The Courier (San Angeles) (2 page)

I rolled into the depot about fifteen minutes late, still thinking of a warm shower. A cop was parked just around the corner, waiting for a courier to zip out of the parking lot going too fast. He was there
every day. Everyone knew it, but he never changed his pattern. One of the joys of working for the government, I guessed. The corporations would have run a tighter ship.

The building was a squat, ugly thing behind a strip mall. With its peeling gray paint and broken windows, it looked like it was about to fall apart at any second. Someone had spray painted
The World is Dyeing
in bright red on the side. I hoped so—the uniform gray of the lower levels was starting to get to me. I pulled in beside the only other bike there, a dirty blue hand-painted machine that was even older than mine. The motorcycle’s owner came bolting out the door and jumped down the three concrete stairs just as I was done plugging my bike into the outlet.

“Yo, Kris, dude.” He paused. “Dudette. You don’t want to go in there.”

Howie was a laid back “cool guy” who seemed to drift through life without any direction. His long, frizzy hair lay on his shoulders, still twisted and creased from the braid he kept it in while working. This was the most excited I’d seen him in a long time.

“What’s up, Howie?” I asked.

“Dispatch has a late delivery. Get out while you can, man, I think she’s looking for you.”

“Damn.” I kicked the tire of my bike in frustration. “I’ve got a hot shower calling my name and I gotta drop off my papers. You know how Dispatch is about her paperwork.”

Howie grinned. “Oh, man, good luck.”

A late delivery. Fucking great. And it figures Dispatch sent me on a long haul for the last run of the day. Sometimes I thought the bitch had it in for me, and shit like this reinforced the idea. Just soften me up with a day of smooth runs, and then wham! Nail me with a late delivery that will ruin my whole fucking day. I put my bike keys into my pocket, giving the golden figure on the key chain an extra rub for
good luck. I grabbed the door handle, ready to barge in and tell her no. I hesitated. Maybe if I walked in quiet I could put the paperwork on top of the pile and get out before she saw me.

I pushed on the rusted steel door just enough to slip through and closed it softly behind me. The sound of Howie’s bike winding up and leaving the parking lot came through the opening before the door latched.

The office was empty, always a bad sign, but pretty much what I expected. The old chairs and couches, covered in stains and crushed potato chips, seemed to smell even worse when the place was empty. Someone had brought in a plant a few weeks ago, probably trying to brighten it up. Now its brown leafless branches stuck out of the dry, cracked soil, looking deader than the building itself.

Dispatch’s desk was hidden behind a half wall that cut the room in two. She wasn’t sitting at it. She was probably prowling the halls looking for the last sucker. Maybe it was a bathroom break. Maybe the delivery wasn’t urgent and could wait until tomorrow. Maybe Dispatch had a heart of gold. Yeah, right. Still, there was a chance I could get out of here without being caught.

I dropped my paperwork on top of the teetering stack and tiptoed back toward the door.

“Kris, girlie. Could you wait a minute?”

The voice of Dispatch stopped me in my tracks.

Her voice always confused me. It was soft and maybe a little high-pitched and breathy. If you didn’t look, you would have pictured a tall blonde, probably not natural, makeup caked onto her face, a tight skirt riding high up long legs and a bra that pushed her boobs right up under her chin. Instead what you got was Dispatch. A huge, swarthy woman, her face cratered and creased by age and, most likely, too many nights buried in a bottle. She grew a mustache better than most guys I knew, and she had a weird growth just under
her chin that sprouted long, thick black hairs. Most of the time you didn’t have to look at her, though. Usually her face was buried in her comm unit, or staring at one of those pulp rags that talked about three-headed babies and how Elvis, whoever the hell he was, was still alive.

I turned back to face her, feeling the dank air in the room fill my lungs. Dispatch stood in the hall, almost touching both walls with her hips. I think the walls were light gray once. Surprise!

“Kris, I got a late call. Just a quick run. Could you do it for me, sweetie?”

“Look,” I said, taking a step back, “I’d love to, but I’ve been riding hard all day. I want to get home.”

“It’s just a short run, a pickup on Level 4 and a delivery on Level 2. You can take the paperwork home with you, honey, and drop it on my desk in the morning.”

I just stared at her. Having Dispatch let you take the paperwork home with you was like being plucked off the street and taught how to fly a shuttle to and from the Sat Cities. Shit like that didn’t happen, especially where Dispatch was concerned. I really didn’t want anything to do with this. I turned partway back to the door and paused, feeling her stare on the back of my head. The bike really needed a new rear tire. The extra cash would help.

“I can drop the paperwork off tomorrow?” I asked, turning back, still not believing her.

“That’s right, honey. I’ll look for it on my desk in the morning when I get in.”

I stared at my boots, covered in road dust, and thought about it. Level 4 wasn’t too bad of a pickup, depending on where it was, and Level 2 was home as long as the drop-off wasn’t at the edge of my area. Not having to come back up after the delivery was a definite bonus.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad run after all. Rack up another delivery and get a little more cash in my pocket. A lukewarm shower would work once I got home. I was used to them.

“The pickup client is a tipper, sweetie. I saved the trip for you.”

I looked at the door, then back at her sideways.
Honey
and
sweetie
weren’t her usual choice of words. Why was Dispatch being so nice? She had never been nice to me before. In fact, she was barely civil to any of the female couriers. It creeped me out, and I thought of just heading home. But I needed that tire. One day it would slip again, or blow, and I would be in serious trouble.

Dispatch took a step forward, the smile leaving her face, replaced by a look of concern. “I know you need the money, Kris. Take this one, and I’ll make sure you get more good runs, until things get better.” She reached out and gently touched my arm before her look changed again, to the cold, calculating one I knew. “If you can’t take the delivery, I’m not sure I’ll have anything for you tomorrow, girlie.”

I felt heat rush up my face. That bitch. I almost said the words out loud; instead I swallowed hard, forcing them back down my throat. It looked like I wasn’t being given a choice after all. This was the Dispatch I knew. I waited until my voice would sound calmer before answering. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” The smile came back. Dispatch walked down the hall toward me and stopped at the desk. She stretched her huge bulk over it, reaching for the papers. “Here’s the paperwork. The clients are both waiting for you, so you shouldn’t have any problems.”

I grabbed the forms and turned back for the door, looking at the pickup and drop-off addresses.

Fuck! The pickup was out of my area, way north. The closest up-ramp was under construction. I would have to take a detour, adding time to the ride there.

This was going to be a shitty end to my day.

I tucked the paperwork into the carryall, unplugged my bike, and checked the charge. It should be enough to get the job done. I slipped the bike into gear and rode slowly out of the parking lot. The Ambients, bolted to the ceiling at regular intervals, would be starting to dim soon, casting the streets into an early evening gloom and making it harder to see the potholes. A fine mist covered my visor and I wiped it with my hand, leaving behind a greasy smear. It must be raining on Level 7, pretty hard too, to make it mist like this down here. By the time the water got down to Level 1 it would be almost toxic from the trip.

People that worked or lived on Level 1, which used to be open air and grass and trees, had the sense to stay out of any water that managed to drip its way down there. Rumor had it the stuff could kill you in three days if it touched your skin. I used to live in that hellhole, so I knew different. I even got desperate enough to drink it once, when I ran away from home. I had peeled the moss off an old brick wall, hoping it would act like a filter, my hands shaking from hunger and thirst, and squeezed the lifesaving fluid from it. It must have worked; I’m still here. Maybe I just got lucky. It didn’t matter. I was never going back there.

I rode the ramp up from Level 3 to Level 4, turning into the Italian sector. When the corporations began building the cities up, starting in the cores of Los Angeles and San Francisco, the richer people moved up with the levels, creating new pockets of societies. Huge chunks of Chinatown moved up and further east, leaving behind empty buildings and poorer people. The same happened to the
Italians. Over time the separation of levels created different types of societies. The Level 4 Italians were stuck in the past, with their gold chains and flashy tight clothes . . . something you would never see in the Level 3 Italian section.

My helmet’s heads-up display started glowing red on the road ahead. More construction. What the hell was going on here? Did the corporations suddenly have so much money that they wanted to spend it all? Christ. I looked at the map and took a quick turn down a side street, skipping the detour the other traffic was being forced to take. I smiled. These were my streets. The commuters would add an extra half hour to their drive. I added only ten minutes to my trip by racing down a back alley and cutting across a business promenade between two buildings. Driving the promenade was illegal, but only if you got caught. There were hardly any cops in this neighborhood, so I figured I’d be all right. At the lower levels, there may not have been cops, but there were cameras. Maybe they thought people were more civilized, less likely to break the law up here.

As soon as I entered the business center, the flickering neon ads and animated billboards started springing up. It was worse than Chinatown. The sides of the buildings became advertisements for clothes and watches and fast food, each one fighting to get more attention than the next. They kept most of the advertising where the money was.

I pulled up to the pickup address a few minutes later. The building cut through the Level 4 floor, dropping down through the thick concrete structure. A corporation supertower. Shit! I pulled off my helmet and turned off the bike, leaned over the railing that ran around the drop-off, and stared into the level below. A steady updraft, carrying the stench of the lower level, blew through my short brown hair. The building stopped on Level 3. I could have cut half
an hour off my trip by staying down there. Building security would have let me ride the elevator up to get the delivery. I had another reason to hate Dispatch. She knew the pickup was out of my area. She should have told me it was a supertower with Level 3 access. Instead, she told me specifically it was a Level 4 pickup.

I jammed my helmet back on and dialed Dispatch on the comm unit to ask what the hell was up, but killed the connection before it finished. The chance of catching her at the office was slim to none. The hag was probably at home halfway through her first bottle of cheap Canadian wine. Forcing myself to calm down, I looked up, following the walls of the supertower as they punched through the ceiling to Level 5.

With the late delivery, and pressure from Dispatch, maybe this wasn’t another fake package. Almost all of them were. The corporations used us couriers to move information they didn’t dare put on the Net, where it could easily be intercepted. Then they bombarded the couriers with fake packages, so it was harder to know when real ones were being delivered. It didn’t matter to me, as long as I got paid—and the tip Dispatch promised.

I started the bike up again and rode over one of the walkways connecting the tower to Level 4, pulling it right up to the front door, and plugged it into an empty socket. They were there if you knew where to look. This one was hidden behind a gigantic planter full of fake greenery. They probably ripped it out and put in a huge fucking fake tree there at Christmas. Gotta get juice to the damn lights and make everyone happy and cheerful. I hated Christmas. I shook my head. I could get arrested for theft—stealing electricity—just for plugging in, but most of the time, we couriers got away with it. I pulled my lid off again and slipped my arm through the visor, walking to the door with the paperwork in my hand.