Death Drive

Chapter 11

"It's just a trick, no more real than horoscope readings or oracles, manipulation to take advantage of those blinded by sorrow," he thought. "It won't bring me absolution."

The slide changed again, now displaying a picture of him and Naomi, taken a long time ago, both of them smiling. Without a warning a memory resurfaced, an argument which had recurred many times between them, one that had never been properly resolved and as such often spun in his mind.

"You always blame everything on AI and Ampere," she had said that time, as he had refilled his glass with bourbon, making a show of ignoring her. "The world is changing, and what others consider a wind of change carrying them into a brighter future is to you a violent gale blowing your house down."

He closed the program and went to brush his teeth and take a shower. Refreshed, he figured he would lay down for a bit and wait for the hammering in his head to pass. But doubts about the last few days and his future whirled in his mind, harrying him like ravenous crows so he had to get up again. Pursued by unanswered questions, he marched to his garage. Flicking the white light switch he stepped into the faintly oil-smelling room. The single, bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered a few times before offering proper illumination. He glanced at the workbench with his watery eyes, hoping to find some half-filled bottle of booze forgotten there, but only wrenches, screwdrivers and other tools lay on the desk. In the corner, a stained rug was bunched up under his large blue toolbox. His car was parked in the driveway, so there was more space than usual. In one corner of the room hung the object he had come here for: a ragged punching bag. He slipped on boxing gloves suspended from their strings on the chains carrying the bag and spread his legs for a firm stance. The first heavy blow that connected with his target sent a shockwave up his neck that shook his brain, his head feeling like the rumbling volcano had just begun erupting, shooting fire and ash in every direction. He gritted his teeth and kept swinging, knowing full well that the pain would pass but the thoughts pecking him had to be sweated out.

"Why would anybody kill someone just to frame me? Or were they trying to kill me too?" Neither option seemed likely; what could possibly make him important enough to warrant such malevolent attention? The cars must have been hacked; the always-online surveillance was supposed to prevent outsiders from controlling the vehicles, but no fortress was impregnable. Overtaken vehicles were used in terror attacks, but he dismissed that possibility outright: what kind of a terrorist would strike in a mostly abandoned road? His punches, which had fallen haphazardly at first, started to find their rhythm, a steady one-two combo.

"What if I wasn't even the target?" The pieces of the puzzle seemed to lock in place: it was the other man, the dead man, who had been the mark. He had been taken for a drive to a place with no witnesses and killed from some far-off hacker's nest, the evidence wiped and burned in the crash. Thomas himself had been just a hapless accomplice. The suspicion of being used by some outside force like a tool reminded him of red lights, the smell of exhaust and a child's cry. He struck with all his might, the bag thrown back, hitting the wall with a thump. He paused, watching the pendulum swing of the bag.

"I need to find out more about the victim," he thought, slipping off his gloves. "And I know just the virtual ghost to ask." He climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered his bedroom, the brunt of his headache left behind with his earlier aimlessness. He rummaged in his walk-in closet for a while, opening boxes and moving aside clothes he hadn't used in years, until he found an old white plastic box the size of a shoebox, rewrapped in its original coverings and all but forgotten. He carried it in is arms and sat on his bed, pulling off the translucent plastic and lifting the lid of the container. Inside, under an instruction manual and a recharging cable, were smartglasses he had received as a gift. He let out a sigh before putting them on, the temples of the eyepiece pressing against the sides of his head before spreading to accommodate him. Plugging the charger to his phone, the lenses came alive, a window popping up and telling him the firmware was being updated. His stomach rumbled and he couldn't remember if he had eaten in the past few days, so he moved back downstairs to his kitchen and threw some eggs and bacon on a frying pan. The update completed and the next popup informed him the glasses would now synchronize with his phone. Huffing from displeasure, he authorized the task. He knew he was analyzed through the lenses of all the thousands of people wearing the smartglasses wherever they went and had no illusions about the privacy of his phone, but the compelled sharing of personal data still bothered him. It occurred to him that if the people he was trying to find could hack two Ampere cars and leave no trace of their activities then snooping in on his glasses broadcast would be child's play to them, leaving him at a great disadvantage since they could see him coming. He shook his head, shoving the thought from his mind.