Chapter 1

Dixon, Leonard F. Neurojournal Broadcast No. 678

5 May 2591

Frankly, I'm surprised she put up with me this long.

Blood pressure graph suggests elevated stress, but nothing that would warrant an immediate medical response.

She's gone, though. Left a note. Thoughtful, I guess.

Lens focuses on a gray square of plastic lined by holovid array modules. The square sits on a beige tabletop of molded plastic. A message floats in pale green letters about an inch above the array:

“I can't make it work.”

Not that either of us ever really tried. After the first year or so, it was all pretty routine. The decade went by so fast. I rose from a cub reporter to interstellar correspondent to the pinnacle: Infomatrix celebrity with the Consortium Broadcast Network. She ditched an acting career, spent us into debt, and despised suffering through the exposure that came from this long-term project.

That's not news, though. You can catch up on the drunken rants and epithets in the archives. The news is: I don't blame her for leaving. When I agreed to this hooping insane idea, it was with the full understanding that Lani would hate it. A holocam lens in my left eye? Subvocalizer unit in my throat? Brain, heart, and crotch wired for instant information to the masses? Who does that? Who agrees to make their life – their whole life, not just the bits and pieces we don't mind other people seeing in polite society – that absolutely open? And who does it without clearing it with the spouse first?

Well, that'd be yours truly.

True enough, Lani hated it, but she couldn't complain about the money that came in thanks to commercial sponsorships of the broadcasts.

I love it, though. Good times or bad, I enjoy the sense that I'm always sitting on the cusp of oblivion. The next broadcast could hold some horrendous gaffe that offends all you voyeurs who should know better than to be so goddamned fascinated by the hovercar wreck, but just can't bear to look away for fear of missing what everyone else is talking about down at the Pig and Whistle. Cutting our relationship open, letting my life bleed all over the Orion Arm, it made me a noble among peasants.

The record's clear enough, though. If Lani couldn't make it work, I didn't even try. Why bother? It's not my job to act. I'm just a chronicler of history; a witness to the galaxy. I'm wired for a lot of things. Action isn't one of them.

Lens shifts slowly to a framed picture attached to the cream-colored wall. It's a holographic vidcap sequence of a red-haired woman with a freckled face and a tall, wiry man with curly dark hair and a rueful grin. They're standing on a rickety-looking old metal bridge jutting from an outcropping of violet-black rock beside a sign that reads: “HONEYMOON POINT, PRIMROSE PEAK.”

I should miss her. It should be killing me, right now. I shouldn't be able to bear the thought that she's really, truly, no fucking shit, gone for good.

Maybe later.

Infomatrix datanode accessed.

Search parameters: Escort service San Angeles Monroe Heights.

Match acquired: Exotic Evenings.

Datapad network socket 01AFA opened. Transmission initiated. Link established.

WELCOME TO THE EXOTIC EVENINGS CUSTOMER SERVICE INTERFACE.

Returning client? Y

Display specials? N

Select new preferences? N

Refer to last rendezvous? Y

Preferred date of rendezvous? 5 May 2591

Preferred time? 21:00 local

*** WARNING: Short-notice rendezvouses require an additional fee of 250 credits. *** Approve? Y

Rendezvous match acquired. Rendezvous scheduled. Rendezvous cost (Full night): 600 credits. Transport fee: 75 credits. Total rendezvous cost: 925 credits. Charge to account of Dixon, Leonard F.? Y

Confirmation of this transaction will be transmitted to your datapad under the following corporate identity: PROSPECT HOUSEWARES.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE, DIXON, LEONARD F.

Datapad network socket 01AFA closed. Link broken. Transmission terminated.

A hand reaches up for the picture on the wall, grips the edge of the frame and lifts it off the hook that holds it. The other hand tugs open a dresser drawer full of socks, underwear, and a box of Soltek Comfort Grip condoms. The picture drops image down onto the socks. The condoms are plucked out of the drawer and placed on the bedside table.

Datapad network socket 01AGB opened. Incoming transmission detected. Source identified as: DIXON, MAUREEN C. Open link and accept audio transmission? N. Transmission disconnected.

Not now, Mom. Bitch at me later if you want.

Datapad network socket 01AGB opened. Incoming transmission detected. Source identified as: DIXON, MAUREEN C. Open link and accept audio transmission? N. Transmission disconnected.

I swear to God, Mom. This isn't the time. Although...

Datapad network socket 01AGB opened. Incoming transmission detected. Source identified as: DIXON, MAUREEN C. Open link and accept audio transmission?

Fuck. Maybe it's important. Maybe it's Dad. Maybe something's wrong. Well, whatever. The pro won't get here for another hour. Could be good fodder for the broadcast.

Open link and accept audio transmission? Y. Transmission accepted. Link established.

DIXON, MAUREEN C. (Audio): Lenny, don't go screwing hookers again! You knew it was just a matter of time before Lani took her batshit crazy act to a new venue. Go find yourself a nice new girl. Maybe one that doesn't try to wreck your life so much?

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): Dad okay?

DIXON, MAUREEN C. (Audio): Don't change the subject!

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): Dad's fine, isn't he?

DIXON, MAUREEN C. (Audio): Of course he's fine! I just –

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): Bye, Mom.

Datapad network socket 01AGB closed. Link broken. Transmission terminated.

Lens moves through apartment, past an arched window that gives a view of a sprawling cityscape. It lowers as the viewer kneels to take a glass bottle full of amber liquid and a tumbler from beneath a polished mahogany-topped bar.

Clean and sober for almost two months. Whatever. It's a trauma, right? Who's going to blame me? Stricken with grief, it's only natural to want to numb the pain.

The thing is: It doesn't hurt at all. The bottom line is: I stopped giving a damn a long time ago. That's the truth.

Lens catches a glimmer of gold on the left hand as it sets the liquor bottle on the bar.

Datapad network socket 01AGB opened. Incoming transmission detected. Source identified as: LAMBERT, CARL D. Open link and accept audio transmission?

Oh, for fuck's sake. Seriously? Like a goddamned nanny.

Open link and accept audio transmission? Y

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): Christ, Carl, it's just one drink. Don't panic.

LAMBERT, CARL D. (Audio): Oh, drink up if you want, Len. In fact, I recommend it. They say it's good for helping the body relax during faster-than-light travel.

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): What the hell are you talking about?

LAMBERT, CARL D. (Audio): Soltek's rolling out their prototype starship, using that new OtherSpace Drive technology. They're giving CBN an exclusive. More to the point: They're giving YOU an exclusive, Len. They like the whole edgy life-in-real-time thing you've got going on.

Blood pressure graph suggests excitement and mild nervousness.

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): When?

LAMBERT, CARL D. (Audio): Tonight. I've already dispatched a hovercar to pick you up. They're launching from Citadel.

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): Fuck. Really? Tonight?

LAMBERT, CARL D. (Audio): Chin up, soldier. You're Lenny Dixon. You can get laid any time you want. Taking a faster-than-light flight into history, though, that's not something that comes along every day.

DIXON, LEONARD F. (Audio): Yeah, but what if I could do BOTH at the same time?

LAMBERT, CARL D. (Audio): Well, that's making history too, I guess. Only one set of credentials, though. Sorry.

Datapad network socket 01AGB closed. Link broken. Transmission terminated.