Now was not the time for dwelling on what he might or might not be responsible for. Before anything else he needed to regain control of himself, and began to practice his new kind of breath reduction. Innnn. Ouuut. Innnn. Ouuut. Amon was surprised to find himself getting used to the smell, though there didn’t seem to be enough air in here, and his suit was just too thick. He was tempted to strip it off, but didn’t want to risk having it stolen. Hot, woozy, and thirsty, he keenly missed his stolen drinks and felt a twinge of helpless anger when he thought of what had just happened. It was awful. This place was awful. He couldn’t stand it. He’d spent the last day or so trying to get in here, but now he had to get out. Return to the streets of Free Tokyo. Go anywhere other than here. But the breathing helped, his exhalations expelling his worries, his inhalations inflating a saving thought: I’m here in this place right now, the largest bankdeath camp in the world, the District of Dreams, not somewhere else, here, and I need to accept that. I need to figure out where I’m going.
Amon opened his eyes. The air had brightened a notch as though dawn had shifted to late morning. It felt odd to judge the time of day by changes in the light. High above, he saw a beam of direct sunlight angling down on distant rooftops, though the sun itself was nowhere to be seen. All he found was the tiniest of starfish-shaped openings containing a pathetic speck of sky, bleached and dirty like gungy milk. Silhouetted in the light, a room seemed to unfold out of nowhere like a flower blooming in an instant. Was this one of the pop-up floors he’d seen from the boat? On the ledge beside it children flew kites, catching drafts channeled between buildings. The kites too were dissolving. One girl tried to launch a rapidly flaking one with a hole right through it, but it fell immediately and dropped off the edge of the rooftop, swinging back on the string she held into the wall. Amon felt someone watching him again and, casting his daze down at the plodding crowd just below, saw eyes avert and heads turn away. Then an idea came to him: Maybe these people can help me find my way. Maybe I can ask them for directions. It might not have worked with Free Citizens but it was worth another try here. Unable to access navis themselves, bankdead were probably more accustomed to such behavior.
His plan decided, Amon unstrapped his holster from his belt and hid it in the left inner pocket of his jacket. This way he could reach his duster easily in case of danger but not scare anyone who might help him. He was about to hop off the stairs when out of the corner of his left eye he spotted something crawling along the wall just beside his nose. A cockroach! Startled, he pulled his head away, afraid it might fly at him. But then the strangest thing happened. It stopped right in front of him, and a circular flap in the center of its back slid away, revealing a blue eye, a human eye, that stared right at him. Terrified and revolted out of his wits, Amon crept back, slipping right off the edge of the stairwell. He barely managed to grab the top of a step, giving the crowd just enough time to react before he lost his grip, and dropped into a small gap they’d cleared for him. Bending his knees to take the impact, he managed to stay on his feet and bored ahead through the tight throng, looking fearfully over his shoulder at where the creature had been. But it must have closed its eye, for it now looked like a regular cockroach.
Before Amon knew it, the split in the path was approaching, and he began to ask those around him frantically for directions. “Excuse me,” he said. “Excuse me.” But they all marched onwards in step with him, no one even acknowledging that he had spoken. “Hey!” he shouted, cutting out the politeness after a dozen “excuse me”s had failed. “I’m looking for Xenocyst. Anyone know the way?” Still no one spared him a glance even by the time he reached the split, where, not knowing which way to go, he submitted to the crowd pushing him into the hole straight ahead.
Amon followed a stairpath zigzagging several flights down the hole. At the bottom was a slanted landing from which he poured with the crowd into a thin triangular gap between two leaning buildings. This lead to a tight chamber shaped like a many-sided warped polygon, that fed into a downward-sloping tunnel so low Amon had to crawl in line with the others on his hands and knees, brushing droplets of water off the ceiling with his back, the air even mustier and hotter here. Gradually a dim glow brightened until eventually the tunnel ended at an open square filled with sunlight and he could stand up again.
The square was a solid concrete slab, and Amon supposed he must have reached the ground level of the island atop which the shelters were built. About ten meters in each direction, it was the most spacious area he had come across since leaping off the boat a few hours earlier. Above, he could also see a decent patch of sky, about the size of his hand held out at arms length. Silver-blue with shriveled wisps of fluff. A damp breeze slithered over his cheeks and the ground swirled with varitextured petals, spirals dancing slowly on drafts.
Standing in the corner of the square to his right were two vending machines from which a lineup stretched diagonally to his left. The lineup was fed by bankdead coming from three directions—the tunnel he had just exited, an alley in the wall to his right part way to the machines, and a stairpath wrapping out of sight into a fissure on the far side of the square. Those at the front of the line, having concluded their transaction with the machines, all left by one of these routes with a bottle full of blue liquid and a rice ball in hand. In the distance, above the half dozen stories behind the machines, reared an immense architectural formation that looked like a twin-peaked mountain, the slightly taller peak to the right rising from the shoulder of the other to create a valley between. For a second Amon thought it might be his first ever sighting of Mount Fuji. But to his knowledge, Fuji was supposed to have only one peak, and the slopes should have been rutted from the numerous cave-ins that had happened since the MegaGloms had hollowed it out and filled the core with garbage. Instead, the surface of the slopes was a mosaic of squares, as though it too were built of rooms.
Feeling more and more thirsty, Amon decided to line up for the vendors. He had no money, but neither should anyone else, so surely he would be able to get a drink here. Over the heads of those in line the two plastic rectangles seemed to beckon. He watched as person after person at the front stepped forward, inserted their finger into a small aperture around shoulder height, and bent down to retrieve one of the bottles from a cubby below. They then repeated the same procedure with the other machine, retrieving a rice ball this time, and made their way out of the square. Amon immediately recognized that the aperture was a genome reader, as similar devices were common in the hospitals he had visited, and guessed that the venture charities used them to ration supplies fairly.
Reaching the head of the line, Amon inserted his finger, and felt a slight tickle in his fingertip as a pin-point-sized circle was taken from the top layer of skin for instant genome profiling. But instead of the clunking it had made for the others, he heard an urgent wine-glass hum, the same alarm sound preceding his revulsion dusting, and stepped back immediately. Those behind him soon pushed forward to get their share, and Amon was quickly bumped aside. As some of them gathered a short way off to the side, popped the lids and began to drink, chatting in low voices, Amon gaped with thirsty eyes. Why did they get beverages when he had been denied them?
He watched in confusion as they finished their drinks, ripped open clear wrapping around their rice balls, and after eating the rice balls, began to chew on the wrapping too. The empty bottles they didn’t eat however, instead tossing them into a heap along the wall behind the machines. Some of the bottles at the bottom that had probably been there for a while were dissolving just like the clothes and buildings and kites, their transparent plastic petals joining the twisters of multifarious flakes spinning across the square. It was then that Amon realized what they were all made of. Fleet, he thought, this material must be Fleet.
Sometimes sold under the brand name Hakanite, he’d seen an adverpromo flick about Fleet several years ago. It was a nanomaterial released onto the market as a waste disposal solution. Not only could it imitate a wide range of other mater
ials depending on how it was assembled, it could be programmed with an expiration date. After the designated time had elapsed, the molecules would begin to come apart in pre-designed formation, leaving no garbage. As he hadn’t heard anything about Fleet for several years, Amon had just assumed it had failed to sell or that its products had been recalled for some reason, but apparently not.
When he thought about it, making disposable supplies out of Fleet (and some edible substance in the case of the wrappers?) seemed sensible to him, as it would be difficult and expensive to deal with the waste generated by the huge bankdead population. But it baffled him that clothes, shelters, and everything else would be made of the same ephemeral material. Shouldn’t these be as long-lasting as possible so the bankdead could make continual use of them? His fingers twitched “FlexiPedia” and “bronze search engine” and “pecuniary retreat supplies” and … damn it.
He had to get to Xenocyst, whatever it was, and find Hippo, whoever he was. He needed someone to talk to and, as strange as it seemed to him, to ask about all this madness rather than look it up. But the path had split into three again—the tunnel behind him, the alley, and the ledge—this exponential ramification of options threatening to lead him nowhere over and over and over. And even supposing he did stumble upon his destination, how would he recognize it when he got there?
As Amon stalled, feeling lost and overwhelmed, he heard a man’s voice calling out in a clear tenor projected for many ears.
“Step aside you giftless. Make way for one who has made the sacrifice. I am Marketable and yet I gave up my chance for a Job to liberate you all. In the name of the Giftnature, make way!”
For the first time someone was speaking standard Japanese, and even though it sounded somewhat stilted Amon was excited he could understand the words, if not quite the overall gist of it. Apparently the crowd could understand too, as they began to part and clear a path.
Walking from the direction of the stairpath through the aisle between bodies was a man who looked different from anyone else Amon had seen thus far. He wore a patchwork robe of various fabrics—navy blue, bright yellow, stripes—each with a different vibrantly colored symbol on it. These were composed of letters, distorted geometric shapes, or abstract icons, and Amon guessed they were logos, though they were static rather than animated as he was used to. Most likely, they were still images derived from the logos of venture charities, or perhaps the MegaGlom subsidiaries that owned them, though he recognized none of them. It was as if the man’s outfit had been stitched from an assortment of brand name garments cut into strips. His skin was clear and his hair, instead of the standard disheveled tangle, was buzzed short with a pattern shaved into it that Amon couldn’t make out from where he stood. Though fairly tall and lean, he had a healthy bit of flesh on his jowls, and a red glow to his cheeks, his light brown eyes sharp, his straight posture proud, almost haughty. In his arms he cradled a bundle wrapped in cloth, and as the man approached, Amon saw that it was a baby.
Is this someone who can give me directions at last? Amon wondered, encouraged by the fact that the man spoke his dialect and that he was responsible enough to be taking care of a baby. At the same time, something about his stern manner gave Amon pause.
“This little suckling was destined for the Cycle of ReCrash,” boomed the man as he held the baby up for all to see, “but as is writ in the Book of Jobs, ‘Let even the smallest be dedicated to Universal Giftnature.’ With the blessings of the Free Market, his Delivery is near …”
The preacher hurried across the square as he spoke, but when he caught sight of Amon in his uniform, his tongue and step both faltered. Cradling the baby close to his chest, he began to slink away, eyeing Amon from the corner of his eye with a suspicious frown.
“Excuse me,” blurted Amon louder than he intended, his fear of losing his only chance to get directions dissolving his caution. The preacher froze and looked Amon up and down. “Do you know the way to Xenocyst?” asked Amon. The preacher stared at him for a few seconds, apparently confused, his eyes twitching with fear.
“X-Xenocyst?” he replied.
“Yes,” said Amon, feeling somewhat relieved that he had finally succeeded in asking his question.
“For what purpose do you ask me?”
“I’m lost. If you could just point me in the right direction, I’d—”
“Listen for the voice of the Web why not? But leave us alone.”
After a few seconds staring at the man in perplexity, Amon guessed what he must have meant and said, “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m actually not bankliving. I’m disconnected just like you.”
“I know not what schemes you contrive, but I won’t be deceived.”
“No, I swear. I just cash crashed a few days ago.”
“Is that so? Your suggestion is that the Spider who schemes to bind the Market sucked out the little Web beneath your skin but left her clothes on your back? As if anyone would escape Er so quickly!”
“Look, I’m not familiar with how everything works here, but I crashed in a different way than usual so I got to keep my clothes. It’s hard to explain. I … I was a special case.”
Still frowning, the man inspected Amon carefully, as though truly seeing him for the first time “I view no CareBots in your vicinity. Have you ordered their vacation?”
“I … I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man’s right eye squinted with suspicion. “So you seek what, according to your word?”
“I told you. I’m looking for Xenocyst. For a man named Hippo I’m told will be there.”
“Bankdead or no, I advise caution of heretics and scoundrels.”
Just then Amon heard a woman squeal. Turning towards the sound, he saw a man at the edge of the square near where the preacher had entered leading a woman by the nape of her neck, and another man soon stepped down the stairpath into the square behind him.
Like the preacher, both men wore outfits patched of variously colored and patterned fabrics, but these were stitched into shorts and a T-shirt instead of robes and had no logos on them. The man leading the woman was a compact bundle of muscle, the sleeves of his shorts and T-shirt stretched skin-tight. His scalp bald and shiny, he had large buckteeth that kept his lips pried open and a thick unibrow with deep furrows above wide eyes that gave him a look of constant bafflement. The man coming down behind him was big-boned and tall, his broad, thick shoulders and chest filled in with little muscle, and his arms disproportionately slender. His hair, a straight frizzy curtain to his shoulders, wrapped around all but his sleek, foxlike face.
The woman looked to be in her late teens, the area around her right eye swollen, the collar of her shirt stretched to reveal the flat of her upper chest, her forearms scratched. The hand of Bafflefrown was on the nape of her neck, his stubby fingers gripping her tightly as he led her limping onwards.
The Preacher called out something to Bafflefrown and Slenderarms, and they rushed over with the woman. An exchange of low-spoken words followed, with the men glancing at Amon now and then, as though discussing him. Then Bafflefrown pushed the woman onto her knees and growled something at her, before the three men stepped close to Amon.
“Tell us who you are once more,” said the Preacher, as the baby began to cry, its voice muffled by his chest. “You say you fell from the Free World and the Web, but the Spider left you with your clothes and now you search for the Gene Sucker?”
“Um, if by the Spider you mean GATA and by Gene Sucker you mean Hippo, then I guess that’s right.”
“But the Book of Markets is clear: ‘The crashdead stripped of all vestments, with no profit in him, his body made ready for the giftless garb that lasts but days.’” The Preacher pulled up Bafflefrown’s shirt to expose his belly and pointed to some faint markings there as if that illustrated his quote. “How do you explain the contradiction with the teaching and experience? You must have proof!”
“I don’t know anything about your teaching.
And … well, I don’t have proof of anything, but …” Amon caught the eyes of the woman. Still kneeling in the dust, she looked up at him pleadingly, her swollen eye beginning to darken. “I promise you that everything I say is true. If we had more time, I could tell you the whole—”
“No! Hold back your stories,” demanded the Preacher. “If you are truly crashdead, your memories will defile our DNA.”
“Okay,” said Amon. “So can you just tell me the way to Xenocyst then? Then I can go where I need to go and leave your DNA in peace.” These men were making him intensely uncomfortable and he felt a strong urge to walk away. He had approached the Preacher because he spoke Japanese and carried a baby, but his companions seemed to have assaulted and abducted a young woman, and the Preacher’s words sounded like plain nonsense. When he noticed that the square was almost empty, with the lineup before the vendors disbanded and the few remaining bankdead now slowly vacating the area along the three paths, he knew he had to get away.
But he now realized that the three men had crept into a triangle around him. They stood in their places giving him hard stares, saying nothing.
“I’ve gotta go,” said Amon, unable to think what would count as an excuse in this timeless, jobless place, and tried to step between the Preacher and Bafflefrown, but Bafflefrown pushed him on the chest, forcing Amon to take a step back.
“What was that?” Amon snapped with a perplexed, indignant stare, but the three men just looked up timidly at the sky as though searching for some angry god. Amon hovered his right hand just outside his jacket lapels, ready to draw his duster at the next provocation, his pulse quickening.
After a short time, the Preacher lowered his gaze to Amon. “So you speak honestly? The CareBots have truly forsaken you?”
“Yes. I’ve been telling you—fugah!” Amon yelled in alarm as Slenderarms sprang behind him, wrapping his arms beneath his elbows and locking him in a full nelson before Amon could get his hand to his duster. He bucked and twisted against the hold but Bafflefrown quickly stepped in and grabbed the breast of his shirt to hold him still.
The Naked World Page 10
