Avalon

by Rusty Coats

  As I watched them, fear came down like a fist. The nightmare of stumbling across my parents -- their pixels frozen to digital ice, like all the programmers we found when the disease boiled across Campus -- rattled in my head every time I saw a portrait of Avalon or an old scuba suit, the fear as raw as torn skin. In the Mission, the past surrounded me, and I thought I'd licked it, made myself immune. But now I was shaking, because we were strolling through a graveyard where the bodies rose up.

  Monk came here all the time, looking for pieces of the past. He wanted to dig it all up and bottle it and save it until the tide came back in and washed all this garbage away. Not me. I'd seen enough ghosts to last me.

  After what felt like two kilometers, Monk stopped and reached down into the swirling eddy of soil, stirred it and pulled up a wad of grit. It clung to him like cotton candy. Then he flicked his hand and the taffy flew into the sandstorm, struck a particle cluster and burst into color confetti.

  In the middle of the fog, a nude Apollo stood over a kneeling redhead, who pleasured him with professional affection.

  "Much better," Monk said, watching the man grind into the woman's mouth. "Out on the edge, near town, Merlin's already broken things down into visual bits and random tactile sensations. Dip your hand in the Flux and all you get is scraps. But this," his mannequin hand gestured at the moaning duo, "is what you call a full-body memory. We got the visual and audio, and tactile looks pretty good, judgin' from that fella's face."

  The image began to drift. The man and his mate slowed, hitched like bad film. Then it coughed, froze and disintegrated.

  Monk nodded at a spot to his left. "Start there."

  Prospecting meant scooping binary sand. Sometimes the threads ran together, maintaining continuity; most times, yesterday was buried next to last year. So we dug into the grit, tossing handfuls into the blizzard and watching what popped up.

  My first catch was a slasher from Harod's, wearing a leather hood and swinging a bloodied mace. He took three swings at nothing and flaked out. The second was a table dancer in a black French Maid's costume, feather-dusting herself to a synthesized brass band until her body became transparent, then brittle, then gone.

  Rita appeared in the subscreen to watch what we pulled from Merlin's grab bag. She gave snips of advice: "Try left," or "Dig deeper." The advice didn't point me any closer to treasure, but her voice took the edge off my nerves.

  After twenty minutes, I stopped, letting the bodies of six orgiastic children liquefy like cheap wax. I waded over to Monk, who was digging purposefully. I tapped his shoulder and felt a clammy solidness to his skin.

  Monk's featureless face stared at static. "No luck?"

  I shook my head. "Well, look here," he said, then plunged his arms into the soil. He came up with a cable of red light, pulsing in his hand. The cable disappeared into the soil, ran deep, and I knew instantly what it was for.

  "It took me a few years to write the code so Merlin wouldn't disintegrate my trap lines, but I finally got it." Clumps of memory clung to the cable and dripped images -- a man dancing the Charleston at The Palms, a woman primping at the Hall of Labor -- as he reeled it in. "He leaves this one alone. It's like gravel to a chicken."

  He pulled and the silt bubbled, then burped a block of data.

  "All this stuff is in a cycle, swirlin' toward Merlin's digestive tract. If ya place a trap in the right spot, sooner or later, most stuff filters through it."

  "How many of these things to you have?"

  He stared up at me and let the question hang. Monk fished in a graveyard where his traps caught the past. Scenes of Construction and Opening Day, of my parents stocking the Library with the topographical maps of Peru's Naska lines -- all buried where he could find them, where he could haunt the past.

  Monk yanked the cord and the package slid to our feet. He unwrapped and whispered a command, triggering a subprogram.

  The boulder burst and noises escaped -- screams, a burlesque catcall and a dozen groans -- then light and color. As the light became bright enough to make me squint, the rock's brittle skin disintegrated and a rush of images flooded out like genies.

  The subprogram kicked in and assorted the data pouring out. The largest block of blue light went to the bottom, and two smaller ones went on top, stacked.

  Monk walked closer to the packages. "The big one is what I wanted ya to see. The small ones are new." He shrugged. "If they ain't keepers, we'll toss 'em back."

  He mumbled to his datapack. With a searing flash, the largest block opened and carved a room out of the Flux.

  It was as if the Flux had opened a curtain to the reality next door -- a clear channel through the datastorm. And we saw it: Obsidian floor, black-leather furniture and a maple desk, crowned by a bird cage and an African parakeet, cursing, "Damn it."

  I stepped closer. In my visor I saw Rita lean in, her mouth a perfect O.

  Monk followed as I walked into the mirage of Van Meter's virtual office. I left the Flux behind me, stepping into the box, its fourth wall missing, and stared back at Monk as he trudged in. The floor was like glass. The image stuttered once, then refreshed.

  "Not bad," I said. "All one moment or assembled?"

  "All one." Monk stepped over to the window and stared down at Jenny's penthouse view. "Recorded direct. I got it before Merlin broke it apart. Older stuff from Construction, I've pieced together from scraps. This is the real deal."

  The image stuttered again, plunging us into the storm. When the room returned, Monk and I weren't alone.

  Van Meter stood beside Monk, staring out at the city, hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders betraying a hint of fantasy -- Jenny's virtual body had twenty pounds of muscle on his real one. Van Meter looked like Caesar regarding Rome.

  "I had no idea you could pull whole moments," I said. "I thought it was bits of code and leftover snapshots."

  Van Meter paced his office, walking through our dun-gray bodies. "Oh bury me!" the parakeet sang, a screech in search of a melody. "Bury me ass in Marigolde!"

  I reached for the bird cage and felt my hands rebuffed, as if my hands and the cage were similar poles of a magnet.

  "The subprogram is read-only," Monk called. "Ya can't change anything, can't even touch it. Ya just gotta watch."

  Just then Van Meter turned and stared into the missing fourth wall, where the Flux shuddered outside the mirage. Another shape emerged, walking toward us.

  "It's about time." Van Meter's online voice was less nasal than the one God gave him. "You're four hours late."

  I turned, eager to see who was powerful enough in any reality to keep Jenner Van Meter waiting four hours. Each step brought the body into focus -- first bodily shape, then clothing, then facial features. As the hair wove into place, its auburn bristles were all too familiar.

  The guest was Van Meter.

  "Nice to see you," the guest said. He winked. "You're looking fabulous."

  "Which is which?" Rita's voice squeaked over static.

  Monk shrugged. "Dunno. I was more hopin' one of you could tell me why I've got a memory with two Van Meters in it." He made a snorting noise. "One's bad enough."

  I stared at the clone, flawlessly similar, down to the pleats in his Stygian suit and the scrollwork of his Lauder shoes. Van Meter was a stickler for continuity between realities, so his virtual self -- muscles aside -- were programmed to be his twin. Two twins, now.

  "Save it," the first Van Meter snarled. "Tell me what's happening."

  The duplicate walked to the bird cage, less than a meter from me, and stuck his finger in. The bird was programmed to nip his finger, but when it tried, the guest flicked the fowl's beak, one second ahead of the bird.

  So he knew the bird. Knew the office.

  "See?" Monk said. "Hard to tell which one's fake.”

  "They can't both be Van Meter," Rita chirped from the subscreen. "Real-time duplication creates a paradox Merlin won't allow."

  "I'm here to tell you the deal's off," the
guest said into the bird cage. The parakeet kicked its feet in the air, squawking, "Bastard." The guest faced his host. "No contract. No extension. No exceptions."

  The first Van Meter slammed his fist on the maple desk. "We had a deal."

  "I know. And it has worked out quite well. I've given you access to the clubs of your rivals. The meltdown at Midnight Exotica last night tells me my bombs have been put to profitable use. You've no doubt absorbed the membership there."

  "Yes. And I thank you for that. But it doesn't have to end now. The stakes are so pathetic here. I thought --"

  "You thought the deal transcended me. It does not. If the stakes are too low, I'm sorry. They’re all you'll get."

  "But the partnership!"

  The guest shook his head. "Not partnership. A transaction. The keys and bombs I've provided will give you leverage for another year. Beyond that. I have no control."

  I turned to Monk and said, "Next year?"

  He shrugged. The first Van Meter walked to the window, staring down at the skyscrapers pulsing under a turquoise sky. "Maybe I could speak with them directly."

  Van Meter's guest had keyed his gravity very low. He flew across the office and grabbed Jenny's throat. "If you spoke to them directly of this, they'd kill us both. Never forget that."

  The strangled Van Meter grinned. "You forget who I am."

  "No," the second said, almost sadly. "You mistake who you once were for who you are now. Who you will be is even less impressive."

  Rita made a noise of genuine shock. No one had ever talked to Van Meter like that before. Not even himself.

  The two Van Meters stood face-to-face. "I could tell them anonymously."

  The guest shrugged. "Then our pact will die with me. You can't force my hand. The fact that I am an opportunist does not negate my loyalties."

  The first Van Meter roared: "Listen, bastard, I don't care about loyalties. We had a deal. The bombs hit, I move in, we position ourselves for ownership and then next year we lower the real boom. All of us. You, me and the --"

  Suddenly the room surged around me. The turmoil shutter-clicked the two Van Meters, jerking them forward, then back, as if the memory track had hit an oil spot.

  "What the --"

  Monk's memory package skipped a beat. We stood still while the room warped out, the noises like fast-forward gibberish and the walls turned to rubber. When the room returned, the scene had changed.

  One of the Van Meters was gone. The remaining one stood at the window, hands pressed against the glass.

  I turned to Monk. "Wait. Go back."

  He shook his head. "That's where it breaks. I've headhunted that piece since yesterday. No luck."

  "But I still don't know which Van Meter --"

  "I know you're still in the room," he said. "My sensors show nothing, of course. But I know you're here."

  He stared through me and that’s when I put it together. I turned to Monk, smiling. Wishing he could see me smile. "It's the kid," I said. "Not two Van Meters. It’s McFee."

  "No," Rita said, shaking her head. "Somebody wiped McFee from Merlin's memory, remember? It was like bio-warfare. The virus was tailored to McFee and killed everything with his online DNA. If he masked as Van Meter, it would have found him."

  "Wrong," I said. "They forgot McFee wrote encryption, and gauze writers fly --"

  "Like silent thunder."

  It was Monk. Behind him, Van Meter's countenance had frozen, the end of the memory file, the last frame.

  "Identity means nothing when you're talking about a privacy hack," he told Rita. "I remember the stunts Jack pulled, stealin' my body to go flying in his newest cloak. McFee woulda done the same."

  Rita's hand clapped against the panel. "So whoever tried to wipe him out only wiped out one identity.”

  "His identity," Monk said. "The one he used the least."

  I crossed the room to the frozen memory of Van Meter. "Insider deals and sabotage," I told the statue. "Christ, Jenny. You haven't changed a bit."

  McFee not only wrote good gauze, he'd also written a boll-weevil to get Jenny into his rivals' clubs, then wrote a bomb to destroy his competition, forcing clients into other clubs. If Orphan Andy's flamed out -- as it had -- its clients would run to Arabian Knights to scratch their itch. Which they had. And that made Jenny even richer.

  Jenny owned stock in a boy-terrorist and wanted to go in a full partnership with the boy's leaders, whoever they were. But the boy had refused, then went underground.

  Van Meter hadn't hired me to find a ghost who was ripping him off. He'd hired me to find a welshing partner.

  I turned to Monk. "What are the other two packages?"

  He shrugged. "Let's take a look."

  His datapack's program wadded Van Meter's office into a ball, folding the walls until it became a blue block again. Then the program unwrapped the smallest package.

  The file lasted six seconds. Not enough for clues, but enough for blackmail. In the middle of the Flux, Magdi's supple body appeared, her dark skin glistening as a nude, auburn-haired Digerati boss plunged into her. The scenery suggested Van Meter's office, though the room itself was missing. Monk's trap only caught Magdi, Jenny and a swatch of black leather sofa fabric. Then it winked out.

  "I thought Van Meter didn't screw his employees," Rita said.

  "Everybody screws their employees," I said, but Rita was right. Jenny was an eligible bachelor and a playboy, but mostly he was a Digerati boss. For Jenny, diddling one of his hookers would be like mating out of species.

  "Here," Monk said. "Here's the last one."

  Van Meter again, in his online office, hands clasped behind his back, talking to the telepresence screen. I couldn't make out the face on the screen -- the angle made the wall as thin as a silicon wafer -- so I moved in for a better look. The trap had captured much less of the office; just Jenny, the western wall and the screen, plus a corner of a couch. The view looked like a ripped photograph.

  "You're compromising our position," the man on the screen said. His voice was scratchy, imperfect. Not an Avalon voice. A real voice. This file was of Jenny in his virtual office, holding court with someone off-line.

  Van Meter disagreed. "I'm enhancing our position."

  "You're running an unnecessary personal risk," the voice answered. "And thereby risking our objectives."

  The image began to unravel, the colors floating off like sparks from a campfire.

  "Nonsense," Van Meter began speaking again, but the Flux had chewed away the content; it came out garbled as his face freeze-framed through his final words: "Within a week, the bombs will unravel all they've built. Avalon is nearly ours."

  Then the image disintegrated, perforated by the acid of Merlin's memory bath.

  "Play it back," I said, stepping behind the spot where Van Meter had stood. "Freeze it when I say."

  Monk did it. Van Meter reappeared. The screen came up, showing a stark background and, sitting in front of it, a middle-aged doctor with a silver ponytail.

  "Freeze it."

  Rita's voice was incredulous. "Doc Cassady?"

  I glanced at Monk, then down to Rita's face in the subscreen. "I want this saved to disc,” I said. “And then I want you find me a pipe to Club Trocadero."

  Rita slotted a shiny ROM into the panel and spoke, but I didn't hear her, my audio coils echoing Van Meter’s words.

  Nearly ours.

  A

  VALON XVII: Fired

  Rita got the call after we came out of the Leap. Ferret and the boys had gone back to Tommy's Place to boost suit solenoids and we were eating old Army rations Monk had found in Haggletown when Rita's cheaters bleated in her blouse. She slipped them on and keyed the Receive toggle.

  It was Levy, she said. A recorded beacon signal he sent to his employees so they'd know where he was in case of emergency. That struck me as funny, since Levy had already suffered his biggest emergency: His most profitable club in Avalon had burned to the ground. Unless he got the property back
in action, his employees -- Rita included -- were two steps and a handshake away from the skids.

  Rita viewed the message and replayed it twice, her face tightening like a lemon rind. Then she pulled off the cheaters, scowled and twirled the specs around her finger.

  "Baxter's going to Club Troc tonight. Van Meter invited him personally."

  Monk brushed the crumbs off his lap. "Well, Saturday's a big couples night at Club Troc, but I don't think Jenny called old Bax for a date." He turned to Rita, staring a hole in her. "What time's he plugging in?"

  "Eight. He said he'd be down at least three hours."

  I glanced at my Bulova; it was four p.m. If it had said it was midnight, I would have believed it. I'd left my sense of time on the apartment floor with Regan.

  "Well," Monk said, "if you're still loyal to the little putz, ya better call him."

  Nodding, Rita pulled the cheaters on and booted the transmission chip, the glasses riding low. She shoved the lenses up to her eyes and said, "Page Levy."

  "Mr. Levy, this is Rita from the Mission Substation. I'm fine, thanks. No, not too busy. But it'll pick up again, after we get some designers to clean up the mess and -" She shook her head. "That's not why I called. Listen. Mr. Levy? Tonight? Club Trocadero? You've got to cancel."

  We heard Levy's honk from the speakers in Rita's cheaters. His voice sounded like music played through a torn tweeter. Rita only shook her head.

  "I'm serious, Mr. Levy. Mr. Van Meter ... What?"

  That same razzy voice again. I glanced at Rita and saw Levy's tiny reflection in her pupils. He was taking the call in his personal pedicab, dressed to the nines, his glasses as thick as Jurassic amber.

  "They are, huh? All of them?" She made a scribbly signal with her hand and I handed her a piece of tailor chalk. She wrote on the rations box: Marrs, B-dikt also.

  "The whole gang," Monk said. "It's a bug hunt."