James Decker - The Burn Zone

I was wondering if you knew anything about Nix.

“Nix has not returned.”

Is he dead?

“He has not returned.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. We’d been through a lot, he and I. I’d raised him, and he’d helped me now, a lot. If I was honest, I knew I wouldn’t have succeeded without his help, but I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. I told myself it was the lie, the deception, and not the way they looked, the way they were, but I don’t know. I think it was both.

I want to go home.

“Shortly.”

Thank you.

“You have done us, and your people, a great service, Sam,” she said. “It will not be forgotten. Had you and your father not intervened, it might have meant the end of both our species.”

Both?

“As we need you, you need us. If we don’t help you ascend, you will not survive. Remember this.”

Her presence lingered just for a moment, like a hand on my shoulder that was reluctant to move away. I had started to ask what she meant when there was a tingle inside my head, and I felt sleep come. It rushed in, sending me into blackness so fast I barely had time to think.

“Don’t judge us based on the actions of one individual.” Her voice had grown very faint.

My body felt weightless, like I was adrift in space, as the 3i began to fade. The pink borders flickered, and began to disappear.

“We care about you…”

The 3i went dark, and the blackness closed in.

“…and as promised, we will save you.”

336:42:03 AC

The elevator squeaked as it made its way up, and I adjusted my gear’s strap on my sunburned shoulder. It had been a long, hot day, and the cold air dribbling down from the overhead vent felt like heaven. I closed my eyes and looked up, letting it cool the sweat on my face.

“Sam?” a voice asked. I opened my eyes a slit and saw that the ad box screen had lit up gray.

“Don’t start,” I warned.

“You could always take the stairs,” the A.I. pointed out, and I sighed, still looking up into the vent.

“Go ahead.”

The screen flickered, and an image of a man in uniform appeared. He was handsome, square-jawed, and had perfect features. His uniform was clean, crisp, and sharp. He stared out of the screen at me, not smiling, and his piercing eyes met mine. I didn’t know if he was an actor, a virtual construct, or a real soldier, but his eyes were dead-on. They had that same intense, confident, powerful look that Dragan’s had.

He didn’t speak. No music played. No logo or crawling text appeared. A few seconds later his image faded and was replaced with mine, a shot taken when I’d first stepped into the car. I looked sunbaked and sweaty, my hair greasy and wind-mussed. My eyes looked glazed and tired.

I got a good look at myself, wondering if the A.I. had tweaked it or if I really looked that ragged, when the image faded again. In its place appeared a combination of the soldier and me. My face and body, in a smartly tailored version of his uniform. The sweat was gone from my face. My hair was impeccably groomed, styled even shorter than it already was and not a one out of place. The tired look left my eyes and was replaced with that same look of stony, confident power.

The image stayed there for a minute. Then the logo for the United Defense Force appeared, with block letters underneath: BE MORE.

The words, and the image, faded. I smiled, laughing once through my nose.

“That’s a good one,” I said.

“Yeah, that one gives me chills,” the A.I. said.

“I figured it would be butt implants or something.”

“I do have several ads in that category.”

“Maybe next time.”

The elevator stopped, and as the doors squealed open I stepped out into the elevator lobby.

Our new building was nicer than our last one, and in a nicer part of town. Not posh by any stretch, but nice. After a month it was starting to feel like home finally, and things were beginning to approach normal again.

As I headed down the hall, I noticed a sticker on someone’s door. The logo had been popping up in the subway, and on everything from bumper stickers to T-shirts. It showed a silhouette of the PSE, with three nukes about to strike it.

Hwong’s death was a big deal. Pretty much every media outlet covered the terrible news nonstop for weeks, telling the story of how he was killed by Pan-Slav bombers during a visit to the border zone. The whole city was in mourning at the loss of a hero, and their hatred for the Pan-Slavs and everyone who lived there had all but boiled over. Chat rooms and netcasts were glutted with cries to fry them into a giant field of slag.

A month earlier, I would have been chanting right along with them, but a lot had happened since then. I’d never been able to get the image of that soldier with the concrete saw out of my head. He’d acted on Hwong’s orders and Hwong, not one to be content with stickers and online venting, had actually tried to do what the anonymous masses were calling for. He had done a lot for us, and I couldn’t ignore all that, but I couldn’t be sad that he was gone either.

I rounded the corner and crooked my neck, lighting up the 3i and bringing the holographic window to the front. I did a quick spin through the social taps, sending out an update that I was off work and back home. A message immediately dropped into the tray from Vamp.

Check this out. There was a video attachment.

I set it aside, and as I headed down the hall I sent back a response.

I will. It’s my last night here. Talk to you tomorrow.

When I got to the front door, I tapped my badge to the scanner and waited for the snap of the bolt. I went in and put my gear down next to the wall on my right as the door swung shut behind me.

“Hello?” I called. A light was on in the kitchen, but it was quiet. I expected to hear Pan-Slav chatter, something I still seemed to hear all the time in spite of Dragan’s efforts to wean the kid off it, but there was no conversation, no TV, no music, just the hum of the air conditioner.

I crossed the room toward the kitchen and found Dragan sitting at the table there. There was an expensive bottle of anise liquor in front of him, and two shot glasses, one in front of him and the other in front of the empty chair across from him. An ashtray sat between the glasses, along with a fresh pack of cigarillos whose tips had been dipped in Zen oil.

He smiled when he saw me, but I could see something else behind the look. His eyes were thoughtful, and serious.

“What’s all this?” I asked him.

“I figured we’d spend your last night here hanging out, just you and me. Like old times.”

I hadn’t expected it. When I first told him I was moving out, it seemed to make him mad, but he was so relieved I was alive that he didn’t harp on it. Afterward, as the day got closer, he kind of clammed up more and more. I’d been waiting for a fight, or something.

“You know it’s not because of you, right?”

“I know. You’re twenty, Sam. It’s time.”

“I’m not going far.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m still going to miss you, though.”

I crossed around the table and leaned down to hug him. He put his arms around me and squeezed, holding me the way he used to when I was little, the way that always made me feel safe. We stayed like that for a while, until he patted my back. Then I kissed his cheek and stepped away.

“I’ll never be far,” I said.

“Same here.”

“So, where’s the brat?” I asked, moving to the free chair and sitting down.

“Ling’s got him for the night.”

“Lucky her.”