Everything Abridged, page 19
Alexa’s feet had slowed down, but her eyes had picked up the erratic movement. She scanned his feet, face, and elbows with equal interest. Nero hoped that this had more to do with physical appeal on his part than distortion of reality on hers.
“Want to hear some music?”
“Sure.”
“Great. I need to practice for my next gig anyway.”
Alexa stepped off the barrel, flicked open both latches with her thumbs, and pulled her guitar out of its case. A sticker reading “Bar Exam Survivor” sat just under the bridge. She put a metal pick on each digit and launched into a guitar-only version of “Entry of the Gladiators.” Nero had never seen any form of fingerpicking before, but he was sure that she was good at it. Alexa fretted quickly and precisely enough that it sounded more like two guitars than one. So much so that it was maddening when she abruptly switched to a Sousa march.
“Why do you do that?”
“Hmm?”
“You always switch gears before finishing the song.”
She beamed. Evidently this was the right question.
“It’s my style,” she said, as if it were a complete answer. “People are too comfortable. Everything in the Dominion is neatly packaged, labeled, and separated for easy consumption. So I switch themes before anyone can get comfortable.”
Nero drank and nodded. It seemed better than letting on that he didn’t get it.
“You don’t get it,” Alexa said flatly. “Techy guys usually don’t. Too smart to bother understanding anything.” She tuned her high E string before starting the first third of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Nero listened quietly until she jackknifed again into “Jingle Bell Rock.”
“Maybe if you only switched between songs in the same key? Or genre?”
“Nah.” Alexa started plucking her way through “Fly Me to the Moon.” She was halfway through his mother’s favorite playlist.
Nero tried to adopt an anarchist’s mindset. Her method was disruptive, albeit less flamboyantly so than blowing up a power plant. It was art imitating politics if not life. The gimmick likely resonated in places Nero explicitly avoided for his long-term safety. Though he had to wonder how audiences without his sense of nostalgia took her taste for older music.
While his higher brain settled on that theory, his lower brain reached its own conclusion. Alexa was attractive enough to get away with it. As long as she had the madwoman’s hair, mosaic tattoos, and lean form of someone’s post-post-punk rock fantasy, there would be a demographic willing to pay to listen. Including him.
“You look like you’re overthinking something.”
“I’m never thinking about much.”
“Sounds like a tough lie to keep up. But probably a good one for a baby man-in-black.”
“Not sure what you’re getting at.” He glanced down at his clothes. Sure, his hoodie, dress shirt, pants, sneakers, and sunglasses were black. But none of it was formal enough to look like a spook. Besides, black was his favorite fashion shortcut.
“It’s an interesting look. You dress like the guy that brings beer to Illuminati meetings. You should call it ‘G-Man Casual.’”
“Is that a compliment?” he ventured.
“Maybe. It’s cute, if you can get over the whole ‘willing collaborator’ thing.”
He decided to go for broke.
“Can you?”
“Maybe.”
In Nero’s experience, that was a no.
Her eyes made a few more rapid shifts. His palms, the stairs, his palms again, his face. She looked like she was stuck on a math problem.
“You don’t move your hands when you talk,” said Alexa. “Anyone ever told you that?”
“What? No. But I’m sure plenty of people don’t.”
“Globally, yeah. But everyone does it in East Ward. It’s part of the body language.”
“Interesting, I guess,” Nero said, downplaying his reaction. The idea was off-putting. If she was right, he wasn’t far behind Diana and her contractions. Another crack in his self-image.
“I’m coming down a little. I think we’ve waited long enough. Grab my case, I’ll need that later.”
“. . . Don’t you want to put the guitar back in it first?”
“Oh, yeah, the guitar. I’ll need that at some point too.”
12.5. Miscellaneous Messages
Like anyone with a computer in their brain, Nero occasionally split his attention between the ongoing conversation and a web browser.
From: RedactedGirl.2I
To: NeroTheHero.2I
Hello.
The evening ended on an awkward note. Namely, you abandoning me at Hyperica. And while I went through a brief burst of rage regarding this choice, I can understand it. Things got intense. Too many electrocutions and conspiracies on the first night out.
While my supervisor recommended avoiding sending anything within three days, she also recommended arresting a rebel in the park as a method of establishing dominance. Going forward, I will take my own counsel.
I brought work, and my gun, with me. You ditched me on a Saturday night. In my book, we are currently even. Better yet, we are now aware of the worst parts of our respective personalities. I believe getting over this hurdle could open new doors, if you can hold back your obvious cowardice.
Tomorrow, at noon, my partner is throwing a birthday party on the thirty-third floor of the office. There are free drinks, which I know has appeal. You should come. To clarify: that is an invitation, not a threat.
It is worth getting to know me. Among the field agents, I am considered both casual and hilarious.
—Diana
As long as I don’t have to sing the birthday song, I’ll consider it.
—Nero
Hello.
The birthday song is a time-honored Dominion tradition, and of great emotional importance to my partner. If you come, you will sing it.
—Diana
I legitimately can’t tell when you’re fucking with me.
That is a carefully cultivated skill. I hope to see you there.
13. Joyride
9:02 p.m.
Every Free Dominion interaction carried a hint of exploitation. The search for power shaped the politics of maternity wards, playgrounds, college parties, cubicles, retirement homes, and funeral parlors. In the fourth grade, a substitute teacher named Kelly Traeger warned Nero’s homeroom class: “Life isn’t about getting ahead. It’s about getting ahead of someone else.” Kelly became a permanent staff member after a number of risqué photographs of her predecessor leaked to the press. By the time Nero entered secondary school, she’d clawed her way to principal. Today Kelly Traeger was minister of education, a development he would have strongly opposed if she hadn’t provided one of the most succinct lessons of his young life.
Thus, it didn’t bother him that Alexa had some kind of plot. Exploitation was normal. Not knowing what that plot was, however, left him uneasy. Granted, if she got him in enough trouble he wouldn’t have to worry about working on the Ouija Board. But if he got in too much trouble, he’d spend the rest of his twenties in an offshore black site.
Then again, that might be better than going home alone. He wouldn’t have to hear Avery’s back talk in a work camp.
Alexa led Nero up a second set of steps, past a corroded metal door, and into a narrow refuse-filled alley. It looked like the kind of place people got mugged in movies. As an avid cinephile, Nero was on edge.
“Unclench. You look like a cop.” She marched past two months of Hyperica’s trash into the artificially lit street. The normal flow of human traffic had returned to the sidewalk, meaning Nero had to hustle to avoid losing her in the crowd. Lugging her two-ton guitar case behind him made this difficult. He wished that another riot would slow things down a little.
They took a left, then a right, followed by two more rights. Nero was about to question the circular motion when Alexa stopped and clapped her hands together. He shouldered past a pamphleteer for a nationwide return to pre-Neolithic hunter-gatherer tribes to see the source of her excitement.
Alexa dropped her mask on the hood of a light blue luxury car. It had a steering wheel, which added another zero to the price tag. Manual control offered freedom of movement no administration would let trickle down to the masses. Nero squinted, cuing the OdinEye to zoom in. The finish was almost completely unmarred, hinting at either a new purchase or obsessive maintenance.
According to the logo on the hood, the model was a Toreador IV. The name recalled his teenage flirtation with car fandom and subsequent fixation on the Toreador I. Online ads had pitched the Toreador as the line between a life of masculine dominance and impotent drudgery. As an adult, there was something almost disappointing about not occupying either extreme. The vast array of mediocre outcomes robbed adult life of its romance.
“Nice car, isn’t it?” Alexa leaned against the passenger door and adjusted the side mirror to check her face. Nero didn’t know what she was checking for; she looked effortlessly good, an aesthetic that reflected excess effort. He was almost too jealous to appreciate it.
“Yeah. Wish I could afford one like it.”
“Me too. Let’s take it.”
Nero stayed silent. He was still in deep shit. A different sewer, but the same risk to his overall health. At least there was some consistency in his life.
“How about it?”
“If only.” Treating the idea like a joke seemed like a way around it.
“If you’re anything like the bugheads in movies, the security software shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You’re funny.”
“I just have to make a quick stop uptown. Then we can take it back to your place.”
Nero referenced the list of stupid things he’d done for sex. It was short for someone his age, which probably had something to do with his current mentality. He’d always been prone to the path of least resistance, and that often meant waiting for easy, dull options. Tonight he faced an opportunity to compensate for volume of stupidity with intensity. His lizard brain approved.
“Well?”
“We can borrow it, on one condition. Inside this guitar case—which I’m guessing is lined with lead, since my X-ray trick isn’t working—there aren’t any bombs, guns, or serious drugs.”
“Oh, definitely none of that. I promise.”
[Second,] he thought.
[Commander. I would rather not.]
[First?]
[Oh, now we’re worth unmuting? Hack it yourself, you could use the practice.]
[Third?]
[Fuck yes. I’ve been waiting for this all year.]
Nero made typing motions in the air while Third worked. These did exactly nothing, but putting on a show for Alexa seemed like the right thing to do. After a beep and a click, both of the Toreador’s side doors folded up. Alexa climbed in on the driver’s side, picked up a pair of the blue cuff links sitting on the dashboard—valuable items in any year—and lightly chucked them into the street.
“Where are we heading?” Nero asked.
“A quick stop by Governor’s Ave. I want to pick something up before we do our own thing.”
He waited for her to start the engine. The ride would be a novelty: his mother’s van had driven itself, and he’d preferred mass transit since striking out on his own. But after twenty seconds of anticipation, Alexa still gripped the steering wheel in both hands, looking nervous.
“Should we use the autopilot?”
“I’m psyching myself up. I wasn’t sure you’d actually do it. Or could actually do it. Most of the Children of Kali’s bugheads have trouble keeping themselves from getting hacked, let alone breaking into anything else. And now I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a supercar, which I’m not exactly used to.”
Nero considered a comment in the vein of “I’m a pro” or “I make it look easy.” Then he decided on: “Thanks.”
Alexa slapped the staring wheel, whistled, and put the Toreador in drive. She charged into traffic without any of the hesitancy that had marked her expression seconds ago. In fact, she’d picked up a wide, openmouthed grin. Her bottom pair of incisors had silver caps.
Watching her aggressive approach to speed, lane changes, and left-hand turns felt safer than trusting most legal autopilots. The same laws that banned sophisticated artificial intelligence for nanobots and dummies applied to the auto industry. East Ward was full of family sedans and sports motorcycles that took a bit too long to differentiate between telephone poles and stop signs. The most important part of automobile safety was picking a brand whose programming flaws didn’t overlap with your needs.
For twenty minutes the world felt perfect. From the front seat of a Toreador, Nero could imagine a wealthy man’s life. No looking over his shoulder for overzealous police cars. Working on whatever he wanted, even if it was nothing. Especially if it was nothing. Eating food that came out of the ground. His own garden or, if he felt excessive, a yard. A small stash of bribe money in case he felt like committing any felonies. Wealth mattered everywhere, but in the Dominion it divided the state’s fodder and the state’s clients. He savored the taste of functional freedom.
Alexa had produced a cigarette, which he hadn’t seen her light during his private power trip. She ground it out on the dashboard, triggering an irrational flash of car owner’s pride in Nero. Then he laughed.
“How much faster do you think I can push it?” she asked.
“You don’t want to meet traffic cops,” said Nero. “They’ve got all the firepower of the other departments and no one to use it on. They’ll shoot us just to make space in storage.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No.”
Alexa slowed down. They moved at a glacial crawl down two blocks of Governor’s Avenue. The cars behind them honked in near unison, but Nero couldn’t critique. He hadn’t touched a steering wheel in his life.
“You’re decent at this. Why were you so nervous?” he asked.
“I’m still a little high.”
Nero nodded and then reclined in the passenger’s seat. It took a few more jagged right turns for the implications to set in.
“Turn on the autopilot.”
“I’ve got this.”
“Turn on the autopilot.”
“I took a stimulant, my reaction time’s fine.”
“Turn on the autopilot.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
Nero checked the touch screen on the armrest and found “Autopilot” at the top of the first menu. He jammed his thumb against it twice.
“Unrecognized fingerprint detected,” said every speaker in the car. The security system had a death metal virtuoso’s growl. “Phoning owner for confirmation.”
“Fucking hell,” Nero groaned.
“Stay calm.” Alexa put the car in park, which would have reassured Nero if the car hadn’t just loudly locked itself.
“Attention, criminal and/or insurgent. The owner of this vehicle—valued customer Albert Montague—has reported this unit missing.”
The name gave Nero pause. Evidently he’d robbed the same man twice in one night. The loss of moral high ground didn’t bother him as much as the natural human drive for revenge. He was certain that impulse only got worse with wealth and age. Whatever security options Montague was looking at on his phone, he’d likely scrolled right past the nonlethal ones.
“Please stay calm. In sixty seconds, countermeasures will be deployed. In line with the Offender Rights Act, your deaths will be swift and painless. Thank you for stealing from Toreador.”
“Oh,” said Alexa.
“I’m going to fucking die. I’ve never seen the other wards, or the Paris Memorial, and I’m going to fucking die!”
“Hush.” Alexa climbed into the backseat.
“What was I thinking? Is this a male thing? Am I going to follow my dick off the edge of cliffs for the rest of my life? You know, the next forty seconds?”
Alexa didn’t banter back. She opened her guitar case, chucked the instrument to the left, and opened a hidden panel underneath. It held four small red switches.
“Are your mods EMP-proof?”
“What am I, a fucking marine?”
“Well?”
“The bugs are, my eye isn’t.”
“Sorry.”
Alexa flicked a switch, and half of Nero’s vision went black. The lights illuminating the Toreador IV’s dashboard went out, and the soft hum of the electric engine died. Four of the six streetlights illuminating the block went out, along with all the lights in three apartment buildings. They sat together in the darkest, quietest block in East Ward. An island of black in a sea of perpetual twilight.
“I’m not dead,” Nero said, nonplussed.
Alexa snapped twice and pointed at herself with her thumb. She clearly enjoyed the moment.
“How’s that for a rush?”
“I thought miniature EMP devices were a crock,” Nero said. He was too shocked to even complain about her cavalier attitude to near death. “Even a compression generator should need some kind of explosion.”
“Anarchist’s secret,” said Alexa. “Well, ours now too. Just keep quiet, or—”
“They’ll kill me? Don’t worry, I get that line at work all the time.”
“Your words, not mine. Now help me break this window.”
13.5. Intermission Three
Third: Finally! Some real action!
First: I take it you’re referring to our near-death experience.
Third: Oh, please, like we were safer with Diana.
Second: We were. With her, the people around the commander were in danger. Now we are.
First: Hmm. The boss really likes the aggressive type, doesn’t he?
