Eden

by Nathan Evans

  A woman smiled out, wide, flawless. In her grip was a glass bottle, tinted green, its amber contents fizzing against the inside of the container. In full motion she tilted the glass back, her full, red lips pursed sensually at the head of the bottle. Her trachea pulsed as she worked down the liquid. After a long, satisfied pull, the bottle left her lips and the smile returned. There was a wink, followed by a logo. Large, slanted block letters, their edges coming to razor sharp points, hovered above a cunning slash: AdTech. The image reset.

  Akio watched the woman repeat her Sisyphean task for a few more revolutions before gathering the presence of mind to get out of the truck. The rain had picked up quite a bit since the start of his delivery. He reached over the driver’s seat to snag his bent, grease stained baseball cap, his only protection from the elements, and shut the door.

  He stood there for a moment, his reflection faint in the window; the Buffone’s Deli logo just visible on the stitching on his cap. Like some weird, dark curtain, his slick black hair worked its way out of the sides. He scowled.

  He made his way to the back of the truck, focusing on everything but his reflection. Men and women in business attire—sharp suits and high heels—bustled about on either side of the avenue; their steady stream of black umbrellas forming a canopy on the sidewalk. Unlatching the trunk, Akio couldn’t help but feel like all eyes were on him.

  He shook the feeling, the face of his watch catching his attention. He felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with rain—he was late.

  With a sense of urgency he hadn’t experienced all morning, he stepped onto the truck’s rear bumper, grasping for the red wagon that rested against the back of the driver’s seat. The wagon’s tiny wheels found pavement. Akio brushed the sandwiches in.

  He slammed the trunk closed and ran for the door, one of the wheels catching the edge of the curb. There was a sharp clang. Sandwiches flew from the wagon. Akio cursed, then scrambled to the pavement to recover the wayward packages. A few were squashed by leather soles, but he managed to save the rest. With freshly soaked knees, he stood, forcing his way through the crowd.

  He reached the door and had to dodge to avoid getting hit. A man and woman exited the building; too lost in conversation to notice the pissant they’d almost bowled over. A quick, hate-filled glance was all he could spare before dashing into the lobby, leaving a mud stained trail in his wake.

  The space was massive, formed around a monolithic column that ran up the length of the building. Despite his rush, Akio’s eyes followed the column; he had to crane his neck all the way back to trace its length. The many floors that formed the building wrapped around the monolith; glinting silver bannisters keeping distracted workers from taking a wrong step.

  He made a beeline for the receiving desk; a granite crescent set at the base of the monolith. An old, bored woman sat behind it, wire-thin glasses on a chain resting down the bridge of her nose. She was thinner than him, appearing as if she were held together by the rigid cream colored suit she was wearing.

  He leaned over the counter, “I, uh, have a delivery for Mr. Han.”

  The secretary sat forward, resting her elbows on the countertop, flicking her eyes up at him rather than bothering to turn her head to acknowledge him. “Uh, huh,” she said, “we’ll see. Check in with the scanner.”

  She gestured to a dark pane of reinforced glass molded into the surface of the desk. Akio obliged, placing his hand against it. Like Plug’s glove, it glowed at his touch; a golden strip of light that slowly worked over his palm. The gold shifted to green.

  “Looks like you do.” She said; half yawning. “Please keep your hand on the scanner.” Her hand disappeared beneath the desk. A button was pushed and the pane flashed red, quick and hot, the data for his visitor’s pass flash-copied onto his skin. It burned. He barely noticed; the stressed, red spider web on his palm already numb from a lifetime of transactions. “Upstairs, take the lift on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  He bowed away from the desk and did as he was told. As always, the wagon was a tough fit in the elevator, but as always, he managed it. Within moments he was stalking across an identical room several floors up, doing his best to avoid looking over the silver bannister at the drop below. He reached the office and stepped inside.

  Unlike the hall and the lobby, the marble floors had been replaced by cheap carpet. A labyrinth of cubicles were spread out before a wide curved window, culminating in a wall of opaque glass that stretched the length of the room. A set of double doors were framed in the wall; the words conference room stenciled on the glass.

  A constant stream of chatter and movement filled the space. People craned their necks over cubicle walls, others screamed at the top of their lungs, their phone buds glowing red in their ears. Some deftly navigated their way through the maze of panels, tiny, piping hot paper cups of coffee threatening to overflow. The dress of the workers in this section of the building was decidedly different from what Akio had witnessed at the bottom floor. Gone were the flawless, pressed suits and leather high heels, replaced with loose ties, rolled cuffs, and flats.

  “Oh, thank God you’re here.”

  Akio turned. A woman was rushing towards him; a datapad in the crook of her arm; her gait awkward due to the spikey red heels she wore. Her tiny frame was lost in the folds of an ugly green dress suit. Bulky shoulder pads filled out the suit, making her appear top-heavy; as if a brisk breeze could send her slight frame tumbling to the floor. Her bushy brown hair was collected into a harried ponytail, curly wisps darting in every direction.

  Within the second she’d reached him, her hand slipped through the crook of his arm, gripping his bicep. She never slowed, dragging Akio and the red wagon behind her. “They’ve been waiting for five minutes.”

  “Yeah, sorry, Yuki. I, uh, got side-”

  “No time.” She stopped before the conference room, Akio firmly in grip. “Things were pretty heated in there earlier. Hopefully, Mr. Han will be too preoccupied with that to scream at you.” She turned and adjusted his collar. “You really should wash this, Akio.”

  “I’ve been busy.” He began, he would’ve finished had she not torn his hat off and run her hands through his hair.

  “Haven’t we all.” She fussed with him for a moment more, struggling to beat his unruly mop into submission. “I think that’s as good as we’re going to get. Look, just let me make the announcement. Go in—don’t say a word—and get out. Maybe he won’t even notice you.”

  “Right,” he said, “people are pretty good at that.”

  “Hey,” she said, giving his arm a friendly squeeze, “come on.”

  She faced the double doors, her back to Akio. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door. They were met by the sound of a booming male voice.

  Yuki leaned in, filling Akio’s stomach with butterflies. She audibly cleared her throat. The booming rant continued. She hesitated, half through the door and half out, waiting for the perfect moment they both knew would never come. “Uh… Mr. Han?”

  The voice fell silent. Akio could imagine everyone in the room turning their attention to the woman that dared to interrupt Han mid-rant. “Lunch is here.” Without waiting for a response, Yuki stepped all the way in, holding the door open for Akio and his little red wagon.

  All was silent, save for the sound of squeaking wheels as Akio walked into the conference room. Head down, his eyes obscured by the bill of his baseball cap, he ventured a glance at the room. A group of suits orbited a long, thick wooden desk that stretched lengthwise against the office; at the head of it was Han. Despite his small build, he loomed large; the only one standing at the head of the table. His beige, tailored suit, served to set him apart from the sea of blacks and greys.

  As Akio neared, he could feel the man’s slate eyes drilling holes into him. Finding a corner of the desk, he began handing out sandwiches; the rustling of cellophane replacing the sound of squeaking wheels.

  “And
where’ve you been?”

  Akio lifted his head, facing Han who appeared to be on the verge of a new tantrum. With a wavering finger, he gestured to himself. He opened his mouth to speak—nothing came. His Adam’s apple clicked in his throat and he managed to force out an unintelligible garble.

  Like a gathering wave, Han’s expression threatened to crash. He knuckled the surface of the desk, “I asked you a question.”

  “I—I, uh…”

  “It was my fault, sir.” All eyes turned to Yuki. A pregnant pause filled the room. “I accidentally placed the order late. He got here as fast as he could.”

  The burst of rage the room had expected was tempered. Han bit his lip. “Fine,” he said. He turned to Akio. “Carry on.”

  Akio scrambled. Trepidation eased from the room like air escaping a balloon. Yuki turned to leave.

  “Yuki,” Han said, “don’t let it happen again.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “And you.”

  Akio stopped, a deer caught in the headlights.

  “I’ll be placing a call to Buffone. This isn’t the first time you’ve been late. Next time show some initiative.”

  “It wasn’t my—”

  Han scowled. “It never is, is it?”

  “I…” Akio fell silent. When the basket was clear, he headed for the door, facing Yuki as he exited. She shot him a remorseful glance. He nodded.

  “Now,” Han said, turning to the room, “where were we?”

  …

  “Late again!” Buffone brought a meat cleaver down on a hunk of something that couldn't be identified. He stood behind the counter of the dining room, his face red, voice carrying. Akio stood on the opposite side, embarrassed, his eyes darting around the room. It was empty save for a man in the corner, biting into a hunk of something the size of his fist. “I have warned you, and warned you again! No more!”

  “Mr. Buffone—please—it won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right, it won’t happen again!” He waved the cleaver before Akio’s face, gesturing to the register at the corner of the counter. “Scanner—now!”

  “Mr. Buffone-”

  “Now!”

  Like a petulant child, Akio let out an exasperated sigh. He moved to the scanner; a triangular protrusion built into the deli’s countertop; the reinforced pane on the customer’s side, the keypad on Buffone’s. He placed his palm on it.

  Buffone let the cleaver fall to the chopping block and moved to the scanner himself. There were no gloves to remove. With blood stained fingers he started punching something into the keypad. The familiar flash of light followed. When it was finished, the digital display on the customer side glowed: five hundred credits.

  Akio recoiled, “Five hundred? You owe me a thousand!”

  “I told you: if you're not on time, I dock pay!”

  “I earned that money.”

  “Earned?! Since when is a late delivery earning?” Buffone waved Akio away, “Get out of my store. You’re fired.”

  Akio’s indignation became a desperate plea with startling speed. “Fired? Mr. Buffone—please—I need this job.”

  Buffone jammed a finger in Akio’s face, he caught a whiff of the mystery meat and resisted the urge to gag. “No,” Buffone said. “I have people lining up around the block to work for me. Get out.”

  “But…” Buffone glared back, his chubby arms locked across his chest. Akio looked from him, to the man in the corner; his hunk of meat gripped by lax fingers, his jaw agape as his eyes darted back and forth between the two men. All the bluster left Akio and his shoulders slumped. He reached into his pocket and removed his key ring, setting it down on the countertop.

  He turned and left the room. Buffone’s eyes followed. The cheerful chime of the welcome bell mocked him as he walked out.

  …

  The sound of Akio’s fist against metal was lost amongst rain. The lazy patter of the morning had given way to an unrelenting drove that could drown out anything short of a bomb blast. He stood amongst it, outside the Haven Den, pounding on the nondescript door; the thin sheet of metal keeping him from his desperately needed fix.

  “Plug—Plug, open up.” There was no answer. He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting, but he knew that there was no reason for it. Despite the rain, the door was warm. It hummed with the steady buzz of the massive working computer housed inside. He pushed his ear against the metal and was greeted by muted, human tones of ecstasy. The Den was up and running.

  Plug was ignoring him.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. The dealer was notorious for refusing service to his clientele. Some of the other tweakers chalked it up as a sales tactic. Plug was simply trying to drum up demand. Trying to make you want it so bad that you’d pay any price for it. Standing there, amongst the grime and filth of the alley, they spoke of him with reverence—admiration for the mind games he played; confusing their love of The Den for a love of him.

  Akio knew better.

  Plug was a shrewd man. He knew the value of the service he peddled. If he left you out in the cold—denied you the only thing that made your life worth living—then it meant you weren’t worth his time.

  Akio would do anything to prove he was worth it—pay any price. He needed The Den. He needed Plug.

  He beat against the door, his fists rubbing raw, his voice wearing down to a hoarse rasp. “Plug—God damn it—I know you’re in there. Open up!” He swung back for one final strike. Just as his fist was about to connect, it was met with open air. He lost his balance, wavering before executing an awkward recovery.

  Plug stood in the doorframe, the steam billowing from the Haven system’s cooling vents, contrasting with the cold and the rain. He towered over Akio with livid, condescending eyes. The friendly edge from the night before was non-existent, his voice was deep and deadly: “Get lost, Aki.”

  Akio was taken aback by the command. He stared up at Plug, his mouth slack, “I, uh, I’m…”

  Plug shook his head. He turned on Akio, dragging the door closed behind him.

  With the welcoming light of The Den narrowing before him, Akio panicked. Acting without thought, he thrust himself forward, jamming his foot inside. In a mad thrash, his arms followed, his left hand peeling back his leather sleeve. He shoved his palm out at Plug. “Wait, I have creds. Please.”

  The door didn’t budge either way. Plug cocked an eyebrow. “How much?”

  Akio faltered. The crippling unease that came with unemployment and debt seeped through for the first time. For a brief moment, the sheer ecstasy of The Den was weighed against its cost. He thought of Irving and Buffone. He thought of his meager bank account.

  He thought of the Girl in the Garden.

  “Two hundred fifty.” He blurted. “It’s all I have.”

  Plug smirked. “Come on in.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Something was wrong. He knew it before his eyes shot open.

  He’d expected the dream.

  He’d awoken to something else.

  He stood alone. Rather than waking to the bronzed, naked body he’d grown accustomed to, he was fully clothed, wearing the same stained pair of jeans and leather jacket that covered his form in the real world. He looked to his palm, the red stress lines spider webbed against it, contrasting with his sallow skin.

  There was a deafening crack as lightning split the sky. The clouds roiled, unfurling angrily over the garden. It began to rain.

  “No, not here—please.”

  His artificial heart thumped in his chest.

  All around him, slabs of concrete and steel jutted from the earth, scarring the surface. He shuffled in place, his mind racing to catch up to what was happening. His steps were hollow, the metallic clunk of sheet metal reverberating in his ears. The door to the Haven den was inset amongst the grass beneath his feet.

  Another sound of thunder drove him to his knees. His hands frantically searched across the face of the door, looking for a handle. A sliding, rectangular peep
hole greeted him instead. He became still, his hands peeling away as if the door were diseased. “That-that’s not right,” he whispered. “It’s the wrong door.”

  Something knocked.

  The door rattled, the hinges shaking as if something were trying to burst out from the other side. In that moment, he knew there was nothing more important than making sure it didn’t.

  He fell to his shoulder, pressing against the edge of the door as he reached for the hinge on the other side. The knocking continued, booming louder than the lightning or the patter of rain. His teeth clenched as the hinge crumbled; the copper transforming into gravel seeping through his fingers. “Stop,” his voice was hollow and weak. The door warped from another blow. “Stop.” There was nothing—as if someone had put his voice on mute. Another deafening strike. “STOP!”

  The door fell silent. An impossible sense of relief, instant and palpable, washed over him. His body fell limp, his face pressed against the warm metal.

  The peep hole slid open. Blood red irises, pupils darker than pitch, peered out.

  Thunder drowned out his screams.

  He thrust himself off and away from the door, scrambling backwards on all fours. He fell back onto the grass, his hands covering his ears as he curled into the fetal position. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and held them closed. His jaw ached from grinding teeth. He concentrated as hard as he could; a desperate attempt to exert his will, to manipulate the system back to where he wanted it. He thought of blue skies, he thought of reeds blowing in the wind…

  He thought of the Girl.

  Where is she? Concern won out over caution. He sat up to find that nothing had changed. His gaze darted in every direction, searching.

  There was a blinding flash. Something exploded in the distance; bits of wood splintering towards the sky. He screamed her name. It was nothing more than a whisper.

  She responded anyway.