“Follow me,” Roni yelled, eyeing an escape route to the door. “Stay close.” He pressed forward slowly, braving a path through the bedlam and keeping both feet on the floor to maintain balance. “Make way,” he shouted, brandishing his wireless mike like a threatening club. “Let us through!” He grabbed Zen’s arm to drag him free from the clutch of his fans, making slow but sure progress toward the sunlight outside. The crowd was still surging in through the out door, but Roni pushed against the tide, stepped on a few toes, and took a wicked hit to the groin. He gasped and bent forward, clutching his family jewels and bumping his head on the doorframe. For a moment he thought he might puke, but he clenched his teeth against vertigo. Zen steered him toward an opening with the strength of a bouncer, and they burst out onto the street.
“Shit,” Roni said as he rubbed circulation into his crotch.
“You okay?”
Zen’s fake leopard skin had been torn in half and his bulging pectoral muscles glistened with sweat—he really was Tarzan, a boy with the strength of a horse. Roni laughed.
“What?”
Roni waved a weak arm. “Nothing. Let’s get out of here.” He started haltingly forward, and Zen followed in his wake.
“Is it always like this in the news business?”
Roni laughed again. “No, sociologists will be studying this for months to come, trying to analyze the crowd behaviour—pent-up pressure released like a steam whistle, cultural imbalance, economic inequality, all that crap. A whole raft of kids will get thesis funding from the government. This is how history is made.”
“Is this all part of your strategy?”
“Ha, my strategy? No, I’m just a reporter, a watchman on the tower. Someone else is planning this news, and I’m going to find out who.”
They ducked into a transit station and palmed a sensor for access uptown. An amber light showed around Zen’s hand with a hum of warning.
“You’d better login to the V-net soon, before your creds run out,” Roni said as they stepped into a crowded tram and found an open area to stand. “Just tune in to a comedy show or something.”
“I will,” Zen said, but his voice lacked assurance. “Why was Ngazi doing a dino-bird dance?”
“The hand flap? That’s just a thing autistic people do to relieve tension. Sometimes it’s their only outlet. Have you seen it before?”
“It’s the mating dance of a male dino-bird. He stiffens the red crest at the back of his head and jumps up and down, sticking his neck out and flapping his wings.” Zen held his arms aloft and poked his head forward in curious imitation of a hand flap.
Roni laughed and shook his head at the absurdity. “Who knew Ngazi was so talented? A red-crested dino-bird, huh?”
“They’re actually quite dangerous,” Zen said without humour. “They can pierce a man’s skull with their pointed beak.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’ll keep my distance.”
They made it back to Roni’s apartment unscathed and quickly cracked out the allkool. Roni downed a stiff shot to get his thoughts in order. Man, what a day, good times for all.
Zen chose a lemon-lime mix for his allkool, a girly drink, and sipped it with hesitance. He made his way to the common room and settled into his own private catatonia on the couch. That was okay, the kid had been dragged out of his comfort zone and Roni felt responsible. But, he had to admit as events settled in his mind, today they had broken this case wide open.
Roni put on some relaxing music in the background with flutes, chimes, and assorted percussion sounds, and opened a window to get some ventilation. He planned a warm meal for dinner to celebrate their misadventure, stir-fried veggies in a garlic base ladled over rice noodles. His second allkool went down slower, seasoned with oak extract and whiskey spice, as he gathered resources from the refrigerator—zucchini, mushrooms, carrots, and an onion. The simple kitchen rituals calmed him down as he crushed garlic and diced vegetables on a plastic cutting board. The smells stole his attention for a transient moment as he worked. Food was a universal language, common ground for all humanity. Even biogens had to eat.
When all was prepared, Roni called Zen to the kitchen and woke him from his trance. He served the noodles on ceramic plates and ladled out the garnish as the boy pulled up a stool. Zen studied his plate for a moment and pinched up some pasta with his fingers to sample the strange concoction. Roni tapped his fork on his plate and showed by example how to twirl noodles onto the tines with a chunk of veggie on the tip to hold the bite in place. Zen was not adept at using flatware and made a colourful mess on the table, but neither one of them cared as the allkool began to flow in their veins. They chatted about life on Bali, and Zen recounted tales of hunting fresh meat in the desert, chasing down baby raptors with dune buggies at dusk with a torrid sun hovering on the horizon.
The boy was an alien. His body was adapted to an exotic environment with thin air and strong gravity, and his mind was focused on the flesh, the struggle for food and companionship, simple things that digital civilization took for granted. Water was the most precious thing he could imagine. Gold was as common as dirt, something they hauled up from the ground and sold by the bucket. And the sun, which everyone else regarded as the source of life and electricity, worshipped by humans since the dawn of time, was for him a vicious enemy, a killer.
Gladyz arrived at their door late in the evening with an open travel thermos in hand, still dressed in her wide-lapel skirtsuit from work and reeking of allkool. It was Heritage eve, so what the hell. Roni swung open the door. “C’mon in.”
“Thanks. Is he here?”
“Hi, Gladyz,” Zen said from the common room, comfortably slouched at one end of the couch, bare-legged in boxers and a pyjama shirt.
“Sorry to intrude,” Gladyz said with a slur. “You guys gettin’ busy?”
Roni frowned. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Juz’ a titch,” Gladyz said as she waltzed into the room and twirled in a quick inspection. “You’ve never invited me over. Lovely spot. So spacious.” She wandered around peeking in open doorways.
Roni freshened his drink from a jug of mix in the refrigerator. With great deliberation, he and Zen had concocted a fruit drink from a recipe called tequila sunrise. “Two bedrooms, one bath, nothing special.”
“Magnificent view of the park,” Gladyz said as she peered out a window near the couch. “At least you’re putting your bonus creds to good use.”
Zen sat up a bit straighter at her proximity, his docility replaced by sudden vigilance like a hunter sensing game. Roni sipped his allkool. A leopard on the prowl? No, that was too weird. “You out on the town tonight? Want to hop the boulevard?”
Gladyz sank into the couch near the midpoint, close to Zen but not touching. “No, I wanted to party with the boys. Just take it easy.” She turned woozily to Zen and sipped from her thermos.
Zen smiled with cautious grace.
“Let me get you a glass,” Roni said as he stepped forward and offered an open hand. “What are you drinking?”
Gladyz relinquished her thermos. “Sparkling white grape juice fermented with yeast. They call it bubbly champagne.” She turned back to Zen. “Want to taste?”
Before he could answer, she planted a kiss full on his lips, her body hunched over him, her hand firm on the armrest. One, two, three seconds—an awkward eternity of intimacy. She released him and smacked her lips with delight. “What do you think?”
Zen’s face contorted through a series of emotions, from surprise to disgust to a fearful curiosity. His eyes flicked to Roni and back to Gladyz as she settled into the couch with a drunken sigh of contentment. His face bloomed like a rose.
Roni held up a cautionary palm and hooded his eyes in signal to Zen not to panic. “That’s okay. We’ve all had a long day. Zen, come and help me mix drinks for a sec, will you?”
The boy bounded from his seat and followed Roni to the kitchen nook. He pointed back to Gladyz with his thumb. “I’m not comfor
table with her.”
“You and me both, kid. Let me have a word with her in private.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No. Hell, no.” That would be all he needed now—the famous Bali boy out wandering the streets with his belly full of tequila sunrise. “Just go to the washroom for a minute. I’ll be quick.” Zen nodded agreement, but his face was etched with confusion.
Roni hunted in his cupboards for a proper wine glass and ambled back to the common room with champagne in a fluted cylinder. “That was quite a show.”
“I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“You and ten thousand other V-net groupies. He’s just a kid.”
“Oh, c’mon, I’m not that old.” She stared at him. “I’m not dead.”
“But he’s from Bali.”
“That’s half the fun, Roni. Don’t you get it?”
“Yeah, yeah, the forbidden fruit. I just think we should show him more respect. We’re working together. We should keep a professional relationship.” He handed forward her glass of champagne, and his fingers trembled, and suddenly there it was out in the open—their awkward history as long-lost lovers. Damn, how did that get out?
Time seemed to warp around them at that moment of interpersonal insight. Everything was plain, the truth was stark, and nothing was ever lost. One intimate occasion from the past had cemented them together across the years—one brief fling kept under the lid of a warming pot on the stove, letting off a little steam now and again, but never coming to a boil.
A tear trickled from her eye as Gladyz hung her head. “They’re suing us, Roni. They’re threatening to shut us down.”
“What?” Roni blinked in shock. “Who?”
“Neurozonics. Today’s show will be our last unless we make a full public apology.”
Holy crap! Roni slumped into the couch beside her. “For what?”
Gladyz sniffed and turned to him. “Defamation.”
“No way!”
“You used the word nefarious twice in one segment.”
“I was making conjecture in the middle of a riot, the heat of the moment.”
“It doesn’t matter. Neurozonics is big. They control everything. Turns out they own our station through a subsidiary and have a button on our bandwidth. Do you know what giants do when they find a bug in their kitchen?”
Roni closed his eyes and let his head loll. “Shit.”
Gladyz sighed and took a slug of champagne. “I haven’t got the creds to live like this, Roni. I don’t have a pension.”
“No, I know, don’t worry. We’ll find a way. We always do.”
Gladyz shook her head. “The word came down from Colin Macpherson himself. We’re up against the gods this time.”
“The dead guy?”
“He was uploaded decades ago. He’s not dead—far from it.” She wiped at her cheeks with a sleeve. “He controls his empire from digital space, part of a consortium of eternal intellect. His clones look after the business of his estate.”
“I thought that was urban legend. You can’t believe everything you see in V-space. Most of it is pure machinima.”
“Don’t be a fool, Roni. Colin Macpherson built Cromeus from the ground up. He terraformed the planet and put oxygen in the air. He drew the blueprints for the city of New Jerusalem. Do you think he would hand it off to underlings?”
Roni’s stomach twisted like a serpent. He stood and began pacing the room. How could he fight against the king of the colonies, a ghost in V-space?
Zen poked his head in the room. “Everything okay in here?”
“C’mon in,” Gladyz said with a plastic smile as she smoothed her skirt on her thighs. “I’ll play nice, I promise.”
Zen picked up his tequila sunrise from the kitchen nook and took a seat in a chair by himself a safe distance away. “Any news about Simara?”
Gladyz sipped her sparkling wine and studied him as though considering an apology. Nope, not her style. “The hospital quieted down after Roni pulled the plug on the flash mob. You can visit her tomorrow and spend the day. Do you celebrate Heritage on Bali?”
“No, we worship Kiva, god of the universe.”
“Oh, right, I read about that. Does he communicate?”
“He hears our prayers and sends rain in season.”
“Ahh, the usual stuff.”
“I know he probably has many names on other worlds and back on Earth, but there’s only one God.” He brandished a bold face that seemed defensive, a bit insecure in a strange place.
“I believe you,” Gladyz said. “That’s a wonderful sentiment.”
“Do you worship on Heritage? Or meditate?”
“Me? No. I try to catch up on my sleep. The Daily Buzz really saps my energy. I guess I’m not very religious.”
Roni stopped his pacing in the centre of the room as a sword of light pierced his darkness. “I’ll go see him in person!”
Gladyz squinted at him with a puzzle on her forehead. “Who, God?”
“Colin Macpherson, the owner of Neurozonics. I’ll go off-camera, man to cybersoul, or clone, or whatever—completely off the record. He’ll see me. He has to …” Roni paused and struck a pose to put his famous profile in view. “I’m Roni Hendrik from the Daily Buzz.”
TEN
The headquarters of Neurozonics was located in the outskirts of New Jerusalem near the main nuclear reactor, close to a safe and stable power source. Antimatter energy might be the efficient choice in space where derivatives could be freely dispersed, but traditional fission had the best shelf life in proximity to humans. The Neurozonics building was a squat cinderblock cube covered in beige stucco with white trim around porthole windows. Overtop the entrance, a backlit logo in blue and gold featured a lightning bolt slashing the company name exactly in half, replacing the z and making it a capital Zonics just under the Neuro. The effect was trendy and futuristic.
Roni stepped off the tram and found the plate-glass doors locked. Inside there was a woman with platinum hair ensconced in a circular desk surrounded by flashing data like the captain at the helm of a flying saucer. He palmed a sensor beside the entrance, and the woman peered over from her work to appraise him. Her silver bangs were cropped along her eyebrows in a pageboy cut, her dark eyes framed with glittery highlights. She rose from her chair with cultured grace as twin glass doors swung inward with welcome. She wore a silver dress cut high at the thigh, her muscular legs sculpted like a bodybuilder’s, her barefoot gait like a lioness.
Roni put his toe in the doorway as she approached. “Hi, I’m—”
“Roni Hendrik,” she said as she clamped his hand with assurance. “I’m Niri. Big fan. Love the show.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“I was so excited to hear you were coming in person for an interview.” Her smile was like a velvet glove. “You must know what all the girls from the gym are saying round town—anyone would kill to get on the Daily Buzz with the Bali boy.” She lowered her voice in confidence. “They’re supposed to be good with their hands.” Her eyeballs rolled up into her forehead to scan some wirehead data, and blinked back to him with enthusiasm, her painted eyebrows arched like thin crescent moons above her eyes. “Come in and have a seat.”
Niri swivelled with ease on her bare feet and led him toward her desk complex with an elegant sashay. Her stylish mini-dress rose modestly to her throat in a choker collar, but her shoulders and arms were bare, her overdeveloped muscles like braided cords below her bronzed skin. Roni wondered if she might be a robot, cold like moulded plastic.
The circular desk and two office chairs were the only furnishings in the room. The Neurozonics logo featured prominently on one wall with bold silver letters underneath: Building Better Brains. Roni followed Niri up one step into her workstation and took a seat. They were surrounded by sixteen active thoughtscreens with images flashing like lightning and text scrolling by at rates too fast for comprehension. Webcam lenses glinted in the corner of each monitor.
�
�These are the sixteen facets of the eternal consortium,” Niri said.
Roni nodded. Cybersouls in storage. “Only sixteen?”
“These are executive groups, organized according to personality traits. I’m not sure exactly how they work it out.”
“And this is how they communicate with you?”
“It does help. I’m hardwired, of course, but I’m not omnidroid, so I can barely keep up.”
Roni studied the torrent of images on a few screens. He could make no sense of it. “I was hoping to interview someone in the flesh.”
Niri smiled. “I’m the official representative and interface with the material world.”
“What about Colin Macpherson?”
“He has long since transfigured to machine intelligence.”
“Can’t I speak with one of his clones?”
“The Macpherson clones all live in quickened states to stay connected with their progenitor. They’re not readily available. You must appreciate the passage of time in digital reality.” Niri waved a palm at the frenetic thoughtscreens around them. “Life is a million times faster. Minds that drop out of eternity just to speak with us could lose ages from their existence, relatively speaking. Everything in mundane space goes through me.”
“Then you know why I’m here.”
“You’ve been summoned because of slanderous comments made on a public newscast. Neurozonics is very concerned about keeping a good corporate image.”
“Perhaps an apology is in order.”
Niri glanced at a screen to her left. “We’re not convinced it will be heartfelt.”
“All the omnidroids were manufactured right here in this building. Does Neurozonics deny a continuing relationship?”
“Yes. This facility has been closed for many years. Physical reality has been outsourced.”
“I find that hard to believe. Look at you and your impossible physique. You’re obviously being micro-managed by the corporate executive in every detail of fashion.”
Niri smiled. “We’re very much alike, you and I. We’re both paid to play the harlequin onstage. You may have a bigger audience, but mine is just as demanding. I wear silver because it’s company policy.” She spread her palms in feigned helplessness. “We’re supposed to be from the future, so it’s expected.”
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