Hyperthought (21 page)

“What do you want?” In VR, I could talk again. That was a plus.

Sprague sighed and scratched his two-day beard. His clothes looked slept-in. “One thing at a time, Ms. Sauvage. First off, our forces have you cornered. You and your friends are illegal trespassers. You might wonder why we haven’t executed you.”

He’d raised a good point. Why were we meeting like this? Nome had us in their crosshairs. They could annihilate us with a single voice command—and not even leave a mess.

Sprague took: his time explaining, but I couldn’t really follow his story. He said the big three remaining Coms—Nome, Greenland and Pacific—were “restructuring.” Greenland.Com was waging a proxy war against Pacific.Com because Greenland had always been paranoid about Suradon Sura. Bien, that much I could grasp. Greenland had already spun off 19 of Pacific.Com’s divisions before Suradon could lift a finger. But back in Euro, Greenland was having way too much trouble with those pesky Parisian rebels. Nome.Com was waiting to see which of its two partners would survive.

So how did paltry little Jolie Blanche Sauvage fit into this world drama? It seems I had Lord Suradon to thank. Suradon had called his old pal, Allistaire Wagstaff, the Nome CEO. In the wee hours of the morning, Suradon had whispered a suggestion. “Rescue the Angel of Euro. Greenland hates her, and the Parisian protes love her. You can use her as leverage.”

Funny, huh? I thought Suradon had forgotten me. But on second thought, Suradon probably never let any bit of information stray if it might serve his interests; Ça va. He’d planted his suggestion, Allistaire Wagstaff had listened, and thus far at least, the neutrino cannons hadn’t torched us.

Sprague fished a soiled handkerchief from his briefcase and wiped his nose. “Here’s the deal. Nome.Com is making a generous offer. Just record a few holos denouncing violence, got it? I.e., tell the protes to lay down their arms. War is ugly. You’ll save lives. And to show our gratitude, we’ll give you complete restorative therapy, the best Frisco has to offer.”

I glowered at Sprague. “You’re already broadcasting those holos. You can counterfeit all you want”

He shook his head. “That’s Greenland’s gig. It’s only a matter of time before the rebels spot the fake. We want the genuine article, got it? The real Angel of Euro. With an ID certificate to prove it’s you.”

“So you can help Greenland crush my comrades?”

“We want merchandise, Ms. Sauvage. We’ll sell to the highest bidder.”

“I’ll record your holo when Earth freezes,” I said. My voice carried way more edgy power than usual. I suppose VR does that.

“Take my advice, unless you get therapy soon—” Sprague pulled a mirror out of his pocket and tried to make me look at my face.

“Scuzz that!” I knocked it away.

He turned his handkerchief over, hunting for a dry spot. “There’s more to the deal. I.e., you might want to hear about the other people in that tent with you.” He shifted in his seat and squinted at me, expecting a reaction. I didn’t move an eyelash. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He opened the thick folder of papers on his lap, then licked his thumb and tabbed through a file. Why didn’t the man use a Net node for all that data?

“Let’s see. Vincent Ramores and Calvin Hooper. As bona fide protected workers of Nome.Com, these two will be remanded to City General for psychiatric repair.”

“Huh? Who’s Calvin Hooper?”

“Your associate Hooper is a runaway prote,” Sprague said. “Missing since the age of nine. I believe you know him by his Net alias. Tan? Yes. He’ll be returned to his factory compound as soon as psychiatric repair’s complete.”

Psychiatric repair. The Com’s euphemism for lobotomy. Their penalty for runaways.

“No!” I yelled, wobbling my disembodied head around. “Tan’s not a prote. He’s…”

Sprague sighed when I couldn’t finish the sentence. “About those recordings, Ms. Sauvage. We’ll need to do some initial plastic surgery on your face—”

“What about Jin?” I asked. A small pain shot through my invisible rib cage.

Sprague sighed again and paged through the file. “Lord Sura’s heir, yes. We have reports on unauthorized brain experiments. Nanotherapy to expand IQ—you know about that? Since the procedure was conducted in our territory, said brain has, ipso facto, become the intellectual property of Nome.Com. I.e., young Sura will be detained pending financial discussions with his father.”

“You’ll hold Jin for ransom? You gutter mold.” The pain in my disembodied rib cage throbbed again. That wasn’t right. In VR, I shouldn’t feel pain. I said, “Jin comes with me. Tan and Vincente, too. They all come with me, or no deal.”

Sprague smiled unctuously. “Then do I understand you to say that if we release your friends, we do have a deal?”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I meant. This lawyer was spinning me in circles. Nome wanted to use me against my own sisters and brothers in Paris. No way. This Angel of Euro business—Adrienne’s propaganda campaign—I couldn’t believe it really meant anything. But Nome must think so. Imagine me telling the Parisians to surrender. The pain cut into my side like a knife.

Sprague was trying to scare me. And he’d succeeded. Tan’s brilliance—erased? Vincente—entombed in a factory? And Jin? Suradon might not pay the ransom for his son. He might let Nome keep Jin, and who knows what those sadists would do to learn Jin’s secrets. Mes dieux, how did I manage to endanger everyone I cared about?

“Your choice, Ms. Sauvage. In order to obtain a verified identity certificate, you have to record the holos of your own free will.”

“You call this free will!”

“Let’s not quibble over definitions. Are we in accord? You’ll make the holos?”

I gritted my teeth. The pain had spread down my immaterial leg and up through my incorporeal shoulder. My hands and feet felt numb. “Let me think about it, Sprague.”

“You’re stalling.”

Naturellement I was stalling. What preter-bold leap would get me out of this mess?

“Another hour without therapy, and you’ll die,” he said.

More scare tactics, I told myself. But my head felt duck. Even the simplest train of thought eluded me. Something was happening to my body. Even in VR, those hellish bacteria were eating through my flesh.

The lawyer bailed up his snotty handkerchief and smirked at me. “We can make you well again. It’s your choice. I’ll see you in one hour, Ms. Sauvage. If you survive.”

Everybody wanted to make me well. How nice. But there were always conditions. I fell through virtual darkness like a sack of bricks and landed with a thump back in my cot in the little blue tent. A rage of coughing shook me to the spine, and those cracked ribs felt like spears prodding my guts. Vincente held my hand and dabbed gauze at my lips with a look of terrible concern. Tan sat with his back to me, monitoring the screens at his workstation.

Merida? I mouthed the word.

“She waits for your call,” Vincente told me. “Chica, I have given you more meds to stop the pain, but I can’t stop this sickness in your body. We must bargain with the witch. There is no other choice.”

“No!” I managed to wheeze. I would never trade Jin to Merida. Nor would I trade Tan and Vincente to Nome. But I would have to do something. One hour Sprague had given me. And who could guess what Merida might do. They had us caught between the devil and the deep brown sea. By the Laws of Physics, we needed a miracle.

“Luc?” I squeaked.

“We lost contact with the southerners. Tan is scanning for their signal.”

Mes dieux, that boy Miguel, he might have his fingers around Luc’s throat at this very moment. I tried to mouth a warning. Miguel. You must warn Luc about Miguel. Where was that stylus? I fumbled through the folds of my blanket. Where had I dropped the thing? I needed to write.

“Sí, muchacha, sí,” Vincente whispered, “you must rest.”

Rest? Was Vincente loco? With gut-wrenching effort, I shifted up on one elbow and gazed at Jin. He still slept peacefully in the cot next to mine. The blanket had fallen away a little, and my glance lingered on the stark, graceful angle of his shoulder blade. How splendid his hair looked, curling in damp strands across his pale skin. I longed to ask him what I should do. But chances were, if I woke him up now, he wouldn’t even recognize me. What’s this Commie actor to you anyway, Tan had asked.

Why do we make the choices that change our lives? How do we prepare for consequences we can’t see coming? It seemed like centuries ago I had flown north in my Durban Bee to find a movie star. That war in Euro didn’t belong to me anymore, so I had told myself.

Swifter than thought, I stammered, “Suradon.” The swelling in my tongue was going down a little, thanks to Vincente’s drugs. “Call Suradon,” I sputtered. The Pacific.Com CEO had never been my friend, but he was powerful. And he’d kept Nome from blasting us. Maybe he would surprise me once more and finally help his son. Maybe he would just laugh at me, I didn’t know. At least it was something to do.

I AWOKE IN
another place. Cool. Numb. Floating. The air smelted of citrus. My skin no longer burned. I opened my eyes on yellow and pink drapery flecked with tiny russet flags.

“She’s awake,” someone whispered.

“The lord must be told.”

I sat up quickly and reached for the curtains—and noticed with astonishment that my forearm had healed. I examined the back of my hand. Smooth white knuckles. I touched my face. Soft as down. I parted the pink chiffon kimono and stared at my naked body. No blisters. No ugly crusted skin. No pain. I felt whole again, new and clean and strong. I drew a deep breath and realized that both my eyes had cleared. I felt light and joyous and full of hope.

Then logic kicked in and reminded me this was a trick—Suradon’s holo-stage. Computer-generated illusion—not real at all. Tan had uploaded an old backup file of my holo-image, one I’d stored in my Net node years ago. He’d also unraveled his little orange sensor web and attached the threads to key points on my limbs and torso to give me at least a little motor control on the holo-stage. What’s more, he’d improvised an echo loop to disguise our transmission to Pacific.Com, so the Nome troopers couldn’t listen in. The kid was a meta-geek.

I drew back the bed curtains. In a shaft of golden light, three figures loomed. Judith Merida, Lord Suradon and Jin.

Jin? How had Jin come to be on the holo-stage? Mes dieux, had Tan uploaded Jin’s signal, too? In this preter-vicious VR, Jin had regained the illusion of health. His image must also have been an old backup. Maybe Suradon kept one in archive for just this sort of occasion. Jin’s body appeared tall and straight and vigorous, his skin a rich dark cinnamon, his hair thick and wavy and short—just like the first time we’d met in Rennie’s Airport Bar. It hurt me to see him this way again.

Suradon and Merida were so intent on their own conversation, they didn’t seem to notice when I crept up and sat cross-legged on the floor to watch—even though I moved with about as much grace as a sledgehammer.

“You lying bitch, this is not what we bargained for?” Suradon’s face turned crimson. His black Asian eyes glittered with rage, and he tugged at his silk collar so hard, a button flew off. “This is not a sale able product! This is a joke!”

“If you’ll only listen—”

“I don’t have time for this, Judith. The Triad’s in play. Those sharks want to tear my Com to pieces. I should be there, not here.”

“But my lord,” Merida said. I’d never heard her use that simpering tone before.

“You guaranteed this Hyperthought would sell like candy panties,” Suradon thundered. “You said your research would put Pacific.Com back on top. Judith, you know how badly I need cash flow right now—but look at him!”

Both of them turned to watch Jin. He was drawing his ciphers in the air, and a faint smite played at his lips as if he were listening to some sweet private melody no one else could hear.

“Jin, tell your father what you’ve achieved,” said Merida. “Tell him about the quantum vibrations. You heard them, I know you did. Tell him.”

“There once was a coastal kingdom, long ago in Java,” Jin chanted softly. “It could have been paradise.”

“He’s reciting a fairy tale.” Suradon’s sarcastic laughter split the air. “I’m fighting the battle of my life to save Pacific.Com, and my heir recites make-believe! I knew this would come to nothing.”

Jin focused his eyes on his father. He tilted his head with infinite melancholy, but he didn’t speak.

Suradon hammered his fist into his palm. “To think I had my ass-wipe ad agency work out the marketing plan!” He gestured, and a sheaf of holographic projections spilled through the air like pliant sheets of film. Each one displayed moving graphics. They were Net broadblast ads for Hyperthought. I caught one or two headlines: “Instant Intelligence.” “Bulk Up on Brain Power.” “Secrets of the Quanta Revealed.” When Suradon snapped his fingers, the ads crumpled into little wads and popped out of existence.

“My Lord Suradon, I’ve been running remote brain scans for the past half hour.” Merida lifted her chin, and her own sheaf of projected images fanned neatly through the air in a regular grid. They showed bright blue MRI slices of Jin’s brain, with scarlet dots blinking in every section. Merida pointed with her fingernail. “You see the red glyphs? Those are nanobot concentrations. First, the bots propagated an auxiliary neural net throughout Jin’s cerebral cortex. Then they wove through the cerebellum and penetrated the limbic system. Approximately 15 hours ago, Jin’s brain activity soared to unprecedented levels.”

“Green trees waved in gentle breezes,” Jin’s voice drifted softly, “and the blue ocean broke on the white sand.”

I recognized those words. He was quoting that old Javanese poem about Prince Airlangga.

Suradon laughed. “You’ve made him a clown, Judith. This is not apotheosis. This is Vaudeville. Admit it, darlin’, you screwed up.”

“Listen to him, Lord Suradon, please!” Merida clutched Jin’s arm and drew him farther into the golden light. “He’s trying to tell you.”