Virtually True

  “That’s all I know. The rest is in your scoop-worthy hands. Your mission, which you have no choice but to take, is to restore the corporate balance of technology. I know, I know. If I had the technology, no way I’d pass it on. But I’m dead, so tech-transfer is the next best. Do it and we’re even. The cosmos is clear. But don’t let me down.”

  Muffled commotion, insurgents scrambling to face Mecca. Aslam’s flat, moody expression. “Prayer time. Goodbye, handsome best friend. Too bad things always get worse before they get better. The story of our lives.”

  After saving a copy for himself, True erases Aslam’s video note from WWTV’s archives. Then sets to retiring his debt.

  * * *

  After daybreak True’s still energized. He doesn’t want to sleep because with sleep come nightmares and he’s had enough of those, so he accesses his wrist-top’s jazz program.

  Drums beating.

  Insistent.

  Incessant.

  Wood striking skin.

  Splashes of cymbal

  circling vultures of sound.

  Tribal sounds from the jungle. And True focuses on the rich tones of the bass. The music’s foundation. Chords pound on a piano, hands splayed; clusters of tones weave throughout, threads of a magic carpet.

  Sheets of sound.

  Coltrane’s shrieks of sound.

  Pleading for understanding.

  And healing.

  Peace.

  Knowledge.

  Above all knowledge.

  In defiant stillness True listens to “Resolution” from A Love Supreme, John Coltrane’s ode to God. Lost in the music, surfing on the waves and pulses of notes, his mind reeling from the power of the tenorman’s passion, his search for truth winding strand for strand with True’s.

  Reedy gasps, squeals, squalls. Oblong cycles of notes. Pentatonic scales. Brush fires of sixteenth-note runs spiderweb with Elvin Jones’s percussive fabric, the skimming of drumsticks on cymbals. Tones of terror intertwine with McCoy Tyner’s cascading chords and rhythmic thunder. Over grave bass tones and tomes, a dark, plaintive cry is issued. More shimmering cymbals and gravel bass notes, contained within the confines of Trane’s vision—his jazz-schauung—the elixir of life, the fountain of art, the driving force of his music. And his life.

  “Resolution” ends. “Pursuance” begins. The melody, a jagged line, brings to True’s mind a mountain range’s peaks, connected by Trane’s magical sense of lyricism. And the mountains urge True on.

  The Pursuance of Aslam’s murderer.

  The idea will not fade.

  Trane pursued the ultimate truth.

  True will pursue the truth.

  Elvin Jones locks into a triplet fill, sparring with Trane’s throaty cries and McCoy Tyner’s chordal ripostes. Jimmy Garrison strums taut strings: buzzing Tibetan monk chants in double-note harmony, reminiscent of exotic far-east vocal boxes. And there are the mountains again. True feels those towering hills. Remembering the cold cell in those mountains that once held him, one tiny window funneling in a string of light. True slept on a dirt floor. Scant food, shit on the floor—his shit—ankles gripped by shackles. True lost hope, his spirits sank lower with each hour. It was then Aslam walked into his cell and back into his life.

  True remembers he laughed. Over mind’s edge. “My old friend Aslam.” True was only obliquely aware of his incoherence. “My old college buddy Aslam. What a great place for an alum—an alumni reunion, buddy.”

  From his ground perch, True watched as Aslam, then an officer in the Pakistani army, marched over—he can see the mud-caked boots even now—and kicked True. There was a breathless flash of white that came from somewhere inside his head, the shock of pain. Darkness blanketed him. When he woke up, he wasn’t chained and was sleeping on a mattress. The scent of clean sheets made him cry; so thankful for little things. A pillow, pillow case, blanket, cleanliness. Someone had bathed him while he slept, and at the time, it was all True needed to be happy.

  “Psalm” ends, the final song on A Love Supreme. True checks the time—the hour is sifting into dawn. He knows he has to sleep, but is afraid to dream, afraid to be alone, afraid to be with anyone.

  True types a new drummer into the program, substituting Tony Williams for Elvin Jones. But keeps the rest of the John Coltrane Quartet intact, even though he’s sure Tony Williams never recorded with Trane. But True wants to hear something unique. Tony Williams, always on top of the beat, sticks skimming along like flat-sided stones on a lake. The infinite space between two beats. Some drummers play right on it, others a little on top, like Elvin Jones, but a few sprint ahead, as if they alone pull the music along with them.

  Tony Williams’s conception of time is unique.

  True’s conception of reality is unique.

  Because what is reality anyway?

  Where are the boundaries?

  Once, he thought he knew.

  And the song he chooses for the computer to assemble from the billions of bytes of artistic data it absorbed, all the players’ solos and recorded works, all of their tendencies and theoretical underpinnings? Knowledge of their substitutions, altered dominants, diminished and augmented scales, triads.

  The song?

  What’s the song?

  “The Promise.”

  But before the music runs out, Reiner calls and True’s taken away.

  Her first. “You were right about the capital, the land transactions, everything. What now?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’d suggest you get your ass to Japan.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Are you really ill?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  “How will you get out of the hospital?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Urine-warm rain slants down from smudged clouds, runs off through cracks and fissures in the pavement. Pumice and coral walls, barriers built to hem in shanty dwellers, sponge water until stained with greasy patches. Mined from surrounding reefs, coral is nature’s barrier against wave erosion. In Luzonia, it’s also ground, mixed with flour. Buildings and bread: two reasons Luzonia’s coast melts away. White flakes flop down with the drops, like snow but not snow, spewing from an abandoned rubber factory constructed before Luzonia’s rubber trees were stripped away, processed, exported, gone forever, point-zero-zero-zero-one percent repatriated as foreign aid: as windshield wipers, weapons, sneakers, surplus condoms, useless shit.

  The factory’s been converted into a crematorium. The plague is out of control, thousands of bodies a day stuffed into ovens. The gagging aroma fills True’s head. He wonders why his scent mechanism works after his VR-FREEze-mare. Probably because he’s tiptoeing on shards of fear.

  True and Rush stand crammed at the starting line of The Urban Survival Tournament, set outside the tunnel where the truck was stuck. It’s True’s neighborhood, a place he knows, but through the tunnel exists an unknown purgatory. A martial artist practices “Bruce Lees,” rooster squawks and kicks, his heel brushing Rush’s well-ordered locks. Rush ducks, collides with a female bodybuilt. Biceps roaring, she collars Rush and flings him down.

  Rush picks himself up. “Lot of fucking help you are, Ailey.”

  “I’ll be sure to count on you later.”

  But it’s good to be outside again, even rain-soaked and surrounded by these combat-tested loaves of violence.

  Rush holds his press pass as a shield, hoping to avoid more ignominy. “Give me the wrist-top. You can’t take it inside. It’s against the rules.”

  “Give me a minute. I don’t like to part with it.” True tugs at the bright red sweatshirt Rush gave him. It flows loosely from his nail-file frame, the fibers coated with a radar-enhancing material so Rush can track him from the air.

  While Rush gripes, True wonders how his hair stays so perfect in rain. “It cost me a lot of money to get you here to the starting line. Bong Bong is convinced your death will bring him p
ersonal honor or something. I’m definitely going over budget this year.”

  “You deducted the shirt from my salary. What are you complaining about? Besides. Think of the ratings.”

  “Yeah.” Rush says this dreamily.

  “Think of the money you’ll save on my salary after I’m dead.”

  “Yeah.” Rush’s smile flips to a frown. “Not that I want you to die or anything. Hang in there as long as you can. The more footage we get of you, the better. You win, that’d be the best scenario of all.”

  “You honestly think I can complete this course without getting my face ripped off?”

  Rush squeezes True’s limp bicep. “No.”

  The joint network craft hovers overhead. Background footage sweeps.

  Rush holds out his hand. “I better get to my ride, get out of this rain. Give me your wrist-top.”

  True unclasps it, dangles it for Rush to take. Before Rush can grab it, a street urchin snatches it and tucks into the crowd. Rush shouts after him but the boy vanishes.

  True says, “You have all of it on file anyway.”

  “It’s WWTV property. Now I have to requisition another. Now I’m really going over budget.” Rush goes to his waiting hovercraft.

  True works his way into the contestant pool, his eyes darting left and right. He’s careful not to rub elbows or step on toes. Already fights break out between those with too much pride and too little brain, all with lots to prove, this their only means to prove it.

  There are announcements—the usual warnings and explanations: no outside equipment; the winner is the first contestant to wind through the ghetto unassisted and come out the other side alive. A 21st century game for a 21st century media market. The footage will be grisly. True wonders whether this is actually better than being glued to a hospital bed, psychotropic patterns beaming above. He looks around, sees Bong Bong lounging on the bridge walkway. A black umbrella shields him from the downpour. Bong Bong waves, calls down, but True can’t hear him. He wonders where Pidge is.

  Cannon fire. The start. True’s pulled along in the contestants’ current, through the tunnel, deafening and dark, then out. As soon as they clear daylight, bricks, bottles, and rocks whistle down. True covers his head, keeps pushing forward. Steps aside, lets the rest of the pack shoot by. At his feet is a school of cockroaches, water bugs, other festering insects, feeding on the slime and garbage. A teeming congress of rats nearby, too. He wonders about their reputation as being able to survive atomic blasts and feed on the toxic waste, that they’d outlast humans on earth. But True’s seen roaches or rats only where people congregate. Maybe vermin need people like journalists need misery.

  True sprints down the main artery, well behind now, counts off one cross street with his fingers, another, another, another, as the contestants shatter into smaller groups, working in teams in some instances to fend off attacking Luzonians. True hangs a right with a small herd of other contestants, scoots into a doorway where he stays hidden as the tumult crescendos.

  From here, he watches the martial artist fend off a gang-pack, his feet spinning like turbine rotors, crashing into jaws and ribs. Until he’s speared. The pack pounces, rips the clothes from his body, checks for gold or silver in his teeth, carves organs out of his body and sticks them in plastic baggies with ice. You can’t strip a car or computer that fast, True thinks. The Urban Survival Tourney, the organ trade’s grandest supply show.

  He waits minutes more, overwhelmed by the frenzy, sees the female bodybuilt beat and stomp her way down the alley until her brain is crushed by a well-aimed brick. She’s consumed by a teeming mass of teens who pick her clean. Leave the rest to the roaches and maggots. More die while others fight on. Only a few able to advance to the next block—the next game level. Obstacles pop up at every turn: ghetto survivors, pockmarked by radiation burns, scars, and blisters, brandish weapons. Artillery debris and bricks fire down. Old-style bullets smash into hearts, heads. Makeshift spears pierce natural body armor.

  True’s waited long enough. Hops over a pile of corpses, their organs sliced out, their innards dripping, and takes another left. True’s heading away from the finish, sees Rush’s hovercraft above, imagines his supervisor’s confusion as he circles back toward the start. Keeps his back to walls, ducks under windows, is wary around doorways, notices that although people here are poor beyond poor, they all have TVs, tuned in to the event as it happens—graphs, stats, interviews, replays, comments from last year’s winner.

  A rock glances off True’s head. A boy, couldn’t be more than ten, jumps on his back, and True shakes him off. Keeps running. He’s gasping now, out of breath, didn’t think about that when he filled out his entry app. Near the tunnel he slows. A gang blocks the street he needs. They brandish metal rods and clubs, home-made knives, jagged glass blades, spears made from remelted metal. True’s panting, his sides cramping. The mob moves forward. No hurry. True searches for a way around.

  Suddenly, there’s Pidge, as if the cops rule here as they rule outside. Pidge sprays the ground with jus de betel nut, hits some ants, which are attacked by other ants only because they are different now, forming teeming balls. True checks behind. There’s even greater tumult there. Pidge sidles forward, stands face-to-neck with True. Above, Rush’s hovercraft, action-catching.

  Pidge holds out his hand. “Cash card?” True shakes his head. Pidge taps True’s pocket. “No.” Pidge snaps his fingers, points to True’s sneakers.

  “You’re going to have to kill me.”

  Pidge’s eyes glow yellow with threads of red. He draws his pistol. True looks to the gang, watches their fluttering hand signals, fingers flickering and snapping, waving like hummingbirds. In seconds, in a flurry of furious activity, Pidge is dead, rent limb from limb, his neck sliced ear to ear, his spine split.

  And this is the extraordinary part for True. They don’t gouge out Pidge’s organs. Instead, they choose retribution. Dwellers fly out from behind doors and windows, from all around, and beat on Pidge’s corpse with fists, feet, rocks, bottles, garbage, bricks. When they’re done mashing him to ground meat, they take turns spitting on what’s left. Rush’s hoverer hums upstairs, capturing the moment for posterity.

  True follows the gang down the street into the winding ghetto-maze. At the farthest point from the finish line, True sees a man dressed the same as he, the same radar sweatshirt, the same build, skin tone, hair. His twin goes in the other way while True follows his guides through a criss-cross of homes, blade-narrow alleys, and tunnels. True squeezes through a hole in the shanty wall. Scrape, scratch.

  On the other side Piña’s lazing on her skateboard. “Pidge bought it, huh?”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s free. Piña owed the motherfucker.” She heaves a shirt at True.

  “I almost thought I wasn’t going to make it. The double Piña chose? Perfect.” True takes off Rush’s radar shirt, puts on the new one.

  “Even made sure his underwear matched yours, stains and all.”

  “How did Piña stage my death?”

  “Stage? We x’ed your double. Only way it’d look real.”

  “You killed him? Why?”

  She shrugs hammy deltoids. “So everybody thinks you’re dead.”

  “But what about the guy?”

  “He was dying anyway, plague or something.”

  “Piña’s saying he’d have died anyway? In what, six months?”

  “Two.” She pats the skateboard. “Get on.”

  “I’ve got to check out something in my apartment.”

  “Piña cleaned it out when they took you away. Got everything you need. This too.” She tosses True’s wrist-top to him. True accepts a microchip access from her, copies the wrist-top contents onto it, then hands it back. She gives him a coin envelope. “This, too. Piña hired a hacker who said this is the only thing that doesn’t fit right in your home system. Told Piña it’s bizarre shit, so watch out.”

  True flips her his wrist-top, pockets the microc
hip access and coin envelope. “Piña better be careful, too. Whoever has my wrist-top won’t be of this world long.”

  “Decisions, decisions. There are so many motherfuckers Piña’d like to give it to.”

  True studies the zigzaggy part dividing her yarny hair. “When Piña rifled through my apartment, she see, like, any blood-red holograms of me?”

  Piña hacks up phlegm. Actually she’s laughing. “That’s from a TV show. ‘The Program Contact.’ About spies and shit.” She pats her skateboard. “Get on.”

  “Thanks.” Almost free now. A little giddy. He leans down, kisses Piña’s cheek, and is amused to see her break out in a rash of embarrassment.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tokyo is the same except for the aftershocks, which True didn’t include in his virtuopia, which should have told him things weren’t what they seemed, but he missed it and now he’s back, hoping he’ll score higher this time around. Although plenty of buildings are charred and streets are buried in rubble, it isn’t as unbearable as his version. Most Tokyoites have swarmed into police-protected refugee camps or moved in with relatives and friends in other cities. Scriggly kanji-signs decorate doors of abandoned dwellings.

  True and Reiner at WWTV’s Tokyo Bureau on the top-floor of a battered building. She’s nothing like her broadcast icon. Not in her mid-thirties, not the statuesque, stiletto-tongued TV anchor. More like late sixties, hair soaked gray, age spots tinting hands, dry, curling skin.