Husk (5 page)

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means the demand for you just increased for the next little while, Rhodes.’

I shake my head, look down at my body. ‘Boss, I’m in shit state right now, haven’t had time to properly recover and heal from my last few sessions. Customers aren’t going to like the condition of the
goods.’

‘It doesn’t matter. More and more clients are willing to forego perfection and still pay top dollar. They’d rather not go without.’

‘You’re pushing me too hard, Baxter.’

‘Rhodes, please, I need you to give me a hundred and ten per cent right now.’

‘Fine,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Who do you have lined up?’

‘Mr Winslade called for you again.’

‘Oh no.’

Baxter looks at the schedule on her
tablet. ‘Tomorrow you’re booked for another twenty-four hours with him. Your session with Mr Ichida is a go for the following day, but when you’re done with him I need you to fly overseas and accommodate one of Clive’s regulars in London for a couple days. His name is Mr Shaw, and we absolutely cannot lose his patronage.’

I have no idea who Mr Shaw is, but the thought of Winslade and Ichida makes
my skin crawl. It’s way too soon to take on more sessions so close together. Those teeth marks and scratches still haven’t gone away. Neither has that rotten feeling that plagues me. Immediately, I’m back to wanting a way out.

‘Boss, listen, I really think I should take a break.’

Baxter shakes her head vehemently, not having any of it. She picks up her tablet and thrusts the screen at me, showing
the generous amounts I’ll be making for the three gigs, despite Solace Strategies’ fifty per cent cut. No Husk in his right mind would refuse the offer. I, however, haven’t felt in my right mind very much lately.

‘Look, if I had a little time off, it would be to everyone’s benefit.’

‘Deal with it, Rhodes. You’re booked in Manhattan, and then you’re on a jet to London. I’ll give you a full day
to yourself between here and there to recuperate.’

‘Jesus,’ I spit. ‘One goddamn day?’

‘Best I can do.’

I stand up, unimpressed. ‘This ain’t smart, boss. I’m not indestructible. If we’re not careful you could find yourself down by three employees.’

Baxter nods, face stoic, but eyes softer. ‘Your objection has been noted.’

We share a look that admits we both know the difficult position we’re
in. I scratch behind my ear, feeling the hard lump of Ouija insisting that I tell Baxter about its recent malfunctions. Before I can, she waves me away with both hands.

‘I’ll send details to your Liaison, Rhodes. Let me know how it goes.’

‘Sure,’ I say, already backing out the door.

As I leave Baxter’s office I see the handsome black devil himself, Phineas, walking down the hall toward me.
He wears a dark-blue suit and snakeskin shoes, dripping with style and flavour. I owe a lot to this man. He’s the one who
introduced me to the business, showed me the ropes. Phineas raises a hand, but doesn’t grin like usual.

‘Heya, mate,’ he says, and embraces me.

I hold him tight. ‘Phinn, how are things?’

‘Not good at all, son. Some real bad shit has gone down in the last few days.’

‘I heard.
Baxter just told me.’

Phineas shakes his head. ‘Fuck, man, Clive was just a kid.’

‘Yeah, and Miller was old guard. Jesus, our company has the best rep in the biz. How the hell did we lose two Husks in the same week?’

‘There’s a first for everything,’ he grumbles. ‘How are you handling it?’

I give him a dazed look. ‘Don’t think it’s even hit me yet.’

Phineas’s green eyes lock with mine, searching
to see if my emotions match his. He’s royally pissed, that much I can tell, though it’s the first real anger of any kind I’ve ever seen on him. The ire looks incorrect on his face. Phineas has never been anything but calm and collected for all the years I’ve known him. The man bleeds cool. That smooth English accent is easy on the ears, melts the elastic in women’s underwear.

‘We’ve got to start
being more careful,’ he says, drawing close and lowering his voice. ‘Before you or I end up a casualty.’

‘You’re preaching to the choir, man.’

‘Are you in town awhile?’

‘Just a couple days. Two twenty-four-hour clients
back-to-back in Manhattan, then I’m covering one of Clive’s regulars in London for forty-eight hours.’

I examine the impressive tailor-made suit he’s wearing and estimate it
cost close to five figures. I sneak a glance at the reptile footwear, thinking about how much I’d like to have this particular outfit, thinking about how much I’m still a slave to this kind of materialistic shit.

‘Nice threads man … you on your way to a gig?’

‘Coming back from one,’ he whispers, making sure no one is in earshot. ‘I lucked out with a new client. The lady who rented me said she
wanted to see what life was like in a man’s shoes, bought a whole new wardrobe. She went easy on the goods, let me keep the suit as a bonus too.’

‘You lucky bastard. I had a new client too the other day, but the guy took me for a
ride
, man.’

‘Yeah? How bad?’

‘Got infected for starters …’ I murmur.

‘The clap?’

‘HIV.’

Phineas chuckles and rolls his eyes. ‘You can tell me all about it in London.’

‘London?’

‘Yeah, I’m over there for a gig the same time you are. Let’s make sure we meet up for a pint or three when we’re wrapped.’

Phineas smiles, pearly teeth shining, eyes squinting above high cheekbones. He raps my shoulder and starts past me in the direction of Baxter’s office. I put a hand on his chest to stop him.

‘Hey, while we got a minute, have you been having any problems at all
lately?’

‘Problems?’

Phineas looks at me cockeyed. With a grimace, I turn my head to the side and point behind my ear. Phineas’s eyes widen when he realizes.

‘With the Ouija?’ he whispers.

‘Yeah.’

‘No, nothing. Everything’s running like clockwork, mate.’

Up ahead I can see the lights have been turned on in Tweek’s control room. I start heading that way and Phineas understands everything
at once. If our problems are internal, they’re worth the worry. His handsome features fold into a look of concern as we part ways.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I think my Ouija is acting up,’ I say, and tap the thing under my skin.

Tweek frowns. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘That,’ he says, mimicking my tapping. ‘They’re sensitive.’

‘They better not be. You have any idea what my clients
have been putting me through on a regular basis?’

Tweek nods. He knows better than most. The customized gel layer he personally designed to coat the Ouija with cushions a lot of impact, but the man is forever nervous about the resiliency of the technology he helped create. I sit down across from him and lean forward, tilting my head so he can have a gander behind my ear. Tweek looks, but doesn’t
touch. His chubby fingers fiddle nervously with the cuffs of his lab coat instead.

‘What’s it been doing?’

‘Clicking.’

‘Clicking?’

‘Yeah, every once in a while I hear, or maybe feel, this click. Each time it happens I get hit with some strange kind of flashback.’

‘What do you see?’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t remember.’

Tweek turns to one of his tablets and brings up several complex schematics
of the Ouija, bright blue images with white lettering denoting aspects of them. In the top corner of the screen I see my name: Keith C. Rhodes.

‘How long has it been giving you trouble?’ he asks, opening a drawer and retrieving a device that looks a little like my Liaison, but larger and more robust.

‘About a month now,’ I reply. ‘It’s only started to worry me in the last week or so. All these
back-to-back clients are wearing me thin. Maybe the Ouija took a bad knock or something in session.’

Tweek pulls a data cord out of the device and connects a proboscis to the end of it before passing it over to me. I slowly stab the needle into my head until the tip crunches into the Ouija. Tweek stares at his tablet screen, scrutinizing the stats that appear. Behind him, under a swing-arm magnifying
glass, I notice another dismantled Ouija lying in several pieces among the technological clutter on his desk. I point over his shoulder at the tiny machinery.

‘Been working on a new one, Tweek?’

Tweek turns to look at it, frowning again. ‘No, that’s Miller’s.’

‘Oh.’

‘I had to sneak into the city morgue and pull it out of his head before they performed an autopsy. They’re so busy down there
and his melon was so messed up, I doubt anyone will notice …’

He trails off, removes his thick-rimmed glasses off, rubs his eyes. Tweek won’t shed tears. I know him well enough to know that. He and Miller were the quintessential odd
couple, always bickering, forever picking on each other. The adorable little nerd, he’ll mourn the old Adonis in his own way, but not in front of me.

‘Sorry about
Miller,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he snorts. ‘I am too.’

‘It was bound to happen some time,’ I say, regurgitating Baxter’s words.

‘It never would have happened if I’d ever been able to figure out and implement a fucking failsafe for you guys.’

I nod. ‘I guess we should all carry the Ejector pills on us or something –’

‘What the hell good would they do?’ Tweek snaps, giving me an angry look. ‘When would
you be in any position to take them when needed?’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking out loud.’

Tweek’s lip wobbles. ‘My apologies … I didn’t mean to bark at you. It’s just that I’m the one who is supposed to be protecting you guys …’

Tweek’s about to go on a tangent, I can tell. It’s important that I get him refocused and quick. I need him working on my current problem, the reception of
indistinct horrors in my head that I want to put a stop to.

‘It’s not your fault, Tweek. There’s nothing you could have done. We accept the risks when we sign on, so don’t go beating yourself up about it.’

More Baxter in my mouth and I hate the taste. It seems to appease Tweek enough to get cracking though. With a deep sigh he turns his attention back to his gear. Fingers dance over the tablet,
implementing codes, executing commands. His eyes flick between the screen and the
handheld device as they communicate with a series of chirping noises. An HG unit activates on his desk and projects an image of my Ouija, sections of it highlighted and dissected as it rotates slowly. Beside the HG I notice a device I’ve never seen before, something in a cobalt-blue shell with small tools and circuitry
scattered around it.

‘Running a full diagnostic now,’ Tweek says. ‘It’ll take a few minutes. Hand over your Liaison while you’re waiting. I want to make sure your software’s running smoothly too.’

I unlock the Liaison and surrender it. Tweek checks it out, running scans and tests on the sequencer program. Nothing in his facial expressions suggests there is any problem. We don’t speak for several
minutes. The growing discomfort in the room is evident. I decide to break the silence with a whispered inquiry.

‘Do you know who Miller’s last client was?’

Tweek shoots me a stern look. Solace Strategies vehemently discourages employees from talking about work outside of what is absolutely necessary. Gossip regarding clients and sessions is strictly forbidden. Every pimp comes down hard on their
hookers for disobedience, and we’re no different. I don’t care though. I return Tweek’s stern look, wanting a reply. Enough seconds go by for me to realize that he doesn’t know the answer to the question. Solace keeps the company compartmentalized, protecting client confidentiality even more so.

‘Horseshit,’ I snarl. ‘Poor Miller buys the farm, and the bastard renting him gets to live on.’

‘That’s not possible, Rhodes. You know that.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Who says it’s living anyway?’ Tweek says with a grim smile. ‘The Post-Mortems certainly don’t.’

Post-Mortems: our name for those that cheat death by digitally converting and uploading their consciousness. It’s probably the world’s biggest and best-kept secret, but Tweek will tell you that virtual living ain’t all that shit hot. Tweek
will tell you that those in the VR worlds, designed by the best computer programmers on the planet, aren’t having the time of their lives. Get a few drinks in him and Tweek will tell you that some Post-Mortems can’t handle more than six months on a hard drive before requesting permanent deletion.

Tweek will also tell you that the more time a Post-Mortem spends in virtual reality, the less recognizable
they become. After a few years of living in a server system, a Post-Mortem can often seem more like a bot than a person if they don’t get out and interact with the real world enough. With a Husk, they do whatever they have to do in order to feel alive again. My job is about conforming and complying with what is desired of me. Show up and shut up for down payment and download, that’s a Husk’s
day in a nutshell. In the past I haven’t asked too many questions. Lately, I’ve been more inclined to.

‘What’s it really like?’ I ask.

‘What is what like?’

‘Being Post-Mortem.’

Tweek hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his lab coat and searches his head for an appropriate answer. Few of the living really know for sure, and Post-Mortems don’t care to discuss it much. They see it as being part
of
another of their many exclusive clubs or societies, membership required for knowledge. Digitization of the human brain is a one-way trip, a conversion of consciousness following a decision that must be made before flat-lining. After the process is complete, it’s not your real brain any more. It’s a recursive real-time copy that allows you to keep thinking, keep conscious via computer support
and algorithms designed to mimic your original self from a mass of collected data. The only way Post-Mortems are able to upload to the living is through the Ouija; the converter mechanism that allows them limited visitations in the flesh.

The Ouija is one of the reasons not just anyone can Husk. Biological and digital can’t work together without the right grease. That grease costs more than your
bachelor’s degree in whatever the fuck you thought was a good idea at the time, and three to four hours of high-risk black-market brain surgery. Just like pimps don’t pay for breast implants or chemical peels, Husks have to invest in their own tech, paying out of their own pocket to put themselves on the operating table. Survive the operation, and you can work off the debt afterwards. More than
a few aspiring Husks have gone no further than under the knife.

‘I’ve heard it’s like video games,’ Tweek says finally. ‘Y’know when you grab a five-star title and you sit down to play it and it’s frigging awesome and you can’t stop playing for days on end because you’re so immersed in it?’

I nod. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, y’know how you inevitably get completely bored of that game, no matter how awesome
you thought it
once was? How you feel like some shitty zombie staring at the graphics after a while, everything about it eventually becoming lame and predictable?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Apparently, post-mortem life is exactly like that.’

From what I gathered here and there, I suspected as much. Existing past your shelf-life, it’s not really real, no matter how well your worlds are generated. Post-Mortems
don’t have the luxury of getting up and walking away from the game when they tire of it. Not unless they get into bed with people like Baxter, invest in the intelligence of people like Tweek, and lease someone like me.

The tablet completes its tasks and chimes twice, a sound mimicked by the other device. The HG deactivates. Tweek looks over the results posted on the screens and nods with satisfaction.

‘Diagnostic complete,’ he says, holding out a hand for the proboscis. ‘Everything looks fine on the tech side, Rhodes.’

‘Shit,’ I moan, unplugging myself. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Tweek lays one hand on my shoulder and lifts my chin with the other. ‘The simple answer is that you’re exhausted, Rhodes. Sleep deprivation might be causing you to micro-nap, or the flashbacks could be hypnagogic
in nature, hallucinations experienced in that no-man’s land between falling asleep or waking up. With the Husking, you’re also in and out of induced comatose-like states, regularly. The Migraine Coma effect could be part of it too.’

‘But I haven’t had any migraines,’ I protest.

Tweek puts his toys away. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?’

‘Last night.’

‘Well, it’s
probably still not enough,’ he says and shrugs. ‘You could also be having psychedelic flashbacks from a previous client’s chemical indulgences.’

I think of Navarette. ‘Maybe.’

‘You need to get some more rest, take better care of yourself.’

‘Not frigging likely,’ I say, closing my eyes and cracking my neck. ‘I’m back on the job tomorrow, and the day after that, and then I’m being sent off to
work in the UK for a few days.’

When I open my eyes Tweek is standing by his desk, face deflated as he stares down through the magnifier at all he has left of Miller. He takes a deep breath and shudders. It’s only then that I notice traces of blood on the broken Ouija. When Tweek speaks his voice is hoarse, threatening to descend into a whisper.

‘You need to be more careful.’