Anyone: A Novel by Charles Soule

Author:Charles Soule
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Published: 2019-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

THE LAST DIVE BAR IN MANHATTAN

“WILL YOU EVER TELL ME WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT?” SORO SAID.

“What do you mean?” Annami answered, her attention on the screen mounted behind the bar, currently displaying a much-hyped retromatch in which she was actually pretty interested.

“Come on,” he said, a little edge of annoyance in his tone. She turned to look at him.

“You can do things with the flash like no one I’ve ever met. That stuff with the rats at Olsen’s place . . .” Soro went on.

A little rustle from the cage on the seat next to Annami, where Lars the man-rat rested, her insurance policy against retaliation from Olsen before the auction. Any other bar in New York would have an issue with that—but not Conrad’s Lower East Side Tavern, thank the lord.

“Even just the way you acted down there,” Soro continued. “Ruthless, like. And the money . . . you used to work at Anyone, and it sounded like a good gig. Why did you quit that to start darksharing for Mama Run? None of this makes sense, Annami.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t mind helping you. Promise. It’s interesting, and I don’t care about the risk or anything like that. I just want to know what I’m doing. I mean . . . what’s the point?”

They sat in silence. Annami considered what she owed this man. Probably a lot, by any accounting you chose, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to blow everything she’d worked for just to make him feel a little better, a bit more included. The stakes were too high, and she was too close.

Soro made a small grunting noise, a sound of frustration. He stood aggressively, grabbed his empty beer mug, and headed for the bar.

Annami looked at the screen again. Pete Sampras was playing Roger Federer on a grass field built to resemble center court at Wimbledon. The two champions were a decade apart in age, which meant they had never played each other in their respective primes thirty and forty years back, but the flash solved that. They each transferred into vessels in their midtwenties, skilled tennis players in their own right, and then they went at it.

Skeptics said the retromatches couldn’t replicate what it really would have been like, and Annami herself thought that was probably true. Muscle memory mattered, and at the level of players like Sampras and Federer, the ability wasn’t just mental but also keyed to infinitesimal physical refinements built up over thousands of hours of doing nothing but playing championship-level tennis, living in bodies molded and carved and optimized toward winning Opens. Neither Federer nor Sampras had played like this in decades, and what they’d lost in that time wouldn’t come back overnight.

But it was still pretty awesome. Everywhere Annami looked, she saw things the flash shouldn’t be used for, things she would never have allowed if it were up to her—but retros . . . those, she’d do.

They had become big business, and not just in sports.

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