The world adjusted. Gravity’s sensation lifted and then settled again. Bryce opened his eyes and found himself on the couch in the showrunning lab.
Ms. Reed—in the flesh—sat across from him. “You only got out because she let you,” she said. “I think she could have kept you down forever.”
“It,” Bryce corrected, “and I don’t want to imagine being bound by an AI.” His head whirred as he got up. This must have been what Police Chief Gabriel Marcello felt when Bryce embarrassed him in front of the President. “Whatever that thing is, it knows about us and what we’re doing.”
“That’s the least of my concerns.” Ms. Reed found Herman distracted in the corner on his wearable. “So? What are we looking at?”
“Just ran it through the engine,” said Herman. “99.99% originality Completely unadapted. When’s the last time we created anything with that score?”
“Not since the early days of the Convergence, long before I was here.”
“There were six assassins,” Bryce reminded them. “Not sure if you saw that. Six assassins and six agents.” The theory had floated around in his head since seeing the curious crowds at Shaw Boulevard station. “That event was no doubt Inspired by the attack on our agents.”
“But whoever made that stitching doesn’t have access to our capture drone footage.”
“They don’t need to,” said Bryce. “All of the Philippines knows of it by now.”
“The world,” corrected Ms. Reed. “While you were under, I had an interview with the New York Times. Next time, I’m sending an AI replacement with my voice.”
“Efficient,” Herman commented. “But this all still begs the question: Who killed those agents? Was it the same people who created this original stitching?” Herman squinted, reading something in his wearable: “The Crest and Its Killers?”
“If they don’t have access to our capture drone footage,” said Ms. Reed, “they can’t hack the things.”
“It’s unlikely they could hack the things,” Herman corrected.
Ms. Reed shrugged. “It’s more likely an inside job, which, honestly, makes me sick. I’ll tear this company apart before it implodes.”
Bryce didn’t care much for the specifics. “So we’re looking for someone who created original fiction? That would lead us to the developers of this stitching and, hopefully, the rest of the Black Fire operation.”
Ms. Reed shook her head. “Too easy. We’ll cast our net too wide, looking for anyone who has recorded an original thought. For all we know, this could have been taken from a journal. Is the person who wrote this even still alive? How old is this?”
She was right. There were too many questions. It was better to focus on eradicating Black Fire altogether, which still seemed a tall order.
Ms. Reed flicked something on her wearable. She stood. “I’ll be right there,” she said, “I’m bringing my team.” She closed the window in her private augment. “It’s your friend, Bryce. He’s got something.”
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Domingo Baccay and a handful of other PNP officers were already in the boardroom. Ms. Reed’s secretary had welcomed them in.
“We found this in the North Harbor,” said Domingo.
A tray of glass 7-UP bottles rested on the table. Bryce thought about taking a drink. “Domestic shipping, right?” he asked instead.
Domingo nodded. “The ship just arrived from Mindanao.” He scanned the other officers, who looked down as they caught his gaze. “We got the call about something suspicious, but Forensics arrived first. They took all the evidence, save for this.”
“Forensics,” Ms. Reed huffed. “Likely, we’ll never hear about that evidence.
“Why is this suspicious?” Bryce asked.
Domingo took a bottle and held it under the light. “That’s not liquid. It’s vapor.”
Bryce took it, examining the gas shimmering inside, like the eyes of the albularyo in her own private Manila. He felt that wouldn’t be the last time he saw her.
Now that Domingo had mentioned it, the bottle felt lighter than it would be full of soda. He wondered how much television was inside it or what series was playing. “Without Forensics, we don’t even know if it’s Black Fire.”
“And they’re not going to tell us,” said Ms. Reed. She folded her arms, looking at Domingo. “Well?”
“Marcello’s put me on this full-time,” said Domingo. “You don’t need to involve him unless necessary.”
Bryce thought that might be because of shame or that the police chief genuinely hated Bryce’s guts after the tomfoolery he had put him through in front of the president.
“Great,” Ms. Reed said, “then we won’t.”
Bryce returned the bottle to the case with the rest. “What about the other ones?”
“Off to various suppliers throughout the city,” said Domingo. “From there, the vendors.”
“Did you check their legitimacy?”
“Of the vendors? On what grounds?”
Ms. Reed shook her head. “No grounds, my friends.” She smiled as a plan formed. “You can go there yourselves.”
Bryce rubbed his head, thinking of another impending Tondo Tussle. At least, this time, they would all be ready.
“First,” he said, “I’m hungry.”
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Apo’s Reach was one of several Michelin star buffet restaurants that rode the wave of the Inspiration Convergence. It was one of a few solely responsible for transforming Poblacion from a den of prostitutes and sex tourists to the after-work hangout for the richest in Manila. The restaurant occupied two floors of a pyramid of towers, its shadow looming over the humble Filling Station, with its 1950s decor that still boomed and hummed today, the only thing left of the district’s putrid past.
Bryce had fully expected the stares he’d get when taking Janice out on a public date. Not the tiny restaurant kind of “public,” either, or the anonymous vacation they had taken out of Manila. This was “high public,” as Bryce called it. He got more thrill out of her experiencing it than he did.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Janice could have been Bryce’s stepdaughter, with her short and frilly plum-colored dress that looked like she had taken the wrong turn from church and ended up in a dinner buffet among the likes of surgeons, tech moguls, and trust fund babies. She beamed over the dishes, eyes running along hors d'oeuvres she had only seen in mukbangs and vlogs.
Was it wrong to feel he was rescuing her by bringing her here?
The sensation faded quickly when Bryce and Janice filled their plates and returned to their table, where the Baccay family of eight was already digging in. Suddenly, Bryce seemed the odd one out.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Domingo, digging in. Everyone was so hungry or just grateful.
It was the first time Bryce had introduced Janice to anyone. Before long, she was already gossiping with Domingo’s wife and sister-in-law, laughing and peering at Bryce occasionally while sharing inside jokes.
“You’re good at buffets,” Bryce told her as he found her pyramid of meals now half vanished.
She smiled demurely, still eating and speaking Tagalog to Baccay’s family as if she had not met them for the first time tonight. Janice was not just great at buffets but also great company.
Why, then, did he feel so guilty? Something welled up behind him, like unfinished business. It was the same nagging sensation you got once leaving the house and questioning if you left the stove on or the refrigerator door open.
“How’s work?” Janice asked, between mouthfuls of lobster.
Bryce had forgotten about his work—he had forgotten everything. He had traced the part in her hairline and wondered how her face remained immaculate without makeup. Virulent youth, then. He had thought, too, how he could elevate her away from poverty, pulling her out of that rut even for just one night. Maybe that was colonizer savior talk. Maybe it was something else. “Work’s work.”
Domingo glanced his way and poured Bryce a cup of coffee, a subtle suggestion not to be such a mood killer.
It would take more than one cup to come down entirely from the Black Fire high, though. A fuzzy sensation still permeated his foreground. He thought the only thing that would sober him up was company, but that missing part of him still lingered.
When the Baccay family went to refill their plates a second time, leaving Bryce and Janice alone at the table, she told him. It was from a distance, as if hesitant to bother him with her troubles. Your partner’s grief was your grief, too, whether you wanted it or not. She played the same game he had, building walls of good intentions to keep grief and honesty at bay.
Bryce had been talking to Janice for a little over five months, and in that period, she hardly mentioned her father. Only now did Bryce learn about his Alzheimer’s, the stroke, and the man Janice had thought she never impressed.
Bryce moved his chair closer. She placed her head on his shoulder, and he felt something wet staining his shirt. Maybe she hadn’t worn eyeliner on purpose. He thought of telling her that Apo’s Reach was not an establishment where you aired out your grievances, but that was useless propriety talking.
A waiter came to ask if everything was alright. Bryce nodded and asked for a strawberry shortcake, which the chef herself brought. You couldn’t pave over the harsh realities of life, but you could at least forget about them for an evening.
Bryce’s wearable lit up, still hanging from his neck. If anyone else besides Domingo had sent the message, he would not have checked it.
We’re on the second floor, big guy, said the text. Take your time.
They did. Janice avoided the topic of her father at first but then dived headfirst as if a gasket had just loosened. She spoke of her plans to leave the Philippines and provide for a dying man. She mentioned how still he had been in his final moments. She mentioned her brother throughout as well.
Jayson. He seemed nice, though too far gone and too caught up in Manila’s underground life, which Bryce was only now starting to see. He thought the Convergence had paved over this harsh patina of the city. He was wrong.
“He had always been there for Papa,” Janice said, looking down at her plate. “You know, I showed him your picture. I hope you’re not mad.”
He was, but he would get over it in thirty seconds. His troubles seemed paltry in comparison to this woman and her family. She had been through so much. Maybe that was why things never worked out for Bryce: Hannah never needed him. Janice did.
An hour later, Janice finally surrendered and left for the bathroom. The waiters came by to refill their water. Bryce allowed Apo’s Reach’s payment system to draw the bill from his wallet without even looking at how much it was. He thought of how he could spend all his money tonight to take both his and Janice’s minds off the thought of death. Nothing, he knew, would take your mind away from death.
He placed his wearable on the table and looked for the Baccays—who had probably already left—when a Filipino man in a gray suit and a briefcase caught his eye from across the room. Bryce smiled nervously and fiddled with his belt, undoing a notch. When he turned his head up, the man stood right before him.
“Mr. Desmond,” said the man, “if you don’t mind.”
Bryce squinted as he became painfully aware Lime and Lemon were outside. He waited for SD-1 to check in, but his wearable remained quiet.
“We’ve disabled them, Mr. Desmond,” said the gray-suited man. He took a seat across.
Bryce straightened his back, taking note of the exits. “‘We?’”
“We at the bureau.” The man flicked his left index finger, and a notification appeared on Bryce’s wearable. He pressed the private augment button and let the wearable project a floating image of an identification badge that displayed the man’s photo and the National Bureau of Investigation logo—the Philippine equivalent of the FBI. There was no name on the badge.
One of the earliest classes Bryce had attended during his orientation with Metamatics was dealing with unforeseen circumstances as a field agent. The course did not cover meeting an agent of a federal bureau.
“Can I help you?” Bryce asked.
“No, no, it’s alright. You’re helping us enough.” Gray Suit placed his briefcase on the table and prattled his fingers on it. “It’s a shame what happened to your friend, Mr. Carbrera, even though he acted well beyond his duties as a field agent.”
Bryce tried not to react. He thought of something neutral to say.
“I want you to know,” Gray Suit went on, “that it’s alright. This is a complicated situation. Sometimes, there are casualties in this line of work.” Before Bryce could respond, the NBI agent removed the briefcase from the table and slid it under until it touched Bryce’s feet.
“What’s that?” Bryce asked. If it was a bomb, he and the whole of Apo’s Reach was already dead. He might as well play along.
“It’s a gift from the bureau.”
“Hmm?”
“Yeah. Consider it confirmation that you’re on the right track and might need some help to… fight the good fight, you know? Is that what they say in America?”
“I was born here.”
“Well, you’re not exactly Filipino. Not anymore.”
This wasn’t the time to argue his national identity, so he stooped over to pick up the briefcase.
“Don’t open it here, Mr. Desmond,” said Gray Suit. “Many people would want to get their hands on that.”
Bryce thought about disobeying the order until he noticed Janice leaving the bathroom. He got up just after Gray Suit nodded and left.
“I guess work follows you everywhere,” Janice said, seeing the man leave.
“You could say that.”
They rode an auto EV home back to Bryce’s condo that night. It had already been repaired.
They showered. They slept. Bryce held her long into the night, just as he had with Hannah, his ex-wife who was somewhere in Manila. For one of the first times he could remember since coming to the city, he had forgotten about her.
Janice’s snores were his queue to get up and check the briefcase. He closed the door to the bedroom, just in case it was a bomb, and he could at least, as his final act, spare her.
He stared at the case sitting on his kitchen island. He breathed in and undid the locks.
He looked inside and didn’t know what to make of its contents. The weapon had been disassembled, but even from its different pieces, Bryce could tell it was an automatic rifle with an EMP attachment and auto-targeting. He found the computer interface, which one could access just with the fingers of your right hand. He attached the pieces and held the finished product. It synced to his wearable. It had three rounds: live ammunition, EMP tracers, and a third setting he had thought was only prototypical.
Crawlers—tiny, lethal drones that could crawl at their target if the shot missed.
Nanotech.
Just like Black Fire.