THREE
Inside was as stark and geometric as outside, but not as gloomy. The surroundings made Rooster think of a state-of-the-art doctor's surgery. Only it was not paint gleaming white on the floor, walls and ceiling. It was yet more imbedded artificial light of some sort, as on the buildings outside. One wall was not working properly. Its light flickered in a distracting fashion.
A lovely Negress wearing the oddest leotard Rooster had ever seen greeted them. "Welcome, brother. Welcome, sister. Welcome to the Temple of the Dude." Her tight outfit was of a shiny pink fabric, accented with glowing white strips and what looked like enameled white jewelry.
"I told you to quit calling it that," their host snapped.
"Bear calls it that."
"Geez, Hype, you wanna do everything Bear does? You wanna bring the Guard down on us?" His more sober (by comparison) garb was also highlighted by odd strips of glowing material. "We feed programs, patch 'em up. We don't do religion!"
Miss Hype smiled serenely and confidently at their host. Rooster was certain that this subject was a continual bone of contention.
"I'm serious, man! Just because we have a truce with the gangs doesn't mean the fucking Guard can't touch us."
"Mind your language, young man," Rooster told him sternly. "There are ladies present."
The 'young man' turned to him with a look of incomprehension as total as any Bear had given him. "Oh. Uh. Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My disc says Jef, but everybody calls me the Dude. This is Hypatia."
"Everybody calls me Hype. No names are needed here. Not until you are ready to share. Are you all right, miss?"
"Damn it." Rooster had been so taken by the surroundings (and perhaps by Miss Hype's frame), he hadn't even noticed how heavily Mattie had been leaning against him.
"Do sit down." In her scandalous rigging, Miss Hype was as gracious as a high church matron. A crooked winding bench near a crooked winding table was close by. Rooster and Miss Hype bustled the drooping Mattie over and got her settled. A pair of drunks down the table stared blearily. Rooster had never seen men wear such clothing, but he knew drunks when he saw them. And smelled them.
The Dude stomped over to the flickering wall and kicked it hard. It flared up, then died. "Good!" he hollered at it. "It's an improvement," he grumbled, and stomped back to Miss Hype. "No preaching! No Zen koans! They don't like competition, man. You know that! Hype. Hype, listen. You're not listening, are you?"
Hype ignored the Dude to reassure Rooster. "She's fine, just a little low-rez. She just needs to crash."
"Thank you, Miss Hype." He could not determine how she had diagnosed a state of low-rez. Then she aimed the glowing palm of her hand at him. She flipped it over and studied it, her high cheekbones accented by its bright pink light. "You could stand some rest yourself."
"Oh," Rooster said stupidly, watching the palm light fade. This was indeed a day of wonders.
"Can you and Bear handle things for a while?" The Dude seemed to have given up on their old argument. Miss Hype smiled at him lovingly. "Yes, Dude. It's quiet for now."
"I'm taking you two upstairs. You can crash there."
"Be sure to give them energy, Dude."
"I'm on it." The Dude and Miss Hype kissed briefly but with great fondness. "Follow me,"
And follow him Rooster did, half-carrying Mattie. It became total carrying after she stumbled, despite her murmured protest. Then she fell silent, which alarmed Rooster more than he cared to think on. Sweet burden in his arms, Rooster followed their host up a prodigious number of narrow glowing steps. Rooster was no architect, but he figured that these winding stairs added up to twice, hell, thrice the height of the building. Indeed, they had entered the looking-glass territory detailed in one of Mattie's favorite books.
After ascending more than thrice the height of the building, they entered a small, windowless room. The only furnishings were a spindly chair and a narrow bed that swallowed up half the floor space. The room was lit in the same fashion as the dining area, which did prevent gloominess. However, the anti-claustrophia lighting did not conceal the fact that there wasn't room to swing a cat. Wasn't even room to put the rug on the floor. Instead, it hung on the wall. Well, it was a mighty pretty rug. It brightened up the spare, almost sterile space.
Far be it from Rooster to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was safe and warm, which was more than they had ten minutes ago. He lay Mattie on the bed and loosened her collar. She was dead to the world. "What did Miss Hype mean by low … low-whatever?"
"Low-rez. All she needs is rest. Don't you worry, man. Hype knows her stuff." The Dude extracted a flask from a previously invisible shelf on the wall and poured blue liquid into a vial. "Give her this when she wakes up."
"What is this concoction?"
"An energy tonic."
"Hmm. So. It is good for what ails you." Rooster stood from the bed and faced the Dude.
"You got it." The Dude held out the vial.
"You first."
"Uhhh, what?" Meeting Rooster's implacable gaze, the Dude noticed how much the guy looked like his crazy Uncle Karol. How straight and quiet he stood. Where his hand was placed. "Oh, yeah. Uh, I get it. Don't pull your piece, man. I'll drink it." And he upended the vial and gulped the tonic.
"Thank you, friend." Rooster kept his hand on the butt of his 'piece'. "I try not to draw twice in one day if I can avoid it."
The two men stood in a silent, uneasy face-off. Rooster decided that the Dude was not as young as he had thought. A city boy, used to soft living, but he was at least forty. The Dude decided that Rooster couldn't be much past fifty. He was weather-beaten and his hair had gone solid white, but he was not a man to be messed with. Made the Dude think of a security program. Fuck it.
After five minutes, Rooster was satisfied that the tonic had no ill effects. "Have a seat, Dude." Rooster was tired, but he would not show it. He carefully sat on the bed after the Dude had taken the chair. "You must be thinking what a gracious way I have of thanking you for your hospitality. I hope you do not take offense at my precautions."
"Hey, no problem, man. Happened to me once, some asshole fed me a roofie. Not fun."
Despite himself, Rooster was curious. "What happened after you imbibed the ... roofie?"
"I got lucky, just a mild beating. A poor man's massage therapy."
It was a weak joke, but they both chuckled. It eased the tension. The Dude uneasily glanced down at the older man's revolver. It was one big fucking revolver. Two of 'em, one on each side. The Dude didn't know much about firearms, but they looked in excellent condition. They also looked antique. "Uh …" He thought of the older man's somewhat archaic speech. The archaic clothing on their backs.
Fuck. They must be from the real world. Like me. Big Brother. Oh, fuck — "What year is it?"
The older man looked at him like he was crazy.
"No, man, I'm serious here."
"It is 1883," Rooster said in a patient voice reserved for children, idiots and madmen.
"Yeah." Just tell him. "When I got beamed up, it was 1992. Over a century later. Which makes no fucking sense, because I got here before you. Space-time continuum is fucked up, man."
The older man was still looking at him like he was crazy, only now with a tinge of anger.
"Awwww, damn it," the Dude sighed. "Look, I, uh. Oh, man. I don't know how to explain this to you. I'll just say it. Just say it, uh. We're stuck in a computer. Uh, well, strictly speaking, a computer server."
"That is a fine explanation. Now I comprehend our situation completely."
"Okay, I'm not getting through here. Where I come from. When I come from, there are machines called computers. Thinking machines. And we're trapped inside one."
Another look. Fuck. The guy didn't look like his crazy Uncle Karol. He looked like his even crazier Uncle Lech.
"O-kay. Just open your shirt and see what you see. Yeah, I'm serious," he added at yet another incredulous look.
Grumbling, Rooster loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the top few buttons. "What—" He yanked his shirt open. Buttons went flying. "What—" Then he shouted, a brief, wordless sound. He would have lept to his feet, but he felt frozen in place on the bed.
Blue-white light gleamed up at him. What looked like liquid silver swam on his chest, sketched in a complex scheme. Rooster anticipated the pain and stench of torture by fire at any instant.