by R E McLean
“Exactly. And even if I did, it would mean nothing here. It’s all biodigital. So we keep a low profile. Don’t attract attention.”
“Right.”
The street next to Claire’s building was busier today, with brightly colored people moving around in that strange dance she’d seen in the MOO offices. Whenever two people came close to each other, one would step to the side, allowing the other to pass. Alex wondered if they could see each other virtually, inside the Hive. And how it was they decided who should step aside.
“What are those things on their ears?” she whispered.
“The earpieces?”
“No. The things attached to them.”
Almost all of the people around them had objects clipped to their earpieces. On most, these were brightly colored, in designs that clashed with their clothes. Pink and green feathers, yellow glitter, and something that looked suspiciously like tinsel. Alex could only imagine what Christmas would look like here. If indeed Christmas wasn’t entirely virtual.
A few of the older adults had earpieces that were more muted, verging on tasteful. Pearls and black jet dangled from their ears, sometimes accompanied by what must be fake rubies and emeralds. And the children had brightly colored rubber or plastic appendages. A small boy passed Alex and pulled a big chunk of a rubbery substance off his earpiece, molding it with his fingers and breathing on it. It changed from a muddy brown to bright sunshine yellow. He licked it and fixed it back in place.
“Is that Play-Doh?” she asked.
“No idea,” said Mike. “But those things on their earpieces are Pearls. They’re how Claire Pope made her fortune in this world. She manufactures them, designs them.”
“She’s not a recluse? Or a pet food magnate?”
“Yes. And no. She’s a recluse sure enough—I wish she wasn’t—but she’s not a pet food magnate. And she has a pet, living up there in that flat.”
“How d’you know all this stuff?”
“Madonna sends information across. And Sarita knows a fair bit.”
“Sarita?”
“Come on, we’re on the clock. Let’s get upstairs.”
He walked to the building across the street from Claire’s and held the door open for Alex. The building was identical to Claire’s, its smooth pink softness a mirror image. In the foyer, a large man with faintly orange skin and a purple three-piece suit sat at a desk. He cocked his head at them as they entered.
Mike held out the device he’d been cradling on their jump yesterday. The bitbox. The man nodded and waved them through.
“What is that thing?” whispered Alex, as they walked into the elevator.
“Bitbox. It’s a kind of quantum transmitter, whatever that means. It’s how Madonna communicates with us. How Madge can send me messages when I’m here. You saw me use it yesterday, to pay for the cab.”
“Messages? Let me see.”
“She only uses it for emergencies. It uses quantum morse code, takes ages to say anything.”
Alex tried to imagine Madge in her bulky cardigan and her blue rinse, using something called a bitbox. She remembered Madge’s hands moving across the convex wall that had held the controls for the Spinner. “How does it work?”
“Keep quiet, now. Don’t attract attention.”
Mike poked his head through the elevator doors and looked left and then right. He motioned for Alex to pass him and she slid into the deserted corridor.
As they walked, the walls changed, turning from a dull gray into a pastoral scene, filled with a poppy field above which flitted brightly colored butterflies.
“Motion sensors,” she breathed.
“Nothing we couldn’t do at home, if we had the money,” Mike said. Alex nodded. She wanted one of these for her place.
They came to a door. The image flickered, pushing vine tendrils around its frame. Alex could smell the poppies and feel a soft breeze on her face. That wasn’t something she could recreate in her apartment, only the smell of week-old pizza when she opened the refrigerator.
Mike put his palm on a panel next to the door and it slid open. He stepped inside and Alex followed, shielding her eyes. This was probably the most garish room she had ever stood in. Worse even than what Aunty Morag had done to her back bedroom to celebrate the millennium—silver wallpaper with orange and purple swirls. Sci-fi, she’d called it. Above it had hung a glitter ball, onto which she projected images of cartoon characters gamboling across the celling. All this was offset by a green shag pile carpet (like grass, Auntie Morag had said) and a music system that pumped out loud rap music at the flick of a switch (I’m getting down with the kids, Morag had said).
This, believe it or not, was worse. Mainly because it was three-dimensional. In fact, if Alex screwed her eyes up in just the right way and tipped her head sideways, it seemed to be five-dimensional.
Fractals skidded across the walls, crashing into each other in violently colored explosions. The ceiling was a deep, lustrous black which seemed to have a mind of its own and which she worried would swallow her whole given half the chance. It was either covered in velvet, or it was the skin of a living, breathing creature.
The furniture was cast in odd, gravity-defying shapes, like something Dr Seuss might invent when he had a particularly bad head cold. Something which may or may not have been a couch sprouted from the floor, wobbling and leaning precariously. Beside it was a kind of coffee table, which looked more like a large dog turd covered in purple glitter. Wine glasses sat drunkenly on its top, leaning between its swirling folds and making Alex gag.
“What on earth is this place?” she asked.
“Rental. The Hive equivalent of Airbnb,” Mike replied. “Madonna found it for us. Don’t look around too much if you value your sanity.”
Alex passed between the furniture, heading for the window opposite. It felt like her eyeballs had been twanged out of their sockets, twisted a few times and then put back in. Upside down. She leaned against the full-length window, panting.
“I need air.”
Mike was staring out of the window. “Look over there.” He pointed to the building opposite.
“Claire’s condo?”
“The one and only.”
“Nice one. So we watch from here.” There was no sign of movement in the apartment. The bedroom drapes were closed and the living room was empty. From what she could make out, it looked like the kind of space you’d see in an interiors magazine in her old world. Simple and tasteful. Alex longed to jump over there and sit in that room instead of this.
Mike sat on the floor next to her, making himself as comfortable as you can on a pink and yellow spotted carpet. “You smelt anything yet?” he asked.
She wrinkled up her nose. “Plenty, but not what I was hoping for.”
It was frustrating; she’d hoped that the smell would slap her in the face when she’d entered the building. But all she’d caught was the sharp tang of the water mixed with the metallic scent of Silicon City outside, followed by a faint floral smell in the corridor, then the wet stink of Play-Doh in here. It seemed to chime with the décor.
“Tell me if you smell it again, huh?”
“Yeah.”
She sat next to him and peered out of the window. There was no movement apart from a Hackney passing overhead.
“You think whoever killed her is going to try it here?” she asked.
“That’s the theory.”
“Why? If she’s a different Claire Pope, one who made her billions from the Pearl and not from budgie food, who’s to say she has the same enemies?”
“It’s not the first time it’s happened. We were already worried, and then when you told us about your suspicions…”
Whoah. Were they basing this entire investigation on something she thought she’d smelled?
“I could be wrong. I don’t exactly have experience with inter-dimensional crime.”
“Madonna says we’re right to be suspicious. She’s been tracking Claire’s Hive footprint.”
“Is that easy?”
“No. Not with someone as paranoid as Claire, anyway. But if anyone can get close, it’s Madonna.”
“What did she find?”
“Claire’s been meeting someone. In virtual space. Someone who doesn’t exist.”
“Surely no one really exists, in the Hive?”
“Everyone has a bio signature, that corresponds with their digital one. It’s all encrypted, so no one can match them up. But you can’t enter the Hive without both.”
“And this guy has…?”
“This guy has no biosig. We have no idea how he’s got into the Hive.”
“You think Claire knows he’s dodgy?”
“No idea. But our only option is to wait, and watch. If he’s going to hurt her, he’ll have to get close to her in meatspace.”
“Can’t Madonna trace him somehow? Watch him when he’s with Claire? In the Hive?”
Mike shook his head. “Claire wraps eleven layers of encryption around all her activity in there. No idea if she’s almost as brilliant as Madonna, or if she’s hired a security botfarm.”
“A botfarm?”
“Hive term. All the wealthy have them. The equivalent of a ten-foot fence and video surveillance, with an invisibility cloak thrown in.”
She said nothing, but gazed at the stillness opposite. If Claire was in danger, it felt wrong that they were over here, just waiting.
“Get comfortable,” he said. “We have one-and-one-half hours till we need to go back.”
An hour later, there was still no sign of movement opposite. For the twenty-third time, Mike hauled himself up and paced the room.
“She’s normally up and about at this time of day,” he said. “I’m worried.”
“Maybe something’s happened to her.”
“I hope not.”
“Would we know, if it had?”
“If there was an emergency call, Madonna would tell us. Or the Prof.”
“So is sitting here watching an empty window going to get us anywhere?”
“It’s not empty.”
“Looks it to me.”
Mike shook his head. “She’s a hermit. Never goes out. She’s in there.”
“Maybe we’ve got it wrong. Maybe in this world, she’s a social butterfly.”
“I trust my sources.”
Alex sighed. She had pins and needles in her big toe and was desperate for some air.
“I’m going out,” she said.
“What?”
She stood up. “I’ll get us some coffee. I need caffeine, don’t you?”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Do they have coffee shops here?”
“Alex, it’s a highly advanced civilization. The population wear the most garish clothes I ever saw and they communicate via an immersive form of virtual reality.”
“Do they have coffee shops?”
“Of course they do. There’s one on the first floor of every building.”
“Right. That’s where I’m going.” She hesitated. “How do I pay?”
He eyed her. She yawned and he followed suit. “Oh, OK then,” he said. “I need something to keep me awake.”
He took the bitbox out of his pocket and poked at it. Then he held it out.
“I suppose I’ll need to test you with this thing at some point,” he said. “You may even get your own, next time.”
Alex surveyed the bitbox. “How do I use it?”
“I put it into shopping mode. There’s credit for two skinny mochas with whipped cream.”
“How do you know what I drink?”
“Just go, alright. But be quick about it. We have twenty-eight minutes before we have to leave.”
“Right.” She put the device in the pocket of her purple jeans (she secretly longed to keep them after the jump, they matched her bedroom at home) and headed for the door.
“I’ll be right back,” she lied.
29
Chopin
Silicon City
27 March, 11:27am
The elevator played tunes from Evita as she descended. She listened to the familiar, enervating tones. She longed for a bit of Chopin, and his Piano Concerto No 2 boomed out of the invisible speakers. She stared at the blank walls around her, suddenly uncomfortable. Maybe this was the price you paid for a technologically advanced world. And she hadn’t even set foot inside the Hive.
The elevator slid to a halt so smoothly she wasn’t aware she’d arrived at the lobby until the door swished open. Perhaps the doors made a unique sound for each person who walked through them. If you liked Star Wars, elevator doors would sound like the swoop of a lightsaber.
She gave the receptionist a shy wave and sped to the doors. She didn’t have long and had no idea how she was going to do this. But the bitbox might help.
The coffee shop was right next to the front doors. Another one faced it across the street, in Claire’s building. She doubled back on herself and went inside, preferring to keep Claire’s building in sight.
The place was called the Bumble Bee. Everything was yellow, except for the chairs, the canisters of coffee on the shelves behind the barista, and the window frames. Which were all black. The barista himself was dressed in a striped black and yellow onesie and his earpiece sported a yellow and black protuberance that made him look like he was wearing a striped antenna, something that would communicate not just with the people around him but also with Mauna Kea Observatory. Alex paused a moment to hope that Mauna Kea existed in this world.
She approached the counter, wondering if it was possible to conduct this transaction offline. The barista put his hand to his earpiece and nodded at her.
“Ciao,” he said.
“Er, ciao,” she offered back. “Can I get two skinny mochas with whipped cream? No, make that just one. For now.”
“No worries,” he said, in an affected Australian accent. Was he running through different dialects and languages in the hope of hitting on the one that applied to her, or was he just a jerk?
“Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
She cringed. Jerk, then. He turned away from her and started making the coffee. She pulled the bitbox out of her pocket, nervous.
He turned back and slapped the coffee in front of her. It was in a receptacle more suited to an ice cream sundae. It even had a cherry and a teeny little umbrella.
“Thanks,” she said. She held the device up, trying to look as if she knew what she was doing.
“Ah, retro. Cool.” He nodded at her, his pimples moving up and down.
He delved under the counter to find a device that looked a bit like hers, only larger, and held it up. She moved hers towards it and was rewarded by a satisfying beep.
“The boss’ll luurve this,” he drawled, switching into West Coast surfer dude mode. “We haven’t used it for years.”
“Glad to be of service,” she replied, and picked up her coffee.
She headed for a bench by the window that reminded her of the spot where she’d seen Rik last time she’d tracked him down at McDonald’s. Here she could watch Claire’s building and see Mike approaching before he came in, if he followed her.
She took a sip at her coffee. It was tooth-achingly sweet, like someone had poured a tub of sugar into a gallon of Kool Aid. She forced herself to drink, hoping that it did actually contain some caffeine. Three sips later, she was rewarded with a sharper version of the familiar kick.
The bitbox was on the counter in front of her. She placed her hand on it, wondering if it would allow her access to the Hive. The barista’s response had indicated that people normally paid for their coffee online, and if she’d used this thing to do it, then surely there was a way of connecting the two.
Next to her, a couple was perched on bar stools, wrapped around each other. They wore matching velvet coats which draped around them. Hers was lime green, his electric blue. They seemed oblivious to Alex, but she had to ensure she didn’t attract attention. She was relieved Madonn
a had let her keep the trousers—pairing these with a black t-shirt didn’t seem quite as out of place here as an all-black outfit, despite Madonna’s insistence.
She took another swig and picked the bitbox up, examining its faces. It was small and wooden, in a shape that reminded her of a cross between a teardrop and a Bucky ball. It had no screen, no buttons, no visible inputs or outputs of any kind. She had no idea how to use it.
Then she had a thought. Mike had described it as a quantum transmitter. Maybe if she looked away from it…
She turned her head towards the bar, trying to find a balance between not being noticed by the other customers and being very definitely noticed by the bitbox. She held still for a moment, feeling its weight in her hand. She let her blind fingers explore it; it was still a smooth, wooden shape. Maybe she should stop touching it; that, after all, was a form of observation.
She cast a quick glance at the velvet-clad couple. They had started chewing each other’s faces. This device could be worth a bit and she had no idea what Mike would say if she lost it.
She placed it gently on the counter, not making a sound. She let her hand hover over it, her fingertips not quite making contact, and turned away again.
She felt the object make contact with her fingers. Cursing herself for touching it, she turned back.
She gasped.
She hadn’t touched it. She hadn’t spoken to it, she hadn’t pushed any buttons. She hadn’t offered it a treat.
But there, sitting on the table, in the exact spot the bitbox had occupied, was Schrödinger.
She stared at him. He stared back.
“Meow.”
She knew that meow.
“Shrew?” she whispered. She looked around the room; the couple were still locked together, and the barista had his back to her and was humming to himself.
“Meow.”
“Shush, boy.” She put a tentative hand on the top of his head. He closed his eyes and started to purr. On autopilot, she started scratching between his ears. The purring increased.
“What the haggis are you doing here, Shrew?”
He opened his eyes and cocked his head as if to say looking for treats, of course. She fumbled in her pockets then remembered she’d left her jacket, with its pocketful of treats, in the MIU.
