“Mama, Metal Man, approaching, over,” I say in a low voice.
Frances responds. “Metal Man, Mama, Bovidae is moving into position. One minute to entry, over.”
One minute. A horned lark lands in a tree outside the entrance to the establishment. The horned lark scoots over towards the trunk of the tree, which is still secured to the ground by stakes to allow it to grow. It chirps and I listen to it for a moment as the world comes to a standstill all around me. On my iNet screen, a load of information about this particular species of bird comes to me.
“Metal Man, Mama, Bovidae in position, you may proceed. All target iNet feeds will be disabled in fifteen seconds, over.”
“Mama, Metal Man, affirmative. Mama, Metal Man, disable all outgoing communications from the concierge, over.”
“Metal Man, Mama, affirmative. All live feeds disabled, over.”
I take the steps that lead to the Reaper Complex and a set of motoglass doors slide open. Two guards on the right, in front of the main entrance, one concierge, all human.
“May I help you?” the concierge asks.
“Yes, I’m here to work on the EBAYMazon drone drop-off point. I received a work order.”
“I see,” says the concierge. His eyes flash. “Ah yes, here it is. Please step over to the checkpoint. All outside persons are checked before entry.”
I do as instructed and the security guards approach. I lift my arms for the pat down and as soon as the first one’s hand touch me, I grab him by the back of the shoulders and slam him face first into the wall behind me.
The other one scrambles for his weapon, but I reach him before he can unholster it. I pull his arm back, snap it, and hold it there as he screeches in pain.
The schematics of the space travel across my mind’s eye. The janitor’s closet.
The man I’m still holding onto struggles to pry himself from my grip. “You … you broke my arm you asshole droid!”
The other one is still in lalaland; the faceplant into the wall left a small crater and the blood smeared across his lips tells me I’ve broken his nose.
“You,” I tell the concierge. “Help him into that closet, now.”
The concierge, shaken beyond belief, is hardly able to move. I see him try to move, but I know his nerves are shot. No vital scan needed. He faints and smacks his head on the desk.
I push the guy forward, drop quickly and disarm his bloodied partner, and by the time I’m back on my feet, I have my Glock pointed at him. “Help him to the closet,” I tell the one still standing. “No funny stuff or I will kill you.”
He helps his counterpart up and without saying a word, he takes him to the janitor’s closet.
“You ain’t done,” I tell him. “Get the concierge and stuff him in there too.”
He obliges and soon, the concierge too is in the closet.
“Now get in there yourself.”
“Whatever you say, droid,” he grumbles, “you’ll be decomissioned for this.”
He gets in the closet and closes the door shut.
“Mama, Metal Man, remote lock the janitor closet door, over.”
“Metal Man, Mama, affirmative.”
I hear the lock click shut. I holster my weapon, smooth out my uniform, and I’m just about to proceed when the glass door slides open and Veenure steps out, a yoga mat tucked under her arm and a towel over her shoulder.
~*~
“Who are you?” she asks. Her vitals indicate a heightened sense of awareness, but not much else.
“Your worst nightmare,” I growl, my weapon trained on her.
Veenure stifles a laugh. “Only an idiot would say something like that.”
“You are being taken into custody for the murder of Zedic Woods.
“Murder?” she cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’re not really a droid, are you?”
“Hands up!” I tell her.
“And by your snarky comment, I’d say … ” she looks at me curiously for a moment. “Quantum Hughes.”
“This is your last warning! I will neutralize you!”
Veenure keeps her yoga mat tucked under her arm and slowly begins to turn. “You won’t shoot me, Quantum.”
“Stop resisting!”
“I’m warning you, Veenure, I will immobilize you if I have to.”
“Veenure?” she cocks her head at me and takes a step backwards. The sensors on the door pick up her presence and open. Her lips part as a sinister grin forms across her face. “You’re here on behalf of the Dream Team, I presume?”
Doc’s voice rings out in my eye. “Metal Man, Bovidae, do not engage target. I repeat, do not engage. Target must be taken unharmed. Toggle to your neuromuscular inhibitor. I’m en route, over.”
“Bovidae, Metal Man,” I glare at Veenure as best I can, “affirmative.” I hit the toggle and …
Nothing.
The NMI has malfunctioned. I glance down at my weapon, and in that moment, Veenure spins and takes off down the hall.
“Bovidae, Metal Man, in pursuit, over!” I shout as I chase after her. “Target has turned right. Mama, Metal Man, where are our visuals?”
“Metal Man, Bovidae, why the hell didn’t you zap her? Over.”
“Bovidae, Metal Man, weapon malfunction, you’re going to have to get her, over.”
“Roger that.”
Video feed from the hallways take shape in the lower left-hand corner of my viewing pane. Blinking green icons appears on a schematic of the building layout representing the Boys of Non Compos Mentis; a red icon indicates Veenure moving towards what looks to be the east wing.
“Metal Man, Bovidae, target is heading towards her bedroom, over.”
“Bovidae, Metal Man, affirmative,” I say as I tear through the hall. The hallway is a beige cover with randomly placed ‘works of art’ similar to the kindergarten scribble in the halls of Strata’s McMansion. The floor is clean, recently buffed laminate, and next to each door is a dual retina and fingerprint scanner.
I step on the gas. An indicator on the upper right portion of my vision pane tells me my current speed, and displays a variety of charts as to how long I can maintain this speed at my current charge life, which is about 78%. The video feed on the opposite side shows me that Veenure has just taken to the stairs and that I am exactly 11.181983 feet from catching up to her at my current pace.
I turn to the stairs, taking two at a time. “Bovidae, Metal Man, target is on the stairs, over.”
“Metal Man, Bovidae, roger.”
We hit the second floor and the schematic expands on my viewing pane. It doesn’t stay there for long; we move to the third floor, Veenure’s floor and the schematic settles here. I also see that Doc is now on the third floor, closing in on the target.
“Stop resisting!” A door opens, and I roll to avoid it. “Back in your room,” I tell the pudgy Reaper, “or you’re next!”
Thirty feet, twenty feet …
Veenure sprints ahead, screams ‘emergency override’ and crashes through her door. At the same time I see Doc round the hall, his weapon at the ready. He takes to the right side of the door; I take to the left.
Camera feeds from her room trail across our iNet screens.
No weapons as of yet; she is, however, scrambling to get something out of her desk.
Docs goes in first and as I follow, I hear the sound of a body smacking against the floor.
Veenure lays on her bedroom floor, her legs at an awkward angle. Sticking out of her thigh is a small injector.
Her vitals indicate that she is dead.
Chapter Ten
“I still can’t believe she did that.” Frances Euphoria sits on the sofa in Doc’s airstream with one leg crossed over the other.
“Good riddance, if you ask me.”
Sophia has gone back to our room – shudder – to rest and Doc is still wrapping up all the paperwork with law enforcement. Doc knows me well enough to keep me away from law enforcement, so as soon as Veenure killed herself, I was immediate
ly sent back to the hotel toot sweet.
“I don’t know how we’re going to rectify this with Strata tomorrow,” I tell her, “not that I really care if Veenure is dead or not. I’m just talking about overall direction of the meeting we’re set to have. He’ll know it was us; I’m surprised he hasn’t contacted me about it already.”
“Contact him,” she says suddenly. “He reached out to you; you have his direct line.”
I shrug. “If he has something to say, he can contact me.”
Frances rolls her eyes. “It’s weird seeing you with all your Quantumtude in a droid’s body.”
“Quantumtude?”
“A word I’ve invented for your general snarkiness and your unique ability to exacerbate most situations. Like it?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
Frances reaches into her purse and takes out a Soylent fair trade ethically sourced fat-free kale, pecan and honey bar. She produces a tube of protein-enhanced peanut butter paste, covers the bar, and takes a bite from it.
“Still on the gerbil food, huh?” I tsk. “I’d make a ‘Richard Gere’s butt plug called and wants its din-din back’ joke, but it’s beneath me. And seriously, damn, what I wouldn’t give for a porterhouse right about now.” I lick my lips and pretend my mouth is watering. Mmmmm steak.
“How’s your charge level?”
“For some reason I feel like that type of question should be considered sexual harassment. You with me on this?”
She chuckles. “I don’t think that will hold up in a court of law, but then again, I’m not the Dream Team’s lawyer and we can’t afford HR.” Her face turns serious. “But back to your earlier thought: I have no idea how Strata is going to take this and if you ask me, and I know you haven’t, I think he’s leading you into a trap tomorrow.”
“He can do all he wants to my body,” I tell her, “that’s the beauty in this. Finish your gerbil food and let’s go for a walk.”
We step out of the airstream and move to the parking lot. The setting sun gives the pavement a unique pink tone. The rush hour smog has settled over LA; the AQI is up five points from where it was earlier and the noise index is surprisingly low. My guess is people have finally arrived home and they’ve begun self-medicating with food, iNet, and beer, the holy trinity.
Pollutes too. The freaks love their designer inhalants.
Frances and I head west, towards a newly built shopping district in a recently gentrified area. A million thoughts come to me – from looking up housing costs, to distances traveled today on foot, to Frances’ vitals and how they’ve changed slightly since she ate her snack bar, to the best way to avoid staying in Sophia’s room tonight.
Sure, I could just come out and ask it, but I got an itching feeling that it’d be best to hold that card just a bit longer. Better a little late than too soon.
“We knew her, Quantum,” Frances says, “and no, I don’t feel sorry for Veenure, I mean Victoria, in the traditional sense; I feel sorry for her, regarding her upbringing. She’s always been second best to Luther, you know it, I know it, and she still gave her life for her father’s cause.”
“I’m over it, Frances. Veenure was a blip on the radar of my life. Hell, I’ve already forgotten what her avatar looked like. All I can seem to remember is that she was fond of showing off her Thulean, bastardized language that it is.”
“No need to be heartless.”
I pat my hand on my chest.
“I get it, Tinman. So then what’s on your mind?”
We stop and wait for the little flashing man on the other side of the street to let us know that we’re okay to cross. Once he gives us the go ahead, we slowly make our way to the other side. A homeless man stands on the corner with a sign that says, Don’t have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, and below that, I’ll stop giving forecasts for a dollar.
Ha! Weathermen. It’s been awhile since I thought about those schmucks. If we were in The Loop, I’d give him a sucker punch just for the hell of it. Then I’d transfer all my credit to him, leaving him utterly confused as to why he was just assaulted and then paid bigly.
“You have that smirk on your face that tells me you are daydreaming,” Frances says.
“This isn’t my face, it’s Evan’s face, and what makes you think I’m thinking about anything anyway?”
A guy in a miniskirt with ten leashed Chihuahuas pushes past us. He’s got high tops on with wings on the sides.
“They’re so cute! I’d love a dog,” she says after he passes, “but I’m too busy with work.”
“Same here.”
“You want a pet?”
“Work,” I tell her, “I can hardly take care of myself let alone a lazy mutt.”
~*~
“No funny business tonight,” I tell Sophia as soon as I let myself into our shared room. The walk with Frances was refreshing. She brought up Veenure a few more times and I let her – when mama’s happy, everyone’s happy.
Who am I kidding? Doctor Luv is on the bed in the same nightie. She’s dimmed the lights and has already scooted over, making room for her favorite droid.
“Funny business? I think you have the wrong idea,” she says.
“Do I?” I place my hands on my hips. “I come to our room and you’re laced up in Victoria’s Secret.”
“I bought this at JC Targets.”
“You get the picture. What’s with all the lovey stuff anyway? You and I? Well, that’d be about the worst RomCom to ever hit theaters. Talk about a flick no one would catch. The critics would pan it and people would take to the streets.”
She pulls the blanket up to her chest. “What do you mean?”
“Here’s what I’m trying to say: just a few days ago, you could hardly stand to look at me. Now all the sudden, you’re treating me like I’m the bee’s knees. ”
Her faces flushes with blood. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Chuntao gets involved. “You can go eat a rotten egg that has spent two years buried in a boar’s ass, Humandroid.”
“Sophia, kill your AI before I do,” I spit in killer diller mandarin. “Chuntao, keep your trap shut, you dumb melon.
“Chuntao, power down. Sleep mode.”
After a long, loud, lengthy trouser blaster, the AI flickers off.
“Good, where were we?”
“You were accusing me of coming onto you,” she says.
“Were you not?” I take a deep breath. “I’m looking for drama right now.”
“What are you looking for?” she asks.
Did she ask provocatively? I point my finger at her. “I’m looking to charge and dive. I need to blow off some steam, no pun intended.”
The Loop. Just thinking about diving to the underworld’s underworld puts butterflies in my belly. I feel like it has been forever since I hit the mean streets, stirred up some trouble, took out some bigwigs and gave everyone who looked at me funny a piece of my mind. Been a day, and after one of those days, there ain’t nothing like a little twilight violence to settle one’s nerves.
“You’re going to The Loop?”
“Yeah, but later, after I’ve hit Steam with Aiden. We’ll do a little sniffing around Tent City, see what we can’t uncover.”
“I may join you for that.”
“No, you won’t,” I say firmly. “You’ll get some rest. We’ll need you tomorrow. Sniffing around is what Aiden and I do best. Once we get a lay of the land, we’ll have a better chance tomorrow of bringing that wall down, then we rebuild Bjurstrom, then we get the Sky Iron, then my avatar ass yet again becomes a flesh ass. I can’t wait to eat some pancakes.”
She scoffs. “You make it sound so easy. You recall what Ray Steampunk said, don’t you? You’ll have to destroy Dolly. As in destroy, as in D-E-S-T-R-O-Y.”
I clear my throat. “That’s something I’ll have to accept. Now if you don’t mind, help me get hooked up.” I take a seat on the sofa chair and Sophia starts setting me up for my dive.
“Why?”
“It’s like you have selective memory or something,” she says. “He’s meeting his girlfriend, a renowned alchemist, and together, they’re going to try to reverse engineer the rust spell he cast on Bjurstrom.”
“I don’t know why we can’t just call Bjurstrom what he is – a hunk of metal.”
“He was once a person, and a hunk of metal doesn’t quite fit the bill.”
I recall the rogue steam mech tearing through the forest ripping roots and rocks from the soil. Yes, Bjurstrom is a hunk of metal, but he’s a badass hunk of metal.
Sophia lowers a visor over my eyes. There really is no reason for the visor, but she jury-rigged the helmet from an old NV Visor so this is what I get. The system powers on. No Brian Eno hum, no nothing. Just a bit of static and I slowly start to become cognizant of the fact I’m in my avatar’s body.
Odd to think about that, from meat sack to avatar to Humandroid and back to avatar.
Lightning crashes outside of the dive yurt, thunder rolls, the roof rattles. I get the overwhelming sense that Dolly is just outside the wall, waiting like a fox outside the henhouse.
“Careful with the hair,” I tell Aiden as he helps me take my visor off.
He shakes his head. “Can we hurry up and get the Sky Iron so we can get your body back so I can go back to your world?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” I sit up on the gurney and grin. “And where the hell did you get Hugh Hefner’s robe?”
He does a quick spin to model his velvet dinner jacket. “You still think you’re the only one with an inventory list?” He slaps my cheek, hard.
“Hey! Watch it pal!”
“I’m not your pal, guy.”
“I’m not your guy, buddy.”
Proxima Riven: Page 11
