Tim Maughan - Infinite Detail

“Not me.”

Rush sighs, hopefully to himself. He glances at the guy. Shaved head coming back through as blond stubble, orange tan sitting uncomfortably against the beige. Forehead stacked with lines from too much sun, time, or both. Eyes definitely too close together.

“No?”

“Nope.” No pause at all this time, almost comically fast. Impatient. “Not me. Not my first time at all.”

Rush notices his knee is bouncing. Feels his heel pounding against the floor. He makes it stop.

“In fact, happens every time I fly back into the country. And that’s a lot.”

“Really?” Rush’s interest perks up. “You on a list?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” Interest gone. They took Rush’s spex and his watch, along with his carry-on bag. There are no clocks in here. How long has it been?

“No prints, that’s the thing.”

They took his passport, too. “Sorry?”

“No prints, see?” The guy waves his right hand at him, wiggles his fingers.

Rush recognizes the words, but right now they make no sense. How long has it been? “I—”

“No fingerprints.” The guy is unbuttoning the sleeve of his shirt, and gently but purposefully pulling it up, an act often and proudly repeated, it’s clear. Plastic is revealed, 3D-printed prosthetic pink, a municipal flesh tone that sits far more comfortably with the official beige than the present color of this guy’s real skin.

The guy flexes his arm and plastic carapaces shift against one another. The faint sound of motors whirring now that Rush knows to listen for them.

“Lost it in Nigeria, back in ’17.” The guy’s southern drawl is instantly more pronounced. “Was contracting for a Chinese mining company. Boko Haram. IED. Middle of nowhere. Sonofabitches hid it in a goat carcass by the side of the road. Roadkill. Middle of fucking nowhere.” He shakes his head.

Rush feels that familiar, sudden wave of embarrassment and guilty repulsion wash over him. “I didn’t realize, I’m sorry—”

“Oh, don’t be. Not your fault.” The guy starts to roll his shirt back down. “You weren’t there.”

Rush smiles, shakes his head, looks at the ground. His knee bounces again. He wonders how his skin looks against the beige.

He triesto summon moisture to his dry mouth, takes a breath, puts on his best British accent. That’s meant to be worth something here, right?

“Excuse me, I was just wondering—do you know how much longer it will be?”

She looks up at him from across an expanse of IKEA farmed pine, his skin color and accent triggering a wave of cognitive dissonance to flicker across her face. Her skin pale against the beige. She stares into mid-space, focusing on text he can’t see.

“Rushdi Manaan?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be too long. They’re just running some background checks. You’ll be out within a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” He tries to hide his shock at a couple of hours. How long has it been already? He ramps up the Englishness. “I was just wondering if it would be at all possible to send a message? It’s just my friend was meant to be meeting me, and he’ll have been waiting for quite some time now. It would be great if I could just let him know it won’t be long now?”

“Well—”

“Sorry—I know it’s an awful lot to ask. But I’m worried he might leave. I’ve already put him through an awful inconvenience asking him to come and meet me, the poor thing. You’d be doing me an awfully big favor if I could just text him, even.”

She smiles, unable to resist the accent, that use of “awfully.” Bingo. Americans, it’s like they’re hardwired for it. Instant backdoor access.

She leans forward, lowers her voice, sliding open a drawer full of spex. All brands, all designs, all looking at first glance like innocent pairs of glasses. She pulls out a pair of Amazon Basics.

“These yours?”

“Yes.” He’s surprised to see them just sitting there. He’d expected them to have been taken off and plugged into some DHS laptop somewhere, been torn down by forensic software. Not that they’d find anything. He knows better than to get on an international flight without wiping all his devices first.

“Okay, take them into the bathroom.” She motions over to the long window that runs the length of the room. “Go in the stall, so nobody sees you. No voice, no video. Text only. No pictures, okay?”

He nods.

“I really shouldn’t be letting you do this. Be quick, okay?”

“I will. Thank you. So much. You’re awfully kind.”

She smiles, charmed again. “It’s my pleasure.”

In the bathroom he realizes that the long window is a two-way mirror, which seems pointless as all the cubicles—sorry, stalls—have doors anyway. Whatever. He’d abandoned the idea of there being any logic to security theater years ago. The idea she’d just hand him his spex like that because of his accent was bullshit too; she probably gives them back to anybody who actually asks. Unofficial policy, for practical sanity, to stop everyone kicking off all the time. It’s no big deal being in here, really. Security theater. Bullshit and ritual. Fear and flag-waving. He shakes his head and ducks into the stall.

He thumbsthe power on the spex, checks the LED is green for charge, and slips them onto his face. Blinks his PIN. The glasses struggle to find a data connection at first, but then handshake with some unfamiliar U.S. provider. Probably costing him a fortune.

The space around him erupts with windows, missed calls and notifications, and he brushes them aside to jump straight into his messages app. There they are, thirteen unreads from Scott. Cartoon speech bubbles.

He’s still here. He waited. He’s worried. He misses him.

He cares.

He came. And he waited.

He’s real.

Rush subvocalizes a reply.

— hey hey im here im here im ok

A few tortured seconds’ wait for the reply to come back.

Then the typing animation.

— wtf where the fuck are you

— homeland sec. holed up in some beige office. omg you should see this merc guy thats in here with me

— !!!are you ok? are they going to let you out? are you hurt

— IM FINE!! dont worry. they say theyre just doing background checks, and ill be out in a couple of hours. theyre just fucking with me.

— jesus fucking christ the cocksuckers

— yeah. well, i guess i know whether im on a list now or not:/

— ha yeah I guess. are you sure you’re ok?

He cares.

— im fine, really. dont worry. im just sorry, i feel terrible

— sorry for what?

— for you coming all this way, and then having to wait for hours because of my bullshit

— well, what else was I going to do on a saturday afternoon?

— I’m sorry :( go home if you like, i can get a cab when i get out

— what? dont be crazy. I’m not going anywhere.

— thanks. i miss you.

Instant send regret.

Pause.

The typing animation.

— I miss you too

He misses him.

— I gotta go. They let me have my spex but only so i could msg you quick. I gotta give them back

— They let you have them? weird

— yeah i know rite. its all bullshit. they got me in the bathroom so nobody can see

— the bathroom? is there a mirror there? send me a selfie

— i can’t, she said strictly no photos

— ah c’mon quick just a quick one, I want to see you

He wants to see me.

Rush steps out of the stall, stands in front of the mirror, and his heart sinks.