FLICKER — NaNoWriMo 2016
NOVEMBER 7TH, 2016 — DAY 07
Really starting to feel the wheels coming off. The sheer amount I’m falling behind is making the thing feel like a daily weight and the downward spiral is self-enforcing. Missed again, deficit is now in the order of 2000 words. The small bursts I’m able to do come out of brute forcing a “a bad something is better than no-thing” before I stop because I don’t like what I’m writing.
This is probably not helped by the fact I’m now in Vancouver and nothing else is going on. So it’s just hanging over me.
Anyway, I appreciate it if you’re actually reading these.
CHAPTER 8
“I still don’t know why we need them,” Ochoa asserted over the tiny bubbles shooting from his glass of jasmine. “Yi Cheng’s trying to get a screening for Sanshiro set up, my guys can’t keep telling him we’re unavailble. He’ll go elsewhere.”
“Then let him. José, I thought we were in agreement on this. Bringing something so exhilarating — “
“That’s what they said with drone racing, with Formula E. You haven’t just invented the idea of motorsport, Keiko.” She looked him over in the low light of Carnitas.
“There was no danger with drones, the pilots locked off in bunkers as those toys whined around a track. And Formula E… It’s just about who can build the best intelligence. The teams still holding onto human jockeys are laughable.”
“I agree with you. But why’ve you got a hard-on for those guys out there? Why don’t we just do it for ourselves?” It’d been over a week since they’d headed out to the desert on the back of Keiko’s hairbrain scheme and Ochoa was getting impatient.
“If you know where to find riders like those in a city that’s long lost human drivers, show me.” Keiko took a sip of her tea. “Take Cheng’s meeting, go and see the thing. Just don’t expect me to jump until we know where we stand with that kid and the MT.” Ochoa gave a nod to his assistant in adjacent booth. “You know more people will be into this thing than even the rarest collection of motion pictures. I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me help your company,” Ochoa said as he stood to leave.
Cheng was thrilled to hear from Ochoa later in the day. He buzzed through the aisles of his Studio City office powered by anticipation. The building’s cinema was scoured by maintenance bots, every inch of the carpet combed for so much as a dead flake of skin. The bots couldn’t do everything, however. The projector had to be maintained by a trained hand. Parts printed from aluminium and set into a ceramic housing, the projector exemplified Analog Nouveau design, essential for those that dealt in extinct media. It’s operation was timed to a quantum clock to ensure sync between the picture and audio strips to within a deviation of one second every four billion years. This was the closest you’d get to perfect. The takeup spools were vaccuumed for any grain or fibre that might contaminate the print, sprockets lubricated with liquid crystaline fluid lowering friction coefficients to imperceptible levels. Infrasound breathed out of the cinema’s speakers to keep the cones warm and the bass reflex dilated. The attention those in Cheng’s business paid to exhibition of analog material ensured there was never a point in history anything you could run through a system like this would be witnessed with such acuity.
Cheng bounced on the balls of his feet by the building’s entrance. He absently tapped at the plug in his ear just to hear the time. There’d be pacing, the scraping of leather sole on tile as he spun one-eighty to keep pacing, keeping tapping at his ear. The reception staff knew he did this when he got nervous. Right now he was nervous because Ochoa was late.
The glistening storefront of an aging arcade had pulled Ochoa off the sidewalk after he and his assistant stepped out of the cell.
“Sir,” the assistant tried. “We don’t have the time.”
“Bullshit. Yi’ll wait.” Ochoa led his assistant inside what to most would be a scab on the cityscape but to some still stood as a temple. “I used to love these places.”
The cash machine toward the front of the arcade spat out singles in response to Ochoa’s brush against its terminal. Ochoa took the short stack of bills, flicked through them, rolling them between his fingertips, bringing them close enough to consume their scent. He walked the line of machines over soda-sticky carpet, assistant in toe, weighing up where to slot those bills whose texture he would only reluctantly give up. VR systems from a decade and a half ago, a jungle of tentacular cables running off of a glorified set of ski goggles paired with quaint “motion controls”. The deep clacks and sharp clicks caught his attention next. Two Japanese kids crunching down the pedals of a Time Crisis II machine whist their plastic pistols kicked back at the pull of a trigger. Overweight Americans in ketchup-stained t-shirts squeezed themselves into the row of bucket seats of some driving simulator, each machine equipped with a screen curving around their periphery.
A large group of tech yuppies crowded what must have been the most popular machine towards the back with a cloud of boistrous cheers. Ochoa inserted himself in the group’s outer ring, craned to see what the fuss was about. Two gutted Kawasakis on platforms faced each other. The riders exploited the range of movement of the stationary bikes, banking them presumably in accordance to the images firing from the shades over their eyes. A few sets of shades were being passed around the crowd, worn for a moment by an exclaiming spectator before snatched away by another. Ochoa looked back for his assistant, caught her eye. She knew what he wanted. She found the signal, implant glowed above her jacket collar as she pushed it. Ochoa wrapped his shades around his face and saw them.
A grand prix circuit rendered in chunky polygons resolved before him. In the stands, Ochoa looked down at his body: a blocky blob that might as well have been cast from the concrete approximation it stood atop. Bikes stuttered silently along the grey track, ran rings around the circuit’s centre where grass radiated a sickly green. Virtual riders were commically identical dressed in black atop identical model bikes textured in some bright colour or other. The shouts of encouragement from the arcade still filled his ears. Maybe Keiko was onto something. But they might not need the boilersuits out in the desert after all.
“Sir?” one of the receptionists spoke to the still-pacing Yi Cheng.
“Not now, Aline.” Cheng had chewed through half his fingernails and good chunk of his fingertips.
“Sir, Mr Ochoa has had to reschedule. Sends his sincerest apologies.” Cheng shook his head, spun on a dime, and strode for the elevator.
Ochoa wedged his way into the huddle that formed around the victor. She was tiny, would’ve just snuck past five feet. From the praise paired with slaps on shoulders, Ochoa was able to grab the name.
“Carter!” Ochoa tried over the crowd, slipping past sharp elbows, pushing forward.
Logs:
S: 16–1107_0848, 8535WE: 16–1107_0906, 8625W | 90WS: 16–1107_0911, 8625WE: 16–1107_0931, 8809W | 274WS: 16–1107_0956, 8809WE: 16–1107_1027, 9011W | 476WS: 16–1107_1519, 9011WE: 16–1107_1609, 9399W | 863WS: 16–1107_1634, 9399WE: 16–1107_1648, 9493W | 957WS: 16–1107_2006, 9493WE: 16–1107_2031, 9641W | 1105WTOTAL: 2.5H | 1105W
