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  © 2018 Matthew S. Cox

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  ISBN 978-1-94809-956-1 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-94809-957-8 (paperback)

  roken from a fitful sleep, Aaron’s mind struggled to impose order on the chaotic inrush of ambient information. A blur of echoing voices, stomach-churning stink, and cursed bright light coalesced into a single, horrid intruder pounding on the front door of his brain. Soothing cold spread across his cheeks, a herald of consciousness seeping into his being. With it came the stench of hours-old vomit and urine mixed with some unidentifiable chemical that left the taste of walnuts in his mouth. It struck him as strange to taste anything at all, save for the occasional reminiscence of scotch whenever he let out a small burp. He struggled to regain control of his arm, forgetting for several crucial seconds how it worked. As he stared at his hand, a shoe appeared and vanished. The pain of a man’s weight on his fingers took a distant, muted back seat to the metaphorical one-ton cargo box balancing on his skull.

  A voice sounding as if on the other end of a long, glass pipe came from somewhere far above him. “Sorry, man. Didn’t see ya.”

  Aaron gathered his hand against his face, smiling like an idiot at the smell of whatever-her-name-was. Fleeting images of a grinning young woman peeling a bra off over her head flashed in his mind, followed by snapshots of a stumbling walk to the terminal. He forced himself upright, shifting to put his back to the wall. Light stabbed his brain with the sharp subtlety of an icepick when he opened his eyes.

  The man who’d stepped on his hand backed up and stooped over him. “Want me to call someone?”

  Aaron waved with an aimless gesture. “Naw, mate. I’m fine. Morning snuck up on me from behind, is all.”

  “Whatever, man.” The hand-stepper walked away.

  For several minutes, he sat, dangling his head between his knees while attempting to massage away the headache and forget the taste of synthetic alcohol mixed with bile.

  Blurriness of vision cleared, and he found himself seated on the floor of a PubTran maglev station. The commotion of a crowd congealed in an echoing warp, distorted by the pneumatic whoosh of a departing tram drawing air into the tunnel behind it. His brittle mind recoiled from the noise of everyone hurrying. He clamped his hands over his face, fingers kneading skin that felt like a putty mask. A cold spot where his cheek had been in contact with the plastisteel ground throbbed with a paradoxical burning.

  A woman’s laughter punched him in the back of the brain seconds before the shrill squeal of a small child smashed into his headache with the force of a sledge. The crowd wasn’t getting any quieter. Breathing seemed as loud as if a maglev shot down a tunnel between his ears, a deafening roar of air in… air out… excruciating to hear as well as feel.

  Right, maybe I overdid it a bit last night.

  Aaron cracked one eye open again. Even bracing for it, the harsh light hurt and brought last night’s absence of food up to tickle the back of his throat. He blocked off the evil radiance with one hand, too stunned to close the eye. A shield of spreading fingers helped him acclimate to the daylight; moving, disorienting smears of color sharpened into distinct people walking by. Anyone close enough to notice him flashed expressions of concern, disdain, or mirth.

  Aaron glanced from person to person, making sarcastic faces at those who still lived humdrum normal. His gaze didn’t linger on anyone long enough to perceive a recognizable face, only vague suggestions of age and gender.

  A mocha-skinned child, a girl about six, hovered at her father’s side over by the platform, watching Aaron watch the crowd. The moment their stares met, she grinned and waved. Aaron offered an unenthused smile, managing to coax a few fingers of one hand to return the greeting. He leaned back, adoring the frigid wall against the top of his head.

  The faint hiss of moving air grew in prominence over the din of a few hundred conversations.

  “Attention PubTran passengers.” A pleasant female voice emanated from everywhere. “The approaching nine-thirty-three is an express to Sector 510 commerce district. For your own safety, please move at least ten paces―”

  Wind blasted out of the left tunnel, stealing hats and knocking a few elders and toddlers to the ground. Two hundred feet of gleaming white PubTran maglev, five cars in all, shot out of the tube, blurred across the station, and vanished into the far end, dragging debris in its wake. Despite the horrible sound, the chilly air brought a wave of euphoria. Aaron smiled an idiot smile for the few seconds he could enjoy the breeze, letting the rush of wind and noise lift him out of the PubTran station.

  “―not responsible for injury or death resulting from passengers disregarding the yellow safety line. Thank you for choosing PubTran.”

  He found himself daydreaming of the old days in the stadium, playing for Arsenal. Aaron sprinted after a nine-inch silver frictionless orb skimming inches above a surface of artificial grass. Interlocking panels of alternating pentagons and hexagons covered the outer surface; the five-sided spots opened and closed as the orb spun, creating the illusion that the same three small hover thrusters supported it. He chased the little bot in his daydream, weaving around six defending players in bright red suits bearing the logo of Kurotai Electronics Corporation; the spinning sphere reacted to the prodding of his armored boot like it could read his mind.

  Erratic jinking got him past the first four, before he kicked it over the heads of the last two while sliding low. He swung his leg up from the ground early, as if he knew where the orb would go before it went there. The kick was true; the tumbling bot went right where he expected it would. With a loud clank, the orb met the tip of his boot and zoomed in an arc.

  Only one man remained between it and the goal.

  Adoration poured off the crowd.

  The defenders had fallen for his wild rush to the side, trying to corner him. Aaron skidded to a halt on his ass, leg in the air, eyes locked upon the silver sphere rocketing off in a graceful arc. The goalie dove, reaching with armor-plated gloves for the easy save, but the orb dipped without warning an instant before contact, striking the turf and bouncing right over him.

  Goal―Arsenal.

  Game―Arsenal 3-2 in overtime.

  The crowd went crazy. Hands grabbed Aaron, hoisting him up over a mass of yellow-suited bodies. Flashing lights, orbiting cam-bots, and the dull roar of cheering spectators diminished into the discontented grumblings of two hundred soon-to-be-late commuters and harsh, naked LED bulbs overhead. Someone had shot out the lights years ago and no one had bothered replacing the covers. A weaker rush of air blew the stink of city over him as another maglev pulled in and stopped.

  Two men in suits, walking abreast, passed him while muttering about indirium ore shipping rates. A distant woman, only a voice in the sea of bodies, yelled about ‘having a deal’ and someone ‘just couldn’t do this to her.’ The shrieking drilled at his headache, making him wince. He patted down his severely-in-need-of-laundry formerly nice suit, ignoring the splash of bright red in his breast pocket and thrusting his hand under the jacket. Even the
sheen from the blue-black fabric burned his retinas, much less what’s-her-name’s smalls.

  Probing fingertips found metal at the base of the inside pocket, and he withdrew a strip of non-glossy black three inches long and half-an-inch tall. He set his elbows on his knees and held the nameplate in both hands, tracing his thumb over the curved face and the engraved letters PRYCE. Beneath the larger name, the tiny word Allison appeared grey, having collected lint. To the left, an engraved 0 with a sword speared through it as tall as both names, and on the right, a Corporal’s rank insignia.

  Aaron stared into the flat black surface, puffing on it to clear the dust. Distant feminine laughter echoed in his memories, calling his name.

  “Aaron, what are you doing?” She laughed.

  A vision of his hands pulling red panties down over caramel thighs.

  “Aaron? What are you doing!” She squealed.

  He remembered carrying her nude onto the patio, to their tiny hot tub.

  “Aaron!” she screamed, “What are you doing!”

  Color drained from his face. The nameplate in his fingers shifted away and up, perched on the chest of Division 0 Psi armor. He stared into his wife’s terrified brown eyes past the fog layering the inside of her visor―and over the blue ring-dot sight of his E-90 laser pistol. Wisps of blonde framed her face, and tears ran down her cheeks. His arm trembled. Pain racked his head as if an army of tiny creatures scraped knives on the inside of his skull, stripping his brain from the walls of its prison.

  “Aaron?” she whispered. “You can fight it. Please…”

  His horrified scream drowned out the electric thrum of the laser core. A split second was all it took for his wife to die on her feet. The laser had left a finger-wide hole at the center of the forehead; her brain boiled away to steam like a blown egg, leaving her skull an empty cavity.

  The look of shock and horror in those beautiful brown eyes had haunted him every morning since. Helpless to stop himself, he’d stood paralyzed as she fell to her knees, teetered for a second, and continued face first onto the floor at his feet.

  Another woman’s laughter broke through the rage and pain. Tall, prominent cheekbones gleaming upon dark brown skin, her pale grey suit shimmering, she threw her head back with a haughty laugh. Thin dreadlock strands of dye-blonde hair hung down to her waist. In his day-mare, the braids writhed in a mass of ropey, Medusine serpents, hissing and snapping.

  That woman had compelled him to murder his wife, his partner. Burning started at the tip of his brain and crept back; his world vanished, engulfed by searing white light. Aaron muttered, unsure if he spoke for real or only in his head. In the blankness, the scent of a sterile conference room hung, tinted with a hint of hibiscus perfume.

  “There was a scream. My head felt like it was going to explode. The building just… vanished.”

  “Why did you attack six of our own people?” asked the voice of an older female, far away yet loud.

  “I… didn’t even see―”

  A young woman broke the silence. “Aaron?”

  “Alli?” Aaron’s head shot up.

  Glare faded to a destroyed store. The bodies of three salespeople and a handful of customers lay strewn about under slabs of wall studded with thin reinforcing wires. His wife emerged from a cloud of pale dust that hung over the destruction like a mass of angry spirits. He didn’t find it the least bit odd that her uniform had become a barely-there pink nightshirt. Short blonde hair framed her angelic face. Allison Pryce, née Dominguez. She advanced, barefoot over jagged fragments of thermacrete, both arms raised, unaffected by the devastation upon which she walked.

  His dream-self collapsed to his knees, again in the throes of the pain that tore apart his mind the instant he’d failed to resist the horrible command.

  Agony like a red-hot lance impaled his head; his right eye felt as though it had swelled to the size of a frictionless orb before someone lit it on fire.

  “Aaron?” She beckoned him with an inward motion from both hands.

  “I’m so sorry, Alli…” He broke down in sobs, struggling to reach for her.

  He cried out in his mind, begging the dream not to end. Despite the horrendous pain, he wanted to be with Allison, even a nightmare of her.

  “Aaron?” The voice changed to that of a man.

  His eyes snapped open. No longer did he stand in that awful place, seconds before blacking out from the building pain. Once again, Aaron Pryce sat on the floor of a PubTran maglev station, two feet away from a puddle of semi-dry vomit―probably his. The sharp scent of clove surrounded the man hovering over him. Aaron struggled to raise his ponderous head.

  A thin wisp of flavored Nicohaler vapor trailed out of a broad nose, conjuring the image of a dragon pondering fire. Air from another departing tram flapped the man’s long green coat and baggy pants, which might once have been camouflage. Aaron lost the battle to keep his head up; in the corner of his eye, police-issue boots from ten years ago tapped. A dark hand squeezed Aaron’s shoulder.

  “Damn, man. You look like shit.”

  The deep voice provided the final bit of familiarity his brain needed to understand why this man spoke to him as if they knew each other: his ‘roomie,’ Darwin.

  “Was on the piss last night. This is the morning after the night before.”

  “Whatever the shit that means…”

  Aaron frowned at the tear collected in the engraved letters of his wife’s name. He grabbed for the red handkerchief, discovering it not such an item at all when he snapped his hand to unfurl it. Scarlet panties. What’s-her-name’s smalls.

  Darwin laughed, deep and baritone. “At least it looks like you had a good time. Tell me you at least got this one’s name? Was it worth it?”

  His lips formed a noncommittal smile. “Ugh. It ain’t worth it since I’s too bevvied up to remember.” Aaron squinted at the man’s face, surrounded by cruel overhead lights. “Bollocks. What the devil time’s it?”

  Some inexplicable force pulled him upright. It took him a few seconds to notice Darwin’s grip on his shoulders.

  “Time to get you cleaned up. In case you forgot after whatever you did t’yerself last night, we got a job to do.” He patted him on the chest. “You asked for Shim’s help, so you gotta do this.”

  “Aye.” Aaron stuffed the panties in his pants pocket. “Lead on.”

  aron cringed in anticipation of the last mouthful of synthetic beer, knowing the innocent-looking suds were more than they appeared to be. That last bit would tear out his tongue and beat him with it. A mixture of weakness and misery lingered at the bottom of the metal canister, laced with the paint-stripping flavor of whatever chemical allowed it to go from room temperature to ice cold the instant it opened. He decided against doing that to himself again. Taking the dreaded final swig was the act of a desperate man. Aaron would buy a fresh one. He held it at arm’s length and saluted it.

  “The Crown thanks you for your sacrifice, soldier.”

  He lowered the empty canister to the table with a klonk.

  Darwin had squeezed himself up to the bar some minutes ago. When the woman on his right got bored with him, he struck up an easy conversation with an Asian man on his left. Even Darwin couldn’t tell if he flirted or simply tried to be friendly. Unlike most of the bars his roommate of circumstance dragged him to when the pale grey cinder blocks got too boring, this one didn’t have music that smashed his brain. Usually, these places felt like an experiment on the effects of sonic pressure waves upon gelatinous tissue enclosed in bone.

  His gaze settled on a slender woman dancing on a raised platform at the deepest part of the building, flanked by holographic doubles mirroring every move. Her costume consisted of scraps of black fabric cut in leaf shapes, adhered to the critical points as well as a few decorative ones. NanoLED tattoos created the effect of moving fireflies on her arms and torso. She moved with practiced ease, undulating through a routine she’d no doubt done a thousand times. Her intangible backup dancers bro
ke sync, and three forms interlaced in a mesmerizing ballet. Clever holo-projector work made the fireflies appear to leave her skin and circle the performance.

  A clatter on the tiny table preceded the fragrance of something fishy mixed with pepper. The plate in front of him contained an inch-thick slab of greyish-pink matter covered in black specks on a bun, next to a mass of fries. Darwin sat opposite him, wiggling his fingers over a huge basket of bright orange wings in some manner of anticipatory ritual. Enough sauce covered them to water Aaron’s eyes from three feet away.

  “What the devil is this?”

  “They didn’t have fish and chips, closest they could get.”

  “Hilarious.” Aaron lifted the top bun. “Is this disaster supposed to be a tuna steak, or dare I try to call this thing salmon?”

  Darwin stuck a tiny drumstick in his mouth whole. Seconds later, he pulled out a bare bone, which he pointed at Aaron. “It’s fish.” He wagged the bone at the fries. “Those are chips.”

  “Not even close, but I’ve had worse.” Aaron resigned himself to the OmniSoy horror. “Flavor is but an illusion.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Darwin. “OmniSoy food is like politics. Looks good on the outside, but it’s all the same slime inside. No matter how many times you see it, you don’t realize it ’til you bite, and then it’s too late. I got these wings ’cause they real.”

  Aaron finished chewing. “Real?”

  “Well, as real as they kin get growin’ shit in a tank. You know―” Darwin’s eyes tracked a peppershaker floating up from the table and gliding into Aaron’s hand. “Shit, this would be one freaky chicken if it ever lived… wings bigger than its legs. Don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to the Omni.”

  “Don’t feel bad, mate. Neither am I.” Aaron forced a cheesy smile and dumped more pepper on the ‘fish.’

  Darwin shook his head, chuckling while working on a few more wings. “I never in a billion years would’a thought I’d be splittin’ rent with a cop.”

  Aaron scowled at a fry before biting it. “Ex-cop, and you don’t pay rent.”