Peter Liu - Bald New World

“Did they find Larry’s killers yet?” I asked her.

“You asked me that before and I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Larry was murdered before they kidnapped me.”

“Who kidnapped you? And what are you talking about? Mr. Chao is fine.”

“I saw Larry’s body.”

She turned on the television in the car. “Larry Chao,” she said. It brought up a hundred feeds of Larry escorted by various models. “That’s from a party two days ago.”

“That’s impossible. W-what about the factory explosions?” I asked.

“Generator malfunctions. Several managers were arraigned on incompetence charges and imprisoned.”

“Those were terrorist attacks,” I said.

She looked worried. “The doctors told me you took a lot of physical trauma. They said your memory might be affected.”

“If Larry were alive, he’d be looking for me.”

“How could anyone guess you’d been kidnapped?”

I still couldn’t believe he was alive. “Can I use your phone?”

She handed it to me but I realized I didn’t know Larry’s number.

“Do you have his number?”

“Not on me. Just at the office,” she said.

I’d have to get home and log into my network.

“You can log in at my apartment. You also need some food. I’ll order ahead. Anything specific you feel like?”

“Everything,” I replied.

II.

I attacked my food, became a garbage disposal of everything coming my way. I chewed softly, letting my teeth and gums savor every bite, the juices dripping on my tongue. My body had endured oblivion. I didn’t know how long my resurrection would last, but I would appreciate it while it did. I was thrilled by the taste of garlic bok choy, braised pork, and steamed fish. I went over and held Rebecca’s hand and jumped with joy and drank down two glasses of wine like they were water. My stomach had shrunk and I got full quickly but I kept on stuffing it, unable to countenance limitation. Eat stomach. Eat like it’s the last meal of your life!

Rebecca was amused by my boyish giddiness and said, “You eat like you haven’t eaten in years.”

She’d taken off her white coat and wore a white dress that emphasized the contours of her body. I was surprised to see the jade fox necklace that I’d gotten her around her neck. Small gold chains held them in place and my mind had a sudden flash to the torture room where I’d been chained up. I would have groveled for a taste of anything then. I forced back the memories, took generous portions of the onion-grilled kale and sweet shrimp. My eyes went back to the necklace and the way it lay on top of her skin. I was drunk, my knees wobbly. I could feel the hair along the back of my neck bristling and turned away from her. She asked, “You full?”

“I was full twenty minutes ago.”

“Is it time for dessert then?”

Salt-caramel ice cream and chocolate-mocha cupcakes. “How’d you know these were my favorite?”

“I looked up your profile the first time we met.”

Food coma sort of described my feeling, though as I’d just come out of a semi-coma, I was acutely aware of the differences.

Larry, are you really still alive? If so, does this mean everything can go back to normal?

I would have to deal with those questions later after I let my stomach digest the food.

“What else was in my profile?” I asked.

“That you’re naturally a follower.”

“Anything wrong with following?”

“Depends on who’s leading.”

I nodded and asked, “Were your mom’s salons in Shanghai?”

“You remembered,” she said, seeming genuinely impressed. “Shanghai and Hangzhou. But after the Baldification, we were lucky just to have a home. Is Beijing home for you?”

“I don’t know if I have a home anymore after everything that’s happened.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I tried to explain in brief, but as I remembered the forced cricket interlinks and my teeth fighting against the stone in my mouth, my heart started racing.

“We can talk about something else,” she offered.

“Sorry. It’s a long story.”

“When you were under, the hospital told me you used to have a different name.”

“I used to be Gene Liang until I joined the army.”

“Why the name change?”

“Another long story.”

“You have a lot of those.”

“Don’t you have your share?”

There was an air of melancholy about her as she nodded.

“Do you ever miss your hair?” I asked.

“I like the freedom of wigs. You?”

“No. But I guess we’d all look different.”

“You look like a different man since the last time I saw you.”

“I feel like a different man,” I answered.

“I like it. You look more handsome skinny.”

“T-thank you. And you. You look lovely.”

She simpered.

I looked around her apartment. She had a thing for white; white sofas, white shelves, and white marble floors. Even her rugs were ermine. She lived above a prison, making her studio one of the safest places in the world. Residential properties above jails were the most sought-after places in the world for multiple reasons, the principal being security. Even if a riot broke out, prisons were safe, stacked with the meanest police guards in the world as well as the security drones that never faltered.

Cameras were inside most residences and it had all begun with nanny cams placed by caring parents to make sure nothing was going awry in their absence. After a few break-ins went bad but were recorded by these secret cameras, people started requesting internal cameras as part of the property. At first, private companies were in charge of installations, and then it expanded to a government service. Within a decade, everyone in the world wanted a camera in their home, so much so that it became a crucial part of the realtor’s negotiations. A United Nations agency was set up to regulate domestic security and while some jokingly referred to them as Big Brother (an arcane reference to an ancient writer who couldn’t understand how crucial surveillance was to the survival of the individual), most just knew them as the Vid Coppers.

Vid Coppers were watching our meal, making sure my drunken state wouldn’t turn into something that might go against the request of my hostess. Mostly, it was an AI machine that measured hormonal levels and motion activity to interpret possible criminal behavior. I guess my hormonal levels were suspect as Rebecca got a phone call. She picked up, uh huh’d a few times, then hung up.

“They’re telling me you’re horny and I should be careful,” she said and laughed heartily.

“What?” I asked.

“Your face is red.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, completely embarrassed.

“The doctor warned me you’d be like this,” she replied. “It’s the increased hormonal activity from your therapy. Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”

I knew if Larry were here, he would have said some suave line, turned things in his favor, then swooped her off her feet. I couldn’t get over my initial shame at being found out and asked her if she minded me using her computer to log into my network. “Sure, go ahead,” she told me. She put her palm against the wall which turned into a 3D display.

I sat down, logged on, and tried to determine if anyone had stolen my identity.

We all had one global identity number, confirmed by a passcode, voice-identity test, and several random algorithms hooked into the credit agencies. While I’d forgotten my password, a scan of my eye, fingerprints, and voice unlocked my account. I reset the basic codes and went through a list of all my financial accounts as well as my personal communication number. Everything was intact. No unusual activity, not even the leech-ware that sucked one to two cents every month and wasn’t worth reporting as that invited reprisal from hackers who’d get upset that their tiny tribute exacted from millions could encounter resistance (our modern-day protection racket). I had to delete spam and block out news updates about the garbage epidemic and the property selling in Antarctica.