Bring Me the Head of the Buddha

by Bloom, A. D.

  -21-

  The lights in the Hall of Darkness did not turn on or off; they were alive. Shelby explained to Casper that the light came from two flourishing colonies of engineered bioluminescent bacteria that grew in a lumpy coating across the entire ceiling. She said that she fed them with mist from a spray bottle filled with corn syrup and water, and the waste product each synthetic symbiont produced was almost entirely consumed by the other. They produced as much light per square yard as the cheap-ass LEDs on a string of Giftmas tree lights. “How come everybody doesn't have these?” Casper asked. Shelby laughed, shook her head, and explained.

  “They were going to revolutionize interior lighting, but we couldn't get them to produce a color other than pale blue-green, so the project was shelved by the biotech firm that had funded the research. They sold what research they had, and then they fired the research team who'd created them, myself included.” Shelby bowed, took a bong hit, and then through the smoke she confessed, “I stole them along with a stapler I liked and a box of ballpoint pens.”

  Shelby was in the Dark. She was one of Carlos's gang, and Casper thought she was pretty hot. He also thought the Hall of Darkness was doper than dope and he was amazed that Otis had never said shit about it.

  Carlos's gang had the whole building except for the first floor. That was occupied by a counterfeit perfume warehouse that seeped sickly sweet fumes into the stairwell so strongly that the stairwell's rooftop door had to be left open for fresh air.

  The Hall was on the third floor and it was a giant skiff. Rather than build a separately constructed, double-walled enclosure out of electromagnetically opaque materials, Carlos and the Dark had covered the brick walls and wide-planked wood floors in multiple layers of high-density metals and construction adhesive. Parts were copper mesh, and parts were solid steel, but every square inch of the walls and the floor and the ceiling was covered in at least five layers of EM shielding. It was impossible to connect to the Network from there. The Dark had plenty of secrets, and most of them were electronic. That meant they were snoopable by electronic means. Since the Network existed more to snoop on the public than to serve them, the fact that you couldn't connect to the Network from the Hall of Darkness suited the Dark just fine.

  Carlos and the Dark sold privacy.

  For a price, the Dark could turn a whole district into the kind of data-void that drove Oskar Delvaux and G.S.A. Security Services to drink. In a surveillance-happy society like the one the Global Secular Alliance had built, selling privacy was profitable, but you needed to be able to keep a secret. The Hall of Darkness was where secrets were kept from prying eyes and all the tools they used to snoop. It was also a temple of tech. Carlos's gang practically worshiped technology, new tech, legacy tech, 17th century tech if it was cool enough. The Hall was filled with tech, and most of it was from the last fifty years because that was the stuff that usually worked best to provide electronic cover and counter-surveillance to clients.

  Much of the room was filled with worktables, spare parts, and components that had been salvaged, stolen, or made from scratch. There were plenty of monitors and twice as many computers, and they were all fed off racks of batteries being charged by a combination of roof-mounted solar cells, a biodiesel generator, and a piezo-electric coating on the exterior of the building that fed off the din of Baccha Bay City's traffic. The Dark were an electronic island, and they didn't draw power from utility companies. Power lines were an avenue for electronic incursion.

  It was a fortress. It was a temple. It was a funhouse. The Hall of Darkness was the domain of Carlos and the Dark, and tonight they had guests.

  Casper had never been there before, but he felt like he'd come home. He held a bong in his hands, and the people around him were laughing and joking. He felt like he'd known them forever. Casper, Otis, Shelby, Singh, and Cheese were Chongin' like Cheech and Cheechin' it like Chong. The threat of a bullet from Catherine's pink plastic pistol was no longer haunting him, and Otis wasn't even pissed that Casper had screwed up the Z-class deal. Casper had managed to hold onto the network-jammer and that, Otis told him, was a Good Thing.

  Deep down, Casper suspected that what Alvin had suggested about the jammer was true; it was also a tracker. He didn't want to think about that so he had another bong hit of Baccha Bay City's finest green and forgot about it. He was having a harder time forgetting about Alvin. He was such a sad little fuck, Casper thought, and he's probably even sadder right now.

  Bonnie sat twenty-five feet away in an ergonomic recliner, wearing zip-ties on her wrists and ankles, with a pillow-case over her head. Hi-5 and Catherine were next to her, and they were similarly restrained. Otis had drawn crude cartoon faces on the pillow cases with a marker-pen that were far more disrespectful that the restraints. Casper couldn't see Bonnie's face, but she was awake now, and even in his near-euphoric state of relief, Casper could feel Bonnie's anger at being drugged by a blowdart and restrained. She'd be even more pissed when she saw what Otis had drawn on the pillowcase over her head, and the restraints were probably a good idea.

  Catherine and Hi-5 were also awake, and together with Bonnie their three cartoon-faced pillow case heads looked around in such a blind, futile, and comically self-mocking, unaware manner, that it generated shits and giggles for everyone. Casper knew it was wrong to laugh, but he couldn't stop himself. That was what he giggled about the most.

  Otis repeatedly pretended a serious, judgmental demeanor, and he scolded Casper saying, “You're evil, dude. That's not funny, man,” before once again giggling uncontrollably himself. That joke worked over and over. Feeling bad about finding something funny didn't stop you from laughing.

  Maybe it was the inappropriate faces Otis had drawn or maybe it was just that Casper had felt pushed around all day but despite his genuine empathy and concern for Bonnie, he kept giggling when he looked in their direction.

  “Keep laughing you little fucks 'cause when I get out of this chair I'm gonna tear heads off and break asses.” Wujay rose from the couch, crossed the room, and stood behind the three recliners where Bonnie, Catherine, and Hi-5 sat. He produced a tiny, plastic, four-barrel, muzzle-loaded derringer dart pistol from the inside pocket of his black mod fashion suit.

  “Easy, cowgirl,” Shelby said, walking casually to the chair where Bonnie sat. She removed the pillow case, and Bonnie glared at her. “Well, if you keep looking at me like that,” Shelby said, “it's hardly incentive to cut you loose.”

  Shelby was China-Latina and shaped like a sexy eggplant. She wore tight tee-shirts to show off her small breasts. Her hip-hugging jeans complimented her disproportionately wide and round, but somehow indisputably perfect ass. If you had to be drugged, and woke up bound with zip-ties, Shelby's was a good face to see first.

  Bonnie looked around the room, and when she looked at Casper, he felt far worse about laughing than he had before. Shelby stared at Bonnie for a good ten seconds then she reached into a back pocket. She withdrew a butterfly knife that she flipped open with great flourish while it was still behind her. First she cut the zip-tie that loosely held Bonnie's ankles, and then straddled the chair to lean over and cut the tie that restrained Bonnie's hands. “Why the fuck,” Bonnie asked, “did you tie me up?”

  “People have all kinds of reactions when they wake up,” Shelby shrugged, “You never know, 'ya know?”

  “You still gonna tear off heads?” Woojay asked. Bonnie was still pissed, but for some reason she was mostly just pissed at Casper now.

  She said, “I'm only gonna tear off Casper's head,” adding, “and I've decided to leave the ass-breaking to the Queen of PornoPop.” As Bonnie said this, Shelby removed the crude cartoon-faced pillow case to unveil a smiling Hi-5.

  “Bitch, can I get one more of those darts for later?” Hi-5 asked. “Actually, can I have two? I think they'd mix up just swell with a stimulant I have in my car.” The smile disappeared as she demanded, “And just where the fuck is my car and my driver?”

  “It's ac
ross the street and down the block, and the driver is sitting in it waiting. We have no idea how she knew where to go,” Shelby confessed, “Seems like someone told her where you were but it wasn't us.” Shelby cut Hi-5 loose and then stared at Catherine. She glanced at Woojay, sighed, and moved to stand over Catherine. “Lady,” Shelby warned, “you twitch wrong, and you're gonna get a double dose of the house special, dig it?”

  “Cut me loose,” Catherine said, in a wearied monotone. Unsatisfied, Shelby repeated her question.

  “Do you...DIG...IT?”

  “Yes, yes,” Catherine said, “I'll be a good girl for god's sake.” Shelby cut Catherine's zip-tie bindings first and then she removed the pillow case from her head. Catherine looked murderous, but the first thing she said after looking around wasn't a threat. She asked, “Do any of you juvenile delinquent, drug addicts have a drink for an old lady?”

  “No, they don't, but I do,” Carlos said as he entered the room carrying a flat, canteen-shaped, half-full bottle of a Serbian plum brandy that hadn't been made since the factory was bombed near the end of the last century. That was almost fifty years before the first time Catherine had ever been bombed, herself. “A gesture of goodwill,” Carlos said, handing her the bottle and a glass. “It ain't single malt but it's one hell of a rare buzz.”

  Saying thank you seemed inappropriate, so Catherine just took the bottle and the glass he offered. After pouring herself two solid fingers, she raised her glass in Carlos's direction, drank, then said with a sour face, “I can see why they blew up the factory, but I do feel like committing some war-crimes now.” Carlos smiled.

  “That's good,” he said, “because there are some immediate openings in the ass-kicking department, but there are some things we should get out on the table first.” Otis sensed that was his cue to bring Casper up to speed.

  “There are a few things you don't know about your new friends, Casper,” Otis said, nodding in the direction of the recliners where Bonnie, Catherine, and Hi-5 sat. After Casper rolled his eyes, he said, “Like what... like they're kidnappers who like to fuck with a guy when he's trying to steal a nice car?”

  “Yeah, well, that and... this one,” Otis said, gesturing to Catherine, “is White Sunday.”

  Woojay added, “Yeah, dude, she's even got a codename – La Cazadora.” Woojay relished the syllables, “Ca-Za-Do-Ra.” He ran his hand through his Mohawk haircut and commented to Shelby, “Fuck me if that ain't one classy codename, huh? I wish I had one that cool.” Catherine didn't appreciate being trivialized and objectified by juvenile crackers, hackers, and delinquents. She was glad when Shelby delivered a comeback for her.

  “You do have a codename,” Shelby reminded Woojay, “It's El Mohawkadorkos, but you're in denial and never reply when I use it.”

  Casper wasn't all that surprised to find out about Catherine. “I was pretty sure she wasn't just a school teacher or some shit,” he said.

  “Okay, hot dog,” Otis continued, “then hold on to your socks 'cause this bit o' info is a little juicier. Your girlfriend here with the sweeeet bit of zero-g fabrication,” Otis gestured to his left eye with an index finger planted on his cheekbone, while nodding in Bonnie's direction. “She's no Angry Angel recruit. She's a bona fide G.S.A. Security Services Operator.”

  “What?!” Catherine exclaimed, “Oh, fucking hell!”

  “Or at least she was until today.” Otis shrugged. “More about that in a bit.”

  “Okay, I had no clue about that,” Casper couldn't help feeling a little betrayed. He stared at her while he asked, “What else?”

  “Not enough? Okay, the highly celebrated Ms. 5 seems to work for G.S.A. one day and the Goddies the next.” Hi-5 shrugged.

  “So Hi-5 is Spy-5, baby!” she said. “Did you really expect any less from the queen of the on-stage, and on-screen, lyric and nut bustin' sex-dream?”

  “No offense was intended, your Hi-ness; we're all very impressed with your work,” Otis said respectfully.

  “And may Hi-5 quickly ask,

  So her Hi-ness can take 'em to task?

  Just which of those bitches,

  Were the ones to turn snitches,

  On the queen of wet-dreams,

  With riches-packed britches?”

  Hi-5 delivered her rhyme with a friction-free diction that gave cause for Otis to pause.

  “Wow, I need a bong hit after that one. Casper would you mind loading one for the queen of wet-dreams first?”

  “Yeah, man, loadin' and lockin' for the queen of glock rockin'!” Casper quoted from Hi-5's first album again, while he cleaned the bowl and loaded a freshie worthy of PornoPop royalty.

  As he walked across the room and handed off to Hi-5, Casper heard Otis confess, “And Casper, I should have mentioned this when you thanked us, like fifty thousand times for rescuing your ass from the woods, but... um... we weren't actually there to rescue you. We were there to snag the Buddha. Our new client lost track of him, but he knew you and that Buddha guy were seen running around together, and we were lucky enough to actually know where you were. Somehow our client knew about that and hired us.”

  “There was a tracker in the network jammer you gave me in that stupid, tactical, euro man-purse bag, right?” Casper asked.

  Otis said, “Yup, you're sharp today, man.” The butter didn't keep Casper from feeling disappointed. Alvin had been right. That wasn't so bad, but Casper thought Otis should have told him about the tracker.

  Otis could tell Casper felt betrayed, so he laughed to lighten the mood, and said, “We didn't know what the fuck you were doing in the woods, man. I mean, we knew your name was coming up on all sorts of chatter on the Baccha Bay City police channels but we thought maybe you were laying low, getting some nature time, you know?” Casper nodded but he still looked dejected. “Don't worry, man, I mean, we were the only ones who could track you.” Casper nodded again. “We,” Otis said, briefly turning his head to look at Woojay, Singh, and Cheese, “were supposed to snag the little Buddha guy, but we didn't get there in time to meet up with you before you met up with those gun-totin' Goddies. When the shooting started, we did our best to take 'em out, but they still got away with the Buddha.”

  “Alvin.” Casper said, staring at his feet. “His name is Alvin.”

  “Yeah, well.” Carlos took over from Otis and said, “We gotta get Alvin Buddha back from the Morituri who stole him, and the client is paying big bucks for us to do it. There's enough to spread around, and I'm betting you three,” he nodded to Bonnie, Catherine, and Hi-5 and said, “I'm betting you three want in on the action.”

  “Now why,” Bonnie wanted to know, “ if I'm an G.S.A. Operator, would I want to do a merc job for a client I don't even know?”

  “And why,” Catherine inquired, “Why would La Cazadora want to help you?”

  Woojay smiled, looked at Shelby, and gushed, “Damn, that codename sounds hot when she says it.” Catherine ignored him and Shelby rolled her eyes.

  Carlos pleaded, “Please, one at a time ladies.” He turned his head to Otis and said, “Check it out man, they're already busting out with the teamwork... ganging up on me.” Carlos turned to Bonnie. “Bonnie Levi-Mei. Up until today you were a G.S.A. Operator, but from what I see here, it looks like sometime after lunch you had a radical change of career path.” Carlos held up a paper-thin data-pad. On it was Bonnie's picture from her operator file set underneath the words 'High Priority Target'. Underneath her picture, that was undoubtedly appearing on Operator's mobile devices all over the city, it read, 'Blacklist – Shoot On Sight'. “I'd give you five minutes walking the streets before some Operator put a bullet or a poison dart in your back.”

  “That can't possibly be real. That's a fabrication. I don't believe it.” It was a death warrant. The Blacklist was never part of RED BARON protocols. Shit, Bonnie thought, I hate this job.

  “Well, believe it or not,” Carlos continued in a playful tone, “There's a whole bunch of your former Operator friends and a lot of autonomous
drones out there who do believe it. Shoot On Sight. Shit, they don't even want to bother interrogating you. No 401k secret agent retirement fund for you, huh?”

  Bonnie had no difficulty pretending to look confused.

  Carlos turned to Catherine next. “And La Cazadora, the huntress. I imagine you might be feeling a bit short on friends these days. I'll bet you didn't imagine 'ol Padre Pedro would try to bless you with buckshot.”

  “That was confusion,” Catherine retorted, “It will be sorted out.”

  “Bullshit it will... Lady, if White Sunday published a shitlist on the Network your name would be on it. Oh, wait... they do, and here it is.” Carlos tapped the data-pad, and the image changed to a picture of Catherine. He held it up for her and remarked, “That's a bad picture, but the part I'd be even more pissed about is how they list all known aspects of your last alias, like where you live, where you work, and what your habits are. Didn't you wonder how I knew you would want a drink?”

  “Why didn't you get me scotch?” she asked. “If you know so much.” Carlos laughed and continued.

  “Yes, what White Sunday did to you was very nasty, indeed. It's almost like they don't want you around anymore. You're on the G.S.A. Security Services shitlist, too...” Carlos tapped the data-pad, and the image changed to a standard Most Wanted Fugitive poster with Catherine's face. “Much better picture,” he said, holding it up for display. Carlos paused to let Bonnie and Catherine digest their positions for a moment before he said, “Both of you need to take a vacation. Without any organizational support, that takes money. It takes Big Money, and that is just what our client is offering. He's in the mood to pay Bigger than Big Bucks for the little Buddha. You need this job. That's why I'm betting you'll take it.” The words hung in the air, and nobody felt comfortable. Hi-5 broke the silence.

  “Do me! Do me next!” the Queen of PornoPop said. “Tell me why I'll take the job!”

  “Hi-5 will take the job,” Carlos said, “partly for the money, but only because it's a token of respect. The real reason she'll do it is for the kicks and more than anything else, because Hi-5 loves to stick it to the man.”