I blinked, keeping still—fighting the tickle at the back of my throat, the sweat that stung my eyes. I focused on the ad playing on a board mounted on a rooftop across from me. Time dragged. Maybe only a few minutes had passed—I had no idea—it felt like hours.
A filthy pigeon flew by, and I felt the flap of its wings. My body seemed to vibrate, strung too tight. A maniacal chuckle escaped my mouth, irritating my dry, swollen throat, and in that instant, the glass panel opened behind me, releasing a whoosh of cool, clean air. Victor threw his arm around my waist and dragged me backward. I fell in a heap, boneless, to the carpeted floor. The panel closed, shutting the noise and heat out once more.
“You all right, kid?” Vic was kneeling beside me, a hand on my shoulder.
I laughed, my body shaking. He was six months older than me but used it to his advantage, asserting his seniority at every turn, like some pain-in-the-ass big bro. I loved that about him. As well put together as he was, Vic knew what it was like to be an underdog, an outsider. He was a self-made success, and he had clawed his way to the top. My laugh turned into a rasping cough. “A drink?” I asked between breaths. But it was like he didn’t hear me. I rose unsteadily and grumbled at the barbot; it floated over, giving me an ice-cold bottle of beer. I drank half of it in two long gulps, savoring the sensation of the liquid sliding down my throat. My scalp tingled.
Victor was still kneeling on one knee, his tanned face pale. “What happened?” I’d never seen him so obviously scared before, and it was weirding me out. “Did they rough you up?”
He glanced over after a long moment. “No.” Vic straightened, so out of sorts he didn’t smooth his hair, didn’t adjust his expensive cuff links. “We had a lot of fun drinking and playing with the sim suits. I charmed them. They loved me.”
I shrugged. It was what Victor did; he rolled high in charisma. “Great. The better to get info from them.”
Victor’s expression darkened. “They were out for blood—and Rockaroke actually gave them access to do this, go from suite to suite. It’s unheard-of.”
“What’d they say?” I leaned against the back of the sofa, still feeling unsteady on my feet.
“All they had was that bad image of you. Made up some story that you were a murderer—some sick sociopath.”
I snorted.
Victor scrolled through his Palm. “The leader gave me his contact info. Said his boss wanted to bring you ‘to justice.’ That’s thug-speak for ‘dead.’?”
I shook myself, trying to get rid of the queasy feeling in my stomach. “Great,” I said and rolled over the back of the sofa to slide down onto its thick cushions. I stared at the wall screen. “What in all hells . . . ?”
Victor’s sim girl-pony had morphed into a buxom, blue-eyed blonde with three pairs of gigantic breasts lining her torso. The fact that she remained upright defied gravity. Two curved horns protruded from her forehead, and her lower body was that of a white goat’s.
“Vic, I’m worried about you.”
He didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. He sat down beside me, crossing his long legs in front of him. “It’s Victor.”
“?‘Victor’ makes you sound like a grandpa.”
“And ‘Vic’ makes me sound like a scrappy teenager.” He flicked something off the sleeve of his expensive shirt, then nodded toward the wall screen. “It served as a distraction. One of those goons wanted to try his hand at character creation. Let’s say the group lost its focus on the mission for a bit.”
I smirked, then, suddenly realizing, said, “You planned it. Showing that naked sim pony.”
“Of course.”
We sat for some time in silence, each watching the sim’s strange, goatish cavorting, her short tail wagging with enthusiasm. It was grotesque, yet hypnotic.
“They say money can’t buy you happiness,” Victor said, clicking the screen off. “But those you kids try hard. They spend and spend. Then when things aren’t enough, they plug into the sim world so they can create and be whatever they want.”
I flipped my butterfly knife out, turning the blade through its familiar rhythm. “As if being filthy rich weren’t enough.” My hand wasn’t quite steady yet.
“You don’t know how often a you kid has to be dragged off by ambulance because he’s been plugged in for too long,” Victor said. “A few have actually died. ‘Sim sickness,’ the medics call it.”
I shrugged, unsympathetic to their tragic ennui as meis died on the streets below their glittering high-rise worlds. Because what, they were bored? Because they couldn’t find meaning in their lives?
“So now what?” I asked.
He shook his head, looking tired and weary. “We have to call it off.” When he brought a tumbler of scotch to his lips, his hand shook hard enough for the ice to clink against the glass.
“What?” I stared at him, trying to process what he meant. Why he was suddenly so afraid.
“Me going in as a you,” Vic said. “I’m out.”
“We have to have someone on the inside. You’re the only one in the group who can—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s call Lingyi,” he said. “She needs to know too.”
“If you’re pulling out, everyone needs to know.” I prompted my Vox to call the group, then cursed. I’d forgotten it was out of juice.
Victor took out his Palm. “I’ll call a group meeting—”
“Now,” I said and glared at him.
? ? ?
Lingyi swept in forty minutes later, shadowed by a silent Iris, and the suite filled with Lingyi’s vanilla scent.
“Can’t I leave you boys alone for just one night?” Lingyi asked. Her hair was pulled back with a large orange daisy tucked into it.
“Apparently not,” I said.
She sat down, adjusting the short summer dress she wore, splattered with bright geometric designs. “What happened?” she asked, removing her face mask.
Iris had wandered over to the sim suits, touching one with mild curiosity. She wore black fingerless gloves, as always.
Vic flipped out his Palm and leaned over, showing Lingyi the poorly rendered image. She looked from the image to me, then down at the screen again. “I see a little resemblance,” she said. “How’d they get this?”
“We don’t know,” I replied.
Someone knocked, and both Victor and I jumped. Iris raised an eyebrow at us and stalked over to the door, glancing at the monitor. “It’s Arun.” She pulled the heavy door open and he entered, lifting his chin once in greeting.
“What’s with the emergency meeting?” he asked as he plopped himself on the long sofa near Vic.
Lingyi handed Victor’s Palm to Arun. “Zhou is on someone’s radar.”
Arun examined the rendering. “It could be worse. They have a likeness, not an actual image.” He yawned. “I got out of bed for this? I’m working in the lab early tomorrow—”
“You’re here,” Victor said, “because we need to call the whole thing off.”
Lingyi made a noise in the back of her throat, and Iris slipped over to drape herself on the wide arm of Lingyi’s plush chair, staring unblinkingly at Victor like a cat contemplating her prey. Iris hadn’t bothered to remove her face mask and looked like the ninja that she was.
“Why?” Lingyi said after a loaded pause.