by Kage Baker
“Oh,” said Alec. “I, er, needed more. But I’ve been really sneaky, Captain! I never buy ’em at the same shop twice, see? So nobody suspects.”
The Captain rolled his eyes. Alec, regaining a little of his composure, grinned shamefacedly. “Anyway, it’s in aid of a humanitarian cause. You know what I found out today, Captain? Out of all the guys in Circle, I’m the only one who can—er—”
“Fire a broadside?”
“Yup!” Alec flung up his fists like a victorious athlete. “Boom, boom, boom! Sophia told me I’m a, what was her phrase? A fantastic monster prodigy. Mr. Twenty-four/Seven. Alistair Stede-Windsor can’t. Dennis Neville can’t. Just meeeee!”
He leaped from his chair and did a suggestive dance of triumph in the center of the room. The Captain’s cameras swiveled to follow him, as the Captain scowled.
“Listen to me, son,” he said. “This ain’t safe.”
“Of course it’s safe,” said Alec. “I always use Happihealthies, okay? And I always send the surveillance cameras a fake signal, so the Public Health Monitors won’t have a clue—”
“Which is why I ain’t had no inkling either, ain’t it?” the Captain growled.
“Yeah, well, okay, sorry. And we’re always really careful about anybody else seeing. And none of the girls are going to talk! They love me. I love them. Terrifically well. Maybe I’ll have a badge printed up. ‘Checkerfield Satisfies!’ Or post a notice on the news kiosk,” babbled Alec, aware he had overstepped the mark and deciding he may as well make a thorough job of it.
“You ain’t doing no such thing, by thunder!” said the Captain. “Bloody hell, boy, ain’t I told you what could happen? Do you want to spend the rest of yer life in Hospital?”
“Of course not,” said Alec. “A-and I’m going to see to it that I don’t.”
“You’ll see to it, says you? Haar. Yer smart as paint, buck, but you ain’t going to outfox the Bureau of Public Health for long. You listen, now! Sooner or later one of them little wenches is going to talk.”
“They’d never,” Alec protested.
“Oh, hell no, everybody knows teenaged girls never gossips. They’re silent as bloody nuns in a convent,” snarled the Captain. “And what d’you reckon all them boys in Circle is going to do, if word gets out you been playing stallion?” he demanded. Alec went a little pale.
“Die of envy?” he said defiantly.
“One anonymous call, that’s all it’d take!” said the Captain. “And there’d be six Public Health Monitors on the doorstep afore you could sneeze, boy, with gas guns and a van to cart you off in.”
Alec clenched his fists. “This is too shracking unfair,” he shouted. “Here I am having the best time I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m not hurting anybody, and where’s the harm? You always told me it was all right to think about this stuff. Well, I need to do more than think! I like the way girls smell, and taste, and feel, and—and do you realize nobody’d even touched me since I was five years old, until I took up sex? People love me!”
“Son, this ain’t love,” said the Captain.
“How the hell would you know?” said Alec. “You’re only a machine, how can you expect to understand what I’m going through?”
The Captain sighed.
“I’m only the machine what’s programmed to keep you safe, son. Same as I been since you was five years old. And yer all of sixteen now, ain’t that what you was about to say? But I ain’t no bleeding Puff the Imaginary Magic Dragon neither, lad. I ain’t fading away and letting my boy run himself on a reef when he still needs a helmsman. Not my little Alec, what set me free of the old Playfriend.”
“It is love,” said Alec stubbornly, staring at the floor. “They do love me. This isn’t just about sex. They’re wonderful people. I was supposed to make friends in my Circle of Thirty, wasn’t I? Well, I have. They just happen to be girls. What’s wrong with that?”
The Captain considered Alec a long moment. If he had not been a machine, he might have lost his temper and told Alec the real reason the boy had to avoid drawing attention to himself at any cost. As it was, he held his metaphorical tongue and, with the swiftness and pragmatism of a machine—or a buccaneer—made a decision.
“Well, matey, I reckon yer right,” he said. “Yer the organic, after all, and what would a poor old machine like me know about love and hormones? But let’s sign articles, Alec. No more buying prophylactics down the corner shop, boy, understand? Too risky. You let your old Captain order ’em. I can do it without drawing attention.”
“Okay,” said Alec. He raised his eyes. “And…I’m sorry. About calling you a machine.”
“Why lad, it’s true, ain’t it?” The Captain grinned, with the perfect illusion of white teeth. “Best you’d get on with your lessons, now. I’ll just go below and see to a few things.”
***
Mr. Buddy-Wires studied the medical records for Alec William St. James Thorne Checkerfield. He was frowning, tapping his front teeth with a stylus as he read, and quite unaware that he was being monitored by an intelligence housed in a cabinet in Bloomsbury.
Nothing unusual in the boy’s history, other than the fact that he had been born at sea on the sixth earl’s yacht instead of in a proper medical facility. And he hadn’t been brought home to England until the age of four, so all his early care—inoculations, brain scans, genetic tagging—had been done in foreign facilities and was therefore almost certain to have been slipshod and perfunctory.
Possibly even faked? Everyone knew these Third World physicians accepted bribes. And Roger Checkerfield might well have had something to hide.
It was a crime, to Mr. Buddy-Wire’s way of thinking, that members of the peerage were not required to obtain reproduction permits, as all other citizens were, before bringing offspring into the world. Privileged chromosomes indeed! He was sure that, in time, this injustice would correct itself, when the House of Lords became again a kindergarten for inbred defectives manifestly unable to rule their betters. Then the system could be dismantled once more.
Until that day, however, it was his duty to chip away at them. He had the strongest feeling that a golden opportunity had just been placed in his hands.
Scrolling down, he contemplated young Checkerfield’s annual record of medical examinations. Too good to be seen to by any but Harley Street nobs, of course! Year after year of certificates of perfect health, signed by various specialists: Dr. L.J. Silver. Dr. E. Teach. Dr. F. Drake. Dr. J. Hook…
No hint of chromosomal abnormality in the boy, for all that his height (1 meter 94.36 centimeters!) grossly overtopped his age group. No indication of aberrant behavior or deviancy. The boy was simply too perfect…
And then Mr. Buddy-Wires spotted something, and felt a silent shock run through him.
Medical Certificate 475B-A (Attestation of Normal Cerebral Function) had a teal-colored border along its right side. Yet the border currently before Mr. Buddy-Wires’ eyes was turquoise.
This certificate was faked.
Roger Checkerfield was hiding something.
Mr. Buddy-Wires scrolled rapidly up through the years and saw that all genuine copies of 475B-A were bordered with turquoise, not teal. His heart began to pound. He became so excited, in fact, that he had to get up, leave his office and pace up and down in the corridor for five minutes.
This was a mistake, though he had no way of knowing it. Five minutes may be a brief period to a very mortal man, but it is an age to a clever machine, more than enough time for it to marshal all its powers of defense.
Had Mr. Buddy-Wires known of the unseen malign presence that regarded him from behind the screen of his terminal when he returned, he might have had second thoughts about sitting down before it again.
“How to proceed?” he murmured aloud. “A steady hand, yes. A close game. Let’s give him a little rope first, shall we, and see what he does?”
He put through a call to Roger Checkerfield. At least, he gave the order for a call to be put throu
gh. His order was intercepted, however. The image that flashed up on his screen a moment later was not in fact that of the sixth earl, though it was a very good computer-generated approximation. The image blinked with Roger’s bleared alcoholic stare, scratched Roger’s weak unshaven chin, and in a voice virtually indistinguishable from Roger’s own muttered:
“Checkerfield here.”
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Roger Checkerfield, sixth earl of Finsbury?” Mr. Buddy-Wires inquired with soapy courtesy.
“Yeah. Who the hell’re you?”
“Evel Buddy-Wires, Borough Public Health Executive,” said he. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I could only wish it were under more pleasant circumstances, my lord.”
Confronted with a greeting like that, the real Roger would have blinked again, and had another drink while he thought it through to puzzle out the meaning, before mumbling something amiable in reply. Virtual Roger,
however, narrowed his eyes.
“Is that so? What d’you mean, damn you?”
“No need for profanity, my lord. I’m sure a concerned parent—such as yourself—would wish to be immediately informed of any concerns relating to his only son and heir, my lord.”
“Why, so I would. But there’s nothing the matter with my Alec.”
“I do hope that proves to be the case, my lord. However, I must direct your attention to the fact that young Alec has apparently used your credit account to order himself, let me see—” Mr. Buddy-Wires pretended to consult a jotpad, “twenty-six cases of Happihealthy Shields, my lord. Which, given his status as a minor, is, of course, illegal, my lord.”
“Where’s your proof?”
“I fear it is a matter of public record, my lord.” Mr. Buddy-Wires smiled. “Though we feel certain that your son cannot be the libertine he seems, and wish to extend him every chance to clear himself, my lord. A scandal would be most unpleasant, as I’m sure you’re only too aware, my lord. Especially one involving the daughters of some of the most respected families in the realm, my lord.”
“Get to the point, man.”
“Gladly, my lord. Before any arrest is contemplated, we must first establish that young Alec is responsible for his actions, my lord. Might I recommend an extensive physical examination to rule out any hormonal imbalance or physical abnormality, my lord? To be followed, of course, by swift and discreet medical intervention, my lord.”
“You ain’t laying a hand on my boy!”
“My lord.” Mr. Buddy-Wires shook his head. “The earls of Finsbury have served the realm with distinction since the Peerage Restoration. How regrettable it would be, if common passers-by were exposed to the spectacle of the youngest of your noble line being taken forcibly from his family home by Public Health Monitors, my lord! In order to save you any further humiliation, let me propose that young Alec present himself for examination voluntarily, my lord.”
Virtual Roger glared at him. Finally he sagged, shrugged. “Well, you’ve got the better of me. We don’t want any scandals, no indeed.”
“I knew you’d do what was best for the boy, my lord. He is to report to the Borough Public Health Offices at nine o’clock Monday morning, my lord. Try to impress on him that punctuality will be in his best interests, won’t you, my lord?”
“He’ll be there,” said Virtual Roger, sighing. “I can see there’s no use crossing clever bureaucrats like you.”
“Thank you, my lord. Do enjoy your weekend, my lord,” said Mr. Buddy-Wires cheerily, and terminated the interview.
***
Mr. Frist was a person of regular habits.
Monday through Friday he arose, had his breakfast and medication, and walked three blocks west from his flat to the corner station, where at 7:45 AM precisely he caught an ag-transport to the Borough Public Health Office. At 4:30 PM precisely he left the Borough Public Health Office and caught an ag-transport home to his flat.
At weekend, however, he rose, had his breakfast and medication, walked one block east from his flat and caught an ag-transport at 8:45 precisely. Saturdays he exited the transport at the nearest Prashant’s, did his weekly grocery shopping in one hour and five minutes, and caught the returning transport back to his flat, where he spent the remainder of the day doing his laundry and cleaning house. Sundays he stayed on the transport as far as Regent’s Park, and spent the day there before returning at 4:30 precisely.
The surveillance cameras of London had observed him perform these rituals without fail, week in and week out, for ten unvarying years, and faithfully recorded what they saw. As automatic systems went, they weren’t very bright; so it wasn’t hard for a smooth-talking machine to persuade them to hand over all their data on Mr. Elrond Frist.
Along the route Mr. Frist followed each Saturday, a deconstruction project had recently begun. A very large public library was being dismantled, as the Borough Council had decided it was obsolete. First the books had been carted away to a local pulp mill; then the paneling and fixtures had been torn out; then the lead had been removed from the roof; and now a robot crane was in place to remove the statuary from the pediment, though of course no one was there on a Saturday.
The robot crane was rather more intelligent than the surveillance cameras. It would not be persuaded; in fact, it put up quite a struggle. Had anyone happened to be passing the deconstruction site on foot, they would have noticed the crane cables jerking and twitching, and lights flashing angrily within its cab at 8:35 precisely.
But no one walked in that part of London at weekend, and so the crane’s frantic efforts on its own behalf went unseen. Nor were there any witnesses to its death-throes, when the green lights winked out at last, one after another, and a last yellow light flickered feebly for a moment before being extinguished. One lurid red light glowed now on the console, and there was a menacing hum as the crane powered up at 8:43.
It lifted, it swung with purpose to the library’s façade. As though deliberating among the statues, it paused a moment. At last it screeched forward, and clamped about a slightly-larger-than-life-sized representation of Britannia. One quick jerk broke the ancient mortar, one pivot bore her away and out; and there she hung, eight stories above the street, rather like Faye Wray in the grip of King Kong. Being Britannia, however, she neither screamed nor flashed her panties.
At 8:51 the ag-transport rounded the corner and trundled along the street, bearing its light weekend load.
The crane poised, the red light was steady. Distance and trajectory were calculated, wind resistance was factored in, tensile strength of composite surfacing allowed for…only one more calculation based on triangulation was required.
Mr. Frist was in his customary seat, observed by the surveillance cameras in the front and rear of the bus. He was in a bad temper, having left his shopping list on the kitchen table. It was true that the items on the list hadn’t varied by so much as a box of soap flakes in ten years, and any clerk in Prashant’s could have told him from memory exactly what he meant to buy, or pulled up data on all his previous shopping trips from the store’s central database.
But Mr. Frist liked hard copy. He found it reassuring.
At 8:52, something very hard indeed came through the roof of the ag-transport, and immediately thereafter through its floor as well. Unfortunately for Mr. Frist, who happened to be occupying the space between those two points at the time.
***
“It’s the best-kept secret in all London,” said Alec in a stage whisper, extending a hand. The Honourable Sophia Fitzroy reached up and let him pull her through the laundry chute. Setting her on her feet, he led her forward,
over floors that boomed hollowly under their weight. After the blackness of the ancient cellar, the house above seemed bright; it was only gradually that she realized how dim it really was, how dusty and hung with cobwebs. Where the wallpaper wasn’t peeling down it was interestingly splotched with fungus of different kinds, Rorschach blots of mold.
But it had been a grand plac
e, once. There was elegance in the sweeping design of the old staircase, elaborate ornamentation in the plaster above the hearth. The front hall was tessellated marble, and the colored glass panes were still intact in the fanlight above the door. It gave the place a little of the air of a forgotten church.
“Wow,” she said faintly. “This is like the graveyard of—of Empire, or something.” She turned in place, looking up in vain for surveillance cameras. “My God, it’s totally abandoned!”
“Which means we can be totally abandoned,” said Alec, grinning. “Isn’t it cool? How many times in your life have you ever been someplace so completely secret that nobody could see you? Maybe once? Maybe never?”
“I don’t know,” said Sophia, walking out into the center of the room. She pirouetted cautiously. “This is like out of one of those holoes. Pride and Prejudice, maybe. Look how high the ceilings are! Doesn’t this belong to anybody?”
“If it does, they haven’t been here in years,” said Alec, taking her hand again and leading her up the stairs. “There’s blocks and blocks like this, you know. All of ’em empty and gone to rack and ruin! I guess in these very old places it’d cost too much to hook ’em up to the grid. So here they sit. Lucky for us, eh?”
He flung open a door at the top of the stair. Sophia exclaimed in surprise; for the room beyond had been swept clean of all but the most recent crumblings of plaster. Sunlight streamed in through a recently-washed window. In the center of the floor a canvas dust sheet had been spread, and on it an air mattress had been laid, and an opened sleeping bag laid upon that. Beside it was a crystal bud vase containing one fresh red rose.
“Oh!”
“The Checkerfield Love Nest,” said Alec. “Surprise! I bring all my ladies here.”
Sophia looked around eagerly. “We could do absolutely anything!” she said. She glanced back into the hall and shivered. “Can we close the door, though?”
“Anything you like,” said Alec, slinging off his daypack and opening it. He withdrew four packets of Happihealthies. He also brought out a bottle of Blackcurrant Fizz, two champagne flutes and a packet of wholemeal wafers, as well as a checked tea towel. He spread the cloth and set up the little feast beside the bed, as Sophia closed the door.
