Precious Cargo, by Garama of Recursion
I dread walking slowly up the steep stairs yet another time. But it is what I'm good at. Stealth, intuition, and protection. And a burst of energy if it's needed. That is me, that is what I do.
Turning to look over my shoulder at my cargo, I make eye contact, then put my index finger in front of pursed lips, trying my best telepathically to communicate the word "quiet." What I was trying not to convey was danger ahead. I need him to believe we'll make it, and move quickly. And we are only at the start of our long path to his freedom.
The shortest route to the safehouse is seared into my brain. We can stay indoors most of the way, running through an alley, more buildings, and up another shorter set of stairs when we finally make it to the right address. But since my cargo today is a thinker, there's not much brawn to him. I'll have to scout ahead every so often to take out the local crew--without alerting the agent programs to what I'm up to.
My cell phone chimes like the ticking of a clock. I press answer and hold it to my ear. "I see you have the target. Move as fast as you can. Keep your wits about you. I'm having trouble deciphering the encryption." I whisper back the names of colleagues in the area and ask the operator to contact them. We might need their help, especially when we hit the extraction point. "I'll put calls in. They'll contact you directly. Good luck, ma'am." Ahhh, there's the reminder of how old you are, I think to myself, of how long you've been in the Matrix. But then I remember. My operator is just a kid, a freeborn, not able to see the matrix for himself. Of course, I'm his "ma'am." What else would I be? It's just a show of love and connection, like I would call him "kiddo" or "youngster." Or "freeborn."
I'm sidetracking, and I need to stay focused. Tonight is too important.
We make it to the door leading to the roof. I turn back to Mr. Thinker and once again make eye contact. "Stop following me." Thinker hunkers back as I turn the doorknob and push the door outward a crack to look out. I don't see the gang members who usually hang on the roof. Why not? Cautiously, I step outside and peer around the corner. It's too still. What's happening? In the shadows I spot a pipe leading to the ground. We can use that and make it down, then go inside the next building. I creep back to the doorway and look at Thinker. "Follow me," I say. "Quietly," I add.
As I lead him to the pipe, I notice him shivering. I think to myself how frightened he must be, not knowing what experience he's about to go through. "Look, these people will take care of you--the real you, the you that you were meant to be, the life that you were meant to live," I whisper. "You will finally know the truth. Isn't that worth it?" Thinker looks me squarely in the eyes, piercing into my mind. He says in a low voice "I don't know if I'm ready for the truth. I just know something is wrong." Just like every other bluie I've been responsible for, those words will never leave me.
We walk our way down, holding the pipe and stepping down the wall of the building. I see the local gang thugs beyond the wall. I hurry with Thinker into a door leading to the next building. Up the stairs and through another door is a bar and pool hall. "Stop following me," I say to Thinker. He wanders up to the bar. As I leave through the front door, I yell back at him "No alcohol." Then I open the door and venture out.
My cell phone ticks again. I listen. "Evening, my love. I hear you want help?" It's Jeremy, he lives in this neighborhood. "J, I may need you. I'm doing an escort out to the edge, the safehouse." I glance down the throughway between buildings. No one in sight. What the hell gives? "Anything for you, my love. Where should I meet up?" Jeremy asks. "J, we've made it past the barrier. Be at the access node. Oh, and I've got a Thinker. Very precious to Zion. He's skittish. Not a fighter. I must get him inside the safehouse, whatever the cost."
"Now, you know I'll make sure everything's passable for you and you get him there alive," Jeremy assures me. Then, as if he reads my feelings, "Still sensitive about the ma'am thing, are you?" Oh, very funny. "You know what, J? There was Richard Pryor, and then there's you!" We both laugh. But yeah, I'm still sensitive about the ma'am thing.
Under the street lamp is a local ganger. Of course he won't bother me, he can sense I'm too powerful. But if I bring Thinker through the door, he'll be all over him, and probably call in a couple helpers. I give him a look, I draw my rifle, and shout out "Say a prayer because your life is over." Two shots take him down. I look around because those shots were loud. Anyone there? I see no one. Only his lifeless body sprawled on the ground.
I re-enter the building and head for the bar. To Thinker I say, "Follow me." I lead him outside, and into the next building. We pass the elevator and the security staff room. We get to the door leading outside. "I'll go out again and clear the way," I say. "Stop following me." Thinker looks at me hard. What's with this guy? I'm helping him out, doesn't he realize even that?
I look out the door and there's a cluster of gang affiliates. I phone J. "We could use you about now. We're blocked in." Jeremy, optimistic as ever, gives me his song-and-dance. "I'll be there before you even know it." And true to form, he's there and kicking butt. I join him to defeat the last of the gang. "I better take my Thinker and get going before any agents show up." "Good idea," he agrees. I go back to the building's door, pull it outward, and look inside. I spot Thinker, lock eyes, and say loudly, "Follow me." Thinker obeys, and we head into the next building.
One more building after this, and we're home free. I stop and pivot. "Now is the time to be at peace. We've just about reached the extraction point in the next building. So now is the beginning of the rest of your life." Thinker gives me the deer-in-the-headlights look. My God, I wonder to myself, what is happening in this darn war? I know this guy will be a help at the end of it, but at what price? And isn't he just a child?
We pace through the building. At the door to the outside, I stop and leave him there again. I go through the door, to a hail of gunfire. My colleague J jumps down from the roof. I sweep gunfire back and forth to help kill the gang members. We defeat them, and J says to me "All right, Zion for the win this time out." Yeah, I think to myself, this time out. Then he says "Ma'am, we got your target to the extraction point. Zion will cover them from here." Well, I couldn't really argue with that. Another Zion operative in the making?
We make it into the last building. We climb the stairs to our floor. Zion operatives control the room that we enter, and they grab Mr. Thinker from me. "You did it again, ma'am," an operative says to me. I'm proud to give them Mr. Thinker, a life that perhaps will further free Zion minds and strengthen them against the simulation. He says "Thank you," and "Please keep in touch." Oh, really now? Well, that's a first. Perhaps I will, perhaps that is my destiny.
"Great job yet again, ma'am." Yes, well, perhaps I have judged wrongly. "Ma'am" is not a pejorative, it's a recognition of my importance to Zion. Thinker has made it to the outside, he will surely be instrumental to the arguments against the system. I glance at him once more before he's moved to his custom jack-out seat. He looks deeply into my eyes, clears his throat, and says distinctly "Ma'am, thank you. For saving my life." I stare back at him, the Mr. Thinker, the Zion baby, and answer sincerely "You're welcome, Kiddo." Yes, I'm sensitive about ma'am. But Zion always comes first.
Tonight, Zion wins! Long live Zion!
