Chapter Fourteen
The shine had worn off the day, somehow. Dex hadn’t thought that putting the beat down on a couple of public assholes would destroy his good feeling and it probably wasn’t actually that which had done it. It was the assholes themselves and what they had done to that poor woman that made Dex feel like shit. He never would understand what it was about some people that made them think that a good way of dealing with people who were different from them was to assault them.
Back in his apartment, Dex changed out of his now very dirty uniform and poured a drink. His messenger was bleeping away and he saw that it was Stella Bish responding to his question from earlier in the day. Dex went back and forth in his mind, finally shutting off the notification and going offline. He grabbed the bottle from the counter and gave it a long hard look. After a few moments, he shook his head, then drained his drink and refilled the glass. He took the glass and bottle to his chair and pulled up an old video.
The drinking started before they had even finished packing Maksym’s stuff in the crate. Dex started watching at the point when he’d opened the bottle. He saw his younger self pour a couple of large glasses and top them off with splashes of real ginger beer. It was an expensive luxury he’d indulged in as a celebration. He saw his hand tremble slightly as it recapped the bottle.
He handed a glass to Maks, who took it with a wide smile. Dex could see three tiny wrinkles around each eye when he smiled. He wondered now if Maks ever had them removed. as he watched them work together packing the crate with Maksym’s stuff. “I guess I won’t need much of this stuff,” Maks said, putting his few clothes into the crate. “They give you a uniform and they’re actually not that bad looking.” Dex hadn’t answered. Maks sat on his bed, looking up at Dex, who was holding a jacket. “It will be fine, Andy,” he said, “you’ll see. The work is interesting enough and they’ll give you your own apartment. No more waiting for the lav, no more labeling your food bricks, no more scrounging for funds.”
“I guess,” Dex had mumbled, turning away from Maks. Now, in the viewer, he saw the wall of Maksym’s room, the wall that had divided their small apartment. His own bed had been on the other side of the thin metal partition. Maks had painted a mural on his side, an abstract of reds and yellows, all circles and triangles. “You should take this,” Dex had said, pointing at the divider. “Put it in your new place.”
“Yeah,” Maks agreed. “It would look nice.” Dex saw his own chest heave on the video as he had breathed in deep. He saw himself turn and put the jacket softly in the crate. He focussed on Maks, raised his glass and said, “Let’s put on some tunes.” Maks smiled and stood. They walked the few paces into the shared area and Maks poked at the interface for the speakers. Music came thundering out and Dex closed his eyes, just has he had at the time. He let the song wash over him; with it came the feelings he’d had then, the feelings he’d never lost.
They were going to be different. Together they had thought they could avoid the mundane life everyone else ended up with. They had made out okay on part time or under the radar jobs. They found someone who would rent them a place for cash money, they had enough for food and cheap booze and they had music. When they had first met on one of the boards where people talked tunes, they’d hit it off immediately. And when they discovered that they actually lived in the same city, it was like fireworks. For a year they lived together, making and playing music, staying up all night talking and listening, as if it were hundreds of years ago when art mattered. They could have lived that way forever. At least, Dex thought they could.
But Maks started to get restless, started talking about getting a real job, with a firm, with benefits. It didn’t happen overnight and by the time he actually moved out he had even convinced Dex that it was the right thing to do; that things didn’t have to really change just because they’d have more money and separate apartments. But that night, the night he left, Dex knew it was the end. He’d been recording some of their times together — just an hour at a time, but that day got his first disk upgrade and that night he set up his first full time recording.
He stopped the vid and drained his drink. He sat in silence for a few minutes, then got up, used the lav, poured another drink and sat back in the chair.
• • •
Dex sat at his work station at B&B, fingers dancing in front of him as he negotiated the various labyrinths within the B&B system. His own system, though, was going through Stella Bish’s message of the previous night. She hadn’t been entirely forthcoming — there were no names or links to be found in the message. She had, however, agreed that there were a few people she could recommend for work that was comparable to Reuben’s. She was having to scramble to get some of the contracts she’d lined up for Reuben fulfilled elsewhere, but there were a few comparable programmers in her stable, so it was just a matter of time. It wasn’t gold, but her information was better than nothing.
Dex decided to do some poking around on his own. He wanted to know just how plugged in to the underground economy Bish was. He started where Ivy had also begun, with Alvaro Zuccarelli. He linked into Marionette City and headed straight for Zuccarelli’s offices. No appointment this time. When he walked into the inner office, Zuccarelli looked up as if he were expecting Dex. The guy seemed to be unflappable, but it could just be the avatar’s programming.
“I need your advice,” Dex said, not waiting for an invitation to sit.
“Of course,” Zuccarelli said, gesturing for Dex to continue.
“If I needed some work done,” he said, “you know, on the QT, where should I start looking?”
“Well, now, that depends on exactly what kind of work you’d want done, doesn’t it.”
“Let’s start with the kind of work Reuben did.”
Zuccarelli looked at Dex suspiciously. “I suppose that suggesting you get Ivy to do it isn’t quite the answer you’re looking for.”
“Correct,” Dex said.
“Well,” Zuccarelli said, “the main clearinghouse for underground programming is a woman named Stella Bish. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her — I’m fairly certain that Mr. Cobalt had some kind of contract with her.”
“You never mentioned that before,” Dex said, his eyes narrowing.
“Indeed, not,” Zuccarelli replied. “Like I said, I’m not sure. Mr. Cobalt and I didn’t discuss his personal business, Mr. Dexter. However, very little off the books work gets done without Ms. Bish in the middle of it.”
“Did she negotiate your deal with Ivy?” Dex asked, indicating the building in which they found themselves.
“No,” Zuccarelli said. “That was a private arrangement. But, of course, I already knew of Ivy’s work. Ms. Bish offers a guarantee to clients that is hard to pass up.”
“What do you know about her?” Dex asked.
“I know that she is not one of my clients,” Zuccarelli said, haughtily, “so I am much less disinclined to discuss her with you than I might have been otherwise.” All of a sudden, Dex had the frightening thought that Zuccarelli was not actually trying to be difficult, that it was just the man’s nature to be obstinate. “No one seems to know what her background is. She doesn’t seem to have any useful skills — she’s not a graphics person or a programmer. However, she appears to have been active in Marionette City from the beginning and she’s always been using it to line her pockets.” Zuccarelli sniffed disdainfully.
Dex raised an eyebrow and Zuccarelli seemed to instantly pick up his meaning. “Yes, I know,” he said, voice heavy with irony, “coming from a glorified loan shark, that seems rich, right?” Dex kept quiet and Zuccarelli continued. “First, I’m not as much a slave to lucre as you might think and second, most of us who’ve been here for a while remember when there was a lot of community in M City. We used to help each other, discuss things; it was like this was an escape from the world of business, not an extension of it. She was never like that. It was always a business opportunity for her, right f
rom day one.
“In a way, we all owe her a debt. She was the business pioneer here and she paved the way for the rest of us. The trouble is, if you do any high end work, it’s a one horse town. Either you contract with Bish, or you’re scrounging for the scraps she leaves behind. And she’s not proud — it has to be a really bad job for her to turn it down.”
“So anyone with any skills will be working for Bish?” Dex asked.
“Yes and no,” Zuccarelli answered. “She likes to play both sides against the middle, so there are plenty of people queued up to get into her stable. She only keeps a few names on her radar at a time and it’s worth a good amount to be one of them.”
Dex thought for a moment. “So, Reuben’s death has left a void on her list, then. One that more than a few people might want to fill.”
“My god,” Zuccarelli said, “you don’t think someone killed him for his job, do you?”
“I don’t think anything,” Dex said, “but can you tell me some other reason someone might want him dead?”
• • •
Dex linked out of Marionette City and was pleased to discover that his B&B workday was done and he still had a good amount of day left. He resolved to commit minor infractions on the job more regularly. He caught the train back to his apartment and once he arrived he spent a good hour on the programmer’s boards. The vast majority of the posts went whizzing past Dex’s head with a small sonic boom, but clever use of the find function netted a handful of posts about acquiring independent employment. Stella Bish’s name was abundant.
It looked like Zuccarelli had been on top of the situation — if you weren’t on Team Bish, it was nigh unto impossible get work as an independent. And the wait list to get on with Bish was longer than seemed really reasonable. He could imagine how someone who was desperate might see how the strategic placement of malicious code might help them get ahead. He scraped the boards for any posts relating to independent contracting and started a script to scan them for names, contact numbers, anything that might be useful. In the meantime he linked back into Marionette City and headed for Uri Farone’s upgrade parlour.
Dex told himself that he was on the clock and that his only reason for visiting Farone was that he was a connection to Bish. He intended to pose as a potential customer and try and get Farone talking. He wasn’t really going to buy anything. Not today, anyway.
Farone’s kiosk was in a highly industrial area of Marionette City — it was all virtual clothes and online services for as far as the eye could see. Dex found Software Memory Upgrades sandwiched between a virtual penis enhancement place and an alibi services outfit. As if that didn’t tell you everything you needed to know about the world. According to the schedule posted on his board, Farone himself should be staffing the booth. Dex entered the small room and looked around.
The space was small, with just enough room for a couple of clients on the public side of the place and a single staffer on the back end. The wall space was covered with images that a client could touch and get links to audio or video files showing the heartwarming stories of satisfied customers. There was the man who was pained by memories of an error on the job that cost him a promotion. Farone’s people excised the memory and now the guy’s supposedly happy and successful at work, no longer paralyzed by the fear of making the same mistake. Or the woman who changed the fifty-year old memory of her sister’s last days before a fatal accident to include the words “good-bye”. All very innocuous and nice and the kind of thing you’d find on a greeting card. Dex wondered just how many upgraded memories were really this innocent.
The avatar behind the counter looked up as Dex moved around the space touching things and consuming the ads. Once Dex had exhausted the promotional material on display, the counterman smiled and opened a private chat channel between them. The name icon on the chat pane indicated that this was, indeed, Uri Farone. “Interested?” he asked.
“Could be,” Dex said, wandering over to the counter. “It looks impressive,” he said, jerking his head toward the nearest promo link. “How does it work, exactly?”
“Well,” Farone said, “if I told you that I’d be giving you the keys to the castle, now wouldn’t I?” He smiled disarmingly and Dex returned the grin without feeling. “But what you need to know is this — we start by altering any media records you have of the event — audio, video, text. Then you come in for personal treatment, which uses a combination of hypnosis, programming and sleep therapy. We can provide references, if you’d like to hear personal experiences of the after effects.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Dex said, his system receiving the file of contact names that the other man offered. “What’s the catch?”
The man across the counter smiled his salesman’s grin again. “Well, there are some particular issues with this type of service,” he said. “First, there isn’t really any way to reverse it. Not because we can’t do it, but because you can’t, in any true sense, ask us to.”
“Why not?” Dex asked.
“When you sign up for the service,” Farone said, “we require a very detailed request order for what you want. We need to be clear down to the smallest detail what we are to remove and what we are to add. This is for liability concerns, obviously, but it also is in the client’s best interest. It forces you to be sure about what you want and what you expect. Clearly, if you have no memory of what you want us to restore, you can’t give us clear instructions to restore it.”
“Hmfph,” Dex grunted. “That sounds like an overly complex way of saying you just don’t want to do it.”
“Maybe,” the man said, “but you really don’t know what you’re consenting to. You say, ‘I don’t like this new memory, make it the way it used to be,’ but you no longer even know what it was. We used to allow reversals, but too many people ended up even more unhappy and there are only so many times you can go back and forth with the same customer and the same memory. So, now our contract requires you to trust yourself, to believe that you really want to change your past.”
“Okay,” Dex said, “I can buy that. What about time frames? Is this a five minute, in and out job, or would I need to book holiday time to get it done?”
“That depends. An erasure takes about a day — we can do a full replacement in a weekend, no problem. If you’re just looking for some detail changes, it can range from a half hour to a half day. And there’s some prep work as well, so you’d have to budget for a few shorter meetings in advance of the final treatment.”
“I see,” Dex said. “Well, that brings me to the big question. Cost. If I wanted, say, a removal, what would that run me?”
The proprietor quoted a price and Dex whistled low. “But, of course, you can’t put a price on your past, now can you?” Farone said. “Memories are priceless, after all.”
“Apparently not,” Dex said aloud in his room. To Farone he said, “So you’re the man in charge here, right?”
Farone seemed a bit taken aback, but answered, “Yes. It’s my shop.”
“I thought so,” Dex said. “Stella Bish game me your name. And I’m kind of surprised, because I thought she just dealt with contractors.” Dex indicated the kiosk with his avatar’s gestures. “You seem to be pretty independent here.”
“Ah,” Farone said, sighing. “You must be the detective.”
“Guilty,” Dex said.