Authors: Christopher McKitterick
Panic swells within him as the silence endures. How angry is Blackjack for Jonathan’s absence? How angry for the weeks and months of unproductive time before treatment? All the Malfits owe Blackjack and the gang for their enhancements, more than they can earn in a treatment center away from the servers, their blackcards shut down. Jonathan hears only a distant murmur from his teacher and begins to wish he had opted for that life, for education and productivity rather than the familiar comfort of this life, where at least he means something to these people, where at least he is someone. Though ganglife is not comfortable, in the regular citizen’s pov, Jonathan does not allow himself to believe he could do better, and it will be years before he’s repaid his debt to them.
A fleshy hand touches his forearm intheflesh. Someone besides Blackjack is in the room with Jonathan. He cringes.
“
What’s a matter, Jonny boy?” Blackjack’s chainsaw voice asks. Still no 3VRD accompanies the voice. Blackjack likes it that way. He seldom 3VRDs. “Your blackcard still alive?”
“
Sure,” Jonathan responds, trying to avoid the sweaty hand groping him all over without moving from where he stands.
“
Why ain’t it really on, then?” the gang leader continues.
“
I’m just trying to stay off the dangerous stuff. In treatment they told me—”
“‘
Dangerous’?” says another man, very nearby. He begins to laugh. Jonathan can almost make out the silhouette of an obese man who begins to fondle him.
“
Yes, Jonny,” Blackjack says. “What do you mean, ‘dangerous’? You going to meat on us, Jonny boy?”
“
Boy,” Blackjack says, “we got some work to remove the brainwash they did to you. Boot it up.”
Terrified, regretting every decision he has made today, then realizing each decision seemed to have only one choice—and that a bad one—Jonathan feels around in his head for the blackcard. A few of its programs are already running, but only through neural connections with his standard card. Hesitantly, he orders its full processing power online.
A crash of light and noise and stench and bitter flavors and tinglings flurry around him like a fivesen tornado, and, as the storm settles, the room suddenly flashes to life. In blackfeed, it is brightly lit by a neon-purple sun that orbits Blackjack, who is seated on a wood and iron throne at the far end of a clutter of electronic equipment.
The obese man beside Jonathan has only one arm. He towers half a meter above Jonathan, the rolls of fat encircling his neck girdled by slithering silk scarves. He wears layered silk and satin robes of varying shades of purple and pink, like dead or swollen flesh peeling away from his bulk. The man’s one hand absently slides up and down Jonathan’s arm, precipitating shivers of revulsion through the boy. But Blackjack’s red-eyed stare locks Jonathan from pulling away. Any look from the gang leader is a threat.
“
That’s better,” Blackjack says. He slowly unwraps a snapstick and pops it into his mouth. As usual, his face is tight, showing no expression whatsoever. The shifting sun alters the shadows across his face. “What do you think of our boy, Mr. X?”
“
Oh, he’ll do nicely,” the man burbles.
“
What are you talking about?” Jonathan asks, his nerves sparkling with fear.
“
Jonny boy,” Blackjack begins, removing his attention from the man, “we’ve had a hard time since you left. You’re our number one fixer. With you gone, we had to use Peter to crack security at our traditional feeding-troughs. Stupid, clumsy Peter. Someone at 3M burned him on a job. He never came out of it. We had to dump his body in the river. It was better that way than leave him a vegetable. So then we only had Georgi. Georgi doesn’t fix right, so we ain’t had a worthwhile haul in three weeks. The other gangs are owing us less and less every second, and even some of the newer gangs are getting out of debt. We completely lost two dependent-gangs. We owe the Sinanas twice as much as when you left. And there’s more. I ain’t happy, Jonny boy. You owe us big.”
He tosses up a datachart for Jonathan, which floats in the air between him and the obese man. Jonathan looks over the complex subeconomics of the 38 CityNet gangs, noticing how the black market electronic currency-balance has shifted out of favor for the Malfits; they’ve slipped from eight to twelfth.
“
You thinking subcontracting me to this guy, Blackjack? Selling me?” Jonathan asks. Real money is worth a lot of black market electronic currency. His words come out nearly monotone. The man’s hand slides inside Jonathan’s shirt collar.
“
Don’t be retro, boy,” Blackjack answers. “In your position as fixer, you’re worth a lot more than that to us. This here kind gentleman has made us a curr offer to help you fix better than ever. He’s willing to trade a really clean amp—the most-curr net tech—for one day with you, intheflesh.”
“
Oh, man, Blackjack,” Jonathan begins.
He regrets the outburst right away when the gang leader gets up from his throne. The young man crosses toward Jonathan like a predator, strong, smooth, swift and graceful as he avoids brushing against the stolen electronics. Even the obese man backs away. Blackjack stops less than an arm’s reach from Jonathan, shorter than the younger boy but with muscles like whips tight beneath his freckled skin. His left hand lashes out and slaps Jonathan’s cheek before the boy even sees his gang leader move.
“
Do you want to disobey me?” he asks.
“
Of course not, Blackjack,” Jonathan says, afraid to rub the hot spot on his face. The pain brings back bad memories.
“
Good,” Blackjack says, the expression on his face the same as ever. His red spikes of hair glisten with some chemical coating. “Let’s go upstairs and have Lucas install it.”
“
But I thought I could take him home right away,” the huge mound of flesh complains, his voice whining like a child’s. He holds the back of his hand up to thick lips. “My partners will never do business with you again if you—”
“
No worries,” Blackjack says, walking toward the door, which slides open just as he reaches it. “We just gotta make sure the amp works before we let you take him. Gotta get him started working before you take him away. No worries. I always keep my word. You can tell your partners that. Gotta test, you know. If the amp doesn’t work. . .”
“
Oh, it will,” the obese man says, “it will. It’s the best. I understand. Go ahead then.”
They climb the stairs, Blackjack in front, Jonathan in the middle, feeling the unwelcome touches of the man behind him, his weight making the steps creak dangerously. They cross a kitchen now bright with blackfeed decorations. An orgy—human or individ or both—rages in the hallway between kitchen and living room, wet and loud with the sound of pneumatics. Jonathan feels bile rise into his mouth as he begins to imagine what this fat fuck will want of his body. His blackcard promptly supplies flesh to the nightmare visions of his imagination, and he violently shuts it down, nearly burning out the program in his haste.
Lucas’ sharkform drifts into view, but now his webbed hands hold surgical instruments. Two other Malfits flank Lucas, bearing trays of more instruments, gauze, a Petri dish holding a bloody lump, and a tiny brown chip with wires protruding from it like bronze spiderlegs.
Jonathan’s heartbeat and respiration increase; he glances away from the instruments to the other gang members lounging on cushions and couches, pleading into each of their eyes. But none of them return his gaze. Even those with what might be sympathy on their faces look away as his eyes find theirs. He turns back to Blackjack.
“
Blackjack, we don’t have to do it this way. I’ll crash this guy. I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t make me do this—”
That palm as hard as iron again crashes against his cheek. This time, Jonathan finds himself on his ass on the hardwood floor. Computer chips and dust and a thick blanket of other detritus hide the antique parquet.
Without looking up, he says, “Blackjack—”
“
Boy,” the gang leader interrupts, “ain’t no one gonna hurt you. Right, Malfits? He’s my boy, ain’t no one gonna hurt him, or we gut the guy that does.”
“
Right, Blackjack!” another gang member shouts. “No one but you.”
Ha ha ha
, a gout of laughter plugs Jonathan’s ears as a fleshy hand again seeks his skin, as arms lift him back upright, as Lucas force-feeds him an anesthetic program.
But he can still feel the alien sensations when a blade slices into his neck and something cold and tingly is inserted beneath the skin. A blizzard of images from the past swells all around him, stunning his nerves, overwhelming his visual centers; he sees his sister Josephine, Mr. and Ms. Sombrio, his teacher, Charity, and even érase—érase, whom he has tried so hard to forget; sad lost érase, the girl he vowed would be the only one he would ever let himself love, the person who is most lost to him now.
But outside the sharp blades of yesteryear, outside the too-many memories of the family he has rejected, outside the scalding memories of a girl he destroyed, he still feels the warm seepage of blood, the cold electric burn of new powercells being grafted into the meat of his neck. His blackcard’s nightmare program stirs a broth from that feeling, running a dream of those genetically adaptable powercells running amok in his body, altering all his own cells to powercells until his body is nothing but an electric generator with two cards in a gelatinous skull.
In his nightmare, he screams and screams, but no noise escapes his lips. The only sounds are those of laughter, those of his family’s meaningless words, and those of érase slowly dying before his eyes.
Jonathan and érase were lying together on a cardboard box supported atop pallets, although to them it had been programmed to look like a Queen Anne bed. Their room was surrounded on three sides by the crumbling brick walls of standing buildings, roofed by ancient steel arches that still held up a copper dome, and closed on the fourth wall by a 3VRD Jonathan had programmed just for them, so no one would find them. The large, open space was furnished with projections of chairs and tables he copied from the Minneapolis Museum of Art. He had designed this place for érase, her home with him since she had nowhere else to go, and since he couldn’t imagine her anywhere but in his arms. He was fifteen then, and she was two years older.
She rolled into his arms, her scarred, naked body pressing against his, soft and warm. He smiled, feeling himself harden against her thigh as her lips brushed his neck. He drew a deep breath with his face buried in her thick black hair and released it, shuddering. He told himself he could live like this forever. He didn’t care if their home was only a half-demolished building, that they might never own anything of value, that he might never become a netographer—he never really believed he could attain that dream, anyway, although she gave him the inspiration to study hard and at least try—all that mattered was that they were together, intheflesh, and that her love for him was not virtual. He vowed he would never order an individ, that érase’s arms would be more than enough for the rest of his life. The maplike network of scars across her legs and wrists only made her more beautiful to him. He could never be satisfied with the perfection of an individ.
Into this imperfect dream appeared the familiar sharkform of Lucas, swimming through the air above them. Terror gripped Jonathan’s throat.
“
What are you doing here, Lucas?” he demanded, covering his fear with anger. érase surged against him, then rolled off the pallets into the blanket on the ground beside them. She quickly began to dress.
“
Well, isn’t this the purr-tiest sight,” Lucas said. His words rolled out of those shark jaws like water, or blood.
“
Get the fuck away from us, Lucas, or I’ll get inside your card and fill it full of virus.”
“
You’ve been holding back on us, Jonny boy,” Blackjack said.
Jonathan froze, looking for the gang leader. No, no, no. . . . The sure footfalls of the young man crunched nearer. He passed right through the 3VRD barrier-wall. By now, érase had pulled on her coverall and was zipping it up. Her feet were bare, and Jonathan was still completely naked. He didn’t dare move.
“
Would you like to introduce us?” Blackjack said, indicating érase. He unwrapped a snapstick and began to knead it between his fingers.
She stopped moving, too, and looked up at the gang leader, her face hard and bitter. It always amazed Jonathan how mercurial she could be, a soft lover one second, a wild animal the next. Blackjack stopped a few steps from the girl.
“
Her name’s érase,” Jonathan said, “and she doesn’t belong to any ’board.” He rose and stood between them with his fists on his slim, naked hips. “She likes being a loner.”
“
The city’s a dangerous place for a loner girl,” Lucas said, sliding closer to her. She stood more upright.