In Times Like These Boxed Set

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Is that for me?” I put out a hand.

  “Hey, Ben! No. Sorry. These are for the ladies behind you. He slides past and deposits the two pints on the table of a pair of grouchy-looking individuals in the booth in the corner. When he spins around to greet us again he smiles and wipes his hands. “How did the reconnaissance go?”

  “You put him to work in your bar?” I ask Rixon. “I thought we were paying you guys to work for us, not the other way around.”

  “He’s been gathering intel here,” Rixon says. “It’s important. And God knows I can’t just leave the place unattended. Half my bar staff are stealing from me as it is. Got to have someone with some scruples around to make the place profitable. Hey. Did you wipe down the mirror?” He points behind the bar.

  Tucket folds his hands and nods. “Thought it might brighten up the place. Could hardly see where I was going without the meta map on. I know you said you like the character it had, but your customers don’t mind a little cleaning. When I finished the mirror, some of them clapped.”

  “Well, I think your hard work deserves a beer, Tuck.” I say. “Why don’t you pour yourself one. And me too, if you got it.”

  “My shift isn’t over till seven,” Tucket replies.

  I frown at Rixon. “Really?”

  Rixon shrugs.

  “I’m going to skip ahead till Carson gets off work, then I’m taking Tucket back.”

  I use Rixon’s jump room to set myself an anchor point that will get me to later in the evening and also remove the accumulated filth caked into my clothing. I use the river stone I’ve been carrying around in my pocket and set it in Rixon’s anchor stand. After locking the door, I blink forward, leaving the non-gravitite-infused dirt of my day behind. I skip over enough time for the dust to settle and, when I reappear, the residue of my crawl through the underground is reduced to a brown stain on the floor beneath my sneakers. I exit the jump room feeling much cleaner.

  The afternoon sun has sunk close to the horizon, but the clients at the bar haven’t changed much. There are just more of them. Dock workers are trickling into the room in a steady stream. I take a seat at the bar. Eon has gone to retrieve Carson and it’s not long till they return.

  Carson is dirty but jubilant. He gets nods from a few of the other workers as he comes in. He gives me a fist bump when he reaches the bar.

  “What’s up, dude? You missed all the action today.”

  “Not all of it,” I reply.

  Rixon and Eon don’t seem keen to debrief us at the moment, but I’m curious to hear about Carson’s day on the Skylift and what he might have learned.

  “I’m starving. You eat yet?” Carson asks.

  “No. I could definitely use a meal.” I snag Tucket’s arm as he passes carrying a tray of food. “Hey, Tuck. Do we want to eat here?”

  Tucket glances at his tray then back to me, shaking his head vigorously.

  “Okay, let’s find somewhere else.” I slide off the barstool and signal Carson to follow. “Come on, Tucket, we’re going to figure some stuff out.”

  Tucket hesitates. “It’s not seven yet.”

  “You don’t really work here. They’ll be fine if you—Here, gimme that.” I take the tray of veggie patty sandwiches and disperse them to the table of women at the high top that have been waiting for them. I gather from their expressions that I haven’t gotten the placement right, but I can’t imagine how it matters. “Just meta that better,” I say, and toss the empty tray back onto the bar.

  Tucket looks mortified.

  “They’ll be fine, Tuck. Come on.”

  Tucket reluctantly pulls off his apron and follows us out into the evening air.

  The dock district of Port Nyongo has come alive with the setting sun. We wander down streets crowded with a colorful blend of characters of all shapes and sizes. A group of enhanced humans with enormous muscles—tall, veiny specimens—are clustered together on a street corner literally flexing at one another.

  There are sleek trans-humans, people with exotic appendages like wings and tails, and some who glide on wheels or lope around on long, spindly synthetic legs. When I slip on the meta goggles, the scene gets even more bizarre. Plenty of folks who can’t afford actual enhancements have made them in the metaspace. Digital avatars interact with one another in fancy bars with interactive scenery.

  It becomes clear to me after a little while just why Rixon’s bar is popular with the lowest classes. It might be dingy, but it’s also unpretentious, an even playing field for normal humans to interact with one another. Out here on the streets, those who don’t have the means to outfit themselves in trans-human styles or fancy meta features are easily distinguished. They skulk along the sidewalks, insignificant and forgettable in their work clothes and average bodies.

  Carson and I scour the streets for someplace with food we recognize. Down a side street, I spot a simple sign for a bar called Machina Libre. Thinking it might serve Mexican food, we wander inside.

  The restaurant is simple, lots of stainless steel and exposed pipes. There is a collection of welded masks lining the walls. The urban style is refreshing because, unlike Rixon’s, this place is spotlessly clean. Despite the dim lighting, I get the impression there are far fewer bacteria colonies lurking in the crevices. The couple dozen patrons in booths and at the bar also appear polite and well behaved. The ambient murmur of conversation pauses collectively as we walk in but resumes in low tones as we take seats in the bar area.

  “This place looks cool,” Carson says.

  A server doesn’t appear for a minute or two, so I get up and make my way to the bar, hoping to attract someone’s attention.

  I scrutinize the virtual drink menu on the wall through the meta goggles. I concentrate on a few headers to read the descriptions, but they don’t help me much. Every cocktail listed contains words I’ve never seen and couldn’t imagine the taste of.

  The bartender wanders over and stares at me, the expression on his face something akin to annoyance or perhaps constipation. He’s a big man, thick in places I wouldn’t even have suspected muscles could be exercised. I pick a name at random. “How is your . . . Lot’s Deliverance?”

  The bartender lifts his chin. “It would poison you dead in about twenty seconds.”

  He might be joking, but I can’t really tell. “Uh. Okay. How about the Jupiter Moonrise?”

  He scrunches up his face. “Liquefy your guts right where you stand. I’m not mopping that up tonight.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you just tell me which drinks on the menu won’t murder me and we’ll start there.”

  The man reaches under the bar, slides a door open, and extracts a twelve-ounce can. He sets it on the bar for my inspection.

  I pick up the can to decipher the label. “You’ve got to be kidding me. All the beers in all the world and the one that survives to this century is Pabst Blue Ribbon?”

  “It’s what we’ve got for you. You want it or what?”

  “Yeah, give me three and some glasses if you’ve got ’em. Not that you can really class this up . . .”

  The bartender sets three opaque glasses on the bar. “I’ll bring them out to you.”

  “Thanks.” I start to return to the table, but I notice him staring at me still.

  “You forgetting something?”

  “Oh. You probably need a card or cash or something right? Sorry.” I fumble for my wallet.

  The bartender reaches over the bar, snatches up the chit lanyard hanging around my neck and holds it in the air at his eye level. It beeps. He lets it go and pats me on the shoulder. “There you go. Don’t strain yourself.”

  I mutter a thank you and retreat to my table with the other guys.

  Tucket has found the restaurant menu on the metaspace and explains that we can just order on there. He reads off some of the entrees. They all have dramatic names like Inevitable Victory and Dawn of Justice. He lists ingredients like collagen and nanites before stopping. “Oh, sorry. This is a synth menu. G
otta find the one for organic humans.”

  I turn to Carson. “So what did you see on the Skylift?”

  “It’s pretty awesome. I made it all the way up to the middecks. They’ve got guys with actual jetpacks moving around up there. We all had work on minor stuff like rigging cables, but I got to talking with this synth girl who is a pilot for an interplanetary relay service. It’s pretty badass.”

  The bartender drops off the beers, and we wait till he’s gone to resume our conversation.

  I recount some of the scene I overheard at Guy and Lawrence’s mansion and how the Eternals are hoping to recruit dock workers and security personnel.

  “For what?” Carson asks.

  “No idea. But whatever they’re up to, it’s happening soon. He mentioned the Lost Star returning and said they have to be ready.”

  “So what do we think the Lost Star is? Like an actual star?”

  “I was thinking it might be the submarine Mym is on. Could be the name of the sub.”

  “Why would they name a submarine Lost Star? You think it’s Russian or something?”

  “Could be. I’m just grasping at straws. If we find it and it has the flaming circle on it, that might tell us.”

  “You’re wrong.” The voice comes from over my shoulder. I turn and find a young woman seated at the bar behind me. She’s not looking at our table but has clearly been eavesdropping on our conversation. Close-cropped hair stabs over the collar of a black, duster style trench coat. There are silver chevrons on her lapels. She keeps her stare fixed on the coaster between her fingertips but continues speaking. “The Lost Star isn’t a boat. It’s a starship.” She’s scribbling on the coaster. After a moment she stops, tucks her pen away into the folds of her duster, and tosses the coaster onto our table. The chunk of compressed cardboard lands with a thud in front of me. The scribbles are the outline of a flaming circle with blade-like wings.

  “You won’t find it here. It’s not in port anyway.”

  I hold up the image on the coaster. “You’ve seen it?”

  “Once.”

  I gesture toward the open chair. “Can we buy you a drink? I’d love to hear more.”

  The young woman glances at the empty chair then around the table briefly. “You all organics? You smell like organics.”

  “We’re human if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, we’re all humans these days, aren’t we?” She slips off the barstool and kicks the leg of the chair to slide it away from the table. She eases herself into the chair and directly into a slouching position, her feet propped somewhere on the table’s under-structure. “What are a bunch of organics doing in Machina Libre?” She gestures toward a server who nods and finally starts working his way over to our table. “You can’t be with the movement or I’d have heard about you.”

  “I’m Ben. These are my friends, Tucket and Carson. And you are?”

  “Captain Jumptree.” She looks me over slowly. “But you can call me Mira.” She leans one arm on the back of her chair. The butt of a pistol peeks out from a shoulder holster under her jacket.

  Tucket is staring at her with wide eyes but quickly glances at the table when she returns his gaze.

  She turns to me. “So what’s your deal, Ben? You obviously aren’t from around here. Why are you talking about the Lost Star in a synth bar in South Dock?” She extracts a small knife from her pocket and starts prying little chunks of wood out of the table.

  “We’re looking for it. There are some people associated with it who are going to help me with a personal problem I’m dealing with.”

  “You’re looking for the Lost Star because of a personal problem? That’s a good one. What’s the matter? They run off with your first love? What was his name?”

  I wait while she orders a drink from the server before responding. I use the time to size her up. Despite the somewhat hostile attitude, she looks experienced with the lifestyle here. She certainly seems comfortable. Her black pixie cut makes her look almost boyish, but she’s pretty, high cheekbones and smooth porcelain skin that offsets the red in her lips. It’s the symmetry of her face as much as her attitude that identifies her as a synth. She turns back to me with a slightly mocking stare. “Hope your credit is good here. I like the staff. I won’t be part of some dine and dash.”

  “I’m good for it.”

  She nods and keeps her eyes locked on mine. “So you were saying. You have personal problems.”

  “Why don’t you like organics?” I decide to go straight at her. “Is it us in particular or just everybody who’s not a synth?” I look around the room and catch the glares of almost all the patrons around us. True to my guess, they’ve all been tuned in to our conversation. Now they don’t even pretend to hide it.

  “Gathered that, did you?” Mira holds up a chunk of table on the end of her knife. “What gave it away?”

  “Just perceptive, I guess.”

  “Well, since you’re so curious, we don’t especially care for out-of-towners poking around asking questions about things they know nothing about. And you organics tend to be so darn sensitive—purists that you are. You start ranting about how the earth ought to belong to you again, synths need to stay subservient—all that bullshit. I guess we all just get a little tired of hearing it.”

  “I haven’t had too much experience with the synth community, I’ll admit that, so I’ll let you in on a secret.” I push my sleeves up and rest my forearms on the edge of the table. I link my fingers together to keep myself from making fists. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re just looking for trouble, I’ll tell you this much. We can certainly oblige.”

  I’m not completely bluffing. Maybe. I know Carson would have my back in a fight, but Tucket is another story. For all his good intentions, I suspect he’d be hard-pressed to fight his way out of a wet paper bag. If it comes to throwing down with a bar full of synths, we’re definitely the underdogs.

  Mira keeps her eyes locked on mine, and I can sense the tension building in the room around us. Her eyes finally fall on the chronometer I’ve exposed on my wrist. After a moment, she starts laughing. She slides her knife back into her belt and relaxes. “You’re time travelers!” She breaks into a grin. “Why didn’t you start with that?” The tension ebbs from the room with her laughter. Ambient murmurs begin again at the tables around us, making me realize how quiet things had gotten. “You like living on the edge, don’t you?” Mira smiles and signals the bartender. “Get them another round. This one’s on me.”

  The server appears from somewhere in the back and drops off a new round of beers. She sets them on the table and puts her hands on her hips, considering us. “You’re buying beers for orgos now, Mira? Never thought I’d see that day.”

  Mira waves a hand at us. “They’re time travelers.”

  “Ah,” The server replies. “Polar.” She spins on her heel and walks away.

  I lean back in my chair, not sure exactly what has made the difference but happy that we are not going to have to fight our way out of the place.

  “When are you from?” Mira is considering us with new curiosity.

  “The twenty-first century. 2009.”

  “Zeus’s balls.” Mira lets out a whistle. “I’m sorry about the introduction. We don’t see many time travelers in here. Not many organics, period.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t know? Your kind is dying out. Well, not yet. But it’s coming, and your people are getting grumpy about it. I hear there might be other parallel worlds where you organics are still the most relevant life in this century. But, not that we would know, right?”

  “Dying out or getting killed off?” Carson asks.

  “For time travelers, you boys don’t seem to know your evolution. The human race is going synthetic. You must not have been up this way long if you haven’t gotten that message.” She gestures to the restaurant around us. “This place is what you might consider a point of mutual understanding for those of us in the
community who recognize what’s coming. We do what we can to usher it in a little faster. Not many of your organic friends appreciate our message. The ones who barge in here are usually vindictive assholes. No offense.”

  “I suppose you give them the same warm welcome.”

  “We’re all very friendly here.” She places both hands on her drink glass. “It’s funny. In your day, the human race was so scared of being eradicated by machines. They thought of us in terms of the boogeyman. The Terminator. All that crap.

  “Modern synths are so much smarter than that. More powerful. We’re starting a social revolution.” She spreads her arms to encompass the rest of the bar. “It’s all coming. Synth rights. Trans-human rights. It’s inevitable. The juggernaut of the future. Some of you organics are slow on the uptake, but more and more are becoming trans-human every day. Organs failing? You’ll get a synthetic one. Buy yourself ten more years of life. My prediction is that it will only take about two more generations. Who wants to age and die in eighty years when you can have better health, better sex, and live for centuries?” She raises her glass. “We’re the new and improved human race.”

  I taste my new drink and set it back down. This beer is a draught lager. Smooth and refreshing. It seems the selection wasn’t as limited as I was told.

  “I get the evolution part, but what about the time travelers?”

  “Yeah, you guys have kept a lock on that pretty well. Hoarding all the whatchamacallit particles. Gravitrons?”

  “Gravitites,” I mutter, suspecting her feigned memory lapse is more about emphasizing her apathy than any fault in her synthetic data.

  “Yeah. Those. But who cares? Once people have the option to live as long as they like in the same place, courting death by jumping around in time doesn’t look very appealing. Especially since you can’t really change anything anyway. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but time travel was a fad.”

  Mira drains the last of her glass. “Not to say that it doesn’t have its uses. Our crew has taken on a time traveler from time to time.”