Read Video Star (Voice of the Whirlwind) Online
Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #science fiction, #Adventure, #cyberpunk, #One Hour (33-43 Pages)
23
Where three lightposts had been marked with fluorescent tape, the kid from California pulled off on the verge of the alloy road that wound ahead to leap over the Grand Canyon into Utah. Captain Islam pulled up behind him with two soldiers, and they scanned the kid right there, stripped him of a pistol and a homing sensor, and put him in the back of their own car.
“You’re beginning to piss me off,” the kid said.
“Just do what we tell you,” Captain Islam said, pulling away, “and you’ll be king of Los fucking Angeles.”
24
Ric’s hands were trembling so hard he had to press them against the arms of his chair in order to keep it from showing. He could feel sweat oozing from his armpits. He really wasn’t good at this kind of thing.
The kid from California was pushed in the door by Captain Islam, who stepped out and closed the door behind him. The kid was black and had clear plastic eye implants, with the electronics gleaming inside the transparent eyeball. He had patterned scarring instead of the tattoos, and was about sixteen. He wore a silver jacket, carried a duffel to put the Thunder in, and seemed annoyed.
“Once you step inside,” Jesus said, “you have five minutes to complete our transaction. Go ahead and test any of the packets at random.”
“Yeah,” the kid said. “I’ll do that.” He crouched by the table, pulled vials from his pockets, and made a series of tests while Jesus counted off at fifteen-second intervals. He managed to do four tests in three minutes, then stood up. Ric could see he was salivating for the stuff.
“It’s good,” he said.
“Let’s see your key.” The kid took a credit spike from his pocket and handed it to Jesus, who put it in the computer in front of him. Jesus transferred two hundred fifteen thousand in Starbright policorporate scrip from the spike to his own spike that was jacked into slot two.
“Take your stuff,” Jesus said, settling back in his seat. “Captain Islam will take you back to your car. Nice doing business.”
The kid gave a sniff, took his spike back, and began to stuff white packets into his duffel. He left the cabin without saying a word. Adrenaline was wailing along Ric’s nerves. He stood and took his own spike from his left-hand jacket pocket. His other hand went to the squeeze bottle of nasal mist in his right. Stray novae were exploding at the peripherals of his vision.
“Look at this, Virgin,” Ric said. “Look at all the money sitting in this machine.” He laughed. Laughter wasn’t hard, but stopping the laughter was.
“Twenty percent is yours, Marat,” Jesus said. “Give me your spike.”
As Super Virgin stepped up to look at the monitor, Ric brought the squeeze bottle out of his pocket and fired acrolein into her face. His spin toward Jesus was so fast that Virgin’s scream had barely begun before he fired another burst of the chemical at Jesus, slamming one hand down on the shotgun to keep him from bringing it up. He’d planned on just holding it there till the boy’s grip loosened, but nerves took over and he wrenched it effortlessly from Jesus’ hands and barely stopped himself from smashing Jesus in the head with it.
Virgin was on her hands and knees, mucus hanging from her nose and lips. She was trying to draw the pistol. Ric kicked it away. It fell on muffled plastic.
Ric turned and pulled the spikes from the machine. Jesus had fallen out of his chair, was clawing at his face. “Dead man,” Jesus said, gasping the words.
“Don’t threaten me, asshole,” Ric said. “It could have been mustard gas.”
And then Marlene, on the ridge far above, watched the sweep hand touch five minutes, thirty seconds, and she pressed her radio button. All the buried charges went off, blasting bits of the other cabins into the sky and doubtless convincing the soldiers in the other buildings that they were under fire by rocket or mortar, that the kid from California had brought an army with him. Simultaneous with the explosive, other buried packages began to gush concealing white smoke into the air. The wind was strong but there was a lot of smoke.
Ric opened the back door and took off, the shotgun hanging in his hand. Random fire burst out but none of it came near. The smoke provided cover from both optical scanners and infrared, and it concealed him all the way across the yard behind the cabin and down into the arroyo behind it. Sixty yards down the arroyo was a culvert that ran under the expressway. Ric dashed through it, wetting himself to the knees in cold spring snowmelt.
He was now on the other side of the expressway. He didn’t think anyone would be looking for him here. He threw the shotgun away and kept running. There was a cross-country motorbike waiting a little farther up the stream.
25
“There,” Ric said, pressing the Return button. “Half of it’s yours.”
Marlene was still wearing her war paint. She sipped cognac from a crystal glass and took her spike out of the computer. She laughed. “A hundred K of Starbright,” she said, “and paper packets of happiness. What else do I need?”
“A fast armored car, maybe,” Ric said. He pocketed his spike. “I’m taking off,” he said. He turned to her. “There’s room on the bike for two.”
“To where?” She was looking at him sidelong.
“To Mexico, for starters,” he said. A lie. Ric planned on heading northeast and losing himself for a while in Navajoland.
“To some safe little country. A safe little apartment.”
“That’s the idea.”
Marlene took a hefty swig of cognac. “Not me,” she said. “I’m planning on staying in this life.”
Ric felt a coldness brush his spine. He reached out to take her hand. “Marlene,” he said carefully. “You’ve got to leave this town. Now.”
She pulled her hand away. “Not a chance, Ricardo. I plan on telling my boss just what I think of him. Tomorrow morning. I can’t wait.”
There was a pain in Ric’s throat. “Okay,” he said. He stood up. “See you in Mexico, maybe.” He began to move for the door. Marlene put her arms around him from behind. Her chin dug into his collarbone.
“Stick around,” she said. “For the party.”
He shook his head, uncoiled her arms, slid out of them.
“You treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing,” Marlene said.
He turned and looked at her. Bright eyes looked at him from a mask of bright paint. “You don’t,” he said.
“I’ve got lots of ideas. You showed me how to put things together.”
“Now I’m showing you how to run and save your life.”
“Hah. I’m not going to run. I’m going to stroll out with a briefcase full of happiness and a hundred K in my pocket.”
He looked at her and felt a pressure hard in his chest. He knew that none of this was real to her, that he’d never been able to penetrate that strange screen in her mind that stood between Marlene and the rest of the world. Ric had never pierced it, but soon the world would. He felt a coldness filling him, a coldness that had nothing to do with sorrow.
It was hard not to run when he turned and left the apartment.
His breathing came more freely with each step he took.
26
When Ric came off the Navajo Reservation he saw scan-sheet headlines about how the California gang wars had spilled over into Phoenix, how there were dead people turning up in alleys, others were missing, a club had been bombed. All those people working for him, covering his retreat.
In New Zealand he bought into a condecology in Christchurch, a big place with armored shutters and armored guards, a first-rate new artificial intelligence to handle investments, and a mostly foreign clientele who profited by the fact that a list of the condeco’s inhabitants was never made public... this was before he found out that he could buy private property here, a big house on the South Island with a view of his own personal glacier, without a chance of anybody’s war accidentally rolling over him.
It was an interesting feeling, sitting alone in his own house, knowing there wasn’t anyone within five thousand miles who wanted to kill him.
Ric made friends. He played the market and the horses. And he learned to ski.
At a ski party in late September, held in the house of one of his friends, he drifted from room to room amid a murmur of conversation punctuated with brittle laughter. He had his arm around someone named Reiko, the sheltered daughter of a policorporate bigwig. The girl, nineteen and a student, had long black hair that fell like a tsunami down her shoulders, and she was fascinated with his talk of life in the real world. He walked into a back room that was bright with the white glare of video, wondering if the jai alai scores had been posted yet, and he stared into his own face as screams rose around him and his nerves turned to hot magnesium flares.
“Ugh. Mexican scum show,” said Reiko, and then she saw the actor’s face and her eyes widened.
Ric felt his knees trembling and he sank into an armchair in the back of the room. Ice tittering in his drink. The man on the vid was flaying alive a woman who hung by her wrists from a beam. Blood ran down his forearms. The camera cut quickly to his tiger’s eyes, his thin smile. Ric’s eyes. Ric’s smile.
“My god,” said Reiko. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”
“No,” Ric said. Shaking his head.
“I can’t believe they let this stuff even on pirate stations,” someone said from the hallway. Screams rose from the vid. Ric’s mind was flailing in the dark.
“I can’t watch this,” Reiko said, and rushed away. Ric didn’t see her go. Burning sweat was running down the back of his neck.
The victim’s screams rose. Blood traced artful patterns down her body. The camera cut to her face.
Marlene’s face.
Nausea swept Ric and he doubled in his chair. He remembered Two-Fisted Jesus and his talent for creating video images, altering faces, voices, action. They’d found Marlene, as Ric had thought they would, and her voice and body were memorized by Jesus’ computers. Maybe the torture was even real.
“It’s got to be him,” someone in the room said. “It’s even his voice. His accent.”
“He never did say,” said another voice, “what he used to do for a living.”
Frozen in his chair, Ric watched the show to the end. There was more torture, more bodies. The video-Ric enjoyed it all. At the end he went down before the blazing guns of the Federal Security Directorate. The credits rolled over the video-Ric’s dead face. The director was listed as Jesus Carranza. The film was produced by VideoTek S.A. in collaboration with Messiah Media.
The star’s name was given as Jean-Paul Marat.
“A new underground superstar,” said a high voice. The voice of someone who thought of himself as an underground connoisseur. “He’s been in a lot of pirate video lately. He’s the center of a big controversy about how far scum shows can go.”
And then the lights came on and Ric saw eyes turning to him in surprise. “It’s not me,” he said.
“Of course not.” The voice belonged to his host. “Incredible resemblance, though. Even your mannerisms. Your accent.”
“Not me.”
“Hey.” A quick, small man, with metal-rimmed glasses that gazed at Ric like barrels of a shotgun. “It really is you!” The high-pitched voice of the connoisseur grated on Ric’s nerves like the sound of a bonesaw.
“No.” A fast, sweat-soaked denial.
“Look. I’ve taped all your vids I could find.”
“Not me.”
“I’m having a party next week. With entertainment, if you know what I mean. I wonder— ”
“I’m not interested,” Ric said, standing carefully, “in any of your parties.”
He walked out into the night, to his new car, and headed north, to his private fortress above the glacier. He took the pistol out of the glove compartment and put it on the seat next to him. It didn’t make him feel any safer.
Get a new face, Ric thought. Get to Uzbekistan and check into a hospital. Let them try to follow me there.
He got home at four in the morning and checked his situation with the artificial intelligence that managed his accounts. All his funds were in long-term investments and he’d take a whopping loss if he pulled out now.
He looked at the figures and couldn’t understand them.
There seemed to be a long, constant scream in Ric’s mind and nerves, a scream that echoed Marlene’s, the sound of someone who has just discovered what is real. His body was shaking and he couldn’t stop it.
Ric switched off his monitor and staggered to bed. Blood filled his dreams.
When he rose it was noon. There were people outside his gates, paparazzi with cameras. The phone had recorded a series of requests for an interview with the new, controversial vid star. Someone at the party had talked. Ric stumbled to his office and told the AI to sell.
The money in his pocket and a gun in his lap, he raced his car past the paparazzi, making them jump aside as he tried his best to run them down. He had to make the next suborbital shuttle out of Christchurch to Mysore, then head northwest to a hospital and to a new life. And somehow he’d have to try to cover his tracks. Possibly he’d buy some hair bleach, a false mustache. Pay only cash.
Getting away from Cartoon Messiah wouldn’t be hard. Shaking the paparazzi would take a lot of fast thinking.
Sweat made his grip on the wheel slippery.
As he approached Christchurch he saw a streak across the bright northeast sky, a shuttle burning its way across the Pacific from California.
He wondered if there were people on it that he knew.
In his mind, the screams went on.
The End