You Will Know Vengeance, page 7
“What’s that?”
Well, damned if any of us knew. We never asked questions. No one ever really reached back out once they got paroled. Since we’re not allowed visitors or mail, we rarely hear from anyone. From traditional channels, that is.
“Just do the work, rook, and you’ll be fine.”
“So how long does a capture take?”
“Depends.” Aldy grunts that word as he clamors to add some caulk to the metal border of a shoebox-sized air vent near the ceiling. “During the hot streak season, which is summer, naturally, a good hacker can rake in two, maybe three every three, four weeks.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Quidlee stands and kicks the blue mop bucket across the room. “How long does it take to get your first one?”
“You’ll pop your cherry soon enough.” I can almost hear Lance-a-Little answering my question with that same answer eight years ago.
“I hate that expression,” says Aldy.
“Everyone does . . . that’s why I said it.”
“It might take you a month or two to get the hang of it . . . be diligent, not dumb.”
Quidlee mumbles something under his breath. I think I catch it, but I ask the rook to repeat it.
“I said I’d rather freaking die than stay here.”
Right then, Guard Fontana sticks his head in the Server Room. “Warden needs to see everyone.”
I swallow hard. The guard saying that Cyfib needed us just as Quidlee talked about death felt like when someone looks up and spots vultures circling them.
Chapter fifteen
What Has He Done?
I’d rather freaking die than stay here.
The words still ring in my ears as we walk to the War Room.
From his ivory tower, the balcony next to the Cube of Death, Cyfib’s gritted teeth and laser-focused stare forces even the hardest among us to look at the ground.
“Dogs, you are all failures.”
Well, what now?
“One of you has taken the coward’s way out.” He holds a blue Ethernet cable, covered in red stains.
Dammit. I glance around the room and do an internal inventory. It doesn’t take a spreadsheet to figure out what’s happened.
SweetThree must’ve taken himself out of the Game of Life. Dammit. He hasn’t even been here long. For some reason, the hippie from Seattle never took to the routine. He was constantly fighting for two kills a month, maybe less. Ultimately, he took the trip out of the Double-H in a one-size-fits-all bag.
I am not talking about body bags. Humans get body bags. We get sent next door to the funeral parlor that has a crematorium and come back in a Ziplock with a freshness seal. The next day, the funeral home next door will reduce SweetThree’s body to ash. Then Cyfib will show us that bag and repeat how each one of us dogs failed.
Just because it is a power play does not mean it will not work.
Following the loss of one of our own, there is always a general spike in productivity, though brief. It sometimes makes me wonder if Cyfib doesn’t just have someone killed to improve our quarterly numbers, but no one could be that cruel.
Right?
There I go again, lying to myself. In a world where Cyfib and Barca exist, I often wonder about the expression God only gives what you can handle, especially because I think that someone should remove the word handle and replace it with survive.
Then the warden points at Lance-a-Little. My heart stops. My friend, my mentor, is in the monster’s crosshairs.
Oh, no, what has he done?
Chapter sixteen
Two Devils in Our One Hell
“Are you packed, dog?”
“Yes, warden.”
Packed? What are they talking about?
Then, without another word, Lance-a-Little walks up to each hackvict, looks us in the eyes, and hugs us.
Oh. My. Lord. He is getting paroled. How did I not see this coming?
Lance-a-Little was always ahead of me in the kill department. I knew he was close to reaching his five hundred captures. I just never expected it.
That is why he wanted to speak last night. Another opportunity missed by yours truly.
I am the last one that Lance-a-Little addresses. His handlebar mustache quivers. I’m sure my rat-haired one does the same. I cannot even meet his gaze after he wraps his arms around me, squeezes me tight, and whispers in my ear. “I don’t have much time, so don’t argue with me like you always do. Tanto, your beliefs make you who you are. They got you through some dark times. They fortified you. But Tanto, they can only take you so far. Something, someone, is coming. Stay strong but be prepared to alter your course. General Franks said it best: no plan survives contact with the enemy.”
From his pocket, he sneaks out a blue felt bag about the size of a baseball. He presses it into my stomach, so I take my hands from my sides and cover up the present.
And then, with a nod and a tip of an invisible cap to everyone, Lance-a-Little turns and walks out, escorted by Guard Fontana.
I am overwhelmed in the moment. I know to not look at the present until later. There is no telling what’s in the bag. However, in the span of two minutes, we are down one rookie hackvict, and I have just lost my mentor.
It also doesn’t help that the next thing Cyfib says blows any sense of calm out of the water. “Luckily, dogs, tomorrow another joins you in your servitude.”
As he walks back into his office, the chill usually reserved for my spine runs a circle around my skull and slams a migraine into my brain.
Oh no. What Lance said could only mean one thing.
Barca is coming.
Here.
Tomorrow.
If God only gives us what we can handle, then could we handle two devils in our one hell?
Chapter seventeen
We Were Just Skimming the Surface
That next day AldenSong, PoBones, Quidlee, and I meet outside of the War Room before our shifts start at six. Quidlee yawns and rubs his eyes. He’ll get used to less than eight hours of sleep. We all do, except for Foshi_Taloa. That man sleeps fifteen minutes at a time.
“Rook, grab the terminal next to me.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he flinches back. I’m sure there’s a story in there, but now’s not the time. “Do what I do, but do not let anyone notice that you’re watching me, because Cyfib might consider this education as nonproductivity.”
“Wait . . . isn’t there an orientation or something?”
PoBones chuckles. “Life’s da orientation, rook . . . saddle up.”
We grab the cubicles in the corner that’s in the far left of the room. Walking to the workstation, I point out the scanners on the floor near each terminal. They are a cross between a grocery store self-checkout station and a bathroom scale, with a slot for a hackvict to place one leg. I roll up my pants leg and slide my hairy-ass leg into the slot. The computer boots up.
Quidlee takes a stab at doing the same on his machine but rolls up the wrong leg, and I shake my head.
“Why does it matter?” he whispers.
“Just do what I did.”
He frowns and does so. “Ow!” Quidlee withdraws his leg and his monitor flickers to life.
I didn’t tell him about the minor shock because just telling someone that they’ll be shocked sometimes intensifies the sensation.
That’s when he sees for the first time how the devil marks each of us dogs: the implanted microchip next to his tibia. Quidlee’s eyes go wide as he runs his hand down his leg and gets shocked again when he presses down on the glowing spot on his bone.
“Son of a . . . what the holy hell is that?”
It is our own personal 666 brands, marks of this beast, implanted deep and for life.
“Shut . . . up . . . sit . . . down . . . ” the words slide through my gritted teeth as I roll my eyes up to the Box of Death. The rook doesn’t need an orientation to understand that the only thing worse than Big Brother watching you is getting caught by Cyfib doing anything he thinks you shouldn’t be doing.
Unfortunately, common sense comes from experience, not advice.
“Naw . . .” he continues. “You need to tell me what the hell is going on with my leg.”
The cha-chings ring out over the floor and I duck my attention to my terminal screen. The kid has no units to lose, which means he is at the end of a zero-sum game if I don’t act quickly and with perceived malice. Or else it might end with Quidlee on the waterboard conveyor belt at the Bay.
“Look, rook, get the hell away from me!” I pound my fists next to the keyboard so hard my mouse bounces to the floor. “You’re slowing me down!”
“Dogs,” interrupts the warden, “why aren’t you actively capturing?”
“Sir, this rookie keeps screwing up my kill count by asking questions.”
Quidlee stands at attention, but stumbles as his leg releases from the computer’s sensor. His imbalance adds to his wide, deer-in-the-headlights eyes and the confusion spreading across his face.
“I’m only sixty from parole, and I don’t care if he needs tutoring . . . I’m getting out of here.”
“Sir, I was just wondering about, um, how we capture, and I was only asking . . .”
“This little bastard wants some of my captures, is what the hell was happening . . .”
“Whoa! No! I was—”
“Don’t lie to the warden, rook.” I rise from my seat and put my finger square in Quidlee’s chest. “You can’t have what I’ve earned.”
“Both of you dogs, silence.”
I remove my finger and sit back down. If I make eye contact with the warden, he might see through this ruse. On one hand, he has a rookie capable of capturing hundreds of targets yet is untested and arguing with one of the most proven veterans on his team. On the other hand, he also has the opportunity to remove a potential troublemaker before he slows group progress.
My eyes don’t need to study Cyfib to know his wheels are turning. He wants, no, needs an outcome that is only best for him and the corporation.
“I need him gone, sir.”
Quidlee’s eyes widen again, and the color leaves his face. I know my full-of-finality statement will require Cyfib to give a response greater than my command.
That’s why I am not completely shocked when Cyfib’s punch is fast and surgical, finding the pain center where my neck meets my skull. The quick impact sends lightning up my spine and stars through my eyes. I slouch on the keyboard before pushing myself up to attention.
“Both of you dogs need discipline.” Cyfib snatches my chin with his mammoth of a mitt. The sensor for my leg chip chirps and my machine goes blank as the warden pulls me to my feet. “For insubordination, you lose ten units to this dog. Further, he is now under your care. His mistakes are now yours.”
With a flick of the wrist, Cyfib releases my face before punching Quidlee in the stomach. As the rook collapses to the floor, Cyfib stands over him, whips out his dick, and pisses on him.
You don’t get more primal a response than public humiliation. The rage that spreads through Quidlee’s eyes is like watching water boil in a clear kettle that has no hole: roaring but with nowhere to go. His hands ball into fists as he prepares to attack the warden.
I cannot blame him. Even actual dogs do not do anything this vicious. I motion slightly with my left hand for him to stay down.
The beady look in Quidlee’s eye and snarl on his lips says otherwise. He attempts to stand. The warden raises his right boot. He hooks the heel behind the rook’s neck. With one stomp, he smashes Quidlee’s face. Into the ground. Into the piss.
Quidlee struggles to breathe, yet I know what is really going on. The warden wants for one of us to jump to the rescue. It’s just a big, gross game of chicken. One that may end with Quidlee’s death. I want to say I know the warden won’t stomp and kill the kid. I really want to say that, but I just can’t.
Seconds pass. Every eye is on our struggling hackvict.
Hang in there, rook, we’re almost there.
“Congratulations are in order.” Cyfib removes his boot and zips up as Quidlee gasps for air. “This dog now has ten units, less the units this . . . incident cost him. A net five. Clean the floor, then continue your work.”
The warden cha-chings up to the Cube of Death, no expression on his face.
Tears roll down Quidlee’s face as he balls up in the fetal position in the middle of the War Room. Not a clickety-clack is heard. I’ve read somewhere that tears are just pain escaping the body. It does not make watching my new friend suffer any easier.
I stay in my seat as our tribe does its job. The first person to Quidlee’s side is AldenSong, and somehow he’s grabbed a handful of paper towels.
Quidlee knocks them away.
I drop to my knees and sit back on my heels in front of rook. The warden’s warm urine soaks into my pants. I extend one hand to the rook’s shoulder. He knocks it away, though not at the same ferocity as the swipe of paper towels.
PoBones must’ve run to his room because he returns with a blanket. This time, the rook doesn’t fight our helping hands as PoBones covers Quidlee as the adrenaline leaves his body. The shakes overtake him.
Foshi_Taloa places his mitt on the rook’s soaked head. The kid rolls his neck toward the quiet man’s touch.
I add my hand on top of Foshi_Taloa’s. Aldy puts his on mine. Then PoBones and every other working hackvict, all of us, pile on as Quidlee’s tears slow, and he sniffles. I might have spotted others crying too, had I not held my eyes shut.
I try to speak, but the words refuse to come. Sadly, I understand what he is going through. The sooner you break in here, the sooner you change. It is inexplicable to someone who has never slept behind bars, but it is the only way to rebuild yourself. Sometimes the process takes days, even weeks, or months. For Quidlee, I am amazed he’s letting out this pain, this frustration, so soon. I think it was a blessing.
I am wrong. Later, I will find that we were nowhere near Quidlee’s rock bottom. We were just skimming the surface.
Chapter eighteen
The Sludge in My Soul
That night’s latrine duty is tense. That’s the problem with showing vulnerability, whether you are confined to a prison with other criminals or in front of a loved one. You just hope they don’t kick you when you’re down, or worse, take advantage of the situation.
The lights flicker: some faulty breakers or the backup generator is failing to store a full charge. I’ve played with enough electricity and taken enough shocks from man-made lightning to know faulty wiring. Of course, it might be those damn ants. We can only caulk so many ways in and out of here, and there is no telling what damage the ones that are already in the building are doing to our home.
Quidlee mops a shower as I hand wash a sink. Aldy is plunging something foul down the toilet behind me, something with an odor somewhere between old diapers and what I assume the smell of spring break in Tijuana is.
Repetitive work like this brings déjà vu. However, the last time we did this, the rook wasn’t a peed-on hackvict.
With no guards around, I glance at Aldy. “Marbles?”
“Marbles.” AldenSong kicks his head back and rolls his eyes around, searching for a topic. “Two tons of fun” moves to the closest shower and plunges it with the same plunger he used on the toilet. “Most underrated Asian actors?”
“Easy . . . Toshiro Mifune. You?”
“Jackie Em Effin Chan.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Not a bit.” Aldy yanks the plunger, and the same smell from the toilet rises from the shower drain.
Hurray for linked pipes.
Quidlee keeps quiet, mopping the same spot enough to wash away some of the grout sealer.
“You’re focusing on Drunken Master, aren’t you?”
“That is incorrect, dear sir . . .” AldenSong takes the plunger handle, leans over, and uses it to cut on the showerhead, spreading the filth across all the stalls. “Police Story.”
“You cannot tell me that Police Story—a good movie, I’ll agree—is better than Mifune’s Samurai Rebellion or Yojimbo?”
“Ah-ah, we are not talking about the quality of the movie, we are talking about the range of the actor.”
“Well, Aldy, who handles silence in a scene better?”
To me, there is an art to handling an acting role with just a glance. I have Big’un there. I rise to my feet, pivot to AldenSong, and he does the same. He bows in defeat. I bow in acceptance.
“What are you guys bullshitting about?”
Even though Quidlee’s use of profanity in a sentence is about as accurate as a third grader when they learn a dirty word and want to try it out, I take his asking as a good sign. We’d laid out enough bait that something needed to snag him.
“We keep our minds sharp by arguing over minutia.”
“Definitely better than stupid silence.” Aldy plunges another shower drain. This one burps extra loudly when he finishes, and the unclogging suction downs the sludge.
Quidlee mops up AldenSong’s mess. “I think those last movies you mentioned were, like, Samurai movies . . . I don’t really watch those.”
“They’re not Samurai. They’re Bushido.”
“That’s the same thing, right?”
My posture straightens, and I scowl. The rook’s just stepped into a bear trap. Maybe if this question occurred earlier in our relationship, a kinder response would’ve escaped my lips.
Probably not, though.
“Not at all, you dumb little bastard. The term Samurai designates the aristocracy’s servants. Bushido or Bushis followed a life code.”
“Still sounds like the same thing.”
A rage builds in me. Sure, some historians may disagree with me, but I prefer to think of the Bushis during their time before they followed governmental orders, for obvious reasons. I know it is only my pride rearing its ugly head, so I take a beat before I smile, stand over the rook, and ring my sponge out on his head. He lowers his head and chuckles, taking my response as lightly as I’d meant it. Where I could, I wanted the soap to counter the pee that had rained upon him.
