The Gobo Bride: A Lewis Gregory Mystery

by Mason Adgett

  I decided to be direct. “I apologize for interrupting your bazza. Is it a problem for me to shop here?” The translator spat out guvian I didn’t bother to listen to, instead watching the face of the shopkeeper. His shatia flickered rapidly once but he stared ahead and refused to acknowledge me.

  This got my hackles up. “What is this?” I demanded. “You don’t serve humans?” I saw his jaw clench tightly but still he didn’t respond. “Well, if you want money for these you’ll have to talk to me,” I said, holding the books up in his face. “I’m willing to pay for them, you understand. I came here for an honest purchase but I’ll take them either way.” I waited but other than a slight motion of his head there was still no response. “I’m a guest of Vavaka’s. You know where to find me.”

  He ignored me. Vavaka’s name seemed to have no effect. I sighed in exasperation and walked out of the tent, still carrying my “purchases.”

  I had drawn the attention of several other gobos though they all tried to seem as if they were otherwise occupied. None yelled “thief” and tried to chase me or any such thing. It was kind of creepy in fact, almost like they were zombies of some kind and I was moving through some weird version of Attack of the Awful Dead where the dead had weird eyes and weren’t attacking.

  Though I had seen no sign of it the shopkeeper must have pressed an alarm for a moment later I saw one of the Suburban Military gliders creep into a hovering position near the tent.

  “Really?” I said, giving the shopkeeper a frown. “I told you quite clearly I’m not trying to steal anything.”

  The doors on the side of the glider slid up and two halikari stepped out. These looked even more threatening than the ones I had encountered upon our arrival. They wore helmets with reflective surfaces that completely hid their expressions and they were clothed – wrapped, like the others – in what appeared to be some sort of iridescent gray plastic. Also they carried blasters, two-handed rifles of guvian manufacture, which they immediately pointed at me.

  I raised my hands (the books still clutched in my right) and said, “I really hope those are set on stun.” My cell repeated the guvian translation before I could stop it. “Look, I didn’t know it was against the law to shop on bazza. My cell says it’s fine.”

  One of them approached me. “Get on your hands and knees,” he said. He spoke anglish as though he grew up in my neighborhood. His tone was harsh, threatening. I confess I was cowed. I considered resisting but there seemed no point. Instead I lowered myself to the ground as requested, setting the books beside me.

  “I didn’t steal the books,” I said. “I tried to pay for them. I’m a guest of Vavaka’s.”

  “You are in violation,” he said, “of Order 309.”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “Order 309?” My cell started looking it up but the halikari ripped it from my head.

  “Order 309-J,” he said, emphasizing the letter.

  “What?” I said and tried to sit up, tried to look around at him. His hand met my face, hard, and I blinked away stars.

  “You are in violation of Order 309-J-236,” he said. “Thinking during bazza!” He shouted the last from behind me loud enough I jumped. Then he laughed, a long unpleasant sound that blended dark threat with giddy humor.

  He was insane, I thought, frightened for my life, but had no real time to dwell on it before his hand – or something – hit my head again and I blacked out.

  I dreamed. I always do. A boat – an old one, ancient, some kind of rowboat – carried me through a sea of purple. I did not row. Ahead and behind of me were shadowy figures in robes. I knew they were sad, mourning something, but I know nothing else about them. They rowed endlessly. We floated but when I dipped my hand into the sea instead of being water it turned out it was purple sand, ground very fine. I held up a handful and sifted it through my fingers, watching it drop back into the sea. I watched it drift, trickling down from my hand.

  I awoke thinking of an hourglass, with the image of one in my mind. Sand dripping down, a sense that time flowed like these grains, squeezing through one tiny stone after another, others backed up behind awaiting their opportunity. I awoke slowly, over long minutes of an empty dreamy sort of awareness that could have been who knows how long because it happened in a space outside the dimension of time. I viewed it as from above, watching it squeezed through the tiny crux of my awareness one pebble at a time. After a thousand or so of these pebbles drifted by I reattached to the time-stream with a jolting shock that left me gasping, ragged pain searing through my chest.

  It was dark but not completely so. A dim light flickered from off to my right. I was on my back, unrestrained. I sat up and looked around. They had put me in a cell, a little room maybe a couple meters wide with three walls and bars for a fourth. I was alone and I heard no sound of activity. I took deep breaths. It was cold but I had broken into a sweat. Something unpleasant slept fitfully in my gut, stirring every time I turned my head.

  I tried to remain still.

  The cell was not too bad as prisons go. I had a small sink and toilet in the corner which was even equipped with a privacy shade. I even had a desk. Stacked on it were the two books I had selected from the shop. That seemed weird. I had assumed I was getting arrested for stealing them – though of course that didn’t make any sense either.

  The thing in my gut uncoiled suddenly and I retched. I got to my feet shaking and dripping and struggled to the toilet where my stomach clenched twice more before I heaved up at least two meals. I felt immediately better but still weak. I waved my hand over the sensor, flushing the stink away, then sat on the toilet, sagging against its plastic back. I pressed the button for the privacy shade and it slid into place, blocking out what little light there had been, and I sat in the darkness waiting for my trembling to pass.

  I didn’t know why I had been taken prisoner. My best assumption was Vavaka – that he had orchestrated it somehow to get me out of the way. But the words – and numbers – of the halikari said differently. I had heard the sequence before but not from Vavaka or any in his employ. Instead it was clearly India’s kidnapper – the murderer – who had arranged for my arrest.

  I again pressed the button for the privacy shade and it lifted back out of the way. I washed my mouth out in the sink – the water tasted like salt – and then stepped over to the bars that enclosed my cell. They were vertical, about ten centimeters apart with thin wires running horizontally every few centimeters. Outside was a hallway that disappeared in either direction. Opposite me, a granite wall. I seemed alone.

  I sat on the cot. I thought about opening one of the books but decided against it. I waited.

  It was not very long before I heard footsteps in the hall, distant, but they were the only sound in the quiet room. It took a while for them to get to my cell. They stopped just outside and I regarded the man – not a gobo but a human – who had appeared: an intimidating figure, dressed in black leather, tall with large black eyes and long unkempt brown hair. He sneered and smiled at the same time.

  “You see, 309. The pieces fall into place.”

  ····8····

  “How?” I demanded. My first thought was “why,” but I dismissed it – he was obviously a madman. The voice was unmistakable. I now confronted India’s kidnapper in the flesh. “How did you do this? Have you taken over the halikari?” I felt a warm flush of adrenaline and carefully erased the scowl that was growing on my face.

  “Easy to do so,” he said. “They are just people after all. People – human, gobo, it doesn’t matter what variety – are easily persuaded.” His voice was like oil dripping on flame.

  “I find it hard to believe you’ve corrupted the whole halikari,” I said.

  “Corrupted,” he repeated, his tone amused. He smiled through the bars. “You know people as well as I do, don’t you?” He smirked like he had a secret. I wanted to punch it off his face but tried to keep my expression empty of emotion. I took two deep breaths, then a third.

  “You’re
a hacker, right?” His smile didn’t falter but I judged I had guessed correctly. “You’ve taken over the police software.”

  “We’re talking about people, not software. But then people are little more than their programming, aren’t they?” His smile still never faltered. From down the hall I heard a quiet hum, and a moment later a chair-bot – KrossTek written across the bottom – wheeled itself into view. My captor sat in it, taking a second to arrange himself comfortably. I remained seated on the cot, my back straight, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing weakness. I still felt ill but I ignored it. He had my full attention.

  “’Hacker’ is such an ugly word,” he said. A long lock of hair fell over his face, briefly blocking one of his piercing eyes, and he swept it back behind an ear. “It wasn’t always so. When the digital world was new those who could manipulate it at their pleasure were often regarded highly.”

  “I know this,” I said shortly. I was a history buff and probably knew human history better than he did. “That was before the Space Machine.”

  “The Space Machine?” said my captor, laughing. “You think hacking is a human sin?”

  “You’re a terrorist,” I said. “Hacking is condemned by every civilization.”

  His smile disappeared but his eyes held mine in a death-grip. “And civilization is condemned by every hacker.” I got the sense I had angered him, like I had touched on a sore spot. If he was a member of the Alliance Against Civilization, as his admiration for such men indicated, he was already an enemy of the galaxy. It made sense, but what India Phoenix – or the Phoenix family – had to do with the Alliance I had no idea. It meant little to me, honestly, whether you agreed with the Alliance or not – until you affected the safety of me or mine. I suppose in that way I was no different than most people.

  He raised a dramatic finger, a gesture spoiled by its calculated delivery. “You use the word ‘terrorist’ because such individuals – the villains you imagine – inspire fear. But who can control fear? It is you who feel it – you are responsible for your own emotion. Yes? Or are you trained – indeed programmed – to fear? Have I programmed this fear in you?” He waited – finger still held aloft – as though he expected a response but I gave him none. “I have not,” he said in a way that said he felt absolved of guilt.

  “You like it,” I said. “You desire fear. You want people to experience it.”

  “You underestimate me,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what I like. I do this for you, not for me. And for India, of course.” He added the last almost as an afterthought, his theatrical façade finally softening. The way he said her name made it clear his interest in her wasn’t political. He hinted about aspirations with the Alliance Against Civilization but in the end he was just a perverted stalker.

  “What have you done with her?”

  “I am doing it right now,” he said. “As we speak.” He waited but when he received no reply he went on. “People want to be programmed. People like their tendencies, their habits. You’ve said it yourself, have you not? ‘All of life is habit.’”

  I had said it more than once. I wondered how long he had been watching me, how many of my devices were providing entertainment for the Underground he had to be a part of. “Nobody likes fear,” I said.

  “It is not my intention to inspire fear, no matter what you think.” He looked me over for another minute or so, not saying anything else, then appeared to lose interest. He sighed heavily and stood up from his chair.

  “You are not required yet,” he said dismissively, “but you will be soon. I meanwhile have some important upgrades I need to install.” He walked out and the chair-bot followed. A normal person might have just stayed sitting and wheeled themselves out but normal did not seem like the word to describe my captor. He looked normal enough – well, too good-looking and debonair maybe to be normal – but it only took a few minutes of listening to realize he was a maniac. You could hear the crazy dripping from his voice.

  Frustrated, feeling defeated, I lay back on the cot, my shoulder-blades digging through the thin mattress all the way through to the metal underneath. I didn’t know what the madman wanted out of me but it did seem like he planned on keeping me for a while. I lay there for some time, shifting uncomfortably, looking at everything carefully, considering possibilities for escape.

  Nothing occurred to me that didn’t seem idle fantasy. My cell had been taken of course so I had no recourse to the illegal laser app or any other legal one. After a certain period I gave up with pointless plotting and grew bored so I picked up one of the books left by the table. Both however were written in guvian and without my cell I could make no sense of the complex, colorful pictographs.

  Being who I am I tried anyway, flipping through page after page, searching for symbols that appeared similar, looking for patterns as though it were a crypto-puzzle. I got nowhere, of course. I didn’t even know if the writing went left to right, up or down, or even diagonally cross-wise (as the Lioteks did it). Also, the color-scheming – which was intricate and not merely decoration but a necessary part of the writing – seemed independent of the syntax. It meant nothing to me. It wasn’t like any other writing I had ever seen.

  We take our cells for granted in these matters. When you’re wearing your cell it’s nothing to read an intergalactic encyclopedia or chat with a non-terran on a universe-protocol gaming engine. Without it even normal tasks can throw you for a loop and if you’re ever without it on a distant planet with no friends, family, or fellow humans you might be reminded how small and insignificant you really are.

  It was probably what my captor intended by leaving them – to remind me of my ignorance, my smallness.

  I picked one up – the collection of fiction if I remember right – and held it in the air. “Can you read it?” I asked aloud, looking up at the ceiling, peering into the corners of the room. I hadn’t seen any cameras but I knew they had to be there. A hacker, a stalker as my kidnapper clearly was would want to see what was going on. He was likely watching this very moment, listening in with concealed microphones. “I’m sure you speak guvian, don’t you? You can read this just fine.” Of course there was no answer and I set the book back atop the other.

  I thought he was indeed watching for a moment later I heard a sound directly above my cot and looked up to see a small panel had opened. A box descended from it held by a robotic clamp. It came down a meter or so and dropped the box – just about directly over my head – then disappeared back into the ceiling. The box was lightweight, about the same size as the book I had just set down, and made of old-fashioned cardboard. I caught it easily – it was much lighter than a book – and set it in my lap.

  It was unmarked on the outside. Just a simple brown box. The flaps on the top had been folded across each other to keep it closed. I did not immediately open it.

  I considered not opening it at all. At first I set it on the cot beside me and thought about how nice I had had it a week ago, working like a regular stiff at home, enshrined in my safe antique easy chair. Had I considered enough how truly secure it had been, and how comfortable? Sure, parts of life were tiring and other parts dreary and a few bits here and there were downright terrible.

  But being trapped here taunted by this madman – unbearable.

  Avoiding his game though was getting me nowhere so eventually I opened the box. There was no bomb inside – if the psycho wanted to kill me he would’ve done it already. Instead there was a device made of plastic. I pulled it out and found it to be goggles. They had an opaque exterior – just black plastic – and a strap on the back to secure them to your head. You couldn’t see through them, instead you looked into them and it took me a moment to realize what they were: old 3D goggles, some of the very first virtual reality tech. Though to call it tech would be stretching a point. This particular pair looked newly manufactured but the devices had hardly been used in centuries. In comparison to today’s immersive VR they were a mere historical curiosity.

  Ga
mes, I thought. The silly games madmen play.

  But I put them on. What else was there to do? They were not very comfortable. Of course with a cell you barely noticed when you were wearing it. A lot of people never took them off. With these things it felt like dull nails poking into my face. I had to adjust the strap to get to where it felt like it wouldn’t fall off but also left enough room for me to breathe through my nose.

  Once it was on securely I heard a gentle whirring right next to my ear and the image gradually focused. It took a second and at first the eyes weren’t in alignment so they crossed so much I thought I would get a headache. Then it fixed itself and I was looking at a black expanse with a sign hanging in midair that said “Begin.”

  When I looked at it a little hourglass appeared and started to spin. I kept my eyes locked on it – I knew how these things operated – and a moment later the environment changed and I found myself facing my mad captor. He sat in an easy chair – no robotic thing this time but an old-fashioned recliner – and smiled gently at me. He looked the same as he had when he had stood before me – same clothing even – but the old technology made it less than immersive. He was a little fuzzy, not out of focus, just a low resolution that could never be mistaken for reality. A caption appeared below him at about knee level:

  “Dr. Kantsky. –Applied Reality Specialist.”

  It was nice to finally be able to put a name to a face.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “Please save your questions for the end of the presentation,” Dr. Kantsky said pleasantly. "It is a short medical procedure, no more than an hour or so. I believe you will find it very enlightening.”

  The environment changed again, crossfading into what looked like an operating room. The view through the goggles was from above as though I hung from the ceiling. Though the view panned when I turned my head I was otherwise locked in place. It was more like a 3V video than true virtual reality.