The Presence

by Paul Black

  “Hmm?” Deja belatedly replied, glancing up from her Netpad.

  “Do you want another one?” Gives-a-Shit was pointing at Deja’s empty coffee cup.

  “Ah, no. I’m fine.” Deja resumed her news scan, but so far there was no mention of anything unusual at a hotel in Harlem.

  “What’s the matter? Rough night?”

  Deja looked up again, wanting nothing more than to be alone. “You could say that.”

  “Me, too. I got so wasted I don’t remember half of it. How ’bout you?”

  “I wish I could forget all of it.”

  “Been there.” Gives-a-Shit moved on to a trashed four top of club kids near the dryers. Earlier, Deja had watched them out of the corner of her eye as they wolfed down their breakfasts. Judging by appearances, they had raged all night, and when Deja walked to the bathroom, the faint smell of honey confirmed they were heavy riders. Not to mention the tiny metal doors they had pierced in their shoulders.... That’s where they injected their Jack. The sight of them made her skin crawl.

  Deja put down her Netpad by the plate of miniature bread samples and resumed pushing her oatmeal around. She had already blended its milk and brown sugar into a fine paste that resembled the wall putty she had used to patch her old apartment in Miami. She made a half-hearted attempt to eat.

  “So, where’s your better half?” Gives-a-Shit asked, sliding up to the table. Her tray was loaded with the carnage of the club kids’ breakfasts.

  “He had a rough night, too, so I let him sleep in. He kind of deserved it.”

  “I think men would sleep all day if we let them.”

  Deja politely nodded at this viscid declaration and pretended to resume eating.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your breakfast.” Gives-a-Shit turned and sauntered toward the counter, balancing the loaded tray deftly on her fingertips.

  Deja picked up the Netpad, logged into the New York Times lifestyle section, and dutifully swallowed some oatmeal. Skimming the articles, her attention landed on a fashion segment highlighting the new fall collections from Paris. She intently studied the pictorial and tried to lose herself in the images, but the previous night’s horror wouldn’t let go. Deja wished her mind could become as vacuous as the models’ expressions. She unconsciously took another spoonful of oatmeal. A gust of cool air passed through the booth.

  “May I join you?”

  Deja looked up with a start and almost choked.

  Marl was standing beside her booth. He had on the same coat – its pattern calm – and sported his stupid smile, which Deja would have slapped off his face if it weren’t for the fear that had seized her. She sank into the booth as far as she could go.

  “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

  “To join you. May I?”

  “Would it matter if I said no?”

  “It would, but I know you won’t. You want answers, don’t you?”

  Deja felt an odd mix of fear and anger towards Marl. Here, sitting across from her and looking like nobody special, was possibly the planet’s first true “close encounter.” But he also was the cause of Corazon’s death. Although Deja felt she should be freaking in his presence, all that filled her was an intense hatred. She angrily folded her arms as Marl slid into the booth.

  “You got some galactic balls coming in here,” she said.

  Marl cocked his head like he didn’t get her meaning.

  “What kind of insane world do you come from, and how could you let Cor be killed?” Deja felt her voice rising, but she didn’t care.

  Marl’s face went blank. “It was unfortunate that–”

  “Unfortunate?! Unfortunate? If I had a Light-Force, I’d reduce you to a puddle of bio crap. Then we’d see who be–”

  “I need to speak with you, but not like this.” Marl’s tone was even, calculated.

  Fuming, Deja leaned onto the table. “Why should I?”

  “Because,” Marl said, “you need to understand.”

  “The only thing I need is to get the hell away from–”

  “Find the best Virtgear you can, and meet me in the same NSA Net conference room where I met Mr. Tsukahara. And let’s not tell Sonny.”

  Deja clenched her fists. “What if I don’t want to?”

  “I know you do.”

  “And just how will I find that kind of Virtgear?”

  “You’ll know how,” Marl said flatly, and the dumb-ass grin returned. “Be there in three hours.”

  “Honey?” Deja remotely registered off to her right. The sound repeated.

  Gives-a-Shit was standing at the opening to the booth, her hands on her wide hips. “Who the ‘H’ are you talking to?” Two other people stood behind her, each with their laundry baskets tucked under their arms. They were craning around Gives-a-Shit.

  “Huh?” Deja said, disoriented. Suddenly she felt nauseous, like the time she had done VirtScape when her boyfriend had altered the program. She had materialized high over the Grand Canyon and almost thrown up inside her face gear.

  “Girl, you were chatting up a storm,” Gives-a-Shit said. “And by the sound of it, you were in some kind of argument. Are you all right?”

  The other side of the booth was empty. “Y-Yeah,” Deja replied.

  Gives-a-Shit nodded. “Well, if you need anything – like an extra coffee for your friend – just yell.” She laughed and walked away. The two others looked Deja over, shrugged to each other, and followed Gives-a-Shit to the counter.

  Deja’s heart rate couldn’t quite return to normal, although she was regaining the ability to think. Her better self said to run back and wake Chaco up. But for some strange reason, Deja still couldn’t overcome the sensation that Marl’s intentions were probably for the better. Even though it was killing her to have Cor gone, she couldn’t deny that her death might have played a part in Marl’s “master plan” to fix the world. In that case, it did seem like she had a duty to see what Marl wanted. And when did she ever listen to her better self anyway? She picked up her Netpad and entered a number.

  “Who the hell is calling me this early?” The image on the Netpad’s tiny screen jumped in frames, like the person answering was using an old style vidphone.

  “Bartas? It’s me, Deja. From the other night?”

  “Oh, yeah, Oscar’s friend. How could I forget such a pretty face? What can I do for you at this ungodly hour?”

  She hesitated. “I need your help.”

  * * *

  “I haven’t heard from Oscar since you were here,” Bartas said while he led Deja down the hallway to the room filled with Netgear. He coughed. “Did you ever find that woman you were looking for, the one Oscar lost?”

  “Yes,” Deja said.

  “How did it go?”

  “Not well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He coughed again, this time a series of hacks that almost made Deja’s ribs hurt. “I trust nothing bad happened,” he said, recovering.

  Deja shrugged, hoping he’d stop with the questions. He did, and led her into the room.

  “Okay,” Bartas said and folded his arms. “Why do you want to go in?” The robe had short sleeves, and Deja could see that there was barely enough muscle on his arms for them to function. They reminded her of the puny chicken wings floating in the egg broth at Kim’s buffet on 8th.

  “Because, ah, Sonny wants to meet and show me something.”

  “And why do you need to use my Virtgear?”

  “Because I want to surprise Sonny. It’s kind of ... personal.”

  Bartas looked Deja over in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She was used to guys checking her out, but Bartas’s gaze lingered a little too long on her breasts, and he had an air about him that went beyond sexual. “Really?” he said. “You two aren’t, you know, going to one of those sex sites are you? You understand your boyfriend won’t have the same sensations you will.”

  “Ah, well ... it’s not quite like that,” Deja said. “Sonny wants me to meet him in the
NSA conference room.”

  “You mean the one where we were last time?”

  Deja nodded, not really knowing what to say next.

  “I don’t want to know,” Bartas said. “You’ve come all this way, so it must be pretty important. Besides, I’m up, and I’ve got nothing better to do.... I’m always a sucker for this kind of crap. Come on. Hop up here, and we’ll get you hooked up. I still have the coordinates in my system.” He patted the virt chair Chaco had used.

  Deja tentatively climbed up and settled back.

  “Have you used Virtual High Density much?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Deja lied.

  “Well, this is like VHD, but on steroids.” Bartas laughed and stepped over to the control console. He fiddled with a few interface pads. “Okay, that should do it. Now, sit back and just relax. Remember, the more you fight, the harder it grabs.”

  Deja settled against the cool biofabric. Its organics quivered beneath her like a trillion fingertips until the chair had completely processed her body’s shape.

  Bartas sat at the console and picked up a handheld Virtgear unit.

  “Are you going in with me?” Deja asked, alarmed

  “Hell yes. You think I’d let a novice jump up on my equipment and ride in alone? Believe me, it’s nothing I’ve never seen before.”

  “I said this is kind of personal.”

  “You want in or not?”

  “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But remember, this is between Sonny and me. If you do anything–”

  “Easy, young lady. I’m old enough to be your daddy. Besides, with my condition, a hurricane couldn’t get me up. Just go and have a good time, or whatever you want to do. I’ll set it just to monitor your vitals. I won’t have any sensory presence.”

  For some reason, Deja didn’t quite believe him.

  Bartas spun back to the console. “On my mark.”

  Deja closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

  “Three, two ... one,” he said, and the chair attacked her.

  Deja had done the cyberspace thing before (who hadn’t?), but never like this. All of her senses were working with an amplification that bordered on painful. The experience had a surreal quality, like an intense dream after eating pizza late at night. She ran her fingers across the top of the NSA conference table.

  “Different, isn’t it?” said a voice inside her head.

  Deja quickly surveyed the room. “Bartas?”

  “Who’d you think it was?”

  “This is amazing,” she said, inspecting the various surfaces. “How did you come up with this?”

  “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands lately, if you know what I mean.”

  “You should patent this. You’d be rich.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Deja picked up a pitcher of water and a glass from a credenza. She filled the glass and tentatively raised it to her lips.

  “Go ahead,” Bartas urged.

  She did. “Oh, my God. It’s like I really swallowed the water!”

  Bartas laughed and then began coughing.

  “You okay?”

  “Don’t mind me. I’m going to exit here, but I’ll still be in the system monitoring your vitals. I can’t see or hear you, so you two can do your thing ... or whatever you want to do.”

  “Thanks, Bartas. I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t.” He hacked. “I’m just glad to see someone using the chair. Enjoy yourself.” His coughing faded from her mind.

  Deja walked to the opposite side of the room and studied a landscape painting. Its colors of a French countryside were so vibrant the oil seemed be crawling across the canvas.

  “Hello.”

  Deja turned and found Marl at the head of the conference table. She defiantly folded her arms. “So ... I’m here. Now what?”

  Marl’s coat was rippling with the hues of the Caribbean Sea. She had been once, years ago, to this island – Tortilla something – with a guy she had met through CeCe. He was tall and lean and had flaming red hair, which at the time Deja had found sexy. He worked in the government but never mentioned which branch, and when she had pressed for an answer, he’d just smiled like he was about to sell her a used car. The place where they had stayed was right on the water.

  “Thank you” Marl said, his voice having the same flatness as it had at Bar of Soap. “I know this was difficult for you on such short notice.” His coat seemed in cadence with his speech. It was a strange effect, and if Deja looked at it long enough, she became a little queasy. “You’re here,” he continued, “because you want to understand why I let Corazon perish.”

  Deja nodded angrily.

  “This may be hard for you to comprehend.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s imperative that I understand what Sonny’s assistant calls the ‘chi’ of your world, in order to heal it.”

  “You’ve lost me a little.”

  “Chi, Deja, is a very appropriate word in this context. It’s the Chinese name for the vital force that enlivens all matter – the pre-atomic constructs of energy.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “In order to understand your world, I have to understand what drives its people.” Marl began to slowly walk around the large table. “And what drives humans are their emotions. No matter their race, culture, or socioeconomic level, all humans base their decisions around their emotional point of view. Why do you think your planet is in such a state? Essentially, your world’s emotions are out of balance.”

  An image of Corazon laughing at the bar at Desperate Sense flashed across Deja’s mind. “Yeah, but I still don’t understand why you had to let Cor die.”

  Marl stopped at table with a vase of gladiolas on it. He passed a finger along a leaf. “Grief,” he said as if it pained him to state the obvious. His coat flared slightly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Grief, along with anger, sadness, shame. Death harbors a whole host of emotions for your species, and I had to experience them.”

  “But did you have to let her die?” Deja asked. “Couldn’t you have just done that thing you do, you know, make it happen in our minds, instead of for real?” She felt tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

  “No,” Marl said coldly.

  “Bullshit.”

  Marl thought for a moment. “I needed genuineness.”

  “You got that!”

  Marl resumed walking. “Corazon was special. Her view of the world was ... unique. She was the crucial link for me to understand the most important emotion on your planet.”

  “Which one?”

  “Love.” Marl stopped again and smiled, but not his usual stupid grin. Deja felt this one came from his soul, if he had one.

  “So now you’re telling me you loved her?” Deja was growing suspicious.

  “Not in the sense that you’d understand.” Marl started pacing again. “I’ve experienced most of the emotional states that can be reached by your species. And with Corazon, I reached a level of understanding that I believe only a few on your planet ever achieve. But we lacked a certain ... element.” He stopped one chair from her, and his gaze washed over her chest.

  Deja took a step back and bumped against the credenza. The water sloshed in the pitcher, and her stomach felt like it had tightened into a knot the size of a baseball. “W-what element is that?”

  Marl’s eyes narrowed. “Lust.”

  29. BUCKET OF ASSHOLES

  Chaco rolled over, and his head slid off the pillow. He groped for Deja through the dark.

  “Dej?”

  The only sound that returned was his own blood coursing through his ears. He glanced at the clock. 8:35 a.m.

  “Shit,” he said under his breath. “Deja?!”

  Nothing.

  “Question.”

  “Yes, how may I help you?” asked the room’s HDI system.

  “Is the guest, Deja Moriarty, in the hotel?”

  A pause. “The guest, Deja Moriarty
, is not in the hotel. She left the property at approximately 5:32 a.m. this morning.”

  Chaco sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his face. Goddamn it. He grabbed his coat off the chair by the bed and pulled out his Netpad. He punched in a number sequence. Yoichi Tsukahara’s face pixeled up. He was in their NSA lab and appeared to be alone.

  “Yes, Chacosan?”

  “Tsuka, I need for you to find Deja Moriarty on the grid. Her ID code will be in the Goya case file. Access it through the internal network using the password M-I-M-I.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chaco watched Tsukahara roll to a console and scan through the system. The time it took was killing him.

  “Tsuka, let’s hustle it up.”

  Tsukahara quickly rolled back. “She is in the state of New Jersey, sir, at 439 North Adams–”

  “That’s okay, I know the address.” He thought for a second. “I need you to meet me in one of the NSA’s Net conference rooms. Use the same coordinates we used before.”

  Tsukahara bowed.

  “And, hey, Tsuka. This is really important, understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” He bowed deeper.

  Chaco tapped in another number, and the face of Oscar Pavia filled the screen. He didn’t respond.

  “Morning,” Chaco said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Time is what I have a lot of now.” Pavia’s attention was focused on something he was doing out of the camera’s view field.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve joined the ranks of the unemployed.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How did it go down with Goya?”

  “As expected.”

  “What did you finally end up telling him?”

  “Not the truth. I wouldn’t be speaking to you if I had.” Pavia walked away from the screen and into a small living room. He picked up a glass of orange juice from a circular coffee table and returned. His mass distorted at edges of the screen. He finally faced the camera. “Goya’s in Mexico City. I told him that Corazon died in an attempted kidnapping. Crossfire accident, you know. In my business, extortion is a way of life. I blamed it on one of the cartels. Goya’s got so many enemies it could be any one of a dozen factions. My replacement is working on finding out who did it. He’ll be fucking with that for months, and by then I’ll be long gone from this shit-hole country. Goya wasn’t too broken up about it. I guess he figures he can make himself another one, probably better this time.”