Con Code Read online

  “I get that. Like ‘look here’, but don’t look down.” Gordon takes three steps, turns, three steps, turns. “My head feels gross too. I thought I was just tired.”

  It’s strange that such a ‘transparent’ structure would have a massive hidden underground operation. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Juan, though. He’s a showpiece. Geo loves parading Juan in front of potential investors. I witnessed it several times from my cage—the Geo tour with Resource Ring investors, like the couple who entered the building today. Take them past my cage with whatever upgrade I was undergoing and a ‘not long now before’ finger thrust my direction, ‘functions as fluidly as’ thumb points over one shoulder to where Juan obediently stands at attention with a semi-smile gracing an otherwise bland face. Everything about my forced upgrades was open to public exhibition. Geo doesn’t seem like the type to hide anything.

  I press my thoughts out, trying again to figure out how to use brainwaves to affect those around me. Maybe I need to figure out what my goal is. Upload my friends from the game. That’s my goal, but how do I word that as a thought? Or a command? Upload. I focus all I can on that one word, centering every snap of energy to the spot at the top of my spine where it seems all my connections meet to zing at the corner of my jaw. “Ow!”

  “AH!” Gordon hollers at the same instant I reach to hold my smarting jaw.

  “Jennie?” Mav jumps off the cart as though he accidentally sat down on my stomach.

  My cover blown, I pretend like I only just woke up. “Where’s everyone else?”

  Gordon paces away from me while facing me. “Are you alright?”

  “Are you kidding me, Gordon?” If I didn’t think a slap from me would shatter the entire left side of his face, I’d totally lay one into the side of his skull right now. He just had me tazed. “Just answer the question. Abby, Ben, Dr. Miller. Where are they?”

  “Miller is still being detained,” Mav answers.

  “Detained?” What’s that supposed to mean? Is he alright? “Where? Why?”

  “We were all in custody for two months,” Gordon says defensively as though I’m accusing him of not being by Miller’s side, which I’m not. Two months was long enough for all my upgrades, I assume. I don’t know if Geo intended that, or if it worked to his advantage serendipitously.

  “Abby and Ben?” I ask again.

  “We don’t know.” Mav speaks after Gordon doesn’t fill in the blank. “We were separated while being held and questioned.”

  “It’s possible they’ve been deported to the Outercontintents. Anything North or South of the Tropics.” Gordon shrugs like he’s saying, ‘This is a sorry excuse for an optimistic guess.’

  “Why weren’t you deported then?” I ask, removing the irritating sweater. I still have my post-surgical scrubs outfit underneath. Anything is better than a scouring pad against my skin.

  “We were,” Mav says. Gordon nods like an apology.

  “We’re sort of illegals right now,” Mav adds.

  “We couldn’t leave our property…” Gordon catches the indignation behind my eyes at that word. I’m no one’s property. “We couldn’t leave our own people behind.” It’s too late. I heard ‘property’.

  “Well, what’s your plan?” My voice rises. This is insane. I continue to go from an awkward situation to progressively asinine. “You’re not honestly considering helping these guys?” I indicate the grounds Belen’s people recently occupied.

  “They have a plan to get out of Ecuador.” Gordon shrugs again. “We figured we’d find you, help them, and then benefit from their escape plan…”

  Mav rubs his shoulder like it hurts, but it’s more to cover what he says next. “After they blow up the building, we’re outta here.” Like just having motivation behind an action is reason enough to justify it. If that were true, murder trials would be a whole lot different.

  “What?” I can’t let them do this. I need to ensure I can upload more people. I can’t be the only one. Juan hardly counts since he’s a freaking perfect human pet robot and I hate him. “They can’t.”

  “I’m not letting Geovanni, whoever he is, take away my family’s company, or stain my brother’s memory,” Mav Pauses so long I think he’s done talking. Then he shouts, “he’s not in charge,” jarring my audio receptors.

  “So we wait for them to come back out? Or for the building to blow?” I can’t hide the contempt in my voice. “Don’t you think we’re a little close to the detonation?” I’ve been close to a large-scale explosion before. Sure, it was a game setting, but it still wasn’t fun. Not something I want to have to repair myself from in this version of existence.

  “Jennie.” Gordon pulls at the collar of his shirt, letting more hot air in than out. Ecuador is simmering in every way today. “Do you know anyone from Singapore?”

  “How would I?” I say.

  “No. I don’t know… Nothing,” he says, obviously irritated.

  Mav doesn’t take his eyes off the wide doors of the black glass building. “It might be a smart move to go to Singapore. We’re supposed to be deported anyway, right?”

  “Singapore isn’t North of the Tropics. It’s fully Intercontinental,” Gordon says. “Deported means north or south not lateral.”

  Mav’s eyes remain intent on the black glass towering before us. “Someone’s coming.”

  Gordon grabs the handhold of the cart I’m sitting on, moving the circling wheel once. I have to swivel my legs around and crane my neck to see what’s coming. A tall figure distorts behind the panes of the building, moving quickly toward the doors. No one follows behind the wavering image. The closer the distortion gets to the opening, I notice part of the reason it looks so odd is because it’s carrying something.

  The figure presses the outer doors open. The first thing I see is Belen’s dark coloring and untamed hair slung over the shoulder of Juan.

  “Jennie?” he hollers from just inside the entrance.

  If he thinks the fact he’s holding Belen hostage is going to convince me to turn myself in, he grossly underestimates my affection for my initial rescuer. We’re at the far end of the parking area, right at the edge where lot turns to hill. Ace’s statue immortalizing his injuries stands between us and Juan. He bends to view us around the monument. His eyes open the second he spots us. Juan runs, mouth open while he sprints with Belen over one shoulder. Her weight doesn’t slow him.

  “Why aren’t we running away?” I ask.

  “He’s with Belen?” Mav obviously misses the fact that Belen is completely unconscious. It’s not like she’s choosing to be paired with Juan at this moment. “He doesn’t look hostile.”

  “Look at you, Mav. You’re a freaking Greek God,” Gordon says, “Maybe a superpowered, highly-intelligent, deadly, competitive, humanly irrational robot running at you with what might be a dead body over its shoulder doesn’t intimidate you, but I’m short, scrappy, and stupid in comparison and I say we run.”

  “You wasted thirty seconds on all that wordiness,” Mav shouts back to Gordon.

  By this time, Juan is upon us. “I’m glad you’re safe. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  None of us knows quite how to digest his sentence. His words don’t sound like the Juan I know. Smug and smooth.

  “Did you hear me?” Juan says. He opens one of the vehicle doors and throws Belen inside like groceries. “They’re all coming online. We have to go.”

  “Who is coming online?” Gordon asks.

  Juan doesn’t look at Gordon but focuses on me. “It’s the Mord, GenE.” The way Juan pronounces my name sends a chill up my frigid metallic spine.

  “The who?” Mav asks. “Mort? Who is that?” He turns to Gordon. “Do you know Mort?”

  “What’s your code, Juan?” I ask. Liquid is again pumping wildly through my system, alerting all my scans and alarms, but all I see is Juan’s machine. Just Juan. In nothing but his Juan suit and Juanness. It’s whatever is housed within him that has me on edge, and my scans don�
�t look that deep.

  “I can explain it all later, but they’ve made a mistake,” Juan says. “A serious mistake.”

  “Who is they?” Mav asks.

  Sound rumbles from the building before us. Not the kind of sound encouraging a person to hang around and identify it. It’s more the sort of sound that gives a person the ‘something’s not right’ feeling in their gut. The kind of sound that proceeds bad things.

  “Go.” Gordon opens the back driver side-door and slides in. “Come on, trust the man.”

  “He’s our enemy!” I say.

  Mav sides with Gordon.

  “You coming?” Juan asks. “Would you rather shoot me before trusting me?”

  I push the cart down the slope with my foot. It careens down the hill with one wheel clicking each time it circles independently from the rest of the wheels. The cart slams into a parked car—one that is definitely blocking our path if we hope to drive down the road away from this insane building. I motion for Gordon and Mav to make room and close the door the second I’m in. “I still don’t trust Juan.”

  “Yeah, you look good, too,” Juan says. “Thanks to me insisting they upgrade you. Nice hunk of scrap they made you in Mexico. Almost not worth winning if that’s what you get for a prize.” Juan reverses, slams into a parked car then shifts to first.

  “There’s a reason for that,” Gordon says defensively. “Dr. Miller took strict precautions—”

  “I’m sure.” Juan points the car away from the paved road. “Let’s save the debate for later, it always brings out the other guy and right now, we need a driver.”

  “Other guy?” Mav asks.

  Juan nods to Mav in the rearview mirror. “Not in the mood to talk about whatever you guys haven’t resolved. Grudge match is gonna have to wait. I’m driving.”

  Our black car with tinted windows jumps a curb, pointing straight down the hill.

  “Are you crazy?” Mav asks. His hands press against the roof of the car. Gordon, too, has his limbs stretched to capacity trying to reach the roof and press for enough leverage to hold his wispy frame steady. In the front seat, Belen bounces around like a sausage link bundle.

  “If you upload a Mord, fully Morded-out, I’m not talking post cure here…”

  “No one knows what you’re saying!” Gordon screams, losing his grip on the ceiling and slamming his head against the seat in front of him as the car bounces over the next curb section on the hill. The back end of the car bounces too high, we’re going to flip over. “Turn, turn, turn!”

  “Don’t tell me how to drive!” Juan pulls the wheel to the left, the back end of the car swings in the shift of momentum and we slap the pavement with rubber wheels.

  “What do you mean about the Mort?” Gordon shouts over the screeching engine and gears in Juan’s control. He drives like he’s still in the game.

  “Once everyone figured out Jennie uploaded, everything was insane. It was like, if she could win, anyone could claim a spot.”

  “Why is that?” Mav secures himself by tightening the belt until it won’t click in place more. “What changed?”

  Juan catches my eye in the rearview mirror. Does he know? How? If he does, will he say something? Don’t say anything. Don’t say it. His pupils refocus and his hold on the wheel lightens. We ease up on the turns, keeping all four tires on the ground with our next round down the hill. “Back to the other topic, about the scrap pile, you guys uploaded Jennie into. Why would you assume to limit the donor who exits the game? It’s counterintuitive if you hope to establish trust.”

  “What the hell is this? You really think this is the time to debate with us about establishing trust?” Mav shouts.

  The car nears the bottom of the hill. I have no idea where we’re going.

  “What’s wrong with now?” Juan sounds genuinely unaware that this semi-controlled nosedive down the side of panacillo isn’t the same as a trust fall exercise.

  Our vehicle circles to the base of the hill, fishtailing against the last railing when Juan turns hard to the left. I was more confident with vehicle outcome under the taxi driver who didn’t speak my language. “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “Not that I was consulted on the matter, but I believe we’re appealing to the manpower of Mr. YanTeoLee of Singapore who has an outreach unit just over the border into Columbia.” Juan doesn’t flinch or twitch. His eyes don’t widen, and his shoulders don’t bunch. His spine doesn’t straighten or shrink. There is no physical indicator that any change takes place in him except that his word choice differs the next second when he contradicts himself by saying. “No one has to specify ‘manpower’. It’s not like it has to be the power of a man…” Then Juan is quiet without finishing his sentence.

  “You okay, man?” Gordon asks Juan from the back seat. Gordon has to pick himself off the floormat as he’s been jumbled right off the bench. I mime putting on a seat belt in Gordon’s direction. He waves me off. In his defense, we’re off the hill so he might be okay without the belt, though I definitely fasten, secure, and double tug my own seatbelt to make sure it’s functioning at full lifesaving capacity. “Juan?”

  Juan keeps his eyes on the road, taking turns at high speed, battling the vehicle for control, but not slowing. I slam against Mav repeatedly, admittedly not too bothered by his proximity. Then Juan takes a hard right and I plaster against the window so fiercely, with my mouth ajar, technically the window and I have a heavy make-out session while the car jostles me against the mouth-juiced glass repeatedly before claiming a steady direction.

  “Juan!” He can’t drive to save his own life, much less all of ours.

  “Not Juan,” Juan replies with the smooth Spanish accent he first introduced himself with.

  “Geo?” I ask. At this point, I won’t be surprised if Juan is nothing more than a glorified remote control, with Geo holding the controls.

  “No,” Juan informs me, seeming in tight control over his word choice and facial expressions. “I prefer to speak for this…situation.”

  When he says ‘situation’ it’s strained, like part of him feels indignant about whatever it is we’re waiting to be told.

  “Nazrete is particularly outspoken when given the opportunity,” Juan says. His driving doesn’t match his calm exterior.

  “Do you have more than one donor in you?” Gordon’s tone rises as though he’s both awed and mortified by the idea.

  As if in answer to Gordon’s question, the car swerves too close to the line of cars parked along the side of the road, slamming Gordon’s side of the car against a bank of driver’s side mirrors.

  “Watch it!” Gordon hollers.

  “Why take her?” Mav bows his head toward where Belen lays in a heap of elbows and legs.

  “Not my idea. Like everything around here, I’m along for the ride, but don’t get a say.” Juan narrows his eyes. I wonder what it must be like in his head. Personalities battling for control, wanting to speak or explain, or defend, or attack, or whatever. How many personalities must they battle for their spotlight moments? Juan rolls his eyes in an overexaggerated manner. “Some kind of survivor’s guilt. Has to stick all our necks out for every damn fool.”

  “Same thing that killed my brother,” Mav speaks as though he recognizes a personality flaw in his sibling, more than out of reverence for the deceased. He watches Juan closely as if that flaw, and its homicidal side effects, are catching.

  I assume Mav’s remembering something Ace mentioned to me once. How Ace died trying to help a young boy fighting with the resistance. The boy detonated. Ace didn’t save anyone that day. “He didn’t die,” I say. “He survived that explosion.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Mav says. “Ace died when the kid he thought he saved pressed that button. He didn’t even try to live after that.”

  The interior of the car squeaks from all our sorry butts sliding this way and that. For a moment it’s the only sound inside with us. Outside there’s street sounds, business and leisure activities.
People cursing our driver and his poor navigation skills, pointing out everything Juan ‘almost’ hit or did hit. And lots of pepperings of hand gestures that don’t require sound.

  “You don’t know anything,” Juan spits at Mav. “Why are you here?”

  Mav shifts to the edge of the bench we share. All his weight forward in an off-kilter car, his head between the seats. Passersby might look through the tinted windows and spy what they think is a party vehicle with close buddies sharing stories of the great time we’ve had. “I came here to save what my brother started. Which happens to be your sorry existence, you Donor piece of trash.”

  “Hey!” I wedge myself into the conversation.

  “Bullshit…” Without any exterior physical indicators of change, Juan switches to a demurely reprimanding tone. “Watch your language.”

  “Dammit, Juan. Stop flipping personalities.” Mav hits the seat to his right, Belen’s seat. She coughs, one arm slips against the seat, and her weight shifts. Mav ignores her.

  “Hard to control in high-stress environments.” Juan strains to get every word out.

  Belen rubs her head, then her elbow before clearing her throat three times. “What happened?” The throat clearing effort does nothing. She sounds like a ninety-four-year-old chain smoker.

  “We were going to upload codes to the current Ecuador program.” Gordon verbally vomits my personal objective, like it’s his information to bargain with. Stupid Gordon.

  Though, if I’d have stuck with Belen, I would have reunited with Mav and Gordon sooner and maybe could have avoided the whole weirdo scene at Geo’s place. And we wouldn’t have to endure Juan.

  “That’s a shit idea…Language!” I kind of like this less controlled, more split version of Juan.

  Mav sits back hard, bouncing Gordon and me forward in our seats.

  “If several of the codes from our game ended up in the Ecuador program before the system was purged…”