by Mark Budz
"Access code?" he said.
"Acquiring," the datician replied.
Van Dijk approached the facade panel. The clank of the descending forklift, combined with the relentless roar of the air and street traffic, made it impossible to hear anything behind the roll-up door. "Is there an on-site manager?"
"Not at present. HUMOP is available.. .but service requires at least a twenty-four-hour advance notice."
"What about surveillance?" For added security, most of the higher-end r-cologies installed broad-spectrum detectors in vacant slots. But for low-rent r-cologies, the added peace of mind wasn't worth the expense.
"Exterior monitoring only," the datician said.
What he'd expected. "Any chance of satellite IR?"
"Insufficient delta-T."
In other words, too much ambient heat to obtain a clear infrared image. There was no way to sneak a quick peek inside to see what he was dealing with.
"Access code acquired," the datician said.
"All right." Van Dijk loosened the HK minifuge in its holster, hoping the rumble of the forklift gears covered any noise he made. "Go ahead and transmit."
______
As the façade panel rolled up, van Dijk dropped into a crouch and went in low, the HK drawn.
Light flooded the steel-frame cavern, rushing onto the bare concrete pad like water across a beach, frothing around dark-rolled clumps of tangled bed ding, scattered shoes, T-shirts, and half-empty take out.
"Police!" Van Dijk shouted.
The bedding stirred, exposing Ghost Dragon-philmed faces, and bare-splayed arms, legs, and feet.
Somebody groaned. A hand lifted to shield slitted eyes. A nose emerged from the crook of an arm.
"Lisette?" van Dijk said. Force of habit swung the HK in the direction of the adjoining space.
One of the Ghost Dragons mumbled something.
Van Dijk turned, leading with the muzzle of the 9mm. "What?"
The person sat up. A sleeping bag fell from the bony shoulders of a kid, the same kid whose simage he'd seen in the stairwell.
"She ain't here," the boy repeated. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles as a few more bundles sat up, sloughing off blankets and sleep.
Van Dijk holstered the minifuge and made his way into the room. It stank of stale fajizza and unwashed bodies. Water dripped from a loose hose into a bucket. A couple of Vurtonic panels flickered on the structural foam walls of the next-door PHUs, d-splaying pale Chinamation in the midafternoon glare.
"So she was here," van Dijk said. "That what I'm hearing?"
"What you want with her?" another kid asked, propping a thick elbow underneath her.
Van Dijk kept his attention focused on the boy from the stairwell. "Where'd she go?" he said.
The girl next to the boy shrugged one ample shoulder.
"We don't know." The boy shook long tangles of hair from his eyes. "She didn't say."
"You gonna arrest us?" the girl said. "Or what?"
The boy stood up in his sleeping bag, letting it fall to the tempergel mat under his feet as he bent down to gather up a T-shirt. "She left last night," he said, pulling on the shirt. It was philmed with a vidIO clip from a Ghost Dragon episode.
"Why'd she leave?" van Dijk asked when the boy's head emerged from the shirt.
"I'm not sure. She was scared."
"Of what?"
The kid sat back down and crossed his legs. "She wouldn't say. Something she saw."
"Back in the apartment?"
"I think so." He picked at a toenail.
"Plus she had something with her," the girl said. "Some kind of ware telling her what to do."
"What'd it look like?"
"A dragonfly," the kid said.
"Yeah." The girl pushed up into a sitting position. "But a fish, too. A fish with wings."
33
Giles Atherton stepped from cloud-stippled sunlight into a oasis of liquid-cooled calm.
"Welcome back to the Fairmont, sir." The hotel datician snapped into deferential mode as it recognized him. "We are honored to have you."
Doubt assailed him. Perhaps he should have followed Uri's suggestion and used a false DiNA signature. He maintained several, for security purposes, when visiting Third-World resorts. Best if places like Lagos and Rio de Janeiro didn't realize he was in town. There was a certain safety in anonymity that could never be bought with money or power. But in this case, he had decided to act as if he had nothing to hide.
Plausible deniability. If Uri did anything stupid, Atherton wanted to be able to wash his hands of him. Nadice was a disgruntled hotel employee. It would be a simple matter to discredit her. The whole sordid affair could be written off as an unfortunate tryst. Guests invited "friends" up to their rooms all the time. The precise nature of these friends wasn't the hotel's concern.
Atherton paused in the lobby. Sections of the Greek Classical interior were philmed in old integrated-circuit designs. Microchip artwork accented the marble walls and support columns. In places, it appeared as if the solid-state circuitry had been acid-etched into the stone. Transistors and diodes gleamed under overhead LEDs that resembled silicon wafers. He fingered the nanoFX-textured philm on the balustrade that encircled the lounge, smooth black and gold filaments wired to small silver bumps.
Forgotten Braille, or a dead language, like the dull patina of Latin.
Was philm an update of the past, or merely a restatement of it? From time to time the question rose inside him, out of clammy depths, only to settle back again. He was pleased to see that the IBT outlet next to the nail salon had received a new delivery of ad masks and FEMbots. The remote-operated dolls stood naked in the display window, awaiting the new 'skin and philm. He had contracted with Model Behavior to jockey the dolls and masks in Atherton hotels around the world, casually screening the new IBT philm in lounges, bars, and restaurants. If guests saw the new ware in action, they would be more inclined to want it for themselves.
"Shall I prepare your suite?" the datician asked.
"No." Atherton removed his hand from the balustrade. "I'll be having lunch only." He brushed his fingertips together, wiping away the impression left by the capacitors and resistors.
"Your usual table?"
"Yes, but no simage." He planned to check on Lisbeth. It was just past midnight in Paris, the time she normally sat down with the Bible and a cup of herbal tea to help her get to sleep.
"As you wish, sir."
"I would also like to reserve a room for a business client." His mouth felt dry, the words desiccated husks.
"For what dates shall I book the room?"
"This evening. One night only."
"Would you like to put him or her in your private suite?" A hopeful note trickled over his earfeed.
"No. One of the other suites, if possible."
"All those are presently occupied." The datician projected discomfort, sensing a conflict.
"A regular room, then." He didn't want to make a fuss; the less attention he drew, the better. "The nicest available."
"Of course, sir." Relieved. "Who should I key the room to?"
Atherton mentally xferred the DiNA code Uri had given him. It was undoubtedly hacked. Uri wasn't stupid. That caution would afford him one more layer of protection.
"Would you like to see a menu?" the datician asked.
"That won't be necessary. I'll have the same thing I ordered last time."
He couldn't recall exactly what that was. Some kind of sashimi. It didn't matter. He had more important things to think about, but it was imperative to keep up pretenses. Appearance was everything.
"A bottle of Pellegrino, as well," he added. Something carbonated, to help settle his stomach.
"Very well, sir. I'll place your order immediately."
_______
The Pellegrino was waiting for him on the table when he arrived ten minutes later, following a visit to the men's room.
Fresh tap water still cooled on the back of his neck and
freshly combed hair. The circuit-board motif on the programmable walls had a pleasant Art Deco ambiance. Gold and black lines intersected to create simple yet tasteful Egyptian designs.
Feeling more relaxed, he opened the bottle and filled his glass. The mineral water tasted clean and therapeutic. His stomach calmed. By the time he finished the glass a waitress arrived with his lunch, artistically arranged on a ceramic dish.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" the waitress asked, grinding her way through the gears of courtesy.
"No," he said. "I don't wish to be disturbed."
The waitress nodded. She was philmed as Queen Nefertiti, one of the half dozen or so approved employee casts. Exquisite skin, finely chiseled cheeks and lips. Beautiful to look at, but unreadable underneath. They all were. Philm hid as much about a person as it revealed.
The waitress backed out, closing the etched-diamond doors that led to the main restaurant. Atherton pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to compose himself before the next order of business.
_______
"About time I heard from you." The rip artist's Hongtasan bobbed between slack lips, wagging at him like a finger. "People are gettin' antsy, knowmsayin?" Languorous jazz played in the background.
"It couldn't be helped," Atherton said. "There were... complications."
"No shit."
"Everything's being taken care of."
"I hope so. I can't afford any more delays. My reputation's at stake. I've made a lot of promises. Business commitments. I don't keep them, I'm not the only one that gets hulled."
The threat coiled in the air like the smoke from the cigarette, thick and insinuating.
"I understand." Atherton smoothed his Vuitton necktie. "Trust me, it will be worth your while."
Lagrante withdrew the cigarette, pinching it between long, delicate fingertips. He sucked on his upper teeth. "So we're good to go?"
"Yes."
"Awright." Lagrante winked, then his simage faded from Atherton's eyefeed.
Atherton took a fresh handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted at the sweat on his upper lip and forehead. There was no turning back now; it was done. He would still have to deal with IBT—Ilse in her lily-white, elbow-length gloves. But that would be more pleasant, familiar territory.
He replaced the handkerchief and checked the time. Lisbeth didn't usually retire for another hour. He wouldn't talk long enough to keep her up. A few minutes at most, to see how she was doing.
_______
His wife looked up from the Bible that lay open in her lap. It was the leather King James version he'd gotten for her 120th birthday. She sat in a high-backed chair, wrapped in her favorite shawl, which she'd philmed with details from Gustav Klimt's The Kiss. Acup of hibiscus tea steeped on the table next to her. The tea bag had left a red stain on the yellow, flower-shaped caddy. On the d-splay walls of the room, she was screening a Pastor Lud sermon. Prayers, mentally uploaded by the Right to Light faithful around the world, scrolled down the huge vidIO screens in the sanctuary.
Margaret. Beloved grandmother of seven. Alzheimer's has opened the door to the Devil. And, Pray for God to protect us against F8. Found my eleven-year-old son listening. Please help, before it's too late.
Atherton rephilmed the Vurtronic d-splays in the lunchroom with the Pastor Lud simage feed from her room, baptizing himself in the calming waters of the sermon.
"Giles?" Lisbeth said. Out of habit, she removed her horn-rimmed reading spex, switching to direct eyefeed. "Where are you?"
"The Fairmont."
"Doing what?" Her eyes, the soft golden amber of beeswax, radiated fatigue.
"The usual."
"That's what you always say." She sighed and shut the Bible, keeping her place with two bony fingers.
"How are you?" he asked. She seemed haunted.
"I haven't been able to sleep."
"Again?"
"I'm afraid so." She offered a wan shrug. "Any word on Apphia?"
"Not yet."
"It's hopeless, isn't it?" She sighed in resignation. "Don't lie, Giles."
"There's always hope."
"Do you really believe that?" She pulled her shawl tighter. "I'd like to. I'm not sure I do anymore." Her smile was hollow. Even her pink lipstick couldn't lighten the melancholy behind it.
"You're just tired," he said.
"It's more than that." Her fingers knotted where she clutched the shawl. "I see the news and the world doesn't seem to be getting any better."
"It will." Atherton labored to sound upbeat, to smooth the wrinkles of her despair. "Have faith. All our prayers will be answered. The world was good once, it will be good again."
34
Pelayo followed the two yamps from the Get Reel to Marini's candy, where they bought a bag of assorted coffeine drops. From the Serf's Up fast-food kiosk next door, he watched them suck on the raspberry, cherry, grenadine, and mint-flavored drops while they jawed at each other.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Atossa said over his earfeed.
Pelayo shrugged. "It's up to them," he said. "Their choice." If they didn't want to do it, he'd find someone else. It wasn't like he was forcing them. "I'm sure they can take care of themselves."
"Just so they know the risks," Atossa said.
The girls stood, preparing to leave. He sauntered over to their table. "You wanna score some cold hard?" he asked..
The yamps stared at him, then smacked their lips in unison. Pelayo caught a whiff of raspberry and rum.
"Blow me," the shorter of the two said when she'd finished swallowing. Then she turned away, giving him the shoulder.
Her friend ignored her. "How much?"
Pelayo held up a cache chip, projecting the amount onto the d-splay screens on the inside of their spex.
"You're shitting us," the short one said, turning back to confront him.
"Half now, half when you're done," Pelayo said. "Word."
"You a cop?"
"What do you think?" Nothing he said would convince them. They'd make their own read.
The tall one pursed her lips, sucking the pierce on the tip of her tongue. "What do you want us to do?"
_______
It didn't take long for the yamps to find a TV. There was one camped out on the sidewalk, at the corner Of Pacific and Walnut. He'd set up a hand-scrawled sign, SLAVATION IS NEAR, and seemed content to sit there humming to himself with his eyes closed.
Pelayo watched as the yamps approached the TV. His view was limited, restricted to the nanocams in the eyes of the ad mask the tall yamp was waring. The feed was jerky and the up-and-down, side-to-side movement left him feeling motion sick until Atossa got the image stabilization synched to his eyefeed. After that, his stomach settled, but not his nerves.
They were going to screw it up. For a while, it looked like they might take off on him. They had already paused at several clothing stores and jewelry kiosks to smob shop. It had taken Atossa a while to find a mask the yamp would ware, one that wouldn't make her look like a total Douglas, da ugliest person on the street. Finally, they'd settled on a mukudj white-face mask, which was occasionally rented out by Third World Threads and Gateways. The mask, worn by the Punu people, represented feminine beauty and spirituality. It had a rounded forehead, high-arched brows, almond eyes, and an elegantly thin face that tapered to a small chin under full, red lips.
"Hey," one of the yamps said. Pelayo couldn't tell which one. Vocalware made them sound alike, and the ad mask's audio wasn't all that great.
When the TV didn't respond, the taller yamp prodded him in the knee with a pink-sandaled foot. "Hello?"
The TV opened his eyes but said nothing.
"Aren't you supposed to be, like, talking to people?" the yamp asked. "Spreading the good word, or whatever."
"I was meditating."
"I guess."
"You should try it sometime," the TV said.
"We have a problem," the short yamp said. "We were thinking maybe you
could, like, help us."
The TV regarded them serenely. "What kind of problem?"
"Well"—the tall yamp squirmed—"it's kind of embarrassing."
"You're not fucking with me, are you?" the TV said, his tone placid but edged with savoir faire.
"No!" The short yamp clapped a hand over her mouth in mock horror. "Of course not!"
The tall one shook her head soberly. "We would never do that."
"Because a lot of people give me crap. That's all right. I can take it. It's all part of the vibe."
"It's just that we're, like, kind of desperate."
"Who isn't?"
"Yeah, well, we're not sure where to go. And we hear you might be able to help."
"With what?"
"Medical expenses."
"Our boyfriends don't know," the tall yamp said by way of explanation. "They'd, like, kill us if they did."
"You know?" the short girl said, inclining her head.
The TV nodded, gathered his feet under him, and stood. "I might be able to help." He looked directly at the ad mask. "But you have to ditch the adware."
"It's not an ad mask," the short yamp said. "I'm doing a simage cast to a friend of ours in Africa."
The tall yamp concurred with a nod. "She has the, uh, same exact problem we do."
The TV seemed to accept this. "All right. Let's go."
_______
An hour later they stood on West Cliff, facing a hotel conference center that overlooked the Boardwalk and the brown splinter of the Santa Cruz pier, embroiled in late-afternoon fog that had turned the sun mercurochrome pink.
"Here you go," the TV said.
"This is it?" one of the yamps asked around a cof-feine drop.
The yamp waring the mask tilted her head back at what seemed like a precarious angle to look at the building.
The conference center was a multitiered structure with several terraces shaded by palm trees. Architectural philm covered the modular frame, shrink-wrapping it in fuzzy white haze. The building resembled a solid, three-dimensional mass of static, or random noise, no different from the TV standing next to the yamp. In fact, as the TV took a step forward, he appeared to vanish into the static or be absorbed by it.
