Eli William - Cash Crash Jubilee

Sitting back down at the table, he began to wonder for the first time what had become of the many economic offenders he’d captured over the years. Surely they were scraping out a living somewhere in the camps, but were they happy? Sad? Bitter? Hopeful? Depending on which reports in bronze media you believed, pecuniary retreats were either slovenly hives of indolence or, as critics in the counterculture had dubbed them, the best of all possible slums. Whichever story was accurate, conditions were said to be harsh but tolerable due to the kind donations of Free Citizens, but what was it really like to live there?

In the past, Amon had always viewed the bankdead as radically other, almost like another species unfit for the financial pressures of the environment inhabited by true, hard-working humanity. But crouching in the rain with the other Illiquid, he had peered into the abyss of bankruptcy and seen that even he might slip in, that life was like the metropolis itself, with infinite branching paths and just as many distractions to obscure the way, some roads leading to misfortune in spite of our most conscientious efforts. All it took was a bit of bad luck and anyone could step into the pit of bankruptcy without warning, but did that mean they had earned such a fate? Our basic predicament was the same, whether bankdead or Free Citizen. Although Amon had met charity campaigners who profited from donations, he’d never met anyone who truly seemed to care about the bankdead, except perhaps Makesh Adani. Right! Makesh had offered him a job. Contacting him—no, contacting her —had seemed unimaginable before, especially since aid workers were generally low paid. But if the offer was still open, it was probably his best option. He would have no need to lie, for Makesh recognized his potential already and might offer him responsibilities commensurate with his capabilities. Furthermore, if Makesh was truly one of the Birla sisters, she had great wealth at her disposal, meaning Amon might hope for a more lucrative salary than he’d assumed, and perhaps a bit of protection.

Although he’d deleted Makesh’s business card, he had the LifeStream from when he viewed it saved, so he could contact her at any time. But could he trust her? The other Birla sister, who collaborated with Sekido, was undoubtedly an enemy, and since Makesh had warned Amon of impending danger, perhaps she was an ally. Yet this was just a guess. Although the sisters appeared to be in opposition, familial bonds might take priority over petty disputes. Moreover, if they were in fact the Birlas, Amon could be sure that Makesh had lied about her name (and her gender for that matter), although he had no idea which recruiter was the elder Rashana, and which the younger Anisha. So, while there was a good chance he could count on Makesh, Amon needed to understand the woman’s motives more clearly before putting his life in her hands.

Since the Birlas were highly protective of their audiovisual identities, Amon knew it would be a senseless waste of Mayuko’s savings to try searching for images of their faces online. Later on, he decided, he would commission Monju for more information. The PhisherKing would definitely be interested in Amon’s LifeStream of his meeting at Shuffle Boom, which contained evidence of GATA’s collusion with Fertilex. It would be even more valuable if sold as a set with the recording of Amon’s meeting with Makesh, for combined the two segs suggested that the Birla sisters were involved in Barrow’s ID assassination, whether supporting or opposing it. But Amon had to get Mayuko’s permission to borrow funding for the negotiation and resolved to speak with her before visiting Akihabara later that day.

Amon opened up his LifeStream and began to cut off still images. He hoped to use them as samples to pique the PhisherKing’s interest and maybe secure a better deal. Aside from turning on Spam Fortress and opting out of the body-ad contract, he hadn’t interfaced with his left hand since it was restored and this was his first time using it to execute several commands in a row. Severed from the ImmaNet, it had felt dead, like a lump of cold, useless flesh, and he was delighted to have it back online. Until, that is, he noticed something strange.

Overall, his left hand responded fine, but sometimes there would be a slight lag between when he moved his pinky and when the movement was registered. And coinciding with this, he occasionally noticed the overlay trailing behind his naked digit, producing a momentary double image. Amon guessed that Code Dr. had not yet returned full functionality to the appendage, but upon opening the app, he found a warning message that had been minimized and hidden in the corner of his left eye. It explained that he had been mostly disinfected, but that a malware trace still lingered. Code Dr. claimed to have downloaded the latest update and cured it, but Amon felt he could no longer trust the app after this failure and deactivated his pinky. Suspecting that the phantom finger might have performed some sort of unauthorized operation, Amon used his remaining nine digits to scroll back through his readout and quickly found a transaction from several minutes earlier that he didn’t remember performing: send text . He then opened his sent folder and found an unfamiliar message. The subject line was blank and the address of the recipient was not in his contact book.

Upon opening it, he found it lacked a body entirely. All the transmission contained was a snapshot of the cityscape taken from up high. Studying it for a few seconds, he found a blurry arc of pixellation in the distance. His heart pounding with fear, he got up and looked out the window to be sure. There was no doubt about it. It was the exact same vista he’d just seen, InfoRainbow and all. Terrified and confused, Amon gazed blankly over the metropolis, trying to fathom what had happened. A merry-go-round ringing the shaft of an adjacent building had been shut down. With fading inertia, its turning gradually slowed, like a roulette wheel before the decisive moment.

Just then, the call of a loon warbled through the apartment, sending a chill down his spine. Immediately it sounded again just as Mayuko burst into the room.

“Did you invite anyone here, Amon?” her voice was calm, but there was fear in her eyes. “Some weird men in the lobby are asking for you.”

“What?!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “Show them to me.”

Mayuko tossed a ball, which expanded into a portal in the center of the room. Within the circular frame, Amon could see nearly a dozen men in a hallway of lime green marble. Standing erect and motionless like soldiers, they formed two lines of five each stationed one behind the other, plus a lone man standing out front of the rest.

The men in lines looked like tengu , with red faces, golden eyes, huge feathered wings, and horribly long cylindrical noses that got incrementally thicker towards the bulb-like tip. They wore black shawls, baggy black pants, and black boots with a separate segment for the big toe, like mittens for feet. Their clothes were soaked in InfoRain and a panel of interior designers in matching Hawaiian jumpsuits discussing investment in hot futures drip, drip, dripped off their long noses onto the lobby welcome mat.

The lone man in front wore a white robe that billowed to the floor, white gloves, and sandals of braided straw. Although of average height and build, his long, narrow face lacked features almost entirely. His ears were large and round like those of a jolly Buddha and a ladder of deep horizontal wrinkles ran from his bald pate to his hairless brow. But between brow and chin, where his eye sockets, nose, and mouth should have been, an utterly flat sheet of pallid skin stretched.