Going Shogun (16 page)

“The rabbit hole,” she says.

“Yep, we’re about to find out what
Alice ate tonight.”

I hope.

Chapter
12

Forklift cranks down
Machine
and hops out.  Bingo and I disengage ourselves and do the same.  When we open
the door, the immediate rush of rain is cool and splatters against my scalp
before I can get my hood up.  Bingo makes a dash for the protection of the
covered porch and bounds up the stairs quietly as Forklift and I follow.  As we
step up beside her, she runs a hand through her hair then wipes nature’s tears
from her arms.  I know she’s been cold in that tiny Frank ‘n’ Stein t-shirt all
night, but add some wetness to it and she has to be frozen from the outside in. 
I move in front of her and set up a blockade to intercept the gusting squall.

I whisper, “What if he’s not here? 
Then what?” 

If LX hasn’t decided to hole up with
Cat, we’re basically lost.  This
Alice in Wonderland
thing could be
complete misdirection, or random nonsense typed out in a moment of panic.  We’ve
got positively zero leads to go on from this point, and if we can’t find out
what happened in his apartment, I think it’ll be the one thing that’ll make me
want to convince Forklift that we need to abort the mission.

Bingo whispers, “If he’s not, we
could always go back and talk to Mr. Androgyny, see if he’s heard anything.”

Forklift says, “Nah, Andy poofs the
powder on too many tailwinds.  We’d be beefcake with the BAs before sunshine. 
LX is here, trust.”

Again with the certainty. 
Seriously, is this Forklift just being Forklift?

He opens the screen door, and since
my hearing has roughly returned to normal, the sound it makes has my eardrums wailing
and wishing I had some lubricant handy.  Those screaming fireworks on Board
Dependence Day down at Panteleon Park are quieter than this screeching metal atrocity.

Forklift seems himself again as he
blasts out a rhythmically bodacious beat with his knuckles, followed by two
heavy thumps with alternating elbows.  If they were asleep inside, they aren’t
now after that assault.

The wait is horrible.  The
continuity of our conundrum depends entirely on the presence of one Langdon
Palmer Malig.  Alias Duckboy.  Alias Hot Rod.  Alias Skywanker.  Alias...LX.

Two seconds, five seconds, ten
seconds crawl by, millimeter by excruciating millimeter, like snails on a
sidewalk.  Bingo scoots up closer to me and I can feel what’s left of her
body’s warmth through my sweatshirt.  “Put this on,” I say, but she stops me
before I can take it off.

“I’m okay,” she says.  I don’t
believe her.

Another ten seconds pass.  Forklift
reaches up to knock again as I catch a glimpse of a curtain moving in the
window.  “Wait.  Somebody’s there.”

A beat later, the front door opens, and
standing there is a tall, gangly gonzo wearing a hairnet.  He’s got on a
painter’s mask, along with a black jacket zipped to the neck.  Sleeves pulled way
down over black gloves.  Pants tucked tightly into the top of his boots, the
soles of which are covered with those blue footies surgeons wear to prevent
operational contamination. 

It only takes a second to figure out
that he’s trying hard not to leave any genetic trace of himself.  Paranoid as
it seems, it’s probably not even overkill.  The only way to truly block
anything from escaping would be a full-on astronaut suit.  If they can keep the
pressures of zero gravity from getting in and crushing those guys on spacewalks
above Mars, surely they could keep any genetic traces from getting out.

Forklift says, “LX,” greeting him
with open arms, like we’re here for some merrymaking.  And in The World of Forklift,
with everything that’s happened tonight, there’s not a whole lot of difference.

LX reaches up, pulls down the mask,
revealing a sharp nose and thin mustache that can’t have more than ten hairs
and a face that’s much younger than I expected.  The guy has barely pulled out
of the Puberty Parking Lot.  I doubt he’s even left his teens behind.  Twenty
if he’s a day older.  It goes without saying that he’s not what I imagined. 
All night long, I had this image of some superhero hacker built up in my head.  Who
even knows what one of those looks like?  And I know that’s silly because most
of those guys are jobless and careless, hanging out in their mom’s basement and
chugging Pow-Pow until the wee hours of the morning, chatting in highly
illegal, unrestricted forums about how many Authorized Resident Payment card
numbers they lifted that day. 

The institution of The Board as a
governing body wholly modified the lives we live, but some things never change.

He says, “Who’re they?” giving acknowledging
glances towards Bingo and me. 

“Trench diggers, little bro.  In the
shiz with the wiz.”

LX lets this register a half-sec,
and decides he doesn’t need a translation.  “Get in here before somebody sees
you,” he says, motioning us in through the door, then shuts it behind us. 
“Don’t touch anything,” is his next warning.  “Don’t.  Touch.  Anything. 
Absolutely no traces, got it?”

Forklift says, “Positive gold, my
man.  Positive gold.”

Cat’s place is warm in the
comforting sense yet manages to smell like a stripper lives here.  Like stale
beer and girl sweat, mixed with heavy perfume and old smoke.  There’s even a
pole mounted in the right corner nearest to us.  For practice, I suppose.  A
stairway to the left leads to the second story, where I picture Cat hiding in
one of the bedrooms or maybe in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn.  The
rest of the downstairs stretches back through the house, with the living room
and kitchen divided by a half-open wall where three potted plants sit on the
ledge.

Standard couch, standard matching
recliner.  A giant, framed poster of what appears to be a cat food
advertisement with a fancy-looking lady and
Ou est ma chatte?
written in
Old French.  Various kitten collectibles are perched around the room on shelves
and windowsills.  An ancient TV that should’ve been fossilized by now.  She
might as well throw a blanket over it and call it a table.  For an R12’s place,
it’s nice, and I suppose all of these trinkets came with her whenever her
Demotion happened. 

That’s the only good thing that
comes with losing your status.  You’re not required to give up your possessions,
just your whole livelihood. Uncle Rooster brought none of his Cameo R8 stuff
with him back down to the 11s.  He had nothing left after selling it to pay for
all of those nighthoneys to spread their legs.  The only things he kept were
Fluffy and Muffy, and when he got committed to the Rectification Asylum after
frying his brain with a Blow Dart addiction, Mom and Dad took them in for a few
years.  When Fluffy died, Muffy followed him a week later.

“Where’s the kitty?” Forklift asks. 
“Haven’t peeped her in ages.  Gotta how now the brown cow, right-right?”

By the look on LX’s face, he isn’t
amused, and it’s likely he knows their history.  “Gone.  Away from here, as far
as I could talk her into going.”  He speaks at half-volume, like somebody could
be snooping even though it’s highly doubtful the BAs have her place bugged
already.  However, they could be listening from a block away with their
verbal-targeting amplifiers or a well-placed satellite beam.  All rights of
reason say they should have been here already, given their technological
crime-fighting advantages, but after talking to The Minotaur, what they’re
actually capable of remains a mystery.  He looks me over, then Bingo, and asks,
“They got names?”

Forklift bows graciously and extends
an arm outward, saying, “Might I present to you Monsieur Brick and Madame
Bingo.”

LX asks me, “You’re the Dream
Chasers dude?”

I stutter out a pathetic, “Y-y-yeah.” 
I have no idea why, because I’m the guy that took down a Board Agent, but I’m a
little bit scared of this gonzo’s gaze and his intense demeanor.  Could be that
I’m feeling responsible for the situation he’s in, and I am in part, of course,
but it could also be the way the air in the room grows as thick and gooey as
Wishful Thinking’s Cherry Catfish Flambé. It’s hard to breathe.

Bingo reaches out her hand for a
shake, tries a sweet, “Nice to meet you.”

“No touching,” he says, backing
away.  Then, somewhat apologetic, he adds, “Sorry.  Can’t risk the BAs finding
any traces.  Ten minutes, then you’re gone, and I’m gone.  You never saw me, I
never saw you, and it’ll stay that way.  Forever.  Understood?”

“Diggity bop,” Forklift says. 
“We’re merely here to find out where we stand.  Stood.  Understood...stand?” 

It appears that even the mighty
Forklift is having trouble piloting the ship.  Glad I’m not the only one.

Bingo moves over closer to me and I
hear her take what sounds like a strained breath.  Again, glad I’m not the only
one.

LX says, “I take it you got my
message.”

“Rabbit hole.  Yes.  Barbequed a few
brain cells and almost took a high dive to Hauntsville during the proceedings,”
Forklift says, pointing to the bruises on his neck, “but we rocked the cradle,
burped the baby.  Mayhap we can park the cans, discuss the happity-haps in your
residential domicile earlier this fine spring evening?”

“No sitting, no traces,” LX says. 
He snarls it and I can tell that this is one gonzo that’s ready to go over the
edge to a paranoid oblivion.

Forklift backs up a step, arms held
out in resignation, not making eye contact.

LX says, “You get details, maybe a
question or two, then we’re done.”

I nod.  Bingo nods.  Forklift tosses
out a double thumbs-up.

LX lowers his voice even further and
says, “Good.  Around thirty minutes before you two ass munchers were supposed
to show up, I’m sitting at my desk, hacking away, and somebody knocks.  I
figure you guys are early, so I go prancing over to my door, all eager to get
the shit over with so I can come see Cat, right?  I get it halfway open before
somebody shoves it really damn hard and I go flying back.”

As freaked out as he is, LX isn’t
one of those people that just talks with his hands.  He uses his whole body,
like he’s acting out the scene in a movie.  Every movement, every motion,
making it more and more real.  Flailing his arms, falling away.

“These three guys come busting in
like they’re Board Agents raiding a highboy hangout.  But it’s some gonzo
wearing a t-shirt with
Ascension Sux!
on the front and the other two are
wearing full-body wetsuits and ski masks.  Only thing showing were their eyes. 
They weren’t leaving any molecules or breath prints behind, that’s for damn
sure.”

I risk an interruption, hoping it
might calm him a little.  “We found out Board Agents can’t track your breath.”

“Shut up,” he says.  “No talking. 
Sorry, I’m all...you know.  My nerves are crazy fried.  Sorry.  So I’m standing
there, and they’re just looking at me.  At first I’m thinking it’s the BAs with
some new uniforms and they’re there to bust me for that virus app I was working
on.  Forklift!  Get away from the wall, for real.  What did I say?”

Forklift does as he’s told.

“Now, the gonzo’s got this funny
look on his face, like he might’ve been OD’ing on that shit they use to come
down from Whiz Sticks and Pop Roxy.  He was so sedated and...gone.  I’m backed
up against the desk and don’t know if I should try to run or fight or scream
for help, because they’re just standing there and staring and staring and
staring.  Creepiest damn thing I’ve ever felt.  It was like the actual air in
the room changed and I couldn’t breathe.”

I know the feeling. 

He rubs a hand across his face,
shakes his head like the memory is right there in front of him.  He checks his
palm, wipes his hand on his stomach, underneath his jacket.  I figure his
paranoia has gone so far that he’s trying to keep any DNA traces as close to
himself as he can.

He continues.  “Eventually, the guy
on the right says, ‘You’re LX?’ and he must’ve been wearing some kind of voice
modifier, because it was all deep and electronic.  I say yeah, and figure out
at this point that they’re not BAs because they don’t mess around.  You do
something wrong, they pop you on the spot.  Plus, BAs wouldn’t have some
cracked out gonzo hanging with them.  And then the other one goes, ‘You know
The Minotaur?’ with that same electronic thing happening.  I didn’t
want
to tell them I did, but at that point I was so freaked out I would’ve told’em where
my mom hides her vibrator.”

Ew
.

I don’t know his mom, but it’s not a
mental image I want.  At all.

Moving on, thankfully, he dishes
details about everything he can remember. 

The two guys in skin suits reveal
something I never expected.  They say they know he has plans,
with us
,
to break into their satellite and sell the recipes, and at that point, he
figures out it’s the Holy Grailmen of the Hacker Kingdom, Lewis & Clark.

I’m thinking,
Wait, what!?  Lewis
and Clark?

I look over at Forklift to see if
he’s hearing what I’m hearing.  He shows zero physical response.  Like this
isn’t Breaking News to him, delivered by Paul “Pageboy” James.