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.
