Dark Blue Monstropolis

The border to the Atlantic Union was never supposed to be I-75. For that matter, there was never supposed to be an Atlantic Union. Until the Exodus, the thought that the United States of America–which had weathered many threats, both internal and external–might one day collapse virtually overnight was fairly laughable.

But it had, and something had to be done to keep the riff raff out of what had risen in its place. And there weren’t many other eight-story structures running the length of the continent to fall back on. Thus, I-75 found its second life.

As the van tottered east, eventually the interstate became visible. This was nothing new to any of the vehicle’s passengers. Threnody and Welsh had come from here, of course, and Argo and Mayster had both seen I-75 before–at least this side of it.

Both of them, as kids, had wandered far and wide, spending as much as a week travelling out of Indianapolis in all directions. The dojo where Mayster had studied had been built inside a collapsed ramp structure several miles north of here.

What they had not done before, however, was what Welsh did: drive right up to the gate. Two guards, both lizardmen, stood watch. A small ramshackle enclosure sat against the wall of the interstate, underneath the faded red and blue shield that still bore the weathered numbers “75.” Next to it sat a large pile of what looked to be compost and other junk. Argo thought to himself that the stench from that area must be nearly visible.

One of the guards made his casual way over. Lizardmen were a perfect fit for this job: strength and love of heat all in one package. This one had stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of beaten khaki shorts.

“Welsh,” the guard said, “took you damn long enough.” He nodded to Threnody in her place on the passenger side, then looked in the back to see Argo and Mayster. “These your guys?”

Welsh nodded, “That’s them.”

Lizardman nodded again. “Mind if they step out so we can check them for their shots?” He gave a shrug. “You know I gotta.”

Welsh smiled, “Mickey, I would never dream in standing in the way of your job.” He leaned back. “Gentlemen, Mickey here is just going to check you out. No worries.”

The door slid back and Argo and Mayster stepped out. As they did, there was the sound of a gunshot careening off the interstate. A small puff of dust indicated where the bullet had hit. Argo and Mayster winced, ducking. No one else seemed to pay any heed.

Another lizardman came out of the shack and called out, “Welsh, you bastard. You said you’d just need my van for just a day.” This one was wearing a pair of black shorts and sunglasses. The orange lenses looked strange on his face.

“I’m good for it, Geoff, you know I am,” Welsh called back. “Quit your bitching.”

Mickey, in the meantime, had pulled out a small device and asked Argo and Mayster to offer up their wrists. “This is going to feel odd,” he cautioned, “but it’s harmless. Just checking to make sure you’re not carrying anything nasty inside with you.” He pushed it against the inside of Mayster’s wrist first, and Mayster’s eyebrows went up.

Argo was next and as the device began humming against his wrist, another gunshot rang off the concrete structure behind them, far high and to the right. He tried to duck but Mickey put a restraining hand on him. “No, no, don’t jerk around–it’ll screw up the reading.”

Mayster looked around at them. “Um, are we being shot at? Or is it just me?”

Welsh chuckled. “I was wondering that myself. I thought the mosquitos out here must be huge and pissed off.”

Geoff strode over, his tail dragging behind him, “We were waiting for your ass to get back. I forgot I left Betty in the cargo hold.”

Mickey let go of Argo’s wrist. “You’re good. You’re both good. Thanks for your patience.” He gave a salute with the device and slipped it away again.

Another gunshot, this one pounding against the roof of the shack.

“What a dumbass,” Geoff remarked, pulling open the back of the trawler.

“Who?” Argo asked.

“Every once in a while some idiot will find a rifle in the Bowl and decide to start taking potshots at us,” Mickey remarked as another gunshot screamed into the concrete about thirty feet up. “Usually it’s some asshole who got denied entry. Normally we take them out pretty quickly but this guy’s a ways out. We don’t have the range on anything here to get him and we’re not about to get close enough to let his aim improve. Because at this range, he sucks big time. So we needed Betty.” He jerked a thumb towards Geoff. “But numbnuts over there left her in the van.”

Geoff grumbled something under his breath, felt around in the hold and knocked twice, hard, against the metal floor.

Mayster looked out and shielded his eyes a bit. “How long has been doing this?”

Mickey shrugged. “Sixteen, eighteen hours. He doesn’t get bored easily, apparently.”

Mayster considered. “Not much else to do out there, though.”

Mickey smiled. “Point taken.”

Geoff came out from behind the trawler with Betty. Welsh got out of the van to take a look himself.

“Betty is gorgeous,” Welsh commented, whistling.

“What is it?” Argo asked, “Fifty caliber?”

Welsh nodded his head before Geoff could answer, “Oh yes. My friend, this is a Barrett M99. Anti-personnel with unbelievably sweet range. Kicks like a son of a bitch but it’s all right if you know what you’re doing. May I?” Welsh held out his hands.

Geoff handed Betty over, beaming with pride of ownership.

Welsh hefted the weapon and turned it over, its slate black metal gleaming in the sunlight. “You don’t see many of these anymore. Especially not in this good a shape.”

Geoff nodded out towards the Bowl, “We keep Betty around to deal with mosquitos like that jackass.”

Welsh considered for a moment. “May I?”

Geoff looked at Mickey. A shot rang high off of the wall behind them and they both shrugged. “Go for it,” Geoff said.

Mickey brought a pair of binoculars from the shack and handed them to Welsh, who had extended Betty’s bipod and laid it down on a chunk of concrete that appeared to have been set up for just such an occasion. Welsh nodded thanks and then scanned the distance. “There’s the son of a bitch,” he breathed. “I make him about sixteen hundred yards out. The sun’s winking off of his scope.”

“He’s shooting like this with a scope?” Mayster asked.

“See? What a jackass,” Geoff remarked.

Welsh handed the binoculars to Geoff who trained them on the target. Welsh then setup Betty on the chunk of concrete, crouched behind the gun, leaned into it and took aim. He looked up after a moment at Argo, who was standing five feet to one side of the muzzle. He motioned for Argo to step back. “The shock might hurt if you stand there,” Welsh explained.

Argo did not need to be told twice.

Welsh crouched down again, and after three seconds, squeezed off the round, bracing for the recoil. In the boxed in area by the interstate the sound was like a thunderclap.

Welsh looked up at Geoff who gave a thumbs up after a second. “Mosquito swatted. Nice shot.”

Welsh smiled. “Thanks for letting me use your Betty.”

“Well,” Geoff smiled, “she’s an easy girl, but we love her out here.”

They walked back towards the interstate. The guard by the gate opened it up for them to pass through. Argo and Mayster grabbed their gear while Threnody finally stepped out of the van. She carried a rucksack over one shoulder.

Mayster looked at the guard and nodded over towards the heap of trash. Argo had been right, it was pretty rank now that the wind had kicked up. “What’s the deal with the above ground sewage?”

The guard grinned. “Attracts rats,” he said simply. And then when Mayster gave no reaction he grinned more broadly. “Finger foods.”

Mayster nodded as Threnody walked up to join Welsh.

“Done playing man games?” she asked him.

Welsh had drawn out a cigarette and now lit it. “For the moment.”

“Can we go now?” she asked.

“But of course,” he grinned and blew smoke from his nostrils.

“Good,” she said, a smile sneaking in at the corners of her mouth.

Stefan couldn’t sleep. He wondered idly if he would ever sleep again.

He had never worn pain blockers before. If he closed his eyes and didn’t look, he could very well believe that he had lost his right leg from just below his hip on down. But they hadn’t taken the leg. They had merely blocked the nerves and then wired up his knee. He could be jogging again in three weeks, they had told him.
The dull ache on his forehead where the son of a bitch had smacked him with the shotgun was another story. No pain blockers could be used above the neck. And the pills did shit for him.

Sure, he could put his insomnia off on the odd feeling of not-leg that he was experiencing. He could put it off on his near-concussion.

But it was the idea of what he had done while in that temple. The meals he had had. And the things they had called upon.

Stefan didn’t believe in any of that shit, of course. And he had never seen anything like you could find in a horror story lurking in the shadows during the services. It had just been a feeling. A feeling of dread. He remembered when he had still had parents, and they had all attended that church on 10th Street. Sitting there crammed in with a bunch of fellow believers–that high feeling, of belonging, of being secure in one’s belief in a high power. Mountaintop experience, they called it.
Maybe it had been the same thing in the Lodge…just entirely in the opposite direction.

Stefan adjusted himself in his bed harness. He hated it, but it kept him reclined and his leg sticking straight out so that the macromeds outside his knee could conduct their work on the inside. They hummed on a very strange frequency.

He managed to put it out of his mind. He zoned in on the hums of the little machines doing their business, helping him. That was a comforting thought. He stopped thinking about the taste. The mess, Jesus, always a mess.

Stefan’s eyelids flickered and he had almost started to slip when…

…voices.

He had thought that having this two-person clinic room to himself was a blessing when he had regained consciousness. Now he was wishing there was someone else–even someone asleep–in the bed next to him.

How had these people gotten into the room with him? Had he fallen all the way asleep without realizing it?

“Sole survivor,” a male voice said. “Very lucky.”

“Yes,” a female voice replied, “lucky for us. He can tell us things.”

“Things we need to know,” another voice said–female, yes, but this one was quite young, by the sound of her. “We have to follow.”

Stefan could see the young girl walking softly, could make out her shape moving in the gloom, could hear the footsteps echoing around the chamber. How many were in here with him?

Then he could see the man walking in the opposite direction. Heard him speak: “Yes, he will help us stay on the trail. Won’t you, Stefan?” The man turned to look at him. Stefan’s skin goose-pimpled at the mention of his name and then went icy cold at seeing the man looking at him. In the gloom, he had no eyes. He looked wrong.

The woman’s voice again, as she walked by the window. A glow from somewhere outside illuminated a side of her face. A glimpse of scarred skin…an eyepatch. “We know you’re awake, my dear. Why don’t you tell us about your friends…the ones who left you alive.”

“They’re…they’re not my friends,” Stefan protested as the woman slipped back into the gloom. Foosteps echoing all around him, always footsteps. “We had a deal.”

“Tell us about your deal with them,” the young girl said, leaning forward at the foot of his bed. She was in her pre-teens, pretty, but with eyes that flickered cold.

“I gave them information about…about the Lodge,” Stefan blurted. He’d tell them anything, just get out of his room. He felt so crowded. Too many people. “Then they were supposed to leave me alive. Crippling me was never part of the deal.”

He looked down at the girl but she stepped into the gloom.

The woman moved past the window again and came over to his bedside. “I think there’s only one thing we need to know from Stefan. One last thing.” Her voice was so soft and soothing that it almost took Stefan’s mind off of the thing glinting in her hand–a blade. A very large blade that she was turning this way and that. Her one remaining eye was cruel and humorless. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Front?”

The woman’s features rippled, shifted and changed. A second later it was the man standing there with the evil-looking blade. The sound of footsteps had ended.

“Quite right,” Mr. Front said, then leaned in close, using the flat of the blade to reflect some light from outside into Stefan’s face.

“Do you know,” the man with the knife said, “where they were going next?”

The tunnel, wide enough to allow for large service vehicles, dipped down to what must have been the first sub-level of I-75 and then began to slant back upwards again. The four walked in the middle of the space.

Argo noticed that they had sealed off the rest of the sub-level, which was for the best. If you grew up anywhere near an interstate that was still standing, you couldn’t help but go exploring. He had heard some of the old stories about how people used to believe that houses could be haunted. His friend Rik had even found half of a shit-quality video on a simputer–some television special on the subject.

Interstates were easy replacements. When the Exodus happened, most interstates were positively packed with vehicles, the slower ones going in excess of eighty miles an hour on the higher levels. When everything Heavy decided to get the hell out–either in one way or another–the passengers in these vehicles found themselves travelling in a system that was no longer smart enough to maintain the three-foot safety space between each vehicle. These were people, of course, who didn’t have implants which had already committed suicide deep within their skulls, taking most of their involuntary physical systems down with them.

As a result, the interstates were a graveyard of twisted metal guaranteed to make children piss themselves, nowhere moreso than below the ground. The lower levels were self-contained and designed for those making the long haul cross-continent. You could drop down and push your speed up to two hundred miles an hour easy. You could take a nap and let your vehicle drive itself, waking you up just to inform you that your destination was coming up at the next exit. If you could get down to such a level, you could easily find crumpled vehicles still carrying the jumbled and fractured skeletons of their occupants. The meat was all long gone, of course, and very seldom did you find anything other than fragments, but it was an experience you never forgot.

The ten-year-old Argo had managed to get a door open on one moss-covered grayish-green vehicle, only to have what must have been three skeletons tumble out and become dust at his feet. In the light from his electric torch, he saw that the upper half of a skull’s face had remained intact, with both of the empty sockets staring up at him…

Argo shook his head. No need to keep thinking about that.

He did wonder absently if anyone still thought about haunted houses anymore. He thought probably not.

The whole world’s fucking haunted now, he told himself. Why bother?

As they started up the slope, Argo heard a pinging coming from his pack. He reached back, slipped on his visor and saw that his firewall was holding steady, but being positively savaged. A quick glance to Mayster showed the same thing happening there.

Welsh was watching them both, one eyebrow cocked, smiling. “Firewalls, right?”

Argo nodded.

“Well, they should be fine for the short haul,” he said. “We’ll upgrade you when we get home. That way it’ll go from denial of service levels to a dull roar. But you never get rid of it.” He spied a piece of masonry lying in the dust and snatched it up. As he placed it in his left trenchcoat pocket he remarked, “Some of it’s just Sneakernet traffic and harmless. Most of it’s spam, though. Just for fuck’s sake don’t accept any pop-ups or attachments if anything gets through.”

At the end of the tunnel was a large metal door with a ring in the center of it.

“Well, boys,” Welsh said, “welcome to civilization. Or the closest thing we could approximate.”

Then he pulled the door open and the lights came streaming in.

In the end, it was everything they expected and yet, it was nothing like they had expected. Indianapolis had possessed very little in the way of multi-story buildings. If you had a five-floor building you were doing fairly well, to be honest. What the Exodus hadn’t destroyed, the violent weather of the Bowl had finally eroded and whittled and pushed until they collapsed. The building Argo and Mayster called home–had called home, he corrected himself–had been five floors not counting the dome. And that had been pushing it.

Even though he had never seen a skyscraper before–not in real life, anyway–it wasn’t the tallest of the giant gleaming towers off in the distance that caught his eye first. Even on street level, you could see them above the tenements.

It wasn’t the buzz of skytrawlers and airseds using the roads overhead while their slower, treaded cousins moved in less auspicious ways below.

It wasn’t the people, or even the feeling of the people. While the bustle of humanity was slim here right inside the borders of the Atlantic Union, there was the overwhelming feeling of being in a real city, a real honest to God megalopolis. Argo couldn’t tell what formed that picture, that intuition of the millions of people who lived between here and the ocean. Maybe it was the smells, maybe it was all five of his senses telling him the same thing that his pack’s firewall was: Holy shit, man, what the hell?

They stepped out into the light, left the underworld of I-75 behind, and right in front of them was a tenement building. Up one corner of the structure was the most godawful shitcobble of an antenna Argo had ever seen. It was this that drew his eyes first, and then followed it down to something that looked incredibly out of place.

It was a Nodebooth. Significantly less beaten up than the one in their hometown, but it was virtually identical. And behind it, two men were stacking cases. There was a hodge of different types of cases, but a good number of them were strikingly similar to the metal storage container that they would see turn up at the Nodebooth they frequented.

“That’s right,” Welsh said, following his gaze. “Welcome to Sneakernet at the end of the world. This is where things are converted from Sneakernet 2.0 back down to version 1.0.”

“File sharing the old fashioned way,” Argo said.

“The old old fashioned way,” Welsh countered. “Hang on a second, would you?” He reached into his right coat pocket and produced a small device that looked like half of a silver pen. He held it up to the side of his face. “Yeah,” he said and paused.

“Yeah, we’re back,” Welsh continued, and Argo quickly realized he was hearing half of a conversation. “Right outside the I-75 tunnel. Yeah. Okay, well come on.”
He put the device back in his pocket.

“Cell phone?” Argo asked.

“What?” Welsh looked at him. “Oh. No, not a cell phone. There’s no cells anymore. And not a satellite phone. Because God knows there aren’t any satellites anymore. Well. Mostly. No, it just does voice over IP.” He pointed to the shitcobble antenna. “Reception’s great standing right here.”

Welsh nodded over to Threnody. “That was Simon. He’s on his way.” Threnody merely nodded back and stayed standing as she was. Argo noted that when something was going on that didn’t concern her, Threnody almost seemed to become very easy to overlook–a statue, almost. A statue that can come to life and kill dozens of skinheads while breaking very little sweat, he reminded himself. The picture in his mind of her soaring over the heads of the crowd back at the Lodge was quite clear.

Argo looked over at Mayster, who had been very quiet since stepping out of the tunnel. Argo had chalked this up initially to the shock of finally being where they had always wanted to end up.

Instead, Mayster had his visor on and his earpieces in. He looked through the readings on his visor at Argo, brow furrowed. “I’ve been tweaking my firewall. They have music on demand channels here, man. A minute ago I was listening to somebody playing some fucking twenty-four/seven polka station out of his bedroom. And then I finally found some live DJs spinning from a club over in Boston.”

“Yeah?” Argo asked.

“Yeah,” Mayster said gravely, “place is open twenty-four seven. Spinning all day and all night. Then I switched over to something called Sonic Sphere One, playing trance mashups. And then I switched to a station out of Tampa, Techno Wall to Wall.” Mayster stopped talking. Argo guessed another station was coming up.

“And?” Argo finally demanded.

“Most of it is shit,” Mayster said. “Most of it is absolute fried shit on a bun with a side of fries.” Mayster put a hand on Argo’s shoulder. “We got here just in time. This place needs us, man.”

Welsh, who had been watching all of this from behind a halo of smoke from a recently lit cig, chuckled to himself. “We’re on a mission from God,” he said.

Neither Argo or Mayster knew what the hell to make of that and Welsh, of course, refused to explain.

The thing about Simon was that you heard him coming long before you saw him.

The taxicab hovered around the corner, giving a bit of a terrible lurch and belching a small cloud of inky smoke as it did so. As Argo listened and watched the vehicle struggling to come closer to them, he could swear that the cab was actually chugging in their direction. He didn’t think it was possible for a sky vehicle to chug.

The cab touched down in front of them. Simon pulled himself out of his driver’s side door and sat in his open window, folding his arms on top of his own roof. He was a relatively small man with blond hair and a van dyke that was an orange-red. It was impossible to tell which was his natural color.

“Threnody!” he called out, grinning. “Hullo, love! Might I say that if you were looking any better, you’d be against the law?”

To Argo’s surprise, Threnody smiled at Simon. “Well, you’ve already said it. So I guess we’ll just have to cope somehow, won’t we?”

Simon gave a bark of laughter and slapped the top of the cab, making the poor thing shudder violently. Argo and Mayster exchanged a look. The question passed between them silently, We’re really going to climb into that shitpiece, aren’t we?

They threw each other a mental shrug.

Simon turned his attention to Welsh. “So, what’s the story, big man?”

Welsh grunted and pulled out another cigarette. Where the hell does he get all the smokes? Argo asked himself.

“Home, Si,” Welsh said simply.

Simon gave a sweeping gesture with his hand and the trunk lid rolled back. The four travellers stowed their gear and moved to enter. Mayster turned to Threnody. “Front seat?” he offered.

Threnody shook her head. Was she actually touched at the chivalry of it? She was smiling, after all. “No, go right ahead. I don’t like to sit up there. The door’s up there.”

Mayster shrugged and moved to take the place up front. Argo climbed in back with Welsh and Threnody, wondering, This thing has four doors…what the hell is she talking about?

With everyone in and strapped down, Simon popped in. He pulled his harness in place across his orange-padded jumpsuit and stepped down on the accelerator while pulling his steering wheel backwards.

The cab, with a protesting groaning squawk that sent forth another plume of smoke, rose into the air and into a through-lane, gaining speed.

“There we are, love,” Simon told the cab, patting the steering column with some affection.

“I’m amazed,” Mayster began. “When I first saw this thing I figured it wouldn’t do over seveeeeeee AHHHHH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?”

Mayster had thrown his arms up over his head and was leaning back into his chair as far as he could.

Argo strained to look over, as he was sitting right behind Mayster. Welsh and Threnody didn’t seem to be reacting in the same way, neither was Simon, so whatever it was it couldn’t be too serious.

Sitting in Mayster’s lap was a gleaming silver robot, resembling a cross between a small dog and a huge beetle. It was sitting up in Mayster’s lap, as though begging for a treat. It clicked its mandibles together in something that Argo supposed was a greeting, seeming to disregard Mayster’s reaction to its presence.

Simon glowered at the thing. “Go on, you little bastard: get to work,” he called.

And the thing did. It disappeared back through the cab’s dashboard through a small door, moving swiftly on chittering legs.

Mayster looked at Simon, incredulous. “What…the fuck was that thing?”

“Popbot,” Simon said. “He’s my mechanic popbot. They’re supposed to last for a year but I swear I can only get seven months out of them.”

The popbot in question was now moving across the hood at a high rate of speed. Argo had noticed some rattling going on there. Only stopping for a moment at each connecting bolt, the popbot threw out a leg, snapped a tool into place, and then tightened the bolt.

“Disposable robots for specific tasks,” Welsh explained further. “Simon’s cab is a hunk of shit, so the popbot’s all that keeps him in the air at times.”

“He’s only joking, honey,” Simon said, stroking the steering column again.

“You coulda warned me!” Mayster complained.

“Lady said that’s where the door was,” Welsh said, forcing back a smile.

Argo watched as the popbot finished ensuring the front of the cab wouldn’t fall off, then disappear under the vehicle, where he heard rattling and whirring take place. Seven months, he thought to himself. Amazing.

Then he looked out across the Atlantic Union, which, as he understood it, was nothing but buildings from here to the ocean. Incredible. And the air here was alive with information. He could almost imagine the open spaces around them throbbing with it, every machine passing data to every other machine, tying them all together. Once he understood that the Internet had evolved as the primary means by which the world communicated, over all manner of copper wire and fiber optics. And now that all of that infrastructure was gone, all everyone had was each other.

He let his visor flip over to watch all of the traffic that he was filtering out and all the traffic that was, even at this speed, driving stories above the ground, passing through his pack and to the rest of the Union.

“How about some music, Si?” Welsh asked.

Argo almost missed it, but a look passed between Simon and Welsh. Simon smiled and threw Welsh a wink in the rear view mirror. “Coming right up. Let me just find it.”

Mayster noticed it first. Argo took a second because he was almost hypnotized by the stats of what his pack was passing. “This is Circus Eclectica out of Richmond,” Simon said, then turned up the volume.

“Holy…” Argo began and Mayster finished it for him in the front seat, “…shit.”

The song coming out of Simon’s speakers was “Open 5 A.M.”

Simon brought the cab to a stop in front of a light brownish building. Argo heard something clank onto the back of the vehicle and looked around. The popbot streaked out from beneath just in time to avoid being crushed against the pavement. It went inert on top of the trunk, although in Argo’s imagination the poor little bastard was panting.

“Stephenson Building,” Simon called out, pulling himself to sit on the driver’s side window as before. “All ashore that’s going ashore, we–oh hell.”

A man was coming out of the building towards them. He was wearing a black coverall outfit that looked to be laced with multiple impact fiber weaves. He also had a sidearm strapped to his belt. His eyes were hidden behind thin black sunglasses.

“Simon,” the man said.

“Well, hello there, Hedrock,” Simon replied, all smiles. “So nice to see you ag–”

“You’re not wearing your suit.”

“Well, yeah, I meant to tell you about that…the damn thing is sort of hot…”

“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s got plenty of ventilation.”

“And constrictive.”

“It’s a size too large as it is.”

“And it’s a horrible color.”

“The only reason it’s orange,” Hedrock said, “is you haven’t taken it out to wear it and adjust the color. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Simon sighed, “I’ll wear the suit. Happy?” He began to slide down into the cab.

Hedrock didn’t smile. “Ecstatic.” He turned to Mayster, who was standing closest, “Ingrate. It was a birthday present.”

Simon stuck his head back out. “I heard that!”

Welsh pulled the rest of his bags from the cab, “Would you two get a room already?”

“Will you be needing anything else?” Simon asked Welsh.

“No, we’re good for now, thanks,” Welsh responded. “Just keep your eyes open and let me know if you hear or see anything out of the ordinary.”

“I remember what ordinary was like,” Simon said dourly, and pulled the cab up and away from the pavement.

Welsh turned to Argo and Mayster. “Gentlemen, this is Hedrock. Hedrock, this is Argo and Mayster. Hedrock’s our resident tech. Anything you
need he’ll make you. Whether you want it or not. But trust me, he knows what he’s doing.” Welsh made his way up the stairs to the front door, calling back to Hedrock all the way, “Check their gear, if you would. And make sure they get full access to the building. They’re on staff with all privileges.”

Threnody was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she had already made her way inside while Hedrock and Simon were arguing.

Hedrock was ushering Argo and Mayster in. In the foyer, he stopped them. “All right, show me your gear. I can’t have bad gear in my house.”

Argo and Mayster exchanged a look, and opened their bags.

“Your packs need upgrading to the latest firmware. Your firewalls are severely down level. I’m amazed they’re still functioning. Actually let me replace your packs altogether…I’ve doubled the capacity of mine, it’s an easy hack. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. These earbuds you’re using are shit, I can replace those. Best to just toss them. I can replicate these smart vinyl platters and get you brand new ones, again, I can cut your access time by a third and I could probably move more controls to the center. These bags are shit, by the way. I can fix that easy. I just got some new impact fiber. We’ll get you some light anvil cases for the gear, too, no more of this backpacking it. That’s neanderthal to the extreme. What is this, a slingshot? I respect that. It needs to be rebalanced, though, look at this. I’ve got just the thing for it, don’t worry about a thing. And your ammunition…wow, that’s pretty ingenious, I have to admit, but trust me, we can do better than…what are these–these are ball bearings, right? Ingenious, but crude. I can fix that, no worries. Okay, let me see…what’s left? Ah, yeah, let me see that sword of yours, Mayster.”

Mayster shrugged, unsheathed his katana and handed it over.

Hedrock examined it, turning it this way and that. Then finally, he pulled his sunglasses off and looked at Mayster in awe. “This…this is kami no tekkou, isn’t it?”

Mayster nodded. “Sure is. God metal.”

“Je-sus…Christ,” Hedrock said. “I never thought I would ever…ever…see one of these. There’s only six in existence, and…hell, five are considered lost. Four now.” He handed the blade back to Mayster with an air of reverence. “That’s…perfection. I can’t do anything with that. That sword is welcome in my house any day of the week.”

He pulled out what looked to be a metal basket of some kind. He began dumping all of their gear, clothes and paraphernalia into it. “I’ll start with your packs and get those back to you. I know it’s uncomfortable to be without one.”

Argo had noticed there was no bulge in the back of Hedrocks’ clothing, nothing there at the small of the back where packs normally went. “I see you’re not wearing one. What, are you like Welsh?”

Hedrock laughed. “No one’s like Welsh. No, I’m wearing my pack.” He indicated his black coverall. “Anyway, let me get started on this. You’ll find some available rooms on the second floor. Pleasure meeting you both,” he said, and then left, his eyes on the now-resheathed katana blade.

“You have a fan,” Argo said.

“The sword does. Only serious weapon freaks know it for what it is,” Mayster replied, smiling. “I like him already.”

An hour later Hedrock returned and handed over their packs. He had cloned the contents of their drives and given them back brand-new packs sporting three times their previous drive capacity. They were smaller and faster than anything they had seen before.

As Argo and Mayster put their new packs on, Hedrock mentioned, “Should be pretty much the same setup as you had before, but better.” He paused then added, “Oh, and I put some newer music editing programs on your drives. Your old ones are there, but there’s been some new stuff since whatever disc you copped those from made it out to the Bowl. So give them a shot. And I made sure they have the latest firmware.”

Thirty minutes after that, they received their new bags. They were sleek, black and felt like they could stop a bullet.

“They could stop a bullet,” Hedrock pointed out, “And just for kicks they give off no heat signature no matter what you’ve got inside them.”

Argo asked, “What are you making all of this with?”

Hedrock suppressed a smile. “Thought you’d never ask. Come with me.”

He led the two of them down a hallway and into a large room. On a desk closest to the door was a computer terminal. A sixty-inch flat screen dominated the wall it was hung upon and a wireless keyboard sat on the desk. “I know, it looks archaic with a screen, but the displayless output just never looks right to me. Call me old-fashioned.”

They barely noticed that, however. Instead, the two were eyeing the large container that dominated the room. They had seen a couple of pictures from ancient computer centers, back when machines dominated entire buildings. This looked like a modern day descendant of one of those. It sat, light blue-colored and spartan, with only a door in one side. The rest was non-descript.

“That…is a maker,” Argo said.

Hedrock nodded. “It is.”

“That…” Mayster said, “…is the biggest goddamn maker I have ever seen.”

Hedrock nodded. “I don’t doubt that. Meet Big Blue.” He patted a hand on the side of the enormous device. “She and I go way back.”

“Okay, first, how is it you guys have a maker, and, second, how do you have one that size?” Argo asked. “No one uses makers anymore. And one that size would…” Something clicked in his mind. “Jesus, no wonder you can crank out packs and stuff that fast. You must have armies of…”

“Legions of nanite builders, yes. Armies, in fact,” Hedrock said. “And no one uses makers just because they’re superstitious about technology they can’t see with their own eyes. Who can blame them, really? But still…nothing illegal about it.” He thought for a moment, “Well, not that we really have laws anymore, but you know what I mean.” He pointed to the display. “Basically, it works like this: I use this design program: the Siege Engine. One of my ancestors actually coded the first version of this, before the Exodus, even. I tell this what I want, it tells the maker, the maker makes it. We have so many nanites in there that creating things is pretty damn quick. We just dump garbage in one side and out comes…whatever we want.” He looked at the two of them. “Well, within reason. I couldn’t make a person, for example. Not one that functioned properly anyway.”

Argo and Mayster both gave each other a sideways glance that said: spoken like somebody who’s tried. Just because he can.

“There you two are.”

Welsh was standing in the doorway. “You should be glad I came to rescue you. He’ll tech-talk your ears bloody, so he will.” He jerked a thumb out in the hallway. “I’ve got something to show you. Something…you’ll appreciate.”

Welsh led the two of them down two floors. They were obviously underground by now. They entered what looked to be, at first, a simple lounge area. A couch lined the three walls they could see as they entered. It was roughly thirty feet across, small but roomy. No windows. Designed with comfort in mind.

And seemingly without purpose.

Argo noticed it first, but Mayster was quicker in saying it. “This room is soundproofed.” He walked over to the walls and ran a hand over them. “Heavily soundproofed.” He knocked on the padding, which didn’t seem to be padding at first. In fact, it looked like concrete until you actually touched it and realized that it was a dense foam of some sort. “What is this?”

“The safest place in the building, honestly. If we were to get attacked, this would be the one place that would be guaranteed to survive.” Welsh walked over to a panel on the wall and hit a button. “But to answer your question, it’s Alexandria,” he said.

Simultaneously, both Argo and Mayster heard a beep from their packs. They pulled down their visors and saw that a new network had been detected. And sure enough, the network ID was Alexandria.

Argo looked over to Welsh, who was scribbling something onto a piece of light blue paper. “What’s the password?”

Welsh held up the paper. He had written down a twenty-eight digit alphanumeric code on it. Both packs read the code through their visors and recognized the code. After this, Welsh pulled out his lighter and set the paper on fire. It flared out instantly, leaving no trace that it had existed mere seconds earlier.

Argo saw a single file folder appear on his visor workspace. When he looked inside that file folder, he saw twenty-eight folders, labelled A to Z with one as an underscore and yet another as a number sign. Inside each one were audio files…thousands upon thousands of audio files. Argo watched the number of files and the amount of space tally up in another window.

Mayster sat down on the couch closest to him, hard. It was obvious he was looking at exactly the same thing. “Holy shit.”

Argo was looking through his visor at Welsh in disbelief. “What…is…this?”

Welsh smiles, “Largest digital music library that I’m aware of. Probably the largest that’s ever existed.”

“Holy shit,” Mayster said, and Argo could see that he had pulled on a glove and was scrolling through the first several screens.

Argo blinked, “Where…where did you get all of this?”

Welsh had a seat next to Mayster. “When the Exodus happened, there were several online music services. There was a guy I met who had made a point of scamming their free trial periods to download their entire contents. So he had, essentially, between those downloads and the library of files he already had, a backup of most of the world’s music. I’m sure there are some indie bands he missed, but most everything that was online, he had. He was a bit of a neurotic completist.”

Argo would look up a band, and there would be a folder normally marked “Live.” Inside was, in chronological order, a listing of complete shows by date. Some artists had entire tour schedules represented, night after night after night. “This is…unbelievable.”

“Yeah, this is where I like to come and spend free time when I have it,” Welsh said, then stood up. “Okay, well, dive in, boys. I’ll have somebody bring you food and water to make sure you don’t forget and let yourselves starve or anything.”

Mayster had already put his ear buds in and was listening to something, wide-eyed.

Argo nodded absently and was following suit.

Welsh chuckled and left them there.

When he checked on them nine hours later, Argo was collapsed on a couch with an arm thrown over his eyes. Mayster was sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, eyes shut, swaying a bit, listening to something. He looked like he was having a bit of a religious experience. On reflection Welsh thought he probably was.

Welsh gave him a little nudge with his boot. Mayster looked up, not the least bit startled but looking quite serene. And exhausted. Welsh noticed that someone had brought them up (or perhaps they had liberated for themselves) a small portable coffee maker. It looked like it had done some serious battle since he saw the two DJs last.

Welsh nodded to Mayster and the question was clear.

Mayster took out an ear bud and said, “Hendrix. Star-Spangled Banner at Woodstock. I have never heard this recording before.”

“Seriously?”

Mayster smiled and nodded, “You’d be amazed how comparatively little we had in the way of music out in the Bowl. And, you’d be amazed how old even several gig worth of music can get.”

Welsh smiled and nodded, “Less surprised than you’d think.” He nodded again, towards the earbuds. “How is it?”

Mayster nodded back gravely. “It’s…intense. And it’s fucking gorgeous, man. Fucking scary it’s so gorgeous, man.”

“Good,” Welsh said. “Stock up. Because we’ve got a gig booked in two days. You guys and Thren. And people are dying to hear you. They’re requesting your stuff in droves, you know.”

Mayster was half-listening to Welsh, half-listening to Jimi. “After hearing this, I don’t know if I can hang, man. It was easier when we didn’t have all of this to contend with.” Mayster gestured to the walls, where a library of music hid behind soundproofing foam. “All of this to…you know, live up to.”

“Welcome to the big, scary world,” Welsh said. “You’ll cope. And now if you’ll excuse me, this is one of the few places on the planet where I won’t allow myself to smoke. And I need to.”

Mayster waved at him as he put the second ear bud back in, and Welsh watched him disappear inside the sounds again.

Welsh thought this whole crazy plan just might actually fucking work. Go figure.

Ken sat on the beach, waiting like he was told to. The sun had set over the water to the west nearly a half-hour before, and fifteen minutes before that the mobile floodlight units had shown up. Now this one patch of beach looked like the sun had finished setting in the west and then showed up to have a bit of a lie-down right here.

Ken was eighteen. He was clad only in cargo shorts and wore a full body tan like only those who live perpetually on beaches seem to be able to do and do well. He leaned back against the peeling paint of the lifeguard stand and simply marked time. They told him not to go anywhere, so he had complied. Said someone would come to talk with him. Fine. He waited.

After another ten minutes of nothing–nothing but people in the hazmat suits wandering in and out and around the hastily constructed tent on the sand like overdressed ants–one of the ants came out to speak with him. Between the tent and the suited-up ants, Ken was reminded somehow of a circus.

“Ken?” he asked, smiling. “Ken Amorri?”

Ken stood up, brushed sand from the seat of his shorts and nodded. “That’s me.”

The man kept smiling. He was dressed in a hazmat suit–except the head piece and gas mask were missing, with no sign of them. “I’m William Holland,” he said. “I appreciate your patience, but I just wanted to make sure I talked with you so we could have a complete report of what happened.”

Ken crossed his arms. “I already told the two men who showed up first what happened.”

Holland smiled and nodded, “Of course you did. But let’s just pretend I haven’t already been briefed by them and you tell me. How’s that?” Holland reached inside the hazmat suit and pulled out a small device he had on a lanyard around his neck. He pressed a button and a dark blue light began to flash slowly. “Start from the beginning.”

“I was taking a walk on the beach…”

“Uh-huh. And what time was that?”

“Before seven.”

“And where did you find the body?”

Ken pointed at the circus tent. “Pretty much where you found it. I didn’t go near it. I didn’t touch it.” He added after a moment, “I remembered the warnings at the entrance to the beach.”

Holland nodded, still smiling. “That’s excellent. That’s good work.” Holland tucked the device back into the hazmat suit, waited a moment, then tilted his head, looking at Ken with a different sort of smile. “You’ve…never seen one before…have you?”

Ken raised his eyebrows. “So he’s…it’s…one of….?”

Holland nodded again. “Oh yes. You were right to call it in. But you’ve…never seen one before.”

Ken shook his head. “No. I mean…I’ve seen vids. Heard stories. But…no.”

Holland’s smile changed again. Not necessarily in a pleasant way. “Well…this will be educational then. Come with me.”

Before they entered the circus tent proper, Ken stopped. Holland immediately sensed this and stopped at the flap. “Don’t I…?” Ken began.

Holland tugged at the headless hazmat suit. “Need one of these? Not really. He’s fully isolated now and at this point these are just a formality. Reassuring, but…you won’t be in here long enough. I’ll give you a peek and then send you on your way with our thanks.”

Ken shrugged. The curiosity of youth pulled him forward and Holland held back the flap for him.

When Ken walked in, two men in full hazmat gear stepped forward but Holland held up a hand. “He’s with me. He called it in originally.”

The two nodded and went back about their business, both with handheld devices, tapping away with a stylus built into the finger of one glove.

In the absolute center of the tent there was a clear cube that looked to be an inch thick. Were this an actual circus tent with actual rings, this would have been the center ring: the star attraction. Standing eight feet high and eight feet across, it seemed to be of transparent steel or some other such substance. Around the cube, at a distance of eight or nine feet, a red circle had been laid around the cube on top of the sand.

Inside the cube stood a terrified man.

The man had his arms wrapped around himself as though he were cold, and he was slowly turning and turning in a circle. His face was a mask of misery. Until his turning brought him to where he could see Ken clearly.

“You,” the man said simply. “Listen…you look like a reasonable young man. You have to tell these people there’s been a terrible mistake.”

The man was completely bald on top, wearing bifocals, and dressed in what seemed to be jeans and a plaid button-down shirt. He looked…incredibly ordinary.

“I don’t know how I got here,” the man continued. “I just woke up and was in this box. Please…I have a wife and child. They’re waiting for me at home.” His face seemed to grow more frantic. “Please. Listen to me. Can…can you just bring me a phone? I’m allowed a phone call, aren’t I? Can’t you bring me a phone?”

Ken looked at Holland, who was in turn looking at him, watching for the younger man’s reactions. Ken became increasingly uneasy. Whatever he had expected to see inside the cube, it was not this.

Holland cleared his throat and said simply, “Step over the red line.”

Ken blinked and looked from Holland to the line and back again. “What was that?”

“Step over the line,” Holland repeated. “It’s fine…you’re safe. Trust me.”

Ken decided that he didn’t trust Holland, but again…his youth betrayed him and sent him, nodding slightly, over the red line.

It happened so fast, Ken never saw the man change. One moment the man was there–the worried, balding man wanting to get back to his wife and child–and then the voice disappeared. The man disappeared. And something else was there in its place.

Looking back over the incident–which is something Ken would find himself spending far too much time doing over the rest of his life–he found that it had happened just that quickly. One minute man, next minute…not. It had happened too fast for his mind to fully process it.

The main thing he remembered was the face. The man’s face had changed–more specifically, the jaw had become detached from the rest of the face, and it stretched downwards, stretching the skin with it: a gaping mineshaft of a mouth.

The arms, folded previously, now were no longer arms at all: they were not unlike a swarm of angry bees, though still attached to his/its body. Still attached, because they banged on the transparent steel. Over. And over. And over again.

Despite the horrific sight the befuddled man had become, it wasn’t the savage attack on the cube that convinced Ken that he had come so close to dying. Not just now–not just the seemingly mindless assault on the barrier that would have been, could have been him. Had he not heeded the signs on the beach…had he approached the body washed up on the shore…

No, none of that brought Ken to grips with the fragility of his hold on life. It was instead: the sound.

No longer a befuddled stream of pleas, it was instead the cry of a beast. More to the point, the roar of a lion as though it were crying out through a throatful of locusts…who were also roaring.

Ken stood for a moment, dumbfounded, watching this creature that so clearly wanted him and every other living creature on that beach dead. Watching it attack the cube with a never yielding ferocity.

He felt a tug at his back and was grateful he didn’t piss himself right then and there. It was Holland.

“Just step back across the line. That’s it.”

Ken was complying and as he left the circle around the cube, he saw the man stop, and the man’s skin began to run. It flowed together and apart and eventually reformed into the man who had been there originally. The man stood motionless until one black crawling thing scuttled into place on the side of his nose.

Then the man moved and spoke once more. “Aren’t you listening to me? I said I’m hungry. Please bring me something.”

Ken’s mind was reeling and his throat a desert as Holland led him back to the entrance of the circus tent. “What…what are you–”

“Going to do with it?” Holland asked for Ken. “There’s nothing else to be done: we feed it into a plasma furnace, so that there’s nothing left to infect anyone.”

Ken nodded, as though this made perfect sense. Which, given time away from his own befuddlement, it would.

Holland continued, “It’s important that everyone be aware of what can happen when an Australian washes up on the beach. Make sure you tell your friends about what you saw.”

Ken nodded and said he would. He turned and made his way up the beach, back towards the lifeguard stand. Once Holland had gone back into the circus tent, Ken leaned over, hands on his knees, and dry heaved into the sand. After a few minutes, the terror subsided and let go of his insides…just a little. Enough to get him home, anyway.