Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  “I’m on my yacht with my children, Jonah, so I will have to charge double,” the doctor said, wagging his finger at me. He became aware that he’d manifested the inflatable, and shook it off his hand, causing its proto-matter to fade away. “Do you have a medical kit?”

  “Yes, doctor,” Sasha answered, assuming her own slim form. She fetched a red box from the car’s trunk. It contained all the pharmaceutical materials the doctor had requested during my last appointment.

  Despite the angry act, Dr. Yune was a close friend. These days, he served as the private physician to the politicians in South Korea. We’d met years before in North Korea during the cyber wars. My platoon had rescued his family from an internment camp. Since then, I’ve been relying on his favors, discretion, and his willingness to make unorthodox house calls to keep me patched up. Walking toward me, he placed his hands on my body and examined me.

  “Dislocated shoulder, broken jaw, and some internal bleeding for good measure,” Dr. Yune diagnosed after a cursory inspection. His look of irritation changed to concern. Reaching into the medical box, he retrieved hypodermics filled with painkillers and drugs containing powerful clotting chemicals. A series of pricks from the needles caused initial burning sensations across my skin, and then instant relief. Dr. Yune’s concoction of medicines sped along my body’s natural healing process.

  “Sasha, I’m charging you with keeping him safe, since I know Jonah won’t listen to me,” Dr. Yune said with some exasperation. “He’s more stubborn than me! He needs two days of rest, no more injuries. His body must recuperate.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Sasha and I said in unison.

  “I’m going back to my family cruise,” Dr. Yune responded, a subtle smirk breaking his usual frowning countenance. “I hope I don’t hear from you again anytime soon.”

  * * *

  A sense of urgency drove me to accelerate through a trio of red lights to make up time for my back-alley clinic stop. Sasha hacked the trafficnet to ensure that the hidden cameras on the signal lights all suffered convenient malfunctions.

  “How are we doing on time?” I asked, swerving around a wide pothole.

  “Under an hour. Approximately fifty-eight minutes, according to the IRS latest death-projections for Mr. Turnuckle.” She hacked into the city's ubiquitous surveillance network to gather tracking data on the target.

  “This morning, Mr. Turnuckle skipped his gym appointment, ate lunch at Cosmo Burgers, and purchased three packs of cigarettes,” she reported.

  “You’re making that up,” I protested, turning the car the wrong way down a narrow one-way street for a short cut. “Could he be any more unhealthy?”

  “A few minutes ago, he made a last minute reservation to one of his favorite restaurants, Sylvia's Best Steakhouse on 7th Avenue,” she reported.

  “Steak, really?” I asked aloud with raised eyebrow. “He may stroke out before the hour.” I accelerated, careening past a procession of slow-moving taxis, and dodging a group of jaywalking drunks. After ten minutes and eight more unreported driving infractions, I arrived across the street from Turnuckle’s restaurant.

  With a hand wave, the car's display and a digital console appeared. My fingers swam through a digital stream of connections into the Steakhouse’s computers system, worming through the thin security layer of its reservation system. It took three seconds to break in and one second to insert my name near the top of the list, bumping the anniversary dinner of Mr. and Mrs. Yukimura by twenty minutes. For their trouble, I compensated them a pair of free drinks. It was the least I could do.

  “Sir, perhaps you should tidy up before entering the restaurant?” Sasha suggested.

  She was right. I looked like hell. My shirt was a collage of battle, showing bloodstains, green-yellowish ichor, and mottled gray matter spattered from Grand’s shades. The manifestation of maternal instincts in Sasha’s personality heuristics, code I’d augmented a week ago, made me grin. I took a moment to straighten my hair, wiped off as much of the brains and stains as I could, and buttoned over the shirt with the jacket.

  I rushed from the car, walked across the street, and met the doorman of Sylvia's. He was a stocky man of Italian heritage squeezed into a maître d' uniform two sizes too small.

  “Evening, sir,” he greeted, moving behind me to take my coat.

  “No thank you,” I refused, not wanting to reveal the bloody mess beneath. The interruption in the man's routine of taking jackets seemed to send him into a stupor of confusion, similar to a locked-up program. I double-checked his skin and face to make sure he wasn't some type of new robot or shade. It was a silly notion, since shades were prohibited from working in restaurants for the occasional risk of limb decomposition. Finding an ear or finger will ruin even the most scrumptious Caesar salad. After a few moments of holding still in a position to take my coat, he sighed and motioned with his hand for me to enter.

  I spotted Arnold. He was seated at an oval table covered with a pristine white cloth. He tucked a napkin under his a chin that bulged over the tight collar of his powder blue shirt.

  “I'd like to sit in the back, please. Over at that table if you don't mind,” I requested.

  The maître d’ obliged and escorted me to the table. Arnold regarded me while I walked by, and then returned to ramming fistfuls of fried calamari into his hungry mouth. If anything, he looked larger than the surveillance photos, weighing well over three hundred pounds. Sweat soaked his shirt and he gulped a large cup of ice water like he’d gone without it for three days. I guessed that his blood pressure had skyrocketed from his embolism.

  While monitoring Arnold, I noticed the old-fashioned black-and-white clock ticking on the nearby wall. The time indicated that I had an hour and ten minutes before my lunch with Vanessa. The pressure and worry of missing that important date triggered a regrettable response in my head.

  “Arnold, would you hurry up and die already?” I thought to myself. Overcome by my own selfish needs and tight schedules, I let that horrible desire emerge from some dark recess of my stressed brain. Those ugly words echoed in my head with increasing volume, like a jackhammer pounding me with guilt. I hated myself suddenly, intensely. Then the rational part of my brain countered.

  “I didn't sentence this guy to die,” I consoled myself. “I didn't rack up his debts, I didn't make these collection laws. I'm just trying to make a living.”

  A waiter bumped my table and interrupted my self-loathing. After he apologized to me, he brought the main course to Arnold's table. A foot-long slab of prime rib steamed on a wide plate. Glancing at the menu, I saw the prime rib featured a sweet sherry reduction, buttered finger potatoes, and a cheese-laden salad that would not help his clogged arteries. From the caloric value alone, I sensed this would be Arnold’s last meal.

  Arnold's sweating intensified. He looked nervous and asked the waiter for another pitcher of water. I knew from his expression that he felt something was wrong, but unfortunately for him he attributed his queasiness to hunger. The pallor of his skin grew paler. His fingers unbuttoned his shirt's collar to let him breathe easier. The time was coming.

  Then my wrist-com made a soft chime sound, indicating a message from Vanessa. I muted the audio and played the message back as text streaming next to an image of her smiling face.

  “I hope you're serious about looking for different work,” she wrote. “I'm probably being naive, but I'd like to talk. Can't wait to see you.” The possibility of another chance with her brought a broad smile to my lips. I needed to make sure I didn’t screw it up.

  My gaze returned to check on Arnold, who looked even worse. His hand shook with an obvious tremor as he reached for his water.

  “Just die already so I can get back to my life,” echoed that dark voice inside me. Arnold's plight was not my fault. Who was I to get involved and interfere? The words 'second chance' from Vanessa's message resounded in my head. When I thought of her, I realized that if she sat here instead of
me, she would have intervened to save him. Instead I sat here wishing this man, who never harmed me, would hurry up and die. With a mounting sense of shame, I realized the term ‘ghoul’ seemed appropriate for me. Would she want a man that allowed such things to pass? This worry infected me like a virus, rewiring my intentions. I made my decision.

  With a few taps on my wrist-com, I contacted the Emergency Services network. After three flicks of my finger, I found and made contact with a patrolling ambulance five blocks away. Using an alias cover program, I faked an emergency call message pretending to be Mr. Masa Yukimura, reporting that a man suffered a heart attack at Sylvia's Steakhouse. That way, if the IRS looked into the matter, they wouldn't know that I’d foiled my own collection attempt.

  “Check please,” I requested when the waiter came near. He took my identity card and scanned it for payment.

  “Thank you for the tip—”

  “Is that man okay?” I interrupted, feigning ignorance and pointing at Arnold.

  “What?” he asked, surprised. The waiter followed my point and noticed Arnold fanning himself his cloth napkin and holding a hand to his chest. “Oh my, he does look ill, doesn’t he?”

  I heard a siren blaring across the street, and as I got up to leave two paramedics rushed in, pushing a gurney filled with medical equipment.

  It was a simple matter to walk out unhindered as the patrons and staff all crowded around to watch the dramatic scene. While I left without my bounty, I walked away with something more valuable.

  * * *

  My interrogators each reacted differently to the resolution of the Turnuckle job. Barnaby flashed a disapproving scowl while Erasmus could not suppress a wry grin on his thin lips.

  “You willfully disregarded a collection order from the United States government and revealed classified information to the target?” said the black-dressed man with a rising tone of anger.

  “Classified?” I responded. “He was dying of a stroke, I called an ambulance. It's not like I betrayed state secrets.”

  “You betrayed our trust. That man has a debt and you tipped him off to his condition,” said Barnaby. “This is--”

  “...a legal gray area at best,” Erasmus interrupted. “Jonah made a very human and, I daresay, morally guided decision. Besides, Arnold's debts did not disappear. Jonah merely delayed the collection. I see no reason to punish him at all.”

  While the two continued to bicker, my head throbbed with a sharp pain. I wondered if Dr. Yune’s painkillers had worn off.

  “The strain appears to be weakening him,” Barnaby said, peering at me skeptically. “He may need more meds.”

  Erasmus stroked the medallion dangling from a golden chain on his neck. The necklace featured a cross set onto a spherical moon. It was the holy symbol of the New Church, the harmonious combination of devoted faith and conviction of scientific truths.

  “Why, Barnaby!” Erasmus replied with amusement. “Am I detecting a hint of concern for our new friend?”

  “He is an asset that we invested a great deal of time and attention into,” Barnaby responded with a notable emphasis on the word attention. “It would be a pity to lose that investment.”

  “Jonah, are you able to continue?” Erasmus asked plainly.

  My initial instinct was to say no, that I needed to rest, but I realized they would place me in a cell until they deemed me ready again. Better to finish the report and then let them play their hand, I figured.

  “I'm feeling better now, I just needed a breather,” I lied.

  “Excellent,” Barnaby replied. “Why don't you continue your report? Please don’t spare any details.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Stood up on High

  “Unto a life which I call natural I would gladly follow even a will-o'-the-wisp through bogs and sloughs unimaginable, but no moon nor firefly has shown me the causeway to it.”

  - Excerpt from “Walking”, Henry David Thoreau

  After entering my car, I looked back across the street to watch the paramedics emerge with Mr. Turnuckle on the gurney. Intravenous lines dripped saline into his veins and a mask pushed oxygen into his lungs. The two men, muscular and fit, struggled to hoist their heavy burden into their ambulance. An old prayer to health from my childhood came to mind, and I mouthed the litany with a hope that Arnold survived the stroke.

  “I fabricated medical orders from Mercy General to the paramedics ordering a 50cc dose of thrombolytics to dissolve his brain clot,” Sasha said when I entered the car. “Otherwise it would have taken them approximately twenty-two minutes to reach the hospital and find the cause. Shall I cancel the order?”

  “No, Sasha, you did well,” I replied. “So now you're a doctor?”

  “Not board-certified by any means, sir.” Sasha quipped. “My current expertise levels would rank me close to a first year resident. May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” I responded. My hands darted across the car's virtual display of the city, pinpointing my destination. I needed to travel across town fast, but I also did not want to deter Sasha from exercising her dynamic curiosity algorithms.

  “Why did you change your mind?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “Your decision to intervene with Mr. Turnuckle's fate,” she responded. “By doing so, you abandoned a considerable bounty and endangered your own mother. I hope you do not take offense, but I accessed her current hospice care daily records, and her condition has not improved. To the contrary, I estimate that she has between three to five months to live since her stage four lung cancer has metastasized.”

  “Please cross-reference 'blunt', 'etiquette', and 'cancer' and see what you discover within the context of human social interactions,” I replied matter-of-factly. I didn't take her candor personally, though the conversation conjured an image of my mother clicking a morphine drip before my mind’s eye. I wanted Sasha to learn a lesson in tact. Even amidst a dying world filled with shades, ghosts, and even more terrible monsters, it was important to me that she learned humanity.

  “Searching,” she chirped back. “I believe I understand why you asked me to research this. My candid assessment of your mother's condition caused you discomfort. Next time if this subject enters discussion, I will employ more subtle references nuanced with comforting euphemisms.”

  “Thank you, Sasha.”

  Checking my traffic dashboard, I saw that rush hour still clogged the air lanes, so I remained on the ground streets. The car peeled off and sped back toward Manhattan. Along the way, more digital billboard advertisements animated for my attention, pushing all types of consumable products. I managed to filter out the colorful noise until my car slowed for a red stop signal. While I waited for the signal to change, a glowing billboard to the right of my car flashed, and the White Djinn’s smirking, bearded face appeared. As he delivered his pitch, bold subtitles and slogans danced across his advertisement.

  ----- LOST SOMETHING VALUABLE? -----

  ----- Did a hacker steal an identity? -----

  ----- Wish it back! -----

  ----- Summon THE WHITE DJINN, today! -----

  ----- Djinn’s Fortune Tip #322: -----

  ----- It’s good manners to be on time. -----

  Twice in a day to see an ad from the White Djinn seemed like an odd coincidence. When the traffic light turned green, I sped off and made a mental note to check my car’s system for viruses.

  * * *

  Fifteen concurrent ground and air vehicle accidents caused traffic ripples across the five boroughs. The resulting interruption snarled New York’s traffic to maddening, crawling speeds. Panic welled up within me when the estimated time of my arrival indicated twenty-two more minutes. I was going to be late for my reconciliation lunch with Vanessa.

  “I’ll need to v-cast to the restaurant. Could you be a dear and drive?” I asked Sasha. Decorum frowned on showing up late to lunch in a virtual form, but v-casting to the restaurant on time wo
uld show Vanessa that I remembered the appointment. Better to be there on time and ask forgiveness than risk her leaving.

  “Of course, Jonah,” she replied.

  As my car sped around an idling taxi picking up a large family fare on 8th Avenue, I opened a panel between the driver and passenger seats to reveal the mobile v-casting rig and its input headset. The headset featured an ultra-light mesh silvery skullcap with six spider leg leads sprouting equidistantly around it. These wires contained sensors that interfaced with my brain. After placing the cap on my head, the legs writhed around in anticipation, smelling my alpha and beta waves, hunting like a hungry spider alerted to the scent of prey.

  While the machine and I connected, my hands touched the car’s windshield and its digital map of the city. The interface allowed me to zoom in and pinpoint the skyscraper where Vanessa would be waiting on the 34th floor, almost certainly early for our reservation at Las Cubanas.

  The car sped past a construction crew excavating a broken water main pipe, still fifteen blocks away from my destination when my communication console connected with the v-cast projector at Las Cubanas restaurant.

  I closed my eyes and braced for the disorienting feeling of the v-cast. The time between initiating a v-cast and arrival was called a jump, and for first-timers it was a traumatic experience. Many virtual travelers described it as floating in a deprivation tank with no sensation or feeling of the corporeal body until the mind is oriented to whatever rig is on the other side. With an average speed connection, a normal jump took only a split-second, giving a barely perceptible sensation of flying. For some v-casters, especially on more distant trips, a more pronounced phenomenon of mental time dilation could be experienced. A minority of v-cast research enthusiasts with a spiritual bias proposed that it was not just the mind, but also the soul that traveled in the v-cast. To prove their argument, they pointed out that shades are incapable of forming a mental link and therefore unable to v-cast.