Jacob looked stunned for a brief second. Gomez could see he was processing the information, and it made him a bit nervous for some reason. They had been friends since they were kids, and while he didn’t necessarily need Jacob’s approval, part of him wanted it. Jacob’s face lit up. “No shit? That’s awesome. You think she’ll say yes?”
“I sure as hell hope so. I’ll be damned embarrassed if she doesn’t. Especially now that I told you.”
They both laughed and went back to drinking.
Gomez thought for a moment, trying to find the right way to start the conversation he wanted to have. He could see Jacob had a lot on his mind, despite being released from probation. Or maybe because of being released. Finally, he opted for bluntness. “So what’s up with you today? You’ve been down since you got back from the probation office. I thought you might be happy to be off-paper.”
Jacob looked at the floor. Behind him, the security screens cycled through three cameras before he responded. “I don’t know. I thought I would too, but now that I am, I feel a bit lost. It’s hard to explain. I hated being on probation, but it gave me a purpose in a weird way. Something to focus on. A goal, I guess.”
Gomez nodded. “I think I know what you mean. By the time I left corporate security, I hated it. I felt like I was trapped in a system I didn’t believe in. One I thought was doing more harm than good.”
“I can see how probation is a bit like that,” Jacob said.
“But after I finally left, I was scared. Leaving the way I did meant I would never work for a corporation again. That was scary. Our whole damn society seems to be built around the corporations and their employees. I felt lost. But I found my way. You will too.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Two-Step came in and went straight to the refrigerator. “We should have a toast,” he said.
“To what?” Gomez asked.
“To Jacob and his new life,” Two-Step said, holding a beer out in a toast.
Gomez looked at the kid for a second. He was only seven years younger, but Gomez thought of him as a kid, the little brother he never had sort of thing. He could be clumsy and was damn annoying at times, but he was good to have around. He was good people, as his mother would say. More than that, he reminded Gomez of someone lost under his command in Berlin five years before. It was part of why Gomez took him in when he found him homeless and wandering around The Galleria.
Gomez raised his bottle. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.
Chapter 5
Johnson straightened his tie and watched a pack of wild African dogs chasing down an impala on the walls surrounding him. He eyed the door to Mr. Craig’s office. The door and the secretary’s desk next to it were the only breaks in the screens that made up the walls of the waiting room. The secretary seemed immune to the images of the hunt and stared at her computer display. Throughout his visits to Mr. Craig’s office, Johnson had grown used to them also. Mr. Craig would change the video images eventually. He always did. Johnson’s favorite had been the full contact jousting videos produced by an entertainment company from Lithuania. They were brutal and to the death at times. He did not know what jousting had to do with Lithuania, but the videos were enjoyable.
The impala leaped into one side of the door and out the other before the lead dog reached its hindquarters. The impala rolled, its legs flailing, the pack piling on for the kill. The dogs began to tear at the impala’s flesh near Mr. Craig’s secretary’s head and she stood and opened the door.
“He will see you now,” she said.
Johnson glanced once more at the impala being ripped apart and stepped into Mr. Craig’s office.
Mr. Craig sat behind a large desk occupying the center of the room. Apart from a lone whiskey tumbler on a coaster, the top of the desk was clear. Behind the desk, running the length of the wall, was a backlit wet bar.
Mr. Craig gestured at the two chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Johnson.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Craig stood and stepped to the wet bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Whiskey, please.”
“Ice?”
“Yes, please.”
Mr. Craig poured the whiskey, returned to the desk, and handed the tumbler to Johnson, the ice cubes gently clinking against the sides of the glass.
“Thank you,” Johnson said.
Mr. Craig remained standing for a moment as if he were waiting for Johnson to take a drink. Johnson drank, and Mr. Craig sat.
“So, do we have an update on our target?” Mr. Craig began.
Johnson started to place his whiskey on the desk, but after noticing the lack of a coaster, he decided to hold it.
“He was released from probation this morning,” Johnson said. “After making a stop at a coffee shop, he took a street bus toward The Galleria. He exited the bus early, apparently in an attempt to avoid a political discussion with a fellow passenger. While he ate at an Indian restaurant in The Galleria, a known R&D subject went into overload. The target linked with the subject’s chip and coded him out of the overload. The target then reported for work at Retro Media.”
Mr. Craig nodded. “And how would you assess his mental state at the moment?”
“I believe he is vulnerable. Being released from probation with no plans for the future makes him a prime target for the job. That, and I feel he will be enticed by the prospect of revenge against his former employer.” Johnson shifted the whiskey tumbler to his other hand.
“And the possibility he is aware of our surveillance?”
“Zero.”
“Good.”
Mr. Craig looked out the windows lining the far wall and took a drink. He said, “I think it is time we started to put our plans for the target in motion. I want you to make contact tonight. Is that possible?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson said. “His usual routine includes going to a club, DeSoto’s, after Retro Media closes. At the club, he and his friends flick code.”
Mr. Craig gave him a puzzled look.
“It’s a street term for selling illegal code,” Johnson said.
“I see. Continue.”
“After the club, he walks home. Should I contact him in the club, or after?”
“After. Does he leave the club alone?”
“On most nights. He is interested in a woman who works there, so he tends to stay longer than his friends. Some nights he stays after closing and leaves with her.”
Mr. Craig leaned back in his chair, strumming his fingers on the edge of the desk.
Johnson took the chance to have a drink.
Mr. Craig stopped strumming his fingers. “Speak to him only if he is alone. Wait for him outside the club. Let him walk half of the way home before you approach him. If he is not interested, insist. Do not take no for an answer. His involvement is imperative for this project to go forward.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all. I look forward to your next report.”
Johnson stood, searching for a place to put the whiskey tumbler.
“Give it to the secretary on your way out,” Mr. Craig said, gesturing in the direction of the waiting room.
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 6
Walking into DeSoto’s was usually a highpoint of Jacob’s day. Today was no different. A subderm overload, a political nut job, and a cold Indian dish had made for a hell of a day, and he needed some relaxation. The club was the answer.
He, Gomez, and Two-Step made their way through the crowd to the bar, a slow, pulsating groove filling the space of the club, the beat palpable on the skin, the lights matching the music in a dance above their heads while holographic simulations of the crowd danced impossible moves beside projected deep fakes of the remaining candidates on The Democratic Primary Show, the images morphing from human form to geometric shapes to images of random code and back to human form again. The crowd, a mix of those living on the fringe and college-aged corporate types who wanted to feel like they were
living on the fringe while they were living on their parent’s credit, driven by alcohol and code, moved with and became a part of the pulsating beat, enthralled by the light show.
At the bar, Jacob looked to the light and video control booth. Sandy’s body moved with the music while she worked the controls of the projector’s cameras placed throughout the club. Her hair was black tonight, the bangs cut in a severe straight line, and it moved with her, adding an accent to her rhythm.
“Comrade Jacob!”
Ivan emerged from the crowd and patted Jacob on the back.
“Ivan. It’s not your usual night.”
“No, but I felt the need to get out.” He glanced around quickly, something he always did when he was about to ask for some code. “Do you have any dopamine code ready to go?”
Jacob nodded, taking the code deck out of his jacket. Ivan, his sleeve already pushed up to his elbow, held out his forearm. Jacob scanned the tattoo and with a flicking motion, sent the code to Ivan’s chip.
A large grin spreading across his face, Ivan moved to the beat and tapped instructions on his flip phone. “Your coffee account has been extended,” he said and dissolved back into the crowd.
While Jacob preferred a good old fashioned credit payment for his code, he always enjoyed finding someone willing to trade a good or service. He rarely paid for food or clothing, and many of the items in Retro Media were supplied in exchange for code. There was less of a trail that way. Of course, coffee and chaat didn’t pay the bills, and they definitely wouldn’t help his credit account get large enough to go to Botswana, or wherever he wanted to go, but he figured the less he spent to live the larger his account would grow.
He moved around the club, scanning tattoos and flicking code to his usual customers. As he worked the room, he kept on eye on Sandy, waiting for her to take a break. When she did, he headed to the set of doors that led to the back bar.
Before he got halfway to the entrance, a tall, thin, wild-haired man with a long beard and bird feces on his shoes blocked his path.
Pigeon Eater. As far as Jacob could tell, no one knew his real name, he was just Pigeon Eater. He lived on the top level of one of the parking garages where he maintained a pigeon farm, raising, selling, and trading pigeon meat and eggs.
“Hey man,” he said, “can I get some code?”
“Sure, but I don’t need any more pigeons. I think I’ve got enough on credit to last me a year,” Jacob said.
Pigeon Eater nodded. “I’ve got something else you might like. One hundred Nokia flip phones. I’m sure you guys could use them for something.”
Jacob tried to look uninterested, but one hundred flip phones represented a windfall of possibilities. The phones were a favorite of hackers, Low Tech Luddites, data pirates, and because the battery could be removed, anyone wanting to avoid being constantly tracked. “How did you score one hundred flippers?”
“Long, crazy story, man. Let’s just say it cost me many many pigeons. Among other things.” He smiled through his beard.
“You’ll have to tell me later. But, I think we can work something out. That many flippers will get you a good supply of code.”
“Dole it out to me, man. Dole it out to me. I trust you to keep good records. I mean, if we can’t trust each other then it all falls to shit.”
Jacob could not help looking at Pigeon Eater’s shoes.
“The usual?” Jacob asked.
“You know me, man.”
Jacob scanned Pigeon Eater’s tattoo and flicked a code that was a mix of cannabinoids and psilocin.
Pigeon Eater held out his hand, and they shook on the deal. “You sure you don’t want any pigeons?”
“I’m sure,” Jacob said.
“You can come get the phones tomorrow, man. I’ve got them at my place.”
“See you then,” Jacob said and continued to the back bar.
Stepping into the back bar was stepping into a different reality. Rather than a frenetic dance club, it resembled a neighborhood dive. Music played at a conversational level, classic arcade games lined the wall, a pool table sat beneath a neon trimmed beer light, and tables offered a place to sit and talk.
Jacob found Sandy, Gomez, and Two-Step sitting at a table in the corner and took a seat. Two-Step looked at the floor and swirled beer around in his half-empty bottle.
“What’s up with him?” Jacob asked.
“His stupid game,” Gomez said.
“They had to reset Galaga,” Two-Step said, looking up. “Some bullshit about a repair.”
“And that means what to me?” Jacob asked.
“My high score. It’s wiped.”
“Well, play it and get the high score again.”
“He already did,” Sandy said.
“But the old score was my personal high score. My best ever.”
“You’re such a damn infant,” Gomez said.
“How’s your night going?” Two-Step asked Jacob, changing the subject.
“Not bad. A little over two hundred in credits. Some barter. Best of all, we will soon have one hundred Nokia flip phones,” Jacob said.
Gomez and Two-Step lit up.
“Nice,” Gomez said. “Who in the world got that many Nokia flippers?”
“Pigeon Eater.”
“Did the deal come with any pigeons?” Sandy asked.
“He tried.”
“All right,” Sandy said, “that’s enough business. I’m on break.” She turned to Jacob. “What went down at your PO?”
Jacob shot a quick look at Gomez and Two-Step.
Gomez stood. “Let’s go check out the club scene,” he said, slapping Two-Step on the back.
“But we just…”
“The club scene,” Gomez repeated.
“Oh, so they can be…”
“Let’s go,” Gomez cut him off.
Jacob watched Sandy watch them walk back into the club.
“That kid is, well, I’m not sure,” she said.
“He’s one of a kind.”
Sandy laughed and moved a strand of hair behind her ear. He liked it when she did that.
“So, your trip to the PO?”
“It’s all good. You’re looking at a free man.”
“What now?”
Jacob took his nic-stem out of his jacket. “I don’t know. We could run off together and elope.” He took a drag.
Sandy looked at her drink, silent.
Jacob exhaled.
“I’m kidding. I’m not the marrying type,” he said.
A half-hearted smile spread on Sandy’s face. “I told you, I need some time to think about things.”
“Classic brush-off line.”
“That’s not fair. I just need to figure out what I want. Not just with us, but with my life. I don’t want to run lights in this place, pulling off side jobs when I can, for the rest of my life.”
Jacob understood. Maybe today more than ever.
“I know how you feel,” he said.
Sandy reached across the table and took his hand. “Just give it some time. Things will work out the way they are supposed to work out. They always do, whether we like it or not. Things always end up where they are meant to.”
Jacob took his hand back. “I should get back to work,” he said.
Sandy closed her eyes and took a breath. Finally, she said, “Same.”
An hour later, Jacob left the club earlier than usual. The conversation with Sandy and a decent night flicking code gave him reason enough to part with Gomez and Two-Step and head home. Outside, his senses took a moment to adjust after leaving the lights and sounds of the club. The chill in the air felt refreshing after the hot, stale air inside. He stood under the club’s neon marquee and sent a mild shot of dopamine code to his chip, his first in three years. He let the code do its work and, like a soft summer breeze, euphoria spread from his head down his body. He stood in the neon glow and tilted his head slightly and smiled. Satisfied, he put the code deck in his pocket and started to his apartm
ent.
The dopamine offered him some clarity, a clarity he needed at the moment. Not true clarity, he told himself, but he would take any form he could get. Across the street, The Galleria sat, its facade added to and mutated over the years until it barely resembled the old images Jacob had seen. A make-shift shanty village and a forest of portable cell towers occupied the roof, a web of stairs and cable lifts leading to it decorated the outside walls. Even at this hour, the web was alive with people climbing the same route they climbed yesterday, descending the same route they would descend tomorrow.
Jacob put his hands in his pocket and focused on the sidewalk directly in front of him. Just that area of changing sidewalk and nothing more.
“Jacob Quince?” a voice called, snapping him out of his trance.
Jacob stopped.
The voice came from a well-dressed man sitting in the backseat of an expensive, armored sedan. The man sat just far enough from the open window for the top half of his face to be in shadow.
“You are Jacob Quince, correct?” the man asked, only slightly coming into the light.
Curious and cautious, Jacob said, “I am.”
“Excellent. I would like to give you a ride to your apartment. I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter 7
The back seat of the sedan was more spacious than Jacob thought it would be, and the smell of the well-polished leather seats met him when he got in and shut the door. A solid divider with a speaker and a small video screen separated the back seat from the front cab. The man waiting in the backseat looked corporate and wore a suit made from a material embedded with nontech that sent a scrambling signal to surveillance cameras. Seeing the suit gave Jacob second thoughts about getting the car, but it also made him even more curious to find out what this man wanted with him.
“Nice suit,” he said, putting his backpack on the floor by his feet.
“Thank you. Are you familiar with the material?”
Code Flicker Page 3