Data Runner (4 page)

“A lot can happen in thirty days,” I reply.

Upstairs, I slam my bedroom door shut. I didn't tell Martin about Arcadian because I know he'll never let me do it. However, that's not really his call anymore, is it? If Martin can make rash decisions that affect our future then surely I can do the same. Martin made his decision, now it's time for me to make mine. Martin may be all out of options, but I'm not. I can do it. I can run us out of this mess.

I dig my thin screen out of my backpack and drop it onto the desk. Place it in hologram mode and call Dex. “Hey, Jack,” he answers. “What's going on?”

I don't say anything, and he sees it almost immediately.

“What's wrong?”

“Dex, I need you to tell me everything I need to know about running the sneakernet.”

Dexter stares at me with surprise. “Hermes?”

I shake my head and hold up the card for him to see. “Arcadian.”

Dexter's surprise turns to disbelief. “How the hell…”

“They tapped me in the tunnel this afternoon. And then just now I found out about this thing between Martin at the syndicate … I have no choice, Dex. I'm going for it.”

Dexter sighs. I know he's not jealous of me, but I also know what it's like to watch someone else get the thing you want more than anything, even if that someone is your best friend. Dexter always thought he'd be the one running for Arcadian one day. We all thought that.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I mean it, Jack. Tracing the sneakernet is nothing to play at. It's all or nothing. You either get into it with everything you've got, or you don't get into it at all. That goes double for Arcadian. All of their transports are high value.”

I look down at the card.
When security is the only option
. Then back to Dex. “I know that,” I say. “I know that, and I'm in.”

The beige sedan is so nondescript that I don't even notice it until it pulls up alongside me. Bigsby is behind the wheel. I guess it's implied that he's there to pick me up. The front door is locked. I release the handle and wait for him to unlock it, but he flicks his thumb at the back seat instead. I get in.

The beginning of the ride is strained. Bigsby doesn't respond to the simplest of platitudes. Whether it's by orders or by choice, his lips are sealed. Even when I ask him about the work. “So how long have you been running for Arcadian?”

No answer.

“You don't have to go into details, I just want to know what to expect.”

Hands two and ten on the wheel, eyes on the road.

“Come on, Bigs. Don't be like that. We're on the same team here.”

Bigs
eyes me in the rearview mirror, his way of saying he doesn't like that one bit. That's when I let it go. I don't know what his problem is, but it's of no concern to me. We ride in silence for a few minutes until Bigsby turns on the Free City news stream. More discussion about the Blackburn scandal. More about the company's finances. More about how broke they really are. And much more speculation about how badly this whole thing could compromise the security of the Alliance.

Blah, blah, blah.

The thing is, even if Blackburn has done business with the Caliphate, just what does the Alliance Senate think they're going to do? Blackburn, Ltd. isn't just the biggest standing army in the world, it's
our
standing army. Blackburn
is
the Complex. Sure, there are other defense contractors out there, but none that could even come close to handling the full military needs of the North American Alliance. If Blackburn really is
too big to fail
, as they used to say back in the Old-50, then those other companies are all
too small to succeed
. So my guess is, after all is said and done, and the people responsible are given their slaps on the wrist, Blackburn won't be going anywhere.

But still they continue belaboring the discussion. Like any debate, it goes on and on and nothing is said that hasn't been said a thousand times before, so I pull out my thin screen and enjoy the ride into the Free City of Tri-Insula, or what used to be the old City of New York. That's when it hits me, right as my thin screen flashes alive, whoever came up with that trigger code for Cyril's business card had to be Morlock. I mean, to pipe across the aggrenet completely undetected like that, it had to be piping through the Morlock layer.

That's right, the Morlock layer, otherwise known as the undernet.

That invisible layer of packet switching that lies beneath the aggrenet, the one most people have never heard of, and the few who have simply dismiss as urban legend, it's real. It is very,
very
real. Martin is Morlock, officially. And though I'm technically still waiting for my work to be tagged, I consider myself Morlock as well. I can't tell you how many of us there are. That's kind of the point. We all use the same handle; not just for anonymity, it hides our numbers as well. For all anyone knows, there could be five or five thousand of us behind that tag. Only one person knows for sure—the only Morlock with a unique identifier is the leader, Moreau. But if you think that tracking a single individual would be much easier than tracking an entire collective, you're wrong. If you know where and how to look, you can always find traces of Morlock, but over the years Moreau has proven to be completely untraceable. Believe me, I've tried. I've scoured the furthest regions of the undernet looking for him, only to come up empty every time. To say that Moreau is very good at covering his tracks is an understatement. Lots of people are very good at covering their tracks. I'm very good at covering my tracks. But there are those people in the world—you know the kind—who are so good at avoiding detection that they never leave tracks in the first place. Moreau is one of those people.

Nevertheless, finding him has become a personal mission. I can't even say why, really; I just want to be the one who does. It's not
him
I'm after per se, it's the challenge of finding him. And on that subject, I do have a theory. The way I figure it, his base of operations has to be somewhere out in the squatter settlements. That makes the most sense. With so many people creating so much transmission in such close proximity, you can't pinpoint anything in all that noise. Not unless you were to sneakernet in and do it in person. But that would open up a whole other can of worms. Like any refugee camp, shantytown, or favela, the squatter settlements has its own laws, its own system of justice, and its own set of rules. The first rule being—if you're not from the settlements then you are an outsider, and they hate outsiders.

We take the bridge into the Free City.

Now my nerves take over. Scanning the card was the easy part, but the closer we get to those massive buildings whose secrets I will shortly be tasked with carrying, the more it becomes real. As we pass over the river, I try to take my mind off it by staring out the window, but all I see is the famous Grumwell building towering more than a kilometer into the sky. The largest building in the world, it is a monolith of black marble and mirrored glass that gleams in the sun like a modern-day Great Pyramid. But what else would you expect from the biggest corporation in the world? So enormous is the Grumwell building that looking at it from the moving car seems to make the entire world go by in slow motion.

But that slowness ends the moment we take the off-ramp. Bigsby tosses me around the back of the car as we make our way through the Free City traffic until he takes a sudden turn into an underground garage. That makes me wonder; why would a firm who goes to such great lengths to remain hidden just give up their location like that? I mean, I have no intention of revealing their location, but you'd think they would have taken some precaution. Put a blindfold on me at the very least.

But everything makes more sense when Bigsby delivers me to the eighteenth floor suite that is little more than a gutted space. Scattered all around the room are silver cases lined with foam cutouts. Each shape corresponds to some piece of gear that has already been set up in the room. In the middle of the room sits a medical chair under a blast of sterile lights. Next to that is a rack of surgical equipment. But the most interesting thing of all is the link. These guys aren't porting into the aggrenet through the building's infrastructure; they have their own rifle antenna pointed out the window.

The first person I see is the big bald guy who looks like a prison thug working the hardware. He has tattoos all up his neck and even on his scalp, but the tattoo I notice most is on his enormous forearm. That one depicts a large eagle with a snake dangling from its beak.

I don't even see Cyril approach from the side. “It's good to have you on board, Jack.”

“Thanks.”

He checks his watch. “We've got a lot to get through today, so what do you say we—”

“—get down to brass tacks?” I offer.

Cyril smirks in that nearly imperceptible way of his. “Smart kid.”

The bald guy's name is Snake, which I soon learn refers not to the slithering reptile but to a type of eagle that feeds on it. The
Snake Eagle
, as it is known, is exactly what is tattooed on his arm. Snake was once the best runner Arcadian had, until his age finally caught up with him and he developed chronic tendonitis in his knees. Now he's their head technician. Apparently it helps for new runners to be ushered in by someone who's actually been in their shoes. I can see why. Snake isn't what you would call personable, in fact he's not very friendly at all—surly if anything—but he is not unsympathetic. As hard as I try not to let my nervousness show, Snake can smell it all over me. He doesn't say anything at first, not until Cyril steps aside for a moment to make sure all the paperwork is in order. Then he leans in close.

“You're a little scared,” he says.

I nod.

“You should be.”

I—what? If this is supposed to be a pep talk then his technique could use some work.

“Fear is a survival instinct. Maybe the best survival instinct we have. You will need it out there.” We lock eyes. Snake's are dark and narrow, but I can see at once he's trying to help. “I've seen over a hundred Aves come and go. Take my word for it, it's always the cocky ones who are the first to get clipped. A little bit of fear is a good thing. Fear will make you hypervigilant, and hypervigilance will keep you alive. Just don't let it take you over. Remember, a paralyzed runner is a dead runner.”

Cyril returns holding a titanium box with a laser-etched serial number. A hiss of escaping air fills the room as he opens it and shows me the injection cartridge inside. He holds it closer for me to examine. Inside the cartridge is a small translucent blob with hanging tentacles suspended in a clear aqueous solution. It is about the size of a dime and looks exactly like a jellyfish.

“This is the bioidentical cortex chip that will be implanted subcutaneously on the inside of your forearm. It is a proprietary biocircuit developed in our labs specifically for this purpose, and it is unlike any other in the world.” Cyril picks up a UV light and runs it over the box, making the chip inside glow an iridescent purple as it reveals the vast network of micro-optical fibers running through it. “Right now it's inert, but once it enters your body, it will hardwire itself into your neural axons to form a synaptic link with your central nervous system.”

Snake snaps on a pair of latex gloves and takes the chip from Cyril. He places it in the injector gun.

“You are the power source, Jack. The chip draws it power electrochemically from your body. That means there are certain precautions that you will now have to take. We'll go over those in a minute.”

Snake aggressively rubs an alcohol swab over the meaty part of my forearm.

“I won't lie to you, Jack…” The hairs on my forearm stand straight up as the cold steel tip of the implant gun touches my skin. “This is going to hurt.”

Before I even register Cyril's warning, Snake braces my arm and fires the gun.

“Ow!”

Imagine the biggest wasp you've ever seen. Now imagine five of them. Five stingers digging into you all at once, all on the same square inch of flesh. Like five serrated claws clamping down on a single patch of skin. The bite is so great it makes my arm twitch, which only makes the pain worse. This lasts for what feels like minutes but is probably no longer than ten seconds. It lasts until I can feel the lump. Just under my skin at first, but soon it sinks deeper. I feel what can only be the cortex chip's tentacles piercing through the tendons beneath as the wasp stingers sink deeper into my arm.

Until I feel the jolt—like an electric shock running down the entire length of my arm. Then my arm is on fire. Burning deep inside my skin like every pore has been filled with piping hot acid that is now dissolving its way through my flesh.

I lurch ten inches out of the chair, but Snake shoves me back down and holds me there.

“Something's wrong!” I scream.

“No, that's normal,” says Snake. “Nerve pain is the worst kind there is.”

It feels like my arm is blistering red bubbles of oozing flesh from my wrist to my elbow. Only it isn't. The only physical mark on my arm is the small red ring at the injection site. The rest is all nerves.

“You just have to wait it out.”

I close my eyes and focus. Deal with it as best I can. It takes a mountain of effort just to endure it—more that I have to spare—but just as I reach my breaking point, it begins to dissipate. Slowly at first, then all at once, it goes as quickly as it came. I check my arm. Other than the injection mark, there's no real damage, even if it does feel like it's just been dipped into a 12-molar bath of hydrochloric acid.

“There now, that wasn't too bad, was it?” says Cyril.

Snake flashes me a private look as he releases my arm.
Right, like he would know.

Cyril continues. “Every other firm out there is still implanting its runners with decades-old silicon chips. That's why so many of them get dismembered. It's simply easier to grab the entire limb and dig the chip out later.” Cyril runs the UV light over my arm until it finds the glowing purple spot just beneath the skin. Considering how deep the pain was, I'm surprised how close to the surface it is. Snake circles it with a surgical marker. “This chip is now part of your biology. Hacking off your arm will do no good. That will only destroy both chip and cargo.”

For the first time I feel a sense of relief. “At least I don't have to worry about waking up in a ditch minus an arm.”

But Snake shakes his head. “That just means they'll have to drag you back to the lab and strap you to a table to get at it.”

Wonderful. That's just great. Leave it to these guys to make getting my arm cut off the better of two options.

“Now, there are three things you have to know,” begins Cyril. “First, you must protect the circuit from a targeted impact. It can take a minor bruising, but if the blow is concentrated enough to burst the chip while you're loaded up, the release of live data cells into your bloodstream will be toxic.”

Toxic! Was he kidding? “If the chip is part of my biology then how can it be toxic?”

“It's like your appendix,” says Cyril. “That's part of your biology too, but if it bursts open it'll poison you from the inside. Don't worry—the chip is resilient. You can see we injected it through a pinhole. In most cases you won't even have to worry about it, but it is something you need to be aware of.

“Second, you must keep your body's core temperature between 95 and 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Outside of this range, you risk permanent damage to the chip and/or complete loss of cargo. Avoid heatstroke. Avoid hypothermia. Drink lots of water when you're hot and bundle up when you're cold.

“Third and most important, since it's the one you can't avoid. This cortex chip draws its energy directly from your body. As of now, it will draw a very small and constant amount to remain active, but your body will adjust to that in no time. The energy required to maintain cargo, however, will be much larger. It will impact your metabolism. The bigger or more complex the cargo, the more energy it will take to maintain, which means your hypoglycemic curve will be very steep. What that means is, you will have to keep your blood sugar up. Right now you can probably go a day without eating before you start to feel faint. When you're carrying cargo, that window will shrink to about four hours if you're lucky, even less if you're under strenuous pursuit. Once you start to feel faint, you'll have twenty minutes to get some fuel into your system before you pass out. Thirty minutes tops.”

That doesn't sound good at all. “What happens then?” I ask.

“What happens if you pass out in the middle of a run? Oh, I don't think you want to find out, Jack.”

Cyril's remark is followed by an ominous pause during which I definitely wonder what I have gotten myself into. I wait for Cyril to continue, but he has nothing more to add. It is Snake who finally breaks the silence.

“It's time for you to get branded,” he says and swings another machine over my arm.

I inch back in the chair. “What is that?”

“It's just a plain old laser-guided tattoo iron,” he says as he slaps it into place. He seems surprised that I even have to ask. “Standard equipment found in any tattoo parlor around the world.”

Tattoo? Okay. I'm not bothered by the idea of getting one; it's just one more thing I wasn't expecting.

“From here on out, you will not be just another runner,” says Cyril. “This the moment when you become one of our Aves. Runners are a dime a dozen. Our Aves have been handpicked for the job. That is why Arcadian Transports is the best at what we do, Jack. You can take pride in that. You are about to become part of an elite group of data runners.”

Snake hands me a thin screen loaded with an index of birds. “No one beyond this room is to know your name,” he says, “not even other Aves. It's a security issue. From this point forward you will be known only by your tag, which is why you should pick something that represents you.” He takes a moment to eye me up. “You're in good shape, but you're very lean, so don't go with a massive bird. In fact, you don't look like the kind of person who would attack trouble head-on, so I would stay away from the birds of prey altogether. Think about your traits. Every human characteristic can be found in the avian world, so find the bird that best represents your strengths. This is the tag that will define you as a runner. Don't just pick it at random, let it be an extension of who you are.”

It seems pretty clear to me why he chose the Snake Eagle. It takes a certain kind of understated bravado to be able to swoop in undetected and pluck a snake off the ground—the perfect mix of stealth and strength. I can see that in him. Unfortunately, that doesn't help me any as I scroll through the taxonomy. I haven't got the slightest clue what bird best represents me. But then I remember something I once saw about crows. Crows are incredible problem solvers, capable not only of using tools but of fashioning those tools from scratch. The amount of wit and reasoning skill this requires apparently makes them one of the most intelligent creatures on the planet. So there's that. But then I start thinking about ravens, which may not be as intelligent as crows but have other traits that I admire. Like their vocal ability to imitate certain sounds. That's a form of ghosting, right? Which is very similar to what I do whenever I ghost the aggrenet. Ravens also have a much longer lifespan: something like thirty years to a crow's eight. So there's that as well.

Crow or raven. Raven or crow.

I wonder. “Is there a cross between a raven and a crow?”

Snake takes the thin screen back in a way that tells me he knows exactly what I'm looking for. Working with new Aves like this, he probably has every species of bird memorized.

“
Corvus corone
,” he says. “Literally
raven crow
.” He goes through the index until he finds exactly what he's looking for and shows it to me. “Commonly known as the Carrion Crow.”

The Carrion Crow.

I'm not even done considering it when Snake renders an image into the tattoo iron and adjusts it over my arm. “Wait, I'm not sure that's the one I want.”

“Yes you are. If that's what your gut is telling you, don't second-guess it.”

Snake opens a lacquer box, revealing a series of ink jars inside. He pulls out the large one of black and holds it up for me to see. The color inside is thick and rich and leaves curtains on the glass as he turns it in his hand. “This is irradiated scorpion ink. It will help block your chip's signal from being tracked.”

Okay, the irradiated part I get. I assume it's similar to what they use in hospitals, and equally safe. What piques my curiosity is the other part. “What do you mean
scorpion
ink?” I ask, thinking it has something to do with their venom.

“The pigment that is used to make these inks comes from the pulverized exoskeletons of scorpions.”

Snake fills one vial with black and another with a very dark purple that looks almost metallic. He attaches both vials to the tattoo iron and starts the machine. The laser guides the needle array over my forearm. On any other day this might actually sting, but today it's just a prickle compared to what I have already endured. In the meantime, Cyril presents me with a large aluminum case. He opens it. Inside is a full set of upper torso body armor, gunmetal gray with gold trim, so new it still has the plastic film on it. Cyril peels it off and removes the armor from the case.

“Titanium meta-aramid ultramesh,” he says with a rap of his knuckles. “The best you can get. It's a bit heavier than a strict titanium microweave, but you get that back tenfold in tensile strength.”

I'm not worried about the quality of the armor. What concerns me is why he's giving it to me in the first place. Everything has happened so fast that I can hardly wrap my head around it, but this pushes everything else to the side. This is different. Seeing the body armor brings it close to the chest. Maybe a little too close to the chest.

Cyril seems to know exactly what I'm thinking as he returns the gear to the case. “I won't lie to you,” he says. “Arcadian cargos are always high value, and we've had some unexpected challenges as of late. It's getting pretty rough out there. Hopefully, you'll never need it, but you won't be doing yourself any harm by wearing it. Just think of it as a safety net.”

“Has anyone ever been shot?” I ask.

It's a simple question, but it seems like Cyril has to consider how to answer it. “They've been shot
at
,” he replies. Then he taps the case. “The body armor works.”

The tattoo iron zips to a halt as the carriage returns to the base. I have to wait for Snake to finish blotting the blood and ink off my arm before I can see it, but when I do, I am amazed by the result.