Crache (12 page)

Her image jitters as she lets out a breath. Her face inflates, and then shrinks as the datafeed shifts from one flitcam to another. “Kerusa wants you arrested.”

“Kerusa’s a prick.”

“How do I know you’re not?”

“Look at me”—Rexx hefts the sacks of flesh hanging from his arms—“I haven’t screwed anyone in years.”

It doesn’t get a laugh, but her expression relaxes. She has a no-nonsense, down-to-earth ’tude that puts him at ease. He can see why Yalçin likes her. She doesn’t have the time or the desire for bullshit.

“You gonna let me in? Or do I get to rot with the rest of this place?” He waves a hand at the sporadic patches of slime. The air lock is starting to take on the look and feel of a dirty aquarium. Despite the biosuit, Rexx imagines slime building up on the inside of his lungs, like black sludge forming on a mildewed sink drain.

With quick finger strokes, Hjert taps out a virtual command. She looks as if she’s just come from a construction site. Her hand is gloved with nanimatronic mesh the color of chain mail. She’s wearing a heavy-duty exoskeleton over her biosuit, a utility belt with servo and propulsion jacks, and a pair of thick boots with claw-sharp pincers on the sides for grabbing and cutting.

“I’ll meet you in the lower atrium in thirty minutes,” she says, glancing up. “I just squirted your IA the location.”

“Thanks.” Rexx grins. “I appreciate—”

Her face vanishes, snuffed out in a flurry of black static. He readjusts the opacity on his eyescreens, increasing the gain on the realtime image of the air lock as the softseal membrane covering the hexagon thins and disappears.

“Welcome to Mymercia,” the door chirps, toggling into tourist information mode. “Enjoy your visit.”

“I will. I’m startin’ to feel at home already.”

“If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at any time.”

“I’ll do that.” Rexx grips the chrome-anodized frame around the hexagon and pulls himself through into a narrow magtube. The access shaft is as cramped as the birth canal of a pregnant guernsey.

“Put your hand in,” his father said. “All the way. To the elbow.”

The cow squirmed, hot and slick against his arm.

“Now you know everything there is to know about the female sex,” his father said, “including your mother.”

Rexx breathes past a sharp jackhammer throb in the side of his head. Huffs and puffs his way to a dimly lighted cylinder a hundred meters away. Without magnetic flux lines, he keeps bumping into the walls, a slow-motion carom from side to side. For some reason, the design team didn’t include handholds. The walls and biolum panels are smooth. Finally, the tube opens into a spacious vertical shaft, diamond walled and with a chrome frame. Side tubes lead to darkened gift shops, clothing stores, restaurants, and VRcades. Some of the partition walls have been left clear, either for window shopping or a view of the asteroid, while others are textured, tinted, or charcoal gray, devoid of logos, news, advertisements. Without them, the place feels like a tomb. Even the chapel where Jelena and Mathieu were buried felt more alive, with its religious music, aromatherapeutic pherions, and huge selection of online inspirationals available in text or audio. Classic Hi Rev revival sermons, Hip Gnosis meditations, and Jesuette pep cheers.

“Directions?” he asks Claire.

“Down, to level one.”

Easier said than done. He grips a burnished aluminum trellis, encrusted with dead violinette blossoms, and kicks off into the jungle of dry, scaly shadows.

15

THE BLUE LADY SINGS

N
ight vomits him up. Spits him out like a hairball, half-digested by exhaustion. Wet on the outside, dry on the inside. Loose sprayons wrinkled, scratchy with dried salt.

L. Mariachi rolls onto his back. Lets out a congested groan. Halitosis clenches his tongue in a death grip. His left hand aches, a relentless symphony of pain. The tips of his right fingers throb, drumbeat steady under a warbling high note shrill enough to strip the dried saliva and enamel from his teeth. It’s the same pain he felt the night his left hand was trashed. Had it been worth it? Had the brief, momentary high been worth the long, lingering low?

Simón!
Hell, yes! At least he knew what it was like to be free. He had been there once. Walked those streets. Breathed that air.

He feels cleansed, sated. Made whole by the music in a way he’d never been with a woman. Both had maimed him. There was always a price. But he wouldn’t trade his hand for anything. It was impossible to walk away from the world unscathed. To be born is to live in pain. Even Jesus suffered at the end.

The gray press of air against his face still reeks of stale cigarette smoke and incense. In addition to his own labored breathing, he can make out quiet exhalations. Low and relaxed, soothing in their peaceful regularity.

Lejandra. The woman is still alive. Amazing. It’s a miracle she didn’t suffocate from all the airborne carcinogens Doña Celia dosed her with.

L. Mariachi lifts a hand to rub the puffiness from his eyes, and bangs his knuckles on the body of the guitar. It’s resting on the floor next to him, half under the nubbly wool blanket draped across the lower half of his body.

He starts to sit, but midway up a spike of pain punctures the top of his skull. He collapses back to the hard lichenboard floor, clutching the neck of the guitar. Runs one lacerated fingertip along a string between the frets, counting out notes as if they were beads on an abacus.

Shit. With his luck the
bruja
will think he stole the guitar and punish his ass. Just what he needs: a
chizo
of white worms, pebbles, or greasy hair in his stomach. Still it’s nothing compared to his hand.

It’s hard to believe she would leave without it. Maybe she intends to come back, to check on the woman, and will pick it up then.

A wave of dizziness engulfs him. He rolls back onto his side and vomits up a watery strand of drool. The floor dutifully sponges the bile up. Deodorizers rush to the scene, but not before he gets a fetid whiff of bile-frothed beer.

“I warned you,” Num Nut says, chortling in his cochlear imp.

L. Mariachi eases himself gingerly onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. The pain in his left hand reverberates inside his head. A migraine splash of entoptics roils on the dimmed biolum panels. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty.”

Great. He has to be at the vat facility in less than two hours. “I could use a little help, if you don’t mind.”

“I can’t dispense any more painkiller.”

When he opens his eyes, the entoptics taunt him, a nauseating rumba. “Why not?”

“You aren’t authorized to access today’s ration of nonprescription meds until after six
A.M.
”

His official clock-in time. He’ll just have to hitch up his cojones and grit it out until then.

He rolls onto his side, scoots the guitar closer, and rests one side of his face on the cool wood.

“Hello?”

L. Mariachi freezes, as if the room has turned to glass and will shatter at the least bit of movement. The source of the voice, buzzing and tinny against his cheek, seems to be the hole in the soundboard of the guitar.

“I hope you can hear me.”

L. Mariachi sits up fast. He must be in worse shape than he realized. Either that or Num Nut—perhaps some other
macañema
—is messing with him. “Very funny,” he mutters.

If it
is
his IA, there’s not much he can do. It’s not like he can afford an upgrade or a replacement.

He digs a finger into his ear to clear it . . . and wonders if the voice isn’t the result of his binge or a practical joke but rather something in the cigarette smoke or the antiphers that the gangstas dosed him with. Whatever it is, it can’t be legit. In which case, he’s hosed. As soon as he reports for work, sniffers at the vat will flag any illegal pherions that he’s been exposed to.

It’s a no-win situation. If he shows up, he’s screwed. If he doesn’t show up, he’s screwed.

“My name is Fola,” the guitar says. “I know how this must sound. But just listen to me for a second.”

The guitar gapes at him. In the darkness it looks like a
boca
—a yawning toothless mouth. Chipped, wear-polished wood for lips.

“I need you to play a song,” the guitar goes on.

L. Mariachi shakes his head, grins at his idiocy. The guitar has a built-in program to put together a playlist. Nothing more. “
¿Que quieres?
” he says. “What do you want? Which song?”

There’s a pause, a hiccup in the battered circuitry. “‘SoulR Byrne.’”

L. Mariachi coughs out a laugh. He can’t believe it. The guitar is old—probably close to his age—but to randomly choose that song . . .

He shakes his head in disbelief. Holds up the thrashed tips of his fingers. “In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t play shit right now.”

“If you don’t play the song, Lejandra is going to die. So are a lot of other innocent people around the world.”

Which sounds more like a threat than a request. But that could just be the way the software was programmed. Melodramatic.

“A lot of people are getting sick,” the guitar says. “There’s an outbreak of some kind, and the song could help them . . . make them better.”

“SoulR Byrne.” The song follows him around like a mongrel dog. No matter how many times he kicks it, the damn thing keeps coming back. Digging up the guilt he tried to bury years ago.

“Please?”

“Sure,” he says. “No problem.” That seems to do the trick. The guitar falls silent. End of request. He waits for a relapse. But the silence stretches, becomes less tentative with each passing second.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on unsteady knees, and props his head in his hands as a clammy tremble runs through him. Sweat sluices down his rib cage and queasy stomach, collects like a dewdrop in his belly button as a line from the song whispers through him.

“‘When I’m fine’ly gone, it’s a fore_gone conclusion you’re gonna cry. . . .”

. . . Renata, he thinks.

“Do you want to get a bite to eat?” he asked, his mouth dry.

It was late, after two in the morning. The last show at the Seraphemme ended an hour ago. The band was gone, the crowd had dispersed, and the club was slowly winding down. Everyone on the wait staff and clean-up crew was wobbly, giddy with excitement or fatigue as they called it a night. Outside the club, the street was still alive, jam-packed with neon storefronts, cafés, kiosks, bars, and hologram-animated fast-food franchises, all jostling for advertising space and clamoring for attention.

He’d never asked her out before. After work, they had always gone their separate ways. This was the first time he’d worked up the nerve. He’d always been too afraid—worried she’d turn him down cold or that he’d ruin their friendship.

The problem was, he didn’t want to be just friends. He liked her . . . a lot. She was upbeat and talkative, but not a
boca
. She didn’t gossip about people behind their back or put them down. Wasn’t critical or judgmental. Always tried to see the good in people, no matter what. Even her ice queen sister and narcissist brother.

“Isabelle has a good heart, she’s just been hurt a lot,” or, “I think it’s cute how my brother thinks he’s the second coming of Don Juan.”

As a result he never felt tongue-tied around her. Unlike all of the other
chavalas
who worked at the Seraphemme, she actually listened to him, seemed interested in what he was saying beyond mere politeness. He didn’t have to pretend he was someone he wasn’t. He could confide in her without fear of ridicule. The nice thing was that they didn’t always have to talk. They could be quiet together, too. Comfortable silences that didn’t beg to be filled.

She was vulnerable, too. Not weak or anything, but sensitive. Caring. She wasn’t an
apretada
, a holier-than-thou saint—she liked to mosh it up on the dance floor as much as anyone—but there was something sweet and innocent about her. Pure. Which she caught a ton of grief about from some of the down-on-the-world
bacalaos
who freelanced as
putas
when they weren’t dishing out food or tending bar.

“We could go to Vallartas,” he said. “Share some nachos.” Vallartas was a casual taquería. Low budget. Nothing too serious.

She shook her head. “I can’t.” Fiber-optic bangs sashayed across her face in a luminous curtain, as if he was looking at her through a window. Behind the illusion of glass, her lashes, decorated with exotic moth-wing appliqués, opened and closed. “Sol is picking me up.”

Javier Solaff, who required more positive spin than any two standard-issue losers combined. It seemed that she was always making excuses, justifications, or rationalizations for his behavior, normally centered around why she stayed with him. She worked hard at it, sometimes to the point of exasperation and tears. It made L. Mariachi think he had a chance. That maybe she would finally get fed up with her current situation.

“I thought he worked graveyard.” From what Renata had told him, the
chavo
was a vat rat at a local hydroponics pharm. Worked 9:00
P
.
M
. to 5:00
A.M.
, harvesting fruit in the cool of the night.

“Usually he does.” Renata cut an anxious glance past him, searching the street. “But tonight he’s getting off early.” She was flushed with excitement, her cheeks glowing with anticipation. Radiant under the phalanx of umbrella palms that lined the street, reflecting back the lights and her bright mood.

Just his luck. His timing couldn’t be worse. For weeks, months, she had podded home alone. Tonight her boyfriend decided to give her a lift. It was like the guy was telepathic—could sense another
tiguere
sniffing around his territory.

“I’m sorry,” she said, touching him lightly on the arm. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Maybe we could do it some other time.” She was just being polite. Even if they did go out, it would just be as friends. That much was clear. She liked him the same way she liked her brother.

“There he is.” Her hand darted up, revealing the beautiful clamshell hollow of her armpit. “Sol!” she called. “Over here!”

Sol. Bulging with muscles and confidence, but otherwise low-wattage. The kind of
cabrón
that caused the
güebos
of self-conscious, insecure types to shrivel up and crawl away in humiliation and despair.

He slipped a possessive arm around Renata’s hourglass waist and squeezed her the way he would a stuffed animal.

“This is L. Mariachi,” she said, by way of introduction.

“Your musician friend.” The
cabrón
extended his free hand. “
Oye ese. Que hay de nuevo?
”

“Not much.”

Sure enough, the guy’s grip was a bone crusher, as much a challenge as a greeting. Like a peacock spreading its tail, advertising its superiority.

When he let go, L. Mariachi could still feel the pressure of his fingers. Beyond his good looks and age, twenty-something, he wasn’t sure what Renata saw in the
chavo
. Sure, he was probably experienced in bed. But ambition and intelligent conversation did not seem to be his strong points.

He didn’t want to think less of Renata. For her sake, he tried to tell himself that there must be more to the guy than met the eye, or she wouldn’t be with him.

There was an awkward silence. He felt like a third leg . . . a useless appendage that had suddenly grown out of the two of them.

“Well,” he finally said to Renata. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” She smiled, apologetic but not regretful.

“Nice meeting you,” Sol said.

L. Mariachi bit his tongue. Remained polite for her sake, and kept his resentment to himself.

“Ditto,” he said.

He watched them walk away until they were swallowed up by the street crowd and the neon. His face was burning, scalded by the overabundance of light that brought tears to his eyes. A pressure valve for the anger and hatred building inside him, like steam in a teakettle crying for release.

L. Mariachi shakes his head. No way he’s going to play the song. What good will it do, digging up garbage he tossed years ago? It’s just a song. It had been a commercial success but a private failure. It never solved anything.

“You okay?”

The whisper comes from the direction of the bed, not the guitar. He turns toward the woman, who is watching him with fever-glazed eyes.

“You sick?” she says.

“No.”

“You’re not what I expected.” Her eyes dilate, the albino-pale whites expanding. “I thought you’d be . . .”

“Hungover?” he says.

“No. Flashier.” Her attention drifts to the guitar, then back. “You seem . . . normal. For a
rockero,
I mean.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You’ve changed?”

He shrugs.

“Everyone does, I guess.” She holds up one hand, with its exoskeleton of charcoal bruise lines. “Not always by choice, or the way we want.”

“You seem better,” he says.

“Do I?”

“Do you feel better?”

She lowers her hand to the sheet, fingers splayed. “Different.”

Her face is luminous. Thin lips set in moonlit bone. Thick lashes, as black as the wings of some nocturnal moth. Extinct but no less alluring.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“Sorry. I was thinking of someone I knew.”

Her head cants on the pillow, quizzical. “Do I remind you of her?”

“Not really.” Part of his mind is redrawing the present with the past. Connecting imagined dots to create a mirage.