Although his eyes haven’t fully adjusted, Paul can make out enough to know he’s out of his element. It’s a real-world SenseDen: a strip club where patrons plug their PILOTs into sensorial portals running CLOUD tech, and feel whatever it is they need to feel while watching flesh sweat and sway. The place is a rarity now, an antique, with the majority of California’s hedonists synching and going straight to the CLOUD for all of their anonymous debauchery. The popular shift to the completely virtual is a real surprise given the charisma and candour of places like this.
There are several stages along the right side jutting out like saw teeth into the centre aisle. Opposite the stages is a bar, which runs the length of the club. The bottles and vaporizers tiered behind it are backlit, silhouetting and casting both the bartender and the middle section’s constituents in earthy colours. The middle section services a motley crew of perverts, drooling with mouths agape at the staged men, women, and androids, writhing under multi-coloured LED arrangements.
Pathetic, thinks Paul, hesitating at the head of the aisle. Place stinks of despair…of hopeless idolatry. He sees an evap, bound, goggled, and unconscious in a chair off to the side. The evap’s legs twitch like those of a sleeping dog.
Paul had frequently and publicly defended SenseDens, claiming they served an important societal function in the battle against human mechanization and automation. Despite his firm stance, he’d never been in one. Looking around, he attempts to reconcile his immediate disgust with his ideological stance. Here, they worship an idea they’ve found reflected by shards of broken glass. In the CLOUD, reflections mirror reflections, cutting out the object and leaving only infinite emptiness. He decides he can appreciate it without liking it.
Pressing towards the back, out of the way of the strippers and their obsessives, Paul catches the gaze of a femme bot, swirling behind a holographic screen simulating rain. She looks at him and smiles. The simulated familiarity is unnerving, especially since obscurity and evasion were the reasons for this detour. He pauses to glance at the human counterfeit, aping forward with one hand on the pole.
“Hey’ah Paul! Got some time for me, for old time’s sake?”
Struck by disbelief and worry, he shakes a glower onto his face. What the hell?
“P,” she says, shaking her hips and slinking down the pole. “Don’t make me beg…”
Paul’s eyes widen with fear and disgust, watching the femme bot’s features morph. Her once pale, circuit-striped cheeks flush with pink. Her blue hair turns brown, and her eyes dial to blue. With a few more tweaks, she no longer looks like the silk-plastic geisha that had yelped for his attention. Now, she looks just like his ex-wife, Rachel.
“Man-up and give it to me, P,” she cries, seductively.
Paul raises a trembling hand to his forehead and fights to contextualize what he can only hope to be a symptom of withdrawal from his daily SIKs. He ambles towards the back, greased with flop sweat.
Slowing his pace so as to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself or to his discomfort, Paul takes a seat at the end of the bar. Relax. Don’t let some parlour trick upset you.
The bartender, a tanned, Spanish woman in a low-cut, low-rise, silver dress—no older than thirty—struts over, picking up grime along the counter with a rag. She brushes the particulate she’s collected off the counter, and throws the rag into a receptacle behind the bar.
“Afternoon senor. What can I do you for?”
“A beer.”
“Cash or airtime?”
“Cash.”
She smiles and bites her bottom lip, raising an eyebrow at the femme bot squirming behind Paul. “Not here for the arcade?”
“Not really, no.”
“She got to you? Our Simone, here?” she asks, indicating the android with a nod. It’s less a question and more a statement of fact from one more observant than her costume and composure otherwise suggests.
Paul stares at his empty hands rattling on the bar, and says nothing.
“Anyway,” she digresses, picking up on his discomfort. She pulls a bottle of sloshing gold from under the counter and plants it between Paul’s hands. “This’ll help with the nerves.”
“How the hell did she pull that off?” Paul blurts. His knee skids uncontrollably against the bar.
“Huh?”
“She knew my name. Re-casted to look like my…never mind.” Paul summons up the beer and clears a gulp.
“Don’t know what to tell you, senor.”
Her emphatic use of “senor” has an aging effect on Paul. It forces a wince, which cracks his face.
“Simone is not blessed with these techs or talents; certainly not t’kind that calls out your name or changes to…” she pauses, probably consulting her Rosetta App via Monocle, “suit your cravings. That’d be a crowd-pleaser I could retire off of.”
Getting nothing in return from their social exchange but dead eyes squeezed between premature wrinkles, the bartender motions to leave.
The very suggestion of being alone again with his morbid thoughts incites separation anxiety. Paul slides his empty bottle forward.
“Whisky?”
She turns to him slowly, adopting an insincere smile. “Ah, you’ve the thirst.”
Paul’s failed attempt at a smirk leaves him with a look of bewilderment. “I’ve got some time on my hands.”
The bartender pulls down a semi-transparent bottle with a black stripe, and liberally pours a headache’s-worth over a few ice cubes. She places the glass in front of Paul and cups his trembling hand. His first inclination is to recoil, but he fights the urge in favour of opportunity.
He looks to her full lips for the answer ahead of asking. “Why did you ask if she’d gotten to me?”
She rolls her eyes and squeezes Paul’s thumb. “You seemed agitated around her, coming this way.” She trades his hand for his empty bottle. “First round was on me—for Simone’s falla. Just remember,” she says, blurring from a wink, “I live on tips.”
Paul ogles her silver skirt as it shrinks down the way of the bar, catching light off the holograms and LEDs. His retreating stare picks up on a specter descending the stairs from the entranceway.
“Dammit,” he murmurs.
He takes a sip of whisky, and attempts a second survey of the room. A bulky man sporting a Mohawk and a suede jacket is headed his way. Twisted horns protrude out the sides of his head.
A raspy voice finds Paul’s ear. “You should know that running won’t help you.”
“What?” Paul gasps, looking for the source of the advice. There’s no one… Keep it together. You’re okay.
Paul thumbs the hammer on his revolver, and sits nonchalantly with his other hand on his glass.
“You the doc?” asks the stranger, out of breath. He slams his hand on the counter beside Paul. “Well, aren’t you?” His nails, chipped and bloody, are barely better-off than his arms—tattooed and marred by electrical burns. His horns vanish.
“Who’s asking?” Paul mutters into his glass.
“Gibson. Booker Gibson. A mutual friend sent me to find you.”
Paul turns on his stool, revealing his revolver, firm against the outside of his leg. “Sorry, Gibson. I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”
Gibson sneers.
“At the very least, not the guy you wanted to find.”
The veins in Gibson’s temples bulge, stretching and pronouncing the knotted pink scars etched along his ebon skin. Eying the gun, he reconfigures his sneer into a smile, outlining bared teeth. “You really don’t need that.”
“This guy you’re looking for…would he need it?”
“You’re embarrassing yourself. Just put that shit away before you get yourself thrown outside to the pigs.”
“Gibson—it’s Gibson, right? You’re best-off telling your boss that I am not on his leash anymore.”
Gibson lets out a thunderous chuckle. His posture liquefies, and he slides onto the stool next to Paul. He flags the bartender with a fi
nger’s point. “Good for you, Paul. I’m glad the stories aren’t all true.”
Paul winces at the mention of his name. The revolver wavers in his hand, but he retrains it on Gibson’s belly.
The bartender leans over the counter, and addresses Gibson. “Hello, handsome. What’s your poison?”
Gibson crooks his neck forward to inspect the contents of Paul’s glass. “Whatever my friend here is having.”
“And for you? Another?” she asks Paul.
The words disintegrate before making any connection. Paul’s staring at a moisture ring on the counter before him. She breaks his trance with a knock on the counter.
“Oh. No thanks,” Paul stammers. “My free time seems to have gotten away from me.”
She reads Paul’s posture like a basic line of code.
Gibson pipes up. “Just the one then, Miss…?”
“Miss Terry,” she fires back, clearly having been asked one time too many.
Furrowing his brow, Gibson looks to Paul for a reaction, and then back to the bartender. “As in…”
“None of your goddamn business.”
Gibson grins.
“I won’t read you boys the riot act, but know: if either of you two do anything besides drink or yap at my bar,” she seizes Paul’s empty glass, “You’ll be sharing your buzz with the rats.”
The scientist and the stranger raise their eyebrows in tandem, both surprised and secretly delighted by the bartender’s frankness.
Cued by the bartender’s distraction—fiddling with ice and booze—Gibson reaches into his pocket. Paul lurches forward, gun ready.
“Relax,” Gibson reassures, gently pulling out a holo-disc. He places it gingerly on the counter. Paul’s Outland file appears in shimmering duotone, along with a recent orbital scan of his face. “Recognize this mug?”
Relaxing the hammer on his revolver, Paul reaches for the disc and tracks it closer. “Where did you get this? You an Outland detective or something?”
Gibson swats away the suggestion with his marred hand. “Hell no. I’m not some bitch living off W’chester’s dime. That mother wants me dead and I wish him the same.” He closes the hologram and tucks the disc back into his pocket. “I also couldn’t give two shits about some chip in your leg or the empty coffin that’s brought you here. This is a professional courtesy.”
“I’m no longer acquainted with any professionals.”
“Well, we got a friend in common who thinks otherwise, and is mighty convinced your life is worth saving.”
“No kidding. Does this mutual friend have a name?”
Gibson leans into a whisper. “Less I say, the better. We can’t bet on you until you’re formally in the game.”
Miss Terry puts a drink in front of Gibson. He thanks her with a Chinese tap of the glass on the counter, and waits for her to disappear down the rail.
“W’chester thinks you’re a hazard—thinks you were the one who disconnected his lab rat.”
“And you don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Think I did it?”
“I really don’t give a damn.” Gibson sips his drink, and looks straight ahead at the rows of backlit bottles. “Those that manage a care don’t think it’s you. In fact, those that would have been talking about bigger fish and choppy water round the bend.”
“This I already know.”
“A’ight, doc. Suppose you also know this’ll be your last trip to the big city—your last trip anywhere, unless you do something about it.”
Paul breathes deeply. Is it possible someone could be more paranoid than me?
Gibson continues: “Them metal pigs at the hack shop?”
“Outland Sentinels.”
“Right. They take orders directly from W’chester and the Outland Security Board.”
Meaning Katajima didn’t send them over to Q’s…
“There’s more of them at your hotel.”
“Shit,” mutters Paul. He’d rather it’d been a coincidence or a delusion.
“After the lab rat’s funeral, they’re going to pick you up and charge you with espionage and cyber terrorism.”
Winchester must know about the Empty Thought.
“Our friend said she wants you to finish your work. Said it’ll help a lot of people. That means you gotta stay alive.” Gibson drains his glass, throws a bale of greenback onto the counter, and stands up. “Camp Mud. That’s where you’ll find us when you’ve committed to play.”
“Play? And who’s ‘us’? Who is she?”
“Take a chill pill and give trust a try. We’ll send the coordinates once we’ve vetted a secure comm. Until then, keep your head up and your eyes open.” Gibson stops mid turn. With his face eclipsed by the bottles’ browns and greens, he addresses Paul. “If you tell anyone about Camp Mud, you’ll be killing your only allies in a city that wants you dead.”
Chapter 11: BENEATH THE VENEER
AWASH IN THE RED light of the SenseDen’s doorway, Paul watches Gibson strut defiantly down the street. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
A chrome motorcycle whips by, reflecting evening orange. Gibson jumps on the back, and throws his arms around the helmeted driver. They veer off, disappearing down a highway off-ramp to the first tier.
But who are his friends? “Bah,” scoffs Paul, disregarding Gibson and the vague alliance he proposed. Trust is a fiat with no guarantor or regulator. It’s a fool’s currency, and I won’t invest.
Paul double-checks for any remaining Sentinels or Outland drones. They’re gone. The street is quiet again and a little bit darker.
He pops his collar, and hurries across the street to the Chinese restaurant. The smell of lemon chicken floods out the door, now propped open by a milk crate. Past weary eyes trained on the gap, Paul presses around the corner and into the alley. Leading with his revolver, he sidesteps warily towards the LED ‘Q’.
The door to the hack shop is ajar, welcoming in wisps of painted exhaust.
“Hello?” Paul shouts down the stairs. “Anyone in there?”
Silence, save for the faint whining of machines.
Paul descends the steps. A short hallway intermittently lit by a flickering florescent tube ends in a security door, also unlatched.
“Q?” Paul says in a strained whisper. “Anyone here?”
The whine and whirr of machines answers back. He aims his revolver where a head would be if someone took the corner quick. Might have taken Q in for questioning. Paul feels like King Midas, only everything he touches turns to shit.
Paul pushes back the security door. Two CCTV cameras, one on either side of the door, hang limply—their lenses sprayed with a black goo. Mech footprints have tracked the goo forward into the shop.
There is a small kiosk bunkered below crooked shelves housing monitors, hard drives, wires, and circuit boards. Behind the kiosk is a little door, both chipped and splintered.
There’s a bell on the counter. Paul rings it. “Hello?” he says, more desperately than before, providing lyrics for the short metallic note.
A grating sound catches Paul’s attention. Revolver drawn, he seeks it out. He heads down an aisle cleared between two rows of rusted storage containers piled to the ceiling. Some of the containers are missing panels, serving as shelving units—as cupboards. They’re full of android parts (i.e. hands, eyes, plastic genitals) and a mishmash of other tech.
Clank. The grating sound announces movement again. Paul locates the source. It’s an unlocked container. He rests his gun on the neighbouring shelf, and pries the panel open.
Two robotic eyes fused to a CPU and a modulator rustle on a mound of circuitry.
“Help me...” it murmurs.
“Jesus!” Paul yells, jerking back—both surprised and relieved.
The eyes cross, and train-in on Paul. “The creator…the creator has forgotten about me.”
It’s just silicon and metal, Paul lies to himself as he closes the storage unit and grabs his revolver. The piecemeal a
ndroid’s muffled cries dampen behind him.
“Help!”
Paul passes a few shelves burdened with stacks of PILOT grafts and drone-ware, and comes full circle to the kiosk. He plots his hands on the counter, and takes a deep breath. All for nothing.
He notices that the splinters on the little door behind the counter aren’t there from age or accident. They’re bullet holes.
Paul lifts himself over the counter. He pauses with one foot dangling on either side, giving his bum-leg a second to recuperate. With a heavy sigh, he slides over the counter. Feeling like Alice frenetically trying to catch that damn rabbit, Paul paws at the tiny door. It gives way to his touch, and creaks open a sliver.
“Q?” Paul whispers, raising his revolver.
The backroom is pitch black. It’s warm. It smells of iron and mint. Paul runs his finger along the wall for a switch but finds nothing. He appeals, instead, to his Monocle. Activating night vision, he looks around. Damn.
Q, a dwarf by the looks of it, is at once home and gone. He’s an island in a sea of his own blood. They snuffed him out. But why?
Paul sees the light switch. He turns off his Monocle, and flips-on the incandescent bulb at the centre of the room.
It’s a small room, not unlike the secret basement at Paul’s retreat. There’s a dozen monitors attached to a NET cube, and pigeon holes on all four walls full of gear. Two black racks of servers hum on either side of the desk, blinking red at their designer.
“Crap,” he says, looking at the little body.
They made it look like a suicide. Brained him and fitted the smoking gun in his hand. With all the signs of a break-in, they haven’t done much in the way of properly selling their lie, but then again, they’d only have to convince another branch of law enforcement owned by Winchester. Internal corruption can only be stymied by a third party or a noble insider, and the Blue Zone boasts neither.
Paul sidesteps the carrion, adjusts the height of the chair, and sits at the desk. He turns on the computer. The screens strobe on. Q’s stock manifest appears on the bottom-left monitor. Letters track out in green over a fuzzy black background.
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