by Jeff Edwards
“I know that,” I said. “I’m just following up on a few of the details for a friend of mine.”
After the usual transmission delay, Delaney shook his head. “I’m sorry Mr. Stalin, but I can’t. We’re not authorized to release police files to the public. You might try making a formal request through the District Attorney’s office.”
His eyes were practically burning a hole through the screen now.
“Thanks,” I said. “I might do that.”
Another delay.
“Sorry I couldn’t help you.”
He terminated the call.
I handed Vivien her phone.
She tossed it onto the couch-thing. “No luck?”
“Maybe,” I said. “If I’m reading between the lines correctly, I think he’ll get me the files. They’ll probably show up in the inbox of your phone a few days from now, sent from some anonymous account that has no traceable connection to LAPD or Detective Delaney. At least I hope that’s what he was telling me.”
Vivien came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and stood on tiptoe to nuzzle her lips against the side of my neck. Her voice was breathy and warm on my skin. “Who is this Rhiarra Dancer? Someone I should be jealous of?”
“Not at all,” I said. “She was an LAPD forensics tech. She was investigating black market applications of FANTASCAPE technology. She was also a confidential source for a story that your daughter was working on.”
Vivien disentangled her arms from my waist, all trace of flirtation gone instantly. “Can we get in touch with this woman? How much does she know?”
“We can’t talk to her,” I said. “She’s dead. Murdered. Possibly by the same people I came here to find.”
Vivien was all business now. “You need the police file? I can get it for you.”
“No,” I said. “Bad idea.”
There was a note of challenge in her tone. “Why is that?”
“Two reasons,” I said. “First, because that information came to me through sources I want to protect. And second, because I don’t want certain people in the LAPD hierarchy to know that we’re making a connection between Leanda’s disappearance and the death of Rhiarra Dancer.”
Vivien tightened the sash of her kimono with two quick jerks. “Which people? And why are we suddenly keeping secrets from the police? If we’re hoarding information, how are they going to find my daughter?”
Vivien began looking around, presumably trying to remember where she had tossed her phone.
“Please listen to me for a minute,” I said. “This is not about hoarding information.”
She wheeled to face me. “Then what is it about?”
Her voice was rising. “Are you worried that you won’t get paid if someone else finds Leanda first? If this is about money—”
I cut her off. “It’s not about money. You’re talking to the guy who turned down half a million marks to walk away from this case, remember?”
She started to say something, but I kept talking. “I need you to calm down for a minute, and listen to what I’m trying to say to you.”
She gave no sign of having heard me. “I don’t play games where my daughter is concerned.”
I fought to contain a sigh. “I’m not playing games. I’m trying to tell you why it’s a bad idea to bring the police into the loop…”
“Is this about territory?” she asked in an acid tone. “Because I don’t give a damn about territory, and I don’t give a flying fuck about who gets the credit for finding my daughter.”
I retrieved my windbreaker from the back of the chair and pulled it on.
Vivien was still talking, but I tuned her out. I was done with this conversation.
I found my travel bag. Arm-twister’s phone and wallet were still in the side pocket. I took them out and laid them on the table next to the Nambu.
Vivien paused in mid-rant. “What are you doing?”
I nodded toward the collection of items. “You should hold on to these. They might be useful.”
I hoisted the strap of the bag over my shoulder and headed for the door.
Vivien stared at me. “Where are you going?”
I adjusted the hang of the strap. “Home. I’ll send you a letter of resignation when I get back to LA.”
She gave me a look of pure incomprehension. “You’re quitting? You can’t quit.”
“I already have,” I said. “I learned a long time ago that there’s no point in trying to work for people who don’t trust me.”
“But I do trust you,” she said. “You know I do.”
“Evidently not,” I said. “In the past three minutes, you’ve questioned my integrity, my judgment, my motives, and my loyalty. If that’s your idea of trust, we’re definitely not on the same wavelength.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’ve insulted you? Is that it? I’ve offended your precious dignity, and now you’re ready to pack it in and slink home? An angry little boy with his feelings hurt?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe that’s exactly what it is. Maybe I’m just a little boy with hurt feelings. But it doesn’t really matter whether or not you’re right, because I don’t work for you anymore.”
I walked out the door without waiting for her reply.
CHAPTER 26
I walked back toward the shuttle terminal, retracing in-reverse the path I had followed with Ms. Kimono after my arrival the previous night. Without the Nambu, I was unarmed again. I had no intention of trying to sneak a weapon past the sensors in the embarkation area, so I didn’t really have a lot of choice. I figured that Nine-fingers and his buddies would be unlikely to come after me in such a public setting anyway, so the risk was probably not too high.
It was a nice walk. Edo was truly beautiful, despite its patent artificiality, but I missed having Dancer’s voice in my ear. It felt odd to admit that to myself, given my deep-seated aversion for Scion technology. Live and learn, as they say. Live and learn.
The path wound past a small meadow, where a pair of men in samurai armor were putting on a display of Japanese sword fighting for a dozen or so onlookers. The swords flashed in the reflected sunlight of the louvered torus-sky; the blades occasionally ringing like bells when they met each other at a certain combination of speeds and angles.
The faces of the fighters were bare, their helmets lacking the fright-mask faceplates that sometimes appear in historical photos of ancient Japanese armor. I had the fleeting sensation that one of the battling samurai seemed familiar, but I didn’t stop for a better look. My ongoing clash with the Nine-fingers gang had me jumping at shadows.
Not surprisingly, the exit door from the baggage area did not double as the entrance to the shuttle terminal. Not a problem. I was sure that the terminal entrance would be in the same general area, and I’m not above asking for directions.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to. A fabric banner hung above a door set into a stone wall; the same dusty blue as the one used to mark the tram terminals, with the white silhouette of a soaring bird in place of the running horse symbol. Again: neat, simple, and obvious—without shattering the carefully-crafted Edo illusion.
I opened the door, stepping out of feudal Japan and back into the second half of the good old twenty-first century.
Any hopes of disappearing into a crowd of shuttle passengers were instantly dispelled. There were probably not more than twenty travelers in the main terminal area. That made sense, after I thought about it. Unlike Earth-side airports, there wouldn’t be more than two or three shuttles a day to and from Chiisai Teien. Orbital travel was far too expensive to attract the ceaselessly-migrating throngs of air flight.
I found a ticket kiosk and wrangled with the touchscreen interface until I located the next shuttle to LA. Scheduled departure time was four p.m., but there were no open seats on the flight. I didn’t have Vivien Forsyth’s influence to squeeze me onto the passenger roster, so I had to settle for putting my name on the standby list.
I wrestled with the
kiosk until it grudgingly consented to reserve me a seat on the midnight shuttle, in case I didn’t make the standby cut for the afternoon flight. The machine spat out a photoactive ticket, which immediately began counting down to the four p.m. standby call.
Which put me at loose ends. A quick look at my ticket showed that I had nearly five hours to kill.
I wandered over to one of the ubiquitous snack bar/cafés that seem to manifest in every transportation terminal. The menu was all too familiar. Freed from the imposed cultural constraints of Edo, the shuttle terminal clearly felt empowered to serve the same kind of synthetic crap that masquerades as food in most public establishments.
I opted for a cup of coffee and something that resembled a croissant.
The coffee was almost certainly synthetic too, but it did a fair job of approximating the flavor and aroma of the real thing. The croissant was not nearly as good a simulacrum. I gave up on it after two bites. I was ready to be home, at my own table, eating food that hadn’t gotten its start in yeast tanks and chemical sequencers.
As I was getting near the end of the coffee, a waiter topped off my cup and whisked away the uneaten croissant thing. I thanked him with an absent nod.
I was several swallows into my second cup when I had two simultaneous mental revelations… First, this half-assed little snack bar didn’t have any waiters. And second, I was rapidly losing consciousness.
CHAPTER 27
I find myself walking on a deserted beach under moonlight. The sand is cool and oddly granular against the soles of my bare feet. The air is heavy with the tang of salt. The waves are floods of dark mercury, edged by rills of pale foam as they wash up the beach and then recede into the gloom.
I am wearing baggy khaki pants, rolled up to the knees, and a loose fitting white shirt that flutters fitfully in the light breeze. The moon is a flawless silver orb, unmarred by the discolorations and craters that usually mottle its surface.
Not the real moon, then. Not a real beach. Not a real anything…
The voice comes from nowhere, or from everywhere. “We have questions, Mr. Stalin.”
I turn one way, and then the other, looking for the source of the words. There’s no one in sight. My footprints in the sand are the only signs of human presence. I am alone.
“This is a SCAPE recording,” I say. “I’m reliving someone else’s recorded experiences.”
“SCAPE, yes,” the voice says. “But not a recording. A somewhat different application of the medium.”
The unseen speaker has a detectable Japanese accent, but his pronunciation is perfect. I can’t help scanning the near darkness to find him. He is, of course, not there. Just me, the beach, the waves, and the unnaturally perfect moon.
“Different how?” I ask.
“That is irrelevant to this conversation,” the voice says. “We have questions…”
I ignore this. “Different how?” I ask again.
“A construct,” the voice says. “A virtualized experiential environment, in which all inputs to your brain’s sensory cortex are generated by software. If the source code is sufficiently detailed and properly executed, the construct is indistinguishable from reality.”
“I don’t think you’re there yet,” I say. “Your moon looks like a Christmas ornament, and the granularity of the sand feels more like pea gravel.”
“There are still some refinements to make in the software,” the voice says. “When they are worked out, this technology will be marketed under the trade name MINDSCAPE. In the meantime, we are finding interesting non-commercial uses for the medium.”
I nod. I can see that. “So my body is strapped to a chair somewhere with a SCAPE rig taped to my head?”
“Close,” the voice says. “Your body is lying down, and there are actually two sensor arrays attached to your scalp. One—as you have guessed—is the headset for a SCAPE rig. The other is the electrode net for a Magic Mirror.”
I know something about Magic Mirrors. The technical name is Multifaceted Integrated Electro-something-or-other. It’s essentially an ultra-sensitive lie-detector.
“In other words, if I try to bullshit you, you’re going to know it.”
“Yes,” the voice says. “We will most assuredly know. And we will take action accordingly.”
“Meaning what?”
“I think you know the answer to that question,” the voice says. “We control the software that is feeding your sensory cortex. We can create sensory experiences which are a great deal more unpleasant than overly-granular sand or an imperfect moon.”
I sit my virtual body down on the virtual sand. It feels cool through the seat of my virtual pants.
“I’ve already been through that particular ringer,” I say. “I won’t pretend that SCAPE torture is any more pleasant than the real thing. But I came out the other end of it okay.”
“Perhaps,” the voice says. “Unfortunately for you, we also have possession of your body. We can do things to your real world self that will ensure that you do not come out of this ‘okay.’ I very much hope that will not be necessary.”
“Point taken,” I say. “Can I have a cigarette?”
“We did not bring you here to smoke cigarettes,” the unseen speaker says.
“I’m sure you didn’t” I say. “Speaking of which, how did you bring me here? Or more precisely, how did you get me out of the shuttle terminal without arousing security or the other passengers?”
“We have well-placed friends,” the voice says. “And we are permitted certain privileges on this station. A certain amount of freedom in our ability to carry out our intentions.”
“That certainly seems to be true,” I say. “Can you use some of that horsepower to get me a cigarette?”
The voice is silent for nearly a minute. Then I feel a slight tug at the fabric of my shirt as some lightweight object materializes in my pocket.
I know what it is even before I reach for it. Marlboros, in the crushproof pack. I thump one out, hold the tip against the catalytic ignition patch, and then take a deep lungful of virtual smoke.
It feels and tastes like the real thing. No… Better than the real thing. The flavor is richer and smoother than any tobacco I’ve ever encountered. This is not merely a cigarette. It’s the perfect cigarette. The archetype of what the smoking experience is supposed to be, but never is.
“Much better,” I say. I lean back and gaze up at the silvery face of the bogus moon. “Okay… Ask your questions.”
“We’ll start with a simple one,” the voice says. “What did you do with the Nambu automatic?”
“You’ve obviously been keeping tabs on me,” I say. “So I’m guessing that you already know what I did with it.”
“Just answer the question,” the voice says.
I shrug. No reason not to answer that one. “I was planning to go back Earth-side. I couldn’t take the gun through security, so I left it with a friend.”
A pause…
“Your answer checks as mostly true,” the voice says. “There was a measurable equivocation index on the word ‘friend.’ We interpret that to mean that you did leave the Nambu with someone, but you’re not comfortable classifying that person as a friend.”
I take another pull off the Marlboro. “You guys are good.”
“That was a calibration question, to verify that our equipment is functioning properly. Next question: who are you working for?”
I almost smile, because I know that my answer will confuse the voice and his cronies. “No one.”
Another pause…
“You came up here for your own purposes?”
“No.”
Pause… Probably for my unknown captors to interpret the readouts from their Magic Mirror. And possibly to discuss the confusing nature of my answers.
“What case are you working on?”
“None. I have no clients, and no active investigations.”
A longer pause…
There’s an edge in the voice when it spe
aks again. “You’re lying.”
“You’re the one with the Magic Mirror,” I say. “What does it tell you?”
“The readouts indicate that you’re telling the truth.”
“Well, there you have it.”
No pause, this time.
“You are being clever, Mr. Stalin,” the voice says. “Please trust me when I say that this is not the time for cleverness.”
The simulated beach disappeared, and I found myself strapped to a table under extremely bright lights. Someone was standing over me, backlit against the light source so that I could not pick out any details. The figure spoke, and I heard the voice again, this time in-person.
“Look down,” said the voice.
I did as the stranger ordered, squinting into the brightness, and trying to see whatever it was that he wanted me to look at.
My body was naked. Another half-seen figure was standing next to the table at approximately the level of my waist.
Through bleary eyes, I saw this second figure reach out a gloved hand and take a firm grip on the head of my penis, stretching the member to maximum extension. He (or she) laid the blade of one of those short Asian knives against the junction where the organ joined my body. I could feel the cold keenness of the edge trying to bite into my flesh. I didn’t need to be told how sharp the blade was. A tiny bit more pressure, and it would slice clean through with very little resistance.