by Liam Clay
“Enjoying the evening?” I ask mine as he conducts my mandatory junk check. His glare could electrocute a sperm whale, but then I’m through, passing under the archway into a brave new world. And good lord is it not what I expected.
To properly explain my surprise, you must first understand something about modern consumers. They are rabid, proper frothing at the mouth, for sci-fi. Big fuckoff explosions are always trending of course, and then there’s the fact that most people have given the earth up for trash, making space travel a mandatory opt out clause. But whatever the reason, I would have placed bets on Letiva’s vehicle being a zero gravity one.
Only it’s not.
Instead we’ve got rolling fields, tumbledown fences, quaint cottages and babbling brooks. There are real sheep, and windmills turning languidly in a breeze fresh off the sea. And this is no putrid chemical/salt amalgam, either. I’m talking a pristine, briny tang, like something Winston Churchill might have braced himself with of a fine autumn morning. Away to our right, a manor house sits atop a buttress of rough limestone. And tied to its weathervane is a patchwork dirigible complete with steam powered propellers.
The whole thing is a goddamn nightmare. The crowd is open mouthed with incredulity; even the Key is having trouble suppressing her shock.
“A Victorian era steampunk flick?” I mutter. “Why don’t they just throw Letiva under a bus and have done with it?”
The manor door chooses this moment to swing open of its own accord. But instead of revealing the house’s interior, we are treated to a view of an industrial elevator. It’s like something you’d find inside a military bunker – or a ship in deep space. I turn to the Ladder.
“Which do you figure: portal fantasy or time travel adventure?”
He shrugs. “What’s the difference?”
This is typical behavior for a member of his profession. To clarify, a movie tech’s responsibilities consist of:
Maintaining the linked network that allows viewers to ride in on an actor’s retcom.
Splicing out said actor’s memories and irrelevant thoughts so they don’t distract from the character being portrayed.
Fighting off the legions of hackers that will inevitably try to rip off the feed.
And that’s about it. Distinctions of an artistic nature - including tidbits like plot, pacing and even genre - mean jack shit to them.
“Never mind.” I say as the mob starts to move. “Let’s just get in the queue. This is impressive and all, but not much of a setting for a party in my opinion.”
We join what is essentially a nightclub lineup, only with sheep in place of lurking muggers. Finally it’s our turn. We all push in, the lights get snuffed, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. Paradigm must have created two separate stages for this film, which is unheard of. The elevator doors slide open and we file out.
“Mon dieu.” A portly man says beside me - a sentiment I silently echo.
We have emerged onto a suspended platform located at one end of a vast, rotating cylinder, which is alive with a golden light created by the false sun at its center. On the ‘ground’ encircling us, fantastical plant life twines around crumbling architecture, sending tendril-like branches questing inward for warmth. And looming over this landscape is a cohort of black monoliths. These structures must house granaries and water recycling plants, but they have been formed to resemble humanoids, cross legged, heads bowed. The effect is that of an ancient city, fallen into death under the failed watch of sleeping gods. It’s a generation ship.
Directly ahead of us, a labyrinth of crystal walkways extends into the sky. I tap the fat man - who appears to be dressed as a medieval baron - on the shoulder.
“I’ll bet you that the plot has Letiva portaling between an alternate England,” I point upward, “and this ship. Only each time she returns here a bunch of time has passed, and she has to save what remains of the human race from a new doomsday threat.”
“But that must be it!” He says with something akin to awe. “I do not watch many films - a side effect of working in the industry, I suppose - but Letiva is the exception! Speaking of which, do you think she is really going to put in an appearance?”
“Oh, she’ll be here.” The Key answers for me. Flashing a primal smile that I could swear is genuine, she leads us out into the terraced skies.
This is more like it. Alabaster fountains toss wine into the floral air, which quivers with a faint music like the last impression of a fading dream. Pulling away from the Key, I grab a glass and fill it with a rich, leathery red. A brief toast, and then I’m pulling them up a stairwell and onto a platform designed for our purposes. High railings, no sharp edges, overstuffed cushions scattered throughout. The translucent floor reveals the fine brushstroke of a river far below.
The baron, I see, is here too, now accompanied by identical twin boys barely out of their teens. Both are dressed like court jesters halfway through a game of strip poker.
“Are you ready, father?” One of them asks.
“Yes dear.” The baron replies, placing a possessive hand on the boy’s waist. (Some people might find these three creepy, but by industry standards they’re like a night in with a tub of ice cream and a good book.) The boy reaches into his satchel and produces a black rubber case with a thumbprint lock. He opens it with a flourish, revealing a row of gleaming hypodermic needles. The baron notes my interest.
“Care to join us?” he asks politely. “It is the least I can do for someone of your intuitive powers.”
I grin and shift my feet, subtly turning our two groups into one.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not a huge fan of needles. Such barbaric things.” I hold my dropper up to the light. “But I would be honored if you would join us for a more... modern form of entertainment?”
The jesters don’t like this, as well they shouldn't - I’m trying to move in on their client.
“You can keep your undersized dildo.” One of them tells me in dulcet tones. “Father here likes the real thing.”
The baron intervenes. “Don’t be so hasty, my son. Would it not be rude to turn down such a generous offer?” He returns his attention to me. “You have enough for my boys as well, I trust?”
“But of course.”
I enjoy watching clients take Anex for the first time. The initial hit almost knocks them off their feet, but the digital visuals have been tailored to compliment the hallucinogen component, and you can see them level off as it kicks in seconds later. Then the stimulant impacts the bloodstream and they’re off and running.
I dose the jesters first. They sway in unison, regain their balance and are soon grinning from ear to ear, anger forgotten. The baron goes next. His eyes saucer, cheeks flushing as he leans against the railing for support. He starts giggling not long after, and doesn’t stop. Fourth up is the Ladder. I approach him, but am forced to halt when the Key steps between us.
“He doesn’t want any right now.” She says sharply. I hold my hands out in a placating gesture, but one of the jesters takes advantage of my distraction by snatching the dropper off me.
“Can’t you see you’re smothering the lad?” He cries, pointing at the Key in mock outrage. “Why, our father lets us do whatever we like, and look how well we turned out!” Following his brother’s lead, the second jester seizes the Ladder by the temples, forcing his head back. The first one winks at the Key.
“Some people just need a little help letting go.”
And without further ado, he splashes a bloated droplet of Anex into the Ladder’s linked eye.
Everyone freezes, watching with morbid fascination to see what will happen. First, the tech starts to sweat. Then his eyes clamp shut, extremities shaking, muscles standing proud against rapidly paling skin. I take a step toward him, unsure of how to help but feeling I should at least be seen to try. But the Key shoves me backward.
“What did I fucking tell you?” She growls. “Here, let’s see how you like it!”
Her fingers close
around my windpipe, and a cool liquid spatters my face. She’s stolen the dropper from the jester and used it on me. I grab the woman’s neck in an effort to loosen her grip on mine, but it’s like trying to crush a bundle of rebar.
“What’s your angle here, party boy?” She whispers into my ear. “I know one way to find out...”
Jamming an iron thumb into my linked eye to keep it open, she starts to blink in quick succession. But then she’s gone, stumbling away into a nearby railing. The balcony is moving, I realize dimly. No - the entire labyrinth is shifting, rearranging itself into a single great platform. A low dais now occupies its center, a ring of security guards creating a perimeter around it. But these alterations have nothing to do with the drug; robotics and stagecraft are at work here.
Then the world’s color inverts: white turning to black, blue become red etc. I’ve barely adjusted when direction follows suit, and now everything is upside down. Oh shit, this will be the Anex, how much did she -
A (to me) golden clad figure floats up (and therefore down) from nowhere, until her bare feet make contact with the dais. Fantastically tall with flint-gray eyes, purple hair pulled back from a sharp widow’s peak. Letiva made young again.
“Welcome,” she says, “to the newly completed set of my upcoming feature!”
The crowd is enthralled, but the Ladder is positively smitten. He takes a step in her direction, but his legs aren’t cooperating and - more distressingly - he has begun to emit a high pitched mechanical whine. I think it’s a hallucination at first, but the crowd can hear it too. Everywhere I look people are clapping hands over their ears, backing away from the Ladder as he careens straight for Letiva. Her security detail closes in -
- and I’m blown off my feet. Everything goes black, shifting abruptly to blue, a deep bass roar accompanying. Now I’m falling, spinning like a top, until an impact hits me with a façade of deep, gutsy red. This holds for some time, fading gradually into pearly white unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 4
Fifteen years I’ve been dreaming this scene.
I’m treading water, naked save for a sheen of oil, clinging to a cube of crushed plastic bottles. The sun is a burning weight against my brow. The Hive and its lesser brethren are miles behind, the mainland just a rumor ahead. The Gulf surrounds me. A churning sea of debris and rotted kelp, it stretches to the horizons, a heat haze glazing its fetid surface.
I’m going to die out here. I know it, the fish and the gulls are sure of it, the tiny crabs in my hair consider it a foregone conclusion. If only Kalana would get the hint too. She’s crouched atop a net filled with 4-liter milk jugs, screaming at me to keep struggling. Or I think she is, anyway. My submerged ears hear only the ocean’s monotonous voice, imagination transforming it into the whispers of our drowned companions.
This dream is based on a memory. In real life, Kalana climbs down and pulls me bodily from the water. And together, jumping, crawling and swimming by turns, we cross the floating garbage dump that separates the Hive from Opacity. The first acolytes ever to escape the Designer’s service. But in the world my mind likes to recreate, she doesn’t bother. After screaming herself hoarse, she makes a gesture of negation and vanishes, leaving me to sink into the abyss to the taste of a lover’s disappointment.
Fifteen years is a long fucking time.
.
I wake up face down on a cold steel table with the taste of shiraz and pond scum on my tongue. My body, which is slumped in a chair, feels pummeled, and not killer gym session pummeled. Picture a crowbar and some century old phonebooks. And I’m coming down ultra hard, meaning it’s been hours since the Key dosed me.
Someone pours water over my head. No, not water - it’s too sticky warm for that, and smells like piss besides. Ah, mystery solved. I open stinging eyes to find the red haired woman from Wen shin’s sitting across from me. A squared off suit stands behind her, an empty beaker clutched in one beefy hand. The room is small, cubical, off-white, with a single door.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask before my brain has a chance to fire up. “Oh, so you’re a cop.”
“Guilty as charged.” She replies. “Welcome to precinct 221-230.” Her eyes are dancing, sparkling even, as if we’ve just shared an intimate joke. If so, it’s on me. The Opacian police force is as corrupt as an institution can be - maybe more so, even. I’m talking real assholes here. These guys sell their services to the highest bidder, paying only lip service to political parties and the law, and little effort is made to hide this fact. Strangely though, they’re so crooked that the system actually works, in a broad sense.
I like to think of law enforcement as an economic stabilizer. Consider. Any of the big studios can buy police co-operation. But if one entity grows too powerful, the others will pool their resources and have the culprit cut back down to size - Kore and Helix included. The result is a fairly level market economy, which helps keep crime humming along in modest check as well. But that’s all macro level stuff, and unlikely to help a lone drug dealer in over his head.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Red asks.
There’s a temptation to reply with something like, ‘because my dad could never work a condom?’ I fight this urge. Defiance throws a thin cloak over fear, and the last thing I want is to appear weak. Such people rarely prove useful and are quickly disposed of.
“To help you solve your case?”
“And what case would that be?”
“I have no idea.” I admit readily. “Look, I’m a born co-operator, really I am. But I must confess to being at a bit of a loss here.”
A truer statement was never uttered; I can make no sense out of what happened in the generation ship last night. Red seems to commiserate, because she reaches across the table to touch my hand. She’s traded her party gear in for a sleek combat number, and looks fantastic. But it is imperative that I resist her charms. The smell of ammonia helps with this: seduction only works if the target thinks they might actually be worth seducing. I pull my hand away. Her smile lingers like a sunset, then vanishes abruptly below the horizon, and it’s at this moment that I know I’m fucked.
“Let me tell you why you’re fucked.” She says, allaying any lingering doubts. “We’ve got you on multiple retcom feeds entering Paradigm Tower last night in the company of two suspected criminals.”
I stare down at my palms. One is smeared with golden paint.
“And what crimes are they supposed to have committed?” I ask slowly.
“The attempted murder of Letiva Peron, underscored by about a trillion credits worth of successful property damage. Oh, and the deaths of four security guards.” She adds as an afterthought.
My face splits into a grin - maybe literally, to judge by the pain. “This is a joke, right? Or am I auditioning for some new reality show?”
Red merely looks annoyed, all traces of playfulness gone. “I am recording this, yes. As evidence.” Leaning back in her chair, she cracks her neck, first right, then left. “Look, you’ve just fallen twenty meters into what amounts to a deep puddle, so I’m going easy on you. But that ship is sailing fast. Now, how well do you know the man you were with last night?”
“I don’t even know his name. I’m just a -”
“We know exactly what you are, and from how low. I’ve had your slippery ass under surveillance for a month.”
I break out in a sweat, too late to stop the cuffs from chaffing the skin off my wrists. “If that’s true, why haven’t you arrested me before this?”
She rolls her eyes. “Because if we locked up every border-jumping Underworlder trying to make a buck Topside, we wouldn’t have room for anyone else. No, my assignment was to build a blackmail database on your clientele by recording their illegal drug purchases. Leverage for future use as required.” Her gaze slides away, as if she’s not totally onboard with her organization’s methods. “But last night was different. The industry is demanding answers.”
“But if you know my business,” I say, figuring i
t out as I go, “then you will also know that I was just window dressing, a prop to help those two look the part. They’re the ones you should be talking to.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
She grimaces. “Well the man is dead, for one thing. Blown up. We’re still waiting on the autopsy, but I don’t have high hopes. There wasn’t much of him left to dissect.”
“So he was some kind of suicide bomber? I would have thought Opacians were too secular for that sort of thing, not to mention self-centered. And how did he sneak the device past security, anyway?”
“He didn’t bring a device in; he was the device. We pulled his readings off the bouncer who took your payments at the door. His retcom was like nothing my lab geeks have ever seen: 100% organic and combustible as fuck.”
“But you said attempted murder, meaning he failed. What stopped him?”
“Your drug did. Whatever was in that cocktail of yours, it caused the bomb to detonate prematurely.” I let out a crazed giggle at her use of the word premature, but she ignores me. “Letiva would almost certainly be dead if it hadn’t.” She finishes.
“So you’re saying I’m a hero?”
“If it will help you sleep at night.”
“I’ve got meds for that. And what about the woman?”
Red’s expression is global warming in reverse. “His handler, we think. She escaped.”
The implications of all this have been slow to compute, but now they hit me like a dump truck full of cement. From the moment we met, the Key was playing me. They both were, come to think of it. The Ladder didn’t even do a particularly good job of it (what kind of tech has never heard of a christening?) but I was too lazy to notice. I feel the anger rising inside me.
“How the hell could you let her escape? Too busy helping your bosses line their novelty sized pockets?”