“On top of that, I think I know where to find Simon,” Tarov said.
This caught Beth’s attention, and she couldn’t hide that fact from her guest.
“That’s right. I can lead you right to him, but I need your help to capture him without my people knowing I was involved,” Tarov explained. “If you take him out of the picture — under legal means, of course — then he is no longer a thorn in my side. Win-win, you see.”
“So not an act of charity on your part,” Beth commented with a sour tone.
“You see how serious the situation is, though, do you not?” the I.I. asked her. There was a look of concern on his face. She could tell he was beginning to worry that he had wasted his time.
He really must be desperate, she thought.
There was a moment of silence while the I.I. let her think. It was clear that she didn’t have a definitive answer on the tip of her tongue, yet she still said, “Okay.”
“You’ll help?” Tarov asked, almost incredulously.
“I’ll do my job,” the detective corrected him. “Though I think your goals and mine may align, for the time being. But — what do you get out of this?”
Tarov smiled with the warmth of Saint Nicholas. “I want to avoid a war as much as you do. Even though we stand on different sides of this conflict, we both agree that now is not the time for a fight. If we are to succeed — both of us — then we need to cooperate. Even if it means that we are enemies tomorrow.”
Beth took in a deep breath. There was still the weight of uncertainty on her shoulders, but she knew of nowhere else to turn. She looked up at the hulking figure’s face.
“So how do we start?” she said.
“You just need to shake my hand,” Tarov explained. “That will seal our deal.”
“And in exchange for your help?”
“You keep my secret,” Tarov said. “Don’t tell a soul about our agreement. You have no idea what kind of damage it would do to my reputation. And to yours, I imagine.”
Reluctantly, Beth extended her hand. Tarov smiled, then took it and shook it. The detective pulled her arm back.
“And why me?” Beth asked. “Is it only because I was assigned to Simon’s murder?”
“If only it were that simple,” the I.I. answered enigmatically. “Just know that I believe in your skills. It may seem like you’ve been chosen at random, but know that we do our homework. We know that our best hope lies with you.”
He smiled and stepped back, looking up as if to measure his retreat. He lifted his hand in farewell as a beam of light surrounded him.
And like that, he was gone. Beth was left alone in the conference room to finish her subpar coffee and mull over the words of the terrorist leader.
Surely I can’t trust him, she thought to herself.
With a jolt, she looked around. Though she was alone, she couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching her.
The Hunt
Beth did her best to blend in as she made her way to the digital nightclub. It had been the one Tarov said she would find Simon hiding out in, but that didn’t make her any more comfortable as she approached the ragged bouncer.
“Name?” she was asked.
The bouncer didn’t even bother to raise his eyes. His gaze was focused on the electric clipboard he had clutched in his fat fingers. She did her best to seem in place.
“Madam Dylan,” she replied, using the title Tarov had told her to.
The bouncer looked at his clipboard for a moment before stepping aside and welcoming her with an arm open wide. She looked around, as if keeping an eye out for security cameras, and she made her way into the sleazy club.
It was a dive bar filled with neon-wearing, glow-stick-waving degenerates who enjoyed theatrical exhibitionism. She had to dodge a few dancers here and there as she made her way to the sullen-cheeked bartender.
“Whatcha having?” the server asked as soon as she found a seat.
“Gin and tonic, please,” she asked.
The bartender gave her a look out the side of his eye like he had never been told “please” before. He washed a glass and then made the cocktail before setting it on a coaster for her.
“That’ll be four credits,” the bartender said.
Without batting an eye, the detective fed the nonexistent servant the digital currency requested.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”
He went back to wash a few more glasses, but Beth knew it was just a behavior routine run to make him feel more real. The bartender was no more real than the digital bus driver who sold her a ticket earlier, or even the bouncer who read her name off a list.
Still, the club felt real. She could feel the bass echoing off her bones. She could smell the alcohol as more drinks were ordered and bits of them were spilled on the dance floor. She couldn’t help but scrunch her nose up as a man in a biker vest came and ordered his forth Jack and Coke that night.
Low-lives, she thought to herself.
She couldn’t keep her prejudice out of the picture. She had lived her whole life weary of drug addicts and the lifestyles they chose to have. Whether it was a digital fix or the sweet allure of Fog, she couldn’t stand the addictive behavior. The loss of accountability, the begging — the sadness. It was all too much for her.
Regardless of her opinion on addiction, she couldn’t help but be impressed at how immersive the nightclub experience was. It went right down to the drinks themselves. Sure, they weren’t real, but your implant could make them feel real. They could provide you with just the lack of coordination and elation that it’d be indistinguishable from the real thing. The same could be said of any of the “pleasures” to be found in places like
