One

One

    He held the styrofoam cup of Nucaff in both hands, inhaling the faintly coffee-smelling steam, stealing its warmth like a witch steals a soul. His fingers were coming back to life, the numbness leaving his hands as the cup of heated stimulants chased away the chill of the Maine evening. He took a sip, the vaguely coffee like taste washing over his tongue, replaced an instant later by the sharp tinge of chemicals and copper. His face was lit by green neon, advertising something in Japanese, the light accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. He was just another neon lit face in a sea of neon lit faces, kept alive by Nucaff and rice. Paycheck to paycheck the new ideal, half his life spent in cyberspace. Just another American, in other words.

    His name was Braxton Gargaryan, and he lived in the Lewiston/Auburn development, a colossal living organism of people-as-cells, crammed into high rises, in thirty by thirty boxes jokingly called apartments. Enough room for a bed, a kitchenette, a toilet, and maybe a desk. Each box, Braxton Gargaryan refused to refer to it as anything but, did come with electricity and a cyberdeck. And the electricity was constant, more or less. Much better than his old apartment in Cathance Landing.

    He watched two matte black Arkonian-Sendai Security drones whine by overhead, and sipped his Nucaff as they took off toward the Park district, where the descendents of Somali refugees were probably living while Muslim again. Not illegal in itself, but when it came to Arkonian-Sendai, that was enough. Shaking his head, he brought his hand into his coat pocket, fished a cheap German cigarette, a Black Eagle, out of its pack, and brought it to his mouth. The end sparked to life, and he exhaled a blue cloud of smoke.

    “Fuckin’ pigs.” He heard a voice say, from the mouth of an alley, cloaked in shadow, a rare occurrence in this part of town. “Fuckin’ drones are everywhere.”

    “Hover pigs.” Another voice chimed in. A female voice scratchy with too much hard drink and too much smoke. It giggled in reply. “Wish I could just pop ‘em out of the fuckin’ sky.”

    The first voice laughed which broke into a coughing fit. “Fuckin’ cold.”

    Braxton walked by as quickly as he could, before he was asked for either money or a smoke. He drained the last of his Nucaff and crushed the styrofoam in his fist. Crossed the street at a diagonal, threw down the cigarette, grinding the butt under the heel of his boot. He mentally counted what cred he still had on his card. Nodded and walked into the Spice Wok.

    “Evening!” An elderly Asian woman yelled from behind the counter.

    He nodded in response, glancing around the restaurant. It was small, filthy, the walls painted an obnoxious orange color. And it was like coming back home. The menu behind the woman was printed in English, Spanish, German, Japanese, and Chinese. There was one table occupied. A couple, eating lo mein, sharing a plate. Either it was they were broke, or just romantic. Braxton couldn’t tell.

    “What can I get for you?” The woman, whose name tag read Ling asked, “the usual?”

    He nodded again, gave her a small smile. “Yeah, can I get it a bit spicy? Maybe a six?”

    The woman smiled back. “Eight too much?”

    “It was good, but kept me awake for two nights.”

    She laughed, “that be sixteen dollar,” she said in her fake Chinese accent.

    He took out his card. That would leave him just enough for another pack of Black Eagles. He got paid again in two days. Plus, the Spice Wok was always worth it.

    She handed him back a card and a receipt. “Go sit.” She motioned to a table with a pair of chopsticks she had somehow conjured into her hand.

    He did, finding a table with minimal peeling plastic covering. He poured himself a small paper cup of distilled water that smelled slightly of chlorine. Five minutes went by when the door opened, the bell rang, an old fashioned charm that Braxton loved. Three men walked in, shivering from the cold air. He knew them, had gone to school with one of them.

    “Yo! Braxton!” One called over, a man wearing a navy blue Red Sox cap and a black Yankees jacket. Jakab Kent. He had worked with him for awhile at the Arkonian-Sendai factory, making parts for machines that killed people through bedroom windows. But, a job was a job, and in LewAub, the Dirty Lew, Lewiscum, Lewiston/Auburn, a job was hard to come by.

    “Hey Jakab. I already ordered, you guys want to sit here, or you on a date?” Braxton called back.

    “Sure, we’ll sit with you. We’ll just order some grub first.”

    Braxton gave him the ‘a-okay’ gesture, and almost regretted inviting them over. But it was late, and if some cinner came in looking for trouble, they always preyed on the people sitting alone. And he’d be damned if he would let a cinner rob him.

    He took another sip of water, tapped a knuckle on the table. An ashtray attached to a mechanical arm dropped down from the wall. He took out another Black Eagle, the German smoke lighting itself when it hit his mouth. He took a long drag, exhaled, flicked the ash into the tray.

    At the counter, they ordered, came over. Jakab, Br3nd3n (pronounced Brenden, Braxton rolled his eyes inwardly), and Kayvon (Which was his illiterate mother’s way of spelling Kevin, he supposed), sat down. “Greetings boys,” he said. He watched Jakab and Br3nd3n take out their own smokes, and a cloud formed over the table, before the vent fan turned on, sucking it up and out. Kayvon stayed silent, not moving. “You need a smoke, Kayv?”

    Jakab shook his head, “Kayvon here has joined the Space Mormons.”

    “Space Mormons?” Braxton asked.

    “Yeah, you know, the Mormons that live in those orbital ships?” Jakab exhaled smoke into Kayvon’s face.

    “No,” Braxton replied honestly.

    “Oh. Well, shit man, watch some fuckin’ TV. Anyway, these Mormon cultists didn’t like the way the Californians were invading Utah or some shit, and blasted up into orbit. And our little Kay-Kay here is joining them.”

    Braxton looked at Kayvon, an eyebrow raised. “Really?”

    “Well,” Kayvon said, “yeah. Well, I mean, my mom converted last year and-”

    “I thought your mom was a Scientologist?” Braxton interrupted.

    “She was.”

    “So…”

    “Yeah, we’ll be leaving next year, I guess.” Kayvon finished.

    “Aren’t you thirty?” Braxton asked.

    “Twenty-nine.”

    “Shit, dude.” Jakab broke in. “You’re a fucking adult. Why are-”

    “Because, man. Have you seen Mormon women?”

    “So you’re blasting into space for space pussy?” Braxton asked, crushing out his smoke.

    Kayvon blushed. “I’m getting married up there, yeah.”

    Braxton started laughing, and was still barking laughter when the Asian woman came up to their table with his food. Scrambled eggs over fried rice, hot sauce smeared over the yellow. He began eating, picking the food up with the chopsticks provided.

    “Married, eh?” Braxton asked around a mouthful of egg.

    “Yeah, she seems sweet. Named Jane.”

    “You haven’t met her?” Br3nd3n asked. He brought a hand to his shaved head, which shone in a way that always surprised Braxton. It always surprised him that black skin, as dark as Br3nd3n's could shine. And he always felt mildly guilty for thinking that.  

"No, not yet," Kayvon replied. "We've talked, audio only. And I've seen her avatar on the Net."

        "Your avatars make it yet?" Jakab asked.

       "What? No."

        The rest of the food was delivered, and Braxton could see the relief in Kayvon's eyes. He almost felt bad for the guy.

    Kayvon had two hot dog eggrolls. Jakab, mock fried rice. Br3nd3n, Chik’n lo mein. They ate in silence for awhile, until plates were more or less clean. They sat back, drank distilled water and smoked, shooting the shit.

    The bell above the door rang again. Two men in Arkonian-Sendai body armor, automatic rifles at their hips walked in, one white man, Middle Eastern, the other Asian, probably Korean. They walked to the counter. Ordered food loudly, practicing their authority voices, Braxton supposed.

    Ling bowed shallowly and went to the back to prepare their dishes.

    “Fucking sevakan.” The middle eastern man said under his breath as they passed the table, just loud enough to hear.

    Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.

    Br3nd3n shook his head, remained silent, just smoked his cigarette. Braxton could tell the man was pissed, but not taking the bait. Some of these Corporate Security were just assholes. Like this one here.

    Jakab shrugged, crushed out his butt. “My old lady is gonna kill me if I don’t leave soon.”

    Br3nd3n made a whipping sound and they laughed again.

    “Keep it down.” The Middle Eastern Security officer said firmly.

    Jakab rolled his eyes. “Asshole,” he said softly, and then gave him a thumbs up.

    “What’s with him?” Kayvon asked.

    Braxton shrugged and stood up. “I gotta hit the bunk, too. Work early.”

    Jakab rose to join him. They lived in adjacent buildings. “I’ll join ya. Kayvon, Br3nd3n. Have a good evening. Enjoy your date.”

    “Ah, fuck you,” Br3nd3n said, a smile on his face. He stood up and placed another cigarette into his mouth.

The four of them walked out of the Spice Wok. A hover car whirled overhead, headlights washing the buildings in white. As they stood outside the door, saying their goodbyes, the car lowered until its landing wheels came out and it rested on the street. A door opened with a hiss. A man in a charcoal suit stepped out, eyes yellow. They stepped back from the door to let him pass. The man didn’t even look at them.

“Seems a bit well off to be a cinner.” Jakab said softly to Braxton as they moved down the block.

“Maybe he’s a supplier.” He replied.

“One that uses?”

“I’ve seen weirder shit.” Braxton shrugged.

“True.”

Gunshots rang out at the Spice Wok.

“Oh, shit.” Jakab shouted, turning back. The man in the charcoal suit ran out of the restaurant, jumped into his hover car, and pivoted the vehicle as it took off. The man’s yellow eyes fixed on Braxton’s, and he winked. Then the hover car was gone, up into the sky, blasting south.

Security drones, their sirens almost deafening screamed to their location. “VACATE THE STREET.” A mechanical voice shouted, the volume so loud it was distorted came out of each, out of synch by half a second, creating a strange echoing effect. “RETURN TO YOUR HOMES, BY ORDER OF LEWISTON/AUBURN AND THE ARKONIAN-SENDAI SECURITY FORCE. AGAIN, RETURN TO YOUR HOMES. YOU MAY BE HARMED. THIS IS A CRIME SCENE.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. They sped up, not talking until they rounded the corner. There they stopped, lit another cigarette.

“Holy shit. Holy shit.” Jakab said twice in rapid succession. “You think that cinner hit those two Security assholes?”

Braxton shrugged. “I hope it was them and not Ling.”

Jakab nodded. “Me too. And her real name is Sara.”

“I know. Her accent is bullshit too. Its all part of the charm.”   

Two Security cruisers sped past them, sirens wailing. A copter could be heard over them.

“Yeah, I guess it was them. ArkSen wouldn’t bring out this much for one restaurant owner.” Braxton nodded. “This’ll be all over the net, and I can see it getting bad out here. An excuse to round up the cinners.”

Jakab shrugged. “So, all it takes for them to improve a neighborhood is to shoot a cop. Good to know.”

“Ha. Ha.” Braxton shook his head. “Cinners fight back, usually. Let’s get home.”

“Good deal,” Jakab replied.

They reached their buildings a few minutes later, said their goodbyes, and Braxton made his way up to his box, took his coat off, stripped down to his boxers, and laid on his bed, a sheetless mattress on the floor. Good thing I never pick up chicks he mused to himself. A half pot of Nucaff lay on the counter of the kitchenette. Not that you needed to brew it, but tradition was tradition. Clothes were strewn over the floor. Half eaten plates of rice and rehydrated beans lay in the small sink.

Braxton grabbed his cyberdeck, took the hookups, plugged into the jacks implanted in his wrists, closed his eyes, and jacked in.