Timecaster

EIGHT

Outside the building, I called Vicki from my headphone as I walked to my car. She didn’t pick up. Probably blocking my calls because I had acted like a cretin. I left her a message.

“Look, babe, I’m sorry I was an asshat. It’s just that I love you so much, I can’t stand thinking about you with other guys. Call me old-fashioned, but the only man you should be with is me. When I picture some tool like Neil…”

No. That wasn’t an apology. That was continuing the fight.

“Erase. Restart. Vicki? I’m sorry. I knew when I married an SLP that you would spread your legs for other men…”

That didn’t sound good either.

“Erase. Restart. Vicki, I’m sorry, but how can I help feeling jealous knowing you’re sucking some other guy’s… Shit. Erase. Restart.”

“This isn’t working, Talon.”

Uh-oh.

“Vicki? Were you listening to that?”

“If you’re not mature enough to accept what I do for a living, maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

I felt my heart stop. “Vicki… I’m sorry…”

“I’ve been discussing this with my therapist. She doesn’t feel like this marriage is healthy for either of us.”

I leaned against the hood of my Corvette. My Corvette, paid for because she boffed other men. “You discuss this with your therapist?”

“Don’t you discuss it with your therapist?”

Both of our jobs required us to see therapists once a week, Vicki to retain her SLP license, me to remain a peace officer.

“No. We don’t discuss anything. We spend the session watching hyperbaseball.”

“My therapist thinks it’s unhealthy for me to feel guilty about my profession because you’re too insecure-”

“Insecure? I’m always one hundred percent sure of myself! Aren’t I?”

“-too insecure to realize sex is simply a biological need that is completely wholesome and natural and impersonal. It’s no more intimate than a massage.”

“Then why can’t you become a masseuse?”

“Dammit, Talon, you’re acting so twentieth century. Other animals don’t get jealous. This is your hang-up, and it’s ruining our marriage.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was heading.

“Ruining? I thought our marriage was solid. We rarely ever fight about this.”

“You mention it at least once a week.”

“That’s not a lot. Is it? Do you really think I’m insecure?”

“Maybe we need to take a break from each other for a while.”

I thought about Aunt Zelda, and the speedy conviction that awaited me. “Maybe we’ll get a break, whether we want one or not.”

“So you agree with me?”

“What? No. I don’t agree at all. But something came up at work that may-”

“Is it Neil? Did you help him? Is he okay?”

“You sound awfully concerned about Neil, babe.”

“There you go again. He’s just a sad, lonely little man.”

A sad, lonely little man who nailed my wife today, while I was mowing our lawn.

“He’s in love with you,” I said.

“He’s just got a crush. That’s all.”

“No. It’s love. I asked him.”

“You had no right to do that!”

“You say sex is harmless, but this tool would jump off a building for you. Is that harmless?”

“Where is Neil? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

“Can you give me a little credit, maybe?”

“I’m calling him.”

“Vicki…”

She hung up.

“That went well,” I said to my car. I stared out into the urban jungle, green buildings scraping the sky, thousands of anonymous biofuel scooters flooding the roads. My city. Vibrant, alive, and beautiful in its way.

The thought of living here without Vicki was unbearable.

The thought of living anywhere without Vicki was unbearable.

I climbed in the Vette and plotted a route to Sata’s house. One crisis at a time.

Michio Sata lived in the northwest suburbs, in the city of Schaumburg. The twelve-lane highway was predictably stop-and-go, bikes clogging everything. Even the frog-leg lane was full, the kermits going slightly slower than the rest of traffic, probably because they enjoyed stopping every so often and bouncing around like idiots.

I glanced longingly at the cargo train alongside the road-used to move goods since trucks were outlawed-and not for the first time wished I was a bag of grain, which undoubtedly traveled faster than I did. Or maybe a hobo. Dangerous business, hopping onto trains, but at least those who survived reached their destinations on time.

To kill some time I linked my DT to the car stereo and listened to some blues, but every damn song seemed to be about cheating women and jealous men. So I asked it to filter the content for infidelity, and listened to eight straight songs about drinking, which made me want to turn around and grab that rum from Aunt Zelda’s cabinet. After that I switched to laser radio and drummed my steering wheel to mc chris, Ice Cube, and Pink, but I tired of oldies pretty quick and went back to blues.

I managed to make it to Sata’s neighborhood within an hour. Unlike Chicago, where ivy-draped buildings dominated the scenery, Schaumburg’s architecture was placed far enough apart to turn it into a giant bamboo maze. Six-foot stalks sprouted from every bit of free land space, making it look like many of the shops and houses were sinking in a swamp, only their roofs visible from the street.

My GPS led me to Sata’s driveway, a green clover road being squeezed on either side by overgrown hemp. The size of his lawn was commensurate with his wealth. Sata’s patent rights in timecasting tech had made him a rich man. I parked next to a fountain-two concrete mermaids spitting water on each other-then grabbed my TEV and rang his videobell.

Sata’s face appeared on the monitor. His long gray hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and I saw he was wearing a keikogi. He nodded when he saw me.

“Talon. I was hoping you’d come by. Enter.”

At his voice command, the door unlocked. I walked into his home and slipped off my shoes, setting them in a cubbyhole of the getabako he kept in the foyer. Then I made my way to the gym.

Unlike Aunt Zelda, whose small apartment was light on greenery and heavy on contraband, Sata’s wealth was apparent only by the size of his home and land. Every wall had ivy growing on it, and the tile floors were bracketed by dirt patches growing sunflowers. The high ceilings were inlaid with magnifying windows and solar lights, so no matter the time of day his home was always bright. Every few meters was a Doric pedestal supporting a bonsai tree. According to Sata, some of them were more than a hundred years old.

The house smelled of plant life, of greenery and humid oxygen and lavender that grew from hanging pots. The odor changed when I opened the doors to the training room. The gym smelled like sweat and determination.

Sata was barefoot in the center of the faux-wooden floor, wearing a blue keikogi-the traditional long-sleeved shirt-and black hakama-the baggy black pants that looked like a skirt. In his hands was a bamboo sword, a shinai. He was beating the absolute shit out of a faux-wooden training dummy, his strikes as loud as thunder, but coming in such rapid succession that they sounded more like a group of people wildly applauding.

When he noticed my entrance he yelled out a terrifying cry of, “Ki-ai!” and ran straight at me, his sword raised.