Chapter Twenty-One
It seemed as if all the blood drained from Ljundberg’s face. Dex thought it was possible the man was about to faint and wondered what he would do about it if he did pass out. Annabelle’s voice sounded loudly in his ears, saying, “God damn it Dex, how about some subtlety?”
“Just let me play it my way, okay,” he subvocalized back. Unaware of their conversation, Ljundberg opened his mouth as if to say something, but the only sound that came out was a strangled, high pitched moan. Dex waited for Ljundberg to regain his composure, keeping his eyes on the man. He’d thought there was a chance that Ljundberg would try to make a break for it, so he’d positioned himself between the other man and the door. Running seemed to be the last thing on Ljundberg’s mind, though — he was more focussed on appearing indignant and foaming at the mouth.
Finally, he appeared to get control of himself and in a shocked tone of voice said, “I cannot believe you would accuse me of that.” Dex continued with the silent treatment and Ljundberg rose to the bait. “I mean, Reuben was my friend. He was kind and harmless and so what if he was a multi? It’s no crime.”
“Should it be?” Dex asked.
“What?” Ljundberg said, his voice rising, as he fell back in his chair like he were somehow deflated. “No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. I don’t particularly think it’s a healthy life choice, but it’s not for me to say. I don’t even understand what you’re talking about.”
“Would you still have been friends with Reuben if you had known he was a multi?” Dex asked, trying to draw the other man out.
“Sure,” Ljundberg said, shrugging his shoulders and sounding anything but sure. “I don’t see why not. I mean, we were friends because we liked to talk to each other, we shared ideas — that doesn’t change just because you use one name or another. It’s just a name, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“But it’s not the same, is it?” Dex asked. “I mean, Reuben is dead, but the mind who thought those ideas is still alive. After all, it’s just a name, right? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“That is not what I meant,” Ljundberg’s voice was rising in pitch and he leaned in across the table. Dex could smell the sour tang of sweat coming off the smaller man’s body. “You’re twisting what I say; trying to put words in my mouth. I don’t think those things — I didn’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“You know,” Ljundberg’s voice rose higher. “What you’re accusing me of. Of... ending... Reuben’s...”
“Of killing Reuben Cobalt.”
“Yeah, that.”
Dex smacked his hand hard on the table between them and all other conversations in the café abruptly stopped. Annabelle gasped and Ljundberg looked like he was going to wet his pants. “For christ’s sakes, you can’t even say it. ‘Killed.’ ‘Dead’. Reuben Cobalt — your friend — is dead and you can’t even say it.”
“He’s not dead!” Ljundberg shouted, almost in tears. “He can’t be. He was never alive.”
• • •
That was when Ljundberg broke down. He started blubbering, tears like water raining down his face, bubbles of snot appearing at his nose. Dex had to look away, while the other people in the room now openly stared at the two men. Ljundberg’s co-worker, Marta, stormed over to the table and began accusing Dex of harassment and assault and anything else she could come up with. Dex wished he’d been packing some of his old goon squad equipment — a short blast of Seda-spray would have shut her up pretty quick.
As Marta tried to decide whether to continue berating Dex or comfort Ljundberg, another figure appeared at the table. “Mr. Dexter, I presume,” she said, a slight smile playing at her lips. Dex heard Annabelle say, “Well, look who decided to wade in to the fray.”
Stella Bish, unlike Ljundberg, looked more or less like her avatar in Marionette City. She was wearing ordinary clothes, but the face and hair were a pretty close match. She stood at the phalanx of a group of people, though she appeared to be amused where the rest were variously angry or perplexed.
“Stella Bish,” Dex said, ignoring Ljundberg to stand and face her. “The undisputed reigning monarch of independent contractors on the ’nets. How is it, I have to ask myself, that someone so intrinsically tied to the ’nets would be found here,” he gestured at the group within the small bar, “with these... meat lovers.” Dex had hoped to get a reaction by using such a vulgar term and by the sound of the crowd he could tell that many of the other people in the room were offended. Bish, however, merely smiled her maddeningly serene smile.
“That’s business,” she said, simply. “One of the few things the ’nets are good for. I work to live, Mr. Dexter, not the other way around. And this,” she aped his previous gesture, “is living.”
“Don’t make me puke,” Annabelle said.
“Shut up,” Dex subvocalized, but aloud asked, “And how do your friends here feel about your work,” nodding toward the other people in the room. “Are they as comfortable with your involvement in the ’nets?”
She laughed. “I would imagine so. Many of them work for me. Not to mention that I invented the Offline Cleanse. It’s a little hard to question my commitment to my own ideals.”
• • •
After a brief chat with her people, including a short but firm conversation with Marta, Bish managed to get a table for herself, Dex and Ljundberg where the rest of the room wasn’t eavesdropping on every word. “Now I don’t know anything about this situation that I haven’t already told you,” Bish started out with a disclaimer, “but I can be fairly sure that no one I’m involved with here killed Reuben Cobalt for ideological reasons. We do not advocate hate, we’re not even opposed to the idea of multiple identities, unlike many other groups out there. We are a positive force,” she said, sounding less like a marketing shill than Dex would have thought. “We aim to encourage increased interaction in this, the real world.”
“You can vouch for all the members of your little flock?” Dex asked, not bothering to conceal his patronizing attitude. “You can be sure of what they did or did not do in the name of these beliefs?”
Bish smiled that smile that drove Dex crazy, the one that made him think she was playing a game with him. “Of course not, Mr. Dexter,” she said. “I don’t know anyone else’s mind. I do know that I’ve heard no one talk about such things and we don’t condone violence or harassment of any kind. We are in favour of creating positive change; we’re not destructive.”
“So you keep saying,” Dex said, “and yet here I am. Sitting before the two of you, whose names keep coming up in a murder investigation. It seems strangely coincidental that a friend of the deceased is a part of a group that was started by the deceased’s former employer and now is in line for the deceased’s very lucrative former position with said employer. If it smells like shit, I have to wonder why everyone says it’s perfume.”
“Jesus, Dex,” Annabelle’s voice said, “could you be more bizarre?”
“Shut up, already,” he repeated silently, hoping that an equal mixture of frustration and fraternity was in the translated voice. “I have a plan.” At this stage, Ljundberg finally seemed to pay attention again. Until then, he had sat, almost motionless, tears, spit and snot slowly drying on his face.
“You think I...” he made a show of emphasizing the word, “killed... Reuben for his job?” He made a face that seemed to Dex to genuinely indicate revulsion at the idea. “A fucking job? That’s... That’s... pathetic,” he finally got the last word out. “How pitiful do you think I am?”
To what Dex imagined was her horror, Annabelle said, “You don’t want to know, pal” at the exact same moment that Bish smiled and turned to Ljundberg saying, “You probably don’t really want Mr. Dexter to answer that question, Sterling.” Dex wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Annabelle whisper, “Bitch.”
“Reuben was well respected online,” Dex said to Ljundberg, softly, sounding almost like a friend. “His
opinion was valued on the boards and his economic value was undeniable. Isn’t that right?” He turned toward Bish, who nodded her agreement. “I can see how living in his shadow might have been hard. He had all those things you wanted — the prestige, the money — and he wasn’t even a real person. It just doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“Nice one,” Annabelle said, but Ljundberg said nothing. He simply started at Dex with fury in his face. This time it seemed like Ljundberg was using Dex’s silent tactic, as he slowly stood without speaking. He looked down at Dex, his nose curling in distaste, then spat directly into Dex’s face, a sticky sour blob hitting his left cheek and trickling down to his chin.
“Fuck you,” Ljundberg said and turned away from the table. He walked to the door and out of the café. His strident friend Marta, who had been watching the proceedings with great interest, stood and fixed Dex with what he presumed was intended to be a withering look, before following Ljundberg out the door.
• • •
By now, Dex was probably the most unpopular guy the Free Robots had ever seen and once Ljundberg had stormed off, he couldn’t think of any good reason to stay. He made arrangements with Stella Bish to talk to her again the next day and Annabelle agreed to track her movements as well as Ljundberg’s over the course of the night.
Dex had wiped his face off with the sleeve of his shirt and as he walked back to his hotel the wet spot rubbed against his skin. It was disturbing, though Dex had certainly dealt with worse when he was on the streets with the goon squad. Not to mention that there were some parties he’d gone to in the Maks days where things not too dissimilar were done for enjoyment.
Stella Bish’s talk about the people who followed the Offline Cleanse was mostly propaganda bullshit, just as Annabelle had said. But Dex had to admit that it was the kind of bullshit that appealed to him. He’d never felt comfortable socializing online and as his non-relationship with Annabelle proved, in some ways he was even more of a freak than these people with their weekends off. He knew he had no right to judge them and he actually didn’t. It was what it was and if Ljundberg or any of the others killed Reuben for some fucked up ideology, that was madness, but the rest of it was all pretty much fine by him. Maybe even a little more than fine, if he was honest with himself.
Back at the hotel, he stripped and stood under the brief spray in the lav. After he was dried off, he lay on the bed, wishing he had brought another change of clothes. One set was starting to become crusty with sweat and the other was covered in Ljundberg’s loogies. Not an ideal situation.
It was getting late and the excitement of the night had worn him out. He drank some of his water and ate another food brick. As Dex lay on the bed, his thoughts drifted to Ljundberg’s reaction. It was so extreme, so visceral, so physical. It reminded Dex of himself as a younger man — not the reactions themselves, but the emotions they betrayed. Disbelief, fear, hurt, betrayal — all those feelings that lay dormant in him all the time, that he only let out at night, with the booze and the videos.
Dex paged over to his viewer, scanned his files and started up a video. He could feel the dreaded pinpricks in his eyes, but he closed his eyelids until the moment passed. He wished he had a bottle, but he watched the ending of his final night with Maks sober. He replayed it over and over again, watching for a good couple of hours before he finally fell asleep.
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