Another ten minutes and Arctic’s brownstone comes into view. No security cameras visible, but Lion figures they’re hidden in the bricks, the lamps, the system. A watchful layer of not-quite-consciousness built into everything these days. The human doorman, merely a finishing touch.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Zorn.”
So someone’s expecting him.
“Good afternoon,” he says, taking a step closer. “My assistant’s a few minutes behind me. I gave her my Arctic credit card for ID. Can you send her up?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Just Lion,” extending his hand.
“Frank.”
“Thanks, Frank,” and across the lobby and into an already waiting elevator. Five floors up and Arctic’s as remembered. Same red sequined couch in the corner, same Armani-clad enforcer holding down the front desk.
“Mr. Zorn,” she says, standing up, “Jenka and Sir Richard are already in the conference room.”
“The white-on-white room?”
She starts to step around the desk, blonde ringlets bobbing as she moves.
“No need,” he says, walking past her, “I know the way.”
The long hall feels longer than remembered. With the adrenaline in his system, it’s got a funhouse flavor. Walls warped, windows misshapen. A deep breath, a slow exhale, and the room’s door, slightly ajar.
Lion doesn’t bother to knock.
Even when he’s expecting the assault, the room’s whiteness makes him blink. Takes an extra second to lock into focus. Once it does, he spots Jenka in his white suit, sitting with his back to him. And Sir Richard, wearing a denim work shirt rolled at the sleeves and a pair of faded blue jeans to match, sprawled on the beanbag to his left.
“Lion Zorn in the hizzy,” he announces.
Richard glances his way, lifts a hand in greeting, then changes his mind and feathers his hair. Like Lion just got dissed by a Ralph Lauren ad circa 1987.
Jenka spins to glare. Lion ignores him, walking around the hot-white Ping-Pong table, staying far enough away that he can keep the legs in sight. He waits until the diamond glimmer of the Pong sign comes into view, then chooses a chair.
Slides it back, takes his seat, and kicks feet up on table.
This seems to amuse Richard. Not Jenka.
“Where. The fuck. Have you been?”
“No need for profanity,” says Richard, rising from the beanbag. “We can behave like gentlemen.”
“Pardon me,” says Jenka. “Lion, hope you had a pleasant trip, and might I ask, where. The fuck. Have you been?”
Richard sighs.
“I’ve been parlaying with your man Tajik,” says Lion, tossing his sling-pack onto the table. “Same as you.”
“Who’s Tajik?” asks Richard, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
So Jenka hasn’t told Richard the whole story. That might be useful.
“Screw Tajik,” says Jenka, “where’s Penelope?”
Priming, Fetu once told Lion, is a way of pre-loading the pattern recognition system, tilting implicit memory just enough that the brain makes faster connections between certain ideas over others. People exposed to the word “nurse,” for example, will then recognize the word “doctor” more readily than the word “water.” Fetu, he thinks, better not be wrong.
“From what I’ve heard,” says Lion, “you screwed everyone. Got little baby Jenkas running around in white suits in like three countries.” Clucks his tongue. “Such a slut.”
“Slut?” Richard asks Jenka. “What’s he talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” demands Jenka.
“Doesn’t matter.” A dismissive wave of his hand. “Let’s talk business.” Lion pulls out his cell phone and dials up voice memos. Clicks RECORD and slides it onto the table.
“My contract specified that I try to contact Muad’Dib and see if I could set up a meeting, correct?”
Neither speaks. Lion repeats himself.
“What is this about?” asks Richard.
“Just setting the record straight.”
“Go to hell,” says Jenka.
“Fine,” says Richard. “I’ll play. Yes, those were the terms of our agreement.”
Lion picks up his phone, glances at the clock. He’s got about ninety seconds to kill. “Excellent,” he says, setting it back down, looking first at Jenka, next at Richard. “Well, I’ve spoken to Muad’Dib, and he’s not interested in meeting with you.”
They simply stare.
“I believe this concludes our affairs.”
“You think we’re done?” says Jenka.
Thirty-four seconds gone, counting silently in his head.
“Done,” he agrees.
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Language,” snaps Richard, doing a fairly convincing imitation of Lion’s first-grade teacher. “What do you mean Muad’Dib’s not interested?”
Forty-five seconds.
Lion kills another ten by digging through his sling-pack until he finds his Moleskine, then fifteen more flipping through its pages. Sets it down, looks back at Richard. But before he can speak, from the other end of the hallway, the sound of a woman’s voice, shouting.
“Jenka, you pompadoured slut! Lose track of time? Lose your wallet? I’m here for my goddamn money.”
“Slut?” asks Richard, and right on cue. Chalk one up for Fetu. Priming, works as advertised.
“Sixteen months,” shouts the woman, “sixteen motherfucking months of child support, that’s what you owe me. Sixteen goddamn motherfucking months—what the hell-hell we s’posed to eat?”
“She’s got a sword!” screams the Armani-clad secretary. “She’s killing the couch!”
Jenka’s on his feet, Richard’s in his wake.
“Plus interest!” hollers the woman. “Bitch, you owe me slut tax!”
Both Jenka and Richard dash out the door. Lion wastes no time, diving beneath the table and aiming for the glimmer of the Pong sign. Mini-claw comes out of the left pocket, velvet bag from the right. Starts counting stones, just as Balthazar explained.
A few seconds to find the right one. A crash in the other room and he figures he’s got about thirty seconds left.
When he touches the claw to the gem, there’s a bright flash and then the shine seems to drain from the whole panel. It happens in an instant. AIs, Lion realizes, die in the same way humans die—with far less fanfare than we think we deserve.
He drops the stone atop the bag, then positions the one Balthazar gave him on the tip of the grasper. The panel flickers back to life once he gets it in place.
“Who the hell are you?” shouts Jenka from the other room.
Lion grabs bag, stone, and claw in one quick swipe, shoving them back into his pocket. He bangs his skull on the table trying to get back to his feet. Rubbing his head with one hand, he snatches his sling-pack with the other, then quick-steps around the table and into the hall.
“Who the hell are you?” she shouts back.
Lion makes it to the waiting room in time to see a familiar ninja standing on the coffee table, kicking magazines and waving her blade.
“Jenka.”
“Hell you are,” she says, skewering a red sequined pillow, flicking it at him.
“Hell I’m not.”
“Shit,” says the ninja, lowering her sword, jumping down from the table, “wrong slut.”
And then she’s out the front door before anyone can react. The couch is in ribbons, the floor red-speckled with sequins.
“Who the hell was that?” demands Richard.
“I have no idea,” replies Jenka.
“Who the hell was that?” repeats Richard
“Should I call security?” asks the Armani.
“I think we’re done here,” says Lion, walking past the mess, stopping by the door to look back at Richard. “It’s just my opinion, but you shouldn’t do it.”
“Why?” demands Jenka.
“Introduce Sietch Tabr a
s an autism drug. It’ll work. It’ll help people. Skip the social media barrage. You’ll still make a killing.”
Richard runs his fingers through his hair, “We don’t have time for that.”
“We don’t,” agrees Lion, “but the Rilkeans are not wrong. Empathy is a question you have to live. Jenka thinks you can change culture by force—and he’s not wrong either—but there’s always a cost.”
Then he’s out the door, leaving Arctic in the rearview, he hopes, for the very last time.
FANCY A SHAG
All kinds of evil premonitions in the elevator, but when Lion hits the ground floor, he sees only Frank, behind the desk, studying a soccer feed on a tablet-phone. No goons grab him, though he suspects that happens more in the movies. In real life, it’s going to be subtler and harder to trace. A hit-and-run, an exotic illness.
He crosses the lobby at a good clip.
Punching through the front door, Lion notices the light has drained from the afternoon. How long was he inside? Maybe twenty minutes? But the soft blues he remembers have gone slate gray, and a cold wind is blowing in from the boroughs.
Then he notices the shiny mobile, parked curbside, Bo leaning against the hood. Dark glasses, dark suit, arms crossed. Did Arctic send him? That’s an old KGB trick—use a friend to do the work of an enemy. He flashes on their trip upstate, Bo’s surgical precision, and Lion’s suspicion that there was something military in his background.
So this is how it’s going down.
He looks around. Empty street to his right, left is busier. Safer. Pivots quickly and loads up his legs, preparing to dash.
“Lion,” calls Bo, with a wave.
Nothing threatening in the gesture.
“Bo,” he replies.
“How’s the arm?”
Lion walks over. Doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t like standing in front of Arctic’s building either. Glancing back and forth, he doesn’t see a better option. Looks back at Bo.
“It’s alright, thanks.… What are you doing here?”
“Beside the fact that I work here?”
“Fair point,” says Lion, but still edgy.
“I came to give you this,” explains Bo, opening the driver’s side door and retrieving the dragon box from a pocket in the side panel.
Lion lifts an eyebrow.
“You’re one day past a hella-long plane flight. Thought you might want some Ghost Trainwreck.”
“That’s very cool of you,” smiling … then not smiling. “How did you know I just got off a long flight?”
Bo walks over to Lion, reaches out a hand and grabs the hood of his sweater. He fishes around inside until he finds what he’s looking for. It takes two hands to dislodge the item. A small square of gray metal, same color as his sweater, same size as a match tip.
“Tracker,” says Bo.
“You’ve been tracking me?”
“Not me,” walking over to the SUV’s side door, opening it up.
Penelope sits inside, red hair braided into a twisted updo, a long navy shawl over an old Joy Division T-shirt, and a pair of reading glasses. The naughty librarian, Lion thinks, retro-meme.
“Fancy a shag, Lion Zorn?”
Bo snorts. Lion blinks. Penelope slips deeper into the car and taps her hand on the now empty seat. He gazes suspiciously at the upholstery, but climbs inside anyway, his desire to get away from Arctic’s front door overriding his unease. Bo hops into the front seat, drops the car into gear and slides into the street.
“Kids,” says Bo, “where we headed?”
“Where you staying?” Penelope asks him.
“The Truth.”
“Yes, Lion, I want the truth.”
“The Truth,” he says, giving her a look, “for a change.” Then, redirecting his gaze toward Bo, “It’s a hotel, downtown.”
“I know the place,” says Bo, flipping on a blinker.
“We’re going to the Truth,” says Penelope, “to get Lion’s baggage—which is considerable. And then we’re going to the Ludlow.”
“After that I’m out,” says Bo, changing lanes. “I still need this gig.”
“Copy that,” says Penelope.
“And whatever you two need to talk about, I don’t need to know about.” Bo hits a button on the dash. A partition rises from the backside of the front seat, sealing them in, hermetically.
“You tracked me again?” says Lion, turning to Penelope, holding the device in his fingers.
She nods.
“Since when?”
“Kuala Lumpur.”
He just glares at her.
“In the elevator,” she continues, “after leaving Luther on the roof. You had your back to me, I slipped it in.”
“Why? Actually, stupid question, I guess I know why.”
“I doubt that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Smiles. “You’re a bampot.”
“I’m sure I am.”
“I brought you into this,” she says, sliding next to him, pressing her knees into his and holding his gaze. “You didn’t ask for it.”
“True.”
She leans over and kisses him softly on the cheek, then whispers into his ear “so I’m going to make damn sure you come out the other side.”
And “Down by the Seaside” in cheerful synth tones.
Not taking his eyes off hers, Lion digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and answers, “Hello.”
“What did you mean, ‘a cost’?”
“Richard?”
“What did you mean, ‘there’s always a cost’?” Something sharp in his tone that Lion hadn’t noticed before.
“Do you know how culture changes?” says Lion, then changes his mind. “Forget that. Do you know the origin story of empathy?”
“No.”
“It’s a puzzle,” he explains, breaking eye contact with Penelope. “Darwin told us we’re descended from apes, so scientists studied them to understand us. They wanted to know where our so-called humanity came from. Kindness, patience, loyalty, cooperation, most importantly, empathy.”
“And?”
“Couldn’t find any of ’em. Not in apes. Not in any primates. They found intelligence, self-awareness, long-term planning, but none of the big-ticket social emotions.”
Penelope reaches down and takes his hand in hers, staring out the window the whole time.
“Where’d they come from?” asks Richard.
“Wolves,” he says, feeling her flesh press into his. “Forty thousand years ago, humans and wolves teamed up. It began with garbage. Wolves wanted our leftovers, so they started hanging out by our refuse piles. We liked having cleaner camps. Better hygiene, healthier tribe. Over time, it became a partnership. The wolves, especially the ones who weren’t afraid of humans, got more food, lived longer lives, had more pups. And the humans, especially the ones who liked wolves, had cleaner camps, less disease, more children.”
“Exerting evolutionary pressure.”
“Yeah. And adaptation. After starting out garbage cans, wolves became our security guards: barking at danger, keeping us safe. Then we started hunting together. Wolves hear and smell better, so they took over tracking. We had opposable thumbs, so we focused on killing. For both species, these were huge advantages.”
“Co-evolution,” says Richard, dryly.
“Uh-huh.”
“No. Why are you telling me about co-evolution?”
“The partnership changed us. To co-evolve with wolves, we needed to learn to live with wolves. Our pack size grew. A bigger pack might be a stronger pack, but only if the members can cooperate and work toward a common goal. This required more patience, more collaboration, more loyalty, more empathy, than ever existed in our primate past. But once we teamed up with wolves, evolution began selecting for these things. It means our celebrated humanity is actually a collection of traits we learned from wolves.”
“Fascinating,” says Richard, that classic British snipe.
�
��You’re an idiot,” snaps Lion. “Why does Sietch Tabr matter so much? Because the last time we bothered to think like animals we learned how to be goddamn human beings. Loyalty, patience, empathy—fuck you.”
Penelope starts laughing.
“Unfortunately,” he says, calming down, “I’m actually making a different point. We teamed up with wolves forty thousand years ago, but empathy—the word—didn’t show up until the late eighteen hundreds. It took us that long to recognize and name that emotion. We’re slow learners. Compress that process, force people through eons of emotional evolution overnight, we’re not built for it. Robert Walker, case in point.”
There’s a long silence on the line.
“Richard?”
“Thank you,” and then a click.
Lion stares at the phone, not sure what just happened. The partition begins to slide down, but he doesn’t notice.
“The Truth,” says Bo.
“What?” asks Lion, finally looking up from his phone.
“We’ve arrived.”
ALL YOU CAN DO IS YOUR INCH
New York at night—a million lights and every one a story.
The lamppost ten stories below Lion, for example. Of the single-arm variety, with steel glow-apron and rounded bulb. Installed by a Russian electrician with a drinking problem and a failing marriage. Worked the graveyard shift—only one he could get—and it was the hours he kept, the exact opposite of his wife’s schedule, made worse by his need for a vodka or two before bed, that was the first fault line in their relationship. Or the reflective glimmer of a dog’s collar down the block, illuminated suddenly by passing headlights, belonging to a lost schnauzer searching for his human, wanting to go home, and scared, very scared.
Lion doesn’t expect he’ll tire of this view anytime soon.
He’s back at the Ludlow, in the same room he stayed in two weeks ago. Or was it three?
Time slippage. By-product of emo-stim overload. But he can recall salient details just fine.
After snatching his bags from the Truth, Penelope and Lion had said good-bye to Bo and checked in at the Ludlow. They grabbed dinner at the Dirty French. It was dark by the time they made it up to the room.
Penelope unearthed a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle from the hidden reaches of her backpack. She told him the bottle was a gift from Luther, and maybe that was a lie, maybe it was a bribe; either way, the bourbon worked as advertised.
Last Tango in Cyberspace Page 27