The strip was a long, wide open hall that narrowed into nothingness, or so it seemed. It only seemed that way because of its vastness. In actuality, the strip (or strips) fed lengthily into West Abbey, a nightclub located at the very center of the podmarine. West Abbey was a place emptier than nothingness—the singularity of a black hole in a Universe of dark matter. And from that point extended two shimmering paths on opposite ends, like a double sided tongue to pull unwitting souls to the hallow heart of the Beast. Inside, Survivors administered proverbial shock therapy to themselves, and people danced to forget the pain of gravity, and neon stars shone behind an epileptic flicker of black lights, and the dewy scent of sweet, perfumed flesh concentrated in the air like ripe juice fermenting into something intoxicating.
I stood in the doorway by a pair of oafish bouncers who were keen to my plan--friends of the movement. I had arrived at West Abbey about fifteen minutes before Lucia and Ritzy would get there. I’d anticipated it. I knew they would stop to pick up Gili and Lili (Ritzy never performed without her aunt and mother watching, and she never made an entrance if they weren’t by her side).
I had two jackets with me: one, the black uniform of catering lackeys, the other a white uniform of valet lackeys. For my purposes I’d worn them both together, since I had nowhere to hide one except underneath the other. And there I stood in front of the club, sweating bullets, trying to blend into the scene and look as casual as possible while Survivors loafed glamorously and cars buzzed wildly about.
Oh yes, there were cars on the podmarine, and if you think the concept is reckless you should have seen the drivers.
The ship was the size of an island: 55 sq. km, to be exact. Of course, you couldn’t expect Survivors to walk or use transport systems or, god forbid, ride bicycles. Of course, cars on the Atlantis did not eject air pollutants because they were rebuilt to run entirely on water, hydraulics, and compressed air (it was a capability we’d long had on land but for reasons of economics, felt never the need to employ). Those cars took up alot of space, but we’d make room for status symbols before we would more human beings, of course. The irony is that lucky ones like me made it all possible, the gross inhumanities, and every time I maintained or rebuilt a vehicle, I looked at it in terms of weight and thought about how many people could-have-been saved and all the friends I’d left behind. Like being fed vomit and swallowing it for lack of food and fear of starvation, I hated it, but I had to earn my survival.
Heads turned in unison. People were suddenly enticed by something approaching, and no doubt it was Lucia’s car. Actually, it was the Captain’s car — one of his leftovers he’d given to Lucia as a birthday present — a Citroën GT, and I have to admit, it was a beauty.
Ritzy was driving. She liked driving the Citroën, but not as much as she liked being in control. She exerted her control over the red lights by running them and the stop signs by blatantly ignoring them, and if she ever saw a one-way sign she’d challenge it because no one, I mean no one, tells that woman what to do. Despite her unruliness, Ritzy wasn’t a clumsy driver and some of her maneuvers were actually quite spectacular.
Oh yes, there were cars on the podmarine, and if you think the concept is reckless you should have seen the drivers.
The ship was the size of an island: 55 sq. km, to be exact. Of course, you couldn’t expect Survivors to walk or use transport systems or, god forbid, ride bicycles. Of course, cars on the Atlantis did not eject air pollutants because they were rebuilt to run entirely on water, hydraulics, and compressed air (it was a capability we’d long had on land but for reasons of economics, felt never the need to employ). Those cars took up alot of space, but we’d make room for status symbols before we would more human beings, of course. The irony is that lucky ones like me made it all possible, the gross inhumanities, and every time I maintained or rebuilt a vehicle, I looked at it in terms of weight and thought about how many people could-have-been saved and all the friends I’d left behind. Like being fed vomit and swallowing it for lack of food and fear of starvation, I hated it, but I had to earn my survival.
Heads turned in unison. People were suddenly enticed by something approaching, and no doubt it was Lucia’s car. Actually, it was the Captain’s car — one of his leftovers he’d given to Lucia as a birthday present — a Citroën GT, and I have to admit, it was a beauty.
Ritzy was driving. She liked driving the Citroën, but not as much as she liked being in control. She exerted her control over the red lights by running them and the stop signs by blatantly ignoring them, and if she ever saw a one-way sign she’d challenge it because no one, I mean no one, tells that woman what to do. Despite her unruliness, Ritzy wasn’t a clumsy driver and some of her maneuvers were actually quite spectacular.
The car glided to a stop in front of the entrance, and I slyly made my way to the passenger side door as a wave of paparazzi gathered in my trail. I didn’t go for the keys; another valet was there receiving them from Ritzy. Instead, I offered a hand to Lucia as she made her way, one leg at a time, outside of the vehicle.
It all happened in slow motion for me. I had my nanotech bug (which was literally the size and shape of a mosquito) nestled between my index and pointer so that, were I to lay my hand against bare skin, the mechanism would attach by its “insect” legs. To my advantage, Lucia’s dress was scooped daringly low at the back, and I would fasten my bug to the skin exposed there.
As I laid my hand somewhere along her spine, she turned her head to look down her own back, demonstrating she’d noticed my touch without having to notice me personally. And I stared like a school boy (because I couldn’t help it) and found any excuse to remain holding hands with her, to the point where I was swashing my free arm through the air to clear human traffic that was already cleared by velvet ropes, and I pushed aside this and that famous person as I walked alongside her, and some ignored me while others turned to scoff, but my motions were so absurd that, finally, I achieved Lucia’s attention.
We were at the end of the carpet, and the hot noise of West Abbey came from the entrance like the breath of a dragon as the bass claimed our bodies and beat through our chests.
Had I been short or fat or ugly by any means, she might have carried on ignoring me (and that's the shallow truth) but because I look handsome in a suit, she let out a laughing smile that hit me like fireworks and I stood there in a stupor, somehow managing a smile back. She let go of my hand ever so gently as the darkness of the club swallowed her whole, and I just stood there with my hand where she left it, high and upturned, and my eyes longing and hopeful: the stupidly theatrical pose of an opera singer reaching his tenor.
Ritzy smiled too as she passed and batted her eyelashes at me because she was a shameless flirt. I paid her no mind till she asked, “what color are your eyes?” in a way that was ultimately rhetorical, and I fell back into the crowd because I was reminded then just how dangerously I was treating this serious matter.
