Husk (10 page)

The corporate environment is undeniably cold. It’s as if I’m not even here. None of the staff have glanced my way as they go about their work. It feels strange, since I’m used to being noticed, used to catching people’s eye. The secretary, buried in paperwork,
said to take a seat ten minutes ago. She hasn’t looked up from her desk to acknowledge me since. The couch is comfortable, but low to the ground, putting my knees higher than my ass when I sit, making me feel awkward. The magazines stacked on the coffee table are mostly of the business variety. There is a copy of last month’s
GQ
that I thumb through, perusing pictures of how a man ought to pose
and dress and wear his hair in this day and age. A couple male models look like perfect specimens, would undoubtedly make good Husks if they possessed the right mindset.

I’m to meet Mr Ichida here, at his company’s headquarters. The floors are so polished they’re practically reflective. Employees hurriedly walk back and forth with their inverted doppelgängers underfoot, places to go and people
to see. Most of the walls are made of glass, giving me a clear line of sight across the offices. Opposite from where I sit is a large boardroom, two opposing teams of lawyers sitting at either end of a long black table. Sharks in an aquarium
come to mind, primed to feed. I can’t hear what is being discussed, but the atmosphere seems tense. In a corner of the boardroom stands a dark-skinned man
with strong arms crossed over his broad chest. His dimpled chin juts out in contemplation as he listens attentively to the legal battle going on. I catch him glancing at me a few times and soon recognize the face. It’s Chase Jackson, former football player cum film and TV star. Bit of a barbarian if you ask me. Haven’t seen or heard much about him in the media since he got busted on a DUI with a
hooker and an eight-ball of coke in Malibu several years ago. It was pretty much a career-ender. How he’s come to be employed by Ichida, I have no idea.

I’m bored out of my mind sitting and waiting, so I get up and pace around, watching as things in the boardroom heat up. A couple lawyers stand and point accusingly at one another, voices raised. Chase Jackson remains cool and collected, holds
up a hand and gives a short speech that calms everyone down a bit. A brief discussion ensues and minutes later the lawyers rise and leave together. The two primaries continue squabbling as they exit the boardroom. One, obviously the counsel for the defence, is far more confident than the other.

‘… until you have something other than circumstantial and hearsay, I’d advise you and the SEC tread
very carefully on this matter.’

The prosecutor turns on him angrily. ‘Don’t push me, counsellor. This charade has gone on far too long now. And furthermore, I’d say it’s about time Mr Ichida himself attended these hearings in person. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Not possible,’ the counsellor replies. ‘His current ailing health forbids it.’

‘A video conference then. Surely he can manage that?’

The
counsellor considers, gives a slow nod. ‘I’ll see what can be done.’

I have to hold back a snort of laughter. That video conference will be a CGI mock-up of Mr Ichida. The man died almost three years ago, some kind of undiagnosed wasting disease. The prosecution team leaves the offices while the defence team lingers behind. Chase Jackson confers quietly with the counsellor, a knowing smirk on
both their faces. I feel awkward, like I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. My gut says I shouldn’t be here. I check my Liaison to make sure I have the correct details for the appointment. When I look up Chase is approaching me.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says, extending his hand.

‘Likewise,’ I say and shake firmly. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Ichida at two o’clock.’

Chase smirks and tells
me I’m looking well in Japanese.

‘Mr Ichida,’ I say quietly and give a little bow. ‘My apologies.’

He chortles, turning his head to glance at his counsellor. ‘No apology necessary. How were you to know?’

I tilt my head and look for the tell-tale sign of a Ouija. The scar behind his ear is big and ugly, a piss-poor instalment, semi-pro at best. I withhold the look of contempt that is itching
to present itself. In fact, I’d like to punch Ichida’s rental right in the teeth. We Husks regard hacks like Chase Jackson as little more than used condoms. They’ve come on the scene in recent months, washed-up
or disgraced celebrities in dire need of cash who have somehow caught wind of the business and approached lower-tier outfits with offers to freelance. Clients can walk around town with
a well-known face if they want, get the experience of being instantly recognizable, formerly famous. Not exactly low-key, but some Post-Mortems are giving it a whirl, enjoying all the attention and adoration for a day or two. I don’t like having my territory encroached on by those who are past their prime and can only milk their heyday.

‘Chase Jackson?’ I say, looking him over. ‘Are you a fan,
Mr Ichida?’

‘American football, American movies,’ Ichida says, grinning. ‘I’m like a god out on the streets of New York.’

‘I’ll bet.’

I double-check the time on my Liaison. We’re running late. Tomorrow I have planes to catch, people to be. Tight schedules are as important to me as they are to my clients, and I don’t want to be clocking any overtime between them.

‘Our appointment was for two,’
I say, figuring Ichida is eager to transfer. ‘Where would you like me to prep for the session?’

‘Walk with me,’ he says.

He gives a nod to his counsellor and marches off. I follow him through a set of glass doors that lead to a private elevator. We step inside and Ichida punches in a security code on a keypad to activate it.

‘There has been a change of plan,’ he says, hitting the button for
the rooftop.

‘Oh?’

‘I would like you to accompany me back to one of my residences first. There is something I need before we begin. Due to a hectic schedule, I have mistakenly overbooked Mr Jackson here and have to extricate earlier than anticipated. I would prefer to download and upload in the comfort and safety of my own home.’

Like changing clothes
, I think. ‘Of course.’

Ichida is a heavy
user of Husks, has a frequent rotation going on, using several different companies to facilitate his constant need. He uses so many of us digital whores that he’s practically the baton in a relay race. The elevator takes us up to the roof, where Ichida’s private helicopter is already prepped and waiting.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask as we board.

‘The Hamptons.’

We take off and gain altitude
quickly, flying directly over Central Park. Below I see a broken brown and black blotch spread over the green fields. From a bird’s eye view, the Occupy Movement looks like bacteria growing in a petri dish. Suddenly, the face of Chase is right beside mine, eyes turned down, seeing what I see.

‘Preposterous,’ he says. ‘Allowing a perfectly good park to be ruined like that.’

‘Looks like someone
took a shit on the lawn down there,’ I mutter.

Ichida laughs and slaps me on the back far too hard, palm banging off my spine. I withhold a wince. Clients really don’t know their own strength when piloting a body. A brief silence ensues, the size and significance of
Occupy Central Park capturing our full attention as we pass above it all.

‘If only Tatsumi were here to see this,’ Ichida muses.

‘How is your wife these days, sir?’

‘Dead.’

I swallow, tug at my collar. ‘I had no idea. I’m terribly sorry –’

‘Don’t be.’ He holds up a hand, shaking his head. ‘We decided on assisted suicide just last week. She went Post-Mortem with a successful transfer.’

‘Oh, wonderful.’

Little is said for the next twenty minutes of the journey. The chopper travels quick and direct along the shoreline,
descending as we enter Long Beach airspace. I watch the buildings and roads below go by in a blur, thinning out and becoming sparse as we near our destination. In no time we’re touching down on the helipad of Ichida’s Hamptons home. The beachside estate is massive, ten acres, enclosed inside a twelve-foot reinforced wall that a tank would have trouble getting through. Inside those walls I see security
guards, dogs, cameras everywhere. No sooner have we disembarked the helicopter when it takes off again, heading back in the direction of Manhattan. Ichida leads me inside the mansion, where we soon find ourselves in a spacious living room that is minimally furnished and particularly organized, Japanese style.

Very feng-fucking-shui
, I think.

‘Would you care for some tea?’ Ichida asks.

‘Please.’

I don’t notice her straight away, but standing perfectly
still near a doorway is a pretty white girl done up as a geisha. She looks at me with only her eyes, seems a little on the young side. Ichida offers me a seat and says something to the geisha in Japanese more complicated than the few customary phrases I know. She returns something halfway between a nod and a bow and exits. Through the windows
I notice workers setting up tables and tents on the lawn.

‘Having a party?’ I ask as we sit down.

‘I’m hosting an event tonight.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘A mixer of sorts, let’s say.’

‘I trust you’ve been enjoying the services of Solace Strategies?’

‘Enjoying them more than your competitors,’ Ichida says with a smile, looking at his hands and taking in the last of being Chase Jackson. ‘Which
is why you end up getting most of my business.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I say, faking a smile that fools him. ‘When was the last time you used a Solace Husk, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Ichida’s eyes narrow, give me a sideways look. I play it off like I’m scrounging for small talk. Treading lightly on this subject is paramount. Need to keep things casual, stay clear of thin ice.
Don’t want to bring any heat from Baxter for gossiping with a client. What I’m trying to find out is if Ichida used Miller recently, particularly the night he died.

‘I’m not entirely sure, Mr Rhodes,’ Ichida replies finally. ‘I rent so often that things can become a bit of a blur. I’d have to refer to my appointment schedule.’

‘No, no,’ I wave him off. ‘Just making conversation,
Mr Ichida. I
want to make sure you’re completely happy with me and my company, that’s all.’

‘Rest assured that I am most satisfied, Mr Rhodes.’

The grin he gives me tells me he’s recollecting some prior enjoyable instance of being me. There is a tinge of deviancy in it that makes me a little angry and ashamed at what he or I may have done. The geisha returns with a tray balancing a teapot, cups and a small
silver container. Seconds later another geisha appears, this one the same skin colour as Chase Jackson, carrying a metal briefcase. Both girls act with the utmost care and obedience, but they look at me with eyes that tell me they don’t want to be here. Ichida plucks the container from the first geisha’s tray as she places it on the coffee table. I watch him open it and take out a small white pill,
an Ejector I’m sure, or some variant. The other girl opens the briefcase and takes out a laptop, which she sets down and plugs into a terminal under the table. Ichida sits very still as she runs another cable from the computer to his head and carefully plugs it into his Ouija.

‘Mr Rhodes, you will have to excuse me while I vacate Mr Jackson here and return to my system for a short period of time.
I’ll be ready for upload soon.’

He swallows his pill with a sip of tea. Things like the Ejector are not to be used lightly, but I’ve learned that billionaires pretty much do whatever the fuck they want, whenever they want. Lower-tier outfits aren’t as stringent with the rules, let clients bend them, even break them sometimes. Over the next minute I watch Ichida lose consciousness, only to see
the mind of another emerge. The
real Chase Jackson is soon back, blinking rapidly in the light, looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

‘Who you?’ he grunts.

‘Just another player in the game, Mr Jackson,’ I say.

The geisha checks results on the laptop screen until she’s satisfied, then gently unplugs the cable from Chase’s head. I can’t help but stare at him, my irritation at this minor
leaguer growing. He slowly sheds his grogginess, doesn’t like the glare I’m giving him.

‘What you looking at, boy?’

‘An amateur, clearly,’ I snarl. ‘Who do you work for?’

‘Huh?’

‘What outfit do you Husk with?’

Chase lets out a deep and unsettled laugh. ‘Who the hell is you to be asking me something like that?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘Fuck you. Don’t need to tell you nothing, man.’

‘Let me guess … you’re linked up with Eternity Executive, right?’

The sneer and middle finger he shows me says I’m correct. He gets up and starts to walk away, though it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t know which direction to go.

‘Mr Jackson,’ the dark-skinned geisha says, beckoning him toward a door. ‘This way, please.’

He looks at her irritably and complies. I watch him march for the door, my
mouth opening, unable to resist.