She hesitated, gazing at him dubiously, then shrugged, “It’s a free country.”
The gentleman set his fedora on the glass holobar and asked with a deft grin, “Is it? Might I buy you another round? Something a little stronger? OneThread© javaball perhaps?”
She smirked, “Thanks, but no. If I have another java my heart’s going to explode.”
“Ahh, I see. Pleasium then?”
“Never touch the stuff.”
“Good for you. Very well.”
The handsome man turned and gestured to the tough as balls barista named Maggie who managed The Rowdy Pony. Maggie was notorious for providing slow, angst-ridden service to men.
He called across the bar, “Margaret darling, would you be so kind as to bring me a café au lait, soy, with a hint of organic brown sugar in a cappuccino cup? Kindly remember to use the Ethiopian beans.”
The girl laughed to herself, this should be good.
Such a line directed at Maggie would normally elicit a curt, “Why don’t you drop to one knee and suck it, dicko?”
Instead the blonde girl watched in awe as Maggie’s normally dour expression convened to a smile and she responded pleasantly, “Coming right up, Mr. Abner.”
The man nodded congenially, as if they were old friends, “So kind, Margaret.”
He then unbuttoned his freshly pressed blazer and sat himself on the stool one over, again consuming the girl’s attention with his wolf-like, yellow eyes. For a moment she felt like she might pass out.
His demeanor was still charming, but the purpose behind his voice was more direct, “Ms. Nichols, would you afford me the pleasure of a formal introduction?” He extended his hand.
Common courtesy was no longer common.
She raised her eyebrows, “Say again?”
The man continued without a hitch, “My name is Daxane Julius Abner. I am the proprietor of Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd. Given the fact that you are obviously a woman who likes to get down to brass tacks, I would prefer to introduce myself before we carry on to speaking of business.”
“Oh yeah. Of course.”
She reached out and shook his hand. The grip was firm, yet his skin soft like a woman’s.
She found herself so curious she couldn’t stand it, “I’m sorry. I’m Dorothy. Dorothy Nichols. But you seem to know that.”
“Indeed I do. Your name is Dorothy Marie Nichols. You were born April 22, 2057, to farmers, Leonard and Marjel Nichols of Salina, Kansas. You are a Taurus. Surprisingly, you don’t know how to operate a hovcar with a manual transmission. Your parents farm outstanding median strength marijuana and raised you to respect the right of individual privacy; a political philosophy endemic to the classical Traditionalist mindset and a cornerstone value of the New Episcopal Church of Practical Agnosticism in which you were raised. You began official employment at Nichols-Indica, Inc. at the age of twelve. You genetically engineered your first strain of marijuana at the age of thirteen, even though, per your father’s wishes, you didn’t try your first vaporjoint until you were fourteen. The strain of marijuana you engineered, dubbed Dotty’s Surprise, continues to be your family’s number one seller to this day. At age eighteen, you enrolled in the expected field of agrobotany and in precisely four years you have now graduated at the top of your class with a 3.87 GPA. Despite all this, you are having difficulty securing proper employment, a situation that I consider to be a tragedy in no uncertain…”
The blonde betty named Dorthy Nichols was now sitting bolt upright.
She raised her hands defensively, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! I mean, whoa, Mr. Abner.”
“Please. Call me Dax.”
“Fine. She squinted apprehensively, “Alright, Mr. Dax. This is creep city. How exactly do you know all this?”
Before he could answer, Maggie walked over with his café au lait, exactly as requested, complete with a hemplinen napkin and a pleasant smile, “Here you go, Mr. Abner, fresh Ethiopian as prescribed.” Maggie blushed, “I must say it’s so great to see you! You oughta drop by for a speedball more often.”
The man named Dax reached out and held Maggie’s hand in his own after she set down his coffee, “Ah, Margaret. Your smile is always radiant, like a million suns in a single sky.”
Maggie tittered like a little girl.
The gentleman, for there was no other word to properly describe him, continued, “You’ll have to forgive my absence from The Pony of late. I fear employ of farm and flock have held my hours in a gilded cage.” His tone brightened, “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Dorothy?”
Maggie turned to Dorothy and bumped her fist, “Yeah, I see this betty ’round time to time. How you doing, hot stuff?” She winked and, without waiting for a reply, turned and carried on with the man like they were the only two people in the shop, “I understand, Mr. Abner. I know you’re busy. But you know it’s always my pleasure. Hit me up if there’s anything else I can getcha, kay?” She shot Dorothy a furtive glance over her shoulder as she strutted off, “Nice meeting you, hot stuff. Officially, that is.”
Dorothy watched in disbelief as Maggie resumed her usual position behind the barista bar. A young, hip artsy sort with tattoos on his neck, dressed in black ankle-biter hempjeans had been waiting for service. The boy wore an exasperated expression and drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter.
Maggie’s face resumed its usual snarl, “What the hell do you want, Rembrandt?” When the boy didn’t respond she barked, “Well? What’s it gonna be? You here for a cup of java? J-ball? E-joint? Blueberry muffin? Or you just gonna stand there lookin’ like a bitch with a stylus behind your ear?”
Dorothy turned back to Dax Abner, eyes wide, “How in the world did you get Maggie to smile? I’ve never seen her smile! Let alone bring someone a coffee personally. I’ve been coming here for four years!”
Dax Abner smiled graciously, “Well, to be fair, I do own The Pony. Margaret is a misunderstood figure. She is also, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the best ganja barista in the Metroplex.”
“You own The Rowdy Pony?” she asked doubtfully. “How come I’ve never seen you here before?”
He looked away slyly, “Ahh, Ms. Nichols. So many questions.”
“Well, excuse me if I’m slightly curious how you seem to know everything… about everyone.”
His smile was infectious, “Fair enough. Well, I haven’t actually been in the establishment during business hours in nearly two years.” He looked around as if seeing the place for the first time, “It’s quite a lively environ during the day, wouldn’t you say? It’s just beautiful the way the natural light comes through the windows. Of course, this dreadful rain…”
Dorothy shook her head. She extracted her cheap, disposable e-joint from her overalls to give her hands something to do.
She took a long, deep drag, “If this really is a job interview, apologies. But I’m not sure if I can get high enough at the moment.”
“Do whatever feels natural,” Dax Abner shrugged. “It is the weekend after all.”
She put the vaporjoint down and knitted her forehead, “Okay fine. So you own The Rowdy Pony. Now can you please tell me how you know all that stuff about my life?”
“Public records, plus the application of a few logical assumptions.”
She shook her head, “No way. My parents’ religious affiliation, or lack thereof, wouldn’t be in public records. I finished my last phytochemistry final yesterday morning at eleven. Marks don’t push for a week. So how would you possibly know that I’m graduating with a 3.87? Even if I probably am?” she quipped, not attempting to conceal her pride.
Dax Abner didn’t speak immediately. This made her even more curious. He reached to his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a tarnished, sterling silver cigarette box engraved on its face with an intricate Rhodesian tribal pattern. The back of the box was smooth and unembossed, save the words, Ready Aye Ready CO HMCS Iroquois. He flipped open the silver container with a brisk, metallic snap and withdrew a 100 length ma
tte black vaporjoint.
Dorothy’s eyes lit up, “Is that a Rodeo Drive 2075?”
Dax cocked his head at her knowingly, “Not surprising, you know your ganja. It most certainly is.”
“Those things are like a thousand digis a stick, right? Synthesized from the sativa garden on ISS 3?”
Dax chuckled as he took a drag off the vaporjoint, its fine, emerald tip glowing pleasantly.
“Ahh, humanity’s constant obsession with urban mythology never fails to amuse.” He exhaled the pure water vapor and the electronic diode faded back to a gray ashen color. “Believe it or not, they are not growing marijuana on any of the space stations, save the one orbiting Mars. You should thus clarify, to whomever you wish, that the liquid THC in this e-joint is exclusively synthesized from an International Space Station strain. The plants specifically are cultivated at Garden 1227 in New L.A. at the intersection of South Rodeo and Beverwil. Care for a hit?”
Dorothy smiled and shook her head, enjoying the man’s matter of fact manner. “No way,” she said with a smile, “I’m irie. Is this really a job interview? Sir?” she added as an afterthought, which made her again think awkwardly of having a big brother.
Dax took a second pull off the Rodeo e-joint and returned the case to his pocket, “First of all, Ms. Nichols, there’s a rare need to call me sir, unless that’s what you prefer. Secondly, the degree to which consciousness is altered by consuming marijuana is more a reflection of an individual’s psychological stability than anything else. For me, it’s a matter of social courtesy.”
She waited through the silence in anticipation, getting nervous again. Dorothy wished the man wasn’t so flawlessly handsome and well-dressed. She felt like a toad.
“Very well,” he said, holding her eyes with his own once more. “Getting down to brass tacks as it were. How would you like a full time position at Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd? Your primary task will be encoding synthetic plant genomes.”
She could not hide her hesitation, “Well, I don’t…”
He interrupted before she could think further, “This will be a two year contract with benefits. I will pay off 100% of your student loans and provide an annual starting salary of 750,000 digidollars, paid in advance, annually.”
Dorothy squinted and put her hand up, unable to ignore her natural pessimism, “Let me get this straight. You’re going to pay me 750,000 d-bucks? For an entry level gene splicing job? With pumpkins? You know my student loans are almost a mil?”
Dax Abner’s yellow gaze calmed her in a way no human’s eyes ever had.
She swayed on her stool at the silken sound of his voice saying, “That is correct.”
She shrugged, “Well, it all just sounds too good to…”
His eyes captivated, assuaging all her usual anxieties, holding her with his pupils as he spoke more softly, “Now is when you decide, Ms. Nichols. I won’t come around twice. I certainly do not accept outside applications. You’ll be practicing genetic botany in a state of the art laboratory. It is a one time offer, and the next thing you are going to say is yes or no. Do you want the job or not?”
Dorothy gave up and let herself drift into the tigery pools of his gaze, the warmth of his expression, the heat of his presence. There was something about him that made her acquiesce, when normally she would have been running for the door.
She said, “Yes, okay. Yes! But I still,” she shrugged with confusion, “I mean, I don’t know what to say…”
A quiet klaxon emanated from somewhere in his suit. He took a last, prim sip of coffee and stood abruptly, pushing the stool away smoothly with a polished heel.
Mr. Dax Abner extended his hand, “Sometimes silence is the best option, Dorothy. Do you mind if I call you Dorothy?”
She felt her cheeks flush uncontrollably, “No sir.”
“Very well then, consider yourself hired. Now, kindly forgive, but urgent matters await my attention. Today is Saturday. I will see you Monday. Eight am then?”
Dorothy made a conscious effort to contain her bewilderment, trying not to smile too ebulliently.
My mom is going to freak!
She finally let herself gush, “Yes, I mean, absolutely, I get that. Thank you! Where am I going exactly and what do…”
His raised hand was accompanied by that ever congenial smile, “The answers to all of your questions were transmitted to your combud at the beginning of our conversation. It has been more than my pleasure.”
With that he nodded, flipped the fedora back onto his head with precision and carried his empty coffee cup, saucer and still-folded napkin to Maggie at the bar.
Maggie turned to greet him, expectantly, with the same genuine smile as before lighting up her nappy visage.
The expression made Maggie look almost like a cheerleader, “You know you don’t have to do that, Mr. Abner,” she said, taking the cup and saucer.
Dax Abner directed his gaze to a handwritten chalkboard hanging on the brick wall behind her, “The sign does say bus your own dishes. So until next time, Margaret, keep that sunshine coming,” he said with a wink, then turned and walked imperiously out the door, turning up the collar of his jacket to mind the rain, and vanished like a ghost into the sidewalk crowds.
She hoped her mouth wasn’t hanging too far open with disbelief as she watched him go. A few minutes earlier, Dorothy Nichols had been just another blonde betty sipping sullen j-balls at The Rowdy Pony. Now she felt like she was floating. Her combud chimed behind her inner ear. She pulled her holotab from her overalls. Indeed, the message LED was blinking steadily, AF Pumpkin & Gourd 1:06 pm.
Dorothy looked up at Maggie, a barista for whom she suddenly had a whole new appreciation. She hoped her expression of bewilderment might induce the short, curly haired woman to provide some hint of an explanation as to what had just happened.
Maggie simply shrugged, “Trust me, hot stuff, the fewer questions you got, the easier it goes. Best to float with it. And by the way, congratulations,” she winked. “You just met the boss.”
Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – April 6, 2076 8:08 am – Six Years Six Months Before Event.
“…feel as though I’m being tortured. We are going to need more power. A good deal more.
The dolphin is a rascal. I’ve augmented the wind turbine with a standard-ag solar array, but we still overdraw from the Federal grid. Solution; gravotemporal fusion reactor. The dolphin (who is now requesting to be addressed as Joan, after some antique heroine regarded by the French) is able to streamsync through the integrated barn antennae. She can blind, control, redirect any drone within two km. She is also able to insert mimicry data into a drone’s Govcloud interface. She draws down the solar batts in thirty minutes, however, so I can only have her bridged with the mainframe selectively.
Cyborgs are needed to escort the shipments of vodka. I have been going personally. I have only had to allure one Kansas State Trooper thus far. It was easy enough. Hugo and I left the kind gent sleeping beside his patrol hovcar on the side of the Interstate.
Goran is only able to cook up enough product to fill the trunk of a Lincoln anyhow. One trunk full of liquor a week. I have decided on pumpkins, gourds. The fields this spring are now occupied by a pair of labor bots doing the planting. It all appears very normal.
The janebev and coffee shop is purchased, running. It is generating a few digidollars. The Rowdy Pony, it is called. The collegiate crowd seems to like that. Impassable, tactile holographic camouflage protects interior and exterior stairs to the speakeasy beneath.
The speakeasy I have dubbed The Green Lady Lounge. More digidollars are made by the speakeasy from a hovcar trunk full of vodka in a single weekend than I shall make selling pumpkins and coffee for the year!
Goran has constructed the most elegant of permanent stills, towering brass fractionating columns with power hungry electric boilers, soon onstream. Did I mention cyborgs? I am exhausted. Too little sleep these past two months. Cyborgs shall win the da
y. Being fusion powered themselves, they function as infinite range extenders for the intrastream. Once I have fusion in the barn, that is.
The Israeli is bringing me five DOGS units tomorrow. Four new CIV units and a refurbished MIL model that saw action in the Venezuelan War. The dolphin assures me she can control them. Fusion is the key! After tomorrow, there will be no… UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA… LOSS. LOSS. LOS”
Chapter 1.9 – Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd
January 2080 – Two Years Nine Months Before Event.
The facility’s main control room was called the aquarium. It was a geometrically perfect 37 x 37 meter square chamber located underneath the barn. The ceiling was six meters high, and the cement foundation walls were covered with a layer of self-healing, weapons grade rubcrete capable of absorbing the kinetic blast energy of a handheld particle cannon. The space contained a single egress, a meter in width, situated in the east wall. To exit, a person had to turn left and walk down a narrow corridor to an armored blast door that rolled on a mechanical track.
Shortly before 5 am, Dorothy found herself seated alone before aquarium control on the far end of the room opposite the Exit. The glass-surfaced desk was projecting a low-res display of surface terrain, with all seven of her field units represented by simple, infrared line forms. Six daisy-chained, 110 cm holoscreens were mounted on the wall facing, and to her left hung the aquarium’s only piece of art.
The image was a reproduction of The Ballad of the Jealous Lover of Lone Green Valley, a painting by the 20th century American painter Thomas Hart Benton. A directional, LED spotlight shone on the painting, causing its primary colors to jump off the canvas in sharp contrast to the blackish-gray rubcrete of the background.
Between holodesk control and the Exit stood a curving alkali-aluminosilicate wall whose contents occupied 80% of the room’s usable space. The 200,000 liter saltwater aquarium glowed an emerald hue and was filled with shimmering, violet coral formations complete with a lavastone cavern system and a white sand floor. Strands of sea kelp grew up from the sand towards the aquarium’s SimulSun© hydrosky and swayed blissfully in the artificial microcurrents circulating the water.
Dawn of the Courtezan: Phase 01 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 12
