The shops on the streets are a bit different, but only in the rawest sense. Those with the knowledge, creds, and bartering chips can gain access to anything they could possibly need, it's just a different means of acquisition. They need to know what they're looking for, know the distribution routes, and know that any exchange carries a risk. Not entirely unlike the doctors, businessmen, and politicians I’ve dealt with in my twenty-something years.
Even in broad daylight, the towers of upper civilization cast long, dark shadows across the less fortunate who walk the streets. From my vantage, I’m never more than a few yards from shady alleys and corners as dark as night. Though I try to walk calmly, putting a casual sway to my strut, paranoia has put me on edge, focus darting this way and that.
If I’ve got ladies dressed in drag waiting to stalk me into a sex shop, who knows what else I could encounter on my brief stroll across the district. Between rival gangs, rival dealers, former lovers and supernatural creatures, I've definitely made many more enemies than acquaintances. To make matters more uncomfortable, the friction of my pants is having unfortunate circumstances on an unmentionable that hasn’t acted so volatile since puberty.
Before I know it, I’m up next at the tram ticket terminal and have to use my own identification because I’ve been too distracted to snag somebody else’s. And now my movements are traceable by any moron with a two-credit app. Welcome back to the grid. Freaking wonderful.
I opt for a less inhabited car and plop myself down in a seat, thankful for an opportunity to think things through, but having difficulty grasping a solid thought. An automated voice belts out instructions to clear the doors and platform, then the car gives a humble lurch before accelerating smoothly and gliding on rails across the district.
There’s a chance that the assault was complete coincidence, that they would have followed any pervert in there. But why so many people for a simple operation? And the dude girl; that’s a lot of effort to be unrecognizable to a complete stranger. Then again, it could just be a coincidence that we work together. At least it’ll prove a bit easier to get some intel on the situation. Did I tell somebody where I was going today? I had a few drinks at work last night, was I really dumb enough to mention to my alcoholic coworkers that I was going to take a mid-day trek through a seedy sex shop? And who among that group would care enough to track me down there?
A low throb just behind my brow adds too much weight to already deep thought and I use the opportunity to stop grinding my gears and look around. I’ve watched the city pass by through the windows a million times. After a while, the hundred-plus story buildings begin to look more like prison bars than elevated dreams of status and wealth. My fellow patrons don’t even bother to look out the windows anymore, occupying themselves with tiny touch-screen distractions or an opportunity to squeeze in a quick nap between work shifts.
An elderly woman catches my eye and I find my imagination beginning to wander in an obscene direction. As if on a track of its own, my vision slides up from street-stained plastic pink flip-flops across the small segment of exposed skin, tracing along the thin blue veins. Discomfort grips my mid-section and I hug the stereo a bit closer, hoping to quell the ascension of my love-steeple.
A gentle buzzing goes off far too comfortably near the danger zone. For a second I fear I’ve gone and fired off prematurely, then remember my phone. Welcoming the distraction, I flip open the cover and spy the somewhat familiar number. “Hello?”
“Hey Heath, it’s Charlsie. How you doing, bud?” A smile spreads wide across my face. I haven’t spoken to him since we set fire to a slum building.
“Better than I deserve,” I quip. “How about you, man? How’s the fam?”
“They’re good. I was wondering if I could talk to you about a few things.”
“Shoot.” My eyes continue their invasion of the grandma, dancing along the extended hem of her skirt. The inside of my mouth runs dry almost tasting the polyester and admiring the way it drapes over her formally crossed legs.
“Are you available to talk?” Of course he means about business. For the most part, I doubt anybody around me gives a good god damn about my personal business, but for safety reasons, I deny him.
“Probably not the best time.” Next comes the blouse of tiny pearl buttons, murder on the fingers to try and snap back through the holes that keep her intimates hidden like some strange arthritic security system. All topped off with a bright red yule-tide bow dangling from her neck, taunting me to come and rip my present open. “Got anything in mind?”
“Yeah actually. Kyle’s got a baseball game coming up, he’s been bugging me to invite you to come see him play. Jan’s been asking about you too.”
“Sounds good to me. It would be a welcome break from the nonsense I keep running into.”
“Are you in the middle of something right now? Are you sure this is a good time?”
“As good as any. Besides, it’s been too long. When’s the game?”
“Tonight at Eight. Look, if it’s a hassle I understand, we can always meet up-“
“Drop the crap, man. I’ll be there. Got a quick shift in a couple of hours, but should finish up in plenty of time to make the game.”
“Alright, you’re the best, Heath.”
“Sure, sure. Save it for my tombstone.” That raises a few eyes. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Later, Heath.”
I replace my phone and try to distract myself, but the scent of jasmine and muscle relaxers beckons me to inch closer; to breathe her in until I can devour her. What the hell am I saying? I snap back to reality in an instant, realizing that my imagination has carried me through two stops unaware and pumped up the volume of my pleasure plunger to unsafe levels. Having experienced hallucinogens, happy pills, and even male performance enhancers a time or two, my mind races again through the vast list of poison and drug symptoms I’ve encountered. Nothing matches up.
The tram pulls into the next station and the doors open as usual. The announcement, on the other hand, asks for all passengers to remain seated for a routine inspection. I risk a quick glance at my fellow travelers, almost none of whom show any sign of suspicion, just one impatient man who huffs like this inconvenience is just some conspiracy to keep him from his destination.
Two armed guards step through the open doors, do a quick sweep of the car, then start to step out before one stops and does a double-take at me. Or rather, at my crotch. I hug the poon box closer, hoping to disguise any residual bulge that may be lingering from my brief trip down geriatric lust lane.
“Hey man,” he calls to me, “Nice stereo.” He gives me an appreciative wink before his partner ducks back in, following his partner’s gaze curiously. His face scrunches with confusion and he starts to step back out before the first guard catches his arm and pulls him back over to whisper in his ear, not bothering to hide his expression of vicious amusement.
Realization dawns on the face of his partner like the morning after a late night of heavy drinking. “Would you mind stepping this way, sir?” Yes. “Go ahead and bring your…” he feigns stifling a mocking laugh, “parcels with you.” With a heavy sigh, I grab my things and follow them through the doors, but not out of earshot of the other passengers, they make certain of that. “Would you mind declaring all of your carry-on items.” Again, yes.
“I’ve got a stereo and a handle of developer solution.”
“A stereo, you say?” The emphasis is growing redundant at this point. “And are you aware of any alternative uses for the stereo?”
Sure, it’s also a great way to prop up the wobbly leg on my stool.
“It can be used for mechanical masturbation, mutual mechanical masturbation, safely stow small objects, and as a stellar conversation starter.” My mouth rattles off so fast I’m done before I realize that my internal and external dialogue were running in reverse. Between myself and the minimum wage security officers, I’m not sure who’s more surprised by my little slip.
�
��Well okay then,” the first states, grabbing his radio and holding it to his mouth before the other places a swift hand on his wrist.
“Wait a minute. You said, ‘hide small objects’.” I bite my tongue to keep from correcting him. Not much point in arguing over symantics at this point anyway. “Are you currently hiding anything else on your person?”
Not at all, officer.
“There’s a red lightbulb stashed in one stereo sex chamber and a pistol I stole off some goon who assaulted me earlier stashed in my pants right next to about seven inches of chub I got from staring down some old lady on the tram.”
Damnit. I glance back at the elderly lady to see her face turn seven shades of red, but a coy smile plays on her lips as she casts her gaze away from mine.
The two officers look between each other with a sincere panic. The first licks his lips, reaching to his belt for a pair of handcuffs. “I’m going to ask you to calmly place your hands behind your back-“
“Above my head,” I correct him.
“What?”
“You want them above my head. I might have a weapon behind my back.” Again, the two share a look. The second shrugs brandishing a tiny bottle of pepper spray in front of him as if it provides any sense of threat or defense. I comply by putting my hands above my head. “Just count yourselves lucky I wasn’t paying attention and scanned in under my true identity.”
In an instant I realize what was on the tip of that needle. I’ve been injected with stupid.
Three
It takes a full thirty minutes in a holding cell before my excitement subsides, although I’m plagued by a lingering empty feeling. Not long after, the door opens and a weary man with a datapad stands in the entrance. “Mr. Fallows?” He asks as if anybody else is in the room with me. Not even looking up in my direction he adds three little words I hadn’t expected to hear. “You’ve been released.”
I waste no time questioning good fortune and shoot to my feet. I didn’t even have to swap my wardrobe this time around. Following the guard down several corridors, he stops at the entrance where a tall, thickly built man stands in full formal attire. Strong face, set jaw, I peruse him for any sense of familiarity, but find none.
“Sign here,” the guard says flatly, passing the datapad to the stranger who accepts and scribbles in one fluid motion before passing it back. He’s either done this a time or two, or accepts a lot of packages. “He is now in your custody.” I don’t care for the sound of that. “Have a good day,” he adds mechanically before heading back through the magnetically sealed doors.
The stranger motions for me to follow before turning on his heels and walking out into the open air. Opting to delay questioning before either party has an opportunity to change their minds, I head after him. Two blocks later, he breaks the awkward silence.
“I must admit, Mr. Fallows, I am suddenly having second thoughts about the proposition I wish to make you.” I know that voice, but it has no business in this body. I turn my attention to the man and watch more closely as we walk. “Making a full confession before any sort of interrogation, I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve chosen to turn over a new leaf. It would make any future business arrangements more challenging.” There it is. On the tip of his tongue, like the elusive word I’d use to describe my own mishaps this morning, is a tiny receiver. To the common eye, it looks like he’s speaking normally, tongue and lips moving in perfect unison with the voice from his mouth. But they’re not his words, not his voice. That’s Cellar speaking, my contact with the United Assembly that likes to send me on suicide missions to kill giant spiders and stop aggressively lethal drug production and then pays me in furniture.
“Turns out I’ve found God. Looks like you’ve gotten a face lift as well, Cellar. That anti-aging cream investment really paid off.”
“Kind of you to notice. I’ve taken the liberty of having your… goods delivered to your apartment. You have work soon, yes?” The lip-service is uncanny. Even searching the man’s ear, I can’t find any sense of a mic. And for him to nail the phonetics down so well, it must be on some sort of delay. They must pay him well, I can’t imagine a shittier job than being a secret government organization’s public service announcer.
“Yeah, in a couple of hours. Why? Did you want to take a stroll down memory lane together?”
“I had somewhere else in mind.”
“Alright, but if we’re talking business, I could use a new washer-dryer combo.”
The man smirks a split-second before Cellar’s voice comes through, “Getting too many suggestive looks from little old ladies I assume? It turns out one stopped by not long before we arrived and left her number for you.”
“Funny.” There’s a ding from the man’s coat pocket. He reaches in, retrieves my phone, then hands it over. Sure enough, there’s a phone number and the name ‘Gretta’ in my inbox. My finger hovers over the ‘delete’ button, but the little voice from my pants suggests otherwise.
“I believe this is yours as well, though I won’t question its purpose.” The man withdraws the pistol I’d picked up before and hands it over. I’m a bit surprised with how casually he gives it to me.
“Thought the purpose would be obvious,” I mutter, releasing the clip to see if I’d been running around with an empty pistol all morning. The clip is full, but not with bullets.
“Are there any parties in particular you need to track? Even then, do you have access to tracking equipment?” Trackers? And no. I think for a minute. But I know somebody who does.
I answer with a grunt, continuing the rest of our trek in silence before heading into a well-labeled building I never had any intention of entering.
Not that I have anything against books. They might make a decent way to kill time if I had any to kill, but my first impression of the library is soured by viewing it from a tactical standpoint. A street-level entrance is made even more daunting by the massive foyer with absolutely no cover for at least ten strides. Even then, it would land them little more than a handful of tiny computer terminals to the left or few rows of meager reading chairs to the right. Bracing myself as I step between two large sensors, I’m even less impressed by the fact that an armed man can walk inside without raising any alarms.
Behind the desk, a guard strains to look up at us from his datapad, as if that act alone just robbed him of his last wind. Truth be told, he looks as bored as I would if my biggest threat was malicious late fees from acne-ridden adolescence whose deepest fashion craze involves matching a stylo to whatever case their datapad is currently sporting. His head droops back to its previous perch in an almost depressing manner. “Cellar’s waiting for you in the historical non-fiction section.”
My companion stands stoically, suggesting he has no intention of accompanying me. It’s just as well, a reunion between ventriloquist and dummy might be far too emotional for me to keep a dry eye.
Crossing the wasteland, I resist the urge to test for echoes. The emptiness continues with little sign of life or a speck of dust. Along the back wall is a single set of solid elevator doors. There’s no button to press and no scanner to check in. It’s no wonder the guard looks dead to the world; he’s essentially a door man.
A low-pitched chime breaks the silence before I reach my goal and the doors slide open painfully slow. The elevator car is just as empty, baring only a meager panel amidst four walls of brushed stainless steel. I slap the button labeled non-fiction before the doors have time to fully extend.
They do anyway.
A small sigh escapes my lips as I prepare to hurry up and wait.
I’m checking my hand for liver spots by the time the doors open again, revealing a much warmer environment. Red checkered carpet tells of much more foot traffic than the current occupancy would suggest. There’s no immediate sign of Cellar, just long rows of filing cabinets essentially labeled with stickers baring letters. The walls, on the other hand, are far more intriguing. Rows of books are packed spine-to-spine tighter than the clip of a semi-
automatic behind double-paned glass.
I’ve never been this close to an actual book before. It’s something unheard of on the streets, though most people I associate with would find more use in burning them for warmth than opening them for knowledge or reading for pleasure. Never finding an interest in school, it wasn’t until I was apprenticed to the Doc that I had any real exposure to them. Even then, it was only at the Doc’s persuasive insistence that I toiled over page after page through late nights on a small glowing screen.
I approach one of the walls, admiring the track-lighting running through the cases and illuminating the faded felt binding of the books, sending small specks of light across the gilded lettering of a few. Another small detail catches my eye. The glass is inlayed with some sort of microthread beading its way through. Bulletproof. I raise my hand to wrap my knuckles across it.
Vessel Page 2