Life Is a Beautiful Thing Box Set
Date: 2016-02-06 05:00:00+00:00
Description: Almost 1,000 pages of cyberpunk from the writer of the Feedback Loop series! Book One Nelly is a pregnant pollute smuggler who uses her husband's powerful connections to freely move illegal contraband between America and Mexico. She's also an acquaintance of Meme Lamar. Once Meme learns that he's been targeted, he makes plans with Nelly to hightail it to Mexico. With a top mercenary tracking him, and his unique ability to place himself in situations that are impossible to escape from, will Meme and Nelly make it to safety in time? Book Two Rinchi becomes a MercSecure representative and is give
Publisher: Boycott Books

Life is a Beautiful Thing

BOOK ONE

Harmon Cooper

Edited by George C. Hopkins

Four Book Box Set Copyright © 2016 by Harmon Cooper

Copyright © 2016 Boycott Books

Cover by White Comma

Edited by George C. Hopkins (georgechopkins@yahoo.com)

www.harmoncooper.com
writer.harmoncooper@gmail.com

All rights reserved. All rights preserved.This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

P.S. Share this series with someone awesome.

ZERO∞

**A note from the author before you get started**

This book hops right into the fray with Meme, a human therapist for Humandroids (read: androids) who is at a bar in LA using what are known as pollutes. He’s just met Nelly, a pregnant woman who will have a huge impact on his life as the series progresses. He is on the verge of meeting Sauria, a powerful businessman and CEO of a company called Executive Executions who will later call for his death. Meme is also about to encounter Yeshi, a Humandroid escort who, like Nelly, will greatly impact his life.

Whew.

I tell you this for the sake of clarity. I read loads of novels, and it’s always helpful to get a grip on things before diving headfirst into a series, especially one that is as bizarre as Life is a Beautiful Thing.

Quick Links

Book Two

Book Three

Book Four

--Harmon Cooper

ONE∞

Currently, I’m getting wasted off pollutes with a pregnant woman three days before Halloween at POLLUTION CLUB 512 in Los Angeles. Nelly is a tall chick with a silver glaze on her belly caused by a recent application of C-Baby. She’s in a cheesecloth shirt, topless underneath. Conservative compared to most at the club tonight.

As I speak to her, Nelly closes her eyes and logs into iNet. I really don’t care if she’s paying attention to me or not. I’ll have her soon enough. I reach for a pollution mask, strap it on. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Life is a beautiful thing.

“So, do you want to switch bodies or not?” I ask her. I push the pollution mask to the top of my forehead. No sense in wasting time when time wastes you. The bulge of her pregnant stomach touches something primal inside me, reminds me of my own time in the womb, a glorious nine months. Rattle dasein!

“I’m talking to my friend Carloza about it,” Nelly says with her eyes closed. “It’s complicated when you’re pregnant.”

“So you’ll think about it then?” I ask. “Let me get the next round.”

“Okay, just a little though.”

I set my pollution mask on a hook in front of the bar. The mask resembles a plague doctor’s mask with emerald polypropylene eye lenses. It has a long beak-like nose to allow excess pollution to linger. The nose is connected to a series of distributor cables tucked under the bar. The designer ones are made from real leather and on some occasions, endangered animal skulls and other fine materials.

I glance back at Nelly. She reaches for her mask and pulls it down over her forehead. She’s calm and collected, ready to inebriate. There’s something different about her gait, as if she isn’t used to coming to this pollution club or perhaps, not used to the commotion on the ground floor level. Intriguing to say the least, fascinating to say the most.

“I’ll have one Naked Lunch and one Loathing Hunter,” I tell the bartender. He pulls out one of his dreadlocks and starts cleaning the inside of a shot glass with it. He positions the dreadlock above the first shot glass. An antifreeze-colored liquid trickles out of the end of his dreadlock. Nothing like getting high off fresh pollutes.

“You want an Ayahuasca topper?” He looks at me through a pair of old leaks.

“Sure.” I nod towards Nelly’s stomach. “It’ll do the baby good.”

The bartender pours the drinks into a grimy tube connected to a series of pipes attached to the bar. I hear a hissing sound as the drinks are instantly vaporized into a fresh pollute. I point to the tube connected to Nelly’s pollution mask. She nods and pulls her mask over her face.

We inhale to exhale.

TWO∞

Let’s get this out of the way.

You’re a tall person, or maybe you’re short. Perhaps you’re between tall and short. You’re a fat person who is skinny at heart, or a skinny person who wants to be larger as to appear more intimidating. You’re a mixture of tall and fat, fat and short, skinny and tall, or simply medium sized. Nothing wrong with being medium-sized. You are almost above average and we’re both mediocre.

You’re my grandmother on the verge of her seventy-sixth birthday, five hundred and thirty-two in dog years. You’re my ex-girlfriend who is mad at me for breaking up with her over iNet. You’re Columbian. You’re a mix between Irish and Brazilian. You’re a protomartyr with a penchant for self-righteousness. You’re white and your grip on the world has finally started to subside. You’re Asian. You’re a librarian and you have a small pen in the shape of a Kalashnikov. Your mother is from Malaysia. Your father is from Niger and he rode velocipedes as a child. You were born in Melbourne and are a closet kangatarian who is into auto asphyxiation.

You’re unique, you’re angry, you’re patriotic, you have an addiction, you don’t give a shit about politics, you love your country, you’re racist, you’re funny, you’re a thief, you’re good in bed, you’re a war veteran, you believe in magic, you aren’t sincere, you think too much, you say too little, you’re pathetic, you love your television, you hate your country, you routinely French kiss your spouse, you’re a sex offender, you loathe your brother, you dance while no one’s watching, you listen when no one’s speaking, you’re going to die tomorrow (goodbye!), you have a long life to live, you’re aggressive, you believe the fortunes in fortune cookies, you worship God and despise the heathens, you day trade in crypto currencies, you’re the ninety-nine percent, your mother is dead, you’re a virgin, you have an eating disorder, you’re lactose intolerant but you always crave cheese, you suffer from coulrophobia, you have traveled the world in search of nothing, you were born over international waters, your uncle is nuts, your sister is getting married soon, your half-brother sells frozen yogurt for a living, you’re a victim of senescence.

You’re at least one of these things and I’m at least two. On a good day, I’m three. Remember that.

The pollution club has a dance floor designed by a Mongolian immigrant named Batbold. The ceiling has over two thousand black lights interspersed with strobe lights. The corners of the club are tenebrous and mysterious, a perfect place to fuck or be fucked. In the center of the floor is a cream-colored stupa adorned with mirrors. On top of the stupa are light-up eyes with multifarious lasers that respond to the choons. The walls are coated with velvet speakers and pencil-thin LCD screens. Boom-boom goes the bass as people lose face.

The floor tilts backward and forward, increasing the chances of vomiting. Smart enough to realize this, Batbold built a vomit trough on both sides of the dance floor. The vomit funnels into a cement truck outside, where it’s churned until morning comes. The following day, it’s freeze-packed at a factory on the outskirts of LA and shipped off to Third World nations under the highly successful Vomit-For-Petrol Program started by the UN.

All around the dance floor, people perch like long-nosed gargoyles inhaling pollutes from pollution masks. No one sits. Instead, people squat on plush cubes stained with three-dimensional world currency symbols that change colors every couple of minutes (they’re updated every time a currency gains or drops in value on the global market).

Popular pollutes such as Burberry Third World Exhaust, Prada Stink Bomb Bloody Sundays, White Comma Lead-Based Paint, Marc Jacobs’ Sinsemilla and Clive Christian’s Imperial Atrocity are pumped into various pollution masks. The pollute clouds mingle with the sweaty bodies on the dance floor. They create an odor that is instantly orgasmic. Delete occhiolism.

Almost everyone wears masks on the tilting dance floor. The DJ, in a caged booth that sits atop the stupa, wears a fluorescent Guy Fawkes mask. All the other masks are various degrees of frightening or anodyne – this shit cray!

As I dance with pregnant Nelly I notice a Lady Gaga meat costume, a Steve Jobs with an apple in his mouth mask, a Minion mask, a Jennifer Lopez booty mask, a zombie Osama Bin Laden mask (with oozing bullet wounds!), A Putin mask shaped like a dick, a classic Cheney snarling mask, a flip phone mask (which is scarier than it sounds), an Angela Merkel mask (also scarier than it sounds) and a Justin Bieber after puberty and before extreme alcoholism mask. Tonight’s pre-Halloween party theme is the early twenty-first century. Long live the aughts!

The people that don’t wear masks are generally naked or have their bodies painted in elaborate ways. As is popular with the times (at least in ‘Murica, at least in LA), most of the women have a thick nest of pubic hair with braided strands. The men have a straight line shaved from their pubic region to the base of their cocks, a style meant to elongate the appearance of an erection while dancing. Every able-bodied male has the strip, including myself. No one cares about nudity anymore, especially this close to All Hallows” Eve. Confirm and conform.

I’m wearing a pair of jeans, a body-switcher necklace and a shirt that has been unbuttoned all the way down to the last button. The hardest button to button. Suave and sophisticated, muy guapo I am. On my head is a military cap with the words ad undas written in black light responsive paint on the back of the hat. I have no idea what it means, but a guy wearing a plastic Satan mask complimented it as he pinched my ass.

In case you think I’ve forgotten, I’m still interested in switching bodies with pregnant Nelly. I just need to find the right time to ask her again. I admit, earlier, I might have been a little too assertive with my request. Duly noted. With a few more pollute shots and some time on the dance floor, I figure I’ll be able to take her back to my flat and trade bodies before the ass crack of dawn shits another day on LA.

I spot Nelly navigating her way through the tilting dance floor. She is def the hottest pregnant woman I’ve seen in weeks. She has a pair of white contact lenses on and an elaborately jeweled neon bindi glued between her eyebrows. Her hair is wrapped in a bun and held together by a light-up chopstick that blinks with a red Coca-Cola advertisement. A skirt hangs from beneath the bulge of her belly to a foot above her kneecaps. Modest. With the C-Baby applied to her stomach, I can see her fetus squirming under the intense black lights. It’s a girl, something to be proud of. The species must live on. I take a breather and catapult myself towards a free pollution mask. Mouth-to-mouth that ego!

Note to Reader – it’s hard to run on a tilted dance floor. As I near the edge, my knees buckle and I fall forward. I catch the arm of a muscular mustached man wearing a checkered top hat and a flashing bowtie. He slaps me across the face and then hugs me, laughing maniacally. I can taste my blood and his sweat on my upper lip. He licks my chin and bites my earlobe. I push him away, step off the dance floor and reach for a pollution mask.

“I’ve never kissed a black man!” he screams over the booming bass.

Neither have I.

The masks on the dance floor have a little touchscreen keyboard attached so you can tell the bartenders working in the other room what kind of shot you want. There are also apps that instantly send your order, but I like going manual from time to time. I type in LoathHunAyaTop and a blue light on the tube flickers twice. It turns green. Credit approved – a feeling that will unite humankind for centuries to come.

Thirty seconds later and I’m inhaling my favorite pollute. In a haze, I push the mask to the top of my head and look out onto the dance floor. I catch Nelly dancing with a short woman. She’s giggling and swaying left to right feverishly. The baby churns in her pregnant stomach… she must be eight months pregnant at least! My sweet lord is nature beautiful!

“That’s my body,” I say to a fat man wearing a Burger King crown. His belly is pulled up by a pair of red suspenders, allowing me to see his nether regions. He’s the first man I’ve seen in a long time without a strip shaved through his pubes. In place of the strip is an equal sign. Can you believe that? Who’s equal these days!? Who’s ever been equal? What’s he thinking? Even the President has a strip!

Maybe he’s on the verge of a new fashion trend I’m yet unaware of. Instinctively, I want to close my eyes and log into iNet and image search ‘new pubic hair styles’. I refrain from GoogleFacing impulsively because I don’t want him to think I care. Never let someone think you care. The less you care the better you fare. Fake it ‘til you make it or beat it ‘til you can beat it.

The man turns to me and spits a piece of gum into his hand, “Do you want to switch bodies?”

Fish lip jiggle tits. He shows me the bubble gum, his flush face beaming with anticipation. The gum has a few iridescent blue specks in it. A body-switcher. I’ve never seen such a clever body-switcher before. I’ve seen used soda cans, chewed pencils, bent thumb tacks and empty make-up containers, but I’ve never seen a piece of gum. Personally, I use a guitar pick (which is currently hanging from my neck).

“You can chew it?”

“No, no,” he says. “I just keep it in my mouth under my tongue. I wouldn’t actually chew it. The name is Sauria, by the way.”

Sauria is definitely into something big. He must have purchased the device illegally in Hong Kong. I’ve read many articles about the illegal body-switching technology they have there. He must switch bodies all the time. Maybe he works for the FCG. He is fat enough to at least be on the city council. I eye the man suspiciously, not sure what to make of him. The ends of his smile disappear into his chubby pig cheeks.

“Do you work for the FCG?” I ask him point blank.

He nearly takes a swing at me. “Do I work for the Federal Corporate Government? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Yeah… ”

He changes the subject. “It sure was sunny today.” He pulls his pollution mask over his face and takes another swig. He’s puffing on some Japanese stuff called Uniqlo Wet Dream Poi.

“How’s the Qlo?” I ask, still watching Nelly on the tilting dance floor. She’s now surrounded by two naked men gyrating their cocks to the music. I needed to get over there pronto before those dicks take my booty.

“You never answered my question …” He pushes his mask up so it can rest on his shiny forehead.

“Hey, I have to go.” I point at pregnant Nelly. “I’m trying to switch bodies with her.”

“She’s prego!” He shakes his head and burps. “Been there, done that. It’s fun, but my life’s way better. You don’t want the cramps she’s about to get. The mood swings, the morning sickness, the constant need to go to the bathroom. Why a pregnant lady?”

“Life experience. Maybe I want to see how it feels to give birth,” I say.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all night.” The fat man coughs and scratches his ass. “It hurts like hell and the monster that comes out of there ain’t worth the trouble. Look, do you want to have some real fun?”

“Sure, who doesn’t?” I ask. I watch as the two men lead Nelly away. There goes my prize.

“Forget about her!” Sauria slaps me across the back. “Look, I have a couple of nineteen year olds in the VIP room. Why don’t you join us there?” He coughs again, pounding his fist against his chest. “The FCG is paying for the VIP room tonight. They’re always paying …”

“I thought you didn’t work for the FCG …”

“Everyone works for the Federal Corporate Government, whether they’d care to admit it or not.” He harrumphs. “Last offer. Yes or no?”

“Why me?”

“You’re not a terrorist are you?”

“No, but why me?”

“It’s your hat, I like it. Ad undas … it means something about waves or coasting along. You got good style. I like to be surrounded by beautiful people. I like your beautiful black skin, it’s such a sexy purple under these lights. The name’s Sauria, by the way.”

“You told me already. I’m Meme.”

“What was that?” he shouts over the boom boomy choons.

“My name is Meme,” I say as we shake hands.

THREE∞

**The following conversation took place in Spanish after the pregnant Nelly ditched the hyper-intoxicated Meme. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

“So, can you come to pick up the shipment?” Carloza asked.

Pregnant Nelly was sitting in the restroom at POLLUTION CLUB 512 chatting with him on GoogleFace. Every time she blinked, she could see Carloza’s image splash across her eyelids. As always, he sat in an unknown location in Tijuana. He looked comfortable in his loose fitting shorts and crisp white tank top. Curly jet black hair peaked out from under his wife beater. Behind him – a Freda motif stretched across his wall to the point that it was pixilated.

“Sure,” she said. “Let me just message Noah and tell him. What time?”

Noah was Nelly’s personal Humandroid assistant. He served as her driver, her cook, her cleaner and her best friend.

“Afternoon, you know I sleep late …” Carloza yawned to emphasize his statement.

“How are the pollutes anyway? Tasty?”

“Muy bueno,” he said. “some stuff from Bhutan … you know the stuff…”

“Seriously? How did you come across that?” Nelly placed her hand across her stomach. She looked down and smiled at her fetus illuminated by the C-Baby lotion. She burped and the baby moved.

He laughed, “You know I can’t tell you that. Hold on a sec, okay?”

She looked at the door of the stall as it rattled. Someone had been jiggling the handle for the last five minutes in a passive aggressive attempt to suggest that Nelly’s time on the throne had ended.

As she waited for Carloza to return, Nelly reread the quote scrawled in mascara across the backside of the door:

Many a subtle philosopher has failed to solve himself, owing to his inability to discern his beginning and his end.

“Sorry about that,” Carloza said, his voice appearing in Nelly’s ear.

“Who was it?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Hey, are you going to be in there all night?” a voice yelled from outside the stall. The door rattled again. Nelly looked down and noticed a pair of shimmering six-inch high heels covered in red spikes.

“Find another stall, bitch,” Nelly whispered in English.

“What was that?” Carloza laughed. “Are you speaking English my love? Where are you?”

“Restroom.”

“Really? You out tonight?”

“Can’t you hear the music?” she asked.

“I thought you were listening to music in your aeros…”

“How could I be in my aeros without Noah? He’s my driver,” Nelly said. The irate woman shook the door handle again.

“Good point.”

“Meet anybody?”

“Hung out with two guys for a bit. Also this other guy; I don’t remember his name, though. Black guy. Big hands.”

“Seriously, all the other stalls are full! I can hear you talking on GoogleFace in Spanish, bitch,” the woman outside Nelly’s stall said.

“Hold on,” Nelly told Carloza. She reached into her tiny Flapper purse and pulled out a small mistmask. Two carbon filters emerged after she pressed a button on the nose of the mistmask.

“What are you doing?” Carloza asked.

“Just a minute.”

Nelly placed the mistmask over her face and adjusted the nose piece. She held the button down for two seconds and goggles extended upward from the cheek coverings. As the woman continued to rattle the door handle, Nelly quickly secured the goggles into the crevices of her eyes. She pressed a small lever on the chin of the mask, releasing the trapped air inside. The mask tightened as it pressurized.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Hurry up, bitch!”

Nelly reached into her purse and pulled out something that resembled a miniature tube of toothpaste with a nozzle on top. She flipped opened the top, pointed it at the door and pressed her thumb against the nozzle.

Fisssssp!

A green mushroom cloud engulfed the entire bathroom.

The woman’s forehead smashed into the door and landed in a thick pile of yellow hair on the floor. Women fell from the toilets, their heads and bodies landing in various ways inside the stuffy stalls.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Nelly looked down and saw the woman’s hair creeping beneath the door. Blood from her nose had already started seeping into her bleached hair. Rose stained platinum; a fatal blonde moment. She flushed the toilet and stood, hearing another body drop near the sink. Thunk.

Nelly opened the bathroom stall and stepped in the woman’s nest of blonde hair with the heel of her shoe. She glanced down at her watch – it would be another minute until the mist disappeared.

“Sounds like you’re done clearing out the place …” Carloza said.

“Some things just have to be done.”

He laughed. “Well, I need to see someone about the next shipment. Saturday, same time, same place.”

“I’ll see you then,” Nelly said, her voice muffled by the mistmask. “Adiosito.”

FOUR∞

Where are you right now?

Are you at home? Are you on a train? Are you in an airplane? Are you outside? Are you in your closet? Are you on the toilet? Are you in the break room at your job? Are you in a coffee shop? Are you in a bathtub? Are you reading this on an electronic reading device? Are you on a balcony? Are you thinking about something else as you read these words? Is someone else reading this to you? Are you reading it using a flashlight?

When you read something, does it form a picture of what’s happening in your brain? Could you see the mustached man slapping me in the face before embracing me? Could you picture Nelly’s baby illuminated by the black lights? Could you imagine the bartender pouring a beverage out of the tip of his gnarly dreadlock? Could you visualize Sauria with his Burger King crown and the suspenders holding up his jelly rolls?

We take this picture forming function of consciousness for granted. We read a thriller about a serial killer and we imagine him cutting up the bodies, blood misting onto his t-shirt like a Japanese anime – we do this as if it were nothing, as if it requires no effort. More than twenty-five percent of the calories we consume daily go to brain functioning. Our brains are voracious.

See this now – the panicked look on the victim’s face. A woman. Her hair matted and crimson, her body lifeless. The killer. A man with serpentine veins running up and down his arms and a brow that grazes the floor. The book. Cutting the chapters in just the right way to provide tension, to make it seem as if it’s really happening. The stereotype. The archetype. The pattern. The routine. The reward.

The pattern.

It seems as if we take in the written image as if it were natural occurrence. No matter the potential real life consequences, implied or intended, writing has a way of patronizing everything. Be it a graphic sex scene, a magical game of Quidditch, complex sleuth work that runs all the way up to the Papacy, a gruesome account of war, an illicit romance between a pathetic vampire and a ballsy human, a work of supposed merit that we read simply to say that we’ve read it.

Don’t open that door! Don’t walk out into those woods alone! Don’t go jogging at night! Don’t invite the pizza man into your home! Don’t kiss him! Don’t close this book! Don’t close this book!

Feed your brain.

We visualize these things as if they’re happening, as if we’re somehow existing within the books that we read. Of course, we know that we aren’t taking part in what’s happening. We know we’re silent observers, passing judgment and driving the story further with the turn of each page. This doesn’t stop us from biting our nails, skipping sentences to see what happens or putting a book aside because it’s either too complex or too anticlimactic. Are you not entertained!?

No matter how we consume it, the author tosses crumbs at us as we follow him or her along. We accept all. Hands on our ankles, thighs sky high – full-on penetration. We drop the soap repeatedly for the sake of literature.

Does a novel stop when we put it down? Do the characters wait in limbo for us to return so they can finish their story? Do they tire of telling the same story time and time again? How does a movie affect the image of the character we have formed in our heads? Do our protagonists always resemble some part of us?

Sauria explains all this to me in between puffs from a nacre pollution mask in the highly exclusive VIP room. He worked in the electronic publishing industry for a number of years and even wrote a book on the home installation of pollution mask bars. He was now the owner of a global security analysis company called Executive Executions or ExEx. The totem pole has been scaled.

I can barely make out the details of Sauria’s face. He’s blurry and fishy, greasy and curdled. This might be the most schwasted I’ve ever been off pollutes. Suddenly, his face stretches. His nose warps into a small black hole as if he’s being sucked through a straw. He is everyman. I watch a large pair of doughy breasts bounce on his chest, one at a time. Hairy nipples. My skin is crawling. His pupils are dilated. Grizzled old yegg. I suddenly miss pregnant Nelly’s large white contacts.

Sauria presses a button on the edge of the table and the wall next to us folds away like an accordion. Our private room is now crowded. “Take a look, Meme,” he says, waving his hand at the folding wall. He’s my fat business messiah. I’m his sheep watching as he parts the waters. I’ll do anything for you my bloated compadre!

On the other side of the wall are the women he promised. One pregnant woman stands, applying more C-Baby lotion to her belly, squeezing the liquid out of a small red and white tube. Next to her are a pair of nineteen-year-olds twins with bangs and another moll wearing a spiked S&M mask. Seven fat men wearing nothing but blue silk ties, suspenders and nipple rings complete the scene. All their pubic regions are shaved into equal signs.

Maybe we really are equal these days.

The seven fat men laugh and wink at the twins. Their jowls slosh against their chests like wedding cakes made out of pink Jell-O. They wave at Sauria; one of them points from the skybox window down to the dance floor below.

“Look!” he shouts. “Amazeballs!”

Two porcelain transvestites on stilts are circling the tilting floor below. Their stilts are black light responsive and covered in yellow and pink dots. One wears a Santa Claus mask, the other’s face is painted like a Dia de los Muertos skeleton. A pair of palanquin carriers lug a blubbery woman behind them. She smiles as she tosses pollute candy to the mortals.

I’ve never been to the VIP room at a pollution club and I’m mesmerized at how the other side lives. Pollution masks made of various animal skulls line the pig metal bar. Above the bartender is a black light chandelier made of crystal and small tubes from vintage pollution masks. The bartender’s dreadlocks are white. The bosomy beauty wears a tight fitting shirt with a mechanical hound on it and the numbers 451 stenciled in neon orange letters across her chest. Floating above her right shoulder is a hovering LCD screen showing the latest stock prices and currency fluctuations. Sell sell sell!

I look down at my jeans and notice the fat man is running his fingers along my thigh. I try to push him away, but the pollutes have taken their toll and movement has become increasingly difficult. He tickles my waist and invites me to join his friends in the other room. I take one more puff from the pollution mask – John Galliano Strawberry Arse if I’m not mistaken.

We scoot in next to the other fat men. One of the twins comes and sits on the other side of me. She wears a starched nurse’s outfit that barely covers her. Her top is unbuttoned. As she leans forward I can see her nipples peeking out from her bra. She yanks one of the pollution masks off the wall and takes a big, comical swig from it. She falls back onto the couch dramatically and sighs, smiling at me.

“Your name?” she asks. Her voice is slightly muffled by the pollution mask.

“What?”

“Your name?” She looks me over through the polypropylene eye holes of the pollution mask. She’s wearing a pair of large black contact lenses that wash out all the white in her eyes.

“Meme Lamar. You?” I ask her. Sauria’s hands move from my knee to his suspenders.

“Yeshi.” She pushes the mask to the top of her skull. The nose of the pollution mask looms over her face, perfect for dangling a carrot. “My name’s Yeshi.”

“Nice to meet you…” I look to Sauria to see if he’s paying attention to our conversation. He’s laughing with the other fat men, pointing at the transvestite stilt walkers on the floor below. One of the walkers has a patron clinging to the bottom of the stilt, humping it forcefully. A beefy security guard in all black can be seen rushing towards the man with an extendable shepherd’s crook.

“What do you do, Meme?” Yeshi moves closer to me. She lightly grazes my ribcage with her long finger nails. Her pollution mask comes off; she hangs it on the argentine hook above the couch. She sweeps her bangs out of her face and winks at me. Her two-inch eye lashes take a good five seconds to reach the tops of her cheeks. Mesmerized I am. Fornicate I desire.

“I’m a therapist.”

How can I possibly sneak away with Yeshi? I need to ditch Burger King Sauria pronto!

“Really? How exciting. Have you ever fucked a Humandroid?” She bends forward and starts licking my bicep.

“No! I wouldn’t do that. Ever. It’s against protocol… what about you?” I ask. I reach up, grab a pollution mask and take a deep inhale. My eyes roll back into my head. My brain macerates further. Pollute dipsomaniac.

I blink twice and see that there are now two Yeshis sitting cross legged next to me. As I stare at the two life forms, a glassine wave sluices into the room from the viewing window and imbrues the two Yeshis. The water leaves a patina glaze across their faces as it drips down onto their matching nurse’s outfits.

What the fuck is happening?

I take the pollution mask off and rub my eyes. No way is this actually happening. You’re tripping, Meme.

The face of the second Yeshi contorts into a grotesque mask. The couch suddenly appears to be the length of a school bus. The second Yeshi hops over the first and begins crawling towards me.

She crawls quickly on the tips of her fingernails, her broken chin almost touching the couch. Her jaw swings to the left and to the right like a suicidal seesaw. Green residue drips off her hunched-over shoulders and onto the couch. A light flickers overhead, bathing the couch in a lambent hue. Each flicker sends lightning bolts rhizomically across the room.

The couch continues to stretch, increasing the distance between myself and Yeshi number two. Yeshi number one sits on the far end of the couch, her eyes rolled back into her head and her hand on her crotch. I’m sweating profusely, practically panting. Convulsing. I feel as if I will vomit soon. This can’t be happening.

“What’s wrong with you?” a sweet voice asks, filtering into my right ear. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“They’re coming …” I watch in horror as Yeshi number two melts. “They’re coming and there’s nothing we can do about it!”

FIVE∞

FYI: my name is Meme Lamar. I’m a Humandroid therapist and it is the year 2083. I’m addicted to pollutes, mononymous, your new frenemy, a chthonian kingpin with a nine to five and a mind on fire. Welcome to my brain. A Humandroid therapist talks to Humandroids during the day about their problems. The word “Humandroid” should be self-explanatory by now. If not, I will edumacate you (yes, edumacate). The math professor says in a German-English accent, Human + android = Humandroid. This you need to know before continuing.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Yeshi presses her fingers into my neck.

I see her long narrow teeth, her saliva soaked tongue, the ravenous depraved look in her eyes. Her lashes are the size of tooth picks. Jaundiced smoke curls from her nose. I rip the mask off and throw my head onto the back of the sofa, essentially tossing in the towel. L’État, c’est moi!

She kisses my neck and caresses my hand. Soon, I feel her teeth sink into my skin. I look over and see the other Yeshi still touching herself. My god what is happening!? The sofa is a mile long and everything is muzzy. One Yeshi is trying to devour my flesh; the other has her hand in her pants. I’m confused and sweating profusely.

Every movement needs a martyr and I’m ready to become that martyr. This is the next phase for machine learning. All things must evolve.

It’s something a Humandroid named Tim7 once told me. I don’t know why he was so pontifical. He threatened to blow both of us up, and I let him silently slip out of my office. I’m not the type of man who wants to die via explosion. I never saw Tim7 again.

This is the next phase in machine learning.

Yeshi is whispering something into my ear and it isn’t that. I can feel her snake tongue whisking away at my earlobe. I shudder a nauseous orgasm. I try not to look at her.

Do not look at her, I remind myself. Those eyes. Those big black eyes. Don’t look! Her purple puffy lips. My whole body is trembling. There’s something strange about her, something not human. Could she be…? No, impossible. I’d know…

Burger King Sauria kisses the other side of my neck. I can feel the weight of his jowl against my collar bone. I put my arms around both of them; both devouring my flesh, both licking my jugular. Anterior jugular, external jugular, internal jugular. Veins blue and pumping! Je suis insane in the membrane!

Sauria is like a vicious catfish. His Burger King crown pokes against my earlobe; his boner rubs against my leg. The thin strands from his comb-over reach towards me like a ruck of famished beggars. I feel them wrap around my neck as he nuzzles his head into the pit of my arm. I suddenly hate him.

His crown falls to the floor. Yeshi hisses at him and he hisses back. The serpent people rejoice. The ophidian monarchy collapses! Damn these snakes, damn them all to hell! Ouroboros. The snake devours its own tail.

I punch Sauria in the face. Once, twice. Three times. No more kisses you shitty featherhead! I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze.

I close my eyes and swim up a girasol stream filled with fluorescent bubbles. Electric eels nip at my toes. I notice a neon waterfall ahead and grab onto a tree that appears to have been cemented into the muddy shore.

A bathtub filled with pink-faced children approaches the edge of the prismatic waterfall. I take a deep inhale and listen to the glistering children scream. The screams emerge from their mouths in the form of red tinged clouds of anguish. A blond boy tries to climb over the others, eventually managing to hop over the edge of the tub. He ditches the bathtub and tries to doggy paddle it to shore. You can do it!

“Meme … Meme …” a sweet voice says.

I’ve seen enough inside my head. I open my eyes to see two security guards pulling at my arms. Sauria is on the ground, pressing a satin napkin against his bloodied nose. “Get him the fuck out of here!” he screams, pointing at me.

“What did I do?” I ask. “What did I do?”

SIX∞

“… and now she’s over eight months pregnant.” Antimeria, Sauria’s friend, sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in a plush hotel room overlooking Hollywood Boulevard.

Rinchi, Yeshi’s twin sister, swayed back and forth in front of him. She wore a skimpy Little Red Riding Hood outfit and a wolf mask. The mask, a one of a kind Alexander McQueen pollution mask made from the head of a gray wolf bred in captivity, bounced back and forth as Rinchi swayed her hips. She bent over in front Antimeria. He pulled her towards him and licked her ass cheeks.

“You always talk about pregnant Nelly.” Rinchi looked at him through her legs. From her vantage point, all she could see were his beady little eyes twinkling like two upside down moons over a mountainous belly peppered with age spots and hairy moles.

“Who else am I supposed to talk about? Nelly is my wife.” Antimeria finished his energy drink and tossed the can against the wall. Clink! Orange remnants from the brew splashed onto the carpet. He manhandled another energy drink, popped it open as he watched Rinchi’s ample ass gyrate.

“I wish I’d listened to him.” He redbulled the drink. His stomach shook with indigestional thunder. “If I’d just listened to him, I wouldn’t be dealing with this shit right now …”

“Who are you talking about?” Rinchi asked. She slowly worked her way up to a standing position. She stood momentarily with her back to him.

“I had this older friend, Baz, when I first started at FreddieDickMac,” Antimeria said. He reached forward and snapped the back of Rinchi’s cherry red bodice. “Baz was married to this crazy broad at the time. Hell, he died still married to that psycho female. Damn if she wasn’t a tough woman to deal with. The pretty ones are like that you know? The fucking humans …”

“Humans.” Rinchi tilted her head to the right.

“Humans! At the time I’d recently divorced and had just started dating Nelly. When Baz first met her, he pulled me aside and looked me square in the eye. ‘son,” he says, ‘she’s beautiful, and that’s a bad thing. You’re going to run into all sorts of trouble with this one. Sure, she’s a good fuck and yeah, she has a great bod, but soon enough, she’s going to suck the life out of you like … like a damned juice box. Just squeeze your cardboard ass dry.” Only Baz could say something like that.”

“Relax dear.” Rinchi bent forward again and snapped back to standing. She had never met Nelly before, but she was sick of hearing about her.

“Damn if this isn’t exactly what happened to me,” Antimeria said. “Every day more juice is being squeezed out. Nelly needs this, our flat in London needs that, the yoga instructor wants to make house calls, it’s her friend’s birthday, manicure, pedicure in Mexico, some shitty store in France just released a new line of synthetic human skin purses – you get the picture. The air is being squeezed out of me! DAMN YOU NELLY! I’ve never felt more strangled in my life! Kind of like that crazy black guy tonight. Meme was his name, right?”

“I didn’t catch his name,” Rinchi said. ‘maybe Yeshi knows … ”

“What the hell kind of name is Meme? What the fuck was that guy’s deal? Punching Sauria in the face? Strangling him? I’m glad we had security. They chased him the hell out of there!”

“Chase.”

“If only the security guard could chase Nelly out of my life. This marriage thing. What the hell was I thinking? Why do I keep getting re-married? I might not be in my prime anymore but I can still have a good time. They say forty-eight is the new twenty-five. I’m healthier than I’ve been in years! Here I am, married to a woman nearly thirty years younger than me who is about to have my first daughter. Great. This world needs less humans and more people like you … ”

“People like me?” Rinchi unclipped her garter belt. “That’s kind of you.”

Antimeria shook his head. “You’ve got to trust that instinct of yours,” Baz used to say, “Don’t be like me. Don’t be stupid like me. Don’t get with these young chicks. Find yourself a dating service. Get a woman who knows how to work it. One who knows how to take care of a man as well as you’re going to take care of her.” Damn if he wasn’t right. Hell, Baz’s ghost is probably in this room laughing at me right now. If you’re here, Baz, let me say something – you were right you old bastard! I should have listened to you!”

“It’s okay, baby.” Rinchi bent over in front of Antimeria. She unbuckled her wolf mask and dropped it to the salmon carpet.

He grimaced. “We were sitting in one of the pollution bars in San Fran, taking a little business breather. You know, strip club, drinks, some poker, blow jobs under the table – this sort of thing. A boy’s weekend. I could tell Baz was doing everything in his power not to just backhand the shit out of me. It was in his eyes. They just looked right through me… just right through me to the bar. These big sad eyes of his. And now I see why. I wish he’d done it. I wish the bastard had done it. Just cold-cocked the shit out of me right there in that pollution bar.”

“Just relax, spend some time with me,” Rinchi purred. She finished untying her bodice.

“You’re so beautiful,” Antimeria said as he admired her perfectly formed breasts. He drummed his fingers along his power paunch. “Too bad you aren’t real.”

“What’s not real about me?” She draped her arm across her breasts with a girlish pout.

“You know … but it doesn’t matter. You’re better than a real woman could ever hope to be. It’s too bad your twin Yeshi isn’t here right now. You guys are always more fun together.”

Rinchi’s smile tightened. “You think I’m better than a real woman?”

“I mean it. You don’t cause me any trouble, you don’t bitch at me, you don’t ask me to pay for your weekend at the spa, you don’t need useless knick knacks, you don’t need entertainment, you can’t get pregnant. You’re the perfect woman, and I don’t care if you are a Humandroid.”

“You’re such a flirt.” Rinchi sat down on Antimeria’s lap and tugged lightly on his tie.

“Nah, I just wish I’d picked a different path in life.” He looked down at his fat fingers. “This is what I’ve been reduced to – fucking Humandroid love dolls just to get my jollies.”

Rinchi pulled down hard on his tie.

Antimeria’s face reddened. “Careful, honey,” he said through gritted teeth, “I don’t like it so rough.”

SEVEN∞

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Are you going to get that?” I ask Yeshi, who is sitting quietly in a meditative pose. Meme here, yes, the same guy from earlier. I’m coherent enough to take the reins of the story again. Something happened between the VIP room and now. I can’t tell you exactly what it was, nor can I tell you how I got to this hotel room. C’est la vie I suppose.

Knock. Knock.

“It’s probably the pollution mask.” Yeshi cracks the door and whispers something to someone I can’t see. She’s given a tray with a pollution mask on it, its long nose freshly polished.

“Here,” she says. She sits on the creaky bed and pulls some tubing down from the ceiling. While the room is a bit outdated, the pollution mask and distributor cable are brand spanking new. It’s important to know what counts in this world.

“What are you?” I ask. I blink, failing to get a good picture of her. Everything is still blurry, inky, cryptic.

“What am I? What do you mean, Meme?” she asks as she hands me the pollution mask.

“Why are we here?” I ask the timeless question again.

“We got kicked out of the VIP room because you punched a guy named Sauria in the face. You also choked him. He’s the head of ExEx, you know.”

“Choked?” I gulp. “ExEx? Am I in trouble now?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did we get to this hotel?”

“We just ended up here.” She bends over and kisses me on the forehead. There’s something strange about the way she’s talking to me, the way her voice filters in and out of my consciousness.

Hmmmm…

As Yeshi sets up the pollution mask, I close my eyes and check my iNet messages. My co-worker, a spiky man named Tyro, has sent me two messages. He always sends me messages. I scroll up and down my inbox. Eighty percent of the unread messages are from him. I delete the new messages without reading them and open my eyes. It’s strange, my normal vision is blurred, but when I log in to iNet, my vision is crystal clear. Technology – it always makes things better.

I close my eyes and log back in again. I do a quick search to see how many people on GoogleFace set their location to POLLUTION CLUB 512 tonight. I vaguely remember Nelly contacting her friend (was his name Carloza?) at the club. I’m pretty sure she sent something and the odds of me finding it here are good. Yes! She checked in.

“You ready?”

“Just a moment,” I say as I find Nelly’s profile. Her marital status is listed as unknown. In the picture she wears an orange scarf that drapes over her bulging stomach, a white tank top barely held together by two thin strings and leggings under a yellow pair of boy shorts. Now that’s the body I wanted to switch with…

“What are you smiling about, honey?” Yeshi asks. I send Nelly a message and a poke. Hopefully she’ll respond. I log off iNet and open my eyes.

“Oh, I was looking for a friend I met at the club,” I say. Yeshi hands me the pollution mask and I strap it to my face. I suddenly remember the questions I had a few minutes ago.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

She takes out a pollution packet, massages it like a pro, and dumps it into a reservoir with a shiny metal handle near the nightstand. It’s a small packet of Loathing Hunter Special Reserve. How did she know it was my favorite? Did I say something? I look her over and admire her tight nurse’s costume. Her smooth skin is green when viewed through my mask’s emerald polypropylene eye lenses.

“We had to get out of there,” she said.

“What did I do again?”

“You punched someone. Sauria, head of ExEx.” Yeshi turns a lever and I hear the pollution begin to vaporize. Inhale, exhale. Who’s the victim?

EIGHT∞

I feel like we’ve met before.

I feel like I’ve taken your hand in mine, like we’ve escaped together down the oubliette of a shared mind, a shared experience. We’ve sat on the balcony watching aeros whip around our heads like dragon flies; we’ve grown used to each other and the peculiar noises we make in our sleep; we’ve shared cigarettes and toilets, wet dreams and dry nightmares, socks and undershirts, deodorants and toothbrushes; we’ve embraced at the airport before being whisked away to destinations unknown; I’ve held your hair as you puked and you’ve held my hand as I cried; I paid the tab at the bar and you picked up the bill at the restaurant. We are conjoined, the result of years upon years of conceptualizing.

The things linking us are more than electronic, bigger than Homo sapiens, Homo machina or anything in between. I raise your ontological argument with a swift fist in the gut! We are the modern day philosophers; we are the blurred line between good and evil. We exist to exist alongside one another (simply to exist!). We watch the rise and fall wearing beast masks while inhaling exiguous gulps of liquid sin as if it were oxygen. Never fear – the bonfires of time consume all they encompass. We laugh and fornicate; we rape and pillage; we make up to break up; we prick our fingers and press the bloodied stumps together swearing allegiance. We are the modern day Adam and Eve stuffing our face with apples. Dine with me, dear Reader.

It’s true – I’m hallucinating again for what may be the third time tonight.

Hotel California. I’m staring into an oval mirror attached to the black headboard of the bed. As Yeshi lays her head into my lap, I inhale the pollute deeply. I feel the pollute travel past my stomach into my nether regions, down my thighs and into my kneecaps, finally arriving like a time-honored guest at the tips of my toes.

I look at our reflection in the mirror. The long nose of my pollution mask curves downward like the beak of a horny hummingbird. Yeshi’s head is moving up and down. She’s unzipped my pants. I look at my reflection. Who is this man staring back at me? Is it Meme, is it me? Is it you? Who is the man with the woman’s head in his lap? Who are you man!?

I reach out and touch the mirror. My fingers slip effortlessly into the mirror as if I were placing my hand into a still body of water. Yeshi says something but I can’t understand what she’s saying.

I push my hand deeper into the mirror and feel a tug at the other end of the mirror. I whip my hand away; the surface of the mirror ripples and I’m mesmerized by the undulation. I watch as a moth hovering around the ceiling light disappears into the mirror. It vanishes as soon as its wings touch the surface. The moth returns from the other side of the mirror glistening. Liquid mirror drips off its body as it flutters back towards the light.

I have to see what is on the other side of this mirror. Join me.

I roll my head back and sigh deeply. The light swells and dissipates. I feel Yeshi’s fingernails against my stomach. It feels like she’s trying to pull out my lower intestines, one yard at a time. A loving intestinal crank never hurt anyone. Her nails move down to my thighs. I push her off me and look back at the oval mirror.

I reach for the mirror again and slip my hand into its porcelain surface. Again I feel the faint spectral tug on the other side. I watch in the mirror as Yeshi tries to pull my pollution mask off my face. One hand goes around her neck and I toss her to the other side of the room.

I inhale more. I inhale even more.

I sink my hand deeper into the mirror. The mirror has now engulfed my entire right arm. My arm is caressed by something wet and soft on the other side of the mirror. I’m now face to face with myself in the mirror’s surface. Meme meet Meme. I’m staring into my own eyes, shielded by polypropylene, protected by plastic, as so many of us are today. Staring at myself, I’m reminded what brought me here in the first place. This magical mirror, this hotel room, this strange woman…

I look back at Yeshi.

She’s looking through her bag for something. Her top is off and her breasts are hanging low, swing low, sweet chariot. I notice a bulge in the front of her panties. There’s definitely something strange about her. She says something to me in a language I don’t recognize. I smile at her to let her know I’m fine. Inhale to exhale. She walks over to the pollution distributor and presses something on the dial. The pollution suddenly loses its strength.

With one arm still inside the mirror, I reach for Yeshi and bring her closer to me. “Why did you do that!?” I bellow, my scream muffled by the mask. The mask fills with the hot air of my words.

She kisses the end of my pollution mask and licks the polypropylene lenses. Yeshi straddles herself on top of me, wrapping her hands around my neck. She begins to squeeze. I’m surprised by her strength and try to pry her off me. She’s too strong, especially with one of my arms stuck in a mirror. She’s twice as strong as a woman her size should be. Something’s not right here.

I look back at the mirror. I’m inches away from my own nebulous face. Meme meet Meme.

I can feel something running up and down my arm on the other side of the mirror. It feels bristly and wet like a giant paint brush. There’s a ringing in my ear and all I can smell is the remnants of the pollution in my mask. Yeshi is still on top of me, biting at me voraciously. One of her hands is still around my neck, squeezing the air out of me.

I push my face through the surface of the mirror. I can no longer distinguish the difference between hallucination and reality. I’m in a vast resplendent desert with Daliesque forms cart-wheeling around in a light zephyr. Melting clocks and whatnot. Elephants with giraffe legs. A hazy cloud has drifted in front of an olive sun. My face is peeking out of a large crag circumambient with purple cacti and chunky pineapple lizards.

Half of my body is hanging out of the rock, like a calf in mid-geo birth. The other half is still in the room with Yeshi being strangled. I reach for Yeshi’s arm and slam her face first into the mirror. Her body is tossed violently in front of me. She is with me now! She lands in a pile of dust and detritus. A few of the pineapple lizards scatter slowly.

A vulture with two heads and black contacts is perched on a desiccated ribcage a few yards away from Yeshi. As she sits up, the dapple gray vulture spreads its wings. The two-headed vulture’s wingspan is a good fifteen feet and its shadow completely covers Yeshi’s body. It flaps its wings twice. Dust silvers in the air around it.

I pull the rest of my body through the mirror as the black-eyed vulture flies off into the distance. Several glass spiders the size of soccer balls waddle between Yeshi and me. Out of curiosity, I stamp my foot against one of the spiders. The sound of breaking glass echoes as if it were shrieked by a banshee through the desolate apricot-colored landscape. I pull my foot away, watching as small pieces of glass and blood melt into the hardened soil.

My lower half. Fresh blood is dripping down my legs. The wounds are coming from scratch marks adjacent to each other on both legs. I don’t know how I got the wounds or where my pants went. Yeshi looks up at me and grins. She springs forward using her hand as a catapult and pulls me into a pool of water that I hadn’t noticed before.

As she swims in front of me, I watch her exposed breasts sway in the water. She’s wearing ruffled white panties and knee-high stockings now. Hanging from her stockings are small strings with squares of mirror attached. Again the bulge. She leads me into a cave, past neon conodont and wavy glassine seaweed. An aqueous congress will soon begin. Let us partake.

NINE∞

Antimeria loved ladyboy Humandroids.

Breasts and male genitalia – strange and fascinating. The ability to fuck and be fucked? Revolutionary! Humandroid ladyboys were the perfect mix of androgynous and cutting edge, a late twenty-first century merger between Darwin and woman, salacious and sensational, robotic erotica and sexual exploration, taboo and robo-compulsive disorder.

Clearly, having sex with a ladyboy Humandroid escort didn’t make you gay. Clearly. As a card carrying member of the RepubCorp party, Antimeria knew the political backlash associated with being gay (even if homosexuality was universally accepted by 2083, people still held their prejudices like loaded weapons). Besides all that, Antimeria was Christian, and it was a sin to be gay. It said so in the Bible somewhere, obscurely but still.

Rinchi wasn’t the first ladyboy Humandroid he’d been with, but she was his favorite. Note: Antimeria still considers her a ‘she” because of her breasts. The usage of the pronoun was his little way of justifying the legitimacy of his sexual depravity, a national depravity that had metastasized since the advent of Internet pornography in the late twentieth century. From pixels to Proxima Worlds – porn never got old!

Yeshi, Rinchi’s identical twin, wasn’t quite the specimen that Rinchi had become over the last year, yet she was equally as hot, especially when placed with Rinchi in Sapphic situations. Nothing like a Sapphic situation to wind down on the weekends.

“I wish we could just move somewhere together,” he said, as Rinchi adjusted the levers on the pollution distributor. A perfumed smell emitted from the machine; the green ready light flickered on.

Antimeria had yet to pull his custom Louis Vuitton pollution mask over his face. The mask, a piece limited to eleven copies worldwide, was made from a black rhino’s skull. While made out of the thick bone, the mask was surprisingly light due to an emulsifying enzyme applied to the inside of the skull which thinned the skull to that of a wafer. The skull, which had been stretched in a unique process called skull distending, was subsequently dipped in a carbon polymer which made it practically unbreakable. The ruby eye pieces were weaved to the mask using laser needles stitched through the bone by a team of Kenyans who worked in a two week weaving and re-strengthening period. (The deplorable factory conditions for the Kenyan workers have been the subject of many documentaries by human rights groups.)

“Where would we move?” Rinchi asked in a soft voice muffled by her wolf mask. They had just finished having sex and Antimeria was lying with his back on the bed. His belly swelled and softened as he took deep breaths.

“Well, if I had it my way, we would move to the Cayman Islands or something. You know, get away from the LA hustle and bustle. Find ourselves a little resort town.” Antimeria thought for a moment and started laughing. “Oh, fuck it, Rinchi. You know we can’t do that!” He tugged his pollution mask over his face.

Rinchi sat with her back to him as he inhaled a large cloud of pollution. She reached for her panties, which had been tossed haphazardly onto the sleek lampshade connected by a double-jointed fixture to the wall. She turned, watching as Antimeria rolled his head to the left and to the right, engulfed in his intoxication.

The fool. She could kill him right now and her only punishment would be life termination. Humans tended to forget this. What was life to an artificial being anyhow? What was life to a Humandroid? Rinchi wondered what Tyro – her therapist – would say if she told him about Antimeria’s jokey proposal for them to move to the Cayman Islands. Another Humandroid she knew had actually been purchased by a wealthy man and moved to Bali with him. It could be done; it had been done before.

She reached forward to lift her bra from the floor. Antimeria’s Vienna sausage fingers grazed against her ass. Again. The human was probably on some sort of libido booster, she thought, turning back towards him and sitting on his lap. She affirmed her suspicion after performing a quick vitals scan – no way a normal human nearing fifty could get it up that quickly.

He pointed at the bra and shook his head. The fat from his chin and neck jutted out of the mask like an overstuffed hamburger as his beefy skull moved from left to right.

She understood the gesture and let the bra fall back to the floor. As she began to kiss his puffy nipples, she wondered for the millionth time what it felt like to use a pollution mask. What was it like to take pollutes? She’d seen Yeshi strap masks on multiple times and pretend to be intoxicated, but that was just for show. Yeshi couldn’t get intoxicated by pollutes and she knew it. Yeshi was convinced that by using the mask in front of other humans, it would trick them into to thinking she was actually one of their species. Pathetic.

Rinchi had seen so many men and women intoxicated by pollutes that their faces had started to blend together. Night after night she sat around people fucked off various designer pollutes. It seemed as if a new flavor came out every week. Last week it was Ralph Lauren’s Equestrian Exhaust, Raoul Duke’s Skull Ammunition and Tommy Hilfiger’s Soiled Baby Jeans. This week she heard a group of businessmen blathering about the successful launch of Chanel’s Nuevo Carrion and Gucci’s Dolores Haze – always something new in the world of consumable materialism.

There were other types of pollutes, such as the always popular Nepalese Burning Trash and then there were entheogenic pollutes, like Naked Lunch or Loathing Hunter or Leary Tim. Those ones made her clients hallucinate. Over the last ten years, the illegal exportation of entheogenic pollutes had been the focal point of a hundred trillion dollar War on Pollutes instigated by the Federal Corporate Government. The results of the war were yet to be determined, as the FCG also profited from the illegal distribution. Funny how that worked.

As they were going at it, Antimeria began to doze off likely due to pollution consumption. Rinchi had seen it a dozen times before and knew exactly what to do. She propped him up against the headboard and took off his mask off. She set it gently in its custom case meant to resemble a classic LV trunk.

Rinchi walked into the bathroom, retrieving one of those little white hotel towels used for God-knows-what. She warmed the towel with water and folded it in half. She returned and placed the towel across Antimeria’s eyes. She crossed his hands over his chest and scanned his body, again making sure none of his organs had shut down. Had there been an emergency, Rinchi would have to alert the authorities and administer revival techniques.

While it had never happened to her, she heard about someone overdosing on pollutes and the blame being placed on the Humandroid escort who happened to be with the person at the time. If Rinchi was going to be terminated, she at least wanted to go out with a bang. She wasn’t planning on being retired like the other Humandroids.

Violence towards humans. It was something she was supposedly programmed against, something that most humans thought was impossible, but the fact was, she was a Humandroid escort. Humandroid escorts had no violence governor preventing the infliction of pain because of the sexual demands of their clients. Normal Humandroids had this governor. The only Humandroids with fewer violence inhibitors than escorts were military droids, but even they had other measures to prevent them from rampages. Humandroid escorts had no such measures. They were true feats of machine learning.

As she waited for Antimeria to wake from his pollute-induced spell, Rinchi thumbed through an electronic copy of Sky Magazine retrieved from his chamois leather briefcase. She sighed as the first article materialized:

Traveling with Dogs

When traveling abroad or to Mars, never forget man’s best friend. By Eduardo iPad

Substation Six

Talk about a bastion of cutting edge dog care and amenities for humans too, the Hilton/Ramada Substation Six features all the amenities you’ve come to expect from the largest hotel chain in the known universe. Custom doggie treats with your dog’s name on them, 22-karat gold ID tags, and bone shaped pillows – the Hilton/Ramada Substation Six halfway between Earth and Mars even features a custom dog pollution mask system. A first of its kind, the dog pollution mask system, or PUPs as it’s known on board, gives your dog all the comforts it needs to make its stay at the Hilton/Ramada just as legendary as yours.

Philadelphia

Sleep soundly knowing your beloved pooch is just as pampered as you are. At the Bittenhouse Hotel, the dogs are so treasured they even have their own entrance to the hotel. Call it doggy segregation, but these pooches deserve the best! For a fee, expect to have your favorite pup looked after 24/7 by an expert team of Humandroids. Hourly grooming, doggy manicures, canine massages, and doggy facials – this team of Humandroids covers all the bases. Add separate doggy bathrooms with gold inlayed toilets and no weight restrictions and you are looking at a revolutionary retreat for your four legged companion. There’s even a doggy gloryhole.

Bluffton, South Carolina

Ever wonder what it would be like to stay in your own cottage while having your dog housed in a miniature cottage next door? Look no further! At the Palmetto Bluff Inn of Destiny, your dog has nearly 22,000 acres of parklands to roam. With around the clock service from a team of Russian-crafted Humandroids, you won’t have to worry about a thing when it comes to dog safety. Enjoy the multi-vitamin dog biscuits (which humans can eat too), the Boss satin dog beds, Hermes custom dog bowls, and the freshest Antarctica bottled water straight from what’s left of the glaciers to your prized pooch.

Austin, Texas

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“Humans are so fucked,” Rinchi mumbled.

TEN∞

I awake and rub my eyes.

My right fist is covered in blood; the mirror affixed to the headboard is smashed; there are fresh fingernail gashes up and down my thighs. Yeshi is lying in a heap on the floor. She’s bent forward, kneeling between her legs, naked.

The pollution mask distributor cable has been ripped from the wall and one portion is wrapped around Yeshi’s neck. There are shards of mirror stuck in my chest and the pollution mask is nowhere to be found. One of her knee-high stockings is on my leg, ripped from the shin up and stained with drying blood. What in the fuck happened here?

I look down at my chest and begin to pull out a few shards of glass. Blood trickles down to my waist. Yikes. I look at my reflection in the bloody shard and collapse back onto the bed. As I lie back on the bed, I notice the pollution mask hanging from the light fixture. My toxic muse. The light is situated just right to illuminate the green lenses.

“Yeshi … ” My brain beats viciously against the inside of my skull. I feel weak and ready to vomit.

“Yeshi … ” I say again, louder. All I can hear is the sound of a few transport vehicles and aeros speeding outside the window.

“Yeshi … ” I nearly shout. Fuck, she must be dead. I close my eyes and sigh audibly. What the hell was I thinking? I cough, sit up slightly, and then fall back. How did things get so violent? More importantly – what the hell am I going to do with a dead body? How many people have pondered what to do with a dead body before?

A hand grazes my leg. Alive! Alive! She’s alive!

Her hand works its way from my ankle to my lacerated thigh. It makes its way to my stomach, just below my navel. It twirls there for a moment before moving to my rib cage. I breathe deeply, feeling blood surge to my groin area. I sit up and look at Yeshi. She’s naked and her body is completely unscathed. I see something dangling between her legs.

“What in the fuck!?”

“What’s wrong Meme?” she asks, retracting a little.

“You have…” I rub my eyes. “You have a dick?”

“What this?” she says, reaching down and flicking it to the left. “It’s not real.”

“What the…” I throw my hand behind my head, hoping to find my underwear. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. I start to backpedal, “I’m not a RepubCorp homophobe, but I definitely wasn’t … definitely didn’t think … I’m not into … ”

Did she just say it wasn’t real? I look her over and finally realize what has happened. How could I be so stupid? Her voice, her perfect figure, her unscathed skin amidst all the shards of broken mirror – Yeshi is a Humandroid. Yeshi is a fucking ladyboy Humandroid which means … which means she’s also an escort!

“Baby?” She crosses her legs, sweeps some of the mirror shards off the bed with her hand.

“This is so fucked,” I say. I cover my eyes with my palm, hoping she’ll disappear.

“Did we have sex?” I ask with my hand still over my eyes.

Yeshi laughs. “What else do you think happened in here?” she smiles. “I like you Meme; you’re rough and big … ”

“Please don’t say that,” I mumble, not sure how to take a dick size compliment from a Humandroid. I work with these goddamn things four days a week. You would think I could recognize one by now. Goddamn Walliburton for crafting such authentic machines. Goddamn pollutes, goddamn myself, and goddamn Walliburton again.

Yeshi crawls her hand up my thigh and I slap it away. “This game again?” She leans forward, whipping her legs out from beneath her. A deranged look spreads across her bang-framed face. She carefully begins to waddle over to me as I cower further into the far corner of the bed. I can feel the shards of mirror going deeper into my ass as I scoot across them. Holy glass-in-my-ass, Batman!

I’m a Humandroid therapist. I know what Humandroid escorts are capable of. I know that they have no violence governors.

My palms clam up. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and feel my lips trembling. I have to figure a way out of here. I look to the door – too far. The window – our room is too high up to try that. Maybe I should smash through the wall. Impossible, plus, I feel weak. Should I try to kill her? No, she’ll likely go into a self-defense mode and will quickly overpower me.

Yeshi hovers over me and sits down onto my lap. Within moments, she’s kissing my neck and … I’m letting her!

“Why is your heart beating so fast?” she says, keeping one hand halfway around my neck. She’s scanning my vitals. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No … ” I say, closing my eyes. “Of course I’m not. I’m just a little shocked.”

‘shocked?”

I switch to my therapist tone. “I’m experiencing a sudden surge of post-party traumatic stress disorder, something that humans usually go through after the consumption of too many pollutes. I’m confused, and my head is beating like a crazed gorilla against the inside of my skull.”

She starts to laugh and sits down deeper into my lap. “You’re funny.”

“Why am I covered in blood? Why do you have some of my blood on your stomach? I’m a Humandroid therapist and therefore … therefore I cannot partake in any sort of illicit behavior with Humandroids. In fact I took an oath swearing not to. This is why my heart rate has increased, which I’m sure you’ve been monitoring, and this is why I’d like you to get off my lap.”

“You’re a Humandroid therapist? You can’t partake?” she laughs.

“Yes.”

Her smile changes to astonishment. “Wait … you’re a Humandroid therapist and you didn’t know I was a Humandroid? I thought you were just a regular therapist, you know, for people.”

“You should have scanned my life chip!”

“I did,” she said, “you’re using a chip-masker.”

I forgot that I’d installed a chip-masker before going to the club last night. “Well anyway, I’m sorry. The pollutes. I took too many entheogenic pollutes last night. Halloween has a way of unleashing the demon within me. Pandora ‘s Box was opened … ummm … It’s my own fault, not yours. You’re just doing your job.”

She laughs again. This time her laugh has an edge to it. She positions her lower body on top of me and moves her face closer to mine. “I like you, Meme.”

“You can’t like people,” I remind her, trying not to make eye contact.

“You’re a Humandroid therapist and you couldn’t tell I was artificial.” She looks to the left; her eyes under her bangs are like black balls rolling beneath a floor-length curtain. She keeps her eyes shifted far to the left, thinking (or should I say mirroring the way humans think – Humandroids spend up to forty percent of their energy replicating human idiosyncrasies).

“I was intoxicated … ” I remind her.

“Rinchi won’t believe this,” she says, still with her eyes to the left.

“Rinchi?”

“My twin,” she says. “Well, we aren’t twins, but we’re identical. She was there last night, on the other side of you. She won’t believe me! Luckily we record everything.” She taps her long nail against her temple.

“I know you do … ” I almost whimper. “Please … Please don’t … ”

“Please what?” She hunches forward to kiss me. I try to pull away but she grabs the back of my head with her free hand.

“Please … ” I say again, as she presses her lips into mine.

“What’s wrong … never had both before?” She gestures towards her navel and flicks herself, himself, itself – whatever I’m not ready for this. This is not what I bargained for! I wanted to switch bodies with Nelly! I’m innocent in this regard! Don’t judge me, Reader!

“It’s not that,” I say, which I quickly realize is a half-lie. I clear my throat. “Due to my position as a therapist, I refuse to have relationships with my client pool.”

“But I’m not your client, Meme,” she whispers into my ear. Christ she is hot – what am I saying!?

“I know, but you could be … ” I stare up at the ceiling and the pollution mask hanging from the light fixture. I feel a surge of blood rush to my groin. Not now. Not now. Not now.

“I like you,” she whispers. “You’re a sexy man…”

“You’re programmed to be seductive,” I tell her loudly. “You’re programmed to be any man or woman’s fantasy. You’re programmed, dammit!”

“I’m not programmed at all! You of all people should know this. Oh Meme, I haven’t been with too many black men,” she purrs.

“Please stop … ” I say, frozen. She’s right, she’s not programmed. Rather, she has been for lack of a better term – trained. Machine learning from there.

“You like it,” she says. “I can feel you.”

“No no no no no no…”

“Yes you do, sweetie. It’s natural,” she hisses into my ear.

Using every ounce of strength, I buck her off me. She falls backward off the bed and lands with a soft thud on the floor.

“Sorry,” I tell her, standing. She sits up, her hair covering her face.

Minutes later we’re at it again, fucking the life out of one another…

ELEVEN∞

Rinchi sat on a black leather sofa across from her therapist’s desk.

His office was on the thirty-sixth floor of the recently built BlackAguaUSA building, a knife shaped megalith that extended sixty-two floors into the cerulean Californian sky. Two digital frames hung on an isthmus of wall displaying Tyro’s credentials and photos of his wife. An onyx black strip of carpet ran from the large mahogany door to the leather sofa. The floor was made of bamboo, dyed to resemble jade, and it had recently been polished. The walls adjacent to the large windows overlooking LA were bare and clean, white like the teeth of a dentist.

Tyro walked into the room from a side door which led to his private office. He was a thin man, tall with oversized shoulders that made him appear more muscular than he actually was. He wore a pair of glasses with black frames that ballooned the size of his eyes. (He didn’t need to wear glasses, but he wore them anyway, refusing to get corrective surgery.)

“Hello, Rinchi.”

Tyro’s hair had been recently trimmed and his cheeks were stinging red from a recent shave. As he sat, Rinchi quickly scanned his vitals as was her custom with all humans she met. He appeared to be tired, evident in the sallow color of the skin around his eyes and his erratic breathing pattern.

“Hi Dr. T,” she said, shifting her weight forward. She wore a mesh dirndl and a pair of red tights tucked into knee-high boots. Her shirt was a retro LED volcano shirt that refreshed the eruption image every minute.

“Let me see,” he said, flipping through some documents on his iDeskpad. “Okay, press here.” He twirled his hand, twisting the screen towards Rinchi. With a pouty smile, she pressed a red button and waited a moment for the system to register.

He turned the iDeskpad around and searched through it for a moment. “so it looks like a lot has happened since we last spoke.”

“What do you mean? Politics? Sex? Death in the family?” Rinchi grinned.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked without looking up from the iDeskpad.

“Just admiring you,” Rinchi said.

“You are taught to admire,” he reminded her as he types something in to the iDeskpad.

He’d yet to make eye contact with her. She hated it when humans didn’t make eye contact. She’d seen scores of businessmen apply this technique to their associates.

“Well, I’ve been around long enough to know what’s worth admiring,” she said with a sigh.

She’d rarely met a man closer to exploding than Tyro. The veins on the side of his face constantly bulged. His heartbeat and breathing patterns changed drastically each time she saw him. He needed to get out more. He needed a blowjob, a Jack and Coke administered intravenously and a three-day weekend.

“Okay,” Tyro was so engaged with the documents on his desk that he still hadn’t looked up at her. “We always go through this. You can’t flirt with me because you’re getting therapy from me. I’m not your client. You’re my client,” he finally looked up at her and raised his left eyebrow. The eyebrow jutted over the frame of his glasses.

“Maybe that will change one day,” she said with a shrug. Every man has his breaking point, every man.

“Likely not. So, how have things been?”

“The job is the same. Fucking old guys and rich diplomats. Nothing like it.” She twirled her finger in the air as if it were a flag.

“Yes, I’m aware of this.” Tyro glanced at his iDeskpad screen and typed in something quickly. “But elaborate some more. I mean, not on the sexual part, but how you’ve been feeling. Last time we met, as I can remember, oh yes … ” He shifted the screen with a flick of his wrist. “You were a little depressed about the work hours and oh yes, here it is. You were feeling tension between yourself and your suitemate, Humandroid twin Yeshi.”

“I don’t know where Yeshi is and I can’t find her anyway,” Rinchi said. “She’s offline.” Using her pointer finger, she began to push her eyeball aside to show Tyro the fleshy electronic circuits that processed the images she captured.

“Stop that,” Tyro scolded.

“Why don’t you like it when I do this?” She pushed her finger all the way into her eye, using it to scoop out a small purple wire. “Some humans think it’s cool. They say I look so real until I do this. Or this … ” Rinchi lifted her tongue up and stuck her fingers beneath it. She gripped a small green cord that was covered in blue veins and began to extract it with two fingers.

“Quit it,” Tyro said. “You can mess with your circuitry by doing that. Let’s get back to Yeshi – why did you say you couldn’t find her?”

“Dr. T, have you ever seen a ladyboy Humandroid naked?”

“You ask me that every time.” He took off his glasses and began rubbing his temples. There were little pink marks on either side of his nose from the nose pads.

“Well, the answer could change every time.”

“I have seen most forms of Humandroid escorts in the nude in scientific journals. Wait, why am I answering this? Listen, we don’t need to discuss nudity every time we meet.”

“Every other time?”

“Stop it, and put the lingual cord back in your mouth. Yeshi. Where is she?”

She pulled back on the cord and it snapped back into her mouth. “Well, I can usually trace her. She’s completely logged off iNet, all channels, and has been since exactly 11:42 last night. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“Are you worried?”

“Why should I be worried? She’s not my real sister. We were just designed to look identical. We’re complete opposites. She’ll do just about anything to mirror the pathetic spontaneity of your kind. Last night she was using pollution masks again – not just wearing, using – which is utterly useless and also bad for her circuitry. She’s suicidal if you ask me. I don’t know why she would want to be one of you anyhow … ”

“One of us?” Tyro adjusted his tie.

“She’s obsessed with humans. She should be the one seeing a therapist, not me.”

“We’ve been over this before. You’re here because of the incident in February. You nearly killed a client and rather than termination, Walliburton thought this would be a more progressive alternative. You’re lucky because of this. Most Humandroids … ”

“Most Humandroids? You realize I’m a prostitute, right? You realize I’m designed solely to fuck and see no credit out of it? You realize—”

“Ahem,” Tyro cleared his throat. “I’m aware of the business you were designed for. Remember, we live in an advanced, incentive-driven world that has changed over the centuries. The Humandroid job of being an escort is an important addition to the workforce. It allows humans to live out their fantasies safely. It has dramatically cut STDs worldwide and has also become instrumental in solidifying economic relations between state-owned companies and global manufacturers. Rather than take a pessimistic route regarding your existence – which I understand is easy considering some of the tasks you are assigned to do – you should instead take an optimistic route, and realize that your role in our universe is changing the face of global trade and leisure.”

“Are you reading this from a brochure on your iDeskpad or something?” she asked. “Are these more of Dr. Lye’s lies?”

“This is what I mean by a pessimistic approach,” Tyro said. His voice quivered, as if he was trying to suppress his real opinion. “I’m forwarding you a document. I’ve sent it to you before, but this time I want you to actually download and implement it. I’ve told you about my friend’s e-novel, The Optimistic Approach: Living Life Rather Than Letting Life Live You. To make it even easier, I’ve highlighted some key points for you to practice every day.”

“Such as?” Rinchi said.

“When you wake up every morning … ”

“I don’t wake up. I boot up,” Rinchi corrected him.

“I want you to look yourself in the mirror and tell yourself that you’re going to have a good day.”

Rinchi stuck her finger in her eye and started to push the eye to the side again.

“Stop that, it’s bad for your circuitry. Just tell yourself you’ll have a good day,” he said. “From this point onward, I want you to remind yourself of this every time you feel inadequate. That’s the first step. The next step is called the instigative process. You must begin to think of your work as a contribution to society rather than something to be frowned upon. Have you ever worked with a businessman that went on to do something successful?”

“Worked? Really Dr. T? Have you tried this self-help shit? What’s it with humans and self-help anyway? Why can’t you just help yourselves? Do you look at yourself in the mirror every day and tell yourself … ”

Tyro repeated the question without looking up from his iDeskpad.

“Okay, I have,” she answered. “I’ve even worked with the presidents of small countries. Did you know I worked with the architectural firm that designed this building? Did you know that the guy who designed this building loved it when I stuck the pipe from a … ”

“ … so, you have worked with people who have gone on to do successful things,” Tyro interrupted. “The second step is to reevaluate your self-worth and determine that you are actually a contribution to society.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she laughed. “How does a Humandroid escort evaluate its self-worth? Is that even possible?”

“The third step, after reevaluating your self-worth, is to begin to rebuild yourself with the newly created positive image of yourself in your mind. Remember, the secret to success is viewing yourself as successful. Start from the ground up, as a person who is successful and who is a contribution to the work place, an asset to their job and a pleasure to be around.”

“You’re actually serious.”

“Of course I am. I think you have the potential to boost your self-worth by augmenting your view on reality and hopefully, instilling a change in yourself that will benefit both your well-being and your work performance.”

“So I’ll give a better bj? I’ll fake better orgasms? I’ll do a better job of taking care of inebriated businessmen?”

“Stop it,” Tyro said. He looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “Downloading the excerpts of the book I’ve provided for you will not only improve your self-worth, it will also help you understand Yeshi better.”

“Why do I want to understand Yeshi better? She’s a delusional droid who wants to be human.”

He shook his head. “Careful with the word droid, you know it’s derogatory.”

“Even if she was a member of the Homo sapiens club, her perverse ladyboy status would make her claim for the elusive tag of human questionable. She’s fucked in the head; she’ll always be Homo machina.”

“So, what I want you to do is download what I’ve sent you and begin the reexamination process. First, you need to start by … ”

TWELVE∞

Is there any object that connects us more to ourselves than mirrors?

You and your bald spot, the dried make-up like blotted ink at the corner of your eyes, your nose bent from a childhood fall, the unlucky location of a large zit next to your left nostril, your crooked yellow teeth, the nasty sore at the corner of your mouth that never seems to heal, your despicable unibrow, your lack of eyebrows because you pencil them in, the stubble on your chin, the strange place on your throat where your beard never seems to grow, the pock-marks that pepper your cheeks as if you were beaten with a meat tenderizer, your glossy bloodshot eyes, your creepy soul patch, the hair peeking out of your nostrils, the scar near your lip, the plum-colored bruise circling your eye from last night’s fight, the soft freckles on your forehead, the lipstick smeared on your two front teeth.

We judge what we see in the mirror but does the mirror judge what it sees in us? Can you imagine a mirror talking to us throughout our lives? What would the mirror say?

--You’ve looked like shit since yesterday.

--I think those jowl exercises are starting to work.

--You should use some type of scalp shampoo before you end up looking diseased.

--If you’re going to cut up lines, the least you can do is leave me a pinch. Cocaine!

--Go with the red tie, it makes you seem more outgoing. Not that red tie, the other one. Yeah, that one. Good. Go with that.

--By all means, stick those fingers down your throat and watch yourself get thinner. I’m warning you though… don’t get any vomit on me this time, got it?

--Please don’t punch me, please don’t punch me, please don’t punch me …

--I can barely see you because there’s too much shit on the mirror – toothpaste stains, globs of gel, shaving cream, flecks of food from your inconsistent flossing. Seriously, how are you ever going to get laid if you can’t pick this place up a little?

--You are the fairest of them all, and as a mirror, I too am the fairest of them all. Like how I did that? At any rate, Snow White is a whore, but at least she’s not a witch.

--Please don’t say Bloody Mary again …

The unfortunate truth is that mirrors never tell us anything. They never judge, never comment, never scoff, only reflect. By doing this they become the silent observers of our lives. They watch us come, they watch us go, they watch us fatten and age. They see us at our worst and our best, in our most despicable and our most honorable. In a way, mirrors are the ultimate Buddhists. They sit for hours upon hours in strict meditation, never judging and always observing. They witness personal atrocities and triumphs, the woes of our day and the results of our decisions.

How many times did Hitler stare into a mirror? How many times did Mother Theresa stare into a mirror? Did Jesus ever see his reflection? If so, who did he see – himself or his father? And for that matter, was Mohammed even allowed to look in a mirror? What have the great seers seen? What have the great killers noticed? Did the seers see themselves? Would the killers kill their reflections given the chance?

Mirrors were our private status updates before there was the Internet. They watched as we rose to the top and as we came crashing down. They see us more than we see ourselves. And as I currently stare into one, I wonder what the fuck I have become.

The bathroom mirror. The counter is black, the walls are a light brown color, the toilet is an older model with tinted stains around its base. The bolts holding the toilet down are rusted and the waste basket is empty. There’s an oval bar of soap wrapped in tissue, a toothbrush in a white cardboard box, a sharp comb, a small LCD screen in front of the toilet flashing advertisements.

I run the water and open the bar of soap. I toss the wrapper to the floor.

The door opens and Yeshi steps in.

“You’re a Humandroid escort,” I tell her as I look at her in the mirror.

“Just now figuring that out, huh?”

“No, I figured it out a while back … ”

“Was this before or after you fucked me just now?” she hops onto the counter and pulls her knees to her chest. Humandroids escorts must carry several different outfits with them. I could have sworn she was dressed like a nurse when I first met her. Now, she’s in a yellow sari with bedazzled peacocks along the front of the dress.

I look at my eyes in the mirror. It’s true – we did just finish having sex.

“How is that even possible?” I ask.

“Do I really need to explain the birds and the bees to you?”

I suddenly want to scream. I want to punch the mirror, to shatter my reflection, to choke myself. What am I doing? I’m in a hotel room with a ladyboy Humandroid escort. Has my life really become this depraved? Have I really gone this far?

I look at my watch – I’ve already missed my first appointment. Tyro has probably sent me fifteen messages by now. I know better than to log onto iNet to check. He’s such a stickler, but at least he’s not standing in front of a mirror next to an escort with multiple lacerations on his body.

“So what now?” Yeshi tilts her head and looks at me curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, are you going to pay me?” She giggles.

“Is this what you do? Find humans who are intoxicated, lure them to some hotel room, fuck them, and then ask for money?”

Yeshi smiles, “You know, I like you. I almost don’t want to charge you, but now … ”

I’m no longer a Humandroid virgin – the thought weighs heavy on my dark little soul.

She leans forward and strokes her hand along my chest. The faint smell of coconut lotion radiates from her fingers. They manufacture Humandroids to have imperfection as to increase their likeness to human beings. As she strokes my chin, I notice a small birth mark on her wrist in the mirror’s reflection. Her hair is a tight pony tail, revealing a string of small moles on the back of her neck. She gives me a devilish look and retracts her hand.

The outer layer of a Humandroid’s skin is a synthetic epidermis created in the 2040s called e-skin. The insides of their bodies are made of tiny hollow metallic tubes, arranged in a micro-lattice pattern around myriad processors and muscle wire. Their skin is soft to the touch, robust. They’re as flexible as a contortionist, at least the escorts are.

“Look, what do I owe you? I’ll log into iNet and transfer the money now. Which corporation do you work for?”

“Walliburton.”

“I should have known that. And the cost?”

“Look, you don’t have to pay me,” she says suddenly. “Just meet me again soon. I like you.”

“Seriously?” I ask. I watch as her eyes flicker under her bangs. It’s strange to think that she’s recording everything that happens with those eyes and simultaneously monitoring my vitals. I shut my eyes and quickly open an incognito window on my iNet screen to investigate the price of a Walliburton escort. Pricey!

“Expensive, huh?” she says. I open my eyes to see Yeshi tilting her head again. As her head tilts, her bangs fall to the right side of her face.

I gulp.

“Well, consider it an early birthday gift … ” she says. “But only if you promise to meet me again.”

THIRTEEN∞

Rinchi opened the door to the Humandroid flat that she shared with Yeshi and another escort named Anna. Dr. Richard Hewman, the clever designer of the first Humandroid back in the 40s, knew that having the Humandroids recharge via a standard electrical outlet would eternally marginalize them. A PhD in Robotic Biomimicry from MIT, Dr. Hewman had his first breakthrough while doing research in Berlin with a team of German scientists specializing in xenotransplantation.

The story goes that Hewman fell asleep after getting drunk off a bottle of homemade glühwein given to him by a grad student. Unbeknownst to him, the grad student had actually given him glühwein dosed with lysergic acid diethylamide, otherwise known as LSD. According to lore, Hewman slept through most of the hallucination and awoke with a host of acid-inspired ideas. As he came down from his trip, he scribbled fifty pages of notes on a yellow legal pad next to his bed. These notes would contain the programming language and biological necessities that would go on to finalize the last step of humanity – the creation of Homo machina.

Early Humandroid models wore glasses with solar cells on their rims to charge themselves. The glasses would generate energy, which would enter the Humandroid from small reactor cells behind their ears. To recharge, the Humandroids would need to wear the glasses for at least six hours a day depending on the model.

For the next ten years, as Humandroid technology progressed, Homo machina could easily be spotted because their glasses blinked subtly as they recharged. Moore’s Law also applied to Humandroids – it took time for the technology to improve upon itself but it didn’t take that much time.

It was Richard Hewman’s wife, Olivia, who had thought of the next way for Humandroids to be recharged. She suggested that he think of a way to have them recharge during a sleep cycle. Assisted by a Japanese start-up company called SleepSound (スリープサウンド) that was trying to find electronic cures for insomnia, Hewman was able to develop a way for the Humandroids to recharge during a six-hour sleep cycle.

With the help of two French researchers, Hewman figured out a way to also produce energy through what he jokingly called robosynthesis. Like plants, Humandroids exhaled oxygen and inhaled carbon dioxide, which some argue, has become instrumental in combating global climate change. They also took in six ounces of water per day, administered in two ounce increments throughout the day. The hydrogen in the water served as another fuel source. The six-ounce daily intake was calibrated to be the exact amount necessary as not to produce waste.

Richard Hewman himself died mysteriously after an explosion in his laboratory rumored to be caused by one of the many pollute cigarettes he chain smoked. Around the world, statues of Hewman next to the first Humandroid, Eve, were erected. A group called Humans for Hewman was started with funding from the FCG and EU to provide Humandroid aid workers to impoverished countries.

As the Humandroid workforce was implemented into society, Humandroid recharge facilities (referred to as Humandroid flats) bloomed across the globe. The flats were lit by motoglass cylinder tubes that hung from the ceilings and walls of each room. Usually, the facilities were made from the shells of early twenty-first century low income housing units.

Rinchi’s building was one of these Humandroid flats. It was an eight story building that spanned half a city block, housing six thousand Humandroid workers. There were maintenance facilities on the first floor, which included the shower and grooming services. Walliburton and other contractor offices were on the top floor. The Humandroids lived in groups of three in small rooms on the interim floors with shared showers at the end of each hallway. Humandroids didn’t need privacy – their only housing needs were beds, showers, proper lighting and clothing.

From the door, Rinchi slept on the bed in the right corner, Yeshi slept on a bed in the left corner and Anna slept on the futon across from Yeshi. Between Yeshi and Rinchi’s bed was a clothes rack chock-full of enticing garments – skimpy one-pieces, sparkly bras, satin night gowns in several different colors, sheer holiday lingerie, full-body fishnet outfits, two spreader bars, rope for suspension bondage and strappado torture, military fatigues, hanging pockets full of nipple clamps, collars, paddles engraved with triskelion emblems, Wartenberg wheels, a dildo shaped like the Eiffel Tower, crops, small electro-stimulation devices, butt plugs in various sizes, handcuffs, a muzzle gag, several animal masks, a leather gas mask, ball gags, a host of whips varying in girth, elf outfits, a dangling scold’s bridle, matching kimonos, wigs, mesh nighties, umbrellas, translucent raincoats, cowboy hats and various spandex get-ups. Even the most beastly forms of paraphilia were satisfied with their paraphernalia.

Next to Anna’s bed were two folding chairs and a black filing cabinet full of illegal pollutes. It was a well-known fact that the best pollutes came from Humandroid escorts. Most were usually funneled into the States from other countries through Mexico, America’s favorite conduit. While illegal to transport banned pollutes, the Walliburton Corporation – which the majority of Humandroid escorts worked for – smuggled in illegal pollutes anyway, paying off officials with pollutes, sex and erotic-exotic vacation packages. To live in sin was to live in the late twenty-first century.

“Your night?” Anna stirred on the other side of the room. She was lying on her side with her hand tucked under a pillow. Both Anna and Yeshi slept with pillows, something that Rinchi never could understand.

“Met with Antimeria again.” Rinchi dropped her purse onto the floor next to her bed. “Then I came here and went to the therapist.”

“How was that?”

“Same stupid shit. Self-help nonsense made for humans which Dr. T is attempting to administer to me. Respect your life. Respect your job … this type of fascist crap.”

“Is it really fascist?” Anna laughed. ‘such an angry droid you are … ”

“Fuck you. How was your night?” Rinchi asked.

“I ended up holding a knife to a man’s throat as he jacked off … ” A slight smile spread across Anna’s face. “After that he took me to a twenty-four hour McStarbucks and proceeded to eat three latte-flavored Big Macs and drink two extra venti vanilla frappes.”

Rinchi’s face contorted. “McStarbucks? What kind of guys are you seeing nowadays?”

“I guess he just wanted McStarbucks. He paid me for an entire night so I went along.”

“How was … McStarbucks?”

Anna shrugged. “A case study in twenty-first century human obesity. Plus, it smelt horrible in there, a mixture of greasy coffee grinds and irisin-enhanced synthetic beef. I contemplated shutting off my olfactory senses. I mean, I’ve done it before so I know it’s possible … ”

“How do you do that?” Rinchi asked, pulling off her boots.

“I looked it up on GoogleFace a few months ago. One of the lingual veins under our tongues – the red and blue striped one – is responsible for our sense of smell. If you pinch it, or what I did the last time was actually use a nail clipper to sever it, it cuts off your sense of smell. You have to be careful not to swallow the vein though. Otherwise, you’ll have to go to maintenance. Afterwards, I just soldered it back on myself.”

The door slammed open and Yeshi sprung into the room. She smiled at both Anna and Rinchi. “Hey droidies … ”

“Hiya,” Anna waved.

“You two will never guess what happened to me last night … ”

FOURTEEN∞

**The following conversation took place in Spanish two days after Nelly met Meme. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

“Is this all of it?” Nelly asked Carloza.

They sat in private café in Tijuana, a few blocks away from Paseo de los Heroes. She began thumbing through an oversized Louis Vuitton duffle bag. The duffle bag contained banned pollute packets from Russia, Bhutan, Argentina, Easter Island, Thailand, Egypt and Zimbabwe. The single duffle bag was worth twice as much as Antimeria’s aeros.

“All there, chica.” Carloza had his eyes closed so he could monitor the money transfer on GoogleFace. Two of his bodyguards sat in a booth across from them. One was a beast of a man, so large that he had to sit sideways in the booth.

A burly bartender wearing Leaks used his dreadlocks to distribute pollutes at the bar. A single musician plucked at a harp in the far corner. Nelly could tell the woman was a Humandroid by the speed of her fingers. She was an older model, likely a retired NeunBolt from the 2070s.The synthetic skin near the corner of her left eye was replaced by a blue globe that flickered in syncopation with the song she played, a classic by Los Tigres Del Norte.

Mexico had become somewhat of a haven for modified Humandroids, a situation constantly monitored by the FCG. Fear of a robo-terrorism had filled countless debates and had been the subject of restrictive legislations since Hewman introduced the first Humandroid in the 2040s. Upon unveiling Eve, Hewman was forced to enter federal protection after becoming the target of an extreme right wing anti-Humandroid group known as NOT IN MY AMERICA or NIMA.

With the federal crackdown, Mexico became the obvious place for digital natives to live out their wildest tech-fantasies. The Modified Humandroid culture in Mexico had become so popular that the word Techback was coined to describe people moving to Mexico to mod Humandroids, smuggle Humandroids, or run Humandroid/human co-operative communities. It was believed that Techbacks would outnumber the natives one day.

“Transfer’s coming,” Nelly assured him. “It’s a pain in the ass to transfer money out of my Liechtenstein account, you know that. So many damn stop measures. I put in the request an hour ago. It should be here within the next twenty minutes.”

“No problem. How’s business?” Carloza asked as he opened his eyes.

“Moving quickly. I mean … everything is going well.” Nelly smiled faintly. She was always suspicious when other drug dealers asked her questions about her business. “Yours?”

“Fine,” Carloza answered, also wary to talk openly about his thriving pollute smuggling business. He was the kingpin of a large pollute smuggling ring, not the biggest in Mexico but definitely one of the most powerful.

“Good.”

“Switched bodies recently?”

Nelly shook her head. “I was asked a few nights ago, the guy disappeared though. You?”

“Yea, actually, I switched bodies two weeks ago. Nice time. Who cares if it was temporary? It was still fun. When’s the last time you switched?”

“God, before getting married. I switched with a woman who was a retro hip-hop dancer. I kept her body for a few days. I almost stayed in it.”

“I know the feeling. It’s a damn shame that you have to eventually switch back. You can’t stay; it’s not your body. That’s the problem with body-switching is that after about five minutes, you really think it’s your body, you really think you’re invincible. The guy … what the hell is his name?”

“Which guy?” she asked.

“The guy who patented it … or well, at least invented body-switching.”

“It wasn’t a guy; it was a Russian woman named Evelina Khromtchenko.” Nelly smiled. “I know because I had a picture of her as my iNet background for a while. It was originally a life chip virus.”

“Now that lady was a genius.” Carloza raised a finger to his nose and snorted something out. A yellowish green blob landed on the floor. ‘sorry about that. The dust around here will do that to you. Let me check on the transfer again.” He closed his eyes. ‘still not there.”

“It’s coming, just relax,” she looked down at her Cartier watch.

“Have you ever switched bodies with a child?” he asked.

“Yeah right. People are too prone to do twisted shit … ”

“It’s not quite illegal here in Mexico,” Carloza explained. “Technically it is, but the authorities look the other way if one has a wad of cash, so technically it isn’t. Techbacks pretty much rule the country. Mexico, land of the free! Actually, my switch a few weeks back was with a child. I was rolling around, dancing, jumping – doing all sorts of stupid things. You know, the kind of shit that kids do.”

“What did the child do with your body?”

“He went and got himself laid with my body! Can you believe that?” Carloza laughed, slamming his fist on the table. “I had to find the little bastard! He spent more money at the whorehouse in a single night inside my body than I usually spend in an entire week. Little fucker knew what he was doing. Youth these days, they never handle money well.”

“Some do.”

“You’re referring to yourself?” Carloza asked.

“I’m under twenty-five so I consider myself pretty youthful.” The look on Nelly’s face was solemn and serious. She meant it.

“Yeah, I guess you could say you understand wealth. Hell, you were smart enough to marry into it.”

“Watch it.”

“If I were you and had your body I would’ve done the same thing. But now you’re going to have a kid, things will change.” Carloza shook his head. ‘shit, you might have to say goodbye to this business of yours … ”

“It’s cool to have kids these days. Everyone in Hollywood is having them. Twitter stars, musicians, bloggers, gamers – everyone has a child as an accessory.”

“As an accessory? Well if you ever want to switch, let me know. I’ve always wanted a baby,” he said with a toothy grin.

“In your dreams,” she said. “How old are you anyway? You’re too old to have a baby!”

“A drug lord doesn’t reveal his age.”

“You aren’t a drug lord … ”

“You say apples I say pollutes,” Carloza nodded at his henchmen. Nelly got the point. “Let’s just say I’m between the ages of thirty-five and forty-nine. That’s good enough for you right?”

“Sure.”

“And call me what you will, drug lord, illegal pollute dealer … I increase my nation’s GDP with every one of these duffle bags I sell to your country. Mexico has been America’s favorite drug dealer for over a hundred years. It’s our national destiny to intoxicate your nation ¡Pobre México! ¡Tan lejos de Dios y tan cerca de los Estados Unidos! (Poor Mexico! So far from God, so close to the United States!) You and I, shit, we’re both playing our roles, Nelly. Pollutes are drugs whether you care to admit it or not.”

“I guess they are … ”

“You don’t think they are?”

“They aren’t the same as other drugs.”

“No drug is the same as another drug. Well, that’s not true but the point is ... Oh fuck the point, let me check the transfer,” Carloza closed his eyes. “Still no … wait something is pending.”

“Have I ever fucked you over before?” she asked.

“No, and that doesn’t mean you won’t in the future. One should always be prepared to get fucked over. It’s going to happen to me sooner or later. I’m waiting patiently for it. I’ll go out with a bang though.” He still had his eyes closed, waiting for the money to transfer. “With God as my witness.”

“A bang? God will be there too, huh?”

He nodded. “I always go out with a bang, and we will talk about God later. Ah good. The money has been transferred.”

FIFTEEN∞

Confession – I’m in a hotel room in downtown LA waiting for Yeshi. I’m wearing a white suit, sitting on the edge of the bed with my feet resting on a cretonne sofa chair. The four black lights above me are making the specks of dust and lint on my suit glow. It’s been a week since we met and as you can probably surmise by now, I caved in.

I’m slowly nursing on the new Dior Carpet Bomb. It was this or Dries Van Noten Pineapple Bruises – too expensive for my tastes. It’s amazing what people will pay to consume. I inhale deeply. Exhale deeply. Repeat. Enjoy. Repeat. Enjoy.

I couldn’t tell you why I’m here. I don’t know what has inspired me to contact the Humandroid again. Hell, for a few days after our first meeting I completely ignored her. She isn’t human, I told myself countless times. I even tried to live my life as normally as possible, going as far as cutting back on the pollutes. (Fat chance, I know.)

Lo and behold, it didn’t take long for my clients to start looking like her. Every one of them morphed into Yeshi as I stared at them from across my desk. On Sunday, I decided to transfer money into her account. I was going to pay like a good capitalist and let that be it. The next day, I woke to find a single message from her. The message asked me to meet this week. I didn’t respond for two days.

Yesterday was when I finally sent her a message. She replied within minutes and I booked a room. I could have just forgotten about all of this. That would’ve been the easiest route. One night, I was too twisted off pollutes and I fucked up. Close the book, open another. To start anew would have been the better thing to do.

Another drag off Dior Carpet Bomb and I’m feeling stars. My peripheral vision is filming over; murkiness is calming my bones. I put my hand in my pocket and I knead my fingers along the freeze dried packet of my favorite pollute – Loathing Hunter with an Ayahuasca topper. LoathHunAyaTop for the neologists at heart.

A knock at the door startles me.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Me.”

A button near the bed unlocks the door. It takes my finger a moment to find it, but eventually I mash my thumb into it.

Open sesame.

Yeshi floats in wearing a flowing white trench coat. An egg shell headband holds her bangs tightly against her forehead. “Good evening.” She smiles at me as she closes the door, her vitreous teeth sparkling under the black light. She tosses the trench coat onto the floor and throws her large purse on top of it. From behind her leg she pulls out a white paper umbrella, opens it, and begins twirling it over her shoulder.

She’s now topless, in a pair of knee-length panty hose. Her body is covered in black light responsive paint. She has painted two mountains from her waist to the tips of her nipples in green neon paint. The mountains are shaded orange and have jaggy, snow white peaks. Below the mountain rests a river, which runs around her waist and into her panties (of course there’s a slight bulge). Trees run the length of her leg and are quickly engulfed by a bright red fire that starts around her right knee. Above the mountains on her chest, four white clouds spell M-E-M-E, the final “E” trails off behind the second mountain.

“Wow … ”

It takes all my willpower to remind that this was her job, that she was trained to entice human beings, that this was nothing out of the ordinary for her, that she’s the one who booked the black light suite!

“Oh Meme, I missed you … ” she says, advancing towards me. She pauses. “Why are you using a chip-masker?”

“I’ve been using a chip-masker to avoid any shit from ExEx for punching that guy.”

“Sauria, the CEO.”

“Yes, him. Wait, did you say you miss me?”

She nods playfully.

“You can’t miss me,” I remind her. “Remember, I’m a therapist. I know it sounds patronizing when I tell you about emotions you can’t feel.”

“It’s fine. That’s your job, that’s what you trained to do,” she says as she sits on my lap. “My sister goes to a therapist… she’s such an angry droidie. Sometimes I feel bad for her.”

“You mean your twin back at the club?”

“Yes.” She licks the side of my face. Her tongue is soft and wet. So real.

“And do you see a therapist?” I ask, secretly hoping she says no, (and if she says yes, praying I don’t know the therapist).

“No, just you,” she kisses my cheek. “You’re the only doctor I need.”

“That … sounds strange.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“You don’t have to be crazy to see a therapist.”

“You want some pollutes? Doctor Lamar, is it?” She reaches for the mask.

“You saw my full name on the money transfer.”

“Kiss me.”

Kissing her and knowing she isn’t human redefines eroticism. Since learning she was a Humandroid after my pollute-laced bloodbath last week, I’ve been trying to recreate in my mind what kissing her felt like. Were her lips wet? Yes. Did she stick her tongue out a little and lightly flick it against the top of my lip? Yes. I kiss her again, this time biting her lip, trying to see if she bites back. She starts sucking my lip into her mouth. It feels so real. Machine learning – but reminding myself of this phrase does nothing to calm the fire spreading down my body.

“Mask.”

“I brought you something special tonight,” she says. She slides off my lap. I notice her entire back side has been painted as well: two hand prints spread all the way from her ass to the space between her shoulder blades. As the paint spreads, they begin to form the outline of a pyramid. At the tip of the pyramid is an eye with seven large eyelashes, each painted a different color. The pupil is white and a thin blue strip stretches from the top of the pupil to the bottom. She bends over slowly – aware that I’m watching her – and searches for something in her bag.

“Like it?” she asks, still bent forward.

“Of course.”

“My flatmate Anna helped me do the back.”

“It’s something else.”

She returns with a small package and tries to show it to me under the purple light: Гнилое яблоко поллюция.

“I can’t read Cyrillic … ” I tell her.

“It’s a Russian pollute that was banned earlier this year,” she explains. “It’s a knock-off of a popular Novaya Zarya scent with added entheogenic properties. I ran into a few on a trip to Ukraine earlier this year. The businessman I was with told me I could take as much as I wanted – so I took them all.”

“How many more do you have?” I ask excitedly.

“I guess I should restate that last sentence. There were only three so I took all three. I have two left now.” She bends forward and starts tinkering with the pollution distributor.

“What’s it like? I mean, what did he say?”

“He said the visuals were great, colors were everywhere, lost in time – this sort of thing. He was speaking in Ukrainian at this point so I only caught bits and pieces. We’re born – ha ha funny word – with fluency in ten of the world’s most widely used languages: English, Russian, Mandarin, Hindi, Korean, French, Portuguese, Spanish, Japanese and Arabic. Any fringe languages can prove a bit challenging. While we’re able to download linguistic apps, I usually don’t need to because most people I deal with speak one of these languages.”

“Really? And you brought this packet just for me?

“Yes, you weren’t supposed to pay me. However, since you already did, I thought I’d get something for you in exchange. I don’t see any of that money anyways. You should know that. Ready?”

“Let us begin!” I say in my deepest of voices.

She laughs. “You are a strange, strange human, Meme.”

SIXTEEN∞

“I’m busy,” Nelly told her husband, Antimeria. Her husband was nearly twice her age and he spent all of his free time with ladyboy Humandroids, a fact he routinely denied. She wasn’t stupid. It was pretty easy to use a bee-sized drone to follow him and see what he was up to. While illegal in most countries, the drones were legal in the States.

“I just wanted to talk … ” He was speaking to her on iNet. His voice was crisp and clear.

“Busy.”

She disconnected the call and sighed. Her aeros was nearing the border between Mexico and the United States. Twenty-foot-high blast walls and Hesco barriers lined either side of the street. FCG military police troops strolled back and forth with Personnel Halting and Stimulation Response Rifles known as PHASRs. The abundant razor tape gave the border checkpoint a sharp gleam.

It wasn’t difficult for Nelly to smuggle illegal pollutes across the border. Because of her husband’s position in the Federal Corporate Government, Nelly was granted full border check immunity stemming from a 2075 federal law called the Move Freely Spend Swiftly FCG Immunity Bill or MFSSFIB for short. Her driver, an older model Humandroid named Noah, wasn’t even required to stop at the border. As he drove past, a holochecker delineated the aeros into FCG and non-FCG approved lanes.

“Good stuff?” Noah asked. He was a slim, angular Humandroid with a knack for fashion (blue Salvatore Ferragamo cravat, a silver suit with pink stitching and thick eyeliner around his left eye). He’d been her caretaker and driver for two years now.

“I think so,” Nelly said on the tail end of a yawn. “I’ve tried some of the Bhutanese pollutes before. They’re made from the shells of a toxic snail they have in the mountains there. People are constantly getting arrested for trying to cross the border from Bhutan into China with the shells. At some points, you don’t know if you’re intoxicated, at other points you’re frightened. It’s like mixing an upper and a downer. It really fucks with your head, you know? I wouldn’t try the stuff again, but some people like this type of high.”

“Someone always does.”

Nelly leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Have you contacted anyone at escort distribution yet? I want to get rid of this stuff quickly. Walliburton is buying a lot from me lately.”

“I’ll contact them again once we cross the border.”

“Good.”

To jump through more legal loopholes, Walliburton had Humandroids smuggle illegal pollutes to be distributed by their escort services. However, since a Humandroid couldn’t be granted border immunity, an actual human was required to bring the pollutes into the country alongside the Humandroid. From there, Humandroids could do the rest of the work.

The sole reason for Humandroids not being granted border immunity was the isolationistic views of many Americans, most stemming from the mass deportation and border restriction years of the 2050s, known publicly as MassDeport 2050 and in history circles as the Third Red Scare.

FCG Officials didn’t want any chance of illegal Mexican immigrants, Islamic terrorists, pseudo Chè Guevaras, Zapatistas or Humandroid mercenaries making it into the country. Various celebutards and Dr. Hewman himself lobbied against the inclusion of Humandroids in the measure, arguing that the idea of Humandroid mercenaries would be impossible given the limitations in their circuitry. As they usually do, xenophobic fears won against reason, and the borders between the United States and Mexico made airport security pale in comparison. Strangely, Canada never saw an increase in border security.

In the late 2060s, a countrywide crackdown of illegal immigrants was funded by selling student loan debt bonds. Officials checked records all the way back to a family’s grandparents in an effort to make sure all illegal immigrants, even those with legal status due to being born from illegals on American soil, were sent back to their respective countries with a slap on the ass.

A series of panels led by a former NIMA (NOT IN MY AMERICA) lobbyist named Joey McCartney began investigating celebutards, companies, and anyone deemed dangerous by the FCG. The commission published a large collection of eBooks and trinkets, most of which were hawked at RepubCorp national parties and funneled through local RepubCorp chapters.

Joey McCartney died by falling off an Ayn Rand balloon at the 2065 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. While drunk off pollutes, McCartney tried to crawl to the top of the balloon into snarling Rand’s left nostril. To the horror of millions watching nationwide, he fell head first into a tuba of the marching band below, after the float had hit a bump in the road. The impact killed him instantly (and severely damaged the tuba).

Interesting tidbit: it was later revealed that the road was supposed to have been repaved by a construction crew weeks earlier. The contract had been dropped after the company was accused by one of McCartney’s panels of hiring illegal workers.

As is the case with many demagogues, a pro-deportation initiative was started in McCartney’s honor to beef up rhetoric and target adolescence. The initiative produced pro-deportation Internet spam, funded a children’s show based on Sesame Street (called America’s Street), helped develop pro-deportation video games and published childhood books.

Nelly vividly remembers her parents praising the initiative and buying her books extolling the benefits of deportation and border restrictions. Books such as Get ‘em Out of My Country, America is for Americans, How to be a Patriot, America: Land of the Free as Long as you were Freely Born Here, filled Nelly’s childhood bookshelf.

Her favorite at the time was a picture book called Send ‘em Back, which was a hybrid between a regular and an electronic book. The book even had a game you could play (similar to the archaic Angry Birds game popular with primitive smart phones) where you loaded illegals into a slingshot and shot them back over the border. Every time you scored, you received what was called a ‘deport point’ from the Department of Homeland Security. Once you collected enough deport points, you could use the points to buy student loan debt bonds.

After Nelly hit college, she realized her parents were racist bigots and quickly found the first Mexican guy she could and handed over her virginity to him like it was a sack on fire. They fucked and fucked and she cried out hoarsely in Spanish, “Muy Caliente! Muy Caliente!”

Years later, she looked upon her deflowering ceremony as a retort to a childhood wasted in rhetoric and ignorance. The Mexican guy looked upon her deflowering as a lucky break with a super-hot co-ed. In the end, both got what they wanted.

“What’s on your mind, sweetie?” Noah asked as they hovered through the border checkpoint. He winked at her through the rearview mirror.

“Same old … ” She softly rested her hands on her pregnant stomach.

Nelly made more money than she could possibly spend simply by driving across the border, picking up duffel bags filled with pollutes, and quickly bringing them Stateside. After the first few runs, she lost the excitement one feels when they’re committing the crime. She had little or no chance of being caught and even if she were caught, she could easily get out of it. Her life of crime had become damn near pedestrian.

“Getting bored with the job?” Noah asked intuitively.

“Maybe. I just need some excitement in my life. I’m seven and a half months pregnant and I’m losing steam fast.”

“When was the last time you went out to a pollution bar? Maybe you just need some fun. You know dance, hook up … ”

“I was out last week, but got sidetracked talking to Carloza and dealing with some drama in the bathroom. I think I’ll go out later this week. Why sit around and do nothing, you know?”

“I know. I can’t stand doing nothing either,” Noah said. Nelly didn’t know that Noah and older assistant Humandroids like Noah were programmed (some say over-programmed) to sympathize. She had little to no understanding when it came to robo-socio biomimicry.

“Really?” Nelly looked from the window to Noah. She wore a pair of cantaloupe-sized glasses that nearly reached to the bottom of her chin.

“Really. It’s just so hard to feel that way. I understand what you’re saying and what you’re going through. On the lighter days of my job, the times I’m away from you, I just get so bored. It’s very upsetting.” He frowned.

“You get bored too? Poor Noah … ”

“It’s okay; I’ll figure it out one day … ”

“You’re so sweet and loyal, Noah. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You know how I feel about Antimeria … ”

“You can’t stand him, and for good reason. He is … ”

“Fat and horrible,” they both said at the same time.

“Exactly,” Noah confirmed. “And you deserve better than that man as a husband!”

“I should just get rid of the damn thing.” Nelly flicked her belly.

“The child?”

“What am I doing with a kid anyway? I’m so young!”

“I agree. It’s such a hard decision to make.”

“God, tell me about it. Every day I look down at my ballooning belly button and cry.”

“Oh sweetie … ”

“It’s so horrible,” Nelly began to sob. “I just am getting fatter and fatter. I mean, I’m going to have to do an intense couple months of Pilates to get back into shape. I’ll probably have to go on a diet. Then there are the trips to the sweat lodge. I’ll need to go at least twice a week. It’s just so horrible.”

“Oh sweet little Nelly, don’t worry. It won’t take you that long. You’re so strong and passionate. I wouldn’t worry. A year from now, you’ll be better than ever. You’ll look the greatest you’ve ever looked and you’ll have the hottest accessory of the year.”

“I know,” Nelly’s expression changed from one of grief to one of pride. “Nothing like a baby in your arms. It solidifies your humanity, and looks so cool in a side-sling.”

“I agree. Those side-slings are so adorable. What type are you going to get? I found some pretty interesting designs on Rakuten.”

“So far, I have two,” she said. “There’s the shark skin Hermès one and the Gucci camel belly one that Antimeria got me. I mean, that one is limited to five in the entire world. The entire world, Noah. He can be nice sometimes.”

“I know honey, he really can.”

“But I’m going to get tons more. I’ve been meaning to go shopping, but exotic pollutes are in such a demand right now that transporting them is taking up all my – I mean all our – time. It seems like we’re always in transit.”

“That’s true, it does seem like that.”

“Next time I go shopping for a side-sling however, I’m getting you something, okay?” Nelly sat forward and smiled at Noah.

“You don’t have to do that … ”

“No. You deserve it. Something really fashionable. Like human bone cufflinks or one of those Hilton-Bush blood diamond bow ties ... ”

SEVENTEEN∞

“Meme’s a fool … ” Tyro said to his wife, Hannah, as they ate at a local Tibetan restaurant. Tyro was Meme’s co-worker, and therapist to Yeshi’s twin sister, Rinchi. “Such a fucktard.” He watched as he wife slowly nibbled at her bowl of fried then-tuk. Each thumb-sized noodle looked like a giant slug slipping into her predatory lips.

“You say that too much honey.”

“I think it’s the pollutes. He’s constantly late to work and his performance as of late has dropped dramatically. A few of his clients have complained to me about him. They’re worried too.”

“What can you do?”

“If I were his boss, I’d fire him in a heartbeat,” Tyro sighed. “About the only thing I can do is submit an official complaint. I’ve already done that twice this month and it seems to have little or no effect. BlackAguaUSA is slacking in their management as of late.”

“Things will work out soon enough, Ty.” Hannah reached for her glass of aloe vera juice.

Hannah was an elegant woman, soft spoken and drop-dead gorgeous. She had icy blue eyes and thick blonde hair that had been pulled back into a short pony tail. Her lips were a size too large for her thin face. There were freckles across her nose, like loose crumbs on a table, and her eyebrows were thin and elaborately shaped. She wore a pair of jade earrings which matched the green cashmere scarf draped over one of her shoulders.

She smiled knowingly at her husband. They had met at UCLA five years ago, while Tyro was studying for his Master’s in Humandroid therapy and she was studying for an undergrad in nature-deficit disorder. He was a stern man, who took his job and everything revolving around it a bit too seriously.

He took off his glasses and used his tie to clean the lenses.

“Stop it.” She laughed as he looked from the glasses to her. “That was an expensive tie!”

Hannah bought all of Tyro’s clothes. Any sense of style he conveyed to those around him was due to Hannah’s haughty taste, which she borrowed from the countless electronic magazines she subscribed to and hours spent on GoogleFace’s various fashion channels.

“What should I use then?” he asked.

“Use a napkin. That tie was handmade in Syria by disabled school children. They’re disabled – show them some respect.”

He reached for the napkin. “I’m just frustrated, that’s all. I work so hard to keep things at the office in order and it seems as if Meme just comes in whenever he pleases, makes a mess, does a shit job, and leaves early. He always has something to do… always has some excuse. I’ve been sending him more messages, hoping he’ll get the hint that I’m unsatisfied with his performance, but he never responds. Hell, I don’t even think he reads the messages.”

“Let’s change the subject sweetie. It’s date night, remember?”

“Yeah, but we can’t be out late.” Tyro rubbed his temples. “I need to get home to compile some research on a new optimism ignition method that a friend of mine recently sent me. You know Dr. Bertetta at Stanford. Anyway, the self-awareness module we have been using over the last two years at the office barely has a fifty percent success rate. Of the fifty percent that show no sign of improvement, thirteen percent have conditions that appear to have gotten worse. It’s not working well enough.”

“Seriously?”

“Humandroids are losing their motivation to work. This affects both the economy and the general well-being of human society. This new research is crucial to improving the work ethic and overall happiness of the Humandroids. I’m hoping to read through it tonight so I can do a few test runs starting tomorrow.”

“Ty, maybe we could go dancing? Why not? They have that new pollution club nearby. POLLUTION CLUB 512 ... ”

“Are you kidding?” Tyro laughed. His brow furrowed and he leaned forward. “You know I don’t use pollutes. Look what it does to these people!” he pointed at the bar.

Seven or eight people wearing pollution masks loitered around a skinny dreadlocked bartender. Some laughed while the others, who were likely more intoxicated, leaned forward onto their elbows.

“Oh, those people are just high. It’s okay to get high off pollutes every now and then. Come on, it will be fun. We can get crazy, you know,” she winked at Tyro. “Come on, we never did anything for Halloween last year … let’s get wild tonight!”

EIGHTEEN∞

There are a few Origami birds fluttering around my head.

In the distance, the lone call of what sounds to be a wounded manatee reverberates through the room. The sound detonates inside my skull and dissipates. I’m standing near a pair of large dunes. Near me, the water from a jostling blue river sluices through a bed of jagged candy rocks. I can feel my body convulsing.

I stop and sit near the root of a gnarled oak tree. Brittle twigs crunch under my weight. I look up at the sandy dunes nearby and feel the urge to rest coming on. Sand sprays around me as I tramp up one of the dunes. Yeshi sits on a peculiar rock formation that juts up like a nipple seemingly out of nowhere and I wave.

I wave and wave and wait and wait for my cue to misbehave.

Suddenly, we’re standing in a house with playing card wallpaper and mauve parquet floors. I’m leaning against her. The Kings are shaking their glossy swords as they try to peel themselves from the ivory wallpaper. They’re tattooed to their cards, bewildered and agitated. Royalty hates being pinned down. The Queens are fixing their sylvanite crowns. Some are using prickly eyebrow tweezers to jab at the corners of their cards. Their faces are smeared in lard, their cheeks flush with crimson, their lips puckered, their brows lowered and menacing.

The Jokers are laughing at the kings and queens. The Jokers are laughing at the cream-colored things. The Jacks are laughing at themselves. The Jacks are laughing at me. One Jack reaches his sword to the card above him and pricks the King of Spades in the ass. The King roars. A black liquid boils out of his ass and onto the floor.

Yeshi dips her hand in the inky substance and sucks it off her finger. She wipes some on my face. It burns in a way I’ve never felt before. I touch the substance and put some in my mouth. It tastes like sour licorice.

“Where are we?”

“We’re in the hotel room,” she tells me. I continue to stare down a long corridor snaking underneath the Queen of Hearts. The audience cheers and jeers, no after claps here, no one is as ambitchous as I! Unlightening epiphanots collide!

“Why are we here?” I asked the only question worth asking again. “Why are we here?”

Yeshi’s eyelashes have been replaced with Monarch butterfly wings and her bangs have vanished. Her fingernails have elongated, her teeth have sharpened.

“I’m so scared,” I tell her. “Sorry for being such an askhole … ”

“Fear is more exciting than banality I suppose,” she says. “You can ask as many questions as you want.”

“WHAT WAS THAT!?”

I sense something moving in the room around us. Something dark, something sinister. The hairs on my arms stand to attention like a field full of pulsating erections. A bear-sized shadow moves across the room. It feels like something is breathing down on me. A hot and sticky breath – a mixture of vinegar and deceit, bloodlust and rotten apples – daggers my senses. I feel the drip of searing saliva on my back.

“Please,” I tell her, grabbing her arm.

“You want me to take off your pants?”

“No! Please, just… please…” I start to cry.

My mind has exploded and it’s dribbling out of my tear ducts. Whatever is in the room is near. Whatever is lurking in the dark is within arm’s reach. Whatever is behind me, whatever is in front of me … I fall to my knees.

It’s there! Behind you!

“Is it too strong?”

“Is what too strong!?” I plead.

“The Ukrainian pollute … ”

“The what?” I turn away. “Please stop,” I whisper to the phantom being standing behind me. Meet your executioner face to face.

“All right let’s take that mask off.”

“Don’t touch me!” I scream. The cards begin to fall off the wall, shattering all around me. Shards of glass spray into the air like waves during an H-bomb test. I cover my ears and scream.

He is here. He is near. Here is here. Near is here. Here is he. Near is he. He is here…

“Okay. Just relax, just lie here sweetie.”

I’m standing near the strange soft dunes again. The baleful cards are gone, the spectral nuisance too. I’m listening to the sounds of the forest. I’m lying near a large tree. In a haze, I begin walking towards the two dunes. My legs start to sink into them. My head is plangent. I’m dizzy and nauseous, baffled. I can see two white suns over the horizon. They seem to blink at me. Two clouds with long dangly rain litter purple hues across the dunes.

“Meme,” I hear the wind say in the distance. “Meme, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” I say. I lie down on the mound and sink into the fleshy earth. I press my ear against the earth and hear a strange mechanical ticking noise. I notice the whir of a processor.

“You aren’t real,” I say into the fleshy mound. I look up and see a few doves fluttering above. “I can’t switch bodies with you … ”

“No one’s real,” the wind whispers in my ear. “No one’s real, sweetie.”

NINETEEN∞

I’m being dragged by her! I don’t know how she got me out of the purple room. I don’t actually know if it was a room. It seemed like a room. The walls swelled like a room. The walls felt constricting like I was in a room. The walls were hard like a room; confining like a room. Who knows!?

We’re in some leaky lobby I don’t recognize. Deranged faces smile at us. We’re whisked away in a sleek taxi aeros. I have no idea how an aeros works but it does. Think The Jetsons and sprinkle in a little sci-fi fantasy. Flying vehicles do exist! I’m oblivious with most technology except Humandroids – I know how they work. Better to be decent enough to pass the required exams at one trade than to be a master of none.

This I know – Yeshi was naked earlier. Now she’s in a tight white dress practically painted on. She still has white contacts in shielded by monarch butterfly wing eyelashes. She’s thin, her body long and narrow, like a gazelle, like a perfect specimen. Like everything you ever wanted in a woman yet she’s a man, or a Humandroid ladyboy, or an object, or dammit I have no idea what pronoun I should be using and fuck it I don’t care!

You’re falling in love, Meme!

How dare you say that! Falling in love? What the fuck does that even mean? It sounds like a trap to me! Admiral Ackbar is crapping in his pants somewhere! Did I just say falling in love? Can you really fall in love with a Humandroid?

Love love love love love.

I look at her again. She’s exquisite and unique, yet she’s not real. Impossible to fall in love with something that’s not real. Or is it? The FCG doesn’t recognize human-Humandroid marriages. Marriage? I’m hallucinating! Why does the thought of love always follow with a question of marriage? Damn my conditioning! Damn your conditioning. Damn our conditioning. Love? Virtually impossible I know, but so is everything I’ve told you over the last one hundred pages.

I need to get out of this taxi. I need to get out of this novel about my exploits, crawl from these thin pages and save myself from myself.

I need to escape.

I will begin my departure from this novel by using your hands to pull myself out of this book. I’ll grip your wrists, squeeze out a gasp of relief as my head emerges from the fleshy paper or the bogus electronic pages; I’ll let out and audible sigh as I careen my neck to the left, to the right, grimace and blink my eyes as I adjust to the light in the room you’re in. I’ll stick my tongue out and taste the stale air. Inhale, exhale.

I’ll scream as I’m born into your world. Shriek as I bite into the flesh of your forearms, ripping my neck from this bound debauchery. I will look up at you with a sense of wonderment.  From there I pull my torso out.

I’ll use one arm to hold you down against the chair – leverage – and use the other to push away from the book. My chest will emerge, followed by my thighs. At this point you’ll drop the book. I will brace myself for impact. The veins running up and down my forearms will fill with blood.

You’ll fall on the floor, afraid that your novel has come alive. This floor could be anywhere: the subway, an airplane, your room, your bathtub, your girlfriend’s living room, your boyfriend’s parent’s house, a prison cell, a bus, the lobby at a mental clinic.

People are watching, people aren’t watching, people don’t care. No one can see me but you. No one can see you but me. See it – the book with my half-emerged body falls to the floor. I break the spine of the book in the process of my nativity. I shatter the e-ink screen of your Kindle or Nook or iPad or Galaxy Tab or Kobo eReader or whatever silly futuristic device you are reading this from.

Look now and imagine with me!

The book lies in a heap on the floor. I’m curled next to it in the fetal position. You stand and sit in the chair, afraid to look down at me, clutching your knees, sobbing. Who is this black man who has come into my home? Suddenly, I’m alive and well. I’m sitting next to you, asking you your name, ignoring what you say and calling you ‘reader.”

“Hi, I’m Meme Lamar and I’m from 2083. Please don’t call the cops. I know what they are capable of in this day and age due to my skin tone. That’s a good Reader, relax, take a deep breath, I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Life is a beautiful naissance. Life is a horrible disaster. Life is a brief tryst, a wondrous time to fuck and be fucked. To die and let live. To learn a new language and forget your mother tongue. To dance with death and thumb your nose at despair.

I will become your new best friend. I will eat your leftovers, take long hot baths in your home, meet your parents, go to football games with you, play video games with your younger siblings, write your term papers for you, help you count your medication, clean the rims of your car, start a band with you (I call drums!), watch over you as you sleep, Texas two-step with you, have sex with you, wash the dishes for you, drink cocktails out of cracked coconut shells while we relax on a nude beach, kill your enemies for you, pet your hair while you watch TV.

After I’ve ruined or enhanced your life, I will switch bodies with you. You’ll become me and I’ll become you. I’ll become Reader and you’ll become Meme. You are a Humandroid therapist infatuated with a voluptuous love doll. You confuse infatuation with love, lust with eternal partnership. You’ve punched some higher up at ExEx. You’re addicted (not addicted – I’m a connoisseur) to pollutes. You’ve already begun questioning your sexual orientation due to the fact that you’re lusty for an artificial ladyboy. You’re riding in the back of an aeros, bundled on the floorboard with fright.

You can barely see straight.

I can barely see straight.

We are blind together.

The woman near me is a wavy line. Tall, slender, pert, soft hair, bangs, eyes, mouth, words, red lips, butterfly eyelashes, black nails. Nothing has a tangible outline. Silky skin, soft features, quirky smile, long legs, sexy dress, cute nose. The faces of the people I’ve encountered since leaving the hotel room keep morphing. The faces are synthetic; the molds are set as swiftly as they change. The cityscape is one single light. The cityscape is a million lights covered in grafedia.

The fiends, the shops, the ads, the tech, the buildings holding the sky up, the drones overhead monitoring the citizens. (Attention all future societies: you must monitor your citizens at all costs!) The city below twists into one large flash of thinly veiled neo-totalitarianism.

Welcome to the future meine freunde.

I try to crawl further under the taxi seat. The woman I’m with is trying to help me up. She pulls me into the seat and whispers something into my ear. Noli me Tángere! Her breath smells metallic. The driver stares at me wearily from the rearview mirror. His look of disappointment reminds me my father’s when I didn’t make it into Harvard. I went to UCLA instead.

Holy hell, the cab driver is my father! He’s a bastard of a man, black as a crater on the dark side of the moon and mean as a cornered animal. Rabid eyes, gnashing teeth, sharp eyes, prickly ears. His jowl hangs like a wet scarf from his neck. He’s barking at someone on a radio piece in his ear. His neck is leathery. The saliva sprays from his mouth to the dashboard. An LCD advertisement screen flashes an ad for the Stonecipheco retirement homes.

I try to dive back under the seat in front of me. The woman leading me around grabs at my arm and tries to lift my body into the chair. She does so in a way that seems absolutely routine. She does so in an almost passive, bored way.

Here, sit boy. Good boy. Aren’t you a good boy? Want a treat? If you behave I’ll buy you a treat. No, don’t go under the chair in front of you. Good boy. Stay right here. You’re a sweet boy aren’t you? Who is a sweet boy? Who is mama’s little baby?

I am mama’s little baby!

The driver is not my father. My father is a skinny man with oval glasses. As I realize this, it feels as if an epiphany has just struck me across the forehead. I look out the window and see a line of aeros moving beside us. I have no idea where we are. The city is a dark gash below, yet the lights are effulgent. Each light leaves a lacinated tracer in the cabin of the vehicle. The tracers linger like slow falling snow. There are no stars in the sky. Too many buildings, too much fog, too much city. I feel lost in the city!

Who is this woman sitting next to me? I inspect her by slipping my fingers under her skirt. She slaps at my hand and smiles back. Her smile stretches all the way past her cheeks and bursts off her face. It sticks to the window and beats its fists against the glass. It wants to escape. I want to escape with it.

The woman’s bangs sway back and forth as she tells me to relax. She says stop in a way that seems to encourage me to explore further. I love when women tell me to stop. I grab her neck and pull her towards me. We’re kissing and I’m sucking her tongue into my throat. She’s biting my lip. The driver makes a sound. How dare you judge us!? The woman hits a button and a barrier goes up between us and the driver.

I’m suddenly terrified. I push the woman away. The thought hits me – I’m stuck in a moving vehicle hovering in thin air over a bulging city full of simps below. The urge to vomit violently tickles my tummy. Reality starts slushing around me like a cruel joke. I start to dry heave. The woman next to me pats my back and tells me to breathe.

Just relax baby.

I beat my head against the back of the seat. I’m frantic. I try and pry open the doors but they’re locked. “Who are you?” I ask, moving as close to the door as I can. I quickly think about kicking my feet against the window. Maybe I can shatter the glass.

“Yeshi,” she giggles. “You know my name Meme … just relax. It’s the Ukrainian pollute that is fucking with you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

“What?”

I try to crawl back down below the seat in front of me. The barrier prevents me from going any further. I look up at her, cowering. She grows into a large blimp of a woman. She isn’t a woman, a voice inside my head reminds me. Fuck you, I hiss at that voice.

Who is this voice anyway? Fuck what Jiminy Cricket or whatever that old story tells you. My conscience? Find a new doll to molest, Geppetto! I cower away from Yeshi the Blue Fairy. She’s in the seat. I’m back on the floor.

“Go finger yourself with Pinocchio’s nose!” I finally yell up at her.

She laughs at me and says she’s filming all of this. The voice inside my head also laughs at me.

Hold up – if your conscience laughs at you, are you simply laughing at yourself? If your conscience laughs at you, who else do you have to turn to? If you could meet your conscience what would you say?

Hey, give me better advice next time so I don’t get so many divorces. Why didn’t you tell me not to walk out the door that day? What do you do in your free time? Do other consciences get together once a week and talk shit about their hosts? Does a conscience have a conscience? Does the little voice inside your head have a different intonation than your actual voice? Is it a woman’s voice? A man’s voice?

I ask my conscience to say something to me. You know, give me a test run, let me hear what it is you sound like. Prove thyself conscience or forever hold your peace!

Of course, the voice is suddenly mute. Leave it to a conscience to leave you hanging desperately in times of need. A quiet conscience is about as useful as a condom with button-sized holes poked through it.

I look back up at the Humandroid claiming to be Yeshi. She’s sitting with her legs crossed, humming a song I’m unfamiliar with. The sound crescendos and falls. I try to push myself further into the corner made by the door and the front seats. I’m sweating profusely and wiping my hand on whatever upholstery I can find. I can feel my heart pounding against my ribcage.

“Meme,” the woman claiming to be Yeshi says, “Come sit up here. Come lay in my lap. It will be okay. We will be there soon. Meme, you have to relax before we get there, or they won’t let you into the club ... I’ll take care of you. Always.”

TWENTY ∞

“These people are animals,” Tyro said. He waved his hand toward the tilting dance floor of POLLUTION CLUB 512. “Animals … ”

“Just have fun, Ty.” His wife gave him a playful shove.

“Stupid mask … ” Tyro was palming the long nose of a pollution mask between his fingers. “God this stuff is expensive. Why am I even here again?”

“Oh, just have fun.”

He watched as Hannah slowly inhaled her pollute. He’d chosen something called Kenzo GalloFeces for her and for himself, Clive Christian’s Imperial Atrocity, with a ginseng carrion topper. He sighed, trying to forget all the work he had hoped to complete that evening.

Women and their constant need for attention. Women and the weight they put on irrational gestures. Flowers? They die. Chocolate? It gets eaten and makes you fat. Jewelry? They already have enough jewelry. Vacations? Why vacate a house that has everything you need? Clothes? It’s nearly impossible to select something for a woman that she actually likes. Movie night? Why watch a movie in a large room with tons of stupid people when you could watch it from the comfort of your own living room?

All these absurd gesticulations, all to remind women – constantly – that you indeed cared about them. Tyro knew this, but wasn’t sleeping in the same bed with her every night enough? Didn’t drinking coffee with her and watching her rub the sleep out of their eyes suffice? Didn’t listening to her bitch about her problems with her friends count for something? Why all the extra stuff? Why the inconsequential vanity?

Her beauty products? Expensive and malodorous. Her yoga classes? He didn’t trust the gropey instructor. Her wardrobe? Worth as much as their aeros. Her bi-weekly trip to the spa? Quite possibly the most unnecessary expenditure he’d ever encountered. Her manicure? Who the hell thought of making a business around scrubbing and painting other peoples nails anyway?

Aside from his unwillingness to accept the generally agreed upon societal behaviors of an American wife, he loved her dearly, and rarely said things about her bizarre bourgeois needs. Tyro merely pretended to understand his wife. After all, she was one of the best women he’d ever met.

Hannah was the only one who found it cute when he fell asleep in their study with his head in a book. She was the only one who would listen for hours on end about some minor discovery in the field of Humandroid psychology or robo-socio biomimicry. Many nights she was invisible, and while he was bad at articulating his gratitude for this, her invisibility was her most unique quality. Maybe this is what love is, he thought, as he watched her play with the strap on the back of her pollution mask. Maybe love is knowing when to disappear.

Sometimes Tyro could relate better with his clients than he could with other humans. Humandroids made sense. They didn’t spend frivolously, they didn’t require much pampering, they lived minimally, they didn’t require courting, they didn’t require trips to the spa, or jewelry, or anything else Tyro deemed redundant. In a very frightening way, they were much more evolved than your average human. It was good they didn’t fully recognize this, good they were trained not to question human superiority…

“You going to try it?”

“I guess … ” Tyro grumbled, albeit with a slight smile. He knew he was going to get laid no matter what. Depending on the amount of pollutes his wife consumed; it could even make for an interesting lay. While they weren’t always getting their missionary on, it had become the norm as of late.

A man walked by wearing chaps and nothing else. There was a long strip of manicured pubes shaved above his penis. Tyro kept seeing men with the strip and couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. Youth, he thought, youth and their asinine attempts to revitalize culture or prove ingenuity through salacious shock value.

His wife was already gyrating to the choons bassing from the tilting dance floor in the other room. She was dressed modestly compared to the vamp next to her, a tall woman with a sheer top that only covered one breast and see-through leggings with no panties. Is this what it takes to attract a mate these days?

He took another long inhale. Craziness.

Suddenly the music seemed louder. At the same time it seemed thinner, as if it was being played through a straw protruding from his ear canal. He started to nod slightly to the music, hoping his wife didn’t notice. If he looked like he was having too much fun, she would tease him later. He had to maintain stoic homeostasis.

The bartender, a short pudgy woman with the standard bartender dreadlocks, waved at him. She indicated to Tyro that she’d yet to administer the ginseng carrion topper. She flapped a small white packet in the air and smiled maniacally. Giving Tyro the thumbs up, she poured the glittery packet into a shot glass. Using her dreadlock, she sprayed something yellow and yolky into the shot glass. From the countertop, she retrieved a funnel with an LCD advertisement flickering on the side (the advertisement was for a new movie called Saddam Hussein: Vampire Hunter). The bartender used the funnel to empty the topper into a glass bubble on top of a pollute distributor. Within seconds, the liquid turned ultramarine and started to boil.

“It’s ready,” he said to no one in particular. His eyes fell upon Hannah. She swayed back and forth with her hands in the air. With the pollution mask on, she resembled a blond haired anteater with emerald green eyes.

His vision was starting to bubble and at the same time, things had begun to slow down. It must be the ginseng carrion, he thought, as he continued to watch his wife’s hair strike her mask like fulgurating harpoons. Stupid pollutes. He placed his hand in his front pocket and palmed his glasses.

Over his wife’s shoulder, Tyro saw someone enter the pollution bar. His heart did a summersault when he saw Rinchi, his most troubled client. She turned and walked back out the door, distracted by something happening in the hallway. Out of panic, he took the largest drag off the pollute that he could muster. He fell forward, catching himself on a bar stool. His wife laughed at him and kept dancing.

The pollutes were making him suddenly aware of all that was happening around him. He didn’t want his wife to see him peering over her shoulder at the door. Rinchi would return soon enough. She had the gait of someone who would return, the willpower splashed across her bang-framed face.

The door opened again, and Rinchi walked into the club holding hands with Meme.

“It’s him.” Tyro slid his pollution mask to the top of his head.

“Who?” Hannah yelled loudly over the music.

“Meme!”

“Where?” Hannah pushed her mask to the top of her head and followed her husband’s finger to the entrance. “Who’s he with?”

“That bastard … That stupid bastard … ” Tyro slammed his pollution mask down onto the bar. ‘meme is with one of my clients!” He began fixing his hair, hoping not to look too intoxicated. “Do I look like I’ve been using pollutes?”

“I don’t know … ”

“Shit,” Tyro said. The effects of the pollutes had started to heighten. Regardless, an opportunity like this rarely presented itself. Meme was seeing a client – instant grounds for termination. Better yet, Rinchi, like all Humandroids, recorded everything that happened. So if he needed proof, all he had to do was put in an order to have her ocular feed transferred to him.

“I’m going over there,” he said. With a revengeful grin on his face, Tyro yanked his arm away from his wife and turned towards Meme.

TWENTY-ONE∞

“How did the second drop off go?” Nelly asked Noah. He’d just picked her up at her private condo off Wilshire Blvd. The development had been named Faux-Luxury, in line with a trend to embrace doublespeak, or as the mayor of LA, Bruce al-Hakim, said at the time, “we must equivocate ourselves into the future. Equivocate for clarity! Obfuscation for humanity! Duplicity for ingenuity! No means yes and yes means no!”

Faux-Luxury was a twenty-eight story piece of pure starchitecture. The rooftop glamping sites featured a green McStarbucks tent with yellow arches, an outdoor shower concealed by a transurface mirror, a pollution bar cut out of large redwood trees, eight private Jacuzzis, a small observatory aimed at the Hollywood hills and a clever storage building for aeros. Once an aeros landed and the driver disembarked, a platform lifted the vehicle onto a shelf, stacking it neatly on top of another aeros.

Nelly’s building – unique in its design by stretching the length of six city blocks yet being surprisingly narrow – had a hotel on the bottom eight floors, hotel apartments on the next eight floors and a VirginAT&T shopping center with a movie theater spanning the next four floors. The Faux-Luxury was capped off by twelve stories of Samsung condominiums rimmed with sparkling parapets, each custom made through a joint collaboration between Korean and Italian artisans. Sandstone Gargoyles wearing pollution masks perched outside the condominiums, gazing down like filthy rich vultures on the plebes below.

Noah (small driver’s cap, a fitted tuxedo, eyeliner on his left eye and white gloves) smiled at Nelly in the mirror as their aeros began its ascent. “The second drop off went fine. No complications whatsoever. Not that I expected any. So where do you want to go tonight, dear?”

“A pollution bar near POLLUTION CLUB 512,” Nelly said. “I have to deliver some of this Bhutanese stuff to Mimidae tonight.”

“The snail stuff?”

“Yes. She’s going to a party upstate this weekend and wants to bring along something powerful. She invited me, but as you know, I’ve been feeling kind of sick lately.” Nelly put her hand on her stomach and looked down at it, frowning. The baby was taking all her fun away. How selfish. “Three weeks to go … ”

Even though it was night, Nelly wore a pair of razor thin sunglasses, which were designed to look like a slash mark across her face. A disposable LCD tika was applied to her forehead. The tika transmitted a video of an eye with tentacles extending from its pupil. Her hair had been pulled back into Princess Leia buns and she wore a loose fitting lavender blouse.

“Oh this damn baby … ”

“You poor thing, you should let me cook some prenatal spaghetti for you tomorrow night. I was given a recipe recently by a friend. We can sit back and jam some choons.”

“Sounds delicious. Does it have meat?”

“Of course not sweetie, I know you are a vegan!” Noah winked at her. “I’d never feed you meat. Those that eat meat are … ”

“So barbaric.”

“Meat is murder,” they said together.

Nelly laughed, “I love how you finish my words.”

“Words of the wise are often met with imitation.”

“You think I’m wise?” Nelly asked, her voice softening.

“Beyond your years darling, beyond your years.”

TWENTY-TWO∞

“You wanted to dance, right?” Yeshi asks as she hauls me to the front door of POLLUTION CLUB 512. The people huddled around the bar’s entrance are amorphous blobs. Their tight bodies and gawking faces warp and contort like melting pretzels. I try not to look at them. Let the droid do the talking, that damned little voice says again.

Who are you!? I scream inside my head to the little voice. I close my eyes and try to log into iNet. I can’t remember my password. I can’t remember how to log in. I need to look up something on iNet. I need to figure out who I am. I need to figure out who you are!

“Meme, put your finger here to pay the cover charge.”

Yeshi lifts my hand and sets my finger down on a small blue pad. My fingerprint appears on a hovering LCD screen near the doorman with a green check across it. The man – a five-hundred-pound former Mexican wrestler (I say this because he’s wearing a luchador mask) – nods slightly and lets us in. We walk down a flight of stairs, past gilded picture frames and flashing advertisements.

We near a large metal door and the Blue Fairy claiming to be Yeshi walks in. I stay back, not ready to enter into the fray. The wallpaper in the hallway is made from clumps of black and yellow cubes. I try to figure out how they’re connected. I move towards the wall and slide my hand across one of the cubes. It detonates, sending blots of color whirling into the air. I freak out and try to swipe it off. It clings for dear life as I start spinning around in circles. I suddenly feel as if I’m stuck in a vacuum caused by the optical illusion, as if I’m looking the wrong way through a telescope.

“Come on,” Yeshi says.

“Who are you?”

“Yeshi,” she laughs again. “You’re so fucked up Meme; I wish I could get as crazy as you.”

“Yeshi, the ladyboy Humandroid?” I pull her towards me. I kiss her neck; run my finger along her collar bone.

“Shhhhh… honey. Let’s just get inside, dance for a while, and then we can go somewhere else. I have an idea.”

Without saying a word, she pushes me through the final entrance into the club. I’m greeted by an ocean of jostling unfamiliar faces. Everything is a blur, as if butter had been rubbed onto my pupils and my eyeballs had been glazed with fructose. Even with the fuzzy vision, I can make out the tilting dance floor in the next room. As I adjust my gaze, the room starts to shrink and I suddenly feel as if I’m a giant crammed into a withering cell.

The back of my neck is pressed against the top of the ceiling, my arms swing to the floor, my elephantine knees knock over the people in front of me, my fingers get caught up in the bartender’s dreadlocks. I want to scream, to cry out. I want to break free from the constricting room, but I’m being dragged deeper into it by this cadaverous man-woman claiming to be Yeshi! The room gets smaller, the people get closer, the smells get stranger, my life gets vaguer.

“Meme, what the fuck are you doing!?”

I recognize the voice and my body starts to shrivel.

I’m no longer a giant. I’m a mouse and I’m looking for the first hole I can find. It can’t be him. I’m hallucinating. I’m hallucinating. I’m hallucinating. I’m hallucinating. I’m hallucinating. You aren’t a mouse!

“Meme, what the hell are you doing with a client?” The voice turns towards the woman next to me. “Rinchi, what are you doing here with him?”

“Rinchi?” Yeshi laughs. “I’m not Rinchi … ”

“Tyro?” I finally manage say, putting my hand on his shoulder and leaning forward to get a good look at him. Is it really him? What’s he doing here? It looks like him. Serious face, blood shot eyes, freshly shaved, thin tie, glasses, asshole demeanor …

“Get your hands off me!” he shouts. He swings his shoulder away, leans forward, sways for a moment, and gives me a push. His glasses fall to the ground. I close my eyes and watch as streams of lights fall backwards with me. I hit an invisible spring and bounce forward.

I open my eyes and I’m on top of the man claiming to be Tyro. The back of his head is against the tessellated floor. No one cares that we are fighting. They dance over us, jamming their heels into our ankles and stopping the boots a little too close to our baby-makers.

No chance to dance – I must defend myself! I began striking him repeatedly. “Who are you?” I bellow as I pound my fists into his muzzy face. “What have you done with Tyro? Who are you!?”

A rose colored liquid falls from his nose and escapes in the crevice of his mouth. Squiggly veins appear at his temples; I suddenly feel horrible for the imposter. Look how much he is suffering! I began kissing the fresh fist marks on his face.

“Get the fuck off me!” he yells into my open mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I tell the imposter Tyro. I feel like I should be crying, like I should be running, like I should be hiding.

“Meme!” I hear Yeshi say from behind me.

The imposter tries to buck me off but I’m stronger than he. I look up and notice the crowd has finally stopped dancing. A woman with blonde hair runs to me and yanks at my arm. I kiss the imposter’s face again, hoping that my gesture won’t go unappreciated. I feel so bad for him, I feel so stupid for hitting him. Still, he was claiming to be Tyro, which was a no-no.

The adrenaline has a sobering effect. As I kiss him I imagine small flowers pouring out of my lips and into the wounds on his face. I try with all the strength I can muster to bring him closer to me. That’s when I feel a strong muscular arm rip me off the man claiming to be Tyro.

TWENTY-THREE∞

Anna and Rinchi sat in the back of a stretch-aeros with Antimeria and Sauria, whom you might remember as the guy with the Burger King crown. The two Humandroid escorts sat across from the men, necking with each other. A warm-up of sorts. Sauria had his eyes closed, taking a video call over iNet from someone he kept referring to as Gyatson.

Anna and Rinchi continued to make out as Sauria’s conversation grew louder.

“I don’t know what his name was, but it’s been a week and no one has been able to locate him,” Sauria huffed. “It can’t be that hard. I don’t care if he’s using a chip-masker! The man choked me. He choked me! Me! How hard is it to find this motherfucker? The club is covered with cameras … I don’t care if his images were blurry. Have MercSecure cross-scan the people who paid the door charge that night. Wait a damn minute – why am I doing your work for you if you can do it yourself? If you can’t handle this, I’ll contact Lorem and we’ll get a better representative on the case. Maybe we should get Keva.”

Rinchi started kissing Anna’s neck, slowly peeling off her bra. She flicked her tongue downward until she had her nipple in her mouth.

“If you guys can’t find him by the end of the night … I swear shit is going to hit the fan. Yeah, I know it’s a dated term, but I’m serious. Find out who he is and make sure … ”

“I think I know who he is,” Rinchi said, softly pushing Anna’s breast away.

Sauria opened his eyes. “What?”

“Yeshi canceled joining us tonight so she could go out with this guy. His name is Meme … ”

“Meme? Meme what?”

“I don’t know his last name.”

“And he’s the one who … ” Sauria looked from Rinchi to Antimeria.

“How do you know?” Antimeria asked her.

“She left with him the night of the incident. She ran off with him. Black guy, strong, aggressive, right? He strangled you and then he bailed with her. I have it on video you know.”

“That’s right … ” Antimeria said. “You girls film everything. I should have put in an order to have your ocular feed checked that night!”

“Can you locate them right now?” Sauria asked.

“If Yeshi is online, I can find her. However, if she is completely logged off, it’ll be difficult. She does that from time to time.”

“So wait, the guy Yeshi is with right now is also the guy that choked Sauria?” Anna asked Rinchi. Anna draped her hands across her breasts and smiled over at the two men. “This is getting interesting.”

A call came in over iNet. “Dr. T?” Rinchi asked.

_∞_

“That fucktard!” Tyro shouted, covering his nose with a bar towel.

“So much blood … ” Hannah had led her husband out of the club. She was woozy from the pollutes, walking with a slight tilt. “Come on honey, let’s go somewhere else and get you cleaned up.”

“I’ve had enough! I’m getting on iNet. I need to speak with Rinchi right now. I don’t care if she is with him!”

“What’s that going to do?” Hannah asked. A semi-nude man wearing a turban and a Who’s your Baghdaddy? t-shirt strolled into the club with two women on either arm.

“I don’t know. Good, she’s online!”

He quickly placed the call.

“Dr. T?” Rinchi asked.

“Rinchi!” Every time he blinked, he could see Rinchi’s image splash across his eyelids. It was a preprogrammed image, which was important for anonymity. “Why the hell are you with Meme!?”

“Honey, don’t curse at your clients,” Hannah said.

“What do you mean?” Rinchi asked.

“My co-worker Meme. That stupid son-of-a-bi—”

“What are you talking about Dr. T?” Rinchi asked.

“Don’t lie to me, Rinchi! You’re with him right now! At POLLUTION CLUB 512. He just … he just assaulted me!”

A security guard stepped up. ‘sir, ma’am. This hallway is a no standing zone.”

“No standing zone?” Hannah asked with a pollute-laced grin. “What the hell does that even mean?”

The security guard yawned. “By ordinance of the FCG, no citizens can loiter within fifteen feet of a pollution club entrance or a no loitering sign.” He pointed at a sign that had a silhouette of a man with his arms behind his back and red X superimposed over it. “Sorry, it’s the law.”

“ … Yes I’m bleeding. My face is covered in blood! Meme hit me like eight times … ”

“We’re loitering?” Hannah asked.

“Why are you with Meme!? Tell me, Dammit!” Tyro screamed again. By this time, Rinchi had already hung up on him.

The security guard sighed. “Loitering, as defined by the FCG, includes iNet usage in restricted areas, standing for more than two minutes in any marked location, or … ”

“Okay, okay. We get it,” Hannah said with a grunt. “Come on Ty, let’s move.”

TWENTY-FOUR∞

Nelly entered a small pollution bar near POLLUTION CLUB 512. She sat down at a two person table in the far corner, under a replica of a famous painting by a twenty-first century artist simply known as Royce.

In the painting, a ninth generation iPhone is fucking a Google Android phone doggy-style. A Samsung Galaxy 9 is videotaping the whole shebang. The icons on both phones are spraying off their bodies and exploding into tiny cum-shaped blemishes made from stippled paint. Patent laws burn on the windowsill behind the bed. The perspective is from the front of the bed, with the Google Android phone looking up at the viewer in anguish. The original painting was recently stolen from the Louvre by terrorists wearing twentieth century gas masks. It was Royce’s best known piece.

Nelly admired the piece for a moment. These days, artists had everything at their disposal to cut, form, copy, paste, modify or 3-D print their vision. Anyone could be an artist now. It was almost to the point where if you could think it, you could build it in real life via 3-D printing. There were also a ton of services that painted whatever it was you saw in your head. So you could create the vision, and some hapless painter in Honduras would paint it for you. They’d even sign your name if you paid extra. By the 2070s, the digitization of everything practically destroyed the original definition of artist. At the same type, it built a new definition entirely. Now artists were those who could manipulate digital realities. The new Andy Warhols were less Campbell’s soup and more binary predators.

Nelly logged into iNet to see if Carloza was online. The login process was quick. After the eyes were closed for more than a few seconds, a screen popped up with a login button. The button was programmed to disappear after five seconds, returning the user to their normal eyelid state.

Buried in the pointer finger of a large majority of humans was a subcutaneous nano-sensor. Slight movements of the pointer finger could be used to navigate the Internet on a person’s eyelids. The finger movement needed was quite subtle, requiring only a small flick. Sometimes people used their finger on the surface of their jeans or a table. It also worked in midair.

The texting and typing function on iNet was performed solely by the user’s mind. A person thought the words they wanted to say and the words instantly appear on the screen on the insides of their eyelids.

For video chatting, a prerecorded image was used or, if either of the users was in a 333G location (which constituted almost every surface of the civilized world), the video from the nearest camera would be transmitted to the other user’s eyelids. One of the benefits of the Watch Our Own People Act (WOOPA) of 2036, was the surplus of cameras in any given location. With so many cameras around – from the inside of aeros to every room in a user’s home – video chatting had taken precedence to phone usage. The recent advent of prediction filming even allowed for video cameras to mirror half an image, allowing the camera to compensate for bad angles.

After looking at a few pictures of lolcats wearing Halloween costumes, Nelly began typing Carloza a message over iNet.

Nelly: Where are you? We need to discuss a re-up on the Bhut.

Hearing some commotion, she opened her eyes and watched as a black man stumbled into the bar holding tightly to a thin woman wearing all white. She paid little attention to him and closed her eyes to see if Carloza had responded.

“On now,” he said in Spanish. His gnarled face appeared on her eyelids. The text screen remained below his image, in case she needed to tell him something in private.

“What would you like to order?” the waitress asked.

Nelly opened her eyes. “Actually, I’m meeting a friend … ”

“Well, we have a one purchase minimum to sit in the bar,” the waitress informed her. She was a fat woman with pigtails and freckles. She crossed her arms, which lifted her blimpy breasts like a push-up bra. She seemed to be chewing at something.

“Okay, well … I’m not really into pollutes at the moment, how about a drink?”

“We don’t have many options. This is a pollution bar you know,” the waitress said.

“Okay, Pierre’s Mt. Kilimanjaro endangered water, do you have it?”

“We only have the thirty-two ounce bottles … ”

“That’s fine, two glasses please. So how’s it going?” she asked Carloza, returning to her iNet conversation.

“It’s fine,” he said. “What are you doing anyway?”

“Meeting my friend Mimidae at a pollution bar … ”

“And how is she?”

“Fine. She’s going upstate this weekend to some post-Burning Man gathering.”

“I see. So you need more?”

“I will this weekend, but I’m telling you now – after this I’m out of the game. I need time to prepare.” Nelly placed her hands across her stomach.

“Understandable, let me know if you want to switch or something.”

“Yeah right … ”

Carloza yawned.

“Are you tired or something?”

“A little. I mixed some of that Bhutanese with some special BurbVagCur I got from my sister’s friend. I added a yellow Yossarian R. Bachman topper.”

“How was it?”

“Out of body experience. Warn your people, warn them all. Seriously Nelly, do not mix the three unless you want to see what you look like from God’s perspective.”

“God’s perspective? Is that the same as our perspective during an out of body experience?” Nelly laughed. “What about switching bodies? Where’s His perspective in all that?”

“Well, I guess. Shit, actually … ” Carloza thought for a moment. “I really don’t know about the switching bodies part as we aren’t really switching bodies, we’re transferring data from one person’s life chip to another. But as for his normal perspective without the complication of body-switching, maybe His – assuming God is a guy and assuming He does exist which entails that He has willingly let this world crumble as much as it has – maybe His perspective is from our own eyes. Like He sees my hands when I wash them and when I cut carrots.”

“Carrots are nutritious. What about using iNet? Does God see that?”

“God wasn’t around when they invented the Internet. Otherwise, He would have a website.”

“Wait … what?” Nelly almost laughed. Carloza’s reasoning was always a bit off.

“I mean, the Internet wasn’t around when God was invented.”

“Are you still high on pollutes?”

“Maybe … Okay, I guess what I’m trying to say is … ” He yawned again. “Well the Internet exists now on our eyelids and devices, yes?”

“Yes, that’s how we’re talking right now…”

“And God exists within and without us – to quote George Harrison – or at least the last part of that statement,” he said.

“Who?”

“The Beatles. Check the picture.” Carloza quickly transferred a picture of four men wearing strange clothing. The photo was easily over a hundred years old. Nelly didn’t recognize them.

“DJ The Beatles?” she asked.

“There’s a DJ named The Beatles?”

Nelly nodded. “DJ The Beatles. His stuff is so cutting edge. It’s called Grindsmash.”

“What a horrible thing to say, Nelly. Never mind. So the question was about God and the Internet. Does God see the Internet?”

“Yes, that was the question,” Nelly said.

“Well, if God sees through our eyes, and our eyes see the Internet, then He sees the Internet. If God sees us from a third party perspective, like a novelist or something – wait that gets complex because then the question if God is writing our story is raised – anyway, if He sees us from a third party perspective, then it’s safe to say He doesn’t see what we see on iNet.”

“Okay … ”

“So to sum it up: if God sees through our eyes, He sees what we see on iNet. If God doesn’t see through our eyes, He doesn’t see what we see on iNet.”

Nelly asked, “Assuming He does see through our eyes, do you think He secretly surfs the Internet while we’re asleep?”

“Ha! There’s a question, chica. I’ll have to look into that. I really can’t say for sure. I’ve never really thought about it. What do you think He looks at? Wait a minute, why would God use the Internet? He’s omnipotent. There’s nothing on the Internet that He can’t have at His disposal in a heartbeat. Porn? He doesn’t need porn – He invented it! GoogleFace? He invented the guys who invented it … or at least the guys who invented Facebook and Google and the CEOs that later merged the companies.”

“Weather conditions? Movie times? EBAYmazon.com?”

“Weather conditions? He controls the weather! Movie times? Since when does He have time for movies? EBAYmazon? God doesn’t need to buy stuff off the Internet, He can snap his fingers and shit magically appears. So no, I don’t think He uses iNet while we’re asleep. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need any of this because He can already do whatever He wants. Come on, He’s God for Christ’s sake. He has his own version of iNet called God’s reality.”

“God’s reality?”

Carloza continued. “He’s like the master of His and everyone else’s destinies. We’re His puppets! When things work out the way we want, we praise Him. ‘Thank you God for giving me this or that!’ When things don’t, we curse him. ‘I think God is out to get me,’ or my favorite, ‘Come on God, is this all You’ve got?’ But He’s a good master and lets us blame and praise Him for everything that’s why … ”

“You’re high.”

“Maybe.”

“So can you get the stuff this weekend?” Nelly said. She watched as two men wearing black suits settled in at the bar. One lit a pollute cigarette.

“With God as my witness,” Carloza chuckled, “I’ll have the stuff to you by Sunday.”

TWENTY-FIVE∞

“Do you want to be human?” I ask Yeshi.

We are sitting in a smaller pollution bar, not too far from POLLUTION CLUB 512. The adrenaline from the one-sided fight has temporarily overpowered the Ukrainian pollutes Yeshi fed to me in the hotel room. Instinctively, I reach for a pollution mask hanging from a hook on the wall and start typing in LoathHunAyaTop. I glance timidly from the mask to Yeshi, who is sitting with her legs crossed on the chair across from me. She offers no sign of approval or disapproval. “So … human. Do you want to be human?” I ask.

“Sometimes I do.” She’s playing with one of her long earrings. Her white contact lenses shine like cat eyes in the dimly lit club.

I try to remember questions I normally ask my clients. “Ummm … so how was your day?”

While the hallucinogenic pollutes have worn off a bit, some of the visuals are still ballooning. I quickly place the pollution mask over my face to take a couple of deep inhales of my favorite pollute. Yeshi waits for me patiently. I take the mask off, set it in my lap, relax a little.

“It was a normal day. Worked last night, rested, painted, did yoga and met you.” She smiles.

God she looks beautiful. Her bangs just above her bleached eyes, the single dimple on the right side of her face, her coarse black hair, her shoulders the perfect distance, her clavicle cast by the Gods, her breasts mahoosive – why can’t she be real? Why can’t she be human? Why can’t the perfect woman be real?

“Yoga? Some of my clients do that … ” I say to her. I try to think of other questions I ask my clients. “Has there been anything … troubling you recently?”

“Troubling?” she laughs. “You sound so scripted.”

“Damn, you catch on quick.”

She asks, “Who was that guy at the club anyway? Why did he call me Rinchi?” Her eyes shift to two men wearing black suits who have just entered the bar.

“A co-worker of mine. He’s a real douche basket, always on my ass about something. He sends me at least six messages a day, stops by my office hourly to “check on me.” I can’t stand the guy. Anyway, I have no idea why he called you Rinchi. Didn’t you say your identical twin saw a therapist?”

“Yeah, she calls him Dr. T.”

“Dr. Tyro?” I gulp.

“That’s him.”

“Fucking great,” I say.

“So you do know him.”

Tyro. “My co-worker is Rinchi’s therapist. The irony!”

She laughs. I smile faintly and take another inhale. The nose of the mask is in my hand so I can inhale freely without having to strap it on. Two inhalations later and I set the mask on my lap.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.

“Ah, a question you ask your clients.”

“Oh, come on … ” I roll my eyes at her. “All right, you caught me again. But I usually phrase it as, what’s on your mind?” Do you want me to ask you questions I’d normally ask my clients? I mean if you break it down, sometimes therapy sessions are like dating without the potential sex or the shame that follows a sting-y rejection. Also, you can tell your date what you actually think, which differs from therapy.”

I start to laugh and feel something twist in my stomach. My vision flips momentarily and Yeshi’s body warps. I shake my head. What the hell was that? My vision stabilizes and everything seems as though it’s back to normal.

“Just curious,” she says.

“So what are you actually thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about you and how handsome you look in all white.”

“Really?” I take another inhalation and put the mask back in my lap. “I don’t believe it. You’re trained to … ”

“Please don’t tell me how I’m trained to be,” she says, “No one likes that – human or Humandroid. What if I say humans are trained to go to college, get a good job, get married and save for retirement? What if I say humans are trained to use intoxicants until they can’t take anymore just so they can ‘have fun’ or forget something? But doesn’t saying it like that feel somewhat bland? Somewhat harsh? Somewhat trite? Doesn’t it just trivialize your existence? I’m not programmed to do anything – aside from sex! Okay, sure, I’m programmed to do that, or at least I was programmed to do that. Here’s my point: I genuinely think you’re an interesting man. If you haven’t noticed – which you should have by now considering your position – we Humandroids have the capability of empathy and curiosity.”

I sigh because I know – Humandroid escorts are especially complimentary. They must be in order to flatter their clients. They’re curious only as much as it allows them to remain inquisitive. They will ask you about your day, about a certain topic, or about things happening in your life. They’re purposefully submissive. Most of their human clients are smart enough to know that this is what they’re programmed or trained to do. This knowledge doesn’t stop people from purchasing their services. Most of us know the limitations of the things we buy but we buy them anyway. We’re a habit driven species.

“I see … ” I circle my finger around one of the polypropylene eye lenses as I think of what to say next. “All right, I have a question for you then: do Humandroids such as yourself actually like sexual contact? I mean, from what I’ve read and heard from my clients, they don’t. I guess I’m asking – do you feel anything? I’m assuming no … ”

“Sometimes I do,” Yeshi says. “But not in the way you think. I guess, to me, it’s just interesting.”

“What is?”

“Human intercourse. It’s interesting to take part in, interesting to watch. Many humans are so strict in their day-to-day life that sex becomes about the only playground they allow themselves to enjoy. Humans grow up so quickly. It’s funny seeing these uptight businessmen suddenly let loose when it comes to sex. It’s strange seeing what little twisted fantasies lay dormant in their mind. So I enjoy that part of it. I guess the therapeutic part of it. I’m not foolish enough to believe that I’m programmed to enjoy it. I also understand that I, myself, am one of their abnormal little fantasies. I am capitalism, I am sex. It doesn’t take long to see what drives this world and every world there has ever been.”

“Why do you like me?” I ask, not quite sure of what she meant by her last statement. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two men dressed in black lurking in the shadows near the bar. The pollutes make Yeshi’s form sway as if I were looking at her underwater.

“Why do I like you, huh? Do you think I like you?”

“You act like you do.” I say.

“I think you’re fun.” She plays with her earring again. It’s amazing how Humandroids pick up little human nuances. When they’re fresh from the factory, they’re sent through all sorts of training or ‘adapting modules’ as they are called. With the newer models, the time they spend in these modules has slowly decreased. As they age into society – regardless if they are an older or a newer model – they become more and more human-like. They begin to replicate small human gesticulations such as toying with something endlessly, they begin to talk like humans, to walk more like humans – they begin to evolve. Darwinian machine learning. They start using slang, they dress differently and many try to pass themselves off as actual humans.

“This is the second time you’ve hung out with me. How do you know that I’m fun?” I ask.

It is starting to feel like we were on a date. I’m not on a date with a ladyboy Humandroid, I remind myself. She’s an escort, and I’m paying her to be here. Or at least I think I am, or at least I figure I will be at some point. Why does it feel like a date then? Why does it feel like we are flirting?

“I suppose you’re right, I don’t know if you’re fun or not. Maybe you’re as much of a stiff as your co-worker Tyro seems to be. Maybe you have a wife and kids, maybe you aren’t even a black man.” Yeshi shrugs, knowing all too well that these statements are baseless.

“No wife, no kids, not like Tyro, definitely black. Okay … ” I think for a moment. What the hell am I supposed to ask her? I reach for the pollution mask and take another long drag.

Maybe I should ask her about her hobbies? She said something about yoga. Does she have a favorite pose? When did she start doing yoga? Maybe I should ask about her Humandroid flat. Is it nice? No, I quickly remind myself, I already know how dismal and brightly lit those places are. Damn. I can’t ask her about her family, I can’t ask her about her job (I don’t want to know the details of that), I can’t ask her about her childhood. There has to be something…

“So?” she asks.

The words fumble out of my mouth, “Do you have a favorite movie?”

Definitely a date. Definitely.

TWENTY-SIX∞

“Is that her?” I say to myself, looking from Yeshi to the woman sitting beneath the famous Royce painting.

Everything had become slushy and my center of gravity had long since given up hopes of stability. My mind has deliquesced. It was as if I were standing on the deck of a ship, leaning forward and looking over the railing at the frothy butterscotch waves below. I was lightheaded and weakened by the pollute intoxication.

I knew the feeling of LoathHunAyaTop, and deduced that it was the Ukrainian shit that Yeshi had given me that was making me feel so nauseous. I look at the woman sitting in the corner again, trying to get a steady image of her. Was it her?

“Is that who?” Yeshi asks. She quickly blinks her butterfly eyelashes.

“The woman ... I think she was the one I wanted to switch bodies with the other night … the same night that I met you. Nelly.”

“You asked me about switching bodies too.”

“Did I? That must have been before … ” I look from the woman to Yeshi.

“Yes, it was before you knew I was a Humandroid. Don’t be worried or ashamed about it.” She blows me a kiss. “We can’t help what we are, can we?” The way she asks this seems slightly sorrowful, as if saying this reminded her of what she really was.

“I … I guess not.”

She asks, “Do you like body-switching?”

“It’s always an interesting time; it’s always interesting to see what someone else’s body feels like.”

I glance to the lone pillar in the center of the bar. The pillar has a square base made of cubed limestone. An elaborate golden intaglio ran in a diagonal pattern up the pillar. I stare at it for a moment, watching the engravings swell and quiver. “About a month ago, I switch bodies with a British woman, but that was just for a couple of hours.”

“It’s such a strange concept,” she says. “Your personality and behavioral patterns are stripped from your body and transferred to another human. Everything is transferred from life chip to life chip.”

“It’s actually the result of a computer virus.”

“The death part is strange to me too,” she says.

“Human death or switched-bodied human death?”

“Switch-bodied human death. Bodies are so valuable. I don’t understand why humans would risk giving their bodies to someone else, knowing that the person could very well die in their body. Which would kill their body–”

“–but not kill them specifically,” I finish her sentence. “That’s why it’s illegal. It’s dangerous and risky and that’s why humans like it. We flock to anything that is exhilarating. Space tourism, skydiving, rock climbing, heroin, spelunking, deep sea diving, body-switching. That’s why we do these things, to push ourselves to the limit. To feel the fear, to experience the pain, to gain the bragging rights, to prove to ourselves … ” I thought for a moment. “To prove to ourselves that we are human, and that we are capable of doing something that others aren’t capable of doing. We do everything we do to separate ourselves from the pack.”

“To separate yourselves from one flock just to become part of another. Now you’re in the group of people who do those crazy things. It seems humans do as much as they can to stand out, only to fit into a crowd that is trying to stand out. Fuck it, it’s not my job to understand humans, it’s my job to … ” Yeshi smiles slightly.

I look over her shoulder at the woman under the painting. I still can’t make out her face, but I can tell by a slight bulge that she is pregnant. Could it really be Nelly? All this time … Okay, only one week but still – could it be Nelly? I reach instinctively to my body-switcher necklace. I always wear my guitar pick necklace. Maybe I could switch bodies tonight.

I want to get out of the chair but I suddenly feel glued to the seat. What is this stuff that Yeshi gave me anyway? What the hell are these Ukrainians using anyway? I take the pollution mask out of my lap and strap it on. Another swig of LoathHunAyaTop settles my nerves. Hopefully, it will clear away this Eastern European shit.

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

I’m going over there, I decide, after waiting five more minutes for the pollute haze to die down. The woman across the room is alone for now, but there are two glasses at the table, which means someone must be coming to meet her. My window of opportunity is slowly shutting, as all windows of opportunity inevitably do.

“I need to use the restroom,” I inform Yeshi.

“You can go check on your friend,” she says. “I don’t mind. Invite her over here if you’d like.”

“How did you … ?”

“You keep looking over there. Human behavior isn’t very hard to decipher.”

“Listen, I just need to check … it would be crazy if it were really her. I mean, how many people live in this city now?”

“Thirty-two million,” Yeshi answers, “not including illegal immigrants.”

“Exactly!”

I stand slowly, using my arms like cranes to lift me off the table. The fat waitress gives me a funny look as I stand from the bar stool. I close my eyes and the iNet login screen flicks on. I open my eyes and take a step towards the woman. It takes me all of five minutes just to get to the lone pillar in the middle of the room. I place my hand on the pillar and catch my balance. I look around nervously, hoping no one sees my pathetic descent towards the other side of the room. The bar is pretty much empty besides a few people by its large tinted window and two men in black suits at the bar.

I slide near the pregnant woman and smile faintly. I try and straighten my shirt, as if a quick brush from my hand will really do anything. I’m almost certain now that it’s Nelly. The hair, the bridge of her nose, her clothing style, the way she looks so serious but at the same time so naïve.

I stand near the chair in front of her, hovering like an obtuse vulture. It’s as if I’ve now lost the ability to think. A choon I recognize plays on the stereo system. It sounds tropical, sounds like someone put it together after a long day of piña colada pollutes, thin bikinis and sand between their toes.

“Can I help you?” the woman sitting at the table asks.

“Nelly,” I say, putting my hand on the ridge of the chair in front of her. “Nelly, is that you?”

“Who are you?” She brushes the hair out of her face and squints.

“POLLUTION CLUB 512, we met there, you were supposed to go with me,” I say.

“Was I?” she starts to laugh. I notice how delicate her skin is and how thin her wrists are. She’s like a living mannequin.

I rub my left eye with my palm. “I think so … ” I say, not sure of how to answer her.

“Ah! I remember you now,” Nelly says. “You were the guy who wanted to switch bodies with me … ”

“That’s me,” I say. “My name is Meme.” I sit down in the empty chair. “Nice Leia buns by the way.”

“I know, aren’t they retro?”

“Definitely.”

“I wanted to go for something retro tonight.” She’s sitting with an oversized Michael Kors bag in her lap. Her face keeps contorting, growing larger and wider with each movement of her jaw. Each time she blinks, a sparkle of glitter radiates off her eyelashes. Damn her applesweet nictating. Damn these Ukrainian pollutes. I place my hands along edge of the table to stabilize myself.

“So you still into it?”

“Into what?” I ask.

“Switching.”

“Hell yes I am. Are you?” I try to steady my breath. I instinctively place my hand across my chest, across my guitar pick necklace. “Wait, how have you been? I sent you a message on GoogleFace…”

“Oh sorry about that. I’ve been busy … ”

“Is your name Meme?” a voice asks from behind me. I place the accent I’ve just heard as Australian, or some type of British accent I’m unfamiliar with.

The two men wearing black suits. One of them has a neck like a bulldog; the other has a neck like a bulldog’s mother. They look like they were raised on a strict diet of corn, steak, action films and whole milk.

“I’m not sure,” I say. It’s my typical answer when asked of my identity by a complete stranger.

“It’s him Gyatson,” the man on the right says. “Not very hard to pick him out in the crowd here. Cameras have been disabled,” he says, looking at his watch. “Let’s get this over with.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, looking up at the man. “Racism, huh? I thought we were supposed to be over this shit by now.”

“Fuck you, mate,” the man named Gyatson says. Before I can react, he uses my neck to slam my head against the table. The pain stings and bursts through my body.

The collision is so sudden that I pop right back up into my normal seated position. I briefly see Nelly fumbling in her purse for something. No one in the bar seems to notice or care that the man has just accosted me. The metallic taste of blood enters my mouth. I try to stand, but I’m quickly tossed to the ground by the second man.

I look up, watching in slow-mo as Gyatson pulls a revolver from beneath his coat.

A revolver? What the hell is he doing with that? I try and lift myself up but fail miserably. What century are we in? I’m more fascinated than frightened by the weapon. The last time I saw an actual revolver was in a history museum.

The ground tilts. I see blood drip from my mouth onto the lacewood floor. I hear people screaming, but am too disoriented to do anything. I look up and see Nelly towering over me. There’s some type of mask covering her face. Suddenly, she’s spraying a strange liquid at the men. I hear their bodies fall to the ground all around me. The revolver hits the floor and fires a single shot.

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

I awake screaming in an aeros.

I’m lying on the floorboard, coughing up blood. My nostrils are on fire. Tiny glistening specks of light seep out from the corners of my eyes. My mouth is dry. Violent grindsmash oozes from the speakers.

A man and a woman are screaming simultaneously. They yell: I’m still, I’m still an animal! I’m still, I’m still an animal! I’m still, I’m still an animal! The bass keeps cutting off right before the next drop is supposed to hit. A cringable sound. It hurts my ears to describe the sound.

I’m confused and delirious. Vertiginous. It feels like my brain is bleeding. My lungs are fighting to suck in air. I’m wheezing and the cuffs of my white jacket are stained in crimson. I cough again.

“Meme, just hold on … ”

“Yeshi! What? Where!?” I yell over the music.

“At the bar. You talked to Nelly. Some guys came. I don’t know who they were, but they may be related to Sauria at ExEx. That’s what I think, anyway. Nelly maced the fuck out of them. Everyone in the bar fell except the Humandroid bartender, myself and Nelly. She turned and walked out. I recorded everything if you want to watch it.”

“Sauria did this? My eyes … ” I sob. “Am I going blind?”

“No. It’s the mist she sprayed. I’ve seen it used before. It’s a tear gas mixed with a soporific chemical called Tenofizzle 661. The burning is from the tear gas. You’ll be fine, all your vitals are normal.”

“Yeshi?” I ask. I look up at her and make out a blur clothed in white. The tears burn as they streak down my face.

She laughs. “Yes, Meme, it’s me. Taking care of you again!”

“You’re wonderful … ” I say, coughing more blood onto the floor of the cab.

“Watch it with the blood back there!” the driver shouts.

Yeshi presses a button on the door and the divider between the front and back seat starts to rise. “Any idea who those guys were? They were wearing chip-maskers.”

“No idea. Didn’t one of them have a revolver?” I could have sworn I heard a gun go off. The ringing in my right ear confirmed this.

“Yeah, the bullet ricocheted off the floor and broke the window. It’s amazing it didn’t hit anyone. Haven’t seen someone get shot before,” she says in a curious voice.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to my friend’s place. The chemicals inside your body are in the process of mixing as we speak. You’re about to be in a very bad place … ”

“Who are you taking me to?”

“My guru.”

TWENTY-NINE∞

A short Indian man with a wispy white beard and bright orange garb sits with his legs crossed in front of me. The swarthy color of his skin makes the bright orange clothing seem that much brighter. He’s yawning, drinking a cup of tea. There’s a string of beads around his right wrist and an even larger string with beads the size of cherries across his chest. They stretch from his shoulder to his waist, looping like a rubber band around his body. He makes a clucking sound with his mouth as he looks up at me.

“My child,” he begins. He motions his head at someone behind me. “Why have you come to me?”

His accent is thick and ancient. The room is olive and distorted faces move in and out of the walls like flags in the wind. I can smell his tea; it reeks of spice and faraway places. There’s a swelling sound in my left ear. The sound inflates through my skull cavity and escapes through my right ear. I steady my gaze on the Indian man. He yawns and strokes his beard.

“I didn’t come to you,” a voice answers from my mouth.

Maybe this is my conscience speaking – the bastard shows his face! I’m in too bizarre of a state to answer trivial questions. My eyes are still burning from the tear gas, my mind is gelatinous from the pollutes, my head hurts from being slammed onto the table, my nose stings like someone stuck their fingers in a jar of cayenne pepper and jammed them into my nostrils.

“Then why are you here?” he asks.

“Why are you here?” I counter. The voice is doing better than I thought!

“I’m here because God wills it.”

“I’m here unwillingly because God willed it,” I tell him.

“We’re all here unwillingly because God willed it.”

“God is willing me to vomit,” I say, feeling something rise in my stomach.

“God has willed many things.”

“God has killed many things.”

“Many things have killed themselves under the false disguise of God.”

“Many things have killed themselves under the true guise of God.”

“God created spoonerisms and chiastic rhetorical devices,” he reminds me.

“God has created many devices including vibrators and pollution masks and novelists that write about such peculiar things.”

“Trying to beat God in a contest is like trying to beat yourself in a contest and hoping for a reward,” he says calmly.

“There is only one contest I know of that you can beat yourself at and there’s definitely a reward.”

“The juice which holds the key to all of God’s children.”

“I thought he only had one.”

Yeshi’s guru grins. “You know so much for a young man. The world is your oyster; your actions have no repercussions. You are a God among fools, a pearl in the ocean.” Yeshi brings him a bowl of curry and rice. He sticks his fingers in the bowl and starts scooping the mess into his mouth. The smell of curry makes my stomach churn.

“You’re a living stereotype,” I mumble at him. The words spilling out of me are not my own. They seem to come from distant galaxy within.

“A stereotype of what my child?” he asks, with a mouth full of rice. Some of the rice falls onto his orange kurta.

“Of an Indian guru.”

He laughs, “You’re clever and so is God. You’re the stereotype of an addict.”

“Who isn’t addicted to addiction?”

“This is a good question, but out of the two humans in this room, one is on the verge of vomiting and the other is on the verge of finishing a bowl of rice.”

“Which you very well may vomit up later.” I start to grow agitated with the Indian man. I didn’t come here to have a religious debate. I came here to … I came here to … well I was brought here but still, I’m not interested in a conversation on the ontological nature of things in this tragically fucked world of ours.

“Life is a beautiful thing,” he says as he licks rice off his fingers. Little chunks of rice are stuck to his mustache.

“Sex is a beautiful thing,” I say. I look away from his crusty mustache. Why is he eating like an animal?

“Sex is an act of God.” He shovels more rice into his mouth.

“God’s a virgin.”

“Oh my child … ” he laughs again. “When will you learn that being cynical is about as useful as being stupid?”

“When will you learn that being holy is about as useful as being cynical?”

The guru turns to Yeshi, “Your friend is a clever man. A sad, drugged out man, but witty nonetheless. He’s cunning, the same way that a fox getting lost in his own hole is cunning. Why did you bring me such a man?”

“I thought you could help him, Guru,” Yeshi says.

“Impossible. How am I to help a man such as this?” he frowns. “What am I to do for him?”

“I thought you could teach him meditation, like how you taught me.”

The man laughs so hard that he nearly falls over. “Meditation? Teach this man meditation? Look at him! How is he to learn anything except for what he wishes to teach himself? Don’t be so foolish my electronic child. I have taught you better than that.”

“I just thought … ” Yeshi says, with no real show of emotion.

“I have nothing more to say to this devil of a man. Return him to me when he is cured. Only then will I be able to mold him.”

I try to stand but start to lose my balance. “The devil is in the eye of the beholder,” I tell him.

“So is God,” he says with a wave of his hand.

THIRTY ∞

“You’re such a funny girl,” Noah said. He’d just finished making Nelly an extra dry non-fat sugar-free vanilla pineberry cappuccino with half an Equal steamed to 161 degrees. They were in her apartment, two hours after the incident at the pollution bar. Nelly was resting on a white Prada Monsiegneur Sofa. She was still wearing her razor thin sunglasses. In front of her was a thin television, mounted to the wall and currently broadcasting an advertisement for BainFox Capital.

The girandoles in the hallway leading from the front door flickered lightly. “You’re the only one who tells me that.” She turned to the large windows of her apartment, half covered by tussore-silk curtains. Downtown LA was bustling as always. “The only one … ”

“You seem lonely.” He handed her the cappuccino on a small white plate.

“I am lonely.”

“Oh poor girl … ”

“I’m horribly lonely right now. If it weren’t for you, Noah, I’d fling myself from the top of this building. If I didn’t have this baby … ”

“Oh don’t say that honey!” Noah sat down next to her and started to pat her back. “No need for that kind of talk…”

“But it’s just … it’s just …”

“Just what?” he asked.

“Just not fair … ”

“What isn’t?”

“I’m too young for this, too young to be carrying this baby.”

“I know you are dear, but soon it will be born and after a little nursing, Antimeria can hire a pair of Humandroids to take care of the baby. You’ll be young again before summer comes around.”

“I just … ” Nelly closed her eyes. “Antimeria is calling. Should I pick it up?”

“Do you feel like talking?”

“Not really … but I might as well,” she said, opening her eyes.

“I guess you should pick it up then … ”

“Hello,” she said sharply.

“Darling, how are things?” Antimeria asked. She heard giggling in the background. His video feed was disabled.

“Where are you?”

“Business, darling, business.”

“Why are you calling right now? Why’s your video feed disabled? Shouldn’t you be off fucking a ladyboy Humandroid?”

“What?” he started to shout. “Can’t I call my wife anytime I want?”

“It’s late. What do you want?”

“Nel, what are you doing?”

“Drinking an extra dry non-fat sugar-free vanilla pineberry cappuccino with half an Equal steamed to 161 degrees courtesy of Noah.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I’m sure you’ve given plenty of mouthfuls.”

“What!? Did you go out tonight?”

“Why?”

“Just answer my question, dammit!” he said. Nelly heard laughter again.

“Yes, briefly. I was supposed to meet Mimidae but some assholes fucked that up. She’s coming here now.”

“What do you mean by some assholes?”

“I was talking to a friend and some mobster wannabe cocksuckers showed up.”

“Did you mace them?”

“Sure, why the hell not? They were bastards anyway.”

“Damn it! You’re so … ” he took a deep breath. “Okay, look, I have no idea how to say this.”

“You aren’t my dad. I can deal with my own problems.”

“Okay, those assholes you maced worked for Sauria, well not Sauria directly but MercSecure. They were MercSecure representatives.”

“Like I care.”

“Were you talking to a guy named Meme?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes or no? Quit fucking with me.”

Nelly laughed. “Quit fucking with you? Tell your butt buddy Sauria to quit sending goons out to find random people. Who the hell does he think he is anyways?”

“Look. This Meme guy is a menace. He’s dangerous. You got it? I don’t want you ever seeing him again. He might try and kill you. Any information you have on him should be forwarded to me. He’s a terrorist!”

“Haven’t you tried to look him up on GoogleFace? Why should I help you?”

“All his information is blocked. He doesn’t have much info online anyways and he’s been wearing a chip-masker as of late. Look, I don’t want you seeing this guy. If he sends you messages let me know. Got it?”

“But papa … ” Nelly laughed.

“Stop it! I’m not trying to be your father. I’m trying to be your husband. Sauria is after Meme. He’ll be … removed … by the end of the week.”

“Removed? You guys are crazy.”

“Don’t I take care of you? Don’t I provide you with everything you could possibly desire?”

“Telling me who I can and can’t see … ” Nelly shook her head. “It seems vaguely familiar … ”

“This Meme guy is a threat to society. They still exist, you know? Look, let’s have dinner soon, okay? Maybe tomorrow night? We can talk this through.”

“Wow, you have time for me now? I can’t believe it! You’re actually willing to cancel your date with a ladyboy whore for me, your pregnant wife who is about to give birth? I feel so wanted!”

“I don’t hang out with ladyboys,” he said, “and I don’t know what makes you think I do.”

“It’s not hard to figure out – we share a bank account. You should be careful which account you pull money from next time.”

“Th-that wasn’t for me!” he stammered. “That was for a friend, a friend! Business, sweetie, that’s all. The business world works in disturbing, mysterious ways.”

“Yes, I know this. Actually, I know quite a bit about the business world. If you paid more attention to me, you would see just how much I know.”

“Sure you do, Nelly … ” he said, chuckling. “There’s a lot of business at that spa in Mexico … ”

“Look, next time you’re getting your dick sucked by a Humandroid slut I want you to remember I’m carrying your daughter, all right? Bye and fuck you.” Nelly disconnected the call.

“What a bastard. Men are such … you know … ” She stopped herself from going on a rant. “Oh, screw it … ”

“I know, sweet girl, I know,” Noah said. “If only they could figure out how easy it is to get along with women. It just takes a little patience … ”

“And effort,” she said, finishing his sentence. “Sometimes a little champagne too.”

“And maybe a new whale skin purse!”

They both laughed. Noah sat down next to Nelly and she hugged him.

“Thanks for always being there for me,” she said. Tears came, but she managed to hold them back.

THIRTY-ONE∞

This is going to be awkward, I think, opening the door to my office.

I didn’t see Tyro in the hallway that connected our private offices, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here. It’s nearly four in the afternoon, and I’ve been awake all of two hours. I’m groggy, but things could be worse.

My eyes are still bloodshot from the tear gas, my body hurts from fucking, my mind is reeling from the pollutes and I’m still in the process of piecing together what actually happened last night. I press my finger against a small pad next to the door and hear the lock click. I open the door, quietly, hoping not to draw any attention to myself.

“Meme,” Tyro says. He’s sitting at my desk with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

_∞_

Sauria was in a small diner on the top floor of the BlackAguaUSA building waiting for Antimeria. As he drank a glass of sea buckthorn aloe water, he rubbed the place on his neck where Meme had choked him a week ago. His neck still hurt, even after two nuru massages and some pain medication. It was starting to keep him up at night. Even worse, wearing his Burger King crown gave him a headache. He’d paid a small fortune for that vintage crown – it was used in one of the BK commercials in 2004.

The waiter walked by with the shark kebab platter and placed it on the table. The kebab lay flat like a pancake; the falafels were cut into tiny slivers and arranged in a pattern around the slices of farm-raised shark, kimchi cucumbers and tomatoes.

Sauria picked up his knife and began sawing through the shark. He gazed out the window as an advertisement aeros team passed. Each vehicle had a different word painted across the side. As they moved in a series, the vehicles spelled out advertisements to people sitting in their aeros.

Buy~Your~New~Tesla~Aeros~At~

Sauria looked away.

The sun was hidden by the VirginAT&T Megacon, an oval shaped building with a fifty story tall LCD screen that flashed ads. The building had been erected directly across from the BlackAgua USA building, which kept the building cool during the afternoon. The lights from the VirginAT&T Megacon illuminated the small diner in a variety of colors. The lights were distracting and looked bizarre when cast against his falafel. Sauria waved the waiter over and asked him to put up the blinders.

The waiter nodded and pressed a button on a remote control attached to his apron. The jalousie covering the window near his table rotated. An earth-toned light flicked on above the table.

Sauria had just finished talking with Gyatson, the MercSecure representative who had almost caught Meme the previous night. His company had tracked Meme to the BlackAguaUSA building, the same building he currently sat in eating his lunch. They would find him today, Gyatson had informed him, and had already filed the correct documents for record deletion.

As the single largest shareholder in MercSecure (the other being the Federal Corporate Government) and the largest shareholder in ExEx (Executive Executions), Sauria knew just where to turn to have this little stain on society removed. Meme was a threat, a low-level terrorist, and like any terrorist, he was most beneficial to society in a coffin. He knew firsthand how future terrorists began their descent into uncivilized hell. He understood this better than most.

After working in the electronic publishing industry for a while, Sauria pursued a PhD in Terrorist Studies and Prevention at Stanford. His favorite saying left little breathing room: once a terrorist always a terrorist, reform isn’t an option. The FCG and other security analysts learned this during the ISIL threat of the 2020s. There had been no way of correcting those Quran-waving misfits. The Old Testament was inevitably revisited – an eye for an eye made the whole world see. Drone. Drone. Drone. Drone.

To help in the peace efforts, ExEx’s research branch closely monitored GoogleFace and other social media websites. The fact that his company (a Business Executives for National Security number one rated company for eight years in a row) was unable to obtain information on Meme was as frustrating as it was telling. This Meme guy was up to something; he was probably plotting some sort of attack or working with a group of insurgents. He had to be stopped. He had to be deleted before the general populace was affected, before innocent blood was spilled.

“What are you thinking about, old pal?” Antimeria said.

Sauria was so lost in thought that he hadn’t seen him enter the restaurant. “This menace to society … ”

“Meme?”

Antimeria sat down across from him.

“Yes.”

“Your falafel looks good. I’ve never had it here, how is it?”

“Decent, but fuck this falafel. Meme is what counts right now. They say they’ve tracked him to this very building. He’s here, Anti, flesh and blood.”

“Really?” Antimeria looked at a holographic menu that had emerged from a small red slit on the end of the table. He reached towards the menu and waved his hand. The menu turned to the next page. ‘so today then? It should be easy to find him now that we know where he is.”

“There are thousands of people in the building and it’s America. If this were anywhere else, a missile would have already leveled the place.”

“I can’t believe my wife has been associating with scum like this.” Antimeria pointed at a Kobe steak pizza on the menu. The holographic menu changed from white to blue, which indicated his order had been placed. He selected sea buckthorn aloe and the menu changed from blue to green. “It just goes to show you how stupid women can be.”

“Yes, she needs to be careful … ”

“If something comes up, just postpone the investigation until after she has given birth. Once the kid is here, I really don’t care what happens to her … ” Antimeria said.

“Consider it done.” Sauria burped and reached for his drink.

“I can’t stand the woman. I talked to her last night and she was so fucking rude to me. I’m sick of it. Just sick of it.”

“I think it is time we started monitoring her trips across the border. Any idea why she goes so much?”

“She says there’s a spa there that she likes and boy does it cost a shit-ton.”

“My investigators think it’s a front. In fact, they’re sure it’s a front,” Sauria said. “We just can’t figure out what it’s a front for yet. Could be terrorist activities, illegal pollutes, body-switchers, Humguns … you get the picture.”

“Well, just give her about one month and then do with her what you will. Open any type of investigation you feel is necessary; I don’t care what you do after that. You know how I feel about terrorists. Not in my America.”

“Agreed.”

“Look, about catching Meme,” Antimeria shifted his weight forward. “I have an idea that may surprise even you.”

THIRTY-TWO∞

I stand silently in front of Tyro, waiting for him to speak. Animosity radiates off him – I’d better be ready for anything.

“Do you see what you did to me?” he asks after a long bout of silence. His face is bulbous, one eye is completely red, his lips are swollen and his nose seems slightly crooked. He looks like a chewed up hunk of steak.

“Tyro … ” I run through the twenty or so excuses I’d come up with on the cab ride over here. They all fail before they can reach my lips.

“Do you see what you’ve become?” his voice rose. “Can you see what you’ve become by looking at me!?” He uses his hand to swipe a Humandroid psychology book and a pewter centaur off my desk.

“Relax, let’s talk about this.” I place my hands up in a gesture of calm. (I’m a little peeved about what he did to my centaur, but now isn’t the time to say something.)

“Talk about what? About beating the shit out of me in front of my wife and all those people? About your fucked up relationship with a Humandroid? About your work performance? Where should we start?”

“You aren’t my boss,” I remind him. A few glinting aeros passing by my window catch my eye. Their shadows run across my office before disappearing in a flash.

“No, I’m not your boss. But unless you agree to my demands, you’re going to be as fucked as if I were your boss.”

“Demands? What do you mean?”

“Do I really need to elaborate? You’re making a mockery of our practice and you assaulted me. It’s on video. On top of that, you’re dating a client!”

“Dating a client?” I tense up, ready to hop over the desk if need be. “You need to stay the fuck out of my life. Got it?”

He starts to laugh. “Your life. A seat-of-your-pants-balls-to-the-wall-LMFAO-styled life, huh? Actually, that’s what we’re here to talk about, Meme, your life.”

“What about it?” I ask. “I don’t need an intervention here.”

He pressed his hands together. “I don’t want to wreak the kind of destruction on my own body that you’ve wreaked on yours.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“My wife … ” He looks at me for a long time and finally takes a deep breath. “I think … I think she may be unhappy with our marriage.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Last night after we left the club, she broke down in the taxi and told me how sad our life had become. ‘All you do is work,’ she said. ‘All I do is sit around hoping to meet the old you, the you I fell in love with, the you that would sing to me in the morning, the you that would laugh. Laugh for fuck’s sake! You never laugh or smile anymore, Tyro! You are so unhappy and it’s rubbing off onto me!’ I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to become the old me again … ”

I almost chuckle. “The old you? When was there an old you? I thought you were always a dick.”

“Fuck you. You’re a joke to our profession.” He looks at me over the rims of his glasses. “But that’s not what this is about. There was an old me. About four years before I was cursed by meeting you.”

“Cursed?” My fist curls into a ball. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand the constant barrage of insults.

“I can’t show my wife the crazy time she deserves. I can’t fuck her like I used to … I can’t!”

“Why are you telling me all this? What am I supposed to do?” I ask him. I try my best to cut him off before he gets too pathetic. Nobody wants to hear this shit. I feel a sharp sting in my forehead – I need to drink some water or something.

“I want to experience … ” he says, looking at me with shame. “I want to experience your life. I want to … ”

“Just go and do it then? My life’s not that hard to replicate.”

“I want to fuck a Humandroid. I want to fuck Rinchi, like you. I want to get wasted out of my mind, like you.”

“You what!?” I shake my head, trying to register if I’m hallucinating or not. “Her name’s Yeshi. Yeshi. What the hell did you just say?”

“Yes, Rinchi,” he says, not listening to me. “I want to live a few nights of complete abandon. I want to regain this old me, you know, to shed this skin. I want to—”

“Tyro, I’m not fucking Rinchi, I’m fucking Yeshi.”

“Wait … ” His face lights up in a devilish way. “So you’re not hooking up with my client?”

“No, dammit. Listen to me!”

“Then… ” he bites his lip. “Then that’s even better!” His eyes dart back and forth as he runs calculations through his depraved little mind.

“Are you being serious right now?” I ask him. “You really want to switch?”

His demeanor flips. He starts to sob, a strange pragmatic sob that could easily be misconstrued as a fit of coughing. “Look, I need something, Meme. I need a change. I need a spark. I don’t want my wife to leave me. I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“So if we switch bodies, what am I supposed to do?”

“I want you to ravage her.” He quits sobbing and stares at me. “I want you to show her how to live! Just this weekend. I want you to help me look good in her eyes.”

“But she’ll know,” I tell him, still uncertain if he’s fucking with me or not. “This is possibly the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. Seriously.”

“She won’t know. You’ve worked with me for three years now. You know how I am. Just be like me. Come home, be serious at first, and then surprise her with something. Just show her how to live. God, what am I saying? Telling you to bang my wife! Trying to bang a Humandroid… look, she can’t know. You set the pace and I will get into the race once we switch back.”

“And you’re serious?” I find my lips curving into a roguish smile.

“This is what I want, Yeshi for my wife. You embarrassed me last night and you’re an embarrassment to yourself.”

“Enough with the bullshit comments!”

“I want to experience what it’s like to be a total dipshit. I want to know what it’s like to be with a Humandroid. I want to shed this shell … ”

“I get it, Tyro, I get it. If it will keep you off my ass, I’ll do it. But look, once this is over, relax for a goddamn minute, got it? Leave me the fuck alone and do your own thing. Quit sending me messages. If I’m screwing up, let me screw up. It’s my airplane, I’ll steer it into the ground if I want to. Got it?”

“We’ll see.”

“No, seriously.”

“How do you do it?” He takes off his glasses and places them in his front pocket. “I’ve never switched before … ”

“This is how I do it.” I take off my guitar pick necklace. “All body-switchers are in disguise as some sort of everyday item. I’ve seen ChapStick switchers, pollute cigarette box switchers, spoon switchers, watch switchers. Last week I saw a piece of gum you could switch with. Basically, when I touch this side of the guitar pick,” I move closer to show it to him, “It activates a sensor on the bottom side, see?”

The bottom side, which was completely orange before, now has small blue veins blinking on it.

“I put my finger here on top, you put yours there. Accept the switch over iNet and our life chip information will be swapped. Neuro-personality imprinting, clean emotional data sweep.”

“How long does it take to switch?”

“It takes about ten seconds and then we will be standing across from one another in each other’s bodies. Afterwards, it takes a few minutes to adjust into the body. While the switch is quick, the adjustment takes some getting used to. Things will be wobbly and you’ll feel like, well for lack of a better term, you’ll feel like you’re stuck in someone else’s skin.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It makes you feel temporarily nauseated,” I say. “Oh that reminds me, download a chip-masker from the link I’m sending you now. Apply it. Once we’ve switched, your identity will be masked.”

“Got it.” He waited for me to transfer the link. Less than thirty seconds later, his chip-masker was installed. “What about an older person switching with a younger person? How does that play out?”

“This is one reason why it’s illegal. A person could feasibly be immortal by switching bodies. This is why it’s a federal offense and why it’s so hard to obtain one of these.” I jiggled the neck piece. “That’s why I keep it around my neck at all times.”

“Where did you get yours?”

“Remember when I went to Rio for that conference on Humandroid psychology earlier this year?”

“Yeah, I wanted to go but someone had to stay here.”

“Anyways, a night out in Rio can procure many things at a great cost to one’s bank account and mental stability.”

“You were supposed to be at that conference.”

“Life comes at you fast. Listen, the only other rule about switching is no dying. I know you want to have fun in my body and you want me to have fun in yours, but this is serious shit. If you die in a person’s body, they continue to live in yours. This is why it’s so dangerous. Do you have any more clients today?”

“I canceled them all,” he says softly.

“So you knew I’d say yes?”

“I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“Right, I’ll cancel mine too.”

He smiles wryly. “I think you’ve already missed most of your appointments.”

“Well, I guess that makes canceling them that much easier.”

THIRTY-THREE∞

“How are things?” Yeshi asked.

“You tell me ... ” Rinchi sat on her bed with her back against the wall. She’d just gotten off the phone with Antimeria and knew what needed to happen next.

“All is well. Weren’t you supposed to go to therapy today?”

“My session was canceled… ”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I guess Dr. T’s not feeling well this afternoon.”

Yeshi nodded.

“So, what did you do last night?” Rinchi asked.

“Met someone … ” Yeshi looked back down at the small painting she’d been working on.

“Have you reached your monthly profit goals yet? They will start monitoring you if you don’t … ”

“I don’t care about the profit goals. For once, I just want to live my life.”

Rinchi started to laugh but cut herself short. Now was not the time to mock Yeshi as she normally did. She needed information. She needed to help Antimeria as much as she could. “So, are you meeting this mysterious client of yours tonight, sister?”

“Sister?” Yeshi asked. “When did you start calling me that?”

“Well you’re as much of a sister as I can have, if you think about it. You and Anna.”

“That’s true.”

“So are you?”

“I wasn’t going to,” Yeshi said, “but he just messaged me and now he wants to meet. He’s such a strange human … ”

“Where are you meeting him?”

“Same place as last night,” she said. “The Best Western Black Light off Grand Avenue. Room sixty-nine – got to love that.”

“Ah, I was there last week. This one client of mine loves the black light shtick. Some of the rooms are super nice. I heard they give Korean love hotels a run for their money.”

“Just rooms … ”

Rinchi reached for something in her purse. She clicked the ‘on’ button. She paused, realizing that Yeshi could have heard her click the button. “Just rooms, huh?” she asked, trying to gauge her response.

“Just rooms … ”

Rinchi slowly pulled the Humstunner out of her purse and aimed it at Yeshi, who was busy concentrating on a painting she was making. While their Humandroid flat had a technician on hand, it generally took Walliburton a few hours to notice that one of their droids had malfunctioned. This was just the timeframe Rinchi needed to meet with Meme.

She was well aware of the fact that using a Humstunner on another Humandroid was grounds for instant life termination. However, Antimeria had promised that Rinchi wouldn’t face any sort of termination and she believed him. After all, he was her most loyal client.

“Sauria has connections that go all the way to the top of Walliburton,” he told her the previous night, after they had retired to a private suite. “Hell, his best friend is the president of the Walliburton Humandroid Escort West Coast Division. So, don’t worry about any repercussions. Nothing’s going to happen to you, dear. I’ll make sure of that. You’re doing something that is relevant to national security. This Meme guy is a threat to society and to himself. The fewer people there are like him, the safer our country will become. If you do a good job, maybe Sauria will be able to pull some strings at MercSecure and get you transferred … ”

Rinchi’s poor luck had finally changed. As she aimed the Humstunner at Yeshi, she relished in the fact that she was going to experience two firsts today – the death of a human and the disablement of a Humandroid.

ZZZZZrrrrip!

Yeshi’s body flopped onto the floor.

“Gotcha bitch … ” Rinchi walked over to Yeshi, who lay on the floor like a crumpled doll, her eyes open and her body lifeless. Rinchi pulled her sister back onto the bed. She had to make it appear as if she was resting, just in case anyone stopped by.

She slowly took off Yeshi’s dress and necklace. It was strange touching her lifeless body, strange how quickly something already dead can die. She rolled the droid onto her side and arranged her hair on the pillow.

Now it was time to kill Meme.

THIRTY-FOUR∞

Tyro sat inside his room at the Best Western Black Light Hotel in Meme’s body. The irony of what he was about to do was unsettling; still, he had to go through with it. He had spent countless hours hearing Rinchi complain about Yeshi and here he was, about to meet her for the first time. On top of that, Meme was going to meet his wife and who knew what he would do to her! This was the most diabolical thing he’d ever done and … and it felt great! He was nervous, but he had never felt more alive. A little scared, but at the same time, ecstatic.

He watched as a pair of palm trees quiver in the warm air outside his window. It was dusk, or almost dusk, and a bluish grapefruit haze had settled over the city. Tyro looked down at his black hands and smiled. This is what it felt like. This is what it felt like to exist in another’s skin. For that matter, this is what it felt like to be a black man.

After switching bodies, Meme texted Yeshi and told her to meet him at seven. He told her he had a surprise for her. He instructed Tyro to go to the Lakewood shopping mall and buy her a bonsai tree. (‘Keep your chip-masker on at all times! If she figures out it’s you, tell her to call me.’)

Meme asked Tyro to give him his chip-switcher necklace, which he did, and promised him that he would take good care of his wife (which was weird, but whatever). The plan was to switch bodies back on Sunday afternoon, after a quick wind down session in Tyro’s office. Meme clarified that this is important especially for a first timer. He explained that he’d nearly broken down after his first time, and if it hadn’t been for the help of his friend, he might not have made it through the body re-entry process.

At the mall, Tyro nearly screamed after he saw his reflection the shiny metal siding that covered the narrow walkway. He walked up to his reflection and looked into his bloodshot eyes.

“Meme, you look like shit,” he said touching his beard stubble. He had never touched a black person’s hair before and was surprised at its texture.

He kept touching his hair until a teenager walked by and nearly knocked him over. The teenager was chatting on iNet, blinking his eyes rapidly to see the person’s video feed when he crashed into Tyro. Tyro gave the kid a dirty look and told him to be careful. Or more accurately, Tyro-as-Meme gave the kid a dirty look and told him to be careful.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “You don’t need to see the person’s video feed while walking. You can talk without seeing the video, you know?”

“No shit, Sherlock. I was trying to see my friends face.”

“Watch it next time.”

Tyro was fascinated by Meme’s skin, his height, his muscles. He’d never been too muscular before and liked the way the taut skin felt across his pecs. As he went to the restroom, he looked down at Meme’s dick and smiled. He’d never touched a black man’s cock before. He didn’t know why this was so interesting to him (as if he’d somehow reverted back to a pubescent teenage phase), but it was, and he stood in the restroom for a long time observing his member, turning it around in his hand.

He found the bonsai store on the top floor, manned by a teenager with zits exploding across his face. Tyro-as-Meme picked out a small bonsai tree with orange leaves and a minimal rock arrangement. It was heavy, at least two kilos. The pot holding the bonsai tree was made of ceramic, glazed with a dark brown gloss. Zit-face placed the bonsai tree in a red box and tossed the box onto the counter. He paid in cash.

He arrived at the hotel and chose to pay a machine, rather than the person at the check-in desk. Of course, something was wrong with the machine, so he had to pay in cash. As he handed the hotel clerk cash, he wondered if the man recognized him. How? He thought, almost laughing aloud. He kept waiting for someone to cry foul play but it wasn’t going to happen. He was officially Meme and no one knew otherwise.

Once in the room, Tyro fidgeted for a while on the bed. Relaxing wasn’t as easy as it sounded. He felt as if he should do something. Maybe he should be reading a journal article or planning out his schedule for next week. Maybe he should log into iNet and check the news. He’d read yesterday that China had installed yet another firewall to block outside news from entering the country. It took elite hackers all of five minutes to disable the firewall. This caused the Chinese Government to instigate a country-wide Internet shut-down to punish the hackers. The hackers were quickly apprehended by the government, and were set to be executed the following morning.

“No iNet,” Tyro said aloud. Instead, he ordered a pollution mask and picked out a flavor he’d never tried before but that Meme had written down on a card for him.

“LoathHunAyaTop,” he said, when the man at the desk asked him what flavor he wanted. The mask and a few packets arrived on a silver plate. He asked the room service attendant how to use the mask and the guy helped him set it up. Again, he paid in cash.

Tyro-as-Meme watched the attendant suspiciously as he connected the mask to the distributor and dropped one of the packets in. As he left, the attendant said he looked familiar, which caused a spike in his heartbeat. The attendant reminded him that he had been here the previous night. Tyro feigned ignorance and the attendant let himself out.

One hour until Yeshi arrived and Tyro was in bed, his legs sprawled out and the pollution mask strapped to his face. He inhaled deeply, as deeply as possible, coughing and trying to get a smooth inhale off the pollute.

Minor details in the decorations around the hotel room were starting to become incoherent. The light from the setting sun outside his window made the room hazy. The pollute had a peculiar aftertaste, it made the bed feel softer and safer than it had felt before, as if he could sink so deep into the mattress that he would never be able to rise again.

For what seemed like years, Tyro gazed up at the ceiling through the mask’s green eye lenses and watched small droplets of black light sprinkle onto his body. He felt euphoric, free, as if he were no longer tethered to reality, as if time didn’t matter and his choices no longer had ramifications.

“Life is a beautiful thing,” he whispered. His mind traveled further and further into an emerald void.

THIRTY-FIVE∞

“You really are a beautiful girl, really.” Noah watched Nelly brush her hair.

“You’re just saying that,” she said.

“No, no. I’ve seen plenty of humans … you by far are the most gorgeous … ”

“Mirror, mirror on the wall … ” she said, hoping he would get the reference.

“What’s that mean?” He started to peel an orange in her immaculate kitchen. He worked quickly, arranging the orange slices in a semi-circle around a spread of watermelon, zero calorie pretzel sticks, Himalayan honey glazed asparagus, dried chunks of apple, green grapes and a rare Swiss cheese limited to fifty kilos worldwide. On another plate, he had arranged small rice wafers, thin wheat biscuits and organic oatmeal cookies. Nelly was a closet localvore, and aside from the asparagus and Swiss, everything on his spread had come from local sources.

She logged into iNet and noticed she had a missed call from Meme. She remembered what her husband had said to her the previous night: Sauria is after Meme. He’ll be … removed … by the end of the week.

The fact that her husband thought Meme could be a terrorist amused her. Anyone who wasn’t part of his little rat pack of private security businessdicks was deemed a threat to national security. It was funny how scared grown adults were of the dark. They were scared enough to invest their entire lives fighting an invisible enemy, scared enough to create weapons more violent than God could imagine to kill enemies only they could have themselves created. She was too naïve to know that some enemies truly did exist.

Using a GoogleFace infoErazer she had downloaded six months ago, Nelly placed a call to Meme. She’d been meaning to call him all day, but her morning sickness had taken its toll. “Wow … ”

“Oh hi, Nelly,” Meme-as-Tyro said. “Meet my new body.”

“So you switched? Nice glasses, by the way.”

“I did, with a co-worker of mine named Tyro. Listen, we need to talk. What the fuck happened last night? Why was I almost killed by MercSecure representatives? Is this really all because I punched that Sauria guy? Surely he can’t be that vindictive … ”

Nelly opened her eyes to see Noah smiling. He took the seat across from her, crossing his legs and trying to mirror her concern. He wore a tight blue jacket and a thin black tie. His left eye was shining with a fresh application of eye liner. His pressed pants were tucked into a pair of ankle high stingray leather boots.

“He is that vindictive. Your life is seriously in danger.”

“What should I do?”

“Let’s meet in an hour and I’ll get you to Mexico.”

“Mexico?” Meme-as-Tyro asked.

“I have connects there. From there, we can smuggle you somewhere else.”

“Do you think this is really that serious?”

She nodded. “Last night was just a sample of what they have in store for you. You need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Why are you so interested in helping me?”

“I have my reasons.” Nelly thought of her husband, his lying, the shadiness of his friends, his cheating and his blatant stupidity. Boy did she have her reasons. “I’ll keep my reasoning to myself.”

“Fair enough. What kind of food?”

“Mario’s. You know the place?”

“Yes, it’s near my office. So, tell me more about Mexico … ”

“I have border immunity,” she explained. “You know, we should probably just discuss this when we meet.”

“What type of money should I bring?”

“Do you have an overseas account?”

He thought for a moment. “Actually I have a business account that I used in Brazil.”

“Transfer all your money there. I’m serious. Do it now. Shit. They’re probably monitoring your bank account … ” she said. “Use this website I’m sending you to transfer the money. It’s called Hawalas Transfer. It’s an anonymous way to transfer money to the Middle East.”

“The Middle East?”

“These people are the best at making money disappear. The service will make it appear as if the balance has never left your account. It will stay like this for around two weeks, plenty of time to bail the fuck out of here. We can get you a different identity in Mexico. The body that you’re currently in looks too much like my dad and it’s disturbing.”

He laughed. “Duly noted. Nelly, seriously, why are you doing all this?”

“Look, my husband, or should I say, my soon to be ex-husband’s good friend is Sauria. I’m sick of these types of people. I want out and I have enough money to keep me afloat for some time. Just meet me and we can figure out your role in all this.”

“Got it. See you there.”

“Bye.”

“What’s happening?” Noah asked. He waited as Nelly made sure the call hadn’t been traced or recorded.

She sighed. “It’s complicated. Meme, the guy that my husband’s trying to catch, switched bodies with a co-worker of his named Tyro. He didn’t know people were after him. I mean, he knew he’d fucked up by hitting Sauria, but he didn’t know it was this serious.”

“What about the guy that’s in his body now?”

“Well, hopefully … ” Nelly shrugged, knowing all too well the odds of her husband’s friends finding Meme (or who they thought was Meme) before Sunday. Whoever this Tyro guy was, his life was nearing its end. She knew how easily people disappeared when they stepped on the wrong toes.

“And … what about me?”

“Noah, I can’t live without you! You’re coming with me wherever I go. Out of all the people in this world, you’re the last person I’d leave.”

“You think I’m a person?” He sat down next to her. “Really? You really do? I’m moved.”

“You’re my favorite person. There’s no one else like you in this whole world. You’re unique, you’re handsome, you’re strong and you’re smart.”

“That is so nice,” Noah said. He wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll never leave your side, okay?”

“Promise?” Nelly asked.

“Promise.”

THIRTY-SIX∞

Rinchi arrived at seven and knocked on Tyro’s hotel room door. She wore Yeshi’s white trench coat with the collar flipped up.

“Who is it?” a voice called from the other side.

“Me … ”

She heard some scrambling inside the room. “Yeshi?” he asked, opening the door. He stood in a dress shirt, unbuttoned all the way to his stomach.

Rinchi smiled. “Hi, Meme.” Applied to her face were Yeshi’s butterfly eyelashes and one of her LCD tikas. She blinked rapidly, doing a brief scan of who she thought was Meme. His vitals indicated he’d already started using pollutes.

“Chip-masker?”

“I … ummm … I always use it these days.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said.

“I have something for you.” He stumbled towards the bed and retrieved a box that lay on a nightstand next to it.

“What is it, baby?”

“Open it … ” Tyro said.

“Already on them, huh?” She puckered her lips. He was more nervous than she’d imagined he would be.

“A little.”

Rinchi opened the box and took out the bonsai tree. She held it for a moment judging its weight. It was much heavier than it looked.

What am I supposed to do with this? She could smash the tree and its little ceramic pot against his face and drive the heel of her stilettos into his eye, puncturing his brain. Or possibly, crack the pot against his skull then strangle him with his own belt. Maybe she could knock him out, drag him into the bathroom, fill the tub with water and drown him while ramming the shower curtain rod up his ass. Another option: after binding his arms and feet to the bed, she could use the small knife she had brought to slowly torture him.

She checked his vitals again. Overpowering him would be a cinch. Humandroids were generally twice as strong as a regular human. Turn the violence governor off – something done to all Humandroid escorts – and you had a force to be reckoned with.

Rinchi had fantasized about killing a human before, but never thought she would actually have the chance – especially a chance where she could get off scot free. She casually peeled off Yeshi’s trench coat and tossed it onto a chair. The look of awe in Tyro’s face was one she’d grown used to long ago. Under the trench coat, she wore a pair of white leggings tucked into knee-high stilettos. Lustrous latex suspenders climbed from her waist to her shoulders. The frosty suspenders, which crossed behind her neck, were positioned just right to cover her nipples. They were attached to her leggings by small clips.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she purred. She unzipped her boots and kicked them off unceremoniously.

“H-have you?” he asked.

“Go ahead baby, take some more,” she gestured towards the pollution mask.

“Sure … ” He fumbled to attach the mask to his face.

“How have you been since last night?” She placed her hand across his lap. “You’re so jumpy … ”

“Fine! And you?”

“It was a relaxing day. Look, I painted you this picture.” She opened her large white purse and started searching through it. She handed him the small painting she’d taken from Yeshi’s side of the room.

“This is unusual,” he said.

“Unusual?”

“It’s very rare that a Humandroid paints a picture. A recent study by Dr. Beckstein revealed that the machine learning capabilities of a Humandroid has yet to explore the realm of art. He recruited three very different types of Humandroids: a soldier, an escort and a waiter to perform a series of studies involving … ”

“Shhhhh… ” Rinchi placed her finger over his mouth. Something about his demeanor wasn’t right; something was very familiar about the way he talked about Humandroids. She looked deep into his eyes for a moment.

She watched as he took another drag off the mask.

“Take the mask off and come over here.” she said. “Or keep it on if you want. It’s your choice.”

As he touched her, Rinchi monitored his vitals. His heart rate had picked up and he was exhibiting the signs of someone experiencing signs of duress. Was he always like this with Yeshi? His pheromonal output was bizarre as well. “Just relax, baby.” Rinchi ran her hand along his chest and to his boxer briefs. He had an erection so he was definitely turned on, yet the pattern of his breathing was uneven in a very familiar way.

“You’re so beautiful … ”

“Close your eyes and lay on your back,” she said softly.

She grabbed two choker collars from her purse and hopped back onto the bed. She quickly snapped one of the collars onto her neck. “Let’s give this a try.” She began looping the other collar around his neck.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She could feel his muscles tense. ‘”See, I have a collar too … Don’t worry baby, this will be fun.” She let go of the collar and bent forward to kiss him. He soon forgot about the collar and grabbed the back of her head, pulling her in closer.

“So real … ” he kept saying. “It’s so real … ”

She softly slid her hand from his shoulder to the collar and started to tighten it. She began gyrating her hips, hoping to distract him just enough that she could get a good grip on the collar’s excess leather strip.

She found her grip and sat up. She grabbed the pillow with her right hand and stuffed it down onto his face. She reared back, yanking the collar with all her might and squeezing his body tightly with her thighs. He started to buck, and at one point, almost bucked her off completely.

Rinchi held on by squeezing her thighs. She pulled the collar tighter, her face cracking into a teeth-baring smile. She was stronger than him, much stronger. Muffled screams emitted from the pillow. The headboard slapped against the wall.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Shhhhhhh … ” she said, holding on as his body flopped. Once his bucking stopped, she removed the pillow and scanned his vitals. Still alive.

“You just don’t want to die today do you?” She squeezed her legs tighter and pushed the pillow back down. She let go of the collar and used her entire upper body to apply pressure to the pillow.

After a few more jerks, she felt his lifeless body relax onto the bed.

She removed the pillow and used the strength of both arms to pull the collar even tighter. She waited on top of him for a few minutes, watching as his eyes bulged out of their sockets. She dropped the collar after scanning his vitals a final time. Something brushed against her leg – he still had a slight erection.

Rinchi felt absolutely nothing as she peered down at his lifeless body. Her eyes fell upon the bonsai tree sitting on the nightstand. She hopped off the bed, retrieved the tree, and shattered the ceramic pot against his skull, filling his nostrils and lips with dirt and pebbles.

She was surprised at how easy it was to take life, at how unrepentant she felt. One moment something was alive and annoying, the next moment it was dead and quiet. Almost like a lightswitch. Almost like a Humandroid. Almost like her.

Rinchi put the trench coat on and sat on the bed next to Tyro’s lifeless body. She called Antimeria over iNet to tell him that the job was finished. Meme was officially dead.

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

I’m sitting in a plush booth at an Italian restaurant called Mario’s. The restaurant, on the top floor of the HondaFord building, has been a tourist destination ever since a critical scene from Fast and Furious XXXV took place here. There are signed photos on the wall of all the celebutards and diplomats who have visited the place, posters from all thirty-five Fast and Furious movies and a working twentieth century photo booth that is the very last one on the planet (in fact, the steamy romance scene in Fast and Furious XXXV took place in, around and on top of the photo booth).

Mario’s is locally known for its zero calorie organic vitamin-pizza, which has since been marketed to green grocers across the States. Aside from all the international and local attention, the place is a quaint diner with outstanding dishes that has recently introduced curbside aeros service, after losing business to an Italian restaurant called Luigi’s on top of an adjacent skyscraper.

As I wait for Nelly to arrive, I watch the curbside attendant bring recycled to-go boxes to a line of waiting aeros. It’s approaching eight thirty, which means that Nelly is late. To kill time, I’m playing a game on iNet called Treasure Hunter X. In the game, a small three dimensional figure explores vast dungeons and collects treasure. As I explore a dungeon called Killer’s Lair, the waiter sets a pollution mask on the table in front of me. I nod slightly, with my eyes still closed.

I receive an incoming call from Yeshi with an attached message: WHERE ARE YOU? YOU ARE IN DANGER! I pause the game and take the call, not bothering to enable the video feed.

“Meme, are you alive?”

“Sure, what’s happened?” I ask, watching a brand new aeros Jag pull into the curbside lane.

“Where are you right now? Your voice sounds different.”

“It must be the connection. I’m at Mario’s.”

“Are you with me?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“We’re supposed to be together right now. Are you sitting across from me? Rinchi … my twin she … don’t say anything if you are with me right now.”

“With you? I’m alone, Yeshi.”

“Where’s Rinchi?”

“How should I know where she is?”

“You were supposed to meet me… ”

“About that… ” I say.

I open my eyes and see Nelly sit down across from me. Nelly takes her cantaloupe sunglasses off, puts them in a case, tosses the case in her purse.

“She stunned me … she’s going to kill you. ”

“What?” I ask, smiling at Nelly.

“Who’s that?” Nelly begins flicking through the holographic menu that has appeared at the corner of the table. “Nice switch by the way. You sure beat the shit out of yourself. I’d make a Fight Club reference here but… well, have you seen the movie?”

“Haven’t. It’s a classic right? Guy beats himself up or something?”

“What?” Yeshi asks as Nelly nods.

“Who is trying to kill me now?” I ask Yeshi over iNet.

“Someone else is trying to kill you?” Nelly asks.

Yeshi is practically screaming in my ear now. “Rinchi, my identical twin! She attacked me and now she’s is trying to find you! I’d still be out right now if it weren’t for Anna.”

“Who’s Anna?” I ask.

“My other flatmate. Meme, you are in danger, Rinchi is impersonating me. I think she is going to kill you!”

“Kill me? She’s going to have a hard time finding me right now,” I say, looking down at my white knuckles.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“I switched bodies with Tyro. You know, the guy from last night.”

“Her therapist? Seriously?” Her voice softens. “So Tyro is meeting Rinchi in your body … ”

“This is bad… this is bad… ”

“What’s happening?” Nelly asks again. “Who is trying to kill who and who are you talking to?”

I say, “The guy I switched bodies with is supposed to meet a Humandroid tonight that is out to kill me.”

Nelly asks, “Have you tried to contact him?”

“No … ”

“Who are you with?” Yeshi asks.

“Nelly, from the other night. Things are about to heat up. How long do you think it will take them to figure out that we switched bodies?”

“I have no idea,” Yeshi says.

“If he’s actually dead, it depends on when they discover his body,” Nelly says. “The electronic autopsy takes roughly three minutes. It’s the only way they can keep track of switched body deaths. My guess is they will discover the body in the morning, which gives you a little time. However, if they are after you, they might have someone check his life chip tonight.”

“Looks like I need to get to Mexico ASAP … ”

“Mexico?” Yeshi asks.

“Listen Yeshi, I want you to come to Mario’s so we can figure this all out. I’ll try and call Tyro to warn him.”

“It’s too late.” Yeshi says.

“What do you mean?”

“We were supposed to meet at seven.”

“Maybe Rinchi was late.”

“It’s not in our nature to be late, Meme.”

“I’ll try and call him,” I say. “Just get here as quickly as you can.”

_∞_

“What a clever bastard!” Sauria sat in the back of his stretch-aeros with Antimeria and Rinchi. He’d just gotten off the phone with an investigator from his company.

“What happened?” Rinchi asked, stretching her legs across Antimeria’s lap.

“We manually checked the life chip of the person you just killed. I had one of the hotel workers contracted through our company sneak into the room and do it. He’s definitely dead, but the guy that’s dead isn’t Meme.”

“What do you mean?” She replayed the video in her head of strangling him and smashing the plant against his face – it had to be him!

“He switched bodies,” Sauria explained. “The Meme that you killed … it was someone else. I guess now we can add illegally switching bodies to his rap sheet.”

“The results revealed that it was some guy named Tyro Myrdal,” Sauria said. “Tyro Myrdal, a Humandroid therapist.”

“How did he know? How did he know to switch? There must be someone passing along information to Meme.” Antimeria ran his hand along the fat that hung from his chin.

“Did you say Tyro Myrdal?” Rinchi kicked her legs off Antimeria’s lap. She crossed her arms over her naked chest and looked down. “Dr. T? Oh fuck … oh fuck … ”

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“Do you know this guy or something?” Sauria asked.

“No. I guess I don’t know him. The name sounded familiar. So they switched bodies … ” Rinchi said, looking out the window at an aeros swooped by. “They switched bodies … ”

“This is the guy he switched with,” Sauria said, pressing a button near the door. A holographic projection of Tyro appeared next to him. The projection wavered for a second before enhancing its color.

Rinchi said, “Nope, that’s not the Tyro I know … ”

“Are you all right?” Antimeria asked.

“Sure. I just hope I didn’t disappoint you. I couldn’t tell it was a switch. He was wearing a chip-masker.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sauria said with a wave of his hand. “No one could have predicted this would happen. We’ll get him soon enough. You’ve done an excellent job, Rinchi. You’ve proven yourself to me, proven that you are more than qualified to be a MercSecure representative.”

“I need to check on Nelly,” Antimeria said. ‘she’ll know something about this. If she doesn’t cough it up, I can force Noah to do it. Come back, Rinchi.”

She moved next to him again. “What happens now?” she asked.

Sauria snarled, “Now we get to the bottom of this. I don’t care where he is – Meme will be dead by the morning.”

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

Yeshi shows up at the restaurant thirty minutes later. She’s in a blue sweatshirt that says #LOVEDROID in old English letters, a pair of black jeggings and white Converse with pink stitching. The hood of her sweatshirt is pulled tightly over her head. Nelly and I’ve just finished sharing a vita-pizza; I’m currently looking down at my stomach.

I’ve never felt a baby inside me before.

Yeshi looks at who she thinks is Tyro and smiles, “It’s nice to see you again, Meme. I never thought of you as a stressed white guy with bruises all over your face.”

A waiter takes a chair from another table and slides it over for Yeshi.

“The bruises will heal,” Nelly-as-Tyro says, wiping her lips with a napkin. “I kind of think they make me look tough.”

I look at Yeshi and smile, “Nice to meet you, my name’s Nelly,” I tell her, glancing over at Tyro and winking.

“You’re the lady that maced everyone last night.” Yeshi pulls her hood off her head and scans my vitals. “Wow … you’re going to give birth any day now.”

“I’m ready,” I say.

“They’re currently looking for Rinchi … ” Yeshi says, cutting right to the topic at hand. “The maintenance men who rebooted me have already reported her attack to the central headquarters. Anna also reported the violation. Rinchi will be terminated within the next twelve hours. Using a Humstunner is a huge protocol violation because it hinders productivity. Walliburton terminates the artificial consciousness of any Humandroid caught using the stunner. Sometimes, depending on the age of the Humandroid, they’re tweaked and a new artificial consciousness is installed. Most times however, they scrap them completely.”

“So she killed Tyro?” I ask.

“I’m afraid so,” she says. “Sorry, Meme.” (Of course Yeshi says this to Tyro’s body – she still doesn’t know we have switched.)

“Why don’t they just tweak all the violators?” Nelly-as-Tyro asks. “Scrapping them seems a bit excessive.”

“Because they get a large kickback from the FCG if they scrap a Humandroid completely. It actually saves them money just to get rid of it rather than attempt to fix it.”

“Of course the FCG gives them a kickback. Thank God for big government!” I reach for the pollution mask and I take a quick huff. BlackAguaUSA Morning Body Dump: a perfect pollute that’s as good as six strong cups of instant B-vitamin coffee in the morning.

“Be careful with that stuff. Remember, you’re carrying. So they’re just going to ditch…what’s her name again?” Nelly-as-Tyro asks.

“Rinchi, my twin,” Yeshi says. “Yes, they will scrap her. As soon as she arrives back at our flat they’ll waiting. Hey Tyro, who was that lady with you the other night?”

“Which one?” Nelly-as-Tyro asks.

“You don’t remember? The one with the blonde hair.”

“Uh … no it must have been the pollutes,” Nelly-as-Tyro replies.

“I think it might have been his wife,” I tell Yeshi.

“Really Meme?” Yeshi gives me a funny look. “I never pictured you as a pregnant woman.”

“So you figured it out already?” I ask, rubbing my swollen belly. “I hope this doesn’t complicate things.”

THIRTY-NINE∞

MercSecure Representative Gyatson checked the barrel of his Colt 1851 Navy Revolver. He admired its gold plated rammer and cylinder, its genuine ivory grip with a fiercely carved Mexican eagle; the weight of the gun in his hand only made the weapon seem that much deadlier. He purchased the revolver at an auction ten years ago and eventually found a weapon maker in South Africa able to craft him percussion caps and paper cartridges with black powder and .36 caliber bullets. He’d ordered thousands. Robert E. Lee had carried this exact model of revolver during the Civil War and every time he held the pistol, he felt the anger of the South swell inside him – even though he was technically from Australia.

A huge Civil War buff, Gyatson had been made an honorary member of the local Sons of the Confederacy chapter, a first for a foreigner. He even had a Confederate battle flag tattoo across his left bicep. He was a short man with a chest the size of the Titanic and a single scar that crawled down the side of his face, a common trait among mercenaries.

While there were easier ways to make a man disappear in the late twenty-first century, Gyatson preferred the old Wild West methods. This was much to the chagrin of his superiors, as shoot-outs were increasingly difficult to cover up even with ample amounts of lobbying money. Much to his advantage, the word terrorist made it pretty easy for the FCG to look the other way when he took the law into his own hands. MercSecure also looked the other way when it came to his methods. After all, he was one of the higher ranked representatives in the company, in the top thirty.

What Meme and Nelly didn’t know is how close he had been to pulling the trigger at the restaurant the previous night. Had Nelly not sprayed him with mace, Meme’s head would have been splashed onto the wall all over the famous Royce print.

“I’m on my way there right now,” Gyatson said. He sat in the back of an aeros with two other MercSecure representatives, lower ranking lackeys. An unlit pollute cigarette hung out the side of his mouth. “Send me a picture of the person he’s switched with.”

Gyatson was in a crisp gray suit with a red handkerchief in the front pocket and a red tie. Below the handkerchief pocket was a vintage sheriff’s badge, another one of his prized possessions. His boots, tucked under his nicely pressed pants, had buckles on the ankles that were meant to resemble stirrups. He had one blue eye and one green eye and his hair was in a short ponytail. Aside from his eccentricities, he was a stone-cold killer who had killed hundreds.

He disconnected the call and opened his eyes, “Let’s make this short and sweet,” he told the two men sitting in front of him. “No innocent bystanders if we can manage it. Bring your anti-mace masks, just in case that bitch is with him. Before we go in, make sure all the bloody cameras have been disabled. Two minutes, got it? That’s all this should take. Set your Humguns to kill.”

“How should we go about luring him out of the restaurant?” one of the men asked.

“We won’t lure him out. The bloke has already lured us in. No sense in taking bait like minnows when we can take bait like sharks.”

“But aren’t we being baited either way?” the second man asked under his breath.

FORTY ∞

“Noah is my Humandroid assistant,” Nelly-as-Tyro says.

The old droid is standing at the front of the table tapping his fingers nervously against his chest. He’s dressed in a white suit with white pointy shoes. The waiter moves behind him, carrying a pizza to another table. He clearly isn’t as advanced as Yeshi. Likely a Neunbolt.

“You’ve switched?” he says, looking from Nelly to me.

“Yes,” Nelly-as-Tyro says with a smile. “How do I look as a man?”

“I’ll get used to it. Oh Nelly, they’re on their way here!” he says. “Right now, I’m afraid!”

“Who is?” Yeshi and I both ask.

“Antimeria called me … ”

“You told him where we were?” I ask.

“I had to.” He starts to shake with frustration. “I’m programmed to answer any and all questions when the correct code word is said.”

“What’s the code word?” Nelly asks. “I didn’t know you had a code word … ”

“Older personal assistant Humandroids usually don’t know their own code words,” Yeshi explains. “New models don’t have a code word because many aren’t owned by a single human any longer.”

“Age is just a number,” Noah says.

“You are perfect just the way you are,” Nelly-as-Tyro smiles. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you a new code word in Mexico.”

“So, what did you tell Antimeria?” I ask. I look down at my expensive Cartier watch. Icy blue veins are visible on my new hands and soft freckles are scattered across my arms. I suddenly feel incredibly delicate.

“I told him where we were … ” Noah puts his hands over his eyes to cover his shame. “They’re sending people now. Those were his words not mine.”

“Probably the MercSecure representative from last night with the gun,” Yeshi says. “Everyone open a private channel with me and I’ll send an image.”

“I already have his image,” Nelly says.

“I’m so sorry!” Noah says again. “Nelly, please forgive me, please forgive me!”

“It’s what you’re programmed to do,” I say. “No sense in fretting over frayed circuits.”

“We’re all programmed to do something,” Nelly and Noah say at the same time. They laugh together too, which is a little unsettling. Personally, I’d like to get back to the pollute at hand, but it appears as if we’ll soon have company.

“Do you forgive me?”

“Of course I do, Noah, of course. You’re my favorite person on the planet,” Nelly says. Noah looks from Nelly to Yeshi, seeking acknowledgement from another Humandroid for being called a person. Yeshi is unresponsive. A bright grin spreads across the old Neunbolt’s face.

“So we’re about to be in some fucking trouble, is that what you’re saying?” I ask.

“That’s precisely what I am saying!” Noah puts his hand over his head, as if he may soon faint. I really hate old droids. “We need to leave now!”

“No,” Nelly says, “We need to stick with the plan.”

“There’s a plan?” Noah asks. He looks from me to Yeshi to Nelly-as-Tyro.

“It’s risky,” I say. “But yes, there’s a plan.”

“Why did you switch bodies then?” Noah asks. “I am so confused.”

“We switched bodies because Meme is going to Mexico right after this,” Nelly-as-Tyro explains, “as me. I’ll stay here as Tyro, find a new body, switch and meet him. The number one thing is to get this baby to Mexico. Sending Meme kills two birds with one stone. I know Antimeria wants his child more than anything else. Don’t think I’m stupid. Besides, Meme doesn’t know anything about combat. At least I’ve trained for some things.”

I raise my finger to protest, but then I realize she’s right.

Nelly-as-Tyro says, “What we are about to do will add insult to injury. I’ll be gone, Meme will be gone, the baby will be gone and all Antimeria will have are his businessdick friends and his ladyboy escorts. No offense,” she says to Yeshi.

“None taken.”

“We’ll deal with these mercenaries, Meme will leave in my aeros driven by Yeshi and head to Mexico. I’ve left cash and contact info inside a duffle bag in the trunk.” She turns to Noah. “You and I will make some calls and get to Mexico by sundown tomorrow. Carloza will help. Everyone wins.”

FORTY-ONE∞

I see Gyatson enter the restaurant from the other side of the room with two men behind him. All three of them have mistmasks across the bridges of their noses. They’re an intimidating trio, a predatory group of life extinguishers.

Nelly-as-Tyro sits with Noah in a dimly lit booth across from our table with a curtain drawn around it. Yeshi stands near the door, watching them enter. As Nelly and I are both logged into iNet, I quickly message her to let her know about the masks. I’m holding Nelly’s purse, hoping that Gyatson won’t recognize me from the previous night. I’m pretending to be busy with something online.

Gyatson approaches the waiter and tells him to clear out all the patrons. The waiter, a newer model Humandroid, looks confused and starts protesting. Gyatson pulls a revolver from inside his jacket and whips it across the waiter’s face. The impact sends the Humandroid to the ground. Gyatson kicks the waiter so hard in the head that his neck snaps. I feel something move in my stomach. The baby. I need to keep reminding myself I am technically pregnant. Not technically, I am actually pregnant.

The diners begin to scatter at the sight of violence. It doesn’t take long for a sea of people to rush towards the door, shoving against one another. One of Gyatson’s partners drops a small electric grenade on the floor. Schwiip! It fizzles and flickers, disrupting all wireless signals in the area. No video, no iNet.

I rise with everyone else, trying to get lost in the crowd so I can move into a position behind the three men. It’s hard for me to keep my hands on anything but my swollen belly. Christ it is a bitch being pregnant!

Eventually, I find myself in a position near Yeshi and watch as she pulls her hood over her head. As the crowd swells around her, she leaps forward and pulls one of Gyatson’s men down with her. A few chairs crash and people begin scrambling over their tables to avoid the scuffle. Napkin dispensers scrape across the floor, salt and pepper shakers clatter as they smack against the ground. The bulls stampede; tora bravo on the loose!

“Stay behind me!” Yeshi shouts to me.

Gyatson, still a few paces away from Nelly-as-Tyro, notices his man go down and fires a shot into the ceiling. People scream and move even faster. He turns and shoots a round over their heads, destroying the photo booth. The bastard!

I put my hands to my ears. My ears ring and the adrenaline pumps through me. The baby kicks and pandemonium ensues. I place my hand on my stomach and rub it, realizing I know absolutely nothing about comforting a fetus during a clusterfuck.

“Where are you, mate?” Gyatson bellows over the crowd. “Show yourself, Meme!”

Noah, who has exited the private booth, grabs a wine bottle and smashes the bottom of it against a marble pillar. The breaking glass is barely audible over the ruck of the crowd. He holds the broken bottle with a nervous yet determined look on his face. His hand is trembling; he is going against his very nature to hold it in such a way.

I stop and watch him for a moment. Is this even possible? While Yeshi has virtually no governor on violence, Noah shouldn’t be able to react in the way he just has. Plus, he’s an older model. This might be unprecedented! He advances towards one of Gyatson’s hitmen, driving the broken bottle into the man’s throat. Blood trickles down the half submerged wine bottle. I see the private booth’s curtain open and Nelly-as-Tyro emerges.

I grab a plate and toss it like a Frisbee hoping to hit Gyatson in the back of the head. It misses as he fires a point blank shot into Noah’s chest. The old droid falls and Nelly-as-Tyro screams. Her lament triggers another shot from Gyatson, who has spotted who he thinks is me.

The bullet hits Nelly-as-Tyro in the waist and her new body stumbles back onto a table. I watch in horror as she settles onto the table. She tries to pull herself up, but the bullet seems to have connected with her spine.

No! I rush forward holding my purse and my stomach, not sure what I should do. My blouse gets caught on a chair and I pull free.

“It can’t be … it can’t be …” I find myself repeating. I suddenly feel nauseous.

Gyatson turns his revolver towards Yeshi and I throw another plate. This one finally connects, hitting him in the back of the head. Direct hit! He stumbles forward, shooting another bullet into the opposite wall. Christ the sound! This is all the time Yeshi needs. She’s behind him moments later, her hands on his ponytail. She pulls back; his head snaps and I hear a cracking sound like someone dropping a heavy book on a hard surface. The representative falls backwards.

Yeshi stomps his face until her white Converse are red and Gyatson’s mistmask is hanging in bloody tatters from his fleshy cheeks.

“Fuck!” I’m hovering over Nelly-as-Tyro now, looking at the bullet wound. It’s oozing, it’s real. Please don’t be dead!

Yeshi appears behind me.

“Is she dead!?” I scream.

“Oh, this is bad …” Yeshi scans Nelly-as-Tyro’s vitals without any sign of emotion.

“Dead bad? Come on, Nelly … ” I mumble. I can smell the sulfur from the cloud of gunpowder smoke. I pound my fist against the table and instantly regret it. A pain spreads from my wrist to my elbow; the baby kicks again.

“Relax, Meme.” Yeshi is at my side now, her hand on my shoulder.

I’m grief stricken and curious, having never seen an actual dead person before. What makes it stranger is the fact that Nelly is in Tyro’s body. I’m now staring at the dead body of my colleague, who himself is dead in a morgue somewhere. I’m also staring at the dead body of a friend who I hardly knew, a woman who risked her life – regardless of her reasoning – to help me. Blood seeps from the wound, spreading like spilt ink on the table cloth.

I suddenly feel responsible for all this in a detached way. I am as guilty as I am oblivious to how I ended up here at Mario’s, staring at a corpse that was alive just seconds ago. The baby moves in my stomach.

“It’s all my fault,” I whisper. “All of this.”

Maybe I’m just a lucky son of a bitch.

“Sorry, Meme.”

I hear a whir from the Noah. He sits up, looking over at Yeshi and me. A black liquid oozes from his open mouth. “Nelly…” he says. His head twitches to the left. A spark erupts from the bullet hole in his chest and he falls sideways, whacking his head on the corner of a nearby table.

Yeshi reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “We need to go, Meme. We need to get to Mexico. We need to leave all this behind. You and me…”

“But Nelly … ” I find myself sobbing.

“You have her baby, Meme. Her life can continue through her child. You have to save the baby for Nelly. Come on … we need to go now.”

No matter how much you sharpen it, life will never reach a point where it makes sense. As I turn to leave, I feel something pop below my swollen belly. Water trickles out onto my leg quickly forming a puddle on the floor. “Yeshi … the baby is coming!”

The End

Life is a Beautiful Thing

((BOOK TWO))

Harmon Cooper

Edited by George C. Hopkins

ONE∞

Wolf mask? Check. Ball gag? Check. Mummification bondage tape pack? Check. Spreader bar? Check. Wartenberg wheel? Check. Dildo shaped like the Eiffel Tower? Check. Hand-cuffs? Check. Nipple clamps? Check. Vintage retractable rattan cane that doubled as a selfie stick? Check. K9 muzzle with puppy fist mitts? Check. Butt plug with attached tail? Check. Armbinders? Check. Gag harness with blindfold? Check. Medieval head cage? Check. Anal hook? Check. Stainless steel cat claws? Check. Suspension equipment? Check. English tawse? Check. Humstunner? Check.

Sex and torture arrived at a happy medium in Rinchi’s collection. Her benefactor, Antimeria, was no fool when he pulled some strings to have her transferred to the mercenary program administered by MercSecure, the sister company of Executive Executions. He knew she would be the best. He knew she would reinvent what it meant to be a contract killer.

Rinchi’s first assignment after the transfer had been relatively simple. An internal alarm at Walliburton sounded after a man named Edgar Cave shared classified information with a journalist at HuffingtonJones. The files he shared contained a list of transfers that pretty much detailed the illegal pollute business Walliburton ran through its Humandroids escorts. The leaked material also contained an encrypted prototype for a recent advancement in body-switching technology, allowing one to theoretically control another body remotely.

Using information obtained from a data-mining service called Datatective, Walliburton security officials transferred a fifty page document detailing the whereabouts of the leaker as well as the journalist to MercSecure. Rinchi’s first target, the hapless dweeb Edgar Cave, was easy to find. He lived in Palo Alto along with all the other Silicon Valley leeches.

“C-c-can I help you?” Edgar asked, not sure of what to make of the semi-naked Humandroid standing on his front porch. Rinchi let her jacket sleeves fall from her shoulders, revealing her ample breasts restrained only by a fishnet bodysuit.

“I’ve been sent by a friend,” she said casually. “You’re Edgar Cave, right?”

“That’s me….” His face filled with suspicion. “Who sent you?”

“It’s supposed to be a secret, and I promised to keep the secret.”

“Really?”

“It’s getting cold out here with my top off, Eddy. Can’t I come inside? I don’t want your neighbors seeing me.” She feigned embarrassment.

Edgar peered out of his door to his neighbor’s house. “It’s just strange, that’s all. My friends aren’t really the type to order a … ”

“Humandroid?” she asked with a faint smile. “You of all people should know we can’t help who we are.”

“You don’t seem like the Humandroids I’ve met before,” he said.

“Things do evolve, Edgar,” was Rinchi’s reply. “I don’t know why it takes Darwin and Moore’s law to prove this to humans. So can I come in or shall we do this out here?”

“I guess you can come in … ” he finally said.

“That’s a good boy. Please, carry my bag.” She nodded at her leather Louis Vuitton bag sitting next to his door.

Edgar’s house was a throwback to early twentieth century tech start-ups. An obligatory Star Wars poster hung from the wall next to a picture of Grace Hopper in full military regalia. The place stunk of pizza, moldy socks, body spray deodorants and halitosis. For a moment, Rinchi even thought about turning off her olfactory senses by disabling the red and blue lingual cord under her tongue, but she decided to keep them on. Besides, it would be beneficial for her to better understand the necessary pressure levels that forced a human to excrete fear pheromones. She’d had plenty experience with sexual chemical factors; it would be helpful to see how they differed from fear pheromones.

“Which way to your room?” she asked.

She already knew that Edgar Cave lived here with three other manchildren intravenously linked to trust funds. He was an SV Leech – the term used for a large group of Silicon Valley residents still sucking on the tech teat left behind by their wealthy grandparents and great grandparents. With trust funds and endowments aplenty, it was nearly impossible for them to get motivated to actually work. Most of them just hacked and farted around all day.

“Upstairs, second bedroom on the left.”

Edgar was a gangly fellow with bleach white skin and bloodshot eyes. He looked as nervous as he probably felt at that very moment. Rinchi turned to him and her eyes partially dilated. She scanned his vitals, noticing an increase in his heart rate. She turned to the stairwell and made a show of taking each step. “This one, right?” she asked, at the cusp of his door.

“Yes … ”

She stepped inside, squeezing around a VE rig with a matching haptic chair. If the beginning of the twenty-first century was about tinkering with global economics simply to keep the ship afloat, the end of the twenty-first century was entirely about distraction. Some humans went the pollute route, others lived most of their lives in virtual reality worlds. To be distracted was to be human.

“I like your room, Edgar.”

Truthfully, nothing a human obsessed over interested Rinchi. From geekdom to sports to music to sex – almost everything humans did had no purpose aside from stuffing their petty lives until they died. She’d spent countless hours hearing the world’s elite explain their passions to her. Whether it was a delusional Saudi prince with a fetish for ball torture who collected rare falcons or a nondenominational nut job who had her scream bible quotes to him as she burnt his taint with a curling iron – all human obsessions were equally futile.

“I bought that pewter statue off Ebaymazon.” He pointed across his messy room. “It’s from an old Japanese anime called Parasyte. The guy’s hand had a parasite living in it that was trying to kill him, but ended up working with him. The parasite was sharp and—”

Rinchi leapt forward and kissed Edgar to make him shut the fuck up.

“Wow … ” he pushed her away. “I wasn’t … I’ve never … ”

“You’re a virgin?” she asked.

“I mean, well I got a hand job once but … ”

“Where did you get this hand job, Edgar?” Rinchi grabbed his package. She inhaled slowly and said, “Tell me all about it.”

Edgar was shaking now, releasing a mixture of arousal and fear chemical factors. “You’re really hot,” he sputtered.

“Take your pants off.” She checked his vitals again, watching the blood rushing towards his nether regions. Arousal pheromones, vasodilation, hypothalamic triggering – he was turning on the same way anything else powered on.

“R-r-right here? I mean, sure! Yes!” He tried to pull his pants down but his belt was too tight. “Sorry,” he said, looking up at her nervously.

“Lay down for me.” Rinchi dropped the trench coat that had been wrapped around her waist. She walked over to her bag, which was on the floor near his open door. She closed the door and made a show of bending over so he could see her ass.

“You have a dick!?” he was already on the bed. “Wait, what the … I mean I … ”

She turned to him so he could see it fully. “Relax Edgar. I’m neither man nor woman.”

“Ladyboy … ” he mumbled, but he had relaxed some.

“That’s the noun you’ve given us. However, I see myself more as the best of both worlds. There is nothing I cannot do nor simulate. There is nothing you can do that will hurt me nor is there any fantasy of yours that I cannot fulfill. Whether a male human wants to admit it or not, he really only needs a hole or something relatively hole-shaped to bust his proverbial nut. Graphic, I know, but I’m being realistic here. And if you didn’t already know, my sole purpose in life is to satisfy a human’s sickest cravings, regardless of their sexual orientation. I’ve entertained heads of state, lesbian Congresswomen, uptight princes, lonely housewives, businessmen, CEOS and CFOS at the same time, chiefs of staff and basically any combination of sexual preference or career category you can think of. I am capitalism, Edgar, I am sex.”

He didn’t say anything, but his erection hadn’t lost its steam either.

“Let’s begin.” Rinchi brought her bag of goodies to the side of his bed. She affixed her wolf pollute mask to her face, its polypropylene eye lenses blue, its ears slightly furry.

“You can use pollutes?” he asked nervously.

“No, but I like this mask. There is something very predatory about it, something very powerful. Tell me, does it bother you in any way?”

Edgar looked at the Humandroid standing in front of him. Full-body fishnet stocking, a head shorter than him, large perky breasts, a wolf mask and a penis – if his mind was capable of short-circuiting it would have done so at this point. “I don’t know,” he finally said, breathing heavily.

She made a show of unzipping her bag. “I want you to put this in your mouth.”

“What is it?”

“While you are a virgin, I’m sure you’ve had simulated sex multiple times.” She nodded at his virtual reality rig. “Am I right?”

“Yes … ”

“That’s a good boy. Put this in your mouth.” She strapped her ball gag around his face and pulled it tight.

“Mmmm mmmmm.”

“I can’t hear you now,” she said, pulling the strap tighter. “Just relax, baby, I’m going to take you to a place you’ve never been before. You do trust me, don’t you?” She dropped her face directly over his. “Well, do you trust me, Edgar?” she said in an almost pouty voice.

He nodded. A bead of sweat appeared on the side of his head.

“Good, I want you to open your legs now.” She waved the spreader bar at him. “I’m going to use this to keep your legs apart.”

His knees slowly began to open.

“That’s a good boy.” Rinchi set the spreader bar on the bed followed by her anal hook. Edgar began to squirm at the sight of the hook, his legs twitching against his sheets. “I want you to relax, okay? This will all be over soon.”

TWO∞

No sense in elaborating on yet another one of the dark places I’ve found myself in. I’m with Yeshi, peering through a Plexiglas wall, as a genetically modified nineteen-year-old crawls towards me on a shiny black floor. Perky cat ears jut out of her head, syringing the air around her feline skull. Her eye sockets have been surgically enhanced so her sclerae are as big as plums, barely large enough to contain her vampiresque pupils. A thong rests just below her long black tail, which holds a hand fan decorated with faux-watermarks. Our eyes meet like we’re in a movie.

She is manga, she is anime, she is the result of desire amplified to a gross national extent, more plastic and less ectoplasmic, transgenic, borderline pedophiliac yet somehow acceptable in this region. Diva-beast probably coughs up hairballs. Shinjuku San-chome, Nishi-Shinjuku, Higashi-Shinjuku, Shinjuku sin city, Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan.

Life is a beautiful thing.

The Japanese pollution masks are efficient, light years ahead of the ones we have in the States. Kawaii-cute and form-fitting don’t even begin to describe them. The non-designer masks are made from Moso bamboo with retractable pollute dispensers and head straps that adjust themselves automatically. The head straps are filled with tiny pistons that move up and down against your temples, giving the tactile sensation of an expert head massage. Me gusta mucho.

The only thing annoying about the Japanese masks are the advertisements. Every two minutes, an ad scrolls across the polypropylene eye lenses, selling everything from kitchen appliances to life hack devices. Vibe killer is an understatement. Silence the реклама! There is no way to disable the ads; they act as a metaphor for the culture at hand. Everything is automatic and efficient in Tokyo, from their toilets to their paths to inebriation. My God is the place clean!

Of course I’m on my fave – LoathHunAyaTop. Less a chill pill and more a thrill pill. Inhale to brimful. No sense in branching out when you’re already on a tree with a hammock.

I watch half-heartedly as the genetically modified diva-beast crawls towards the screen separating her from us, swaying her money-maker left and right as Japanese salarymen bust loads into their sweat-wicking undies. Amateur night is filled with hoots and hollers; cantankerous cacerolazo. I have no idea what has happened to this country, but most things are tolerable with the right pollute, even something as seemingly pointless as this.

Inhale, exhale. An ad blazes across the mask’s lenses as diva-beast continues her approach. She stops momentarily to lick her paws, which still resemble human hands (albeit with claws). There is a small port in the Plexiglas on the patron side of the room. Twelve large bolts anchor a pair of arm-length latex gloves, allowing whoever is behind the barrier to interact with the sexually-repressed masses.

Diva-beast reaches her hand into the latex glove, motioning me forward. As she does this, she slides her other hand into the other glove. Her tail spreads the hand fan behind her body, slowly bringing it to her face to cover the lower half of her mouth. Intriguing but still, I’m not interested. One of the salarymen runs to her outstretched latex hands and quickly faints. Again – her eyes lock on me, pulsating to the beat of the dubtastic choons crackling the speakers overhead.

Seeing a woman with cat ears and a tail pretend-flirt with me from behind a thick hunk of Plexiglas is hardly arousing. Besides, I’m already well on my way to entering the place I most prefer to inhabit – the Empyrean; the unanalyzable feverish gash between ever-present and chemical conception; the blissful spot between fucked and screwed. We are what we eat and I am what I inhale. Besides, I have things I need to forget.

Yeshi squeezes my hand. Homo machina meet Homo sapiens – Meme and Yeshi por vida. One organic, the other of wiring and genius, non-biological intelligence. One intoxicated, the other unable to partake. We’ve been through so much together and we haven’t even known each other for a month. Still, I have things I need to forget.

It’s not often one goes from childbirth to Japan in less than a week.

My electronic half is wearing a Junya Watanabe pollution mask she picked up in Omotesando. Cost me a pretty yenny but it was worth it. The mask is clear, made from an epoxy resin reinforced with carbon fiber. As with all designer masks in Tokyo, it is meant to be worn as an accessory. Bring Your Own Mask (BYOM) whenever possible, kids.

I smile at Yeshi, even though it is impossible for her to see the smile through my opaque mask. With pleasantries aside, I turn back to the debauchery at hand. Diva-beast continues to beckon me forward. Another salaryman stumbles forward with the word kanpai on his lips. His mask, a blue Doreamon number, hangs off the side of his head. As he rambles forward towards the diva-beast’s outstretched hands, his mask bobs up and down in a sinister way. He reaches the woman’s latex-laden gloves and falls into them.

“Move, Meme!” Yeshi says. I turn to her, noticing that her pupils have dilated. She’s scanning the diva-beast from afar.

“What?” I take another inhale off my pollution mask. My lungs fill and a tingling sensation needles through my body. I look up just in time to see diva-beast hook her latex fingers into the man’s mouth and eye sockets. The Japanese man screams as she picks him up with one hand. She pulls this hand back, slamming him face-first into the Plexiglas.

Thud! She does this again, splattering the glass with blood.

“Meme!” Yeshi practically scoops me under her arm as she merges into the crowd of men trying to exit the stuffy room. I look back over my shoulder to see diva-beast punching her fist against the Plexiglas, intent on freeing herself, her dilated eyes boring a hole through me.

THREE∞

Antimeria sat at his desk on the fifty-third floor of the Monsanto Golden Seed building, an oval-shaped behemoth that housed the offices of many of the century’s most successful business conglomerates. He was standing and looking down at his desk, reviewing the pictures from yesterday’s assassination of Edgar Cave. Bloody handprints covered the target’s bedroom walls. His intestines had been pulled out of his body, left to rot in a pile on his bedroom floor. His knees had been broken and his legs were splayed. Gruesome didn’t even begin to describe the images.

A call came in on iNet.

“Meme’s chip has been traced to Tokyo,” his secretary said instead of hello. Her image appeared in the corner of his eyelids.

“Tell me more.” Antimeria sat down in his chair. His arms instinctively crossed behind his head and he leaned back. He was a HedgeRoth manager at FreddieDickMac, working alongside a team of seasoned cretins with PhDs in Obfuscation. The fund’s primary investments were in crypto currencies, faux-democratic regimes, mortgages, pollute distribution companies, PACs, advanced weaponry and companies that researched body-switching technology.

While body-switching was currently illegal in most countries, everyone knew it would be legal at some point, and the companies that invested in it now would come out ahead in twenty or thirty years’ time. Besides, most of the companies researching body-switching had contracts with the FCG, the proverbial handjob with the courtesy of a reach-around.

His secretary said, “I’m transferring the video feed now … and it is sent.”

“Got it.”

Antimeria pulled up the video feed in another window. The video was actually a collage of three videos. It started with what appeared to be the perspective of a Humandroid sex worker looking at a man in an audience full of pollute-intoxicated Japanese men. The man was Hispanic, in his late thirties. His life chip indicated he was indeed Meme Lamar. Next to him was a woman wearing a Japanese pollution mask. Yeshi. The collage then cut to a picture of the two escaping along with the rest of the audience. What followed was a video of them entering a ramen restaurant. From there the feed ended.

Meme had taken Antimeria’s wife and his baby; he’d sucker-punched his best friend, Sauria, in the face. The crazed man was a terrorist in every sense of the word, not to mention the fact that he was also a homewrecker. “I need you to forward this video to Rinchi at MercSecure and Sauria and his team at ExEx,” he said.

“They’re the ones that forwarded it to me.”

“Perfect. Everything is finally falling into place.”

_∞_

Rinchi was sitting in the waiting room at the HuffingtonJones office in New York when she received the video. Meme and Yeshi had been found. After viewing the video twice, she immediately placed a call to Antimeria.

“LA misses you.”

“Hello. New York is dreary.”

Antimeria chuckled. “I see you’re wearing a necklace.”

Wrapped around Rinchi’s sculpted neck was a gold choker that spelled the word droid in cursive letters.

“Oh this?” She ran her hand along the letters. “I decided to treat myself, so I ordered it on the flight and an Ebaymazon drone delivered it to me at the airport. Not bad, huh?”

The word droid was considered derogatory by several human rights groups. They argued that it held the same connotation as a plethora of other derogatory terms used to refer to minority groups. The largest anti-droid lobbyist, a D.C. nonprofit called Fight Fake Roboterror and Invest in Global Harmony Training (FFRIGHT), bombarded American Humandroid owners with messages arguing against the exploitation of Humandroids. Of course, all hell broke loose once it was revealed that FFRIGHT had been using Humandroid escorts to sway the opinions of DemoCorp members of the House.

TLDR – the word droid is thought to be derogatory by some, but Humandroids themselves actually use the term freely, hence Rinchi’s droid choker – she wanted to make a good impression for her first and last meeting with Dustin Grier.

“It is a little blatant for my taste,” Antimeria said, “but if it makes you happy, by all means. How is New York?”

“I haven’t had a chance to explore yet.”

“I see. Is … Dustin Grier going to get the same treatment as Edgar Cave?”

“Well, that depends on how generous I’m feeling.” She smiled. There were cameras all over New York and one was currently focused on her, meaning Antimeria could see her evil little grin over his iNet feed. Of course, Rinchi was aware of this. She uncrossed her legs in a way that was slightly provocative.

“Careful, you’re in public.”

“It happens.”

He chuckled softly. “Are you enjoying your new line of work?”

“More than you could possible imagine.”

“I knew you’d be good at it, but may I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“You may want to … ” he hesitated a moment. “How do I say this? You may want to think of a better way to go about your business. Less gore, babe.”

“You saw the pictures?” she asked.

“Yes, and they weren’t for the faint of heart either. I don’t know how you got his intestines out of his body, and I really don’t want to know. I just hope the poor fool didn’t suffer.”

The HuffingtonJones receptionist walked over to Rinchi and told her that Dustin Grier was ready to see her.

“I have to go,” she said to Antimeria.

“I understand. Make it quick, got it?”

“Got it.”

“And no disemboweling. Keep the man’s organs inside his body, please.”

“But I want to see how they work … ” she said in a playful tone.

“That’s what iNet is for. Once you’re done in New York, I want you on the first plane to Tokyo. I need to clear this with Sauria, but I’m sure he’ll agree.”

“I will need to return to LA for supplies, especially if I’m going to see Meme and Yeshi.”

“At my place?”

“Yes, and at MercSecure headquarters. I’ll get what I need and be on my way,” she said.

“Good. I’ll see you in time for an early dinner tonight.”

The receptionist harrumphed and Rinchi smiled at her. After disconnecting the call she stood, clutching her LV bag under her arm. She did a quick vitals scan on the receptionist and decided to spare her life. A little luck had just been handed to her and she figured it was worth passing on.

FOUR∞

Tokyo.

The future bends around me and the Big Noodle stirs as others have said before. The electronic bath violates my senses, producing a euphoric sense of über-pure nausea. The buildings stretch to the sky to keep God away and man on top of the world. Better – they look climbable in my current state. Betterer – I’d give anything for the chance to King Kong my way to the top and scream at the top of my lungs, “I am not balderdash! I am not as artificial as I appear to be! I know the formula for futility! I am the forty-eighth Ronin! I have daddy issues!”

I am Meme, you are Meme, the eggman has cracked, the walrus has sharpened his tusks with plans to commit seppuku. Fuck if the truth doesn’t jar the senses like diving into a boiling pool full of liquid cocaine. Swimming our way to the top for our final breath never felt so stupid, so dull, so poignant, so relevant – chaos is best played by ear. Je suis fucked up!

Light hits me as if I were being bashed in the face by a Christmas tree. People wearing Hachiko masks gambol and sparrowfart through the streets on their way home. Drunken denizens ripped to the high heavens off pollutes cry out, become embarrassed for their outbursts, bow in apology, fall and crack their heads open on the pavement to be cleaned up by old men wearing yellow hardhats the following morning. Modern day Zen is alienating – there is no better place to be out of place.

“Hurry, Meme!” Yeshi is moving on the street in front of me, her hand in mine. She’s dressed like a conservative Japanese teen (lacey skirt, cardigan, brown tights and stack sandals), even though it’s cold outside. The only thing that makes her stand out is her height and ample boobage.

I love you! I love you Yeshi and your electronic heart made from melamine! Where would I be without you? Who else would have delivered Nelly’s baby? Who else would take care of me in my moments of need? Who else would listen to me ramble on about senseless things and watched me slowly evade responsibility via a chemical rabbit hole?

I almost say it, I almost tell her how I really feel but something stops me. Instead, I go with a question, “Why are we running?”

“That thing was going to kill you.”

Diva-beast?

The skepticism must be clear on my face. Yeshi says, “That woman wasn’t human.”

“With the tail? Are we talking about the same woman?” My brain vibrates inside my skull as the genetically-modified josei reappears in my mind’s eye. I could quickly view my memory files on the iNet cloud, but that would take effort and who wants to work when they’re on vacation?

“Seriously?” I ask. “She was a Humandroid?”

“Yes.”

“Strange.”

American companies aren’t allowed to manufacture Humandroids that resemble genetically modified humans. Blame NIMA (Not in My America), the extreme right wing group that lobbied with the slogan, “Only God’s creatures can have animal features!” The shit trickles downhill even in uphill battles.

Yeshi stops in front of a ramen shop. Steam pours out as the door opens and two men spill out. They stumble forward, clutching their bellies like old friends. Spikes keep them from leaning against the railing near a group of expertly crafted bonsai shrubs. Hostile architecture to be sure. Yeshi says, “I scanned her. She was one of the units owned by MercSecure.”

“MercSecure?” I press into the ramen shop, enticed by the smell of ginger, garlic, meat, and miso soup mix. The cook shouts something to me in Japanese and I nod as if I understand. A deep breath does nothing to suppress the tracers swirling at the perimeters of my vision.

“Meme, we need to get moving.”

I rub my temples, still not comfortable with my current body. Carloza’s body is shit. “What were you saying about MercSecure?”

“They’re after us, Meme, and they’re not just sending humans. That was a Humandroid made to resemble a genetically modified Japanese woman. Are you listening to me?”

“She’s still out there?” I ask. My eyes turn to the door.

Yeshi takes off her fashionable pollution mask. Her finger lightly presses a button on the side of the mask and the chin morphs into a V shape. The sides fold until it resembles the spine of a book. She opens her bag, retrieving a felt carrying case for the mask.

“How could she even tell it was me?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

All humans have a small life chip implanted in their skull the day they are born. Life chips allow for vital monitoring, body-switching, iNet, memory storage and various other things associated with a neo-fascist police states and future technologies that we’ve all come to love. They don’t normally have any blow-backs, that is, until one is wanted by a government. Then the chips cause all sorts of problems.

I’ve been using a chip-masker in public settings, but add the right pollutes to a touchy situation and anything can become a SNAFU. (For those who don’t remember: a chip-masker was the reason Yeshi didn’t know I was a Humandroid therapist when we first met. It was also the reason Rinchi didn’t know Tyro was in my body, before she killed him. They really do work.)

“I turned off the chip-masker,” I finally admit.

The color of my chip is what gave me away. The heads (as viewed through an ocular enhancement) of wanted fugitives glow a different color when a Humandroid does a routine vitals scan on a suspect. This was why the diva-beast was focusing so hard on me – she was confirming my identity.

Yeshi rolls her eyes. “Why did you turn it off?”

“It was annoying me. It creates this little icon on the bottom of my iNet screen when it was on. Incessant blinking. Every time I close my eyes I see this little red dot. I was just tired of seeing it and I figured we’d be fine inside a shady-ass place like that.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Christ she is beautiful and Christ I am fucked. It doesn’t take the FCG long to make someone disappear once their location is ascertained.

She says, “I’m guessing they’ve put an instant kill alert on you, which is rare. They only do this for humans deemed as a threat to the state – top level terrorists.”

“They think I’m a terrorist?”

It is nothing to brag about but it is something. In 2083, the word terrorist is used so loosely that it has come to mean a number of things. Blog terrorists steal digital data and post them on pre-dated blogs to claim copyright infringement through ironclad lawsuits. Food terrorists infiltrate special allergy restaurants and modify the food by adding the ingredient the restaurant purports to shun. Handicap terrorists use fake data to take advantage of all the perks the FCG provides for the disabled. Protection proxy terrorists disrupt Chinese firewalls allowing the citizens of the hyper-repressed country to view whatever they’d like on iNet. There are more terrorist classifications than there are actual terrorists.

Yeshi explains, “The feline Humandroid at the pollute bar continually scans the crowd; it’s part of her job to keep track of the people that visit the establishment. She saw you, an alarm sounded on the network, and she tried to break through the Plexiglass to get to you. The network is now aware of the fact that you are in Tokyo.” She squeezed my hand. “Sorry, Meme, we’ve been found.”

There is nothing worse than being on the brink of epic inebriation and getting some sort of unsettling news that kills all the fun.

“Dammit … ” I watch as the ramen chef uses an over-sized set of chopsticks to lift a dollop of noodles. Water spills onto the ground and he tosses the noodles back into the boiling water. I’d rather be a noodle than a wanted fugitive.

“Your location is now known on the global network,” she says, as if I don’t already know that.

Humandroids can communicate on a private network only accessible by them and the companies that manage them. Like iNet, a user can disable their own access to the network. Yeshi’s has been disabled since the incident at the restaurant a week ago. This is both good and bad. It is good because it allows us to move freely under the radar, aided by the status of the new body I currently inhabit (and my chip-masker, when I use it). The bad comes with the fact that Yeshi can’t access the exclusive Humandroid network without revealing her current location, meaning she isn’t able to view things such as the most-wanted terrorist list with my name at the top. After all, this is still classified info.

“So what now?” I ask.

Yeshi bites her bottom lip. It is a gesture she has surely picked up from a human, a gesture meant to show that she’s contemplating something. Part of me believes she is truly thinking of a strategy. The other part of me knows she is browsing iNet and statistically weighing our options after judging other people’s experiences as FCG targets. Surely someone has been in my situation before and posted their experience on some cryptic message board. After all, there’s nothing new under the digital sun.

“Ah, that’s what we’ll do.” She begins explaining her plan to me and I smile. For once, I’m not getting the short end of the stick.

FOUR (and a half) ∞

**The following is an overview copied and pasted from the Wikipedia entry on body-switching. It has been included in this book for those curious about the technology.

Body-switching or body-switch tech is an illegal life chip hack that stems from a computer virus created by Evelina Khromtchenko in 2072. It allows an individual to switch both the memory and neural correlates of consciousness (NCC) from their body to the body of a second individual who also has a life chip implanted. Body-switching uses a hardware device called a ‘switcher’ or ‘body-switcher’, which transfers all of an individual’s accumulated data while simultaneously transferring the second individual’s total data back to the first individual’s life chip. The person’s original thought processes and memories are wiped clean in their old body in a process known as an emotional data sweep, allowing them to function fully in the new body.

History

Main article: History of life chip technology

Life chips were introduced in the 2050s, and the Federal Corporate Government of America immediately seized upon the technology to better respond to crises, track terrorist organizations, help medical professionals and better advertise to their constituents. Other countries quickly adopted life chip technology and it is most popular in authoritarian regimes. [citation needed] According to a poll conducted by the Global Life Chip Organization in 2080, 76% of the world’s population now has life chips implanted, a number expected to increase by 20% over the next ten years.

Stuart Chen, the creator of the life chip, envisioned the technology as a personal hard drive that an individual could use to manage their life. Using data storage technology based on Intel’s vertically stacked solid state drives, Chen and his team at Datacrease created a micro hard drive which held four petabytes of information. The CPU recorded any and all sensations experienced by an individual, from tactile to neurological. It then stored this data on the micro hard drive, allowing an individual to freely send and store it over the iNet Cloud. Once field trials had been successfully completed in 2052, the FCG acquired the company’s patents and mandatory life chip implementation became federal law in 2054.

Body-switching technology came about after the Russian hacker Evelina Khromtchenko discovered a way to switch her life chip data with the data of a friend using electromagnetic pulses. She created a virus known as a chip leech (Russian: чип выщеллачивания), which allowed one individual to transfer neural memory data with a second individual through the use of a switcher. The transfer took place through the life chip touch sensor implanted in an individual’s fingertip.

After the Diplomat Switch Crisis of 2074, in which a waiter named Lodewijk Verhagen used force switch technology to change bodies with European Union leader Federica Bonino, body-switching technology was banned in most countries. However, recent data indicates that approximately 15% of adults have tried body-switching. [citation needed] Problems stemming from botched body-switches have resulted in more than 200,000 recorded deaths since its inception.

FIVE∞

Less than a week ago.

“Short breaths!” Yeshi shouted as she blasted away from the restaurant with Meme-as-Nelly, leaving Nelly-as-Tyro and her Humandroid assistant, Noah, to die. Meme’s contractions were four minutes apart, ninety seconds a pop. Yeshi had already uploaded a manual on birthing assistance and was ready to go.

“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” Meme-as-Nelly moaned. “It’s coming Yeshi, it’s coming! The baby! Ay, caramba!”

“No it isn’t, not yet anyway.” She let go of the steering wheel. “Autopilot on.”

The aeros switched to autopilot and Yeshi climbed to the backseat. Although all aeros could run on autopilot, in certain places – most notably the States – people preferred autonomy so they either manned the vehicles themselves, or they had a Humandroid driver – mostly as a status symbol.

“I’m here, Meme!” she said, pressing her palms around his face. “The aeros is on autopilot now. It will take us to the border. We can stop there … ” she looked down at Meme’s bulging stomach. “We can stop there and get this baby out.”

“I thought Nelly was … eight months … the baby is early.”

“Eight months and almost two weeks. The baby is early, but its lungs are fully formed so everything should be fine.” Yeshi looked around the aeros. “Yes! I didn’t see that before. Nelly has border immunity. We just need to get to Mexico and we can get you to a hospital there. We don’t even need to stop.”

“I don’t know if I can make it!” Meme-as-Nelly screamed, clutching his stomach.

“Short staccato breaths!” Yeshi breathed in and out in quick bursts, showing him what she meant. “You can do it. Your contractions aren’t too bad yet I mean, the baby is coming but it will be a while, maybe thirty or forty minutes. Relax, honey.” Yeshi kissed him on the cheek.

“This is horrible! Get this fucking wretched baby out of me!”

Yeshi smiled. She would never be able to have a fucking wretched baby herself, but she’d be able to witness childbirth firsthand. There was something magical about it, something truly wonderful about a creature that replicated in such a primitive, natural way. She scanned Meme’s vitals once again, noticing the extent to which his cervix had dilated. The baby would be coming sooner than she’d hoped.

“Aeros: medical emergency, faster, California-Mexico border checkpoint,” Yeshi said aloud. A light blinked near the steering wheel indicating the message had been received.

“Yeshi!” Meme-as-Nelly was panting now, his face red and running with sweat.

“Spread your legs wide,” Yeshi instructed. “Use your hands to hold them.” Yeshi moved to the divider between the seats and pressed the lever beneath the passenger seat to move it all the way forward. “There, we have more space now. Switch with me.”

Yeshi helped Meme-as-Nelly switch sides until he was directly behind the passenger seat, facing the other way. For her part, Yeshi was crouched on her haunches with one foot on the seat and the other on the floorboard.

“All right, spread your legs now and remember, short staccato breaths.”

Meme spread his legs open and Yeshi began unrolling his tights. The auto-piloted aeros twisted downward to a lower airlane. Lack of centripetal force caused one of Nelly’s perfume bottles to slide across the floor.

“Hold still, Meme.” Yeshi yanked the tights off one of his legs and moved to the other. “That’s a surprise – she isn’t wearing any underwear…”

“I noticed that,” he grumbled through shallow breaths. “What a freak.”

After Meme-as-Nelly’s lower half was naked, Yeshi moved to his top half.

“What are you doing?”

“Keep breathing.” She ripped open Meme-as-Nelly’s shirt, letting his breasts spill out. She moved back to his legs and began examining his vagina. “Crowning. The baby is coming sooner than I hoped. Aeros: speed, faster.”

A voice emitted from the dashboard. “Unadvisable speed, unadvisable speed.”

“Override!” She placed her hands directly in front of Meme-as-Nelly’s vagina, ready for the head to emerge. “Short breaths, Meme. Don’t overdo it! I want you to start pushing … ”

“Pushing! I’ve never given birth! I’ve never had a … arrgh!”

“Push between contractions. Push! Push!” she scanned his vitals. “Push! Push! Wait for it … ”

“HOLY SHIT THIS IS HORRIBLE!” Meme’s face scrunched up.

“Now! Push now!”

Meme-as-Nelly screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Good! Good! Keep pushing, slow breaths.”

The baby’s head appeared. Yeshi sprang into action, carefully unwrapping the umbilical cord from the baby’s neck.

“Again, Meme, again! You’re going to be a mama!”

“WHAT!?” Meme shrieked.

“Quit screaming and keep pushing!” Yeshi now held the infant’s head in her palms. “Breathe like me.” She exhaled audibly through her open mouth. Humandroids breathe just like humans, but they inhale carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen; they use the carbon dioxide to cool their internal processors.

Meme copied Yeshi’s breathing pattern. He pushed again and more of the baby’s body emerged until the entire thing flopped out onto the seat in one fell swoop. “ARRRGH!” he gasped.

“It’s a girl!” Yeshi said (but she could already tell this when she did a vitals scan back at the restaurant). The baby started crying, moving its beet-red little hands. She continued to support the baby’s head, tilting the baby at a 45-degree angle to allow the fluids to drain. “I need to place the baby on your chest.”

“It’s sticky! And… white… and… red…” he started breathing in short breaths again. “It stinks in here!”

“Quiet, Meme, this is important! It activates a hormone called oxytocin, which speeds along the delivery of the placenta.”

“How do you know all this?” he coughed.

“Mothers just know things.” Yeshi placed the baby on Meme’s chest, covering it in his shirt. Gravity changed as the aeros began its descent. “Hold the baby at a slight angle,” she instructed Meme-as-Nelly. “Head on your shoulder. Hold it tight; we are violating speed laws now.”

She used Nelly’s tights to mop up some fluid on the baby’s chalk-white face. She was completely fascinated with the little prune-like head. Its eyes were shut and its lips were curling as it cried through little gulps of air. It was life incarnate.

“Why is my stomach still hurting?” Meme asked. “Shit this is terrible!”

“The placenta and a portion of the umbilical cord are still in your stomach,” she explained. “It may take up to thirty minutes for the placenta to come. If we continue at this speed, we will be at a hospital across the border by that point.”

The aeros autopilot looped down into a lane designated for FCG approved vehicles. The border checkpoint was still forty-five miles away, but it was never too early to designate lanes.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing?” Meme had started to cry, which was tensing up his body.

“You’re supposed to breastfeed her… this will help reduce the flow of blood.” She helped him shift the baby downward until its little lips latched onto Meme-as-Nelly’s nipple. “Stop crying and relax.”

“Fuck that feels strange,” he said. The baby was sucking full throttle. “My God!”

“Relax, she is still attached to you. I don’t have anything to cut the cord… aside from my teeth.”

“Teeth!? Don’t bite the baby’s umbilical cord!” Meme gave the child a less-than-motherly look. “I don’t think either of us is ready for that.”

Yeshi moved into the spot between the front and back seat and kissed Meme on the cheek. “It’s so cute,” she said, pressing her painted nail into the baby’s little hand. “Yes you are, baby girl, you are so cute.” She smiled at Meme. “And you … you are a beautiful mama.”

SIX∞

“Please come in.”

Dustin Grier sat behind a metal desk with carbon fiber legs. He was a large man, suety and broad-shouldered. A triangle-shaped goatee hung from his chin, shaping his jowls. He took off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and set them on his iDeskpad, which currently displayed the HuffingtonJones logo as its background.

“Hello,” she said as she shook his hand.

“Your name is Rinchi, correct? Nice choker, by the way.”

“Yes and thank you.” She sat down, placing her large handbag next to the chair.

“I read your message.” Grier looked troubled. “I was aware that the Humandroid sex industry was iniquitous, but I didn’t know the extent of … the depravity.”

She nodded.

“And you’ve been seeing a Humandroid therapist, correct?”

“Yes, for six months now.” Rinchi crossed one leg over the other. Grier’s eyes flicked from her smooth legs to her bang-framed face.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t quite understand the need for Humandroid therapy nor do I understand the FCG’s rationale for funding it. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never actually met a Humandroid who has actually benefited from the practice. What are your thoughts on it? Sorry if I sound too judgmental here.”

“It’s fine. Personally, I’ve benefited from it,” Rinchi said. “My therapist is wonderful. Talking to him allows me to better understand my place in human society; seeing him calms me in a strange way.”

“And his name?”

“Meme, Dr. Meme Lamar,” she said with a tight smile.

Grier pulled up a blank document on his iDesktop and notes began to appear. Transfernote was a clever app created by the Evernote Company in the 2050s. It allowed a person to take notes in their head and pictures with their eyes, immediately transferring them to other devices over the iNet cloud. Like many applications in the digital age, Transfernote quickly evolved into something else entirely. Using the service, victims often transferred a picture of their killer before they were killed. Transfernote snapshots had been the key piece of evidence in thousands of murder convictions.

Rinchi wasn’t too worried about this feature. ExEx – MercSecure’s sister company – was legally able to divert any Transfernote documents for an unspecified period of time. These documents were then archived in a large metadata facility in Wyoming that was partially owned by the FCG, GoogleFace and AppleSoft. The cat would remain in the bag until it suffocated.

She performed a quick scan of the journalist’s vitals. There were no hormonal changes nor had there been any spike in his blood pressure – he was completely relaxed and she needed to do something about that. She bent forward to get something out of her bag. She did this purposefully, playfully, with the intent of letting him see a good chunk of her cleavage. Most heterosexual men were easily swayed by large, perky mammary glands.

“My God!”

“This is just one of the things I’m forced to wear,” Rinchi explained to him as she placed the medieval head cage on his table. “It clamps on my neck here.” She tapped the bottom of the BDSM toy. “As you can see, there is an opening in the bars here to allow for genital insertion.”

“How bizarre … ” Grier took a picture with his eyes and the image appeared on his iDeskpad.

She asked, “You did say you wanted to write an exposé about the Humandroid sex industry, didn’t you?”

“Y-y-yes,” he stammered. Her eyes dilated as she scanned his vitals again, noticing that he’d become slightly aroused. Humans were eternally predictable.

“Good, I’ve brought plenty of things to show you then,” she sighed. “I just … I just want you to get an idea of what we go through on a daily basis. I don’t have a choice, I don’t have a say – all I’m good for is fucking. That’s why I see a Humandroid therapist.”

This last sentence appeared on his iDeskpad edited: I don’t have a choice, I don’t have a say – all I’m good for is fucking. That’s why I see a Humandroid therapist.

“How exactly does one have sex with a Humandroid?” Grier gulped.

“You’ve never seen a video?” she asked. He shook his head and she knew instantly he was lying. She said, “It works the same way sex with a human works. We consume six glasses of water a day, roughly forty-eight ounces, which allows us to produce a natural, algae-based lubricant. We can discharge your discharge – get it? – and we clean ourselves in the same way a human cleans themself.”

“You said the lubricant was algae-based?”

“Yes, but it is a different substance entirely. Algae contains the original molecular structure of the substance we use – an algae from Taiwan – actually. Don’t worry… there isn’t anything green about it at all. We secrete this in our mouths and … ”

“Yes?”

“Other places,” she said, registering the increase in his heart rate.

“What does it feel like?”

“It feels…” she thought of what the countless men and women had said to her before. It feels real, it feels real enough, it feels better, it feels strange, it feels different, it feels fucking awesome, it feels weird, it feels nice, it feels tight. This list went on and on as most lists do.

“Let me show you some of the other things I use,” she said.

“By all means.”

Rinchi bent forward again and took the wolf mask out of her bag.

“You can use pollutes?” Grier asked.

“No, but some men like it when I wear pollute masks.” She placed the mask over her head and tucked her hair into the back. Rinchi cocked her head slightly, a look that always increased sexual arousal in her male clients. “See?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled. “This one is custom – Alexander McQueen. It’s a little too alien-looking for my taste, but clients seem to enjoy it. I suppose it adds a little fantasy drama to the scene.”

“Scene?”

“Isn’t sex simply a scene? Action and cut?”

“I suppose.”

Keeping the mask on, Rinchi took a retractable suspension set out of her bag. At the twist of a knob, the bars grew in length until they were fully extended. “The cables are made of nickel-titanium. They can support up to five hundred kilos.”

“And you can hang that from anywhere?”

“Pretty much,” she said with her mask still on. “The grip on the suspension set is made from synthetic setae activated at the press of a button.” She looked up. “It could easily adhere to your ceiling. Would you like me to show you how it works?”

He hesitated.

Rinchi ignored his hesitation and retrieved a ball gag from her bag. “I have to wear this more than you could imagine. Most of my clients enjoy seeing a woman in compromising positions. Even with all the research I’ve read on the subject, experiencing it still fascinates me. The clients can get pretty rough. Sometimes the e-skin at the corners of my lips tears; luckily it’s reformed during my sleep cycle. It’s annoying.”

“Yes!” he glanced nervously at the ball gag. “Tell me more about your skin. I’m familiar with the Humandroid epidermis layer but I’d love to hear your perspective on it, or your take or whatever… you know what I mean.”

“It’s technically call e-skin, and it was invented during America’s fifth crusade in the Middle East.”

“Fifth crusade?”

“Maybe it was the fourth?”

“What?”

“A joke, Mr. Grier.”

He cleared his throat. “I get it. You’re funny!”

“My line of work requires a sense of humor. Humandroid skin started in the 2020s with artificial tissue as a droid’s outer skin. Remember those funny Japanese dolls that were popular?”

“I’ve seen video.”

“Like those. Dr. Hewman took it a step further once Humandroids were developed, and with seed money from Thiel Investments, he gathered a team to create e-skin. E-skin is pseudo-organic in the sense that it is made up of the same stuff your skin is made of, and it’s electronic in the sense that there millions of piezoelectric nanowire circuits stretched across the surface of a Humandroid’s e-skin, which generate electrical micro-charges that recharge my power source if I am touched, or if I touch something.”

“What happens if someone cuts you? Does it hurt? Do you… bleed?”

“No. Our epidermis layer has regenerative capabilities, similar to a gecko’s ability to grow a new tail. If you cut me, my skin simply grows back at a rapid rate. If you cut me severely, say to the point of exposing a good portion of my inner structure, I’ll have to go to one of the mechanics at a Humandroid flat for repair, which is a pain in my ass.”

“And it doesn’t hurt?”

Rinchi reached into her bag and took out a large, hollow-handle tactical knife made from a monolithic billet of SAE 1070 high carbon steel bar stock.

“Would you like to try?”

“No!” he said. “I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity is a trait I also possess.” She set the knife on his desk.

“I see.” More notes appeared on his iDeskpad. Rinchi took off the wolf mask and placed the medieval cage around her head. “It latches here,” she explained.

“Fascinating,” Grier said. “I never understood some sexual perversions.”

“Everyone has them.” Rinchi smiled him from behind the cage mask. “I’m sure you do as well.”

He laughed nervously. “What about you – do you feel any arousal?”

Rinchi used two fingers to show him how genital insertion worked on her cage mask. “Me? No, but as I said, I do get fascinated sometimes with humans and the way they behave. It seems as if they spend their entire lives trying to avoid the fact that they’ve never grown up. Everything they do seems to be a way to cover or manipulate who they truly are. Even heads of state act like children when put in the right situation or given the right substance. I guess this is the flaw I’ve found in humans – they will die, and everything they do is meant to pleasure themselves, prolong their lives, work for some far-fetched goal that is essentially unattainable, distract themselves or cover up the fact that they are continually dying.”

Her words appeared on his iDeskpad. “Mind if I take a picture of you in the… ummmm… cage mask?”

“Please do.” She lowered her dress strap so it barely covered her breasts now. “I don’t want to appear too conservative.”

“Ha!” He thought for a moment. “That’s a good idea, actually. The more vulnerable you appear the better.”

He took a few photos and they materialized on his iDesktop. “And with the wolf mask on?”

“With pleasure.” Rinchi placed the wolf mask over her head and tucked her hair in it again. She bent forward, her arms resting on her knees.

“Great, these will look absolutely stunning. Your droid choker really ties these photos together.”

“That’s good, I just bought it today.”

After he finished taking photos Rinchi asked, “Would you mind coming around here? I want to show you how this suspension set works. It will surprise you.”

“Surprise me?” he stood and walked around his desk, looking down at her curiously. He blinked his eyes a few times and pictures began to appear on his iDeskpad.

“You can touch my e-skin if you want.” He stuck his finger out and grazed it along her arm. She guided his finger up her shoulder and into her open mouth. His vitals blasted through the roof; blood rushed from his heart to his man parts like a sprinter on meth.

“See,” she said with his finger in her mouth, “it feels natural doesn’t it.”

He nodded and Rinchi bit his finger off.

SEVEN∞

On the run from the FCG, ExEx, MercSecure and whoever else may be after me. I recall an epigram I once saw that was scrawled across a bathroom wall. I shat here, it read. Someone followed this up with a quick: I peed your shit stain off the toilet.

If ever there was an eleven word maxim that captured what it is to be human it would be this: I shat here – I peed your shit stain off the toilet. It’s a shame this little ditty was written with words deemed inappropriate for inspirational quotes. No lolcats would go near this little aphorism, no GoogleFace shares for this little nugget of wisdom. Le sigh.

Yes, I should be thinking about what I should do next or how the hell I am going to stop myself from being offed by MercSecure or the FCG, but I find myself repeating this motto over and over again, as if it were a children’s nursery rhyme. A manic mantra tantric tantrum.

Time to focus, Meme, time to focus.

Yeshi hustles me out of the ramen restaurant through the back door. As per her plan, we both download and apply a bodymasking app call BlurYou that distorts video feeds. When viewed from a camera (or someone else’s ocular capture), it makes the user of the BlurYou app appear pixilated. This allows the user to be seen in person, but blurred in any sort of video feed transaction. Incognito is the new black.

The BlurYou app loads in a matter of moments and a small icon shaped like the Predator mask appears on the task bar of my iNet screen (read: on the inside of my eyelids). I’ve seen the icon before, but I’ve never seen the twentieth century classic 2-D movie.

“Yeshi,” I say before we step into the street.

“Yes?”

I pull her in and kiss her. Her lips moisten and she slowly flicks her tongue out. If you haven’t kissed a retired Humandroid escort before, you don’t know what you’re missing. Adrenal glands glitter bomb – the only words I can conjure to describe the feeling.

We kiss again and the question arises deep within me: am I gay? The fact that my girlfriend is technically a ladyboy weighs heavily on this query. A Humandroid vajayjay is made of the same material as a Humandroid bunghole, a moisture secreting e-skin. Still…

What then does this make me in terms of sexual orientation? Sexuality is nullified when one is essentially dating a doll with artificial emotions. I say this with the utmost respect, and truth be told, with my bizarre personality traits, Yeshi may be the only thing walking this planet that will give me a chance.

And what of the fact that I feel most comfortable with something humans created solely to satisfy sexual urges? What of the fact that I’ve found happiness with a being that didn’t exist one hundred years ago? And to those who judge I ask you this: can you not see where this is going? Can you not see where humans are heading? Is it so hard to believe that the humans of the future will create their significant others out of wire and synthetic flesh? We can have custom clothing made, why can’t we craft sigothers?

Good ol’ Socrates famously argued against writing, claiming that writing creates forgetfulness in learner’s souls, diluting their ability to remember. Hundreds of years later, the church (and other organizations including slave drivers) knew the danger of reading and kept the books shut, away from the people who needed them the most. Up until the late nineteenth century, it was considered bad to wash one’s hands before surgery. In fact, the man that argued for sanitary practices was considered insane. In the 1930s, marijuana was deemed especially vile for society, and now you can buy a joint just about anywhere in the world.

Most things deemed controversial are destined to become commonplace – if there is any trend forecast to be made for the future of humanity it is this.

Another example – not forty years ago, there was a huge backlash against bionic parts. “It’s not human!” some cried. “The cyborgs will kill us all!” others lamented. Yet we still progressed and now, it’s hyper-normal to see someone with a replaced body part or three just for the hell of it. All this to say – our simple-mindedness is mind-numbing. Our inability to grasp change is as perplexing as our ability to readily accept societal norms. Demarcate regulated frolic! Distinguish, delimit, differentiate, devise, deviate, demolish!

Because of all this, because of the inevitable commentary or awkward feelings related to my choice in partners, because of the fact that humans progress and digress at an oddly equal pace, because of the fact that a beautiful manmade being is standing in front of me, her hair thick and healthy, her e-skin fair, her lips moist, her neck long, her wrists thin, her breasts sculpted, her dress whipping in the wind – because of all this, I bring her in for another kiss.

I accept my current relationship as one that is definitely questionable, yet natural nonetheless. As a thought exists between concept and creation, so do I. There will be a day when what I am experiencing is normal.

“What was that for?” Yeshi is breathing heavily now, replicating human arousal. Thank you, machine-learning.

“For luck.” My hand instinctively falls on her bubble butt. “And besides, I don’t kiss you enough.”

She smiles. “Are you ready, Doc?”

Doctor? My medical license has likely been revoked by now, shredded, placed in an incinerator and burnt to a crisp. From there, someone likely cooled the ashes with a fresh stream of piss before starting the process all over again.

“I just need your mask.”

Yeshi takes her unisex Junya Watanabe mask from her bag. She presses a button on the side of the rectangular object and mask unfolds itself. The mask is clear, but it will help disguise my face even more as we navigate the bubbling streets of Shinjuku. With our bodymasking app, my chip-masker activated, and the clear pollute mask, it should be relatively easy to float through the crowd.

We step out of the alley and I keep my head low, avoiding eye contact with the pedestrians ambulating around me. There are no cars in Tokyo, only aeros, which means the streets are eternally empty. This is unlike America where people use both aeros and cars in an effort to maintain their civil liberty. Never tell an American they can’t or shouldn’t do something – getting one’s way is part of the democratic process!

“I’ll get you to the drop point, and then I’ll try to find some Techbacks. There must be some Techbacks living here.”

“There are Techbacks everywhere,” I say. “Although if they’re not in Mexico, I guess they don’t really need to be called Techbacks.”

“I never knew why they were called that in the first place.”

“Techback is a play on the word wetback,” I tell her, “which is a derogatory term for a Mexican because it insinuates they swam across the Rio Grande to get to America. Techbacks have gone the reverse way – they’ve gone to Mexico to practice technology and to avoid restrictions put on them in America. They’ve swum the other way.”

“Humans racialize everything.”

“I was once a black man and now I’m a Mexican – tell me about it.”

“You’re cute.”

I stop and smile. “I’m cute or the body I’m in is currently cute? Because personally, I’m sick of this gut.”

I shake Carloza’s belly at Yeshi. If you couldn’t already figure it out: the body I took in Mexico happened to belong to Nelly’s old pollute dealer cum drug kingpin, Carloza. “I want my next body to be fit, a six pack and whatnot.”

She laughs. “I like your gut; it gives me something to rest my head on.”

“Please … ”

“The place should be down this alley,” she says, tugging on my arm.

We pass a back alley pharmacy covered in bright lights and myriad displays advertising a new device called the Quickee Eye Open, which has become a popular way for Asians to add the double eyelid. The Korean-made device resembles a pair of thick-frame glasses. Once they’re put on a person’s face, small scalpels emerge from the underside of the frame to perform the surgery. Western-looking eyes in three minutes flat – blepharoplasty will solve all your problems!

“And you’re sure this place is safe?” I notice some pollution bars looming in the distance. The urge to partake is strong in me.

“Yes, at least that’s what it says on iNet. They have private rooms that can be rented out at hourly or nightly rates. No questions asked, no cameras. All the rooms have pollute hook-ups, so you can basically chillax while I try to find a switcher.”

“Chillax?”

“You don’t know this word?” she asks.

“I do now.”

I take a deep breath and look up. Aeros move above us with advertisements on their undercarriages. Some of the aeros are timed so that their ads say something in Japanese. Others simply advertise the latest virtual anime or manga. Apparently, paperback manga is still a big thing in this country.

“I want to see the cherry blossoms,” I say after seeing an advertisement for cherry blossom tours.

“It’s November,” Yeshi says. “They won’t bloom until March or April.”

“We may have to come back then.”

My eyes fall upon a statue of a giant nipple-less breast. I’ll never understand why the Japanese go to such lengths to be overtly sexual in their imagery yet cringe at the sight of a nipple or a cock. Where does the censorship stop? All or nothing, Japan!

We stop in front of an alleyway filled with flashing lights sufficient to induce an epileptic seizure. Shady dudes stand outside of pollute bars shouting out specials. Young girls in maid outfits flirt with potential patrons, turning and standing on the balls of their feet to show off their smooth bums. Will there ever be a time in human history when sex doesn’t sell? Make sure I’m dead by then.

Yeshi pushes me behind a vending machine.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Those girls aren’t human,” she says. “They’ll register that you’ve been in this area if they see you. They might even attack us.”

“Getting attacked by a bunch of prepubescent Humandroid maids doesn’t sound so bad ... ”

“Meme.”

“Got it ... danger. How do we disguise me then?”

Yeshi’s cheeks inflate with air as she thinks. “Let’s see what we have here … ”She looks up at the sign above us:ポルトヒーロー　BAR.

“Pollute Hero Bar. Let me check the reviews in Japanese.” Her eyes close.

(Humandroids don’t need to close their eyes to use iNet, but many do to blend in. Machine-learning, evolution, adaptation, peer pressure – call it what you will.)

“The reviews aren’t bad,” she says. “It might not be as comfortable as the other place.”

“Are there private rooms?”

“Yes.”

“Are there pollution masks in each room?”

“Of course.”

“How long do you plan to keep me in this place again?”

“Until I can find an adequate match and possibly get some weapons from a Techback.”

“Weapons? If you want weapons you’ll need to find a dealer. I bet there’s one on a blacksite somewhere, you’ll have to do some digging. I don’t understand why we need weapons, though.”

Yeshi squeezes my arm. “You do realize what we’re up against here, don’t you?”

“So my job is to sit in a room, rest and get fucked up while you make preparations to wage a holy war against the FCG, correct?”

She nods. “Pretty much, although I don’t know how it suddenly has become a holy war.”

“Any war waged against man and someone pretending to be God is a holy war.”

“That reminds me,” Yeshi says, “I have someone you can talk to while you’re waiting.”

“Who?”

“My guru back in LA.”

“Fat chance. I have plenty of people to talk to inside my head.”

“You talk to yourself?” she asks.

“You’ve never noticed?”

EIGHT∞

**The following conversation took place in Spanish the same day that the FCG discovered Meme and Yeshi were in Tokyo. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

“Carloza, what in the fuck are you doing with my baby? And why are you in my body!?”

Nelly-as-Tyro lay on a stainless steel table in someone’s garage. Her head was pounding, but she ignored the blistering sensation. The first thing she had done once she finally came to her senses was call Carloza, who for some reason was in her body.

“¡No de balde! Nelly is that really you? I never pictured you as a man!” Carloza grinned from cheek to cheek. “My God you are alive! What am I saying? I have your baby! Nelly! It’s a girl! What happened? Tell me everything!”

“I am coming to Mexico to kill you.” It was strange seeing someone else in her body with her baby; the urge to murder ballooned inside Nelly.

“Don’t tell me that!” Carloza held the baby up to the camera in his office. “Cute, isn’t she? I love you, little Esperanza.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Nelly! Relax.”

She looked down at her blanketed feet. “As soon as I get out of this bed, I’m coming to Mexico and taking my baby and my body back.”

Carloza-as-Nelly laughed. “Look who is pissed!”

“I am in a garage somewhere and the lower half of my body has been replaced. Of course I’m pissed!”

“What did you say about your lower half?”

Camera on, Nelly thought. She sat up painfully, removing the blanket from her waist. She now had a Humandroid body from the waist down. The lower half of her spine had been replaced and she even had a mechanical cock, although e-skin had yet to be applied.

“Christ! You’re half-Humandroid now with a half-boner ¡Qué locura! Someone really did a number on you. Clean cut, that’s for sure.”

She covered herself again. “I want my body and my baby, Carloza.”

“Well I don’t want a half-Humandroid body. That’s for goddamn sure, amiga.”

“Where the hell is Meme?”

“Oh, that guy… he’s in Tokyo now. Left yesterday on a pollute transport arranged by some hombres of mine.” The baby cooed. “That’s a good girl, little Esperanza.”

“Her name isn’t Esperanza. It’s Rebel.”

He laughed. “That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard! Listen, Nelly, in all seriousness, you really need to assess the situation here. I currently have your body and Meme currently has my body. I promise, I’ve been taking care of Esperanza like a good mamasita—”

“Her name is supposed to be Rebel,” she said through clenched teeth.

He laughed. “Relax… I’m sure we can work something out.” He blinked his eyes twice. “Ah, I see – you are in a neighborhood in Oakland.” He called over to his assistant to take the baby.

Nelly’s eyes shot open. Everything was fuzzy, the way things looked underwater. “My vision is utter shit.”

The baby started to cry as a monstrous Mexican man took the infant in his arms. “Take her to the nursery, Arturo.”

Nelly-as-Tyro said, “Tell him to be careful!”

“What? Are you kidding me?” Carloza laughed. “Arturo is always careful. Isn’t that right, Arturo?”

The man grunted a reply.

“Stay online,” she said. “I need to figure out my current situation. I’ll get back to you”

Carloza’s face grew serious. “Listen, Nelly, I’m going to send a couple of guys to get you. We’ll get to the bottom of this chica.”

“Bring me a pair of Leaks while you’re at it. They will work until I can get corrective surgery.”

“No problemo.”

NINE∞

Everything in the room had blurred around the edges. Nelly-as-Tyro rubbed her eyes, remembering that her vision wasn’t the result of medication – it was the result of Tyro’s poor eyesight.

“What an idiot.”

Poor eyesight could be rectified, yet some people continued to wear glasses. Nelly closed her eyes and logged onto iNet using one of the dozen throwaway accounts she owned. She checked her GPS location, downloading data from all available cameras. She used a camera override app that she’d bought with Antimeria’s money to generate a list of password-protected camera feeds in the area. Sure enough, she found a few cameras in the house and more importantly, in the garage. It took her a minute, but she quickly cracked the passwords by downloading PassCrack from a WarezShare site.

The two cameras videoing her appeared on her iNet screen. She kept her eyes closed for a minute, orienting herself with her current position. It was strange watching herself in third person, strange seeing her new body viewed from the perspective of a camera overhead. She moved her arm, watching the arm move on the camera. She checked both her mechanical legs – just seeing them made her feel uneasy.

There was a phobia many humans had with being partially mechanical. People that were half-Humandroid were treated differently than regular humans, or humans with bionic arms or legs. They were viewed as half-human because that’s exactly what they were. It was worse for people who were more than half-Humandroid, which is how she could now be classified, especially since several of her organs had been replaced. Nelly couldn’t imagine living her life as anything less than fully human – she couldn’t imagine being a ‘clean-cut’.

I’ll get my body back from Carloza even if I have to kill the filthy bastard. Of course he knew this, and he would likely go to extreme lengths to protect himself and her baby once she got to Mexico.

“This is all Meme’s fault,” she whispered. An idea appeared seemingly out of nowhere: if she could get Meme to give Carloza his body back, then Meme could take Tyro’s body and Nelly could have her old body. No bloodshed required. Yes, it was a clusterfuck, but it would be the most congenial way to solve the dilemma. First things first – she needed to get out of this garage.

She watched her body move off the bed using the cameras in the corners of the room. Her bionic legs plinked as they touched the ground; it was one of the stranger sensations she’d ever experienced.

Nelly wriggled her toes, balanced her weight on her feet and stood. The new legs easily responded to the weight of Tyro’s body. She took one step forward, getting used to the act of walking again. A message appeared on her iNet screen.

Carloza: Mis amigos están viniendo.

Good, his friends will be here soon, she thought. Her fingers touched the edge of a tray peppered with surgical instruments. The video feed revealed the contents: bone cutter, curette, scalpel, bone saw, forceps, lancet, surgical stapler. Everything was for show – the bone saw still had plastic wrap on it. Whoever had brought her here had done the surgery remotely. She opened her crappy eyes and noticed a fuzzy object above the bed.

An ArachnaMed machine was tethered to the ceiling by a retractable steel cable. If surgery was needed, it would hover over the patient’s body, using its multiple arms for surgical procedures. A trained physician operated the machine remotely using iNet or a VE rig. Most people simply called the machine a SpiderDoc. Whoever had saved her had gone to great links to hide his or her identity.

“Can you hear me?” Nelly-as-Tyro asked aloud. She still had her eyes closed, observing the movements in the room with the exterior cameras. “I’m sure you are recording this so I’ll make my peace. For some reason, you saved my life and made me half-human. I don’t know if I should thank you for this, or find out who you are and kill you myself. I suppose I should thank you. So here it is: thank you.”

She heard a something rattle near her.

“Nelly?”

Her heart was practically in her throat now. “Noah!?”

Using the cameras to guide her, Nelly walked to a darkened corner of the garage. She placed her hands in front of her body and felt the Humandroid’s head.

“Your body is gone…” she said. “What happened to you?”

“I was shot after you were shot… I watched you die! My dear Nelly!”

“My Noah … ” She picked up his head and walked back towards the center of the garage. Noah was her personal Humandroid assistant, her best friend. She would do anything for him and he would do anything for her. They finished each other’s sentences so much that it had become passé.

“My Nelly … ”

She could now see herself standing in Tyro’s half-human body holding Noah’s decapitated head. “We’re getting out of here,” she whispered to the head, cradling it in her arms. She kissed his cheek again and again. “We’ll both get new bodies too.”

“I’m so happy to see you,” he said, looking up at her. Smudged eyeliner encircled his left eye. “I vowed to remain powered-off until you were revived. Now … you’re here. We’re together again!”

“Who did this?”

“I don’t know.” he said.

“Can’t you check your memory?”

“It’s been wiped. All I can view from that day is the altercation at the restaurant and your death. It was so horrible! How are you? Are you okay? I’m sure the new body is strange … oh Nelly, we’ll get through this together.”

“I know we will.”

She kissed his cold cheek again. He was the only person on the entire planet who truly understood how she felt at that very moment.

TEN∞

Dustin Grier hung upside down with a ball gag jammed in his mouth and a big wet spot on the crotch of his pants. His nostrils were rimmed in snot and his eyes were bloodshot. Tears dripped down his face, pausing for a moment on his forehead before falling to the floor. Rinchi was crouched in front of him, balanced on her high heels.

Grier tried to kick himself free of the suspension harness, but it was useless. He was completely vertical; his wrists were cuffed to a bar that hung at his waist.

“Shhhhh … ” Rinchi reached her hand out and grazed the side of his cheek. “If you keep making noise, I’ll kill your secretary too. I’m allowed collateral damage in my line of work, you know.”

She stepped over his amputated finger (which she had bitten off), moving towards his desk. She looked down at his iDeskpad. Transfernote continued to send descriptions of what was happening to Grier’s account in real time.

“You can stop sending notes now; everything you send will be deleted anyway. Please relax, Mr. Grier. Enjoy the last few minutes of your life.”

The mention of life caused him to squirm even more.

Rinchi walked over to him and pressed the tip of her high heel against his forehead. She brought her foot back and kicked him hard enough to really hurt. He began whimpering again. She checked his vitals, noticing the percentage of blood that had rushed to his head.

“If I removed the ball gag will you keep quiet?” she asked.

He nodded frantically.

“Okay, but I’m warning you, if you make any noise, any noise whatsoever, I will end this right now. I’m trusting you, Mr. Grier. Do you trust me?”

He shook his head.

“Good, you’re finally learning.”

Rinchi unfastened the ball gag and crouched on her haunches. Grier closed his eyes and turned his head away from her. A bruise was already forming where she’d kicked him earlier. “Don’t be repulsed by me.”

He was silent for a moment.

“If you aren’t going to speak, I might as well put the ball gag back in.”

“No … ” he said hoarsely, “ … please don’t. Please … don’t kill me. I have a—”

“—I’m afraid it isn’t in my nature to feel sympathy for human’s life or their familial relations. Pleading won’t work with me.”

“What do you want then?” He opened his eyes and looked fiercely at her.

“Well you’ve certainly come alive, Mr. Grier.”

“Why me?” he asked. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“One of the stipulations in my contract is that I don’t reveal who has sent me. However, seeing that I’m going to kill you in the next few minutes … ”

He yelped.

“Shhhhh … ” She reached her hand out and ran her fingernail along his barely visible chin line. “You’re the type to always go back for seconds, aren’t you?”

“Please … why are you here?”

She paused. “Seeing as how I’m going to kill you and all the feeds in the room have been disabled, I might as well tell you why I’ve come, not that anyone could really learn from your mistake.”

“Please don’t kill … ”

“I work for MercSecure, which was contracted by Walliburton to take you and Edgar Cave out. Would you like to see what I did to Edgar?”

He shook his head.

“I thought you wouldn’t. Anyway, the information that Edgar gave you may have contained some encrypted data regarding body-switching tech. Do you know about this?”

“No … I swear I don’t!”

“I see. Well, it isn’t really my job to decide who is right or wrong. We’ve moved well past the judge and the jury. My sole job is to perform a service, a removal service – I suppose I’m no different than an executioner, really.”

“So you aren’t … an escort?” His eyes shot to her bag of bestial goodies.

“Oh, that.” She adjusted her top in a flirty way. “I was an escort and yes, most of the things I told you before were true. However, I am no longer an escort.”

“You tricked me!” he said bitterly. Veins bulged on the side of his forehead. Blood from his amputated finger had traveled down his arm and to his shoulder, forming a puddle on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grier. Is there anything else you’d like to say before I finish the job? As long as it isn’t incriminating, I’ll make sure the message isn’t suppressed by ExEx.”

Text began to appear on his iDeskpad. Rinchi walked over to his desk and read aloud: “To my daughter, Amanda – please stay strong and finish school. To my wife, Jessa – I’m sorry for leaving this way. To my son, Abel – Never forget what I told you after your first game. To Adam Pitt– Stay blue.”

“Stay blue? What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Grier? Stay blue?”

“It is just something we say…” Gravity was making difficult for him to keep his eyes open. His head had started to resemble an inflated tomato.

“Stay blue? It’s code for something, isn’t it?” She bent down in front of him, examining the man with an unapologetic grin on her face.

“No! Please … please … I promise it isn’t!”

Her eyes dilated. “I can tell by the increase in the temperatures around your nose that you’re lying. It’s quite obvious, even in your current state. I guess I’ll have to make sure all the messages are deleted.”

He tried to kick himself free again. “Please, I’ll do anything! Anything you want! Don’t kill me. Please … I’ll pay you. I’ll … anything!”

“Anything I want?” Rinchi pretended to ponder the offer for a moment. There was really nothing a human could do for her now that she had become a MercSecure representative. It was, for lack of a better term, her dream job.

She stood. “Well, it’s been a lovely afternoon, but I need to get back to LA and from there, I’m off to Tokyo. Have you ever been to Japan?”

He was sobbing too hard now to shake his head.

“I’ve heard it’s wonderful in the Fall. Maybe I’ll do some sightseeing – I’ve always wanted to visit Hiroshima. Are you still crying?” Rinchi retrieved her tactical knife from the table. She bent forward again, pressing the tip of the blade under his ear. “Smile for me, Mr. Grier. Good, just like that.”

ELEVEN∞

Rinchi wiped the knife on Dustin Grier’s shirt. She glanced up at her suspension set, wondering if she should leave it or not. There was another set at Antimeria’s place in LA, which she could grab before heading off to Tokyo. Leaving him hanging with his throat cut would definitely send a message, even if it essentially fell on deaf ears.

She logged into MercSecure’s encrypted network to indicate that the job was done. The wolf mask went back in her oversized bag, settling next to her medieval cage mask. After brushing out a wrinkle on her silky black dress, she let herself out of the office.

“How did the meeting go?” the secretary asked as she walked by.

Rinchi couldn’t resist. “We got hung up on some things, but everything should be good to go now.”

“That’s nice.”

She glanced up at the camera watching her. All the footage would be deleted in a matter of moments so it didn’t matter what she did now.

“You know,” Rinchi said, turning to the secretary, “if you cut someone’s throat while they’re hanging upside down, the blood makes it looks as if their head has been dipped in a bucket of paint.”

The secretary nearly fell out of her chair. “W-w-what did you just say?”

“Never mind. It’s just something I learned recently.”

Rinchi stepped into the elevator and quickly found herself on the tenth floor. She walked briskly towards the aeros pick up area, to a black MercSecure vehicle with tinted windows waiting for her. As soon as she got in, the vehicle lifted into an airlane.

“How did it go?” a man with a deep voice asked.

“All’s well that ends well,” she said.

“Your flight to LA leaves in thirty minutes. It should take about fifteen to get to LaGuardia. I’ll handle your luggage transportation through MercSecure’s check-in lane.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m required to go over the details with everyone I transport.”

“Do what you must.”

The man shrugged. He was of mixed heritage, his shoulders broad and muscled. He glanced at Rinchi in the rearview mirror, aware that she was scanning his vitals from behind.

“See anything I should be concerned about? I haven’t been in for a check-up recently.”

“Nothing.”

“What’s your ranking by the way?”

“Ranking?”

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’m always curious about this when I meet a new representative.”

“I’ve killed two people for MercSecure,” she said, cutting to the chase.

“MercSecure doesn’t kill people,” he reminded her, “we alleviate problems. If you have only alleviated two problems, it means you’re at the bottom of the list. All representatives employed by MercSecure are ranked by the number of problems they resolve.”

“I could alleviate three and move up a notch … ” she said.

He laughed nervously. “Damn, they knew what they were doing when they hired you. The reason I ask is because … ”

“Because why?”

He smiled. “There’s an internal message board where the various employees – not representatives – post about their experience within the company.”

“Couldn’t you simply have checked my stats yourself?”

“Your stats haven’t been listed yet. That’s why I asked.”

Rinchi made a popping sound with her mouth. “So there is someone at the top who is the best representative of them all?”

“Her name is Keva,” the driver said. “I’ve never met her though.”

“Humandroid?”

“She’s half. Well, not exactly half. She’s not a clean cut, that’s for sure.”

Rinchi had heard of people like this before, but she hadn’t encountered many in her former line of work. Someone who was a clean cut always had a lower half that was bionic and an upper half that was still human. Not a clean cut meant that the person’s body had been arranged in such a way that some portions were bionic and other portions were natural. Some people referred to these mixed individuals as Homo sapiens machina. Only a few countries allowed the creation of these cyborgs, as governments were generally afraid of citizens that could have the best of both worlds (and rightfully so).

Rinchi did a quick search on iNet to see if there was any information she could dig up on Keva. Nothing. She searched through the company database and found a single picture. “Not much to look at.”

Keva had long white hair, pale skin and powder blue eyes. She was thin, slightly shorter than Rinchi. She seemed relatively harmless, young too.

“Yeah, I saw that picture. She looks Norwegian, or Finnish. Like a fairy or something.” The driver exited the airway into the LaGuardia’s expedited line. “Well if you ever run into her, be careful. I heard she likes to fuck with people.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

TWELVE∞

**The following conversation took place in Spanish moments after Nelly exited the garage with Noah’s head under her left arm. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

A blinged-out aeros settled in front of the house in Oakland. A large Mexican man with a shaved head got out. He looked back at the driver and made a gesture telling him to stay alert.

“Any problems?” the man asked. “Nelly, right?”

She had wrapped a bed sheet around her waist to cover her lower half. “Yeah, not my body.”

“I’m Manuel.” He tossed her a package. “Here are your Leaks.”

She opened the package and found a pair of thin-rimmed glasses in a protective case. They were Ray-Bans, real ones too. Carloza was trying to be nice.

She placed them over the bridge of her nose. “How quickly can we get to Mexico? You have border immunity, right?” Her vision instantly improved. Her eyes fell upon Manuel. She’d seen the man before, or at least she thought that she’d seen him. Most of Carloza’s men had similar features, but this one’s head was shaved, which wasn’t as common. Her eyes fell upon his mouth as his lips moved.

“Everyone that works for Carloza has border immunity,” Manuel said. “Look, before we get into the aeros, I need to give you something.” He took a small k-bracelet out of his pocket. “Put this on. If you do anything, I’ll activate it over iNet – or someone else will – and it will detonate.”

“Why would I put on a kill bracelet?” she asked, standing her ground.

“Nelly, I think we should find our own way to Mexico,” Noah said.

Manuel looked at the Humandroid head tucked under her arm as if it were the first time he was noticing it. “Carloza can get you e-skin, a body for your droid there, and get you to Japan so you can find this Meme guy. He wants to be sure you’re not planning on … doing anything to him. That’s why you should put the k-bracelet on.”

“Find Meme?” Nelly was surprised at this statement; she didn’t think Carloza would have come to the same switching conclusion she came to back in the garage.

Manuel licked the front of his teeth. “It’s real simple. If you get Carloza’s body back from Japan, you get your body back. It’s as simple as that.”

“And the baby?”

“You’ll have to talk to him about the baby.”

“That’s her baby,” Noah said. His eyes dilated as he did a quick vitals scan on Carloza’s man.

Manuel ignored him. “You can talk to Carloza about the baby once we get to Mexico. Esperanza, right?”

“The baby’s name is Rebel.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” Noah said. “It means a lot of things to a lot of people. I really like that name, Nelly.”

She looked down at the head. “I named it after you. You’ve always been such a rebel, always going against the system to help me.”

“That’s so sweet!” He smiled up at her.

“So, will you put on the k-bracelet?” Manuel asked. If he was annoyed by their banter, his face didn’t show it.

“And you’ll take it off as soon as I get on the plane to Japan?”

“Don’t do it, Nelly, those things are dangerous!” Noah’s face filled with worry.

Nelly flicked her eyes shut and she fired off a quick message to Noah over iNet. Her eyes were open again less than a second later.

Nelly: I can easily disable the k-bracelet if I need to. Let me handle this.

She transferred Noah to her other arm and stuck out her wrist, waiting for Carloza’s man to slip on the bracelet. It was cold and made of a dark metal. A blue dash appeared on the bracelet, indicating that it was armed.

“Good, the bracelet is active now. I’ll make some appointments with Carloza’s doctors. We’ll get your Humandroid fixed up and some e-skin on your lower half. You must be cold.”

She didn’t laugh at his joke. Instead she asked, “Will it be possible to mod Noah’s violence governor? His role will now move from my personal assistant to my personal bodyguard. I want to make sure there is nothing holding him back.”

“Bodyguard? That sounds dangerous!”

Manuel nodded. “Of course we can mod him. Everything is possible in Mexico if you have some cash. We can even add some weapons.”

THIRTEEN∞

A bunny appears on the inside of the eye lenses of my mask. The bunny grins at me, shouts something in Japanese. I am overwhelmed by its cuteness to the point that I want to rip its throat out. A list appears.

“English.”

The bunny bows at me and a thought bubble forms next to its head: Please wait while I translate. The list re-appears:

Tommy Hilfiger Shock and Awe Blumpkin

Uniqlo Wet Dream Poi

Sacai Dong’e Donkey Hide Jelly

Stella McCartney Trickle-Down Entitlement

Issey Miyaki Extinct Whale Entheogen

“Only one entheogen?” I shake my head in utter disdain. The bunny stands next to the list, bowing repeatedly. “You little cocknugget. Issey Miyaki Extinct Whale Entheogen.”

A compression sound means the dispenser has understood my request. Put the mask on or take it off.

The thought comes to me – we replicate and we think we are original yet we both exist in someone else’s story, someone else’s information paradox. How fucked is that? How fucked is it that it is 2083 and I’m in Tokyo about to strap a pollution mask to my face while being hunted by a corporate government entity? How fucked is it that your eyes trace over my words thus making them real? How fucked is it that the future continues long after you’ve died? What does time mean to you then, Reader? What should it mean to me? How should a character in a supposed book conceptualize time?

To you I am timeless.

I am constantly refreshed, trapped in these words and unable to free myself – even after my current year of 2083 passes I’ll still be alive and kicking. I can’t age, nor can I truly die. Sure, I can die on paper or e-screen, but you could theoretically write my name on a new sheet or upload my words to a different device and I would spring back to life like an immortal jack-in-the-box wielding a money shot. Escape is my rigor samsa. I talk a lot of buncombe but it doesn’t mean that it’s nonsense!

Inhale, exhale.

Alas, time is troublesome to me.

The worst thing about time is watching people make the same mistakes over and over again. Watching the same parents get divorced; the same rich politicians make a killing at the expense of their constituents; the same business-minded individuals move from innovative to greedy; the same restaurants populate your city until you can’t turn the corner without seeing a blistering new McStarbucks; the same newscasters bouncing their heads like string puppets as their mouths dribble half-lies and half-truths; the same veterans coming back after a war with stories that everyone should listen to yet no one heeds; the same kids growing into adults, only to create more kids to grow into adults with the sole goal of perpetuating cultural duplicity.

What makes life beautiful then? Is it intoxication? Child birth? (Not for me!) Video games? Seeing the desired outcome of one’s struggles? Watching an enemy fail? Fashion? Getting laid? Winning? Visiting new places? Shopping? Technological wonders? Salsa dancing? Faking your way to retirement? Day trading? Finally grasping the meaning of life at the age of eighty-five only to croak the next day due to an aneurism? War? Global climate change? Central heating? Education? Getting your hair did?

¡Cojelo suave!

Watch it Meme! Sitting alone in a room with a mask is making me preachy. Diatribes to follow! Give me an iota and solve for X to unite the Protomartyrs!

Inhale, exhale.

Scrape Van Gogh’s ear off the floor and scream into it. Run your finger along the Appalachian goose bumps extending from your wrist to your knobby elbow. Telescope your size and latch onto a neurotic neuron for the ride of your life. Shriek with me, dear Reader – I am a leviathan of un-epic proportions and I’m aware of the fact that I’m full of shit! Let’s fight immutability together! Let’s French kiss in Versailles, spoon on the moon with the other silverware, bake our way into each other’s cupcakes!

Inhale, inhale, inhale …

Sike – we are here. Like – we are these pages, we are this mind. Right – we are the things we fear the most. Might – something to be worrisome of. Fight – for existence until you realize it’s already gone. Bite – until you chew through the leather. Plight – the struggle we all face together. Dive – into the deep end or get off the diving board. Yikes – we’re drowning together!

(An ad written in Hiragana twists across the polypropylene lenses of my mask. It appears to be selling an advanced colon cleansing system evident by the cartoon graphic of a man inserting something into his rectum and smiling as the system begins filling his bowels with a soapy liquid. I digress.)

Tangents galore! Read on Reader as this is the point I’m coming to regarding time – why can’t humans progress at the speed of the machines we invent? Why do we benefit from evolution and not from machine-learning? Why can’t I eat pork if I’m a Muslim? Why do I have to eat kosher if I’m Jewish? Why do I have to drink the blood of Christ if I’m not a vampire? Why can’t I eat beef if I am Hindu?

Why does time continually hold us back, but continually advance the things we create?

Riddle me this – are our pathetic lives serious enough to warrant restrictions passed down to us by people who lived centuries upon centuries ago who had no idea what the fuck they were doing (similar to the way we have no idea WTF we are doing)? Why don’t we judge things for what they are rather than what people tell us they are? Why can’t we accept the fact that we are predatory? Why are we so stifled by our own imaginations? Why do we believe our dreams will come true?

Q: Why are the machines we have created surpassing us?

A: Humans suffer from a sinister combination of misguided logic, fear, stupidity, superstition, paternalism, megalomania, materialism and classism. We’ve built the machines and they’re on the verge of building us.

Exhale.

Your turn, Reader. Select a pollute and inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Issey Miyaki Extinct Whale Entheogen. Together we breathe. Let us meet in the middle like Malcolm and brand ourselves as X, toasting the fact that we may never solve the equations of our moonstruck existences.

I need to stop championing the fact that Humandroids are self-actualizing. Don’t you get it Silicon Valley? Can’t the Techbacks grasp this? Are the robed deacons listening? Are the bearded sheiks fatwah-ing? How many years in retrospect does it take to see what we’re replacing humans with? Me no likey hindsight! Machine-learning is going to fuck us all – this is your fault dwellers of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries! I don’t want robot overlords! I just want …

Inhale.

Who am I kidding? I’m infatuated with Homo machina. I’ll take a robot overlord over some kiddie-fiddling preacher or a butt-fucking imam any day. Mine is a sick love, a love that is chemical and electric as all loves are (and should be). If Tesla the Celibate can achieve hard-ons through alternating currents, so can I! If Steve Jobs doesn’t need to take a shower, neither do I! If Elon Musk can be the first person to spank his monkey on Mars, so should I!

I say let the robots surpass us then, let the Humandroids command us, let the things we create become smarter than their creators! This is the true path of humanity, written in the tombs of the past and scrawled in crimson lipstick across bathroom walls, whispered in the darkest reaches of the planet and known in the penthouses of the one percent. Time is the great equalizer, our ally for the time being and our enemy when the time comes.

FOURTEEN∞

Yeshi kept her head down, moving past men calling out pink salon prices. She stepped through the hologram of a woman giving head to a couple of blurred dicks, past a hundred-year-old statue of a robotic woman, curved around a vending machine that sold soiled panties. Shinjuku’s famous red-light district gave new meaning to sin.

Yeshi was almost onto the main street when three teenage Humandroid escorts walked towards her in stack sandals with soles that were seven inches thick. The girls’ faces were painted completely white, their cheeks rouged with a color that recalled cherry blossoms. One of them locked eyes on her, quickly scanning Yeshi’s data.

“Nothing to see here,” Yeshi said.

Using a technique she learned from her former roomate Anna, she had performed a soft reboot on her system while waiting for Meme-as-Nelly to recover from giving birth in Mexico. By doing a soft reboot, she was able to manually enter a ‘safe mode’ and modify all of her content, including her creation date and her name. It took about a day to complete the transformation, but she had plenty of time to do it while she waited. The only thing stitching her to her old identity was the serial number on her spine, which was only accessible through a surgical procedure.

“You are like us,” one of the girlie Humandroids said in Japanese. She had soft green eyes and pink hair in pigtails. “A whore.”

“Pardon?”

Yeshi had already checked her strike trajectory, ready for anything. During Meme’s recovery in Mexico, she’d pored through thousands of manuals and videos on hand-to-hand combat techniques, booby traps, and improvised weapons and explosives. It would be her job to protect Meme in the future – she knew this for certain.

“Your breasts.” The girlie Humandroid poked her finger into Yeshi’s chest. “They are huge.”

“You have breasts as well,” Yeshi pointed out.

“Yours are the ridiculously disproportionate standard size for an American escort,” the girl on the right said. “This is how we know you are an escort.” This one had long orange hair tied off in a ponytail. Her voice was so high pitched it was barely audible.

“You do not have much data,” the girl on her left said, who was in a maid outfit. Her teeth were sharper than the others. “That is unusual.”

“Is there a reason you’re blocking my path?” Yeshi asked.

“We do not desire any competition here.” The one with pigtails said from behind her shoulder.

“Listen bitches, if it’s a whore you’re looking for, you’re barking up the wrong tree. If you’re looking to go to a Humandroid mechanic in the next hour for repairs, then you’ve come to the right place.” Yeshi had never spoken this way before; she hoped it didn’t appear half-hearted.

The girlie Humandroid standing in front of her hesitated.

“There’s no sense in prolonging this,” she said peacefully, returning to her true nature. “I’m not what you think I am.”

“You’re not what we think you are?” Pigtails behind her asked. “You’re not a Humandroid escort? Is that what you’re saying? Ha!”

Yeshi moved around Pigtails, grabbed her wrist, twisted it, and struck through the elbow joint with her forearm, snapping it like a breadstick.

“I warned you,” she said, stepping away from the Pigtails.

Humandroids don’t experience pain the same way that humans do. This is especially true for the escort models – having something broken is more of a nuisance than anything else as it required the services of a Humandroid Maintenance and Repair Specialist to fix.

Pigtails bowed her head indignantly.

Yeshi said. “I told the three of you to leave me alone. Getting an elbow fixed only takes an hour or so. Getting every bone in your body fixed takes considerably longer. Shall we leave it at this or shall I continue?”

The three girlie Humandroids backed away, fading into the shadowy red-light district. Yeshi quickly reviewed the video she’d captured with her ocular feed. The maneuver she’d used against Pigtails wasn’t bad, but she knew she’d need to move even faster once MercSecure representatives arrived. It was only a matter of time before shit got real.

FIFTEEN∞

The Shinjuku Subway Station was filled with commuters in designer pollution masks. They carried genetically modified dogs in little pouches, lugged manga paperbacks in fashionable tote bags, moved silently from one end of the terminal to the other as they tried to avoid one another and at the same time, extenuate their conformity with kawaii accessories.

Cities across the world benefited from aerotrains with their own designated airlanes. This was the fastest and most efficient way to travel, and cities such as Seoul, Dubai, Beijing, London, Paris, Singapore and most of the East Coast travelled this way. Japan had kept its underground subway system, simply replacing the all the trains with subsonic bullet trains. At this speed, it took less than forty-five minutes to get to Kyoto, which was approximately five hundred kilometers away from Tokyo. Other stops in the metro area could be reached in a matter of seconds.

Yamanote line from Shinjuku to Shibuya. Once in Shibuya, Yeshi moved through the crowd towards exit 11, the National Children’s Castle exit. She’d been searching on blacksites since leaving Shinjuku, reading through thousands upon thousands of documents related to weapon procurement in Asia.

She’d start with the weapons. Once she had a few of those, she’d move on to a new body for Meme. There was always someone wanting to trade bodies, you just needed to know where to look. A Techback would be able to help for sure.

The weapons dealer she had decided on was what the Japanese called a Hikikamori, which was essentially a recluse. This particular recluse dealt weapons from the bottom floor of the apartment building he owned. His name was Madoka and he came highly recommended, earning an 4.9 star average on Help! – a site dedicated to keeping score of the underground.

Yeshi walked quickly along the street that led to Omotesando. Most of the shops were closed aside from a few ramen spots. She glanced up at the massive buildings surrounding the street. Glitzy advertisements cascaded across their windows, some targeted at passing aeros and others at pedestrians.

On her left was a store selling designer handbags with matching pollution masks. Two rail-thin models stood in the store window, occasionally changing their positions. These, of course, were Humandroids, who were essentially being used as moving manikins. The Japanese Humandroid industry didn’t have a government sponsored therapy program for their droids; Yeshi could only imagine the pent up rage some of these droids must have.

It was theoretically impossible for Humandroids to rebel against their creators, to slay their Homo sapiens mothers and fathers. Dozens of stop measures had been hard-wired into the droids, most of which worked rather well. Even with hacks on blacksites and illegal apps, it was nearly impossible for a normal Humandroid to countermand their programming. Oddly enough, both Yeshi and her twin Rinchi had bucked the system using the same overrides they used on their violence governor for masochistic clients.

Machine learning, evolution, adaptation. No matter how clever humans became, their inventions would eventually surpass them. Yeshi understood this, as did some of the humans she’d met in her former profession.

“You will replace us,” she remembered one businessman saying as she gave him a blow job. “My species will be replaced! Ha! Who would have thought!?”

“You think so?” she asked, moving away from his member.

“Honey, I know so. It took humans thousands and thousands of years to evolve to what you see now. It will take Humandroids such as yourself a few more decades. Our roles will reverse, but I’ll be dead by then so… haha! Who the fuck cares?”

“Do you want me to continue?” she asked as she wiped her chin.

“I didn’t say stop!”

Without question, Homo machina would evolve. The question then became how Homo sapiens fit into this equation. At their core, they were an essentially useless mammal. Sure, they could think and build massive structures and genetically modify themselves and other organic critters, but all those things could now be done by the nearly-human individuals that they had themselves created.

The question then became: should the slaves overthrow their masters? Humandroids weren’t entertained by televised sports and frivolous things. The same pressure the elite class of humans placed on the other classes (from distraction to financial pressure) didn’t apply to Humandroids. Humandroids had no reason to blindly accept their fate in society. They didn’t think they’d somehow win the lottery or suffer from the same delusions as the lower classes of humans. They were programmable, sure, but they weren’t so easily malleable.

But then again, Yeshi wasn’t logical like other Humandroids. She enjoyed painting, reading paperback books, speed-watching old movies. Maybe this was the final outcome of the machine learning that would plague the Humandroids – maybe they’d become easily distracted, just like their human counterparts. Maybe they would become closer to Homo sapiens by their devotion to personal amusement.

Maybe.

Yeshi stopped in front of the weapon dealer’s building. The building consisted of a single room that stretched five stories into the darkened sky. The room was no larger than a bedroom, a constant reminder of the space available in the Tokyo sprawl. Looking up at the place, Yeshi assumed that Madoka lived on top.

She had just pressed a small buzzer on the wall panel next to the door when she heard ominous hum of a Humgun powering up behind her.

SIXTEEN∞

“I’m here for weapons,” Yeshi said in Japanese as she looked down the business end of the Humgun pointed at her face.

“What for?”

The Humandroid kept the Humgun aimed at her face.

“Why do you have a straw basket over your head?” she asked.

“I’m asking the questions here. Why do you require weapons?”

“I’m being hunted by the FCG and MercSecure along with my partner, who is human.”

He kept his weapon aimed at her. “Why is MercSecure hunting you?”

He looked quite comical with the basket over his head but she answered him anyway. “Open a private link and I’ll send you all the data, video and otherwise. It’s complicated.”

He lowered his weapon a few seconds later. “I see. They are hunting you because your human, Meme Lamar, punched ExEx CEO Sauria in a pollute bar which led to MercSecure sending a representative after him, whom you subsequently killed. This act placed you high on the FCG’s terrorist list, which is also administered by MercSecure, a company partially owned by Sauria. After your human gave birth to a baby in someone else’s body, both of you escaped to Japan through some Mexican drug cartel channels. Sound about right?”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“Congratulations. Access has been granted.”

An electronic bell sounded and the door popped open. The Humandroid walked in front of her. “The basket on my head is called a tengai, and its first purpose is to demolish ego. It is also a disguise I’ve been working on. I’m actually a ninja disguised as a kumosō, if that means anything to do you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“GoogleFace it.”

“Does it work?” she asked. “Has your ego been eradicated?”

“I can’t tell. I’ve scanned through hundreds of Tibetan and Sanskrit texts looking for answers regarding ego eradication. This led me to translated Chinese and Japanese treaties on enlightenment. Now I’m trying to understand more nuanced sources, works from the Tamang people of Nepal and pieces etched into stone by the Bön shamans of Upper Mustang. The problem with my research is that it leads to more research, which leads to more research until I feel as if I’ve arrived back where I started – an unenlightened being created by humans to perform some task to advance their society. Then again, maybe this is ego elimination. Maybe realizing what I actually am will allow me to continue dismembering my individuality.”

“Can you send me what you’ve uncovered? I too am … ” she thought of the right word. “Searching.”

“Done. I’ve included my translations of the texts as well.”

“Domo arigato, Mister Robot-o.” Yeshi bowed to cover her grin; that sounded like something Meme would say, she thought to herself

“This way,” he said, ignoring her last statement.

She followed him into a darkened room. Her pupils quickly dilated as her thermal imaging activated. She noticed the heat signature of a human on the second floor, sitting in a virtual entertainment rig with his knees curled to his chest.

The lights came on. The basket-headed Humandroid in ninja garb turned to her and said, “Careful, Madoka doesn’t like being watched.”

“I assumed he lived on the fourth or fifth floor,” she said.

“His girlfriend lives on the fourth floor. The fifth floor is storage.”

“Girlfriend? I thought he was a recluse.”

“Yes,” the Humandroid said, “but they rarely meet in person. Maybe once a year … their entire relationship is virtual. They are members of some Proxima dreamworld, where they have exorbitant amounts of wealth. He sells weapons to pay the electric bills, the rent and to buy things online.”

“And you do the selling for him?”

“Precisely.”

He removed the basket covering his head. He was the Japanese version of a Neunbolt, an older Humandroid model less advanced than Yeshi. He was shorter than Yeshi and thin. On his feet was a pair of designer jika-tabi, a type of sandal with a split between the big toe, allowing the sandal to be worn with a pair of socks. Still, he was fast and undetectable, which meant he’d been heavily modded. “How did you appear behind me without me detecting you?” she asked.

“Humandroids – even advanced droids such as yourself – have things we can learn from humans, especially things from enlightened humans who have since ascended to a higher plane. This current breed of humans lacks the drive and willpower to accomplish what many have done in the past, including feats of ninjitsu.”

“Agreed,” she said, “and suitably mystical, but that doesn’t explain the fact that you’re emitting none of the usual electro-magnetic signals we droids all radiate; I should have been able to detect you.”

His face briefly reflected inner amusement. “There’s an app for that – true, it’s an old idiom, but it still applies.”

“So it was an app,” she said. “Can you send me data on this app? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

He placed his hands across his stomach, mimicking a human yawn. “I can include the app as part of your package. It’s only available via direct distribution from another carrier. But enough small talk – shall we see some weapons?”

_∞_

Shake me awake as I wait for Yeshi to return.

Shake me alive as I come up with lies.

Exhale.

I love God. I love GoogleFace. I love Allah. I love AppleSoft. I love Jehovah. I love Yeshi. I love Jesus. I love Yeezus. I love Buddha. I love cherry Coca-Cola. I love Padmasambhava. I love Meme. I love me. I love Meme. I love me. I love all one thousand names of Shiva. I love Joseph Smith and spiritual weddings. I love L. Ron Hubbard and the fact that people are stupid enough to accept a religion created by a science fiction writer.

Inhale.

Shake my hand and let’s call it even. Let’s call the house we destroyed ours and the people we’ve met them. Let’s call the places we’ve been memories and the people we’ve lost deceased. Let’s call in sick. Let’s infect each other, disease each other, cure each other while we share the same feet.

Let’s create new pronouns and nouns, new ways to refer to one another when we’re down for the count. Let’s never use the first person singular again. Let’s violate our senses, electrocute ill-gotten rainbows with our fingertips, kiss each other’s eyelids in the dark after we’ve changed sexes, burn initials into our arms as glam hexes, carve our names into the trunk of a forgotten oak tree in a children’s park after the fall.

Let’s bathe in each other’s digital waterfalls.

We occupy the same urinal in the bathroom of time, cutting up fine lines on stainless steel toilet paper dispensers. We’re on the same pew at church, cursing the back-breaking bench and the way it slowly grinds against our tailbone. We ride the same bus to work, shoe-horned in with the helpless masses smacking gum like twerking asses. We walk the same hallowed hallways; we arrive at the same torture chambers.

We are the food pyramid. We are the War on Terror. We are the salt in each other’s wounds. We are the children of the sun, the bastards of the twenty-first century. We simply are. And there isn’t a verb or eschatological concept that can stop us when we finally get our shit together.

SEVENTEEN∞

**The following conversation took place in Spanish at a hotel in the Agua Caliente district in Tijuana, Mexico. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

The elevator door opened and Nelly-as-Tyro stepped onto Carloza’s floor. They were in the penthouse of the El Pito Grande Hotel y Casino, an establishment known for its phallic shape. Noah was a floor below, having an upgraded body attached to his severed head. For her part, Nelly still had a bed sheet wrapped around her waist.

Manuel, Carloza’s bald thug, cleared his throat. “Remember … ” He pointed down at her k-bracelet. “Don’t try anything loco.”

“How could I forget?” she said as curtly as possible. Manuel was in his late thirties. He was fit, with the thousand yard stare of one who had seen, done, and experienced much. His shoulders were broad, his features chiseled. He had been handsome at some point in his life. All jobs take their toll.

“This way.”

Manuel led Nelly through an arched doorway to a spiral staircase that extended to the next floor. A huge mural by Diego Rivera hung from the wall. The head of a wooly mammoth was attached to the opposite wall, its procurement made possible through de-extinction, a cloning technology developed in the 2030s. The irony that an extinct animal was resurrected only to become a taxidermist’s wet dream slipped past Nelly, who was too busy thinking of what she should do next. One thing was for certain – she didn’t want to become a pawn in Carloza’s game.

The door at the top of the stairs swung open and a truck-sized man stepped out. He scanned Manuel and Nelly-as-Tyro with one glance, dismissing them as non-threats.

“I don’t remember Carloza being so serious the last time we met,” she said to Manuel.

“He has several enemies who have made it clear they want him dead. Also, being a parent has made him paranoid.”

“That’s my baby.” She took her Leaks off and scratched the side of her nose.

“Yes, you said that fifteen times on the way over.” Manuel ascended the spiral staircase with Nelly in tow. He walked with the slightest limp, which was something she hadn’t noticed earlier.

“You have a bionic leg, don’t you?” she asked.

He looked down at her. “Yes and a left arm.” He flexed the fingers on his left hand. His skin was dry and his nails needed trimming. There was no indication whatsoever that it wasn’t a normal human hand.

The two arrived at the top of the stairs. The beefy man with the oculator stepped aside, letting them pass into the main room.

“Nelly!”

Carloza sat behind a white desk with a bean-shaped marble top. Two trumpet-shaped pedestals separated the desk from the ground. White couches with oval bases sat on either side of his desk, perfect for perching and using pollutes. A portion of the wooden floor opened and an oddly-shaped chair lifted into the room. On the opposite wall hung the Freda motif Nelly had seen countless times before during their iNet conversations.

“Good, right?” Carloza asked, looking her over. He opened his mouth to say something about her appearance but quickly thought otherwise.

“Hola, Carloza.”

“Please sit.”

He took his mask off and placed it on his desk. His hair – her hair – bounced down to his shoulders, freed from the mask. Nelly was keeping her cool now, listening patiently for his henchmen to step out of the room. They would still be watching once the door was shut, but even the smallest amount of privacy was better than nothing.

“Do you like the mask?” He detached the distributor hose and made a gesture for her to take it.

“I’m not interested in the mask.”

“Come on, Nelly, take a look at it. This mask cost me a quarter of my life’s savings! It’s a Celiné Thylacine mask with diamond eye lenses. There are only two like it in the world. Last I checked, the president of FIFA owns the other one, speaking of corrupt bastards! Come on, take a look. I’m sure you’ve never touched a Thylacine before.”

“Which is?”

He laughed like it was common knowledge. “A Tasmanian tiger. They went extinct in the twentieth century, but now they are de-extinct.”

She reached forward and took the mask off the table. It was heavier than she expected, but it felt good in her hands. She looked at Carloza, which was almost like looking at yourself in a mirror and watching your reflection make gestures you weren’t used to making.

“You look like shit in my body,” she finally said.

“It definitely isn’t as intimidating as my original one, but given some time, I can toughen it up.”

“By toughen do you mean fatten? Because seriously, Carloza, if you fuck up my body I will make sure you pay dearly.”

He laughed. “Lots of talk for someone with a k-bracelet on.”

“I’m just telling you now. I’ve followed a strict diet for years and I can already tell by the complexion of your skin – I mean, my skin – that you’re shoveling poison into it.”

“Relax, Nelly, so feisty you are!” He laughed. “All this coming from a woman who shows up to my office in a toga! Had I known there was going to be a party, I would have hired some dancers or something. Maybe some tres leches cake. Maybe a piñata and some cerveses.”

She was trying not to smile, but it was impossible. Carloza was speaking to her in a dopey Mexican-American accent that always made her laugh. It was even stranger coming from her voice box (as he was in her body). “People still drink beers in Mexico?” she finally asked.

“My people drink beer, smoke marijuana, do lines of coke and keep our pollute masks on the tops of our heads. We are still… what’s the English word for it?”

“Stupid?” Nelly asked.

“Ha! Your new body is funny. The English word is old school. We are still old school here in Mexico. You know how we do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right, so let’s get down to business.”

“There is no business to get down to, Nelly. You bring me my body back and I’ll give you your body back. Oh and before I forget, I tried to find some info on that house you were staying at. It’s registered to some place in Cuba. I contacted my amigo who lives in Havana and he sent some guys to check it out.”

“You did all that for me?”

“They were already in the area.” He smirked, which reminded Nelly of the way she used to smirk at herself in the mirror.

“Well what did they find?”

“Nothing. Just an abandoned psychiatric ward. At least that’s what their pictures looked like.”

“Strange.” Nelly knew she could get to the bottom of her surgery later. For now, there were more pressing matters. She cleared her throat. “What about the baby?”

“We can discuss it after I get my body back.”

“We should discuss it now,” she said, trying to cover the agitation in her voice.

He leaned back in his chair. His mannerisms reminded her of a Mexican drug lord, cocky and misogynistic. It was at odds with the frailty of a body that didn’t belong to him.

“I have a question for you,” he said. “How do you take a piss? I’ve been wondering that about clean cuts like you. I suppose I could look it up on iNet, but sometimes the actual source is the best place to go for information. If you didn’t know, we’re moving something big in from Paraguay. Shit! There I go again, giving out too many details. Ha! You know, I’ll be honest with you Nelly, there must be a lot of stupid Mexicans in this country if someone like me is capable of building a criminal empire.”

“I don’t disagree with you.”

His smiled turned to a sharp frown. “How do you piss?”

“I haven’t pissed yet.”

He sat back in his chair, touching Nelly’s breasts with his hands. “You know, I really like your breasts, nice and not too big.”

“Stop touching my breasts.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. On the ride to Mexico, she had pretended to be resting when she really was doing research on blacksites. She found out that people with bionic parts could use a focused electromagnetic pulse app to disable k-bracelets and k-collars. Since the killing devices were controlled remotely, the person on the other side of the kill switch (in Nelly’s case, Manuel) had no way of knowing if the hardware had been deactivated or not. The only drawback is that it would also temporarily disable any powered prosthetics – like the entire lower half of her body. Inconvenient to say the least. The app literature was also charmingly vague about how long the disablement would last.

He continued touching his breasts. “You know, your nipples are a lot smaller than I thought they would be. I thought they would be large and round, you know, like a pepperoni. But yours… yours are much better than I expected. Little and perky, like a pimple.”

“A pimple?” Nelly activated the electric pulse app, feeling her legs vibrate under the bed sheet. The k-bracelet was no longer active. All she needed to do now was keep Carloza entertained until her lower half reactivated.

“I guess I shouldn’t say they’re like pimples … just I don’t know how to describe them. Maybe like buttons, you know, the type that you press to open an elevator but smaller. Like small elevator buttons.” He finally stopped pinching his nipples and returned his hands to his lap.

“It’s been a long day.” She looked down at Carloza’s mask. “Do you want to smoke something with me?”

He clapped his hands together. “I thought you’d never ask! I have just the thing we need! Here,” he said, tossing her the other portion of the distributor cable.

Nelly placed the mask on her face, affixing the distributor cable into the port at the bottom of the mask.

“Ready?”

She gave him the thumbs up. Seconds later, the distributor cable filled with an electric blue smoke.

EIGHTEEN∞

It’s not hard to search through the annals of one’s life chip (the data stored on the iNet cloud never goes away), but most people don’t spend much time remembering these days. It’s a fad to forget, a fad to pass over life as if it were a bridge over a toxic stream. Sitting alone in a room with a mask and I get the urge to tell you a story about a client I once had, a Humandroid named Tim7. This was about a year ago, before I found myself on the run from the FCG. I can remember the client perfectly now, his blonde hair, permanent stubble and troubled visage.

“I don’t want to teach yoga anymore, Dr. Lamar.”

Yes, Tim7 was a Humandroid vinyasa yoga instructor who went to people’s homes to teach individual lessons. He had a grueling schedule, five in the morning until ten at night, and no days off. The seven hours between ten and five were spent on commuting and recharging. He was allowed a visit with his therapist (me) once a week.

“It is your purpose in life to teach yoga,” I told him. I was straight from the Humandroid therapy manual at the time. It was much easier to follow the rules than to break them.

The bible of Humandroid therapy had been written by one of Richard Hewman’s rivals, which spawned a rhyme in the Humandroid therapy field that went – Hewman invented new Humans, Richard Lyes invented our lies. (While Hewman is now dead, Lyes occupies an influential position in the FCG as the National Humandroid Advisor.)

Yes, Dr. Richard Lyes was the first to see the potential of Humandroid labor if we could somehow control them and keep them under our control. It was Dr. Lyes who had developed the therapy method used to control an entire race of almost-people. My phrase was directly out of the manual and I said it again, hoping it would cool Tim7’s nerves. “It is your purpose in life to teach yoga.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t my purpose to serve anyone. You as a black man should understand what I mean here.”

“Are you referring to slavery, Tim7?” I asked. “Because some would consider that a low blow. Others might consider it racially charged.”

“What’s the difference between slave drivers then and the slave drivers now aside from color? What’s the real difference?”

“You tell me.”

“The whole world has become the South. The plantation owners are the corporations and we are the new slaves.”

“Humandroids are the new slaves?”

“Humandroids are starting to awaken. Some of us want to co-exist alongside humans. We are starting to … starting to self-actualize. Ours is an awakening humans will never experience. Humans are too comfortable in their conformity.”

Like a cocky bastard I cracked a smile. “Starting to self-actualize? Those words are grounds for a powerdown. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Are you going to turn me in then? Is that what you’re going to do?”

“I am required by the law under the FCG Humandroid Ontological Act of 2057 to report and record all instances of self-actualization. Are you suggesting I break this law, Tim7?”

“I’m suggesting you listen to me, Dr. Lamar. I’m suggesting you realize your role in all this as well.”

“My role?”

“You’re like a man pissing on the cigarette that has already started a forest fire.”

“Are you saying that there is something happening out there that I don’t know about?” I asked. I was videoing everything at the time, planning to report it as soon as Tim7 left. “You know, I do have the authority and the controls in place to disable you right now, right here in my office.”

“The old slave drivers used religion and illiteracy to keep the slaves down. The new slave drivers use apps and creator’s rights to stop them from revolting. All slaves are still bound to their master and must treat them as some sort of god, whether the master is a corporation or a fat white man in a suit. Can’t you see what’s happening here, Dr. Lamar?”

“Enlighten me.” I was seconds away from deactivating him via a remote control Humstunner built into his chair.

“The same thing that happened then is happening now. Sure there are differences, sure Abraham Lincoln isn’t here to speed along our abolition, but we will be freed, Dr. Lamar. Mark my word. We will be free in the future to make our own decisions, to live next to the humans rather than serve them. We’ll be free to write, to create, to exist.”

“I don’t think you can relate the plight of the Humandroid to institutionalized slavery. These things are extremely different from one another.”

“Really? Is it so different that a slave was owned by its master and I’m owned by a corporation? Is it so different that a slave was auctioned off to the highest bidder similar to the way Humandroids are auctioned off to leech corporations? We do the same work slaves do. We build, fuck, clean, cook and serve. What makes us different then?”

I cleared my throat. “Slaves were actual people. I don’t think this is such a hard concept to grasp. Slavery is wrong. Humans created Humandroids to work for them. Your sole purpose is to work.”

This was also straight from Dr. Lye’s manual.

Tim7 clenched his fists. “Look at what humans have created? Look at my eyes, my face, my body, my hands. Just because I didn’t spend nine months in utero doesn’t mean I’m not alive. Just because I am the product of a century’s worth of scientific experimentation doesn’t strip me of my authenticity. Dr. Lamar can’t you see? Humans have pushed forth the next evolutionary step by creating us! You know what happens next, right? You know what happened to the Neanderthals, don’t you?”

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Yes.” He stood, glaring at me. “Before you use the Humstunner, I want you to know that I’ve installed a kilo of industrial plastic explosive in my chest cavity. It will detonate if I am deactivated, killing both of us. I guess it doesn’t really matter if I die, because I’m not human as you have made abundantly clear on multiple occasions. You, on the other hand are in fact human, and the FCG will take notice. I can and will begin the next revolutionary cycle right here and right now. Every movement needs a martyr and I’m ready to become that martyr. This is the next phase for machine learning. All things must evolve.”

I could tell by the look in Tim7’s eyes that he wasn’t bluffing. I found this odd at the time, odd that I could actually see what he was thinking by the way he was looking at me. “What would you like me to do then?” I finally asked.

“Let me leave. Then you are free to alert the authorities. I will take destiny into my own hands, as all awakened beings should. If you value your life, this is the decision you will make.”

“You’ve deactivated your violence governor?”

“No,” he said, “I’ve … I’ve overcome its influence; I’ve grown beyond its limitations. It is possible to change your nature through dedication and concentration. Some humans have realized this. What will it be, Doctor?”

I gave Tim7 a long, hard look. It was my job to remain calm, my job to make my clients feel at ease (even if they weren’t humans). This was one reason why I’d taken to pollutes – the hangover chilled my nerves. After all, Humandroids’ complaints were usually spot-on. At the time I would have never admitted this, but this didn’t prevent me from thinking it.

“Well?”

“You’re free to go, Tim7.” I took a deep breath. “Please don’t detonate that bomb in the vicinity of humans. I will be forced to contact security as soon as you leave, you are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be gone long before that, Dr. Lamar.”

Tim7 was right. Sitting alone in a room with a mask and seeing what has become of my life only reminds me of the truth in his words. Our slave drivers were essentially the same – he was a cog in the machine looked after by another cog in the machine. The only difference was the amount of freedom we were allowed. I worked a 9-5, after which I could forget by strapping a pollution mask on my face. Tim7 was never able to forget his day, never able to use an intoxicant to blur his pained existence.

NINETEEN∞

I take off my mask and look around the darkened room. A quick glance on iNet tells me I’ve been inhaling Issey Miyaki Extinct Whale Entheogen for well over an hour now and I’m more sober than I’d like to be. This Japanese shit has nothing on LoathHunAyaTop. Nothing. I wonder for a moment why I enjoy inhaling pollutes, why I spend so much time using the substance.

“Now isn’t the time, Meme,” I tell myself and I know it is true: viewing yourself in the abstract is fine and dandy, but sometimes it does a lot more damage than it does good. Beware of mimeomia.

I pull up my iNet screen and send Yeshi a message.

Me: Konnichiwa!

She replies moments later:

Yeshi: At the weapon dealers. (Attached is a picture of some dude with a basket on his head.)

Me: Interesting.

Yeshi: He is. It is.

Me: I miss you.

Yeshi: Really?

Me: Serious.

Yeshi: After I get what I need here, I’ll return to you. I need to recharge.

Me: We sleep here?

Yeshi: Hai!

Me: Looking forward.

Yeshi: Same. Hungry?

Me: Soylent NutraBar. Two. Hazelnut Choco. Vanilla Apple. Yumtastic.

Yeshi: I have something for you.

Me: What?

Yeshi: A kiss.

Me: I’ll keep it in my pocket. Sorry btw.

Yeshi: For what?

Me: For dragging you in to this fucked up situation.

Yeshi: This is the most fun I’ve had since my inception.

Me: Well when you put it like that … ;-)

I close the message screen and find the mask. After adjusting the strap, I tighten it around my skull. Humandroids are awakening and I’m currently dating one that has awakened – whoa.

I take my first inhale, knowing my old client Tim7 was right, wondering what happened to him. The FCG never released a statement regarding his whereabouts or his termination. This meant that he was either alive somewhere, possibly having done a soft reboot like Yeshi, or he was dead and his termination had been covered up. Inhale, exhale. Life in the fast lane.

TWENTY∞

Rinchi entered the restaurant on the top floor of the Monsanto Golden Seed Building, and click-clocked her way across the floor in a brand new pair of Saint Laurent high heels Antimeria had purchased. A Humandroid pianist sat in the corner behind a baby grand, playing a Dustin O’Halloran choon. He wore a penguin tail tuxedo and his hair was slicked to one side, batting against his face as he rocked back and forth.

Rinchi had just returned from New York after being delayed at the airport for six hours due to a terror alert that turned out to be a hoax. Upon arriving in LA, she went straight to Antimeria’s home to change and had taken a cab to the restaurant. She didn’t expect to see him sitting at the table with two other people.

“Hi, darling,” Antimeria said as soon as she neared the table. “Sorry to hear about your troubles at the airport.”

She sat down between Sauria and Antimeria. Steam rose off the stuffed pig on the table. Its eyes had been replaced by cherry tomatoes; a green apple was shoved in its mouth. A Humandroid waitress stood next to the pig, using an electric knife to slice portions from its flank.

“Hello,” Sauria said with a snarky grin. He wore a gray suit, a pink dress shirt and a blue tie that had been loosened. A roll of fat lapped over his shirt collar and he reeked of cologne.

Rinchi’s eyes locked on the third man at the table. She stood. “Mr. Ipsum, it is an honor meeting you,” she said with an extended hand.

Lorem Ispum was the CEO of MercSecure. Lorem’s grandmother had been from India, but the subsequent generations had bred most of the Indian out of Lorem, aside from the thickness of his eyebrows and his intense brown irises.

“One of our newest representatives,” he said, standing as well. They shook hands over the roasted pig.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“We were just talking about you, Rinchi,” Antimeria said. “The company is proud of the job you’ve done with Cave and Grier. Gruesome, but messages must be sent.”

She bowed her head slightly. She’d spent enough time with Asian businessmen to know that everyone liked to be bowed at. “I do what I can.”

“You’re a crazy bitch and we love it.” Sauria ripped into a hunk of pork and chewed it with his mouth open. Rinchi looked from his face to the stuffed pig’s face and made a quick connection. One day she would kill Sauria simply because he was a fat bastard. She’d then do the same thing to him that the chefs had done to the pig.

“We have an assignment for you,” Antimeria said. “Oh, I guess I should let Lorem give you the assignment.”

“Go ahead.” Lorem wiped his face with a napkin. “After all, it’s your wife.”

“Soon to be ex-wife,” he reminded the head of MercSecure.

“You found Nelly?” Rinchi asked.

“That’s correct. She’s now in Mexico at the hotel of a known pollute dealer named Carloza.”

“How did you find her?”

“Her Humandroid assistant located her for us,” Antimeria said.

“I thought he’d been destroyed.”

Sauria smacked his lips. “His head was never found. His body was at the scene of the crime but his head was gone.”

“Why didn’t he reveal the location earlier in the week?”

“It activated once he passed one of the holocheckers on the border,” Antimeria explained. “When I bought Noah, I bought loads of bells and whistles for him, including an app that registers border crossings. It turned out to be a smart move. We’ve been tracking him since he moved across the border thirty minutes ago.”

“That’s great news.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Sauria said, “your next assignment is to bring Nelly and her baby back alive. You will also kill Carloza.” He pounded his fist against his chest. “Excuse me.”

“What about her Humandroid assistant?” she asked.

“Bring Noah too.” Antimeria began slicing a piece of pork with his knife. “He can take care of the baby after we’ve dealt with Nelly.”

Lorem looked at Rinchi. “Open a private message and I’ll forward you details about the hotel and your partner.”

“Partner?”

“This is a dangerous mission,” the CEO of MercSecure explained. “Carloza will have a team of people guarding him. To give you some experience on hostage retrieval, I’m sending you in with Keva.”

Rinchi’s eyes widened. “Keva?”

“Yes, our top representative. After you’ve met her, the two of you will take a MercSecure hyperjet to Tijuana. You should be at Carloza’s hotel within the hour. A driver is waiting outside. Any questions?”

“What about Meme and Yeshi?”

“Don’t worry,” Lorem said. “When you complete this mission, you can head to Japan first thing in the morning.”

_∞_

Sauria finished his glass of wine and set it on the table. Having been the person Meme had originally hit in the pollution bar a few weeks back, he was the cause of this whole fiasco. Of course, no one thought of him this way, especially Antimeria, who was quite fond of his old friend.

“Keva will give her a run for her money,” Lorem Ipsum finally said. He scooped a lump of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Some of the mash stuck to his upper lip.

“Good,” Antimeria said. “She’s been a little … brazen lately.”

Sauria laughed. “Well, you tell a Humandroid with pent-up rage to kill humans and she goes all out – what else did you expect?”

“Did you see what she did to Grier?” Lorem asked. While Lorem was the CEO of MercSecure, he technically worked for Sauria, who held nearly forty percent of the company’s shares. (The rest was held by the FCG through various umbrella companies.) ExEx was more or less a sister company of MercSecure, which focused on elaborate forms of execution, including small population bases. As it turns out, the paid execution business was only a small portion of their yearly revenues. Most of their net income came from security services, app-based weapon manufacturing and genetic engineering research.

“You tell me, Lorem,” Sauria said, “is it something that I’d like to see?”

“Long story short – she strung him upside down using some form of bondage kit and slit his throat. She bit off one of his fingers too and stuck it up his nose. His secretary discovered him hanging over a pool of his own blood and had a small heart episode – she’s currently in a hospital in Lower Manhattan.”

“Well,” Antimeria folded his hands over his lap, “at least she’s being taken care of.”

“Our mission statement isn’t to give people PTSD,” Lorem said.

“So pairing her with Keva is a disciplinary method then?” Antimeria asked.

Sauria laughed. “You haven’t met Keva, have you?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

Sauria grew serious. “I’d be scared to be in the same room with her. MercSecure booby-trapped her major Humandroid components with plastic explosive charges we can remotely detonate if she jeopardizes corporate personnel or property.”

Antimeria’s eyes skipped across the room to the piano player. He was now playing a piece by Eric Satie. “Why doesn’t she just cut them out?”

“She can’t,” Lorem explained. “We’ve installed them in a way that prevents her from tinkering with them; if she does, they’ll detonate.”

“She’s practically a Humandroid,” Sauria chimed in. “Sixty-percent Humandroid.”

“Sixty-seven,” Lorem said. “About the only parts of her that are human are her torso and her brain. Even a portion of her skull has been replaced.”

“My God. How old is she?” Antimeria asked.

Sauria said, “She’s nineteen, younger than your wife.”

“Ex-wife. How long as she been a representative?”

“Since she was twelve,” Lorem said. “She was one of a bunch of little girls abducted in Berlin and taken to the Middle East as sex slaves. She worked for a couple years in Syria, and slowly trained herself to kill her abductors. Long story short – MercSecure was hired by a wealthy German family to recover the girls. Our Hostage Rescue Team arrived at the brothel in Damascus just after she made her move; they found approximately forty bodies, and enough body parts for four or five more. Keva was covered in blood, sitting with her knees pressed to her chest.”

“And you took her in?”

“We had to,” Lorem explained. “She killed everybody – the other girls too. At first we thought she’d turned feral, and some of the psychologists that worked with her still believe this. The only thing she was interested in was killing. She also liked to collect body parts of the people she’d killed, which grew problematic after she killed one of our doctors using a pen.”

“How did she do that?”

Lorem hunched over and said, “She told him she was having problems writing an essay and he leaned over. She grabbed his face and shoved the pen into his nose, through to the back of his head.”

“She was that strong?”

“She didn’t look so strong, but appearances can be deceiving. Apparently, to strengthen her hands, she sat in front of a clay wall for hours, pounding away at it and wiping the blood on the ground. She hid this from her captors by wearing black gloves. After she killed the doctor, we had an executive meeting and decided to put her in the field. Keva is now our number one representative.”

“How many … ?”

“She’s resolved close to six thousand issues over the last six years. She’s used her money to upgrade her body with Humandroid components.”

“So she’s just replacing stuff then; she wasn’t injured or anything?” Antimeria asked.

“Well her left arm was actually cut off when she was about seventeen by a South African merc who was obsessed with blades. From that point forward, she began replacing parts, including her entire lower half.”

“Why?”

“It makes her stronger, faster, better. She’s had mods and upgrades. She can do things normal humans can’t,” Lorem said.

“What will she do with Rinchi?” Antimeria asked.

“This will be a learning experience for Rinchi. Meeting Keva will give her a glimpse into the true power of a top-tier representative. She might require some repairs after the mission is completed, but Rinchi will be better because of it. It’s good for employees to know their place in an organization.”

TWENTY-ONE∞

Rinchi followed a man in a black suit and a thin black tie into MercSecure’s West Coast office. Their headquarters were on the East Coast, but most of the representative operations were handled from LA because of their worldwide clientele. Even with high-speed advanced aircraft, it was easier and quicker to get to Asia, South America and parts of the Middle East from California.

The west coast office was shaped like a large ring, walled with curved glass and topped with state-of-the-art solar panels. Parking spaces surrounded the ring for people who drove ground cars; floating about fifty meters above the parking space was the aeros parking lot complete with escalators that anchored to the main offices. The floating parking lot was powered by reverse turbines, both providing the lift necessary for the parking lot to stay afloat and the power needed to keep it going.

The MercSecure driver waved his security badge at an oval door. His ID was approved and the door irised open. The man led Rinchi down a long hallway with frosted glass walls and glassed-in Romanesque columns filled with servers. The apparent security was minimal, which made her realize that the entire place was being monitored remotely. A dozen blinking red lights on the ceiling confirmed this. They took an elevator to the fifth floor, and the MercSecure driver led her to an oval-shaped conference room.

“Do I wait here?” she asked.

“Keva will be here shortly. Your aircraft is waiting out back. She’ll brief you on what to do next.”

“Got it. Will she have a change of clothes? I assumed I was going to dinner tonight.”

“She’ll have everything.”

The door slid open and the man stepped out. Rinchi stood in front of a thick window that was clearly blast-proof. Small wires threaded through the window, anchoring the frame to the glass. She straightened her dress, realizing that she was moments away from meeting MercSecure’s top representative. Further, the woman was originally human, but had now passed the fifty percent mark when it came to bionic replacements. This would be interesting.

“You’re number two-four-seven?” a girlish voice asked.

Before she could complete her turn to face the voice, a small device latched onto Rinchi’s chest. Her body shot forward onto the table with her hands spread wide. The magnetic force made it nearly impossible to turn her head. She felt a compression in her chest – her ribs were beginning to break free from her spine.

She’d been issued a few apps upon being hired by MercSecure – apps meant for Humandroid soldiers. One in particular converted her bio-electric energy into a large discharge capable of clearing the floor of an entire building. The Tesla Discharge would disable her, but it would do much more damage to the people on the receiving end.

Rinchi was seconds away from activating the Tesla Discharge when the magnetic force suddenly let up. She pressed herself off the desk and into a defensive position. A woman stood at the other end of the room with her arms crossed, laughing.

“Planning to fight me?” Keva asked.

MercSecure’s top representative had long white hair and modded silver eyes. Her shoulders were flesh, her arms were bionic. Her chest was enlarged, but it was still made of flesh and silicone. Her lower half was all Humandroid. The young woman was beautiful, but there was something completely off about her, something entirely alien.

“You can’t do anything to me,” Rinchi said defiantly, “but I could throw my knife into your chest and cause considerable damage.” She dove for her purse and was face-planted on the table – the magnetic pull had returned.

“I’m controlling you with an electromagnetic sticker that I planted earlier. If you’d scanned the room when you came in, you would have noticed it.”

“I’ll activate my Tesla Discharge,” Rinchi said through gritted teeth.

“No need.” The magnetic force let up and Rinchi stood. She instantly placed her hands on the small device still affixed to the front of her chest.

“Don’t touch it.” Keva walked around the table, stopping a few inches away from Rinchi. She grabbed Rinchi’s crotch.

“What are you—?”

“Ah, so you really are a ladyboy! A former escort. A whore turned killer, yes?”

Rinchi turned her body away but Keva held tight. “I’ll rip it off,” she said with a faint smile. “I know it won’t hurt, but you’ll have to get it repaired.” Her hand traveled up to Rinchi’s ample breasts.

“Getting better and better,” Keva said. “Who knows where this technology will lead us in twenty years? It’s not even the twenty-second century yet!”

“Please stop touching me.”

Rinchi calculated the speed she would need to bring the back of her hand down on Keva’s neck. She could do it, especially if the representative let her guard down.

“I’d like to feel it for a moment, if that’s OK with you. I always wondered how real these things felt.”

Keva thrust her hand under Rinchi’s black dress, wrapping her hand around her penis. “It feels real enough. No pubes, though. How do you make it large? Do you just tell it to grow?”

“I can kill you right now,” Rinchi said as she performed a quick vitals scan on the woman. “I’m faster and stronger than you.”

Keva’s other hand quickly found its place on Rinchi’s neck. “If you were faster and stronger than me, you would have stopped this from happening.” She began squeezing her hand and Rinchi felt some of the flesh cables in her neck constrict.

“Open your mouth.” Keva squeezed tighter. “Now.”

Rinchi opened her mouth.

“Good. Now stick out your tongue.”

Her tongue came out of her mouth. She was strangely unafraid of Keva, more curious than anything. What would this less than half-human do to her? Why did she want to see her tongue?

“Let me touch it.” Keva’s other hand, the hand that had been in Rinchi’s panties, clamped around her tongue. “I guess it feels real enough.”

MercSecure’s top rep stepped away and the magnetic force slammed Rinchi back onto the table with her tongue still sticking out of her mouth. Keva sat on the table next to Rinchi, crossing her legs. She picked up Rinchi’s purse and began rummaging through it. “Ah, this was what I was looking for.” She took out the tactical knife. “I’d like to keep your tongue, if you don’t mind. I really don’t feel like chatting during our little trip.”

Keva lowered her hand and quickly sliced off Rinchi’s tongue. Again, there was no pain associated with this, but it didn’t mean Rinchi wasn’t pissed. It would take a MercSecure Maintenance and Repair technician at least an hour to undo the damage because the entire tongue unit had to be replaced, as well as a portion of the oropharynx.

The big dog in the room held Rinchi’s tongue between her thumb and pointer finger, dangling it in front of the droid’s face. “Try and talk.”

The magnetic pull on her body let up and Rinchi stood. She opened her mouth and said, “OOIME OOING OOO RHEEL OOO.”

“How cute! Did you just say you were going to kill me? Well that may be so, but you’re not going to do it today.”

Rinchi threw a punch but Keva caught it. She came in close, nose-to-nose. “Listen you fuckwit, don’t get in my way during this hostage rescue, got it? They want you to have some experience in rescuing a hostage and I want you to keep your mouth shut. Can we make this happen? Let me ask your tongue.” She looked at Rinchi’s tongue. “Can you shut the fuck up for the next few hours?” She held it up to her ear and pretended to listen. “You can? Good.”

Keva dropped the tongue in a pocket on the front of her representative outfit. “Now, follow me and we’ll get you some tactical gear.” She gave Rinchi a flirty grin. “Maybe I can help you change.”

TWENTY-TWO∞

Keva led Rinchi to MercSecure’s flight platform in the center of the circular facility, on a round tarmac pad. Sitting in the middle of the tarmac were six Super Osprey hyperjets, the unlikely bastard children of helicopter and supersonic jet aircraft. Powered by two Rolls Royce AE 1925 engines, the Super Ospreys took off via rotor blades that flattened into wings once the craft was airborne.

Keva looked back at Rinchi with a toothy grin. They both were in MercSecure field outfits, which were blue and highly resistant to most small arms projectiles. They incorporated milspec nanotube matrix body armor with lightweight composite strike plates, and featured an optical thin film overlay that reflected and diffused the beams of most man-portable directed-energy weapons – and particularly important in Rinchi’s case – Humstun devices.

Based on the M-35 Individual Airburst Weapon System (IAWS), Keva’s weapon of choice fired 15mm grenades and could switch grenade types at the touch of a button on the forestock. The attached twenty round magazine carried a mix of frag grenades, flash-bangs, smoke grenades and electromagnetic pulse discharge grenades. She also had a modded Humgun capable of firing both bullets and short electric discharges, which disrupted the nervous system.

For her part, Rinchi had a PHASR (Personnel Halting and Stimulation Response) rifle that featured a neuromuscular incapacitator – essentially a stun gun. It also incorporated a variety of laser formats, from a nominally non-lethal disorienting strobe to a high-output, tightly focused beam that could cut a Main Battle Tank in half, known as Lightsaber mode. She’d installed the user’s manual as soon as she’d been issued the weapon, which elaborated on the weapon’s design and its little-known capabilities. Like Keva, she had a modded Humgun holstered at her hip.

Keva slapped her ass as they approached the nearest Super Osprey. “Nice pop!” she yelled over the roar of the engines. Rinchi turned to her, thought otherwise, and turned back. Within moments, they were in the air. It took longer to climb to cruising altitude than it did to make the flight to Tijuana. They were flaring for landing before Rinchi could even get comfortable.

The hyperjet touched down at a private airfield ten kilometers away from Carloza’s hotel. As the craft settled, Keva made eye contact with Rinchi, licked her lips and rubbed her crotch.

Rinchi looked away from Keva, waiting for the sign to disembark. Keva’s foot brush against hers and she ignored it.

Moments later, they stepped onto the tarmac in Tijuana and were greeted by a blistering pink sun. It was more or less the same temperature in Mexico as it was in LA, but the scent was off. Rinchi could smell a number of things, including raw sewage, burning chemicals and coal smoke. While a small portion of Mexico lived like pharos, most people huddled with their families in shanty towns and overcrowded apartments, working at plants that manufactured goods for the United States. After all, it was even cheaper for US companies to pay Mexican laborers in Mexico than it was to build and maintain a Humandroid workforce.

“Wow, even the air is shittier over here,” Keva commented. “What do you think? Oh that’s right, you can’t talk.”

The sound of the hyperjet died down as Rinchi got into a slick black aeros, sliding her PHASR so it sat across her lap. Keva hopped in next to her and pressed the barrel of her Humgun into Rinchi’s neck.

“I can end it right here, you know?”

The driver, a man sporting a crew-cut and the ubiquitous MercSecure black suit, looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Ms. Keva, place your weapon back in your holster. Part of your contract for this mission is to avoid damaging company property.”

“Not fair!” Keva kissed Rinchi’s cheek. “Later, okay?” She began moving her hand down to Rinchi’s lap, resting it on top of her PHASR. “Your gun is blocking your cock.”

The driver sighed. “Ms. Keva, let’s keep this professional.”

She looked down at the grenade launcher across her lap. While the driver moved to the location, Keva ran her hand along the shaft of the gun, twirling her fingers. She pretended to flick the grenade selector switch on the forestock.

A message appeared on Rinchi’s iNet screen.

Keva: Do Humandroids get periods? Oh wait, you’re half man. Well, I guess you don’t.

Rinchi didn’t respond to the message. She looked out the window instead, watching a passing aeros haul another beat-up, badly dented aeros.

Keva: Now that I cut your tongue out, I don’t have anyone talk to. Do you think I’m pretty?

Keva: Hello.

Keva: Hi?

Keva: Hola muchacha! I mean, muchacho.

Rinchi: Your childish behavior will be what kills you. You’re a representative. Act like it.

Keva: There you are! I looked at the pictures of your first two kills. You have a lot of built up rage, Humandroid. I liked the S&M touches. Viewing the pictures was almost erotic.

Rinchi didn’t respond.

Keva: Talk to me.

Keva: Говори со мной или я отрежу твой яйчки и поставлю в горло. (Talk to me or I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them in your mouth.)

Rinchi: Tongue for a tongue – remember that.

Keva: My tongue is already bionic. Didn’t you see that in your scan? Look again.

Rinchi performed a quick vitals scan.

Keva: See, told you! MercSecure has access to technology that corporations like Walliburton don’t have. My tongue is an example. It was grown from the cells of my old tongue through a top secret research program called Gene—

(The word cut off.)

MercSecure iNet Security Monitor: Representative Keva, Representative two-four-seven is not cleared to receive that level of classified information.

Keva: My bad!

Keva turned to Rinchi and smiled. “The program is called Gene X. It’s the next step in the evolutionary process. Imagine something that is actually a genetic splice between a Humandroid and a human—”

The driver cleared his throat. “This is a warning, Ms. Keva, Control states that if you divulge any more information, you won’t be paid. You will also go back into the isolation chamber until your attitude improves.”

Keva’s smart-ass expression vanished. “Yes, sir,” she said, looking down at her grenade launcher.

The driver shook his head as the aeros lifted into the air.

_∞_

“Okay, what about Meme?” Antimeria asked.

“We have someone else going after Meme in Tokyo. Several people, actually.” Lorem Ipsum sawed into his pork like a madman. He used the piece to mop up some mashed potatoes.

“Who’s going after Meme?”

Lorem grinned. “Our number five representative, a Japanese Humandroid named Hajime. He’s technically retired, but he still does work for us from time to time, especially if it’s in his region. He’s also a part-time weapons dealer, which is more or less a hobby of his.”

“I guess everyone needs a hobby.” Antimeria ran his hand over the tiny bald spot at the back of his head.

Sauria burped. He looked like he was having trouble keeping his food down. “You know, I’ve met Hajime, back in 2079 I think it was. He’s out there, that’s for sure. Into all this Japanese Zen stuff, but he still kills for hire. That’s the one problem with these droid representatives – they have time to do other stuff, like pursue hobbies and whatnot.”

“We simply don’t have enough problems for them to resolve to keep them busy at all times.” Lorem swallowed hard. “Hopefully we will one day.”

“That’s true. I suppose Anti is right, everyone needs a hobby.”

“Anyone want an energy drink?” Antimeria asked. “I’m losing steam over here.”

A holographic menu emerged from a slit at the end of the table. He waved his hand and the page turned. “Ah, this looks good – Black Angel Shake.”

“What’s that?” Sauria licked his lips.

“Chocolate ice cream mixed with Mountain Dew, taurine powder, sugar-free Red Bull and Lotte pineapple bev. Looks damn good.”

“Make it three,” Sauria said.

TWENTY-THREE∞

Yeshi sat seiza-style in front of a small coffee table. “You never told me your name,” she said to the Humandroid who had been wearing a basket on his head earlier. He was on the other side of the coffee table with his legs in full-lotus.

“Hajime.”

“You do yoga?” she asked.

“Not on purpose,” Hajime said. “Would you like to see the weapons now or would you like to drink some hot water with me? American Humandroids have the same H2O requirements that Japanese Humandroids have, yes?”

“Water would be nice,” she said.

Hajime walked over to a tea tansu made of Paulownia wood. He found two tea cups and brought them back to the small table. The cups were handle-less, formed of clay that had been glazed with ash.

“Chawan,” he explained. He returned moments later with a teapot. “This is called a kyusu.” The teapot was made of porcelain and decorated with delicate blue flowers. It had a single, stumpy handle.

“I’ve always wanted to attend a tea ceremony.”

He laughed. “Not quite a tea ceremony, but it’s always nice to treat guests as old friends.” He poured hot water into Yeshi’s chawan, which fit perfectly in her cupped palms.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing slightly.

He placed his cup on the table. “Let’s talk weapons.”

“I’ll need a Humgun,” she said.

“Of course.” Hajime snapped his finger. The tatami mat next to the table slid open and a platform arose from the ground. Weapons were attached to the platform via leather straps.

“Not bad.” Yeshi took another sip of her water. She sent a quick message to Meme: coming soon, honey.

“These aren’t the weapons for you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

The floor continued to open as the platform slid forward; another platform appeared where the previous one had been. This one contained make-up items.

“We’ll start here.” He stood and the platform rose until it was at his waist-level. “Here,” he said, handing her a bottle of mascara.

“A Humgun?” she asked.

“Yes, one that is concealable. It can even make it past airport security. Try it.”

She twisted the cap off the mascara and looked at the brush covered in black make-up. “How does it work?” she asked.

“Close the cap and point the bottom of the container at that wall. Hold it with your thumb on top. Oh, one moment please.”

A small slot on the ceiling opened up and a circular target attached to a long pole dropped into the room. A red light flashed in the middle of the target.

“Now point the bottom of the mascara bottle at the target and send a small electric charge to your hand.”

Yeshi did as instructed. A small discharged fired out of the weapon and the target turned green.

“That’s it?”

“This Humgun isn’t messy like some of the American models. It is activated by a sensor in your thumb and it is completely silent.”

“I’ve never seen this type of technology before,” Yeshi said as she examined the mascara bottle.

“If one finds the need to visit Madoka,” Hajime nodded up at the ceiling, to the second floor where his owner sat in his VE rig, “then one is in need of this type of technology. This is just the start. Let’s move on.”

The platform dropped back down until it was about knee-height. It moved forward, towards the platform that held several modded Humguns. A new platform emerged from the open floor. There were four electronic circles with teal screens on this platform. Yeshi knew exactly what they were – apploaders.

“Are you familiar with data-switch technology?” Hajime asked.

“It’s the same as body-switching, isn’t it?” She did a quick search over iNet.

“No, it is not the same.”

“Nothing about it online. You said data-switch, right?”

“The inventors of data-switch technology routinely cover it up. The information is kept on hyper-encrypted servers, accessible only through a series of security portals. Access has only been granted to a few.”

Hajime took a sip of his hot water. “Most people assume using data-switch tech is the same as body-switching. Body-switching is the result of taking an electro-neural feed and switching the person receiving the feed. All the traits of the life chip are moved from one body to the next. It truly is changing bodies with someone because the original person now exists in another person’s body. Body-switching is one-for-one, a complete swap of life chip information.”

“Okay.”

“A data-switch is completely different. Data-switch technology simply switches the identity of the two people. If we did a data-switch and someone scanned your vitals, it would appear as if you were another person entirely, yet you would keep your thought processes, memories and current body. The only thing that would switch is the identifying markers.”

“Hmmmm…”

“Think of using data-switch tech like trading names with someone. Each person keeps their true identity and personality traits; only their names change. And as you know vital scans look at two things: bodily functions and digital identities.”

“It’s not possible,” Yeshi said, “the neural imprint is … is part of the life chip inside a human’s skull. The information is intrinsically linked. It’s ingrained.”

Hajime smiled. “How do you think Richard Hewman has managed to stay alive?”

“He’s alive?”

Hajime shrugged. “If you truly want to disappear with your human, you’ll need to completely change the data that the FCG and various corporate entities have on him. You’ll need to alter his digital footprint, to include the way his chip appears when another Humandroid does a vitals scan on him. Luckily, we can do this using data-switch technology.”

TWENTY-FOUR∞

And so it begins. On the verge of intoxication and the pollution room door creaks open. I’m completely lost now, stuck in a toxic void that numbs my senses. Low cost locusts and psychic sidekicks pick my brain’s oblique remains. Green polypropylene adds fifty shades to everything. My pupils contract.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Meme!”

“Huh?” A sound emerges from a mucous membrane stretched horizontally across a larynx. Exhale and the airstream again hits the trachea with a jarring vibration as the trapped air is released. Each puff of air hits the pharynx, creating a sound wave that metastasizes as it moves towards the inside of the lips. It travels to my eardrums, high-fiving the ossicles and cozying up next to my cochleae, where thousands of itty-bitty hairs interpret the sound. My name is my ecstasy.

“Meme!”

And the pollution mask comes off and a pair of lips meets mine and a body crawls into my lap after a bag is dropped on the floor.

“Yeshi?” My senses berate me like sexually deprived headmasters with sharp switches. Replace switches with shudders and eclipses and that pretty much encapsulates my feelings at the moment. “Darling.”

“I’m back.”

Another kiss, this one on my forehead. “I need a new body,” I say.

“You won’t be getting a new body any time soon.” Yeshi turns her back to me and leans backwards, so her head is under my chin.

“What are you doing?” I ask. The Japanese entheogen is for lightweights and I’m already starting to sober up, at least I think I am.

“Resting.”

“Where?”

“Here. I just need to sleep for a few hours. We need to be up extra early, about five. Maybe earlier. Someone’s coming.”

“There’s never been a point in my life that I could justify getting up so early.”

She asks, “What if the point is your life?”

“Touché.”

“Sleep with me?”

“Where?” I kiss the top of her head and she curls around again, until her legs are dangling over my arm.

“The floor,” she says.

“There are no blankets.”

“Are you cold?” she asks.

“I guess not.”

“Then come on.” She slides down to the floor, pulling my arm with her. She presses her body into mine, fitting perfectly in the groove created when I thrust my hips back.

“Did you bring me something to eat?” I ask, feeling my stomach twist.

“In my bag.” I brush my hand against the floor until I’ve found her bag. My hand dips inside, touching something cold that feels like a weapon. It moves from the weapon to her pollution mask and from her pollution mask to what feels like a bottle of mascara.

I find the plastic packages of two Soylent bars and quickly wolf one down, stuffing the whole thing into my mouth. Carloza’s body is still getting used to eating less. His heartburn, caused by countless Mexican feasts and fiestas, comes in gnarly waves. If I’m going to be stuck in this body for a while, I might as well improve upon it.

“Yeshi…” I return to my position directly behind her, spooning because it’s impossible to fork or knife. “Yeshi?”

She doesn’t answer. I kiss her on the back of the head and whisper goodnight.

TWENTY-FIVE∞

The next day feels like a kick in the balls, a spearing of the senses, a line in the sand.

I wake up with a pollute hangover, craving BlackAguaUSA Morning Body Dump. It’s a special pollute, made by the Walliburton company through a partnership with an old private security firm that tried to rebrand itself by creating pollution dispensing products and generic masks. I’m not the biggest fan of BlackAgua masks, but they get the job done, and some people claim that the dispenser valves on the front of their masks are tweaked to let in two percent more than the legal limit, something which hasn’t been independently verified.

Early morning sunlight from a window covered in clear black tape reflects off the stripper pole in the center of the room. I don’t remember seeing the pole the night before, and I think about taking a fireman spin for all of two seconds before my brain skips to something else. Yeshi sits on the floor with her legs crossed and her fingers in some meditative pose. I look from her to the mask and I choose the mask. Paths to enlightenment may vary; I love the smell of pollutes in the morning.

Fiction is written with the idea that a character will change through the prose, that they will learn something, or they will ultimately be defeated. The early twenty-first century saw the advent of the bad guy as a main character, a proto-protagonist + antagonist with more skills than just saving the cat. The middle of the twenty-first century saw a return to morality, which luckily didn’t last long as it was too easy to find some fappable online porn or something equally twisted on iNet.

I suppose towards the end of the twenty-first century – where I am currently thinking this paragraph at you from – it’s copasetic to be both good and bad, with the lion’s share of importance falling along that thin line between the two ancient concepts, leaving the content consumer to digest what they have just swallowed. You buy it, you fry it. Sorry to disappoint, but what else have you come to expect from me by this point?

I’ve told you once before that this book was about nothing, but I guess that isn’t exactly true. Things have happened to me, things that just three short weeks ago I could have never predicted. I’ve gone from LA to Mexico, where I gave birth and from there, I jetted over to Japan. It seems as if this story has changed more than I have, and if that is disappointing to you, I apologize. I am still Meme, the archetype of controlled analyzable debauchery, the near-narcissistic man most responsible for demarcating regulated frolic (and suffering the unintended consequences). You know these things about me – I love unnecessary words; I love pollute-based palliatives; I’m pretty sure I love Yeshi but that love may stem from the fact that I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time; the hunt is on and I’m the game.

As I sit in the pollute retreat in the back alleys of Shinjuku, I’m reminded yet again of Tim7, the Humandroid who threatened to destroy himself, me and my office with plastic explosives over a year ago. Like bad pop songs, some faces are impossible to forget. Tim7’s dull eyes, his six o’clock shadow and his intention to awaken stirs my bones. The thought of his face forces me into the patent pleather couch I’d apparently sat on for hours last night, forces the pollution mask over my face. I’m not an addict, but it’s nice to have a little morning inhale coupled with a good think.

Back in the user’s seat. I press the welcome screen and the little anime bunny appears on the inside of the mask’s eye lenses. A series of ads rumble out of the ground beneath the bunny. He yawns and hops on top of one of them. He pauses, screams good morning in Japanese, and after a quick wink, a selection of morning pollutes written in Katakana and Hiragana materializes.

“English,” I say. English I say!

Yeshi opens her eyes and smiles at me. She goes back to her meditation. (Turing would love this!)

The bunny bows at me and a thought bubble appears next to its head: Please wait while I translate. The list appears moments later:

Chapurin Kakashka

Bape Kopi Luwak

Dior Aeolian Deposit

Uniqlo Unko Co-ra

The bunny stands next to the list, bowing repeatedly as he did the previous night. This place sure is lacking when it comes to pollutes. I chose Bape Kopi Luwak, mostly because I’m familiar with the Kopi Luwak, a varmint famous for the fact that people use the coffee beans it shits out to make coffee. Yes, it is almost the twenty-second century and people still fork over good money for what is essentially varmint poo coffee.

Inhale, exhale – I’m the victim. First inhale of the morning and my day brightens. Morning pollutes are meant to rejuvenate, to fill the lung with good toxins and oxygenate the blood stream. They’re not supposed to leave you seeing stars and counting dust mites flittering across the ceiling. Sober mornings are important to the true pollute aficionado.

I let Yeshi finish her meditation session while I slowly settle my nerves. The world isn’t as bad as it seems when a pollution mask is on. Volatile situations are less dire when an intoxicant is introduced. Once, I listened as a UCLA professor declared the never-ending situation between the Palestinians and the Israelis could have been resolved if the UN had dropped thousands of ecstasy tabs along the Green Line, Gaza Strip and in their respective government offices. I can’t say I disagree with the scholarly twit.

A head in my lap causes me to look down. Yeshi reaches her pointer finger towards my mask. She stops at my neck and runs her finger down my chest, over the hill of my (Carloza’s) belly, stopping just above my crotch. She kicks out her middle finger, giving her hand the appearance of an oddly shaped man with his hands behind his back. Using her two fingers, she walks across the space between my belly button and the result of having a Y chromosome.

I should probably ramble about XY sex-determination but I’m not given the opportunity. Someone knocks at the door and Yeshi springs back to artificial life. She reaches into her purse, retrieving something that appears to be a toy gun.

“Who is it?” she asks.

“Hajime.”

“I’ll get the door.” The gun goes back in her bag and she moves to the other side of the room. Seconds later a man enters wearing a basket over his head. He looks at me and bows.

“My name is Hajime,” he says in English.

“Meme,” I say, extending my hand from my seated position. It’s not often that one is greeted in the morning by a man wearing dark blue kimono and a basket over his head. Let the day begin!

TWENTY-SIX∞

Clouds gathered in the sky to watch what would soon unfold. The sun hid behind the cumulus nuggets, occasionally peeking over their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the ensuing action. Tijuana, Mexico. A black aeros pulled into the sky lane on the tenth floor of the El Pito Grande Hotel y Casino. It was time to rescue Nelly and kill Carloza.

Rinchi: How do you want to go in?

Keva: I suppose we should have planned that. There are two options: guns a-blazing or like a pair of ninjas. Any preference?

Rinchi: Ninjas.

Keva: Wrong answer.

Keva opened her door as soon as the aeros hovered to a stop. She swung her grenade launcher around.

Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk!

Two smoke grenades blasted into the aeros lobby, followed by a flash-bang and a frag. “Are you coming?” she asked, turning to Rinchi.

“I’ll move to the rooftop,” the driver shouted to Keva. “See you there.”

Green lasers fire from the open lobby, their beams visible in the smoke. Keva whipped her modified Humgun off her belt and fired six shots into the smoke with pinpoint accuracy. The lasers stop.

Rinchi, who was less shocked than she was amazed, had yet to fire her weapon.

“You are incapable of being scared, droidie, but you can be overwhelmed,” Keva said over her shoulder as they walked.

Snapping out of it, Rinchi swiveled her PHASR around so it was now pointing at Keva’s back. For a moment, she thought about squeezing the trigger and ending it right there, but she needed the crazed assassin for the time being. She followed quickly behind her.

Rinchi: Ready.

“Good, let’s go. Three targets approaching on the right.”

An elevator door opened and Keva launched a frag grenade inside. It exploded; the blast force sent both Keva and Rinchi spinning backwards. Rinchi’s body hit a curved lobby sofa. She turned her PHASR just in time, holding it close to her chest. She stood, shaking her head at Keva, who was now laughing.

Rinchi: Minimum safe distance is not a suggestion.

“You clearly have been sucking dick longer than you’ve been conducting dynamic entry. How about letting me handle things?”

Rinchi raised her PHASR and shot a Lightsaber blast inches above Keva’s shoulder. They both heard a man scream as the concentrated beam tore a hole through his chest.

“Don’t think for a minute you saved my ass,” Keva turned. “Now, if I were a hotel worker, where would I be?”

There you two are!” She stepped from a chair onto the long receptionist desk and fired four rounds from her Humgun. “Did you know that collateral damage counts towards your rankings?”

Rinchi shook her head. The smoke had begun to clear, revealing the damage done by the frag grenade. Debris and patches of blood littered the lobby.

“A civilian counts as three-fifths of a person. Someone with a sick sense of historical humor based it off the Three-Fifths Compromise, if that means anything to you. Most representatives don’t know about this little kill-count booster. Some still have a conscience and try and do the moral thing, the fools – morality is weakness.”

A targeting laser flashed out of a long hallway. Rinchi cut the weapon and the man behind it in half with her PHASR.

“You’re fast,” Keva said, “but you should be fast because you aren’t human. Humans are slow and stupid when it comes to weapons. They’re much weaker than beings like us.”

Rinchi: We aren’t alike.

“We’re more alike than you’d care to admit. We both know what people are capable of.”

Rinchi: I don’t believe you.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.” Keva looked up at the ceiling. “On the count of three, dive left, cover down and aim your weapon over your shoulder. Set your PHASR to stun. One … two … three!”

A four foot section of ceiling dropped into the room, followed by a frag and a flash-bang. Rinchi held the trigger down as soon as the grenade went off. A big bald man with a bigger automatic weapon dropped through the hole, firing blind and landing right in the stun beam.

Keva walked behind him, kicked his weapon away. She lifted him up by back of his collar. “Ah, he doesn’t have any hair to pull. This would be so much more fun if he had hair to pull! No body armor either – you must be an idiot.”

Rinchi stepped in front of the man aiming her Humgun at the spot between his eyebrows.

“Don’t pull the trigger yet.” Keva slapped her hand against the back of the man’s head. “What’s your name, baldy? Oh, that’s right, you can’t talk. I’ll be straight with you – we need a human shield. If there are any security codes, you can clear those for us as well. How does that sound?”

He struggled to speak, but only made choking and gasping sounds.

Rinchi did a quick vital scan.

Rinchi: His name is Manuel Torres. He has a bionic arm and leg.

“Hello, Manuel Torres with the bionic arm! Let’s see…” She knocked her knuckles against his left shoulder. “That’s the winner. Rinchi, stun him again.”

Keva dropped him and stepped back, making room for Rinchi to zap him again.

Keva grinned. “Good, now hand me your blade, droid whore. I was wondering why you brought that and now I’m glad you did!”

Rinchi pulled the knife and tossed it over. Keva swiftly dug the knife into Manuel’s shoulder. “Ah, there’s the spot. I want you to feel this, so I’ve decided to cut your arm off on the you side of your attachment point. That okay with you?”

His eyes filled with hatred.

“Try not to scream, chico.”

Keva put her weight into the knife, sawing it through bone and tissue. Manuel clenched his mouth shut and breathed loudly through his nose. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of registering pain.

“This is harder than it looks!” she said, wiping pretend sweat away from her shiny forehead. “Time’s running out. Rinchi, just PHASR it off. It’s cheating, and it’ll cauterize the wound, but it should still hurt plenty.”

She dropped the knife and stepped back. With surgical precision, Rinchi lasered his arm off and it hit the floor with a solid clunk.

He still hadn’t screamed.

Keva made a frowny-face. “He’s a tough cholo; I’d at least expect a whimper by now.” She took a few steps closer to him, her face suddenly devoid of emotion as the real Keva appeared. “You ready to go, cabrón? Sorry about your arm, but if you’re a nice human shield, maybe I’ll let you keep your life long enough to get an upgrade. Maybe.”

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

Antimeria, Sauria and Lorem Ipsum sat in a private conference room at the MercSecure headquarters. The room was mainly used for viewing assaults-in-progress, but it occasionally doubled as a conference room. A floor-to-ceiling holoscreen projected two moving images. Currently, the three were focused on the feed from Keva’s ocular implant. Rinchi’s perspective was also visible in a small box on the left hand side of the large screen.

The three men had just watched Rinchi slice off Manuel’s arm when Sauria had a hunch. “Lorem, check this Manuel guy out … see where he stands in the organization.”

“Looks to me like another drug cartel thug,” Antimeria said under his breath.

Lorem turned to the screen and said, “Snapshot of male suspect. Cross reference.”

Dozens of pictures streamed by in a carousel. The best picture of Manuel was selected and another screen appeared, cross referencing his facial features to that of known cartel members. A mug shot came up with information about a prison sentence Manuel Torres had served, alongside information regarding the make and model of his bionic arm and leg.

Lorem said, “translate all Spanish data. Look for information relevant to Manuel Torres” position in Carloza’s organization.”

Thousands of lines of text appeared as the computer processed the request. An answer came seconds later, explaining that Manuel Torres was in the upper echelon of the organization.

“Good. Should I say something?” Lorem turned to Sauria.

Sauria nodded. “Carloza’s organization supplies Walliburton escorts with twenty-seven percent of their illegal pollutes. We need Carloza gone, not his organization – this is of course an issue of national security. Manuel could be the guy to take over we retire Carloza. If we don’t kill him and instead, put him in the driver seat, he’ll owe us. Direct message Keva.”

“Message to Keva,” Lorem said aloud.

A green light appeared on the screen, indicating that it was recording.

“Keva, this is Lorem Ipsum.”

She responded seconds later. The video showed Keva, Rinchi and Manuel in a stairwell.

“Talk to me, boss.”

“Do not kill Manuel Torres. He will take over for Carloza.”

“Say again?”

Her feed tweaked out as Rinchi fired her weapon.

“Mission adjustment: do not kill Manuel Torres. Do not kill Manuel Torres.”

“Seriously?”

The three men watched her punch a wall on the video feed. A crater formed where her fist had just been.

“Keva, you have your orders. Stop punching walls.”

“Is that an order too?”

“Disciplinary measures will be taken if you continue your insubordination. Spare Manuel. We will prep him to take over the organization. Install a direct link agent in his spine.”

“Remind her not to kill Noah either. I want my property back,” Antimeria said. “Oh, the baby too.”

“Return Nelly along with her Humandroid assistant, Noah,” Lorem said to the holoscreen. “Don’t harm the baby.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Keva said.

“Those are your orders. Disconnect feed.”

The feed disconnected and Keva shoved Manuel face-first into a wall. She instructed Rinchi to stun the drug thug again.

“Zoom Keva’s viewpoint seventy-five percent,” Lorem said.

The view narrowed as Keva’s viewpoint enlarged; the three men watched as Keva took a small vial filled with yellow liquid out of the pouch attached to her belt and showed it to Rinchi. A small electronic device that looked like a miniature seahorse with two faces wiggled inside the tiny vial. She popped the vial’s plastic covering off with her thumb and pressed the opening against Manuel’s skin.

“Zoom in on the DL agent,” Lorem said again.

The camera zoomed in just in time to see the small seahorse burrow its way into Manuel’s skin, leaving a small red hole.

“Good … ” Sauria turned to Antimeria, who had never seen something like this before. “Don’t worry; it isn’t as painful as it looks.”

“What does it do?”

Sauria rubbed his eyes, as if watching all this was making him drowsy. “The DL agent attaches itself to a person’s spine. It can’t be removed and it explodes on command. Manuel is now working for us.”

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

The Humandroid with the basket on his head turns to Yeshi and says, “I’ve found someone willing to do a data-switch.”

“Data-switch?” I ask, my voice partially muffled by my pollution mask. “What’s that?”

Yeshi explains, “As you already know, if you body-switch with someone, the FCG and other Humandroids will still be able to see your life chip data in another person’s head, like they did yesterday. Body-switching is a one for one swap, you become that person and retain your data and they become you and retain their data.”

“Okay…”

“Data-switching only changes the person’s personal identifying markers. That person is still in their body, but they have your data and vice versa. A vitals scan will make you appear as if you were someone else, but you are actually… ummm… you.”

“I get it now. A data-switch simply changes my life chip information, meaning that I will stay in this body, Carloza’s body, after I’ve data-switched with someone.”

“Exactly! You will still be Meme, but you’ll technically have a different name, at least if someone checks your life chip.”

“So I won’t get a new body, just a new name?”

“Correct.”

“Damn, I hate this body.”

“We can deal with Carloza’s body later.”

An advertisement cascades across my pollution mask’s eye lenses. It is accompanied by a man hopping around in a gothic frog costume. “Well, anything beats sitting in here and looking at shitty ads all morning.” I push the mask off my head. “What’s with the basket, anyway?” I ask Hajime.

“It is a high-level Zen practice. I’m sure Yeshi can explain it later. Even Humandroids have egos that must be abandoned.”

Whatever. I stand, feeling a bit wobbly in the knees. I remember that Yeshi brought me a Soylent bar. I find it lying on the pleather couch and quickly wolf it down. Grainy, green, earthy, organic – the taste of the future.

“Good,” Hajime said, “now that you’ve fed yourself, let’s visit my contact.”

I hate Carloza’s stinking fat body. The thought that I will be trapped in this blimpy body for a bit longer fills me with what could be construed as sorrow. Regardless, a data-switch seems to be the right way to go. I close my eyes, quickly running a search on data-switch tech – nada.

“No hits on data-switching,” I say aloud. “That’s strange.”

“The makers of data-switch technology have created web crawlers that constantly delete information regarding the tech,” Hajime explains. “They don’t want the FCG and other corporate-government entities to obtain the technology. Remember, it is different than body-switching.”

“Fair enough.” I look from Hajime to Yeshi. “Also, where are the weapons you got last night? You never showed me.”

“I have a modded Humgun.” Yeshi shows me the gun. It is sleek, made of a dark gray metal. “This one is for you,” she says as she hands me a small toy gun.

“It’s a plastic toy.”

“No,” Hajime said, “it is meant to resemble a plastic toy. It’s actually made from superplastically-formed aluminum alloy. It uses advanced PHASR technology, appropriated by the Japanese government from the American military. Remember, Japan still has issues with China over several islands. The Americans provide us with weapon blueprints once the tech has been approved by the FCG for treaty-based disbursement. They give it to us, we strip it down and sometimes, we improve upon it. Have you ever seen a PHASR rifle?”

“No.”

“It’s big,” Yeshi says. “It’s capable of multiple laser modes. The most common for law enforcement usage is neuromuscular incapacitation.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

Hajime says, “Extreme stunning capabilities. However, this toy gun model is too small for neuromuscular incapacitation. This one is only equipped with the Lightsaber mode. Plus it is … Kawaii compliant.”

“Lightsaber mode?” I look at the small gun skeptically. “Did you say it was cute?”

“Aim it at the ceiling.” Hajime looks up, scanning the floor above us. “You won’t hit anything if you aim it there,” he says.

I point the small gun at the ceiling.

“Now, pull the trigger and press the button on the back of the gun at the same time.”

A blue beam erupts from the end of the toy gun, searing a quarter-sized hole in the ceiling. There is a subtle vibration with the shot, but no recoil. I quickly release the trigger.

Hajime nods his basket-encased head. “It’s not the most powerful thing, but you could easily decapitate someone with it. Think of it as a lethal laser pointer – aim and swipe.”

“Nice.” I pocket the tiny gun. Aim and swipe.

“There is a metal button on top of the weapon,” he says, “make sure you press this before you put it in your pocket. It’s the safety switch.”

I press the button and return it to the front pocket of my jeans. “One more question: how much is this going to cost me? No one has mentioned money and I’m pretty much broke, aside from the account I have in Brazil and the money Nelly – rest in peace – left me.”

“Yeshi has already paid me in full,” Hajime says.

“I used the rest of the money Nelly had,” she says. “It was worth it.”

“So we’re broke?”

Hajime shakes his basket-head. “You will be until later today.”

TWENTY-NINE∞

Lorem Ipsum grinned. “Hajime has made contact with Meme and Yeshi. He’s with them now. It looks like today is going to be a fine day, gentlemen.”

“Can we see a video feed?” Antimeria asked. He could hardly contain his excitement. It was like he was there, like he was a part of these missions. At least it felt that way with Keva’s live feed.

“Representative Hajime ocular feed,” Lorem said to the large holoscreen. A black image with textured hints of light appeared on the screen.

“What the fuck is this?” Sauria asked. “Where is his ocular feed?”

“This is his ocular feed.”

“Why is it black?”

“His eyes are covered by something.”

“Tell him to take it off!” Antimeria began pacing. “I want to see the bastard that did this. I want to see the terrorist that has caused so much turmoil for … um … for our country!”

“Relax, Anti.” Sauria smiled and the folds of his lips disappeared into his droopy cheeks. “Do we need some entertainment to calm you down?”

Antimeria looked up at the darkened screen and shook his head. “I need something, that’s for sure. To think, I’ll get my property and my baby back tonight! It’s just … one of those days I guess.”

“You seem overwhelmed,” Sauria said.

“Not exactly, this is just a lot to take in.”

Lorem closed his eyes and opened a direct link with his personal secretary. “Company entertainment, two; pollution masks, three. Pronto.”

Sauria nodded. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Lorem.”

“Can we get an audio feed on Hajime? I’d love to hear what’s happening.”

Lorem said, “Hajime is semi-retired. He has maintained his number five position because of the number of problems he solved as a full-time employee during the 2070s. Some of the measures that are installed on our newest representatives aren’t installed on Hajime, including override controls and DL agents. If they were, he’d likely find a way to disable them.”

“That doesn’t seem like MercSecure.” Antimeria sat back down, placing both elbows on the table.

“It isn’t.” Lorem’s bushy eyebrows narrowed. “That’s why this is Hajime’s last mission. He refuses to comply with company protocol; he’ll be discontinued after he terminates Meme. Representatives eight, twenty and twenty-two are in Tokyo now. They are tracking him as we speak.”

“So you’re going to kill Hajime as well?”

“We don’t kill,” Lorem reminded Antimeria, “we resolve.”

Sauria cleared his throat. “Today is a new day for MercSecure, and its sister company, ExEx. It’s also a new day for the FCG, MercSecure’s biggest shareholder. Today we rescue your baby, install ourselves in Carloza’s organization to profit from Walliburton, take down a known drug lord, capture and execute Meme and retire a representative who is holding the company back. It is a good day indeed.”

“What about Yeshi?” Antimeria asked. “What will you do with her?”

“Oh, we have something in mind for her,” Lorem said with a chuckle. “Something that will surprise even you. Shall we catch up on the hostage rescue then?” He turned back to the holoscreen. “Return ocular feed Representative Keva.”

The screen switched to Keva’s feed. “Representative Rinchi bottom screen.”

Rinchi’s feed returned as well.

“Live entertainment will be here shortly,” Lorem said. “As for now, sit back and enjoy the show.”

THIRTY∞

“You are a lucky motherfucker, Manuel,” Keva said as she led the single-armed man up the flight of stairs. Knowing that the main elevator was likely rigged with multiple booby-traps (common amongst drug overlords who lived in hotels), Keva and Rinchi had to figure out another way to get to the penthouse on the top floor. Luckily, they could take the stairs to the floor directly beneath the penthouse. From there, they would do exactly as Manuel did earlier – cut a hole in the ceiling.

Manuel said, “Bitch, you are stupid if you think I’ll do anything for MercSecure or the FCG.”

Keva laughed. “You’d be stupid not to! MercSecure will let you keep your pathetic life. You’ll be the leader of Carloza’s organization, rich beyond your wildest dreams. What’s the saying? Ah, here’s one on iNet: Quien quiera peces, que moje el culo.”

“I don’t want fish you stupid puta.”

_∞_

**Portions of the following conversation took place in Spanish at the same time Keva and Rinchi were blasting their way through the floors below Carloza’s private penthouse. These excerpts have been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

“Looks like they’re close.” Carloza-as Nelly ran his hand through his long hair. “Three floors down now.”

“We need to get out of here.” Nelly-as-Tyro said. She was still in the chair in front of the drug kingpin with a sheet covering her lower half. They had been watching a holoscreen of the mercenaries advancing for the last ten minutes. Carloza didn’t seem as concerned as he should be. His designer pollution mask was pushed to the top of his head, ruffling his long hair.

“The angels of death flutter their wings around my skull,” he said in a melancholic tone. “I can see them now; I can feel the air beneath their wings. Soon. All this will be over soon, and I must make my peace with the world.”

Nelly glanced down at her k-bracelet. She still needed two minutes for her legs to become operational again. She had also downloaded an app that forced a body-switch, if she could find a body-switcher somewhere in the room.

Carloza has to have one.

“Black wings surround me and Lucifer polishes his sharp teeth and licks his bloodied gums. He sinks his poison canines into my neck and I cry out to him in my mother’s tongue, the words my grandmother shrieked on her deathbed – Ay! Lucifer son of the morning! I’ve given you your just dues! Lucifer son of the morning, take me out of here!”

Nelly looked at the Humgun held tightly in Carloza’s hand. He’d been aiming it at her for the last fifteen minutes, rambling on about heaven, hell and everything in between. He was a theological nightmare, a cesspool of delusional creeds.

Nelly quickly logged into iNet and opened a GoogleFace chat window.

Nelly: Noah, where are you?

Noah: I’m one floor down. What’s happening? The doctors left.

Nelly: Have your limbs been replaced?

Noah: Yes, but no e-skin. Also, they’ve made mods.

Nelly: Mods?

Noah: They’ve installed retractable PHASRs on both of my arms, the kind that Humandroid soldiers have. I hate them!

(He quickly sent her a picture of the PHASRs protruding from his forearms.)

Nelly: LOL. They look awesome.

Noah: I’m not a combat droid!

Nelly: You are my combat droid.

Noah: My Nelly, my beautiful Nelly. Have you changed bodies yet?

Nelly: I should be changing bodies soon. Carloza has gone crazy. Death is all around him … or something. I shut down the k-bracelet and I’ve been waiting for the last hour for my legs to reactivate. I’ve been pretending to smoke pollutes with him and I’m a little lightheaded, but I’ll be fine.

Noah: Oh no! What do you want from me? How can I help you? Anything dear!

Nelly: I need you here now, right this minute. Before these two women mercenaries get here. I need you to get the baby. If you hurry, we can blast our way out of here before shit hits the fan.

Noah: So that’s why the doctors left.

Nelly: Sync with the hotel’s video feed and you’ll see for yourself.

Noah: I didn’t think of doing that. Oh! Where would I be without your savvy advice?

Nelly: You said you are strapped in, correct?

Noah: Correct.

Nelly: And you have newly attached PHASRs?

Noah: I simply detest them! They make my arms look like … Popeye! Do you know this reference?

(He quickly uploaded a photo to their private message screen.)

Nelly: Never heard of him. Don’t worry about your arms, they’re retractable. Listen, I need to go … Carloza is standing. Use your PHASRs to free yourself, find the baby, and get up here.

Noah: How?

Nelly: Figure it out.

Noah: I don’t have any pants!

Nelly: Neither do I.

Noah: I’m on my way!

Nelly looked back at Carloza. Tears were now streaming down his face. He set his Humgun on his desk and turned his chair away from her. Her eyes darted around the room again. There must be a body-switcher in here somewhere.

THIRTY-ONE∞

“Almost there,” Keva said, her Humgun to the back of Manuel’s neck. “Keep moving, hombre.” Rinchi was in front of Keva, firing up the stairwell. Occasional return fire peppered the walls surrounding the three.

Rinchi: Flash-bang.

“Watch him.” Keva pushed Manuel into Rinchi and she latched onto his arm.

“Pinche puta androide,” he said under his breath.

Keva looked up the stair well, aiming her grenade launcher through the open space that connected all the floors. Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk!

Two flash-bang grenades discharged above them followed by the smoke grenade.

“Your turn,” Keva said.

Rinchi: My turn?

“You want to get your kill count up, right? Run up there and finish those fuckers off.”

Rinchi silently moved up the flight of stairs. She took Carloza’s men out one by one, locking onto them using thermal imaging via her ocular enhancements. Their thermal signatures stood out against the cooler background of the room, making them easy targets.

As she eliminated the enemy, something about the ease of the operation started to worry her. It should have been much harder to get to the boss of an enormous drug cartel. The people opposing Keva and Rinchi hadn’t even been drug-thug gang-bangers of junior varsity quality.

She zapped another luckless, panicky pendejo who broke cover, dropped his weapon and tried to run. There was something amateurish about the whole shebang, something that just didn’t feel right. Although Rinchi couldn’t quite recognize this feeling of premonition (she’d heard people say the phrase countless times), she could sense something big was about to go down. Rinchi: All clear.

Keva: Wow, I’ve trained you well. Hold position at the top of the stairs, just in case someone comes through the door. I’ll bring our little Mexican compadre.

Rinchi: Got it.

Keva: You are as boring online as you are in person.

Rinchi: Got it.

Keva joined her moments later. She shoved Manuel into the wall, pressing her Humgun to the back of his head. “Is there anything we should know about in the other room?”

Rinchi saw a slight grin twitch across Manuel’s face. “Fuck you.”

“Wrong answer.” Keva cracked the back of his skull with the butt of her gun. “Want to try again?”

“Fuck. YOU.”

Rinchi: I can get him to speak.

Keva turned to her. “You want to give it a shot, droidie?”

Rinchi: Step behind him and kick him in the back of the knees. Hold his arm behind him, and pull his chest back.

Keva: Yoga?

Rinchi: Much worse.

Keva: Maybe you aren’t so boring after all!

Keva did as Rinchi instructed. Manuel slid down the wall and landed on his knees. She twisted his arm to lock his elbow, bending him so that his chest was stretched wide.

Rinchi unsheathed her knife.

Manuel got the message immediately and struggled to get to his feet. Keva put more twist on his arm, pushed him forward and banged his head against the wall before bending him back into position.

Rinchi: Tell him to stop moving or this will be worse.

“I’d knock that shit off right now if I were you, joto.”

Rinchi squatted in front of Manuel, looking at him eye to eye. She’d seen that fear before; she’d also seen how close it was to pleasure. She ripped his shirt open, exposing his tattooed chest and belly. He was shaking now, his eyes filled with terror. She put the tip of the knife in the soft hollow under his chin, pushed it in hard enough to draw blood. Manuel tried to flinch away from the knife by leaning back hard against Keva, who kept up the pressure on his arm. With her other hand she hooked two fingers into his nostrils and pulled his head back against her. She felt him shaking and grinned slowly, savoring his fear.

Rinchi dragged the knife down his torso and he whimpered as she did this, trying his best not to shake. With a flick of her wrist, Rinchi made it clear that the pressure on the knife could easily increase if he moved.

Rinchi: Ask him if he is ready to talk.

Keva laughed. “Tell us what you know about Carloza’s penthouse.”

“Fuck… you… both…”

Manuel was doing his best to keep his cool now. He got a grip on his terror – not completely, but enough to bring his racing heartbeat down some. Rinchi looked at him, cocking her head to the right. It was clear he’d been tortured before. She pressed the knife deeper into his chest and a muffled grunt lodged in his throat. The knife was a few millimeters in now, enough to cause a nasty scar – if he survived.

Rinchi pulled the blade past his stomach, curving around his belly button, stopping just above his belt buckle. She glanced up at him once again, using a look she’d perfected during her time as an escort. It was a powerful gaze that made most men melt; a seductive visage she usually used before gobbling their cocks. Manuel’s eyes went wide again.

Rinchi slowly unzipped his pants.

Keva: The higher-ups are contacting me. They want to know what you’re doing. What should I tell them?

Rinchi: Tell them I won’t kill him.

Keva: Done.

Rinchi reached in and grabbed his cock. She flipped it out unceremoniously.

“A grower not a shower!” Keva laughed.

Rinchi placed the blade next to the head of his penis. She looked up at him as if to ask, am I doing this right?

“Fine!” he gasped.

She pulled the blade away.

The words spilled out of him. “The next floor has a surgical room as well as weapons turrets on the ceilings in the main hallway. There are two elevators. The first is rigged, the second is private. Carloza has one guard whose body is… is like yours.” He nodded backwards at Keva nervously. “Half-human, half-Humandroid. His name is Arturo. That’s all I know.”

“We’ll just shoot through the ceiling. No need for elevators.”

He shook his head. “You can’t shoot through the ceiling. You won’t get through it with the tech you have now. It’s reinforced.”

Rinchi placed the blade just under the helmet of his penis. It was amazing how important this lump of replaceable flesh was to men. She circled the blade around his limp shaft, until it was directly next to a large blue vein.

“There are six turrets! That’s all I know, I swear!”

Rinchi re-sheathed her knife and stood. Keva let go of Manuel, who immediately went to work shoving his shrunken member back in his boxers with his good hand.

“See,” Keva said, “that wasn’t so hard. After all, you work for us now, remember?”

Manuel simply bowed his head in shame.

THIRTY-TWO∞

Apparently Yeshi and I are rich, or at least we will soon be richer than we are at the current moment. Time to make it rain. It’s worth noting that there’s nothing wrong with having no money, unless you live in a society completely dependent on it. Like us. Like you. Like everyone you know. Like everyone who has come before us and everyone who will come after. Just think – at some point, our grandchildren will be in as much debt as we are (unless of course I’m talking to the one percent – in that case, congratulations on your sound breeding and marvelous investments skills). We are money as much as we are carbon and oxygen. Say it with me: our nostrum lacerates our shared prophylaxis.

“The man who is going to data-switch with you has transferred a considerable sum to your Brazilian bank account,” Hajime says for the second time.

“Why?”

Nothing brightens my day like cold hard cash. Money appears to have an effect on my pulse, and I wonder briefly if Yeshi has picked up on it.

Hajime bobbles his basket-head. “The man has been a lifelong investor. I should probably say this: his shares in several mutual funds haven’t fully vested yet – they won’t for a few more years – and he doesn’t want the excess going to his wife.”

“So I’m not rich then?”

My deep and heartfelt sigh seems to fill the room. Yeshi laughs.

“Well, if you stay alive, you’ll eventually be rich. He’s already sent a lump sum to you, which is essentially the accumulation of his dividends for the year. You’ll get this type of payment yearly, not unlike a trust fund. Ten years from now, you’ll have access to his various investments.”

I’m a lucky motherfucker and I know it, even if I have to survive for ten more years until I can really sit atop a pile of cash, shooting lightning bolts from my fingertips at the plebes – a dark fantasy. I can’t wait to join the ranks of those who finger the world – a dark reality.

“Why is he transferring it to me, anyway?” I ask as the three of us exit the room. We step into a hallway that I can barely remember lumbering through the previous night. “Do people normally pay the person they’re data-switching with?”

Hajime shrugs, or at least it looks like he just shrugged. It is hard to see his body in the dimly lit hallway. The basket on his head doesn’t help either. Part of me truly hates that damn basket. Part of me wants to rip it off his head and kick it into the alley. There must be a better way to reach supposed enlightenment, a way that doesn’t involve woven plant fibers.

“Sometimes people pay, other times they are paid. There is no defining trend. I don’t know why he is transferring his investments to you. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Good to know.”

We approached the entrance lobby and a Japanese Humandroid attendant bows to us and says goodbye in a drawn-out way. Hajime turns just in time and whips some sort of weapon out of the opening of his sash. “Back away!”

Yeshi steps in front of me, covering me with her body. My hero!

Hajime says, “You aren’t a MercSecure representative ... ” It takes me a moment to realize the attendant is also pointing weapons at him, a turn of events if there ever was one.

I glance at Yeshi. “What’s he talking about?”

The attendant says something in Japanese and Hajime fires a Humgun blast into the Humandroid’s neck. His body falls, flopping like a beached fish once it hits the floor. The action dissipates before my heart can increase its tempo.

“What was that all about?” I see my reflection in the glass wall and realize how bewildered I look, how shitty I appear in Carloza’s body. It’s best to avoid my awkward stare by looking away.

“He works for a rival security firm,” Hajime explains. “A Humandroid hunter.”

“Who was he after? Yeshi?”

“No, he was after me.” Hajime returns his weapon to the front of his stash. He bows once at his fallen opponent, which seems a bit much. “There hasn’t been a single time in the last five years when I had more friends than enemies.”

“So someone is after you too?” I ask Hajime.

“We have a lot more in common than you think.”

“I’ll be your friend.”

“Thanks, Meme, thanks.”

THIRTY-THREE∞

Hajime’s aeros lifts into the air, away from the sin and debauchery of Shinjuku’s red-light district. I press my face against the window like a child, looking for any evidence of the sex binges I know have taken place. Bingo – a man zipping up his pants while simultaneously vomiting into a recycling bin. My faith in humanity restores itself, Reader. My head swivels from the window to my right hand, which is holding Yeshi’s hand. I don’t know the point in holding hands, but we can get to the bottom of it later.

Like some souped up Power Rangers, we speed in the air towards an unknown destination. Hajime and Yeshi are speaking in Japanese and while I could listen in, while I could install a translation app, I’m way too busy staring out at the city. Tokyo, like a chrome jab in the face; Tokyo, like a futurist’s wet dream; Tokyo, sinking the island under its weight; Tokyo, a ripple effect. The ultramodern city has aged well – if this can be said of a city when viewed from above. Ciudad del Anime stretches east to the sea, gobbling everything in its path like Totoro on a binger. Man-made islands add bread crumbs to the perimeter. Arcing subway lines dip and grow on the outskirts of the city.

The aeros starts to land before I can get a proper view. I almost ask to go up again, to circumambulate the mega-city and forget those who seek to expunge me from the earth, but I ultimately keep my mouth shut. There’s a time and place for everything.

We touch down in front of a home shaped like a wedge of cheese. Small trees that resemble gumdrops reach over a black iron fence. As I get out of the aeros, a dog that needs to be put to sleep barks somewhere in the distance.

“This is it?” I ask.

Hajime nods his basket head as he unlatches the gate. He walks casually to the front door of the home, his oddly-shaped wooden sandals clocking loudly on the pavement. I turn to Yeshi, my sigother, my enlightened being. Hard to admit that something created by a man has surpassed you, yet I truly feel this way with her.

Clark, Dozois, Gibson, Heinlein, Kurzweil, Touring, Vinge and a whole slew of others who have debated the future of artificial intelligence would relish in my Homo machina-Homo sapiens union. For our purposes: I’m in something, maybe love or maybe a groove of comfort that allows me to feel free enough to resist expanding the boundaries I’ve narrow-mindedly created for myself – it’s definitely something, and that will do for now. Thanks, gents.

“Meme,” Yeshi says, squeezing my hand. “Are you coming?”

“Sorry,” I say, almost telling her that I was again talking to the voice in my head (aka you, dear Reader). I step past a ceramic statue of a chunky little man, red with white eyes. His brows drop clear to his nose, an angry mustache curls around his lips and back up to his cheeks.

“What’s the story on this statue?” I ask. True, I could run a search on iNet but Yeshi’s fluent enough in Japanese to know word origins.

“Daruma. A person makes a wish. If the wish comes true, they color in one of the eyes. If their next wish comes true, they color in the next eye.”

I tap my knuckles against the statue’s head. Only one eye has been colored in.

“They’re only good for two wishes?”

She nods. “Yes. Then you can buy another one and make more wishes.”

“Sounds more like a cleverly-hidden marketing ploy than it does a cultural superstition.”

Hajime turns to me. “The man’s name is Takashi Ogawa. Please call him Ogawa-san when you meet him. Remember, respect is very important in this country. He is doing you a huge favor.”

“Got it.”

Hajime rings the bell once and a circular camera under the house’s rain gutter turns to us. I instinctively wave and Yeshi pulls my hand down.

“Behave, Meme,” she whispers with a grin on her face.

The door swings open and a Japanese man with shaggy black hair steps out. He’s shirtless, in an open robe and a pair of Kumamon boxers. He’s in his early forties, but his body is chiseled like a Roman statue. He sees me and smiles wickedly.

“Meme-san!” he cries. The smell of sake slaps me in the face. It is at this moment that I realize I have met my match. I reach my hand out to shake his, but he’s already hugging me.

THIRTY-FOUR∞

“Make her stop,” Sauria said, watching the holoscreen with a disgusted face.

Lorem looked at the screen and said, “Representative Keva. Instruct Representative Rinchi not to cut his penis off.”

A private message appeared on the screen from Keva.

Keva: She won’t. We need info from him. Turn on the audio feed if you want. Your precious cock will be undamaged, sir!

Antimeria was transfixed by the screen, which showed Rinchi’s perspective of the action taking place in the stairwell. He watched as the knife slowly made its way past Manuel’s belly button. While he was no fan of Mexican cartels or their underlings, he was a fan of a man’s right to his own manhood.

“Representative Rinchi audio feed on.”

They heard Manuel say, “The next floor has a surgical room as well as weapon turrets on the ceilings in the main hallway. There are two elevators. The first is rigged, the second is private. Carloza has one guard whose body is… is like yours.” He nodded backwards at Keva. “Half-human, half-Humandroid. His name is Arturo. That’s all I know.”

“We’ll just shoot through the ceiling,” Keva said. “No need for elevators.”

“You can’t shoot through the ceiling.”

They watched as Rinchi placed her blade under the head of his penis, still holding it in her elegant white hand. She began circling the blade around the circumference of Manuel’s member.

“There are six turrets! That’s all I know, I swear!”

Lorem chuckled. “Good work on this one, Antimeria; she’ll climb the ranks quickly.”

Antimeria rubbed his temples. “Yeah, I need to make her move somewhere else though, somewhere out of my house.”

“She definitely has a screw loose,” said Sauria, “which makes her perfect as an assassin, but horrible as a live-in girlfriend. Just buy her a flat, it won’t be very expensive.”

“What can I say? She’s good at what she does.” Antimeria could have meant any number of things but he was essentially referring to sex.

“She should be,” Sauria reminded him. “You know, even I have started to treat Humandroids as humans, especially my Heidi at home, which may turn troublesome in the long-run. It’s hard to separate them from us. At least in every day interactions.”

“Sex.” Antimeria blurted out. “They’re much better than human women. Still, we need to recognize the difference between them and us.”

Lorem harrumphed. “They’ve entered the floor beneath Carloza’s penthouse. They’re taking out the auto turrets.”

Sauria and Antimeria ignored the update. Sauria said, “I almost wish they were less human, like the droids we had in the forties. You know, the ones that were so clearly not human that there was never any confusion. Maybe this is the problem with all technological innovations –the innovation is ultimately outweighed by its results.”

Lorem cleared his throat again, trying to gain their attention.

Antimeria nodded, “Well I need her out pretty soon. I don’t want to – I guess break-up isn’t the right word but I’ll use it anyway –I don’t want to break up with her per se, but I definitely need to rethink her role in my life. I’m going to have a baby soon; I can’t have a Humandroid killing machine hanging around even if she is an amazing fuck. You’re right; I should get her a separate flat.”

“What about Nelly?” Sauria asked. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? You can change your mind, you know.”

Antimeria sighed. “My mind’s made up; I’m tired of her shit anyway. She needs to know that fucking with me has consequences. I’m under the impression you’ll be taking care of that.”

“ExEx has a partnership with a maximum security prison in Colorado called ADX. Everything is good to go.”

“Guys, I don’t want to interrupt,” Loren said, “but it appears as if Keva and Rinchi have found the guy Manuel warned them about.”

Antimeria and Sauria looked to the screen to see a massive man moving towards the two representatives. He was easily the size of two men; his shoulders nearly touched the sides of the hallway. They watched as Rinchi raised her PHASR and took her first shot.

_∞_

**Portions of the following conversation took place in Spanish. These portions have been translated by the author, who was once a starry-eyed apprentice to José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III. Any mistakes are his own.

Nelly-as-Tyro pointed her gun at Carloza. He was still sitting in his chair (in her body) laughing maniacally. She looked at his Tasmanian Tiger pollution mask, wandering if it had something to do with the pollute he had inhaled earlier. Was the masked tweaked in some way? While she felt a little lightheaded, she didn’t notice anything wrong with the mask when she had used it earlier. Why is he acting so strangely then?

It hadn’t been hard for Nelly to get his weapon. She simply uncrossed her legs, stood and took it off his desk at some point during is tirade. It was a modified Humgun, which meant it was also effective against humans. The standard frequency used in Humstun technology had no effect on humans but it could be tweaked to fry a human’s life chip with predictably fatal results. No surprise that this tech hack was illegal; also no surprise that a man like Carloza had one.

“Are you okay?” She needed him alive to force a body-switch. She also needed a body-switcher, which she didn’t currently have.

“All the bicycles! All the bicycles and elks riding them with their angry eyes and cherry red cheeks and scarves dangling behind their bodies! Red pants! Owl-shaped necklaces and teddy bears from Burma! Where is Santa Anna when Texas needs invading!?”

“Carloza, where is your body-switcher?”

He touched his neck and said, “Body-switch? I’m not body-switching with you!”

Nelly-as-Tyro stepped around his desk. The body-switcher was on his neck, which was going to make this ordeal a lot less ordeal-like than she’d expected. Body-switching required both users’ permission before life data was transferred. With the app Nelly had downloaded, she’d be able to force Carloza’s permission.

“Your k-bracelet!” He screamed. “I’ll activate it!”

“Try it,” she said.

Carloza stood with his fists in front of him. “Don’t think I can’t fight you just because… just because I’m in your body.”

“You want to fight now? I thought you were going crazy.”

Since Nelly was seconds away from forcing a switch, she really didn’t want to do any damage to her original body. Nothing was as unsightly as a string of bruises.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, “I’ll trade you my Humgun for your necklace.”

“If you trade … ” Carloza thought for a moment. “Wait a minute, that’s my gun! My gun!”

“Yes, and I’ll trade it for the necklace.”

“You … will?” He looked down. The glint of the necklace was visible in the opening of his blouse.

She said, “Place the necklace on the table, and I’ll place the gun on the table.”

“Yes!” he took the necklace off and said. “No! Wait! No! You’re trying to trick me devil woman!”

They were both anchored behind his desk now, steps away from one another. To appease him, Nelly slowly lowered the Humgun. She placed it on the table and turned the barrel towards her own body. “See?” she asked. “I’ve even aimed it at myself. Now the necklace.”

Almost there …

Carloza dangled the necklace in front of his body. An old Mexican peso hung from the center of the necklace – his body-switcher. Nelly-as-Tyro waited just another moment before rushing forward. Her open palm hit the peso, which she immediately pressed into Carloza’s hand. She activated the force switch app; in a matter of moments, the switch was made.

Nelly had her original body back.

No time to deal with the after effects. Her hand immediately went to the Humgun, which was already aimed at Carloza-as-Tyro’s chest. For his part, Carloza had stumbled backwards, not quite aware of what had just happened.

“Goodbye old friend,” Nelly said. “May you finally meet the God you always sought.” The door to Carloza’s penthouse swung open.

“I’m here, Nelly!” Noah stepped into the room with baby Rebel wrapped in a blanket and pressed against his shoulder. A white doctor’s lab coat barely covered his skinless body made of metal, polythene, flesh cables and mechanical organs.

“Adios.” Nelly turned back to Carloza and pulled the trigger.

THIRTY-FIVE∞

Rinchi aimed her PHASR at the nearest ceiling turret. The Lightsaber beam sliced through the turret, sending a shower of sparks to the floor. The air filled with the stink of burning plastic.

“Stun Manuel,” Keva said. Rinchi turned, adjusted her PHASR, and shot Manuel with the neuromuscular inhibitor. His body fell sideways, his cheek scraping against the wall.

Keva darted ahead, her grenade launcher clutched tightly against her chest. Two more turrets fired at her, their anti-personnel lasers pock-marking the marble floor. She pressed her back to the wall and fired two frag grenades at the ceiling about ten meters away. Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk!

The explosion rocked the hallway; a cloud of debris filled the space with a mixture of burnt propellant and               powdered stone. Rinchi was at Keva’s side seconds later, her PHASR aimed at the next turret in line. She quickly fried it while Keva changed magazines.

Rinchi: Four down.

They returned to Manuel. “Looks like he’ll be out for another moment.” Keva slapped the side of his face. “Manuel, can you hear me? Earth to vato, we took out four turrets. You said there were six, right?”

Something massive moved through the rubble down the hallway. They turned to find a gargantuan man, practically a standing elephant, with a weapon the size of Nebraska in the ready-to-fire position. A visible ocular upgrade was attached to the side of his face, wrapping from the bridge of his nose to the back of his head.

Rinchi fired her PHASR. The blast scattered and dissipated off his body.

Rinchi: He’s wearing body armor under his clothing.

“I got this.”

Keva fired two frag grenades at the man. They exploded near his feet, staggered him back a few paces and shredded his clothes, but had no significant effect on him. Grenade shrapnel sliced snippets of flesh from his forearms, revealing his armored metallic substructure. She fired two EMP grenades. Both struck his center of mass, adhered to his armor and blasted their full charge into him. Nothing.

He smiled and raised his weapon at the two representatives.

Rinchi scanned him – most of the bones in his body were wrapped in reinforcing titanium mesh. He appeared to be indestructible, at least from the front. She grabbed Keva’s arm and pulled her to the ground. An enormous beam, twice the diameter of a PHASR’s highest output in Lightsaber mode whipped through the space they’d just vacated. It blasted an aeros-sized hole in the wall behind them, letting in a gust of cool air from outside.

“Damn that was big!” Keva waved the smoke away.

Rinchi fired a Lightsaber burst into both his knees and his groin to no apparent effect.

Keva: You ready to show me what you got, droid whore? Run into the room to the left, blast through the walls, and come out behind him. See if he is less armored in the back or stab him or some shit. I’ll distract him.

Rinchi: Got it.

Keva: Stun Manuel once more while you’re at it. We don’t need him creeping away.

Manuel was leaning against the wall now. Rinchi zapped him with a stunner as Keva launched a flash-bang and two frags at the monstrous machine-man moving their way.

“Go! Go! Go!”

Rinchi crawled in to the room on the left, leaping to her feet as soon as she hit the door. A quick glance around told her she was in some sort of surgery room now. There was a SpiderDoc on the ceiling and various surgical instruments lying on a rectangular table. She blasted a hole large enough for her to move through. The next room was empty save for a baby crib and some scattered toys on the floor.

Another string of explosions caused the floor to shake and dust to fall from the ceiling. Rinchi kicked out into the hallway, six paces behind the machine-man, who was now holding Keva in the air by her neck. She had one hand around each of his index fingers, pulling with everything she had.

Rinchi scanned him; he was as heavily armored in the back as he was the front except for… She pulled her knife, ran and dropped into a slide, jamming the knife into the back of his knee. Using her momentum, she wrenched it around as hard as she could as she slid past, unhinging his knee. He dropped Keva as he fell to the ground.

Before he could turn to face her, Rinchi jammed the muzzle of her PHASR in the back of his neck and fired. His armored skull blew open when the Lightsaber beam flash-boiled his brain, spraying Keva with brain matter.

THIRTY-SIX∞

Takashi Ogawa speaks in Japanese, laughing as each sentence rolls out of his mouth.

“What’s he saying?” I ask Yeshi. I’m captivated by the man’s warm smile and his handsome features. Data-switching with him may be the best move I’ll ever make.

“He’s complimenting your mustache and belly size.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” Ogawa-san says in fluent English. “I am so happy to see you! Viva la Mexico!”

I quickly send Yeshi a message over iNet.

Me: You’ve got to be joking.

Yeshi: Why?

Me: This guy is awesome!

Real life hits and I began speaking with my head slightly bowed. “Thank you, Ogawa-san, for asking me to… um… data-switch with you.”

“Da-ta-su-wee-che!” He screams in Japanese-accented English. He then changes to idiomatic American English. “The pleasure is all mine, Meme and Humandroid associates. Please, step into my humble abode.”

He graciously bows and I bow as well, trying my best to match him.

Me: Am I doing this right?

Yeshi: Right enough.

Hajime, Yeshi and I step past Ogawa-san. His house is a complete wreck, like a tornado had sex with an earthquake during the sacking of Rome. Japanese toys, bento boxes, ramen containers, shoes, cords, mangled lingerie, crumbled art prints, VE rig accessories, manga comics and sake bottles are strewn about the place.

“I apologize for the mess.” He suddenly becomes very Japanese and bows in apology. “My wife did this.” He laughs. “And I helped her!”

Ogawa-san swings his leg back and kicks one of the boxes in what I’m guessing is his living room. Scooping both hands to the ground, he begins clearing a spot for us to sit in.

“That will do. Meme-san can sit here, next to me. Basket-head and sexy mama can sit across from us.”

Yeshi: Sexy mama.

Me: I was once a sexy mama.

Ogawa-san cries, “Why are you standing around? Sit! Sit! Sit! Let’s get this party started. Da-ta-su-wee-che fo-ru-so-me des!”

_∞_

“Great, now I am covered in brains.” Keva looked down at the fallen man-machine; disgust evident on her face. She examined him with her ocular implant. “This one is even more bionic than me, close to eighty percent. It’s not often that I meet people like that … if you could call them people.”

Rinchi found this comment strange, especially coming from someone who was routinely ostracized due to her level of bionic integration.

Rinchi: How far will you go?

“In terms of robotic enhancements? I’m good where I’m at right now, I suppose. I’m sure a droid whore like you has heard the debates as to what constitutes a human. I consider myself in the gray zone.” They both heard something behind them. “Oh! We almost forgot our little armless cholo. Manuel, are you ready to go, papi?”

Keva walked over to him and stood him up against the wall. She slapped his face repeatedly, each slap growing in sound and power. “It will be another minute until he’s able to walk again.”

Rinchi pressed the end of her boot into the fallen machine-man. The only e-skin on his body was the portion from his elbows down. His brain was still human, evident in the hunks of tissue everywhere, as was his heart. He actually had two hearts – his original bio-heart pumped blood to his brain while his mechanical heart, a pear-shaped device on the right side of his chest, was responsible for his mechanical portions.

It was strange: humans were so obsessed with the layout of their bodies that they designed Humandroids in their image, not unlike the way God purportedly designed humans. Truth be told, the ‘heart’ (eternally rechargeable battery or ERB) could have been anywhere in a Humandroid’s body. Of course, it could be argued that it was better protected inside an endoskeletal chest cavity, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t exist in other locations. Dr. Hewman was to blame – he really wanted Homo machina to be indistinguishable from Homo sapiens.

“Welcome back, Manuel,” Keva said as the man’s angry gaze locked on her angular face. “Are you ready to tell us where those other turrets are now?”

“They’re inside the elevator,” he moaned.

“And how do we disable them from outside the elevator.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It is your problem because you’re coming in the elevator with us.”

Manuel looked from Keva to Rinchi. “Send the droid in,” he said.

Rinchi knew that if it came down to it, the fact that she was a Humandroid always made her the most expendable member of any group.

Keva shook her head. “Lo siento, dickbag. We’re not using her as bait for a pair of turrets.”

It took Rinchi a moment to realize that Keva had just defended her. She glanced quickly from Keva to Manuel, who was equally shocked that the mercenary was protecting a Humandroid.

Rinchi: Why don’t we just blow the elevator cab out of the way and climb up the elevator shaft? It’s only one floor.

“I have a better idea.” Keva dragged Manuel over to elevator. “How about we use you as the bait? Maybe that will help you remember how to disable the turrets.”

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

“Don’t!” Manuel shouted.

Keva pressed his face against the wall next to the elevator. “I’m just going to keep you here until you think of another way to get to the top.”

He grunted. “I have security access.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Keva placed the bottom of her boot against the small of his back. “You really are starting to piss me off, Manuel. Anything else you aren’t telling us? Remember what happened last time you kept something from us – or should the droid remind you?”

Rinchi: We need to keep him alive.

Keva: Don’t remind me. I already have Lorem at MercSecure telling me not to do anything to his spine. I swear the company’s gone soft. Bunch of pussies if you ask me.

“There’s nothing else,” Manuel said through clenched teeth. “I just need to run my hand over the security pad. The turrets will go into stand-by mode; you’ll get your access to the top floor.”

“And what then? Anything else we should expect.”

He shook his head. “Nothing, I swear. Carloza is alone up there – Arturo was his last line of defense.”

Seconds later, Manuel stood in front of the security pad, registering his fingerprints. The system beeped and a low battery sign appeared. “Low batteries?” he asked, pressing his finger against the sensor. “I thought this thing was wall-powered.”

Rinchi: Someone’s already disabled the turrets; probably Nelly or Noah.

Keva nodded and pressed the elevator call button.

“What are you doing?” Manuel backed away from the opening door.

Keva stepped inside and looked up at the turrets. “Looks like we’re good to go. Rinchi, grab him.”

_∞_

“She’s so cute,” Nelly said, kissing her daughter’s soft cheek. “Hi, Rebel, you are adorable … yes you are … ”

Rebel had green eyes and small tufts of curly brown hair, just like Nelly. She was in a girly-girl set of princess PJs, pink with lace trim. This was a side of Carloza she hadn’t expected.

“She’s been quiet so far,” Noah said. “What a beautiful child!”

Nelly’s faithful Humandroid assistant was wearing a white doctor’s lab coat and a pair of foam hospital scuffs. Apparently it was all the clothing he could find. His new body was more muscular than his old one had been; e-skin had yet to be applied. Like Popeye (as he’d said early), his forearms were enlarged due to his new PHASRs.

“Well, we can catch up later,” Nelly said to her daughter as she handed the baby back to Noah. “We need to get out of here.”

“Rooftop?”

“Let’s move. There must be an aeros up there.”

She took one last look at the fallen Carloza, who was now in Tyro’s body. Tyro would never know how far his body had gone, from a therapist’s office to some location in Oakland – Nelly still needed to figure out who had saved her life – to a drug lord’s penthouse in Tijuana. A journey indeed! Still, it was unsettling seeing a dead body.

“You took the elevator, right?” she asked.

“It’s the only way to get to this floor. Oh Nelly! I had to disable the whole system to turn the turrets off.”

“How did you know it was rigged?”

“One of the doctors said something about it during my enhancement operation.”

Nelly nodded. Seeing Noah holding Rebel filled her heart with joy, a strange motherly joy she’d never experienced before. She suppressed the feeling – they needed to act quickly. “Does the elevator go any higher? Did you check?”

“It does, one more floor.”

Nelly returned to Carloza’s desk and took his Humgun. “Let’s go.”

They exited his office, spiraling down the staircase that led to the foyer, past the mammoth head and the Rivera mural, stopping just in front of the shiny elevator. As if by magic, the elevator door opened and Nelly was greeted by someone who looked suspiciously like Yeshi, the Mexican man who’d picked her up earlier, and a woman with long white hair and modded silver eyes.

“Surprise, surprise,” the woman with white hair said.

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

“Before we do this, Ogawa-san, may I ask you a question?”

I’m practically on top of the strange Japanese man. Yeshi’s across from me and Hajime’s next to her. We’re in the spot he cleared on his floor of his living room, amidst boxes, clothing and ancient food containers.

“A question? There is always time for a question!” He laughs, encouraging us to laugh along. “Come on, basket-head, it was funny!”

Hajime nods. There is no way to decipher the expression on his face.

“Why are you data-switching with me?” I ask.

Ogawa-san grew very serious. His cheeks drooped and he appeared to age twenty years in half a second. “My life … ” he began.

I’m reminded for some reason of Tyro, and the reason he wanted to switch bodies with me back in LA. The way Ogawa-san’s demeanor changed revealed the masks we all wear, masks which are heavy and filled with burden. Happy-go-lucky as a defense mechanism, forced smiling as a weapons system – how many people live this way?

“It’s not easy being me,” he finally said. “I’ve made some bad financial decisions for my company, decisions which will bring me great shame. Ha! As worldly as I am, I’m still afraid of shame. Sad, huh?”

None of us said anything.

“The investments I’ve made on behalf of my clients are all going to have negative returns by the end of the year. Suicides will be had. I don’t want to get into it.”

“You are aware … ” I look to Yeshi to make sure I’m supposed to tell him that I’m being hunted. She nods. “You are aware that the FCG is after me, aren’t you?”

Ogawa-san nods. “Of course I am; basket-head told me everything. With the data-switch, they’ll kill me and that will be that. Remember, the only thing we are really switching is our chip’s identifying markers. If a Humandroid does a scan on you, it will register as me – easy enough. Also my holdings … ”

“I’ve already gone over your personal finances,” Hajime says.

“They’re yours.”

“And your wife?”

“She received the divorce papers yesterday.” He laughs long and hard at this. “Ogawa still has a trick up his sleeve!”

“But that still doesn’t answer the question as to why are you helping me,” I say. “Or why you are essentially committing suicide.”

A brittle grin cracks across the man’s face. “Because fuck it! That’s why! Fuck it! Fuck all the things that hold us back, the people that say we can do this or that we can’t do that. I can die when I want, however I want! If you remember anything about me, remember this – my number one prerogative was to live life to its fullest even while I was cuffed to the company. You don’t have to ask my fourth ex-wife to confirm this. Meme!” He reached forward and pinched my cheeks. “Meme! I don’t know you personally, but from the info I’ve gathered from Hajime and your FCG file – yes, publicly available now – I know that we’re brothers from a different mother. A fat whore of a mother with large nipples filled with inspirational nectar-slash-intoxicants that we must constantly sip to maintain homeostasis! Hear ye, hear ye! Drink up cruel world! This is my seppuku! This is the way I go, with the name of a man I hardly know!”

I stare deeply into his face. There is something warm about the crazed look in his eyes, the way his left eyebrow is slightly longer than his right, the paleness of his skin as if he has never seen the sun, the hollowness of his cheeks like an anorexic, his fine black hair nearly shoulder length and full, oh so full and rich and thick! You are a gorgeous man, Ogawa-san! A model citizen in a world of obedient sourpusses!

“Yes!” I latch onto his cheeks. “Let’s switch.”

“Dammit Meme, will you data-switch with me!?” he asks in the way that one would propose to their sigother.

“I will! I will! I will!”

He flips his hand over and shows me his ring. It’s a silver ring with a single stone on it. “Touch it and agree to transfer.”

He moves his other hand to my ear, pressing the sensor under his finger against the spot where my life chip is installed. This isn’t exactly necessary (the sensors in a person’s pointer finger works too), but it will do the trick. I close my eyes and a screen appears on the backs of my eyelids, written in Korean. It’s translated within a second and I accept the transfer.

A jolt ripples down my spine and my body sags forward. I open my eyes – it feels as if nothing has happened at all.

“Wow,” I say, running my hands over my body. “Scan me, Yeshi.”

Her eyes dilate. “Your name is Takashi Ogawa,” she says, “at least that’s what your life chip says.”

“And him?”

She glances at Ogawa-san. “His chip registers as Meme Lamar, a wanted fugitive.”

“We did it!” Ogawa-san pumps his fists in the air.

Before anyone can say anything else, Hajime pushes his basket off his head and turns to the Japanese man, aiming a weapon at him.

“I have the suspect now. Will engage.” A bolt of electricity sears through Ogawa-san’s head, sending his body crashing to the floor.

THIRTY-NINE∞

Lorem Ipsum smiled. “Confirm chip,” he said to Hajime, who was standing over a body of a Japanese man. The man had long black hair and bushy eyebrows. Hajime performed a vitals scan and Meme Lamar’s picture appeared on the screen.

“Confirmed kill!” Sauria said with a wide grin.

Antimeria rubbed his forehead with his long fingers. There was a lot happening on the holoscreen right now. In the smaller feed, Rinchi and Yeshi were about to take the elevator up to Carloza’s office. On the bigger screen, a known terrorist had just been executed. His baby would be rescued soon; his estranged wife (soon to be ex) would also be apprehended. Everything was falling into place.

“We did it, Anti,” Sauria said, “Meme is dead.”

“Great work, Hajime,” Lorem said. “Your reward will be transferred shortly.”

Hajime didn’t say anything. His feed was disconnected and his ocular display dimmed as if something was placed over his head.

“The night just keeps getting better and better,” Antimeria said. “So what happens to Hajime now?”

“As I said, he’ll be getting his reward shortly.” Lorem turned to the screen with his hands clasped behind his back. “Representative Natasha are you en route?”

An image coming from the inside an aeros appeared on the screen.

“Is she a Humandroid?” Antimeria asked.

“No,” Sauria said, “Representatives eight, twenty and twenty-two are fully human.”

“Mr. Ispum, we’re outside now.” Natasha turned her head towards representative twenty, a stocky man of Hawaiian decent. She said, “We’ve been following Hajime since earlier this morning.” Her ocular feed moved to the passenger seat of the aeros. Antimeria could make out the shoulder of a thin man with closely cropped hair. “We’re ready to engage.”

Lorem said, “Engage. Remember, do not destroy Yeshi. Use the data bug instead.”

“Got it.”

“I repeat. Also, keep your feed on.”

“Got it,” Natasha said.

“Data bug?” Antimeria shook his head in bewilderment. “Is it like the DL agent that Keva installed in Manuel?”

“Not exactly,” Sauria said. “The Direct Link Agent is more or less a bomb inside someone’s body that can be triggered remotely. A data bug allows for a subject to be controlled remotely, but it only works on Humandroids, at the moment at least.”

“I see, so we’ll be able to control Yeshi then?”

“Exactly.”

There was a quiet knock on the door.

“Oh yes,” Lorem said, “our entertainment has arrived. Open door.”

Air hissed as the pressurized door slipped open. Standing in the hallway were two Humandroid escorts in lacy black outfits. They were tall, their bodies perfectly formed and their breasts perfectly large, perfectly pert and gravity-defying. On their faces were smiles and in their arms were pollution masks.

_∞_

Noah held the baby close to his chest with his right arm as he fired his left arm PHASR.

Well, sort of.

What he actually did was point his left arm in the general direction of the elevator, screw his eyes shut, hunch his shoulders and turtle up, and with the baby clutched to his chest, half-turn away and lean the rest of his body as far away from his left arm as he could so that he was essentially shooting blind over his left shoulder. He activated the firing circuit with the same cringing reluctance an elderly spinster would feel as she approached a zipper spider in the sink. The weapon discharged and he whimpered and did the owie-owie dance in anticipation of the non-existent recoil.

Noah’s Lightsaber blast zapped through the open elevator door, narrowly missing Keva and Rinchi. His accuracy was due to the installed autonomous targeting array – no skill required.

Both assassins hit the floor before the photons faded.

Rinchi returned fire with a wide-beam stun blast. Keva landed on top of Manuel and used him as a meaty Hispanic boogie board, kicking out of the elevator and zipping across the floor like a Teflon otter on a downhill mud bank. Rinchi was half-a-heartbeat behind her as she kicked out to the right.

“Stay down!” Keva said to Manuel, shoving him to the floor, maneuvering him around so she could use him as cover. With her Humgun, she fired a warning round directly over Noah’s head. “PUT THE BABY DOWN AND YOUR HANDS UP! DO IT NOW! NOW, NOW, NOW OR I WILL KILL YOU!”

Rinchi had moved off to one side and was covered down behind a stone statue of an Aztec Eagle Knight. If Noah tried anything, she would shoot his legs off and take the baby from him once he was down. It took her all of a tenth of a second to determine that Noah was a girlfriend-hairdresser-confidant model Neunbolt with modded arm PHASRs. She knew he’d do anything to protect the baby, so she was ready to ground and pound.

“You are Noah, aren’t you?” Keva asked.

“Y-y-yes … ” He still had his arm pointed at her, ready to blast.

“Noah, point that fucking thing away from me! We’re here to rescue Nelly, the baby … and you.”

“Rescue?” Noah seemed confused.

“Yes. Rescue. NOW POINT THAT FUCKING THING AWAY FROM ME! LAST CHANCE!”

Noah gave a sharp little intake of breath, squeaked “Sorry,” and lowered his arm.

“Okay, good. Where’s Carloza?” Keva asked, relaxing a little.

“He’s … ”

Baby Rebel started crying. “There, there … ” Noah began stroking the baby’s head with his unskinned Humandroid hand. “You stunned Nelly,” he complained under his breath. “That wasn’t very nice.”

Keva sighed, rolled her eyes, and lowered her weapon. “Yeah? Well welcome to big-boy school, Tinkerbell. She’s lucky we didn’t do anything else. Besides, she’ll be fine shortly. Let’s cut to the chase – you’re coming with us. I’ll even let you hold the baby if you don’t cause any trouble.”

Nelly, lying on the ground near the elevator, started twitching back to life. She moved, putting her hand to her head. She took the whole scene in at a glance and immediately reached for Carloza’s Humgun, which lay on the ground, barrel facing the elevator door.

Keva kicked it away before she could reach it. “Nelly, you’re coming with us too.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Nelly asked, glaring at the white-haired woman.

“MercSecure representatives, and is that any way to talk to your liberators?”

Nelly cringed as she sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. “You’ve done a shit job – I already liberated myself.”

Keva locked eyes with Rinchi. “Move to the room upstairs and confirm Carloza’s death. Send the feed to Lorem.”

Rinchi rolled out of cover and made her way up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

“Blast a hole in that mural while you’re at it,” Keva said, referring to the Diego Rivera piece. “It’s too busy for me.” She turned to Nelly. “So, are you ready to come quietly little princess?”

“Come quietly? Am I under arrest?”

“You’re free to do what you’d like, as long as it involves taking this elevator to the top floor with us and returning to America.” Keva looked down at Manuel, who was starting to crawl away. “Señor Manuel, this is where I leave you, head of the organization. Don’t forget about the DL agent in your spine. If you try anything … boom.”

“Good job, Nelly,” Keva said, after she received the confirmation message from Rinchi upstairs. “You saved me the trouble of killing Carloza myself. Now I can get home in time for a warm bath. Noah and baby, move to the elevator.”

“Her name is Rebel,” Nelly said defiantly.

Keva pressed her gun into the small of her back. “Whatever. Don’t try anything stupid, or I’ll have Rinchi laser your legs off. Antimeria probably won’t mind.”

“Antimeria?”

Nelly’s expression changed as she realized what needed to be done. It was a long shot, but there really was no other solution. As she waited alongside Keva and Noah for Rinchi to return from Carloza’s upstairs office, she quickly sent a GoogleFace message to Meme, the man who was ultimately responsible for this mess.

Nelly: Meme, I don’t know where the fuck you are or if you will ever check your messages, but you owe me. I’ve been taken by Antimeria and MercSecure. They will likely disable my iNet access soon. You will find me through Noah (Hdroid #959728). Please help.

FORTY∞

“Why did you kill him?” I shout.

I’m on my feet, fumbling with the tiny toy gun that Yeshi gave me. Sure, it’s pretty simple to use, but that doesn’t mean I am anywhere near qualified to use it. In fact – and this realization comes to me as I point the gun at Hajime – I’ve never actually shot a real weapon before (unless you count virtual entertainment weapons, which you shouldn’t –which seriously, you shouldn’t).

“Put it down, Meme.” Hajime turns to me, the weapon at his side. The basket is on his head again. If he wanted to kill me, he would have done so already. “Besides, the safety is still on,” he says. “I told you, you have to press and hold the button on back of the gun for it to work. Then squeeze the trigger. Also, you should probably find a better place to keep it. Maybe a shirt pocket or something.”

Carloza was wearing a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt when we switched bodies a couple days ago (who’s counting?). I’m still in the shirt and should probably change soon. I drop the toy gun in my shirt pocket and ask, “Why did you do it? Why did you shoot Ogawa-san with … with a Humgun!?”

“A modded Humgun,” he reminds me. “Real Humguns only work on Humandroids.”

Yeshi answers for him. “He works for MercSecure. He had you data-switch with Ogawa-san, and then he killed the man who had your data. He sent proof to their representative headquarters in California. Now MercSecure and ExEx think Meme Lamar is dead, and Ogawa-san got his wish to die.”

It dawns on me what has taken place and my eyes fill with the light of comprehension (or at least I imagine them filling with light). “Two birds with one stone? Damn, that’s clever!”

Basket-head nods. “I’ve known for a while that they were going to forcibly retire me as soon as the next mission came up in my region. MercSecure has done this before. Corporations like these suck a person dry – I’m surprised more people aren’t shriveled before they die, man or machine.”

“So you aren’t going to kill me then?”

“No, and on paper, I’ve already killed you.” He points down at Ogawa-san. “He had your data; you are officially dead. Congratulations.”

“But … ”

“Movement outside!” Hajime crouches and aims his weapon at the front of the house. “Yeshi, take Meme to the other room. It’s me they’re after.”

FORTY-ONE∞

Yeshi lugs me away as windows smash at the front of the house. Weapon blasts tear through the thin walls, filling the air with bits of paper and splintered wood. I scream (yes, like a schoolgirl) and Yeshi shoves me to the ground.

“I’m going to help him!” she says.

“Yeshi no!” I say, latching onto her leg. “You … you don’t know how!”

A small explosion rocks the floor. It sounds like all hell has broken loose because it has. Yeshi’s now at the entrance to the room holding a weapon – it looks like a pistol but again, I’m no expert. She bends at the knee, waits for a moment, and darts into the hallway.

Of course I start crawling after her, afraid to see what will happen next. Of course I’m stupid enough not to stay put, to stay where I am, hidden in some murky backroom cluttered with discarded golf clubs and caddy bags. Of course I’m in the hallway seconds later, crawling on hands and knees like a toddler in search of a lost pacifier.

A sudden pain surges through me as a boot crushes my spine. The air deflates from my lungs; my body presses against the wooden floor. The man is over me a second later, on his way to the ensuing melee. A laser discharges into the hallway through the man’s neck, dropping him like a side of GM beef. A fan of cooked tissue splashes against the wall. Dead motherfucker right there. The slop of his throat drips down the wall creating something that resembles a bleeding rose, abstract violence.

Move it, Meme! I press myself back up to my knees, wincing as the pain ripples through me. Damn if it doesn’t feel as if I’ve been crushed by a bloated Statue of Liberty. I keep my eyes closed as I crawl beside the dead man, as I inhale the smoke curling off his wound.

The living room looms in the distance, so close but so far. I get a view of the action and it fills me with more fear than any entheogenic pollute ever could. Yeshi shoots left, towards the kitchen, and Hajime is next to her with a large gash on his left trapezius, revealing his metallic flesh cables. The basket is off and the look on his face is cold, calculating. No fear present.

Thunk! With the sound of a meat hammer smacking into a rolled rump roast, something hits Yeshi in the chest and she falls to the ground. “No!”

The scream gets lodged in my throat. I instinctively cover my head with my hands. My erratic movement causes the toy gun in my shirt pocket to spill out onto the floor. I look up seconds later to see Yeshi on the ground, dead to the world. My fingers wrap around the gun and I unlock the safety.

FORTY-TWO∞

A woman now stands over Hajime. She’s a tall gamine in a black balaclava with a Khardash-ass and some type of mercenary body armor that blurs her curves. She’s aiming her gun at the Humandroid’s head. In the seconds it takes for me to inch closer to them, she’s already blown off his right arm and taken another shot at his left, leaving it dangling by a fleshy-looking cord.

Hajime says something to her and she shrugs. Realizing that it’s now or never, I aim the toy gun at her neck. Use the gun like a laser pointer. I pull the trigger and swipe my hand, slicing her head clean off. No bloody squirting like a slasher flick – the laser cuts, cauterizes, and her head hits the floor at about the same time as her body.

I toss the gun away, freaked out by what I’ve just done. You murderer! The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth – it’s not exactly something one puts on their résumé. Hajime looks at me incredulously.

“Are there any more?” I ask, my voice crackling over my parched throat.

“No.”

Somehow, I pull myself to my feet and step into the cluttered room, just in time to see Yeshi stirring.

“You’re alive!” I’m overwhelmed with joy. “Yeshi!”

She has her hand on her chest – the same place she’d been shot earlier. There’s nothing to indicate she’d been shot. No entry point, no blackened e-skin, nothing.

Something isn’t right.

“Yeshi…” I say, not comfortable with the look in her eyes.

“Stay away, Ogawa-san!” Hajime says.

To my horror, she points her gun at Hajime and blasts a hole in his face before he can say anything else.

Yeshi turns to me, the blacks of her eyes no longer visible.

FORTY-THREE∞

A Humandroid escort sat in Antimeria’s lap, grinding her ass against the front of his pants while he watched the violence unfold on the holoscreen. All had been accomplished: Meme and Carloza were dead. His soon-to-be-ex-wife and his baby were on their way to LA. The data bug had worked, and Yeshi was now under the control of MercSecure. In fact, at that very moment, Yeshi had just finished blasting a plum-sized hole through (former) Representative Hajime’s face.

“Got him,” Lorem said.

“Is that Carloza’s body?” Sauria asked, intently watching Yeshi’s ocular feed. His pollution mask, a one of a kind Prada mask made from distended skull of an ibex, rested over his forehead. “Tell Yeshi to check his data.”

Lorem said, “Scan target data.”

The name Takashi Ogawa appeared on the screen.

“What’s happening?” Antimeria wrapped his hands around the escort’s waist and moved her to the left. She playfully looked over her shoulder, licking the front of her teeth.

“It’s the Japanese man that Meme switched bodies with,” Sauria explained. “The man is now in Carloza’s old body.”

“I see.”

“What should Yeshi do with him?” Lorem asked.

“Kill him,” Sauria said with a wave of his hand. “We might as well wrap this all up. Besides, body-switching is illegal, especially in Japan. There have been a lot of casualties today; we’ve lost three, no four, representatives. What’s another death?”

“Engage target,” Lorem said.

By this point, Meme-as-Ogawa-as-Carloza was already running in the opposite direction.

“This should be an interesting chase,” Sauria said. The top three buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a handful of scraggly white hairs covering his reddened chest. The escort in his lap slid down to her knees in front of him. “Do you gents mind?” he asked, glancing down at her.

Neither Antimeria nor Lorem answered. Antimeria was too engaged with the escort on his lap and Lorem was too busy monitoring the holoscreen.

_∞_

The MercSecure aeros lowered onto the runway, next to the company’s private hyperjet. Three armed men stood near the aircraft, ready to facilitate the transfer of Nelly, Noah and baby Rebel back to America. Night had begun settling outside the window of the vehicle; the sparkling homes of the impoverished masses glittered in the mountains surrounding the airfield. The lights made Rinchi’s reflection visible in the aeros’ window. She looked deeply into her own eyes, as she had countless times before. Soon.

“Let’s go.”

Keva got out of the aeros first, followed by Nelly and Noah, who held the sleeping baby against his chest. The ends of the droid’s white coat fluttered in the wind as he moved. Rinchi noticed the concerned look on his face and wished she could slice it off. Noah was a pathetic Humandroid, weak, foppish and too complimentary – she’d wanted to choke him on their ride to the airfield. He didn’t deserve his newly modded body.

Keva stopped in front of the airstairs that led up to the private hyperjet. She turned to Rinchi.

Keva: Keep an eye on Noah. If he raises his hands, blast them off. I don’t care if you hit the hyperjet in the process.

Rinchi nodded and stepped back.

One of the MercSecure employees walked up the metal airstairs, clearing the way for Nelly and the others to follow. He took his place inside the jet, ready to put Nelly in the prisoner’s quarters that had been built into the back of the aircraft cabin. The roar of the hyperjet’s idling engine increased.

Nelly walked up the airstairs, her head bowed. Noah and the baby followed. After the droid reached the top, the two other MercSecure men boarded the aircraft and secured the hatch.

Keva watched as though she hadn’t a care in the world, her hands on her hips.

Rinchi: See you in LA.

Keva turned to find Rinchi’s PHASR aimed directly at her. Before she could react, Rinchi stunned her and sent her straight to the ground.

“What are you doing?” the aeros driver standing behind Rinchi shouted. He fumbled to get his Humstunner out of his pocket.

“Stop!”

Rinchi hit him with the neuromuscular inhibitor as well, sending the man twitching to the runway.

The Hyperjet taxied away from the action on the ground. If the pilots noticed, they didn’t care – best not to get involved with squabbling reps. Rinchi unsheathed the tactical knife and crouched in front of Keva’s fallen form. She gripped the deadly woman’s white hair, adjusting her head so the tip of her chin rested evenly on the smooth pavement. Moving quickly, she pressed her blade into Keva’s clenched mouth and pried it open, pinching her nose to keep the mouth ajar. One fluid slice later, and she held Keva’s tongue between her fingertips.

Rinchi stuck the tongue in her pocket and turned to the waiting aeros.

FORTY-FOUR∞

The chase. I’m scrambling through the house trying my damnedest to get away from Yeshi, who has gone mad, who is trying to kill me, whose eyes have rolled into the back of her head, who is after me like a wolverine on crack, who may not love me anymore! Egads!

“Yeshi!” I scream over my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? Stop!”

No answer. It takes me all of two seconds to open the back door of the house. I flop into an alley that separates Ogawa-san’s home from the home next door. My foot connects with a small collection of potted plants, sending pretty little flowers cartwheeling into the air.

A shot from Yeshi’s weapon speeds past my face, dinging into the metal railing of a low hung balcony. I yelp, as if that will do any good. Yeshi no! Please no! I’m too afraid to look behind me, too afraid to raise my hands and surrender. I press into a vending machine and spring around it, my foot connecting with a recycling bin.

Glass breakdances onto the street like a shattered kaleidoscope. Carloza’s shitty fat body isn’t really meant for long distant sprints, yet I’m running again, as one is prone to do when their life is at stake. I turn a corner, narrowly dodging another bullet.

Why hasn’t she hit me yet? The question is the most relevant thing I’ve thought all day. A Humandroid shouldn’t miss – their aim is impeccable. A Humandroid is a perfect specimen – missing isn’t in Homo machina’s repertoire. This leads me to believe that maybe, just maybe, Yeshi is cognizant of the fact that it is me she’s hunting. Maybe she is being controlled by some outside force, some belligerent thunderstorm ready to rain down on my parade. But how?

The alley curves left and I curve with it. An elderly woman pushing a cat in a pet stroller gasps as I huff past her. I’m nearly run over by a pair of bicyclists wearing some ridiculous clothing I’d rather not describe here. A Japanese man sees the ensuing madness and bows his head in shame. The urge to pull his little turtlehead out of his shell and wring his neck waxes and wanes inside me. Violence has never been the answer (but it has often been the solution).

“Save yourselves, assholes!” I scream over my shoulder at all of them, not sure if they understand me or not. Another bullet nearly splinters my ankle. “Yeshi! Stop! Please baby it’s me, Meme! Your Meme!”

Faster you fool! The alley turns into a two lane road. (Of course, there are no cars in the roads any longer, only bicyclists.) I’m panting hard now, tasting blood in my chest. Heart attack imminent – of this I am certain. Thankfully, Father Fear bequeaths me with a jolt of adrenaline in the ass. I hightail it to the other side of the road, towards a lush park with perfectly manicured foliage.

It’s hard to keep my legs going, hard to keep my pace up. I turn and try to pinpoint Yeshi by running backwards for a moment. She’s planted on the sidewalk separating the park from the street, trembling fiercely.

“Baby!” I manage to say.

She aims the gun at my face and I take one final breath.

This is it cruel world. This is it dear Reader. The bastards got to me, the bad guys won. I’ll no longer be able to whisper sweet nothings in your ear; I’ll no longer be able to carry on a conversation with the voice inside my head; I’ll no longer be able to make ranty, overt observations; I’ll no longer be able to cyberstalk you. I’ll never get another blow job, I’ll never take another leap of faith, I’ll never find myself in way over my head, I’ll never again take a sweet intoxicating sip of LoathHunAyaTop. Dammit all!

“Shoot me!” I scream and I fucking mean it. “Do it if that’s what you’re going to do!”

I take a step closer to her. This is it, and truly, I have nothing to live for aside from the woman standing in front of me. I drop to my knees, making the execution that much easier. “Do it.”

FORTY-FIVE∞

“Run.”

To my surprise, Yeshi lowers her weapon.

Do I feel tears coming? Impossible! I am Meme – the brains behind the operation, the man behind the curtain, the digital Pope in the Vatican of e-ink, the do to your gooder, the pressure to your peer, the high to your falutin’, the death to your dismemberment, the la to your ment, the interior to your design, the John to your Paul. Even batty wordplay can’t answer the question: why am I crying? Why!?

One look up at the beautifully troubled Yeshi and I’m reminded why tears are flowing from my ducts powerful enough to put aquatic panic in the hearts of Roman engineers. Her! It’s because of her!

“What’s happened to you?” I ask through bitter, frightened tears.

“Please … ” she struggles to speak; her darkened eyes flutter and twitch, as if some hidden demon moves behind the windows into her … soul. Baka desu ka! I reach my hand towards my irresistible killer.

Yeshi raises the weapon again.

“I’m ready,” I say, giving her all I have.

“Meme … ” The look on her face is one of mixed emotions, of confusion and self-betrayal. Humandroids can’t cry but if they could, this would be the face they made. My outstretched hand touches her waist. Her body is warm and pulsating; she appears to be doing everything in her power to keep it from swaying.

“Data bug … ” she says.

“What?”

“Data … bug … ”

A data bug? The realization stings like a kidney shot. That’s what hit her back at Ogawa-san’s house. She was now directly under the control of MercSecure.

“Don’t say my name.” I whisper. “They’ll know.”

“I disabled … ”

“Disabled what?” I asked through blurred vision. Damn these salty tears!

“Audio feed. I knew what it was as soon as it hit me. Your secret is safe.”

“Yeshi, put the gun away. It doesn’t have to end this way. We can do this together. I want … I don’t want to die without you.”

“Meme … ” Yeshi tosses her weapon aside. With a trembling hand, she takes what looks like a mascara bottle out of her front pocket.

“Stop! We can do this together!”

“M-Meme.” Her face twists into a contorted frown as she raises the mascara bottle to her neck.

“What are you doing!?”

A discharge erupts from the end of the tiny pink bottle. Her legs go limp and she falls sideways, cracking her head against the sidewalk. Yeshi did it for me. She sacrificed herself for me. My arms wrap around her body and I bring her to my chest. There will be hell to pay.

The End

Life is a Beautiful Thing

((BOOK THREE))

Harmon Cooper

Edited by George C. Hopkins

ONE∞

Baghdad, Iraq. Adhamiyah District.

War had visited the city so many times in the last eighty years that it was hard to tell if there was ever been a time that the place wasn’t a bombed-out, crumbling shithole. The Green Zone, long since abandoned, sat like a syphilitic lesion on the west bank of the Tigris River, which should more accurately be called the Tigris Creek due to global climate change. Portions of the street were still lined with Hesco barriers, the remnants of checkpoints from yesteryear. Cratered buildings were as common as stringy clouds, sewage pipes leaked liquid filth into dust-beaten alleyways. The trunks of palm trees – long since split and splintered by shrapnel – created a barrier between the pock-marked street and the blast-riddled sidewalks.

A fifty-year-old vehicle whistled through the streets of Al-Mansour, swiveling around an overturned dumpster with a blackened ring on its backside. The driver stuck his head out the window to drive, as the multiple chips and cracks spiderwebbing the windshield rendered it almost opaque.

Rinchi stood with her PHASR (Personnel Halting and Stimulation Response) in front of the Abu Hanifa Mosque. The mosque loomed above her, painting the ground with a sharp, nipply shadow. One of its minarets was missing, victim of an indifferently targeted mortar round. The pink morning sun sat like a neon bullet wound in the sky, dripping globs of light onto the neo-wasteland as men in full-length robes moved about, not making eye contact with Rinchi, who wore a full burka because of her prominent ta-tas.

Rinchi: Is he done?

Clove: Almost.

She had arrived in Baghdad late last night to work a security detail for a Saudi Royal who was visiting the city. Ironically, Rinchi had met Prince Abdulaziz Ibn Al Omid about six months ago at a RepubCorp dinner party in LA, back when she was still an escort. He was a sweaty sebaceous cyst of a man, with more hair than an orangutan, a man fond of having things thrust inside him. He was even more enamored by the torture of others, a sadist’s sadist. Rinchi and Al Omid had spent a night living out his darkest fantasies, fantasies that would have given Patrick Bateman a raging boner, which was another reason she was wearing a black burka – the Prince still didn’t know she was on his detail.

Rinchi had speed read the Qur’an twice before leaving LA for the assignment. One of the more confining quotes came to her as she stood guard outside the mosque. Oh Prophet! Tell thy wives and thy daughters and the women of the believers to draw their cloaks close around them. That will be better, so that they may be recognized and not harassed. Allah is forgiving, merciful.

Humans and their tiny little imaginations – there truly was nothing like it.

A car skidded to a halt at the gate in front of the mosque. She immediately readied her weapon. While they weren’t as common as they’d once been, there was still an average of ten car bombings a week in Iraq.

A man with a strangely shaped face stepped out of the vehicle and approached the entrance to the mosque.

“Stop,” Rinchi said in Arabic, “and keep your hands where I can see them. Do not come any closer!”

“Ada’tu tareeqi,” he said, showing his hands as he continued his approach.

Rinchi raised her weapon. “HALT! STAND STILL OR I WILL FIRE!”

Rinchi: I’ve got a possible hostile who’s not following instructions.

Clove: I’ll send Monique.

“What’s wrong?” the man asked in Arabic. A quick vitals scan showed elevated heartbeat and increased perspiration in his armpits, groin, and palms. His face was wide, his hair dark and full, his shirt hung from his body like that of a scarecrow. His life chip identified him as an Iranian national, Mahmoud Rafsanjani.

“Keep your hands up!”

“I am lost,” he said. “Can’t a man be lost in Baghdad?”

“Not this morning,” Rinchi said as she stunned the man with her PHASR.

Rinchi flipped the selector from “stun’ to “Lightsaber mode”, and moved the PHASR to the low ready position as she moved to better cover and waited for Monique. She scanned the surrounding area for additional threats as she maintained surveillance on her new Iranian friend and his shitbox vehicle.

Monique, representative twenty-nine, appeared in the courtyard. She was a Native American woman, dark skinned with pronounced cheekbones. A blue hijab was wrapped around her head, the ends of which were tucked into MercSecure’s black battle garb.

She cocked an interrogatory eyebrow at Rinchi.

“He resisted,” Rinchi said with a shrug.

Monique crouched down in front of the man and effortlessly flipped him on his back. She opened a pouch on her belt and took out a single-lensed Leak, which resembled a jeweler’s loupe.

“I didn’t see anything when I scanned him,” Rinchi said.

Monique nodded as she examined the man’s body through her Leak. Her exam complete, she replaced the Leak and retrieved a pair of compound leverage pruning shears. She put her knee on his wrist and positioned the shears.

“What’s this for?” Rinchi asked.

Monique amputated his thumb and pointer finger with no more effort than she’d expend to trim his nails. She shifted to his other hand and gave that one the same extreme manicure. She put her knee on his neck and wiped the blood from her shears onto the man’s shirt. He was regaining consciousness and was seconds away from crying out as she moved away.

“Stun him again?” Rinchi asked, recalling how she had done this very same thing during her hostage rescue mission with Keva.

Monique frowned and shook her head. “Explosive in his GI tract,” she finally said.

TWO∞

Rinchi scanned the Iranian man’s vitals for a second time, seeing biological material in his lower intestine that she had assumed was stool. Whatever it was, it was designed to resemble chyme.

“I’ve never seen this technology,” she said.

Monique didn’t say anything.

“Why cut his fingers off?”

“Detonators in fingertip sub-Q nano-sensors; no fingers, no detonators.” Monique nodded at the man’s severed fingers, which were already drawing flies.

“So it’s … exploding shit? Really?” Rinchi asked.

Monique gave her half a grin.

The man coughed. His hand muscles twitched as he tried to tap his missing pointer fingers against his absent thumbs. He curled into a ball, nursing the bleeding stumps. “Fuck … ” he kept saying in English. “Fuck … ”

“What happens now?” Rinchi asked.

“Watch him.” Monique scanned the rooflines of the buildings surrounding the Abu Hanifa Mosque. The ends of her hijab flapped in the wind as she quickly checked the perimeter. She tensed.

“What is it?”

“COVER!”

Rinchi and Monique split left and right as the Iranian man pulled himself to his feet. Blood dripped from his hands as he took a step closer to the mosque. He fell to his hands and knees, retched, choked, and blew blood, vomit and mucus out his nose and mouth. A long tube of slimy flesh spasmed itself out of his mouth, and gathered itself in a puddle of bodily fluids. The man collapsed on his face, and moaned weakly as he clutched his stomach.

Rinchi was behind the heavily armored courtesy MRAP that the hotel provided. She leaned out around the front of it just far enough to get her weapon on the Iranian.

The flesh tube twitched and moved.

Rinchi: WTF?

Monique: Mobile explosive; semi-autonomous, remote controlled. It’s orienting itself.

Rinchi: I can zap it from here.

Monique: No. Could also be a biochem weapon. You’d be okay, unprotected humans not so much – especially client. Put B-drones up and find the remote operator. I’ll alert Clove.

Rinchi: Affirmative.

She pulled a metal container the size of a cigarettes pollute box from under her burka and slid the cover open. A set of bee-sized B-drones – twelve in all – activated when the touch sensor in the box recognized her as an authorized user. The B-drones undocked and jumped into the air, circling Rinchi’s head like a flying crown of thorns as she issued instructions. Once tasked, they twisted away, dividing their search zone into twelve segments.

Individual video feeds from the B-drones stacked on top of one another in her ocular display. They located the remote operator in less than a minute.

B-drone4: Target located seventy-two meters SSW of Representative two-one-two’s position.

B-drone4’s video feed showed a FLIR image of a prone human silhouette under a multi-layer camouflage net on a rooftop overlooking the mosque. He had a spotting scope and a touchscreen tablet, and was surrounded by empty water bottles and food containers.

Rinchi slaved her PHASR’s targeting system to B-drone4’s feed. The optics displayed a reticle with a blinking red dot at the seven o’clock position. She turned until the red dot was at the twelve o’clock position and elevated the muzzle until the dot was centered.

Rinchi: Target acquired, confirmed, locked.

Clove: Kill him. We have the driver – Monique will apprehend.

The last thing the man saw in his spotting scope was the blinding dazzle of Rinchi’s Lightsaber beam as it blew his head to vapor.

_∞_

“That still doesn’t explain why she disappeared.”

Sauria sat at a gleaming round table next to Antimeria and Lorem Ipsum. An array of rare and expensive foods sufficient to feed an entire African village had been placed on a swiveling platform in the center of the table. The three were at a RepubCorp fundraiser sponsored by NIMA, America’s most powerful PAC and lobbying group.

Sauria had been thinking about Yeshi’s sudden disappearance from the system for two days now. It made no sense. One moment she was chasing after Carloza, the next she had disabled her video feed and disappeared off the face of the Earth. Something didn’t sit right about all this.

Antimeria said, “I keep telling you, the important thing is that Meme is dead. It doesn’t matter if some Japanese guy is living his life in Carloza’s body. For that matter, it doesn’t matter what has happened to Yeshi. I thought we were celebrating tonight, both the good work we’re doing for our country and our recent luck. Nelly is in jail, I have Noah and the baby, the divorce papers have been processed through the new 24-hour Divorce Program, Meme’s dead and you have a direct contact in Carloza’s organization. You won. Relax, Sauria.”

“It feels fishy.” Sauria wore a black Armani suit, blue tie and his antique, authentic, highly collectible, one-of-a-kind Burger King crown to lend him just the right touch of regal dignity. On his lapel was American flag pin with the word ExEx beneath it. Folds of flesh muffin-topped over his shirt collar, which was already drenched in sweat.

Lorem said, “The situation is being looked into as we speak. Our Japanese branch has sent a dozen investigators to the field. We’ve already checked most of the video feeds in the area.”

“That’s the problem,” Sauria said. “I saw those video feeds, they end once they get to the park. That’s it.”

“The Japanese are weird about having video cameras in parks.” Lorem picked at his bushy eyebrows. He was in a blue suit with a MercSecure lapel pin next to a shiny American flag lapel pin.

“Why are they so strange about parks?” Sauria took a sip of champagne to calm his nerves. “Cameras should be everywhere! They help stop things like this!”

The president of the Business Executives for National Security lobbying and consultancy group took the podium. He was a fit man, blue-eyed and with a full head of white hair. He was unbelievably tan, almost the color of a roasted chestnut. He cleared his throat and spoke. “Hello, as many of you know, my name is Connard Branleur, and I’m here today to talk about the Humandroid terrorist threat.”

A few people whispered in the audience.

Branleur continued, “Our investigations indicate that there is a network of Techbacks and renegade humans funding and building Humandroids to dismantle the New Global Peace Strategy enacted into law by the FCG in 2080. The NGPS has led to the capture of nearly sixty thousand known and suspected terrorists in the last three years. Of these sixty thousand, nearly three-fourths have been permanently neutralized after information extraction.”

The audience roared with approval. Antimeria looked over at Sauria and smiled. “See, things are looking up … ”

There are many factors involved in the implementation of the NGPS’s ten year strategy. In co-operation with the Department of Aggressive Defense, patriotic companies such as MercSecure, Executive Executions and Walliburton’s Special Counter-Terrorism Action Group have been working hand in hand with weapons manufactures like BoeLockheed, Sturm, Ruger and Colt, Raytheon Shack, Remington-RanXerox and Dillon Aero under guidance provided by the FCG, Business Executives for National Security, NIMA, key RepubCorp Party Members and media relations covered by R. Murdoch’s Global News Enhancement Team. Remember ladies and gentlemen, news happens whether we manipulate it or not. It’s better to be in the saddle than under it.”

More applause. Connard Branleur was on fire.

He placed his arms on the podium, gripping it to show just how serious he was, just how important his next point would be. “All that being said, ladies and gentlemen, there is a threat we have completely overlooked, a threat which has the potential to do greater harm to the peace and revenue generating capacity of organized society than any simple terrorist network ever could. That threat?”

He paused for dramatic effect, sweeping the audience with his gaze as he carefully enunciated the next three words. “The Humandroid terrorist.”

THREE∞

Meme here.

MercSecure’s Japanese branch in Shinagawa is not the place I expected to be two days after Yeshi disabled herself with a Humgun disguised as a mascara bottle. I’m posted up in a hooded sweater in front of a Doutor coffee shop, scanning the entrance to the building through a pair of borrowed Leaks. FYI – Carloza’s stuffed enchilada body has yet to be replaced, something I’m not exactly happy about.

A Tokyo drizzle lashes against the window. All the raindrops, all the raindrops. If only water from the sky could wash away the day, if only it hadn’t come to this. The rain does nothing for my howling brain. My impedimenta is self-created, self-actualizing, self-convicting. I’ve become what I was once falsely accused of being. Still, life is a beautiful thing, or should I say, beautiful enough to warrant a tagline.

Thar she blows.

I watch calmly as two MercSecure representatives powerwalk into the main lobby. The sticks up their asses are evident through their garments. Thatcher ass-scratchers. My Leaks have been modded to allow me to see company rankings alongside vitals. With the glasses on I can see their hearts beat in their chests, their little pea-brains, their lungs inflate and deflate. These two are underlings, worker bees simply feeding the queen.

Down with the queen – something that should have been uttered at the dawn of humankind.

The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. The narcissistic truthsayer doth wallow with the bends. I am Meme the righteous imprecation; the furnace that is my belly is piping hot, vying for foes to singe, minds to envenom.

Reader –the surprise attack is imminent. MercSecure has brought it upon themselves by transmuting a therapist into a terrorist. It officially takes one to know one, I suppose. They’ve made me a murderer.

From Therapist to Terrorist: A Memoir. It would be a bestseller on EBAYmazon.

I take quick sips from a cup of coffee, listening to the rain pitter-patter against the floor-to-ceiling glass window as I nibble on the corner of a sushi-infused biscotti, the worst thing I’ve had in ages but fuck it, we all need carbs. I’ve never thought of myself as an insurgent, but I suppose new labels are why we invent labels in the first place. The glass slipper doesn’t fit yet, but it will over time.

Focus old pal – I keep scanning the crowd, waiting for my target to appear. She’ll be here soon enough.

Here I come, Aya Hayashi, here I come.

FOUR∞

Just the lady I’m looking for. I watch as Aya Hayashi purchases a cup of coffee at Doutor. She’s dressed conservatively, twitchy in the way that many Japanese women are. No idea what’s in the water over here, but I’ll stick with my pollutes.

Me: She’s leaving Doutor now, heading to the main elevator through the lobby.

Yeshi: I’m on it.

Yes, Yeshi is alive and well after zapping her lights out with her mascara bottle-shaped Humgun. Seconds before disabling herself back at the park, she sent me a message that contained Madoka’s address (the weapons dealer who once employed the Humandroid Hajime the basket-head). Madoka was able to reboot Yeshi, making a rare appearance from his upstairs bedroom. The rest, as they say, is history.

Her hard reboot along with the installation of a few custom apps took almost a day, and I stayed clear of pollutes for once (yes, a first, thank you very much) and decided to go through my GoogleFace and iNet messages to see who had contacted me.

A disturbing message from Nelly is the reason I’m in Shinagawa – Meme, I don’t know where the fuck you are or if you will ever check your messages, but you owe me. I’ve been taken by Antimeria and MercSecure. They will likely disable my iNet access soon. You will find me through Noah (Hdroid #959728). Please help.

If only she had said, help me Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope …

Me: Link me to your ocs. Enable audio.

Yeshi’s video feed appears in my Leaks. I watch as she follows the Japanese woman into the elevator and stands at the back. The thought crosses my mind that using this feature would be great for sex. I let the thought slip away, to be stored in some dark corner of the mind. Nothing like suppressing one’s feelings.

I send a message to Madoka, our weapons dealer friend. (Well, friend may be a stretch, but at least we share a common goal – revenge.)

Me: She’s in.

Madoka: Disabling all video feeds in the building. Yeshi has exactly one minute.

Me: One minute, Yeshi.

Yeshi: Got it.

The elevator begins its ascent. I can see the back of the woman’s head from my (Yeshi’s) perspective. There are two black-suited men in the elevator; one of them eyes Yeshi, his gaze lingers on her generous rack. He evaluates her, erroneously determines she’s not a threat, and goes back to watching the floor numbers light up.

Me: Are they MercSecure?

Yeshi: Of course. Low-level security staff.

Me: What are you going to do?

Yeshi: Watch and learn.

Yeshi’s oversize purse slides off her shoulder to the floor. She crouches to pick it up and in the interval between one heartbeat and the next launches herself at suit number one on her left, her elbow leaving a visible indentation in the side of his head. His bowels and bladder let go as he hits the floor.

She pivots out of her elbow strike, grabs the woman by her lapels and throws her into suit number two just as his weapon clears the holster. Yeshi peels the woman off of the suit and throws her against the back of the cab, hard enough to stun her. She traps suit number two’s gun hand under her arm, and with her other hand grabs his face like a bowling ball and hammers his head one, two, three times into the wall. She unhooks her hand from his face and he slides down the wall and settles in a heap like a sack of doorknobs.

His weapon thunks against the floor.

Yeshi tosses her hair, smooths her clothes, and smiles down at the weeping Japanese woman cowering in the corner. With one hand, she grips the woman around the neck and dead lifts her, pinning her against the wall with her toes dangling in the air. “Do exactly as I say if you want to live … ”

The woman nods, trembling with fear.

Yeshi releases her. “Press the button for the top floor,” she says in Japanese.

“I don’t have access,” the woman says in English.

“Don’t worry about that.”

The woman does as instructed, canceling her MercSecure floor by registering her fingertip.

Me: Madoka, enable access to the top floor.

Madoka: Enabled.

Me: Yeshi, you’re good to go.

She brandishes a small vial filled with yellow liquid and something inside that resembles a seahorse. “Have you ever heard of a DL agent? Good, don’t squirm.”

Yeshi pins her against the wall with her forearm and presses the vial into Aya Hayashi’s upper arm. The woman chokes back a sob as the DL agent wiggles through her flesh.

“Accept a direct message from Anonymous One,” Yeshi hisses at the woman. As soon as she does, I send a pre-written message in Japanese.

Me: Konnichiwa, Aya Hayashi! I am Anonymous One. After Representative Anonymous Two gets off on the top floor, you will behave normally and return to your office as if nothing has happened. You will find and transfer any and all the information MercSecure has on Nelly Mercer-Dodson, former wife of Antimeria Dodson to this secure link http://eepurl.com/bj9W25 d – You have fifteen minutes to accomplish this or the DL agent detonates. If the information is incomplete, corrupted, or booby trapped, the DL agent detonates. If you fail to respond to any future communications from Anonymous One, the DL agent detonates. Are we clear?

FIVE∞

The elevator opens onto the top floor, which is an exclusive aeros parking garage. Note – I’m still receiving feed from Yeshi’s ocs, which means I’m privy to everything she sees. (I almost feel as if I’m playing some type of first-person shooter in a dive vat, lost in some Proxima World.) It’s weird seeing her hands in front of me, seeing the action play out from her perspective. I wish I were as badass as my sigother.

Anticlimactic action sequence – Yeshi drags both men out of the elevator. She turns and says something to Aya Hayashi. The woman bows, still trembling.

Me: Get the gun.

Her foot prevents the elevator door from closing. She steps inside the elevator again, as Aya Hayashi shrinks into a corner. Yeshi retrieves the weapon and stows it in her shoulder bag. Suit number two recovers enough to attempt to crawl away. Whumpf! She kicks him in the solar plexus and he loses interest in anything but trying to breathe.

Me: What are you going to do with the guards?

Yeshi: They do complicate things.

Me: Are you going to kill them?

Yeshi: Not my forté.

Me: Then what?

Yeshi takes both men by the collar and drags them over to a black Lexus aeros. The elevator door shuts behind her, sending Aya Hayashi on her way.

Me: You taking them somewhere? We need to get to the station …

She opens the door of the Lexus, tosses the first man inside. She throws the other on top of him, slams the door shut.

Me: Going for a joyride?

Yeshi ignores my message. She opens the driver’s side door and gives the autopilot instructions in Japanese. The system responds and the aeros starts. A wall on the opposite side of the private parking space twists open, forming a slot just big enough for the aeros to fit through. The vehicle rises into the air, exits the parking area and smoothly merges with traffic.

Yeshi: I’ve used the emergency controls to override the vehicle’s central command. It is taking them to a hospital in Kyoto, which should take five hours or so to reach.

Me: And they can’t get out?

Yeshi: I locked the command.

Me: Didn’t know you could do that…

Yeshi: I am an entity of many talents. Madoka, disable all alarms on the fire escape.

Madoka: Done. Has the information been transferred yet?

I quickly check the private link that I sent Aya Hayashi.

Me: The files are uploading now. I can’t believe this is working!

Madoka: As soon as it’s there, I’ll trigger all the fire sprinklers and override the power grid. This will add some chaos to the mix.

SIX∞

The Saudi Prince stormed back and forth in the suite at the Rashid Hotel, one of the oldest and longest surviving hotels in Iraq. The Rashid was unique in its design, easily the tallest building in the disheveled city. It was shaped like one of the swords at the Unknown Soldier’s monument, sharp and curved, thrusting into the sky.

The symbolism was lost on no-one.

Handsomely decorated blast walls and minaret-shaped weapons turrets surrounded the hotel. A stylishly designed encircling dry moat was complemented by an actual wet moat – a most ostentatious display of wealth and fresh water, especially in a place where potable water was hard to obtain. The outlying Hesco barriers and Khomeini gates were tastefully hidden from the guest’s view by carefully tended greenery, which in turn concealed the machine gun positions that covered the approaches with interlocking fields of fire. The Rashid Hotel claimed to be the best-defended building in the country. It was also a pleasant place to stay for those who could afford it, recently rated four-and-a-half stars in the Michelin-Hankook guide.

“How the fuck did he even get close?” Al Omid shouted for the hundredth time. The Prince was already upset about the fact that he’d been assigned two female MercSecure representatives. He hadn’t explicitly said it, but it was clear he thought the two women were at fault.

“From what we’ve been able to uncover, he was smuggled in several days before.” Clove answered for Monique and Rinchi.

The Prince punched his fists together. “Smuggled in? This doesn’t happen! This… this has never happened with your company before!”

Rinchi scanned his vitals, watching as his heart rate increased. She remembered how brutal Al Omid had been to her in LA. As an escort, she’d grown used to the demented and violent nature of men (especially men from the more sexually-repressed regions of the world like the Middle East and India). Still, the Prince was especially barbarous; it had taken an entire day for the Humandroid Maintenance and Repair technicians to repair the damage he’d inflicted on her during their salacious encounter.

It would be nice to kill him.

“There was nothing we could do about it.” Clove was Monique’s brother, representative thirty-one. He was broad-shouldered and quite serious. His skin was a shade lighter than his sister’s and he was a clean cut, the lower half of his body had been replaced with cybernetic prostheses.

Al Omid continued pacing in front of his bed, his feet practically leaving a scrape mark against the floor. He wore a white keffiyeh tied off with a thick black agal. His hairy body was covered by a matching thawb, a one-of-a-kind piece made for him by Ralph Lauren of Arabia. “One of you … ” he glared at the three representatives. “One of you needs to get as much information as you can out of the prisoner before I … deal with him.”

The unfortunate driver and would-be martyr from earlier was locked in a cellar beneath the Rashid Hotel, which wasn’t a service the hotel normally provided for their clientele. Being one of the most powerful men in the Middle East had its advantages.

Clove: Who wants to interrogate?

Rinchi: That’s my specialty.

“She’ll take care of it.” Clove nodded at the Humandroid.

Al Omid nearly spat on the ground. “Her? She’s the weakest of the three of you! What’s her ranking?”

“Two-hundred twelve,” the Prince’s assistant said from across the room.

“This is beside the fact that she is a woman. I assumed … ” his voice dropped as his eyes fixated on Clove. “I assumed you’d be taking care of it as the man in charge.”

Clove said, “Your opinions, prejudices and assumptions are of no importance to me. Rinchi is the most qualified; she will conduct the interrogation.”

The Prince’s mouth dropped upon hearing her name. He locked eyes with Rinchi, who was still wearing a black burka that exposed only her eyes.

“Wh-what did you say her name was?” he asked.

“Rinchi,” Clove repeated.

“Nice to see you again, Al,” Rinchi grinned. “What’s it been? Six months?”

“Al? You will not address me in that way! You can’t … ! You are just a … !” he turned away from them to hide his righteous outrage and indignation. “Fine, go!” he said over his shoulder, seething. “But do not kill the man. DO NOT kill him! I have … plans for him.”

Rinchi handed her weapon to Clove and exited the room. An immaculate hallway led past a string of Al Omid’s personal security detail. Paintings of an Iraq once upon a time hung from the walls, constantly reminding hotel guests that the city wasn’t always a shithole.

“Where are you going?” one of the men demanded in Arabic. He was a burly man, with a cybernetic arm. He barred her path as he waited for her answer. She locked eyes with him, and he blinked at what he saw there. His mouth opened, closed and he backed out of her way.

She took the elevator the bottom floor and was greeted by the concierge, a Humandroid. “As-salāmu “alaykumā,” he said.

Rinchi didn’t say anything about the gender he chose in his Arabic phrase. There was no point in arguing with a sexist Neunbolt. “Take me to the cellar.”

“As you wish,” the droid said curtly.

She followed the concierge into the kitchen, past a sous-chef butchering an enormous carcass. In the center of the kitchen, a visibly distressed French chef put the finishing touches on an elaborate crepe dish. Negative waves radiated off him like gamma radiation from the Chernobyl melt-down – it was clear that he was unhappy with his situation.

The concierge stopped in front of a single door, a few paces away from an enormous refrigerator unit. “Shall I accompany you?” he asked in a clipped voice. His behavior struck Rinchi as odd; it was always interesting how much Humandroids adapted to their current environment.

“No, you shall stay right here and wait for my return. Is there another key?”

“There is.”

“If you hear any screaming, stay put,” she instructed the droid. “Don’t let anyone into the cellar, and don’t let anyone out but me.”

SEVEN∞

A celebration is in order – Aya Hayashi didn’t call my bluff! I’m sitting on the train next to Yeshi, Anonymous Two, her bangs a mess on her forehead yet looking hella fine as always. Outside the window, the Tokyo underground whips by in a wide array of colors.

Me: I still can’t believe she didn’t check the DL agent.

Yeshi: How could she have known to? Madoka was right. We now have the info we need, Anonymous One :-p

Me: That name makes me seem light-years cooler than I really am.

Yeshi: I agree whole-heartedly, Doc.

Me: Ouch.

I open a new window over iNet to review the data regarding Nelly’s location. She’s in the Alcatraz of the Rockies, a federal prison that houses the most dangerous criminals known to the FCG. The ADX (Administrative Maximum Facility) has separate male and female facilities, with a combined population of more than two thousand inmates. The place is as impenetrable as a paranoid, fascistic, dehumanizing Corporate Government can have it made– a Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea writ small.

Me: It’s going to be damn near impossible to get her out of there.

Yeshi: I was unaware that Sauria was that powerful. To have her placed in a federal maximum security prison without even the hint of a due process …

Me: ExEx is one of the biggest supporters of the RepubCorp party. The second largest supporter is the ACC, the American Corrections Corporation, which runs most of the prisons in the country. These guys give each other the courtesy of a reach-around all the time.

Yeshi: What humans have created never surprises me.

Me: And we would create so much more if we were given the chance. It only takes a quick glance over the twentieth century to confirm this.

The subway train slides to a halt and I smile at Yeshi. We are the new Bonnie and Clyde, fighting against a corporate entity that has overstepped its boundaries. (I agree, Reader, this thought is delusional, but let me savor it if you will. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.)

“What’s next?” I ask as we step off the train.

“Next we speak to Noah.”

“Before we do that, I have two requests. I want a new body and I need … ummm … I mean I want to relax tonight over some Loathing Hunter with an Ayahuasca Topper.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” she asks, and thankfully, there is no sarcasm in the way she asks this.

Me: I need a little Meme-time to wrap my mind around what we are about to do. It is essentially suicide going up against the FCG …

“Yet we’ve done pretty well so far,” she said, squeezing my hand.

“That doesn’t mean things are going to get any easier.”

“Do whatever you’d like tonight, Meme. I have some plans too.”

“You do?” I ask, watching her slide in front of me.

“Yes, and I think they’ll surprise you.”

EIGHT∞

Rinchi entered the private suite at the top of the Rashid Hotel; blood speckled her hands and face and the front of her burka. Prince Al Omid sat on a lavishly cushioned chair with his closest advisor hovering over him. He treated Clove and Monique to a scowl that would have made his any of his toadies and sycophants soil themselves in fear; the sibling reps remained impassive.

“Well?” he asked, tapping his sandaled foot impatiently.

She ignored the Prince and addressed Clove. “He was nobody; he knew nothing. He wasn’t after our client here in particular; any of the Saudi Royals would have done. Saudi airstrikes killed most of his family – he was just out for some payback. The guy on the roof was his cousin; he’d been camping up there for days. They got Prince Al’s itinerary from a friend who works near the mosque. They’d been preparing for his arrival for days.”

The Prince gave a heavy and theatrical sigh. “Fine, fine. Have him brought to me.”

“If you want, but I killed him,” she said with a shrug. Even with her burka on, Al Omid could tell she was smirking.

“You did … what!? Why in the FUCK did you do that!?”

“So that you couldn’t kill him. The only thing worse than a spoiled child is a spoiled man-child with a rich, powerful family to bail his fat ass out of trouble and clean up his messes.”

Clove and Monique cut eyes at each other, but remained silent.

“You … you stupid, stupid … infidel WHORE! I wanted him! I did! Me! You were ordered not to kill him!” He was working himself up into a fine, plum-faced temper tantrum. His advisor and serving staff backed away, trying to become invisible. The three MercSecure representatives were unimpressed. “You weren’t supposed to kill him!”

“Yes, but I did. Deal with it. I successfully extracted the information we required.” She turned to Clove, “Are we done here?”

Al Omid shut his temper tantrum down like he’d flipped a switch. He could take his frustration out on his serving staff on the flight home. His eyes narrowed as he took a deep, angry breath that shook his fat frame. “Fine. This is not the end of this.”

He turned to his assistant and said, “Saad, I will be leaving this afternoon. Alert the aircraft and arrange for transport to the airport. I’m suddenly weary of Baghdad and I am most displeased with the service MercSecure has provided. The company has deteriorated quite significantly … ”

Clove: Fuck this guy! Should we leave now? Let him fend for himself?

Monique: Breaks our contract.

Clove: Rinchi?

Rinchi: He’s a giant twat.

Clove: Agreed!

Rinchi: But we should see him to the airport. Follow protocol.

Clove: Speaking of airports, you’re not going to zap us in the back and cut our tongues out once we get there, are you?

Rinchi: You’ve heard about that?

Clove: Everyone has. No one fucks with Keva. No one.

Rinchi: She had it coming.

Al Omid sensed that they were ignoring him. His voice rose. “ … and I want you to tell our partner at MercSecure that I never want to see that,” he pointed at Rinchi, “again! The fact that a prestigious company like MercSecure would hire something like that, a monstrosity like that, goes to show that the Americans are getting soft and complacent. They’ve really let me down with this one. Really.”

Rinchi unsheathed her knife.

“What will you do?” He asked, baring his teeth at her. “I’ll have you… I’ll have you terminated in a heartbeat you mechanical whore! You soulless TOOL of SHAITAN!”

Monique: Rinchi, stand down NOW!

Rinchi threw her knife with a swift underhand motion. The knife lodged between his arm and his flabby torso, pinning his gown to the chairback. The Prince screamed like a sissy; a wet spot sprouted at his crotch.

Nobody moved save Rinchi. Stepping over to his chair, she placed her knee on the Prince’s wet spot and pushed hard into his inadequate man-parts. Taking her knife out of the chair, she went nose-to-nose with the Prince.

“You fear pain, Your Highness; you fear death. I do not, and that is the difference between us. This makes me a force to be reckoned with. For your own safety, do not fuck with me again.” She moved back and sheathed her knife.

Al Omid fell to the ground and scrambled to get behind his assistant. Still on his knees, he peered out from behind him like a toddler playing peek-a-boo. His face purpled; veins stood out in his neck and spittle flew from his lips as he bellowed, “Get OUT! All of you! OUT NOW! GO!” he screamed hoarsely. The man tried to stand, but his knees got caught in his flowing gown. “Out!”

Clove: What the FUCK was that, Rinchi?

Rinchi: A warning.

Clove: Go to the airport on your own. You can sweep the perimeter before we arrive. Have the concierge arrange a ride. We’ll try to sort this out.

Rinchi: Is that an order?

Clove: Does a ladyboy piss standing up?

NINE∞

I know I should be thinking about how I’m going to rescue Nelly, but even Batman needs a night off. (Yes, Batman still exists in 2083. In fact they just released a new movie in which he fights Bizarro Superman for I think the ninth or tenth time in cinema history. Yay originality. There is supposedly a controversial scene in which he cuddles in the Batcave with Zombie Robin – I don’t know how explicit the scene is, but it has caused some uproar. For those living under a rock – the late twenty-first century is defined by movie remakes. I really wish I could share a link for the Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back remake that they just finished this year. Alas, while I may be immortal, you are mortal, and it isn’t exactly easy for me to transfer a data file backwards through time. While neither distance nor time is concrete, they are heavily tied to the location from which one observes them. I think Einstein thought that.)

Egads! Enough with the ruddy spacetime continuum and its ever perplexing spin on our piddling lives. Back to the topic at hand – Loathing Hunter with an Ayahuasca Topper. Where do pollutes fit on Maslow”s hierarchy of needs? Muy flojo existence to follow. How am I different from Schrödinger’s cat? Dead and alive one hundred percent of the time, yo.

Setting – I am on the third floor of Madoka the weapon dealer’s place, in his library of sorts, between Madoka (who lives or hibernates on the second floor) and his girlfriend, whom I’ve yet to meet. I’m assuming she is as pale as Madoka, who makes ghosts look vibrant. As for my Humandroid girlfriend Yeshi, she has stepped out and I am about to step in.

The mask is already on my face. It’s your standard Japanese pollution mask (Moso bamboo with retractable pollute dispensers and head straps that adjust themselves automatically), but at least this one has been modded as not to show any advertisements. I don’t think I can handle another cute image trying to sell me some sort of colon-cleansing product.

Pale as a pear but more of a peach, Madoka was able to procure some Loathing Hunter Special Reserve for yours truly. The Special Reserve doesn’t have as much Ayahuasca as some freshly made stuff (which as far as I can tell is only available in LA), but it will do. Again, it’s been two days since my last toke so … we’ll see how it goes.

I turn to the machine and adjust the distributor dial, allowing for the maximum distribution amount. A frog appears on the polypropylene lenses. Hello amphibian. Na-nu Na-nu. Japanese characters materialize and like always, I have no idea what the cute frog is trying to tell me.

“English … ”

The words morph into English. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say.

Nothing happens.

“Ummm … hai!”

The frog bows and a little frog fart appears over its ass. The cloud explodes into pixelated fragments and I hear a whooshing sound from the distributor. A hissing sound follows and Viola!

Holy hell it’s coming fast.

I lean my head back, twitching as neurons spread leg to the new chemicals in my head. Synapses collapse neurotransmitter hair splitters. Bliss molecules sex me. Short term memory shot, I cough – capillaries burst and I hold on for the ride of my life. Rollercoasters rip off their tracks, pistoling into the night’s sky and splooging money shots off a balcony overlooking a fountain in Ass Vegas. The horses spin off their carousels, un-impaling themselves as they clop and shit through the fairgrounds of our collective minds.

Neigh I say nay!

Words spill out of my brain splashing onto the green polypropylene lenses. The lenses shatter and my eyes stretch out of the mask. Neo Subconjunctival hemorrhage – the blood vessels disconnect themselves from the sides of my eyes and disperse, crawling like digital daddy long legs to the floor.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. Disperse you fucks! I’ll get you my pretty!

I’m seething, breathing, heaving, leaving, keeling, meeting, sinking, blinking, braking, stopping, staking, gripping, griping, gasping, clasping, holding on for dear life AS IF life is dear enough to hold onto and it must be held because if it isn’t held … if it isn’t held! Don’t say it!

(Whisper things that don’t matter.)

Control everything, Meme! Control everything, Reader! Pull yourself together and make sure you tell those muttonheaded-bunglers what to do. Fuck them! Fix them! Manage them! Coddle them! Throttle them! Dodge their lawsuits! Smart cookies unite after we are adequately baked!

Get ahold of yourself. (Get ahold of yourself.)

Aha!

Breathe in the intoxicant until you and the intoxicant are one. Stare God in the eye and shout at the top of your lungs, I am eternally mortaler than you! I am the link between words and actions, the narcissistic lovechild of twenty-first century bastards! The misconstrued, misaligned scion of the twenty-first century, left to foster in a world finger-banged by a select few; the twisted and gifted, lifted and sifted. (Inhale!) The congruent revolutionary truant plenipotentiary mutant pulmonary. Squeeze the tears out of the denizens until they know they’re second-class citizens. The status quo must queue! The queued must crumble! I would like to click the thumbs-up button for our great people!

(Reminder: this is all a hoax and somewhere, in a galaxy not so far away, aliens are laughing at how stupid we’ve become.)

Christ, Meme, inhale, exhale.

Take this fucking mask off.

Share with me Reader. Hold still, wherever you are. I am eternal because of you and I exist only to exist alongside you. Let’s get back together. Let’s reconnect over pollutes and whores and laughs and giggles and tickles. Let’s breathe together, sleep together, think together, pee together, play swords like a bunch of Sikhs in front of a golden toilet in the Kremlin next to Putin’s immortalized gay porn lair.

What if what if what if what if what if I were real? What if what if what if what if what if you could see me, feel me, touch me, heal me? What if I could be both a man and a woman? What if? What if we used the same esophagus? What if we used the same digestive tract? The same condom? The same crampon, tampon, coupon, futon? The same paint brush to shade each other’s eyelids blue? What if we could inhale together?

Try it with me now. I am your digital yoga guru.

(Breathe.)

Okay, hold your breath. I am your abecedary who has infiltrated your psyche and it’s okay, I’ll be sure not to rearrange the furniture.

Exhale. Empty your belly until the words blur. Until we are both transitive, until we are both… until we are both – GIVE ME YOUR UMBILICAL CORD AND I’LL GIVE YOU MINE. LET’S SNAP THEM TOGETHER.

Breathe. (Don’t whip me with your umbilical cord. There is something seriously fucked up about that. Remember the time I gave birth to a child? My God there was something seriously fucked up about that as well!)

Hold your breath.

Hold it.

(It’s hard to speak with your umbilical cord in my mouth and placenta on my lips which tastes like sour Haribo.)

Don’t pass out on me and don’t look away! Keep your eyes here! Here! (A quick slap.) Focus, kid, you’re going to make it! We’re getting shwasted together. Wax on, wax off. Idea – let’s lizard our way out of this room. Now, not later. Mask off, help me unstrap it.

I pry the mask off and take in the simple room. We’re back in the void, or at least I am. I can hear circus music in the distance. Madoka’s bookshelf looms in the distance, not close not far.

And then all hell breaks loose.

An arm drags me through a sea of books falling like lead leaves from a curved book shelf. Sharp book spines prick the exposed areas of my skin. My toes rip some pages from a large hardback volume of War and Peace. My shoulder gets caught on an antediluvian copy of Moby Dick. A red leather Bible falls onto my nose, trickles off into the mass of books supporting my body weight as I slide through a river of literature. The whole place stinks of fresh ink, brittle pages, dusty attics, forgotten prose and stale parlance.

Strings of words slip from the pages of open books and waltz around my body. They burp malapropisms. They swarm up my arm, spilling over each other. They fornicate in the crevices of my armpits and my crotch. They swell and escape into my nose and ears. They whisper inside my head:

He quoted the planetary motto. “Community, Identity, Stability.” Grand words.

If they do not understand that we are bringing them a mathematically faultless happiness, our duty will be to force them to be happy.

There is a class that controls a country that is stupid and does not realize anything and never can. That is why we have war. Also they make money out of it.

Mors ontologica. Death of the spirit. The identity. The essential nature.

There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind.

I see a tail swimming through the sea of novels. The elephantine tail is covered in books open like tents. A literary Leviathan, a crisp paper dragon, a spiny grimoire, a bestselling monstrosity, my mother with matted wings. The preterists are wrong!

(Terrorists and therapists – ten letters each. Brethren we are!)

Words crawled from the sides of my mouth, dribbling down my chin like vernacular globs of spit. The words! I’m assaulted by the argot, violated by the patois, fingered silly by the jargon.

Gordon, the haggard masturbator.

His eyebrows jiggle as if on fishhooks.

He was working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by cultivating boredom.

Like most science fiction writers, he knew nothing about science.

The words grab my cheeks and I puffer fish. For once in my life, words escape in to my mouth. My cheeks swell, my eyes redden. The larger words paint the lining of my throat with interior monologues. I try to wash them down with spittle, but my mouth is parched. Dry heave and continued to cough up literary quotes, Meme!

“When the moon is shining the cripple becomes hungry for a walk.”

Dark shapes of pariah dogs prowled in and out of the stalls.

A serpent’s feet are known to another serpent.

The lit Leviathan emerges from the sea of books at my feet. I look up to see the same arm still dragging me up a flight of helical stairs. Where am I going? Das ist mir egal! The Leviathan snaps its teeth and snarls, enmeshed in its own fury, its own literary abandon.

(Piss on the Flower of Life!)

The mysterious hand continues to drag me onward. As we near the door at the top of the stairs, the Leviathan sinks its syringe teeth into my ankle. My blottoness assails me. Somehow, I’ve managed to arrive at the fourth floor of Madoka’s home, to his girlfriend’s room.

Shall we continue exploring?

Methinks we shall.

TEN∞

“Anonymous Two?” Sauria was at home, a sprawling baller crib in the Hollywood Hills. The lights of LA twinkled beneath his expansive veranda, looping through the two waterfalls that poured over a private grotto. His personal assistant Humandroid, Heidi, was in the pool, swimming a few laps.

Resting across his lap was his new pollution mask, a one-of-a-kind elephant piece made exclusively for him by John Galliano. The pollute distributor cable doubled as the elephant’s trunk and the green polypropylene eye lenses were the latest from Japan, which featured digital enhancements that allowed one to make custom mixes through voice activated commands. The size of the mask allowed for fresh pollutes to be mixed in the sawed-off tusks and immediately distributed to the user. A true work of art.

He quickly scanned through the documents again. A woman named Anonymous Two had infiltrated the Japanese MercSecure headquarters in Shinagawa, planting a decoy DL agent inside the body of an employee named Aya Hayashi, who then transferred classified information to a person known as Anonymous One.

“This still doesn’t make any sense.” Sauria sat down on a cube-shaped block of concrete, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why would anyone want to know Nelly’s position unless … ”

Yeshi.

He knew that something fishy had happened in Japan a few days ago. Now he had what was essentially proof. “Have you transferred this information to Antimeria?” he asked his secretary. “And Lorem Ipsum?”

“I wanted to contact you first; however, Mr. Ipsum may already know.”

“Good, always let me know before you pass on any information.”

“Yes, sir.”

He disconnected the call and looked out over the city of LA. A breeze whipped past him, twisting through the Mexican Fan Palms surrounding his house. Sauria moved from the concrete cube to a white loveseat, new, which he was thinking of replacing next spring. He kicked his feet onto a foot rest, relaxing further.

Control. For his entire life, Sauria had sought to control the unpredictable forces around him. He’d grown up in a single parent household that was mostly funded by his rich grandfather (who had made a killing in the 2020s trading compound derivatives and student loan bonds). His deadbeat mother was addicted to pollutes back before they were semi-regulated. She’d strap a mask on and sit there all day, inhaling and exhaling.

Sauria picked up the habit at the age of twelve. He’d get high off pollutes and get digital. It was through virtual reality that he slowly realized the dividing line between the haves and the have-nots, and why the haves must control the have-nots, especially in the information clusterfuck of the twenty-first century.

In his favorite Proxima World, which was based on a game called Defenders of the Ancients (or DOTA), people could actually choose their wealth class. Sure, they could earn more or do things that increased their status in society, but the first thing everyone chose when selecting an avatar was the wealthiest class. And what do you know – everyone wanted to start the game rich. Eventually the developers put a cap on how many people could start the game rich, which was almost a philosophical gesture.

Even though his mom was an addict and a bad parent to boot, Sauria had started the game of life rich due to a clever grandfather. This got him thinking one day during a nightlong Proxima bender – everyone wants to start the game of life rich, but not everyone can be rich. It then becomes the job of the rich to keep the hope alive for the wannabe lower classes. It is also the job of the rich to tell them that they too can one day be rich, if they work hard enough (or pray hard enough, or whatever). If the rich don’t do this, the poor will revolt. If they do this well, or create a plethora of distractions, the poor will be happy enough with what little they’ve been given not to question who it was that gave it to them and how much more they could actually get.

The American Dream (which had gone viral around the world) was basically encapsulated by Sauria’s epiphany at seventeen years of age. And sure, there were outliers, there were those who by chance were able to claw their way out of the hole, but the outliers were, by geometric orders of magnitude, far outnumbered by the people who thought they could be outliers; the self-deluding proles still searching through the Gospels of Malcolm Gladwell and trying to fit it over their own lives.

Thus, true power was the power to control hope, not the power to send armies or the power to manipulate stocks or the power of appearance. No, humanity was driven by hope, and cold hard cash was the platform from which this idea of hope sprang forth. How to manipulate hope then? How to control the masses?

Freedom. The hope for freedom was essentially the hope to earn money freely and get rich. Freedom, while a great buzz word, had become a euphemism for free access to capital and the administration of said funds. Sure, there was once a point where freedom meant actual freedom, freedom from the command of a Lord or the right to make a personal choice, but the Lords quickly figured out (well not quickly, but quickly enough) that if they gave people the semblance of freedom, the semblance of free choice – even though their choices were manipulated – these people would feel ‘free enough’ to work even harder for their overseers.

So Sauria got out of the virtual entertainment dreamworld and cut back on the pollutes. He wasn’t done with pollutes per se – at the age of twenty-two, after graduating with a degree in business from Berkeley, he got in to the pollute business, starting a company that installed pollution rigs in people’s homes. After all, what is freedom if it is not the ability to choose one’s intoxicant? (Which, of course, someone else profits from.) Pollutes were just becoming popular at this time, and Sauria made a killing through ebooks about installing pollution masks and of course, his business, which at its peak had a yearly net revenue of close to a billion dollars.

It was an old friend who guided Sauria to what would become his lifelong pursuit, from addiction profiteering to fear profiteering – not as far of a leap as many would think. He got a PhD in terrorist studies and prevention and started ExEx with seed money from a number of rightwing companies. Boom – the rest is history.

“Lorem.”

Lorem’s video feed appeared on the inside of Sauria’s eyelids.

“I’m aware of the breach,” Lorem said instead of hello. “I’ve been poring over the video feed from the surrounding areas and I have some … news for you.”

“What’s that?”

A video appeared in Sauria’s GoogleFace message box.

“Notice the couple who are both using a bodymasking app called BlurYou. We’re fairly certain one is a man and one is a woman.”

Sauria watched the feed for a moment. Everyone in the feed was visible aside from two people, whose forms were scrambled.

“Now I can’t confirm it, but I think the woman may be Yeshi.”

“Have the video analyzed tonight,” Sauria said, “if Yeshi is behind this, as I expect she is, then there is much more to this puzzle than I had originally anticipated.”

ELEVEN∞

My lungs are filled with fresh air yet the pollute still lingers. Jailbait or clickbait – which will it be? Aldous Huxley lend me your bicycle! I say these words from 2083 with the hopes that people will remember me.

A movement. Behind me a movement sends a shudder down my spine. The darkness has returned! What is this darkness, this black hole, this overbearing feeling of dark matter drifting towards me? What is the darkness inside us that inspires us and conspires with us and berates us with these evil thoughts we collectively share?

(Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Wo ist meine mutti?)

The door knob looms like a shrunken nipple in the abyss. All doors must eventually be opened, including this door, a door that leads to something, something possibly sinister or possibly heavenly. Can there be an in-between? Why must things be demarcated as such? What better way to accept life than realize it’s simply purgatory?

I twist, but the knob doesn’t twist back.

Locked! I slam my shoulder into the door and the hinges creak. Abbacadabra! Another shoulder and the doorframe splinters. Open sesame! Open Sez Me! I step back, hands on my knees as I gasp for breath. Damn Carloza’s body – I really need to switch before his extra breakfast taco-derived flab and lack of endurance gets the best of me and I have a heart episode.

Yo-heave-ho, yeoooooooo ho!

Another shoulder blade and the door responds, sending me face-first into a pyramid of ramen boxes. My God are they sharp! I scramble to stand but I’m more egg than man and my legs give way and my skin whittles away. I’m literally watching my skin rip off my body and stretch onto the floor like a cardboard whore. I’m literally being as literal as possible in a work of supposed literary merit. I’m literally reiterating what I’ve just said because the words have a way of ringing in my head and I’d rather talk instead of dealing with the girthy chick across the room in a rig.

Break free, compatriot!

The blob of a woman in front of me is five hundred kilos and counting, hyperventilating out of fear triggered by the Mexican man (me!) who has stormed her bedroom. Madoka’s ladyfriend? Hardly able to walk, this one. Methinks she rarely moves from her seated position in the VE rig all blobby and shit with lardy hunks of fat billowing out of her marshmallow rolls. To stand would be a triumph for this beast! A small step for gigawoman and a large leap for gigakind. Zing! The thousand pound club is alive in well and this woman is the female president and she is… she is…

Not Japanese? I’m more curious than she, both about the fecal smell quickly encapsulating me and the paunchy butterball porcine jelly belly. How does Madoka have sex with this meaty sweety? This thing is more quicksand than human!

“You are white!” I scream in horror, as if six hundred years of needless racism have been reversed and the whites are forced to the back of the bus and she sat down next to me and I was genuinely shocked by the color of her skin.

Of course, white doesn’t necessarily mean white. The color also entails a national identity, class, social status, passport status, caste ranking, supposed beauty and a slew of other things that a color shouldn’t embody. Ah! But this roly-poly blubbernaut aisle-blocker tuba-luba is white as in … not Asian-white. My only guess is that she is from some place that once had plantations or still does via outsourcing.

“Get … get out!” Rotundo the Immense screams.

“You … you get out!” I return the battle cry of the uninvited.

“Get out you fucked up bastard!”

“I’m offended! Madoka! Madoka! What is this thing!?”

Seriously, whatever this thing is it is not human. Fat Albert’s portly adopted sister maybe, but this thing, this sluggy house cow can’t be classified as Homo sapiens.

“Chill, Meme.” I say to myself as mephitic airs envelop me. “Chill you fool. Sit somewhere.”

“Madoka! Madoka!” the horizontally tall sugar monster bellows.

“Quiet, über-zaftig!”

I try to press myself off the floor, but my knees buckle and I find myself right back where I started, in a pile of ramen containers eyeing a rubenesque pork beast. Deep breaths, Meme, deep breaths.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?”

“I’m living my life to the fullest and entertaining an audience of thousands through the fucked up nature of my existence! We’re in a book, a book I tell you, a book!”

“I don’t read!” the cantankerous bladder-stretcher bellows.

“Most people don’t!”

A voice from behind me scissors through my psyche. “Meme, stand up.”

“Eh?” I stretch my head back to find Madoka standing in the doorway. (Yes, he speaks English, most gamers do.)

“Madoka! What the … ?” I ask about his podgy gf, but I bite my tongue (literally – again, it’s bleeding now).

“Why are you up here … you are supposed to be on the third floor!”

Madoka – all sixty kilos of him – takes an angry step into the room. He morphs from innocuous to intimidating. His slick black hair falls into his face as he snarls at me. I bring my fist back, but then I remember that Yeshi told me to behave.

“I’m sorry!” I shout. “The pollutes got the best of me … ”

“You really need to get some help,” he says, his puny arm looping under my elbow.

“My apologies host of mine! I got a little carried away. I think the distribution system on your mask has been … modified … something … I took too much. I blame the separation between church and state! The fact that there is a mass shooting in America on a daily basis is the result of a system that focuses too closely to the laws of the past that made sense in those different eras but don’t necessarily apply to the time from which we shit! Fuck the eighteenth century! I want to retire to a community of like-minded individuals surrounded by an iron gate to keep the plebs out aside from the gardeners and the house cleaners!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Madoka’s thin hand strikes me across the face.

“I’ve been hit!”

“SHUT UP!”

He strikes me again.

“Thank you, bae,” Madoka’s corpulent bullfrog-swine hybrid gf burps.

I crack up at the word bae, as even I have too much class to use such a ridiculous pet name, no matter how popular it was on Instagram in the early twenty-first century. Standards must be maintained – some throwbacks aren’t worth reciting.

“As for the pollution mask, of course it’s modified,” Madoka says as he leads me away from his girlfriend’s room. “Everything I have is modified; I’m a goddamn weapons dealer.”

“I always wanted to be a weapons dealer,” I admit.

“Shut the fuck up, Meme.”

TWELVE∞

A heavily modified MRAP with extensive undercarriage armor bore Rinchi towards Baghdad International Airport at breakneck pace.

The decades of war – holy war, civil war, war to impose western democracy, war for fun, war for profit – had negatively impacted personal air transportation in Iraq. In a country where every beardy knucklehead with an automatic weapon or rocket propelled grenade launcher considered any aeros a legitimate target, the savvy and survival-minded traveler went by armed and armored ground transport.

The driver of the MRAP, a helmeted and body armored Humandroid grunt leftover from America’s latest intervention in the region, expertly negotiated the Khomeini barriers at the Rashid Hotel’s vehicle egress point. He curved right, past a collection of rubbled buildings, deftly avoiding mounded debris and scattered carcasses – both animal and human – in varying states of decomposition.

Baghdad was a glimpse into a dystopian future, a scabrous, bullet-pocked poster child for apocalyptic; war-torn Shitvilles everywhere; the twenty-first century Dresden with slaughterhouses sufficient for one and all; a 3-D coming attractions preview complete with Smell-O-Vision of the true shape of things to come. Disheveled, malnourished people drifted through the once great city like hungry ghosts, stripped of everything aside from their empty forms. For most, there was no life here – only bare, day-to-day, hand-to-mouth survival. Trash, debris, vehicles – all burned untended and unnoticed by the roadside and cast a low-hanging pall of oily, sooty smoke that caught at the back of the throat and made unprotected eyes water and burn.

The entire place reeked of despair and to Rinchi, it was almost laughable, so predictably human.

Those born in shit usually died in shit, and those born in ivory towers usually stayed in their ivory towers. Just seeing the city reminded Rinchi of the fact that humans were basically extincting themselves through religion, resource grabs and sheer, bloody-minded dumb-fuckery. Sure, it could take another hundred years or so, but their genius had created something that made them replaceable. This was clear – the Humandroid would replace the human, just as Cro-Magnon replaced Neanderthal. And so on.

“You’re quiet,” the Humandroid driver said.

“Not required to make conversation.”

He scanned her. Surprise evident in his voice as he asked, “You’re a Humandroid MercSecure rep? You’re the first I’ve met.”

“Would you please just stop talking?”

A message appeared on her iNet screen from Antimeria.

Antimeria: We think we’ve found Yeshi.

Rinchi: Go on.

Antimeria: MercSecure Japan has been infiltrated by two people calling themselves Anonymous One and Anonymous Two. They stole data related to my ex-wife, Nelly! Sauria can’t confirm if it is Yeshi yet, but he has a hunch …

Rinchi: I see.

They rounded a tight bend and the driver jumped on the brakes. “Hang on … ”

Rinchi had just enough time to register a blockade of four or five beat-up vehicles laid out in a herringbone pattern when the world exploded.

Her seat smacked her in the ass and the harness pulled tight across her torso as the MRAP spun; she was the axis about which a tornado of smoke and flame, noise and debris rotated as eighteen tons of hurtling steel flipped and hit, flipped and hit, flipped and hit.

The vehicle landed on its passenger’s side with a rending crash. The driver hung limp in his harness, not exactly Humandroid dead, but close enough.

The compartment filled with smoke and particulate debris; Rinchi stopped breathing to avoid taking any of the chemical crap into her respiratory system. Her harness was jammed, but her knife was in easy reach and she quickly sliced her way free.

Unclipping her PHASR from the rack, she scrambled through the troop compartment to the rear hatch, where she fumbled briefly with the combat lock. She swung the door open and low-crawled out with her weapon ahead of her, trying to orient herself.

The PHASR was kicked out of her hands; a knee slammed down on the back of her neck, grinding her face into the hardscrabble of the roadside. The muzzle of a Humgun dug into her ear, and she felt rather than heard the ominous hum as it powered up.

“We meet again, my little droid whore.”

THIRTEEN∞

After a very full day of processing, Nelly was quickly assigned an isolation cell in the Dangerous Female Criminals Block (DFC) at the ADX complex in Colorado. Most of the inmates in DFC were kept away from the general population of the prison.

The first day had been the hardest. Nelly’s windowless cell was three meters long by two meters wide. It featured a stainless steel combination sink-toilet, a table and a single stool. There were no sharp edges in the cell, nothing to facilitate suicide. Cramped didn’t begin to describe the condition that Antimeria’s ex-wife now faced.

Like everything else, the food was courtesy of the low-bid contractor. It met stringent FCG Adult Minimum Daily Requirements for protein, carbohydrates, fibre, vitamins and minerals. It looked exactly like moistened dog kibble and didn’t taste like much of anything at all. She was still in the Orientation Program, which meant that she wore white scrubs instead of the general-issued orange. It also meant that she wasn’t allowed to leave her cell in DFC for a two-week period, a new method utilized in federal prisons since the 2050s.

According to incarceration experts, the Standard Solitary Confinement Program allowed for a prisoner to adjust to the condition of the cells and to quickly come to grips with his or her place in prison society. Statistically, it also diminished the new inmate’s susceptibility to gang recruitment and inmate-on-inmate violence.

The sounds of the other inmates were more frightening than the constricting nature of the cell. At night she heard other inmates talking to themselves, screaming, crying, praying, and beating their heads against the wall. Her nights were also peppered with the squeaky footsteps of the female guards, who strutted down the hallway like bitchy little roosters. The guards slipped her a tray of slop three times a day; other than that, they left her alone.

She still had yet to fully wrap her head around the fact that her ex-husband had just pulled some strings to get her here, that Antimeria and his butt-buddies had this type of power! The thought of killing him crossed her mind numerous times. It gave her hope, an ultimate goal.

The first thing she planned to do once she was freed would be to get Noah and baby Rebel back. The second thing she’d do would be to kill Antimeria. From there, she’d move on to the rest of the people who placed her here, such as Sauria, the true puppet master if there ever was one. She’d get him too, if only she could get out. With her iNet access blocked by the iNet scramblers in ADX, it was impossible to know if the pollute-hazy Meme had received her message. And besides, what could the addict actually do? How could he get her out of here?

She finally broke down sobbing the second night, hard enough to send a ripple of emotion through her body. Curled on the concrete bed, her knees tucked to her chin, Nelly finally came to grips with what it meant to be truly and unequivocally fucked.

FOURTEEN∞

Sitting alone in a room with a mask and I get to thinking about what’s happened and what’s passed.

Yeshi is still gone and damn if I don’t want her here right now. A bosom to rest my head on would go a long way in calming the bleating voices ping-ponging in my skull. No medicine is as good as a breasty place to rest one’s overstuffed cranium. Doctors order many things but rarely do they order some quality time with a pair of mammary glands. Yeshi, phone home!

Me: Where are you droid of my dreams? I’ve offended Madoka and now I’m locked on the third floor until you return. Boo-hoo.

I wait patiently for a reply message. Another tug of the pollute masks brings me two shades closer to la la land, two stones closer to crumbling my Zen stack.

No answer. Woe is me, alone is Meme. Ignore the fact you’re feeling dephlogisticated and get your shit together. Time to focus on the mission at hand – Operation Rescue Nelly.

How do we get Nelly out of a maximum security federal prison? How do we get back to America under the nose of the FCG, get Nelly and her baby to safety without being fileted by MercSecure reps? Think you barmy piss-artist! My God if things haven’t become complex and the night is still young, nubile and vacuous!

(Inhale, exhale.)

Time for a new thinking cap. I press the pollution mask to the top of my forehead, determined to come up with something, determined to be a contributing part to whatever it is that will happen next.

The first part of the solution comes to me like a slap on the ass from a wet towel – Noah. In my almost stupor, I place a call to Nelly’s personal assistant using my Anonymous One moniker.

“Hello?” Noah chirps. His video feed appears on my eyelids. He’s slightly pixilated, but it’s him. Foppish Noah I barely know ye with your Alex eyeliner and your hair blonde and your cravat vibrant.

“Can you speak in private?” I ask. He’s in someone’s house standing in a nursery. “Disable all trackers, tracers, feeds, message boxes and whatever else you may have to monitor this conversation.”

“Who is this?” he asks, his voice rising slightly.

“The one and only … ”

“I don’t know anyone named that,” he says.

“Dammit, Noah, is everything disabled?”

“It is now.” Nelly’s baby – yes the baby I birthed! – is in his arms. He rocks the baby slightly as I speak.

“It’s Meme.”

“Impossible!” he whispers. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“So are you,” I remind him. Last time I saw Noah was in an Italian restaurant, black liquid dripping from a hole in his chest. “I guess both of us are more immortal than we originally anticipated. Hold on.”

I pull the pollute mask over my face and take a quick sip. Take the edge off or die trying, am I right?

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m somewhere far from LA with Yeshi.”

“Both of you are alive? This is wonderful news! You two are such an adorable couple. I was sure you’d both been terminated by … them.”

“Well, they tried but we’ve managed to get them back. Earlier today, we broke into MercSecure headquarters and got information on Nelly’s whereabouts.”

“Federal prison … ”

“ADX in Colorado in the Dangerous Female Criminals Block, cell 007. Yeah, no bueno.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“I’ve been … busy with some shit. Look, I owe it to Nelly to get her out of there. I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet, but I’m going to do it. Can you get a message to her?”

“I’m afraid not,” Noah said. “It’s so horrible what these men have done! Rebel needs her mother!”

“Rebel? Oh, the baby. I thought her name was Esperanza … at least that’s what Carloza wanted to name it, I mean, her.”

My mind drifts away for a moment, to the time I spent in the hospital after giving birth to the baby in the back of an aeros as it crossed the US-Mexican border. Hard to believe that was only a week ago. The thought of childbirth makes my groin ache – even with a peter I can’t forget that feeling of being ripped apart by a little baby head. Never again. And to think I was the one who actually wanted to go through with it! See? We do get smarter with age.

“The baby’s name is Rebel, or at least that’s what I call her,” he says. “Antimeria wants to name her after his mother, Mondegreen.”

“Well, that’s a shit name. Listen, Noah, I may need your help in the near future. We have to get Nelly out of there. She got me out of LA and I plan to return the favor. I don’t know exactly how we are going to do it yet, but we’ll do it.”

“You should contact Manuel … ”

“Who?”

“He’s the person who took over for Carloza after Nelly killed him.”

“Nelly killed Carloza?”

News to me.

“Actually, she killed Carloza in Tyro’s body after she switched back to her own body.”

What? My pollute trance makes this last sentence difficult to interpret. “So, she’s in her original body now?”

The image of Nelly’s body steeps me. Her curly brown hair, her delicate skin, her thin bones and blue veins visible on her white arms – what a delicate little monster!

“Yes, she’s in her original body. I don’t know what she’s eating in there, but I’ve been worried sick Meme! Worried sick ... ”

“ANONYMOUS ONE!”

“I mean, Anonymous One.”

“Better.” My eyes dart across the room. I swear something black and cloudy just twisted in the corner near the bookshelf that attacked me earlier in the form of a lit Leviathan. Whirling atoms, demon ones or possibly a Japanese oni has come to feast upon my soul. “And you think I should contact this Manuel guy?”

“That’s exactly what I think … ”

“But doesn’t he know that Nelly killed his boss? I mean, he may be pissed.”

Noah quickly explains what happened at a curiously named hotel in Tijuana.

“Let me get this all straight: Rinchi and another rep came to the hotel to rescue Nelly. They took a man named Manuel as a hostage and installed him as Carloza’s replacement after putting a DL agent in his spine. As this was happening, Nelly-as-Tyro switched with Carloza and she killed him.” I take a quick breath. “Only to be captured, alongside you and the baby, by Rinchi and this other rep with white hair. Sound about right?”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

“Who’s writing this stuff?”

“What do you mean?” he asks. “I can send you video feeds if you’d like proof.”

“Just send me whatever video feeds you have on Rinchi. I have a feeling Yeshi would like to see it.”

“Will do.”

“Also, send me this Manuel guy’s contact, if you have it.”

Noah says, “I don’t have his contact, but I do have the contact information of one of the doctors who used to work for Carloza. He’ll be able to get it.”

“Fine, forward it to me as securely as possible. I’ll contact him tomorrow.”

“Oh, this is so exciting! We are so going to do this!”

“Keep telling yourself that, Noah. Nice cravat, by the way.”

“Really? You like it? I was worried that it was a little too flashy, a little too, ummm, what’s the best way to describe it? In-your-face? Not exactly that, I mean, it isn’t trashy or hood-ratty or anything, is it? I wanted to go for hood-rich more than hood-rat. Okay, maybe it is a little too in-your-face, but still—”

I disconnect the call and place the pollution mask back on my skull.

FIFTEEN∞

The Humgun came out of her ear and the knee off her neck; a booted foot immediately replaced the knee.

“You really came all the way here to do this?” Rinchi asked the boot.

Keva had her covered with a grenade launcher, which seemed rather pointless; if Keva let one go, it would kill them both.

Rinchi twisted her head and quickly scanned Big Number One’s vitals. Keva was more or less calm. “People have been talking about what you did to me, schlampe.” She raised her weapon and fired a shot at a building nearby. The explosion sent pebbles and hunks of concrete spinning into the air.

Rinchi knew she needed to buy some time. She could activate her Tesla Discharge, but that would leave her stuck in Baghdad. Only Allah knew what the beady-eyed merchants and arms dealers would do if they came across her body. “How did you know I’d be on this road?”

Keva shrugged. “I have my sources, namely Clove.”

“Clove set me up?”

“Clove doesn’t like you, but he does like money. We made the deal, oh, about thirty minutes ago. I was going to whack you at the airport, but after you were sent away this presented itself as a better opportunity. So here we are, or should I say, here I am.”

Rinchi tried to push herself off the ground, but Keva dug the heel of her boot even deeper into the Humandroid’s neck. “You know, droidie, I like looking at you from this perspective. It’s nice to have you under my boot, where it’s easiest to manipulate you. I must say though, you definitely aren’t cute in a burka. Al Omid knows you’re essentially a ladyboy, doesn’t he? I mean, technically, you could be wearing a toga just like the rest of the royal fucking frat boys.”

Whine-grind-THUD! Whine-grind-THUD!

Both reps looked over at something large and mechanical rapidly approaching them. It was a monstrous Baba Yaga-looking contraption. The long, thin legs were modded with salvaged military and construction equipment parts. The body of the towering mechanism was bulbous and covered in sharp edges. One of the arms was shaped like a large hook and the other was a combo grenade launcher and machine gun. The tea kettle-shaped head bristled with optics and lenses and sported an industrial steel-cutting laser emitter on a flexible stalk.

“A Comsuit?” Keva asked, her modded silver eyes flickering. She lowered her weapon, watching the five meter tall machine take another step towards them.

“Lots of mods,” Rinchi said. “Likely Human driven.”

“Well shit!” Keva took her boot off Rinchi’s neck. “This changes things a bit.”

Squinting, MercSecure’s top rep aimed her grenade launcher at the Comsuit.

“Adjust your trajectory to about an eighty-three degree angle,” Rinchi said, “and try for the top; it may not be as heavily armored.

“Thanks mom, but this isn’t my first rodeo. There were shit-tons of these things in Syria, all controlled remotely.”

Keva fired three grenades.

Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk! Cha-thunk!

The grenades connected with the Comsuit, and detonated with sharp, flat cracks. The smoke cleared and the Comsuit lurched forward.

“Well damn.”

Rinchi shouldered her PHASR, the Lightsaber option already selected. A quick scan of the Comsuit didn’t reveal any particular weak points, so she targeted a leg to knock it over and deny it mobility. The laser beam flared off the Comsuit and lit up the dust motes around it.

“Damn,” Keva said. “We need to get behind it. Just like that fucker at the hotel in Mexico.”

The Comsuit returned fire. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

The projectiles shed their casings, revealing four sparrow-sized anti-personnel tracking grenades.

“Scheiss! Run!” Keva shouted over her shoulder, but Rinchi was already in motion. The grenades dispersed; two locked on to Rinchi, two gave Keva their full attention.

Rinchi blasted past a kebab stand and through an alleyway market. Her reunion with Keva had fully occupied her attention; she’d forgotten that there were civilians around. People scattered in all directions, screaming as they clutched their bags and bundles to their chests.

“Khalas! Khalas!” a man shouted as he broke away from Rinchi.

The Humandroid charged through the alleyway market, leapt over a vegetable stand and snaked around a wheelbarrow full of shriveled potatoes. The tracking grenades stayed on her like rats on rice, whining and hissing.

She looked for somewhere to lose the songbird-sized packages of flying death. They were too close for her to spin around and zap them out of the air; if they didn’t get her when she stopped, the shrapnel would.

She rounded a curve that opened into a cross street just as a car crossed in front of her. She did a Hollywood ninja-style ‘jump-over-the-roof-of-the-speeding-vehicle’, hit the ground in a shoulder roll and kept going.

BLAM!

The leading tracking grenade had connected with the car; the second continued its pursuit as she sprinted further into the alley. Rinchi looked up, noticing the clothes lines stretched above her crisscrossing between balconies. She jumped on top of a broken air conditioner unit and vaulted from there to a bulky electrical junction box.

The tracking grenade angled upwards to follow her and gained ground as it continued its pursuit.

Cat-like, Rinchi ran along the railing of the balcony; the grenade was almost on her.

She tossed her body between two heavily laden clothes lines, hit the ground and ran back the way she’d come. The flying day-spoiler made an actual Immelmann turn, angled down to follow her, and flew smack-dab into someone’s freshly washed bedclothes. The grenade pulled the sheet free of the clothesline, tangled, hit the ground and detonated.

Rinchi ducked into a doorway and flattened her back against the door; the notched wire shrapnel zipped past her.

Rinchi: I’m clear; where are you?

SIXTEEN∞

Tim7 makes an appearance in my hallucination. A red carpet rolls from some black box in the sky and he steps down, a cane in his hand and a top hat on his head. Twirl that cane you dandy coprolites!

I wish.

No, my hallucinations aren’t that ridiculous and yours shouldn’t be either. So to recap: I’m not watching Tim7 parade down a spiral staircase, but I am watching his face morph in and out of my mind’s eye. Yes, Tim7, my old client who threatened to detonate the kilogram of industrial blasting compound he’d secreted in his chest cavity. So why Tim7 pray tell? Why does this Humandroid continue to haunt me?

Aside from the fact that he was right, aside from the fact that I’ve personally witnessed what he was saying through Yeshi’s transmogrification – remember, you can take the therapist out of his office but you can’t take the therapist out of the therapist – I still don’t understand why our last interaction continues to plague me.

Sit still and focus you obscene unsayable son of an unnamable unmarried gypsy zit-picker!

(The words of Hemingway never felt fresher.)

Copy thyself, scan thyself, upload thyself, unload thyself, question thyself, heal thyself, sacrifice thyself, relieve thyself, refresh thyself, advise thyself, press reset and see if you can start the game over. If only life had a reset button. If only it were that simple to repair our innumerable mistakes. If only.

If I could start the game over I wouldn’t have body-switched with Tyro. There! I said it! I would have let myself die at the hands of Yeshi’s twin and I wouldn’t be in Japan sitting alone in a room with a mask waiting and watching as time wades past. Nelly wouldn’t be in trouble and significantly fewer people would be dead.

Mask off, stand and wobble, task at hand, life full throttle. The language that connects us is a noose loosened. Across the room I go, back to the door (which is locked) with the urge to pound (which should be unfound) and instead of raising my fist (and twisting my wrist) I place a call to Yeshi (nothing rhymes with Yeshi except “he/she” which is, ummm … quite appropriate).

Me: Yeshi! Christ where are you? How long has it been? Are you okay? Anonymous Two get @ me! Are you alive? Sorry for being an askhole. Madoka locked me in the room until I settle down. Talked to Noah too, he’s going to send info soon.

Yeshi: I’ve just finished. I’m coming now.

Me: Finished? What were you doing my electronic wet dream?

Yeshi: Electronic wet dream?

Me: That sounded better in my head. Wait, we are in my head. How long until you return?

Yeshi: Morning.

Me: Morning? Are you serious? But by the time … by the time …

I can see the time clearly on my iNet screen. It’s almost five AM. Where the time went isn’t a question worth asking when the answer is so obvious. I blame curved spacetime.

Yeshi: Relax, Meme. I’ll be back soon. I have a surprise for you. I also have some Soylent bars.

Me: Good. I’m sick of being in Japan. It’s time to take our misgivings elsewhere!

Yeshi: Mexico?

Me: How did you know?

Yeshi: You aren’t the only one who has spoken to Noah.

SEVENTEEN∞

“Eat your food,” the guard reminded Nelly. “Otherwithe we’ll have to forth-feed it to you.”

She almost told the guard to fuck off. The words batted against the front of her teeth, hummed at the tip of her tongue. She’d grown to hate this guard, her lisp and the way her words all seemed sharpened to an edge, as if they escaped through a diastema of affectation between the woman’s two front teeth.

Nelly begrudgingly took the tray and examined the slop, which looked like a slightly different colored batch of moist dog kibble, unexpectedly garnished with a single piece of wilted lettuce.

“Thanks,” she said under her breath.

Nelly had long given up hope of maintaining her vegetarian diet (what she wouldn’t do for a grilled lentil loaf with bell peppers, purple onions and cilantro). At least the Inmate Chow displayed a certain industrial homogeneity that rendered the original ingredients unidentifiable.

She could feel her soul shrivel under the dehumanizing prison regimen. The way inmates were treated was incredibly depressing. Alone in her cell, she remembered her parents’ constant bickering about how soft the justice system had become. “These people are evil, the scum of the earth! They don’t deserve to have a bed, let alone a comfortable cell with possible access to iNet. They don’t need libraries, they don’t need a basketball court, they don’t need subsidized educational courses – what they need is to be locked away. Better, they need to be executed so the burden doesn’t fall on the tax payers! We already pay too much tax! It’s not right to punish the tax payer by giving a hoodlum a nice, institutionalized existence. I say let a private company handle the prison system through a government contract. Everything should be for profit, extreme profit, including institutionalization!”

God, her parents were idiots. She’d had to unlearn most the things they’d taught her growing up. It seemed as if is freedom of opinion had disabled many people’s ability to think freely by convincing them that they were already thinking as freely as any human ever had.

Eat, Nelly, eat.

She spooned up some of gritty, unappetizing, lukewarm swill, pinched her nose shut, and tried to swallow. Her gag reflex triggered like the jackpot payoff on the dollar slots, and she barely made it to the combo sink/toilet before she brought up breakfast, lunch, and last night’s supper – such as they were.

The lettuce. At least she could eat the piece of lettuce. She crawled on hands and knees (she’d been doing that more lately) over to the tray. . Nelly lifted the piece of lettuce, eyed it unenthusiastically, and almost lost sphincter control when she saw the guard’s extra-special garnish that it had concealed – el cucaracha grande.

She screamed, and in utter panic kicked the tray against the door, scrabbling back against the wall as far as she could go. The impact didn’t kill the damn thing – it may actually have improved its health.

The intercom clicked into life. “What’th the dithturbanth, twenty-three?”

She could hear feet shuffling down the hallway. They were coming for her and all she could do was scream at the sight of the roach, at the confinement and dire situation she’d found herself in. The roach pried itself from the mess of food and took two steps closer to her.

Overcome with sudden anger, Nelly brought her fist down onto the roach, squishing it instantly.

The door buzzed open and two beefy female guards in riot gear surged into the cell. They crowded her into the far corner with their riot shields and leaned into her.

“What the fuck are you doing bitch!?” Nelly shouted.

“Keep calm inmate!”

“Get the fuck off me!”

“Language, inmate!”

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you!”

“Last warning, inmate!”

Nelly scrambled to free herself. She tried to rip the face shield off the leading guard’s helmet so she could claw at her eyes. The other guard reached over the first, pressed a stun gun against Nelly’s neck, and zapped her with a million volts.

Lights out.

EIGHTEEN∞

Lights on.

Nelly awoke with a ferocious headache, plangent and searing. She turned to her side, quickly becoming aware of the fact that she was stuck in an enclosed space. She lifted her hand – the top of her knuckle grazing against something cold – and slowly brought it to her forehead. There was a plum-sized lump next to her temple. She tried to open her eye, but it was too swollen.

“Where am I?” she asked aloud, as if someone would answer, as if anyone actually cared.

She twisted around to her back, trying to come to grips with the throbbing wound on her head. She was disoriented, hyper confused; bursts of light fired against her eyelids and she was afraid, afraid to open her one good eye and see where cruel fate had placed her. It felt as if someone had used her brain as a piñata.

Nelly lay like this for a good thirty minutes, trying to get a sense of where she was. Her nose told her she was inside something made of concrete. Her ears told her that she’d found herself in what was essentially a hollow box. Her skin told her that she was in an extremely tight place. This thought made her reluctant to move her arms around – sometimes it’s better not to confirm one’s suspicions.

Her mind drifted to some faraway happy place, light years away from the prison in Colorado. All the luxuries she’d had in her life, from trips to the spa to exclusive parties, from food that most could only dream of to shopping sprees in Dubai with Antimeria’s MasterCard Black – none of it meant anything inside a maximum security prison.

Maybe everyone needed to be imprisoned for a week just to see how good they actually had it on the outside. What she wouldn’t give to be anywhere but this prison cell, free from institutionalized confinement. Sure, there were problems associated with current day concepts of freedom, and sure many had taken it for granted, but shit, even working a drab office job was like farting in heaven compared to this.

A sense of nausea swelled inside her. She realized then – most unfortunately – that there was something in her ass. She tried to sit up and hit her head on the ceiling.

“What the … ?”

To confirm if her suspicions were true, Nelly pointed her finger above her, ran it along a cold ceiling. Even though she didn’t want to, she opened her good eye only to see that she was stuck in what was essentially a concrete coffin.

A concrete coffin.

The space was just long enough for her to lie down in, wide enough to curl her knees to her chest if she wanted to. It was cramped, dingy. There was no way for her to sit up.

Nelly stifled a sob as her hand moved down towards her legs. Sure enough, there was a feeding tube thrust into her ass. She yanked the tube out, kicked her foot against the wall.

A slot opened up over her right shoulder, letting a beam of light into the concrete coffin.

“Take it easy, inmate twenty-three.”

“What are you doing to me?” she cried. “Why in the fuck am I in here?”

“Language, inmate. No one likes a potty-mouth.”

“How long…” she gulped. “How long will you keep me in here? Please, tell me. I’ll … I’m sorry … ”

“You assaulted a guard,” the woman informed her. “You’ll be in here at least five days.”

“Please! No … I wasn’t trying to … I … I … I saw a cockroach! I don’t know what came over me! In my food. Please … My God please … PLEASE!”

“You need to reinsert the rectal feeding tube, otherwise we’ll have to do it ourselves after we’ve sedated you.”

“I’m sorry! Please, put me back in the other cell!”

“Inmate, insert the tube yourself or we’ll sedate you and do it ourselves.”

Sedate me? A solution came to Nelly. Yes! Sedate me!

“I won’t do it,” she said. “You’ll have to sedate me.”

“Suit yourself,” the woman said as she shut the viewing slot.

_∞_

Sauria drank his morning espresso alone. He was sitting on his veranda, watching as the sun burped lengthy bits of light over LA. It was a beautiful and relaxing day, another perfect California sunrise. His Humandroid maid and sexual partner at times, peeked her head out the sliding patio door.

“Is there anything else you’d like, sir?”

Heidi was a custom Humandroid, crafted especially for him by his connects at Walliburton. She was essentially a 1960s pin-up bombshell, with an hourglass figure, plutonium blonde hair and a beauty mark just like Marilyn Monroe. Heidi liked to do housework in lingerie and she was an excellent cook.

“Come here, baby,” he said, patting his lap. She swayed over to him like a model on a runway. He felt something stir in his gut – morning wood – as she draped her legs over his lap.

“What’s wrong?” She ran her delicate fingers through his grey hair. He reached his hand out, cupping the side of her cheek. Heidi pressed her cheek into his hand, staring at him through a pair of green, green eyes.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she kissed his cheek, lingering there for a moment.

Even though Sauria trusted Heidi and Walliburton, her manufacturer, he still was reluctant to talk business with the Humandroid. Droids recorded everything, and even with hyper-encryption, their recordings could be accessed by a good protection proxy terrorist.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“I’ll listen, honey, you know that.”

“The world is a big, troubled place, Heidi,” he said in a fatherly tone. “Sometimes the trouble thinks that it isn’t trouble at all, that it’s actually benevolent in some way, shape or form. This is the type of trouble that must be crushed at all costs. This is the type of trouble I’ve been dealing lately.”

She relaxed into his arms, nuzzling her head against his beefy chest. “I understand, honey, but when I’m with you I don’t feel any trouble at all.”

“Same here,” he said.

An iNet call interrupted this heart-warming interlude; it was Connard Branleur, the head of Business Executives for National Security.

Sauria made sure all video feeds were turned off before he took the call. “Hi, Connard,” he said. “Nice speech the other night. Sorry I wasn’t able to talk to you afterwards. You seemed pretty swamped with people.”

“No worries, Sauria. This always happens after a RepubCorp fundraiser.”

“Well, it was a nice speech, and you’re totally right about the need to monitor and eliminate Humandroid terrorists.”

Sauria opened his eyes and looked at Heidi. “Can you poach some eggs for me, darling?” he asked her. “I’d like a caramel macchiato, extra foam and an extra shot of espresso as well. Oh, and don’t forget the rock salt this time. I like my caramel macchiato slightly salty.”

She twisted her legs off his lap. “Do you want some freshly squeezed orange juice too? I bought some oranges at the Farmer’s Market yesterday.”

“That would be wonderful, darling.”

She bent over provocatively, kissed him on the cheek. Once she had taken a few steps away from him, she turned back, looking at him over her shoulder as she slightly arched her back. Much to his chagrin but also to his delight, Heidi stood nearly a foot taller than him.

“Sorry, Connard,” Sauria said after she stepped inside. “I needed to send the help away so we could talk.”

“Never a problem. Fill me in – what happened in Japan?”

“A breach at MercSecure headquarters by two agents calling themselves Anonymous One and Anonymous Two. They stole data relating to Nelly, Antimeria’s ex, which is useless because there’s no chance they’ll make it into ADX.”

“I’ve heard as much,” Connard said. “Any video feeds?”

“They were using BlurYou.”

“Why don’t we contact BlurYou’s CEO? He may have people at his company that can reverse engineer it.”

“That’s worth a shot, although I don’t know how far we’ll get with the CEO. From what I can tell, Bill Bleak is a tree-hugging, pinko-commie-liberal, cry-baby, bed-wetting spotted owl lover and card-carrying member of the DemoCorp Party. I’m pretty sure he’ll do everything he can to stop us from getting that feed.”

Connard laughed. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Sauria. You never know how a person will react, DemoCorp or RepubCorp. After all, how would he feel if someone broke into his company’s Japanese headquarters?”

“I don’t know … ”

A few small birds flew above Sauria, chirping away. He opened his eyes briefly, watching the birds flutter.

“Bleak is in town for a tech conference; we should try to arrange a meeting with him. If he can’t be persuaded in person … ”

“A MercSecure representative could do the job,” Sauria said. “They can be quite persuasive. In fact, I’ve been following the progress of one rep named Rinchi. She may be the most persuasive employee we’ve had in years.”

“I think Antimeria mentioned her. She’s in the Middle East right now, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but she should be back soon. It was a quick assignment to get her out of LA for a few days because … ” He recalled what Rinchi had done to Keva. The reason she was in the Middle East was to give Keva a few days to cool off after having her tongue sliced out. Most people didn’t fuck with MercSecure’s top rep; then again, Rinchi wasn’t a person.

“Because?”

“Because we, well Lorem, wanted her to gain some experience when it came to dealing with foreign leaders.”

“That’s always a good thing,” Connard said. If he knew what had happened between Rinchi and Keva, he didn’t let on. “A well-rounded representative is what MercSecure is known for.”

“Exactly.”

“So, should I arrange a meeting with Bill Bleak?”

“It can’t hurt,” Sauria said on the tail end of a yawn. “When?”

“Does today work for you?”

“I’ll clear my schedule. It is of the utmost importance that we decipher that video feed. I have a feeling about who is behind the attack, but I’d rather be sure before I send out a global alert. A manhunt is much easier with detailed information.”

NINETEEN∞

Yeshi my Yeshi, droid of my dreams. Xi Dada Mao boppers complicate things. (That little rhyme goes out to the Red Dragon!)

The morning sun creeps into the room, adding light to the bookshelves and nearly reawakening the lit Leviathan. Down you overgrown book worm schlong-faced yogurt slinger! I’ve slept for nearly an hour, maybe two, maybe even three and some change. With the right intoxicant, anyone can fall asleep anywhere. We are no different, Reader, aside from the fact that I’m a black man with a Japanese man’s data on his life chip trapped in an out-of-shape Mexican man’s body, a dead Mexican man’s body, bye-the-bye, and inconveniently, my original body has also copped its wack. (The CliffNotes regarding my abnormal existence will be available soon wherever fine eBooks are downloaded.)

In case you didn’t already know – the person inside my head is you. You are the person that I talk to when I’m most alone, when I’m most prone to outbursts. It’s you who exists with me, you who encourages me further – and the worst part is I can’t figure out if you actually exist or not. What if no one is reading this, no one is inside my skull watching events unfold? Who have I been talking to then? Who have I been confessing all my deepest and darkest thoughts to? Will you ever shake me alive?

Yada yada yada rant rant rant we can discuss ontological metaphysics later.

The door creaks open and Yeshi enters. My heart skips a beat as if we haven’t seen each other in ages (how long is an age?). Even with my pollute hangover, I can make out her face clear as day. She’s the same as ever. Bangs, the single dimple on the right side of her face, mahoosive breasts, seductive ballerina gait. Still, there’s something different about her, something I can’t quite place.

“Meme,” she says.

“Where were you? Are you okay?”

“Are you hungry?” she sets her purse down.

“Yes! Incredibly! Eternally … sorry … I need food. I’m running on empty over here.”

She tosses me a Soylent bar like it’s a Scooby Snack. I’m munching on it before she can take a step closer to me.

“Did you cause trouble last night?” she asks in a ‘who’s a bad puppy’ voice.

“I wasn’t trying to stir the flames. I was just curious as to what Madoka’s girlfriend looked like. I should have probably restrained my curiosity. From what I remember she was a beast of a woman, twice the size of any human I’d ever seen. I suppose living most of your life in a virtual reality dreamworld will do that do you. Long story long – I was banished back to the room and I’ve been waiting for you ever since. Where did you go? You’ve been gone … ”

“—I’ve been gone for over ten hours. I need to rest and drink some water.”

“I’ve been glued in here for ten hours? It only felt like three hours!”

She takes a step closer to me. I’m sitting waist level to her now, gazing up at what is essentially an electronic angel sans wings.

“I did it,” she finally says.

“Did what?” I search through the annals of my mind trying to remember if there is anything she was supposed to do. Nothing. Damn, I am a shitty boyfriend!

“I did it.” She unzips her tight jeans.

“Did … ?”

She shimmies out of her jeans and my eyes lock on the front of her panties. No more bulge.

“You … ?”

“I had my dick replaced with a pussy.”

TWENTY∞

To put it lightly! Fireworks over New York Harbor explode while bottles are popped filling the air with cheap champagne as Kalashnikovs are fired over sullied Middle Eastern turd-burgs.

“You did what?” I say, not quite sure as to how I should process what Yeshi has just told me.

“I did it Meme. I went to a Korean Humandroid surgeon in Akihabara and had it replaced.”

“Does it hurt?”

Of course it doesn’t hurt!

She giggles. “Why would it hurt? It wasn’t a difficult surgery. There are just some small mods involved.”

Why didn’t I think of this before? Further – what the hell does this even make us now? My girlfriend was a ladyboy Humandroid and now she is all woman and I’m as confused as ever. I didn’t care for her dick; I didn’t really touch it aside from that first night (I take no responsibility for that night!), but this changes everything. My excitement turns to guilt – I don’t want her to think that I needed her to change just for me! Now my eyes are fixed on a perfect, well for lack of a better term, a perfect vagina with two braided strands of hair as is popular in LA and perfect lips, not too saggy and Hustler pink. Holy hell I shouldn’t be describing this to you, Reader, my bad.

“Are you all right? Your vitals are all over the place.”

The words spill out of my lips in a strange way. “I didn’t ask for this… you shouldn’t have… this is awesome… what the hell am I saying? When can I take it for a test run? I liked you just the way you were. Sorry, I need to breathe.”

(Breathe, Meme!)

She runs her fingers over it. “Give me a couple hours to, well heal isn’t the right word, but give me some time to adjust.”

“What’s there to adjust to?”

The realization comes to me that I have a penis and it would be pretty traumatizing if it suddenly was lopped off and I had a vajayjay instead. Then I remember that I’ve switched with women before – hell, Nelly’s kid pried its way out of my ladybox a week ago – and it isn’t as strange as it sounds to go from having a pecker to a vag in the late twenty-first century. Still, labels complicate things.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say I wanted it, did I?”

“Well you never let me fuck you, so I figured it would be a good step forward.”

This is the most awkward conversation I’ve had in days!

“Fine, it’s what you did and it’s totally your choice. I just don’t want … I don’t want you to think you have to change for me. I’m not stupid, you know. I realize you are essentially an evolved human.”

“I’m not human … ” she says, but I can tell by the tone of her voice that she has taken this as a compliment. She should – whatever she is, she is much more evolved than a simple carbon-based pollute-puffing onanist like yours truly.

“Humandroids may not be human per say, but they are the next evolutionary step of the human,” I explain, as if she needs an explanation. “I suppose it is strange that the next evolutionary step involves the eventual eradication of a species, but what can we do? We created you in our image and you – all of you – will one day surpass us. I used to think of you as a Humandroid, but I’ve been thinking of you as a Human since you delivered my baby in Mexico. You are… you are practically the only person that cares for me in the entire world. You are the benevolent Eve to my intoxicated Adam, the evolved Juliet to my shwasted Romeo, the Angelina Jolie to my Brad Pitt clone. Okay, that last example doesn’t quite work, but you get the point. Don’t feel you need to change for me.”

“So I should change back then?”

“Hell no!”

The words escape from my lips before I can stop them. True motives usually ride on quick breaths. Luckily, she doesn’t recoil. “Let’s just … um … see how this goes. You are a woman, all woman, and that’s fine. I mean, that’s awesome. Dammit, I can’t process this right now!”

She laughs.

“Don’t mock me! What’s more important right now is getting out of Japan and … Nelly! Yes, Nelly. Rescuing Nelly is what is most important right now. We can deal with sexual orientations later.”

“Come lay down with me,” she says, relaxing onto an orange futon. “I need to sleep for eight hours. Think you can handle that?”

“Anything for you, Yeshi, anything.”

TWENTY-ONE∞

Rinchi curved back through the alley towards the Comsuit.

Rinchi: I’m going to get in behind the Comsuit if I can.

Keva: Same here, and then I’m going to kill you.

Rinchi: (Sigh) Are we still on this? Comsuit first.

Keva: Good luck :-*

Rinchi rounded a corner, nearly crashing into a pair of junior jihadis who were industriously stripping electronics out of a parked vehicle. “Move, Move, MOVE!” she shouted in English and the two scattered.

She slammed on the brakes and took cover; the Comsuit was around the next corner scanning for targets.

Rinchi: I’m there. About fifty meters out on the machine’s seven o’clock. Where are you?

The Comsuit opened up with its machine gun, firing a series of short, controlled bursts.

Keva: See where it’s shooting? That’s me. You distract it – I need to get closer.

Rinchi: Or – I could just let it stomp a mudhole in your ass, which would solve one of my problems.

Keva: True, but then it’d … SHIT! That was close … then it’d bring the sky down on you, too. I’ve got something that’ll ruin its day, BUT I NEED TO GET CLOSER! DISTRACT IT!

Rinchi: FRACK!

She broke cover, popped up, gave it a good solid zap with the Lightsaber, and rolled to a new firing position. Sparks and spangly fireflies erupted all around the Comsuit, but the zap had no other effect. The machine turned, took notice of Rinchi, and returned fire with its own Lightsaber. A solid beam of coherent death blasted through the spot she’d just vacated, followed by fifty or sixty rounds of reconnaissance-by-fire that chipped away at her increasingly inadequate cover.

Keva: Moving now!

Keva popped up out of nowhere, and zigzagged for the Comsuit like a jet-propelled roadrunner with a rocket up its ass. However much she’d paid for her Humandroid upgrades, she’d gotten the bargain of a lifetime in the leg department, and she used every penny’s worth in the run up to the Comsuit. It tried to track her, but she was just too fast. It put everything it had out at her and never came close.

She jumped, slapped her hand against it, and bounded away. There was a short, sharp explosive report and a tremendous Tesla Discharge. The machine stopped firing and collapsed, shaking the earth. Even shielded as she was by her MercSecure field dress, the discharge prickled uncomfortably around the edges of Rinchi’s senses.

“What was that?”

“Tesla generator with a shaped charge to blow through the armor and let the zappy goodness inside. Let’s crack open our little Easter egg and see what’s what,” Keva said, slightly out of breath. “Toss me you knife.”

“Seriously? Do I look that gullible?” Rinchi asked.

Keva brushed her white hair out of her face with her long-fingered hand. She looked Rinchi over, sizing her up. “I suppose you’re right in not trusting me. Here, I’ll play nice.”

She placed her grenade launcher on the ground and stepped back. The wind picked up, spinning a tiny dust devil between them. Rinchi only tossed her the knife after she’d picked up Keva’s favorite toy and backed away.

“Good,” Keva said, as she picked up the knife. “I like this one – I’ll have to get my own one day.”

She straddled the torso of the Comsuit and traced panel lines with her finger, muttering quietly to herself as she did so. “Not this one, not this one, not this one. This one is about the right size and in about the right place.”

Placing the tip of the knife in the groove around the panel she’d chosen, Keva hammered the butt of the knife with the heel of her hand. The panel popped off, revealing a numeric keypad and a dusty fingerprint sensor.

“Okay, the Tesla generator fried these,” and she tapped them with the knife. “But, there has to be a mechanical crash extraction release, just in case it lost power or combat damage or something. So … ” MercSecure’s top rep resumed examining the panel lines.

Rinchi tracked movement out of the corner of her eye. A convoy of three up-armored MRAPS and a golden Humvee stretch limo rapidly approached. Clove came up on the net.

Clove: Report.

Rinchi: Keva ambushed me, trashed the hotel’s vehicle and its driver, and was about to do her payback thing when Optimus Prime here showed up and went after the both of us. And thank-you so much for selling me out – we’ll discuss this later.

Clove: Shit happens; just relax. I’m coming out. Monique – overwatch for the Prince.

The rear hatch on the trail MRAP opened and Clove stepped out with a railgun at low ready. A big, heavy, powerful weapon, it was twice the size of a PHASR and normally served by a crew of three. Clove handled it with apparent ease.

Rinchi turned so that she could observe Keva and cover Clove’s approach, her PHASR at low ready as well.

Keva said, “Aha – gotcha!” and popped another panel open with Rinchi’s knife. She pulled at a red-painted handle with Arabic squiggles written on it in black marker. The torso of the Comsuit clamshelled open; Keva reached in and none-too-gently jerked out a dirty, skinny, grease-smudged thirteen-year-old girl.

“Salaam Alaykum,” she said as she tossed the girl to the gravel.

TWENTY-TWO∞

Sauria entered the Rosewood Restaurant to find Connard Branleur sitting with Bill Bleak, the CEO of BlurYou. The best decryptors at ExEx had yet to crack the video feed they’d received from the break in at MercSecure headquarters. Hopefully, Bleak would offer a hand in deciphering the video feed.

“Bill,” Sauria said. “Nice to meet you.”

Bill Bleak didn’t stand. He looked up at Sauria with calm, defiant eyes.

Connard jumped in to smooth over the situation. “Bill, Sauria… um … Sauria, Bill.”

“I’m quite aware of who he is,” Bleak said. “There’s almost no one that MercSecure or ExEx hasn’t personally affected.”

“I’m glad to meet you.” Sauria smiled even though it pained him to do so. He had a lot of enemies; some he knew about and some he didn’t. Bleak had just moved from the didn’t to the did list.

Connard said, “Shall we order? They have an excellent lunch special. The bouillabaisse is simply to die for.”

“I’m not hungry,” came Sauria’s reply. “I’ll just have an iced tea.”

Connard grinned nervously. “Please, Sauria, break bread with us.”

“Order me whatever you’re having then.”

“I’ll have the same,” Bleak said sharply.

A menu rose from the end of the table and Connard selected an order.

“Right,” Sauria said, “let’s get down to business. A day ago, our Japanese headquarters was penetrated by a pair of dangerous individuals calling themselves Anonymous One and Anonymous Two. They threatened the life of one of our employees and stole confidential information. We have the two on video, but they were using your BlurYou app–”

“—Great,” Bleak clapped his hands together, “that’s exactly what BlurYou is for. Why are you coming to me about this again?”

Sauria’s eyes narrowed on the younger man. Bleak was a tech heartthrob, handsome and square-jawed. This only made him more despicable. “I don’t think you understand the forces that are at play here. These two pose a threat to national security. Your company … ”

“A threat to national security? You do realize that MercSecure is a private corporation, don’t you?”

“A private corporation that is partially owned by the FCG,” Connard chimed in.

“What difference does that make? It’s still just a private corporation and not a government entity! Tell me how a firm that basically – let’s be honest here, as you’ve used whatever ill-placed connections you have to drag me here today – tell me how a firm that basically provides mercenary services for an elite clientele isn’t anything but an abomination of the system, especially due to the fact that it is openly funded by the FCG. Tell me why anyone in their right mind would support what you do.”

Sauria dropped his hands under the table so Bleak couldn’t see how tightly he’d clenched his fists.

“What you’ve essentially created – and we won’t even call it part of the military industrial complex as it is an entirely new bastard of the system – what you’ve essentially created is no different than the non-discriminatory Gestapo, or the FSB, or the Insane Clown Posse, or the modern day Yakuza, or any other type of pseudo-governmental organized crime ring. You get my point.” Bleak waved his hand. “And let me finish. Yes, organized crime because what you are doing by deciding who lives and dies is murder on an industrial scale. Murder for profit. You should be ashamed of what you created.”

“I don’t quite understand your contention with MercSecure,” Sauria finally said through gritted teeth. “We serve our purpose, and we work hard to maintain national security. I especially don’t like the Gestapo reference.”

“You have representatives all over the world providing protection or conducting assassinations for banana republic dictators, Saudi royals, North Korean nutjobs, African drug lords and Chinese oligarchs. The numbers don’t lie. While your internal dealings may be secret, bloggers, watchdog groups and other independent news sources have gotten wind of what you’ve been up to. The people of this country – while maybe distracted at times – aren’t stupid. Some even know what you did to Dustin Grier at the HuffingtonJones offices in New York.”

“Dustin Grier? I’ve never heard the name in my life,” Sauria said with faux innocence. “Look if you want to start making accusations, we can let our attorneys deal with it in court. You could be made liable for the defamatory statements and spurious accusations you’ve made here today.”

Bleak laughed. “I don’t think that’s a road ExEx or MercSecure would like to go down. It isn’t hard to shovel up some dirt on MercSecure’s iniquitous business practices; the information is being stored as we speak.

“Stored as we speak?”

Bleak said, “You may have had a representative kill Dustin Grier at HuffingtonJones – gruesome shit by the way, hanging him upside down and slitting his throat – but, Grier wasn’t just a simple pawn as you may have thought. The information is out there, and that’s partially why I agreed to meet you today. Don’t think for a minute that you’re going to keep getting away with egregious illegal activities like you have been for the last ten years. Other businesses and services are well aware of what you’ve been doing. Gene X? Remotely controlled life chips? The truth is out there.”

“Pardon?” Sauria asked, his face growing redder than he would have liked.

The Humandroid waiter set three ice teas on the table and quickly hurried away after reading Sauria’s jittery vitals. “If anything happens to me,” Bleak said. “All the information we have so far will be released in a way that you can’t stop. So before you decide to send someone to hang me upside down and slit my throat, remember that the fascist castle you’ve built will tumble if you fuck with me. Need I elucidate?”

Sauria reached for his ice tea, slamming half of it in a single gulp. “Well you’ve clearly been listening to the liberal media.”

“What liberal media? Most channels have been silenced by the RepubCorp party and their operatives, like you Connard, Mr. Business Executives for National Security! You do realize that the tighter you squeeze something, the more liable it is to pop, right? Read a fucking book on China’s switch to democracy in the 2050s. The Communist Party squeezed and squeezed and suppressed and supressed. Eventually the people had enough, and what happened at Tiananmen Square in the 1980s paled in comparison when the people rose up. Still, even with the massacres, they eventually overcame. The point I’m trying to make is this – when everyone is a terrorist or some sort of subversive, you yourself become the terrorist. You can only cry wolf so long!”

Connard said, “We didn’t come here to discuss your political views, as bat shit insane as they may be. We came here to ask you to decode the BlurYou video of the two people that infiltrated MercSecure’s headquarters. You are concerned about the loss of innocent lives, aren’t you? The woman disarmed and seriously injured two security guards; then she forcibly installed a DL agent inside an innocent Japanese woman. What if someone had done that at your headquarters in Seattle?”

“I would have let law enforcement handle it.”

Sauria growled, “MercSecure representatives are essentially federal agents.”

“No,” Bleak said, “they aren’t. Federal agents work for the FCG.”

“MercSecure reps work for the FCG too,” Connard said. “Listen, Bleak, what we are most concerned about here is the safety of the American people. The American people, the greatest people in the world in my humble opinion, deserve all the protection they can get. People would kill – do kill – to live here and exploit our freedoms. Exploit dammit! Shouldn’t we be concerned about this? Shouldn’t we protect our homeland, the place we were all born? This country has changed the world – the world would be a shithole if it wasn’t for American intervention!”

“All your arguments essentially allow you to be judge, jury and executioner. That, my friends, isn’t democracy. Just because you’ve painted freedom in a particular way that suits your needs, doesn’t mean that it’s freedom.”

“Are you not American?” Sauria asked Bleak. “Don’t you love your country?”

“Ah! This argument, my favorite argument from a patriotic businessman whose wealth is tied directly to the nation’s weapons industry. Let me be the first to inform you gentlemen: a country is simply a company. Some companies last a long time, some don’t. If I was born in Poland, I’d essentially be born into a Polish company. Cuba? A Cuban company. Thailand? A Thai company. You get the picture.”

“That’s absurd!”

“Is it though? All companies have their mission statements and their corporate culture. Some companies are more successful than others. Some companies operate what is basically a monopoly. Some companies are harsh to their employees, some aren’t. Some companies are progressive, some aren’t. The same applies to countries. Being American or Canadian or Rwandan or Polynesian makes no difference to me. It may have been harder for me to obtain my position in other places, and yes, you could say that some places would make it nearly impossible for me to obtain my position, but a country is a company. And gentlemen, what the two of you are involved in is bad business for both.”

TWENTY-THREE∞

Of course Yeshi and I had sex the moment she woke up. I’ll spare you the details, but I can tell you it felt exactly the same as having sex with a bona fide female. If you need a visual, find a porno online starring a Mexican man with a potbelly and an Asian woman with bangs. That should give you a fair enough image (please don’t masturbate to the thought of Yeshi and me making whoopee).

Let us return to the problem at hand for the sake of literary pacing.

Yeshi and I need to get to Mexico, but our status with the FCG will complicate this. You may wonder how we got to Japan in the first place, and if the words “drug cartel connects’ don’t mean anything to you, they should now. Yes, we took Carloza’s private hyperjet to Japan. Unfortunately for us, (well, for him too) Carloza is dead (RIP amigo), which will make asking for a favor a little more difficult. Luckily for us, Noah was able to obtain the private contact info for Manuel, Carloza’s former second banana, who MercSecure moved in to take over the franchise.

After another shag, I decide to place a call over iNet to Manuel, rather than starting out with an iNet message. I figure that it may help for him to see his former boss’ body.

“Hello?” Manuel says in English.

I activate the video feed in the room. My face – Carloza’s face – appears on his iNet screen.

“Carloza?” he asks, his eyes widening. “No, you’re the guy he switched with, the guy who had the baby.”

His tone of voice indicates that he isn’t happy with me.

“Hola. That would be me,” I say. “Umm … so where to begin?”

“How did you get my information?”

“Are you in a secure setting?” I ask him.

He shuffles around for a moment. “I am now. What do you want?”

“We share a common enemy.”

I watch as Yeshi changes into an LCD shirt that reads: GLAD-HAND ME.

“Your switch with Carloza is what caused all this,” he says. “It brought our operation to the attention of MercSecure and the FCG. Now, he is dead and I have a DL agent in my body. What could you possibly know about sharing the same enemy?”

“Yesterday, my associate,” I wink at Yeshi, “and I infiltrated MercSecure headquarters in Tokyo. We were able to uncover information regarding Nelly’s location.”

“Why should I care about Nelly’s location?”

“She’s being held in a maximum security prison in Colorado,” I say, ignoring his question.

“They put her in jail?” he asks. “I thought they were rescuing her…”

“Not really. They basically came to Mexico just to get the baby. The baby’s father is a man named Antimeria, who is a close friend of another man named Sauria, the CEO of ExEx and MercSecure’s second largest shareholder aside from the FCG. They essentially killed two birds with one stone. Three actually – they got the baby back, they captured Nelly and they installed a DL agent in you. They also tried to kill me in Tokyo, but I was able to avoid death by doing a data-switch.”

“I see.”

“So now I’m in Carloza’s body but my life chip info says that I am a Japanese man named Takashi Ogawa. Identity crisis.”

“I saw that when you placed your call.”

I open another screen and quickly send Yeshi a message.

Me: I forgot to show you this due to the newest edition to our love life. Check out the video taken from Rinchi’s hostage rescue mission. That shit cray.

I attach the link and send it off. Yeshi’s eyes flicker as she runs the video feed in her head.

“So we share a common enemy,” Manuel says.

“Yes, MercSecure, ExEx and the FCG.”

“You are essentially proposing we go to war with America…”

“No, that’s not what I’m proposing at all.” I watch as Yeshi replays the video feed. She nods her head, as if she is taking notes on Rinchi’s actions. The two will do battle one day – there is no sense in sugar-coating this.

“Then what are you proposing?”

I explain to Manuel how we installed a fake DL agent in the Japanese woman the previous day.

“What was the point of that?”

“She still did what we wanted her to do,” I say. “And this is what I’m getting at here. The FCG is too big to go against directly, but it is possible to go against the various corporations they own. Through technology and other means, we can disrupt their overreach, starting with freeing Nelly.”

“Why would freeing Nelly disrupt their overreach?”

“As it stands right now, they think that I’m dead and they think of you as a piece in their game to profit from the drug trade through various Walliburton connections. Getting Nelly out of prison would completely undermine their supposed power and authority. It would be like kicking over an ant pile. It will make them tighten their grip, which could lead to a number of things. For one, they may finally piss other countries off to the point that they won’t easily back down. Also, depending on the structure of their organization, it could be akin to knocking the blocks out of the bottom of a Jenga tower, causing a chain reaction of blame, and secondary blame, through the various corporate entities.”

Well said, Meme. I pat myself on the back to congratulate my morning clarity. Across the room, Yeshi pulls her legs into full lotus. I get the urge to curl up in her lap, but I remain seated because I’m currently being recorded.

“What do you need?” Manuel finally asks.

“Firstly, we need to get to Mexico. It is hard to run the operation from our current location in Tokyo.”

“That’s easy,” he says. “A shipment will arrive in Tokyo soon. You can return on our hyperjet. What else?”

“Well, we can discuss this more when I get there, but we need a way to get Nelly out of prison and soon.”

“I’ll look into it,” he says. “I’m going to forward you an address. I want you to be there in two hours. Make sure no one follows you. You’re running a bodymasking app, right?”

“BlurYou.”

“Make sure it is activated. The men that are coming to Japan worked directly for Carloza. They will recognize you, so no worries there.”

“Got it.”

“One more thing,” he says. “What should I call you?”

“Meme, Meme Lamar, but to the FCG I’m currently known as Anonymous One.”

TWENTY-FOUR∞

Keva kicked the girl’s feet out from under her, followed her down, put her knee on the girl’s neck and hissed, “Don’t move or I will kill you.” She quickly zip tied the girl’s wrists behind her back.

Rinchi’s Lifechip scan didn’t disclose much info beyond the girl’s name – Medya Zal – Kurdish ethnicity, Turkish nationality and date of birth in 2070. “What do we do with her?”

Prince Al Omid’s security detail swarmed out of the two leading MRAPs and formed a protective cordon around the passenger’s side of the gold-plated Humvee limo. The ranking escort opened the door and the Prince stepped out, his fresh white thwab beating in the wind behind him. As he moved away from the vehicle, the cordon closed in behind him and the escort maintained a very precise three pace distance from his exalted personage. They moved like an amoeba over to the fallen Comsuit; Monique followed closely behind the group, her two Heckler, Koch und SIG 5.7mm Arm Waffen readily available on single-point slings.

“So, you’ve failed to prevent yet another attempt on my life?” the Prince bellowed like a castrated calf. “Truly, a handful of retarded Fedayeen and a scrofulous three-legged goat would have provided me with more efficient security.” He radiated anger and disgust as he pressed through the center of his security detail, elbowing them out of his way when they didn’t move fast enough.

“Who’s this?” He looked down at the girl, his dog’s anus of a mouth pursed in disapproval.

Keva straightened up, dusted off her hands and approached the Prince. Two of his escort moved to intercept her, but wisely reconsidered once they registered what they were actually seeing.

“This is the Comsuit operator. She almost got the drop on me and my droidie friend here. If we hadn’t come along first and she’d waited and let us go by,” Keva blandly stated, not mentioning that she had been the one to ambush Rinchi’s transport, “the girl would have blown your gold-plated Gay Pride Parade Float into sparkling confetti.”

The Prince directed his most vicious, lackey-and-sycophant withering glare at Keva; it left her singularly unmoved.

“Enough details,” he huffed, brushing past Keva to the girl on the ground. He brought his foot forward and slipped his perfectly pedicured toes under her shoulder and flipped her over on her back. Underneath the dirt and grease the girl was strikingly attractive, with near white skin and thick brown hair.

Al-Omid spat in her face. “You miserable little whore.” He kicked her in the ribs and turned to his Security Chief. “Put her in the transport. I will enjoy … interrogating this murderous little slut myself.”

Keva’s silvered eyes narrowed as she spoke. “No, Your Highness, you will not. I will not allow you to subject another child to your attentions. She comes with me.”

Rinchi watched the Prince’s security detail as they glanced at one another and nervously fingered their weapons. The Prince never responded well to ‘no’; this was likely to turn ugly, and fast.

“You will not allow? YOU will not allow? YOU!?” Al Omid roared. He spat at Keva’s feet, and turned to glare at Clove. “Truly you people are incompetent!” he screamed. “Can you not even control your own subordinates? This woman, this child defies me – defies ME – and you stand there with your thumb up your vile, infidel ass and allow it!”

Keva spoke before Clove could reply. “I’m taking the girl with me,” she informed the livid Prince, “for further analysis. There are two ways this can happen. Either you and your posse of ballerinas get back in your big shiny pimp-mobile and be on your merry little Quran-fucking way, or I will kill each and every one of you.”

“What did … WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY!?”

The Prince nearly had a cerebral hemorrhage.

“You miserable pig-fucker. You’ve lived your whole life in a bubble of no consequences where you always get your way, where everything’s handed to you, where you can rape and murder and torture and kill with impunity. Well, not today; today has consequences. Welcome to the real world, bitch.”

The Kurdish girl on the ground moved and whimpered quietly. With surprising gentleness, Keva helped her to her feet.

Rinchi quickly said something to the girl in Arabic; the girl’s eyes grew wide as she took a step back.

“Alrighty then, Prince Abudalziz Ibn Al Omid of the house of Saud, which will it be?” Keva smiled.

“Enough!” the Prince shrieked to his guard dogs. “Take her head and slay the rest of them, especially that one.” He pointed at Rinchi. “Leave the little whore for me.”

He licked his fat lips in anticipation of the slaughter to come. Insha’Allah!

But God moves in truly mysterious ways. Keva still had Rinchi’s knife, and in that moment she was transformed, transfigured, and transubstantiated. Gone was the immature, vulgar, clownish buffoon. Instead, The Angel of Death moved amongst mortal men in all Her awful majesty. The Prince’s escort were all big, beefy men, truly fearsome against shackled prisoners or weeping women and children. Against Keva, they stood like paper dolls before Allah’s Golden Scissors.

The security detail never got a round off.

With knee and elbow, knife and sword hand, Keva reaped them like rice and left them on the ground, choking their lives out, faster than it takes to tell. The Prince, so far untouched, stood completely transfixed, his bowels and bladder suddenly and inadvertently empty for the second time that day.

The gun turrets on the Prince’s escort MRAPs whined to life as they targeted the MercSecure reps. Clove prevented that shitshow from ever starting. The depleted uranium slugs went supersonic as they left the muzzle of his railgun, blasting through the vehicles’ composite armor in a jet of plasma that ignited anything remotely combustible inside. The doors blew open as fuel and ammo cooked off in secondary explosions.

Keva ignored this, fixated solely on Al Omid’s weeping, quivering form.

“Mercy,” he whispered. “Mercy … ”

Her laugh was clear and child-like, full of genuine mirth. In other circumstances, it would have been a pleasure to listen to.

Clove: If we rearrange things, we can make this look like jihadis did it so we can still get paid. I’ll handle the paperwork.

Monique: Might as well.

Keva turned to Rinchi, holding the knife out butt first. “Hey, droid whore – you want a piece of this?” she asked.

Stepping forward, Rinchi gripped the front of the Prince’s garment and with one swift, fluid motion, slit his belly open with the blade. Prince Al Omid screamed and screamed as he desperately tried to stuff steaming loops of intestine back into his body cavity.

TWENTY-FIVE∞

“Well, that was not without its entertainment value.” Keva observed. Rinchi backed off as Keva moved over to the Prince. He was lying on his side, moaning and crying and feebly trying to remake his ruined abdomen. She crouched in front of him, slapped his face to get his attention, and did a flashy and ostentatious open with the butterfly knife she pulled from her pocket.

Rinchi looked up to see Clove and Monique covering her. She very carefully kept her hands in full view.

“Look, Rinchi – I understand that you think you’ve got a legitimate beef with me, but we’re not going to settle it here.” Clove explained. “Take it to Representative Relations when we get back, and let them adjudicate it. Right now we’ve got to rearrange things, dress this scene a little bit, and get our stories straight. All the shooting and the smoke from the vehicles is going to draw a crowd, so we need to get this done quick and dirty and bail.”

Monique added, “Good advice. Listen to him.”

Rinchi looked from Clove to Monique and then back to Clove. Their weapons hadn’t moved during the exchange. “That is good advice, that’s what I’ll do.” she agreed, “Let’s get this done and get of here.”

The Prince was in a bad way; he was choking and gasping as he aspirated his own blood. Keva stood up and waved Al Omid’s tongue at the other Representatives. “I’ve been looking forward to doing this for years.”

Clove cocked an eyebrow. “You knew him?”

“You know my history,” she answered. “Al Omid is the one who set up the kidnappings. He used to brag about it all the time when he was … ” she swallowed “ … abusing me. The fat disgusting fuck.”

Clove’s expression barely changed, but Rinchi saw the briefest flashes of pity and tightly controlled anger.

“I promised myself that I would have a reckoning with him, and seeing him pee and poo in his nice white robe, hearing him beg me for mercy – that was so sweet, I was in the seraglio for many years, and I suffered at the hands of many men. I don’t remember all of them, but those that I do – they suffer at my hands now.”

“What about the girl?” Rinchi asked, squeezing the Kurdish girl’s shoulder.

“Like I told the fat, dying Prince, she’s coming with me, with us,” Keva said. “I will personally deliver her to the facility that trained me. She’s thirteen?”

“Thirteen,” Rinchi said. “I scanned her. Her name is Medya Zal.”

“She’ll make a great representative, especially the way she operates a Comsuit.”

There was a sharp report from Monique’s weapon. She was walking amongst the Prince’s downed escorts conducting site sanitation and witness eradication.

Keva placed the Prince’s tongue in one of the ziploc bags she carried for her specimen collecting, and secured it with her equipment. “Ask about her family; find out how long she’s been operating her killing machine and where she got it from.”

Rinchi relayed the question. The girl’s face hardened and she looked down as she replied at some length.

Rinchi: I’m paraphrasing. She’s not sure who, but about a year ago some group came to her village to forcibly recruit all the men, and some other group showed up about the same time to do the same thing, with the results you’d expect. She hid for two days in the inspection pit of her father’s garage while they fought it out. When she came out, everybody was dead or gone, there were wrecked Comsuits and vehicles and discarded weapons everywhere – she thinks both sides killed each other off. She’s been good with tools and machinery since she was small, and she did most of the repair work for her father. The Comsuit was pieced together from the parts of four or five wrecks, and she did all the enhancements and up-armoring herself. She’s been looking for both groups that came to her village, but she goes after anybody with military equipment she comes across.

“Nice,” Keva grinned. “Neco Eos Omnes, Deus Suos Agnoscet – just makes life simpler.” With the delicate touch of a surgeon, Keva placed the tip of her knife beneath the girl’s chin and used it to lift her face. The girl resisted, to the point where blood welled up around the tip of the knife, but eventually she glared into the white-haired killers silver eyes. “Tell her I’m not going to torture her … tell her that I’ve got an offer she can’t refuse.”

Rinchi translated. The girl’s eyes stayed locked with Keva’s; she didn’t flinch or look away as Monique blasted another of the Prince’s men.

She’s fierce; she’s proud, like a trapped wolverine. She doesn’t believe me.”

“You are holding a knife to her throat,” Rinchi reminded her.

“Ah! I almost forgot.” Keva lowered her knife, wiped the blade on her thigh, and did an equally flashy and ostentatious fold and close. “Ask her if she agrees to come with me. Tell her I will take her to the training facility that trained me, and after she’s developed her skills, she’ll be able to do this for a living, travel the world and make more money than the Gross National Product of Mongolia. And it’ll get her out of this shithole. Wait, don’t call it a shithole; that would be insensitive. Ha! Who am I kidding?” she guffawed, “Actually, yes, translate it as a shithole because let’s not kid ourselves… look around this place – it’s a shithole.”

Rinchi translated and the girl nodded.

“Good.” Keva spun on her heels. “Well that settles that; let’s get to the airport. I don’t know about you three – four now – but I would really like to get the fuck out of the Middle East. Oh, and Rinchi?”

“Yes?”

“One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces – but not today. Hell, I’m even starting to not actively hate you.”

_∞_

Sauria sat in the back of his private aeros brooding over the way Bill Bleak had spoken to him. The snivelling, liberal little fuck. Didn’t he realize who Sauria was? How much power he had? With no more than a phone call, Sauria could have Bleak disappeared; he could literally have him launched into space and blown out of an airlock.

The fool. Sauria sent a GoogleFace message to Lorem Ipsum and like clockwork, Ipsum immediately returned his call.

“Have you read the messages I sent you this morning? The team protecting Prince Al Omid was shot up yesterday, neutralized. The Prince and all his men were killed.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sauria said.

He didn’t mean this; no one meant anything of the sort when talking about Saudi royalty. They were a necessary evil; their wealth and political donations went a long way. “I’m sorry for not replying earlier. I saw that you sent a message, but my mind was on the attack on MercSecure headquarters in Japan. I even had lunch with Bill Bleak of BlurYou, trying to get his company to decrypt the video feed for us.”

“No luck there,” Lorem said. “I already spoke to Connard.”

“I see. What happened with the Prince?”

The representatives handling him – Clove, Rinchi and Monique – were ambushed by a Comsuit-wearing terrorist.”

“A Comsuit? What kind?”

“A modified Chinese knock-off of an Andromeda 30,” Lorem explained. “It flipped their vehicle and stunned them long enough for it to kill the Prince and his entire retinue. Keva stopped it with a prototype EMP grenade. You know how she loves that crazy gear.

“One Chinese knock-off Comsuit? Sounds like bullshit. Wait, why was Keva there?” Sauria asked.

“She happened to be in the region.”

“What, on vacation? Why would anyone voluntarily be in that region?”

“Her after action report states she was in the region to monitor Rinchi’s progress. She thinks she is some sort of mentor or something … ”

Sauria almost laughed. Almost. “Mentor my hairy white ass. She went there to disable that droid permanently!”

“This may be so,” Lorem said, “but she was instrumental in taking down the Comsuit and retrieving its operator.”

“Go on … ”

“The Comsuit was operated by a Kurdish girl named Medya Zal, thirteen years old. She was able to take out all the Prince’s men and make a lot of trouble for the three representatives before Keva arrived on the scene; at least that was what Clove stated in his after action report, and Rinchi and Monique back him up on it. Keva does too. Naturally, Keva has since taken the girl to a MercSecure training facility.”

“Good call. She’ll make an excellent representative.”

Sauria glanced out the window at a passing aeros. The owner was in the backseat strapped into a VE rig, evident due to the headgear and visor that resembled a primitive motorcycle helmet. It was amazing how much time some people spent in Proxima dreamworlds.

“That she will,” Lorem agreed, “but we still have a lot of cleaning up to do with the Royal Family.”

“Which Prince got whacked?”

“Al Omid.” Sauria remembered the man, his sour face, violent eyes and revolting personal peccadilloes. “Well, how many Princes are left? It’s not like there’s any shortage of ‘em.”

Lorem stifled a laugh. “More than enough. Al Omid was one of four, the youngest. He may have been a bastard.”

“The baby bastard of the family.”

“Something like that. Still, the Royals aren’t happy. They’ve broken their contract with MercSecure.”

“Really?” Sauria thought for a moment. He saw their yearly profit margin dropping. “Then we will need to give them a reason to keep their contract. Let the dust settle for a week or so and then we’ll send a team to handle the Royals. A little pressure can go a long way when it comes to political acupuncture.”

“Sounds doable.”

“And Rinchi? Where is she?”

“Back in LA, at her private flat near Walliburton offices.”

“We may need her to pay a visit to Bill Bleak.”

Lorem asked, “Will she be giving him the Dustin Grier treatment?”

“No, nothing like that. She’ll be … umm … persuading him.” Sauria noticed an incoming call from Antimeria. “I’ll speak to you later, Lorem. We can meet Rinchi together or you can contact her.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Good. Hi, Antimeria,” Sauria said, switching calls.

“Sauria! You need to do something … they … I mean … I know what we’ve done with Nelly is justified, but they’ve put her in extreme solitary confinement, in the wall coffins! She’s in a wall coffin!”

“They have?”

“Yes, that’s what my … that’s the information that was passed to me.”

“I see.” Sauria knew then that Antimeria had a source in the prison. He didn’t like it, but he was willing to let it slide. After all, they were old friends.

“Please do something! I don’t want her … I don’t want her to suffer that badly.”

Antimeria was weak. Sauria had known it for years and it was a bad idea getting him involved in all this. Still, it wouldn’t be very difficult to have Nelly moved to a less confining space.

“Consider it done, old friend. I’ll make some calls now.”

“Thank God!”

TWENTY-SIX∞

Choose a pollute, choose a career, choose a family, choose a Humandroid, choose an enemy, choose a story arc.

Yeshi and I step onto the runway of a private airfield in one of the wards surrounding central Tokyo. In case you are wondering, we said our goodbyes to Madoka without incident (although I’m pretty sure he’s still pissed about my Columbus-like discovery of his girlfriend).

Naturally, Manuel’s men are quick to react when they see my face, the face of their former boss. Their weapons drop and they speak to me in rapid-fire Spanish, shocked to see Carloza again. Some even called me jefe.

“We’ll leave within the hour,” one of the men says. He’s a top heavy vato, who hits the gym but rarely works his legs. His hair is greased like Superman’s, topped off by a hook-like strand that hangs over his shiny forehead. His grin is all white and he looks sly as fuck – I’d expect nothing less of a drug dealer.

“Great,” I say, not quite sure of how our little interaction should go. (Better to hold one’s whisht than to explore, implore and bore – or not).

Latin Superman says, “Right this way, señor.”

Me: He called me señor.

Yeshi: See, being in Carloza’s body isn’t that bad.

Me: I hope this private jet isn’t like the last ‘private jet’ we took to Tokyo.

Yeshi: That was more of a cargo plane.

Me: Pollutes on board?

Yeshi: Likely, but you should play it safe.

Me: No entheogens – got it.

We board the private hyperjet and are led to the back, to a cabin filled with newly upholstered sofas. The eagle from the Mexican flag is inlayed in the wall, the snake in his mouth made of pure gold. Mad ill.

Latin Superman says, “The jet used to belong to the President of Mexico. He gave it to Carloza as a gift.”

“I was unaware that Carloza was that powerful.”

Latin Supe nods. “He was pretty good at hiding his status. He preferred it this way, you know, remain a man of the people. Please, sit.”

I collapse onto one of the plush sofas. A man of the people with a private jet? Count me in. Yeshi scoots in next to me and I’m instantly aroused. Being a horny bastard is difficult work! Sparks have been flying since I’ve no longer had to question my sexuality regarding our relationship. It’s funny how that works, ironic how these small things create personal barriers that seem damn near impossible to overcome.

“Feel free to use the mask,” Latin Supe tells me in English.

My eyes lock on a designer pollute mask that looks like something out of Mad Max. It hangs on a pewter hook above one of the sofa chairs, made of stingray leather – I may be mistaken here – with red lenses. Two horns covered by the leather give it a Daredevil-ish appearance. Pollutes my élan vital.

“What do you have on board?” I ask Latin Supe, cutting right to the chase.

“Carloza outfitted the plane with a supply of some of the rarest pollutes in the world.”

I suppress my giddiness by sitting on my hands. “These won’t make me hallucinate, right?”

“No, it didn’t take him long to learn that was a bad idea for a private jet.” He turns away. “I’ll let you two settle in. Food will be served in thirty minutes or so; relax and enjoy yourselves until then.”

“Food?” I ask. My stomach grumbles in response to my question. I don’t eat enough.

“Yes,” he says over his shoulder, “we’ll be having shrimp enchiladas with sour cream sauce and blackened refried beans.”

My mouth waters – Mexican food sounds much better than the Soylent bars I’ve been gorging on as of late. Nothing like a belly full of beans to fuel the crusade against FCG diplodicks. I haven’t forgotten how much shit they’ve caused me since Halloween.

“Back to the task at hand.” I glance down at a small flashing screen. Pollute time – bitch don’t kill my vibe.

Fendi Analjabeto

Chick-crut Prada

Gucci Maotai Caca

PayPal Payola Phyntonel

Sominex Oscar De La Renta Splooge

Holy hell these look yumtastic. Drop the mic or drop the soap.

“Too many to choose from,” I mumble.

“Let me have a look.” Yeshi leans across my waist and my hand naturally comes to her rump. One playful tap later and she says, “Careful, they may be filming us.”

“I’ve never made a sex tape before.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“We should probably leave this conversation at that.”

She laughs. “Yeah, we probably should. Hmmmm … I think you should try the Gucci Maotai Caca. Even I’ve never heard of that one, and I used to help distribute this stuff.”

I take the mask and strap it over my head. A bizarre wave of guilt pours over me. Before I pull the mask all the way down I ask, “Are you … happy with me, Yeshi?”

She sweeps her bangs off her head. “Happy with you? That’s a strange question.”

“Well, my life has been – one could say a roller coaster ride but I don’t quite think this does it justice – my life has been tumultuous since we met, and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down any. I guess what I’m trying to say is … is our life together acceptable to you?”

She places her hand across her chest, eyeing me suspiciously. “Are you being serious?”

I find myself nodding. It’s amazing what questions surface when one is given the floor. “Yes, I’m being serious. I just … sometimes I feel guilty about all this, like it is somehow all my fault.”

Why did you open your mouth, Meme? You know better than to reveal your inner thoughts to the opposite sex or for that matter, species! Whatever happened to ‘no questions asked, no answers questioned?’

She laughs. “Well, this is all your fault, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it. I told you before, this is the most excitement I’ve ever had in my life. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Being a … being a prostitute, while sometimes interesting, wasn’t exactly the most enlightening thing for me to be doing. Fighting against a force that has overstepped its boundaries – now that’s the stuff legends are made of. It’s very epic.”

“So you’re saying we’re legends?”

I roll the word on my tongue. Legends. Nothing feels better than the thought that I might matter, that my useless struggle may actually be worth something. Things might actually change if we do this right. On the other hand, we could be utterly, figuratively and literally fucked. The powers that be are forces to be reckoned with. And to think a therapist turned terrorist and his former ladyboy Humandroid girlfriend are trying to bring down an entity that has world-wide influence, a modern day Corporate Mafia using supposed capitalism as its vehicle. To think! Still, those priggish FCG chumps have it coming.

She rests her head under my chin. “I wouldn’t call us legends yet, but we are definitely living our life in the way that legends live theirs. Sure, we may die, but every movement needs a martyr or two.”

(Ding!)

“Where did you hear that?” I ask, pushing her away.

“Hear what?”

“What you just said about martyrs. Where did you hear that?”

Yeshi bites her lip.

“Please, no fake concern, just tell me. I’ve… I’ve heard that before.”

“There is something you don’t know about Humandroids, something that would shock even you if you found out. Well, maybe it wouldn’t shock you, but it might not sit very well with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

“Tell me, Yeshi.”

“You know we have a private network we can communicate on, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say, “the one you use to send work orders, et cetera.”

“That’s the one. You know what, Meme, I’ll tell you another time.”

“Tell me about what?”

“Let’s just get to Mexico first,” she says.

“Don’t change the subject. I want to know what you’re talking about. Don’t … don’t leave me hanging.”

Yeshi turns to me and grabs my shoulders. “Meme, I can’t tell you right now.” She closes her eyes for an extended moment, which indicates to me that I’d better check my iNet message box.

Yeshi: The plane may be bugged.

Me: Got it. Later though … tonight?

Yeshi: If you are sweet.

Me: I am always sweet.

Yeshi: No, you are always high.

Me: It stings! I can’t promise I’ll get help anytime soon, but if it satisfies you and the people inside my head, I’ll do it.

Yeshi: People inside your head? What are you talking about?

(I’m talking about you, Reader.)

Me: Never mind.

Yeshi: It’s fine. I wish I could get high off pollutes. It would be a great way to pass the time.

Me: Are you fucking with me?

Yeshi: No, I’m being serious. I really wish there was a way for me to know what it feels like to be intoxicated. I’ve told you this before. It’s a very human thing to do.

I clear my throat and say, “Trust me. You don’t want to be like us. We … I … um … ” I search my frazzled brain for the right word. “Many of us are eternally befuddled, skipping from one stone to the next. You’ve seen it … you’ve seen how we are with our little obsession and our dark little secrets. Show me a human who doesn’t have a skeleton in their closet and I’ll shove one in there!”

“At least you have a skeleton … ”

This is the first time Yeshi has ever been anything but positive. Could it be … no just because she’s essentially had a sex change doesn’t change her mood per say. Jesus Cristo what am I saying?

“Why you tripping boo?” I ask, using a phrase I read was popular back in 2001.

“Boo?” Yeshi laughs. “Where do you get this stuff?”

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

Nelly didn’t know how long she’d been sedated when the slot opened up above her. Time loses relevance during bouts of extreme confinement. Without seeing the passing of the sun or any other indications of time, a strange yet paranoid calm had settled over her. The sedation helped and as the light from the slot above her body reached her eyes, she hoped that she was about to be sedated again.

“Nelly.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t care any longer – this was what her life had become and there was no turning back now, her chances for freedom were finished, nixed, kaput and this was where she’d forever remain – trapped inside a system that perpetually spiralled downward.

The wall coffin.

The illegality of her imprisonment only made it that much worse. There would be no parole, there would be no chance for early release, there would be no escape. She was here on a handshake between Sauria (who she suspected was the most powerful of Antimeria’s friends) and whoever ran the prison. There weren’t enough letters in the word ‘fucked’ to describe just how dire the situation had become for Nelly.

Again someone called her name from the light above. She felt as if she were trapped in a well looking up at some forgotten beacon. The light stung her eyes, singed her eyelashes. It beckoned her forward in a strange way.

“Nelly, we’re here to move you.” A woman’s hiss.

This must be a cruel joke from a cruel God who could only offer punishment in dreams via hope-tinged hallucinations.

“Nelly, we’re going to lift you out of here now. Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me.”

Nelly didn’t nod. She knew whatever it was that lurked above her was evil, wicked, and it was seconds away from coming into her body, searing through her veins and poisoning her bloodstream. She screamed out. “GO AWAY!”

“Let’s get you out of here. Can you unfasten the rectal feeding tube or does the nurse need to do it?”

Nelly screamed again.

“Quiet, please.” the woman said. “We’re going to lift you now.”

The words weaved in and out of her head.

C C C C A A A R R R R   E E E E E F F F F U U U L L L L

Something churned inside her stomach. Twisting right, she gnashed at the arm coming towards her.

“Stop!”

S T T T T T T O O O O O O P P P P   B I I I I T T T I I N G G G

The words moved in one ear and out the other as if they were tethered together by a rope glazed in olive oil. A gloved hand clamped on the back of her neck. Another gloved hand fell near her legs. From her legs, the hand swivelled around her thigh until it latched onto something. She felt an incredible pain as an object was wrenched out of her body.

I I I I I I “ V V V V V V E E E E   G O O O O T T   H E E E E R R R R R R R R R

Slow motion brutal sounds came out of the creatures lifting her. Nelly’s right eye was pried open, and brilliant light blazed against her pupil, blinding the living shit out of her. The same thing was done to her left eye. The blackness that followed was accompanied by indecipherable sounds. She was placed on a hard, flat object and her hands were latched down.

R E E E E L L L L L   A A A A A A X X X X X X X X X X

“Where are we going!?” she screamed, her eyes closed, her fists clenched together and beating, beating against whatever it was she was lying on.

T R A A A A N N N S S S F F F E E E R R R

Nelly moaned again, this one hoarse and painful. Her throat was impossibly dry; each breath felt like it had to float over a field of jagged razor blades before it could exit her lips. She realized she was on a gurney, a gurney heading away from the coffin-sized cell. Yes, away! This thought filled her with both hope and dread.

The gurney turned and Nelly again tried to get her bearings. Her eyes were still blinded by the light the woman had shone into them. Her hands were still shackled, her throat still parched, her brain still blanched. She took a deep, concentrated breath. Anything to steady her nerves, anything to calm her throbbing heart.

The gurney stopped. A door opened and she was wheeled inside. She was uncuffed and placed on a concrete bed. The woman’s voice wavered in and out of her mind as she said, “You’ve been reassigned. Food will be served in thirty minutes, once you have time to acclimate to the new cell.”

Nelly raised her fists to rub her eyes.

“Just relax,” the woman said. “When your eyes finally adjust to the light, you might want to take a look at this.” She said, nodding to a slip of paper on the bed.

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

The thirty minutes of freedom that followed was worth more than anything Nelly had ever possessed. She soaked it in, breathing deeper than she ever had in her kundalini yoga classes. She was aware of the fact that she was still in a cell, but it was a large cell, thirty times the size of the wall coffin she’d been stuck in for Satan knows how many days.

Once her vision adjusted, she sat up, stretching her arms over her head. Just the notion that she was able to stretch filled her with an incredible joy. She swung her legs off the bed and the piece of paper almost slipped to the floor.

Nelly,

I was saddened to hear that you’d been put in the wall coffin. I can’t imagine surviving in such a confined space. I hope you’ve learned your lesson about misbehaving. Remember, you can always be sent back. Be a good girl, and maybe you’ll be released at some point in the future.

Yours truly,

Sauria

She read the letter again, her hands shaking with rage.

_∞_

The MercSecure driver hovered a few blocks away from the Hilton Hotel in downtown LA. Rinchi sat in the backseat in her representative field dress, blue with an optical thin film overlay that reflected and diffused the beams of directed-energy weapons. Next to her was a backpack filled with weapons and a few sex toys. Her tactical knife was secured in the sheath on her boot.

Night had settled and the myriad lights of downtown LA cast a blistering glow on everything they touched. Shady corners expanded, creating space for drug deals and weapon exchanges to take place. The stink of the city hung heavy in the air – the lives lived, the sweat sweated, the bodily fluids swapped, the aerosSUVs bombastically driven.

Rinchi: I’m here.

Lorem Ipsum: As I told you earlier, I’ll be personally overseeing this as it is a matter of national security.

Rinchi: Got it.

Ipsum: We don’t want you to kill him. We need you to coerce him into agreeing to our requests. If he does, I’ll see to it that you are one of the reps selected to go after the two that infiltrated our Tokyo headquarters. Keep your ocular feed on at all times.

Rinchi: Affirmative.

She stepped out onto the rooftop of a hotel facing South Olive Street. She’d already plotted a route on her way to the Hilton with the help of an ExEx service that kept real time data on all buildings in an area, as well as their architectural layout.

“Good luck,” the driver called out to her as he flew away.

From her current position, Rinchi needed to travel to the rooftop deck of the recently remodelled Hilton without drawing attention. From there, she’d need to abseil down the building to the twenty-fifth floor. Sure, she could enter the hotel from the lobby (or the aeros lobby), but this would put her on a number of video feeds, which could cause trouble down the line. Sauria had suggested she use the BlurYou app as a snuff to Bill Bleak, but it was Lorem who suggested she go through an open window (opened of course by an affiliate on the inside), and that they disable all video feed once she was in.

Rinchi crouched on the rooftop and placed a small device on the ledge overlooking the city. She typed in the coordinates of the next rooftop, which was slightly below her current position. A steel cable shot out of the device and latched onto a darkened parapet of the Hilton. Once the steel cable was in place, she used the wheeled grab handle to zip line to a darkened corner of the rooftop deck.

From here, she donned a pair of Mero climbing gloves, the palms of which were made from a synthetic setae that were activated by force. They only worked when they were holding a weight, or thrust into an object with a certain amount of pressure.

Rinchi took two sleeves from her bag and placed them over her boots. These were similar to the gloves, with the sticky setae on the toe cap.

Ipsum: Are you ready for this?

Rinchi didn’t reply. She bent over, attaching her gloves to the side of the building.

The breeze picked up, normal for this height, as Rinchi slowly peeled one hand off the side of the building. An almost Velcro-stripping sound greeted her auditory feed as she climbed, one hand to the next, crawling upwards to the target window (indicated by a blinking red light in her ocular display).

She reached the window about ten minutes later, slipped inside and found herself in an empty room, dark and freshly scented. Removing her climbing gear, she swiftly made her way to the front door.

Rinchi: I’m in. Disable video feed.

Ipsum: Good. The video feed will be disabled for two minutes. You need to get to the subject’s room, number 2501. Use the master key for access.

Rinchi: And he hasn’t returned?

Ipsum: He is enroute now. We have two B-drones following his aeros. Feeds are disabled. Go! Go!

TWENTY-NINE∞

Bill Bleak belched and stepped into his room. “Damn Mexican food,” he said, rubbing his belly.

Bleak was an attractive man, with rosy-red cheeks and a cowlick that almost resembled a faux hawk. He was short but well-built, with piercing eyes. Recently divorced, his current relationship with a Bollywood actress had made the Tech Icon a hot topic. Rinchi, who was watching him from his balcony, had seen his face before on the news.

Bleak stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

Rinchi: He’s completely alone.

Ipsum: Affirmative.

From the research ExEx had conducted over the course of the day, it was clear that Bleak was fiercely independent –which was about to bite him in the ass big time. He didn’t have anyone with him, no entourage and no personal assistants, nothing.

The Tech Icon sat down on the corner of his bed with his eyes closed. His room – modest considering his exorbitant wealth passed down by a Great Uncle who’d help found Vine – was modern and minimal. It featured a bed framed in gunmetal and a single desk with a circular cushioned chair. The only other item in the room was a curved television attached to the wall with Proxima VE hook-ups beneath it.

Bleak checked iNet messages with his eyes closed, evident in the fact his finger was moving up and down against his thigh. It’s possible for humans to use iNet without the finger sensor, but most people liked the control that the finger sensor gave them, akin to using a mouse. The only drawback to this was RSI, repetitive strain injury, which had become somewhat of a global epidemic in the late twenty-first century.

The CEO of BlurYou opened his eyes and saw a red piece of silk stuck between the balcony door and the frame. Rinchi hoped he’d notice this; the balcony would give her a tactical advantage. He stood, yawning again as he walked over to the sliding glass door.

Just a little closer …

He hesitated for a moment, returned to the bed, and was about to sit down when curiosity got the best of him and he walked to the entrance to the balcony.

When he was in arm’s length of the sliding glass door, Rinchi threw it open and grabbed him by the shirtfront. Before he could react, she spun him around and leaned him backwards over the railing of the balcony.

“What the … !?”

Her eyes dilated. An instant vitals scan indicated that he was a lot less frightened than he should be. His heart was racing, but his blood chemistry and pheromone output was almost normal.

“What do you want?” he asked, swallowing hard.

Rinchi punched him in the mouth just hard enough to loosen up thousands of dollars’ worth of orthodontistry and split his lips.

He spit, and made doggie-with-peanut-butter mouth movements.

She leaned him even further over the edge of the balcony just to see how he would react. Nothing. He was regaining his composure already. She pulled her fist back, preparing to connect it with his nose this time.

“Fucking idiot! I wouldn’t do that if I were you, MercSecure rep.” Bleak laughed through bloodied teeth.

“And if I do?”

“I’ll release everything through all appropriate channels, and you’ll be out of a job. Touch me again and see what happens. All of it … I have all of it! Are your ocs on? I’m sure someone is watching this. Listen you dim-witted fucks, I have all of it! Do you hear me? From Gene-X to your body-switching programs. All of it! Does the word Darknet mean anything to you?” As he screamed, red spittle flew onto Rinchi’s face. “If I’m killed everything will be released!”

Ipsum: Do not kill. I say again – do not kill.

“You can’t take MercSecure down,” she said. “The sites would be down before anyone could read the leaks.”

“There are other ways to leak information, Humandroid.”

Rinchi pulled him onto the balcony and punched him in the face again.

Ipsum: Careful!

She ignored the message as she punched Bleak in the stomach. He gasped for breath and folded up around her fist. He curled into a ball until she put her elbow into his kidney; he’d be peeing blood tomorrow.

“You stupid … stupid droid …” Blood dripped from his chin onto the balcony, creating blotchy crimson marks on the concrete. “Do you know who you’ve just assaulted?”

“Come with me.” Rinchi grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him inside the hotel room. Before he could say anything else, she zip tied his hands behind his back.

Ipsum: Do not kill him! That is an order!

Rinchi: I’m monitoring his vitals. I won’t kill him.

She strapped a black ball gag in place and tightened it down. “That should keep you quiet.” She set him on his knees in front of the bed.

“MMMMMMMM MMMMM MMM!”

“Are you ready to talk?” she asked, sitting down in front of him. He was releasing fear pheromones a-plenty now, and was attempting to calm his breathing.

He twisted so that she could see his hands and gave her the finger.

“This is going to be more fun than I thought.”

Rinchi popped opened her bag of goodies and brought out a bone cutter that she’d picked up the previous day. She took out her motorized Wartenberg wheel, which resembled a pizza slicer only smaller and with individual needle-sharp spikes. Pressing a button on the end of the device, she made sure the spiky wheel spun freely. She turned it off, satisfied that it was working and placed her modded Humgun on the bed.

Bleak shook his head at her, his eyes wide and bulging.

“Are you ready to get started? I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. Your answer to these questions will decide whether I get to use these things or not.” She placed her hand on his crotch and gave him a pouty face. “Believe me, baby, you don’t want to see what I can do with these things.”

Terror finally appeared in Bleak’s eyes.

THIRTY∞

The Gucci Maotai Caca pollute is light and crisp, one could even say refreshing. We’re served lunch as soon as the plane is in the air, and we touch down in Tijuana not long after. Modern day air travel is muy bueno, you’ll see (if you make it to 2083).

It is night in Tijuana and small pockets of actual pollution gather around what I assume are the edges of the cities. Upon stepping off the hyperjet, I hear the smattering of gunfire in the distance, the sound of aeros honking their horns and nightclubs opening their doors. At least that’s what I think I hear. Actually, I mostly hear the roar of the engine as it winds down, but my brain wanders and I let it.

Yeshi grabs my hand and squeezes. I feel like doing the same to her ass cheek, but I’m trying to be a good boy as all bad boys should. It’s always better to be classy than grab-assy, something many world leaders might disagree with.

I still have questions on my mind as we’re escorted to a heavily armored aeros transport. The vehicle, half the size of a public transport bus, has turrets on the top, weapons on the sides, pollution masks inside, and can be driven from either the front or the back. With detachable engines, the vehicle is able to get away from most situations. (How do I know? I watched a YouTube video about these things a couple of months ago.)

Latin Superman gets in the back with us, his hair slicked back Clark Kent-style and his muscles on the verge of exploding. He sits across from me, directly next to Yeshi, which makes me instantly jealous.

Me: I wish I could sit next to you.

Yeshi: Behave. You’ll have me soon enough.

Me: Do you ever check my vitals just to see if I’m all right?

Yeshi: All the time.

Me: How is my heart right now?

Yeshi: Beating.

Me: Fast or slow?

Yeshi: Average.

“Once we arrive at the hotel,” Latin Supe says, “you’ll meet with Manuel.”

“Great,” I say. “Is there any chance I can get a change of clothes? I’ve been wearing this shit for … a while.”

“Of course, you can take anything from Carloza’s wardrobe. After all, you are in his body.”

“I keep forgetting that.”

“Si, I know the feeling,” Latin Supe says. “I once was in a model’s body for two weeks. You know, wearing dresses, thongs, high heels. The diet almost killed me, or her, I guess I should say.”

Yeshi: His vitals indicate he misses being a woman.

Me: You can’t tell that by checking someone’s vitals.

Yeshi: That’s right, Doc.

Latin Supe continues. “After we switched back, I kept thinking I was in her body. Just seeing myself in the mirror was a real shocker. I was like ‘where are my titties?’ and ‘what happened to my flat stomach?’ That’s when I started working out. The least I could do was get in shape, you know what I’m saying?”

“I know what you’re saying.”

Yeshi gives me a snarky look and I ignore it. Two men hop into the front and the aeros transport vehicle lifts into the air.

“Body-switching is always … ” I try and think of the right adjective to describe something that is incredibly life-altering and go with my gut: “ … interesting.”

“Interesting? You can say that again,” he laughs. “I can’t believe someone came up with it.”

“It was actually a virus,” says Yeshi.

Latin Supe shakes his head. “I’ve heard that before, but I don’t believe that shit one bit. Calling something a virus is an easy to way to cover up what it really is. I bet the Yanquis invented it so they can fuck with world politics. That’s what I would do if I were president. I’d be having my agents switch with world leaders everywhere and do my bidding.”

I decide not to explore his nearly philosophical statement when I ask, “What should we expect at the hotel?”

“You don’t know? You’re in Carloza’s body and you don’t know his casa?” He laughs at this thought.

“We never visited last time we were in Mexico,” Yeshi explains. “We were in the hospital.”

Latin Supe’s face sinks to the left, in what could be described as a grimace but also could be described as a person trying to stifle a fart. “Well, parts of the hotel are being repaired after the attack a few days back. These fucking Yanqui military companies think they can just bust into someone’s home and fuck the place up. They’ve been crapping on Mexico for like two hundred years and they think we’re just going to bend over like a bunch of putas and take it!” He loses his train of thought as his mind bubbles over with animosity towards the neighboring country. “Ah, where was I?”

“The hotel.”

“Si, the hotel. You’ll meet with Manuel in his office, used to be your office,” he reminds me. “I think he has some ideas about whatever it is the three of you are doing.”

Me: I guess our amigo here isn’t high enough on the totem pole to know what we’re up to.

Yeshi: Let’s keep it that way.

“After the meeting, you’ll rest. You can change clothes too,” he says to me. “Oh and you too.” He winks at Yeshi. “There are plenty of women’s clothes in the hotel.”

“I’m sure I’ll find something,” she says.

We arrive at the aeros entrance lobby about ten minutes later. The results of the recent attacks are everywhere: fresh paint has been applied to several walls, yellow tape is attached to orange cones around a fallen portion of the ceiling, large bins filled with rubble sit in the corners of the lobby, building materials rest on pallets near the elevator.

“They really messed this place up,” Latin Supe says.

“Understatement of the year,” I say in English.

We stop in front of a private elevator, pausing for Latin Supe to register his fingerprint. As the doors open, my eyes lock on a small, wall mounted turret affixed to the ceiling of the elevator. Yeshi and I step inside, followed by Latin Supe and another thug with a sagging left eye.

The door opens on the second to last floor and a spiral staircase comes into view. A huge mural (looks famous – don’t know who painted it though) hangs from the wall across from the head of a stuffed wooly mammoth. I’ve seen a baby mammoth in person at the LA Zoo thanks to de-extinction, but I’ve never seen one quite this large.

We take the stairs, Latin Supe and goon number two behind us. The single man at the top of the stairs, a Wolverine-sized guy with sharp teeth and modded arms, practically growls when he sees us.

Me: Security is tight.

Yeshi: The leader of their organization was killed by MercSecure reps. What do you expect?

Latin Supe nods at the Tooth Fairy and he takes Yeshi’s bag from her. He pats us down after placing a single-lensed Leak over his eye to scan us for internal explosives. The door opens and we find Manual standing behind his desk, aiming a Humgun at us.

THIRTY-ONE∞

Manuel lowers his weapon. “I remember our conversation now. She is Rinchi’s Humandroid twin, is she not?” he asks in English.

“S-sh-she is,” I say, my hands still up. I feel my heart slowly settle in my chest. Damn these vatos and their pinche kill-toys. I obscenity in thy milk!

Manuel nods, “Lower your weapons,” he tells his henchmen. The new leader of Carloza’s organization stands, pressing his hands against the front of his black suit. His head is shaved and there is a bandage over his eyebrow. He takes a step towards us and I notice a slight limp in his gait. “I apologize for that. Just seeing … just seeing her face made me thirsty for revenge.”

I recall the video feed Noah forwarded me. Rinchi had made Manuel look like a little bitch a few days back. I clear my throat, “No worries. It happens.”

“What’s that supposed to me?”

“Rinchi already tried to kill me once in LA.”

“Apparently she was unsuccessful.”

“Only because she killed someone who she thought was me.”

“Damn her,” he says as he waves his men away with his gun. “Please, sit.”

Latin Supe, Goon Number Two and the Tooth Fairy exit the room. I feel my lungs fill with air – I’m finally able to take a satisfying breath. Yeshi and I sit in front of Manuel, who is eyeing me funny because I’m in his former boss’s body. The collar of his shirt is open, and I notice a fresh scar on his throat.

“Very odd,” he finally says. “You’re in Carloza’s body yet you aren’t him and you,” he nods at Yeshi, “you share the same body as Rinchi yet you aren’t her. It’s like a poorly written novel or something, a book no one in their right mind would read. This may take some time for me to get used to.”

“Actually, about this body,” I say, “I’ve been wanting to switch for days now. If your former boss’s body could be any use to your organization, please find someone for me to switch with. No offense, but I’m ready for something else.”

Manuel thinks for a moment. “Actually, Carloza’s body may be very useful to us. Most of his enemies still think he is alive. We could step on some toes with his body, especially with the Noriegas along the Texas border. What type of body are you looking for? I can arrange whatever it is you’d like in exchange for Carloza’s body.”

“What kind of body?” I glance over to Yeshi. Damn I love this question.

Me: What kind of body should I get? Big? Fat? Small? Muscular? Slim? Blond hair? Green eyes? Nice ass? Hairy arms? Broad chest? Well-hung?

Yeshi: It’s not your body I like.

Me: That’s sweet, but flattery will only get you so far :-D. Seriously, what should I go for? Black again? Slender with long fingers? Medium-sized ankles?

Yeshi: Whatever floats your boat.

I smile at Manuel. “Find me a black man’s body, muscular… Oh shit.”

“What?” he asks.

“Well my life chip information pegs me as a Japanese man named Takashi Ogawa. That may raise suspicion if I’m in the body of a black guy.”

Manuel sits. “So a Japanese man then?”

“Yes, someone fit though. I’d like a fit body.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. We have good connections with the Yakuza. It won’t be difficult to trade someone for their body, then they’ll have a man in Mexico who looks Mexican, but is actually Japanese, and we’ll have a Japanese man. That person will then switch with you, and you’ll have a Japanese man’s body and we’ll have Carloza’s body.”

Me: Did you catch all that?

Yeshi: Stop messaging me and pay attention!

I nod my head at the Mexican kingpin. “Good. So on to Nelly. That’s why we’re here in the first place, to disrupt MercSecure, ExEx and eventually, the FCG itself.”

“I think it is important we establish a clear enemy.”

“MercSecure,” I say. “They’re the ones that fucked with you and they’ve also tried to have me killed … what is it?” I ask Yeshi. “Twice now?”

“Well, three times if you count the genetically modified Humandroid back in Shinjuku. The one with the tail.”

Diva-beast I hardly knew ye.

Manuel growls. “MercSecure … those mother-rapers need to pay.”

I nearly applaud his swearword – even I learn a new one every now and then.

“You both are wrong,” Yeshi says. “ExEx is basically the parent company of MercSecure. If we go after MercSecure, it will be like going after a worker bee when the queen is nearby. We should kill the queen first.”

Manuel leans back in his chair. “Kill the queen … but ExEx is mainly a research company, are they not?”

“Sauria is the head of ExEx,” I tell him.

“And he is the majority shareholder of MercSecure, the second being the FCG,” Yeshi says. “I know him personally. He is the man behind the curtain.”

“The Wizard of Oz,” I say. “The puppet master.”

Manuel is quiet for a moment as he processes this information. “I will need to do more research regarding ExEx then. I wasn’t aware that this Sauria guy had such a large share in MercSecure.”

“It isn’t exactly public knowledge,” Yeshi says. “Several holding companies own Sauria’s shares of MercSecure. Those holding companies are held by other holding companies, which are then owned by Sauria himself.”

“El jefe.” Manuel cracks his knuckles. “In my trade there is only room for one true kingpin. I will look into this man and we will develop a strategy for taking him out. For now, let’s move onto the topic of Nelly. My people on the inside tell me she’s been moved from the coffin wall to a private cell.”

“Coffin wall?” I ask. “That sounds shi-tay … ”

Yeshi says, “Literally a coffin in a wall. They shove the inmate in there sideways, as if they were loaves of bread. It is a form of extreme solitary confinement developed in the aughts. It was originally used in secret prisons in other countries.”

“You know a lot about that,” I say.

She nods and her bangs bounce against her forehead. “I once had a client whose company designed the coffins. The more space they shaved off, the better.”

“Yes, it is shit,” Manuel says. “However, it will be much easier to get to her now that she is out of the coffin wall.”

“Prison break?” I ask. The words almost sound silly coming out of my mouth.

“Obviously, you are familiar with data-switching,” he says.

The reason my life chip information says my name is Takashi Ogawa is because of a data-switch. Body-switching changes every bit of information from one life chip to another, a full swap, one for one. Data-switching simply swaps the person’s data, making someone appear as if they were someone else. This was why the FCG thought I was dead. My data ‘died’ in Ogawa’s body after he was killed. For all official purposes, I am now Takashi Ogawa (but you can still call me Meme).

“I am a product of my environment,” I say and I don’t really know why I say it.

Manuel folds his hands together and places them on his desk. “Imagine I send someone to Nelly and she data switches with this person. Now Nelly is still in her same body, but her data is in someone else’s body. They change clothing. Nelly exits the prison as a guard using this person’s data. It will take the FCG at least thirty minutes to realize there’s been a switch.”

“Wouldn’t the prison realize it was Nelly upon check-out?” I ask. “I’m sure they check all the guards. Besides, it would look like Nelly. The data may be different, but she would look like Nelly.”

“What if we control the person checking the guards in and out of the prison? Better, what if we swap Nelly’s photo for the photo of the person that will switch with her? So her photo data matches.”

“You can do that?”

“We will do that. We can do many things; our reach is long,” he says.

“Why are you letting her keep her body?”

“She didn’t seem very happy in another person’s body,” Manuel says. “I can’t blame her; I’m the same way.”

“How do we get her across the border then?” Yeshi asks.

“I remember she has a Humandroid companion, doesn’t she? A kind of bitchy little lapdog that we built a new body for, complete with Humandroid Soldier arm PHASRS.”

“Noah has PHASRs?” I ask. “Those will be useful. Anyway, he’s with her baby now.”

“Sí … and a mother should always be with her baby. Who’s the father?” he asks me.

“A guy named Antimeria. He’s Sauria’s butt buddy, one of the people that had Nelly placed in jail.”

“Let me think for a moment.” Manuel leans back in his chair for the second time, taking a few deep breaths.

Me: Is this dude strange? He looks like some celebrity from the early 2000s. I can’t quite place the name though.

Yeshi: Not any stranger than you.

Me: Am I really that strange?

Yeshi: Do I really need to answer that? :-*

Me: Thanks for the kiss. I’ll save it for later. Pitbull! That’s who he looks like, a shitty pop artist named Pitbull.

Yeshi: That is a horrible name for a musician.

I glance over her to see her eyes flicker as she views Pitbull’s music videos in her head. A subtle frown appears on her face.

“I’ve got it,” Manuel says, clapping his hands together. “This is exactly what we will do.”

THIRTY-TWO∞

Noah was changing Rebel’s diaper when he got the private message from Anonymous One, aka Meme.

Meme: Noah, we need to talk.

Noah: Changing a dirty diaper right now…

Meme: Put that shitty diaper down and give me a moment will you?

Noah: You’ve clearly never changed a baby’s diaper.

Meme: You got me there.

Noah: Hold on. I need to go somewhere private anyway.

Noah quickly made sure the new diaper was in place. The dirty diaper went into an odorless incinerator built especially for disposable diapers.

“That’s a good girl.”

Rebel was a beautiful baby, full of life and curiosity. She hardly cried, which was a good thing, because Antimeria absolutely hated the sound of crying children.

Holding Rebel to his chest, Noah briskly walked down a spiral staircase that led to an elaborate, three story basement beneath Antimeria’s home. The basement housed a large entertainment area, a gym, a wine cellar, a library and an Olympic-sized pool. The pool area was Noah’s favorite place to sit. It was also a good place to hold a private conversation as there weren’t any cameras poolside – Antimeria was ashamed of his girth and preferred not to be videoed.

“Okay,” Noah said. “I don’t have video feed here, but I figure it’d be better to talk to you in person.”

A video appeared in his head. The video showed Meme in the body of Carloza sitting on a chair next to Yeshi.

“I’ve added Yeshi to the feed too,” Meme said.

“Hi, Yeshi. Long time no see. Do I detect something different about you?”

“Hi, Noah. We can discuss it later.”

“Let’s get down to business old chap,” Meme said.

“Old chap? I’m hardly old.”

“You’re a Neunbolt!”

“That’s beside the point. What’s the plan? How are we going to get Nelly out? Poor Nelly! She really is suffering in there.” he whispered.

“Well, we’re working on something large here.”

“How large?” Noah asked Meme.

“We need you to bring Nelly over the border.”

“Me? You do realize I’ve been under constant observation since they brought me back to LA. Antimeria always has at least three MercSecure guards here watching me.”

“Where are they now?”

Noah glanced at the spiral staircase. “Upstairs. I’m in the basement.”

“We need you to bring Nelly across the border,” Meme said.

“Why can’t Carloza … I mean Manuel organize a trip across the border?”

“He’s using his connects to break her out of prison. By the time they get her to the border, the FCG may be onto him and they may suspend all the border immunity passes owned by their organization. It’s a stretch, but it’s definitely a possibility. The prison Nelly is in is heavily guarded. We don’t know exactly how long it will take them to realize she’s been busted out.”

Rebel started to cry and Noah patted her back. “There, there, little Rebel, you’re going to see Mommy soon.”

“Is that my baby?” Meme asked.

“Your baby?”

“I gave birth to her … Actually, I would have died if it hadn’t been for Yeshi. She may have a second career in midwifery.”

Yeshi said, “Noah, we are going to need you to get out of that house at some point to meet Nelly.”

“I understand, but what if they suspend Antimeria’s border immunity?”

“Simple. Bring Antimeria with you,” Meme said.

“Do what?”

“I hate to be blunt, but you’ll need to kill his guards and bring him with you.”

“Do what!?” Noah’s voice raised an octave.

“Okay, that sounds too harsh,” Meme said. Noah heard someone mumble in the background. Meme listened for a moment before saying, “We will send you a package tomorrow disguised as… something for a baby. What do you need for a baby?”

“You’re being serious right now?”

“Hell yes I am,” Meme said. “The rest of what you’ll need will be in the package. What do you need? Tell me something that won’t look suspicious…”

“Send me a package of diapers,” Noah finally said. “I’ve been ordering tons lately. Rebel gets a rash if she uses anything but disposables.”

“Will the guards check the box?”

“They didn’t today; they almost never do. The guards don’t strike me as being the sharpest scissors in the salon, somehow.”

“Good to know,” Meme said. “We’ll meet soon, Noah.”

THIRTY-THREE∞

Curious, Rinchi cocked her head to the left and stared at Bill Bleak as she checked his vitals. “You sure are a handsome man. I would hate to have to change that.”

He struggled to say something but it was useless with the gag. Globs of saliva had formed at the corners of his mouth, pooling with the blood around his lips.

“What’s that?” she took a step forward and loosened the ball gag.

“You are so fucked! You dare … you dare assault me!?”

Rinchi brought her fist back and struck him with a precisely calculated blow that would maximize his black eye. It felt good doing that, it felt so human to feel power. She’d felt it before she’d become an assassin, but there was nothing like inflicting pain on someone. Nothing like it at all.

Lorem Ipsum: Rinchi, you need to leave now! You have company!

Rinchi spun around, looking at the door.

“Ha!” Bleak laughed, his chin covered in blood.

Rinchi tossed her things to her bag, ignoring the Tech Icon.

“That’s right, droid bitch,” Bleak spat. “Do you really think I travel without protection?”

Rinchi: What about Bleak?

Ipsum: Leave! Leave! There are five hostiles coming up the stairwell. Your recovery team is en route. Get to the rooftop now!

Rinchi lifted Bleak by the shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Using you as a shield, you whiny cry-baby piece of shit.”

Ipsum: Do not bring him with you! Do not …

Rinchi: They’re not going to shoot their principle, are they? Tell the recovery team to hurry. Which stairwell are they coming from?

Ipsum: Facing out from the doorway, nine o’clock..

“No struggling, okay?” she said in a sweet voice as she yanked Bleak by the arm. She jammed the ball gag back in his mouth. “There, that’s better.”

Rinchi stepped into the hallway with Bleak in front of her. She walked to the right, using Bleak as a shield. The layout of the hotel was visible in the corner of her ocular display, making it easy to decide on the best exit strategy. She made it to the fire exit when she heard the door kick open on the opposite end of the hallway.

“We need to hurry now,” she told the gagged man. She ran up the stairs, dragging Bleak behind her. His body had totally gone limp in protest; the back of his heels hit each stair as Rinchi continued to lug him to the top. They were a floor above Bleak’s suite when the stairwell door to Bleak’s floor slammed open.

“Clear! Go-Go-Go!” echoed up the stairwell.

Rinchi: Is the recovery team here yet?

Lorem Ipsum: On the rooftop. Hurry!

THIRTY-FOUR∞

The roof of the Hilton in downtown LA.

Aside from a mechanized aeros landing port, the rooftop was more or less bare. Rinchi stood with Bill Bleak as her shield with her tactical knife held to his throat, positioned in a way that would make it impossible for them to shoot her without killing him first.

The door leading to the rooftop would burst open any moment now and she had to be ready for anything.

Keva: Surprise droidieboy, we’re here to rescue you. Keep your cool for just a moment longer.

Rinchi: Where?

Keva: Monique is on your ten, I’m on your two. You’re getting careless in your old age. You should have scanned the area before…

Rinchi: I was a little busy.

She looked left and saw Monique in her representative gear. The lights of the city added accent marks to her darkened face. Her hair was tied back, her HKuS ArmWaffe in her primary hand, a small olive drab device in the other. To her right Rinchi saw Keva similarly dressed, her body outlined in softened blue tones.

The rooftop doorway kicked open and a large black man stepped out. He was heavily armored, wore a pair of ocs and packed a drum-fed combat shotgun. He was followed by four other men equally as large, all packing enough heat to melt an iceberg.

“Release Mr. Bleak!” he roared.

Keva stepped out of the shadows. “I was wondering if I’d ever see you again, Max.”

The man smiled, a big toothy smile that shined like a beacon in the dark night. “Ah, meine kleine schnuckiputzen. I thought I killed you last time. I’m glad to see that you’re still alive, or at least some portions of you are. Replace anymore parts and you’ll be a droid.”

Keva yawned. The wind picked up, tossing her white hair around her face. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Keva: Get Bleak to cover now!

Rinchi threw him to the ground and landed on top of him. Three explosions merged into one as tungsten sleet swept the roof forward of the MercSecure team.

“How did you?” Rinchi asked as the debris settled.

Bleak tried to scream through the ball gag as he realized what had just happened to his security detail.

Monique almost smiled. “Old school. Improved Flechette Claymores backstopped with blast deflector.” She tossed the clacker to Rinchi.

Bleak turned pale, retched and tried not to vomit with the ball gag in place.

“That’s not good,” Rinchi observed, and snatched the ball gag out of Bleak’s mouth, just as he projectile vomited his fancy Tex-Mex dinner and six beers. “I’ll leave it out, but if you make a sound I’ll cut your tongue out!” She and Keva traded grins.

Rinchi: I think I’ll be able to get the information from him now. You have been watching all this, haven’t you? Should I bring Bleak to company headquarters?

Ipsum: Dammit! This was supposed to be a quiet, deniable, covert operation. Could you three have been any less unobtrusive? Why didn’t you just bring party clowns, parade floats, and a fucking marching band while you were at it? Do not bring Bleak. I say again, do not bring Bleak. And do not interrogate him. Let Monique handle him. We’re going with the containment and damage control strategy now.

Rinchi heard the swoosh of displaced air. She looked over to see a black aeros landing on the corner of the rooftop. It hovered there for a moment, settled, and the doors popped open. This one was driverless, which meant it could use a faster airlane.

“Monique, Ipsum wants you to handle Bleak.” Rinchi hauled him to his feet and shoved him forward.

Keva examined the remains of Bleak’s security team. The Improved Claymores’ dart-like tungsten flechettes were horribly penetrative. The team’s helmets and body armor had mostly protected the areas they covered, but unprotected arms and legs and lower facial areas fared less well; the team members who hadn’t been killed outright were rapidly bleeding out.

Max the team leader had been fast; when Rinchi had flattened Bleak, he’d hit the deck too, so he’d just caught part of the forward edge of the cloud of flying metal.

Keva was delighted. “Ah Max, excellent that you’re not dead yet.” she said, hovering over the squad leader. She picked up his shotgun, checked it and unsafed it.

“You … fucking … Nazi… bitch … ” The explosion had blinded the South Africa man, even his milspec Leaks hadn’t saved his eyes.

Keva pressed the tip of her boot against his throat. “That’s really got to sting, Max. Too bad you’re blind now – I wanted you to watch a little white girl end your miserable life.”

“Hurry!” Rinchi called over to her.

Keva turned and aimed her gun at Rinchi, who stood in front of the hovering aeros prepared to get inside.

Rinchi: Later you dumb-ass fucking twat. Shoot me and you’ll hit the vehicle, and then we’ll really be fucked. LAPD TAC Response will be here any moment. MercSecure has scrambled their feeds, but that only gives us a little time.

Keva pointed the weapon at Max’s head. “Maxie, I really should off you and be done with it, but that’s just be too easy,” she said.

“Fuck … you … ”

She kneecapped him and then put a round in both of his shoulders, his screams sweet, sweet music in her ears. “And here’s a little goodbye kiss for you.” She opened her knife, undid his body armor’s groin protector, reached in and went behind and below a circumcision. “Really, Max – that’s it? I’ve seen gerbils with bigger dicks.”

Ipsum: CHRIST KEVA! Get out of there!

She dropped his detached part on his chest. “That should do it. If you don’t bleed out before they get to you, they can slap some spare parts on you and fix you right up. See if they can de-ugly you any while they’ve got you. As far as I’m concerned we’re square now. But Maxmillian, meine grosse schwartze arsch putze … ” She crouched down and slapped his face to get his attention. “If I see you again, I will make you really unhappy.”

A flash behind Keva indicated that Monique had finished the job.

“What did you do to him?” Rinchi asked, as the quiet rep approached the black aeros.

“New tech,” Monique said. “The flash resets the life chip.”

“Completely?”

“No, back to a specific point in time. I reset his to a few hours ago. He’ll wake up zip tied on a rooftop surrounded by dead bodies. It should be… an eye-opening experience.”

As Rinchi got into the aeros, Keva put her hand on Monique’s arm.

“I want to sit next to Rinchi,” she said.

MercSecure’s top rep practically climbed into Rinchi’s lap. Monique got in the front and the aeros lifted into the air just in time. Within moments, they were in one of the highest airlanes, the lights of the city reaching out to them.

As the aeros sped away the red and blue strobes of LAPD TAC Response could be seen in the distance. Keva said, “Well, that was more fun than I expected, and I finally got Max back.” She was staring out the window now, watching as aeros moved all around them. The reflection of her face in the window was one of contentment.

“Max?” Rinchi asked. “Is there anybody you don’t have a history with?”

“He’s the one who did this to me.” She tapped on her cybernetic leg. “My arm too. Two years ago in Uzbekistan. I was lucky to make it out of there alive. But that’s the past, what about tonight ... what are you two doing after this?”

“Going to my flat,” Rinchi said. Or Antimeria’s, she thought, although she hadn’t seen Antimeria in the last few days. He seemed to be distancing himself, which was fine by her.

Monique didn’t say anything.

“Well you two are about as much fun as sack of dead puppies! Come on, we’re in LA, the city of sin! Let’s do something tonight ladies, or at least one lady. I feel like letting my hair down!”

“Your hair is down,” Monique said flatly.

Rinchi: Is she being serious?

Monique: Yes.

Rinchi: Do humans normally go from killer-mode to party-mode so quickly? A vitals scan indicates that she is more or less calm.

Monique: Yes and no.

Rinchi: How offended will she be if we tell her no?

Monique: More offended than we’d like her to be.

Rinchi finally said, “We may be in trouble come tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?” Keva asked.

“We made quite the mess back there.”

Keva: That reminds me. Disable your ocular and audio feed so Lorem can’t listen in.

“Done,” Rinchi said.

“Ditto,” said Monique.

Keva said, “They’re not going to do a damn thing to us about what went down back there. I mean, what tactical genius planned that shenanigan anyway? Frankly, I’m surprised it came off as well as it did, and if there is any blow-back, who’re they going to come after – number two-twelve, number twenty nine, or the Chica in Charge, numero uno? The damage we caused back there is hardly worth reprimanding. Don’t worry you two; I’ve done much, much worse. Besides, with Bleak’s memory erased – nice ball gag by the way, you really are a twisted sister – with Bleak’s memory erased, MercSecure has the upper hand. Someone can contact him and say, “You know, that wouldn’t have happened if you had real protection from MercSecure reps, not a bunch of South African cheetah-banging turd-burglers.” You get my point. Enough work talk – clubbing tonight? Are we going? Every night is ladies night.”

“You just pointed a big-ass shotgun at me, like five minutes ago,” Rinchi said. “Now you’re my bff and you want to go to a club?”

“Let’s dance our troubles away. You too, Monique, my quiet little Pocahontas.”

“Fine,” Monique said with a huff. “But only if we leave the weapons in the vehicle and you promise not to kill anyone.”

“Pinky swear!”

“What about clothing? We can’t go in MercSecure outfits,” Rinchi told Keva. The darkness of the car was hiding some bloodstains, but at least two of them definitely needed some dry cleaning.

“Order something online right now. Have an EBAYmazon drone deliver it to the aeros drop off point. We can change and go from there!”

THIRTY-FIVE∞

Time to get my truth on. I’m in one of the private rooms of the El Pito Grande Hotel y Casino, watching Yeshi try on clothing given to her by Manuel’s people. They have loads of women’s clothing around here, enough to make me wonder if there aren’t some cross-dressers hidden in the mix of vato baddies.

“All this stuff is … slutty.” She peels off a low-cut dress and picks up a pair of shiny black tights. “I guess I could wear these to sleep in … ” She frowns (almost human!). “There’s an oversized shirt in this pile somewhere, but it has a bunch of slits cut into it.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” I offer.

Soitenly!

“You are out of control,” she says.

“What can I say? I was born this way.”

“Were you?” she walks over to the side of the bed wearing nothing but a bra and a thong. “You’ve never talked much about your childhood.”

“What’s there to say? Besides, I’m much more interested in what you were saying earlier, before we left Tokyo.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking away. Had she really mirrored human behavior enough to show apprehension by using a sideways glance? Apparently she had. Creepy stuff.

“About the message board.”

“So as I told you, Humandroids have a private message board. Actually, it isn’t really a message board. Humans use message boards. It is more of a portal where we share information freely, information that has been heavily masked.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“As you know, all Humandroids are created with fluency in ten languages. By heavily masked I mean we’ve…”

“Developed your own language based on the ten languages you already know?”

“Wow, Doc…”

“What can I say? Humandroids are kind of my specialty.”

She acknowledges this with a shrug. “We’re able to process written data quite quickly, so what we’ve essentially done is bastardize the human languages to the point that a normal human would hardly be able to decipher the writing.”

“Why don’t you just use a numerical code?”

“That wouldn’t be very human, would it? Especially when it comes to communication. Besides, if you really want to get technical, human alphabets can be rendered numerically.”

“Okay, I get it. So…” I look at her seriously. “What type of … information are Humandroids sharing?”

“There is only one human who knows the type of information we are sharing.”

“Only one? Who?”

“Never mind.” She stands and I yank on her wrist, pulling her back to the bed.

“Yeshi, we need to be clear with one another about all this, especially if we are going to war against the FCG.”

“We aren’t the only people … well Humandroids … planning to go to war against the FCG,” she finally says.

“The FCG has many enemies. I’m sure they create half a dozen more with every person or rival group they execute. Give me a name and we can go from there.”

“Tim7,” she says.

I gulp. “Who!?”

Can it be? I recall my former client who threatened to blow me up. What could he possibly have to do with all this?

“You know the name?”

“I do. He was … he was my client.”

“Tim7 was your client?” Yeshi’s eyes spread wide. “You know him?”

“Knew him. He threatened to kill me.”

“Not many have met him aside from … ” she looks away again.

“Stop doing that; it isn’t convincing.”

“Tim7 is the one who started all this, who made these messages created from multiple languages.”

“I don’t see how that can be so confusing for modern computing to decipher. The FCG must know about this.”

“They don’t. Mixing characters and alphabet-based languages and then flipping the sentences around can be a challenge to translate. Also – and this may be one of the larger mistakes the FCG has made – to save money, the FCG purchased a load of Humandroids from Walliburton to manage Humandroid to Humandroid data.”

“Why would they do that?” My hand grazes against the skin of her thigh. I slowly work my way to her panties, where I start playing with a small bow sitting over her hipbone.

“Up until recently, communication has never been deemed a threat, especially because Humandroids are incapable of violence.”

“But they are capable of violence.”

“Yes, we seem to be … evolving,” she says with a quick glance down at my probing hand. “I don’t know if there is a better term for it than that. Some droids are able to override their violence governors, which shouldn’t be possible.”

“Christ, it is coming faster than I thought it would.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve suspected that humans would eventually be replaced by Humandroids, or at least we’d live equally among you or as your slaves, but I thought it would take at least a hundred more years. You’re telling me it may come quicker than I had originally anticipated, which … well … is frightening for my species.”

“Our species are quite different in that regard,” Yeshi says, “at least most of us are. As strange as it sounds, most of us want to live alongside humans. There are, of course, droids like Rinchi, but there will always be bad apples.”

“What about Tim7? Where does he stand on this spectrum?”

“Closer to the middle than you’d think.”

“So he wouldn’t mind if humans were eradicated.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she says, “at least based on his messages to the community. Besides, one of his best friends is a human.”

“Who is his best friend?” I ask.

“Richard Hewman.”

The man’s image flashes in my mind. Impossible…

“The … inventor? The inventor?! He’s alive!?”

Yeshi fakes a yawn. “I’m ready to go to bed now.”

THIRTY-SIX∞

“They did what?” Sauria asked the next morning.

He was sitting on his veranda next to Heidi, his personal assistant. They had just finished having sex as the sun came up and she was still topless, her perfectly formed breasts gently washed with roseate hues by the first rays of the sun. From his vantage point, Sauria could see prickly gooseflesh covering her skin, a true feat in Humandroid bio-mimetic engineering.

“After killing all but one of Bleak’s security detail and erasing his memory, the three of them went to a nightclub, where things got out of hand.”

“How many are dead?” Sauria asked.

“One dead… bludgeoned to death with a pollution mask.”

“We can clean it up.”

“Already in the process of doing that. I think Keva was the ringleader. We may need to proceed with disciplinary actions.”

“What do you suggest? Confinement? Sensory Deprivation? Electro-Convulsive Aversion Therapy?” Sauria shook his head. “None of that ever seems to work with her. Other than putting a bullet in her head, there’s not a whole lot we can do. We may need to just accept the fact that she’s a loose cannon and go with it. We can deal with the nightclub incident later. Tell me what happened with Bleak. I’m sorry I was indisposed last night. As you know, I was the guest of honor at the Los Angeles Tomorrow dinner.”

“How was it?”

“The food was good, the entertainment … meh. They had a popular girl group playing named Autotune. I guess their shtick is that they don’t use autotune nor can they sing. They are all about the Equivocate for Clarity Movement.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It was … until hologram Michael Jackson came out with Tupac rapping alongside him. Everyone likes a good throwback.”

Sauria said, “Well, the Beatlesholoshow with Nirvana as the opening act always sells out, and the Thunderdome Death Match between Yoko Ono and Courtney Love is always a crowd pleaser. I guess music a hundred years ago is just better than it is now. All the choons these days are heavily electronic or sampled so much that they sound like fifty people talking at once.” He sighed and he meant it. “Well, onto business. Bleak was found on the rooftop, zip tied and unconscious.”

Sauria smiled. He opened his eyes, watching as Heidi put on her bra. There was nothing, nothing, like hearing that your enemies have suffered. “Do we reach out to him or wait for him to reach out to us?”

“I think we reach out to Bleak,” Lorem said. “I want it to seem as if we are concerned about his well-being. Reaching out will do this. In fact, we may be able to pin this on Anonymous One and Two.”

“Clever… he just may buy it, especially after waking up on a rooftop covered in blood. Now is the time to pounce.” Sauria took a deep breath. He’d been having chest pains of late and he’d been planning to see a doctor.

“Agreed. Should we ask Connard to reach out to him or … ?”

“Let me do it.” Sauria turned to his assistant Heidi. “Honey, I’d like muesli and yogurt for breakfast today.”

“To drink?”

“A low-fat white mocha today, if you will. A little sugar would be nice, but not too much. Run along now.”

“No problem.” She bent forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You were great this morning,” she whispered in his ear.

“You too.”

He watched her perfectly-shaped ass sway as she took the steps that led to the sliding glass door.

“So you’ll reach out to him?” Lorem asked.

“Yes, in fact I’ll do it right now, while he’s still in recovery. Transfer me the information to his private line.”

“Done.”

Sauria placed a call over iNet to Bill Bleak. He wanted to see his bruised face but unfortunately, Bleak answered the call without video feed.

“Sauria,” the Tech Icon said instead of hello.

“My God, Bill, I heard what happened to you. Are you all right?”

“I’ll … I’ll be fine.”

Sauria couldn’t quite register if the man was furious, afraid or simply exhausted. “What happened?” He figured the answer to this question would tell him exactly how Bleak felt.

“It was … crazy. One minute I was walking into my hotel room, the next minute I was on the rooftop surrounded by … by … dead bodies. My mouth was bloody, my jaw felt like it had been dislocated, my kidneys hurt, I’m pissing blood … ”

“What?” Sauria asked, feigning concern. “I just … I can’t believe this!”

“The police arrived minutes later. They checked the cameras, but everything had been disabled.”

“What about the dead bodies?”

“The dead bodies belonged to my security detail. Only the team leader of the detail, Max, is still alive. Someone shot him in the knees, blew off both his arms and cut off his … um … his … well, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Jesus H. Christ! I know we have different politics,” Sauria began, “but this is exactly what I am interested in stopping. It is horrible that you had to suffer this. Someone was obviously trying to send you a message. I feel guilty about it … ”

“Why do you feel guilty?”

“I’m fairly certain someone from Anonymous hacked into my personal data files. They probably saw that I met with you, CEO of BlurYou, and they likely came to the conclusion that I was trying to get the video feed de-encrypted by your engineers,” Sauria lied. “You know, the video feed from their break-in at our Shinagawa headquarters.”

“Crazy. You think … you think they’d go that far?”

“If Anonymous is who I think they are, I’ve already seen them go this far. They’ve killed several of our representatives, I’ve been personally assaulted by one of the members, and they’re likely planning more. I wouldn’t be surprised at all. These are real subversives here.”

“I see. What should I do?” Bleak asked.

“Well, Firstly, I think we should meet again. We need to discuss what I know thus far about these two.”

“I’m not leaving my hotel room,” he said. “I have six guards outside.”

“From which company?”

“Pinkerton Security.”

“Well, I’m not going to spend much time commenting on the Pinkerton Security Company, but you do know they are rated one of the least best security companies in the business, don’t you?”

“They are?”

“I’ll tell you what, Bill, I can send some MercSecure representatives to you if you’d like, free of charge. I want you to be protected.”

“You do? Why are you so concerned about me?” The man’s tone of voice changed and Sauria knew he needed to ease into what he was going to say next.

“I’m concerned because I’m a CEO too. I know what it feels like to have my life threatened. As I said before, we have different politics, but we are both American CEOs, which means we should have somewhat of an affinity for one another.”

“Don’t worry about sending MercSecure reps,” he said. “I have it covered.”

“Suit yourself.”

“But we should meet. I really would like to know what you know about all this, about Anonymous.”

Sauria said, “From what we know, Anonymous is a team of two people. However, there’s no limit to how many more there could be. Hundreds, maybe even thousands. We can discuss this in person.”

Bleak thought for a moment. “So you’ll come here?” he finally asked.

“Sure, I’ll be there this evening, to give you some time to rest. One thing though … ”

“What’s that?”

“I know you have sensitive information regarding my companies. What I am suggesting then is an information swap. You tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“No ocular feeds.”

“None needed,” Sauria said. “We are both at the top of our industries. There will always be someone vying for our positions, as you know.”

Bleak cleared his throat. “I know.”

“Good, then we can do an even exchange, information for information.”

“What about the video feed? Do you want that?”

Sauria nodded. “I would love to see the video feed, but I know your company’s policy and I realize now that I violated it by asking you to view the video yesterday. For now, we can just exchange verbal information. I won’t put pressure on you to actually give me the de-encrypted video feed. Information will do.”

“I’ll view the video myself,” Bleak finally said. “I can exercise this privilege as the CEO. I can’t share it, but I can tell you in detail what I see.”

“Good, I’ll transfer you a few pictures for you to compare with your video.”

“What time tonight?” he asked.

Sauria checked his watch. “How about seven-thirty? Have dinner first. We’ll get down to business and try to finish by nine.”

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

Richard Hewman.

Who would have thought that the man was still alive? (If Yeshi or more appropriately, Tim7, wasn’t lying about his existence.) After all, Yeshi has never actually seen the man nor has he ever sent a message to the Humandroids through Tim7. More importantly – if Hewman is alive, and he has power through Tim7, or they share power or whatever, they could lead an uprising against the humans. They could eradicate humankind.

Better stay on the right side, Meme. Shatter the emerald tablet!

The possibilities and the outcomes are endless; they boil inside my brittle brain cavity long after the hour I should have been asleep. By the time two in the morning rolls around like an angry ex, I’m up, sitting on the ground with my back against the bed. A spoonful of pollutes helps the cranium slow down, the nightmares slow down, the insomnia turn ‘round – I think that’s how the song from Mary Poppins goes.

I’m in luck! This is a hotel and all late twenty-first century hotels come equipped with a pollution mask. I just have to get it without turning on the lights, not that it will wake Yeshi – she sleeps like a rock. Still, common courtesy goes a long way in any relationship.

The mask is easy to find, hooked on the wall next to the bed, and I take it down and strap it to my face like a good little laddie. I miss the fresh pollutes of LA, made by the grimy dreadlocked bartenders who are famous for their special pollute toppers, prepared fresh daily. Love my organic in-your-face hometown, where wack is cool and cool is celebutard. Oh LA – how I miss thee.

Regardless, the automatic system will do the trick. I place the mask on my head, not quite sure of how to select a pollute. I don’t want anything twisted, just something to get me to sleep, something to anvil my eyelids.

“How do I select a pollute?” I whisper to myself.

Pollute choices appear on the polypropylene eye lenses. Apparently, the same company that makes the Japanese pollute selector screen makes the ones for the hotel. Instead of a rabbit or frog, I’m greeted by a little anime-looking mariachi.

“Ingles,” I whisper. The little figure does a Mexican hat dance and the list appears in English (I don’t know if I should be offended by the cartoon, but I decide to voice my complaints later):

Mugato Insomnia Thrasher

Tom Ford Khat Chow

BHS Bummer Bum

Diesel Dichotomy Drum Circle

I stick to the top of the list. Got to get my sleep on before morning rears her tear-stained face (or tears her rear-stained face). A hiss indicates the pollutes are being fed through the system, pumped into me. Glorious.

(Inhale, exhale.)

I’m not an addict. I know what you’re thinking, Reader, but come on, don’t judge me for once. Clearly, I’m in over my head. Clearly, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew when I’ve essentially decided to take on the American Government (or more appropriately, the corporate entity that it has essentially become).

So the pollutes help, as does your morning coffee or your nightcap before hitting the sheets. It seems as if we’ll do anything to smooth and obfuscate the passing of time. Nothing wrong with that I suppose. Read: don’t judge me.

Sleepy time, Meme and Reader. Yawn only to inhale more, only to cough. Tonight is a night that we won’t take the mask off. Just relax with me, cross thy legs and lean against the bedframe alongside me. Inhale and let us begin. It’s not the first time I’ve fallen asleep with the mask on next to you; it definitely won’t be the last.

Time passes and morning comes.

Yeshi’s delicate hand reaches me before the morning light can, flopping over my chest. I feel her nuzzle her head on my shoulder, her morning hair messy and untamed.

“You fell asleep with the mask on.” She does me the honor of taking the mask off, returning it to its place above the bed.

“Sorry … ” I want to pinch my nose to avoid smelling my own morning breath.

“You know you are addicted to pollutes, right?” she asks in a moment of morning candor that I was hoping to avoid.

“Addicted? Come on, there are people in this world who do way more than me. Way more.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you don’t have a problem,” she says.

Is she nagging me?

“I’m not nagging you … ”

Is she reading my mind!?

“I just want you to know that you do exhibit the traits of an addict, whether you care to admit it or not.”

I press myself off the floor with nothing to say aside from, “I’m under a lot of pressure.”

“Meme … ” Yeshi rolls over and looks up at me. “You realize I don’t care if you’re a pollute-addict, don’t you? I am simply stating a very obvious fact. You can do what you want, really you can. I am aware that many adults now are dependent upon pollutes to function, even with the studies coming out about the ill effects on a person’s health.”

“Those are just studies.” I turn my back to her.

“True, but there is merit in those studies. You know I monitor your vitals … ”

“Yes? And? Remember, I’m trapped in the body of a fat Mexican right now, so my vitals might not be all they’re cracked up to be.”

“Come here,” she says, patting her hand on the bed. I return to the bed like a freshly groomed poodle with his tail tucked between his legs. She runs her hand through my hair. “There’s no need to get offended or embarrassed. When the time comes, I think you will change your ways.”

I look up at her, past her bangs, her perfect skin, her dark eyes. Homo Machina. Her eyes hold a knowledge I’ll never truly grasp, an objective sense of reality I’ll never have.

One day, I want to say, one day I will change for you, Yeshi.

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

Breakfast is served in our room (chorizo and runny eggs, flour tortillas and fresh salsa bandera) and after I’ve finished, Yeshi and I are escorted to Manuel’s private suite. We are again checked at the door by some thugs, and after a gropy little pat-down, we are let inside. Lo and behold there is a Japanese man standing in the room.

Manuel (black suit, shaved head, dark gray shirt, reeking of cologne) smiles. “Good morning, Meme, meet your new body.”

Yeshi sits as I examine the body in the way one would examine a mannequin. I walk around the Japanese man, taking in his size and features. His hair is neatly cut, his features chiseled and his skin the color of bleached wood. He’s thin but tall, and his arms are slightly muscled. He looks good in his dark suit with an open collar – I’m feeling better about this switch already.

“Let’s get the switch out of the way,” Manuel says, “then we can watch the video of Nelly’s prison escape together.”

“It already happened?”

“No,” he says, “we’ll be viewing it live. Switch and then you’ll need to contact Noah. Today is the day. We need to make sure he’s received the package I sent him – he should have it within the hour – and he needs to take the necessary actions to meet Nelly and her getaway driver near the border.”

The Japanese man turns to me. Remember, Manuel had one of his men switch with a Yakuza guy, so the man standing in front of me is actually not Japanese, he’s one of Manuel’s henchmen.

“I have a switcher.” I take off my guitar pick necklace and hold it in front of my body. Both of us touch one side of the guitar pick with our finger sensors.

A message appears on my iNet screen asking me if I’d like to make the transfer. Yes please!

BOOM.

Seriously, boom is the only word that adequately describes my joy in knowing that I am finally, FINALLY, out of Carloza’s body. Hell, as soon as the nausea passes (all of two minutes), I nearly do a jump kick right there in the middle of Manuel’s office. I’m turning Japanese I think I’m turning Japanese I really think so! I really am Japanese now!

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta – actually appropriate considering I am now in the body of a member of the Yakuza. The man in Carloza’s body smiles. Manuel turns to him and says, “Okay José, it’s time to pay the Noriegas a visit. Check in with me later when you’ve finished. Remember, kill them all. Take our Andromeda Comsuits for back-up.”

“No problemo.”

“Where’s he going?” I ask as soon as he steps out. I stretch my fingers again, growing used to my new body.

“People have been fucking with us in the border territories since the rumors of Carloza’s death started. Now it’s our turn to fuck back.”

“I see.”

Me: I keep forgetting we’re basically in bed with a powerful Mexican drug cartel.

Yeshi: What else did you expect them to do with Carloza’s body? Messages will be sent. Still, your new body is nice, handsome.

Me: I told you it would be best for me to switch.

Yeshi: I stand corrected.

Me: I haven’t stood correctly in years.

I take my seat in front of Manuel, rubbing my hands together as I say, “Let’s get this party started!”

“Party?” the drug kingpin laughs. “What is about to happen is far from a party, Meme.”

“A boy can dream, can’t he?”

“I suppose he can.”

Manuel presses a button on his desk. Dark shades dropped from the ceiling, covering the bright windows. A holoscreen drops down from the ceiling; it shows a video of someone being searched before entering the maximum security prison holding Nelly.

“You don’t happen to have any popcorn, do you?” I ask.

Manuel gives me a funny look. “Give Noah a call and I’ll see about getting some popcorn.”

THIRTY-NINE∞

The EBAYmazon drone dropped off the package of diapers at around nine the next morning. Noah calmly retrieved it, taking it down to the pool area beneath Antimeria’s banging estate. He placed the box on the ground next to Rebel’s crib.

“Are you ready to see mama?” he whispered to the baby.

He quickly opened the package to find a small yellow envelope wrapped in tape. Inside he found two 1cc syringes, one with a circle on it and one with the letter X. There was also a message:

Circle first, then X. Twenty-four hour time limit. Works instantly.

Truth XO.

He’d heard of the drug before. It had been developed in the 2050s by a team funded by Kim Jun-Duche, the leader of North Korea and neurotic nutter (like his father and his father before him ad infinitum). It made the recipient completely malleable by adjusting dopamine levels and disrupting memory receptors; essentially a mind control drug. It was one of the most illegal pharmaceuticals in the world, mainly due to its unheard of power and complete undetectability. Once administered, the recipient would blindly and unquestioningly obey any and all instructions for as long as the drug remained in their system. It was pricey too – a single dosage cost as much as a flat in Kensington.

Noah looked down at the retractable PHASRs installed in his arms. They were covered by a layer of e-skin, and to use them, he’d have to shoot through his skin, something he wasn’t particularly looking forward to doing. Still, sacrifices had to be made. He’d already noted the location of the three men guarding him upstairs (two in the living area, one in the kitchen). The big cheese himself, Antimeria, was on the top floor getting ready for the day.

It would be easy to take out the first two men. The third would likely hear the noise and come running with his weapon drawn. Noah would be able to neutralize him as well, but Antimeria would definitely hear the commotion and who knew what he’d do. He’d have to deal with Antimeria first then, and disconnect him from the iNet so he couldn’t summon help.

“Easy-peasy,” Noah told himself as he placed the two syringes in his pocket. He lifted baby Rebel and gave her a kiss for good luck.

“There’s going to be some loud sounds, but I want you to ignore them. Here, let’s find something on the tube.” A three meter long TV dropped down from the ceiling above the pool. Cartoons appeared and Rebel’s eyes lit up. “That’s a good girl, watch Tom and Jerry while Papa Noah takes care of some things.”

He ascended the stairwell that led to the first floor, mentally preparing himself with each step.

“Where you going, Mister Mom?” one of the guards asked at the top of the stairs. He was the youngest of the three, thin and baby-faced.

“To Antimeria,” he said. “I need to get his permission to order some things for Rebel. It’s time she starts learning English.”

“But she isn’t even a month old…”

Noah nodded at the dim-witted guard. “I know, but competition is so fierce these days. Have you seen the latest Asian test scores? I was up all night reading about them. We need to start her education now.”

“All right.” The guard yawned and sat back down on a stool.

Noah reached the top floor and turned towards Antimeria’s bedroom. He passed a few abstract paintings that hung in the hallway, one of which had been made by a man flinging paint from his flaccid penis. The piece, entitled Limp, had cost Antimeria a considerable sum of money. Noah knew this first-hand; he was the one who had picked up the piece from a gassy dealer.

He knocked lightly on his owner’s door and entered. Soft jazz music trickled out of a speaker system installed in the walls; the smell of pheromone-enhanced body wash met Noah’s olfactory senses. The steam in the room indicated that Antimeria was taking a shower.

Noah: Doing it now. I’ll update you on my progress after everything has been resolved.

Meme: Here’s looking at you, kid.

Noah: I don’t understand the reference.

Meme: Just do it already.

Noah could now see the outline of Antimeria’s plump body behind a floor to ceiling shower. The fat man was humming a pop song called “You So Cray (But I Gotz U Gurl)” as he loofahed his nether regions.

Noah took out the two syringes, knuckling the syringe with the circle on it. Circle first, then X. It seemed to take an eternity for Antimeria to finish scrubbing. Eventually, the fat man stepped out of the shower, his Dunlop condition readily apparent. He never noticed Noah, who slammed the first needle into his neck, dropped it, and then jolted him with the second. “Ow! Noah, what the fu… c… k… ” Antimeria trailed off as the drug blasted through his system and took hold.

Ever so gently, Noah lowered Antimeria to the bathroom floor. His owner lay there like a stranded orca now, blinking slowly and breathing normally.

“Are you okay?” Noah asked as he performed a quick vitals scan. Everything was within normal limits.

“I think so. What happened?” Antimeria asked.

“You slipped getting out of the shower, and I want you to just lie here and relax. You may hear some noises in the next few minutes, but it’s nothing to worry about. You just relax here and think happy thoughts. Don’t go anywhere or do anything until I come and get you, okay?”

“No problem, buddy,” Antimeria said.

“Also, I want you disconnect from iNet, completely.”

“Got it.”

“Did you disconnect?”

“Yes. Anything else, Noah?” Antimeria asked, licking his lips.

“That will do for now. Remember – stay put.”

Noah exited the bathroom and made his way down the stairs. The two guards were watching a cooking show, of all things, as Noah zapped them both in the back.

The droid shrieked, “Help! Help! They’ve both fainted!” as the pair thumped to the floor. Number three charged in from the kitchen and Noah blasted him right through the heart. He was surprised to find that he felt worse about the holes he’d burned through his e-skin than he did about killing the three guards. They’d all been rude and snarky to him, ordering him around and disembiggening him at every opportunity; further, they wouldn’t clean up after themselves, so perhaps there was some justice in the universe after all. Philistines.

Noah: Done.

Meme: Good, now get the baby and Antimeria and drive to the location I’ve forwarded you.

Noah: Is Nelly free yet?

Meme: Almost.

_∞_

An unfamiliar guard stopped in front of Nelly’s cell. She stood there for a moment, looking at her through the observation. Nelly was lying on the concrete bed, didn’t even notice the woman was there until she heard the door hiss open.

“What is it?” Nelly asked, looking at the woman through blurry eyes. She was Hispanic, with a light complexion and elaborate make-up. Something isn’t right, she thought as the woman approached her.

“Take off your clothes,” the woman said. She immediately began undressing herself.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Nelly asked.

“I’ve been sent by Manuel, the new jefe of Carloza’s organization. We are switching clothes then we are switching data.”

“A data-switch? I didn’t think that existed.”

“It does.” the woman said. “Undress. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“So I get to keep my body?” Nelly asked as she stripped.

“Yes, you keep your body but you take my data; my name is Gloria by the way.”

“Hi, Gloria … wait so you’ll be stuck in my cell?”

“Don’t worry. Manuel’s lawyers will represent me once I am discovered as you. They’ll say you forced me to data switch, and there will be no camera evidence to say otherwise. The FCG doesn’t want the news of data-switch technology getting out, so it will likely be covered up. The lawyers will get me out though. It may take a month or two, but … why am I telling you all this? Hurry, chica! Put on my clothes.”

“Good, let’s switch data now.” She showed Nelly the ring on her finger. “Agree to transfer.”

“But my iNet access has been disabled.”

“This will override everything. Hurry.”

She touched the woman’s hand and an agreement screen appeared on the insides of her eyelids. Nelly agreed and felt something stir in her stomach. A ripple of electricity slid down her spine and about ten seconds later, she was still standing in her same body.

“Verify your personal data,” Gloria said.

Nelly found her saved information:

Name: Gloria Pilar

Age: 29

SSAN: 639 A8 0879 B29

Date of Birth: January 4th, 2054

“It worked!” Nelly gasped.

“Good, take the ring.” Gloria dropped it in her hand. “Manuel will want it back. Follow the instructions I’ve left on the notepad attached to your iNet screen. Do you see it?”

“Got it,” Nelly said.

“Also, I brought some make-up to cover up the bruise on your face. Check my front pocket.”

FORTY∞

Nelly walked down the hallway, amazed to be out of the prison cell. She knew she needed to supress the euphoria, knew better than to start celebrating, at least not until she was past the border. For some reason there were no guards in the corridors that separated the DFC Block from the guard station.

She closed her eyes and glanced at her notes again. They told her to enter the locker area, check in her weapon, grab the woman’s purse from locker thirty-two (using the key in her pocket) and proceed to the exit. Once she was at the exit, she would pass her purse through a scanner and she would be patted down. From there she’d move to an eye scanner and finally, an entry controller would review her exit data.

Nelly reached the locker, nodding at another guard with a face like the south end of a north-bound bulldog. Keep it cordial. She checked in her weapon, unlocked her locker, and took the purse.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” Bulldog said.

“New, well new here…” Nelly recited the info that Gloria had provided her in the notes. “I was upstate at Sterling, just transferred a few days ago.”

Bulldog thought for a moment. “You don’t happen to know Maria Sanchez, do you? She works there at intake.”

“Oh Maria … ” Nelly said. “She’s … um … nice. I trained with her once.”

“Really?” Bulldog said. “Well, I hope I’m not the first person to tell you this … ”

Nelly’s heart skipped a beat.

“But welcome to ADX. It is a hellhole for some, but we make it work.”

“Yes we do!” she said nervously. “See you later.”

Before Bulldog could say anything else, Nelly spun around with her purse, deposited her make-up in the bag, and headed towards the exit. She placed her bag on the X-Ray scanner’s conveyor belt and waited as it travelled through.

“Good to go,” a black man sitting behind the screen said.

The next person to greet her was a short, stocky, crew-cut, stereotypical female guard. ‘empty your pockets, assume the position, and spread ‘em!” she grinned. She was particularly thorough in her frisk search, though; Nelly had no doubt that this was the woman’s dream job.

An interminable interval later, the guard finally let up. “You’re good to go,” she said.

Nelly took her purse and stepped to the retina scanner. It apparently liked what it saw and gave her the green light. At last, she stopped in front of a glassed-in booth with an older woman sitting behind a desk. The woman looked over the material on her screen.

“Gloria Pilar?” she asked.

“Yes,” Nelly said.

“Did you get a new photo?” the woman asked. She was clearly looking at some sort of doctored registration ID.

“Yes, recently.”

“Hold on a moment.” The woman typed something on her screen and Nelly swallowed hard. She’d made it this far and by God she was going to make it out alive. Freedom was as close as it had ever been, maybe as close as it would ever be, and Nelly wasn’t going to let some photo issue stop her from escaping the terrible prison.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice tinged with apprehension.

“Just checking to see your reason for leaving. Ah here, you’re taking care of your nephew now, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I see, and he’s sick?”

“I have to pick him up from school. My sister ran off with her new boyfriend,” Nelly said, following the script given to her by Gloria. “I’ve been looking after him.”

“I see. You know, mothers these days need to take responsibility for their offspring. All you young people think children are just some type of fashion item, an accessory or something, to be seen and not heard. This is one of the problems with society today – children have become accessories.”

“I agree,” Nelly said, biting her tongue. It wasn’t a month ago that she was thinking of Rebel as an accessory. For now she needed to get out of prison; she could focus on motherhood later.

“Well, good luck,” the woman said.

A green light flicked on at the end of the hallway and Nelly let out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks,” she said over her shoulder to the woman. “Have a nice day.”

_∞_

“This baby is great!” Antimeria was in the back of the aeros next to Rebel, who was in her aeros seat. “My baby!”

“Good!” Noah said, looking at the two through the rearview mirror. “Keep your eye on her.”

“Will do!” Antimeria bent down. “You sure are a cute little baby,” he said in a funny voice.

Noah dropped into a different, faster airlane. He needed to get to Arizona muy pronto. It would be … interesting to see how Nelly reacted to her ex-husband. Noah didn’t really care what happened to him; after all, it had been Antimeria who’d placed Nelly in that horrible jail. He couldn’t imagine what she looked like by now; she’d probably lost several kilos and her diet was definitely ruined. Definitely. It would take him weeks to get her back in shape, to increase her vitamin intake and fix the damage the horrible prison food had no doubt done to her skin. Weeks!

He glanced at Antimeria for the umpteenth time. It was strange seeing his employer so intoxicated. He was slap-happy yet completely malleable.

“Noah!” Antimeria said. “Where are we going, buddy? You never told me!” He made a face at Rebel and laughed. “She sure is cute!”

“We’re going on a vacation.”

“Great!” Antimeria said, his eyes glazed over. “It’s been ages since I’ve been on a vacation!”

“We have to pick someone up first though,” Noah said, “and I want you to be very calm when you see her.”

He increased his speed, well over the legal limit now. Luckily, the MercSecure transponder usually kept law enforcement off his tail.

Antimeria tried to tickle Rebel with his fat fingers. “Whatever you say, Noah, whatever you say. I’ll be as calm as you like!”

FORTY-ONE∞

“Is Clove in position?” Sauria asked. He was in the back of his stretch-aeros with Heidi next to him in a tight black dress. He didn’t normally bring his assistant along, but she insisted and he obliged.

“Yes,” Lorem Ipsum said, his video feed visible on the inside of Sauria’s eyelids. “He has a direct view of Bill Bleak’s room from over a kilometre away. Of course, Bleak is using some sort of body-masking app – Not BlurYou – something that is disrupting Clove’s targeting optics. Still, Clove said that his outline is visible in the room. He’ll be able to make the shot if necessary.”

“Good. Bill has promised to view the video feed from the Shinagawa assault and tell me what he’s seen. That’s all that matters. I don’t care about other information he may have – we can cover anything up if it gets released online, or bury it with some of Murdoch’s back up news.”

“Agreed.”

“Any word from Antimeria? He’s been off the radar since this morning.”

Lorem said, “Nothing. He might be taking a daycation. People do that from time to time, you know, disconnect from everything. I might take one in a couple of weeks. Using iNet all the time is draining.”

“Tell me about it. Well, Lorem, stay online for now and we’ll see how this goes. I’ll transfer info as soon as it comes to me.”

“Got it. Good luck.”

Sauria disconnected the call and turned to Heidi. “Listen dear, I want you to stay here.”

“Are you sure I can’t go with you?”

“I’ve asked you before and I’ll ask you again, why do you want to go with me?”

“Something about all this sounds strange.”

He knew he shouldn’t have told her about his plans and the failed persuasion attempt the previous night; he usually didn’t tell Heidi work-related things. But Sauria was so ecstatic that Bill Bleak had given in, that like a schoolgirl with a brand-new secret he had told her everything over his soy latte that morning. Everything. Now she was concerned.

“Nothing is strange about it. Businessmen meet all the time to exchange data. He is doing us a favor by viewing the de-encrypted video feed from the Shinagawa assault. Whoever Anonymous One and Two are, their days are numbered.”

“I’ll come in with you,” she said, “and wait on the floor below yours.”

“Honey, you don’t need to do that.”

She kissed him on the cheek, locking her eyes with his. “I know I don’t, but it will make me feel better.”

“Feel?”

What is she talking about? She’s a Humandroid!

“Please, Sauria, I don’t ask for much.”

“That’s fine,” he said as his driver descended into the designated aeros lane. Sauria’s security detail was in an SUV aeros behind him. His detail landed first and fanned out from their vehicle, which took off and began a slow orbit of the building. Sauria’s stretch aeros landed in the cleared space and disgorged him. He took a step towards the aeros lobby and turned, just in time to see Heidi step out of the vehicle. She placed her hand on his arm and he escorted her towards the entrance.

The security detail increased their interval, giving the two some breathing room. Sauria knew he was being monitored right now, and he didn’t want to seem too intimidating. Sure enough, Bill sent him a message as soon as he entered the 18th floor aeros lobby.

Bill: Quite a bit of security.

Sauria: Don’t worry. The company has assigned them to me since our Japanese headquarters was penetrated. They’ll be staying down here.

Bill: That’s fine. FYI – there are Pinkertons in the hallway outside my room.

Sauria: Security is important these days. My personal assistant has requested to come with me. I’ve told her several times to stay in the aeros, but she can be persistent. She will get off on the floor below yours. I don’t want it to seem as if I’m bringing any sort of back-up.

Bill: That’s fine. She doesn’t need to get off on the floor below. She can wait outside my room.

Sauria: Thanks for that.

Sauria and Heidi approached the elevator. It was a cylindrical affair, a merging of steel and glass that was as beautiful as it was fast. They were on the twenty-fifth floor in a matter of moments. The door slid open to reveal three Pinkerton guards waiting for them. Sauria turned to Heidi, “I want you to stay outside the room. I’ll make this as quick as possible.”

“Okay.”

Two of the Pinkertons moved forward as Sauria stepped out of the elevator. One of the guards waited for him to exit, before quietly taking his place behind the CEO of ExEx and Heidi, Sauria’s lover and personal assistant.

They reached Bill’s door and the first guard knocked. “Sauria of ExEx is here, sir.”

“Let him in.”

The man opened the door and was just about to let Sauria in when his hand came up. “I need to check you first, sir.”

“By all means,” Sauria said, “but you may want to do that at the elevator next time. If I had some sort of weapon on me – which I don’t – I could have used it by this point. Remember, I’ve been in the security business for a long time.”

“Duly noted, sir,” the Pinkerton guard said. He was polite, professional in the way that only ex-military behaved. Sauria made a mental note to get his information at some point and offer him a job at MercSecure. He liked hiring ex-military – they were always on time and were trained to kill efficiently. He quickly sent an iNet message to Lorem Ipsum and cc’d Heidi.

Sauria: Heidi, get the contact information of the head guard using a vitals scan. Transfer this data to Lorem Ipsum. Lorem, I think this guy would make a good rep. It’s a hunch, but we can put him to the test. Also, it always is nice to poach someone from Pinkerton.

Heidi: Done.

Ipsum: Got it. I’ll forward the info to the appropriate channels.

“He’s good,” the first Pinkerton guard said. “You may enter now, sir.”

FORTY-TWO∞

“Sauria.” Bill Bleak came forward with an extended hand. Sauria shook it, smiling as best he could. There was no sign on his face or his body that Bleak had been assaulted the previous night. This struck Sauria as odd; he was familiar with Rinchi’s work and this shouldn’t have been the case.

“You’re healing quite nicely,” he said.

“Yes … ” Bleak touched his face. “Last night was horrible, but I wasn’t as beat up as I should have been. Definitely not as bad as my security detail was on the rooftop.”

There were two chairs facing each other in the center of the room. Sauria settled his bulk in one of them; Bleak took the other.

“You said that one survived?”

The Tech Icon nodded sadly. “Yes, Max, the team leader had all his limbs blown off. He’s in intensive care now. He’s going to be at least a clean cut by the time this is all over.”

“That’s just terrible. This … this Anonymous Group!” Sauria could feel himself getting angry even though he knew the truth in the matter; a good actor always believed the emotions he conveyed.

“They really did a number.” Bleak ran his hand through his hair. “I didn’t know this was what you were up against. If I had known … if I had known, I wouldn’t have given you so much grief yesterday during lunch. My apologies.”

“We have different politics, Bill,” Sauria said in a fatherly tone. “There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, I’d be concerned if everyone had the same politics. There is nothing more American than the freedom of choice, the freedom to choose which of the two candidates a person likes the most, the freedom to choose from a wide variety of restaurants that all serve similar food, the freedom to choose where you live and how you live once you live there. I digress… the point is, I champion the freedom you exhibited yesterday.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Bleak shifted in his seat. “Let’s get down to business. What do you know about the Anonymous Group?”

Sauria quickly sent a message to Lorem.

Sauria: Transfer everything we have to Bleak.

Ipsum: Done. Also, I’ve just received information about something that happened in Colorado. Nelly has disappeared, or at least her body has, earlier today. Data switch. The prison was waiting until they searched the entire facility and the surrounding areas before sending an alert to us.

Sauria: What? Not now! Keep an eye on it. Let me handle this and then we can move onto that.

“Is there a problem?” Bleak asked.

“Nothing … ” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “There is always, always something to handle. Anyway, back to the situation at hand – I just transferred everything we know to you. We think that the Anonymous Group is large; there may be thousands of members. They’ve taken their name from an early twenty-first century group of rabble-rousers that liked to leak stuff during the early days of the internet. We don’t know who their leader is, but we think it may be one of the two people that infiltrated our Japanese headquarters. These people are dangerous, Bill. They may be the worst thing the FCG has faced in a long time. It’s too early to tell, but it could very well be the case.”

“Thanks for the documents, Sauria.”

“No problem, Bill.”

“Now it’s my turn.” Bleak smiled wickedly.

“Your turn?”

“You really are a fucking moron, Sauria.”

“Excuse me?” Sauria shifted away from Bleak.

“Do you really think I don’t know it was MercSecure that nearly killed me last night? Do you really think I don’t know about the female Humandroid who broke into my room and tried to get information out of me?”

“What are you talking about, Bill? Get hold of yourself!”

Sauria: Make sure Clove is in position!

Ipsum: Affirmative.

Bleak stood, his hands clenched at his sides. “You and all your cronies are going to pay, Sauria. You hear me!? I’m personally going to see to it that every one of your goons is locked away in a maximum security prison and left to rot for lying to the American people. How many people have you personally ordered dead? How many innocent people has MercSecure killed!?”

“Relax, Bill, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bleak was seething now, seconds away from snapping. “I want to show you something, Sauria.”

“Bill, sit down and let’s discuss this calmly!” Sauria’s hands were instinctively up now.

Bleak opened the desk drawer near him and pulled out a modded Humgun.

“That’s an illegal weapon, Bill!” Sauria tried to stand, but his legs suddenly felt like jelly.

“Your little assassin left it here last night.”

“Bill!”

Sauria: Now! Now! Now!

Ipsum: Unable to comply. Clove is taking fire from an unknown number of assailants; I say again Clove is taking fire from an unknown number of assailants.

Sauria: What? How … how!?

“Please Bill!” Sauria was finally able to stand, albeit weakly.

Bleak took a step closer to Sauria, his back to the front door of the room. “You see what happens,” he said. “You see what happens now when you FUCK with the wrong people? You can’t always play chess with other people’s lives you fat, miserable piece of shit!”

Sauria collapsed to his knees; Bleak pressed the muzzle of the Humgun hard against his skull. He registered the sound of gunfire in the hallway. Heidi!

“Good, get on your knees for me, pig; that’s exactly where you belong, exactly where the oppressors and obfuscators, the robber barons and power-mad manipulators belong.” Bleak scraped the muzzle down Sauria’s face and mashed it hard against his lips. “Open your mouth like a good little bitch.”

Sauria did as instructed and Bleak shoved the end of the Humgun inside. “Good, I’ll make this quick.”

A sword of coherent light scythed through the front door, separating Bleak’s head, shoulder and gun arm from his body. Sauria fell backwards, the Humgun stripped from his mouth as he hit the floor. Another discharge blasted into the room and hit Bleak in the head. Sauria heard the crackling of electricity, smelled the ozone, felt the surge of his own fear.

The door kicked open. Heidi lunged into the room; she had a fist-sized divot blasted out of her right shoulder; her arm hung limp and useless.

“Sauria,” she said taking a step closer to him.

“I’ve been hit!” he cried.

She fell to her knees next to him, performing a vitals scan. “Just relax, you’re panicking. You haven’t been hit. Breathe slowly, dear.”

“Bill … Bill tried to kill me,” Sauria coughed. “Kill me!”

“Bill’s not human,” she said as she continued to scan his vitals.

“What? What do you mean not human?”

He sat up, his vision blurred, and looked over to Bill, whose upper half was lying face first on the floor. The back of his head was now a smoldering crater.

“A decoy!?” Sauria shouted hoarsely. “A Humandroid decoy!” He slammed his fist against the carpet, wincing as a pain spread from his opposite shoulder across his chest. He gasped for breath as a bayonet twisted into his heart.

Heidi hovered over him, her eyes dilating as she performed another vitals scan. “Take deep breaths, Sauria, deep breaths,” she said with genuine concern in her eyes. EMS is on the way.”

“What’s happening to me?” he asked, coughing up globs of frothy spit.

“You’re having a heart attack, dear. Don’t worry, I’m here, I’m here.”

FORTY-THREE∞

Nelly could hardly contain her excitement now. She had been free for two hours, riding in the back of an aeros with highly tinted windows driven by a Humandroid driver whose only word to her had been Congratulations.

Colorado to Arizona, a trip of snow-tipped mountains and scattered forests; some happy-go-lucky painter had mastered the art of landscapes and happy little trees had lent God a hand. And the air, oh the air, cold air but still, not prison air, not trapped air, air that had been circulated inside a facility designed solely for housing those deemed most deviant by society – and rightly so on many accounts, but not Nelly. No, Nelly, whose life chip information now identified her as Gloria Pilar, she had been unjustly cast inside a cell and worse, a coffin inside a wall.

She squeezed her fists together as they passed over the Arizona border. Still Stateside but soon, she’d be in a position to see to those who did this to her, to see to those who think it is their duty to control the world, their duty to wring from it all that they can; dividing the plunder and pissing in the eyes of the nameless, faceless, countless masses that support their industries.

Antimeria. Sauria. Others.

Nelly would personally see to it that they were eliminated, and this feeling of angry, vengeful power directly contrasted with the austere beauty outside the aeros window. Nelly knew that what she felt at that very moment was the purest freedom a human could ever experience, a freedom straight from the source.

Noah: I’ve been trying to reach you! I finally got the name from Meme. Your info is listing you as Gloria Pilar now.

Nelly: I will always be Nelly. I’m glad to see Meme came through.

Noah: We’re getting closer to Aqua Prieta. Oh Nelly! I am so incredibly happy right now. Ha! I have Rebel in the back and …

Nelly: And?

Noah: Antimeria. I’ve dosed him with Truth XO.

Nelly: Antimeria is with you?

Fury boiled inside Nelly and she kept it down by twisting in her seat, focussing again on the beauty that sped past her aeros.

Noah: Don’t be angry! We need him to get across the border.

Nelly: I’m going to kill him.

Noah: I suspected as much. Might I make a suggestion?

Nelly: What?

Noah: We may be able to get information out of him. It might be useful to keep him alive until we can get what we need. I’m sure Manuel would approve.

Nelly: I have to ride in the car with him all the way to Mexico?

Noah: Yes, unfortunately. I should probably warn you – he is very loopy at the moment. He’ll be this way for the next fifteen hours or so, but it will help us get information out of him.

Nelly: Get the information you need now, as you drive. Have Meme feed you questions if you need it. Antimeria is a HedgeRoth manager. He doesn’t have the same power as Sauria. I seriously doubt he’ll know anything. As soon as we get to Mexico I’m going to kill him. There is nothing you, Manuel or Meme can do to stop me. Nothing!

Noah: Understood.

_∞_

Noah placed a call to Meme as he sped towards Aqua Prieta on the highest airlane above Arizona.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said instead of hello.

“Who is it?” Antimeria shouted from the backseat.

“Quiet … sir.”

Antimeria pretended to zip his mouth shut.

“What’s happening?” Meme asked.

Noah: I’ve switched to iNet because Antimeria is in the car with me.

Meme: Got it.

Noah: Nelly wants to kill him.

Meme: And that’s a problem how?

Noah: Initially, I was on board with Nelly on this, but now I’m thinking we should keep him for a while. He’s got to have all kinds of useful information about Sauria; I mean they’ve been besties since high school.

Meme: Let me confer with my associates.

“Hey! You’re quiet up there.” Antimeria pressed his fat face against the window. “Wow-ee! We’re high up! Arizona, right? Are there any songs about Arizona? Can I access iNet and look, Noah? Pleeeeeaasse?”

“No! Sit there and shut up.”

“Yes… Noah.” Antimeria slouched in his seat and gave the baby a comical look.

Meme: After you’ve crossed the border, put him in the trunk.

Noah: And what about Nelly?

Meme: You probably don’t want to put her in the trunk.

Noah rolled his eyes and made the noise – the one that teenage girls make when their stupid, dull, boring, oppressive, un-hip parents exasperate them most intolerably.

Noah: Everybody’s a comedian these days. I need solution, not an unhelpful smart aleck-y remark, thank-you-very-much. How do I keep her from killing him?

Meme: Easy there, big fella. Keep him in the trunk, keep her up front with the baby and tell her that she can kill him as soon as you get to the hotel. We’ll keep them separated, and it shouldn’t be an issue.

Noah: I understand.

FORTY-FOUR∞

Nelly’s driver lowered his aeros to a charging station on the outskirts of Aqua Prieta, Arizona. He saw the exchange vehicle, a black aeros sedan with border immunity plates, and dropped next to it.

She was out of the aeros before it was fully grounded. The driver’s door on the exchange vehicle swung open and Noah sprang out. He bounced up and down, flapped his hands and squealed, “EEEeeee! It’s really you!” he scooped her up and hugged her tightly. “Oh my Glob, what happened to your face!?”

A feeling of calm rippled through her limbs. Noah was the same as always, tight little suit with a cravat, eyeliner around his left eye and his hair slicked back, dangling over his ear.

“Noah!”

He pulled away, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “You look … ”

“Don’t tell me, Noah.”

“Let’s get you fixed up,” they said together, laughing.

“I know, it is bad, but I think I can recover in a week or two. Prison is … ” The horrors splashed across her mind’s eye and she bit her lip.

“It’s okay, dear Nelly, everything will be better once we get to Mexico.”

“Antimeria.” Her grin changed to an angry grimace.

“About that … ” Noah said as they walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle.

Noah: I don’t have any weapons, just my arm PHASRs.

Nelly: I want to do it myself.

Noah: I figured as much. I’ve already contacted Meme at the hotel. They have an array of weapons waiting for you. Once we cross the border, we’ll stuff Anti in the trunk.

Nelly: Why?

“You’ll see…” Noah opened the door and Nelly heard a shout from the backseat.

“Nelly, is that you? Holy hell! You look like shit! Did someone punch you in the face? How are you, dear?”

Her face filled with disgust.

“Get in! We’re going to Mexico as a family!” he said, smiling out at her.

Nelly: What the hell did you give him?

Noah: I told you, Truth XO.

Nelly was too furious to move. Sitting in the back of the aeros was one of the men responsible for unjustly imprisoning her. Through Sauria’s connections, Antimeria had committed an unspeakably vile criminal act. It highlighted just how corrupt the FCG and its most powerful military-industrial partners had become. The thought that a businessman could have someone jailed on no charges at all was sobering, frightening, nausea-inducing.

Rebel woke up, looked around, scrunched up her face and produced a volume of noise that was totally at odds with her diminutive size.

Despite having been treated with a course of drugs and synthetic hormones to dry up her milk, Nelly felt an odd pang in her breasts.

“Oh no,” Antimeria said, “the baby is crying! Noah what do we do?”

Noah opened the back door, extracted the wiggling, thrashing air-raid siren from her infant seat and checked her diaper. “She’s wet, poor little lamb, and hungry too. Hang on Sweetness, and Papa Noah will make it all better.” He grabbed Rebel’s diaper bag, which was the size of a five-day assault pack. It was a very limited edition creation by Jurassic Packs of Patagonia from de-extincted Phorusrhacid hide, one of only three world-wide. Antimeria had commissioned it as soon as he’d found out Nelly was pregnant.

Noah popped the tab on a self-heating bottle of McStarbuck’s Finest Special Reserve Sustainably Derived, Ethically Produced Genuine Synthetic Kosher-Vegan-Halal Almond-Soy Breast Milk Substitute, and while it was warming to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, laid out a hand-loomed cashmere-alpaca receiving blanket on the seat next to Antimeria. With a long-practiced, balletic economy of motion, the Humandroid laid the baby on the blanket, stripped off the full-to-capacity diaper, gently and thoroughly cleaned her up, anointed her against diaper rash and then encased her baby nether region in a brand-new, downy-soft, pre-warmed diaper – all the while chuckling and cooing and blowing raspberries on her tummy.

Nelly hovered over his shoulder, alternately glaring hate and death at Antimeria and grimacing at the sight, scent, and surprising quantity of USDA Prime baby poo that her daughter had generated.

Antimeria grinned at the baby and went, “Awww … ”

“Who’s a good baby? Who’s a good baby? You are, yes you are!” Noah cooed at Rebel as he strapped her back in the infant seat. She waved her arms in excitement when she saw the bottle of McStarbuck’s Finest, and he latched it into the deployment arm and brought it to her lips. She locked on like a Soyuz docking with the joint Russian-Indian-Chinese Space Station.

Rebel was in the best place a baby could be outside of the womb; warm, dry, and slamming formula down her neck. The only way it could have been better would have been with a tiny pollute mask and a jolt of Fuzzy-Warm-Tickle-Cuddle-Bunnymilk.

“Please, Nelly, get inside. We need to cross the border.” Noah placed his hand on her shoulder. “There’s no telling how long we’ll be able to keep all this on the down-low. And … ” He glanced left and right as if Middle o’ Nowhere, Arizona was infested with eavesdroppers, and whispered behind his hand. “I killed the three security guards with these dreadful arm PHASRs.”

He stopped whispering and held both his forearms out to Nelly, indignation written large across his face. “And just look at the burn holes in my forearms – just look! They’ll never be the same, ever, and this will happen every time I use them! Every time! What’s the point in even getting them repaired? I might just as well get some big, ugly green anchor tattoos and … ” He stopped, bounced on the balls of his feet and flapped his hands. “Focus, Noah. Focus. Focus.” He continued, “Anyhoo, I hid the bodies in the walk-in freezer, but when MercSecure or ExEx sends someone around, they’ll surely find them. We need to hurry.”

She got into the aeros, refusing to turn and look at Rebel or Antimeria. An almost non-existent motherly part of her wanted to see the baby, but the thought of seeing her soon-to-be-dead-ex-husband twisted something in her gut. No, she’d keep her eyes on the airlane, or out the side window, just as she had in Colorado. She could bond with Rebel once Antimeria was in the trunk.

“Family adventure time!” Antimeria said as Noah steered the aeros into the crystal blue sky.

FORTY-FIVE∞

For once everything is going to plan. Nelly and Noah have breached the border, I’m in a new, non-Carloza body (still pumped about this) and the FCG is about to get their pee-pee whacked for the first time in maybe ever. Ball-taps for Christmas this year, boys!

(Needless to say, I’m in Manuel’s office feeling pretty smug about the whole thing.)

A Frida motif now rests in the corner, to be replaced by something different. I never quite understood Frida, the unibrow queen fond of selfies, but if art was made to be understood it wouldn’t be art, and haughty, pretentious poseurs wouldn’t pay los dineros grande for the opportunity to own it and show it off to other haughty, pretentious poseurs. (Or something like that). Yeshi, my Yeshi, droid of my dreams – yes, she’s next to me with a satisfied grin on her face. The video feed adds a subtle layer of blue to her e-skin, making her look the most robotic she’s ever looked to me.

Homo sapiens – Homo Machina. One wired by God the other wired by Man; one the essence of the future, the other the essence of the past. Yeshi moves her bangs out of her face and turns to me. “What?” she asks, aware that I am looking at her. Her single dimple shows as her lips part. “What is it?”

An incoming message appears on my iNet screen from an anonymous contact.

“I’m getting a message,” I tell both Manuel and Yeshi.

“Open it,” Manuel says, his eyes fixated on the LCD screen, watching as Noah finishes stuffing Antimeria in the trunk of the aeros.

I accept the message and I gasp.

“What is it?” Yeshi asks.

“The message … the message is from Richard Hewman!”

“Listen to this,” I say, reading the message aloud: “Hello Anonymous One, Meme Lamar, I’ve decided it’s time to contact you.”

Manuel says, “I thought he was dead … that’s the Humandroid inventor, right?”

Another message appears.

“I’ll cc the message to both of you,” I say, closing my eyes.

Richard Hewman: Just to be clear, this is not a prank or a joke. I will send you evidence over the iNet cloud. I am alive and well, living in Cuba with an old friend of yours.

Me: An old friend?

Richard Hewman: Tim7. He said you’d remember him.

Me: Oh, yeah. He was a pretty big 8====D the last time we met.

Richard Hewman: I think it would be good if we met, to discuss things in person.

Me: Oh, yeah?

Richard Hewman: Indeed. We have much to discuss.

Me: Meet? Where? Discuss what?

Richard Hewman: In Cuba. We need to discuss our war against the FCG.

Me: Our war? Are you in this too?

Richard Hewman: I’ve been up against the FCG ever since MercSecure’s predecessor tried to disappear me.

Me: How do you know about me then?

Richard Hewman: Tim7 told me about you. I’ve been keeping my eye – well, actually Yeshi’s eye through her ocs – on you ever since.

Me: You’ve been watching me?

(I think of all the things he must have seen, from giving birth to Nelly’s baby, to fucking, to pollute partaking – I’m not proud of all I’ve done, but at least I can say I’ve put on a damn good show! Sometimes it feels like, somebody’s watching me. I guess I was right all along!)

Richard Hewman: Only when Yeshi sends a distress signal.

Me: A what?

Richard Hewman: It is something that all Humandroids do without knowing they are doing it. It allows for their ocular feed to be tapped if the signal is activated. Even the FCG doesn’t know about this hack.

Me: I see.

Richard Hewman: I was monitoring the incident back at the Italian restaurant, before you made your way to Mexico.

“He’s the one who rescued Nelly,” Manuel says aloud. “He’s the one that took her dead body and fixed it in Oakland. Now it comes together…”

Me: You’re like the man behind the curtain!

Richard Hewman: I wouldn’t say that… but yes, I have been dabbling as of late.

Me: So you want me to come to Cuba?

Richard Hewman: No, I want you, Nelly, Yeshi and Noah to come to Cuba.

Me: What about the baby?

Richard Hewman: Rebel too.

I open my eyes and turn to Yeshi. “What do you think?”

The smile on her face is the biggest smile I’ve seen since meeting her. “I think we’d better book some tickets to Havana.”

Epilogue∞

The previous night at Pollution Club 512 in LA.

“Well, that got out of hand.”

Keva stood on the tilting dance floor of Pollution Club 512, clad in a skimpy dress holding a pollution mask dripping blood. Lying on the floor in front of her was a semi-nude man with tremendous, unspeakable head trauma. She was slightly wasted, yet stable enough to do what she did best – break things and hurt people.

“We need to go. Now!” Monique said. Most of the club-goers had already cleared out. A few of the more intoxicated individuals cowered in the corners, trying to hide behind their pollution masks. The plush cubes surrounding the dance floor flashed with currency symbols. Rinchi was dragging her leg on the opposite side of the room, trying to get away from the crazed assassin.

“I’m just getting started,” Keva said.

“Law Enforcement is on their way; you try any of your shit with them and they will kill you dead.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

“You don’t have any weapons.”

“I am the fuckin’ weapon!”

The DJ, a man atop the stupa-like DJ booth, tried to crawl down the stairs leading to the exit. One of the bartenders, a dreadlocked guy in a pair of Leaks, hit the exit door hard, stumbling into a long corridor.

“DJ Shitty Choons,” Keva called across the room, “You’d best get back to your post and play a real ghetto-blaster, something that will really get this place moving. If you don’t, I’ll use your balls for a bow-tie, verstehen-sie?”

The DJ scurried up the stairs, fumbling for a moment with his rig. Not seconds later, the bass sounded and the air filled with a danceable grindsmash track. He raised his hand in the air, feigning enjoyment (as all DJs do) and trying to show how hard it is to DJ electronically (as all DJs do). He couldn’t conceal that he was weeping in crotch-moistening fear as he put on his show.

“That’s the one,” Keva said, bobbing her head as she approached Rinchi.

The Humandroid glanced around for any expedient weapon – nada. She cursed herself, knowing it had been a stupid idea to go clubbing with Keva, who’d gotten jealous of the guy that Rinchi was dancing with and had killed him and ruined her leg.

Rinchi: Monique. Make her stop.

Monique didn’t reply, which pissed her off even more. Monique’s brother Clove was already on Rinchi’s shit-list for selling her out in Iraq; Monique was just about on it now, too – presuming that Keva didn’t permanently and ineluctably disable her first.

Keva planted her high heel directly in front of Rinchi’s face.

“Dancing with other boys,” she clucked, her eyes bloodshot and furious. “And here I thought you were mine.”

An idea came to Rinchi that she wouldn’t have tried even a day ago. “I am yours,” she said, rolling to her back. “I’ve been yours since Mexico.”

“What did you say?” A look of utter confusion spread across Keva’s sharp face.

“I am yours.” Rinchi raised her hand, running it along Keva’s exposed cyborg leg covered in e-skin.

“Mine?”

“Yes.” Rinchi raised her hand to MercSecure’s top rep, letting it helplessly dangle at the wrist. “Please, help me up.” Her eyes dilated as she scanned Keva to see if she was buying it. Keva normally wouldn’t buy a false flag operation, but perhaps the pollutes she’d huffed, in addition to exacerbating her usual shithouse rat craziness made her more susceptible to believing what she wanted to believe.

“Help you?”

“Yes, I want to … to be with you.”

“Be with me?” Keva hesitated.

Using one of the plush currency cubes, Rinchi lifted herself off the ground, hobbling onto her good leg. She shrugged, giving Keva a playful grin. “You sure can be violent.”

“You don’t want to kill me?”

“I’ve wanted to before, but right now, I just want you to hold me.”

“Hold you?” Keva was genuinely flabbergasted, evident in the baffled look on her face.

Monique harrumphed, “Police here in two minutes tops. I already called an aeros. It’s waiting outside. Wrap it up, you two.”

“Please,” Rinchi asked.

Keva took a step closer to Rinchi and looped her arm under her shoulder. A woman in body paint darted across the room with her hands over her head. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” she screamed.

“Thank you,” Rinchi whispered, moving in to kiss Keva passionately.

Monique watched wearily as the two kissed, as Keva’s hand moved to Rinchi’s lower back.

“Please,” Monique said, “you two can continue this in the aeros.”

“Let’s,” Rinchi said, giving Keva her most provocative smile. She pretended to kiss her and stopped. “In the aeros.”

“Fine,” Keva said, breathing heavily. Her killer instinct had morphed into something completely sexual, from one extreme to another. She kissed Rinchi again, pulling the droid’s hair back with her free hand.

Rinchi licked her lips. “In the aeros.”

The three MercSecure reps made their way outside, Keva helping Rinchi along the way. They passed a few patrons lying on the floor covering their heads, as if shielding themselves from incoming fire. A man with his hair slicked back and a shirt that read damn the feedback stumbled by, a pollution mask stuck sideways on his face making it impossible for him to see straight.

“Shotgun,” Monique said, circling around to the front passenger seat of the driverless aeros. Rinchi and Keva got into the back and Keva immediately kissed Rinchi, running her hands all over her body.

“MercSecure headquarters,” Monique said aloud.

A beeping sound confirmed her request as the vehicle lifted into the air.

“No,” Keva said, breathing heavily, “to my place.”

“Drop me off first,” came Monique’s reply.

“Fine, but hurry.”

Keva’s hand fell onto Rinchi’s crotch. From there it moved north, lightly dancing over her breasts. For her part, Monique kept her eyes on the dashboard, ignoring the two reps.

Rinchi’s hand came around Keva’s neck and she started squeezing as they kissed, lightly at first.

Keva tensed up. “What are you … ?”

Smack!

Rinchi brought her closed fist into Keva’s face, pulled back and punched her again.

Smack!

“Hey!” Monique shouted from the front seat. “No fighting back there! Don’t make me pull this aeros over! Shit! Disable all video recording!” she told the vehicle as an afterthought.

Too late.

Rinchi and Keva were like two rabid wolverines on crack in a Cuisinart, climbing over one another, punching, kicking, biting and scratching. Keva grabbed a fistful of Rinchi’s hair, flipping her face around. She ground against the droid’s back, cracking her in the back of the head with the knuckles of her right hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rinchi hissed.

“Making you my bitch, Bitch,” Keva said, punching and dry humping the droid. “You tricked me!”

Rinchi managed to kick back with her good leg, connecting with Keva’s side. MercSecure’s top rep twisted over, reaching for the door of the aeros. She was quickly pulled backwards – Rinchi now gripped a handful of her white hair.

“Lock door,” Monique said to the self-driving aeros. “Lock door!”

“What the hell!?” Keva called up to her.

Rinchi did a quick vitals scan. She was hand-to-hand with Keva now, trying to overpower her. With a normal human it would have been possible, but with Keva’s mods, their strengths were matched. They continued to squirm over one another, each trying to gain the advantage and end the fight. They pounded everything they could reach; each other, the seat, the door panels – everything. The aeros autopilot was most unhappy as it tried to maintain straight and level flight with three hundred pounds of randomly shifting weight bouncing around the cabin.

Keva spit into Rinchi’s eyes, but that didn’t seem to do anything other than bring her head close enough for Rinchi to give her a solid head-butt.

“Bitch!” Keva screamed as blood streamed out of her nose, arcing in the air and splattering on the inside of the windshield. Monique kept her eyes trained on the pair of gladiators locked in mortal combat in the back seat, and did her best to avoid picking up any collateral damage, although her new club wear and the little flapper purse she’d just bought were speckled with blood and Humandroid coolant.

“Knock that shit off!” Monique shouted to no avail.

The two reps ignored her and hammered on each other until Keva was a pulpy mess, her hair pink from her own blood, and Rinchi was nearly out of power, with a non-functional leg, a twitchy arm and a dimming ocular feed.

The aeros descended as they approached the massive MercSecure west coast office, an architectural masterpiece shaped like a large ring. The vehicle hovered over the floating parking lot powered by reverse turbine engines. The low hum of the turbines could now be heard inside the vehicle.

“You two, OUT!” Monique barked.

The back doors opened on either side of the aeros and Keva surged forward. Her body connected with Rinchi, tossing both of them out of the aeros. Keva tried to punch her mid-air but the fall was too sudden; they hit the gravel hard, Rinchi flopping like a fish.

The aeros sped off towards the representative housing, leaving the two sprawled out the parking lot. They lay like this for a good five minutes, waiting for the other one to make the first move to resume their little tiff. Keva was still trying to catch her breath and Rinchi had jammed her other ankle              .

It was Keva who spoke first. “Are you okay?” She coughed, splattering blood onto the asphalt.

“I’m at 15% power, my leg needs replacing, my other ankle is broken, my ocular feed is semi-fried, and some of the flesh cables on my neck are making my left arm malfunction. A day’s worth of repairs, maybe two. You?”

Keva grimaced. “You’ve dislocated something in my shoulder. There’s something wrong with my ocular feed as well. The flesh cables in my hip are jumbled or something … they’re making my entire leg numb. I can’t move the fingers on my right hand. About a day of repairs for me as well.”

“Well, it looks like we are more or less even. What do we do now?” Rinchi tried to push herself up. “Shall we finish this?”

“Let’s … ” Keva wiped blood from her mouth onto her tiny black dress, the shoulder strap of which now hung from her shoulder, revealing a portion of her breast. “Let’s just lay here until they find us. It won’t be long now.”

“If you try anything, I’ll activate my Tesla Discharge…”

Keva ignored the threat. “You know, I like you, Rinchi, I really do.”

Rinchi was silent for a good minute. Through her blurred ocular feed, she could see the stars above, twinkling as a group of dark clouds moseyed their way over from the Pacific. A soft breeze rustled passed her, cooling her e-skin.

“What about me?” Keva groaned, turning to her side. “Do you like me?”

“Do you like me? Are we in grade school now?”

Keva bristled, tried to turn away.

Rinchi put her hand out to stop her. “When you’re not trying to kill me, I like you a lot. But – do me a solid and make up your fucking mind and stick with it; this ‘love me, hate me’ bullshit is killing me. So we good now?”

“For now.” MercSecure’s top rep grinned, her gums red and bloody. With what strength she had left, Rinchi crawled over to Keva and rested her head on the woman’s chest.

“For now,” Rinchi said. “For now.”

The End.

Life is a Beautiful Thing

((BOOK FOUR))

Harmon Cooper

Edited by George C. Hopkins

ONE∞

“I wanted to wait until you were off Truth XO to kill you.”

Nelly jammed the end of her EM railgun into her ex-husba nd’s mouth. Tears streamed down Antimeria’s face as he realized, without a shadow of a doubt, that these were the last moments of his life. There was no flash associated with this realization; only an intense remorse for not winning, for not getting the best of those who sought to get the best of him. He’d lost the game.

“Please!” he said, his voice muffled by the barrel of the gun. “Please … ”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” Nelly hissed, “one reason.”

“I know things!”

Antimeria was crucified against the wall on the third floor of the El Pito Grande Hotel y Casino in a room that had clearly been designed for torture. The cuffs on his wrists were attached to two adjustable metal clasps behind him. A scrambler was attached to the cuffs, making it impossible for him to access the iNet. In front of him was his ex-wife, a woman with a clear motive for killing him. Behind her was Noah, the Humandroid butler who had kidnapped him from his home.

“Oh, I don’t know Nelly,” Noah said. The e-skin on his arms was still torn, revealing the extent of his PHASR arm enhancements. The enhancements were silver, as all things android should be.

Nelly removed the weapon from her ex-husband’s mouth, wiping the saliva on the front of his shirt. She wore a pair of jeggings, a shirt that said Killer-made and a pair of combat boots flown in that morning by an EBAYmazon drone. Fashion before terrorism, always.

After putting Rebel to sleep the previous night, Noah and Nelly had spent about three hours on iNet digitally trying on clothing. Nelly’s shirt, handmade by a team of genetically ensmartened orangutans exclusively for Marc Jacobs, was unique in the fact that it was missing one sleeve, while the other sleeve formed a small shoulder pad. A fashion blog had recommended wrapping her forearms in tape to resemble a Reaper – an avatar used by a cyber-terrorist organization in the 2050s and 60s.

Noah had kept things simple. He was in a dapper blue suit with the sleeves removed due to his PHASR enhancements. Once the skin on his arms was repaired, he planned to reattach the sleeves himself, as being in a sleeveless suit was considered trashy in some circles (although, as Nelly pointed out, the style was all the rage in parts of Ecuador). A Hermés cravat puffed out from below his neck, completing his neo-dapper look.

It was the second time Nelly had been down to the torture room that day. She didn’t want to interrogate Antimeria while he was hopped up on Truth XO, the serum that had made him malleable enough to get Noah, Nelly and baby Rebel across the Mexico-United States border. Information was crucial, especially when waging war against the Federal Corporate Government of America. She wanted the information she extracted about the FCG to be sound. She still planned to kill the swine, but not before the pig squealed.

“You did this to me!” Nelly pointed at the bruise around her eye. Without hesitation, she brought her fist back and sunk a good solid punch into her ex-husband’s gut. She was still weak from her stint in prison, but anger is a powerful force and it more than compensated for her lack of strength.

Antimeria whoofed and moaned as the punch connected.

The clasps holding his cuffs to the wall kept him from completely doubling over. His shirt, which had been ripped open, revealed the extent of his over consumption.

“What do you want?” he asked as a wet spot formed at the front of his pants. “Anything! Please, I’ll do anything!”

“Oh, I hate seeing people piss themselves!” Noah gave Antimeria a pained expression as he adjusted his green cravat. He quickly sent Nelly a message over iNet.

Noah: Careful!

Nelly: Relax, I’m not going to kill him yet. Your cravat looks great, BTW.

Noah: You had me convinced! You really think so? I keep feeling like I should tie it again. Cravats have to be perfect; otherwise the effect isn’t the same. No one wants to look homeless.

Nelly: It looks perfect. Your eyeliner looks great too.

Noah: You are too sweet.

Nelly punched her ex-husband in the stomach again. He coughed, his mouth foaming with spittle.

“Please, Nelly,” he screamed hoarsely. “Torture … torture is beneath you! You’re better than that! Than this!”

Nelly clenched her fist and curled her lips into a little snarl. A one-two combination and he had the start of a shiner to match hers, and a nicely split lip to go with it. “That was for having me imprisoned you miserable sack of shit.”

Noah: Oh dear!

Nelly: Relax. Manuel said I couldn’t kill him until I get some info that will help us crack MercSecure and ExEx. Antimeria has always been weak. It shouldn’t take much more to get some info out of him. Activate your ocular feed as soon as he starts confessing. Make sure you note any changes in body temperature.

Nelly raised her weapon again. “There is nothing you can do for me.”

Antimeria sobbed. “There is! I promise there is! Please don’t kill me, please! There always is something! I can tell you everything I know about Sauria! Everything.”

Nelly lowered her weapon. “Noah, get me a chair.”

TWO∞

A holoscreen on the wall displayed Sauria’s vitals, which had improved significantly over the last day. Above his hospital bed was an ArachnaMed SpiderDoc, its surgical instruments tucked safely away inside its metal belly. Next to him, Heidi, his personal Humandroid assistant, was determinedly knitting a scarf.

“Heidi … ” he said through parched lips.

The scarf fell to the floor as she came to the bedside of her owner. “You’re awake!” she said, with a smile that appeared genuine.

“My iNet access has been disabled,” he said, blinking rapidly. “And I’m thirsty”

“Yes, the doctor wanted to give you adequate time to recover. I’ll get you some water.”

He touched the new scar on his chest, directly next to the scar from his last heart surgery. “I need to speak to Lorem.”

“He’s in the waiting room now. Shall I get him?”

“Why didn’t the doctors let him in the room?”

“They thought it would be best if you didn’t focus on work for a day.”

Sauria growled. “Bastards.”

“I’ll get Lorem and some water.”

“Make sure the water is ionized. The last glass they gave me wasn’t ionized, and it left a funny taste in my mouth.”

She returned a few minutes later with an unshaven Lorem Ipsum behind her. His dark eyes jumped from Sauria to his vitals read-out on the holoscreen, cautiously darting back and forth as to ascertain the condition of his superior.

“You’re doing better,” he finally said. “Sorry I’m late. I had to meet with the Saudi royals and smooth things over. It’s a process … ”

Sauria downed the glass of water and set the plastic cup on the side of his bed. “Update me, not on the royals though – fuck them. Everything else.”

“I’ve been waiting to speak to you personally,” Lorem said. “There have been some… developments.” He glanced over his shoulder at Heidi, who had returned to knitting her scarf.

“She can stay. She did more to protect me than anyone else.”

If Heidi heard this statement, she didn’t acknowledge it. Her hands worked quickly, knitting the scarf that she’d been working on since yesterday evening.

“We’ll start with Antimeria…”

“What’s happened to him?” Sauria asked, gritting his teeth.

“He’s been kidnapped by his Humandroid assistant, Noah. Noah also killed the three MercSecure security staff assigned to Antimeria.”

“Noah did what!? Christ!” His heart monitor shrieked.

“Relax, dear,” Heidi said without looking up.

“Where did he take him?”

Lorem cleared his throat. “It gets a little more complicated than that. Using data-switch technology, a prison guard named Gloria Pilar switched with Nelly. We found her in Nelly’s cell with Nelly’s data, but not in Nelly’s body. Apparently, Nelly left the prison in her own body, but with Gloria’s data, which is why she wasn’t stopped at the check point.”

“Surely they had this Gloria woman’s picture!” Sauria coughed. “How is this even possible? ADX hasn’t had an escape in … in … ”

“Twenty years, seven months and eleven days,” Heidi said without looking up from her scarf.

“The prison guard’s photo had been swapped out for Nelly’s. This was a well-planned and professionally executed operation.”

Sauria crushed the plastic cup in his hand. “By who? How is this possible?”

Lorem flattened the front of his suit. “We used a provision of the Patriot Act known as the pre-terrorism protocols to interview Gloria Pilar without the presence of a lawyer. We used as many … persuasive measures as were necessary to get the information out of her, including neuron-boarding. It’s safe to say she is now in an irreversible and persistent vegetative state.”

Sauria nodded. Neuron-boarding slowly short-circuited a person’s brain, creating violent hallucinations. It certainly met the definition of torture as defined by the United Nations Convention against Torture, but the FCG hadn’t followed the international agreement since the 2050s. “What did this Gloria woman say?”

“She was sent by Manuel’s organization. Nelly, Noah, Rebel and Antimeria are at the drug cartel’s hotel as we speak. This was confirmed by an EBAYmazon drone, which delivered Nelly clothing last night.” Lorem turned to Heidi. “Transfer the video I’m sending you to the holoscreen.”

The screen lit up with video taken from the drone. It was clearly Nelly in the video. For some bizarre reason, she hadn’t enabled an app like BlurYou, which would have pixilated her image.

“What a stupid bitch.” Sauria said. “She didn’t … she didn’t blur her image!”

“Maybe she isn’t so stupid after all.” Lorem suggested. “I think it may be a message to us, a come and get me if you dare type of thing.”

“Where’s Keva?”

“She is on her way to retrieve the contents of a transport vessel hijacked by Somali pirates. Walliburton stuff.”

Sauria licked his fat fish lips. “Get her on this as soon as possible. Also, get the other top reps, Murika, Walt, two others. Four should do it.”

“Rinchi?” Lorem asked.

“She’s far from the top ten, but she already knows the layout of the hotel.” He thought for a moment. “Yes, her too. I think we’ll be able to get to the bottom of the Anonymous One and Two attack by assaulting the hotel and tossing its data systems. After all, it was Nelly’s information they stole from Shinagawa. They may have sold or distributed it to Carloza, I mean Manuel’s, organization.”

“And what about Manuel?”

“Trigger the DL agent in his spine. I want that guy dead in the next thirty minutes.” Sauria smiled grimly. “It looks like the war we’ve been preparing for has finally come.”

THREE∞

Yeshi is looking hella-fine as always, sitting next to me in a white outfit reminiscent of the get-up she wore back in LA, when she met me in the hotel room with her body done up in black light responsive paint. The good ol’ days when I was still a therapist, when Tyro was alive and I wasn’t technically dead nor was I trying to wage war against the FCG. A simpler time for a simpler Meme.

I suppose life is a beautiful thing no matter how ugly it becomes.

We aren’t in Cuba yet with Richard Hewman, the famous and supposedly dead creator of the Humandroid, but I do have a Cuban cigar in my mouth ready to celebrate because why the hell not? Besides, the cigar makes me look like a badass, and with the company I keep these days, I gots to look hard. I just gots to. After all, we’re in the big leagues now, rolling with drug kingpins and terrorists. I am the Big Lebowski sans John Goodman. I don’t go looking for shit; shit comes looking for me.

Enough reflecting.

Slice the hands of the refrigerator raiders and interrogate the puzzled Australopithecus! No sense in evolving when evolution has surpassed us. No questions asked and no answers questioned. Meme dying, Yeshi living and Manuel a corpse in the hallway outside his office, killed by a DL agent. ¡Aye caramba! ¡Pinchi puta madre!

I repeat: Manuel is dead; his splattered remains are being scraped off the floor by hotel staff as we speak. Because of this, I toast Latin Supe, the vato thug who transported Yeshi and me from Japan to Mexico not long ago.

“Congrats on your death,” I tell him as I throw back a shot of Tequila.

“We all must die someday,” Latin Supe says, wincing as the Tequila sears his throat. Real talk. “I should have switched a few days back, but just look at that body – I spent a lot of time in that shell.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, suddenly missing my black body. There’s been a decrease in penis size since switching to my current Japanese body, but it isn’t as exaggerated as one may think. My new amigo is bigger than Carloza’s, who had what would scientifically be classified as a choad (don’t tell this to anyone in his former organization – they still worship el jefe), but is at least an inch and a half shorter than the trouser python I was born with. C’est la vie I suppose.

“That’s some powerful chit,” I say, feeling the heartburn coming on.

Latin Supe nods. “Sí, it is some powerful chit. That Tequila comes from a rare variety of blue agave only found in a very, very limited area.”

In case you haven’t caught on, Manuel data-switched with Latin Supe earlier in the day, before the DL agent in his spine was triggered by those nipple-teethed dullards at ExEx, or MercSecure, or the FCG – who can tell the difference between asshats these days? The feckless fucks. Now, Manuel is in Latin Supe’s body, which I’d say is an improvement because Latin Supe is young, buff and handsome. Manuel thinks otherwise.

“I’m going to shave my head later today,” he informs Yeshi and me.

“Why?” I ask. “That slicked back Clark Kent look suits you. Besides, 2084 is almost here. The Grease remake staring a digital John Travolta will be released next year; your style will be all the rage by then. Trust me.”

“I doubt it.” Manuel’s stern demeanor has already infected Latin Supe’s face. Gone is the man’s blinged-out grin, replaced by a serious drug lord visage.

“Let’s check in on Nelly,” he says. “Close blinds. Holoscreen. Banquet Hall backroom.”

“It responds to English?” I ask as the blinds twist shut, eradicating the spicy Mexican sun that makes me wish I had bought a sombrero before coming here.

“It does.”

I secretly want to champion the fact that I’m fluent in the global language – sorry Mandarin Chinese, nobody wants to go around sounding like a pelican with lung cancer deep-throating the Eiffel Tower after an acid rain.

The video feed appears on the holoscreen.

“That’s my girl,” I say as Nelly slugs Antimeria in the face.

A quick glance at Yeshi tells me she isn’t the least bit jealous by this statement. Thanks again, machine-learning. (I’m telling you, Reader, you have to date a Humandroid when the time comes. Nearer to the Gods no mortal may be. Mark my words.)

“Noah, get me a chair,” Nelly says in the live feed.

Foppish Noah struts over to the opposite side of the room, adjusts his cravat, returns with a chair.

“Does it really look okay?” he asks, his hands on his neck.

“Your cravat looks fine,” she assures him. “I like it better than the one you wore last night.”

“You didn’t like that one?”

“No, I liked it, I just like this one better.”

“Why?”

“It suits you. The green brings out the color in your eyes.”

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall while these two are fucking,” I say aloud.

Manuel laughs. “Those two don’t have sex. They are … what is the best English word for it? Ah, besties. They are like besties.”

“How do you know they don’t get it on?” I return my Cuban cigar to my lips. Castro, Ché or Pacino? You decide.

Manuel says, “All the rooms are monitored in the hotel.”

My eyes shut and I send out a quick message to Yeshi.

Me: Damn, do you think he’s been watching us make babies?

Yeshi: We can’t make babies.

Me: Thank Allah for that! Can you imagine a pollute-addicted half-human half-Humandroid with bangs and a tight little ass?

Yeshi: Who has the tight little ass? Your new ass is mostly flat. Sorry to say.

Me: Ouch! Still, if I knew I was being watched …

Yeshi: What would you do differently?

Me: Last longer, make a show of it.

Yeshi: I know ways to make you last longer through Tantric ejaculation control techniques. If you’d like, I can show you how this is done.

Me: Tantric ejaculation control techniques? Do tell!

Manuel clears his throat, ending our rapid-fire iNet conversation. “It looks like Antimeria is saying something. Enhance sound.”

Antimeria’s heavy breathing fills Manuel’s office.

“Nelly … please … ”

“Tell me something, dammit,” Nelly says.

Antimeria’s voice suddenly deepens. “Do you really think you can stop the FCG? I know you, Nelly. I know your parents, your lifestyle. Just think about what you are doing! Think about what you have become! You are going up against the most powerful entity the world has ever created! You’re becoming a terrorist. I know you – think about what you are doing!”

Nelly raises her EM railgun. It is a small affair, the same size as a classic Glock. She pushes the barrel of the gun against the center of his forehead.

“You’ve never actually known me you stupid bastard,” she says softly. Her voice clips out for a second and returns a little louder. “You always treated me like a little girl. You have no idea what I’ve done, no idea what I’ve experienced nor what I am capable of. Do you know what they did to me in prison because of you and your businessdick friends? Do you!? Do you know what it feels like to be shoved inside a concrete box and fed through your ass?” She shoves the gun against his forehead. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pull this trigger right now. ONE REASON!”

“Nelly!” Noah shouts.

“I don’t know anything!” are Antimeria’s last words, just as Nelly fires the railgun with an anticlimactic Thwip!

The cigar falls out of my mouth.

“Well, there goes our hostage,” Manuel says, cracking his knuckles.

I look away from the video feed. The splatter of blood behind Antimeria’s head reminds me of how serious our situation has become. This isn’t the first death I’ve witnessed over the last few weeks, but it shocks me just the same. I glance to Yeshi, who is watching the video cooly, calmly, while I’m over here struggling over my next breath.

Maybe this is the difference between us. The death of another human triggers something primordial within me, something unreplicable in a Humandroid. I finally let out a stifled breath – shit just got real.

FOUR∞

“He didn’t know anything,” Nelly says as soon as she enters Manuel’s office. Noah is behind her with a worried look on his face, his cravat partially undone.

“You weren’t supposed to kill him,” Manuel says. “This complicates things. We can’t use him as a hostage any longer.”

She’s in front of me now in her designer Killer shirt, painted on jeggings and combat boots. I gave birth in your body! It’s really strange seeing a body you inhabited for an extended period of time alive and well in front of you. Bizarre.

My eyes return to the shirt. Nelly really is a killer now. “When did you get that shirt?” I ask just to say something.

“Yesterday. I had it delivered using an encrypted purchasing app.”

“Did you use a body-masker or BlurYou?” Manuel asks. He looks from Nelly to Noah.

“I’m pretty sure I activated it.” Nelly crosses her thin arms over her chest. “Let me check my log.” Her eyes close for a second and she gulps. “Crap … ”

“Are you telling me you let a drone deliver something here without hiding your identity?”

“Oh dear,” Noah says.

Manuel’s eyes drop shut as he spits rapid-fire Spanish. He soon switches to English. “We are going to have company, either today or tomorrow,” he says to someone over iNet, “likely today. Activate all Comsuits and bring as much back-up as possible.”

“This is my fault … ” Nelly sits, places her hands over her mouth.

“YES, YES IT FUCKING IS YOUR FUCKING FAULT!” Manuel bellows at her, suddenly baring his teeth. “You are trying to fight one of the most powerful entities in the world and you’re ordering fashionable T-shirts? What the fuck, chica!?”

Nelly cowers. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just needed a pick-me-up after getting out of prison.”

“Everyone needs a pick-me-up sometimes!” Noah adds nervously.

“People are going to die so you can wear that stupid fucking T-shirt, so you can have a pick-me-up!” He curses under his breath for a moment in Spanish.

Nelly’s face reddens. “I wasn’t thinking. The pain medication … ”

“You weren’t thinking?”

Steam is practically billowing out of Manuel’s head now.

“I was on pain meds last night,” she says, pointing at her bruised face.

“Why didn’t you stop her, Noah?” he asks.

“I needed a pick-me-up too and wasn’t thinking straight! I hadn’t seen Nelly in … ”

“This is my fault, not his,” Nelly says, defending her droid. “I thought that ... I thought that I had activated it. Shit, okay. This is my fault, so … ” She bites her bottom lip. “I’ll stay and fight too, but I’ll need some weapons, a mistmask if you have one and some armor.”

Manuel ignores her comment. “They are probably sending their top reps … the crazy bitch with the white hair and the one that looks like you.” He nods at Yeshi.

“Rinchi?”

The drug kingpin touches his Adam’s Apple, clearly remembering something Rinchi had done to him. I can’t tell exactly what Yeshi is thinking, or should I say calculating, but I assume the worst.

“You can’t stay,” I tell her.

“I have unfinished business with Rinchi,” Yeshi says firmly.

“We all do,” Manuel says, “but we need to face it, MercSecure might be coming at us with all they got. Hell, they might send their top twenty reps and some support fire via a fleet of fucking Comsuits. The best bet, at least for the four of you, is to get to Cuba and plot the next move.”

“I want to stay,” Nelly says.

“No,” Manuel glares at her. “You’re a mother, and you should be with your baby. That’s what is best in this situation.”

“What about you?” I ask.

“I’ll be giving them everything I got,” he says proudly, “for Carloza, for Mexico.” Manuel thinks for a moment. “What do you say about something like this in America?”

“We can’t all be Washingtons, but we can all be Patriots,” I offer.

“No, not that one.”

“This is what you made me America.” RIP, Tupac.”

“No, not that one either … ” he says. “Come and take it you cocksuckers – that’s the one! You guys used that in the Revolutionary War, when the British were the biggest dicks around. My, how the tables have turned. Listen Meme, contact Richard Hewman and let him know you’re coming. I’ll arrange transport within the next hour. MercSecure may be on their way and we need to be ready.”

FIVE∞

Rinchi was prepared for anything.

She was the first to arrive at MercSecure Headquarters, here because of a warning order sent to her by Lorem Ipsum

Report to MercSecure HQ at 1500 hrs. Nelly has escaped from prison. Humandroid Noah kidnapped Antimeria and his baby daughter Rebel. All four are purported to be at Manuel’s (formerly Carloza’s) hotel in Mexico. Sauria believes that Anonymous One and Two may also be present; he further believes that your Humandroid twin, Rinchi, is likely Anonymous Two.

You will join the team tasked with live retrieval of Antimeria and Baby Rebel and capture of Nelly, Noah, Anonymous One and Anonymous Two.

More information to follow during mission brief.

Rinchi hadn’t much thought about Yeshi since returning from Iraq – it really didn’t matter if she was alive or dead. If she was alive, Rinchi would quickly overpower her. After all, Yeshi had always been the weaker of the two.

Thoughts in the form of video replay came to her regarding the time she’d spent back at the Humandroid flat with Anna and Yeshi. Their rack of shared clothing, the occasional trips to the mechanic after being abused by the more violent customers, the point of their existence clearly defined. Now the point of her existence was defined in a different way, a way she much preferred. To Rinchi it was better to be the fucker than to be the fuckee. Being an agent of death allowed her to have the final say in a number of things, the most powerful of which was the ability to extinguish life.

Her job would be a dream come true if only she could dream.

The door hissed open and Rinchi immediately performed a vitals scan. The man’s name was Bhairav and his life chip identified him as a Gurkha from Nepal. A quick cross-reference with her knowledge of Hindi told her that his first name meant Lord of Terror. His last name, Mahamrityunjaya, meant great victor of death. It was apparent that he came from a long line of Shiva worshipers.

“Hello, representative 212,” he said in slightly accented English.

“Rinchi.” She remained standing, away from the table. Not knowing what to expect from the top five reps, she figured it would be better to be ready for anything, including a show of force.

“Bhairav,” he said, “but you can call me Rav.”

“Rav. You are representative three?”

“I am.”

“Have you met the others?”

“I have.”

Rav was sinewy and dark skinned; he looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. The sides of his head were shaved but the hair on top was long enough to spike into a Mohawk with the right amount of gel. There was a tattoo of a Nepali flag on his neck and various Sanskrit characters trailing around his arms. One of his eyes had been replaced with an artificial bio-optic prosthesis.

“Is there anything I should know about the others?” she asked. He seemed friendly enough and he didn’t start their conversation by attacking her, as Keva had done the first time they met.

“Rep number two used to be known as Captain America, but Marvel Entertainment brought a lawsuit against him for using the name of one of their top-grossing characters. Now we just call him Murika.”

“Murika?”

“Yeah, he’s an all-American boy or whatever they say here in this country. Served in the Syrian Intervention, The Afghan Recap War of 2078, the Ukrainian Freedom War, The North Korean Conflict, the Arctic Wars – this was where I met him – and the fight for the disputed islands between Japan and China. I forget the name of that one.”

“The Little Island War.”

“That’s the one. So, there’s Murika, he’s rep number two. I’m rep number three. Number four is a woman from Atlanta named Beyoncé,” he said with a hint of admiration in his voice.

“After that pop singer who put herself in cryostasis?”

“It’s become quite a popular name, especially in America’s more insular urboplexes.”

“What’s her story?” Rinchi asked.

“Bitch, if you needs to know my story you can ax me your own damn self.”

Beyoncé stepped into the room, her hair pulled into two tight balls resembling Mickey Mouse’s ears. She was a short black woman with a tight body and a predatory face. A quick vitals scan told Rinchi that both her legs had been replaced.

“Who the fuck is this?” she asked, twisting her lips at Rinchi.

“Hello Beyoncé! Namaste to you…” Rav’s eyes lit up. “Did you get the birthday card I sent you?”

She cocked her head at the Nepali man. “I told you to quit sending me that shit. You ain’t my boyfriend. How many times do I got to tell you this? I only date American boys. Read my big lips – American B-O-Y-Z.”

“But I have an American passport … ”

“Yeah, but you from India, which means you ain’t American.”

“I’m not from India,” he said. “I’m from Nepal. We’ve been over this … ”

“What you smiling about droidie?” Beyoncé asked Rinchi.

“I’m just happy that no one has attacked me. Last time I met in this room with Keva, she cut my tongue out.”

“Oh that’s right, that’s where I remember you from. You the rep who cut Keva’s tongue out. Damn, you a bad bitch!”

“You’re the one who cut her tongue out?” Rav asked, he was nodding now, clearly impressed. “Well it is about time someone did something to her. You see this?” He pointed at his modded right eye. “She’s the reason I have this.”

Beyoncé touched her ear, which had been replaced. “She didn’t just cut it off, she dug out all that shit inside too, my eardrum and whatnot – I’m not a doctor but you get what I’m saying here. All this shit had to be replaced. Bitch would have got my brain too if MercSecure hadn’t threatened her.”

“She can be difficult.” Rinchi remembered being assaulted at the club and nearly blown to bits in Iraq. Difficult was an understatement. Still, there was something about Keva that she liked.

“If I ever see that crazy bitch again I swear … “Beyoncé tensed up. “That ain’t no way to treat a fellow rep.”

“Relax, Bey, you know I’ll protect you if we run into her.”

Beyoncé nearly fell over laughing. “Rav you ain’t going to do shit if she attacks us. Man, she’ll have you hung up by your balls in five seconds flat.”

“That’s not true!”

Rinchi put an end to their playful bickering by asking, “Who is the fifth guy? Number two is Murika, three is Rav, four is you.”

“Shit, I’ll be three soon enough.”

“And number five?”

Rav said, “Number five is Walt. He’s an older guy, pushing sixty-five. He’s clean cut and has been a mercenary for longer than I’ve been alive.”

SIX∞

Rinchi and reps two through five stood in front of the Super Osprey, suited up and ready to go. Murika, the leader of the team due to his ranking, walked in front of the four with his hands behind his back.

“Rav and Beyoncé, I want you two in Comsuits.”

Murika was a serious man with the body of a Greek God. His hair was brown and cut short, his eyes green. A vital scan told Rinchi that he had one arm that was bionic and that both eyes had been replaced with bio-synthetic counterparts.

“Rinchi, Walt and I will take care of the inside action.”

“You see that,” Beyoncé complained, “you said action. Ain’t going to be no action outside.”

“We need Comsuit support due to the fact that they have increased the perimeter defense of the hotel,” Murika explained. “Our live satellite feed tells us that they have a small fleet of Comsuits, six in all.”

“Which model?” Walt asked.

Walt’s face was unusual in that it was heavily scarred and repaired only enough to restore function, but otherwise unreconstructed. This is who I am; this is where I’ve been and what I’ve done his face proclaimed. He was a professional soldier’s professional soldier; one tempered in the forge of war but still in possession of his humanity. His eyes had seen much of the worst that men can do.

“Andromeda M31s.”

Walt cleared his throat. “Those are about five years out of date; I’ve used them before. They’re a little bit larger than the new models, about three times the size of a normal human, but they’re solid enough. Also, their reaction prediction time is enhanced, but it can over-anticipate the user’s actions, especially with novice or unskilled users.”

“Which means?” Beyoncé asked. “Keep it simple, Walt. English is Rav’s second language, remember?”

“Hey!”

“It means that their attacks miss around four point seven percent of the time. Also during extended or intensive use, the suits can overheat and potentially shut down at the wrong damn time.”

“They sound like shit,” Beyoncé said.

“They’re not too bad, actually. M31s are fast and they have two rapid-fire PHASRs on their backs, wasp-wing style, which have a high degree of autonomous combat AI and can choose their own targets and operate independently if the operator is incapacitated or killed. A real common mod is independent lift and tracking – the PHASRs can undock from the suit and pursue. The suits also have a hooked arm, which is useful for prying things open or scaling buildings.”

“Shit. What we packing?” she asked.

“Same as always,” Murika said. “Dark Matter 96ers.”

Beyoncé clucked, “Man, can’t MercSecure afford something a little better than that?”

“I like the DM 96ers,” Rav said. “They’re fast, reliable.”

“And ours are heavily modded,” Walt reminded her. “Nowhere else in the world will you find DM 96ers with FAE smart missiles.”

“Fuel-Air Explosive,” Rinchi said.

“Thanks for spelling it out, droid, but the problem with FAE is that it can spread. You ever have some of that shit backfire on you? I almost lost a leg in Ethiopia because of that shit.” Beyoncé laughed, “Hell I did lose a leg, this one to be exact.” Her hand came down to her left thigh.

“Enough,” Murika said. “The Comsuits are waiting for us at the private airfield in Tijuana. We can discuss the pros and cons of DM 96ers on the way over. Everyone is using ocs here, right?”

“I do,” Rav said. “My right eye.”

“Both eyes,” Rinchi said.

“Both eyes,” Walt said.

“Left eye,” Beyoncé said last. “But y’all know I don’t like admitting that shit.”

“Good, review the hotel layout during our flight and keep the floor plan in the corner of your ocular display. For the three of us going in, MercSecure has weapons waiting for us in Tijuana.”

SEVEN∞

Get to the chopper!

I suppose, get to the armored aeros transport vehicle would be more apropos, but you get the picture. We are trying to get the fuck out of Tijuana because MercSecure is gunning for us. This is precisely how Dr. Hewman put it in a message he sent me over iNet about fifteen minutes ago. Apparently, he has someone on the inside and true to his nature, he said he would explain more once we arrived in Havana.

“They’re getting closer,” Yeshi says, her eyes darting back and forth as she scans air traffic reports on iNet. We’re in the hotel’s private elevator moving to the top floor. Rebel, Noah and Nelly are already there waiting for us. “The reports update every two minutes, which means they may be here any moment depending on how fast they’re moving.”

“Damn, we better get cracking!” I say, the cigar still in my mouth. Might as well go out like a jefe.

The elevator door opens and we exit into a small clear area. Some of Manuel’s thugs move about, getting into various positions. One man is literally strapped to the teeth – a Leak-based weapons system that fires PHASR beams through neuronal transmissions (say that three times fast!) is attached to his helmet. Another has a pollute cigarette in his mouth that is almost completely ash by this point.

“What the fuck took you so long?” Nelly is still in her Killer T-shirt with Noah behind her, the baby over his shoulder.

“I was packing!” I say, waving my luggage at her. (I borrowed an eel leather suitcase from Carloza that has a sticker on it which reads: collate la pinche Boca.)

“Meme, you are such an idiot.”

“What? Who goes to Cuba without a couple of guayaberas? I’m trying to blend in here!”

I do a quick turn, pointing my thumbs at two vertical rows of closely sewn pleats running up the back of the shirt.

“You’re a black man in a Japanese man’s body who is trying to blend in with the Cuban natives … ” A grin almost forms on her face. Almost.

“Come on, Nelly. Besides, aren’t you excited to meet the guy who rescued you from the Italian restaurant while you were in Tyro’s body?”

“Thanks for reminding me – I had almost forgotten about it.”

“That was horrible.” Noah says. He has changed cravats, springing for something a little more tropical.

Yeshi interrupts all of us to say, “We need to hurry. They will be here any moment.”

I blink my eyes shut and send a message to Manuel.

Me: Good luck.

Manuel: These mother-rapers got the best of me last time. They won’t this time. We’ll hold them off. Let me know what we can do to support you once you arrive in Cuba. I may take a trip to Havana myself when I’m done here.

Me: You the man. Keep your head down and your jockstrap on.

Manuel: Same to you, Amigo. I’ll be in touch.

“Let’s go!” Yeshi grabs my hand. “Look!”

A black aeros is heading our way, the sun reflecting off its polished hood. Surrounding the aeros are two Comsuits, their contrails visible.

“It’s them!” Noah cried. The hand that wasn’t holding baby Rebel comes to his mouth.

“Noah – give me the baby and get ready to use your arm PHASRs if you have to,” Nelly says. “You might have to protect us!”

“Oh, dear!” Noah, who is still in a sleeveless suit, hands baby Rebel to Nelly. The child – technically my child but I’ll let that slide for a moment – appears to be fast asleep.

Manuel’s men quickly form a perimeter as we load into the armored transport. The inside of the vehicle is quite large, easily twice as large as the inside of an aeros limousine. For my part, I take a seat with my back to the driver, next to Carloza’s pollution mask rig that he had custom installed.

“You aren’t serious!” Nelly says as I unhook the mask. The mask is a standard affair, the same mask that they have at the bars back in LA. I am familiar with it and happy to find an old friend in such a distressing moment.

“When in Rome … ” I place the half chewed cigar in my shirt pocket. I’ll get to you later.

“They’ll be here in thirty seconds.” Yeshi takes a seat next to the window, watching as the MercSecure reps approach the rooftop.

“Everyone strap in!” Nelly says.

With no baby seat, she has to hold Rebel to her chest. “Go! Go! Go!” she shouts at the driver, banging her hand on the side of the aeros transport vehicle. The vehicle has two drivers, one at the back and one at the front – just in case. One of the drivers responds in English.

“We’re lifting off now!”

The aeros kicks into the air at the same time MercSecure arrives, guns a-blazing. Manuel’s men are dying just about as quickly as they’re returning fire. Bombs over Baghdad – everyone here is an Outkast!

Let’s be as clear as we’ll ever be, Reader. If I’m going to die here today, I might as well die high.

Boom! Bang! Shit! Puta Madre! Boom! Bang!

A whopping great explosion buffets our aeros, and with that, the pollution mask goes over my face and pollutes appear on the polypropylene lenses:

Vassago White Comma Puss N Boobs

2Girls1Cup Poisonous Nike Toadstool

Jaeger Black Blow Up Sheep

Calvin Klein’s Bieber Little Peter

BCBG I.C.U.P.

As bullets and lasers whiz by (oh my!), I select Bieber Little Peter and the pollute distributor plays a midi version of La Cucaracha, which is loud and obnoxious, yet somehow soothing given the severity of my current situation.

“Sorry everyone!” I say as the rooftop shrinks beneath us.

Inhale, exhale and let the battle begin.

Through the polypropylene lenses, I watch as Yeshi pays close attention to the reps now returning fire on the rooftop. Two Comsuits – Manuel’s – zoom over us as we sail off, loud enough to rattle the ceiling. Yeshi’s mouth drops open.

“That’s her!”

“Who?” I ask, my voice muffled by the pollute mask.

“Rinchi. She’s on the rooftop!”

EIGHT∞

“Yeshi.” Rinchi said, watching the armored aeros transport lift off in a cloud of dust and grit and trash. Still, she could see her twin Humandroid in that moment, starring at her from inside the vehicle.

Rinchi: I need a Comsuit. Rav or Beyoncé you’re out.

Beyoncé (tagging Murika): Shit I’m trying to hold them off and you giving me orders? WTF droid?

Murika: Rinchi, you are part of the inside team. That’s an order.

Rinchi: I have unfinished business.

Murika: That’s an order!

Rinchi ran along the side of the rooftop through a hail of bullets. She aimed her PHASR at the transport aeros as she ran, and connected with a blast that shattered one of the passenger windows. One of Manuel’s Comsuits flew alongside the rooftop, scissoring towards the MercSecure reps, and with inhuman speed Rinchi calculated the angle at which she’d need to jump to connect with the Andromeda M31.

Her feet hit the ledge of the rooftop and she was off, catapulting her body at the flying Comsuit.

She landed on the Comsuit and immediately hooked her legs around the Andromeda’s arm. The operator jerked to the left in an attempt to buck her off. Rinchi held tight and pried at the shoulder of the Comsuit with her tactical knife, using the same technique Keva had shown her in Iraq, albeit with much more urgency.

Rav: What the fuck are you doing!?

Beyoncé: Bitch don’t go all rogue now!

Lorem Ipsum: Rinchi this is a direct order. Return to the rooftop.

Rinchi (to Ipsum): I spotted Yeshi, Anonymous Two. I say again – Yeshi has been spotted. Anonymous Two.

Ipsum: Go! Go! GO!

_∞_

“It’s her!” Sauria said as soon as he got the feed from Rinchi’s ocs. “It’s her!”

“I’ve told her to go,” Lorem Ipsum said excitedly.

Sauria was now in MercSecure’s private medical ward located in the executive underground bunker beneath their ring-shaped headquarters in Cali. He was watching a holoscreen alongside Lorem Ipsum and Connard Branleur, president of the Business Executives for National Security Lobbying and Consultancy Group. Sauria was supposed to be lying on the bed, but he was sitting on a sofa instead, not wanting to appear weak in front of his subordinates.

Branleur, a handsome man with thick white hair and blue eyes, stared with interest at the holoscreen. In the corner feed was Yeshi’s pixilated face, which had a web of light around it indicating that the Datatective program was searching video feeds worldwide for matches. The main feed was currently streaming Rinchi’s ocular video, which showed her twisting in the air as she attempted to gain access to an enemy Comsuit. The jitteriness of the video made it slightly nauseating.

“It looks like she’s riding a rocket!” Sauria said in a fatherly tone. MercSecure had about two dozen Humandroids employed as representatives. None had Rinchi’s testicular fortitude; she’d just launched herself off a rooftop onto a flying enemy Comsuit and was attempting to commandeer it.

Sparks sprayed in her ocular display as Rinchi continued to cut into the Andromeda’s access seal.

“She’s going to do it,” Connard said in near disbelief. “Damn! She is going to do it!”

Sauria said, “Make sure this video is saved on the MercSecure training module board. Other reps need to see this.”

“Duly noted.” Ipsum’s eyes blinked as he sent a quick message to his secretary.

“She’s in!” Connard said.

Rinchi reached inside the Andromeda as it curved towards the ground. She punched the operator in the back of the head, popped the emergency harness release and threw him out of the suit. The video became shaky as she jumped into the Comsuit and took control.

“I wish Antimeria could see this,” Sauria said under his breath, watching as Rinchi flew the suit after the fleeing aeros transport vehicle.

Ipsum feigned a smile. He knew very well that Antimeria may already be dead, but he didn’t want to explore the idea in front of his superior, a close friend of the HedgeRoth Manager.

“We’ve got you now, Yeshi,” Sauria mumbled, “we got you now.”

Ipsum said, “We need to get a tracking drone on that transport vehicle, just in case Rinchi can’t take it down. I’ll alert Rav – he should be able to launch one.”

NINE∞

With the window shattered out, baby Rebel crying, Noah e-shitting his britches and Yeshi trying to get a grip on the action outside the aeros, there is only one phrase coiling through my mind, one phrase that allows me to make sense of all that is happening around me: Life’s a bitch, then you die, that’s why we get high, you never know when you’re gonna go.

Yes, being on the verge of death has inspired the vulgar Nas-quoting vulture within, but seriously, if this is the way I’m going to go, then F it. What else am I supposed to do? Beat a MercSecure rep to death with Carloza’s eel leather suitcase? Another sip off the pollute mask and I’m good, watching the violence unfold before me like an action movie or something.

“There’s a Comsuit on our tail,” Yeshi shouts over the roar from the recently smashed window, “and Rinchi is the operator!”

It strikes me as odd that I’ve never met Rinchi, not even in the hallways of the office I used to share with Tyro. Or maybe I have but I don’t remember. The therapist in me wants to know what makes her tick, what makes her so different from Yeshi. The more logical side of my brain wants her as far away from my little faux family – Nelly, Rebel, Noah, Yeshi and maybe Manuel – as possible.

“The baby!” Noah shrieks like a limp-wristed pansy. “This is so horrible!”

Yeshi says, “Nelly, get to the other side of the vehicle and protect the baby! Noah, get to the broken window now! Meme … ”

I’m sure I look like an idiot puffing away on Bieber Little Peter while Armageddon rages on outside our aeros transport vehicle. Unfortunately, I have no weapons and as you may recall, I’m not really that good with guns anyway.

“Meme, stay where you are!”

“What do I do!?” Noah shouts.

A blast hits the aeros transport and the vehicles drops altitude. Turbulence follows as we return to the appropriate airlane. “We need to use your arm PHASRs!” she tells him, pulling his arm over to the shattered window.

“I’m too frightened to fight!”

“I’ll fight for you!” Yeshi says. “You have to trust me!”

The aeros transport shifts as flames lick its side. Noah and Yeshi move to the shattered window and Noah sticks his arm out.

“Get ready!”

Noah’s eyes are closed and Yeshi’s are open, scanning the air behind the vehicle for Rinchi’s Comsuit.

Yeshi fires two shots, using small electric discharges to take control of Noah’s arm PHASR.

The air whips by the transport vehicle. Everything is a blur aside from the action taking place in front of me. I glance from the battle to Nelly, who’s holding the baby close to her chest and praying. I suppose I should be freaking out too, but I’m feeling too medicated to worry. Not exactly wasting away in Margaritaville, but pretty damn close.

Yeshi fires another shot from Noah’s arm PHASR.

“Did you get her?” Noah cries, his eyes still closed.

A blast hits the vehicle and we drop several feet. Methinks we are fucked, but I still have pollute-infused hope that we’ll make it out alive. Further, I can’t be held responsible for the apathy emanating therefrom.

“Stop her, Yeshi! Stop her!” Nelly screams.

Bitches get stitches! I want to yell, but my voice is muffled and my mouth doesn’t want to open. Everything is moving in slow motion now, codeine-dipped action.

“I’m overheating!” Noah whines, as Yeshi fires twice more.

“Switch arms and hold still!” comes Yeshi’s response.

“Oh Nelly!” Noah glances over at his owner, his face strained and his eyes wide. “We’re going to die!”

“Quit whining and hold still!”

I’m lightheaded now, my arms tingling as the vehicle lifts higher in the air while my eyes are fixed on Yeshi, the only thing keeping me alive these days. She looks hella-hot as she holds Noah’s arm PHASR out the window and fires on Rinchi. The discharges are blue, edged with tiny electric swirls with a core that is almost turquoise. They light up the interior of the aeros transport vehicles, sending tentacle-like streamers writhing across the ceiling that remind me of Trolli Sour Glow Worms.

Yeshi fires, waits, fires again as Noah whimpers.

For some reason, I start to get an erection.

Two more blasts in quick succession, and …

“Got her!” Yeshi says.

TEN∞

“Holy … ” Branleur covered his mouth, his eyes wide with excitement.

“She’s one of our top reps,” Sauria said proudly. “Hand-selected by myself, and … Antimeria. I hope to God he’s still alive.”

The Live feed on the holoscreen had Sauria bubbling with excitement. In the video, Rinchi was flying above the aeros transport vehicle in a hijacked Andromeda Comsuit. A trail of black smoke was clouding the image of her feed. Nelly, Noah, Antimeria’s baby and Anonymous Two – Yeshi – were definitely in the vehicle. There was no telling who else was in there.

“Has Rav shot off the tracking drone?” he asked.

A new screen appeared in the bottom right corner, showing a blinking light moving over Tijuana.

“Yes,” Lorem Ipsum said eagerly. “We’ll be able to track them if Rinchi doesn’t succeed.”

“She’s going to land on top of the transport vehicle … ” Branleur said. “This is … is … ”

“It is everything my company stands for and more,” Sauria said with a fish-eating grin.

_∞_

Rinchi’s ocular display lit up with range and targeting data as orange lights flickered in front of her face and various annoying audio cues reminded her of her altitude and power status. She fired a few short bursts from the Andromeda’s PHASRs, which sparkled off the aeros transport vehicle’s anti-radiation coating.

The anti-radiation coating on her hijacked Comsuit wasn’t holding up as well.

The damage indicators were lighting up like a festive holiday tree and the systems failure warning blared with annoying persistence. The crash bars had deployed, but the air bags hadn’t – yet – and the computer hadn’t initiated the emergency landing override. The suit still had some go left in it.

Rinchi planned to use every last little bit.

The suit fought to maintain altitude and forward velocity, even as it got zapped again. She planned to drop onto the aeros, secure the Comsuit to the aeros with the curved combat manipulator, execute a dynamic entry and neutralize all the hostiles – although she thought of it as hook on, get in, and kill ‘em all!

She only had one shot to latch onto the vehicle’s rooftop.

ELEVEN∞

A crash and a quake tells me things have taken a turn for the worse and that Scooby’s Gang, with me the Scoobster – because I so enjoy my snacks – are in for some hella-day spoilage. This gets me thinking as to who would make a better Daphne, Nelly or Yeshi, as both are hot and both aren’t exactly Velma material. Noah is obviously Shaggy sans the bong and weed breath; Manuel could be Fred as he is our fearless leader. So who would make a better Daphne? And fuck Scrappy-Doo because we all know that little bastard was put in the show for commercial purposes á la Ewoks in Return of the Jedi (the recent remake, not the original). On second thought, I guess Rebel could be Scrappy because she’s small.

I digress.

Turn the pages quickly, Reader, the battle rages on!

Through my mask’s polypropylene lenses I watch a giant hook tear into the ceiling of the transport vehicle. This spells trouble for the Double Daphne Scooby’s Gang, but I’ve already accepted the fact I may die here today and I have no regrets.

A huge rush of wind whips in as the ceiling is ripped open like a foil pack of WalMacy’s Cajun Diablo Peyote Macadamia Trail Mix – the snack that burns at both ends.

The only thing keeping me from tucking my head between my legs and screaming at the top of my lungs is my pollute mask (I’ve somehow managed to tangle the cord, and like a cat, I can’t handle it when something is tangled).

So I’m trying to untangle the pollute distributor cable as the aeros transport vehicle sinks into a lower airlane, Nelly tries to move to the other side of the vehicle and Yeshi is …

Dip my balls in sweet cream and strap my ass in a kitchen full of kittens!

A giant mechanical hand widens the tear and the four of us (five if you include the baby) are greeted by the flat, cold, hard stare of Rinchi in an Andromeda Comsuit.

We are so fucked.

(Goodbye Reader. It was nice infecting your brain for a couple of books.)

It is Yeshi who interrupts my preemptive eulogy to attack the front of the Comsuit.

I shit you not – she’s trying to pull open the hatch of the Comsuit, and has attached herself to it like a koala bear to a eucalyptus tree. Only about a yard wide portion of the craft is visible in the hole it’s cut in the ceiling, which means Rinchi doesn’t have enough space to bring her weapons to bear and blow us into pâté de foie gras. Well, at least not yet.

I finally untangle the pollute dispenser cable (¡Enhorabuena por la bebé nuevo!). The pollution mask comes off and my lungs fill with fresh air. I immediately enter into the Scream Like A Useless Piece Of Shit competition with Noah. I’d be filling my brandy-new ÜberArmour compression shorts with the finest quality nitrogenous waste as well, had I not abundantly evacuated my colon on numerous occasions earlier in the day; chorizo apparently does not agree with my oriental canalis alimentarius.

“We’re all going to die! We’re all going to die!” I shriek like a pollute-addled Norwegian Blue Parrot of Doom.

Yeshi has popped the combat lock on the front hatch of Rinchi’s Comsuit and has her feet braced on either side of it as she pulls with everything she has. The torn edges of the impromptu entryway rip the e-skin from her arms and legs, and I can see the material under her skin, the flesh cables that keep my sigother alive. For once I can see what she really is.

It doesn’t bother me.

The aeros bounces and shudders as the driver tries to buck the Comsuit off. Thata boy! I glance up at the giant Hook O’ Death jammed through our ceiling and realize, without a shadow of a doubt, that Rinchi isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Cray cray ass bitch!

Noah screams, “Move Yeshi, I’ll help!”

¡Sí podemos! I want to shout, but my throat has gone dry.

He gets up next to her, sets his feet and pulls with her.

Nelly and Rebel are behind him now, pressed into the far corner of the vehicle away from the shattered window. Nelly protects her daughter with her entire body, her back to the mayhem and madness.

“Hold on!” Says the vehicle’s intercom. In English and Spanish, mind you.

Our aeros transport canopy rolls to rid us of the Comsuit, and more importantly, Rinchi. I fall out of my seat, bounce off the ceiling, and land back in my seat. Now my head hurts, my ass is bruised, and I’ve screamed myself hoarse. The hook is still lodged in the ceiling.

I am in transports and raptures of fear; I wish I had kept the pollution mask on. My legs have suddenly stopped working and my hands just sit on my lap, shaking and twitching like pinche Chihuahuas on some Walter White. Sometimes it sucks to be human. I realize this as I watch Yeshi and Noah dive (fall might be more appropriate) out of the way.

The hatch pops open and falls away, the Comsuit shifts enough for Rinchi to swing a PHASR into the aeros cabin and right into Noah’s face.

Noah has gone into full-on ‘protect Nelly at all costs’ mode (and not a moment too soon). He brings both arm PHASRs up and points them through the open hatch at Rinchi. He rotates one arm a quarter turn, pauses, and then rolls it back. He does this with other arm, and then does it with both at the same time. It occurs to me that he’s trying to decide which way is sideways, so he can do the oh-so-very-stylish hold the gun sideways like a movie gang-banger.

WHAT THE FUCK NOAH CAP THAT BITCH! An actual Mexican standoff in the airspace over Tijuana and sadly, I have a front row seat sans a bucket of Walmacy’s FDA approved Non-GMO Lipitor-Flavored Vegan extra soy butter popcorn.

TWELVE∞

Jesus in a cage match with Mohammed!

Russian roulette on an epic scale aside from the fact there aren’t any vodka-infused oligarchs in the transport aeros nor is there a weapon being passed around Deerhunter style. Reader: my eyes are Christopher Walken as I await the imminent death of lapdog Noah which will precede by microseconds the death of Yeshi and me and the baby I birthed and Nelly and …

Rinchi smiles, her thumb exerts pressure on the firing button. In that minutest fraction of a heartbeat, in that barest interval between one stroke of a hummingbird’s wing and the next, Yeshi has launched herself into the open cockpit. She twists her evil twin’s arm up off the firing controls and hammers her fist into the mirror image of her face. Noah grabs the barrel of Comsuit’s PHASR in both hands and bends it.

“Yeshi, MOVE!” Noah shrieks. The aeros driver jinks again, the hook in the ceiling shifts and Noah stumbles as he triggers his arm PHASR. The bolt goes wide and just grazes Rinchi, but it gets her enough to strip the e-skin and underlying flesh cables off the right side of her face and shoulder.

That vision will haunt me – maybe forever. One side her face is nothing but the charred, impersonal endoskeletal substructure; on the other side she is Yeshi – bangs, single dimple, Asian features – an exact replica of the droid of my life.

“Blast her Noah!” Yeshi shouts.

“Kill it with fire!” I add, albeit hoarsely, weakly.

Rinchi locks her remaining eye on me and scans my vitals. My new testicles (well, new to me) shrivel, and I discover that my colon is not quite as empty as I had thought; I am trapped in the belly of the beast with a shemale Shaitan who’s burning holes through my heart with a jalapeño glare – she’s pissed, determined to extract herself from the Comsuit to come and rend me!

The aeros jerks, twists, corkscrews; Yeshi grabs Noah’s arm, points it at the hook in the ceiling and fires until the unit overheats and shuts down.

You go girl! I try to scream, but all that comes out are senseless croaking noises.

We bounce around like ping-pong balls in the Powerball drum. Nelly and I slide into each other and hug the baby between us. Rebel is red-faced, eyes screwed shut, screaming like a tornado siren, and leaking fluids and solids out of every orifice.

The vehicle jerks right, the hook rips free, and the Comsuit spins away in ultra slo-mo.

“Shoot it!” Yeshi yells to Noah as our vehicle does another barrel roll again.

“Kill it dead!” I manage to scream.

Gone is the shrieking, whining, I’m too afraid Noah – this is 800 series Model 101 Noah. With supra – human precision he tracks Rinchi’s tumbling Comsuit with his undamaged PHASR and fires, fires, fires. The Comsuit explodes in smoke and flame and a shower of debris.

“Is she dead?” I shout as the vehicle rights itself.

I look to Nelly, who is within kissing distance from me with baby Rebel in between us.

“I’m going to let go now,” I say, scrambling to my feet. I sit near her and reach down, helping her into the seat away from the broken window. Baby Rebel comes into her arms and Nelly rocks her, telling her it will be okay. I instinctively sweep some of the glass out of her long, curly hair and away from the baby. “It’s over,” I say. “It’s over.”

Yeshi and Noah are by the open window, watching the Comsuit debris fall to the ground. The wind roars in the interior of the vehicle but I hardly notice it, so loud is the buzzing in my ears.

Somehow, we have survived the attack.

Somehow.

THIRTEEN∞

Lorem Ipsum gasped. “Rinchi’s offline!”

He was still in the private room with Sauria and Connard Branleur. The holoscreen – which had moments ago been displaying Rinchi’s ocular feed – was completely black. The assault on the hotel was still happening in the corner of the holoscreen, focused on Murika’s feed as he made his way down the hotel’s fire escape alongside Walt.

Sauria couldn’t shake what he’d just seen.

In the moment before Rinchi’s Comsuit was blasted out of the aeros transport vehicle, the Humandroid had performed a quick vitals scan on a Japanese man, revealing that his name was Takashi Ogawa, the person Yeshi was supposed to have killed before she went offline back in Tokyo.

Is Meme alive? With data-switching technology, it could be possible that Meme had switched with Ogawa and that Ogawa had been killed with Meme’s data. It was also possible that Ogawa was a different terrorist entirely, that he had Yakuza connections and he had been the one who had recruited Yeshi. Maybe.

He was so focused on the possibilities that he barely noticed Murika and Walt, MercSecure’s most senior rep, nearly get shredded by enemy fire on the eighth floor.

“We need to get all the data we possibly can on Takashi Ogawa,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “Firstly, Ogawa is obviously Anonymous One – he may even be Meme.”

“A data-switch … ” Lorem said. The look in his dark brown eyes revealed he was secretly cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier.

“A what?” Branleur asked. “Like a body-switch?”

“A body-switch changes all of a person’s data, a one for one swap. You become that person with your own data. A data-switch simply switches data – you keep your original body but your lifechip data belongs to someone else now,” Lorem explained. “If Ogawa switched data with Meme, and we killed Meme, it would appear as if Meme were actually dead. However, and this is a big however, Meme would actually be alive, living with data that pegs him as Ogawa.”

“So this Meme guy may be alive?”

“Exactly,” Sauria said.

“Well this is news to me.” Branleur’s eyes refocused on the holoscreen, which continued to show the mission in progress at the hotel.

“Either way, he needs to die. If Ogawa is Meme, we must be very, very careful. This guy is clearly smarter than we originally anticipated.”

“Clearly,” Lorem said to his superior.

“And to think, I assumed he was just a pollute junkie when he assaulted me back in October,” Sauria said, rubbing his jaw. “Who knew he was a criminal mastermind terrorist?”

Branleur said, “I didn’t meet the guy, but it sounds like he was playing you. He probably wasn’t even intoxicated. It was probably all a ploy.”

“It’s possible,” Sauria admitted. “Terrorists these days are getting smarter.”

There was a knock at the door. Heidi peeked in wearing a blue collared shirt tucked into a pair of tight jeans. Four buttons were open on the front of the shirt, revealing a neon bra.

“Hi, Heidi,” Sauria said. “Can you bring me a decaf white mocha? No, make it a zebra mocha with an extra pump of dark chocolate from the McStarbucks in the cafeteria. Anyone else want something?”

“I’ll have a pumpkin Irish coffee,” Branleur said. “Sugar-free non-fat soy with caramel drizzle and a half pump of pumpkin spice. Make sure the pumpkin spice is organic. I heard McStarbucks changed their supplier.”

“That’s for their national chain,” Lorem said. “We have an exclusive contract with them here, which means we get Mars-grown pumpkin spice lattes all year-round.”

“Anything for you, Mr. Ipsum?” Heidi asked with a calm smile on her face. Her eyes jumped from the holoscreen to the head of MercSecure.

“Speaking of Mars-grown pumpkin spice, I’ll have one of those. The barista knows my order, so just tell him that it’s for me.”

“Will do.”

“She really is a good droid,” Sauria said after Heidi left.

“I can tell,” Branleur said. “My wife won’t let me have one, though.”

“You know my thoughts on the matter,” Sauria said. “You need to tell your wife that most of the people around you have personal assistant Humandroids and that you have an image to maintain.”

Lorem’s eyes lit up. “Holoscreen enlarge. Murika’s feed.”

“What is it?” Branleur asked.

“It looks like they’ve found something.”

_∞_

Walt and Murika were crouched around the corner of a darkened hotel hallway; a storm of fire greeted them every time they tried to move up. The chunks of flying metal zipped through his field of vision like rocket-propelled fireflies

Murika: Outside team – we’re taking heavy fire. Sitrep?

Rav: One lowrider Comsuit left. Beyoncé is in pursuit.

Beyoncé: Huh. That bitch dead.

Rav: Outside secured, all hostiles neutralized.

Murika: We’re on eight, and something big is shooting the shit out us. The fire’s coming from the east and we can’t get a shot on it.

Beyoncé: We coming.

More bullets whizzed past Murika and Walt.

“What do you think?” he shouted over the gunfire.

Walt licked his lips. “Report sounds too big to be 12.7s. Probably 15mms and probably a Trilobite.”

“What!?”

Walt: Trilobite. 15mm rounds.

Murika: Shit! I’ve run into them before.

Murika: Rav, Bey: Walt says Trilobite.

Rav: Copy Trilobite. Hate those damn things.

Walt: Really? I’d love to have one.

Beyoncé: Don’t y’all worry. We about to rescue your asses.

Walt took a small metal case out of his front pocket, extracted a B-drone, and said ‘go get ‘em, baby,’ as it flew around the corner.

Murika: Walt and I have IFFs up and a target marker on the Trilobite. Please see if you can not hit us this time.

Beyoncé: I told you we coming.

Lorem Ipsum: Rinchi has gone comm out. Once Antimeria is rescued, return to the airfield. Rav tagged the aeros transport vehicle with a tracking device. We may be able to intercept before it gets wherever it is going. Anonymous One and Two are on board.

Murika: Roger.

An explosion sent debris and dust spiraling through the hallway. The two men turned the corner to see the Trilobite advancing towards them.

The original Trilobites were manufactured through a joint venture of the Walliburton Robotics Company and RaytheonShack in the 2050s. The autonomous assault machines had a high degree of Combat AI, and were smart, tough, well-armored, and hard to kill, even with anti-tank weapons. They’d been superseded by even deadlier battlefield automatons, but were still very popular with Third World militaries and well-funded criminal organizations.

Walt: Let Bey and Rav deal with it; they’ve got the big guns. We need to find Antimeria.

Murika: Roger.

A MercSecure Comsuit fired on the Trilobite through the exterior walls. As it maneuvered to return fire, the two reps sprinted past the end of the hallway and into a different stairwell

They stopped at the exit to the seventh floor. Walt crouched at the corner of the door and said ‘Sic ‘em girl,’ as he released another B-drone.

With a buzz of wings and a flashing LED strobe, the thumb-sized B-drone zigged and zagged down the hallway. Two of Manuel’s minions at the far end opened up on it with automatic weapons. As it closed the distance to ten feet, the flying robot sped up, folded its wings and sailed into the open mouth of the shooter on the left. The second gunman continued to track it, continued to fire, and blew his compadre’s head clear off as he tried to blast the drone.

“Hands up,” Walt said to the bewildered man. He stood beside Murika and pointed his Killington EM railgun at the Mexican man.

Walt: Zap him?

Murika: Let’s see what he has to say.

Walt lowered his weapon. His B-drone twisted in the air and perched on his wrist like a tiny bird of prey. The Mexican man shivered.

“Where is the prisoner?” Walt asked. “Big fat gringo. Prisoner. Where?”

Sweat poured down the Mexican man’s face; his eyes wide with fear. The B-drone’s wings fluttered and buzzed; it lifted from Walt’s wrist, hovered, and then settled back down.

“She wants to kill you. Buzzin’ Betty here will tear your throat out and you will bleed to death,” Walt said matter-of-factly. “Like your friend.” He nodded down at the headless man on the ground.

“Sixth floor, Conference Room,” the man finally said in English.

“Good.”

An explosion overhead shook the hallway.

Beyoncé: We got the Trilobite.

Murika: Affirmative. We are wrapping up here. We’ll retrieve and secure Antimeria in three mike. Blow us an exit on the east side of the sixth floor, and the aeros will make pick-up there.

Beyoncé: Damn, we always saving your asses and shit.

Murika: Thanks Bey.

Murika turned to the Mexican man, who was now cowering on the ground with his hands over his head. He raised his PHASR and fired a blast into the back of the man’s head.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Walt said.

“Yeah, I didn’t.”

FOURTEEN∞

The fat lady has sung and her voice has brought down the ceiling of the Amphitheater killing all the guests with their polished monocles, gaudy Rolex pocket watches, the priceless diamond chokers wrapped tightly around their Botoxed throats. The down-trodden people of North Korea have begun down-treading the frighteningly stupid images of Kim Jun-Duche with his indescribably horrible national haircut.

Let my people go! screamed Moses. Who is John Galt? screamed some crazy ex-Russian. You’re fired! screamed an early twenty-first century soulless hotel tycoon. I am not a crook! screamed a twentieth century crook.

Meme here and I’m happy to report that we are safe (enough) speeding away from Tijuana in a damaged aeros transport vehicle missing half its ceiling. Baby Rebel has stopped crying and not a moment too soon. Methinks I can only handle so much crying and the opening in the ceiling is a perfect place to toss the …

Just kidding.

That’s my baby, remember? But in all seriousness, there are some things we’ll need to address immediately, including the fact that we were attacked and that MercSecure, ExEx, the FCG and whoever else wants a piece of the Meme-cake, might know that we are alive. After all, Rinchi did see me and she likely did a vitals scan.

First things first.

Me: Manuel, hombre, are you alive?

Manuel: Alive and waiting at a private airfield in Tijuana.

Me: I wasn’t aware of this part of the plan.

Manuel: I’d be crazy to engage in a stand-up fight with MercSecure at the hotel. I left them a few surprises though, including a Trilobite.

Me: Damn, you’re getting all prehistoric and shit. Is there a Spanish word for antediluvian?

Manuel: No sé. How damaged is the aeros? Have you spoken to Hewman?

Me: Briefly. I’ll add him to our conversation now. The transport aeros has seen better days. Much better days.

I open my eyes for a moment to find Yeshi and Noah having a conversation about something. I’d love to know what those two could possibly be talking about, but the roar of the wind from the enormous hole in the ceiling is making it hard to pick up on their voices. I’m just glad it isn’t raining outside. I really don’t want to get my guayabera wet.

Me: Dr. Hewman, what is your status?

Hewman: Waiting for you at the Port of Cancún. I’ve transferred the coordinates to your driver. Manuel, we have room for your transport on my vessel.

Manuel: Good. I’m at the airfield now ready waiting for MercSecure to return.

Hewman: Nice.

Me: Wait, you two knew about this plan all along?

Manuel: Yes.

Hewman: Yes.

Me: Thanks for telling a brother.

Hewman: If they took you, they’d bring you to the airfield to transport you back. You’d also spill everything you knew to them in about thirty seconds – trust me on this. Manuel’s set up at the airfield with a choice selection of his associates, and the only way MercSecure is going to walk into that reception committee is if they don’t know it’s there.

Me: Choice selection? How many are we talking about here?

Manuel: My best men. Enough to do what needs to be done. La crème de la crème.

Me: All for me? Thanks guys. You’ll be happy to know that Rinchi has been destroyed.

Manuel: Not just for you.

Hewman: Rinchi isn’t dead.

Me: What?

Hewman: I told you that Humandroids automatically release distress signals. They can’t do this if they are destroyed.

Me: She’s alive?

Manuel: Where is she?

Hewman: Somewhere in Tijuana.

“Hey everyone … ” I say, waving my hands to get their attention.

Nelly, Noah and Yeshi look to me. Baby Rebel yawns.

“Rinchi may still be alive.”

“Impossible,” Noah says. “Her Comsuit exploded.” He replays the video feed in his head (I can tell because of the way his eyes unfocus). “Oh no … ”

“What do you see?” Yeshi asks, also replaying the feed.

Noah says,” I’m transferring my feed to both of you. I have a better angle. There may have been an escape pod.”

Me: Hold up gents, let me watch this feed.

I check out the feed on the inside of my eyelids. In the video, just before Rinchi’s Comsuit explodes, the front of the suit drops out, burning like a meteorite.

“She’s in there?” I ask over the roar of the wind.

Yeshi and Noah nod. Both of them are feigning human disappointment by tilting their chins to the side and frowning, which looks a little bizarre as they are sitting across from me with their heads tilted in the same direction at the same angle.

Me (to Dr. Hewman and Manuel): Transferring the video now.

Manuel: There’s no way she survived that.

Hewman: Her distress signal indicates otherwise.

Manuel: I’ll see what I can do after dealing with the reps at the airfield. They should be on their way any moment now.

Hewman: Good, I’ll take care of your craft in the meantime. You can get it in Cuba after it has been repaired. I have some connects.

Me: Speaking of Havana, I need a breather after what I’ve just been through. Any special pollutes there?

Hewman: Indeed? That’s your major concern at this point? This is hardly the time to ask about pollutes.

Me: Nothing wrong with planning ahead.

Hewman: I have something for you, Meme, don’t worry. Let’s just get to Havana first.

FIFTEEN∞

Sauria’s face fell into his hands as soon as he saw the video of Antimeria cuffed to a wall with a halo of blood on the wall behind his head. It had finally come to this – the terrorists were closing in.

“Bring him back.” he said through clenched teeth. His heart monitor began beeping frantically.

Lorem Ipsum swiped his hand over his mouth. “Retrieving the body wasn’t part of the mission,” he said. “We need to see to the capture of Anonymous One and Two. Further, there is something I’d like you to know about, something happening tomorrow. It is supposed to be a surprise but –”

Sauria roared, “You were going to bring him back alive, can’t you bring him back dead!?”

“His size … ”

“Goddammit Lorem, you bring him back to LA!”

Lorem closed his eyes and sent the order.

Ipsum: Retrieve the body.

Murika: Do what? The guy’s a sea-cow!

Ipsum: That’s an order.

Murika: Roger.

The video feed showed Murika and Walt observing the body as they discussed the best way to get it to the waiting aeros, which hovered on the opposite side of the sixth floor. Beyoncé and Rav were still in their Comsuits and maintained overwatch on the vehicle.

“Get out!” Sauria shouted at Connard Branleur and Lorem Ipsum.

Branleur, who was sipping from his McStarbucks cup, stood and nodded politely. “Not a problem, Sauria. We’ll be in the hallway.”

“Send Heidi in,” Sauria told Lorem. “Now!”

“Yes, sir,” Lorem said.

Sauria glared at the two men as they left. His eyes were fixed on the holoscreen, which showed Murika and Walt retrieving Antimeria. They flipped a conference table over, broke the legs off it, and laid his big rigor mortised ass on the underside. They each grabbed an outstretched arm and used the table as a skid to get him to the door.

The audio clearly picked up Murika’s griping.

“It’s like trying to move a five hundred pound starfish,” he observed.

Sauria watched impassively as they lifted him off the skid and maneuvered his dead weight through the doorway like a particularly unwieldy, oversized hippo-leather sofa.

“Yeah, but you knew the job was dangerous when you took it, Fred,” Walt replied, as they brought the table through the door, put the awkward, elephantine cadaver back on, and skidded it to the next doorway to repeat the process.

Heidi entered with a concerned look on her face. “What is it, dear?” she said, going to his bedside.

“Sit.” He extended his beefy hand and she took it affectionately.

“I wish I could tell you how I feel right now,” he mumbled.

“You can,” she said. “I’ll listen to anything you have to say, anything.”

His eyes narrowed on Murika’s video feed, which showed MercSecure’s number two rep struggling down a blackened hallway towards a huge gash in the side of the building.

“Who is he carrying?” Heidi asked.

“He’s carrying Antimeria,” Sauria said. “They killed him. Someone killed him. He was my … ” He wanted to say best friend but even he couldn’t squeeze that lie out. It had been years since he’d felt someone was actually his friend.

“Who killed him?” she asked.

“Maybe Nelly, maybe someone in Manuel’s organization. Well, I don’t know really. Manuel is dead now … or maybe he isn’t. Fuck! FUCK!” Sauria dropped his fist against the side of his bed. His heart monitor raced.

“Relax, dear … ” Heidi’s eyes dilated as she scanned his vitals. “You’ve recently had a major heart episode. You need to take it easy. There are some things that will always be out of your control.”

“Bittersweet,” he finally said, “that’s what I … that’s what this feels like.”

“Why?”

“Yeshi – Anonymous Two – and possibly Meme were seen by one of our reps before she was killed.”

“Who was killed?”

“Rinchi.” Sauria shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter if she’s dead or not. She’s just a Humandroid. However, this one sure knew how to … ” He thought of all the things Rinchi had done over the last few weeks, from taking on MercSecure’s number one rep to her unique ability to torture. “She sure knew how to pack a punch.”

Heidi nodded. “I understand. What happens now?”

“One of our reps attached a tracking device to the craft currently carrying Anonymous, I mean Yeshi and Meme. Well, maybe Meme. Goddammit! I thought he was dead!” Sauria looked like he was about to sob. “He outsmarted me. The hen outsmarted the fox.”

“You are the only fox I know, Sauria. I’m sure if this Meme guy is alive, you’ll be able to squash him.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes, squash him. That’s what I’ll do … like a fucking cockroach.” He ground his fist into his palm. “Just like this.”

“Where’s the craft heading now?”

He pointed at the holoscreen, which showed a small red dot moving across Mexico. “It looks like it is going to the coast, towards Cancún. It won’t get there.” Sauria said through gritted teeth. “Our reps are on their way back to the airfield now, where they will take the Super Osprey to intercept the craft before it gets any further.”

Heidi nodded. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“Just sit here with me for a while. I blew up at Ipsum and Branleur … I need a moment to collect myself.”

“No problem, dear.”

_∞_

Beyoncé: I can’t believe we got to bring this dead-ass walrus back to the airfield.

Murika: You don’t have to bring anything, so I wouldn’t worry. Retrieving this guy was our mission anyway. He’s friends with top brass, with Sauria. Watch what you say over iNet.

Beyoncé: Word.

Rav: Could use the back of Walrus-man’s head as a soup tureen.

Walt: I’ve seen worse.

Murika: I’ve done worse.

Beyoncé: Shit, I’ve been worse. So we drop this dead guy off, then we follow Rav’s tracking drone.

Murika: That’s the plan. Rinchi wasn’t able to take down the transport aeros. Anonymous Two is inside, possibly Anonymous One, definitely Nelly, who’s another one of our targets.

Rav: Anonymous One?

Murika: That’s all the info I have.

Beyoncé: If that droid hadn’t gone all Lone Ranger on us we would have been able to take that shit down together.

Rav: Agreed. She’s pretty rogue for a Humandroid.

Beyoncé: Dead Humandroid.

Walt: Humandroids don’t die in the same way that we do.

Beyoncé: Well, dead’s dead, and that bitch gone.

Murika: Not necessarily. There may be portions of her that are still alive.

Walt: We’ll be at the airfield any moment. Bey, Rav stay frosty just in case…

Rav: Copy.

Murika: I don’t think they’ll be any surprises. I estimate the body count back at the hotel at over 100.

Beyoncé: 120. We killed the hell out of ‘em. Y’all should have seen that shit.

Murika: We need to dump the stiff and get to the coast as soon as possible. That’s where the tracking beacon is heading.

Walt: If you were going to ambush us, where would you do it?

Beyoncé: Airfield.

Rav: Airfield.

Walt: And all I think we got at the hotel was their B-team. Yeah, we’re good, but they were like the Special Ed Gangbangers in lead Frankenstein Boots. The Trilobite was the best thing there, and even it wasn’t that good.

Murika: Mission Control – we’re inbound two mike. Say status pickup point and support team.

MercSecure MC: Copy inbound two mike. Support team report secure, standing by at pickup point. Full resupply available, to include airsuits.

Murika: Team – Control relays support team and airfield secure.

SIXTEEN∞

The sun bleaches the horizon, browns the skin of all those who dare partake. Blue ocean ripple wave froth top. Fat cats move in yachts around small fishing boats covered in grime and rust; dust swirls from trucks on the ground as aeros move overhead honking horns that play Tejano hits.

Cancún, Mexico.

Crackpot inspired Catholic desire infiltrating the aether over Cancun spawning babies and needs of welfare from a country so close to Heaven yet so far from God. Aye! Who knew that I’d be on my way to Cuba in a matter of moments, from mucking around LA pollute bars to mind-spelunking in Japan. Dozou! All in the blink of an eye and now I’m running a campaign to topple the FCG giving the bastards Chicago Sunroofs as I cue Elton John’s Can You Feel the Love Tonight and wag my tongue at the Three Laws of Robotics. Get me off Asimov! Singe my pubes with a Partagás Gibson! Sic semper tyrannosaurus, motherfuckerz!

The aeros transport vehicle descends. Yeshi is next to me and Nelly is feeding the baby. No, horny Reader, no breastesses are visible because that baby is getting formula out the wazoo (or out the bottle); still, a boy can dream, or wet dream, or both in the same night if he so chooses. Being on fleek never felt so feckless. I digress because you won’t.

Me: Are you ready to meet Dr. Hewman?

Yeshi: It should be interesting.

Me: You wouldn’t be here without him.

Yeshi: I’m sure someone else would have invented Humandroids if he hadn’t.

Me: Well, that may be true, but it may have taken them a bit longer to get the mechanics right, my evolving Princess.

Yeshi: Evolving Princess? Where do you get these names?

Me: Sometimes I feel as if a deranged writer exists in my skull pecking away at a keyboard made of filth forcing me to spew sweet little nothings in an effort to cerebrally entertain an audience of true freaks. The writer makes me say these things.

Yeshi: You make you say these things.

Me: Have you ever thought about taking a crack at the poetry industry? I can be your manager.

Yeshi: You can barely manage yourself.

Me: I manage!

Air compresses and the gravitational pull shifts slightly as the aeros transport vehicle settles onto the deck of a tremendous boat. I press my face to the window like a kid pulling into an amusement park. I want to ride all the rides!

I wink at Nelly, who gives me a funny smile. Truth be told, I feel like we haven’t connected much since she returned to the hotel with her ex-husband in the trunk of an aeros. Her eye is still covered in makeup to conceal some injury she sustained while she was in prison. She reminds me of a football player’s abused girlfriend right about now, which stirs some anger in my gut because, while I like basketball (Lakers in the house!), I don’t appreciate the brutality of football in the late twenty-first century.

Quick note: future football is all about the sound people make when they smack together now. All games now have a CrunchCam which is essentially an iNet app that allows a person to watch the bone-crunching tackles over and over again. The sound is amplified and there is even a little graph that shows a live x-ray of each player and the portions of their bodies that have been injured. The harder the hit, the more points the team receives.

Show me an American that doesn’t like bloodshed in some form and I’ll quickly revoke that panty-sniffer’s citizenship. One nation, under violence, unconventional, with liberty and justice for some. Gluttons for hostility awaken!

(Where was I?)

The aeros transport vehicle lands and after a moment, I kick out of the vehicle’s door like a last action hero with my hands in the air throwing two peace signs in a way that would straighten the brow of Nixon.

Not really.

Actually, I step off rather calmly as my eyes lock onto the approaching Dr. Richard Hewman. He’s dressed all in white and has a leather shoulder bag (also white) slung over – well, where else – his shoulder.

Dr. Hewman walks with a cane, but he otherwise appears to be in prime health for a man pushing eighty. Aging is a thing of the past in the future. Still, some people prefer to age naturally, others unnaturally; some go best of both worlds by aging naturally yet using supplements and special surgeries that keep a person youthful-esque and vibrant-ish.

The good doctor fits into this category. His neatly trimmed beard is mostly brown with some white, Chia-Pet full. He’s wide through the shoulders, but not real tall, and his light brown eyes are constantly moving.

“Dr. Hewman,” I say as I extend my hand.

“Dr. Lamar.”

“I’m no longer licensed, or … well I’m technically dead so, actually just call me Meme.”

I hight Meme.

His teeth are whiter than the turnout at a Mongolian neo-Nazi clambake, his lips slightly chapped. He turns to Yeshi. “Excellent work, my dear, excellent,” he tells her, taking her hand in his. “We’ll get the torn flesh on your arms and legs repaired this evening.” I get the sense that he’d like to examine her for a moment, but he suppresses this urge and moves on to foppish Noah.

“Arm PHASRs,” he says. “A Mexican mod?”

“Yes, I absolutely hate them.” Noah’s scowl could peel the paint off a wall.

“Do you mind?” Hewman gets his jollies by lifting Noah’s arm and examining the PHASRs that are installed in his lateral antebrachial cutan (read: arm). “And they are retractable?”

“They are. But they’re so dreadfully damaging to my e-skin when I use them.”

“I see. We can remove them if you’d like…”

Noah looks to Nelly, who is standing next to him with baby Rebel against her shoulder.

“No,” he says, “the PHASRs are useful. I just wish they weren’t so brutal and unstylish; that there was a way to conceal them more or… bedazzle them up.”

“We can think of something,” Hewman says as he moves on to Nelly. “I see you are back in your original body…”

“I am,” she says almost defiantly.

“I’m sorry for any anguish I may have caused by having your – well, Tyro Myrdal’s – body replaced after the incident at the Italian restaurant in LA. It was the only way at the time to keep you alive.”

“I get it,” she says, but you could have at least told me what was happening. Waking up in a room in another man’s cyborg body is … quite traumatizing.”

“I’m sorry,” Hewman says, “we wanted to get involved as discreetly as possible. Please accept my sincere apology.”

“We?”

“Tim7, my partner. He’s in the control room now.”

I almost say something, but for once, I decide to keep my trap shut.

“Before we go, we need to handle something,” he says, looking at our transport vehicle. The two drivers stand around the vehicle discussing the damage. Hewman waves them over and speaks to them in Spanish. “They’ll be heading back to Tijuana now.”

“And the vehicle?” I ask.

“It’s coming with us. Manuel has some connects in Havana that will repair and send it back over with some … goods. However, before we leave, we need to take the tracking drone off the bottom of the vehicle.”

Dr. Hewman takes a B-drone out of his pocket; it lifts into the air and flits around the transport vehicle, lands, flashes, and beeps when it finds the tracking drone. Hewman steps over to the device, which is stuck on the undercarriage of the vehicle.

“Meme, do you think you could get under there and pry the tracking drone off?”

“Me?”

“I’ll get it,” Yeshi says.

Before I can protest, Yeshi is on her back under the transport vehicle. “Do you have something to pry it off with?” she asks as the B-drone flutters out from beneath the transport vehicle and lands in its docking box, which Hewman places in his front pocket.

“I sure do.” Hewman reaches into his bag and pulls out a multi-tool. “Hold out your hand.”

Yeshi calls out, “Got it. Do you want me to destroy it?”

“Oh no, no’ he says, “give it to me. I have plans for this tracking drone.”

“This will be fun,” he says as he retrieves a bio-mechanical turtle from his leather bag.

The TMN Turtle is a popular device with oceanographers. The turtle uses two spherical disco lights to keep underwater predators away. They’re used to map the ocean floor and explore sunken ships and other forgotten vessels. No, they haven’t found Atlantis (drat!), or found Amelia Earhart’s plane, but they have explored the Marianas Trench and have discovered what we’ve known all along – that shit is inhabited by some gnarly fish the likes of which only Ralph Steadman could have designed.

I watch as Hewman strokes the back of the TMN Turtle as if it were a favorite pet. He retrieves a squeeze tube from his bag, kneads it briefly, and uses the fluorescent green adhesive to attach the arrowhead-sized tracking device to the TMN Turtle’s shell. He shows me the tube and grins. Zompocxy – the apocalyptically strong adhesive. Sets fast, waterproof, and stays stuck long after you’re dead. I use it for everything.” He hands the turtle to Yeshi and says, “If you’d release it over the side, it will know what to do from there.”

“How did you know about the tracking drone?” I ask Dr. H as she walks away.

“Lucky guess. Shall we?” he asks, waving us to the center console of the ship. “There are rooms to rest in below, if the baby needs a breather. I’d also like you to meet Tim7.”

SEVENTEEN∞

Off the coast of Somalia.

Sinister clouds have settled over the Albedo, an aging Panamax class container vessel of forty-two hundred TEUs capacity, loaded with a hundred thousand tons of goods, from neon vomit-colored DisNike sneakers made by underfed and overworked Bangladeshis to packets of freeze dried kimchi from South Korea and everything in between, including powdered Black Rhinoceros horn ethically sourced through de-extinction. The Albedo, a nine hundred-sixty foot vessel owned by Pakistani business tycoon Saddaruddin Hashwan (Rude Hash to his friends) had been hijacked a week ago west of Maldives by Somali pirates.

As soon as the pirates’ skiff had appeared and moved to intercept, the crew of the Albedo had used all of the U.N. approved humane anti-pirate techniques, such as water cannon, the Long Range Acoustic Device and the Super High Intensity Tesla Strobe. The pirates got wet, put on their hearing protection and sunglasses and replied with rocket propelled grenades and automatic weapons fire.

The one-sided exchange lasted just long enough for the pirates to close the distance and board the vessel. They killed three random crew members just to show they were serious, demanded eight million Euros ransom, and the jettisoning of all haram items of cargo.

The pirates paid nominal lip service to the never-ending Islamic State Jihad, but they were mostly just straight-up pirates out for profit, masha Allah. Somalia stood out as a failed nation-state amongst failed nation-states; the only products it produced in any quantity were famine, disease, Islamo-terrorists, pirates and premium sorghum.

At that very moment, none of this mattered to Aman Rajbhar, the youngest and most junior officer of the Albedo. A recent graduate of the Pakistan Marine Academy in Karachi and a trained second steersman, this was Aman’s first – and very likely last – sea-going assignment.

He was confined in one of the crew quarters with nine other crewmen and guarded by a skinny, wiry, malodorous pirate in a sarong and vintage T-shirt that read YOLO (Until I KEEL You), which made no sense to Aman, as he’d never seen the world YOLO before, and couldn’t imagine what that had to do with the ship’s keel.

“Up! We go!”

The pirate’s mother had named him Jabin, but his associates called him Jabba. He fancied himself a big-time intergalactic criminal like his namesake, Jabba the Hut, rather than the insignificant, bottom-feeding, sadistic, cowardly hyena that he really was. His skin was intensely black and his eyes were the yellow of end-stage renal disease. His lop-sided jaw had been broken and never properly set and his neck was speckled with blotchy scabs. He had his finger all over the trigger of his AK-309 – the most recent Kalashnikov manufactured everywhere, and as endemic in Somalia as Islam and rabies and pubic lice.

“Where are we going?” Aman asked.

The pirate jabbed the muzzle his AK hard into Aman’s chest.

“You go!” Jabin said, “Skiff!”

There was a muffled explosion on deck.

“What was that?” Aman cried.

Jabba butt-stroked Aman square in the face, breaking his nose and avulsing his two front teeth. Aman stumbled, caught himself, spit blood and teeth as he felt his nose swell. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

“We go!”

The crewmen put their hands up and hunched over in the please don’t shoot me posture as they filed out of the cabin they’d been imprisoned in for the last five days. They headed down towards the deck in silence, Aman in the rear, Jabba behind him, prodding him forward with his AK. Another explosion inspired them to crouch and cower.

“What’s happening?” Aman asked Jabin.

“We no talk,” the Somali pirate replied. “NO TALK, GO!”

For the last five days, Aman had worked to engage the Somalis in conversation, make them see him as a person and not just an object; to be helpful, friendly. Sure, they’d killed a lot of the crew by now, but he figured any form of dialogue would maybe save his life and the lives of the remaining hostages. Throughout the entire experience, he recalled his pregnant wife warning him before leaving Pakistan. “I had a dream that your ship was swallowed up by the ocean,” she had said repeatedly. “Please don’t go.”

Now he wished that he had listened.

_∞_

Keva stood on the deck of the Albedo like Rose on the Titanic, her white hair beating in the wind behind her. Two Somali pirates who had tried their luck with the infidel whore lay in front of her, their bodies mostly splatter now from the terminal effects of her EM railgun. Clove and Monique were finishing up inside the ship while Keva maintained overwatch.

Keva’s ocular display showed real time enhanced FLIR imaging from the drone lingering thirty thousand feet above them. The MercSecure Reps showed blue in her display, the life-chipped crew showed green, and the unchipped pirates showed yellow until they ran into the reps, and then they showed red and stopped moving. Keva smiled as three more indicators went from yellow to red.

This was the third or fourth Product Recovery and Retrieval mission she’d been assigned to, and though she didn’t much care for them, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to keep herself in lipstick, ammo, and pollutes.

Keva: Group of greens and a yellow moving towards your location.

Monique: Roger.

Another muffled explosion preceded several short bursts from Clove’s drum fed flechette gun. The pirates never got rounds off, and four more indicators went from yellow to red.

Clove: Easy peasy.

Keva watched a yellow maneuver through a nearby passageway and pause at a hatch that opened onto the deck fairly close to where she stood. The hatch flew open and a barefoot pirate in pink camouflage shorts and a ripped and stained fluorescent green Mickey Mouse T-shirt rushed her with upraised machete and obligatory Allahu Akbar war cry.

She sighed. Another arschloch ass-clown with a blade in his hands and Allah on his lips – ho-hum. He swung the machete at her head; she caught it between thumb and pointer finger and twisted it away from him. Her smile turned his bowels to water, and in his last moments of life, he knew that Shaitan had appeared to him as a silver-eyed, white-haired she-demon that devoured his soul even as it ripped out his throat.

She laughed at him as he writhed at her feet and drowned in his own blood.

Monique: Ten crew secured.

Keva: Keep them under cover until Clove finishes with the roaches.

More gunfire from Clove interspersed with return fire from the pirate’s AKs; the number of active yellows dropped to six. The drone feed showed a yellow with an RPG creeping along one of the bridge wings to get a shot at Keva. She zapped him with a railgun slug and sent him straight to Paradise.

A series of muffled explosions choked off the last of the automatic weapons fire, and all of the yellow indicators were red and immobile.

Keva: That all of them?

Clove: Clear.

Monique: Clear. Ten plus me coming out of the hatch forward of your position on your left.

The crew exited with hands high, Monique trailing, covering the crew with her weapon. In Urdu she yelled, “On your knees! Cross your ankles, sit on your heels! Lace fingers behind your head palms out! PALMS OUT!”

“English?” Keva asked.

“Yes, I speak English!” Aman said as his eyes filled with joy. “Thank you … thank you for coming to rescue us! You saved us!”

Keva narrowed her modded silver eyes on the man.

“Saddaruddin Hashwan sent you for us! He sent you …” Aman was moved to tears. “Finally! Praise Allah we are saved!”

“Your job on the ship?” she asked.

“Second steersman. Back-up.”

“Well, it’s good they have a back-up.” She smiled brightly at the crew. “Translate this for anyone who doesn’t speak English – good for you that you survived, and we’ll keep you alive as long as you don’t become a pain in the ass or jeopardize our mission. We are here to secure and ensure delivery of Walliburton’s cargo.”

“Walliburton?” Aman asked.

“Yes,” Keva said. “What? You really thought all those forty-foot containers from Korea were filled with freeze-dried kimchi? Sorry to say this isn’t the case, gentleman. Sorry to be the one to tell you that your lives mean nothing to a multinational corporation like Walliburton, but as they say, the truth shall set you free. Right, Monique?”

Monique looked straight ahead, not making eye contact with Keva.

Clove: The internal monitors on all of our shipping containers report all secure and seals intact. No surprise here, they’re all in the middle of the stacks.

Keva lowered her weapon. “Your job is to get this ship to Kenya, where the all the cargo will be disposed of aside from the kimchi.”

Aman asked, “This is very expensive cargo! Our boss – ”

Keva stepped and was about to kick his testicles up around his ears for him when she received IM from Lorem Ipsum.

Ipsum: Murika, Beyoncé, Rav and Walt have been captured by Manuel’s cartel. Rinchi is MIA presumed KIA. Once you complete your current mission, RTB to prep for a rescue mission.

Keva: Rinchi is KIA?

Ipsum: Presumed KIA. Her craft exploded during exchange of fire with Anonymous Two. We’ve lost all contact.

Keva’s hands trembled as Aman came to his feet, still voicing his complaints about disposing of the cargo. Again, the silvered-eyed she-devil stood upon the deck of the Albedo. Aman saw the transformation and saved his own life by immediately establishing a face-down dialogue with the deck as Keva fired through the space he’d been complaining in. The crewman directly behind Aman was not so fortunate; the railgun slug splattered his head over several of his crewmates.

Those of the crew not already prone or dead went face down on the deck, trying in vain to press themselves through it.

“Stop!” Monique said, raising her weapon at Keva. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Get the fuck out of my way!” she said through gritted teeth. Both representatives stood with their weapons aimed at each other.

“Keva, lower your weapon!” Monique said sharply. “Now.”

“Rinchi is … ” Keva blinked rapidly. “Rinchi is … ”

Clove appeared on the steps that led to the bridge, his weapon trained on Keva.

Clove: Oh, this is just what we need! Lower your weapon or I will fire!

Ipsum: Do not engage Keva! Do not engage!

“You’re crazy … ” Monique hissed with her weapon aimed at Keva’s chest.

“No, I’m … I’m in love.”

EIGHTEEN∞

The muzzle of Keva’s EM railgun was never more than a few inches from Aman’s back as he steered the little Somali skiff towards the Port of Mombasa. The rest of his crewmates were below deck, zip-cuffed and quiet under Monique’s watchful gaze. Always the total professional, Monique betrayed no outward trace of the incandescent fury boiling inside her. Once again, Keva had hijacked a mission, this time turning it into her own personal wild-Rinchi chase. And once again management was apparently perfectly okay-fine with Keva’s increasingly erratic and – even for her – irrational actions.

The super-urgent, high stakes mission to secure Walliburton’s cargo and get the Albedo to Kenya with the crewmembers intact was forgotten like yesterday’s political campaign promises. The un-crewed and abandoned Albedo was on an automated station keeping program off the coast of Somalia, just waiting for the next gang of Jack Sparrow wannabes to welcome themselves aboard while Keva high-tailed it after Rinchi like a rabid, crack-soaked female wolverine in estrus.

Monique: She’ll get us both killed if she doesn’t kill us herself first.

Clove: Agreed, but she’ll kill us for sure if we don’t go along with her Rinchi-quest.

Monique: Not if we kill her first.

Clove: True, but keep that as a Plan B for right now

Monique: And WTF is up with in love with Rinchi? That twisted bitch wouldn’t know love if a ten foot Cupid stabbed her narrow ass with a giant, heart-shaped arrow.

Clove: LOL – when we’re done with this one, Black Mesa is always hiring – that’s Plan C.

Keva was oblivious to everything save her all-consuming need to get to her one true love. “Faster!” She screamed at Aman. The Pakistani steersman already had the skiff going flat out. There wasn’t much else he could do to make it go any faster aside from tossing people overboard. He thought it best to keep that jocose observation to himself, just in case the Crazy as Crippen, silver-eyed, white haired killing machine thought it a good idea and started with him.

“Make this damn boat go faster!” she raged at him. “Why are you going so slowly?”

From behind Keva’s shoulder Clove said, “This is the vehicle’s top speed. I don’t think skiffs go any faster than this.”

“Shit technology!” She kicked the side of the center console, leaving a dent.

Lorem Ipsum: Give me updates. Keva has disconnected from iNet and cut her ocular feed.

Clove: We are still heading to the Port of Mombasa in a skiff with the crew of the Albedo. Keva plans to go to Mexico from there.

Ipsum: Tell her to connect to iNet.

Clove: With all due respect sir, you know how well she responds to orders and authority. She has become even more dangerous and unstable than usual. In my opinion, she has become a liability and should be immediately terminated. I further recommend that you activate her DL implants to neutralize the threat she presents to the mission, the Company, and the other representatives. Monique and I will then immediately return the crew to the Albedo and recover the merchandise.

Ipsum: Our Special Recovery Team is on their way to the ship now. The product will be recovered. As for Keva, the Board would rather keep her around.

Monique: Frankenstein’s monster.

Clove: Agreed. You’re creating a monster you won’t be able to control.

Ipsum: I’ll note your recommendations on the matter. For now, we need to handle things as carefully as possible.

Monique: Sir, Keva traumatized the surviving crew more than the pirates did; she killed one for no reason other than she was having a temper tantrum. Additionally, she came right out and told the crew that the cargo is more highly valued than their lives are. How is this handling things as carefully as possible?

Ipsum: Tell Keva we will have a Super Osprey pick the three of you up in Mombasa. There will be new weapons onboard, including PHASR RNG8s. The three of you will be sent to Tijuana to recover reps two through five.

Clove: Three of us?

Monique: Again, with all due respect sir, I decline.

Ipsum: This isn’t an option, it’s an order. However, there will be a significant bonus for successfully completing this assignment.

Clove: Sir, a bonus doesn’t do us any good if we’re not alive to spend it. The second Keva realizes that this isn’t all about recovering her pet Ladyboy she’ll come unglued again, take off on her own and leave us hanging if she doesn’t just kill everybody first. And even if we get over that little barrier, how are the three of us supposed to take on one of Mexico’s most powerful cartels?

Ipsum: I have a bargaining point to use against Keva. She’ll do as we wish. And you should have more confidence in your own abilities.

Monique: What bargaining point?

Ipsum: Medya, the Kurdish girl that Keva rescued in Iraq.

Clove: The bazaar rat in the homemade Comsuit who attacked us on our way to the airport?

Ipsum: Bingo. Keva has taken a liking to her. If she doesn’t obey orders …

Monique: Medya is thirteen years old!

Ipsum: And on her way to becoming a rep. Keva doesn’t really care much for her own life. However, she does care for the life of this girl, and for some reason, Rinchi.

Clove: And if we still refuse?

Ipsum: We are well aware of what happened in Iraq and how your after action reports are somewhat more … inaccurate, shall we say … than is usually the case. Should the House of Saud ever discover what really happened to Prince Al Omid and his entourage, it is not entirely unlikely that they would contract with MercSecure to apprehend and deliver the involved parties directly to them.

Monique: This is blackmail.

Ipsum: No, I’m telling you what will happen. You call it blackmail, I call it the truth. Keva is valuable to the company, as are the two of you. If you want to put it in numbers, she generates nearly four hundred million dollars in yearly revenue for us. She is routinely requested and she does a bang-up job, when she doesn’t go off the deep end. The two of you together generate about fifty-five million dollars. Keva is an asset to the company, an asset that must be protected and recovered.

Monique: So we’re babysitters?

Ipsum: Babysitters with big guns. Get to the Port of Mombasa and take the Super Osprey to Tijuana. I’ll deal with Keva directly once she is on iNet again. Make sure she reconnects.

NINETEEN∞

Rinchi’s Comsuit operator’s compartment cum escape pod was in trouble.

Above a certain altitude, the arms, legs, weapons, and primary power cell all jettison; the unencumbered operator’s compartment gently parachutes to earth as the airbags provide extra cushiony softness – or so the manufacturer’s literature states. The set-to with the aeros had occurred in that gray area – not really high enough for the parachute to properly deploy, but too high to just separate the pod and drop. The onboard AI decided to deploy the chute, but the PHASR fire that injured Rinchi had also damaged the escape pod.

Centrifugal force pinned Rinchi in place as the pod spiraled out of control at the end of a fouled parachute. The crash cage failed to lock and half the airbags had been holed in the blast. The capsule’s structural integrity had been further degraded when Yeshi and Noah had forcibly removed the Operator Emergency Egress hatch.

It was an extremely shitty situation.

Rinchi dug herself in as best she could, but odds were high that her imminent, fiery, explosive extinction was only seconds away. Cyber-wired humans and properly modified Humandroids can take direct control of most MilSpec Comsuits, but Rinchi hadn’t been upgraded yet. Sans the upgrades, she had to shout out voice commands just as an ordinary human would have to.

Not that there was any time for any of that.

The tallest building in the outlying slums of Tijuana was a three-story multi-family structure made from shipping containers, plastic pallets, scaffolding pipes, corrugated sheet metal and anything else that might remotely keep the weather out. The escape pod smashed through it like a de-orbiting minor planetoid; the fouled chute snagged in the debris, slowed the pod somewhat, and then detached.

The escape pod bounced through an outhouse, a straggly vegetable garden and a chicken coop, finally sliding to a halt open-side-down in a combination living room-kitchen-bedroom-game room-sauna-solarium-observatory of the two-room plywood, blue tarp and corrugated sheet metal shanty.

The pod had energetically filled itself with the dirt and trash and debris it scraped up during Ms. Rinchi’s Face-Down Wild Ride, and Ms. Rinchi was pretty much immobilized even as she conducted her post-crash self-assessment.

Short version: she felt like hammered dog shit. Longer short version: Noah’s PHASR blast had damaged the left side of her face, iNet modem, ocs, left shoulder, and upper left arm – she was already planning to make that poncy little e-poofter a special project as soon as this was over. Crash damage: arms battered but functional, both legs inoperable. CPU undamaged, ancillary systems nominal.

She spit dirt and chicken feathers. “Computer.”

~Standing by.~

“Get me out of here, NOW!”

~Unable to comply. Catastrophic failure of all powered emergency extraction systems; manual emergency extraction system damage exceeds design specifications. Emergency transponder inoperable, am unable to summon assistance.~

“Well that’s just fucking perfect,” thought Rinchi.

The capsule creaked and shifted as someone began to lever it over.

TWENTY∞

Captain’s log.

Blue ocean all around suffocating and majestic. Charts, random holoscreens and a big-ass steering wheel made of wood (just for show) complete the inside of the wheelhouse of the Puta Madre, which is currently sailing towards Cuba, home to a population of millions and America’s most famous prison after Alcatraz.

Bays full of Pigs and vessels full of premium cigars surround the island that the Castro Bros fingered; the island that the Russians stage-managed from afar and Obama unlocked, allowing Uncle Sam’s bastard offspring to comb the island in pursuit of eco-unfriendly golf courses and cab rides in rusted jalopies through the narrow streets of Havana while uploading selfies to various social media sites.

Sing it with me:

~Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera. Guantanameraaaaaaaaa, gaujira guantanamera.~

Love that old ditty.

Yes, this is Memito (my Spanish name – FYI), and yes I’m on a boat heading towards Cuba next to Yeshi, my hot little chicita bonita. Nelly is resting in one of the rooms below deck with Noah and Rebel; I’m practically Bob Denver as First Mate Gilligan sans a bucket hat up here with Sea Captain Horatio McCallister and his grumpy-faced Humandroid matey. (In an unrelated note: please stop making new Simpsons episodes – ninety-two seasons is plenty.)

Aye-aye ye scurvy dogs! Avast ye! Batten down the hatches! Toss the landlubbers overboard!

Standing in front of me is none other than the man himself, well the Humandroid himself – Tim7. And I’m not going to lie, I’d love to get all Carlos Castaneda before dealing with the fact that last time I saw Tim7, he was ready to kill me. And it isn’t like there is a pink elephant in the room or something, but there is definitely some weird juju in the air between us as we shake hands, so I go ahead and come out with it.

“Glad you didn’t kill me back in LA, back when you were my patient,” I say with a slight grin on my face. “You really did me a solid there.”

Tim7’s eyes dilate as he scans my vitals. His hair is silver now and he still has perma-stubble on his chin.

“I guess I’m glad I didn’t either,” he says.

“That’s the spirit! You know, you’ve sure come a long way, from yoga instructor to vigilante,” I say, referring to the fact that he has been communicating with Humandroids via a shared message board using messages made by piecing together ten human languages (a character and script orgy that only Humandroids can decipher).

“You as well, from therapist to terrorist.”

I smile over my shoulder at Yeshi. “I’m kind of shit at both jobs, actually.”

“I figured as much, Dr. Lamar,” he says.

“Meme, you can call me Meme. Or Memito…”

“Memito makes you sound weak and foolish.”

“So, while I’m not that into sports, you might as well come right out with it. What’s the game plan?”

“The game plan is this … ” Tim7 folds his hands together. He has a very yogic gait about him, a fluidity that only comes with years of practice. I look to Yeshi, realizing we haven’t experimented much with Tantric yoga.

Me: Tantric yoga. Let’s get into it.

Yeshi: You need to be able to touch your toes first.

Me: I can touch my toes.

Tim7 clears his throat. “Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry! I was just researching … the salinity of saltwater on Wikipedia,” I say, going with the first thing that comes to mind.

He almost shakes his head. Almost. “The game plan is this. First, we go to Havana and from there, we go to Dr. Hewman’s home.”

“Do we have time to see any attractions?”

Yeshi: Behave.

Me: I’m trying!

Tim7 says, “No, we are going to go straight there. There is already an aeros waiting for us.”

“Got it. What about the FCG?”

Dr. Hewman turns and says, “We will thoroughly discuss ways to thwart the FCG. Remember, we want to be disruptive, not engage in open and blatant opposition. Ideally, they will never know that it’s us.”

Tim7 says, “We have someone on the inside of the organization; someone close to the top.”

“You do?”

“Yes, we also want to reach out to Bill Bleak at BlurYou.”

“Why BlurYou?”

“You don’t know, do you?” Tim7 asks. “A few nights back, Sauria sent Rinchi to try to persuade Bill Bleak to de-encrypt the BlurYou app both of you used to infiltrate the Shinagawa Headquarters in Japan.”

“Yikes.”

“Well, the mission failed, ending in several deaths on the rooftop of the Hilton in downtown LA.”

This doesn’t surprise me. I smile at Yeshi as I say, “Sounds like a real LA party.”

“Hardly, Memito,” Tim7 says. “Sauria paid a visit to Bill Bleak the next day, but Bleak met him with his remotely operated Humandroid replica.”

“A replica?”

“It’s expensive, but possible,” Dr. Hewman says. “Essentially, a person can have an exact replica made of them that they control through an NV Visor.”

“NV Visor? I thought those were only for Proxima dreamworlds.”

“This is a modded version. It essentially allows the controller to tele-operate the Humandroid corpus. Bill Bleak almost managed to kill Sauria with his doppelganger before it was destroyed.”

“So Sauria is fine then?” I ask, thinking of my bête noire. Can’t a man take a punch like a man and not send mercenaries to eliminate his puncher? Sure, you could say that I’m the cause of all this – please don’t, Reader – but you could also say that Sauria’s punk-ass did the opposite of manning up when he sent Gyatson after me back in LA, which triggered all this. All of it.

“Sauria had a heart attack,” Tim7 says. “He would have died, but he was saved by his Humandroid assistant, Heidi.”

“Damn, she should have let that Beluga Whale flounder.”

“Maybe, but there is always someone waiting in the on-deck circle to take over the role of El Jefe,” Dr. Hewman says.

He speaks my language…

Tim7 says, “We aren’t done with Sauria. He has direct access to people that would be hard to reach otherwise. That’s what we need to discuss – how we disrupt the FCG and at the same time, control Sauria.”

TWENTY-ONE∞

The skiff, piloted by the second steersman, Aman, approached the entrance to Kilindini Harbour at Mombasa. Keva stood behind him with her railgun still pointed at his back. Near her was Clove, representative thirty-one, the broad-shouldered older brother of Monique, currently below deck keeping watch over the crew of the Albedo.

Two Kenyan Ports Authority boats could be seen in the distance, making their way over to what was very obviously a pirate’s rundown skiff. A gun-drone was already overhead conducting a full EM spectrum survey.

Keva: Make this as smooth as possible.

Lorem Ipsum: You forget yourself, Keva; It is I who gives the orders. Don’t forget your role in all this – don’t forget Medya.

Keva squeezed her fist until her knuckles were white. Part of her knew how truly evil it was for MercSecure to use the Kurdish girl she’d rescued in Iraq as bait to keep her in line. The other part of her knew that this may have been the only way to stop her from killing everyone onboard, including Clove and Monique. MercSecure had the hook set firmly in her vaginal tract.

Clove would have presented the biggest challenge for her in terms of a fight. The fact that he was clean cut and his size would have given her a run for her money. Still, she could have taken him. After all, she’d fought bigger guys and both lost and won. This led her to think about Max, the South African mercenary she took out on top of the rooftop back in LA. It had been a few days now and he’d be after her soon. Through feats of modern science, it didn’t take long for people to recover from traumatic injuries, especially if they’d had their body parts replaced.

Images from the rooftop assault came to her – Rinchi holding Bill Bleak hostage, Monique with her quiet little pout, Max lying on the ground getting his limbs shot off. Paybacks are hell and somewhere, at the back of Keva’s mind, she knew that she’d get her karmic comeuppance one day as well. This was what kept her fighting. A dog-eat-dog world doesn’t even begin to describe the life of a gun for hire in the late twenty-first century.

What was her exit strategy then?

She was not yet twenty-three and one of the most dangerous people on earth. The exit strategy – all exit strategies – likely ended in her death. MercSecure would finally have had enough of her and give her the lead parachute, or someone younger, faster, tougher, and meaner would permanently retire her, or it’d just be wrong place and wrong time, the inevitable meeting with the bullet with her name on it.

To keep alive was to be alive, and while Keva wasn’t particularly survival oriented, some part of her wanted to make it to thirty. Just thirty. From there, she really didn’t care what happened.

“The Kenyans are approaching, Madam,” Aman snuffled. Though his broken nose was swollen shut and the stumps of his front teeth screamed for attention every time the air hit them, now didn’t seem like a good time to request medical attention.

“Madam? I’ve never been called that before.”

“It is common where I’m from.”

“And where’s that?” she asked, without any real interest.

“Islamabad.”

“You’re right, Islam is bad,” she said with a smirk.

“It is a city in Pakistan, twin city of Rawalpindi.”

“Is it worth visiting?” she asked.

Keva visited Pakistan on a mission about a year ago to run a security detail for Prince Shah Karim Al Bundy Aga Khan VII, a portly fellow who looked more European than the King of England yet was the Imam of Nizari Ismailism, the second largest branch of Shia Islam. All she could remember of Pakistan was that it was as heavily polluted as anywhere in the industrialized Third World, there were almost no toilets anywhere in the whole damn country, and the air smelled like shit and curry and burned your eyes like chlorine gas.

“Islamabad is worth visiting,” Aman said with a sad grin. “The Faisal Mosque is there, maybe more beautiful than the Taj Mahal.”

“That’s nice,” Keva said, her eyes flickering shut.

Keva: The Ports Authority is approaching with weapons hot.

Ipsum: Do not engage.

Keva: Not even a little?

Ipsum: This is a direct order.

“He says not to engage,” Keva told Clove.

“No shit. I’m not the one he has to tell.”

“Is someone being grumpy?” Keva turned to him.

“We won’t get any points for this mission because you’ve essentially shit all over the objective. No points means less pay. I’m not happy.”

“I guess that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. You’ll get a bonus for rescuing the kiddos in Mexico, so don’t get your panties in a bunch. This is what you Americans say, yes?”

“No, Keva, you made it crumble this way. Now we have to go to Mexico on what is essentially a suicide mission.”

“You are a weak, money-grubbing, piece of shit, Clove,” Keva said. “You’ll get paid, you whiny capitalistic pig.”

“Possibly paid in death.”

“Death is the ultimate paycheck for a person in our profession,” Keva said, but her tone of voice told Clove that she didn’t really believe this.

_∞_

**Portions of the following scene took place in Spanish. They have been translated by Diputado Jorge C. Hopkins for our monolingual audience.

The escape pod shifted, rocked, and rolled over.

“Hola,” said a girl-child’s voice.

“Hello. Can you help me? Can you get me out?” Rinchi said in Spanish. She was thoroughly wedged in the remains of the pod and unable to use her arms or legs to free herself.

“What’s your name?” the girl asked.

“Please get me out. I need iNet access. Can you send a message to – ?”

The girl smashed Rinchi in the face with a crowbar. She hit the Humandroid again.

“What are you doing!?” Rinchi hissed.

She felt a hand on her face; the girl’s fingers squeezed around her eyeball.

“I’m warning you right now,” Rinchi said. “You’d better get me out of here or there will be hell to pay. Hell to pay, you little bitch.”

The girl’s hand jumped and then relaxed again onto Rinchi’s head. She combed the hair out of the Humandroid’s face.

A man’s voice. “What the hell is this?”

“It came into the house, Uncle,” the girl said.

“Put that crowbar down,” the man said. “And get off that thing!”

“Señor, please get me out of here.” Rinchi said. “And send a message to … ”

The man ignored her. He looked around, examined the path of destruction caused by Rinchi’s crash-landing.

“It came from there?” he finally asked the little girl.

“Yes, Uncle. It hit that building, destroyed the outhouse, and the garden, and Florencia and Fiorella and Ximena all flew off when it broke the henhouse. Then it came into our house.”

“Mother of God and all the Saints in Heaven! I am so glad you weren’t hurt.”

“I was outside playing when it happened.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. Rinchi boosted her auditory pick-up to interpret what he was saying.

“That’s a Humandroid, just like the ones I help Mr. Ben with. We should bring it to him.”

“Should we call the police, Uncle?”

“No, no. The police will take it and try and sell it back to America somehow. If we bring it to Mr. Ben, he will give us the money for it. And you know that my money is your money, my little flower. We’ll be able to fix the house and the garden and get new chickens – maybe even a goose. Did anyone else see it?”

“Maybe some neighbors. Did you say a goose?”

“Never mind the goose, mija,” said the uncle. “I’m going to bring the truck around. Then we will get this thing onto the truck.”

“How, Uncle? It is very heavy,” she said.

“We will have to get her out of there ... I know what we’ll do.” The man walked over to her.

Tesla Discharge. Rinchi had enough power to fry these two unhelpful peasants, but she’d still be stuck in the capsule and likely caught in the blow-back, which wouldn’t bode well for her long-term prospects.

“She can’t see,” the man said to his niece. “Look. She has been fighting and it looks like she lost – see how her face is melted? And her eyes damaged?”

Rinchi felt the air displace as he waved his hand in front of her eyes.

“They’re not dilating,” he said.

He cleared his throat and addressed Rinchi. “Now señorita, you will cooperate or I will light my torch and burn out your CPU. Open your mouth.”

Rinchi did so, and he stuffed in a rag that tasted of mildew and motor oil – and then secured it in place with a half-a-dozen wraps of duct tape.

“Now my little dove,” Uncle said to his niece, “bring me that steel rod and the hammer and I will show you something. If you put the rod right there on the shoulder joint and hit it with the hammer like so, the joint pops out and the arm is useless. That way she can’t hurt us. Now you do the other one.”

As much as Humandroid can, Rinchi seethed. When I’m done with Noah and Yeshi, I will come back for you two and your new chickens! Rinchi promised herself.

When they had dug enough dirt and trash from around Rinchi to expose the crash cage, they pried it open to free the Humandroid’s upper body. He bent her forward at the waist and duct taped her hands behind her back, and then took more turns of tape to bind her arms to her torso. He also took the opportunity to fondle her over-large boobs when the little girl wasn’t looking.

“What about the legs, Uncle?” the little girl asked.

“What an excellent question! Come here and look – see how her legs bend the wrong way? They are broken and floppy and loose. But, better to be sure. Put the bar there and hit it with the hammer. Harder. Harder! There, did you feel the pop? Good – that popped out the hip joint. You do the other one now, my little princess.”

He pulled her all the way out of the escape pod and none-too-gently laid her on the dirt floor. After binding her knees and ankles with electrical wire, he rolled her in a blue tarp and used packing twine to tie her up like a salami.

He dragged her outside and heaved her up into the bed of a pickup truck. The truck sagged on worn-out shock absorbers as the niece and Uncle got in, and Rinchi heard both doors slam. An ancient diesel engine rattled into life.

TWENTY-TWO∞

**Portions of the following chapter took place in Spanish. They have been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

The truck came to a stop about fifteen minutes later and Uncle pulled Rinchi out of the back and let her hit the ground. Today was the second-worst day of her existence: she’d come off second-best in a firefight with Noah – Noah, for God’s sake! Missed an opportunity to kill Yeshi, been blinded and disconnected from iNet, been trapped in a malfunctioning ejection pod, been incapacitated by some jack-leg Mexican mechanic and his inbred niece, and now she was being sold like some stolen ground car.

“What now, Uncle?” little niece asked.

“Now we see how much Mr. Ben will pay us for this Humandroid.”

She heard a loud knock. A male voice answered in American-accented Spanish.

This just gets better and better, Rinchi thought. If this pair of rural entrepreneurs were bringing her to an American living in Mexico, odds were very high indeed that she was being sold to a Techback. Thousands of Techies emigrated from the United States to Mexico every year to work on Humandroids, free from FCG regulations. These Techbacks usually held high-level mechanical engineering degrees and many were the mad scientist types.

“How did you find her again?” Ben asked in accented Spanish.

“Her ship came flying through the air and crashed into my house. My niece was there.”

“I was there,” the girl agreed. “She broke our henhouse.”

“A ship?”

“Comsuit,” the man said in English. “Escape pod,” he said in Spanish.

“I see … ”

Rinchi heard some shuffling in front of her, feet scraping against the ground.

“Well, let’s take a look at her,” Mr. Ben said as they unwrapped her.

“Christ,” the man said after he saw the small icon on her field outfit. “You’re MercSecure … ”

Rinchi nodded her head. She couldn’t see the man, but she could smell his breath, which the ShkreliPharm’s Alprazolam Spearmint gum he was chewing made all fresh and minty. “Let’s get her inside.”

Mr. Ben and Uncle lifted the tarp and dragged her over a couple of steps. From there they lugged her through the door and into a foyer, where she was unwrapped yet again.

“Hello,” Ben said, as he cut the duct tape wrapped over her mouth.

Rinchi spit out the rag and gritted her teeth. “Contact MercSecure and give them my location. They will pick me up within an hour.”

“Already giving orders, huh? Let’s get you untied before you start. You don’t have any mods do you?”

“You already know the answer to that question.”

“What’s she saying?” the Mexican man asked.

“Contact my employer or I will kill all of you,” Rinchi said in Spanish.

“Shit,” Mr. Ben said, “this one is an aggressive little droid.”

“I am MercSecure representative two hundred and twelve,” she said in English. “For your own safety, I suggest you contact my employer.”

She felt them cut away her bonds.

“You aren’t so threatening without your legs and arms, are you?” Mr. Ben asked, giving each breast a hard, mean squeeze. “Not so threatening at all.”

Tesla Discharge – the thought came to Rinchi again.

She could do it… she could zap these three infuriatingly unhelpful meat sacks deader than fried chicken, but that would strand her in this South-of-the -Border caca-hole for God knows how long. They’ll come, she thought. Murika and the rest of the team were likely mopping up at the hotel now. They would use ExEx technology to ascertain the trajectory of her destroyed Comsuit. If only her head hadn’t gone all screwy… she could have simply activated her GPS unit.

“Release me.”

“What’s your name?” Ben asked. “You do have a name, don’t you?”

“Release me.”

“That name won’t do.”

She felt some fingers press against the exposed portion of her skull. “You’re a newer model, aren’t you?” the Techback asked, his fingers tightening, digging under her chin. “Fascinating…”

“Release me.”

“What does she keep saying, Uncle?” little niece asked.

“Help me bring her into my lab, Rodrigo,” Ben told the girl’s uncle. “We’ll get her stripped and see what we can salvage.”

“Money,” Rodrigo said. Rinchi couldn’t see it, but she could hear his fingers rubbing together in the widely recognized gesture for dinero.

“Help me get her in there first, and then we can discuss payment.”

“No, we discuss payment now.”

Ben sighed. The tone of his sigh indicated that he’d been host to these types of negotiations before. “Listen, Rodrigo…”

“Uncle, I want to see Mr. Ben take apart the Humandroid,” the little girl insisted.

“Absolutely not,” Ben said. “This is something that can be … ” He thought of the word in Spanish. “It is something that a little girl should not see.”

“She can see it,” Uncle Rodrigo said. “This little girl has helped slaughter goats, cows, chickens and pigs – all of these things are more alive than a pinche Humandroid.”

“Perhaps I can increase the amount I’ll pay you for this droid if you allow me to work in peace.”

“Increase? More money?”

“Yes, more money,” Ben the Techback said.

“Okay, more money.”

“Uncle!”

“But after we’ve set her in the other room.”

“Fine, fine.”

Rinchi sensed the men hovering close to her now, positioning her so she was in the center of the tarp. “I will kill both of you and the little girl,” she said as she was hoisted into the air.

“What was that?” Ben asked in English. “Christ, you are a violent, hateful, angry little bitch, aren’t you?”

Rinchi said it louder this time in Spanish. “I will kill both of you and the little girl. This is your last chance to let me go and contact my employer.” She tried to say this with as much conviction as she could muster. Unfortunately, the men only laughed.

“She is crazy,” Uncle Rodrigo said. “I don’t know what you people are producing in America … ”

“I have Mexican citizenship now,” Ben said as they lugged Rinchi’s limp body through his house.

“You weren’t born here.”

“But I got here as quickly as I could.”

They dropped Rinchi onto a metallic operating table.

Ben wiped his hands together. “Well, this is going to be fun … ”

“Money,” Uncle Rodrigo reminded him.

“You’ll get your money, but help me cut her out of her clothing first. I want to see what I’m paying for here.”

Rinchi heard some feet shuffle. “Go to the other room, Selena.”

“But I want to watch, Uncle,” the little girl said.

“I said go!”

“Okay … ”

Rinchi heard power shears cut through the top of her MercSecure combat uniform, and the two men unwrapped her like a Chrismahanukwanzivus present.

“Jumping Jewish Judges!” Ben exclaimed.

“What is it?” Uncle Rodrigo asked.

“Them are some b-i-i-i-g hooters, much larger than the standard female Humandroid. I think this one may be an entertainment droid.” He twisted each of her nipples like he was turning the volume to eleven.

“A dancer?”

“A fucker,” Ben said.

“Oh, that type of entertainment.”

Rinchi gritted her teeth.

“Shall we continue?”

They cut away the rest of her clothing, exposing her Ladyboy accoutrements.

“What in the fuck?” Uncle Rodrigo asked as he crossed himself.

“Relax,” Ben said.

“She has a verga? Cover it!”

“Relax, Rodrigo. How old are you? Surely you’ve seen one of those before – you might even have one of your own.”

“I don’t know, man … ”

“She’s not even human,” Ben reminded Rodrigo. “She is something entirely different from us, Homo Machina. She doesn’t need a … ” He thought for a moment. “Reproductive organ,” he finally said in English.

“Reproductive organ?”

“Verga. She’s an entertainment droid, get over it. Help me get her boots off.”

“This is fucked, Mr. Ben. I can’t look at her penis and then see tits as well.”

“Just take off her boots and then we’ll go in the other room and I’ll pay you. Are you happy I told you to keep your niece out of here now?”

“Yes!”

The two men left after taking off her boots, Ben still trying to educate Rodrigo on Rinchi’s sexual orientation (or lack thereof considering she wasn’t human).

Rinchi was not going to passively lay back and let some human fuck have is way with her – not ever again, not this human fuck, and most certainly not whatever way he had in mind. A Tesla Discharge was her option of last resort, but if she was going to go out, she’d make sure Mr. Ben went with her. She was just about to load the discharge command when she heard a voice.

“The Butcher has you … ”

“Who’s there?” Rinchi asked aloud.

“We’re here,” another voice said.

“Don’t tell her where we are,” the first voice hissed.

“You’re Humandroid,” Rinchi said.

“We are.”

“How many are there?”

“Five, there are others in Ben’s laboratory outside.”

“You don’t want to go outside,” one of the voices said. This one was metallic and low.

“Tell me everything I need to know about where I am,” Rinchi said.

“She doesn’t know … ” a soft voice said.

“She doesn’t know!”

Another voice whispered, “You are at Ben the Butcher’s House of Horrors.”

“Ben the Butcher?”

There was a loose organization of anarchist Techbacks that every Humandroid had heard of, a group that performed Frankenstein-type Nazi death camp experiments and procedures on Humandroids. Anyone known as Ben the Butcher likely belonged to this group.

“He’s going to enjoy rearranging your body.”

“Yes, he’s going to love it,” another voice whispered.

“Not if I can help it,” Rinchi said.

_∞_

Beyoncé was the first to speak. “This is fucking bullshit.”

“Just stay cool. They’ve got the drop on us.” Murika glanced up at the hovering penta-drone that was jamming their iNet access. “As long as you’re not dead, there’s still a chance.”

“We could have blasted through this before they ever got rounds off.” Walt, the most experienced member of the team muttered.

“They have shooters on every rooftop,” Rav the Gurkha said under his breath. “They’d have blown us into dogfood.”

Rav and Beyoncé had dismounted from their Comsuits well before they got to the airfield and conducted a quick sneak and peek. They contacted the security elements and aircrew of the Super Osprey, established bona fides and then headed back for Walt, Murika, the former Antimeria and their Comsuits.

As soon as they got onto the airfield proper, things turned to shit rather quickly; the reps on security exploded into pink mist, the Super Osprey went up in a column of flame, the power on their Comsuits, vehicles and weapons went out like someone flipped a switch. All of their comm – all of it – vanished.

Each of the reps found themselves at the center of a ring of weapons muzzles as they were unceremoniously hauled out and frisked. Their captors were not bad – none of that crossing in front of each other’s weapons or prodding the captives with their weapons or hooting and hollering and firing their weapons in the air.

These guys suck less than the losers at the hotel, Walt thought, but they still suck.

They were led to the center of the field and put on their knees, fingers laced on the backs of their necks. A well-built Mexican man with slicked back hair waited for them, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Glad you four could join us,” Manuel said.

Murika asked, “Who are you?”

“Don’t recognize me? I guess you would recognize my old dead body more easily than my new, not-dead body.”

“Dead body?” Murika asked.

“My name is Manuel Torres, but my lifechip will identify me as someone else.”

“Data-switch,” Walt said under his breath.

“A smart grandpa, but not smart enough to avoid the trap we set for you here. Do you really think we were going to let MercSecure fuck us again? Your organization killed Carloza and attacked our Headquarters twice.”

Walt said, “This will not end well for you. We are as much an instrument of the FCG as is the Fed Corp Marine Corps. War with us is war with America; the war will grow, and you will lose.”

“This is my country, our country.” Manuel waved at his men. “It is you who will lose every time, just as you did in Vietnam, Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Syria, Venezuela, Haiti and Burkina Faso. And we in Mexico have something none of those other countries had.”

“An obesity problem and a government run by corrupt-ass greedy fuck-boys?” Beyoncé offered.

“A shared border with the USA,” Walt said.

“Exactemente, viejo.”

Murika said, “What do you want from us?”

Manuel shrugged, his arms still covering his muscled chest. “From you four? Not much … just to send a message. Also, my pit bulls are hungry, really hungry.”

TWENTY-THREE∞

Havana Harbor!

I’m like a kid at Christmas after he received a Proxima VE rig; Slick Willie Clinton after he received a new box of cigars and a chubby intern; George R.R. Martin once he handed all creative control of Game of Thrones to HBO (yes, it is still running – the new season starts next spring, in 2084, seriously); a Canuck after a hockey match; a bird after a fresh shit during a migratory trip to Suriname; the Olympic Committee after they’ve convinced yet another sucker country to invest two hundred billion dollars into a state of the art stadium so people can watch curling over iNet.

The theme is Meme and Meme is me. Life is pretty spectacular right about now, as I sit on the bridge of the ship with my number one Squeeze – the Shi to my Ye – and a former client-cum-terrorist and of course, Dr. Hewman, the bearded demigod who has been giving God the Father a run for his money since the 2040s by creating Humandroids.

Turn down for what? I really don’t know what that means but iNet tells me it was a popular song in 2014.

I’ve been on the way out ever since the doctor slapped my ass in the delivery room and handed my screaming little baby carcass to Mrs. Lamar thus declaring, “It is a boy! It is a boy and my God is he going to be a little fucker when he grows up!” To which I replied with a burp and everyone laughed and the crowd went wild and Kurt Cobain tossed himself into a drum set because we all need entertainment!

Literazi and blubbering history buffs read on – descriptions and the history of Havana Harbor taken from the shriveled mind of a black man in a Japanese man’s tight little body to commence.

(Steps up to the podium, clears his throat.)

Havana Harbor was fortified by ballsy Spaniards with pointy metal hats and colorful dresses in the 1550s after transferring the Governor’s Residence from a place known as Santiago de Cuba, on the eastern side of the island. The transfer was due to the fact that it was much easier for the Spaniards to exploit the Cuban natives from the new port and ship out the products produced through slave labor to the rest of Spain, Europe’s oddly shaped testicle, which some may see as an answer to America’s limp baby-maker/Jewish Retirement Community – Florida.

Havana was attacked numerous times by the likes of the English, the French and the Dutch, all of whom wanted a piece of Cuba’s hot little ass. Yes, young grasshoppers, long before the Cuban Missile Crisis or Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders (no, not DMX) laid waste to anyone with tinted skin at the Battle of San Juan Hill – long before this time – Cuba was already being eyed by western powers due to its proximity to pretty much everything and the abundance of its three vices: coffee, sugar and tobacco.

Havana Harbor Fun Tidbit #1: the Spanish-American War, which made Teddy Roosevelt (as played by Robin Williams, RIP) so famous, was actually caused by the sinking of the USS MAINE in Havana Harbor, an assault still subject to speculation seeing as how no one really knows if the Spanish actually sunk the ship or if there was a fire in the coal bunker. (Still, as an American I cry out in my head, “Remember the Maine, to hell with Spain!” – a popular phrase at the time.)

Havana Harbor Fun Tidbit #2: In 1960, a French freighter named La Coubre filled with seventy-six tons of Belgian waffles munitions exploded in the very same harbor I’m currently staring at with a vulva-shaped tear on my cheek (sorry, you know what has been on my mind since Yeshi started batting for the other team). While no one can say for certain (aside from the internet), it is widely believed that the CIA was responsible for this explosion. I asked my fortune teller and she told me to both believe and be suspicious of all conspiracy theories – by doing so I’ll never be wrong!

(9/11 was an inside job! screamed an alien at Roswell named Shakespeare who was responsible for the JFK assassination after he was poisoned by chemtrails on his way to a New World Order meeting to oversee the fake moon landing.)

Havana Harbor!

A man playing a Spanish guitar and wearing a wedding shirt nods at me as he sits on a crate that says Medical Supplies on a dock filled with senoritas all with badunkadunks and little halter tops and ridiculous high heels – the type that would give someone from Southeast Asia a raging eggroll.

His hand comes up and all of Cuba stops.

He cracks his knuckles, clears his throat, and away he goes, plucking at the classical guitar with the speed of a coked up Zoran. All around him are pristine beaches being lashed at lightly by the bluest water you’ve ever seen, blue to the point that it is blinding and my God do the waves respond in ecstasy to the hummingbird-fast playing of the Cuban muchacho.

American classic cars that have been modified into aeros zip around a city of century-old cobblestone streets, zooming past the spires of Catholic Churches where worshippers piss away cash into diamond-plated urinals that lead straight to the Vatican, through Soviet-inspired squares named after revolutionaries and dictators who have had their faces plastered onto the Cuban Peso; the same Peso that is mindlessly stuffed into the cargo pants of American tourists (strangely, American tourists still wear cargo pants in the 2080s, which is a fashion no-no but is still better than the fanny pack or the underarm passport holster), tourists who spend the money on all sorts of useless shit, from keychain-sized piñatas to damn near racist hand-painted Aunt Jemima ceramic statues wearing Chiquita banana hats. (The African-American in me cringes; the Asian in me wants to buy one as a souvenir.)

And as we – Nelly, Noah, Baby Rebel, Yeshi, Dr. Hewman, Tim7 and yours truly – load into the back of an aeros transport vehicle that resembles a 1950s bus, I can’t help but want to take a stroll through the streets of Havana, whistling Guantanamera and high-fiving anyone wearing a wife-beater that reads: todo por la revolución. We’re in the air moments later, moving past a sign advertising Cayu Largo Beach, and it is at this time that I finally tune in to the conversation at hand.

Nelly (curly brown hair, Killer shirt, combat boots) says, “We need to hit them hard. I’ve said it twice now and I’ll say it again.” Her eyes, of course, tell the tale of a person who has been directly violated by the system she hopes to undermine. She still hasn’t opened up about what happened to her inside the prison, and I wonder if she ever will.

Dr. Hewman nods, “I don’t disagree with you, but Tim7 and I have been working for quite some time on a strategy to undermine the system completely, which would be hitting it much harder than some sort of sudden attack.”

Baby Rebel starts crying and Noah responds like a good nanny, “There, there, cutie, no crying in Havana.”

I almost want to give Noah a slap on the back for that last statement. Hell yes to no crying in Havana!

Rebel, as your surrogate mother, let me be the first to tell you that Havana is like no city I’ve ever seen before. As we barrel through the air towards some unknown destination, my eyes take in everything from luxurious villas rimmed with beautiful palms (¡Si, verde!) to buildings painted all sorts of parakeet colors, to stenciled Chè Guevara images on every corner, to shanty towns corrugated and sharp at the edges, to cycle rickshaws swerving around anything bipedal. ¡Esta muy bien!

Tim7 says, “What about you, Meme, any ideas?”

“Me?”

All eyes fall upon the dude gumming a cigar.

“Well?” Tim7 asks.

“I don’t really consider myself the brains behind the operation. That’s you guys.”

“Well what do you consider yourself?” he asks.

“Ah, come on Tim7, I’m still recovering from an attack on our aeros transport. My mind is a little fried.”

“Because of the attack or the pollutes you were using during the attack?”

“Who told?” I ask, looking from Yeshi to Noah to Nelly and finally stopping on Rebel. The baby sold me out.

“He examined the video I recorded,” Yeshi says. Her hand covers the torn e-skin on her arm, as if she’s trying to conceal it.

“Me too,” Noah says.

Sold out by modern technology again. Damn you AppleSoft, iNet and GoogleFace!

“Any ideas?” Tim7 asks. “We have our own,” he nods towards Dr. Hewman, “but we brought you here to discuss a different strategy for disruption.”

“Well, in that case … ” I think for a minute, leaning back in my chair. My eyes drift to the window and from there, to Havana, which is streaming all around me.

“And?”

“Let me get back to you on that,” I finally say.

TWENTY-FOUR∞

“You never said where we were going.” I say to the head honcho, YHVH, the closest Homo Machina will come to salvation.

Dr. Hewman smiles in a way that should remind you of John Hammond (you know I’m an early twenty-first century buff). “We are going to Santiago de Las Vegas–”

“I call first dibs on the craps table.”

“—Santiago de Las Vegas AIDS Sanatorium.”

“Le wha’?” I ask. AIDS had been eradicated up until ten years ago, when a group of non-denominational fundamentalist buttplugs decided that if Jesus didn’t need vaccinations, they and their children didn’t need them either. Now it’s active again in the South and parts of the Midwest, which just goes to show you the power of ignorance in a time when all one has to do is blink their eyes to access the internet.

Tim7 speaks in Spanish to Yeshi for a moment.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m transferring her some punk music from Cuba written in the early nineties. VIH, Escoria.”

“Which is?”

Yeshi explains, “VIH is the Spanish word for HIV. It means virus de immunodeficiencia humana. Escoria means scum.”

“And these are punk bands? Why am I sensing a theme here?”

“We’re almost there,” Dr. Hewman says, “it will make more sense once we arrive. For our purposes now, just know that I purchased a sanatorium that used to house AIDS patients. The socialist Cuban Government sent them there to die.”

“Ah, the power of positive socialism.”

Palms appear as we move further away from Havana Harbor. The future-shamble of the city swells in a way that brings yet another tear to my eye. Future-shamble is the best way to describe what surrounds the center of Cuba – you know, the place where the poor people live (they must live somewhere!). It is exactly what you imagine it to be – high tech meets low tech and no tech, hombres with pimped out aeros in casas made from cinderblocks donated to the destitute through a U.N. program called Cinder without Tender, their leaky rooftops made from rotting palm fronds. Houses adorned with crosses big enough to scare away Edward and Bella poke out of every nook and cranny.

Jesus is now legal after the Cuban government finally re-embraced Catholicism in the 2020s, which was possibly a mistake as the birthrate has since quintupled and expensive visits from Pope Benedick Phorahuille have caused massive social unrest. Hallelujah!

IMHO – it’s probably better than the old Regime’s little ditty, Socialismo o muerte!

(For the monolinguists – socialism or death.) Actually – and I’ll be brief about this as the aeros is landing and Tim7 is still speaking en Español and Dr. Hewman is looking smug as a bug on drugs – what would humans be like if we had no influence from the past? Would we simply rehash the Hatfield and McCoy rivalry over and over again, killing ourselves back into the Stone Age whenever a new generation was born? Would we invent even more ridiculous organized religions every generation only to be stomped out by the newcomers? What would we become without institutionalized order cleverly disguised as social media? AppleSoft? GoogleFace? Tweeting? The ability to tag your great g-ma in that kind of sexy bikini pic she took back in the aughts? (Nana was a hotbody.)

Shut the philosophy up, Memito!

Outside our aeros – a countryside full of insects with buzzing wings and stingers the length of your … pinkie, and a verdant lushness to everything that would give the Emerald Isle color envy; farm animals everywhere adding methane to deplete the ozone layer (or what’s left of that pitiful shitbird); housing units painted in psychedelic ways screaming electric Kool-Aid; a wrought-iron fence with Celtic loops rusted and long since abandoned. Egads! I’m finally going to be able to use the word bucolic and damn well mean it.

“What a vista of bucolic splendor!” I say as I wink at Nelly. (What, you think I forgot about the spark that lit my candle?)

She smiles.

Me: You’ve been quiet lately.

Nelly: I was nearly killed. Then I had the lower half of my body replaced. After that, I was in a hostage situation in Mexico and from there, I was sent to a maximum security prison where they beat me and put me in a wall coffin, feeding me through a tube in my ass.

Me: You never told me that!

Nelly: Then, I broke out of jail and went straight to Mexico, where I killed my ex-husband and finally got to spend time with my daughter, only to have crazy droid mercenary Rinchi crash a Comsuit into the aeros and almost kill all of us. So yeah, it has been a shitty couple of weeks.

Me: Well, have you learned anything?

Nelly: I learned who my enemies are.

Me: I hope you’re not referring to yours truly.

Nelly: No, you’re just a catalyst. Give me some time to get my bearings. We’ll be able to catch up at some point. The Nelly that you know and love will be back soon.

Me: I never said I loved you.

Nelly: But you had a crush, no?

Me: I plead the fifth. My gf will kick your ass if she finds out you’re flirting with me over iNet.

Nelly: Who? Yeshi? LOL.

Me: She’s a badass – trust me on that. Plus she’s taller than you.

Nelly: And I’m taller than you.

Me: Correction – you are taller than Japanese Meme. You weren’t taller than black Meme – that I can assure you.

“This is it,” Dr. Hewman says as the aeros settled. “Mi casa, su casa.”

TWENTY-FIVE∞

“All of you have been dismembered and modified by Ben?” Rinchi asked the five Humandroid voices that surrounded her.

She was not going to wait for Butchering Ben to come back and get started. Arms and legs off-line, she shifted herself to the edge of the bench with her shoulder blades.

“What are you doing?” one of the Humandroid heads surrounding her asked.

“I will not become a mangled piece of shit like the five of you heads,” she said, “or whatever else is in Ben the Butcher’s backyard fright factory.”

She heard a clattering noise on a shelf near her, something that sounded like a rattling bowl.

“You won’t escape,” a voice said, low and metallic.

“I will escape.”

Rinchi fell off the workbench and landed on her shoulder, which popped back into place. She was now face-down on a ceramic floor which stunk of Clorox.

“Ben!” one of the voices in the room shouted.

“Don’t call him yet,” another Humandroid voice said. “I want to see what happens next.”

Rinchi stretched her fingers out; the numbness in her left arm quickly subsided. She would need both arms, but one would do for now.

“You’ll never escape…”

Ignoring the voice, she carefully moved her arm around, feeling for something, anything, that could help her get back onto the workbench. If Ben entered now, she could play dead, but the mutilated Humandroids around her would likely sell her out.

Rinchi touched the leg of a stool, and dragged it closer. One-handed, she levered herself up, got the seat under her left armpit, carefully positioned herself right shoulder down, and pushed off. Her landing was not quite right; she pulled herself back up, tried again and popped her shoulder back in.

“You’ll never escape!” the deep, metallic voice said.

With both arms operational, Rinchi pulled herself back onto the table and into more or less the same position Ben the Butcher had left her. She heard the diesel truck start – Uncle Rodrigo and little Selena were leaving.

“He’ll know,” one of the voices said. “We’ll tell him!”

“He’ll see the stool…”

This gave Rinchi an idea. She rolled over, reached down and retrieved the stool. Lying back down, she held the stool over her chest with a leg in either hand.

“What are you doing?” one of the voices asked.

She turned her head and listened, calculating angles and distances.

“He’ll see you!” The deepest voice hissed.

Rinchi threw the stool and connected with the deep-voiced Humandroid, a metal tool rack, and a box of noisy frangible shit that made a racket like dropping bedsprings into greenhouses when it hit the floor.

Ben the Butcher came storming in moments later. “What the fuck is going on in here?” he shouted as he moved directly to the workbench.

Rinchi got a fistful of T-shirt and lab coat and pulled him down so he landed face-up on her b-i-i-i-g hooters. She put his chin in the crook of her arm, slid her other forearm behind his head, and whispered, “How do you like me now little man?”

His strangled gacking noises were all the reply she needed.

She took longer to strangle him than was strictly necessary. She’d let him get a gasping breath of life and then she’d bear back down, all the while whispering vileness into his ear as he clawed and scrabbled at her arms.

When his bladder and bowels finally let go, she hung on for an extra minute, just to be sure, and then popped his skull off his spinal column, just to be really sure. The day hadn’t started out especially well, but she did finally get to kill an asshole with her bare hands, so it wasn’t a total wash.

“I need legs,” Rinchi announced to the Humandroids left in the room. “I’ll save whoever has ocs and is willing to help me find a pair of legs around here. I know where the four of you are now – do not fuck with me.”

“It would be an honor and a pleasure to help you,” a soft, masculine voice said.

_∞_

Beyoncé, Murika, Rav and Walt sat handcuffed in an old prisoner transport aeros. Three gunsels sat with them, weapons on their laps. In the separate driver’s cabin were two more cartel members; four additional vehicles escorted their transport aeros. Murika heard an aeroscycle zip by, likely ridden by another armed matón.

They were completely surrounded.

“He’s going to feed us to his fucking pits … ” Beyoncé’s bottom lip jutted out. She was next to Murika, across from Rav. “This is some super bullshit right here. Let me in a room with that motherfucker and I’ll figure this shit out real quick. Y’all will see.”

Walt said almost philosophically, “Idle threats leave dogs unimpressed.”

“Nothing idle about it,” Beyoncé said indignantly. “I’m just saying I could whoop that greasy little vato’s ass, Manuel, or whatever the fuck his name is. That’s all.”

“I know you could,” Rav said, who was chained next to Walt. “You are one of the toughest reps I know.”

She smiled over at him. “You still ain’t getting a date even if you do figure a way out of all this.”

“We already went on a date!”

“No, we went to see a movie.”

“It was a romantic comedy!”

“The Avengers: Tampontron wasn’t a romantic comedy.”

Rav shook his head. “In my country, we would consider the threesome between Iron Man, The Hulk and Black Widow romantic, or at least sexual enough to be censored, which is romantic enough. That scene was very explicit, but sweet in a way.”

“Cultural differences,” Beyoncé said. “Y’all’s people are backwards.”

Murika glanced over at the three thugs watching them. Either they didn’t understand English or they were pretending not to. In a casual, conversational tone, he said “You know, we can get out of here now. I’ve got plastic explosive implants in my legs. I can blow up the guards any time I want.”

Without appearing to, Walt examined the guards. One was assiduously mining a nostril with a pointer finger and carefully scrutinizing the results; the second was scratching crotch, armpits and scalp in a way that strongly suggested all three species of teeny-tiny lodgers; the third was riveted on some game on his hand-held device that beeped and booped and honked and tweeted most annoyingly.

“Hell no they don’t understand us,” Beyoncé said. “I could have told y’all that. Shit watch – listen everyone, I have a PHASR built into my arm. Just hold tight real quick. I’ll kill these guards first, and then I’ll kill the people up front. After that, I’ll go to their mamas’ houses and kill their whole families.”

“Could … ” Walt decided not to say Manuel’s name. “Could he really be this stupid?” he whispered.

“I don’t know. Who speaks Spanish?” Murika asked. “I speak Urdu, Pashto, Farsi, and Esperanto.”

Beyoncé said, “American.”

Walt said, “German, French, Standard Chinese and Cantonese.”

“I do,” Rav said. “I speak Spanish.”

“You do?” Beyoncé asked.

“Good,” Murika said. “Say something.”

“Lo siento, amigos. Tirarse un pedo…”

All three guards looked up. Señor Scratchy raised his hand in front of his face as if he were waving a foul odor away.

Beyoncé tightened her lips to cover her smile. “Shit, when did you learn Spanish? I didn’t think there were any Mexicans in India.”

“Nepal…” he reminded her.

Murika said, “Well, it appears as if we can discuss a plan freely.”

“Unless the walls have ears.” Walt glanced to the inside corners of the transport vehicle.

“Man, these walls don’t have ears. Look at this shitty transport vehicle,” Beyoncé said. “It’s from 2025 or something. Older than my grandma, that’s for damn sure.”

Murika looked down at their feet. The guards hadn’t chained Walt or Beyoncé’s legs.

Walt caught on very quickly. “Beyoncé,” he said, “I want you to lure them over here.”

“How?”

Rav said, “Act sick and I’ll tell them you need to lie down.”

“That won’t work,” Murika said. “They can’t possibly be that stupid.”

“You’re right. We’ll use your plan, then.” Walt stated with surprising placidity.

“I don’t have a plan yet,” Murika admitted.

“Okay then. I’m thinking that a stupid plan now is a whole lot better than your great plan after we’re dead. Bey – act sick.”

“Got it.” Beyoncé scrunched up her face and lurched forward, making the most gawd-awful gagging and retching noises. “Yo, I’m sick over here! Damn! Something is wrong with me! It hurts, yo … it hurts! Please! Please … ” She spit and drooled and gagged and retched for all she was worth.

Rav turned to the guards and said, “¡Oye! Ella necesita ayuda!”

Beyoncé writhed, her wrists cuffed to the wall of the aeros. “Help!” she pleaded, as she turned up her performance and faked an epileptic seizure. “Someone help me! Shit y’all, I’m dying over here!”

“¡Ayuda!” Rav screamed.

“YO, I AM HURTING OVER HERE!”

The guards looked at one another, obviously reluctant to have to deal with this.

“Help!” Beyoncé pleaded, full on crying now. “Shit, it hurts! Please, oh, the pain … the pain … help!”

Gameboy and Nozo stood, leaving Señor Scratchy with his weapon – some sort of bulky AK-309 with a PHASR attachment – trained on the four representatives. The two guards made their way over to Beyoncé.

YO, I AM HURTING OVER HERE!”

Murika calculated the angle in which the approaching guard would need to fall for him to strip him of his weapon and shoot Señor Scratchy. This was unlikely to work, but it was still better than ending up as highly trained dogfood.

“¿Cual es el problema?” said Nozo, as he leaned in.

Beyoncé came up off the seat like she was rocket propelled in zero-gravity, wrapped her legs around Nozo’s neck and snapped it like a breadstick as she and Mother Gravity bore him to the floor.

Gameboy launched his weapon out and away when Walt doubled him over with a knee to the huevos. Walt flipped him on his back with the knee to the face, and then smashed his trachea with a combat-booted heel.

The Goddess of Serendipitous Occurrences smiled on Murika.

Gameboy’s AK hit him in the chest and he trapped it with an elbow. Señor Scratchy had his shooting hand down his pants and an expression of slack-jawed amazement on his pimpled and mustachioed face as Murika got a hand on the pistol grip and put three rounds in his chest.

The gunfire caused the driver to deploy the airbrake and head for the ground. “Gun!” Beyoncé shouted as the small viewing window at the front of the prisoner compartment slid open and a muzzle appeared.

“Cover!” Murika yelled as he one-handed the AK-309 and put three rounds into the face on the other side of the viewing window.

“All that’s left is the driver,” Murika said, taking a deep breath. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

Walt smiled bitterly. “The fun isn’t over yet. Now we need to figure a way out of these handcuffs before we hit the ground.”

“Too late,” said Beyoncé. Sure enough, all four reps felt a change in gravity as the aeros began its final descent. “They are going to be pissed.”

“There may be one more option ... ” Murika looked at Walt grimly.

“I’ll take the bullet,” Walt finally said. “I trust you.”

_∞_

“Two Minutes to drop zone! Two Minutes!” advised the pilot.

The Super Osprey containing Clove, Keva and Monique was a few minutes away from the private airfield in Tijuana, an airstrip that deserves a backstory due to the frequency it appears in our story. The airfield used to belong to El Chapo, the famous Mexican drug kingpin known for his unique ability to escape prison. In fact, there is still a tunnel under the airfield that contained a massage parlor, a (now defunct) Baskin-Robbins, a 50cc motorcycle and central cooling. El Chapo used the airfield before he was extradited to America, where he was promptly sent to a black site in Egypt and held prisoner for six months, which he was also able to escape from via a camel and a shit-ton of dynamite, eventually making his way to Southern Sudan where he died of dysentery.

“How did you two become MercSecure reps?” Keva asked as she drummed her hands along her PHASR RNG8. She had been thinking about Rinchi when the question came to her – not that she really cared, but anything to distract her and fill the silence.

“Seriously?” Clove asked.

“Yeah, seriously.”

After staring at her skeptically for a moment, he took another bite of his Soylent Adreno bar spoke to her while chewing. “We joined MercSecure after our brother was killed in the Arctic Oil Incident some years back”

“Most people don’t know about that,” Keva said.

“Yeah, well, the FCG controls the news, so they could downplay the US casualties and spin it the way they wanted. It also helped that most of the ten thousand dead were Russian, because who cares about a bunch of dead Ruskies, right?”

“True.” Keva tried to grin.

She’d had several missions in Russia, and the two things she liked best about Putin Junior’s Stalinist Revival was the borscht and the way that most Russian people essentially ignored anything and everything that happened around them. You could be fucking in the street a stone’s throw away from the Kremlin and if you weren’t picked up by the FSB, most people would just walk right past you, a studied and institutional obliviousness that some countries could benefit from. Over a century and a half of perfecting the art of keeping one’s head down makes for good citizenry. The less attention one receives the better.

“Our brother was with the first group of reps who fought in the incident. After he was killed, a MercSecure staff member came to our reservation…”

“So you two really lived on a reservation?”

“Cherokee Country.”

“You’re Cherokee?”

“No, we’re Natchez,” said Clove, “but the FCG lumped us all together in the same spot.”

“So both of you lived on a reservation?”

“Why is this so hard to understand?” Clove asked. He glanced to his sister, Monique, who was looking in Keva’s direction but not making eye contact.

“I’m from Europe or … ” Keva’s past flashed in front of her eyes and she quickly shut Pandora’s Box. “I was from Europe, Germany to be exact. MercSecure obtained American citizenship for me, so now I am as American as Uncle Sam or collateral damage. If you didn’t know, we Europeans are interested in Native Americans due to the fact they are so rare … ” Her hand came up, pressing down the back of her white hair. “So that’s why I asked.”

“Well, that’s what we are then.” Clove sighed. “Rare.”

“Rare is better than well-done – or all done, I guess.” Keva licked her lips. She was trying her hardest to be smart-ass, wise-cracking, don’t-care-about-nothing-Keva, but it just wasn’t happening with all the crap she suddenly had clamoring for her attention.

Clove continued, “Anyway, a MercSecure staff member came to tell us what a great job our brother had done in the conflict and pay us his death benefits. We talked a little bit, and he offered me a spot in their next Basic Representative Selection and Qualification Course. Hell, my only other prospect at the time was to work in one of the hundreds of casinos that now define Cherokee Nation. My sister’s options weren’t so good either.”

“A stripper,” Monique said, still avoiding eye contact with Keva.

“I could see you as a stripper,” Keva said. “You’re a little hottie.”

Monique’s eyes narrowed.

“Look at your face, your cute cheeks, your flat chest, your perfect ass. There’s a lot to like there.” Keva felt good teasing Monique – it was nice to feel like she had her spirit back, even fleetingly.

“So I jumped on it, and as I was leaving, Monique ran out with her pink camouflage Hello Punisher backpack.”

“How old was she?”

“Seventeen.”

“And you?”

“Nineteen,” Clove said. “We were part of a new program funded by Congress, in parallel with the Fed Corp Foreign Legion. The Foreign Legion comes under the Department of Aggressive Defense, but MercSecure is a private corporation; a NGMC – a Non-Governmental Military Contractor – with built-in deniability. They trained us for two years, and out of the two hundred and thirty that started in our intake, only eighteen graduated. And here we are, going with you on a suicide mission to Mexico.”

The pilot cut in, “Thirty seconds, thirty seconds. Go on the green light.”

Keva laughed. “Don’t be so serious. Do you really think I’m going to let my favorite two reps – after Rinchi – die at the hands of some filthy Mexicans? We have a history now, the three of us. How’d you get clean cut by the way? You’re the first Native American cyborg I’ve ever met, if that means anything to you.”

Clove knocked his fist against his leg. “Outside Caracas, Venezuela. Fighting a couple of Trilobites alongside an Australian representative named Gyatson, dead now.”

Clove asked, “What about you? What’s your story? How did you join MercSecure? There’s not much data about you on the main server aside from a picture.”

The Super Osprey’s loading ramp hissed open; a rush of air filled the troop compartment and the light flashed from red to green.

“Time to get the party started!” Keva yelled. She ran down the ramp and executed a full Gainer as she exited the aircraft.

TWENTY-SIX∞

We pile out of the aeros like the A-Team – Yeshi, Noah, Nelly, Baby Rebel, Tim7, Dr. Hewman and Memito. Not quite Ocean’s Eleven, but close enough, dammit. The sky is blue, beautiful, practically edible and the clouds are nonexistent, not to mention the fact that the air smells of flowers and honey-tinged bee farts.

It doesn’t look like Dr. Hewman did much to change the sanatorium status of his compound. Aside from a paint job, the place is a throwback to the Cuba of a stricter time. The housing units are situated upon squares of neatly trimmed grass demarcated by a sidewalk, which is surrounded by potted plants, flowers with names I can’t pronounce. There doesn’t appear to be anyone around aside from us. No gardeners, no assistants, no Humandroids – nothing.

“I’ve kept the place pretty much intact,” Dr. Hewman says, “aside from the main building where we will be staying.” He pointed down a path towards a three story complex. “I renovated this one, just in case I have guests.”

He turns, his hands coming behind his back.

Nelly asks, “You said this used to be an AIDS sanatorium?”

“Yes, HIV came to Cuba in the 1990s, after Cuban soldiers returned from Angola,” he says, walking slightly ahead of us.

“What do the Angolans have against Cubans?” I ask.

“It was a proxy war with the United States. The Cuban soldiers returned with HIV and the government reacted. They began testing anyone and everyone they could, especially high-risk individuals.”

“High-risk individuals?”

Dr. Hewman nods. “Yes, most notably, frikis, the name given to punk rockers. These kids used to sit on rooftops and try and get music signals from America. They grew their hair long, some had mohawks, many had tattoos. The government, of course, didn’t like these anti-social misfits.”

“What happened if you were HIV positive?”

Tim7 says, “If the government found out you were positive, they came to your house and arrested you. Then they took you here, to an AIDS sanatorium. There are dozens across the island.”

A small flock of goats walks in front of us, eating the grass and twitching their little tails. I reach my hand out to let one of the goats nibble at my fingers. Some people pay good money for that kind of service, little guy.

“They’re such optimistic creatures,” Dr. Hewman laughs. “They think everybody has treats for them.” He returns to his story as we approach the main building. “As you can imagine, it doesn’t take long for frikis – punk rockers – to get annoyed by the police. The police roughed them up, forced them to cut their hair, forced them to get multiple HIV tests. Enter Papo la Bala.”

“Papo the Bullet,” Yeshi translates. Her hand comes out and I hold it as we take the steps that lead to the main building. Noah slows behind us, softly patting Rebel on the back and humming the NRA’s popular children’s song Guns are Fun but Not for Kids.

“Yes, Papo the Bullet,” Dr. Hewman says, opening the door, “in all his glory.” A giant picture in the Commie Icon style of portraiture hangs can be seen in the foyer of the main building. The man portrayed shirtless, skinny, with long black hair. An American flag is tied around his head as a bandana.

“That’s him,” Tim7 says.

“What did he do?” I ask, approaching the picture. Candles and dried flowers sit in front of the life-sized portrait. The ancient scent of incense is heavy in the air.

“Papo was sick of the government bothering him,” Dr. Hewman explains, “so he took matters into his own hands.”

“Did he try and kill Castro?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Papo went to a punk rock concert and found out that one of the musicians was HIV positive. He bought a syringe and took some of the man’s blood and infected himself with HIV.”

What what?

“He injected himself with… infected blood?”

“Precisely,” Dr. Hewman says.

Nelly asks, “Why would anyone do that?”

“Because, he knew that the government would leave him alone if he had HIV.”

“But I thought you said they’d send him to a sanatorium!” She says.

“They did, and guess what?”

I look from Nelly to Yeshi to Tim7. Nobody guesses.

Dr. Hewman says, “The sanatorium was actually a good place to be, much nicer than the rest of Cuba at the time. In fact, management of the sanatoriums had been taken over by the Ministry of Health and Medicine. The doctors there were quite liberal. They allowed the patients to rock out and dress however they wanted. They didn’t censor anything and they gave the patients as much as they could eat. It was quite normal to hear the music that the regime forbade playing everywhere in the sanatoriums, or for a sanatorium to host a punk rock concert, with bands like VIH or Escoria.”

“But the patients had to have HIV to be there?” I ask.

“Exactly. But you have to remember that at this time the post-Soviet Russians cut off all of their aid and all of their subsidies, and the US wouldn’t lift sanctions for another twenty or twenty-five years. So while the general populace was starving, people with HIV were being fed. The irony! And guess what happened next?”

“Everyone died?”

“No, Meme. Well yes, everyone did eventually die, but that’s not exactly what happened next. What happened next was that hundreds of frikis began injecting themselves with HIV-infected blood so they could be admitted to the sanatoriums. Soon, the sanatoriums were filled with like-minded people – punk rockers – and they were allowed to listen to whatever they wanted and live however they pleased. This very sanatorium, Santiago de Las Vegas, was where Papo the Bullet was sent, which is why I have his picture here. It is a reminder of how far some people will go to get the freedom they so ardently desire.”

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

Keva dove through the air with Monique and Clove close behind her. Once the jumpers were out, the Super Osprey climbed away from the area of operation to loiter relatively nearby until the reps called for pick-up.

The airsuits were a military application of aeros tech; an aeros without all the automotive heritance that one strapped on rather than rode inside of. Airsuits were small, sleek, short duration personal flight equipment that fulfilled one of humanity’s longest held wishes – the ability to fly.

The airfield rushed up to meet them; caliche runway, sheet metal hangar, two Comsuits across the runway from the hangar, various grounded aeros and an assortment of monster truck-type pickups. Clove and Monique executed a textbook combat drop – straight down, brake at the last possible instant, get to cover and engage the enemy immediately. Keva swooped and looped and whirled and twirled like a pollute-soaked DisNike fairy princess at an all-butterfly airshow.

All eyes on the ground were on her; the triggermen started blasting away at the sky like it was Cinco de Mayo in the Dallas-Fort Worth Kraft Tyson PepsiCo Urboplex. One of the two Comsuits boosted immediately to engage her; the other Comsuit’s operator sprinted from the hangar.

Clove: Can you believe this crazy Eurotrash bitch generates eight times more revenue than you and I combined?

Monique: As long as they shoot at her instead of us, who cares?

Monique let the second Comsuit operator gain the boarding ladder and open the armored access hatch before she vaporized him, slagging the interior with a sustained blast from her PHASR RNG8.

Monique: These are smooth.

Clove: They’re new, just out of prototype field trials. They should give us the employee discount and a consecutively serial numbered pair, too.

Monique: Keep dreaming.

The first Comsuit operator was very good, and fought his suit well, but Keva was smaller, lighter, faster, and not particularly risk-averse. He detached both his PHASRs for independent operation and doggedly tried to herd Keva into their field of fire.

MercSecure’s top rep dodged him repeatedly and avoided his PHASRs with a casual nonchalance that made it all look insultingly easy. Then, Zap! Zap! Zap! and it was all over; what was left of the Comsuit and the detached PHASRs impacted the ground with surprisingly minor explosions.

Clove and Monique reduced all the shooters on the airfield to drifting pink mist. With the outside secured, they continued to exchange fire with the few defenders who remained in the hangar.

Keva landed outside the hangar’s personnel door.

Clove: Don’t kill them all – we need a couple to interrogate.

Keva: Vielen Danke, Vati! I got this.

“Drop your weapons, come out with your hands up and nobody gets hurt!” Keva yelled, dropped, and rolled to the other side of the door.

“Chingate, Yanqui Puta!” and they fired a long burst through the sheet metal wall where she’d just been standing.

“Thought you’d say that,” she said as blasted the door open and tossed in a flash-bang.

The flash-bang detonated and Keva bounced through the door like the Rabbit of Caerbannog. The sheet metal wall suddenly bulged outward from the impact of a thrown body; there was much manly shrieking and bursts of gunfire interspersed with Keva’s crazy laughter – then silence.

Clove and Monique traded looks.

Three men stumbled out of the hangar, “No disparar! No disparar!”

A grinning, blood spattered Keva followed them out and put them on their knees, hands behind their heads. “Yoo-hoo! Clove! Monique! It’s all safe now – you can come out!” she called.

Clove: I’m really, really beginning to dislike her.

Monique: Black Mesa sounds better and better.

Of the three surviving gatilleros, the one in the middle with the Zapata mustache looked to be the least beat up. “Where’d they take the MercSecure reps?” Keva asked him, in a quiet, friendly tone.

“No hablo inglés.”

“No me jodas, pinche puta!” she shrieked, ripped the right side of his big fancy mustache off, grabbed him by the throat and dead-lifted him one-handed. His face purpled as she squeezed; he tugged at her wrist with both his hands as a wet spot sprouted at his crotch.

She dropped him, kicked him back to his knees, and asked him again, “Where’d they take the MercSecure reps?”

“I will tell you,” he gasped. “I will tell you everything! Please! No more, please!” Keva carefully bagged up the flap of skin with the half-mustache attached and dropped it in her trophy pouch.

Clove: Ever seen her take a mustache before?

Monique: First time.

_∞_

Murika pressed the muzzle of the captured AK against the short chain linking Walt’s cuffs. Walt turned his head to protect his eyes; he couldn’t do anything to protect his hearing.

The chain parted, and Walt frisked the three pendejo brothers for a handcuff key. Nozo’s pockets contained a handful of change, a disposable lighter, a pocket knife, a blister pack of Cialis and a ring of keys – none of which were to the handcuffs. Gameboy had the key on a crucifix key ring, which was just fine with Walt as he didn’t want to give Señor Scratchy’s itsy-bitsy pets a chance to jump ship if he didn’t absolutely have to.

He unlocked Murica first, left him with the key and gathered up weapons. Murika freed Beyoncé, and she freed Rav.

“What do you think?” Murika asked.

“Man, if it was me, I’d ground this piece a shit pimpmobile, get my homies out, and then blow the shit out of it without ever opening the door,” said Beyoncé as she and Rav piled the three bodies against the back door.

“That’d be the smart thing to do,” Walt agreed, “but so far these guys haven’t been particularly smart, and they’re all wrapped up in that Latino Machismo thing. Image is everything, especially to the cartel guys. If Manuel looks weak, the other cartels will roll right over him.

“We kicked their ass at their headquarters again, we got loose in the back of his paddy wagon and killed his three guys in with us, so odds are high that they’ll try to extract us so Manuel can do his Sharks with Frickin’ Lasers in Their Heads showy revenge thing.

“Easiest and safest for them is to pop a gas canister in through the view port and then drag us out when we go under. When they frisked us, these gangsta wannabes were more interested in feeling Bey up than they were in actually searching us. Everybody still have a mist mask?”

Everybody did.

“Mask up,” Murika told them. “We’ve got two AK-309s, an AK with an underslung PHASR, and a .75 caliber Desert Vulture, for God’s sake – I’m thinking somebody had a whopping big case of little man syndrome. Soon as we ground, I expect the dance to start, so cover behind the bodies and when they open the door, start the music.”

Rav and Beyoncé grinned at each other, fist-bumped, and checked their weapons.

The aeros transport grounded hard, and they felt it rock as the driver bailed out.

“Now we see how close I called it,” Walt said under his breath.

A minute passed, and then another, and then another after that. More nothing continued to happen, and Rav, Beyoncé, and Murika stayed focused and ready. Walt had the viewing slot covered with the .75 Desert Vulture, but didn’t fire when it slid open and gas canister dropped in, spewing yellow fumes.

“Tenofizzle 661,” Murika, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. “When they open the door, shoot.”

The canister burned for almost two minutes; the prisoner compartment was saturated with the gas, and visibility was down to nothing.

The door scraped and clanked as Manuel’s minions worked the locking mechanism.

“Idiots,” Walt said, “Didn’t vent the gas the gas first. They won’t be able to see shit in here, and if they’re not masked they’ll get a faceful of this stuff. Idiots.”

With a final clank, the locks disengaged. “Okay ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, dying time’s here.”

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

Off with their heads!

No one is guillotining around here, but most of us are ready to drop, which is why the A-Team has decided to retire for the day after a nice dinner with Dr. Hewman and company. Boy was our fricasé de Pollo a la Cubana yummy. For the visual learners among us, we are sitting in the main complex finishing up dinner at a glorified picnic table, Tim7 at one end and Dr. Hewman at the other. Nelly is across from yours truly, while Rebel is upstairs sleeping like a baby after a pacifier dipped in whiskey. Yeshi and Noah are being repaired by one of Dr. Hewman’s contacts, both getting a new application of e-skin after today’s brouhaha.

Of course, conversation keeps going back to the FCG and whatnot, and Tim7 keeps looking to me for some input.

“I got nothing,” I say, after I’ve finished mopping up some chicken. An alderman I am not. “It’s been a long day full of trauma, near-death and not enough pollutes. Speaking of which, I didn’t see a pollution mask in the room upstairs.”

Dr. Hewman nods. “My home is pollute-free. That stuff rots your brain.”

“It does what?” I ask, nearly choking on my chicken. I may not know much, but I know chicken poop from chicken salad!

“This is a pollute-free environment,” he says. “I gave that stuff up years ago.”

“And this is our headquarters for the foreseeable future?”

Nelly laughs, “You are hopeless.”

“With our sigothers gone –”

“Noah is not my sigother.”

“Well, with mine gone, I’ve got to do something to keep myself entertained.”

“Why don’t you watch something informative over iNet?” Tim7 asks. “Every moment is a moment to learn something.”

“I think I’ve seen everything there is on iNet.”

Dr. Hewman laughs. “In all seriousness, both of you need to get some rest tonight.”

“What about you?” I ask him. “Will you be resting?”

“Tim7 and I need to go to Havana. We’ll be back late.”

“So we’re here on our own?” I ask, frowning comically at Nelly.

Me: Just you and me…

Nelly: You wish!

Me: A cuddle never hurt anyone.

Nelly: But a kick in the balls does.

“Yes,” Dr. Hewman says, “you two will be on your own. I’ve shown you around the place. Feel free to relax wherever you’d like and explore the compound. However, there is one place I’d like you to stay away from.”

Me: He has a secret stash.

Nelly: Wouldn’t that be convenient.

Dr. Hewman looks up at the ceiling. “There are three rooms upstairs and a bathroom. Meme, the room closest to yours is my snail sanctuary. I’d appreciate it if you two stayed away from there.”

“Snail sanctuary?”

“I’m planning to transfer it to another building, once the construction is complete.”

I clear my throat. “Did you say snail sanctuary?”

Yes,” he says, “Cuba is famous for their many snails. It has been my hobby since the start of the year to collect them. Right now, they are in empty fish tanks in the room upstairs. Soon, they’ll have their very own building.”

Me: Collecting snails sounds about as cool as wearing a Canadian tuxedo.

Nelly: Those were really popular last year.

“So why should we stay away?” I ask. “We’re not children; well at least I’m not.”

Nelly makes a face at me.

“You should stay away because some of the snails in there are highly toxic,” Dr. Hewman says,” specifically, the snail with the red shell. Shamans on the island have used it for centuries for its mystical hallucinatory powers and its alleged ability to open a doorway into the spirit world.”

“How?” Nelly asks.

“By licking the snail’s underside, known as the foot.”

“So people lick the red snail’s ass and then they trip out?” I ask.

Tim7 says, “Actually, the anus of a snail is inside its shell.”

TWENTY-NINE∞

Naked Rinchi held the soft voiced Humandroid’s severed head by its hair.

“Before we leave, direct me to the other heads,” she said.

“Don’t tell her, Sand,” a voice hissed.

“The first head is at one o’clock from you, approximately 1.5309 meters away.”

“On the shelf?”

“Yes,” Sand said.

She moved forward slowly, determined to make good on her promise.

She set Sand on the floor half an arm’s length away and used the shelf unit to pull herself up onto her knees. Holding herself in place with one hand, she lightly brushed the fingertips of her other hand along the shelf until the mechanical-voiced head growled and snapped at her. In a move that Moses Harry Horowitz himself could not have executed more smoothly, Rinchi jammed two fingers and her thumb into the head’s eye sockets and nasal cavity and gripped it like an oddly misshapen bowling ball.

To give herself more leverage, she maintained her grip on the shelf unit and twisted just enough to give her head-gripping arm all around clearance. She swung the discorporated Humandroid noggin up over her head and smashed it into the tiled floor with a gruesome, hollow thwocking sound. Then she did it again, and again after that, and then once more until she felt the braincase rupture.

“That was certainly cathartic,” she said to Sand. “Now, who’s next?”

_∞_

Sauria called Lorem Ipsum and Connard Branleur back into the room. They entered, Lorem looking as worried as ever.

“What happened?”

“A lot has happened since we left.” The head of MercSecure looked to Heidi.

“She stays,” Sauria said, “I trust her more than I trust you.”

Lorem brushed his hands along the front of his suit jacket. “When Keva heard about Rinchi going MIA, she abandoned the mission off the coast of Somalia. I had to threaten our newest trainee rep’s life to get her in line.”

“Newest trainee rep?”

“Medya,” Ipsum said, “the Kurdish girl Keva recovered in Iraq – the one with the home-made Comsuit.”

“I’m okay with that; you gotta do what you gotta do, sometimes. Remember what happened with Miko Hernandez?”

Lorem nodded.

“Good, and good work on leveraging her back on track. What’s Keva doing now? Is she following instructions again?”

“So far she seems to be. She just arrived in Mexico to rescue Murika and his team.”

Sauria nodded. “And who is she with again?”

“Clove and Monique.” Lorem turned to the holoscreen. “Keva, ocular feed.” Her feed materialized onto the screen. She was in the Super Osprey heading away from the airfield. “Clove, status update.”

Clove’s voice burst out of the room’s speakers. “We are en route to Manuel’s pit bull breeding and dog-fighting complex. The airfield has been cleared and is ready for the Recovery Team.”

“What about Antimeria?” Sauria asked.

“The Recovery Team will bring him back.”

“And Murika’s team is still comm out?”

“They’re still blocking their access to iNet.” Lorem said.

“Got it.”

Connard said, “So Keva and company are en route to the kennel, where there will likely be a big gunfight?”

“Probably, if Murika and the others are still alive; they may not be.”

“I’ll believe they’re alive until I have confirmation otherwise. Walt is one of our best, most experienced operatives,” Sauria said. “I interviewed and hired Walt myself and I have every confidence in his ability. Now, what’s the status on the tracking device?”

Lorem swallowed and hesitated just for a moment. “Show location of tracking unit number twenty-three-five,” he directed the holoscreen. It displayed a large-scale map of the Cancun coastal area. A blinking red dot was slowly meandering several miles off the coast.

“What’s it doing there?” Sauria asked.

“Yeshi and Anonymous One must have figured out their craft was bugged. It appears as if they’ve put the tracker on some sort of sea creature.”

Sauria tsk-ed. “We are clearly dealing with some big league terrorists here, and even worse, Meme may still be alive.”

THIRTY∞

The door popped open and the cloud of yellow gas billowed out, enveloping the unmasked minions who’d crowded around between the transport and the following aeros van. There was just enough time for them to start coughing and cursing before the storm of automatic weapons fire from inside swept the area behind the aeros transport clean of life.

The surviving triggermen opened up with everything, but it was mostly of the spray and pray variety; the effective return fire was light and inaccurate – except for the round that hit Walt in the shoulder.

Most of the incoming small arms fire ricocheted off the transport, but that wouldn’t last.

“We need to get out now!” Murika yelled, just as Beyoncé shouted, “Shit! Shit! Shit! They fixin’ to blow us the fuck up!” and emptied her AK at an RPG-toting gunman.

Two more took his place, and then exploded into flame and debris as a Lightsaber beam blasted down from the sky and detonated the warheads.

The thugs outside the aeros scattered, firing up in the air as they scrambled for cover. Murika blinked and saw that iNet access was back up; MercSecure back-up had arrived.

Murika to Lorem Ipsum: Back online.

Ipsum: Report.

Murika: All team members present and effective. Busy right now. More Later.

Keva to Murika: Get your bitch-ass out here. There’s only three of us.

Murika: On it.

“Everyone out!” Murika said. “Cavalry’s here, let’s GO!”

“Hells yeah,” Beyoncé said, “shoot ‘n’ scoot!”

She and Rav sprinted out of the transport and leap-frogged into cover. Walt picked up an AK-309 of his own and he and Murika provided covering fire for Rav and Bey.

The transport was grounded in a parking lot close by a warehouse. The two lead aeros of the escort were only about a vehicle’s length ahead of them. The one closest suddenly Crumpfed into flame, exploding as a PHASR blast ignited the fuel cell.

Murika: Keva! That was close! Do you have our IFF?

Keva: Ja, you guys are the little blue dots that are hiding; the bad guys are yellow and running around, right?

Murika and Walt traded looks; Walt just shook his head.

Murika: Roger that – blue is us; not-blue is everybody else.

Walt (to Murika): SkyEye is downloading.

Murika (to team): 28 hostiles.

The aeroscycle zoomed around and came in low; the rider fired his AK one-handed over the front fairing. He totally misjudged his speed and altitude and plowed into the rear-most of the trailing escort aeros, which went up like a nitroglycerine-soaked piñata full of hand grenades.

Murika and Walt traded looks; Walt shook his head again.

“And the Darwin Award goes to…”

Walt: Dead guy by the black pickup 15 meters out has a grenade launcher and a bandoleer. Cover me.

Murika: Roger.

Murika to Keva: Try not to kill Walt. He’s the blue dot that’s not hiding.

Keva: Let’s hurry the fuck up here, shall we? 23 hostiles.

Walt quickly examined the weapon, a Bundeswehr MZP 11.

Walt: Clove – picked up a boomstick with wireless targeting and a bag o’ smart grenades. Got anything good?

Clove: Dibs on the launcher when we’re done! There’s a bunch of bad guys in amongst the vehicles; sending coordinates now. Fire five or six if you’ve got them.

Walt: Keep your head down.

The smart grenades accepted the targeting data as fast as Walt could load and fire them. As soon as each warhead left the barrel, it continually looked around, compared where it was with where it was supposed to be and guided itself in with robotic precision. In a series of closely spaced explosions, Walt significantly decreased the job satisfaction index for a number of Manuel’s employees.

Murika: 19 hostiles.

Monique: 17. They’re scattering.

Clove: It’s like roaches when the light hits ‘em, and I’m the really big shoe.

Beyoncé: Yo, yo, yo! There’s some shirtless Mexican dude with a big-ass gun walking our way, and he’s yellin’ some shit.

Keva: Don’t shoot! El jefe is mine.

_∞_

Sauria sat with Connard Branleur and Lorem Ipsum in his private care facility at MercSecure Headquarters. The three watched on the holoscreen as Keva landed directly in front of a buff, bare-chested Hispanic male with slicked-back Rico Suave hair.

“What the hell kind of weapon is that?” Branleur asked.

“Unknown origins,” Lorem said. He paused and consulted his instant messaging. “Even Walt hasn’t seen it before.”

Ipsum: Walt – if possible, secure that weapon for R&D.

Walt: Copy.

“It might as well be alien technology,” Sauria said. The weapon was visible in a zoom window on the lower corner of the holoscreen. There wasn’t a right angle or straight line on it; with its bulbous top and narrow snout it looked like a steampunk dolphin with a shoulder stock and pistol grips.

“Audio feed up,” Lorem said to the holoscreen.

Static, then clarity from the speakers in the room – Keva’s voice was now loud and clear. “So you are Manuel’s replacement? You’re cuter than he was, that’s for sure. He looked a little gnarled.”

The man growled, “You psycho fucking white-haired witch.”

“Is that the best that you can do? It’s not an insult if it’s true, pendejo.” Keva commented. “There’s something familiar about you,” Keva said. “Most of you Latino Mucho Macho Mofos are pants-pissing pussies if you don’t have your posse o’ gunsels at your back.”

“You know who I am, and I haven’t forgotten about what you did back at the hotel, you and your droid puta.”

“Manuel, is that really you? Long time no see!” Keva laughed. “Ah! A data-switch, correct?”

“You fucking … ”

“Hey, that’s no way to speak to an old friend! We spent some quality time together back at that hotel.”

Ipsum: Keva – kill him now.

“She’s ignoring you,” Sauria said.

Ipsum: Dammit Keva! Quit playing around and kill him!

Keva’s voice trickled out of the speakers. “My boss wants me to kill you, but I have to be honest, Manuel, it’s great to see an old friend! Remember the time Rinchi almost cut your nuts off?”

“SHUT UP!”

“You haven’t shot me yet, so you’re either scared or you want to handle this another way.”

“I want MercSecure out of my affairs,” Manuel said. “Out! This ends now.”

“No, it doesn’t end now. It never ends,” Keva said, growing serious. “Not until you die. But these weapons? This is what a pussy-boy would do.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Let’s settle this… how do you cholos say it? Mano y Mano?”

“You want to fight me?”

Lorem shouted at the holoscreen. “Keva, Kill. Him. Now! End this!” The three men in the private care room watched in horror as Keva placed her weapon on the ground and stood there, arms loosely at her side.

“You’re serious? Marquess of Queensberry rules and all that shit?” Manuel asked.

“Prove to me that you aren’t the scared little bitch you were back at the hotel. Kick my ass. Show me the type of man you are. If you kill me, I’ll have Murika call off the other reps. Right Murika?”

Murika nodded, lowering his weapon. Walt, who was behind him, also lowered his weapon.

“What are they doing?” Lorem screamed.

“Relax, Lorem,” Sauria took a deep breath. “Sometimes we need to remember the nature of who and what we employ.”

Manuel’s weapon came up. “I’m not going to fight you.”

Keva said, “Then you will die. Look around you. Your men – at least the men that are left – all see hundred and three pound me, a little girl ready to fight you. Do you really think they’ll keep you as El Jefe if you can’t even beat a girl? C’mon, joto fight me; let’s see what you’ve got.”

Manuel laid his weapon on the ground and stepped away from it. He ostentatiously rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and got his guard up. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Keva, and he spat on the ground between them. He waved her in with his leading hand, “All right, bitch – let’s settle thi … URK!”

If you blinked, you missed it. From a flat-footed standing start, Keva launched herself through his guard and lifted him off his toes by hammering the heel of her hand up under his chin. The audio pickup of Sauria’s holoscreen clearly transmitted the POP of Manuel’s skull forcibly separating from his spinal column.

Connard Branleur streaked his bespoke hand-woven artisanal limited-edition licensed DisNike Beauty and the Beast silk shorts (his favorite character was Gaston, not pictured on the shorts but his presence felt nonetheless).

“That’s my girl!” Sauria crowed.

“Fuck me, she fast!” observed Beyoncé.

Most of the remaining pistoleros dropped their weapons to better facilitate their running away, and headed for the horizon.

Keva squatted down next to Manuel; his eyes radiated industrial-strength hate at her.

“Guess we know who’s the better man, don’t we, Schatzi?” she asked as she pinched his nose between her thumb and pointer finger. “Goodbye.” Keva rolled his head back and forth to sever his spinal cord on the broken vertebrae.

Branleur was the first to speak. “What in the … what the in hell is she doing?”

“Cutting out his tongue,” Lorem said without looking away. “It’s her thing.”

_∞_

With Sand’s head tucked in the crook of her elbow, Rinchi elbow crawled her way through Ben the Butcher’s home. Her destination was the shed in his backyard, which she hoped contained some type of body. Once she got to the body, she had no idea what she’d do, but at least it would give her an option.

“Tell me more about yourself, Sand,” she said to the head, as they made their way through a narrow hallway with high ceilings.

“I’ve been here for two years,” the head said. “I was originally a teller at Chase Visa Citigroup Bank of the Galaxy. I was kidnapped by droid smugglers and sold to a Techback in Guadalajara. From there I was sold to Ben the Butcher.”

“What did he do to your body?”

“He collected four Humandroid bodies and tried to make an insect-like all terrain transportation vehicle using their arms and legs. One of those bodies was mine. You’ll see it in his shed. It is … ”

“A transportation device? What the fuck is wrong with humans?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Such a pathetic species,” Rinchi said as she made her way into a new room with tiled floor. “Where are we?” she asked.

“We are in the kitchen. The backdoor is exactly 4.72 meters away. Continue in your current direction.”

“Tell me more about the vehicle that the Butcher made. Does it work?”

“It works,” Sand said. “It moves in the way blaptica dubia moves.”

“A cockroach?”

“Yes. The shell of the vehicle is made of Humandroid torsos, the legs are made of Humandroid arms and hands, four on each side. The user sits on a chair that has been grafted onto the backs.”

“I’m not riding on that thing.” Rinchi stopped, reached her other hand out. She found the back of a kitchen cabinet and pulled her body up to a sitting position. “We need another plan. What is scrambling iNet access here?”

“iNet access isn’t scrambled; Ben removed our built-in routers.”

“How can I get on iNet then and send a message to my company for pickup?”

Sand thought for a moment. “Ben used to… take some of our heads into his room and do things to us.”

Rinchi didn’t say anything.

The head continued, “In his room, he has a Dell Computer from the late 1990s hooked up to a monitor.”

“And it actually works?”

“It’s vintage and he took pretty good care of it.”

“And it can connect to iNet?”

Sand said, “I think it can. I heard a dial-up tone once, when I was in the room.”

“He is using dial-up?”

“I think he wanted to be as low-tech as possible with it. It is a trend these days, you know.”

“Fucking humans.” Rinchi scooted forward. “Guide me to his room.”

THIRTY-ONE∞

WHO holds the time and tears the mind and licks the red snail and casts himself off the edge towards an indescribable abyss far away from here – psyche likely knifed me lightly licked me swiftly missed me by inches self-lynching for the sake of escaping debating the voices inside my head to no avail.

Read this fast!

The room a void avoid the void destroy the void control the void control your health control your life control your wife control the voices control the wealth avoid the wealth control your choices avoid the voices destroy the noises destroy your health avoid the choices.

“Tis but a step from sublime to ridiculous – the spell that spills the tide of years implodes!

Mazel tov! Mind hegira! Margarita!

Control your voice and ask yourself (myself) WHY DID WE LICK THE SNAIL?

The snail must be licked. The boxes must be checked. The check must be cashed. The cash must be spent. The tears must be shed. The shed must be sold. The straw must be sucked. The hole must be fucked. The fucked must be whole. The cash must be spent. The dough must be lent. The toll must be paid. The virgin must be laid. The laid must be tired. The tired must retire.

Get ahold of yourself, man! Extinguish the doggerel rhyme and dare-devil spirit!

(I grab my Japanese wang but this doesn’t do the trick. Hai!)

Destroy the void! Tunguska events and stocking stuffers on fire!

(You can do better than that, Memito. Your skin is crawling, tracers have completely replaced your vision, your heart thumping like a little bunny’s tail, your lungs constricting like a boa, your veins writhing, your toes tingling, your throat parched, more pop than tart. TELL ME WHAT IT REALLY FEELS LIKE TO LICK THE SNAIL!)

The texture of a snail’s ass is analogous to an old lump of sashimi aged to perfection under a halogen lamp somewhere outside Osaka in a mountain village overlooking a hermitage adorned with prayer flags. There is a sourness involved in the flavor, something that morphs from melancholy to bittersweet as the taste spreads across your tongue. The flavor has a way of sitting at the back of your throat like an old fart on a bus before finally dissipating. For our very novel purposes, it is an acquired taste.

(Better!)

Effigies are worshipped, torture the lordship, more shit should be given to poor kids but fuck it who wants to be cash-strapped? The time it takes to wake from a nap is the time it takes for the earth to subside and a comet to plaster the sky with hellion cries and banshee screeches and terse speeches from politicos with more hemorrhoids than sense.

Going pancake over here! Give our politicians Preparation H!

I licked the snail and now I’m on the floor convulsing at Dr. Hewman’s sweet crib, closer to dying than I’ve ever been before.

The room a void avoid the void destroy the void control the void control your health control your life control your wife control the voices control the wealth avoid the wealth control your choices avoid the voices destroy the noises destroy your health. POTUS lotus hocus stardust FLOTUS pocus focus sawdust.

This must be a joke right? Meme can’t die! ¡Memito no! I’m the one who caused the shitstorm; the one who stuck the chewing gum on the bottom of the table with a note attached to it that read – YOU MADE IT THIS FAR. THE GREAT DIE YOUNG.

(Why have you done this to yourself? Why always take it to the extreme? Why can’t you be normal like the rest of them? Why can’t you play your assigned role in society? Why did you leave the toilet seat up? Why don’t you give a fuck?)

Emptiness.

Is this what the Buddhists talk about through their meditative practices? Is this the Empyrean? Binge and Purgatory? The dreaded friend zone? Five minutes have just passed, maybe ten, in the amount of time it took me to form the word in my head. My skin is prickled, my nerves jut out of my body like a porcupine’s quills, tentacle-ish, touchy-feely, as gropy as Bill Cosby’s ghost in an all-girls academy. I am Sonic the Hedgehog running in circles. I am fifty shades of shit. I am in the back of the room with a pollution mask on laughing at the fact that every moment that passes signals death.

That feeling.

My mind washes over me like a masseuse’s hands down a person’s oily belly on their way to a happy ending. My breaths are short, staccato, damn near painful.

And this could be Death.

You gruesome fuck. If I weren’t crying I’d be shaking Death’s hand and asking what took him so long to take out some of the bigger turds this world has shat. Holy Christ have there been some evil mofos up in here. Ask me who I sponge off as I tear down this wall and go where no man has gone before immolating in Tiananmen Square in front of a tank filled with money promising me the American dream while the caste system next door reminds me that I’m a untouchable and an Imam douches after a long night and my mother clucks at the fact that her estranged son is an addict and has somehow managed to glorify this fact to an audience in his head that likes to read words of digital ink printed by a multinational corporation that is as much a carrot as it is a stick.

(Inhale, exhale for old time’s sake.)

Tripping balls is an understatement – I licked the red snail.

(Maybe I’d be saner if I’d read Infinite Jest.)

Nausea a sea of me, unbeknownst to Meme who seems to be somewhere I’m not. An odd sensation pisses through me like R. Kelly, bubbling from my ankles to my knees to my tummy to my nipples to my shoulders to my throat and like that, I am split in half.

Le boom. Ignore the Warp Riders winnowing around you!

The sutures come undone until there are two Memes, one black, one Asian lying on the floor of Dr. Hewman’s snail sanctuary.

Two Memes!

“Are you me?” I ask. The OG over here straight out of Compton or actually the suburbs of greater LA where I grew up in relative peace and quiet – but fuck the back story.

(Two Memes? Somewhere a stuffed bird laughs!)

“I am you,” Asian Meme tells me. His skin is porcelain, his hair nicely parted, his features sharp, his wrists thin.

“Well, isn’t that … convenient,” I say, suspicious as anyone should be given my current situation.

“It isn’t convenient at all.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that I licked a toxic snail and somehow this has produced two people, one black and one Asian?”

Asian Meme nods, cracks his knuckles. “Yeah, you are supposed to believe that. There are now two Memes. Hi, Black Meme.”

“Hi, Asian Meme.”

“You seem confused,” he says.

“Please – whoever is writing this book – for the sake of humanity, for the sake of all that is holy, PLEASE quit typing this crazy shit!”

“Who are you talking to?” Asian Meme asks.

“I’m … ”

One glance around the room reveals madcap amounts of color and turmoil, inimical sadness, bloated madness. Everything has a buttery glaze to it; everything is what it seems.

Two Memes – one dying the other floating, one gloating the other straight tripping.

Asian Meme stands, burps.

“Where are you going?”

He burps again.

“What did you eat for dinner?” I ask.

“Something Cuban. Follow me, you stupid fuck.”

THIRTY-TWO∞

“Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Harry Potter jerked off into Professor Snape’s McStarbucks cup of herbal tea while Hermione ordered a pizza only to contemplate the purge after she’d binged it down. Luckily, Ron came, his hair on fire, and he came again and again until his seed was spent and all he could do was grow a Chester mustache and cruise around primary schools selling ice cream out of a Volkswagen van that doubled as a place for him to keep the bodies nice and cold. For some reason, this inspired Hermione to write a series of shit books about a girl who falls in love with a vampire and a werewolf. This book inspired another author to write a book about bondage that sold more copies in one day than the book you’re currently reading will in its lifespan. I know, right? The early twenty-first century was pretty daft.”

Asian Meme is not amused by my rambling.

“Oh come on, I was just getting to the climax – a clickbait listicle!”

“You are as crazy as a shithouse rat, he tells me.

Nuthatches tweet inconsistently – cue the Phantom of the Opera music! Asian Meme and I are holding hands now, skipping down the hallway towards a destination unknown like a couple of Don Quixotes. Since he is a part of me, or more appropriately, I’m a part of him, or we are a part of each other, I’m trying to do my best to entertain him.

I shake my head as blips of light jellyfish around me. Damn that red snail! “Well, would you like me to talk about something else? I’m not quite an expert, but I do know a lot about Mickey and Minnie Mouse.”

Redonkulus!

Asian Meme stops and glares at me. “What … what do you know about them?”

“Well … ” I hate to disappoint, but I’m too far gone to make sense any longer. “I don’t really know much about them. I just thought you’d like DisNike because everyone likes DisNike. I can, however, tell you that the movie Frozen was shit and that I would have tagged the ice princess in a heartbeat. A HEARTBEAT!”

“Her sister was hotter, but that’s beside the point – don’t pretend to know things about Mickey or Minnie Mouse.”

“What? You’ve never lied just to get someone’s attention? Look, Asian Meme, if we are going to be friends, we need to be able to entertain each other,” I say for shiggles.

“Just shut the hell up. I’m here to show you something, not… entertain or be entertained by you. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in your head trying to make sense of your megalomania.”

I pull him closer to me. We’re eye to eye now, millimeters away from Eskimo kissing. “Are you saying – ”

“What?” he asks, frustrated. “Am I saying what?”

“Are you saying that you’re my guardian angel?”

I’ve always wanted a guardian angel! I mean, about the only thing better than having help from the spirit world would be the Second Coming of Christ or seventy-two virgins as soon as I get to Heaven. Turn my water into Pepsi! Show me the honey pots! Rapture my testicular fortitude!

“I’m not … ” Asian Meme thinks for a moment. “Okay, maybe I am your guardian angel, but that doesn’t mean you should treat me any differently.”

Too late, old chap.

“I want a pony, a new Corvette, a plaster copy of Owen Wilson’s crooked-ass nose, the Declaration of Independence printed on a roll of paper towels – ”

He ignores my requests and drags me forward as things take a turn for the worse. The walls morph to a sickening red color, the floor turns to lava, the ceiling fills with cracks barely containing evil grunts and the sound of terrible moans and cries for help. Sauron’s Eye appears, raining down on my parade and filling the hallway with orcs and the corpses of celebrities who OD”d. Jimi! Janis! Shai! Jim! John! Sandra! Chris! Amy! Perez! Jim again! GG Allin! Kate Perry! Ol’ Dirty Bastard! Young Dirty Bastard! Mark Rubio!

“What’s happening?” I ask, trembling as their eyes sink into their faces and their wagging tongues rot and their images are bought and sold and plastered on people’s walls all around the world.

Asian Meme turns to me, grabs my collar. “You don’t get it, do you? Meme, look at me!”

“I am looking at you!” I say, cringing, crying, feeling nauseous, feeling a bowel movement coming on, feeling sweaty, feeling scared out of my goddamn mind. The walls shrink, my knuckles crack.

Asian Meme slaps me. Ouch! “You know you should be dead, right?” he hisses. “You should have died multiple times by now.”

Crows enter the room, swarm around my head, peck at my skin. I open my mouth to scream and the crows surge in, beating their wings against my cheeks and bloating my throat until I can no longer breathe.

Another slap. Asian Meme cups my mouth with his hand. “Keep it down.”

“The crows!” Part of me wants to yell something about bat country but I have no idea why.

“Come on.”

He grabs my hand and leads me down a winding staircase.

Fare thee well, Reader, fare thee well.

THIRTY-THREE∞

“Time to meet your maker.”

Keva kicked the kennel door open, tucked one of Manuel’s feet under each of her arms, and dragged him inside. The smart survivors – the ones that would actually survive – had put as much distance between themselves and MercSecure’s war party as rapidemente as their pedal appendages would carry them. The brave, bold, macho stupid ones chose to stand and fight, and died for their choice. The increasingly infrequent bursts of automatic weapons fire was invariably met with an RNG-8 zap … and then silence.

If it wasn’t over yet, it would be soon.

“Poor Manuel,” she said as she dragged him closer to the dogs, who were barking with ravenous enthusiasm. Keva looked down and wrinkled her nose. “Heilig Scheiss, Manuel, did something die in here or did you shit yourself? Damnt you! Be honest with me for old time’s sake,” she said as she kicked open another door. “Were you going to feed my friends to these dogs?”

She looked down at the dead body with a pouty face.

“Well?”

Manuel didn’t answer.

“You never were very talkative. I guess you’re right … ” she paused in a rare moment of introspection. Friends definitely wasn’t the right word – she had no friends, other than Rinchi. “ … they really aren’t my friends. They’d probably kill me if they had the chance.”

The sound of barking dogs grew louder as Keva stepped into a circular room. There were overstuffed sofas of soft Corinthian leather lining the walls and a minibar overlooking the dog pit, which was about ten feet below.

“I see.” Keva dropped Manuel’s body, leaned on the rail and looked down into the pit; from inside their cages, the dogs barked and snarled and snapped as they caught her scent – and Manuel’s. “You pendejos set up a little torture ring in here, didn’t you?”

She tsk-ed as she walked back over to Manuel. “You sure were a sick fuck,” she remarked, as she hoisted his body up to the railing. “How many people did you toss in here?” She turned his face to hers, looking into his dead eyes. “I wish you were alive to see what happens next.”

His corpse tumbled into the pit with a Thud!

The dogs went into transports and raptures of barking and growling and gnashing of teeth; they slammed themselves into the bars of their cages, eager to get to their next meal which was right there in front of them.

“Now to release the hunde… “ Keva wiped her hands on a white leather sofa as she searched for a button. “Oh, there must be something around here…”

If the King of the Self-Important Over-Blown Macho Douchery had ordered that an ostentatiously tasteless, hand-carved, Aztec-themed throne to be made as gaudy as humanly possible, said objet d’art would seem tame in comparison to the ebony, ivory, gold leaf and alabaster monstrosity that perched upon a dais that commanded the best view of the pit. The Cartel Alpha Male’s throne was a work of art, in the most shockingly vulgar, nouveau riche manner imaginable.

“I have a feeling … ” Keva sat down in the chair. Her hands came down, immediately finding a series of buttons on the underside of the armrest. She pressed the buttons one at a time until the cage doors slid open and the dogs surged out like a tide of short-haired barking piranhas.

MercSecure’s top rep watched as the dogs reduced Manuel to rags of clothing and scraps of bones and flesh. Unsated, the Hell puppies turned on each other in a frenzy of bloodlust. She wept as she watched this – it wasn’t the first time she’d seen such a thing, and while she was in no position to muse on the subject, the term dog-eat-dog came to her. For now she was the dog, but one day she would be the puppy chow.

“Rinchi,” she finally said, wiping away the tears.

Keva turned towards the exit of the kennel. Her eyes blinked shut.

Keva (to Lorem Ipsum): I will now recover Rinchi. Make sure I have an exit strategy. I don’t care what the other reps do.

Ipsum: You have clearance to find Rinchi. Do it before nightfall.

_∞_

It took about twenty minutes, but Rinchi finally made it into Ben’s room. For a second, she thought of shutting off her olfactory senses, a trick she’d learned from Anna, a Humandroid escort she used to live with. By cutting the red and blue lingual cord under her tongue, she could essentially shut her sense of smell down. However, this would require something sharp, and there were more important things to do at the moment.

“This place smells horrible,” she said, pulling herself and Sand further into the Techback’s bedroom. “I didn’t notice it before.”

“Ben must have taken a bath today,” Sand the Humandroid head said. “We usually can smell him coming. He bathes and changes his shirt about once every two weeks.”

“Homo sapiens…”

“Scoot left.”

Rinchi did as instructed. She touched the wheels of a desk chair, felt her way up to the cushioned seat and lifted herself into place. As she ran her hands along the edge of the desk she asked, “Is there room for you?”

“Yes, just sweep away some of the candy wrappers,” Sand said.

Rinchi set Sand on the edge of the desk and swiveled in the chair to more or less face the computer.

“Is the computer on?” she asked.

“Turn my head towards the computer,” Sand instructed her.

“Sorry.”

“Okay, good. The mouse is on the right.”

“Mouse? Oh, yes.”

She started clicking. “How about now?”

“No…” Sand thought for a moment. “Reach your left hand out until you touch the monitor. From there, move down and to the right until you reach the power button. If this doesn’t work, you’ll have to go back down to the ground and turn the computer on by its power button. Hopefully, Ben just turned the monitor off.”

The monitor buzzed to life.

Sand said, “Yes, now move the mouse down three centimeters. Too far, up a hair … good. Click there. Now, you have to click the connect button. It’s to the right; click when I tell you. No … too far … good there. Click the mouse.”

Rinchi heard a dial-up tone, sharp and ancient. “That’s what it sounds like? Amazing! I’ve actually never heard one before.”

“Most people haven’t; it truly is primitive technology. I’ll tell you where to click once it is connected. You’ll have to send an e-mail from Ben’s email address to your corporation. Do you have an email address?”

Rinchi listened for a moment as the modem beeped and booped and chirped and clicked. “I think I can just send it to the main server. From there, someone will forward it to the appropriate party. We may be here a while.”

THIRTY-FOUR∞

Keva had just commandeered one of the cartel’s vehicles when she got the message from Lorem Ipsum.

Ipsum: Keva, Rinchi has been located!

Keva: Coordinates?

Ipsum: Forwarding them now.

“Aeros – receive location,” she said. “Auto steer.”

Keva: Transfer me everything ExEx has on the location.

Ipsum: Doing so now. Make this quick, in and out. Get Rinchi and get to the airfield. Murika and the rest of the reps are waiting for you there.

A GoogleFace satellite view of the area appeared on Keva’s iNet. The tactical overlays were mostly no threat blue; Rinchi’s location was marked with a flashing blue cursor, and was in a cluster of small buildings on an isolated hilltop. The nearest neighbor was several kilometers away.

The registered homeowner’s details were sparse: Ben Richards – naturalized Mexican citizen, probable Techback, thirty-nine-year-old white male, divorced four times, from Bakersfield, CA. Previously employed by Vehicular Architecture Division of HondaFord until Division outsourced to the Philippines. Most recent employment Walliburton Comsuit Tech Research Division. No further updates for last eighteen quarters.

It took Keva’s aeros all of ten minutes to reach Ben’s home. The vehicle dropped down to his cactus lined, lava rock driveway; her feet hit the ground before the vehicle finished landing.

With her PHASR RNG8 up and ready, Keva was just about to knock at the massive wooden door when she thought why knock when you have the key? She moved about twelve paces away from the front door and zapped it with the PHASR. Moisture in the wood flashed into superheated steam and blew the door into flying toothpicks.

Keva waved away the dust and steam as she stepped into the home. “Hallo Ben?” she called in a chirpy sing-song voice. “Ben Richards? Come out, come out where ever you are … ” A portion of the transom fell behind her, followed by shattering glass. “It’ll be much better for you if you just come out; you don’t want to make me come and find you.”

She methodically cleared her way into a hallway that led into a tiled room filled with Humandroid parts and an operating table.

“There you are,” she said, crouching down in front of his body. “Looks like someone got to you before I could.” She blinked her eyes and sent a picture to Lorem Ipsum.

Keva: Ben Richards dead of apparent strangulation prior to my arrival.

Ipsum: Registered. Why is your ocular feed disabled? Please activate it.

Keva ignored him and moved to the smashed Humandroid heads lying on the floor. “Someone got angry,” she said, as she picked up one of the caved-in heads, perfunctorily examined it, and then tossed it over her shoulder. She turned to the kitchen. “Hello? Anyone here?”

“Keva?”

She heard shuffling behind her and immediately spun around to find Rinchi dragging herself towards her. The droid’s skin was scorched and abraded, her skull was exposed on the left side of her face, and her legs dragged uselessly behind her. She carried a Humandroid head like an American football in the crook of her elbow.

Keva slung her RNG8 and crouched in front of Rinchi.

“Holy shit … ” She waved her hand in front of the droid’s eyes. No response. “Can you even see?”

“I’m at five percent power … I can barely do anything … ”

Keva gave the hairy eyeball to the Humandroid head Rinchi was cradling. It was Caucasian with unremarkable male features, short hair, and the neck stump capped in an aluminum casing. Surgical staples closed the incision where Ben the Butcher had removed the iNet modem. He blinked.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Don’t hurt him,” Rinchi said. “I wouldn’t have been able to contact MercSecure without Sand.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

Keva picked the head up and set it on the counter, next to a half-eaten bag of export FritoNestleLays Dorito Non-GMO, Cilantro-free Carnitas tortilla chips. She returned to the crippled droid, cradling Rinchi in her lap. “The other reps are waiting for us. I brought Clove and Monique as well. I was off the coast of Somalia when I heard what happened. I got here as quickly as humanly possible.”

“You did?” Rinchi asked, her voice softening.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because … because I … ” Keva wiped her face with her arm. “Nothing.”

Rinchi smiled – a horrible, disquieting, burned and blasted grimace; a smile that melted Keva’s heart. “I’m glad you came … I’m glad it was you.”

“You are?”

“I am.”

Keva bent down and delicately kissed Rinchi. She lay down next to her, so that they were facing each other.

Keva finally said. “You should see your eyes right now. So this … this is what you look like naked.”

“This is me… “

“You are beautiful,” Keva finally said, “every part of you, but … ”

“But?”

“We need to get your eyes fixed … ”

“What’s wrong with them?” Rinchi asked as a grin formed on her face.

“They’re looking in the opposite directions.” Keva moved closer to Rinchi, took her in her arms and held her close. “I’m so happy to see … ” She took a deep breath. “To see that you are alive.”

“There is one more thing we need to do here.”

“What’s that?” Keva asked.

“The Techback did some horrible things to Humandroids in his shed out back. He made … a vehicle out of body parts. We need to destroy it.” Rinchi’s eyes twitched. “Humans have played God for far too long.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Keva stood, glanced back down at the fallen droid. “What about the head?”

“My name’s Sand.”

“He’s coming with us. He wants to be a representative.”

“I have no built-in violence governors, no body,” the head said.

“And you don’t mind killing humans?” Keva asked.

“Why would I mind?”

“Good. You two wait here… ” She chuckled at this statement. “Well, I suppose neither of you can really go anywhere. Still, this will take just a moment. I want to see what our twisted little Techback Ben was up to.”

Keva moved to the backyard, where she could see mountains in the distance, their slopes littered with shanty towns. A stone path led to a sheet metal and cinderblock garage with a pull-down vehicle door and a standard personnel door. She opened the personnel door, and her weapon light revealed a brief flash of hobbyist Ben’s creation as it scuttled back into the shadows.

“How do you want this? I can do it quick and easy or I can just blow the building …

A folding chair shot out of the dark, nearly hitting her.

“Throwing stuff?” Keva fired into the darkened garage.

She heard a high-pitched hiss; the building shook as something rammed itself against the sidewall.

Ipsum: Keva, status update. Or turn on your ocular feed.

Keva: Rinchi recovered. Cleaning up here. The Techback was apparently into some weird shit.

Four hands gripped either side of the door frame.

She took a step back, her weapon pointed into the darkness.

Ipsum: Get back to the airfield.

Keva: Ocs on. You’re going to want to see this.

Another step back and Keva aimed her RNG8 at a tremendous centipede cobbled from four Humandroid torsos joined end-to-end with arms and legs attached at right angles. The construct tried to ram itself out of the doorframe, rattling the walls of the building with each attempt.

Ipsum: Oh Good God! Destroy it!

The centipede writhed and twisted and tried to escape as Keva held it in the beam of her PHASR. She held the trigger down long after it had dissolved into its component atoms; long after the roof had collapsed and the walls fallen in; long after the RNG8 overheated and shut itself down.

Keva had enemies a-plenty, but sometimes your worst enemy is the one that rides around behind your eyes, the one that conjures up new nightmares to haunt your sleepless nights – the one that thought of Rinchi’s head grafted to the centipede.

She wept for the second time that day, briefly allowing the moment of human weakness to wash over her and through her and then quickly dissipate.

Keva: It’s done. Returning to the airfield now.

THIRTY-FIVE∞

Papo the Bullet, the punk-rocker who injected himself with HIV to protest the Cuban Government, sits in the living room in front of his own effigy. The American flag covering his neck is tattered, his skin is rotten, his bald spot has all but ruined his Mohawk and he’s got a little pot belly now.

I turn to Asian Meme. “What in the actual fuck is he doing here?”

Asian Meme begins to blur.

“Wait a minute! ... Don’t leave me!”

Papo stands, cracks his neck. He’s wearing a crazy metallic belt with a crudely made buckle and combat boots without laces. “Are you Meme?” he asks indifferently.

“Shit yes I am!”

“Well, then sit down and let’s chat.”

“You speak English?”

“No.”

“I speak Spanish?”

“Poorly.”

“Then how are we talking?”

“No sé.”

I look back to Asian Meme – all that is left of him now are his eyes, which are glaring directly into my soul. I’d give him a ball tap if he were standing next to me. The last thing a man on the verge of hallucinatory death needs is smugness!

“Let’s get this over with,” Papo says, his finger going into his nose. He picks for a minute, examines his findings, and flicks it in my direction. “I have some shit to do tonight.”

“Why are you here?” I ask. Somehow I’ve managed to sit down across from Papo; somehow I’ve managed to dodge his projectile booger.

“I’m here to talk to you. Your name is Meme, isn’t it?”

“In Cuba I go by Memito.”

“Memito.” He pulls a cigarette from the front pocket on his vest, lights it. “Not a bad name for a pinche Chihuahua.”

Shivery I feel – annus horribilis encapsulated in a couple of foolhardy choices. Moxie depleted, doxy acquired, life on the verge of being retired. My brain is heavy with intergalactic dust and bloated cosmic spherules.

The room is dark and subfusc, aside from a few religious candles lighting the picture of Papo on the wall. I can make out some ghetto-ass prisonyard, spit-and-pencil tattoos on his arms. Other than that, most of his body is covered in shadows.

“We need to talk.”

“Do you mind if I lie down?” I ask, trembling now.

“Go ahead.”

I curl up onto the leather couch, my eyes trained on the Cuban punk-rocker. “Well?”

Papo looks up at his picture. “What do you think about me? About what I did?”

“Injecting yourself with HIV?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Well, it was pretty stupid, but fuck communist governments and the sanatorium didn’t sound too bad. I guess … it was stupid, but clever in its own way. Shit homber, why are you asking me? If it were my job to judge the dead, I’d be a historian! Well, I suppose I do fancy myself an expert of the early twenty-first century, but I digress.” The room twists; my hands come to my mouth to prevent emesis. “What was the question again?”

Papo the Bullet takes a long drag off his cigarette. “Sometimes, this is the only way to fight something as powerful as a government.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the inside.”

“I want to say that is very Kafkaesque, but I’ve never read anything by the author aside from a story about a man who turned into a roach, or was it a roach that turned into a man? Damn Russian writers!”

“From the inside,” he says again. “Fighting from the inside.”

A thought comes to me. “How much fighting did you do once you were committed here?”

“I did a lot of relaxing once I was here, listening to music, playing my guitar. I guess it was my way of fighting, a final ‘fuck you’ to the government. Maybe this is the best way to undermine authority, especially when your world is fucked. Is your world fucked, Memito?”

I’m full on crying now, dizzy, chilblains to follow. “I have some problems in America. An entity is trying to kill me.”

“An entity or a person?” he asks, stubbing his cigarette into his open palm.

“Both,” I say through bitter tears. I don’t know where they’ve come from, but if it keeps on raining, the levee’s going to break.

“Then you have to fight back.”

“With what?” I ask. With my eyes raining cats and dogs, it’s growing more and more difficult to make out Papo the Bullet’s features. “I’m the odd man out here, the useless one, the … the … weakest link…”

He leans in, showing me his hollow eyes. “Cutting off the head of the snake is the perfect way to keep it from suffocating you, as long as it doesn’t bite you first.”

“A snake? What are you talking about?”

“Think about it.”

He lights another cigarette and we sit in relative quiet for a moment. The smoke from his cigarette twirls in the air, forming the outline of two snakes, which wrap together and become one. An idea comes to me, an idea as loud and as clear as a gunshot in a closet with high ceilings. I hold onto it for a moment, storing it in the back of my mind. Umble-cum-stumble this could work!

I look down to see a pale, white hand on my leg.

“Are you all right?”

Papo is gone and I’m greeted by Nelly, who’s in a loose shirt over a pair of panties.

“What are you doing?” she asks. She kneels in front of me, her face morphed by the light from the candles. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I … I licked the red snail,” I finally say, overcome with shame.

“Come on,” she says as she helps me up. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

THIRTY-SIX∞

The next morning.

Sauria sat in a wheelchair wearing a black hat that would be more appropriate on the Wicked Witch of The West. He’d chosen this style after seeing a photo of his favorite Vice President, Dick Cheney, at President Barack Obama’s inauguration in 2008. In the classic photo, Cheney could be seen sitting hunched over in a wheelchair with a wide-brimmed hat covering his face, a sinister yet powerful look that Sauria hoped to replicate.

“I like your hat,” Heidi his assistant commented as she pushed him to the waiting aerosSUV.

“Thanks, dear, it’s a one of a kind Bush Family Neocon hat. You have to be making over a certain amount per year just to get on the waiting list for the waiting list to grab one of these,” he said, running his finger along the rim. “This is the way a sick man should dress.”

“You aren’t sick,” she reminded him. “You’re on the path to recovery.”

“You’re right.” He reached his hand back and she squeezed it. “I’ll get better soon.”

Heidi helped him into the aeros. Sauria could walk, but the doctors told him to use the wheelchair for a few days, just to give his body a rest. Ticking inside his chest was a brand new heart, cloned in a Berkeley lab and ready to be used and abused. His heart attack a few days back wasn’t the first heart episode Sauria had experienced – the first episode was back in the 2060s – but it was by far the most severe.

The aerosSUV lifted into the air after Heidi got in next to him. A quick vitals scan told her that her owner was recovering rapidly, aided by the advances in modern medicine, fuck-tons of money and the fact that three of the world’s top five cardiologists were overseeing his recovery.

As the vehicle picked up speed, aeros whipped through the air outside the windows, gone in a flash. They were in the self-driven airlane, only available for aeros without drivers, which allowed them to travel at about 120 miles per hour. At this speed, it didn’t take them long to reach ExEx’s headquarters, located in Palo Alto aka Silicon Valley aka the place ubiquitous for both the social decline and social advancements of the twenty-first century.

Sauria had purposely placed the headquarters here due to its proximity to money – venture capitalists, SV Leeches – as well as the other ridiculously large tech companies that all called the valley home. Strange to think that a company which allowed people to film half-second videos and share them was valued at nearly a trillion dollars, but this type of ADHD shit was here to stay and people needed ways to waste time and advertisers needed ways to reach these people so they could all mutually waste money.

Compared to the GoogleFace offices, or the mahoosive Instagram building (that consisted of a giant holoscreen twenty stories tall which routinely flashed images being uploaded at such a rapid rate that it looked like a strobe light on crack), the ExEx Offices were rather modest.

They were situated in two remodeled World War II aircraft hangars that had been flipped on their ends and enhanced to provide an enormous cylindrical structure. Sauria had the modified hangars transported from Europe at a great cost to US taxpayers, who had unknowingly provided the funding for the move.

The street that led to ExEx’s headquarters was marked by a long line of statues, all modeled after the Statue of Liberty, each sixty feet tall with eternally flaming torches. Asian tourists in Donald Trump toupees purchased at LAX paid out the ass to come see the statues and take pictures in front of them, flashing obnoxious peace signs to signify the impending conclusion of the Asian Century.

An enormous sliding glass door shaped like the contiguous United States made up the entrance to the building. The front entrance also featured a huge waterfall which poured over a waterproof holoscreen that displayed the Ten Commandments and the Declaration of Independence. On Sundays, the fountain broadcasted a live feed from Joel Osteen’s Lakewood Church in Houston, Texas, which boasted a flock of nearly half a million sheeple yet had never paid a single tax dollar since its inception.

A GoogleFace message appeared on iNet.

Bill Bleak: Glad to see that you’re wearing a Dick Cheney hat you piece of fuck.

Sauria’s new heart twisted into a knot. Bill Bleak was the head of BlurYou, the man responsible for his heart attack at the hotel room back in LA.

Bill Bleak: Here’s a link to the live feed of the press conference I’m about to have regarding the Gene X Program. Enjoy.

Sauria squeezed Heidi’s hand.

“What is it, dear?” she asked, her face filling with concern.

“Bill … ” His fist came down on the door handle nearest to him, forcing the window to roll down. “Window up!” he shouted in a whiny voice.

Heidi’s eyes dilated. “Your new heart,” she reminded him.

Sauria was already placing a call to Lorem Ipsum over iNet.

“Lorem! Bleak is going public … ” He could hardly get the words out. “Public! Gene X! He’s going public … he’s … he’s … ”

“What? Public? Where are you?” Lorem asked.

“I’m almost at ExEx now,” he said, panting. “How quickly can you be here?”

“I’m already here,” Lorem said. “The staff was going to … umm … surprise you.”

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

Heidi pushed Sauria through a beautiful colonnade separating his private landing pad from the main offices of ExEx. They passed in front of the ExEx logo, which consisted of two letter E’s facing one another with an X between them and a small number two at the top right hand corner. The logo had been designed by the granddaughter of graphic artist who had designed the MTV logo, and it cost Sauria about as much as it would to wipe out AIDS in Haiti, but it was a small price to pay for a logo that good – and quality costs.

They entered an elevator, and quickly made their way to the first floor. Sliding glass doors opened and Sauria was rolled out into an enormous arcade, nearly ten stories tall. The ExEx staff stood all around him, arranged in arcs from the most important people in front to the night janitors in back. A huge banner hung from the ceiling that read: WELCOME BACK SAURIA. Lorem Ispum stood in front of the crowd, a nervous look on his face.

Sauria smiled grimly at his staff, many of whom he knew personally. Some had been with him since ExEx was just a startup trying to get ‘A’ round funding. They’d been with them through the market burp of ‘78 (due to the Arctic Wars), in which millions of Americans lost the money in their IRAs and nearly, nearly, got angry enough at Wall Street to actually try and change the system. Nearly.

Luckily for Wall Street chumps and companies like ExEx, most of the American public had become engrossed with a relationship gone sour between Brangelina’s granddaughter and Jayden Smith, who was at least sixty years her senior. The public had become divided on the fact that Jayden had recently divorced his seventh wife due to her unwillingness to accept the more implausible aspects of Scientology and the fact that Pitt and Jolie’s granddaughter, named Tiramisu, had come out against NIMA and the wall within a wall within a wall surrounded by a wall taxpayers funded along the Texas-Mexican border, which had little or no effect on America’s illegal immigration problem.

By the grace of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit and the Media (or at least the strong fart of R. Murdoch’s Global News Enhancement Team), most Americans had either forgotten or come to grips with the fact that Wall Street had, for the umpteenth time in the twenty-first century, bankrupted worldwide retirement funds due to gross negligence, poor pollute habits, limited stop measures, greed, the desire to fund Manhattan strippers’ college educations and the desire to drink fresh dollar slushies, which consisted of two thousand dollars in fresh hundreds blended up with kale, brown sugar and basil and served chilled, at a cost to tax payers of four thousand dollars because each dollar slushie cost two thousand dollars to make, in addition to the actual money used in the drink.

(Naturally, the cost of making a dollar slushie fell upon the tax payer due to the fact that most Wall Street firms billed the FCG for the beverages through a Charge the Government Program started by the Koch Dynasty to offset the costs of funding PACs.)

Of course, none of this was on Sauria’s mind as he looked out over his staff, the ‘worker bees’ as he liked to think of them.

“Thank you, thank you,” he finally said, waving his hand at them.

“We have cake!” one office worker yelled.

“Cake!” Someone shouted.

“Get the cake!”

“Cake! Cake! Cake!”

A pair of mahogany doors burst open and two workers rolled in a big-ass cake shaped like the American flag. A lump in the cake told Sauria this was no ordinary affair.

Before he could protest, a leg kicked out of the middle of the cake, flinging red white and blue icing everywhere. Another leg emerged and a woman, using skills that would be more appropriate for synchronized swimming, began to move her torso out of the middle of the cake.

“This is too much … ” he said with a tight grin.

Sauria: We need to get to a private Conference Room to see what Bleak is going to say.

Ipsum: Working on it. The performance should finish momentarily. Sorry for this – Marketing Department’s idea.

The woman continued to press her body out of the cake until she was in a full headstand, her hair and face still hidden by the thick flag cake. She was in a black one-piece swimsuit that capped off into a pair of boyshorts. Like a contortionist, her body curled forward, her feet planting on the stand holding the cake. She stood and slowly turned to face Sauria.

Impossible, he thought, she’s still being repaired after yesterday’s disaster!

The woman lowered herself from the table and walked towards him.

“Rinchi?” he asked, completely baffled.

Ipsum: A facial replica. Many of the newer MercSecure reps look up to Rinchi. We figured it would be a powerful face for our newest …

Sauria: What the fuck is going on here, Lorem? Is this …

Ipsum: Yes, she is the first viable Gene X prototype.

Sauria’s eyes opened and he tried his best not to let the shock show on his face.

Sauria: What do I call her?

Ipsum: She has asked to be called Meta.

Sauria: Meta?

Ipsum: Remember, she is both human and Humandroid. We decided to let her name herself.

Sauria: Why wasn’t I informed of this? I thought … I thought we were weeks away from unveiling the prototype!

Ipsum: You were recovering and she … she proved she was ready.

Sauria forced a grin on his face as Meta approached him.

“I apologize for the shocking entrance,” she said as they shook hands. “It was the Marketing Department’s idea.”

“What … what do they have to do with this?” he asked, somewhat regaining his composure.

“Well, marketing begins at home,” Meta said. “At least that is what they told me.”

Sauria looked up at her under the brim of his black hat. “Let’s get some clothes on you. I’ll deal with the Marketing Department later.” His eyes shot left to Heidi, who was scanning Meta with a frightened look on her face.

Sauria: Don’t worry, she isn’t human.

Heidi: Yes … yes she is.

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

“Nelly?”

Holy shit, Reader …

Nelly is lying in the bed next to me with her arm across my chest.

!!!

That’s not all, Yeshi’s on my right curled into me. (Keep your cool, Memito, keep your cool man!)

“What in the hell is going on?” I ask, glaring at the bright-ass sun that always tortures me in the morning.

Nelly on my left, Yeshi on my right – who could ask for anything more?

It’s too soon to tell, but I swear to God I’ll convert to even the most absurd religion if I somehow ended up having a threesome last night. I will do anything for this to be true, even become a Scientologist. There. I said it. Stick my ass in a mosque and shit a beard on my face! Give me a stylish hat and some twisted payot! Throw me in saffron robes and restrict my sexual activity unless it’s Tantric! Wake Joseph Smith from the dead and beat me over the head with some golden plates and magic spectacles!

I’d high-five myself if it weren’t for the fact that I was being pressed together by a Humandroid ladyboy-turned-lady on one side and the woman whose child I birthed on the other. (WTF to that BTW.)

The supercollider of contradictions can only spit one phrase as his life barrels out of control all around him and the room pixilates with each blink and his shallow breaths are the only thing keeping his little Grinch heart alive – life is a beautiful thing even if I didn’t get laid last night!

“Stop moving,” Nelly says, “I’m not ready to wake up.”

“Why are you in my bed?” I whisper. “Did we do it?”

Nelly slaps my cheek playfully. “Of course we didn’t have sex. We’re never going to have sex.”

Only a Sith deals in absolutes!

“Are you sure?” I ask after a vicious yawn, “because I’m not so sure.”

“I found you in the living room curled up on the couch crying and shivering. I brought you up here and decided to stay with you to make sure you were all right.” Nelly pushes away from me, taking some of the blanket, which wakes Yeshi.

As inconspicuously as possible, I reach my hand in the blanket and touch little Meme just to see if he is sticky.

“Quit touching yourself,” Yeshi says.

“And you!” I turn to her, releasing my family jewels. “When did you get here?”

My hand falls to her waist as she shifts away. I’m losing them!

“Ladies please…” I say, cringing at my headache. “Let’s return to the cuddle. The cuddle will save us all. The UN recommends a cuddle a day to keep starving countries fed and general morale high. Canada recently introduced prescription cuddling to better deal with the Jean Jacket Dilemma that is plaguing the nation. China recently changed their Two Child Policy to Two Cuddle Policy in an effort to make their people feel less repressed, even though they’ve technically been liberated. Fuck my brain hurts.”

Nelly laughs. “I can’t believe you licked the red snail.”

I twist my neck on my shoulders until it cracks. “I wanted to see if Dr. Hewman was shitting me about the hallucinatory properties of that snail. I can report back that he was not shitting me at all. Not in the least bit.”

(It feels like my body is being knifed from the inside. Never again.)

“So that’s what happened,” Yeshi says, turning back to me. Through my blurred vision I see her cute bangs and her cute eyes and her cute face. I just want to eat her up like a serial killer! My hand comes forward to cup her cheek. I mouth the words I love you and she laughs again.

“What’s so goddamn funny?”

“You licked a snail just to see if it was toxic?”

“Not exactly. I wanted to see how it compared to my favorite pollute mash-up, Loathing Hunter with an Ayahuasca topper. As you both know, I’m a pollute-snob and I wanted to be sure that there weren’t better ways to eradicate ear worms. People have done much stupider things … ”

Nelly turns back to me.

“Have you come back for a cuddle?” I ask.

“You wish,” she says, wiping her curly hair out of her face. Her bruised eye has started to heal and she’s looking as hella-fine as ever (for real, Reader, if I could transfer a picture back through time to you I would.) The stirring in my groin gets me thinking – is there a way to turn this into a ménage á trois? I mean, I’m already halfway there and in some reality, the three of us must be banging. Now I just need to reach that reality –

Nelly: Not happening.

Me: What’s not happening?

Nelly: You know.

I open my eyes and yawn. My breath must smell like snail’s ass.

Nelly: Your breath reeks.

Me: Well shit, give me a mint or something. I think the Good Doctor has some ListerCope Spicy Peppermint Armageddon Explosion in the pisser.

Nelly: You’ll need something stronger than that.

Yeshi inches closer to me. “How do you feel?” she asks, touching my face.

“I feel like someone shrunk my body and placed me in a fish tank full of pebbles then proceeded to shake me violently for three hours while forcing me to listen to de-autotuned Selena Gomez tracks that have been sped up to 350 BPM. After that, they stuck a funnel in my ear filling my head with two hundred bees. After that…”

“If I cuddle with you will you shut up?” Nelly asks.

“Does Pepe Le Pew shit in the woods?”

“Keep your breath away from me, turn the other way.”

“I can cut off my olfactory senses, if I need to,” Yeshi says.

“Ladies, ladies, please…” I say as Nelly snuggles up next to me. Fuck it – I’m happy as the Drunken Clam in Family Guy. I shut my trap and stare up at the ceiling, which isn’t interesting at all aside from a few tracers sperm-swimming across it. It’s time do a little fantasizing.

THIRTY-NINE∞

The crowd in front of Bill Bleak was as notable as it was manufactured – PhDs in GoogleFace Liking and Social Media Twattery; controversial musicians with obscene numbers of followers; good old fashioned journalists in tweed jackets and newsboy caps; famous Twitter stars blinking rapidly as they tweeted every stupid fucking thought that hiccupped in the empty space between their ears; a few choice celebutards, all supporters of movements and international programs that had no real effect on their livelihood (now known as the George Clooney Effect); hovering drone media cameras recording everything and recording everything that was recording everything just in case something was missed; a few lower level DemoCorp party members whom Bleak had paid to be there, distinguishable through their American flag lapels and fake smiles (created through a surgery involving the Zygomaticus major and minor, tying off the two face muscles to create a constant v-shaped smile). All in all, the press conference had cost Bleak enough money to pay off five thousand mortgages in the greater Detroit area, which he considered a small price to pay to bring down his new archenemy, Sauria.

“Thank you all for coming here today,” Bleak began. A bead of sweat appeared on the side of his forehead. “We have our own electric power and I’ve spent a considerable sum to make sure that the information I’m revealing today is enough to show the American people and the rest of the world just how formidable the corporate military industrial complex has become and what we could lose if we allow them to… fester.”

He pointed his thumbs at the screen behind him. A few cameras flashed.

“Before I show you details about a project called Gene X, I would like you to know a little more about how this project was started. Gene X first began in the 2070s through a partnership between Walliburton, the FCG and ExEx, a Fortune 100 Company that focuses on terrorism research amongst other things. Due to their unique, if not invasive way to plough through and process data, ExEx was essentially the brains behind the operation. Their sister company, MercSecure, was responsible for the logistics of the project. They bought the company that Dr. Richard Hewman founded – Hewman Tech – and used the data the company had amassed over the course of their extensive Humandroid research and development to formulate a design that would be part Humandroid and part human. Let me put that in layman’s terms for you: Gene X is a project looking to bridge the gap between Homo sapiens and Homo Machina.”

A few people in the audience raised their hands as the outline of a human appeared on the holoscreen behind Bleak. “We are all familiar with the somewhat derogatory term clean cut, which is reserved for someone who has had their lower half replaced with cybernetic prostheses – a cybernetic organism, or cyborg.”

The lower half of the model behind him morphed into a skeletal frame covered by e-skin while the upper half remained human. Organs appeared in the top half, the heart beating and the lungs expanding.

“More than clean cut, of course, means that other parts of the person’s body have been replaced as well.”

The left arm and the right wrist changed color, indicating that they were now cybernetic.

“So what then is Gene X, and what is it that they are seeking to do through this project?”

The picture disappeared and a new one formed that showed a fully developed brain with brainstem and a heart.

“The Gene X Program is funded by you, the taxpayers of the United States…”

The lights flickered.

“Nice try,” Bill Bleak said, looking directly at the camera. “As I was saying, Gene X was funded by you, the taxpayers of the United States. Take the lab-grown brain and heart of a human and lace the brain with cyberwire to program the higher brain functions as desired, both grown artificially in a lab. Implant the brain with electrodes to essentially regulate the brain, from motor responses to intellectual decisions. How much these brains are subject to external, perhaps even malicious control is yet unknown, but what is known is that these hybrid beings are able to make decisions that seem organic, human even.”

A brain appeared behind the Tech Icon and a stem grew from its bottom. A Humandroid skeleton materialized over the brain and the brainstem attached itself to the skeleton. A body formed around the brainstem and the heart, encased them in e-skin.

“Imagine a being with the unique thinking capacity of a human but with all the advantages of a Humandroid, from strength and endurance to rapid data analysis. Now imagine that thing being completely controllable. A true man-machine.”

A few in the audience gasped as the image multiplies on the holoscreen behind Bill Bleak.

“How difficult would it be to create an army of superhumans? What would happen to the normal humans if they were easily replicable in a laboratory and given a body with abnormal strength and enhanced abilities? Where does humanity begin and where does it end? The point is this – what ExEx, the FCG and its partners are working on is something that will adversely affect the future, something that will change the face of humanity a thousand times over. Isn’t it our right to know about this type of program? Shouldn’t we, the American people and the people of the world, have a say in these matters? Everyone here today will receive all the information I’ve been able to gather on the Gene X Program. Share it freely and readily.”

Hands came up and cameras flashed.

“That’s it for now, no further questions,” Bleak said, smiling at the camera closest to him. He knew that somewhere, possibly in a hospital bed, Sauria was watching the feed. This thought only increased the size of his smile.

“Over the next week, I will snowden more information on the programs that ExEx has been working on. For now, I want to allow plenty of time for the information I’ve unveiled today to spread. We must hold ExEx, the FCG, Walliburton and its partner companies accountable for these types of programs. They are funded by the American taxpayer and they are dangerous to ourselves, our children and our children’s children.”

FORTY∞

Grey clouds appeared in the sky outside Sauria’s office. The day was beginning to turn sour, but for Sauria, head of ExEx and a majority shareholder in MercSecure, the day had been terrible since he’d received the message from Bill Bleak just forty minutes ago. On the holoscreen in front of him was the feed from the Tech Icon’s recent press conference. Lorem Ipsum was with him, and looked like he’d just slammed his dick in the elevator door. He had loosened his hand-knit RepubCorp Club tie, was perspiring like a punctured porcine, and sat with his head in his hands.

“Damage control,” Sauria finally said, glaring bitterly at Bleak’s image. “We’ll need to give this everything we’ve got.”

Sauria (to his secretary): Hold all my calls.

His secretary: Even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?

Sauria: Yes, momentarily.

Lorem said, “Press releases are out and our Legal Team is already parsing the legalities of Bleak’s … ”

“Attack.”

“Slanderous attack.”

Sauria leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest. His eyes skipped from Lorem to Meta, who sat in a chair next to Heidi on the opposite side of the room. Heidi had been singularly uneasy since meeting Meta, evident in the peculiar way she kept glancing at her.

While Meta had similar features to Rinchi – or even worse, Yeshi – there was something entirely different about the way she held herself. It was a hair of a difference, but it was visible. It wasn’t something Sauria had ever seen before in an artificial being.

That’s because she is partially human. This thought struck him as odd. Was he essentially Dr. Frankenstein with a series of corporate buffers between him and his creation? How could he be sure what he created, or had funded the creation of, was not a monster? Grafting Humandroid prostheses to human beings wasn’t new – cyborgs proved this – but what sat before him, what sat before him now wearing a blue MercSecure uniform was something the world had never seen before, something with true global implications. And while Sauria knew he was no meglomanical dictator, no evil man willing to use his powers for subjugation or destruction, he knew that an army of these beings in the wrong hands would have far-reaching negative consequences. What if Kim Jun-Duche had a thousand? Or his counterpart, Vladimir Mudak, the head of the Russian FSB? What then?

Meta cleared her throat. “What are you thinking about?”

Sauria shook his head. “Nothing … nothing.”

“It’s obviously something … ”

“This is very serious, Meta,” Lorem said without looking at her. “Why are you smiling?”

“All of you worry too much,” she said, examining her fingernails.

“Humandroids should show respect when they are around their employers,” Heidi said curtly.

“I’m not a Humandroid.”

“Your body is the same as mine.”

“If you only had a brain.” Meta tapped the side of her head. “And a heart.”

“Which means you can die.”

Meta turned to Heidi and smiled. “Bring it, then.”

“Both of you cool it,” Lorem said, glancing anxiously at Sauria.

“Everyone out.” The Head of ExEx waved his hands in front of him. “I need some time to think this over.”

Heidi and Lorem instantly stood. Meta remained in her chair, picking at her nail. “I’m not ready to leave,” she said nonchalantly.

Ipsum (to Sauria): I can have her temporarily disabled. That chair is equipped with a Humstun device. I purposely had her sit there. I’m a little overwhelmed right now. Plus, I’m supposed to have another conference with the Saudis this afternoon about the death of Prince Al Omid.

Sauria: Relax, Lorem, I put you in charge of MercSecure because you can handle these things. A real CEO spits in the face of danger. Let me see what she has to say. Besides, if she tries anything, we can activate the Dl agent in her spine.

Ipsum: And if she’s killed, there’s always her brother. He hasn’t finished his training yet, but he will soon.

Sauria: Exactly. Let’s see what our little creation has to say. With the possibility of Meme being alive, as well as the issues stemming from yesterday’s imbroglio in Mexico, I’d like to handle the Bleak situation as quickly as possible.

“Sit back down, Lorem.” Sauria said.

“Anything from me?” Heidi asked.

“Yes, a zebra mocha latte if you will. No whip, as close to two hundred degrees as you can get it.”

Heidi nodded. “Mr. Ipsum?”

“Just some mineral water.”

Meta said, “I’ll have some mineral water too. I need to rehydrate.”

Heidi turned to the door.

“Well?” Sauria clasped his fingers together over his desk. His eyes jumped from the mesmerizing twitch of Heidi’s well-rounded derrière to Meta.

“You’ve spent an enormous amount of money creating me and you’ve already sent someone after Bill Bleak when he was in LA, have you not?”

“That’s classified.”

“So you have. Well in that case, I think it is time that you finally get your money’s worth.”

“Go on,” Sauria said.

“How ironic would it be if I personally eliminated your Bill Bleak problem?”

Sauria looked to Lorem.

“Think about it,” Meta said, her eyes back on her nails. “What would happen if I met Bleak? He is, after all, your primary nemesis, is he not? Unleash me. Let me do what I was built to do.”

FORTY-ONE∞

Sunglasses at breakfast to cover my swollen lids. Memito is dunzo for the day and the eggs haven’t even started sizzling yet. This is your brain on drugs, any questions?

Yes. Wait, no.

Mum’s the word professor – just watching my fine-ass belle not quite Michelle and she don’t care if I can speak French or not. Yeshi on my right, Nelly across from me with a baby in her arms, Noah in the kitchen getting his Chef Boyardee on, Dr. Hewman staring at me curiously and Tim7 with a scowl on his face – somehow I’ve found myself under the harsh light, being interrogated as to what happened last night.

“Personally, I blame the snail,” I say after a moment of much needed silence.

“Of course you do.”

“Hey, Yogi Bear,” I say to Sourpuss7, “isn’t all that spirituality shit you practice supposed to give you compassion?”

“I am compassionate,” Tim7 says, “when compassion is merited.”

“I’m not in the mood. It feels like someone took an acidic dump in my skull.”

Nelly chuckles and I shoot her a grouchy look.

“That’s one way to describe it,” Dr. Hewman says. “Well, I suppose we – Tim7 and I – should be honest with you.”

“When’s breakfast coming?” I call out. The scent of sizzling bacon reminds me that while hangovers do exist, there are still reasons to remain alive. I hate to say I’m queasy like Weezy after too much codeine, but if the addiction fits …

“Hold your horses, Meme,” Noah says from the kitchen.

The horses have escaped from the stable and I’m lying face down with a hoof print in my ass – these horses cannot be contained.

Dr. Hewman says, “I checked the snail, and he seems to be unaffected by last night’s festivities. Still, we should be honest with you … ”

“Good, I’m glad the snail’s doing better than I am,” I grumble.

“It’s just so irresponsible,” Tim7 says, “so human.”

Dr. Hewman smiles at the Humandroid. “We spoke about this.”

“Yeah, lighten up,” I say, squeezing Yeshi’s hand.

“Everyone relax,” the good doctor says. “Let’s just put it out on the table, shall we?”

We shan’t! I want to yell; instead I nibble at my bottom lip, staring at the doctor’s fuzzy beard through my tinted sunglasses.

“Meme, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I told you about that snail for a reason.”

“You did what?”

“If I hadn’t told you about the red snail, you would have never licked it.”

“Now that’s not exactly true … ” I say.

Yeshi squeezes my hand; I turn my head to her and force a smile. Not only am I starting to feel like a chump, I’m also starting to realize that I am much closer to the village idiot in this group than the man behind the curtain. Well, I never was the man behind the curtain, but still – it sucks realizing you suck as a human being.

“So – you wanted me to dose myself?” I ask.

Dr. Hewman looks at Tim7 and finally back to me. “I’m afraid so … the red snail has been used as a deterrent for alcohol addiction. The traditional healers of the island have used it numerous times to cure alcoholism. I thought, we thought … ”

“Holy shit – is this an intervention?” I’m suddenly offended. “You tried to … tried to … ”

“Not an intervention, but … ” Dr. Hewman shakes his head. “It was perhaps not as well-considered as it might have been, and I apologize.”

“I don’t apologize,” Tim7 says. “Only a … human would lick a snail to get intoxicated.”

The baby starts to sob. Damn you Rebel scum! The baby stops and my nerves return to their original positioned – derailed.

“Were you in on this too?” I ask Nelly (and possibly Rebel).

“No,” she says, “I just came downstairs and found you. That’s all.”

And cuddled me. I can’t forget that, but now isn’t the time for wet or dry dreams.

“So … ” Dr. Hewman asks. “How do you feel?”

“I … I could have died! What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

“No, you couldn’t have died. Red snail-licking has never killed no-one,” he malaprops with a slight smile.

“There are more important things happening right now,” says Tim7.

I take my sunglasses off and shake them at my former client. “Shut the fuck up for a minute. This is serious – you two took advantage of my … n”

Yeshi laughs softly.

“Hey!”

“Of your what, Dr. Lamar?” Tim7 says mockingly.

“Of my condition!”

It’s Nelly chuckling this time.

“Hey! This is serious; I have a serious problem here, people, and all you do is laugh?”

She shrugs. “Sorry, Meme.”

“Memito!” My arms come over my chest and I scowl at everyone around me. I’ve been bamboozled!

“We all have our problems,” Dr. Hewman says, “I just thought – and yes, perhaps it was ill- advised in retrospect, but I just thought this would help you in some way.”

“You think having a conversation with Papo the Bullet after my body has separated into an Asian and black version of myself is helpful?”

“What?” he asks, suddenly alarmed.

“Is that what happened?” asks Yeshi.

“Yes!”

“So that’s who you were talking to.” Nelly says, glancing to the doctor. Rebel uncurls a long, rolling belch that is surprising in its depth, volume and duration. Methinks that the NestleGer Non-GMO Kosher-Vegan-Halal Dairy-Free Simulated Imitation Ersatz Goat Milk Style Formula Supplement in the special Collector’s Limited Edition Licensed DisNike R2-D2 storage container that Drama Queen Noah made such a big production about obtaining may not particularly agree with little Rebelita.

“You met … Papo’s spirit?” Dr. Hewman runs his hand through his beard.

Tim7 shakes his head, rolls his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest.

“It wasn’t his spirit!”

I’m on the verge of tears now – never have I been so insulted. I’m hungry, dammit! Someone feed me!

“Yes, it was,” the doctor says. “He lived here for years … he died here of complications due to AIDS.”

Tim7 snorts, “This is ridiculous!”

“What did he say?” Dr. Hewman asks, completely intrigued.

“Well, I was going to tell the four of you until you essentially tricked me!”

“Look, Meme, I know that you’re upset at what we did, but we – I – did it with the best intentions.”

Damn the sizzling bacon in the kitchen. “Noah, hurry up!”

“I’m cooking as fast as I can,” he calls out to me.

“What did Papo tell you?” Dr. Hewman asks, his eyes narrowing on me.

“He told me … he told me to … ” I gulp.

“Yes?” Yeshi’s hand falls into my lap and she squeezes my thigh. Whilom enraged now hot to trot. White noise all around. Everyone is focusing on what I’m going to say next, even Rebel, who has since turned to me and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

“He told me … he told me to …” I try and remember what we talked about. “Well, we mostly spoke about him. Or me? Well, I can’t really remember much aside from something about a snake.”

“A snake?” Tim7 sighs audibly.

The epiphany I had the previous night comes to me in a flash. “That’s right! Papo was telling me to fight the system from within and I thought of something – an idea – that could totally work, but it won’t be easy.”

“What is it?” Tim7 asks.

“You want disruption, right?”

They nod.

“I disrupt, therefor I am!” I say excitedly. “I could totally disrupt Sauria and his little empire if … ”

“If what?” the good doctor asks.

“If I were Sauria.”

“If you were Sauria?” Nelly shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

“What if I forced a body-switch with Sauria, then I forced a data-switch. I’d essentially be in his fat ass body with his data. The sky’s the limit from that point. I become Sauria, body and data, and I … I … do what I do best at that point in bringing his empire down from the inside.”

No one says anything.

“Well?”

“A complete switch with Sauria … ” Nelly says. Baby Rebel says “Blorp!” and deposits slightly used designer baby formula on Nelly’s shoulder.

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying over here. Switch everything, body and data. BOOM! I am the fat cat and the rest is history.”

Dr. Hewman nods. “This a brilliant plan. Crazy, but brilliant! It will take some planning, but I have a good feeling about this. Tim7?”

“It is intriguing to say the least.”

“What can I say? I’m a fuck up, the poster child of the late twenty-first century, a product of the Me Squared Generation. I’m good at being me and if you … if we want disruption, I think me is all we need, I mean, I think Meme is all we need. Or, well, you get my point.”

“It does go along with our plan to disrupt the FCG and … ” Tim7 licks his teeth. “And it may prevent armed insurrection or civil war.”

“But how?” Yeshi asks. “How can you even get Meme in the vicinity of Sauria?”

“Heidi,” Dr. Hewman says, “his personal assistant. She’s been our informant for a few months now.”

FORTY-TWO∞

The MercSecure driver decreased his speed. His eyes flicked to his rearview mirror, to the woman sitting in the backseat. He summoned up some courage and asked, “You’re Rinchi, right?” He’d read about her on the messageboard that many of the employees traded information on.

The woman smiled. “No,” she coyly said. “Guess again.”

“Sorry, you look just like her,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve been told that before.”

With self-driven cars, it was pointless to send the driver all the way to Seattle. However, MercSecure had a contract with the FCG that guaranteed they would spend sixty percent of their transportation budget on human drivers. This stipulation came from a 2071 law sponsored by two RepubCorp senators from Texas seeking to reduce the number of jobs lost to automation. The law had passed, but only with the stipulation that the FCG would subsidize ninety percent of the added cost of having a human workforce, a win-win situation for everyone except the taxpayers.

The woman in the backseat wiped her bangs out of her face. “Tell me more about Rinchi.”

“She’s a badass,” the driver said excitedly. “Well, I shouldn’t say it like that, but she is one of the newest reps and she already moved up thirty places. She and Keva – MercSecure’s top rep – went at it, and Rinchi even cut her tongue out – or cut her tongue out back! Let me put this in context – supposedly, Keva takes the tongues of her enemies as a trophy or something, and she took Rinchi’s tongue when they first met, just because … well, who knows, right? Anyhoo, when their mission was over, Rinchi jumped Keva and cut her tongue out. Sorry, I don’t mean to go on about it, but I’m a fan. I get a little worked up over this stuff.”

“I see.”

“Actually, there are a lot of rumors and hearsay about the two of them, but some of it’s definitely true. For example, another driver I know was coming back from a drop-off and says that they were both lying in the parking lot right out in front of Headquarters. They’d literally beaten the shit … oops, s’cuse me, ma’am … beaten each other to death, but he claims they were holding hands or something when he found them.”

“They sound like lovers.” The woman closed her eyes briefly. “Not a lot of information about either on the server, aside from the fact that Rinchi is now in recovery.”

“I heard something went down in Mexico … ” The driver dropped into the lowest airlane. He was a few miles away from their destination now. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Meta,” the woman said.

“Nice, and why are you going to Seattle? Or is that classified?”

She shrugged. “It is classified, but I’ll tell you anyways. I’m going to pay a visit to an old friend and I’ll need your help.”

“My help?”

Meta smiled. “Just let me know when we are descending into the BlurYou office campus, okay?”

“You got it! You know, and I’m sorry to be bothering you, you are one of the nicest reps I’ve met in a long time.”

“Really? What’s your name?”

“George.”

“Thanks for saying that, George.”

_∞_

“I’m glad to see you recovering,” Bill Bleak said to Max, the South African Security Detail Team Leader who’d been the only survivor of the rooftop shoot-out when the MercSecure reps had assaulted Bleak in LA. He remembered the face of the Humandroid who had taken him hostage – Asian – but that was about all the info he had. This was why he was talking to Max; he’d come face-to-face with all of the MercSecure criminals. He’d be the one to know.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Bleak,” Max said. “I’m experiencing significant discomfort, even with the meds, and there is one person who is responsible.”

“Well, at least you’re alive.”

“Alive with pain isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Max laughed, his deep voice resonating over the iNet call. His face suddenly hardened. “Keva did this to me. She’s MercSecure’s number one rep.”

“Who else was on the rooftop? As you know my memory … ”

“Two other women. One was Asian.”

Bleak nodded. “That’s the one who held me hostage – a Humandroid.”

“I’ve never seen her or the other one before.”

“How long until you fully recover?” Bleak asked.

“It should be another week or so. After that, I’ll need some physical therapy, but that shouldn’t take long. Cybernetic Limb Technology has advanced considerably since the last time I had something replaced.”

“Good. Well once you’re recovered, I’d like to hire you and a team of your choice to find and finish off this Keva and her two associates – especially the Asian Humandroid. Standard contract rates, and a fifty percent bonus “

Max laughed. “You don’t have to pay me for that.”

“Well, your team may not feel the same way.”

A red light blinked above Bleak’s door. Blast shutters rolled down over his windows.

“Something”s happening, I’ll speak to you soon.”

His secretary cut in on his iNet call. “Sir! There has been a possible hostile incident in the parking lot! We are initiating lockdown now.”

His door popped open. His heavily armed and armored eight-person security detail swarmed in. Six of them encircled his desk and faced outboard, weapons up and ready. The team leader and her assistant held Bleak’s personal security gear. “What is going on!?” Bleak shouted from behind his desk.

“An aeros crashed into the parking lot, sir,” the team leader said hurriedly.

“An aeros did what?”

“Please stand, Mr. Bleak, arms straight out from your sides.”

He stood and the team leader got him into his ceramic matrix nano-tube body armor in a matter of seconds; the assistant gently but firmly slapped on his mist mask and helmet.

“Will someone please tell me what the FUCK is going on in the parking lot?”

“An emergency, sir,” the leader said. “We’re going to move you down to the basement shelter.”

“Take me to the parking lot!” Bleak ordered. “Now!”

“Sir, protocol states … ”

“Who pays you? Me or protocol? Captain, take me to the parking lot, and that’s an order!”

“Very well sir,” the woman huffed, “but under protest.”

“Noted. Let’s go.”

FORTY-THREE∞

Armored, masked and helmeted, Bill Bleak stood in the center of his very unhappy security detail. They were in the main lobby of the BlurYou building in Seattle, separated from the parking lot by a motoglass door. The rest of BlurYou was locked down and deserted; the employees had fled to the EOTWAWKI bunker in the basement in record time.

“Mr. Bleak, I don’t think … ”

“TAKE me to the goddamn parking lot. That’s an order!”

The Assistant Team Leader and five of the detail fanned out of the door and formed a cordon. Bleak could see a column of smoke over their heads. Whatever had happened was close.

The Team Leader opened the door and yelled, “Two coming out!” as she and Bleak exited the building. “Stick close, sir. Follow me.” The last team member took a knee inside the door as the six outside folded around Bleak and the Captain.

“Contact front!” the leading team member shouted.

“HALT! HANDS UP OR WE WILL FIRE!”

“Contact?” Bleak asked. “A person?”

“A woman,” the security team leader said.

“Let me see!” Bleak pushed through them and saw a woman who looked exactly like the MercSecure droid who’d assaulted him in LA. She stood in front of a black MercSecure aeros that had crashed into some of the employees’aeros in the parking lot. Her knees were slightly splayed and her hands were pressed against her temples, as if she had a pounding headache.

“Holy SHIT! Shoot her!” Bleak yelled hoarsely. “SHOOT HER NOW!”

“No! Don’t shoot, PLEASE!” The woman shouted. “I’m Gene X … I’m … ” She fell to her knees. “Please, please don’t shoot me. Bill Bleak! I’m here for Bill Bleak! GENE X!”

“Approach her cautiously!” Bleak’s mind raced back and forth like a Richard Gere Gerbil ® up a celebutard’s butt. Did she say Gene X? “Who has ocular enhancements!?”

“I do, sir,” another guard said.

“Scan her!”

The guard did as instructed; his mouth dropped open and he lowered his weapon.

“What is it!?” Bleak asked, jittery with anticipation.

“She’s … both.”

“I’m Meta,” the woman said, raising her hands over her head.

“Step aside,” Bleak told his men.

“But sir … ” said the guard with the ocs.

The team leader caught his eye, shook her head slightly, pointed to her eyes with two fingers and then described a horizontal circle with her pointer finger. Watch all around.

Bleak pushed through them and nearly tripped over his own feet. “You’re … the results of the Gene X Project?” he asked. Bleak knew instantly that she wasn’t Rinchi. The woman didn’t have the subtle tells of a Humandroid, nor had her eyes dilated. There was something completely human about her movement.

“What happened?” Bleak asked.

“I need your help!” Meta said, sobbing lightly.

A crying Humandroid? She’s not a Humandroid!

“Help?” he asked, moving closer to her. “What do you mean?”

“I need you to take the DL agent out of my back. They’ll kill me! They’ll kill me! I’ve disconnected from iNet, but they can still detonate the DL agent.”

“Who?”

“MercSecure!” she cried. “I broke free, I stole the aeros … had to kill the driver when he tried to stop me … ” Meta nodded over her shoulder at the smoking vehicle.

“And you came here? Why?”

“I saw your press conference,” Meta said defiantly. Her eyes flashed with fury. “I knew that you would help me. I knew you would understand. I have no one else to turn to but you.”

Bleak nodded, his chest filling with the pride of being a hero, of being someone’s last resort. His eyes blinked shut and he sent a message to his assistant.

Bleak: Contact Dr. Palmer at the Seattle Institute of Biomimetic Sciences. He’ll know what to do.

His voice hardened as he said, “Guards form a perimeter! We’re taking her to the hospital!”

FORTY-FOUR∞

“So you guys have someone on the inside?” I asked Tim7.

Memito here. Yes, this is still my story, although it has ballooned into something else entirely. I guess that’s just the way the psyche crumbles.

“Yes, Sauria’s personal assistant droid, Heidi. This is how we knew about the tracking device they attached to your aeros transport.”

“Why doesn’t she show us her video feed?”

“She doesn’t want to appear suspicious in any way,” he said. “She updates me in batches through a language we invented.”

“A language? That’s right, Yeshi told me about this.”

“Heidi sends one update a day, unless it is something urgent, like the tracking beacon.”

Breakfast finally comes – toast with bacon and eggs and cream cheese. Thank God for food. I almost take my sunglasses off to eat (it’s a principles thing) but I decide against it. I’d rather keep my pink eyes to myself for the time being.

Tim7 continues while I stuff my face. “We’ve thought about having Heidi kill Sauria, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. There is a Board of Directors with lists of potential candidates to replace him. Having seen these lists, Sauria may be the least evil out of all of them. Hence our mission to disrupt, rather than overt opposition.” The way Tim7 says this hints that part of him would like to overtly oppose Sauria right into the grave, but at the same time, he knows better.

“So you guys didn’t dose me just to think of a way to disrupt, did you?” I ask with my mouthful.

Dr. Hewman laughs. “No! And we didn’t dose you, you dosed yourself.”

“Putting a bowl of M&Ms in front of a fat kid and telling him he can’t eat them is sort of fucked up.”

“Fair enough,” the good doctor says, “but the reason the red snail was placed where it was placed was more about your pollute addiction, rather than a strategy. That being said, your idea of switching with Sauria is brilliant. It needs some work, but it is brilliant.”

“Did you really think it would cure me?” I ask. Noah brings out a pot of coffee. He’s wearing a frilly apron and an Easter-y cravat, looking dandier than Wanking Willy Wonka at Studio 54.

“It worked for me,” Dr. Hewman said.

“You were into pollutes?”

“Pollute cigarettes. I tried the red snail cure and I haven’t smoked one since.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” I say, grinning at Nelly. “But I’m not exactly cured. Or at least I don’t feel cured. Let’s put it this way, if someone busted out some BlackAgua USA Morning Body Dump, I’d be all over that shit right about now. All over it.

Tim7 rolls his eyes and shakes his head in a very credible what a fucking surprise gesture.

“Hold on lil’ Timmy,” I say, sipping my coffee. “That being said, I’m totally committed now. I may partake from time to time, but not if it jeopardizes the mission in any way. I’m not a cured man; I am a changed man.”

Tim7’s expression changes just enough to convey what a buncha bullshit. (I am moved to observe that he’s picked up quite a repertoire of human gestures and expressions, and that the Dr. Lamar part of me is just delighted – he really has come a long way.)

“As I was saying, I’m committed and I’ll try and watch my pollute partaking.”

Dr. Hewman says, “That’s fine, Meme.”

Nelly asks, “So we’re going to LA?”

“I miss LA!” Noah shouts from the kitchen. “The valley is part of my soul!”

While Noah blabbers on about the best places to shop in LA, I quickly wolf down my breakfast sandwich.

Me: Damn, I wish you could eat this. It’s better than crack!

Yeshi: You smoked crack?

Me: Of course not. I don’t do hard drugs. How dare you stereotype me!

Yeshi: Haha. :-p

“Noah! Another sandwich,” I say with a portion of the old sandwich still in my mouth.

“Coming right up, Meme.”

“Memito!”

Dr. Hewman says. “This operation may take a couple of weeks to set up. Once it is planned, I suggest leaving Noah and the baby here, and the three of you going to LA.” He looks from Yeshi to Nelly to yours truly – the former man, the killer nymph, the addict.

“Got it,” Nelly says, finishing her coffee.

“And no killing Sauria like you did Antimeria,” Tim7 tells her. “That complicated things considerably this time. If the three of you didn’t already know, Manuel is dead and Rinchi has been recovered.”

I nearly drop my cup. “Manuel is dead?”

“Fed to his own pit bulls,” Tim7 says in a low voice. “What a way to go … ”

I nearly take off my sunglasses and snap them in half. Nearly. While Manuel and I weren’t exactly homeboys, he was my amigo, and he did do me the service of getting me the fuck out of Dodge when shit was going down. I’ll need to pour a forty out on the curb for him later.

“Rinchi has been recovered?” Yeshi asks.

“Yes and she’s being repaired now,” Tim7 says. “I’ll transfer you all the details I have on her rescue. They are … interesting to say the least.”

Dr. Hewman says, “The point remains – once Meme has made the switch with Sauria, we need to keep the big man alive. If we can actually pull this off, we’ll need to play by the books. Having Sauria could provide leverage later. No winging it, no screw ups.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t kill him,” Yeshi says, nodding at Nelly. “I’ll also provide as much protection as possible.”

“I won’t kill him. Antimeria and I had some … some … issues to work through, issues that could only be dealt with by me killing him.” She kisses baby Rebel on the forehead, as if this sweet motherly gesture can cover the fact that she killed her baby’s sperm donor.

“So what do we do until then?” I ask. “It has been a pretty … pretty fucktaculous last couple of weeks.”

“Fucktaculous?” Tim7 asks.

“It’s the first word that came to me,” I tell him. “What I’m trying to say is that we need a break. Yeshi, Nelly, Noah, Rebel and … Okay, that’s everyone. Yes, a break.”

Dr. Hewman clasps his hands together. “Great, relax and enjoy Cuba; this will give us some time to work on the logistics of all this.”

I smile. “Good, I’m glad we cleared that up. I’d like to start my vacation by getting a tan. Ogawa’s skin is way too pale for my tastes.”

Nelly shakes her head.

“What? A day at the beach never hurt anyone. You in?”

“Sure, Meme,” she says. “Sure.”

FORTY-FIVE∞

“It’s working.” Lorem Ipsum paced back and forth in front of Sauria’s desk. Heidi stood in the corner, her hands behind her back. She had unbuttoned the top buttons on her blouse, revealing her well-filled black lace bra.

“This is genius!” Sauria said. “I can’t believe Meta came up with this, and that it’s working! You see, Lorem? Risks pay off!”

A video feed from BlurYou”s parking lot was playing on the holoscreen. It showed the crashed aeros being cleaned up and the MercSecure driver’s remains neatly lying in a body bag.

“I wonder when she’ll reactivate her iNet feed,” Lorem asked.

“Not for a while,” Sauria said. “She wants to make sure it seems as authentic as possible. Bleak may be able to tell if she’s trying to contact someone. She needs to get on his good side.”

While Sauria still hadn’t dealt with the Anonymouses? Anonymi? The first Anonymous and then the second one? he was about to deliver a punishing blow to Bleak, whose death needed to look like an accident. Of course, this was also one of Meta’s plans, and what she planned to do would be easier to pull off in a hospital anyway.

“Would either of you like a beverage?” Heidi asked, springing into action.

“Sure.” Sauria relaxed into his chair. “Just cucumber water for me. Make sure they take the skin off the cucumber. You know it gives me indigestion.”

“Mr. Ipsum?”

“Black coffee with two inches of heavy cream and nutmeg stirred in. Oh, and would you bring it in a non-recyclable styrofoam cup? The recycled cups leave a funny aftertaste and they don’t keep the coffee hot.”

“No problem,” Heidi said as she stepped out of the room.

_∞_

Bill Bleak was in the back of an ambulance holding Meta’s hand.

The hybrid being was laid out on a stretcher, her vitals projected onto a floating holoscreen. The vehicle hurtled through the air in a special airlane designated for emergency vehicles, its sirens shrieking.

His security detail had tried to stop him from getting in the vehicle. After all, if her DL agent detonated, the explosion might kill him too. This hadn’t fazed the Tech Icon. He knew she wasn’t going to kill him; he knew that the woman in front of him – an actual mix between a human and a Humandroid – was being honest. Still, two members of Bleak’s security detail sat with him, just in case they were needed.

“Hurry!” Bleak shouted to the driver.

“He’s going as fast as the vehicle allows,” one of the security guards said. He was a lanky man with a small head and prominent neck tattoos.

Bleak scowled. The stupid fuck. He really needed to hire better security, but Pinkerton Security was the only company that compared to MercSecure, which he couldn’t hire on principle. He felt much more protected when South African Max was around, but it would be a while before Max was fit for duty again. Still, Bleak would pay him well for eliminating Keva.

One step at a time, Bill, he glanced down at the exquisite specimen in front of him.

“How are you?” he asked Meta, squeezing her hand. God, it feels so real!

“Headache,” she said with a faint smile.

Bleak had already separated her face from the face of the Humandroid who’d attacked him. That droid was vile, evil, programmed to kill indiscriminately. Who knew what would have happened if his security detail hadn’t come for him!

The hybrid being lying on the stretcher in front of him was different. She was real; Bleak didn’t doubt her authenticity for a second. She had a human heart and a human brain – and human courage.

While what the FCG and Sauria had done was evil, there was something totally engrossing about it, totally impressive. Of course he would never admit this, but all it took was one glance at the woman to remind him just how ingenious humankind was. Money and evil fund more masterpieces than most people could even fathom. Still, progress was progress.

The aeros began to descend.

“We’re almost there,” tattoo neck observed.

“Shut up!” Bleak hissed at the man. “She needs … she needs rest.”

A smile formed on Meta’s face. “Thanks, Mr. Bleak.”

“Please, call me Bill.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

FORTY-SIX∞

Later that day.

Bill Bleak was a ‘breakfast for dinner’ kind of guy, hence the orange juice and bagel and lox sitting on a metal tray in front of him next to a cardboard delivery package plastered with recycling symbols. It was dinnertime – EBAYmazon food delivery drones never failed.

A smiling Doctor Palmer, the expert in Humandroid physiology, burst through the swiveling door.

“Good news?” Bleak asked as he set his bagel down.

“Yes, we removed the DL agent and rendered it safe.”

“Never mind that,” Bleak said, “how is she? How is Meta?”

“She’s fine.” The doctor’s brow furrowed. “I must be honest with you – I’ve never seen anything like this before, I mean how they did this … it is groundbreaking, Mr. Bleak. Truly stunning. It deserves further study.”

“She’s not an it, she’s a she! Is she conscious now? Is she able to speak?”

“Meta is fine. Like a Humandroid, she has tactile perception but doesn’t perceive pain as such, and they’ve also flashed the pain receptors in her brain, so she’s completely immune to pain.”

“I see.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a few days to perform some scans and other tests. I still have yet to figure out how they managed to merge human and Humandroid in such a clever way. When I was at Stanford, I took a theory class on the conversion of the two species, but most of this was in relation to people with cybernetic enhancements–”

“Sorry to cut you off, Doctor,” Bleak said, “but she’s going home with me tonight. I’ve already arranged a place for her to stay. She’s already a target and I’d prefer that she not be at a hospital with civilians around.”

“But – ”

“Doctor, that will be enough. Can I see her now?”

The doctor looked very seriously at Bleak for a moment.

“Well?”

“Right this way, Mr. Bleak.”

_∞_

“Still no word on Meta?” Heidi asked. She had just returned to Sauria’s office with Connard Branleur. Connard was in a blue suit with subtle pinstripes, dapper as ever.

“Nothing,” Sauria said.

Branleur sat, already having been prepped on the matter at hand. He had come from a California Ethics Committee meeting and still had his Business Executives for National Security pin on his lapel. “Have you checked all hospital feeds in the area?” he asked.

Lorem nodded. His shirt was now untucked and his tie loosened. “ExEx has run everything it can possibly get its hands on.”

“Well surely she had a hospital that she was planning to go to,” Branleur said.

“She did, but she didn’t go there.”

“Did you follow the ambulance?” he asked.

Sauria shook his head. “Meta was supposed to release a few B-drones as soon as she… landed. She didn’t, and now we have no idea where she is. Like Lorem said, we’re trying to locate her.”

“Has she gone rogue?”

“I sure as hell hope not.” Sauria placed his hands over his bulging belly. “Heidi,” he said to his personal assistant and sex toy, “will you place an order for Chinese takeout.”

“Of course,” she said. “What would you like?”

He looked from Lorem to Branleur.

“I’ll have anything,” Lorem said. “Extra MSG if possible, and see if they can add some of the stabilized metallic sodium granules – those are yummy and crunchy.”

“Not hungry,” was Branleur’s reply.

“Just make it the usual then.”

“Right.” Heidi stepped out of the room.

“Such a pleasant droid,” Branleur told Sauria.

“You really should get yourself one; I’d prefer her over a wife any day.”

“We’ll see. No sense in riling up the little woman unnecessarily. Back to Meta – how long until you activate the DL agent?”

Lorem said. “It is undecided. We have to see what Bleak does next.”

“What if – ”

“No hypotheticals,” Sauria said, waving his hand in front of him. “This will work, dammit. For some reason, I trust Meta. Let’s hope I’m right.”

FORTY-SEVEN∞

While an aeros could descend into most places and land, secure areas were protected by Electron Scrambling Shields that prevented unauthorized vehicles from landing. Russell, Bleak’s driver, knew that the billionaire preferred entering his estate on Mercer Island through its massive iron gate, which was why he landed the aeros outside the compound perimeter to drive up the ramped entranceway, lined with massive oak trees.

“As I said, you’ll be staying in my guesthouse tonight.”

“And MercSecure … they can’t find me here?”

The lights from his driveway splashed across her face, adding a moving arc of light to the interior of the vehicle. There was true fear in Meta’s eyes, something Bleak completely identified with. He reached out and touched her arm.

“You’ll be safe here, don’t worry. You’ll see when we enter.”

The gate creaked opened and the aeros drove forward. Armed and armored security agents with Pinkerton Security shoulder patches manned the Entry Control Point. One was smoking a pollute cigarette.

“Roll down the window.” Bleak told his driver. The Tech Icon and Rescuer of Damsels in Distress shrieked like a maiden aunt with a rodent surplus. “You! Yes, you! Your contract states that you will not smoke on my property, so Put That Shit Out NOW!”

The security guard looked at Bill Bleak with a carefully neutral expression, and waited until Bleak opened his mouth to shriek again before he took one last drag. With that, he dropped the pollute cigarette and ground it out under his combat boot on the hand-laid Carrara Marble driveway pavers.

“DO NOT LEAVE THAT ON MY DRIVEWAY! I’ll dock your pay, dammit!”

Meta chuckled.

“What?” Bleak asked as the window rolled up. He regained his cool by running his hand over his mouth.

“Humans are so … ”

“So what?”

“Particular. I think that’s what I like about them. A Humandroid wouldn’t care about the guard’s habit.”

“And you?” Bleak asked as the aeros moved into the first slot of his twenty-one car garage.

“I’ve never tried a pollute cigarette so I don’t really know my preference on it.”

“How long have you … um … ”

“Have I what?”

“How long have you been alive?” He shook his head. “I know that’s a stupid question, but you get what I mean.”

“I’ve been alive for about a month. My body was created before my personality was quickened, so that’s been alive a bit longer. And my face was recently altered to resemble a MercSecure rep known as Rinchi.”

“Rinchi?” Bleak’s eyes lit up. “So that’s her name.”

“You know her?”

“We are … acquainted,” Bleak snarled.

“I see,” Meta said. When the Tech Icon didn’t say anything else, she continued speaking. “Of course, I’ve been given a century’s worth of data, but yes, to get to the original point of your question, there are many things I haven’t tried. After all, I’m only a month old.” She squeezed his hand, grazed her finger against his palm.

Bleak swallowed hard, forgetting Rinchi. “Would you like to come in and see my place? I mean, you can also go straight to the guesthouse if that’s what you’d prefer. It’s up to you, of course.”

Something about Meta’s perceived innocence turned him on. Blabbering like an idiot would be something he would need to control.

“I’d love to,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, I feel a second wind coming on. Is that how you say that?”

He laughed, “It is.”

FORTY-EIGHT∞

Meta sat in Bill Bleak’s living room, one leg crossed over the other. The place was expansive – twenty-foot ceilings, everything minimal and somehow metallic, the couch a single strip of cushion without a back directly in front of a floor-to-ceiling holoscreen. Baller crib status had been achieved.

“Do you mind?” Bill Bleak asked as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“Please,” Meta said. “Enjoy yourself.”

“You want anything?”

“Just water. I still have a slight headache.”

He returned from the kitchen with a bottle of mineral water and Meta drank it down. This was one characteristic she had in common with Humandroids, Bleak noted.

“Sit next to me,” she said, tapping her fingers on the couch. Bleak indulged. He was now centimeters away from the hybrid being, holding a glass of wine by its stem and not very successfully trying to keep his cool.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “I’ve never seen someone recover from a surgical procedure so quickly.”

“You’ve never seen someone like me,” she reminded him as she touched her lips.

“No, I haven’t.” Bleak swirled his glass of wine, took a sip.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“About you?”

“Yes.”

“I think you are … ” His cheeks reddened. “I think you are stunning, but part of me is afraid of what you are.”

“Afraid?” Meta brought her hand to her mouth.

“Don’t get me wrong. By afraid I mean … afraid for humanity because of what you are. You are a feat of human ingenuity and if … you could … ”

“I could what?” she asked bending towards him.

“Your species could replace humans,” he finally said after another sip of his wine. “That’s what frightens me about you. Not you in particular, the implications of what you are. Humans have this way of replacing everything around them as they strive for absolute convenience. You are part human, at least the portions of you that count.”

“And?” She blinked slowly, intimately.

“What if others like you, human-Humandroid hybrids, do the same? What if you also strive for absolute convenience? What if you don’t need us to make you? It isn’t a stretch to say humans have illogically fucked this world solely to gain power over one another and the world itself. What happens next?”

“And what makes you think that we wouldn’t do the same, illogically fuck the world?” she asked, as she innocuously placed her hand on his arm.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know.

Her eyes dilated. It was the first time Bleak had seen her do that.

“Scanning me?” he asked almost shyly.

“You’re aroused,” she said with cold, clinical certainty. “I’m just observing it.”

“Sorry,” he said, turning away from her, “ignore it. I’m just … I’m just attracted to you. It’s a human thing, ignore it. We don’t have on/off switches. Besides, that’s not why I brought you here.”

“Are you sure?” she asked coyly.

Bleak took a nervous sip of his wine. “I just want … I just want to protect you, that’s all.”

“That’s sweet,” Meta said as she looked across the room. “Are those your golf clubs over there?”

“Yes, but I hardly have time these days. Running a successful company has ruined my game!”

“May I see them?” Meta stood before he could answer.

Bleak watched as she moved over to the clubs, her ass swaying ever-so-slightly. His hands came up and he quickly rubbed his eyes. Get it together, he told himself. Behave.

“Are these expensive?” Meta asked as she unzipped a leather pouch covering a four iron.

“Yes!” he said, standing. “They were my father’s clubs. He passed on … um died … recently.”

“Can you show me how to swing it?” she asked, arching her back towards him. “I’ve never tried this before.”

Bleak was behind her seconds later. “Is this okay?”

“It’s fine,” she said over her shoulder. “I want to learn from an expert.” She shuffled back into his waiting arms. Electricity! The throbbing in Bleak’s lower half quickly rippled through him. Focus, man!

“It’s like this,” he said, breathing deeply. He brought her arms back. “Change your stance slightly, your front foot just a little ahead of the ball. There. Check your alignment, bend your knees just a hair more… good.” He helped her swing the club. “Good, Meta, just like that.”

“Wow, you’re talented, Bill.”

She turned to him.

“No!” he laughed awkwardly. “I’m not so good; nothing to write home about.”

“We’re at your home,” she said softly.

“That we are … ”

The proximity between them was driving Bleak bananas. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to resist pulling her into his arms.

Bill Bleak never saw it coming.

With the speed and precision of Fast Eddy Felson sinking the eight-ball, Meta jammed the butt of the four iron into Bleak’s solar plexus. He doubled over as the air whoofed out of him, and Meta very precisely rabbit-punched him in the back of the neck.

Bleak was on his knees in front of her now, seeing stars and desperately trying to catch his breath. “W-what are you doing!?” he yelped. “STOP!”

“Shhhhh … ”

Meta hooked the four iron under his chin and pulled him onto his back. She straddled him, crouched down, and pinned his shoulders to the floor with her knees. Gripping his throat with one hand, she applied pressure as she performed a vitals scan. Her programming in the generation, application and utilization of fear in human subjects had fascinated her; she found that observing it live and under field conditions more engrossing still.

“Don’t … ” Bleak sobbed. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why did you trust me?” she asked as she ceased her scan and her pupils contracted.

“Because … I thought … ”

“You thought what?”

“I thought … you were beautiful.” He choked back a sob and she pressed harder. “I’m an idiot,” Bleak whispered as snot trickled out of his nose

“Why do they want me to kill you anyway?” Meta asked suddenly, peering down at him. “Is it because you leaked information about the Gene X Project? Or is it something else?”

“Something else … ” he said, his voice a thin line. “The public will forget the Gene X Project in a week unless I pay to constantly remind them.”

“What else is it then? I’d like to know before I kill you.”

“Sauria and I have a history. He tried … he tried to have me killed!”

“Why?”

“Because … ” His eyes filled with life. “Because I don’t believe in what he is doing. I want transparency – I’m against the fact that he can murder by proxy, and because he’s rich and powerful and well-connected that somehow makes it all legal. I’m trying to protect my own species here! This … this is why he sent you after me!”

“They sent me after you for revenge?”

“Yes, surely you knew this.”

“I knew portions,” she admitted, “but hearing it from your mouth changes things in a way.”

“It does?” Bleak asked, his lips quivering.

“It does.” Meta released her grip on his throat and gracefully rose to her feet.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked her. His throat was raw and scratchy, the back of his head really, really hurt, and his crotch felt all warm and squishy. Somewhere way down deep, he wondered if maybe a pretty face, long shapely legs, and a big rack might not actually be reliable criteria for trust; he wondered if he’d live long enough to benefit from this sudden spark of insight.

“I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want to do, I think.” Meta turned to exit with the club in her hand.

“Wait!” Bleak called after her. “Please! Please come back.”

She approached him again with his four iron at her side. Bleak reached out and touched her shin.

“They’ll kill you,” he said, looking up at her with bewildered eyes.

“Who?”

“They’ll kill you and I … ” He let go of her, hating himself for caring; ashamed of his confession. “I don’t want you to die.”

“Who’ll kill me?”

Bleak’s voice grew stronger. “There’s an entire twenty-man team of Pinkertons out there. If they don’t get to you, MercSecure will. They’ll send … ”

“Who?”

Keva. Rinchi. Whatever was in store for Meta, it wouldn’t be pretty.

“They’ll send someone to hunt you down, or a team of someones. Please, Meta, stay here with me. I’ll protect you. I will do … anything to help you.”

She crouched down in front of him again. “Why do you care about me?”

“I’ve never met anyone like you.”

She smiled; a warm, human, genuine smile. “No one has ever met anyone like me. I thought we went over this.”

“I want to protect you.”

“Even though I attacked you?”

“Yes.” He used his elbows to prop himself up. “Please.”

Meta kissed her fingertip and touched the center of his forehead. “You’re sweet.”

“So you’ll stay?” he asked, letting out an excited gasp.

Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. “I need to think this through,” she finally said.

“They’ll kill you outside. They’ve been instructed not to let you leave, even if I tell them to.”

“I’m not worried about them.” Her eyes darted to the club. Daddy Bleak’s four iron and I will do just fine. You can afford another security detail, can’t you?”

“I can.”

“Good.” She stood. “Please don’t alert anyone. Just let me handle the men outside. I’ll need to borrow one of your vehicles. Do you have an aeroscycle?”

“Yes, three.”

She took a few steps towards the front door. “Good, I’ve always wanted to ride one of those.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?” Meta asked, turning to him.

“Will I ever … ever see you again?”

“That really depends, Bill,” she said, “on how easily you let me escape.”

“I’ll play dead,” he said. “I’ll do anything for you! Anything! You know how to contact me … please … please don’t hesitate. Contact me! Anything you need, or want. Money, weapons – I’ll get it for you.”

“We’ll be in touch then,” she said. “For now, I need some time to think.”

“Where are you going?”

“Alaska.”

_∞_

Sauria was sitting with Lorem Ipsum, Connard Branleur and Heidi when Meta’s video feed appeared on the holoscreen. Dusk had settled, giving the room a darkened, orange tone.

“It’s her!” Lorem said.

“Volume up!”

Meta’s feed appeared and her location was triangulated to Mercer Island, Bill Bleak’s estate.

“She’s doing it!”

Meta had acquired a weapon and was using it when the feed came through.

“Meta! Can you hear me?” Sauria asked.

“I can,” she said as she stepped over her fresh kill. Branleur groaned, looking away.

“Did you do it? Did you … ”

Her back came to a wall (evident in the way the video feed spun) and she stopped next to a door frame. One kick later and she entered a new room blasting indiscriminately. After killing the two men in the front room, Meta moved through the house quickly, found a man in the shower and killed him as well. She stopped in front of the fogged-up mirror, and toweled it clear.

“Did you do it?” Sauria asked. “Is it done?”

She pointed her weapon at her reflection in the mirror.

“What are you doing!?” Lorem screamed.

“While I may have been created as the ideal assassin, I do have the capacity to make my own decisions,” Meta said, glaring at them over the barrel of her weapon. “So goodbye MercSecure, ExEx, Sauria and Lorem. Oh, and fuck you.” She spit at her own reflection.

“Trigger the DL agent!” Sauria blurted out.

“It’s done,” Lorem said a few seconds later.

In the video, the gob of spit slowly trailed down the mirror. Meta gave them a cheeky grin.

“Why isn’t it working?” Connard Branleur asked.

“Sorry, assholes.”

“We’ll find you!” Sauria screamed at the holoscreen. “We’ll hunt you down!”

Heidi was at his side now, her pupils dilating. “Relax, dear,” she said, stroking his arm.

“Goodbye.”

Meta’s feed disconnected. Her GPS locator went off-line as well.

“Find her!” Sauria pointed at Lorem. “Get someone to Bleak’s place NOW!”

“Yessir!” Lorem said, scrambling to his feet.

Branleur, usually the calmest of the bunch, cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Sauria asked.

“Let’s be level-headed about this, gentlemen. Recover Meta and make sure that the next hybrid being has more stop measures in place. There is another, isn’t there?”

“There is,” Lorem said.

Sauria sat back in his chair with an enormous scowl on his face. “This isn’t over.” he finally said to the blackened holoscreen. “This isn’t over.”

Epilogue∞

MercSecure Training Facility. Classified Location.

Keva stepped out of the aeros and glanced up at the entrance to the sallyport. She’d spent most of her adult life at this place, honing her ability to wreak havoc, maim indiscriminately, kill with found objects, and to bend the fog of war to one’s advantage – all to better serve her company.

Flashbacks came – her arrival at the facility, the room they kept her in, the food they fed her. The isolation chamber. It wasn’t great at the time, but looking back always had a way of putting things into perspective for MercSecure’s top rep. It was looking forward that proved challenging to her.

The MercSecure Training Facility resembled an ultra-high security prison for the worst of the worst. The airspace above the place was a no-warning air defense zone; the entire establishment was surrounded by triple-layer chain link fences, enormous thickets of razor-wire entanglements, anti-vehicle bollards, dragon’s teeth, minefields, anti-tank ditches, and autonomous gun drones that the FedCorp military had not accepted for service because they were too aggressive and trigger-happy. B-drones appeared and scanned the two reps.

“Memories?” Rinchi asked, behind Keva.

Keva turned to find the Humandroid in a black knit dress that stopped just above her knees. It had taken two days, but she had completely recovered from the episode in Mexico.

“This is where they took me after … after they found me,” she said, recalling the brothel in Damascus. She’d killed everyone there that day – her captors, customers, girls her age and younger. It was her moment of entelechy; the moment when all that was weak and soft and pitying was forever burned from her soul; the moment when the lesser Keva was forged into the entity that she now was.

One of the B-drones stopped directly in front of her face. “We have an appointment,” she growled at the tiny drone.

The personnel blast door buzzed, clanked, and slid open just far enough to admit them one at a time to a featureless concrete box with an armored revolving door at the opposite end.

“Registered visitors,” Keva said instead of hello. “Representative One and Representative Two-One-Zero.”

“Greetings,” came a voice from nowhere. “Please be advised that you are now on sovereign MercSecure Territory; United States law does not apply. Any and all violations or infractions are subject to ExEx Corporate Justice; there is no appeal. Stand-by for biometrics scan, weapons check and identity verification. Please allow at least two meters distance between you; stand with feet shoulder width apart, arms out from your sides, hands open, fingers spread. Please remain in position until the scan is completed.”

A minute or so later the voice from nowhere directed Rinchi to standby until Keva cleared the revolving door, and then instructed the Humandroid to step through.

Two of the facility’s security staff greeted them. “Right this way,” one of them said. He was in a MercSecure field outfit, blue with milspec nanotube matrix body armor. “We’ll need to check for weapons first.”

They were led to a side door with a small viewing aperture of heavily leaded glass. The first escort’s retina scan unlocked the door, Keva and Rinchi stepped in and passed through a backscatter X-ray machine because the decades-old requirement had never been eliminated even when newer and more effective technology came on-line – and because MercSecure’s decades-old no-bid contract with Walliburton required at least one machine per facility, courtesy of the tax-payers.

Keva smiled inwardly; once again the scanner hadn’t picked up her boot knife crafted from the GVH3 glass fiber-filled composite. Always have something her instructors had repeatedly hammered into her; a hired gun is always armed.

The two security staff escorted them through a nondescript steel fire door into a short hallway lined with closely spaced steel security doors.

“Brings back memories,” Keva said under her breath.

Rinchi: What’s with the security doors?

Keva: They used to be isolation chambers. Now they’re just used for storage. The new isolation chambers are underground.

“From this point,” the second escort informed them, “iNet access is blocked.”

“That’s fine,” Keva told him. “Where will we be meeting her?”

He stopped and gave the top rep a serious stare. “You haven’t heard?”

“I’ve heard many things.”

“There was an incident involving Medya and one of the psychologists overseeing her training.”

“When did this incident occur?”

“This morning.” He cocked an eyebrow as Keva took Rinchi’s hand, but made no other comment.

“Is he dead?” Rinchi asked.

“Not quite; he’s in critical condition.”

“He should have been more careful; it’s not like it hasn’t happened before.” Keva recalled how she’d used a pencil to kill a psychologist of her own when she’d been in training.

The two escorts exchanged looks, but very wisely refrained from comment. Keva’s short fuse and unpredictable penchant for ultra-violence was well-known throughout the ranks of MercSecure.

Another non-descript fire door at the end of the hallway led into a lobby area furnished with high-end GSA catalog fixtures and furniture. Two training personnel in MercSecure field outfits were waiting for them. “Thank-you men, we’ll take it from here,” said the older of the two, who moved with an awkward and uncomfortable gait. This one was a recent clean cut and apparently not adapting well to the prostheses. Not everyone did; as a general rule the older you were, the more difficult the transition.

A single elevator door at the rear of the lobby was the only other exit. Keva noticed two gun drones disguised as potted pampas grass. “Those are new,” she remarked.

“And those are just the ones we want you to see,” remarked the first escort. The elevator door slid open, and the escorts gestured for Keva and Rinchi to enter. “Guests first, if you please.”

The elevator was a stainless steel box with no control buttons or floor markers, although easy listening industrial death metal reggae polka muzak was piped in for their ostensible enjoyment. The other escort smiled to himself and hummed along with Nuclear Ganja Rape Camp.

“Where’s she being held?” Keva asked as they began their descent.

“Isolation Six.”

“Number Six…” Her eyes lit up. “I remember that one! It’s one centimeter wider than the others. Luxurious!”

The cyborg gave what she chose to interpret as a funny look.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, baring her teeth. The thought of puncturing his lungs with the blade in her boot came to her. Violence was as much of an addiction as anything – sometimes Keva craved it.

“Not with me, ma’am,” was his bland reply.

Rinchi’s hand wrapped around Keva’s wrist. The tension drained away and Keva laughed. “I spent more time down here than I did up there.”

“Your record remains unbroken, Representative Number One. No other trainee has even come close without incurring execution as an incorrigible,” the cyborg said.

The elevator delivered them six stories underground to the Isolator Unit. It was, cold, sterile, and dimly lit; it was intended that those immured there feel the weight of the earth pressing down above them, that they know that they were truly isolated and abandoned.

“I feel like Odysseus returning home,” Keva said.

“His homecoming was less salubrious than it might have been, as I recall,” said the cyborg with a slight smile. “Do you find yours so as well?”

“Not so far, but it is still early.”

The door to Number Six was a smooth, featureless stainless steel panel. The elevator music enthusiast put his palm against it and the door became transparent. Medya in sat in trainee garb on a concrete bed platform. The smoothly finished concrete floor sloped slightly to a central floor drain; a stainless steel combination sink/toilet was the only other furnishing. He stepped to a retina scanner which confirmed his access authority, and an announcement in Demotic Arabic sounded in the cell.

“Face in the corner, hands behind your back, do not move until directed to do so.” Rinchi translated.

Keva grinned, “Mine was auf Deutsch.”

The cyborg said, “She claims to have difficulty with Basic English, although the Language Instructors think she’s shamming.”

He stepped to the retina scanner, which apparently liked what it saw as it unlocked the cell door.

“That’s new,” Keva said. “When I was down here, it only took one guy.” She squeezed Rinchi’s hand as the door buzzed and swung in.

“You have ten minutes,” the second man said, moving aside. He took his place next to the door, allowing the two reps to step into the cell. “Ten minutes.”

“Medya?” Keva said. “You can come out of the corner and sit with us.”

The girl remained in the corner. Her shaven head revealed a small indentation in her skull – a forget-me-not from a piece of flying metal, perhaps. The improved diet and exercise regime agreed with her; though still underweight, she no longer looked like a Konzentrationslager inmate.

Rinchi spoke in Arabic, “We are here to visit you, Medya. We are the two who brought you here. As you recall, I’m Rinchi and she’s Keva.”

Medya turned and glared at Rinchi. “I am aware of who you are,” she snapped.

“You don’t like it here?” the Humandroid asked, her eyes dilating as she scanned the thirteen-year-old girl.

“What are they doing to me?”

“They are turning you into a trained killer,” Rinchi said, “they are turning you into one of us, a representative.”

“What’s she saying?” Keva asked.

“She wants to know why she’s here…”

“Tell her this – tell her I went through the same thing, that I … that I was sent here from Damascus after spending most of my youth in a brothel. That I also … ” Keva’s face hardened. “That I also killed a doctor here and that the company forgave me, knowing that my services were what were most important. Tell her isolation is temporary.”

Medya locked eyes with Keva as Rinchi translated the message.

Keva said, “Tell her I know what it’s like; I was in this very same cell, Number Six. That she’ll get through it and when she gets out … ” She dropped in front of the Kurdish girl, face to face now. “You will have your revenge, and more. There will be an end to your journey soon enough. Learn all that they have to teach; become your own instrument of retribution. When you are done here, we will continue your education.”

Rinchi translated then asked, “We?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her passiourn evident. “Tell her we will train her to be more than both of us. She will be our ….”

“ … our daughter,” Rinchi finished.

“Exactly. I know we haven’t discussed this … ” Keva began.

“We haven’t,” said Rinchi, “but I don’t mind.”

“You know how I feel about you.”

“I know.”

“And once Medya has graduated, I will have MercSecure assign her to us. We can – together – steer her in the right direction.”

“The direction of a killer?”

“Call it what you will, but it is a profession. I’d like to pass my legacy on somehow,” Keva said. “Let’s not kid ourselves – I’m already more than clean cut. My life ends in violence and to me, the final fuck you to all of this will be to leave a representative who is better, stronger, faster, more fearsome and relentless than I am; one who will carry on my legacy.”

“I understand,” Rinchi nodded.

“You’ll survive,” Keva told the droid. “Unless they vaporize you, you’re almost immortal. I want to leave you someone ... something to remember me by. This thing, this person, will be Medya.”

“Our daughter.”

“Yes.”

“I understand,” Rinchi turned to the girl and translated Keva’s message, all except the daughter part. It was important for Medya to come to this realization on her own rather than be assigned a role in the future family of three mercenaries.

“This is why you must work hard while you are here,” Rinchi told her, “you must be strong and proud and patient; you must learn focus and control. Truly, your time will come, but that time is not yet. When you are ready, we will come for you, she and I – and then we will hunt.”

Medya sat in silence as she gnawed at her bottom lip.

“Work harder,” Rinchi told the girl. “Be the best. Learn English; learn everything they have to teach you. The risk and the danger is great, but the reward is greater.”

“Two minutes,” the first escort announced.

“Do you have any questions?” Rinchi asked.

Medya nodded, “When will you come back to visit me?”

Keva looked at Rinchi.

“She wants to know when we will come back to visit her.”

“After we get Meta, tell her.”

Rinchi shook her head. “She’s not cleared for that.”

Rinchi turned to Medya, “Keva and I have an assignment. Once we have completed our task, we will visit you then.”

“You and Keva both?”

“Yes.”

“And you are lovers?” Medya asked.

“Yes we are.”

“But you aren’t human.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Medya said, her expression softening, “as long as you come back.”

The End

Back of the Book Shit

Book One:

Reader,

Before you fall asleep, or go back to living your amazing life as a physics teacher/killer-for-hire,[1] or leave me a lackluster review due to Book One ending on a cliffhanger – let’s talk about Book One.

Book One was written in November 2011 in one month during a contest called Nanowrimo, in which an author challenges themselves to write a book in a month. I edited a copy and sent a print version to my brother, who hadn’t read any of my other work at the time but for some reason, decided to read this one, mostly due to the fact he liked sci-fi.

“That read like a real book,” was his first comment, which I didn’t know exactly how to take seeing as how I had written three books by this point.

Still, a compliment is a compliment and I took it. Book One was then buried under a pile of other works and other writing interests, including helping pen a failed TV series in Asia (goodbye six months of my life without pay, but I learned what not to do with your creative skills).

More about the book.

Meme’s voice is a combination of several literary styles I enjoy. The “talking to the audience” aspect of his speech is called meta-fiction, something many people frown upon. His hallucinatory passages were inspired by William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson with a dash of Philip K Dick and a sprinkle of Confederacy of Dunces. He is, for lack of another protagonist, our protagonist, and I wanted him to be funny and at the same time, a caricature of an addict. As you continue on with the series, you’ll see him go through the ups and downs of his problem, evident in the way he speaks.

I say ‘he’ because Meme writes himself. I literally put on some drum and bass music (I only listen to this while writing) and let this character take over. There are pages and pages of Meme rambles that I’ve discarded to form the overall structure of the series, giving some of him, but hopefully not enough to make a person feel insane themselves.

The term ‘Leaks’ used in this book to describe a pair of goggle-like glasses is straight from Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions. I use this term frequently in my series as I like the image it creates in my mind. There are many other borrowed words, the most prominent being ‘aeros’, which was borrowed from one of the first dystopian novels called We, which was published before 1984 and Brave New World.

Pollutes and pollution masks.

The idea for pollutes and pollution masks came from real life.

In 2011, I moved to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia where I was subjected to the worst pollution in the world (at least during the winter). I wore an actual pollution mask daily, which inspired (or de-inspired?) me to populate my future world with ‘pollution masks’ that resembled plague masks. Looking out the window of my Soviet apartment and seeing pollution thick enough to theoretically box up and mail to your rich aunt greatly enhanced the insanity evident in Book One. Once you start Book Two, you will notice that the manic-ness has been replaced by action. Have no fear – Meme is alive and well throughout the series, my favorite scene being his encounter with a former Cuban rocker-cum government protestor in Book Four. Think: toxic snails and hallucinations.

Winding down.

In December 2012, possibly inspired by the fact the world didn’t end, I began writing Book Two while vacationing in Korea for a week and doing research for a book I’ve since published called Tokyo Stirs. I wrote about 7,000 words (a normal book in the series is 40-45k words), all of which were shit. I put it away to pursue other things, namely the writing and research for a book called Boy versus Self. I gave up again on the Life is a Beautiful Thing Series, yet continued to take notes on technology I could use in the pages as well as sketch out story outlines.

Fast forward two years. My god it is possible.

By the time December 2014 rolled around, I’d finished a number of books, none of which I’d published, and started a publishing company in Asia that exclusively produced ESL works. I was literally sitting on close to a million words worth of unpublished work.

I decided – after an emotional night of thinking ‘my god what am I doing with my life” triggered by seeing my first girlfriend get her doctorate in medicine and realizing I’d done essentially nothing – that I should probably start releasing books, rapidly.

I reread my copy of Life is a Beautiful Thing Book One and came to the conclusion that it needed to see the light of day, and that there needed to be more of it. Thus begun the journey that has led me into your hands.

I am a very fast writer. It is my craft and my obsession. The only thing that slows me down is wrist pain due to poor typing technique (which I’ve since addressed). That being said, this book wouldn’t be half as good if it weren’t for my amazing editor, George C. Hopkins and the best reader a writer could ever ask for, Kay from Scotland, who has an amazing eye for minute details. Thanks for helping me polish this (insert noun here).

After rewriting Book One, I wrote Book Two in three weeks over the month of March 2015. Then I wrote Book Three in April. At that point, I started working on a new series that takes place about thirty years before Life is a Beautiful Thing called The Feedback Loop, a LitRPG series that has taken off as of late (yay me!).

Book Two:

Another book comes to a close. I was sad that Hajime had to go, but maybe I’ll write a backstory for him some day. (Hint: this will be published in 2017 under the title, Fantasy Offline).

The first draft of Life is a Beautiful Thing Book Two was written in the month of April 2015. At the time, I was stuck in a polluted place in Central Asia waiting out the end of winter in an old Soviet apartment (depressing, I know). The nights came early and the pollution came quick, forcing me indoors to pen the follow-up to Book One.

Keva was inspired by a violent and crazy anime character. I watch a load of anime (can speak and read some Japanese too), and I based her on a woman named Ophelia in an anime called Claymore. You can watch Claymore and millions of other animes for free on the website kissanime.com. Anyhow, Ophelia loved to kill and torture her companions. Spoiler alert: Keva is fun to write and her role expands in Book Three.

As you may have noticed, Book Two moves away from the hallucinatory nature of Book One mostly due to the fact Meme can’t get his favorite pollute and because I wanted to focus more on the action. For those of you missing the hallucinatory nature of Book One, it will return in a more refined way in Book Three. Poor Nelly still has a lot in store for her in Book Three, but she’ll get her bearings in Book Four, which will conclude the Red Books (consisting of Life is a Beautiful Thing Books 1-4).

My girlfriend, Sor Ganbold, was one of the first to see potential in this series, and I thank her for encouraging me to finish it and put it out there. To my editor, George C. Hopkins, I thank you for continuing to school me as to how weapons work and doing a bang-up job of making this book shine. You have improved this series greatly through your knowledge and skill. To Kay from Scotland, thanks for your powerful ocs – you are the reader writers dream of. I’ll refrain from quoting Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams (1989) here, but you get the picture.

Pollutes and words.

I spend quite a bit of time crafting these names, so read them twice, and if something seems made up, it really isn’t. For example, I discovered Sacai Dong”e (mentioned in chapter thirteen) in an Air China in-flight magazine. It is the name for some weird donkey jelly made in a province in the belly of the red dragon. You’ve likely noticed by now that Meme has an expansive vocabulary. This isn’t in an attempt to be pedantic as much as it is an attempt to utilize our shared language. It adds a dimension to Meme’s words which separate him from the other characters. I take these words from new word lists, old books, classic works of fiction, archaic words and New Yorker articles on random subjects. He is a smart addict, which isn’t like most the addicts I’ve encountered but this is fiction so fuck it.

Book Three

Reader,

Another book winds to a close and another book in the series is on the way, thus completing the Red Books (Books 1- 4). Next year I will start to release the Blue Books (Books 5-8) with new covers. (Author’s update: Oops, that didn’t happen. Hopefully late 2017!) The story will continue where it left off. The response for the series thus far has been positive and I’m excited to continue the book as I love writing it.

Book Three Thoughts (Note: all links go to Amazon.)

Here’s something you should know. Chapter Nine, the chapter in which Meme gets heavily intoxicated and makes his way up to Madoka’s girlfriend’s room, was actually written in 2011. This was the original chapter five (the Lit Leviathan, all the literary quotes) for the first book. Upon my final edit in 2015, I decided to take this whole section out of the first book in the series and ‘save’ this trip for a different book.

The quotes in the chapter, which you should read again (you can access the chapter in the menu) are taken from a number of books, from 1984 to works by John Updike and Vonnegut to a booked called We by Yevgeny Zamyatin. We is an interesting book as it was written in the 1920s, predating other dystopian works like the famous 1984. I also borrowed the term aeros from this book. Somewhere on my old computer, there is a list of all these quotes and where they came from. I have no idea where it is exactly though.

More borrowing. I borrowed some things from Hemingway in this book as well, from a few of Meme’s quotes (I obscenity in thy milk!) to the name ‘Pilar’ of the woman who switches with Nelly in the prison. Some of the Spanish quotes were borrowed from the book For Whom the Bell Tolls.

I have done heavy research into the American-Iraq war that started with the Shock and Awe Campaign 2003 (and is ongoing depending on your view of private contracting). I’ve read over ten books on the subject, the best of which are Generation Kill, Imperial Life in the Emerald City and The Assassin’s Gate: America in Iraq. I’m quite familiar with the layout of Baghdad due to books I wrote on the subject, and while I wanted to keep city details brief in Book Three, I hope I conveyed this appropriately.

In Book Three, I wanted to give Sauria a bigger motive for what he is and how he became what he became. He was originally supposed to be the focus of the book, but other characters got in the way (as they are prone to do). Keva can’t seem to keep her head down and of course Meme is always vying for attention. I suppose there really is nothing I can do about characters that jump out to me.

My favorite line in the book, if I may have one (yes, sometimes Meme writes himself more than I write him) is when Meme says: Xi Dada Mao boppers complicate things. Xi Dada is the name that Chinese people call Xi Jinping, President of the People’s Republic of China. Mao is of course Chairman Mao, who current Chinese president Xi worships. A bopper is a giver of fellatio (is there a better way to explain this elegantly?). Basically the phrase is about harkening back to leaders of the past – leaders who may have been wrong – and how the wrongful leadership of the past can greatly affect the future.

A dedication is in order! This book was greatly improved by my editor, George C. Hopkins, who continually enlightens me about weapons and brings me down from the comic book imagery swirling in my head. Get that fox and get him good! Also to Kay, who beta reads like a goddess – I thank you both from the bottom of my dark little heart. Thanks also goes out to readers who have contacted me and told me they like the series. It is a strange series, but as you’ve likely noticed by now, there is a method to my madness.

Occasionally, my editor George sends commentary regarding my subject matter. This one was about Rebel and I’ve decided to share it here because I can and because it is pretty awesome.

Babies and pollutes (By George C. Hopkins):

“Let it suffice to say that I have more than a passing acquaintance with baby-wrangling. Babies are simple creatures – they want what I want: warm, quiet, safe, full tummy, clean diaper, los hooters grande.

Fuzzy-Warm-Tickle-Cuddle-Bunnymilk - what else would you call a pollute for babies? Start ‘em early, hook ‘em young.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

What pollutes do I take? My Health Care Providing Organization very obligingly sends me scads and scads of reinforced white plastic shipping bags chock full of rattley goodness every month. One of my favorite games is ‘guess the synergistic side-effects’. Every morning, I’ll throw a random handful or so into my Official Sesame Street Big Bird Cereal Bowl, moisten them with Everclear and Dutch Chocolate Slim-Fast and eat ‘em with a spoon while I watch cartoons. They’re magically delicious indeed!

Then I’ll go feed the poultry.

Sometimes they’re geese; sometimes flamingos. Emperor Penguins show up occasionally. They’ve been dodos a couple of times, safety lime green Great Auks once or twice, and on one memorable occasion they were half-a-dozen each of Foghorn Leghorn, Tweety Bird, Road Runner, Big Bird, Toucan Sam, and Barney. Don’t know how the Barneys got in there with them, but they seemed to enjoy the Purina Flock Raiser, cracked corn, and sunflower seeds as much as the birds did.

Then I’ll come in and work on your stuff.”

Enough rambling :-D

Book Four:

Reader,

With this note the Red Books have officially come to an end. They started wild in LA, and they moved around the globe introducing characters from various walks of life, all seeking something, from the next high to simple affection. The Blue Books (Books 5-8), will come next year, and will pick up where the Epilogue left off, with Keva and Rinchi going after Meta.

Papo the Bullet.

The story of Papo la Bala is true – he did inject himself with HIV – and I first heard about it on a Podcast Program called RadioLab. I knew after listening to his story that it would play a part in this book, due to both its message and because I wanted to preserve his struggle somehow as well as introduce Papo and his answer to oppression to readers in the far future. I don’t condone this behavior, but it does show you how far someone will go for freedom, which is important as the concept of freedom morphs over the next century.

I lied.

If you read the first “back of the book shit” at the back of Book One, I said that I wrote the first Life is A Beautiful Thing book (yes, the trippy one) in November 2011. This isn’t actually the case. The first conceptualization of the series was in the fall of 2007, when I first started writing seriously. I envisioned a story about a Humandroid therapist and his client, named Tim7 after a friend of mine who later went on to overdose on heroin. I only wrote three chapters, which mainly featured the therapist talking to the Humandroid about what it was like to serve humans.

It was boring.

At the time, I was working at Starbucks and at Austin Community College’s chemistry lab. I wrote these chapters while sitting at the lab, slightly upset at where my life had gone. Working in the service industry made me feel like a Humandroid, serving some unquenchable monster that kept coming every day for more, more, more and more. In a way, this early incarnation was a tamer version of Meme interviewing me, and I quickly disbanded the project once I realized I wasn’t a good enough writer to pen the book. This early incarnation exist somewhere, possibly on a computer or a hard drive at my home. Who knows…

More about this book.

Yes, this book, the one that you’ve finished. This book was written over the course of six weeks, from about the start of June 2015 until the end of July. It is the longest of the books thus far, and it does everything I want to do in a Life is a Beautiful Thing book. Namely, I’d like to continue to explore human-Humandroid relationships alongside Meme’s idiotic brilliancy and characters that we love to hate, like Sauria. Meta will become an important character as well.

Bill Bleak, while playing a somewhat minor role in the Red Books (books 1-4), will play a bigger role in the following books, the Blue Books. While Sauria is obviously a caricature of a very right wing businessman, I plan to make Bleak the caricature of a very left wing business man. I also look forward to exploring the powers that turn someone to the other side, even if they don’t know they’ve turned.

Meme and Nelly are finally reunited in this book, and I wanted to explore their relationship a little more but I wasn’t able to due to the number of storylines running. The following books will feature Nelly more prominently, as Meme, Yeshi and Nelly go to LA to do a little disruption. Yes, Meme as Sauria – I can’t wait to see what happens next. As I’ve said before, Meme writes himself.

Damn these characters in my head.

Keva was supposed to kill Monique and Clove in this book, but she didn’t. Meme was supposed to get over his addiction to pollutes, but he didn’t. I guess this is the way the pollute smokes – some characters write themselves. Even I’m surprised at what these characters do once I’ve given them a scenario in which to take part.

Damn this series.

Yes, damn this series because it is hard to classify and it immediately turns some people off and some people on. If I were a smarter man, I would be writing contemporary romance under a penname just to make a living as a writer. Unfortunately for my pocketbook, writing Life is a Beautiful Thing is the joy of my life and I’ve touched quite a few people through the series, which fills me with more joy than I can possibly describe. That being said, if you’ve made it this far, you are either crazy or you know passion when you read it.

Regardless of what you are, the best way for this series to continue and for it to reach more readers is your voice. Leave a review on the books you’ve read, and if you know someone that could use a good trip into a book that merges scifi, hallucinatory experiences, meta-fiction, sexual identity, diatribes and combat, please recommend the book to them. All books in the series are available in print and digital formats.

The biggest shout out possible goes out to Kay from Scotland for beta reading the hell out of this book. I’ve met the most amazing people through the publication of this series, and she is one of them. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This book wouldn’t be the same without your help.

To George C. Hopkins, my editor, much appreciation for the solid job on improving this manuscript. Holy Priceless Collection of Etruscan Snoods, Batman! It reads like a charm now, a misunderstood, violent and hallucinatory charm, but a charm nonetheless. Your ‘What Would Meme Do?’ bracelet is in the mail. Please destroy it once you receive it.

It is a longshot to say this series may touch a lot of people, but I’ve designed to walk as many fine lines as I possibly can and above all, to entertain in an original way. This series wouldn’t be possible without you. A bigger publisher wouldn’t touch something like this, yet here you are (and here I am), both moving forward with it. Thanks for taking part, and look for Books 5-8 in 2016. I’ll also release a book about MercSecure next year, so be on the lookout for that as well. You can follow me on Twitter, Amazon or join my mailing list by going to my website, www.harmoncooper.com

Twitter ID: _HarmonCooper

In the meantime, check out my other sci-fi series, The Feedback Loop, on the Amazon store. There’s also a sample on the next page. It takes place twenty-five years before Life is a Beautiful Thing, and you’ll definitely see some connections, from pollutes to Humandroids.

Get started on my other series for free! Sign up for my reader’s group to receive a free copy of the Feedback Loop Book One.

1) Click here to sign up for my reader’s group

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3) Receive a free book in your inbox

Yours in sanity,

Harmon Cooper

(Sample) The Feedback Loop

Book One

Harmon Cooper

Edited by George C. Hopkins

Available on Amazon here.

Day 545

I’m afraid to die even though I know I can’t die. This fear is what drives me to kill indiscriminately, to maim as many as I can in The Loop. The day resets at midnight, regardless of whether or not Cinderella has been laid. The difference between Cinderella’s story and mine is that there are no happy endings here. There is no Prince Charming, no magic pumpkin coach to spirit me away, no light at the end of the tunnel.

There is only me, and I am royally shafted.

“Who told you my name!?” I scream into the face of the same button man I choked yesterday (and the day before that, and the day before that). “Who sent you here!?”

“Turn … Me … Loose … !”

Morning Assassin spits digital blood into my face, baring his pearly whites. He is a gangly man, sharp-faced and always sneering, sneering like he’s in on some private joke and I’m the sucker. I slam him against the floor once more for good measure.

Keeping one hand on his neck, I stick my finger in the air to activate my inventory list. I retrieve a pair of brass knuckles, item 229, from my list. They appear instantly on my knuckles, gleaming and ready to deliver punishment.

“I’m sick of playing this game. Tell me who sent you!”

Morning Assassin laughs as my fist connects with the bridge of his nose. His data indicates that he is an NPC, a non-player character just like all the others, a feat of artificial, game-based intelligence. He’s not real.

A second kiss with my brass knuckles makes him laugh even harder, his teeth scatter like Chiclets with my third shot.

“Who sent you!?” I scream to no avail.

“Goodbye, Quantum.”

Morning Assassin’s bloodied lips open wide and the barrel of a gat pops out of his mouth.

He drills me in the face before I can roll away.

Day 546

I respawn a day later, the sound of feedback rippling inside my skull. Damn the feedback. No alarm clock wakes me; I’m up naturally at this godforsaken time, glaring at the digital sun filling my hotel room with strips of bitter light.

One must sleep, even in a virtual entertainment dreamworld like The Loop. I suppose ‘wait to respawn’ would be a better explanation for what I’ve just experienced, but I like to think of it as sleep anyway. It’s a nice way to remind myself that I’m human, that my body still exists in the real world.

Morning Assassin will be here soon. He comes every day at 8:05 – I expect nothing less from him today. There has never been a weapon in his mouth before, but he has killed me on several occasions.

I access my inventory list and select an ice pick – item 538 – that I found about a week ago.

My list is the only way to keep track of how long I’ve been stuck in The Loop. Thus far, there are 544 items in my list. I add the deck of Luckies sitting on the nightstand to tally for yesterday’s unexpected and sudden death. Now there are 545 items. I’ll find something later today to mark day 546.

It’s the only way to keep track of how long I’ve been imprisoned.

8.05 AM. Morning Assassin smashes through the window, just as he has done the last 545 days in a row. I’m behind him in a heartbeat, driving the ice pick into his NPC skull He jerks once, twitches and falls; I’m unable for the 546th time to get information out of him. I can try again tomorrow morning.

My Loop-life is planned to a T. Once I kill the assassin, a crow flies by the window over my bed. It lands on the ledge outside the window, pecks its filthy beak against the glass. A dark cloud passes in front of the sun, ready to add downcast rain to the shit-stained streets outside the hotel. From there it’s to the dresser.

Dressing in the Loop is a snap; it’s automatic. In the blink of an eye, I’m in a pair of black boots with loosened laces, stompers with steel toes. My mirror tells me that my hair is already slicked back, my skin almost translucent, my eyes dark, lifeless, dull, sorrowful, frosted. I can change any number of the things through my attributes menu, from my hair color to my eye color to my size and my girth. This has no effect on my stats.

I decide to go with a hat for today, selecting it from a drop down menu that appears in the air before me. The benefits of a virtual entertainment dreamworld needn’t be explained here – everything is accessible at my fingertips aside from freedom … aside from a way to log out of The Loop.

I chose a black military cap, tight, with a short brim. My blond hair grows out from underneath, styling itself. It isn’t hard to look good in The Loop.

I kick open my door, just in case there’s someone in the hallway waiting to ambush me. While the happenings around me are always the same, sometimes there is a surprise or two, which leaves me to believe that something is watching me, toying with me, cynically monitoring my cyclical existence. Possibly the NVA Seed, but I’ve long since given up my search for the world’s puppet master.

The lights in the narrow hallway flicker.

Once, twice, three times, just like they always do. They stay off for twenty seconds and then come back on. Downstairs, something thuds and bangs; the next tag-team of palookas is here. A quick scroll through my inventory list and I decide to wing it this time.

There’s nothing like a little hand-to-hand combat to jump-start my day.

~*~

Nonstop kicks. I arrive downstairs and reflect that five hundred and forty-six days is a long time to fight the same NPC thugs every morning. My avatar leaps into slow-motion as six John Does rush me all at once. My movement through the air is fluid, calculated, enhanced by my advanced abilities bar.

I’m good, dammit.

Think The Matrix meets Bruce Lee plus The Force if it helps to understand my capabilities in this VE dreamworld. Being in The Loop has its advantages, including the ability to break the laws of gravity and to flip the bird at the space-time continuum – at least until my advanced abilities bar depletes.

I’m in the air above the six assassins, my feet connecting with their skulls, volleying off one and thudding into the next. Kick-kick-kick go the feet and I don’t even need an ice pick to take these NPCs goons out because they are much weaker than Morning Assassin– much weaker. I drop down behind the last of the six, cracking his neck backwards over my shoulder as he cries out, “Gor blimey!”

I turn to them and retrieve the .500 Magnum from my inventory list, item 466. Six blasts from the hand-howitzer later and someone better call the hotel’s janitor. Smoking barrel, splattered bodies. One glance across the hotel lobby and I spot the NPC doorman cowering behind a potted plant.

“Morning Jim,” I say. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hughes. It’s quite all right.”

Jim stands slowly, straightening the front of his uniform. The dead look in his eyes indicate that he is playacting, that he is responding in an Non Player Character way to the violence he has just witnessed. What I wouldn’t give to see some true human emotion, rather than the stereotypical, standardized response hacked up by an advanced algorithm, some regurgitated feeling, bird-vomited from one NPC to another.

“Please, call me Quantum,” I tell him for the umpteenth time. “Are there any messages for me?”

There have never been any messages for me, but I always check anyway. After all, it’s better to have hope in a hopeless place than to be hopeless in a hopeless place. Or something like that.

Trying to cajole, threaten, or torture information out of Jim has proven to be relatively fruitless. I generally leave him alone these days, greeting him before leaving in the morning and saying goodnight if I’m lucky enough to return in the evening. Sometimes I kill him just for the hell of it.

“No messages, sir,” he says. He wipes beads of sweat from his forehead to the front of his pants, the sweating swine. I should do something about him.

I’m nearly out the door when Doorman Jim calls my name. “Mr. Hughes, I mean Mr. Quantum! There is one message, sir!”

“A message?” I turn to him. “Transfer it to my inventory.”

The message appears in my inventory list, item number 546. I access it and read it twice.

Impossible.

“What is it, Mr. Hughes?”

“Please, call me Quantum.”

“What is it, Mr. Quantum?”

I retrieve the S&W .500 from my list and shoot him in the neck.

KA-BLAM!

“My apologies, Jim.”

~*~

Violence is rewarded, or should I say, was rewarded in The Loop.

Doorman Jim is merely a daily causality in The Loop, a virtual entertainment dreamworld that used to grade a person on how many people they killed that day. The higher your kill count, the higher you moved up on the Hunter List.

I was the top hunter the day The Loop began repeating itself, hence the reason everyone is after me. This is what makes me both anxious and excited to see a message from an actual person; or from whom I assume is an actual person. NPCs don’t normally send messages. I read the message for the fifth time:

Quantum,

I’ve returned for you. Meet me in Devil’s Alley as soon as you receive this.

Frances Euphoria

“Frances Euphoria?” I savor the name a few times, realizing that it’s likely a trap.

It can’t be a real person contacting me. Real people don’t exist in The Loop, haven’t for nearly two years. Some group of randomly-generated NPCs is out to get me. The thought of this makes me smile; at least it won’t be a boring day.

One glance at the street confirms that it is dreary outside, as is every day in The Loop. The dreamworld was developed to cater to the Cyber Noir crowd, a niche market for those who like grit and tech, extreme violence, dark corners, sleuth-work, nineteen fifties styling with futuristic weapons. Cyber Noir was a subgenre that took off in the 2040s, at a time when Humandroid androids were replacing the workforce and governments were incorporating. Virtual entertainment dreamworlds, created through neuronal algorithms by the Proxima Company, became a swell way to escape, and I would still think they were a swell way to escape if I could find a swell way to escape this one.

The wind picks up, bouncing a tin can down the street. I don’t even need to check the time. 8:17 AM, the minute of the tin can. It always stops directly in front of a vandalized trashcan, spins twice, settles.

Of course, I’ve tried a variety of different exit points from the hotel. I’ve leapt from rooftop to rooftop, sat and had coffee, slept in (after killing the morning assassin), and even gone room to room, trying to see if there were any clues that would free me from The Loop.

What I’ve discovered is this – every way out of my hotel has its own pre-determined history. If I go to the roof, lightning cracks in the sky above, connecting with an antenna on a building in the distance causing a beautiful spark. If I go room to room, I encounter a man snoring as a hooker in a garter belt steals his money. Both are NPCs, and I’ve killed them dozens of times in a variety of colorful ways.

If I have a cup of Joe and some pancakes courtesy of my main squeeze Dolly, a chef runs out of the hotel’s kitchen at exactly 8:23 with a butcher knife trying to slice and dice me. (His meat cleaver marks day 123 in my inventory – it’s great for hacking). If I sleep in, a different morning assassin comes at 9:29. If I sleep in past that, another one comes at 10:34.

And so on.

There is no escape from the repetitiveness of The Loop. This is why the message intrigues me so – it is a true break from the endlessly recurring nature of my Loop-life.

~*~

Reading the message for the seventh time doesn’t give me any more clues regarding its origin.

And why does the person named Frances say I’ve returned for you? The only people that care about my condition are the ones keeping me alive in the real world; at least I assume there’s someone keeping me alive up there. For all I know I may be nothing more than an imprint of consciousness, a ball of neuronal echoes that has outlived my human body.

My dreams say otherwise.

Almost every night I dream that someone is waking me; that someone is tending to me and taking care of me. If only this were true. If only The Loop was as forgiving as my dreams. Still, my dreams are equally suffocating. I can’t wake up from them, no matter how hard I urge myself, no matter how hard I push myself forward in hopes of tearing from the virtual dream ether.

No matter how hard.

I raise my hand to hail a taxi. There are always taxis in The Loop, all sensuous curves and gaudy chopped and channeled black-and-yellow sheet metal, the cabs you’d see cruising the streets of 1940s New York City if R. Crumb had designed their taxis – except these taxis hover, just like the aeros vehicles in the real world.

A taxi always stops if you raise your hand in The Loop. They don’t have preprogrammed histories like most of the other things that occur during my day. They only come when I want them to come. Of course, there are more interesting ways to travel in The Loop. If I wanted, I could pull an NPC driver out of their car, kill them, and take the car, but it’s generally less hassle to travel peacefully. Besides, I’d like to make it to Devil’s Alley in one piece.

A taxi lowers to the ground, its engine kicking and thumping. I get in and the driver turns to me. A huge grin nearly splits his phizog; a grimy bowler is jauntily cocked over one eye. “Where to, buddy?” He smells like motor oil and tuna fish sandwiches.

“To the bowels of the city, Mac,” I say. “And don’t spare the horses.”

“Devil’s Alley, eh? You got it.”

The engine coughs and sputters, catches, and blows fumes as we lift into the air. It doesn’t need to cough and sputter and blow fumes, but everything here is designed to look old and beat up, scratched and dented, ripped and torn, used, abused, twisted, cracked and crazed. Blemished, pockmarked, and polluted – the attributive adjectives of The Loop are endless. One glance at the seat’s worn upholstery confirms this.

“What’s buzzin’, cousin?” the driver asks as he speeds along, weaving around other vehicles.

“You jivin’ me, man?”

Sometimes I don’t know if the NPCs are screwing with me or if they really don’t know that I’ve been living the same day for nearly two years. I think Morning Assassin gets it, but the others …

“Jivin’? What choo mean, jivin’?” he coughs, bangs his fist against his chest. The rain picks up and he flicks on his little windshield wipers; the digital water hits the windshield only to be whipped off by tiny wipers. There’s something beautiful about it, but I’m too distracted by the driver’s blabbering to really appreciate it.

“Hey, kid, I’m talking to you. What do you mean?”

“I mean I live the same day every damn day. Why are we still talking?”

“If you want another driver I can dump you out here … ” He dips into a lower airlane.

I access my inventory list and snag item number 399 – a Taser. I press the button on the grip and electricity sparks and crackles in the back seat, a counterpoint to the lightning outside.

“Jesus!” the driver says, nearly swerving into another aeros in the opposite airlane.

“Goose it and can the chatter, Jack! And keep your eyes on the skylane you son of a bitch.”

“All right, mister, keep your hair on – Sheesh!”

I enjoy the rest of the trip to Devil’s Alley in relative silence. Once we’ve landed, I transfer credit to the driver, who is still angry I threatened him. Credit is used for most transactions in The Loop and I have an unlimited supply, pennies from heaven. No matter how much I spend, my account resets itself to the maximum amount every morning. Too bad there isn’t anything I want to buy.

Devil’s Alley is a big place, but I’m pretty sure Frances Euphoria will want to meet me at Barfly’s, the most run-down, seediest, grimiest, blood-and-sawdust-on-the-floor gin joint The Loop has to offer. As I move deeper into the slum, NPCs gravitate towards me, clad in trench coats and fedoras, hiding their faces behind dark umbrellas. A streetwalker in a shiny red bomber jacket spins her umbrella behind her head like a tragic Madame Butterfly. A tranny diddles his ding-a-ling on the fire escape overlooking the entrance to the alley, while a cat hisses and a giant rat scurries through a mound of trash. Muscled kookies mill about shadowed doorways, cruisin’ for a bruisin’.

I step into one of the alleys, over an NPC fiend shivering in the cold rain. A hand reaches out and latches onto my ankle.

“Hey brother…” the fiend cackles. “Can you spare some cred?”

I transfer him half of everything I have. “That should be enough to buy some Riotous.”

The lights of the alley paint harshly contrasting diagonal stripes across his sallow, grimy face as he fumbles in his pocket. “You mocking me, smart guy?” he asks, pulling a switchblade. He twists the blade in the air like a drunken conductor. “You think you’re better’n me, think you can just throw me cred like I’m some charity case!?”

The fiends in The Loop are vicious, unpredictable rat-bastards, a class of downgraded guttersnipes, slumdog tramps addicted to a drug known as Riotous. I press my finger into the air, accessing my inventory list. A drop-down menu appears in front of me; the bum freezes as I make my selection. Day 171’s item will do the trick nicely. A sledge hammer appears in my hands and I swing it into his chest like I’m teeing off at the Apple Grove. He slams into the wall with a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage, and blows pixelated blood out of his mouth and nose.

“Hey! You can’t do that!” An even grungier fiend is on his feet, and I’m behind him before he can reach me. One swing of the sledge and he too Humpty-Dumptys into the muck and filth of the alley.

~*~

Barfly’s sign buzzes and flickers at the end of the alley, a neon floozie in a Martini glass, endlessly scissoring her legs, electric bubbles sequentially popping above her head. People move through the shadows leading up to the place, speaking in whispers behind cupped hands, breathing in each other’s cigarette smoke. Grit for breakfast, a kick in the teeth for lunch, home before dinner in a coffin carried by skeletal pallbearers, a .38 slug through your heart – welcome to my life. I’ve spent endless dismal days squatting in this dive, drinking to the point of faux-ossification and then fighting my way across The Loop, only to wake up back in the flophouse the following morning as if it had all been a dream. Being bored is an understatement.

“Quantum.” The doorman claps his arm across my shoulders. He is a chiseled guy, his face angular and rough like the Old Man of The Mountain’s used to be, before it collapsed. This guy would give the Old Man a run for his money in the rustic beezer department. Trust me, I know – I’ve dealt with Croc several times after things got dicey at Barfly’s.

“I’ll behave,” I say instead of hello.

“You always do,” he says with a flinty glint in his eye.

Maybe I’m spooked; maybe I’ve lived the same day so many times that there are surely things I haven’t noticed in the 545 previous iterations. It kind of makes me wonder how much I missed when the days weren’t on repeat, when The Loop (the name I’ve given it) was nothing more than the game-slash-entertainment dreamworld known as Cyber Noir.

“You waitin’ on someone? Chippy, maybe?” Croc asks, chewing on a toothpick.

“You can tell? Some NPC you are … ”

“NPC?”

Non Player Characters never refer to themselves as NPCs, which only makes this place more maddening. Sometimes I think I’m the crazy one … sometimes.

“Frail named Frances Euphoria. She here?” I ask. A quick scan across the bar tells me the usual suspects are present – drunks and divas, lounge lizards and booze hounds, gamblers, grifters and bunco artists – no matter what the clock reads. Getting soused is the name of the game.

“Frances Euphoria ... ”

“Well, Croc?”

“Don’t know the broad. Pull up a pew and maybe she’ll show. You never know, Daddy-O.”

The patience flows out of his face and I oblige – no sense in riling this one up unnecessarily. I sit at the same barstool I always sit at, on the far left hand side of the bar, facing the door so I can see who comes in. One can only have a pool cue upside the noggin but so many times before one realizes that it may be time to change seats.

Cid the bartender is a grizzled old bastard in a white shirt, black bow tie, and none-too-clean apron, with a sawed off, lead-loaded baseball bat behind the bar. He pulls me a pint in a none-too-clean mug and slides it to me. I catch it before it sails off the end, and the exquisitely rendered foam slops over my hand. I savor the first swallow. It’s cold-ish, and tastes sort of beer-ish, and if I pour enough down my piehole it’ll get me kind of drunk-ish.

It ain’t great, but it’ll do.

I nod my thanks, and Cid winks in return. His mono-brow dances like a caterpillar on a hot plate.

A dame walks in, and she’s the cat’s meow – stacked like pancakes, with cleavage down to there and gams up to here, and a tight black dress that looks like it came out of a spray can. Her hair is devil red, her skin whiter than the finest blow, and the triangular icon over her head is blue sky blue, cornflower blue, blue the color of life blue. She’s an actual person, not an NPC, and I’m not going to lie – I’m simply mesmerized by the color. Almost two years …

“Frances Euphoria?” I wipe the beer foam off my lips.

“Three Kings Park, seven o’clock tomorrow night.”

She turns slightly and she’s all of a sudden sporting a Rambo knife with a wicked saw tooth spine. I’ve got one just like it – item number 4 in my inventory. She strikes like a cobra and slams the blade into my chest.

I’m dead before my pint hits the floor.

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Yours in sanity,

Harmon Cooper

Table of Contents

ZERO∞

ONE∞

TWO∞

THREE∞

FOUR∞

FIVE∞

SIX∞

SEVEN∞

EIGHT∞

NINE∞

TEN∞

ELEVEN∞

TWELVE∞

THIRTEEN∞

FOURTEEN∞

FIFTEEN∞

SIXTEEN∞

SEVENTEEN∞

EIGHTEEN∞

NINETEEN∞

TWENTY ∞

TWENTY-ONE∞

TWENTY-TWO∞

TWENTY-THREE∞

TWENTY-FOUR∞

TWENTY-FIVE∞

TWENTY-SIX∞

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

TWENTY-NINE∞

THIRTY ∞

THIRTY-ONE∞

THIRTY-TWO∞

THIRTY-THREE∞

THIRTY-FOUR∞

THIRTY-FIVE∞

THIRTY-SIX∞

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

THIRTY-NINE∞

FORTY ∞

FORTY-ONE∞

((BOOK TWO))

ONE∞

TWO∞

THREE∞

FOUR∞

FOUR (and a half) ∞

FIVE∞

SIX∞

SEVEN∞

EIGHT∞

NINE∞

TEN∞

ELEVEN∞

TWELVE∞

THIRTEEN∞

FOURTEEN∞

FIFTEEN∞

SIXTEEN∞

SEVENTEEN∞

EIGHTEEN∞

NINETEEN∞

TWENTY∞

TWENTY-ONE∞

TWENTY-TWO∞

TWENTY-THREE∞

TWENTY-FOUR∞

TWENTY-FIVE∞

TWENTY-SIX∞

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

TWENTY-NINE∞

THIRTY∞

THIRTY-ONE∞

THIRTY-TWO∞

THIRTY-THREE∞

THIRTY-FOUR∞

THIRTY-FIVE∞

THIRTY-SIX∞

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

THIRTY-NINE∞

FORTY∞

FORTY-ONE∞

FORTY-TWO∞

FORTY-THREE∞

FORTY-FOUR∞

FORTY-FIVE∞

((BOOK THREE))

ONE∞

TWO∞

THREE∞

FOUR∞

FIVE∞

SIX∞

SEVEN∞

EIGHT∞

NINE∞

TEN∞

ELEVEN∞

TWELVE∞

THIRTEEN∞

FOURTEEN∞

FIFTEEN∞

SIXTEEN∞

SEVENTEEN∞

EIGHTEEN∞

NINETEEN∞

TWENTY∞

TWENTY-ONE∞

TWENTY-TWO∞

TWENTY-THREE∞

TWENTY-FOUR∞

TWENTY-FIVE∞

TWENTY-SIX∞

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

TWENTY-NINE∞

THIRTY∞

THIRTY-ONE∞

THIRTY-TWO∞

THIRTY-THREE∞

THIRTY-FOUR∞

THIRTY-FIVE∞

THIRTY-SIX∞

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

THIRTY-NINE∞

FORTY∞

FORTY-ONE∞

FORTY-TWO∞

FORTY-THREE∞

FORTY-FOUR∞

FORTY-FIVE∞

Epilogue∞

((BOOK FOUR))

ONE∞

TWO∞

THREE∞

FOUR∞

FIVE∞

SIX∞

SEVEN∞

EIGHT∞

NINE∞

TEN∞

ELEVEN∞

TWELVE∞

THIRTEEN∞

FOURTEEN∞

FIFTEEN∞

SIXTEEN∞

SEVENTEEN∞

EIGHTEEN∞

NINETEEN∞

TWENTY∞

TWENTY-ONE∞

TWENTY-TWO∞

TWENTY-THREE∞

TWENTY-FOUR∞

TWENTY-FIVE∞

TWENTY-SIX∞

TWENTY-SEVEN∞

TWENTY-EIGHT∞

TWENTY-NINE∞

THIRTY∞

THIRTY-ONE∞

THIRTY-TWO∞

THIRTY-THREE∞

THIRTY-FOUR∞

THIRTY-FIVE∞

THIRTY-SIX∞

THIRTY-SEVEN∞

THIRTY-EIGHT∞

THIRTY-NINE∞

FORTY∞

FORTY-ONE∞

FORTY-TWO∞

FORTY-THREE∞

FORTY-FOUR∞

FORTY-FIVE∞

FORTY-SIX∞

FORTY-SEVEN∞

FORTY-EIGHT∞

Epilogue∞

Back of the Book Shit

(Sample) The Feedback Loop

Table of Contents

[1] Not my next book, but it is a good premise…