Enter the Clockworld

by Jared Mandani

  Ben gritted his teeth.

  “Sometimes I just hate you,” he admitted. “You do understand my father will also become a DC one day, maybe soon? And it’s a problem for him, all the things you’re talking about.”

  “I just don’t want you to lose your head because of some bimbo you met on the Web, boss,” Diego said, as careless as usual. “Look at you. The collector man will soon come to pick up the bikes, and you look like this extinct Pan-Asian bear, a… a…”

  He spun a finger next to his eye, trying to remember.

  “A panda,” Ben finished for him. He knew his eyes looked darkened and baggy. He’d spent the entire morning looking into the mirror, reading the news absently and trying to figure out a way to fix the problem. Ben had even tried to rub in some tonic cream. It didn’t help.

  “Yes, panda,” Diego said. “Plenty of them on the Web, huh? And yet, they’re gone! Real pandas are no more. And these AI-controlled things that roam around Divine Kingdom chewing their virtual Pan-Asian bamboo, well, they don’t even need this bamboo. They don’t need to eat, they don’t need to sleep; it’s just imitation so people won’t miss them too much. Yes?”

  “It’s going to be my real father,” Ben replied quietly. “Well, not him, but it’s going to be his identical digital twin. Even if not completely identical, so what? Ninety-nine-point-something percent is enough for me.”

  “I wonder what your old man would say if he knew,” Diego told him. “Your real old man. What would he say if he found out you were kissing a dead girl last night? That you miss her and want the next night to come right away, like in some vampire story — that you’d rather be outta the world of living and back to her digital ghost again? Or that you’re still not ready with the Harley, and noon is like, already here? You think he would approve?”

  Ben sighed, detailing the chopper in silence for a while, listening to the mad sounds pouring out of the little radio. Then he spoke up, his voice cold and remote. “On the mirror news this morning,” he said. “Some bad news for you.”

  “Huh?” Diego asked, still nose-deep in his semi-gutted Triumph.

  “I might need to fire you,” Ben said.

  “What for?” Diego asked, not sounding too worried. “I mean, you don’t even pay me, not anymore. I mean, it’s not that I’m complaining or anything.”

  “Menial labor,” Ben said. “They want to make it illegal to have human employees who do physical work. All over the place. Robots only. I will either have to replace you with a bot or do the job myself. But I won’t be able to hire other people anymore; they call it unjustified exploitation of human beings. Immoral and such, in this day and age.”

  Diego cursed quietly under his breath, yet said nothing. He just went on with his tinkering, putting more and more steel details in place. Ben moved on with the Harley’s reassembly as well, using a permanent UV marker to leave small hints for the client, namely to point out every part of the chopper where gasoline was involved and mark the course of its circulation. He genuinely hoped the buyer wouldn’t just replace the combustion-driven motor of the vehicle with a jury-rigged microfusion unit and be done with it. Diego was right: Ben’s father, the old Harry the Chopper King, would hate the entire affair from the start and would never sell these two models if he knew the intent; not the Triumph, and especially not the Harley.

  It’s not that these two babies were completely old-school, Ben thought. Many chrome parts were metal-polymer alloy, not prone to corrosion and virtually indestructible. The springs and brakes were also new, not factory; custom handiwork and alloy composition, 3D-printed on demand a couple decades after the last motorcycle in history left an assembly line. The lubricant was modern, not machine oil but in fact based on the stuff robot joints were made of these days, which was initially gelatinous and translucent and had to be mixed with black ink, and then aromatized so it looked and smelled like machine oil. The front lamp of the Harley was a holographic projector made to look like a proper bulb with lots of tuning and special FX. All the bikes and choppers Ben and his father still had in their collection were die-hards, each one of them a true Lazarus of the engineering world, a miracle of mechanical paleontology — an ancient husk preserved and revived despite the increased humidity, storage space problems, and the overall carelessness of the brave new world.

  The problem wasn’t in modern components, Ben thought, putting the fuel tank back on the Harley — an oblong streamlined thing in the shape of a weird black coffin with a purple neon spider web paint job to match it. His father was more or less fine with replacing old stuff with new stuff if it was the best way to bring an old rusty chopper back to life. The problem in this case was fuel, the combustion power replaced by electricity. This, he knew, his dad would never tolerate.

  The old Harry simply hated everything propelled by electricity, not to mention microfusion. According to him, the moment the first electric car entered mass production, motor vehicles were doomed, cars and choppers alike, and with them the entirety of humanity. Ben’s father despised everything not propelled by some kind of combustion. He would probably be fine if his Harleys and Hondas and Triumphs ran on cough syrup, as far as it was liquid and you could pour it into the tank. But not electricity. Not ever.

  “Well,” Ben said, slapping the tank in place. “Bring out the can. If we’re selling, we’re selling them right.”

  Diego raised his head and looked at Ben with a genuinely concerned expression. “Are you sure?”

  “This Reaper fellow, he must at least see what he’s buying and how it works before he or anyone else goes on and destroys it,” Ben said. “We must demonstrate the combustion, let him smell the stuff, feel it burn. Who knows, maybe he’ll change his mind and keep the original engines.”

  Diego disappeared out back, and soon Ben heard the old hinges squealing as the door of their storeroom was thrown open. Then he reappeared, a rusty green jerry can on his shoulder with something liquid and heavy sloshing inside. Diego brought the can all the way to Ben and put it down on the sheet of oilcloth next to the Harley.

  “How much of it do we need?” he asked.

  “No more than half a jug,” Ben said. “We won’t actually ride them around, you know. Just spin them up a bit, demonstrate the torque, let him feel the vibration, smell the exhaust, that kind of thing.”

  Diego nodded and went to retrieve their pseudoplastic dispenser jug, then filled it nearly to a half with water. He put it on the floor next to the jerry can along with a big measurement syringe. Ben unscrewed the lid, let it hang down on its steel chain, and carefully picked up the syringe.

  It wasn’t the old gasoline of course, not the kind Ben’s father would use when he was young, but this stuff was close enough. The viscous translucent jelly he filled the plastic syringe with was a new generation, a concentrate conceived somewhere around the 2050s. Just pour a spoonful of it into a jug of water, you’ve got yourself a jug of gasoline. Neat. It even smelled like the real deal.

  When an ancient doorbell tinkled above the entrance and Mr. Reaper appeared on the doorstep, Ben and Diego were already done — they’d just rolled up the sheet of oilcloth. Both choppers were back on their pedestals, detailed and fueled, prepared for the demonstration.

  “Incredible!” The man in hovershoes clucked his tongue, giving the Harley a quick examination. He went on: “I have to give you credit, people; when I first saw these beauties, they already looked like the real thing, but now…”

  “Let me! Let me!” Diego squeezed past him, turned the key, and revved the Harley. The chopper sputtered then roared, spitting out a plume of bluish exhaust. It sounded magnificent and even scary — a roar of a prehistoric beast never heard anymore suddenly resurrected in its entire deafening volume. Mr. Reaper pressed the hands to his ears and shook his head in amazement.

  “Incredible,” he muttered again, then turned on his heels and clapped his hands twice. He called: “Hey, hardworking people! Time for some menial labor!
”

  Two bulky individuals entered the workshop next, both of them wearing somewhat old-fashioned jeans, army boots, and brown leather jackets. The two menial laborers picked a chopper each, rolled them off their podiums, and took them out, the pair of glass doors parting and closing behind their leather-clad backs.

  “Do we have a deal?” Mr. Reaper asked, holding out his well-groomed hand. Ben already knew the offer after mentally checking his business email. The money was real good. Almost enough for his dad’s procedure, if old Harry could be coerced into digitizing his soul these days. All Ben had to do now was give his client a handshake and confirm the transaction via his DNA signature.

  That was exactly what he did, even though Ben’s heart was heavy. He couldn’t help but think this man was strange. Diego also looked doubtful, and Ben could see why. This Reaper fellow, he didn’t even try the ignition on the Triumph! — this was written all over Diego’s face.

  Still, Ben did shake the offered hand, and was instantly notified about the transaction. Their business was concluded, and Ben was nearly swept off his feet by a wave of immense relief. He hadn’t had a sale in years now. Two choppers sold at once? Not ever, not on Ben’s watch.

  “Now,” Mr. Reaper said. “Since I’m here, I’d also like to talk about the rest of your collection.”

  It wasn’t much, in fact. Three more choppers, one of them a Honda, one of them an Indian, and one a Kawasaki. They wouldn’t cost more than the man had already paid.

  “And, since I intend to purchase every item you have, you will have no use for the shop anymore…”

  “No.” Ben shook his head. “No, no, no, no.”

  “I knew it.” Diego snorted. “He wanted to acquire us all along. No deal, Mr. Reaper. We’re not selling.”

  “I would like to talk to the owner in private, please.” Mr. Reaper replied, shooting Diego a glance. “Could we discuss this back in your office?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Ben said. “He’s right. We’re not selling.”

  “Not even a couple more choppers?” The man raised his eyebrows.

  Ben looked at Diego. The last biker on Earth shook his head.

  “No,” Ben said. “I’m sorry. Maybe it was a bad idea from the start. The thing is, I needed the money, you see.”

  “I see.”

  “Now I have it, and you’ve got the two best models we had. You’re free to convert them to electricity and everything else.” Ben frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “Can’t say I’m too happy about it, but a deal is a deal. There will be no more deals, okay?”

  “Think of the money though,” Mr. Reaper insisted. “I’m ready to pay double for the remaining items in your collection. Heck, I’ll pay double for these two as well. And the shop — just name your price. Give me the amount of zeroes.”

  “Not interested. Sorry.”

  Mr. Reaper said nothing — the man merely pursed his lips and nodded solemnly, then went for the exit. As the doors parted before him, he stopped and dropped a remark:

  “Perhaps your girlfriend could change your mind? With money like that, you could easily afford to buy her a mansion. You could buy her a castle in Clockworld, even. Just think of it!”

  Then he stepped out, and the sliding doors closed behind him.

  “Phew,” Diego said. “Deal or no deal, that fellow gave me the creeps. I’m glad he’s gone.”

  “Wait,” Ben muttered, still looking at the exit. “Something’s wrong. Daphne is gone, and he… he cannot know this, how did he know this?”

  “Man,” Diego said. “He simply tried to manipulate — ”

  Ben didn’t listen. “I’ll go after Reaper. I cannot leave it like that.”

  He rushed outside the workshop just in time to catch the last sight of Mr. Reaper, who was headed for the broken overpass. The morning drizzle had been replaced by a real downpour; purple bolts of lightning slashed through the billowing dark clouds above.

  “Wait!” Ben called after the departing figure, but there was thunder and the man didn’t hear him, or maybe he didn’t want to hear. Of his aides and the choppers, there also wasn’t a trace.

  “WAIT!” Ben shouted again and started running, cursing the slippery broken asphalt.

  Mr. Reaper seemed to hear him this time, for he slowed down to a halt and looked up. Ben was already near, just another second and he’d reach out and pat the man on the shoulder… but then, with a sound resembling a whip crack, Mr. Reaper darted straight up in a huge leap.

  Hovershoes, Ben thought, watching the man soar up through the rain. Some kind of a leaping mechanism. Must be real expensive.

  The mysterious man landed on top of the crumbling piece of an old motorway. He disappeared from sight, and then a hovercar took off from the overpass, its signals blinking and its turbojets roaring. Ben stood and watched, his jaw hanging slack in amazement. He had seen hovercars before, but not as modern as this one, not the flying kind.

  Our Mr. Reaper is totally hi-tech, Ben thought absently, watching the long neon-rimmed vehicle — a stretch limo, no less! — glide away under the torrents of rain, pushing itself off the ground with computer-directed discharges of compressed air.

  He knows about Daphne, Ben thought next. Something big is going on.

  This thought was crazy and absurd. Nothing ever happened in the Wakeworld, especially nothing big, nothing this strange. Then again, Ben had seen and heard a whole lot of weird things recently, starting from the night of Baron Plunkett’s disappearance, ending with Daphne and the diner.

  Ben quickly remembered how their dream date was interrupted with no warning, while they were kissing under a streetlight somewhere in Little Italy. The last thing he’d seen was the impossibly big Moon overhead, and then he woke up in the middle of the night after popping out of the Web like a supersonic looptrain carriage. It didn’t make sense then, so first Ben had decided that the kiss must have really gotten to him; his strong feelings towards Daphne causing him to wake up and disconnect.

  What if it wasn’t his feelings, though? What if someone was watching them, and had kicked him out of the Web on purpose? Someone like Mr. Reaper, who seemed to know far too much?

  Daphne, he thought next. What did she see when I was gone? Did I die in her arms, or did I simply disappear?

  Next thing he knew, he needed to find her right away and make sure she was all right. Ben needed Dreamweb access, and he knew his home sleeping nook wouldn’t switch itself on until tonight — it was a legal device with a lock preventing Web addiction, something known to lead to escapism, self-neglect, and insanity. All legal devices were offline during the daytime; it was the law.

  Which meant he had to find an illegal access point, fast.

  Holding his collar up, Ben jogged towards the broken overpass, towards the colony of hobos underneath. Their bunch examined him with curiosity, huddled in silence around their glowing weatherpods. Ben approached an unshaven man with a pair of VR glasses on his head.

  “I need Web access,” he said.

  The VR hobo eyeballed him for a while, then smiled, exposing his yellow teeth.

  “’Kay,” he said. “But it will cost you.”

  “It’s fine. How much?”

  “A hundred?”

  Suppressing a tinge of disgust, Ben put out his hand.

  After they were done with the transaction, the bearded VR fellow led Ben deeper into the maze of pseudoplastic and tarpaulin. There, in the darkest corner of the little shanty town, they came across a white rectangular box roughly a grown man’s size. The hobo pulled up its lid and stepped aside with an inviting gesture.

  “Get in,” he said.

  Ben swung his leg over the box’s edge.

  “Wait.” He stopped. “Is this a refrigerator or something?”

  “Used to be.”

  Ben sighed and got inside. Metal hinges creaking, the lid was lowered, and he found himself amidst claustrophobic blackness ree
king of wet cardboard and robot joint oil.

  Something banged outside, then rattled, and the metal box shook as if being kicked. Ben heard some device humming, its sound so low he felt it throbbing somewhere inside his chest.

  The next moment, a murky sonolight switched on above Ben’s head, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

  Chapter 3: The Heat

  The water was muddy and yellowish this time, and had a chlorine bite to it, so I squeezed my eyes shut the moment I opened them and plunged upward, toward the Moon which I couldn’t see.

  There was no Moon. Just a round ceiling lamp nested among broken dirty tiles. I was sitting upright in a bathtub filled with lukewarm water, in some shabby studio apartment which, I hoped, was located around the Dreamweb NYC of the nineties, preferably not far from Third Avenue and Little Italy.

  I got out of the tub and went outside. The only room of the apartment wasn’t as grimy and decrepit as the bathroom and was in fact pretty spacious, though it had only a full-height mirror in the corner and a king-sized mattress on the floor, with my clothes spread on it in a perfect geometric fashion. No weapons this time.

  Having dressed, I left the apartment without bothering to close the door. I ran downstairs to a busy night street with cars roaring past and some sort of a long train clattering above, making the ground shake. Before monorail, were they called stereo-rail?

  The gleaming skyscrapers of Manhattan were far ahead in the distance, and I could even see the bridge I had to take from here — except it was meant for road vehicles and I didn’t own anything in this world, not even the apartment I just woke up in.

  I did have money in my account now, maybe quite a lot of it, so the first thing I tried was to stop a taxi cab. The problem was, every world which is a part of the Dreamweb is built in a way to try to teach you stuff, and NYC of the 1990s was the place educating people on the culture of this very place and time — and I had no idea how these people used to call a cab. I had no phone on me. No matter how I waved or shouted at passing yellow taxis, not a single one of them even slowed down. There must have been some special shout-out, or a posture, or a gesture, and I had no clue what it was.