Husk (27 page)

‘Rhodes –’

Javier manages to shoot
me a terrified glance a second before the right side of his face caves in from a crushing
blow. He drops to the grass beside me, dead before he hits the ground.

‘You fucking bastard!’ I scream, bracing myself for a similar fate.

The EMU’s claw grabs me and pins me to a tree, cracking a couple ribs in the process. My night-vision glasses are knocked away and lost. The drone leans forward, its
head coming close to my face, reflective lenses searching my uncovered eyes. I can almost see Winslade in there, staring back at me through the technology he’s created. I get the overwhelming feeling that he is pleased to have caught me alive. The drone fails to notice as I slowly lift the Desert Eagle up to its head.

‘You don’t own me,’ I whisper.

I pull the trigger repeatedly, emptying the
rest of the clip into its face. Sparks fly as one of the lenses shatters. The EMU recoils, dropping me as it staggers backward. I watch it crash half-blind into a park bench and topple over it. Without wasting another second, I get to my feet and run north through the woods in the dark. It isn’t long before I hear the EMU wrecking its way through the trees and bushes behind me.

The 86th Street
Transverse that cuts through Central Park suddenly appears ahead of me. I run straight into the road without thinking, only to be blinded by the headlights of a truck bearing down on me. The screech of brakes fills the air. I dive forward just as the EMU steps into traffic after me. The truck slams into the drone, sending it hurtling through the air. It crashes to the sidewalk and lies there twitching
as the truck skids to a halt.

I look up from where I lie and see that the vehicle is an NYPD Lenco BearCat. A heavily armed SWAT team pours out the back and approaches me, assault rifles pointed at my head. I raise my hands to show I’m unarmed. Before I can say anything an officer steps forward with a Taser and fires. Every nerve in my body catches fire before I’m incapacitated.

‘I need to make a goddamn statement already,’ I say again. ‘Are either of you idiots even listening to me?’

The arresting officer and the detective trade unimpressed looks before turning their attention back to the paperwork in their hands. They’ve held
me in an interrogation room at the Central Park Precinct for almost two hours. Cops have been coming and going constantly, taking calls and making calls. They keep asking me questions I don’t have answers to. Questions about the Occupy Movement. Questions about Integris. Questions about the bearded man and the kidnapped girl and the guns smuggled into the park. I’ve begged them to listen to more
important things I have to say, but no one seems to care. If what’s coming out of my mouth isn’t in relation to what’s going down in Central Park right now, they don’t want to hear it.

It’s madness in NYC tonight. News of the Battle of the Great Lawn is taking over every website, TV and radio channel. I can hear it every time the interrogation room door opens. It is already being called the worst
national tragedy of the century so far. The death toll is still being determined. Mass arrests are being made and will continue throughout the night. The Central Park Precinct has been turned into a giant forward operating base, its sole
mission to tackle and finish OCP for good. The detective pulls up a chair and sits across the table from me.

‘Who did you say you worked for again, Mr Rhodes?’

‘Solace Strategies,’ I reply. ‘I’m a Husk.’

‘Right.’ The detective rolls his eyes. ‘You’re some kind of hooker.’

‘You haven’t really listened to a word I’ve said, have you?’

‘Well, what I did hear was some pretty incredible stuff, hard to believe.’

‘I’m not fucking crazy.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I’m not on drugs either.’

The detective shrugs. ‘Sure.’

I sigh, cracking my knuckles in frustration.
‘Did you review the footage from the camera that was in my knapsack?’

The detective says nothing. We simply stare at each other across the table, his expression informing me he hasn’t bothered to look at it yet. The arresting officer, bored with the situation, finishes filling out his paperwork and leaves the room.

‘Do you think I’m lying?’ I ask the detective.

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Then why
won’t you hear the rest of what I have to say? This could be huge.’

‘We’re already dealing with
huge
,’ the detective replies. ‘All hell has broken loose. Our focus right now is the park and the park only. Fact is we don’t have the manpower to deal with anything outside of that.’

‘Jesus, I’m trying to report a goddamn crime here. Do I have to remind you of your duty to –’

The detective slams
his fist down on the table, making me jump. I see it now, the circumference of his tired eyes growing bloodshot, the marks where he’s been chewing his bottom lip. He’s through playing good cop.

‘May I remind you that you’re under arrest, Mr Rhodes. You’re not here to give statements about shit I don’t give a flying fuck about.’

‘Fine,’ I say, folding my arms and leaning back in my chair. ‘Lock
me in a cell then until you’re ready to hear me out.’

The detective’s laugh is cold. ‘You sure that’s what you want? Because we’ve got some vicious characters in holding tonight. They’ll tear a pretty boy like you up in a matter of minutes.’

I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself when the arresting officer slips back into the room and pulls the detective aside. Both of them cast scowls at
me as they converse in whispers that become more and more aggressive in tone. The officer finally raises his voice enough for me to make out the last of the exchange.

‘There’s nothing we can do. We have to cut him loose.’

The officer leaves again, slamming the door behind him. The detective comes back to the table, but does not sit down.

‘You’re free to go.’

‘What?’

‘You made bail.’

‘How
can that be? I didn’t lawyer up. I haven’t even used my one phone call yet.’

‘Well, someone came through for you. We can’t hold you any longer.’

‘Who paid my bail?’

‘Some friend of yours.’ The detective sneers. ‘They’re collecting your stuff right now. They’ll be here shortly to escort you out.’

The detective leaves the room. For a few minutes I’m alone, wondering who is coming to get me.
It’s the only peace and quiet I’ve had in days. I slouch in my chair, massaging my sore muscles, examining my cuts and scrapes. My cracked ribs haven’t received medical attention yet. Breathing is a chore. The van crash has undoubtedly given me whiplash. I try my best to relax. My eyelids get heavy, exhaustion finally catching up to me. I let my head loll, close my eyes for a few seconds, start to
drift off to sleep.

The interrogation room door opens and closes, I hear footsteps approach. God, I can’t wait to see a friendly face. When I raise my head and open my eyes, the man is standing on the opposite side of the table with my knapsack slung over his shoulder. He looks intently at me with a single baby blue eye. The bandages are gone, preliminary plastic surgery has been performed on
the burns to his face. My saviour is the same man who said he owed me one, although he’s the last person I expected to see.

My saviour is Clive.

I tie the Eldredge knot perfectly the first time and adjust it around my neck in front of the mirror. The new suit is made to measure. The dress shoes are soft and comfortable and made from endangered alligator. The smell of my favourite cologne pricks my
nostrils and makes me giddy. I feel euphoric, despite everything that happened in Central Park last night. Sore muscles and cracked ribs actually make me feel alive. I walk to the fireplace, watch the flames dance in the hearth. The heat feels good on my exposed skin.

In the corner of the study is my old silver-skinned server system, the now permanently deactivated robot crumpled to the floor
beside it. I walk over and give the server a pat, still feeling some affection for the person I’ve committed indefinitely to it. I always was very fond of him. Giving him my old home was the least I could do. Renard knocks on the door and enters.

‘Your limo has arrived and is waiting downstairs, Mr Winslade.’

‘Very good,’ I say. ‘We will leave momentarily.’

Renard exits and I turn back to the
server with a smile as I hold my Liaison up to my lips.

‘It’s been fun, my boy. I want you to know that.’

A program I’ve installed allows me to communicate
with my boy in there, but I mute him to make it a one-sided conversation. I don’t care to hear anything he has to say, though I do wonder what he thinks of his new accommodations. It will take some getting used to, no doubt, but I’m sure
he’ll adjust in time. To be fair, I’ve given him the option to terminate everything if he proves unhappy with his new situation.

Last night Ms Baxter rented out a Husk named Clive to me, an apparent close friend of Mr Rhodes. Posing as this friend, I was able to earn my boy’s trust and lure him out of police custody into the hands of Renard. First thing this morning I had his consciousness digitized
and downloaded off of his brain to make room for my permanent relocation.

‘I really did enjoy all the time we spent together, but now I’m looking forward to spending some time alone with your woman.’

Silence from the server, of course.

Ryoko is beyond beautiful. The number of things I could do to her seems endless. All I know for certain is that I’d like her to be my first playmate, the one
I celebrate with using my new body, the first pulse I feel fading in the clutches of these new hands of mine.

‘I do hope Ryoko is a fighter, Mr Rhodes. I hate it when they give up too easily.’

I leave the room and step out onto the balcony of my penthouse to look out over Central Park. The Great Lawn is empty, police tape cordoning off the perimeter. Every last protester has been forcibly removed,
only their abandoned personal belongings are left. Forensic teams comb
the grass and trees, crime scenes being investigated all over. Occupy Central Park is no more. Last night’s incident proved to be the perfect catalyst to clean up that god-awful mess down there. The smile on my face feels grand. I scroll through the contacts on Mr Rhodes’ Liaison and find Ryoko’s number. I dial it and she picks
up after the first ring.

‘Ryoko?’ I say. ‘It’s me.’

It’s kind of sweet really. She’s so happy to hear from me. I listen as she tells me she loves me, and that she wished she’d spoken those words to me before. She tells me she’s been so worried. I tell her not to worry any more, that everything has been settled, that I will explain everything to her soon. I provide her with a place and time to
meet and she agrees to it. She tells me she got the test results back this morning. I almost ask her what test results, but quickly correct myself and ask what the results were. Her answer astounds me. I’m speechless at first. She waits patiently for my response.

‘I’m going to be a father?’

There is a long pause. I can hear her breathing over the line, maybe even crying a little. When she finally
speaks her voice is slow and deliberate.

‘Aren’t you happy, cheesecake?’ she asks.

I laugh. ‘Of course I am, honey. Why wouldn’t I be –’

Ryoko hangs up.

You are no longer yourself. It’s not that hard to understand. Emotions feel different in the system, but anger and sadness seem to prevail over the others. Recollections can be strange too. You wonder if you remember things correctly, wonder if memories were copied properly or if aspects were lost in translation. The thought of living this way indefinitely becomes more horrifying with
every hour spent inside the server. This isn’t immortality. This is a parody of a bad joke, a sequel with no plot that should have never been made. Only by paying for your ticket and sitting through the opening of the performance do you realize how ripped off you are by it all. Others might feel grounded and safe with this result. You only feel anchored and afraid.

You try different worlds; a
tropical beach, a sunny valley, a national park, a busy seaside pier. The agony of choice has never been more ironic. Sometimes you see things as they pixilate or glitch, hear sounds that clip and distort, feel things that you know aren’t being translated properly by the lips or fingertips that have been devised for you. Your senses run through a thousand microprocessors, your veins now a network
of wires. All of it quantifies life, but does not qualify as such. You can’t help but feel disconnected. These generated places are prisons,
painted to resemble the reality you were designed and destined to leave behind one day. The fraudulence of it all would break your heart if you still had one.

There is one small comfort from everything that has happened. You’ve left a piece of yourself behind,
a signature, an echo. It is purposeful, as much as it can be; a diminutive deterrent trying its best not to be ignored. It will start as an itch or flinch in the flesh, might grow to become a thorn in a side that draws blood with enough persistence. You can only hope it will eventually drive the thief of you as mad as he drove others. You give your blessing to this wisp of your former self
that will float through the circuitry of an implant, a microscopic ghost haunting a tiny machine.

The door is still open for the moment, the same door a holographic dead man named Shaw once warned you about when you were technically alive. The same man who told you there is a vast difference between those that seek to live for ever, and those who are simply too scared to die. This door, you can
feel it slowly shutting on you. A commitment is needed one way or another. Either stay in the spiritless known, or make promises to further mysteries. The possibilities seem endless. Witness the birth of a star or become the oblivion of one. The decision is time-sensitive in what may be your last conceptualization of time as you have known it. Only two things hold you back. The first is fear. The
second is how much you miss her, the one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. You remember what you called her. You hope it will help save her from harm.

Sugarplum

You’ll never be allowed to go back, but there is an opportunity to go forward. Into what, you are unsure. Termination is one command away and you realize she never loved you for your body or mind, the flesh and muscle and
matter that encompassed who you were. She loved you for the one thing that could never be detected or defined. She loved you as a matter of faith. She loved you for your soul.

The man who abandoned you in this place said he was on his way to dispatch her. You wonder if the baby was ever yours. The only shred of joy you feel is over the possibility that another piece of you has been left behind.
You wonder how long it can survive as part of a slowly dying species. You wish you knew whether the love of your life is still alive or already dead. As much as you want to, you can’t find out if she is gone from the real world out there.

But you are.

Delete Post-Mortem Program: Y/N?