“Yes, sir.”
“That is all. I look forward to your next report.”
Johnson stood, searching for a place to put the whiskey tumbler.
“Give it to the secretary on your way out,” Mr. Craig said, gesturing in the direction of the waiting room.
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 6
Walking into DeSoto’s was usually a highpoint of Jacob’s day. Today was no different. A subderm overload, a political nut job, and a cold Indian dish had made for a hell of a day, and he needed some relaxation. The club was the answer.
He, Gomez, and Two-Step made their way through the crowd to the bar, a slow, pulsating groove filling the space of the club, the beat palpable on the skin, the lights matching the music in a dance above their heads while holographic simulations of the crowd danced impossible moves beside projected deep fakes of the remaining candidates on The Democratic Primary Show, the images morphing from human form to geometric shapes to images of random code and back to human form again. The crowd, a mix of those living on the fringe and college-aged corporate types who wanted to feel like they were living on the fringe while they were living on their parent’s credit, driven by alcohol and code, moved with and became a part of the pulsating beat, enthralled by the light show.
At the bar, Jacob looked to the light and video control booth. Sandy’s body moved with the music while she worked the controls of the projector’s cameras placed throughout the club. Her hair was black tonight, the bangs cut in a severe straight line, and it moved with her, adding an accent to her rhythm.
“Comrade Jacob!”
Ivan emerged from the crowd and patted Jacob on the back.
“Ivan. It’s not your usual night.”
“No, but I felt the need to get out.” He glanced around quickly, something he always did when he was about to ask for some code. “Do you have any dopamine code ready to go?”
Jacob nodded, taking the code deck out of his jacket. Ivan, his sleeve already pushed up to his elbow, held out his forearm. Jacob scanned the tattoo and with a flicking motion, sent the code to Ivan’s chip.
A large grin spreading across his face, Ivan moved to the beat and tapped instructions on his flip phone. “Your coffee account has been extended,” he said and dissolved back into the crowd.
While Jacob preferred a good old fashioned credit payment for his code, he always enjoyed finding someone willing to trade a good or service. He rarely paid for food or clothing, and many of the items in Retro Media were supplied in exchange for code. There was less of a trail that way. Of course, coffee and chaat didn’t pay the bills, and they definitely wouldn’t help his credit account get large enough to go to Botswana, or wherever he wanted to go, but he figured the less he spent to live the larger his account would grow.
He moved around the club, scanning tattoos and flicking code to his usual customers. As he worked the room, he kept on eye on Sandy, waiting for her to take a break. When she did, he headed to the set of doors that led to the back bar.
Before he got halfway to the entrance, a tall, thin, wild-haired man with a long beard and bird feces on his shoes blocked his path.
Pigeon Eater. As far as Jacob could tell, no one knew his real name, he was just Pigeon Eater. He lived on the top level of one of the parking garages where he maintained a pigeon farm, raising, selling, and trading pigeon meat and eggs.
“Hey man,” he said, “can I get some code?”
“Sure, but I don’t need any more pigeons. I think I’ve got enough on credit to last me a year,” Jacob said.
Pigeon Eater nodded. “I’ve got something else you might like. One hundred Nokia flip phones. I’m sure you guys could use them for something.”
Jacob tried to look uninterested, but one hundred flip phones represented a windfall of possibilities. The phones were a favorite of hackers, Low Tech Luddites, data pirates, and because the battery could be removed, anyone wanting to avoid being constantly tracked. “How did you score one hundred flippers?”
“Long, crazy story, man. Let’s just say it cost me many many pigeons. Among other things.” He smiled through his beard.
“You’ll have to tell me later. But, I think we can work something out. That many flippers will get you a good supply of code.”
“Dole it out to me, man. Dole it out to me. I trust you to keep good records. I mean, if we can’t trust each other then it all falls to shit.”
Jacob could not help looking at Pigeon Eater’s shoes.
“The usual?” Jacob asked.
“You know me, man.”
Jacob scanned Pigeon Eater’s tattoo and flicked a code that was a mix of cannabinoids and psilocin.
Pigeon Eater held out his hand, and they shook on the deal. “You sure you don’t want any pigeons?”
“I’m sure,” Jacob said.
“You can come get the phones tomorrow, man. I’ve got them at my place.”
“See you then,” Jacob said and continued to the back bar.
Stepping into the back bar was stepping into a different reality. Rather than a frenetic dance club, it resembled a neighborhood dive. Music played at a conversational level, classic arcade games lined the wall, a pool table sat beneath a neon trimmed beer light, and tables offered a place to sit and talk.
Jacob found Sandy, Gomez, and Two-Step sitting at a table in the corner and took a seat. Two-Step looked at the floor and swirled beer around in his half-empty bottle.
“What’s up with him?” Jacob asked.
“His stupid game,” Gomez said.
“They had to reset Galaga,” Two-Step said, looking
