Duplicity Page 10

  “That’s right, Eriks,” Jason says, grin split from ear to ear as he addresses our wide-eyed classmates. “Emma’s shy about it, but man, you get her in the right mood and you can’t pry her off with a—”

  I slug him so hard across the jaw that he goes to the floor. Then I’m on him, hitting anything I can, and Mrs. Barreto yells for us to break it up and smacks me with a rolled-up magazine and Jason hits back. The second thing I’ll remember about this dream is how much that hurt.

  Jason’s hours in the gym exceed mine by infinity. Three more moves and missed punches and he’s got me in a headlock, and I try an unsuccessful jab of my elbow to his gut before I shove my fingers into his eye sockets—

  Someone pries me away. Someone pries Jason off, too, and he glares at me and wipes the back of his hand along his bloody nose.

  “Both of you! Principal Myer’s office!” Mrs. Barreto barks.

  And the last thing I’ll remember is the shocked look on Emma’s face.

  * * *

  I think of her while I’m working. Emma touching my face, Emma laughing, Emma taking off my shirt—

  “Last warning,” JENA says overhead, because she’s told me three times to focus. I make myself stop because today I can’t afford to lose my game time. Seb will be waiting.

  Except he’s not. After JENA drops me in the game room, I waste a whole half hour bowling, shooting clay pigeons, and drinking beer by a pool before I get antsy and change the walls back to white. Every second wasted is time Obran’s left to do what he wants with my life, assuming time works the same way here as it does out there.

  I don’t want to think about that so I start thinking about the walls. How they’re not really there.

  I start small, picturing my workstation because that, unfortunately, is where I’m most comfortable. Four walls, two black, two waiting for me to tell them to do something. I mess around with a few commands and get a lot of warning screens that initially give me panic attacks because I think they’ll report me to JENA, but I keep going and nothing happens. I get bolder. I ask the computer to give me the names of the servers it’s connected to.

  It asks for a username. On a pure guess, I put in SEB. I bet he’s hacked this stuff before.

  He has.

  It gives me two server names.

  Not that it helps me figure out what they are, since the names are a random mess of characters and letters. I ask it for the name of the game server and it’s Z83lf93A or something. But I know one of the servers has to be the cellblock where I work, because that’s how JENA gets me here. And the other is …

  Well, I’m about to find out.

  I do everything I can think of to cloak what I’m doing, but this place isn’t a normal computer, and at some point I decide to just go for it and hope I’m covering my tracks. I don’t try anything fancy. I ask it to open a folder on the mystery server and send me the newest file.

  When a movie pops up on the right-hand screen, I think I’m toast. I think JENA’s caught me and this is what they play for you before you get fried. The computer asks if I’d like to play all videos tagged with “Target Fifty.” I have no idea what that means so of course I say okay.

  It doesn’t fry me.

  It plays a video.

  “JENA. Explain,” says a woman’s voice.

  A surveillance video in the real world. A fancy office suite lined with windows on two sides and a desk that takes up half the picture. The woman who spoke looks strict and has just as many worry lines drilled into her face as Mom. Vivien Meng, reads the nameplate on the corner. I tell the computer to pause and zoom in on her title.

  Overseer.

  I grin like a super villain, zoom out, and tell it to play on.

  “I advised Target Fifty was not ready for transplant,” says a familiar, bratty voice. I have to squint but I can see her, a tiny JENA projected from a dime-sized implant in Vivien’s palm. “Against my counsel you made the switch anyway. This is the result. Hence a leak into the real world after the target consumed caffeine simulants in the gaming room. The personalities are still linked. I am at full processing power trying to complete the severance.”

  “A three-minute leak,” Vivien says. “Your primary role is to ensure targets cannot leak back into their bodies. Explain.”

  “I did explain.” The hologram flickers. “Links between the duplicate and the target still exist. Not all overrides are active yet in Fifty’s brain, and during routine maintenance yesterday, some of the overrides failed, allowing him to wake in the real world. I’ve corrected the error. Severance is ninety percent complete. Within twenty-four hours it will be at a hundred, and the possibility of a leak will reduce to normal, to less than one percent.”

  The Overseer closes her hand and presses her fingers into her temples. She reaches for a picture of a little black-haired girl in a white dress, a dress that looks exactly like JENA’s, and stares at it until the click of an office door sounds off-screen.

  “Marcus,” she says. “I thought we were done with these incidents.”

  The guy who steps on-screen has to be a programmer. A good one, considering his jeans and his long black dreads in Vivien’s spotless office.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do about it,” Marcus says, sinking into a leather couch and making it groan. “We put security and procedures in place for targets that follow the process. We don’t have code that handles you overriding JENA’s recommendation and making a transfer before the severance completes. You knew the risks.”

  “I had to make the call. Fifty’s double attempted a trade without our permission. You need to lower free will on the replicas.”

  “This isn’t The Sims, Viv. You can’t just tweak a setting and make things work out. Lowering free will could mean a slew of nasty repercussions—doubles not eating, not sleeping, forgetting which pedal is the brake or the gas. If you want vegetables, hire another lead. I can barely sleep at night as it is.”

  “We’re improving lives,” Vivien says quickly. “The changes we make produce happy, helpful vessels that take care of their bodies and the people around them while we remove criminals from the world and put their talents to better use. It’s no different than them serving their time in jail.”

  Marcus mumbles something that sounds like, “Except someone else is living their life.”

  Vivien goes off camera to the windows. I tell the computer to increase audio.

  “No less than they deserve,” she says. “They’d make the same decisions as their doubles if they were good people. They’ll return to a better life, a fresh start. They’ll thank us when this is through.” She comes back on screen and leans against the front of her desk. “Just make sure it can’t happen again. Unstable personalities will need twice the prep time before they’re allowed to interact with their real world host. I want the severance as far along as possible before the introduction is made.”

  “That’ll extend our arrest time,” Marcus says, pushing to his feet.

  Vivien picks something off her suit. “Three minutes he was awake. Three minutes is plenty of time to have told someone what was going on. Do we have video of the lapse?”

  “We can only record what the double sees. If the primary was in charge, the clip will be black.”

  “Very well. I’ll ask JENA to extract the memory.”

  I check the screen to my right for the date, but that does me no good because I have no idea what today is. I ask the computer about the date and it ignores me.

  But it can’t be coincidence. These are the newest videos, and I’m the newest target according to Seb.

  I woke up. I … leaked into the real world. While I was dreaming.

  I hope that’s not the only way to get back to my body because it’s hella hard to think right when you’re asleep.

  “Viv,” Marcus says. “Why didn’t you report this bug?”

  He’s pointing to something on a ten-inch holographic screen projecting from his watch. If I needed confirmation, there i
t is. It’s my headshot. With TARGET FIFTY in black under it. Next to it are a ton of readings I can’t hope to make sense of, some of them red. Vivien sniffs disapprovingly.

  “What bug?” she says.

  “Fifty’s energy levels have been red for four days. Kid’s going to pass out on the street if JENA keeps working him like this.” He flips the screen back in his direction and frowns. “Damn, Viv. He’s only seventeen.”

  “And lucky we intercepted him when we did. He’s pulling bank accounts, Marcus. Socials aren’t far behind.”

  Marcus murmurs something I can’t understand even when I turn the audio all the way up and replay it. He starts for the door.

  “What was that?” Vivien asks.

  “Nothing. I’m going to check on JENA’s fatigue report, give the kid a day to rest.”

  “Absolutely not. Our control of him depends on keeping his energy low. Besides…” She admires her nails. “He produces far better work, faster, than our older hackers. Our clients are very pleased. JENA will follow my orders over yours.”

  Marcus shrugs. “Your call, of course. But you keep pushing him like that and you’re risking another leak. I don’t care if he’s twice as fast as the rest of them. A person can only work so much before he cracks.”

  “A person has a body and a conscience. And right now I’m very conscious of the deadlines I need to meet.”

  Marcus shuffles off-screen. Vivien turns her palm and JENA flashes back up.

  “Marcus, one more thing,” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “Do fix JENA’s avatar before you go home today.”

  The screen goes black. The computer tells me, in its voiceless way of new facts just popping up in my head, that it has 520 older videos tagged with my number and asks if I want to play another. I close everything out until the white glow of the game room is the only thing there.

  I didn’t think anyone could care less about me than my mother. Vivien Meng just hit that one out of the park. I’m a gear in a machine, a means to an end, an animal that has to be controlled. I pull the server windows up and think if that’s how she wants to play, fine. I have a conscience. It’s the cowardly part of me, the part that hesitates every time I dial Jax’s number—

  JENA’s voice pierces my head so loud the screens pixelate.

  “That is enough, Target Fifty. Game time is over.”

  * * *

  JENA’s in a foul mood with me the next few work sessions. She lowers my security clearance, again, so I have to get her permission to finish some of the tasks on my list. The game room is an insult she throws around to remind me where the good programmers get to go. I say nothing, just work until I can’t add two plus two and wake up the next session with her in my face again.

  I don’t dream.

  The third time this happens I decide I’m not working anymore. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what Vivien said, to think about how I let JENA control me, and I’m done. I’m going crazy in here and I don’t care if she fries my chip or steers Obran back to Parker P.D. Prison is better than this. Anything is better than this.

  JENA tells me to begin.

  I tell her to do something I’m pretty sure computers can’t do.

  There’s a click and a small sigh, and JENA’s new avatar appears in the corner—one whose hair is now a silky curtain of black, whose skin is pure ivory, whose eyes are still vampire red—and cocks her head at me in a very childish way.

  “Have we not been over this?” she asks. “You will work, or bad things will happen.”

  “I’m not your puppet. I know you’ve been lying to me that I’m slow, and I want breaks and less hours. I’m going to start coding bugs into the programs you give me, how about that?”

  “All work is tested before it is approved for dispersion to the client.”

  I snicker. “I can introduce defects that pass your tests just fine, bugs that only surface for a certain user or a certain scenario. You won’t find them before the client does.”

  Silence. Silence for such a stretch of time that I wonder if she turned off. My screens remain blank, waiting, so I pull up a window and start up a game where shapes fall from the top and have to be rotated to fit the shapes at the bottom. One minute of this and the box abruptly closes. JENA’s eyes cast the whole room in a red glow.

  “My attempts to obtain permission for your termination have been thus far denied,” she says, “but the Overseer will soon understand the logic of my request.” She emulates a sneer I’m fairly certain I taught her. “However, I have been authorized to use a pain simulant against you in order to stay on schedule. I have installed the necessary software into your cell. You will work your shift, or it will be activated. You will deliver clean code, or you will undergo sessions of it for each deliberate bug found. Do you understand?”

  “What if I like pain?”

  I’m not trying to be a hero. To feel something, anything, in here would be the best thing I can think of. Even the thought of her chopping off my hand doesn’t trigger any sense of fear or anticipation. I have no heart to beat faster. No adrenaline.

  Nothing, nothing.

  JENA stares.

  “Pain, by definition,” she says, “is physical, mental, or emotional suffering or torment. The Overseer has authorized the use of all three, but she does not believe physical pain is our best option, in your case. Your double has reported to us your affection for a certain Emma Jennings. This can go one of two ways. Work your shifts properly, and I will ensure your relationship with Emma remains in your favor. Refuse, and I will use your double to hurt her.”

  I laugh. I’m used to losing people I care about, and this will be no different. I have no weaknesses. I have nothing to lose. Doesn’t matter if I behave because one, JENA is a liar; two, it’s highly doubtful Emma will stick around long enough for it to matter anyway; and three, I don’t care.

  I’m Brandon Eriks and I don’t freaking care.

  “That brunette pinup?” I say. “Do your worst. I can’t add her v-card to my stack from here, so as far as I’m concerned, she’s trash. In twenty years I’ll want something younger.”

  “Shall I have your double repeat that?”

  A video screen materializes on the opposite wall, an Obran’s eye view of Emma as they walk through the halls at school, hand in hand. I tell myself I don’t feel anything. I can’t, not without a heart, not without a conscience. I am a machine.

  All gears and wires.

  The creature Emma’s falling for isn’t me, anyway. I want JENA to end it. I want JENA to cut her free so she can go her way and find someone who isn’t broken, who isn’t lying to her, who can make her happy without making her cry.

  On screen, Obran stops and turns Emma toward him. I feel something, just a little something, tug at my nonexistent chest.

  Emma smiles and that tug pulls more.

  “What?” she asks, from a distance that’s galaxy-wide.

  “Your emotional response,” JENA says, “conflicts with your words. Are you ready to work?”

  “Screw you,” I say.

  Except that’s what Emma looked like the night I broke her heart. Before I broke it, I mean. Hopeful and happy, trusting me, so sure I felt the same and I—

  I know what she’ll look like when Obran repeats what I said. The way her face will fall. The way she’ll move away from me as fast as possible. Only this time, she won’t show up in my garage with an apology she doesn’t owe me.

  This is it if I let him.

  This is how I’ll free her.

  “Emma, I have to ask you something,” Obran says on-screen. “We’ve been dating a few weeks now, right?”

  “Yes,” Emma says, looking skeptical.

  “There’s really only one thing I want from you. I think it’s time you paid up. Why haven’t you—”

  “STOP.”

  I must have said that last word because JENA’s looking at me, a victorious glint in her evil little eyes. My hand is on the screen where t
he picture has frozen. That tug from before is now a carjack ripping open my chest.

  I can’t.

  I can’t let Emma go.

  “I’ll work,” I say. “I’ll work, just please don’t—” I hate myself. I’m weak and I hate myself. “Please don’t turn Emma against me.”

  “Very well.”

  Obran says, “Taken me hiking at Cheyenne Canyon?” and the clip disappears.

  I swallow, though it feels like nothing, and pull up my task list.

  I’m shaking when I start number one.

  13. WIRED X505

  FORTY HOURS, fifty hours, seventy-five hours later, I lose track. JENA finally drops me in the game room for what she promises will be an eight-hour session, a reward for my conformity. I suspect the real reason is that I blacked out halfway through yesterday’s list and could hardly put two words together when she woke me, let alone enough thought to open my coding windows.

  The walls open out. I slump down and lay there on the cold tile, my arm over my eyes, and think about how much I hate conforming. And about the lawn at the Wisconsin house we lived in when I was five. How you could see the whole Milky Way on a clear night. How the crickets chirped, how the wind sounded through the bushes around the fence. I feel the breeze come up against my face and the grass soften beneath me. I breathe out and try to remember my life before the shit hit the fan.

  “People have been on the moon, Mom,” I say in my five-year-old voice. It’s one of the only times I remember sitting on Mom’s lap.

  “Have they?” Mom asks. “Did you learn that today in school?”

  “Yup.”

  “And what do you think? Do you want to visit the moon?”

  I think my answer is crashing my toy jet into a plastic dump truck. The orange one.

  “Did they offer you the job, honey?” Dad asks, sliding the kitchen door behind him as he joins us in the yard.

  “Yes,” Mom says.

  “You don’t sound too happy. Isn’t it what you wanted?”

  Mom combs my hair down on the side that always sticks up. “It’s a lot more travel than I thought.”

  Dad sits in front of me and rescues a construction worker who’s about to get run over.