Marvin likes to piss me off and knows how to do it. I forced a smile. “Thanks for the insight. Nifwamp iggledo reeko. So who the hell were they?”
Marvin looked up and grinned. “Snatchers.”
I took a deep breath. “I know that. Who did they work for?”
Marvin produced a rag and snapped it across the top surface of my left boot. “Shit. Ain’t my fault if you don’t ask the right questions. They work for a company called Trans-Solar.”
“And how do you know that XXX672TTT?”
“’Cause they wore matching holo-jackets with the name ‘Trans-Solar’ written across the backs. And my name ain’t triple X whatever, turdface.”
“Sorry. They passed your stand?”
“They sure as hell did.”
“And the girl? She was okay?”
Marvin shrugged. “A bit mussed but otherwise fine.”
“Trans-Solar, huh?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Deederwomp.”
Marvin shook his head sadly. The bells tinkled cheerfully. “Deederwomp to you too, asshole.”
I racked my brain trying to remember if the deader had been wearing a jacket, and if so, whether it said “Trans-Solar” on it. As with so many other things, the information was missing.
Marvin gave the rag one last snap and straightened up. My boots looked better than they had for years. He stuck his hand out. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks. Twenty for the information and five for the shine.”
I stood, slid a greasy twenty-five-dollar bill out of my wallet, and slapped it on his hand. “Thanks for nothing.”
“Screw you.”
We grinned and parted company, Marvin to work his scam and me to find my client. The crowd closed around me like a river around a raindrop. No matter how poor they might be, most of the people around me meant something to somebody. You know, friends, family, people who cared. After all, what good are accomplishments without someone to share them with? And a background to compare them to? But, according to the disk the corpies had given me along with my medical discharge, I had no family, no friends, and, outside of a talent for mayhem, no marketable skills.
So that, plus my tendency to make mistakes in social situations, had relegated me to the status of the eternal outsider. And, while some might envy my so-called freedom, they didn’t sleep alone every night.
But that sounds like whining. Something I detest. Work, that was the answer. The fifty K Seculor had promised me was enough for a down payment on a hole-in-the-wall-cafe. And, surrounded by my regulars, I’d have someone to shoot the shit with. Pathetic, huh? Well, who said I was anything else?
So, back to business. If Marvin was right, Trans-Solar had put the snatch on Sasha. Now, some other person might have wondered why the snatchers revealed their identities when they didn’t have to, but I didn’t. No, it seemed like an accidental slip-up to me, and I proceeded accordingly.
The first step was to make some travel arrangements and find out where Trans-Solar was located: a task made relatively easy by sliding my single credit card into a slot, waiting for the door to slide open, and stepping into a com booth. The door hissed closed behind me and I damned near gagged on the smell. Someone, or a number of someones, had urinated in the enclosure rather than take their chances in a public rest room along with everyone else. Assholes.
The lights dimmed, and a rather seductive female voice intoned the words that everyone has heard a thousand times. “Welcome to the Pubcom Gateway 4000. Lean forward until your forehead touches the padding, take hold of both grips, and wait for the main menu to appear. You may choose between tactile or voice control. Please indicate your preference now.”
“Voice.”
“You chose voice. Thank you.”
“Bite my ass.”
“I’m sorry, but the service you requested is not among those I am programed to provide. Please choose from the following menus.”
Characters appeared as the voice read them off. They were pink and floated over a black background. There was everything from a com directory, to on-line games, to travel services, to a gazillion different databases.
When the voice said “travel,” I pulled the trigger on my right hand grip. An arrow appeared. I pulled the trigger on the left side and was sucked into the network. This particular sense-surround had been designed by the famous cyber-architect Moshi Chow. It was designed to seem like a futuristic race course, complete with bullet cars, and a pipe-shaped track. A track on which you could drive right side up or upside down.
I gave the grip another squeeze, felt my car pick up speed, and used the arrow to steer. Other cars were all around me. They came in every color of the rainbow and wove in and out with what seemed like death-defying courage.
I gloried in the feel of it and understood how people came to be addicted. After all, virtual reality was everything that reality wasn’t: exciting, fulfilling, and forever fun. It was, the critics complained, a carefully orchestrated opiate for the people, subsidized by The Board to keep the workers under control. I tried to think my way through the problem, but my head started to hurt and I gave up.
I felt-sensed my destination ahead, took the proper exit, and was downloaded into a custom-made reality. There was no such place, of course, but it looked real, sounded real, and, thanks to kinesthetic feedback, felt real as well.
My not-real vehicle slowed as it entered a glass-and-steel high-tech building and coasted to a stop. I got out. The car pulled away and accelerated out of sight. The room was huge, or seemed to be anyway, and was rather pleasant.
A network of paths led here and there, passing countless kiosks, each designed to look like the sort of destination you had in mind. I saw tropical gardens, a night club, an English pub, a beach motif, and many more.
Navigating by means of the arrow, I made my way over to what looked like a high-tech control console. A woman, crisp in her ship-type suit, looked up and smiled. Her teeth were slightly uneven. A nice little touch by a programmer somewhere.
“Yes? How may I help you?”
“1111000111000110000100100100100000.”
“What was that?”
“I want to visit Europa Station.”
The woman nodded agreeably and gestured towards a command chair. “Have a seat.”
It felt strange to sit in a chair knowing that I was standing in a com booth.
“How would you like to travel?”
“A space ship would be nice.”
The woman smiled patiently.
“No, how would you like to travel? First class? Business? Or coach?”
“Well, I normally travel first class, but the rich food plays hell with my waistline, so coach is better.”
She nodded as if my response was perfectly believable and consulted a free-floating computer screen. “The fair is $23, 879.12 one way.”
I shifted in my chair. “I don’t suppose you have anything less expensive? Dowand imbu odlepork.”
She shook her head. “No sir, I’m afraid we don’t.”
“Hmmm. Well, that being the case, perhaps a shorter trip would be best.”
She raised a carefully programmed eyebrow. “How short? Mars? The moon, perhaps?”
Like most freelancers, I knew exactly what I had in the bank. There was three hundred credits plus my pay from Droidware Inc. “How far could two people go on $800.00?”
The woman consulted her screen again. “Staros- 3.”
“Excuse me?”
“Staros-3 is an Earth-orbit habitat. That’s how far the two of you could go on $800.00. Assuming you’re willing
