“Hey, Jackie. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a month or so. Anyway, a couple of fresh batteries came into the yard yesterday. They look like your size. So, if yours are getting worn out, swing by and spend an afternoon with your Aunt Lou. Love you!” The robotic voice actually said “exclamation point” at the end.
I pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the drawer under the foot of the bed. “Computer, mark unread. Next message.”
“From the office of David Wright, Owner and Founder of AlterBionics. Mr. Jackson Bell, your presence is requested at the attached address for a meeting with Mr. Wright at three P.M., on the seventeenth of October. We apologize for the short notice. Please respond as soon as possible.”
“Computer, check the attached address.”
“Attached address corresponds to the listed ground level address for AlterBionics.”
“Ground level?” I paused in the middle of straightening my bed to ponder that. “Computer, reply with standard confirmation letter, and mark a reminder in my planner.”
Less than a second later, my phone chirped as the house computer relayed the information. I drew it from the drawer, slipping it into my pocket as I made my way to my little galley kitchen. Nikie sat up on the couch to receive her morning head rub as I passed by.
“What shall we have for breakfast today?” I asked her as I scrolled through the menu on the food printer that hung above the kitchen counter.
“Me’eh,” she responded.
“Eggs, again? You always want eggs.”
She just purred in response. I selected scrambled eggs and two biscuits from the menu and pressed the start button. The machine took about five seconds to warm up before the thin, jointed hoses extended out into the space behind the glass door to lay down layer after layer of heated protein mixture and bread batter. Inside the workings of the machine, the materials were heated to just below the proper cooking temperature, keeping them liquid enough to be spread like peanut butter but warm enough that they quickly cooked as each layer was laid into the heated space. After a moment, the printing ceased and the printer spent another ten seconds crisping the edges of the biscuits.
When the timer reached zero, I pulled on an oven mitt and removed the cooking tray. I slid the eggs and biscuits onto a mostly clean plate and dropped the tray into the sink, returning the mitt to its hook beside the printer. I scooped up a fluffy mound of the scrambled eggs to drop into Nikie’s bowl, mixing it up with the dry food already there. She casually padded up to it, gave the bowl a sniff, and sat down beside it gazing up at me. I sighed, broke off a small piece of biscuit, and set it at the edge of her bowl. I knew she likely wouldn’t even eat it, but it seemed to make her feel included.
I took my plate to the couch and planted myself in my usual seat next to the circular window that took up most of the wall to the right of the couch. That window had been one of the top reasons I settled on this apartment. The view was nothing to get excited about, just the top few floors of the burned out apartment building across the road, but the natural light it let in saved me a few dollars on my power bill. Sometimes, it was also nice to get lost looking down at the people walking by. From the twentieth floor, I couldn’t make out much detail, but it was still interesting to watch.
I flipped up the the padding of the arm, lifting out the tray table hidden inside, and turned on the television. News was bad for breakfast, so I switched over to the NostalgiaToons channel to watch Bionic Six, a little guilty pleasure of mine. It reminded me of visiting my grandmother on the weekends as a child. Printed scrambled eggs and biscuits weren’t quite as good as the canned biscuits and real eggs my grandmother used to make, but even Mammaw gave up manual cooking when the family got her a food printer ten years ago.
I was nearly finished with my breakfast when I heard the soft steps of a dozen or so feet coming up the old stairs of the building. I took my plate to the kitchen and cut off the bitten edges of the half biscuit still left. Consuming the scraps, I wrapped the remaining portion in a napkin and flipped on the little monitor embedded in the front door, giving me the view from the camera on the other side. Seeing the nuns already passing by, I flipped the deadbolt and pulled open the door.
“Ani Ngawang,” I said, catching the woman as she walked by.
Maroon robes stirred the dust on the floor as she turned to face me. Little wrinkles appeared in her copper colored skin at the edges of her eyes as she gave me a small smile, nodding a shaved head toward me. I returned smile and the gesture, noticing that most of the nuns were now wearing their zhens, the outermost robe, like cloaks to guard against the cold morning weather.
“Jackson, how is little Nikie?” Ani Ngawang asked.
She held her large, cloth-wrapped alms bowl low, practically out of sight. Buddhists never really asked for anything. Rather, they felt it was their duty to provide an opportunity for others to be generous, if it suited them. I lifted the lid and set my small bundle inside.
“Same as always,” I said, “adorable and politely demanding.” I took a folded hundred dollar bill from my stash in the silverware drawer and passed it to her. “For her cousins, and their caretakers.”
She nodded politely, knowing well that the reward for generosity was the act itself. I nodded as well and stepped back, allowing her to catch up with her group. In no particular hurry, they made their way up the next flight of stairs, moving as one. I closed the door and relocked it, happily securing that inch and a half of steel between me and the outside world.
Ani Ngawang was one of many Buddhist monks and nuns to take up residence in a converted warehouse a few blocks from my apartment building. Mostly made up of Tibetan refugees, they spent their lives in service to the community by feeding and taking care of the local stray animals. Every spare dollar they received went to pet food and medical care for the dogs and cats in their charge, including spaying and neutering, while the people ate from whatever food donations the community provided. Where they could, they matched the animals with loving homes that could give them individual care and attention.
I had moved into this apartment a few months after building my new arm, and hadn’t yet grown used to the plastic limb. That’s when I met Ani Ngawang. We started chatting regularly and she ended up making a very compelling argument that I would be able to shorten my recovery time if I had someone around that needed me, someone that would never give me a second to feel sorry for myself. Soon after, she helped me to pick out a cat that suited me, and I have never regretted it.
I wasted the next few hours hanging out on the couch with Nikie and watching television. Around noon, I made a sandwich and retrieved my phone to check my bank account. Mr. Rossi had indeed been quite generous, especially for only a single night’s work and the promise of turning over any further information that turned up.
All in all, I liked Achille Rossi. He was a decent man, as long as you stayed on his good side. I had done maybe a dozen freelance security jobs for him in the past, and he seemed to trust me well enough. He had offered me a more steady position on his staff more than once, but as much as I like the pay, I really couldn’t condone the kind of work he did, and I certainly didn’t want to become one of the guys who stayed behind to clean up the puddles of blood. As it was, I made enough doing freelance work to pay my bills and keep Nikie and I fed.
One by one, I logged into my accounts with the power company, the phone company, the internet provider, and my insurance company, paying up each one in full. I also sent an electronic transfer directly from my credit union to the account of my landlord, keeping that bill paid a month in advance. By the time I had finished with everything, my checking account was half drained and it was time for me to finish getting dressed.
David Wright was a great man and I felt no shame in admitting that he was a hero to me. My impulse was to don my one tailored suit, but the message seemed to be about a job, and one he likely needed me to start today. That meant the best choice would be my usual work attire:
jeans, combat boots, black military style field jacket, and a clean T-shirt. Once I was dressed, I straightened my hair, gave Nikie a chin scratch, and headed out the door.
I thought about calling a cab, but one look at the streets outside told me it would be faster to walk. Hoofing it all the way to the business district at the center of the city wasn’t going to be easy, but with an overcast sky and a cool breeze, at least it would be a comfortable journey.
Chapter 3
I reached the business district before long and again wondered why we Lowers continued calling the central hub of the city by that name. When the Skyway was constructed a little over twenty years ago, the downtown skyscrapers started closing their ground floor doors. The doors and windows, all locked, remained for some time after, until a string of break ins and robberies convinced the owners that any possible entry was simply too dangerous to allow. Layers of brick and poured concrete were used to cover the walls below the Skyway, leaving the ground level business district looking like a storage space for Egypt’s rejected obelisks.
The streets and sidewalk remained, though traffic was light and always moving through, never stopping. Here and there the homeless had squeezed into what alleys still existed. They were about the only people suited to this place. With no room left to install businesses, homes, or schools, humanity was unable to root here any longer. Even the graffiti on the endless walls had grown so old that no one could enjoy what remained of the faded impressionist murals. Far above, the gold plated cogs of the world turned endlessly; down here, a homeless couple wrapped their deceased child in tattered rags and carried him out to the sidewalk to be picked up by the automated street sweepers.
My watch began to buzz intermittently as I approached my destination. Similar in shape and size to the other buildings, the tower sitting at the address of AlterBionics had an outer layer of black stone, shiny like obsidian. Above the fiftieth floor, where the building made contact with the central vein of the Skyway, the structure took on a slow twist, spiralling up another fifty floors until it peaked. High up where the sun touched the tower, the black sheen of the building’s facade took on purple sparkle.
As I drew closer, the entryway became clearer, a tall rectangle, cut into the stone at the center of the street-facing wall. Four feet inside the opening sat a digital panel, stretching from the bottom to the top of the entryway. As I approached, it flickered to life with the image of a young man in a grey dress uniform standing in military “at ease” posture. The slight rainbow halo around his image suggested that this monitor was sitting behind ballistic glass.
“Good afternoon, sir,” spoke the image of the security officer. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Jackson Bell,” I responded. “David Wright requested my presence at three P.M.”
“Mr. Wright is expecting you, Mr. Bell. Please step into the elevator.”
With that, the protected monitor slid off to the right, revealing the small room beyond. Hidden lights brightened to illuminate wood panelled walls. The door closed as soon as I stepped inside and the elevator shuddered to life.
There were no buttons or numbers inside, no indications of what floor I was moving toward or even how fast I was getting there. The lack of buttons also meant either AlterBionics was very fond of voice controls, or this elevator was completely remote controlled. I considered calling out to the computer to see if it responded, but I figured playing it cool would be the best choice.
A moment later, the conveyance came to a gentle stop and the door slid open. Sunlight spilled in, forcing my eyes to adjust. I unexpectedly smiled when I could finally see the woman that waited there to greet me.
She had hair that shined like a crow’s feathers, framing high cheeks and a firm, rounded jaw. Reflecting the light, her brown irises looked almost red as they sized me up, looking for potential threats. Tailored to her five-foot-five frame, her suit jacket was the same shade of grey as the security officer I had spoken to before. Below matching pants she wore heavy black hiking boots. Old nicks and scratches in the leather had been polished and buffed to the point that most people wouldn’t notice them.
“Afternoon, Mr. Bell,” came the standard professional greeting. “Please turn and spread your hands on the back wall of the elevator.”
Unbuttoning and unzipping my jacket, I turned and did as she asked. I had been through this enough times to know the routine. She patted my jacket inside and out, including up and down both arms. I knew she saw my right hand and felt the artificial muscles of my arm, but she didn’t hesitate. My legs came next, inside and out, and once she was satisfied she instructed me to follow her.
Outside the elevator was a waiting room the size of a lobby, decorated in sharp angles and leather, not lavish but very modern. The far wall was made of floor to ceiling frosted glass, through which dim light spilled, stretching long shadows across the room. As we walked through, panels of frosted glass began to move, sliding open from the center to reveal the office on the other side.
A semicircular desk of glass-topped black cherry sat in the exact center of the room. Pushed to one side was a lush leather chair with no arms, and standing directly behind the desk, looking out of the actual windows of the room was a tall silhouette. Sunlight glinting off of its metallic hands.
“Mr. Jackson Bell,” said the woman, stepping aside, “Mr. David Wright.”
David Wright stepped toward me, extending a silver alloy hand that moved as fluidly as a biological one. I clasped it in my own black polyethylene grip. Away from the windows, I got a better look at the man.
He wasn’t quite as tall as he first appeared, standing at about five feet and eleven inches in his dark blue suit. If the biographies were accurate, his artificial parts included his full right arm and hand, left forearm and hand, and both legs below the knee, meaning that this height was a conscious choice he made. The man was also rather fit, more lean than muscular, and yet he wasn’t vain enough to have his white hair or wrinkles corrected. If he wasn’t actually humble, he was putting on a damn good show.
“The famous Self-Made Man,” I said, taking the initiative.
“That is what they call me,” he responded. He turned my hand slightly back and forth. “Is this one of my open source designs?”
“It is, one of your early ones. I adjusted it a little, of course.”
“Of course. What kinds of materials did you use?”
“High density polyethylene printed bones, hand coiled nylon monofilament line for the muscles, and helically wound steel braid cylinders for the outer casings.”
The man burst into laughter, patting me on my mechanical shoulder. “So, this whole thing is made of melted shopping bags, fishing line, and hydraulic hose casing?”
“Not shopping bags,” I corrected, chuckling along with him. “Melted down detergent bottles, and some black dye.”
“Ingenious,” he said. “Very creative. And to contract the coiled fishing line muscles I assume you used high temperature nichrome wire?”
“Repurposed ornament hooks,” I confirmed, “but I was able to get standard titanium bone mountings before my former employer cancelled my insurance. The single walled carbon nanotube nerve implants I had to pay for out of pocket.”
“I’d like to hear more about that soon, but for now, Ms. Nadee.” He glanced over at the black haired woman briefly before taking a seat behind his desk.
Ms. Nadee drew a digital pad and pen from a tall filing cabinet on the edge of the room. Setting them on Wright’s desk, the glass surface switched on, transferring four pages from the pad to the glass top, and spreading them as if physical pages had been fanned atop the cherry wood for easy perusal. My name was the only thing not in small print on the standard looking non-disclosure agreement. I gave it a brief scan before taking the pen from Ms. Nadee to sign and date the last page. Once finished, a swipe from her hand placed all pages back into the pad to be filed back in the cabinet.
“We’ve recently experienced a theft, Mr. Bell,”
Wright continued as if he had never stopped. “A hijacking, really. We conduct a lot of our new technology experimentation outside the city, far away from any cell phone or wi-fi interference that may skew our results. Some of the most brilliant minds you’ve never heard of work out there, building the future.
“My research facilities have top security, biometric scanners, emotional interpretation software. You get the idea. That’s probably why they attacked the transport, rather than the facility itself. An electrical burst, possibly EMP, knocked out the transport’s cameras and battery, which killed the engine, and then they killed everyone onboard. At that point, they likely took what they wanted, and evaporated into the night.”
His volume had lowered, and he was making less eye contact. Despite being the owner of a massive company, he didn’t seem very used to this sort of thing. He had to have experienced thefts before, but something made this one different.
“And what exactly was stolen?” I asked after a moment.
“The Holy Grail,” he responded. “A lifetime’s worth of work.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Mr. Wright stood again, gesturing a hand toward my arm. “High density polyethylene bones, roughly three times the strength of steel. Artificial muscles, many times stronger than human muscles. This makes your arm, what, fifty times stronger than any normal human arm?”
“Roughly.”
“And yet you could never, let’s say, lift a car over your head?”
“Not unless I wanted to crush my spine.”
“Exactly. For all of our great advances in replacing arms, legs, hearts, and livers, sever your spinal cord and you’ll still be paralyzed, and with the spinal cord so carefully interwoven through the vertebrae, they and the muscles attached to them become hard to replace as well. In short, an artificial spinal cord would be the key to replacing just about any part of the human body, any part but the brain.”
“And this is what was stolen? An artificial spinal cord?”
Under the Skyway (Skyway Series Book 1) Page 2
