Photographic Memory Pill

Spanish scientists announced last year they discovered a chemical that vastly enhanced visual memory in rats.  The discovery wasn't planned; they were studying something else.  The chemical itself doesn't store memories, it instead gives a little tweak to a part of the brain that already exists.  Should it work in humans, it means a pill will temporarily grant us photographic memory.


Just as fuel injection adds power to an engine, it appears we will soon be able to tweak ourselves for better performance.  Maybe we could find a way to activate at will that 'slowed time' perception we sometimes get in a crisis or hyperactivate our immune system in the face of dangerous infections.


The rapid advance of artificial muscles is noteworthy, too.  Artificial muscles that are controlled by the users nerves will revolutionize limb replacement prosthetics.  Once developed, those same artificial muscles could make up a wearable suit to increase human strength.  


Such Enhancement Prosthetics (EPs) will probably not be limited to strength, either.  Techonologies to bring sight to the blind and sound to the deaf will spill over to consumers.  Intra-ear EPs will both protect and boost hearing while EP eye implants will add digital precision, zoom, and night vision to our daily life.  'Superhuman' could become normal.


Just please don't let spandex and capes come into fashion.

I've ranted about robotic soldiers before.  Well, here we go again, one last time.

The Digital Remote Operated Combat Avatar (DROCA) is something I've made up, but that's not to say it is completely imaginary. Thanks to Sketchup (a free 3d modeling program from Google), here is what I think a DROCA might look like.

The most important part of the system is the Operator Console.  The Predator UAV is piloted by an operator at a console with an abbreviated set of flight controls.  While complicated looking (see image below), it quite resembles consoles I worked with in 1977.  Operating a DROCA in street fighting would require something a bit beefier - something that would make all gamers drool.  This is how I imagine the DROCA's operator cockpit might look.

Agility is paramount.  Unlike the Predator UAV, our soldier robots must negotiate complex and constricted spaces.  Most vehicles can't move in a fashion humans find simple and essential:  sideways.  Tracks and wheels are good, but not that good.  On my DROCA I've used omnidirectional wheels.  Below are videos that shows how this technology will allow the DROCA needed agility. 

 

Add a gun for combat, a sensor pack for scouting, or a robotic arm for bomb disposal. They could even act as police by changing the paint job and replacing the gun with a Taser.  Note the DROCA isn't made to be indestructable, or even tougher than a human. The idea is it be as light and cheap as possible while replacing a human being in the line of fire.  Detroit could turn them out by the millions, faster than insurgents could dream of building bombs.

One more bonus for the DROCA system?  Disabled soldiers could be retrained and retasked into operators.  Instead of being medically discharged, disabled soldiers who still wanted to serve could bring their expertise and pride back to the battlefield.  

She Talks To Angels

“Says she talks to angels,

Says they all know her name.”

-- The Black Crowes

  The little girl skipped to a stop in front of Vince’s newsstand.  Though she was younger than Vince liked, he still felt a stir of lust and heard the Voices demanding satisfaction louder than he’d ever heard them before.  Between customers buying papers and porn mags Vince studied her from his stool. 
  As evening rush hour traffic crawled past she stood at the curb of 4th Avenue, animatedly talking to herself.  She was sun-browned and slender, with a mop of auburn curls bouncing off the shoulders of her faded blue dress.  She lacked the gawkiness of her apparent youth and seemed utterly confident despite the crowding strangers.  
  In his growing predatory fascination Vince lost track of time. He took care of customers without the usual banter or advice, ignoring their Voices so he could look back to the girl.  Finally she turned and gave him a cheerful smile.
  A hunter’s reflex slid his eyes away, trying to hide interest in possible prey.  Vince now noticed the lengthening shadows and emptying streets.  Soon an early autumn dusk would cut the day’s warmth and darken the streets; soon he could hunt.  He didn’t even try to keep from looking back at the girl.
  She was standing right in front of him, inches from his left knee.  Conflicting emotions paralyzed him, even seemed to quiet the Voice.  Embarrassment from being caught, lust at her nearness, even fear clashed within Vince, but worst was the sudden silence.  Memory rose into that fragile void – stinking, bloody, guilty memory usually suppressed by the consuming din of the Voices.
  “Hello, Vince.  I can call you Vince, can’t I?”  She didn’t wait for a response.  “You need to turn yourself in to the police before you do it again.”  Her hands waved between them, light from passing headlights briefly changing them to white, flapping wings.  “I know it’s not all your fault, and I promise you’ll feel better if you do.”  She leaned close.  “Don’t listen to them, whatever you do, don’t listen.”
  Vince sat frozen as she skipped across the street.  Desire for her was gone, replaced by fear and wonder.  Was it as simple as that, he thought, just turn myself in?  The Voices came back louder than ever, promising, threatening, cajoling, and drowning out everything else.  
  He lurched off the stool and clawed his knife from under the stand.  For a moment he stood swaying, unwilling to go on, unable to resist.  Then he saw the girl disappear around the corner of Grant Street and predator instinct to chase turned the tide.  He shambled across 4th Avenue, bent like an animal on the scent or a man being whipped.


* * *


  “Will ya lookit this?”  Detective Russo's voice echoed in the dimness of the condemned loft.  
  “Excuse me.”  Detective Williams turned from the uniformed officer he was interviewing and carefully stepped to where Russo squatted beside the victim.  “What?”
  “Got the weapon here.”  Russo lifted the corpse’s blood-stiffened jacket with the one remaining earpiece of his broken glasses.  “One of those gurky knives.”
  Williams squatted also, aiming his penlight where Russo indicated.  He could make out the distinctive hourglass shape of the weapon's handle.  The rest of the knife was buried in the victim's abdomen.  “You mean Kukri.  It was used in World War Two by the Ghurkas.”
  “You're so fulla crap.  I remember seein' these in Nam, some little gook guys carried 'em.”
  “Nepalese.  The Ghurkas are from Nepal.  Man, this guy is really torn up.”  The exchange was completely without heat, the banter of long-term partners.  Both of the men's eyes roved over the corpse and the surrounding littered floor as they spoke.  Williams pointed to a bent and bloodied length of pipe in the trash near the corpse's feet.  “Maybe another weapon.  Officer Andrews says folks heard it across the street.  Gang fight, maybe?”  
  “We better get the forensic guys out here.”  Russo grunted as he stood up and fished a cell phone from his pocket, then cursed when it wouldn't power up.  “Hey, do me a favor and make the call; this damn phone is broke or something.”  He shook the offending device.
  “Why don't you just get a new one?”  Williams pulled his phone from its belt holster and offered it up over his shoulder to Russo.  “And while you're at it, why don't you get some new goddam glasses.  I'm tired of driving all the time.”  
  “Because I'm married to a broad who likes to shop.”  Russo took the phone.  “I'm poor, awright?”
  Williams remained squatted as Russo dialed, carefully examining a possible blood trail.  The circle of illumination from his penlight followed smears and spatters to the support post a few feet away. There at the base of the post lay a pair of blood-soaked slippers, red as Dorothy's magic shoes.   
  His stomach sank when he saw bloody smudges trailing up the post into the darkness under the roof.  Sitting back on his heels, Williams redirected the beam upward into the shadows.  
  “Holy shit!”  Williams surged to his feet, clawing for his Glock.  “There's something up there!”  In seconds the three men had their guns out, shining flashlights into the rafters. 
  “Hey, you up there.  C'mon down, now.”  Russo's Italian accent added threat to the order.  He switched to a whisper.  “What did ya see, partner?”
  “Something moved.  I thought I saw . . .” The younger man paused and swallowed, trying to control his trembling voice.  “A face.”  Williams didn’t dare say what he'd really seen, that some horned monster demon-thing was up there.  
  Like performing some ritual dance they circled around the room, flashlights, guns, and faces pointing up.   In moments the uniformed officer hissed and waved the detectives to him.  Framed in his flashlight beam was a girl.  She was perched in the rafters barefoot, clutching the upper part of a support post.  Blood made it difficult to guess the color of her hair or clothing.
  “Hey, it's okay.”  Russo's voice was now soft and reassuring.  He holstered his revolver and motioned at the girl.  “Are ya hurt?  Can ya come down to me, honey?”
  “No, I'm not hurt.  I'm just stuck.”  She looked away, embarrassed.  “I'm afraid of falling, sorry.”  
  “What the heck,” blurted out the young uniformed officer, “is she twelve?” 
  “No,” she said haughtily, “are you?”
  Russo reached out blindly, slapped the officer's shoulder and hissed, “Shaddup.”  Frustration sharpened his accent as he spoke to the girl again.  “Well, how did ya get up there?  Maybe you could come down that way?”
  “Uhm,” she said and squirmed with chagrin.  “The angels said I couldn't leave, but I had to get away from the blood, so I climbed up the pole.  Now I'm afraid to climb down.  Is he dead?”
  “Who, honey?”
  “The man I stabbed, he's finally dead, right?”
  Williams and Russo exchanged looks as if hoping the other hadn’t heard her question.


* * *


  The old cassette recorder squeaked as the playback started.
  Male voice:  “Can you describe it to me?”
  Young female voice:  “Red, all red.  As in red.  A red room, Doc.”
  “Will you tell me what's in the room?”
  “Sure.  There are pictures on the wall, but they are painted over with red.  The couch is red, the table is red, the TV is on but the screen is just red.” 
  “Is there nobody with you?”  A chair creaked.
  “Of course, it's Red Skelton!”  The young girl giggled.
  “Go on.”
  “Just kidding.  Really, there's a nun, a Neanderthal nun and her habit is red.  She's trying to talk to me, but all she can do is grunt.  She tries harder and harder to talk, but I just can't understand.  The nun is really getting frustrated, and then she spontaneously combusts -- poof.”
  “Why do you think that happened?”
  “Why did she get frustrated, or why did she burn up?”
  “Well . . .”
  “Never mind.”  Tsk.  “I was just messin' with ya.  It's just a dream, anyway.  The symbology seems easy to me.  Red is the color of blood, a menstrual allusion, and this extinct virgin is trying to tell me something. She burns up, which would be anger about sex, or lack of sex.  Basically my subconscious is reminding me that I'm young, normal, childless, and the old biological clock is ticking.”
  The scruffy office chair creaked as Dr. Carl Chinov leaned forward and hit the stop button on the recorder.  He propped his elbows on the battered desktop, dropped his chin onto his fists, and looked woefully at the woman on the couch across from his desk.  
  “Carl, dear,” said Dr. Jacqueline Staller, “is it me, or does she sound smarter than you?”  She smiled to quell any sting from her observation.  Despite encroaching wrinkles and middle-age spread, she was still proud of her smile.  And she knew Carl liked it, known since their shared residency years ago.
  “That's probably the worst part of this case, Jacks.”  Carl straightened up and scrubbed his hands through his short hair.  “In the damned movies all the crazies are savants and geniuses.  The inmates here are neither.  Most are uneducated thanks to their psycho-pathology, the rest are clinically deficient.”  He stood up and paced.  “And I don't even see the worst ones.  This girl. . .”  He stopped in front of the desk, perched nervously on the corner closest to her, arms crossed.  
  Jacqueline's smile widened and she caught his eye before he continued speaking.  “Carl, dear, look at your body language.  Relax.”  He just threw up his hands and flopped on the couch beside her.
  “Sorry,” Carl said.  “She's in Central State because she admitted to committing a murder.  The state found her incompetent to stand trial but, yes, she's likely smarter than me.  Just like you.”  His chuckle had little mirth; he continued to look out the window.  “She knows things, things she can't possibly know.”  He finally met her eyes.  “Jacks, I need help.  Can you take some time?”
  “Absolutely, Carl, you know that,” Jacqueline said.  His relief was flatteringly obvious.  “Whatever you need me to do, I'm here.  It'll be like old times, helping you cram.”  Seeing the desperation fade from his eyes pleased her, and stirred old feelings.  
  Carl stood.  “I'll get her case file so you can acquaint yourself. . .”  He paused as Jacqueline waved her hand and shook her head.
  “No need for that right now.  What I need is a good first impression of the girl, the sooner the better.”  She stood up beside him, smoothed her skirt.  “Now would be fine, if that's okay?” 


* * * 


  “Okay.  The truth is that I talk to angels.”  Angelouva gave Jacqueline a mischievous smile.  “Bet that's not the answer you were lookin’ for.”  She rocked back and balanced on the rear legs of the plastic chair.  The shabby interview room was small, barely wide enough for the table and two chairs.  Sunlight trickled in through the metal grate on the filthy window and painted a faint geometric pattern on the stained tabletop.
  “That's not true.  I wasn't looking for anything specific.”  She tapped the file folder in front of her.  “I already know you have a very active imagination.”  Jacqueline closely watched the girl's reaction to the not-so-subtle challenge.
  “Good one, Doc,” said Angelouva.  She swung her slippered feet on the table and propped the back of the chair against the wall, perfectly balanced on two metal legs.   The girl closed her eyes, rearranged the hospital gown.  “So you're Jacqueline.”
  Jacqueline had to smile.  “You can call me Jacks if you like.”
  “Yeah, I know,” the girl said, nodding, “your angel told me.”
  “I have an angel?”
  “Yup.”  Angelouva was fully reclined now, hands behind her head, a smile on her lips.  “Everyone has an angel.”
  “Like a guardian angel?”  Suddenly Jacqueline wished she had set up a video camera.
  “Whatever.”  The girl snorted, opened her eyes to stare at the grimy ceiling.  “Not much in the guardian department, usually.”
  “Why do you talk to angels?”
  “The same reason you try to help crazy people, 'cause we were born that way.  Anyway --” the chair slammed down on all four legs so Angelouva could look Jacqueline straight in the eye, “-- it's really more like they talk to me.  They all know my name.”
  Jacqueline decided to accept the challenge of the girl's stare.  “Did the angels tell you to kill that man?”
  “No.  That was my decision.  His angel told my angel what he was planning, but not to kill.  He came after me, like the other girls.  I had to stop him.”  Angelouva leaned closer to Jacqueline.  “Have you ever killed anyone?”
  Jacqueline's composure staggered; her mind traitorously held up a snapshot of that terrible night so long ago in County ER.  She coughed down a stab of nausea, touched back stray hair as she muttered an apology.  
  “I'd . . . I'd rather talk about you while we can, Angelouva.”  Again in control, Jacqueline had to admire the girl's perceptiveness.  “What did the angels tell you about the man you killed?”
  “Angel.  Just one, one for each of us.”  Angelouva frowned and looked down at the table.  “You sure you want to hear any more?  Most of the cops and lawyers and doctors didn't get this far, just pegged me as crazy.”
  “Not me.  Do you think you are crazy?”
  Angelouva laughed and looked back up at Jacqueline.  “What I think doesn't matter a bit, does it Doctor Staller?”  She sighed.  “Sorry about bringing up that woman who died.  It's not the same thing, 'cause that was an accident, and mine was on purpose.” Jacqueline jumped to her feet and bolted into the institutional green corridor.  Vomit rose in the back of her throat; she was able to stagger to a trash can and drop to her knees before losing control.  When the spasm was past, Jacqueline became aware of Angelouva holding her shoulders.  Drooling vomit and snot and tears, Jacqueline could not resist asking.  “You know what happened?”
  “Your angel says another intern loaded the wrong medicine in the syringe.  You just did what you were supposed to do.”
  “Did the . . . angel tell you who?”
  “I already knew.  It was Dr. Chinov.  Sorry.”


* * * 


  “What do we do?”  Jacqueline was sitting on the couch again, shaking from reaction.  She could still smell bile.
  Carl shook his head, slumped back in his protesting chair.  “The same thing we did when I screwed up and killed that woman.  Nothing.  There's nothing we can do.”
  “Sure there is, Carl.”  She took a deep breath.  “We certify her and get her out of here.  She's not insane.”
  “Of course she is.  She's delusional and violent.  The rules say so.”  The weak sarcasm seemed to push him further into his seat.  “And if she isn’t, then she goes to trial.”
  “Did you ever ask her why she killed the man?.”  
  He flinched.  “No.  I was avoiding a direct confrontation of her delusion.  I haven't brought myself to speak with her since she . . .” Carl let the sentence die.  They sat silently, separately considering the long ago accident that had crippled their careers and crushed the life they could have shared.  Finally, Jacqueline stood up and straightened her red jacket.
  “Let's go,” she commanded, “we're going to do the right thing this time.  Together.”  Despite a groan of protest Carl moved lightly with her, wearing the beginnings of a grin.


* * * 


  “He was a demon talker.  Everyone has an angel, right?  Well, everyone has a demon, too.  The angels and demons can't do much, really.  They whisper to you all the time and sometimes people kinda hear them.  I help by telling people what their angel says.”  Sound of sipping water.  “Thanks.”
  “You're welcome, go on.”
  “Well, he talked to demons, and told people what their demon wanted them to do.”
  “Excuse me.  You can't see the demons?”
  “Nope.  Just the angels.”
  “So you killed him because he talked to demons?”
  “Heck no!  The demons sent him to kill me, the same way he’d done before with other girls.  I was ready because his angel told me what was happening.”  Pause.  “I was scared, really scared, but the angels kept me company.  First I hit him on the head, then used his knife.”  Several seconds of silence.  “Both of your angels say that you need to get married, 'cause things are gonna get worse before they get better, but they will get better.”  
  Several seconds of silence.
  “Angelouva, what do they look like?”
  “Do you know what a Giant Voodoo Lily is?  No?  Well, that's what they look like.”  Sigh.  “About ten feet tall, skinny and beautiful and white, with their wings pulled up around 'em like giant flower petals.”
  Jacqueline turned off the recorder.  “Think she’ll be okay?”
  Carl shrugged.  “You’d think so, all things considered.”
  “How long until they'll know she's gone?”
  “Maybe a week.”  Carl scratched his head and perched on the desk beside her.  “I can do a paper runaround for that long without it definitively pointing back to me.
  “Then what?”  She reached out and took his hand.
  “Then we go to Las Vegas and get married.”  His smile was filled with certainty.  “I'm done with this job.  We'll find someplace where we can really help people.  Do real medicine.”  He looked into Jacqueline's eyes.  “If that's okay with you.”
  She smiled back.  “What, you think I'm crazy?  No way I'll let you get away this time.”  On a happy impulse she kissed him.  He kissed her back the way he’d been imagining all day.  


* * * 


  “What a creepy place.”  Russo stopped at the battered door marked Staff Psychiatrist and adjusted his new glasses.  “I've seen prisons nicer than this.”
  “Yeah,” said Williams, “sounds like the zoo primate house.”  Russo shot a puzzled glance at his partner; the dilapidated administration wing was almost silent.
  “Partner, you up to this?”  The older cop had barely noticed his partner’s moodiness lately, distracted by events in his own life.
  “I’m good,” Williams muttered.  “I just wonder if we’re doing the right thing, y’know?”  He flinched, looked down the hall.  “She’s a killer, remember?  Everyone seems to forget that.”   
  “You trust me, don’t ya?”  Russo clapped Williams on the shoulder.  “So, don’t worry.”
  Williams nodded and knocked.  There was a shuffle and quiet words behind the door before Carl answered and ushered them in.  As Carl conducted the introductions, the two detectives noted his slight dishevelment – lipstick lightly streaked across his cheek, hair mussed – and exchanged a deadpan look of amusement.  When Carl started to offer them seats in the small office, Russo politely cut him off.
  “No, sir, that's not necessary.  Won't take that long, I promise.”  Russo turned to Jacqueline.  “Before I get started, I need to know how you're involved, ma'am.”
  “I'm consulting on the Angelouva case,” Jacqueline said without hesitation.  “Carl called me in last week.”  She gave her best smile to the detective and sat on the couch.  “I'm completely involved.”
  “Then let me get right to it.”  Russo faced Carl.  “Dr. Chinov, your night staff reported to the Department of Corrections that Angelouva is missin’.  Found her yet?”  Russo pinned Carl with a stare that had chilled many suspects into confessions.  Williams discreetly watched Jacqueline.
  “Uh, no.”  Carl glanced at Jacqueline for a moment; she nodded confidently and he continued.  “You two were the arresting officers, right?”  
  “You knew that already, Chinov.”  Russo let his expression ease.  “C'mon, Doc, spit it out.”  Somehow, the detective knew what was coming. 
  “Did she tell you . . .” Carl paused to clear his throat, “that is, give you any advice?”  At the question, Williams stepped back into the door jam and looked down.  Jacqueline noted the movement; his withdrawal piqued her professional interest.
  Russo smiled.  “She told me my wife was bangin' some guy, and that I had to decide between forgiving or leaving.  So I bought a new cell phone and moved out.”  He waved his hand to include Jacqueline.  “So, you guys sprung her?”  He laughed at Carl’s startled look.  “Don't worry, there ain't no proof yet.  Let's see what me and you can do to keep it that way, okay?”  
  Russo pulled papers from his coat and spread them on the desk.  Carl hesitantly bent over the desk with the detective, studying the papers as Russo spoke.  Williams remained huddled against the door.
  “Detective Williams,” Jacqueline asked quietly, “what did she tell you?”
  “Nothing,” he lied, “she just gave me this.”  Williams showed her the tiny silver cross around his neck.  “Excuse me.”  He stepped into the hallway and closed the door before Jaqueline could ask any more questions.  The bedlam of all those demons ranting at the poor nutcases was better than more questions.
  He knew he could never tell anyone what the girl said, or what plagued him since he'd seen that demonic face in the shadows with Angelouva.
  “Don’t listen,” the girl who talked to angels had told him.  “No matter what, don’t listen.”
  Williams clutched the cross tightly until the voice of his demon faded.


* * *


  Stan pulled his city bus to the curb precisely in front of the Third and May Avenue bus stop.  Though the rain was cold and sheeting down, a young girl was waiting in the weather shelter.  As soon as the doors hissed open she danced in, smiling and chattering to herself.  He waited until she cleared the steps before flipping his cigarette butt into the downpour and lighting another.
  For half-a-dozen stops she rode the city bus like a princess, greeting patrons and carrying on her imaginary conversations.  Stan couldn't help but smile at how much she reminded him of his own young daughter.  He was surprised when she pulled the cord for the Tenth Street stop; not a good neighborhood.  He opened the door as she came up the aisle, but she stopped beside him.
  “Hello, Stan.”  Angelouva stuck out her hand.
  “Haw.  Hello, dear.”  He shook her hand firmly.  “Need a transfer?”
  “No, thanks, I just need to tell you a couple of things.”  She leaned closer and whispered.  “You need to quit smoking and stop seeing that woman Phyllis.  If you don’t, you're gonna wreck your marriage, and you're gonna need your wife 'cause you got lung cancer.  Your angel says you can beat it if you start now.  Okay?”
  Stan watched in stunned paralysis as the girl skipped away.  The rain swallowed her up before he could bring himself to flip his cigarette out the door and drive away.  He didn't light another.


    The End

Eye Caught

The internet is SO full of information you'd think just participating might make you smarter.  That's probably not the case, but sometimes you find something so outrageous or funny or whatever you're glad somebody invented the internet, whoever that might be.  For instance:

Don't even try to tell me you didn't laugh.

Another prime bit of video entertainment is always Youtube robots.  If you've already met Titan, I'll bet you haven't seen him brawl yet:

I can see you smiling.

Occasionally you just find stuff that makes you wonder:

I hope you were amused, or at least gave a grin.

Birdboy and Sista Shotgun (finale)

     
             Brock and Sal waited uneasily at the fried meat booth near the main gate, watching Beaner approach.  The market was busy, filled with the motions, sounds, and smells of commerce.  The two servants were not used to the hubbub.   
    "Nada," said Beaner as he slouched to a stop, hangover bowing his shoulders.  "You?"
    "Same," said Sal, "nobody seen 'em in the market or outside."
    Beaner shook his head.  "Nate said they were at his place, but left early.  Only peeps new in town are them."  He pointed at a black trio performing an impromptu concert on the street.  A small but enthusiastic crowd cheered the muscular rapper while his coffee-dark dancing girl played peek-a-boo with spinning, holographic roses.  Behind them a hooded DJ squatted over his board, nodding to his driving beat.  
    "Crap."  Sal scratched his head.  "Now what?"
    "We'll split up, look again," said Brock.
    "I say we blow it off, man," Beaner said.  "Those ninas are gone and it ain't our fault."
    "Reasonable," said Brock, nodding.  "Sanna won’t like it, but she needs to know."  The three men headed for the exit.
    Sal's attention was drawn to the performers as they passed.  He stopped and fished coins out of his pocket, offered them to the dancer.
    "Hey, Hot Chocolate,” he said with his usual leer, “what's your name?"   
    The big man rapping and stomping to the DJ's music popped up, thrust himself within inches of Sal.  A heavy bass line boomed out and the rapper stabbed a thick finger at Sal's face.
    "Yo, I'm Ogee Nine, an' dis sista be mine!  Ya got that?"  Boom-boom.  "Huh?  Ya want that?"  Boom-boom.  "Huh?"  Ogee raised his loose jersey to reveal a pistol holstered inside his waistband, dropped a hand to the butt.
    Sal put his hands up and backed away as the audience clapped.  Satisfied, the rapper returned his performance to the crowd.  Linya blew Sal a kiss as Beaner shoved the smaller man toward the gate.
    Onlookers kept Linya dancing long after Sanna's flunkies left.  It was Birdboy, through his holo-construct Ogee Nine, who finally announced the end of the show.  The audience clapped, tossed down a few final donations, and began to drift away.
    "We can't go back to Nate," Linya said quietly to Birdboy.  "We don't want to get him in trouble.  Follow me."  With Birdboy keeping up the illusory Ogee Nine, Linya led them into the shanty town.
    As long as she could remember the half-abandoned shanty town had been there.  Some folks drifted through on the way to somewhere else, leaving makeshift structures.  Others lived here permanently in the freedom outside the walls and law.  
    They had no problem finding an abandoned hut of scrap plastic.  As soon as they were out of sight and direct sun they got out of their protective gear.  Birdboy de-rezzed the holo-rapper and powered down the holo-suite.
    "Rappa, Rappa, hard work.  Sista, sista HOT work."  He giggled when his sister stuck her tongue out at him.  "Chow time?"
    "You got it, Bird," she said, "I mean Ogee Nine."  They played and teased, sharing the food she'd bought with the coins they'd earned.  Linya felt pride in how much Birdboy had changed, but could still see the limitations of his disability.   
    "Bird, is it, y'know, easier to use the deck than just talk?"  He nodded, touched the holo-suite.  The rapper construct rezzed.
    "Hell, yeah, little sista.  It's like the walls that keep me from the world get the smack down so I get the low down, aight?"  Linya felt a familiar pang at seeing Birdboy huddled over the holo-suite.
    "Hey, I can even see with this viewpoint," Ogee crowed, and peeked out the door.  "Uh-oh."  Ogee de-rezzed.  "Beaner," muttered Birdboy.
    Linya darted to the opening and edged an eye out.  Sure enough, there were Beaner and Sal following a ragged crone.  The Mexican had his machete out and looked like walking murder.  
    The girl flinched back as fear dragged clawed panic along her spine.  Trembling, she took a deep breath and pulled the sawed-off.  Two shots, two kills, she thought, and hope I can reload before Brock shows up.  She'd start with Beaner and maybe Sal would just run.  
    "Don't worry, Bird," she said, turning to reassure him.  
    Birdboy was halfway out the back of the hut, pushing through loose layers of plastic.  She hurried over and passed him the holo-suite when he got through, backed into the opening after him.  Dragging their bags, she tugged the plastic sheets back up to help hide their escape route.  The boy was shoving through the gap between the shanties, inching along with all his strength.  Any kind of real structure would have trapped them there, but here the walls flexed and bent, reluctantly allowing passage. 
    They'd only gone a few yards when Linya heard Beaner curse, then the sound of a blow.  The old crone slammed through the wall, fell into the gap, bloody and dead.  His head appeared in the gap and he saw Linya immediately.  She turned and started pushing Birdboy.  
     Beaner withdrew his head and started hacking at the walls with his machete.  Suddenly Linya and Birdboy popped out of the gap, tumbling into a muddy niche between hovels.  The boy sniffled, fought back sobs.
    "Bird," she whispered, "what would Ogee do?"  .
    "Rappa, Rappa,”  Birdboy hiccupped,  “pop a cappa, pull my nine, make em mine." 
    "No," she said, "wait, yeah, that's good."  Linya pointed the shotgun in the direction of Beaner's ruckus and pulled back both hammers.  Birdboy peeped and covered both ears as his sister pulled the triggers.  
    The double ba-boom was utterly deafening in the small space.  Linya marveled briefly at the fluttering cloud of debris until Birdboy yanked at her sleeve.  He headed out of the niche, holo-suite clutched tightly, his sister close behind.  Glancing left and right, she could see they'd stumbled into an occupied street; a dozen people or more were looking at them.
    There was Brock, not ten yards up the street.
    "Run!"  Linya pushed her brother, turned to face Brock.  He was already stepping forward as she raised the sawed-off, pulling back the hammers in the same motion.  Brock's eyes widened.  His arms flailed as he tried to deny physics and move in a different direction.  Linya fired from the hip.
    The hammers fell uselessly at the same instant Linya recalled she hadn't reloaded.  An ugly look came to Brock's face.  Regaining his balance, he pulled a pistol.  
    Ogee stepped between Brock and Linya, raised his pistol.  The holo-construct fired first, three flat pops as intense light flashed Brock's eyes.  Brock flinched and fired blindly.  The exchange of gunfire finished clearing the street.
    "Go, dammit," Ogee yelled at Linya loud enough for her to hear through ringing near-deafness.  He stalked toward Brock, gun pointed sideways.  "Ya mine, punk!  Don't nobody mess wif Ogee's posse!" 
    Linya could barely hear the gun battle as she grabbed Birdboy's arm and dragged him into the first place she saw with a real door, the Church of the Conflagration.  
    Inside was nearly dark.  Linya could just make out at least a dozen people sitting on benches, looking down with hands clenched together over their heads.  She closed the door and pushed the boy into a darker corner behind the empty last pew.

     "Bird," she whispered, "can you hide us here?"  He nodded and concentrated; the room dimmed further around them.

      "Amen," boomed the man at the podium.  "Amen," answered the congregation.
    "Once again, as our protector the Holy Sun passes over us, we gather to affirm our devotion to our Lord and the Church of the Conflagration."  The congregation repeated, "Lord and Church."
    "The sins of our fathers weigh heavy upon us.  The gubbermen told us gene splicing would banish famine, but splicers poisoned our crops.  Gubbermen told us gene splicing would cure disease, but splicers killed our children.  Gubbermen told us gene splicing would save the world, but splicers loosed the plaguewinds!"  The preacher struck the podium.  "Suffer no splicer to live!"  He pounded the podium again.  "Death to splicers," intoned the congregation.  
    The congregation became excited as the preacher went on, clapping and stomping.  Amidst the din Linya watched the door, hoping it wouldn't open, but it seemed only seconds passed before it did.  All three of Sanna's men slipped in, standing together as their eyes adapted to the darkness.  A ray of sunset struck the preacher's face and he threw a hand up to shield his eyes.  Linya could see that the angle was wrong and realized it must be Birdboy.
    "Who comes to the Church of the Conflagration?" intoned the preacher.
    A woman in the back row stood and screamed. "Oh my lord, look!  Plague!"  All heads turned toward the three men.  After seeing their faces, Linya glanced at her brother.  He was smiling, head bobbing, as more people stood and pointed.  Sal's face was green and oozing from dark sores.  Dark, furred patches of mold covered Brock's skin.  The blood on Beaner's face and clothes was a bright, dripping red.
    "Fire!" someone yelled.  "Only fire can cleanse the plague!"  In seconds the church was empty, but the children heard the chase for much longer.
    Exhausted, Linya decided to spend the night in the church,  Birdboy was immune to the plaguewinds and she was so tired she simply didn't care, hoping a simple face mask would give enough protection.  They were soon asleep, huddled together like wild animals hiding in the forest.
    Sunrise softly touched the rafters overhead when Linya woke next morning.  Birdboy was already up, standing near a tiny window, golden sunlight giving his strong face an angelic glow.  She was stiff and sore, needed an outhouse badly, but forced herself to lay there and think.  They couldn't go back right now, maybe never if Sanna got her splicer hooks in Ranga.  If they stayed around here Linya was sure they'd eventually be found, but going Nomad or Scavenger was just as bad.  They'd have to trek the ruins and try to enter the Dome.
    "Old Sanna is coming," he muttered.
    "Yeah, Bird, we should move on today.”  She stretched, trying to straighten the kinks.  “Maybe toward the Dome."
    "No.”  Bird pointed out the window.   “Now.” 
    Heart pounding, Linya rolled to her feet and looked out the window.  Sure enough, Sanna was coming straight up the street to the church.  Her eyes were on a splicer unit with an ambient sampler attached, a rig she called a sniffer.  Corporate Exec gray draped her corpulence.    
    "That's it.”  In cold anger Linya picked up the shotgun and reloaded.  “I'm killin' her."  She snapped the action closed.  The preacher loomed out of the darkness behind the girl and twisted the shotgun from her grip before she could react.
    "Murder is the tool of the gubbermen, my child."  He shook his head, holding the shotgun out of her reach.  "You shall not kill today."  
    “What?”  It was too much for Linya; her voice rose to a scream.  "She's coming to kill him!"  She pointed a shaking finger at Birdboy.  "I have to stop her, don't you get it?"
    "Calm, my child.  You are under the protection of the Church."  His quiet, ignorant confidence angered Linya further, perversely helping her focus.  The preacher opened the action of the sawed-off, removed the shells, and tossed the weapon on the nearest pew.  "Let us confront this together," he said, turning to the door.  
    Still trembling with anger, Linya looked at Birdboy; he had already powered up the holo-suite.
    "Never leave me, never leave you, my sista," he muttered.  "Ninja time."  
    "Never, never, not now, not ever," she whispered back and stepped close to her brother.  He took the lead, moving them closer to the door even as he nodded over the holo-suite.
    At the door, the preacher looked around to see smiling children standing together behind him.  Satisfied, he opened the door.  Old Sanna stopped a few paces away.
    "Those children are mine.  I've come for them," the woman said.  
    "My child," intoned the preacher, "is this your mother?" 
    "No," said Linya.  
    "The child shall know the mother, so says the Book."  He waved at Sanna.  "Be gone, woman."  He reached to close the door but an errant breeze, perhaps, swung it open out of his reach.
    "Preacher, I'm not leaving without 'em."  Old Sanna raised her arm, pointed two fingers at the man.  Cables ran over her shoulder and along her arm, connecting the low-slung backpack power unit to the laser weapon strapped on her hand.  "And this here down payment will make sure."  
    The preacher stepped back, uneasily eying the hollow gaze of the emitter lens.  A shadow seemed to pass between them.  Glancing back at the children behind him, he drew himself up and bravely faced Sanna.
    "This is the work of gubbermen!” he boomed out, raising his arms, “and will not pass my door!"
    Silent light slashed from Sanna’s pointed fingers, raked across the preacher's chest.  Vapor sizzled, followed by a muffled ‘thump’ as steam exploded his ribcage.  The man fell dead without further sound, split chest deformed and smoking.  
    "Dumbass," she laughed.  The next beam burned across Birdboy, but left no trace.  "Right.  Damn holo-crap.  We'll see about that."  Holding out the sniffer, she moved to block the door.  She looked up and saw dozens of Linyas and Birdboys in the church.  "I know you're in here."  Her voice softened.  "I don't want to hurt you Linya, baby."  
    All the girls solemnly shook their heads.  
    "I'll have you anyway,” she snarled, “both of you."  Sanna raised her hand again.  The beam blazed and glittered as she drew it along the rear wall of the church, then the walls left and right.  As quick as that the building was ablaze, and she concentrated on the sniffer again.  "This is the only way out, now.  I'll know when you come close, whether I can see you or not."  She moved the weapon back and forth, ready to sweep the door with brilliant death.  
    Something clicked behind her.  Sanna spun around, but saw only a slight shimmer of morning warmth on the street.  The sniffer beeped.  
    "What now, Old Sanna," came Linya's voice from the door behind her.  
    Sanna spun back toward the door, triggered the laser, but the weapon failed to function.  She reached out into the church, waving her arms, feeling for the two children, but smoke billowed into her face and forced her back a coughing step. 
    Birdboy de-rezzed the concealing illusion of an empty street behind Sanna.  To Linya's utter amazement her brother had somehow managed to juggle all the holo-clones  and still hide them both as they crept out during the confrontation.  Both children now rushed the woman from behind, shoving her headlong into the burning building.  Staggering, she tripped over the preacher's body and fell heavily.  Linya snatched up the fallen sniffer as her brother rezzed leaping flames between the fat woman and the door.  
    People up and down the street were raising the alarm; an uncontrolled fire was their worst fear.  Sanna rose, choking and blinded by smoke.  The woman waddled forward, avoiding surrounding flames by feel, finally passing through the holographic inferno of the door.  Clear of the smoke, she fell to her knees gasping and crying.  A pregnant woman ran to Old Sanna's aid, but recoiled when she saw no burns from the fire. 
    "The fire did not touch her!"  Linya stepped forward and pointed.  "And I saw her kill the preacherman.  She's a splicer!"
    Everybody stopped and looked, even the people pulling down neighboring shanties to keep the fire from spreading.  The pregnant woman leaped back.
    "My Lord, look at her arm!” she screamed.  Glittering points of light crawled across the laser and cables.  Sanna raised her hands in defense, pointed an accusing finger at Linya, but a fit of coughing killed her voice.  
    "Drown her," came a yell, and the cry was quickly taken up by others.  Linya and Birdboy walked away as men thrust Old Sanna's head into a bucket of water brought to fight the fire.




". . . there the old witch had to drown. Then the children went home together, and were heartily delighted, and if they have not died, they are living still."
Fundevogel, Grimm's Fairy Tales




The End

Birdboy and Sista Shotgun (part 2 of 3)

     As they arrived evening breezes pushed dust devils through the shanty town hunkered in the shadow of the huge former shopping mall. Beyond loomed the real Dome, indifferently glowing, dwarfing everything else. Only the poor, desperate, or brave risked the plaguewinds in the flimsy shacks that covered most of the ancient parking lots. Linya didn't plan to spend the night out here. By law the Village's doors were supposed be open until dark, but she didn't want to push their luck. She left the cart at the front doors and hustled Birdboy into decontamination.

     Crossroads Village was inside the giant building, a poor man's Dome. Though constantly patched and repaired, the mall was not sealed against the plaguewinds. Instead, filtered air was constantly pumped into the building, forcing contaminates out of any openings. Vents banged open and a gale of inside air blasted through the decon zone, scouring dust from their clothes and bags. When they were done the gatekeeper gave them a hard look but opened the inner doors.

     "No campin' in here," the oldster groused. "If ya got no place, ya go back out."

     "Going to Nate's," said Linya.  "That good enough, gramps?"

     The old fellow snorted and shackled the doors for the night.

     Linya guided Birdboy up the immobile escalators to Okie Nate's Place. As usual, Nate was perched on a stool outside his flophouse, smoking his pipe. Nate rented rooms to people seeking privacy with security. Linya had often rented Birdboy a room while she went to market. Nate and Birdboy were real buds.

     "Kon ban wa, Linya-san, Birdboy." His smile was wide and genuine.

     "Hey, Nate-san.” She nodded a bow. “Glad to see you. Got a room, I hope?"

     He nodded, but worry lines pinched his forehead. "Linya, something wrong, I think? You never stay night."

     Overwhelmed with sudden emotion, she found herself sobbing in the wizened Okinawan's arms. He sang something soothing in Japanese as he patted her back. Linya took hold of her will and pushed away from Nate.

     "Sorry," she snuffled.

     "No, you have troubles. Need sleep. Yes?"

     "Yeah. Thanks, Nate. We might need more than that."

     "Anything for Birdboy and Sista Shotgun." He bowed.

     Nate led them through the winding halls of his domain. Birdboy dropped Linya's and scampered ahead, darting into a room. Linya started after him, but Nate laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

     "Dojo. He knows well. After you." Nate bowed and waved her ahead.

Linya's breath caught when she entered. Real wood gleamed warmly from all sides, a breathtaking assault on her senses. Birdboy headed to shelves that stood in one corner beside a low bench. Linya glanced at Nate. He ignored the boy and knelt at a small shrine, the only other bit of furniture in the room.

     Birdboy placed an electronic device on the bench. Linya was shocked to recognize a very expensive holo-suite, the commercial entertainment version of her brother’s PlayStation deck. Nate bowed to the shrine and rose to his feet as Birdboy slipped a complex headpiece over his short hair.

     A ninja leapt into the room and attacked Nate, hands and feet blurring as he struck. The old man moved in a measured dance that somehow avoided the furious barrage. Around the room the two moved, the ninja grunting and yelling, Nate serenely stepping and leaning.

     Linya watched, paralyzed with confusion for crucial seconds before remembering her shotgun. Her hand found the grip hidden under her poncho. Nate shuffled, passed his hands through a graceful arc, and the ninja was airborne. The black-swathed figure froze in mid-air and faded through a slow de-rezz.

     Linya released the shotgun. Nate turned and bowed toward Birdboy; the boy nodded solemnly back. She felt pride and awe, quickly followed by a stab of annoyance.

     "What the hell was that?"

     "My mistake," Nate said. "Apologies. Tori-san, uh, Birdboy eager to show you."

     "Sorry, sorry," muttered Birdboy.

     She waved off their apologies, pique buried by curiosity. "No, it's okay, but how did you do that?"

     "Ah. Tori-san master of holo-suite," Nate said with pride. "Best karate sparring partner." He patted Birdboy on the shoulder. "There is nothing Tori-san cannot do with holo-suite."

     Linya remained silent and thoughtful until Nate left them for the night. She hadn't planned beyond running away, except vague thoughts of entering a Dome or finding some rich patron to splice for. It was clear, now that she had time to think, that Old Sanna would come after Bird. He was just too valuable.

     She needed to find some way to hide, and Birdboy had shown her that way.

     Linya sat up, dug her splicer kit out of the pack and stared at it. It would be the kind of splicecraft that killed millions if it went wrong, got the splicer drowned if anybody found out. On the other hand, it would be her first big splice, thrillingly far beyond anything else she'd done. Overnight transmutation and neural contact generation were big, scary splices.

     It took longer to reach a decision than to program the splice and synth it up. She shook Birdboy awake.

    "Bird, listen to me. Old Sanna will send the guys after us tomorrow, and they'll find us." Linya could see fear in his eyes. "I have to do something to change us, so we can hide. I need to know that you trust me." Birdboy swayed and twisted his hands. "Never leave me, and I'll never leave you," she whispered.

     "Never, never, not now, not ever," he breathed, so low she could barely hear.

She patted him on the head and touched the injector to his arm. Over and over he whispered, "Never, never, not now, not ever." Linya cycled another vial and injected herself. Soon he was nodding from the sedative.

     When he was completely out she pulled a Direct Neural Net Input patch from the bag of trade goods. DINNI was a big item in the Dome's black market, legally restricted to the elite Corp Execs. Directly linking the brain to computers was an advantage the Corporate Domes didn’t want to share.

Surgical implantation of the nano-scale connection leads often took weeks for recovery and cost a small fortune. Among other things, her splice would force Birdboy's body to grow its own neural connections overnight, allowing him direct mental control of the holo-suite.

     Linya thrust the sharp anchors of the DINNI patch in place on the back of his neck. Tiny, rose-red blood drops welled. She shivered and looked away, busying herself with synthing the meds that would help block rejection and other negative reactions.

     Birdboy awoke next morning weaker, but alert. He was immediately fascinated by their new appearance. Both of them were now bald and deep, chocolate brown. Birdboy's DINNI patch was also healed and ready.

     "Bird?" He immediately looked up at her. "We're gonna do something together, okay?" He nodded and tapped the holo-suite. Linya was happily surprised. Somehow Bird, despite all his twitches and distractions, was on the same page and ready to help.

     "Right, Bird. Here's the rap. Brock and the guys will be looking for two white kids. I want you to use Nate's holo-projector to rezz up a rapper, like you do with the PlayStation, but full-size, y'know? Then we three put on a show and hide. . ."

     "Ogee, Ogee Nine," interrupted Birdboy, nodding, fingers already stroking the holo-projector.

     "That's it, Bird. You're gonna be a star. That good for you?"

     His smile was ferocious.

    "Rappa, Rappa, by my nine, gonna own it, take it, make it mine." Posed with his arms crossed and peeking at her from the corners of his eyes, she had to laugh.

     "That's right, Bird. You gonna show your cred today. Let's do this."

Birdboy and Sista Shotgun (part 1 of 3)

“There was once a forester who went into the forest . . .”

Fundovogel, Grimm’s Fairy Tales 

Linya woke when the limo door slammed.  After a few groggy seconds she figured out why and slithered out of her rack without bothering to dress.  Clutching the ragged nightshirt close she banged open the shutterseals and leaned out the glassless rear window.  
The stretch limo body that served as the family apartment was blocked up just under the I-40 overpass, giving the pale girl a commanding view of the dusty, junk-covered concrete riverbed.  Thousands of wrecks and abandoned vehicles had been pushed off the overpass after the Death to clear the roads above for traffic. . . traffic that never returned.  Ranga strode toward the distant Corporate Domes in armor and bio-protective gear.
"Hey!  Where ya goin, Daddy-san?"  Her strident voice echoed along the underpass.
"Sorry baby, gotta burn," Ranga yelled without looking back.  "When the Mara calls, I lissen or it's my ass.  Watch your brother and stay outta the plaguewinds.  Forty-eight ya."  He broke into a lope, disappeared into the jumbled maze of Death scrap.
"Hwoon dahn gang-banger punk," Linya muttered under her breath.  "Splice you!" she yelled, knowing he could still hear her.  "I'd rather have Bird watchin' my back, anyway!"  She needed to go to market at Crossroads Village, but now that would have to wait two whole days.  He was always off doing something for those Mara Salvatrucha gangsters.    
She felt like another piece of junk; unwanted but too valuable to burn.  Sometimes she wondered why Ranga had bothered to father a daughter, much less adopt Birdboy.  It wasn't like he was ever at home.  As she often did at times like this, Linya wished her mother had survived.  Fuming, she slid back into the rear seat and turned around.  There sat Old Sanna across the cabin of the limo, studying Linya's near-nudity.
Linya throttled her first fearful impulse to cover up, also her second angry impulse to get her sawed-off twelve gauge and splatter the old switch-hitting witch.   Instead she ignored Sanna and swung up into her sleeping rack, welded to the limo's roof to avoid the plaguewinds that might penetrate even the limo’s door seals.  Despite limited space, with practiced effort she squirmed into cami and shift.  When she dropped back into the cabin to put on her boots, Sanna was gone.  
Old Sanna was Ranga's head servant and cook, though Linya knew the fat woman thought herself a free agent.  Linya also knew Sanna harbored twisted feelings for her.  Ranga would recycle the woman in a heartbeat if he knew about those lusts, knowledge Linya used mercilessly to enforce their uneasy truce. 
Linya poked Birdboy’s rack until his face peeked down out of the nested bedding.  He was a dark boy; dark hair, dark eyes, and a swarthy complexion, contrasting Linya's petite paleness.  In this broken world he meant everything to her.
"C'mon, Bird, rise 'n shine."  He wouldn't make eye contact, as usual, but she could see the smile playing around his mouth.  Autistic, her friend Okie Nate at Crossroads Village called it.  Whatever it was, it didn't make Birdboy stupid, just hard to reach.  A little more fussing got the boy cleaned up and dressed, then Linya synthed them some breakfast.    
Chores were the next order of the morning.  The three other servants had duties salvaging stuff for the MS13 gang to sell at the Domes, which left a list of menial chores for Linya.  Water had to be hauled up from the river basin to the purification tank, solar pods dusted and rewound, and bedding hung in the antiseptic burn of high ultraviolet sunlight unfiltered by ozone layers.    
And the sweeping.  It was the chore she hated most.  Each morning she put on the stinking, chafing bio-isolation suit and tediously swept everywhere the overpass kept shade.  She had to make sure every bit of dust got into the deadly, ultraviolet-rich sunshine.  When the breezes of night plumed anthraxes, plagues, and fungal spores from the unburied dead, the living could not afford to let dust settle.  
Linya soon found that Birdboy wasn't having a good day despite his early cheer.  After he wandered from the protective shade of the overpass for the third time, she gave up and led him back to the limo.  
"Okay, Bird."  Linya powered the vid system.  "Chill here and I'll finish the chores.  What'll it be?"  She was tickled when he crossed his arms, ducked his head, and glared at her, mimicking a rapper pose.  "Classic MTV, then."  
While she fiddled with the satlink, Birdboy powered up his PlayStation Holo-Virtual deck.  For a few happy minutes she sat with him, clapping encouragement as he rezzed holo-virtual constructs on the tiny holographic stage.  He controlled the tiny performers with amazing realism, sometimes copying the vid performers, sometimes improvising complex stomps.  
Poor Bird, she thought.  The machine was so easy for him, but the rest of the world was so damn hard.  She left him bobbing his head and working his fingers to the beat.  
The girl finished her regular chores by noon, decided to fetch Birdboy and join the rest of the household for lunch.  Linya worried that Bird got little enough social contact as it was.  She hoped dealing with group meals would help, not that Sanna or the three menservants truly cared about either of the kids.  Old Sanna was already passing out fry bread and synth protein wieners when Linya and Birdboy got there.  
"Missy Linya, Master Bird, nice of ya to join us," said Brock from the head of the battered pre-Death picnic table, sliding them a plate with a generous portion.  Linya knew his respect was for Ranga, not her.  Beaner muttered a greeting through a mouthful of fry-bread.  Skinny Sal just leered and winked, bug-eyes rolling.
Brock and Sal were prize slaves, Skinhead gangers captured by the Mara Salvatrucha Estados in Dome turf wars and never ransomed.  Beaner wasn't a slave; he'd come up from Mexico a free man, choosing to work for Ranga rather than join a gang or enter a Dome.  Linya suspected the scar-faced Mexican was running from either the law or Mexican crime cartels.  Linya trusted none of them.
"Appreciate it," Linya said, elbowed Birdboy until he gave halting thanks as well.  "You boys want some hot sauce with that?"  The men eagerly tore off chunks of bread and passed them to Linya.  She gathered up the bits, dumped them into the processing hopper of the household organic synthesizer, along with her own and Birdboy’s portions.
"What," Sanna said to the men with sarcastic cheer, "my cooking not good enough for you all?"
"Oh, no ma'am," Brock blurted.  Fear twisted his face when he realized what he’d said.  "I mean, yes ma'am, it's just we know you don't have the time all the time."
"The miracle is," spoke up Beaner, "that such a handsome woman can cook at all."  The other two men chimed in agreement.
  Linya rolled her eyes as she listened to men fawn and flirt with the fat, old cook. She and Birdboy never ate anything Old Sanna synthed and that was why.  What Linya knew, and none of the rest, was that Sanna was a splicer.  Linya knew this because she was a splicer, too.  She queued up the synth programs; a bit of hot sauce for the men, pitas with peanut butter and jelly for her and Birdboy.
Long ago splicers promised a paradise of food and good health, but genetic sequence splicing had instead spawned the Death on the old world.  An accusation of splicecraft today usually led to a drowning, guilty or not.  It made her queasy sometimes, knowing that the cook had likely made the men that way with splicecraft.    
Old Sanna had taught the girl splicecraft for years, ever since Linya 'accidentally' discovered the woman's splicer kit and forced the issue.  The cook never admitted to splicecraft on the other servants, but Linya knew a couple of ways she herself might try to craft such loyalty.
Linya didn't really know the science behind gene splicing, but she didn't have to.  With a good synthesizer and a splicer unit all anyone had to do was search the databases for sequences and synth up a virus to carry the splice into the body.  The art was in using as few sequence changes as possible to achieve a stable splice.  Linya just knew she could be such an artist someday, maybe splice for a corp, or fix Birdboy's autism, or even cure the plaguewinds.
After lunch the men returned to their salvaging.  Linya put her brother to sorting old drill bits in front of the vid and went to find the cook for their daily splicecraft lesson.  She found Sanna in the positive-pressure greenhouse bubble, pouring more water into the purification tank.  
Linya was cat-kill curious about what might actually get the flabby splicer to do manual labor.  Puffing, Sanna dropped an empty jerry-can, turned and saw Linya. 
"No lessons today," said Sanna flatly, "Go play or something."  Grunting, she hefted up another container.  Waves splashed some water out of the tank as she poured.
"You got the tank too full, Old Sanna,"
Sanna laughed.  "Don't you worry.  Now, scat."  The woman rubbed the sweat from her face, dropped the empty jerry-can.  Linya edged closer than she liked to get to the old pervert these days, especially after this morning.
"What's all the water for, anyway, Sanna?" 
"That's a secret, little Linya."  She spun and snatched hold of the girl’s shoulders.  "A dangerous secret.  You sure you wanna know?"  
"Yeah, I want to know," Linya said defiantly, trembling with disgust and fear.  Ranga being gone was suddenly much more than inconvenience.  She hated feeling scared, though, and anger helped her take back some control.  “Tell me.”
"Good.  Best you know, anyways."  Sanna knelt, still holding the girl's upper arms.  "I need the extra water because tomorrow morning I'm gonna grind Birdboy up and run him through the big synth."  
Linya smiled at the joke, then wondered if the old bitch was serious.  "But. . ."
"Ranga found the kid in the wilds, but that ain't all.  He was in his dead mother's arms, his whole family dead from a plaguewind."  
"What?  Couldn't be, he'd be dead, too."  Linya suddenly wondered if this wasn’t all a bad dream. 
"Immunity!”  A smile split Sanna's face.  “That little retard was born immune to the plaguewinds!  I finally got the sequences mapped, RNAi encoded.  You know what that means?"  Linya shook her head, dumbstruck.  The woman pulled her into a sweaty hug.  
"It means we're rich," she whispered.  "I'll buy into a pharmacorp, we'll live in the domes like Vested Execs."  Sanna gently stroked the girl's back.  "I need to break the kid down to extract enough sequences fast enough for the first batch, but he'll be better off."  Sanna stood, smiled again.  "Don't worry, I'll come back for you soon."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of confusion and disbelief.  Sunset was close when the plan sprang whole and complete into Linya's mind.  She had to run away, right now, and take Birdboy with her.
A short time later she banged on the cargo container that served as the men’s bunkhouse.  Noise inside stopped with her knock.  After a few tense seconds Sal yanked the door open, releasing a mushroom of skunky smoke into the dusk.  His mouth hung agape as he ogled Linya.  She’d put on a cherished Dome fashion outfit, which she knew made her look more mature.  Smiling, and hating it, she held out a jug of Ranga's whiskey.
"Here," she said in a little girl voice, "Old Sanna said you should have this."
With effort Sal tore his eyes from her body and focused on the liquor bottle.
"Yeehaw!"  He snatched the bottle.  "Party time!"  Sal smiled, gap-toothed and ugly.  "Come party, babe."  
Linya turned and ran for the limo, chased by raucous laughter.  For a moment she wished she'd used something deadlier than opiates to spike the juice.  With Old Sanna already unconscious from her nightly synthed endorphin binge, the coast was clear. 
Back in the limo she broke into Ranga's locked stash and stuffed her pack with black market trade goods. ROM cards with illegal bots, ‘Executive Restricted’ Direct Neural Net Interface implants, and rolls of knock-off designer bioware patches were all common currency in the domes.  Shotgun lanyard around her neck, protective poncho over everything, and she was ready.  Next, she went to Birdboy's rack, found him awake and watching her.  She smiled, and wonders, he smiled back.
"Bird, you know I love you?"  He nodded.  "I need you to trust me.  If you never leave me, I will never leave you."  In response, Birdboy pushed his Batman rucksack out of his rack.  The ancient, plastic-and-canvas pack thudded to the floor at Linya's feet, inexpertly stuffed with clothes, toys, and everything else the boy valued.  
"Never, never, not now, not ever."  He whispered this over and as Linya raced sunset in the stolen electric utility cart, whispered all the way to Crossroads Village.