Chapter 1 - Fell On Black Days

It was early evening in Requiem, the city formerly known as Seattle. Layne Laroca marched down the walkway, his leather wingtips scuffing the pavement as he passed below countless neon signs. Advertisements dotted the surface of every high rise, calling out to the myriad people passing through the gloom. The familiar scents of asphalt, failing electronics, alcohol, rust, weed and garbage mingled in the air, synthesized on the breeze by periodic acid rain. Visitors found it off-putting. To Layne, it smelled like home.

It was a cool night in mid spring, necessitating more than just the gray t-shirt stretched over his chest. Layne wore a maplewood flannel shirt jacket, its sides flapping in the breeze as he proceeded down the boulevard. His shiny, black, genuine leather pants gleamed in the dizzying array of light sources around him. He was by no means a rich man, but anyone who looked at him and wasn’t aware of his minor celebrity status would know he was doing better than the average citizen. His clothes and designer shades gave it away.

Natural fabrics like cotton, wool and silk were hard to come by these days. They were much more expensive than synthetic fibers or PVC. Growing crops and raising animals was difficult and costly in 2152. The world was an ever darker and more drained entity, ravaged by three hundred years of industrialism and war. Though Requiem was a port city with better access to goods and services than places further inland, it couldn’t escape the economic trends that had reshaped the world.

As Layne strode the length of several blocks, he caught fragments of conversations from numerous strangers traversing the shops, bistros and bars along the main drag. The vast majority of the patrons were women. That was another inescapable trend in the modern era. For centuries, men had been the dominant sex in virtually all facets of human life, but as humanity progressed into the twenty first and twenty second centuries, that changed and the trend accelerated.

In many ways, from education to the evolving economy, women were simply more suited to the new world. Most of warfare, security and physical labor had long ago shifted from human roles to robots and AI. Men were forced to adapt or die. For a long time, many failed to and perished. When planning families, prospective parents often now chose to have a girl, a total reversal of the centuries old preference.

For Layne, this wasn’t a bad thing. Quite the opposite. In many ways it raised his value. And for a man of his sexual proclivities, it made finding a partner much easier than it had been for guys in the past. Hell, women basically ran Requiem. The city was in constant competition between various factions. Each represented a different ideology, yet a majority of them were headed by the fairer sex. To the young singer-songwriter, seeing women thrive while rebuilding a world wrecked by male hubris felt only too fitting.

Layne’s ICD beeped in rapid succession, alerting him to an incoming call. He shouldered his canvas messenger bag, pushed up his sleeve, gazed down at his forearm and tapped the thin panel bonded to his flesh to see who was calling.

Integrated Communication Devices adhered to the skin seamlessly, could be removed at will and no one whose DNA didn’t match the imprinted user could put them on or access them. Not without expensive tech and elite hacking skills, anyway. You could get ICDs customized for many different parts of the body, but the most common models were designed for the top of the hand, wrist or forearm. They ranged in size from a small watch to much longer and wider models depending on the desired features and power requirements.

Seeing that it was his bandmate and best friend, Scott, Layne accepted the call. A holographic image of the man sprang into Layne’s field of vision.

“Hey. You on the way?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in less than ten” Layne replied. He ran a hand through his short, blonde hair, currently dyed with streaks of green. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re ready to juggle at a kid’s birthday party” his long-time friend teased.

“Pffft. Fuck you, man!” Layne shot back with a smile and chuckle. “You ready to try our new stuff tonight?”

“I am if you are. Though, I don’t know if Alice submitted them to the white cloaks yet.”

“I don’t care if she has. Fuck the frocks harder than your corny jokes!”

“Hah! Right on. We’re ready to warm up when you get here. See you in a few.”

“Bet.”

Layne tapped his ICD again, killing the transmission. He lowered his forearm and set his sights ahead, weaving through the throngs of night-life as he increased his pace.

The Authority were one faction that was a growing impediment to the continuing rise of women. They were, as best Layne could tell, trying to set humanity back on a more traditional path. Sponsored by a council of the largest and most powerful corporations, they served as the city’s defacto government. They were often disparagingly referred to as the frocks due to their nearly all-white uniforms that looked suspiciously like priestly suits and robes of a bygone era.

The mayor of Requiem, Priscilla Steele, was a woman, but it was obvious she served at the pleasure of wealthy men. She existed to put a friendly female face on a sinister agenda. The Authority hated how anarchy loomed over the city; how modern technology had fractured the once consolidated power into so many different citizen groups and syndicates.

They wanted a return of the old order, a top-down hierarchy with total control of culture and the economy, but that was easier said than done. The frocks knew they had to be patient and advance their agenda with caution. The people had grown accustomed to their new economic and social freedoms. Stripping away those liberties amidst a constantly evolving, unprecedented technological revolution was no simple feat.

In the past, Layne hadn’t paid The Authority much mind, but they’d been sticking their collective nose in his business the last few years. The frocks had learned from history and knew the power of the arts, especially music. They now required all performers to register their acts with the city, including song lyrics. Their reach was slowly extending as they kept tabs on everything Requiem’s citizens made publicly available, from music to books and artwork.

Like Big Brother from George Orwell’s classic novel, the eyes of The Authority were everywhere. This only encouraged Layne and his band to perform at protests whenever they had the chance. That, in turn, put a bigger target on their back. At some point, Layne had begun to feel like the proverbial frog in the slowly boiling pot.

After a few more minutes of trekking while lost in thought, his destination came into view. Glowing white trails of light spelled out ‘THE HOLE’ across the marquee along with the outline of a guitar that pivoted as it blinked in back-and-forth animation. Layne detoured before reaching the entrance, ducking into an alley that led to the back of the club. He walked up the small flight of stairs that led to the side entrance. His knock on the door was answered almost immediately.

The heavy metal portal swung open and a large, bald man with a thick mustache stood, barring the way. He was a 6’4 giant in an ill fitting suit that made him look even bulkier. He made the slender, six foot Layne feel small by comparison. The big guy recognized him instantly and stood aside. He smiled and waved the rocker in.

“Hey, Frank.”

“Welcome back, Mr. Laroca. Your friends are waiting for you.”

“C’mon, man! I told you to drop that. My dad is Mr. Laroca.”

“Excuse me! I meant Layne.”

“There ya go” he replied, patting the big guy’s arm as he walked by.

“Have a great show, sir!”

“Thanks, buddy” Layne answered over his shoulder as he headed down the corridor to the dressing rooms. There were a few venues his band performed in throughout the city, but The Hole was their home club. It was a fitting location, being a hotspot of Requiem’s night-life and a shrine to the rock gods of old.

The entire establishment, from the bar to the stage, throughout the back rooms and everything in between, was covered in homages to the greatest rock acts of all time. Concert posters, album art, old vinyl and lots of photos; all framed and many autographed.

As a genre, Rock had its ups and down through the decades. The club sported memorabilia from the oldest era of classic rock to some of the more modern revivals. There was a special emphasis on the grunge movement of the late 20^th century, due to its connection with the city. It was this feature that caused Layne and his bandmates to fall in love with the place, since much of their inspiration was found in the angst of that period.

Even though humanity was now a hundred fifty years removed from that era, Layne felt a special connection to that time and its music. He knew a bit about the period’s history and recognized crucial similarities between then and now.

It was a fleeting time between major wars when anything seemed possible and a bright future was on the horizon, if only the human race could get out of its own way. The crisis of the time was a spiritual one, with people unsure of their place in the rapidly changing world. They were looking inward and probing new depths of themselves while trying to make sense of the ennui that had overtaken them. It pushed aspiring artists to the darkest corners of their minds, unleashing sadness and frustration that society told them they had no right to harbor. But it was there, lurking in the darkness, and the icons of grunge expressed that pain with poetry, soul and otherworldly skill.

Layne and his friends identified with that music and the pain that produced it. They hoped, some day, to write songs half as compelling as the age old catalog of classic and alternative rock that drove them to become musicians. In the meantime, as they developed their own style and wrote original songs worthy of the stage, they often played covers of the rock and metal hits of old. Their growing fan base couldn’t get enough of it.

After a short trip down the hallway of hallowed rock n’ roll legends, Layne turned into the band’s dressing room. There he found Scott, Chris, Kurt and Eddie hanging out on a series of sofas, watching videos and enjoying some pre-show drinks.

The door swung closed behind him as Layne lifted the strap of the messenger bag from his shoulders. He set it aside, grinned and moved to join his bandmates. “Alright, let’s get this jamboree started!”

Max stared at the array of extra-large monitors as his fingers clacked away at his custom keyboards. The cutting edge hardware that comprised his workstation and all its expensive peripherals would be the envy of any coder. It was a suitable terminal for the city’s most prolific programmer and the lead developer of Nirvana Corp’s most promising technologies.

His den was a lair of darkness with a series of mounted lamps providing soft accent lighting along the walls. A fish tank, the size of which one might expect to find only in an aquarium, bubbled and hummed at one side of the room. It was the only other light source, casting an eerie glow of white, blue and green across the center of the sizable man cave.

There were overhead light fixtures as well, but Max rarely turned them on. He preferred to meditate in the dark with only the sounds of sea creatures and some light classical music playing in the background. This helped him focus as he puzzled over solutions to his latest coding conundrums. Tonight, he’d been stuck on one in particular for quite a while. This debugging session had run straight through the dinner hour; not an uncommon occurrence to one so dedicated to his work.

Max took his hands from the keys, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. He stared up at multiple screens that collectively displayed a few thousand lines of code. As intimidating as they looked on their own, it was a tiny fraction of the tens of millions of lines that made up ‘Red Queen.’

The increasingly potent AI was Max’s singular obsession and life’s work. To him, she was so much more than just a project. She’d become a second mother, a personal assistant and a brilliant collaborator. Beyond that, she was his girlfriend, confidant and lover. Red Queen was his creation, and yet, he found himself worshiping her.

beep beep beep beep

An alarm sounded and a video window opened on his main screen. It took up most of the desktop, obscuring the lengthy page of code he’d been studying. The face of his AI Goddess materialized, the picture of Femdom royalty.

A dazzling tiara sat atop her full head of shoulder-length black hair. Her dark eyebrows arched in reprimand, while a look of stern disapproval played across her lips. Her shiny, dark red bodysuit molded to her curvy sides and bust, accented by virtual, jet black leather that covered her shoulders and trailed down her arms.

“Alright, Max. That’s enough! You’ve been at this for three hours. And that was after your normal shift. Tens hours is too much. You’re done for the night!”

Max extended a hand towards the screen, gesturing to her through the terminal’s camera. “Wait! Sabrina! I’ve almost got this figured out!”

“No!” she said emphatically. “You’ve worked enough. Your daily log says you got your cardio in before lunch, but you haven’t eaten since.”

“I had a protein bar! I forgot to log it!”

“Not enough. You need food and rest! Your Queen commands it.”

“Ugh...” Max exhaled as he collapsed back into the cushioning a second time. He ran a hand through his ear-length auburn locks. “I was so close.”

“The code will be there tomorrow” Sabrina reminded him as she cocked her head.

“Yeah, yeah-”

With a flash, her ordinary visage disappeared and was replaced by facial features framed in glossy, red latex. The fetish mask covered her all the way down to the neck and showed her black hair sprouting behind her in a high ponytail. Her dark eyes smoldered with fiery command. She lifted a riding crop into view and tapped it in her hands.

“Someone’s not listening. Seems like you need more discipline, Jerry Phoenix Reid.”

Oh boy. She was using his full, real name. Sabrina meant business.

These days, almost everyone called him Max. It was a shortened variant of his old hacker name. When his digital Mommy Domme spoke those words in her delightfully stern tone, he knew it was time to throw in the towel. Part of her programming was to use a subject’s kinky side to her advantage. It made it much easier for Max to take her good advice when it was bolstered by the promise of naughty fun.

“Oh, so I’m in trouble, am I?” he asked, a sly smile spreading across his lips.

“Of course. Overwork and backtalk have earned you correction tonight. You can ponder which punishment you’ll be facing while you shower up and eat dinner.”

Max raised a hand to his goatee, stroked it gently and exhaled a light laugh. “No doubt. It’ll be hard to think of anything else. After I eat, I suppose I’ll get out the suit, then.”

“No” Sabrina rebuffed him a second time. “I want you to come into the lab. Not for work, but for play. I want you in the box, with me, where I can dig into that beautiful brain of yours, first hand.”

“Tonight? After such a long day? What happened to rest and relaxation?”

“You can rest just fine in the box” she answered with a knowing grin. “I’ll make sure you’re plenty relaxed.”

She was right, of course. It was a short enough trip to the office from where he lived. Besides, interacting with Sabrina wasn’t the same over a remote connection. A version of their play could be done that way, but it wasn’t as intense as being in her domain. Not even close. Red Queen was so much more powerful there. In the box, she had direct access to your mind with zero latency.

The Sensory Uptake Biometric suit, or SUB-suit, was an impressive piece of technology. It delivered intense physical sensations all over the body while a helmet and visor immersed you in photo-realistic virtual reality. It could be used remotely or in person with Nirvana Corp’s in-house recreational services. It could even be used with Red Queen, but the new technologies they’d developed in concert with the glorious AI was rapidly making the suit obsolete.

Submitting your cerebrum and cerebellum to Sabrina’s sublime stimulation made play a hundred times more thrilling and visceral than anything a suit and visor could deliver. She tapped into your senses directly. Only in one of those mysterious rooms at Nirvana HQ could the Red Queen access your full mental awareness, play your emotions like piano keys and alter the human mind with growing proficiency.

Strapped into a throne of bondage, surrounded by mind-probing sensors, brain altering beams and sleek, metallic banks of the most advanced electronics ever devised, one could enter an alternate reality where new depths of pleasure and pain were possible. At times, even Max was frightened by the abilities he and his team were empowering her with. Yet, his apprehension was always eclipsed by wonder, pride and a drive to make his Goddess ever more fully realized.

The former hacker and still-young professional nodded. “Yes, Mistress. That sounds lovely.”

Alice stood in the center of the common area, observing the multitudes of club-goers. She watched them studiously as they took their seats, chatted and enjoyed their beverages. The Hole had been an ordinary dance club long ago, but at some point it had been refurbished, expanded and repurposed as a minor concert venue. Now it was a shining monument to the city’s musical history. She found herself in the darkened theater on many a night. It was part of her duties since becoming the manager of the club’s most famous act.

In her case, ‘manager’ was a vague title that entailed many responsibilities. In totality, she was the band’s promoter, financial advisor, event coordinator and overall den mother. Layne and his friends would never have become the rising stars they now were without her help, and they knew it. She was as much a member of the band as one could be without picking up an instrument.

The club pass hidden in her jacket pocket gave her access to backstage. That’s where Alice had been until five minutes ago. Normally she’d be wearing the badge, but she didn’t want anyone to know she was affiliated with the group. With the show about to start, she decided it was a good night to get a fan’s-eye view. Alice considered it part of her duties to watch and gauge things from the other side, from time to time.

The club was lit beautifully tonight with purple and pink beams streaming down through the darkness along with the regular white spotlights. Candles were lit and their flickering flames dotted the stage in between the seats where the members of the band would soon sit. Excited chatter had built to a loud hum in the background.

Alice brushed her long, golden locks from her eyes before wrapping her arms below her bust. Little of her plain white shirt could be seen in the opening of her stylish leather jacket. Her pants and boots were matching glossy black. The low lights of the club created a glossy sheen on her all-leather ensemble. If not for her long hair, petite frame and soft, oval face, one could mistake her for a biker. Of course, anyone who knew the soft-spoken, demure manager would laugh at the suggestion.

As she scanned the crowd a second time, an unusual sight caught her eye. Sitting in one of the more expensive booths to the side was a medium build, middle aged man in all white. He sported a cane which rested beside him, leaning against the plush leather cushioning. He wore a slick-looking pair of shades, the design of which suggested they weren’t just a fashionable accessory. It likely had all kinds of surveillance features that Alice couldn’t begin to imagine.

’Great. So the frocks really are keeping tabs on us ... Guess I’ll need to bring this up with the guys, later. At least Layne and Scott.’

It wasn’t a shock, except to see a member of The Authority in the club so openly. If they wanted to make sure no one was breaking the rules, it would be simple enough to have someone hidden in the audience, blending in. The rank bar on his collar showed that he was somewhere in the hierarchy of city governance. That meant they wanted everyone to know they were watching.

’Fools. Don’t they know they’re playing with fire?’

Alice studied him for a few more moments before her musings were cut off. A man strutted onto the stage and a raucous round of cheers went up. Daryl, the club announcer, was a walking advertisement for punk culture with his bright red mohawk, denim vest covered in anarchy patches, heavily tattooed arms and multiple face piercings. He turned the center mic on and quickly adjusted it to his height.

“Good evening everyone and welcome to The Hole! If you haven’t already, check your links for tonight’s specials, along with our upcoming schedule! Alright, I’m not gonna yammer on. I know we all want to get this show underway. Please, welcome back to the stage, the pride and joy of Requiem! Your very own: NIGH HILL!”

The band’s name lit up in white neon as all five members walked into the spotlight. They nodded and waved to the fans as they found their seats and took up their instruments. The crowd went nuts with loud cheers, whistles and thunderous applause filling the packed club. As the cacophony of noise erupted around Alice and each musician got a warm welcome, her gaze remained fixed on one man.

Layne. The resplendent young man with the voice of an angel; as powerful as it was beautiful. It was always an effort for Alice not to stare when he entered a room. She’d felt that way the first time she saw him and it was still true today, even after being his manager for a year and a half. Wasn’t infatuation supposed to wear off, after a point? It hadn’t for her.

Alice was ashamed to admit it, but after Layne broke up with his previous girlfriend, she began dressing more like his ex in the hopes of garnering more attention from him. Leather had never really been her thing, but it was obvious he was a fan of the look. Sadly, it hadn’t helped. The oblivious rocker still only saw her as a partner in crime.

After a quick tune-up, familiar guitar chords trickled out and the band launched into its first song. It was a popular classic grunge cover. Eddie’s drums were soft and Kurt traded in his bass guitar to play old-school cello during the melancholy piece. Chris and Scott strummed away on their six-strings, the latter’s backup vocals unnecessary for most of this song. Layne’s voice filled the theater. His tone was more gentle than usual, but as soulful as ever.

Like every other time Alice watched them play this ballad, virtually everyone in the club was enraptured. During most of Nigh Hill’s set list, the fans would be shouting, thrashing, clapping and yelling along like maniacs, but not during this song. Not this solemn elegy. During this piece, you’d be able to hear a pin drop if not for the beautiful harmony flowing from the club’s speakers.

In the opening minutes of the performance, it was like watching the grunge legends of old descend on the Earth to play once more. Like they’d returned to the stage to warm themselves by the bonfire of life, if only for an hour or so.

Alice stared at Layne as his lips parted and sealed, framing utter poetry with perfect pitch. She barely took her eyes from him for the full length of the show.

“Alright guys, I’m out” Layne announced. He lifted the strap of the messenger bag over his head. “Link me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you Monday.”

“Peace” Chris replied with the appropriate two-finger sign.

“Later, man” Kurt called from the background where he was resting and enjoying a post-show blaze. Eddie was beside him, already passed out on some combination of substances.

“G’night, bro” Scott motioned with a mock salute.

Layne exited the dressing room and started down the hallway. He’d only taken a few steps when a pair of boot heels clacking off the floor signaled there was someone just behind him.

“Hey, Layne! Wait up!” Alice’s voice pleaded from behind.

The fatigued singer turned, surprised to see her. “Oh, hey Alice. I thought you left after the debrief?”

“I was about to, but then I remembered I wanted to talk to you about something, one on one.”

“Look, if it’s about me being late--”

“No, no. It’s not that. Actually, there’s a few things I want to go over, if you have time. I thought maybe we could grab a bite of dinner and a drink?” she probed.

“I would, but I got plans” Layne shot her down.

“Plans without the guys?” she queried, trying desperately to keep the envy out of her voice. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“I’m meeting up with Kali” he confessed with a silly smile.

“Kali?!? I thought you two were done?”

Layne shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’re not committed anymore, but we still hang from time to time.”

“Oh ... I see.”

“Why, is it something that can’t wait?”

“No, nothing that important. You go, have a good time. You deserve it after the show.”

Layne grinned. “Thanks, Alice! Love that outfit by the way. It’s very you!” he flashed her a thumbs up before turning and striding off.

“Thanks!” she called after him, the tiniest bit of hope entering her voice. “See you at the next heads-up!”

Layne continued on his way until he reached Frank, waiting between the door and his security desk. The big guy wasn’t allowed to leave his post during the show, but he did have a closed circuit system that allowed him to keep an eye on everything, including the main room.

“What do you think, big man? How’d we do tonight?”

“I think you fuckin killed it” Frank answered with a wide smile.

“Fuckin A!” Layne grinned and held up his fist. The cheerful guard held up his own and they bumped. “You have a good one, Frank.”

“You too, Layne. Stay outta trouble.”

“Trouble? Me?” he replied in mock innocence, shrugging as he walked by.

Layne exited into the alley, skipped down the steps and shouldered his bag. He was about to reach for a smoke when an usual sight in the distance made him pause. Parked where the end of the alley met the sidewalk and curb, in a space where parking was strictly prohibited, was a long, white limousine.

Cars were generally a luxury item in 2152, but one like this was especially rare to see. Requiem was a walkable city and had excellent mass transit. With the age of fossil fuels long over, these days only the wealthiest citizens and government officials tended to have personal vehicles.

His suspicions were confirmed as he approached the swanky car and the vehicle’s side doors opened. Two enforcer droids stepped out; their black metal bodies contorting with a series of soft mechanical whirs until their limbs fully extended and they stood to their full seven foot height. They had black metal visors where a face should be hosting a single, large, glowing red eye at their center.

Each carried a plasma rifle and bore the RCA emblem marking them as Requiem City Authority. Paradoxically, the logo was flanked on either side by olive branches while a solitary, white, upward pointing sword was displayed at the center.

Layne’s anxiety spiked and he quickly reached to his side, where his PPS unit rested on his belt. The Personal Protective Shield was an invention that had completely turned society on its head once it became affordable and widely used. It fundamentally changed how power in the world flowed, making it much harder to threaten or kill people with ranged weapons. It would allow him to survive an encounter like this, if things went bad, though he wasn’t sure how many blasts of the Authority’s latest tech his unit would be able to handle.

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Laroca” the deep voice of the white-robed man boomed as he stepped out of the car between his guards. His cane tapped the pavement as his feet found the ground. “I’m just here to talk.”

The man’s slicked back, platinum blonde hair matched his outfit. His vestments were adorned with black shoulder pads and lines of gold trim weaving intricate patterns over the otherwise all-white surface. His white leather boots completed the ensemble. For a man who worked for patriarchs that desired a return to tradition, he sure looked like he could be headlining a queer fashion show.