Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  The gray buildings outside blurred, then melted like sidewalk chalk pictures left out for rain. Then the pools of colors coalesced to a different place, a room of glass and steel high above the city streets that my body traveled.

  I felt the crawling, tingling sensation on the surface of my scalp and then inside my skin, as I completed the connection to my destination. Like a digital caress, the v-cast generator on the other side tugged at my thoughts, querying, probing, needing, and almost begging for details about my desired form. My eyes closed and I envisioned my body clothed in a well-tailored black jacket and beige pants. For the sake of appearances, my disheveled blond hair became combed and parted to the left. With a thought for hygiene, my salt and pepper facial hair stubble shaved off clean for a smooth-looking face.

  The restaurant’s v-cast projector obliged my requests, relinquishing a small amount of proto-matter from its tank, just enough for a temporary corporeal body. It would not do to arrive translucent. In my experience, people ignored transparent casters without proto-matter, especially in fancy rich establishments where materiality mattered. Sure, it cost more, but I believed it was worth it.

  A heads-up-display, like a mini-screen virtual television, appeared for-my-eyes-only that tried to upsell me on a more durable temporary body for the dinner. With a flick of my eye I declined the offer after seeing the exorbitant per minute cost of the upgrade.

  My form shimmered in front of the host at Las Cubanas, a portly man with light brown skin, an oiled and curled black mustache, and a well-fitted tuxedo. His hands gripped the polished podium stand as he reviewed my identity and reservation information filling his display screen. When he saw my reservation time, his lip quivered then straightened, as if he started a sneer but just managed to control it.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Carlos, and welcome to Las Cubanas,” the host said with a veneer of pleasantry. Despite his greeting, I recognized mild irritation when it stared me straight in the face with a bit lip and curled up nose. “I see you have a 12:15 lunch reservation, Mister...Adams. It is so good of you to make the reservation on time, even virtually. We have your table ready.”

  To avoid jeopardizing my reservation, I decided against acknowledging the sarcasm that Carlos slathered over the word ‘virtually’. He would not ask me to leave, since my presence only violated suggested rules of etiquette. Besides, I was paying a small fortune for the privilege of using their v-cast device.

  “I'm meeting a friend here and I'm wondering if she's already been seated?” I asked. “Her name is Vanessa Wright.”

  Carlos looked down at the electronic display at his podium showing the names, heartbeats, and the mark-4 v-casting patrons in his restaurant. A select few higher-class restaurants provided the higher fidelity projectors that support superior hypothalamic resonator connections. So you could v-cast to Paris and decide whether escargot is a delicacy without getting on a plane. Of course, it's not yet near as appetizing or rich as eating the actual food, but the technology improved with each passing year.

  “I regret to say she has not arrived yet, Mr. Adams,” Carlos said. “I can seat you now, but if she does not arrive in twenty minutes I may need to ask you to move to the bar so we can accommodate our next reservation.”

  “I understand,” I mumbled. “I'll take a seat. She's probably just stuck in traffic.” The last part I said for myself to counter the gnawing sense of worry biting my stomach. There was not a gene in Vanessa's DNA that expressed any behavior that would cause her to be late.

  Carlos led me to the table. I suffered a few dirty looks from rich elderly patrons who did not appreciate the newest affront to the myriad rules of fine dining etiquette that v-cast technology provided. He pulled a chair out of a pristine white table by the glass wall in the far corner. I sat down and I felt the soft cushion support me. The latency between my thought and the action of my temporary body was excellent. I tested the delay by moving my finger against the cool ice-cube-filled water glass, smearing the droplets of condensation, feeling the cold in near real-time.

  I looked beyond the glass and the v-cast body transmitted a video feed back to my own rig, allowing me to see the magnificent scenery atop the sixty-fifth floor. My virtual eyes reveled at the midday sun glittering on the Hudson Bay. The sunshine reflected off of the shining air-buoys that floated in a perimeter around the restaurant's top floor. While I soaked in the panoramic view, one of the buoys flew by. Then I spotted a floating advertisement barge. The bulky ship bobbed in the air, broadcasting an invitation to the remaining wealthy socialites in New York. It was a siren's call of new fast wealth through speculative investments in asteroid mining and rapid land development on Mars' moons. The successful ad campaign lured a dozen or more of the country's millionaires to the moon weekly, sending more capital off-world and leaving Earth with an ever-increasing population of shades, v-cast ghosts, and working stiffs.

  In the place of a sail, the flying barge emitted a spherical hologram around its hull. The virtual projection recreated a scaled down, three-dimensional replica of the Lunar Spire, a massive structure that stretched from the moon's surface for miles into space. With its vivid resolution, I could see the details of the Spire's reflective exterior reinforced with near-impenetrable micro-meteor-shielded glass-steel.

  Atop the structure, reveling couples ate filet mignon and tasted fine wine. Underneath the imagery, a bold enticement flickered.

  ** YOUR GRAND NEW LIFE AWAITS! **

  ** Lunar Spire Penthouse Suites are Limited. **

  ** We accept afterdeath credit for down payments. **

  ** The next rocket to adventure leaves tonight! **

  Not far behind, another smaller flying barge vied for the coveted airspace in front of Los Cubanos' windows. The larger ship pivoted away to avoid a collision, pushing its rival away with a blast of its air thrusters. A suggestive video of scantily-dressed dancing men and women glittered on the second vessel’s glowing sail. A faked virtual explosion of flame erupted around the screen, creating a smoldering advertisement for the moon’s hottest nightclub.

  ** CLUB PURGATORY **

  ** The moon's most exclusive nightclub. **

  ** Leave your old life at the door. **

  ** Come in and sin. **

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” I asked Sasha, my interest piqued.

  “Club Purgatory is located on the first floor of the Lunar Spire,” she answered. “Gabriel Charon is listed as the owner and head manager.”

  “Yes, that’s why.” The name had popped up during my background check for the Julian Grand case. On multiple occasions, authorities had investigated the establishment for trafficking of illegal drugs like Ick. However, Charon’s legal team made all the charges disappear.

  “Its most infamous distinction is the cover charge -- aspiring patrons must pay $100,000 or agree to give up one year of their afterdeath. You might say people are dying to get in.”

  I groaned not only for Sasha's pun but also at the thought of youths sacrificing so much for the thrill of seeing the galaxy's premiere nightclub.

  Before the flying advert made me any sadder, the sky-buoys rushed to defend the restaurant's airspace. All of them flew toward the barges and ignited their thrusters in unison. The resulting harmless but high-inertia blast of energy pushed the offending vessels away from the skyscraper. The owners of Los Cubanos had little tolerance for sky-peddlers, fearful of disrupting their patrons' outrageously expensive lunch.

  “Sir?” asked Sasha. Her voice sounded distant, since my primary concentration focused on my presence in Los Cubanos. “I found Vanessa's car,” she said. Her voice quivered, indicating that she invoked her emotion resonance algorithm to express stress. “Curiously, her car is not at the restaurant. In fact, it's still back at her apartment.”

  I pulled my concentration back to my body to look at the city map. As Sasha had reported, the tracking grid on the windshield indicated the car was waiting in the parki
ng garage with a cold engine. While being late was rare for Vanessa, forgetting an appointment altogether was unprecedented. The earlier nagging sense of worry teetered over a steep edge of anxiety.

  “I’m not able to bring up the apartment’s cameras,” I said, my voice cracking. “Any luck with you?”

  “I am having trouble with a link-up as well,” she responded, modulating her voice to show heightened concern. “You will not be able to v-cast inside. We are being blocked from the source by a new firewall that I do not recognize. Something is wrong in the apartment.” I needed to get to Vanessa. The anxious feeling in my stomach burned to a panicked sensation.

  “Damn!” I yelled aloud as my hand swept across my car's control heads-up-display. A cursory check of the traffic tracker showed the ground roads still jammed, while the air lane looked busy but more promising. Three weeks ago, a lucrative collection job in the Hamptons had paid for an aerial retrofit of my classic vehicle. Aside from a quick test drive, I never had the chance to red-line its new thrusters. The virtual controls came to life, suffusing my hands with a glowing white light that coalesced into digital control gloves. All my fingers splayed out, each digit controlling an aspect of the car’s subsystems, while my thumb controlled a hack program to infect and control nearby traffic signal lights. Adorning the hood, the horse ornament spread its wings, and the ’65 Shelby Mustang transformed into a Pegasus.

  It was time to fly. After a twitch from my index finger, the car’s tires spun inward and tucked inside its chassis. Oblong propulsion thrusters, pulsing with a dim purple glow, lowered to take their place. As the car floated straight up, the guidance control system nudged me into an open track along the air lane.

  “We are clear to--” Sasha started to report before I hammered the throttle and interrupted her. We soared zero to ninety in a half-second, zigzagging between meandering flying city busses stuffed with gawking tourists. A bright yellow aero taxi, not anticipating my speed, flew in front of me, diving for a fare like a pelican scooping up a fish.

  “Sir--?” Sasha tried to offer guidance before the impact, but my darting eyes had already spotted an egress. My middle finger tapped the accelerator and the car responded with a whiplash burst of speed. At the same time, my gloved hands clenched and jerked left, causing the car to swerve hard. The success of the maneuver was short-lived as I descended into a thick line of slow-moving flying sedans, requiring a quick series of banking turns to avoid collisions.

  “Out of the frying pan into the fire?” Sasha quipped.

  I made a mental note to recalibrate Sasha's contextual humor equation variables as my right foot pressed a virtual pad to invoke the power brakes. The car slowed closer to the legal speed limit until I passed the aero taxi, and I veered the car back into the proper lane of traffic.

  Red and blue flashing sirens in the rear window indicated that the commotion had caught the attention of law enforcement. My left hand handled this by accessing a command console, creating an intrusion hack into the trafficnet. This diversion worked, and the police lights veered away to another location twelve blocks away.

  We sped along faster, slipping above and between the crowded air lanes. The rhythmic pounding of the propulsion’s engine manifold matched the jackhammer tempo of my heart's endorphin-rush-induced tachycardia.

  “I'm intercepting all driving infraction reports and demerit requests from those travelers you just inconvenienced,” Sasha reported while hacking the traffic regulation net. Her words echoed in my head until a baritone voice drowned her out. With my attention focused on the air lanes, I had forgotten that I was still v-casting at Los Cubanos.

  “Sir?” asked Carlos, the mustachioed host. A vexed impression creased on his face. I had no idea how long he had been trying to get my attention while standing there with his arms folded. “Sir, I am sorry to bother you, but I must insist that you order a meal or relinquish your viewing table for another guest. We are quite full today--”

  “I'll have to cancel. Carlos, can I wrap this up to go?”

  “Of course, sir. We will send over your unfinished bread and water right away,” the host said dryly, the last of his patience expired. “We are, of course, required to apply a cancellation charge in addition to your v-casting fees. Good day.”

  I shot him a withering look, but he trumped me with a pompous expression. As my artificial body dispersed into small motes of glittering light particles, my proto-matter eyes looked around one last time. At the other end of the restaurant, I spotted a white-dressed man sitting alone. Was that the White Djinn eating lunch or were my eyes seeing him on a billboard back in the car? Then he answered my question by waving just as my connection broke, and my full attention returned to the air lanes.

  The speedometer read one hundred and ninety-eight when the v-cast connection severed. Looming large in my view, a massive yellow construction crane swung toward my windshield. Around the crane, a team of orange-clad shades swarmed over the metal skeleton of a new skyscraper, hefting steel girders and heavy equipment. Focused on their chores, the workers ignored my vehicle while it soared over their heads. A pair of supervisors showed their displeasure by unfurling their middle fingers and hurling harsh insults at my flagrant disregard for speed laws in their construction zone.

  After a few more minutes of breaking every New York City moving violation, I arrived at the rooftop parking lot of my apartment. With my high speed, the building’s automatic docking system interceded, activating its most powerful gravity cushion brakes, creating a plume of black and green smoke while we landed. The moment the car touched down, I leapt outside and sprinted to the elevator. A faint chime sound meant that Sasha had jumped with me, downloaded to my portable wrist-com device.

  My hand punched for the elevator call button. Time ticked too long, fraying my nerves further, while large gears complied with crunching mechanical groans. As the floor numbers lit up, I drew my grav-gun from its holster to double-check that the chambers held its full six round complement of ammunition.

  “I am sure she is--she is fine, Jonah,” Sasha said as the door opened, her voice lowered and resonated with a hopeful tone. She employed the proper wavelength and frequency that expressed empathy.

  “Much appreciated, Sasha,” I responded, impressed by the continual refinements to her emotional heuristics.

  “Despite our proximity to the local host, I am still unable to connect myself back into the apartment's central computer,” Sasha said with a hint of concern. “When we get inside your study, I will be able to use the override key in your wrist-com to reestablish my control.”

  “Damnit,” I replied just above a breath's volume. Sasha's inability to merge back into the apartment's computer this close to the source indicated a complete collapse of security. That feat required a level of technical sophistication rivaling, perhaps surpassing, my own.

  When the elevator arrived at my floor and the door opened, my combat training instincts took over. Holding the gun ready, I poked my head out into the hallway enough to survey the area. The hallway was empty and quiet. With a clear path, I entered the corridor with an urgent but measured speed. My weapon following my shifting gaze, seeking moving shadows under door cracks along the hall.

  Approaching the door to the apartment, I steadied myself in a position where the biorhythm scanner would be able to confirm my identity. It would beep at my arrival, so I had to time it right. I closed my eyes to concentrate on my breathing, to control my nerves, to enter an alert mental state that warriors across the centuries have trained to achieve. With this focus, everything seemed to freeze as time slowed. I started to count.

  3...

  My finger slid across the grav-gun’s smooth handle, maximizing the magnetic pulse variable to ensure that each bullet would bypass reinforced body armor.

  2...

  I exhaled and stepped forward into the scanner's range with my eyes widened, allowing the apartment camera to confirm my retina signature.

 
; 1...

  I leaped forward just as the door beeped and unlocked itself. At the same time, my tensed legs sprung me into the air. My shoulder crashed into the wooden door, knocking it wide open, ricocheting me into the room. With a fluid motion I steadied myself and whipped my gun up to eye level.

  With an acute awareness, I soaked in all details of the room in that one chaotic moment. The apartment had been searched without any desire to hide it, ransacked by at least two intruders. Sparks emitting from a computer access panel at the far end of the wall told me that they had made a hard-breach into the network system. My readied gun bobbed like a metronome left to right, eager to deal with any threat.

  Satisfied that the room was clear, I rushed in and took cover behind an overturned table, peering over the debris to see that the kitchen was also empty. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that the secret weapons cache that was oh-so-securely hidden in the refrigerator was also opened up, confirming that these thieves were anything but amateurs and had at least one advanced crypto-hacker on their team.

  With two more rooms to check, I held my breath and moved on, rushing through the hallway into the bedroom. The inside was clear of intruders but full of wreckage. The bed had been moved and sliced open. On the floor, the charming old-style picture frame that showed Vanessa and me sunbathing in Hawaii laid broken over the remains of her grandmother’s mahogany dresser. I bent down and swept away glass fragments. Picking the picture up brought back a stream of memories. In the time captured in that image, we had taken a well-deserved celebratory vacation after a grueling six-month trial. Vanessa had worked day and night to reverse a military tribunal’s wartime decision to imprison me. During the Cyber War of 2018, the advanced Marine recon battalion had put me in charge of targeting hard North Korean targets. They had tasked my unit with airdropping mobile v-cast emitters equipped with portable proto-matter tanks behind enemy lines. The idea had been that the virtual horrors fabricated by the device could incite confusion before our troops attacked. It was a good plan, unless you were one of the innocent North Korean villagers caught in the fray. When a major conflict had flared in North Hwanghaw, we’d received the order to drop a v-bomb. Instead of hitting the enemy base, it had missed and landed in the Han River. Although I had been the controller, the miscalculation was not my fault. It turned out a subordinate working for me had chosen the wrong target. Rather than allow that person to suffer, I had chosen to take the blame. That decision had sent me back home in chains awaiting a court-martial. That’s how Vanessa discovered me. She had believed I was innocent, and her dedication saved me. After that, her love sustained me. Memories of that trial swirled in my mind until a mechanical noise disrupted my reverie.