Текст книги "Amped"

Автор книги: Daniel H. Wilson

Соавторы: Daniel H. Wilson
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Thousands Attend Pure Pride Counterprotest

PHOENIX—Doctors, libertarians, technology workers, and pro-choice advocates attended a huge statehouse rally Thursday, saying that leaders nationwide had gone too far in pushing an agenda opponents consider an attack on the American citizen’s right to control his or her own body.

State police said more than 8,000 people gathered outside the capitol building at the rally’s peak, making it the largest at the Arizona capitol in years. Hundreds of supporters for the Pure Human Citizen’s Council also attended, separated by a strip of parking lot but with both sides trading insults. An atmosphere of hostility permeated the event. Local police monitored both groups, intent on preventing violence.

Jared Cohen, head of the Free Body Liberty Group, delivered a stirring speech under heavy security, telling a cheering crowd of thousands that “America is built on a foundation of freedom, and that includes the freedom to choose what technology we put into our bodies.”

Senator Joseph Vaughn, president of the Pure Human Citizen’s Council, claimed the FBLG had gone too far and that, if left unchecked, implantable technology could destroy the fabric of society. “They are calling for a war on humanity. And this is a battle that we must win, if not for ourselves, then for our children and our children’s children.”

Jim leans forward in his squeaky La-Z-Boy recliner, the fabric on its arms shined to a high gloss by his knobby elbows. The chair looks like a stray dog covered in burn wounds, but Jim is oblivious, blue eyes bright.

“I told ya, kid,” he says. “It’s not too late.”

It’s right there on the tube, on the evening news. The Free Body Liberty Group out of Arizona. The FBLG is protesting at the Arizona State Capitol. Behind a chattering newscaster, I can see the angel of justice perched on the roof of the capitol building, her sword raised. The crowd there is loud and proud and standing up for an American’s right to decide just exactly what to do with his or her own damn body.

Maybe Samantha was wrong.

Jim is cracking a smile at me from across the living room, gray stubble collapsing into mirthful wrinkles. He sits at attention like an exclamation point in the wood-paneled living room. A dust-coated deer head stares down at us from its mount on the wall. Head lowered and horns poised, challenging infinity with black eyes.

“There’s still goodness in people,” muses Jim, watching the television. “Take that, Vaughn, you dickhead.”

I’m grinning back at Jim. Trying to enjoy this moment—the first time we’ve seen an organized group of people holding up the amp end of the dialogue.

“This is how it has to happen,” says Jim. “The regular folks have to fix things. We can’t force them into it.”

These are vanilla humans standing up for their family and friends. Most of the temples on the television are bare. A minority but finally vocal. I can’t help thinking that if those were amps standing on the capitol steps, well, it would be a different scene.

Somehow, Jim hears it coming first. Moaning floats through the window, too shocked to be crying anymore. Without a word, Jim pries himself out of his La-Z-Boy and hauls ass into his bedroom.

I’m half out of my seat when the front door bursts open. Lucy staggers inside, carrying Nick in both arms. The kid falls onto the couch.

There’s a rivulet of blood coming from his temple.

“What happened?” I gasp.

“Spotlighters,” says Lucy. “Must have got him crossing the field.”

Nick moans again, but I can’t make out the words. Something is different about him. Something I can’t quite place…

His maintenance port is gone.

That little nub stripped right off his face. The skin around it is raw and puffy and bleeding.

I can’t believe he is still conscious.

Lucy looks over, and I turn to see Jim framed in the weak hallway light. He’s got his worn old doctor’s bag pinned under a skinny bicep.

“Get a wet rag from the kitchen, Owen,” Jim says.

The old man is all business, squatting by the couch next to Nick. He glances up to Lucy and starts to say something, stops, lower lip quivering. Sets his jaw and starts again.

“Can he still see?” Jim asks Lucy.

It’s a simple, short question. But after he asks it, the old man swallows a lump of emotion. Forces it down past his Adam’s apple and into his paunchy stomach. Down there, the despair can chew him up slow instead of consuming him all at once.

“I don’t know,” says Lucy. “He found his way home. But they tore it out.”

“Christ,” he says. “I’m not sure what we can do without the port.”

I drop a wet dishrag into Jim’s hand and he dabs at Nick’s temple. Scrubs the dirt away, leaving pink, inflamed skin. The rag comes away filthy and dark with blood. But the boy starts to stir. His eyes open and rotate back and forth.

“Nick,” says Jim, waving at his face, “what do you see?”

Nick turns and squints up at his adoptive mother. Doesn’t say anything. His thin lips press together in a white line, and he closes his eyes again and a new wave of tears streams down his face.

“Baby, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay,” says Lucy, stroking his cheek with one hand and methodically wiping tears from her eyes with the other.

“You’re doing great, Nick,” I say.

Jim strokes Nick’s head, pushes wet strands of hair out of his confused face. A goose egg is growing on his forehead, cratered by a small red gash. Turning dark fast.

Lucy and Jim look at each other. A question is in the set of her lips, in the concerned wrinkle of her forehead. She leaves it unspoken.

“Best case it’s just a concussion,” Jim says. “I’m going to need to get a look at what’s left of the maintenance nub to find out. Seems okay for now. The implant itself is still in there. Port could have come out clean at the connector. But you know, worst case, if it came out rough …”

Lucy says what Jim can’t.

“Brain damage.”

On the television across the room, a fat sweaty guy with a sign is yelling. Face turning red. Other Free Body protesters surround him, screaming mouths on flushed faces. The yeller’s voice has gone hoarse and he barks the same two words again and again like a piece of broken machinery.

“No limits!” he is shouting. “No limits!”

“Turn that shit off,” snarls Jim, “and get me some light.”

I snap the television off. The front door is still open, a yawning mouth leading to a warm dark throat outside. The stars didn’t come out tonight and the crickets are singing about it in the shadowed grass.

On the couch, Nick’s small eyes are wide open and scared and sad.

Jim yells for light again. I trot to the kitchen table and grab a cheap desk lamp off a stack of old newspapers. Pens from forgotten companies and keys to long-junked cars spatter to the floor. I plug the lamp in next to the couch and hold it as high as the short electric cord lets me.

Jim’s got a thumb hooked under Nick’s eyelid, pulling down the skin. The lamp light shines down weakly and Nick’s pupil retreats, collapsing to a black decimal point. The outline of the retinal implant floats there, rudely visible. The shape of it is square and angular and so clearly man-made compared to the natural mottled brown of his eyes.

“What’s your name, son?” Jim asks.

Nick’s eyes slowly snap to attention, focusing on Jim’s face. The old man gently cradles the boy’s head. Nick blinks up at him. Moves his lips into the shape to make words.

“Nick,” he says, voice slurring. The boy turns and sees Lucy. “Momma?” he asks.

“I’m here, honey. Where did they hurt you?” asks Lucy.

Nick raises one fist and taps the side of his head. His wrist is bent, fingers curled up in a way that’s not good. Jim winces, tries to hide his reaction.

“Nowhere else?”

Nick shakes his head. Drops his fist.

“Who did this?”

Nick just looks up at Lucy. Eyes wide and brown. No response. The boy’s lips start to move, quivering. Again, nothing comes

out. The boy squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, tears slithering onto the couch cushions. He reaches up and wipes his eyes with one hand that’s still curled into a fist.

Like a baby.

Jim slumps onto his haunches. Lucy puts the back of her hand against her mouth. I lose concentration and the lamp doglegs. I feel Lucy’s gentle fingers on my spine and I reach behind me and take her hand. We don’t look at each other, just feel the warmth of each other’s hands.

I don’t know if Nick has got brain damage, but this isn’t good and he’s so young. I can’t even imagine it. Some reggie tried to tear the fucking amp right out of his head.

Maybe I should have let Lyle beat the shit out of those reggie kids.

Jim stops poking around and looks up, works the hunch out of his shoulders. There is relief on his face. “Looks like the maintenance nub came off clean. Implant is fine in there. I think he’ll be okay. But he’s gonna have to rest until we can find a replacement port,” says Jim. “Home is fine. Hospital won’t work on this anyway.”

“Whoever did this is outside right now,” I say, “laughing about it.”

“Nothing to be done,” says Jim.

The way the words catch in his throat makes me feel suddenly small. I have a vision of our trailer from high above. A tiny cube of warmth, jaundiced light spilling out the windows onto dead grass. Trailer sitting here like a rotten shipwreck, alone and long forgotten on the abyssal plain of the ocean floor.

Nick puts his fist on his chest. I reach over and take his fingers in mine. Our eyes connect, and he opens his hand. As his fingers uncurl, something small and yellowish and electronic falls onto his chest.

His missing maintenance nub.

“Good job, Nick,” I whisper. “Smart boy.”

Jim eagerly pulls out a pair of surgical tweezers. Plucks the device off Nick’s gently rising chest. The old man holds it up to the light and inspects it, squinting.

“Can you put it back in?” I ask.

“Need to sterilize it. But not yet. Drag that old TV over here,” Jim says, grunting as he stands up.

“Why?”

Jim holds up the implant. “Because if Nick can’t tell us what happened, why, we’ll just have to watch for ourselves.”

In a ditch, not far from here, little Nick is dragging himself up on bloody knees. Running as fast as he can. In a streaking flash he glances over his shoulder. A group of men are giving chase. They wear grins like Halloween masks. Mouths soundlessly coned into hooting O shapes. Lips peeling back and eyes glittering from flashlights, apelike and predatory.

We sit in the living room and watch the world through Nick’s eyes. The retinal chip floating in Nick’s eyeball never stopped recording. It sent images to his implant where the information was cached on a tiny hard drive. It only kept about twenty minutes, up until the moment it was disconnected. Now that the nub is plugged into the right receiver, we bear witness.

No sounds. Just a vision of violence.

Nick falls again, lands in the rough caress of his own shadow. Digs his torn fingernails through dead bristles, clawing forward. A spotlight is aimed at his back. Before him, his lunging silhouette slithers through spiny stalks of brown grass.

The spotlighters caught Nick coming into the field after dark. We’re free to come and go during the day—nobody has tried to set up roadblocks, yet. But it’s different at night. Some of the other trailer park kids must have thrown Nick’s Rubik’s cube over the fence. He was cautious, searching for it. He saw the spotlighters, watched them from a distance. But he got too close. The field was too dangerous after sunset.

Full of sharks. Sharks in lawn chairs. Cheap hollow-tubed aluminum chairs sitting cockeyed in the field. Shotguns leaning against them. Empty silver beer cans littering the grass like dead fish. A scene bathed from above in Rapturously bright light, inky shadows rooting through the dirt and stalks of grass. Like a little fake moon landing being staged every night here in our field.

The electric generator for the spotlights is on two wheels with a muddy trailer hitch jutting out. Looks like it used to be that trademark John Deere green color, but now it’s rusted and caked with sooty exhaust from spending long nights keeping an eye on us. It supports a leaning aluminum tower about twelve feet tall, sprouting four glowing spotlights like metal flowers.

To his credit, Nick tried to stick to the shadows. Stepped carefully. Kept an eye on the pool of light and scanned the grass for that familiar cube shape. He stayed in the darkness, but it wasn’t enough.

A handheld spotlight hits him and he freezes. Puts his palm out against the light and squints. All he can see is that acid burn of brightness from the dark. Looks like somebody says something to him, because he turns and starts to move away fast. Toward home and safety.

He doesn’t make it far.

Flashlights strafe back and forth across the grass. Nick is running now. His sneakers slash through shadow and light. The last thing I can make out clearly is Nick looking toward Eden. One small trailer with warm light spilling out. Home. He twists violently as someone grabs him from behind. A hairy forearm closes over his chest and then confusion. The image is blurred by hair and dirt and flashlight streaks, and then finally, tears.

Our world here is getting smaller every day.

I can feel the vise closing in. Those men in the fields. And an army of them beyond the field. A nation of reggies locked arm in arm and taking one step closer to us every night. Closing ranks around us and all the other Uplift sites, compressing our crowded neighborhoods into ghettos.

Lucy squeezes my hand tight but never turns away from the screen. Her teeth are clenched but she doesn’t look scared. She just looks sad.

“Animals,” she says, “a bunch of animals.”

“We’ve got to do something,” I say. “Go out there.”

“What then?” asks Jim. “Start shooting? Nothing to be done except sit tight. The kid will be okay. Things will go back to normal.”

“How can you believe that?” I ask.

“Because most people are good,” says Jim. “But not when they’re afraid.”

I glare out the open front door toward the field. The spotlighters are still out there. Getting drunk. Hooting and hollering. Raking their lights over our trailers. I’d love to go out there and seek retribution. I know how to activate my Zenith. But I have no idea what I’m capable of.

“The assholes who did this don’t seem afraid,” I say.

“They’re terrified. Waiting for an excuse to start shooting. If we set one angry foot in that field, it won’t end out there. It will end here, in Eden. We have to swallow this. Nick is safe. It’s a small price to pay.”

“It’s a price we shouldn’t have to pay.”

Jim kicks the coffee table, shouts. “We’re lucky to pay it! Because Joseph Vaughn will take any excuse. Any excuse, Owen. His Priders would love to come in here tonight and shoot us down like dogs. We are sitting on gasoline-drenched kindling from sea to shining sea. You want to be the match that lights the fire?”

I blink at Jim, surprised. His sudden rush of anger has sapped the venom from my veins.

“Owen,” says Lucy, softly, “we have a bigger problem.”

A wiry hand clamps onto my shoulder from behind. Gently, I’m shoved out of the doorway. A skinny cowboy walks past me and into the trailer, boots clomping on the linoleum. He smells like gasoline and beer.

“My nephew all right?” asks Lyle, impassive.

“He’ll be fine,” says Jim, moving to block Lyle’s sight of Nick’s temple. He’s too late.

“Spotlighters did that?”

Jim says nothing. None of us do.

“You with me, Gray?”

“We can’t go into that field. Not tonight.”

“Okay then,” he says and turns on his heel. He strides out the door and into the warm night. Just the ghost smell of gasoline left behind. Gone so fast it’s like he wasn’t even here.

Except we all know where he’s going.

BLOGGING THE NEWS

Police Use Tear Gas on Pro-Amp Protesters

Are you there? Share your photos and videos.

Last Updated 7:48 p.m. Riot police in downtown Phoenix have fired canisters of tear gas at protesters, dispersing the crowd of thousands after it refused to move off the steps of the state capitol building.

Phoenix police explained their use of tear gas in a statement:

“Our police officers deployed a limited amount of tear gas according to established protocol to clear a small area of protesters who had turned violent. The protesters were throwing objects at police officers, including rocks, firecrackers, paint, glass bottles, and paving stones. In addition, protesters were destroying public property on the capitol grounds.”

Last Updated 10:43 p.m. In a similar show of force, hundreds of officers in Chicago have coordinated an operation to clear out a group of about 1,000 demonstrators who refused to vacate Lincoln Park. At least 200 people connected to the Free Body Liberty Group were arrested, and small amounts of tear gas were used before the camps were dismantled, The Chicago Tribune reported.

“The city is committed to protecting free speech rights, but our duty to protect the safety of our officers and the public welfare of our citizens must always come first,” Chicago police said in a statement.

Thirty seconds later I’m trotting down the empty main street of Eden, listening to my own whistling breath, and I can’t help but picture it: the end of Lyle’s sad, furious life. Inescapable as the sunset.

The skinny cowboy strides into that dry field, talking about war and new worlds and retribution. Takes a shotgun spray to the belly. Goes down cackling and firing his pistol, guts in the grass. Nails one or two of those beer-soaked morons and they go down like sacks of mud. Then, spotlighters flood into Eden on a rampage.

The scene plays out in my mind so clearly, it’s got the familiar feel of a memory. I jog faster down the dirt path, past dark trailers and buzzing streetlights.

The shouts are already starting from beyond the fence. Rising on the breeze, thin and shrill. Lyle must have marched straight into the field. He’s pure anger and military trained, but he’s alone and the spotlighters have firepower.

Five Zeniths left and it looks to be four real soon.

Coming around Lucy’s trailer I have to push past gawkers. People stand in clumps, keeping away from the porch lights. Some of their faces are familiar in the twilight, but many more are newcomers. The stream of cars packed with blankets and groceries hasn’t let up. Every day it’s another family, another car parked in the lot, another dog leashed to a tree. And now just about all of them are watching the field, worried.

I see why pretty quick: it’s just Lyle out there.

From behind the fence, I make out a semicircle of maybe two dozen spotlighters standing two or three deep around Lyle.

Thankfully, none of Lyle’s soldiers in Astra have figured out what’s happening. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a fight. It would be a war.

Guns and beer bottles and clenched fists. The mounted spotlights blaze down on Lyle’s thin frame and a flurry of handheld spotlights hit him from odd angles. In a wifebeater and dusty jeans, he’s a prizefighter slouched in the ring, outmatched. There’s nothing to the guy, just that thin silhouette burned in crisp detail. A dozen narrow shadows splaying out behind him like knife blades.

The fighting hasn’t started yet, but I can see in the angle of Lyle’s shoulders that it’s close.

A twinkle of light flutters past Lyle’s head and he doesn’t flinch. An empty whisky bottle bounces into the grass, thunks into the fence a few yards from me.

“You ready to fuckin’ die, Frankenstein?” calls somebody.

I clamber over the fallen wooden fence, scale the new shiny chain-link, and jog into the field. My breathing isn’t coming easy. Moving toward Lyle, I’m having to concentrate on pushing my breaths out. Each pant squeezes out of my mouth as a strained, grunting curse.

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck this.

As I cross the field, a few lights swing my way and shove my shadow out behind me. Light-kissed moths flutter overhead. For one absurd second, it feels like Little League baseball. Like I’m trotting onto the field for a night game. Must’ve left my glove on the bench.

Then someone fires a shotgun into the air, and a cold tickle of fear crests my scalp and cascades down the back of my neck.

“Here comes your girlfriend, cowboy,” calls a voice from behind the lights.

Laughter.

I get close to him, but Lyle doesn’t turn around. He’s swaying in place. I can hear him humming a tuneless song. I grab his shoulder and turn him around. Thank God he doesn’t have a weapon in his hands.

“This isn’t happening,” I hiss.

Now that I see Lyle up close, I get the feeling he isn’t seeing me back. His eyes are black and dead, half lidded, like they were in that rotten trailer. Just a pair of lifeless doll eyes anchoring an idiot grin to his face.

Lyle has gone inside his own mind. Letting the machine step in and do the work. Now I know we’re in real fucking trouble.

“Where are you, Lyle?” I whisper. “Come back.”

The circle of spotlighters is closing in. Catcalls coming louder. Another bottle flies past.

Lyle’s eyes finally flicker to life, speckled with lights. With an effort, he focuses on my face. A ghost of a smile surfaces. His eyes are shining with tears.

“We’re gonna change the world,” he whispers.

“Don’t do this, Lyle,” I say.

“I’m whole hog, man,” he replies. “Level five. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

One hand clamped to Lyle’s shoulder, I turn and face the circle. Try to smile while I pull him away. “We don’t want any trouble,” I say.

Lyle starts humming again, like a slack-jawed escapee from a mental ward. He’s taking deep breaths, savoring the breeze. For just this one second, it’s nearly silent in the field. Only the far-off puttering of the generator and thousands of pounds of cool night air sighing, dropping down onto our shoulders out of the infinite black sky.

The circle of men around us is complete, closing in like wild dogs. Reflexive group movements unfolding according to an ancient script. Everybody knows his part. These guys have probably all been practicing since grade school.

“He’s just drunk and wandered off,” I say. Lyle smiles at them, still humming. “We’re going.”

A flannel-shirted guy steps out, and my legs go numb with adrenaline. This is him. The guy who watched, laughing, while those teenagers worked me over with dirt clods. The one with the tattoo. Gunnin’ Billy.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, “we’re all drunk. That ain’t getting you nowhere.”

He’s flashing a strained smile through a week’s growth of stubble. He holds a black pump-action shotgun with the butt propped on his hip, casual. The weapon’s not tucked under his armpit with the muzzle down, like a hunter, but arrogantly aimed at the sky. More like a bank robber.

Watching me, Billy digs a cherry-red shotgun shell out of his jeans pocket. Shoves it into his shotgun, then rams it forward with the ball of his thumb. Digs out another shell. And another.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

“Told you not to come back, didn’t I? Already gave you the score and here you are again. You ain’t just getting beat down this time, amp,” he says.

Somehow, the oxygen has rushed out of the field. The main spotlight is behind Billy and his face is in shadow. Except for his teeth. Straight and long and yellow. His teeth glint as he talks quietly.

“Y’all got to know your place. We’re here for the safety of the town. We men are the only thing standing between you animals and our wives and families. Our kids.”

I can’t hold back. “You nearly killed a helpless kid tonight.”

Those yellow teeth wink at me from the beard. “He ain’t a kid,” says Billy. “He’s an amp. There’s a difference. Besides, we was trying to help him out. Did a little surgery. Tried to make him into a human being. It was a goddamn favor.”

“Little shit’s lucky we let him keep his robot eye,” says a man and nudges the guy next to him. They snicker.

“Yeah, he is lucky,” I retort. “His retinal recorded everything. We’ve got video. All your faces. And it’s going straight to the police or the FBI or whoever will listen.”

A wave of chuckles erupts around me.

“Oh, that’s precious. I’m the sheriff, numbnuts. Billy Hardaway at your service. And any evidence you want to share, well, I’d suggest you stick it straight up your ass.”

The group breaks into guffaws.

Lyle joins the laughter, chest heaving. Expressionless and standing straight-backed, he barks out a repetitive cackle. The sound is mechanical and grating, and it goes on for a long time.

The circle of men seems to shrink away from us like shadows from a campfire.

“I know this amp,” says Billy, pointing at Lyle. “I know you.”

Lyle keeps on barking, and I notice his hands are closed into fists now.

“No,” I say. “Don’t you fucking do it. Let’s run.”

Billy steps forward, closer to Lyle. I tighten my grip on the cowboy’s shoulder. But I can feel the black hole forming, the light sucked into it, too deep and old to stop.

“You’re the one who ran off my deputy the other night. Where’s all your little buddies now, huh? Not so tough with just your girlfriend here.”

“Respect,” mutters Lyle.

“What the fuck you say?” asks Billy. His eyes gleam, boring into Lyle’s face. He steps back and pulls the shotgun up across his chest. A hand curled under the forestock and a finger on the trigger. Its barrel-mounted flashlight stabs a ray of light into outer space.

“Respect,” says Lyle, clearly this time. And when he moves it is inhuman. The cowboy shrugs out from under my hand and just goes. I hardly see any movement from him yet he’s already flying forward. A prairie king snake gliding through the grass, disappearing in plain sight.

Lyle’s worn boot heel catches Billy dead square in the sternum like a lightning bolt. Snaps his collarbone audibly. His shotgun goes off and a tubby guy standing a few feet away loses his hat in a spray of buckshot.

“Ah fuck,” shouts somebody in an oddly high-pitched voice.

Billy carps his mouth, stunned. Drops heavily onto his ass. Next to him, the fat guy who used to own a hat pulls a finger out of his own ear. It’s bloody.

“Goddamn, Billy,” he whines.

But Lyle has not stopped. His fists are slashing and those tattooed crows are in a frenzy as he leaps to the next man in the line. And then the next. I can hear him breathing hard, making little grunts with the effort of each tight swing. Moving quicker than an electrical current. Punches coming in flurries, three– or four-strike combinations, the dull smack of calcified knuckles on soft body tissue. Throats, eye sockets, temples.

Whole hog.

Three men drop before I notice Billy has got his bearings and has the black eye of his shotgun staring me in the face. We make eye contact and I see the way Billy’s jaw tenses. His upper lip curls into a snarling murder look and I dive to the ground. The shotgun booms, and I feel the shock wave wash over my neck. Speeding shrapnel rips through the air over my head.

I’m on my hands and knees now, and there’s no hope. I’ve already heard the schlick-schlock of Billy’s shotgun cocking and its flashlight is throwing my shadow out in front of me. Three guys have got hold of Lyle, and from the yelling and cussing it sounds like the cowboy is already down to biting people. It won’t be long before I feel that lead shot burrowing under my skin. Even so, I keep crawling as fast as the loose dirt will let me.

Spotlighters in front of me are scrambling the hell out of the way, and I feel the hot presence of that shotgun on my back.

“You’re fucking dead,” Billy says, and I don’t doubt it.

I dive forward just as the shotgun goes off, and it’s like somebody shot out the lights. The field goes dark. A spray of dirt tattoos my neck, the sandpaper grind of tiny rocks. My body hits the ground with a rubbery thud. For an instant I’m wondering if this is death. Then there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The tail end of a breath caught on the back of my tongue. I’m alive.

Somebody killed the generator is all.

A half-dozen flashlights flicker toward the silent machine. Across the black field, I see a pale face peeking over the rusted generator. Eyes shining, Lucy looks like a possum caught in car headlights.

“Get that bitch!” someone shouts.

Shotguns start to belch flame. Pounds of lead buckshot hit the generator in a hellish symphony. Lucy’s face drops out of sight between flashes.

Lucy.

I don’t remember deciding to stand.

I’m stalking, head down, toward the nearest spotlighter. My right hand is out, three fingers splayed and my eyes are half closed. I’m picturing the Zenith in my mind huge, the way a floating gray zeppelin is enormous in the sky, trailing tethers in the wind. It’s time to see what I’m capable of.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

And the amp speaks to me.

It’s a startling, synthesized voice in my head: Level one. Diagnostic access. Battlefield situational awareness. Mission essential fitness. Mobility and survivability. Do you consent? Do you consent?

The amp is inside me and speaking directly to me for the first time after lying dormant for all these years. This piece of plastic is alive in a terrifying new way, yet the voice I hear is as natural as my own thoughts. Just a part of me, after all.

My eyes are closed now and somehow so are my ears and my skin and nostrils. I’m completely inside. The darkness of my own mind. And in this still womb, there is nothing except for the question. So I answer.

Yes, I say. Oh, yes. And I can feel again. I open my eyes.

Exhilaration. Air surges into my nostrils, and I swear I can feel my blood being oxygenated, the liquid fuel coursing into my limbs and making them strong. My skin embraces the breeze, sweat evaporating into the atmosphere. The threshold between my body and the world evaporates with it.

The field is singing.

Strange flashes of light streak over my vision. Nonsense lines and pinwheels. I blink them away. Things go black and then erupt into almost unbearably intense flashes of white. The shotgun blasts.

Between flashes, my fists fall gracefully through space in a way that feels inevitable, guided by fate. A gurgling choke as the palm of my right hand smacks into a random man’s bearded throat. As he falls, I grab the shotgun out of his hands and hurl it out into the darkness. It tumbles end over end far into the night, like a UFO.