Complete Atopia Chronicles

He looked like the cat that had just eaten the canary, and about ready to burst and let me in on some secret. In the report from Hotstuff, I could see that Willy had fully paid off the multi-generational mortgage for his family, and was well on his way to amassing a pretty sizeable fortune, but I didn’t have the time or energy to talk. Death was calling.

“Yeah, I’d noticed you’d amped up your Phuture News services pretty dramatically,” I said carefully, “but that’s not why I’m here. I’ll just send you the details of what I need right now. I can see you’re a busy man.”

I immediately uploaded the transaction I needed executed into one of his splinters.

“You want me to what?” he exclaimed. “You know this is going to look suspicious, especially with me working for Infinixx.”

“From what I’ve heard, you don’t work for them anymore.”

Willy stopped fidgeting and stared at me. “Yeah that’s right, but it will still look odd.”

“You wouldn’t be making any profit off this, and nobody will know,” I explained. “I know it seems crazy, but if you could do this for me, and keep it quiet, I can pay you an awful lot of money. I need you to dump all that stock and chalk up a huge loss for me, and I need you to do it from New York.”

I looked at his face. He was watching me watching him.

“And be careful,” I said after a moment, suddenly feeling he was in over his head.

“It doesn’t look like there will be any problems with this transaction, Vince, in fact…” he began, not catching my meaning.

“No, not with that,” I interrupted, “with what you have going on here.”

“There’s nothing going on here.”

We both stood and stared at each other.

I sighed. I needed to get going.

“Just be careful, okay?”

He hesitated, but then smiled.

“No problem, Mr. Indigo.”

This kid was going to get himself in trouble. He offered his hand to shake, and I shook it, but my mind was already elsewhere.

I quickly flitted off to the roof of the Cognix towers.

9

A deep, haunting wail reverberated through the morning air, carrying me upwards, beyond the highest of the Himalayan peaks, but also inwards and backwards, deep into my mother’s womb. A million deaths surrounded me, all threaded outwards from my moment of creation, a cosmic embryo of existence secured by the thin timeline threading through it all that kept me alive.

My body was drenched in sweat under the hot sun that beat down from the Columbian sky. I was making my way across the Plaza de Bolivar, wiping the sweat off the nape of my neck with a t-shirt I’d pulled out of my backpack. Tourists were standing around in small groups, looking around at the grand framed portico walls, sweating together under the same sun that was baking us. Pigeons scattered at my feet.

I had to keep moving. A small security contingent was shadowing me from a distance, but I was trying to stay incognito. Out of the corner of my eye, a Coca-Cola sign called out from under the shade of an awning, and I shifted my path towards it and the small convenience shop at the corner of the plaza.

“Hola!” I announced as I entered, feeling the relief of cool air sweeping over me. I slid open the door to a small refrigerator at the side of the register, pulling out a can of soda, and, parched, opened it and began gulping it down. The shop keeper appeared from the back just as I was about finished it.

“Senor!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide as he stared at me.

“What?”

I put the can down. Was he that upset that I hadn’t paid for it first?

I reached into my pockets, feeling suddenly energized and awake. I fumbled around excitedly for some pesos. A small group of people had appeared in the shop, staring at me, which I knew could only mean one thing. Instead of feeling scared, I felt a rush of adrenaline, now excited about whatever was about to happen, even though I knew it was death.

My heart banged, my chest exploding. I couldn’t breathe. I looked at the shop keeper, now staring in horror at the can of soda in my hand. My vision began to swim as I made for the door, my knees giving way in a euphoric rush. At the edges of my senses, I could hear clapping, in fact, I could hear applause. I waved to my fans as the blackness descended.

The dung-chen horns sounded again, their low, baleful moans awakening my mind fully from its semi-lucid dream state. I blinked and looked out the window of the room I’d been sleeping in. The rising sun was announcing the start of a new day, though Lhasa was still enveloped in shade as the sun fought its way over the towering peaks surrounding the valley.

Still half asleep, I let my mind wander back to the death event in Columbia we’d just averted. They had been smuggling narcotics in the soda cans, and I’d unwittingly downed one before anyone could warn me off. We shifted the path of my walk later today through Bogota away from the Plaza de Bolivar entirely, just in case.