Into Neon

by Matthew A Goodwin

  “I don’t,” Moss whispered, his eyes full as his father kept talking.

  “We are just trying to do what’s best for you. I hope you understand that now. If you still have questions about what you are now part of, ask Burn. I love you,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “I hope you never have to see this, but we will meet again.”

  The transmission ended and Moss could not speak. He had needed that, and it had come at just the right moment. For the first time since Ynna knocked on his door, he was comfortable with his decision to leave the burb and help these people. The way his father had spoken about Burn made Moss feel as if he knew him, too. He let out a long breath, not able to recall the last one he took.

  “Thank you,” he said and Burn nodded.

  “You have questions for me?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I will have more, but can you tell me about ThutoCo? I know the history they teach us, but I feel as though I need to understand more,” Moss said. It was clear to him that everyone, including his father, hated the company, but Moss had been brought up by it and needed to understand more.

  “What do you know now?” Burn asked.

  “What they taught us? Well, the company was founded by Wesley Greyson and named for a fantasy novel he loved. The company did agricultural genetics and some robotics,” Moss began, trying to remember what he had been told in his Company History class. Burn lit another cigarette and the smoke instantly filled the space.

  Moss continued, “They created a plant which was supposed to be able to feed the world and was, therefore, given the name Prophet Root. It replaced many traditional crops around the world but eventually, a bacterium spread over the plant. Treated, it was still edible, but it killed all the farmers and drove all of the survivors into the cities where they had started to set up perimeters to keep the spread at bay.”

  As he spoke, he tried to read Burn’s face, tried to get a sense of whether anything he had been told was true. Burn was unreadable though, his face like a blank screen. Moss kept talking, watching the older man. “ThutoCo built the burbs and drudges to give people an opportunity to stay employed and do work outside the city walls from safety.”

  “That’s the gist of it?” Burn asked and turned slightly so Moss was reflected in the plate which covered one of the man’s eye sockets.

  “Yes,” Moss answered, shifting uncomfortably as though he was giving a presentation for which he hadn’t studied.

  “Nothing about the wars? The relationship with the colonies?” Burn pressed, sounding annoyed before sending two plumes of smoke from his nostrils.

  “Not about the wars, but the colonies, sure. I know we produce so much p-root to send off-world in exchange for what they mine,” he said.

  “All right,” Burn said. “Well, what they tell you ain’t too far from the truth. Sin of omission more like. You ever question why they can stop the spread with misters and treat the root to be ate, but it still ain’t safe to leave the cities? Or the fact that prophet can’t be grown off world? Or how about that they had the burbs all built up and ready to go before the bacteria?”

  “I hadn’t thought about any of that,” Moss admitted. “What does it mean?”

  “Means ThutoCo knew what they were doing. They wanted to drive everyone into the cities, into their waiting arms. Drive them all off the land so the whole planet could be one big, corporate farm for them. When the old government tried to stop them, they greased enough palms to get B.A. City to succeed. And once they did, every city followed suit, leaving nothing but bought-and-paid-for local governments. ThutoCo and the rest of the AIC now owned a country and all the people within. And since no one can leave, we all get taxed so stupid we have nothing left.”

  Moss couldn’t believe how easy he made it sound. How sad the whole thing was. “And the wars?” he asked, wanting to know the whole truth now.

  “Ah, well, as happens with these things, not everyone was happy with the monopoly. Andreas City had walls and misters built but not the infrastructure to take on all the displaced people. They cried out for jobs and wanted the land claimed by B.A. City. So, they tried to take it and all of us who didn’t work for ThutoCo were pressed into service by the city government,” Burn explained. Moss knew there had been wars between the cities but was never given context for it. He looked out the window at the massive, endless city below, thinking of all the people who had been affected by the corporate greed.

  “But ThutoCo must have had drudges built, why not just send them?” Moss asked. Burn shook his head.

  “Our lives didn’t cost them anything,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Oh,” Moss said.

  “So, we fought, and we died, and many of us vowed to fight back when we were discharged. A few of us are,” he stated. Moss thought about all the different people brought together for this one cause: an athlete, a ThutoCo employee, a rich kid turned street urchin, a former soldier and now, him. He felt that he wanted to be a part of this. Not just for his father, but for himself; to help the people. He smiled then for what felt like the first time in an age.

  The cab began to descend into a part of the city not made of glass and concrete.

  Chapter 14

  Landing on a patch of dirt, Burn and Moss exited the cab in a district very different from the one they had left. Ancient drywall and stucco homes topped with corrugated metal layers surrounded them on all sides and above. Scaffolding held more homes aloft, above the street. Fused metal and rust joined together like twisted branches. People moved about within, going about their normal business and once more, Moss realized how truly large this city was.

  Massive banks of floodlights served as streetlights. Strings of electrical cable pulled like loose yarn from a ball hung low overhead hissing and popping while unattended governmental keys rattled from unchecked lockboxes.

  Many of the homes had their front walls knocked out, gaping like angry mouths and serving as storefronts. People milled about and Moss could not tell who was working and who was shopping. Everyone seemed to maintain a sense of personal style though the clothes were tattered or thinned from too much wear.

  He was relieved that it was not raining here but the air was thick, brown smog sitting heavily. It burned his nostrils and mouth to breath.

  “Old Oak,” Burn announced. “This part of the city is cheap and largely unchecked by Carcer. Ecosystem and economy all its own out here. Where most of my brethren from the war ended up. Artists, writers, anyone with an independent spirit, too,” Burn said, gesturing to the open spaces. Many served as small art studios filled with paintings, renderings, and what Moss took to be furniture—though it mostly seemed to be form over function.

  “Why not hide out here?” Moss thought aloud.

  “We have places here, too, but better to be where the action is. This is where we come to lay real low,” he said as they walked. Whatever Grimy had done seemed to have worked and Moss was able to walk without much pain. “We have to make a pit stop quick on the way to get you fixed,” Burn told him.

  “All right,” Moss said as they strode forward. He was about to ask a question when his mind was flooded.

  Moss! We know you love girls and we have them! Whatever your taste, we have just the gal for you! Moss pressed his hands to his ears, but the booming sound didn’t stop. Burn turned to speak, his mouth moving wordlessly under the sound of the ad. We’ve got fat ones, skinny ones, enhanced or natural. Something for all tastes at Bonk City! Just one hundred meters from your next left!

  It stopped and Moss tried to shake the sound from his mind. Burn pointed to a glass oval in a chain-link cage. “That get you?”

  “What?” Moss asked.

  “HackAd,” Burn said. “They are illegal, but no one cares to stop them out here.”

  “So, what? That thing hacks my implant and targets an ad?” Moss asked though he knew the answer.

  “You got it. Lots of folks have neural implants of one sort or another, so this type of
advertising is popular. People who live here say you eventually tune it out, but we’ll get you some blockware.”

  “Thanks,” Moss said. For his whole life, the implant did nothing more than sync him to MOSS II and his hex but now he was growing to hate it. He didn’t like hearing others’ commands, communicating without speaking or the idea that his very mind could be hacked. He blinked and saw Rosetta again, the last person to work his implant and, for the briefest moment, he wished to go back to his old life. Burn seemed to read his mind.

  “Remember what your dad said.” He placed a wrinkled and vascular hand on Moss’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “That you’re an asshole?” Moss joked as an attempt to shift his mind. Burn snorted a laugh.

  “Yeah, that,” he said with a smile and they continued to walk. The knocked-out houses gave way to a commercial area with proper storefronts, still piled with makeshift homes atop. They turned to enter the Talisman Saloon, an old western style bar with swinging half doors leading into a faux wood paneled room.

  A tall woman with a bright smile worked next to a drudge in a cowboy hat behind the bar. The wait staff were all nude with wild, unkempt hair and covered nearly head to toe in tattoos. They seemed unbothered by their own nudity though Moss felt the need to avert his eyes.

  “Burn!” Moss heard shouted from behind the bar and he turned to see the woman moving toward them, bright eyes set into a dark face. Her long hair of tight dreadlocks swayed as she moved, and she wore a fur-lined leather vest buttoned only to her cleavage. “How the hell you doing, you old so and so?”

  Burn waved a dismissive acknowledgment. “Heya, Jo.” He held up two fingers and she set two shot glasses on the bar before her.

  “Haven’t seen you in an age,” she said. “And you brought a friend.”

  “Getting him some new shoes,” Burn told her, and she tapped a finger to her nose before pouring whiskey loosely into the glasses, a small amount spilling to the bar. Burn gulped down the shots in quick succession and turned to Moss. “Shot.”

  “No, thanks,” Moss said.

  “Weren’t asking,” he clarified, and Jo refilled the glasses, not bothering with a new one. Burn handed Moss the drink which he took down in one swallow before his stomach lurched and he nearly gagged the liquid back up. He coughed and felt the effect instantly, slamming his hand on the bar.

  “Thanks,” he wheezed to no one in particular.

  “We are here to see your boy,” Burn told her, sliding his glass across the bar for a refill.

  “Oh,” Jo said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Take him, more like?”

  “More like,” Burn repeated.

  “What happened to the girl?” Jo asked.

  “Worm food,” Burn said, and Moss grimaced at the callousness. His head was swimming and he felt sick but gulped hard and watched the two in silence. Jo refilled Burn’s cup.

  “Willis goes with you, I expect you to keep the worms from him,” Jo said, pointing a threatening finger at Burn.

  “Do my best,” he intoned.

  “Do better than your best. You owe me,” she stated as she put the whiskey bottle to her lips. “And keep the language to a minimum. I don’t want him back in here taking all salty.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Burn replied, tipping his hat slightly with thumb and forefinger. When she finished her chug, she pointed toward the back of the bar.

  “He’s got a workshop just passed the potty,” Jo said sullenly. Burn gave her a sideways look with his one human eye, and she shot, “Oh, give me a break. I have a fucking three-year-old, too.”

  “Right,” Burn said and put a hand on Moss’s back to lead him through the bar. Patrons sat in plastic chairs printed to look like wood at circular tables of the same material and took no notice of the two—all of them drinking in silence, staring at the wall-mounted screens, palmscreens, lenscreens or, most often, the staff. They walked down a hallway of paintings of cowboys and bison, past a bathroom to a narrow doorway with stringed beads as a door. Burn parted the beads to reveal a young man hunched over circuitry with a soldering iron in one hand, large goggles over his eyes and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His skin was as dark as his mother’s and he was similarly dreadlocked. When he turned to face them and pulled the mask off, he was a spitting image. His eyes had been upgraded and glimmered an unnatural blue. To Moss, he looked like a child.

  “Remember me?” Burn asked, tipping his hat up slightly to reveal more of his face.

  “Of course, Mr. Burn,” Willis said hurriedly. He looked so excited that Moss thought he was going to vibrate off the face of the earth.

  “Burn is fine,” he said. “Hear you want to group up?”

  “I do,” the kid answered in a tone Moss deemed too excited. At that moment, he envied the young man. All of this had been thrust upon Moss, but this kid was being offered an opportunity.

  “Think you’re ready?” Burn asked before clearing his throat and coughing loudly into the room.

  The kid clapped his hands, the sound ringing in Moss’s ears. “Oh, hell yeah!”

  “Show me something,” Burn ordered, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “You want an RL display?” Willis asked, holding his hands open in front of him.

  “Yes,” Burn replied.

  “Old school, love it,” he said, one of his eyes projecting a screen full of data as the other eye went black. Line after line moved across the screen and Moss was in awe of someone so young doing something so complex.

  Hey, Burn. Moss heard the familiar accent of Seti. Someone just transferred five mil into squirrel account. I can’t trace it but I’m trying. You give access codes or just run a scam or something?

  “Something like that,” Burn said aloud, and Willis turned to them as the projected screen vanished, a broad smile across his face.

  “Wicked, eh?” Willis beamed with pride. Hey, Seti, I dropped the cash, he added in their minds.

  “Risky, more like,” Burn grumbled. “And you tapped our network?”

  “The second you walked in,” Willis said. He could not hide his pride. He was good and he knew it. “Plus, it wasn’t risky. It was such a small amount and I snatched it from an account in Tokyo. Ran it through D2E servers anyway so anyone smart enough to try and trace it would think it’s corporate espionage. Gotta love messing with the bigwigs.” Moss could see that Burn was impressed though he tried to hide it.

  Man, Patchwork, you’re getting good, Seti said.

  “Shit, praise from Caesar. Thanks,” Willis said.

  “Patchwork?” Burn asked.

  “Yeah, mom’s the only one who calls me Willis anymore,” he explained, sounding to Moss like a child.

  “Right. Well, Patchwork, skills like this, why work with us. Go legit, you could retire in a year, or better yet, just do this a few more times and buy your mom a villa downtown,” Burn said.

  “Nah, man. You served with her. She’d never abide it,” Patchwork said, shaking his head. He began to pull small items from his desk and placing them by a bag near his feet.

  “Got that right, I suppose,” Burn admitted.

  “Plus, I meet a lot of old timers, vets and stuff in the bar. You all got right shafted and I want to work with those who want to make that right,” he said, serious and solemn for the first time.

  “A respectable answer,” Burn told him. “Want to ride with us for a bit?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Patchwork answered reverentially, stubbing out his cigarette. “I’ll want to update your systems though. Rosetta had some antiquated shit running—it’s how I got to you so easy. Carcer has some sharp techs, too.”

  “Don’t speak ill of the dead, son,” Burn thundered and the kid raised his hands defensively as guilt needled Moss once more.

  “No offense intended. I didn’t know,” Patchwork apologized.

  “Not knowing is a good time to keep your mouth shut,” Burn put to him. Moss understood the point Burn was making but it bothered him slightly as
Burn had been so cavalier about Rosetta’s death moments before.

  “Heard,” Patchwork announced.

  “When can you start?” Burn asked.

  “Now.” Patchwork pulled a loaded duffle bag from under his workbench. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He smirked.

  “You can come with us now. You and I will get to know one another while Moss here gets a new hoof,” Burn said, pointing to Moss’s bloody foot. Moss looked down. The wound still looked bad though he no longer felt any pain.

  “Yikes!” Patchwork’s eyes grew wide. “Sounds good. I’ll run and say bye to mom, go upstairs and kiss my little sis. Give me a minute?”

  “Sure thing,” Burn agreed easily as the kid left the room. When he stood, Moss noticed a long, slender, curved sword hanging from his belt in an ornate sheath. He found it remarkable that no one he had met seemed to travel unarmed.

  “Nice to meet you, Moss,” he yelled down the hallway.

  “You, too,” Moss called after, unheard under the twangy music playing throughout the bar.

  “Seems like a good kid,” Burn admitted.

  “Yeah,” Moss agreed before excusing himself to the restroom. When he returned, Patchwork and Burn were speaking of things to come. Patchwork wore all black. Black jeans and a black shirt with nearly three hundred zeros and ones printed in white across the front in tiny font. He caught Moss looking.

  “Rad, right?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Moss said.

  “It says ‘if you can read this, let’s talk’ in binary code,” he explained, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  “Neat,” Moss said in the same voice he used on Gibbs when he changed the posters in his room.

  “All right, boys,” Burn said. “Patch, do me a quick favor and throw some blockware on Moss.”

  “Oh, sure thing,” he said, turning to Moss as his electronic eye began its work. “Who got you? Armstrong’s? The Fried Brick? Talk-B-Talk?”