Cog

COG

K.  Ceres  Wright

Cog © 2013

by K. Ceres Wright

Published by Dog Star Books

Bowie, MD

First Edition

Cover Image: Bradley Sharp

Book Design: Jennifer Barnes

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935019

www.DogStarBooks.org

Thank you to God and my loving family, without whose support this book would not have been possible. I love you.

Thank you also to my Seton Hill mentors: Timons Esaias and Steven Piziks.

Thank you to my Seton Hill critique partners: Kim Howe, Rachael Pruitt, Amanda Sablak, Erica Satifka, and Maria V. Snyder.

To Heidi Ruby Miller, Jennifer Barnes, and John Edward Lawson: Thank you for everything.

To Michael Carolan: Thanks for telling me a published book trumped an MFA.

To Les Brown, Tod Lackey, and Dan Trotter: Thanks for writing with me.

To Karen Arnold, Derrick Collins, Denise English, Tracy Holmes, Regenia Jones, and Renee Moore: Thanks for your undying support.

FOREWORD: COG
by Christopher Paul Carey

I’ve long believed that one of the best means of effecting enduring change in society is through the creative arts, whether in the form of fine art, music, poetry, film, television, video games, or literature. Politicians and lobbyists can stir up emotions and lawmakers can determine policy, but it is the artist, trained to intuit the subconscious patterns in the complex matrix known as culture, who best reflects the voice of society and, sometimes, helps call the future into being.

While I don’t believe K. Ceres Wright sets out to change the world with her debut novel,
Cog
, neither do I think it is a coincidence that her protagonist, Nicholle Ryder, hails from a background in the fine arts. One needs an artist’s eye to take on the system, to perceive its weaknesses and strengths so they can be leveraged into a creative solution for society’s problems.

Classical art and music might at first seem out of place in a near-future cyberpunk thriller. Wright knows well, however, that contrast is one of a writer’s most effective tools, both in terms of theme and as an instrument of world building. The rich allusions to painting, sculpture, and music that suffuse
Cog
not only weave a skein of originality and uniqueness over Wright’s hi-tech future; they also create a contradistinction whereby the reader can more easily make sense of and slip into a world of “pakz” and “skeemz” and “spiraling in.” Wright, a nominee for a Rhysling Award by Science Fiction Poetry Association, defines the world of
Cog
not through wordiness, but, like any good poet, through structure. We don’t need to be told what medinites are; Wright trusts us to understand from context.

Wright also knows that art by itself cannot effect change. Therefore, Nicholle Ryder is not just an art connoisseur; she is also a recovering drug addict who has descended into the gritty underbelly of the enclaves far beneath the glistening skyscrapers of her family’s wireless hologram monopoly. Though a member of the upper class, she is streetwise and knows how the abandoned, poverty-stricken suburbs of her world’s fuel-cell economy prop up the very people who despise them. Despite its exotic technologies, the world of
Cog
, with its lived-in feel and shades of gray, operates much like our own, illustrating that the human equation remains constant even in the face of scientific progress.

But what ultimately makes K. Ceres Wright’s
Cog
such a satisfying read is that it works as well as a thriller as it does social commentary and technological extrapolation. Its careful balance of corporate intrigue and breakneck action makes it the perfect debut release for Dog Star Books, whose motto—“Science Fiction That Goes for the Throat”—could not be more appropriate. So whether you’re a fan of William Gibson’s
Neuromancer
, Ridley Scott’s
Blade Runner
, or simply good old-fashioned science fiction adventure,
Cog
has got you covered—and then some.

Christopher Paul Carey

Seattle, Washington

December 2012

Christopher Paul Carey holds a B.A. in anthropology and an M.A. in Writing Popular Fiction. He is the coauthor with Philip José Farmer of
Gods of Opar: Tales of Lost Khokarsa
, and the author of
Exiles of Kho
, a prelude to the Khokarsa series. His short fiction may be found in such anthologies as
Tales of the Shadowmen
,
The Worlds of Philip José Farmer
, and
The Avenger: The Justice, Inc
.
Files
. He is an editor with Paizo Publishing on the award-winning Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. Visit him online at www.cpcarey.com.

Chapter 1

Perim Nestor stood watch over Arlington from a curved window office in the American Hologram building. A scrim of clouds obscured most of the evening sky as commuters headed home, yet a roseate sunset tinged the underside of the grey, offering hope of a sunny tomorrow. Reflections from the streets below, clotted with the red of brake lights, danced merrily on nearby buildings.

Perim abandoned his watch and took up residence against a credenza along the opposite wall, arms folded, jaw clenched, waiting for the coming storm. He did not have to wait long.

“You’re joking, right?”

William Ryder stretched the skin between his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger, then formed a fist and slammed it on the table in front of him. He stood up, hunching over the edge of his father’s cherry wood desk. The owner sat on the opposite side, glaring. Light from a squat, burnished pewter lamp threw up blurry shadows on the metal paneling.

“Right?”

“Wills, sit down!” The stentorian voice of Geren Ryder echoed in the large office. The bones of his face set like ice, holdovers of the Last Glacial Maximum. Salt-and-pepper hair framed a mahogany canvas.

His son was a mirror image, only more muscular, with the coloring of polished sepia.

Perim Nestor remained silent. However spartan the office, it reflected more than the green and brown décor. It reflected the multi-trillion-dollar company that Geren Ryder had built from scratch. And he was used to being listened to.

Wills sat down, but the tenseness remained. He hovered on the edge of the chair, ready to spring. Geren continued, his voice now measured and calm.

“I didn’t know Perim was my son until last week. After I confirmed it, I’ve been...coming to grips with the implications.”

“Confirmed?” Wills said. “So it’s been confirmed that you whored around on my mother. As if I hadn’t already known. And what do you expect me to do? Jump up and say, ‘I’ve always wanted a brother’? Shed heartfelt tears and give him a slap on the back?”

Silence. The ether froze, like hanging mist on a December morning. Perim drew up his lips and met the flinty stare Wills leveled at him. He couldn’t blame the man. Heir apparent to a wireless hologram empire and presto change-o…a long-lost older brother appears.

“Does Nicholle know?” Wills said, eyes still riveted on Perim.

“No. She’s busy recreating the Prado in Anacostia. I didn’t want to distract her. It’s her first full-scale exhibit,” Geren said.

Wills relaxed somewhat, straightening and placing his arm on the desk.
Mrs. Arthur Knowles and her Two Sons
looked on the proceedings from the wall behind Geren. In the painting, Mrs. Knowles was sitting on a couch, one son clinging to her as his hand rested on a book. The other son lay wrong-way on the couch, barefoot, his hand on his chin, as if contemplating some mischief.

“I don’t want anything material…no money, no stock. I just want acknowledgment,” Perim said.

“Acknowledgment!” Wills sprang from his seat. “And why do I have a hard time believing that? On the eve of my father announcing his retirement from American Hologram, you just
happen
to show up.”

Wills approached Perim, jabbing a finger in the air between them.

“I’ve dealt with drug dealers, pimps, and CEOs, and I know bullshit when I hear it. It’s all the same. You want something. Something like American Hologram.”

Perim straightened. “I head my own accounting firm. What would I need with your company?”

“Why settle for a little power, when you can have a lot?”

“Is that your life’s motto?” Perim stole a glance at Geren. “In that case, you’d better watch your back, Father.”

Too late, Perim noticed the oncoming blur of flesh, the carpet rising to meet the side of his face. His next view was of a sideways Potomac River through the curve of the picture window. The reflection of neon pinks and blues undulated in the invisible waves and careened like a slow-motion merry-go-round. Wills’ feet left his field of vision. Wind chimes whispered as he exited through the magfield.

“I should have told you he boxed in college,” Geren said, matter-of-factly.

“No shit,” Perim said, only it came out sounding like, “Oh ih.” His head spun, mental function a whirlpool. He edged up on one elbow, then leaned against the credenza and slid upright. The room slowed.

“You’ll come to work for me. I’ll make you a vice president, but you’ll have to prove your mettle,” Geren said. “Especially to Wills. He can be a hothead, but he respects skill.”

“I have my own—”

“Company, yes. That has a quick ratio of point seven eight. How long do you expect to stay in business running those numbers?” Geren arose and began packing a briefcase that lay open on the desk.

Perim pulled himself to standing, gripping the credenza. “We just scored a large contract with the defense department.” He rubbed his jaw, hoping there would be no bruise.

Geren guffawed. “If you call forty million a large contract. Look, it’s settled. I just sent in the approval. Let your second run the company and you report here first thing in the morning. But…we will wait on the acknowledgment until after I announce my retirement.” He closed the case and hefted it off the desk. “Come prepared to learn. See you tomorrow.”

Wind chimes echoed again as Geren disappeared through the doorway. Perim smiled to himself.
This is going better than expected.

b

Perim’s new office smelled faintly of antiseptic, as if it had just been cleaned the previous night. And perhaps it had. He hadn’t gathered much information about his father in the short time he’d known him, but he gleaned that he was, above all, a man of action. Perim sat in the leather chair behind his desk and whirled around once. A blurry view of downtown Arlington whizzed by.

A woman appeared in the middle of the room and eyed him suspiciously. He jumped slightly, then realization caught up. A hologram. He cleared his throat and pulled up to the desk.

“Yes?” he said.

“I am Jamie 3.5. If you like, I can appear in male form.”

“Ah, no. You’re fine as is,” Perim said. She was not beautiful, which would have been a distraction. In fact, she had rather a square chin, he thought, and closely-set eyes. “I assume you’re everyone’s assistant?”

“Correct.”

Perim waved his hand in a circular motion. “What, ah, what are you running on?”

“Quantum computer, Cognition 1.5.”

“Huh, I see. Okay, then, what do you have for me?”

“For your schedule today, you have a ten o’clock and a four o’clock with Geren Ryder. Also, would you like me to order lunch for you, or will you be eating out?”

Perim leaned back in his chair, fingers intertwined behind his head. “I will be eating out. And no need to make reservations. Thank you, Jamie.”

“You’re welcome.” Jamie stood stock still, her eyes looking past him, blank for a few seconds. Then she focused on him.

“I have updated data. Geren Ryder would like to move your ten o’clock to nine thirty, as an unexpected meeting came up,” she said.

“All right. Let’s see, that’s in…five minutes,” he said, his gaze shuttling to his periphery. “I’ll be there.”

“I’ll inform Mr. Ryder.”

She disappeared.

Perim wondered what Geren would say. After 35 years of non-acknowledgment—claiming he didn’t know—what would he have to say?

He arose and made his way to Geren’s office, following the directory he’d tapped up. Geren’s door was a wide gothic arch whose magfield displayed a red wooden door beneath a bloom of crosses bottony in stained glass. A bit pretentious, Perim thought, but he’d seen worse. The previous night, the magfield held no decorative motif, just the wind chime sound effect.

He stepped through into the Spartan green and brown office from the night before. Not to his surprise, Wills stood in front of the picture window, his fists jangling change in his pockets as he rocked smoothly on his toes and back. Nervous energy bound tight. Geren sat at his desk, thumbing through financials. He looked up at Perim’s entrance.

“Ah, there you are,” Geren said.

Wills spun in Perim’s direction, his gaze like a shot from a splinter blaster.

“Geren. Wills.”

“Getting acclimated?” Geren said, thumbing closed the company statements.

“Yes. Jamie 3.5 has…” Perim nodded. “…been most helpful.”

Geren cut a glance at Wills. Tension radiated from him like a bride the day before the wedding with no reception hall.

“Sit or stand, it makes no difference,” Geren said, seemingly exasperated.

Wills’ gaze tracked back to the picture window and he continued rocking, as if ignoring the both of them. Perim crossed his arms and leaned against the wall next to the magfield. It opaqued, solidifying to a dark grey, denying entrance to passersby.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” Geren said. “I have made Perim a vice president of AmHo. He will report to you, Wills…”

Wills momentarily stopped rocking, tensed the fists in his pocket, then resumed.

“…and I’m counting on you to be fair-minded. His birthright is not of his making. Now, as for succession, since we are family owned and managed, Wills is next in line, then my daughter, Nicholle. Although I’m sure she wouldn’t want the job. You will be on a six-month trial, Perim. After which, if you have performed satisfactorily, you will be added as third in the line of succession.That is my decision. Any questions?”

Perim waited for Wills to lodge a protest, but none came.

“And on what criteria will my performance be based?” Perim said.

Geren waved a hand, as if the criteria were common knowledge. “Oh, ability to manage people, knowledge of the industry, ability to spot trends and leverage them, the usual. I’m sure Wills can work with HR to come up with some performance standards and go over them with you.”

Wills grunted. Perim couldn’t tell if it meant yes or no.

“Wills!” Geren said.

Wills turned to face Geren, his expression blank. “I’ll meet with him tomorrow.” A slight smile. The kind painted on clowns. Perim shivered.

“Is that it?” Perim said. He lifted off the wall and stood, hands in pockets.

“You’ll be assigned a bodyguard,” Geren said.

“Already got one. And I trust him.”

“Very well, just give his information to the security department. And don’t forget our four o’clock.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Perim said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Failed. The magfield turned transparent and he left, glad to shake off the tension that had built in the room.

He bee-lined for his office, opaqued the door, and sat in the middle of the semi-circular couch at the darkened end of the office.

He brought up his node and scanned the day’s news. One article caught his eye: “Two American Hologram subscribers were found unconscious at their homes while cogged in. Anomalies were found in their systems…”
Drugs.
“…and both remain in a comatose state.” The company had issued a statement saying that wireless hologram is completely safe and that they would work with the authorities to determine what had transpired.