Backstab
Page 6
“You hear that?” Pink Tits asks. There is a pop and a crash of glass, and I assume it’s her dropped bottle. I suppose these three finding me qualifies as a worsening of the day.
“Someone’s here!” one of the guys says with mounting excitement.
“Come out little kitty! Must be a kitty cat!” Pink Tits slurs.
“Do you guys think there’re cats on the sun?” I realize this is Bull Horns, and he is very high.
“The sun is dead,” Muscles mutters.
I search for possible solutions. My mind feels like its gears have been clogged with sand. I don’t stand a chance in a physical confrontation, despite their inebriated state. And they have the numbers. I dropped the Glock somewhere, and I have no idea where. It was all but useless without ammo anyway.
Running. Running is always a good option, but I’m tired, and Muscles looks fast and Pink Tits has a gun. Fuck, I mouth, my useless hands winding into fists. Maybe if I surrender, they’d make my death quick and not rape me. I really don’t want to be raped.
I hear the distant drone of a motor. The glow of headlights slashes down the street. Perhaps there is a greater fool, a slower antelope among the chasing lions. No autocar would come this way. They route around known gang territories.
I imagine there is a woman in her mid-thirties white-knuckling the wheel. She is a slave to hourly wages and can’t afford an autocar ride. She’s a homely waitress with acne, cursing her ancient GPS guide. She’s divorced and on her way to pick up her kid from daycare. She is my salvation.
It’s all bullshit, but it’s the story I go with.
The gangers shriek with excitement. I raise my head to watch as they shuffle behind a rusted out car whose tires have seemed to have congealed with the pavement. Firearms are raised, and muzzles flash as the car draws near, bathing it in a dozen rounds. Glass pops and casings ping against the concrete.
Tires squeal and smoke as the waitress swerves from side to side. The passenger side windshield is a swathe of red gore. The car slams into a light pole, stoving in its front hood and setting the sheet metal into a hard angle. Something hisses. A black snake of smoke arises from the engine.
The gang members bound for the car like wolves to a fresh carcass. Pink Tits screams, “Hah! What a stupid cunt!” Muscles bellows a laugh and taps the end of his bat against his palm. Bull Horns shrieks like a demon while sprinting across the road.
I shrink behind the dumpster and wrap myself in a consoling embrace. A shiver passes through me and snot oozes onto my upper lip. People say I’m an asshole for criticizing the downtrodden. How could anyone make a case for these savages? We’re no longer the same species. We diverted somewhere after the bombs.
Half of us scrambled and clawed to the honor of civility. My half struggled to stay educated, well nourished, and to value hard work. The other half decided that they could just take what they wanted and damn the consequences. Fuck them all.
There’s a part of me that pities these three gangers. They were children born of back alley one-night stands, their parents beggars fucking among the muck and trash. They likely had to forage through refuse to attain a morsel of food. Their brains are nutrient deprived and stunted. As far as I’m concerned, they’re a sub-species. Me and people like me will carry the torch of humanity while they fall away.
They’re the excrement of the world only fit for burning. Maybe some can be kept in a zoo for observation. We can feed them but don’t pet them because they’ll bite your damn fingers off. They don’t want to be helped and only seek self-sabotage. We tried it. We offered them free education and shelter only to have it all razed down to ashes. They burned the shelters and gutted the professors. I say let them die like this. This is the life they want. Let the squalor and rot of the wastelands become one with its people.
I lean away from the dumpster to further glimpse the consequences of society’s divergence first hand. I see my imagination is somewhat correct as Bull Horns drags the limp body of a woman out of the car by her ankles. Her head is partially split down the middle, a blood-matted mess of hair, jagged bones, and brains making up the remains of her face.
Pink Tits claps her hands. “You gonna fuck her? Fuck her good, yeah!”
“Get you after if you don shut yer hole,” Muscles growls at her, his bat dropping behind his back, gripped with both hands. He winds up and smashes what remains of the woman’s head, sending gore shooting across the road. “Whoo!” he screams. “You see that shit! That was fucking awesome!”
Bull Horns drops the corpse in the middle of the street, tongue circling his lips in anticipation. The three are illuminated in a halo of a dim streetlight. He jabs his machete into the woman’s gut for good measure. She doesn’t respond. He leaves it there, metallic and chrome standing out of her belly. He starts dragging her skirt off. Their backs are turned to me as I look away in utter disgust.
I mentally thank the waitress for her sacrifice. I take the opportunity to slip out of the alley, being extra careful of anything that might make a sound. I stay in the shadows, and I pay attention to my direction this time, heading back to the civilized part of the city.
I’m not dying today and certainly not by the hands of that filth. “Stay alive, still alive,” I whisper to myself over and over as I navigate my way down these sordid streets.
Whoever in Erinas wanted me dead underestimated me. They hired the best killer Spectrals could likely get, and the Mohawk wearing asshole failed. If I’d hired him, it would’ve been his last job in this city, I think while grinning to myself. There were countless other ways they could’ve ended me. It should have been easy.
Questions linger. Why did they want me dead? I’m well trained and a valuable resource to the company. Had I unintentionally crossed someone? It wouldn’t have been the first time. I like to think of myself as a rare breed of intellect, cunning, grit, and street smarts. I am valuable, if not to Erinas than to another corporation. I’m the best at what I do because I do not give up.
I find my way back to the city center, passing through the Falcon’s checkpoints with relative ease. I got a few questioning looks for my appearance, but it was nothing a few Spectrals transferred to the guard’s accounts couldn’t help. I had to risk turning on my AR but quickly disconnected it from the Net. I can only hope I was quick enough.
A great weight floats from my chest knowing I’m finally back in the civilized world. Fuck those gangers. I wonder if the imaginary waitress’s imaginary kid is going to be okay, but then crush the thought to dust under my heels. It was all bullshit anyway. Caring is weakness and empathy gets you killed.
I risk turning on my AR again to make a quick withdrawal of Spectrals from my bank to my digital wallet. I make the transaction small to avoid arousing the suspicion of the bank’s algorithm that scans for unusual activity.
I take an extra second to send a message to D4663R to say ‘thank you’ and so that he’ll know I’m still alive. He likely risked his life to send me that comm, and thanking him is the least I can do. I look forward to the day when I’ll be presented with the chance to help him. I help those who help me. I have honor when it helps me.
A long sigh warms my lips as I set my gaze upon the cityscape, an endless stretch of towers stabbing at the sky hazed with irradiated dust. I know it’s only a matter of time until my hunters are on me again. They now know I’m alive. I’ve given them my location with the use of my AR, despite it only being seconds. They would’ve figured it out eventually, maybe through hacking the city’s surveillance system or the autocar grid.
I instruct my AR to initiate a hard shutdown, and it shows me a confirming dialog message an instant later. It’s done, and now I have to move. I feel naked without it, but it’s for the best.
I had my AR upgraded by a black-market augmentation surgeon so that when I command it to shutdown, it doesn’t emit a shred of EMF. The base models that ninety-eight percent of the population possess are still easily traced by a skilled hacker when off.
I stop by a discount clothing store to refresh my outfit. No one pays me any particular attention, despite my lack of footwear. The clerks are used to seeing stranger things than a barefoot, disheveled guy with a bloodied t-shirt. The clerk checks me out with dead eyes, going through the motions but never seeing me. She’s perfect.
I buy a charcoal suit that is single stitched with what is likely the cheapest material I’ve ever worn, spun lab-grown wool. I buy a pair of polyurethane shoes that pass well for leather and fresh undergarments. To avoid further karmic justice, I discard my soiled underwear in a dumpster outside rather than leaving it for the clerks to deal with. After refreshing myself in the store’s bathroom, I hail an autocab with what remains of my Spectrals, departing for my last vestige of hope.
6
Mint
Mint is full, and there’s a line of shivering hopefuls wrapping around the club’s facade. I curse myself for being late for my arranged meeting as I step from the autocar, then make my way to the end of the line. The night is crisp and icy. I grin then purse my lips, blowing out a plume of frozen dragon’s breath as I make for the line.
The bouncer is predictably a behemoth of a man with a physique that says, ‘you’d be unwise to fuck with me.’ I don’t do anything stupid like immediately approach the bouncer and offer him Spectrals. They’re used to that and detest the behavior.
It’s a shockingly common belief that wiring Spectrals to the bouncer will guarantee admittance. In my work as a String, I’ve spoken to many and have discovered that they take a measure of pride in their work. They’re professionals, and I know the game. They frown upon arrogant dicks who think Spectrals are the solution to waiting. It is the solution to most problems, but not this one. Naturally, someone who has a fully loaded AR is more likely to tip well and buy bottles. The bouncers personally don’t care how much money the club makes, though they do have to ensure Spectrals are spent. The principle favored by bouncers is equality.
If you’re on the list, you’ll get in promptly. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait with the other sheep. Maybe if you act nice, they’ll let you in even if you’re not on the guest list. If you complain or can’t stop asking how much longer the wait will be, you’ll remain in line. It doesn’t matter what echelons of life you’ve ascended.
I’ve witnessed them send CEOs and well known mob bosses to the back of the line. Maybe not the wisest idea in the long run, but in that moment they’re king. They’re modern day socialists and care more about the natural order of the club than the amount of Spectrals in their digital wallets. I know this, and I wait.
Once I’m about five or six bodies from the door, I nod to the bouncer to get his attention. He slowly regards me with a glare and twiddles his fingers at his sides as if he might have to turn them into fists in short order. “How’s your evening going?” I ask, raising my voice.
He sniffs and shakes his head. “Good, I think. Not enough sleep last night. Tough to sleep during the day.” Everyone views the bouncer as an obstacle but befriending him is the key.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say with my most endearing smile and walk around the outside edge of the line. “Maybe you’ll have a better night’s rest tomorrow.” I base my legs a little wider than is natural and spread my arms in a friendly gesture. I use my body language to express my wealth.
“Thanks, sure hope so.” He eyes me like he’s waiting for the inevitable bribe.
“What are the specials tonight? Sure could use a few,” I mutter, remembering my near run-in with the gang. I ask to make it clear that I’m here to spend.
“Not sure, have to check with the girls,” he says with a wistful smile. I think there’s one he has a crush on. I pause and nod, looking down at my shoes to inject a bit of humility into my image. These idiots are too easily manipulated. “Why don’t you go on in and find out.” He nods at the door.
“Thanks,” I say and clap him on the shoulder as I make my way inside. He eyes my hand with a distasteful sneer, but I don’t care as my smile broadens. I’m home. Clubs and lounges are my natural habitat. They’re one of the few remaining bastions where charm rules.
The lounge appears to have been a renovated theater, a ghost from a time when people enjoyed that now archaic entertainment. It’s a relic and a reminder of how life once was before the bombs. Why people lost interest, I can’t say.
The ceiling is vast, and its apex is lost in the floor’s dim light. There is an enormous lab-grown teak wood bar that follows the natural arc of the room where theater seats once were. The floor is slanted, which makes dancing a feat of acrobatics. The walls are painted in kaleidoscopic holograms that breathe color in time with the deep bass of the music. They’re mesmerizing and remind me of my first time taking a heroic dose of LSD. Sadly, I’m not here to party or indulge in chems.
Dust hugs the intricate moldings in the highest recesses where the cleaning bots have a hard time navigating over the tiny crenelations. Most people don’t see the details, but I do. I see them all. I see the ancient stains cloaked in shadows. I see how only the most visible tables are kept clean.
I make for the bar. My eyes fall on a woman’s arm as it shimmers with micro-LEDs implanted under her skin, giving it the appearance of a starlit sky. It’s a lie. The stars are long dead, chronically blanketed in a patina of radiated soot.
It’s crowded, and I occasionally have to slide my way between groups of people. The majority of the crowd is attractive women. I make a mental note to tip the bouncer for keeping the ugly people out.
Most of the women are wearing skin tight dresses that leave nothing of their silhouette to question. I like that because you know what you’re getting in the inevitable transaction. They’re young, averaging an age of about twenty-five. Hairstyles are short on the sides and some derivation of length on top.
I grin at an attractive blonde with half of her head shaved, the other half worn in tight braids. She stops her stride and raises her eyebrows in expectation, but I slide beyond her with a ridiculous wink. Her eyes are sultry and ringed in smoky makeup. I hear her laugh behind me, full and pleasing. Tonight is for business.
Men are dressed in dark layers with loose slacks, tight shirts, topped with billowy scarves, the bolder among us with synth-feather boas and low-profile hats. Other men wear high-end Italian suits custom tailored to flatter their figures. Paranoia lingers in my bones as my eyes scan for pink mohawks. Seeing none, I relax a little.
I see a guy wearing an invisibility suit that makes the air shimmer below what at first appears to be a floating head. The fabric is lined with thousands of cameras that display the opposite side of the material on LEDs on the side facing the viewer, making it appear transparent. It’s expensive shit. He’s likely the highest roller here. He laughs between sips of his drink and chatting among a group of onlookers.
A muscular woman beside him has her hand planted on a hip, her long hair jet black and waxed tight against her head. Her eyes drift to mine, and her face blurs like viewing an LED through a curtain of mist. She is wearing nanobot infused makeup to produce the effect. I avert my gaze, not wanting to attract the rich asshole’s attention and move on.
I finally reach the bar and put on my most charming smile, a full Cheshire grin. I’ve done this thousands of times in front of the mirror, perfecting it. The barman ignores the others there before me and gives me the nod. I gesture for him to come closer and wire him a few Spectrals via my digital wallet to show my gratitude. My balance flickers in the corner of my vision, indicating the remaining balance of about three
million. I’m not invisibility suit rich, but I could retire if I wanted to. But what would the fun be in that?
“See a Japanese woman about? Maybe wearing a kimono and cold as ice? Hair shaved on the sides?”
His head is shaved down to the skin, his jaw narrow, and eyebrows full. He groans at the stupidity of my question. There are maybe ten women here who fit the same description. His eyes flick to the mounting crowd demanding to have their existential pain suppressed by chems and booze. Maybe speaking to me was a mistake. He needs to return to work before someone stages a coup, leaps over the bar, and starts serving themselves.
“Goes by the handle Paragon,” I add. His eyebrows bob in recognition. He nods toward a stairway illuminated in a shimmering hologram that makes it look like an ocean wave constantly cresting. “Thanks,” I mutter and slip into the crowd that seems to have inconceivably doubled. My bar space is consumed like hyenas to a bleeding carcass.
I slide against warm bodies as I make for the stairs. There are alluring specimens of both men and women. I don’t mind when a firm ass or soft breast spends a tad too long against my form. My cheeks squirt saliva onto my tongue. I’m ravenous for something food and water can’t satisfy. I plod up the stairs and find my legs are weak and sore. The incident with Mohawk and the gang took more out of me than I’d anticipated.
The second floor is a graveyard compared to the chaos below. It’s a wide catwalk that circles the first floor. It’s dark and was likely created for people like me. Shady types are clustered over tables and lost in whispered conversations. I see the gleam of augmented eyes as a few heads raise to take me in, ascertaining my threat level. They lower as quickly as they rise.
I walk slow, stealing my breath and lowering my heart rate. I grin at a pair of women making out and fondling each other in a booth. One of them sees me and beckons for me to join. I snicker and give a slight shake of my head, moving on. My eyes start to adjust to the dark, and I see more. A few booths later, I spy a male couple, hands rubbing against crotches, their kisses wet with sloppy tongues.