Voices in the Stream: Phase 02 (The Eighteenth Shadow)

by Grafton, Jon Lee

Dax pursed his lips, “Genius, yes, there’s quite a surplus of that going around. What I am asking, Mr. Benedict, is what you would do to combat the Architect? If, in fact, his motive was shifting the very mindset of North American culture.” Dax spun the black Rodeo Drive vaporjoint in his fingers, “To make people more passive, more malleable, open to government suggestion. What if he wants to control morality itself? What if alcohol prohibition is just a convenient means to that end?”

  This guy is a whack job. I wanna see his slick face when like fifty CNED agents bust through his little hologram curtain!

  Virgil could feel his knee bouncing uncontrollably under the table, “You think the Architect is really trying to like, mind meld people? By what? Making everyone believe it’s their own idea to think booze is evil? When it’s really just his?”

  “Something like that,” said Dax through his teeth, letting a tight smile compose his features.

  Virgil stuck his lower lip out, “Well, so what if he’s right? I mean, maybe there’s a good reason alcohol is illegal. It’s a proven gateway drug. I knew this one kid in high school who got so drunk that…”

  “Oh, for Dog’s sake,” said Dax firmly, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard quite enough.” He removed his tinted glasses and set them on the table.

  “Enough of what?” asked Virgil, sipping his vodka and peering over the rim of his glass at this man’s exposed, yellow eyes.

  “Put that glass down,” said Dax.

  Virgil found that he couldn’t look away. His body was frozen, except for the hand that had just lowered the glass to the table top. A warm, intoxicating feeling flooded down his spine, like taking ten Pleasium at once. He felt high and lucid. His knee stopped bouncing. All that mattered was the beautiful man sitting across the table from him.

  “Okay…” he managed to say, grinning foolishly.

  Dax leaned back and engaged his vaporjoint with newfound glee as he spoke, “Virgil Benedict, repeat after me: I am a wretched, sodding cunt of a human being.”

  Virgil responded immediately, “I am a wretched, sodding cunt of a human being.”

  A microdrone the size of a ping pong ball emerged from the wall by Dax’s head and floated over until it was in front of Virgil. A red light on the drone’s belly turned green, indicating that a holorecording had started.

  “Very good,” said Dax, as his jet black pupils dilated further, crushing away the tiger yellow, “Now that it’s on the record for all to see, look at the drone and, on my command, repeat the following: “Citizens of Lawrence, my name is Virgil Benedict. I am a CNED snitch. I am a gormless knob of a young man. Bloody useless really.” Virgil felt a stab of fear rise as Dax went on, but he was unable to move, only listen to the mesmerizing voice saying, “Furthermore, I apologize sincerely to those Jayhawks among you who have been forced to experience behavioral modification as a result of my epic lack of testicles. Lastly, to CNED Special Agent, Bubba Sparks, I would especially like to say, go toss yourself you blubbering heap of rat’s vomit, I now work for the other side. And Bob’s my uncle.”

  Virgil was sitting straight up, a tear in the corner of his eye. There was no warm fuzzy sensation. The fear was now all consuming. He could form no thoughts, only sense the grave horror of realizing this man heard every thought he had. His teeth were chattering. His knee had begun bouncing spasmodically.

  Dax leaned forward onto his elbows and squinted, slowly making the boy twist his head at the same angle as his own, like a marionette, “It’s not much fun, is it?” said Dax. “The terror of knowing you are no longer in control.” Dax clenched his teeth, “Knowing that you have no privacy, that every single thought you have is the property of someone else.” He slammed his fist on the table and yelled furiously, “Answer me, slave!”

  “Yesss…” sputtered Virgil, saliva burbling over his lower lip, one eye going bloodshot, “Please…” he managed, “it hurts. You’re hurting me… I’m sorry…”

  “Bloody fucking right,” said Dax as he leaned back and regained his composure, again puffing the vaporjoint. With the flick of a wrist he added, “All right, Virgil. Your fear is gone. Clean that tear from your eye. You feel fine. Stop being such a sally.”

  Virgil fell back into the booth, wiping his face and relaxing into a smile as once more the warm, comfortable feeling consumed him. He knew he had just been afraid, but he could not remember why.

  “There’s no need for the drone,” Dax said. The drone’s belly lights extinguished and it hovered back into its camouflaged wall port and disappeared as he continued, “I’m not going to throw you to the wolves just yet. Are you paying attention, Virgil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Dax’s pupils again enlarged, though his voice remained calm and polite, “Forget Bubba Sparks and CNED. You hate CNED, in fact. Your new permanent contact is an AI named Joan. You will contact her at the Ipv7 just pinged to your combud. You will report any undercover CNED activity you observe to Joan on a weekly basis and you’ll do it with a damn smile.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a chap. Next, what do you remember from being in the alley right before you came into this bar?”

  “I got stopped by CNED. The Fido appeared with William and they shot it. It bit the lady’s hand off. Then it pinned her to the ground and a laser gun came out of its mouth and it burned the lady’s arm to stop the bleeding,” said Virgil with the comfort of somebody ordering lunch.

  Dax cocked his head, “You, my friend, just forgot all of that. The truth is, you don’t know how you got into this speakeasy. The last thing you remember is walking down the alley. It was raining. It was hard to see. Now what did I just say?”

  “About what?” asked Virgil innocently. His eyes lit up like a kid on Festivus morning, “I really like this vodka, Mr. Abner. I’m going to do this job right. I hear a lot of word about CNED narcs on the underground chat streams with students around the library. I’ll be able to get Joan some decent intel for sure. I’d like to add, sir,” he said with a genuine, broad smile, “That I really appreciate the opportunity to be a part of your war to destroy the Architect.”

  Just then, Daphne the adorable waitress brushed bum-first through the curtain, carrying fresh glasses of soda water and vodka. Virgil didn’t understand why, but sitting with Dax Abner made him even more captivated by the motion of the girl’s body.

  “Daphne, can I read you a poem?” he jabbered as she set the drinks down.

  Dax gave the waitress a barely noticeable nod.

  She looked at Virgil, “Are you sure reading me a poem is really what you want to do?”

  Virgil swooned, “Oh yes, absolutely! I’ve got the perfect one in my head right now.”

  Daphne brightened her eyes, “I bet you do! Tell you what, pretty, I get off at 3:00. Why don’t you just take me out in the docking lot after my shift and throw me up on the hood of your Chevy? At the end of the day, a girl likes some good, cheap sex with a complete stranger better than a poem, don’t ya know?!” she said with an exaggerated wink.

  Virgil blushed and was only able to respond with a series of jumbled squeaks.

  Daphne shot Dax a smile before sashaying off, “Good luck, Mr. Abner. This one must be a special snowflake!”

  Dax replied softly, “You have no idea.”

  Virgil sighed as Daphne disappeared, “She’s so beautiful…”

  “Yes, quite.” Dax rapped his knuckles sharply on the wooden table, “Focus, Mr. Benedict. You had just finished saying all the right things.” He picked up his soda water affably, “Let’s toast, Virgil. To a prosperous future.”

  “Cheers, Mr. Abner!” exclaimed Virgil. “This is so fond. Hey! Here come the guys!”

  SIEGFRIED pushed back through the velvet curtain followed by Goran and Cat, Hugo and lastly William, who even sans the cowboy hat had to stoop slightly under one of the lower ceiling joists.

  As everyone slid into the booth, Dax said, “G
entlemen, I’m certainly glad I didn’t have to spend ten minutes like that with any of you. You fellows conveniently came without the stupid. Nonetheless, young Virgil here is now fully of a mind, I believe.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Angevine, sir,” said Virgil ebulliently, leaning so close to William that he had to back away. “I apologize for my behavior earlier.”

  William turned to Dax as though Virgil had a feculent odor, “Will he stay like this?”

  “Unfortunately not,” said Dax. “Within a few hours he’ll return to being the same sniveling little shit he’s always been, albeit with a few improvements. He works for us now, and remembers nothing of his associations with CNED. He’s totally harmless.”

  “You guys, I’m sitting right here,” said Virgil plaintively. “What associations with CNED?”

  Dax turned his head, “Forget the last twenty seconds of your life.” He put his green sunglasses back on, “And now, Virgil, why don’t you do something useful as promised? Read us a poem.”

  William slapped his knee. Hugo chuckled. Dax held up a finger, silently asking for pause. Only Cat seemed to mewl in support of the spoken word. Goran, however, stared with one radiant blue eye, looking at Virgil like he would just as soon burn him alive as listen to him read poetry. The little dwarf’s wrench opened and closed as he watched the boy.

  “You guys really want me to read? ’Cause I will!” exclaimed Virgil, sitting up and pulling his backpack into his lap.

  “Yes, we want you to recite a poem, said Dax slyly. “I believe I hear a few rattling around up there, don’t I? An early century contemporary piece of some feather will do nicely.”

  Virgil said, “Alright!” happily and leaned to unzip his backpack.

  Dax stopped him, “No, Virgil. Something from memory.”

  Even through the tinted lenses of the sunglasses, Virgil felt as though the man’s eyes might blow holes in his mind, “Yes sir. I only know a few by memory. Ummm…” he looked around his skull, then got it, “Okay. How’s about one by a famous, dead Kansas poet? You ever heard of Jason Ryberg?”

  Hugo raised his hand, “Oooh, I heard of heem, dawg! He’s like d’ last poet that eever was or sometheeng?”

  “The last American poet to make money writing, you mean,” clarified Virgil happily.

  “And not die a homeless alcoholic,” added Dax.

  Virgil said, “Well actually, he did die a homeless alcoholic, but…”

  Hugo took another drag off a freshly lit joint, “Whateever, dawg. Say d’ sheet!”

  Virgil closed his eyes and spoke in a voice so smooth and steady that it surprised everyone. Cat jumped down to the tabletop and sat between Goran’s legs beside his mug of beer.

  Even SIEGFRIED raised his head off the floor and focused as Virgil began, “This is called A Storm is Coming…

  There’s a blanket of black wool

  that’s been pulled over the city,

  over this little nameless hole in the prairie.

  There’s squadrons of orn’ry flies

  buzzin’ about and stingin’ and the faded,

  ringin’ reports of car horns, here and there.

  There’s pages of splayed-open books

  on auto repair and Common Missouri

  Wildflowers whipping and flipping

  in a nervous Missouri wind.

  There’s cats and dogs

  conspicuously ducking for cover

  and birds takin’ the last bus out of town.

  There’s a heavy incandescent density to things

  like the boiler-rooms of all the world

  are just about to blow

  and everybody, everywhere

  secretly seems to know it

  and even though it’s only 4PM,

  the only light to speak of

  is the ghosted-out fluorescent resin

  of oxide lamps just now ghostin’ in.

  And over across town,

  on the far side of the train yards,

  right next door to Big Maybelle’s

  Beauty Emporium,

  there’s two old boys sittin’ on the front porch

  of a boarding house, hootin’ at all

  the sweet, young things as they come and go,

  sippin’ on their whiskey drinks real, real slow

  in sweetly calibrated synchronization

  with the melting of the ice cubes.

  Their bones are ancient humming architectures

  of radio towers and tuning forks.

  Their pop-bottle bi-focals peer deep into the future.

  One of them leans over a little

  and says to the other, storm a comin’.

  Yup.”

  Virgil opened his eyes carefully. Everyone at the table was silent, looking at him, waiting, as if no one had heard such a thing before. Goran the dwarf remained stone-faced. It was Cat the kitten who finally broke the silence. She turned her tiny butthole in Virgil’s direction and released a kitten fart.

  Dax grinned and turned to William, knocking his glass on the table. “So there you have it. You see? He’s not entirely worthless.”

  William paused, staring into his vodka, then looked up and asked Virgil grimly, “Why poetry, squire?”

  Virgil beamed, “Well, it’s really literary history. But mostly ’cause chicks dig it.”

  You went to poetry college to meet betties?”

  “It worked,” said Virgil, shrugging as if the answer should be obvious.

  “I deed not understand sheet he say, leetle men,” interjected Hugo, gladly raising his glass. “But I drink anytime, you know dat. So cheers to d’ poems and d’ betties, mangs!”

  The glasses had just hit everyone’s lips when SIEGFRIED sprang to his paws. Hackles raised down the ridge of his spine. The cyborg looked directly at William. A second later, the microdrone burst from the wall, flashing red. Dax put his hand to his combud. His expression soured.

  William was first out of the booth, standing so he could look at his holotab, reading the scrolling text as he hurriedly pulled the silver comdot from his jeans and reaffixed it to his jaw.

  He wiped his eyes, looked at Dax, “Tell me this is some kind of drill?”

  Dax shook his head calmly, “Negative. We are going to have to conclude these revelries early.”

  “Conclude? Who gots to conclude?” asked Hugo. “We’s just geeting our swerve on, mangs!”

  Dax slid to his feet, yellow eyes filling with apprehension.

  He leapt across the table with cat-like agility, “On our way, Joan.”

  Dax smiled tightly at Virgil, who was the only one still sitting, “Mr. Benedict, we must depart. Daphne or Leo will scan you out.” He turned abruptly to Goran, Hugo and William, “The ladies are in trouble, gentlemen. We must float like the very wind!”

  Hugo’s inebriated ears still didn’t want to hear as much, “What so what?!? Meesus Dean geet her sweater caught een d’ sonic dryer ageen?!”

  Dax rounded on Hugo with a gaze that made him shrivel, “Why no, Hugo, in fact she’s not having trouble with the laundry. This situation is slightly more dire. Coyote One is sitting on the lawn behind the farmhouse.”

  Police Headquarters – Fourteen Months Earlier – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.

  “That news perplexes me, Kenneth. Rape is a serious allegation to make disappear.”

  “My apologies. It won’t happen again. Howler got… excited.”

  Slopes laced his fingers together, “Very well. See that he is more discrete in the future.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “At the moment, I am less concerned about your team’s abuse of power than I am the vanishing of your agents into thin air. This smells of murder.”

  The voice on the other end of the stream plucked up, “How do you think we feel, sir? Jenks was a patriot, a hell of a hunter. Fella was a regular down at First Sky Unitarian and could shoot the wings off a camodrone at…”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I get it, he was a real class acs
ss…” Chief Narcotics Detective Dennis Slopes began coughing uncontrollably in his office.

  The rickety man had popped a hemp-truffle into his mouth and was gasping as the dessert piece fought with his lungs for throat space.

  “Sir?”

  Slopes’ body rattled violently as he coughed again, chocolate dribble running down his chin, “Hold… Sapet.”

  He tapped his combud and squeaked in a high pitched voice, “Julie!”

  An anxious girl’s voice answered, “Yes, Detective Slopes?”

  “No more protein truffles with nougat!” he squealed. “I don’t want you to buy any more nougat truffles. I nearly choked to death! You don’t want a lawsuit on your hands, do you?”

  The girl’s voice on the other end of the com sniffled, “No sir. I’m sorry. It’s as I said, they were temporarily out of pure chocolate so…”

  “No excuses! That will be all,” he said snippily.

  Subordinates were like unwanted children.

  He returned abruptly to his conversation with CNED Director Ken Sapet, “You there, Kenneth?”

  “I’m here, sir.”

  “Okay. Where were we?”

  “Agent Jenks’ wife told us that he and Tramm were planning to hunt outside city limits along the river. They were inserting at Oak Hill Cemetery.”

  “A foolish decision.”

  “Yes sir,” growled Sapet miserably.

  “Meow meow, I’m a cow…” Slopes mumbled, thinking.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, it’s nothing.” Slopes knitted his fingers, “All right. His wife said he was going east. So tell me again how this hovtruck just up and floated across the city by itself? Putting last dock on the opposite side of the county!?”

  Sapet grumbled, “We don’t know. The truck’s com confirms the autonav course was input by Jenks himself. The tracking data from his combud is scrambled. It’s strange. What IT was able to salvage indicates he followed a westward trajectory the whole time.”

  “It’s the same situation with, this uhhh…” he brought his fist to his mouth and coughed again violently, “Damn this nougat!”

  “Phillip Tramm.”

  “That’s right. So Agent Tramm’s combud says he’s following Hovroad 1500 east according to one ping, and five seconds later he’s disappeared thirteen kilometers north up river?”