I was getting nasty stares from the far side of the bus at this point. Marine was pretending not to know me. She had scrunched herself as far to the edge of her seat as she could go. Not sure the extra two inches of space between us was going to absolve her of the guilt by association.
“Hey, man.” A nasal voice from big hero concerned citizen. Rail thin. He pointed at me accusingly. “You can’t just—”
“Just what? You want my seat? We can trade.” I paused. “No? Come on. Come to theme park of body horror that set up shop next to me. Jesus fucking Christ, you think I’m the one violating the social contract here?” I stood up, annoyed, and thumbed at Grundle who had begun sadly sliding over a few seats, making fat grunting noises as she went. “A bridge troll crawls onto a bus and sits next to me when there’s open seats all over the place and I’m the asshole for not breathing in her swamp water breath for the next twenty minutes? I was going to do the decent thing and just mock her silently to myself and save the jokes for when she was out of earshot, but no. She wanted to, I don’t know, steal my body heat to sell to her dark masters or something. Well fuck the bunch of ya.”
I sat back down. It really was going to be like twenty minutes until we got to the business district. Grundle was, I guess the word is weeping. I decided that this should make me angry rather than feel any sort of guilt. This whole thing could have been avoided and, honestly, at some point people have to take responsibility for their choices. Hey, maybe she would even get her goiter looked at. In a way, I helped really. The scowls from across the way were just a bunch of enablers. They were fine with Grundle making society worse and neglecting her health, so long as nobody had to get a booboo on their widdle feewings. Well, not today, idiots. I’m a god damn hero and Grundle should have said thank you and apologized for basically rubbing her oily troll hump on my face. What if one of the hairs had touched me. I shuddered at the thought.
Neck lump got off at the next stop and I think it really brightened the atmosphere of the entire bus pretty significantly. People sort of went back to their own business once the whale sounds got left behind on the sidewalk. See? They never really cared, except insomuch as it made them feel bad by proxy. Empathy got off the bus and they didn’t care anymore. Plus, I gave them a story to tell. Really, the amount I’m being under appreciated in this situation is unreal.
We got to our stop and got off the bus. A few of the people who’d seen me be, what they call, rude to, what I call, a bus monster got off along with us. A thin woman who clearly put effort into her appearance scoffed at me as she went by us on the sidewalk. There’s a hypocrisy in that, but the Vircore thing was really starting to eat at me and I didn’t like how little we were talking about plans. The coded badge we’d printed up was a part of it, but there was very little else going on.
“So what’s the plan? SocEng the whole thing? Pretend to be plumbers? Fix the executive bathrooms?”
Marine was silent.
“Hey!” I got a little loud. She looked up at me finally. “I’m not trying to seem like Carly Complainsalot here, but I’m starting to worry that you have no clue how you want to do this.”
“I do,” she said. “I mean… roughly. I’m sorry. It’s… important.”
“The AI?”
She nodded. “It doesn’t even work yet. But… I’m close. I think.”
We walked and went over plans. First order of business was to check the first floor for an employee entrance. People loved holding doors for other people. It’s just good manners. We got to the Vircore building and searched around the base. There were four entrances total. One attached to an employee parking garage and one facing the streets. Those two both had guards, scanners, the whole deal. There were two side doors. One facing a courtyard and the other aimed at the parking garage but one floor up from the main entrance. Both doors were glass, but they were covered with the familiar blackout film you expect on employee entrances. Anything of importance was either way up the building or way below it, so there were plenty of chances at more security and making it hard for your normal employees to get in and out didn’t make sense.
“Who’s doing the talking?”
Marine shook her head. “I’m no good at that stuff. At people stuff.”
“You seem to do fine around me.”
“I know you.”
“Or do you?” I struck a mysterious pose. She shoved me. “No good? Come on, it twitched a little bit, right? Pulsated, maybe even?” I feigned a defeated sigh. “Fine, fine. You’re going to have to give me the card though. And the backpack.”
“Right. Yeah.” She handed them both over.
A guy with glasses, a tucked in shirt, and tan pants was walking toward the door at a steep angle. He was ahead of us a good ways, so it wasn’t ideal but we started walking toward the side entrance. He was going to get there before us but we couldn’t afford to seem to be in a rush. Talking loudly was about the best way to get a tailgate out of this guy.
“So anyway, the interview process is a breeze.” I started rambling at Marine. “Pretty basic, honestly. I mean, you already did all the pre-checks, right? So it’s not like they’re going to interrogate you.” I laughed loudly. Not even a glance from that fucking guy. I wanted to pick up my pace a little bit but Marine would have trouble seeming casual if I took bigger strides.
The door was open. Shit. We were nowhere near close enough. Pretty sure I saw headphone cables at the last minute. So much for chatter. It didn’t matter. We were way too far to catch the door even if I ran. The card was our only hope. I had a lot of reservations about it. If it didn’t work, Vircore likely logged camera output on failed swipes. Either way, I’d wanted to wait until we were inside to fail. More options that way.
“I’m scanning the card, Marine. No other way around it. I don’t want to loiter long enough for security to clock us.”
“Okay.” Her voice wavered. She was nervous. Don’t think I’d ever seen that side of her.
Truth be told, I was also nervous, to understate it almost entirely. The undabbed pizza from the morning was really doing me no favors either. My ass was a dam full of regrets. Still, it was a sturdily constructed dam at least.
I slapped the card flat against the scanner and nothing happened. Clenching became necessary. I flipped the card and the scanner made a soft buzz, vibrating just the least bit. A second passed and it beeped, the light going from yellow to blue. Not sure why they went with those colors, but they were pleasant. A nice change of pace. Much less judgmental than red and green.
The door clicked and I pulled it open. We came into a short hallway. Not what I’d expected. Hesitating might be odd if someone was watching. I kept reminding myself. This was a social game now. I had to know where I was going. Happy and confident that I belonged here. We came to the end of a hallway and I’d intended to just keep walking but a stern voice barked at me.
“Hold up.”
I looked. What was very clearly a security guard sat behind a short desk. He looked more like a SWAT team member than anything. Tactical vest, full of pockets. Had a hat with Vircore’s logo on it. He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Don’t know your face. You new?”
I laughed. “No. I wish. She might be.” I rolled my head toward Marine. “I work on fourteen.”
He looked over at Marine and back to me. “So you just decided to start coming through the side entrance?”
This was entirely more thorough than I’d hoped our conversation would be. “Decided? More like get the privilege. Been saving for a private car for like four years. Usually take the bus or the autopools. Lot of freaks on those things, man.”
He chuckled in agreement.
“But yeah, I normally come in up front with uh…” I rolled my head back, feigning a bad memory.
“Glenn?” People did love to be helpful.
“That’s him. Oh, jeez, I didn’t even think about it. Is she g
oing to need a guest badge? Oh man, do we have to go all the way to reception?” I looked at Marine. “She’s interviewing and…”
He seemed to consider that for a minute, looking around his desk for badges, I guess. “She gonna stay with you?”
“Yeah.” I held up two fingers. “Honest injun.”
He chuckled again. “Don’t think we’re allowed to say that anymore.” A pause as he looked at Marine and then to me, smiling at him like a goofy moron. “Alright, you keep her close. It’s your ass more than mine if she wanders off.”
“Thanks, man.” I held out a hand. “I’m Jayden.” Worst name I could think of.
He stood, gripping my hand. “Charles. Call me Chuck.”
I cocked my head. “Oh? Good name. Strong. I’m jealous. Thanks again, man.”
“Don’t mention it.” He put his hands to his hips, happy to have helped us out. He smiled at Marine. “Good luck with your interview.”
“She’ll do fine,” I said, putting a hand on Marine’s shoulder. “I really sold her to the boss. Isn’t that right, Janey?”
“Well, good luck all the same… Janey?”
“Just Jane,” Marine offered, the first words out of her mouth. They were shy and meek but steady enough to pass for a girl on an interview. “Thank you so much.”
I turned and we started walking away. “See you on the way home, Chuck!”
He raised a hand to see us off and we moved into the office proper. Mantraps, not exactly clean, but it saved us trying to work through a secretary. I was walking the place, looking for an elevator when Marine tugged at my shirt.
She nodded her head to the right. “Bathrooms.”
“You read my mind.”
Even a well-constructed dam needed to let go some water, right? Gotta recharge the turbines. Too much pressure… something something. Look, the metaphor is getting out of control now so I’m just going to talk normal.
I handed off the backpack and key to Marine and went into the bathroom and sat down to take a shit. We were past the most crucial bit of security now so it was as good a time as any to get rid of anything that could jeopardize the mission. Normally I like to really settle into a poo, but this was business time so I rushed it out and wiped a bit too vigorously. That’s just the way it goes in the struggle.
So I came back out when I was done. Didn’t wash my hands. Didn’t need to. I didn’t shit on them and I’m not trying to contribute to the superbug that will kill us all. I milled around next to the women’s room for a bit. The men’s room had been your standard sort of mall bathroom so I started to worry a bit, honestly. Marine had kept her cool with the guard but a nosy woman in the bathroom was another story. Specific questions might be asked. What was she interviewing for and on and on. Marine certainly should have known enough to get around such a situation, and she was in what people thought to be a secure area so it was likely fine.
I heard some rumblings from a far side of the office floor and looked over to see a half dozen guys in the SWAT-like getups that the security guard had been wearing. They looked over at me. I think. I watched them a little too long to make sure. Yep. Definitely looked at me. Not good. Without thinking I turned and ducked into the women’s bathroom.
“Marine. We’re fucked.” No answer. “Marine?”
I sniffed the air. Lemony fresh. And she’d been in here longer than I had. I got frantic. Could they have gotten her already? I pushed each of the stall doors open in turn. Nothing. The ceiling above was a drop ceiling and I noticed it just about the time the door behind me opened to the sound of boots. One of the ceiling boards was off center. Holy fuck, I’d really misread the “bathroom” thing.
“You! Hands behind your head!”
I did, turning around slowly. Really slowly.
Still, who assumes that “bathroom” means climb up into the ceiling? Seriously? What part of that was implied? If we’re in the same torture room, I’m going to be really mouthy about her communication skills.
“Don’t move.” The leader nodded toward me and two more came around him, guns trained on me. “Don’t resist.”
They stopped in front of me, steel barrels a few inches from my face.
“I, uh… I don’t consent to any searches.”
Chapter
SIX
If you’ve never been carried by all four of your limbs, I can’t say as I recommend it. See, it might seem sort of comfortable but there are a few problems with it. Usually, if you are being carried by all four of your limbs you’ve either won a sports thing, you’re about to be cooked by a lost tribe, or someone doesn’t want you to move but they lack the restraints handy to really do anything about it. In the latter of those situations, they really do focus a lot on your movement, often referring to it as “resisting” or “attempting escape” and then they hit you in your impressively well-toned abs with the butt of a gun.
The reason this is such a problem is that when you are being pulled around by all four of your limbs, a point I feel I cannot over-emphasize, your tendons get really sort of annoyed. This makes you want to rotate your joints. This means more escaping, which means more bruised washboard abs.
They were carrying me down a hallway. A sinister sort of hallway. We’d gone down a freight elevator and they’d held me up by my wigglers during that whole thing as well.
My favorite part thus far was the bit where all the people in the office stood up to watch me get dragged toward the elevators. Most of them looked horrified, which seemed like the wrong emotion to go along with the situation. It’s not like they announced that I was a terrorist who had broken in to blow them all up. I mean, I’m sure they imagined that. But why not curiosity? That was why they were staring, wasn’t it? If they thought I was a bomb guy, why the hell would they gather near the center lane of their little desk hallway?
As a side note, real quick, they had that open office plan. The one where you have to look over at the shitbeak working across from you all day. And every time he moves to scratch his nose you can see it out of the corner of your eye. And then something is just happening in every direction. And then when Donna comes over to ask him some fucking question about something, you get to hear the whole thing. Oh boy, what a wonder for productivity. Morons.
Anyway, the hallway. So it was super dark. Dark metal all the way down. None of that off-white painted fiberboard stuff. It was lit starkly, both from the floor and the ceiling. It was the sort of thing you’d really expect to see after the incredibly well-armed security guy uses a key to select the floor. Radio chatter had picked up now, most of it was about me. Very flattering. One of the lines was about Chuck. He was being very cooperative, they said. I couldn’t disagree. He was an agreeable sort. Very trusting. Probably not the best job for him, honestly. I imagined they would give him a nice severance package and maybe help place him at a lower stress job. Something where he could work with people, you know?
My stomach was really hurting pretty bad by the time they turned into an open little square room. The ceilings got much higher and there was a woman sitting at a desk. They marched me over to her with the lead security guy walking up to the desk. There were hallways at the far ends of the room from where we’d entered. The hall that had led us here was maybe a hundred yards or so, so we were likely out past the baseline footprint of the building itself. Neat. Underground bunker thing.
The head guard turned to the men holding me before he addressed desk lady. “You’re done.”
They dropped me from about waist height. Maybe if someone had been thoughtful enough to carpet the floor, it wouldn’t have hurt so bad but as it was I landed ass-bone first on the bare metal. A guard came to my front and pointed a gun at me while the other four left. It was my sincere hope that writhing on the floor and swearing didn’t seem to constitute an escape attempt because I was doing those things whether the gunman liked it or not.
�
�Where’s he headed?” The guard was talking to the… torture receptionist? Not sure what her job title was. There wasn’t a nameplate on the desk. I felt like that begged a lot of questions. Like how do you even get this particular job? What were her qualifications? Clearly I was injured. Is she just a secretary? Has she been through corporate evil secretary training? There was a phone on her desk, so clearly she was fielding calls from somebody. I didn’t really have a good reason to believe that any of these questions would be answered by anyone if I asked them and, honestly, I didn’t want them to start butt-rifling… rifle-butting? I didn’t want them to hit me in the face. My stomach bruise was already going to be all purple and green and girls aren’t into that. Scars, sure. Maybe even an eye patch if you can sport the rugged look and get away with it. No one is into bruises. I shouldn’t say no one. People are into everything. There are entire communities dedicated to erotic zit popping and the removal of limbs. Probably bruise porn. In fact, mental note made to check and see if bruise porn is a thing.
She said a number, presumably a room. I didn’t really think much of the number, since numbers are less of a mental distraction from constant pain than bruise porn, but when the head guy looked at me and said “Lucky boy.” I got very uncomfortable.
“Why would you say it like that? That makes me very uncomfortable.”
“Oh you’re going to be uncomfortable.” The head guard laughed like he was auditioning for the camp villain in a community theater production. No one else laughed. They all kind of looked uncomfortable as well which didn’t do wonders for my state of mind.
“Move.” The gunman motioned with his gun, which is a weird thing to see in real life.
We walked down the hall to the left-front edge of the room. It looked unremarkably similar to the one I’d been in before except with doors now. There were numbers on them, which followed from the secretary’s answer. Still no idea why she was necessary in any way. How do you even get someone to sign up for that?
As we stood in a little triangle outside the door, with me at the front, I tried to imagine we were in a really weird music video but it didn’t help. That sinking feeling that I was actually going to get killed was really working its way into my brain. The door opened and they pushed me inside. I heard the gun go back over the guard’s shoulder behind me. When I caught my footing I decided to look—
Cyberpunk Trashcan Page 4
