Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  I assume Nikki believes I’m dead.

  Griffin said the techs that worked on me are surprised I’m alive. In fact, I remember hearing, “I can’t believe this thing is still working.”

  I set the Shorter’s trek log to match my old mot’s course. The map states we’re nine hundred and eighty-eight kilometers apart. Once I clear city limits, I’ll be on Nikki’s ass in about twelve minutes.

  The Port-trak displays a hard rain in and around the St. Louis area.

  I hate rain.

  I lean back hard into the seat and close my eyes.

  I can’t believe I’m still working either.

  This experience was not like a normal shut down. I feel unclean. What did Ezra use on me?

  Deep breath Relax. Reason.

  20

  Ding.

  I open my eyes.

  What the hell?

  I guess I … napped?

  That doesn’t make sense. I don’t nap. I enter rest cycles but I don’t just nod off.

  Snap to, kid.

  Get organized.

  I see the rain blanketing the sleeping farmland.

  The Port-trak states I’m thirty seconds away from my old mot. I drop speed and cruise down onto the city grid.

  I got suckered by a beautiful woman. Spiked by an old man. So much for detailed military training, general paranoia and common sense.

  I dreamt of a gold watch up a giraffe’s ass.

  And napping?

  I’ve never had a day like this.

  I don’t like it.

  I don’t get it. Nothing about this is right. It’s not like me. I’m better than this.

  I can see my old mot ahead through the fat splats that thud upon the windshield. It appears that traffic ahead is rolling over … my old mot has stopped.

  I hover alongside the stalled vehicle and see it’s empty. I ask the computer to advise occupancy within my old mot. The computer reads zero. Nothing. Nobody is in the damn mot. It’s a decoy. Stupid.

  Note to self: practice thinking.

  I stop ahead of my old mot.

  I pull away the top cushion of the rear passenger seat and expose the foxhole – a holdover benefit from the bad days of cars, credit cards and free television: long before I was around. And, as standard for government vehicles, I find one large white cloth towel, food rations for three days; three, two-liters of bottled water, two blankets, a first aid kit and a crank phone. Tucked in the upper right corner of the foxhole is what I need, a plastic poncho with hood. I remove the poncho from the package. I struggle to don the snug weather outfit, as regulation gear is always made for regular-sized people and I’m far from regular. I touch the door latch with a sigh. I’m about the get wet for no good reason but I have to check out my old vehicle. The door opens and I get out of the mot. The rain is dense, rough and warm. I’m sloppy wet after three steps.

  Rapid moving expressway traffic flows overhead or arches away from the pair of parked mots. The large static advert on my right displays James Dean driving his iconic silver gray 1955 Porsche Spyder along a smooth black cliff side road, the calm Mediterranean Sea on his right, he wears Dikinikki’s sport goggles and Dikinikki’s exquisite Italian Umi-leather driving gloves. Dikinikki – modo eterno. This is the first time I’ve seen an expressway ad like this; then again, I’ve never had a reason to stand still on the expressway. While traveling, if an ad catches my eye, I watch it on NetEW. Company names scroll across the main monitor as the mot passes an advert. Just touch the advertiser’s name to view the ad.

  Of course I could always do what the neon orange mot before me is doing now, which is to travel very slowly to view the adverts as they are meant to be seen. It’s an American thing. Groups of people in mots easing down the expressway and watching adverts. It’s a party.

  The orange mot has stopped before me. The passenger window is sliding down. A light rush of cigarette smoke escapes from the mot’s cabin.

  “Umm … why are you standing on the expressway in the rain at night?” asks the young and pretty blonde with shocking green eyes, holding a near empty wine glass and an unlit cigarette.

  “Just waiting for you to ask me that question. Now all is right in the world.”

  The blonde turns to the other five people in her party. The glowing tips of cigarettes, fun whispers –“James Dean is so cute” – ride above innocuous pop music. Now giggles erupt from their mot.

  “Shut the window the rain is coming in,” someone says with a smile in her voice.

  “Okay,” says the blonde. Then she looks at me. “You’re cute.” The passenger window rises with a charge of high laughter. Their mot crawls forward and I become the; ‘remember that guy standing in the rain on the expressway’ story.

  I open my old mot door and confirm the vehicle is empty. The cabin reeks of cigarettes, piss and blood. I see the blood on the carpet and splattered along the backseat, and left door panel. I check the dash and see the battery is depleted. The autopilot is engaged and the disabled vehicle signal has been dispatched. A tow vehicle will be here to collect this mot soon. And of course, I’ll get the bill for towing as well as a ton of other charges. I sit behind the wheel of my old mot and look about the cabin for clues. I pull up the trek log for the last twelve hours and send the data to the Shorter. I give my old mot another pat down and still find nothing.

  At least now I’m sure that Nikki has the Bolt and my wallet.

  I get out and walk back to the Shorter.

  Across the expressway from the James Dean ad I watch a family of five enjoy a festive meal featuring Porterhouse cut steak at Coate’s fine family dining, exit 38 on Ryeson Blvd. The bold lettered tagline reads: True Stock – FirstGen Meat only. No clone meat! Fresh live seafood!

  I get into the Shorter and reset the autopilot for return to NYC. In a heartbeat the mot is airborne and zips off down the expressway.

  Wet as hell, I take off the poncho. I open the foxhole and remove the large cloth towel. I toss the dripping poncho into the foxhole. I dry my face and hair.

  I pull up the trek log from my old mot and advance the schedule to the bar. I send the time stamp, names and physical quadrants to MATRIX, NORA and PAUL; government databases for social affiliations, purchasing nuances, employment, all means of traffic, and the mass aliases of the world’s citizenry.

  The Shorter’s phone pings. It’s Griffin. I answer. “Yeah.”

  “So you followed your old mot to Missouri. What did you find?”

  “Nothing. It was a decoy. I’m going to scan the trek log.”

  “Right.”

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “No. I just wanted to make you aware that I’m aware of your every move and I’m happy about that. And you want to keep me happy.”

  “Sure. Nothing’s closer to my heart.”

  “Good.” Griffin hangs up.

  Asshole. I turn off the unit.

  The Eye uploads my visual request and begins playing. The replay is like watching a shifting shattered mirror composed with a Time/Story program. The images courtesy of city and traffic cameras

  I watch myself tumble from my old mot with the aid of a boot – Nikki’s boot – square on my ass and shoving me out of the driver’s side door. My old mot pulls away and I lie on the street like so much curbside waste. My old vehicle continues along Second Avenue. Then the mot heads uptown. At 52nd Street, Nikki and Ezra get out of the mot and run into the Fuji Hotel. The mot drives away.

  PAUL’s data log pings. PAUL informs me that Nikki is also known as Karen Davenport, Sabina Aveo, Emily Simpson, and Vanessa DiRay – this alias has licenses for prostitution, a personal protection device and traditional firearms. Yet, PAUL can’t confirm her real identity. Birth records have not been found that agree with any of her known aliases. She is quite the chameleon. Each alias has a distinctly different face and demeanor. She can be a vixen super-goddess, or a reserved and shy woman. She has a great talent with makeup. She is an expert with firearms and explosives.
She is known and watched by seven security agencies.

  I see that NORA is loaded so I do a quick scan on the life and times of the person also known as Nikki Porter. She shops at trendy boutiques for her jewelry. She buys clothes and shoes from whoever is selling clothes and shoes. No brand or shop loyalty. Frequent visitor to the Underground. Narcotics, drugs, alcohol most purchased are hash, experimental, and all manner of liquor with whiskey at the top of the charts.

  Her other alias, Vanessa DiRay, owns a Bettie .38. That’s an expensive and painful weapon. The device has caused permanent disfigurement to the targets. Last I heard it was up for recall, but there’s no flag on Vanessa’s record so I guess the recall didn’t happen. The traditional firearms are an Anton 9mm and a Smith & Wesson. 38, which is the gun she used when we raided Bobby’s apartment.

  I take a moment to add my two cents to the global law enforcement community regarding the person a.k.a. Nikki Porter. I open a new memo and write: See London Deep files – Pam Brown. Confirm Nikki Porter is Pam Brown.

  I think about writing more. But I don’t. All I do is sit and think.

  The Nikki Porter I first met over twenty years ago was a waitress at a diner on 48th avenue. Like many young and pretty teens, she had also worked the streets for a fast buck and wound up on the bad side of a cat named Special K. Another little pimp who would be king. Nikki was running solo on his turf. Nikki came to my office one rainy night with too much color in her face. Special K had informed Nikki that she now worked for him. Nikki didn’t know where to turn so she came to me. Well, I paid a visit to the little king. I broke his face, and both his legs at the knees. I took the money out of his pockets and left him mumbling in agony and coughing blood in the street as I drove away in his ugly green but nicely tricked-out mot. Nikki paid me with great sex and a wonderful breakfast.

  That was in the last days of the pimps and gang run operations. Before the Underground and the Grid. The streets of Manhattan were toxic from commuters, constant construction, all manner of curbside vendors, homelessness – just too many people, plain and simple. The city streets were at constant gridlock, all day and all night. It got so bad that gangs were robbing people as they sat in their cars, stuck in traffic, the victims gave their money willingly rather than being shot through the glass and having their corpse violated. I did a lot of bodyguard work back in those days. People hired protection for their trips to and from work, as well as escort for their children attending school. That had been very lucrative work and I was allowed to exercise a lot of aggression. Those were good times. Then the city hauled in the private security firms for traffic enforcement and general civilian security.

  The bodyguard worked took a real dive when The Commons instituted the Model Citizen/Recovery Agent program. It was the task of the MC/RA to secure enemies of the state. These guys took anyone of danger off the streets. They did it with overt force and blatant organized terror. I remember the insanity of muscle and violence that shook the city. Now those months of chaos and blood are called, The Days of Hard Progress. The result, for better or worse, the public has been tamed. I could have joined a private security firm or fallen into a contract program but I’m not a team player. So I continued to work private jobs for questionable clientele.

  And it seemed like life accelerated after control and order was thrust upon the people. Aerospace technology led the pack in the applied sciences. A few years later, the global transport grid was started, eliminating traffic woes. The subway system became obsolete. What do to with all that underground real estate? The Commons decided to turn Manhattan’s subway network into the world’s first adult playground. The Underground. Seemingly overnight, laws were established for the people’s health and prostitution legalized. The WHO introduced the international health initiative. This act provided sound and affordable healthcare to every human on the planet. Only those with a clean bill of health were allowed to work and play in the Underground. This had the effect of encouraging the populace to visit a physician, dentist and mental health professional at least once a year.

  The global finance ministers redefined wealth as immediate and constant access to life-sustaining funds. Prostitution was now considered a legal occupation based on this dictum. Licensing fees, union dues, cabaret levies and a host of other subscriptions proved the sex trade more lucrative than first estimated. Laws were adopted to capture the narcotics industry as well. There is always talk about opening another Underground yet it remains just talk. The Underground is exclusive to Manhattan.

  A wavering ding pulls me back to the now. I see that PAUL has sent me a message. I open it.

  This individual must remain active and unimpeded. By law – do not capture, restrain, and of course, do not kill.

  The message twinkles away. Are you fucking kidding me! I can’t believe what I just read. Nikki has me spitting blood right about now. That message told me that by law, I can’t hurt her. This is amazing. Who does this woman know? Who does she work for?

  Sure, I can muscle Space’s flash drive from her, leave a bruise or two, but if I get strong, someone won’t be happy about it and next thing I know I’m in space. And I don’t like deep space. I’ve been there. Way, way out there in the ultra black. Running laps on padded steel floors and breathing the same air over and over. Listening to the same music over and over. Uploading this book and that book. Watching vid after vid. Enjoying the never changing view.

  Look, Apollo, pretty stars.

  Like the ad says: space, it’s not just for heroes anymore.

  Space is a great romantic weekend date. Space is for convicts. Space is time. Space is money. You get paid to go there and you gotta pay to go there. Space means pre-cooked food, no sunshine, no open windows but plenty of filtered recycled air. Space means living in a bubble. Sure, you can take a walk outside the bubble but you sure as hell won’t get any fresh air. And yes, space is cool if you’re orbiting the planet on a day trip. Mesmerizing phantasmagoric experiences and images of Earth and the black sky. But deep space is where I’ll wind up and it sucks. It’s black. Very black. I will do all I can to keep my ass here on Earth.

  I can’t touch her. Nikki. I know she wasn’t holding the needle but she kicked my ass out of the mot and that is a clear statement that our years of friendship amounts to her foot up my ass and me bouncing off the curb.

  I close the files on Nikki and spend quality time with Ezra Biconeer’s profile.

  Ezra is just as Nikki had described, a retired archival bookkeeper with a class six clearance. He is listed as deceased with today as his date of death.

  He appears to be nobody special. He had a perfect employee attendance record for a straight twenty-two years. Collecting information was probably the easiest thing for Ezra to do, but it took some talent to remove the data from a secured area of a federal building. In particular that file. The only reason such a file is still around would be to frame someone. How did Ezra know about the file?

  The satellite feed for the Fuji Hotel has loaded up. I hit fast-forward. Three hours running time becomes thirty seconds real time. I pause at three-point-six on the clock. Run view at normal speed. I watch Nikki exit the hotel and enter a cab alone.

  I call up the cab’s license plate and request a track log.

  I engage fast-forward and continue to watch the feed on the Fuji Hotel.

  Ezra doesn’t leave the building and Nikki never returns. Then an ambulance zips into the roundabout for the Fuji Hotel. About a minute later, the police arrive. I know where this is going so I enter Ezra’s name into the city morgue registry. His weathered face pops up on my monitor. His was the fifth body logged in today.

  21

  “Entering Manhattan.” The computer informs me while the mot complies with the city’s speed restrictions.

  The cab’s trek log pops up on the monitor. Nikki’s cab ride terminates at 301 Park Avenue. The Waldorf-Astoria. I run a credit check on all of Nikki’s aliases. Karen Davenport appears as a registered guest of the hotel.
Room 404. Good ol’ Dance Whore Karen. She plans to stay for a week.

  I’ll be at the Waldorf in two minutes.

  #

  I pull into the turnaround of the hotel.

  I exit the mot and a valet approaches. “Official business,” I say. “Leave the mot.”

  The young man with wispy blonde hair comes to an abrupt halt. He nods as I stroll pass him. I can feel his eyes upon my back.

  “Nice ride,” he says.

  “Yes it is.” I enter the lobby and walk over to the elevators. I can see that someone at the front desk is interested in me, but they don’t leave their post.

  I step into the open lift and push four. A moment later the door opens at my floor and I step off. Her room is just a few steps away from the elevator.

  I stand before door 404. Like the old times I tap into the Allround. I think ‘Command’.

  “Griffin here.” I feel the fat little bitch inside my head. It sucks.

  “I need security to open door four-o-four at the…”

  “Waldorf. Yeah, okay. I see that.”

  “My primary target is protected.”

  “Oh yeah, who told you that?”

  “PAUL.”

  “Who’s your target?”

  “Karen Davenport, a.k.a., Nikki Porter.”

  “Hold.” Command is quiet. I study the smooth texture of the peach-colored wall before me. I look at my shoes and sigh because these kicks need a real cleaning. The tension in my mind loosens. Command is about to speak.

  Griffin says, “Then don’t kill her.”

  “Right, I got that part. I may need to flex muscle to get info. How about torture?”

  “Green light, just don’t get stupid.”

  “Understood.”

  “See how this works, communication. All you have to do is talk to me.”

  “Yeah, the exchange warmed my heart.”

  I hear an expulsion of hot air from Griffin. If I could smell it, I’m sure it would reek like sulfur. “Get the files.” He said.

  “I’m on it.”