EP332: Overclocking




Escape Pod show

Summary: By James L. Sutter Read by Wilson Fowlie Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Apex Magazine in December, 2009 All stories by James L Sutter All stories read by Wilson Fowlie Rated 15 and up for language, drug abuse Overclocking by James L. Sutter They’re waiting for him when he comes out of the tank.  Whether plainclothes or just another pair of clockers, he can’t quite tell, but the way they avoid looking in his direction tips him off in a heartbeat.  When Ari Marvel walks by, you _look_. They start drifting idly in his direction, and that clinches things.  Reaching down into the lining of his pocket, Ari palms the whole batch and trails his hand over the edge of the bridge railing.  The brittle grey modsticks crumble with ease, and by the time the two have dropped their cover and made the sting he’s moved smoothly into position, hands against the brick and legs spread wide.  The pigs don’t even thank him for being so efficient.  The patdown’s rougher than necessary, but after a minute they throw their hoods back up and move off down the street. Ari runs his hands through his faded blue-green spikes, then takes the stairs down to the tube.  A beginner might have lingered at the railing and thought about all the time and money now floating down the culvert, but Ari doesn’t look back.  Necessary expenditures.  Expected losses. It’s just business, baby. # Back at the pad, Maggie’s waiting by the door.  She looks like hell: hair in ratty dreads, shirt stained with god-knows-what.  Crust in her eyes. “Hey, Ari,” she says. Ari slides his keycard into the lock, checking first to see if the hair he put over the swipestripe has been moved.  Still there.  It doesn’t mean that nobody’s been there, of course–just that if they have been, they’re good enough that there’s no point in worrying about it.  You win some, you lose some. Inside, it looks like he’s won.  Maggie plops down on the couch, worrying a hangnail that’s started to bleed.  Her foot taps on the coffee table. “Hey,” she says again.  He drops his coat onto the chair and moves into the kitchen to get a soda.  She picks up the remote and begins flipping rapidly through the channels, then turns the set off again.  Eventually he leaves the can on the counter and comes back into the living room, sitting down on the coffee table across from her and taking her hands. “Maggie, look at me.” She does–or, at least, as well as she’s able to at this point. “I’m only going to say this once.  You’re welcome to crash here, but you’re not getting a fix.  I won’t have that in my house.  You understand?” She nods–those wide doe eyes the color of egg yolk–then goes back to gnawing at her thumb.  He stands and leaves her there, entering the bedroom and closing the door.  Once it’s locked, he jimmies loose the bottom drawer of the dresser and flips a wad of sweaty bills into the crudely carved hollow.  Then he drops fully clothed onto the mattress and covers his eyes with his forearm, blocking out the ruddy afternoon light that still filters in through heavy curtains. Out in the apartment, he can hear her moving about restlessly. He’s doing it again.  It doesn’t matter that he knows how it’ll end, that he knows how it _has_ ended more than once.  It’s simply a given: she’ll show up.  He’ll let her in.  Things will proceed accordingly.  He bears down with his arm until the muted red of his eyelids turns to black, and then to stars. The worst of it is that even through the filth, he can still see her.  Inside the shell of those dreads, her hair is still gold verging on white, so fine as to be almost intangible.  Behind the bruises and bags, her eyes would still crinkle upward if she smiled.  And if he opened his arms, she might still flow into them like water, sparkling and warm and full of life. Ari is not a stupid man, but Maggie is an exception. Eyes clenched tight, Ari curls up on his side and falls asleep. # Any idiot wi[...]