Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  “If you haven’t noticed, there are more new faces showing up in my home. This is standard in any business, but new faces require special attention, time taken away for training with a generation who doesn’t understand that the real world isn’t willing to hold their hands and tell them that incompetence is a perfectly acceptable part of growing up.” I wish she’d get to the point. “I need you to take on extra shifts until things settle back to a more comfortable status-quo.” That’s not the point I was hoping for. Part of me wishes she could be an asset in my job with the UA, but there’s no guarantee that our interests aren’t conflicting on this matter. She may run a questionably respectable front, but she’s still an underworld boss.

  “Give me a few days to get my affairs in order and I’m your man.”

  “How many?”

  “Three.”

  She scoffs, turning her head back to her computer screen. “In three days I can turn boys to men and daddy’s girls to vigilantes. I might as well turn you over to your debtors right now and collect whatever bounty I can wring out of that skinny tush of yours.”

  This is going south faster than I would have imagined. I’d been hoping she’d be willing to shed some light on the assault in the sex shop earlier today, but I don’t think ratting out my fellow employees would make my argument any easier to swallow. Under different circumstances, I would completely agree that three days is a lifetime. At the moment it feels more like a death sentence.

  “Three days and then I have you working double shifts for the next three weeks.”

  That’s absurd. “Deal.” My mouth answers before my head can wrap around the ramifications. My eagerness brings life back to her face as penciled brows raise in question. A glimmer in her eye lets me know that as distracted as she appears, she can catch the stench of desperation on the slightest breeze.

  Her posture shifts back to her work, cutting me out completely. “We’re done here,” she snaps, giving me more of an exit than I had expected. Something in her tone suggests quite the opposite. Whatever she has in store for me, it's not just serving alcohol to public.

  Five

  Knowing full well the United Assembly has taken the liberty of bugging my apartment to hell and back, though not taking the efforts to upgrade my piece of crap computer in the process, I make a quick trip to a data-terminal as soon as I'm back in the Mobius district.

  Most terminals fell prey to juvenile vandalism long ago. Dumb kids hoped to score creds from stolen parts. Naturally, they're designed to be utterly useless in pieces, so no profit there. Then district council refused to replace them. Now only three stand functional in the entirety of the Mobius district.

  Based on primitive phone booth designs, the terminal is just a box on a pole encased in thin aluminum walls to protect it from the elements. The display is a tiny vid-screen nestled in the middle of an alpha-numeric keyboard. The old tech is practically useless except for one little detail: They're anonymous.

  It's a longshot, but I type in the encrypted code that Wyrmwood gave me a while back. The screen springs to life to beep at me and, for a moment, I'm hopeful. Then the error message appears letting me know that the number I've reached has been disconnected.

  “So much for that idea,” I sigh, stepping away from the terminal and towards my apartment. Three steps later, my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “I had not expected to hear from you again so soon. Do you require my assistance in a matter?” The monotonous mechanical voice never sounded so beautiful. I make a note to keep Wyrmwood’s name out of the conversation on the off-chance of eaves-droppers.

  “If you got the time. I was assaulted earlier today and need details on the individuals involved.”

  “Turn around and return to the data terminal. I will give you the proper coordinates to upload your data.” My head shoots in both directions. I forgot the guy has eyes everywhere. He spouts off a string of numbers and letters. Pulling a pen from my pocket, I roll up a sleeve and begin to scribble them on my arm. “That will not be necessary. This code will be discontinued once our business is concluded.”

  “Gotcha.” Annoying and cryptic as ever. I plug the retractable cable into my phone and flip through the images, uploading the pictures of the girl. “There should be a police report or something to that nature from earlier today.”

  “This sounds like a task that you yourself could have accomplished through use of the intranet.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Mr. Personality just smarted off to me. “I’m flattered you have so much faith in my abilities. Aside from names, I need personal data on the people involved. This chick in particular. Affiliations or whatever you can dig up.” My mind drifts back to my dwindling funds. “I’ll owe you one.”

  “I have your account on screen at the moment, Mr. Fallows.” Definitely smarting off. “I will come up with a suitable payment for my services in this endeavor.” Just one more pocket to dig my way out of.

  “Thanks, bud. I’ll get back to you later.” The line disconnects and I stare at the blank terminal for a moment longer before my phone chimes again, causing my heart to leap. “Damn, that was fast.”

  Checking the screen, it’s a message from Cellar. Shit. Was he screening my call?

  Associates approved. You may proceed.

  A wide smile spreads across my face. Time to get the ball rolling back over to my court. I turn my sights towards the nearest convenience store to pick up a pack of Spazz Cola.

  I’m not even a block down the road before my phone chimes again with Wyrmwood’s report.

  *****

  “Who is it?”

  “They make peepholes for a reason, Milton.” The light in the middle of the small glass portal fades for a moment, soon followed by a series of clicks.

  The door slides open just wide enough for a single eye framed by pale pudge to appear. “What do you want?”

  I raise the pack of sodas to eye-level. “I brought a peace offering.”

  “I have plenty,” he says, but opens the door the rest of the way, revealing a trash-heap of an apartment. The living area is as cluttered as mine is empty, though all the crap is scattered in chaos. Any thief would have to dig through piles of filth to find the treasure of priceless equipment here.

  “Like what you've done with the place,” I say as I step through the threshold, offering a pleasant smile. The kitchen area is directly to the right of the doorway and I step inside, brushing aside a stack of food-crusted dishes to clear room to set down the pack of Spazz, then fish out two. “I need a favor.”

  “Why else would you be here?” he snorts as he accepts the offered can. We pop the tops in unison and I take my first swig of sugary carbonated goodness in longer than I can remember. I wince and rub my watery eyes.

  “Don't be like that, buddy. We can kick back and shoot the shit first if you'd prefer.”

  “Maybe I would,” he mutters, eyes staring hard into the small opening atop the can.

  If you can't beat 'em. “So I'm in this sex shop this morning,” I reminisce as I crash down onto his sofa, sending a cascade of crumbs flying from their perch. His eyes widen and shoot in my direction. “Then some really feminine dude starts pitching me on this stereo thing with, get this, pleasure holes!”

  “Really?” He starts shuffling uncomfortably. I don't press his familiarity with the subject.

  “Honest as a newborn babe. Pushy little bastard. Finally decided I'd buy the thing just to shut him up.” I take a long swig. Damn that's sweet. “Turns out he's not a he at all. He's a she and I've been set up. They're trying to plant a tracker on me. Kidnap me. Something. Not sure what. All I know is a buncha thugs crawled out of the woodwork and tried to grab me.”

  “How did you get away?” he asks, enthralled.

  “Saved by sex toys.” I pull the pistol out of my pocket, diverting his attention immediately. “Grabbed this off one of the thugs. Check the clip,” I say, handing it over.

  Milton
fumbles for a minute, handling the thing as if it intends to bite him. Eventually he finds the clip release, eyes questioning me before pushing the button. I give him a nod and the cartridge slides out. It only takes him a moment to recognize the rounds. “These are trackers.”

  “Yup.”

  “So instead of getting tagged at the shop, you've been carrying around ten tracking devices everywhere you've been since?”

  Crap. My face goes numb.

  He only holds the pose for a moment, then bursts into laughter. The full assault. Eyes watering, gut heaving, gasping for breath hysteria. “You... ha! Your FACE!”

  “Hilarious,” I mutter. “So they're not live?”

  He doubles over. “Oh I think I'm gonna pee!” Milton needs to get out more. “It's cool, man. They don't activate until...” He can't finish his sentence. “Excuse me,” he shouts, ducking out into another room.

  I take a drink.

  A few minutes later, Milton walks back in. Red in the face and still wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, but at least he's composed himself enough for conversation. “I'm sorry, but that was really too much. I mean your reputation on the street paints you like this crazy killer badass.”

  “Somebody exaggerated a bit,” though I do enjoy compliments. “Speaking of badasses, if anybody can trace those rounds back to the source, it's you, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Impossible. I mean if they were live, then maybe I could get a ping on them, but it wouldn't do much good.”

  “Why not?”

  “The tracker is designed to be mobile. Each round has its own identity and the tracker more or less calls out to them. If the round is live, it responds with coordinates. This continues until the tracker can close the gap and then...”

  “Then they get their target.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Damn. Back to ground zero.”

  “Sorry I couldn't be more help,” he says, returning the pistol. I look around his apartment, remembering the technical things I'd seen the last time I was here.

  “Maybe you can.”

  “I told you-”

  “Not with that. I've got another job I'm working on. This one goes a little higher up.”

  Knocking empty wrappers from a chair, he takes a seat and leans in. “Higher up?” Fingers run across the greasy stubble of his chin. “What are we talking about?”

  “Non-Disclosure Agreement type stuff. Ever heard of the United Assembly?”

  “Only bits and pieces through the airwaves. It's more of an urban legend than an organization.”

  “Not true.” For the first time ever, I see the whites of Milton's eyes. “They're very real. And they want me investigating some heavy-duty security hacker-type stuff.” I pull out my phone and go digging for the fifteen second clip that Cellar released to me. “I'm putting a team together. I'm not sure what all I'm gonna need just yet, but I've got less than three days to get the whole thing pinned down.”

  “What do you need from me? I'm just a radio junky.” Yeah, and I was just a homeless drug-dealer.

  “Take a look at this.” I hand the phone over, let him settle back and watch the clip. He plays it over several times before returning it. “Recognize the equipment?”

  “Sure. It's a virtual reality kit.”

  “A what?”

  His brow furrows, folding in on itself. “Oh come on, man. You've never kicked back and hammered out a few levels on a video game?”

  That nonsense again? “Let's just go ahead and say I had a... unique childhood. What's it do?”

  He shrugs, leaning back and stumbling over words like he's trying to explain to a grown man why pants have zippers. “It's a simulated environment that the user can see through the glasses. Then there's gloves or other devices they can use to help their avatars interact with the computer generated world around them.”

  “Why?”

  “It's a game, man. Like hide and go seek, or tag, or Malony Baloney. People play them to unwind and forget that the world around them is a giant suck-fest.”

  “So it's a video game where the person functions as the controller instead of a bunch of buttons?” He nods, relief flooding his face. “Okay, great. So how can they use the game to infiltrate a district corporate server room?”

  “Holy Handbags! They did that? Really?” Milton's disbelief is getting tiring. I let out a sigh and stand from the couch, only a little disgusted that my jacket peels away from the cushion as I do. “Wait! Games themselves don't have that kind of control. And seriously, look at their fingers.”

  “Yeah, looks like they're typing.”

  “To the untrained eye, maybe.” Watch yourself there, buddy. “But they may as well be wiggling their fingers and saying 'Abracadabra'. No, I'd bet my stash of old-world comics that those guys are augmented.”

  “So they've had tech installed?”

  “That you understand?”

  “Like I said, man-”

  “I know. Unique childhood. Whatever it is, it's like a piggyback system; A vessel program. They're just pawns. Not really doing anything. Somebody else is calling the shots. Cracking the codes.”

  “But then what's with the virtual reality gear? Is that just for show?”

  “Perhaps. But a bunch of games these days are based on proximity. Like the virtual world is built around real-world locations and entities. Most of it is done by indie game studios, so the graphics are crap. But given enough time and the proper instruments, the game itself could be what's tapping into the electronic feeds. If that's the case, the mastermind could sit back safely from damn near anywhere. All he would need is warm bodies.”

  “Warm bodies with nothing to lose except a couple weeks in minimum security. It would explain amateur hour. But if that's the case...”

  “Then it would be impossible to decide who the next batch of infiltrators would be.” I'm glad he finished the thought for me, I was mostly concerned with my own job security.

  “Unless we could figure out where their stash of cheap labor is coming from.” Milton shoots me a queer look and I grab the phone from him, scrolling to a freeze-frame towards the end and zooming in. “Take a look. These aren’t just random people off the street.”

  “Wait. Is that cybernetics?” The little piggy looks like he’s about to squeal with glee. “You really do have the coolest life!”

  I open my mouth to correct him, stay my hand from slapping some sense into him, then think better of both and simply smile. “And I want you to be a part of it all, Milton. There’s nobody in all the districts I would trust more with helping me track down a bunch of renegade cyborgs.” His eyes widen and all but glow. “I just need your signature here and we can get to work.”

  Six

  The streets have baseball fields, but nobody ever plays sports on them. In fact, I’d be hard pressed to think of any place more dangerous for children to play. Anything caged in cuts off exits. These days they’re mostly used for rat fights, drug deals, bonfires, or whatever antics today’s miscreants get up to.

  To keep up with the needs of more honest citizens, several businesses converted their rooftops to rec centers and allow organized sports teams to play in the evenings. The occasional low-life still makes an appearance from time to time, but not without paying first. Nobody gets up without a ticket and they’re pretty difficult to come by unless you know somebody on one of the evening’s teams. Even then, there’s enough paperwork to keep somebody from the first few innings if they’re not on the guest list.

  “He came! He came!” Kyle shouts as I step from the elevator car and get my first whiff of fresh air in weeks. He breaks free from his parents and charges towards me with an exponentially greater energy level than the pair left in his dust.

  “I told ya he would,” Charlsie shouts after him. Seconds later my mid-section is pummeled by a bowling ball wrapped in a mess of tangled brown hair, knocking a good amount of wind from my lungs.

  Accepting the embrace, I squeeze back for a momen
t before placing my hands on his shoulders and peel him off me a bit so I can see his face. “Hey little man, ready to romp the trousers off the Jaguars?”

  “You bet!” his face gleams. “I’ve been practicing real hard with dad.”

  “That’s what he tells me. Says that you’re a regular slugger. How are you liking being a big brother?”

  Kyle’s nose wrinkles and his voice drops to a whisper. “Sean cries a lot.”

  “Speaking of, where is the little tyke?” I ask Jan as she and Charlsie catch up.

  “With my mother.” My smile never fades, but the wave of disappointment I feel doesn’t go unnoticed. Probably just a side effect of the poison.

  Charlsie wraps his thick arms around his wife’s tiny frame, dwarfing her with his physique. “Mommy needed a little quiet time. And Sean needed some competition for complaining.”

  “Be nice,” she scowls. “She’s been a huge help around the house while we make our new adjustment.” Charlsie answers by kissing the top of her head, but reserves a hidden eye-roll for Kyle and me.

  Taking queue to change the subject, I turn my attention back to Kyle. “So do I get the chance to test out the arm cannon before your game starts?”

  His face drops, “I didn’t bring my ball.”

  “You sure about that,” I wink. Confusion washes over his face and he checks his empty glove. Reaching out, I pull it from his hand. The leather is well worn. It might have been his father’s from his own childhood, though it’s hard to imagine Charlsie’s hand ever fitting into something so small. Flipping it over three times in my hand and squeezing it shut, I make a show of tapping on it three times with my knuckles, then hand it back over.

  Like ripping open a present, Kyle’s eyes bulge with wonder at the sight of the brand new baseball inside. “Wow! Is this for me?”

  I give a shrug, “It must be.”