Husk

by J. Kent Messum

  ‘… until you have something other than circumstantial and hearsay, I’d advise you and the SEC tread very carefully on this matter.’

  The prosecutor turns on him angrily. ‘Don’t push me, counsellor. This charade has gone on far too long now. And furthermore, I’d say it’s about time Mr Ichida himself attended these hearings in person. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Not possible,’ the counsellor replies. ‘His current ailing health forbids it.’

  ‘A video conference then. Surely he can manage that?’

  The counsellor considers, gives a slow nod. ‘I’ll see what can be done.’

  I have to hold back a snort of laughter. That video conference will be a CGI mock-up of Mr Ichida. The man died almost three years ago, some kind of undiagnosed wasting disease. The prosecution team leaves the offices while the defence team lingers behind. Chase Jackson confers quietly with the counsellor, a knowing smirk on both their faces. I feel awkward, like I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. My gut says I shouldn’t be here. I check my Liaison to make sure I have the correct details for the appointment. When I look up Chase is approaching me.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he says, extending his hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ I say and shake firmly. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Ichida at two o’clock.’

  Chase smirks and tells me I’m looking well in Japanese.

  ‘Mr Ichida,’ I say quietly and give a little bow. ‘My apologies.’

  He chortles, turning his head to glance at his counsellor. ‘No apology necessary. How were you to know?’

  I tilt my head and look for the tell-tale sign of a Ouija. The scar behind his ear is big and ugly, a piss-poor instalment, semi-pro at best. I withhold the look of contempt that is itching to present itself. In fact, I’d like to punch Ichida’s rental right in the teeth. We Husks regard hacks like Chase Jackson as little more than used condoms. They’ve come on the scene in recent months, washed-up or disgraced celebrities in dire need of cash who have somehow caught wind of the business and approached lower-tier outfits with offers to freelance. Clients can walk around town with a well-known face if they want, get the experience of being instantly recognizable, formerly famous. Not exactly low-key, but some Post-Mortems are giving it a whirl, enjoying all the attention and adoration for a day or two. I don’t like having my territory encroached on by those who are past their prime and can only milk their heyday.

  ‘Chase Jackson?’ I say, looking him over. ‘Are you a fan, Mr Ichida?’

  ‘American football, American movies,’ Ichida says, grinning. ‘I’m like a god out on the streets of New York.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  I double-check the time on my Liaison. We’re running late. Tomorrow I have planes to catch, people to be. Tight schedules are as important to me as they are to my clients, and I don’t want to be clocking any overtime between them.

  ‘Our appointment was for two,’ I say, figuring Ichida is eager to transfer. ‘Where would you like me to prep for the session?’

  ‘Walk with me,’ he says.

  He gives a nod to his counsellor and marches off. I follow him through a set of glass doors that lead to a private elevator. We step inside and Ichida punches in a security code on a keypad to activate it.

  ‘There has been a change of plan,’ he says, hitting the button for the rooftop.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I would like you to accompany me back to one of my residences first. There is something I need before we begin. Due to a hectic schedule, I have mistakenly overbooked Mr Jackson here and have to extricate earlier than anticipated. I would prefer to download and upload in the comfort and safety of my own home.’

  Like changing clothes, I think. ‘Of course.’

  Ichida is a heavy user of Husks, has a frequent rotation going on, using several different companies to facilitate his constant need. He uses so many of us digital whores that he’s practically the baton in a relay race. The elevator takes us up to the roof, where Ichida’s private helicopter is already prepped and waiting.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask as we board.

  ‘The Hamptons.’

  We take off and gain altitude quickly, flying directly over Central Park. Below I see a broken brown and black blotch spread over the green fields. From a bird’s eye view, the Occupy Movement looks like bacteria growing in a petri dish. Suddenly, the face of Chase is right beside mine, eyes turned down, seeing what I see.

  ‘Preposterous,’ he says. ‘Allowing a perfectly good park to be ruined like that.’

  ‘Looks like someone took a shit on the lawn down there,’ I mutter.

  Ichida laughs and slaps me on the back far too hard, palm banging off my spine. I withhold a wince. Clients really don’t know their own strength when piloting a body. A brief silence ensues, the size and significance of Occupy Central Park capturing our full attention as we pass above it all.

  ‘If only Tatsumi were here to see this,’ Ichida muses.

  ‘How is your wife these days, sir?’

  ‘Dead.’

  I swallow, tug at my collar. ‘I had no idea. I’m terribly sorry –’

  ‘Don’t be.’ He holds up a hand, shaking his head. ‘We decided on assisted suicide just last week. She went Post-Mortem with a successful transfer.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful.’

  Little is said for the next twenty minutes of the journey. The chopper travels quick and direct along the shoreline, descending as we enter Long Beach airspace. I watch the buildings and roads below go by in a blur, thinning out and becoming sparse as we near our destination. In no time we’re touching down on the helipad of Ichida’s Hamptons home. The beachside estate is massive, ten acres, enclosed inside a twelve-foot reinforced wall that a tank would have trouble getting through. Inside those walls I see security guards, dogs, cameras everywhere. No sooner have we disembarked the helicopter when it takes off again, heading back in the direction of Manhattan. Ichida leads me inside the mansion, where we soon find ourselves in a spacious living room that is minimally furnished and particularly organized, Japanese style.

  Very feng-fucking-shui, I think.

  ‘Would you care for some tea?’ Ichida asks.

  ‘Please.’

  I don’t notice her straight away, but standing perfectly still near a doorway is a pretty white girl done up as a geisha. She looks at me with only her eyes, seems a little on the young side. Ichida offers me a seat and says something to the geisha in Japanese more complicated than the few customary phrases I know. She returns something halfway between a nod and a bow and exits. Through the windows I notice workers setting up tables and tents on the lawn.

  ‘Having a party?’ I ask as we sit down.

  ‘I’m hosting an event tonight.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘A mixer of sorts, let’s say.’

  ‘I trust you’ve been enjoying the services of Solace Strategies?’

  ‘Enjoying them more than your competitors,’ Ichida says with a smile, looking at his hands and taking in the last of being Chase Jackson. ‘Which is why you end up getting most of my business.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I say, faking a smile that fools him. ‘When was the last time you used a Solace Husk, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Ichida’s eyes narrow, give me a sideways look. I play it off like I’m scrounging for small talk. Treading lightly on this subject is paramount. Need to keep things casual, stay clear of thin ice. Don’t want to bring any heat from Baxter for gossiping with a client. What I’m trying to find out is if Ichida used Miller recently, particularly the night he died.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, Mr Rhodes,’ Ichida replies finally. ‘I rent so often that things can become a bit of a blur. I’d have to refer to my appointment schedule.’

  ‘No, no,’ I wave him off. ‘Just making conversation, Mr Ichida. I want to make sure you’re completely happy with me and my company, that’s all.’

  ‘Rest assured that
I am most satisfied, Mr Rhodes.’

  The grin he gives me tells me he’s recollecting some prior enjoyable instance of being me. There is a tinge of deviancy in it that makes me a little angry and ashamed at what he or I may have done. The geisha returns with a tray balancing a teapot, cups and a small silver container. Seconds later another geisha appears, this one the same skin colour as Chase Jackson, carrying a metal briefcase. Both girls act with the utmost care and obedience, but they look at me with eyes that tell me they don’t want to be here. Ichida plucks the container from the first geisha’s tray as she places it on the coffee table. I watch him open it and take out a small white pill, an Ejector I’m sure, or some variant. The other girl opens the briefcase and takes out a laptop, which she sets down and plugs into a terminal under the table. Ichida sits very still as she runs another cable from the computer to his head and carefully plugs it into his Ouija.

  ‘Mr Rhodes, you will have to excuse me while I vacate Mr Jackson here and return to my system for a short period of time. I’ll be ready for upload soon.’

  He swallows his pill with a sip of tea. Things like the Ejector are not to be used lightly, but I’ve learned that billionaires pretty much do whatever the fuck they want, whenever they want. Lower-tier outfits aren’t as stringent with the rules, let clients bend them, even break them sometimes. Over the next minute I watch Ichida lose consciousness, only to see the mind of another emerge. The real Chase Jackson is soon back, blinking rapidly in the light, looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

  ‘Who you?’ he grunts.

  ‘Just another player in the game, Mr Jackson,’ I say.

  The geisha checks results on the laptop screen until she’s satisfied, then gently unplugs the cable from Chase’s head. I can’t help but stare at him, my irritation at this minor leaguer growing. He slowly sheds his grogginess, doesn’t like the glare I’m giving him.

  ‘What you looking at, boy?’

  ‘An amateur, clearly,’ I snarl. ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What outfit do you Husk with?’

  Chase lets out a deep and unsettled laugh. ‘Who the hell is you to be asking me something like that?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Fuck you. Don’t need to tell you nothing, man.’

  ‘Let me guess … you’re linked up with Eternity Executive, right?’

  The sneer and middle finger he shows me says I’m correct. He gets up and starts to walk away, though it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t know which direction to go.

  ‘Mr Jackson,’ the dark-skinned geisha says, beckoning him toward a door. ‘This way, please.’

  He looks at her irritably and complies. I watch him march for the door, my mouth opening, unable to resist.

  ‘Hey, Jackson, stick to making B-movies. Oh, and don’t drink and drive.’

  Point taken, I think. Chase’s shoulders tense, his jaw flexes. For a moment I think he might come back and take a swing at me, but he leaves the room without another word, the second geisha following close behind. The first geisha watches me with slight irritation as I sip my tea and have a chuckle to myself.

  ‘Please do not start fights in this household, sir.’

  I shrug apologetically. ‘How long do you think Mr Ichida will be?’

  She ignores the question. ‘Tatsumi Ichida is currently taking tea as well and wishes to meet you before the session, Mr Rhodes. Please allow me to take you to her.’

  ‘Tatsumi? Having tea? But I thought … uh … I thought she was …’

  ‘Mrs Ichida procured her own rental yesterday and has already been uploaded. She is waiting for you in her chambers.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’

  She guides me out of the living room and through a great hall that is in the middle of being set up for some kind of masquerade. Among typical party preparations of booze and food, there are things I can’t help but notice: bowls of condoms, bejewelled masks hanging on the wall, bondage gear and sexy costumes laid out on tables. Several cameras on tripods are set up around the huge room.

  ‘Wild night ahead?’ I remark.

  The perturbed look the geisha shoots me does not fill me with confidence. We soon find ourselves in Tatsumi’s wing of the mansion, evidenced by the collection of Japanese cartoon and doll paraphernalia that litter the rooms we pass through. Tatsumi was a fan of Hentai in particular, almost to the point of obsession. Sculptures and renderings of girls getting fucked every which way by all kinds of men, monsters, and machines seem to be everywhere I look. I’d met Ichida’s wife in the flesh a few times, a diminutive woman in her late fifties. A very strange and bitter lady as I remember, more than a bit eccentric too. Her make-up would always be overdone, professionally, in an attempt to make her resemble female characters from the Japanese anime she adored so much. As the geisha leads me into Tatsumi’s private chambers I’m not sure what to expect, but what I find makes me sick to my stomach.

  Tatsumi’s room is painted various shades of pink and blue. A trio of tiny, fluffy dogs come running at me, yipping and yapping around my ankles. Framed pictures of cartoon characters cover the walls. A woman with silky black hair sits in the middle of the room with her back to me, painting Kanji on a canvas. She slowly turns around as I announce myself. One look and I have to halt the cry of shock that wants to come, flex every muscle in my body to stop myself from recoiling at the sight of her.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mr Rhodes?’

  The girl I’m in love with, my sweet Ryoko, is Tatsumi’s Husk. She’s dolled up in some manga style that looks hideous when interpreted in the real world. Her complexion is horribly pale, mouth seeming small with a thin application of red lipstick. Oversized cartoon eyes are painted on her eyelids, looking doleful and alien. Feeling repulsed by Ryoko is one of the most unnatural experiences I’ve ever had. She sips her tea and looks me up and down.

  ‘Everything is fine, Mrs Ichida,’ I manage. ‘It’s just that I only learned of your recent assisted suicide a short time ago.’

  Tatsumi’s smile is demure. ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Congratulations on a successful transfer. I had no idea you were even ill.’

  ‘Ill?’ she chuckles. ‘No, I was perfectly healthy for my age.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My death was pre-emptive. Unlike my husband, I don’t particularly enjoy existing in this world any more. Real life bores me. It always has. I much prefer worlds of my own creation.’

  ‘Fair enough. But why the Husk then, if I may ask?’

  Tatsumi gives me a bored look. ‘As you might have noticed, we are having an event later on this evening. I am to co-host the night incognito with my husband, who will be uploaded to you. Also, I thought it might be good to get out and about a little. I’m told that it is good for Post-Mortem wellbeing.’

  She rises from her chair and approaches me, hips swaying sensually. I try not to flinch when she runs her fingers through my hair, looks me in the eye with Ryoko’s pupils. There is a glassy instability in her irises, addict-like. Seen it before on other Husks while on the job, a look that suggests the client is having trouble differentiating virtual reality from actual reality. The dark-skinned geisha enters the room carrying the laptop that Mr Ichida downloaded onto. She presents the computer to Tatsumi, who places it on her dresser and beckons me over. From my pillbox I take a red pill for twenty-four hours, start the Husk program, and hand over my Liaison. Tatsumi plugs one cable into the laptop, then slings her arms around my neck, pulling me close, pointing the proboscis of the second cable at my eyes as she looks into them again.

  ‘Y’know, out of all of my husband’s rentals, it was the Rhodes model I always liked best.’

  She kisses me, tongue forcing itself into my mouth like an eel, the feeling of my love’s lips foreign and frightening against mine. I inhale the faint smell of Ryoko, buried under a pungent jasmine perfume. Tatsumi gropes me and I go with it, faking pleasure like a porn star. The pi
ll makes me drowsy. She kisses harder. Her fingers feel for the lump behind my ear. Reluctantly, I let her plug in the proboscis and feel myself start to slip away.

  14

  It’s raining in London on my day off. Go figure. Twenty-four hours to myself couldn’t have come sooner. The gig with Ichida just about sidelined me. For the first time I question how much longer I can do my job. Exhaustion in my line of work isn’t new, but this is different, fatigue that burrows down to my bone marrow. It feels as if I’m treading close to a total burn-out in mind, body and soul. I couldn’t have done a gig today if someone held a gun to my head. Too many of these sessions back-to-back could kill me if I’m not careful, adding yet another headstone to the Rhodes family plot.

  Most of my family is dead. My older sister succumbed to breast cancer in her late twenties when I was a sophomore in college. My dad went by way of an aneurism soon after graduation, my mother of a broken heart not long after that. My younger sister and I are all that’s left, and we don’t talk much. I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times since we buried our parents. Last thing she said to me was that she wanted to be cremated if I was the one between us that ever had to make a decision for the other. All I know for sure is that she’s a whore now, an authentic one, with an official Madam, has a respectable client list and charges a lot per hour for her precious time.

  I sit in a pub licking my wounds and nursing my sore head with a cold pint. Even the bartender said I looked knackered. A couple pretty English girls have chatted me up, but my conversational skills, strained by exhaustion, leave much to be desired. They must think I’m high or maybe a bit mental. Flew into Heathrow last night, took a black cab into the city and checked straight into a hotel, where I slept for thirteen hours straight. When I did finally wake it was from some dream that had me covered in sweat. No recollection once I wiped the sleep from my eyes. I’ve been roaming the city since then, trying to remember. It’s a welcome distraction actually.