Kaleidocide Page 3

  “Zhang Sun is like many of his contemporaries in China,” the big bodyguard said, “in that he has become religious in the aftermath of the atheistic communist era, as the cultural pendulum has swung in that direction. But he is unlike most in that he embraced a rare form of cultic belief called the bin lan jiao. It’s a complex system of faith, but in short they believe that colors, or the spirits associated with them, are a source of supernatural power. And one of the more exotic uses of this power is called xing lu cai se, or ‘many-colored murder.’ As some on the net have become aware of Sun’s practice, different names for it in English have been proposed, but the one that stuck is ‘kaleidocide.’ Perhaps because it sounds something like the Chinese words.”

  “The leader of the world’s largest country is into this kind of stuff?” Lynn asked.

  “It’s not so hard to believe,” Terrey answered. “Famous people have often invented or adopted their own unique religion—it’s a trapping of power. And China has long been one of the most superstitious places on earth. To this day, most Chinese cover the mirrors in their bedrooms because they think they reflect evil spirits.”

  “And colors have always been very important to my people,” Min added. “Sun’s religion is merely a modern modification and conglomeration of many ancient traditions, tailored to his purposes.”

  “Which are what?” Lynn asked Terrey. “Why does he want to kill Michael? Because of Taiwan?”

  “Very unlikely,” Terrey said. “Even if he knows of Michael’s role there, that’s not enough to drive him to this. He’s very powerful, but this move is not without its political risks.”

  “I agree,” Min added. “This must be something more, something personal.”

  “What risks?” Lynn asked. I was a bit surprised at how interested she was, but also felt a tinge of pride that she was.

  “The ban lan jiao and the xing lu cai se are open secrets to some in the government,” Min continued. “But not to most of the people. If they became more exposed, we could possibly gain enough popular support to turn the political tide.”

  “We?”

  “The People’s Party. The movement I was a part of before I left China.”

  “Besides, Zhang Sun has mixed feelings about the Taiwan Crisis,” Terrey added. “In a way, the Allied forces, and therefore Michael, did him a favor. It was a serious embarrassment for his country, but it allowed him personally to consolidate his power because the precipitous decline afterward created a desperation and willingness to accept a militaristic dictator like him. It was similar to how Saul Rabin rose to power, right here in the Bay Area, but on a bigger scale.”

  “You’re up on recent Chinese history, huh?” I asked.

  “I’ve been studying,” he answered with a proud smile, then had to finish his homily. “After China failed in the Taiwan Crisis, the Chinese people were afraid of Western aggression and were persuaded that the failure was a result of weak-kneed domestic leaders. If Sun and the military had possessed more power, the thinking went, China would have won. So like I said, the Crisis was a major stepping stone to the throne for the bloke … I don’t think he’s that upset about it.

  “Plus,” Terrey added, “this move by Sun endangers his regime’s chances of buying or trading for BASS technology.”

  “Oh, you’re up on that, too?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

  “I have to be up on everything pertaining to a client,” Terrey answered, and then saw Lynn cock her head in surprise, as if to say We haven’t hired you yet. So he added, “Or possible client. Either way, this has to be personal for Sun. He’s spending his own fortune on it, and to some degree he’s risking his political future. So it’s something more important to him than money or power.”

  “But what?” Lynn asked again.

  “I don’t know,” Terrey said. “I was hoping Michael could tell us.” He looked at me, but I just shrugged.

  “No idea,” I said. “But I actually sensed animosity toward me the one time I met him, even though it was in a public setting—at one of Saul’s ‘summit meetings’ where he showed off that tech you were talking about, to some world leaders.”

  “When was that?” Terrey asked.

  “About a year ago.”

  “So he had a hard-on for you before you became CEO of BASS.”

  “Also,” Min said, “in Mandarin lu and sha are the basic words meaning to kill, but xing lu means ‘to kill as punishment.’”

  “So you did something before you came to BASS,” Terrey said to me, “that you need to be punished for.”

  “If it wasn’t Taiwan,” I said, “I don’t know what it could be.”

  “Use your detective skills to figure it out. Who knows, anything you find might be helpful to us somehow.” Terrey looked at both Lynn and me. “But we have to keep you alive for you to be able to do that.”

  “Yeah,” Lynn said. “How can we keep him alive?”

  “By hiring Protection Guaranteed, of course.” Terrey stood up, and Min tensed again. “I breached your security to show you how much you need us—and now I’m going to show you how good we are.”

  4

  EXIT

  It was a dark room, in more ways than one. The site managers kept the environmental gamma levels low, because even in virtual reality, some works are not well-suited for the light.

  “You’re not really a little boy, are you?” asked the newbie observer, who seemed to be appearing as herself.

  “No,” he answered. “This is how I looked when I was five.”

  “Oh. And why is there no name or title on you when I select that option?” Her eyes were looking down as she said that, confirming that she was indeed using one of those “mirror” skins, which were nice in that you could see what the person really looked like, but irritating in that a holo that portrayed an object in the real world was not entirely compatible with the physics of the virtual room. So her eyes were looking down—at her keyboard, mousegloves, or whatever—when she should have been looking at the person to whom she was speaking.

  Mirror skins also only worked for people who were not ashamed and had little to hide, which explained why this woman was the only figure in the room who looked like herself. She was also nice looking, which may have been another reason she was willing to appear this way.

  “I just forgot to enter one when I imported the skin, I guess,” the five-year-old answered, in a boyish voice. The software he was using simulated both the video and audio from the scan of an old family holo. “But you can call me J.J.—that was my nickname as a kid.”

  “Okay, J.J.,” she said, looking down again as she made a note of his name. “I don’t want to intrude—I know why you’re here must be very personal … but since you’re here, you also must want to talk about it with someone…”

  “Actually I first came here just to find out some ways of doing it,” the boy said, scratching his right knee violently. “But after I did, I ended up coming back to build up some more courage. Some people visit here a long time before they do it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard,” she said. “So do you mind if I ask you some more questions?”

  “I guess not,” the boy answered. He picked at his nose with his index finger, and then wiped whatever he had liberated on his bright red sweatshirt, which clashed happily with the yellow bell-bottom pants that had been all the rage thirty years ago. He was sitting, but seemingly only on air, because the program had imported the figure but not the furniture. The woman, on the other hand, was wearing a beige pantsuit and standing, with empty hands hanging motionless at her sides. Both his feet and her feet rested on the floor of the room, however, mercifully borrowing from its physics. Skins like the Sideways Man, whom they would meet shortly, were considerably more disconcerting than even the missing chair.

  “Why do you want to ask me questions?” he said, his fingers now clasped together behind his head, where they would remain for a while. She studied him for a few moments, and then looked aro
und at the other characters in the room, who all seemed to be engaged in their own conversations a safe distance from her.

  “I’ll be honest with you, uh, J.J.,” she finally said, and he noticed that she looked honest. “I’m a freelance journalist, and I’m producing a net feature on … places like Exit.” The boy sat silent, his hands still behind his head, rocking slightly forward and backward on the chair that wasn’t there. So she continued: “Does that turn you off?”

  “It doesn’t turn me on,” he said after some more silence. “But it doesn’t bother me as much as it would some of the people in here.”

  Now they both looked around at the other figures in the room who were still engrossed in their own business. But then the woman jumped when a new one suddenly appeared near her. It didn’t help that he was huge and green and had knobs on his neck, and she had visible difficulty regaining her composure.

  “Frank, you should use the door,” said another woman in an Erin Elly skin, as she glided halfway across the room to greet the monster, taking his oversized hand in hers. The famous actress shot an apologetic glance at the staring pair, then pulled her friend away from them, toward the group she had left. He mumbled something that sounded like an apology, but in another language.

  “Anyway, where were we?” the pretty beige woman asked. “It doesn’t turn you on.”

  “It’s not that kind of a site anyway,” he said, and she smiled nervously when she finally realized he was making a joke. “Though they have them, of course.” He nodded at her, but when she didn’t nod back, he added, “Erotic suicide sites.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, looking even more nervous. “I saw links to some on the way here.”

  The boy wondered why a net journalist would seem uncomfortable with something like that—weren’t they all immersed constantly in every imaginable deviance? Yet this woman didn’t seem so jaded. Bringing his right hand down to scratch his knee, he studied her a little more closely. A little paunch was showing, just below her waist.

  “You’re thinking more of a family feature?” he asked her.

  “Yes, well, most of what I’ve done is oriented that way … so actually I’m trying to branch out, diversify. You know, do some things that are more for adults.” He now knew for sure that she wasn’t very experienced, because she had so easily surrendered control of the conversation. Intrigued, he continued with his own interview.

  “Are you full-time in this business?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, the professional air gone completely now, and just a normal person left. “Actually I’m a housewife, mother of two with another on the way. We desperately need some extra money, and I took some classes in college…”

  She was interrupted as the Sideways Man entered the room, his body starting very small in one corner then growing bigger as it spun around in various directions—something like a wobbling top that was almost done spinning. When it grew to about the size of an actual person it stopped, but was stretched out in a parallel position to the “floor,” rather than a perpendicular one like the boy and the journalist. In the real world, they instinctively cocked their heads to the side to get a better look at the man, but it didn’t work in the virtual reality of the room, so they were forced to look at him in this disconcerting manner. It was like trying to view a sideways picture that comes up on a screen, without the ability to turn the screen or rotate the picture. But they could at least see that he was handsome, and well-dressed in a designer suit. The boy had talked to him before, and gotten to know him well enough to find out that this was a video-shopped version of himself made thinner and more attractive, and the suit was something he could never afford in reality.

  “Meet the Sideways Man,” the little boy said about the figure, who like him had no name displayed. “You might want to talk to him, for your article. He’s made three attempts so far, which obviously failed, but I’ve gotten some good information from him.”

  “Learning from my mistakes,” the man said, in a voice that didn’t seem to quite fit with the way he looked. “Did the three twins come in here yet?”

  “Not that we’ve seen,” the boy replied, not noticing the oxymoron about “three twins.”

  “Good,” the Sideways Man said. “They’re making the rounds of the rooms, and I want to try again. I got cut off after a couple questions, and I want to see if it was an accident.” The boy and lady were puzzled, but didn’t have a chance to ask what he was talking about, because he then said, “Here they are.”

  Appearing in the very center of the room, and forming a triangle so they could look in every direction, were three beautiful Asian women. They were identical in appearance except for the different shades of their business suits, which were at least as expensive as the Sideways Man’s. The first thing noticeable about them was the extremely high projection quality—they obviously had the best net technology available. Better than anyone in the room had ever seen, in fact.

  “Please pardon the intrusion,” they all said at the same time, “but we have one million dollars and a new life to offer someone who meets our criteria. This is a legitimate offer that we are unquestionably able to fulfill, as you can see by our Reality G certification.” They all held out a paper that had appeared in their hands; it contained the company’s logo and a link that could be selected for confirmation.

  “You don’t have to open it,” the Sideways Man said to the reporter and the boy. “Someone did in the other room, and it’s for real.”

  “Well, they have to be pretty serious to just waltz in here,” the boy said, picking his nose again and wiping it on his shirt. “I’ve never seen spam on this site.”

  “It’s like playing the lottery,” the three women in the ad construct continued. “But slightly better odds and you don’t have to buy a ticket. You just have to answer some questions.”

  “I’ll do it,” the Sideways Man said, louder than necessary.

  “Thank you.” Only the one nearest to him spoke now. “Are you male, female, or bi-gender?”

  “Male.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “What is your IQ or highest level of education completed?”

  “Bachelor’s degree.”

  “What is your approximate height?”

  “Six foot.”

  “What is your approximate weight?”

  The Sideways Man paused, then said, “Two-thirty.”

  “No more questions are necessary,” she said almost immediately. “Thank you for participating.”

  “Damn,” he said. “It stopped at the same place before. And I even said a lower number this time.”

  “Can they tell if you’re lying?” the woman asked.

  “No,” the boy said. “Must be a weight range they’re looking for.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

  “Anyone else?” the triplets asked, all together again.

  “Okay,” the woman said. “I’ll try.” She giggled nervously and shrugged her shoulders toward the boy. “This could be that extra money I’m needing.”

  “Thank you,” said the one nearest to her. “Are you male, female, or bi-gender?”

  “Female,” she said confidently.

  “No more questions are necessary. Thank you for participating.”

  There was silence in the room for a while, and the boy felt like everyone was looking at him.

  “Not interested,” he said in his high voice. “I had a lot of money once. I lost it all and ended up here.”

  “Maybe you could do things differently if you had it again,” the woman said, looking down. “Besides, what have you got to lose? If by some chance you win, maybe it was meant to be.”

  “You think this is a game that you ‘win’?” the boy asked, then paused while he scratched his knee. “But what have I got to lose, indeed. I literally have nothing to lose.”

  “Thank you,” the construct near to him said. It must have been programmed to recognize that as one of th
e possible “yes” answers. “Are you male, female, or bi-gender?”

  “Male.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “What is your IQ or highest level of education completed?”

  “A Master’s degree.”

  “What is your approximate height?”

  “Six foot, one half inch.”

  “What is your approximate weight?”

  “One-ninety.”

  “What is your physical location?”

  “Fresno, California.”

  “Are you in good physical health?”

  The little boy paused and started digging in his nose again. In the real world he was thinking, Now we’ll see if they can recognize a lie, or a half-lie at least.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Besides depression and suicidal ideation, do have any other mental health issues?”

  He was briefly taken aback by their apparent clairvoyance about his issues, but then remembered where he was.

  “No,” he answered. Another half-lie. At this point it was somewhat of a game to him.

  “Do you have any neural implants? And if so, what kind?”

  “Yes, the Allware 33 system.” This was true, but he didn’t tell them that his contract had lapsed.

  “Why do you want to die?”

  The boy found this question curious, but he answered: “Like I said, I lost everything.”

  “Could we have some pictures of you, or better yet some holos? We can either extract them from your device or cloud, or you can send them to this link.”

  “Nuh-uh,” the boy mumbled, mostly to himself. “You better not touch my stuff.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m having difficulty understanding what you’re saying. Please try again.”

  No way was the boy going to allow this scary software access to his own files, but What have I got to lose? echoed in his brain enough times that he ended up sending three holos to them.

  Finally, the Asian model asked for his name, social security number, and permission to verify his answers.