“Oh, yeah,” Brass was saying, as one of the establishment’s nude dancers came crawling in their direction along a branch of the caged catwalks that crisscrossed the entire room. She stretched out on her belly so that Brass, standing, could pinch her nipples through the mesh of the catwalk floor. He ran this fingers over the webs of metal indenting her soft belly and thighs, sectioning it off into so many succulent little squares. Then, he lifted his face to her, so that she—a Tikkihotto—could stroke his cheeks and throat with the dozens of translucent ocular tendrils that swam from her eye sockets. “Oh, yeah,” he repeated. “Touch me, baby, lick me.” Her nests of writhing eyes caressed the broad black stripe of trendy war-paint makeup that he wore down the center of his forehead, ending half-way down his nose. She seemed to like seeing/feeling his high, defined cheekbones—though Conch felt they were too defined, his lips too puckered in a sexy-kissy plastic Cupid’s bow, since Brass’ lower face had been shot off and then rebuilt according to his glamorous specifications.
Conch tuned back in on the conversation...
“How long have you four been together?” the leader of the Vlessi asked.
“Oh, since we were kids, about,” Hans babbled on. “There was nine of us in all in those days...but we lost one guy four years ago, another guy three years ago, and last year we lost two guys to one assassin alone. He was a Ramon, in fact—meanest fucker we ever went up against. He was a one man team. Didn’t seem too sporting, at first, until he took out our two boys. He got one of them with a sword, in fact. Cut him almost in half. Scariest fucker I’ve gone to head with. All business. He wore a conservative suit—not the traditional Ramon robes—but he was a Ramon warrior through and through.”
“But you beat him, ultimately, one would surmise.”
“Oh, yeah—Indigo brought him down.”
Conch saw the leader of the Devils turn his six tiny eyes in the quiet man’s direction appraisingly. Indigo didn’t even look up from tracing his finger in a water ring on the table.
“You said there were nine. Four are alive, and four are dead. What about the ninth?”
“Oh—we lost one guy early on to a fate worse than death—marriage!” Hans laughed. “That was Blink. He didn’t want to play anymore.”
Conch noticed that Hans was conversing, while the Vlessi was assessing. Assessing their past successes, and losses. The Devils were definitely not the most fun opponents they had met with prior to a duel.
“So how many of your crew did there used to be?”
“Four,” the Vlessi replied in its drowning voice. “We have lost none, since we began.”
Hans seemed to grow a little less gregarious. He tossed Conch a look, but Conch ignored him, taking his cue from Indigo. He motioned to the waitress to come over, so that he could order some food—something to soak up the alcohol already in his belly.
* * *
“So what did you think of the vampires?” asked Conch, as the four made their way down the broad sidewalk, strolling in a line. All four wore cloned-leather jackets of varying shades and lengths, against the chill of night in the city of Punktown.
“Hey,” Brass said earnestly to the others, “I hope you blokes know I was only kidding about getting excited by that one with all the nipples.”
“Now if it had had multiple clams, that would’ve been a different story, huh?” Hans teased.
“I didn’t see a clam on any of them,” Brass replied earnestly. “Or a cue, either.”
“They might not have cues but they’ve got balls,” Indigo said quietly.
“Yeah,” said Conch. “They’re sharp, and we’d better not take them for granted.”
“Where were their guns?” asked Hans. “Or do you think they use swords?”
“Fuck you with your swords,” Brass groaned.
“They don’t use guns,” Indigo answered with calm certainty.
“What, then?” asked Hans.
“I don’t know yet.”
As they strolled, a gang of tough-looking youths coming from the other direction parted to go around them. The youths hadn’t heard rumors about these men, but they had the street instincts to know they weren’t to be mocked or challenged. The four friends stopped at a corner under a street lamp, its sickly greenish light making them look like they were submerged in a tank of vile fluid such as dissected organs or deformed infants might be preserved. A helicar hummed high over their heads as it took the corner, and a shuttle whooshed through a transparent tunnel that connected one vast office block to another across the intersection. From atop one glass tower down the street, a flock of luminous green holographic birds emerged, wheeled in the sky, came together to form the word FLOCK CORP., then scattered and returned to the lens atop the tower. Hovering above another structure was a bluish holographic hand large enough for a god, which continuously spelled out, in sign language, the name of that company: AUDIOPLANTS. The four men were on the fringes of Industrial Square, not far from the offices of Ziggurat Pharmaceuticals, the company that had given them their current contract.
“Anyone up for going to Snakeskins?” Brass asked. It was an exclusive strip club in the vicinity, where local businessmen liked to lunch with clients whose favor they sought. There, beautiful women first discarded their clothing, then peeled off their cloned flesh exteriors to reveal their robotic selves beneath. “Now that we dumped our boring friends?”
“Not me,” Conch sighed. “We’re on a job now.”
“We don’t start until next week!”
“Doesn’t matter. You go ahead. After meeting the vampires, I want to keep my knife honed.”
“Now you sound like Hans,” Brass groused.
“I’ll go with you,” Hans told Brass, unmindful of the insult.
“Then we’ll see you boys. Just keep your ears pricked. We don’t know if the Devils follow the same rules of etiquette and fair play we do. Their table manners could be entirely alien to us.”
“We’re always on guard.” Brass patted a hard lump against his side, slightly bulging his knee-length leather coat. “You know us.”
“Right,” Conch said, a sudden roar of cold wind ruffling his spiky, short dirty-blond hair. “We’ll all meet up again tomorrow afternoon, then. The basement.”
They wished each other goodnight. Brass and Hans disappeared around the corner, and Conch and Indigo accompanied each other to the end of the next block, where they parted ways. Before they did, Conch said, “In the morning I’m meeting with the suits at Ziggurat. I’ll keep a feed open so you can listen...as long as they don’t have filter guards to block it. I’ll tell them we had a courtesy meeting with our opposing team so they’ll know what good sports we are, and I’ll pick up the front money.”
Indigo nodded. Conch said goodnight. Indigo nodded again. Like duelists putting distance between each other, they turned and walked in opposite directions.
* * *
The corporate headquarters and local production operations for Ziggurat Pharmaceuticals were, not surprisingly, housed within a looming multi-tiered pyramid of greenish ceramic blocks made to look old, cracked, on the verge of ruin. Jasper Conch supposed the greenish hue was meant to represent the slime or moss of a jungle in which such a temple might be found, or the light shining through a leafy emerald canopy. Or perhaps it had been artfully stained in the juices of pulped money.
In the lobby, he watched a great central vidtank which showed a looping holographic film touting the company’s products and successes, showing gowned workers and robots cheerfully waving from inside sterile cores, and happy office drones glancing up from their computers to smile at the camera. Conch looked around for a magazine in vain, sighed, ached for a cigarette, rose when he saw a man walking energetically toward him across a veldt of forest green carpet with his hand already extended.
“Mr. Conch, good to see you again. Come to my office, please.”
Conch shook the man’s hand before following him. “Mr. Abbas.”
Hamid Abbas was sli
ght, darkly handsome, impeccably dressed, and Conch had no idea what his title or exact function was within Ziggurat Pharmaceuticals. Previously, they had met outside the company. As it was Sunday morning (by the Earthly calendar), the building appeared empty except for the guard who had met Conch at the security stop, where he had been scanned for weapons. With a little smile, Conch had handed over a snub-nosed Decimator .220 from his shoulder holster and a little palm automatic loaded with plasma capsules from an ankle holster.
They settled into Abbas’s office, the walls of which seemed to be padded in a thick black foam. Conch seriously doubted now that Indigo would be able to eavesdrop in on their conversation in here, but at least the enforcers wouldn’t, either. These little corporate contests were illegal...though of course, because no one but the hired mercenaries or hitmen were directly endangered, the authorities tended to look the other way, especially since a great deal of money was always concerned, and money oiled the gears of society to a silent smoothness. On one occasion a homicide dick named MacDiaz had become a real nuisance, but that was because an innocent bystander got popped, and it was the contenders who had done the sloppy shooting; Conch prided his team on never having harmed a noncombatant.
“So.” Abbas smiled and knotted his hands atop a desk fashioned entirely of synthetic—or perhaps authentic—jade. “You met the dreaded Vlessi.”
“We’re trying to find out more about them.”
“Well, I can tell you a little. They come from the same planet the Anul do. When shady things happen, and the Anul are involved, chances are the Vlessi are in the shadows with them. They fear the Vlessi...but they aren’t against using them.”
The competitor that Ziggurat had challenged to this duel was called Rescue Pharmaceuticals. It was a company owned and run by a group of powerful immigrant businessmen from the world of the Anul...and their best-selling product was the pink pill used to combat the disease called “orb weaver”, to check the advancement of that increasingly prevalent threat in its victims. Ziggurat had sought to create its own drugs to slow the development of the disease, and Rescue had contested their rights to do so, claiming exclusivity to the medical solutions involved. Ziggurat had countered with ugly accusations such as that the Rescue drugs were nothing but placebos, in any case. Rescue had protested indignantly, offering samples for analysis by a third party. The battle had raged in court, become a blinding blizzard of paperwork, a jungle of red tape that lawyers lost their way in. Thus, Ziggurat had met with Rescue with the proposition that they settle the matter out of court, so the production of both their products would no longer be held up in limbo, with the prize being that if Rescue won, Ziggurat would refrain from manufacturing the pills to battle orb weaver...while Ziggurat’s prize would be to continue production unchallenged.
“Naturally, Rescue accepted our invitation,” Abbas explained. “They don’t want the court involved any further...because despite their protestations, most of what they produce is in fact placebos. Even, drugs that make the disease advance more quickly. They see orb weaver as their friend. As a source of endless profit. We don’t. We aim to truly help its victims. Rescue produces enough of the authentic, beneficial drug to put out there and to offer for analysis if probed too deeply...but they can fend off most probes by filling palms where needed.”
Conch smiled grimly, lounging far back in his chair and swiveling. He hadn’t taken off his leather coat and he had put his sunglasses up on his head, making his hair stand up jaggedly. “If Rescue is so unorthodox, what makes you think they’ll respect this agreement if you win?”
“Well, a duel like this is a matter of honor, Mr. Conch. Like the honor between your group and the Vlessi team. Besides,” and Abbas gave a smile that a man other than Conch would have found chilling, “if Rescue goes back on its word, we will pay you a handsome fee to eliminate the heads of their corporation.”
“I see. And I imagine that Rescue has told their soldiers to do the same to your chiefs, if you should break your agreement?”
“I’m sure they have been so instructed. You must have heard about similar arrangements in such matters...”
“Yeah. It’s not the first time. It’s a smart bit of insurance.”
Abbas leaned forward with exaggerated concern. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Conch...I’ve been rude. Can I offer you an espresso? Some water?”
“Mind if I smoke?” Conch peeled aside his jacket to show the pack sitting in the pocket of his black silk shirt, right next to his empty shoulder holster.
Abbas made another exaggerated expression, this time of apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Conch...this is a pharmaceutical company, remember?” He smiled gently. “Smoking is harmful to one’s health.”
Before he left the building, Conch stopped in a rather claustrophobic, closet-sized single person men’s room off the lobby. After relieving himself and washing his hands, he splashed a little cold water in his face, since a dull headache was coming on. As he straightened, he confronted himself in the mirror. Maybe it was that the unkind starkness of the lighting, which called into sharp relief each pore, each subtle wrinkle, each imperfection, made his own countenance ugly and alien to him...or maybe he had a flash of memory about the time he shot another good-looking young man, a contract hit, in the face in a public rest room. Whatever the reason, his own reflected face disturbed him. He forced his eyes from it, left the room and shut off the light behind him.
* * *
Sitting in his parked hovercar, his window down so he could smoke his herb butt, Conch got Indigo on his console vidphone. As he had suspected, Indigo had not been able to listen to the conversation in Abbas’s office, so Conch filled him in. Then he asked Indigo: “What did you find out about the vampires on the net?”
“Not much. It looks like they seriously don’t want anything known about them. They definitely come from the planet Anul...but the Anul people aren’t helpful about it. They pretty much shun the Vlessi, have myths about them. They tend to call them demons and vampires and dung like that, too. One pretty persistent myth is that the Vlessi aren’t really native to Anul...they supposedly came there through a hole in space.”
“Then...they’re probably extradimensionals. And their rift or portal just happened to open up on Anul.”
“Maybe. If there’s any truth to the myths. But the myths get weirder.”
“How so?”
“Another nickname the Anul have for them would translate as something like “double”, or “spirit”. I think an equivalent in Earth folklore would be doppelganger. “
“Meaning what?”
“Apparently some Anul people feel that the Vlessi are their own doubles. They believe there’s one Vlessi for every Anul. I guess what they mean is the Vlessi are the Anul themselves...from a parallel dimension.”
Conch blew raspberries, not to scoff at the stories but just out of a lack of something to say. “So...what do you think?”
“I’m open to the extradimensional beings idea. But doppelgangers...”
“It’s all just dung the Vlessi have put out there to scare the Anul, and anyone else who might cross them. Good publicity, that’s all. War cries and painted faces and bagpipe music. We aren’t afraid of that stuff, are we, Indigo?”
“Bagpipes, maybe,” Indigo said.
* * *
When Jasper Conch was a young boy, who did not at that time call himself Jasper Conch—because at that time he didn’t have to be concerned about vengeful people tracking down his family—he performed a strange mental ritual before he went to sleep at night. It was a ritual of self torment, an imp of the perverse.
Jasper would imagine that he must clamber into his bed quickly, and once there, he must not let his hands or feet protrude beyond the edges of his narrow mattress...lest they be severed by his force field when he activated it. He would then reach behind him, touch an imaginary button on one of the posts of his headboard, and an invisible shield would enclose his bed from all sides and above, like a mosquito net made
of pure energy.
Only moments after he was safely enclosed in this unseen sarcophagus, the first of the zombies would stagger through his bedroom door...followed by many others. The undead would crowd into his room, fill it until they could barely even move. With their skeletal faces of an almost luminous shade of corrupted green, their eyes flashing green like those of hyenas filmed in infrared, they would press close around his bed, mash their faces and their hands right up against the force field, gazing in at him hungrily, grinding their teeth like Jasper’s brother sleeping innocently in the next room, but unable to get at him.
His terrors, his walking fears, had emerged from the dark. But he had found a way to keep them at bay. And even though he knew they would remain there until morning, longing to get a hold of him, he could now turn on his side, burrow into his pillow with one arm over his face, and sleep safely.
As a man, as Jasper Conch, he had used the combination of money, imagination and technology to make this childhood fancy come true.
The bed in his apartment, though its mattress was much wider than in those days because sometimes he had company though usually not for very long, had four high posts at its ends. Spaced along each post and each leg of the bed were small green crystal balls that looked purely decorative. But once he was in his bed, he could slide aside a panel camouflaged into the intricate carvings of his headboard, touch a control key, and activate an invisible repulsor screen which would radiate from the crystal lenses and entirely surround his bed...all four sides, top and even bottom, an improvement over his childhood design, in case some hungry fiend might slither beneath the bed to attack him through the mattress.
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