Smoketown

by Tenea D. Johnson

  Virtu put him back where he belonged. As the single largest stockholder of McClaren Industries he had not only the prototypes for the first models, but received the latest updates to the technology, and he used his special benefits in earnest: the feather-light streaming gear, as well as a full-body submersion unit that allowed him to block out the world completely and hook himself up to extrasensory points. The tank—as he referred to the large clear box in the corner of his living room—delivered a life crisper, clearer and more exciting than actual life had ever been—even living out on the edges of experience as Rory often had. There were no worries in virtu, no hesitations, no doubts or recriminations, no disappointments. You knew at the end of your tryst in a Tuscan vineyard, or the climb up Mount Kilimanjaro, that the glasses came off and you would return safely to your life without any consequences for the actions you’d just experienced—not for you or your loved ones. Life could not compete with that.

  It had never been able to. From the first booth-sized confessionals that once dotted the city, to the prototype of a cranial implant scheduled to hit the market next quarter and now glowing orange inside a small plexi case near Rory’s kitchen, virtu beckoned and seduced with its artificial perfection.

  Rory turned up the sound on the closed circuit feed. Too much of the caller’s song was lost on his failing hearing aids. He hadn’t gone cricket deaf, but as most of his hearing was linked straight into his brain from the virtus he didn’t much use his ears and so did not miss the sensation except at times like these. With the exception of his sight, he’d let all his external senses fade when his wealth could easily have saved, even enhanced, his perception. He’d kept his sight sharp so he could spy from The Spires, his only direct connection to the rest of the world.

  The caller’s song reverberated through the great room bouncing off of the triple-paned plexi. Rory knew even if someone had been standing on the other side of the glass or on the never-used balcony they wouldn’t be able to hear the song. The Spires’ insulation was part of its beauty. Even as a boy he had found the buildings breathtaking, a shard of a fairy tale sunk deep in the jungle soil. After his true home, the family home, had been lost to him because of his own fear, he’d come here because of that boy’s musings. Even now, Rory sometimes wondered if he didn’t live inside the last remnant of the Leiodaran dream.

  Rory closed his eyes and listened. The caller’s song, as lovely as it was, reinforced the demise of that idea of Leiodare. The song was a refined imitation, but an imitation nonetheless. Rory hadn’t truly enjoyed a song since Peru’s last virtu real had been delivered, many months before.

  The memory opened a blankness in him; he let the song fill it, for the moment.

  5

  Crisp night air blew into Anna’s face as she made her way down the avenue towards Acte Station. As she approached the stairs that led down into the station, she switched her shopping bag of parcels from hand to hand, plucked her sunglasses from her inner pocket and put them on. For the few seconds she walked in the dark, she tilted the frames down and looked over the straight rim.

  Bright light bled up from the underground station, creating a block of light on the sidewalk. When she reached the top stair, Anna squinted and put the glasses back in their proper place.

  Giene light filled the station. A whiter version of the cheap yellow giene light in Anna’s loft flooded every crevice of the station, bouncing against the white tile and red trim. Another level below, at the tracks and benches some transportation engineer had had the presence of mind to build colored gel boxes around the most powerful recessed giene lights, creating both red and gold spotlights that shone down in focused beams. Experience had taught Anna that a group of five or so people could fit in the beam, and standing in it could blast the chill from her bones on a cold day, help clear her mind on a cloudy one. She suspected the result to be more serendipity than design. Standing there she always felt as if was next to be called on stage or perhaps handpicked for whatever daydream of redemption overtook her that day. Now standing in a wide golden beam, Anna placed her bag between her feet. The mouth of the shopping bag opened wider and Anna stared down at the parcels inside: a package of figs and a pair of handkerchiefs for her latest package to Peru.

  A soft hum bounced around the station and Anna looked up at an almond-skinned woman with nearly shoulder-length dreadlocks at the far end of the station. Even from this distance, Anna could tell she was attractive. Her features weren’t clear, but nicely proportioned and somehow familiar, fitting in the pattern of beauty. She wore a bright white pantsuit with no jacket or shirt, just a fitted vest that showed off her shapely arms and décolletage. The pants fit in the right places as well.

  The woman stood in a beam of red light swaying slightly as she hummed.

  Anna tried to nonchalantly focus in on the sound without turning towards her. The melody seemed familiar if not the words. A small group of people—a middle-aged male couple and their female friend laughed and talked on the platform between Anna and the woman. Anna slowly moved towards the woman and away from the noise, the beginnings of recognition tugging at her.

  “Borrowed Love,” was it? Perhaps one of the torch songs from the 88s? A bramble of likely candidates clustered in Anna’s mind, each one batted away with the next note she heard in the mesmerizing melody echoing through the train station.

  As Anna leaned against the supporting pillar a few meters away from the woman, the song resolved itself as Anna hummed along quietly. “The Life of Ever.”

  Of course. How could Anna have not known it from the first verse?

  She’d listened to the song so much during her travels that the audio track had become inoperable, but even then she still heard the refrains in her sleep and first thing in the morning. It was a comfort she didn’t know she needed at the time. She smiled to herself and sang a bit more freely than she realized. She felt a tingling at her shoulder and inched her gaze up. The woman was watching her, eyes squinting as she tried to discern mocking or perhaps trying to place Anna’s face. Looking at her confirmed the familiarity, the pattern Anna had recognized. She knew the woman humming “The Life of Ever”—the voice, even at a hum, was as unmistakable as her lips.

  It was her caller, the green-robed morning that Anna stayed up until all hours of the night to catch. Uncovered, the caller rivaled the beauty of her songs—in much the same way. It was unexpected, but perfectly in proportion—plump lips, almond brown eyes, strong jaw, and the hint of dimples in her heart-shaped face. Her voice, of course, had been the same, just more subdued, and warmer when wrapped around words. Also something else Anna couldn’t place until she realized they were still staring at each other. Her voice was more personal.

  Wind rushed ahead of the oncoming train. Anna looked towards it and felt her caller watching her. She kept her eyes on the train as it slowed, and stopped. When she looked back the caller was gone, already onboard. Anna entered the next car. She looked for a place to sit, perhaps behind a pillar, but one with the vantage point of the window separating cars. As the car shifted its weight around a semi-circle in the track, Anna let go to the momentum and slid to the back of the seat. She caught a glimpse of the caller, eyes closed, still humming she bet, filling the space up with her song.

  The train approached McClaren Street, Anna’s stop. She sat and watched as the doors opened and closed. She’d been intermittently examining the contents of her shopping bags and slyly (she hoped) stealing looks at the caller in the next car. Now Anna stared openly. How many mornings had she spent, making cups of tea waiting for the woman’s voice to pierce the fading night? She’d scuffed an impression of her backside on the windowsill from sitting where she watched the caller, with her feet up on the railing of the fire escape, her back to the loft and open window. Invariably at some point in her song, Anna closed her eyes and it felt like floating.

  Anna had once stayed at the Etoran beaches for a virtuoso assignment where the client only required that she float for hours in s
alt-rich waters and stare at the sun. They had been some of the best days of her life. The water covered her ears, blocking nearly all sound. Strange then that the sound of this woman’s voice would call up the memory of bobbing freely, safely with only the sky and a warm, soft sun hiding behind clouds for company—but still in that isolation feeling connected to each and every thing.

  And now that same voice—articulated in a striking heart-shape-faced beauty—sat just a few meters away, exposed and accessible as anyone else in the city. Even the cygnets could wait for that.

  The train sped up as it descended into The Shallows. When the caller got out two stops later, Anna followed.

  Nightlife ruled The Shallows. A few places offered family-friendly distractions during the day, but they were far outnumbered by other attractions. After dark, the clubs threw open their doors to entice Leiodarans to come and work off their various tensions. Passing by the station lockers, Anna considered depositing the parcels inside, but didn’t want to lose sight of the caller, so she walked briskly on. The caller could duck in one of a score of entrances and be lost to Anna forever until she reappeared some morning shrouded and distant as ever. Anna couldn’t take the chance and so instead stuck relatively close to the caller. Anna ascended the stairs no more than a few meters behind the well-shaped back and the white fabric that accentuated it. As she came up the stairs and back into darkness, Anna abandoned her sunglasses. Up above, the omnipresence of bright water briefly made her reconsider.

  Long before the land that became Leiodare had been reborn as a jungle, before the dry city that had preceded Leiodare, before cities, an asteroid had struck this stretch of earth and left behind its impression. The resultant impact crater stretched six kilometers in every direction. Apparently some long-ago city planner had thought it intriguing to not only build inside it, but to fill the crater with water and construct an elevated thoroughfare from which one could look down on the resultant canal that ran around the edges of the buildings. Dozens of light globes floated on the water year round. Some of the first residents had introduced the light globes, in homage to the Chaiwanese immigrants that had come to inhabit The Shallows long ago. Now The Shallows was awash in glowing orbs, large and small. They dotted the moving water and mirrored the constant movement of bodies on the streets.

  The entrances of buildings in The Shallows were at thoroughfare level; some on stilts, others huddled up together on wooden pylons. On the small service lanes that branched out from the main thoroughfare, the water was held back by a clear waterproof barrier, and there buskers and independent dance troupes vied for attention.

  Up on the main thoroughfare, cavernous dance halls competed with small, exclusive clubs of every hue and distinction—sex clubs, dance clubs, clubs that were essentially enormous kitchens where guests could prepare or devour every delicacy known. Everywhere sound abounded—music, live and recorded, laughter, shrieks and a steady hum of conversation below the rest. Anna knew that she should get back on the train and go home. She hadn’t checked on the cygnets since this morning. And, she must look a fool carrying her parcels through The Shallows on a party night. Besides, following people—even beautiful intriguing women with whom she’d shared every morning for the last year—was not a usual or welcome action on her part.

  The caller crossed the street and, a block later, so did Anna.

  She was getting closer to the other woman, walking a few paces to the caller’s left, an old habit of hers to let people see her when she followed near them on the street. It was a way of letting them know they had nothing to fear from her. She did it now, thinking that the other woman probably wouldn’t recognize her from the train. Anna doubted that she was memorable enough to be careful and she didn’t want to be careful, didn’t want to think there was a devious reason behind her walk through The Shallows.

  Perhaps the isolation had finally gotten to her—and this was the beginning of some new and shameful chapter of her life. Trouble was, she didn’t quite believe it, even as she continued to match her footsteps to the caller’s, continued to watch her lithe back as she moved down the street. Anna caught a glimpse of herself in a looking glass on the corner and tried to pat her thick, dark hair into place—didn’t ask herself why.

  The caller slowed down in front of a nondescript gray building in the midst of the glare and pomp of the others on the block. Anna slowed her pace as well.

  The caller stopped near the entrance, a gold-colored door, and looked back Anna’s way, her eyebrows knitted together.

  “Are you lost?” she asked, an edge of challenge in her tone.

  Her speaking voice was raspy with a slight mellow accent Anna couldn’t place. Anna watched the movement of her lips and worked to clear her head enough to answer. She felt embarrassed, but oddly forthright.

  “No,” she flicked across the other woman’s gaze. “Not lost.”

  The caller’s shoulders moved down; her eyebrows relaxed and the creases in her forehead disappeared. “Not lost. But searching.”

  “Know of any good places to go around here?” Anna asked. She cringed on the inside.

  “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

  “Good music. There’s something, a song, but I can’t remember the name.”

  A man approached the caller from behind, a ready smile on his face.

  “Seife, how you are, sweet?” he asked, moving in for a brief hug.

  “I am well.” Seife turned to at Anna, raised her eyebrows in invitation, looking from the door to Anna and back. She followed the man into the club.

  Anna smiled and stepped inside, savoring the ring of this new sound: Seife.

  Fine particles of gold glitter swirled around the dimly lit club, settling in drinks, on shoulders, and on the small stage Seife walked towards. Anna took a seat at the bar and ordered.

  All manner of Leiodarans filled the small, circular tables crowded around the stage: men in business attire with precious onyx pieces at the collar and cuff, students in their finest, artists and bedraggled office workers who hadn’t bothered to change on the way, folks who from their server aprons seemed to be on break from other spots on the street. They shared their rapture and their release watching as Seife and her piano accompanist, the man from outside, began to weave jazz and percussobeat into a rich tapestry unfurled for their pleasure.

  As the bartender deposited a tall glass in front of Anna, she turned to find Seife now standing in front of a baby grand while her accompanist played a slow-building tale of betrayal and redemption on the banks of a distant shore as imagined by the songwriter and rendered by Seife’s voice.

  Anna leaned against the bar, swirling the brown around the edges of her drink until it melded with the blue liqueur that would make it easy to sleep tonight. She usually didn’t indulge in somatics, but tonight she needn’t stay up for the dawn. Her call had come early. It was not quite a call though. This was more than the visceral sounds of morning that the callers created. Tonight was a night of words, an articulating night: “Seife,” lyrics, whatever it was Anna intended to say later which right now she wasn’t quite sure of.

  A talking night, perhaps a night of connections, however brief. Anna had once been to a club down the avenue, and had met a counselor from Nashville. They’d spent two nights together and then none as Anna pulled away when it came time to prepare a package for Peru’s birthday. Anna thought the counselor had moved back to Nashville or maybe somewhere further over the mountains.

  “This seat occupied?” A young woman, stylish and fresh, even in her office attire, stood in front of Anna, blocking her view. The music and glitter swirled around the woman so that she almost seemed to stand in a fog. Anna looked down at the seat next to her.

  “Yes. I’m afraid it is,” Anna replied, looking briefly at the woman’s face and then around her to focus on the stage again. She didn’t see the woman walk away so much as feel relief when once again her view was unobstructed.

  The lyrics slipped past Anna’s ears so
that they almost seemed to mean nothing. She’d been sure the song was about fucking and foreign exchanges, but now it seemed to be more a love story. She looked down at her glass and wondered what role the somatics played in her confusion. The other glasses in the room were filled with orange and green liquids. She seemed to be the only one imbibing in somatics. But the other patrons looked as dreamy as she felt, maybe from the music or perhaps the company they kept; she seemed to be the only person here alone. The young office worker she had rebuffed had already found another seat to occupy.

  The caller finished her set and, to Anna’s excitement and uneasiness, walked her way. As Seife moved, the deep V of the white vest contrasted with her skin, further emphasizing her cleavage, the slightly muscled arms, the collarbone and graceful neck. Though Anna stared, she didn’t feel self-conscious. She worked at keeping her expression as neutral as possible, but doubted that she succeeded. When Anna saw the caller’s bemused smile, she was certain she’d failed. For a moment she tensed, expecting the worst. She tried to think of something clever to say and said something else entirely as Seife gracefully sat on the stool next to her own.

  “Beautiful,” Anna said.

  Seife watched her a few seconds before answering, whether sizing her up or gathering her patience, Anna couldn’t be sure.

  “Different from what I sing in the mornings, though,” Seife said.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to tell people who you were.”

  “True. It’s a special secret only shared with rich donors and politicians. Makes them feel important. Or maybe to feed the delusion.” Seife looked at her silently again—this time definitely sizing her up.

  “Well, don’t I feel important then,” Anna said.

  “You should. But not because of that.”