In the Arms of Lachiga: Stories

Headcase

“Headcase” is the first short story, chronologically speaking, in my Lachiga universe—a VR-centric postcyberpunk world that grew out of my own ideas about the perceived necessity for ballistic warfare and the experiences of those who are ordered to kill other human beings for the glory of faceless politicians—but it was probably the second or third one I actually wrote. It serves to establish the horrific backstory to the pieces that follow, and while it is heavy on style and atmosphere, it’s more about introducing readers to Dax Marquand and his forbidden lover than the technology that becomes so central to the larger narrative.

Headcase

Jed’s girl is sprawled naked on the floor of my apartment, her bare legs tangled in a soft black blanket, and she says, “I want what you have, Dax. To shape and polish and steer the world for a buffered credit line. I want you to make me a mod.” 

My eyes fall on the expanse of flesh glowing in the false candlelight, and it takes a second for her request to sink in.

“Not a chance,” I say, feeling a knot on my forehead.

Sasha’s been sneaking across town for these little rendezvous for over two months, and this is the first time she’s shown an interest in my work. In my mastership over the virtual realm, instead of my prowess in the bedroom.

“Oh, come on,” she says, craning her neck to look at me over her shoulder, “you did it for that prick, Nelson. Even Jed says you did.”

I tell her, “Nelson wasn’t my best friend’s girl.”

She grunts, and rises, stretching her arms in a crooked Jesus Christ pose. The blanket drops to the floor, and my eyes crawl along the full glory of her. Exposed.

Her dark breasts point accusingly at me. An intricate circuit-board pattern tattoo snakes down her ribs, does a triple-helix twist across her navel, and then disappears into the soft shadow along her inner thigh.

The yellow flicker of a reflected LED winks at the edge of her eyes, which I notice are shiny with moisture as she draws near.

“You’ll do it,” she says, “or I’ll tell Jed we’ve been sleeping together.”

I say, “Go to hell.”

The slap rattles my skull, and one of her fingernails carves a warm slit across my cheek. Blood drips, tickles my face.

“You can tear down skyscrapers and rebuild them out of dust,” she whispers. “You can erase entire data trails. Alter avatars. You could fucking stop time, if you wanted.” Her teeth are an ivory cityscape inside her mouth. Her lips are a pair of rolling hills, the kind corporations buy up to plant endless rows of corn and hemp and soybean crop in.

Her entire face is exactly the sort of monopoly the old city used to be, back before WorldNet’s pioneering neuroware went live, global, and in control. Before Lachiga towered over the heartland, its electrochemical heartbeat the new lifeblood of civilization in the Americas.

Sasha’s a relic of the distant past, and I shudder at the thought of her manipulating even the smallest facet of cyberspace. The digital realm needs a headcase like her in control like I need Jed finding out about the two of us.

“You’re cruel,” I tell her, holding my arms out, fingers splayed. I force a gentle laugh, still feeling the trickle of blood on my cheek. “But you don’t need me to tell you that. I love you to death, Sash, but seriously—I’m not licensed for that shit.”

She takes another step toward me. “You can do it, and you will.”

I stammer the start of an unintelligible rebuttal, the words caught in my throat—