“Hey!” he shouts.
The cashier walks over, shoes squeaking on tile. Puts a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t want trouble. You got to go,” he says quietly.
“I’ll go when I’m ready,” I say.
“Let’s see your temple, buddy,” calls the painter again.
I hang my head lower, studying the meaningless TV-fuzz design on the countertop. Looking for a pattern in noise. This day has been coming for years and I had front-row seats but I never let myself see. Samantha bounced around the courts, trying to find a legal ground for her own existence, but every time things took another turn for the worse, I convinced myself it was someone else’s problem. Well, it’s sure as hell my problem now.
“You a fucking amp or something?” asks the painter, voice rising.
The cashier puts his hands on his hips, motions with his head toward the door.
I get up and leave.
My friend Dwayne lives a few minutes from here. I’ve known him for a few years and he’s the kind of guy who can see things from another person’s perspective. I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk in his direction. Cars blow past me, scattering candy wrappers and damp paper cartons of iced tea. A crucifix of sweat stains my T-shirt by the time I trudge through Dwayne’s toy-strewn yard and knock on the door.
“You’re on TV, Owen. That sucks about your dad,” he says.
I swallow salty tears.
“But did you kill that girl?” he asks, half hiding behind the door.
“What?”
“News said the cops want to talk to you. They got your face up there with a bunch of other guys. Soldiers or terrorists or something.”
“She was a student—”
“That’s what they said on the news. She was a former student of yours. What was going on between you two, man? This is serious.”
I don’t even know how to respond. “I need a place to stay for a couple nights. My dad … I’ve got no place to go.”
“I don’t know. I think you need to get on the move, man. Let this all blow over.”
“Tomorrow.”
Dwayne orients his body to block the door. “Owen, man, I’ve got to think about Monica and the kids,” he whispers urgently. “Your face is on the news. I can’t let you in here.”
“How long have I known you, Dwayne?”
He pauses for a second, then answers, “No.”
“What?”
“No. I’m sorry, Owen. You have to find someplace else to go.”
Dwayne is standing there, chin set, blocking the doorway. I get the strange feeling that this is all a joke, that we’re together onstage and any minute he’s going to burst out laughing and welcome me inside.
“It’s a mistake. A mix-up,” I say, taking a step forward. “I’m still me.”
Dwayne doesn’t move, but his eyes get hard. The door swings open a little wider and I see he’s got a splintery wooden bat clenched in his other hand. The one he keeps in the umbrella stand by his front door.
“It’s my family. There’s a lot of bad shit going down—what am I supposed to do?” he asks.
I’ve got no answer to that question. Until now, the rules were written down on paper, neat and legible. But a judge tore the fucking paper to shreds. The rules are gone. All that’s left is the grass-stained baseball bat in Dwayne’s fist.
“I’m sorry,” says Dwayne.
I turn and hurry down the porch steps.
“What am I supposed to do?” he calls after me. “What can I do about it, Owen?”
CNN.com
* * *
Live Blog: Former Echo Squad Soldiers Suspected in Bombing Plot, One Suspect Killed
Report Timeline:
[Posted at 8:12 a.m. ET] A bomb blast has torn through the heart of Washington, D.C., destroying offices of the Pure Human Citizen’s Council. Local hospitals reported that three people were killed and eleven more injured seriously. As of now, no arrests have been made and no group has claimed responsibility for the attack.
[Updated at 6:06 p.m. ET] A spokesman for the Washington, D.C., metropolitan police department has announced that authorities believe an amp separatist organization called Astra is to blame for the bombing. The spokesman declined to comment on what evidence led police to this conclusion. “Our nation is officially under attack by the radical amp minority, just as I have long warned that it would be,” Senator Joseph Vaughn, head of the PHCC, said in a statement.
[Updated at 7:32 p.m. ET] A suspect detained near the site of the bombing has been shot and killed by police officers. Witnesses described a scene of panic as officers approached an onlooker who was exhibiting suspicious behavior. “The guy was moving weird. Like, too fast,” said a witness who asked not to be identified.
[Updated at 9:42 p.m. ET] The suspect killed earlier today has been identified as Lawrence Krambule, a former member of the infamous Echo Squad. The group of twelve Special Forces soldiers was disbanded ten years ago after it was determined they had been willingly and illegally implanted with classified, militarized Neural Autofocus implants.
Hitching west. I tell myself that there is no shame in running away. It doesn’t matter if fear fuels your flight. Just so long as you’re running toward something. There is a device in my head that my father paid for with his life and only one person who can tell me what it is: a stranger named Jim who lives in a damn trailer park.
I should have known this day was coming.
The pressure built silently, month after month. Court cases. Protests. The strain growing until it was unbearable, hidden in silent interactions between amps and regular people. I felt it in the burnt-eared shame of falling eye contact. In the rippling shift of elbows at the lunch table when an amp student sat down. By the end, the pressure was pushing in so hard that I wanted to pop my ears or scream or curl up and hide.
And then, boom. Pressure released. Enter free fall.
Every second now takes me away from the broken remains of my life. A job I’ve been effectively fired from, apartment I’ve been evicted from, and friends who’ve turned their backs on me. For the last twenty-four hours I’ve been running away from nothing—the life of a ghost.
The cab of the semitruck pulsates with rap music, the bass low and loud. I can smell fast food and lotion and sweat. But only barely. The air-conditioning is gushing icy odorless air into this oasis of life support, this pod wrapped in a ten-ton pile of hot speeding metal.
The autonomous rig looks a lot like the old-school trucks from the movies. A few more video screens, maybe. There’s a steering wheel and gas and brake pedals. The driver, Cortez, leans back in his seat, pudgy arms crossed over his stomach, hands lightly resting on puffy touch pads embedded in the steering wheel. His tiny pinkish fingernails list lazily with the wheel as it adjusts itself.
As we roll, my thoughts turn to the machinery that I carry inside my skull. Something special, my dad said. Something extra. Leaning my head against the cool window, I let the hum of the road vibrate through me. I imagine that I can feel the anonymous black plastic inside as it sends feathery pulses of electricity forking away into my gray matter.
Fwish. Fwish. Fwish.
Like a clock counting down, a time bomb wedged in the meat between my eyes. How long until it explodes? If the biocapacitor fails, the implant will lose power and I could die fast—lights out. If the clock falls too far out of sync, then the implant will send bad commands to my brain and I could die slow. And if the temperature or vibration or current fluctuates, or my bio-gel runs out or spoils, there’s a chance I’ll die and, honestly, who cares how fast or slow it happens?
There is no separating me from the amp. Our fates are grotesquely interwoven—a tree grown through a chain-link fence. Live or die, it’s a part of me.
I must have reached up and stroked the nub of plastic jutting from my temple without knowing it, because Cortez swivels his great head toward me. He watches my face for a long second, his three-hundred-pound frame quivering in his seat, se
ttled in there like a scoop of chocolate ice cream.
Shit. How stupid can I be? I burrow deeper into my cushioned seat and nonchalantly press a palm against the tinted window. Outside, relentless sunlight acid washes the highway, sending up dazzling heat lines that make the horizon dance. Shadows of clouds skate across rolling green hills. Nothing else moves save the glinting of far-off traffic.
I can’t remember ever being able to see this far.
“You coming from out east, huh?” asks Cortez.
“Yeah.”
“Good luck.”
“Why?”
“These rednecks out here don’t like people being too smart,” says Cortez, tapping his temple. “Pure Priders are always preaching that y’all will steal their jobs, you know? They probably have a point.”
The dash-mounted video screen chirps, stutters on.
The thudding music recedes on an automatic quick fade and an emergency alert tone squawks. A fuzzy, nasal voice reads: “All-points bulletin. A BOLO has been issued for Covenant Transport vehicles. Operators are instructed to be on the lookout for the following persons of interest. Be advised these suspects are former military and should be considered highly dangerous, even if unarmed. On contact, please report immediately to your regional coordinator. Operators are advised to verify information before taking action.”
A grainy video appears. A title card reads: Echo Squad Conspirators Sought. A series of faces flash by—each of them young and hawkish, aggressive. And oddly similar. These are military portraits taken during boot camp. Each has a name underneath. Valentine. Crosby. Stilman. Daley. Gray.
Oh, shit. The next face blinks onto the screen and there I am.
My school photo, lifted from the Allderdice Web site. Starkly different from the others. Softer. It stares at me and Cortez for a second and a half, then disappears.
Cortez snorts, wide nostrils flaring. “Thought I knew you. Seen you on the tube, pardner.”
This has to be a mistake. Why the fuck am I on a bulletin? How could I be swept up in a manhunt with real criminals? I keep my face pointed forward, panic rising in my chest. “What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Turn you in, man. I’m responsible for this truck. Anything goes wrong in here, it’s my fault. This is a good job. I don’t want to lose it.”
“Look, they’ve got me confused with somebody else. You can see I’m not military. Just let me off anywhere,” I say, my voice going hollow with fear. I’m staring at a button on the steering wheel. It has a phone on it. With a touch of his finger, Cortez can send me to jail or worse.
“I won’t tell anybody you picked me up,” I say. “No harm, no foul.”
“Sorry,” he drawls. “Company already knows somebody in here. This truck is wired to the tits.”
It’s true. If the big man’s hands leave those pads on the steering wheel for more than a few seconds, the truck will pull itself over and cut the engine. This is because years ago an original model autonomous tanker with a sensor malfunction and no driver rolled off the road and smashed into the side of an office building. Wouldn’t have been a big deal if the truck weren’t hauling a double load of gasoline. The trucking company was sued out of business. And the rest of the industry realized they needed an insurance policy. Someone to take the blame.
In other words, a human driver.
“Why not turn yourself in?” asks Cortez. “You look like a damn schoolteacher or something. You don’t want to be on the run from the cops.”
I could stop running now, minimize the damage. I didn’t push Samantha Blex. Let them arrest me and I can set the record straight. It’s the sane thing to do. But I can’t forget the edge of panic in my father’s voice. Naked, ugly fear was on his face, the kind you never show willingly—the kind that’s contagious.
I turn to Cortez.
“You heard amps are going to steal your job? Well, guess what? I couldn’t drive your truck if I wanted to,” I say. “No amp could steal your job after today.”
“How come?”
“I can’t take the blame for a wreck. Legally. In the eyes of the law I don’t exist. You’d be better off having a three-year-old drive this thing.”
Cortez snorts again, his deep-set bluish-gray eyes scanning the featureless, blazing road ahead. I can’t read his expression. Can’t tell if it’s good or bad. But discrimination is legal now, and from what I’ve seen the regular people are getting the hang of it real fast. If this guy sends me back to Pittsburgh, it’s all over.
“That’s messed up,” he says finally. “They’re saying you’re not even a person.”
“It’s what they’re saying. I can’t get picked up by the cops. I don’t have any rights. They can do whatever they want to me. Will do.”
The emergency alert squawks again. A tinny voice from the dash speaks: “Come in, Cortez. Come in.”
Eyebrows up, Cortez paws a button on the dash and responds. “This Cortez.”
“Cort. It’s Jason. I’m doing the BOLO follow-up. Fleetscan indicates you took on a passenger in Nashville. Can you confirm?”
Cortez frowns at me. “Yeah.”
“Okay, can you let me get cab video?”
Cortez blinks, as if he’s just woken up. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and scratches his unkempt beard. A light begins to blink on the dashboard, and his chubby hand flutters back to its roost almost unconsciously.
“Jason … it’s my cousin. Giving him a ride to Tulsa to see his momma.”
“That’s nice, Cortez. Now let me get cab vid.”
“Nah,” says Cortez.
“Dammit, Cort. Are you smoking weed in there again?”
“Man, get out of here with that. Check my environmental.”
“Then give me video.”
“Do I come to your work and stare at you?”
“I’m trying to do my job here, Cortez. I don’t have time for this shit. If you don’t grant me vidrights, I’m engaging the override and flagging you for law enforcement inspection. Now, are you going to do it or not?”
“This is bullshit. It’s called privacy, Jason—” responds Cortez, and then the whole dashboard flashes red. The doors thunk as they lock themselves. We start losing speed.
“Must be kidding,” mutters Cortez, leaning on the steering wheel. He glances at me and shrugs, shakes his head. The gravel shoulder crunches under the truck tires. My stomach drops.
“Uh, hold up,” I say, leaning toward the dash. I’m doing my sad best to sound like I could be Cortez’s cousin. “Cortez shaved his head, all right? It’s nasty. All shiny and shit. Head looks like a bowling ball with cuts all over it. Said he’d get fired before he lets you see it.”
Thin laughter tinkles out of the dashboard. “What?” asks the voice. “Seriously?”
Cortez smiles at me, nods. “Barber in Nashville messed me up,” he says. “Came at me like a ax murderer. I had to shave it all off. Laugh if you want, but you not gonna be seeing my mug for about two weeks.”
The laughter slowly dies away. There is a long pause. Static.
“So, that’s your cousin?” asks the voice.
“Yeah,” says Cortez.
“He sounds white.”
“What’d you say? Oh, we done,” says Cortez. “Done, done, done.” And he punches the cutoff button.
The truck crawls over the gravel shoulder, slowing until it finally stops. Blistering cold air rasps across my face and the dash burns bright red in my eyes. We sit together in silence for thirty seconds.
“Cops come,” says Cortez in a whisper. “I’m saying you held me hostage.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
The dash flickers and goes dark.
Then, the lights power up and the dash returns to normal. The engine rumbles, starts. A smile spreads across Cortez’s bearded face. I take a deep breath and collapse back into my seat. We’re safe.
Cortez pulls back onto the highway. We roll together toward the western horizon for about ten minutes before he s
peaks.
“What people been saying about amps,” he says, “I heard all that shit before. If they’re not calling you a monkey, then they’re calling you a superman.”
“So … are we good?” I ask.
“We be all right,” says Cortez, never taking his eyes off the road. “Cuz,” he adds, breaking into a wide grin. He playfully shoves me in the shoulder. “You know I gotta shave my head now, right?”
After eight hours in the truck we pull in for gas outside Sallisaw, Oklahoma. I grab my pack, lean over, and shake hands with Cortez. When I crack open the hermetically sealed door, a razor’s edge of dusk sunlight briefly stripes his face.
“You pretty close to where you going. Motel is over there. Should be an okay one for you—guy who owns it is blind.”
His amused chuckle is lost in the low bass line and profanity-laced lyrics. I thank Cortez and leave him in his rolling den. Step around the gas station’s automatic fueler, avoiding the patterned light that it sprays as it blindly searches for a gas cap. Cortez never has to leave the truck, not even to fuel it.
Taking the blame is a full-time job.
Walking toward the motel, I hear a chime from the idling truck as it acknowledges the pump. I pretend to scratch my forehead, blocking the sight of my face from the two subtle lumps on that hulking hood as they twinkle with laser light, scanning the environment and matching the truck’s local map with what’s up there in the satellite. Even way out here, the world is thick with cameras.
Just another link in the supply chain of human civilization.
It used to be people who drove the trucks and airplanes and boats. Things still look the same from the outside, but the core is always changing, always being upgraded. And the role of technology is under constant renegotiation.
As the big rig hauls itself out of the parking lot, engine hissing, I keep my head down and wonder what would happen if we rolled everything back ten years. The computers would go a little slower, I guess. The factories would make a little less, and the farms wouldn’t produce as much. These seem like such small things, but we depend on each new advance.