He walked back from the bathroom and answered the door.
“Here’s your Refuel, sir,” said a chipper bellhop. “Say, is there something wrong with your panels? I can ask maintenance to—”
“No.” Alvin grabbed the can and bounced his wrist off the wall. The pocket door slid closed.
“Have a nice day, sir!” yelled the kid.
Alvin chugged back the can and tossed it at the recycle bin in the corner. He missed and it banked off the edge and hit the desk. The vibration woke the floating terminal screen.
He walked over to pick up the can while mourning his fruitless search for answers from days past. Then he remembered.
Carroll Henry. Bah.
He scowled as he bent over to fetch the can and toss it in the bin.
A new search result was waiting for him onscreen. His blank database query had returned a result. There were two employees in possession of an empty location field.
The first was him. The second was Mohammed Rinsler.
His heart jumped in tempo.
There were few details. Only names and dates of hire.
Rinsler? The Mohammed Rinsler?
He knew the name, anyone literate in science did. The man had cracked faster-than-light communication and built an artificial intelligence that led to protests that accelerated the breakup of the United States.
He peeped a quick lookup of the scientist in his Opti-Comp. It came back with The Hope’s cached bio and a photo. The man had shaggy black hair, an awkward smile, and a gap between his front teeth.
Looks like that waiter’s description.
The article detailed Rinsler’s various Nobel Prizes in quantum mechanics and his strange beliefs about the nature of consciousness. He claimed a contentious theory called Orch-OR had led to his development of the first conscious computer, the QI. He worked for the U.S. government until his death during the secession riots on 4/13/2107. There was nothing about mining.
Then Alvin noticed a detail. Rinsler’s date of death matched the hire date on the Alteris terminal session.
“Whoa,” he said.
“Is something troubling you, esteemed guest?” said the room.
“Get me the published works of Mohammed Rinsler,” said Alvin.
“A Quantum Theory of Everything and Objective Reduction & Quantum Consciousness are now available on your bookshelf,” said the room.
Damn it.
Alvin walked to the doorway, swung open the electrical plate, and plugged in the AR panels. A virtual bookshelf appeared along the back wall. The two books by Rinsler appeared on it. He had new homework and a tournament to win.
Fifteen
Alvin heard the shower running as he lay in bed. His eyes fluttered open and he flopped over on his back. He felt his head throb and he coughed. Five months ago when he boarded The Hope, his liver had been pickled. Now three drinks had given him a hangover. He regretted his act of sabotage, but today was the player’s luncheon and his social anxieties had gotten the better of him.
He’d had no contact from Alteris in weeks and he’d kept his socializing to Katy. While that relationship bloomed, his research on Rinsler had come to nothing more than a layman’s study of esoteric science. Had the brilliant scientist faked his death to work for Alteris? Maybe. Right now he was just a name in a company record. Rather than stay troubled by the uncertainty, Alvin enjoyed the vacation and rehabbed his gaming skills daily—until today. There would be no more practice. Tomorrow was the tournament.
The shower stopped and Katy exited the bathroom wrapped in hotel towels.
“These are really nice,” she said while thumbing at the thick towels.
“You’re not used to them by now? Ooooh, my head,” said Alvin.
“We don’t get these in the crew quarters. You want a Refuel? You look terrible.”
“Anything. Make it stop,” he groaned.
She grabbed a can from the mini fridge and tossed it toward him.
“Look alive,” she teased as it landed on the edge of the bed.
He moaned as he reached for the can.
“I thought you were gonna take it easy last night,” she said.
“Yeah, I planned to, but—the best laid plans and all.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing, it’s from an old book. I’ll be fine.”
Alvin chugged down the drink and rolled off the bed sideways onto his feet. He braced himself on the wall. The throbbing in his head grew more pronounced.
“Well, the game’s not till tomorrow. Don’t do it again,” she said.
“Food’ll help. I got twenty minutes to make the player’s luncheon.”
“I don’t know why you wanna eat with those rich assholes. Just take their money at the tourney.”
“I told you. I need to size them up. Besides, it’s free.” He winked at her.
“Nothing’s free, Al. Be careful they don’t drive you to drink again.”
“I can control myself.”
“Can you?” she asked.
“What’s up your ass?” he said.
“I don’t like seeing you sabotage yourself.” She arranged her clothes on the bed.
“Babe, I’m gonna win.”
“You’re such a cocky shit.”
“After I win we’ll go out and celebrate. How ’bout the Twentieth-Century Rock Review?” he said.
“You’re dying to go to that thing . . . you win and I’ll go watch your holographic relic show.”
“You’ll love it. I promise.”
He could feel the Refuel beginning to clear his head. He got up and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m sure I will. Just do it, Al. Whatever it takes.” She kissed his cheek, then continued, “You hate being called a cheat, but I don’t think you can handle being a loser.”
His chest tightened. Isn’t that what he’d spent most of his adult life being—a malcontent? A loser?
“Thanks for giving it to me straight,” he said.
She kissed him full on the lips, then turned around, bent over the bed, and dropped the towels from her wet, naked body.
“I suppose you’re trying to make me miss that lunch,” he said.
Alvin flashed a smile as he walked up to the doormen. He was late and feeling okay with it. Katy had a way of changing his priorities.
“Welcome, Mr. Baylor. The banquet hall is to your left,” said the taller man. He leaned over conspiratorially and whispered, “We got money on you, Zeus.” The other fellow just winked.
Alvin was pleased to see his status as blue-collar disruptor had charmed security. “Drinks on me if I disappoint, gentlemen,” he said with a nod.
He entered a white synth-stone room and instantly felt everyone’s eyes upon him. The Grecian-styled hall was occupied by a long dining table heaped with food. It struck Alvin as ostentatious—something out of a bacchanal. Several contestants were picking their way through mounds of fruit, seafood, and pastries at tables scattered around the room. Some stared intently at him, others tried to be more discreet. Looking around, he did not see a single vid-screen-paneled surface.
No freakin’ ads anywhere. It’s good to be rich.
His eyes stopped on Oona dressed in a white gown and sitting at the center table. Why is she here? I thought this was for players. She nodded to him and he nodded back. A tiny woman sat beside her and whispered in her ear.
New girl-toy?
This one looked more alert, less slutty. She wore black eye shadow that was exaggerated with long sharp swoops. A streak of orange ran through her black hair.
The man seated across from Oona had tattooed arms. Alvin recognized Zuck, who turned around and scowled.
“Well, you showed up!” he shouted.
Beside him a skinny old man in a cowboy hat looked over and twirled the end of his white handlebar mustache.
Alvin paused and cocked his head.
“Is that you, Richard?” he said.
“You’re not winning this thing,” answered Z
uck. He sneered and turned back to Oona.
Alvin ignored them again and began digging into a pile of seafood at one of the small tables. The guests returned to various small conversations.
As he dug through the pile, a fast-talking voice spoke up from behind. “Try the lobster.”
Alvin looked over to see a brutish-looking man with cornrows and dark eyes wearing a sparkling-orange jogging suit. He balanced a plate of seafood in one hand.
“I think it’s real, yo.”
He smiled goofily and wiped at his mouth before reaching the same hand out to Alvin.
“Chico,” he said.
Alvin’s eyes lingered on the man’s titanium teeth for a beat. He looked down to see rough, bruised knuckles. Chico Perez, as foretold by Alvin’s room advertising, would defend his MMA title aboard the ship. His ears were cauliflower and his head was shaved and misshapen. “I’m Alvin.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ve seen your mug plastered all over the place, too,” said Alvin.
Chico smiled. “Tha’s right. I’m gonna be champ twice, yo!”
“Nah. Just once,” said Alvin. He stuffed what he assumed was the lobster into his mouth then continued talking. “Oh, you’re right. This is good.”
“Players, can I have your attention please,” said a soft-voiced man.
He was immaculately dressed in a white linen suit with a gardenia springing from the chest pocket. His oiled black hair shone under the lights as he gesticulated.
“Mr. Xi-Michaels will be joining us shortly. If you would all gather at the table, we have a schedule to keep.”
He gave a disapproving look at Alvin, who figured his tardiness was not appreciated.
As Alvin walked toward the table, he noticed another man taking his time at the fondue station. He wore a rumpled navy suit, and his tousled silver hair sat over a bushy mustache. He looked like a poorly tailored Mark Twain impersonator and seemed more concerned with strawberries dipped in chocolate than listening to the natty messenger.
“Mr. Vance, can you join us, please?” said the man in the white suit.
Vance turned and winked and then stuffed another bite into his mouth. He mumbled something that sounded like “sure” and walked over.
“I am Hong Chow, Mr. Xi-Michaels’s personal attendant. I welcome you to The Hope’s first annual VR Players Luncheon. If everyone will please stand for Mr. Xi-Michaels.”
Those seated at the table stood to join the others at attention.
Alvin heard whirring gears and looked over to see the old cowboy rise up. His withered legs were wrapped in a skeletal exo-suit that whined as it did the lifting. The man held his hat across his chest. He was very old, perhaps in his nineties.
Too old, thought Alvin.
He watched the far door through which Chow had entered, but no one came. Instead, an electric warble sounded from the center of the table and a spherical hologram resembling a crystal ball bounded into the air. Chan Xi-Michaels’s rosy-cheeked face sprang up in the middle and exclaimed, “Hello everyone! So happy to have you!” His holographic head whirled around and nodded at all present. The strands of his hair flopped about as he giggled.
“Mr. Chow, please introduce me to our illustrious guests,” he said.
“Of course, sir. To my left, we are very proud to have Ms. Oona’s . . . protégé, Rita Takata.”
The young woman flashed a hand gesture at Xi-Michael’s floating head as if she were posing for a photo. Then she blinked to show a set of green cat eyes painted on her lids.
“Meow,” said Xi-Michaels. “So wonderful to have you in competition today, Rita, and a warm welcome to you, Ms. Oona. I hope you are enjoying the caviar!”
Oona laughed and nodded. She motioned for Rita to sit. They both took their seats. Alvin recognized the name. Rita was number three on the leaderboard. A distant number three.
“And here we have Mr. Tex Holloway of Holloway Modular Designs,” said Chow.
Alvin knew that Holloway’s storage clusters supplied data and temperature control for the Alteris NoHo office.
Good products.
“Ah, yes, yes,” said Xi-Michaels in a vague way, suggesting to Alvin he had never heard of the man’s company.
The old cowboy nodded and took his seat with the aid of the noisy exo-suit.
Chow moved on. “Rick Zuck needs no introduction. After retiring from pro competition, he’s been kind enough to entertain us with his skills and provide a quantum analysis of the match.”
“Hello, Mr. Zuck!” said Xi-Michaels. “How goes the transition to the family business? Finding more social metadata in deep space, no doubt.”
“I’m still focused on playing for the time being, sir. There’s plenty of time to expand the product and the clientele.”
It was the most humility Alvin had ever heard out of Zuck. He took his seat and Chow moved on to Chico.
“The fighter, Mr. Chico Perez.”
“Hold on now, dog. That’s the undefeated, pound-for-pound best—Chico—from Puerto Rico—Perez.”
He threw two thumbs up and flashed his titanium grin at the table, then turned around to make sure he didn’t miss anyone.
“Yes, Mr. Perez, I know you—very impressive ground-and-pound,” said Xi-Michaels without losing his plastered-on smile.
Chico nodded and looked around with bravado as he sat back down.
Chow turned his attention to a mysterious woman dressed in all black and covered by a niqab. “Visiting from the Islamic State is Noura Al-Tahtawi.”
She sat with a Middle Eastern man wearing a collarless fitted suit with no tie. He looked to be made of muscle. She bowed her head gracefully and the man spoke. “The house of Al-Tahtawi is honored to be among such accomplished company.”
Alvin tried to read Noura, but got nothing. Only her elegant brown eyes were visible.
He heard Oona scoff under her breath and saw her throwing sideways glances while she rumpled her nose. Whether it was Christian or feminist ire, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both.
“Next we come to Alvin Baylor,” said Chow.
Alvin straightened up and nodded at the cherubic head in the holo-sphere.
“Ah, Mr. Baylor, we finally meet. I am very excited to see what you can do! But no overclocking tomorrow!”
He said it with a glee that irritated Alvin.
“Thank you. I’m happy to participate.” He smiled and sat down.
“Finally, we come to Mr. Anton Vance. Mr. Vance is a journalist for the Yellow Letter and quite the fan of cyber-athletics. He’ll be covering the game.”
Nearly everyone at the table guffawed and sneered at the man in the navy-blue suit across from Alvin. Zuck and Oona were visibly upset.
“My personal affairs had best remain personal,” said Oona with a touch of contempt.
“Your Eminence, I don’t give a rat’s ass who you’re fucking,” said Vance with an accusatory finger covered in some sort of sauce. He sucked it off his digit with a flick of his wrist and Oona fashioned a look of disgust. Alvin liked him immediately.
“Oh, Ms. Oona, nothing to worry about,” said Xi-Michaels, never losing his boyish smile. “Mr. Vance is a benefit to our promotions. Advertising, if you will. You have my protection from any unwarranted news gathering. But you, Mr. Perez, you’d better behave! All of this is fair game for prefight reporting.”
He said it with a chuckle and everyone but Chico grimaced. Instead his mouth parted wide to flash those metal teeth.
“Not a problem, sir, I’m a man of the people,” said Chico. “I live my life for them. For my fans.”
Alvin couldn’t tell if he was really that much of a fool or if he’d just studied self-promotion.
“Oh, that is wonderful, Mr. Perez. There will be many fans watching this event, as well. We want to give them a good show. That is why we will have special team competition!”
Alvin’s eyebrow arched up.
What is this about?
“I thought this
was a winner-take-all death match,” crowed Tex Holloway as he smacked his withered hand on the tabletop.
For the first time, the smile left Xi-Michaels’s face.
Mr. Chow answered, “Mr. Holloway, the solo competition is intact. We are simply adding a team phase.”
“Team phase? What team phase?” asked Holloway.
“We want to entertain our guests. This will ensure a longer match . . . for spectating purposes,” said Chow.
“Ha!” barked Tex. “They think they got this one figured already, folks.”
“Figured how?” asked a tense Oona.
Zuck dropped his eyes down. Oona glared at him and the table slowly followed suit. The Zuck family were the operators of a data-mining consortium. Rick was heir apparent and soon to be running the family business.
Oona’s gaze left Zuck and she addressed Xi-Michaels directly. “What has the data predicted?”
Xi-Michaels took up his smile again. “Ms. Oona, it is best to leave the odds to the odds-makers,” he said.
“Enough. What was the prediction?” She looked over at Zuck and back at Xi-Michaels.
Zuck flashed an angry glance at Alvin.
I must be the winner.
“What’s the prize for second?” said Alvin jokingly.
“Good of you to ask, Mr. Baylor,” said Chow. “The top three players will receive monetary prizes.”
“See, folks, nothing to worry about,” said Alvin.
“You’re a cheater,” said Oona.
Xi-Michaels spoke. “Mr. Baylor did not cheat to place in the tournament. I have no reason to block him. In fact, his participation has attracted interest.”
“A rival for the champ here, eh?” interjected Anton Vance.
“Don’t go muckraking, Vance,” scolded Zuck. “This isn’t newsworthy.”
“Anything is newsworthy if the right people are involved.” Vance looked first at Alvin, then at Zuck, and finally he smiled at Oona and Rita.
“Hey, man, I’m not looking to—” started Alvin before being cut off by Oona and Zuck’s overlapping retorts.
Alvin Baylor Lives!_A 21st Century Pulp Page 10
