Reconciliation

In a rare instance of his bravery failing, Samir had excused himself to the toilet rather than head straight into the back of Maelzel’s to speak with Seb. The closeness he’d felt to Melanie was something he was unprepared for, and he’d tucked himself into a bathroom cubicle to shake off the sensation. The flood of oxytocin made him feel he could die for her. But Mel hadn’t asked him to die. She’d asked him to kill Seb’s dream. The toilet was as good a place as any to brainstorm how he’d do it. They let one’s self separate from any undue pleasantness and focus on what mattered. The rank odour and putrid green tiles kept the mind from drifting.

He’d had about fifteen seconds to collect his thoughts before the knock came.

“Anyone in?” Seb pounded on the inside of the bathroom door as he shouted. “We’re closed. If the Brit at the bar said we never close, he was lying.”

“I’m in here,” squeaked Sam from inside his cubicle.

“Dude, what the hell, how long have you been hiding in here?”

“Not long,” he answered. And I’m not hiding, added his inner voice.

“Can you come out? I’m closing up.”

“We need to talk, man.” Sam dry swallowed. “I heard about the club.” He wanted to be angry, but his thoughts felt like tangled Christmas lights and his emotions were in chaos. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” A lump formed in his throat.

“Ah, fuck man. How? Did Mel say something? Is she here?”

“How could you not tell me?” Sam’s voice wavered. He wondered whether Mel had stuck around. Was she lurking somewhere, waiting to see whether I did what she asked? Would she stop Seb as he left and ask? Would they fall out over this?

“Can you come out?” Seb peeked through the gap in the toilet cubicle, and Sam pressed himself into the back corner to avoid being seen.

“Magenta, really? How much do you owe?”

“Dude, I cannot even think about it. It happened so fucking fast.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Talk to who? It’s all digis, man. At the city and at Magenta.” Sam heard the tell-tale squeak of the countertop as Seb took a seat. “It’s fucked they can just do this. This club’s my fucking birth right.”

Sam was in dire need of a rest and lowered himself down onto the toilet lid. All he could think of was years of sick deposited on, in, and around this spot. He made note to dispose of these clothes later. “How do you mean it’s your birth right?”

“This club belonged to my parents. I had to buy it off of the city during probate because they left no will.” Seb let out a growl as he leapt off the counter and began to pace. “They took my money and now they’ll just take the club anyway. To give it to Magenta.” Sam jumped at the sound of Seb’s fist slamming into the metal paper towel holder. “Did you charge them too, you fucking pricks?” His fists battered the metal. “Yeah? Double dipping, you miserable fucks?” Sam backed away as Seb continued to assault the dispenser.

“Seb! Enough!”

“Fuck! Goddamnit. Maybe I’ll just burn it to the ground!” He collapsed against the wall and cradled his hands.

“Jesus, man.” Sam stared at the bloodied dents. “We need to get your knuckles on ice. You’ll be lucky if they aren’t broken.”

“Shit.”

A Magenta Auto-Gig was the last piece of equipment Sam expected to see in the back room of Maelzel’s. Yet there it was, just next to the freezer where he’d retrieved the ice for Seb’s ruined hands. It was sticking out of a plain cardboard box that was half-collapsed and said “decorations” on the side, and a smaller box nearby seemed to hold all the wires and adapters. But Seb had seen enough of them in his life. It was unmistakable.

“Thanks for rushing this over,” Seb said as he snatched the ice pack out of Sam’s hand.

“What the hell is this doing here?”

“Yeah. I know. I don’t know. I bought it off a girl who said she personally tore it out of an abandoned club in Brooklyn.” The two of them stood on opposite sides of it, as if they were nervous it might leap out and attack were it left unobserved. “I guess this was plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“Yeah…” Seb sucked air through his teeth as the ice touched his shattered knuckles. “To help the club survive. Hook this shit up, install it, whatever the fuck you do with it. So we can run auto-gigs seven nights a week. No bookings, no terrible amateurs, no kids threatening to sue because old men tried to mosh. Just some fake band playing the fake hits direct into everyone’s earpieces.”

Sam kicked the box. “Fuck that, man.”

“Hey! Fuck you man, this wasn’t cheap.” Seb kneeled down in front of it and poked around at the bits. The unit itself was unremarkable–just a long flat black rectangle with myriad connections, lights, a few buttons, and a Magenta logo. Then there were all the mirrors, markers, lasers, sensors, projectors… just a huge pile of bits that you littered all over your club. Or rather, your authorised Magenta installation technician did. It was extremely complicated.

“You know.” Some intern trauma crawled to the surface of Sam’s mind. “These things are a huge pain in the ass to set up.”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s useless, it doesn’t work.”

“Maybe you just didn’t set it up right.” Sam kneeled down to have a poke around as well. It was definitely a first gen model, was both dusty and filthy, and a few of the ports looked corroded. A metal plate, which someone had clearly tried to pry off, said it was property of Magenta Corp. and bore a scratched-up serial number.

“It’s apparently too old? Or something? Marked as stolen? I don’t know. Nobody at Magenta will talk to me about it, the digis just run me around in circles for twenty minutes until they say they can’t help.” Seb shook his head and sighed. “This whole city is rammed with Magenta employees and I can’t get hold of a single, actual person. Maybe I need to stand outside wearing a sandwich board.”

“It’s tricky, I guess.” Sam froze as he stared at the pile of old kit. Mel had been clear in what she’d asked him to do. But she knew he’d get kicked out of the city if he lost this job. Did she really expect him to help get himself deported?

“Tricky.” Seb winced as he tried to extend his fingers.

Sam started to slip and his eyes went out of focus as he continued to stare at the useless hunk of metal and glass. Images of Pete Police moved to the forefront. To his capture, processing, to his deportation. Shoved in a van and driven back down the corridor. Dumped in the Los Angeles River, probably, if not just over the wall, thrown to the wolves in CenCal.

“If it’s not this,” Sam pleaded, “it has to be something. You can’t shut the club, Seb. Like you said. It’s your birth right.”

“Everything ends, dude. My folks got that.” Seb popped to his feet and headed back out to the bar.

“Wait, Seb. Wait.” Sam intercepted and threw himself between Seb and the door. “There has to be something. Not to dwell, but… what about Gemma?”

“What about her?”

“To keep the club open. She can play, she can book, she’s kind of a name… she’d probably be grateful for the work and it could really help the club.”

“Your proposal is to hire your old sex pest boss, who lives in another country, as some kind of artist in residence. That’s the plan?”

“I guess so.”

“Find your fucking mind, dude. If I keep putting fugitives on my fake payroll they’re gonna fucking notice. Can you even reach her? Can you offer a foreigner a job, is that legal?”

“I don’t know, okay. I don’t know any of those answers. It was a stupid idea.”

“Yes.” Seb paced as best he could in the cramped back room. “I’m not trying to be insensitive, man. I mean, I know it’s fucked up between us right now. I don’t even know where you’re sleeping, I don’t know what’s going on. But it’s not just about needing money to come in. I gotta talk to someone at Magenta, man.” Seb stared a hole through Sam.

“Okay.” Sam stared back, his expression vacant.

“Bro! Your fucking wife is an executive there!” Seb thrust his face into Sam’s. “Dude, come on.”

“Oh.” Sam slipped past and headed toward a precarious stack of wine boxes in the corner. Maybe an earthquake would tip them over and kill him.

“Dude, come the fuck on.”

“I can’t.” Sam’s head wobbled side to side. “No, no way. I don’t even think I can.”

“Great. That’s great.”

“Maybe you can?”

“Maybe. No. Forget it.” Seb popped up and sat on a small bit of countertop next to the sink. “None of it matters. Mel’s right. We have to shut this place down.”

The thawing had proven temporary as the two of them finished closing in silence. Sam watched Seb’s movements, listening to his muttering and looking for any opportunity he could find to make a joke or a comment that might get the two of them talking once more.

“Knock knock.” Lydia’s voice, loud and muffled, shouted through their back door. She’d let herself in before either of them could react. “I need to lift him, I’m afraid.”

“Half pay for today.” Seb was glib. He didn’t turn around.

“Half of zero, then. But I can stay.”

“He can’t,” Lydia quipped.

“Just go,” Seb said.

The pair were tucked onto a Muni train before Sam could collect his thoughts. Lydia had marched them in silence a few blocks to the stop and Sam spent most of it asking Aida to speak with his dop.

“I’m afraid I can’t at the moment,” she replied.

“Aida,” he whispered angrily. “How is that even possible? It’s my dop. It’s me!”

“Samir, I’m afraid your Mirror has been put into Managed Access. You can send an override request to the manager if you like.”

“Who is the manager?

“Lydia Rosales. Would you like to send the request?”

“Aida, what the hell? I pay for this service.”

“I’m so sorry, Samir.” The voice seemed to crack, as if Aida might cry. “I really am.” The tell-tale beep sounded. She’d hung up on him.

After a short Muni ride, they now stood on an empty street outside a tiny cocktail bar called Aero in the East Cut. Like any modern bar it was unstaffed, and therefore could be quite shallow as there was no need for any offices, staff areas, or human-accessible storage areas–just a “notch” that appeared to be punched into an existing structure, deep enough for an auto-serving bar and some chairs, tucked behind a rugged all-weather curtain.

It’s infuriating that these exist, Sam thought. Offensive that she would even bring me.

“We’re here,” Lydia sighed. “Cute, no?” She smiled and gestured at the curtain which spanned the notch. It was a cartoonish ocean scene, with two caricature dolphins smiling out as they breached the surface of the water.

“Adorable. Why?” Sam crossed his arms. He hated this, hated her, hated his dop that she wouldn’t allow him to speak with. “I was at work. I needed to talk to Sebastian. If you wanted to drink, we could’ve stayed at Maelzel’s.”

Lydia scoffed. “Don’t be such an NPC, Sam. You had the entire walk and ride over to say something.”

“Would it have…”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” She giggled. “Aw, mi novio, I’m so excited for you.” She placed her hand on his cheek. “You have to meet Virginia.”

“What?”

“She’s here, Sam. Behind the curtain, just inside.”

“Why, how?” Sam squeezed his hands into fists and paced away from her, away from the notch, away from the situation. Virginia. In his mind he was sat on the sofa in the house they shared, her in her messy bun and terrifying cat t-shirt, him too inebriated to make sense of it. She towered over him as he shrank into the cushions. “Aida, where is Virginia?”

“Samir, I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Aida!” He tripped and caught himself as he stumbled off the kerb. “Fucking answer me!”

“Hey,” Lydia called out, insistent yet just above a whisper. She quickly tip-toed after him. “Where are you going?”

“Aida, please. Aida, I need a taxi.” Sam stopped in the middle of the street. “Aida! Please!” His earpiece chimed in a minor key each time he tried to summon her. Fucking cooldown, he thought. He’d have to wait five minutes, if not longer. “Fuck!”

“Chulo.” She crept around to the front of him, a gazelle she was desperate not to spook. “I know it’s a lot.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You want this,” she said in a level tone. “You organised this. I just facilitated it.”

“I what? No… my fucking dop. You had my…”

“He was happy to do it.”

“This is such a fucking violation.”

“It’s still you.”

“It’s not me!”

“To her, it’s you.”

He spun around and looked in every direction. Not a single car had passed, no trace at all of taxis, or other people. Every moment was agony as he waited. One intersection, then another, then another, then the first. He kept checking, for any sign of a taxi, or of life itself.

“Chulo, please. She’s waiting.”

“No!” He flicked his shoulder and twisted away from her. “No, I’m not doing it. I’ll just walk.”

“You’ll get deported, Sam.” She threw her arms in the air, exasperated.

“What?”

“If you lose your job at the club you’ll get deported, and you’ll be out of the Republic.”

“I’m a Republic citizen. They can’t kick me out. They’ll send me back to LA, if they even bother doing that.”

“They’ll dump you in Marin, and you’ll disappear. Trafficked, dead, whatever. Fs in the chat.”

“Fuck this.” He stormed away, determined to just walk. He didn’t know where, but for now he would just walk. He could ditch his Ring somewhere, then walk somewhere else. Maybe to Maelzel’s, or maybe he’d just keep moving until sunrise. She’d never find him, and he could just turn up at Seb and Mel’s in the morning. Mel would understand. She’d have to.

“Sam!” As he rounded the corner, almost out of earshot, Lydia’s voice cut through. “We can get you to Britain.”

He froze. “You what?”

She ran up to him, her breath ragged. “Sam, we can get you there. Okay? We have a network. We have connections. You know it’s true, you saw the paper. The Analog Gazette. How do you think we get them?”

“What makes you think I want to go to Britain?”

“Novio.” Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. “Why are you acting stupid? We both know you do.” Lydia smiled. She doubled over, her hands on her thighs. “Phew. Look. It’s no problem. You get us in with Virginia, help us get what we need, and we get you transit papers and a fake work permit. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Fine? Just like that?”

Sam sighed. “Fine.”