L. X. Beckett - Gamechanger

THE SURFACE

(TAGS #REALITY, #CONSENSUS-REALITY, #THE-REAL-WORLD)

WEST EDMONTON EVACUATION ZONE, AUGUST 2060

Misfortune Wilson had a ticket to Neverland.

Kids never talked about Neverland when adults were about. Only when their VR rigs were safely stowed, when they had slipped parental oversight and Sensorium pickup, did they whisper and speculate.

Some believed Neverland was a deep-sea technosphere, safe from scorching sun, flying hail, from gale-class winds and the plagues running through the densification camps. Kids told stories of submarine apartments walled in mother-of-pearl, a futuristic Atlantis circled by reefs of jewel-toned fish.

In Neverland, nobody tracked your location.

Nice enough fantasy, Misfortune supposed, though most stories said they kicked you out when you turned sixteen.

Other kids had told her Neverland was on the moon, or hidden within the protected remains of the Amazon rainforest. Snakes and frogs and warm air, they said. Butterflies and waterfalls.

Her newest @CloseFriend, Calla, believed that kids who made it to Neverland would be put to sleep for a hundred years. These lucky dreamers would sleep out the plagues, waking to the task of renewing Earth. They would rebuild the forests, rewild everything their elders had spoiled.

Misfortune had scoffed until she got her own invitation. Now she favored the underground theory. Caves and repurposed diamond mines seemed more realistic than a deep-sea habitat or something with butterflies.

The problem now was meeting their pickup.

Wrapping a shawl tightly around her head, she peered around the corner of the bombed-out Misericordia Hospital. Her slitted eyes picked out pink electric light obscured by dark streamers of wind-borne dust. The light winked in Morse code, signaling from the remains of West Edmonton Mall.

She decoded the message: Darlings, darlings, here, come

See it? Thick American accent, barely audible over the wind. Garmins breath was hot on her ear and smelled of their last meal, a mash of printed apricot, fauxmeat, and unidentified flying protein. Moths, probably.

What? Calla was a scabby whiner of a kid. Shed stowed away on the same water convoy as them.

Misfortune pointed. Beacon.

Calla peered beyond the dubious shelter of the hospitals shattered foundations, shrinking back as an old camper blew into view. It was rolling, becoming obscenely rounded as its corners bounced off the ground.

That parking lots a death trap!

Missyll think of something, Garmin said. He and Misfortune were on their third set of foster parents; their being tagged #siblings was a mere formality. Still, the younger boyhe was ten, she twelvehadnt slowed her down.

Well never make it! Calla said.

Misfortune considered as the trailer fetched up against a heavy concrete divider. Wind howled and the old vehicle groaned, lofting up over the barrier before continuing its murderous roll eastward. An old shopping cart whipped past, chasing it, and slammed the barrier as well.

The dividers werent much shelter, but theyd have to do. She pointed out a heavy-looking van at the midpoint of the lot. Well catch our breath there.

If it doesnt flip on us, Calla groused.

Follow me! Head down, Misfortune leaned into the wind. Dirt and pebbles smacked with bruising force against her sleeves. Nanotech cleats in the boots shed stolen from her foster mother made each step sticky, forcing her to peel her feet off the ground but keeping her from blowing away. Garmin and Calla held handsthey were sharing Dads cleats.

Forcing herself to it step by step, she made an exhausting progress to a vintage traffic signal. It was bent like a stalk of grass, its half-severed top swinging wildly. Misfortune spared a glance back, saw the huddled shadows of the younger children plodding through the dust, and hurled herself onto the parking lot.

Nobody knows where we are, nobody knows Shed thought it would be a heady experience, being off-grid.

Boom! Wind knocked her sprawling even as it snapped the stem of the traffic light. Then the whole storm blew out. The shrieking wind stilled to whispers.

Windblown trash crashed to earth. Smash bang crunch. Green glass tinkled from the traffic light. Her ears rang.

Scramble! Misfortune clicked her heels together to retract the nanocleats. She sprinted across the parking lot toward the boarded-up mall, the flickering beacon.

Slow down! Calla shouted.

On the horizon, the turbulent Alberta sky was turning the sickly green of rotten flesh.

Missy

I see it!

Tornados!

I know! Green skies meant fast death, few choices. Easy maths.

Mostly they miss, mostly they miss Her wrap had torn loose. She let it unfurl in her hand, the better to pull it tight again. Her dirty tongue rasped over dust-crusted lips.

Misfortune

Just run, Calla!

It hurts

Halfway across.

Freeze! Deep, amplified voice. A spotlight pinned her.

Misfortune screeched to a halt so sudden, her knees popped and the cleats reactivated.

You are not taking me back to the densification camp!

The drone had been sheltering under the armored car. Toaster-sized, with squeaking rotors, it tried to hover equidistant between the three children.

Vrrrrah trespassing in an evacuation zoooooohhhh. Identify cahh zzzurrender!

Beyond the glitching drone, the roof of the sky was twisting into downward spikes. On the horizon she saw funnel clouds forming and retracting. Dip down, swirl up. Closer each time.

The bot extruded armsone, two, threewith tranq darts. Two it aimed at Misfortune and Garmin. Red laser dots winked on their chests. The third, Callas dart, was drooping.

Remove masssshhh and submit to facieee recognition!

Massshhh? Masks. Her face was that dirty.

Boom! A needle-thin wisp of lightning sizzled something within the remains of the hospital.

Mostly it misses, mostly

The lightning strike startled Garmin. He twitched, just enough. The drone fired.

Misfortune was moving even as her brother made a soft oh! sound and staggered back. She leapt up to the traffic divider, shawl in hand, tackling the bot. They hit the pavement hard; its whirling chopper blade cut into her cheek.

Sabotaaaa of densification bots izza offense! it wailed.

Misfortune scrabbled under the drone, scavenging darts. She almost got her fingers broken when Calla ran up, hefting a hunk of concrete, and began smashing it down on the bot.