Alvin Baylor Lives!_A 21st Century Pulp

by Maximilian Gray

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I’ll get to this Soweto Grill. Tonight I want a steak and I want it here.”

  Alvin looked the man in the eyes.

  The waiter stared back at him with disdain.

  “I think there must be a misunderstanding. We have a fixed menu. There are numerous offerings throughout the dining quarter if you wish to choose your courses.”

  “Right. I get that you want to serve me a series of small appetizers with funny names. I want a steak. A nice filet mignon. I hear that’s the best kind. Is that so?”

  “A serving of filet mignon may exceed your daily stipend, sir,” he said.

  “My stipend?”

  “Yes, you are one of the Alteris’s comps, are you not?”

  “One of?” said Alvin.

  “Yes, sir. Are you not a guest of Alteris Asteroid?”

  I thought this trip was secret.

  “I’m with Alteris, yes, but I have no stipend.”

  “Well, sir, past guests had similar expectations. I would advise you to manage your money wisely or you may find yourself unable to afford the return trip.”

  “Uh-huh. Fred, let’s just run up my bill and see if I have enough for the tip. I like it medium rare.”

  “Shall I bill the room?”

  “No, I’ll pay the table.”

  “Very good, sir.” Frederick’s eye darted around in his Opti-Comp, then he stood there waiting.

  “Ah, I get it,” said Alvin. He tapped on the table and brought up the bill. It was over four thousand in U.S. coin.

  “You tell no lies, Fred. Let’s say I give you a fifty percent tip and you tell me who else Alteris sends on these trips. Deal?”

  The man arched his eyebrow again. “Oh, what a happy holiday,” he said.

  “Let’s make it a hundred percent,” said Alvin. He bumped his band to the table and swiped his finger up on the percentage.

  “Ah, a Merry Christmas to you. How can I be of assistance?” asked Frederick.

  “Who else has Alteris comped?” asked Alvin.

  “One other,” said Frederick.

  “Right. And?”

  “I don’t recall a name. He was tall, gap-toothed. I believe we sat him at this same table. He was . . . difficult, like you.”

  Asshole. I’m not difficult. I just don’t like people.

  “Thanks for being honest, Fred.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Now, I’ll take that steak,” said Alvin.

  Frederick walked off with more energy.

  What the hell is Alteris up to? I need to talk to Aimes.

  He peeped through his Opti-Comp, but the cursor bounced around erratically. He was too drunk for eye control.

  “Fucking thing,” he grumbled.

  He brought up his left wrist and activated the touch-field display in his smart-band. It projected out along his open palm. He typed in a message—“Need to talk” and hit Send.

  How long, at this distance, until he would receive Aimes’s response? The ship was barely out of Luna dock. Surely it couldn’t be more than ten minutes before Aimes would get the message, plus another ten for the return trip.

  Twenty minutes—at least.

  The last time he’d been without a live uplink was when the power grid had gone out, sending Alteris’s NoHo office into lockdown. Security doors had sealed, leaving him sitting in a hallway for hours. Now not only could he not contact anyone, but also his entertainment apps were deauthorized. He pondered the disconnected nature of technology at cosmic distances.

  Damn it. I guess I’ll spend their money on real food and mind-altering substances.

  “Your filet, sir.” Frederick placed an ornamentally arranged plate on the table in front of him. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Yes, Fred, I’ll have another Nova Smash.”

  “Oh, but of course.”

  Alvin hunkered down and cut off a piece of filet mignon. The steak was smaller than he had imagined, but the flavor was sublime. Normally, eating animal protein on his salary was out of reach—if he could even find a place that dared to serve it.

  Minutes later, Frederick returned with the drink and set it down. He watched as Alvin chomped down with glee.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, that’ll do it. This is amazing. Really tasty, nothing like the lab-grown stuff.”

  “So glad you approve.”

  Alvin gave him the finger as he walked away, then finished his meal in delight.

  When it came time to leave, he stumbled out and back to the guest rooms. He was careful not to look up the entire way. His ground-level stare found him a new treasure, though—drug and alcohol vending machines. They were tucked into alcoves everywhere. He purchased some cappers for the night and stuffed them in his pockets.

  He found his hallway, bounced a shoulder off the doorway, stumbled into his room, and kicked off his shoes.

  He wasn’t ready to knock out yet, though. The mystery had him jazzed. Who was the other employee who had flown The Hope?

  Tall, gap-toothed, difficult.

  Best to connect to the company servers now, before the ship got any farther away. He tried peeping in his Opti-Comp.

  Eyes too tired.

  He walked to a desk in the corner of the room and slurred the word “keyboard.” A holographic key raster splayed out across the desk. Then he fished the fifth of whiskey from the vending machine out of his pocket and took a swig. He told the room to play The Doors.

  Alvin sat down and connected to the Alteris servers via command line. Each flashing cursor prompt hung around longer than the last before returning a response. In between each press of the Enter key, he danced around like a maniac. Forty-five minutes later, he was logged into the system and he was fading from consciousness. The whole process would have taken him maybe ten seconds on Earth.

  He queried the system for project reports pertaining to 243 Ida then walked over to the bed and lay down.

  “Can I get a window?” he said.

  The ceiling transformed into a view of the stars. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cannabis bar, unwrapped it, and ate it.

  Nice hotel.

  Eleven

  Alvin opened his eyes. The colorful gases of a nebula swirled around overhead. Red, blue, and yellow forms expanded, contracted, and merged with one another to give way to blackness speckled with pinpoints of starlight. The dots radiated intensely amid the changing patterns. He felt a heavy throbbing in his head. When he sat up, he found himself in bed.

  Ah yes, he remembered now—at least partly. After dinner, he had self-medicated from a vending machine. He remembered turning on the nebula playback loop in his room. The view was something like a window, only he’d set the nebula to maximum speed to get a different perspective on the passage of time. That was what had sent him into the spins. He might have thrown up. He couldn’t really remember. Things had gone black after that.

  He crawled slowly to the edge of the bed and fumbled with the controls on the end table. When he switched off the space view, it was replaced by ads of differing shapes and sizes drifting about the walls. Each image glided around, occasionally bouncing off a corner or flipping over to be replaced with another ad. All of them were targeted at Alvin’s consumer record and reflected his boyish interests. As he gazed about, he was thankful that no AR imagery jumped out or began looping in his ear. His Opti-Comp was still asleep—the wall sensors still in video mode. It was quiet.

  Then his device powered up and the AR ads began to leap into his brain. VR gaming pods spun around his head like little animated birds as a breathy voice announced the entertainment deck. He felt his nausea crescendo and ran for the toilet, leaving the animated halo behind. After several minutes of his loud retching, the room spoke up.

  “Do you require medical aid, Mr. Baylor?”

  He crawled away from the porcelain throne and back onto the carpet. “Connect me to the front desk.”

  There was a click
followed by a cheery voice. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “How do I turn off the ads in my bedroom?” he mumbled.

  “Oh, sir, those are mandatory for our comped rooms. Are you not enjoying the value addition that they provide?”

  “No. Listen, I’m hungover and it isn’t helping. Turn ’em off or I’ll figure out how to turn them off.”

  “I’ll send someone up right away, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  The call disconnected.

  Alvin sat up against the wall and took slow breaths to calm his stomach. He kept his Opti-Comp eye closed. After a minute or so, he began crawling back toward the disaster he’d left in the bathroom. Every movement sent a shudder of nausea through him, and he felt he would throw up his guts if he moved another inch. He crumped down in the fetal position and decided to wait for whoever was coming.

  The door buzzed minutes later, and he leaned against the wall and tapped the controls to open it. A classically dressed bellhop presented himself and handed Alvin a small metallic can.

  “Desk says you had a rough night. Here’s a pick-me-up. Enjoy the morning after with Refuel!”

  The bellhop grinned as Alvin took the can.

  “What about the panels? How do I turn them off?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea how to do that.” The man walked away and called, “Merry Christmas!” over his shoulder.

  Nonplussed, Alvin shut the door. It was down to him and his ingenuity if he wanted those ads to disappear. Right now he had to recover. He chugged down the milky substance from the tin and gagged at the metallic taste. But it seemed to settle his insides on the way down. He took slow steps toward the bathroom, feeling steadier on his feet, and thought there must be truth to the “fast-acting hydrating agent” claims. He got into the shower and let the warm water soothe him.

  After returning from the bathroom, clean and renewed, he felt his stomach grumbling but his headache was gone. He pulled on his pants and noticed a computer terminal floating in the corner of the room. He had forgotten his search for answers from the night before.

  The screen showed a list of project reports pertaining to 243 Ida. As near as he could tell from the titles, the asteroid was a home base for mineral extraction. Nothing unusual—except something was not the usual here—there was too much urgency and money being thrown around. If there was specialized equipment already out there, then someone had gotten it there.

  Maybe there’s a shipping log?

  He strung together a database query and hit Enter. The answer would come slowly.

  Time to eat something greasy.

  He felt a spring in his step and nearly bounded out the door.

  Damn, that Refuel does work!

  Twelve

  After scarfing down a burger at the Soweto Grill, Alvin felt satiated and whole again. He now understood the promptings to visit the restaurant. The clientele were mostly off-duty crew members soaking up booze and puffing water pipes. It was comfortable, but he’d made a lifetime of lowbrow tastes. He’d be back when he got tired of exploring how the elite lived.

  He exited the faux-shantytown shack that housed the Grill and stepped onto the main path. Vid screens and AR advertisements burst out everywhere. The section was carved into a long street that curved up and down the cylindrical ship. Smaller alleyways cut through this sweeping path to create a dense shopping district. Everywhere he looked was another restaurant, clothing shop, or spa. It seemed the ultra rich had the same religion—consumerism, only they worshipped without limit in floating spaceships. The Christmas Day sales were in full bloom.

  Alvin ignored high-priced shoe and purse stores, nano-rejuvenation centers, and hair salons.

  What a bunch of crap.

  His gaze wandered to the ceiling above him. Centered in the mass of wavy pathways was a circular clearing. Six black pods, each the size of an autocar, clung like warts to the surface.

  Gaming pods?

  His heartbeat jumped. It had been a while since he’d sat in one. He ducked down an alleyway lined with vending machines and began moving toward the pods.

  After several minutes navigating the labyrinthine paths, he was greeted with a broadside view of one of the black pods. The stencil of a red dragon on its side announced it was a FlameWar Pro model. He paced around the pod anxiously, then brushed his hand gently across its glossy black curves.

  “You break it, you buy it,” said a voice.

  “Huh?” mumbled a startled Alvin.

  He looked over to see a beautiful young woman with warm-brown hair and bright eyes. She smiled as she walked toward him, her hips swaying from side to side. He was mesmerized and quickly removed his hand from the pod.

  “I’m kidding. You were being so delicate,” she said.

  “I, ah, used to play,” he shot out of his mouth nervously.

  “You still look young enough to give it a go,” she said as she stopped next to him. She was a couple inches taller and she leaned in and whispered, “Not like most of the old farts around here.”

  Her breath smells like bubblegum.

  Her name tag read “Katy” and below it the words “Game Host.” He caught himself staring at her bust and quickly looked up into her blue eyes.

  “So what does a game host do, Katy?”

  “I strap you in, make sure it’s tight.” She smirked. “And I keep an eye on you so your brain doesn’t boil. You game to break the rust off?”

  “I’ve had my time in the chair. I’m good.”

  “Oh, I know you’re good, Mr. Baylor. Or should I say, Zeus?” She tipped her hips in a little pose and leaned against the pod.

  She’d scanned him and she wasn’t telling him to get lost. That was novel. A gorgeous gal, the kind he’d expect to see on the arm of a pro gamer, was chatting him up.

  He looked at her pensively.

  She responded, “We’re not on Earth. The laws don’t apply here.”

  It can’t hurt. Where else am I going to play, South America?

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  “Good call, Al.” She chuckled and Alvin laughed along with her, having no idea what was funny. He just wanted to keep the vibe up. She motioned for him to follow.

  “Say, did I see you on the casino floor the other night? You seem familiar,” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Did you?”

  She pressed a red outline on the surface of the pod and the side wall slid outward a few inches and then moved back to reveal the chair.

  “I guess not, but you do stand out,” he said.

  “That’s what they pay me for. It’s all advertising. Hop in.”

  Alvin ducked to enter the dark interior of the pod. He sat down into the reclined chair and Katy entered behind him. The space was limited, just large enough for her to maneuver in front of him. He felt his pulse quicken as he looked at the dark walls of the pod. It was a setting he thought he’d never see again.

  She slipped restraints over his wrists and ankles, then tied down a set of straps that pressed him into the chair, locking his chest and hips in place. Next she began to place a synaptic skullcap on Alvin’s head.

  “Don’t need it,” he said. He felt his cheeks flush from being so close to her.

  Katy paused and examined his face. She pinched his chin and turned his head side to side to look at his temples. “Nice install.”

  “Oh, it’s just for company work now.”

  What the hell am I saying?

  She lowered the chair back so Alvin’s body lay almost straight.

  “Good luck, company man,” she whispered in his ear.

  Bubblegum.

  He tried to catch a view of her rear end as she bent over to exit the pod, but he couldn’t angle his head. The door closed, leaving him in total darkness.

  “I’m on vaacationnnn,” he warbled quietly to himself.

  A faint blue light glowed at the periphery of his vision and his temples warmed. He closed his eyes and felt the world drop awa
y.

  When he opened them again, he was lying on a hospital bed being prodded by mechanical arms while humans with clipboards stood around and took notes. He was now in virtual reality. A bunch of shoulder-high red letters crashed to the floor spelling out the word “Hostage.”

  The game was about to begin.

  One of the doctors held out a clipboard in front of him and handed him a pen. It said, “Tutorial” with check boxes for “yes” or “no.” He checked “no.” A long list of legalese medical disclaimers appeared on the page informing him that he was playing at his own risk by skipping the tutorial and synaptic calibrations. He signed off on his rights and stood up dressed in black tactical gear. A pistol materialized at his hip and an automatic rifle appeared slung over his shoulder.

  He jogged around in search of game options and ignored the narrator as the objective was explained. He was already familiar with the genre. Somewhere in the building there was someone who needed saving. The floors could be filled with terrorists, zombies, or mutant monsters. Once he had even played a mod against porn stars and unicorns. This instance was modeled on the economic warfare of the twenty-first century. Nothing supernatural.

  A bank of elevators ahead of him beckoned. The buttons on the wall said “Solo” and “Group.” If any of the other pods had been occupied, he’d have seen those players.

  Playing with bots.

  It was just as well. He hadn’t played with another person in years.

  This will be easy.

  He pressed “Solo” and waited for the elevator. He looked over to see the stairwell—a sign on the door said, “Nightmare Difficulty.”

  Let’s do it.

  He ran and kicked in the door.

  “Save the CEO’s Daughter,” said the narrator in a melodramatic tone.

  One step in and Alvin tripped down the stairs. He wasn’t ready for the smoothness of the newer pods. He heard laughter over the spectator channel.

  He jumped to his feet in the middle of a dilapidated warehouse and was shot dead by a homeless terrorist. Game over.

  Shit.

  “Come on now, Al. Don’t tell me that’s all ya got,” said Katy’s voice over the spectator channel.