No Dogs in Philly (6)

A Cyberpunk Horror Noir | Chapter 6: Parrhesia

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The hip was leading her astray.

She hadn’t been much in the Fish but her mapping implant told her she wasn’t heading towards any of the major hip coops. Possibly it was a smaller one, unknown—they moved around enough—or her map could’ve been fried in the hack, or maybe it was just a secret entrance, but she didn’t think so. It smelled like a trap, or a hidden purpose at least. The terrain told her nothing—sinkhole streets with sewer-pipe bones and burning gas lines. Crumbling warehouses and factories, glimpses of gardens poking through—what were they growing? Corn? Rows of green stalks stabbing up from ashy basements and asphalt fields.

She studied the hip, scanning for signs of deceit. He seemed relaxed enough—did he limp before or was that her handiwork?—not tensed, not glancing around for signs of compatriots. The shotgun he carried was an ancient Harrier model, more likely to blow up in his face than kick out a bullet, and she doubted any of the munitions he’d managed to scavenge or nick would put much oomph against the micromesh woven into her clothes. Still, he could get lucky and stick a pellet in her eye. Or a friend of his could drop a cinderblock on her head.

She sped up a little to walk by his side. He smiled and nodded at her. For the first time she really looked at him and saw he was good to look at, with kind green eyes, and younger than he’d appeared, though his beard had streaks of gray. He was dirty, but not filthy, and skin surprisingly free of blemish, boils, mutations, wounds, or disease. This wasn’t some wretch—he was a healthy man in his prime.

It bothered her, somehow, that her judgment had been so off. She thought she knew about the hips, the hippies, the “aware”—the people that had rejected modern technology to live in communes in the abandoned city. What else was there to know? They didn’t have jobs, didn’t have houses, no implants or mods, half of them weren’t registered with the government and they kept to themselves. She felt suddenly tired, incredibly tired, tired of thinking, and having her notions challenged. Why couldn’t things be easy? She let her mind drift—ambush be damned—to straight lines and right angles, a city of walls and sharp divides, clean separations between good and evil, person and object, worthy and unfit to live.

For the thousandth time she thought of skipping town, taking her five hundred thousand buckaroos and hopping the first jet outta this joint. She’d have to head to another zone, another country, across the ocean maybe with the Eurocrats or the Sinomer or even the Xing-2 if she got desperate. It was a pipe dream, of course. The Gaespora would never let her escape, order unfulfilled. They’d slap a bounty on her and in ten seconds flat every roly-poly would-be hero with a gun would be on her tail. More and more she realized how stupid, how empty, how useless all this money was. Every bill had a string attached. Ten million. What would she do with it? She had no idea. It was just a number, a big, bold, impressive-sounding number that even the dumbest math reject could understand would make her rich.

Friar, he was a thinking man—now haunting her for some reason (was that part of the hack or just her memory toilet coming unclogged while the hackers poked around in her skull?) He knew exactly where every dollar would go, what kind of instruments it would buy and how many fifty-foot holes he could secretly drill into the sewers. He had taken calculated risks until his sanity was worth more than a buck or two—and still lost in the end. She, she had just seen a fat piece of meat hanging from a tree and yanked, missing the bear trap underneath.

“You’re a detective.”

It was so quiet in this part of town that his voice startled her. Her Betty leapt halfway from the holster, drawn to her hand by twitchy nerves and custom magne-plants in her palm and trigger finger. The hip noticed the bustle at her side, like she had an angry pigeon in her pocket, but didn’t comment. Had he seen the gun? Did he know the BigBubba in the barrel would rip a hole in him the size of a beach ball, hockey pads or no? She sent a command to the holster, switching out the ammo for flashers. They’d make a jamboree of noise and were bright as the Fourth of July, but they wouldn’t leave anyone in pieces.

“How do you know?”

“Saw you on the news feed. You solved a mystery. Found a lost kid.”

“I thought you hips didn’t watch the feeds.”

“We watch them on a screen. Nothing in our brains. Our thoughts are our own.”

“Sounds inconvenient.”

“There are more important things in life than convenience.”

“So, where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“For who?”

“For the both of us. I mean you no harm…though by god’s teaching you had given me the justice to raise a hand, you did ask forgiveness and I gave.”

That wasn’t strictly true, but whatever you want, buddy.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I am Ibrahim. But many of us take old names, and there are only so many to go around, so you may call me Hemu.”

“Delighted. I’m Saru.” They shook hands, sort of. He went in for some strange grip greeting but she gripped tighter and forced it into a strong American handshake.

“Saru is an unusual name.”

“They told me it comes from another zone. My mom was a Eurocrat, Gaulian or one of those strange places, but I never knew her.”

“Your father?”

“An asshole. I grew up in the HMH, Hathaway Morning House. Won the lottery or something and got an education—not that it stuck.”

Yeah, the lottery for sure. Backwoods bumpkin to big city boarding school delinquent. Should’ve been a reporter, should’ve written a book on that place, blown it open. She oughta go back right now guns blazing and blow a hole in the wall, hold off the guards while the kids ran to freedom. She wondered how many got out, how many were right now filing their plastic cafeteria knives into shanks, planning to slice the hall guard’s Achilles tendon and steal his keys.

“What about you?” she asked, not really caring. This talk was boring. The past was the past and nothing fixed that so it didn’t make no difference. Hemu seemed genuine in his requests so she’d given him more than a kick in the shins, but all this talk was stupid. Who cared about families and parents and childhood tales? What did that have to do with anything?

Hemu started talking about his life, his parents growing up in the Fish…being cooks in the Walnut Coop, his great triumph stripping copper from an old subway car and trading it to buy long underwear for the whole coop. A hero. She set her body to follow Hemu and her head to nod and her mouth to make a huh or noise of interest now and then while her brain took a nap.

Her instincts pulled her back to the present. It wasn’t danger but curiosity. They’d come to a building, a chapel, surrounded by a maze of massive brick warehouses and factories. Up in the darkening sky—how long had they been walking?—she could make out an artificial canopy of steel girders, rope nets, and carefully placed debris. Their location was hidden from surveillance, aerial and satellite, and nested in the middle of an industrial jungle. The chapel was pressed, squeezed between the walls of an alley, small, like a double-decker bus. It seemed ancient, carved of stone, gargoyles and monsters, and…fish? leaping out in master-crafted detail, stained-glass windows—real glass, real art, not a screen that switched to ads every thirty seconds—depicting…what did they depict? It was abstract, but the more she stared—was that a person? An ocean? A planet?

What was this place?

She felt a hand on her shoulder, Hemu, and somehow it was reassuring. There was that feeling here, that tingle in her nails and hair along her spine, that something just shy of the natural was at work. Hemu was looking at her, and his face was serious.

“It was a risk, bringing you here,” he said. “You are connected to the dark god that hungers, and the Sad Gods who weep and plot. But my god said to me it must be so.”

“Oh did he?” Saru said, trying to sound wry but she was rattled. It was so quiet here, so strange, all these dead buildings with no noise. This wasn’t a city; it was a forest. She saw the plants—so many plants, growing from the cracks in the building, the grime between the bricks, the vines crawling over everything and the flowers, the white flowers like tiny bells everywhere.

“Come,” Hemu said. He led her inside, through the carved wooden doors into the warmth and light. There were pews, and hips, heads bowed, lips moving in quiet prayer. The floor was marble. Yes, this had been a chapel, McChristian maybe, but so old?

Where had it come from?

She tried to scan the Net but found a signal error. She was cut off, in a dead zone. At the far end where she guessed an altar would normally be stood an imposing white statue. What was that girl the McChristians worshipped? Mara? Susan? Whatever, at some point it might have been her, but the face had been carved out, roughly. A vibrant cluster of bell flowers grew from the hole.

“We have known about the gods who walk the Earth longer than anyone,” Hemu said. “We understand the margins, the shared natures that allow the gods to speak to us and bestow their boons and curses. We follow the First. The Slow God who knows time and waits. She came to us when the skies lost their blue and taught us how we could live in a world of dark. From Her we have learned peace. We have learned simplicity. We have learned to trust one another, and above all to turn from the Hunger. She knows the Blue God, has seen it in other worlds beyond ours. They are not the same but they know how to live without destroying one another. The Hunger does not know this. It knows only Hunger.”

“And what about the…” Crap, he’d just said it. What were the Gaesporan gods called again? “The Sad Gods. Not a very catchy name. Not great branding.”

“They cannot choose their name. Their name is their name and their sadness is so great it can be hidden no more than an ocean can be hidden from a fish. They are like the Hunger though they are not. They seek to grow, to become gods of gods. They do this to survive, but their motives expand to desires beyond survival. The Slow God neither gives nor takes from the Sad Gods. She pities them, for they have lost much, and chastens them, for they have not learned. Of all the gods, their end is least certain.”

“Oh, okay. So, you brought me here just to tell me this?”

She noticed that all the hips in the joint were now watching them. There were at least thirty of them, and she saw they were armed with guns, knives and—was that a sword? She slapped herself mentally for letting down her guard. Lame as they may be they could still dog pile her and chop off her head. And she hadn’t quite realized how nutty these guys were.

“Yes. I bear a message from the Slow God.”

“Well, spit it out.”

“Not here. We go somewhere private.”

This was getting old fast. And if she said no? Awfully tempting, seeing as they seemed to be relying on voodoo just like everyone else. Would they beat her senseless and crucify her if she flipped them the bird and bounced? Although…Hemu had been sincere enough, and really what she needed was thousands of slaves to keep an eye out for all the blue-eyed girls in the Fish. Maybe if she got on his good side, that was exactly what Hemu could give her.

“Alright, let’s chat.”

***

It was a tricky climb to the top of the warehouse; half the stairs had crumbled and been replaced with makeshift rebar ladders. Fat clouds of smog scraped their bellies on the roof and wandered the canyons carved by the abandoned factories. Windchimes of industrial detritus clanged an eerie melody. In the sickly orange twilight, the smog-wreathed rooftops looked like the peaks of a sierra.

Hemu led Saru up a final set of rickety stairs to an old guard tower and closed the steel door behind him. The inside had been vigorously scrubbed and repaired, and appointed with a battery-powered heater, warm blankets, sleeping bags, a hot plate, and a radio. Fragrant, drying herbs hung in bunches from the ceilings. A line of rifles stood to attention in a wooden gun rack; they were old models but well maintained.

“Here we may speak freely.” Hemu lifted an ancient-looking lamp and flickered the shutters in a coded pattern. An answering signal flickered from another guard tower on a neighboring building, and then a third and a forth. Directly in view of the polished windows hunkered the chapel, its roof covered in white bell flowers that glowed amidst the rusty haze. The flowers branched out from the chapel roof, snaking along the walls and ceilings and into the windows of the hollow buildings in meandering tendrils. If Saru squinted her eyes the flows of white almost formed a pattern, like a mandala—and then it was gone.

“You’re guarding it,” Saru deduced. “The chapel.”

“Yes.” Hemu replied. “As we can. The Slow God cannot be in all places. She lives in the folds of what we call time. Her roots can only grow in the deepest history. This ground was consecrated over many years, through many ages, with rituals performed by many peoples, who knew her under many names. We are but merely the latest custodians of her gift.”

“So the Slow God’s margin is…time?”

“Yes. Specifically places where time slows relative to its surroundings. We reinforce her margin through deliberate action. Prayer and ceremony. Cultivation of the land. Routine, ritual, and tradition. The footsteps of much-trodden paths carve the grooves in the motions of the Earth that allow her seeds to take root and flourish. As the world moves on and technology advances, we advance slowly, cautiously, consciously.”

“Uh huh. What’s with all the flowers?”

“The flowers are manifestations of the Slow God.” Hemu pointed at his right ear. Between the lobe and temple rested a slender green vine and a white bell flower. “And her gifts. Those of us who wear the flowers can hear her voice more clearly. We can see hidden truths and purposes. We see your purpose. We know you seek a girl. A girl whose margin gives life to the Blue God on Earth. Do you know why the servants of the Sad Gods seek this girl?”

“They said they want to protect her. There are people trying to find her. Trying to kill her.”

“Not people. Feasters. Manifestations born from the Hunger.”

“Sure.”

“Do you know what the Gaespora will do when they find this girl?”

“That’s none of my business.”

“The Slow God has spoken of you. She says you are strong but lack wisdom. A wise person would consider what the Sad Gods intend.”

“Your god said all that, huh? She talks a lot for someone without a mouth.”

“The Slow God speaks through the unfolding of events. Birth and death. The turn of moon and sun. The quiver of grass in wind. All motion is her voice. Those who listen can hear. But you do not listen and so it was commanded to me to speak to you.”

“Here’s a tip for the future. Nothing speaks louder than money. The Gaespora paid me, cash up front. That’s the only reason I’m doing any of this.”

“For now, perhaps.”

“Forever.”

“Forever. There is no such thing. There is only change. Life and death. Growth and decay. Why do the Sad Gods meddle with our food, our thoughts, our genes? What change do they seek?”

“Population control. Simple. They’re not the only ones; they just have the monopoly.”

“And what do they seek to control?”

“Is this a trick question?”

He pointed at one of the white bell flowers growing in the cracks of the crumbling concrete.

“All gods seek to grow their margin. But the Sad Gods have no single margin. They are the fragmented remains of those gods who lost their battles. They join together to survive, and in their joining they have strength. But theirs is an uneasy alliance. Decisions must be made. Choices, about which life is most valuable to their cause. Which life must be sacrificed to greater ends. Imagine many armies coming together from many different lands. The generals meet to discuss their plans. They are united in their purpose, to defeat a common foe. But then they must decide. Whose army will take the difficult battles? Which lands will be put at risk? Who will take on the most dangerous missions? There is discord, disagreement. All wish to see their foe vanquished, but none wish their forces to pay the price.”

“You think I don’t know they’d knife me in a heartbeat? Everyone is expendable.”

“Your life. Our city. Our species. Our planet. The Sad Gods will sacrifice it all to meet their ends.”

Saru snorted. “I won’t shed a tear.”

“Because you do not believe. But the Hunger grows. Even now it stirs. The Slow God sacrifices none. But neither does she allow those under her protection to take more than they need. That is why we live as we do, simply, enjoying the abundance of our natural heritage, and not the false consumption of those who seek to enslave us.”

“Sounds like a justification for poverty.”

“We are rich in everything a human needs: food, shelter, expression, and community. Our minds are free. We have few possessions but we possess our minds, a gift possessed by few.”

“Now you’re just talking in limericks. Here’s a riddle for you—if your god gives you protection then why do you need this guard tower? Why the guns and the armor? Why do you need to watch this church?”

“There are two realms—the Earthly and the divine. The Slow God turns the Hunger from our throats. She shelters us from the poison tears of the Sad Gods and the venomous words of their schemes. And when the Blue God awakens in a fiery wrath she will shield us from the flames. But she will not interfere with the godless. She accepts all who come to her willingly and accepts that many will not come. If they choose to scorn her and chase her away, she will not chastise them. She protects us from the acts of gods, and we protect her from the acts of humans.”

“I’ll stick with the human realm. You know, the real one.”

“Then you will fail. You must embrace the divine.”

“I think we’re done here.”

Saru opened the door and probed her way down the rickety ladder. The last splashes of twilight had faded beyond the horizon and a fierce wind had kicked up. It blew away the sulking clouds of smog and in an instant the city was revealed, a wall of fluorescent rainbow lights and crawling ads, spilling into Jersey across the Hathaway Bridge. She’d never seen Philly like this before, the panorama of light, almost as far as you could see in any direction. It was like a fantasy world, a magical kingdom—it almost looked like a place where you would want to be.

Above it all, a massive steel middle finger jutting from the wall of light, the Vericast building, illuminated by a bluish beam of what she could only suppose was moonlight, a symbol of absolute might. She got the odd sense that they could see her up in the Gaesporan forest, that ElilE was still there on his rock, that he hadn’t moved since their meeting, and that he was seeing through the miles of air and dark to warn her: time was running out.

“Money. That is what moves you.” Hemu stepped next to her.

“Hey, you’re getting it.”

“What moves a god? Will the Sad Gods offer the Blue God money to join their fight?”

“Again. None of my business.”

“Gods do not understand money. They understand action. Ritual.”

“Everyone understands money.”

“Even the dead?”

“Look, I get it. The Gaespora are gonna use this girl to start some kind of brawl between the Blue God and the Hungry God. But once the check clears it stops being my problem.”

Hemu punched her in the face.

Not a hard punch, or even fast. So slow it didn’t even trigger a combat implant. Barely a tap on the cheek. The surprise kept her rooted a second and then she snarled and grabbed his lapel. She yanked him off his feet and slammed his torso over the edge of the building so his head dangled, eyes agog at the distant pavement, long hair flapping in the wind. Saru scanned the roof and the roofs of the surrounding buildings, looking for drones, snipers, hidden enemies, waiting to finish the ambush and take her out. But none emerged.

She dragged Hemu back over the edge and pushed him hard into the ground. He lifted himself, painfully, and caught a breath.

“Is this cause I roughed you up?” Saru spat. “Didn’t think hips had a thirst for vengeance.”

“I said words you could not hear and showed you truth you did not care to see. You only understand violence. Perhaps you will find god through violence.”

“Is that an insult? Oh. I get it. Some kind of metaphor.”

Hemu shook his head and made a strange, pacifying gesture with his hands. “You will view it as a kindness when you learn its meaning. If harm was given, I apologize.”

“Please. You hit like a wet sock.” Saru rubbed her cheek, thrilling at the delicious little pains. It heated her blood in just that right way. “Guess it’s only fair you should get a knock in.” Shit, he was right. All she did understand was violence. She respected him more now after taking a slug at her.

“I gave the message in every way I could. My duty is done.”

“Does that mean no more sucker punches?”

Hemu bowed and made that strange gesture again. “I offer you the harmony of the Slow God. Let us go below. You will be safe there.”

They climbed down ten stories of dilapidated stairs and rickety ladders. The building was occupied in the lower floors, ruined but clean, and with the green vines everywhere with the white flowers—maybe that was the only thing keeping the building up. They stopped on the thirtieth floor, where a heavy scent of cooking vegetables filled the air. The smell made her mouth water; all she’d had was a stick of Chew 20 and half a liter of bourbon. Her stomach growled.

Hemu led her to a line of scraggly-looking men and women and handed her a bowl carved of wood. They followed the line to a huge pot, repurposed from an industrial container of some sort, full of bubbling stew. They were served by baggy old women and then found a place alone in a corner by a window. It was dark and hard to see without night vision, but the hips didn’t seem to have a problem. There were fires, which seemed like a terrible idea, but they were careful to contain them in drums and piles of rocks, and the whole wide floor flickered between light and shadow.

Peace.

It was peaceful. There were no city sounds and the people hardly spoke. There was a moan, some couple having sex in the shadows somewhere. Saru sipped at the broth of the stew—not bad, needed salt. Her poison sniffer said it was fine.

“You must spend the night,” Hemu said.

“Okay,” she said. Strangely, she was in no hurry to leave. Sheltered from the wind it wasn’t too cold and she still had a fine view of the city. She felt no threat from Hemu, no threat from anyone. And even though there were no barricades, gun towers, or bullet-poof doors, it felt protected. Guarded. Her thoughts were acting funny, all sober now, and she felt she might actually get a full night of natural sleep.

She felt all the disconnected strands of her brain, plugged into all the feeds, all the implants and mods, all the processes of checking her back and scanning for threats and searching, always searching—they all wound together and for what seemed like the first time she was living as a whole, focused, present, part of a moment. And the moment was shared. She reached out and held Hemu’s hand, furious at both her need and her shame. He took her hand and held it gently, and they stayed that way until she drifted off to sleep.