Join (8 page)

The Directorate drive shakes his head. “Only two drives dropped. Both belong to Rope. We're securing this area. Please step away from the entrance.”

She sees the beginnings of the question in his eyes: Is this drive
(is she)
psychologically fit? She drops back with the crowd.

Leap Two is acting captain.
The turbulence has settled; the plane remains in-flight. Chance Two still has backup authorization on critical decisions.

“I lost a drive,” Chance says.

Leap had been reviewing storm-tracking data and forecasts. She sits up straight when Chance says this.

Leap says, “Autonomy, I approve the new course.”

The central screen that Autonomy uses to convey state clears to solid green.

Leap turns her chair to face Chance. “What? What do you mean? The cancer? I thought you still had time—”

A vestige of turbulence rattles the cabin. Chance and Leap both brace. Leap checks her right-side, heads-up display, then turns back to Chance. The alerts along the cabin window are showing faded yellow, low risk.

Chance Two reaches up to one of the few physical switches in the cabin, an aluminum pin above an engraved aluminum label that reads
privacy
. Chance switches it toward
on
. Leap watches with surprise and worry.

Chance speaks slowly, finding a way through the explanation. “No. Not Chance Five. Not the student. He's still sleeping.” Chance's voice chokes up, and her eyes water. She continues, “My Three, Leap. I died. My drive is dead.”

“What?”

Chance nods. Leap whispers, “Christ.” Then, coolly, forcefully, asks, “What are you talking about? What happened?”

“He was poisoned. I know who did it.” Chance can't help it. She cries for a few minutes while Leap watches and the plane rattles occasionally. In the warm bedroom of the house, Chance One is crying as well.

“Poisoned?” Leap finally says. “What do you mean? That doesn't happen.”

“Poisoned,” Chance confirms.

“But what do you mean? No one can get away with that. It doesn't make any sense.”

Chance is inconsolable. Says nothing.

“Where are your other drives?” Leap asks. “I can come over with my One or my Three.”

“No,” Chance says. “I've got a drive sleeping. I'll set my One down in a few more minutes. He's just crying right now. My Four is near the restaurant, where it happened.”

“In New Denver?” Leap asks.

“Yes,” Chance says.

“Does it have something to do with this join named Rope losing two drives?”

Chance knows that at least one of Leap's other drives has begun scanning Civ News.

“Both of those drives that died weren't Rope's,” Chance says. “I mean, I guess I don't even know if either one of them were Rope's. One of them was my Three.”

“But Civ News says they're Rope's.” Leap Two's voice makes it clear that Leap is trying to understand. Why would Civ News be inaccurate? “Is that why you flipped the privacy switch?”

“Yes,” Chance says. “I needed to tell you. I might need your help, and I don't want a record of this.”

Most employees consider the switch a quaint anachronism. If joins want a private conversation, they just connect using other drives. Chance has never used the switch before but appreciates that its continued existence acknowledges the value of a face-to-face conversation with a specific body.

“You can bring a drive to my place, so we can talk,” Leap says. Then, “After what happened earlier this morning . . . with you . . . they'll want a little detail on why we turned on the switch.”

“I know,” agrees Chance.

“Okay. You want captain back?” Leap asks.

Chance experiences a momentary lightness, a swell of gratitude toward Leap. “No, I don't. You fly. But thank you.”

“Okay,” says Leap.

Chance turns off the privacy switch. They fly for a while, neither of them talking. Chance doesn't help and doesn't pay attention to what Leap is doing. When they're about an hour from landing, Leap turns on the privacy switch again.

She says, “I'm trying to get my head around this. You're saying this Rope character, someone I don't know, and that you've never talked about, killed your drive. Who is this? How do you know this person? Why would this Rope want to hurt you? I just . . . I don't get it, Chance. What's going on?”

Chance has been trying to make sense of what happened but is still numb. Leap watches her but doesn't speak. It's clear that neither of them has anything more to say, so Leap switches off privacy again.

Leap swipes open a comm channel. She reports the authorization changes so far and justifies them by describing Chance as physically ill. There'll be an inquiry, but it's one of the few reasons that may not carry a penalty. The death of a drive is reason enough for a join to step out of a command role.

Then Leap says, “Autonomy, primary flight assistance required. Leap will continue as copilot. Please confirm.”

Autonomy responds, “Confirmed. Primary flight assistance engaged. Autonomy will pilot flight number B-Two-Ten-CC. Leap is now copilot.”

Leap closes the comm channel, switches privacy back on, then turns to Chance.

Chance knows what Leap wants. She says, “Okay. I'm gonna tell you what happened, but, please, don't do research as I talk. Rope is . . . informed. I'm afraid Rope will know you and I are friends and may be watching you as well.”

Chance gives Leap a quick summary of the meetings with Rope.

This time, they find each
other on the Uyuni salt flat, the group Chance thinks of as Team Teenager. They've met before, when all of Chance's drives are sleeping at the same time. It's a dry day. A little chilly.

There are five of them—Ashton, Renee, Jake, Shami-8, and Javier—each of the individuals who joined to become Chance, each in late-teenage bodies. Chance is each of them and understands the differences between them, the emotions and beliefs that oppose one another. Chance reconciles them simply by inhabiting them all.

They sit in the stillness of the vast plain. The distant shadows of mountains circle them like curtains of night. Sunlight fills the space around them, and the sky is blue, but it feels as though the sun is down and the lucid world is a lie. They all know this is a dream. On the other side of what they can see, on the other side of the blue sky and the other side of the salt flat beneath them, is the same endless emptiness.

They're seated around an old picnic table. A salvage from a place once called a state park. The table was a fixture in the home in Indianapolis where Ashton grew up. Ashton became Rocket One and then Chance One.

At first, all five are silent in the face of the change they've undergone. Then Shami-8 and Javier start playfully kicking each other under the table.

“You need to stop, now, boy. You're gonna get yourself in trouble.” Shami-8, who became Chance Four, flashes a perfect, toothy grin. Her wide forehead, narrow chin, dark eyes pinched with mischief—all are familiar, beloved, lit from within by enthusiasm.

“I know your secrets. I know your moves before you move,” Javier says.

She raises an eyebrow. She's not impressed.

Then she says to the whole group, “Even a sad meeting doesn't have to start sad, does it?”

Jake, who became Chance Three, says, “I spend years studying join sicknesses, and then my body is killed by a sick join.”

The cold intensifies and all of them move, shifting uncomfortably where they sit. Jake looks down, not meeting the others' eyes. “I was substantial,” he says. “I liked my body.”

“You had a nice body,” Ashton says, politely.

“Javier is awesome,” Jake says, “but he's—he may be a short-timer. Javier—I know how painful this is for you.”

“It's okay. I understand,” says Javier. “I'm sorry about the, my—” He shakes his head, looks out at the plains, which are stark in the reflected light, then continues, “I can't even say it. I didn't know I was sick. Man, I worked so hard to stay healthy, to be so fit. I mean, my body is amazing. This is just . . . I don't know how it happened.”

“A nightmare,” Jake says.

“I'm sorry about that too,” says Javier, quickly. “I mean, Rope.”

There's a long silence. When a choppy breeze finally passes between them, Renee, the young woman who became Rocket Two, and then Chance Two, says, “We were all going to lose our bodies, sooner or later.”

She tilts her head and regards Ashton, across the table, recalling their long conversations from years ago, their shared speculation on how it might feel to watch centuries pass from within the comfortable security of each other's company.

“But will I remember me?” Jake asks. “I want to remember myself.”

“You will,” says Renee. “You'll be here. And that's what this is, isn't it? A memory?”

“We should take my body out more. Use it while we can. We should enjoy it!” Javier is forceful. He sits up and looks directly at Shami-8.

“Yeah, that might be nice,” Shami-8 replies.

Ashton says, “We can do what we can, but we're going to follow the treatment, and our doctor said to let Five rest and use its cycles for other things. Let it relax and try to heal.”

“I just . . . that's me . . . I want to experience more before I'm history.” Javier scratches the wooden tabletop with a finger.

“Yeah,” says Jake.

“I'm sorry, Jake,” Javier says.

“You know, there's still hope for Five,” Jake says. “But Javier, you should know what you might feel when your body does die. And the truth is, I don't feel much different, in a way. I mean, I miss it. It's painful. But I don't know how else to say it: I feel okay. That's not exactly right. I also feel . . . broken. And this is a setback, but I'm no worse than I was, really. That is, no worse than any of you are. And I have you. I don't feel lost.”

“Thanks.” Javier says, clearly trying to follow Jake and accept what he's saying. “I don't know, though. The thought of losing my body hurts. It really hurts.”

“It hurts all of us,” Renee says. The others murmur agreement.

“I know how you all feel,” Javier says, “and you know how I feel. You know it's not the same.”

Chance is suddenly with them, looking out of the eyes of each person at the table. Chance sees each of them perfectly from the perspective of each of the others. Each body and each face has a different tone, a different emotional shape.

Jake's loss is a foundation. Javier's fear builds on that.

The names dissolve as Chance
One wakes in New Denver. The names can be so ephemeral. They're critical before a join, when one name means one awareness riding the current of the present moment. When everything breaks apart, and rebuilds around parallelism and the union of what had been exclusive, names can lose their potency, become labels, become data.

Chance One pulls back a blanket and sheet. Chance Four is sleeping on the other side of the bed. Chance Four's shoulder is chilled, so he pulls the sheet over it, covering the ends of her dark hair.