Peter Liu - Bald New World

“He was a pilot?”

“A damn good one, long time ago. I was envious of him. After the war, I came out here to try to make my way as a cricket pilot. But I couldn’t stay interlinked longer than a minute without getting seizures. I had a defect in my brain lobes that prevented it.”

“Why didn’t you go back home?”

“And let everyone know I’d failed? No way. I made my living out here any way I could. It’s been eight years since I first came out.”

“I never knew you had your dreams crushed.”

“Some people have what it takes, some don’t. I didn’t. But I’m gonna win big this time. No one’ll laugh at me after my pay day.”

“Come over here.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

The singing got louder.

IX.

It was two hours later when my senses returned to me. Dan was sleeping naked with Heidi. Both were snoring. I knew my body condition. If I went through another day of this, I’d either die, or worse, get permanently wired. That was another way of saying I’d get lost inside the mind of a cricket forever. Many pilots had been locked away in one of those convention centers similar to where my brother-in-law was. Spending too much time under or not having enough breaks between the fights was the most common cause. My eyes returned to the knives on Dan’s wall. I didn’t know if I even had the strength to stab them. But if I failed, he’d probably kill me anyways which was a better fate than living out the rest of my days as a human thinking he was a cricket. During the war, Dan had been the quiet type. He was always meticulously cleaning his knives and Larry joked, “Don’t be surprised if he’s secretly a serial killer.”

I’d never killed a man. Even during the wars, most of the killing was done by drones and machines. In Los Angeles, where gun fights were common, gun groups had gotten the government to change laws so that if you fired at people wearing armor, it was considered aggravated assault rather than attempted murder. Many of my acquaintances had been brought up on aggravated assault charges, but I didn’t have a mark. Murdering someone was against everything I believed. But at this point, it was a matter of kill or be killed. As sick as I was, I started shaking.

He brought this on himself , I kept on telling myself. But I still had a hard time justifying it. I was more than a cricket, wasn’t I? Didn’t know anymore, couldn’t tell the difference. I was about to get up and head towards the shelf of knives when there was a knock on our door followed by several more.

Dan, groggy and tired, answered. I lay on the carpet and pretended to be asleep. He opened, talked with the guest at the door, then came back to me with a confused look. “Nick. Nick! Get up.”

“What is it?”

“Tolstoy wants to meet you.”

“The champion?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But he wants to see you right away.”

“Is that all right?”

“No one refuses the champ,” Dan replied.

I went to the door and saw a young lady that had white hair similar to the champ. She had an aquiline nose, brown eyes, and wan cheeks. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her skin was so perfectly crafted and unblemished, it looked like porcelain. She wore a lacy black dress and carried an umbrella by her side.

“My brother would like to speak with you,” she said, presumably making her Tolstoy’s sister. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sure,” I said.

She grabbed me by the arm and led me out without waiting for Dan’s approval. Next to her were two blocky bodyguards. They looked the same as bodyguards I’d seen everywhere else in the world; human golems that specialized in inflicting pain.

“What’s he want to see me for?” I asked.

“He wanted to say hello.”

“Why?”

“You can ask him.”

The champ’s hotel was two buildings over and it was much nicer than Dan’s.

“Do you like cricket fighting?” she asked me on the way.

“Do you?”

“I hate it.”

“Me too,” I confessed.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Same reason crickets do. To survive.”

She covered her mouth with a handkerchief. “Is that why so many people are taken with cricket fighting?”

“What do you think?”

“I think people like to see others suffer,” she answered, though I couldn’t see her expression.

“I’ve heard your brother is the best fighter around.”

“He has cause.”

“He likes to see others suffer?” I asked.

“Suffering can become an addiction.”

“Only to those who don’t know any other way.”

“Do you know any other way?”

I shook my head. “I’m looking.”

The lobby was full of people with suitcases, checking in for a weekend of revelry. We had to walk through a scanner that zapped any bed bugs on our clothes and was embarrassed when they found over thirty on me. Prostitutes hung around the bars and martinis were being doled out quicker than canned food at a shelter.

“Does the champ like Tolstoy’s writing?” I asked, curious about his name.

“I don’t like Simone de Beauvoir, but I have her name.”

“It’s your given name?”

She nodded. “I misunderstood Anna Karenina the first time I read it. It was a comedy, not a drama like I’d initially assumed. Once I got the joke — all the characters were selfish, suffering-addicted, idiots — I realized it was brilliant. Everyone in the book was intentionally a farce.”

The champ had a penthouse suite and it was almost as massive as Larry’s apartment. The paint was fresh, there were maids who regularly cleaned the rooms, and there was no rank odor in the air. The first thing I heard upon entering were the crickets. Hundreds of them in a clashing choir, chirping love songs in an attempt to silence their rivals. His sister led me into the living room where Tolstoy was talking with a fat black cricket. I assumed that was Zhou, the prize winner. The room itself had brown walls and brown furniture. There were also huge piles of junk-food wrappers in the corners.

“It makes me sad,” he said, petting Zhou. “He only has a few more weeks.”

Zhou was huge and I realized that even prepared, I would have had no chance against his prize specimen.

“The best crickets come from the Shandong Province,” he continued. “But this boy was raised right here in Gamble Town.”

“Hello,” I said.

“Where do I know you from?” Tolstoy inquired.

“I don’t think we know each other.”

He put Zhou back in his cage. “Why are you working for that lout?”

“You mean Dan?” He nodded. “I have no choice.”

“Do you owe him a debt?”

“No.”

“He’s set you up against me at the end of the week. I’ve seen your three fights. You’re in no condition to be fighting, unless you’re the best faker I’ve ever met and you’re pulling a scam. Even if you were, I’d still crush you.”

“I used to fight a long time ago.”

“I know,” he said. “You use older techniques based on older interfaces. But there’s no way you’ll be ready for me in a week.”

“We’ll find out.”

“Don’t kid yourself. One more dive and you’re going to get wired permanently.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. He was stating the obvious, but why? He was an 18-or 19-year-old teenager, just a kid who barely knew the ways of the world. Was he gloating, trying to scare me away, or just showing off his superiority?

“You’ll be the fifth he’s done this to,” Tolstoy continued. “He makes just enough to keep him going until the next sucker.”

“Unless you’re willing to let me make some phone calls, I don’t have a choice.”