Husk (9 page)

‘Hold still.’

I work the scissor blades between the stitches sealing his lips, carefully snipping each one from right to left. His mouth pops open, dust and a dead
smell expelling with a bad breath that has been held for far too long.

‘You need to be more careful,’ he says, gasping. ‘Life is sacred.’

‘I’m trying to be more careful.’

Miller shakes his head, unsatisfied with my answer. ‘Ignorance was bliss, but I still knew. I still figured it out.’

‘Figured what out?’

‘Where I went, what I did.’

Miller raises a hand and pulls the cut string through
the holes around his mouth. I watch as he dangles them over his tongue and eats each one.

‘You need to retrace your steps,’ he says, chewing, licking perforated lips.

Suddenly he’s distracted, attention drawn to something unseen out there in the black. For a moment I get the feeling he has forgotten about me completely. His mouth moves ever so slightly. I have to strain to make out what he’s
saying.

‘You’ve been given a sign,’ he mutters. ‘And all signs point to …’

‘What?’

‘Can’t you read the signs?’

‘I don’t understand.’

Miller turns a horrible grin on me, scarred eyelids straining open to reveal milky white over his soothing blues.

‘You need to wake up, sleepwalker.’

There is a creaking sound, a door opening at the opposite end of a large, quiet room. I get the distinct feeling
that something else now shares our space. Confirmation comes with the sound of approaching footsteps.

‘I have to go,’ Miller says, beginning to crawl away on his hands and knees.

‘Wait,’ I say, reaching after him. ‘I need you to tell me more.’

I watch as the soles of his feet slide off into the dark, shuffling sounds of movement fading. I want to reach out again, try and hook a piece that can
pull me away too, but I already know it will be futile. He calls back to me only once.

‘You have to go now too, sleepwalker.’

The footsteps stop directly behind me. The breathing I hear is rapid, rasping. I don’t turn to look. I don’t want to look. A heavy hand drops on my shoulder, cool to the touch. In the next second I know it is also my hand. Then, for a few moments only, I become one with
this entity and hate myself.

I have no doubt my body is sprawled as I re-emerge. All four limbs seem cast away from my centre, draped over whatever I’m sitting on. A hand grips my shoulder, pressing me into cushions and steadying me. The fingers of another are pulling apart my eyelids,
holding them open. I paw at whoever has me pinned.

‘Get off of me,’ I whine.

‘Relax,’ Renard says, checking my pupils. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

He checks the other eye and grunts, satisfied. The pressure on me is suddenly lifted. I sit upright in the same throne of a chair my mind went dormant in twenty-four hours before. Fresh clothes feel soft on my skin; expensive loungewear that isn’t
mine. One of the data cables is still plugged into my head, connecting me to the silver-skinned server system beside the fireplace. I unplug it eagerly, feeling relief as the proboscis pulls out. Vision is a bit blurry, but I see the robot sitting in the other chair where I last saw it, head slumped forward, eyes staring at its lap, seemingly deactivated.

‘Apologies,’ Renard says, typing on his
tablet. ‘But I had to restrain you.’

‘Why?’ I ask, rubbing my face. ‘What was the problem?’

‘As Mr Winslade was trying to extricate, you began struggling … You almost pulled the damn cord out.’

He gives me an unimpressed look. I give a perplexed one in return. What he’s describing almost never happens. Client upload and download times are normally calm, uneventful, someone slipping out of a
stilled body through a fibre-optic cable. One mind exits while the other re-emerges, barely enough time for a hello and handshake.

‘Just what the
fuck
was that all about?’ Renard snaps.

I see it now, the anger in Renard’s eyes. If I had ripped that data cable out during his employer’s defection from my head, there might have been serious consequences. I’ve heard stories about partial transference;
interrupted transmissions to and from a Husk that turn both clients and whores into demented halves of their former selves. It’s one of the reasons secure hard-lines are so important.

‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘It’s never happened with me before. There might be a problem with my Ouija.’

‘See that you get it fixed then.’

I look at the robot, still shut down for all I can tell. ‘Where’s Winslade?’

‘Returned to one of his worlds for the moment,’ Renard says. ‘He’ll be with us shortly.’

I watch Renard take a cable from the server and plug it into the robot’s temple. On top of the server is a piece of tech I recognize from Tweek’s control room, a small device in a cobalt-blue shell. I lean forward, trying to get a closer look. A sudden sharp pain in my side makes me
flinch and give up. I
glide my fingers over the spot, worrying it might be a cracked rib. The need for sleep weighs heavily on my eyelids, though I’m not nearly as exhausted as I am after some of my other clients. I would even wager that Winslade’s given me a decent nap somewhere in the twenty-four-hour period. So far there haven’t been any drugs during sessions with him, never any viruses or infections to worry about.
I haven’t had one STD from the man. All evidence points to him living a pretty clean existence through me.

‘Coffee?’ Renard asks, taking note of my tired eyes.

‘Please.’

Winslade is a considerate client, I’ll give him that. After his contracts I reawake showered and groomed, freshly shaven, even manicured. Cologne and creams are spread on my skin. What injuries I may have acquired have been
tended to. I’m always in new clothes that he lets me keep, jewellery too on occasion. There is a gift presented to me every time we part ways.

I can just make out the sounds of the robot reactivating, circuitry flushing with electricity, hardware and software rebooting with a subtle crackling. The head rises, but the eyes don’t move. Startup typically takes a minute. Renard hands me my coffee.
My eyes drift to the Rapier sleeping in its sling under his arm. I wonder how quickly he can draw it when he has to.

‘Were there any other problems?’ I ask, taking a sip.

He doesn’t give me an answer. No one ever does, really. Don’t know why I bother asking. I lock eyes with him and find them cold and unsympathetic, the kind that regularly
bear witness to what most people never could. In an
instant I understand there are things I can’t be privy to, can’t understand. I will never know how the world of the one per cent works, the rules and reasoning that govern them, if any at all. My Ouija clicks and for a second I glimpse something that could haunt me for a life if only I could remember it past the fraction of time it takes to see it. My flinch does not go unnoticed.

‘What’s wrong
with you?’ Renard asks.

‘Nothing,’ I lie. ‘I’m fine.’

I turn to the robot, startled to see Winslade looking back at me, pseudo-smiling through that painted silicone mask that passes for a face.

‘How are you feeling, my boy?’

‘Not bad,’ I say, but the discomfort from my injured side is obvious.

‘How are the ribs?’

‘Hurt like hell,’ I say, forcing a chuckle and wincing involuntarily. ‘Jesus,
did I get hit by a car or something?’

‘Took a little tumble on the ski slope, I’m afraid. I flew to Aspen for the day.’

‘Good times?’

Winslade’s smile widens, as do his eyes. ‘Oh, you should have been there.’

The silvery lenses fall on the steaming coffee in my hand and Winslade’s rubbery face readjusts to the most disapproving look it is capable of making.

‘Renard,’ Winslade says. ‘Fetch
us something a little stronger, please.’

Renard goes to the liquor cabinet and pours us both
some Louis XIII. He hands one crystal goblet to me and places the other in the robot’s hand. I take a generous sip of the expensive spirit, tasting perfection on my palate, hoping it will help numb my pain. Winslade brings the goblet to the robot’s mouth, clattering glass off ivory teeth, spilling cognac
down the silicone chin. Renard ignores it, as does his employer.

‘How do you like the cognac?’ Winslade asks.

I study the amber fluid in my glass. ‘It’s exquisite.’

‘Then, please, take a bottle with you.’

Renard reaches for the liquor cabinet’s lower shelf and retrieves an unopened bottle of Louis XIII, which he presents to me. I’m almost speechless.

‘Oh my God.’

‘There is no God, my boy,’
Winslade says with a chuckle. ‘Only gods among men.’

I run my fingers over the crafted crystal glass. ‘Mr Winslade, I … I couldn’t possibly accept this.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You are most welcome. And please know I require your services again soon.’

‘Sure, sure,’ I reply. ‘But unfortunately I’m booked with other clients for the next several days.’

‘I’m aware,’ Winslade says.

‘Oh.’

‘I have spoken with Ms Baxter already,’ Renard says to me. ‘Arrangements will be made for when you return from the UK.’

Renard gives me a look and gesture that suggest it is
time to be on my way. I rise from my chair and the robot rises as well. Winslade walks me to the front door with shuffling steps, Renard following close behind.

‘Until we meet again, my boy,’ Winslade says, extending
his hand.

I shake firmly. The cold, fleshy materials make me want to pull away, but I don’t dare. Renard hands me a bag containing my original clothes and opens the penthouse door. In the hallway I am received by the same two heavily armed brutes that brought me up the day before. Renard shuts and locks the door the second I’ve stepped over the threshold. The relief I feel in escaping my client
is railroaded by a sudden spike in the bad feeling I’ve been carrying around. My head spins. My gut churns. The guards usher me into an elevator and take me down to street level, where they practically toss me out of the building.

On the sidewalk outside, I fall to my knees and vomit.

The Percocet is pleasant. A bottle of beer in my hand is cold, sweating, though I don’t drink from it. The antacids I downed might have calmed my stomach, or maybe it’s because I feel safe stowed away in my room. Lights are dimmed, the windows open. My half-naked
body is propped on the bed feeling a cool breeze coming in. No pain for now. Don’t need any discomfort to remind me who I am tonight. I’m certain of myself for once. How long this feeling will last, I don’t know, but I’m going to try and get it to stick around. It’s all I have to keep me company tonight.

Ryoko didn’t pick up her phone this evening. Called twice, left one message, didn’t want
to seem desperate. Honestly, I could really use her right now. She must be on a gig. Baxter probably convinced her to return to work with some big payday. I figured out Phineas is in a session. Craig’s out on a date somewhere. Clive’s incarcerated. Miller’s dead. Baxter will have Nikki and Tweek pulling overtime down at Solace with the company’s recent handicapping. Getting some hang time in with
the few people I call my friends are opportunities I can no longer afford to miss, but I’m missing each and every one of them tonight.

I take to my bottle, wash the Perc in my stomach with
beer and get a surprising second kick. The plan after Winslade’s session was to simply get my ass home, swallow a sleeping pill, and pass the fuck out. Then I got needy for human contact, a bad case of being
lonely with nobody available. Now I’m starting to think getting high is a better idea. Want another Percocet, but left the damn things on the kitchen counter with my Donormyl. Screw it. My buzz is far too good to get out of bed. It’s clear I won’t be retrieving anything that isn’t within arm’s reach.

I grab my Liaison and bring up Miller’s last messages to me. Cue the first one, watch it again.
I still feel guilty over him getting killed while covering my gig. If it wasn’t for the painkiller, I’d probably cry like a bitch.

‘… give me a call when you get this and you’ve got a little free time on your hands …’

Free time seems funny to me. So much of mine has become billable. I’m a walking hourly rate most days. My dead friend doesn’t seem quite so dead to me, like in my dreams. When
I see his grinning face it makes me smile. I’m almost positive that’ll he’ll answer a call if I place one. It must be the drugs. Might as well delete his number from my contact list, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I watch the first video over and over, expecting him to say something different each time. He never deviates, but I’m positive his physical reactions differ slightly, a smile comes
sooner, or a laugh comes later. Jesus, it
must
be the drugs. I play the second message; find myself fading in and out as Miller speaks.

‘… just letting you know that I’ll be covering one of
your regulars … Baxter’s orders … client is awfully adamant that they have a rental this weekend …’

Who the hell was it? I’ve got almost a dozen
regulars.
Can’t help but think about one in particular though,
tomorrow’s client, Mr Ichida. He’s definitely a customer that doesn’t like to go without. I’m pretty sure he spends more time in rented bodies than in his virtual worlds.

‘Take care, stay safe, we’ll talk soon,’ Miller says.

Famous last words.
I think.

I close the video, contemplating love and loss and those I hold dear. My fingers start to dial a number I haven’t called in a while, and probably
wouldn’t if I was feeling level-headed. The phone rings repeatedly. My sister doesn’t pick up. I let it go to voicemail, just so I can hear the sound of her voice. In soft, confident tones she tells me that she isn’t available right now. Says she’s sorry she missed my call. She urges me to leave a detailed message after the tone. I hang up before the beep. Five minutes later I do exactly the
same thing, with the same results. The third time I leave a timid message, asking her to call me back when she can, getting cut off before I finish speaking. There’s so much I should say, so little time. I’d get bummed out if I didn’t feel so damn amiable right now.

The Percocet makes the lights and bed and breeze seem extra soft. My isolation starts to become enjoyable, but it is soon interrupted
by the sound of Craig coming home. I hear him open and shut the front door, move about the place, putting his stuff down, turning on the HG. It isn’t long before he’s standing outside my door. The knock is quiet, his voice low.

‘Buddy? Are you in there?’

I say nothing, too high to function properly, too numb to care. My fingers curl into the blankets as my roommate tries the door handle and
finds it locked. He’s silent a moment, then mutters a string of profanities. I hear him walk to the kitchen, picture him spotting my pharmaceuticals on the counter, picking them up, growing pissed. Don’t need this right now. He’s back at my door in less than a minute, knocking harder, voice raised.

‘Hey man, everything all right?’

I want to call out, tell him I’m fine and leave me the hell alone,
but it just feels like too much work. My toes seem worthy of being stared at. The room feels like a sealed jar, the open window a hole poked in the lid for air. I’m an insect, a beautiful butterfly in relapse, cocooned and carefree. More knocking comes. I let Craig hammer and yammer away, hoping he’ll just get fed up and leave.

‘Damn it, Rhodes, say something or I’m breaking this door down.’

The grunt I give in response is feeble, practically inaudible. Craig pauses, then throws his weight into the door, to no effect. I listen as he messes around with the lock, trying to slip a credit card or something past the latch. That doesn’t work either. Once again he rams the door. With great effort I force myself out of bed to save him the trouble, unlock the door and open it wearing the angriest
look I can muster.

‘Why the hell are you trying to break down my door?’

‘You weren’t answering,’ he says, holding up two prescription containers, my Percocet and Donormyl.
‘Found these in the kitchen, man. You back on this shit again?’

‘No, I’m not back on that shit again,’ I moan. ‘I had a rough day earlier and just had a Perc to help take the edge off, that’s all.’

He shakes the drugs in
my face. ‘You mix these two together and there’s a hell of a good chance you’ll end up taking the
big sleep
, buddy. You know that?’

My eyes widen when I realize he’s right. The combination could have been lethal, and I most likely would have slipped them both later. Stupid me, I hadn’t even given it a thought. Still, I meet Craig’s comment with some righteous indignation and a hint of apathy.

‘What the fuck, man, are you on suicide watch or something?’

‘I don’t know … am I?’

‘No, you’re not,’ I say. ‘I had a lapse in judgement, nothing more. And I’m not abusing that stuff in your hand, believe me.’

It’s a half-truth, since I can only vouch for the half I know about. I try to keep my backyard as clean as I can between clients shitting in it. There were some problems with painkillers
in the past, but I’m not dependent on them any more. The Percocet doesn’t like me standing, so I sit down on the bed. Craig looks between me and the drugs in his grip, unconvinced by my claim. He soon notices the bruised ribs and a look of pity replaces his annoyed scowl.

‘You look like shit,’ he says, sitting down beside me and pointing at my injury. ‘You get that from Husking?’

‘Yeah, I went
skiing apparently. Took a tumble on the slopes.’

‘Looks like you rode the moguls on your belly.’

‘Feels like it too, trust me.’

We sit side by side at the foot of the bed, staring ahead; two men too tough in the face of adversity to look each other in the eye. Craig turns the prescription bottles over and over in his hands, pills clicking and clacking inside them.

‘How did your date go?’ I
ask.

‘I’m back early. How do you think it went?’

‘Sorry, man.’

‘Ah, I didn’t dig her that much anyway.’ Craig shrugs and laughs. ‘Hey, you got that money you owe me from the other night?’

‘Crap, I completely forgot.’

‘Don’t sweat it. You can get it to me whenever.’

My ears open into echo chambers. Capsules of altered consciousness and lack of consciousness crash against the plastic. The
pills are starting to sound like maracas in my head. I want my high to stop. The sound grows, becoming rocks banging around in oil drums rolling down hills behind my eyes. Everything seems so unbelievably fucking loud all of a sudden. I put a hand on Craig’s forearm to stop the shaking. I want to confide in someone, confess all that’s been bottled up.

‘Look, I owe you an explanation about those
pills,’ I say, still staring ahead. ‘You know I’d never hurt a fly, let alone myself, right?’

‘Please, don’t,’ he replies.
‘You don’t need to do this.’

That last sentence, sick and scared, not Craig’s voice. My heart stops. The air suddenly seems coppery, pricked by the scent of something bleeding. It is no longer my roommate sitting next to me, but I dare not look directly at the altered shape.
From the corner of my eye I see a head of red hair and green irises sunken in a thin face of pale skin. I feel like crumpling under its accusing stare, curling up in a foetal position until whatever is nearby gets bored with me and leaves of its own accord. More unnerving is what is mixed with my fear. There is recognition. This thing beside me is not foreign.

‘Craig?’ I manage.

The thing doesn’t
reply, merely cocks its head and leans closer, baiting me to look. Panic spikes in my chest. I refuse to turn my head and come face to face with it.

‘Craig?!’ I yell.

‘What?’ he exclaims. ‘No need to yell. I’m right beside you, for fuck’s sake.’

I risk a glance. The visitor is gone. It’s Craig and Craig only, looking irritated over my inexplicable outburst. I eye the Percocet in his hand, wishing
I’d lain off the stuff. Sleep is clearly needed, and plenty of it.

‘Give me my Donormyl, dude,’ I say, grabbing for the sleeping pills. ‘I need to get a good night’s rest.’

‘Hold on, when did you take the Perc?’

‘About an hour ago.’

‘Okay.’ He checks the bottle’s instructions, then the time on his Liaison. ‘You can have a sleeping pill in a few hours, but not before. I’ll hold onto these until
then.’

‘Oh, you bitch.’

‘Yeah, yeah, call me whatever you want, but you’ll thank me tomorrow when you actually wake up for work.’

Knowing what’s in store tomorrow, I most likely won’t.