by Reapers
“Them are some fahn kicks, Miz Elly May … ” I wink.
“I ordered some heels,” she says, “but the drone was late. You’d think that an order could get here within an hour; it’s almost the twenty-second century!”
“Bastards.”
“Well, are you going to make me stand in the hallway forever? Also, when did you become the big Fashion Sheriff of the House, anyway? You’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days!”
I shrug. “I changed my Underoos – that’s all that counts, really.”
“If you say so.”
“Any word from the others?” I ask as she steps into my room. The door clicks shut behind her.
“Doc finished modding your Reaper Hack and the venom hose gun that Dirty Dave made you.”
“The Golden Goosinator just got an upgrade. That’s gonna really piss some Reapers off.”
“Isn’t that the point?” she asks, sitting onto the bed.
“Um … so we ordering in or are we going out?”
Frances glances to the window; it’s closed, but the blinds are open onto the streets below. Nothing special to look at – Doc didn’t choose the hotel for the view. “Let’s just eat here.”
“I’m not good at all this,” I say, pointing at my eyes. “Using iNet, etcetera, you get the picture. Order whatever you’d like and bill me, or the Dream Team, or however that works.”
“I already did,” she says.
“Well you just made that a lot easier.”
“You can thank me later.”
I sit down next to her and she relaxes her head onto my shoulder.
“You’re a pretty lady, you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
She’s very obviously spent some time on her appearance, and just for me. She usually doesn’t wear cosmetics; the little bit she has on tonight is well and tastefully applied. She’s even gone so far as to shape her eyebrows, and she’s done something with her hair.
Me? What a frickin’ schlub! I haven’t even showered yet. Note to self: shave, shower and wear clean clothes next time.
“Well, what did you order?”
“Chocolate fondue.”
~*~
Express Fondue 4 U has delivered artisanal, high-butterfat, hand-blended dipping chocolate, held to the perfect serving temperature, and an exquisite selection of fair-trade, ethically-sourced, sustainably produced, low carbon footprint dippable dainties and three containers of icy-cold 2056 Piesporter Goldtröpfchen Riesling Auslese desert wine, at least according to the label on the cans.
Chicks apparently dig this sort of thing.
I’ll admit that I don’t hate it.
Frances and I are sitting in two not quite shabby chairs in front of the window sipping a surprisingly tasty wine and exceeding our daily sugar allowance.
I’m drawn to the floor show directly across the parking lot – there’s a Denver Corral Buffet whose strobing, neon animated 3-D sign proudly proclaims NOW FEATURING ALL-YOU-CAN-SWILL TROUGH BUFFET – ONLY $34.99! Those whom I can only presume to be fat-shaming victims waddle their super-sized selves into the joint and serve to remind me how easy it must be to juke an FDA Monitor.
“Doc and I should probably check that out,” I say.
“Eewww … ”
“How can that be any different than what we’re doing right now?” I observe the interplay of lips, tongue, and teeth as she delicately consumes a chocolate coated marshmallow dusted with chopped macadamias. “Different medium, sure, but same difference.”
“At least this is more romantic,” she says.
“I thought I was supposed to make the evening romantic.”
“Well, you still have time.”
“Shall I do my impression of the mating dance of the Greater Bird of Paradise?”
She snickers.
“Ah, you laugh, but the lady Greater Birds of Paradise think I’m hot stuff!”
“More wine?”
“Please,” I say. “This stuff is good.”
“It’s a Riesling Auslese,” she says as she fills a disposable wine glass that came with the fondue set.
“A Really Ouch Laser?”
She snickers more. “Yes. It’s Thulean for sweet white wine.”
Those damn Thuleans are getting in everywhere. I watch her pour, and find myself entranced by the elegant mechanics of her movements. I imagine that the subtleties and nuances of the tea ceremony are very much similar. The Ouch Laser or whatever it’s called, only lightens the mood and gently escorts us into the brightly lit anteroom of intoxication, which I must say is the tits.
“What are you thinking about?” Frances asks.
“Japanese tea ceremonies.”
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“No really, I was. I was just thinking about that and how sexy you are and how you’d be perfect at one of these ceremonies, and how much I missed being alone with you. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve checked you out in Doc’s RV or shot a quick glance up your skirt in Tritania. Yeah, I’m not supposed to do that, but I can’t resist.”
“Then what we are waiting for?” she asks, uncrossing her legs in the classic Sharon Stone maneuver – 1980s Sharon Stone, not 2040 Sharon Stone. “Hotel, play R&B.”
Music starts up, a simple beat with a single keyboard line and heavy emphasis on the bass. Some vocoded singing kicks in and I give her a funny look.
“You’ve heard this song?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I say as she sits down onto my lap with her back to me. She looks at me over her shoulder, starts moving back and forth.
“Damn, Frances!”
“It’s called Pretzel Booty,” she says softly. “By a musician named Dick Pound featuring Poopski, Barking Rat, Rusty T and I think it was either Backdoor Trumpet or S. Berry Shortcake. It might have been Dirty Sanchez, but I think he may have just sung on the chorus.”
“That’s a terrible name for a song. No comment on how it took a team of people to write this drivel.”
“Think of the shape of the top of a pretzel.” She traces an outline in the air.
“Okay, okay, I get it, but it’s still a terrible choon,” I tell her as a place my hands on her hips. “And by the way, I wasn’t born yesterday you know.”
“I know; you were born in 2020,” she says, or purrs, or I really can’t tell at the moment because things are going to work down south and the unlistenable song has become not so unlistenable now that she’s matched the groove of the overly manufactured urban pop music.
“We doing this right here?”
She hikes up her dress. “We are.”
Chapter Fourteen
Let it suffice to say that despite a willing spirit, the flesh finally had enough at about 3:14 in the AM. Sunlight like the Celestial Flashlight of Doom finally gets the angle to shine right in my eyes and jolt me back from dreamy-bye land.
I moan as I roll to my side, acknowledging that familiar pain.
Frances stirs, pulls the damp and discolored hotel blanket closer to her. My blurry eyes focus on a series of ground-in chocolate smears on the carpet, the sheets, and the Big F.E.’s hair. Yeah, we got creative, and we’re probably going to have to leave a tip grande for the housekeeping staff. Still, it was worth it.
I blink the old peepers shut for a moment only to see a message from Doc.
Doc: I told you to join me at 0600 for breakfast.
Me: Shit, Doc, I didn’t go to bed until after three.
Doc: What’s your point? You want your waffles or not? The free breakfast ends at 0830.
I catch the time in the corner of my iNet screen. Three past eight – better get a move on.
Me: Have Arnie get me a fat stack if you will. I’ll be down shortly.
Doc: Alone?
Me: Of course I’m coming alone. Who else would I be coming with?
Doc: Yeah, I’m a non-observant dumbass and have no way of knowing that Ms. Euphoria spent the night in your room.
&nb
sp; Me: Well hell, Doc, can’t blame me now, can you?
Doc: Not a matter of blame.
Me: And can you keep a secret?
Doc: Can I keep a secret? Sure I can. Will I keep this a secret? Like you think it’s a secret? Sure, I won’t bring it up first, if that does you any good.
Me: So we’re good then?
Doc: Don’t know about you, but I’m good, and you need to get down here pronto because I’ve been waiting for you for two hours. Plus, there are waffles to be had and I don’t want to eat alone.
Me: Did you eat already?
Doc: What are you, my new FDA Monitor? Just hurry!
I’m in my pants and yesterday’s shirt a minute or so later. Frances told me last night that she was going to deliver some more clothes to us, but the drone hasn’t come yet and I’m good – one sniff at the old pits tells me I still have a day or so left in these duds.
“Can’t forget you, buddy,” I say, going for my cane. I start to pull the blade out to admire it, but stop – Doc is waiting and my stomach is rumbling. I almost check the time again, wondering why Morning Assassin hasn’t come through the window yet. “Different world, bub,” I whisper to myself as I make my way into the hall. The keycard in my pocket, I bangtail it to the elevator. Sure, this place is only four floors, but I ain’t in the mood for stairs.
The elevator door opens and a high-pitched voice reminds me to watch my step. Licking my chops, I stumble into the dining area to find our CWO sitting with a positively mahoosive stack of waffles in front of him alongside two not-so-small bottles of genuine maple syrup.
“I carry my own,” Doc says instead of good morning.
“Damn, this is the real deal.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Von Richtofen the B-Drone hovers just over his shoulder, taking me in. I’d fling a waffle at it if I thought it wouldn’t zap me. No telling with Doc.
I don’t hear Arnie as he comes up behind me, and I jump just a little bit when he speaks. “Now you just park it right thar, Quantum, I’ll bring ya’ll over some aigs, bacon, hash browns, waffles and coffee. Cream and sugar?”
“Black,” I tell him. My eyes narrow on Doc. “You’ll keep what you know under wraps, won’t you?”
He frowns and makes the bi-labial fricative. “Pffft! No – me and Arnie are gonna use your shameful secret to blackmail you out of the Hughes family billions. What – you think everybody else don’t already know? Yeah, we’ll keep quiet for all the good that’ll do ya.”
“So today is the day,” I say.
“It sure is. You’ll be doing DT work in the PG; I’ll be doing DT work in the RW.”
“Meet in the middle?”
“Like Malcolm?” He chuckles, cuts into his waffle and hesitates. Doc reaches for his maple syrup and adds a bit more. “Got to maintain the correct syrup-to-waffle ratio.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“You’ll finish before we finish,” he explains. “You can meet us afterwards at our rendezvous point. I wrote the coordinates on a note; just give that to the driver. I’d rather not send it over iNet.”
He fishes in his pocket for a piece of paper and slides it across the table.
“I really wish these things weren’t happening at the same time,” I tell him. “I’d like to help.”
“How?”
Arnie sets a heaping plate of breakfast goodness in front of me as well as a cup of coffee. I go for the coffee first, throw back the black, lukewarm mud.
“I could help,” I tell him, but we both know I’m lying.
“The real world is something else entirely,” he reminds me, “you may be good in the PG, but out here is different. It ain’t going to be easy to extract the kid. Rocket did his drone duty as of one hour ago and Strata’s system has already placed a call to the repair drone, which installed the bug at 0700 hours. Hence the reason I’m hurrying here, I am expecting Strata to call in a technician over the next two hours.”
“Are you sure he’ll do it?”
“I’m sure; remember, I’ve been monitoring his electric usage. He pays the most of anyone in the co-op. His peak hours are in the morning and the evening – I’m guessing he does Revenue Corporation stuff during the afternoon. He’ll call. If not, we’ll place a call to him over iNet from the co-op telling him they’re sending someone out. It’ll work.”
“You’re pretty confident, Doc,” I say as I use a piece of bacon to mop up some yolk.
“I’m a realist, and reality says that he’ll get his system fixed pronto. That’s not all … ” He smiles, waits for me to finish chewing my bacon.
“What’s up, Doc?”
“I have something for you to use in the solo tournament that you’ll be part of today. A little gift, if you will. It remains to be seen if the Knights will make it through the preliminary round, but I think you’ll be fine, especially with Sophia on your team.”
He places his fork down, watches someone enter the room.
“Who is it?” I ask, turning my head.
Agent Smith slides over to the coffee station – okay, maybe he’s not really Agent Smith, but he isn’t far off. I point to my eyes, make a small X with my fingers. He’s apparently vision impaired, as he uses a white cane to navigate across the buffet area.
“Maybe you’re right,” Doc says, his hands under the table now. “But I ain’t taking any chances with Matt Murdock over there.”
“You packing?” I ask.
He gives me the there is too such a thing as a stupid question look.
“Relax, Doc,” I tell him.
Arnie moves to unobtrusively position himself between Doc and the newcomer, but out of Doc’s potential line of fire. The Red Baron comes out of its holding pattern and gains altitude.
“He’ll keep an eye on him,” Doc says, relaxing a little. “Anyway, I have something for you.”
“Lay it on me.”
“I have a life vest.”
“Ah shucks, my water aerobics class doesn’t start until next week.”
He ignores my quip. “I’ve already had Rocket transfer it to your list.”
“What’s it do?”
Not Agent Smith sits on the other side of the room; Arnie takes a position near him and pretend-eats with a cup of coffee and bowl of grits. He’s very convincing. Red Baron parks itself near the ceiling. I suspect that it may be more than just a surveillance drone.
“The life vest gives you life,” Doc says.
“You writing ad copy now or something? I figured that much.”
“The life vest will keep your life bar full no matter how many times you use an illegal firearm. Not in the team rounds though, only in the solo round.”
“Will it make me invincible?”
“No,” he says, “it only replenishes health that has been taken through the illegal weapons penalty. You can still lose and I’ve already checked with the tournament officials, it’s legal, or at the very least, it isn’t illegal.”
“That’s close enough to legal to me.”
“Me too.” He tosses a fork full of waffle back, chews slowly.
“You all right?”
He points at his life chip; I get the hint and shut my eyes to see a message.
Doc: That guy has my Spidey sense tingling.
Me: It happens. I spent years like this in The Loop. I know exactly what you’re talking about.
Doc: There are those who wish me ill, and who would not hesitate to give substance to their wish. I don’t leave the house without a boomstick or two, the odd Ginsu knife, various blunt trauma inducers, and even one or two less-lethal doo-hickeys. Oh, and maple syrup. One can never be too prepared.
Me: Good to know, just don’t shoot me in the foot while your hands are down there. I already have a cane, would hate to add a cast to that.
Doc: If I shoot you, it ain’t gonna be in the foot, and a cast would be the very least of your worries.
~*~
“Doc gave me a li
fe vest,” I tell Frances as I enter the room. “Also, he’s on to us.”
She’s still in the bed, the blanket revealing the various curves and convexities of her form. She winces, runs her hand over her eyes, touches the chocolate in her hair and grimaces.
“You feeling the wine?”
“A little.” Frances tosses the blanket off and scoots over to the side of the bed. She reaches down for her purse, rummages through it until she finds a ChapStick-sized device which I recognize from our last romp – A Plan B STD prevention injector.
“Damn, Francis, you make me feel like I’m Typhoid Larry or something every time you use that.”
“It’s not for STDs,” she tells me as she presses the injector into her thigh, “it’s the Plan B part. We don’t want a little Quantum running around, do we?”
“His name wouldn’t be Quantum,” I tell her.
“What would it be then?” she asks.
“I don’t know, Lucky Accident Hughes? The State’s Problem Hughes?”
“You’re terrible.”
“Orphan Hughes? Johnny Two Dogs Hughes?”
She play-slaps me. “That’s even worse!”
“Not as bad as Adolf Bin Laden Hughes.”
I sit on the bed next to her, pull her in tight. “We don’t have time,” she says, but I can tell by the tone of her voice that she means we do have time.
A knock at the door sends me to my feet again. “Damn,” I grumble as I make my way over. I am never going to be able to just walk up to a door ever again, it seems. I grab my cane first and take a gander through the peephole, and it’s the second-to-last person in the world I want to see right now.
“Quantum,” Sophia hammers louder this time. “I know you’re in there.”
“Damn, Sophia, I just woke up!” I motion for Frances to hide. She pulls the blanket over her head.
“Better than that!” I hiss.
Sophia beats the door again.
“What are you a copper or somethin’? Give me a second to put some pants on!”
I watch as Frances gathers her clothing and slides into the space between the bed and the wall, completely covering herself with the blanket and a few stray pillows. After a deep breath I unlatch the door, but don’t let Sophia in.
