Phakes (Short Fiction)
01st August 2006
In: Short Stories
Joe tried to open his eyes, screwing up his face against the slanting rays of sunlight that glared through partially open blinds. He sneezed violently, managed to get on all fours and edged into the shadow behind the settee. Somehow the carpet didn't seem so soft as it had last night. Every part of him throbbed, keeping strict time to the drumbeat in his head. He looked blearily around the room, searching for evidence of last night's party. Someone had obviously been busy. Not a glass, bottle, beer can or ashtray remained. Even the cushions were plumped. He sniffed the air for smoke traces. Nothing but the subtle odour of citrus coming from a bowl of pot pourri on the coffee table. Only one thing was out of place. A shoe lay in the doorway, a silver stiletto, size four and hardly worn. A fragment of memory surfaced - a pretty face he couldn't immediately put a name to. Locating his leather jacket, he stuffed the shoe in one of the pockets, stumbled down the hallway and let himself out of the unfamiliar flat.
Outside, the street it was very still and quiet. No cars or signs of life. Just a cloudless sky and harsh, diagonal sunlight. He stood trying to get his bearings, his recollections from the night before too fuzzy and disjointed to be any real help. What part of town was this? He recalled a car journey from the pub where they'd all met up. The party's host was a friend of someone he knew only vaguely and he'd gone because Denny had wanted to. The persistant banging in his head and the stale taste in his mouth prompted a momentary lapse into self-pity. If it hadn't been for that platinum blonde - Kansas O'Neal - the name popped into his mind from nowhere - he would have left early and right now be enjoying a lie-in instead of wandering around a strange neighbourhood trying to get his bearings. And where had she disappeared to minus one of her expensive high heels? Where had everyone gone?
Pulling into the car park, they could already hear music filtering down from the fourth floor. Going up in the lift, the building rocked to Hendrix.
"Hey, Joe - they're playin' your song." Denny grinned, pleased with the joke.
Joe gave him his best Bruce Willis smirk. "Guess they must've known I was comin'. Huh?" The lift doors shuddered back and they were hit by a wall of sound.
He guessed the room was about thirty by twenty feet or so, but it looked bigger. On opposite walls, two large and ornately framed Italian mirrors reflected the strobe lighting back and forth to infinity. Likewise, the guests that gyrated unsteadily between them. The multi-dimensional effect was unsettling even when mostly sober. Joe stood uncertaunly just inside the door. This wasn't really his scene and he'd just begun inventing excuses to leave when he saw her - one good reason to stay.
She stood out, her near-white hair and the silver string mesh of her short tunic attracting the wandering strobe. Joe watched her dance, caught her eye and was rewarded by a wide smile. Blonde bob, big eyes, friendly too. Just his type, in fact. She took her time squeezing through the crowd, put her mouth close to his ear and said, "Hi, I'm Kansas O'Neal," in an unmistakeable mid-west accent.
"Joe," hesitating only slightly before adding, "Gordon." prompted by a nearby gin bottle.
"You haven't a drink," she noticed, "let's find you a glass."
He followed her down the hallway and into a well-fitted kitchen where a few guests hovered, pecking round the buffet. "What's your poison?"
"A scotch. Neat. No ice."
She handed him a generous measure and he sipped it appreciatively. A single malt with a rich, peaty taste. "Here's to The Millenium." He glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven thirty. "Not long to go now. Bottoms up." The swigged scotch hit the back of his throat and he coughed, caught out by its subtle kick.
She patted him on the back. "Easy does it." Through watering eyes he glimpsed someone standing beside her, blocking the light. "Oh, Frank, there y'are. Frank - this is Joe Gordon. Joe - this here is Frank Killmon, my agent."
"Nice to meet you." Joe's hand disappeared in Frank's well-manicured paw and he tried not to flinch at the powerful grip. At six foot four and approximately two hundred and twenty pounds, Frank was a real gorilla of a guy - pure Armani-suited muscle. Joe turned back to Kansas. "Agent?"
"Yep. I'm a actress." She pronounced it, actor-ess, her tone serious, her expression daring any smart comment.
Joe nodded, still perceptive despite the sudden rush of fire through his veins. "So, d'you live in England or jus' visitin'?"
"I'm on location for six months. We're shootin' a movie here. What line o' business you in?"
Suddenly he found this a little tricky to define. "Er, commodities."
"You mean, buyin' and sellin' stuff?"
"Yeah, kind of."
She gave him an old-fashioned look. "Nothin' too illegal, I hope."
He shrugged, grinning. "Depends."
Meanwhile, Frank had drifted over to the buffet, his jaws moving rhythmically as he grazed his way through a plate of salmon vol-au-vents. Periodically he paused, flicked stray pastry crumbs from his lapel, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin before moving on. Fascinated, Joe watched his progress, half listening to Kansas name dropping her way through some amusing movie anecdote. The scotch was taking effect. Her voice seemed huskier, the music from the other room more distant. Then the chanting began. They were doing a countdown to the New Year.
"Quick!" Kansas grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the door. "Let's join the others." Joe lurched after her and, aware of a still munching Frank bringing up the rear, concentrated on staying upright.
It was like the last moments of a football match. Everyone on their feet. A beam of light from a digital clock displayed the time across the ceiling. The mantra rose steadily in pitch as they ticked the seconds off. The tension in the room was stiffling, making the hair on the back of Joe's neck prickle. Fifty nine... The last second stretched, the collective breath held until midnight scored and was greeted with a head-splitting roar. Then a surge of energy. Joe felt Kansas kiss him, her lips like a search party testing the ground. The power glitched and someone gasped. It flickered again and went out as Joe gave in and let the carpet come up to meet him.
Trudging aimlessly down one of several identical looking roads, Joe didn't hear the truck until it drew into the curb and a voice yelled "Hold it, fella. Stop right where you are!"
Two uniformed men got out and he started asking them directions but was interrupted. "What are you doing here? Don't you know this is a restricted area?"
"I was at a party..." He swallowed against the fear that threaten to rise and show itself as something unpleasantly tangible. "I don't really have a clue where I am."
His interrogator looked at his companion. "Seems we've got a live one." He took a black truncheon-like object from his belt and flicked a switch. Joe flinched. "It's OK, fella, I'm just testing you out." He ran the object up and down Joe's body and seemed satisfied. "So, where was this party?"
"Back there, somewhere. I don't know the address - I went with a friend. I seem to have lost him."
"We rounded up a few strays earlier, perhaps your 'friend' is among them." He motioned for Joe to get in the truck and his expression discouraged argument.
It was a long, low white building screened off by thick hedgerows. No signs anywhere. Inside, it felt like a sensory deprivation chamber - blank white walls and tiled floors offered nothing to focus on, the air empty of sound or smells.
They ushered him into a viewing gallery that overlooked an operating theatre. Below him, Kansas lay stretched out on a table, a technician up to his wrists inside her rib cage. Joe gasped and pointed. "I know her - we met last night - this is hers." He took the silver shoe from his pocket.
"Uh-huh. She's one of the B class PHAKES. Her microchip failed at midnight. Quite a few others did too. We've had to do a retrieval and repair operation on them."
"Fakes?"
Two pairs of cynical eyes regarded him. "She's a PHrase-Activated KEy Simulant."
"She's a robot?" He was remembering the taste and feel of her lips. Then he spotted Denny being wheeled in. "Wait! What are you doing to him? He's like me..."
A hand patted his shoulder."No, he's not. He's a B class model, same as her. You're an upgrade, state of the art. Which is why you're still walking around, fella."
THE END
Outside, the street it was very still and quiet. No cars or signs of life. Just a cloudless sky and harsh, diagonal sunlight. He stood trying to get his bearings, his recollections from the night before too fuzzy and disjointed to be any real help. What part of town was this? He recalled a car journey from the pub where they'd all met up. The party's host was a friend of someone he knew only vaguely and he'd gone because Denny had wanted to. The persistant banging in his head and the stale taste in his mouth prompted a momentary lapse into self-pity. If it hadn't been for that platinum blonde - Kansas O'Neal - the name popped into his mind from nowhere - he would have left early and right now be enjoying a lie-in instead of wandering around a strange neighbourhood trying to get his bearings. And where had she disappeared to minus one of her expensive high heels? Where had everyone gone?
Pulling into the car park, they could already hear music filtering down from the fourth floor. Going up in the lift, the building rocked to Hendrix.
"Hey, Joe - they're playin' your song." Denny grinned, pleased with the joke.
Joe gave him his best Bruce Willis smirk. "Guess they must've known I was comin'. Huh?" The lift doors shuddered back and they were hit by a wall of sound.
He guessed the room was about thirty by twenty feet or so, but it looked bigger. On opposite walls, two large and ornately framed Italian mirrors reflected the strobe lighting back and forth to infinity. Likewise, the guests that gyrated unsteadily between them. The multi-dimensional effect was unsettling even when mostly sober. Joe stood uncertaunly just inside the door. This wasn't really his scene and he'd just begun inventing excuses to leave when he saw her - one good reason to stay.
She stood out, her near-white hair and the silver string mesh of her short tunic attracting the wandering strobe. Joe watched her dance, caught her eye and was rewarded by a wide smile. Blonde bob, big eyes, friendly too. Just his type, in fact. She took her time squeezing through the crowd, put her mouth close to his ear and said, "Hi, I'm Kansas O'Neal," in an unmistakeable mid-west accent.
"Joe," hesitating only slightly before adding, "Gordon." prompted by a nearby gin bottle.
"You haven't a drink," she noticed, "let's find you a glass."
He followed her down the hallway and into a well-fitted kitchen where a few guests hovered, pecking round the buffet. "What's your poison?"
"A scotch. Neat. No ice."
She handed him a generous measure and he sipped it appreciatively. A single malt with a rich, peaty taste. "Here's to The Millenium." He glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven thirty. "Not long to go now. Bottoms up." The swigged scotch hit the back of his throat and he coughed, caught out by its subtle kick.
She patted him on the back. "Easy does it." Through watering eyes he glimpsed someone standing beside her, blocking the light. "Oh, Frank, there y'are. Frank - this is Joe Gordon. Joe - this here is Frank Killmon, my agent."
"Nice to meet you." Joe's hand disappeared in Frank's well-manicured paw and he tried not to flinch at the powerful grip. At six foot four and approximately two hundred and twenty pounds, Frank was a real gorilla of a guy - pure Armani-suited muscle. Joe turned back to Kansas. "Agent?"
"Yep. I'm a actress." She pronounced it, actor-ess, her tone serious, her expression daring any smart comment.
Joe nodded, still perceptive despite the sudden rush of fire through his veins. "So, d'you live in England or jus' visitin'?"
"I'm on location for six months. We're shootin' a movie here. What line o' business you in?"
Suddenly he found this a little tricky to define. "Er, commodities."
"You mean, buyin' and sellin' stuff?"
"Yeah, kind of."
She gave him an old-fashioned look. "Nothin' too illegal, I hope."
He shrugged, grinning. "Depends."
Meanwhile, Frank had drifted over to the buffet, his jaws moving rhythmically as he grazed his way through a plate of salmon vol-au-vents. Periodically he paused, flicked stray pastry crumbs from his lapel, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin before moving on. Fascinated, Joe watched his progress, half listening to Kansas name dropping her way through some amusing movie anecdote. The scotch was taking effect. Her voice seemed huskier, the music from the other room more distant. Then the chanting began. They were doing a countdown to the New Year.
"Quick!" Kansas grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the door. "Let's join the others." Joe lurched after her and, aware of a still munching Frank bringing up the rear, concentrated on staying upright.
It was like the last moments of a football match. Everyone on their feet. A beam of light from a digital clock displayed the time across the ceiling. The mantra rose steadily in pitch as they ticked the seconds off. The tension in the room was stiffling, making the hair on the back of Joe's neck prickle. Fifty nine... The last second stretched, the collective breath held until midnight scored and was greeted with a head-splitting roar. Then a surge of energy. Joe felt Kansas kiss him, her lips like a search party testing the ground. The power glitched and someone gasped. It flickered again and went out as Joe gave in and let the carpet come up to meet him.
Trudging aimlessly down one of several identical looking roads, Joe didn't hear the truck until it drew into the curb and a voice yelled "Hold it, fella. Stop right where you are!"
Two uniformed men got out and he started asking them directions but was interrupted. "What are you doing here? Don't you know this is a restricted area?"
"I was at a party..." He swallowed against the fear that threaten to rise and show itself as something unpleasantly tangible. "I don't really have a clue where I am."
His interrogator looked at his companion. "Seems we've got a live one." He took a black truncheon-like object from his belt and flicked a switch. Joe flinched. "It's OK, fella, I'm just testing you out." He ran the object up and down Joe's body and seemed satisfied. "So, where was this party?"
"Back there, somewhere. I don't know the address - I went with a friend. I seem to have lost him."
"We rounded up a few strays earlier, perhaps your 'friend' is among them." He motioned for Joe to get in the truck and his expression discouraged argument.
It was a long, low white building screened off by thick hedgerows. No signs anywhere. Inside, it felt like a sensory deprivation chamber - blank white walls and tiled floors offered nothing to focus on, the air empty of sound or smells.
They ushered him into a viewing gallery that overlooked an operating theatre. Below him, Kansas lay stretched out on a table, a technician up to his wrists inside her rib cage. Joe gasped and pointed. "I know her - we met last night - this is hers." He took the silver shoe from his pocket.
"Uh-huh. She's one of the B class PHAKES. Her microchip failed at midnight. Quite a few others did too. We've had to do a retrieval and repair operation on them."
"Fakes?"
Two pairs of cynical eyes regarded him. "She's a PHrase-Activated KEy Simulant."
"She's a robot?" He was remembering the taste and feel of her lips. Then he spotted Denny being wheeled in. "Wait! What are you doing to him? He's like me..."
A hand patted his shoulder."No, he's not. He's a B class model, same as her. You're an upgrade, state of the art. Which is why you're still walking around, fella."
THE END