by David Gullen
‘Folks, I appreciate the comedy of unloading a hundred thousand cubic feet of storage from a five thou truck, but is there some other point I’m missing here?’
‘We’re storing up hope,’ Josie told him. ‘Saving it for tomorrow so there will be fewer nightmares.’
The trucker squinted up at the sun and wiped his brow. ‘You guys from the west coast?’
‘We met at Hudson U,’ Josie said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Mobile.’ The trucker looked away into the past, ‘Pulled out a year after Larry blew.’
Josie and the trucker looked each other up and down. Despite their differences they liked what they saw. ‘I’m Josie.’
‘Call me Earl.’
‘Let’s do this.’
All through the day the other customers had paid them no attention, dropping off their own goods and departing. Late afternoon, with the warehouse nearly full, Earl unloaded the last pallet of flat-pack boxes and departed.
Soon after, a long wheelbase Town & Country hauling a covered trailer drove into the lot. Moving fast, it bounced over the speed ramp, swung round and reversed into an empty bay. As soon as it had stopped a bullet-headed man wearing a polo shirt and clamdiggers jumped out, unhooked one side of the trailer cover and hurried into the warehouse with a pile of boxed toys and electronics.
When he emerged he suspiciously eyed Josie and Benny taping up boxes then carried in a teetering stack of kitchenware, shoes, more toys, and household electronics, all in its original packing.
Josie and Benny made up another set of boxes.
‘What the–? Hey, what are you doing?’ the man said.
Josie and Benny ignored him.
Marytha and Novik picked up the boxes and jogged into the warehouse.
Head down, the man stamped back to his vehicle and extracted a metal baseball bat. He marched towards Josie and Benny.
Benny gave a squeak of consternation and backed away.
Josie faced him. ‘What are you going to do with that, mister? Break my bones?’
He shoved past and slammed the bat down on to one the boxes, bursting it open. ‘They’re empty, see? Empty!’
‘That’s our choice,’ Josie said.
One by one he demolished the boxes with powerful overarm swings. ‘I don’t care. I got to put my stuff in store.’ His voice grew shrill, ‘Empty boxes, I need that space–’
Benny peered round Mr Car’s fender. ‘Actually, atoms are 99.99% empty space. Statistically speaking, all boxes are empty.’
Bat in hand, the man gave Benny a long, slow look. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Josie exclaimed. ‘You broke our boxes.’
‘So what? There’s nothing in them.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I need to unload and meet the girls at the mall.’
‘You still broke them.’
He pulled bills out of his wallet and flung them at Josie. ‘Now they’re mine.’
Josei let the bills flutter away in the evening breeze.
‘Suit yourself,’ the man glowered. He grabbed two of the battered boxes and dragged them away.
Novik and Marytha came to the warehouse entrance with the site manager. They shook hands, the manager returned inside. Novik saw the broken boxes, Josie alone in the bay, Benny peering round the back of the Cadillac. Quickly, he ran over.
Arms folded, Josie watched the man re-tape the boxes, and fill them with his own items.
‘What happened?’ Novik asked.
‘He got upset.’
‘He threatened you?’
‘Only a little.’
They were dog-tired, grimy with dirt and effort, the boxes were light but they’d moved hundreds. It wasn’t just the day, it was the trip, the whole damned thing, the intensity of this self-imposed mission they’d taken on. They’d become obsessed, monomaniacs with a single goal dominating their lives. Novik never thought it would happen to him, but it had. Somewhere on the road he’d become fixated, hardwired. Blindingly, in a crystal moment, he knew it had begun scant hours out of prison, before he and Josie had held each other and made love for the first time in two years. Then, when they had, it was in both their minds when there should have been nothing but rediscovery of the joy they took in each-other’s bodies.
It had begun when he’d looked down into Mr Car’s trunk for the first time.
He could still hear the soft clunk of the lock mechanism and see the eddies in the dust at his feet, the exact inflections in Josie’s voice as she said, ‘Be careful, babe.’
The light had been silver, like it was reflected off water. Like it was now.
He was done with being pushed around. And he didn’t like it when people with baseball bats got mad at Josie.
Josie’s arms were round his waist. She hugged him tight. ‘I’m okay, it’s all right.’
‘We’re just going to talk.’ Right then even Novik didn’t know if that was true.
Her fingertip traced the scar just behind his hairline. ‘Be careful.’
Novik and Marytha marched towards the trailer. The driver saw them and edged away, a look of such tearful, unhappy belligerence on his square face it stopped Novik in his tracks. In a moment of transcendental empathy Novik saw this man for who he was. He knew his life, and his hopes and fears, and that he was not a bad person.
‘No, wait,’ the man trembled, rooted to the spot.
Novik stopped where he was, stuffed his hands in his pockets and said, ‘Listen, mister, if you wanted some boxes all you had to do was ask.’
The man gave a high-pitched, nervous giggle, ‘You’re not mad at me?’
‘You scared the woman I love.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise to me.’
He hung his head, then turned to Josie. ‘I’m truly sorry, ma’am. Normally I–’
‘Don’t do it again.’
‘I just need to make space.’ Slow, fat tears rolled down his cheeks. Then he was scrubbing at his eyes and crying, hopeless, choking sobs. ‘We’re going shopping.’
Hesitantly Novik touched his shoulder.
‘Here.’ Josie held out a tissue at arm’s length.
‘Thanks.’ The man blew noisily and looked down at the tissue.
‘Keep it.’
‘Uh, yeah. Sure.’ He stuffed the thing into his pocket, rummaged around and pulled out his phone. ‘Better let the girls know I’ll be late for the mall.’
Novik shook his head. ‘You need any more boxes?’
‘No. Thanks. Thanks a lot.’
Josie bumped Novik’s shoulder as they walked back to Mr Car. Then she did it again, harder.
‘What?’
‘Proud of you, babe.’
- 27 -
Words of the Year
Winner: Meeja
– Commercial free-form holistic senseplex implemented on spaser/plasmon hardware. It is said there will soon be only two kinds of people in the world – those who already own a console, and those who want to.
Runner up: 49er
– A prisoner in a USA Federal or State penitentiary. Just over two percent of the adult population are now incarcerated, roughly equal to one person in 49. (cf. 1 in 100 at the turn of the century.) Approximately forty percent of incarcerates are economic, political or environmental protesters arrested in the first three months of Guinevere Snarlow’s presidency.
Honourable Mention:
Cpt. McWrvable
– Any fast food operative, esp. employees of Cheese-a-Swede.
Black and Morgan watched the huge Indian walk towards them along the downtown sidewalk.
‘Morgan?’ Manalito said.
‘Black.’ Black’s face was still a mess of bruises, his nose was taped, one eye puffed and half closed.
Manalito spat into his palm and slapped the two men’s hands. ‘White men destroyed my tribe, I’ll fight them until I die. Only while we hunt together are we brothers.’
Morgan’s soft, strange ey
es widened slightly. ‘I don’t care what you been through. We’re the Old-fashioned Boys and that is poor manners.’
‘There is no disrespect in my words,’ Manalito said. ‘I know you, Morgan, you are a true warrior and I acknowledge your courage. Yet you are an enemy brave and one day I will cut out your heart.’
Morgan stood very still. Black knew when he moved, when he drew and fired, his movements would be languid, yet astonishingly fast.
Black stepped between them, wincing as his cracked ribs pulled. ‘But not now, right? Not until we’ve done what we’re here to do.’
The smile dropped from Manalito’s face. ‘Today is not a day to die.’
Black play-punched Morgan on the arm. ‘Okay. We’re all pals. Let’s go get a beer.’
‘This way,’ Manalito told them. ‘Mr Gould is buying.’
The bar was down a derelict side street, a stained, steel-faced door set in a rendered wall. All that remained of the sign above the door was the word ‘The’ top left, and the silhouette of a female leg bottom right. Battered dumpsters and heaps of weed-covered garbage blocked the road further on.
Stairs led down to a basement foyer where two Nigerian albinos stood under dim red bulbs. One of them nodded to Manalito, who held open his jacket to let them see his handgun and knives. Morgan and Black did the same.
‘Either of you sirs wearing a pacemaker?’ one of the albinos said.
Black looked at Morgan and laughed. ‘No, mon. Why you ask?’
The other albino grinned as he pressed a button on the wall. ‘Cos you aren’t now. Three COPS tried to show some muscle in here last week. Real small, real old, octos, maybe nonas. Angry as hornets.’ His grin flashed wider. ‘My button put them all down.’
Black felt insulted. ‘We’re not that old.’
‘You move pretty old.’
‘You should see the other guy.’ Black held the albino’s gaze and thought nasty thoughts until the man looked down.
Manalito was smiling again. He led the way through the door behind the albino guards.
The shabby room beyond was utilitarian and spare. The bar on the back wall was deserted, to the left stood a row of three cheap tables with red plastic chairs. Beyond them, a pool table with blue felt top.
Mitchell Gould and a young Asian woman sat at the centre table. Both wore denim jackets and black cargoes. Gould wore a white roll-neck sweater under his jacket, the woman a red cotton blouse.
Since leaving Birmingham the Old-fashioned Boys had only met Gould once. It was the way both sides liked it, the FedMesh being what it was. You could use it, sure, but it used you. The Feds were not the problem, it was everyone else that had hacked it. For a meeting place this bar was pretty good. All the signs were it hadn’t yet crawled out of the twentieth century. There probably wasn’t even copper in the walls.
A strange inertia took hold of Black as he tried to work out what Gould was doing here. This place was data secure, but it was also a good place for wetwork. But if Gould was going to whack them for the lost money he wouldn’t have brought the dame or let them keep their guns.
There was something bigger going on, so big it took Black a while to realise: Gould was Stateside. If anyone got a hint he was here, all the police, Feds, CIA, spooks and bounty-hunters in the USA would come after him. Whatever this was, it had to be huge.
Black felt Manalito’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Sit down. I’ll bring the beers.’
Morgan led the way across the bare hardboard floor, his gait smooth, like a dancer. Black, who had never heard that kind of music, followed behind.
Gould stood up. He shook their hands. ‘Gentlemen.’
‘Mr Gould.’
‘Mr Gould.’
Gould indicated the Asian woman. ‘This is Ayesha.’ He studied Black, ‘How you doing?’
Black felt confused. Gould never introduced women, they never ever had names. ‘It’s screwed my swing.’
Gould sat down, he placed his palms on the table. ‘And then there were two.’
‘Mr Gould–’ Black said.
Gould held up his hand. ‘Sit down.’
They sat.
‘Mr Morgan, tell me about it.’
Morgan spoke in a soft monotone: ‘There were two punks, one male, one female. Their names were Novik and Josie and they drove a VW, an antique piece of retro. She spiked our coffee with some hippy drug. We went into orbit.’
Gould looked at Black. ‘And that’s how it went?’
Black’s palms were sweating. At times like these there was one thing you never did and that was look at each other. Manalito stood behind him and Black wished he had stayed on his feet. If that was how it was going to play he wanted to be standing up when it happened.
Morgan knew Black had shot the car, that the bullet had gone through the trunk and bust open the drugs they were running to Vegas on the side. It had also been Black who had taken some of the dusted cash to buy lunch. It was Black’s cock-up, Jimmy had paid and Morgan was covering for them all. They were the Old-fashioned Boys and at times like these that was all that mattered.
‘Yes, Mr Gould. That’s how it went.’
‘You know their names and you want to make it right.’
The two men shifted in their seats. Now it was safe to look at each other. ‘Yes, we do.’
Gould leaned forwards. ‘Listen to me. That has not been forgotten. You will have your opportunity, but that time is not now.’
Manalito reached between Morgan and Black and placed five beer bottles on the table.
Black blew out his cheeks and rubbed his hair. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t keep his teeth together. ‘This must be fucking enormous.’
Gould picked up his beer and sat back, legs splayed. He looked at Black and took a pull. Behind him, Black heard Manalito’s boots on the floor. Across the table Ayesha sat straight, her hands under the table.
She’s holding a gun on me, Black realised. Manalito’s presence loomed behind him like a raised blade. It’s going to go down now. Me and my punk mouth.
Ayesha withdrew a large manila envelope and tossed it across the table. ‘Congratulations, Manalito. You’re going on a foreign holiday.’
Manalito extracted a passport, photographs, tickets and another, smaller envelope. He studied the photographs. ‘I’ve seen her.’
‘Then she’ll be easy to recognize,’ Ayesha said. ‘Timing’s important, so take yourself to her and call us when you’re set.’
Manalito looked at Gould.
‘Like she told you,’ Gould said. ‘You’ll travel with us for a while, until we get further north. Morgan, Black, you two are with me all the way. Take five and enjoy your beers. Transport will be here in ten.’
Gould and Ayesha walked out the room and up the stairs. Black gave the finger to Ayesha’s back.
Alone in the bar the three men held their beers.
Morgan looked across the room at the pool table. ‘Jimmy always said you were a punk.’
Black shrugged. ‘I don’t like her.’
‘I have a special knife for women,’ Manalito said.
Morgan and Black considered that, and the fact that Manalito had told them.
‘What’s this all about?’ Black said.
‘You have heard the big news,’ Manalito said. ‘The chillies got a lot hotter.’
Ice water ran down Black’s spine. ‘Gould’s tied up with the Mexican war? How in heck does that hang?’
Manalito breathed deep, he exhaled through his nose. ‘Today I woke and stood in the yard. I looked up and smelled the power in the sky. High overhead an eagle circled, when it cried I heard the sound of shackles breaking. Players are playing, destiny has been unfettered, and braves will sing the true ghost dance.’ He tipped a finger at Morgan and Black. ‘This is the start of the crazy time. Happy hunting, white boys.’
- 28 -
On one hand it’s worth remembering the first knives were made of flint before they were made of metal – bronze, iron and fina
lly steel. At base level, stone and metal blades do the same thing. On the other hand nobody has flown to the moon in a flint spaceship.
At the moment we’re holding our Meeja knives and wondering what the difference is, what the advantages are.
What we already know is that the internet is a thing, and Meeja is a place. Radio and TV were passive, the Web participative. Meeja is inclusive. You can climb in there and stay, though what is really happening is that it is climbing into you. Of course if you stayed there, if you took that trip to its logical conclusion, you would die.
But then we’re all going to die anyway. Right?
Set up right, you’d have some weeks, a few months, but it would feel like a dozen lifetimes.
That sure would be some trip. One thing is certain – some people are going to take it.
– Carrie Styvesant, Meeja for the over-25s
Wherever they went, wherever they lived, Ellen’s father had visitors. At first it had been bankers and businessmen, entrepreneurs and advertisers. When the FreeFinger scheme first took off and Palfinger’s wealth went from millions to billions, it was churchmen, politicians and lawyers. He had become useful instead of interesting.
Even in the high billions life had still been fun. Ellen had begun to put on a little weight, but she was courted, flattered and idolised, not as the beautiful heiress, but at least as a pretty one. The fashionably desirable size 24 girl-next-door.
She was jealously reviled too, and, in some places, hated, but she learned how to deal with that. It was inevitable, it was expected, and she let it go. She was young, the world was hers to enjoy, and for a while she did just that.
Then came the trillions and the Presidents were from countries rather than corporations. Her father met UN delegations, and so did she. Fewer people now, but they were the power players, the ones with a few trillion of their own. They had armies and post-post-industrial tech, or post-post-imperial dreams of regreening whole continents. They had bonhomie, and sometimes it was genuine. They were deadly serious, they were bluff and they were conspiratorial. What they all wanted was for Crane to be on their side.