Alvin Baylor Lives! Page 3

  I’ll need to separate them.

  The heavies traced the gaze of the kitchen staff to find Rouja with one arm raised up behind her and one jutted out in front in a flashy wushu stance. She gave a little wink to entice the bigger guy.

  “You first,” she said.

  He nodded at his partner then smiled and stepped forward to take the bait. He raised his arms like a boxer. Before he got half a step, she dropped her arms and her smile and kneed him in the nuts. He groaned as his head fell forward and she swung her right leg over the back of his neck and cracked it with a twist of her hip. She stepped back to let his gargantuan body slump to the floor.

  His partner’s eyes went wide. Then he charged her. She sidestepped, causing him to slam into one of the metal preparation tables. He came to a halt as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Flour clouded the air.

  She stepped to him as he was bent over, coughing. He snarled and went to attack and she stuffed two knuckles right into his throat, crushing his trachea. He gasped as he fell to the floor in a clatter of metal bowls and airborne particulate.

  Rouja adjusted her black skirt, brushing the white powder from her stockinged legs as the man rolled about on the floor suffocating.

  “Very nice,” growled Padre.

  “All in a day’s work,” she said.

  She walked down the aisle, giving cute little smiles and winks to the team of cooks. They were silent and gaping, returning like the tide to the cramped area for a look at her as she strutted out the rear exit.

  Padre saw what she saw. He chuckled in her ear.

  As she passed through the doorway, she lifted the black silk hoodie from her back and covered her head. Then she tapped at the choker around her throat and felt the muscles of her face stretch and twitch as nanotechnology reconfigured soft tissue and pigment. Her scalp follicles tickled. She coughed as her throat tightened while the collar injected miniature robotic plastic surgeons. By the time she had traversed the trash-strewn alleyway out to the bustling street, the process was done. She removed her hood to reveal raven hair and brown eyes with epicanthic folds. The morning light hit her and began to sooth the remaining itchiness in her face. She pulled a red scarf from her purse, wrapped it around her neck, then continued into the crowd.

  “Okay, what’s the deal?” she said.

  Padre answered, “Alteris Asteroid has a ship that went missing out past Armstrong Station. I need you to figure out what they plan to do about it.”

  “Who’s the mark?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s what I need you to find out. They’re sending someone to replace me.”

  “So you fucked up?”

  “Rouja, don’t give me any of your crap. This is the last job and I’m coming home for good.”

  “Wait a minute. Where are you?”

  “I’m out here with the package,” said Padre.

  She slowed her walk down the crowded sidewalk. “So take it. What the fuck?”

  “It’s locked with some new synaptic scheme. I put my new girl Watkins on it and she passed out. She’s moaning about a migraine and won’t touch the thing. There’s some sort of self-destruct. I need you, doll.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because Washington is paying the bounty,” he said.

  “You’re working for those assholes again?”

  “I didn’t know. I thought it was a Corporate job. This is our chance to fuck ’em.”

  “For how much?” she asked.

  “The contract was one billion. We can get more from the Chinese.”

  “One billion in coin? What is this thing?” She had never encountered a payday that large. Purchasing an old quantum cryptographic machine to hack Leung’s data would cost her in the hundreds of millions. It was as if the universe had created a path for her.

  “Some sort of experimental mining tool,” said Padre.

  “Did Alteris cheat on their Continental Defense Taxes? Why’s Washington after it?”

  “I don’t know. I just know it’s my chance at revenge.” His voice softened. “Our chance.”

  I don’t want revenge. I just want to make it right.

  “Fifty-fifty. You split your half with the team,” she said.

  “Deal. Now listen, I want you to stick with this guy all the way to Armstrong.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  “Attagirl,” said Padre.

  “One more thing,” she said. “If you’re out there in the belt, then how are you talking to me in real time?”

  “Faster than light, baby. I’m on Uncle Sam’s network.”

  “And you don’t think they’re listening?”

  She stopped walking and lowered her head.

  “Watkins says our encrypt keys will hold. Don’t worry.”

  Damn it, he’s sloppy.

  “Don’t contact me this way again. I’ll be in touch.” She tapped her earlobe and ended the call. An odd tension left her head as the connection dropped.

  Padre’s job sounded like a long shot, but it had come at the right time. She felt the knot in her gut tighten. Nothing would stop her from finding her daughter again. She stood up straight and disappeared into the crowd.

  Four

  Fifteen hours later, Alvin was finally out the door. The incident with Thompson had soured the day. As usual, he had been forced into overtime because of shipping delays. He’d had both hoppers ready in eight hours and secretly wished that AI had not been banned from freight jobs. Bots were so much more reliable than humans, but if one said that aloud the union would label you anti-humanist and send you packing. He was exhausted and eager for two weeks of homebound bliss, during which he wouldn’t have to deal with a single demand from work. But first, he needed a drink.

  He headed to his neighborhood bar, the Budapest, for the salve. It was a shithole dive for working-class loners and failed human beings. Waste-oids roamed the perimeter and slept in the alley out back. He could have gone home to drink, but it wasn’t the booze he really craved. He hated to admit it, but he needed to be around people to forget himself, and he needed to be drunk to slough off his hardness. It was the only socializing he welcomed anymore.

  Alvin sat down to order a bourbon from the dour-eyed woman behind the bar. He sighed under the soft glow of the Christmas lights strung above the mirror. The place was windowless with two doors opposite each other. One led in and the other led out into an alley. It reeked of sweat and marijuana. A couple of synth addicts at the end of the bar chattered to each other through rotten black teeth while a single augmented-reality panel flitted through different ads. Alvin turned off his Opti-Comp so he could instead look at the wall of ancient tin and neon signage showcasing obscure beer brands that weren’t sold anymore. It felt like a defeated place, passed by in the twenty-second-century rush. It felt like home.

  The heavy-chested barmaid placed down a shot and gave him a soft smile. He’d been with her once. A drunken escapade. He knocked back the shot and asked for a bourbon and cola.

  The rear door swung open as a couple of toughs from the local Mexican-Armenian gang wandered in. The sounds of an overcrowded city blared over the din of drunken conversations. Alvin’s sleep-deprived mind wrestled with the noise, then the door swung closed again and the chatter returned. The thugs sized up everyone and their eyes landed on Alvin. He’d seen them before and they’d never given him any trouble. He gave them the hard look that had become his public face, and they nodded in respect.

  He considered the consequences of another hangover. He was done with work and he could go to bed drunk at 4:00 a.m. and no one would care, but he knew he was killing himself. Then the warmth hit his gut. He felt a rush of contentment swallow his conscience.

  The older woman leaned over the bar and handed over his next drink. She smiled at him silently, allowing her breasts to brush his forearm. She spoke very little English, so he simply smiled back. She was warm and she smelled good, but he was not drunk enough to take her in the back again. He did
n’t want it tonight. He was happy to be off for two weeks; plenty of time for carousing if he got sick of VR hookups.

  She walked away to serve the end of the bar. He saw his face appear in the spot of mirror left bare in a sea of paper flyers admonishing patrons to “pay up” ahead of time. He looked angry. It surprised him. He thought the shot had softened him up. He lifted the glass and stared at the ice cubes as he chugged it down.

  After several more rounds he got up to piss. Standing in the rat-shit-dotted bathroom, he tried not to breathe in the aroma of the toilets. He could hear Wayne through the window talking to himself out back.

  I could use a toke.

  He finished up and stepped out into the dark alley to say hello to the homeless man.

  “Alvin! You wanna hit this?” asked the white-haired man. Wayne looked clean enough today, no visible sores around the mouth. Alvin always checked, always told himself the alcohol would kill the spittle on the end of the joint.

  “Sure, man.” He took a puff and passed it back. “How ya been?”

  “I’m good. Trying to wind down. Been partying since dawn. Where were you last night? It was packed. Girlies even,” said Wayne.

  “Had to work early today, so I drank at home.”

  “Shoot. Well, I guess you gotta pay the bills. They had the game on. Did ya see it? Zuck was tearing it up!”

  “Naw, didn’t see it. Zuck ain’t that great. I played with him in school.”

  “Well, he was fucking ’em up bad last night. Got five head shots in a row.”

  “Yeah, he always liked to hang back. Was Rita here?”

  “Yeah, she was working. Got her a new man,” said Wayne.

  Alvin made a disappointed face.

  Wayne took a long hit off the joint and offered the nub back. “Shit, man, you look tired. They must be working you hard.”

  Alvin nodded. “Yep,” he said as he declined the toke. “Gotta get back to my drink.”

  “Sure thing, boss. Merry Christmas and keep away from the old cow. I hear she gots the drips.”

  “Will do,” said Alvin. As he walked to the door, Wayne got on his knees and crawled back into the plastic toolshed he called home.

  Just one more.

  He walked in to find the barmaid pointing a baseball bat at the gang toughs. He passed them with a beady-eyed stare on the way to his seat. They cursed and she cursed back and they walked out the back door.

  “What was that about?” he said as he sat on the torn red bar stool. A fresh drink was waiting for him.

  “No money,” she muttered in her broken English. She turned back to the register and began bopping her hips. She’d started on the sauce.

  No way. Not again.

  His sharp edges were rounded down to nubs. He stared around the room bleary-eyed. He didn’t feel his smart-band buzz. He hoisted his drink in cheers to the bar. The synth addicts down at the end toasted him back. When he finally chugged the brown poison back, he looked down the empty glass and saw the message on his wrist.

  “Alvin, where you at? Barton.” The words circled around like a mini rotating marquee on the black strap.

  “Fuck!” he shouted.

  The bartender gave him a look.

  His first damn night of vacation and he was going back into the office. He knew it. What blew up? He hoped it was something small, something he could turn on and off. I have to sober up before responding. Please don’t let it be a coding issue or I’ll be there all weekend waiting on a fix.

  His wrist buzzed again and new words appeared.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  They’re monitoring me.

  “Sonofabitch!” he shouted.

  The bar patrons turned to look at him.

  He knew when he’d agreed to the health tracking that he might sometime be monitored, but Alteris had never said anything before. Why should they care what he did to himself on vacation? How dare they! Was it Thompson’s doing?

  I’m hacking this thing.

  Then the band buzzed with a different rhythm.

  “Incoming call—Barton Aimes,” read the floating marquee.

  Alvin scowled, then suppressed it and took a deep breath. He tapped his temple to wake his Opti-Comp lens. A quick blink answered the video call.

  His boss appeared, perfectly coifed and clean shaven in a suit. Barton Aimes’s elbows splayed wide across the image, as if to obstruct the view behind him. “Alvin, we need you to come in. We have an emergency.”

  “What emergency merits this kind of privacy invasion? You know I’m on vacation.”

  Aimes looked shaken. “Listen, Alvin, this isn’t the time for—”

  “I want to see his face,” said a female voice.

  Barton looked back over his shoulder.

  “Who is that? I want to see her face,” demanded Alvin.

  Aimes moved aside and an older woman walked up to the camera. She was fashionably dressed, and her delicate features were framed by a blond bob. She crossed her arms.

  Oh my god—it’s Meyer.

  He quickly brought his face into something resembling a smile.

  “This is the man who was selected?” she asked with disdain.

  “Uh . . . hello, ma’am,” Alvin stammered. He was not important enough for Sabrina Meyer, CEO of Alteris, to know he existed. Something unusual was going on.

  “Young man, you’d best get your act together. We have an emergency on hand,” said Meyer. Then to Barton, “Get him briefed and out the door. If there are any problems, terminate him immediately.” And with that she walked out of view.

  Alvin was stunned. Alteris was the only company that would employ him without a degree. They overlooked his past indiscretions in exchange for his synaptic competence. They sponsored his apartment and his citizenship. His anger vanished. He needed the job. He hated it, but he needed it. Barton again filled the screen.

  “This is serious, Alvin. It’s never been more serious. I know you’re burning it at both ends, but you’re the only one we trust to get this done.”

  Trust?

  Alvin had never heard anything so close to a compliment from his boss. He hardly spoke to the guy. Once a month at best. Heck, he only saw him in person once a year during the man’s visit to the hopper facility.

  “I hear you, Barton, but I can’t get a day off. What is this about?”

  “Did you hear Meyer? You do this and you’ll be a hero to the company. This is the kind of opportunity a person gets once in their career. Get yourself here to the spaceport ASAP. Your launch window is at 5:00 a.m.”

  “What? The port? Launch to where?”

  “Just be here. You heard her. Don’t be late or you’re fired.”

  “Yeah. I got it,” he said as he ended the call.

  He would have to leave now to make it to the spaceport in time. He’d only been to New Mexico once, let alone outer space. His high was dashed.

  I hate traveling.

  “Goddamn it!” he shouted as he slammed his fists on the bar.

  “Three hundred,” said the bartender. “Then go.”

  He looked at her as if to say sorry, but she wasn’t having it. He bumped his wrist to the tab then walked out the door.

  Five

  Alvin dragged himself out onto the cracked pavement of the parking lot and signaled an autocar with his Opti-Comp. It had begun to rain.

  The Budapest’s neon sign sizzled as water drops hit it. Purple letters reflected in a puddle at his feet. The pedestrians scattered like rats from the street. They abandoned foot for cars and seized up traffic. Alvin had a feeling he’d best start walking. He’d find his ride somewhere in the line.

  He walked down the sidewalk enjoying the solitude. No one looked at him in the rain. The streets sparkled and the storefront colors popped; even the graffiti looked nice. He longed to retire elsewhere to escape overpopulation, but prices were unfathomable. He would never earn enough to stop working and, besides, his skills were needed on-site.

  Outer spac
e. Shit.

  That’s where Aimes had said he was going. The thought of going into orbit scared him. So much to go wrong. Cautious optimism, he reminded himself. Perhaps his fortunes were changing at work. Hope for the best, but for now, enjoy the rain.

  A small driverless car pulled over and he felt his wrist buzz. He tapped his band to the door to identify himself, got in, and slurred the word “home.” The car pulled out into traffic. Row after row of tiny, single-doored cars sat bumper to bumper. The travel time floating in his view reported one hour.

  Not bad.

  He purchased a train ticket to New Mexico using his Opti-Comp, then set an alarm and closed his eyes for a nap. Sixty minutes later a tone blared in his ear as the car pulled up to his building. He stumbled out and bumped his band against the lobby doors. His nap, while mildly refreshing, reminded him all the more that he needed to rest. He’d have to catch those zzzz’s later to get to New Mexico on time.

  Once inside he took the elevator up to his apartment. He tapped his band again at his door and the company lodging bill came up. They’d raised the interest on his daily mortgage. Cheapskates. He paid the two thousand from his bit-wallet and entered. Then he logged his implants out of the Alteris network and snorted a bump that he’d been saving for New Year’s Eve. The company didn’t need to know what he was ingesting. They knew he was coming and that ought to be enough. The boost got him packing. He hurriedly stuffed a few days’ worth of clothes, his multitool, and a set of VR goggles into a shoulder bag.

  He did another line, finishing off his emergency stash, emptied his bladder and bowels, picked up his bag, and walked to the door. He stopped to look at his two-hundred-square-foot home. The bed looked so comfortable.

  “Security mode on,” he said.

  The AR projection frames throughout the room turned off. The TV, the artwork on the walls, his ferns—all the augmented reality disappeared, leaving only that comfy bed. He felt butterflies stir in his gut. He turned and hightailed it down to ground level.

  Another ride took him to the North Hollywood station, where he hopped on the metro. He half wished he hadn’t done the coke so he could rest, but he knew he’d sleep through another alarm. He rode the train thinking intensely about how he could prevent the company from monitoring his smart-band and just what kind of job he was being pulled into.