The Orb

by Tara Basi

  The ORB

  By

  Tara Basi

  Copyright © Tara Basi 2018

  All rights reserved

  The right of Tara Basi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Contents

  Chapter One – Peter

  Chapter Two – Quattro

  Chapter Three – Mathew?

  Chapter Four – Mathew

  Chapter Five – Zip

  Chapter Six – Quattro and Mathew

  Chapter Seven – Senior Administrator Bremer and Alice

  Chapter Eight – Creep

  Chapter Nine – The Quartermaster

  Chapter Ten – Club Trash and Hotel Kasbah

  Chapter Eleven – Bunny

  Chapter Twelve – The Old Team

  Chapter Thirteen – Quattro and the Suit

  Chapter Fourteen – Suicide

  Chapter Fifteen – The Tramp

  Chapter Sixteen – Zip and Creep

  Chapter Seventeen – Peter and Bunny

  Chapter Eighteen – Zip and the Church

  Chapter Nineteen – Bunny and Quattro

  Chapter Twenty – Zip and Zara

  Chapter Twenty-One – Peter and Quattro

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Zip Goes to the Seaside

  Chapter Twenty-Three – Zip and Beta

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Bunny, Mathew, Zip, Peter and Quattro

  Chapter Twenty-Five – Zip and Friends

  Chapter Twenty-Six – Zip and Peter Replay

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Tramp, Peter and Zip

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Orb Event

  Chapter One – Peter

  After a long descent, the cavernous lift doors whooshed open, revealing a wide passageway, which was illuminated for a few metres ahead of utter darkness. The interior of the lift was bright and warm. He could stop this nonsense right now, go back up to the surface and just go home. Some excuse would come to him. The doors started to close. Peter stabbed the button to open them again and groaned. Helplessness, rage and despair filled him up. No excuse was going to work. His daughter, Kiki, was obsessed with Zip, the woman he’d come to see. If he failed Kiki, and she looked at him again as if he were her murderer, it would break his heart one more time.

  Peter stepped out into the corridor. The lift doors clanged shut behind him. He spun around to see the display showing that the lift was flying up and away. It wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. There was no point delaying. He walked on briskly, anxious to get this over with. Zip was ahead, roughly a kilometre into the darkness.

  The lights kept pace with his progress, illuminating the way a few metres ahead, darkening behind him. It was the perfect metaphor for his life; there were only accusing shadows in his past, and the future looked no better. The walls were featureless, except for identical bunker blast doors on both sides every ten or so metres. Everything was the same colour in the dim light, a dirty white. There was nothing for the eye to feed on, not even graffiti; only dust decorated his surroundings.

  A lonely pool of light from an open blast door signalled that he had almost arrived. The thick steel doorframe looked like the entrance to a bank vault rather than someone’s office. Inside was a bare waiting room with a single bench. A small screen, high on a wall, flashed – Please wait to be called. He was in the cheap deeps, way below the body pits and near the very bottom of the iceberg city that Orb London had become. Why anybody would set up office in a private bomb shelter was beyond him.

  Peter took a seat on the bench and settled down to wait. His appointment wasn’t for some minutes. A despairing weariness dragged his gaze down to the floor. An ugly, twisted face stared back at him from his highly polished toecaps. He closed his eyes.

  “Hey, old man, what are you doing down here?”

  Peter started, raised his head and almost gagged.

  A teenage girl stood in front of him. She was beyond naked; she had no skin at all. Every vein, muscle and tendon was visible; organs shimmered, her heart pulsed with a fast, regular beat, and bright red blood raced around her arteries. Peter dropped his head and stared at his shoes. She was disgusting.

  “I’m waiting for someone. Please leave me alone.”

  “What are you hiding?”

  The girl had moved closer, to stand right in front of him, her bony, skinless feet just beyond his shiny toecaps that reflected and further distorted her already grotesque form.

  The sick teenager was wearing a pixelated body stocking. A high quality one, too. There was almost no distortion or flickering when she moved.

  He had bought an identical one for Kiki’s sixteenth birthday, when he thought he might still win her back. His daughter could have chosen any number of outfits to wear that day, from haute couture to more modern regalia. But to spite him, Kiki had spent most of her birthday looking like a lizard from some horror movie or flipping so rapidly between outfits that it made him feel sick. She left home soon after; the expensive holographic suit was still hanging in her room.

  “Please, would you mind? The suit.”

  The girl sighed theatrically, “Jesus and the Tramp! Are you some kind of hermit?” When he didn’t respond, she sighed again and stepped back. “OK, is this better?”

  Carefully, he raised his head and sneaked a look. She had skin, but otherwise she was completely naked. This was the Orb worshippers’ uniform, the Pilgrims. He shuddered and looked away.

  “Tramp’s sake, you’re worse than my daughter. This is it, old man. Take it or leave it.”

  Daughter? The girl was barely out of her teens.

  He peeked. She had conjured up a classic Manga schoolgirl style and looked almost normal, except for a long tail that swished and swirled around behind her back, the sleek tip occasionally peeping over her shoulder. It wasn’t a projection either; the nauseating thing was real. It was a bizarre surgical conceit, which had become increasingly common amongst teenage degenerates. He tried to relax. Even with her unnatural appendage, he couldn’t deny that she was pretty. More than pretty – stunning. Probably younger than Kiki. Her radiant brown eyes watched him carefully. A terrible shame they were Recording everything. Every waking moment of every day. I’m being hypocritical, he thought. If Kiki hadn’t Recorded every day of her life, he’d have nothing.

  “That’s better,” he said. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “You’re face blurring yourself,” she said, as if he had some horrible disease. “You’re not Recording, are you?”

  “I value my privacy.” There was no point getting into a discussion. The Recorders, like her, and the Amnesiacs, like him, were like the atheist Ungodly and the Pilgrim: they had nothing to say to each other. She’d never understand why he would want to forget.

  “There’s not many of you left, you know,” the girl said, with a hint of pity.

  “I know,” he answered, wanting to end the conversation and return to his own dark hell and the reasons that had brought him to this horrible place.

  “What do you want?” the stupid girl asked, interrupting his thoughts. Her whip-thin tail swished slowly behind her back, almost forming a question mark. Where had the annoying girl come from? He hadn’t noticed her coming in. And what the hell was she doing down here?

  “If it’s any of your business, I’m waiting to see someone. Now, can you leave me alone?” He turned back to staring pointedly at his feet, hoping she’d get the message.

  The girl didn’t move away. Her shiny, black patent shoes and short, white socks were still visible, even with his head lowered. The end of her tail snaked around her ankles, undulating and twisting. Its supple movements seemed to mock him.

  The stubborn girl persisted, “Who?”


  Wearily, Peter lifted his head and gave the annoying teenager a hard stare. “As I said, it’s none of your business, but if you must know, I’m here to see Zip.”

  The girl laughed. “What do you want with a detective?”

  Peter clenched his jaw. “At the risk of repeating myself, it’s none of your business.”

  She just laughed again. “Touchy, aren’t we? I’m Zip.”

  Peter looked her over; this teenager in a holographic Japanese schoolgirl’s uniform with the errant tail was Zip? It didn’t seem very likely. He shook his head and returned to staring at the dusty floor, only to jerk his head back up. Something was tickling his ear. It was her damn tail.

  “That’s not funny. Just go away. Leave me alone.” He slapped away her tail, completely exasperated.

  “Sorry, only teasing. I’ll get Zip for you.”

  The unpleasant girl didn’t move away or call out. She spun on the spot and said, “Voila, Mademoiselle Zip. You must be Peter. I’ve been expecting you. Follow me.”

  How could this youngster be Zip?

  Peter slowly got up and, despite himself, followed as she skipped past the reception console and through an open door that he was sure had been closed before. The teenager dropped into a beat-up chair behind an old desk, threw her feet on top, crossed them at the ankles and motioned for him to take a seat, all the while twirling her tail around her head like a lasso. Confused, he took the offered seat and looked around the dingy, little antique office. Teetering stacks of old comics surrounded the desk. In one corner, empty fast food cartons were piled waist-high. There was an old camp bed against one wall. The only light in the space came from a large, pre-war wall monitor. He recognised the antiquated display style. It was from before the first Orb World War, the Money War. The screen was showing a mosaic of hundreds of small muted images from a myriad of news channels. Occasionally, one would brighten up for a moment and stand out from the others then fade away. He wondered what she was looking for, and why wasn’t she using her Headgear?

  The girl observed him for a while, then swung her feet off the desk and leaned forward. “The monitor’s a work of art, if you’re wondering. The stuff it highlights is somehow related to the observer. Smile, Peter, you’re part of the performance. And sorry about teasing you earlier, and the mess,” she said, waving her hand to indicate the whole room. “I haven’t had a face-to-face in years. Your request for a meeting was intriguing. I mean, who does that anymore?”

  “You really are Zip? You don’t look old enough.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. Actually, I’m probably older than you. This beautiful form” – she indicated her slight frame with a dancer’s wave of undulating fingers – “was pure luck. It’s a body transplant. My daughter doesn’t approve either. Not that I had a choice. You take what you’re given when you’re dying. So, tell me, Peter, why are you here?”

  Maybe she really was Zip. “I was expecting something else, more … professional. All these comics and … rubbish. Are you really a private investigator?”

  “Comics!” Zip squealed, and her face lit up with a broad grin. She picked up one of the picture books from the top of a teetering pile and casually flicked through the colourful pages. “These are classic graphic novels, works of art. They’re not comics. They’ve taught me everything I needed to know about investigating. And,” she continued, flicking a glance at the piles of empty food cartons, “a girl’s got to eat, especially with this body’s libido.”

  He screwed up his face with a mix of scepticism and disgust. “Can you turn your Recorder off? No one else can know about this meeting. Nothing can be Broadcast. This has to be very discreet.”

  The girl smirked. “You think I’m a Broadcaster? In my line of work? But I do need a private Record of my client encounters, for the investigation and my own protection. That’s non-negotiable. You’ll have to stop the face blurring if I take you on.”

  Peter sighed. “Very well. If I hire you.”

  Zip didn’t seem overly pleased by his acquiescence. One eyebrow was still arched. “I tried to check you out. You’re a ghost. There’s nothing about you anywhere. Why is that?”

  Peter’s face cracked into a smile. “Pot and kettle come to mind.”

  Zip smiled. “OK, OK. So we both value our privacy.”

  But it was more than privacy. He couldn’t find anything about Zip or her past. That took considerable resources and expertise. Peter had those. How had Zip managed it? All he knew about her was what Kiki had told him.

  “Did my daughter, Kiki Morris, come to see you last year? It was probably late August or early September.”

  “A moment,” Zip said and blinked twice. “No.”

  “Are you sure? This is very important.” Peter bit his lip, unwilling to believe he might have failed already.

  “I’m sure. I’ve never met her. I’m sorry. Now, can you tell me what you want?” Zip wasn’t smiling anymore.

  Peter felt the despair returning. Nothing had been easy, this wasn’t going to be any different, but he had to press on. “My daughter, Kiki, and I want to hire you.”

  “So why isn’t she here?” Zip looked at him quizzically, her tail vibrating in the air above her head as though preparing to lash him.

  “She’s dead,” he whispered, and for a moment he wanted to howl. Peter dropped his head into his hands, pressing his palms tightly against his eyes. He couldn’t bear it. His wonderful daughter, his only child, was dead. The word ‘dead’ stabbed his chest, and his breathing failed for a moment. He steadied himself and got angry again. It helped to be angry. “The authorities say it was suicide. That’s not true. She was murdered.”

  Zip stared at Peter for a long moment. She looked bewildered, her cocky confidence gone. “Your daughter is dead and she wants to hire me? Are you serious?”

  Peter couldn’t speak. He kept his face in his hands and nodded slowly.

  Zip let out a long sigh. “I can see you’re upset, but I’m not a bloody psychic, just an ordinary investigator, mainly missing persons, lost pets. I don’t think I can help you. And why me?”

  It was a good question. Peter looked around the dingy office wondering why he was even talking to the bizarre creature on the other side of the desk with the brain of an old woman who lived in a bomb shelter. But he’d promised. “Kiki needs your help. It’s something to do with your job at Orb Industries.”

  Zip stiffened and her eyes creased into narrow slits. For the first time, Peter glimpsed something of the old woman that she really was in her intense gaze.

  “What?”

  Peter was surprised at her reaction. If she had worked for the world’s most powerful corporation, the corporation that owned Orb London, it was usually something to be proud of … usually.

  “Orb Industries? Did you work for them?”

  Zip leaned forward. “That’s none of your bloody business. Who told you that?”

  He was startled by the intensity in her voice. “I don’t know. Kiki won’t tell me. She wants to talk to you.”

  Zip sighed and relaxed a little. She looked relieved. “I’m sorry about what happened to your … deceased daughter, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  Peter ignored her answer and ploughed on. “You’ve got to help Kiki, and it has to be now. We’ve so little time left.”

  Zip dropped her gaze and stared at her desk for a while before straightening up. Her smile was half-hearted. “Look, Peter, suicides are a shock. And it’s impossible to know exactly why they did it. You have to accept that she’s gone.”

  “Kiki’s mother killed herself. I know all about not knowing. Kiki didn’t take her own life, and she’ll tell you so herself if you’ll just come and hear what my daughter has to say.”

  Zip stood up and indicated the door with her hand. Her tail lay motionless on the floor. There was something familiar about her expression. It was probably how he used to look at his demented wife in the years before she’d taken her life.

  “I can’
t help you, Peter. Perhaps grief counselling would be more appropriate.”

  He didn’t think much of the weird girl and her slovenly office anyway. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing she’d refused to help. He rose from the chair to leave, then hesitated. Kiki was desperate to see Zip, though she hadn’t really explained why.

  “I’m sending you private keys. They’ll unlock certain personal details about Kiki and myself. Give Kiki a chance to explain, in person.”

  He didn’t wait for Zip’s answer. He left her office, passed through the narrow, grey reception area and strode quickly out into the wider corridor, which connected the hundreds of identical shelters on this floor. He set off towards the lift. It had to be a dull existence, down here, way below the surface. Peter couldn’t suppress a rueful smile; Zip had been the only colourful thing he’d seen since the deep underground had swallowed him up. Finally, he reached the lift that could take him back up to the sunlight. The timing was good; he wouldn’t have to wait long.

  When the lift arrived, it was a relief to step inside the bright space and escape the underground world. The lift was empty. It wasn’t a surprise. No one came down here. Peter settled on a bench and tried not to think about his failure. He found himself staring at the commuter straps hanging from the ceiling like leather fruit.

  After many minutes of climbing to the surface and worrying about what he’d tell Kiki, the lift deposited him in a deserted Paddington Station. He sat in an empty train to the Greenbelt, fretting about how he’d handled the meeting with Zip. Had he been too brusque? Perhaps he could have been more conciliatory or tried harder to explain.

  His self-flagellation was interrupted by the barest vibration in his left eyelid. An anonymous and secure vid-call was coming in. He had the best filters, so it wouldn’t be spam. He blinked, accepting the call. A metre-high hologram of Zip appeared on the table in front of him. She’d changed her appearance. It wasn’t an improvement. The girl looked even sluttier than before. She was dressed as an imp, in a nun’s habit that ended at her thighs, giving way to a narrow strip of flesh, before long red leather boots ran down to wicked-looking stilettos. She had a pointy demon’s tail, delicate curly forehead horns and blood-red angel’s wings. Forgetting his own advice, Peter couldn’t help himself. “Why do you have to dress like one of those virtual reality harlots?”