Valid by Chris Bergeron

Author:Chris Bergeron [Betgeron, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Anansi Press Inc
Published: 2023-10-11T16:05:13+00:00

Epilogue

A drone flies towards a window on the seventeenth floor of the Bonne Entente Tower, one of the apartment complexes in the Data District. Through the window, the drone films the interior of studio capsule 1,701. The kitchen table is stained with blood.

On the spectrometer, the drone sees drops of hemoglobin, still warm, tracing a path from the kitchen to the bedroom. Next to the bed, the drone discovers a pair of lenses that have been smashed to pieces, most likely with a hammer.

The drone detects a shape lying under the sheets of the bed. The shape appears to be lying face down.

If it is a body, it is cold. The sensors scan the bed. The verdict of the analysis appears in a few seconds. It is a decoy, a few pillows arranged in a foetal position and an old coat filled with linen simulate the shape of a body at rest. On the bedside table, next to a knife, the remnants of a phonopalm can be seen: a chip, a sound transceiver, and five tactile implants bathing in a dark red pool. The drone tries to alert its fellows, but the 6G network around the building appears unstable. David’s central node is not responding.

At the bottom of the tower, the surveillance cameras capture a figure riding a bicycle. A large hood hides her face. She holds the handlebars with one hand, her left hand hidden in the pocket of a large kimono. She takes off and exits the visual security perimeter of the Tower. Without a chip or lenses, she does not activate the view of the robot patrollers. Behind her, a swarm of reconnaissance drones moves down Peel Street.

She pedals as fast as she can, crossing the DD compound, which is not yet closed to traffic. Soon, she is lost in the flow of night workers’ bicycles outside the areas “secured” by David. A few more minutes and, having passed Saint-Laurent Boulevard, she heads for the slums to the northeast, winding her way through the maze of alleys rarely visited by patrol officers. The poor neighbourhoods do not count. They do not deserve to be policed. As long as the combined carbon footprint of the neighbourhood does not exceed a certain threshold, it is more cost-effective to let the marginalized police themselves.

It is pouring rain. The muddy streets are deserted. The layout of this part of town changes every year, every month, and she has not been here for what seems like a century. She almost gets lost.

She does not immediately notice that she is being followed. Two members of David’s official guard, wearing blue-green jumpsuits and helmets the same immaculate white as their cyclobikes, follow her, keeping their distance until she reaches Viger Street. Then they accelerate, pass her, and block her path at the end of the glass canyon formed by the towers of the old University Hospital. They call out to her.

The fugitive stops and gets off her bike. She steps forward, holding both hands in the air, and walks towards the guards, who have parked their cyclobikes on the sidewalk.

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