Apex Book Company

A microcam probed and scanned, suspended in air, invisible against the hazy twilight.

The opening of a door in a dingy warehouse several hundred meters away caught its attention; it zoomed and focused. A lean figure wrapped in black foil stepped through the opening and the cam zoomed again, recognizing its lost target. The figure strode over to a heap of scrap metal leaning haphazardly against the warehouse and began wrestling with large chunks of the debris. The sleek outline of a high-end bio-bike slowly emerged and the figure slid into the saddle when it was free. The bike’s engines glowed blue as they charged; the rider fiddled with his thigh-jack before firing them up. Then bike and rider accelerated towards the inner city, a shimmering black streak against the roadway.

The cam tracked the streak until it disappeared into the haze.

***

Qinn spun the bike to a halt atop the platform and killed the engines. He slouched forward in the saddle and draped his arms over the bars, ready for the show.

Twenty minutes later, he was still in the same position. A ringing, metallic noise stirred him from a near trance. Some slum kid had clambered up the loading dock and was kicking a sheet of tin with his oversized boots, half-looking Qinn’s way.

“Whatcha doin’, street?” asked the kid, not stopping his assault on the tin.

The noise was reverberating in Qinn’s skull, an off-key tuning fork in his cerebellum. “Stop that, would you, kid?”

The kid stopped and shoved his grubby hands in his pockets. He glanced at the bio-bike and repeated his question: “Whatcha doin’?”

Qinn turned back to his view of the outer slum. The kid was nervous and cocky all at once; he decided to be friendly. “Watching the sky,” he said, and to himself: Where the hell are you, Iggy?

“Can I eye your bike?”

“Sure, kid. Just don’t touch anything that’s lit up.” Changing colors again? You bastard.

“This is real chill…you got the anti-friction plates,” the kid said, nodding his approval. “What’s your name, street?”

“You know bikes. And street works.” C’mon, Iggy! You’re fucking my mood!

The kid was silent for a moment, then: “My sister watches the sky, but she’s a juice-head.”

Qinn forced a chuckle and checked his neural clock. Damn you–

And the slum exploded in color. Mottled red shards burst outwards from a spot on its far edge–a shattering pane of dyed light. A deep vermilion mist began flooding the area, and a pure, triumphant note washed over Qinn’s face and to his ears. Goosebumps riddled his skin, and the slum kid’s shouts of amazement made him laugh aloud.

A sparkling, translucent bird formed at the center of the explosion, its brilliance dulled by the expanding mist. It spread massive wings and leapt into the air, liquid light and glitter pouring from its tail. It spiraled skyward and disappeared into the velvet.

A sudden wind and the mist faded into nothingness.

Fuck yeah, Iggy. Nice one.

“Shit, street! That was….” The kid trailed off. “Was it real?”

“It was real, kid. As real as anything.”

Qinn sat back in the saddle and closed his eyes, letting the red dance on his eyelids, the pure middle C ring in his spine.

***

Viscous green light bathed the crowd. Qinn exhaled a pungent cloud of fama smoke and flicked the roach to the backstage floor. Tension was building; he could feel it pressing on his skin, see it glinting off the faces of the kids crammed against the stage. The suits would be upping the gas soon.

“You’re late, Jacko,” said a deep, scratchy voice behind him.

“So are you, Giff.” Qinn kept his eyes on the crowd.

“Ahh, hell with ‘em. The heads can wait–we’re going to play all freaking night.” He paused. “We are, aren’t we?”

“In your bass case. Iggy named this batch Yellow Rhythmic Star. Be careful–it’ll take your head off.”

“Right-freaking-on, Jacko! Where’s everyone else?”

“Around and about. Go get juiced and roust ‘em up. Let’s get out there.” Giff grunted in response and ambled off to his dressing room. Qinn continued to stare at the crowd a few moments, then went in search of his psitar.

Forty minutes later The Five Unknown Men took the stage and the crowd roared and the lights pulsed.

***

Qinn collapsed face-down on the couch in his dressing room. They had played six hours. Non-stop. His mind was wasted from the drain of the psitar and the elation stirred with guilt at what they’d done. The music had leapt and danced, a swirling mass of space-stuff. And the music was theirs–every crackle, cry and buzz. But the lyrics were all pre-approved by the fork-tongued PR department of Illuminated Ore Inc. And the subliminals….

He rolled over, his skin squeaking on the soft leather. Shadows on the ceiling rotated in expanding and contracting vortices, and he decreased the level of Red Resonant Moon being pumped into his cortex. The drug was Iggy’s specialty; he had synthesized an old earth hallucinogen derived from a cactus and mixed it with a psychoactive Redore-13 narcotic. Qinn had gotten wired for direct injection after his first dose. At the beginning it had been just for performance use–the music he created under its influence was so light and majestic. But now a drop or two was always in his brain and had been for the past three months. His remembrance of reality was Iggy’s vermilion mist.

One of the other Fives began trashing a room down the hall, and Qinn glanced at his door reflexively. A small envelope had escaped his notice and was stuck to the inside frame. He rolled off the couch and retrieved it, then dumped the contents onto his bar and examined them–a cheap holo of him outside the warehouse last evening and a note which read: You are being watched.

***

“Iggy.”

“Qinneas! Hey, did you eye last night’s exhibit? What did you-”

“Shut up, Iggy. Listen to me. Is this a secure connection?” A crackle and a beep.

“It is now. What’s up?”

“I was filmed last night.”

“What? By who? Weren’t you wearing-”

“Not now. Meet me at the arena. Thirty minutes.”

“Gotcha. I’ll bring the stones.”

Their arena was a small park situated in the center of an I.O. industrial complex. The park had a monolithic fountain that Iggy liked and five marble go boards that were rarely all in use. However, if stones were left on any of the boards, by custom no one would touch them for three days, though other players may leave notes as to their opinion on the merit or weakness of a position. Two tables had stones on them now, and Qinn examined both matches.

White had an indefensible position on each board. Qinn slumped onto a bench at an open table and stared at the manicured vegetation. The fountain hissed and spurted, coming alive for its hourly stint. It was precise and automated. Iggy called it ‘The Metaphor’.

Soon a deep chiming became audible over the fountain’s white noise, and Qinn said, “Hey, man,” without glancing up. The door-bell boots were as good as a calling card.

“Qinn!” Iggy, all black leather and colored wire, sat down on the opposite bench and tossed two velvet sacks on the table. “You look like shit. I mean, even more than normal. Rough show or what?” His lenses were on, and clouds floated and drifted in the blue sky of his eyes.

Qinn chose a sack and spilled its contents on the board. Ivory stones the color of Iggy’s skin scattered across the grid. “Yeah.” He pulled the holo out of his jacket and flipped it across the table. “This made it rougher. It was waiting for me in my dressing room along with a handy note in case I missed the point.”

Iggy gazed at it with mild interest. “Pretty low-grade stuff, probably some surveillance service hired by one of your psychotic fans.” He handed back the holo and pried a swirling black stone from the remaining sack.

“Doesn’t mean we’re any less screwed, though,” said Qinn. He squinted against the glare as the park’s lights blinked on. “Shit, it doesn’t even matter that I’m just a figure in foil. Whoever took that film knew exactly who it was. It’s over.”

“I’ve been expecting it to be over every day for months now.” Iggy laughed, a nasal wheeze. “Our good buddies at Illuminated aren’t stupid, and you’ve been a veritable zombie since Vanda split. Something had to give.” He dropped the stone and shut off his lenses. “I created Red Moon as functional art. Mind expansion, Qinn, not a permanent escape. You’re abusing my work.”

Qinn thought: What does it matter? All art gets abused. He pulled a joint and a lighter from his pocket and sparked up. “I’m a fucking rock star, Ig. I’m just finally accepting my role.”

“Bullshit. But let’s talk options. We can leave right now. I can blow stuff up out in the desert just as well as the slum, even without the added bonus of destroying Redore property. You can play psitar to the kangaroo-rats or something.” Iggy motioned for the joint, and Qinn passed it over. “We can get off-planet when the opportunity arises.” A big puff. “Or we can do one more. One more massive exhibit. Then get the hell out.”

“You think I.O. isn’t going to have a say in whatever we do?”

“First, they don’t know a damn thing at the moment, or they’d be all over our asses. Second, they can’t afford to accuse you publicly. It would be a PR nightmare. There will be a new Qinn within days of their first knowledge of your defection, and all the young Fivers will be none the wiser.” Iggy hit the joint again and passed it back. “With your behavioral history, we can be deep in the outer territory before they even start looking. Especially with my contacts.”

Qinn stared at the twisting go board a moment, then nodded. “Alright, one more exhibit. Night of next month’s show. What about the rest of The Fives?”

“We’ll set them up with Kvartchek. They’ll be fine,” said Iggy. “And this is going to be mind-blowing, Qinn… I want you to write a piece of music for the big event. Something for this ugly hole to remember you by.” He picked up his discarded stone and rubbed it between his fingers. “Can we play now?”

***

The feeds all had blurbs concerning the latest art-bombing. The bird was a big story, and several holo-art and semiotics professors had been called in to explain the underlying themes contained in Iggy’s work. Phrases like “the yearning of man for the unknown” and “the oneness of nature and technology” were being thrown about the place. Qinn doubted it. Knowing Iggy, they weren’t even close.

He exited the news, yawned, and brought up Palace Security. “Captain Banko.”

Static for a moment, then Banko’s bulky image shivered into existence. “Aye, Mr. Qinn. What can I do for ya?”

“Anybody get backstage last night, Bill? Any strange faces?”

“We stopped ‘em all, sir. Every last loony one of ‘em.” Banko nodded with satisfaction. “Even that little lass with the flash pistol.”

“What about your crew…anybody new or filling in?”

“Nah, not my lads. There were a few buggers from Kessler Security Systems there. The Palace brought ‘em in as backup later in the night when they saw how damn nutty things were.”

“Kessler, huh? Thanks, Bill.”

***

Grilling the night manager at Kessler revealed the identities of the extra security members. One in particular caught Qinn’s eye: Milla Jastov, age twenty-one. He dozed off with her name in his head.

He dialed down the Red Moon when he woke up and filled himself with anti-withdrawal serum. Nothing to do with what Iggy said, just a break. His mind felt as flat as the open beer sitting on his counter, and the mural in his kitchen still crawled with ominous worms. Reality would take more than a morning to reassert itself.

He got himself a fresh beer, called it breakfast, and put in a call to Miss Milla Jastov.

“Hello?”

“Milla? This is Qinn…of The Fives. Can I talk to you a bit? Over here?”

Milla keyed her video release, and the image of a cute little thing in worker’s overalls appeared on Qinn’s rug. She started at the site of him. “You’re not Qinn!” Then, “Are you? Maybe you are…you’ve got the kinesics. Geeez, I can’t believe I’m standing in your apartment! What the hell happened to you anyway? You look like shit.”

Not what Qinn expected. No squealing, no fawning. But she had to be the one. None of the other names made sense. “Stage make-up and shifters do wonders. I always look like shit.”

“But cute in a gutter-punk sort of way.” She gave him a direct look. “Got another beer?”

He smiled at her open flirtation. “Yeah, get over here.” She winked and her image flickered and disappeared. He put some trance on the system and melted into the couch.

Milla showed up half an hour later. She had changed into one of those skin-tight jumpsuits that were everywhere these days. Her black hair was plastered in spiky clumps and a mass of wires bristled behind her ear. Young, hip, and rich. She shot him a questioning look, and he pointed towards the kitchen. “Beer’s in there. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks. Nice place you got. Ever clean it?” She grabbed his beer off the coffee table and hopped on the couch at his side, sitting cross-legged.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Look, Milla. I know you were at the show the other night working security. Somebody left an envelope in my dressing room. I want to know if it was you.”

She sighed and drained his beer. “I need another.”

Qinn dragged himself off the couch and got two more from the kitchen. He came back, handed her one. “All right, princess. Enough play. Was it you?” He stayed standing.

She shrugged. “OK, I put it there. I used to be a big fan, you know? And when I was sent out on that job, I felt I should let you know that someone hired us to trail you. Since we caught a couple of your bombings.” She bit her lower lip for a moment. “My uncle’s going to kill me.”

“Kessler?”

“Yeah, it’s a family business. We do small contracts and fill-in work, mostly. That’s why…. Well, Illuminated does a pretty good job of keeping everybody away from you. Uncle Geode thought it would be a challenge to try and outwit their Security. That’s why he took the job.”

“It’s one of my better deals with I.O. No surveillance or reporters. Your uncle’s good.” Qinn popped his beer. “Anyone else at the company know? And most importantly, who hired you?”

“Just family. They won’t talk about business to anyone. And some rich bitch paid for the tail. Vanda McKillip.”

Qinn slumped back onto the couch. Vanda? Why? “Thanks, Milla.” A pause. “I don’t tell your uncle about our talk, and you don’t tell anyone what I’ve been up to recently. Deal?” Damn it, why?

“Sure. Yeah.” She sat her beer on the table and glanced around the room. “So, are we going to fuck now, or what?”

***

“Vanda McKillip. Audio only.”

Milla’s perfume lingered in the air. Qinn had the sudden feeling he wasn’t ready for this conversation, but he kept the line open.

“Hello, Qinn.” Vanda’s voice was quiet and tired. Resigned.

“I know, Vanda. Why?”

“How’s the band doing? How’s Iggy?”

Qinn closed his eyes. “Damn it. It was always like this. Just answer me.”

“Alright, Qinn, if that’s the way you want it. I heard rumors. Abbi and Linda saw you at the Pally weeks ago and described you as a psitar-playing corpse. They thought you were about to decompose on stage, never mind the shifters. And I heard about your three-day party for that slime, Kvartchek.” She stopped. “And other things. I needed to know how bad it was. Terrorism, Qinn? Even if you and Iggy aren’t hurting anyone, it’s still wrong. Not to mention that it’s going to get you killed. You’ve got to stop.”

“When were you going to say something? And you still haven’t answered why.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. And I care about you, Qinn. I care about what happens to you.”

“You fucking left me, Vanda! What gives you the right to care about me now?”

“Qinn, I-”

He closed the connection.

***

The art museum was crowded. Unusually crowded. Qinn made his way through the maze of people, sweating and shivering, hoping the shifters were disguising his face. The walls tilted and twisted, filled with nauseating pseudo-art. They kept all the crap up front; that’s what the mobs were here to see. Confusing signs and stylish snack bars flowed past his vision. He hurried his pace through the soft-lit halls.

Then, his room. He stood in the center and relaxed.

Four giant Franz Nagel color-studies hung here, one to a wall. The effect was such that Qinn could stare each direction for a few minutes and have his mood altered this way and that. The cumulative feeling this produced was one of enlightenment. Nagel understood humanity better than most shrinks and could explain it to you with color.

Standing there, images and impressions of the past few weeks flooded Qinn’s brain: Milla and Red Moon. Kvartchek and legal planning. Maps. Vanda.

Iggy giving him the gun.

You might need it, he had said. Things are going to get crazy. Your psitar is all rigged and ready to go. Capture a loop like you normally do…it’s set for forty seconds. Release that mother and all hell will break loose. It’ll probably short out all the circuits in a three building radius. ‘Common Objects Strangely Placed’. You’re going to freak.

The gun sat on Qinn’s nightstand and taunted him like a dare. He stared at it every night and tried (failed) to write music.

That was his purpose here now; this room was his last resort. He began to spin from wall to wall, the image of the last painting superimposing itself on the next, the colors merging and floating in space. You might need it. Things are going to get crazy. I used to be a big fan, you know? I care about what happens to you.

He fell to the floor, flipped on his internal recorder and started singing a theme, simple at first, then growing in complexity as he added counterpoints and variations. He was oblivious to the stares and inquisitive looks from adjoining rooms, lost in the moment.

***

The I.O. rep stepped out of the green room at the Palace with a final jovial wave, and everyone rose and started to head their separate ways. Usual pre-show behavior for the Fives as of late.

“Wait. Hold on. I need to say something.”

The band turned to Qinn–Jesse, Blue, Maj, and Giff all staring at him.

“No you don’t,” Jesse said. “Iggy already told us everything. And Kvartchek has got us covered. We’re not exactly happy, but none of us wanted to see you end up dead, either”

Qinn nodded, started to speak, and stopped. What was there to say?

“To be honest, we had discussed kicking you anyway.” This was Maj, ever the plain talker. “But it wouldn’t work without you, or any us. No more Fives.”

“Yeah, Jacko. This band is dust. We all know it. We had a freaking good run, though.”

“Hell, yes.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

Giff’s words had broken through some barrier; Qinn could feel months of tension and resentment dissipate like a mist in a sudden wind.

Qinn grinned. It was old times again. Suddenly. He nodded. “We had a great fucking run, Giff. I.O. be damned. I don’t give a fuck what we play tonight, as long as we fucking burn. We encore with the new piece. Then watch your asses.”

He handed out small, glittering Star packets from Iggy. “Now, let’s blow this place up. One last time.”

***

The room was spinning like it always did after a massive show, the holo-lights turning the Palace into a maelstrom of random images. The heads in the crowd were roaring as one, breaking against the stage like a wave. Qinn started the loop capture and began the newly-written fugue.

This is it. All over. The fugue built and exploded, and the psitar vibrated in his hands. The rest of the band thundered behind him, confident and unified.

They ended in a wash of dissonant, chaotic chords, and Qinn triggered the loop.

Mayhem and madness.

The overhead holo-lights cracked and sparked, throwing shards of plastic on the screaming crowd. The last forty seconds of the encore began echoing through the hall, louder than before, shaking the walls; chunks of the lighting apparatus began crumpling to the stage. One of the struts dropped on Qinn like a hammer.

“Get up, Jacko! You gotta get the hell outta here!” Qinn woke to giant arms around his chest, dragging him from the wreckage of the stage. “Lights fell!” Giff shouted in his ear over the cacophony. “You got crunched pretty good, but I can get you to your bike! You able to ride?”

“I have to! Set me down.” Pain lanced through Qinn’s ribs as Giff righted him. Red Moon was pumping into his head–the blow must have damaged his shunt. “Iggy’s stuff, Giff! Give me all you got. Then get me to the parking level!”

Giff handed over the remnants of his little packet. Qinn poured the contents on his tongue and scrambled onto the giant’s back, agony blasting his side. Giff started loping heavily through the masses, running over anyone in his way.

Down in the bowels of the Palace things were much calmer and the lights were still working. The two of them were instantly recognizable–groups of security ran by without stopping as Qinn waved them on. The Moon was rushing through Qinn’s system, and the Star Giff had given him wasn’t doing much to keep it at bay. At least the narcotic aspect was dulling his pain. “First level, Giff. My bike’s on first level.” Giff just grunted and sped up.

The bike was just where he had instructed the valet to leave it–the easiest place to exit the garage in a hurry. He dropped off Giff’s back with a groan and swung himself into the saddle.

“Devil’s luck, Jacko! I’ll see you in hell, maybe.”

“Yeah, Giff.” Qinn stared for a second at the departing hulk. “Thanks.” He checked the saddlebags for his gun before mounting and plugging the bio-bike’s cable into his thigh-jack. Then he fired up the engines and roared towards the streets.

He burst from the garage into a world of delusion. The fugue was blaring out here as well, and the air was filled with gently bobbing translucent forks and cups. Toothbrushes and vases. Lamps and boots.

The bike squealed as he ground it to a stop, barely missing a pedestrian. People were flowing past him, laughing and shouting at the display. This was Iggy’s supposed masterpiece of art and physics: Common Objects Strangely Placed. It made Qinn freak, just as Iggy had promised.

Fuck, Iggy. How the hell do I get through this mess? The street was starting to curve upwards at the edges, and he could see his music ripping through the air in green waves. A red wave of sirens screamed in his hearing/vision, and he forced the bike out into the milling crowd. He gunned the engines twice as a warning and cut through the center of the street, sending people scurrying out of his way. A deserted side alley presented itself, and he guided the bike down its length, emerging on a main thoroughfare. Iggy’s random objects were still everywhere, and the Star was fighting a losing battle in his blood. He set the bike on auto, maxed the throttle, and held on.

Twisting trees and angry neon flew by. Qinn closed his eyes against vertigo and vomited over his right side; the wind spattering some back in his face. He slumped low in the saddle and tried to hug the bike’s frame as much as possible.

The ride to the waste was a jumble of images both real and nightmarish: whining air trucks, plastic streamers, ghosts of electricity. By the time his bike slowed itself and stopped at the rendezvous point, he was all but lost in evil vision.

Iggy wasn’t here. Qinn checked the coordinates. Iggy should be here.

He tried to dismount, stumbled, and ended up in a heap on the rocky ground. His head throbbed dully. Gutter Punk. Terrorism, Qinn?

He lurched back to the bike and fumbled the gun out of the bag. The gun metal felt cool against his skin, and he pressed its slick form against his forehead. It felt as though it was seeping in. I needed to know how bad it was. No. You’re abusing my work.

No.

I care about you, Qinn.

“No!”

I care about what happens to you. Qinn I–

“Godfuckingdamn it! No!”

He threw the gun across the waste with the last of his strength and collapsed into a shivering mass on the rocks.

***

“Hey, Qinn! Oh, fuck! What happened to you, boyo?”

Qinn woke from blackness to Iggy’s pale form leaning over him. He shaded his eyes against the searing sun and pointed to his left ear and damaged shunt.

“Shit. No wonder. How’d you make it out here at all? Sorry we left you in limbo all night. Rigor’s truck broke down. Hey, Varn! Help me with him…he’s all fucked up.”

Qinn felt himself being lifted, then carried. He was dumped on a flat, hard surface, and he coughed and spat out dust. “You need water, Qinn. I’ll get you some in a minute, but we need to get moving. Ho! Rigor! We’re ready back here!”

A massive engine rumbled to life beneath him. Iggy was shining a light in his eyes. He could feel himself slipping under again.

As he eased into darkness the growl of the truck became the roar of the crowd and Iggy’s penlight shone like a spotlight.

---

Jon Christian Allison was born and raised on a farm in Western Nebraska by overly kind parents who allowed him to read Tolkien instead of digging ditches. Thus, he fancies himself a writer and not a farmer.

Jon currently lives in Western Montana and refuses to admit he’s in his early thirties, since he had planned to sell his first novel before age twenty-eight.

“Camera Eye” is his first published work.