Futuristic Violence and Fancy Suits (30 page)

Enjoy the rest of the party.
That was, in context, the most laughably inappropriate suggestion she'd been given in her entire life. But, sure enough, ten feet away the party had in fact resumed as normal. This was Tabula Ra$a, it probably wasn't considered a real party until somebody got threatened and dismembered. And the ones who had come specifically for the drama, well, they were only disappointed that it wasn't worse.

Zoey said to Armando, “Come on. I'm buying you a drink.”

“I can't drink alcohol on the job, Zoey. And we should get you out of here, Molech's thugs might come charging back, especially if their boss dies…”

“Yep, I totally agree.”

She hustled him away, toward a stand she thought she remembered passing earlier. They arrived at a dark corner between food tents, where a tiny potpourri-smelling drink tent had been wedged in. A crude hand-painted sign claimed to sell “S
PIRIT
T
EAS
.” The menu was promising “potions” that could make you smarter or happier or ease your anxiety. Heavily featured at the top was an unnamed concoction with no description—just a picture of a thermometer with the red mercury pegged to the top. She asked for two, and the hippie girl behind the counter refused to take her money. Get rich enough, Zoey thought, and you don't have to pay for anything.

Zoey handed one to Armando and said, “It'll warm you up.”

“Great. Let's go.”

He pulled at her elbow and they immediately ran into Andre, who had pushed through the crowd, looking mildly panicked.

“Ah, there you are.” To Armando he said, “Got the three worst hand injuries into ambulances. One of the snipers took shrapnel to the face, might lose an eye.”

Armando said, “We are going to get her off the grounds. Tell Wu he's in charge.”

Zoey said, “Not until I get something to eat. I deserve it, even Will said so.”

Armando glanced around at the crowd and said, “Zoey, I…”

“No. Screw Molech, and all of the people out there rooting for him. He doesn't get to run me out of my own party.”

“
You didn't even want to come.
”

“I'm getting something to eat, and
then
we'll go. I'm fed up with this victim crap.” She shook his hand off her arm. “And I'm tired of being led around like a corgi at a dog show. Don't do that again.”

Andre said, “So sayeth the queen. You ever had a Danish hot dog?”

“Is that food or a crude innuendo?”

“It's a gourmet hot dog, like they make them in Denmark. Sweet cinnamon bun, caramelized onions, mustard. Like a party in your mouth. Comes with a bag of donut fries.”

“Lead the way.”

Ten minutes later Zoey was eating the last third of a hot dog, sipping magic tea, and tromping up a flight of stairs, following Andre. They were in a hotel overlooking the park, and when Zoey asked Andre if he had a room or something he said no, and just kept going up the stairs.

Finally they reached a door marked “
ROOF
” and they emerged into a chilly but quiet rooftop, overlooking the chaos of the Arthur Livingston Memorial Service from twenty stories up. Below them, bright specks of orange flashed and danced in the firepots, columns of smoke and steam drifted out of the food tents, music wafted up through the chilled air. The bouncy castle was rocking back and forth from the reverberation of partiers jumping around inside, like the huge inflatable structure itself was dancing to the rhythm. The once-mighty Beer Mountain was now just a smashed pancake of dirty snow, and Zoey could see the specks of a few desperate people stomping around it, trying to fish out the last of the free beers. From up here, it looked like fun. Zoey decided this was about the right distance for her to enjoy a party.

They weren't alone on the roof, some other kids had found their way up there and apparently it wasn't a secret spot, since security guards in yellow vests were standing along the edge. Still, it was a hundred times quieter than the pounding din of the party. Zoey finished her hot dog and couldn't find a trash can to throw the wax paper into, so she wadded it up and stuffed it into the pocket of her blazer. She thought about Arthur holding his meeting with Singh atop Livingston Tower and how rich people seemed to like high places—penthouse apartments, high corner offices with a view of everything—and for the first time saw the appeal. All the little people scurrying silently below you while you look down, untouchable. She had to admit—she liked the view.

Behind her, Armando was spitting instructions to Wu that Wu was receiving with mild amusement, humoring him. Zoey got the sense that Wu had been in the business longer than Armando. He knew what he was doing.

Armando said to her, “They stopped Molech's truck, about six blocks away.”

“Is he dead?”

“Still waiting for confirmation.”

Wu pulled out his katana, examining the charred gouges in the blade.

Armando said, “Like hacking through a power line.”

Wu shook his head. “What kind of a man would willingly implant machinery inside him?”

Armando shrugged. “My father has a pacemaker. I will buy you a new katana, but you will have to tell me where to find one.”

Wu shook his head. “Nonsense. If this blade could speak, it would not have asked for a long retirement on my mantel. It met its end in battle, just as it was created for.”

Armando rolled his eyes and sipped his tea.

Zoey said, “You like it?”

“It tastes like flowers or something.”

“When have you ever eaten a flower?”

“You know what I mean. Also, I am not sure what the secret ingredient is, but I am starting to think it's not sugar and spice. I feel like I am getting hot flashes.”

Zoey agreed, the warming effect was kind of alarming. All at once she felt like she was dressed too warm for the weather, even though it couldn't have been above forty degrees on the rooftop

Armando listened to something in his earpiece, then said, “Car is ready. Let's move.” He came up to her and started to put a hand on her elbow, then stopped himself.

Zoey downed the last of her tea, and had an almost medical urge to get out of her clothes. She stood on the ledge and watched the mass of partygoers swirl in and out of the park like ants, and wondered how many of those people were going to be having sex in the next few hours.

She started to tell Armando she was ready to go, but from behind them, came soft footsteps.

Zoey had time to hear Andre say, “I really am sorry about this, guys.”

And then a strong hand shoved her off the roof, and she was falling down, and down and down, through the frigid night air.

 

THIRTY

Arthur Livingston could not have told you exactly how many women died while in his employ, it wasn't the sort of thing a man like him kept records on. And honestly, nobody ever asked. A client looking to enjoy an evening at the club with a beautiful escort doesn't want to know how she got there, any more than he wants to go tour the slaughterhouse where his steak was made. The twenty-first-century consumer doesn't particularly care how ugly things get on the back end, as long as a beautiful piece of meat winds up on the plate.

But it was this ugly back end of the process that resulted in Arthur Livingston meeting Will Blackwater, Andre Knox, and Budd Billingsley. This was fifteen years prior to Zoey's tumble off the roof in Tabula Ra$a, right around when she was entering elementary school and, for the first time, hearing the rich kids tell her she smelled bad. Arthur had been at a bar, watching a news report about the impending war in Korea and saw a tragic story about the poor souls trying to escape the country, and the unscrupulous human traffickers who were scooping up terrified female refugees and selling them into sex slavery abroad. Tragic, that is, because Arthur wasn't the one doing it.

Fortunately, Arthur had friends in South Korea. And also North Korea. And China. And Russia. He very quickly slapped together the Arthur Livingston Foundation, a supposed international aid organization dedicated to handing out food, water, and emergency medical care to the desperate North Korean refugees. Grateful people were fed, clothed, and healed while Arthur's people wove through the camps, secretly offering the most attractive of the female refugees safe passage to the United States, complete with very authentic-looking documents.

That wasn't as simple as it sounds, of course—most jobs aren't. The entire Korean Peninsula at the time was in that proverbial moment in which you realize your nausea is going to turn into a puke and that there is nothing to be done about it. A brutal insurgency was gnawing away at the foundations of the North Korean regime and the mad dictator in charge swore that before he ever relinquished power, he would launch his cache of nuclear warheads and turn the south into a radioactive wasteland. So Arthur didn't like to visit the area himself, he'd just do a quick round trip every few months in order to get himself photographed in front of some starving children.

To be clear, Arthur's promises of safe passage and freedom for the girls were absolutely true. It's just that the type of work he had in mind for them once they reached the Land of the Free was probably not what they imagined. Or maybe it was—just because they came from an isolated police state didn't mean they were naïve. As far as Livingston was concerned, everybody won. The girls got safely away from a country that was about to turn into a meat grinder, and Livingston's wealthy clients back in America got the stunning “Japanese” girls who were constantly in demand among a certain crowd (namely, those who had made their money in the tech industry). The only downsides to this extremely lucrative trade, as far as Arthur was concerned, was that the long plane rides were very tiring and the process of negotiating bribes with three countries' worth of bureaucrats was very tedious. Well, that and the fact that if he was caught in-country, he would immediately be executed for the crime of human trafficking, and the news would trigger an international incident that could very likely result in nuclear war and a subsequent chain reaction that would render all human life extinct from the universe forever. But of course no investment is completely free of risk.

A few months in, the Chinese clamped down on North Korea's northern border, resulting in a rather ugly incident in which six of Livingston's girls were burned to death inside a truck as it crossed North Korea's hilariously named Sino-Korea Friendship Bridge. Arthur didn't skip a beat—he tracked down a friend in Nagasaki, Japan, who ran an underwater tourism business on the island of Tsushima, and asked him if he could buy his submarine. Within a week he was back in business, transporting the girls under the Yellow Sea, puttering toward South Korea past schools of exotic fish and underwater mines. He figured if the government ever seized the sub, he'd buy some big weather balloons and just float the girls across the DMZ. Or find a way across the other northern border, into Russia. Arthur Livingston, you see, lived by a very simple slogan: “There is always a way.”

It's not like the authorities never caught wind of what was happening. Livingston was useful to the regime, because it liked making a big show of how it was working with international aid groups to assist the poor refugees who were suffering under the senseless rebellion. And he was useful to every official who relied on his bribes to stay afloat. For example, at one point an ambitious young officer from the regime's Ministry of Public Security started asking after two dozen females who had vanished from one of the camps overnight. A week later, the man was found in a parking lot having tragically committed suicide by shooting himself in the head four times. Arthur didn't shoot the man, or order the man shot—at the time he was in Utah, pitching investors on the idea of a luxury hotel with an all-nude female staff. Arthur had never personally killed any man, in fact. But as far as he was concerned, if you stood in his way, you made your own choice. The market is a machine, if any man is so foolish as to try to stop the works from turning, he should not be surprised when he gets ground up in its gears.

So, it was with great alarm that, on his last ever trip to North Korea, Arthur was snatched out of his hotel in Kaesong and stuffed into the back of a waiting sedan. Three gruff soldiers drove him out of the city, none giving even the slightest reaction to Arthur's lavish offers of a lifetime of wealth in exchange for simply telling their superiors that he had not been home. Arthur was driven to an airfield that had been blasted into a cratered Hellscape by insurgents, the sedan passing between the twisted and charred carcasses of fighter aircraft that never made it off the ground. The car stopped outside a hangar so riddled with bullet holes that it looked like it was coated with poppy seeds, and Arthur was roughly escorted inside.

Waiting there, to Arthur's surprise, had been an American man in his fifties. He was not in uniform, but could be tagged as military from half a mile away—his posture, haircut, and jawline would have made him look one hundred percent marine even if he'd been wearing a dainty sundress. Arthur's Korean escorts shoved him forward and the marine asked them to wait at the entrance while he and Arthur took a walk. Together they strode into the building, pausing to step over a blackened object that it took Arthur a moment to realize was a charred skeleton, frozen in the position in which the victim had been trying to crawl away from the fire. There was a greasy pool under the skeleton—a dried puddle of melted fat.

The marine said, “Mr. Livingston, it is my understanding that if I need someone moved across the border, you're the man to talk to.”

“You know my name. What do I call you?”

“Call me Randy. I've always liked that name.”

“Okay, Randy. Am I off base here or are you not supposed to be in this country?”

“That depends on who you ask, doesn't it? There are three Americans being held in Kaesong. We need to get them out.”