Page 103 of Tapeworld Induction

Talia bent slightly forward. “Go ahead.”

He waved his security wand in front of her eyes, holding it there. Scanning her retina, cross-referencing against the database. She got the invitation from Gertrude. It should all be fine. Why then was Dylan so nervous?

She fidgeted with the silver chain of her red micro-purse. The other bouncer turned towards her. She swallowed nervously, not the most convincing behaviour under scrutiny, and she almost stopped fidgeting with the chain abruptly but caught herself, not wanting to do anything that made them look more suspicious.

A pleasing beep later, her insides were finally able to rest easy.

“Go on in. Enjoy your evening, ladies.” The double doors opened, and the bouncer ushered them through.

Dylan shared a wavering smile with Talia, and they held hands for a second as they stepped inside.

The foyer rose two stories high into a crescent tip, trammelled in gold. Multiple spotlights illuminated the pockets of people wandering about, shock-blue and phosphorescent red lights melding with the extravagant fashion statements committed across the room. Alt-couture. Talia had coined the term for the magazine. The background music drowned out the detail of the many ongoing conversations among the just-in-time-famous merrymakers. For all the cacophony, something was missing. The Crypterra mansion was part corporate space, part art gallery – hence Talia’s agreement with Gertrude – but…

“Where’s all the art, Tal?”

Talia grinned like a dominant animal in her jungle. “Look there. See the corridor? A couple of rooms of paintings, sculptures, and neo-art down that way.”

The corridor was packed with traffic going in both directions. Dylan’s eyes darted to some stairs climbing about halfway up the foyer. “And that leads up to the offices?”

Talia smiled. “Yup. That’s where you gotta sneak up to.”

“Right.”

A lump the size of an apple formed in her stomach. This wasn’t going to be easy. And what would they do if she got caught? It would be so easy to walk away, to some hidden corner of this corporate house-slash-gallery, and just give up.

Talia grabbed her arm, almost as if she could see what she was thinking.

“Listen.” She stared into Dylan’s eyes, tension on her face as she whispered. “Like we planned, I’ll go find Astrid, you sneak upstairs.”

Dylan nodded. Her hands formed into fists, knuckles whitened. That bitch has to pay. She walked off towards the corridor.

There was a crackle in her ear. “Are you there, Dee?”

“Yes, the evening is marvellous…” she said quietly, trying not to draw attention. The people around her were mostly imbibing alcohol and CBD-infused drinks, pretending to talk art, and pretending to look at art.

“How’s the place? Do you have a lock on Astrid?”

The corridor opened to the first of the gallery rooms. Paintings hung away from the walls, suspended in mid-air. Many were chiral – dual-sided paintings on a translucent medium, the inks and paints forming a different meaning on each side.

“Not yet. Talia’s scoping the place out for her.” Her eyes wandered from the chiral displays to the guests.

“Okay. Give me a buzz when you find anything, and be careful you don’t bump into her yourself.”

Dylan smiled to herself. Bring that bitch on. Then she realised she was smiling at a group of guests heartily discussing the benefits of bringing back animal farming, for the children to learn about cows. Her insides twisted. They must have been prompted by the painting behind them. A Scandinavian landscape, all mountain ridges and rocky outcroppings with a few shades of grassy green. Superimposed across the whole thing was the see-through face of a beautiful cow, black and white, one eye bloodshot.

She moved in closer as if inspecting the fine detail of the painting, the smile gone from her face. The farming lovers kept going on about how great the advances of the Veganism Act were, but that it might be time to loop back on that now. Each step she took in their direction sent her mind reeling off further in imagining ways to torture these people. They had a right to an opinion, but what they were talking about had been illegal for thirty years.

We’re not going back to generalised animal mistreatment and slaughter.

“Oh, look. Someone from the younger generation. What do you think, miss?” The man addressing her sounded like someone who should be wearing a top hat, though he wasn’t wearing any hat at all.

Thinking of nothing but gutting the man to see how he felt about humane slaughter then, Dylan put on her biggest smile. “What do I think of what?”

The man was older, around his fifties. A thin frame of meat, encased in a thick, double-breasted peacoat, the texture made to look like leather. Hopefully not real leather – unless these carnists literally wore their beliefs on their sleeve. Why not go the whole way with black-market cow skin?

He waved to the people holding court with him, money-fiends waiting on his every word, ready to sup from his lips any shape of truth he dispensed. “Whether or not we are better off now, since the meat purges?”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed at him. She folded her arms. “Of course we are.” Part of her wanted to get out of there, the other part wanted to punch him in the face.