by Nick Cole
Trying to forget that day was my way of rebelling.
Once I became a teenager, I chose to forget everything about that day as much as possible.
I sip scotch and my mind reels, rejecting everything rising above me now, on this night, twinkling like jewels set in impossible strands of luminescent pearls. I try to look down, over the edge of the concourse, but the city where I live is mostly dark. Only a layer of floating mist and clouds cover my city, down there.
The sights above that surround me, the sloping concourse, the rising levels, the myriad of lights that thrum and pulse behind a thousand windows beckon me with taunts and temptations of a life I’ve never known but always wanted to. Everything is up, up, and away, and if there is anything worth having, it is indeed up here. Of below, nothing remains worth remembering.
I drain the last of my plastic tumbler, rattling cubes of scotch water.
If I’d wondered where Sancerré went, now being in the greatest city in the world, I knew. Her trail led here. Looking back, thinking about her large brown eyes and bookish beauty and ambition to see the entire world, I’d known it all along. The problem was I’d blinded myself, like that rebellious teenager so long ago who tried to forget the best day ever.
Over thick slices of steaming corned beef piled atop the soft rye bread that I chew, I realize I haven’t had a decent meal in . . . ever. My meal at Seinfeld’s is turning out to be truly epic. I wash it all down with an “I drink your Milkshake. I drink it down!” milkshake full of dark chocolate and peanut butter ice cream. But the real rock star of the whole meal is a side of rich Maytag Blue Cheese–covered fries. I’ve managed to eat three pickle trays while waiting for my meal and I know, at some point, I’ll regret the whole attack on the Seinfeld’s menu. But how many times am I going to eat on the Grand Concourse gratis?
At one point, as I pick up a crispy hot french fry dripping with Maytag Blue Cheese dressing, a highbrow waiter, heretofore unseen, appears bearing a silver plate. On it is a card with a single digit number.
The number 9.
“Would ‘sir,’ ”—he says “sir” loosely—“care for anything else?” The emphasis on “else” implies that while my credit is unlimited for tonight, the love certainly isn’t.
“Yes.” In fact I would care for something else. “I’ll have the Kramer’s Mackinaw Peach Cheesecake. Two slices. Oh, and a café latte port to wash it down. Please.” My emphasis is on the “wash it down” as I reference their most expensive after-dinner drink, which consists of a fifty-year port, steamed organic Kobe milk, and what little of the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee that’s still manufactured on what’s left of above-water Jamaica.
I can be obnoxious also, when pressed.
The waiter executes a perfect about-face.
“Hey, Chauncey.”
“Sir?” Again with the loosely.
“What do I do with this?” I ask, picking up the stiff card with the number 9 printed on it.
A moment’s hesitation as Chauncey considers what he’d like to actually tell me to do with it. He doesn’t though. I’ve noticed service on the Grand Concourse is excellent. The people who work here are grateful for the jobs they have. Joblessness is an excellent reminder that colony ships are populated with those who can’t pay their taxes and will spend the next two hundred in slow freight sleepers heading for the “promise” of Alpha Centauri.
“Sir should dial the number on the phone behind you, sir.” Again, loosely with the “sir.”
“Thanks.” Then I’m alone with the card. Thick cardstock. Actual paper, not Buckycards like every wannabe mem-broker deals out like cheap Thai candy.
The meal has refreshed my brain, invigorated my constitution, and given me a new unwarranted self-confidence. A confidence that’s lately been shattered by all the beatings in Eastern Highlands, massacred by the sickness of the Black, and shot in the skull, right between the eyes I might add, by Sancerré.
I dismiss her and everything else plaguing me.
Sometimes your outlook, what you choose to let get to you, can be simply turned off. Studies have been done by people who do studies indicating that gamers have an incredible ability to turn off outside influences like bad days, debts, and wayward girlfriends and lose themselves in a task; that is, killing ogres, machine-gunning Third Reich zombies, solving puzzles. The problem is, the problems are still there, waiting for you, when the game’s done. Then they come back with a vengeance, especially after an extended game binge. When you’re tired, at your weakest, after you’ve taken a solid beating online.
But tonight, with a pile of corned beef in my belly and the sugar from the “I drink your Milkshake. I drink it down!” milkshake dancing across my cerebellum, I make the choice to turn all of it off. Maybe I’m not me anymore. Maybe I’m not some guy who has everything to lose anymore.
Maybe I’ve got nothing to lose.
I mean, yeah, it can get worse, but thinking about it constantly isn’t going to help me. Instead, I need to see where things are going. Step out on a dead of winter night. Go places. Maybe some strange doings might tap a cash river into my parched accounts. Sancerré is gone. I’ll just keep telling myself that.
I dial the number. Number 9.
It rings.
“Wu, I presume,” says the voice on the other end of the line.
“You got me.” I look around, trying to see who might be calling me from another booth. Maybe another diner seated in one of the other red leather banquettes.
“No, my friend. You have me. It is I who would like to be in your debt. I’ve enjoyed your progress thus far and I’m interested in making it a little more interesting for you, and for me.”
“And you are?”
“Ah, Mr. Wu. My name is not important. Just as your real name isn’t important. I’ve paid a great deal of money to ensure that you received my invite to tonight’s dinner. Naturally, with anyone engaging in a Black game for profit, anonymity is priceless, or at least high priced. A game rife with torture and graphic content, unashamedly illegal open source software well below the regulation standards of our fine governments, the best I could hope for was to communicate with you under the guise of your character. So, Mr. Wu, it is in all our best interests to keep everything, most things rather, nonspecific.”
“I agree.” I suck the last of my “I drink your Milkshake. I drink it down!” milkshake’s thick peanut-buttery milk shake goodness.
“So let us decide.” His voice reminds me of a lawyer or a banker, a successful one. “Right here and right now, to remain merely Mr. Wu and Myself. No names. We won’t be conversing further. This is a onetime offer with rewards that you’ll just have to imagine. In the event you accomplish a certain task for me over the course of the game, there will be one more call. From here, whenever you wish. I won’t respond. I won’t even say anything. You’ll just dial the number 9 and name your reward.”
“You mean I can always come here and dial 9 and I’ll get you?” I ask.
A pause.
“It’s better to say that only I possess the number 9. For you it’s a onetime call,” says the voice on the other end.
“Why?”
“Like I said, so that you can name your reward. Whatever it is that you want.”
That stops me in my tracks. It’s not every day someone offers you whatever you want. In fact, are there ever any days like that?
“Yes, Mr. Wu,” he says softly. “Whatever . . . you . . . want. Are we clear on that matter?”
In so many ways, yes. In one way, no. I can think of a lot that I want. I can’t think of why anyone would make that happen for any service I’d consider actually doing.
“So . . . I just come back any time, dial 9, name my wish . . . sort of a genie in a Jewish delicatessen circa 1990.”
“Effectively, yes. But first you will need to do that little favor for me on your way to the top of the tower.” I catch myself checking out the other patrons, a glitzy cross section of mem brokers and ultramodel
s. Mentioning the Black makes gamers nervous. This guy knows the plot, knows about the tower. He’s either another player looking for an alliance or, worse, a pervert looking for a little private entertainment.
“Listen, it’s just a game. I’m just a player. That’s all. I play it because there’s money in it, not because I like this sick fantasy you creeps find so fascinating . . .”
“I find the Black detestable, Mr. Wu.” He pauses. I feel him composing himself on the other end of the line. “But in my state of being, knowledge of it is necessary. I purchased your meal tonight and planted the reward with the purveyors of the game. Besting the Troll and the trapped chest at the Pool of Sorrows was no small feat. Not every player could have accomplished that with such simple finesse. Many, in fact, could not have. I am in need of a thinker, not a ‘run and gunner’ as many gamers like to think of themselves. So you are not ‘just a player.’ You may in fact be the kind of player that I need. I need a thinker to perform a task for me, in-game. If you perform this task, successfully, then come back here to the restaurant, have another complimentary meal and then dial the number 9. I will not say anything. All you have to do then is name your wish. In the event you don’t perform your task, you might not have the credit report to get back into Seinfeld’s, so you dialing 9 will be a moot point at that point.”
I sigh.
“What’s the job?”
“Kill Morgax.” There’s a pause. “In-game, of course.” Then the line goes dead and I’m left holding muffled ether. I have my orders. My two slices of Kramer’s Mackinaw Peach Cheesecake arrive.
Chapter 17
I survive the bouncers.
They don’t kill me, beat me, or kick my teeth in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a frightening experience. Human beings just shy of full gorilla strength, hypertrained in the latest hand-to-hand combat techniques with more ways to maim, wound, and kill than the programmers of online worlds can imagine, are frightening. Especially when they’re standing right in front of you. But I pass. I’m on the list. I wonder if Sancerré will be here.
I’m sick that way.
There’ve been a lot of coincidences lately, I wouldn’t be surprised.
In the main room I find a low hanging ceiling with polished oak beams, trench tables, and überboobed courtesans in stockings and lace serving the elite. It’s someone’s vision of a seventeenth-century gentlemen’s club, but with models for serving wenches who drew the line at showing too much flesh just so they could step over it. I hear passing bits of dialogue that seem straight out of one of Sancerré’s period piece entertainments: dukes and duchesses, that sort of thing, all of it delivered in Olde English and nonsensical cockney by epically hot women. I can’t even imagine where to get a drink, but I know I need one. Regardless of the pass, I’m out of my element. A drink will do me wonders, or so I delude myself.
A slender, top-heavy brunette in pale lace approaches me, smiling hungrily through full lips and perfect teeth.
“Wouldst thou care for a foot rub, sire?” she lilts in a purr, emphasis on “rub.”
I say something.
I think I ask her what her name is.
“Tatiana,” she tells me. Tatiana. Is that her real name? . . . and do I care? I command my mind to think of something witty to say, but my brain refuses and screams for chemicals like booze and nicotine to hide behind.
“Perhaps sire feels the need for something . . . other?” she suggests, coquettish emphasis on “need.”
“Scotch,” I whisper though clenched teeth.
“Of course, sire.” She snaps her fingers crisply, and with the voice of a bawd, cries, “Hastings, one scotch for the master.”
Her hands rest atop shapely hips beneath a slender waist. Long legs end in perilous heels and dainty feet. These are the things I focus on to prevent myself from looking at her immense chest, long neck, perfect teeth, beautiful face. Et cetera, et cetera.
If I am uncomfortable, it shows.
She, on the other hand, is used to being admired, on display, desired.
Hastings, a liveried butler type, appears with scotch in a cut-crystal decanter and a matching glass atop a silver platter. Hastings pours and I grab for it as the tray wavers from my clumsy assault.
And the scotch is gone.
I’d planned to sip. Deftly, smoothly. Like some spy in a SoftPlay, but I guzzle like a man found recently crawling across the desert.
I feel a little more solid. Something witty will come. I’m almost sure of it.
I look into her eyes with every intention of playing it cool. Her long lashes flutter almost imperceptibly, and I wonder how they flutter in other moments, passionate ones, and before I know it, I’m gone. But there is Hastings nearby with the decanter. Every ounce of my will is required to tear myself from the temptress and raise one finger, indicating my desire for Hastings to fill my empty glass again.
“Excellent, sire,” murmurs Hastings and turns away once his service is done.
“Come, sire, sit by the fire,” she whimpers. “I’ll sing you a song and caress your aching head.” I’m pretty sure, at that point, I die. I know I smoke and drink a little too much, and lately, a lot too much, but I must have passed out, because whatever happened next is fuzzy. Images of her astride me in the public room, rubbing my temples and skull with long delicate fingers, surface through her perfume and other charms. She sings, no . . . she whispers me a song. A song from long ago.
“Anything you want, you got it, anything at all, baby.”
After the corned beef, the scotch, the winter, nights of war and stress, the Black and . . . Sancerré . . . I’m not there anymore. I’m here. I’m fading into those fingers, that skin, her hair, and everything seems to wash down the drains of life and I’m left with nothing worth calling my own.
Everything fades.
From Sancerré’s gentle laugh to the sound of the wind against our taped-up windows in the night. It’s all gone now. We’ll never lie in each other arms and listen to the moaning of the wind in the night.
For a moment I hear JollyBoy’s laugh, far off within the ruckus of period courtesans and present revelers. His laugh seems too real and it almost jerks me out of my moment. Almost. For a moment I open my eyes. I see the spinning microcosm of the public room of the Chasseur’s Inn. I look for what I know will be a laughing JollyBoy, his head jerking spasmodically to something only he finds funny. It’s too real. But my eyes find nothing except the dark pools of Tatiana’s and they drive me back under, making me question if I’d actually ever opened my eyes. If I’d actually ever been awake. Or if all of life was just this dream.
I’m gone.
“Anything you want, you got it.”
Baby.
Maybe it’s not sex. What’s sex? Maybe it’s all a metaphor for another thing. But this elevator screaming high above the atmosphere is too plush, too warm, too quiet for the outside cold that’s frosting the glass.
Space.
Actual space.
In that dream, we leave Upper New York. Above is the SkyVault in orbit, tethered by the diamond strand of a space elevator cable, falling straight down upon us.
My muscles don’t work. From my legs to my jaws, all refuse the commands my mind issues as Tatiana stands above me, the stars behind her, though they don’t get any closer or grow larger, they just twinkle and wink. Above us, I can see the ships docking into something bright and shiny I’ve only heard about, read about, watched live feeds of. But there it is.
The SkyVault.
For a moment, a scramjet falls away, like it’s dying. Dead. Then outside our windows, it’s twisting and turning as it angles toward Tokyo, Sydney, the Bankgok Biomass. Engines ignite, and it’s burning slow and bright at first like a torch. It’s hard going to get up to cruise velocity. But for a brief moment, I take my eyes off the rocket’s flame and glance at the gossamer lace that restrains Tatiana’s body. It’s growing even more unfettered as gravity begins to lighten its covetous embrace. We decelerate
as we approach the dock at SkyVault. And when I look back at the scramjet, it’s already burning hard and furious, diving through the atmosphere for its destination. A quick run to drop off the smart products made on Mars and then pick up more SoftLife gear for the burgeoning colonies, enticements for all to come up.
And again I fade.
And when I wake, here I am.
Light and airy. Twelve miles high, riding shotgun above New York City. It’s just me, a white leather couch, Tatiana murmuring in my ear, and the opulence of the spinning suite in space, and . . . Bony Man.
I raise my hand as if to shield myself from something unclean. No, as a greeting. Again, my muscles barely work.
“There you are, my boy.” His eyes shine brightly, almost luminously, within his clean-shaven bony head. He hobbles forward, assisted by a cane, with a limp I hadn’t noticed before. He removes a toothpick from between large clenched teeth as he approaches. Hovering, he jabs me not too delicately in the arm with it.
From far away I feel a soft stab, and my mind, reacting more to the visual than the source, emits a long slow yelp that seems to escape my mouth even though I tried so desperately to keep it between clenched teeth.
“A little too much, I suspect.” He leans close, inspecting me. I’m experiencing, if that’s the right word, the not-too-clean aspects of his breath. “A little too much, Tatiana, but good work nonetheless. Maybe you should pop off, my little vixen. Too much and you’ll kill us all.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but at the mention of death, I too am aware of how impossibly slow my heart rate is and how syrupy my mind has become.
Suddenly I know I should be afraid, even though I’m not. I should be, but I can’t be.
For a year I watch Tatiana rise, every curve and fall, flanks dropping then rising as she leaves the room on long legs and high heels. There are some women who you watch walk out of your life and you feel nothing. And then there are some who make you feel like you’ve been branded with a hot iron. Tatiana was the latter, and I felt gratefully sick for the scar she’d left. Even though it hurt, still I was grateful.