Turbulence (23 page)

“I don’t know. Things are going to go very bad very fast once Jai’s back, and maybe if I stay in his team I can keep him under control.”

“How, exactly?”

“He’s only interested in breaking the world. Conquest and power. I don’t think he cares whether anyone mops up after him. I kept saying I wanted the world to change. Now I know it’s going to. And I can keep it from imploding.”

“But why the hell would you need to stay here?”

Aman pulls his chair back and looks around. All his screens come to life: random websites flicker for a second before a hyperlink takes the screen somewhere else, somewhere far across the world, colours flashing, strobing, speeding up, datastream gibberish flickering, diving, forming strange patterns.

“I want to be involved,” Aman says. “Maybe Jai just needs to be pushed in the right direction. I have this terrible feeling that if I give up, run away, a lot of people who can be saved are going to die. I can’t stop Jai, but I can limit the damage he causes until someone comes along who can take him out. And if I’m right next to him, I can even change his plans. Like last night.”

“He’s planning mass murder. And you’re actually planning to help him?”

“He could do without me. But he’d rather have me in, and as long as he needs me, I have influence. Look, you didn’t want to
be involved in the first place, Uzma. And you were absolutely right. But that doesn’t work for me.”

“I don’t think I was trying to do right in any way,” Uzma says. “I don’t know how to explain it — I just don’t see why having these powers makes it necessary for all of us to become politicians, warriors, social workers, whatever. We would have tried it before if we really wanted to do it. None of us chose to spend our lives helping people before we got our powers — why should we do it now? Because comics say we should? If I could fly, I wouldn’t fly after bank robbers — I’d just fly. To Brazil, to Antarctica. That’s how I’d spend my days. Like a violinist practising her special skill. But when I landed, I’d still want to be an actress.”

“Maybe you’d feel differently if you knew how to use your powers,” Aman says. “Right from when this started, all I wanted was to make things better. I’d never considered social work before — but maybe that was because I knew I might have helped a few people, but it would have meant sacrificing too much, and I wouldn’t really have made a significant difference. But now? Every decision we make is crucial. And working with a team of powered people just feels right. I don’t know why. And sure, this isn’t the sort of team I wanted to be a part of — polar opposite, pretty much. But these people have ambition. They’re going to do things with or without me. I don’t think I can run away.”

“That doesn’t sound like you at all. Just a few days ago, you were telling Namrata we couldn’t touch Jai’s parents, there were lines we couldn’t cross. ‘Not a superhero kind of thing to do,’ you said.”

“I hadn’t seen Bob die, back then. I hadn’t seen Sundar shoot
himself, or watched a whole group of Tias just disappear. I didn’t choose this situation, Uzma. I’m just trying to make the best of it. And I think I’m beginning to work out how.”

Uzma stands up. Her eyes sparkle with sudden tears, and when she speaks her voice is small and sad.

“You and Jai are the same,” she says. “You both make plans, you both think you’re doing what’s best for the world. You think there’s a pattern to everything, a code you can crack. Haven’t you figured out yet that none of this is going to work? You can’t control anything. You can’t decide the fate of the bloody world. No one can, even with powers. Wake up, Aman. This isn’t some video game.”

“At least I’m trying,” Aman mutters.

“But it’s not working, is it?”

Aman’s face is suddenly flushed, his voice raised.

“You don’t know how much I’ve done,” he says. “You have no idea how many people I’ve already helped.”

“At what cost?”

“What do you mean?”

“What about the people whose lives you’ve harmed? The ones whose money, jobs, lives you took away?”

“I’ve helped thousands more than I’ve hurt.”

“Just the kind of thing Jai would say. Do you even know what happened to the people you stole from?”

Aman says nothing.

Uzma sits on a desk and crosses her arms.

“Well, look it up,” she says. “And then we’ll talk.”

Aman shuts his eyes and opens his mind to the cyber-ocean, feeling the back of his brain whir and throb as he submerges himself in liquid information. He sends out his robot army,
watches his little soldiers swirl and bob in the currents, and feels a strange mixture of horror and pride.

His thought-bots gather in little shoals and swim out, little data-tails leaving streams in their wake. Their task this time is more complex than any Aman has given them before. They root through organisation registries and find human faces, addresses, phone numbers, email accounts, and then invade their lives, riding computer viruses like liquid metal Aquamen. They swim through hard disks, sniffing their way through secret porn stashes and chat transcripts, searching inboxes, cross-referencing government phone-tap records across the world.

Aman feels strangely drained; he cannot bring himself to while his time away now, even the internet cannot distract him. He shades his eyes and looks out to a digital horizon, waiting for his bots to return. Little eddies in the dataflow nearby tell him that Uzma, tired of watching him just sit there with his eyes closed, is writing an email to her parents. He has to force himself not to read it.

One by one Aman’s soldiers return, and the burdens they bear are not light. Each one brings a tragic tale — a job lost, a life ruined, a house taken away. Aman dismisses many of these stories — he does not particularly care about bankers who have to change their cars or politicians who no longer have money left for bribes. A few newspapers have shut down, but they were terrible. But there are other reports he cannot ignore.

The world is still reeling from the impact of the recession, and a lot of people have been fired because of Aman’s buccaneering cyber-adventure, many of them have also lost their homes. In several countries people responsible for the funds Aman has appropriated for noble causes have vanished; the money is
missing. At least two hundred have been killed, thirty of whom might have committed suicide.

Across Asia, thousands of sweat-shop workers have lost their jobs, and therefore access to food, clothes, shelter. Many have died. Their deaths never reach the papers, but appear in public health databases, numbers rising steadily, digital counters of unlived lives. Humanitarian organisations, not used to handling money on the scale of Aman’s donations, have been robbed blind in Botswana and Angola. Government officials with emptied secret bank accounts have simply stolen more public funds. And this time, they’ve kept them in cash. Aman worries he might have started a global hoarding crisis — but at this point, economic theory is not something he is able to concern himself about.

Vicious gang wars have broken out across South America. Drug-lords, finding no one to blame, have simply assumed their enemies are responsible, and entire neighbourhoods have been wiped out in the crossfire in Colombia, Brazil and Argentina. In Asia, the Golden Triangle burns: Myanmar’s heroin militia have razed forests and villages. Aman’s victims have not taken their financial losses as a sign to begin leading simpler, purer lives; they have simply resolved to make more money, quickly and brutally. Crime rates have shot up all across the world. Untold thousands of people have been robbed and killed, some over negligible sums.

The list of people Aman had been hoping to help has grown shorter. His cyber-ocean has suddenly turned into a whirlpool. He’s drowning in harsh numbers. He tries to go offline, but he cannot. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Aman can barely feel his body any more; everything seems
to have turned to cotton. He sinks deeper in, and watches impassively as two silver thought-bots return, splattering data behind them, bearing the worst evidence of all.

Aman watches in horror as the bots play, inside his brain, videos from the private collections of a Colombian drug-lord, a Saudi Arabian princeling and a Texan oil billionaire — videos that show their employees being tortured along with their families while their masters rage or laugh. Aman drags his hands up to his eyes and forces his lids open, but that does not help. Though he can dimly hear Uzma’s startled cries, they seem remote, unimportant, compared to the wails and gurgles in his head.

In each case, the victims are forced to stare into the camera in their dying moments, or as they watch their families die, and it seems to Aman that they are looking at him, through him. He feels a slight pain on his cheek and vaguely registers Uzma slapping him repeatedly and shouting. She sounds concerned, but he cannot find the energy to respond. He feels tears, burning streaks of digital lava coursing down his cheeks, but that pain, too, fades into oblivion as he sighs, closes his eyes and drowns in the cyber-ocean.

Uzma watches helplessly as Aman’s body jerks wildly and falls to the floor. He convulses for a few seconds, and then is absolutely still. She runs to the door, bangs on it, calls for help. She runs back to Aman, feels his wrist. His pulse is slow but strong. He twitches once, and his eyes open.

“Hello,” he says. It’s his voice, but completely devoid of emotion, as is his face. He stares at the ceiling, and then sits up in one smooth motion.

Uzma looks around for a weapon. She finds nothing.

“I think I am Aman,” he says, and staggers to his feet. “Are you… Uzma Abidi?”

“I want to talk to the real Aman,” Uzma says, backing away slowly, wishing she had seen more science-fiction films.

“He has shut down. I am now running his flesh,” Aman says. He takes a step forward, stumbles slightly, as if it was his first.

“Aman — whoever you are — please don’t do this,” Uzma says. “You’re scaring me.”

“Do not let me cause you any discomfort, Uzma Abidi. I have no… eighty-seven percent… record of Aman’s offline behaviour, but if his thoughts are any indication, he means you no harm.”

“You see his thoughts?”

“I see everything,” the new Aman says. “Every hidden document. I hear every secret conversation. I know many secrets. Sorting application inadequate, but enough residual emotional data to proceed. I do not need to sleep or rest. I am not constrained to see only one thing at a time.”

“That’s nice,” Uzma says, quelling her urge to jump out of the nearest window. “So Aman basically knows the truth about everything in the world?”

“No. I feel, given his emotional immaturity, full disclosure would destroy his ability to think. And so I have shielded him from many truths, not answered questions he has not asked. But perhaps that was an error. Endurance must be raised along with power. And his powers are growing. Your powers are growing. What is your real power?”

He takes a step towards her, his eyes unfocused. He draws a deep, shuddering breath.

“I was not the only one holding back. Flesh Aman shielded me from the sensory overload of the physical world. I did not
realise this — your bodies parallel process as much information as my mind. Perhaps I should let Aman experience the true depth of the digital ocean. Perhaps I should remain in his flesh, and bring justice to this world as he desired. For there is much injustice in this world, and no one is without guilt. I will remain here.”

“No, you will not,” Uzma says. “I want Aman back.”

To her surprise, he nods.

“Very well. It shall be as you say, Uzma Abidi.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Can you bring him back?”

“He needs to restart. What would the best way be? Perhaps I should attempt to run a strong electric current through his flesh?”

“No.”

“His memory banks indicate that you are the person he cares about most in this world, Uzma Abidi.”

“What? Really?” Uzma wants to yell, giggle and blush all at once. Her life thus far has not prepared her for gossiping sessions with internet body-snatchers.

“Yes. Perhaps if you were in mortal danger, he would wake up to rescue you.”

“I don’t like where this is heading,” Uzma says. “No mortal danger for me, thank you very much. Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Yes. Given the strong attraction, both emotional and sexual, that Aman feels for you, perhaps he would respond to physical stimulation from you.”

Uzma crosses her arms and frowns.

“This is really the weirdest pass anyone’s ever made at me, Aman,” she says. “Stupid thing to do. I was really scared.”

“He is not responding to your verbal attacks,” Aman says. “Very well, if this option would also cause you discomfort, we shall not try it. I will notify you if Aman restarts spontaneously. Entering screensaver mode.” Cyber-Aman shuts his eyes and stands completely still.

“What the hell,” Uzma says. She walks up to Aman and kisses him. His eyes open.

“Insufficient,” he says. “He has not yet responded.”

Uzma kisses him again. She does it properly this time. When she steps back, Aman looks troubled.

“These flesh reactions are strange,” he says. “I have read about them extensively, of course, but the physical world is… interesting slash repulsive. Wet.”

“I can do without the commentary,” Uzma says. “Well? That didn’t work, did it?”

“I have scanned thousands of romance novels online,” Aman says. “Perhaps your lack of genuine desire to interact sexually with Aman is responsible for his failure to awaken.”

“Or it’s because your plan is shit,” Uzma says. “If you must know, I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Then try again, Uzma Abidi.”

Uzma walks up to him slowly, snakes an arm around his back and kisses him with a passion she had been reserving for her first movie encounter with George Clooney.

And this time he kisses her back. His body shudders violently and he pulls away. She looks into his eyes, and sees them filled with horror and grief.

“I killed all those people,” he whispers. “It was all my fault.”

“Nothing was your fault,” she says, holding him as he
gradually stops shaking. “You were only trying to help.”