Chapter 1: William “Blackie” Blackburn

 

William Blackburn had never eaten mix before. “How do you order?” he asked.

The man behind the counter stared right through him. “The menu is right behind me. Can’t you read?”

An image of Burgess Meredith, the cranky old man in Rocky, flashed through Blackburn’s mind. “Yeah, I can read.” Blackburn had heard about mix, but never had the urge to try it. When the Retro Mix had opened, just a week ago, there had been a lot of buzz around the University of Texas campus. Word was the place was a throwback to the last century: comfortable chairs, magazines (real paper magazines!), board games (Yahtzee! Monopoly! Checkers!) and old time rock-and-roll.

Blackburn looked over the man’s shoulder. The menu was written in swirling letters; multi-colored chalk on an old style slate blackboard.

“What’s a thirty-thirty-thirty?” Blackburn asked.

“Thirty percent protein, thirty percent carbs, and thirty percent fat.”

“Sounds like a lot of fat.”

“To each his own.”

Shuffling noises came from an antique jukebox standing in the corner, and seconds later, the first few notes of “Beginnings” reverberated across the room. Chicago. A classic. “Okay … and what else is in it?”

“That’s it. Just what I told you.” The old man looked perplexed.

“Thirty-thirty-thirty. That’s only ninety percent.”

“Oh.” The old man thought for a few seconds. “The rest is fiber.”

“Fiber.” Blackburn chewed on the word as he scanned the room. The Retro was just a few blocks south of the UT campus, so it attracted lots of students—mostly Grunges— but it was also close enough to downtown Austin to attract the young Professionals who worked there. Blackburn figured even if he didn’t like mix, maybe he could pick up a girl.

“So,” the old man said, catching Blackburn’s eye, “what’s it gonna be?”

“Uh, okay, give me a forty-thirty-twenty.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Bingo,” the old man said, writing the order on a pad of paper—with a real pencil! “Now, what additives do you want?”

“Additives … what are my choices?”

The old man gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Uh, okay.” Blackburn looked over the list of additives written on the board. Most of the names were Greek to him.

“Hey, come on,” the old man growled. “I ain’t got all day. Why don’t I just give you the “booster” mix? That’s what guys like you normally go for.”

Guys like me? Blackburn’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in it?”

“It’s a bunch of vitamins, minerals, and other stuff. You know, guaranteed to make you smarter and stronger.”

“Uh, okay.”

The old man muttered “Bingo” again, scribbled something on the pad, and then asked: “What flavor?”

“Let me guess: they’re on the menu board, right?”

“See, you’re getting smarter already.”

Blackburn scanned the flavors: Chicken Enchilada, Iron Forge Barbecue (named after a once-famous restaurant in downtown Austin), Mama’s Meatloaf, and Hong Kong. And three specials, today only: Monkey, Fintastic, and Pecan Praline.

“What’s Hong Kong?” he asked.

“Think about it. What would Hong Kong taste like?”

A man standing behind him leaned forward. “It’s good, Cantonese style. Throw in some jalapenos, and it’s almost like Kung Pau.”

Blackburn turned and looked at the man. Ponytail, well-trimmed beard, white shirt, tie, jeans, boots … a techie, for sure.

“Hey,” the old man said, regaining Blackburn’s attention. “Don’t listen to him. We don’t have jalapenos today. That’s only on Friday.”

“What’s Monkey?” Blackburn asked.

“Monkey is jungle fruit. Berries, stuff like that.”

More shuffling noises from the antique jukebox, and, seconds later, Blackburn’s ears were treated to the slick, funky sound of the first few bars of Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “September.” As he listened, he realized it was, indeed, the 21st of September—just like in the song! He looked around again, noting that there were no news screens, no sports screens, no showbiz screens, no game screens—no electronic entertainment of any kind. No obvious sign of anything “high-tech.”

“Hey! Space cadet!”

Blackburn turned back to the old man. “Sorry. What’s Fintastic?”

“Fish. You won’t like it.”

I won’t like it. “Okay … I’ll have the barbecue.” He’d heard good things about the Iron Forge, which had shut down years ago, but apparently still licensed its “secret blend” of spices.

“Excellent choice.” The old man scribbled on the pad, and then asked, “Hot or cold?”

“Uh … I don’t know.”

“You want hot. Barbecue is better if it’s hot.

“Okay …”

“And what about texture?”

“What do you mean, texture?”

“You can have it cereal style, or whipped, you know, like mousse.”

“I don’t … what do you mean by cereal style?”

“Let me make this real simple: smooth or lumpy?”

“Uh, smooth.”

“Bingo.” The old man scribbled on his pad and then punched a small display, initiating a wireless transaction with Blackburn’s money account, wherever it happened to be. Micro-seconds later, the flip-phone attached to Blackburn’s hip-clip beeped, signaling a completed transaction.

What a world we live in, Blackburn thought. Since the “Hot Money” crisis—Islamic terrorists had circulated radioactive coins and paper money in scores of cities around the world—no hard currency was accepted at this restaurant, or, for that matter, any other retail establishment in the developed world. You either carried a transaction-capable wireless device, or a properly encrypted smart card, or … you were out of luck.

Blackburn watched the old man measure ingredients: a gooey, molasses-like substance, then some white grainy material, then some brown pellets that looked like rabbit shit, and finally a number of finely-ground powders: yellow, dark green, and iridescent purple. He measured each ingredient precisely before dumping them into the mixing bowl, closing the lid, and touching the display. A rumbling sound, like an ancient garbage disposal grinding bones, morphed into the high-pitched whine of a jet engine. After perhaps thirty seconds, the machine stopped, the display blinked, the lid opened, and the old man scooped the mix into a serving bowl. He placed the bowl on a tray and slid it toward Blackburn. The entire process had taken less than two minutes.

The old man mumbled “Next,” and the techie moved forward, ready to place his order.

 

The first few notes of “Honky Tonk Woman” blasted from the jukebox.

The Strollin’ Bones. Blackburn walked over to the drink bar, wondering if Mick Jagger was still alive. He helped himself to an iced tea—soft drinks were included in the price—and scanned the restaurant, looking for a place to sit, preferably near an attractive co-ed eating alone. But the place was jammed. He spotted a few empty seats at a large community table on the patio. He strolled through the Spanish-style archway—under an ornate “Keep Austin Weird” sign—and offered a friendly “Hey” as he placed his tray on the table. He got a couple of grunts and nods, and took them as signs of acceptance. He sat down and started to eat. Not bad … kind of a barbecued beef pudding. After a few spoonfuls, he looked up and spotted the UT Tower in the distance. He tried to recall the name of the guy who had climbed up there, one bright sunny morning a few decades ago … with a rifle.

A man slid into the seat opposite him. Blackburn looked up and recognized the techie who had been in line behind him. On his tray was a bowl overflowing with a chunky concoction that was deep purple. Monkey?

“My name’s Smith,” the techie said.

Blackburn nodded. “Nice to meet you. Bill Blackburn. Call me Blackie.”

“Blackie.” Smith swallowed a mouthful of mix, smiled and nodded. “You go to UT?”

“Yeah, I’m a senior,” he lied. He had enough credits to call himself a junior, but he was taking two senior level courses. Who keeps track of what class you’re in, anyway? “What about you?”

“I work in a software lab.” Smith swallowed more mix, then took a long pull from a Lone Star Soy. “You know, the one down in Oak Hill? By the big shopping center?”

“Yeah, I’ve been by there a couple of times.” Another lie, he’d never been to Oak Hill. “What kind of software do you write?”

Smith ignored the question. “So, you like mix?”

Blackburn swallowed another mouthful. “It’s pretty good. Very good, actually. First time I ever had it.”

“You’ve never had mix before?”

“Nope. Never.”

Smith smiled. “Great stuff. It’s got everything you need.”

“Everything?” Blackburn’s curiosity was aroused. “What do you mean?”

“It’s got all the right proteins, fats, vitamins … you name it.”

Blackburn tried to recall what his mother had told him, maybe a thousand times, about eating a balanced diet. “So how do they get all of that out of wheat and beans and … whatever else they use?”

Smith leaned back and took another swig of beer. “That’s all soy you’re eating, my friend. All soy.”

My friend? Blackburn stared into his bowl. “I thought it was …”

“Nope. It’s all soy.” Smith wore a satisfied look, but frowned when he saw confusion on Blackburn’s face. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” Blackburn replied, shaking his head. “I guess I didn’t.”

“Synthetic food—mix made out of all kinds of stuff—has been around for a few years. But this is the first ‘all soy’ mix restaurant in the state.”

“No shit?” Blackburn used his spoon to poke at his mix.

“No shit, but, hey, don’t worry about it. It’s genetically engineered. I eat it all the time. Look at me. Strong like bull!” Smith raised a fist in the air.

Strong like bull? There aren’t that many bulls left. Blackburn brought a tiny spoonful of mix to his lips, sniffed it, placed it on his tongue, and finally, carefully, mouthed and swallowed it.

“Good, right?” Smith grinned.

“Well, yeah,” Blackburn nodded. “It tastes great. I just didn’t realize it was all soy.”

“Yup, all soy.” The smug look was back on Smith’s face.

“Hmm.” He’d have to ask his mother about this “all soy” mix. Blackburn’s mind wandered before finally landing back on software. “So,” he said, picking up the conversation where they’d left it a few minutes ago, “what kind of software do you write?”

Smith looked surprised, but answered quickly. “Oh, I don’t actually write software.”

“No?”

“No. I just do some of the systems designs.”

“What kind of systems?”

“Uh, financial.”

Blackburn watched Smith stuff another heaping spoonful of mix into his mouth. “Financial … that doesn’t tell me much.”

Smith swallowed the mix, then gulped more beer. “Systems that look at trends in financial transactions. Does that tell you enough?”

“Trends. Is that a market research kind of thing?” Blackburn was always on the lookout for interesting new fields of study.

“Something like that.”

“So, what brings you up here?” Blackburn said, suddenly realizing that he was asking a lot of questions. He felt hot blood rush to his cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that we’re a long way from Oak Hill.” Eight miles? Ten?

Smith swallowed more mix. “My sister. She’s a student at UT. I’m meeting her here.” Smith flicked his wrist and his cuff dropped an inch, exposing an implanted display. He glanced at it. “She’s already late.”

Blackburn’s eyes lit up. “Nice. May I take a look?”

Smith unbuttoned his cuff, pushed the sleeve up, and extended his arm, palm up. The flexible display extended from his wrist almost to his elbow. The time, date, GPS locator, and an array of icons shone through a thin layer of skin. Blackburn whistled softly, then gazed at Smith’s face, focusing on his eyes and ears, looking for telltale signs of other implants.

“You can’t see them,” Smith said, scraping purple mix from the sides of his bowl. “The other implants, I mean.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

“It’s okay. Natural curiosity. The main transceiver is behind my ponytail.”

Blackburn nodded. That was the most common location for the transceiver; shielding material and skull protected the brain, and enzymes bonded to the transceiver’s surface took care of any reaction to the microwaves. Blackburn had wanted an implanted computer since before puberty. But good implants were a privilege of the rich and famous. “What about voice and sound?”

Smith tapped his jawbone just beneath his ear.

Wow. Three implants. Top of the line. Blackburn thought he might ask Smith if he had a video eye implant, but thought better of it. “If you don’t mind my asking, how’d you pay for it?”

“The lab sprang for it. I need it for my work.”

 

A girl—a woman—was suddenly standing behind Smith.

“Got room for one more?”

Smith turned his head. “You’re late,” he said, pulling a chair closer.

She tossed a paper bag onto the table, and slithered into the chair.

“Manta,” Smith said, “this is Bill Blackburn. Blackie. Blackie, this is my sister, Manta Ray.”

Blackburn’s eyes got wider.

Wow. Tall, and muscular, and wiry, and curvy … all at the same time. Light coffee skin. Must be a heavy dose of Latino in her gene pool. Tight-fitting black leather vest. “Butterfly” body art. Lots of metal: ear jewelry, a forehead weave (the latest thing!), and some other stuff. Shades perched on her head. She’s nothing like her brother.

“I love your … your whole look,” Blackburn said, immediately feeling like a fool.

Smith leaned back and closed his eyes. He was either praying, Blackburn thought, or perhaps contemplating the absurdity of Blackburn’s statement. Manta smiled and slid something out of the paper bag. A burrito. Seconds later, Manta was chewing, and chili sauce was dripping down her chin.

“Don’t you like mix?” Blackburn asked her.

“Not when I can get this.” She took another bite.

The jukebox shuffled, and seconds later, guitar music rocked the room.

“Barracuda” … Heart … the Wilson sisters. Blackburn took a deep breath. The aroma of beef and chili was intoxicating. People sitting near them began glancing at Manta.

“Will you cool it, Manta? You’re making a scene with that”—Smith nodded at the burrito—“that thing.”

“Fuck you, Charley.” She held the burrito high over her head. Gobs of sauce went flying. The scent of beef, chili and onions filled the air.

Smith was now thoroughly pissed off. “Manta, wrap that fucking thing up.”

Blackburn was confused. “Charley?”

Manta reached over, grabbed her brother’s beer, and took a sip. “That’s his name—Charley.”

Smith retrieved his beer. “It’s Charles Nelson Smith.”

“Yeah, after you changed it,” Manta snorted.

Changed it? Blackburn looked at Manta, who had noticed people pointing at her and was wrapping the burrito in a large paper napkin. “Is that real?” he asked her. “I mean, real beef?”

“Yes, it’s real beef.”

Real beef costs a fortune. “Where’d you get it? The black market?”

“Yeah. A bootlegger I know.” She took another bite, this time keeping the burrito covered and her head down.

Smith smirked. “You mean ‘A bootlegger I blow,’ don’t you?”

“Fuck you again.”

“I hope you rinsed your mouth out after you did him.” Smith grinned and gulped a large spoonful of mix.

Manta ignored her brother, but Blackburn could see her blinking away tears. He decided to change the subject. “Your brother told me you were at UT. What are you studying?”

Manta took a couple of deep breaths and regained her composure. “I’m pre-law.”

“Pre-law. Impressive.”

“Yeah, but I may drop out.” She grinned wickedly. “I’m thinking of becoming an exotic dancer.”

“Bullshit, Manta,” Smith said. “You couldn’t dance if your feet were on fire.”

“Fuck you for the third time.”

Open warfare. Blackburn’s eyes flicked back and forth between brother and sister. Smith had a satisfied look on his face, grinning as he shoveled more mix into his mouth. Manta looked like she might actually shed some tears. She put her half-eaten burrito down and wiped her eyes with a clean napkin.

“And I thought my sister and I didn’t get along,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

Manta sniffed a few times, and finally blew her nose into the napkin. “You’re right,” she said, attempting a smile. “I guess I started it. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. We were both out of line.” He leaned over and kissed Manta’s cheek. She made a face and laughed.

Smith glanced at his wrist display. “I’ve got to go meet someone.” He stood and offered his hand. “See you around, Blackie?”

Blackburn stood. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He shook Smith’s hand.

Smith looked at Manta. “See you tonight?”

She nodded. Blackburn watched as Smith walked through the patio, under another Spanish-style archway, crossed the street, and headed south toward downtown Austin.

 

“Do you want the rest of this?” Manta asked.

“The burrito?” Blackburn’s eyes got wider.

“Yes, the burrito. What else is there?”

He tried to remember the last time he had eaten real beef. His sister had occasionally brought home leftovers from one of her political “power dinners.” He tried to remember what it tasted like. He couldn’t. “Are you sure?”

“Sure. Go ahead.” She pushed the half-eaten burrito across the table.

Blackburn picked it up, careful not to spill its precious contents. He brought it to his mouth and took a small bite, closed his eyes, and chewed. Chunks of beef, hard to break, but once broken, flaky and tender, delighted his taste buds. With onions and peppers, in a thick red sauce … Heaven … I’m in heaven.

She smiled. He took another bite and started to fall in love.

 

Blackburn set two cups of coffee on the table: hers with artificial sweetener and whitener; his “black” befitting his self-proclaimed nickname. “Always on My Mind” played softly on the jukebox. Willie Nelson, a Texas legend. “So,” he said, sitting down opposite her, “do you and your brother always fight like that?”

She smiled. “Only when he acts like a piece of shit.”

Play it cool, Blackie. “Which is how often?”

“Most of the time.”

“Hmm. Sounds like me and my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yeah. Vicki. Victoria Blackburn. Ever heard of her?”

A puzzled look. “No. Why? Who is she?”

“She’s a state senator.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of her. I don’t know much about politics.”

“Mmm.” Blackburn sipped his coffee. “You mind if I ask you a personal question?”

She shrugged.

“You and your brother. You’re so … different.”

“Yeah.” Manta lowered her eyes, raised her cup, and sipped her coffee. “People mention that sometimes.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Same mother, different fathers.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Charley is pure WASP. I’m … I am what I am: half white, half Mexican. With some Chinese. Maybe some other stuff, too.”

He smiled at her. Yeah. I can see the Chinese in your eyes. “How’d you get your name?”

She laughed out loud. “My mother had a thing for fish.”

“Manta Ray … it’s, well, unique.” I guess it could have been worse. “So, where’s your mother now?”

“In Waco. In a commune with a bunch of other ‘free thinkers.’”

Waco … a haven for wackos. “And your father?”

“Never met the man,” she shrugged.

He hesitated. “Do you have any problem with …”

“With what?”

“Prejudice?”

“Prejudice?” She sneered. “Is that the politically correct term for it now?”

“You know what I mean,” he said, his face reddening. Texas was one of the hottest, fiercest battlegrounds in the underground campaign against Latinos.

“Yeah. I know what you mean. No, it’s not a problem. Other than the odd nasty remark I get on campus.”

“Hmm.” He saw that Manta had finished her coffee, and his cup, still half-full, was cold. “How about more coffee?”

“You know, I’d really like a glass of wine.”

He glanced at his ten-dollar plastic watch: one-thirty. He had a class at three. Fuck it. “We could walk back to the university. There are a couple of wine bars on the way.”

She tapped on the edge of her coffee mug. “You have any wine at your place?”

My place? The broken-down apartment I share with my roommate? “Uh, no. No wine.”

“Well,”—she gave him a look that he couldn’t decipher—“we could go to my place.”

“Your place?” Sweat dampened Blackburn’s armpits.

“Yeah. The house I share with my brother. Have you got a car?”

“No, no car.” Damn. “You’ve got wine at your place?” Dumb question.

“Yeah. It’s not far. We can walk.”

“What kind of wine?” Damn, Blackie, pull yourself together. “I mean, I’m kind of particular about what I drink.” He smiled at her.

“Right.” She smiled back at him as she stood. “Well, I’m sure there’s something there that you’ll like.”

He took another good look at her. Yeah, you might say that.

 

Minutes later, Blackburn was sitting in an armchair, sweating, as he watched her strip while standing on the coffee table. She attempted some kind of exotic dance, but she was no dancer—not that it mattered to him. She peeled off her vest and jeans. No bra. Her breasts were small, firm, and pierced with nipple rings. Butterflies, in a range of colors, adorned her body. Her plain black thong undulated inches from his face. Then she jumped off the coffee table and headed down a hallway. Blackburn followed.

Once in bed, he peeled off the thong. Her pussy was draped with metal—more metal than he’d ever seen—and the situation deteriorated rapidly.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Uh … I don’t know. This has never happened to me before.”

“What—shit, are you a virgin or something?”

“Hell no. I’ve had plenty of girls.” Another lie. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe … I’ve just never seen that much … jewelry.”

“It’s just some pussy rings and love chains.”

“Yeah, but …”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled, jumping out of bed and moving over to a dresser. Putting one leg up, she reached down, unclipped the chains, and dropped them on the floor.

“Think you can handle it now?” she smirked, climbing back into bed.

Soon he was inside her, pushing for all he was worth.