Psychic Bonsai

"PSYCHIC BONSAI, OR THE TRIAL OF FETZ, BRANDEMERE AND VAN
TANTRIC"
BY WILLIAM BOURASSA JR.

13,030 WORDS

2451 A ST. APT. F
SAN DIEGO, CA 92102
619 237-6133
WBJUNIOR@PACBELL.NET

Psychic Bonsai,
Or the Trial of Fetz, Brandemere and Van Tantric
By
William Bourassa Jr.

Prologue.
Only one extant video could prove that such a thing had ever happened.
Popularity
brought wealth, wealth could buy reality and replace it with something
else, something
less damaging.
The jittery video showed a vehicle buried nose-first into another,
lights blinking, its
polymer bulk leaning sideways. The first vehicle had plowed headfirst
into the second's
broad side, driving it into a rusted wall.
A dark-skinned man was stumbling out of the driver-side of the first
vehicle, his athletic
body obscured in the low quality of the amateur video. He wasn't shaky,
wasn't sick; just
lethargic and dopey under the influence of stimulants.
Inside the second vehicle, a child's hand was beating against the
closed window. Adult
limbs were twisted at odd angles behind the little fist. The black man
stared at the scene a
moment and started giggling. Rain fell lightly, but he just tumbled to
the ground and
rolled into a fetal ball, laughing.

1.
The noise from the nudie pool above came over Fetz's shoulder like a
muffled reminder
of the absurdities he loved. The film producer's big bulk lunging
around in the water,
sending naked girls giggling and splashing away, was unmistakable,
having become a
running gag among his frequent party guests. There was the clinking of
glasses, miniature
orgies, colorful conversations, and a half-dozen video sets playing art
films, news and
pornos. Absurdity, and madness. The producer's home was one of those
omnipresent
affairs in the Hills, looking down on L.A.'s circuit-board glow. A vast
deck shot into
open air, potted with several pools and lounges.
On the hillside below, Fetz huddled in a semi-circle with fellow
blazers, hitting on an O-
tube. The neon blue lit up his face as he sucked in the hallucinogenic
vapors, eyes
bulging like a frog's. After a moment he passed the tube, chuckling to
himself. He was a
good-looking fellow, shaggy hair, a camouflage jacket, dirty stubble
for a chin. He spent
a lot of cash to look like he didn't care how he looked. Just below his
left ear a spray-
paint bottle was tattooed into the smooth skin of his neck.
"Marv sure throws 'em, not?" said the khaki-clad chap to Fetz's
left.
"Yup." Fetz scratched his head, watching the lights in the valley coil
and ripple in
waves.
"You the guy with that exhibition, right?" the guy took the tube and
started inhaling.
"Yeah."
"Right on." Khaki coughed lightly, staring upward. "God that's
beautiful. So you, what,
you do graffiti murals?"
"Graffiti's been murdered. It's the ashes of an art that was raped and
left for dead a long
time ago." Fetz poked the toe of his shoe into a bubbling spot of soil;
it lifted up, smiled
at him, and flew away.
"No shit? I didn't know that."
"There isn't really a name for what I do. They'll come up with one
eventually. By the
time they name it I'll have moved out, though. Happened before, it'll
happen again."
"That's pretty intense. So what is it you do?"
"A sparrow flies, man. It flies, that's what it's meant to do.
Couldn't tell you what it
does, why. It's spray-paint, walls, and a new reality, man. Worlds on
the backside of
perception. Lives growing out of everything we can't see. It's
open-heart surgery on God,
man." He was being modest and evasive. His last performance exhibition
had sold out
within hours despite astronomical admittance prices. An A-list crowd
had watched
breathlessly as he covered a section of wall outside the Ynez Tower in
Manhattan in just
under three hours. The richest of patrons shelled out eighty bucks a
drink and three
hundred for a meal in the Reserved Pavilion while the rest stood in the
cordoned-off
street. It had been a resounding success, hailed by NY Times art critic
Marc Sheldon as
an "unequivocal encomium to post-contemporary unrealism, an anti-pass?
coup d'etat of
epic proportions?made of barbwire spirituality and guerilla empathy for
the honor of
poverty, street life, and the common person." Or something like
that.
"Jesus, you really get fucked up on this shit," khaki coughed.
"Got an orthodontist friend in Phuket sends me some every couple
months," said the
handsome black man sitting with them. His name was Brandemere "The
Brand" Carlton,
and he was a football star for the Austin Prowlers. He'd played three
games last season,
half as many as the previous year (contract negotiations had stalled,
but he wasn't
backing down despite the bruise his last divorce had put on his
finances). Everyone knew
he only had a season or two left in him, but he'd gotten a good run;
everyone had turned a
blind eye four years back when he'd gone on vacation only to return
with the playing
ability of a college pick. Who wanted to bring up sticky possibilities
like muscular
reconstruction and performance-grade physio-therapy when everyone was
happy? Players
could have The Brand for a few more years, the owners were getting
their money out of
him, and the man himself was hotter than ever.
He had been listed in a dozen "Top 100 Most Beautiful People" lists,
cited as the most
savvy self-promoter in sports history, and raked in billions through
the overwhelming
array of products bearing his name. He'd also sold the rights to his
phallic structure to the
genitalia remodeling studio AdoniSculpt for a bundle; thousands of
lacking clients now
flocked to their facilities worldwide to have a massive, shapely penis
just like The Brand
(their various sex partners were not complaining).
"Powerful stuff - no lacing in here," said the guy in khaki.
"I saw that painting, man. Pretty good stuff." Brand stared at Fetz,
starting to feel the
effects.
"It's not for everyone. Not for anyone. People don't know what they
want."
"Yeah, hear that."
"When are you gonna play again?"
Brand shook his head. "They're really putting up a fight. I don't
think they get it. Get to
stay behind their walls and rake in the rewards while I'm out there
busting my hump for
'em. You know what I'm saying."
"How very bourgeois."
"Yeah, that's it."
"You were good. Back then, man. I was a big fan."
The Brand smiled, looking older than Fetz remembered in those games he
watched in
junior high. "I don't think I got another season in me. But I still got
to take care of
myself."
They stayed for fifteen minutes before going back up to the
deck.

2.
The idea first emerged in the middle of a conversation Brand was
listening in on, between
an amazing Bavarian ultramodel and a porn producer. He made sure to get
the German
girl's number into his book and excused himself.
Something about Fetz had attracted him. Not in a homosexual kind of
way, though
Brand wasn't opposed to that sort of thing, but in a more fundamental
sense. They shared
a way of looking at the world.
"Fetz," Brand walked up with two bottles of lager, handing one to the
pop-graffiti artist.
"You ever been to Japan?"
?
The Brand's private transport was in the shop all week, so they took
his stretch over to
the LAPT station and rented a lounge on one of the Tokyo-bound
transports. Fetz felt like
part of an entourage, since most of the two dozen or more people going
with them were
friends and followers of The Brand's.
The off-duty journalist who'd been flirting with both him and an
actress in their group
had eventually chosen the latter as her subsequent companion; they'd
gone into the
restroom immediately on boarding. Fetz didn't particularly mind. He was
feeling mellow
after a shot of trenescaline to spread out his descent from the blazing
session.
Rain slicked by the windows in suspended white lines that only burst
from the darkness
when the airborne transport's signal lights flashed. They were up to
cruising speed and
would be in Tokyo within the hour. Patches of starlit sky passed
rhythmically overhead, a
moonless Pacific night above the clouds.
"I got this buddy who's in Japan right now," Brand said as he sat next
to Fetz. "Pop-dub
star. Chris Van Tantric."
Fetz laughed dreamily. "Your buddy is Chris Van Tantric?"
"Didn't know if you'd heard of him."
"Hey, I'm a pretty savvy guy, Brand. I got to keep an eye on the world
of pop. It's what I
ridicule. Bread and butter." His eyes sagged, a wry smile on his
face.
"Yeah, yeah. You're a party animal too. I know that. Van Tantric is
the man to see in
Tokyo, believe me. Been on tour there for the last couple weeks, now
he's staying over to
shoot a video. Guy is wild, Fetz. Goes days without sleep. Lives in
another world. Kinda
like you. You guys can talk all that spiritual shit."

3.
Tokyo was drenched in rain, just like the coast off of L.A.
The transport pulled in on time and the entourage fanned out in small
clusters of
precision-guided hedonism. The Brand's closest buddies went off on a
tangent of their
own, looking for a trip bar they'd heard about on the ride over. Only
Brand's bodyguard
Merrill - an imposing three-hundred pounder - and two of his childhood
friends came
along with Fetz and him. Fetz felt distinctly white in this group, in
this city. He kept his
hands in his pockets, mostly. Their first stop was a bar that served a
favorite drink of
Brand's crew, after which they headed for Neon-Sashimi.
A world of riotous neon and advertising animation glared at Fetz
through the Shinjuku's
thin mist, pulsing, twirling, turning circles, flashing in dizzying
patterns. Transparent
walkways towered in layers high overhead, up to thirty stories in some
places, crowds
filing overhead and below. Cool artificial air circulated through the
noisome super-mall,
tingling his facial skin. Service androids peered from clubs and shops
and arcades, trying
to convince every passerby to stop.
Neon-Sashimi was a three-tiered, five-star sushi lounge, brimming over
with a multi-
ethnic clientele. The Brand's group took up residence at the
sushi-pool, an elongated
waist-high pool with a counter and stools running the perimeter. Nude
models floated on
their backs in the water, plates of sushi resting on their bodies at
the groin, belly, breasts,
and forehead. They lay perfectly still, drifting aimlessly through the
water while clients
picked the plates off them. A tower at the pool's center rose up to
house the kitchen, from
which descended the occasional waitress on a wire to re-supply the
floating human buses.
The lounge was famous for its entirely human, Japanese-born,
Keigo-speaking service
team, from the janitors to the managers. Translator clips were given to
customers as they
entered; there was no compromise.
They were already through their second round of sushi when Chris Van
Tantric showed
up, looking exactly like a pop-dub star, perfectly at home amidst the
vast electric light of
the Shinjuku. His hair sprung out at all directions, perfectly kept,
and his chiseled,
carefully structured torso showed through an open designer jacket. He
wore taper-cut
slacks and one-piece New Martins - the shoes alone were a fortune.
Whatever cologne he
wore was subtle but intoxicating, and his generic Caucasian skin fairly
glowed.
"Brand, my man The Brand, gimme some love brother," he said as he
strode up, hugging
Brandemere with theatrical precision. "What the fuck are you doing in
this town my
friend?"
It wasn't really a question. Van Tantric made friendly with Brand's
companions, joking
with each of them in familiar tones. He sat near Fetz. "How are you
man, I'm Chris."
Fetz shook his hand loosely, grinning sarcastically. "That's one
helluva suit you're
wearing." He half-expected to get in a fight over the comment.
Instead, Van Tantric burst into careless laughter. "Yeah, part of the
image, my friend,
part of the image. You're that graffiti muralist, right? I've seen your
stuff. Looking good.
Excellent deconstructionism, no doubt about it. I admire that. I admire
anyone who feels
at ease tearing down what everyone else has worked so hard for."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Fetz laughed.
"Hey man, I'm serious. Just 'cause I make a living doing this doesn't
mean I think it's
divine, or untouchable."
"So what's the deal with dub stars? You, what, you lip-synch
everything?"
Van Tantric took the next half-hour to down a plate of sashimi and
offer a rough
overview of the pop-dub industry and his experience in it. He'd started
out as a stripper in
Chicago four years ago when he moved into choreographing his own
performances,
showcasing his growing talents as a synch performer. He specialized in
contempo-synth
songs and became popular enough to earn an interview in a local arts
magazine. Hanson
Representation signed him for a deal.
Pop-dub was ridiculously popular in Japan these days. The West was
catching on, but
most labels were keeping it cult-status to let the momentum build.
Stars worked with
crews of up to a hundred songwriters, musicians, producers, promotion
specialists, stage-
show designers, and dance choreographers - to name a few - in launches
covering live
concerts, virtual performances, worldwide album releases, multi-part
video series and
more.
"So how many albums have you come out with?" asked Fetz, feeling the
surge of energy
from the power drink he'd downed a few minutes ago.
"My first one comes out next May. I've got a single from last year
that's still going
strong in the Southeast, and another next week. Mostly I've been
touring, doing the
virtual performances from our studio outside the city."
"So you don't actually have a whole album. And you've only done one
song."
Van Tantric laughed again. "That's about right. Don't get me wrong,
though, I work my
ass off. I don't take my work seriously, but I do take myself
seriously. I believe in what
the process can do for me, and I cover a lot of good material. Once my
team gets the ball
rolling I'll have a lot of originals to perform."
"You don't actually sing yourself, though."
"No, I've got a couple of great singers I've been working with. Great
voices. Ugly sons
of bitches though - my God, the talent fate dumps on ugly people is
amazing."
"Jesus."
"Hard to swallow? How about this: I'm fucking beautiful. I've got a
body I've worked
hard for, I've made the money to fix what I can't exercise into
perfection, and I've never
been unfair to anyone a day in my life. I'm not interested in helping
solve problems in the
world. I do not give a fuck about that. I'm not smart enough to know
what the problems
are in the first place, and certainly not arrogant enough to think I
know how to fix them. I
know what I'm good at and I stick with it."
"You don't think you're taking advantage of them? Screwing 'em in the
ass while you
get credit?"
"You took an art form that was born on the street and turned it into a
business. What do
you call that?"
"I'm speaking for people who can't?aw, fuck you. That's different. At
least I feel. I feel
pity, and compassion."
"Compassion is nothing but wanting everyone else to be just like you.
Compassionate
people can't stand the sight of the sick and poor, so they try changing
them into
something more palatable. More like themselves."
"I know what it's like in the street. I know the pain those people are
suffering through."
"You know shit. You're art school white-bread money."
"The hell with you. I don't pretend to be something I'm not."
The dub star slammed back a shot of something green and sighed in
contentment. "Those
poor bastards with the double-chins, fat asses and great voices? Where
else will they get
their talent into the public ear? I am a service to them. You think I'm
cruel to them, that's
your prerogative, but I don't see it that way. I see myself as the
physical embodiment of
their talents. All of 'em. The same goes for songwriters who can't
sing, or
choreographers who can't dance. I am the vessel for all those people,
man. Just like you.
Hell, I know my place.
"But I really respect your opinion, too, man. You're a smart guy." Van
Tantric clapped a
hand on Fetz's shoulder with a careless smile.
"You're an asshole." Fetz stared down into his empty glass,
sulking.

4.
"Told you he was one trippy guy," Brand said to Fetz as they made their
way through the
crowds around the transporter station.
They'd had to slow down every five minutes as beaming fans came up
gleefully begging
for autographs from Van Tantric. So popular was he at the moment that
most didn't
notice the football superstar standing nearby.
"Pretty trippy."
After getting on one of the southbound transports they stopped off in
an obscure section
of Tokyo, five levels down, where it was mostly quiet restaurants,
massage parlors,
karaoke lounges, and coffee houses. The area was refreshing after the
Shinjuku's sensory
assault. Instead of touristy masses, there were lovers walking
arm-in-arm, old folks
smoking outside the restaurants, lifelong locals, families. Traditional
music drifted in
between alleys, mingling with the smells of homemade dishes. A few
decrepit service
androids swept the streets or carried trash.
"This is where the real people come," Van Tantric said from two paces
ahead, leading
them through the labyrinth. "I love that overwhelming hardcore shit in
the city, but this is
where you get back in touch with things, out here.
"Doing all that, living the life, finding the newest highs - that's
dangerous stuff. Sucks
you up off the ground, like a tornado. But one day you'll have to come
down. Gravity and
all. It's either come down hard or drift into space. Can't survive up
there, and you'll
break into pieces like the guy in that Chinese legend if you fall. Some
people subscribe to
meditation, the bodily arts, and all that - I know I certainly do - to
keep you grounded.
But usually the simplest way is just to go someplace real, where you
can look people in
the eye."
He turned into an alley, descending some steps. Garbage cans were
lined against the
walls, strings of laundry overhead. Apartment windows on either side
gave off a warm
light, the sounds of urban living humming inside. Fetz wasn't sure what
kind of
entertainment could be found out here in the sticks. Brand raised his
eyebrows in silent
assent.
One more right turn the alley dead-ended into a brick building with a
single entrance
atop wrought-iron steps. Windows were on either side, flowers sitting
in planters under
each. It was unassuming, enticing. Van Tantric smiled a sleazy,
all-knowing sort of smile
and led them to the door.
?
A competent, pleasant-faced Japanese woman let them into the lobby. The
d?cor was
extremely traditional, save for the surrounding brick walls. Paper
screens separated
rooms and halls. Minimalist furniture was organized geometrically.
Every element was
made of either wood, rice paper, or cloth. Lanterns hung colorfully in
the corners, giving
a soft light to it all.
"Welcome to the House of Bee-Pollen," the hostess said in a clipped
accent. "Please, you
sit here. Tea?"
"Please." Van Tantric sat first, crossing his legs and flexing his
toes through his socks.
Brand's bodyguard stood in the entrance, watching carefully. "None for
your boy, eh
Brandy?"
"He gets more than you or I will ever see, believe me. My boy's
alright." Brand took the
little teacup from the kimono-clad server. She next turned to Fetz and
poured him a cup.
Something about her caught his eye. Beneath the makeup she was?
"Hey, this is a white chick."
Van Tantric gave off that ludicrous hollow laugh. He educated them
while waiting for
the hostess to return.
The House of Bee-Pollen had once been an invaluable commodity. An
American lawyer-
businessman had conceived the idea while visiting over twenty years
ago. He'd extended
a few days to find a particular kind of brothel but came up empty. He
eventually finagled
his way into a meeting with one of Japan's leading owners of the sex
service industry.
They'd had lunch, and in that two hours come up with a business plan
for their new
venture. Simply put, they would train girls of all races in traditional
Japanese sex arts.
It wasn't so simple finding sex teachers and social conditioners who
could mould girls
from early childhood, due to Westernization in contemporary Japanese
culture. The
second hurdle was finding pre-adolescent girls from all over the world,
preferably
orphaned, on the purchase market, who would eventually possess the
physical beauty
necessary. It was an extremely expensive long-term investment with a
fifty-fifty chance
to sink or swim. Over seventy-five girls were imported, all under the
age of six, to begin
their conditioning. Of those, a majority developed into highly
attractive and submissive
adolescents.
The brothel opened to an elite clientele, mostly friends and business
partners of the
owners. Its remote location, inimitable service, and fusion of
tradition and exoticism
guaranteed that it would have many imitators, but no equals. For a time
when enjo kosai
had long since reached its apex and been steadily declining, it was a
shot in the arm.
Beautiful girls of all races, perfectly trained in the demur passivity
for which traditional
Japan was famed?the men couldn't get enough, no matter the price.
All three of them took some mind-relaxants that Van Tantric had
brought, along with a
stimulant the server brought in little sugar cubes. Their energy was
rising as the hostess
returned with a digital projector.
She placed it on the table between them and let the slideshow begin.
The holographic
projections were almost tangible; they all leaned forward in
anticipation. The girls were
all beautiful - by every man's definition of the word, of every kind
and color, height and
weight, shape and tone. There was, however, a limit on age; only girls
over fourteen were
allowed to work, a stipulation on which the American half of the
ownership had insisted
for moral reasons.
"Oh, I think I'm gonna have to go with this one," Brand said,
chuckling to himself. "Girl
got some lovin' in her, I can see that now."
Frozen like a miniature sculpture, the Caucasian girl was curvaceous,
with rolling hips
and pert breasts. She was the blond Venus of a rococo painting. Her
name was Yellow
Treasures on a Summer Day.
With a nod the hostess turned to Van Tantric, who continued staring at
the scrolling
holographic sex servers. "I can't speak for my pal, but I'm going to
need a few more
minutes. I lack the dick-minded impetus of The Brand here."
The old friends smiled at each other and the hostess nodded, escorting
Brand through a
hall.
There was only the soft whir of the projector between Van Tantric and
Fetz now.
"You know, we got something in common. I see why The Brand brought you
out here.
All three of us, we share it. You know what I'm talking about?"
"Can't say as I do," Fetz replied nonchalantly. He took another sip
from the tea. It felt
good to have something rudimentary in his stomach.
"Sure you do, but that's okay. You're new to this. It's called
self-fulfillment.
Philosophers have talked about it, people have idealized it, heroes
have been lauded for
it, but that's all horse shit. You don't learn that kind of thing, it
educates you. Either it's
running the show or it's not. Once you give up pretending you're in
control you're free,
you know. You don't have to care about anything. Not about other
people, opinions,
morals. The hell with it all."
"Spoken like a true former stripper."
That hollow laugh again. Nothing, nothing at all seemed to insult Van
Tantric. He was
insubstantial; you couldn't injure fog, or a dream. It was a quality
Fetz despised in most
Buddhist-derivative devotees: it's all one big illusion.
"Ah, you know what I'm saying. I can see it in you." The one true
thing in Van Tantric's
soul flickered cold and distant in his eye as he stared at Fetz. "It's
gonna take you for a
ride. All the way, Fetz, all the way."
The holograph slideshow skipped as it started over.
Van Tantric threw back the rest of his tea and held one hand over his
eyes, extending his
other to point randomly in circles. "I pick?this one."
It was a curvaceous Northern Indian girl with big eyes, serpentine
lips. Van Tantric
stood up as the hostess returned.
"I have decided to fuck her," he said with a salesman's grin.

5.
Apple Blossom was a young white girl, coffee-colored hair, medium
height with a figure
just slightly more slender than was considered classical. The name fit
her soft-spoken,
doe-eyed look. She was the paragon of submission, as if her partner's
pleasure was all
she needed.
Fetz had picked up on her immediately; he didn't need to look through
the slideshow
after that, though he'd stalled while the other two had made their
choices. He felt an
uncommon need arise when he saw her face. Something he'd never felt
before, had no
name for.
Things were shifting as the hostess led him down the screen-lined
hall, soft giggling
shadows on either side floating against gravity. The wood slats
undulated, urging him to
his room like heat waves in the desert. All the blue and green artistry
of the hostess'
kimono played out in miniature stories, telling tales from history and
myth. He imagined
there were whispers in the hall, telling him how lucky he was to be
meeting this girl. No
words came from the hostess' mouth, though it moved. He couldn't hear
her, not in the
Hall of Whispers. Nor when he was led into the room where Apple Blossom
waited for
him.
She didn't have any makeup on, as he'd requested. She wore only a
long-sleeve white
kimono with pale, decorative maple leaves and a hanhaba obi around her
waist. It was
simple and casual.
Looking at her, he couldn't see a Japanese odalisque. Any moment he
expected her to
open her mouth, say something flippant about the way he was dressed,
crack wise like
any American girl would. She belonged in a mall, in the Valley. No, she
belonged in a
feed store ringing up orders for alfalfa, or under an oak tree chewing
her lip over thoughts
of the big city. But that wasn't her. She wasn't talking, wasn't
thinking about anything
but what he wanted. Fetz was feeling the erotic tingle in his shins,
his groin, the heat in
his throat and he suddenly knew how far from home he was.
They didn't say anything to each other during sex. O-Trance stimulants
were in full
effect as they wrapped around each other. Somehow her slender fingers
knew everything,
found what he wanted before he knew; how did she know so much about
him? They'd
only just met, he wondered childishly.
Hallucinations soaked his eyes and mind by the time they found their
rhythm.
Nonetheless he believed she was sincere when she cried out, blushing
red at the throat
and across her chest. His teeth bit lightly into her shoulder and he
wanted to stay in her
forever, for as long as it lasted. She was a hot ocean he'd never swim
through.
The rumpled kimono stirred on the floor just behind her head, the
printed maple leaves
falling slowly in a fall breeze. They spun off the fabric and twirled
across the floor,
lightly dancing upward to land on Apple Blossom's breasts. He sighed at
the beauty of it,
spinning one of the leaves with a finger; it stuck to him like ink and
he painted lines
across her torso, leaving kanji poetry to mingle with her sweat.
The thumping of her heart grew insistently louder, pumping radiant
blood beneath her
chest. He saw it glow with warm goodness and knew that he'd found
someone pure at
last. Lava flowed in her veins, pouring out of her powerful heart to
feed a body-full of
living thought. Salt tingled on his lips from tears that finally had a
reason to fall. He
spoke to her, feeling the universe peering over his shoulder.
"Oh Jesus, you're the reason. You are the reason."

6.
It was past 3:15 a.m. when Van Tantric emerged from his room. The
Indian girl was just
ahead of him, her head bowed with what might be seen as slight
dejection - hard to spot
underneath such implacable timidity. He grinned at the things he'd done
to her and
winked as she passed down a separate hall. The House was starting to
quiet down - not
that it had been quite raucous earlier. Koto music was playing quietly
in the background
and light rain pattered away outside.
One of these days he'd have to get his own bodyguard. The Brand's was
standing near
the doorway to one of the dining rooms, watching over his boss and
Fetz, who were
already inside slurping down noodles.
"Christ, what time is it?" Van Tantric took a seat nearby and motioned
to the waitress.
"You find the craziest shit, man," Brand raised a long stream of
noodles from his bowl.
"Food isn't half-bad either. I think these are homemade."
"Yeah, it's actually a family recipe from one of the owners - not
making that up.
Something like two hundred years old. God knows these people can trace
that shit back to
who-knows-when." Van Tantric ordered his own noodles and some steamed
gyoza.
"These girls are pretty wild," Fetz said with a mouthful. "I'm not
saying I've been all
over the place, but this is like a dreamland. Does things to your
mind."
"That's why we do it, my man."
It was quiet for a few moments as Van Tantric looked through the menu,
his companions
eating in silence. Eventually the pop star closed his menu and
stretched.
"Alright boys, one final ride and then we call it a night. What d'ya
say?" He produced
three black pills from a plastic case in his jacket pocket, sliding
them across the varnished
wood surface. They made little scraping sounds.
Fetz couldn't quite look at them. He kept his eyes down on the
noodles. "I dunno, man.
I'm starting to wind down here."
"Pussy." Brand picked one up, clapped it back into his mouth, and took
a swig of beer.
He adjusted his sunglasses and hissed through perfect teeth. "Goddamn.
Need to bring a
few cases of that home."
Van Tantric's eyes glittered brightly at Fetz. He was smiling, but not
happily.
Without looking over, Fetz snapped up the pill, threw it back, and
said "Fuck you."

7.
A blur of robes and perfume flew through the dining room; the hostess,
soon followed by
two others. All three of them whisked down the hall; muffled noise was
coming from the
far end. The women disappeared into a room and shut the screen.
Apple Blossom was crying, sobbing big unflattering tears. She was
kneeling on the floor
with Yellow Treasures on a Summer Day's arms around her. A few other
girls stood in
the corners, hands over their mouths.
"He took them from me," Apple Blossom was wailing in Keigo-Japanese,
over and over.
"He took them from me!"
This was madness. The hostess arrived in the midst of the scene with
fire in her eyes.
She slapped Apple Blossom with a cold, hard hand, the sound snapping
through the air
like a gunshot.
"You are embarrassing everyone! Stop it!"
The girl was inconsolable. She turned to Yellow Treasures. "And you -
did you see him?
The one you told me about, he's here! He's here too! They're in the
dining room right
now! Oh, they came back for both of us!"
There was another gunshot-crack as the matron slapped Apple
Blossom.
"Enough!" she cried and clapped her reddened palms together twice. The
other girls
were afraid to move. Finally a petite black girl moved forward, helping
Yellow Treasures
lift Apple Blossom off her knees. The hostess hissed at them the whole
time, "Out! Out!"
?
A door flung open in a black alley and Apple Blossom was thrown out.
She was still
crying, virtually oblivious to her treatment. Some of the girls stared
down at her in pity,
or fear.
"Take the kimono! Take it!" cried the hostess. She slapped the
unwilling prostitutes,
pinched their necks, pushed them into the alley. They fumbled with
Apple Blossom,
tugging at her kimono, unwrapping her obi. The girl clung to her
clothing in fright.
"Yellow Treasures! Don't stay there, come with me! You need to,
please! The boy who
raped you, don't you remember? That's him!"
Yellow Treasures stared down at her from under messy blond tresses.
Her eyes were
dull. "I can't," she whispered, and pulled the struggling girl's sash
away. Some of the
girls held Apple Blossom back while the others peeled the kimono free,
sleeves
swooshing off to leave the girl naked. She collapsed as the frightened
prostitutes skittered
away nervously, their sinful prize in tow.
"You will never come back! You are a shame!" the hostess spit as the
door swung shut,
leaving Apple Blossom on her knees.
Heavy mist dusted her hair with tiny sparkles as she sobbed, the
asphalt grinding into her
knees and shins.
?
Cold metal claws gripped her shoulders, her fingers frozen, as the
ground passed beneath
her. Her feet, tapping out on the wet ground - tap-tap-tap-tap-tap -
faded slowly away.
No one would want her now. No one would want such a disorderly, unruly
woman. Not
for a servant, not for a wife. She wanted to please someone, anyone,
but that would never
happen again. She was doomed, self-damned. She couldn't change
that?
Something that had welled up inside just minutes ago now seemed strong
as an ocean
wave. Her mind felt a million miles deep, descending backward in a
black, endless
tunnel. Had she been living atop this pit, on the thatch blanket of a
hunter's trap? Where
had it come from? Why had it opened up now, in her hour of need? She
was falling.
There was a force moving around there, chasing her: Anger. It arose,
from deep inside, a
hot boiling mass. Where did this come from? Why should anger rear its
fiery head? Take
it away, she cried silently. No, came the reply, you need me. It
swarmed through all the
ducts of her mind, filling them with the vigor of a young intellect,
one fresh as the day of
its imprisonment. You remember, it murmured. You'll destroy everything,
she
whimpered. You'll be free, it assured her. A constellation lit up
inside her, revealing a
distance she hadn't seen since childhood.
Childhood.
Terror struck her, fear for the work that had been wrought inside of
her, the monument
raised by hands other than her own - the anger was hunting it down,
sniffing for it like a
starving beast. They'd labored so long to build it for her, shown her
the way to hide
inside it. They trained her how to behave so that you were desired by
others, how to hide,
how to disappear behind a performer's mask. It had been so safe when
she'd finally
learned it, a sacred orchard no man knew of. You are imprisoned. She
hid behind the
apple tree, white-and-pink-tipped petals falling all around her. All
the carefully-laid
bricks thundered as the wall first shivered, then cracked, then erupted
in dust and debris.
It had taken years to construct, and was gone in moments. The thing on
the other side,
coughing through the dust, stood innocent and angry. You'll be
free.

8.
Leonard Baker's phone chimed with a melody denoting the call was from
outside,
unknown. A payphone. The boy didn't move to get it.
On one of twelve screens mounted to his workstation a game was being
played out. Leo
had his hands buried in game-gloves and was thoroughly obliterating the
competition. A
series of small holographic projectors flashed non-stop messages, most
from other
gamers. One popped up, the minotaur-head of a player's character
bellowing an insult.
Leo shifted his gaze for a moment, pinpointed a spot on the screen and
winked. He sent a
vulgar reply and continued.
Despite being a world-class gamer, Leo had never entered the GlobeNet
Olympics. On
the whole, he'd racked up enough victories to be considered one of the
elite, but they
were distributed across a variety of illegal identity profiles,
dispersing their potency.
Curiously, he'd never registered a legal profile; it would give him
access to lucrative
professional competitions, but he declined. Most of his contemporaries
knew this was
quite deliberate: the one way for a rarefied wunderkind like Leo to
stay out of the
Olympics was to dilute his scores in such a manner. There was a certain
degree of rebel
admiration because of this; his resistance had even started an
anti-legitimizing trend
popular among the newcomers, a sub-culture dedicated to illegal
gaming.
Leo's closest confidantes - and they were few - couldn't guess at the
exact number of
victories he'd racked up collectively. Folklore grew so thick around
Leo he'd become
something close to legend. His cool silence served to fuel the
rumor-mill: he was a post-
nuclear theoretician in Vlosgrod; he was a pair of government-project
twins; he was an
artificial intelligence.
For someone fourteen years old, he'd accomplished a lot and stayed out
of trouble.
Authorities had never homed in on him because Leo was, for all intents
and purposes, a
simple freelance programmer with perfectly legal books and a spotless
police record -
completely spotless. He had remained untouchable for nearly a five
years.
There was, of course, the stack of safety drives in the corner, but
that was a gray area.
They stored things that protected him, but could damn him just as fast.
Very gray area.
The phone was still ringing.
Leo didn't keep an answering machine because he never left his
apartment, and didn't
want calls when he slept (four hours a night, usually). After a moment
he backed out of
the game and slid off his gloves. He picked up the phone.
"Baker Programming, Baker speaking."
"Lennie? Lennie it's Rachel. Please let me see you."
There was a brief pause. Leo's face stayed placid.
"Do you still know where I live?"
"The apartment, right? You?have not moved?"
"No. The apartment. Do you need some food?"
"I?I?"
"I'll order some food. How soon will you be here?"
"One block, maybe?two block away?"
"Okay, see you then."
He hung up. If there was anything disturbing in the call, it
registered as a blank pause
before Leo turned back to his station and slipped the gloves on.

9.
Apple Blossom hung up the phone and choked twice, putting a hand to her
mouth as she
fought the chunky heat in her chest. Rain left her hair limp in her
eyes, the drops
splattering heavy on her fingers and rolling into her sleeves. She
didn't want to cry. She
wanted to see her Lennie again.
How had things become so violent, so strange? Kneeling before the old
man in a back
alley, she'd felt desperation. The voice in the back of her mind had
gone quiet for the few
minutes it took to get the money. She'd felt tired, exhaustion hanging
on her shoulders
like sacks of useless lead. When business was concluded she'd taken the
man's coat and
cash - how had she ever found herself working for a coat? Men had once
spent fortunes
for a few precious moments with her. Her pride, like everything else,
was broken into
shards and mingled with a hundred awful contradictions. What was pride?
What good
was it? This thing, this discovery of emotion, had violated her peace,
broken open the
world. Confliction spread through all her feelings, all her thoughts -
her feet wouldn't
lock on ground. In those moments?
We'll go to our brother's apartment, the voice said. I want to see him
too.
Who are you?
I am Rachel.
No. She trudged along the sidewalk, keeping the coat closed. Her feet
were numb. She
had to watch them as they walked along to make sure she didn't stumble,
or stub her toes.
There wasn't any feeling left down there to warn her, otherwise. I'm
Rachel.
You're Apple Blossom.
Blonde tresses.
Poor little Yellow Treasures. Apple Blossom put four chilled little
fingers to her lips,
straining not to cry again. Poor little Yellow Treasures.
Do you want to go back for her?
Apple Blossom's head shook back and forth, half against the tears,
half against her
desire to save her feeble companion. What would they be doing to her
now? What would
they do in the hours before they left? Would she be left humbled like
the last time, when
she'd returned to the House a sad, pathetic little creature, unable to
speak for seven days?
We'll go back for her. Such assurance. She is ours, now - ours to
save.
No one was on the streets anymore. The old neighborhood had emptied,
leaving lonely
neon signs to tint the rain red and pink and electric-blue. The fa?ade
of the apartment
building was darker, heavier, dirtier than she'd remembered it. Once,
not long ago, she'd
come here for a few hours. She was given one day off each year, and
she'd chosen to
come here when she learned he'd moved in. Now she had all the days left
in her life, and
she only wanted to come here again.
She pressed the button for Leo's apartment.
"Come up," he said on the other end.
The lobby was deserted, the stairs cold and quiet. His room was on the
fourth floor,
behind a non-descript door, just like the other six. She didn't know
exactly what he did
for a living - programming, he said, but it felt more complex,
mysterious. He lived in a
world of disembodied voices and complex machinery.
?
Her feet left watery prints on the rug running the length of the hall.
With a cold,
tremulous fist she knocked.
There was a slight creaking inside, movement, and the door
opened.
Leo sat in his transport-chair, the simple machine whirring softly.
Her eyes went to his
face, then his legs, cut off at the knee. He was wearing baggy
dress-pants folded neatly
back underneath his thighs. His shirt was white, a button-down, with a
neatly-folded
burgundy tie. She started crying right there - He got dressed for
me.
"You wear a tie," she said as she leaned down and hugged him
tightly.
"Sometimes. On special occasions." His voice was flat, monotonous. He
hugged her
back as if it were foreign protocol, something he respected but didn't
understand. "I got
you some American food, too. Do you want to come in?"
She almost laughed at that, sad, and wiped an eye. He was so sweet, so
formal. She
couldn't imagine the last time someone had been inside who wasn't
carrying bags of food
or new equipment. Then she remembered that it had probably been
her.
Leo closed the door behind her and whirred over to the kitchen,
expecting her to follow.
She plodded behind him.
"Lennie?I can change, yes??"
His transport-chair turned back to her, a quizzical look on his face.
She pulled up the
collar of the coat. Finally, he seemed to register.
"Oh. You can have some of my pants. I have pants, shirts, underwear,
some sweaters. I
don't have any socks or shoes though. Everything is clean."

10.
Apple Blossom was certain she'd be vomiting in the bathroom soon, but
it didn't matter.
A hamburger. Fries. Soda. Ketchup. Her stomach was tearing itself
apart, fighting against
a decade of delicate conditioning with fine Japanese cuisine.
The kitchen was clean, free of decoration like the rest of the
apartment. The only things
he kept were two pictures: one of them as children, one of their
parents. Both sat on a
square shelf jutting out of the narrow kitchen wall, like a shrine. She
imagined him
looking up at it each morning before breakfast.
Leo didn't say much. He never had, even as a little boy. They looked a
lot like each
other, she thought. Smallish noses, elfin chins, connected earlobes. He
didn't look aged,
his skin soft and fair from so little sunlight.
"I'm glad you aren't working there anymore," he finally said, not
looking up from his
fries.
Now you should ask him.
"I am too," she replied. The grimy, rusted machine of her English was
starting to
function again.
"Are you going to stay with me now?"
"I don't know. I need to do things. I have to go in few minutes?" the
presence at the
back of her mind was rustling, like a snake flexing its muscles, a
she-lion's flank
twitching. "Tonight. Before day."
"I'm glad you're not working there anymore," he repeated. The way he
kept his head
ducked, she knew he didn't want to look at her. He'd probably blush, or
have to excuse
himself. He'd never gotten over it, really, and had always felt doubly
impotent: he
couldn't face it himself, couldn't help his sister. "You shouldn't go
back. You're out of
there now, you shouldn't go back."
"But?I have to."
"Why?"
Apple Blossom touched her fingertips together. They prickled as they
warmed. "I have
to save her."
"Save who?"
Poor little Yellow Treasures. There were so many bad things that had
been done to her.
She didn't deserve it?any of it. How could anyone be so cruel? She felt
the warmth of a
blush rise up her neck and cheeks; her head hung lower, shears of dark
hair dangling
before her face.
"She needs me. She doesn't know it, but she needs me. They have done
bad things to her
and they'll do it again. I know they will. I need to save her."
On time, Apple Blossom's stomach began to churn and make unpleasant
noises. Leo
nodded as if it made all the sense in the world. "They kept you on some
pretty fancy food
over there, didn't they?"
Before she left, she hung her head and asked him: "How did you find
me? Did you come
out here?because of me?"
Leonard looked through the bags of food, trying to find something that
wasn't there.
"Oh, you know. I'm good at that stuff."

11.
That Leonard Baker loved his sister more than life itself was forever
confirmed by his
placing an order for illegal products with a fellow gamer (a radical
conservative). The
items were, specifically: a kind of modified android known as a PCO,
and two semi-
automatic handguns. Though she would never know exactly how shocking
was Leonard's
behavior, Apple Blossom certainly knew that she was loved by him.
To the digital companions of Leonard's immediate social circle the
news that he had
done all this was outrageous enough; that he had - according to the
rumor - given his
actual address as a delivery point might well have torn down every
fa?ade of legend
surrounding him. It was anathema, but only to those who understood its
relevance, that
burgeoning community of online gamers.
This was how much he loved his sister - this, among so many other
things, was
something she could not ever understand. He wondered briefly if Rachel
would one day
know what he had done to be near her: the time spent in a programmer
sweatshop as a
child; the labor his captors had extracted from his prodigious mind;
his cataloguing of
their every illegal act and the way he'd hidden this information in the
archives of
INTERPOL; how he at twelve years of age had blackmailed his masters
into releasing
him under the threat of this information being released on his death;
his spending a
fortune and considerable time to hide himself in this tiny hovel of
urban Tokyo so he
could be close to his sister when the day came she needed him.
The PCO unit arrived in a nondescript manner, as a delivery vehicle
pulled up to the
apartment building and with the aide of a hydraulic lifter deposited
the lengthy plastic
crate upright alongside the entry steps, leaving it to the
early-morning rain. Now that his
physical address was 'out to sea' as the phrase went, Leonard's
contingency plan was
underway. In hours he would be moved, his equipment wiped clean and
physically
dissolved, his assets withdrawn into something tangible (fine art,
perhaps, or a collection
of vintage magazines; he wanted something simple and easy to move). His
virtual
accounts would be closed quickly and permanently; new identities were
already
percolating, which provided excitement and challenge to the less
distracted portions of
his mind. His sister knew nothing of this, either, though she vaguely
felt its magnitude.
In the silent, sleepy hour before dawn few would see the plastic crate
outside Leonard's
apartment rattle at first, then sit still again for a moment, and
finally unfold mechanically
as a remote-operated humanoid machine took a heavy step into the rain.
It looked first at
the streetlamp rising from the soaked sidewalk, at the bright electric
light, then turned to
greet the brown-haired girl who emerged from the apartment without any
shoes and a
hardly-worn coat that went to her ankles. The cuffs of her pants
dragged in the rainwater,
leaving dark patches to crawl up the fabric.
The PCO android did a curious thing: it looked down at her bare feet
in the cold puddles,
and turned its back to her, kneeling down on one knee. She paused a
moment, then
climbed onto its back, wrapping her arms around its neck and slinging
each leg around its
waist. When it stood, it lifted her with ease and strode in perfect,
mechanical steps down
the sidewalk. Only a little Japanese boy who had awakened from the
noise and lights of
the delivery truck saw them leave, from the dark warmth of his bedroom
window across
the street. But perhaps he was dreaming, and if he ever told of it he'd
be punished for
lying.

12.
Men surrounded her in big suits, shining ties, looking at her only
occasionally and with
eyes that defined her as an object needing to disappear. She hadn't
known that feeling,
but eventually she was going to have to accept it permanently. Voices
were all around
her, but she wouldn't remember the faces attached to them.
"We can't keep them here," one said.
"The press would have a field day. He doesn't want anyone to know. At
all. Make it
happen," said another.
She had looked around, lower than everyone else, sliding down in a
chair not made for
little girls. She would remember it only as a table over which she
couldn't see, but that
might have been false.
"Don't worry," said an old voice, a man with honey for words. "I have
solutions.
They'll be taken care of, believe me."
"That doesn't sound reassuring," said the first voice.
"It doesn't need to. I'll take care of it." There was a pause as the
other persons seemed
to consider it. They were all men. As old as her dead daddy, some
younger, some older.
She wondered if one of them would be her new daddy.
"I said I'll take care of it," the man said strongly.

13.
Hands clenching his mouth, Fetz sat on the toilet and cried in the way
he didn't imagine
adults crying. Children cried like this, he thought stupidly as hiccups
caused him to
shudder, jostling the scented sticks on the counter next to him. His
mother had hovered
over him, her body and face completely blacked out by the morning
sunlight glaring
behind her. It wasn't a vision of the Madonna, but of a violent judge.
She was a black
hole of a human being, a silhouette to some place of pain and suffering
from which
issued maxims and punishments. What he couldn't see in the hidden hood
of her face
terrified him: the anger she was possible of could not be imagined -
and how angry was
she now?
I'm trying mama, I'm trying to do what's right?
Fucking morals. Fucking morals. He rocked back and forth, gnawing on
his own
knuckles in agony. There were so many voices.
It's just a bad trip.
What had he done to that poor girl?
Maple leaves tore apart in his mind. He knew she had once grown green
and vibrant on a
branch somewhere, but by the time he got to her she was brittle and
brown. He'd crushed
her, he knew it. In that room, fucking her for money, he'd broken her
into little sharp bits
of death. How could he do that?
How could you do that?!
"I don't want you here!" he cried out, swatting invisibly at visions
he knew were false.
Morals are lies! he tried to tell himself. Too many emotions
overwhelmed those safe
walls. He began hacking, coughing phlegm into the sink nearby, bits of
dry maple leaf
stuck in the fluid. And then there weren't.
That poor girl. Trampled her, just like that - for what, for pleasure?
What a sham, what a
liar he'd become over the years - no, even since childhood, he'd been a
liar. His life was
a lie, his existence. He didn't exist. He was a colossal show-off -
nothing real.
She's fucked a thousand guys before, she'll fuck a thousand
more.
But I fucked her. I took another piece away. His imagination ran wild,
uncontrollable: he
was all that had even gone wrong in her life. It was people like him
that had ruined her
life. He was personally responsible. Had she been a good child? Had she
been abused?
Raped? Only cruelty could lead her here, and cruelty kept her here. He
was part of that -
now he saw, now he knew - and always had been. He was the reason for so
much pain in
the world. People like him took and took and took?He was the reason for
her pain.
She was so beautiful.
Then her hands caressed him, ran through his hair, made him feel
better. That's right. He
didn't do so bad. He was really good at heart, an angel. Mama's
guardian angel.
Fetz's scream ran on, undulating and drying out at the end. He clawed
at the air around
his face and head, unable to make her go away.
The scream became breaking wood and shrieking women. Painful light
assaulted him
from the hallway as the door splintered and tore off in all directions.
Through his fingers
Fetz gawked at whatever the thing was coming toward him in black
shadow. It wasn't his
mother, thank god it wasn't his mother. It was just a bad trip.

14.
In Apple Blossom's hand the semi-automatic pistol was heavy and
foreign. What was
happening wasn't quite clear to her, though she seemed to be doing a
great deal of
shouting all the while. Clinging to the hulking android, she was
carried about like a child
on her daddy's shoulders, weaving and bobbing through the rice-paper
screens and
wooden slats of the House. While her voice gave orders and pointed at
this person and
that person she could only think trivially: How odd did she look to the
other girls right
now? Were they jealous of her for her freedom? Or did they think her
completely mad
now? She worried that they did not find her pretty anymore, without her
makeup and silk
kimonos.
Someone was shouting at Apple Blossom and the android and brandishing
a knife of
some sort, then the android reached out and there was a blur of
movement and the
assailant was no longer moving. The cold metal collar of the PCO's
head-unit pressed
into her neck and cheek as she peered over its shoulder. Its hands were
massive. The
fingers - jointed metal limbs - looked able to pinch a lamp-post in
half. She wanted to
touch them with her little fingers the way a child is drawn to a
whirring saw blade.
There were all three of them now. Three of them. Three men. They lay
on a mat in one
of the rooms. The last one was here now. Yes, they'd found him in the
bathroom. He lay
prone next to the rapist and the big black man.
Where was Yellow Treasures?
"I have to find Yellow Treasures," she said to the PCO.
"I'll stay here," came the reply - vapid and reverberating. The word's
were Leonard's
she knew, but it was not his voice. The android knelt, its knee gouging
into the polished
floor, and Apple Blossom slid down its back, her feet tapping flatly
all the way down the
hall.
?
Curled into a ball, Yellow Treasures looked very much like a beautiful,
horrific painting,
her eyes wide and white as they rolled toward Apple Blossom. In the
dark of the little
room, the light from the hall cut across her white robe, framing her
against the dark
wood.
"I've come to save you," whispered Apple Blossom.
"Go away," Yellow Treasures whispered back.
The brown-haired girl, in her over-sized new coat and too-long
trousers padded over and
settled onto her knees gracefully. Both their shadows lay hard against
the wall.
"You can come with me now. You are free."
Yellow Treasures' eyes looked her up and down. Such strange clothes
for Apple
Blossom to be wearing. "You scare me," she finally said.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to. I had to find a way." She waited, but
Yellow Treasures
would say nothing further. She looked so hurt. Absently, Apple Blossom
noticed one of
her old kimonos, the white one with pale blue roses at the sleeves;
Yellow Treasures was
wearing it now.
"We have those men. The one that hurt you - he can't hurt you again,"
the darker girl
tried again. "What he did was wrong, Yellow Treasures. He won't do it
again. You can
be revenged if you want."
At this Yellow Treasures glanced directly into Apple Blossom's eyes,
her attention
caught. "He never paid me."
"Come with me," urged the darker girl.
Wordlessly, Yellow Treasures reached a silken arm around Apple Blossom
and clasped
her waist. Together they rose and went to the hall.
?
Yellow Treasure trotted along behind Apple Blossom, her hand on the
lead girl's
shoulder. There was a noise up ahead, the sound of scuffling and
running heels on wood.
Then with the speed and intimidation that had made him a superstar,
Brandemere
Carlton charged around the corner in his silk suit and sunglasses,
heels striking the floor
like bull's hooves. Apple Blossom raised her firearm and Yellow
Treasures gasped with a
hand to her mouth, but the man didn't slow. He charged right past them,
in fact, barely
glancing to the side as if the thought occurred to him only too late
that she might have
actually fired.
The door behind them blew open as Brand plowed through, into the
darkened kitchen
where there came a noise of clattering swearing as he tried finding a
way out back.
Ahead, hydraulic gears and solid metal foot-pads slammed into the
floor, bearing along
the PCO's towering bulk. It tore through half the wall-screens as it
passed the two young
women and sent the kitchen doors careening off their hinges.
Apple Blossom lowered her weapon.
?
Near Yellow Treasures' chamber, Fetz and Van Tantric were awake. The
dub star was
still trickling blood from the crown of his head. When the PCO had
first appeared, he and
Brand had been in Yellow Treasures' compartment preparing for something
special. The
sight of the android had sent him scrambling; he dived through one of
the wall screens
expecting empty space on the other side, only to plant his skull in a
brick wall. The
articulate sculpture of his coiffure was now mashed awkwardly and
matted with black,
clotting blood.
Fetz was holding his shoulders and shivering, but not from cold. As
Apple Blossom
reappeared with her companion in tow, he could only whimper up at her,
"I'm so fucking
sorry."
Van Tantric marched down the hall, ahead of her firearm, poor Fetz
left behind to pity
himself.

15.
"Your brother has lost the use of his legs," an old woman said. She
didn't say that he'd
lost his legs altogether. She didn't say she was never going to see her
brother again. She
didn't say her future home was a prostitute-training program in another
country.
These clothes weren't hers. An orange jumpsuit - like someone in jail
would wear -
whisked freshly at her every move. It had never been worn. There were
drugs in her, she
knew. The pin-prick in her arm still hurt, half-stinging,
half-throbbing. It was melting
into a dull ache, her whole body becoming warm and sluggish.
The big transport up ahead was open, flanked by black men in suits
wearing sunglasses,
even though it was a cold, cloudy day. Wind picked the dirty water up
off the tarmac and
flung it in heavy droplets across her face. Her teeth started
chattering.
The old man, older than her father, was sitting in an expensive
vehicle, the window
slowly rolling up. His eye caught hers before it disappeared behind the
tinted glass. She
remembered the eye, and his honey voice, but somehow not his
face.
Then, it fell apart.
A flash of bright orange caught her eye, and she knew. Across the
blacktop he was being
escorted by the same kind of people, toward a separate transport. Only
he was lying
down, on a transpo-chair and he didn't have any legs. He didn't have
any legs.
His name was shrieked out high and loud, causing the escorts to wince.
Her voice - she
screamed his name again but he couldn't hear her. Her brother was
unconscious,
drugged asleep. He didn't have any legs.
"You idiots!" the old woman's voice screeched. "You were supposed to
wait till we were
on the fucking transport! Go back! Go back!"
Her little feet lunged forward, and she felt airborne for a suspended
moment, then her
chest was blasted as if she'd hit a brick wall for the second time in
her life, and someone
had her by the back of the jumpsuit. His big knuckles dug into her back
as she rebounded,
nearly falling down. The escort held her upright like a little puppet,
a crying, screaming
puppet.
And then the other escorts turned, wheeling the transpo-chair, and the
bright orange
swath of her brother's jumpsuit slid behind their charcoal-colored
coats and he was
winked out of her world.

16.
Brandemere only laughed because he didn't know what else to do. The
shit that came
back to haunt you. Fucking amazing. In the storage garage behind the
kitchen, where the
lights flickered in sick fluorescent colors and the PCO had him
cornered, he felt the
nausea of death coming after him.
"You don't have much time left," the android said in its metallic
groan.
Apple Blossom stood behind the android, directing Van Tantric into the
pantry-garage
with her firearm. They were cornered in a spot flanked by a palette
stacked with food-
sacks and a wall of kegs and dried-goods crates.
"What is this sick shit all about?" Van Tantric said, stumbling to
fall back on a pile of
sacks. It was more challenge than question. He grunted and sat upright,
tentatively
touching at his head.
"You hurt my friend," Apple Blossom said to the pop star.
He actually grinned up at her. "Are you serious? Is that what all this
bullshit is about?"
You know why you came here.
Apple Blossom shot once, but it missed, popping a hole in the sack
next to Van Tantric's
leg. There was a pause as he yelped in surprise, then - realizing she'd
missed - Apple
Blossom shot again, and again, both misses, until the fourth shot hit
the recoiling pop star
in the thigh just below the groin. There was a shriek from him and a
spurt of red that
plopped on the sacks, soaking into the burlap.
"Christ!" he hissed and grasped his bleeding thigh.
"Tell me what you did to my friend," Apple Blossom whispered
mournfully. She felt
heat descending on her chest, her shoulders, pressing her down. There
was already so
much sadness.
"I raped her!"
"How?"
"My first trip to here! I came to the House, I fucked her. Two friends
and I followed her
out from the House in the morning, because she'd told me she got the
next day off. She
was so fucking excited because she only got one day a year outside the
House. She was
with three of the other girls. They went to a park, and went shopping,
and they were
going to the theater. We were eavesdropping. They never made it,
because my friends
and I took them to my hotel room and raped them all day. We cut up one
of the girls. She
never went back to the House because they wouldn't take a scarred
bitch. I never let my
friends touch Yellow Treasures because she was mine, and I wanted her
to feel special.
She couldn't walk very well for a few weeks, but I didn't do anything
permanent." He
turned to Yellow Treasures.
The blond girl stared silently over Apple Blossom's shoulder.
Ounces of pressure were needed, just a gentle flex of the muscles in
Apple Blossom's
index finger, to cut off a tendril of corrupt human life. A fresh start
would be made in its
place, maybe; a kind, loving child would be born in his stead to heal
the hurt he'd
brought. Maybe it could all be over and renewed if she just pulled the
trigger.
"You didn't even pay me!" shouted Yellow Treasures.
Silence.
Van Tantric guffawed. Then he winced, doubling with pain, but he
couldn't help
himself. He laughed and laughed and laughed. "That's the funniest thing
I've ever heard!
How can you expect me to feel pity for this thing?" He gestured at
Yellow Treasures.
The PCO shifted its weight.
"She's a fucking sheep, lady. People like that were put here to feed
people like me.
That's the way it works. Sheep and wolves. Fuck you if you can't accept
that."
Apple Blossom found it hard to inhale, so heavy was her chest. It is
all in vain, she
thought to herself.
It's not in vain. You know why we're here.
A scream peeled back the cold air of the garage as Apple Blossom
collapsed to the floor,
dropping her gun and holding her head in her hands. She sobbed and
sobbed. The PCO
flinched but did not move.
Yellow Treasures knelt down next to her. "What's wrong?"
"I tried," the darker girl said, huffing, "so hard?to save you. To do
this one good
thing?"
Her simple, cherubic face flushed from excitement, Yellow Treasures
rubbed the other
girl's shoulder. She could think of nothing to say, because she didn't
understand what
was happening. Perhaps it was these clothes Apple Blossom was wearing.
They were
very coarse, after all.
"You're free now, Yellow Treasures," said Apple Blossom. "You can go
wherever you
want. Take money from the House, it's alright. You should go somewhere
safe,
somewhere you can be happy and have friends. Do you understand?"
The blond girl nodded, then offered a simple-minded smile. Apple
Blossom pulled her
face close and kissed her sweetly on the lips, then let her go. Yellow
Treasures put a hand
to her lips, stood up, and whisked out of the garage. They never saw
each other again.
Brandemere Carlton watched this all with only the slightest interest.
It was one final
show before leaving forever. When the blond girl had left, and the
other one composed
herself, he looked straight at her.
"I know who you are, even if you don't want to admit it to yourself.
Your brother and I
have already spoken." He glanced at the unmoving PCO. "I'll tell you
the story.
"About ten years ago, just as my long-sought fame and fortune began to
show up, I was
in an accident. I was on a strong cocktail of stuff at the time, and
was in no condition to
be driving. I'd never do that now - go driving in that condition. It
was a stupid thing to
do. I could've killed myself. What happened was simply that I hit
another vehicle
headfirst, at God-knows-what-speed, and pinned it into a wall. If I
remember correctly, I
almost cut it in half. The driver was a middle-aged man, his passengers
were his wife and
two children. He was killed instantly, the woman was dead within
minutes, but the two
children survived.
"The younger of the two was a boy, Leonard Baker Jr. His legs were
severed mid-thigh
by the impact and he lost consciousness, but was saved from death by
paramedics. The
elder of the children was a girl, Rachel Baker. She survived with only
bruises and a
concussion.
"I don't remember much of what happened, though I've seen the video a
bystander shot.
When I look at it, I just see a young man foolish enough to jeopardize
his life for no good
reason. I can't say I feel bad for those children, or their parents. I
don't really feel much
of anything at all when it comes to things like that. It just happens
sometimes. Some of us
are smart enough to tip the odds in our favor, but everyone's got their
time.
"In any case, there were too many people - including myself - who were
not prepared to
fight a scandal of that nature when I, as a player and promoter, stood
to make everyone
working on my career filthy rich. My lawyer and his associates spent
more time and
money than you could imagine to make that family disappear. In the end,
I wasn't very
involved in their decisions or methods. I trusted my lawyer pretty
well." He paused,
remembering. "He was one honey-tongued son of a bitch, that one.
"Of all the strange coincidences, I never picked up on this one until
just now: once in
conversation he said that his solution for the little girl that
survived was to send her to
some Japanese school he'd invested in. Wasn't a school, it was the
House. Strange, isn't
it? How Van Tantric brought us here tonight, and here you are, ten
years older. And how
would I know? I never really saw you in the first place. I'm surprised
you recognize me
at all."
"I didn't," Apple Blossom whispered. "I didn't until now. I knew
though?somewhere. I
knew."
You knew. We both knew.
"Hmm. Strange how that can happen." He stared hard at her, his eyes
plain and black,
like a doll's eyes. "So if you're here for reasons, I don't have any. I
don't believe in
reasons. There is positive stimuli and negative stimuli. Anything else
is clutter, in the
end. You want my apologies? I have none - I don't feel bad about it.
I'm glad I got away
with it - I can't imagine what I'd be doing now if it had gotten out.
I'd hate my life. So I
have nothing to offer that could possibly give you comfort. Do you want
money? I have
enough. But I don't think that's what you're after. What do you
want?"
Apple Blossom stared at the cold thing on the floor, made of
gunpowder, steel and
choice. In her hand, who knew where it would go? To the two men, to her
own head,
perhaps. It was so light in her hand, she thought - it would be, that
is. So light, so freeing.
Her head was like helium, wandering upward into the sky.
In her peripheral a hand crawled along the concrete floor, trembling.
She watched it
clasp at the gun and pull it close.
"Please?take me."
Apple Blossom turned. The disheveled young man, who had taken her
earlier - lying on
the floor. He was shaking, his eyes black and bloodshot. He held the
gun tightly to the
side of his neck, where a little tattoo was inscribed. The barrel
pointed up into the corner
of his jaw.
"Let me take this for you," he whispered. "For all that has been done
wrong to you. I'm
guilty?as guilty as they are. I am more guilty. Please, let me die for
you."
For a long, long time Apple Blossom stared down at him.
There was silence in her mind, for once. Not imposed silence, not the
quiet of a place
surrounded by walls. She soared, and knew what it meant for at least a
few seconds to be
free of all things.
The still-warm lips of the handgun's muzzle pressed a circular steel
kiss into Fetz's chin.
It prodded deeply into the soft flesh, antagonizing the underside of
his tongue. The
hallucinations were gone?now only trails of light were left behind
everything, delayed
vision. The girl looked down at him, but couldn't smile.
Apple Blossom put her hand on his. Her fingers were cool and drew the
heat away from
his own. Slowly, he stopped shaking. The gun scraped on concrete as he
lowered it, let it
go.

17.
From the cool safety of his apartment, Leonard Baker exhaled through
shallow lungs and
slipped off the gloves of his computer console. He leaned back in his
chair and stared at
the monitor, through the eyes of the PCO android somewhere that seemed
far away. He
let his chin rest in the cradle of his middle and index finger, feeling
the soft fuzz of three
days' growth. There was manhood in him, stirring slowly.
He knew instinctively where things were going, he'd always had
feelings like that -
intuitions that came true. A weight that had lain on his body slid away
like a landslide,
long and slow, lifting him from the seat. Leonard didn't smile anymore,
but as he looked
down and grasped the rounded ends of his truncated thighs in both hands
he felt relief for
once. It was all right - that is, everything had gone somewhere and
found a purpose. He
had fulfilled his, as he'd seen fit. Perhaps he would let himself die
now; there was terror
in the feeling of freedom.
Still, an ache in his body ground forward, something that was almost a
voice, and he
knew that he really would go on, continue living, though he could see
no reason for it.
Whatever instincts he had were part of a need to live, so he would
listen and finish his
days however they fell, and maybe discover a little happiness at having
accomplished
something after all.
Leonard shut down his remaining computer unit and turned off the
monitor, and in the
sudden, numbing silence he could hear the rain outside, and
sirens.

Epilogue.
There are many endings to this story.
On that pivotal Tokyo morning police raided Leonard Baker's apartment,
tipped off by
the software specialist who had sold Leonard the android and firearms.
The apartment
was empty save for the remains of mechanical scrap that had been
Leonard's equipment
and a stack of gray safety drives, the incriminating contents of which
were eventually
released to the media. Rumors of Leonard's destination circulated
through the Net for
some time. It was often thought that this or that new gamer might be
him, but nothing
ever stuck.
Perhaps most importantly, Brandemere "The Brand" Carlton was charged
with a number
of crimes, all stemming from the event of a vehicular accident in which
the father and
mother of Rachel and Leonard Baker were killed. The public crucified
him for these
crimes, though the courts never would. Van Tantric, also, was
dismantled by public
opinion. Their idolaters turned like wild animals to tear them apart
with bloodied teeth.
With few exceptions, their contemporaries abandoned them, leaving them
to the lynch
mobs of the media. There were many willing to take their place on the
pedestals, and so
many more ready to worship anew.
Rachel and Leonard Baker became cult heroes. Venerated in the media,
their stories
were told and re-told for a short, lustrous time in magazines and books
and even a
successful film adaptation.
Yellow Treasures would sell her personal side of the story to a
publisher for a life-
securing sum and become something of a celebrity in talk show circuits
and tabloid
gossip. Through the years housewives would follow her story of
liberation through
awareness, anger at her mistreatment, battles with drugs and emotional
tribulations, all
leading to her second autobiography, a revisionist bestseller. She
would even confront
and forgive Peter Christopher Bradley, a.k.a. Chris Van Tantric, in an
emotional live
prime-time broadcast. They were both paid well for their time.
Who can say what became of Fetz? He fell so steeply out of public light
that there was
talk of substance abuse, blackmail and others. The gossip frenzy boiled
for several
months before moving on to newer, fresher meat. None of his former
art-contemporaries
would guess that he'd found no reason to be with them any further, or
that their world no
longer provided him comfort. Perhaps he gave up on the idea of art
altogether.
The story you will not hear in public, and perhaps should not hear at
all, is that of a
brown-haired girl named Rachel Baker who went away from the noise of
people, whom
she had learned to fear and hate. In the evenings she would sit quietly
and watch the stars
emerge and sip tea, and in the day she would work quietly at a variety
of come-and-go
jobs - hopefully ones which did not make her provide service to fellow
humans. She
would meet an out-going and intelligent young woman some years down the
line, who
would pursue her as a friend and finally as a romantic partner, who
would help to ease
some of the violence that had gone stagnant in Rachel's soul. They
would never find
complete peace between each other, but they would try. In undergoing an
artificial
pregnancy, Rachel would discover the opportunity to give one person in
the world what
she never had: a place to safely grow. In that gift she implanted the
hope that her child
could one day be a whole human being.
But that is her story, not ours, and we have no business there.

The End

William Bourassa Jr. April 11, 2003