Behind the Perez Valve Company there was a pair of loading docks, but these had been claimed by other street people, who had used scrap material from the derelict factory’s inoperative trash zapper to build enclosed shelters upon the elevated platforms. So last night, the homeless person had simply lain against the factory’s graffiti-splashed flank, using his bent arm for a pillow. He didn’t have to worry about being rained upon, after all, and the temperature was regulated down here, always comfortable unless there was the occasional glitch in climate control. Therefore, he didn’t really need to build a shelter. He simply slept in this alley or that, at most pulling a plastic tarp over himself. When he had first found the blue plastic tarp, he had dragged it behind him loosely in his wanderings, but later he realized that it was better to roll it in a tube and carry it with him that way during the hours that corresponded with daylight. Finally, he had had the notion to tear a hole in the center of the sheet and wear it over his head like a long poncho, covering his previously naked body.
He had awoken hungry, as he did every day. So hungry. Yesterday he had seen two street people scrounging through a trash zapper behind an Indian restaurant. The spicy smells of cooking from inside had made his innards gurgle, but when he had shambled toward the two men to join them, they had yelled and thrown trash at him to chase him off. Forlornly, he had moved away.
Now, as always, he tried to keep to the alleys as he navigated Subtown. Peering out from one of these, he spotted an outdoors café (if it could be spoken of as such), spilling onto the sidewalk. He lingered in the alley mouth until a nicely dressed couple got up from their table, leaving behind a little coffee in their mugs and half a croissant on one plate. He emerged from the alley and went to the table, snatching up the piece of croissant just before the waiter reappeared and started shouting at him. He hurried away, glancing over his shoulder to see the waiter protectively gather up some slips of colored paper that the nicely dressed couple had also left behind them on the table.
He ducked into another narrow passage between buildings, and there brought the croissant up to his face. Some of it had flaked away in his tight grip, but he studied the smashed bit that lay in his palm. He stared and stared at it, so hungry. But he could not think of how to get the succulent morsel into that empty place that yawned inside his body.
Two youths stepped into the end of the alley, laughing, holding a woman’s handbag between them. As they clawed through the pouch, little bits of this and that dropped to the alley floor. Coins. A container of mints. A little glass bottle that smashed with a tinkle and emitted a strong flowery scent.
Giggling, babbling. Their happiness inspired the homeless person. He moved forward out of the shadows, shuffled toward them. Maybe they could help him. Show him what to do.
“Whoa!” said one of the youths, looking up at the homeless person’s approach.
“Dung, man,” the other laughed, to hide the fact that he’d been startled. “What the hell you want, you mutated freak?”
The homeless person stopped a few paces away, almost the same height as the two boys but bulkier. The rustling plastic cloak he wore made him look bulkier still. He lifted his arm, extended his fist and opened it, revealing the smashed remnant of croissant there. He wanted to make the noises they made, but he could not. All he could do was hope that they understood his mute gesture. Helped him to feed, and appease this perplexing hunger.
“Thanks, freak, but I’m not hungry,” the darker-skinned of the two boys said. He stepped up to the homeless person and slapped the piece of croissant out of his hand. It went flying, landed on the ground. The boy then backed off, sputtering laughter. They both laughed.
The homeless person looked down at the morsel on the ground. He then looked up again, and moved closer to the boys imploringly. So confused. So hungry. He continued to hold out the empty hand in which the croissant had rested.
“Get back, wanker,” the lighter-faced youth snapped, lunging and shoving at his shoulders. “Go beg someplace else.”
But the homeless person was heavy, despite his hollow hunger, and barely moved when pushed. He did not drop his extended arm.
The dark-faced boy tore something out from under his jacket. Was he taking pity? Knowing that he had not been able to find a way to get the croissant inside, did the boy have something more suitable to offer him? But the hard black object he gripped in his fist did not look like food, and it did not look like he was willing to hand it over, either. The gun made a little electronic blip to announce that its safety feature had been thumbed off.
The homeless person reached out his arm a little further. He tried to touch the lighter-skinned boy on the arm.
“Get off me!” he cried, stumbling back against the alley wall.
“Blasting freak,” the black boy snarled, lowering his gun and putting one shot into the homeless person’s distended belly.
This stolen gun did not fire solid projectiles, but a short beam of light of an intense purple color. Like an arrow, it pierced his belly, its entire length disappearing inside him. The arrow of light left a black, puckered hole. A little dribble of clear fluid, as thick as syrup, wept out of the puncture beneath his poncho.
Had the boy meant to feed him, by injecting some sort of nourishment directly into that hungry place? He didn’t think so. It only made him feel more hollowed out in there. And besides, it hurt. It hurt badly.
The homeless person didn’t like to hurt. He didn’t like these would-be friends.
He swept his other arm, and it struck the black boy on the wrist. There was a snap of bones and the hand flipped over at an extreme angle. The gun he’d been holding went sailing down the alley, skittered across its floor. He began to scream, but the homeless person’s other hand clamped across his face, and squeezed, and lifted. Between thick digits, the boy’s eyes darted madly. The hand squeezed tighter, causing one of the maddened eyes to be ejected from its socket, bulging out between two of the fingers. When the homeless person slammed the boy’s limp, dangling body against the wall again and again, the other eye stopped moving, too.
“Dung, dung, dung!” the lighter-skinned boy cried, bolting out of the alley. He even tried racing through a gap in the street’s traffic, but he misjudged his trajectory and the speed of the vehicles he plunged between. A silver hovercar tapped him enough to spin him around, but a red hovercar struck him hard enough to sweep him right out of the homeless person’s range of sight.
He released the black boy, watched him flop to the alley floor at his feet. The smell of the red fluid leaking from the splits in the youth’s skull made his innards gurgle all the more insistently, but he didn’t know how to get that stuff inside him, either.
Tensing up his body against the molten pain inside him, he turned and sought out the dropped morsel of croissant. He went to it and stooped to retrieve it. This action made the pain stab him more deeply, but he dealt with it. Straightening, he studied the morsel again. Then, he lifted the edge of his makeshift cloak, and crammed the food into the little black hole the boy had burned through the blue plastic, burned through his flesh.
Using his finger, he pushed the crushed pastry inside as far as he could. But it did not even begin to alleviate his hunger.
Later in the day, as he resumed his wandering through the labyrinth of alleys, his body finally pushed that crumpled piece of croissant out of him again. There was one good thing, however. The black hole closed, sealed up, and was gone as if it had never existed. And shortly after that, the hot pain inside him subsided as well.
But the hunger remained.
SEVEN: THE DOPPLER EFFECT
While he followed John Fukuda to their table, Stake took in the people who had already sat down to their lunch. Most of them were men in expensive five-piece suits, some of whom had left overcoats and bowler hats – the current fashion for the stylish businessman – with a robot attendant which would not misplace a single item. But one article of clothing that many of the men continued to flaunt proudl
y caused Stake to give a derisive smirk. Tucked into a pocket of their jackets like a handkerchief, these men wore a soiled pair of teenage girls’ panties. Preferably white, though sometimes with a soft flowery pattern or even cute (kawaii) designs such as the adorable jellyfish that proliferated on clothing lately. Other men, though, wore their panties tucked into the collar of their shirts, hanging down their fronts like a tie. One gentleman who was just being seated actually wore his pair across his lower face like a mask to filter his breathing. Presumably he would remove it in order to eat. The two sharply-dressed adult women being seated with him appeared utterly indifferent to this accoutrement, apparently not insulted by the fact that their own larger personal garments would not be coveted in this way.
Stake touched Fukuda’s elbow, causing him to pause and face him. “What do you think of this fad with the panties, Mr. Fukuda, having a teenage daughter of your own? I’ve heard girls even younger than Yuki sell their underwear to panty brokers, who put them in those vending machines you see around.”
Fukuda’s hands were tucked into his jacket pockets. He withdrew his right hand just far enough to reveal a shimmering membrane of white silk that he rubbed between his fingers. “Cotton is most popular, but I find the touch of silk more calming.” His eyes twinkled, testing Stake’s reaction.
Stake couldn’t stop himself from stammering, “Those aren’t...Yuki’s?”
Fukuda lost his twinkle immediately, exchanging it for a look of dismay. “What? Of course not!” It seemed to take him a moment to compose himself, after the rattling suggestion that he might fetishize an article of his own child’s clothing. “Mr. Stake, in the community of Luzon, here in town, a man might savor the taste of dog. But he will not eat his own. And he will protect his dog from ending up on someone else’s plate, too. Do you catch my meaning?”
Stake caught it only too well, but he wanted to pursue the matter and ask how his client would feel if he learned that one of these businessmen were right now wearing his daughter’s used dainties, sold by Yuki to one of those entrepreneurs who in turn dispensed them through vending machines in subway stations, malls, and even in the washrooms of upscale nightclubs, but he decided not to poke the man about his hypocrisy. It was no different from a man having no qualms about a woman selling her body – so long as he had not sired that body. Anyway, they were now holding up traffic behind them, and needed to seat themselves at their own table instead of standing in the midst of these others.
The executive cafeteria of Fukuda Bioforms was smaller, more intimate than the one in which Stake had lunched with Yuki Fukuda. It was more of a restaurant, really, and once they were settled a wait staff served them their drinks and salads. Though Stake was sure the general cafeteria for the hordes of office drones and lab techs was considerably less swanky.
Hemmed in by tropical potted plants and subdued lighting, Fukuda and his guest hovered over their blood orange martinis until their steaks arrived. Fukuda had insisted on ordering for Stake, after first determining that he was not a vegetarian. He watched avidly as the private investigator cut off a tender chunk of filet mignon, popped it into his mouth and chewed.
“Mm.” He nodded. “Mmm. Don’t tell me – from your deadstock, right?”
“Oh, Mr. Stake, you ruined my surprise. Yes, it is. Wonderful, eh?”
“It really is. Very delicious. Thank you.”
“Janice Poole phoned me to say that you had talked with her about the daughter of Adrian Tableau. And talk of that butcher Tableau put me in mind to treat you to something of a far better quality than the blobs he churns out at Tableau Meats.”
“The consumer gets what he pays for, I guess.” Mention of Janice Poole made Stake want to casually establish how well acquainted with her Fukuda truly was, but he knew it wasn’t relevant to the matter at hand, and he couldn’t say he was jealous enough, yet, to obsess over it. So instead, he focused on Fukuda’s relationship with this Adrian Tableau. “Then you two are definitely not fond of each other.”
“He’s the one who seems to have a problem with me, though there’s room in the market for us both. This is a hungry town, and we both ship our product as near as the city of Miniosis and as far as the planet Earth. But our client base is a little different. As you say, his products appeal to those with less discriminating tastes.”
“And less money.”
“Yes. Not that our products are overpriced, just of a higher grade. Well, I suppose that after the Alvine Products scandal and the closing of their plant, Adrian grew used to having the market all to himself for a few years.”
“Do you think he hates you enough to have someone steal your daughter’s valuable kawaii-doll? If not his daughter Krimson, then another girl?”
“It’s a possibility. I was aware that his daughter had gone missing, but I never put that and the disappearance of Dai-oo-ika together until Janice brought it up to me in her call. Still, it’s a pretty indirect way for Tableau to attack me, unless his daughter did it on her own purely out of spite.”
“Yuki told me that a friend of Krimson’s claims to have heard her on a Ouija phone.”
“Bah.” Fukuda waved his fork dismissively, one cheek bulging with his own bite of steak. “I’m not convinced about those things. And even if they do enable people to speak with the trace energies of the departed in some alternate existence, it isn’t healthy. It isn’t meant for us to throw stones into the well of souls, so to speak, in some irreverent form of play.”
“Maybe we can learn from the dead.”
“I’ll find out about it firsthand one day. I can wait until then.”
“I think the kids are less afraid of this stuff than we are,” Stake observed. “More open-minded about the technology.”
“Or more naive. Or it could be that being older, we’re more uncomfortably aware of our own mortality.”
Stake wanted to ask Fukuda about his wife, then, especially now that he knew from Janice Poole that she had been murdered. But that had no bearing on the matter at hand, either. How could it? As Yuki had warned him, her father had loved his wife dearly. Why upset him if there were nothing to gain from it?
“Well,” Fukuda went on, “this is food for thought, anyway. Pardon the pun.” He poked at his steak with his knife, looking pensive. “I should hope it wasn’t Tableau behind it. I wouldn’t want to imagine why he’d want that doll.”
“I’ll look into it. Though honestly, I think it’s more likely that the daughter would do it on her own, instead of her father putting her up to it. But I don’t want to make limiting assumptions.”
“Mm,” muttered Fukuda, digesting thoughts that tasted decidedly less appetizing than the meat he savored. He looked up at last and studied Stake’s face. And smiled an odd, sad smile. “I don’t mean to make you self-conscious about it, so perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but in the past few minutes you’ve started to take on a resemblance to me again.”
Typically, Stake dropped his gaze. “Sorry.”
Fukuda laughed. “Why apologize? I don’t consider it a personal violation. As I’ve said, it intrigues me a great deal.” His smile faltered, took on that melancholy aspect again. “But seeing you this way does fill me with a strange emotion. You see, I had a twin brother – James. He died some years ago.”
Stake was plainly surprised. First Yuki’s revelation about her mother, and now this. Was their family under some curse? But then, Punktown was a dangerous place. Even so, shouldn’t the Fukudas’ wealth have insulated them a bit better from that?
“I didn’t realize,” he said. “I’m very sorry to hear it.” He didn’t know what he should say, how much curiosity was prudent. He couldn’t help it, though; it was his job, and thus his mind-set, to be curious. He asked, “Was he, uh, a fraternal twin or identical?”
“Identical. Like you’re becoming.”
“I’m not that good at this.”
“Good enough. It’s uncanny. So, this ability of yours must come in handy in your line of work.”
“It’s been useful. I can program faces into my wrist comp, like masks I carry with me.” He tapped its screen. “It gets me in places. It gets people to talk to me when they might not otherwise. I control it the best I can. If my look starts to slip, I just stare at my comp again. And if I need to be me again, I have my own face in here, too.”
“It’s all so amazing.”
“Sometimes I think what’s more amazing is that people’s cells are constantly being replenished, replaced, and yet they maintain their appearance. It’s like they clone themselves over and over and over again. Right down to every last mole and scar.”
“Hm. Yes.” Fukuda prodded at his meat some more. “We are fascinating organisms, aren’t we? The flesh is the ultimate clay; how could we as a species not want to mold it? We have tattooed it, pierced it, exercised to tone and build it, tanned it and tamed it. Modified it and improved upon it with bio-engineering.” He wagged his head, then sipped his martini. Observed his guest as if contemplating himself in a mirror. “Is that all you’ve been, then, a hired detective? Was that your dream from an early age? A romantic, idealized sort of profession? Or did you just fall into it?”
“More fell into it. I don’t know that I ever had a dream occupation, just a dream to escape Tin Town. I was born there.”
“Ohh, I see.”
“I joined the military at eighteen, to get out.”
“Really? And did you see action?”
“A full four-year stint in the Blue War.”
“You lived through that hell, eh? Thank God for that. And did they take you in spite of your mutation, or because of it?”
“They were enthusiastic about it. They started training me straight off for deep penetration missions, behind enemy lines.”
Deadstock: A Punktown Novel Page 8