Cerulean Dreams

by Dan O'Brien

  As his friend turned to leave, Jackson got up, his heavy weight a burden to throw around. “It doesn’t mean anything though, Marlowe. Girl could be dead, maybe it was the girl who already turned up in a gutter.”

  Marlowe had reached the door, the dull green of the interior lights revealing the two-day beard that had grown in around his hard features. “Maybe, but she might be alive. I might get to her before whoever is killing these girls does.”

  The archaic chime croaked again, but Marlowe had already filtered into the night, the buzz of electricity permeated the air. This and the distant, unfocused voices of the citizens of Orion talking to themselves made Marlowe feel quite alone.

  II

  T

  he night was a sweltering one. Marlowe sauntered across Messiah, which ran parallel to 48th. He watched the street trash as they dodged in and out of public housing.

  Dark deals made in the false utopia.

  The need for recreational pharmaceuticals survived the Water Rights War. Humanity had so many problems and seemingly such little time to deal with them; a chemical intervention seemed inevitable.

  Messiah Avenue was a mosaic of shattered dreams and rundown buildings. They climbed into the heavens as well. Thick smog hung above their peaks, threatening disease and malnutrition to those who dared ascend them. The visor whirred angrily. Giving in, Marlowe activated it with a press of his finger to his temple.

  The imaging module crackled, red lines inhabiting corners of his vision. The pixels spread quickly, forming a singular picture. Mountains far in the distance, the night air hung with stars and a brilliant mammoth moon that seemed to smile. Grassy fields as far as the eye could see and in azure letters, the words CERULEAN DREAMS.

  “Map. Messiah District,” barked Marlowe.

  The Messiah district was the grid name for what was lovingly referred to as the Hole. The image of the city shifted from overhead to a blueprint cast in a broad section of colors.

  The voice was no longer feminine, but instead a middle-aged man. “Messiah District map incomplete, loading closest match.”

  Marlowe sighed. The Messiah District was one of many districts that were scheduled for renovation through the Orion Improvement Program.

  “Load thermal imagery and voice/facial recognition modules for Messiah District,” spoke Marlowe clearly, each word enunciated so as not to confuse the software.

  A red dot in the corner throbbed angrily as the network was processing. All information was transferred directly from a feed at the Cerulean Dreams compound at the center of the city, but sometimes the signal was much slower in the peripheral districts. “7.93 million registered citizens, 7,930,001 thermal signatures collected.”

  Marlowe smiled at the discrepancy.

  There was no denying the efficiency of the network.

  Every citizen of Orion was implanted in their temple with a motherboard chip from Cerulean Dreams as a way to monitor their wants and needs, cataloguing all information within the city.

  Marlowe felt for the bulge along the left side of his trench. He drew his weapon methodically, the steel cold to the touch. His fingers were sweaty, his grip greasy as he flexed his hand a few times to get a grip he liked.

  “Location of unknown thermal signature,” spoke Marlowe quietly, aware that there were other humans standing all around him, moving about their business. Had one of them had their visor down, his words would have sailed to their ears.

  The software whirred again, the voice crackled this time. “Location is corner of 48th and Messiah, edge of Messiah district.” The voice paused and then resumed. “Upgrade immediately, network connection weak.”

  Gripping the weapon low in one hand, he crossed into one of the back alleys on Messiah, moving past transients and shifters who held their hands out for charity. Even those on the lowest ring of society retained access to the main network.

  However, their ability to function was still powered by economics. The visor controlled the monetary system, the pleasure system, nearly every function of being; sometimes even governing thought if one was not careful to step away from its thrall on occasion.

  Marlowe considered disengaging the visor, but stopped suddenly as the screen filled angrily in row after row of crawling red script. Upgrade was repeated over and over again.

  “System failure imminent,” crooned the fading voice.

  Marlowe shook his head, wiping at the air.

  “Deactivate.”

  “Command overridden. Upgrade immediately. Voice protocol required.” Had the visor been an animate creature, he would have struck it, perhaps even fired a round into it. He reminded himself that it was little more than an automated voice and a network of images.

  “Fine. Upgrade approved. Could we please carry on?” he asked, knowing that his sarcasm would be lost on the programmed entity.

  The red script dissolved back into a street map occupied by throbbing yellow dots that represented the people around him. He moved carefully across the alley until he came to the building marked on the imaging map.

  “Deactivate. Upgrade in the background,” he ordered.

  The visor dissipated and returned to a bobbing sphere. Within the sphere, a green light shone brightly, announcing the status of the upgrade. When it changed from green to blue, the upgrade would be complete.

  48th Street looked eerily similar to Messiah, which was not entirely surprising. Lights were on in a scattered pattern across the buildings. Some citizens stood staring upward. Mouths moving, their visors donned.

  Cedars Tower: that was the location of the anomaly.

  There was nothing remarkable about the building; same black steel construction and tinted gray windows that climbed into the dusty atmosphere. Marlowe approached the steps. Taking each one deliberately, the thick grip of his boots found sure footing.

  A man sat to the side of the double-door entrance.

  His visor was down and his voice was a high cackle as he talked to himself. The words he spoke were alarmingly similar to what Marlowe was doing. “I told her that he was coming, but that girl never wants to listen.”

  Marlowe couldn’t see his face.

  The visors had a way of dehumanizing people, reducing them to a voice and a body covered in similar monotonous clothing; everyone analogous in their creature comforts. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man. Marlowe held his weapon tight in his hand, wondering if it was only paranoia.

  “You talking to me?” he croaked at the seated citizen.

  The man continued, as if Marlowe had not spoken. “Then he showed up and she wasn’t there.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, she doesn’t ever listen. Even her mama told me not to marry her. Yeah, she was too much trouble.”

  Marlowe’s grip slackened on his weapon.

  He moved past the man through the swinging double doors and into the darkened interior. The everlasting gloom that seemed to permeate from Orion was due in part to the draw of electricity to billboards and signs, as well as the amount of energy required to keep the network active. That coupled with most citizens being logged in the majority of their lives made the necessity for lighting in housing seem something of a waste of energy and time.

  A few flickering lights cast shadows across the antiquated furniture in the lobby. Twin elevators lay at the far end of the empty room. No light resonated from them, convincing Marlowe that they were indeed out of commission.

  The left side of the room was occupied by a large wraparound desk that probably had been used to welcome guests to the tower. There was no sound except the scratching of rodents moving about. Messiah district was by far the poorest of the city, and the most populated; almost eight million crammed into a few city blocks.

  Many lived below ground, in the warmth of the sewers as they could not get heat in the winter. Food trucks no longer came into the district. Thus, they created a diet rich in rodents and other creatures that crawled or slithered deep beneath the city.

  He moved forward through the lobby.r />
  Chairs and couches were scattered around. Some were overturned. Others had the cushions and padding ripped from them, no doubt for shelter or clothing. Marlowe backed against the wall, the rhythmic hum of runner lights following him as he peered into the stairwell. The bleached stairs were covered with muddy prints; footsteps covered, and then covered again over time. Using his free hand to push open the door, he sucked his breath in: nothing, no sounds.

  He moved through the doorway and closed the thick door behind him. Looking up at the flights of stairs, he sighed. The building was easily a hundred flights high.

  “Activate.” The clear blue wrapped around his face once more. The emerald bar had nearly reached half, a little script above it scrawled out that it was 54 percent complete. “Site location of thermal anomaly.”

  The visor whirred and the progress minimized, finding a place in a distant corner of his vision. “49th Floor, Room 4918,” responded the voice. Marlowe nodded as he looked up the endless flights of stairs and began his slow ascent.

  III

  T

  he door to the 49th floor was unremarkable. Faded letters counted out the floor number and the metal handle was loose as Marlowe pulled it open. It was, however, what was on the other side of the door that caught him by surprise.

  “Proximity alert,” warned the masculine voice.

  Marlowe ducked his head as a metal pipe collided with the doorframe, sparks showering, as it rebounded back into the hands of the assailant.

  “Deactivate,” roared Marlowe and he rolled forward. He had dropped his weapon. As he pushed back to his feet once again, the visor had returned to its appropriate place.

  The wielder of the pipe was a head taller than Marlowe, and wider. The heavy set of his jaw was uneven. Dull eyes completed his appearance: a towering menace. “No cops,” the man-like shadow growled.

  Marlowe looked over his shoulder, seeing only more darkness. “I’m not a cop. I’m an investigator…”

  The man leapt forward, swinging the pipe hard. Marlowe ducked again, just beneath it. The lunge had placed the men chest to head. The metal pipe had lodged into the wall. As the man struggled to get it free, Marlowe struck him hard in the ribs, feeling bones break beneath his strike.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, I’m just…” started Marlowe.

  The man had abandoned the lodged weapon for the moment and lashed out. Striking Marlowe across the chest with his forearm, he lifted him into the air and then into the retaining wall with a heavy thud.

  Dust sifted through the air as pieces of the wall fell away from around Marlowe’s body. The tower of a man reached out and grabbed Marlowe, lifting him off of the ground. With an easy toss, he launched Marlowe like a shot-putter. Marlowe rolled to a stop, groaning as he wiped a hand across his mouth.

  Blood flowed freely.

  “I guess he isn’t listening.”

  The behemoth stormed down the hallway, his thick hands lifting Marlowe once again. This time, before he could be tossed, Marlowe struck him hard in the throat with the side of his hand. The ogre of a man faltered for a moment. As he did so, Marlowe punched him hard in the throat, a gurgle erupting.

  The man fell to one knee, dropping Marlowe.

  “As I was trying to say,” began Marlowe before kicking the man hard in the face. He continued. “I’m just looking for a girl.” The man opened his mouth, but only a groan escaped.

  Marlowe reached down and smirked. “This is where it went, huh?” His weapon glinted in the sparsely lit hallway. Picking it up, he wiped his mouth with his free hand. Marlowe looked at it, shaking his gun a little and then gestured toward the behemoth. “You seen a girl around here?” he spoke. Gesturing a woman of short height, he continued. “About this tall, blonde hair. Probably looks like a kid to a guy your size.”

  The man opened his mouth again. The beginnings of words were evident, but lost again. Marlowe sighed and thought very seriously about hitting him with his weapon. “You can point, can’t you?”

  The man nodded, holding one hand to his bruised throat and pointed with the other down the hall. He grunted, trying to form words.

  “When did you see her? Was it today? A week ago?” The man pointed at the ground. “Today?” Marlowe queried, crouching as he talked to the man.

  The man nodded, breathing out.

  “Thanks.” Marlowe struck him across the face hard with his weapon, knocking the man to the ground in a heap. Looking farther into the darkness where the man had pointed, he stared. “Now to find 4918.”

  He held his weapon in his right hand, reading the room numbers as he passed them: 4910, 4912, 4914, and then 4916. “And here we are,” he whispered as he moved in front of 4918.

  He looked down both sides of the hallway: empty.

  There was no one else on the floor except for the maniac with the pipe and whoever was behind this door. He raised his foot and struck the door until the hinges splintered and the door vaulted in. The door hung awkwardly from the frame.

  Marlowe peeked through the opening, taking a moment in case someone was on the other side of the door with serious firepower. “I have a weapon. I’m coming in,” he called, but didn’t immediately enter, again waiting in the wings of paranoia. He had been present for too many busts and stings that had gone sour.

  The first guy through the door was a target. He breathed out and ducked low through the door, plastering himself up against the wall and kicking the door mostly shut with a grunt.

  “Anyone here?” he called out.

  The small hallway of the apartment gave way into a wider, darker living room. There wasn’t a light in the place. A shuffle of feet and a faint whimper caused him to turn his head. “I’m a private investigator. I’m not with OrionCorps. I don’t want to hurt you,” he called and then hesitated before adding, “I’m looking for a girl.”

  A shadow darted across the room, heading toward a broken window opposite the entrance. Marlowe was in motion, leaping over boxes strewn across the ground and grabbing the darting form by the shoulders––slender shoulders.

  She screamed, swinging her delicate fists hard and striking him across the face and chest. Bright blonde hair and half-closed blue eyes swimming in tears assaulted him. Marlowe seemed like a giant compared to her, and he was only of average height.

  “Leave me alone, I don’t want to go,” she screamed.

  He shook her. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not here to take you anywhere, just calm down,” he spoke, his voice steady but reassuring.

  She continued to whimper, but her hands stopped flailing and settled to her sides. “They are coming for me. The Lurking is coming,” she whispered, her voice breaking mid-sentence.

  He pulled her away from his body. “The Lurking?”

  “Upgrade complete.”

  The visor wrapped around his face in an instant, separating his vision from the young girl to the loading screen of Cerulean Dreams. Something was wrong. He didn’t see clear skies or mountains.

  This was different.

  “What the….”

  He looked up and the skies were on fire, the ground beneath him ash and twinkling embers. A horrible thunder rolled from the distance that was only more crimson and gray.

  “Deactivate,” he commanded.

  “Voice Recognition malfunction, repeat command.”

  He pressed his temple hard. “Deactivate. Log off network. Sever connection,” he commanded again, this time with greater force.

  “Disconnection of network can result in loss of privileges.”

  “Deactivate and log off immediately,” he repeated in a steely tone.

  The deactivation whir was different than that of the network gathering information. The pulse of its departure calmed Marlowe for a moment. The visor lowered and returned to his temple. He covered his face with his hands. Rubbing his eyes hard, turtle shells swam in the darkness.

  “What in the hell was that?” he whispered. Lifting his hands, he tried to look at the girl on
ce more. What he saw, however, was much more than just the girl.

  The room had filled.

  Men, women, and children now stood shoulder to shoulder; gray silhouettes of what they once were. Standing, their hands rose to their faces. Their heads moved in manic, convoluted motions. Screaming and shaking, their bodies remained neutral. Marlowe backed away and the blonde girl stepped forward.

  “Can you see them?”

  They moved closer to Marlowe, transporting across the room effortlessly. One moved directly in front of him, the shaking, screaming woman knocking Marlowe from his feet. “What––what,” he mumbled as he crawled away from the slinking apparition.

  It lowered too, following Marlowe.

  “We have to leave,” the girl cried.

  Marlowe backed into a wall, the suddenness of it startling him. He looked at the girl fearfully and then back at the apparition as it lowered in front of his face. The otherworldly features and haunting terror painted across its features sent shivers down his spine. “What are they?”

  She moved next to him, bridging the distance. She smelled like blossoms. Her blonde hair was a strange contrast as it fell across his arm. Pulling on his arm, her eyes pleaded. “We have to go, they are coming,” she whispered urgently.

  “Who is coming?” he asked, not wanting to look at the shaking, translucent figures. Then he heard the sirens. Paranoia swept over him like a rush of heat: OrionCorps. Maybe Cerulean Dreams Cleaning Crews, though neither option would instill such horror as he saw in the young girl.

  “They are coming. We have to leave,” she replied and pulled at his heavier body.

  “Hold on….”

  He hesitated.

  He did not know what to call her.

  “They called me Dana,” she spoke as if sensing his question. “And we have to go. If they catch us here, they will kill both of us.”

  Marlowe struggled to his feet and then groaned as he saw his weapon at the center of the room amidst the strange phantoms. “My gun,” he croaked. His throat was dry and the need for something to drink was suddenly very strong.