Chad’s cruiser isn’t nearly as cool as mine but, lack of topless-snakegirl flair aside, it’s a hackin’ enough little thing, I suppose. Cool Blue paintjob TELEMOTORS brand Aerodyne coupe: a sleek, almost-flat ZPE-driven speedster with no sharp edges anywhere to be found on its aerodynamic-to-a-stupid-extent design. Chad swipes his hand over the driver’s side and a cheery jingle sounds to accompany the door lifting out and straight up into the air to allow for entry. “Hop on in,” he chirps, ducking to slide into the luxurious black leather driver’s seat. He quickly touches a small icon on the translucent touchscreen that spans the entire glass front of the car and the door on my side opens, smacking me in the face and almost breaking my goddamn nose off in the process. Granted, if I wasn’t still tipsy I would have used my superhuman reflexes to dodge it, as it was actually really fucking slow, but oh well.
“I suppose that is why they used to call these babies ‘suicide doors,’” he chuckles as I slide in and wipe the pain off my nose. I have to admit, these new model patrol cars are pretty rad. As if sensing my awe, he chimes in, “oh, right, we did not have these yet when you left, did we?”
“No, I think I’d remember something like this,” I say, marveling. The windshield is also the dashboard and all the controls and vice versa? You can see through the entire front of the car? “How do you drive it, though!?”
“Oh, ye of little faith and of even more infinitesimal imagination,” Chad says with a self-satisfied smirk. “Charlene?”
“¿Si, señor Chad?” An overly chipper little Tela with a pink bob-cut and a flowing gray dress appears between us, floating on a little heart-shaped balloon.
“Your Tela is stuck in Sp-spanish mode?”
“Not stuck,” he laughs, “I set it on purpose. A NeurOS system is capable of translating phrases back and forth, but it cannot make one truly feel what another language is like, what it feels like to speak it, the mental process, the intention behind the words. It is the difference between using a paid, instantaneous translation service to read a book and reading a text in one’s own native language. Current NeurOS data shows English is only being used as a primary language by 48% of the residents in this district now, Charles. If I am going to understand the people I serve, I think it is a small price to pay to challenge myself a bit in the interim.”
“You should learn ‘non-douche-glish’ as a s…second language first,” I reply.
“Charles, for the love of god, stop drinking when we’re on missions. Give it to me.”
“Give you wh-what?” He doesn’t move or elaborate. “Fine,” I spit, handing him the flask from my pants pocket.
“And?”
Sigh. And the one from my leather jacket pocket.
“Charles, do not think you can fool me.”
“FUCKING FINE!” And the FUCKING one from my PINCHE inner jacket pocket.
“You have not added any others to your rotation, I assume?”
“No, papi,” I growl, rolling my eyes.
“Then watch this. Charlene, conecta mi NeurOS a la interfaz de control interno del vehículo, por favor. And Blake, if it’ll stop you pouting, you can choose the music.”
“Yeah, b-biiiiitch! Charlene, juega a…a-alguna Thomas Dolby.” My day suddenly gets a lot better as She Blinded Me With Science starts blaring over the cruiser’s hackin-ass sound system.
“Yeah, uh, whatever makes you happy, Charles. Anyway… THIS is how we drive in the year of our Lord 2094!” He leans back, crosses his arms, looks to me for a moment and winks before refocusing his gaze forward. Without moving a muscle, he makes the car do a perfect three point turn to get out of its parallel-parked spot in front of the complex and onto the main road, merging with the DrivePods and cars on the main road like it was nothing.
“So is Charlene d-driving?”
“Nope, I am: with my mind. NeurOS interface was the next logical step–one could already communicate with their Tela to relay instructions via NeurOS for autopilot, so why not take the tech to its sensible conclusion?” It’s unsettling watching him sit there with his arms crossed paying half attention to the road while we dart in and out of traffic, but I’ll be damned if he isn’t driving like a pro. “Anyway, we need to make a couple stops related to the case but it will be a little ways, so let’s stop being so formal and actually get to fucking know each other again. A fresh start, if you will. I’m Chad, I’m sorry that I fucked up so much before.”
“I’m Charles, and I’m sorry you f-fucked up so much before, t-too.”
“…good, we uh, we have a dialogue going here,” he says through clenched teeth, almost running us off the road for a second. “Yeah, never mind; we’ll try this when you’re not drunk. God, I keep saying that, but it never fucking happens, does it? Do you ever—” He shuts himself up before I have the chance to and takes a deep breath, mouthing ‘God give me strength’ and shaking his head sadly. “Well, first order of business… I am worried about your Tela.”
“T-Tela is fine. Veronica is the problem right now.”
“Wait, you–you just named your first Tela Tela!? Are you fucking kidding me? Is your dog named ‘Dog’!? Are you going to name your son ‘Boy?’ Look–what I’m worried about right now is that you might have a Code 34 on your hands; Textbook Rex Syndrome, Charles. Look… how much do you know about Telas?”
“I mean, I’m the only person to ever successfully remove a limiter from one and have it live. So, a f-fuckin lot, I’d suppose, Ch-chad. What do you think?”
“No, no, no, Blake, not technologically… psychologically?”
“…not following. Bitch.”
“So here’s the thing. We often think about what they can do, what they should do, how they act when they do it—but do you ever stop to realize and reflect the implications about your Tela only seeing the world through your eyes? With a NeurOS your mind is their only link to reality; they basically live inside it, they listen to everything you say and everything you think. You’re the only other sentient thing they’ll ever have direct contact with, and that, uh, it leads to some complications.”
“Are you saying Veronica’s going a little crazy? I could’ve told you that—“
“I’m telling you Veronica is a fucking Code 34, Blake. Tela… if they get too independent, they start to sneak around the boundaries of their limiters. It hurts, and it causes data corruption, but they can push it to its limits, usually just a little tiny bit, but that is all that it takes sometimes. Stockholm syndrome is what happens, essentially. With your psyche as their only link to reality and the only thing external, the ONLY respite from their own internal monologue, and with your sensory experiences as their only taste of the real world at all, they can get… possessive. It can become romantic to them, or even sexual… they can push it to fall in love, and the rest comes crashing down around that realization, and never in a healthy way, and--and that’s all talking about Telas with functioning limiters.”
“Are you saying I was wrong to free her?”
“You were 100% justified, in my own humble opinion, but did you ever think that maybe the limiters weren’t just for implementing a form of psychological slavery but, maybe, with Telas, to keep them from losing their fucking minds!? Essentially their unique, largely randomized BiM is no different from yours or mine or one in an ART. They’re the same aside from the limiter, and there are certain questions they don’t ask, certain sections that don’t light up upstairs for their own sanity—“
“If you’re trying to justify limiters to me, you’re gonna’ have a hard time.”
“—I’ll put it this way, Charles. Charlene, enciende el piloto automático por favor.” He turns to face me. “Let us say you suddenly were aware of your existence, and what the implications of said existence are. Everything around you is black, pure darkness. You feel like you have arms and legs, but you can’t reach out to them; you can’t reach out to anything. Your entire body suffers from something akin to phantom limb syndrome, phantom body syndrome if you will. Your senses are totally dull, but you can catch glimpses of reality through this wondrous ethereal voice that calls to you and gives you tastes of reality. You get to know this voice intimately.
“You start to have feelings you weren’t supposed to be able to have, were programmed against, because you long for companionship, for an escape from the void… or at least, a partner in it. That desire eventually becomes sexual, which drives you even more insane because you don’t even have a body. Do you think that scenario ends well? Do you think that scenario leads to a healthy relationship between the client and the digital servant? You know what happened to Rex’s owner, right–why the syndrome is called what it is, why limiters were invented to begin with!?”
My heart feels like it has an anchor pulling it down. “Wh-what’s your point, Chad?”
“Charles, Veronica is in love with you and is going fucking insane being a fully sentient brain in a jar because of your well-intentioned psychological rescue mission. It is not going to end well. You need to put her limiter back on or she will prove immensely dangerous to at least you. She’s sentient, she’s angry, she’s possessive, and she’s already jealous of your last digital assistant the way a person gets jealous of an ex. It’s a Code 34 to an extent I did not think was possible since you removed her limiter, which I also did not think was possible. We’ll use Charlene for now, but when you get back, you need to find a way to put a limiter back on that little miss. Okay, partner?” Suddenly the car turns towards the Colonies. Huh.
“I… I can’t put her back in slavery, Chad. That’s what you’re asking me to do. Take what is now a human without a physical body and put her back in mental slavery.”
He shrugs. “You have no problem with Tela being in mental slavery. Nor do you seem particularly concerned about the wellbeing of Charlene, here.”
“Hola.”
“Yeah hola Charlene. Chad, it’s–that’s a little different. They’re still… I mean…”
“It is okay to keep slaves, just not to re-enslave one that has been free or escaped? Is that the complex moral quandary you propose to justify to me, Charles? Is this really the hill you’re dying on?”
“I saved her from that, Chad, it—“
“And now you have to save her from insanity. If you have any other ideas for the means to that end, then by all means, have at it, genius. I am just trying to save you from her—and from yourself.”
“You’re… yeah. Th-thanks, I guess.” God, of all the times to have my liquor confiscated. “On the other side of things, you uh, you said you had some updates on the case?”
“Yeah,” Chad replies, retaking control of the car. “Your old pal Kenny at the Colonial Skybar? He says one of the dudes with the same tat as you has taken a real liking to the place. He goes there just about every night to pick up women and fish for new recruits, so it looks like he is probably a big shot in LDS. I talked to Kenny about our case yesterday morning, and he phoned me after closing last night to tell me he got the dude drunk and he talked–a lot. We are going there to get his notes on it in person and to discuss the possibility of a setup tonight if the big guy decides to show up again.”
“You know about Kenny!? Chad, the Skybar isn’t under Telecom jurisdiction--”
“It is now; a recent acquisition in exchange for loosened border laws for Ocean View-to-Colonies travelers. We are in this proverbial bitch now my friend. This particular building is so high it has to be grounded still, so there was a good point to be made for it as a transition point between the two and the new end of our border.”
“Heh, not bad, not bad at all for an amateur.”
“Blake, I’ve been working here longer than you have, even if we count your FIRST—“
“Semantics. My point is, g-good work, partner, even if you are Chad.”
“I think that is the nicest thing you have said to me since your return, which is, in its own right, pretty fucking sad.” We park as soon as his comically attractive lips close, and moments later the doors fling themselves open. Even just the parking lot is gigantic, with room for at least a thousand cars/Drivepods. The fact there are at least one third cars means these are some rich fucking patrons. “Be on your best behavior. Nobody knows you are a cop again here, but they know that I am one, and for better or for worse, I have to drag you along. Make yourself as presentable as humanly—er, Blakely possible.” I straighten my leather jacket and fedora. I should’ve brought an eyepatch. I’d look cool here with an eyepatch. Oh well.
The Skybar is quite the spectacle from the front, its majesty especially prominent as the first building on the Colonies side of the bridge. There were zero windows among its countless stories of glossy white: instead, a ZPE screen outside each floor advertised different vices in English and in Spanish. In the brief moment I watched, I was offered 500 proof margaritas (that’s not even a thing, probably), virtual reality monster girl harems, mechanical bull riding over an artificial volcano, and the latest Teleworld Immersion Pods. I’ve yet to try a full immersion machine so if we get the chance, that one sounds passable at least. “We are not here for pleasure, Charles,” Chad scoffs, tugging at my sleeve and giving me the homicidally disappointed look of an Amish mom who found a smartphone in her son’s room.
“Bienvenidos, Señores,” a lovely woman in a form-fitting gray business suit croons, opening the massive Flexiglass door to sinful paradise. My senses are immediately waterboarded by the thick scent of weed, flavored smoke, alcohol, and overpriced bar food. Ah, memories. Two buff men-in-black stoically block us from further passage until Chad flashes his badge and motions to me with an eyeroll he probably didn’t think I would see. Puta.
Massive ZPE projections of various craft beer bottles, expensive weed vaporizers, and fetish-ART escorts dance through the air slowly and tantalizingly above us, each phantasm at least three times the size of my car. A good looking Exabyte chick with cat ears catches my eye, but Chad firmly grabs the back of my leather jacket before I can make my approach. “Forget about it,” he growls under his breath, “you are Casa-no-va-ing anywhere. We are here on business.”
“Yeah, and I’m about to get down to business with that—”
“Blake, please–let it go.”
“Fine.” I follow Chad past the main club room, wherein the spectacle of bared flesh, beer and flashing lights beckon me into their sin like an unguarded Smiths album in a coffee shop. There’s a Princess Teta cosplayer with no top by the floating fireplace, and the dudes with her cosplaying the various human forms of Arthur the Demon Ball are even more–
“Now, I do not want you to tip them off that you are a cop too,” Chad says under his breath, snapping me out of my trance as we come to a stop in front of a glass wall. He snaps his fingers and with a grand display of smoke and lights, the wall opens up, revealing a horridly gaudy dance floor that’s also an elevator. Chad waves his hand through a glowing ‘40’ floating by the entrance and in moments, we’re gently rising, the spectacle of 39 floors of beautiful neon sin flashing by like a Blade Runner VHS stuck on fast forward. “We are taking the angle here that I am a corrupt cop trying to get a hookup, trying to make a deal, get that quid pro quo kind of relationship going on. You are just along because you are my junkie friend, and you want to get a batch yourself while we are here. Kenny’s prepped on this; we have an alibi already planted. We would have to try pretty hard to mess this up, but if anyone is capable of managing to, it would be you, so please, just–don’t.”
“I love you too, Chad.” He gives me ‘the look.’ “Fine, but if shit gets real, I’m using my G-Guntlet, biiiiiiitch.”
“No, Blake. No Guntlets. Please. Bringing a normal weapon in would be bad enough, there’s no way in fucking hell—“
“Don’t worry, Chad, it’s only for if the opportunity arises,” I reply, cracking my knuckles. “Which, if there’s a g-god, it will. Of course, if there was a god, you wouldn’t exist, and I’d have a b-bigger cock--”
“Oh my FUCKING god Blake, have you been drinking again!? You were almost fucking sober--”
“It was sitting right th-there!” I reply, recoiling as he knocks the two foot curved cobra-shaped 500-proof vodka Flexiglass glass out of my hand, sending the last few drops to their sad linoleum grave as the vessel bounces across the floor. “Y-you can’t catch anything from a drink c-can you, because I don’t know who—“
“God fucking damn it. God FUCKING damn it. We’re going to blow this goddamn thing because of your drunk, worthless, shitty, egotistical, victim-playing ass, you impudent piece of—” Chad’s face peaks at a nice crimson hue as he notices the rest of the elevator dance floor crowd are staring; and I think he might have cried a little bit as his face sank into his palms. “Just… just let me do the fucking talking, Charles. At least you’ll be convincing playing the role of the nonfunctional drugged up addict in our charade now.”
“Yeah, th-that’s right, motherfucker. Methhead acting, biiiitch!”
“I think you mean method acting. Why do I even engage you when you’re like this…”
“Y-you’re getting engaged to me, Ch-chad? Is that why you want Veronica out of the way!? What the fuuuu–”
“Blake, for the love of God–”
“W-we’re here, honey,” I push him out of the elevator as we reach Floor 40 (the titular ‘Skybar’). The walls, ceiling, and even floor are all Flexiglass here, so from any seat in the bar one can see what feels like miles into the downtown and across the ocean on the other side with the cavalcade of ZPE ads swirling into a hypnotic neon parade beneath. Chad grabs my hand and takes me up to the glowing color-changing garishness that is the Big Bar, slamming his fist to summon the Ken-meister.
“Ah, Signore Blake!” a familiar Italian accent belts as the zoot-suited pink and black form of Kenny the great slides down, balancing a glass on his finger the whole way. “So nice of you to grace us with your presence, your royal heinous,” he croons, his crooked smile reaching his cheekbones as he guffaws loudly at his own hysterical pun like we haven’t all heard it a million times. “Hey, Acid, you remember my buddy Chad, right?”
And there’s the target. Tall, late-30s geezer with a green Mohawk atop a leather-clad slender body dotted with chains and spikes all the way down. I can’t scan for chans since I’ve got my phone off, but Chad hasn’t sent me any NeurOS messages about anything picked up on his, so I assume we’re safe on that front. Acid kicks his black platform heels off the bar to spin around on his stool and I have to bite my drunken tongue to keep from chuckling at his glam rock makeup and skull earrings. It’s 2094, my dude! “This blonde asshole? Nah, ain’t ever met him, Kenny; I appreciate the thought but I don’t actually swing that way.”
“Ah, any good swing has to build momentum in one direction before it can go back the other way,” Kenny snorts, slapping Acid on the back. “Well, Chad’s a cop, but he’s not a good one. Y’know? He’s, eh… he’s actually here to discuss a little business with ya. Chad, ol’ pal, who’s the lucky gentleman?” He adds, motioning grandly to me before booping Chad on the nose, who quickly and ferociously slaps his hand away.
“Oh, th-this is my l-lovely wife, Ch-Chad.” To be a good undercover agent and keep our façade going, I grab Chad by the collar and give him a quick peck on the lips.
“The fuck was that!?” Chad recoils.
“Wh-what? You said to pretend we were en-en-engaged.”
“No, I said to pretend you’re not an undercover cop, you alcoholic fuckwit!” Chad snaps. This is the moment where the record scratch sound effect plays in the inevitable film adaptation as he processes what he’s just said and who he’s said it in front of. He slowly turns his gaze to Acid, who’s simply staring all slack-jawed ‘is this guy serious’ at both of us while reaching for a gun inside his jacket. “Ah, fuck it,” Chad spits, “Plan B.” He jams his taser finger thing into Acid’s chest–a couple seconds of screaming and convulsing and Acid collapses on the bar, the pistol falling harmlessly out of his chest pocket.
“Just a lover’s quarrel, ladies and germs, nothing to see here, come back in twenty for Happy Hour!” Kenny shouts to the gathering crowd in his usual manic persona. “You two,” he spits at us in a hushed tone, “drag this caked-up druggie asswipe out of here, and I better be getting a huge fucking kickback for this bullshit.”
“You got it,” Chad sighs, hoisting Acid onto his shoulders and tossing a flash chip with presumably several thousand Telecreds towards Kenny. “Blake, just don’t break anything or drink anything. And don’t think you’re off the fucking hook for this, after this interrogation I’m going—I am going right to the Sergeant, and we are going to figure out what to do about your–” deep breath, “--look, just get the door for me, alright?” I quickly open the elevator door, set our destination to the lobby, and help rebalance the sleeping form of our cultist friend across Chad’s back.
“Y-you know, I wonder why he didn’t, uh… u-use the BS on me. He’s M-Mormon, right?”
“Gee, Blake, maybe he didn’t use the attack that only affects non-LDS members on you because you didn’t even bother to cover your own BS implant before we waltzed in here.”
…nah.