Shine (44 page)

"No, I mean--" And here he knew that the whole thing was getting away from him, because the whole panel had frozen, cat-like, while he bleated on. But he was nervous--more nervous that he'd thought he'd be--and when he was nervous he speculated, wildly. "I mean we could use it to
predict
things."

They blinked, like predator drones signalling each other high above their target.

"I mean surveillance is this great tool. It really is. But watching what's
happening
only goes so far. We should be looking at what's
going to happen
, instead. We could be taking
measurements.
We could be
predicting
the problems
before
they happen."

He leaned forward in the chair. It pitched forward and he had to correct, quickly grabbing the chair before it toppled over and slamming himself back in it. The others on the panel continued watching him. "It's just that there's a whole other level to this conflict," he said. "And it has to do with things like people starving. It has to do with lack. I mean, stability's hard to fight for when it's just a pipedream, you know? But we could turn this place into something functional. Self-sustaining. That's what Ishin should be for, not just watching which tanks go where, or who's growing poppies or whatever."

His inquisitor's bristling eyebrows rose. "You think our concern with drug trafficking is misplaced?"

"
No!
I mean, no
.
Of course it's serious. But we should look at
why
the drugs sell in the first place. I mean, it's our guys who are taking them, you know? Not just our guys globally, but our people on the ground. Why do you think we started busting more grow-ops after we arrived? It wasn't just sharper eyes; it was a
market
that sprang up the moment we got here.
We
brought that market.
We
brought that problem."

Throats were cleared. Papers were shuffled. He'd blown it.

And then, like a ghost, a hand stole across his stomach and up over his heart to his shoulder and squeezed. And he knew instantly why he was nervous, why he was babbling. He was filling a silence. They had cut him off from more than his technology. They had cut him off from Singer.

But Singer had fixed that.

"What about your partner?" a man asked, as he made the papers fit into neat right angles before tucking them between pristine folds of cardstock.

"Singer?" He hated his voice for cracking.

"Yes. Your partner."

Through their clothes his partner was insistent. Anyone watching Singer now might think he was mid-heart attack, the way he must have been gripping his left shoulder. "My partner..."

Brandon let his own hand trail up to his left shoulder, to where he felt Singer's hand translated into tiny wires and servos. He kneaded, tried to make it look normal, like a sore joint and not communication, not
I'm here, I'm listening, I'm with you.

Singer squeezed back.

"My partner's a smart guy," Brandon heard himself say. "He's probably the smartest guy I've ever worked with."

Singer's hand wasn't leaving.

"And he's, uh, pretty hands-on," he added, unable to resist the joke, "even though he lets me do my own thing most of the time."

"Has he been asking you to do more than your share of the work?"

Brandon rubbed his shoulder so Singer could feel it. "No. Why?"

"He applied for a patent recently."

The clothes. Of course. "Well, whatever that's about, he handles it on his own time."

"Good."

After that the questions were clarifying ones, about odd phrasing in his report or figures they didn't quite understand, math he'd let go unexplained. But it was easier--the whole thing, the conversation, the answers--with that slight pressure on his shoulder. By the end he was joking, he was laughing, he was making sense. And none of them mentioned the clothes. None of them noticed. None of them knew.

When he left the room, Singer was sitting outside.

"Why, Heiser," he said. "What a surprise."

"Uh, yeah," Brandon managed to say.

"You look flushed. Are you not feeling well?"

He swallowed. "Thirsty."

Singer's eyes slid over to the guard manning the door. "You'll let me help my subordinate find a drinks machine, won't you?"

"Down that hall, to your right."

"Thank you."

Then Singer was steering him under mosaic ceilings and filigreed windows, toward a humming monolith of light and brand names. He produced a card from one pocket, flashed it at the machine, and held up a bottle of aloe juice a moment later. "Drink up."

Brandon drank. Watching him, Singer momentarily peeked over his shoulder and said in a low voice: "We should get your heart checked, Heiser. I thought it was going to pound right through your chest."

Brandon only sputtered a little. "I got nervous." He drank again, quickly. "They took all my stuff. I felt naked."

Singer's head tilted. "But not quite."

Brandon shook his head. "No, not quite." He checked for people watching, but there were none. He kept his voice down anyway. "How did you do it? Mine wasn't even turned on."

Singer leaned against the machine. "If I told you it was an accident, would you believe me?"

"I... I guess..." Now he felt stupid. "I guess it was just good timing that it happened during--"

"I thought you were shut off for some other reason, at first." Singer shifted weight. "I thought something might have happened. I thought the system might be in need of repair."

Brandon nodded. "Oh."

"So, you see, I had to invent a little workaround. You know, while I was on my way. Because you weren't answering your phone. And because Tink couldn't find you."

Now he felt worse than stupid, he felt ashamed. He hadn't even thought to tell Singer where he was going or how much tech he'd have to surrender. He just figured the other man knew.

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry. I was overzealous. I forget that there are things I shouldn't be allowed to see."

"I know, but, you got there right in time, I was freaking out--"

"They tried intimidating you?" His voice had taken on a strange, sharp new edge.

"No, nothing like that." Brandon straightened. "I just didn't know how nervous I was until I got in there, you know? I don't want to lose the project. It's, uh..." Singer's glasses made his eyes that much bigger. "It's special. To me. The project."

"The project." Singer blinked. "It's important to you."

"Very." Brandon's head jolted up and down of its own accord. "I want to stay with it. It's um...fulfilling, I guess." He bit his lip. "It's not really something I've ever done before. If you know what I mean."

The dimple appeared at the side of Singer's mouth. "I think I do." He clapped Brandon on the shoulder and made for the hallway. His real hand was a great deal warmer than the wire-and-servo version. One of Singer's fingernails grazed him right under the collar as it moved.

"It'll be late when you get out," Brandon said. "You won't make it back to your camp in time. You should come stay with me. For tonight."

Silence. Brandon heard the squeak of Singer's shoes pivoting on the marble floor. He turned. Singer had his hands jammed in his pockets.

"I don't think that's a good idea just now," he said. "They'll think we're... plotting something."

It occurred to Brandon, as he watched Singer leave, that the distance between them stretched not only over years or miles or skill, but attitude. He saw the weight of years not in the lines around his eyes but in the way they never quite looked at him directly. Like they couldn't. Like he needed Tink for that kind of watching, too.

Their day is over, now. Tink is free again, and is with Singer receiving new orders and fresh charge.

"Are you shivering?" Brandon asks. There's a trembling in his clothes that he can't identify.

"There's a stiff breeze," Singer says. "Winter's coming."

Brandon hacks Tink's eye and focuses now on the place where Singer has been sleeping for the past few days: a rooftop, half-crumbled on one side, accessible only via the adjacent roof and equipped with a pup tent, a roller jug of water, and a lantern-sized solar oven which can heat maybe one can of tea at a time.

"You'll have to come inside," he says.

"I don't do well in small spaces."

Singer could be referring to anything, but Brandon guesses prison, or maybe the kind of training you get for prison, and he feels an almost palpable indignation at the thought. He translates this into nagging: "You'll freeze!"

"Nonsense. I know how to keep warm."

"Stay here," Brandon says, before he can stop himself. But then the offer is on the table and he has to back it up: "Stay the winter."

Silence. "...You know, that wasn't quite part of my plan."

"Think of all the stuff we could get done!"

"Oh, I can well imagine." There's the oddest hint of a laugh in his voice. "But I would feel badly about sponging off your host's good graces."

"We wouldn't need a host." Brandon likes this idea the more he talks about it. "I've learned more Pashto by now. And what I don't know, you do."

More silence. When Brandon peers through Tink's eye, he can't read Singer's face. It's as flat and blank as ever. Even the set of the shoulders is perfectly still.

"I mean, you can think about it," he hears himself say. "You might not want--"

Singer looks up and directs his gaze right at Tink, and Brandon could swear the old man knows he's there behind her eyes because he reaches out a hand. He looks tired, thin and cold and a little sad for some reason. Brandon catches himself leaning forward as Tink swerves through the air to land on Singer's open palm.

"I know you think it's a good idea..." Singer can't even look at the machine in his hand. And Brandon realizes that what he thought was reticence or disappointment is actually shyness--improbable, inexplicable, but nonetheless evident. "I know you think it's what you want--"

"Yes." There, he's said it.

Singer snorts. "It's a good thing they put you in robotics," he says. "You're too impulsive to serve anywhere else."

"I'm not impulsive, I just like getting what I want."

"Don't we all." Singer grins and lets Tink go. Brandon guides her upward, releases the hack. She shoots upward--

--and into darkness.

Through Singer's bud, he hears a sharp cry, dry and shrill. Onscreen, an error message pops up. It says that the drone has encountered outside interference. It suggests a raptor is responsible: a hawk or falcon or owl. It shows him a list of native species, complete with colour photos and Latin names.

But then something slams straight into his spine, right between the shoulders, the clothes humming with impact. Tink's eye portion wriggles free of the bird's maw. The feed is damaged. It pixels randomly. He catches a glimpse of the scene as she climbs: men with pipes.

Across the city, through the threads and wires, Brandon feels the beating.

"Run," Brandon is saying. Onscreen he watches Singer struggle to his knees. The screen seems too small, not big enough to contain the enormity of what he's seeing. He watches Singer retrieve something from one pocket. It's white and sharp and curved like pliers. The multi-tool. He leans forward a little, shifting weight, lurching, and blood spreads over one man's trousers.

The clothes work overtime rolling Singer's beating over Brandon's back.

"
Run!
Why aren't you
running?
"

"They want the
footage
, Brandon, get her
out of here,
" Singer says.

Too late, Brandon remembers the meaning of the word
hammam.
It means "bath house." He remembers, too, that this is where Tink had been sent on orders from the predator drone.
Don't worry,
Singer had said,
I'll delete the footage.

Because it would be sensitive.

Because it was one of the last private places in the city. One of the last places their eyes, mechanical or organic, could not yet see. One of the last places to conduct business, illicit or otherwise, one of the last places to escape constant observation.

Brandon realizes this in the instant between one blow and another. They followed her. She flew straight to Singer. And Brandon kept her there. Dawdled. Gave them time to arm themselves. Time, even, to get a falcon. The one creature to whom a UAV was all too vulnerable.

"Heiser, requesting immediate evac for Singer, coordinates..." The phone is in his hand before he remembers grabbing it. But here time seems to slow down. He can't get the words out fast enough. He hears each second of dead air as the dispatch office relays him, tries calming him down, tells him to breathe, and his clothes are one big hive of activity, one long vibration, because for Singer the blows are coming that fast, that widespread.

"Get out, get out,
get out
," he hisses.

In his ear, Singer answers by groaning.

"Ten minutes," the dispatch says.

In his ear, Singer catches his breath but Brandon feels no punch or kick. They've gone off-map. The groin. Maybe the head.

"That's not fast enough," he says, and then a little lower: "I've got people coming, Singer, there are people coming--"

"Hack Tink, damn it," Singer says. Brandon hears blood in his voice. He feels a kick in the gut. The clothes ring hollowly in the empty room. In the city it is evening; he smells meat grilling and hears children laughing. In the suburbs, in the long shadow of the mountains, he hears Singer cough. He hears his breathing slow.

He hacks. But not Tink. Months later, he still remembers his old systems, his old job, his old skills.

"Singer, I'll be there, two minutes, I
promise
, I'll be right there--"

"You're already here," Singer says. Brandon hears the dry scratch of dirt underfoot. He hears the grunt of effort when Singer shuffles forward, a rip in fabric, and an angry, almost annoyed shout. Cursing.

"Stop
fighting
them, and
get out--
"

"--already there."

The ear bud is failing. Too many strikes. Too much damage. Head trauma.