In Dreams Page 6

  A sigh of CO2 slips through my vents. In my 127 years, I've run too many mental simulations to count of coming up to this place, to the top of New Babel, to the top of this supposed paradise. And this is what Sector One turns out to be -- just a bland conference arena filled with bickering old men in suits? I have to say, in my five minutes here, I've already had my fill of heaven.

  In the distance, past the skylight shimmering down in the darkness, past those suits under it, I spot my partner, crouched, half in the shadows on the other side of the arena.

  Now, he is one of those cybernetic pinnacles. An R17. Smooth chrome, nose-less face –- like a debeaked falcon. A bullet with eyes. So streamlined it makes my dents ache. Even the stupid uniform suits him.

  "R17," I say through my internal wireless. "I said stay in the shadows."

  He scoots a foot back.

  "Captain," R17 radios in his pitch-perfect, user-friendly tone. "I cannot compute how we are to conduct a proper investigation during the meeting.”

  His factory-fresh impeccability comes in a little too loud and clear for my taste. Dialing the frequency down a notch with a thought, I shrug.

  “These are our parameters, Inspector."

  "Could you inform me then, Sir, how we are going to maneuver anyone in to saying the tell if we cannot let anyone know we are here?"

  "Someone's sure to say it."

  "Just who is going to say D-death? Sir."

  It's a good question. One I can't answer. All Central Intelligence told me was that with each hack the spy makes, he leaves a digital imprint, a signature. D-Death. The only other thing they knew was that his title is a play on how he apparently can't say it. A psychogenic disorder disabling him from saying that specific word, but more importantly, a sign he's a stutterer. All I know is that they sure knew a whole lot of nothing for a department with the word "intelligence" in the title.

  "Inspector, I never said this was a good job. But it is what we were made for. Now start monitoring."

  Through the statistical dribble, my attention is drawn to the last words of a hoary, hulking man.

  “...and with the Rev182, the Pox will be back under control. And the masses of Sector 5 will eat it up. With this, those middle class drones will be in line once again."

  At those final words, he sucks in a massive breath; his metallic body barely fits into his pinstriped suit as it expands. In that brief moment of silence, his bald brow -- old and angled, yet surprisingly wrinkle free -- leers at the others around the table. He is obviously the kingpin of this crowd.

  Scanning his mechanical physique rolls his records into my vision. Sector 4. Minister of Marketing. Abaddon Hertz. A pioneer in free world trade laws. Responsible for what New Babel is today -- the corporate-franchise government, the formation of the Core ruling body that sits here, the sector-upon-sector city structure -- the very reason a corporation was able to even make a city. And that body of his, well, there really isn't much organic left -- 67% of it has been replaced with proxies and bio-organic augs. And at the age of 151, he doesn't show any signs of slowing down. I guess some people never want to die.

  I clear the data, but before it's gone, something tingles my circuits. With a buzz, the stats freeze. In a pop, so does everything else.

  Panicking, I try a dozen routines, but none of my systems respond. I try standing, but realize my body isn't listening either. Only after big red text starts to flash in my vision do I understand what's happening.

  "Infected Systems Suppressed. Rerouting Array."

  Damn. I had forgotten about that virus-infected part. My anti-virus inhibitors have been scanning my systems for the past two days but still can't find this latest bug. This outdated wetware of mine just can't keep up any more. With a new infection every week, it takes half a way week to find it. Guess it isn't a wonder why this is my last mission.

  With a blink, everything is back in focus, everything is back in place. For now at least.

  “Only yo-you could have pu-put it so gracefully, mi-minister,” someone says.

  A stutter.

  I lock my eyes on R17 and transmit, "It couldn't be that easy--"

  But I don't even have time to finish as both R17 and I pivot to the voice.

  On the distant end of that table, the stuttering man raises a goblet and says, "Ch-cheers."

  Man, however, might be too liberal a word for him. The rolls of fat sagging from his face are the only flesh to him. A metallic neck, a shaft body, track roller base, flimsy carbon arms -- that's the rest of him.

  His bio-scan results roll into my vision. Ciacco Sporco. Minister of Product Control. Sector 4. He received this position 30 years prior. His father was the previous minister. He lost his body to obesity three years later. That explains his appearance. The 12 scathing performance reviews also tell me he is a bit of a lout. A bumbling buffoon. I guess that explains the stutter.

  “A simple choice, Sir," R17 broadcasts. "Mission accomplished.”

  “No. Things are never that cut-and-dry,” I signal back.

  "There is an 83% probability it is him, Sir."

  “I've been doing this job for a short while now, Inspector. That experience says it won't be that simple.”

  R17 turns his glinting skull toward me. "Sir, with all due respect. My calculations are flawless. I have revision 28473 installed. I have acquired the latest collated data, the newest amendments to all statutes of the law, all compiled analyses, data and precautionary revisions from each model before me. All superior updates. My projections are infallible. Sir."

  It's hard to suppress my laugh cycle, but I do.

  "Just humor an old bot, Inspector."

  "Sir?"

  "We will wait for now."

  "Sir. It is your prerogative."

  All I can do is run my 3.14 smile routine. I can never get used to these newer R-series models and their modified behavioral matrices. Up until the R10's, Enforcers had so much more insight because of our self-developed personality systems and emotion protocol. It allowed better deductions and insight into the criminal mind. But Central Intelligence said it made us difficult to control. They said it made us over-opinionated. So the Core made improved models. Like this R17. Emotion emended, personality expunged, humor extinguished. Superior my metal ass.

  A young man rises from mid-table, dripping sweat. “Excuse me, Ministers. May I have the floor?”

  The Minister of Marketing grunts. “You don't have to ask, Minister.”

  I bring up the records on the fledgling administrator. Peter Lester. Minister of Design. Only 30 years old? That's incredibly fresh-faced for anyone at this table. He started the position a week ago. The previous Minister of Design died of a heart attack. Very odd. He was a two time Tribeca Marathon champion. This Lester had been his assistant. An average worker from Sector 5. He was thrown in to the ministerial pool at the last second. Interesting.

  The Minister of Design then starts reciting statistics. I know it's of no use to my investigation, though. None of this is. All this data. This whole assignment even.

  I then have an out of processor moment -- what am I doing here? I mean, really. I was designed to be a beat cop, to patrol Sector 5. With a 25 year run, tops. Not to be some three-striped captain sitting behind a desk, used only as a nursemaid for corporate dogs a century later. Somehow, I lasted longer than the other Enforcers. Somehow, I've wound up doing nonsense like this.

  I shake my head. I've no time for sentiment. I have orders to fulfill.

  I scan the rest of the suspects.

  The closed-mouth organic on the far end of the table is the Minister of Development, a rep for Sector 15. By his smooth scalp, his clear, unwrinkled skin, his handmade suit, he can only be a pure-flesh -- those technophobic purists. But his records show that 52% of his body consists of augs and proxies. He is obviously trying to be something he is not.

  The man next to him is the Minister of Research. From Sector 3, he truly is a pure-flesh. In his 52 years, he doesn't h
ave a single record of implantation or even nanobot injection. His tightly combed weave, his perfectly trimmed manicures, his evenly etched face -- everything perfected to a shine.

  Making a final scan of the room, my sensors go over all the assistants. Two to a minister, standing at their master's back, none of their data is useful. Other than them, there is no one. No one except the three figures sitting against a far wall, in the dark. The silent organics on the ends are CEO's, nameless men, records blocked, faces censored, lives non-existent. The one on the throne in the center, however, I recognize without a scan. He is the Prime Minister of New Babel, Alaric Van Geldgier. Sitting quietly, thoughtfully, his hands are steepled together against his chin, his hair shimmering red, black and yellow in stray rays of light. The withered lower half of his corpse-like body is enclosed in a pellucid portable life support unit. Gusts of frigid fumes spew out of its grilled vents. All three of these men are beyond my reach in law. But being the masters of New Babel, it doesn't matter if any of them were spies. All of this, all of us, is their property anyway.

  Pivoting back to the table, I soak in the congregation in an occultic Last Supper portrait. One of these men is the spy. One of these men is Judas among Judas'. I just have to figure out who. And get him to say our tell.

  Unfortunately, before I can even rise to my feet, before I can even initiate step one of my plan -- clank -- everything goes black.

  INTERNAL ERROR

  In the reflection of the thick lift windows, my nicked metal mug blinks back.

  What's happening?

  My mouth moves. "We've been granted the use of immediate lethal force, Inspector."

  These words are familar. But while I'm saying them, I'm not choosing them.

  "Sir?" R17 says from the other side of the Sector Lift.

  The Sector Lift? The same one we took before we got to the product meeting. Then I figure it out -- this happened 53 minutes ago. This is a memory.

  "Standard investigative protocol," my mouth says. "The longer the spy is present, the more vital information will be vulnerable. So in other words, we've been given orders to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  R17's face plates reconfigure in surprise. "And these measures are necessary for something as trivial as preventing someone from getting a peek at New Babel's fall lineup?"

  "Welcome to the world of corporate espionage, Inspector."

  Looking at myself like this, it's hard not to wonder when I became so perfunctory.

  "Our main obstacle is," I say, "we have no idea when the meeting is being held.”

  “Sir?”

  My CO2 buildup vents. “To make an understatement, the ministers of New Babel have been little help to our investigation. They think all is below them -- the Pox outbreak, the recent protests, even us. They don't realize that the very reason they don't need physical protection on the upper sectors is because we do all that work down here. But this time, someone got through. This spy, this D-death. Somehow he is posing as one of them. But they don't seem to care. They didn't respond when we told them this spy is from an activist group, probably from one of these very protest groups. They didn't even reply when we told them that we believe he is out to broadcast their secrets. They care only about their meetings. Their next quarter."

  "Then why are we doing this, Sir?"

  "It is our protocol, Inspector. To Serve and Obey. So we have to do something. One thing you will learn, Inspector -- no matter how outlandish the order, we must follow it.”

  Did I really say that?

  "Unfortunately," I continue, "it won't be that easy. We can't go parading ourselves around up there. Politicians and the law don't mix well. Especially these upper level kind. Under normal circumstances Enforcers aren't allowed on the upper sections. No one from the lower levels are."

  "I am confident there will be no issues that we cannot surmount, Sir."

  I pause as my eyebrow flips up.

  "You are, are you?"

  "Yes, Sir. With your experience and my programming, I am positive there will be little issue. We will be swift. We will be severe. We will send a message, Sir."

  It's strange seeing this all again, through passive eyes. Through them, I realize so much I didn't before. For one, this is probably the Inspector's first mission. The rigidity, the single processor thinking, the naivety -- he's just like I was on mine. 113 years ago.

  The lift suddenly winks dark. Above us, the roots of Sector 1 intertwine with the horizon, weaving a metal ceiling to the skies of Sector 2. We slip into it, into complete darkness, into a hollow silence.

  The lift lights blink on and my mouth gives a final command. “Remember, just follow my lead, Inspector. Don't take any action without consulting me.” Then glancing out the window, I say, "We're here."

  Gliding to a stop, the lift hisses into its dock and the doors whisk open. A plume of frigged air curls in.

  In the distance, at the end of the empty oval conference arena, under a shimmering skylight, is a conference table surrounded by suits.

  My head shakes. “You've got to be kidding.”

  “Sir?” R17 asks.

  “This is the product meeting. It has already begun.”

  INTERNAL ERROR

  Crack.

  Static.

  Darkness.

  Then the big red text begins. INFECTED MEMORIES SUPPRESSED. REROUTING ARRAY.

  In a pop of color, I'm back. Back in the now. Back to the conference arena.

  I shake my head and I have control once again.

  Damn virus. 2.3 seconds wasted. Guard compromised. Focus broken.

  Unfortunately, virus or not, I have a duty to uphold. And right now, I have to get all of these organics to say the tell.

  The Minister of Design slips into his seat and the room fills with silence. In the lull, my Audio Amplifier picks up a dozen muffled commands. One phrase catches my attention -- "Can you give me a copy of the 555w?"

  Turning toward the source, I spot one of the Minister of Finance's twiggy assistants nod to the other and say, "OK, I'll go get it."

  That's when I get an idea.

  "R17," I transmit, "keep monitoring the ministers."

  "Sir?"

  I look at him in the shadows and say, "I'll be right back," and slink away.

  In the distance, the assistant scurries into the shadows and I creep after. On the edge of the arena, the bald gofer exits through an arched doorway. I follow without a sound.

  Stepping into a spherical utility center, I slip up to the assistant as he pushes through chin-high stacks of a Mailable Projected Mainframe Interface. From the tactile sea of data, he slips out a 555w form.

  "Excuse me," I say, extra loud.

  His fingers jitter as he spins around.

  "Who are you?" he says, eyes big, hands barely wrapped around the form.

  “I am Captain 0032 of New Babel City Police, Internal Review, Sub-branch 3.”

  He pulls a shaking foot back. “How on earth did you get up here?”

  “Upon request.”

  “Soon they'll be letting organ dealers and who knows what else up here if Enforcers can get through.”

  “Here is my clearance, citizen,” I say as I fish out a clear datapad from a pocket and hold it up. Suspicion ripples his temple as he scans over the pad.

  “OK. So...”

  “Before we begin, citizen, I must perform a test.” On my data pad, I clear my orders from the screen and bring up new text.

  “Please read this word,” I say.

  He cranks a scowl at me. “Is this a joke?”

  "Most certainly not."

  Spittle flies as he scoffs. “Why should I--”

  “Just say the word,” I say ten decibels louder.

  “Fine! Death!”

  I slide the pad into a pocket and snap the button flap shut. “Thank you. It appears that you are not who we are looking for.”

  “You are crazy,” he says, face red, veins bulging.

  “Now.
I need your assistance.”

  He shakes that tomato head of his. “You must be malfunctioning.”

  “It is of the utmost importance, citizen.”

  “For what?”

  “I'm not at liberty to say. But I will tell you this. It is necessary to uphold the integrity of this meeting.”

  “There's no way I'm going to assist an Enforcer."

  "Citizen, it is--"

  "No. I could lose my job just for talking to you.” He continues to wag his head. He continues to resist. But I have been through this a thousand times. And I know what will work on a sheltered citizen like this.

  "That may be so, citizen. But you could also be summoned for questioning down on Sector 5."

  As if the words were physically jabbing him, he rears back, straight and stiff.

  "But since we are overbooked with Pox infected crims, it's more likely you'll be put in a holding cell on Sector 7."

  His skin turns a noticeable shade of pale.

  "You can't touch me. I'm--"

  "Obstructing an investigation. A federal offense. Questioning for such an offense has been known to last for the entire legal limit of detainment regulations."

  He pinches his lips into a white seam and squirms. "A month?"

  He's about ready to crack.

  "Yes. But don't worry. The cells on Sector 7 are very clean. They are washed thoroughly after an inmate murder-kill."

  I spot a gulp get caught in his throat.

  "And those happen daily," I continue, "so the cells are very clean."

  His head looks like a cooked sausage ready to burst.

  "Oh," I add. "But that's not to say that will happen to you. Inmate murder-kills only happen to, oh, one in three. So--"

  "OK. OK." His eyes look like badly boiled eggs. Sweat and tears cover almost every inch of cringing face. He is hooked. "What do you want?"

  “All I need is for you to get members of the committee to say a single word.”

  “What?”

  “Death,” a voice says.

  We both freeze.

  I turn. R17 is behind me.

  "Why have you left your post, Inspector?” I ask.

  “Sir, you were not responding to messaging."

  I spin my logs through my vision. Damn. There they are. Two audio transmissions, undelivered, on the list waiting for the anti-virus inhibitor scan. Blasted wetware. I fix it so that won't happen again.