“Archer was anxious to remain employed as he had a plan that required unfettered access to a farm. He’d realized that the biggest problem wasn’t being a Brew-Master, but surviving after he stopped being one. After five unremarkable years at Orisimi, he was relieved of his job, given a bonus, and sent under escort back to Mengchi where he’d be kept under discreet surveillance for the rest of his very short life. He never made it back to Mengchi, though; he suffered a heart attack and died on the journey.
“The Standing Committee, being paranoid skeptics, brought back the body, revived it, discovered it was Archer, and dropped him into the flames. Now that he was satisfactorily dead, Archer could put the second part of his plan into action. He hadn’t cloned himself, too easy to establish after the examination the Standing Committee would give. The body was Archer, the original. Archer had brewed himself, not a twin, but a replacement who shared all his knowledge, skills, genius and memories right up the moment Archer ‘died’. At that point, the replacement was an independent lifeform with no connection to the dead lifeform, and no visible connection to the lifeform when he was alive. If Archer had given the faintest glimmer of being better than he appeared to be, the Standing Committee would have pursued the possibility of a replacement until it was found. Archer’s lifelong commitment to his personal plan paid off.”
As I sipped beer, I regarded Lincoln, wondering if she’d seen where this was going. She merely seemed excited and fascinated by the intrigue of it all; putting one over the Standing Committee was a dream shared by many and achieved by few. Clearly, she was admiring Archer for his skills, but soon she’d feel very differently.
“So, what happened to the replacement? Did it go off and live happily after?” she grinned. She had the brains to ask the right questions.
“The replacement took the name Dialland Jovial, settled on Mengchi, and sank as fast as possible into obscurity. He bought space in a K4739-West complex, took up a position with a scientific records office, and worked for the next 15 years as a data analyst … until he was arrested and charged with Section 7, Political Crimes.”
Section 7, Political Crimes were very specific, referring to any organized that attempted to overthrow the authority of the Standing Committee. The number of times Section 7 had been used was one of the most closely held secrets in Mengchi. Knowing that someone had actually been charged under said section put you in one of two very elite groups: as a lifeform being charged in the secret court that handled it or as a member of the group ruling on charges.
Lincoln and I formed an unexpected and deeply unwelcome third group. I was sure, at that point, she’d have changed her instructions about adding a speakeasy charm to my beer if she could have. She’d set me up to talk and the words couldn’t be undone.
“Dialland Jovial’s job at the scientific records office was carefully chosen. The office had a contract from the Standing Committee to review brewing data from all farms to ensure that everything followed the rules. The office merely had a sliver of data, but Jovial only needed a sliver. He was searching for someone working at the limits of the rules, consistently enough to be doing so deliberately, and always inside the boundaries to avoid attention. Jovial slowly eliminated every possibility until he found what he was looking for … someone trying to do what he’d already done.
“Jovial knew exactly what to look for and how to be found, and when they met, they recognized a strong fellowship—in greed, desire for power, and willingness to travel a long winding road to that ultimate destination. They built a secret farm, very small and highly specialised … one that developed lifeforms that would infiltrate and act at the right moment. It was very successful. Jovial was an astonishing Brew-Master, an anomaly really. He’d grasped the subtle possibilities of brewing that had never been realized.”
My attentive colleague’s expression grew solemn.
“It was entirely possible that they arose, in part, from the brewing process that developed him. Archer was certainly capable of setting that up, recognizing his own limits and building ways around them in his replacement. The conspiracy was cracked ahead of the implementation because the Standing Committee, increasingly aware of a serious threat, had developed a solid grasp of the plan. They waited until the last second to round up—”
“But how did they know?” Lincoln interrupted, appearing perturbed. She was thinking clearly and assessing how close the danger was to her.
“The Standing Committee’s as committed to retaining their position as Jovial and his companions were to taking it. They did have a considerable advantage: more money and lifeforms. Add infinite experience and they were able identify a threat, Jovial, and 5,000 other data analysts as potential entry points. They sifted through prospects until they were left with Jovial and three others. A big mistake, however, was they believed Jovial was merely a low-level player, not inner-circle.
“When the inner-circle was scooped up, the members were heavily guarded—ushered straight to the Red Halls—while hired helpers were placed in a local holding block. Jovial exited the block before he could be identified, but was chased by a Retrieval Squad, which is where our paths had crossed. Jovial, like Archer, was a lifeform who took dying seriously and had a plan to deal with it. Being a Brew-Master meant managing lifeform energy a lot of the time—the energy in charms and generators, and the transfer from one entity to another. All those jangling charms he wore were simply camouflage. The real secret wasn’t with them, but with me. I’m a Bottle-Born. I look human, but that’s not all I am. I hold a trace of my true lifeform—like a shadow inside every cell. It was that trace that Jovial hooked when he began decomposing … jumping into a shadow.
“So when you asked if I saw a ghost today, you were almost correct. It was the ghost of Dialland Jovial reaching out of the shadow, trying to place me in the shadow. Jovial had never expected that his host would have Retriever download installed, so the takeover was only partially successful. I got access to his memories and his active personality switched off.”
“So, you were only partially completely fucked then,” Lincoln summarized with a dry smile. “Well, this has been fun and very informative and exciting, but now I have to get completely smashed. You’ll have a bit of a headache too. Sorry about that.” She waved at someone behind me. The charge from the nerve-stick was intense, but much less than what I’d received before. Still, it was enough to knock me out.
I came too with the promised headache, one that actually encompassed my entire body as I sat on a metal bench at the transit point where I normally caught the tube back to my space from work. At least, they’d dropped me here instead of leaving me on the street. I owed Lincoln thanks.
I recovered enough to made it onto the third tube that blew by and slumped onto an uncomfortable seat. How lucky I’d been. I’d not actually wanted to do this; an involuntary reflex simply took over and demanded to be seen and heard. I had keys to a plot that could overthrow the current administration of Mengchi, and possessed knowledge of secrets that the Standing Committee would repeatedly kill and revive me to access. The parts were all in place; they just had to be activated. I’d told someone about the plot, which realistically meant that the safest course of action would be to sell me to the highest bidder, take the money, and run!
This was still the best possible outcome; Lincoln had never asked me what I was doing when I encountered the Retrieval Squad. If she had, with the speakeasy charm still in force, I’d have told her and that would have been the end of everything. The disaster that hadn’t happened had be acknowledged before dealing with the one that had.
When I made it to the door of my space, I was ready to follow Lincoln’s lead and get inside any alcoholic drink, but hope of that vanished upon entry. They were sitting about, drinking my wine, and looking very comfortable. The senior one, (she had that “senior” look), waved to the seat alongside her, which I humbly took.
“You’re late,” she said sternly, not offering any wine. “That’s quite inconvenient
, so don’t be late again. I don’t like people who work for me to be late. Is that clear? ”
I managed a nod as I gaped. Agents of the Public Relations Office were the less visible and more powerful security section of Mengchi law enforcement, concerned with events and activities that had a broader, deeper scope that regular criminal activities. Political activities in particular were a focus of attention, because there was an election coming up for the Standing Committee.
Elections always brought a spike in PR activity, a standard plot frame for countless shows on the lines, and had become general knowledge about the PRO. Those shows were how I knew they were PR agents. Both sported the standard uniform: scarlet-red tailored robes with a slight sheen. If you touched the robe with an energy wand, it would absorb the charge, which could be used against you.
“Good, the time hasn’t been entirely wasted. We’ve accessed your account and have set up relevant arrangements. It’s always much better if done from a verifiable location. Right, pay attention citizen, Shakbout Mansard.” She peered more closely at me. “You look bad. Have you been drinking to excess? Sober up fast and take a shower, because you smell rancid.”
I rose without a word and went to the washroom where a hot shower did a world of good. A change into comfortable robes followed; if I was going to be fed to predators, at least I’d not be trying to pull underwear out of my arse crack at the same time. I returned to the chair and looked, hopefully, agreeable.
Both were naturals. The PRO only hired Naturals as agents, blatant illegal discrimination no one complained about. The senior agent was female, sable-black skin and hair, and dark bark-brown eyes. Her male partner had flame-orange skin and hair, and sun-yellow eyes. She was satisfied enough with my clean up to move to the main event and my place in it.
“Citizen Shakbout Mansard, as you’re aware, there’s an election for the majority of the seats on the Standing Committee, to be held in a month. A majority election only occurs every eight election cycles, so it’s very significant and is normally contested by numerous candidates and groups. One of those groups is the United Platform for Citizen Responsibility. They represent non-born citizens like yourself. The UPCR is trending positively and is steadily gaining electoral support among non-aligned groups, and could gain four seats in the election. That would make them an important force on the Committee and very influential over public policy. To ensure the community’s stability, it’s important to establish, definitively, that the UPCR is committed to upholding the foundation of the community and isn’t a threat to the future of Mengchi.”
Which translated as, “We have a problem—a wild-card group that looks like it could become a threat, which we won’t allow that. We’re going to find out if they need to be eliminated before the election or not. You’ll have a part to play in this process.”
I nodded again when she paused. Her partner continued to stare.
“You’ve volunteered to assist our investigation by becoming a campaign worker at the UPCR election centre. You’ll examine all the candidates and party officials at close range, and assess the distance between their public and private policy limits. You’ll report everything you find directly to us in face-to-face meetings. If you speak of this investigation to anyone, you’ll be demoted to IPS status for a period to be determined by a competent authority. Moreover, you’ll continue in your current role in the underground maintenance division and not make any major alterations to your living patterns. Any changes will be considered a security breach and accordingly responded to. Do you have questions? No? Good. You have an appointment at the UPCR election centre in 90 minutes for a position as a campaign worker. Be persuasive.”
I had to ask. “Why me? I have no track records with campaigns.”
The fuzzy-haired agent spoke, his tone slightly impatient, as if having to explain was a burden. “You’ve been identified as the correct resource for the task. You’re expected to do your civic duty and you’ve been furnished with the information required to do it. Additional information and instructions will be provided, as necessary.”
I returned to nodding and looking as pleased, welcoming, and civic-minded as possible. They regarded me for a full 60 seconds with aggressive silence before leaving. The evening promised to keep getting better and better.
One of the generally unknown side effects of being bottle-born is a higher sensitivity to the presence of magic; we detected the presence of a charm even when shielded. Well, some of us could. The 18 months spent at the Fogler & Twist Warehouse had sharpened my focus. Fogler & Twist were high-end charm developers. While their custom work required considerable time and design, they used mass-produced items as the base item for that work and had a warehouse full of them.
Sorting and checking charms all day for defects was the sort of detail and boredom I’d been seeking, and constant exposure to them increased my sensitivity—that, and actually getting burned by one (another “lucky accident” of the type I seemed to attract). The charm that had burned me had been stuck on a high shelf without the owner’s awareness. I’d discovered it while on clean-up detail; when attempting to pull it free from whatever it was snagged on, it had burned me.
The burn charm was potent and had a specific user profile. All security-force issued charms would burn non-staff personnel on contact. Essentially a security device to prevent the charm from being used by an unofficial party, resulting burns were fairly uncommon. Most provided a sting as warning; this one gave a full-blown shock, designed to disable. The only reason I still had a hand was that I was wearing full-protection gloves, as required by warehouse policy (they’d not want grunt staff contaminating wares, would they now).
The charm self-destructed as part of the energy release of the burn. I’d had a chance to see it clearly—for a stunned blink—as I was propelled across an aisle. Working at Fogler & Twist did have advantages—in particular, access to a treasure trove of private information about charm patterns. As such, I was rather interested to check on mine. They didn’t have any information on the one I’d seen, but did suggest a likely source. It was likely the charm had been made by and for members of a highly committed Human Rights group who wanted to abolish rights for Bottle-Born. I didn’t investigate beyond that suspicion and was now strongly wishing I had. The male PR agent sported a similar charm on his wrist, made to mimic a standard PR charm, and I noticed the hidden pattern.
I was being sent to investigate a bottle-born political group on the verge of political significance by someone who wanted to return them to slavery. Well, if I survived long enough to worry, I’d worry about it then.
4
The UPCR campaign headquarters were in the middle of Thiegler’s business section, a good decision to reassure that money was in tune with UPCR wishes and didn’t rock any profitable boats. The office was relatively low-key with a small rectangular front plate displaying the party name and logo. They weren’t doing anything to draw the wrong kind of attention … the kind I was about to give.
I ambled into the bright reception area buzzing with people and chatter, and filled with positive energy. Someone wearing a grey UPCR armband greeted me as soon as I’d taken a step inside. She had a sincere smile and a flexpad in her hands, and was clearly a natural born human.
“My name is Reyan. How may I help you?” She extended a slender hand as she spoke and I shook it. She looked pleased and excited.
When I told her I had an appointment to be a volunteer, she checked her flexpad. “Mr. Shakbout Mansard, how nice to meet you. You have a meeting with the Director of Campaign Staff, Dr. Sand.” She paused to check the time. “Right now, in fact. Thank you for being so punctual.” She headed through the crowd and I followed.
The crowd held many more Naturals than I’d expected. Clearly, the UPCR had done its work well to capture the guilty vote … and make them feel they weren’t doing it from any sort of guilt at all. If and when the UPCR got onto the Standing Committee, they’d stop feeling guilty and start feeling entitled.
Handled properly, it would become a reasonably reliable voter base. The UPCR was serious and could score well in the election; the PR agents were right to be concerned.
We sauntered down a short hall lined with unmemorable campaign posters with the usual blur of phrases and pictures. Reyan stood at a narrow door she’d just opened and waved me in, announcing to the being inside, “Dr Sand, Mr. Shakbout Mansard is here to see you.” With a pretty smile, she closed the door behind.
If I could have turned and run, I would have, but when a rifle was pointed at your face and a cannon at your back, not moving seemed the best course.
I glanced at a slightly battered desk, a cheap put-together item that would do the required work and give a message of no-nonsense pragmatism by the very big lifeform seated behind it. He was a StoneBeater, with the usual flat features, grey skin, and hard muscles that gave force to the name. Wearing expensive robes, custom-made by the way they fell, they emphasized the strength of his bulky frame. Sloping, almond-brown eyes stared. He radiated sheer physical power. It was too perfect and had to be a cover for a gentle giant; the Naturals out front would be thrilled for seeing through the disguise. Except I knew it wasn’t a front. He was everything he appeared to be and didn’t scare me a fraction as much as did the slim, elegant Avian seated to his right, smiling with far too many teeth.
Dressed in a form-fitting sea-blue robe slashed with red and yellow, Zusak Sedge was a clear and present danger to every bottle-born creature in the known systems. Finding her here was an unmistakable sign that I was several kilometers in shit over my head.
Bottle Born Blues Page 4
