by John Bruni
“He sound familiar?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”
“Arrested for whorehopping, back when that was illegal, and a few battery charges. Nothing ever stuck. Even though he hasn’t had a job in ten years, it would seem Bob here manages to get out of everything. He must have friends in high places.”
“He’s got to be working for Coppergate. This can’t be coincidence.”
“Let me access his LiveStream. Hold on.”
Jimmy watched as Jack’s energy wrestled with a bundle of data, shifting and struggling, almost like a fighter. Finally, he stopped and said, “Nothing. That can’t be, unless he works for the government. Or . . .”
Jimmy nodded. “Right.”
Jack slipped and changed, almost into a worm, as he tried to follow some path Jimmy couldn’t see. After a moment of churning and twisting, Jack reformed, his nerves glowing, twitching like an electrified mouse. “A pathway can’t disappear. It can only be disguised. I just looked for others vanishing in just the same way, and I think I’m on to something. There are six others matching the same pattern. No more.”
“Then, this is it.”
“Yes.”
“Can you trace the others? Maybe we can cut these fuckers off at the root.”
Jack trembled, as if a breeze had run through his ethereal form. “No. This is a professional job. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ll need some time.”
Jimmy grimaced, and even though he had no face to betray his impatience, his aura flashed and gave him away.
“I know,” Jack said. “It sucks. But—“
“Let’s just go to Coppergate’s place and raid it. Nail them in their own den of affluence.”
“We need to play this cool, Jimmy. If we make a mistake, we’re fucked. Well, maybe I’d be fucked. You, I don’t know. They can’t afford to get rid of a journalist. But they’d feed me to their fucking gargoyles.”
Jack didn’t need to tell him that. Still, he burned to get these fuckers. Jimmy had been after them for five years, ever since he first caught a whiff of the game from a drunken police officer. Now, this close, he felt like flinging caution into the garbage disposal.
“Just give me time. I need to try to hack their LiveStreams. Maybe I can trace them through Steve’s. If I can do that, we’re in business. In the meantime, why don’t you stake out Lenny’s?”
Jimmy knew the theory that as soon as Coppergate had briefed his contestants, he had the collectors drop them back off where they had first been captured. Maybe he could catch this Bob Whiteman in the act and—
“No,” Jack said. “If you take them, Coppergate will know someone is on to him. We need to be incognito. Shit, man. You’re a journalist. You can do that, right?”
Well, journalism hadn’t been about being incognito for quite some time. No, these days the fifth column stood more for whoever could speak the loudest. But Jimmy didn’t subscribe to that train of thought. His heroes in the industry were long dead, and they would be considered too subversive for today’s audience.
“Right?”
“Right,” Jimmy said.
“Good. Now give me some time to figure shit out. If you need me, you don’t have to come here. Just call me. Or come out and see me at my cabin.”
“But—“
“No one is watching us. I’m off the grid, for the most part, and you’re just the court jester the powers-that-be use to keep the people in bread and circuses. They know you’d never do anything to kill your cushy job. Just enough to make your audience think you’re on the edge.”
Jimmy wished Jack wouldn’t put it like that. It made him feel low, kind of like he brushed his teeth with Uncle Sam’s pecker. But Jack had the score right.
“Come on, man,” Jack said. “You know what I mean. Don’t get all pouty on me.”
Jack’s energy flickered, and Jimmy knew the drug had finally dissipated in his system. His body had probably just sweated out its remnants. He ran on fumes. “All right. I’ll contact you as soon as I know something.”
Jack’s nerves blacked out, and the fire boiled away into nothingness. Jimmy felt himself falling through data streams again as the digital flesh of his avatar slithered over his energy. Bones firmed his body up, and he could feel his own weight crash down on his consciousness, pulling him back to the earth, tethering him back into the virtual city of his computer.
Then, he forced himself back through the wifi connection into his body. His eyes snapped open. He looked to his left and saw the time readout; only a minute had passed since he’d left reality. He shut down his system and snapped another cigarette to life. He sucked down SyntheSmoke and chased it with a tug of bourbon from a nearby bottle. When he exhaled, he seemed to release all the tension in his body.
But his teeth still ground tightly against each other, and he wanted nothing more than to hug himself until the sensation passed.
It never would.
He removed his shoes and molted from his sweaty clothes as he headed for the bathroom to the shower. Chilly water cut across his flesh, reminding him that he no longer wandered the metaworld, and he scrubbed the day from his pores. He thought about Steve, about where his friend might be, and about what he might be able to do to help the poor bastard. Even as he dried himself off, he knew that anything he had to offer to Steve would be a long shot. Yet, it was better than nothing.
Jimmy got dressed, and he took one more drink to fortify himself before he set out to the streets, to what he hoped would be the culmination of five long years of investigative journalism. To what he hoped would be the end of a terrible game. To what he hoped would be the crushing blow to a group of rich fucks who thought they were above the law.
He had high hopes for Jack LeCroix, but he didn’t have a lot of faith in himself.
Chapter 1
The limo hissed along its track down the street like a predator, shadows creeping across its waxed, black body and shining chrome. The tinted windows reflected flashing lights and the faces of fuckslingers and mutants as it eased past the filthy islands lining the polluted rivers of pavement. The city howled with sin and crime, shaking buildings and souls, but the inside of the limo remained quiet.
Edward Bridges liked it that way. He glanced out at the needy, desperate faces staring back at him; some with disdain, some with desire. He tried to remember what it was like to be among their number and found that he couldn’t, even though he’d been homeless only a year before now. Wealth suited him so well he couldn’t imagine what it had been like without money. Survival was merely something you asked the cook to whip up for you. Even though he owed this luxury to pure happenstance, he felt like he’d earned it with blood. Surely enough, he had.
He reached around the woman’s bobbing head and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the mini bar. Back in the old days, he would have been happy with common rotgut. Now? He settled for nothing less than a five hundred dollar bottle of Kentucky’s finest. He plunked two ice cubes into a glass and poured in a couple of inches of amber spirits. Normally, he drank it straight, mostly because he didn’t really have any obligations to attend to (he had billions of dollars, who did he need to stay sober for?), but tonight, he knew he had to stay fairly straight. He would be up for at least a couple of days without sleep, so this would have to be his last glass of booze for a while. From here on out, he would have to rely on the vials of cocaine he carried with him at all times. Sure, he could probably find a variety of crazy drugs promising to do all kinds of things, but Edward liked to be old school. Coke would get the job done.
The fuckslinger hit a good spot with her tongue, and his body tightened. “Damn, woman. Do that again.”
He felt her smile around his shaft, and she complied. He moaned and took a sip from his drink. Whiskey burned down into his belly, turning it into a furnace. He closed his eyes and moved his hips.
Something tapped on the window, and Edward noticed for the first time that the limo had come to a h
alt. His driver stood outside, and behind him stood the Wingate mansion, rising up like a castle in the background.
Edward looked down at the blonde hair flowing down his legs like golden waterfalls. “Come on, baby. You gotta hurry up.”
She said something with her mouth full. The hum made him suck his breath in and clench his buttocks. Getting there.
He tossed the whiskey back and put the empty glass in an armrest cup holder. With his hands free, he let them sift through her hair, wrapping his fingers in her beautiful tresses until his grip allowed him to push her head up and down. Quicker. Quicker.
Showtime. He convulsed in her mouth. She tried to pull away, but Edward held her head in place, waiting until every drop of his satisfaction oozed out of him. She wheezed through her nose, and as soon as he released her head, she reached for a glass.
“No,” Edward said. “Swallow it.”
“Nn-nh.” She picked up the glass, but Edward lashed out, knocking it from her hands. It thumped on the carpet but did not break.
He grinned so hard he could feel his lips crackling. “What the fuck do I pay you for? Swallow it. Cunt.”
She looked at him, panic in her shifting eyes. Her lips—once painted thickly with lipstick—pooched, desperate to spit out his seed, but she didn’t dare do it. When she didn’t gulp it down, he grabbed her jaw to keep her mouth closed and pinched her nose shut. She moaned and tried to slap his hands away, but he held firm against her quivering face. She tried to hold her breath, hoping he’d see her determination and decide that she was too tough to bully, but the viscous fluid in her mouth made her want to gag.
She didn’t even make it a minute.
Edward released her and patted her on the head. “Good girl.”
Cowed, she asked, “Can I have a drink?”
Edward nodded. He watched as she poured a glass to the brim with hard liquor and quaffed it like a pro in three gulps. As she did this, he accessed his account and prepared the transaction. A hundred for the blowjob. No tip, though. Fucking bitch should know that the customer is always right.
They used the chip reader in the back of the limo to complete the transaction, and the driver let him out. Edward emerged, letting his cock drop back into his fly, zipping up as he stood. He told the driver to take the girl back to the Sleaze Strip, and he approached the Wingate mansion.
The building sprawled across what must have been a half-mile at the least, surrounded by well-manicured grass and bushes. Some of the topiary had been shaved into the form of animals. Lights illuminated every feature, reducing dark beauty to stark exposure. In the center of it all stood the giant front door, easily twenty feet tall, inlaid with an elegant gold—real gold—pattern. By each side of this door stood two guards in ornate cloaks that went down to their feet. Rapiers hung from their belts, though they were much more adept at using the semiautomatic weapons slung low under their shoulders and out of sight. Circles popped up over their faces, but Edward dismissed them, not caring to know who they were.
“Good evening, Mr. Bridges,” one of them said. He enunciated his words perfectly. Until Edward had become rich, he didn’t think anyone could do that without affecting an English accent. “You are expected, sir.”
The guard opened the door, allowing Edward to step across the threshold and into the opulence of Charles Wingate’s home.
The butler walked swiftly toward Edward. “May I take your overcoat, sir?”
“Sure.” He let his coat slip down over his shoulders to his elbows, revealing the sharp black suit beneath. The butler eased the coat the rest of the way off and brought it to the closet.
“Mr. Wingate is waiting for you in the parlor, Mr. Bridges.”
“Thanks.” But to Edward, it was an empty word. It had no meaning, not even when he’d been homeless. Its appearance in his speech only stood testament to force of habit, something beaten into him by his boring and preachy parents.
He made his way down the hallway, enthralled by the echoing sound of his own footsteps. Nothing quite matched the sound of good shoes clopping down a resonant corridor, and he still couldn’t get over it. It struck him as a very rich sound.
When he got to the parlor, a voice rang out immediately. “Edward! Come in, come in! Good to see you!”
Charles Wingate advanced toward him, holding his hand out. Edward tried not to grimace as he took the offered hand and pumped twice. Charles wore strong cologne, and wherever he went, he left its odor like a vapor trail. He wore a smoking jacket and held a loaded pipe in his left hand. His silver hair swept back like a bird’s wing, thick and lustrous despite his fifty-five years.
“Good to see you, too.”
“Hello, Edward.” This from William O’Neill. Edward couldn’t believe the guy still had that stupid pencil line mustache resting lazily on his upper lip like a fecal smear. Also, his hair had thinned noticeably since last year. Back then, it had looked pretty nice, hair that Edward had even envied a little, but now, large patches of his scalp shone through his slicked-back dark hair.
Edward thought that if he ever started balding, he’d do something about it. He had ten billion dollars at his immediate disposal, to say nothing of the vast billions he had invested in various places. All of that money could ensure that every hair on his head stayed where it belonged. William had no excuse for letting his own go.
Edward shook William’s limp hand and grimaced. It felt like he’d just handled a dead animal.
William turned to a young man Edward didn’t recognize. “I’d like you to meet my son, George. George, this is Edward Bridges.”
George stood at about five-nine, compared to his father’s towering six-four, and he definitely didn’t have his father’s hair. George’s stood out in all directions, greasy and tangled. Pimples stood out like lights on his pale flesh. If not for his gray eyes and aquiline nose, Edward would have thought William’s wife had been cheating on him.
When they shook hands, Edward grimaced yet again, appalled to learn that George had inherited his father’s grip. Edward remembered when he was a kid, and his father had taught him that when you shake a man’s hand, you look him in the eyes, squeeze hard, and pump. A man who didn’t do the same couldn’t be trusted.
“And,” his father had added in hushed tones, “the guy might be, you know, one of . . . those types.” His hand tilted back and forth.
“Nice to meet you, George.” Although he didn’t much like the look of the kid. Young George did not appear very comfortable in his suit. He fidgeted, probably not used to such garments.
“George is going to inherit my business when I pass on,” William said, “so I thought he’d like to see what goes with it.”
Edward forced a smile on his face. “You’ll love it, kid.” Even though George looked like he might be twenty-five. Edward himself only had thirty years under his belt.
Edward reached into his suit coat and slipped out a gold cigarette holder, from which he removed a single, virgin white rod. Edward put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth before squeezing the end and breathing sweet, safe, soothing SyntheSmoke.
Charles handed Edward an ashtray with the face of the President on it. Most of it had been smudged away, as if the maid didn’t clean the ashtray properly. He flicked the first clump of environment-friendly ash off into it and settled into one of the chairs.
“Anyone else here yet?”
“Hello, Edward.”
Edward turned to see Richard Coppergate had just made his entrance, or at least what was left of him. The word “old” simply didn’t apply to someone as ancient as Coppergate. He sat hunched over in a wheelchair, which looked more like a rolling throne. The wheels aside, it could have belonged in an old English castle. A lever on one armrest stood out, which he used to steer himself.
Coppergate didn’t even look like he should have been alive. His real teeth were long gone, but he’d had them replaced by implants. They were all cold metal, and they were each filed to a point, like a cannibal’s. His
hands, gnarled and liver-spotted, hung off the armrests of his wheelchair, and his long, yellow fingernails stretched out like claws. His shriveled head looked like a jaundiced prune, wisps of hair hanging from the back like a cloak of cobwebs. His eyes, though, were the worst. He’d lost his sight back in 2178, but such a rich man didn’t have to put up with such trifling matters as blindness. He had his eyes removed and replaced by the best optics technology available. He had better than 20/20 vision now, but he’d requested no eye color, no pupils, nothing. His eyes were pure white orbs hanging above his bulbous nose.
As gnarled as Coppergate looked, Edward couldn’t think of anyone scarier or more intimidating.
Behind Coppergate’s wheelchair stood a young woman in a dark suit carrying a suitcase. Edward knew from experience that it contained the old man’s legs. Not his real legs, which he’d lost in 2164, but the robotic ones he’d had custom made. In his old age, Coppergate rarely had the energy to use them, but on special occasions, he’d push aside the blanket that covered his lower half, and he’d latch the robot legs onto his stumps. This display usually disgusted Edward, and he hoped he never had to see it again.
As for the young woman, she stood only a half-foot taller than Coppergate sat, and her stout body betrayed her thick muscles and all the strength they entailed. She moved Coppergate from bed to chair, from chair to toilet, and so on. She also, as Edward understood it, bathed Coppergate and wiped his ass. Edward supposed she was decent looking, but he’d never want to fuck her. If a woman looked like she could kick his ass, he didn’t want any part of her. Another of his father’s rules.
“Hello, Richard,” Edward said. He didn’t move to shake the old man’s hand. He considered it a blessing that Coppergate hated to be touched by other men. He didn’t want to find out how dry and leathery the old man’s hand would be.
The others made their salutations, and Richard said, “It’s good to see you all.” His low and shaky voice crawled over Edward’s ears like a dying spider.
Coppergate turned his blank eyes on Edward. “Welcome to your first year in these proceedings.”