Backstab

by Everet Martins

  We don’t have to worry about them in the cities. They’re engaged in a chronic turf war with the gangs. That keeps them busy. The gangs haven’t been exterminated because it’s cheaper not too. They serve as a buffer between the cities and the Mutants. They’re a disposable form of human.

  Circling the major cities that aren’t utter shit holes are looming ramparts that repel the larger of the gangs. They’re sheer concrete and stretch over fifty feet. Sometimes the gangs rise up and decide the life of squalor isn’t for them anymore and try to take a city. The ramparts are manned by the Falcon and machine gun turrets. It doesn’t end well for the gang members.

  The Falcon is a privatized police force known for its militant brutality. They don’t lose, and that’s why their contracts are continually renewed. Government cops are too soft. They’re compelled by the law to employ a level of force commensurate with the current threat. The gangs know this and exploit it at every turn. Government officers are savagely beaten to death when cornered and caught alone and unawares.

  The autocar whisks me to The Wicked, a hotel bar sixty blocks away. Before closing my eyes, I tap the touchscreen on the center console to darken the window tint, obscuring a skyline crawling with neon advertisements. You can’t get away from it. Even the bark of forest trees are etched in sales pitches.

  The Wicked is modern but not so modern that the person I’m meeting will feel too uncomfortable, not that I care about his comfort. I just want him to show up and walk through the door.

  The bar’s furniture is fully automated, and everything follows a subtle curve. There are no hard lines. The walls are a gunmetal gray that produce a soft internal light, casting the expansive room in an amber glow. It works on demand. When furniture is needed, it rises from the floor like a telescoping eyeglass.

  Once you are logged into The Wicked, which simply happens via proximity as long as your security is set up to allow it, it senses your mind’s neural network, and thus, your needs. The room is always shifting. Everything is made of the same amorphous material, shaped and hardened by algorithmically driven electrical stimulation. As the room meets the needs of its guests, its shifting is fluid and relaxing. It all feels like a psychedelic dream.

  I make my way to the middle of the room to my reserved spot, gliding between patrons dressed much like myself. Tables are dotted with a mix of alcohol and chem-spiked beverages. Mercs don’t like empty bars.

  I let my soon-to-be hire dictate our meeting time. It’s the least I could offer since I’ll be hiring him to die. He doesn’t know that, of course, but thinks it just another job. Life isn’t fair.

  I have an alcohol inhibitor implanted in my stomach and another in my liver. It’s a small piece of digestive tech that lets me drink without feeling the effect. I need to stay sharp when working but appear social.

  I lower my hips to sit, and there is a hiss as a telescoping chair rises from the floor. The surface arranges itself in the perfect contour to accommodate the shape of my ass cheeks. A thin rail rises from the ground, flaring out to unfold into a table just large enough to hold a drink and an appetizer because that’s what I plan to order. The club knows all of this. It is a living machine. I place a hand on its edge, enjoying its internal warmth set at the temperature I most enjoy.

  A shelf opens at a distant wall, emitting a tray of baked crab bites. I can smell them already. My mouth waters after thinking about having them for the past three days. A human waitress retrieves them and carries them over, bending over the table to offer a glimpse of her cleavage before scuttling off to refill a glass.

  It’s delicious. It’s real crab too, not that synthetic lab shit. There isn’t even a hint of soy or corn. Everything is made of fucking soybeans and corn now, the two crops resilient and cheap enough to feed the masses. I don’t check the Net via my AR—Augmented Reality—implant while I eat. I intend to sit in the analog and enjoy every part of this. It’s a lost skill.

  He finally arrives. He’s decked out in black and appears like he doesn’t belong. His clothes are cheap and tattered. I shouldn’t have expected more from a Merc. I frown as he approaches my table, watching his head nervously swiveling about and taking in the room. I double-blink my eyes in a pre-configured timing that brings up my Augmented Reality screen. I see the world, but now I see more. The world is filled with digital noise.

  A translucent holotab floats beside my Merc’s approaching head in a scrolling cascade of information. I see his name, weight, height, eye color, past convictions, last known address, food tastes, and favored weapons. No living relatives, not much in the way of a paper trail. He’s perfect.

  He has a burn running across his throat like someone tried to choke him to death with a hot iron. Maybe he had a run in with the Fire Knuckles, a gang who does that sort of thing. His head is shaved down to the skin, face the same, jaw square, pretty fucking generic. He pauses a few feet away from my table to give me an appraising stare. He blinks, and his dark eyes glitter with intelligence. Perhaps I’ve underestimated him. I lean back in my chair.

  I’m not concerned. He isn’t intelligent enough to know death looms. “You the guy?” he grunts.

  “I’m the guy.” I smirk and gesture for him to sit. He slightly raises one eyebrow and circles around my back and finally seats himself adjacent to me so he can see the door. I intentionally chose a table in the center of the bar to keep him off balance. Mercs don’t like having their back’s exposed.

  A slow breath hisses through his clenched teeth as his eyes glide around the room, sniffing for trouble. Finding none, he sets his attention back to me with a nod and a hard smile.

  He loathes everything about this place. He hates me more. I can see it in his eyes. He would knife me in an alley if given the chance and the discretion. I smile at his hatred because, despite it all, I have something he needs: currency.

  Spectrals won the digital currency war. All transactions are encrypted and recorded in a universal ledger. Transactions are nameless, anonymous, and most importantly of all, trackless. It’s the lifeblood that fuels the global organism.

  The bar screams wealth. It’s a foreign world to him, I realize. He could rob anyone in here and live out his days on hookers and Psych, a hallucinogenic chem. The clothes on my back would feed him for six months. He’s not poor, but he’s not wealthy either. I’d place him about lower-middle class since the nature of his business requires he has an Augmented Reality implant.

  A small table rises on his left, and a waitress places a glass upon it. At least his AR still works, the rice-sized chip implanted in his brain connecting him to the Net. Another waitress returns and fills his glass with water.

  He reaches for the glass, and his arm starts uncontrollably shaking, sloshing some onto his knee. “Fuck,” he mutters. A moment later, he masters it. His eyes flicker between mine and the glass. His cheeks burn bright. His cyberware is damaged. He must have some type of nervous system modification. Enhanced reflexes or perhaps a firearm aiming aid.

  Empathy doesn’t come naturally for me. It’s something I manufacture through logic. I start to understand him. I’d hate this place too. The Wicked and its patrons are the epitome of what’s wrong with this world. The divide between the rich and the poor has become a yawning chasm where he and I stand on opposite sides of the precipice. I can be empathetic if I choose.

  The truth is that everything about this wretch disgusts me. Poor people are poor by choice. They could always do something more, but instead, they grovel for scraps from people like myself. Fuck this lazy asshole.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, glancing at me sidelong.

  “Desmond.” I tell him the truth because he’s going to die soon. I don’t ask Sawyer his name because I already know it, and he knows that I know it. I can afford heavy AR encryption, so he knows next to nothing about me. Unless he can afford the programs to crack it, my holotab stats are garbled text through Sawyer’s Augmented Reality.

  On their third birthday, everyone but the
poor gets a neural stimulation implant referred to as Netware. It’s comprised of stem cells and a nanochip that houses the AR’s programs. The human body views it as a benign tumor and thus avoids detection by the immune system. It interfaces with the visual and aural areas of the brain, displaying video across our retinas and audio on our eardrums. They’re ubiquitous among the middle and upper classes.

  “Desmond, huh? Sounds like a bullshit name to me,” he scoffs, likely trying to save face.

  I shrug. My drink arrives, a whiskey that’s been barrel aged for fifty years. I sip it and savor its hints of smoke, maple, and bacon. From the front pocket of my pants, I produce a chip the size of my thumbnail. I slide it toward Sawyer. The transaction is conducted through a physical chip because data can be easily pilfered over the Net. It’s surprisingly one of the most secure ways to transfer data in a world where everything can be hacked.

  Sawyer picks it up with practiced nonchalance. He presses it against the underside of his wrist to an implanted Mem Reader. To the naked eye, his wrist appears like any other human wrist, but beneath his skin is a web of nanowires that travel the same paths as his nerves to his Netware and finally his AR system. He is reading through the job as we sit. He scans blueprints, security diagrams, and appraises the tasks I want him to do.

  I take another sip of my drink and take in the surrounding luxury. God, I hate Boston. It’s good to be home. I think of Mary’s big fake tits and down the rest of my drink. A boner starts to rise, and I think I feel what amounts to happiness.

  A grunt of agitation forms in Sawyer’s throat, dispelling the image of Mary’s bouncing tits. I deflate.

  “This security seems fucking tight, String,” Sawyer says in a low voice. “You’re sure you’ve got it all mapped? Haven’t missed anything?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I snap. I don’t like when my work is questioned. It’s not that I’m infallible, just rarely wrong.

  “Tight fucking security,” he mutters. A waitress passes and twitches an eyebrow at his phrase. She knows to stay out of String business and will ignore anything she overhears if she enjoys living. “You seem like the type to fuck me, Desmond. Not going to fuck me, are you?”

  “With lube, if you ask nicely,” I say with all the charm my face can muster. He’s too ugly and too fat for a legitimate invitation back to my hotel room.

  He sighs through his nostrils, lips pressed tight. His black eyes flick to mine then back at the wall, likely giving the data another scan. He needs to appear confident, and the more questions he asks, the more he knows I’ll doubt him.

  “You said your crew was up for the job. Are you sure you can handle it?” I finish my whiskey in one big swallow. “Maybe I need to find someone else.” I tilt my head at him and place my manicured index finger on my chin.

  Sawyer grunts. “No, we got this. Got the Spectrals, Desmond?” Venom hangs on his voice. His hatred is pure. I like that.

  “My colleagues have said nothing but good things about your crew. I trust you. I’ll send half when you agree to the gig, the other half when it’s done.” I smile at the approaching waitress. She’s carrying a fresh glass of whiskey. I take the glass from her and intentionally brush her fingers, stealing another glance of her perfectly sculpted tits. She lets out a breathy snicker and stalks off to serve another customer. She’s paid to flirt with customers, and I’m not below taking advantage of it.

  When I look back at Sawyer, I can see he’s enjoying the compliment, raising himself a little higher in his seat. He takes in the room again with a new and pleasurable lens. Maybe The Wicked isn’t so bad, after all, I imagine he’s now thinking. Sawyer is a murderer, a rapist, and thief. He likely sleeps with a gun on his bedside table. Even hardened killers can’t resist swallowing a hollow compliment. As a species, we’re all utterly fucked.

  “Agreed,” Sawyer says while he stands and gives me a hard nod. Mercs have tried to hug me, others bow, and one tried to kiss me. He shakes my hand. I’m not sure why they bother with a gesture of friendship. It’s a business transaction. We’re not friends, and we never will be.

  I look him straight in the eye and give him a broad smile, knowing full well he will likely die. I don’t live with regrets. I enjoy my work. Sawyer knows the risks laced in his vocation. He strides out of The Wicked, and I decide to stay to finish my drink.

  My waitress has departed and is replaced by an attractive waiter. “Do you need anything else, Desmond?” he asks and winks at me. I wink back. He knows my Desire Queue is empty, my mental will of what I’d like brought to my table. He only asks for an excuse to flirt with me.

  Everyone who works here matches its beauty. His skin is flawless and just the right amount of tanned. His jaw is strong, hair cut short and parted on the side. I want to fuck him, but business demands that I abstain from bodily pleasures tonight.

  I like a bar that takes great care with the entirety of its presentation. What would the bar be if an ugly chump like Sawyer were serving drinks? The world is cruel. It has always been that way, we just pretended it wasn’t. Attractive people always got the best jobs even before the Nuclear Age. Ugly people can find work too. Sawyer can attest to that.

  “Remind me again how long this whiskey’s been aged?” I ask, swirling the glass and enjoying the aroma. I know the answer but allowing him to provide it will perhaps make him feel as though his vacant work is meaningful.

  “Fifty years, darling,” he says with a smile that showcases his well-aligned teeth. “Aged in oak barrels from before the Nuclear Age, guaranteed radiation free.”

  “Unirradiated oak?” This is actually surprising. “Where do they find it?”

  I can tell by the distance in his stare that he is reading a response to my query on his AR. “Supposedly, they purchased a large quantity shortly before the bombs fell and happened to store it in the recess of the brewery. The walls were shielded by leaded paint. The rebellious whiskey makers never complied to the health mandate. Guess they got lucky. That’s what their bio says at least. Sure you don’t want a third? On me.” He plants his hands on his hips, directing his fingers toward his bulge.

  “No, thanks.” I wave the thought away. “If I have any more, I won’t make it to the door,” I lie.

  “Well, it was nice chatting. Here’s my contact if you want to meet up for a drink later.” A red dot blinks in the top right corner of my AR, indicating his contact request. Before I can respond, he slips into the crowd, bending over another table. I peer over to check out his well-muscled ass.

  I like him. He was helpful, polite, attractive, and business-like. If only every operation could run so smoothly. Maybe then we wouldn’t have had nuclear war.

  The night is young, and my work is just getting started. I pay my bill via my AR and leave a fat tip for my attractive waiter. It will be months before I can return here, so that everyone has time to forget my face, not that it’s particularly memorable. I try not to shit in the same place too frequently.

  Sawyer’s crew is in all probability watching me as the autocar picks me up curbside of The Wicked. I make it obvious that I’m leaving, gazing up and down the LED lit street so that my face is plain for all to see.

  That is another reason why I have to move. Merc’s are notoriously paranoid and will be angry when they find out I’m working with someone else. I don’t blame them for wanting to live. If my two crews ran into each other before the job, that would be bad. I can’t have the damned conspiring with the living.

  3

  Second Team

  I’m late for my meeting at the nightclub called Horizon. The autocar found itself trapped in a bottleneck of traffic after it was too late for rerouting. I use the opportunity to nap and silently curse the AI construction team that decided now was the opportune time to repair a burst water main.

  Despite my late arrival, the club has few patrons. This club doesn’t start to fill until well after midnight. When I was young, I would’ve sneered at my current self for being at a club this early. M
y friends and I would’ve stayed home injecting chems until we were high enough to leave. The drum and bass of the club hybridize well with Sapphire, my former preferred hallucinogen. I don’t touch that shit anymore. It makes me far less industrious.

  They don’t serve chems here like they do at The Wicked. At least the drinks are good. There is a part of me that is saddened by this, despite my abstinence. The music is still pleasurable, a deep bass that reverberates from hundreds of speakers embedded in the walls. It’s not so loud that it inhibits conversation, but enhances it.

  As I’ve ascended to the ripe age of thirty-two, I find I like crowds less and less. Maybe I’m not cool anymore, or maybe I shun this world and everything that it has become.

  I’m escorted to my reserved seat by a stunning hostess. She wears makeup that emits a slight biochemical glow with her every heartbeat. It’s genetically engineered with bacteria that emits light when agitated and the force in her capillaries is enough to make it shimmer. Expensive stuff. Women this gorgeous can’t be found on the streets. Nightclubs are a distorted picture of reality.

  “Cool makeup,” I say as she gestures for me to follow.

  She grins, showing teeth with an opaque glow. They too are bioluminescent implants. I wonder if her nipples glow too. She departs without a word after leading me to my table. Her behavior doesn’t surprise me. Why would she want to chat with an old man arriving at a club this early and alone? I must be a boring crone. I’m not offended. She’s not my type anyway. Club girls are empty shells. I prefer polite people I can converse with.

  The tables here are non-fluid, ancient structures of wood and steel. I find them charming against the rest of the club’s techno-sheik. Another woman approaches my table. Her face is painted in glowing makeup that forms swirling lines that start from her eyes and trace down to her jawline. She too is incredibly attractive, and I wonder if she’s an android. Does her blood taste like motor oil? That’s about the only surefire way you can tell the droids apart from humans, tasting their blood. It’s the one thing the designers haven’t figured out yet. “What would you like, Desmond?” she asks. “We don’t serve chems.”