"Feeling the pinch again huh?" This time the voice had a harder edge to it. "It ain't nice that's for sure."
"So, help me."
Another long silence. Hector's hands slid off the desk on to his lap, replaced by his chin as it collided painfully with the gray surface.
"Call up the projects on the screen. Work through them and you earn SeePeeYoo. The more SeePeeYoo, the happier you'll be."
"I don't remember the codes."
"You think you can forget something you dope?" The voice was scornful. "It's all virtual here. Nothing dies."
Hector swiped at the desk again, the random motions eventually bringing up a list of code numbers like the ones he'd been given earlier. Moving his finger over one area moved the selector down, while another spot moved it up.
It would have taken nothing, he realized, to have the list highlight his assignments. Instead he was forced to remember them. His faceless conspirator had said that he couldn't forget the numbers, which turned out to be true; but recalling each project number took a distinct effort.
Hector managed to find a combination of scratches, slaps and swipes that brought up the project on screen, or at least he thought so. When it ran, it was like watching a soap opera, except every now and then the action would stop and he had to choose what he thought the characters would do next. Will Chester forgive Mary? Will Bart free himself from captivity? Will Bob choose cheesecake or pie? It was the most idiotic way he could imagine spending his time, but the weakness didn't return and it gave him time to think. "I need to make a call. How?" he hissed.
The reply took a while to arrive. "You mean... outside? You need lots of Ducks for that—lots and lots."
"Ducks?"
"Digital Bucks: cabbage, bread, mazuma, gravy, moolah, scratch, clams, wampum-"
"Okay, I get the picture. Do I make Ducks doing this?" Hector hated the voice even though it was helping him.
"Course not, this gets you SeePeeYoo. So you can survive. To earn Ducks you need to do something more valuable."
"Such as?"
"What skills do ya got?" A harsh laugh filtered over the wall. "Lemme guess, you're here because you were a big shot back before you died, like everyone else. So your biggest skill is screwing people over. That ain't a high demand occupation around here. We're the screwees not the screwers."
"There must be something." The paused project demanded action and Hector slapped the controls without thinking about his selection.
"You could go to a HoxelBroker. You might be able to sell some of your body parts. But no doubt you're old like the rest of us. Who wants to buy ugly hoxels?" The voice paused. "Of course, you could try the PimpDaddy..."
Hector had no idea what a PimpDaddy was but the name alone was scary enough for him to shy away from the topic, but he had to find a way to contact the outside. If he could get through to his lawyer, he'd be able to straighten out this mess.
After a time passed that could have been measured in government intervention cycles, the display vanished and nothing Hector did would bring it back.
"Judgment has ended. All operators will vacate now." The booming voice seemed to fill the warren-like building. "Mandatory half-cycle down time begins."
***
There was no response when Hector called out so he started walking in the same direction as the stampede. For the most part the streets were lined with gray buildings, that looked like the poverty stricken towns he'd been dragged through as a youngster by his salesman father; at one point he was hit by an overpowering smell of cheap carnival hot dogs, but no vendor was in sight. Occasionally the scene was punctuated by a structure of incredible grandeur, with gold-trimmed colonnades soaring to buttress intricately carved roofs. It was like Lexington, Virginia meeting the Las Vegas Strip; Norman Rockwell fused with Dali.
Hector had one immediate goal: the Dead Palace, where the VPs of Elyzium (on a temporary rotating deceased basis) spent a year maintaining residence for legal purposes. He didn't know where it was, but the brochures said it was the biggest building in Elyzium. If he couldn't call out, then he'd have to make them give him what he'd paid for.
Another building caught his attention as he walked. It was the size of a baseball stadium but made of carved marble, with broad golden steps leading up to massive redwood doors. Flanking the doors was a pair of Red Onyx somethings, angels or possibly vampires, towering malevolently over the entrance.
Hector moved closer, trying to read the sign over the door. It looked like "Dead All Over" but the intricate script carving made it difficult. He heard what sounded like a slab being dragged across the floor and then was face-to-face with one of the Angel-Vampires; actually it was more like "eye-to-face" given their comparative sizes.
"Members only," growled the Angel-Vampire, jutting out its pointed chin. "If you're not on the list you can't come in."
"Is that a joke?" Hector couldn't believe it; the last time he'd been denied entry somewhere must have been over sixty years ago.
"Do I..." The Angel-Vampire yawned, baring thirty-centimeter fangs. "...look as if I'm joking?"
Hector stepped back. "I just wondered if any of my friends might be in there."
"Your friends?" The Angel-Vampire snorted. "Did you 'ear that Burt? That's a good 'un eh?"
The second Angel-Vampire chuckled; a grating rumble vibrating through the air. "That's a rib tickler and no mistake, Fred. Friends. That's rich. Or rather, it's not."
Both guffawed even louder.
"Wait a second. Are you one of the talent? Talent in the back entrance, see."
"Talent?"
"The talent always goes in the back entrance, eh Fred?"
The Angel-Vampires rocked, their combined laughter hitting about four on the Richter scale.
"Gawd... if I still had tear ducts Burt..."
Hector scuttled away while they were distracted, echoes of hooting and bellowing following him for a long time. Some people sure made a lot out of nothing, he thought.
When he found the "Palace," it was rather smaller than he'd imagined. Positively modest in comparison to some of the other buildings that he'd passed but, as he knew all too well, power didn't necessarily need to flaunt itself.
Making his way down the long entrance hall, Hector's toes sank into the luxurious carpeting, reminding him that he was almost naked and again his anger burned at being placed in such a position. Dead or not, he deserved respect. By the time he reached the reception desk he was ready to draw blood. "I'm Hec-"
"Mr. Tren-Hump," the pretty assistant smiled in a studied mixture of friendliness and concern. "We've been expecting you."
"You have?" Hector sniffed. "Of course you have. Someone screwed up, didn't they? You'll find I'm not a very forgiving man."
"That's understandable, Mr. Tren-Hump. If you'll just take a number and a seat." The assistant gestured towards a wide gold-framed entranceway.
The spacious vestibule was filled with clusters of elegant padded leather chairs that reminded Hector of his favorite club, and a hint of fragrant butterscotch surrounded him as he sat. He was a little surprised to see no one else waiting; he'd expected a long line-up. He saw a glowing number at the opposite end of the room and checked his snatched ticket; he was next. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all he thought, dropping down into a comfortable seat.
***
Snap!
Hector woke with a scream and jumped away as the whip seared around his back.
"I told you your ass belongs to me. Get up and get to work. Judgment is here," the Marshal yelled.
"What happened to the Palace?" Hector winced and added, "Sir."
"Line up! Line up!"
A sad looking group gathered and Hector reluctantly joined them, wary of the Marshal's twitching whip. The DUD appeared, but he still didn't really understand it:
———————————————————————————-
Tren-Hump, Hector. TH15D3AD-1485-13A6-5661A946B3101857
&n
bsp; Cycles: 2 CPU Credit: 1% Ducks: 0.0
———————————————————————————-
"Noobies think they are the best," the Marshal roared and the line-up echoed him.
"They all think they should be dressed."
"Most arrive completely nude."
The man next to Hector wasn't singing and Hector elbowed him. "Join in."
"They don't know they just got screwed," they chorused.
"Sound off..."
After picking up several more stragglers, Hector was back at the same blank-looking desk in what might have been the same cubicle as before. He waited until the noise settled down.
"You there?" He spoke softly, hoping to just catch the attention of those closest.
"Who's 'you'?"
"Errrr... fairy godmother?"
"Neck off, you pervert."
Hector's strength faded and he flailed at the controls.
"Your project numbers are: G8208LU, S5578SH, O6117LO, O8133CF, E1305GE..."
Bile welled up in his stomach as Hector pulled up the first of the scenarios and started to work through it. It was another exercise in pointless tedium, but his stomach settled immediately. Knowing it was the only thing keeping him going he tried to stay focused, while considering his circumstances.
The day dragged like an election campaign, each project seeming to last hours. Hector could envision an infinite series reaching in to the future. He wondered if he'd just imagined Ascendance. Had he not "made it" and this was... he pushed the idea away not wanting to think about it, but he was suffering an apparently never-ending punishment.
When the controls vanished, Hector scrambled to his feet. He was out of the cubicle and hurrying down the street before the voice announcing the end of Judgment had faded. He knew where he was going and was determined to get there before he weakened.
The Palace looked the same as the day before. Hector couldn't stop himself thinking in "days," even though he knew they had no meaning here; the "Cycles" in his DUD seemed to be the closest thing. There wasn't even a Sun, just a general glow that seemed permanently stuck as if it were mid-afternoon.
"Hello again, Mr. Tren-Hump. We've been expecting you back." The assistant smiled at him.
"I'm sure you have. Now I need to get this sorted out, before I-"
"Certainly, Mr. Tren-Hump. If you'll take a number and a seat."
"This is bull," he snapped. "You don't actually help anyone do you?"
"Mr. Tren-Hump?"
"You're just here to give people the run-around."
"If you take a seat, Mr. Tren-Hump, one of our consultants will be right-"
Hector dashed into the waiting room, his heart thumping as he approached the door at the other end. Locked! His fist slammed into the carved wooden surface, but other than an ineffectual thud, it had no effect. "You haven't heard the end of this."
Hector galloped back onto the street. From nowhere a double-weighted line wrapped itself around his ankles, tangling him up and he crashed to the ground.
"Got him!"
Several figures materialized around Hector, all dressed in identical bright red and white clothing. Before he could speak he was punched on the jaw and fell on his back. Then the rest enthusiastically joined in, delivering waves of punches and kicks that made him scream as he curled into a ball for protection.
A final kick hit Hector in the face and consciousness started slipping away as if his SeePeeYoo had run out. Perhaps it had; it never seemed to last very long.
"Hey! This isn't him." The voice sounded distorted.
"Don't talk silly. He was in the target zone and running."
"No. Look here."
Hector sensed movement, but couldn't see what was happening.
"Damn! You're right. Invalid Target ID."
"What now?"
"Catch and release rules apply."
A boot prodded Hector, pressing against a rib he was sure was badly fractured.
"Sorry old chap. Bit of an identification cock-up. No hard feelings, eh?"
Hector's mumbled answer was sharp and brief.
"Yes... ahhhh... well. Never mind. Apologies and all that. Thought the target seemed awfully close to home plate."
"Possible target trace. Seven hundred and fifty meters due East."
A squeaky trumpet sounded. "Come on chaps. Tally ho!"
The figures melted away and Hector was alone again, nauseating waves of pain washing through his body. He tried to release the line around his ankles, but had no strength and his bloody fingers slipped from the knots.
His eyes closed.
***
Snap!
The whip had an almost comfortable familiarity as it curled around Hector's thigh, raising a stinging red weal. "I'm alive?" In his last few moments of consciousness after the attack, he'd convinced himself it was the end.
Crack!
"Of course you're not alive, noob. Get in line." The Marshal windmilled the whip over his head, ready to deliver another blow.
Hector scrambled to the line-up. To his surprise he didn't ache at all and when he checked no wounds were visible. Not healed—there was no scarring or redness anywhere—just gone, as if erased. This time Hector checked his DUD with greater interest:
———————————————————————————-
Tren-Hump, Hector. TH15D3AD-1485-13A6-5661A946B3101857
Cycles: 3 CPU Credit: 1% Ducks: 0.5
———————————————————————————-
For the first time, Hector didn't mind being chivvied by the Marshal and settled down into his cubicle. He'd made some Ducks. By accident, for sure. But he'd done it. Even though his Judgment project list was just as tedious as ever, somehow the rest of his day didn't seem quite as bad. He'd made progress and also had a clue of how he could make more—something much more pleasant than being hunted...
When Judgment ended, Hector bolted from his cubicle leaving the shuffling throng far behind. The PimpDaddy turned out to be easy to find. Hector found an arrow floating in mid-air pointing off the street to the Palace saying "PimpDaddy." It was ridiculous that he hadn't spotted it before, but he was starting to realize things changed around him without him being aware of it.
The PimpDaddy's lair was like a Bedouin tent genetically mixed with a '59 Eldorado. Walls were covered in rippling red silk. Doors, surrounds and other structures were edged with chrome and giant metal fins protruded from corners. As he approached, the front door opened like a gaping black mouth. "Hello?" Hector swallowed twice, "Is anyone there?"
A red neon sign flashed 'W lcom ', the darkened "e's" not helping Hector's confidence. Stepping forward, he was engulfed in darkness. As his eyes adjusted he noticed the walls were covered in pictures depicting every imaginable sex act, along with several he didn't even recognize. As he looked closer he realized each one was animated to bring out its full lewdness. He felt an acute itchiness around his groin and hastened further inside.
"Why, come in Sir. Why don't y'all come closer so I can see you?"
Hector moved towards the voice, picking out a large figure draped over a rococo chaise longue surrounded by an entourage kneeling on the floor as if in worship. "Are you the PimpDaddy?"
"Well, I ain't Santa Claus."
The crowd laughed and the PimpDaddy plucked a large apple from a tray held by what looked like a cherub. There was something disturbing in the cherub's smile; something far too suggestive.
"Let me save y'all some time." The PimpDaddy bit deep into the apple and chewed for a few minutes before spitting pips at Hector's feet. "You need Ducks and haven't got the talent to make any. So you figured you'd come and take advantage of the PimpDaddy's well-known generosity."
"I haven't-" Hector was going to say he hadn't heard anything of the sort but stopped himself. "-any ducks, no. Your generosity is more than well-known though... legendary I would say."
The PimpDaddy s
neered and took another bite of apple. "My clients have, shall we say aaah, distinctive tastes. You wouldn't be able to satisfy their demands."
"You don't know that. What would I have to do?"
The PimpDaddy laughed, joined by his entourage. "How good are you at acting? You know—a little role-play..."
Hector thought about it. He'd been cast as a tree in the "Wizard of Oz" when he was at school, but was replaced with a piece of cardboard after two days. Other than that he'd never done anything remotely along that line. "I'm sure I'll manage," he said.
"Hmmmmm? Y'all probably thinking something like this?"
Hector whimpered as his flesh seemed to ripple and twist on his bones, as if he was being stretched and reshaped from the inside out. He doubled up at the sensation, gasping and shaking, tears blurring his eyes until it was like looking through molten glass. When the sensation faded it took him several breaths until he could speak. "W...What the hell have you done to me?"
"Done for you, you mean." The PimpDaddy snapped his fingers.
Hector blinked several times. For the first time since arriving in Elyzium his crotch wasn't suffering the incessant itching from the shorts. The relief was so great he looked down and—"Wow!" The appendage that greeted Hector wasn't anything resembling his own and the fact that he could see it at all past his stomach was something of a revelation.
He looked up and saw his reflection. A veritable Hector idealized. Every muscle and sinew was pumped and sculptured. Far more Adonis-like than he'd ever approached in life and—he glanced down again—incredibly gifted. "That's more like it." Hector turned back to the PimpDaddy. "I think we can do business. This is how it should have been from the start."
The PimpDaddy held up his hand, as if talking to some unseen listener. "No, Nuns are no problem. Oh, you mean real ones? That could be more difficult in here."
"Yes, my advertising does say I can provide anything, but that's just marketing; it ain't real. What do you mean 'implied contract'? Really? Go ahead, sue me. Y'all have a nice day."
"Some people." The PimpDaddy's teeth flashed in the dim light. "So you like that?"
Dead Reckoning and Other Stories Page 2