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Le Petite Mort in a Japanese Snack Bar

Cyberpunk Short Story

By Steve B HowardPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Le Petite Mort in a Japanese Snack Bar
Photo by Agnis Leznins on Unsplash

Nishi-CT11–48 spent all day on his feet checking and re-checking tax information for discrepancies. Vertical streams of numbers and Kanji glowing black and red against a wall sized white screen consumed all in his tiny cubicle. As he finished processing the numbers and characters, small white silicon disks would drop from slots in the tall black server into data storage bins that lined the floor of his cubicle.

Twelve hours in and he could feel a tiny bead of heat in his left frontal lobe where his data processing chip was implanted. The corporate Link-Chip on his left wrist flashed red.

Temp-Clones were required to break every ten hours to hydrate and cool down, but Nishi-CT11–48 simply wrapped a cold pack around his forehead, swallowed a hydration gelatin cube, and continued his work.

Hour after hour the long rows of cubicles around him would disgorge their occupants and go dark. Only Nishi-CT11–48 continued working. Vital tax information flowed past and he examined it and processed it as quickly as he could. The clack of the data disks dropping into the bins beat out a steady rhythm.

At 10:29 pm all the lights on his floor blinked on and off three times signaling that the floor would power down and all employees were to leave the office. Nishi-CT11–48 shut down his cubicle, exited into the long office corridor, walked along the gray static proof paneled floor out into the stark white lobby and stood in front of the bank of elevators. He rubbed his forehead as he waited for one of the elevators to make its way down from the 839th floor. His frontal lobe was still warm to the touch.

He was startled to see one of his senior managers emerge from the men’s room near the elevators. The manager was staggering slightly as he approached.

“Drunk?” Nishi-CT11–48 wondered.

He bowed low to his manager. He received a head nod in return.

“Nishi-CT something something, whatever the rest is. What are you doing here this late?”

“Good evening Butcho-sama, the final tax numbers came in today. I was very busy.”

“Ah, yes the final tax numbers for this terrible year. Did our fair company have any major discrepancies on the books?”

“The numbers were adequate. Twelve Kanji strokes on the spreadsheet data were .003 mm less than regulations require though. I believe printer #10073 might be running low on plasma etching fluid.”

The elevator dinged just as the last light on the floor turned off. A rectangle of orange light spilled out of the elevator into the lobby. Nishi-CT11–48 stepped to the side and bowed slightly as his manager sauntered aboard. He followed and stood just inside the elevator next to the keypad.

“Lobby Butcho-Sama?”

“Nishi-CT, what do you do for fun?”

“Fun sir?”

Nishi-CT11–48 could smell the strange mix of fruit and low grade alcohol from his manager’s breath hanging in the air inside the tight confines of the elevator.

“Do you Temp-Clones ever enjoy yourselves?”

“The company provides me with entertainment data streams and an outing allowance twice a month, yes.”

“Entertainment data streams and an outing allowance. How thrilling.”

“They are adequate for my needs. Thank you for asking sir.”

“Adequate for your needs. Yes I’m sure. But hard to truly debauch oneself with just adequate, eh Nishi?.”

“Sir?”

Nishi-CT11–48’s manager was shorter than him by at least 30 centimeters. His manager stood there looking up studying his face. Nishi-CT11–48 knew his manager was 57 natural years old, sub-head of his department, and a legacy employee. The great grandson of a former vice chairman of operations.

“Nishi CT whatever your designation number is, tonight you are going to learn about a different kind of fun. You only live once. In your case, only a third of a life isn’t it? Is it forty five, forty six years you Temp-Clones get?”

“Forty eight years sir. Same as our last designation numbers.”

“How much longer you got?”

“This is my thirty fifth year sir.”

“Well, no time to lose then.”

The elevator beeped loudly twice and a sweet feminine voice asked them politely which floor they wanted.

“Shut up elevator!” his manager barked.

His manager elbowed him out of the way and stood in front of the keypad swaying slightly. “Mind Mort’s it is then,” his manager mumbled to himself.

Nishi-CT148 watched as his manager’s right hand punched in a set of floor numbers in what Nishi-CT11–48 recognized as a sequential over ride pattern for the elevator system.

The elevator call voice was replaced with a shriek of static that rattled Nishi-CT11–48’s ears. “Happiness is a Warm Gun” blasted over the elevator’s sound system. His manager sang along lustily as the elevator began its five hundred and forty seven floor descent to B3, the lowest level of the basement floors.

Nishi-CT11–48 had heard stories about Temp-Clones and junior employees going on unplanned late evening dinners with senior executives. He seemed to remember that these dinners weren’t always willingly attended by the lower level employees. Often they resulted in extraordinarily expensive bills at the end of the night for them.

When they reached B3 Nishi-CT11–48 was going to bid his Butcho a good evening and step out of the elevator. He’d take the stairs back up to the lobby and catch an air-taxi back to the company housing quarters.

But to his surprise the elevator doors didn’t open when they reached B3. His manager snickered and punched in another code. Nishi-CT11–48’s nuts sucked up into his stomach as the elevator rapidly dropped a down another two floors.

“Wooooo!” his manager yelled out.

This time the elevator doors shushed opened onto a narrow and dark hallway. Weak white pin lights in the ceiling illuminated a red velvet carpet. At the end of the hallway above an arched entrance way a lavender neon sign blinked “MIND MORT”. The “T” popped and fizzled barely keeping itself lit. His manager led him down the hallway and into the tiny bar.

Inside, they sat at a small round booth plastered in fake pink leather. A round black table sat in the middle. Tall smoky mirrors lined the walls behind them. Nishi and his manager sat facing each other. A jazzy cover of n old Carpenter’s tunes played over a scratchy sound system.

Two fantastically beautiful women, blond, long in every way, and with perfect facial symmetry sat down in the booth next to them. The best Aproxi-Hostesses in Japan,” his manager said, giving an ample breast a playful squeeze before the Aproxi-Hostess batted his hand away.

“Nice aren’t they? See, I told you. Fun like you never imagined Nishi.”

His manager’s Aproxi-Hostess, Shinkansen-Chan set a light blue ceramic bottle of Shochu with a small gold tassel around the neck on the table. The words “Bu-Chan” were stenciled in the side of it. From under the table Nishi-CT11–48’s Aproxi-Hostess placed four small porcelain cups on the table and poured the clear liquid into each. The manager’s first, Nishi’s next, then Shikansen-Chan’s and finally her own. Nishi-CT11–48 nodded and tested his drink. He had never drank alcohol before. His corporate allowance implant wouldn’t allow him to purchase it. He watched astonished as his manager downed four cups while Shinkansen-Chan and his Aproxi-Hostess clapped and praised him. Nishi-CT11–48 had never seen a person’s face turn that shade of crimson before and he worried his manager was seriously damaging himself.

His Personnel Attentive Implant required him to focus on whatever company managers and executives said, but as the night continued he was having a hard time following his manager’s angry slurred speech and loud table pounding rants.

“That was before the Asian United Republic merger ruined everything,” his manager roared out. “Do you understand Nishi-CT whatever your number is? We were Mitsubishi Heavy Industries then. Japan! No bloody Amaz-Bishi aquization was needed!”

Shinkansen-Chan patted his manager’s hand and coo-ed, “Of course you are right Bu-Chan.”

“Those must have been amazing times sir before the merger,” Nishi-CT11–48 added.

“Damn right they were. My great grandfather was an executive then. An executive of Mitisubishi Heavy Industries. Do you know what that means Nishi?”

“No sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Freedom Nishi, it meant freedom. Unlimited expense accounts. Nights like this whenever you wanted. Freedom to chose your own destiny. My great grandfather chose platform number 4 at Shinjuku station. Well, that’s a morbid story, but he got to choose dammit!”

“I wish I had a destiny sir.”

“Destiny? Amaz-Bishi won’t even let us check out when we want. Not until after retirement at least. I envy you Nishi. As a Temp-Clone you can check out at forty-five. I’m stuck in this rut until I’m eighty-seven.”

“Sir, if I may ask. What do you mean by check out?”

“Death, Nishi. Suicide. True Bushido. With all this health monitoring crap in me I can’t even work myself to death now. Silent desperation, Nishi. Years and years of silent desperation is all we get.”

“Um, yes sir, I guess that is a problem.”

“The girls though, are something special. You won’t find Aproxi-Hostesses like these ones in any Amaz-Bishi approved establishments. I guarantee you that. “

Nishi-CT11–48 shivered a little when his Aproxi-Hostess slid closer and flashed her forearm chip at him. A cold blue lit up on her slender wrist matching the color of her eyes.

“Link with me,” she said softly.

“Go on,” his manager coaxed. “Morphamina is one of the absolute best models here. Like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”

Nishi-CT11–48 hesitated for a moment hovering his forearm chip just above Morphamina’s. He turned to his manager and received a drunken grin and a wink. He placed his forearm chip gently against Morphamina’s.

As his arm touched hers and linked, his body went rigid for a second, a white light burst in his head, and he slumped back against the booth; the string cut puppet dropped into the underworld. Morphamina kept her forearm chip against his as he slid down into the booth.

His manager and the other Aproxi-Hostesses begin a loud boisterous count down from eight before Morphamina removed her arm from Nishi-CT11–48’s arm. He opened his eyes, confused and scared. He slowly sat up.

“What happened?” Nishi-CT11–48 asked.

“Rodeo death,” his manager answered. “Eight seconds of pure brain dead bliss for you.”

“I was dead?”

“Courtesy of the beautiful Morphamina. She specializes in opiate overdoses.”

Morphamina gave Nishi a small smile and rubbed his shoulders.

“You let her kill me?”

“Temporarily. The closest thing to true escape there is. Like I said, Amaz-Bishi owns your life. At forty-five they’ll make your death permanent.”

“Forty-eight,” Nishi-CT11–48 corrected quietly.

A door chime rang as another customer came into the Mind Mort. All the Aproxi-Hostesses called out cheerful greetings, Morphamina, Shinkansen-Chan, FreeFall-Chan, Noose-Chan, and the rest. His manager rolled up his sleeve and placed his forearm on the table. He smiled as he awaited his turn.

Nishi-CT11–48 decided he would be coming back here often. Amaz-Bishi couldn’t really kill him if he was already dead a hundred times over.

artificial intelligence
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About the Creator

Steve B Howard

Steve Howard's self-published collection of short stories Satori in the Slip Stream, Something Gaijin This Way Comes, and others were released in 2018. His poetry collection Diet of a Piss Poor Poet was released in 2019.

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