The Receiver

8 - A S H E S

Back in our apartment and dry clothes, I lounge on the couch, clicking through webpages on the laserscreen, trying to locate information on intercity transportation. I'm getting anxious about Milo and Katz not having any clue about what's happened or where I am. I know it's only been a few days, but I can only imagine what I would be thinking if their place had been cleared out and they were nowhere to be found.

"Hey, Frank," I call out. "Can you ask Tetra how to order a helipod? But if she asks about the destination, don't say downcity."

"I'm sorry, miss," Frank says after a few seconds. "Tetra is currently in Deep Sleep, downloading a manufacturer's service upgrade."

"Perfect," I sigh.

"But her idle status message says her coder is home. Would you like me to—"

"No, I got it," I say, getting up. "I should go anyway. Apologize for earlier today."

"If you are referring to your conduct earlier today at The Neon Reef," Frank says, busying himself with something in the kitchen, "be assured that it was understandable behavior for someone who—"

"It's okay, Frank. You don't always have to justify my actions."

"Actually, I do," he says dully. "My verbal validation is set to eighty-three percent."

"Make it fifty then."

"Command received."

"If Iris asks," I say, stepping into the elevator, "tell her I'll only be gone for a minute."

When I step into his apartment Zander isn't in the living room or out on the balcony. I call his name and am answered by muffled, lunatic shouting. It reminds me of the fights that would break out back home all the time. I never really saw them begin or end, they were just always happening. I search for Tetra, whose pacifist setting should be locked at the default one hundred percent, as with all robots, but she's at her charging station, vision sensors closed. The shouting gets louder and I break into a sprint down the hall.

Zander's bedroom is empty, but he has an extra room; where we have a wall, he has a doorway. I tear into the room, expecting the worst, but only find confusion.

Zander and two other guys about his age, though it's hard to tell, are fighting the air. They swing punches and egg each other on, but aren't hitting each other. Then I step deeper into the room and see what's on the walls. On each of them is a projected image, made three-dimensional in laserlight. I instantly recognize the algae-pocked brick alleyways of Lower, but not the three figures literally getting the blood and snot kicked out of them. I look closer and see the spittles of blood sprayed on the alley walls, the missing teeth and torn clothing of the human punching bags.

Zander and his friends hop up and down excitedly, taking turns.

"You got this one, Zanman!" shouts one of his friends. "Slug him!"

Zander swings and misses.

"You got to be fast!" his other friend advised around a laugh. "Those cockroaches are quick."

At these words, the dots connect themselves together.

"Stop!" I yell.

They all turn, surprised. Zander still has his fists raised.

"What the hell is this?!" I ask, my eyes on the larger-than-life bottomfeeders on the screen. "This isn't a simulation, is it?" I'm not sure why I ask. I know the answer. This is real.

Rage makes my hands shake and my gaze turns on Zander's friends.

"Get out!" I wail.