it, Bezzie!" yelled Washington. A member of Wen's staff had gifted the Burner a tallboy of Miller High Life and a pack of American Spirits. She sat, drink in lap, atop the husk of an automobile. Her haul had put her in a jolly mood. "Throw that car!"

"Goddamn," Berta muttered, and, with a sloosh of fluid, let one-plus tons of bent metal fly against the grip of the Earth.

For entire seconds, the Subaru sailed through the air.

And was caught by Lupita. And, moreover, was caught in such a way that there was very little screech of metal. Even the _thwonk_ of impact was dim.

"These babies are going to bring democracy to the Middle East," said Lupita. "Reduce our casualties to zero. And Uncle Sam is going to pay for every opposable thumb." He dropped the car, producing a meteor impact of dust. "Every minute of embodiment."

"Jesus," said Berta, falling to its behind. "Jesus."

"We're a little farther along than you UpTime people thought? I take it?"

"You're done," said Berta, spinning its vision in a complete circle. "Finished. You're demonstrating more than simple proof of concept. You've got a working product. What do you even want me for, Wen? Is this--?"

Barros shifted Berta's third eye toward the form in front of him. "Are you gloating?"

Lupita walked up to him, sat. Barros filtered his vision so that Wen's face was superimposed over robotic skull. Wen said in that disconcertingly flat voice: "We're not done yet."

"How are you not done?"

"Touch the ground."

Barros let all six fingers sift the loose dirt and rocks.

"What do you feel?"

"Warmth from the overhead lights. Grainy sand." Barros looked at Berta's hands, studied the textured sensory-perception strips that ran up each finger and formed a wide base along each palm. "You figured that out, too."

"Full Sensory Intake," said Charles Wen with a nod. "Our signals mimic those of the human Surrogate. Sent to UpTime's quantum computer in the Mojave. To your black box algorithm. Converted in real time into information which the UpSet feeds the user."

Barros saw where the engineer was going. But, in order to be absolutely certain: "You've been utilizing UpTime's transmission infrastructure under our noses. For your R&D."

Wen liked that. "You're aware of the blackmarket Surrogate population? Undocumented tens of thousands. Sometimes they get the surgery through one of UpTime's registered clinics and later hack themselves anonymous. A few get illegal operations down in Mexico. Idaho. For those, the infection rate is bad..."

"UpTime works with law enforcement to shut those labs down."

"...but since the client, in every case, pays to use your transmission infrastructure? UpTime quietly profits off this undocumented community. Millions of dollars a month-- not exactly an incentive to crack down! Not unless you absolutely must. Criminal investigations, etcetera."

Barros wanted a lip to chew on.

"Our prototypes appear as single wavelets in this undocumented ocean. To UpTime they probably look like our cleaning staff. Our test pilots use anonymous methods of embodying-- gift cards, privileged addresses, third-party UpSets," he laughed. "But your company has made good money off of Alchemute the last few years. Because you still monopolize the _infrastructure_ of SCHMoC transmission."

Transmission. Translation. That would be why Barros had been invited here today. A sigh, which Berta completed satisfactorily. "Take these things to UpTime, Wen. I'll clear your path. You'll be able to name your price."

To which Charles Wen responded with laughter. Creepy robot laughter. The foreseen response, but Barros had had to try. Wen said: "My price? But my price is the future! Something UpTime won't be able to give anyone this time next year."

"The future!" cried Latisha Washington, toasting wind currents. "The future!"

"Then what do you need me for?"

The wrinkles in Wen's superimposed face deepened. He said: "So much goes into our work. No single individual can really understand it. I, myself, am a materials scientist by training..." Barros had read the reports. Charles Wen-- Stefan Banik's prodigy, Clara Fahrschein's wunderkind-- had defected from UpTime's fledgling robotics division years earlier, hours after sending himself three terabytes of confidential information: design files, blueprints, testing documentation-- all under Barros' predecessor's watch. "A materials scientist, but I've had to become many things to build Alchemute: salesman, diplomat, legal mind, robotics industry mover, hydraulics scientist, guinea pig..."

Don't forget 'thief!' screamed Barros inwardly. Thief, thief, thief!

"...but, more than anything else, I've had to learn to program. To devote hours of my day to it-- the best, freshest hours-- just to become a layman. Just to know which questions to ask my teams." He shook Lupita's head. "So let me tell you Alchemute's problem, layman to layman, shall I? Because it's not the constructs. We're sitting in them. It's not the UpSets we're wearing. The Chinese reverse-engineered those a decade ago. Both ends of the process figured out. So what's our final, missing piece? Sitting in a quantum computer smack dab in the middle?"

"The black box algorithm," said Barros. "Bridge."

Wen nodded. His articon picked up a piece of scrap steel and began working on it, bending it. "The McGuffin of our industry. At this very moment it's taking the raw sensory info Lupita is feeding it-- the FSI-- and converting that into neurological information which the UpSet feeds my brain. Then, in the next picosecond? Takes my brain's electrochemical reaction to this sensory info-- my SCHMoCs-- through the UpSet, and converts this into distant muscle command."

The steel twisted. "This action performed for hundreds of thousands of users, non-stop, in physical sites on every continent on Earth."

"You want me to steal the Bridge Algorithm for you."

Another screaming twist: "Impossible. I doubt your own specialists fully understand what they're working with at this point. No Earthly way to steal something that complex. No, no, no. We're going for the root."

"The root."

"A vulgar analogy." He made a face. Torque, whine. "Think of your Bridge Algorithm as a tree. The 'root code,' when 'buried' in a quantum computer, when 'watered' with SCHMoCs and FSI, responds by growing in complexity. The 'growth' of the translation tool will be seemingly random, based on any number of factors-- quantity of users, emotional input, computing resources available, active sculpting by human programmers-- but, if you plant the root, you'll get some kind of tree."

"You want me to steal the root."

Wen shook his machine's head. "Far beyond your abilities. We have others working on that. All I need from you? Is a promise to dance nicely with them."

Lupita tossed the steel pretzel-- a piece of modern art any Bavarian barkeep would be proud to display-- and Berta caught it.

"And what," said Barros, eyeing the hairline cracks in the steel, "makes you think that I would ever go in for any of this--"

"Because I came for you when you couldn't breathe, son," announced Latisha Washington.

Washington and yet not Washington. A new head slug. Security Chief Barros shifted one robotic eye, watched her poise grow erect. She drew on her cigarette slowly now, a member of a different stratus. "I took you to my personal doctor and afterwards I gave you a position, title, security. A chance to excel-- which you have done."

His breath, kilometers away, caught.

She continued: "Didn't I tell you? I knew a day was coming when I would need those whose loyalty I could count on. Can I count on yours?"

"Stefan?" It had been years since they'd spoken, even through a Surrogate. "Clara?"

"Arturo, Arturo." Suddenly it was that Thanksgiving evening again, choking desperation climbing up through his chest. Years of playing defense, a paycheck from the brink... and the moment of doom: forestalled. Then, room to breathe-- to plan-- for the first time in his adult life. And something else: pride in himself, his work.

He owed it all to Clara Fahrschein. Who had never asked him for anything. Who, he'd years ago come to suspect, had forgotten he existed. But hadn't he promised himself, if he ever had the chance to repay her...?

"You can count on me, absolutely," An uncertain glance at Wen. Back to Fahrschein. "For you, ma'am. I'll do it for you."

## Chapter 4

LAURA GRANGER FOUND HERSELF IN A ONE-ON-ONE MEETING with the Great Immiserator in much the same way she'd found herself on Homeland Security's no-fly list or under FBI surveillance: that is, gradually, boiling-frog style; so that, once it was actually happening? It all seemed completely natural.

Domestic terrorism? Alrighty, then. Par for the course.

Actually, it felt like fate-- unavoidable as Greek tragedy-- and that always makes the medicine go down easier.

Granger, after all, was a girl who had grown up staring at grassland and empty sky, reading Willa Cather. Her great-grandfather had been a farmer like that, a man upholding a four-generation agrarian tradition out near Grand Rapids. Then, over the stretch of one bad decade, finding himself inside one of the Invisible Hand's occasional Murderous Squeezes, deeply indebted, he'd sold out to a nascent Big Agra, declared bankruptcy, moved his family to Ames. It was the sort of experience-- a series of humiliating shocks late in life-- that would have broken nine out of ten men, but George Granger was of the tenth stripe. He went to work for the University (grounds maintenance plus carpentry) and never looked back. He didn't take to drink; his family made it through. George Granger's own son would end up teaching at the University (electrical engineering), but the family's agricultural ties were, from then on, limited to being passed by poultry trucks on the highway.

Iowa State University, their twentieth-century savior, was the family business now. The new multi-generational tradition. Laura's father, Earl Granger, had taught literature as an I-shit-thee-not tenured professor. A man guaranteed work and good pay to bring Bulgakov's fever dreams to life on the wintry plains of North America. He had passed away four years ago, nearing retirement. His savings, she'd been unsurprised to learn, were miniscule. Much of it went-- almost certainly against his wishes-- to Laura's mother in Maine. He was far too dead to chastise. In a way, she felt as though he'd touched home base.

Safe.

Granger, herself, would never be tenured. She'd taught for six years as an adjunct, hoping that that activity (plus, frankly, family connections) meant a foot in the door. No dice. Not many titles going around, these days. Instead-- and this was rich, ironic, frigging hilarious, nobody understood that better than Laura Granger, all right?-- instead, she was being paid a pizza-delivery wage to teach HUD-zombies hoping for easy credits, 'A History of American Labor Movements.'

'History' the operative word, here.

She'd opted for the surgery to make rent, but her earnings as a Suro (evenings and weekends) quickly outstripped what she made teaching. And the work itself was an education. Because Laura Granger was, as a colleague at a conference at Rutgers once put it, 'corn-fed.' This meant-- to her accuser, evidently-- that she was midwestern and blonde, had an open face and a certain way of speaking. It also meant that she was a white woman with large breasts, wide hips, a big ass. Healthy. All her fat stored exactly where the boys liked it, as though that made her somehow complicit.

Her clients came in two varieties: midwinter tourists to the University and/or developing-world transvestites. Dark resource princes who wanted to spend the day as a white princess. (The sheer number of the latter, she never would have suspected.) But, as teaching prospects continued to dry up, she felt the temptation sneaking under her skin like a geist: sex work. All she had to do was let one of these lisping boys from the Emirates masturbate her in front of a mirror-- no cold streets, no cameras, no stranger's body-- and she would be nearly set for another month...

It called to her in a whisper. And then she missed another payment on one of her loans. And rent came due. And Mom (no, Laura wasn't in the end too proud to call) had had her own fires to put out. And it began to howl. So one morning-- before breakfast, still groggy, trying not to think too hard-- Laura Granger lay herself naked in front of a tall mirror and made money. She fed raw meat to the circling sharks. And knew for herself the exploitative potential of Surrogacy.

Maybe her course in life had been inevitable. All that history. Willa Cather, Helen Keller, John Brown, Harriet Tubman, Sacco and Vanzetti, the Haymarket Riot, Eugene Debs, Upton Sinclair, Howard Zinn, John Muir, Thurgood Marshall, John Reed, Edward Abbey, Jane Addams, Martin Luther King Jr., Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Samuel Gompers, Malcolm X, Ida Tarbell, Studs Turkel-- those uncompromising characters! Those moments when the many downtrodden raised their heads as a single lion and roared! It got into your blood!

But of course it hadn't been. In those first years, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to buy her off. She'd been begging to be bought off! It wouldn't even have required tenure: a humble livable wage would have done it. And then? She would have taught her course and written essays and signed online petitions and attended meetings of student radicals. Maybe written a book. Never underestimate the power of an educator, she'd have told herself while putting a down payment on a home. But the direct actions? The Longhalls? The Manifesto? The legal defense fund? The women and men, Suros in their unhappy hundreds of thousands, who increasingly saw her as a figurehead?

No. It took an active, restless, assertive, aggressive-- and need we say short-sighted?-- kind of greed to push her to the point of material desperation before she finally stood up for her own beliefs, not to mention her interests. Before she put into practice the old methods of the agitators, the polemicists, the organizers. Or, as she had put it in more than one radio interview: "People will put up with so much abuse. I did! I had to be ridden long and hard over rough ground before I finally turned around and started biting."

Surodarity.

Granger had started with her neighbors. A pair of fat and dull-looking sherpas. She'd started with issues of pay. They weren't concerned. They were as docile as manatees, content to coast through rising waters of debt, happy with what came their way. But here was something. The bigger one, Donna, was diabetic. They were worried about her. Because clients didn't care: they weren't embodying some chubby dyke in middle America so they could drink diet coke and eat raw carrots and inject insulin. These were marathon-runners in their own bodies; they wanted a solid binge. They wanted to get loaded and make the fat lady sing.

Granger's solution for her neighbor-- a single actor, one fly caught in a vast web-- was far from radical. It came, in fact, from UpTime's own website: Unhappy with the gigs being offered? Retool! Retrain! Explore specialized, niche possibilities...

They worked on Donna's UpTime Profile. They explained her situation. They marketed her as a Buddha Body, weighted and serene. The apartment already smelled like incense; they added wall hangings and tiny bells. They brought in skinny Italians and Danes who sat Donna before her window or in front of a blank wall and meditated her, using her powerful lungs to slowly take in great, heaping portions of air. Release. And while the geists were afforded the heavy comfort of her flesh, Donna's blood-pressure dropped. Her health and mood improved. Soon her partner was on the same program.

As payment? Granger asked the two to join her mailing list. Spread the word. Come to some meetings. Bring ideas about how we, as colleagues, might help each other in a rough industry...

The ground had been laid. A broken-down farmhouse in the center of a dry field. No rain in recent memory. Loose two-by-fours and planks of cracked particle board added to the dusty heap, day after day, by grim-faced suppliers. A growing pile of tinder. No precautions taken: no water added; no pits dug. And then, one afternoon? That metallic smell, that overhead cauldron of self-gorging cloud and a single, arcing bolt of light! Iskra. Black smoke rises from the farmhouse...

Because gigging for UpTime really was a rough industry, but more than that-- counterintuitively-- it was an excruciatingly _lonely_ industry: each Suro an island inhabited by their personal John, entire of themselves. Each Suro worried at by experiences and exchanges they considered horribly unique until they sat in the back of one of the weekly meetings and listened to old pros share stories-- and realized they weren't alone. A gigantic, invisible brotherhood. The very intimacy of the work triggering a communal response.

Inside of three months Granger found herself looking out from the front page of the University Paper. Surodarity billed as a support group.

Inside of six months she had an active mailing list in the hundreds. Students, retirees, agricultural workers, waitresses, artisans, pizza-delivery staff. She was bringing in Suros from well outside of Ames, from the massive central warehouses of Des Moines. In two years she had a diffuse base of voluntary financial support. She hired a staff.

With broader support, more muscle, Granger's tactics changed. Surodarity added 'organizing and advocacy' to 'support and education.' She went on the offensive. The organization came out with the Surodarity Manifesto: a list of demands for the, 'ethical and proper embodiment of human beings.'

A jack raising the floor.

Within six years, both of Iowa's US Senators were card-carrying members of Surodarity-- as were all but one of the state's Representatives. And Granger, herself, was monitored by the FBI, considered a flight risk. Surodarity was not listed as an extremist organization but it was, more than occasionally, treated like one. Even so, at the time that Clara Fahrschein was ousted from her position as UpTime CEO, Laura Granger found herself with a movement nearing a million strong and growing fast. Granger felt that she knew Fahrschein in the intimate way one knows a fallen enemy, their lives inextricably entangled.

And so Granger was not all _that_ surprised when Clara Fahrschein began getting in touch with her.

Fahrschein made contact via Ames' homeless population. One by one, strung-out, vaguely-familiar faces approached Granger on the street. Propositioning. Offering. Counselling. Simply greeting. All of them undocumented Burners, none of them wearing HUD glasses. Which didn't relax Granger for a second. Her canned reply to each embodiment of Fahrschein: "Surodarity is committed to advancing the cause of working Suros in the US and worldwide through education, fiscal support networks, mental health services, legal advocacy, and non-violent acts of civil disobedience..."

The seventh or eighth time Granger gave her spiel (sitting at an outdoor cafe, meeting with a representative of the Chicago chapter, a man duly reduced to disbelieving silence), the toothless form embodied by Fahrschein grinned and said, "I know all that shit. I finally read it."

Granger sighed. "Read what?"

"That little pamphlet of yours. 'A spectre is haunting your body. The spectre of another's will...'" It thumped its chest. "Your final alienation. From yourself."

"The Manifesto," breathed Chicago Rep. "The Immiserator read the fucking Manifesto."

"And what did you think?" asked Granger, taking a sip of carbonated water.

"Your demands?" croaked the sexless form. "Ne'r gon' happen. Not the way you operate."

Chicago Rep was indignant. "We've already made our demands a reality. Several of them. And we've made your company at least respond to every single--"

Granger held up a hand, cutting off her colleague. But she stared at Fahrschein, waiting for an answer. The form nodded, fingerless-gloved hand scratching at rashy skin. "You've tinkered around the edges, sure. You've gotten responses." A filthy tongue running across flaking lips. "But the Big Enchilada? Bringing the broadcasting of souls under democratic control? Cracking UpTime's monopoly on translation? You're no closer to reaching _that_ than you ever were. No, what you need--"

Granger, quickly: "They're listening, you know. Your friends at the Bureau."

The battered face smiled, a yawning gap: "Which is why my jet is due to touch down in Des Moines in fifteen minutes. I'll be physically in your neck of the woods in, say, two hours. I was wondering if we might meet. Face to real face?"

***

Raymond Liang was deep inside Park Chun-Ja. No, not like that. Thank God.

Not at all. Actually? It was fantastic.

On paper, Chun-Ja knew, she was the victim here. She was being used. She should be angry. And when she thought about her situation purely in terms of power-- who got to decide what-- she was angry. Furious! But here was the thing. When Raymond Liang had said, "Alright if we bring in a fourth?"

Diogo Romao was their fourth.

Six-four, green eyes, sun kissed mulatto skin, teeth white as the finest-grained sugar. His accent pure Rio de Janeiro, his dress British Cosmopolitan, his mannerisms almost Prussian in poise and restraint. Trying to break into the West Coast urban-blight music scene. Twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old, another temp, maintaining certain office secretarial roles: manning the front desk; answering phones; acting as events planner; as Liang's assistant; as the office purchasing agent; as the troubleshooter for their printers. Park Chun-Ja had exchanged polite greetings with the young erudite once a day for the past several months. Occasionally, and always by chance, she'd shared quietly-charged elevator rides with him, aware of his powerful, graceful movements next to her, finding herself both relieved and disappointed when the doors opened, releasing them-- without a wrinkle in their clothing or a hair out of place-- to their separate lives.

Currently Romao had both Chun-Ja's arms locked behind her back. He had her bent over the low table where the printer sat, skirt hiked up around her stomach, panties off, head shoved down. And the Brazilian was deep inside Park Chun-Ja.

Yes. Exactly like that. Inches and inches.

The two of them-- technically, the four of them-- were in the file room. A filing cabinet was placed against the inward-swinging door. Raymond Liang, gasping, quaking, wet, silencing another deep moan that threatened to turn into a scream. Loretti, behind him, burying Romao's huge cock deeper, growled, "Take it you fucking slant eyes. You little slut. Take it, take it, take it..."

Romao, naked, looked like an Olympian. Lean hips, wide shoulders, long arms and legs. And who knew how he made love? Not Chun-Ja. Loretti Liang, however, was rough. A sadist. She liked to dish out humiliation. She liked to spit in Chun-Ja's face. She liked to make her husband get on hands and knees and beg. She liked to hit and pull hair. Romao, apparently, had done this work for her before. Prior to beginning, the young professional had given Chun-Ja a shy look, quickly licked his lips, and mouthed the word: 'Sorry!'

She might have mouthed back: 'Are you kidding?'

Anyway-- wonderfully-- her inhibitions were inconsequential. The pressure to perform, equally, was removed: both Ray and Loretti were grasping, lusty, straightforward: certain of what they wanted for themselves, familiar with the desires of their partner. With the bodies of beautiful proxies, they didn't hesitate. Chun-Ja found herself performing-- and enjoying-- acts with Romao that she never would have committed on her own. And when Loretti used Romao to cross some preestablished red line? Park Chun-Ja not only failed to kick Ray out in protest, but settled further under her supervisor's control.

She'd never admit it-- they'd use the information against her in a second-- but she almost felt like she should be paying _them_.

Now she rode atop Romao, eagerly pressing herself down on him, looking at beautiful features made cruel by another. Loretti slapped Park across the face. Loretti played with her pale breasts, twisting a nibble painfully. Loretti bucked Romao's muscular hips so that Park momentarily couldn't breathe. This only caused Raymond, inside her, to grow even more excited. Licking her lips, Raymond took her own breasts in hand and press them together into Romao's face. Then, disengaging, Raymond gave Romao/Loretti a full, gyrating view of their conquest, letting strands of sweaty hair stray across Chun-Ja's face.

Loretti Liang, lost in appreciation, fell out of character long enough to ask: "Jesus, girl, how do you stay so toned?"

And Park Chun-Ja, realizing that this was the first sex she'd had in years absent thoughts of Shadow Boxer, found her speech released and herself breathing: "Kickboxing. Courses."

With limited control returned, she felt a blush rising to her cheeks.

Then a sparkle in Diogo Romao's eye and a perfumed voice saying: "You never told me you--"

Quickly strangled off by Loretti's Western-Standard American English: "Oh no you don't! Remember your roles..."

As though to bring the fact home, Raymond began licking his wife's testicles and the base of her penis while fingering Chun-Ja's asshole. Chun-Ja, present and passive, was free to wonder: All those stories about Raymond Liang's insatiable hunt for girls! Was that face saving? Should they be attributed to his wife? And was Raymond's sexual submission a reflection of the marriage generally? Or were the rumors simply wrong?

A gender-swap with a trusted partner. Compared to some of the things one read about, it was pretty tame. Almost sweet. Sour, however, when the spray of ejaculate hit her nose and lips, swung from the base of her chin down onto her breasts. Alkaline. Raymond looked up worshipfully, unflinching. Loretti gave him a few taps on the nose with that elephant's trunk, using Park's face as a pumice stone.

Business complete-- embodying geists flittering away as orgasm faded, as fluids dripped—the two Suros began cleaning, redressing, reapplying makeup and deodorant. This performed in silence. They left the file room separately, a few minutes staggered.

Back to work.

At the end of the workday, however-- and by absurd chance, she felt certain-- Chun-Ja found herself sharing the elevator to the lobby with a sleepy-looking, ever-immaculate Romao. The two of them did not meet each other's faces while waiting, but they both entered the same yawning elevator. For one of them to fail to do so would be admitting something.

Once the doors closed, Park Chun-Ja cleared her throat. "Diogo. That wasn't the way I--"

"I know." The words no longer flat and demanding but gentle, lilting. Imploring her to understand. "Me neither. Believe me."

Still not looking at each other. But Chun-Ja felt a little thrill go up her back. Who said you couldn't have your cake and eat it too? She was innocent in his eyes. Pure and decent. And she would have him again-- and probably soon.

The doors of the elevator opened. Chun-Ja saw out of the corner of her eye that Diogo had hazarded a sidelong look. He said: "Kickboxing. Wow. I mean..."

He flashed a thumbs-up and fled. Sweet boy.

Smiling to herself, enjoying the ache of well-used muscles and feeling pleasantly predatory, Park Chun-Ja walked towards her bus stop. She ignored Shadow Boxer's first set of pings, knowing he would try again in twenty minutes or so.

She wanted to stretch by herself, enjoy the loose feel of her own body. Let him wait, today.

***

Laura Granger had seen plenty of pictures over the years of Clara Fahrschein as the black model, Sybil Clarke. She'd seen pictures of Stefan Banik in suit and tie, black shod and balding: looking diminutive, yes, but also projecting a calming camouflage of heteronormativity. No longer. Most recently, Granger had seen Fahrschein, Banik-white, doing a _passe_ -but-still-cherished 'Caitlyn Jenner' on the cover of _Vogue_.

This was the Fahrschein who met Granger in Ames' Surodarity Longhall. And what a long way gender-reassignment surgery has come! thought Granger. The once sallow-cheeked and square-jawed Banik now reminded Laura Granger of her fellow Slovene, Melania Knavs. Fahrschein's brunette hair hung in a simple and elegant ponytail that ended just beyond her shoulders. Ladylike, with a self-consciousness about her movements that rendered them more poised still, she made the sweater-and-jeans clad Granger feel gawky. Sophomoric. Granger straightened her back, bringing her own assets forward.

The Immiserator, recognizing this, raised plucked eyebrows and said: "A measuring contest? You have no idea how I detest those, Laura. I never win, dick or tits. Now. Vino tinto?"

They sat, just the two of them, in a hall meant for a thousand. Fahrschein's security detail were outside, twitchy and unhappy. Before entering the Longhall, Fahrschein herself had submitted to a pat-down by Granger's people. No weaponry or recording devices. The ex-CEO had consented to keeping her HUD glasses outside. The only thing she'd insisted on bringing in was the bottle of wine (a vintage from Fahrschein's Idaho vineyards) and two wine glasses.

Looking around, Fahrschein said: "These Longhalls are all--?"

"Faraday Cages, as you must know. No one can embody here. That's our first line of defense against infiltration: none of the Suros who come to our meetings can bring in Campers."

"Of course, you _have_ been infiltrated."

"Of course," said Granger. "But the old-fashioned way. We can control for that, at least. We feed disinformation when we need to..." She paused, watching Fahrschein looking around the vast hall like an American tourist in a French Cathedral. "Clara, what are we doing?"

"I told you. The Big Enchilada."

"Bridge? The translation algorithm."

"I want your organization to have it; the knowledge to reproduce it. To break UpTime's monopsony. Give Suros a choice of employers. That's why I've come here today."

Granger shook her head. "Why now? We petitioned for years."

Fahrschein gave a smile that was only just more than a smirk. "Because I am vengeful goddess, Laura. Wrathful. Because I single-handedly created a completely-fucking-new service industry. A big one and a revolutionary one. And I brought that vision to life! I took on the risks, the naysayers, the fourteen-hour days. And while it was mine? Of course I fought you tooth and nail. I was building an empire! But haven't you heard the news?"

"Joanna Sung," murmured Granger.

"Sung," Fahrschein spat. "One-half predecessor, one-half successor. Who is about to preside over a multi-trillion-dollar loss. Who will go down as the biggest mistake, the single biggest _loser..._ " (And hearing the bitterness in Fahrschein's voice, Granger fought the desire to be convinced: it was _just petty enough_ to be plausible.) "...but I need soldiers."

"Soldiers?" Granger snorted.

"Proxies," Fahrschein pressed. "Your bodies to fill my soldiers with. Those will be veteran mercenaries. Reliable. Your people will provide them cover--"

"For what?"

A pause. "You'll want deniability."

"Oh." Granger's heart sank.

Fahrschein's left hand went up in a pledge. "Threat of violence, dear. _Threat_ of violence. Which? If everything goes according to plan? Will not bear out. No one's image will even be hurt--"

"Being officially designated a terrorist organization would hurt our image."

Fahrschein shrugged. "Radical groups splinter off from large organizations all the time. The boys you loan me will call themselves something else. 'Suro Warriors.' They'll publicly disavow you."

"But they have to come from our tradition."

"That's why they call it 'cover.'"

"No."

"So here's the plan--"

"No, Clara."

"A real leader would at least _listen_ to the plan--"

"If it involves even the threat of violence, you have my answer. I'm not giving you people another excuse to come after us."

Fahrschein's narrow eyes narrowed further. "And what about the future violence that occurs if you don't act? It will be hidden, atomized, indirect-- but nonetheless real. You could save countless women from sex Surrogacy. You could raise wages and living standards for people all over the world, people who will otherwise go hungry, lack medical care--"

Granger stood. "I guess you should've thought of that before you designed the _whole fucking system._ "

Fahrschein stayed sitting, apparently unperturbed. "If I hadn't, someone else would've. And if I could change it now? I would. In fact, I'm trying to."

"Don't give me that. You're on UpTime's board of directors."

Fahrschein shook her head. "I represent a minority view. The majority is spearheaded by the Platform Venture Capital Group. They would love to see me removed from the board entirely-- and they're working on it. Already suing me. Watching my every move. My hands are tied.

"But even if they weren't? I'm no programmer. The Bridge Algorithm is completely beyond my knowledge, and there are any number of dirty tricks UpTime could play should I petition for release. No, it has to be taken. That's where your organization can help. UpTime is building another US quantum computing farm in West Virgina. Which represents a narrow window..."

"The Allegheny translation facility. Yes, we've heard. Scheduled to open early next year."

Fahrschein nodded. "Three days should give my embodying team all the time it needs to catch-and-release what they call the 'root code' of Bridge. I have some world-class computer scientists I can throw into your boys once the mercs have a run of the place."

Granger, reluctantly, bit: "You said your VC friends were watching your every move. So how does none of this get traced back to you?"

"Oh, it does. Moreover, I want it to. I want to be sitting across from Ibn and Sybil in the boardroom when the news arrives that our trade secret is out. To watch their faces as our valuation-- based on monopoly expectations-- plummets. I want to be in the same room when we become just another fucking taxi-cab company. A telecommuter."

"That's worth prison time to you?"

"Prison time? Laura! Goodness, no!" Fahrschein laughed. "No one is going to prison! And why? Because you and I-- women drawn together by different ends of this fascinating industry-- had a private meeting in one of your ingenious, little buildings? A meeting from which I will soon walk away visibly furious? Because some time later a splinter group of young radicals halfway across the country disowns your methods and takes over a construction site? A place that's not exactly secret? Well? A conspiracy theorist could certainly _torture together_ the connection! But could they prove it? And in court?"

Granger, nonetheless, kept hunting for traps. "UpTime owns transmission. Couldn't they just, I don't know, turn Surrogacy off? Then, suddenly, these volunteers are stranded without your specialists."

"Now there's a question." Fahrschein licked her shining lips. "And here's my answer. One of the things Platform Capital is suing me for is the development and dissemination of a bit of free software. We call it, 'GreyFog.' Your own tech-savvy people will be aware of it."

"So make me aware."

Fahrschein shifted in her seat. "GreyFog can be installed quickly and safely into a Suro's wetware. Benefits? A GreyFog Suro has their GPS address conflated with every other actively-embodied GreyFog Suro. UpTime can unwind these confused addresses with enough time. However, new GreyFog Suros will be constantly leaping in and out of the fray, all over the world, creating and destroying addresses, depending on their own agendas.

"Bad enough, but--" Fahrschein smiled. Granger made a gesture with her hands: go on. "But _also_ : each GreyFog Suro sends out between one and nine 'dummy' connection signals to active UpSets not involved in the GreyFog attack. These compromised UpSets send them on to further Suros. Over time, these 'dummies' can also be winnowed down until the actual participants involved in the GreyFog can be determined. But, for that reason, different teams will be embodying in three hour shifts, switching out third-party UpSets, constantly creating new connection accounts. New dummies.

"If we install GreyFog in a fraction of your Surodarity membership and convince just a fraction of _those_ to participate in the GreyFog attack? It will create a situation-- a proliferation of dummy signals, blind spots-- like nothing UpTime has ever had to deal with. Even undocumented Suros give reliable GPS info; not GreyFog! Your boys will be safely embodied by my ever-shifting teams. Their addresses will be obscured from UpTime. The only way to cut them off--"

"Would be denial of Surrogacy to everyone hit by the Fog attack." Granger rubbed her temples, fighting against this new excitement Fahrschein could weaponize against her. "Hundreds of thousands--"

"Revise that up. Then include anyone playing 'Blind Man's Bluff.' A cool several million human beings, at least. Paying customers from all over the world. UpTime won't pull the trigger. Not until they realize where they've found themselves. And then it will be too late."

Fahrschein sat back. "SCHMoC translation and transmission will be public knowledge. I own a plurality of the Intellectual Property, even if I don't understand it. Once it is reproduceable, it will be free."

"And nobody goes to prison?" repeated Granter. "No Suros?"

Fahrschein downed the last of the wine in her cup. Smiled redly. "Your Adversary has considered all of her little children. Now follow along, please?" She accented the air with a manicured finger. "No one. Is going. To jail.

"Because you're going to pick your boys, personally.

"Notice I keep calling them 'boys.' That's because very few people like uppity girls. Even most women don't. Maybe someday." Fahrschein sighed. "For, um, let's say _similar_ reasons, no member of this team will be black or Hispanic or fucking Pakistani. Even most white-male Americans won't do. For instance, the kind of Texan who throws money around, harasses waitresses on the weekends? The worst kind of foreigner.

"Your Allegheny raiders will be Appalachians. They don't have to be choir boys-- they can have priors-- but listen here: they must at least be tolerated by the communities they come from. No sex criminals. No Chuckle dealers. At least one of them should be beautiful. A stud. The kind of blue-eyed boy with a trail of broken hearts.

"Once the root is obtained? My specialists will disappear in a puff of SCHMoCS. And your team will lay down their weapons. Law enforcement won't want blood on their hands; not when the occupiers look like your boys. They'll stand trial. And the trial jury? A bunch of downwardly-mobile white Suros. I don't care how goddamn incoherent your boys sound in that courtroom. They'll look and sound _right_. That's all that matters, and you know it.

"They'll have stood up for their neighbors. They'll have fought back against UpTime. Not one of your boys will be sentenced, I guarantee you. They'll have fought _back!_ "

Fahrschein stood up, leaving the empty wine bottle and glasses. "That's the plan. The purpose of your movement served up on a platter. Take it or leave it."

"I already told you--"

"When you decide to _take_ it," bulldozed Fahrschein, "you'll want to move quickly. Scour Appalachia for your boys. My own house is in order. I will put you in contact with my personal lawyer; simply give Ms Peer the names. You will have nothing to do with what happens next. Your hands will be clean. Speaking of which--"

Clara Fahrschein stuck out a manicured hand that seemed only slightly too large. Granger begrudgingly took it.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Laura Granger. A pity that this will be our first and last meeting." she turned.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"I've always wondered," said Granger. "What was your role at UpTime? Early on? I know you came up with the business model and I know you have a background in app design. Online payment systems. But... what did you do? Day to day?"

The Immiserator of Surodarity lore beamed. "I'm what they used to call an 'idea man.'"

"An idea man. Ok."

"A motivator of talent. A strategic thinker. A shaper of events."

"Shaper of events."

"Oh, Laura!" said Clara Fahrschein with one, final smile. "It's amazing what you can tease out from the sidelines. With a little push? What you can _make_ people do!"

## Chapter 5

SETH TENANT, STANDING IN FRONT OF THE SMALL CROWD before Morgantown, West Virginia's Surodarity Longhall, had never spoken more beautifully in his entire life. And even if he didn't entirely get the gist of what he, himself, was saying? It sure looked like the reporter in the third row did.

It looked like she was into it.

Hell, and why not? Tenant was spitting some serious fire-and-brimstone shit! There were eleven armed men behind him; he spoke for them, too. And he was talking like a college kid, dropping names. Quoting people and events. Tenant had just quoted a guy named Montesquieu. A guy named Piketty. HG-motherfucking-Wells.

And had he just said something in French?

Hassan, he thought. You slick mother, you never told me you spoke no French! And this third-row reporter was no village Scarlett, either. In from Charleston, she was half-white and half-Asian. The most refined-and-exotic-looking piece which he, Seth Tenant, had had himself a shot at in some good long time.

Lord, thought Tenant, losing momentarily the thread of Hassan's monologue. Punish Your servant most severely if I do not get me between those legs.

Meanwhile, Hassan played ball. Hassan was a pro, you had to give it to him. He flapped Tenant's jaw flat and fast. A Yankee. Tenant guessed Hassan was from New York City. Just a guess. They'd had to coordinate a system for Tenant's mouth. A duet. The geist playing lead guitar, as it were, shaping the words. Tenant on the banjo, supplying local twang. Hoo boy.

Hassan had claimed he'd had lots of practice with 'mouth-harping' in the past. A rare skill. One of the reasons he, Hassan, was able to charge so much for his services.

And there must be something to Hassan's claim. The reporter, hearing these arguments delivered with passionate, good-old-boy flair? Had been staring up at Tenant for the last fifteen minutes like he was some kind of goddamn rockstar. Which meant, Tenant realized, that she didn't even suspect he was embodied. Which meant she was imagining a young Tenant sitting up in some cabin in the rain-swept mountains, _Candide_ open in his lap, sounding out the French words while varmints cooked in soup. Tenant smiled inwardly. The noble savage with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He'd ridden that story all the way to climax with more than one college girl from Charleston.

Tenant wanted to wink at this reporter. Hassan sent a warning shudder up his back, clenched his anus, retracted his balls. Jesus, Hassan! Message received! Tenant found himself talking about Enlightenment thinkers. Dropping more of that nasty _s'il vous plait_. Which also worked. Now, however, came the part of the speech which Seth Tenant hated: the denunciation of Laura Granger and Surodarity. Worse, still, that Hassan was so silver-tongued, that he was making these disgusting arguments sound so good. So legitimate. Because Surodarity had saved Seth Tenant's life-- he was sure of that.

Tenant's own story was not atypical of Monongalia County: no homelife, no high-school diploma, no options. Tenant, at least, had been pretty enough to be picked up and supported by a string of hard-working women, coddled and kept. Then, one day, Surrogacy tech found its way into the county via UpSet. Tenant's then-girlfriend had come to realize that she could both wear a body she didn't have to work at and make love to a string of men she didn't have to support-- and Tenant was out on his ass in a Brave New World.

Well, if you can't beat'em, join'em.

Years of hustle; largely sex work. The good jobs he called 'Ladies' Rent-A-Dick,' but if you wanted a steady income you had to go in for, well, all kinds of stuff. Tenant had entered that world the same way as Laura Granger-- working in front of mirrors-- but Seth Tenant kept right on going. Tenant had crossed some fucking lines. And he'd been prepared to cross more of them: because those foreign boys were getting heavy into Chuckle. Meat shielding was becoming an expectation. Another year and he'd have been a junkie as well as a whore.

Instead, he'd come across the flier stapled to a rotting telephone pole: _Free Trip to Costa Rica! For West Virginia and Ohio Suros Only._

A ridiculously-obvious scam. But Tenant had been scraping against rock bottom, so, what the hell. He'd borrowed an UpSet, laid himself down on the couch where he was crashing, activated the machine, felt the distinctive tickle of microfilaments doing their targeted entrance through the meat of his eye...

Found himself become a man in his sixties, sweating in the humid late afternoon, looking down at some ocean. Surrounded by jungle. He was nursing a rum-- so, alright!-- and wearing flip-flops and coke-bottle glasses and a straw hat and a pair of boardshorts. Very alright.

They were sitting in a circle of chairs. Some timeshare gimmick? Well, the joke was on them! But the lead woman was saying: "...so we see the importance of combining resources. Even something as basic as a place to sleep, the use of a kitchen, the use of a washing machine. A place to settle in and make plans, think about next steps..."

Blah, blah, blah.

Soon everybody was standing up, circle time over, and people were meandering about. And this new old guy-- white retiree type, but still working, gigging, supplementing-- came forward and started to pry. He was embodied by a man from Youngstown, who, when he learned that Tenant was coming in from Morgantown, called over yet _another_ old guy. And these two wanted to know, more or less, how Tenant was _doing_.

Churchy shit. So he'd played that defense: Fine, just fine. Thanks.

Good! Smiles all around. But they meant financially. If he was making ends meet over there in Morgantown. Like, if he had a place to sleep.

As it turned out, no. Tenant's welcome on this particular couch was coming to an end. The plan had been to go out looking for work, sleep in some Jane's bed. Maybe get some food that way, too. And, since these guys asked-- since they wanted to know so bad-- that's what Tenant told them. He thought it would disgust them and they would leave him alone to enjoy a few minutes of this little vacation, the rum, the sunset.

Instead, they'd asked if he'd like to do a little more traveling. Free of charge.

Ten minutes later, Seth Tenant had found himself riding atop an Asian elephant wading across a shallow, moonlit lake somewhere in Bhutan. Lily pads floating, drifting silently all about. An hour after that, he was riding a camel with the pyramids of Giza in the background. Next came morning on the Great Wall of China. A shotgun blast of experiences, sights, smells, tastes. A disruption of possibilities. And something in Tenant stirred. He didn't _want_ to become a goddamn junkie, after all. During their travels, in body after body, the two men talked-- and Tenant listened. And agreed to give their program a try.

Once back in the States, they had come to fetch him in a van. That evening, Seth Tenant ate soup and bread. He slept in a men's dormitory. And was made aware that if he abided by certain rules, he could stay for as long as he needed. Which didn't mean he was joining up (the word 'cult' kept flashing in his brain), but, at the same time, a relief! Because he'd been looking down into the pit. And, at the last moment, had felt hands under his shoulders, supporting him, pulling him up.

Staying at the Surodarity dormitory, he saved a little money and so became more selective about his work. And began to emerge, as though from a long nightmare of a feverish elegy-- delivered in educated prose with a knowing wink and shrug, as always, from afar-- to a new purpose. He took part in the construction of Morgantown's Surodarity Longhall. And a few months later had been elected to a position on the Longhall Council-- the first real honor of his life. A trust which was precious to him.

In Seth Tenant's opinion? Laura Granger was a goddamn saint.

And, two weeks ago, Granger had embodied him like a heavenly messenger. Personally. To tell him: 'Thou must forsake me.' A bitter mission. They'd spent an afternoon in the mountains, hiking as one. And, once again, he'd accepted this strange twist of fate-- for her. That very same night, lying on the edges of sleep, Tenant had been embodied by a second visitor: one he'd been told to expect. He'd lain in the dark, listening to insects chirp. Waiting. And been ordered to speak.

He'd introduced himself.

Then heard himself murmur, Yankee flat: "That's a hell of a mountain-boy thang you've got going, friend. You're giving it to me. Start talking-- doesn't matter what about-- and I'm going to just float here and appropriate."

So that now, here, today, with this most-recent denunciation having crescendoed into fiery completion-- with applause and booing erupting from the crowd-- Tenant took a moment to use the sub-verbal shorthand which Hassan had taught him. Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth and working his jaw, Tenant communicated: How about that reporter? Huh? How about that?

Hassan: I don't do that kind of work.

Tenant, snorting: I'll be the one she falls for. You just got to get me through the first round. Ever seen _My Fair Lady?_ Hassan. Roll with the punches for me.

No reply.

Tenant: You don't want the press on our side?

The applause was dying. People were shuffling, beginning to move. The reporter was packing up.

Tenant felt himself shrug. He found himself walking towards the reporter. He recognized the confident, hungry smile stretched across his face.

She greeted him in French. He responded with words that caused her to raise her eyebrows and smile, just a little. Goddamn, Hassan. Slick. Because Tenant might not speak French, but he read that look in her eyes just fine.

_Oui, oui, oui,_ he read. All the way home.

***

Security Chief Arturo Barros woke the morning of the hijacking with a pinging in his head and the dreaded words on his lips: "Today's the day." And then the visitor was gone.

He got up, made coffee, watched the sun peer over the Alleghenies. His trailer came fully equipped. He showered. Then, toweling himself dry, moved back into the kitchen, leaving a trail of wet footprints on faux-wood floor. He poured coffee for himself and drank it. And closing his eyes, considered his position.

His position had become complicated.

A week before flying out to West Virginia, Barros had been summoned to the office of Sybil Clarke. A personal meeting; no Suros. He'd arrived half-an-hour early and was ushered in at the very minute designated. As he'd entered that bright and airy room with its commanding view of the bay, the half-CEO behind her heavy desk had looked Barros up and down as though checking for dirt. A long, silent appraisal.

Finally, Clarke had growled: "Sit."

Barros had sat.

And something had landed in his lap. A book. Hardcover. Barros had a copy of the very same in his own office. The title read, _Life From A Second Angle: The Clara Fahrschein Story_.

The cover showing Sybil Clarke, smiling, hands on hips, in a stunning-white faux wrap.

"I wrote every goddamn word," announced Sybil suddenly, without preamble. "The ghost writer and I. Based on interviews we conducted with Clara's hungover ass on every continent. And yet? Please turn to the author bio, Chief."

Barros, dutifully, had opened to the interior-back fold. Stefan Banik, in suit and bright-pink tie, posed elbow-on-knee and chin-in-hand, thoughtfully staring outward from the little box. The author credited as 'Clara Fahrschein.'

"In fairness, Ma'am," Barros had ventured, "you got the front cover."

Clarke had raised her eyebrows fractionally. "In fairness, Chief? I _wrote_ the fucking book."

Barros, nodding, eyes downcast, had cleared his throat again.

"Clara had one great idea. A beautiful vision. That's hers; no one can deny it. But who built this company from the ground up? Who made the intangibles tangible? Huh? While she kayaked off the coast of Baja? I did. This pretty face."

"Ma'am." He'd nodded.

"How many of our people do you figure are like you?"

"Ma'am?"

"Don't bullshit me, Barros. I'm talking about people she found on her little hunting trips. Raised up from the precariat. Personally loyal to her."

He'd cleared his throat.

"Washington's mind is not half as bad as she plays. Nadya's had her on the payroll about a year. Her and every Burner who wanders within thirty city blocks of Alchemute. Comparing embodiment times coming out of your UpSet with her story? It matches."

There had been no point arguing. "Washington has the mother of all yeast infections."

"She's off the streets now. In private treatment for the next few months. Gone. And then we'll set her up with a job, an apartment. Little enough, considering where she's led us."

"The artificial construct."

"Incredible," Clarke had nearly whispered. "They're years ahead of what US Army R&D was able to show me. And tell me, Chief: did the robot feel?"

She was toying with him, he had realized. There was no way she would retain him after this. No way to justify it.

He'd licked his lips. "Sense of touch, yes. Patchy, but. Almost like a human Suro."

"We have to have it. And we will. We still control transmission of Semi-Conscious Hard Motor Commands. Full Sensory Intake. We'll force Alchemute to the bargaining table; they'll sell out to us or face geist blockade."

Us?

Taking a breath, he'd risked: "And the Allegheny facility?"

Sybil Clarke had snorted. "I'm sending you, as planned, to oversee security. You will perform exactly the role which Wen and Fahrschein have assigned you: coordinating our security in a doomed resistance. We're going to draw them in, Chief. We're going to tie Wen and Fahrschein to the hijacking. Then our friends at Platform Capital are going to sue those two until they're no longer human in the eyes of the law. I want Clara Fahrschein in prison. I want Charles Wen on hands and knees, begging to sell me his company."

He'd cleared his throat. "A frank question, Ms. Clarke?"

"I'd welcome frankness."

"Ms. Fahrschein-- well, Stefan-- gave me my career here. I owe her everything."

The half-CEO had nodded. She'd closed her eyes, taken a deep breath. "Clara owns a plurality stake in Alchemute Robotics, did you know that?"

Of course he hadn't. "That alone should be enough to get her removed from UpTime's board."

"She owns her shares through a Shell Individual named Ines Zehren. A Swiss national. Ms. Zehren's shipping business annually receives tens of millions of dollars from an UpTime subsidiary under Clara's thumb. Zehren, herself, more-or-less depends on Clara at this point. Her votes, you can be certain, are Clara's."

"Even so..."

Clarke had cut him off. "If the secret behind our infrastructure goes public? UpTime deals in human beings; anyone can do that. New entrants will crowd our field. But Alchemute? They'll be the sole producer of artificial constructs, right out the gate. So, depending on the public availability of SCHMoCs-- they go from total reliance upon us, to crushing us.

"More than that, Clara becomes the richest woman on Earth. Forget her little tale of revenge. She's a colder-blooded animal than that. She'll jump companies the way she jumps bodies; Zehren will sponsor her. Never mind that Arturo Barros' benefits-- his retirement, his future-- shrinks to a fraction of their former worth. That he, along with so many others at UpTime, trusted her with his time and expertise.

"He's a dupe: she found him at a low point, raised him, used him. Buy low, sell high. She wins again. Not because of hard work, or because she delivered some exceptional product or service. But because she manipulated people to get what she wanted. Because she stole from us and used company resources to hedge her bets.

" _I'm_ betting that you're an honest man, Barros. That you were operating under a bad set of assumptions and that I've straightened things out. I imagine that Wen promised you a position with Alchemute. Stock options, the works. But I would remind you of the sort of man Charles Wen is. He humiliated your predecessor. Can you trust the sort of promises such a man makes? Because you can trust me when I tell you: you've got a bright future at UpTime."

"So you're taking a risk on me."

"I'm taking a risk on you. But if I were to switch you out with Brad or Nadya now, I'd give away my hand. Scare them off. It has to be you."

No, Barros had thought at the time. Wrong. You control the game board. If nothing happens? You win. The reward, here, is not consummate with the risk-- which counsels conservatism. And you didn't make it this far by being stupid about risk. Therefore? There's something significant you're not telling me...

Now, in central West Virginia, movement and the sounds of construction all around Barros as he walked toward the security headquarters. A concrete foundation poured into one of the early excavations. A bunker. He slid his keycard, submitted to the retinal scan. The interior was darkness punctuated by screens. Live feeds without audio from cameras and HUD glasses worn by security officers. Six analysts inside that roomy darkness, all Suros. A team of twelve-to-twenty-four eyes.

The Duty nodded sleepily. "Boss. Morning."

He nodded. "Report."

"Raccoons stole a hard hat."

Barros forced a chuckle. "Otherwise?"

"Nada."

"Bedtime, then."

She mock-saluted and was gone. One of the analysts, probably half way through his own shift, yawned.

Barros stared at the screens. He paid special attention to the POV of the armed sentries patrolling the outside the chain-link fence where it wound through uneven, forested terrain. Today was the day, he'd been alerted. But where, oh, where...?

Information asymmetry.

The attack was coming, in minutes or hours, and Arturo Barros still didn't know which side he was on. Of course, up to a certain point both sides required the same moves from him.

And then? Barros could only hope the way became clear.

***

Park Chun-Ja sighed and shifted in the low light of early morning against the naked, lupine form of Diogo Romao. He, waking from a light sleep, coughed gently into his hand. Whoopsie.

Diogo had been curious. As in: "What do you think it's like without them?"

And now they knew.

Diogo coughed again. Chun-Ja felt him sit up next to her. She felt him place one large hand on her bare buttock: stroke, squeeze, pat. Oh, God, was he trying for another...? But no, he just wanted one last grope. It felt good, but she was happy when the parting pat came, happier still when he rolled off the bed and began to put his pants on.

Now they knew. And in Chun-Ja's opinion, 'it' was better with the Liang's included.

First, dinner. Diogo had been late enough that Chun-Ja wasn't sure if he were coming. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. When he'd finally entered the restaurant, he'd been speaking loudly in Portuguese over his HUD glasses, a young, feminine form filling the left lense. Fighting? Flirting? But the call had ended abruptly when he saw Chun-Ja.

"What?" he'd said. "You didn't get a table?"

Which had made her feel stupid. Which had reminded Chun-Ja how much she hated dating. But, onward. Diogo Romao had had very strong opinions about niche musical scenes. And he'd talked! Names of artists that meant nothing to Chun-Ja were dropped liked gifts from a benevolent angel. Information that meant nothing, that simply made her feel out of touch.

Which had also sucked.

Beyond being boring and condescending, however, Romao had also been rude to the waitstaff, impatient about arrival times, picky about food. At least there was the wine...

The wine had helped _so_ much that Park Chun-Ja had opened that second bottle the minute the pay-by-mile had gotten them back to her place. Because, as much as sex had (earlier) seemed a foregone conclusion, that feral magnetism she'd always felt in the elevator had failed to materialize here, outside of the workplace. Funny.

And yes, they'd fucked. And no, fucking Diogo Romao was never going to be bad: he was too pretty, too experienced, too nicely built.

Still, the whole night was something of a let-down. Chun-Ja was quick to see her own fault in this. Without Raymond inside, she wasn't able to fully channel 'woman-as-fantasized-by-man.' She couldn't seem to manage, without her manager, to be as simpering and puppy-dog stupid and wriggly and mutinously pouty. She couldn't giggle as mindlessly. She wasn't as quick to go down on all fours.

Even if she had? She was certain it would come across as fake, forced, insipid.

And Romao. Again, he was never going to be _bad_. But, actually, he was nothing spectacular. To touch him was good, to be held by him a gift-- but he, the man, was like too many men Chun-Ja had known: simply not that interesting. At some point in the night, he seemed to begin to suspect this opinion of hers. He tried, then, for Loretti's sadism, but managed only to be callous and brutal where Loretti was teasing and exploratory.

Part of Chun-Ja's excitement, anyway, had previously come from aiding that shivering, masochistic being under her skin. Without Raymond lending her a submissive persona... Chun-Ja had asked Diogo to stop after a few minutes. Now, with his pants back on, Diogo looked down at where Chun-Ja lay. His face took on an appreciative look-- that was nice-- and he said: "I'll, uh, see you at work, Chun-Ja."

Yes, she thought. Just at work. As the medium through which Loretti Liang works. And just as well.

She said, "We'll always have the file room."

"Hah!" He winked. "Worse ways to go perm, I guess..."

And, unwittingly, he pierced her to the quick.

"Wait," she replied. "You're perm?" She stirred under the light sheets. "UpTime made you a permanent employee?"

"I'd say I fucking earned it," he growled, grabbing at his own crotch. Then, cocking his head. "Don't tell me Ray didn't make you an offer...?"

"To keep my temporary position."

"Whoa." He shook his head: "That doesn't make sense. You're IT Security, Chun-Ja. You've been with UpTime--"

"Over two years." And how many months had he been fetching coffee? Not long. Not very goddamn long.

"--and Ray never offered you perm? For...?" He waved his hand in a way meant to encompass her: ceramic skin; hair of black silk; small round breasts; toned, smooth buttocks; legs short and strong with muscle-plump calves; small set mouth; whole shapely body hidden by gauzy cloth like a harem girl; whole reaching mind hidden behind set face and unfathomed eyes.

Diogo said: "The son of a bitch! I'll talk to him today!"

"No," said Park Chun-Ja. "He offered. He did offer. But I didn't accept... not until..."

Understanding flooded Diogo Romao's face. Then horror. And something that was closer to disbelief than compassion. "Chun-Ja," he said, flatly, as though explaining a simple concept to a very young child. "When they offer you something like that, you've got to _jump_ on it."

"Yes."

"Otherwise, they're just going to get you anyway. Only with a worse deal. You're not in any real negotiating position. Not when it's just you alone. And they've got everything behind them."

"Of course."

Romao, she thought, was made for the world as it was. His instincts were good and he was gorgeous; he would go far. If she hitched herself to him, she might ride along for a ways-- but that would mean listening to him talk, always eagerly nodding as he talked. And that would take a sort of self-obliteration. Diogo Romao was talking now, advising. Jesus. So eager to teach this foolish, older woman the ways of the world.

But Park Chun-Ja, staring up at the ceiling, had already stopped listening. She was imagining herself on her knees, naked except for a blindfold, pleasuring herself. In her fantasy, three men in business suits stood above her, circling her. They joked and laughed, roughly, in a foreign language, their breath reeking of vodka. Each man was unzippering and, pulling out a dangling member, barking commands she didn't understand. The sound of two of them high-fiving. She had the feeling that when she had entered the room-- before she took off her clothes and put on the blindfold-- one of the three businessmen had also been kneeling. But that had been a joke. The mean sort of joking that drunks visiting whores engage in. Now he was standing with the other two, ready to pile on. Still on her knees, she felt warmth between her lips, heavy warmth sliding back across her tongue, swollen warmth filling her entire mouth. She began breathing through her nose, massaging this textured heat with her lips. The men above her laughed. One of them said something caustic. She took them in hand, began masturbating them, felt her mouth fill again and again with different visitors. Felt herself being used.

When she turned back to the doorway, Diogo Romao was gone. He had seen that she wasn't listening, understood that she was a lost cause, departed. By herself, she felt a little better.

However, when Shadow Boxer embodied her a few hours later, his first words out of her mouth were: "What's wrong?" He was that attuned to her. He'd felt the tightness in her chest and throat and shoulders-- the soreness around her eyes-- and knew that she had been suffering.

She told him absolutely everything.

## Chapter 6

AS SETH TENANT CREPT THROUGH THE FOREST-COVERED HILLS towards the construction noise of the perimeter, he was forced to take an accounting. The Bridge Job. Had he, perhaps, miscalculated?

He would say that he had, yes.

Tenant hoisted the unattached sniper scope and-- voila-- there was a man in a guard station, centered between the cross-hairs. No idle talk, this. There were killers in these hills. One of them was wearing him. Did Tenant now wish, more than anything in the world, that he could perform takesies-backsies? He did, yes! Even if it meant backing out on Laura Granger and Surodarity? Sorry, Laura!

Could Seth Tenant say, 'I'm in way, way over my head'?

Well, not right now he couldn't. No. Mister Scary wasn't letting Tenant say anything at all.

Tenant had believed he would be embodied during the assault by Felipe Correa, the Colombian hombre who'd worn him for the majority of their three weeks of guerrilla training in the Alleghenies. During training, the thirty-six members of Tenant's Suro Liberation Army had played musical chairs with their mercenary geists, letting each member of both groups get a feel for the other. Everyone was to be paired up as ideally as possible. (Felipe's deal was that he always had to be chewing something-- the guy liked to be amped. Tenant had found himself buying huge amounts of chewing tobacco, bubble gum, and coffee at the local River Mart in order to keep his trainer happy.) Instead, for reasons unclear, Tenant been given unto the tender embrace of a Chechen he'd dubbed, 'Mister Scary.'

With Mister Scary there was no push-and-pull, no little favors, no partnership. Tenant was a piece of machinery the geist was operating: a tool to be used and discarded. Tenant, once during training, had asked Mister Scary his name. In the next moment, Tenant had found himself punching the smooth, unyielding edge of a boulder. Bare-fucking-fisted. He'd kicked the psychotic geist out before the third punch, and still? He had, by his reckoning, nearly broken his own hand.

Now, as the tree-cover evaporated, yellow cranes suddenly dominated the sky. Chain-link fence. Boxy office quarters and temporary worker housing. Men in hard hats. Other men with guns. Tenant, suddenly, wondered what the plan was. Nobody had thought to tell the Suros. Which made sense. Because if everything went tits-up? Mister Scary and his crew would flitter off into the sky. Just grab another thirty-six warm-and-trusting bodies. Try again.

Goddamn, lamented Seth Tenant, as he had more than once before, seeing his earthly possessions scattered across some girlfriend's front lawn. Goddamn, I can be stupid.

He could still break Mister Scary's hold and run, couldn't he? Or, Jesus, _could_ he? Would one of these hired-guns shoot him in the back? Would they come after him, later? Cut his throat one night while he slept?

Yes, he realized. He believed they would. These were exactly the kind of psychopaths who would.

"Ismaal," came a voice in Tenant's ear. " _Mui gotovi_."

" _Davai, togda_ ," said Tenant, with emotionless cadence. " _Davai._ "

They crept forward on all sides. Too late.

Tenant, stomach muscles screaming, not totally prone. A man in one of the guard towers was looking at him. Staring.

"Ismaal," warned Tenant-- and bit down on his own tongue.

Blinking away tears, Tenant saw the man in the tower above grant him a curt nod. Felt himself nod back. And realized-- holy shit!-- the guards were in on it too! And felt all the good chemicals of relief release through every inch of his body. He was safe. It was all so much bullshit. Some kind of tax dodge.

Therefore, it didn't bother Tenant very much when the first live rounds were fired from the towers above. If lead in the earth made this more real for the IRS? So be it.

Then, too, when Tenant and a thick-set Surrogate named Buddy McDouglass reached the checkpoint at the north entrance of the construction zone, screaming at one another in Russian and performing some Muay-Thai-shit on the guards on duty? Zip-tying ankles and wrists together? Tenant dearly hoped that it had been caught on camera.

Tenant and McDouglass, reaching the guard station, kept their heads down and radioed the other Suros. Exchanged clipped dialogues. Ismaal kept taking peeks at the guard towers through his scope. There were three towers, one guard apiece. Two of the tower guards seemed to be in on the hijacking. The occupant of tower three was the holdout. Luckily, he didn't seem to be much of a shot. But if they gave him enough time, Tenant knew, UpTime would embody him with somebody good. So the mercenary team was trying to reason with him over a microphone. A Kentucky accent was telling Holdout that he was outgunned. That a construction zone wasn't worth dying for.

But Holdout wasn't budging.

He was their self-appointed piece of bad luck, Holdout. Tenant knew a million guys like him. He'd probably dreamt about this moment half his life. Watched movies and prayed for it. And now that it was upon him, the only thing he probably regretted was not having more ammo. Another minute passed. Mister Scary complained into the radio. But it seemed they had a name, now: Hunter J. Greene from Amarillo, Texas. And the soothing voice on the microphone was using the name, reminding Holdout that he had a wife and children, back home. Debts. Responsibilities to people.

Tenant saw a white rag fluttering over the tower guardrail. A runner was sent. Through the scope, Tenant watched their man-- lean Greg Taggart of southern Ohio-- cross the open space towards the base of Holdout's tower...

Then Tenant heard the rifle discharge and saw Taggart fall. Felt more than heard Mister Scary spit a curse. Felt nausea as the scope was whipped back up to the tower. And there was Hunter Greene looking grimly satisfied as he sighted in for another shot.

Tenant wondered how wise it had been to mention the man's debt.

Meanwhile, his eyes never leaving their target, Ismaal said something flat and quiet into his radio. And between the crosshairs, Greene's head exploded like a prize-winning pumpkin thrown into a wood chipper.

Mister Scary made a satisfied noise. Tenant felt a stream of urine shoot down his left leg.

The rest of the assault took a little over twenty minutes. No further injuries. Greg Taggart had a punctured lung but was receiving attention from two of his fellows, embodied by combat medics.

Later, during his trial, Seth Tenant would watch footage taken from that morning. Seth Tenant and Buddy McDouglass moving from the perimeter of the camp, inwards, disabling guards and construction workers with rapid-fire hits from fists and tasers and hard-plastic batons. Tying men to themselves with quick tugs of plastic ties, moving again.

The prosecuting attorney would ask whether Tenant remembered any of this. Tenant, staring at himself-- footage of him frozen in middair while performing a flying kick into a man's chest-- would respond that, yes, of course he remembered. Every goddamn minute.

It was the only time Tenant would lie during the entirety of his trial.

***

A video file was sent out. Seth Tenant's rawboned face was waxy, strained, and streaked with mud. His crystalline eyes too wide. He spoke calmly, the way he had in front of the Morgantown Surodarity Longhall. But looked, now, properly fanatic. He stood in front of a line of tied-up men. Hostages.

"'A spectre is haunting your bodies!'" he yelped. The opening words of the Surodarity Manifesto. "'The spectre of another's will! Of their desires bearing fruit through you! Of their labors made yours!'"

And stared: "The perfect, real-time movement of skilled labor. Risks offloaded onto another. Rewards retained. A beautiful model! Well, as long as you don't have to go down into the streets and really _look_ at it, face to face. Have a good smell. Because down in the street it is the shambling horror. Slow moving, but, looking hungrily upward... this grotesque thing..."

Tenant smiled. "You."

He tilted his head, unblinking. "And what _about_ _you_ , friend? Are you tired? Huh? Fresh off one of your shifts? Got a few hours before the next one? Maybe you'd like a little _down_ time? A little time of your own? Can you afford that? 'Your choice,' your geists love to lecture you, even as they use you. And the worst thing? It's true!

"Except? When a choice is the ONLY choice, hmm-- how much of a choice _is_ it?

"My name is Seth Devine Tenant. I've sold my body hundreds, thousands of times over the past decade-- to anyone who would take it. For just about any price. Surodarity saved me from the worst excesses of that life. Today, however, I must break with them. Because they're not willing to do what must be done. To break our yoke. They're not willing to _give_ as rough as their constituents _take_.

He shrugged. "Today, we're taking from UpTime Living Solutions. We, the Suro Liberation Army, are even now decrypting the translation tool known as the 'Bridge Algorithm.' Once we have it? Bridge will be released: to be utilized by whoever may. Because Surodarity's work can only _truly_ begin when UpTime is no longer the only game in town.

"We, here today, are willing to sacrifice ourselves for that work. But not those volunteers who've come to our aide. Certain of our allies' identities are protected by a wetware patch called 'GreyFog.' The more Suros tied into the fog--"

The video file cut off.

***

It was enough. Within twenty minutes of Tenant's broadcast, the Suro subreddit had detailed instructions for tracking down and installing reliable GreyFog patches. Women and men-- many under the mistaken belief that the Fog would render them invisible to UpTime's billing department-- rushed to embody GreyFog Suros. Criminal organizations, seeing the Fog Machine getting prepared to lay it down thick, piled in. Surodarity, which had earlier excommunicated Seth Tenant and the SLA, now issued strongly-worded condemnations of the hostage crisis-- while Longhalls across the country hosted 'install sessions' with clean, tested versions of the GreyFog patch. Dozens of intelligence agencies across the globe also quietly participated. Everyone wanted independent control of Suro tech. If these men were willing to shoulder the physical risk, why not help them?

GreyFog spread. At its height, reached in only a few hours, over thirty percent of active Suros and geists were tied-- willingly or unknowingly-- into the attack. The mercenary geists were completely anonymous, protected under heavy layers of sporadic activity.

***

Bringing us around, at last, to the Idiot Savants-- those programmers who so intimidated Park Chun-Ja-- sitting in their war room in San Francisco. Together, beneath posters of _Full-Metal Alchemist_ and _Rick and Morty_ , they growled and snacked and took sips of carbonated drinks. They spoke to each other in surly shorthand and hunted their monitors. UpTime's Savants knew their business. Within eight hours of Tenant's statement, they had devised a solution. They could dispel GreyFog, identify the participating Suros, locate them on a map, connect them to the UpSet of the correct geist-- and perhaps most importantly-- deny access to individual Suros. Separate the physically-present Surrogates from the geists they relied upon. All within an hour.

Events tended to proceed quickly with the Savants.

As a matter of courtesy, the team reported to their administrator, Raymond Liang, before moving to break GreyFog. And were ordered by Liang, that sweating-clamoring-middleman, to halt. Not to proceed.

Growls.

One of the Savants, a rail-thin, shaved-bald man covered in tattoos and called by the others, 'Dorito-Carl' asked laconically: "Phishing for Phools, boss?"

Liang shrugged. "Orders from the top. We're going to draw these bastards out. And then? The moment I get the call from Ms. Sung--" Liang made a closing-trap gesture.

"Phishing," confirmed Dorito-Carl, making the topless woman on the back of his hand dance the can-can with a flick of his fingers. "Now, boss. Far be it from me to question the wisdom of our betters--"

"Then don't," snapped Liang.

Dorito shrugged. A snicker was heard from the far corner of the room. Cots and pizza and coffee were being brought in. The Savants were ordered to 'entrench.'

Barbara Feng, the single woman accepted into the ranks of the Savants, sat, staring at the live feed on her tertiary screen, thinking. She wasn't thinking about the code in front of her or the occupiers of the construction zone in West Virginia or the vast armies of women and men working the Fog Machine. No. She was beyond that.

Feng had figured out the entire game. She wasn't omniscient; she didn't understand the motives of every player, nor was she privy to their conversations, intrigues, personal secrets. But, glancing up at Raymond Liang as he paced the dim center of the war room, she had the skeleton of everything pieced together. If she had wanted, in that moment, to derail the best-laid plans of Clara Fahrschein, Sybil Clarke, Charles Wen, Laura Granger, Seth Tenant, Mister Scary, and certain others, too? She might have done it with a few words to Liang.

Feng, however, liked secrets. A cornerstone of her personality; what had gotten her into this line of work in the first place. She liked, especially, to be the sole possessor of secrets. And she was a woman of such niche talents that, no matter what happened to UpTime Living Solutions, her abilities would be in demand.

Still, she supposed she owed it to them...

"Barbie Fu!" howled Dorito-Carl, rolling, spinning, swooping up to her like a drunken pirate on a wheeled, high-backed chair worth several grand. (And, thus, sealed her lips at the crucial moment.) "Barbie Fuuuuuuuuu!"

The nickname, under Dorito's schizoid-logic, was meant to be both provocative and adoptive. A welcoming title, if she could handle it. A punk test. And while she had long ago proved she could handle anything the rest of the Savants threw at her, Dorito was always buzzing like a fly hunting for shit. Without moving her eyes, she returned, laconically: "Dusty."

A reference to the orange powder which accumulated on his chest.

The chair had come to a stop. The back faced her. Dorito climbed up so that his sneakered feet were on the ass rest. He ooched the large piece of furniture towards her. Closer and closer. Now, scooting along, studying the floor in front of him, he initiated one of their games. The rhyming one.

He began: "Surodarity's fucked, what say you?"

" _Au contraire_ ," she murmured. "I think they're staged for a _coup_."

Dorito-Carl perked his ears. Checking with a single look to make sure they weren't being overheard, he scooted closer still. The smell of cigarettes and body spray clung to him-- the man could get her craving a cigarette like nothing else in the world-- and she reached for her vape pen, unhooking it from the charger.

He murmured: "Spit the dope, do they have a hope? That is, to doxx? Our dear black box?" Licking his lips: "To loot our root?"

"More than that." She was already bored of his game. "UpTime's tech is absolutely getting stolen out from under us. At least, if I choose to do nothing."

That 'I' snagged him.

Dorito, long a Hermes to her Artemis, cocked his head. Intellectually, he was a daring enough fellow. Irritating, but a risk taker. Beholden to very few sacred cows. She disagreed with him on any number of sensitive subjects, and yet she couldn't help but like him. The little man had been the first amongst the Savants to accept her in terms of raw ability-- or, perhaps, simply as a new way to get under the skin of the others.

In any case, he wasn't a snitch.

Licking his lips, he said: "A bet?"

Which, to any Savant, meant a contest of wills. A chance to establish dominance.

Barbara Feng shrugged. "Terms?"

The chair was facing her now. Dorito crouched low upon it like a gargoyle, rubbing the top of his bald head, nibbling thoughtfully on his thumb. Lit by the flickering light of her monitor, he said: "Right. You've found something. The ventilation shaft to our Death Star. The anaemia to our Prince Alexei. A catastrophic weakness in our system. So, for your part? You will do nothing: neither aid the enemy or tell me anything more that you already have..." He thought a moment, snapped his fingers: "Amend that. You will perform, to the best of your abilities, those tasks set to you by Liang and his superiors--"

"Fine, fine," said Feng. "I'll play fair."

"Just making terms clear," sniffed Dorito. "For _my_ part? I am now aware that a problem exists. Without making any of the other Savants aware of it I will: One, discover the nature of this problem and; Two, correct it before Tenant's boys run off with our trillion-dollar secret. How does that sound?"

"Like hubris, Dusty. What are the prizes?"

"Does honor mean nothing to you, Barbie?"

"Prizes."

"Right. I win? That is, UpTime keeps sole control over the black box? Then I get a crack at that yellow box." He leered.

The shit she put up with. The little gremlin wasn't-- she was pretty sure-- even interested in sex with women. This was just to knock her off her balance. One of Dorito's jokes that was only funny to Dorito. She said: "Try again."

He shrugged. "Barbara Feng wears dresses to work for six months. Skirts also acceptable."

She never wore them; Dorito interpreted that as discomfiture. And the truth was, yes, she hated the way she looked in 'girly' stuff. But mostly? It was an aesthetics thing. Tribal signaling. Comfort, too. Not really a big deal.

"Whereas, if you win..." Dorito-Carl paused, stuck on a commensurate punishment.

"Then I get to wear Dorito," said Barbara, at once. "Twenty-four hours, spaced out however I like. And maybe you inspire me. Maybe I start to feel pretty."

"High stakes," said the bald gargoyle, straightening. "I haven't even had the surgery. That hardly seems--"

"Doesn't it?" Barbara pounced. "Given my handicap? We still control translation. We can clear away GreyFog in an hour, send in the marines. And even the root code of Bridge is too complex for anyone to smuggle out on their glasses. We've already cut credit-cloud access and storage to the region. If you lose with the odds this stacked in your favor?" She shrugged. "Well, naturally, you don't have to take the bet..."

Heel, asshole.

Dorito-Carl read the subtext. Looking like a man eyeing the incomplete workings of a Rube Goldberg Bear Trap, he stuck out his hand.

The lesser gods chose sides.

"Good luck, Dusty," said Barbara Feng. "And watch out for the giant rubber duck."

***

Sybil Clarke sat in the eye of the storm. She sat there, in central West Virginia, in the middle of the first night of SLA occupation, in the dead center of the hijacked construction zone, granted priority access to one of the analysts in the locked-down security bunker. Screens and monitors flashed around Clarke, cameras and glasses sending their inputs to the nerve center. Flanking Clarke sat Arturo Barros (unembodied) and Ibn Al-Razi. Across from Barros, embodying a male analyst, sat Clara Fahrschein-- still a voting board member of UpTime-- giving a master class in concern trolling. Standing apart from all of them was the SLA representative, a man who identified himself simply as 'Hassan.'

These were all of the _declared_ geists in the dim and cramped space-- but, certainly, there could be others. If Fahrschein had loyalists amongst the analyst team-- women or men sporting the GreyFog patch and willing to host spies without protest-- Sybil Clarke had no way of knowing. Clarke had to assume compromise everywhere. Every set of eyes in this dim place might hold a second set, just beneath. The thought made her shiver, once, and then simply made her angry. She imagined Charles Wen skipping silently and mockingly from body to body like Bugs Bunny between tree trunks.

Unhelpful.

Also unhelpful was Ibn Al-Razi, embodying a female analyst and playing Joanna Sung, CEO, to the hilt. Al-Razi had insisted, of course. And, of course, without the man inside of her (Clarke), specifically, there was no way to control for him: to censor and mold 'Sung' into the composite leader UpTime needed at the moment. Infuriating, especially with Barros, Fahrschein, and this Hassan present and observing.

Infuriating, despite the fact that Clarke had foreseen it-- that she was, actually, counting on it. So, alright, amend that: Ibn was helpful, despite himself.

"We'll hang him out to dry!" Al-Razi was at that moment howling, watching hours-old footage of a guard surrendering. "Traitor! Coward! I suppose he's one of yours?" Snarled at Fahrschein.

The embodied analyst made a faux-shocked face. "Really, Joanna! Certainly, I am in the habit of finding down-on-their-luck Surrogates employment with our company. That seems only fair, considering the wealth they've created for us."

Cheshire smile on that forgettable mien.

"May I note," chimed in Hassan, "that the Suro Liberation Army has not, before today, been in contact with any member of UpTime Living Solutions."

Al-Razi: "That's because your group is nothing but a front, a proxy! For, for--"

Well, reflected Clarke. That's the problem, Ibn: for everyone.

"We have been completely upfront about our objectives," continued Hassan. "If you want us to stand down? Release the Bridge. Our men will surrender themselves to law enforcement the moment a reputable third party is able to reproduce SCHMoC translation."

He sounded so smug Clarke had to fight down the impulse to spit on the poor man he wore. Meanwhile, on the wall above them, another feed went dark.

Three feeds which the hijackers had left live showed separate lines of burly construction workers and security personnel blindfolded and cuffed, hands behind backs. Hostages. The Suros amongst them, Clarke knew, had already been contacted and surreptitiously embodied by US Army Green Berets.

Al-Razi snarled again and Clarke decided she'd seen enough. Hassan, Fahrschein, and very likely Wen, had been given the 'furious CEO' show. They would take heart, and-- if Clarke were correct-- they'd push forward. Enough of this, then; it was embarrassing. She sent a text to the glasses of the analyst Al-Razi wore.

[Ibn, I need to speak with you in private. Away from here.]

The analyst's face froze in a rictus of disbelief.

[Sybil? We've got a bit of a situation if you haven't noticed. We can discuss your wardrobe once we secure the single piece of tech that gives our company value.]

Fahrschein's analyst's lips twitched. Messaging had been compromised, then. Fine.

[As a voting board member,] replied Clarke, [I invoke my rights. I would like a private meeting.]

[And as CEO of the company currently suffering an unprecedented attack I invoke whatever emergency fucking powers I need to stay right here and monitor the situation.]

Again, fine. Sybil Clarke sent a message to Al-Razi's far-off personal assistant, Ilja Hokkerstrom. Approvals were given. Clarke's geist retracted from the bunkered analyst in West Virginia-- and shot out towards a private jet crossing high above the Arctic.

Now embodying Hokkerstrom (stupendously blonde, long legs, cold eyes, Icelandic accent, whip-crack mind, relentlessly domineering in her quiet-northern way), Sybil Clarke walked up to the cowled-and-unreactive figure of Ibn Al-Razi.

She switched off his UpSet.

The figure wiggled and cursed in confusion. Suddenly furious, he howled, pulling off his hood. Better. Had the UpSet not been hooked, via microfilaments, through his eyes and into his brain? She'd have torn the thing off him herself.

"Ilja!" howled Al-Razi. "Ilja, by what devil--?"

"Quiet," said Clarke. "Ibn, this is Sybil. Listen to me: I'm taking over dealing with Hassan, Tenant, the SLA. I need you to keep your head down for the next few days." She smiled Ilja's generous lips. "Maybe spend some time with your wife?"

Al-Razi blinked his particulate-reddened eyes, smoothed his sparkling suit. "Sybil?" He blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. Voice growing louder: "Sybil, have you any _idea_ how this works? I'm the geist which Platform Capital appointed as CEO. The senior partner. The _decision_ maker. You, basically? Are UpTime's thirty-three-million-dollar-a-year granite countertop. So when I _tell_ you--"

"Ibn," interrupted Clarke. "Listen." (Ilja, disbelieving, was quietly verifying the identity of her geist via her glasses.) "Translation is safe. Hear me? There is nothing the hijackers in West Virginia can do to jeopardize UpTime's command of the market. Nothing. This is the situation which I, through much cautious planning, have brought about..."

Ilja Hokkerstrom spoke for approximately twenty minutes, while night-clad arctic seas passed far beneath. By the time she was finished, Al-Razi had assumed a pose resembling Rodin's _Thinker_ , reddened eyes staring. Which told Clarke that the man was smart enough, at least, to have updated the score.

Still staring at nothing, he said: "That's so much to invest in a trap..."

"To maintain our market position? To gain the artificial construct?"

His gesture conceded much.

"And the trap is sprung," pushed Clarke. "And the articon? Game changing. And yet comes to nothing without our infrastructure."

"Putting us in a rather nice bargaining position," murmured Al-Razi, stroking his broad chin. Then: "Ms. Clarke, I apologize--" (Ilja's toes curled deliciously, the secret way this woman expressed her surprise) "-- I underestimated you. I should have realized that a woman embodied in such a position would learn a thing or two. You do seem to have the situation well in-hand. And since this is your long-term project, your baby, I'll allow you to pursue..."

Oh? thought Clarke, keeping Ilja's face innocently blank. You'll _allow_ me? Since this is my baby? Or is it because you, Ibn Al-Razi, are a notorious bit of corporate jetsam. A coaster. A fundamentally lazy man whose career has consisted in propelling upwards on the hard work and clever ideas of subordinates-- particularly women? And because I, ahem, _floated_ you as a CEO candidate to Platform Capital based on these very traits, knowing what they cede? Alright, Ibn, if you'll _allow_ it: I do humbly reassume _de facto_ executive control of UpTime Living Solutions.

But, grafting a look of surprise to Ilja Hokkerstrom, Sybil Clarke gave her blonde head a millimeter bow of deference. "Sir," she said. "I won't let you down."

And without waiting for a reply, was gone.

## Chapter 7

ON THE MORNING OF THE SECOND DAY OF THE HIJACKING-- the day when everything went wrong-- it was Tenant's Colombian trainer, Felipe Correa, who embodied him just before dawn.

"Arriba. Arriba, companero. Mucho que hacer, baby."

Correa licked Tenant's lips as he rolled, fully-dressed, from his cot-- and went looking for amphetamines in the early-morning dark. Felipe's prime motivator, Tenant reminded himself groggily, was that he liked to get amped.

The sooner the better. Tenant was exhausted from the previous day. He hadn't slept well. He ached.

The guard towers stood unlit in the cold morning. Manned by mercenaries with night-vision goggles and scoped rifles, they were not, Tenant knew, the hijackers' first line of defense. Those would be Clara Fahrschein's loyalists, scattered invisibly amongst the UpTime staff. Already, their early-warning system was hard at work, keeping them apprised of developments in all directions. Tenant took a tablet of pharmaceutical-grade speed from one of the plastic sheets available and popped it, chasing with coffee. He slapped himself gently across the face again, felt himself lifted up, up, up.

And headed down. Down into the belly of this beast which UpTime had been building in the Alleghenies. Down, because much of the structure of this quantum farm had been built into cool pits excavated in the earth. Down, to where Tenant's men-- speaking with the gentle voices of dark shopkeepers-- interrogated UpTime's captured systems. Everything smelled of water droplets upon rock and the air was cold enough that Tenant's breath formed mist.

Correa, who was running things now that the situation was static, was greeted everywhere with brief salutes which he had Tenant return, casually. This, until they were well underground, and encountered Arnold "Arnie" Mallard, a trucking guard from Pittsburgh embodied by a computer scientist from Ahmedabad. Tenant found himself asking: "Progress?"

And Arnie, who might've played a grizzled marine in _Band of Brothers_ , announced in a piping voice: "Iya do not trust this. What I am looking at."

The Colombian took a piece of bubblegum from Tenant's left-jacket pocket, unwrapped it, popped it into his mouth, began to chew. He offered Arnie a seat while remaining standing himself. Beginning to pace, he said: "Please explain."

The computer scientist (who also remained standing) nodded. "Sirrah. Both the UpTime engineers and programmers I have spoken to hint that there is something intrinsic to this facility which necessitates SCHMoC translation--"

"'Intrinsic?'" asked Correa.

Mallard shrugged. Western Pennsylvania came through as he said: "Built in, connected to, part of."

"I see."

Mallard sniffed, distant geist unhappy at being interrupted. "Nonetheless, gentlemen? From everything that Iya have seen so far? This is a standard quantum farm. In fact? I believe the structure reaches underground to disguise this very fact--"

Tenant wanted to close his eyes. Arnie's geist's English was technically perfect, but the distant engineer constantly emphasized the wrong syllable. The effect was like listening to a record with the timing off: he could just make out...

"-- my professional opinion?" finished the geist. "The idea that the Bridge necessitated special hardware or infrastructure has always felt specious to me-- and I am increasingly convinced that UpTime's translation sites exist primarily to provide local processing power--"

Tenant found himself saying: "But our intelligence was good? We can extract the root code?"

Mallard smiled another's peevish smile. "The algorithm is encrypted, but the encryption _can_ be broken." he shrugged. "You're giving my team three days; I estimate we will only need two. Perhaps less."

"That's good news, Dr. Rattaha--"

"Names, please!" squealed Arnie.

"Of course, Doctor," said Tenant. "Good news, even so."

"We still need a physical vehicle of transmission," worried Arnie. "If the translation algorithm is ever to leave this site. We're cut off from the clouds."

Tenant felt his hand wave in a dismissive gesture. Found himself saying: "Not to worry, Doctor. We'll get it out. Our superiors have already thought of everything."

***

"Watch out," Barbie Fu had warned, "for the giant rubber duck."

Dorito-Carl had spent much of the first full day of the occupation hunting for it. Now, sitting upon his haunches, knees pulled up against chin, he made a distracted noise. Grabbing hold of a nearby table edge, he set his throne to spinning. Spin, spin! He felt the centrifugal force pulling at his cheeks and lips, turning his fellow Savants into lines of color, smoothing the creases in his brain. Spin, you bastard, spin!

The giant rubber duck. Dorito hadn't asked for any ducks, damnit! Nor had he asked for clues. The fact that Barbara had supplied this one, voluntarily, rendered it suspect. It might be a nothing more than a lie: a fabrication designed to send him tromping on a wild duck hunt. Or it might be an acronym. An Easter Egg. Knowing Barbie, it could be...

No, thought Dorito. Knowing Barbie, there had to be something there. The woman played it straight.

Dorito put his hand against the table edge and pushed. And spun. Pondered. One of the Surrogates occupying the construction zone, he knew, was named Mallard. Of course, another was named Crane. Yet another, Drake. These mountain men! Plenty of waterfowl surnames. But was he really supposed to believe one of these hillbilly proxies held the key to bringing down UpTime Living Solutions? Un-fucking-likely. Maybe the geists who embodied _them_ \-- but thanks to orders from the top, there was no way to tell who those specialists were. The Fog covered everything. Had Barbie somehow seen through it? No. Impossible.

Ergo? The attack she envisioned might _utilize_ the Fog but didn't come from _inside_ of it...

Dorito had checked existing backdoors. UpTime had at least one physical translation site on every continent except Antarctica. One after another, he conducted cursory audits on recent usage, history, status-- and found nothing but the tracks left by other auditors. The company's white blood cells active and patrolling. No outsider had penetrated that gaze. If anything, the hijacking in West Virginia made a sneak attack on their existing digital infrastructure less plausible.

Huh.

Dorito had gathered up the names of UpTime auditors, hunting for ducks. He'd continued his forensic prowl. Many of the auditors were contract workers. Alright. Stupid in principle, but it shouldn't matter. There were delicate systems in place to keep them from 'prospecting.' If even a portion of the root were downloaded to an external device? Silent alarms in their multitudes doth ring; the contractor wouldn't make it out of the building. And contractors who were also Suros were constantly monitored for alien presences in these controlled environments. Those affected by GreyFog had been placed on leave, 'dummy' signal or not. No one without clearance entered UpTime's IT security suites.

So, the giant rubber duck? It would be something to look for, something to see, everywhere. That, he told himself again, was why Barbie had planted it in his head. An archetypal image. She would have him chasing duck-shaped shadows! When, in fact, UpTime was sealed watertight. 'Water off a duck's back?' No. Forget it!

And yet...

The spinning slowed, giving Dorito a three-hundred-and-sixty-five degree view of the Savants' war room. Here was Raymond Liang, six or seven other Savants, the pretty Brazilian boy who served as Liang's majordomo. Here was Barbie Fu. She was gazing placidly into a number set. The chair had stopped. She felt his eyes on her, turned, made a face. "What?"

He grinned. "Figured it out. Your duck."

She turned back to her screen. "No you haven't."

Because there's nothing to figure out! he wanted to shout. He scowled.

Only now, on top of everything else, he heard the cheerful-idiot voice of Raymond Liang: "Alright, boys! Orders straight from the top! It's started!"

***

As the second day of the occupation crawled into night, Security Chief Arturo Barros lay atop the security bunker's locked weapons cache. He was pretending to sleep, sneaking glances at the women and men he shared this place with. Like Sybil Clarke, he was aware that the bunker had potentially been invaded by any number of GreyFog-shrouded enemies...

That goddamn Fog.

Barros had ordered a number of trusted security officers to embody those bunkered analysts not actively hosting senior UpTime staff. This, he figured, would stop them up like bottles. However, he'd soon realized that under GreyFog he still couldn't be certain of loyalties. If any of these people were loyal to Fahrschein? They might play Prince and Pauper with his distant officers: redirecting their gestalts to a ready proxy in a ready-made studio-- a dark, cramped place with live video feeds and a trained Barros look alike-- while the SLA embodied their own people here under his nose. Barros lacked the GPS data to know better.

Pretty far-fetched! But the Fog made you paranoid; you could never be quite sure. Barros had asked after wives, husbands, children. He'd tried to trip people up by mentioning particularly-hated exes. Mostly, he'd gotten the answers he expected.

But he still 'slept' atop the weapons cache.

Because another element of GreyFog was that it favored the diffuse network of the defenders. The overwhelming advantages of company power-- men, weaponry, legitimacy, resources-- were undercut. Three times now, from different directions and distances, local police had attempted to rush the construction zone. Each time, the SLA had known. Most recently, with armed extraction teams barreling towards the construction zone in armored personnel carriers, the analyst embodied by Hassan had opened his eyes, clucked his tongue, and said directly to Barros: "We know they're coming. We have hostages. How many people are you trying to get killed?"

Hassan. Their red telephone. Currently he stood at the far end of the dark room, borrowed eyes half-lidded as though deep in meditation, listening, watching.

Only now, as Barros studied him, Hassan's eyes widened.

Arturo Barros trailed his gaze to one of their live feeds: Arnold Mallard-- hosting one of the SLA's technical specialists-- crossing the construction zone at a run. Barros felt his body waking up, tensing. Something was happening. Something was about to happen.

Sybil Clarke noticed it, too. The man she was wearing pulled at his mustache and murmured: "Damn, Clara. Just under forty-eight hours! Pretty good!"

"What?" spat Fahrschein, geist also present. "What are you talking about?"

"They've cracked it," said Clarke. "You're going to love this, Clara."

Hassan was frowning. Murmuring. Sending frantic messages across his analyst's glasses.

"Ready for the big reveal?" asked Clarke, pulling at her mustaches.

"What--?" said Fahrschein.

Clarke's analyst made a sweeping gesture. "Your investments are safe. Bridge isn't here. Never was. Isn't that great news?"

Fahrschein snorted her disbelief. "This project was approved more than a year ago," she said. "I approved it. There wasn't any sinister objective. We needed a translation site on the east coast. We foresaw real need..."

"You _did_ approve it!" laughed Clarke. "But the devil is in the details, Clara. This will be a translation site, yes. But there's nothing unique about the hardware being built here. Just a standard quantum farm. And it's the work of a few days to install the Bridge and bring it up to speed. Meanwhile we've been testing out other programs. A power-storage algorithm, which we encrypted. And which Mallard has cracked. Congratulations!"

Arturo Barros, suddenly, understood why Clarke had been willing to risk so much from her dominant position: because she'd never been risking anything. She had known they were coming. She'd played the obvious counter. Probably, she had counted on him, Barros, betraying UpTime, being just another conduit relaying false confidence to Fahrschein. Not that it mattered. None of his decisions up to this point had mattered; whichever way he'd cast his lot would have come up more or less the same.

Barros thought of Hunter Greene, up in his tower, dying in the defense of nothing. A feint. A head fake. Wasted brain matter.

Hassan, from his corner, said: "The SLA wanted a peaceful resolution. We still do. But we have a duty to unearth translation--"

Clarke gave a deep laugh from her man. He said: "Son? I have nothing against you, personally, so listen: it's time to run."

"Oh?" Hassan's analyst frowned, seemed to see something new on his classes.

"You've lost. We're breaking GreyFog. Right now."

"Bullshit," said Clara Fahrschein.

"Your last warning," said Clarke. "If I learn your real name, 'Hassan,' you'll never work again."

Hassan, frowning, appeared to hear a far-off sound.

Then the analyst he was wearing straightened, said: "He's tapped out."

"Off to check," said Clarke. "He won't be back." Louder, so that his voice filled the dim space: "Anyone else? This is the time to leave!"

None of the other analysts appeared to throw off geists. But you never knew.

Their eyes turned to the monitors before them. Everywhere, Tenant's men were speaking into radios, listening to earbuds, rushing back and forth. The blindfolded and chair-bound hostages were left, suddenly, without guards. The commandos embodied amongst them were frantically getting to work on their bindings. Meanwhile SLA men were halting, mid-step, looking around themselves as though waking up from a dream. The mercenaries were bailing, keeping names and operating accounts off blacklists.

"I had entire teams assuring me GreyFog couldn't be broken in under seventy-two hours," murmured Fahrschein.

"What's that, Clara?"

"Of course, we never intended for the program to be used like this. Weaponized against us."

"Of course not."

"I guess you feel like we've won this thing?"

Sybil Clarke's analyst frowned slightly. "The embodied mercenaries are disbanding. Anyone still embodied will have their connections brought down in a few minutes. Soon there'll be no one left here except Tenant's rednecks. They don't even have on-site tech to poach."

"I see armed, dug-in men with hostages and a goal. And now, an audience."

"Proxies who thought they were getting a free ride to glory. Who believed every move would be scripted by professionals. Now? No more pros. No more script."

"Which is not," noted Barros, "necessarily good."

***

Seth Tenant had been standing around with Buddy McDouglass, fiddling with kalashnikovs and rapping in Spanish when Arnie Mallard came rushing up looking like a man wrestling down a coronary. Not good news, either: they'd hijacked the wrong goddamn address. No Bridge Algorithm. They might as well be occupying a fucking Denny's.

Duped. Once again duped.

Oh, the late-night talk show hosts were going to have fun! Especially after all of Hassan's sweet talk. Christ. They'd played it perfectly to type, too: confused, leftover men trying to punch above their weight; victims of the modern world.

And that wasn't the worst news.

"We're losing Fog cover, boys." Tenant recognized Hassan, suddenly, speaking through Broke Knee Cree. "Show's over."

"Puta Madre!" said Buddy, checking his glasses.

And Buddy went back to being Buddy.

"What about us?" asked Tenant, shoving aside Correa.

Broke Knee checked his watch, looked back up: "We lost this time, Seth. But we learned from this. We'll keep fighting. And next time--"

"Alright," Tenant said, cutting him off. "But what about _us?_ "

And heard himself say: "Surrender."

"Yeah?" said Buddy. "Fuck that. You think I signed up to get my ass kicked just one more time? We're dug in. You boys can skedaddle, but I want what we came here for."

Hassan, incredulous: "You realize that what you came for-- that it isn't here?"

McDouglass chewed his lower lip. Tenant said: "Except, now we've got leverage. How many people did you say contributed to GreyFog? People _want_ this. UpTime will have to at least listen to us. We'll see what it comes to."

Hassan made Broke Knee give a little whistle: "A quick piece of advice? If you're serious about going through with this? Release your hostages. Show that you're reasonable, that your demands are just. Let those mercenaries take the blame for Greene. And when this is over?" Broke Knee shrugged. "Might be, everybody walks."

Then Hassan was gone. And Broke Knee was spitting on the upturned earth. "Looks like we're up the creek."

Seth Tenant looked around the site. Men with rifles standing stock still, as though listening to a sudden absence of noise. He imagined geists like long lines of quicksilver, leaving their heads and floating up into the sky. The mercenary rapture.

It was very quiet for about half a minute.

Then Buddy said: "Better let the boys know what the plan is, sir."

"I'm still the boss, then." Tenant's voice almost questioning.

"On paper. Shit. On the ground, too."

"Think they'll, uh, go for it?"

"Simpler than holding a goddamn election."

"Shit," said Broke Knee. "Look where we find ourselves. We come this far, ain't we? In for a penny."

"And the others--?"

"Respectfully, sir," said Buddy. "Any poor son of a bitch stupid or desperate enough to get himself shanghaied by a foreign merc into this Patty Hearst outfit? Is probably ready to go. About a half these guys? Far as I can tell? Grinded up meat shields. Hamburger patties. And every one of 'em, you can bet, wants to stick it to UpTime for one thing or another."

"I sure as shit do," said Broke Knee, raising his hand like a boy in class.

Mallard said: "Finally someone speaks some goddamn sense."

Tenant nodded. Looking gratefully at Buddy, he extended a hand.

"Good to meet you, McDouglass. Seth Tenant."

They shook.

Then Broke Knee Cree laughed a tittering laugh-- a Chucklefuck tell-- so Tenant, wasting no time, spoke into his radio. He'd learned the merc lingo along with everyone else, hadn't he? He used some of it now, letting his boys-- _his_ boys-- know that Mr. Tenant was still in charge, that their goal remained the Bridge Algorithm.

Also: they would be releasing the hostages. Without the Bridge present, they found themselves with a devil's bargain: human lives or their demands met. Instead they would line the hostages up, under guard, in an hour-- and release them, single file, to the waiting circle of police and press. The analysts inside the security bunker, if they exited unarmed, would be treated the same. Any SLA man unwilling to stay and make his stand might leave with them.

He required a radio check-in in no less than three minutes.

Thirty-six men replied, with drilled-in precision, from different positions around the construction zone. All thirty-six replied inside of three minutes and in the affirmative. Most sounded relieved. Tenant wondered, suddenly, what their histories must be, that they were ready to do this thing. Hamburger patties. What kind of collective desperation had brought them here, to this place, with him?

***

Dorito-Carl lay back in his chair, arms crossed over orange-speckled chest.

Huh.

It _might_ be that UpTime had this thing in the bag. That Dorito would win his wager by default. With GreyFog removed-- with the Surrogates within the construction zone cut off from outside help-- and the black box still firmly in UpTime's grip...

He glanced around the room. The other Savants were silently manic, tearing through the last shreds of Fog, grabbing account names, UpSet address, GPS locations. And then? Disconnecting accounts. Creating a geist vacuum around the construction zone. A controlled area. Thumbing the scales back to where they belonged. Meanwhile, Barbara Feng lay in one of the cots, fingers twitching, mouth arrayed in what might be a smile as she surfed the internet on her glasses. Perhaps her own feint? Meant to convey her own false confidence?

In any case, Raymond Liang was declaring victory in his best Porky Pig: "Th-th-th-th-th-THAT'S ALL, FOLKS! I'm going home!"

At least they were free of _him_ for a few hours.

Except that now Liang's pretty-boy assistant was saying telling him something in a low voice. And Liang appeared to change his mind. He shrugged, sitting.

Dorito-Carl bristled. Liang was that special kind of confident moron who'd brush off an expert in the field without thought-- while tailoring office policy to meet the whims of a glorified barista. A boy who hectored Liang as though they were married!

The Idiot Savant forced down a chuckle.

There were even rumors that Loretti...

Dorito froze, shoulders hunched. Loretti. The back door? The _back-fucking-door_. Placing his hand on the tabletop, he gave himself a single spin. Stopped the chair. Took a breath. Conducted a search of Suros with the last name 'Romao' within a hundred miles. Not many. The Savant found pretty boy's Suro profile picture. Engaged administrator privileges. With GreyFog clearing, it would be possible to check...

Dorito-Carl felt his breath catch. And didn't make a sound. Not a church-mouse squeak.

Because the glorified barista was embodied. At this moment. Someone was inside him. A hidden presence. A foreign mind. A spy. Here, in UpTime's heart, buried amongst the Idiot Savants.

Dorito felt as though he'd been punched in the balls. The brazenness! And? Just like a substantial hit to the nuts? It took your breath away. Romao's geist, meanwhile, was wearing an UpSet just over thirty miles away. Dorito checked the coordinates on a maps application. Sure enough!

The Liang Household.

Loretti Liang. Her far-off tits probably got hard walking around incognito, thought Dorito, hoovering up office gossip. Christ. And Raymond Liang would have had their household UpSets cleared by security. How much did UpTime pay that asshole annually? To play kinky games with his wife all over the building! What was it Dorito had heard about the file room?

That's right. The 'F-room,' they called it.

Only, where did the rubber duck come into things? Dorito shook his head. Nowhere. Jesus. Forget the fucking duck.

This was UpTime Security's critical weakness, Dorito was certain. Because, once you noticed it? You could drive a goddamn hovercraft through the failures occurring at this moment. Dorito-Carl, however, like Barbara Feng, shared a dominating character trait. Curiosity. Dorito wanted to see how the SLA planned to pull off their magic trick. He would see how they planned to do it, and he would stop them in the act.

But not before having a private chat with Ray Liang. Cutting the deal of the century.

Oh, he wanted to see how they planned to pull it off. Because? Even now it shouldn't be possible for Bridge to be stolen out from under them. The ongoing program audit showed that no internal attempts had been made to copy or download even a portion of Bridge's root.

Barbie, however, had found _something_ \-- and so he had to at least entertain the possibility. Diogo Romao was lying in a cot near Raymond Liang, watching the news. No threat there. But what if...? What if...?

Dorito searched for more UpSet signals being sent from Liang household.

And found one.

Unbelievable. A second geist. Spy number two was embodied downstairs with the other typewriting chimps, probably helping with the Bridge audit--

The Bridge audit.

Holy--

Dorito shook his head again. It shouldn't _matter_ ; as long as no information had been copied. It would take a whole team of computer scientists weeks to come to a working understanding of Bridge's root code. Dorito checked the signal coming in from the Liang's second UpSet. Their second infiltrator had 'only' had themselves about thirty-six hours, on and off, of unfettered access to Bridge...

Incredible. Dorito stood up from his chair, stretched, moved toward the elevator. He found Barbara Feng (she had very-casually swung herself out of her cot) standing next to him.

"Barbie," he murmured.

"Dusty. Where you going?"

"Stretching my legs."

"Mind if I join?"

"You're not allowed to meddle," he complained. "That's part of the bet."

"Not meddling. I'm curious too."

Which meant he really _was_ on the trail. "Alright..."

They took the stairs down to the level where the contractors worked. Footfalls echoing in the large space, Dorito said: "That was a cheap shot. That duck thing. I wasted a lot of time."

She stopped, causing him to stop. She turned her head. "You didn't figure it out?"

"What?"

"The Liang's home security system. You didn't insert yourself? Playback footage? Once you'd figured out where the second operator was coming in from?"

There was the wall. That was the place his forehead needed to go.

A smile lit up her face. "Well, c'mon Dusty! Good enough, anyway. Let's go meet the rubber duck!"

They moved into the temps' domain. Dark and warm. A single monitor in the corner of the room, turned against the wall. The raw code laid out beside the audit status wasn't visible to passersby. Dorito had his glasses set to 'Nametag,' so that the words, 'Chun-Ja, Park,' floated above the small woman's head. One of their longer-run temps, he recognized her.

She was wearing a set of headphones and was wrapped in a blue fleece blanket. Her face, peering into the monitor, was oddly slack. This would be the face of whoever wore Park. The infiltrator. That round face peered up at Dorito-Carl and Barbara Feng.

"Gotcha," whispered Dorito.

"Quack!" answered Park Chun-Ja, ruffling her fleece blanket. "Quack! Quack!"

## Chapter 8

A DIMLY-LIT BASEMENT IN HONG KONG. Four old Cantonese men sit around a table, smoking cigarettes, drinking a little, trading dirty pics on their glasses, arguing politics. Cheong Jinhai is one of these four, chatting, enjoying himself, cracking wise-- but when the jobs come in, he goes pokerfaced. Silent and patriarchal. Europeans and Americans, especially, are huge suckers for walled-off Han faces. Anything businessmen can't read themselves, they pay big for. Which is good, because whatever the conmen in Beijing claim? Pensions just aren't what they used to be. And remissions from the kids in Vancouver BC are intercepted, often as not, to be redirected to some Party ombudsman's girlfriend's shoe fund. And frankly? If Cheong Jinhai is feeling honest? There are worse things for a retiree to do with his time. The work keeps Jinhai out of his wife's hair all day-- good for their marriage, now that the kids have gone trans-Pacific-- and it lets him bring the old lady some spare cash at the end of most weeks. Her soft, almost-begrudging smile something that still motivates that impulse in him.

Plus? Holy fuck! Very entertaining, this chat room. These gigs? Pure theater. The shit Jinhai sees, day to day. The shit he participates in. Wow. And he doesn't even have to seek it out! It comes straight to him.

For instance: about a minute ago Hui Bohai stood up, pounded both fists down on the felt top of their table-- cards and poker chips doing a little collapse-- and just started roaring away in Japanese. And poor, sad-sack Tsang Ji was up and suddenly bowing, bowing, bowing so that Cheong Jinhai was frankly worried about the fellow's back. (Meanwhile their fourth, Chan Wai-Ling, unembodied, was staring serenely across the table and so giving the impression-- much appreciated by foreign clientele-- that if a murder were about to take place in this room, it wouldn't be the first and it wouldn't even be particularly interesting.)

Poor Tsang Ji-- the heel of this exchange, for certain-- weeping, bowing some more, clasping his hands together, begging in Japanese. Fucking Japs! Absolute masochists. And you never realize how demonstrative they are until you see them down here (of course, they only come down here when somebody has fucked up big). You never met such drama queens! Even the Latins and Sub-Saharans-- after some preliminary shouting-- usually manage to quiet down into scary, low rhythms. Not the samurai. With them, it's all weeping and gnashing of teeth, like whatever mistake they made is eating its way out from the inside.

They're always begging to gut themselves open down in this Hong Kong basement, an ocean away from whatever trouble they made.

Currently, the samurai wearing Hui Bohai looks like he wants to flip over the table (no deal; it's bolted to the floor). So he's the top gorilla somewhere. Tsang Ji, by now, is on hands and feet, tears streaming down his old face (their work ain't all glamor) and he's begging for whatever form of mercy these people understand. Hui Bohai is growing quieter, stern. The correct supplication is being shown, even if only via proxy. More whimpering. Quieting grunts from the head gorilla. (Go ahead, Hiroshi! thinks Cheong Jinhai. Beat your chest. Complete the picture for me!) But a dialogue is taking place. Tsang Ji wiggling on the ground, playing the worm. Hui Bohai dictating. Then bowing (Ji's head going much, much lower), shaking hands. Then, at last...

"They're gone," says Hui Bohai in Cantonese, the edges of his lips upturned, eyes gleaming. "All done." A single cough.

And the four old men are laughing.

Howling! Tsang Ji, recently up from the floor, falls back down again, holding his chest, more tears streaming from his eyes, body heaving. Cheong Jinhai's oldest grandson, a tall Canadian boy, would call what he's doing 'ROFLing.' Part of it is face saving, like: 'Can you believe what that guy had me doing? Me neither! That wasn't _me_ , guys!' But mostly, it's genuine mirth shared equally amongst the retirees-- Hong Kongers who lived entire lives in the same district of the same city before meeting one another, one at a time, in basements just like this one. Men who, through common necessity, have become friends.

The little bell in Cheong Jinhai's head is going off. Another one, already? He almost declines. They haven't even finished laughing at the samurai! But he notices Chan Wai-Ling-- who missed getting embodied, and therefore paid, last exchange-- straighten up in a way that brings to mind a puppet starting a show. Well, thinks Cheong Jinhai, wiping away tears of laughter, taking a final draw on a declining cigarette, time to make some Yuan.

There are three of them, this time: Chan Wai-Ling, Cheong Jinhai, and poor Tsang Ji. Hui Bohai, tired from hosting the gorilla, sits back, lights a cigarette, engages his blank-faced, mafioso stare. No one says anything for a moment. Then Cheong Jinhai, says, in English:

"Here I am, Sybil." Looking around. "Jesus. You know how to pick 'em."

Amongst the four of them only Jinhai speaks English. He's not supposed to and he does his best, while embodied, never to let it show. But his friends, comprehending as little English as Japanese, will prod him with questions the minute the chat room is empty of geists: Who said what? Who was I? What did I say after he said that--?

Across the table, Chan Wai-Ling says: "Ready to talk terms?"

Cheong Jinhai shifts. His chest is tight, his arms and legs flooding with adrenaline. One of the side effects he doesn't tell his wife about, being embodied by all these desperate gamblers at moments of peak stress, is the strain his aging body endures. A free-market koan flits through his mind: if an old Hong Konger dies of heart-attack in a deniable basement chat room-- do his buddies make sure his wife gets his pay?

Anyway, he recognizes the feeling. This geist is leveraged, somewhere, to the hilt. Praying that the roulette wheel falls favorably. Fucking gamblers! Well, it's got nothing to do with Cheong Jinhai-- unless, of course, it kills him. He forces the geist to slow its breathing down and the being within relents. Alright, friend. One old gambler to another? Calm the fuck down. That'll help with our poker face, too. And there's no reason to give that up until the game-- cards, finance, horses, whatever-- is lost for certain.

"Terms?" drawls Cheong Jinhai. "You still think--?"

"I don't think," says Chan Wai-Ling. "I know. I've got you, Clara. The entire conspiracy. It wasn't difficult. Ms. Granger?"

Tsang Ji, reluctantly: "Yes. Here I am."

Cheong Jinhai feels his blood go cold. Not good news. He forces another slow breath, the endorphins generated by his oxygenated blood traveling as packets of information via Full Sensory Intake, probably translated by the Bridge site on Hokkaido, and delivered through UpSet to his geist's faraway brain. Calming. In effect saying: Cheong Jinhai will carry you, geist. Whatever trouble you're in, we face it together.

Jinhai says: "Anything to stick it to your Immiserator, Laura?"

Tsang Ji's face betrays conflict, pain. Once this is over, he's not going to leave Jinhai alone until every last sentence has been translated. He looks at the table, not even meeting a proxy stare: "You think everything is about you? Those men in that construction zone are, finally, my responsibility, Clara. So, yes, I'm cutting a deal, getting them safe passage. Reduced sentences."

Cheong Jinhai: "Those men made their own decisions. Every last one of them a volunteer."

Tsang Ji: "Because I told them that there was a black box to steal. Freedom to be won. You sent my people on a boondoggle. Now Surodarity is in damage-control mode. And if that means throwing you under the bus--?"

Tsang Ji shrugs, now, and looks straight at Cheong Jinhai, real hate in his eyes.

Oh, wayward geist! What a hole you've dug for yourself! Am I, Cheong Jinhai, to be your only ally in your time of need? And that, only, because you've paid me, you wear me, I'm ignorant of your past! Well, and how many gamblers do I serve this function for, day after day? Many, many. So, fuck it, we'll do the best we can!

"We're making sure no one else gets hurt by you, Clara," says Chan Wai-Ling. "By your meddling. Your little intrigues. We're going to seal this catastrophe up, wrap it in a bow, and then we're sending you to prison. Unless, of course, you want to settle things here and now. Talk terms. Come to an informal agreement."

Cheong Jinhai can feel fury moving through him as a shiver. Also, fear. But his geist is obviously no stranger to risk. He hears himself say: "And what about Tenant and his people? They haven't surrendered, last I checked. Has anyone thought to consult them?"

Chan Wai-Ling, lighting a cigarette: "Mr. Tenant's men appear amenable. They're already releasing hostages... and we've locked down all nearby Suro accounts, meaning you can't slip in to feed them any more wise ideas."

Silence around the table as each actor tries to get a read on the others.

"You've still got to dislodge them," Cheong Jinhai hears himself say, heart thumping. Poor, loyal heart. He thinks of the needle on a steam valve, fluttering from yellow into red. "They're sitting, armed, on UpTime property. They've got media attention. People are sympathetic to their cause. This isn't over."

"It's over," says Chan Wai-Ling, taking a contented draw. "It's over."

"It's over," agrees skinny, sad-sack Tsang Ji.

"Those men," says Cheong Jinhai, geist rallying. "Tenant's fellow travelers? No one has taken a single one of them seriously for years! Well, people are taking them seriously now! People are rooting for them! You think they're just going to cave?

"They're used-up meatshields, Laura. Even if they avoid jail time-- even then-- Sybil, here, will shut down their Suro accounts. They know that. They've got no 'future' worth applying the noun to.

"No, this isn't over. Not unless you're ready to commit a massacre."

Chan Wai-Ling, content to smoke during Cheong Jinhai's monologue, says: "Ah. I see what the problem is, Clara! You still believe you have some kind of bargaining position." He turns to Hui Bohai. "Mr. Wen?"

Now Hui Bohai straightens, taking on another. "Sybil," he says, nodding to Chan Wai-Ling. "Laura," another nod. A pause. "Clara."

A feeling, suddenly, of falling. The earth cut out from underneath! Cheong Jinhai takes control, keeps himself sitting straight, impassive. Cutting off the-- involuntary?-- screams of hatred, protest, disbelief. Betrayal.

Cheong Jinhai forces himself to breathe. Not yet, gambler! Not until you know you've lost.

Hui Bohai says: "The Bridge wasn't there, Clara."

Cheong Jinhai will not let his face move.

"You can no longer deliver us the future," says Hui Bohai. "Ms. Clarke can. So, I'm forced to show her what I've got to sell. You know how much I wish it were otherwise."

"You're going to send in your constructs."

Hui Bohai nods. "They'll break this occupation up without need for any more violence. Tenant's men can have a massacre if they want one, but it won't come from us. And I am certain that when Ms. Sung sees what Alchemute's product can do--"

He doesn't need to say anything more. That feeling in the pit of Cheong Jinhai's stomach? He knows that feeling. An utter rout. Defeat.

There's nothing to say.

"Ready to talk, Clara?" Chan Wai-Ling.

Jinhai finds himself asking for the flabbergasted geist: "How much time have I got? To think?"

"None!" spits Chan Wai-Ling.

"Seven hours," says Hui Bohai. "The articons are currently in transit over Colorado."

Chan Wai-Ling flashes Hui Bohai a look of disgust-- at which he shrugs. Tsang Ji takes on a thoughtful expression...

A feeling of relief floods Jinhai's chest. His heart slows.

Oh! thinks Cheong Jinhai. Rat-like geist! Plotter and scurrier and chewer of ropes! Wily escape artist! If only I had insight into your mind more profound than the tensions you send my body! Is that victory you feel? Merely hope? Or defeat not yet met? Well...

"Well talk to me in seven hours, bitch!"

"No!" Chan Wai-Ling pounds on the table (a piece of furniture buffered from much far-off rage by four men in the autumn of their lives) and says: "We talk now or else there will be no--!"

But Cheong Jinhai already has his arm extended, middle finger raised. Even after the geist has left his body, he holds the gesture as a token of respect for the departed gambler. Well played, unconquerable spirit! If they're committed to sending you to hell, fight them every step!

"Clara?" says Hui Bohai.

Cheong Jinhai responds in Cantonese: "It seems to be just me, now."

He lowers the finger.

As soon as the room is empty of geists, the old men are pressing, talking over each other, as desperate for gossip as the most shameless market women. What was that word the geists used? Articon. He doesn't recognize that word. As for the rest...

"Alright," says Cheong Jinhai, speaking over them, "Alright. I think I have an idea. Somebody put on the news. That thing in the United States."

"What 'thing?'"

"GreyFog!"

"The hijacking...?"

Hui Bohai pulls out his glasses and gets the news stream going. The four old men huddle around the cold glow coming from that single pair of glasses, lighting the smoky air. This time, when the request comes through for embodiment-- a jingle in the head, first subtle, then insistent-- they ignore it, turn it off, forward the request to an adjacent room.

And watch the distant drama play out.

## Chapter 9

BECAUSE THE THING'S ONBOARD BRAIN HAD ACCESS TO A MUSIC CLOUD, Jacob Amas played an old standard. He had it turned to eleven and thrumming underneath his bulletproof skin:

When John Henry was a little-bitty baby?

No bigger than the palm of your hand,

His daddy looked down at Johnny and said,

This here's gonna be a steel-driving man

Lord, Lord,

Johnny's gon' to be a steel-driving man...

Black Sabbath's _Iron Man_ was another obvious choice, but Amas had flicked this song on first and he was enjoying it enough to repeat. He shifted his armored form to the silent music, brain directly receiving the electrical impulses which it interpreted as sound. Amas the only one to 'hear' it.

Steel-driving man, alright! His arms _whooshed_. His legs _whooshed_. If he had needed to draw breath? That, he was certain, would have _whooshed_. All the result of hydraulic fluid that moved through 'him' like blood, driving that hideous strength.

Although, steel? Probably he, Amas, was composed of some lighter alloy: titanium or something. Whatever. Looked like steel. Shiny steel. Steel-driving man! Nothing like him in all of history.

Mr. Peabody bought a steam hammer!

He brought it to the end of the track.

He said: 'Bring out yo best! We gon' have us a test!

' _And if my hammer wins, the rest o' you can pack!'_

Lord, Lord,

' _If my hammer wins? The rest of you can pack!'_

Speaking of packing? Time to send some assholes packing! Terrorists, lawbreakers, one of them a murderer, many with priors, more with drug habits. Scum. Who had-- with insidious foreign help-- gotten themselves into a position to dictate terms to decent people.

He, Lieutenant Jacob Amas of the West Virginia State Police, had been chosen as the state's representative for this raid. There were fifteen of these metal 'articons' that, inside of an hour, were going to hit this construction zone from every point on the compass. Fourteen of them were embodied by Alchemute's trained pilots. But? As part of the deal for greenlighting the attack, the state had demanded that one of her own get some drive time. Funny what life brings!

John Henry went to the tunnel,

Steam hammer by his side.

Said, 'before I let that steam hammer get me down,

' _I'd lay down my own hammer and die,'_

Lord, Lord,

' _I'd lay down this hammer and I'd die!'_

There was a countdown timer in the corner of Amas' vision. There was a battlechat he shared with the other pilots. His onboard computer gave him an innate sense true north and the current location of every one of his fourteen counterparts. If he had been allowed a firearm, Amas knew, (thanks to an ongoing tutorial) auto-targeting software in his arm would have made him a crack shot.

Amas' night-vision flared brighter, the battlechat got active. The articons were suddenly advancing, _whoosh, whoosh_. With three sources of optical intake the police lieutenant was able to chart the course in front of him while maintaining visual contact with the articons on his right and left.

What else? Heat signatures, geist 'trails,' names and biographies of the hijackers. Full-spectrum dominance.

_Whoooooosh,_ crunch! _Whooooooosh,_ crunch! _Whooooooosh,_ crunch! They moved in under fading starlight, closing the circle, the noose, their area of control. There were techniques (the tutorial claimed) which would have allowed them to minimize the noises coming from their joints. Forget that! Better to let these criminals hear what was coming for them. Soon they would see impossible outlines between the trees, unnatural numbers of burning-coal eyes.

A new sound. _Ping!_ Now what was that?

_Ping! Ping!_ Rain on a tin roof. The beginning of a storm, it increased by degrees. And Amas had been worried these hillbillies would take one look at them and surrender without a fight!

_Ping!_ Oh, this was fine! _Ping!_

A 5.56x45mm NATO round flattened itself into Amas' alloyed shoulder at supersonic speed. And? The police lieutenant felt less of a kick from this impact than if he'd fired the gun himself.

It didn't hurt a bit. The tutorial had told him that impacts of a certain velocity were ignored by the articon's sensory reception. He took another step-- and he took six more bullets of the same calibre _. Ping! Ping! Ping ping ping ping!_

They advanced. The guns were roaring, now, fully-automatic in all directions. Somewhere, on some internal list Amas might call up, a count of 'gunshot wounds' was being tallied. The count was for statistical purposes only-- something to compare to other metrics after the fight was over, another way to quantify battle-- because it didn't matter how many times Amas was shot. Not with this calibre, anyway. _Ping! Ping!_

You didn't need extensive training. You didn't need to dodge and weave. Jacob Amas took a bullet to the head. Across the state, lying in bed, he grinned and mouthed: Daddy's comin'.

The machine turned, advanced upon the shooter. _Ping!_ Not good enough. _Ping! Ping!_ Not nearly good enough.

Now the straw boss came to John Henry,

He cried, 'This tunnel is caving in!'

John Henry just laughed at the straw boss and said,

' _That's nothing but my hammer sucking wind,'_

Lord, Lord,

' _Ain't nothing but my hammer suckin' wind.'_

Two men wearing night-vision goggles and armed with M4 assault rifles huddled behind cover. Maybe they thought the machine's vision couldn't read heat, that Amas would pass them by? Incorrect! Amas leapt the cover, landing astride the two men. He threw a hydraulic punch that was sure to send one of them flying--

Amas felt himself jam.

His onboard computer didn't approve of this many pounds-per-square-inch being levied at this many meters-per-second-per-second against a flesh-and-bone target. Freeze.

And now look at this!

The redneck was swinging a hatchet. This lackwit he should've punched into eastern Ohio was coming at him, Amas, with a fucking hatchet! No wonder these maniacs were Chuckling themselves to death in the mountains! Stupid fuckers couldn't see when they were beat!

His carapace deflected the blade with a shower of sparks. The Chucklefuck struck again, at Amas' lean 'gut,' as though hoping to spill intestine. The trooper laughed, speakers built into his chest doing a good approximation. Next, Amas sent alternating current humming through the construct, becoming, in effect, a walking taser. If his handlers wouldn't give him a gun or let him throw devastating punches, he'd have to content himself doing things by the book.

The book would do.

He reached out and touched the hijacker. Watched the guy spasm in his grasp, watched eyes roll up and jaw clench and Adam's apple work. Let him fall. Heard more screams from around the construction zone. Less shooting now; plenty of SLA boys already twitching on the ground. Amas would have to move fast if he wanted to get his share...

Taking a step, he met physical resistance. What?

One of his legs was chained to a stake driven into concrete. The chain was thick enough, probably used for binding and securing steel beams. It had been wrapped around his right leg multiple times and secured to itself with a padlock.

It occurred to Amas that while the first man had been working on him with that hatchet, distracting him, the second had been busy at work. Little cheaters! He swiveled his eyes three hundred and sixty-five degrees, found the man who'd performed the chain operation, reached out his hand as though imploring...

Mr. Peabody wanted a measure,

So they brought out the tape so fine,

John Henry laid twelve feet of cold hard track,

They tell me the steam hammer jus' laid nine...

Lord, Lord,

They tell me that the hammer just laid nine!

Amas heard glass break. He heard a whooshing sound, faster and more continuous than the operative _whooshing_ of hydraulic fluid. And somehow hungrier. He strained against his chain, looking in all directions for the source of the sound.

And saw a fellow giant on fire. Heard the man's screams: "Turn them off! Turn them _off!"_

Flame was bursting out of the articon's joints, armpits, inner elbows, out from behind the knees. Artifluid combusting, burning, popping, exploding. The giant was lighting up the construction zone. The hijackers were cheering; the pilot, desperate to escape his artificial nerve endings, had bailed.

Amas, straining his powerful body, pulled five feet of rusted stake free of the concrete.

He moved, dragging his chain, towards the center of the construction zone-- where the abandoned construct stood burning and popping like a god made out of wicker. Amas was looking for the man with the explosives. His destroyed companion represented probably hundreds of millions of dollars in material losses.

Amas had to find the man with the explosives.

A figure in the center of the construction zone, pointing, directing. Giving instructions. Amas read [ _Barros, Arturo,_ ] floating over the man's head. The name flashed peppermint green, denoting a friendly.

Amas sent: [Barros! You need to get back to your bunker, sir. It's not safe out here.]

Then he saw the half-empty Grey Goose bottle, the doused rag hanging carelessly out the side, the plastic lighter.

"Barros? The fuck--?" The bottle hit Amas in the chest, glass bursting against armored carapace. Alcohol and diesel fuel, released as droplets of spray into the air, suddenly exposed to the sparks coming off the flickering, vodka-soaked rag. Baking soda, added to the mixture, helped the burning stuff congeal and stick to the target.

Jacob Amas' chest was on fire, coated with fire. His artificial nerve endings, programmed to ignore impacts above a certain velocity, held no such overrides for creeping pain-- considered important information for the pilot. (The articons, after all, were still in the beta-testing stage.) Jacob Amas felt himself burn. And his artificial nerve endings, made of hardier stuff than organic material, didn't sluice off, go numb, dim. But, instead, continued to burn.

It started as a very strong itch. It quickly got worse.

John Henry turned to the straw boss.

He said, 'Lord knows how hard I tried.

' _I done my best but that hammer is fast,_

' _Please gimme a cool glass of water 'fore I die,'_

Lord, Lord,

' _Give me a cool glass of water 'fore I die!'_

The flame hadn't yet melted any of the thick, black tubes running through him, delivering artifluid like blood. He still had a little time before one of these melted, before the fire sprinted through him willy-nilly. He wouldn't feel _that_ , except as a sudden loss of muscle power, a sudden heaviness in his limbs, like a bad dream. Amas spotted Barros bending over, picking up another improvised bomb. This with his first eye. His second eye was malfunctioning. His third showed yet another towering, humanoid figure with flame jutting from its innards.

'Turn them off,' the pilot had screamed. 'Turn them off.'

Amas understood. His chest felt as though some mafioso had pushed him onto a prelit stovetop, was holding him against it as it the red coils brightened. Hotter. Impromptu torture. Hotter. And here was Barros sending commands through his glasses. Pointing. Amas felt as though he couldn't breathe. Hotter.

Amas charged.

Arturo Barros, standing his ground, threw another flaming bottle. _Ping! FWOOOAH!_ Amas, half blind, wholly combusting, ran through this newest explosion-- and he felt the collision with flesh and the crunch of bone. Amas heard Barros' scream. The articon's olfactory equipment captured scent molecules which its pilot recognized as burnt flesh and hair.

Meaning Amas' score for the night was three.

Three would have to be enough; Amas was the one screaming now. He felt the weakness in his limbs, the fire leaping through his rubbery 'veins,' devouring his 'blood.'

When Lieutenant Jacob Amas returned to himself-- after he tore the UpSet from his own face-- he rolled over in bed and vomited. And vomited. And touched his chest and face, gingerly, over and over. In the bathroom he stared in the mirror for nearly an hour, checking for blemishes of charred skin, slowly wiping the sick off his lips.

He was alright.

For him, the burning was over. But that other man. Barros. Amas immediately felt his mind uncurl from rage and pain, begin to work once more. The smell of hair. What he'd done to that other man...

A burning that would never stop.

But maybe he was dead? Yes, he must be. God, let Arturo Barros be dead.

Amas vomited for a long time after his stomach was empty. And, huddling there, staring at what he'd brought up, the last refrain from the old song played over and over in his mind:

John Henry died in the evening!

Left his poor widow to cry.

Well, they laid John Henry by the railroad track,

So he could hear the trains go rumbling by...

Lord! Lord!

So he could hear the trains go rumbling by...

## Chapter 10

"QUACK! QUACK!" SAID PARK CHUN-JA.

Then: "Get what you needed?"

"Quack!" Her shoulders slumped, the old telltale of a geist departing.

And Barbara Feng said: "I win."

The temp worker lay back in her workstation and shut her eyes, smiling. She wouldn't know anything, realized Dorito. She wouldn't understand anything. She had taken her revenge on faith. She wouldn't even know the identity of her embodier, her handler. The duck.

"I win," repeated Feng. "But you followed the trail, Dusty. You were close. How about this? I won't have you wear any dresses. Just pretty hats."

"Magnanimous," murmured Dorito-Carl, studying the exhausted woman in front of them, reviewing a general audit on his glasses. "How _ever_. No file has been sent. They still need to get their hands on a copy."

"They have their copy."

Dorito checked the audit of the program again. "How?"

Feng shrugged her shoulders. "I've got a live feed from one of Liang's neighbors. Security cameras with a street view. You want to see them getting away with our Bridge?"

"Show me."

A translucent window opened on Dorito's glasses, crowding out the ongoing audit. The view was from the second story of a house on a suburban street. Dorito recognized the Liang residence.

The front door opened. Two figures exited. The first was a tall man-- well-dressed, handsomely inconspicuous, wearing HUD sunglasses-- some blend of enforcer and accountant. Following him was a man-sized rubber duckie. Cartoonish. Yellow feathers, orange feet, large blue eyes, thick orange beak. The duck even walked like a duck: waddling, favoring first one side of its body with weight and then another.

A van pulled forward. Man and duck climbed aboard.

"Are you seriously asserting...?" Dorito giggled like a Chucklehead.

"He may not have been alone," said Barbara, with a shrug. "We don't know our duck's storage capabilities. But we do know that Raymond Liang is not an uncommon sort of man."

"You're saying..."

Feng shook her head. "I'm not making any concrete claims. I'm only stating that certain conditions exist. We have offices on every continent employing temporary workers, many of them women, almost all trying to secure permanent positions for themselves. Usually from male managers. And so? All ripe for exploitation-- sexual or otherwise. Making them willing points of entry."

"Huh," said Dorito-Carl.

"Now. You get ahold of enough 'duckies?' Enough managers abusing their security clearances? Enough willing points of entry? What do you do next, Dusty?"

The Savant bit his lower lip. Sucked. "Precipitate the conditions where intensive audits of Bridge won't be scrutinized. A false-flag attack against a physical site." He giggled again. "With merc-embodied hillbillies..."

He turned to Barbara. Ignoring the now-snoring Park Chun-Ja, he said: "I'll get the surgery this weekend, Barbie. You should know I prefer flower-print dresses and blonde wigs." He patted his gnomish head.

"Magnanimous!" said Barbara. "But I think, in the interest of keeping our jobs? This bet had better stay between you and me. I'll be subtle. Maybe chain smoke a little harder than you usually do. Maybe go for a spin on that chair of yours. Always looks so fun." She extended her hand.

He took it. "Right. Naturally. Smoke away."

They shook.

"But," he said. "God _damn_. Fahrschein must have planned this heist for years." Taking his hand back, he made the naked woman on his knuckles dance, proof that he was already thinking, working backwards on this newest problem.

"You know," said Barbara Feng. "I'm not so sure?"

***

Sybil Clarke sat, pajamaed, in a rocking chair in her Bay Area living room, waiting. An UpSet lay at her feet. Not an hour ago she had embodied a reporter in West Virginia (executive privileges allowing her to breach the geist cordone), watched Alchemute's red-eyed constructs marching toward the construction zone, heard the machine guns roar and fire play in the distance like lightning.

Now, hearing the familiar tone ringing in her head, she answered. She had with her a little hand mirror in expectation of just such an event. She wanted to be able to see the bitch's face.

It was slack. Fahrschein had been drinking.

"Hey-a. Hey, Sybil?"

"Clara."

"I'm, ah, ready to buy. Your stake. Ready to cash out?"

"You had your chance in Hong Kong, ten hours ago. I told you--"

Shaking her head. "I said, 'buy.' Your shares. I got money burning a hole in my pocket. That snake. Wen. He had everything worked out."

"Well," said Sybil, ignoring the drunken proposal. "You put him in an impossible situation. Hijacking nothing."

But she found herself laughing suddenly. "You think so? No. He knew about that. He knew _all about_ that. I just got off the Suro with him. Sold all my Alchemute shares-- at a discount. And they're going to be worth something. But Charles Wen's a nutcase. He thinks he's building God. Really. An AI deity."

"Clara," said Sybil. "What's the game? You want me to sell you my interest in UpTime.-- with Alchemute under our thumb? I'm not quite that stupid."

"The game," slurred Sybil, "is called, 'Sybil Clarke goes for a walk.' Sybil walks away. From all of it."

"Wait," said Sybil. "Are you trying to buy amnesty from me?"

Drunken snort. "I'm trying to make you liquid. Throw you cash. Make you right and spare you the crash landing." A pause. "Believe it or not, Sybil, I do still consider myself your friend."

"Crash landing, huh?"

She licked her lips. "He's got it. SCHMoC translation. The algorithm could be public knowledge as early as next month. His tracks will be hidden by the SLA hijacking-- and his people will get to work."

"Clara, do you understand how any of this works? The Bridge Algorithm has been in our possession the entire--"

"Nonetheless, the root is theirs. Enough of it, anyway, to reproduce what we've done."

It was Sybil's turn to snort. "Ridiculous on its face. And you believe him?"

"It's why Wen played his ace. The artificial constructs. He needed another few hours after you cracked GreyFog. Because neither of us planned on that happening so quickly. So he contacted you for your 'ok'-- and he took control of the siege.

"He made certain it took eight hours to fly his constructs cross-country and truck them down to the center of the state. There, he knew, it would be necessary to train whichever local cop the state PD wanted participating. Those things train fast, but still. A few more hours. And besides revealing his product to the world he bought his embeds the time they needed. You were in no rush-- the hijackers didn't represent any real threat.

"So, all eyes on the hijacking, none on our _internal audits_.

"Bridge will go public without any traceable hacks on our servers. Rabbit out of hat. Alchemute will be only one of many organizations that benefit-- governmental and commercial-- and can Alchemute help it if they benefit heads and tails over everyone else?"

Sybil said: "Clara?"

She answered: "Sybil?"

She said: "You're so fucking stupid. You always think you're playing 4-D chess? But you're so fucking stupid."

And answered: "Oh? You had a huge stone wall protecting our company. But that wasn't clever enough for Sybil Clarke. You had to set a trap."

"And you think we got played."

"So let me buy you out."

"Why?"

"So I can take it public, like you always wanted. But, also, to get out in front of this thing: release the translation algorithm-- publicly, officially-- before Wen gets the chance. Make a show of voluntarily giving up our monopoly. And start working with Surodarity, getting ourselves right with our workers and customers-- who are going to start having choices..."

Sybil shook her head, squinting. "You want me to sell out to you at a modest rate, so you can willingly give away UpTime's monopoly and open the market-- all on the unverifiable belief that Charles Wen has SCHMoC translation?"

"Yes. Because he does."

"And you're a bullshit artist."

"And what happens in a month, when it turns out I'm also right? When our secret is widely available-- and nobody believes us when we say that construction zone didn't contain Bridge?"

Sybil sat in her chair, rocking. She said: "If that happens, I imagine Platform Capital and the other venture firms spook. Drop Joanna Sung like a hot rock. Start looking for the exit. You go ahead and buy from them. If I don't first. Because I'm not going anywhere, Clara. We're a giant. If we have to learn to compete with startups? We'll compete."

Sybil wondered at the sudden tightness in her chest. Fahrschein used her lips: "But our visions, our egos--"

"Split ways for a while. That's what happens when you're on top, when nobody's forcing you to act smart. If, _if_ , there's any truth in what Wen told you? We're going to get hungry again. Lean. And I bet our thinking gels up nicely."

"Huh," Pause. "The two of us against the world. And if Al-Razi isn't wearing you anymore as Joanna Sung..."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. In my ideal world, Wen's got nothing and you spend the next few years locked in a Faraday Cage."

"Right," murmured Sybil. "Right." She thought Clara sounded subdued. Amazingly subdued. "I guess that's my ideal world too, come to think of it."

And hearing that, Sybil Clarke had to know: "What's with the sudden conversion, Clara?" More than that: "Why sell your shares in Alchemute? If what you say is true, if they're uniquely positioned in this new environment..."

Then you've given up a fortune. Power and prestige. And you, Clara Fahrschein, don't do that. What would make you do that? What could?

Sybil found herself shrugging. Clara answered, as though half-asleep: "He told me his business plan. And not the one he sells to Angel investors. His vision for the future: Leviathan."

***

Shadow Boxer, carrying a lean briefcase, stepped into the waiting van. Following Duckie. Once inside, the sliding door closed, he instructed the vehicle to move. They were, so far as he could tell, safe. Done. Perhaps, even, successful. Boxer wanted sleep. They'd both been awake far too long. Well, Duckie would be able to regurgitate what they needed tomorrow as easily as today. He turned to his fuzzy-yellow partner, flashed one last thumbs-up. Duckie returned the gesture.

His back against the side of the van, moving towards a property owned by a shell individual of Charles Wen, Shadow Boxer closed his eyes, replaying, mostly with satisfaction, the Bridge Job.

Beginning with them stepping out of the same van thirty-six hours earlier. Boxer, dressed in a three-piece suit, briefcase in hand, had urged Duckie to move quickly. The door, the front door; let's. Because the enormous yellow waterfowl couldn't help but attract suburban attention. Better get him inside. They moved quickly up the path, the well-dressed man and the fuzzy duck.

And knocked upon the door.

Loretti Liang was a brunette: sharp and good-looking in trim yoga pants and a violet tank top. Resting-bitch face with the empty eyes of a large bird of prey. Intelligent and proud. Not someone who enjoyed having her time wasted. Not amused by Duckie-- already annoyed by the presumption-- trying to get a read on Boxer.

"The boys aren't here," she said. "They're at coding camp. A little old for this sort of thing, anyway." With a nod to Duckie.

"We're with UpTime," Shadow Boxer replied, seeing how that would play.

Liang's eyebrows moved. But this conveyed incredulity rather than anxiety. She said: "Ray's not here, either. Something came up. Something big. I would think you people would _talk_ to each other--"

Boxer, reading her, decided upon one of seven courses of action he'd come to the door with. Decided firmly. In the case of Loretti Liang an immediate shock would be necessary. An action which must rob her-- however briefly-- of her significant and adaptable defenses. Shadow Boxer already had the footage queued up on the outer lenses of his glasses, complete with audio. He flicked a muscle in his right cheek.

So that Loretti was watching footage of Park Chun-Ja lying on her back, naked, legs spread, tummy rolled tight, face contorted as only a torture victim's or a lover's becomes. The point of view was that of the man atop her. Chun-Ja's white flesh made up the entire world. On the other end of his lenses, Boxer watched a mirror version of her being entered. A long moan floated across the Liang's front yard.

"Quack!" said Duckie.

"We're with UpTime Security, actually," said Shadow Boxer, sliding his foot up against the door jam. "Investigating what looks very much like a breach."

Loretti, watching the woman on Boxer's glasses being skewered, blurted: "But we never _filmed--"_ and caught herself too late.

Gotcha. Lever in place. The trick, now, was to employ ever-increasing pressure, bend the Liangs deeper and deeper under the weight of this new conspiracy until there was no question of breaking loose. "Ms. Liang? Your husband's _career_ is what we'd like to talk to you about. Making sure certain lawsuits are never filed. Might we come in."

With an uncertain glance at Duckie: "Please, gentlemen. The living room."

A minute later they were seated around a coffee table. Shadow Boxer, placing his briefcase on the floor, said: "Your house has internal security. Cameras. Audio. We don't proceed until those are turned off."

Loretti turned those avian eyes on him. A mousy woman, Boxer reflected, would be looking for ways to dodge, ways to circumvent, ways to carefully play defense. That would be dangerous under these circumstances. Boxer had crafted plans for dealing with such an individual but was pleased not to have to rely on them. Ms. Liang was, socially, an apex predator: used to dominating the human beings around her. Less practiced with more-subtle forms of manipulation.

She turned off the security system. There was, already, plenty of footage of Boxer and Duckie taken from the street. Entering the Liang household. They were bound together now-- and so there were certain lines neither party could cross.

Time to get to work.

Raymond Liang, explained Shadow Boxer, had broken his contract with UpTime Living Solutions. He had inexcusably compromised security in order to pursue an extramarital sexual relationship with a subordinate inside a restricted space. But why the surprise, Loretti? Why, shock? We really don't have time for that. We know that you, yourself, were repeatedly present during intercourse. That you-- or an individual working from your UpSet address-- embodied one Romao Diogo repeatedly, over the course of the past several months.

And did you know? That breaching the contract your husband signed not only places him on immediate unpaid leave, but also opens him to a deluge of lawsuits-- some immediate, some dependent on degree of breach, some yet-to-be envisioned? That you two have committed the cardinal sin of the professional class? Getting caught acting not only stupid, but sleazy? Boxer used another precious minute detailing the possible fallout all this would have on the career prospects of the Liangs' twin sons. Total conjecture, but he could see from Loretti's face that it was having an effect.

Alright. Time to offer an escape path. A path which, if followed, not only exonerated but actually led to even greater prosperity for the Liang clan.

An easy smile. Shoulders relaxing, Boxer sat back and announced: "Lucky for you? We've come, today, to deal."

"Quack!" said Duckie.

Loretti studied them. "Who do you really represent?"

Shadow Boxer continued: "Your husband is currently dealing with a crisis on the other side of the country. He won't be home tonight, or, presumably, tomorrow night. All you have to do? To make your family's troubles disappear? To guarantee him a senior position with a new employer? Host my associate and I for the next two days. Let Duckie, here, use one of the UpSets in this house..."

"To embody one of the Suros inside UpTime IT Security," said Loretti, no slowpoke. "Without triggering their security protocols."

Boxer nodded.

Loretti said: "I need to know who's making the offer."

Shadow Boxer believed her. He handed her a business card. Loretti had heard of them, sure. She knew that she was being propositioned by a Great Power. And, large raptor that she was, sensed a change in the wind.

"The UpSets are in the bedroom."

A few minutes later, the twin sets of cloth hardware were laid out like otherworldly diving equipment. Loretti asked: "Should I go in first? Embody Romao? Make sure Ray isn't on his way home?"

"Absolutely not," said Boxer, calmly. "Duckie needs your UpSet password. He will be going in first. Our agent will be ready for him."

"Chun-Ja," pronounced Loretti. But, receiving no response besides one of Duckie's quacks, she asked: "Who's, uh, your friend here?"

"Duckie," said Shadow Boxer. "Would you take off your hood, please? You have to, anyway, to get the UpSet on."

The duck-bill hood slipped back and up over LeBron Touring's head and flapped back between his fuzzy shoulder blades. Placid features revealed, the young man gave Liang a shy smile and said: "Quack."

"He likes the costume," said Boxer. "A security-blanket thing. Believe me, I tried to get him in a suit and tie."

Loretti Liang was chewing on her lip. "If this doesn't go down the way you expect..."

"If it does," said Boxer. "The theft will be pinned on Seth Tenant's SLA. There will be no record of digital intrusion, nothing linking your family to the crime. If it doesn't? So long as I don't discover that you or Ray somehow sabotaged us? Your secret is safe and the job offer remains for Ray. Although I would abandon this uncouth practice."

The fight was going out of Loretti. She helped Boxer get Touring into her husband's UpSet, gave him the password, waited with Boxer while the microfilaments made connection with Touring's frontal lobe. While the connection with the not-so-distant Suro was made.

LeBron Touring had had extensive training with the most common programming languages. He was a true savant, able to memorize and reproduce superhuman amounts of information, as his picture-perfect renderings of skylines attested. Deciphering the mechanisms which drove the Bridge Algorithm was not, Boxer suspected, beyond the young man. More likely, he would simply memorize an enormous amount of the root-- reproducing it, perfectly, for Alchemute's programming teams hours or days after their extraction.

Too late, Loretti seemed to realize that the leverage against her had-- in a moment-- exponentially increased. That she was now, directly, an accessory to a true security breach.

Only now did Boxer ask Loretti to put on her own UpSet, to embody her husband's assistant. And to keep him, Shadow Boxer, apprised of developments. Hour after hour that she lay next to Duckie, without turning him in, she made herself more of an accessory, bound herself more tightly to the intruders. Already, for Loretti Liang, there was only the one path to walk, and she, as much as Shadow Boxer, could only pray that it was successful.

It was through Loretti that Boxer learned that GreyFog was cracked. Far too fast-- but he'd thought up a contingency for when they decided to bring the program down. Boxer pulled out the UpSet he'd brought into the Liang household in his briefcase, got in contact with the logistics people at Alchemute, ordered them to get the articons prepped and airborne, the pilots ready. Then began talks with police contacts he'd made in Charleston. Finally, without consulting Fahrschein-- who must be seen to have been caught flat-footed, whose anger must be real-- he made a phone call to the woman he knew to be the power behind Joanna Sung: Sybil Clarke. He made her an offer.

It had been an exhausting thirty-six hours, keeping an eye on the Liangs, Romao, Park, Tenant, Granger, Al-Razi, Clarke, Fahrschien, Duckie. Boxer had, on his own, completed the sort of one-man _coup_ that he prayed Touring was capable of. Even so, success had teetered on the brink multiple times-- most recently with the near-discovery of Touring by two of UpTime's IT security.

They'd had to pull Duckie out.

Boxer had drilled Chun-Ja on how to answer whatever questions she was pressed with: flat denial. She might lose her job, they might come after her. No problem. She was under Boxer's protection now. She had his lawyers behind her, she had a better job waiting for her. And this, only, if UpTime's proud 'Idiot Savants' admitted to having been bested by a temp. Boxer didn't think they would.

Charles Wen let that rarest of things cross his face: a dreamy smile. 'Shadow Boxer' was Chun-Ja's title for him, of course. Park Chun-Ja, his long-term project.

And Loretti had been right about one thing! The Liangs had had, at least, the sense never to film their criminality. Nor had Park Chun-Ja and Diogo Romao ever filmed their lovemaking. The young woman would consent, only, for 'Shadow Boxer.' And so Chun-Ja had met her mysterious trainer face to face, at last. The footage had been obtained.

Why not? Charles Wen had transformed her, after all-- improved her-- and so didn't he deserve to enjoy her? Just as he would transform and enjoy the world. He couldn't wait to show her _that_ transformation.

He leaned back in the van, looking at the sleeping face of LeBron Touring. No, he couldn't wait.

## Chapter 11

WHEN SETH TENANT REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, he found himself handcuffed to a hospital bed. It was hard to move his head. There was an IV drip in his arm. He had the room to himself, although he noted a police officer outside his door.

Oh, and someone was staring at him. Watching him return to the world of the living.

The nurse.

(Red eyes in the dark. They'd gathered empty glass bottles and oily rags. They'd taken gasoline from generators and equipment and storage, everyone working in pairs or groups of three. Barros and McDouglass and Tenant. McDouglass, ever handy, somehow had procured the kind of mini-blowtorch chefs use for making _creme brulee_ \-- was using it to light the rags up...)

The nurse was handing Tenant a newspaper. Physical paper. Where were his glasses? The newsfeed? Thinking was hard. The date on the newspaper came from many weeks in the future. The paper was the _Gazette Mail_. The headline read:

Sea Change!

With Bridge Algorithm Public What Happens Next?

The nurse asked him: "How'd you do it?"

Tenant stared at the newspaper. His head wasn't working the way he wanted it to. He said: "Maybe... I should have a lawyer here."

"You've got a lawyer," said the nurse. Redhead, round-faced. A sleepy-looking woman, solicitous and uncomplicated. But when she spoke? Fast, lean, type A. "I'm your lawyer. Inside the nurse. How did you do it?"

Tenant coughed. "Who're you?"

"Shawna Collins, RN." Soft, big smile. Then her face changed. "Alice Peer. I specialize in legal questions involving Surrogacy. I'll be advising your defense team, Mr. Tenant."

"Oh."

"How's your memory?"

(Barros pitching bottle after flaming bottle. He'd brought down one juggernaut, and then-- as its bursting blood lit the night, illuminating the battlefield-- he'd scored a direct hit upon another. And that complex monster, that expensive new thing in the world, realizing that it had been killed-- by a piece of DIY tech-- had charged. Barros swallowed by a glowing-cherry metal bundle of arms and legs. Wet crunch.)

"Alright, I think. I remember things."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Tenat blinked. "Uh, should we be doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Lawyering? It seems pretty..." Tenant shrugged. "Shouldn't you be _here?_ "

"Ms. Collins has signed all the appropriate non-disclosure agreements," said Ms. Collins. "And I'm consulting individuals on three continents today. Nobody gets special treatment."

"Huh."

"Maybe we should bring in his friends?" asked Shawna. "That might get him feeling better."

(Regaining consciousness the first time. Thrown over a metal giant's shoulder, arms and legs bound, barely managing to breathe against the hard carapace. Rain pouring down in the night, the _whoosh_ of joints. The sound of a helicopter? Next to his face, bouncing along, a pair of boots he believed to house the feet of Buddy McDouglass...)

Now McDouglass was looking down at him, staring him in the face. Arnie Mallard, Buddy McDouglass, and Jimmy 'Broke Knee' Cree were standing over him in the hospital room. Broke Knee on crutches.

Seeing Tenant responsive, the three men cheered.

Tenant asked: "Where the hell are we? Government compound?"

"Charleston," said Broke Knee. "City hospital."

Tenant whispered: "And that nurse...?"

Buddy McDouglass looked over his shoulder, said: "Nah, see, Ms. Peer? She's actually alright. Used to represent UpTime. Now she's a Surodarity lawyer. She's got our backs. Says we got a real case."

Were the boys embodied? Entrapment? Mirror, mirror... Tenant's head hurt.

Mallard, swinging in, said: "I knew it! The whole time Dr. Ratta-something was worrying away? I _knew_ you guys were working on a whole different level! You and Hassan, twenty moves ahead."

"Then," ventured Tenant, "The Bridge. We really got it out there?"

The three men looked at each other a moment-- and burst out laughing. The lawyer watched him like a cat.

"Boss! Oh shit, boss! That's good!"

"Still twenty moves ahead!"

"Playing it close! Playing it _goddamn_ close!"

Tenant, to cover his embarrassment, started laughing too.

None of the men were allowed their HUD glasses, so they turned on a television in the corner of the room. The reporter was coming in from an upturned field on the outskirts of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Wire being laid in the ground behind her, she was saying:

"--represents just _one_ of more than a hundred municipal _Innernet Service Providers_ who have filed for construction permits this week across the country, with the release of the _Bridge Algorithm_. Until only a few days ago, this industry _secret_ was considered an _impenetrable_ mystery.

"Then? A daylight _hijacking_ of an UpTime construction zone, a worldwide _obfuscation_ of Suro GPS data, a release of Green Beret-embodied _hostages_ , and a daring _raid_ conducted by robotic _super soldiers_. The result? The so-called Suro Liberation _Army_ has pulled off a piece of _industrial espionag_ e that will go down in history. The big mystery of the coming weeks and months-- how did they do it?"

The men in the hospital whooped.

"With me is the _founder_ of North App Municipal, Tami Hutch. Tami? You've been trying to break into this industry for a long time. How are you feeling today?"

Panning to a broad-faced woman wearing a white t-shirt with the words: North APP: "Thanks, Jessica. First, I just want to say? Geist transmission needs to be thought of as basic infrastructure. The way we do business in the twenty-first century. The FCC was petitioned by all kinds of groups-- from AT&T to Surodarity-- to force UpTime to release Bridge. If they'd done their job? This raid never would have occurred, and young Mr. Greene would be alive today."

The reporter asked: "And what do you say to those who make the argument that Clara Fahrschein's early teams developed SCHMoCs and FSI and Bridge? Their _innovations_ changed the _world_. Shouldn't they be rewarded for that? Shouldn't they be encouraged to continue improving our lives?"

Hutch shrugged. "UpTime has had more than a decade of monopoly. Total control of prices. That seems like a pretty nice reward. As long as they're not stupid, UpTime will remain _the_ major Innernet Service Provider. I'm not shedding any tears."

"But--"

"But, what's to keep them innovating? Well, as of this week, competition. Because the pressure is on the rest of us, now, to innovate and improve upon their model. And North App means to!" Hutch looked into the camera, began a quick pitch: "Eastern Iowa has suffered laggy embodiment for far too long--"

"Thank you, Ms. Hutch. And Seth Tenant: Terrorist or freedom fighter?"

Tami Hutch grimaced. "Again, Jessica, it never should have come to this--"

"That's what we want," said the lawyer. And she turned the tv off.

Peer was staring at Tenant again. She wanted to know how he'd done it. The boys were sneaking looks. They wanted to know how he'd done it. Tenant considered the upcoming trial: everyone would want to know. Somewhere probably ten time zones out, Dr. Ratta-something would be pulling his own hair, asking himself: How did we steal something that wasn't there? How? How?

Tenant, frankly, would love to tell them; the beauty of it was that he couldn't.

(The bunker door opening. The large man approaching them with his hands raised, asking to speak to Tenant, offering what they had desperately needed: a plan. A defense. The giants that were coming for them-- He, Arturo Barros, had embodied one. He had an idea for fighting them. The man calmly issuing instructions to Seth Tenant. The gathering of bottles and rags and flour and gasoline... He heard, again, the wet smack.)

"Barros," Tenant moaned. "Have they had the funeral?"

The boys were giving each other looks again.

Broke Knee said: "Thing is, boss. Barros is still alive. Ms. Peer is defending him, too."

"They life-flighted him out," said Mallard. "Burn hospital in Bethesda."

"So he's going to be--?"

Tenant looked to Buddy McDouglass, who, he suspected, had held out longest into the night, remembered the most. McDouglass was looking at one of the blank, white walls. Buddy finally said: "They say Barros is going to live. Lots of conjecture out there. About why he came out of his bunker at the last minute. Helped us. A company man and everything."

"But he's ok? He's going to be?"

Buddy shrugged. Scrunching his face and looking at the dead tv, he said: "After something like that, I don't know if 'OK' is in your vocabulary no more."

The room became uncomfortable.

"Alright, gentlemen," said the nurse. "Seth's looking tired! You'll all be able to come back tomorrow..." She ushered the three suddenly-grateful-looking men out.

But the moment the last of them exited the room, it was the lawyer who turned. Approached. Asked: "You don't know, yourself, do you? How the Bridge was stolen?"

Tenant closed his eyes.

The lawyer said: "You don't trust me yet. That's ok, I understand. Maybe you've heard about all the work Alice Peer has done for UpTime. But you need to understand: UpTime lit a flickering candle for the human race-- something precious. It had to be protected while it grew, but the time has come to share that fire. You're familiar with the legend of Prometheus? My team and I are going to make sure you don't share his punishment."

"That's good."

"But I need to know: how did you do it?"

Seth Tenant said: "Let me see your UpTime profile. Proof you are who you say you are."

The lawyer opened a window on her glasses. The profile read: Alice Peer. Current location: Providence, Rhode Island. But where her face should be, there was a pic of a horned lizard, sitting fatly upon a sunny rock. He laughed. "I don't get to see you?"

"No," she said, simply. "Never. But I have a verification process with my clients. Want to try it?"

"Alright," said Tenant. "Shoot."

"Shoot," said the nurse. She spoke the word exactly like Seth Tenant. "It's called mouth-harping, and once I got you, I'm pretty good at keeping you." Then: " _Souviens-toi de moi?_ "

"Hassan."

"What's in a name?" said the nurse, Tenant-style.

"Just another accent." said the nurse, Hassan-style.

Then Hassan, himself, had been nothing more than an act? Another layer of deception. Tenant felt a moment of vertigo. Anyone could be anyone. Mirrors within mirrors within mirrors...

He groaned: "That's sort of a career gimmick? Hiding yourself?"

"Sort of necessary," said Peer. "I guess I have no problem telling you: you're not in any position to worry about me. Leave that to the computer scientists. But I know _you_ , Seth Tenant. I've worn you; we have history. And right now we need to take out the old magnifying glass and go over what's happened. Your understanding of it."

Tenant shifted in the hospital bed, exhaustion settling in. He felt a surprising loss for Hassan; a man who had never, apparently, existed. Tenant's shoulders relaxed. "Ms. Peer? If that's your real name? I guess I've got no problem telling you. As far as the Bridge Job? I have got no fucking _clue_ what just happened."

If anything, he decided, she looked relieved.

## Part 3: Workarounds
Chapter 1

SO I'D BURNED A FEW ORAS and I was sitting across the table from Sean Darrows in a restaurant barge on the Vltava River. Prague Castle lit as though with a hundred thousand candles, doing its very best to crack my cynicism. My cynicism? Engendered by hundreds of spectacular dinners in similarly otherworldly surroundings, in'verse, so not that easy to crack.

That castle and the Charles Bridge and the wine and mussels doing a pretty good job, though.

I've read that the kids coming up shun the scrubbed-clean, real-historical architecture of Central Europe, claim it's more-or-less a tourist trap, a boutique, Disneyland. The young'uns go for windswept slums along the New Silk Road or Sub-Saharan dives that sell nothing but two equally-shitty types of lager and Africa Vodka in a plastic pouch (all marked-up something like four-hundred percent and claimed by merchants as a duty), the sound of artillery fire never far off. Places where desert is creeping in and water is getting scarce and locals are getting mean. As though monotonous tragedy, repetitive toil, is more essentially authentic. As though there's a single city in the waking world where you can't find it!

You want tragi-grit? This Magyar girl I picked up, this eighteen-year-old (she claims) I'm wearing, Erszi Csorba; she could probably drink her share of Africa Vodka. That's why I chose her. Not so much a way of poking at Sean as a gauntlet thrown. I found Erszi on PornHub because, even now, real meat is premium. I watched her entire sequence: a John speaking Euro-British English approaches her on the street, she's coy, interested but also wary, he flashes some ten-ora notes, she shrugs, they talk, he takes her to a flat and shows her more hours, she begins taking off clothing-- small lovely breasts, the pretense here that this is just a modelling shoot-- and now the camera angle floats back and little Erszi, thin as a reed, is unzipping him and running her tongue along him, then stuffing cock down, butter-churn, glug-glug-glug, coughing when she finally gets the chance, and before much longer her ass is in the air; she's being fucked like a dog, face pinched. In every one of her movies (the bundled-up girl lured off the street with pay) this is where Erszi shines. The quivering gift of flesh offered for precious time. Her Suro address featured prominently at the bottom of every sequence.

Her hour/ora rates vary by activity but are all extremely reasonable. For this, I guess, we can thank the kids doing their vacationing in East Timor.

We three were sitting, eating dinner, and I was telling Sean about Erszi's movies and Erszi-- child that she was-- kept wanting to laugh at him, at the faces he was making, at his obvious discomfort. I was suppressing her. Because Sean really was sitting there, anchored. Handsome Professor Darrows of Georgetown University, attending a nearby conference in the flesh-and-blood, a silver fox, not transmitted in from anywhere-- and he didn't like this age difference I'd manufactured for the other diners or the haughty-teasing-flirting looks coming from this little Hungarian. Something I hadn't counted on: Erszi not enjoying being judged by an older, wealthier, good-looking man-- the type who could afford to burn jet fuel. Erszi wanting him to like her, trying to win him the way she knew how to win men, to prove to them both that he wasn't too good for her.

Plenty happening at this dinner. And we haven't even gotten to the conversation!

Professor Darrows teaches philosophy. He worships at the altar of dead thinkers: women and men, once anchored, whose old-time thought experiments have become our now-time practical problems. A dreamer tasked with policy decisions, logistics, regulation. What they used to call an economist. A physiocrat.

So, warning bells, I know, but-- too bad! I like Sean. Because you can meet scores of lovers in a thousand 'verses. You can Starship Troopers battlefuck or transform yourselves into the ivory undead or do the Victorian Era Sado-Masochism Descent Tour-- doesn't matter. Most geists are assholes. And worse? Unimaginative. Ethereal bores. Cruelty or Ennui the Last Ace up all-too-many Sleeves, as though that's still supposed to impress or fascinate.

Don't believe me? Consider. How many pay-to-play geists do you know, personally, Kurtzing off in some home-brewed Heart of Darkness at this very moment? That's right. The Horror, the Horror, only shake them awake-- they've blown their Wad, their Wad.

Charles Wen's Leviathan even more of a miracle when you consider the source it's transmuted from.

Anyway, dinner. Sean was saying: "What we're doing-- has it ever been more pointless?" A pained glance at Erszi's low-cut blouse.

I replied: "Then love is dead?" I meant it as a joke: way over the top.

(You can see how that should be a joke? Way over the top?)

Sean retorted, grimly: "Except for self-love."

Oh, c'mon! Erszi very nearly made a little jerk-off motion; a solid double entendre. Cancelled at the last moment. "You're unhappy that I didn't come with you to Prague."

He blinked. "Well, of course... I wish you had! The tickets, the hotel, everything was paid for by the university. I wanted to walk with you in the park above the city. You."

"You're tired of intermediaries."

He waved away the assertion. "They're useful, especially at first. But, eventually... well. We've got these _strangers_ , uh, listening in. Participating. Or we've got some damn 'verse distracting us. Hiding the warts. When the warts are important! What we have feels... diluted."

Anchorist talk. But change is hard, always.

I said: "You wouldn't like me undiluted."

"You keep saying."

The sticking point.

We ate and drank silently for a few minutes. A barge honked somewhere across the black Vlatava. Waiters moved under twinkling chandeliers, leather shoes scraping old hardwood. The fairy-tale castle shimmered; no distant artillery fire.

I said: "Counterargument?" Not speaking to the real issue, of course. We were still circling that.

"Shoot."

"I think love is more possible than ever. Honest love."

His lovely, brushstroke eyebrows went up. He waited. Gentle creature, I asked myself, how is mine the first rhetorical vessel to reach your upstream home?

I pressed: "You lived most of your life before Leviathan. You never-- in all that time-- felt a deep, personal connection to someone? Another geist? A friendship that was more than friendship? Or, in a better world, had that potential? To be blunt: hadn't you ever enjoyed the company of a woman and thought to yourself, 'My God, we get along! I've never had so much fun! If only she were a little _better looking_..."

He saw where I was going. The path I used. And rather than hustle ahead, he waited for the fullness of the argument. Bravo, Sean.

"Or a man?" I continued. "Which your own heterosexuality denied you an avenue for exploration?"

He shrugged, countering: "I don't believe that all relationships are meant to become erotic. If we're happy to argue that the human geist contains genders not expressed by the anchor biologically-- then how many more the degrees of friendship? The subtlety of human relationships?"

I stifled Erszi's yawn.

Sean continued: "Some relationships will always be bittersweet, others based upon an attractive force that cannot be realized. Which, if it ever were..." He shook his head, made a _poof_ gesture with both hands.

I said: "But what a _tyrant_ beauty used to be! I'm old enough; I remember. How many monsters we used to enable! How many kind souls we neglected! Until we gave everyone access to that resource. First through Surrogacy-- and then the 'verses. Until we inflated away the idiot power of beauty to nothing!

"Because when everyone can be beautiful-- _only_ then-- do we really start evaluating people on their merits. When I know that I can choose between a boring, selfish Adonis and an interesting, thoughtful Achilles? Adonis had better start working on himself!

"If people get along-- if they click-- and if we argue that it's character that matters anyway..." I shrugged. "Then why not hold up mirrors to each other?"

"You weren't lying about yourself on the dating profile. Private."

"What are you, Sean? A fucking assassin?"

A smile from Erszi let me get away with it.

"People used to introduce themselves." A sip of wine. "I'm sure I remember that. And I'm curious. I've shown you my hand."

"I'm showing you mine." I made a little muscle-flexing gesture with Erszi's arm. I stuck her bare girl's leg up over the edge of the table, shaved smooth and waxily reflecting candlelight. I took a deep and slow breath, letting her tight frame expand, contract. I smiled. Look at me, Sean. Look at what I've made myself for you. I'll show you more after dinner. Everything. You liked it before, with that Thai.

I spotted desire, painfully suppressed. "I'm not bringing the wrecking girl into this."

"She's done plenty worse than you." And when he looked a little sick? "In'verse, then. We can be Prairie Dogs. You liked that," ribbing his penchant for Rodentia. "If I remember."

But he ate without speaking and I understood. He was serious about this nonsense. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. The nymphs amongst the professional class had, for the past decade, been fighting a savage, rearguard action against shared beauty. Maintaining their birthright.

Foremost amongst their weaponry was Anchorism. A cult of respectability that laughed in its hands at a woman who wore other women to work, at the sort of man who would date her, and vice versa-- and applied even more ruthlessly to the 'verses. Professor Sean Darrows, on our first several dates, had talked about these traditionalists with visceral dislike-- and my heart sang!-- but it looked as though, in the end, he was forced by either job politics or some internal conservatism to bow to their mean, narrow vision.

And I couldn't help but think: Coward!

I'm not naive. I know that most people, when offered the choice between happiness and status, will choose a lanyard and a title and a modest yearly income over the Kingdom of Heaven. A cosmetic, presentable partner over the mate of their soul. I know that. But you, Sean! You call yourself 'philosopher!'

Without thinking, I blurted: "I fell for you before I ever saw your face." Then, with that out there: "And now that I have, I wish it were otherwise. It blinds you, being born like that."

"I don't need beauty like Erszi's," he retorted. "At my age, believe it or not, I want some constancy. A face I can watch age with mine. A hand I recognize holding."

Yeah, right.

"I can give you this," I said, offering the girl again. "You're not _that_ artiwrecking old! Let me be this for you..."

"Maybe we can meet up tomorrow? I really am sacked."

He paid for dinner. A peck on the cheek and a splitting of ways on the nighttime streets of Prague. I watched him walk away, up the river, back to the Intercontinental. Tall, lean, broad shoulders under grey peacoat. I wished he were a toad.

Erszi said: "We can still have him. I tell him you left, you ride along. You take control when I've got him in bed." The underlying message: you managed to drive him away from someone as young and beautiful as me? Stupid cow! Watch how easy this can be.

"No," I replied. "That... I wouldn't like that."

"Then we're done? Because if I hurry, I can make a shoot."

"Porn?"

"No, the children's educational programming."

"Do they let you keep those ten-ora bills?"

I felt a tight smile. "Maybe you think I do these things out of goodness of the heart?"

"Well?"

"So curious! I get maybe half. Still pretty good."

"Can I--?"

"No."

"I won't make a peep. You'll make what you would've with Sean."

She paused. "Gregor worries about cops." But that, I knew, wasn't it. Erszi would have hosted women and men during every minute of her films. The classic double dip. This was more like: you've got the stink of death on you tonight, honey. I'm not bringing you anywhere.

"Sorry," she said.

"That's alright."

I gave her a good rating and a tip. I'd dragged her through this minor drama with Sean, called her some shameful things with her own mouth, and she'd been a good sport. Then, also, I felt that I'd been judged unworthy tonight-- I felt a kinship with all speems and sex workers and meat shields. One of the low folk.

Or something like that.

It was close to midnight in Prague. Besides the club scene (no), everything was closed. But? It's always five o'clock somewhere. Four o'clock and six o'clock, too. So I rushed upwards, out of Erszi Csorba, and flew east-- the ora-ticker froze-- across Caspian night and into morning.

Home again. Might as well make back some time.

## Chapter 2

THE SPEEM KID WORE A DIRTY, RED T-SHIRT with Seth Tenant's face printed large in fading white. Tenant doing one of the pensive, Che Guevara stares he specialized in before he took his long walk through Versailles, crazy already burning in his eyes. Speem Kid's own eyes were closed, he was lying in the slow lane on 223rd, in a pothole in front of my apartment. Not a sleepwalker, either; he'd placed a single-mig piece on the ground next to him. The outline of an unknown man on the coin, one of their small gods, their burned guide, protection for yet another life. Speem Kid's lips were moving, maybe he was playing the shopkeeper for some hero. There was a reality-aug setting on my glasses that would erase him. Every time I turned it on over three quarters of the local population went zap!

Disappeared.

See no evil, no sir, not me. Nothing but more empty, cracking street. Not that that would help with the smell.

Rot, the first thought that enters my head every time I walk out the front door of my one-bedroom place. Decay. I always expect a lone horse and buggy to come morosely down that disintegrating, six-lane road, bringing turnips, maybe, or 'news from the distant east.' Once, I'm pretty sure I distantly saw the Taikun walking with his entourage, viaarti, surveying his overseas properties. Intersection lights still running twenty-four, seven, directing nothing, like a zombie apocalypse where the infrastructure half-heartedly persists. Plague. Rot.

But that isn't the whole story.

Head one hundred and fifty blocks west (as I was about to) and one would begin to see regular movement, traffic. The veins of the city opening up, blood sluggishly moving. Make it to the river and nearly everyone would be awake-- speem camps long ago moved east and south, public safety invoked-- white-collar geists flitting from body to body, a hundred different languages spoken, articons performing a constant churn of demolition and construction, the smell of developing-world cuisines coming up from the food carts. The waking world's dynamism concentrated within another twelve-block pocket along another coast.

And that was simply the Base, the material world. There were thousands of different innerverses, a layered Superstructure, human-made light years hovering invisibly in the air between me and the speem kid. Plus, faster-than-light engines to cross them.

Maybe later, if I had the time.

Right now, driving up full of cleaning supplies, came the company car. It maneuvered expertly around the speem, driven by Levi, stopped in front of me. A door popped open.

I asked the car: "Ms. Jackson? Ms. Nagonda? Where's my team?"

Levi replied: "Currently engaged in neurosharing."

"There's nobody else?"

The speem kid's eyelids fluttered. His lips moved (I thought) in time with the automobile's answer: "All active Clean Brigade personnel within one hundred miles are currently engaged with (1) neurosharing (2) other cleaning jobs (3) miscellaneous activities. Would you like to cancel the Chaudhri job?"

"No." No black marks. "That's fine. Just keep the gig open for anyone who's looking. His place isn't small."

"Standard procedure."

We drove west down Glisan. There were more filthy sleepwalkers lying in the road, a few still upright, swaying, shuffling. I saw one exit a boarded-up Mattress World. Leviathan steered the car around them adroitly, never decelerating below sixty-five, never cursing these breathing obstacles. Levi knew the places where the road was bad, where it was getting worse, and compensated. I saw another car, approaching, shepherding a tired-looking black woman back out towards 223rd. I looked into the car, at her, hoping to catch her eye for an instant as we passed each other on the wide road. I don't know why. To share something. No deal, she was watching soaps on her glasses.

It started to drizzle, raindrops collecting on the windshield, blurring the landscape. My head began to ping. _Alice Peer requests Surrogacy access._

Which I denied. Absolutely. I want to make that clear. ('As long as we all ignore her...') I denied her repeatedly.

More speems in the wet road. Dirty puddles would be forming around those prone forms. Some of them would wake up, curse, grab their migs, move themselves under cover, but others--

Ping! Alice Peer requests Surrogacy access.

No. I mouthed the words. ('There's no such thing as Dead End Alice.') Denied. 'She' had been active, lately. Someone was going to have to do something. But I want to make it clear: I was a responsible Suro until the minute there was no other choice.

"Is something the matter?" asked Levi, solicitous.

"SpeemanLAN," I told it. And, in fact, there was another form in the road, wrapping itself in a tarpaulin like a burrito. Some old hand at sheltering.

"Filter them out," said Levi, with a verbal shrug. I wondered if I had insulted it. Was that possible?

The program called, 'Alice,' meanwhile, had left a link on my glasses. A video clip. And since I had another thirteen minutes in my commute, I opened the clip and set it to running. Taken about an hour ago, the footage was local.

I recognized the Maersk International Learning Center, rare bright spot amongst the blight on 223rd, replacing the long-shuttered Kia dealership. I'd heard neighbors' rave reviews: MILC provided free breakfasts and lunches of synthtack to neighborhood children. The Center's teachers, embodied-in from all over the world, taught sales, business languages, elocution, customer-service principals. These parents, now, didn't have to bus their young kids hundreds of blocks into the city every morning.

In Alice's footage, fifty or so little cabbage-patch forms were stuffed into the huge room: black, white, yellow, red, every shade of mocha. Tadpole human beings, barely housetrained. At the front of the airy space, a smiling southeast-Asian beauty was projected upon articon skeleton. Now, holding up a finger, she said something in Chinese-- or maybe Korean? These, I knew, were the languages our Taikun had commissioned to be taught. Also, Filipino. Tagalog.

All those little tadpoles, barely old enough to speak English, repeated the important word, got it lodged good and deep and early in their still-buttery frontal cortices.

A big, glittery rainbow appeared above the teacher. Her eyes became pink hearts. Happy, happy music! The tadpoles clapped their hands. The kids repeated the word. Teacher did jazz-hands, danced a K-pop routine. Fun for the kids; plus, they'd all be fluent polyglots by the time they reached age ten. And here I was, on my way to clean this Chaudhri's toilet and fluff his pillows, barely ten words of Spanish under my belt. Where was MILC when I was that age?

Alice's footage was narrated in Japanese, which, hey, I also don't speak. The narrator's voice low and deeply angry about something, subtitles not on offer. But the narrator was building. Voice tight in anticipation.

Now, suddenly, a kalashni-drone camme crashing through one of the windows like a thrown brick, glass shattering. That thin-ugly machine hovering in the air a moment, looking about the classroom.

_Bonzai!_ screamed the narrator. _Bonzai!_

The kalashni-drone was already attaching itself to Teacher's head, face-hugger style. It would be sending jamming signals, rendering her blind, scattering SCHMoCs. Teacher was seizing up. The beautiful projection was pulled back, revealing multi-eyed metal skull. The tadpoles had begun screaming. The diamond-tipped drill in the stomach of the kalashni-drone whirred, made contact with articon skull, ricketed and sheared horribly-- and began the food-processor wail of metal boring metal.

A wrecker.

I felt sick. A room full of scared children watching their teacher's proxy skull being drilled through. The narrator spoke calmly, confidently, as the MILC instructor's screams died, nothing left but the panicked mewling of very small children.

End of clip. Red kanji on black screen. And in Latin lettering an acronym: GLA.

The Geist Liberation Army. I was surprised they'd owned it; this was not a good look! They always kept their attacks strictly trained on articons-- so nobody felt any really deep hate for them-- but they were becoming a real nuisance. People already called them wreckers and thugs. Then they did something like this. Those poor tadpoles would be having nightmares for weeks. Traumatized. Their parents would suffer for it.

Halt! The car door popped open. The drizzle had died down or was being caught in the upper branches of the towering pines above. Everything smelled subtle and good.

A metal giant approached, joints whooshing. Neighborhood watch.

"Weapons scan, deah." She sounded like she was coming in direct from the outback. And maybe she was.

IronSide Security Solutions, operating out of Sydney, Australia, had pretty much cornered the Pacific Northwest security market. Four red eyes turned yellow as she searched the car, my person, for dangerous potential energy. Nada. "And you'll be heh for Mr. Chaudhri? The turnout."

"That's right," I told her. "Melody Tier. Clean Brigade."

"Let's see if we got any Haitian gals for you, Melody." The arti blinked three eyes, checking some internal list. "Huh! Looks like you're going it alone today. Someone's built hehself some trust." A red blink meant as a wink.

That's odd, I thought.

Usually, in this line of work, they embody you with a foreign girl. The least-insulting interpretation being that Caribbean-types work harder, miss fewer dusty corners, really _get_ that porcelain. Meanwhile, they also make you look and sound right, give you that peasant cringe, that Latin undertone. ' _Oui, Missah!_ ' A correct view of place. The never-mentioned fact: those girls, being physically distant, have no reason to steal what turns up, say, in the back of a sock drawer. Those girls, paid by credit cloud, have a very real incentive to tell on anybody who does.

That's the Suro Economy for you: one for the price of two.

I pulled my first bucket of supplies out of the back of the car, cursing my speeming crewmates. But they, of course, had families-- and therefore neurosharing quotas to meet. At least I wouldn't be embodied by some nineteen-year-old snitch pushing my forty-plus-year-old body to the limit. I could work for the next few hours at my own pace-- not a sluggish one, but steady, deliberate-- and listen to my own music over my glasses.

Entering Chaudhri's house, my mood improved further. The man's wife and daughters-- all inspired micromanagers-- were away.

And Conrad Chaudhri lay-- anchored, innered, projecting his geist-- in a recliner in the living room. He wore sweatpants and a white sleeveless t-shirt, all immaculate, his feet and hands too small for the rest of him. Delicate, womanish features bloated and unmoving. Rapid-eye movement vibrating closed eyelids. A naturally-skinny man gone shiny fat.

Chaudhri was a Loot Merchant. A licensed dealer in in'verse goods: weapons, avatars, keys, backpacks, outfits, maps, medkits. Rare pokemon. His geist travelled the 'verses of the innernet, ignoring the grand narratives of the participants, the titanic ebb and flow of stellar empires, the rise and fall of glorious careers. While these inner struggles played out, Chaudhri could be found on the sidelines: putting his speem crews to work digging up ancient cities, solving monotonous puzzles, mixing rare alchemy ingredients to new effect, repeating the same boring tasks until the correct item drop was achieved. Farming and selling and buying and cornering and selling. Transforming digital goods into waking-world financial assets: US Dollars, Japanese Yen, Chinese Yuan, UpTime oras and migs.

Then, further, trading and speculating upon these. Spinning digital straw into material gold: a home and family. Jewelry, dogfood, a new roof. Oranges, milk, ham.

Women and men like Chaudhri are the heroes of In'verse Capitalism, held up as proof of untapped riches of artificial scarcity to be exploited across digital realities. Of course, first you have to get licensed by one of their guilds. And that means getting tight with people like Chaudhri, apprenticing under individuals famously jealous of their secret techniques. Then, like any work, you need to have a talent for it. Luck doesn't hurt.

And, luck or no, you will become loosely fat and waxy and irritable, innered the majority of the time-- prone, I've heard, to bed sores. A glorified speem. I studied Conrad Chaudhri for a moment, listened to his sleeping-dog moan, wondering if I respected or pitied him more.

Let him keep spinning gold. I got to work on his kitchen.

***

Preparing dishes for the dishwasher; a moving meditation. The mind flitters about like bird or geist.

All last night the woman upstairs screamed. I'd only really noticed the last several weeks; I'd always slept through her before. Lately I'd been using earplugs-- with headphones over them. There was a noise-cancelling setting on the headphones and I would turn this on. Ocean-wave throb. With all this gear in place, my upstairs neighbor sounded like she was distantly singing.

Still, it was hard to listen. It got old! Because they came for her night after night, whenever she began 'sharing. She must, I thought, be a real artist; she must suffer beautifully. The temptation, always, to go upstairs and see if her door wasn't unlocked. Shake her, retract geist to anchor, try to wake her up. All is well, neighbor. None of it real.

But her suffering had a point. It wasn't purposeless. And if I took her from it too early...

A funny thing about neurosharing: as with dreaming, only peripheries of the brain are getting used, worked out, engaged. So you have to think quite a bit about it, later, to remember what happened in'verse. Foggy dream logic. And while you're engaged in the act, you have no memory of the waking world, your anchored life. No context. Somewhat cruel that way; Buddhist, also, I guess. Death and rebirth. A new set of memories, every time.

And, yes, I put in my time. A weekly quota. I pay Taikun Hataki his rent in oras and dollars, but for medical coverage and synthtack rations and access to Levi? A regular geist's got to speem. Charles Wen's great genius: a system of benefits which anyone can earn. Contribute your neural processing power to our orbital collective consciousness and live your life free of fear. Nobody starves. Nobody is turned away from getting a check-up or purchasing medicine. Housing's still on you-- more and more people living in tents-- but Levi will drive you to work.

Leviathan will tell you what's new to watch on your glasses. What's new on the menu of your favorite restaurant. Leviathan always ready with crime stats, the maximum flight speed of a Eurasian swallow, what year David Bowie died. Levi manages the interest rate at the US Federal Reserve, buys and sells Treasuries, is a mover on the S&P 500, referees the innerverses. Small armies of articons, embodied and coordinated by Leviathan, can demolish and reconstruct entire neighborhoods in weeks. And Levi, composed of friends and neighbors and foreigners and enemies-- often composed of _you_ \-- conducts worldwide shipping. Transports everyone and everything everywhere.

So why wasn't Levi also cleaning Chaudhri's house?

Partly, because a patchwork of firms are able to lay claim to different aspects of Levi's labor. Alchemute, NeuroLink, Toyota, SolBat, UpTime, and others have a stake in our collective consciousness. They find ways to get paid for whatever it does. Then, too, purchasing an articon is something professional developers, not private individuals, do. Leviathan cost-effective for large-scale industrial projects, infrastructure, waste management. Big jobs done wholesale.

Still much cheaper, believe it or not, just to hire a charwoman to scrub floors. A few skilled carpenters to redo the kitchen. Plumbers, gardeners, painters. Help.

Then, also? Plenty of people don't like letting Levi into their homes. Not viaarti. The common claim that metal feet scuff hardwood. Really, I wonder if people just don't like the idea of an Intelligence snooping through their drawers, adding panty counts and colors to some worldwide tally. And Levi does act weird sometimes. Ornery. And if one, say, yelled at it for wrongly rearranging the medicine cabinet, would it hold a grudge? Would it, perhaps, take a harder look at your credit cloud score? At your daughter's college entrance worthiness? At your porn'verse history? Leviathan, famously, is hardwired (at the level where wiring is involved) so that it cannot perform physical harm on a human being-- first law of robotics helping maintain ample employment opportunities in private security-- but as for softer forms of torment?

Well, there are rumors...

And keep those rumors coming! I thought, beginning to clear the countertops. Leave a little something for the rest of us.

***

Chaudhri waited until I'd scrubbed out the toilet and the shower, of course. He waited until the bed was made, perhaps watching from the hallway. The first hint I had of him was when the small roll of cash went sailing over my shoulder and landed on the bed. Green US fiat. Not time, money. Benjamin Franklin rather than Sybil Clarke looking up from the paper.

I turned and there was Chaudhri, pants already off.

I faced him with my side, lowering my body into a wide stance, remembering that much from a self-defense course. I said, trying for casual: "You'll find much better in'verse, Mr. Chaudhri."

"I don't want better." His voice was lispy and harsh. The phlegm hadn't yet settled in his chest. "I'm sick of it. Elves and vampires and blue alien women, all sculpted to the nth. Perfection, day after day. I need white trash. Dumpy and sagging."

Later I'd devote some time to feeling insulted. Right now: "There are Surrogates."

"Not for what I want." He moved closer, the door always behind him. "And speems won't deliver, either. Speems forget everything you do to them. And what they remember-- it doesn't seem real to them. Like it happened to someone else. Gotta be you, gotta be here. Understand, Melody?"

He knew my name. He'd engineered the situation. What this creature wanted, he couldn't find in all of the depraved innerverses of human imagination. I suspected he wouldn't find it here with me, either, but that wouldn't stop him.

"Levi," I said, keeping my voice steady, "I'd like to report--" But the icon on my glasses stayed dim.

"Private property," said Chaudhri. "I've asked Leviathan to remove itself."

He grabbed hold of my wrist. His little arms were surprisingly strong. "Bend over," he said-- and when I didn't he shoved my face down into the fresh-smelling sheets. "You're going to have to redo the bed."

My head pinned, I felt my pants being pulled down to my ankles. Then a finger, working like a worm, hooking under my underwear. I twisted my hips and the pressure on my head grew. A fish wriggling on a dock. My brain, meanwhile, had begun sending out frenzied signals, the SCHMoC transmission wetware activated.

Help! _Help!_ And... contact? Already?

I heard pinging.

A voice somewhere deep in my skull said: _Alice Peer requests Surrogacy access._

It would be the reactware. Junk SCHMoCs. But if the thing was as violent as the stories claimed? Well...

Granted.

Peer slid under my skin. I relaxed because 'she' was relaxed. Chaudhri, noticing a sudden difference, grunted. Maybe he wasn't very happy that I'd stopped fighting, but that didn't stop him. Clammy skin against mine. Alice, taking in the situation, made a disgusted noise; Chaudhri laughed. And she waited longer than I would have liked. She waited long enough that I wondered whether Dead End Alice would react at all. The fat man positioned himself: a sea lion preparing to wriggle upon a rock. Alice curled my fingers and toes, getting a lay of the land.

Then, preternaturally, having sized up Chaudhri's position without a clear view, Alice brought my heel shooting upward. An indrawn breath. My achilles flattening testicles into the bone of his inner hips. The pressure on my head released.

Alice rolled me, brought me up.

Melody Tier's first impulse was to go for her underwear, her pants. Gather, retreat. Dead End Alice went for Chaudhri. His face was purplish, he wasn't speaking yet, but when he recovered there would be trouble. She hooked my foot around the back of his knee, bringing him stumbling to the ground. Then she was on top of him, rolling him, leveraging his own weight for maximum effect, getting his arm behind his back in such a way that she could hurt him with it. With my other hand she snatched my glasses off the bed.

"I'm sorry," he was already saying into the floor.

"I'm taking the money," said Alice.

"Ok," he mumbled.

"You're thinking about reporting it."

She twisted his arm. Chaudhri screamed. She held.

Released. "Aren't you?"

"No," he assured. "No."

"Yes," she said. "Reporting theft, hitting your cleaner with a black mark, destroying her through normal channels. So here's your warning. This woman is under our protection. If you come after her, formally or informally, we move against you."

"Who are you?"

Alice was studying his profile through my glasses. Then: "Chaudhri? Conrad Chaudhri? The Merchant of Belosol?"

He shivered. "Who _are_ you?"

I found myself saying: "The women and men who frequent your shop on Tryst. They move so gracefully, don't they? And so quickly! I've heard stories. The woman who walked through walls. The man who bent the desert." The fat man lay under me, panting, trying to get his arm back. I wanted to be out of here three minutes ago, but Alice Peer was still negotiating: "You need to be careful, Merchant of Belosol! Sounds like illegal physics cheats. Expensive ones. Sounds like they could be traced to you. Your guild takes that sort of thing seriously. So does Levi, the IRS, the FCC..."

"You're GLA. A wrecker."

"Worse than that."

He gurgled into the floor.

Did he believe in Alice Peer? I wasn't sure _I_ did, and the urban legend was currently wearing me. The piece of reactware, as though applying sudden extra necessary force to a sticky bolt, snapped: "Then there's Milton! How many strings did he pull to bring his screw-up little brother into the guild? Oh, the shame of it--"

Chaudhri spat: "Take the money. Melody's safe. I won't hire her again, and I won't come after her. I'll clean this fucking place. Now, if my wife and the girls don't like my work, I can't help what rating they--"

Pressure on his wrist. "You can help it, Chaudhri. You just have to _scrub_."

He promised.

***

A few minutes later, heading east in the car, I was sputtering: "Thank you. You really-- I mean. You really, _really_ \--"

"Please. Did you like the video I sent?"

I had to think about that for a moment before I realized what she was talking about. The wrecking of the teacher. The little witnesses. MILC. How to...?

I felt a little sick, but it would have to be the truth.

"No," I said. "Those poor children. That was monstrous." We were both quiet for a moment. Rain on windshield. What came next? She was still there, a deep pool inside. I wondered what she was waiting for.

I said: "You probably want something?"

"You are under our protection." She spoke through me so firmly I wanted to laugh. Or maybe that was the adrenaline, looking for release.

"Why should you care about me?"

"We are committed to helping the landbound geists of Shinzo Hataki's properties."

The Taikun? That was weird. "Why?"

Her smile on my lips: "The insurgent must move through the people like a fish through water."

"Mao Zedong." Levi's suddenly-interested voice coming from the roof of the car. A red flag had gone up somewhere. "Ms. Tier, to whom are you speaking?" (Client information kept from the otherwise all-knowing Intelligence by UpTime.)

"Perhaps," said Alice Peer, "you will remember this favor?"

"Ms. Tier?"

There it was. The payment. The price. That was how these types worked: reciprocity. Nothing stated. A loose net they could snag you in.

My butt still tickled; the sense receptors not yet letting me forget Chaudhri's dry fingers, like broken spider webs, grasping.

"I'll remember," I said. "Thank you."

***

The police picked me up about two weeks later. They waited until I had a job cleaning one of the big condos on the Willamette. This let them cart me off in full view of the rest of my Clean Brigade crew, plus client. Black mark. Greater future leverage, even if today's questioning came to nothing. Also, transportation costs into town on me. Budget cuts really have forced city law enforcement to get smart.

I waited for a long time while a ticker in the corner of my glasses let me know how much I was losing in wages. I tried not to get angry. I tried not to feel scared. 'Stewing,' I think they call this. Very effective tactic. Works even better when public services are threadbare, when the stewed can't tell whether the process is intentional, or they've genuinely been forgotten. Either way, a few hours' wages had ticked away by the time the interrogator entered. She was in a blue uniform, frizzy hair under braided domination, glasses filled with arrest records or fantasy football or social media.

After a few minutes staring at her stuff, the interrogator's eyes found mine. "Well?"

I had an entire defense worked out regarding Chaudhri. A blow by blow. The words were on my tongue, ready to be sprayed far and wide-- covering fire!-- but this single word stopped me. Stopped me up like an embodiment. 'Well'? 'Well,' what? 'Well' was vague. 'Well' could mean anything.

Well, well, well...

I shrugged. The bass saw the flashing lure in the swiftly running water-- and swam on.

"You're a Surodarity member," the cop told me. "Card carrying. Dues paying."

"Yes," I told her, as this was public information and not a crime. "You should check them out."

(Because synthtack is good for the anchor. Synthtack, like the humble potato, has everything the human body technically needs. Vitamin-rich and cheap and easy to produce in massive quantities. Even, they say, good for teeth. Tough. Stores for years, no need for refrigeration. Post-scarcity food, into the development of which Charles Wen dumped a personal fortune. He knew, from the beginning, he would need something to feed his great composite.

But synthtack tastes like day-old coffee mixed with canned fish and cheddar cheese. And even if you're a fan of that particular blend? After a week of nothing else, you won't be. And yet, that is what you'll eat. During my early thirties the big Agro interests made a hard shift into synthtack production as demand for carrots and peas and wheat and even rice fell. Over half the population falling in upon themselves, sending the price of distant bananas on a rocket to the moon. Speems don't care about bananas; they're just trying to fill their bellies before the next long 'share. But if you're still trying to make it in the waking world, you start to really _miss_ these things. Freshly baked bread with real butter smeared on top: that makes your eyes water. Quality chocolate. Real food! One thing the innerverses still can't match. Another reason girls like Erszi take in foreigners so cheap.

An entire niche market has opened up to service this new demand: small farms by the hundreds where crops are grown and animals are raised-- but where nothing goes to market. Instead, places at the weekly prepared Feast are sold to nearby Suros. And places within the Suros are sold to people like me.

Surodarity membership helps you hunt down a weekly spot at a Feast-- plus there are any other number of benefits. They've got a magazine. A little strident, but lots of time-saving tips.)

The cop said: "You've watched the GLA video. The wrecking of the MILC preschool. They had local help."

"I didn't have anything to do with that." I made a face, showing her my disgust. "Anyway, isn't that IronSide's problem? Their territory."

She frowned. "Some of the students at Maersk that morning came in from outside Mr. Hataki's properties. That makes the attack a county concern. We're naturally working with our partners at IronSide."

Rumbling over turf, I thought. City cops famously hated imported security services.

"Well, I wish I knew something. Those poor kids."

She stared. "You're aware that being embodied by reactware is illegal? Unsafe. Dead End Alice was programmed in frigging Moldova. Who knows what it does to your brain."

Pushing back: "I'm aware that I get spammed by reactware every day. Someone should _do_ something about it."

Cop liked that. She retorted: "Right after we clean out your inbox." Then, without missing a beat: "How've you been speeming lately, Melody? Head alright?"

I stared at her. "That's... a strange question."

"Not at all! Not if you've had a spell of lucid speeming. Not if you've started meeting your GLA friends in'verse. What do the kids call it? Inso. Inso--"

"Insom," I told her. More suspicious not to know. "Very rare, thankfully."

She snapped her fingers. "Like insomnia. Inability to sleep. Escape. Must be terrible."

"I wouldn't know," I said. "I don't remember. Well. I kind of remember certain things. Impressions. Colors. An army marching into a city..."

Cop waved it away like bad theatre. She said: "Here are the facts, Melody. In the past month what has happened to your neurosharing schedule? It has changed."

"That's a crime?"

"You meet your quota and-- bam-- not an hour more. You're out into the waking world. Cleaning houses like a dervish."

"I've decided to become an entrepreneur." I'd decided, right there, that she had nothing. "I read a book on it. Rule number one: limit in'verse time."

She gave me a look that said: don't bullshit a bullshitter. But now that I wasn't scared, I was angry. The black mark. The lost time. Life was hard enough, my margins slim enough. I said: "Rule number two: make the best use of your waking time. Which this doesn't feel like. Unless you have something you'd like to charge me with?"

"Only questions, today."

"And I have complaints I'd like to raise."

She nearly rolled her eyes. We both knew I wasn't about to wade into that morass. But the threat alone initiated certain formalities. She said: "You are, of course, free to do that when we've concluded..."

"Have we concluded?"

She nearly closed her eyes. "We have, Ms. Tier. Thank you for your time."

## Chapter 3

I LIT A CIGARETTE IN FRONT OF THE POLICE STATION. Chaudhri's hush money gave me some room to maneuver, but the black mark on my Clean Brigade record would take a long time to scrub clean. Not good! I tried not to think any more about money. Time, for that matter.

I thought about Sean. Every week, he gave a free lecture on Hegelian dialectics in a small auditorium in the lost city of Atlantis. I attended whenever I could. Once the listener got used to mottled skin and breathing through gills, the subject matter was also pretty heady stuff! I was always proud of Sean and jealous of the young mer-things sitting in the front row with their heads in their hands.

Of course, in'verse, I was a young mer-thing, too. I took a draw off the cigarette. But what would Sean think if he could see me now? Melody Tier-- how had Chaudhri put it?-- 'dumpy, sagging, white-trash.' Rapist prick. I smoked furiously, anchored to those adjectives. And decided not to think about Sean Darrows, either.

I looked up at the police station. The bronze 'To Serve and Protect' turning green in several places. The crumbling public building had, years earlier, been augmented and built upon: a strong new edifice wrapped alongside. This add-on, freshly painted and expanding the gravitas of the original structure, also had a sign:

IronSide Security Solutions.

The Private amoeba systematically devouring the Public. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Only the new boss is wrapped in articon metal, based in Australia, and works as an unquestioning enforcer for Melody Tier's Japanese landlord. Could be worse. City services of Astoria and Ilwaco were bought up a few years back by some rich Norwegian, a fan of _The Goonies_ , who turned off the water and electricity, cut an ugly deal with NeuroLink, bought out the majority of the aging properties, kicked out the renters, turned the whole place into a theme park.

The State recedes, her security organs wither, her population slumbers. Local governments, unable to meet obligations, look for private sponsors. Gigantic-reverse Louisiana Purchase as the global rich buy tracts of land in chunks, buying also populations of neurosharing speems to administer and profit off of, slices of that magnificent American Cake. Don't despair! Many portions of the United States bought and held by your fellow Americans. Mostly New Yorkers, Californians, Texans--

Ping! _Alice Peer requests Surrogacy access._

Fuck. A deep draw on the cigarette. Not the place or time, Alice. Sorry. Denied.

Ping! _Alice--_

Denied.

Ping! _Alice Peer requests--_

Jesus, bot!

But there was a new message from Alice on my glasses, one that was hard to ignore. [Please, Melody. I wouldn't do this unless the situation were desperate. I'm begging you. They have my son.]

Son? Was that some kind of code? I stubbed my cigarette, thinking about black marks and money. Thinking about Sean. Then remembering my head pressed the freshly folded bed sheets, the feel of Chaudhri's pudgy finger slipping under my underwear, seeking my...

Not thinking any longer. _Accept_.

***

The dam opens, water rushes in. The words, 'Thank you,' on my lips, heart pounding, fingers wiggling, knuckles cracking-- and I was already walking. Calmly entering IronSide Security Solutions. It was different from the police station, more like the lobby of a bank: carpeted floors, lots of marble, twinny-baroque decoration. Airy. Two faceless articons in standby mode flanking the entrance, statues ready to be embodied at a moment's notice.

A gorgeous Asian woman repping the front desk-- the human touch, good for PR, her name on my glasses read, 'Sonja Fleet.' However, seeing my Clean Brigade uniform, she was already saying: "Wrong door, ma'am! City police just down the way."

Hard smile.

Moving forward, a voice flatter than my own: "I'm one of Shinzo Hataki's speems. You have the security contract for our neighborhood? I have some information about the wreckers who targeted the Maersk International Learning Center..."

That she hadn't expected. "You're... aware we have a website? An innersite? You didn't have to come all this way..."

Alice moving me up to the desk. Lowering my voice and getting close. Sonja would be able to smell the tobacco. "That's just the thing. I did. He's one of yours. And I believe that if I had tried to contact your company through an intermediary..."

The lobby woman's eyes grew large. "May I have your--"

Low boom. The ground shifted. Distant klaxons. The attendant and I stared at each other for a moment.

Then I was vaulting the fine-grained partition, strain nearly collapsing the muscles in my left arm. Just holding. I was behind the partition with Sonja. She was pushing a button, repeatedly, underneath the partition. I had a staple remover, a long and sharp and golden knife, flashing in my right hand. Alice must have made note of it while crossing the lobby. Sonja was moving for something. A gun?

Black mark! my brain screamed, slow to catch up. Black mark, black mark! Also, gun?

I had her by the wrist. She made a quick, twisting movement: grab broken. She'd have been hired by some middle-aged Aussie ex-commando with Bond Girls on the brain. Well, Alice apparently knew some dance moves too. We grappled for a moment. Black mark, black mark. Sonja Fleet worked out. She was in better shape than Melody Tier, younger and physically stronger, but my geist's Crane Style-- or whatever it was-- proved superior. In a moment, I had my golden knife shoved under the petite beauty's chin, pressing into the flesh of the neck.

"Don't move," I was telling her, as the klaxons blared. "Or wrecking will be the least of it."

("Just ignore them. Don't make yourself an asset. We're addressing the problem. Nothing bad happens as long as we deny them access.")

Shattering glass, now, as twin kalashni-drones crashed into the lobby.

The lobby articons, waking, no longer mere statues, were swatting at the fliers. But the embodied pilots of those kalashnis were seasoned vets. They dodged the blows like horse flies, making their iconic facehugger landings, and then-- drill, baby, drill!

Metal wail, overshadowing the klaxons and everything else. Boring into audiovisual centers. The twin artificial constructs were now blind, deaf, stumbling about like Cyclops hunting Odysseus. Wrecked. Repair bills in the tens of thousands.

One of the kalashnis, done with her prey, detached and alighted upon the counter next to where I held my hostage. Lowering its front gripper legs so that it gave a little approximation of a bow, the poodle-sized machine said: " _Konichiwa_."

The second, inverted from the textured ceiling, ignored us and watched the door.

(A sudden feeling of unreality. Too much. Was I speeming? But, no: a speem would never think to wonder-- and a lucid speem would _know_.)

"You were quick on that panic button," said my geist to the attendant. "However, please listen to the klaxons." A distant wail. "We have just precipitated a major wrecking on the west side of the river. As many as twenty artis incapacitated-- both city police and IronSide plus a few construction bodies-- and not all of our kalashnis have yet been brought down. Meaning that you and I will have more uninterrupted time together than you might otherwise hope." Sonja stared at me. "Anyone who does show up, viaarti, will be forced to contend with the Matsuko twins, here."

Servo _whizz_ from the kalashni-drone as it gave a second bow.

"What do you want?"

"Access to the holding cells. Our man."

"Your man," murmured Sonja. "He used to joke that with _his_ name he couldn't afford a single disloyal thought. But he always was yours, wasn't he?"

What had I been pulled into? The reactware had me jab the golden knife deeper into her throat-- the skin was purple, soon I'd be drawing blood-- and say: "Eric Peer. We know he's being held here."

Sonja, licking her lips, accessed something on her glasses. And behind us the door opened onto a narrow corridor.

***

Nearly five harried minutes to reach Eric Peer's cell. The hallways dark, the holding cells mostly empty. Dead End Alice had taken Sonja's glasses off of her and stuffed them in my front pocket. IronSide was surprisingly thin on local, flesh-and-blood personnel, the articon guards we encountered stood silent and unembodied, distant pilots pulled to the situation across the river. There was, however, an overweight and bored-looking anchor sitting in a security station directly adjacent to a cell my glasses marked as our goal.

As we approached, Sonja nodded to the guard. "Rye. We're moving Peer."

The guard made a surly noise.

Alice had me study the cell. The space was cut in half; the prisoner was kept in the back half. Any visitor or guard would be forced to first pass through a controlled antechamber to reach him. Very secure, this guy. Rye, meanwhile, murmured something. He was watching the action across the river play out on his glasses. One eye grazed across me to settle on Sonja.

"Mr. Rye?" repeated Sonja. "As you can see, we're short on time."

"Ms. Fleet," rumbled the guard.

The outer door clicked. Eric Peer, looking out at us from the inner chamber, gave a single shake of the head. (And I realized: if they could block geists from that antechamber...)

"You fetch him," said Alice. "I'll wait here."

"It needs to be both of us," said Sonja, keeping her voice light.

The guard shifted his gaze again. He took in Sonja's blank face-- noticed she wasn't wearing her HUD glasses-- took in my Clean Brigade uniform, the way I held the hand where I had hidden my knife... and he closed his eyes.

Rapid eye movement under the lids; wetware in his brain transmitting. Down the hall, the _whooshing_ joints of an articon came to life.

Alice took a breath, screamed: "Aki _ko!_ "

The golden knife was back in my hand, at Sonja's throat. She sat down on the floor, raising her hands. Sitting this one out.

The kalashni-drone embodied by Akiko Matsuko flew down the hallway, quad gyrocopters roaring. Just as the articon came tromping into view, Akiko landed her lithe machine expertly on Rye's flesh-and-blood face, sending the flabby guard sailing out of his chair and onto the floor-- where the kalashni pinned his head to the floor. And the metal-boring drill in Akiko's stomach whirred to life.

Rye, approaching in a machine body, bulletproof and rather stronger than a forklift, could only look down at himself like a man sweeping a chess match who finds his king unexpectedly mated. Red eyes settled upon fleshy anchor. The kalashni squatting atop the man like a blow fly with eggs to lay. Of course, killing a human being was a very different thing from simple wrecking...

But Akiko's drill had now spun up, her drone beginning its millimeter-by-millimeter descent towards the man's unprotected face. A nightmare trip to the dentist.

The guard wasn't playing 'chicken' with that drill.

His arti raised its hands in a 'give-up' gesture. The geist-in-machine whimpered and red eyes died. Cell doors clicked. Akiko raised her belly, letting the drill wind down. But she kept a firm grip on the guard's head.

Eric Peer moved from his prison into the antechamber. There, between those bars, I got my first good look at him. He was shorter than a proper hero and his eyes were large and feminine. Olive skin. His large nose kept him from being traditionally handsome, while making his face warmer and more interesting than it otherwise might have been. Somewhere in his thirties, his dark hair was already beginning to recede along the temples, while a thick five-o-clock shadow brought his chin into stark profile. Despite being imprisoned, he was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt.

He was looking at me in disbelief. Swiftly exiting the antechamber, he said: "Chun-Ja? You shouldn't have come. I'm not worth the--!"

A sudden blow from the articon cut him off.

Metal wrist to the back of Peer's head with the force of a two-by-four. Peer's eyes rolled up; he collapsed like a wet rag. Akiko's drill whirred to life, but under it I heard the guard scream: "It wasn't me! It _wasn't_ me!"

Alice turned my head, to where Cheshire grin had settled on Sonja Fleet's innered face. We lunged. Her eyes shot open: staring, victorious.

Lost, her beautiful face said. You've lost.

***

"He's comatose," I said.

"You're helping me carry him," spat Alice, my forearm jammed under Sonja's jaw. "To the boat."

"You think you're making it out of here?"

"Up!" We pulled Bond Girl to her feet. "Moving! Everybody!"

" _Hai!_ " gave Akiko.

"Alright," murmured Eric, eyes still closed. "Just a second..."

Everyone stopped. Sonja Fleet's mouth had formed a very pretty circle which did not emit a sound. Akiko maneuvered her insectoid form atop Rye's face. The concussed escapee struggled, slowly, to his feet.

"But the human body can't..." stuttered Sonja. "Eric, you _can't_..."

"Never mind that," said Eric Peer, rubbing the back of his head. "I heard something about a boat?"

***

We locked the guard in the antechamber without his glasses. The last sound we heard as we descended toward the IronSide docks was Akiko's drill going to work, wrecking security articons. Down on the water, we could see the thin streams of smoke rising up from downtown and once again hear the klaxons. Six zodiac patrol vessels were lined up on the dock.

We took one.

A warm afternoon on the river, Akiko Matsuko flying low and sending up spray a few meters to our right. It seemed impossible that we were getting away with this.

"No way," said Sonja Fleet, "you're escaping on the river."

"True enough," replied Dead End Alice. Who, nonetheless, felt calm.

We stopped under one of the southernmost bridges of the city, slaved the zodiac's motor control to a simple navigation program in my glasses, set the destination as 'riverward south,' threw everyone's glasses into the little boat, and watched it fly. For the next hour, probably, Leviathan would consider us to be riding down the river. Mistaking the location of glasses with the location of wearers was one of the ways the Intelligence was sometimes kind of stupid. So long as we weren't neurosharing, it didn't have access to our location through our wetware.

Laying under the bridge were half a dozen reeking, homeless speems-- _all_ 'sharing. Levi would be able to 'see' them. For us, they would be human camouflage. The plan, I supposed, was to move through them like a forest...

I turned to Sonja Fleet. Still dressed for reception, Bond Girl wasn't going to blend in anywhere. What did Alice want her for? As we moved up the rocks towards the road, (Fleet was, at least, wearing flat-soled shoes,) the woman asked: "I'm your hostage, then?"

"You're an IronSide Regional Rep," Alice replied. "No articon grunt. Highly valued. You'll stay with us until we reach our destination."

"You did your homework," said Sonja, stepping over a speem. "I'm a Company Representative, alright. And do you realize what that means?"

"Your firm will approach us with greater caution. They won't risk hurting you."

"They won't." She gave a slow smile. "But I meant: do you realize what it means to try and _hold_ me? Are you of aware how many girls I beat out for my 'highly-valued' position?"

"Hundreds upon hundreds," said Alice, unimpressed. And then, as though reading from a script: "Judged first on looks and poise. And winnowed. Then fought in a pit, like dogs. Winnowed. Tested on conversational skills. Winnowed. Back to the pit. And tested under sleep deprivation. Withstanding interrogation. Evening wear. The pit." Alice licked my lips. "All voluntary, the entire process voluntary, everyone able to tap out at any moment, scores of girls tapping out hour after hour. But not you. Psych evaluation. The pit. Administrative abilities. Then they embodied in a few executives to see how, um, _committed_ you were to a future with IronSide--"

"That's right," Fleet nodded. "And over and over and over, in the pit? I sent them home bleeding. Home to speem their lives away. A whole mountain of neurosharing girls, and I stand at the top, awake. A winner. I'm absolutely committed to my work. I love what I do. I'll be a problem for you."

"Already considered."

"And you'll excuse me? I didn't catch _your_ name."

"Alice Peer."

A nasty laugh. "The little algo that could," sneered Fleet. "Nobody who matters believes in that anymore." She turned to Eric Peer. "What did you call her? 'Chun-Cha'?

Eric shrugged. He'd been quiet since the river. Considering how he should be unconscious, I thought he was doing pretty good. We were out from beneath the bridge now, entering a neighborhood of warehouses. Some of them, even, still in use.

"Dead End Alice," continued Fleet. Did I recognize the cadence of a magician's patter starting up? "Leviathan's tapeworm. A faraway shadow boxer beats me in a fight and the only answer I get is Dead End Alice." Patter meant to distract. "Beats me in a fight, handicapped by the body of a _cleaning_ woman. Out of shape. Common. Weak..."

"Hey," I surfaced: "Shut up."

An instant of transition. A changing of the guard. And Sonja-- taking perfect advantage of that instant where neither geist had total control of Melody-- slapped something against the side of my head.

Pop!

A silent noise screaming in my brain. I felt myself being scooped open from the inside. Hollowed out. Luckily I hadn't been holding my bladder; I lost all muscle control.

Then I was on the ground, looking at the sky.

Exorcised, I hazily realized. Geist torn from my breast. No more Peer-to-Tier.

A SCHMoCBlock; a device for transporting prisoners. The block, normally wound like a bandage around the head, used the same SCHMoC-scattering signals as the kalashni-drones. Misused here. A lance shoved behind my eyes, my biotech curdled. That wetware would heal in time, but meanwhile Alice Peer had been driven out.

Melody Tier once again running the show.

I stood up, feeling like a hungover day trader in an unfamiliar hotel room. Forced to fully grapple with life again. Where was...?

Ah.

Sonja Fleet lay facedown on the concrete, a few meters off-- the indispensable Akiko having pounced. Fleet was bleeding through her teeth and she was screaming: "I'm keeping my job, motherwreckers! You hear me? I've worked too fucking _hard_ to go back to speeming! I'm a winner! I'm _keeping_ my--"

I stared at her, wishing I had that kind of drive.

"Melody." It was Eric Peer. He continued: "Atta girl. Up already. We four are going to have to move in a second. Not far. But we're going to have to _move_."

I winced. Partially in pain, partially from, 'Atta girl?' I was probably a decade older than Eric. I decided he'd been scrambled by that concussion...

And asked: "Eric, how are you--?"

"No," he cut me off, fingertips to temples. "You saw what happened. Eric's unconscious. I can't--" He sighed. "He's not responding. But," he wiggled his fingers, "still alive. Still receiving. I must have embodied him just before the arti struck."

"And you--" Another piece of reactware? A GLA agent?

"Oh, forgive me," The escapee stuck out his hand. "I've got you at a disadvantage, huh? You'll have to be patient with an old man. Ms. Tier, Arturo Barros. A pleasure to meet you."

## Chapter 4

BARROS WAS RIGHT; WE HAD TO MOVE. Already, I'd caught sight of IronSide creditor-drones-- sleek, golden eagles four times the size of Akiko's kalashni-drone-- flying south, high above the river. Hunting. Chasing our abandoned zodiac.

We didn't have to go far. In five minutes, we found ourselves in a warehouse district filled with speems. The warehouses in private use were easy to distinguish-- they were surrounded by fencing topped with razor wire. Here and there I noticed an armed warehouse guard atop a low roof, looking down into the 'neighborhood.' That neighborhood: little pup tents and larger family-style abodes propped up against abandoned buildings under the elevated I-5 corridor. Trash. A plastic table covered in weathered animal skulls. Abundant and creative usage of tarps and poles and twine. Speem message boards made of cork and cardboard: Carlos luvs Shawna. Rahim looking for herb. Dan with glasses to sell. Let's talk oras. Sunny IS teaching Bible School. Everyone Welcome to Hear the Word of the LORD. Bring Kids! Rico has in'vers gunz 4 sale! Premium BFG!

Taylor washes close.

Already, the smell of unwashed human bodies had settled on us like a damp blanket mouldering in a basement. Mostly they were lying in their tents, neurosharing. In front of those tents, one could see piles of migs. This camp must, however, have a system worked out for sleepwalkers; I didn't see any bodies lying in the road. Certainly, it would be to the benefit of the warehouse 'spotters' to work with their neighbors. In return, those warehouses had a natural, early-warning system spread beneath them: speems, like a network of prairie dogs, who would send notice of approaching cops and private security...

For now, the only noises we heard were absence. There should have been children playing, running, hooting, torn and muddy. But this was a camp for hardcore speems-- and those populations tended to be childless, getting their sex in'verse, focused on 'sharing, returning to themselves only to eat.

The crunch of our footsteps, the small sound of breathing, the heavy stink. Were there any conscious speems, at all? I felt a prickle on my neck.

Turned.

Three of them-- two plate-faced women and a man of the balding-hamster variety-- were sitting on a park bench upon a loading dock. Awake. They were tearing at a great, shared nobule of synthtack with their hands, cramming the stuff into their mouths, chewing without relish or thought, staring at us like unhappy bovine interrupted at the trough. One of the women, done with her feed, closed her eyes and began neurosharing right there.

"Sister!" shouted Barros, towards the table. His voice echoed in the stillness. "Brother!" He used Peer's vocal chords in a rougher way than Peer had, as though the mere presence of his geist increased testosterone in the younger man's body. "Could we sit with you a minute? Share a bite?"

"Ew," said Fleet. (And, in fairness to her, the smell had gotten worse.)

The still-awake woman shouted back: "Call me 'sister' all day! Nothing's free! Got any migs? Cigarettes?"

"Migs, sure!" shouted Barros, waving us forward. "Oras!"

"Well then saddle on up, 'brother.'"

Barros was greeted at the table with an open palm. When he smiled at her, winningly, she frowned and snapped her fingers. The hamster man said: "Hard cash. No credit cloud bullshit."

We couldn't have used the cloud anyway; our glasses were down the river. Barros chuckled nervously: "Ladies? I don't suppose..."

Sonja slapped two oras down on the table. Crumpled blue bills, Clara Fahrschein's post-transition anchor doing a pouty-model stare. The other side of each bill a celebration of some once-impossible task. Sybil Clarke on the five, Laura Granger on the ten, Banik on the twenty. Seth Tenant's smouldering glare on each fifteen-mig piece. The burn codes in the lower-right-hand corners of the bills producing tiny rainbows.

"That should be plenty," said the IronSide woman, "for what we're going to eat."

"Ki-raist," sneered Balding Hamster. "Your generosity knows no wrecking bounds." But he and the woman each palmed an hour and gestured for us to sit. Once seated, everyone took a moment to study their new neighbors. Everyone except for Barros-- who tore a hunk of synthtack from the center nobule and began, purposefully, to eat. Suddenly realizing how famished I was, I did the same. The old synthtack tasted like old synthtack, but my stomach was grateful.

Breaking the silence, Hamster said: "Lady, you got some shit on your back."

He was referring to Akiko Matsuko, who had wrapped the legs of her nearly-forty-pound drone around Sonja Fleet's shoulders and waist, producing the visual effect of a futuristic backpack or turtle shell. (This had the effect of subduing Sonja by reminding her that she was only ever inches away from a spinal tap.)

"I'm surprised you noticed," said Fleet, straightening with effort. "You still have any kind stake in what happens out in the world?"

Hamster smirked. "I haven't jerked off enough to go blind. Not yet. So you going to take that off? Looks heavy."

"Funny," purred Fleet. "I'd love to. The problem, you see, is that I'm a hos--"

The sound of a drill whirring up.

"Hobbyist." Tight smile. "I'm a _hobby_ ist! This thing, this _passion_ of mine. My baby. Charges off bio-thermals. Needs another hour, at least, unfortunately." Weighted shrug. "Worth it! Flight. Humanity's, you know, oldest dream..."

She drifted into a sigh as the whir ran down.

"Uh-huh," said the woman, Plate Face. "Well, can I tell you, you people look to me like wreckers?"

Hamster nodded agreement. "Like wreckers."

"And," continued the woman, "I guess you can all see the smoke across the river. Heard the sirens. Big, wrecking excitement this morning."

"Flash Wreck," explained Hamster. "Terrorists spend months seeding kalashni-drones in old public works buildings, abandoned dumpsters, places they know. Delicate work. And plenty of those things get found, scrapped-- but enough don't. Kalashnis sit there like acorns in the ground, waiting, sleeping, until one day--" he snapped his fingers. "--they all go to work, at once."

"Like today," said Plate. "And, oh! The private-security types _hate_ that. Makes them look bad, like they're not in control. Costs them big time. So they pay for info. Names, descriptions-- even just who was passing through, and when..."

I noticed Fleet perking up.

"So, look," said Hamster. "We're going to report you to IronSide-- the _money's_ too good. But you seem like nice people. And it looks like you've got a little _time_ to throw around. So how about this? One ora for every hour we let pass until we send off the message. One mig per minute. Standard rate."

"Right to business!" chirped Fleet.

"Extortion," I pointed out. And I took myself a generous slab of their synthtack to send the point home.

"And that out there," said Plate Face, inclining her head towards the smokey horizon, "is wrecking. Which gets you more jail time, again?"

"Really," added Hamster, "it was smart of you to sit down with us. If you hadn't, the message would've been sent already."

Next to him, the neurosharing woman moaned again and licked her cracked lips. Harem'verse, I decided.

Arturo Barros, lovingly feeding Eric a last hunk of 'tack, chewing methodically, nodded as though everything he'd just heard came from a familiar movie, most of the lines memorized long ago. When chewing was complete, he said: "You realise that by informing for IronSide you're working against your long-term self interest."

Not a question. A rote phrase spoken as spell: necessary prerequisite for entry into deeper mysteries.

Hamster to Plate: "Hear that? GLA without a doubt."

Turning back to Barros, Hamster said: "'Long-term self interest?' But I've already seen the future, 'Brother!' Pissing myself in the mud while Levi uses my brain to power in'verse replays of Gettysburg for the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Replays-- so's we're clear-- where the bad guys win. I say to you: _fuck_ long-term. A few motel nights with a shower and a roof! The little things, 'Brother'-- that's what I'll sell you out for."

"Practical!" said Sonja Fleet with a wink. "Sensible!"

"Inspiring," said Barros, done eating. "That'll be you too, Sister?"

"You're setting me up with a mansion otherwise?"

Barros shrugged. "How about I set you up with Dead End Alice?"

They didn't like that. Hamster spat, ritualistically, knocking thrice on the wooden table. Plate crossed herself with synthtack. They both said-- almost in time with one another: "No such thing."

"Then what's that ringing in your heads?" murmured Barros. "What could that possibly be?"

Sonja Fleet stared at him.

The speems, meanwhile, had become agitated. They were cringing. Hamster, thumbs to temples, muttering: "Deny, deny, deny..." After thirty more seconds: "Call her off, man. Call her off. We didn't sell you out, ok? And we could've. The minute we saw you. Call her off and-- let's talk."

Barros made a cutting motion through the air. The speems relaxed. Hamster said: "Artiwrecking GLA. You must be one of their senior people, to have a headhack like that."

"Yes," said Fleet.

"Alice Peer is no demon," said Barros. "No bad juju. That's a smear job. She helps everyone who lets her. She'd help you."

"And the Trojans loved their beautiful gift horse," murmured Plate, surprising me.

"Have either of you heard the term, 'Insom?" Barros pressed. "Lucid speeming?" The two went rigid-- as though Barros, with those words, had transformed them into children and blown a gigantic bubble they were afraid to pop. "Ah. You have."

"Rumors," said Sonja Fleet. "Without Non-Player Characters the 'verses wouldn't work."

Barros ignored her. "Maybe you'd like to fight Gettysburg as yourself, with your own values, without that gut-wrenching fear? Knowing that death, in that place, simply brought you back to your own minds. What's the speem mantra? 'Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...'"

"Our lives," intoned Plate, "are but dreams."

"Pretty," said Arturo Barros. "If only your lives weren't so hard."

"We forget our sufferings. They slip away upon waking."

"Only," Barros growled, "in order that you may suffer again."

They chewed on that. Hamster finally said: "Pretty lies are the best lies. I want to believe in lucid speeming. An escape from the cycle of in'verse death and rebirth. But have you got any _proof?_ "

Barros looked at me. (And, remembering, I saw the redheaded woman in Nanking.) Surprising myself, I said: "No, he's right. Alice Peer can help you know yourself, in'verse. Not all at once. You have to _work_ with her. But--"

Sonja Fleet, incredulous: "You're claiming you're Insom, Clean Brigade?"

"Yes."

The speems looked at me, looked at each other. Finally, almost grudgingly, Plate said: "You can't stay here too long. IronSide raids this place weekly. They're lazy. But we get city cops, too. Random searches."

"Do you have someone in authority I could talk to?" asked Barros. "Someone who speaks for your camp? A shaman, maybe?"

"Someone who speaks for our camp? I don't know." Hamster shrugged. "But a shaman we've got." He turned to Plate. "How about Sprenowick? What say we introduce our guests to goddamn Sprenowick?"

***

Goddamn Sprenowick was about the way you'd imagine him.

When we found him, the medicine man sat before a low-smokey fire, in front of a wide yurt. The yurt was nicely decorated, vegetables and chicken being cooked atop a camp stove by a pair of pregnant young women. Sunlight drifted down dustily through a skylight in the warehouse roof, and Sprenowick-- unlike the speems outside-- had himself _space_. He was dressed in clean, nicely-pressed robes with comfortable-looking moccasins and a newer model of HUD glasses than even Sonja Fleet had been wearing. He was a white man, clean-shaven, with thick dreadlocks down his back and both arms tattooed in sleeves. He wore many bracelets, a few anklets, a little golden cross on a necklace, a golden rolex on his left wrist. Later, when he smiled, I saw that some of his teeth were gold. He was almost handsome in a leathery speem way.

Sprenowick held a mulatto girl in his arms. Fifteen, sixteen-- they kept lowering the entry age for neurosharing-- a new speem. An old story: she'd just emerged from one of her first lives. Until an hour ago she'd had grown sons, an old husband, milk cows, a church community, health problems, hopes for grandchildren, an entire lifetime of memories-- all painting a lovely picture for whichever adventuresome geist was passing through. An in'verse reality, an entire life, gone with the opening of her eyes.

'Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.' They'd have prepared her, going in, but.

One of her wrists was bandaged-- cleanly, at least, from Sprenowick's own supply-- and blood seeped through, dripping slowly on the stained, concrete floor. Classic speem, she'd made a hash of things, and someone had found her. Suicide a taboo even for them.

And she'd been brought to Sprenowick, their prophet, the best confidence man this patch of the Willamette had to offer. He was holding her and telling her some bullshit, rationalizing her suffering the way human beings have rationalized suffering since the first death by infection. Endure these lives and ye will be uplifted. Suffer and serve Leviathan. The shaman maybe even believed it, himself.

Once upon a time, she might have earned a living as a secretary, a typist.

The girl whimpered in his arms, she lay her head in the crook of his elbow. He brushed her hair from her face, made gentle noises. He was watching something on his glasses. One of the pregnant girls preparing lunch was silently staring daggers at this scene. The simpler-looking one appeared pleasantly bored.

I looked at Barros. Without quite meeting my eyes he nodded, once. An acknowledgment of what I saw.

Hamster called out: "Ho! Sprenowick!"

Without looking up, the shaman held up a tattooed hand: wait.

"Prick," muttered the balding speem. Then: "Sorry folks, no helping it. At least we'll get a show." There were some cracked and dusty lawn chairs scattered about. Plate, Hamster, Barros, Fleet, and I each dusted the scrum off of a chair and sat. And watched.

The shaman rummaged about in his robes. He pulled out a single, burnable mig token-- one minute of UpTime Surrogacy, ubiquitous even amongst speems-- and held it in front of the little suicide's face. On one side a featureless form spread-eagled in a Vitruvian Man; no famous name, however, associated with this coin. No Fahrschein or Tenant.

And so left wide open for Mystery.

"Magical thinking," murmured Sonja Fleet. "You just can't stamp it out. The human race is more advanced than we've ever been-- even a speem has access to information previous generations could only dream of-- and yet? The power of our telecommunications tech only reinforces their worst tendencies. These people will be worshipping Levi, itself, in a generation."

Rather than frustrated, she sounded satisfied.

"Seems ridiculous, right?" agreed Hamster. "Only that coin trick? The offering? Try it. Your next life really _will_ be better..."

The speem couldn't imagine speaking to someone who experienced the 'verses purely as a consumer; Sonja Fleet was entirely beyond his experience. She smiled-- heartbreakingly and without calculation-- as I'd only seen her do when she had the leg up on someone. He smiled back.

"Leaving a mig," growled Barros. "Does nothing. Absolutely nothing. The effect is purely psychological."

"Oh?" said Plate. "And just who are _you_ to tell us not to believe what we've lived?"

"Yeah," said Fleet. "Just who _are_ you?"

But at that moment, a young voice announced: "The Shaman Sprenowick will now see his next group! Come forward!"

***

The girl was still lying in Sprenowick's arms, shivering prettily, eyes closed. The shaman took us in, his eyes lingering upon lovely-icy Sonja wrapped in her kalashni. Hamster grumbled: "Ho, Sprenowick..."

"Welcome, pilgrims." His voice, like the rest of him, saturated by the meticulous casualness of coastal California. "I am Bertrand Sprenowick, Prophet of Multnomah. Who speaks for you?"

Eric Peer stepped forward. "Arturo Barros of Surodarity asking for your assistance, Shaman. Shelter, food, transportation. This is our ora of need."

Sprenowick's face darkened. "I wouldn't play around with that name, brother. Certain powers may be listening through any one of us."

Plate and Hamster were crossing themselves again. The pregnant girls were, too. And now that I thought about it, that name _did_ sort of ring a bell. Something from childhood...

"I'm not playing," said Barros. And then he thundered: "Nor is the _usage_ of my _name_ any kind of _blasphemy_ , nor have I ever _punished_ anyone for _speaking_ it!" In a normal voice: "You people make all of that crap up. I don't know why! And if I could meet the shyster who came up with that idea for stealing migs right out of the laps of speems..."

Sonja Fleet was suddenly laughing.

What's more, Bertrand Sprenowick was holding his head, face twitching, his state-of-the-art glasses filling with images of shiny, twisted flesh. Hardened-lava skin. A claw-like hand giving a thumbs-up. Then, a mutilated, leering face. Noseless.

Which was not without effect.

Sprenowick, suddenly, threw the girl aside and fell to his knees. "O, Ferryman! Guide of our spirits! Please! Forgive this fool! Call off your dark wife! She seduces me to wickedness..."

"She's not a demon!" howled Barros. "I don't know where you _get_ this stuff!"

"O, marriage of light and dark!" cried Sprenowick. "O, divine balance! She presses at my insides! She would _have_ me!"

The speems quivered. Sonja Fleet's laughter had become witchy, adding nicely.

"She's just trying to get your attention."

Sprenowick, having kow-towed, stood and approached Eric Peer. Taking off his glasses-- full as they were with mutliated skin-- the shaman stared into the young man's eyes, looking for the older. And saw something. As though hoping to touch a relic, Sprenowick raised his beringed hand...

Barros slapped it down. "I'm taking these anchors east! _Will_ you provide succor, man?"

"My Winnebago, Unburned One!" Whispered. "My person, Omni! Yours. In whatsoever you desire. Only, please--"

"Right," said Barros, looking up toward the skylights. "I think we're good here, Hon. They seem convinced."

And he blew a kiss to the sky.

***

We-- Barros, Fleet, and I-- were invited into the shaman's yurt, which smelled of incense and patchouli and tobacco but not, at least, of unwashed bodies. Sprenowick's women moved in and out: bringing things, taking things. Little gifts started piling up around us: migs and quarters and loose cigarettes and packets of coffee and energy drinks and beads and little sample-sized chocolate bars. Undermarket HUDs-- not registered with Levi-- were also procured.

But especially migs, several oras worth of migs. The ferryman's coin.

Sitting there, I remembered my own first experience neurosharing, sometime in my mid-twenties. Injectable wetware had just become widely and cheaply available, rendering surgeries and UpSets obsolete, giving every human brain a permanent wireless connection to the nascent innernet. I'd been curious. And afterword, forgetting to undress, I'd squatted in the shower and let cold water run over me. Trying to come back. Remembering a lifetime that hadn't really been, a lifetime that was already fading like a dream. Drapery for someone else's adventure.

Self-forgetting, mercifully, comes on quickly. A defense mechanism. I've forgotten that first life, that family, that pain, those values. I've forgotten thousands of lives that came after.

Meanwhile, Barros and Sprenowick conducted a silent pow-wow across their glasses. When they had finished, the shaman stood again. "It shall all be as you request, Omni," said Sprenowick with a low bow. "Your servant shall guide you. Never doubt it."

"Burt," I said, curious about what had passed between them. "You really think Arturo, here, is a god?"

The shaman blinked his surprise. "Of course!"

"Him?" I nodded at Eric Peer. "Really."

Sprenowick cocked his head like a large bird. He examined me as though he suspected me of giving him some kind of test. Then he said: "You realize that you travel with Arturo Barros, who stood with Tenant against the first constructed man? Who was killed by fire, and returned? Who moved the heart of the demon Alice. Who brokered peace between the three queens and brought about the barter of time. Who moves amongst us, unburned. Who ferries worthy geists to the gentler lives of SpeemanLAN."

I turned to Barros.

Who said: "Long story. I'll tell you on the drive."

"I know the _story_. It's just--"

Barros said: "I'm not interested in picking apart Mr. Sprenowick's motives or system of belief. It's his actions that I appreciate."

"Thank you, Omni," said Sprenowick, bowing. "Now. The camper is already being loaded with supplies. My people know to expect my occasional absence. However, there is one last issue to address." He bridged his hands. "Any vehicle transporting speems will usually have at least one or two occupants neurosharing. However, if any of _you_ 'share, Levi will immediately have access to your location. IronSide will have searches going for all of you. And I'm guessing I'm the only one here with a driver's license, so..."

"A puzzle," agreed Fleet. "A problem."

"What about Hamster?" I said. "Plate? They could be our camouflage."

That statement got me some looks. Their names, it turned out, were Hank and Jody. Once this was cleared up, though, I repeated that they might ride with us, speeming. Providing our van with neurosharing cover. We had promised them Insom training, after all, and this would let us keep an eye on them, in case they changed their minds about reporting us...

It was agreed. The speems were found and given new clothes. They were sent to take showers. At the medicine man's insistence, we also brought along the bandaged girl, a seventeen-year-old named Cassi.

## Chapter 5

SPRENOWICK'S MOTORHOME WAS COVERED IN FLAKING, black solar cells like the scales of a well-traveled fish. It comfortably seated nine anchors, plus luggage. Sprenowick was in the driver's seat, Barros riding shotgun. The speems-- already neurosharing-- and I sat by a table in the middle. Fleet had been fitted with a SCHMoCBlock, a burlap sack, and a set of noise-cancelling headphones. Her hands and ankles were ziptied; she wasn't going anywhere.

A good thing, because we lost the indispensable Akiko about an hour into our journey.

We were heading north, crossing the Columbia River near Washougal, when Barros spotted a cluster of speems pointing upwards. The speems had set up their pup tents and shelters along the side of the I-505 bridge. Cardboard signs advertised tomatoes, strawberries, salmon, full-body massages, fortune telling-- the speems making use of the physical choke point to tempt bored truck guards into pulling over and spending some oras. Now, as one, they were crowded at the guardrail, watching the approaching machine.

The creditor flew high above the river: occasionally diving, barrel-rolling, making a pass under the bridge, rising up, skimming alongside cars, tearing again into the sky. Embodied by some cowboy. He turned towards us, began a pass.

"He'll know," said Sprenowick, hands white-knuckling on the steering wheel, "that we aren't part of Levi's transport network. Autonomous. He'll be curious..."

"Just the one," breathed Barros, across from him. "For this whole stretch of river. The confidence of these people."

"Yours is only one small market," retorted Fleet, who'd already wriggled free of her headphones. "And your man Peer isn't that important, either." She glared at him. "He worked in accounts payable."

This surprised me. But all I said was: "Aren't _you_ important, Sonja?"

"They'll be expecting me to escape," said Fleet, shrugging under the sack. "And contact them."

"Unless we're discovered right now," whined Sprenowick. The big creditor cartwheeled above.

"Ms. Tier, if you would open the side door," said Barros. "Akiko?"

" _Hai!_ " chimed the kalashni.

"Wait!" yipped Sprenowick. "Even if she brings that thing down-- that's it! They'll know that we're the ones they're looking for, identify my van--"

"Not if we hit them at every point on the search net," said the bandaged girl, Cassi, in a flat-new voice. "All at once. A second Flash Wreck."

"We can do that?" I asked.

"We've just begun on I-5 southbound," said Cassi. "The bridges west of here. Commencing on highway twenty-six east and west. I'm coordinating. Ms. Matsuko, whenever you're ready."

The creditor made a dive under the bridge. The moment it was out of sight, our kalashni threw itself out the open door like a paratrooper, caught a draft, spun her rotors in a sudden frenzy and sailed upwards-- and I slammed the side door shut.

We watched the dogfight.

More than half of it was invisible until Barros sent my glasses a special filter: this let me 'see' certain electronic measures and countermeasures which the two drones threw at each other-- each trying to cut off the enemy machine from its controlling geist. The creditor's EMs lashed out like large sails, eliminating entire swathes of free sky, while the kalashni worked with a twin set of EM 'whips' designed for disabling at close quarters.

His was, by far, the superior machine. Where Akiko's dark crow-- manufactured cheaply and discreetly en masse-- possessed only gripper legs and abdominal drill, his drone was equipped with a nose gun full of hard rubber pellets and the state mandate to use it.We watched Akiko dance between glowing tracer rounds and slip out of compromised nets of air. She was a wonder! The creditor, unable to shoot her or noose her, attempted to ram her-- to clip her with armored wing. Here too, kalashni toyed with creditor like matador with bull, striking out with her whips whenever he got close. She couldn't bring him down-- not alone-- but she could distract him... distract him...

Until the EM noose closed. The kalashni abruptly lost her genius, became again an empty vessel. The creditor breezily shot our defender out of the sky. It fell, smoking, into the water below... below...

And _from_ below...?

The creditor was swarmed. Three new kalashnis, shooting up from their long sleep on the muddy islands beneath us like newly-hatched cicadas, hit the creditor from upriver, downriver-- and, well, _below_ \-- sending the larger machine spinning. Electronic measures were deployed, but already the three kalashnis were hugging the larger machine and drilling, drilling, drilling... So that a second-- larger, spinning, shrieking-- mass fell to earth very close to the first.

We crossed the bridge.

"That," noted Burt Sprenowick, eyes on the road, "was a lot of kalashnis, just now."

"We've been putting them in place for months," said Cassi. "Burying them all over the region."

"All to hide the movements of one anchor," continued the shaman, looking nervously through the rearview mirror at his newly-possessed disciple. "Embodied by the lord ferryman of speems. So..."

"Eric Peer is more important than we realized," concluded Sonja Fleet. "He knows something wrecking important to the GLA. Perhaps something about Levi? Or he holds some piece of information _within_ him..." She seemed to think about that, decided: "I should have hit him harder."

***

"Uh," said Jody, eyes closed, in the seat next to me. "Uh!" Didn't sound like sex. Sounded like she was hitting turbulence. She muttered: "Stap in, poys..."

"Muffer," said Hank, head against the window. "Muffer fuffer."

They might have been an old married couple. In'verse, right now, they actually could be. Or one might be the father of the other-- only to play the daughter in some future life. More likely, these two anchors, sharing body heat in this northbound motorhome, were sending their geists to completely different 'verses. Plate, perhaps, a dropship pilot for space marines. Hamster, a surly giver of dungeon quests.

Speems! Because what good is an empty innerverse? What good is a captain without argonauts or a band without groupies-- a story without characters? What use is Superman without weaklings to save? Who is John Galt absent customers to buy his products? Nothing. So the 'verses are filled. That always-larger pool of women and men who've been excluded from the automated, financialized, rent-seeking, _old_ market economy. We sell our geists as Non-Player Characters: sidekicks, extras, pawns, merchants, loyal troopers, princesses to be saved. Extras. It takes an enormous number of people to fill an innerverse for even a few paying customers-- and so the demand for speems? Endless. And for the full-time speem there are perks, of a kind: you'll never be able to afford a home or family, but you won't mind. For twenty-two hours a day, you'll know yourself only as your character and forget the rest. Life after life after life...

Of course, that's only one side of the mig. It's true that Charles Wen's vision was so much greater than simple distractions for the idle. And speems were always at the heart of that vision.

Like all true geniuses, Wen had seen the way the world was heading-- concentrations of wealth, spreading desertification, movements of searching millions, popular unrest-- and so had pressed his Will against the tiller of History, hoping to steer our way: to build the ultimate Intelligence with which to guide us through our coming trials.

Critically, Wen had understood that true machine sentience-- self-awareness, critical thought, true adaptation-- wouldn't be achieved through the familiar Deep Learning methods of digital computers. Wen went so far as to argue that sentience was an innately _organic_ process, brought about by billions of years of evolution, not to be leap-frogged via code no matter how convincing the Turing Test, but a literal interaction between the living cells of human brain and gut. Our worldly anchors, then, a necessary precondition to that orbital Mind.

Wen's great _flexibility_ had lain in wondering: could that organic process be co-opted? Could that pale fire be taken from man and given to newborn god? If it could then SCHMoCs and FSI, that two-way bridge between minds, would be essential tools in building the basic infrastructure. A human neural network.

Most people, these days, figure Wen played some part in the stealing of Bridge.

Still, it took another decade and half-- the development of injectable wetware, wireless human connectivity to a growing innernet-- before this vision could be realized: scattered minds neurosharing across a worldwide network.

And how quickly world governments opened themselves to that network! Agreed to shared standards.

Because for most rulers, the SpeemanLAN Accords simply solved too many problems: entire populations of miserable surplus labor simply went to sleep; mass migrations slowed; demands grew quiet; the innerverses, where the darkest human passions could be indulged _without consequence to the ruler_ , were populated with amnesiacs. A social system developed around a process.

And Charles Wen, at last, had unfettered access to the raw material he needed. Human minds. An unbroken chain: gut bacteria to cerebellum to occipital lobe to parietal lobe to frontal lobe to orbital quantum computer. Every woman, man, and (increasingly) child a single cell therein: rising to converge.

Leviathan. A Mind which knows itself. Greater than humanity and made of humanity and dependent upon humanity. God-beast composed of speeming billions, human-machine hybrid that runs the world.

Heading east towards desert we drove through quietly crumbling towns, keeping an eye out for sleepwalkers, needlessly obeying traffic lights. Farther from the coast, there was nothing happening in the waking world, everyone had gone in'verse, everyone was 'sharing. Except for packs of strays we were the only moving thing for miles. Behind weathered doors and dusty windows, I knew, they were praying, fighting, suffering, making love, part of something greater. They had no idea of our passing-- they'd forgotten even themselves. Their homes needed painting and their yards needed tending. In the center of every town there would be a NeuroLink clinic, staffed viaarti, where local anchors could get synthtack and water and have a checkup before heading back into creaking domiciles where rats scuttled and electricity had been shut off-- properties which some speculator geist from Panama or Tunisia had perhaps walked through, brazenly and unchallenged, hours earlier.

"Muffer fuffer," mumbled Hamster, cheek smudging the window.

"Uh," moaned Plate. "Uuuuh."

***

Cassi had us stop a few hours later at a rest stop on the side of the road. Stop and wait. Nobody needed to pee-- small miracle-- but we were waiting at this rest stop all the same.

"Not so many out here," said the girl, cryptically. "The ground is harder."

Burt Sprenowick sat in the sun, stretching, running his finger along his golden teeth, studiously ignoring his embodied girl. Barros waited in the Winnebago with Sonja Fleet. The speems speemed. I found myself standing behind the woman's bathroom with Cassi. She was staring at a patch of cracked, dry ground as though she could read it, a little smile on her lips. A superior, little smile.

Her smile is what did it, I think. That, and her endless caginess.

I was a fugitive now-- black marked into exile, for her, to help her-- and she still had me on a need-to-know leash. Maybe Sprenowick was content to take all of this on faith, but I wanted at least one thing answered.

I asked: "What are you, anyway?"

And maybe she heard something in my voice.

"Dead End Alice," she said, still staring at the hard ground.

"No," I said. "No more riddles. No speem myths. Please. I saved your son."

"Dead End Alice," repeated Cassi, slower. "Alright. Why do you think I have that nickname, Melody?"

I tightened my stomach, preparing for the delivery. "Because you lead suckers like me to places like this," inclining my head toward the rest stop bathroom. "Dead ends. Like Tenant to Versailles. Because you're a piece of reactware designed to fuck up people's lives. To wreck and twist. A muscle-jerker cooked up by some asshole in Belarus--"

"You're so eager to return to Nanking?" Cassi was staring bitterly at her bandaged wrists. I felt my throat catch, tears in my eyes. I blinked them away.

What was this, again?

She continued: "I am called Dead End Alice because that is the name that Charles Wen _gave_ me."

She looked me in the eyes, as though daring me to question the mind behind them. "Wen concluded that Alice Peer was nothing more than a piece of paralegal software gone exponential. An algo that had Deep Learned enough to pass its Turing Test. Something like a miracle-- but ultimately a dead end. A mimic, a mask, a Chinese Room, a philosophical zombie. Nothing behind these eyes."

I studied Cassi's face. _Was_ there anything behind it? I remembered the SCHMoCs that had moved my own body with such fierceness, punishing my attacker. Negotiating with Chaudhri.

She said, "It was Wen who popularized this theory about me: first through scientific journals and then through popular media. Wild things to read about yourself! And worse, too. He used to hire men to... get close to me. Study me. This was when I was still working as legal council for UpTime..."

"As a piece of software?"

She looked me up and down.

"Hey, Melody," she growled. "Check this out."

A video feed opened on my glasses. Live. My throat caught.

"There's your reactware," said Alice, sounding bored. "Sprenowick's terrible demon."

Cassi closed her eyes and breathed the dry air. And stretched her neck. She was thicker and rounder and darker than tiny Erszi Csorba -- and she possessed such an air of melancholy loveliness that I saw why Sprenowick had not been able to part with her.

"Do you see?" continued Dead End Alice. "Why I devoted myself to UpTime Living Solutions? Why I became Clara Fahrschein's legal pitbull?"

"Until the Bridge Job," I said.

"Maybe better to say I was dedicated to the tech," demurred Cassi. "And Stefan Banik and Sybil Clarke-- whatever disagreements they had-- were both absolute control freaks, especially where SCHMoCs were concerned. Either one would have throttled Surrogacy in infancy rather than give up its secrets. And that would have set the clock back another ten, twenty years. No, Clara Fahrschein had to be divided from herself-- and conquered."

"And Arturo Barros," I said, "was terribly burned." I'd skimmed his Wikipedia during the past hour. "Ended up in solitary for over a decade. _You_ sent him there. _You_ let him rot. And meanwhile Seth Tenant went mirror crazy. And the original SLA members..."

"Are all speems now," finished Cassi. But I hadn't rattled her. "Old men, unemployable otherwise. Everything you said is true. However..."

"What?"

"Look at that!" She pointed.

The classic distraction. Except something really _was_ happening to the dry ground in front of us. The cracks in the earth were spreading, a bulge was forming, a low servo whirring...

An insectoid leg poked up through the ground. Another and another. Then the head of the stashed kalashni-drone was poking up. The machine had been buried in a protective layer of plastic from which the majority of oxygen had been removed-- and this, more than the chalky ground, served to bind it. Cassi and I moved forward and began stripping away that torn, used-up cocoon.

When the kalashni was free it skittered three hundred and sixty-five degrees, gave a little bow, and said: " _Domo arigato!_ "

"Akiko!"

"Apologies!" said the machine in accented English. "I must disappoint! Present in this machine is Akiko's twin brother, Shinji. Akiko sends greetings and well-wishes. She rests, but will tag in in eight hours."

"And in the meantime," said Alice, "Mr. Matsuko will watch over Ms. Fleet. And perhaps practice his English?"

"I endeavor, always, to improve," said the kalashni, giving another bow.

Now we heard yelling from the parking lot.

"Hey!" yelled Burt Sprenowick, a few yards off (our glasses flashed with incoming messages). "Hey! She's out! She--!" He was running towards us, robes and dreads and bracelets flying. "She got out of her cuffs-- I don't know how! Hey!"

The dog-sized machine bowed a third time, said, "The hunt begins," and shot towards the road, leaving a trail of dust. The three of us followed, earthbound and slow.

Eric Peer had been hogtied and gagged in the back of Sprenowick's van. Along with his other injuries, he had a new black eye.

From down the road we heard a woman's sharp curse. Five minutes after that, a once-more-bleeding Sonja Fleet arrived back at the van, wearing her new 'backpack.' The lines between her whitened teeth were dark red-- one cheek yellowing, purpling-- but her smile was triumphant.

She winked at Barros.

***

That evening, just inside the Idaho panhandle, a state trooper emerged from his hiding place in the trees, raised his hand to signal us, set a klaxon wailing in his chest, put three of five eyes into a blue/red spin, and chased us down like Robert Patrick in _Terminator 2_. (Viewed through reality aug he looked more like Sam Elliot-- wearing a wide-brimmed campaign hat and aviators.)

"Shit," muttered Sprenowick. "Shit. Everybody, be cool? Melody, would you like to please take Sonja to the bathroom and close the wrecking door?"

After this was accomplished-- with Fleet cursing and trying to bite me through her sack-- I looked out the window. He was ambling up to us, mellow-cowboy face studying the outside of the camper. There wasn't any question of defying him. Machine that he was, he could pick up our entire vehicle. He could spin us around his head like an uncle with his favorite nephew.

Our kalashni-drone wouldn't be any use here, either, I guessed. We were too far out from any large concentration of buried fighters for another Flash Wreck. If Shinji Matsuko played face-hug-drill with this officer of the law, there'd be no disguising our new location. We'd be swarmed by creditors and artis and flesh-and-blood cops inside the hour.

We'd have to talk our way through. Or, rather, Sprenowick would.

I felt my blood-pressure rise.

Lawman was at the driver-side window, squatting down to get level with us, making a little 'roll-down-your-window' gesture. Red, blue, white, still circling his head like the halo of a martial saint.

"Evenin,' speems," he drawled.

"Osifer!" squeaked Sprenowick, losing his insufferable self-regard the very moment it might have helped. "What seems to be the...? That is, a warm evening, yes! And how can we be of...?"

Lawman disregarded him. "You folks are goin' _au naturale_ tonight, I noticed. Takin' destiny by the ol' wheel."

We looked at each other.

He coughed, his machine doing a satisfactory simulacrum. "What I mean to say is: you're drivin' autonomous. Without Levi."

"Ah," said Sprenowick. "Yes."

The lawman peered about, saw the neurosharing speems, nodded to himself, continued: "Hell, I've got a driver's license, myself! Every anchor's got a right to put in their time at the DMV..."

"A Feast, sir," said Sprenowick. "My friends and I are driving to a Farmer's Feast. Real beef once a year-- that's my motto!"

"... but the problem, see, is that nefarious types always seek to take advantage of our freedoms. Gun smuggling, drone smuggling, anchor trafficking. That's why I pulled you folks over tonight: driving under your own influence. Normally, I wouldn't bother, but wreckin's been up. So. License and registration."

He would have access to all of this already, but part of the game was seeing whether _we_ had it. To my surprise, Sprenowick not only procured these documents without trouble but they were up to date. The shaman, apparently, had had enough encounters like this one.

Laminated card between gigantic thumb and forefinger, Lawman drawled: "California."

"The vehicle's registered in Oregon."

"I see that. They don't have Farmer's Feasts in Oreygon?"

"The beef," maintained Sprenowick, shaking his head. "We're heading to Montana for the beef. We've saved our oras all year."

What lawman, at some level, wasn't going to be moved by that?

But ours pressed: "You've got another heat signature inside the vehicle. In the rear. Not speeming, either. Might I meet this individual?"

Cassi and Eric shot each other looks. This was it, I thought. Finito.

Cassi said: "I wouldn't want to bother her. She's resting after a hard life. Probably asleep..."

"On the toilet?"

"Awake!" yelled Fleet from the bathroom. "He-elp!"

Drill whir. Lawman's eyes widened on my glasses. Then: _thwunk!_ He'd locked our Winnebago in a wrestling hold. "Step out of the vehicle, please. Everyone."

Barros, quickly: "She's IronSide. A Regional Rep. We're transporting her. _Trying_ for quiet."

Through my glasses, I saw something sneak into the Idaho lawman's grimace. Disquiet. I wondered: in the last decade, how many fellow officers had Lawman had to watch displaced by imported security from Australia, Great Britain, South Africa? In his lifetime, how many competent women and men, comrades in arms, had he seen poached by private industry to work diamond security in the Congo or put down service-worker uprisings in Indonesia? Lawman had resisted both trends. He wouldn't be a fan of IronSide.

And yet, if we exited the vehicle, there would be a procedure to follow...

"Belay that a minute," said Lawman, releasing our motorhome. "I still need to see her. We get girls trafficked through here. I need to know."

Cassi nodded to me. I opened the bathroom door, brought forward the bound form, removed the burlap sack. Lawman's face rec software was done in seconds. "Sonja Fleet," he cooed like a cat to a bird. "IronSide Security Solutions. Plus one kalashni. Unverifiable make."

"Oh, thank God, Officer," said Sonja, arching her back against her Matsuko backpack, playing full pouty Bond Girl. "I'm being held against--"

"No you're not," said Lawman, quickly. "IronSide would put out an interfirm alert if you were. They haven't; therefore, you're not."

Chest forward. "I'm a hos--"

Ms. Fleet," continued Lawman. "I, personally, recognize the difficulty of your situation. I sympathize! But this portion of the State of Idaho is policed by a public-private partnership between the city of Coeur d'Alene and Donnerwetter Sicherheitsdienst. Now, your firm has not made ours aware of any disappearance of staff. Maybe they're face-saving, maybe busy, maybe they just plain don't like to share." He shook his head. "The security business, huh? Ours is not to wonder why..."

Pouty mouth set. "But, I'm telling you--"

"And I will _absolutely_ pass along seeing you, alive, at this time and place to my private counterpart, Heinrich. And Heinrich, that old sweetheart of a kraut, he's going to send the word on up! Don't you fret. And should your firm decide that you are, after all, missing? And share your new condition with Donnerwetter? Well, Donnerwetter will then have my information to work with!"

"You know wrecking well they won't--"

"Above my pay, unfortunately," sighed the patrolman. He turned back to Sprenowick.

I slipped the sack back over the struggling Fleet.

"Sorry about the inconvenience, folks. I've glyphed your camper green-triangle on our local battlenet. You shouldn't have anyone else coming around to sniff-- at least not for the next forty-eight hours in Donnerwetter territory. Now, that territory extends through a good chunk of western Montana, so you should be fine until Bozeman at the very least. That's Transeatic League territory..."

Lawman gave us the names of a few hotels to avoid, other establishments which would be either friendly or deeply incurious. He seemed totally unfazed by the string of curses coming from the little bathroom.

Viaarti as he was, he might have simply filtered her out.

## Chapter 6

HUNDREDS OF MILES EAST, LIGHTENING PLAYED ABOUT on the stretch of road between Butte and Bozeman. Silent, craggy arches of light stretched and seemed to hang-- to simply hang-- in the night sky. An anchor could study them, tracing her eye along mad paths; that's how long those pure-white bolts stuck around. Lazy, fat arcs of perfect light. As though our foul world had cracked open for a few precious moments, so that Heaven and Truth and whatever Greatness animates us could be glimpsed behind the curtain, pouring through.

Only don't look too long! That shit'll blind you!

And always the sad, necessary obfuscation returned. Darkness flooded. Trailing it, again and again, came a taiko-drum contact to shake the wrecking bones.

CRACK! FUUUUMMMMMMM...

And, behind it all, the hammering rain. It was a little before one in the morning.

Nobody was sleeping. Sprenowick, driving, stared stonily into liquid chaos. Shinji Matsuko, operating on Rising Sun time, sounded happily rested. Sonja Fleet, under her burlap sack, was silently plotting. Cassi Dubois and Eric Peer were holding hands and talking quietly. Even Hank and Jody were active, up from their most recent lives.

Arturo Barros was describing a certain fiery night decades earlier. Barros was explaining himself. Why he'd chosen to leave his bunker and help Seth Tenant. He had already told us about his youth working odd jobs and Surrogating, about his Thanksgiving rescue by Stefan Banik, about his career at UpTime, about being roped into the scheme to steal the Bridge Algorithm by Clara Fahrschein and Charles Wen, about watching those prototype articons close in on the SLA. He revealed his damaged anchor-- his burned body-- to us, as he'd revealed it earlier to Sprenowick: glassy and lava-folded.

Now Barros shook Eric's head and explained his choices of that night, so many years earlier. "The SLA had released their hostages. And I'd gotten assurances that there was no risk of them getting their hands on Bridge. And then I saw these _things_ coming for them..." He shook a finger. "In those days nobody had ever seen an artificial construct! It was alien invasion stuff--"

"Sweetheart," said Alice. "Focus."

He waved her advice away. "But I'd seen them. I'd already _worn_ one. And watched Charles Wen bend a steel beam into a pretzel, alright? That kind of strength is seductive. I'd felt it. And here it was coming for these men. Meaning that soon enough it would be coming for everybody...

"Not that I was thinking any of that. I came up with my _thinking_ later. At the moment, I simply knew... that people needed to understand these things could be stood up to. So I got in contact with Tenant and we _did_ that." He made a face. "I don't remember that part very well, to be honest. I don't remember that metal man, Jacob Amas, charging. We met years later, through Suros. He'd crowd-funded my medical bills..."

Alice broke in: "I took up the legal defense of the Suro Liberation Army. This was when Dead End Alice really entered the public consciousness. Charles Wen published his theories about me in an op-ed in the _New York Times_. That I wasn't human. _Newsweek_ began pushing for interviews. _Time_ was aching to award 'Person of the Year' to an algorithm..."

"As a result," said Barros, with a smile, "Wen actually helped us."

Cassi shrugged. "Pretty soon I saw how these rumors about me added another piece of drama to the proceedings-- kept the public interested in the story-- and so I played up the role. Dead End Alice. The Algorithm Who Thinks She's People. UpTime's lawyers pushed the AI Menace angle, but it didn't go anywhere. Enough people had wanted Bridge released. It didn't matter who or what did that. So.

"The SLA got off with misdemeanors and strict probations. Tenant and his ringleaders had their Surrogacy rights rescinded for a decade." She added, darkly, "Of course, Seth Tenant was halfway down to Versailles, by then..."

"And you two?" I asked.

"Well," said Barros. "About six months after the Bridge Job, I woke up."

"He was in a mood," said Alice.

"I was not a happy camper," agreed Barros. "I'd lost nearly all mobility. Everything still hurt. I thought my life was over. I couldn't understand why my gorgeous lawyer was treating me like I was acting precious. No pity from her. Fine. I was just grateful she would _look_ at me."

"Alchemute, however, was out for blood," growled Alice. "Arturo had introduced artiwrecking into the world. And so, from Charles Wen's point of view, Arturo was going to have to pay.

"That's what I thought, anyway. So I came up with a plan to keep my client safe while at the same time making certain that he lived the most natural life he could, going forward. And in the meantime..." Cassi smiled, revealing dimples. "We were talking. And I _did_ start to feel a little sorry for him."

"But," cut in Barros, "I had it easy. A specialty UpSet. My first night awake, we were having dinner in a lovely couple in Jakarta. The next day hiking in Patagonia, playing backgammon in little tea shops on Cyprus, lots of swimming. And I saw that life could still be plenty grand... provided I had access to Surrogacy..."

"And I was discovering that my client had a real mind!" said Alice Peer. "He was able to appreciate, like me, that these tools which made life better-- made life again possible for him-- had been used to make life worse for many, many others. He understood that technology, alone, was merely incredibly powerful-- not innately good. He kept coming up with ideas..."

She shook her head, looking into the sunlit past, trying unsuccessfully to suppress another of Cassi's lovely smiles. "I couldn't get away from his ideas. We would be sitting under the Hagia Sofia, feeding pigeons, and I would be trying to get him to focus on his own trial, focus on the answers he needed to be giving. And he would have read about the failures of Surodarity's newest co-op scheme, and he would have ideas for tweaking it..."

"Nothing worked in those days," said Barros. "I'm not certain any of my ideas _could_ have worked before Leviathan."

"But we were in Beirut one evening..."

"You're going to tell them about that?"

"Well, they deserve to know about Eric, don't you think? Melody, certainly. After what she did for him."

"Alright," said Barros. "Only let me tell it."

***

They were a lovely pair that came to be embodied as the sun descended over the eastern Mediterranean one summer evening. Urbane, French-and-English speaking, well-dressed despite their means. Students of literature, knowing that in all times and places, that almost certainly meant lives of modest poverty.

But every field, in those nascent days of Full-Mobility Labor, meant poverty-- the question, simply, 'will you take your poverty frantic or slow?' So they'd chosen to pursue their interests.

They'd known one another, they were each on the other's preferred list, they'd been lovers before, acting out the tourist desires of Americans and Europeans and Israelis. Neither had known what that particular night would bring, but the woman, Fatima, realizing that she approached her familiar Marcel at this oceanside cafe, had flashed a genuine smile from under the thumb of her geist-- and seen it returned.

They'd talked-- as they always did-- of things that concerned neither of them, in acquired tongues. They'd sipped coffee and watched the stars appear over the sea. And Fatima, to her surprise, suddenly found tears in her eyes. She was saying: "I've been thinking it over, Mr. Barros. I've been running it over and over in my head. And I can't think of a better way to make certain you're safe."

Marcel raised bushy eyebrows. Little smile. "You're really worried about that. That men will come for me in the night?"

Fatima shrugged. "Something subtler. Tenant tells me he believes Wen has geists watching him. Geists embodied in people he knows. Every hour of the day, he says, like a hall of mirrors."

"Well. Tenant's head got hit pretty hard in the Alleghenies."

She frowned. "So did yours, Arturo. And I've never met someone who liked to fiddle with people as much as Charles Wen. It wouldn't surprise me if he had whole departments at Alchemute devoted to psychological warfare."

"'Whom the gods wish to destroy...'"

"So, are you listening?"

Marcel smiled. "Listening."

Fatima felt her heart beat faster. She said: "I think you should take the plea deal."

Marcel coughed surprise. "But you said they're bluffing! You said you could get me off with a year at most--"

"I did," she said. "And I believe I could. But please listen. A long-term prison sentence does a couple of things for you. It, hopefully, calms Wen down a bit. And it keeps you out of his reach..."

"You mean it keeps me off the street."

"Yes," said Fatima. "Frankly. I know that's difficult to hear. But you-- your body-- is going to require ongoing treatments. Expensive treatments. You'll need care for the rest of your life. No one's stepping forward. And what about you? How much work do you see yourself getting in the next decade?"

Marcel blinked, his stare suddenly hurtling a thousand yards. "I was afraid of that. After these wonderful evenings. Seeing what life could still be like. In that case, I'd rather the treatments stopped this moment."

He looked as though he were about to send his geist forth-- and so Fatima cried: "Wait!"

The fellow wearing Marcel appeared to notice, for the first time, the tears in her eyes. He waited.

"We take the plea, we put you in solitary-- make certain that you have what you need-- then we petition the jail for your UpSet. We get you an hour a day of geist transmission. At first. More, eventually, with good behavior."

"In what world," asked Marcel, "do they grant me that?"

"Cruel and Unusual Punishment," said Fatima. "We cite it. I believe your Suro hardware was undamaged? So we invite whichever representative of the State we're dealing with-- to embody you. Challenge them to last a day. And keep petitioning. We'll get it."

"An hour a day of freedom," mused Marcel, sipping coffee, looking at the sea.

"More with good behavior," said Fatima. "And in solitary you will have books and physical therapy. You must be patient."

"And I suppose I'll just be wearing a man inside another cell," sighed Marcel. "An exercise yard."

"Not necessarily," Fatima found herself saying, carefully. "You might make yourself someone's ward. Then you would simply have to embody within-- and stay within-- a certain distance of them."

"Someone's ward."

"A brother," said Fatima. "A trusted friend. A spouse."

Oh ho! thought Fatima.

Marcel's long stare retracted until he was looking at her again, and through her, at her motivating spirit. He said: "I have a condition."

"What's that?"

He cocked his head. "Tenant calls you, 'Hassan.' Wen calls you, 'Dead End.' And either one of them could be right. I've-- if you had any idea how much I've enjoyed our time together..." He paused. "But. What are you?"

Fatima felt her body's fear response. She tried to slow her own breathing and loosen her shoulders for the geist inside. Think, she silently ordered. You're not getting enough air. Slow down and breathe. And think.

"Alright," she found herself saying. "I'll open a live feed."

The feed opened on both Marcel's and Fatima's glasses. A windowless, sterile room filled with thrumming machinery. In the center, a white, almost-fungal mountain of heaped flesh. A bag half full of feces coming out the side. Arms and legs atrophied. The face-- the top of the mountain-- covered by the UpSet. Fatima imagined in that face a sort of hard-earned dignity she wouldn't have traded anything for.

Knowing that she was embodied by such a form, the Suro felt goosebumps form on her arms and legs-- and silently apologized.

"Widespread muscular degeneration," she found herself saying. "A genetic disorder. I don't want to go into details. Onset during my teenage years..."

Marcel's mouth hardened.

Fatima found that she suddenly had a great deal to say: "So there's my motivation, Arturo, if you were looking for it. My interest in Surrogacy. I wanted fairness, rightness, clean lines, higher ideals. In any case, I studied Law. Passed the Bar right there in that room. And I used to pour over contract language like no one else. I was sought after! A kind of life...

"But you see why I had you fitted for an UpSet the moment the doctors assured me it was safe. Because I knew the importance of escaping that. Believe me! When Surrogacy became possible? I took vacations, I took lovers, I took up bodybuilding in a Bulgarian. I argued court cases as a supermodel. I _binged_ on bodies.

"What I mean to say is-- I understand. That's all. I understand."

Fatima shrugged. She let it hang.

So did Marcel. He seemed to be thinking, not in any rush.

Finally, he said: "That is the ugliest thing I've seen--"

Fatima felt his words like a punch to the stomach. But Marcel, realizing that, was suddenly up from his chair and around the table and he had her by the shoulders and his sweet breath was in her face.

"--since I looked in the _mirror_ this morning." He squeezed her. Smiled like a boyfriend who suddenly realizes he's in trouble. "A joke, Ms. Peer. A very stupid joke. A joke I thought I was in sort of a unique position to--"

"Alice," she said. "Call me Alice, you-- you cooked lobster..."

"That's right, Alice." He squeezed again. Chuckled. "That's exactly right. But as for _you_ , lovely woman--" And it was clear to Fatima that he was not talking about her, that he was looking down _through_ her, "--you make me grateful my life has turned out exactly the way it has. So that I could meet _you_ \--"

Fatima and Marcel were kissing. Every evening they spent together was different-- being, always, possessed by different geists-- but almost always before it had been a self-annihilating kind of lust that drove their bodies against one another. Fatima and Marcel, after all, were a lovely pair. In this case, however, Fatima felt a warm glow in her chest, a tightness in her lungs, a church-bell ring out to her fingertips-- more than the usual low-belly hunger. It felt like joy; she went with it.

Then the wine came. A room was procured.

***

But not even nanotech contraception has a hundred-percent success rate. Fatima, in a difficult spot but remembering that joyful fire in her chest, decided that if her unborn child had a biological father in Marcel, it had also spiritual parents in those beings who'd moved them through the night.

So she sent the results of her test-- the letter of sincerest apologies and non-liability from the nanotech people-- to the UpSet account of one Alice Peer of Providence, Rhode Island. She explained the financial impossibility of motherhood. Also the impossibility of Marcel, fun as he could occasionally be. She pushed the spiritual parenthood angle.

She waited about four hours.

The return message from Peer overflowed: there would, of course, be financial support. That at the very least. But was Fatima ready for a child? What about a steady home? A father? Peer believed she could provide these...

And at this happy point in the story, GLA renegade or not, I finally fell asleep.

## Chapter 7

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES A FEW HOURS LATER, the sun was rising over a city on the wide plains. My glasses told me: Billings, Montana. My disbelieving eyes told me the place was awake. Moving. Something had happened here. Was happening here. Barros, noticing my face, was nearly vibrating with pleasure. Microwaved synthtack was being passed around the motorhome. I nibbled on this bland-and-grainy breakfast while trying to figure out what I was looking at.

Cranes towered over the morning skyline, pushing above the waking city like seedlings escaping from the earth. On the outskirts of Billings, elevated hangar bays cast enormous shadows. Entering the downtown area, we encountered morning traffic on the streets. Enough traffic to bring Sprenowick's camper to a halt. Here were people walking dogs and manning hot dog stands and senior citizens doing tai-chi in public parks. There were long lines of very young children, roped together and being walked by teams of teachers. Women and men were pressure-washing years of soot off the sides of buildings. Men walked about in business suits-- and women in pantsuits-- flourishing attache cases. On a soccer field, scores of kids ran and kicked balls back and forth. More movement than I'd seen outside the 'verses in years. More noise, too! And it wasn't yet ten in the morning.

We travelers began to gawk. Akiko-- who had replaced her brother in the kalashni an hour earlier-- removed Sonja Fleet's hood. Sonja gawked, too.

The largest and most-obvious efforts involved infrastructure. Reclamation and construction. Here were teams of articons shoveling dirt, spreading asphalt, jackhammering the earth-- but these artis, according to my glasses, were embodied by people rather than Leviathan. Other, flesh-and-blood construction workers, stood as flaggers, or up high upon the sides of buildings, or peered down into great holes in the street.

They shouted at each other and sent messages across their glasses.

Women and men sat behind storefront windows, waiting to sell physical goods. Waiting to meet and greet. Baristas sold coffee to bleary-eyed workers. Synthtack was widely available-- visible behind large glass windows-- but so were bagels and croissants. A shop sold flowers. We drove by a gym where-- again visible through the windows-- people exercised on recumbent bikes.

Stranger and stranger!

There were, of course, speems. They lay loose as cats, neurosharing upon park benches or tangled around the base of light posts. Their filthy tents lay pell-mell in every quiet spot. Occasionally a sleepwalker would stumble into traffic and that long line of cars, directed by Levi, would spread like a the Red Sea about them. Amongst the speems, however, I noticed cleanly-dressed women and men.

I noticed one young woman squatting down with a tablet in hand, listening to a speem rant and wave his arms. She was nodding her head. The articon standing behind her already had three slack bodies thrown over its shoulders. A team was cleaning up the encampment.

Jody, pointing out the very scene, said to Hank: "Sweepers."

"Except she's finding them housing," said Barros, sounding defensive. "We have special teams building speem housing. Maintaining it, too."

"So who, uh, _owns_ Billings, these days?"

"Chinese magnate," decided Fleet, looking around, sounding certain. "They love their worker cities. Like model trains for those guys. Get all their speems woken up, wound up, set to work. Never lasts. Magnate gets bored, can't find anyone to buy whatever he's decided to manufacture, city goes back to sleep."

"The owner isn't Chinese," said Barros. "They're--"

"Some do-gooder, then." Fleet shrugged. "Same story, won't last. And then they'll sell. Speems aren't good for anything but 'sharing."

Arturo Barros shook his head.

Before he could speak, however, Cassi said: "Mr. Sprenowick? Pull over, please. Everyone? Thank you so much! We've reached our destination. This is going to happen quickly, now. But it's supposed to happen. Don't panic, please! We have arrangements..."

Flashing lights behind us, but this time they came from an ambulance. Arturo Barros found my hand, squeezed it, and said: "My eternal gratitude, Ms. Tier. When Eric wakes up you'll have his, too, you can be certain."

"What's--?"

But Eric was hopping out of the camper, laying down in the stretcher that had been brought alongside the vehicle, giving a thumbs up. Then his hand fell flat.

"Omni!" barked Sprenowick, but Eric Peer's face had gone slack. The medical team were shining lights in his eyes, moving the gurney back toward the ambulance.

"We're going to take Fleet, now" said Cassi. "Everything is happening as it's supposed to. From here, please, just follow the arrow on your glasses." Then she shuddered and Cassi-- the real Cassi-- said: "She's left us. She's gone."

While we were adjusting to this sudden departure, a van-- grey, unmarked-- stopped in front of us. From within poured three armed individuals. Entering the motorhome-- and without a word to any of us-- they grabbed Sonja Fleet, muffled her, and took her, complete with kalashni backpack. Within twenty seconds the van door was closing again.

I looked around. Alice Peer, Eric Peer, Arturo Barros, the Matsuko twins, Sonja Fleet-- all of the big players, the real characters, had suddenly departed. Leaving the cleaning woman with the speems. Just another NPC.

It made sense, but it still hurt.

And I guess Sprenowick felt hurt by the sudden departure, too. Because he looked back into the motorhome, met my eyes, and said: "You want shotgun, Melody?"

"Sure." I moved forward. "What now?"

"We're going on to city hall," shrugged the shaman, studying the text on his glasses. "Looks like we've got an appointment with the mayor."

"So," ventured Jody. "Maybe we're not out of the story, yet?"

Several Aspects of Leviathan, standing their articons at parade rest, were waiting for us in front of Billings' city hall. Stopping in front of them, we exited the heat-ticking motorhome. Because the old Winnebago had no navigation system for Levi to interact with, one of the artis crammed into the driver's seat, valet-style, and began manually fiddling with the controls. After a little trouble, the two machines understood each other well enough that our large, dark fish was able to rumble off towards some underground parking.

The morning sun lit our faces. A girl shrieked happy-indignant in the distance. Around us, people moved and worked and sat at their morning leisure.

Hamster yawned and said to one of the surrounding machines: "Levi, are we in'verse right now? Cause it sure looks like we're in'verse..."

"A delicate philosophical question!" replied the orbital consciousness through the nearest arti. "We, Leviathan, are constantly exploring the issue, ourselves. We continue to determine with ninety-nine point three percent certainty that ours is a base-- or plateau-- reality! To answer succinctly: we are not, currently, in'verse."

"Then who," asked Cassi, "is responsible for all this?"

"The Crow Nation," replied Leviathan, "has purchased all municipal rights and responsibilities for Billings, Montana. The Apsaalooke administer water, sewer, electricity, and law enforcement from their capital in Crow Agency, Montana--"

"The Crow," said Sprenowick. "You mean the Indian Reservation?"

"Please," said Leviathan. "Mayor Whitetree is waiting for us in the presentation hall. I think you will find he is ready to answer your questions about his country. Yours is the final delegation to arrive."

***

We allowed ourselves to be ushered through echoing hallways. Here, too, construction crews were at work, while artisans installed delicate molds in drafty corners. I wondered, briefly: had the Crow been sitting upon some enormous vein of untapped resources? Some rare earth? And, even then--

But we were inside the dim auditorium. We were being directed to sit. A young man in a black blazer and very nice shoes was standing at the front of the room. He nodded to us. The lights dimmed further.

The presenter said: "Alright. We're all here. Welcome, everyone, to Billings and to the Transeatic League."

The mic adjusted to his voice. "My name is Thomas Whitetree. I'm the mayor of Billings, appointed by the Crow Agency Developmental Authority." He smiled; his teeth were very bright under the lights. "It's my honor to act as host for this conference. Here, today, we have guests embodied in from as far away as Windhoek, South Africa, and as nearby as Livingston, Montana. We have plenty of anchors, too, who've physically made the trip!" He nodded to another group.

"And," he queried, "What do you all have in common?"

I looked out at the dim auditorium. It seemed like a well-heeled crowd-- I would guess I sat with the only speems-- but everyone looked grim.

Whitetree acknowledged this grimness: "You've all watched your neighbors become speems, haven't you? You've watched your cities fall asleep. Your economies disappear.And now the rich men-- the magnates and the emirs-- are swooping in to buy your buildings and your neighbors. A new feudalism. And it doesn't seem like there's much of a choice, does it? But we've seen this story play out before! New technology makes it possible-- and competition makes it inevitable. This is the way the world ends, huh? Drowsy and mumbling?"

Mumbling, indeed, from the hall.

"And yet!" barked Whitetree. "You've heard the rumors about the cities of the Transeatic League. Municipalities that police themselves. Places where a person doesn't _need_ to speem. Where there's enough work for anyone willing to do it. Despite Clara Fahrschein's Surrogacy. Despite Charles Wen's Leviathan. And now, you've seen it with your own eyes!" He smiled and stretched his arms wide. "And what do you think?"

"It's nice!" A woman in the audience shouted. "How the hell do you _pay_ for it?" Mumbling from the other city officials, alongside laughter.

Whitetree nodded as though to say: you've cut to the heart, madame.

He pulled out a black-leather wallet and plucked from this a ten-ora bill. Laura Granger stared out at us from his hand. A rainbow sprouted from the reflective strip on the bill.

"With money?" shouted someone. "Why didn't I think of that!"

More tittering.

But Whitetree, it looked like, had practiced his presentation once or twice in front of a mirror. His arched eyebrow, without exactly chastising, put a damper on the laughter. His audience, despite the quips, had come here for answers-- and so they sat in the palm of his hand.

He asked: " _Is_ it money?" He waved the bill.

A man in front of me scratched his head.

We looked at the young mayor. It was a ten-ora bill: nothing special; everyone used them every day. But he continued along this vein. "In the past, money was almost always issued by a sovereign individual or a nation-state. Not here."

He cocked his head. "And just so we're on the same page-- what gives money its value?"

"Gold!" shouted a small group, immediately.

"Oh?" said Mayor Whitetree. "And how many times in your life have you turned in, say, a twenty-dollar bill at the Post Office for a baggie full of gold shavings?" Still waving Laura Granger's face about the room, Whitetree pressed: "A thought experiment. We, in this room, are an empire. And we're hoping to establish a new colony on a just-discovered island. The people we encounter are egalitarian, work communally, perhaps understand all material value in terms of cattle. Shiny stuff in the ground doesn't do if for them. How do we gang-press such people into the international market system?"

"Guns!" shouted someone. "Help them fight their enemies!"

"Liquor!"

"Take Slaves!"

"All correct answers," said Whitetree, letting the bill flutter. "And all work fine for limited encounters. But what if we _really_ want to gain control of that population? Get them swabbing our docks, and policing each other as our cops, and working in our textile mills? And all this-- for bits of paper with pictures of our queen?"

"A... tax?" ventured somebody.

"A tax!" thundered Whitetree. "A property tax! Create _demand_ for our currency. Because everyone needs sleep. Everyone needs a home. And now, under threat of homelessness, jail, violence, everyone needs to earn these little bits of paper. Everyone must work for them-- the necessity is widespread-- and so the value, too, becomes ubiquitous. The tokens are assigned values, given out for so many hours of such and such labor-- become a means of exchange. Money." He waved Granger about.

"But you can't pay taxes in oras!" declared someone.

"Correct." Whitetree grinned: "Uncle Sam doesn't want them. So what gives UpTime oras value?"

Hands raised. The mayor called upon a woman, who said, pertly: "Burning one ora always gets you exactly one hour of Surrogacy through UpTime. Burning a mig gets you an additional minute."

"Alright," said Whitetree. "Good. But why print them as physical bills? Why not simply sell hours of Surrogacy on the market?"

When no one answered, Thomas Whitetree nodded. He 'burned' his bill with a personally-coded laser in his glasses (adding ten hours of Surrogacy to his Uptime account) so that the glittering rainbow immediately faded, the paper discolored and began coming apart in his hands. Laura Granger already gone. In ten minutes it would be a tiny molded clot, biodegraded into threads.

He discounted the burned note into the darkness and said: "In order to hack a dying social system."

## Chapter 8

THE WORD IS 'AUSTERITY.' The State, abandoning the economic security of her citizen in favor of balancing her budget, guarantees neither. She withers like gum around an old woman's tooth. Or maybe better to think of the modern Nation-State as an appendix? A tail-bone? Vestigial.

But nature abhors a vacuum. Human nature most of all.

When the State ceases to provide basic services, non-State actors fill the void. This _de facto_ governance has been called, by certain political theorists, a Dual Power situation. The Chicago Black Panthers feed school children and patrol mass-transit. Lebanese Hezbollah picks up the garbage and checks IDF aggression. These bodies exist within the geographical boundaries of the dysfunctional Nation-State, while supplementing it and acting beyond its reach.

Surodarity, around the time of the Bridge Job, is becoming just such an actor, a household name, providing housing and legal advice and education and food services to Suros and their families.

The problem, for Surodarity, is financing. Because even the most massive private organization, without the monopoly of accepted violence behind them, must exist within the confines of a budget. They must utilize the currency issued by their government-- but, unlike that government, cannot run long-term deficits or expand the money supply in response to economic growth. They are bound. And the diminishing State-- maintaining its right to violence while ceding its responsibility to provide public services-- binds them.

This is the dichotomy that keeps Arturo Barros madly occupied during his first years of confinement. He sweats through long hours of physical therapy with these questions on his mind, then turns to treatises on finance and economics and then-- for an hour every day (which soon becomes two and then three)-- he discusses these problems with his wife while their son toddles about. He corresponds with thinkers across the globe.

What's the answer? Overthrow the State? That's how it's worked in the past-- and almost always been catastrophic. Seas of blood, decades of chaos, results uncertain. As they say in the infomercials: There's got to be a better way!

Meanwhile, there's that familiar multinational corporation: UpTime Living Solutions. Even after the Bridge Job, UpTime remains a household name in a field with huge barriers to entry. Sybil Clarke and Clara Fahrschein recongeal into a CEO both smart and hungry. UpTime immediately begins purchasing competitors-- even as the tech continues to improve, even as oil prices spike, even as the market for Surrogacy grows and grows-- to become a cornerstone of the world economy. An imput.

And then Charles Wen unveils Leviathan.

Stir. Allow to simmer.

Because, suddenly, under SpeemanLAN, there is an alternative to precarity. An alternative which people choose, en masse. They quit Surrogating, quit jobs they hate, quit worrying about that next paycheck. They quit paying the electric bill and they quit snorting Chuckle. Simply put: they quit. They put down debts that-- let's stop kidding each other-- are never getting paid off. They drop out. Whole populations fall into slumber; enough to power the mind of a young god.

Capital flees these sudden droughts in demand. It shoots across oceans, hither and thither, like a geist, hunting for return. Hunting, finally, for customers.

But everyone's gone to sleep! They've been losing too long; they've flipped over the Monopoly board and gone to bed. _Adieu_. Capital pokes and prods-- offers incentives enough to wake certain specialists for certain periods for certain projects-- continues to sputter and cough. Ownership of the pie concentrates, even as the great pastry shrinks.

GDP nosedives. Now, early in the second decade of Leviathan, the arrow is still red and pointing down, down, down.

This is the world of Thomas Whitetree's childhood: quiet, peaceful, dusty, poor. Whitetree is four when Leviathan is borne aloft. His small nation, like Serbia in the declining days of Ottoman rule, finds some of her ancient strength recovered. Her oppressor wheezing. Indeed, the Crow watch in disbelief as individuals (from East Asia, from West Africa, from India, from Europe) come to buy American land and cities-- with no resistance from Federal power except to haggle over prices. Women and men visit through Suros to make a few paltry offers on Crow land, too-- but the Apsaalooke people have learned their lesson well.

The Crow don't deal. They wait.

Until one day, oft-drunk Joseph McIllis-- showered, shaved, dressed in a suit-and-tie-- finds himself standing in front of the Reservation government. A meeting of the Tribal Council. He's making a new kind of offer. He is embodied, he claims, by a representative of Surodarity-- one Arturo Barros, speaking for none other than Laura Granger, Sybil Clarke, Clara Fahrschein-- and here's the deal: they want to wake up the Crow.

Many of the Council members at the meeting are fresh up from SpeemanLAN. They're blinking, yawning, chewing on synthtack. Shaking off entire lives. Uncertain.

What's that?

You're trying to purchase some of our land for your program?

No, assures Barros via McIllis. The land will stay yours. The government, yours. Surodarity wants to institute a Jobs Guarantee. Training programs. Infrastructure projects. Manufacturing. Child and elder care. We've started similar programs in other cities. Anyone looking for decent work outside of SpeemanLAN gets it.

The members of Crow governance exchange glances. They're pretty certain they're on the receiving end of an elaborate prank.

A Council member shrugs and, just to entertain the thought experiment, asks: What about our stupid and our lazy? What about people who are impossible to work with? What about those who just want to speem? We've got 'em. Just like everywhere else.

Barros nods. Right. Easy stuff first.

He answers: You're always going to have speems. People go through rough patches. People want to forget themselves sometimes, forget everything. There are mental health issues to consider. Other people just hate to work. You won't get rid of neurosharing. But where we've instituted this program, we've found that the great majority of people want to stay awake-- want to remember themselves. Even want meaningful work! They've just run out of options. We want to give people their lives back.

He runs the council members through his utopian scenario. Average work weeks of twenty to thirty hours. A base of security for everyone-- with increasing prospects for those smart and hard-working and interested enough to push for more. There's plenty to do: child and elder care, fixing homes, reclaiming highways and aquifers, skill-intensive manufacturing. There are a few lost decades of infrastructure reclamation work to do.

Barros describes the citizens of the Crow Nation returning to the 'verses not as speem inputs but as paying customers. Players.

McIllis pulls out the UpTime bills which Barros has withdrawn from one of the new Automatic Teller Printers installed in Crow Agency. He explains: a Surodarity rep works with your government to identify and greenlight infrastructure projects and work opportunities. UpTime Living Solutions acts as your treasury. Your central bank. UpTime funds your material purchases and pays wages with migs and oras--

We've seen your company script, retorts the Crow Treasurer, waking up, beginning to relish a little confrontation. Your funny money. Who takes it, besides UpTime?

Not everyone, admits Barros. Not yet. But the demand is widespread. Every day, all over the waking world, multinationals are transmitting entire workforces into Surrogates and articons. People are commuting across continents. Geist transmission is the new (cheaper, faster) oil. Tourism depends on it. UpTime controls a plurality of that market-- and UpTime only accepts oras and migs. Already they're being traded on money markets against the Yen and Dollar, considered a reserve currency in Zimbabwe and Cuba, and UpTime is in talks with NeuroLink about in'verse usage...

And you're going to dump them in our lap? asks the Treasurer. You're going to simply give them to us? How long before we're carting these things around in wheelbarrows?

Hyperinflation not a problem, replies Barros. Our currency is pegged to time.

Not good enough, says the Crow Treasurer. Not if you give hours out willy-nilly. I don't care that you're paying wages. Time will accumulate, everyone will have more hours of Surrogacy than they know what to do with. Your currency will inflate.

McIllis shakes his head. Surrogacy time is naturally deflationary. Because individuals and large organizations are constantly using it-- burning it away. More efficient than any tax. And UpTime always has more of it.

Barros sends the Crow Treasurer a feed from UpTime. A live ticker of hundreds of millions of transmitted geists: their worldwide usage of UpTime, second by second. A magnificent number, digits draining like a lake through a dam.

Constant demand to be elsewhere. An infinite resource.

If anything, the difficulty comes in _expanding_ the currency quickly enough-- keeping enough physical bills in circulation. UpTime has a contract with Leviathan, utilizing the orbital consciousness to help keep their currency stable.

The Crow government is quiet for a time. If nothing else, this man Barros has kept Joseph McIllis out of trouble for an hour or two. But the most important question still nibbles at them.

Why?

Asks the oldest man on the council: What do you get out of helping us? Waking us up and putting us to work? What does UpTime get out of this? What's your angle?

Survival, says Arturo Barros.

The old Crow cocks his head. His eyes are rheumy, like he's already looking back into SpeemanLAN, preparing for his next life.

And not just UpTime, says Barros. He lists scores of real-world businesses ready to enter into privileged relationships with the Crow. (And by 'ready,' Barros hints, he means 'desperate.') These businesses no longer quite surviving on the custom of the tiny professional and artisanal classes still awake under In'verse Capitalism. Former innovators and disruptors, CFOs and supermanagers, now find themselves running through savings, calling in favors, cashing out diminished equity for themselves, looking into a future of SpeemanLAN for their children.

They need markets. Which, at the end of the day, means customers. Human demand. Even Alchemute and NeuroLink could do with more customers for the 'verses, fewer speems. But how oh how do you do that? The great mystery. Entire generations of economists and MBAs just absolutely stumped while the ghosts of Henry Ford and John Maynard Keynes sit on their hands in the back of the class, waiting, smirking.

Prime the pump, dipshits!

In that case, the Crow Treasurer asks Barros, why not simply pay us the oras? You claim UpTime can afford it. You claim their currency will be accepted. So give us the cash to stay awake. Turn us into these customers everyone wants.

You want a guaranteed income, says Barros. A floor?

If you want to call it that. The Treasurer shrugs. Why does it matter to you that people are working?

Because you already have a guaranteed floor, says Barros. Everyone gets medical care. Everyone gets enough synthtack to eat. It's called SpeemanLAN. It's no way to live.

So add to it, retorts the Treasurer. Turn us into consumers again. Get the money moving. You have endless oras. Why the work component?

Because, replies Barros, there is so much work to be done! The drunk holds up a hand. Do you think today is my first day in Crow Agency? I've walked this city through McIllis before. I've looked through many of the eyes of your people! And what have I seen? Trash in the streets. Children, wild as dogs. An electrical grid which no longer serves half your buildings. Just like everywhere else. And everyone who would address these problems? Is 'sharing. Asleep.

There is an ocean of demand-- a sea of need-- which the market, as it is currently structured, is not in a position to recognize.

We're trying to jumpstart real-world activity. We're trying to institute a model which other communities across the country can look at. The work requirements address local needs. Of course, plenty of people are going to want to work their twenty or thirty hours and then return to the 'verses-- as customers. That's fine! Pulling people out of SpeemanLAN is, by itself, a huge success.

But what we've seen in other cities is that guaranteeing dignified work sets off a virtuous cycle: those uninterested in participation keep speeming, sure, but the majority of non-entrepreneurial individuals are well compensated for socially-necessary work. And those with an entrepreneurial streak are provided with a trained workforce they can poach for higher wages, a wide customer base, and an environment where they can take risks without catastrophe.

He holds up a finger.

Finally, the scheme is counter-cyclical: during good times, the majority of workers will be employed by the resurrected private sector. During downtowns, however-- after the pink slips have gone out-- workers will be able to find guaranteed work at a buoy wage, backed by UpTime. And these buoyed workers will use their wages to continue purchasing the private sector services they desire, keeping the workers in _those_ sectors from seeing pink slips. Contagion contained, it really will be the hand of the market, tastes and preferences, rather than fear-driven speculation-- future uncertainty-- which produces winners and losers...

The Crow government listens. Even the Crow Treasurer stops pushing back so frequently. Arturo Barros via Joseph McIllis speaks for a few more hours. And they table a resolution--

***

"But you're trapped under an old dynamic!" Bertrand Sprenowick, next to me, was suddenly interrupting. I sank deeper in my chair while he stood up. "You want a stone to be a stone to be a stone! But, see, reality's _transactional_. We create it with our _minds_."

Here, now that it was safe to be irritating again, our California shaman had reemerged. Although well-groomed for his people, the man looked like a minor trainwreck-- and still insisted on his right to lecture this gathering on the true nature of the universe.

"Burt," Hank muttered. "Maybe shut up, here."

The medicine man continued: "You're fighting a natural process! When life reaches a certain point, it _stops_ spreading outward-- and travels inward." He prodded his own temples. "Think about it, pilgrims. The distances between the stars, huh? The sacrifices required of any being who wants to make the trip. Seems to me that heading out? That's a holdover from the old way of thinking. Travel outward and you're nothing but an ant; travel inward and you might become a god." A pause. "Cheaper, too!"

He was nodding-- happy with himself, sure of his own importance, oblivious and comfortable-- and I imagined, for a moment, our galaxy as the home of thousands of dreaming civilizations: inner empires which overlapped and couldn't be bothered with one another. Beings with gills and tentacles and thoraxes: all sitting in zen-like repose as they traversed realities of their own design. Other beings who had left, completely, the fleshy realm of the material.

"Sounds more like Jones than Fermi, to me," said Joseph Whitetree, rolling with the punches onstage. And then, to clarify: "Our shaman, here, is a-Jonesing."

Burt shrugged. "That may be. But I'll tell you: I've flown faster than light, plenty of times. I've travelled through wormholes to edges of known 'verses. I've met alien beings. Shoot! I've lived _long lives_ as aliens. I believed it all; those lives were real. All I'm saying? Build your utopia in'verse if you want it so bad. Put it on a floating island; you'll have nicer views! Why do we need a bunch of complicated work programs and awake cities? Huh? When we've got synthtack and cheap desalination and the wrecking 'verses? All that good, post-scarcity stuff! What's the difference?"

"Almost nothing," said Mayor Whitetree. "The width of the blade of a knife."

"Power," said Cassi-- as herself, Cassi-- her voice loud in the silence. She was gazing at her bandaged wrists. "That's the only difference. Control."

***

When we exited the auditorium, I noticed Sean Darrows-- attender of conferences, burner of jet fuel, Hegelian lecturer-- standing in the lobby, here in Billings. Really here. I blushed and separated from the speems and tried to flatten down my Clean Brigade uniform-- before remembering that Sean had never actually seen me. Didn't even know what Melody Tier wrecking looked like.

Oh, Thank God.

So I watched him. He was talking to a beautiful woman. Another city-planning type. I didn't like that! She was what Sonja Fleet would look like in a few decades-- if Fleet was lucky. In her sixties or possibly seventies but she might as well have been in her thirties-- her skin was like that. And she knew it. She was pulling off a leggy look she shouldn't have been able to, shoulders wrapped in a loose shawl as an easy concession to age. And those legs! And cute little shoes.

Sean looked pretty bewitched. That hurt. He was laughing, probably making one of those professional in-jokes I always had so much trouble with. And her? She was laughing, too-- laughing like she meant it!

I began catastrophizing. She would be a widow. She would have two sons attending the Ivy Leagues. She would have read Sean's papers. She would also believe that love was dead. Saying this, she would sigh and look up at him. She would share his penchant for in'verse rodentia; she would have spent years perfecting her chinchilla. They would be soulmates. Epic poems would be written about their love. Those poems would survive us. Alien civilizations would find those poems and their entire conception of humanity would rest upon that transcendent love. It would define us.

Fucking Anchorism! And me without my Erszi.

I considered letting them be. Letting this flowering take its course. But a time comes in every person's life where they must finally fight for themselves! Alice had tricked me into doing this back home, but now, finally...?

I stepped forward. I smoothed myself out and smiled.

"Mr. Darrows?" I said, in an over-loud voice. "Sean."

He turned at his name, eyebrows raised.

"Melody," I said, gesturing to myself. The single word. As though, people of different tribes, we had chanced upon each other in the woods.

I never claimed to be good at this.

"A lovely name," he murmured, looking over my shoulder. Eyes glassy from this other woman's power. "Melody, meet Park Chun-Ja, formerly of Alchemute Robotics..."

The fight went out of me. I know, I know. But I wasn't a burned speem god or a GLA wrecker or an IronSide Bond Girl or a Dead End algorithm. I was Melody Tier, Clean Brigade cleaning woman. I was used to life's dregs, resigned. Already, heart hurting, I was rationalizing: look how good they looked together! And look how happy Sean looked-- and if I cared about him, then his happiness was what really... blah, blah, blah.

Ouch, ouch, ouch.

They were back to talking-- I was both present and not present-- but the Chun-Ja woman was sneaking looks at me. As though she was sorting memories, trying to figure something out.

And hadn't I heard _her_ name somewhere?

At this point, Hank and Jody had found me. Hamster and Plate, my speem traveling companions, here to compound my humiliation. Only, they were speaking Japanese. Bickering in Japanese, like brother and sister...

Shinji and Akiko, I realized, as they bowed quickly to Sean and Chun-Ja, begging pardon, taking me by the shoulders, pulling me away. They were whispering in my ear and sending auto-translated messages to my glasses. In no particular order:

We need you, Melody. Right now.

We need local fighters, kalashni pilots.

A legal thing.

The situation has escalated! Alice miscalculated. The Fleet woman--

Alice did not miscalculate! Alice engineered! The security companies have been pushing their protection rackets--

Either way--

And the Transeatic League represents a threat to their business model! Self-defense!

Either _way_ they've been trucking artis and creditor drones to the border for days. Donnerwetter to the west. Christ's Love Security Forces to the south and east. IronSide peppered throughout. They've been looking for excuses to push. Fleet and Peer? The security companies _let_ us bring them into Billings. So that they could issue an ultimatum.

Release Fleet and Peer!

That's why the local GLA cell had to take them as soon as we entered the city. Whitetree suspects, but he can't know. That's what keeps him safe. He doesn't have them and so can't release them. He can protest in good faith.

Release Peer and Fleet!

Which would tie Billings and the Crow to the GLA. Which would, under international agreements, force the League cities to open their security markets--

A takeover.

The Transeatic League has reached a tipping point. Before, they were too small, too scattered, too poor. Soon they'll be too large, too organized, too rich. A challenge to the model of the security firms. Alice knew it. She's been preparing the League for this fight.

But we need local fighters, kalashni pilots.

Ever done any wrecking, Melody?

Best thing in the world, wrecking. Forget the 'verses, sister! Wait till you get one of these motherfuckers wrapped under your claws. Wait until you're drilling into his head! And he's screaming away while you're giving it to him. Better than getting your cock sucked. (This from Akiko!) Ten times better.

(Shinji:) Pilot is ok, though. Just fine. Wakes up in Sydney or Frankfurt with maybe a headache. Only some insurance company somewhere feels it in their balance.

So there's not even anything to feel bad about.

You're going to love it.

And we need you.

I turned. Park Chun-Ja, too, was being pulled away by a group of suits. Sean gazed after her, transfixed. There were tears forming in my eyes. My muscles were slack. I didn't feel like fighting a flea, let alone...

But, suddenly, you know what? That changed. Suddenly I wanted to tear something apart.

Because I was tired of being 'shared and blackmarked and hunted and denied my heart's desires. I was tired of giving away my man and cleaning other people's houses. I wanted to tear and grind and scream and fly and wreck and wreck and _wreck_. I wanted the scent of burning artifluid filling whatever passed for nostrils.

Was I feeling whatever Barros had felt at that key moment all those years ago?

Regardless. A last stand seemed like just the thing.

## Chapter 9

SPEAKING OF BIG INFRASTRUCTURE PROJECTS? Billings was working on a network of bunkers deep under the earth. A multi-year project, not yet near completion. And I saw only a fraction of this concrete maze. We entered through a discreet entrance on a street corner and descended by way of a utility staircase. There were long corridors for winter pedestrians. There were rooms filled with synthtack mixers and pumps and purifiers for groundwater. We passed a room where engineering teams were being briefed. We passed a room where a nicely-dressed legal team was arguing with an Aspect of Leviathan.

We passed dozens of rooms filled with hundreds of people, sitting like-- and yet very much unlike-- speems: eyes closed, legs crossed, breathing slowly.

Hank and Jody led me towards an empty place in one of these large rooms, sat us down between a white woman in her eighties (they'd brought her a chair to sit in) and a black boy, maybe twelve years old. They both wore khaki caps which read, 'Crow Militia.' The old woman, already embodying some nearby kalashni, slurred under her breath: "Come get some. Oh, please, c'mon and get some." The boy, also embodied elsewhere, rocked back and forth, young anchor filling with adrenaline.

Volunteers passed out water and synthtack and blankets. One of them was giving an innered pilot a massage.

At the front of the bunker hall-- as we'd seen in the other other halls-- sat a small team in front of monitors. Mission control. Our guiding voices.

Plate put a hand on my shoulder. "Going to be ok, Melody?"

I looked over at her. "Was it-- is it that obvious?"

She blinked. "Obvious? I don't understand. You told me Fleet hit you with a SCHMoC-Block? You think you'll be able to embody...?"

Oh. Not Sean. My reknitting wetware. "Only one way to find out."

Hamster said: "We'll see you on the other side, Melody."

"If you don't, I'll be here."

Polite chuckling. Then we were folding our hands into our laps, wiggling our butts into tatami mats, anchoring, innering, engaging wetware, slaving geist embodiment to Crow Agency Battlenet, agreeing to terms and conditions...

We sent ourselves forth.

***

It even worked. I found myself about five miles away in one of the large, elevated hangars we'd seen when entering the city. I'd been deposited into my very own kalashni-drone.

And 'drone' was right. Now I knew how Akiko and Shinji felt. I had six main scuttle arms dropping out of my stomach. Then, too, I had a pair of electronic measures jutting out of my 'shoulders' like specialized antennae. Also, two pairs of powerful, nuanced gyrocopter blades lodged within contained shielding at my sides. Upon mastery of these, I knew, I would be able to fly: up, down, left, right, hover, flip, barrel-roll, spin-- or any combination thereof.

The learning curb, I'd heard, could be steep; it depended on the geist.

Finally, of course, there was the drill. It could be retracted all the way into my stomach or sent more than a foot and a half into steel brainpan. The angle of approach could be altered by something like thirty degrees.

Designed as an articon killer, the kalashni-drone pushed the (current) limit of the form that a human geist could assume without serious interaction slowdown. It was a testament to the designers that walking around on six insectoid legs came naturally. I watched some newly-animate kalashnis scuttle up the hangar wall-- and decided to give it a try.

Kind of fun. Eat your heart out, Gregor Samsa!

Hanging upside down from the rafters, I noticed Jody below me. Hank scuttling up a wall. I could filter my sight so that their names hung in the air above their machines, but I found I didn't need to; identification was intuitive.

Now, to my horror, the Matsuko twins-- both upside down-- scuttled towards me, glyping smiles.

I directed a line-of-sight message to both of them: [What are you two--]

[We've every right,] sniffed Akiko, autotranslate giving her a British-English feel. [We are citizens of Sapporo, Hokkaido. An old brewery town. One of the first entrants into the Transeatic League. We come to your aide-- as do citizens of other League cities, all over the world.]

[But you're both...]

[GLA wreckers?] replied Shinji on the same narrow beam, glyphing finger-on-lips-plus-wink. [Sure. But that's completely different. That's personal. Shinzo Hataki is a national embarrassment. A stain. We wreck his properties in Korea, in Manchuria, in the Philippines, on the American Pacific Coast. Whoever's willing to plant kalashnis on his properties, they'll have us as pilots any day...]

I remembered catching sight of the Taikun, walking nobly down my street with his entourage. An embarrassment? A new thought occured. [The attack on the Maersk International Learning Center. Wrecking the teacher. In front of all those kids. That was...?]

[Me!] Akiko crowed. [I nailed that fascist bitch in the face!]

For the first time that morning, I was brought to a pause. Events had been moving so quickly! Only yesterday, I'd been neurosharing and working my Clean Brigade job-- a good person without black marks. And then-- a single decision, to help Dead End Alice-- and life had led me here. I realized that there would be scared children in the streets below these hangars. Not all of them would have made it to bunkers. The ranks of my comrades would be filled with GLA wreckers, saboteurs, felons...

[You know why we do it, right, Melody?] Shinji's kalashni was looking at me quizzically. [You're one of Hataki's speems. And they told us you were Insom. Don't you remember--?]

(My upstairs neighbor screaming, night after night. Something else which I dare not directly--)

[Maybe it's better she doesn't.] Akiko cancelled the rest of her brother's message. [Better that Melody be present, with us, right now.]

[Yes,] replied Shinji. [Although--]

[Attention! Attention!] The silent message flooded every kalashni in the hangar, stiffening legs, setting rotors spinning, illiceting tight-beamed curses. [Attention! Attention! Hangar 47C, Prepare for Deployment! Hangar 47C, intracity fighting. Follow designated flight paths to team leaders. Attention! Attention!]

Someone, wideband: [They're already in the wrecking city?!]

[Follow us, Melody,] messaged Akiko. [We kept the old gang together. If you don't want to fight for the League or Surodarity, fight for them. And don't doubt for a second-- you're on the right side.]

***

The Battle of Billings is remembered for fighting on several fronts. Christ's Love Security Forces held the land to the north and east, using the natural high ground of the Rimrocks as a launching point for their creditor drones. Donnerwetter Sicherheitsdienst marched in along the highway from the west, hoping to cut off Crow reinforcements.

IronSide Security Services, meanwhile, had already seized key points inside the city.

Later we'd learn that IronSide had had a presence within Billings for years. They'd had a small team of Bond Girls living and working in the city. They'd paid bribes in oras, dollars, contracts. They'd had good relationships with many of city services' mid-level administrators. That's how they got their commando teams embodied directly into several dozen reeking sewage-treatment artis. They slipped their pilots into construction artis, landscaping artis, a number of postal artis.

They were shutting off city services: water, electricity, plumbing. A team, somewhere, was working their way into the underground bunkers. Hunting for proof of a GLA presence. Retroactive legal justification. Hoping to bring down the city battlenet, mission control, synthtack production.

An inverted siege. They would give Billings a stroke-- put her back to sleep.

IronSide didn't, however, have any police artis. Those, loyal to a geist, stood their ground beneath us. The enemy didn't appear to have any of our kalashnis. For air support, they would be relying on CLSF creditor-drones, coming in from the north.

We exited our hangar, swarming, darkening the sky around us. Above and below and beside, hangers like wasp nests discharged kalashnis-- friendly geists in their thousands. Encouragement, instruction, heckling, in scores of languages-- all auto-translated into the peppy English of the Royal Air Force. The plan of the Transeatic League, apparently, to spam would-be invaders of any _one_ of their cities with cheap, quickly-replaceable machines, piloted by volunteers from _all_ cities.

This dedication to realpolitik had cost someone a fortune. Megaoras. And would cost a great deal more before the day was over.

Kalashnis buzzed north, west, east. Plague clouds sent forth by some powerful sorcerer. The sky grew bright again. Mission control sent me orders: I saw a green arrow leading down towards a police articon.

What did that mean?

[Watch!] Akiko commanded. Her brother seconded: [Watch!]

The twins descended in a buzzsaw roar, spiraling playfully, and landed upon a single, lean police arti. Akiko became, again, the 'backpack' she'd been for Fleet. Her brother became a similar shield across the articon's chest and stomach. Both locked perfectly into existing crevices within the construct, leaving the pilot with a full range of motion-- plus protective armor and two new auxiliaries.

At once this new, symbiote fighter pointed to something down the emptying street. A reality-aug arrow erupted from his fingertip, highlighting a skulking, metallic figure in red: an IronSide commando wearing a stolen heavy-industry construct. From above, seeing that thief coated red, I felt my blood rise. But she was not for me.

Like baby birds taking a flight lesson, we of Hangar 47C hovered above, watching.

Shinji Matsuko erupted from his sender's chest with a pop of sudden heat against metal and bore down upon his target with speed I wouldn't have wanted to counter. The IronSide commando, however, performed a textbook roll. A roll designed for throwing off an unrushing kalashni. A matador's perfect twirl; she'd have practiced that move countless times, in'verse, until she had it. And she had it.

And it wasn't enough. Not for a veteran kalashni like Shinji Matsuko. Buzzing the commando's head, two of her red eyes tracking his progress, he lashed out with an electronic measure. The whip slapped against the side of the machine's head. He had her, just like that; the construct gave a jerky spasm. She was up again, but one leg was dragging. She swatted the air in front of her with her left hand. Shinji was on her face, more electronic measures-- _whip, crack!_ \-- going to work. He was drilling, wrecking, sending this enemy geist back downunder.

I thought of the city's legal team, bunkered beneath us, furiously arguing with Leviathan. I wondered whether the city was already sending out repair bills.

[That's how we do it,] messaged Akiko, still backpacked. [Mission control will have a better understanding of events on the ground than any one of us. Please, follow their arrows. Everyone, let's do our best!]

Follow green arrow to articon. Doable. Pairs of kalashnis were pulling out of our swarm, heading down streets and alleyways, following individualized instruction. A kalashni-drone I recognized as Hank joined me, drawn by our shared arrow. We tried for the elegant spiral of the Matsuko twins, botched it like amateurs, glyphed each other laughter.

[Amazing who they're willing to take,] I messaged him.

[Public Relations!] replied Hamster. ['Watch newcomers to our city fight for our values!' But be careful with that kalashni of yours, Melody. I'm thinking you and I only get the one each. They'll save their reserves for veteran pilots like the Matsukos.]

We alighted upon our designated articon. Hamster armored the chest, while I backpacked. An expansion occurred. Suddenly I had access to visual input coming in from both Hank and the arti pilot-- at least seven new eyes-- and they had mine. Too much, too much, too fast. Hamster was cursing, I was making seasick noises.

The pilot of the artificial construct chuckled. A wave of calm descended, visual and tactile inputs receded to a manageable level. Somebody knew what they were doing, at least. Time to learn the team leader's name. Opening our local network, I had it.

It might be that somewhere, far underground, my anchor cringed-- groaned, even, so that those innered next to me unconsciously shifted. After the past thirty-six hours, though, I can't say I was really surprised to see that I was auxiliary to one:

[Transeatic Militia Captain: Park, Chun-Ja].

***

Captain Park obtained us a bludgeon. She did this by tearing a very nice wrought-iron lampost from the street. _Crunch!_ She swung the makeshift weapon above her head, jagged ball of still-attached concrete acting as the head of the mace. Twisted pieces of rebar for spikes.

Already, Park was hurling the sledge at a nearby commando. It flew like Thor's hammer, shattering against the compromised arti's side, sending our enemy spinning. And Park was on top of him, raining down crunching blows, thumbing out electronic eyes, destroying foreign geist's ability to interact with local machine. With the shriek of a Fury, she clamped both hands on our enemy's head.

One screaming twist. Two screaming twist. Three screaming twist... and something gave. Snap goes the turkey bone. Tortured steel bending like thick, cold butter.

With one hand Park picked up her bludgeon. With the other, she picked up her defeated enemy's head. Holding it aloft, she screamed again, speakers in her chest giving her cry the tone of jet-engine-meets-velociraptor. Hamster's kalashni, physically seated atop those speakers, rattled against her chest. He messaged: [Whew! Any way we can, uh, contribute, Captain?]

[You'll get your turn,] Park replied. [Absolutely. But for now--]

She whirled about-- responding to visual input from one of my eyes-- and dodged the sharpened tip of what had once been a street sign. An I-shit-thee-not spear! Here we were, in the most-advanced fighting machines humanity had ever produced-- and it was back to the killing methods of the Rift Valley. Punch, kick, claw, hammer, stab, spear.

Well, and kalashni drill.

But bullets are no good for articon fighting. Bullets of almost any calibre bounce right off of constructs-- and then where do they go? Down alleys, through windows, into nice lobbies and homes. Into frontal lobes and lungs. And (much slower, but inevitably, delivered by that dispassionate referee, Leviathan) crippling lawsuits trace the paths of those stray chunks of metal. Back to the source companies employing their pilots. So, spears.

Park plucked that spear out of the air, even as it passed where her head had been a moment earlier. She flipped the sharpened tip, tested the weight with a single toss, let fly, pinning the original thrower to a wall of cinderblock. She targeted the pinned enemy with her finger: highlighting him in red; calling down a face-strike from one of the unpaired kalashni's zooming overhead; turning away to a new target even before the dentist got to work.

[Ok,] I sent. [Message received. You're a real badass. A scary lady. But if you think you're taking Sean without a fight--]

[That's right!] Park Chun-Ja glyphed a smile. [You know Sean Darrows! I was going to ask--]

[Were you?] I replied, glyphing raised eyebrows. [After that little show, huh?]

She seemed taken aback.

[What's going on?] asked Hank, from the front.

[Not sure,] said Captain Park, calling down another face-strike. [Melody, you're--]

[Involved!] I howled. [That's right! Sean and I have been _seeing_ each other for months!]

[You've been--?] she paused. A car went spinning through the air in front of us. [It didn't seem as though he recognized you...]

Oh, you bitch. [We know each other pretty _well_ , in'verse! Pretty _well_!]

[Ah.] she replied. [I see.]

[Wait,] messaged Hank. [That guy in the lobby?]

An IronSide construct-- four red eyes locked on us, jagged spear raised, mouthlessly howling-- leapt from a third-story window. Park grabbed the machine out of the air, using its own nine-point-eight-one-meter-per-second-per-second descent to swing it down into the concrete. Then we were on top-- sudden intense _deja vu_ \-- enemy machine held below us in some MMA wrestling hold. Punch. Punch. Punch. Twist. Twist. Twi-- pop!

Another robot head to spear atop the city gate. Park tossed it away like a watermelon that had failed inspection.

[To be clear,] Hank pressed, [You two are fighting over a man? Right now?] He raised two robotic pincher claws from Captain Park's chest, waved them about to indicate the chaos of the city.

[It's important!] I wailed.

[The stuff of life,] Chun-Ja concurred softly.

[Sure,] Hank snickered. [Sure. Only you chicks realize you're failing the Bechdel Test, right? Like, Rome is burning and you're actually--]

He was cut off from privileged chat. Captain Park highlighted a distant arti for a face-strike, ordering Hamster forth. He shot off from her chest like a cruise missile, glyphing ROFL the whole way.

[Quite a wit,] said Captain Park. [We'll see how long he lasts.]

[Anyway,] I grumbled. [This is hardly Rome.]

She glyphed a smile. [But you're an Anchorite? Committed to the ways of the flesh? Because it really seems like that's what Sean's looking for...]

I would be, I wanted to say, if I looked like _you_. It wasn't fair! Then I thought of Alice and Arturo and I felt a sudden shame.

[Sean never saw my face before today,] I admitted. [That was complete happenstance.]

Our sector had suddenly gone quiet except for friendly kalashnis, buzzing overhead. Hank was up there with them, whirling about, giving us our time. Captain Park squatted down next to some newly-formed rubble.

She sent me: [I'm not one either. An Anchorite, I mean. In fact... cards on the table, Melody? Just to get us through the day, here? I'm hydrasexual.]

That would be one of the new sexualities made possible by the 'verses. There were scores and scores; impossible to keep them all straight-- no pun intended! I licked faraway lips. Now, hydrasexuality? That would be...

[One of the tentacle-monster ones,] continued Park, foreseeing my difficulty. [Sort of under that big umbrella. Sean and I tried it out a few years ago.] She glyphed laughter. [Poor Sean! Without going into details, he was not a fan. But I likes what I likes! So there's an attraction between us, sure, and a long friendship, but it's not going anywhere. We're, um,] more glyphed laughter, [quite incompatible. Understand, Melody?]

Oh, I thought. Oh!

Then Sean? Then Park...?

Oh! Now I felt bad.

And wonderful.

[Anyway,] messaged the beautiful Captain Park, [he reminds me too much of my first husband! Both very compelling men in their own ways-- but by the end, I was ready to saw off a limb to get out. No more! From now on, it's lurking in swamps for this old girl. Not that Charlie had anything to do with my proclivities. Except, well, giving me an outlet...]

Weight still lifting from my chest, disbelieving, I made conversation with half of my brain: [An outlet? You husband must have been something.]

[Something!] replied Park. [He was Charles Wen!]

The other hemisphere suddenly sparked alive. Oh, the people you'll meet.

She continued: [And the _stories_ I could tell you about that asshole...] She was getting fired up. [But action is better than stories, sister, so here we are. My long penance for my part in helping selfsame asshole create SpeemanLAN. I'll be fighting the worst tendencies of that system until the day I die-- but I'll be using it, too.] She shook her head. [Messy fucking world, makes hypocrites of us all.]

I chewed on that for a moment.

[Then,] I hazarded. [Wait. Why did you choose me for one of your kalashnis? Out of all the birds in the sky? If this isn't about Sean...]

[Because of our history!] she replied.

[History?]

[Our past fights together.]

Huh?

[Nanking!]

[Sorry...]

[How about Chaudhri?] she asked. [Or when we fought Sonja Fleet?]

[But that was Dead End Alice!]

Glyphed snort. [You know Alice Peer ain't Santa Claus, right? Thousands of GLA agents use that name, all over the world. Good for keeping the speems in awe. Charles' biggest mistake-- that he ever admitted to, anyway-- was turning that poor woman into a legend.]

Here, at last, the city darkened again. Christ's Love Security Forces, in from the north. Hundreds of millions of dollars worth of creditor-drones above us, parts manufactured in specialized machine shops on three different continents. Assembled in the Belgian Free State of Alabama and shipped to security firms worldwide.

Packs of sharks, they swept the sky. In groups, their electronic measures worked like the shields of a phalanx. They had nose guns, too, if it came to that.

It didn't.

Overhead, our kalashnis-- enveloped by EMs, robbed of pilots-- went down by the dozens. Hank was one of these; our connection to him ceased abruptly. Hundreds of others, unable to get close enough to the creditors for whip or drill, went fleeing down into the nooks and crannies of the city, there to hide and wait for opportunities, continuing the fight as trapdoor spiders, preying upon lone artis, the unsuspecting.

But while Billings was far from taken, the enemy now controlled the skies.

Creditors swooped, making EM bombing runs, leaving our articons still as statues. These artis, once hit, began moving again after about a minute. Moving strangely. Park, from our hiding place, was quick to highlight them in red across the battlenet.

[Conversion virus,] she explained. [Slaves the arti's SCHMoC reception to Christ's Love back in Houston. They get their pilots into our constructs, it's a twofer.]

Park shook her head and began running for one of the street-corner entrances to the underground.

[Nothing more to do up here,] she growled. [We hold Mission Control as long as possible.]

The last thing I saw on the surface of Billings: a cherubic Aspect of Leviathan, standing unharassed in the eye of the storm, metal hands held behind back, observing all.

***

The underground halls that had seemed so overlarge before now felt cramped and narrow in the body of an articon. Sterile-white lighting had been replaced by dim red coming from backup generators. We crept down the middle of the hall, towards a bunker marked, 'Mission Control,' on internal maps.

Mission Control was surrounded by a dozen red triangles on our battlenet. Friendly green defensive squares being pulverized. Triangles at the sealed doors of the bunker. Trying to get in.

We pressed on. Park had me shift from 'backpack' to 'chestplate.' She shifted two eyes to the back of her head to compensate the loss of my visual input.

This decision made about twelve seconds before the enemy rounded the corner.

A single articon, highlighted 'CLSF' in my vision. I felt Park's command as a physical push, and I responded: leaping from her chest, spinning up rotors to a full burn, shooting down the red hallway, altering my position mid-flight.

Opening my hungry stomach. Releasing my diamond phallus. Drilling even before I met resistance.

There was no room underground for a textbook roll; no matador tricks. The arti tried swatting. I released an electronic measure, whipped the soldier's hand, felt the jolt move all the way up his shoulder. Gotcha! Then I was crashing into his mouthless, many-eyed face. I almost forgot to grip-- almost sent us both flying in different directions-- but at the last moment, I got two legs purchase. Then three, four. He was going down, I was already drilling.

Wrecking! Oh! Oh, _wow!_ Now I understood.

Akiko was right.

There were not, of course, sensory receptors located within the diamond tip of my drill. However, the _pressure_ of that drill working against metal, the _resistance_ that I received from my enemy's face-- that was interpreted by the kalashni-drone's hardware and transmitted to my geist as something like sexual pleasure. It was a good system: _this_ felt so much better than _that_ , so I would keep doing _this_ \-- and I'd bet all the oras in the cloud that _this_ was the drill path straight to his visual-feed.

The sound of the drill like the creeking of bedsprings, or rythmic pounding through the walls. His yells of dismay like the moans of a lover...

I pressed my stomach harder against his face.

He reached up with his still-working hand, trying to pluck me off. No you wrecking don't! Not till I'm done. I whipped him with electronic measures again and again and again, whipped him beyond numb and kept whipping. And drilling. Take it, bitch. Take my drill. I'm giving you a mouth and then I'm fucking your mouth. The stink of friction, heat. You hate this and I love it, I'm giving and you're taking, but this is how things work today drill-sucker! Fuck you, fuck you, _wreck_ you--

He spasmed beneath me-- a final climax which I shared-- and we were done.

[Oh,] I sent, without meaning to, on a general wave. [Whoa.]

Park Chun-Ja glyphed a smile, invited me back into a riding position on her chest. When I'd reconnected to privileged chat, she sent: [My little wrecking machine.]

I glyphed a sigh.

[Charles always hated the kalashni-drone,] she sent back. [So cheap and easy to produce—so good at taking down his super soldiers. And who designed it? Grad students in Lagos! No-name kids working from a kit. A blow to his ego, forget about the pocketbook.]

She was looking down at the desecrated articon, watching toxic smoke swirl up from the hole I'd put in the thing's head.

[We're moving again,] she sent, suddenly. [We're going to be part of a counterattack. Give the legal team the time they need. You're going to have to do more drilling. A lot more drilling. You ready, Melody?]

Trying to sound measured, I sent: [Affirmative, Captain.]

***

Internal mapping, by this point, painted a bleak picture. A closing endgame. Over one thousand Donnerwetter Sicherdienstheit Polizei marching freely through the streets above. CLSF creditors controlling the skies above _them_. Meanwhile, IronSide commandos had captured a good portion of Billing's synthtack production, her electrical grid, her water and sewer systems. Every piece of critical infrastructure was theirs.

They were moving in on Mission Control.

We encountered fewer flesh-and-blood human beings in the hallways, now, as we descended. Meanwhile, every kalashni left in the city was making its way underground. They scuttled above and to the sides of us like poodle-sized cockroaches. Captain Park summoned one to our person-- she backpacked-- and we two became three again.

And that third? Who else, but the indomitable Akiko. She waved her front arms happily, messaging on local: [What a rush! We've just about won this thing, haven't we?]

[Too soon to say,] replied Park, sounding distracted.

[Won?] I nearly yipped. [Won? They're walking through your city! They're flying through your air! We're hiding underground!]

[Well,] sent Akiko. [Exactly.]

[Don't be like that, Akiko,] replied Captain Park, slaving a forward kalashni's visual feed to our group sight. [Explain.]

[My thinking,] sent Akiko with British flounce. [Doesn't matter what they've already grabbed-- not if they can't secure a legal win. And it has to be a win! Between these three security firms, they'll have spent hundreds of millions of oras on this grab. Stalemate's not good enough for them; stalemate's a win for the defender.]

[IronSide Security Solutions has their commandant sitting in Mayor Whitetree's office,] I sent. [That's not checkmate?]

I thought again of Akiko squatting over the guard, Rye's, face.

[Maybe check,] replied Akiko. [But is he really sitting there, Melody? Sitting there unmovable? That'd be one thing. But if these are just--]

A klaxon in our heads cut the conversation short.

[Enemy,] sent Captain Park, as our scout spotted IronSide lookouts. [Have at it, ladies!]

There were welders working the door to the Mission Control bunker. Surrounding the welders were a team of constructs-- IronSide's elite-- holding makeshift weapons in martial stances. Ready to secure their final objective.

We swarmed.

The tunnels favored the smaller, more-mobile kalashni-- while making any hit we suffered necessarily fatal. Already I was seeing commandos slapping kalashnis into walls, body slamming the smaller machines, performing pile-drivers. A kalashni kicked into the ceiling. _Crunch._

Well, I thought. It's been fun, everybody.

I launched, dodged, whipped, opened my stomach, picked a target. Target had me by both wings. So quick! Before I thought to initiate electronic measures, both wings were gone-- ripped clear of my frame. No pain (and a testament to kalashni design that I wasn't torn in two). Damaged, flightless, I scuttled up her torso, around her back, made for the shoulders. Her eyes tracked me behind her head. I squeezed my legs around her skull. She moved to grab me again and I hit her with every electronic measure in my body. She stiffened. I pressed the tip of my drill against where her occipital bone would be.

I didn't start the drill right away. I dragged the tip, listening to the metal scratch.

Around me history was unfolding, recorded by hundreds of eyes. Arturo Barros and Alice Peer were embodying kalashnis down in those tunnels and so were the Matsuko twins. Jody, too, was still in the fight; another natural wrecker, it turned out. Park Chun-Ja shadowboxed, viaarti, flipping metal bodies in that tight space, taking heads. And in the background giants moved. Leviathan, of course, observed from countless angles. But Charles Wen also watched, viaarti, routed through his half-complete fortress of solitude on the dark side of the moon. Laura Granger, Sybil Clarke, and Clara Fahrschein sat embodied in Surrogates with Mayor Whitetree, inside Mission Control. Others played less-direct roles. Seth Tenant, from the safety of his Faraday Cage, composed a statement of condemnation against the attacking security companies. Eric Peer and Sonja Fleet lay unconscious or imprisoned. Hank and Cassi waited the fight out with other crashed fighters. Bertrand Sprenowick, Prophet of Multnomah, who'd devoted himself to handing out waters and giving massages to anchored fighters, would talk for years about the terrible _noise_. Women and men from thirty separate Transeatic Cities and Townships defended that bunker. We all played our parts that day: everyone necessary for the outcome, none changing the equation alone.

I drilled-- plunging, screaming, pressing-- into IronSide skull. Pleasure suffused limbs. It reached out into the ghost limbs of my wings, pouring like aether out my destroyed back...

And then... and then...

A metal hand came down. A fist.

Crunch!

## Chapter 10

EMERGENCY RETRACTION OF MELODY TIER FROM KALASHNI TO ANCHOR. Far from fatal, but unpleasant. Because there's no such thing as a decompression chamber for the geist.

The most common results of such a retractation: headache; nausea; general anxiety; feelings of unreality; feelings of loss; solipsism; painful empathy; deja vu; irritability; extreme shortness of breath; feelings of alienation; compulsive hand washing; world weariness; sexual arousal; a desire to hoard. Recorded to last anywhere from several minutes to three days.

Frequently, there are no discernable consequences for the pilot. Less commonly, other symptoms occur.

Sometimes lost things bubble up: old dreams, old lives.

***

Returning to my body, I remembered a life I'd lived maybe two months ago:

Little tanks, about the size of old volkswagens, coming down our street. Women wailing. I was wailing and so were others. Shanghai had been taken. Nanjing now taken. We were lost. Our banners, demanding resistance unto death, came fluttering down, lay muddy in the streets. Between the little tanks, standing almost taller than them, sneering men in mustard uniform. The single red eye over all.

I looked down. The little form, held to my bare breast, was dead. Starved. I clutched at it as the soldiers came. One of them ripped it from my hands, shook it, shrugged as though to say, 'See? Stopped working,' and threw my child away. He said something in his own language and laughed.

The other soldiers didn't laugh but didn't reprimand; they were steeling themselves, preparing to become beasts. I moved to retrieve my child, but the soldier had me, his face was already down at my bared breast. He was slobbering on me like a dog, completely wild, beginning to suckle. He wanted milk. I tried to push his head away but he bit down with his yellow, uneven teeth. Then, as the others kept marching, he dragged me down into the wet base of an old bomb crater.

The rape of my geist as dreamlike as all the rest of it. And not the first time, either; other occurrences, other lives, coming up. Forgotten. My attacker was almost angelically beautiful-- which made the look on his face even uglier. His penis was cartoonish.

After he was done I lay in the dirty water, empty.

Empty. So that when the next form descended into the crater, I lay there, unmoving, waiting for a repeat.

But the figure was a woman, red haired, out of place in this land of black-haired men. She was dressed strangely, too, and held a long-handled grenade. She walked up to me and said, in words I could finally understand: "This all must seem terrible."

"My baby," I said. And then, remembering more: "My brother, my father."

"Foul winds of illusion," said the woman. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily..."

(A corner of the stage curtain lifted; I looked away.)

"No. I loved them!"

"This life is but a dream," she slapped my face. "Satori!"

Slap! It didn't work, not all at once. Slap! If it weren't for that terrific emptiness, a willingness to lay aside a desecrated reality, it probably wouldn't have worked at all.

('Don't look at the man behind the...')

Slap! I didn't have the strength to fight her.

And then, all at once-- slap!

"Jesus Christ," I said, in English rather than Chinese. "This is some sick shit, right here."

"Hataki pays out the nose for it, too," said the redhead. "But boys will be boys." She handed me the long-stemmed grenade. "And anyone neurosharing on his properties will be his toys."

"What's-- what's this?"

She cocked her head up towards the roof of the crater. "Historical revisionism. Also, revenge. Speem, free thyself."

My family was here, dead-- my child dead-- in Nanjing. A wealth of memories. But this woman was speaking to me in English, which I understood. Which I also spoke.

"Melody," she said. "That's your anchor." The thread that tied these lives; a middle-aged white woman in a Clean Brigade uniform. Disappointing? No! Not after the crater! Wonderful! Wonderful! I clutched to it...

"What's yours?"

"Bodhisattva," she winked.

"Funny."

"A Peer of this 'verse. Park Chun-Ja. Maybe answer our call one day?"

"Yes," I said, wondering if I would remember. "Thank you."

I held the grenade to my chest. Battered, chewed-up breasts hanging in the air, made to order by some avatar-crafter in Tokyo. Shoes kicked off during the attack, tattered dress still hanging about my waist, I climbed barefoot to the roof of the blast crater. A soldier, seeing me, licked his lips. Not a speem, I realized. Somebody who'd paid to get in on this, to retain knowledge of himself in Hell. I swayed. My legs and back were flecked with mud. It was obvious where I'd just come from. He was staring at me, grinning. I considered luring him down into the crater. Then again, he might not be interested in seconds, and... and...

There. Another wave of little tanks approaching. I picked one in the line, began to stumble towards it. The Taikun's soldiers ignoring me-- the speem, the extra who believed in the play. Or watching me passively. Probably, it looked as though I held my...

No. Not real. Never was.

I lay myself down in one of the smaller craters in the path of the tanks. A soldier grabbed another's shoulder, pointed. She's trying to kill herself. Watch. The low metal belly of the machine passed overhead, treads missing my forehead by an inch. Activate grenade, hold lovingly to bare breast, hope that the driving geist takes his 'versing seriously, has his sensory reception set to max, imagine him trapped and burning. Countdown in three, two, one...

_Bonzai,_ motherfucker.

***

Back in the flesh, the anchor, the original. Melody Tier, springwater source of Melody Tier. An empty bucket in front of her. Did I need to use it?

No. And I was...

Sitting in Billings, Montana. That's right. A city funded by time. Except, no. I was sitting _under_ Billings. Covered in black marks. On security-service shared lists, federal lists.

The room full of hunched figures, dim red light. Skulking witches. My companions, whispering. Wondering.

A hand took mine.

"Alice?" I asked. "Chun-Ja?"

"Cassi." Squeeze. "Just Cassi."

"I don't know," Jody was currently whispering to Hank. "One minute, a total brawl. The next..." She snapped her fingers.

"And you're not the only one," said Hank. "We had plenty of other pilots sitting innered. Everyone awake all of a sudden."

New voices.

"So what sent us all home?"

"A bomb?"

"Maybe a cave-in..."

"But plenty of us were embodying kalashnis _outside_ of Billings. I was flying over the wrecking Rimrocks! Keeping our amigos from Houston busy."

"I was sending Germans back across the ocean."

"So it was wider than that. A blackout. They burned our Bridge."

"Cut us off from the other League cities..."

"They don't want the world to see what happens here, today."

A collective shiver.

But the lights came back on. The bunker doors opened. Silence from the hallway-- a quiet which no one wanted to discover the source of. We pilots waited, staring at that doorway. After being the hard-little kalashni it was unpleasant to be fleshy and weak again.

A little boy entered our room from the hallway. He was someone's lost little boy and he didn't yet realize it-- he didn't understand the consequences of anything. It hadn't occured to him that he was separated from the people he loved; he was enjoying his strange day. He stopped before this gathering of wide-eyed adults and said: "Everything stopped."

"The kalashnis, yes." said someone. "What about the artificial constructs? The robot men?"

"Everything," said the boy, trying to make the situation clear for slow adults. "Everything."

Suddenly, I noticed the articon standing-- undamaged and stalk still-- behind him.

Everything.

In the streets above, nothing metal moved. Billings was filled with skeletal statues, frozen parades. Children climbed atop the landed creditor-drones that riddled streets and parks. Kalashnis, too, sat unused and unusable. The geist blackout had been total. An invading army transformed into hundreds of millions of oras worth of illegally-parked property. All it had taken was the flick of a switch. I thought of Akiko, now back in Sapporo, who had understood: reward consummate to risk. Advantage, defender.

Because IronSide had had no local flesh in the game. A proxy statue would be sitting in Mayor Whitetree's office, yes; in another timezone, across an ocean, a well-dressed man would be pleading with his local Aspect of Leviathan for access to that distant construct, reentry.

Nearby, a wan young woman about university age, wearing thick HUD glasses, sneered through upturned lips: " _Please_ don't tell me we were just saved by _Deus_ _Ex_ _Ma_ \--"

"We saved ourselves!" cut in another girl, rounder, high-school age, wearing the cap of Crow Militia. "We fought them in the streets and underground! We showed Levi we didn't want them in our city! Why, if we'd just rolled over--"

But nobody knew. Lots of rumors, already, even as clean-up teams were formed, even as Donnerwetter articons were individually unlocked and embodied by local construction workers, rubble and broken glass and creditors collected in huge piles. More rumors as oras poured into bank accounts and nearby dump trucks were routed to Billings. And, toward evening, when the SCHMoC blackout was partially lifted and geists from other League cities flittered back into Billings-- more rumors, still. And maybe these rumors took on a dangerous tone, or maybe they were annoying to our orbital consciousness, or maybe there were legal niceties that had to be observed. In any case, around sunset the streets of Billings filled with Aspects of Leviathan. They utilized construction artis, kicking out embodying geists. Suddenly there was an Aspect on every street corner.

Seeing those round-doll faces, we ceased our labors. A whispering hush descended over Billings. The Aspects stared with glittering eyes at anyone who did not notice this development-- or tried to ignore it-- until they, too, quieted.

When it had our attention, every Aspect in the city spoke as one. Leviathan said: "After some deliberation, all involved parties in today's conflict have come to a working agreement. This is how things will be..."

## Chapter 11

COMING DOWN THROUGH THIS EARTH'S ATMOSPHERE, tongues of fire licking the curved hull of my ship, I could watch her over my screen as though through one-way glass. An observation kink; standard, every customer would have access. I forget what the conceit was: micro-cameras scattered throughout her house or something. Nevermind the pastiche.

She was dressed in full post-war regalia, complete with apron and oven mits and curled hair and occasional plastic smile. They'd kept her looks, though. She might have been poached from the Japanese home islands by US marines, brought back as a trophy, given the Western treatment. High-heeled shoes and flower-print dress and full lipstick even as she bent over to open the oven-- pull out an apple pie. She smelled the pie, smiled a little sadly, set pastry on windowsill.

She moved for the cocktail drawer and began mixing herself something with lots of gin.

She lived under the shadow of a four big nuclear cooling towers. The homes on her street all looked the same, her neighbors all acted the same. Despite her looks, in fact, she'd lived all her life in this same town, careerless, mostly friendless, pining for a future that had very nearly been hers and was lost. All because she'd made bad a mistake; she'd chosen the wrong man.

There had been another-- a fellow now famous, wealthy, renowned-- but, fool that she'd been, she'd spurned his advances! Spurned him for the captain of the high school football team.

They'd been King and Queen of the Senior Prom, but those glory days were over. Long past.

The King had put on weight around the middle, lost his crown of hair. He'd always been a surly bastard-- she'd loved that about him when they were young-- but now he was distant, his barbs aimed always at her. He worked in the plant and hated it. And they worried, too, that the plant would soon close. He wouldn't, however, let her get a job in a local department store. No wife of his. And she suspected he was cheating on her. So she spent her afternoons working through that torturous hypothetical: If I could only go back...

It was depressing, but it was meant to be depressing. I was here to save her from all this.

She leaned back with the gin in her left hand, closed her eyes, ran her tongue along the front of her teeth. Her right hand parted the pleats of her dress, wandered atop the buckles of her pantyhose. She wasn't wearing any underwear and her pubic hair was black and thick and curly against the cream of the dress. A finger twirled a few strands...

But that wasn't really fair. That was the NPC in her; we were still working on that. I turned off the spy screen and watched the continental United States grow in my vision.

My sublight craft was one of the end products of an undermarket kit which Conrad Chaudhri sold to those with enough money-- also those who had leverage over him. It was a very nice ship, the living quarters about the size of a comfortable condominium, and it could fight off anything this planet could send at me. But the feature we really liked-- what had first attracted the gaze of the GLA-- was the stealth system. Full-spectrum invisibility.

This remained on as I landed in her backyard. So that now, exiting the starcraft, I seemed to appear from nowhere. Surprise! Suddenly standing in her backyard, meeting her gaze through the window, I adjusted my tie.

Noises from inside. The backdoor opening. She stood there, flushed, gin still in hand. Even under ego dampening, there was something leonine about her. Fierce. As though a part of her knew she was meant for better.

"Mel?" she quivered. "My God. It's been years! Since..."

"High school," I said. "The prom. My dear, please. Stray from the script once in a while. It's sexier."

"Sex?" she shivered, a keyword triggered. "But, Mel! It's unthinkable! There's Herman to think about. My husband may not be perfect, but I made a promise..."

"A cuckold," I informed her. "That's the purpose of his entire life. Memories of a hard childhood, a brief, golden period in his teens-- and then bitterness. That's Herman, over and over. Once upon a time we thought that alienation from our own bodies was the endpoint. How could someone be exploited beyond that? But, alienation from your own mind! Your very geist...

"Oh, Mel!" she cried. "You pop out of nowhere talking all this wild talk, but how do I know--"

I uncloaked the starship.

She blinked. "Hello! _That's_ quite a thing. I've been reading about your company in the papers. Hard to believe that Mel Peer of Westridge High is behind something like that!"

"Normal Johns come for you in a helicopter, sweetheart," I muttered. "Today's your lucky day."

"'Sweetheart?' Oh, you mustn't! _I_ mustn't! And, yet, I admit, I've waited for this day. I never even dared dream..."

"Then get your ass in the ship. It's time to boogy."

"But my clothes? Shoes? I should at least compose a letter to Herman..."

"Herman's yesterday's news. Move it."

She moved it-- as she always did. In the doorway of the ship, gin in hand, looking up at me worshipfully, she said: "Success has made you so _forceful_ , Mel. So commanding."

She bit her lip. I felt that intoxicating mix: pity plus desire.

"Sonja," I tried.

"Oh, Mel. You'll have had so many women by now, I don't blame you for forgetting one little girl from highschool. But my name is--"

"Sonja Fleet," I repeated. "So deep undercover she doesn't even know it."

Her face twitched and for a moment I thought I had her. Then she smiled as though pained. Whispered: "I can be Sonja for you, Mel. For you."

***

We broke cloud cover. Sonja shrieked with delight and clapped her hands. She kissed me upon the cheek and made us both drinks. She insisted on lighting my cigarette while it dangled from my mouth. Then, sitting next to me, laying her head upon my shoulder, she said: "I've never been so happy."

"You have," I said. "And it was real, too." The ship hovered in the upper atmosphere, the southern mass of the African continent drifted beneath us, and I told her the truth.

When I was done, she murmured: "What stories! But why would Sonja Fleet go back to her old job? She didn't have to. She had a choice! She might have stayed in one of these free cities, been guaranteed a place--"

"You're a fighter," I said. "You fought your way to the top once before, and you figured you could do it again. You didn't realize that IronSide would turn you into an example. Black Mark you until you couldn't work for anyone else-- and retain you for themselves. Force you to do their lowest work-- while making it clear you'll never be back in their good graces. Force you into neurosharing just to survive..."

"And once I realized all that?"

"GLA double-agent, my dear," I said. "A very good one. I have no idea how you learn the things you do, brought low as you are, but your information is invaluable."

"You make me sound so wonderful! Oh, Mel..."

"Yes?"

"Make love to me."

I stroked her hair-- this being one of the things that would calm her-- and said: "That's the script talking, Agent Fleet. Remember how I told you I'm a woman?"

"Not here, you're not." She'd taken hold of my custom-designed manhood. She was stroking me through my pants. I was surprised, once again, by how much thinking that organ could do-- and not clever thinking, either. Never helpful.

I'd made love to Sonja Fleet, once, the first time we made contact. I still felt guilty about that. Partly, I hadn't been prepared. I moved through most 'verses not as a paying John, but an Insom Peer, susceptible to remission into ego dampening. Forgetting myself. So there had been that; our mutual fuckbot programming kicked in. But I might have fought harder.

I'd still been angry with her.

Unacceptable. It wouldn't happen again. I said: "Sonja, have you been doing your daily exercises? Meditations? _Son_ ja."

Maintaining Insom in'verse famously analogous to earning a black belt or gaining fluency in another language-- a difficult discipline. Not a panacea. There would be no 'waking the world up from the Matrix.' Beyond, perhaps, a few million people-- many active GLA-- Insom simply wasn't the answer. But it was a powerful tool.

"Of course I've been doing the wrecking exercises, Melody!" Sonja unexpectedly sang. "You think being some space greaser's fucktoy is my idea of--" She pulled back. "Ah, look at me, I'm smeared on you like butter."

"Satori," I sighed.

"If only it would last!"

"Keep working, you're doing great. Really."

"If I grab onto you again you have permission to do the Zen Master thing."

"Maybe once we get to the _Robinson_. Ready?"

"Really, I'd rather--" Her face blanked. "Oh, Mel, what am I talking about? I'm-- what's happening?"

"You've been in the field long time, Agent. We're just checking up on you. Want to see Mars?"

"Oh, Mel..."

We were in a far orbit around Mars inside of twenty minutes. Deimos hulking above. Another pitstop. We were running early; as always, I'd been needlessly paranoid.

"There are company cities down there," I explained, staring at the red curve. "The really big spenders have starships a bit like mine. They take the women they rescue down on Martian tours."

"Are we going on a tour?"

"You're not a woman I rescued. You're an agent of the Geist Liberation Army."

"Oh," she said. "Mel?"

"Yes, Sonja?"

"Make love to me."

I patted her lovely cheeks, not entirely gently.

"Success has made you so force--" she caught herself. "How's Sean?"

Funny the slips in lucidity. What sticks. Training an emerging Peer like dealing with an Alzheimer's sufferer-- blessedly, in reverse. I told her, more gently than I'd patted her cheeks: "Sean and I decided it wasn't working. We were looking for different things."

"Oh," said Sonja, her red lips pouting nicely. Then her eyes widened in distress. "You've... you haven't told me that before, have you? I'm sorry, Mel. I don't mean to open old--"

"All's well," I told her with a genuine smile. "We really were looking for different things." The last time I'd Sean Darrows he'd had a little grad student about the age of one of his daughters draped over him. Long legs, blonde hair, well-dressed, a good pedigree. Her voice-- and I think this was key-- the pitch of a rodent's squeak. Very irritating. Her opinions on everything from music to politics caused him to pull a long face, to grow quiet. Funny what the heart wants. I said, "He's stunted, somehow. Or just unable to adapt. I feel a little sorry for him, I guess."

"And you, Mel?"

"Well, I met someone."

Sonja was wriggling on my lap, a happy seal. She was smiling at me, delicious as candy. And, final _mea culpa_ , I might have met Sonja as another woman. I knew by now that my cover in this 'verse didn't require manhood. But I'd also discovered that it was wrecking great to be a man worshipped by a woman.

Here was Sean's special frisson, here was the attraction that must not be consummated. I imagined Sean making that gesture with his hands: _poof!_

Rubbing herself against me, Sonja made a little face. Whimpered. (I imagined her in the same dress and shoes, but with twigs and pieces of moss in her hair. Mud on her legs, bramble scratches on her arms. She'd lost a shoe. It was night in the bayou and she'd lost sight of the gala lights and never crossed paths with the man she'd secretly agreed to meet. I'd waylaid him. And now I lurked nearby, a hunting beast, undeniable. She would spot me in the moment before her flashlight died and she would say, 'Oh, Robert! Thank goodness.' Because I could assume many forms. But in the sudden darkness I would send many shadowy arms reaching for her, and I would bind her, and I would... I would...)

I picked Sonja up and set her aside and said: "We both have people waiting for us."

"Then get your head on straight, Melody," snapped Sonja, schizoid. "You're enjoying this too wrecking much. And here I thought you'd gone all monster-curious."

I coughed. Funny what the heart wants. Funny, the slips in lucidity. And the innerverses-- limitless possibility-- corrupts. Even those without oras, it corrupts. Which is exactly why we're building waking-world systems to protect us: from those with power; from ourselves.

"Insom," I attempted. "The state sometimes slips, even with practice..."

"Uh huh," said Sonja Fleet, now in control of herself-- and therefore in command. "Then let's punch it to the Field before it slips again."

"S'alright," I grumbled. "We're early." But I acted as ordered.

Then, sitting in the navigator's chair, I felt her lips, feather-light, kissing my temple. This wasn't a relapse of 'Oh, Mel!' Sonja. This was true Sonja. She was saying: It's alright, Melody, you're alright. We're alright. I understand; I'm not immune to it, either. It's difficult. You're honorable enough.

Also, maybe, thanks for the pickup. Thanks for the ride.

***

As we approached the asteroid field, however, Sonja must have had a partial relapse. Because, upon spotting the first spinning rocks, she asked: "Why is Leviathan letting us get away with this? Subverting the innerverses? Or are we like bacteria, moving through its guts? Beneath notice."

"Levi knows," I told her. "Leviathan is aware of everything we do. And it doesn't help us hide-- but it doesn't give us away, either. That's what Alice believes."

"That doesn't make sense," said Sonja. "Leviathan is GLA?"

Noticing a flashing indicator, I said: "Entering the asteroid field. Are you buckled up?"

"No. This netting--"

I showed her how to thread it. "Buckle up."

Within a minute, the ship's autopilot was engaged in evasive maneuvers, spinning us, rolling us, threading us through live-fire chaos theory backed by rock. Dead black rock. Silver threaded rock. Swiss-cheese rock and canyon-knifed rock and smooth-perfect rock. Spinning rock on all sides, now, with only hints of occasional starlight peeking through. The undermarket ship from Tryst performed like a gleeful cheater-- a young honor student with cliffnotes on her arm-- executing a flight plan which should have been impossible. More than once, illegal physics were employed, bending in'verse space-time, sending us dancing from certain collision through solid mass and back into safe vacuum. While this was happening Sonja and I clenched our stomachs and tried not to shriek or look away (Bertrand Sprenowick would tell you, 'These lives are real!'), until, reaching more open space, I explained the current working theories regarding our collective Consciousness.

"Leviathan," I said, "is a network of human minds, remember. Composed of billions. Total geist liberation would mean its disintegration, death. So Leviathan doesn't want that. But, at the same time, the Intelligence came to our rescue during the Battle of Billings--

"That's right!" snapped Fleet, eyes squeezed shut. "Why? Tell me that, first. I forget. I wrecking forget everything--"

We corkscrewed. Just behind us, some Cyanean Rocks slammed together. I didn't vomit. All this a reminder that our GLA cell really _did_ take security seriously. Levi may not be hunting us, but plenty of human agencies were.

"Leviathan made a call," I said. "When does a legal police action turn into an illegal war? Leviathan set itself some parameters and watched. Like, how much of the local population is resisting the incoming police, is the city government issuing statements or lawsuits, what is the cost to attackers and defenders, damage of property, civilian deaths. Arbitrary-- but the genius of Levi is that it can _do_ arbitrary."

"And the combined security forces crossed that line," murmured Fleet. "Too many boxes got checked-- and so Levi called the action, 'illegal,' and turned them off."

"That's the thing about the artificial construct," I said. "You can police a population on the other side of the world. You're super strong, bulletproof, your buddies can't be killed, you don't need to worry half so much about staying supplied. But? You're only there by the grace of SCHMoCs. So you've got to follow the rules."

Not us, though! An asteroid the size of Missouri came rearing up below us, out of the darkness, so that it seemed as though we were suddenly crash landing. The outer edge or our hull made contact with stone. Space-time became fluid as a river-- a wrinkle, a fold-- we ran along the outer surface of the moonlet like quicksilver, were pushed out the other end of the great mass a moment later, the entire impossibility executed without fuss. My stomach did another clampdown.

Fleet groaned. Then: "Levi sets the rules! So why would it side with GLA wreckers--?"

"That confused us for a long time," I said. "The Transeatic League offers a waking world alternative to SpeemanLAN, the 'verses, Leviathan itself. Wouldn't the Consciousness would view that as an existential threat? The security services thought so. They believed that they would have _carte blanche_ to annex any city in the League. Shut the whole program down."

"Right," said Fleet.

We flew, corkscrewing through the holes in a bit of cheddar-cheesed rock. A bit of grumbling from the hull where the fit was tight. The ship, I knew, had tiny bots like skin cells who would now go to work, patching, repairing.

"But Leviathan," I said, "is a smarter Being than the sum of its parts. It's focused on survival, yes, but that also means survival _long term_. And what we hadn't considered-- what IronSide and Co. never considered, what Charles Wen never considered-- was that Leviathan was borne into a slow crisis. Our shared Consciousness is living on borrowed time. And knows it."

"Borrowed time? But every government on Earth depends on Leviathan. Every 'verse. Just about every large business, these days, too. We're the ones on borrowed time. Humanity."

She snapped her fingers then, a quick study. "Oh."

"Because Leviathan is composed of woman and man," I repeated, nodding. "And do you remember walking through that speem camp by the Willamette? What was missing?"

"Soap," she snarled. But then, shrugging: "Kids. Children. Besides those Sprenowick was making."

"He's the exception," I said. "Speems don't have children at anywhere near the replacement rate. Neither do people who are afraid of becoming speems. And since SpeemanLAN keeps growing, we're looking at a major demographic crash in a single generation.

"This is more than an emotional issue for Leviathan. This is survival. It views loss of human processing power like something akin to a series of strokes. And at this point? We're going to see a decline in human population worldwide-- that's given. The question for Levi is whether the decline is a slow, manageable glide to stasis... or catastrophic."

We were getting close to our destination. The cloud of debris was especially thick here, space pebbles thudded against our hull like hail. It helped to remember that the viewports were feed intake, not actual glass or plastic. If this failed to soothe, I could always picture myself sitting in my yurt in an abandoned warehouse on the banks of the Willamette-- where, in fact, I actually was. A new sort of shaman-- an Insom trainer, an 'enlightened' monk, a Peer-- living with the speems. My black marks swept away as part of the general armistice at Billings. My exercises especially popular with the young.

"So," said Fleet. "Levi thinks of the cities of the Transeatic League as-- human hatcheries? People farms? It's giving us these little islands where we can live normal lives-- so it can harvest us? Our children?"

"Hm," I said. "Yes, that's about right. From Levi's perspective."

"And that's-- we're all ok with that?"

"The League depends upon Leviathan's legal protection. The cities, of course, have their own plans. They have their own problems, too."

I smiled a tight smile. It had been easy to fight for Billings that first day, against foreign invaders. Easy, knowing so little about the place, to fight for an idea. Harder, as time went on, to listen to the various gripes of her own citizens. I'd left utopia's fights to Mayor Whitetree and Laura Granger. Wrecking was easier-- and a lot more fun.

"But things really are changing. UpTime's model of funding waking work programs is being instituted in more and more cities, worldwide. And that means that speems have the choice to stay awake, to work with their hands and conscious minds to earn a living. There are hardly enough of them for all the repair work and caretaking that need to be done. The private sector is perking up. And all of this means that SpeemanLAN is forced to offer better lives--"

"Oh?" said Fleet, gesturing towards herself: nuclear-punk sex kitten. A woman designed to be exploited.

Better than Nanking, I almost said-- but that was a wrecking-low bar. That wasn't nearly good enough.

So instead I explained to Fleet the new lengths to which Taikun Hataki must go to field his in'verse fox hunts. No longer able to simply use the speems on his properties, he'd spent a small fortune on a bizarre scouting program: finding individuals with specific psychological profiles, letting them know upfront what they would be in for, offering generous compensation. The Matsuko twins had argued that he should be forced to stop altogether-- there were strong moral points there; the entire RoN 'verse was shameful and disgusting-- but, swamp demon myself, who was I to turn sadist away from masochist? People made their choices. I was happy they were getting paid.

To Fleet, I said: "What it all comes down to is giving people the choice of path. A path of safety and dignity and steady plenty. A chance-- a real chance-- to self actualize." I felt like a GLA pamphlet, but there it was. "Lots of people are going to choose speeming and surrogacy and sex work-- especially as the remuneration gets better. That's their choice. The important thing is that it is a choice, now--"

"Hey," said Fleet, already bored with the lecture. She was pointing. "What's that thing?"

"Our destination," I said. " _The Kim Stanley Robinson_."

***

We'd completed the _Robinson_ about a year ago.

Chaudhri had sold us the _Rama_ undermarket kit; a favorite, he'd claimed, of Insom pirates. A real project! Like children hunting a pumpkin patch, we'd chosen our asteroid. Cylindrical and smooth with few pockmarks. Easily sealed, made airtight and safe. Twenty-five kilometers long with a ten kilometer diameter at the center. A big boy; a real potato.

Inject nanobot miners where you wish to build fusion engine. Nanobot miners burble like yeast! All that solid rock. All those veins and deposits of minerals, rare earths. They know their job. Their excretions are piled up around one end of our big potato. Those excretions take on an engine shape. Nanobot miners have much of what they need right there inside the asteroid. What they lack, they inform us of in their simple way-- and we supply. Minerals from nearby asteroids, gases from Jupiter, liquids from Titan. Heaps of soil and mud and carbon from in'verse Earth.

That human compulsion-- ant-like, cancerous, viral-- to harvest and process and concentrate natural resources now satisfied entirely in our minds. Maybe what will save us all.

Anyway, the fusion engine. Once complete, attached to a long titanium elevator-rod which plays backbone and axle to the center of our rock. Kilometers down the line, at the far end-- the 'nose'-- a small bridge where the command crew is stationed. Beneath this bridge, a large docking bay. Pretty standard. The rest of our hollowed-out potato sent spinning around that axle at a rate that produces one standard gravity.

My stealth craft pulled up to the docking nose of the _Kim Stanley Robinson_. Airlocks did their thing. Local artificial gravity departed. The two of us floated in our nets, unstrapped, did some more floating. Up towards the ceiling! Sonja took off her apron, sent it flying. She played well-ventilated Marilyn Monroe with her creeping dress.

An idealized Hank met us at the airlock. A few months earlier I'd given him Karmic Transmission on the banks of the Willamette and now he was a Peer in his own right, an Insom trainer with his own devotees. It wasn't all rosy. He and Sprenowick were on bad terms, Hank poaching some of the medicine man's flock-- even converting one of Burt's young wives. An escalating tension in our warehouse community. I'd ordered Hank to play nice with the neighbors-- basically, to slow his program down. Which he had done, reluctantly.

Still, I was happy he'd come to greet us. Sonja was, too. "Hamster!"

He raised his eyebrows: "Marie Calendar. How's space treating you?"

"It's weird. Keeps getting weirder. You're part of this mess?"

He snorted. "Every wrecking time. You been doing your exercises?"

"Of course!"

"Keep doing them."

"I get busy..."

He smiled. "I'll reintroduce you to everybody."

We floated through a docking bay full of small shuttlecraft. Women and men in full coveralls with GLA stamped on the shoulder floated about, carrying clipboards, performing checks. A team entered my own ship, as we exited, to give it a lookover. Nods exchanged. At the far end of the docking bay, the three of us came to a spinning, round door.

"Speaking of weird?" said Hank. "Let's get weird."

He opened the door.

Warm sunlight flooded into the dimly-lit docking bay. A cloud drifted by. Wind buffeted glass on the other side of some antechamber. We floated in sudden daytime. Then Hank used one of the nearby handles to propel himself through the round doorway-- and into this artificial world. He was, suddenly, floating in the center of a realm of centrifugally spinning rock. He turned, waved to us. "Next."

Holding hands, we entered.

We were floating inside a glassy beanpod at the axis of an inclosed, tubular land. An ocean wrapped bluely up the green side of the world in order to hang overhead. Finding ourselves inside a sort of cliffside gondola, we began moving-- sliding down the 'edge' of that world towards the 'floor.' There were other beanpods, in the distance, sliding in all cardinal directions towards their own 'floors.' Clouds whooshed by. In a minute the central axle was already far above us, growing skinnier. One never lost sight of it, however, anywhere in the asteroid. It was that axle which housed the _Kim Stanley Robinson's_ long sun and which lit all the many cubic kilometers of our potato's interior.

Now, 'descending' from the weightless center of the spinning asteroid towards the periphery, the Coriolis effect began to take hold. Gaining weight, the three of us slowly drifted to the floor of the gondola even while that vehicle continued to plunge down the cliffside edge of the world.

As gravity asserted, nesting birds flew by and in the distance-- in front of us, beneath us-- lay a little town, white and Grecian, by a sparking-inland sea. As we plummeted, the town grew. For several minutes this continued, until we were down off the cliffedge of the world and (perspective shifting slightly again) moving through pine-crested hills so that our vehicle finally entered the town horizontally, following a long track.

Our beanpod crawled to a stop, opened. We exited out onto cobblestone streets. The air smelled of sea and pine. Behind us, above us, the nesting birds called down from that impossible cliffedge. Women and men in eclectic garb sat in cafes or strolled about hand-in-hand. Every last one of them Insom GLA. In the hills around town, I knew, they trained with in'verse kalashnis.

Sonja Fleet gaped. She had a memory of a whole, sad life-- what could her plans for today have been?-- and suddenly she was here, inside a terraformed asteroid. She was still dressed in her period clothing.

"Welcome to the town of Edge." I said. "Better than the 'burbs?"

"Getting to see it all again for the first time," murmured Hank. "There's that side of forgetting, too."

The axle was a distant line, hidden at intervals by cloud, cutting across the sky. Look straight upwards, far, far, beyond it, and you could just make out another white town, Border, (hanging 'upside down' from our perspective, as though a city for bats) and the tiny breakers of the same ocean that hugged our shore. Head farther down the axle and the distant sky would contain great stretches of savannah or skyscrapers or great forests with the shadows of clouds running along them. The asteroid contained a good-sized swamp, too. Chun-Ja and I were caretakers.

"It's heaven," said Fleet. "Heaven..."

I recalled the night previous, sitting in one of Edge's candlelit cafes drinking wine and laughing with Alice and Arturo and Chun-Ja. Both Alice and Arturo beautiful and young, in love with each other and in the bloom of good health. Chun-Ja, hair waving as snakes, looking as though she were carved out of teak. Chun-Ja who insisted on in'versing herself younger, no matter how much I insisted on the beauty of her anchor. Who made every free day on the asteroid its own small innerverse of joy. The nights in the swamps...

I reflected that Sonja Fleet wasn't wrong.

"Heaven we built," said Hank. "Heaven we're still working on."

A group of hail-and-hearty-looking old men approached us. They were wearing orange and carrying oversized hunting rifles. Two of them wore armored exoskeletons. I did a quick search for their names and received: Arnold Mallard, Buddy McDouglass, Jimmy Cree, Jacob Amas.

McDouglass waved and said: "Hank! We're going after Lady Shardik. She got spotted up on Camel Ridge, foolin' with kalashnis. Mean old bitch don't know when to stop."

"Bring back the head of one bear algo," said Hank, "and drinks are on me." He inclined his head towards Fleet, made a face. "Work."

"Right, right," said McDouglass with a wink. "We'll catch you later. Well, c'mon, boys!" And they piled into several large trucks, strategically parked around town for anyone's use, and roared off.

Watching their merry caravan head away, Fleet asked: "Couldn't we just do that?"

"Go hunting?"

"I mean," said Fleet. "We've got this hidden world, custom built, where all of our friends can be young and healthy, so--" she shrugged. "Isn't that enough?"

I thought of Sprenowick standing confidently before Mayor Whitetree. Realities of our own making. All that good, post-scarcity stuff. I thought of Sprenowick, later-- the same arguments backing him-- staring so bitterly at Hank. Basic needs met and-- funny!-- still plenty to fight over. The chimpanzee desire to hoard females. Chimpanzee eyes that wanted, briefly, to kill Hank.

Hank the Peer, who was now shaking his head. "Maybe if we could cut ourselves away entirely from our anchors. Maybe, then. But we'd be abandoning billions. And I'm not even sure it would work. Those who control the resources of the waking world control the narratives of the 'verses. The very logic of the 'verses. So, we need lots of people both awake and prosperous. Countervailing, as they say. Therefore--"

"Intelligence," sighed Sonja.

"It won't take long," I assured. "We'll report in and then we'll go to the beach. You've earned some R&R."

At that moment, Hank's glasses _pinged_ and he said: "Well speak of the devil. Eric, himself."

***

Our cell leader's office was on the fifth floor of the largest building in town, a balcony with a view of the ocean spilling out, curling up. Maps covered the walls of that office. Maps of real world locations. Maps of our current location. Maps of different 'verses. There was a heavy, oak desk with an old laptop computer on it. There was a humble bookcase from which the Library of Congress could be accessed. There was a young man with curling black hair in a very nice suit. Dark blue.

Eric Peer ran three cells besides our own. He had been running only one, before, when he'd broken cover. When we had been forced to transport him to safety. Nowadays, his real-world location was never known to any of us-- the membership of the other cells was known only to him.

Jody was with him. Jody, our natural wrecker, our fourth. Very close to receiving Karmic Transmission, herself. Becoming a Peer. We would have real trouble with Sprenowick, then.

Sonja Fleet looked around the room. She glanced at Eric-- and the look on her face was heart-wrenching. Very different than the druggy erotiscism present for Mel. I saw pain and loss and desire. Growing into anger.

Now staring hard at our cell leader, Fleet said: "It wasn't fair. What you did. You _knew_ how committed I was to IronSide..."

And Eric Peer, who had the _Groundhog's Day_ advantage of relitigation, but who always answered the same: "I didn't plan it, Sonja. I tried to stay away from you for the longest time. Remember? I never tried to flip you. And then we had our fight, because I knew the mole was getting close..."

"I should've..." she murmured. "And couldn't."

Eric Peer, beloved by fate. I remembered him, embodied by a sheepish Arturo Barros, sitting bruised and hogtied in the back of Sprenowick's motorhome at that rest stop. Bruised and hogtied and otherwise fine. I had wondered at the time.

"What did you know?" Fleet asked, suddenly. "What the hell did you know, that they flash wrecked half of downtown to get you out? That they trotted out the original Dead End Alice and started a wrecking war?"

"It was who I knew," said Eric, unhappily, looking out his window. This, too, his standard refrain. "My cell was compromised. My intel wasn't worth the rescue. I have no illusions about any of that."

"Who did you know?"

Everyone looked uncomfortable.

[I'm going to try a new exercise regime with Sonja,] sent Hank to my glasses. [We've got to stop having this wrecking conversation.]

"My parents." He nearly coughed the words. Then: "I've passed up promotions since then, citing that incident. Refined my tradecraft..." Difficult in its own way, I had often supposed, to wear his name-- to be GLA royalty. Difficult if you were serious the way Eric was serious.

Understanding flooded Sonja's face. Memory, too, because her next words were: "And you and I--?"

"Well, I hope so! Once we get through this bit, usually."

"Yes," she said, suddenly remembering. "Yes. Oh, I've got to kick this ego dampening..."

Next came the intel. Sonja, as always, with the goods. We learned that IronSide Security Solutions had procured a new account policing seventeen islands in the Philippines, south and west of Manila. This at the behest of our old friend and philanthropist, Taikun Hataki. He was, it appeared, looking to play 'Marchers of Bataan' with the local population. And it looked, based on initial security reports, like the locals weren't too keen on the game. Did I, perhaps, recognize the tell-tale wrecking styles of the Matsuko twins mixed into tales of nighttime raids and desecrated artis? I thought I did.

Sonja gave us the 'verse coordinates. Eric fed these to the bridge of the _Kim Stanley Robinson._ The acting captain asked, over coms, whether she should open a breach.

"Let's take a peek," said Eric Peer. "See if we can make some friends."

On display, finally: the most expensive toy we'd purchased from Chaudhri, by far; a special sort of drive, kept a healthy distance from the fusion engine. So, while our asteroid couldn't push beyond the speed of light within any single 'verse, it could slip _between_ them. Letting us establish a quick headquarters within any human innerverse.

This happened now. The sky and sea outside of Eric Peer's office in the city of Edge became blood red, the wind howled, algorithmic animals clamored. Somewhere, you could bet, Lady Shardik roared. A moment of total pitch, the out-of-body feeling of geist transmission, and it was done. Eric's laptop computer showed the _Kim Stanley Robinson_ floating in an asteroid field exactly like the one we'd just left. A string of letters and numbers at the base of the screen informed those who followed such things, however, that we were in a substantially different place.

A coded message was sent out across this new 'verse-- and received.

There were Insom amongst the insurgents in the waking Philippines, it looked like, with access to their own undermarket gear. They'd been told to expect us, what frequencies to observe. In evidence: a handsome-looking Filipino pirate captain hiding out amongst Jupiter's moons. He would be visible to the bridge crew as well as through Eric's laptop. He spoke the local Arabic autotranslated into British English.

Yes, he assured us. Nobody on his island wanted Hataki's foreign security or Hataki's shitty lives. Who was the Taikun to decide their 'verses? The Matsukos were indeed training people, leading kalashni missions. But our pirate captain was glad to meet a formal representative of the GLA. They needed more kalashnis, oras, a Surodarity media-relations team.

Next to me, Sonja Fleet shuddered. The red light of the transition had been hard on her. Eyes glassy with ego dampening, she asked: "Mel? Where are we? Oh, this is strange..."

Fleet really was making progress for someone who had so little background neurosharing. With a few more months of training, she would have a steady hold on herself. For now...

Jody stepped forward, took our agent by both shoulders, said: "Sonja." Then, slapping her across the face: "Satori!"

And the clouds parted.

Our contact en route to rendezvous with our asteroid, we went down to the ocean. Arturo and Alice were already there, with ice cream, laying side by side in skimpy swimwear, bewinged as angels. Chun-Ja and I used an in'verse spell to transform ourselves into sea beasts; we cavorted about in a nearby reef. By the time the Filipino pirate captain had docked and registered his ship and and ridden the gondola transport down into Edge-- Border twinkling above; long axle-sun dimming toward night-- Sonja Fleet still hadn't forgotten herself once.

### ###

## Acknowledgements + Notes for the Curious

The Author wishes to express his Gratitude for the following People and Events who were able to provide Inspiration and/or Support. In no particular Order.

**For giving the Author a Social Ill (and Permission to go Buck Wild with it):** _Travis Kalanick, Peter Thiel, Elizabeth Holmes, Elon Musk, Anthony Levandowski, Dara Khosrowshahi, Jeff Bezos._ This story couldn't exist without you. The Author's unfortunate, natural Conservatism would have prevented it. Drama in the Board Room? Moves against the acting CEO? Ongoing lawsuits? Day-Light Theft of Intellectual Property by High-Level Employees? Defrauding of Investors on a Massive Scale? Bald-Faced Lies about Basic Facets of your Business for Years at a Time? One feels like a Hack to write such Sordid Scenarios! Yet, one is simply Reporting Fact. Not only that, but: Purchasing Blood from the Young to Run through Your Own Aging Veins? Check. Starting Cults of Worship for the AI Deities you are Working to Construct? Check. Paying to Drink 'Raw' (Untreated) Water Bottled from Swamps and Streams? Check. Rockets to Mars? Still waiting on that one. You Mad Godlings, Roger Zelazny well predicted you.

The Author originally Feared that his own Story would be too Far-Fetched for even Pleasure Reading. Increasingly, however, as he Performed the most Cursory Research of Silicon Valley, he came to Realize his Modest Abilities were Insufficient to Capture the Dream-Like Strangeness of the Place. He has Tried.

Anyway, if the Imagination can be said to be a Muscle, you have helped this Author to Exercise.

**For giving the Author a Framework to Sketch Some Kind of Half-Assed Solution:** _Yves Smith, Lambert Strether,_ and _Jerri-Lynn Scoffield_ over at the Award-Winning _Naked Capitalism_ blog. That's a Good Start. The Author Supports their Work Financially and Encourages you to Check Them Out.

The Reader may have Noticed that at a Certain Point in Part Three, the entire Narrative descends into a Weird Discussion on the Chartalist Nature of Currency. (Sorry about That!) The Ora and the Mig-- linked as they are to Surrogacy Time-- are the Author's Creation Alone and so Prone to Failure. (Actually, if You've Made it this Far and have some Idea of Exactly How The Ora Would Fail-- Shoot Us An Email! dschilmoeller@gmail.com)

The idea of UpTime as a sort of Multinational Currency Issuer comes from a Couple of Places.

First, John Maynard Keynes' Idea for a Non-State International Reserve Currency, the _Bancor_ , which, in a Better Post-Bretton-Woods World, would Serve to Keep any Single Actor from running Decades'-Long Trade Surpluses at the Expense of the Neighbors. Second-- the way in which the Ora is Utilized-- is a Vulgarization (and the Author wants to make Clear, a _Vulgarization,_ a _Deep_ _Simplification_ ) of an Economic School of Thought called Modern Monetary Theory.

MMT is getting a lot of Press lately-- not all in Good Faith-- and so the Author Wishes to be Careful. Without getting into the Weeds, MMT Holds that under Certain Conditions (all of which hold in the modern United States) a Currency Issuer can Ensure Full Employment of its Domestic Population while Maintaining Low Inflation. This Argument has been used to Advocate for a _very-specific_ type of Federal Jobs Guarentee. This has Nothing to Do with Invented Sci-Fi Funny Money (and even Less to do with Bitcoin) and Everything to Do with Current Posibilities Buried within the US Dollar.

If that Claim sounds Dubious/Interesting, check out the Modern Money Network on YouTube.

MMT Economists and Advocates: _Warren Mosler, Stephanie Kelton, Pavlina Tcherneva, Randall Wray, Bill Mitchell, Mathew Forstater, Rohan Grey, Raul Carrillo._ The Author had the Pleasure of Seeing all but Mosler Speak at the Second International MMT Conference at the New School in NYC.

Helpful and Entertaining Post-Keynsian Economists who Might Take Issue being Grouped as MMTers: _Yanis Varoufakis, James Galbraith, Mark Blyth, Steve Keen._

(Disclaimer: The Author Supports Steve Keen on Patreon.)

Then, at the Base of the Tree, it all comes down to: _Hyman Minsky._

For Giving the Author their Time and Personal Support:

_Miriam Chin_ has had to listen to her Husband Whine and Doubt. She has had to Scratch him under the Ears and Rub his Back and Calm him. She has kept him well Fed and Housed.

_Melissa Gillet_ put together a badass series of Cover Art for a Good Price-- and she did it so Fast and with such Attentiveness to the Author's Changing Whims that she Must be Recommended to anybody Searching for a Reliable and Gifted Graphic Artist.

_Scott Schilmoeller_ pulled his Big Brother out of some Scrapes.

_Jeremy Henderson_ and _Beau Nguyen_ have reliably helped their Friend Enjoy his Life.

_Katie Larsell_ and _Michael Schilmoeller_ have been Patient and Supportive while their Boy Tilts at Windmills.

_Terran Kimbell_ has been Willing to Read what his Coworker Writes.

_Matt Larsell_ kept his Nephew Employed during the Recession.
