Rinzler: A Noir Sci-Fi Thriller

by Raya Jones

  April promptly came over to tidy up the vacated place. The blonde android puffed up the cushions, reset the headgear and placed it neatly, ready for the next customer, chatting, ‘Have you enjoyed your game, Angerford?’

  ‘You don’t have to run the hospitality routine on me, April.’

  ‘I’m being friendly. You look as if you need cheering up. You seem lonely.’

  ‘Or that routine. Don’t run it on me.’ He felt lonely and needed cheering up ever since leaving Mars. To April he said, ‘Don’t treat me like a client. Switch to your root-mind.’

  ‘Then we talk business,’ cheerily announced the andronet, and made its unit sit down opposite Angerford.

  Further down, someone got off a mat yelling, ‘The zone’s gone link-dead on me!’ Another April instantly materialised to deal with the situation. Calmly, but speaking loudly enough for other customers to hear, it told the player, ‘Your playmate’s put Vidar’s Scream on you. I’ll be so happy to give you private tuition for a small fee. I want you to win.’

  Angerford stroked the interface ring on his finger to log directly into the andronet. Dispatch schematics projected onto the palm of his hand like a tangled ball of multi-coloured yarn in constant motion.

  The April opposite him smiled. ‘I can afford a spare unit to sit with you, Angerford. You should trust me to run my business efficiently.’

  ‘I know you do. It’s my job to monitor you. From what I’m seeing, you are doing great. I’m proud of you, April.’

  ‘You are? Are you really proud of me?’ April inquired, and Angerford imagined a childlike plea for approval in the melodious artificial voice.

  He looked into the android’s empty eyes and said truthfully, ‘Yes, April, I am.’

  He was truly proud of his corporation for creating this subtle imitation of a human being.

  Now he closed his fist. The dispatch schematics vanished. ‘Go do your work. I’ll sit here a while doing mine.’

  April stood up. ‘Can I get you anything? More water, peanuts, another game? Shame that your playmate has left.’

  ‘He wasn’t.’ Even as he spoke Angerford realised that the stranger who had sat next to him could have been Mitzi. ‘Was he hooked to the same game?’

  ‘Is this a test?’ April beamed. ‘If I tell you it will be a breach of client confidentiality. That’s so clever of you, Angerford. I’m glad you are my new Chief Analyst. Your talent was wasted on February Mars. You’ll find working for me so much more rewarding,’ the technological marvel told him in a subtle imitation of sincerity.

  Angerford thought about the reason he’d been sent to Proxima. And if the trouble becomes unshootable, why should I want to contact a stranger? He shuddered to think who or what the man on the shuttle might be. Angerford knew enough to suspect that secret ninja really did serve Wye Stan Pan, the president of Cyboratics. Wye Stan personally instructed him to investigate the April Proxima situation. He gave Angerford a direct hotline link to contact him with any result of significance. Perhaps the man on the shuttle was a CSG agent building a case against Cyboratics.

  Angerford returned to the tiny apartment allocated to him. He didn’t call it home.

  The place had only basic utilities and furniture that was mostly stowed away into walls. He wanted to monitor the andronet constantly. The display of synchronic projections of its processes took over three walls. He barely had room to pull down the narrow bed out of the fourth wall. He couldn’t use the dining unit without disrupting the display of analyses in progress, which he liked to watch whilst eating. So he ate takeaway meals sitting on the bed. Cy Housing & Welfare promised him a larger place as soon as one became available, although people were puzzled that he didn’t work at the lab like everyone else.

  Standing amidst the shimmering filaments of data, layers upon layers like curtains of interlaced neural synapses converging into myriad ganglions, Angerford operated his ring so as to bring one sparking bundle to the foreground. Finding what he was looking for, he pinched out the record of his recent conversation with April, and dropped it into a programme for analysing speech patterns.

  There was nothing amiss in April talking as if it employed its own analyst. An illusion of autonomy has been built into it. He couldn’t put his finger on what troubled him about that conversation. Perhaps it was his unease about P-7 in general. Since arrival, he hardly left his room. The underground world felt too claustrophobic, the multi-corporate cosmopolitan ambience was too chaotic, and he found people’s anonymity unsettling. You sit next to a stranger in a game parlour and don’t exchange a word — and all the while the two of you might be having the most intimate sex in cyberspace.

  Wondering whether the stranger next to him in Middle Earth was Mitzi after all, Angerford accessed the April jobs directory and plucked out the record of the andronet’s transaction with that man. The stranger, who turned out to be from Nanotronics, didn’t play the same game. Who pays a Middle Earth entrance fee to log into a free demo? Angerford thought, feeling like April’s fool.

  The andronet had planted in his mind the idea that the stranger was his playmate.

  He sat on the bed for a long time, watching the cyber-mind swirl in its orderly patterns.

  Nothing was out of place anymore.

  Two days earlier he had discovered an unaccountable file that grew like a massive tumour in April’s client records. He couldn’t open it. He bought a custom-made utility that might help to identify the file format, and was about to apply it when Rinzler contacted him.

  Returning to it now, that file has vanished without a trace.

  Chapter 13

  In his darkened bedroom, Jeremiah Cordova disengaged from his latest diversion with Ambrose. He sat up in his king-size bed, an extravagantly carved rococo-style piece. It was his night-time and he had already retired to bed when Ambrose’s message reached him. Now he cussed. His playmate seemed so eager when inviting him — or rather Mitzi — to log back into their ‘moment’. And yet a few minutes later he exited abruptly without reciprocating Mitzi’s overtures. ‘I feel so used, bloody men,’ Jeremiah silently complained in Mitzi’s voice. Clearly, ‘Ambrose’ of Cyboratics wanted to use the game domain as a gateway for somewhere else, but couldn’t log in solo because they had logged out as a couple the first time around. Why did Ambrose declare his corporate affiliation? Was it meant as a message to Jeremiah that they are watching him?

  Restless, he got off the bed. Candles in fanciful candelabras automatically flickered on and shadows danced around him. ‘Bloody Cyboratics,’ he said out loud, his voice echoing emptily in the rococo salon that was taking shape all around.

  The large hall felt endless with its high ceiling, doors and French windows adorned with embroidered pelmets and curtains of deep red velvet, tall ivory-white panels with their gilded mouldings of curving forms, superfluous furniture, romantic paintings, abundant ornamentation, and many mirrors.

  He strode across his room. The virtual hall readjusted itself, changing aspects to give the illusion of a vast interior space. The mirrors captured his nude reflection and subtly changed it, so that he caught glimpses of himself as slimmer, better groomed, and moving more gracefully than he really was. He drew pleasure from his idealised reflection even now, despite his paranoid ruminations about Cyboratics.

  Suddenly, his heart missing a beat, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

  He swivelled on his heels.

  There was nobody behind him. A pair of androids in period wigs and costumes who stood immobile in their alcove, their eyes wide-open like the staring eyes of the dead. But the eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone intensified.

  Jeremiah gingerly walked on, the floor cold at the soles of his bare feet, and squinted sideways at the mirror.

  And then he saw it.

  His reflection wasn’t alone.

  Again, he turned sharply.

  There was nobody behind him.

  In the mirror, Mitzi — wearing a vermillion gown over lavish
ly embroidered skirts — stood behind him. She smiled coquettishly and gave him a small wave.

  Jeremiah shot out of there in blind panic.

  His panic subsided when he stepped into his office. Behind him the door closed and blended seamlessly into the wall. His private and public life were separate in every sense that mattered. The rooms were physically adjacent, but had separate teleport codes that located them as if in two distant zones of P-7. Unlike his private place, the office’s interior design was entirely physical. Right now, the absence of a virtual façade made him feel safer. Whoever had hacked his personal site, copied his own avatar and pasted ‘her’ into his Life/Style domain, couldn’t reach him here, he thought. He hoped.

  Incoming messages flickered on his glass desktop. There was a message from Rinzler with the subject heading Indigo and a message from Acid Burns with the subject heading Rinzler. His direct line to Jan was bleeping for attention. Jeremiah recalled that he didn’t reply yet to her request for audience. Then he noticed a message from an unidentified external source: ‘Did you like me in your mirror?’

  His finger touched to open it before he could stop himself.

  A six-inch tall Mitzi popped into ethereal existence above the glass top.

  Jeremiah sank to his seat.

  ‘Hi, Jerry, there’s a present from your uncle. Make sure you receive it,’ Mitzi said and expired.

  Jeremiah had no uncles who’d send him presents, and nobody called him Jerry.

  A notification of a teleport delivery came in. He permitted it. A small cylindrical parcel wrapped in the courier’s white film materialised on his desk. Jeremiah watched, not touching it, and walked away. It would be a few moments before the security scan confirmed that the parcel was safe to open.

  The door to his private room slid open. He deactivated the Life/Style before entering, and then stepped into a room that was much smaller than the salon appeared to be. It was evenly lit with the same artificial daylight that illuminated institutional interiors, making the room appear bland and impersonal. The period paraphernalia, the hibernating androids in their extravagant costumes, and the oversized bed, made the place feel desperate and sad. But the bare concrete walls had no interactive mirrors, and this made him feel better.

  Jeremiah returned to the office wearing his biosuit and coiffure.

  The security scan didn’t detect any dangerous substances or electronic devices. The parcel contained paper with pigment stains on it, the report advised. Jeremiah skipped the molecular analysis. It was safe to open. And yet he hesitated, his heart pounding. It’s just paper, he chided himself. How can ink-stained paper harm you?

  His trepidation inexplicably increased as he peeled off the wrapping film, and exposed a tightly rolled up scroll. He unfurled it and spread it out on the desk.

  The rectangular parchment lay there, harmless.

  Only words can harm you.

  Jeremiah stared at the three little words and started to laugh shrilly.

  Words can be dangerous indeed.

  Chapter 14

  Rinzler read the words that snaked in luminous banners overhead in the departures lounge: ‘Port management team. Our sincere apologies for any inconvenience caused by an unavoidable temporary suspension of the shuttle service. Port management team. Our sincere apologies…’ He shook his head as if in disbelief and sighed loudly, to attract the attention of a young woman who paused nearby to read the announcement. When she glanced at him, Rinzler reiterated the rumour that CSG auditors had found some irregularities in the service and suspended it until further notice. ‘Just the sort of thing they’d do: mess up your life for the sake of protecting your consumer rights,’ Rinzler told her, eyeing her, curious. Her brown face was weather-chaffed, which was possible only when living exposed to the elements on Earth. It was obvious from her non-nano clothes that she was essencist.

  She walked away.

  Nearly all travellers out of P-7 had interstellar connections to catch. To some, missing the connection meant having to wait a year or more for the next interstellar ship. People were worried and angry. The departures lounge was heaving with two shuttles’ load of stranded passengers. More were arriving for a third cancelled departure. Discontentment hung thickly in the air. Rinzler suppressed smirks as he shook his head in mock dismay. Ordinarily security would spot anyone lingering there too long, and tell him to move on. Under the circumstances they couldn’t tell him apart from the genuine travellers.

  He eventually found a seat, and sat down to sleep squeezed between strangers amidst the noise and bright lights. Once or twice during the next few hours he surfaced to semi-wakefulness. Keeping his eyes closed, he listened to two people seated either side of his slumped body.

  ‘It’s Cyboratics, their president has put pressure on GEM, and that’s why Alpha Centauri won the Narayana bid,’ the woman was saying.

  Rinzler decided that the pair didn’t know each other. They spoke about corporate politics like trying to impress each other with knowledge that neither of them had. He recalled Schmidt telling him about leapfrogging the galaxy by means of those gates, and how the man clammed up when Rinzler switched from physics to politics. Those who know don’t tell, Rinzler knew, listening to his neighbours prattling on.

  ‘But Narayana didn’t actually invent the Gate. He was just the executive who took the credit.’

  ‘Narayana means “the path of man” in Sanskrit. It’s symbolic.’

  ‘I know what I’m talking about. I did three years in GEM before transferring to Phyfoamicals. Dr Narayana is of the minor clan of... It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s also the god of creation in Hindu mythology. I’m in OK. I know what I’m talking about. Recycling myths is an OK thing to do.’

  Is killing their own citizens also an OK thing to do? Rinzler mused, wishing that the Indigo case would go away of its own accord.

  He dozed off again and an hour later woke up between two different people. They debated whether to go to Spectrum.

  ‘It will be more comfortable. I’m getting cramps from this chair.’

  ‘What if the service resumes when we’re away?’

  ‘They’ll retrieve us.’

  Rinzler opened his eyes and advised, ‘It will cost you. Sitting here is free.’

  They told him that Port Management were giving out free vouchers.

  He was up like a shot.

  There was a long queue to a temporary checkpoint erected in front of the public portals. Rinzler whiled the slow progress mentally rehearsing an outburst of indignation. ‘What, you don’t have me on your passengers list? Is there a CSG agent auditing you? I want to complain!’ he planned to say. The part of him that was paranoid about leaving his body unattended in a public facility hoped that the deception wouldn’t work, but the opportunist in him couldn’t let a free login be wasted.

  Finally reaching the head of the queue, Rinzler saw a Wednesday stationed at the checkpoint. Threatening to complain to the CSG won’t work on a Daily. The android will dutifully connect him to a CSG agent. Oh well, it was worth a try, he thought, and the paranoid in him was immensely relieved.

  Too many people crowded behind him to make a U-turn possible, so he had to go through the motions at the checkpoint. Wednesday informed him that his biometrics didn’t match any on the passenger lists. ‘No?’ Rinzler responded, flatly. Melodramatic surprise would be wasted on the android.

  Wednesday asked for his name.

  It occurred to Rinzler that he might be fined for attempting deception. A charge of dishonesty against him could give the CSG an excuse to close down Rinzler Investigations. He blurted out the first name that popped into his head, ‘Indigo.’

  ‘Indigo of OK, you are booked on…’ Wednesday confirmed instantly, citing the flight number, and handed Rinzler a voucher for two hours free roaming in Spectrum.

  Rinzler quickly got over his surprise and took the pass. ‘That’s right, sorry. I should’ve scanned in when I arrived, but in
all the chaos…’ He stopped himself. Excuses were wasted on the Daily.

  A Monthly like April, a fifth-generation upgrade, would know that Indigo won’t be travelling anywhere anymore. At least, not travelling by any manmade means to any destination known to the living, Rinzler reflected morbidly as he swiped the ill-gained pass. Maybe dying is like this. You continue without your body, Rinzler continued to ponder whilst his uninterrupted stream of consciousness was uploaded into Town Square.

  He shifted his virtual presence to his immaterial office.

  There was a large folder from Acid Burns in his inbox.

  It confirmed that Indigo was due to travel today for training in Alpha Centauri. She was often sent on courses, Rinzler noted. Too much training for her grade and job. He recalled the heavyweight games wallpapering her room. Either she’s been grossly undervalued by her corporation or her ‘day job’ was a sham. Either way, the woman was involved in something big and nasty, and now she’s dead. He perfunctorily browsed Indigo’s biography.

  Then a datum caught his eye, and he was suddenly interested. Indigo’s line manager and Jeremiah’s deputy was her mother, Jan.

  Was Indigo afraid of her own mother? Did Indigo know something she shouldn’t about Jan and Jeremiah?

  Rinzler cussed, reminding himself that he was alive by a fluke and wanted to stay alive. His best strategy was rapidly to close the case by proving that the murderer had no connection to OK.

  Nothing was known about the last person seen with Indigo. Acid Burns reported that the woman had teleported directly into OK’s HQ using Indigo’s own ID. The file included a surveillance archive showing her materialise in a vacant cubicle, and Indigo entering it a moment later. They almost immediately jaunted together to Indigo’s home.

  Using a trick of the trade that Schmidt had taught him, Rinzler ascertained that the archived clip had been expertly tampered with. The intruder looking like Indigo’s doppelganger could be anyone, even a middle-aged Japanese man.