Trading Places

Not much to talk too much, just here to give you content.

Welcome to this foul year of our lord 2017. Now I'm glad I never said I was releasing my novel in 2016, but damn, I was supposed to have released something.

I got the best rejection letter back for my piece Suicide Queen. It was deemed more poem than short story, due to my delivery and the loose narrative. That's probably the best way I could have been let down, and the first time I've actually gotten feedback from a publication, so I think that means I'm advancing in my career.

No beating around the bush, let's get down to chaptering and science fiction fun! And I mean that. This chapter started out as sort of meandering and weighty and dark night of the soul. But this is a little closer to what I wanted it to be when I wrote it. Basically when we were editing the manuscript, I just wrote at the top of this chapter, "Complete rewrite". So all but a few lines are completely gone.

Happy new year, dog.

C:\>_22_When_Pawns_Think_As_Kings

“You think this Phở place they go to is any good? No one’s gonna notice if I take a bite, right?” Detective Shonda Rafferty peeled back the lid on Decker’s leftovers. “Oooh, girl, this smells eights, we gotta pick some up later.”

Detective Karen O’Corkstein buffed her nails on her jacket, displeased with something about them. “Where’s it from?”

“No Dog, Phở Queue.”

“What does that mean?” Karen’s face quirked with puzzlement.

“Beats me.” Shonda inspected the printing on the Styrofoam carton again, “But I’m totally gonna snag a bit of this chicken. It says established 2017, so It’s gotta be tasty.”

“I thought you were giving white meat a break after watching our collar’s file.”

“I still wonder what it’s like to get your tongue cut off with a dinner knife.” Shonda chewed leftovers with an, ‘Mmm’. “You really think she’s working with these chuckleheads?”

“Chuckleheads?” Decker said, grossed out that he ate the rest of that Phở after some Clone Crime crony from Ocean City had her fingers up in it.

“House, switch to roaming display.” Decker rolled off his sunlight dappled mattress and moved to the kitchen.

Karen opened a drawer and quickly shut it in disgust. “Intel from the Metro City Spoke18 incident seems to agree. Not to mention those reports from that burbclave in Spoke14.”

“Fraggin’ useless chuckers in MC.” Shonda placed the container back in the fridge. The refrigerator made that frightened kitten squeal. “If we woulda pulled the slipshod job they did for a terrorist sighting, our whole precinct’s ass would be in a sling.”

Decker pounded on the MR, trying to get it to pump out a cup of coffee. “Fragging thing on the fritz again.” He sighed, filling the water boiler as two HoloVision pocs tossed his apartment for evidence.

“Tell me about it.” Karen snapped some pics of Trip’s room with her shades. “Not to mention it makes our jurisdictional grievance seem a little trite when an assassin domestic clone helped blow up a transit hub. Stealing a helo for a great escape is more exciting than a van—”

Grinding beans drowned out the end of Karen’s sentence. Not like Decker needed to hear what she said. He was there after all. The fresh aroma of dark roasted Arabica from the local SBUX filled his nostrils.

“I dunno, Kare Bear. You know I think this whole deal’s a wild goose chase to begin with. Make us feel important down in CCD after our big bust. I still don’t see the fraggin’ point, in the middle of a clone rebellion, to trek across the country for one tongueless domestic that aced her owner. Though I still say the cakehole had it coming.”

Karen ticked off on her fingers, “Not to mention arson, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon on multiple peace officers while resisting arrest, conspiracy to overthrow the government, grand theft, and unpaid registration fees.”

“We should thank Wu when she gets out of the ICU for dropping the ball with Hollis.” Shonda thriced herself. “Rest in peace. If they would have snagged this Decker punk in the first place, we wouldn’t be wasting our Thanksgiving break.”

Karen and Shonda stopped investigating piles of dirty clothes and empty calorie bar wrappers, walking towards the front door.

“Well this was a waste. These guys seem like eager little beavers to get back to work undoing the mess they started.”

“I still got that rotten feeling in my guts, Karen. Ames spends too much time outta this place. And why does he keep showing up as a blur on CCTV around the city?” Shonda moved her shades up the bridge of her nose. “They may not have made contact yet, but he’s gotta know where she is.”

Decker poured bubbling water over his fine grind, “Close, but no cigar.” His clonephone had been silent for the last three weeks as him and Trip prepared for Trip’s return to Ocean City. And him dealing with the MIR/AGE problem. He talked RoPhar into letting him stay on the West Coast as a ‘satellite agent’. It was smarter to act like he was oblivious to all the house calls they’d been making to 211.

“Good idea to keep casing the place for any breaks in the clone case. We’ve got enough suits in and out of here to catch him with something. Gotta slip up some time.”

Decker settled into his living room command chair and took a sip from the fresh mug of black coffee with a refreshed, ‘Aaaah’. No more security footage from corporate intruders remained in his queue. He spun about in the circle of consumer grade server towers, each with their side panels open, spilling wires like entrails all over the stained carpet.

A knock came from behind, “Decks?”

“Door’s open, Johnny.”

Johnny Marko appeared from the foyer, walls lined in dumbpaper fliers and posters Trip and Decker printed out to make Das Komplex feel more like home. A strip of grey stubble, once a sweet lazyhawk, bisected Johnny’s head.

“What’s cookin’, Johnny Markoolname? You shaved your head.”

A grunt, “I’m outta here soon. Came by to drop off your New Year’s package.”

“Your last clutch, eh mang?” said Decker.

“Yeah, dude.” Johnny shook a giftwrapped package in his hands and set it on the floor. “Getting outta the game.”

Decker got outta his seat and gave his old friend a hug. “While I applaud you becoming a for real grown up or some skag, I am going to miss your DeMos.”

Johnny gave him a firm pat on the back. “I don’t really applaud your life decision to keep pumping yourself full of Designer Molecules. Though, I appreciate you being such a loyal customer.”

Decker shrugged, “Eh, well, you know Trip wasn’t any help outside of nootropics and hangover relief.” Decker tapped his cryptocred card to Johnny’s, dinging with a confirmation tone.

“So, this is it, huh?” Johnny took a good look around 211. “I move out of here after twenty-two years and you guys move back in after two.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say really moving in. It’s more of a home base than anything.”

“You’ve been pretty tight lipped about this skag for the last month. You’ve got suits coming out the ass whenever you’re not here.”

“The less anyone else knows about that, the better.”

“Dahng sure isn’t happy about it.”

“Dahng isn’t happy about anything.” Decker popped a smoke out of his pack on the counter. Johnny waved off his offer of one. Decker lit up and exhaled a blast of smoke into the ventilation. “’sides, Roplaxive-Pharrel is footing the bill for this place at four times the rent. She can deal with them poking around here and there.”

“Not just the suits,” Johnny said. “There was some group of clones came by. Big guy, looks like what’s his face from Capital Punishment.” Johnny snapped his fingers trying to remember, “Bronson, that’s his name. Was here with a tech support caste, and some scary quiet domestic.”

“Karen and Shonda must be kicking themselves they missed that.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind,” Decker fanned away a cloud of smoke. “If you saw them, did they leave a message for me?”

“You’d have to ask Dahng, dude. She chased them off with a sawed-off. Heard them say something about The Canby.”

“The Canby?” Decker’s HUD time stamp read 1327, “Hope she’s still home to ask about it. Gotta tell her to get someone to fix the fraggin’ MR too. I’m sure not going to.” He took a sip of coffee, followed by a cigarette drag. “What day were they here?”

“Yesterday. Anything else you need from me? I’m gonna go hit the gym and finish packing.”

“Nah, duder, we’re squared up.” Decker gave a weak smile to stave off the flood of emotion and memory invading his guts. “I’m gonna miss you, Johnny.”

“I’ll miss you too, ya little skag.” Johnny placed a comforting hand on Decker’s shoulder.

“You gonna miss this place?”

“Not sure if miss is the word. But I’m sure the Antarctic terraform project needs NetSec professionals if you wanna come with me.”

Decker laughed, “You fraggin’ kidding? My brown ass would freeze down there. I’m sure they have enough people lining up to turn screwdrivers.”

“Yeah, probably.” Johnny pulled him in for a bear hug. “Take care of yourself, Decker. Don’t fraggin’ trust those RoPhar frags.”

“They should be more worried about me and Trip.”

***

Trip was grateful for the lack of intruders in his new apartminium. It gave him plenty of time to binge on Distillery Wars while telecommuting from his home office.

The newly merged Roplaxive-Pharrel at least paid lip service to him about trying to lower his flight risk status. They seemed all too pleased to split him and Decker up again, moving Trip to Foundation Island corporate housing with a retinue of version 2.0 Biodroids for building security.

The roboclones at the gates were an unsubtle reminder RoPhar didn’t trust them to uphold their end of Option A. He had to remind himself that the joke was on them. They were smart to not trust the duo, but they were stupid about the way they went about it. As Decker put it, “You can always trust corporate to go for the brute force method.”

He shoveled takeout noodles into his mouth with a plastic fork, ignoring the HV except whenever Vernon Ketchum was on confession cam railing against douchenozzles that bought MR codes instead of actual bottles from Happy Times Distilling Co.

“Yeah, as if Happy Times doesn’t make puke water.” Trip said through a mouthful of lo mein.

He reviewed the latest update requests from the DM of Roplaxive Organics, Heathcliff Johnson, on a sheaf of smartpaper laid over his crossed legs. It sounded more like bulltaco marketing requests from Dick West than Heathcliff’s usual insightful tuneups, or Brett Richardson’s jumbled technobabble that was really meant for Decker.

“Market testing for the security model requests lighter skin and East Asian eyes because they look less threatening? What type of skag is that? What’s next, built in candy dispensers?”

Trip cast the paper aside and rubbed his temples. He was sure that comment got picked up by home surveillance. At worst, he’d have to work out who got the responsibility of writing code for candy dispensers, Organics or Synth. Since the Pharrel takeover, and soft release of the first public Biodroids, the PR campaign behind this whole mess had been a world of crazy. The silver lining being that his and Decker’s updates they added over the last three weeks went unnoticed.

Trip never wanted to get into the clone game in the first place, but using the Biodroid project and stolen Gene Works data as a template, they worked out an upgrade for the existing clone chip. In theory, at least. It was Decker’s job to distribute the trait as part of their three-pronged attack plan. From his radio silence over the last week, it didn’t seem he’d contacted the clones again.

They couldn’t even be certain the surviving group of Fixer, Brawl17, Manner and Sweeps even made it to Hollywood like they planned. The Gene Works chopper they jacked was pretty shot to oblivion and back again.

“You have a caller,” the home VI said, muting the Jim Beam twins. It was Alan’s number on the caller ID.

With a sigh, Trip said, “Accept.”

“Trevorsaurus Wrecked!” Alan’s avatar pumped his fist in the center of the living area.

“What up, single L?”

“What up with you, bud? Wanna go get some fraggin’ puss? Or you raw doggin’ your Rosey Palms tonight? We’re heading back to The Cathedral. Crucial Taunt is playing. You know those slits are always crawling over the place at those shows. You game, budlicious?”

Trip wished he could muster an excuse. Had to keep up appearances of business as usual, even if it meant fraternizing with the lower rungs of the corporate ladder.

“Yeah, bud. I’ll be there. What time’s doors open?”

“Eight. But, we’re gonna pre-game like yoosh. Prolly get there round Nineish. You down?”

“I’ll meet you there. It’s in Chinatown, right?” Trip thought of the last time he was in Chinatown, riding in a hacked JohnnyCab.

“You know it. In the basement of that shady as frag walk-up. Fraggin’ eights, getuponit, bud! We’ll see you there.”

“Call disconnected.”

Trip sighed with relief that was over. He wasn’t too jazzed that he had to see that sonuvaprick Gerald again, but at least he could lord his new promotion over that research-stealing, gingerfro-sporting, fragface. It always got a good rise out of him. Besides, getting out and downing some overpriced drinks at that wannabe Warhol’s club would get his mind off work. As well as his own unsavory part of Decker and his plan.

Trip checked his bowtie’s lazy knot in the bathroom mirror. He tried to envision his face as a maintenance caste clone and shuddered at the thought. He opened the vanity drawer and grabbed his comb to tease up his pompadour. Sitting by its lonesome in a pill container was the temptrait that would make that transformation from his dapper twenty-seven-year-old self into a clone a possibility.

A moment of resentment for Decker passed. He talked Trip into betraying a part of his identity while all he had to do was hang out at his mom’s house and frag around online. But in the face of bringing down Roplaxive-Pharrel’s fledgling empire in the name of peace and freedom was his guiding light through the coming darkness.

With a couple comb strokes, his hair wasn’t going to get any more perfect. He forced a bracing deep breath and called up a cab through the VI.

“For the greater good.” He reminded himself, then turned out the lights.