Into Neon

by Matthew A Goodwin

  “Maybe,” Moss considered.

  “Trust me, they have no qualms about sending you to an early grave. You should try to leave that delicate heart here, now.”

  “Shouldn’t we be better than them?” Moss argued, his internal debate finding its voice.

  “We are,” Stan said, his clear eyes leaving no doubt as to his belief. “Now point and squeeze.”

  Chapter 10

  After buying the weapon, holsters and Dermidos nanomesh bodysuits to disrupt drones and cameras, Moss and Stan made their way from the bookstore. They headed toward a large stone building which had served as a place of prayer for some long-forgotten religious sect in the past and was now dedicated to computers and digital escapism.

  They ascended the steps through tall wooden doors with huge metal knockers set into the center. Oval-shaped stained-glass windows showed multicolored images of people interacting with different types of computers. Each pane displayed prices for hourly rent and cast odd light into the room. Banks of computers sat on either side of a long red carpet leading to a drudge behind a podium. They passed CerebralSync and VR sets on one side and traditional computers on the other, the clientele appearing to Moss as the types who would prefer a no-questions-asked establishment.

  “Greetings and salutations, sirs!” the drudge loudly greeted as they approached. Cameras set into the head where eyes would be and a hinged metal plate for a mouth which moved in imperfect synchronization as it spoke.

  “Private traceless traditional,” Stan said, not making small talk with the machine.

  “Please scan your palm for prepayment,” the drudge replied. Stan produced a small screen from his pocket and held it up for the robot to communicate with. “Thank you. Booth three,” the drudge said, and they made their way to a grouping of small stalls near the entrance doors. They stepped into the box labeled three and slid closed a red velvet curtain. Moss could feel Stan’s hot, coffee scented breath on his neck as he slid a keyboard toward himself and looked at the screen, watching sheets of information pass before he was met by a blank screen.

  “This’ll be secure. You can log into your ThutoCo account,” Stan instructed.

  “Right,” Moss said as he typed his login. His mail was mostly empty: a productivity report from the previous day, a forwarded ad for upgrading SeaDome and a message from Issy. He opened it, uncomfortable with Stan reading over his shoulder.

  “Didn’t see you or Gibbs at the gym this morning, just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Call me when you can, I have the day off,” was all it read. He was curious if she had stopped by the hex, too and found him not at home.

  “You can call her,” Stan said. “She won’t be able to see you though.” Moss did so, replying to her message with a call. She answered before the first ring tone.

  “Hey, Moss,” she said excitedly, looking into the camera and furrowing her brows when she didn’t see him.

  “Hey, Is,” he said in as normal a voice as he could muster but, even to his own ears, he sounded off.

  “So, you left the burb?” she asked with a knowing smile.

  “What? Um, yeah,” Moss answered.

  “Friends of your parents finally found you?” she asked, and though her big eyes brought Moss more comfort than anyone, the question threw him for a loop. Stan tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head.

  “What do you mean?” Moss asked and Issy rolled her eyes playfully. She picked up the small camera and showed him the room.

  “I’m alone. The line isn’t tapped. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Moss,” she said, and Moss didn’t need Stan’s guidance this time.

  “What?” Moss said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and he could hear the truth in her voice. “I’ve known for a long time. Our parents were friends, it’s why it was so important for us to help you all those years, but my dad told me the truth. He told me that one day you would probably run off,” she explained, her eyes downcast.

  “Why?” Moss asked.

  “He told me so I wouldn’t get—” she trailed off.

  “No, why didn’t he tell me? Vihaan is like a father to me,” Moss said, his voice rising. He felt as though he was the only person who didn’t know what had been going on. His parents had a network of people working with them and friends who they trusted, but not him. Moss had been alone in the dark.

  “If you had known, you might have tried to do something.” Her justification sounded like a plea for Moss to understand.

  “I might have,” Moss offered, and she smiled a sad, grateful smile.

  “Are you ever going to come back?” Issy asked, leaning in toward the camera and looking hopeful.

  “Yes,” Moss answered. “Issy, I need your help.”

  “Sure!” she said before catching her excitement. “What can I do?”

  “Ask if she can meet you in the Forum at 22:00,” Stan whispered right into Moss’s ear. He instinctively shied away from the closeness. He repeated the instructions to Issy.

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “Be in uniform,” Moss added, without needing to be told.

  “Oh,” Issy said, the sound of surprise in her voice for the first time. She recovered quickly, “Sure, whatever you need. You know you can trust me,” she added, and Moss nodded, knowing she could not see it.

  “See you tonight,” he said. “And thanks, Is.”

  “See you tonight,” she parroted and though they had only been parted a day, he missed her.

  TRANSMISSION COMPLETE.

  “Can you?” Stan said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Trust her,” he clarified.

  “Yes,” Moss said without hesitation.

  “You sure? Even though she knows what’s up?” he asked.

  “You trust Judy?” Moss said. It came off a little harsher than he intended, but the doubt of one of his closest friends irked him.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll have your back tonight just in case.”

  “Good,” Moss said and meant it. Even though he trusted Issy more than just about anyone, the idea of trust was a confusing mess in his mind at the moment. In a way he didn’t fully understand, he trusted Stan more than most of the people he had known his whole life.

  “Hungry?” Stan asked.

  “Sure,” Moss said, not convinced of the answer. He knew he needed to eat but the desire was not there.

  “Great, I know a place near here. And guess what?” Stan asked with a smile which implied he was setting up a joke.

  “What?” Moss indulged.

  “No hidden compartments.” He laughed mildly. Moss smiled.

  “Good, if I have to pass through two doors, I’m just gonna kick your ass,” he joked with a mock punch of Stan’s solid bicep.

  “Oh, I’ll bet you would,” Stan hooted back as they left the stall. Moss took one more look around the building as they left, this hallowed structure, once a place of worship, now devoted to technology.

  They exited and Stan led him to a restaurant whose windows had been rented out to a department store nearby. Screens flashed videos of people pretending to laugh and cavort while in pristine versions of the fashion of the day.

  “Cursed Earth Pizza” was written in spray paint above the door. The smell of warming bread and melting cheese filled Moss’s nose as they entered and his stomach let him know that he was hungrier than he had thought, grumbling audibly.

  “That’s right,” Stan said, pointing to Moss’s gut. “All-natural ingredients. Almost impossible to get these days. City farmed. Why it’s so expensive.”

  “I see,” Moss said, never having given any thought to where his food came from. The place was empty. Cherry red topped barstools sat before counters which lined the walls of the room. Light forms on screens in the windows shifted and morphed on the checkered floor.

  “Stanley,” the lanky man behind the counter shouted with a wave. “You brought a new friend. Where’s Ynna and that sweet ass of hers?”
<
br />   “Tell her that and she’ll put you through the fucking wall,” Stan said.

  “Don’t I know it,” he said and the two slapped palms jovially, though Moss noticed Stan slide his hand into his pocket to hide something passed in the exchange. “You want two sunrise slices?”

  “Yessir,” Stan answered quickly and the man at the counter pressed some buttons on his palm. “Catch the game last night?”

  “Nah. Caught it in reruns, but I was up all night with this sweet slice,” he said, eyes growing wide with the excitement of telling his story. He let out a long dog whistle and continued, “You ever been with a woman with a tickler installed down there? Hoo, boy, it’s a whole new world!”

  “I’ll bet,” Stan said with unconvincing affected excitement.

  “All right, go sit with your friend,” he said, waving Stan off. The two sat side by side in silence for a moment.

  “I think shady handoffs count as a back room,” Moss said with a wink.

  “Saw that, did you?” Stan smirked. “Our group sometimes needs some relief and the pizza isn’t the only all-natural thing they sell here, get me?”

  “I do, but I’m guessing you don’t take the stuff?”

  “You got that right!” Stan said. “But I’m happy to pick it up if it helps.

  “That’s nice,” Moss told him.

  “I know I am,” Stan announced, twisting Moss’s words. “As I said, we all have a role. It’s not just for when we go on runs, but in the down time, too. I spend more time out in the city grabbing shit because I’m comfortable here. Rosetta doesn’t like people, Grimy annoys them, Judy hates them, and Burn can’t play well with others.”

  Moss snorted a laugh, thinking of the kid at the noodle shop, “So I’ve seen. And you said there were more groups like you?”

  “Yeah,” Stan said. “Small pockets of groups with the same goal: trying to free people from the shackles of the big companies who own their lives.” He pointed to a passerby. “All these folks go about their days indebted. Bought and paid for. We seek to free them whether they know they need it or not.”

  “People like me,” Moss pointed out. He thought about all the people he had ever known, all the other citizens of the burbs who had never—and would never—leave. It had been him only a short while earlier, content to live out his life in his tiny fish tank. Now that he had stepped foot outside, he wanted to see more.

  “Exactly. Though you are a bit of a special case,” Stan noted.

  “Right,” Moss replied bashfully. “But you never meet these other groups?” he asked, wanting to learn as much as he could while Stan was being so forthright.

  “Yeah, so companies like Carcer can’t take down the whole when they take down a part.” As he explained, he lifted an outstretched hand and bent down one finger and wiggling the others. “A couple of times we have worked with another squad on a raid or something but that’s about it.”

  “Oh,” Moss said, beginning to understand.

  “Folks like Seti help us all to pull in the same direction, unite the different crews.”

  “She gives you orders?” Moss asked. Stan chuckled and shook his head

  “Nah. It’s not like that. She gives suggestions. Lets us know when there are moves to be made. Ultimately, we do our own thing.”

  “Anyone do too much of their own thing?” Moss asked.

  “Ah, yeah. Some groups have tried to take on too much. Got cocky. Thought they were all-stars. They learned quick though.” A grave expression darkened his face as he spoke. “Carcer comes with a couple of Wardens. Blast in with DOA bounties,” he trailed off, the light of the ads shifting on his eyes as he stared into nothing.

  “You used to run with another crew?” Moss asked.

  “It’s—” he began before two slices of pizza were set before them, interrupting his thought. Lightly sauced on thin dough with cheese oozing down the sides, caused the paper plates to become translucent. Moss’s jaw tingled at the smell of it. He blew the steam off just the way he did at home, but he could hardly contain his excitement over the food. “Gotta let it cool,” Stan warned.

  “I know,” he whined, staring at the piece with near ravenous desire. After a moment, Stan peeled his piece from the plate and took a bite with theatrical enjoyment. Moss followed his lead and though it burned his mouth a little, it was the best piece of food he had put in his mouth.

  “Oh, man,” he murmured through a full mouth. “I could get used to this.”

  “You’re gonna have to,” Stan reminded him.

  “How do you learn to cook like this?” Moss asked.

  “Pizza University,” Stan joked. “I mean, there are culinary schools and stuff, but this place has been here for generations. Parents hand this down to children. It’s a family legacy.” Moss considered his words as he delightedly took another bite.

  “Moss, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” he said absently, so focused on the pizza that he was paying attention to little else.

  “You and your friend—the one from the couch—you guys think you can handle this life? I mean, you didn’t choose it, it’s being thrust upon you.”

  Moss paused a moment, trying to put the confusing jumble of thoughts into words. “I don’t know, Stan. It’s all happened so fast. What I’ve seen, what I’ve learned. It’s so much. I want to make my parents proud, and some part of me feels connected to what you are doing in a way I cannot quite parse. I mean, one day ago I was sitting in my hex and two days ago, I thought that was going to be my whole life. To give it all up. To quit and never look back. I don’t know. And Gibbs… he offered to come, and I knew I would need him. But to see him shot. Drag him through a city I don’t know to help people we’ve never met. It’s hard.” He hung his head with the thought.

  “I know the guilt,” Stan said softly. “You have to turn it into fuel, let it motivate you.”

  “I don’t want to live a life guided by revenge,” Moss said, more honestly than he expected.

  “It’s not revenge,” Stan began, but Moss held up a hand.

  “And don’t tell me it’s justice,” he said.

  “I won’t,” Stan said, falling silent.

  “But you were going to?” Moss grinned, happy he had been right.

  “Maybe,” Stan smiled, raising an implicit eyebrow. Moss smiled, too. He liked Stan.

  “It feels different with you guys,” he waxed. “Different from the people in the burbs, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Stan agreed. “That’s because, even though you lived with them, they were ultimately your coworkers.”

  “Oh,” Moss said, before admitting, “I had never thought of it like that.”

  “Sorry,” Stan said.

  “It’s just another truth I was too simple to see,” Moss admitted, more to himself than to Stan. “Though I suppose it’s true for you, too.”

  Stan snorted, “I had never thought of it like that.”

  “I suppose it’s a little different,” Moss added, and Stan nodded.

  Both their heads cocked as they heard it. Engines roaring up the street. Unmistakable. Moss’s heart began to race as he saw Stan’s posture tighten. The first motorcycle zoomed by the window ad and Moss squinted to see the back of the vest. Stan let out a deep sigh as Moss saw a round shield with skull emblem and the words “HOPLITE MC” written above.

  “Not the Legion,” Stan said, as relieved as Moss while the bikes streamed passed them. “You were good at target practice but I’m not sure we could take on a gang, just the two of us.”

  “Probably not,” Moss agreed, seeing a fire in Stan’s eyes which had never been there before. He understood then that the ferocity lay just below the calm exterior of the massive man.

  “How many are there?” Moss asked.

  “Biker gangs? A lot,” Stan snarled derisively. “Gangs in general, really. These assholes are just the loudest. You have to understand—out here, there are a lot of things people want but can’t get. The gangs can provide
. A lot of people need justice but can’t afford a Carcer Corp bounty? Gangs can provide. A lot of people need protection,” Stan spread his hands flat.

  “Gangs can provide,” Moss filled in.

  “In the burbs, they give you everything you think you need so you never ask for much. Out here, there’s a glut of nonsense people think they want, and someone is always out to take advantage. The big companies take most of what people have and the street thugs take what’s left.”

  Chapter 11

  Moss sat on a cot, listening to the group bicker about schematics and schemes when he heard a low murmur from the couch. He sprang over to Gibbs’s side, his friend’s bloodshot eyes blinking to focus.

  “Hey, man,” Moss said quietly.

  “Hey, Moss,” Gibbs said, his voice low and wobbly. “Where are we?” His eyes scanned the room, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  “Burn took us to a safe house,” Moss said, feeling slight guilt that at the moment he felt cool using the term, “safe house.”

  “Burn?” Gibbs said before clarity flashed in his eyes. “Right, we left the burb. We take down ThutoCo yet? Become enemies of the state?” A weak smile broke out on his dry lips.

  “Not quite yet, but it’s moving that direction.” Moss smiled. “How you feeling?”

  “’Tis but a scratch,” Gibbs joked.

  “You got shot,” Moss told him, and his friend rolled his eyes dramatically.

  “I know. It actually doesn’t hurt,” Gibbs informed him.

  “That’s great. Grimy here got you patched.” Moss gestured over his shoulder and watched as Gibbs appraised the man.

  “Name’s ironic, eh? Clever,” he said sarcastically, bringing smiles to the mouths of all except Grimy.

  “Oh, he’s one of those,” the doctor said. “Can I put him back under?”

  “Kid got shot so’s we could have that chip,” Burn said and Grimy shook his head.

  “So, what’s next?” Gibbs said. “Save the damsel in distress?”

  “I like him, a bit of a firecracker,” Stan announced, and Judy punched him on the shoulder, and he played at an injury.