by Jett Lang
“Thought it might be that West Talon drawl of yours.” Queen shuffled the stack like a deck of playing cards. “My ocular mods were the same way for a while. I was screwed on anything that required an eye-scan until I upgraded.”
“What was your co-pay?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Bi-annual modifications are fully covered for company Liquidationists.”
Jack whistled. “Shoot, I was thirty grand out of pocket for my nerve work last year. I’m in the wrong profession.”
Queen grinned at him. “There’s a position open now, isn’t there?”
“Sister, I ain’t touching that.” He raised his arms in surrender.
“Smart man.” Then, speaking to her brochure card: “Digital books. Classical genres. Old World Anthology v. 5.0. Search.” The miniature avatar flickered, its blue glow pulsing as it paced back and forth – loading. A nanocomputer in the card was seeking out her information. It took three long seconds.
“Nation-State Coffeehouse is the closest licensed purveyor, miss,” the avatar chimed. “Shall I direct you?”
“You shall.”
The blue avatar morphed into a blue pointer. It was set north, in the direction of a block-long yacht club. Beyond that, a wider section of strip center and the crystalline superstructures that marked the border between cubical enslavement and open markets.
Queen put the rest of the brochures back in their slots. The pointer’s tip blinked impatiently.
“A bookstore – of all the places,” Jack said, falling in step beside Queen. He fiddled with his double-barrel’s hip-holster; the leather creaked.
“I don’t exactly tan well,” she said.
“Hey, I’m not complainin’. Native-born citizens are the only ones allowed on the beaches anyway.” Jack thrust a thumb sideways. A ten-foot-high, dagger-tipped black fence kept the riff-raff from entering a white granite yacht club as spacious as a university. Its patina-tarnished copper roof gave it an aged quality. The building extended well out into the ocean via a fiberglass and concrete pier, and spiral stairs curled down to a man-made sandbar encompassing the support beams. Queen could make out people lounging on towels beneath large red and white umbrellas. Children constructed sand castles and ran amok near the tide. Padded metal waterwalks extended over the ocean, leading to a cross section of moored house boats and pleasure ships. Perfect people loitered aboard, chatted. Waiters in white gloves and dark suits attended to their needs. To her, it was all disturbingly picturesque.
“You think it gets boring?” she said, gesturing to the sight.
“What? Money and power?”
“Yes.”
Jack went quiet. Queen was about to ask again when he said, “I know it does. Acquire enough capital and soon you’re surroundin’ yourself with friends that want favors and business associates that want results. There’s a threshold where the amount earned ain’t worth the energy, where you say, ‘I’ve got enough and I’m happy.’”
“They look happy,” she said, the other side of the property now in view. It was practically a mirror image.
“Externally, among people that expect good graces. It’s another story in private. Aggravation, resentment, fear, bitterness, and that’s on a normal day. The money doesn’t bring peace of mind or a sense of accomplishment; it just brings conveniences. And those’re worthless when you’re not content.”
“Are you content?”
“Are you?”
“Professionally, no.” She bumped her hip against his. “Personally, yes.”
“One out of two ain’t bad.”
“I guess not.”
Grey sunshine glinted off a camera mounted atop the final stretch of fence. Unlike the other cameras, this one actually focused on them. Perhaps club surveillance was having a slow day. The zoom was maxed out, as far as she could tell. Whoever was watching didn’t care about Jack. She paused in the middle of the sidewalk. When she stopped, so did the camera.
Jack looked back at her. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She took him by the hand and led him up the street.
※
Something about quiet atmospheres and unhelpful staff put Queen in the mood for literature. The one gripe she had with New Paradise bookshops was the dearth of selection. The facilities were often attached to corporate cafeterias or fast food restaurants, and catered to an audience that craved training manuals and vampire romance novelettes. In that regard, Nation-State Coffeehouse was a complete reversal.
Queen and Jack entered through double brass doors – the type opened physically. A bell chimed. A scanner mounted on the ceiling projected small, white squares of light over their bodies. Downward, their weapons were identified. An automated booth next to her slid out appropriately-sized lockboxes.
“Complimentary firearm storage is available,” the booth’s speakers told them.
They strolled by and ignored the offer, just as every other customer in the place had done before.
Aisles of cherrywood racks rowed the establishment. In the middle of every genre section was a set of pleather couches and recliners where readers perused their picks on glossy, thin tablets. The shelves played muted video of book reviews. If a customer wanted to know more about a certain product, they could go to a shelf, put on a pair of headphones and unmute the audio.
There was a browse option as well, so no one was limited to learning about only this or that novel from its designated station. The reviewers read excerpts and assigned scores based on a number of aspects, including a writer’s vocabulary, syntax, and thematic or tonal consistency. There was a sensor at the base of the screen. If interested, customers waved their CID cards over it and chose the ‘purchase’ option. Funds would then be wirelessly transferred between accounts, the purchaser immediately green-lit to download the material. After ten seconds without user input, the display defaulted back to its original loop.
Neither Jack nor Queen had a tablet or crystal phone. This was easily remedied, as the help desk doubled as a kiosk. Queen told the girl at the counter she was looking for reader tablet, and, like a good employee, the girl recommended the most costly. Queen shook her head and pointed to a lesser-priced model with black chrome finish. She caught Jack admiring the display rack, and it didn’t take much to convince him to get one, too. The girl rang them up with cheery reluctance.
Deciding which books to buy took the better part of an hour. Queen learned that Jack “fancied” the horror genre, found the gore and psychological mind-fuckery compelling. She located Old World Anthology and several volumes of poetry and short stories by anonymous authors – her favorite. In the memoir section, they found a couch in desperate need of an upholsterer. No one else was there.
“I would have pegged you as a mystery fan.” Queen sat cross-legged on the aqua pleather.
“If you carted around assassins, chairmen, and their drunken mistresses for a livin’, you’d have enough mystery to fill twenty books.”
“Perhaps you should write, then. Hovercraft Confessions. Your face half-shadowed on the cover art.”
Jack’s grin was lopsided. “How about Room with a Queen instead? The steamy romance between a hitwoman and her driver. It’d sell millions.”
She flicked his ribs. “Ass.”
“All’s fair,” he said, rubbing his side. Then, indicating her tablet cover: “When did you get into poems?”
“My mother started reading me old world sonnets when I was six, and after she died my father kept the tradition going. For a little while.”
“Ever write any yourself?”
“I wrote a lot as a kid, but then life sort of got in the way. Sometimes I kinda miss it. One of my friends dabbles in poetry. Sends her stuff to competitions, things like that. She tells me it’s a very cutthroat business. If she only knew. I used to be jealous of her, but then I remembered how big my paychecks were.”
“I’d like to see them sometime.”
“My paychecks?”
“Your poems. We’re on
penetration basis now,” Jack said. “I can handle a bit of poetry.”
Queen laughed. A passing couple gave the couch a wide berth and scurried politely. Jack appeared unfazed, though. She liked that.
“I threw them out, but maybe I’ll write you one sometime,” she said.
“As long as it’s not about blueberries. In the meantime . . . .” Jack scrolled his tablet and eased back against the couch’s headrest. His maroon-dyed tropical shirt crinkled.
She put her feet in his lap, and he stroked her ankles idly as he read. The literature didn’t hold her attention as much as that small gesture. First time for everything.
※
A slim shadow spread over Queen. She looked up, into its radar green ‘eyes.’ They were flawless circles set in an oval head of titanium alloy, dull and unpolished. It had no mouth, nose, or ears, and what hint of a neck she glimpsed was a spinal encasement of multifarious wires and elastic metal. It wore a midnight black trench coat, a matching fedora. The number ‘59’ was etched across its left cheek.
“Good afternoon, miss.” A liquid voice.
“Good afternoon, robot. Can I help you?” She itched at her hip, her gun handle an inch away.
“I have been instructed to invite you to Grace Marina. My employer would very much like to meet with you.” Its hands were tucked away in its pockets.
“That’s nice, but I’m here with my husband and we’re heading home soon.”
Whether for effect or information processing, the machine paused. Then, “I have misspoken. Mr. Chamber has ordered me to bring you to him. This is not debatable, I am afraid.”
The name had a familiar ring to it, which wasn’t a good sign.
“I’ll ask my husband when he comes back,” she said.
“That will not be necessary. Your husband and I have already spoken, and he has agreed to accompany me. Now, your tone and body language leads me to believe you are none too keen on following suit. You should know, I am authorized to brutalize you and your man if either of you do not comply.”
The automaton swayed back and forth on its heels. Its elevator shoes were freshly shined. “My personality software leans toward pacifism. This allows me to foster relationships, find work, or have a pleasant conversation with a melanin-deficient, such yourself. But you should know something.”
“Yeah?” Her thumbnail traced her pistol grip. “What’s that?”
It leaned in. “You will find it difficult to write poems with broken fingers.”
“I see.”
“And before you do anything rash, I must inform you that my employer knows who you are and where you are from. He has a proposition – something of a golden opportunity for someone in your positions.” The robot shot out and grabbed the tablet from her lap. It powered the device off. Patiently, its alloy fingertips rapped upon the screen.
Queen had no doubt that her draw, no matter how quick, would not be fast enough at this distance. She was enhanced for killing; this thing was built for it. She stood up.
Her tablet and weapon vanished into the robot’s trench coat and it stepped aside.
“After you,” it said.
※
She tried to get some answers from Jack on the way over to the yacht club, but he ignored every inquiry she threw at him. It made her uneasy. The robot walked behind them, its gait springy, like a brothel patron on payday. The previously placid shoppers were on high alert, a few going so far as to cross the street. Not because of her or Jack, she knew; because of the machine.
When they arrived at the gatehouse, the guard on duty didn’t bother checking ID. Vat-grown. And costly, from the looks of him. He slung his rifle over his expansive, white-uniformed back and pulled open the gate. The lawn around the compound was gemmed with red, white, and pink roses. A cobblestone pathway led straight to granite steps, shadowed by a green verandah.
“Inform Mr. Chamber that his guests are here.” The robot dipped its hat to him. “Try to use proper language this time. The kind they taught you in the vat.”
The guardsman snorted, his Neanderthal features scrunched. He mouthed lingo into his lapel radio, received a tinny reply. Queen didn’t understand a word, but it met with the robot’s approval. Specialized corporate jargon was commonplace.
“Come on, kids,” the machine said. “We are off to see the wizard.”
“The what?” Jack said. In reply, he received a prod hard enough to make him stagger forward.
Jack stared back at the robot – the same Black Death look Queen had received from his father, Murdoc. She stepped forward. She took Jack’s wrist, but he yanked away and proceeded through the crystal entrance on his own. The machine did not pursue him.
The gate shut behind her. She was needed for something. Whether that something was another job or a conclusion to her limbo, she could not pinpoint. Through the crystal doors, she saw Jack becoming smaller and smaller. A larger man intercepted and led him up a flight of stairs and out of sight.
“There goes the honeymoon vibe,” the robot said beside her. “Up, up, and away.”
※
Mr. Chamber’s office overlooked the Eastern Sea, water stretching to the vanishing point. The room was lavishly furnished with antler-legged tables, high leather seats, and animal skin rugs. A holographic hearth crackled between oaken bookshelves. Orange and yellow flickered behind its glass screen. Mr. Chamber sat by massive, tinted windows at the far end of the space. Large and mesquite, his desk was strewn with tablets and papers, yet the mess appeared more organized than disheveled. He was wearing a dark chocolate suit instead of the orange swim trunks from the pool, and a big, shit-eating grin that Queen didn’t care for. As they came closer to his desk, she got a whiff of his pungent cologne. She was glad she set her filtration to max before going out.
“Please, have a seat.” Mr. Chamber waved to the two wingback chairs before them.
They sat.
“Five-Nine,” he said to the machine. “I think our guests are thirsty. I’m a little parched myself. Water, if you would.”
As Five-Nine poured the contents of a clear and sweating pitcher into three separate glasses, Mr. Chamber leaned in, his chin against his steepled fingers. His grey eyes were set deep in his tanned and wrinkled head. His expression faded to neutrality.
Five-Nine laid down a deer-hide coaster and set Chamber’s glass upon it. The robot did the same for Jack and Queen, and Jack readily quaffed it. His nervousness wasn’t helping the situation, or her. He finished the entire glass in one go, placed it back on the coaster. Five-Nine refilled it.
“It appears you were right, Mr. Chamber,” the machine said. Smooth vocals. High sarcasm.
“Yes indeed, boy. Yes indeed,” Mr. Chamber replied. “Jack has found himself in a difficult spot, hasn’t he?”
“Statistically, one of the most difficult spots.” Precipitation sloped down the pitcher, onto Five-Nine’s metal digits and the laminated brown floor. She wondered how it held onto the container so steadily. Then she saw the rubberized grips on its little finger. Must be on all the others.
“Why do you think an intelligent sort like Jack finds himself in such a predicament?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“May I speak candidly, Mr. Chamber?” Five-Nine said.
“By all means.”
“Well, sir, it is plain to see our man Jack has developed a rapport with Queen here. He likes her, even told me that I should ‘take it easy on her.’” The robot made air quotes with one hand. “I noted concern in his voice, a sort of pleading. My assumption is they have formed a copulating bond. All the signs are there. Defensiveness, territorialism, base human tribalism common among the less civilized. You can see it in how they look at you. As if you are the monster that has come to rob them. Suffice to say, I am glad I brought a weapon along.” The machine paused. When it took up speaking again, it had the pitcher against its chest. “But there is a complication.”
“Oh?” Mr. Chamber smiled at Queen. She looked away, at Jack. He
still had a black stare for the robot.
“Yes. This is where the problem arises. Jack has not been completely honest with his tribal honey-bunny. Jack knows why his boss sent her to Angel Bay.”
Queen tightened her jaw.
Mr. Chamber was shocked. “Now hold on a moment there. A fine, outstanding young man like Jack would not do such a thing to this lovely lady. You must be under some false impression, my fine metal friend.”
Jack slammed his glass on the edge of the desk and rose. “Cut out the theatrical horseshit.”
“Son, you will want to sit and cool off,” Mr. Chamber said. “I know this is a trying time in your fledging relationship, but you have to be a man about it. You know what that is, right? Being a man?”
Jack looked like he wanted to give the old bastard a thorough answer. Five-Nine stepped in front of him, and then Jack was staring into those radar green eyes.
“You are thinking primitively. Sit.” Five-Nine pushed him back. Red-faced, Jack tried to rise again, but the robot held him in place with minimal effort.
Queen raised her hand. “Excuse me, but I’d like to know what’s going on, too.”
“If Jack would cooperate, I’m sure he would love to tell you. Isn’t that so, Jack?” Mr. Chamber motioned Five-Nine to move. The robot did, and this time Jack didn’t.
“Jack?” she said. He was as still as a board, just staring out at the sea.
“My job,” he said, “was to deliver you to Mr. Chamber.”
“Why?”
“The well-connected victim in the explosion was one of his sons. So our boss had to make a deal or suffer legal ramifications that would have put the company in a bad position.”
“A bargaining chip,” she spat. Rage was bubbling over in her now. “And you were sent to what? Make sure I was taken care of? All my needs fulfilled?”
“If I could have told you, I would have. You know the nature of this business.” She couldn’t decide if he sounded sick or detached.
“Oh, you know just what to say. That makes me feel so much better.”
“I’m sorry.”
Queen reached an arm out to Five-Nine. “May I borrow your pitcher?”