by Paul Neilan
He was blinking even faster than before.
“I never get to just talk like this anymore. My girlfriend gets mad when I end a sentence with a question mark. And then Stan disappeared,” Anton said. “It’s kind of scary though, not being around a screen. How do you even Grid?”
“I don’t,” I said.
“Maybe that’s why she likes you,” he said. “The Queen of Pentacles. Maybe that’s why she wants you to meet Mirabilis Orsted. She said to go right away and ask him about the comet. He’ll see you then.”
“I don’t have time for this, Anton,” I said.
“She told me you’d say that,” he said. “Well, not that exactly. But she said when you mentioned time I was supposed to give you this.”
He went inside his jacket, came out with an envelope filled with a neat stack of bills.
“She said it would be enough,” Anton said.
I didn’t need to count it. I already knew.
“Mirabilis Orsted,” I said. “What’s the address?”
* * *
Fifteen ninety-seven Wilcox was a house with its own geometry. The walls were opened up at strange angles, bending out, framing an orb with a large rounded window that sat in the middle like a crash-landed spaceship. The welcome mat was hammered silver, inlaid in concrete. I rang the buzzer.
“Who are you?” a man’s voice sounded through the speaker.
“Harrigan,” I said.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I’m here to see Mirabilis Orsted,” I said.
“Who’s with you?” he said.
“Nobody,” I said. “I’m alone.”
A sigh came through the speaker. “So am I,” he said.
“I’m here about the comet,” I said.
“The comet,” he said. “Well, that changes things. Do you have a screen?”
I took it from my pocket, held it up to the peephole.
“Place it here,” he said.
A drawer opened out from the mail slot. I set my screen inside.
“It’s for your own protection,” he said.
The door unbolted. I stepped inside, onto another hammered-silver mat, an identical one suspended from chains hanging just above my head.
“Stay there!” the man said. He was in a long nightshirt and antique leather aviator’s goggles, a fringe of white hair on his head. “Do you have any metal on your person?”
“No,” I said.
“Any on the inside?” he said. “Plates or screws or fixtures?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s good,” he said, raising the goggles to his forehead. His eyebrows were shaved down, half grown. “Because it would tear you apart from the inside if you stepped off that mat and the big one hit.”
He looked me up and down.
“I’m Mirabilis Orsted,” he said. “It’s about time someone’s come about the comet.”
He crooked his finger, leading me down the hall.
“Yes. Yes it is,” he said, swaying from side to side with each step. “It’s always about time.”
I followed after him.
“We can’t talk with the windows open,” he said, coming into a large circular room, the belly of the spaceship.
He touched a sensor on the wall and a hammered-silver shade lowered over the rounded window above, smaller shades closing over the other scattered glass in the walls and the skylight, dimming the room.
“Brahe’s Reckoning, they’re calling it,” Mirabilis Orsted said. “They know nothing about the man. Brahe’s Revenge is what it is.”
“What’s with all the silver?” I said.
“It’s a silver composite, titanium threaded, my own proprietary blend,” he said. “This entire structure is magnetized for seismic security. When the big one hits, I’ll have precious seconds to reverse the polarity and send a distortion pulse that should be enough to save my home. Maybe a few others nearby, depending on the epicenter.”
He pulled a medallion from around his neck, showed me the button in the center.
“When’s the big one coming?” I said.
“That’s the only question that matters, isn’t it?” he said. “It all comes down to when.”
He tucked his medallion back into his long shirt, lowered his goggles and raised them again.
“Here,” Mirabilis Orsted said. “I’ll show you.”
He led me to a silver-lined alcove set into the rounded wall where stacks of Etch A Sketches were piled on silver shelves.
“They can only be viewed in the alcove,” he said. “The magnetic field is rerouted by the silver composite. If they’re removed from inside, the filaments will disperse, destroying the images. It’s where I do all of my research now.”
He lifted an Etch A Sketch to show me a meticulously drawn arrow, bent and twisted back on itself, its arms and legs out, spilling the drink in its hand. I’m gonna be so wasted yesterday! the caption said.
“It’s called ‘The Arrow of Time Is Drunk Again,’” he said. “I keep all the titles to myself, in my head, so they can only be verified by me. Screens can be hacked. Ink and paper can be scanned. Only the Etch A Sketch is secure.”
He started pacing around the room, running a lap over the silver spun rug on the floor.
“They’re worried about topography when it’s topology they should be concerned with,” he said. “The shape of time is what matters. The shape of events. Their geometry.”
I looked at his fringe of white hair, his sprouting eyebrows.
“You were a Traveler,” I said. “fvrst chvrch mvlTverse.”
“Yes. Briefly,” he said, running his hands over his head. “I thought the T in mvlTverse stood for time.”
“Does it?” I said.
“I’m still not sure,” he said.
He started pacing again, his hands clasped behind his back.
“They picked my brain for insight into magnetism, its attractive properties,” Mirabilis Orsted said. “But they had nothing to offer me in return. They used Many Worlds math to explain their mvlTverse assertions, but there was nothing in the physics to explain the rifting events they claim constitute their new cosmology. Every break is a clean break. I agreed with them on that. But their models were rudimentary at best.”
“Models?” I said.
“I was looking for archetypes, systems, solutions. They were more interested in the human kind,” he said. “Studying attraction, its magnetism. I must admit it has a strange quality, like gravity in the higher equations. But they were overlooking the repulsive aspects of it. Its disrupting capabilities. They were resistant to its inverse, at first. Then they became interested. Almost too interested.”
He strode to the alcove, lifted another Etch A Sketch. This one of a man in a Shriner’s hat, his mouth open, screaming, tassel flailing in free fall. The caption read, Someone somewhere is always falling to their death.
“‘Can You Decipher Their Screams?’” he said. “That’s the title. You have no idea how many people are thrown from high places. That’s how they get you. That’s how they silence dissent. They call it a slip or a suicide leap. That’s why you have to leave evidence. Everywhere. It slows them down, keeps the wolves at bay, outfigured. It can’t be a suicide note if you make it whimsical on purpose. That’s why I gave him that hat. See? Whimsy.”
He went back to walking the floor, rounding the rug in tighter circles until he was standing in its center.
“It’s the same with drug overdoses. That’s why I don’t partake anymore, though I miss it so very dearly. So very dearly,” he said, rubbing the edges of his hands together like kindling sticks. “It’s not that an overdose is too much. Not always. Sometimes you get a tainted batch. Sometimes it’s an accident. Sometimes it isn’t. They use the opacity of the production process to mask their chemical intentions. There are always forces arrayed.”
“What forces?” I said.
“Zodiac,” Mirabilis Orsted said. “They run Grid. Grid runs everyone. fvrst chvr
ch mvlTverse is a force, though they profess neutrality. The Parallax Liberation Faction, but to what end, by what means. And there are always others. Always others.”
“What do you know about Parallax?” I said.
He showed me another Etch A Sketch. It was a mushroom running away from a mushroom cloud billowing in the distance. The caption read, Oh shit!
“It’s called ‘The Comet at Midnight,’” he said.
He laid the Etch A Sketch down carefully like he was putting a baby to sleep, lowered his aviator goggles.
“Comets can be lodestones. They bring forces together. They drive fields apart,” Mirabilis Orsted said. “I don’t know who you are, but you should leave the city before it gets here on Sunday. Get as far away as you can.”
* * *
My screen was vibrating when I took it out of Mirabilis Orsted’s drawer, back on the hammered-silver doormat outside. I picked up.
“This is Assessment, further recommendation,” the voice said officiously. “Please report immediately to the Zodiac Discretionary Annex, thirteenth floor for Conditioning. Failure to comply will result in a warrant for remanding. You have one hour.”
The Zodiac Discretionary Annex was in the old Capitol Records building on Vine, a cylindrical thirteen floors stacked like film reels, fully Grid automated. I was a few blocks away. I stopped for a drink at every corner I could, walked in the sliding-glass front doors with minutes to spare.
There was nobody inside the cavernous lobby. The screens were all around me, up and down the walls.
“Please proceed to elevator number three,” the voice at the reception desk said. “Please follow the instructions you were given.”
Elevator #3 was a cylinder, fifteen feet across, surrounded by screens on all sides.
“Thirteen,” I said.
The doors closed. The elevator began to rise, slowly ticking floors. I stood in the center, my hands out, waited for it to start.
A diamond is forever, the voice said. You know what isn’t? You. You can’t wait for forever. You need it now. Here at Cosmo Spectrum we’ve developed the most sophisticated sex simulator in the history of Grid by synthesizing the Kama Sutra, the writings of the Marquis de Sade, the Egyptian bang scrolls recently discovered in the Great Pyramids of Giza, the finest French erotica, and all the pornography that’s ever been screened to create a completely immersive experience that will change the way you fuck forever. Optimize your skills. Know what they want, when they want it. Know how to give it to them. Anyone you’ve ever desired is here for the taking. We have celebrity settings, historical figures, high school yearbooks, memory fades that allow you to refuck anyone you’ve ever been with, or anybody you haven’t. Make new memories with Cosmo Spectrum, or improve the ones you’ve already got. Whoever you want, whenever you want them. Plug in to simulate, here on the fourth floor. Would you care to stop for a quickie and improve your Score?
“Thirteenth floor,” I said, my hands out.
Remember, how you fuck is who you are. Look for us on Grid to find out. In the meantime, choose your next experience. Mingle with the stars at a Hollywood cocktail party or play with guns?
I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists. I remembered what Evie said.
You’ve got to play the game, Harrigan. You might as well. It’s already playing you.
“Play with guns,” I said.
Excellent. Choose your setting. S.W.A.T raid, off-world phasers, or Old West shootout?
“Shootout,” I said. “Old West.”
The curved screen to my right showed a rifle and a six-shooter, a range of knives and brass knuckles.
Choose your weapons.
I reached for the image of the pistol and it appeared in my hand, illusory and ghostly, but with its own heft. I felt the weight of the gun. Felt its balance.
Now choose your role.
The curved screen showed a sheriff’s badge, a preacher’s Bible, a black hat, and bandannas. I left them there.
Fascinating. Here we go.
I was on a dusty street in the middle of town. A tumbleweed drifted. The shooting started. A rifle in a second-story window. I squeezed off a round. Two bandits on horseback, riding at me. I picked them off clean. The sheriff squared up, told me to drop it. He didn’t want any trouble. I put one in his shoulder. The gun fell from his hand. I watched him scurry back to the jail and shut the door. A kid ran across the street crying. I let him go. A woman raised a shotgun in the saloon doorway behind me. I spun, blew her back inside, doors swinging like beating wings. I reloaded with one left as more bandits rode in. I didn’t look for cover. I gunned them down one by one as they came at me, palming the hammer.
Nice shooting. You’re a real deadeye. Would you like to continue in our Wild West simulator on the seventh floor? A hired gun like you could improve your Score in no time. Make some new friends in the saloon when you’re done. What do you say, hombre?
Yes, I told myself. More. But when you show too much interest, it tells them too much.
“Thirteenth floor,” I said instead.
Suit yourself, huckleberry. You can find us on Grid anytime you’re feeling man enough.
The gun disappeared. I shook out my hand. The elevator kept rising.
The following is brought to you by…Hey boys and girls! Everyone knows Trix are for kids! You know what else is for kids? Getting child molested! Do you want that to happen? Then eat your fucking Raisin Bran! There’s a guy in a van, parked at the end of your street. He knows what you had for breakfast. Do you want to see his dick? Do you! Then eat your fucking Raisin Bran! The food court’s on the eleventh floor! Stop in for a taste! What do you say?
“Thirteenth floor,” I said.
The elevator came to rest at thirteen. The door opened. I stepped out into a hallway lined with screens, voice modulation lines traced across them like heartbeats.
Welcome to the thirteenth floor, the screens said, almost in unison as I walked down the hall. There were a few discrepancies with your previous Assessment, so we wanted to bring you in for further discussion. Please, have a seat.
There was a swivel chair at the end of the hall. I sat down, the screens all around me. None of them showed faces. Just the bowing lines of the inquisitor AIs, each a little behind, like a chorus echoing.
Could you remove your screen from your pocket, please? they said.
I took it out.
We notice that you have a tracking blocker installed, masking your movements, they said. Why is that?
“They’re not illegal,” I said.
Certainly not, they said. But they can interfere with our data template and affect your Optimization component, preventing us from offering you the full extent of our services. Would you like us to remove the blocker? It’s an easy fix.
“I’ll take a look at it when I get home,” I said.
Home is still One forty-four Western Avenue, Number B, they said. Is that correct?
“That’s right,” I said.
Our records indicate that you don’t have a wall screen, they said. Optimization outreach may provide financial assistance to those deemed eligible, to upgrade and install a new unit, so you can enjoy all the Grid services available in their most efficacious format. Would you like to take advantage of this opportunity?
“I’m good with what I have,” I said.
Certain difficulties may be preventing you from fully experiencing Grid, they said. Asking for help in these matters is a crucial component of Wellness. Admitting there’s a problem is a vital first step and the foundation of Compliance.
I didn’t say anything.
Would you say you’re a violent person? they said.
“Not unreasonably so,” I said.
Do you own a gun? they said.
“They’re not illegal either,” I said.
Certainly not, they said. Legality is not the issue. These are simply demographic questions to better inform your profile. We notice that you’re still classified as Unaligned.
Would you like to rectify this?
“I don’t mind the mystery,” I said.
Certainly, they said. But you are missing out on a host of specialized content, and Alignment immediately improves your Score. Membership does have its privileges.
I didn’t say anything.
Off-Grid influences can be detrimental to Compliance, they said, the voices like dominoes falling. Be advised, your Score is still Borderline. Further conditioning may be deemed necessary upon review. In the meantime, get on Grid. A checked Score is an improved Score. Participate. Simulate. Cultivate.
I swiveled in the chair, stood. I went back down the hallway, into the elevator. The doors closed.
You seemed to enjoy your shooting session, cowboy, the screens around me said. The seventh floor has an entire subsection dedicated to Wild West simulation. How about stopping off for a few in the saloon, partner? Want to blow off a little steam?
I rode the elevator down as the screens kept talking. When the doors opened I walked out, straight through the lobby, past the sliding glass doors, back into the rain.
* * *
“Oh honey,” Delia said as the bell jingled behind me. “What happened? Your aura’s all over the place.”
I’d come back from the Discretionary Annex to find my apartment tossed. The fern was tipped over, dirt spilled like guts. My map of the world pulled off the wall and torn in half, exposing the water stain. I didn’t have much to ruin, but it was enough. I set the fern upright. Left the world on the floor where it belonged.
There was a note on my table.
Next time it’s your face. Love, Santos
He had surprisingly nice handwriting.
“I got pulled in by Zodiac,” I said. “Conditioning.”
“Which component?” Delia said.
“Compliance,” I said.
“That sounds about right,” she said. “Those fuckers. The hoops they make you jump through, just because they can. Have a seat.”
The silvered ellipses of the mobile drifted slowly above me, casting shapes in the air and breaking them. Delia lit a candle on the altar, blew it out, lit it again. She unpacked her purple-lined case, poured rain water from the decanter into her tea kettle bong, the familiar ritual. I watched the smoke roil under the glass. She inhaled, nodded. I cut the deck.
