by Paul Neilan
“I ask myself that same question. All the time,” he said, a little too much wonder in his voice. “And I do apologize for your journey here. It’s the only way to bypass the cameras and the screens. They’ve become nearly ubiquitous, as you know yourself.”
He looked down at his glass, swirled the lemonade.
“They’re mirrors really, reflecting all they see,” he said. “And every mirror is a two-way mirror. Something is always looking back at you.”
“Here we go,” the bird squawked.
“Every story is an origin story,” Mr. Sybil said. “Every war is a proxy war. Every fork is a salad fork. Every spoon—”
“You know your silverware,” I said.
“I do,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Spork’s a suicide baby. Parents had to kill themselves for it to be conceived,” I said. “Who’s the knife?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it,” he said. “I believe it’s anyone who wears the ring.”
“Zodiac,” I said.
“They are the keepers of this verse,” Mr. Sybil said. “They bar the gates to those who would enter or exit. We of fvrst chvrch mvlTverse prefer passageways to locks and dead bolts. We seek portals. Ingresses. Openings.”
“Rifts,” I said.
Mr. Sybil smiled. “That’s an interesting way to put it,” he said. “Rifting events create our reality. The verse is disruption and flux. We are continuously creating and destroying. Every answer is your final answer. Every call is last call.”
He sipped his lemonade. “We of course seek no conflict,” he said. “At fvrst chvrch mvlTverse, all r welcome. All r 1.”
“Every game is a numbers game,” I said.
“Precisely,” Mr. Sybil said, smiling again. “We are a creation of this verse, but we are not its newest idea. Some find this threatening. Vexing. Terrifying. Some of us don’t find these to be new ideas at all.”
“Is that what you’re doing in the basement at 6765 Franklin?” I said. “Looking for new ideas?”
His smile faded as he looked towards the sliding-glass door.
“They can be like children showing off their toys,” he said. “But yes. There is gold in every stream, if gold is what you seek. They sprout like mushrooms, these nascent intelligences, and we are their fertilizer. New ideas, old ideas, their many iterations. Reflections, refractions. Patterns in the data. Screens remember what they see. Mirrors know more.”
“It’s all gonna burn,” the bird squawked.
Mr. Sybil shot the bird a look.
“Where is it?” he said. “Where is Mirror Mirror?”
I took a drink.
“Where is she?” he said. “Where is Anna?”
“How did you get her off Grid?” I said.
He shook his head slowly. “You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you,” Mr. Sybil said. “It’s a pity, really, this needless conflict of ours. It’s the curse of this verse, if you ask me. If only we’d found you both together, outside the Everett building, on our very own campus. It could have been so much simpler.”
He watched my face. “It’s the downside to our anonymity,” he said. “A necessary complication. We can hide, even from ourselves, for a time. Of course, if Stan Volga had come to us directly, as we agreed, this could have been resolved more expeditiously.”
The glass door slid open and Stan Volga stumbled through. He was draped in a gray robe, shaved bald, his mustache and eyebrows missing.
“Where did you find him?” I said.
“In a bar in Burbank, crying Anna’s name to anyone who’d listen,” Mr. Sybil said. “Discretion, Mr. Volga. Discretion is paramount.”
Stan Volga had that hunted look in his eyes, like he’d gone dry too fast. He opened his mouth to speak, looked down at the floor instead.
“If you’re able to deliver what Mr. Volga could not, you’ll be entitled to the generous fee he was promised,” Mr. Sybil said. “Minus his considerable advance, of course.”
“Back in the trash,” the bird squawked.
I finished my lemonade, stood up from the chair.
Sal and Boo were waiting for me by the sliding-glass door.
“Who gave you Eddie Lompoc’s name?” I said to Stan Volga.
“The Queen of Sorrows,” Stan Volga said, his eyes downcast. “When she spoke, I listened.”
“She sent you to me?” I said. “Mirror Mirror?”
“She told me everything. She told me nothing,” Stan Volga said. “Whatever I wanted to hear.”
I went to my pocket, handed him the Polaroid of himself all dressed up. He looked at it for a long moment, let his eyes linger before he slid it into the folds of his gray robe. He wrung his hands together. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.
“You found Anna. Is she all right?” Stan Volga said, his chin quivering. “Tell her I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Roxy in The Crying Room thinks you should run,” I said.
“That’s what I’m doing,” he said.
“Don’t bother calling your wife,” I said. “She’s already heard enough.”
“My wife,” Stan Volga said, looking at me, his eyes red. “My wife died last year.”
* * *
Boo tipped the can, dumped me out of the garbage at the top of my steps.
“Look at that, you’re home,” Sal said from under his hood. “All under the radar, courtesy of Sal and Boo. As Joey Zaza would say, I wanna wish you all the best, God bless, ya mutha’s a prick, go fuck yourself.”
I picked myself up off the sidewalk as they walked away, Boo dragging the empty garbage can behind him. I went down the steps, thought about Moira Volga, Moira Bawn—whoever she was—as I pushed through my front door.
“Oh good,” Santos said, sitting at my table. “You’re back.”
I cracked my neck, still crooked from the ride. “Drink?” I said.
“You’re all out,” he said. “I checked.”
He stretched his hands out in front of him, fingers interlaced, cracking his knuckles. “It’s too bad,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”
He stood from the table. He was too big for the room.
“You know, you should buy a couch,” Santos said. “It’s not comfortable, sitting in a hard chair like that.”
“I lean it back against the wall, tip the legs,” I said. “It’s not too bad.”
“Even so, you need to lay down sometimes,” he said. “This is one of those times.”
He took a step towards me. The door was at my back.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “Boss likes you. He told me not to break nothing.”
“The ring,” I said, nodding at his hand. “You’re Zodiac.”
“I’m a Taurus,” he said, thick fingers splayed like he just got engaged. “What about it?”
“Was that your idea or Charlie’s?” I said.
He looked at me, blinked. “Keep your friends close,” he said. “Same with the enemies.”
“Charlie’s,” I said.
He took another step towards me. There was nowhere for me to go.
“Playing both sides,” I said. “He’s got you set up for a fall.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re the one about to hit the floor.”
I was in a spot. I needed help. I looked into his face.
“Who’s the fairest of them all?” I said.
“Huh?” Santos said.
His lip rose like a theater curtain, revealing the gap between his teeth. It was worth a shot.
That’s when I hit him.
It was a good punch. He was only half expecting it. I caught him solid. Put what I had behind it.
He just shook his head and smiled. Then he went to work.
* * *
I was out in the rain, buying a bottle. Walking it off never helped, but I had to get out of the apartment. My face was battered on one side, a bruise already showing around my eye. My ribs were busted and my arm was hanging down, shoulder dislocated, all on the same
side. I tried setting it myself, wrenching it back into place against the door frame. It didn’t take.
On my way back I waited on the corner for the light beside a Traveler in gray, garbage can beside them.
“Naw man,” the Traveler said, looking at me. “Naw.”
He pulled his hood back to show his bald head, already bobbing.
“You still jamming up the CMB?” CMB Roach said. “What’s with you, son? Why y’all following me?”
“I wasn’t,” I said. “Who are you hauling?”
I lifted up the lid of his garbage can. It was half full of abandoned screens.
“Hands off the merchandise,” he said, swiping at the lid. “Gotta fill my quota, not one iota be going in my pocket juss the weight on my shoulders.”
He swung his head back and forth, following a beat I couldn’t hear. I cracked the whiskey, took a drink. Held the bottle out to him.
“Now that’s more like it,” he said. “Hospitality like.” He tipped it back. “Y’all find what y’all needed with the Roach’s treasure map?”
“I found the Records Room,” I said. “Then I found the basement.”
“Thass where it happens,” he said. “CMB don’t like the sound, them buzzing bees be all around, they hiding them secrets in the up and down. I don’t need they honey Roach just want that money ain’t no joke gettin woke if that shit ain’t funny. Theys all fronts in the war, machinations of whores, you coming at me son I put yo ass on the floor.”
I looked at him.
“Ain’t nothing personal, man,” he said, passing the bottle back. “Thass juss how I flow. Aggressive, hooded cobra style. I wile and I guile. Marching on they army comin single file.”
He flapped his hood up and down, scratched the garbage can lid like a turntable.
I took a drink. “How did they get you off Grid?” I said. “How does fvrst chvrch mvlTverse pull people out?”
“Me? Off Grid? Naw son,” CMB Roach said. “I be on Grid every chance I get. Simulate, cultivate, I don’t regress to the mean, put my face up in lights I be on everyone screen. The CMB thass my destiny I the alpha the omega everything in between. Nonexpression for a session then I back on the scene.”
I held the bottle out to him again. “You ever pick up anything besides recycling?” I said.
He took a drink, gave me a loopy grin.
“You done heard about that, huh?” he said. “Running routes for the Fraction, that be the side action, sneaking peoples round the city cuz these tires got traction. Put a man in a can by the Roach’s own hand. Serve him up to where he going fuck the Zodiac cams. I am the last outlaw under fire but still raw Duraflame is my name I the teeth in the saw. Cuttin timber tamin Simba make him gimme the paw.”
He passed me back the bottle.
“The Fraction?” I said. “You’re transporting people for Parallax?”
“Naw son,” CMB Roach said, raising his hood. “You dudn’t heard it from me. Thass juss the CMB. Shhh shhh shhh.”
The light changed and he crossed, towing his garbage can behind him, head bobbing and weaving under his hood. I took another drink.
* * *
The screen in my pocket vibrated. Sidowsky again. I let it go. Fixed myself another drink before I got up the nerve to pop my shoulder back in. I waited for the pain to subside as I thought it over. fvrst chvrch mvlTverse was smuggling people around the city, under the cams and screens. They were working with the Parallax Liberation Faction. And they had a way to pull you off Grid, ghost and all. It was getting to the point where I might need it myself. I wasn’t ready to give up my eyebrows. Not yet.
I took the long walk back to The Rack on La Brea, back to see Lorentz. I went through the body scan. A Pocahontas hybrid was twirling onstage, flinging feathers. Lorentz was at the same round table in the back.
“Harrigan. No, no, no. Not again,” Lorentz said, looking up at me. He cocked his head. “What happened to you?”
“Ran into some trouble,” I said.
“Looks like it ran into you. Then backed up and ran you over again,” he said. “You hear about Eddie Lompoc?”
“I went to his funeral,” I said.
“That poor cucumber,” he said. “Taking advantage of a vegetable like that. It’s the chinless ones you’ve got to watch.”
“I saw your broker,” I said. “You didn’t tell me Sloan was Parallax Liberation Faction.”
“Jesus, keep that down, Harrigan,” he said, looking around. “Management’s always listening. And what did you expect? Who else you think deals in tech besides the Fraction? Nobody will touch the stuff. Me included. I already told you, I’m out. Just like I told Evelyn Faraday.”
“When was she here?” I said.
“Came in the other day, flashing her Scorpio ring, throwing that Zodiac weight around,” Lorentz said. “I can’t believe she sold out. I thought she was kidding. A killer like her signing on with that outfit. What a waste.”
“What did she want?” I said.
“Same as you,” he said. “Sniffing around about some black market tech. I told her I was done with the business, because I am.”
“You give up Sloan’s name?” I said.
He looked at me, looked away.
“She didn’t collar me for it,” Lorentz said, shaking his head. “Said she was doing me a favor. It’d be the first, I told her. Never thought I’d have to worry about Evelyn Faraday busting me. Pumping me full of buckshot maybe, but not bringing me in on a Compliance violation. Hell of a thing, what this world’s come to.”
“What do you know about fvrst chvrch mvlTverse?” I said.
“I know alopecia and enlightenment aren’t the same thing,” he said. “Why?”
“They’re working with the Fraction,” I said. “Ferrying them around the city in their garbage cans.”
“Would you—don’t tell me this shit,” Lorentz said, leaning over the table. “Don’t implicate me in whatever the fuck you’re up to.”
“You have any Travelers on Ecco?” I said.
“Now you’re talking, Harrigan,” he said. “I’ve got just what you need. What parts you want skin printed? Shiny and new. I’ll give you the house discount. Unless you want them reused. Some of the clients prefer a little mileage.”
“I don’t need parts,” I said. “Just the holography. Memories.”
“Kinky,” he said, punching numbers into the screen on his wrist. “You do what you need to do. Kiosk six in the back. Take all the time you need.”
The back was a series of stalls, like fitting rooms with mirrors and slat beds along the walls, low lit and lurid. I went into kiosk six. The frosted glass door slid shut behind me. She was already there, waiting.
Her bald head flickered over high cheekbones, sad doe eyes that I saw for a moment before she blinked and they were gone, flittered away under her long eyelashes.
“You sure you don’t want any parts printed?” she said. “Could be good for you. For both of us.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I just want to talk.”
“Whatever you want, baby,” she said, stretching out on the bed. “Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want me to be.”
Her robe was torn into strips and wrapped tight around her, showing off her curves. She unwound a strand from her hand, traced it up her arm.
“You were fvrst chvrch mvlTverse,” I said. “When you joined, did they pull you off Grid?”
She looked at me, sighed. “Is that what you want to talk about?” She wound the strip back down her arm and over her hand, tightening it like a boxer before a fight. “I was a simulator girl. Not just memory based, the real thing. I was all over Grid. Pinups, streams, everything. It got to be too much, you know? I wanted something different. I wanted something new.”
“How did they do it?” I said.
“I have no idea,” she said. “They asked me if I was running from anything, anything in my past, anything on Grid. I told them I was and they said I wouldn’t have to anymore
. Like they say, every start is a fresh start.”
She ran her hands over her bald head, down her sides like she was slipping into a new holographic skin.
“But then they wanted me to recall it all,” she said. “All the old selves, to shed them, but I had so many. And I didn’t like all of me. Soon I wanted a fresh start from that too. So I left and came here. Sold myself onto The Rack. I hope it was worth it, wherever I am now. I’m probably back on Grid. Simulating. Or worse. It always comes around, doesn’t it.”
“Were you on the road with fvrst chvrch mvlTverse?” I said. “Dragging the garbage can all over the city?”
“Everybody does it,” she said. “Picking up the recycling.”
“Ever pick up anything else?” I said.
“You sound like you’ve been around,” she said. “There’s all kinds of recycling going on out there. In here too.”
She unwound the strip again, tied it into a flickering hangman’s noose.
“Has anybody else been in here, asking about this?” I said.
“Sweetie, nobody comes into The Rack to talk,” she said. “Nobody.”
“But you’d remember them if they did?” I said.
“I remember everything,” she said, fitting the noose around her neck. “They won’t let you forget. There’s nothing else to do in here but remember.”
“Does it help?” I said, nodding at the noose.
“No,” she said, “but a girl can dream, can’t she?”
I wasn’t sure if she could. Not in a place like this. I left her there, a specter attempting suicide. Didn’t say goodbye to Lorentz on my way out.
* * *
The screen in my pocket vibrated. Sidowsky again. I picked up.
“Where you been, Harrigan?” Sidowsky said.
“Long day,” I said, wincing at the sting in my ribs.
“Listen,” he said, his voice dropping. “You got a gun?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
“You remember how to use one?” he said, whispering.
“Something about pulling a trigger,” I said. “Why?”
“Because I know who killed Eddie Lompoc,” Sidowsky said.
* * *
