-Alpha Slip-
Draft 1.5 Preview
Complete as of December 2009 at 105,000 words.
Currently being revised for second draft.
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Alpha Slip is a post-cyberpunk thriller set in Detroit, 2065. William Vice, a retired professor of meld psychology, is asked by a former student to take part in the ongoing therapy of an ex-child-soldier. But this student has a history bigger than guns and bombs, and there are people watching in the shadows with enough money to decide what becomes truth...
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Chapter 1
When William Vice pulled up outside the warehouse his dead dog was waiting by the doors, grinning expectantly, pink tongue lolling. Vice blinked, then looked away long enough to call Brewer. “Old place, brick chimney, right?”
“That’s it. Come in, I’ve got coffee on.”
“Do you have a…” He blinked again. Rollo was still there, tail drumming a steady beat on the concrete. “A guard-dog?”
“Me? Dogs? Professor, you know they scare the crap out of me.”
“See you in a minute.” Vice closed the call and stared. “Who brought you, huh? No-one sent you an invitation.” He scratched at the back of his neck where the dataplug sat flush against his skin, cool steel rimmed with studs and vents. Then he banged his temple with the heel of his hand, twice, three times.
The dog licked its nose and vanished. He counted to ten but it didn’t reappear and he went inside.
#
Alamain Brewer was a rhino squeezed into a charcoal suit. When he stood in the doorway his shoulders pressed against the doorframe and the polished dome of his skull brushed the lintel. Had he always been so big, Vice wondered? All his old students seemed so much smaller in his memories.
He couldn’t stop staring at Brewer’s chin. Shaved baby smooth to match his head. Vice could barely resist the urge to touch it. “Christ, you almost look professional. How long were you growing that bush?”
“Since before you knew me. Before I was a student, even.” Brewer held out his hand, a great slab that swallowed Vice’s own well-manicured fingers. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Don’t you dare ‘sir’ me. Let me keep my dignity.” The coffee was sweet and hot. He sipped, trying to pull back memories from five years before. Brewer had been big even then, sure, hunched behind a too-small desk while Vice shouted from the lectern. Big and hairy and dumb looking. A perfect disguise.
“I know you’re uncomfortable with this whole idea, but we really need someone who operates by the book…”
“No, no. I’m flattered that you’d invite your old professor. Who else is coming?”
“A few familiar faces. I kept in touch with the class.”
“Better than me. I see Scott on TV sometimes, but…” He shrugged. “So, Scott, Julia, who else?”
“Scott’s the Alpha for this meld, and Marigold is coming too. Julia…” Brewer shook his head. “Too busy these days for old friends.” He smiled. “You two were close.”
“In a professional sense.”
“I wasn’t saying otherwise.”
The coffee was getting cold. “You’ve pulled me into this blind. How many patients, how many psyches?”
“Just one patient.
“What sort of neuroses takes five psychiatrists?”
“Here.” Brewer turned to his desk and tapped a few keys. A casefile unfolded across the screen. “Reginald Buckley. War vet of the worst sort.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got an hour before the others arrive. Take…” He must have seen how Vice’s hands were shaking. “Take your time.”
Vice settled into a chair and read Buckley’s evaluation. He barely noticed when Brewer slipped out, his smart leather shoes a whisper on the concrete. From time to time he raised his right hand and gnawed at the pad of his thumb. When he tasted blood he switched to the left.
Brewer was back, a fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hand. “What do you think? Worst I’ve seen in a while, but probably standard for you-”
“You should have told me.”
“Don’t you like surprises?”
“Not like this.” Vice rubbed his eyes. “This kid’s been through enough shit for ten men. Haven’t seen a file that bad since Oxford.” He took the coffee. “You think you’ll need five psyches?”
“It might not be enough. Reg Buckley has been known to… lash out during meld therapy. He knows how to turn the dream around. You’ve had experience with patients taking control?”
“Nothing that can’t be handled by following the rules.”
“So? Will you help?”
Vice leaned back in the chair. The north wall of the office was a large one-way mirror and beyond that was the meld room. Six high-backed seats stationed at the points of a hexagon with fat steel cables snaking from the headrests and over the concrete floor, bleeding away into dark corners where black control units blinked and whirred, eternally patient. The seats were white adaptive foam, arm-rests ergonomically tapered, plumped and padded for comfort. The synthetic leather shone.
It hadn’t been this way fifteen years before. Vice and the other students had built their own chairs back then, welding cast-off scrap and jamming fat bundles of wires into pipes, soldering connections at random. They’d been glad just not to electrocute themselves.
Easier now. Sleeker. Colder, too. He knew exactly how it would feel, settling into one of those meld-seats. Greasy up his arms and against the nape of his neck.
You can say no. He’ll understand. You can walk away.
Five years now since he’d done a group meld. Five years since he’d jammed a data-needle into the socket at the base of his neck. Five years alone with his own dreams.
The coffee left a bitter heat in his throat like bubbling pitch. “Without me, you can’t fill out the six.”
Brewer cocked his head. “You’ll do it?”
“Can’t say no to my best student.” He hoped his smile didn’t waver because his stomach was already clenching hard enough to ache. Sweat pricked cool down his back.
Five years was much too long.
#
They came through the door together, Scott and Marigold side by side, and Vice tried to speak but couldn’t. He thought, they’ve gotten old! and then my God, they’re still so young, and finally, what do they see when they look at me?
Then Scott was waving, calling hello, sticking out his hand. “Professor Vice! You came!” He took Vice’s hand in a tight grip and pumped furiously. “It’s so, so good to see you again. I was telling my wife about you just last week.”
“Wife? There’s a Mrs. Yakamov?”
“We met just after graduation.” Scott was a gaunt-faced knobby-elbowed man, thick dark eyebrows set above a nose as thin as bone. His hairline was already retreating, exposing his pink, sunburned scalp. And yet, those same excited, childish eyes still flitted about the room, taking in the chairs, the knotted wires, the possibilities. “She’s beautiful.”
“I’m sure she is. And I saw you on that talk show! You’re Shireen Carter’s personal therapist now?”
“Sadly.” Scott grinned. “She’s a bitch, but the perks…”
“Lucky man.” When was the last time he’d seen Scott Yakamov? Graduation. The cap toss, tassels pinwheeling. All five of his class up on stage, cheering together, their certificates crushed tight in smooth young fists, their names written in foot-high letters on the screen, orange on black like emergency flares at night. “I’m glad, Scott. I’m real glad.”
Scott grinned again and peeled away. Marigold Fisher took his place. “You’re looking well, Professor.”
“Same to you.” Marigold’s handshake was limp and hesitant. She was a tiny woman, the top of her head just reaching past Vice’s navel. At least they didn’t all grow taller than me, Vice thought, and felt an instant stab of guilt. “Did you hear? Scott got married?”
“I know!” Marigold giggled and covered her mouth with one hand. Another thing that hadn’t changed. Her laugh, high enough to shatter glass. How many times had that ear-driller greeted him at morning lectures? But it was nice, hearing it now. Familiar. “I thought he was queer!” Marigold said.
Vice leaned down. “Don’t tell him, but so did I.”
“You’re terrible!” She tittered again and patted Vice on the arm. “I missed you, Professor.”
“Missed you too, Mary.”
She left him to watch the others file in. Two men in pale blue suits, expensive watches winking on their wrists. They nodded to Vice and then turned back to each other, whispering too quiet for Vice to hear. He sipped his third coffee.
Brewer emerged from the control chamber and clapped his hands together. “Everyone is here? Okay. The client is arriving in five. Mr Fraser, Mr Nippon, have you been briefed?”
The two suits nodded.
“Great. Now, Mr Buckley has more than enough neuroses, and he doesn’t respond well to being outnumbered. So, Mr. Yakamov will be Alpha this meld while Mr. Fraser and Mr. Vice will act as sub-therapists.” One of the blue-suited men nodded again. He was ivory-pale, and when he laced his hands together his knuckles stood out like walnuts. Vice remembered the name. Fraser.
Brewer continued. “Miss Fisher and Mr. Nippon will play patients, so Buckley will feel as if he’s on neutral ground.”
Fraser raised his hand. “Is Buckley doing this voluntarily?”
“No. This therapy is a requirement of his parole.”
“So, how far can we push him?”
Brewer frowned. “No pushing. Mr. Yakamov leads the dream. You’re there for support only. Don’t twist the environment, don’t create unnatural stresses. Keep Buckley in the meld. Don’t let him take control.” There was the low peal of a car horn outside. “That’s him. Mary, jump into your chair. Mr. Nippon, could you head out back and change into something more casual? Go, go. Okay. Here he comes.”
The door swung open.
Reginald Buckley was a huge man, as wide as he was tall, bigger even than Brewer. But where Brewer was thick and brick-hard, Buckley was wobbling and soupy. Vice grimaced as the man turned sideways to fit through the doorway, belly catching on the frame. He huffed and panted and Vice had an image of him popping like a water balloon, spraying bits of Buckley all over the meld chamber walls. Finally he squeezed through, wheezing, tongue hanging over his lips. He held his hands before him as if linked by invisible cuffs and his head dangled low, jowls flopping over the high collar of his jacket.
He stepped into the light of the meld chamber and said, “Hello.” His skin gleamed like raw dough. He glanced about and for a moment he and Vice looked one another in the eye. Then he went back to staring at the space between his feet. His voice was meek and hesitant. “I’m here for therapy.”
#
Buckley didn’t wriggle as they strapped him into his seat. “Can I get a drink of water?” Brewer fetched him a cup while Marigold and Mr. Nippon did up their own straps and slotted their feet into the stirrups. Vice saw how they’d turned up their collars to hide their dataplugs; the one thing that marked them as professionals. They feigned nervousness, testing the limits of the straps.
Brewer circled the room, checking readouts and banging fat spiral plugs into sockets Vice didn’t recognise. He stopped behind Scott’s seat and flicked the switch that hardwired Scott’s circuits into the Alpha position, then gave Vice the thumbs-up. “Almost ready to go.”
“Sure.” Vice pulled Brewer aside to whisper in his ear. “Alamain… Is this ethical? Maybe I’m old fashioned, but shouldn’t the patient know who the therapists are?”
Brewer put his hand on Vice’s shoulder. “Times change. Therapies change. And so do state psychiatric care policies. If you want to pull out… I thought you’d appreciate this, you know.”
“I do.”
“You’ll be fine. Just let Scott lead.” Brewer grinned. “You taught us well, okay? Only reason I can do what I do is because I got lucky when I pulled your name for tutorials.” He patted Vice on the shoulder. “Let the kids handle it for once.”
Vice settled into the chair and tried to relax. The cool steel of the socket in the headrest made the hairs on the back of his neck stand tall. The end of each armrest had grooves for grip; the synthetic leather felt slimy between his fingers. The stirrups squeezed his feet a little too tight, just enough to make his toes hurt. The lights were cranked to full brightness, making spots dance before his eyes, and he suddenly had the image of lying on an autopsy table, still and cold but still beating inside, blind but still hearing the chatter of steel on steel, screaming in his head as the scalpel pricked his collarbone…
Calm. Calm. How many times had he done this before? Two thousand, three? Sometimes in ten minute bursts and sometimes hours, guiding patient after patient through cotton-wool dreams, waiting for the right reaction, the click of inspiration that would tell him exactly what to do and how to do it.
He’d probably spent as many hours sharing dreams with others as he had dreaming alone. That realisation made him suddenly feel very tired.
Vice had been assigned the seat at the south point of the hexagon, which set him directly across from Buckley. The man boiled over the armrests and his ankles swelled out of his boots. The wrist-straps cut cruelly into the swell of his flesh. Buckley caught Vice’s eye and smiled. His teeth were very small and very white. Vice looked away.
Brewer was back. “Comfortable?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Listen. I know I should be jacking you in as a sub, but I want you as co-Alpha, along with Scott.” He flicked the hardwire switch behind Vice’s head. “Those two, Fraser and Nippon… they’re court appointed. I don’t know if they’re any good. So I’m keeping them on a sub-loop. They don’t know. Remember, you’re there to observe and support, not interact. Unless, of course, things get hairy.”
“I remember.” Vice wiggled his fingers. No tingles, no shakes. Calm.
“I’m running this one with no concept blockers, so let Scott take Buckley wherever he needs to go. Besides that…” Brewer snapped his finger. “You still need to set your exit word. Something unique.”
“Cuisine.”
“What if he dreams about a restaurant? It might come up accidentally. What was your word, back in university? You always had the same word.”
Vice shook his head. “Can’t remember, honestly. Too long ago. What about… unleaded?”
Brewer paused, then laughed. “Good. Say it a few times and I’ll lock it in.”
“Unleaded. Unleaded.”
“Good. The lines are clean. All subs are reading base beta.” A few more clicks. The whine of a dial being turned to max. The plug in the headrest began to hum, vibrating through his teeth. “Ready?”
Vice swallowed. “Ready.”
“Okay. Meld is winding. Doctor Scott Yakamov as Alpha, Professor William Vice and Doctor Armin Fraser as Second Alpha. Booting the meld at three-twenty four PM, June seventh, twenty-sixty-five. Time begins in seven, six, five-”
That was it? Ten minutes preparation for a six-person meld? How could things have become so easy? Every dream took hours of preparation, back in the university days. Careful testing and calibration… Now everything ran on autopilot. Scott’s eyes were closed, lids fluttering. Was he already dreaming?
You taught them well, he thought. Even with everything else you fucked up, you taught them well.
“Four, three, two-”
The cords in Buckley’s neck stood out. Then he slumped as the meld took him, the tension falling from his face. He looked like a fat-faced baby strapped exhausted into a high-chair. Vice’s gut was a tight knot and his testicles tingled. He closed his eyes and squeezed the armrests.
“One…”
A moment stretched out. Vice clenched his teeth. Shouldn’t have come. Too old and too slow for this. Should never have come.
But if I didn’t, what else is there?
“Time to dream,” said Brewer, and the electric snap of connection echoed through Vice’s skull. Hands pressed him down, warm and soft and slippery like eels, and behind his eyelids the lights began to dance.
Then nothing.
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