Tropical Punch (Bubbles in Space Book 1)

by S. C. Jensen

  A nerve in my stump fired off for no reasons and my index finger twitched. “Jimi?”

  “He’s dead because of me. They’re all dying because of me.”

  “Who is dying?”

  The Pattie Whyte simulation took a step into the waves. Her black dress fell off of her shoulders revealing a skin of glittering silver beneath. “I work for the Rose.”

  “You husband thinks you work for Libra.”

  The simulation flickered. “So does Libra. I’m a scientist.”

  “What does the Rose have to do with anything? Why are the Last Humanists on board the Island Dreamer? Did you bring them here?”

  “We believe in the Absolute Purity of the Human Form. That does not stop us from enjoying the advancements of science.”

  “This simulation,” I said. “Is this you in your purest form?”

  The woman froze. Then she said, “I can only answer the questions that Patti Whyte anticipated you would ask.”

  “Okay, so tell me what a Libra scientist is doing working for an anti-tech cult.”

  “The Last Humanists fund medical research that focuses on advancing human biology without the use of technological contaminants.”

  “How noble,” I said. “I look forward to receiving a new arm.”

  “Re-growing limbs is too slow and expensive, yet, to be a viable solution to the average HoloCity citizen. We do not begrudge you the use of your enhancement.”

  I bent to pick up a piece of seaweed from the foamy surf and coiled the cold, wet leaves around my real fingers. “Noble and generous.”

  “I was there,” she said. “When you stopped Whip Tesla from selling those vials. I ran. I couldn’t afford to be caught—”

  “Whip Tesla was selling to a man.” I strained my fingers against the seaweed until the rubbery material snapped and fell from my hand. “To a guy named Punch Blanco. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”

  “Punch Blanco doesn’t exist.”

  “I saw him with my own eyes. It’s my description of him that they put on the police bulletin.”

  “You are seeing this beach with your own eyes.”

  “You’re telling me what, that Punch Blanco was a skin? HCPD has scanners built into all patrol helmets. We’d have seen right through it. Punch Blanco is as real as I am, and I got my arm blown off to prove it.”

  “It probably won’t surprise you to learn that the HCPD is not using the latest technology. In face, Chief Swain skims as much as he can off of the surveillance and PPE budget as he can get away with.”

  That information rated with my experience of the department. “Figures.”

  “Swain is the hand behind a cartel of black-market drug and tech syndicates that run the Grit District. Your accident had nothing to do with the drug bust and everything to do with Swain’s remarkable sense of self-preservation.”

  “Have you ever met Swain?” My lip curled involuntarily. “He’s not exactly Libra material.”

  “Swain isn’t clever, but he has excellent survival instincts. He understands power and influence and he knows how to play to his strengths.”

  “What’s he worried about Blanco for, then?”

  “Someone is targeting syndicate customers.” She stared at the black fin and wet her lips with the tip of her small pink tongue. “Swain’s failure to protect them is making him look weak.”

  “And letting Whip Tesla go was supposed to help that image? No. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Tesla was ours. He was supposed to make a delivery to a Last Humanist operative, a new nootropic drug my team at Libra has been working on for years. A mind expanding drug that could blow open the limits of human consciousness, without relying on virtual realities or technological stimulation of the brain. This drug will force the evolution of the human species if used correctly.”

  “The Last Humanists are about to burst out of the human chrysalis, and you hire thugs like Tesla?

  “Lower human forms have their uses.” The simulation smiled benignly. “They come with the advantage of easy to read manuals and controls. But if handled incorrectly they can be exceedingly frustrating. True logic defies the dregs, and their behaviour becomes difficult to predict.”

  I wondered if Patti had forgotten she was still a human too. Whether she’d partaken of this magical new drug or not. I said, “And where do I rate on this hierarchy of humanity?”

  The Patti sim ignored me. “Tesla planned to double cross us and sell the drug to one of Swain’s pin men. I wasn’t able to get secure communication to the Rose in time to stop the delivery so I used a skin of my own design to attempt to intercept it. I failed.”

  “And Swain relieved Tesla of the goods, claimed it was a dud batch, and passed it on to the pin and pinchers.”

  “This drug wasn’t meant for the masses. It was designed only for those of Absolute Purity.”

  “Is that why the pinches are turning up dead?” I took out a piece of gum and stared at it without putting it into my mouth. The pink waves smelled like bubble gum. “The ship is buzzing about Blanco being on the Island Dreamer, they’re practically lining up to get hammered by Tropical Punch. Convenient that ship security screened out all the passengers with internal implants. It looks to me like the perfect set up for getting a bunch of high-cush wastrels addicted to a new designer drug. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was being transported inside those necklaces everyone is wearing.”

  The simulation froze and flickered again. “Everyone? There is only one necklace that matters.”

  “Bubbles?” Hammett’s voice crackled in my ear tubes. “Someth—…out…—ere…”

  Whatever it was would have to wait. This was probably the only chance I’d get to pump the Patti sim for information.

  “Okay, so you say Jimi Ng was on your team. I don’t think so. That kid had more upgrades than a cushy VR gaming system. He had ‘better living through technology’ tattooed on his left ass cheek. He wouldn’t have anything to do with the Last Humanist racket. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “Jimi had no idea who he worked for.”

  “So why did he die?”

  The beach closed in around us like a horseshoe of pink sand, with palm trees fluttering in a breeze I could no longer feel. A single crescent moon hung above the bay now, a thin white sliver, its reflection scattered over the surface of the ocean like fingernail clippings. The black fin circled the bay as if it was waiting for something.

  “Jimi discovered an antidote to the fatal formula, only days after I had passed on the first sample batch to Tesla for delivery to the Mezzanine. But he—” The simulation flickered and I lost what she said.

  Hammett crackled in again, sounding pretty nervous for a bundle of wires and microchips. “Bubbles?”

  “Not now, Ham,” I said into my earpiece. “What’s the smoke, Patti? I want to know what happened to Jimi. Exactly what do you think I’m going to be able to do about any of this?”

  The woman stood in water with the purple hued waves lapping at her thighs just below the hem of her silver skirt. The black dress she had been wearing slipped beneath the surface like shadowy jellyfish. Her image flickered. Through her diaphanous form I saw the fin turn toward the shore and slip lazily along with the waves in our direction. She blinked out and then reappeared farther down the beach. “I need you to deliver the other formula for me.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I’m not digging myself into the drug scene any deeper than I’ve already fallen. I’ve only got one arm to pull myself out by, remember?”

  A sunset had spilled across the horizon like melting strawberry ice cream, frozen in time. The waves flickered back and forth and then stopped. The shark fin disappeared. The woman stood motionless with her arms open to the sun, her silver dress glittering in the strange pink glow. “HoloCity is diseased. I have the cure. Only the Ros
e can ensure it gets to the people who need it most. I’ve done all I can.”

  “The leader of the Last Humanists?” I asked. “Where do I find him?”

  Her fingers slipped beneath her long dark hair and unclasped the silver choker. She turned to me with the red teardrop jewel of the pendent glittering in the surreal light. I reached for it and she dropped the necklace into my metal palm. A shock of electricity jolted through my upgrade and into my nerves and the whole simulation blinked out.

  I stood in an empty white room with soundproofed walls. A sterile blankness replaced the scents of surf and sand and sunscreen gone. My head felt hollow as I turned toward the exit. I rotated my metal shoulder and wiggled my fingers.

  “Hurry, Bubbles,” Hammett’s voice appeared, crystal clear and anxious, in my ears. “Security is coming this way, and they don’t look happy.”

  I exited the holobeach, towelling imaginary sand from my suit as if I’d just been swimming. Three guards in powder-blue uniforms waited for me on the deserted Memory Lane boardwalk. “Nice gig you’ve got here. A girl could get used to the beach life. I could have sworn I had sand all up in my—”

  “Bubbles Marlowe?” A tall, blonde security guard stood there, tapping a baton against her palm. She had the body of a prizefighter and a face to match, with a mashed-up nose and quick, mean eyes.

  I dropped the towel to the ground and scooped Hammett off the shelf. It popped back into its piggy skin and shook itself like it was trying to get the fit right. I set it on the ground and put my metal hand on my hip. “That’s me. Are you the room service? I asked Whyte to get rid of the—”

  “You’re supposed to be in Game Room Twelve,” the woman said. “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last hour.”

  “I don’t remember signing any paperwork to that effect.” I checked my tattler. “Comms are functioning and pings are on. Why didn’t you—”

  “We’ve been calling,” she snapped. “You’ve got us blocked.”

  “You have a nasty habit of interrupting.”

  Hammett snorted. “Now you know how I feel.”

  “Not now, pig,” I said. “These fine security guards seem to have a problem. It’s our job to drop everything and help them, don’t you know?”

  “Whyte is waiting for you in Fortune’s Favour.” The guard narrowed her hard green eyes at me. “We’ll escort you.”

  “That rates. It really does. Class service. But I need to get back to my room to change first. I can find my way to the gaming district myself. I’m a big girl. I can read maps and everything.”

  “You’re coming with us.” The baton tap-tapped a little faster, like she was getting warmed up.

  I sighed and bent down. I picked Hammett off the ground and tucked the towel under my arm. The skin blinked off as I slipped the sphere into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I said, “Alright.”

  The towel flew through the air like the money piece in a high-end strip tease, more style than substance. But it hit the front woman in the head and wrapped around her lumpy face. The two younger guards blinked in confusion as the brains of their operation cursed me with every colourful word she could think of in at least three different languages. In one hand, her baton started to buzz and glowed with an ominous blue light. She grabbed at the towel with her other hand, swinging wildly in front of her in case I was stupid enough to walk into her batting zone.

  The guard on her right, a cute number who was still growing pimples in the place of facial hair and whose greasy red hair didn’t quite seem up to the admiral’s standards, was that stupid. He lunged for me with eyes wide in that I-don’t-know-what-to-do-but-I-have-to-do-something brand of panicked determination just as the woman swung back for a mean crack. The young buck took the baton in the throat and dropped, twitching, to the floor. His spasming leg knocked the feet out of the blonde and she went down, too, the charged stick sandwiched between their two bodies in a pile of jerking limbs. The towel was still wrapped around the blonde’s noodle, which was too bad. I’d have liked to see the look on her face.

  The last man standing was a little, pink-faced guy with a face like a bald lab rat. He looked at the pile of arms and legs and then he looked at me. He hissed, lips pulled back to reveal crooked yellow teeth. His eyes had the kind of eager look that said he enjoyed pain when it somebody else who was feeling it. I raised my eyebrows and stepped toward him with my upgrade raised. His eyes darted to his fallen comrades. No backup. He spun on his heel and hoofed it down the boardwalk like his mother was calling him home for dinner. I took off in the opposite direction, charging into a mob of beach bums on the main mall like a half-naked diva bat out of HoloHell. Even with the threat of rogue guards nipping at my heels I had to fight the urge to linger in the fog of chemical nostalgia wafting out of the air system.

  “What is happening?” Hammett squealed in my earpiece. “I’m being knocked about like a piñata in here. What have you done now?”

  “No time to explain, Ham.” My legs, arms, and lungs pumped as I slid around a sharp corner, slipping on the silica strewn border of the holobeach strip. “Find me a hole in the wall. I need an old-school scatter.”

  Hammett sent directions to my visilenses. “I don’t think I get enough respect for all the things I do for you.”

  “Save it.” I merged into a wave of people coming off the shopping district with their purchases floating along behind them on complementary mag scooters bots designed to increase the ka-ching of credit flipping by eliminating the old but-I-can’t-carry-any-more-bags excuse. “You can chew me out when I’m sure I’m not going to get whacked by a plasma wand.”

  I slowed my pace and weaved in and out of the lines of giggling showboaters in outfits that weren’t fit for anything except maybe an intergalactic-themed masquerade orgy. I swam in a sea of carefully made-up faces, intricate hairstyles in every colour of the nebula, and enough glitter to gag a backdoor bouncer at techRose. Some of the looks flickered as we passed through overhead skin scanners, but no one paid it any mind. Cameras recorded the true faces of the passengers as they burrowed through the ship like drunken dung beetles, rolling along their collection of cushy fashion excretions. Once they passed out of the skin scanner’s radius, their luscious looks were back and startflight etiquette forbade the mention of errant body hair, extraneous rolls of flesh, or the exposed genitalia of the occasional skin scan flasher.

  Tucked between a shop selling organic performance-enhancement supplements and a liquor shop was a narrow maintenance hallway. Elegant, frosted glass bottles glittered at me as we neared. The swill was priced to drain your bank account as quickly as your liver enzymes, and still I felt the pull of it. I looked away, guiltily.

  “You don’t really want it,” Hammett reminded me. “It’s a pattern of memory your brain hasn’t forgotten yet. Like the phantom limb.”

  “I know,” I said. “But it feels real.”

  “Both will fade with time.”

  Hammett led me into the corridor. I swallowed against the dry mouth and the imagined thirst, and followed. Doors packed neatly down both sides, just big enough to slide past after a good old-fashioned curry house purge. I crept past each one trying the unlock mechanisms and hoping for the best, but they were all sealed up tighter than a—

  “Stop!” Hammett squealed into my ear canal. “That one. The alarm is disabled.”

  I tried the lock again, but it was a no-go. “You’re sure?”

  “I would think I’d have earned a little trust from you by this point.”

  “If you say so.” I punched a neat hole through the door with my upgrade and pulled it sideways into the wall. No high-tech holoscreens for the maintenance closets. I slid inside, and closed the door behind me. I was inside a small, dark room that could have been anything from a control station to an emergency toilet for all I could see.

  “Now get me out of this bag. It smells
like old socks in here.”

  “You don’t have a real nose.”

  “I have contaminant sensors,” it snapped in my ears, and jostled around in the bag. “Which are real enough for me.”

  I pulled Hammett’s sphere out of my back pack and set it on what felt like a countertop or maybe a big metal box. The pig skin popped back into place and the nanoparticles glowed with a slightly bioluminescent sheen as the SmartPet scanned the room. Long, silver bodies hung on the wall, like people made from tubes and spheres, all blank faced and drooping. “What is this place?”

  “A supply closet for SmartBots.” Hammett shook its skin and stomped its feet in a little dance of frustration. “Tell me what happened. Why did Whyte’s guards attack you?”

  “Those weren’t Whyte’s guards.” I sat on a metal box and checked my upgrade for damages. “Or if they were, they weren’t there on his orders.”

  “But they said—”

  “They said what they thought they should say to get me to come along with them.”

  Hammett sat on its round, pink haunches, still glowing faintly, and cocked its head at me so that one ear flopped up and the other down. “Humans are so devious. I don’t know how your species has survived for so long.”

  “If you AI types hang around us for long enough, you’ll get devious too. It’s already hard to tell if you’re talking to a person or a well coded program.”

  “What did Mrs. Whyte have to say?”

  “She wasn’t there.” I brought up my tattler and checked for messages. “Mr. Whyte must have expected as much. He was pretty eager for me to pay her a visit.”

  I had three missed calls from Detective Tom Weiland, but no message. And a couple of unintelligible texts from Dickie, which reminded me that I had some yelling to do in his direction.

  Hammett said. “If she wasn’t there, what took you so long?”

  “She left a message for me,” I said. “I had to get as much as I could out of her ghost before anyone else got wise to it. Which I did, just barely. I don’t think there’s any going back now.”