An exact duplicate of James Leyton came on screen and I could not tell him apart from the real one with his beard and robe. “As you can see, I am fine. I appreciate all the letters and messages of concern. The cyber terrorists who thought they could fake my death are in for a surprise. We will not be scared. We will not be terrorized by threats. We will find you and shower Godly vengeance down on your heads.”
As Leyton went on, commentators speculated that this had all been part of a publicity stunt to promote Leyton’s new book, Resurrected. Voltaire pursed his lips. “They just don’t get it.”
“H-how?”
“Image facilitation,” Voltaire replied. “People won’t even be able to tell the difference.”
“But—”
He lifted his hand to me. “This is my concern to take care of. Is your decision settled?”
I looked back at Beauvoir and the memory of the lust that consumed me during my cricket attack came back to me. I would have loved to have held her in my arms and lose myself in her. At the same time, I thought about Larry.
“I’ll sell all the assets and donate them to your charity,” I said.
Voltaire, who was about to leave, stopped. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Though I have two conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“I want Larry to have a proper funeral.”
“The dead don’t care about funeral rites,” Voltaire said.
“I do.”
He glowered at me. “What’s the second?”
“Rebecca Lian used to work here. Leave her alone.”
“You care about this Rebecca enough to refuse me?”
“I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman than your sister in my life,” I said truthfully and looked to her, then back at Voltaire. “But you killed Larry. Larry was the only family I had. And to put it bluntly, I would rather die than join you.”
Voltaire grunted, clearly irritated. He assessed me with his eyes, his fingers rolling his chopsticks between them. He was deciding whether he should kill me or let me go. I was ready for anything. I would have accepted anything. “I can’t fault you for that. I’ll have Russ Brand draw up the papers. We’ll need your signature.”
“Of course.”
We got into the limousine while Voltaire made some calls. We headed down through the hills. On the freeway, traffic was in full force and everything was at a standstill. It might as well have been a car lot as there were thousands of cars going nowhere. The projectors turned on and formed a visual image of Russ. Next to him was Plath.
“All the papers are ready,” Russ said as the screen flashed with a digital contract that I could confirm with my fingerprints. There were bruises all over his face. “You sure about this?” he asked.
I nodded. It started raining outside. I saw the naked joggers again, protesting the madness of L.A. gun fire, risking death and worse. For what? I didn’t know.
“Nick. Think about this again,” Russ pleaded. “If you join Voltaire, you can live a wealthy life. You’ll have a beautiful wife and live a life of luxury, never wanting for anything. Kauai is beautiful year-round. Believe me, you’ll experience things you’ve never even—“”
I took off my shoes and my pants.
“What are you doing?” Russ asked, terrified that if I sold everything off, he’d have no company to run anymore.
I slipped my shirt off, unloosened the chest plate of my armor, and removed the helmet.
“Have you lost your mind?” Russ asked.
I went to Beauvoir, kissed her hand. I was about to say something to Voltaire, but stopped, realizing there was no point as he was engrossed in planning his retaliation.
I dropped my underpants. Put my fingers on the scan, approving the complete liquidation of the company. Opened the door. The rain was coming down heavy and traffic was an automobile quagmire. The herd of naked Americans was halfway by, banging cars as they passed. I got out and ran next to them, completely nude. It was the first time in my life I felt free.
Author Acknowledgments
Bald New World would not be possible without some amazing folks. I would like to thank James Chiang, Jason Jordan, Kristine Ong Muslim, Kyle Muntz, Ofer E., Richard Thomas, and God. Craig Wallwork is not just an amazing writer, but one of the most gracious people I know and I’m indebted for his support. A big thanks to pacificREVIEW and editor Shannon Snyder at San Diego State University who published the short story, “Rennaili,” which was the inspiration for the first chapter in the book. Thank you to editor John Berbrich of the Barbaric Yawp who published the first ever Larry Chao story, “58 Random Deaths and Unrequited Love,” back in 2005. I also would like to thank all the amazing writers and filmmakers who created the crazy dystopias that fired the imagination of my youth—there are too many to list here. Thank you to my incredible editor, Phil Jourdan, at Perfect Edge Books for giving my baldies a home, as well as Dominic James for his wonderful copy editing. And thank you to my wife, Angela Binxin Xu, my caring and generous in-laws, and my uncle and aunt-in-laws—my family.
“There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say,” Cyril Connolly wrote, and we believe he was right.
Perfect Edge seeks books that take on the crippling fear of other people, the question of what’s correct and normal, of how life works, of what art is.
Our authors disagree with each other; their styles vary as widely as their concerns. What matters is the will to create books that won’t be easy to assimilate. We take risks, not for the sake of risk-taking, but for the things that might come out of it.
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