city blues 02 - angel city blues (33 page)

I ignore this. “Different how?” I ask again.

“A construct,” the voice says. “A virtualized experiential environment, in which all inputs to your brain’s sensory cortex are generated by software. If the source code is sufficiently detailed and properly executed, the construct is indistinguishable from reality.”

“I don’t think you’re there yet,” I say. “Your moon looks like a Christmas ornament, and the granularity of the sand feels more like pea gravel.”

“There are still some refinements to make in the software,” the voice says. “When they are worked out, this technology will be marketed under the trade name MINDSCAPE. In the meantime, we are finding interesting non-commercial uses for the medium.”

I nod. I can see that. “So my body is strapped to a chair somewhere with a SCAPE rig taped to my head?”

“Close,” the voice says. “Your body is lying down, and there are actually
two
sensor arrays attached to your scalp. One—as you have guessed—is the headset for a SCAPE rig. The other is the electrode net for a Magic Mirror.”

I know something about Magic Mirrors. The technical name is Multifaceted Integrated Electro-something-or-other. It’s essentially an ultra-sensitive lie-detector.

“In other words, if I try to bullshit you, you’re going to know it.”

“Yes,” the voice says. “We will most assuredly know. And we will take action accordingly.”

“Meaning what?”

“I think you know the answer to that question,” the voice says. “We control the software that is feeding your sensory cortex. We can create sensory experiences which are a great
deal
more unpleasant than overly-granular sand or an imperfect moon.”

I sit my virtual body down on the virtual sand. It feels cool through the seat of my virtual pants.

“I’ve already been through that particular ringer,” I say. “I won’t pretend that SCAPE torture is any more pleasant than the real thing. But I came out the other end of it okay.”

“Perhaps,” the voice says. “Unfortunately for you, we also have possession of your body. We can do things to your real world self that will ensure that you do not come out of this ‘okay.’ I very much hope that will not be necessary.”

“Point taken,” I say. “Can I have a cigarette?”

“We did not bring you here to smoke cigarettes,” the unseen speaker says.

“I’m sure you didn’t” I say. “Speaking of which, how
did
you bring me here? Or more precisely, how did you get me out of the shuttle terminal without arousing security or the other passengers?”

“We have well-placed friends,” the voice says. “And we are permitted certain privileges on this station. A certain amount of freedom in our ability to carry out our intentions.”

“That certainly seems to be true,” I say. “Can you use some of that horsepower to get me a cigarette?”

The voice is silent for nearly a minute. Then I feel a slight tug at the fabric of my shirt as some lightweight object materializes in my pocket.

I know what it is even before I reach for it. Marlboros, in the crushproof pack. I thump one out, hold the tip against the catalytic ignition patch, and then take a deep lungful of virtual smoke.

It feels and tastes like the real thing. No… Better than the real thing. The flavor is richer and smoother than any tobacco I’ve ever encountered. This is not merely a cigarette. It’s the
perfect
cigarette. The archetype of what the smoking experience is supposed to be, but never is.

“Much better,” I say. I lean back and gaze up at the silvery face of the bogus moon. “Okay… Ask your questions.”

“We’ll start with a simple one,” the voice says. “What did you do with the Nambu automatic?”

“You’ve obviously been keeping tabs on me,” I say. “So I’m guessing that you already know what I did with it.”

“Just answer the question,” the voice says.

I shrug. No reason not to answer that one. “I was planning to go back Earth-side. I couldn’t take the gun through security, so I left it with a friend.”

A pause…

“Your answer checks as mostly true,” the voice says. “There was a measurable equivocation index on the word ‘friend.’ We interpret that to mean that you did leave the Nambu with someone, but you’re not comfortable classifying that person as a friend.”

I take another pull off the Marlboro. “You guys are
good
.”

“That was a calibration question, to verify that our equipment is functioning properly. Next question: who are you working for?”

I almost smile, because I know that my answer will confuse the voice and his cronies. “No one.”

Another pause…

“You came up here for your own purposes?”

“No.”

Pause… Probably for my unknown captors to interpret the readouts from their Magic Mirror. And possibly to discuss the confusing nature of my answers.

“What case are you working on?”

“None. I have no clients, and no active investigations.”

A longer pause…

There’s an edge in the voice when it speaks again. “You’re lying.”

“You’re the one with the Magic Mirror,” I say. “What does it tell you?”

“The readouts indicate that you’re telling the truth.”

“Well, there you have it.”

No pause, this time.

“You are being clever, Mr. Stalin,” the voice says. “Please trust me when I say that this is not the time for cleverness.”

The simulated beach disappeared, and I found myself strapped to a table under extremely bright lights. Someone was standing over me, backlit against the light source so that I could not pick out any details. The figure spoke, and I heard the voice again, this time in-person.

“Look down,” said the voice.

I did as the stranger ordered, squinting into the brightness, and trying to see whatever it was that he wanted me to look at.

My body was naked. Another half-seen figure was standing next to the table at approximately the level of my waist.

Through bleary eyes, I saw this second figure reach out a gloved hand and take a firm grip on the head of my penis, stretching the member to maximum extension. He (or she) laid the blade of one of those short Asian knives against the junction where the organ joined my body. I could feel the cold keenness of the edge trying to bite into my flesh. I didn’t need to be told how sharp the blade was. A tiny bit more pressure, and it would slice clean through with very little resistance.

“My associate is not entertained by your cleverness,” the voice said. “The very next time you give an evasive answer to one of our questions, he will demonstrate his displeasure by neutering you without benefit of anesthesia. Then, if you continue to be recalcitrant, he will perform additional impromptu surgeries of a more drastic nature. Do you understand, Mr. Stalin?”

The room held the silhouettes of three or four other men, but none of them spoke. Although I knew nothing about these people, I was instantly and utterly certain that they were not bluffing. At my first false move, they would carry out their threats and more.

When I nodded, I could feel the tug of electrodes and other devices at my scalp, as various sensor arrays shifted with the movement of my head. “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

“Good,” the voice said. “Then let us continue under more pleasant circumstances.

I’m back on the twilit beach, my virtual body still seated on cool sand, cigarette dangling from my lips.

The ersatz moon is just as luminous as before, the waves just as darkly sinuous, but this created world has lost its ambiance of genial banality. This no longer feels like a game.

“We chose this venue,” the voice says, “in the hopes of keeping this interview as civilized as possible. Please don’t force us to move it back into reality, where things will become much
less
civilized.”

I take an absent draw from the Marlboro, and discover that my virtual hand is shaking. Is this some manifestation of my body’s neural reactions in the real world? Or is it an artifact of the MINDSCAPE software—an anticipation of what my physiological response to danger
should
be? I don’t know, and it probably doesn’t matter.

I stub the cigarette out in the sand.

“Let’s return to my questions,” the voice says. “And if you happen to think of some cleverly phrased answer that will help you avoid the truth, I advise you to respond to the
intent
of each question, rather than my precise wording.”

I nod.

“Please begin by telling me what you did with the Nambu automatic.”

I don’t hesitate. “I left it with Vivien Forsyth.”

“From your earlier response, I assume that you don’t classify Ms. Forsyth as a friend.”

“We were friendly,” I say, “but I’m not sure that we actually qualify as friends. She was my client.”

“I notice that you use the past-tense,” the voice says. “I assume this is not an accident.”

“No, it’s not an accident. I quit the Forsyth case shortly before you snatched me from the shuttle terminal. That’s why I was flying home. Or
trying
to fly home.”

“I see,” the voice says. “You were investigating the disappearance of Ms. Forsyth’s daughter?”

I hesitate, not wanting to divulge information about an ex-client, but it’s not exactly a secret that I’ve been looking into the Leanda Forsyth thing.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Why did you leave the case?”

I hesitate again, not because this is sensitive information, but because I want to answer as honestly as possible. I’m very much aware that somewhere back in reality, the edge of a razor sharp blade is perilously close to the flesh of my favorite body. “That’s difficult to answer simply,” I say finally.

The voice carries a shadow of its formerly threatening tone. “How so?”

I sigh. “Because there is the answer that I
want
to believe. And there is the answer that I suspect may be true. I don’t like that one as much, but I can’t avoid considering it. So I’m not sure how your lie detector is going to react to any answer I give.”

“Give me both answers,” the voice says. “Let me to worry about the machine’s reactions.”

I reach for the Marlboro pack and pull out another cigarette. My hands have not stopped trembling.

“I’d like to believe that I quit because my client lost her ability to objectively evaluate incoming leads, and because her clouded judgment was causing her to distrust my handling of the case. That’s the reason I gave myself, anyway.”