Stolen Future Page 8

  After another minute, he slowed and crossed to the opposite side of the road. There were fewer people here, so I lingered behind a banking kiosk and pretended to transact while keeping an eye on him. Thirty feet away, he stopped in front of a child who sat on the sidewalk, leaning against the side of a building. The boy looked to be about ten years old with dark hair cut in a bold shape. A cardboard sign rested next to him, something etched into it that I couldn’t read. He had no legs. The hooded guy crouched down and said something to him, then handed him one of the hot dogs. Smiling, the boy took it and bumped his fist against the man’s.

  After waving goodbye, he started down the sidewalk and entered a place with a flashing sign above the door that read Sirens. I crossed the street and avoided an oncoming motorbike. As I approached the bar, a bright blue neon sign hummed with electricity and showed a mermaid with a flickering green tail.

  I waited a minute before entering so as not to be obvious in case he had spotted me following. A bearded, burly man at the door looked me up and down. “Weapons?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I need to check,” he explained. I raised my arms and he patted down my sides and legs, then nodded for me to pass.

  I wondered what kind of place this was in this shady neighborhood. Criminal elements, the article had described. Was this bar the type of seedy place I’d known before NeuroDyne changed me into a cyborg?

  Inside the bar, darkness surrounded me. Along the walls, a hazy blue light appeared—miniature bulbs lined the floors and edges of the ceiling, casting a blue shadow over black walls. My boots thudded across a glossy, sparkly-blue floor. Off to the side, there was a bar with five stools. Only one was occupied, and a tall, pale-faced bartender with large ears stared at me as I entered. The place was bigger than it looked from outside, and the main attraction was a stage with heavy red curtains drawn across. Surrounding the stage were odd pieces of furniture. They looked like huge pods—pearl-white semicircle containers with half-circle benches inside and small, round tables. I paused, hesitant whether I should go for one of the pods or linger at the bar. I scanned for hoodie guy and saw him at the far side of the room, left of the stage. He was talking to a woman donning a beautiful, sparkling headdress. Long black hair cascaded down her back, and she wore a shiny silver dress that clung to her toned body. He smiled. She smiled back, and he stepped into a pod while she walked away toward the back of the room.

  I turned to the bartender who nodded. “What can I get for you?” he asked.

  “I…” Dumbfounded for a moment, I recovered quickly and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. As he poured my drink, I stepped closer to the bar, ignoring the stare from the other bar patron—a man wearing a Brain Flash with short, buzzed hair. He was dressed in a running jacket and matching pants.

  The bartender returned with a glass, and I tilted my head toward where the woman with long hair and sparkly dress had been. “Is she a performer?”

  The corners of his mouth twisted up, not quite revealing a smile. “This your first time here?”

  I nodded. “I'm new in town.”

  “And you found your way here to Sirens?” he said, and the man two seats away chuckled.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “I didn't mean anything by it. No offense.” The bartender raised his hands, showed his palms as if surrendering.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked, pulling out my money card.

  “It's on the house. To new friends.” This time he smiled. Then the lights dimmed. “Showtime,” he whispered.

  My fellow bar patron swiveled his chair to the side and clapped and cheered. It appeared most of the pods were occupied; I had missed that somehow. A man and a woman sat inside one, and the front of their pod began to slide, closing them off from view and leaving a horizontal window through which they could apparently view the show.

  On stage, the red curtain opened, and I expected to see a performer—maybe an exotic dancer—but instead, there was a massive tank of water occupying nearly the entire stage.

  The audience applauded as a woman descended from the ceiling. She sat on a swing suspended by ropes and was lowered down to the top of the tank. She still wore her jeweled headdress, and her long black hair flowed down her back. Her eyes had been heavily made up with dramatic glittering blue eyeshadow; her curvy lips were red as crimson and her skin pale. She wore a jeweled top that barely covered her, and covering her legs, just below her belly button, was an intricate dark green mermaid tail complete with fins and scales. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of her as she waved to the crowd and dipped into the water, plunging herself to the bottom. Orchestral music began from a corner where a cellist and violinist played. Immersed in the water, the woman's hair floated behind her like enchanted seaweed. She moved her body and undulated to the sound of the music. Her arms swirled gracefully, and tiny bubbles floated up from her mouth.

  The crowd inside the room had quieted, mesmerized by her underwater dance.

  I tried to glimpse the café man inside his pod, but it was curved so he was just out of view. He was alone as far as I could tell. The woman in the tank was holding her breath a long time. I glanced at the barman who watched me. “Enjoying the show?” he asked.

  I leaned over the bar. “What's the deal with the pods?”

  He smiled. “You'll see. Just give it a little more time.”

  The mermaid woman continued her dance at the bottom of the tank, not having taken a breath in several minutes. Then she started rising as the music grew faster. My head turned, distracted as a blue light on top of one of the pods lit up—the one with the couple inside. A woman dressed similarly to the mermaid dancer—jeweled headdress and skirt—walked into the room from the back and approached the couple’s pod. She tapped on the door, it slid open, and she climbed inside.

  I looked at the bartender again. “Can I top you off?” he asked, and I pushed my glass toward him, bewildered by the utter strangeness of this place.

  Near the stage, two more lights above pods had switched on, and the same thing happened—a woman approached from a door somewhere in the back and slipped into the pod with whoever was inside. I assumed these women were sex entertainers or prostitutes.

  I watched the hoodie man's pod. His light remained off. In fact, his booth was the only one without the blue bulb shining.

  “Bartender, why is that pod’s light not turned on while all the others are?”

  He glanced over. “That's Ryken,” he said. “Best not to worry about it. He has his reasons.”

  “Is that his girlfriend in the tank on stage?”

  He wiped the counter with a rag as a slow smirk crept across his face. “I can’t divulge my clientele’s secrets.”

  I took a swig of whiskey.

  “I’ll keep your secrets, too,” he said in a low voice.

  The music ended abruptly, and the woman in the tank curtsied, still underwater—still miraculously holding her breath. She ascended to the tank’s top, gulping in air as she grasped the ladder swing and was pulled up to the ceiling.

  The second glass of whiskey was warming the pit of my belly and making the tips of my toes tingle. Making me bolder. Turning to the bartender, I smiled and licked my lips, just the tiniest hint of flirtation. “Who is this Ryken?”

  The bartender's gaze lingered on my mouth. “He’s a regular.”

  “Oh, someone from the neighborhood then?”

  He nodded. Then another customer walked in the front door and took the stool to my left. As the barman attended to him, my gaze followed and landed on the man’s long-sleeved shirt with the NeuroDyne insignia on the shoulder.

  I shifted in my seat, angled myself toward the stage with my back facing the stranger, and drank another swig of whiskey. I needed to get away from the bar, so I scanned the room for refuge opportunities, an open table, booth, pod, whatever. But everything was taken. The musicians played background music and the stage lights were still on but had dimmed. Guess the mermai
d was on a break, or maybe the act had ended, I had no idea.

  Behind me, the bartender joked with the NeuroDyne officer. “Yeah, busy night, and we have a few new faces.” I clenched my jaw as sweat beaded on my forehead. The bartender’s steps sounded as he walked over. I didn't turn my head, but casually said, “You know, I'm going to take one more and cash out.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I hope you're not leaving us.” I said nothing and he swiped my cash card against his scanner, then slid over a third whiskey.

  “Thanks.” I slid off my barstool without a glance and strode across the floor, weaving my way around one pod, then another. I headed straight for hoodie man—Ryken’s pod.

  His sliding door was open, and he was leaning back, smoking something from a tube that connected to the wall.

  His eyes flicked to me in surprise as I climbed in without a word.

  Thirteen

  Ryken’s eyes grew wide as he stared at me. I was trying to get my bearings inside the pod. I found myself seated on a plush velvet blue-green cushioned bench. The back of the pod was curved and raised three feet over our heads to create a dome above.

  Now that I was close up, I saw a light stubble covering the man’s chin. His eyes were dark, charcoal or ash gray. He stared at me, his mouth wide, then coughed after inhaling too much of whatever he was smoking.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “You know who I am,” I said. “You spent part of the evening next to me.” He searched my face for a few seconds. For someone who had tried to turn me in, he was a good actor.

  Realization donned on his face—more acting. “From Lightspeed.” He leaned back, relaxed his shoulders, and took another toke from the tube. “You left that place at the right time.”

  “Yeah.” I sipped my drink. “My instincts warned me to get the hell out of that place. To get away from you.”

  He tilted his head and his forehead wrinkled. “From me? Why would you say that, especially after I helped you? Why are you here anyway? Did you follow me?”

  I forced a laugh. Already, I didn’t like this guy. He was off-putting, entitled. I said nothing and waited for his next move. Waited for him to admit what he’d done. But he just sat there and smoked, watching me. Underneath the table, I clenched and unclenched my fists in my lap. Then he had the nerve to yawn.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Did I interrupt your nap time? Or perhaps the mermaid is about to step in and service you—”

  “Shut the hell up! You don't know what you're talking about.” I wasn’t expecting his volcanic eruption and flinched. After a moment, the anger that had flashed in his eyes was gone, and he glanced at the stage.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  I leaned forward and placed my arms on the table, hoping I looked intimidating. “I need to know who you told about me.”

  “Who I…?” His face was blank.

  “The police? NeuroDyne?”

  His lips quivered, and he nearly broke into a smile but held back. “You think I called the police and NeuroDyne on you?”

  I nodded slowly and seriously.

  “Screw that!” He laughed, then raised a hand to his mouth to stifle giggles. The corners of his eyes wrinkled before he turned serious again. “You have me confused with someone else.”

  “Don't play dumb with me,” I said, my voice firm. “You sat next to me. You must've seen my screen.”

  He took another hit from his smoking tube and shrugged. “I glanced at your screen. You were looking up something about news reports. To be honest, I have other things going on. I wasn’t worrying about your shit.”

  I straightened against the cushy seat and slammed my palms on the table. “Don't lie to me! You called the police and then ran out before they arrived. Why didn’t you stick around to talk to them? To claim the—” I stopped, knowing I’d said too much.

  “To claim what?” His eyebrows arched. “Were you about to say a reward?”

  I pressed my lips together and gripped the base of my whiskey glass.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You follow me from the café, barge into my pod, hurling accusations at me when in reality you're the one who’s causing trouble.” He paused. “I have half a mind to call NeuroDyne about you. There's a reward? Even better. I could use the cash.” His eyes were cold and hard, his jawline set.

  Nerves coiled in my stomach. I’d made a huge mistake. If he had really attempted to turn me in, he would've admitted it. He could've already summoned the NeuroDyne cop. He had me; I’d misjudged, and now I’d given everything away.

  “What do I do now?” I asked in desperation.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You're asking me?” Then he rubbed his chin in thought. “Did Kramer send you? Is this some kind of joke? I wouldn't put it past the guy. He's a real dick.”

  I just sat there, not knowing what to do. If I got up to leave, surely he’d go alert the officer about me. The reward money would buy him a lot of whatever he was smoking.

  So, I took a chance. I grinned and started to giggle, stomping my feet underneath the table, as if overcome by hilarity.

  “It is!” he said. “Kramer, that rustbrain! Is he wired into you? Can you hear me?” He reached out and grabbed my shoulder, pulling me toward him. “Kramer, if you're listening, you are a piece of shit.”

  But he let me go, and I leaned back, still forcing laughter. “That Kramer,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Where is he?” he asked, and I blinked my eyes.

  “He wants you to guess… Ryken.” I added the name I’d gleaned from the bartender for authenticity.

  “Aw, Hawking hell! I haven't seen the guy in weeks, and this is how he announces he’s back in town? What on Mars?” He exhaled a plume of smoke that smelled like apples. “Let me guess, he's outside the club right now, waiting?”

  I shook my head, not quite sure where this was going.

  “No?” Ryken scratched his chin. “Is he at my place?”

  I nodded, smiling and batting my eyelashes.

  “I should've known. I mean, you see, it used to be our place. Kramer and I roomed together,” he explained. “Well shit, we should get going!” He reached for his bag under the table and pushed a button on the wall to close out his bill.

  “Hey, Seymour,” Ryken said as the bartender came over. “I have to cut out early tonight. Thanks for everything. And tell Vanessa that I'll catch up with her tomorrow.” Seymour nodded slowly, glanced at me, winked, and then strolled off.

  “Hey,” Ryken said to me. “What's your name?”

  Think fast. I gazed at the bar and saw a neon heart on the wall. “Valentine.”

  “Well, come on Valentine. Let's go to my place and meet up with Kramer.”

  He slid out of the pod, and I followed, careful to walk behind him. His tall frame hid me from view as the NeuroDyne officer glanced our way before turning back to his drink.

  I exited the bar with Ryken and headed into the streets, not knowing what was to come.

  Fourteen

  “How far is your place?” I asked Ryken as we headed onto the avenue outside of Sirens.

  The boy with no legs still sat in the same spot, and as we passed, Ryken said, “Hey, buddy, you good?” The youngster nodded. After a moment, he asked me, “Kramer didn't tell you the location?”

  “He's a man of few words,” I answered.

  “That doesn't sound like Kramer,” he said abruptly.

  “Whatever.” I shrugged. “He just hired me for the night.”

  Beside me, Ryken jerked his head at my comment. After a while, he said, “So, Valentine, he had you come into Lightspeed, sit next to me—that whole thing was part of the joke? And then you come in accusing me of turning you into the police?”

  “Yep,” I said, casually.

  “Well, I’ve got to hand it to Kramer. This is complex even for him.”

  We walked a quarter mile and passed a depot station where passengers could book shuttle transport to colonies on Mars
or passage to Earth. A woman at the top of a staircase struggled with a long, metal suitcase. Ryken bolted up the stairs and took the case, carrying it down for her. I waited at the bottom of the stairs, biding my time and scanning the faces of passersby, trying to detect any trace of recognition.

  Two police officers were stationed near the door of the terminal. Ryken returned, and I tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, let's go. I'm on the clock,” I added for emphasis.

  “Sure thing. Where are you from?” he asked as we continued on traversing the smooth asphalt that reflected the glow of the neon billboards.

  “From here.”

  “Where here?” he said with a smile.

  I was flustered. “Look, can we just get on with this?”

  He straightened and trekked silently. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do once we got to his place. I wished for a gun, though I didn’t know how to use one. I was eighty-percent sure he was telling the truth, but part of me wondered if he was smarter than he looked. He was a programmer, so he’d have computers, and I could research information about myself in privacy.

  Had I really stooped this low? Tricking a man into taking me to his apartment—pretending to be someone, a prostitute even—hired by his friend?

  Yes, I really had.

  After two more minutes, we reached a squat building that looked like a warehouse. A decaying sign at the roofline read Basics Limited. Ryken rapped on the door, knocking high in a distinct pattern, then again near the door’s base. A bald man with a massive chest and oversized biceps, wearing a greasy tank top, greeted us. He grunted at Ryken who glanced back at me.

  “Come on.” Ryken led me into a dark, narrow corridor with only a single red lightbulb shining. I followed closely behind toward a staircase. The smell of mildew and dead things festered in the stale air. My hand flew to my nose, covering it.

  “You live here?” I asked.

  “It's hardly a penthouse, but it's home.” He led me up two flights of stairs until we arrived at a door—the only one inside a low hallway. He pulled out a rectangular metal key and inserted it into a strange lock. Pushing the door open, he called out, “Kramer?” He paused; the room was pitch black. “You been sitting in the dark, my friend?” He switched on the lights and revealed an open concept room that looked like a studio. A long, velvet golden couch rested in the middle of the room, lending the place a shabby antique vibe. Other pieces of mismatched furniture adorned the apartment, and on the far side, stairs led to a small bedroom. There was a tiny kitchenette, and on one side sat an easel with paints and many canvases stacked against each other.