Futuristic Violence and Fancy Suits (28 page)

To Armando Zoey said, “This place is Slutsylvania.”

“It's what?”

“Nevermind.”

Zoey had noticed that when a particularly spectacular girl sauntered by, Armando would always start doing official bodyguard things—putting his finger in his ear as if to hear commands, putting a hand on Zoey's back as if to guide her through the crowd. In other words, making it very clear to the world that he was
not
there as Zoey's date.

A group of young Korean couples passed. They looked Zoey over, then gestured and laughed.

Yeah, that was the other thing: it wasn't until the party started that Zoey suddenly remembered that she was famous. Not the kind of celebrity that draws admiration or autograph requests, oh no. This was the “Hey, I saw this person in that crazy story on the news, and isn't it weird that they also exist in real life” sort of fame. Lot of glances and giggles and nudges, like her existence was one big inside joke. Zoey always felt in crowds like everyone was staring at her, but this time it was true. No one could devise a more exquisite form of psychological torture.

But worse than the gawkers were the people who knew about the assassination threat, and had come specifically to watch it play out. She could read it on their faces. They were the ones who didn't laugh, but instead had the expression of someone who was watching a movie that was just getting good. They'd point and mutter to one another, like,
There, she's the one we're going to see get killed at some point
. Like they were attending the world's most elaborate murder mystery dinner theater.

But just as Zoey had decided that
those
people were the worst, she passed a chubby boy who looked fourteen, wearing a black “T
EAM
M
OLECH
” T-shirt, the logo animated to look like it was on fire.

As he passed, he giggled as he shouted, “Say hi to your mom!”

“Oh, you've got to be kidding me. Can we kick that kid out?”

Armando shrugged it off. “Just him, or all of the people wearing those shirts? They're selling them out on the street.”

“I hate this place.”

“Try not to think about it. It isn't real to them. Have you ever met a celebrity you've seen on TV? That first time, it's like you're in a wax museum that's come to life. They just don't seem real.”

“Are there no Team Zoey shirts?”

“I'm … sure there must be. Somewhere.”

“Well, at least my cat likes me.”

“If it makes you feel better, they have always done this. People follow Tabula Rasa's gang wars on Blink, they pick sides and track the body counts, like keeping score. Whenever there is a shootout, everyone jumps into the feeds and watches in real time, rooting for their side to win.”

They passed one of the little hologram toys that had been kicked over, its holographic animation of Arthur Livingston—admiring his new angel wings and adjusting a halo—being projected sideways into the dirty snow.

Zoey said, “But shouldn't they all be rooting for me? Aren't I the good guy here?”

Armando hesitated, then said, “You have to understand, Arthur was the richest man in the city. Loud, brash, always on the news. And he was a real estate tycoon—meaning he owned a lot of property, and charged a lot in rent, and maybe did not always maintain the buildings to people's satisfaction.”

“So he was a slumlord.”

Armando shrugged. “No one likes their landlord. Do you like yours? But in this case, the landlord was also a flamboyant playboy who smoked cigars worth more than some of these people's wardrobes. So on Blink, the narrative frames it as the spoiled rich daughter of a slumlord versus the shirtless alpha males looking to put her in her place. Remember, it's a largely male audience.”

She spotted Budd, telling an apparently hilarious story to an enthralled group of a dozen men in some kind of military dress uniforms. Old army buddies. They ran across Echo near the first-aid tent, messing with her phone while ignoring a male model-ish guy who was trying to hit on her. She was hoping to find Andre, but he must have been off coordinating security or doing some other Suit business she probably didn't want to know about.

Will, on the other hand, she found in a somewhat hidden spot back near the dais where the creepy wax corpse of Arthur Livingston was raised over the flower jungle. He just stood there in the shadows, sipping his drink and watching the crowd flow past. That wasn't a surprise—Zoey had trouble imagining him mingling.

Armando muttered to Zoey, “Watch the crowd. As it passes Will, watch.”

“What do you mean?”

“Notice how no one comes within ten feet of him? Everyone gives him a wide berth. Scared of bumping his elbow. That, Zoey, is the proverbial black cloud.”

It was true. The crowd flowed around his spot, like he had a force field. At one point a drunk girl stumbled close to him and her boyfriend grabbed her arm and yanked her away, as if pulling her away from a cliff.

Armando said, “The people who are from Tabula Rasa know who he is. The rest get alerts in their glasses, the facial recognition flashing up a warning saying, ‘Do not make eye contact with this man.'”

Zoey approached Will and said, “You've been hiding back here the whole time?”

“I had to oversee the preparations of the, uh—”

“You are a lying fart balloon! You're avoiding the party! Ha, I knew it!”

“I'm doing no such thing. I don't know why you would think I was, or suspect that deep down I think all of these people are leeches.”

“Armando was showing me how all of the people in the crowd steer way clear of you. Is it because they're afraid your liver is going to spontaneously combust?”

“What?”

“I'm making fun of your alcoholism because it's the only thing I know about you.” She glanced around at the crowd. “There's got to be like ten thousand people here.”

Will said, “Eighteen thousand, one hundred and forty-six inside the backscatter perimeter at this moment.”

“Right. You know how many people would be at my funeral if I died? Like, four. I'd have to have Stench Machine give my eulogy.” Will wasn't listening. He just watched the crowd, over her shoulder. Zoey said, “Oh, you know what you forgot to do? Show me how to do the coin trick. That was in Arthur's will.”

“Later.”

“There might not be a later!”

A Chinese man with a shaved head and smiling eyes walked up in a black tunic, with a katana strapped to his back. Zoey barely had time to brace herself for a kung fu sword battle, when Armando glanced at him and nodded.

“Zoey, this is Wu, my backup. I don't believe you have met him yet, you've always been asleep when he has rotated in.”

“Oh, I just thought you never slept.”

Wu said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Ashe.”

Zoey said to Armando, “Why don't
you
have a sword?”

“Why don't I have a fake sword, you mean?”

Wu said, “I assure you, the sword is real. This blade is three hundred years old. When I bought it, it was covered in blood rust. When I grind the blade, the water in the bucket runs red—dried blood of men who died on the battlefield centuries ago.”

Armando rolled his eyes and said, “Wu was born in Oakland, by the way—remember that when he starts dropping ancient wisdom from the Orient later. The sword is for show. I know for a fact he has never used it.”

“Of course it is for show. But it is also real. Only a fool would consider those mutually exclusive.”

Armando said, “All right. Look alive.”

The band stopped playing, and an announcement came over the loudspeakers that they were going to be lighting the pyre. Zoey actually hadn't gathered that the pile of logs stacked under Arthur's wax body was a funeral pyre until just now, but how else would he go out if not in a stupid blaze of glory?

Will and Andre had stepped up onto the dais, joined by a group of people Zoey didn't recognize—presumably Arthur's friends, business associates, and … family? Zoey hadn't even thought about it, but if Arthur had a brother that would mean she had an uncle. And an aunt, and cousins. Weird.

Will now had a microphone, and asked for quiet. He said, “I would like to say a few words about Arthur Livingston. I would like to, but his will expressly forbids me from giving a eulogy at this service, for fear that it would, quote, ‘bring everyone down.' Instead, he only wanted us to impart one final wish on the guests here, and I am going to hand this off to Andre Knox for reasons that will soon become apparent.”

He handed the mic to Andre, who was greeted with massive applause. He pulled out a small slip of paper.

“Now, I'm gonna read Art's exact words, so no one here thinks this is coming from me.” He made a show of reading off the slip. “‘Those of you listening to these words are in the midst of enjoying free food, drink, and various illegal substances at my expense.'” Huge cheer from the crowd. Andre motioned for quiet, then continued reading. “‘I only ask that you repay this act of charity in the same way that so many lovely ladies repaid mine—by having sex with someone several notches lower than you on the attractiveness scale.'” Laugher and hoots from the crowd. Andre gestured for quiet again. “‘If you're a nine, go home with a four. You'll give them a story they can tell for the rest of their life, and be shocked at what they're willing to do once the lights are off. Do it in my memory. Thank you.'”

The crowd cheered and whistled. So loud, that it drowned out the sudden panicked radio chatter happening in Zoey's ear. She spun, scanning the crowd for Molech, then the sky. Was he in disguise? Would she even recognize him if she saw him again? She listened for useful instructions, and only heard men shouting questions and commands at each other.

Up on the dais, Will was handed a torch and he touched it to the pyre, which went up with a roar—like it had been soaked in gasoline. From the bandstand came a guitar solo version of “Amazing Grace.”

Zoey caught Will as he was walking away from the inferno that was now raging behind him. “Hey. Something's happening.”

Will listened, then turned back to the pyre. Armando followed his gaze and drew his gun. The spotters in her ear were yelling for them to get out of the way. Out of the way of
what
?

Then the crowd was running, and screaming. There was the sound of a massive approaching engine, and then bombastic arena rock filled the world.

Arthur Livingston's funeral pyre exploded, flaming logs flung in every direction. A monster truck crashed through it, mashing Arthur's wax body under gigantic tires. The truck was electric but had been rigged with massive speakers to broadcast gasoline engine sounds, and was playing an old heavy metal song in which a raspy singer was offering to rock everyone like a hurricane. Flashing across the grill in yellow letters animated into flames was the word, “MOLECH.”

Will said, “I think that's him.”

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

The truck skidded to a stop and out from the cab hopped a shirtless Molech, along with Black Scott, the sidekick he introduced in the Arthur Livingston death video. Behind them, four more muscle-bound dudes hopped out of the bed of the truck, not a shirt among them. They all wore suspenders that they left dangling at their hips, and each of the henchmen wore baseball caps with the bills facing in various directions.

Cheers went up from the crowd. Zoey hoped those weren't all Team Molech, and that most of them were just cheering because the action they'd come to see was finally unfolding before them. Molech, smiling broadly and thoroughly pleased with his entrance, turned and waved to the crowd.

He had stitches. Incisions that ran across his shoulders, and down both arms. She could see them on his sidekick Scott, too. She wondered if all of his men had them, the mark of the Raiden implants. The pair of them then turned and swaggered directly toward Zoey. Armando edged around to get his body between them, gun in hand. The crowd was forming a circle around them, everybody trying to make sure their camera was getting the best view.

Molech and his partner stopped a step short of a confrontation with Armando. Molech looked Zoey up and down, and burst out laughing.

To Scott, Molech said, “Dude, this is her! Like twenty years ago Art knocked up a stripper and his trailer park daughter wound up with all his money. Now Blackwater and all those guys are having to kiss her ass to try to get her to turn over the estate. Look at her! They gave her a makeover.” He shook his head. “Dude, this is priceless.”

Zoey said, “I know you, too. I just watched a video with you in it.”

“Oh, is that right?”

To Armando, Zoey said, “These two are from
Sausage Express
, that gay porno I was telling you about. Armando, meet Miles O'Smiles and Dick Christmas.”

Molech said, “Oh, look, she's funny. Hmm, let me do the math—funny girl, absent father—want me to guess which antidepressants you're on?”

“I've actually found a new form of therapy. It's watching your employees die.”

“Let's see what else I can guess about you. You're too fat to be a stripper like your mom. So … waitress? Am I close?”

“Close. I'm a professional hunter. Been doing it since I was six. Got a wild boar on my first day. Not very hard.”

This stopped Molech for a moment. Will watched them, saying nothing. That look on his face again, like he was doing calculations in his head.

If Molech makes a move, just get flat on the ground.

Molech recovered and said, “I got to hand it to whoever picked out that outfit, showing off your tits to draw attention away from your face and jacked-up teeth. How about I bend you over my tailgate, yank up that skirt, and let my boys line up and take turns?”

“Can I bring a magazine? It sounds boring.”