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THANKS, BRANDON!

by Stanley Lieber

Brandon stepped down out of the truck. coolguy98 had made the winning bid. Brandon was coolguy98.

“Payment,” directed Plinth Mold.

“No shit.”

Brandon swept his hand through the air, completing the transaction.

Plinth nodded. Brief pause as the world changed hands.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

Brandon toured the grounds.

“Suggest some changes,” demanded Brandon, to his assistant, who was himself. The arrangement was peculiar in that it had persisted through numerous staffing changes.

Plinth stared at Brandon’s penmanship. Excused himself without further comment.

Brandon proceeded, undeterred.

First on the agenda: Cleaning house.

Things were going to change around here.

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LATERAL DISCONNECT

by Stanley Lieber

She got mad.

The green doors all opened. Then closed, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. Costumed partygoers scrambled for the blinking exits, but most stopped short as the portals once again slammed shut. In summary, few of the club’s members achieved egress.

Obviously, none of them had trained for the objective. Also, none of them understood what was happening.

Piotr tapped his ear. I adjusted my visor and the audio finally synched to his moving lips.

“…and then we’re all finished here.”

Nodded. Then followed him out of the club back into the ship.

“Boneyard,” declared Piotr into his collar mic.

The ship commenced the slow process of compressing the club for longterm storage. The club folded, then folded again. Shrinking. Denizens still trapped inside had by now achieved visible panic.

“What a time to be alive,” I lamented, and the membership, though none of them could hear me, seemed to agree.

Compression completed, THE RAGNAROK sighed and closed the file. Removed the temporary copy from memory.

Piotr sat down on the bed and removed his visor.

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EH2ME

by Stanley Lieber

Clientele within the CLASS ACTION had exceeded Dunbar’s number. Piotr’s brass ceiling exacerbated the confusion. Next, the lights had flickered out.

Tangled relationships. Trading was affected.

Looking around, they were all wearing it. Costumes sagging. Static display of doll gape. Tapped my visor, switching command to internal. Obvious, now. The marks had been made.

We got into it.

Pockets, clutches, bags, wallets, rings, jewelry, cards, bills of all denominations, passwords, pin numbers, car keys, leaves, data gloves, visors. We negotiated each item swiftly but carefully, sorting all such matter into like piles.

Finally, Piotr grunted, “It’s not here.”

The green door groaned inward on its hinges, pre-signaling disappointment.

Incoming communique. Some kind of shorthand.

Piotr deleted his copy of the message, unread.

“Deeper,” he ordered, almost whispering.

Deeper it was.

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THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

by Stanley Lieber

Hokkaido. April.

(Though it felt like summer.)

Prince Rogers Nelson scaled the Black Gendarme, wind biting at his unprotected neck and face. His telepresence flickering in and out of apparent corporeality. His mascara running down his face.

“It’s windy now,” he remarked to himself from between clenched teeth, “But it’s gonna be okay.”

If only that had been the case.

Stilletto heels stabbing dark ice, Prince wondered at the whistling of the mountain wind. He observed each snowflake as it slowly drifted down the Black Gendarme. The snow was mounting beneath him, just as it had happened in his dream.

“Avalanche,” he predicted.

And then: “Oh.”

He stared at his hands as his fingers slipped from the black rocks. His body peeled slowly away from the mountainside, and his telepresence appeared to change color as he fell. This had not been planned, and did not at first seem to be a new idea wrapped in a so-called happy accident.

No such incident had occurred in his dream.

Down, down, down.

Dawn.

Prince’s telepresence resumed at the base of the Black Gendarme. Sunlight glinted on murky water as he waded hip-deep into reeds and rushes. Prince observed the river rising to soak his armpit-waisted, black silk trousers.

“Bullshit!” he protested, rather too loudly.

He seemed pleased when ambient volume adjusted itself automatically to compensate for the outburst.

There could be children watching.

Gradually, Prince made his way to the opposite river bank, where he pulled himself up to his full height atop three-inch heels. A flourish of expressive dance dispensed with the excess river water that had been absorbed by his uniform. He hoped that it all seemed intentional.

He smoothed down his black silk shirt and loosened his apache scarf. The trousers seemed ruined; or at least, had seen better days. Abandoning protocol, he discarded them casually on the riverbank. Damp, his black stockings glistened in the afternoon sunlight.

“All I ever wanted was to be left alone,” he claimed, to no one.

The Black Gendarme, the river, and the valley beyond offered no objection to this obvious lie. What could they have said?

Presently, Prince’s gaze shifted to the heavens above.

Scanning.

Compilation of his new album had been completed before he’d set off for the Black Gendarme. In his absence, album art had been prepared by his staff. Settling his focus mid-field, he reviewed the material for several seconds before gesturing to expand the playlist:

        1. June
        2. U KNOW
        3. BREAKFAST CAN WAIT
        4. WHAT IT FEELS LIKE
        5. affirmation
        6. WAY BACK HOME
        7. Time

This would do.

Seemingly satisfied, Prince authorized the release with his thumbprint, then shifted his gaze back to the river, adjusting several of the microphones that had lately come to hover in the vicinity. Preparations completed, he waded back into the water, proceeding in a straight line until his apparent body had submerged completely beneath the mossy sludge.

Telepresence sustained.

From below, Prince regarded the shafts of sunlight that penetrated the river’s surface, and he smiled, sweetly, at the successful transliteration.

Who would be listening?