by C. T. Phipps
And that, in a nutshell, was the world we lived in. One-time-use murder permits and renewable lethality licenses were just the tip. When the Lords of Hell became the new masters, all the old sins were no longer looked down upon, outlawed, or punished. Instead permits, taxes, and tithes replaced morality. Hell, maybe it was always that way and we just finally accepted it. You want to kill a motherfucker? Apply for a permit. Prove your worth is greater than his, pay the 20% down of his annual taxation, cover the remaining 80% over the course of a year and a day and BAM, you have your own murder permit. Don’t like long lines and complicated math? Have credits to spare? Get a lethality license. Costs more, sure, but in the long run it is cheaper and you can renew it via the Ultra Net.
“So, I have something going on later tonight. I’m meeting a new client at Dante’s. Think you could watch my back? Preferably without any demonic friendly fire in the process?”
“Depends. Are you carrying?” Maz asked, looking eager.
I pulled out a smoke, lit it off the one I already had burning, and flicked away the old butt. “How bad do you want it? Maybe after that tango we just had, you don’t deserve it.”
Maz smiled and touched his nose and jaw, also already on the mend. “Good. Causing temptation and desire. I will make something evil of you yet. But you gave as good as you got. So cough it up. Unless you want another beating?”
“Please, goat boy. That act was for the townies. We both know I would make you my bitch in a fair fight,” I said, posturing with male bravado. Yet that had been the seventh time in recent memory Maz had made a passing reference to making me into something evil. Friend or not, I guess a demon will always do what is in its nature.
“Who said it would be fair?” said Maz. His tone indicated he was dead serious. Ahh, screw it.
From my inner pocket I pulled the object of his desire and tossed it to him. He caught it midair and unwrapped the bundle furiously, his eyes full of lust and glee.
“Settle, Maz, it’s just a Hostess pie,” I said to the ravenous demon. But by that point the wrapper was already off and he had eaten the whole thing. He started licking his fingers. I shuddered. If you feel like you need a diet, and want a way to avoid food and turn your stomach, just watch a sugar-starved demon make culinary love to the greatest preservative-filled dessert mankind ever produced.
“Correction, my friend—a Hostess vanilla pudding pie,” Maz said.
He fell to the ground and purred like a content cat and then played with his nipples while writhing. I nearly threw up a little and wanted to scour my eyes with bleach after that image. Demons.
“This mean you are coming tonight?” I asked.
“Mmmm, yes. I will be there. What does this mystery client look like?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “I got the message through Jensen, so I know it is reliable. Ricky himself set up the meet on this one. But before I begin work with a new client, I like to have him vetted. Thus far, I cannot dig anything up on him. No one knows him.”
“Or, no one is talking,” said Maz.
“Exactly. So I am intrigued and cautious. And the presence of an off-duty district bishop should curtail any asshole from trying to pull anything overt.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Maz said as he got to his feet. “I will be there.” He shook my hand and gave me brotherly hug with a firm punch in the back. I turned to leave.
“Hey Salem,” he called after me.
“Yeah?”
“Where do you get those pies?”
I chuckled to myself. He knows I would never tell him. If I did, he would just raid my stash and I wouldn’t have any leverage on him. And that is a personal rule: Never tell a Gluttony demon where to get a free meal.
“It’s my job to obtain the unobtainable. To locate the unlocatable. And to transport a myriad of goods at a nominal fee.” I smirked.
Maz rolled his eyes. “Your job is to be a pain in my ass. You owe me a new coat and sword, by the way.”
“Put it on my bill. See you tonight.”
To Beat the Devil
Chapter Two
After finishing my run, I wandered for a while, moving inland away from the slums. Even late in the night people were on the street, looking. Always looking. Sex, upgrades, drugs, clarity, senseless loss. It was all out there.
I’ve always liked walking the streets when there were people about, watching people in nameless motion. Dangerous, sure. These days, demons walked among us. But it reminded me of back then. Almost two centuries ago, before He left us. Before the demons came. Before man went under the knife to augment himself. Before we all walked the streets armed like the old West. Well, openly armed, anyway.
I lit a smoke and walked on, passing clinics, shops, and an amazing amount of prostitutes. Above me, the intricate elevated magna-rails system moved people all over the supercity while the expressways of old allowed traffic to flow in deadly patterns. Street level was what street levels were always like: Shit. The home of the broken, ugly, wet, and poor.
Hell, I needed to get a move on. I had to meet the new client.
An hour or so later I made my way toward my favorite drinking spot in Razor Bay, Dante’s. The multi-storied bar and brothel provided every vice you never needed and didn’t know you wanted. It was my second home. Dante’s was situated in a rough section of street-level tenement buildings, warehouses, and abandoned parking garages from the bygone era. All this made up a backdrop of duracrete grey and broken asphalt. Dante’s itself was at one time a massive church. A congregation of sinners still sought refuge there. They just didn’t want to repent.
The hot neon sign above the double doors depicted nine concentric circles, and gleamed like electric sex, radiating sin for sale. Dante’s was one of the few places where humans and the denizens of Hell mixed openly. The day-to-day grind meant torment and pain. But nighttime at Dante’s was everyone’s drop of ice water in hell.
Dante’s was not one of those “neutral ground” places like in all the fantasy stories. Here they actually preferred you to be armed and ready to kill. It helped keep the tourists out. I checked my weapons and gear and made my way to the main door.
Jensen, the front door bouncer, sat outside in a ratty old office chair reading a book. The cyborg was blistered with various augmentations. I didn’t even know what half of them did. His neural visor was hardwired directly into his brain, recording everything he saw and heard. He was the perfect doorman. Nothing escaped his sight.
Jensen ran his hands through his haystack hair and flipped the pages of his tattered beaten book, which seemed to be held together by cellophane tape. He was dressed in his usual. Old castoff clothes from ancient days, blue jeans and a sleeveless hoodie. He didn’t look up at me as I approached, but I knew he knew I was there.
“Salem,” Jensen greeted me.
“Mr. Jensen,” I nodded to the cyborg. “What literary classic is on the menu tonight?” I asked as I cut in front of the line of people. A few griped or hissed, depending on whether or not they had human or demon tongues. Jensen just raised his muscled arm in a fist and they settled down. I was a VIP after all. When the mob seemed a bit more pliable, he answered me.
“Paradise Lost,” Jensen said, not really looking up. Not that Jensen needed to. His implants picked up the world around him. In the land of the sighted, the man with 360-degree 20/20 x-ray vision and hypersonic hearing is king.
“Pretty sure I have seen you with it before. How many times have you read that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I have deleted it many times, so each reading is new. Apparently I have kept the meaning derived from each reading so when I pick it up again, it is that much more profound. Each time a deeper revelation unto myself.” Jensen licked his fingers, turned the page deliberately, and smirked. “Aren’t I a genius?”
I offered my hand and Jensen took it. I palmed him a pack of smokes and he smiled beneath his visor. I pulled a smoke out of my pack and offered one to Jensen. He took one
and I lit them both.
“Cheers, bud,” Jensen said.
“You’re welcome.” I smiled. “Any word on my mystery client?”
“I have detected 734 bodies which came in tonight either through the main door or the three side and hidden entrances. This includes guests and staff. Of which 127 have left. That leaves 607 people inside.” Jensen deliberately turned the next page and scanned it, nodding to himself. He placed a bookmark in his tattered novel and set it down. He took a deep pull on his smoke and stared right at me.
“Have I ever told you that you are an exceptional conversationalist?” I said.
“My point, smartass, is that by simple numerical count there should be 607 inside. Yet I hear 608 distinct heartbeats, 608 separate voices. Which means someone walked right past my sight and I picked up nothing.”
“I thought you were Heimdall on the rainbow bridge. Are you losing your touch?”
“Heh,” Jensen chuckled. “Dramatic. But, yeah, I’m sure. This means someone walked past me, got inside, deactivated whatever cloak he had, and ordered a drink. Smug prick like that has got to be your man.”
“Well, Ricky did say he was a mysterious figure who was capable of many things.” My own observations also picked up 608 heartbeats. And two were exceptionally calm. One was Ricky’s. Nothing raised that man’s pulse.
“Speaking of Ricky, is he in?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, in his office as always. He told me to ask you to see him prior to your meeting. Maz is already here, perched at the bar. Your bidding I assume?”
“Well, we all don’t have panoramic vision, bud. And I need as many eyes as I can to watch my back.”
“You always have mine, bud. Until then, you should consider some implants. Latest tech doesn’t shorten lifespans nearly as much,” Jensen said.
I felt bad for the cyborg. Implants give humans heightened senses, strength, and generally whatever one needs to be superhuman. Downside? An incredibly shortened lifespan. Forced evolution, even through the most modern science, brings with it a terrible price. Jensen seemed to be a late 20s fella. And in a few years too soon, he would have to pay the check.
We shook hands again and I headed inside.
********
Dante’s is like the Star Wars cantina. Treacherous hive, scum, villainy. Damn, it is a fun place. The music was blasting a retro mash-up of Rob Zombie and Johnny Cash. You have to hear it to believe it. The multi-tiered industrial wood, brass, duracrete, and seizure lights were an affront to all things symmetrical and rational. Left-brained be damned. Succubae and Incubi servers flaunted flesh and peddled amazingly potent drinks. It was the perfect place to have anonymity among a sea of faces.
I made my way through the mass of dancing, drinking people and monsters and caught eyes with the Spinoli sisters, Theresa and Caitlin. Fraternal twin sisters of Irish and Italian descent with tempers to match. Both gorgeous, both deadly. They ran the alcohol provisions of Dante’s with an iron fist. I mean an actual iron fist. Both sisters had one of their arms replaced with top-of-the-line ARCTech biomechanical limbs. No Frankenstein, Roddenberry’s Borg, back-alley chop shop erector-set-looking implants. These gleamed like Giger originals. Superhuman strength and enough firepower to level a city block. Leave it to the Irish and Italians to take care of the booze business. They partnered with Ricky some years back and the credits have been flowing in since. No one dared skim, or fall short of a bar tab. Speaking of, mine was almost due. I sidled up to the bar and the noise canceling dampeners kicked in along the bar rail, making it possible to actually have a conversation. I love living in the frickin’ future.
“Ladies, you are a vision tonight,” I said, doing my best to not stare at the black liquid latex tops they were wearing.
“Salem.” Theresa smiled at me. “Ricky wants to see you before your meeting. Drink first?”
“Sure. Whiskey sour, please,” I said as I lit up another smoke.
Caitlin already had the drink ready. She handed it to me and stared me dead in the eyes.
“Theresa, why is your little sister looking at me like she is about to put two in the chest and one in the head?” I asked as I sipped my drink and nodded my approval.
“It could be because you are so rugged and handsome with just the right amount of stubble,” Theresa purred.
“Or it could be you are due on your enormous tab, asshole,” Caitlin said loudly. She was the one who would rip your leg off and beat you with it. Theresa was the one who would poison your drink. Great gals, really.
“All right, all right,” I said, holding my hands up in mock defense. “I was hoping for a little leniency considering all I have smuggled and procured for you two, as well as your boss. But from the look in your eye and the way Caitlin wants to both kiss and shoot me, I am guessing that is a no go?” I winked at Caitlin and she licked her lips while giving me both middle fingers. Heh. Tread lightly there, my friend, I told myself.
Theresa shook her head while pouring a drink for other customers. “Salem, we love you to death, but look at it from our end. If we were to make an example of you, one of our nearest and dearest friends, then none of these reprobates would cross us. Hell, they may pay extra.”
What was it with my “friends” using me as an example tonight? But hell, she had a point. I guess humanity left a long time ago, replaced by the cutthroat nature of mankind after He left us all those years ago.
I pulled out my Bio-Electric Accounting System Transfer (or “BEAST” for short) account drive, which then verified my DNA. The Spinolis scanned it, and I clicked “accept.” Done. Back to business as usual. I never keep that much in actual credit coins on me, and my tab was due. I finished my drink while chatting up the Spinoli sisters. When the gab fest was over, I snubbed out my cigarette and headed toward Ricky’s office. Moving away from the bar’s sound dampener, I felt a rush of noise crash back in. I pushed my way through a few rowdy hellions, a full demon or two, and countless humans and cyborgs dancing. The room was dense with sexual desire and booze lubricant to ensure disgusting inter-species perversions. To each their own. I wasn’t against inter-species sex. I was just mad because I wasn’t getting any at the moment.
Usually in a place like this, the manager’s office is at the top floor. Not Dante’s. Ricky would have you walk the several tiers to the top level to take an elevator to the basement to his office. Two huge ARCTech-enhanced bouncers stood by the elevator door and looked as unimpressed by me as I was by them. They had a few visible mods along the muscle line. Strong Jockeys.
“Move, boys. I got business with Ricky.”
“Mr. Rictus,” one of the goons corrected, “will see you when he is ready.”
“You Salem?” one of them asked me. I nodded. The goon shot a glance at his buddy and inclined his chin at me. Fuck. These two were sizing me up. Reputations preceding and all that crap. Odds were these two idiots were new to the scene and looking to make a name for themselves. Hell, I practically smelled the anesthesia and oil from their fresh implants. What they didn’t know was that Jensen was all the security this place needed.
Also that Ricky likes to put these types on door duty specifically to have the shit kicked out of them.
I guess that was one of the upsides of Dante’s. They were never short of disposable cyber goons. And it always helped my reputation when I was at the epicenter of random acts of violence. An imp flew over and perched near us, took out paper, barked odds to whoever would listen, and started taking bets on the impending fight.
“Hey guys. You already know who I am. Let’s just not do this; I am really not in the mood.”
The imp looked crestfallen.
The first bouncer puffed his chest a bit and I could hear the subdermal servos firing up on his tech-enhanced muscles. The goons loomed over me.
“There is one of you, and two of us—URK!” The bouncer croaked as I open palmed his windpipe before he could finish acting like a tough guy. He clutched his throat with both ha
nds and backed off for the moment. I kicked him in the gut, doubling him over. The other goon made a quick jab at my jaw. I swerved, caught his wrist, broke his arm with an open-palm strike to the elbow, and threw him over the level railing. It looked like a scene from an old western flick as he hit a table below, flattening it.
The tough guy I hit first reached for some kind of weapon, so I stomped on his wrist, snapping it. The bouncer screamed. I knelt down, put my finger to my lips and said “shhh.” When he stopped whimpering, I took his earpiece and spoke into the mic.
“Ricky, if it isn’t too much trouble, quit watching everything on the monitors and send the fucking elevator.”
The elevator dinged and opened. I stepped in and pressed the brass basement button. As the door closed I saw the imp collecting his winnings. I shrugged as if to say “I told ya so” to the downed bouncers. I thought about chucking them some credit coins and saying something about being sorry for the mess, but I didn’t want to be cliché. Those words rest solely with the holy Han Solo. The doors closed and took me down to Ricky’s office.
“Ricky” was a nickname of a nickname. No one I knew knew what Mr. Rictus’s real name was. When I met him many years ago, he introduced himself to me only as “Rictus.” I wondered why, and then he smiled at me. It was a smile that chilled my spine. Not a creepy smile, and not a maniacal one. Rather, one that looked through me. It was cold and it was empty, with no humanity. A smile of a predator. Especially considering what I’d seen that night.
One night drinking, Jensen, the twins, Maz, and I had a drunken conversation about his smile in this very bar. We tried to come up with the best description while throwing back tequila. I grinned to myself as I remembered that night. I’d come up with the line that won me free drinks for the remainder of the evening: “Ricky’s smile is the result of an angry reproductive butt fuck between the Joker and Willem Dafoe.”