Proxima Riven:

by Harmon Cooper

  Doc nods. “I really don’t know how that would play out.”

  “It would be a disaster,” Sophia says, “if you want justice for Strata, bring him down the right way. Strangling him or whatever it is you plan to do would be a cheap way out.”

  I look to Doc and he shrugs.

  “Find out the legal ramifications,” I tell him, “and give them to me straight. I want all options on the table.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Denver, Colorado is still cool at the time we arrive. Doc has set everything up, as usual, and he’ll be here within the next few hours.

  The rest of the early morning in Cali was spent brooding. No one could sleep, and there wasn’t much we could do aside from sit around and share funny stories about Rocket, which inevitably led to anger at the Reapers and Strata. At one point, I suggested going back to Akrasia to sniff around for some Reapers and see who we could interrogate, but Frances nixed that idea.

  It wouldn’t have done us any good anyway.

  The Reapers are holding Rocket in the OMIB of their storage world. There’s only one way to get to their OMIB due to the way the space is constructed – a Reality Splitter. Once we have that, we’ll have to think of a new way to describe ‘testicular torsion.’ But we still have to get Sky Iron, and Chrono still has to actually make the weapon.

  Gonna be a day.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I tell Frances as soon as she approaches the baggage claim area. Rather than argue with security, I decided to make everyone’s lives easier and check my keister in as baggage.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “What? Being baggage? It wasn’t too bad. I didn’t get any airplane peanuts, but if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to eat them anyway.” I wish my mouth could salivate at the thought of a small package of honey-roasted peanuts. Damn this body.

  The baggage claim area is bustling, and I’ve got my eye on just about every john who so much as walks with a limp. I don’t mind someone pre-emptively striking my ass, but Frances is with me and her safety is my number one concern.

  A driverless aerostaxi picks us up and promptly takes us to an UberFord in the parking lot of Super WalMacy’s. The air is thinner, and my Humandroid scanner-majiggy lets me know just about everything I need to know about as we ride. Lots of facts, little substance.

  “The meeting is scheduled for one,” I remind Frances. “It’s eleven and Doc isn’t here yet.”

  “He’ll be here. I can call Arnie and double-check that if you’d like.”

  “You’re right,” I tell her, “he’ll be here.”

  We sail over I-70 towards the heart of the Mile High City. Mountains on the outskirts add a sense of majesty to everything. Their snow-tipped peaks remind me that as soon as all this is over, as soon as I’m back in my RW body and Strata is behind bars, I’m taking the epic-est of epic vacations. I’m pulling out all the stops and I’ll do it on the FCG’s dime if I can manage it.

  ~*~

  “Food truck again?” I ask as the UberFord lowers to the ground.

  Frances shrugs. “It worked last time. You know what they say, if it ain’t broke … ”

  “When will Doc be here?”

  “Fifteen to twenty minutes, tops.”

  The Goat Cakes stands at the center of the grouping in all its glory. Plastered on the side of the food truck is a cartoon image of Sally, Doc’s service goat, who looks utterly delightful in her chef hat and apron.

  Once the UberFord has landed, a blinking light and a loud tone indicates that it is now safe to exit the vehicle. We hop out and the vehicle takes off again. We keep a low profile as we make our way through a small grouping of runners standing around a juice bar.

  “Hey, are you the Goat Cake people?” The dreadlocked stoner gal manning the juice truck calls out to us.

  “No.” Frances replies.

  “I like it when you get tough,” I tell Frances as she fiddles with the series of locks on the back of the truck. Damn if Doc doesn’t have a few locks, and that’s not including the finger and retina scanner that she has to clear next.

  “Shut up,” she says playfully after she’s opened the door. Nothing has changed about the interior of the food truck. As soon as the overhead lights come on, I catch a box of fresh pine pellets in the far corner, the bench on the left and the control center – screens, NV Visors, bits and pieces – situated around a u-shaped table.

  I plop down in the bench nearest the command center. “Should I message Strata?”

  Frances nods. “Let’s see what he says.”

  Me: I’m in Denver. I will have my taxi drop me off at the Revenue Corporation headquarters at 13:00.

  Strata Godsick: Have you brought legal counsel?

  Me: No.

  Strata Godsick: Have you come alone?

  Me: What’s with the fifth degree? I told you’d I’d be here and I’m here, alone.

  Strata Godsick: Good. We have many things to discuss.

  Me: The understatement of the decade.

  Strata Godsick: I will see you at one. Check in at reception and they will take you to a conference room.

  “Well?” Frances asks.

  Rather than give her the deets, I simply share the message with her. Her eyes flicker as she sits next to me. She turns to me, takes my hands, and looks me dead in the eye. “You have to be careful what you say, Quantum. Rocket’s life is at stake. Remember that.”

  “I know. I’ll be as careful as I absolutely can be. I promise.”

  “You can’t get mad at him, or try to … um … ” She clears her throat.

  “What?”

  “You can’t try to do anything to him; don’t even threaten him. Everything will be recorded, even if he is alone. He’s trying to bait you.” She huffs. “I don’t see what there is to even gain in this meeting. I hate to be negative here, but I highly doubt the two of you are going to suddenly come to some sort of agreement.”

  “You’re right. We won’t come to an agreement. I’m aware of that. But we have leverage – Luther – and he has Rocket.”

  “You forgot that Veenure died last night at the result of our operation. We still have no indication on how he’s taking Veenure’s death.”

  “There are a lot of unknowns, but I think we have a pretty solid case against him. Where to begin? Here’s one: let’s start with the bleached people and move to the fact he was trying to imprison me; that he definitely hired those goons to come after me when I woke up; that he assaulted you in Steam and put you in the hospital; that he ended up murdering most of those bleachies with the source code bomb he detonated in The Loop; that he sent Rollins to kill me in real life; that his daughter killed Zedic, a federal agent on official duty; that Luther has agreed to testify against him; that his group of meaty skullheads have kidnapped Rocket – seriously, what other evidence do we need?”

  “I know you and Doc like to throw around the testicular torsion phrase, but I want you to be more careful than you have ever been, Quantum. Strata is a snake; he is a poison, a toxin; he’s like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He won’t take no for an answer.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not like that,” I tell her, “people tell me no all the time.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I do it anyway? What?” I wave her concern away. “Don’t get all dramatic here. We’ll get him, and we’ll be recording as well. As per our plan, I’m going to be myself.”

  Frances bites her bottom lip. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  ~*~

  “Here,” I tell the driverless aeros taxi. The aeros shifts into the next lane and begins its lowering process. Other aeros slow around us, the people in them oblivious to the larger issues swirling around them. Funny, that. I’m as ready as I’ve ever been; no nerves, no worries whatsoever. Frances may have her concerns but not me – in my current state, there is absolutely nothing that they can do to me.

  Doc: You know the drill and we’
ve been over what you should and shouldn’t say. This is straight from legal – don’t stray.

  Me: Roger.

  Doc: Get ‘em good. Do what you do best.

  Me: Will do.

  I walk a few blocks just to get my bearings.

  My Spidey droid senses tingle and I have the impression that I’m being tailed, but that may just be my imagination running wild. Strata is expecting me in person, not in Evan’s e-skin.

  There’s the place.

  The Revenue Corporations HQ isn’t as ostentatious as I imagined it being.

  There isn’t a big Reaper skull on top of the building surrounded by flames nor is it gothic or foreboding in anyway. No moat, no turrets, no beefcake button men out front guarding the joint – the RevCo HQ is relatively simple affair, twelve stories, and clearly not one of the new, post-post-post-post-modern architectural ‘masterpieces’ that look like a bunch of geometric figures having an orgy after a long night of boozing.

  Aside from a Zen-like entrance with small, polished stones along a walkway, the place is pretty inconspicuous. I don’t even see the Revenue Corporation logo until I enter the lobby, where I’m greeted by a female humandroid in a tight pantsuit. Her hair is pulled back into a shiny ponytail, and she’s got the bod of an anorexic runway model circa 1995.

  “May I help you?” she asks as she scans me. No reception desk – the droid stands on a large black tile, the only black tile in the recently polished lobby. Across from her are three posh leather sofas with billeted armrests, which are situated under a large painting what I would describe as a moon exploding during a solar eclipse.

  “I’m here to see Strata Godsick,” I tell her, “the name is Quantum Hughes.”

  Her face twitches ever-so-slightly. “I see. Please, take a seat.”

  I do as instructed. The company’s AI tries to connect with my system and I quickly deny it.

  “Please allow for the Revenue Corporations Office AI to access your interface,” the droid dame says in a harsh tone.

  “Fat chance, lady,” I tell the broad. “I’m here to see Strata and that’s all this place needs to know about me. I do not give my consent for the Revenue Corporation to access my operating system. We good here?”

  She stares at me in a strange way for a moment.

  “Is that you in there, Strata?” I ask her blackened eyes. “If so, yes, this is me Quantum and yes, I’m using InterHead to power this droid. You’d have to be one of the world’s dumbest dumbasses to think that I would come here in person. That said, I don’t have a shyster with me and I got no weapons.” I show the palms of my hands. “So let’s get this over with. I got places to go and people to see. Unless you’re going to leave me waiting. In that case, I’ll let myself out.”

  The Humandroid clears her throat. “That will not be necessary.” She takes a few steps closer to me and I ready myself for anything. The hair on the back of my neck doesn’t prickle – I don’t have any hair anyway – but my interface picks up the fact that the droidie could be a potential hostile.

  Targeting overlays appear on various points of her body, places that would most easily disable her.

  She turns. “Right this way, Mr. Hughes. And I’ll ask you not to scan me as well.”

  I shrug. “Old habits die hard, lady. You got a name?”

  She stops and looks at me over her shoulder. “No.”

  “Alrighty, No, it’s nice to meet you.”

  The droid stops in front of a check-in station near the only door other than the entrance. She places her hands behind her back and a small section of the wall opens. Four b-drones zip out of the wall and flutter around me. Two start a full-body scan while the other two hover nearby, ready to fire.

  Once I’m TSA-ed, I follow No through a motoglass door not unlike the door at Veenure’s apartment complex. We make our way down a sleek, AppleSoft white hallway.

  There are no other people or droids around, and as we approach a conference room, a message flashes telling me all livestreaming iNet correspondence has been disabled from this point forward.

  It gives me no option other than to agree to this, so I oblige.

  I’ve been over what I need to say with Doc, and it’d be better not to have Frances and him in my ear at all times. They’ll be able to see the playback anyway – RevCo can’t disable that without accessing my OS.

  “Please, take a seat,” the droid says as we enter the conference room. There are two chairs, and she indicates mine is at the far end of the oval table.

  So I take the seat nearest to the door. “Strata requested that you sit in the other chair,” she tells me.

  “I like this one better, No.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean backwards. “Nice chair. I’ll bet this one cost a pretty penny. How many Proxima users would you have to run an insurance scam on to get a chair like this?”

  She hesitates for a moment. “I will inform him that you have arrived.”

  “Yep, time to relax.” I have my stompers up on the table by the time she reaches the door.

  She turns, focuses in on my feet, and exits the room. It’s times like this that I wish I had an RW inventory list so that I could equip my cigar, item 30.

  A big fat Gloria Cubana would be perfect for Strata’s imperial entrance.

  ~*~

  I start whistling the theme to The Final Countdown, or at least attempting to whistle it. I think there may be a plug-in I’m missing in regards to musical ability.

  I give up after about a minute and check the room out yet again. There’s nothing remarkable about the room, and nothing that indicates there’s a trap in any way. Not that it matters – no sweat off my back if Evan dies.

  Sophia already went over what would happen if I were somehow disabled. I’d simply wake up back in the dive yurt to find Aiden carefully examining the swimsuit edition issue of Assassins Illustrated.

  So I’m sitting real good right about now, ready to turn up the heat.

  The door opens and a Humandroid in a blue suit enters. He holds the door open and

  Mr. Godsick himself walks in, a scowl on his face

  Strata is going for the Johnny Cash look in his all black suit and black shirt with an open collar. His head is shaved, his skin is paler than BramToker’s vampiric tookus, and there’s a small RevCo pin attached to the lapel of his suit.

  I forget that he’s a short guy. My RW avatar is at least four inches taller than the schmuck and knowing this stretches my smile even further.

  The little bastard.

  I give him my biggest, baddest, bestest, most insincerest, shit-eating grin. “Take a seat,” I tell him. “Anywhere is good.”

  Strata starts to say something and bites his lip. He looks to his droid goon, nods, and makes his way to the far side of the conference table. Once he takes his seat, he collects himself and places both hands on the table. A quick vitals readout and I see that his blood pressure has spiked since entering the room.

  “I believe the best thing for you and me to do is to get straight down to business.”

  “Shoot.” I tell him, my feet still on the table. “But make it snappy. Like I told your hotbody receptionist, ‘I got places to go and people to see.’”

  His left eye twitches. A vein pulses at his temple and quickly subsides. “Will you take your feet off the table?”

  “I was just getting comfortable,” I say on the tail end of a yawn. “Fine, fine, if that’s the way you want to do this, have it your way.” I nod over at the Humandroid bruiser near the door. “Take a load off, buddy. Sit on the floor or something. Hell, there may be some room in Strata’s lap.”

  The droid’s eyes narrow on me.

  “If you got something to say pal, say it.”

  “Is this why you’ve come here?” Strata asks, his voice dropping into a growl. “To mock me and my employees.”

  “Employees? Relax, Strata, nobody is mocking nobody. I’m here to talk about Reapers, if you’re ready.”

  “I don’t know what y
ou’re talking about,” he says hurriedly.

  “Oh, like you weren’t the one prancing around like a poofty trophy kill in your skull mask with antlers when you dropped the source code bomb in The Loop.”

  He pivots. “The Revenue Corporation has a mission statement and clear bylaws. If you’d like to read them, I can have them printed and delivered to you.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll probably be out of toilet paper in about a week, so see if you can deliver around them. So where were we? Down to business, right?”

  Strata glares at me as he says, “The Dream Team knows where my son is, of this I am certain.”

  “So you did see him handing the Reapers their asses in your storage world. Fun stuff. He sure beat the hell out of Victoria, but then again, he was always your favorite, am I right?”

  Strata slams his fist against the table. “Keep her name out of your mouth! I haven’t gotten to her yet and to answer your question, no, I did not see him in my ‘storage world’ as you call it. I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

  I clap my hands together, nice and slow. “Bravo, Strata, bravo. You have somehow managed to maintain a straight face as you deposit onto the table the biggest sack of bullshit these offices have ever seen, and need I remind you that they see your skeletal Tim Burton-looking ass whenever you pay them the dishonor of visiting.”

  He grinds his teeth together. “I will ask you again, one last time, where is my son?”

  “I was gonna go with ‘up your ass and around the corner’ but I figured I’d spare you the wise guy act. Hmmm … your son is … ” I feign confusion. “I can’t seem to remember. Sorry, pal. Maybe it was … what’s the name of that one Zompoc world? Dead City. Maybe I saw him there. No, it was Infected Zero. That’s the world. I think he was there.”

  “I am growing tired of your little game,” Strata says, baring his teeth.

  “Yeah, and I’m growing tired of all the shit you’ve done before and after the time I was stuck in a digital coma. Where to begin? You sent the Reapers after me, we can start there.”