Madlands Read online

  “We’ll talk about it some more. Some other time.” Guys who say that are optimists, hoping the world will end in fiery cataclysm before that other time ever comes. “Look, I gotta get going now. I’ve got some other business to take care of.”

  She nodded, that small motion enough to dislodge a single tear, that soaked into a spot on the leotard’s neckline.

  I was out the door and down the corridor, feeling like a colossal shit. I was the one who’d gotten her into this whole sorry soul-robbing business with Identrope—she wouldn’t have even been summoned out of happy nonexistence if it hadn’t been for me—and I was nowhere near being the one who would get her out. I couldn’t even get myself out.

  Thinking about the sad state of humanity in general had reminded me of Geldt in specific. I had almost forgotten about him, probably because I would’ve liked to. Having somebody tied up and gagged in your apartment is more trouble than a house cat—a cat can at least feed and water itself. If I wanted more info from Geldt, I’d have to get back home and make sure that he didn’t die on me.

  Before I took care of Geldt, though, there was some other corporeal maintenance I had to see to. As long as I was up here in the web, I figured I should look in on myself. Or at least that part of me made of flesh and blood. The raw meat I’d started out with.

  I climbed down the web until I was out of sight of the studio complex. Then, instead of continuing on down to the ground, I tacked leftward into another sector of cables and wires.

  The ranks of Identrope’s followers were thick through this section. They rocked in their cradles of feed tubing and neural net, the metal strands glistening as they caught the angle of the sun. I worked my way between them, shifting my handholds from one cable to the next. The blind eyes stared past me, the gazes behind the cloud cataracts locked on the great communion singing inside their skulls.

  This bunch of acolytes was starting to grow skinny, having been too long on the short rations pumped into their veins. I could see their knife-edge ribs and, on some of the more advanced hunger cases, the print of their teeth through the hollowed cheeks.

  I’d have to move my own body pretty soon, to another zone of relative newcomers to the web. My body would stand out too much from these starvation types. When I’d first smuggled it in, I’d hooked it up to a double set of feed tubes, with the second one threaded down the middle of a support cable, and the tap into the body’s veins at its lower back, safely hidden from snooping eyes. That kept my body more or less at its starting weight. I’d always been a skinny bastard, anyway, and hadn’t a lot to lose. I’d even had to put a limiter choke into one of the feeding tubes, to keep the body from actually putting on weight—that would really have made it stick out, some gross porker swelling up out in the middle of the web. Just as long as it didn’t waste away—I had grown up in that body, I had great sentimental attachment to it. It was the only thing my mind and soul had lived in before I’d found my way to the Madlands, and things had changed for me.

  Coming up close to where my body hung suspended in the cables, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one had been following me. I was clear—Identrope’s busy little crews usually didn’t come out into the web until the morning after the big Saturday night altar call, when they had plenty of new disciples to wire up and plug in.

  Finally I stood over my original body, one hand above my head, holding on to a lateral cable. I looked down into my face, my first one.

  That mirror-familiar face—not too different from the one I was currently wearing. Perhaps just from habits too ingrained to break, I always went for narrow-browed, dark-haired, and slightly sinister-looking types when I picked up a new body. If nothing else, it kept the early morning shock when I washed and shaved from being too severe. If somebody were to line up all the bodies I had gone through in my Madlands years, they’d probably look like a rogues’ gallery of feral carnival-ride operators. One of these days, I’d have to try something a little more upscale.

  Sleeping face. Dreaming . . . The few times I’d slipped myself back into that body, I’d felt the blood-temperature wind of those dreams wrapping around me, ghosts of desire, the small children of memory, all pressing their own dark faces close, as though for a kiss or to whisper their wordless secrets.

  Hair all in disarray, a few grey streaks starting around the temples, grown long to tangle in the wind around the cables. Bearded now—I hated to see that. As though the body were unloved, forgotten, with no one to mourn its absence from human affairs. I supposed I could have brought up scissors and a razor, to tidy it up, but that would have been a dead giveaway in the middle of this crowd.

  At least my face’s eyes weren’t zoned out like those of the true disciples surrounding us. A subtle difference, but I could see it. Dreams, that private paradise (or hell) being preferable to Identrope’s programmed communal nirvana trickling over the metal filaments. I’d had to pull a sneaky on that front, too: the wires going into my body’s skull were fakes, an inch of nonconducting fiber spliced in to insulate my former head from the signals sent out from Identrope Central. To avoid this being detected by the web’s built-in monitoring feedback loop, I’d rigged a battery-driven microtransmitter on-line, sending back the happy bleepity-bleep of a human cerebrum getting Identrope’s holy word.

  I’d gone to a lot of trouble with all this, and I still wasn’t sure why. Crouching down beside the body, I peeled back the artificial skin near the spine that hid the battery pack. I popped in a couple of fresh ones that I’d brought up with me; line fluctuations on the feedback loop were fairly common, so the dip while I changed batteries wasn’t anything that would set off an alarm.

  A lot of trouble . . . I’d shifted the body, my body, a couple of times already this year, on the sly. Just to keep anyone from finding out that it wasn’t tied in to Identrope’s neural network. Of course, the problem was in a sense self-generated: the only reason the body was up here at all was to take advantage of the soup line percolating into all the bodies’ veins. Laziness on my part, I supposed; I could have rigged some homeostatic maintenance setup down on the ground, fed and taken care of my vacated body myself. But that would have been a major hassle—worse than a cat or a trussed bundle with big scared eyes—and subject to discovery by all these people who seemed to have an inordinate interest in the comings and goings.

  No, the big question—at least for the moment—was why I didn’t just let Identrope’s wire snake into my old body’s head and shimmy its salvific dance in there. I wasn’t using it; I doubted if I ever would get inside it again. I had left it behind, an empty shell on this aerial beach.

  Sentiment; I couldn’t figure out any other reason. A soft heart for the old homestead. The same sort of pang you get when you drive by some place you used to live, some place where you had been happy, before you knew better; maybe the place where you had lain with your arms around the woman who had been your wife, in that other world . . . you drive by that place now and see the windows cracked or covered with greasy cardboard, and the strip of grass gone brown and specked with broken glass and a dried-out condom; a devolved infant squalls behind the door you used to walk through, in those other days . . .

  “Shit—” I said the word aloud. I had plowed myself into a deep melancholy. Around me, the dead eyes watched nothing, their stoppered ears heard only another voice’s whispering. Only my own eyes mirrored the ones I saw through. It’s all right, my own lips murmured in silence. I understand. I bent lower to hear. Go in peace . . .

  I put everything back in order, sealing the skin flap down and otherwise erasing any sign that I had been there. I stood up from my crouch and turned away. I had some other business to take care of.

  EIGHT

  GELDT’S lips were parched. The desert winds that came up around the outskirts of the pseudo-L.A. had started to dehydrate him. If I’d left him any longer, he would have shriveled up like a pink raisin.

  I squatted down beside him and trickled a glass of water down hi
s throat. He sputtered and came to.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” It was already late afternoon, but he didn’t need to know that. “Feel like talking?”

  It took him a moment to realize the gag wasn’t stuffed in his mouth. He jerked a bit until it was obvious that he was still tied up. His wide eyes focused on me.

  “Trayne—” His tongue had swollen, and looked like something from a deli counter. “Y-you got to believe me—”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” I used the tip of one finger against his brow to push his head back down to the floor. “Believe you, least of all.”

  “Trayne, I didn’t—”swear—I

  “Didn’t what?” I picked up the gag and balled it in my fist, in front of his eyes. “Come on, Geldt. Tell me.”

  Something in my voice must have scared him. His eyes darted apprehensively, trying to read a message from mine. His mouth flopped open for a second, then clamped shut.

  “All right. I’ll talk.” I used the gag to mop his sweating brow. “I’ll tell you something. You came looking for me; upstairs, in the web. And you were dragging around that boat anchor you call a gun then. Somebody else was going around with you. Are you starting to remember all this now? Nod for yes.”

  A couple of seconds passed before Geldt’s head waggled above his taut-tendoned neck.

  “Fine. We’re making progress. Now, a friend of mine saw you and your buddy trooping around up at Identrope’s—and I put a lot of credence into her feelings about things. And she got the notion that you, and your buddy, and your gun, you were all looking to do me bodily harm. Kill me, even.” I lowered my smile toward Geldt’s face. “Would you care to comment on that?”

  “She—she’s nuts, Trayne—I wouldn’t—”

  I put the ball of my thumb on one of his eyes and rang for an elevator. Just a little push. “Don’t call my friend a liar. Think about it some more.”

  Geldt twitched his face out from beneath my hand. A red thumbprint marked one eyelid. “It was a mistake. I didn’t know—they didn’t tell me what they wanted—”

  “You know, I’d like to think it’s always a mistake, when somebody’s looking to kill me.” My thumb drew a circle around one of his staring eyes. “Now, who’s this they you’re talking about? It wouldn’t be something called the New Moon Corporation, would it?”

  I loved being a step ahead of him. It was as good as a poke in his eye. His head rocked back against the floor.

  “You—you know . . .”

  I could have peeled his face off and used it for a dish towel—he had gone that pale.

  “Damn straight, I know. You got a lot of nerve, Geldt, trying to sneak around and pull shit in my own backyard.”

  He looked like he was about to pass out on me again. I gave him another sip of water.

  “Lucky for you, there’s still a few things I’m not one hundred percent clear on.” I set the empty glass on the floor beside Geldt’s head. “Exactly who are these New Moon people, anyway?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “You don’t know. You’re working for them, and you don’t even know who they are. For Christ’s sake, Geldt, you hung around with me enough, I would’ve thought a little smarts would rub off on you.” I shook my head in disgust. “That’s how you get in trouble in this world. Doing shit, and you don’t know why.”

  Geldt licked his cracked lips. “They paid me . . .”

  “Come on. That’s not good enough. Look where it got you.” I shifted position, my crouched legs getting tired. “Let’s start at the top. This New Moon Corporation—they hired you, right? Did you go to them, or the other way around?”

  “They came to me . . . Honest, Trayne . . .”

  “And they wanted you to kill me?”

  A hasty shake of the head. “No—honest to God. That was a mistake.” Geldt’s words tumbled out rapid-fire. “I fucked it up at the beginning. They told me they wanted to get you, and I . . . I thought that was what they meant. You know—get you.”

  It figured a weasel like him would assume the worst possible meaning. I wasn’t flattered that it had seemed natural that total strangers would want me offed.

  “So you went cruising around Identrope’s headquarters with that goddamn cannon in your pocket. And what if you had found me there—you were going to blow me away right in front of Identrope’s goons? And then what? Jump off the web? You were packing a parachute, too?”

  “I didn’t think . . . about that . . .”

  “Yeah, right.” I rolled my gaze up to the ceiling for a moment, then back to his sweating face. “Who was the other guy with you? Somebody from New Moon?”

  Geldt nodded, the back of his head rubbing against the floor. “His name’s Harrison—”

  That didn’t ring any bells with me. “He’s your contact with these people, I take it?”

  Another nod. “He was the one who first called me.”

  “And paid you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And somewhere along the line, he found out you had this little, um, misinterpretation about what they were asking for? And he straightened you out.”

  “That’s right. Honest, Trayne—I didn’t want to kill you.”

  “But as long as that’s what you thought you were being paid for, you were willing to rise above these petty personal concerns. I’m flattered.” I stood up, rubbing the kink that had settled into the back of one leg. “So this Harrison guy worked it out with you, that you were just supposed to find me and bring me in to them. So they could talk to me, or something.”

  Geldt’s wide eyes looked up at me. “That’s what I was doing . . . when I found you.”

  “Did they say anything about why they wanted to talk to me?”

  “No—” A flicker of wheels turning in one of those dark spaces behind Geldt’s damp face. “They just said—they said it was something good. Something you’d be real interested in. Something profitable.”

  I looked down at Geldt. The last word he’d spoken was the magic key to everything inside his own head, so naturally he assumed it was in mine, too.

  The stuff before that, there was a good chance he was lying.

  “So—” I smiled down at him. “I guess we’ve had our own little misunderstanding. Really; you can’t blame me for being a little paranoid, can you? We’ve had our ups and downs. But honestly, I didn’t know you were trying to do me a favor. I guess I should just untie you, and we can be friends again.”

  A smile wobbled onto Geldt’s face. “You got it . . . I swear to God, Trayne . . . I wouldn’t have fucked with you—”

  “Bullshit.” I kicked him in the side of the head, not hard, more for punctuation than damage. “You think I’m going to start trusting you now? Forget it.”

  His eyes had gone all unfocused. I walked over to the other side of the room, squatted down, and rooted through the little pile of stuff I’d taken off him.

  In his wallet I found a card for a Clay Harrison. Board of Directors, New Moon Corporation. They had a subtle little logo, a foil-printed crescent that sparked in the light.

  I pocketed the card and stood up. “I got some phone calls to make—” Geldt’s blank gaze floated past me to the wall. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

  NINE

  HARRISON had a smooth voice.

  “Mr. Trayne—I was hoping to hear from you.”

  I tapped the edge of his card on the table in my apartment’s kitchen. The guy hired assholes to do his work for him, but other than that I had nothing against him.

  The telephones in my section of town had come up out of the archives as squat black monsters, a seriously ancient kind with those rough-woven cords, and no buttons. That was fine by me; I liked taking my finger around the dial, and the clickety-click in my ear as each number went through. I rubbed the edge of the dial with my thumb as I talked to this Harrison.

  “Your messenger service leaves a lot to be desired. Next time, drop me a postcard.”

  He chuckled, the
way people do when nothing’s funny, but they’re trying to show that they’re nice guys. “Yes, well, a lot of people here thought that Mr. Geldt was something of an odd duck. I take it he found you all right?”

  “Could say.”

  “I hope you’ll accept our apologies, Mr. Trayne, for these rather unorthodox communication methods. It’s not our usual way of doing business. But—we were at something of a loss about how to get in touch with you. You seem to have a certain knack for disappearing.”

  I put my finger in the zero hole on the dial. “I work at it.”

  “It’s a talent that might serve you well. That is, if you decide to pick up on a certain business proposition we’d like to present to you.” He put a little Luftpause before the word “business.” Enough to let a mysterious hint leak through, without actually saying anything at all.

  Took my finger out. “I suppose this is something you’d like me to come on in and talk to you folks about.”

  Harrison’s voice was so smooth it puddled. “We would appreciate it. Of course, we’d be happy to recompense you for your time. Whether you join our little team or not.”

  “I don’t know . . . I’m not big on traveling.” Truth was, I’d been so long in the Madlands, I wasn’t comfortable outside it anymore. I like the flux around me. Things staying the same all the time gets me nervous.

  “You wouldn’t have to go very far. We have a field office quite close to you. I could meet you there.”

  I could guess. From what Eddie the Make had told me. “Over in the junkyard?”

  “Is that what it’s called? Yes, I suppose we’re talking about the same place.”

  The field office wouldn’t be hard to find. Any of the ’yard rats slinking around the wreckage could direct me to it.

  “Harrison—I got a question for you. Before I come out and talk. I’ve had to deal with a lot of crossed wires recently. What I want to know is, do you people want to kill me?” I didn’t see any point in dicking around on this topic.

  “What?” Harrison sounded genuinely surprised. “Mr. Trayne . . . I assure you . . . what we’re interested in talking to you about is just about 180 degrees different from that.”