Cyberpunk

paranoid Mom was. She was not going to like Treemonisha anyway, but certainly not if I brought her home without warning. “Let me work on her, okay?” I said to Treemonisha. “One of these days. I promise.”
    She pouted for about five seconds and then laughed at my expression. When I saw Comrade’s smirk, I got angry. He was just sitting there watching us. Looking to cause trouble. Later there would be wisecracks. I had had about enough of him and his attitude.
    By that time the Alpha was heading up High Ridge Road toward Stamford. “I’m hungry,” I said. “Stop at the 7-Eleven up ahead.” I pulled a cash card out and flipped it at him. “Go buy us some doboys.”
    I waited until he disappeared into the store and then ordered Stennie’s car to drive on.
    “Hey!” Treemonisha twisted in her seat and looked back at the store. “What are you doing?”
    “Ditching him.”
    “Why? Won’t he be mad?”
    “He’s got my card; he’ll call a cab.”
    “But that’s mean.”
    “So?”
    Treemonisha thought about it. “He doesn’t say much, does he?” She did not seem to know what to make of me—which I suppose was what I wanted. “At first I thought he was kind of like your teddy bear. Have you seen those big ones that keep little kids out of trouble?”
    “He’s just a wiseguy.”
    “Have you had him long?”
    “Maybe too long.”
    I could not think of anything to say after that, so we sat quietly listening to the music. Even though he was gone, Comrade was still aggravating me.
    “Were you really hungry?” Treemonisha said finally. “Because I was. Think there’s something in the fridge?”
    I waited for the Alpha to tell us, but it said nothing. I slid across the seat and opened the refrigerator door. Inside was a sheet of paper. “Dear Mr. Boy,” it said. “If this was a bomb, you and Comrade would be dead and the problem would be solved. Let’s talk soon. Weldon Montross.”
    “What’s that?”
    I felt the warm flush that I always got from good corpse porn, and for a moment I could not speak. “Practical joke,” I said, crumpling the paper. “Too bad he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
    Push-ups. Ten, eleven.
    “Uh-oh. Look at this,” said Comrade.
    “I’m busy!” Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . sixteen . . . seven . . . Dizzy, I slumped and rested my cheek against the warm floor. I could feel Mom’s pulse beneath the tough skin. It was no good. I would never get muscles this way. There was only one fix for my skinny arms and bony shoulders. Grow up, Mr. Boy.
    “Ya yebou! You really should scope this,” said Comrade. “Very spooky.”
    I pulled myself onto the bed to see why he was bothering me; he had been pretty tame since I had stranded him at the 7-Eleven. Most of the windows showed the usual: army ants next to old war movies next to feeding time from the Bronx Zoo’s reptile house. But Firenet, which provided twenty-four-hour coverage of killer fires from around the world, had been replaced with a picture of a morgue. There were three naked bodies, shrouds pulled back for identification: a fat gray-haired CEO with a purple hole over his left eye, Comrade, and me.
    “You look kind of dead,” said Comrade.
    My tongue felt thick. “Where’s it coming from?”
    “Viruses all over the system,” he said. “Probably Montross.”
    “You know about him?” The image on the window changed back to a barrida fire in Lima.
    “He’s been in touch.” Comrade shrugged. “Made his offer.”
    Crying women watched as the straw walls of their huts peeled into flame and floated away.
    “Oh.” I did not know what to say. I wanted to reassure him, but this was serious. Montross was invading my life, and I had no idea how to fight back. “Well, don’t talk to him anymore.”
    “Okay.” Comrade grinned. “He’s dull as a spoon anyway.”
    “I bet he’s a simulation. What else would a company like Datasafe use? You can’t trust real people.” I was still thinking about what I would look like dead. “Whatever, he’s kind of scary.” I shivered, worried and aroused at the same time. “He’s slick enough to operate on Playroom. And now he’s hijacking windows right here in my own mom.” I should probably have told Comrade then about the note in the fridge, but we were still not talking about that day.
    “He tapped into Playroom?” Comrade fitted input clips to the spikes on his neck, linked, and played back the house files. “Zayebees. He was