Upgraded (48 page)

“The program has bound itself to your chip,” the Seamstress said. “And it’s been using your HealthMonitor to release insulin into your blood for the last eight hours. A sixer can hack it, maybe even re-chip you, if necessary.” Compassion softened her voice, but couldn’t take the hammer out of her words. “I give you another four hours before you fall into a diabetic coma if you can’t get something to reverse whatever it’s doing.” Which was exactly what the Samurai had said. Goddamn it.

“I still can’t work with a sixer. I stay unaffiliated,” Mercury said, closing her eyes as a headache set in, and realizing with dread the source of her giddiness and sweet tooth that morning. No Reason At All to Drink This.

“Chantilly is—different,” the Seamstress said. “She’ll help you. And unless you can work with the people who did this to you, I just don’t think you have a choice.”

Mercury couldn’t close her eyes again, so she just set down her mug by feel and squeezed her eyelids tighter together, fighting down a wave of hate and fury—at herself, at the goddamn Samurai, and most of all at insulin-induced brain-eating mood swings, wrapping in whatever hack that had cooked up this worm and his whole extended family for good measure.

“Jenny,” the Seamstress said, a rustle of fabric indicating her raised hand. Mercury opened her eyes and took it, wrapping both her hands around it, feeling warmth and skin and the faint tingle of activated servos beneath. “Take this one seriously,” the Seamstress said. “It’s too big.”

“Thanks for your help,” Mercury said, squeezing the hand before stepping back and taking a deep breath.

The Seamstress nodded, then again passed her left hand over the nearest flat piece of fabric, separating out a precise square with slices of her scissor blade. She flipped the square, folded it in half, and traced its edges with her right fingertip, which hummed and left a trail of neat stitches where it passed. Into this double-thick rectangle she folded a security card, then stitched the whole thing closed, this time running three fingers across it and leaving a full set of stitch patterns across the fabric in a signature.

“Give that to the doorman at the Imperial, he’ll know what to do. And take care of yourself.”

Mercury ripped open the Seamstress’s pouch and removed the sec card three blocks away, then ditched the fabric remains—if it came to it, one less thing to trace her to anyone she cared about. She stored the card’s UID on her wrist drive, then tucked it away.

She lost an hour getting to the Imperial, and by the time she stood before its plate glass doors her vision was swimming. The old hotel, relegated underground in a bid to preserve its architecture half a decade ago, was on Digit’s map, in a rare stroke of luck—she hadn’t remembered it there before, but memory wasn’t her strong suit right at the moment.

The doorman wore an antique bellhop suit, dowdy red wool and gold piping, that made his already pale skin look sickly. She went right for him, pretending to be lost, looking up and down the decaying streets.

“I’ve just been to see a seamstress,” she said, “and she sent me here for some directions.” Holding out her wrist, she turned the drive toward him, inviting a link.

“I know a seamstress, but she doesn’t do digital,” he said suspiciously, not touching her.

“I had some of her work.” Mercury traced the signature pattern on her palm with a fingertip. “But I don’t like physical evidence. I put her card key in my drive.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then took an old-style card-reader from his belt. It had a data jack built into the side, and he linked it to her wrist drive. After a moment, he nodded.

“That console,” she jerked her chin in the direction of the old-fashioned stationary terminal just inside the door. “It’s
linked,
isn’t it? It’s secure?”

His eyes slid away from hers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice just a bit too high, “it’s an old reservation system. Damn hotel ought to upgrade if you ask me.”

“Right,” she said, dropping her hand. “Can I use it? I just need to call my sister.”

“The Imperial always assists preferred clients,” he said, and opened the door to let her through. Quick, precise strides took him to the terminal, and he keyed in an access code. A digital timer popped up on the screen. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said, and stepped away from the console.

She pulled the access wire from her wrist and plugged it into the machine via an adaptor set into the side—slow but effective.
Digit, check the connection.

Peripherally she felt the PDA swimming into the console, lighting up its insides, checking here, there, everywhere.
Connection secure,
it said. She let go a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, half expecting to hear the Samurai’s voice, or worse.

She touched the glass screen and called up a video link. When it asked for an address, she gave it the name from the sec card, then held her breath again while it connected.

A face appeared on the screen, one that was certainly not Chantilly Lace, belonging as it did more in a suburb than down Below. Mercury marshaled her expression into an appropriate pattern—relief (that was easy), embarrassment, I’m lost, could you please send train fare. Then, through the link:
Chantilly Lace? I have your link from the Seamstress.

Letters printed across her eye, relayed by the adaptor.
We know who you are. Everyone does. It’s a liability.

Look, I need your help,
Mercury sent, the first withdrawal shadows dancing in front of her eyes. The admission stabbed at her.
If I get picked up, I take about fifty different street techs to Moderna. They could be yours instead.

The image paused.
You haven’t got anything we could want.
The pause was question enough to seize upon.

You know Lupercalia?

Of course.

They’ve got a new navigator.
She took a risk and jacked the Samurai’s prism into her wrist drive again, sending across only the view-me to Chantilly.

The soccer mom avatar’s eyes widened ever so slightly as she played the navigator’s show-off file.
This thing’s for real?
Mercury nodded, but pantomimed more embarrassment, as if being chastened. Chantilly’s eyes sharpened again.
But if Moderna’s got it, they’ll execute faster than we could anyway.

She was right. Despair surged through Mercury, but she bore down on it.
Say they couldn’t,
she sent.
What would it be worth to you?

Enough,
Chantilly said, and hope fluttered in her chest, or maybe it was adrenaline.

The minute marker dropped toward one, counting down the seconds.
I’ll need you to come in there and get me,
she sent, rushing through it, trying not to think about what that meant.

No promises,
Chantilly replied, and cut the connection.

Mercury gripped the console as precious seconds trickled away, then let her forehead drop, meeting the cool glass screen with a dull thud that echoed through her skull. Then she withdrew her prism and deactivated the console’s link, returning it to its normal emergency-services-only public access.

Ordinarily the emergency terminals contacted rescue services only, but an old high school hobby of her cohorts’ had been co-opting them for various age-appropriate activities, some of which were now technically illegal. And one of them, involving cutting power to the terminal and loading it up under the influence of an OS from her pocket drive (thank goodness for the morning’s high tech vanity), still worked. The terminal’s link had to be reloaded, and then she was in.

A couple of quick taps to the aging touchscreen brought up Safari, and she first searched out HealthMonitor overrides in the newsblasts—but indirectly only. She didn’t dare apply direct search terms, since, in the absence of her wireless signal, hardline terminals were obvious targets for such a narrow search.

Chills wracked her body, and yet she broke out in a sweat, exacerbating them. Her hands shook as they hovered over the terminal, sliding closer to direct terms as each of her indirect efforts failed and time slipped away. Soon she was gripping the sides of the terminal for support with one hand and navigating with the other.

There had to be a hack. There was always a hack. HealthMonitors were, by necessity, nearly impossible to break into, but someone had done it, which meant someone else
could
do it. Simple logic of the signal. Recklessly she installed three different possible applications onto her hardware, but to no effect. Patches of darkness swam in front of her eyes, but she fought to stay awake. The minute she lost consciousness, Moderna’s emergency beacon would activate, overriding her wireless shutdown and announcing her presence to all and sundry.

At last she went for the direct search—HealthMonitor. Override. Insulin release. A result flickered across the aging screen. As blackness collapsed her vision from the outside in, and she slumped to the concrete, a system message leapt up on the terminal screen:

> Hello, Jennifer.

> Stay right there. Or don’t. We’ll find you.

She woke in a white room. Soft water sounds pattered soothing messages from beyond the alabaster walls, and the gleaming granite floors that extended meters in every direction were either bioreflective, scrubbed daily, or both. Extravagant and rare staghorn ferns splashed elegant color in one corner of the room, and both the couch she rested on and the blanket that covered her were plush albino buffalo wool.

Unfamiliar scents drifted from her hair, which by its feel had been washed, dyed, and styled. Her fingernails had been nouveau-manicured. Gone was her rugged vat leather jacket and cacophonous viz; in their places were imported cottons and biz-stylish whiteware, even down to her optics, which had been replaced with brand-new ten-K Centurions.

She forced herself to keep still, and closed her eyes.
Digit, if you’re there, bring us back online. No point hiding now. But cloaked, please.

A murmur of voices swelled gently as her signal reconnected. She left all the apps off, but pulled top headlines from a newsfeed, stomach sinking as they rolled in.
“Moderna Inc. Maven Candice Long Reunites with Long-Lost Daughter”, “Anastasia Story Has Happy Ending”, “Jennifer Long Found After 11-Year Disappearance”, “JL Suffering Memory Loss, Doctors Predict Slow Recovery.”
She dismissed the headlines and opened her eyes, preferring even this meat reality to the current live alternative.

But as she took in the sanitized room, fury shot through her veins.
Digit, queue up the usual.
The PDA exploded across the lifespace with fingers of activity, running scripts that pulled from syndicated sources and reorganized them under Mercury’s viz-style for re-syndication. Under the cover of her usual blast and the pull from the news feeds, she pulled up her AP contact and started a message.

Moderna under investigation for code theft. SEC, whole nine yards. Major release planned to pre-empt investigation, Anastasia circus same. I have it from the inside, top level.
She attached three sources that would take even the most intrepid reporter on an epic goose chase. Then she released the link.

A glass pocket door rolled silently open across the room, and Mercury’s mother walked through it, as fresh and polished as her viz images from the newsreels, and as she had been fifteen years ago. “Welcome home, Jennifer,” she said—the voice was a little different; a new mod, or maybe her own faulty meat memory. “I see you’re awake enough to uplink.”

“It’s Mercury.” She swung her legs over the side of the couch and pushed herself to her feet—or at least that was the intent, but her knees wouldn’t cooperate, and she sank back down to the buffalo wool.

“Be careful, dear,” her mother said, moving to pour her a glass of water from the sculpted glass pitcher at the side table. “And of course, ‘Jenny Mercury,’ your street name, owing to the memory loss.”

She ignored the offered glass cup. “My memory is quite chipper, thanks. And digitally backed.”

Her mother’s eyes were full of professional compassion. “Those false memory companies are a dime a dozen these days, aren’t they? But of course the truth that the masses uncover is what really matters, and they already like mine far more than yours. It’s the perfect Anastasia story, playing out live via feed, with several tech firsts to carry it right along.”

“Why are you doing this?” She forced her fists to unclench. “Why now? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because I need you, and you’ll be happier on my project than with that silly consulting.” Mother set down the glass of water and poured another, this for herself, and sipped it pointedly.

“You’re so confident of that you hacked my HealthMonitor. Which is illegal, by the way.”

“Not when one’s child is mentally unfit to be making their own decisions. I’m protecting you.” Her identically manicured fingernails drummed musically along the glass, and she leaned forward ever-so-slightly. “We’re acquiring Lupercalia. That navigator is the real thing, and it goes public tomorrow. It’s big social, honey,” she said. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“You have no idea what I’ve ever wanted.”
Digit, call for help, if you can.
But the PDA was unresponsive.

A faint line across her lava-exfoliated forehead was one of the few tells Candice Long possessed. “All of your little SEO games, what do you think that is? You want to control people every bit as much as I do. Maybe even more.”

“We are alike, that way, you’re right,” Mercury said, and had the pleasure of catching the slight flattening of expression that represented surprise in her mother. “I try to control my social environment because I’ve never had control over my own life.”

A sharp answer burned across her mother’s eyes, but the sliding door stopped it from escaping further. Enter the Samurai.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said to her mother, then turned to her. “Jennifer, welcome.”

“Those contacts,” Mercury said.