The Second Sphere

That Victor Newberry had an association with the Green Revolution wasn’t terribly shocking. He offered his knowledge of what he called their true, peaceful intentions whenever he got the chance, through his editorial post at The Worlds, the same goddamned place my Lila worked, and at the Dahlgren Institute, a somewhat renowned think tank, of which he was President. His words were those of a revolutionary, a man who identified with commoners. But the truth was that his wealthy wife supported a lavish lifestyle. He was a talker, not a walker, making him to be a hypocrite of the highest order in my mind.

What I was surprised about was his knowledge of violent activity and that he was willing to let it slip so easily; for a piece of ass, no less. Victor Newberry planted information for the Laslow Corporation to gobble up. I needed to confirm that Cody knew what he was talking about. And there was only one other person I could go to about this, an old, shall we say, acquaintance.

The Four Provinces was a train stop from Cody’s apartment, a little dive bar that this acquaintance owned. It was late and GR groupies owned Sector 60. These were people without any serious connection, merely those fed up with the life they’d chosen. They walked the halls with their sneers and their judgments. I don’t want to say that I wore a sign that said Laslow Intelligence, but let’s just say that I didn’t quite fit in with the tattoos, Mohawks, and fluorescent hair. I got a few stares, but I kept my head down, trying to seem like just another junkie who needed a fix.

The entrance to the Four Provinces crumbled. The windows were gone, replaced with black, plastic sheeting. A few holes the size of pulse pistol ammunition peppered the front. The doorway was small, daring anyone who didn’t know better to enter. Several weary transfers stood outside having a quiet conversation. There was no sign indicating the name of the place. You either knew it or you didn’t.

The men stopped talking and raised their heads as I passed, letting their stare burn into my skin. I didn’t give them the honor of a return glance. Inside, the place wasn’t the mess it was the last time I was there. A bit of Johnny Cash played over some old speakers, mixed with a bit too much static. A few men played pool at an old, worn table, the red fabric dull and splotched with the remnants of spilled drinks. A few more men sat at the bar, crowded around each other, drives in front of them, having a conversation I couldn’t hear. The place stunk like unwashed synthetic skin.

Standing there, listening to the men talk was the person I’d come to see.

I caught his eye as I ambled to the other end of the glazed, marble bar-top. I took a seat on a rickety stool and let my stare settle on the side of his head. It took him a moment to break away from the men. A frown pulled his face as he limped toward me. He had coarse dark hair, a wide nose, and dark brown eyes. There were strange wrinkles around his mouth.

“Orion Cox,” he said in his lilting Gaelic accent. He rapped the bar twice. He didn’t bother offering his hand in greeting.

“Dawkins McBride, you look like you could use a new Transfer.”

“Been a while since you were in here,” he said, ignoring my comment.

“Well, you know,” I said. I rested my elbows on the sticky bar and folded my hands. “Things happen.”

“Sure,” Dawkins said. He smiled at me then tossed his head to the right. The group of men stared at us.

“Wanted to ask you a few things,” I said.

“Course you do,” he said.

When I found out that Dawkins was a Green Revolution mole ten years earlier, I could have thrown him in the slammer. A Laslow Intelligence official works for the Green Revolution? Probably would’ve made for a juicy investigation, and certainly a lot of headlines. But that wouldn’t have done me any good.

There were a whole lot of people eyeing his job, waiting those twelve or so years until his retirement, hoping that he would decide he had enough and go off to do other things before that. They were like a bunch of goddamned vultures circling a dying buffalo. I was one of those vultures, of course, and when I found out this tidbit of information, I figured I could use it to get myself to the head of the line.

It was luck that I discovered his association with the GR. And it was all because of Cody. One night, I happened to be on my way to Cody’s apartment and saw Dawkins leaving the building. I initially chalked it up to him having a taste for throwaways and Love, which would’ve been perfectly fine. But I was a curious guy, someone who liked to ask questions. So, when I pressed Cody, he told me that Dawkins was getting a nice chunk of change for giving up insider Laslow information.

Well, that was enough to squeeze Dawkins so that he would give up his position, claiming a desire to get out of the intelligence field. The deal we struck included a job recommendation for me, and that he get the hell out of his office as soon as possible. Sure, he sacrificed his full pension, but the lump sum he got was a nice enough kick-start so that he could open up the enhancement bar he always wanted, hosting all the GR scum he adored.

In essence, we owed each other our livelihoods.

“Victor Newberry,” I said.

“What about him?” Dawkins wiped down the bar in front of me. A waitress bot whizzed behind me, carrying a couple of enhancement drives to a few guys who’d grabbed a booth behind me.

“He GR?”

Dawkins smiled. He tapped the bar a few times. “Not sure that I can answer that one for you. Been out of the game for a long time.”

“You haven’t been out of shit, Dawkins.”

“Says you.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Fine. Fine. No, he’s not exactly innocent, if you get what I mean.”

“I don’t get what you mean at all,” I said.

“Vic Newberry is an opportunist. Yeah, he’s into the belief system, generally. And that has sort of given him entry into a few key people who are in the know.”

“Top shelf?”

“Course Newberry isn’t a card carrier. Doesn’t go to meetings or anything. Probably trying to get to the bottom of everything is what I always thought.”

“Money mover?” I asked, not sure that I understood his previous point.

“Just a communications guy, I think.”

“He’s based in Washington, DC, right?”

“Knows a lot of folks. On both sides of this issue. So, lots of people like where he’s positioned.”

“You met him before?”

“We’ve been introduced. Lots of people set up meetings here. You know? Good place to get away from TSG eyes.”

“And the Source? How do you guys do that?” I asked.

Dawkins laughed. “Now you should know that’s not something I know anything about.”

“Worth a try,” I said.

“Course.”

“I heard he’s going to be here this week,” I said.

“No idea.”

“I’m trying to figure out a way to get at him.”

Dawkins nodded. He swung to the racks behind him, picked up several drives, and set them in the charger that hung on the wall.

“Me? I’m too exposed. I can keep my ears open, though,” he said.

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he said. “Anything else? Or can I go back and talk to people who aren’t blackmailing me?”

“Have at it,” I said.

He grabbed a drive and set it down in front of me. “That stuff you’ve got in front of you? Best program we’ve had in a long time. On the house. Stay as long as you like,” he said. There must’ve been an ounce of doubt in Dawkins’ mind about our relationship. Maybe he thought by feeding my weakness he could catch me in a compromising position and blackmail me back. Whatever his reasoning, I was confident of my abilities in the face of inebriation and was perfectly happy to take him up on his offer.

“Mighty nice of you,” I said as I put the drive to my neck, dosed and inhaled deeply. The rush of the enhancement ran through my body and settled in my chip, sparking a feeling that I was no longer there, that my existence was in doubt. The darkness of the Four Provinces became a shimmering light that bathed the entire bar. Then the high settled down and the light dimmed slightly. It was almost as good as Love, but missing the little frosty tingle that appeared on the tips of my fingers and toes.

Dawkins gave me refills throughout the evening, whenever he noticed I was almost out. I would nod and push the drive forward. He would shuffle through the racks behind him until he found another. I tried to listen in on the conversations that took place throughout the bar. But my head was clouded with the enhancement.

The night began to get away from me the longer I was on that stool trying to play spy, and when I finally saw the time, I almost jumped out of my seat. It was late. I polished off the last dose, said my goodbyes to Dawkins, and stumbled out into the evening.

The night was the same as the day—moving bodies, artificial light, clean, purified air. I inhabited a controlled space, walls made of steel and durable plastics. My head was on fire with memories of the day and with the sheer number of doses. I caught the train going down moon and sprawled out on a seat by the door. It was relatively quiet on board as the advertisements ran over my consciousness.

Improve your memory with gingko biloba enhancement.

Stay in shape with Controlled Sponsored Athletic Programs.

Catch the fever, the Lunar Timberwolves of the TSBA.

The commercials flew, and the more the inane chatter peppered my chip, the more I wanted a dose of Love.

Then I was at home, not remembering how I got from the train station to my front door. In my bedroom, I did a few doses and got that hundred million dollar feeling, then stumbled into the bathroom to take a shower. My head swam through the haze, pushing down all of the thoughts of work as the water washed over me. Tomorrow promised to be another long day. But for that moment, standing in the shower, I wanted, and received a respite from my thoughts. Before I went to sleep, I did a few more doses and let the drug take me to the place that I wanted to be: a deep mellow.