The Body Scout: A Novel

by Lincoln Michel

  In the bar, the old man pushed my arm away and spat a glob on the floor.

  “I could have played if I’d been rich enough to buy a pitching arm.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You think you’re shit? You had to buy that talent. Goddamn machines. I’m all man.”

  He pounded his chest with a dull thunk. I smiled at him and moved on.

  “Go, Sphinxes!” he screamed after me. “Glad they kicked you oilers out of the game. They should kick you out of the country.”

  I walked to the back, looking for Dolores. The game was about to start, and the players were settling into their positions. The bright holofeed filled the center of the bar. I didn’t see Jung Kang on the field. That was suspicious.

  But, in the back booths, right above left field, I saw who’d I’d come for. “Deadeye” Dolores Zamora, sitting alone with a black martini and her reinforced eyes glued to the game.

  7

  THE FORMER FLAME

  If it isn’t Kobo,” Dolores said. She was wearing a dark jumpsuit with chameleon fabric that had browned to the leather of the booth. Her black hair was buzzed on one side and flopped over the other in a crashing wave. Her enhanced goggles were a glittering jade.

  She signed something I couldn’t decipher. I tried to spell out hello. I’d forgotten most of my sign language lessons after we broke up.

  “You know, some old asshole recognized me from the Cyber League,” I said out loud, letting her goggles transcribe my words.

  “Good to know we still have fans.”

  “Something like that. Seemed like he would have been more of a fan of seeing me socked in the jaw.”

  She touched a button on the jade goggles, and the metal legs tapped and twirled the aperture. Dolores was deaf. She was born hard of hearing and was happy to keep it that way. Opted to enhance her other senses instead. Got the inside of her nostrils replaced with sensor cilia and a full retina replacement job. When we’d dated, I always wondered how awful I’d smelled to her. Only time in my life I took four showers a day.

  “The fans never loved us, Kobo. Not really.”

  “They bought tickets,” I said.

  “To watch us like creatures in a zoo. With fascination, not love.” Dolores gave me a good once-over, then went over me a second time. “Anyway, you look like shit.”

  “You need enhanced vision to see that?”

  “It’s still nice to see you,” she said, lips curving in a smile. Then her smile went straight. Inverted. “I’m so, so sorry about Zunz. I know how close you were.”

  Hearing his name out loud made me tense up. I mumbled something and we clinked drinks.

  President Newman was on the mound, ready to throw the opening pitch. His aides removed his trademark lab coat he wore over his suits. Newman was the first test-tube president, his genes cut-and-pasted in embryo with enzyme scissors to possess “all the traits of the Founding Fathers.” At least that’s what the rebranded Grand New Party claimed. That was nonsense, but he was designed all right. And connected to all types of gene separatist groups, racists who tried to genetically edit themselves until they were whiter than lab mice.

  “This fastball is for the Chinese. Either swing at our arms treaty or we’ll strike you out.” He tossed a low one that sent the catcher scrambling. The crowd cheered anyway.

  Nazari shook Newman’s hand, then took the mound. Sigrid Ortiz stepped up to the plate for the Orioles.

  “This is the strangest part of the season,” Dolores said. “When the playoffs start, my job is on hold. I’ve got nothing to do except be bored.”

  “The Yanks have a different philosophy. Tried to make me bring in a prospect named Julia Arocha last week.”

  “Really?” Dolores said. “We had an Arocha on our target list for next season.”

  “Well, the Yanks lost her. By which I mean I lost her.”

  “How’s life at the Evil Empire anyway?”

  The name was used mockingly now. The Yanks weren’t an empire anymore, but they had been the only MLB team who’d had the brains and resources to transition into a full-fledged biopharm corp. They used their cash reserves to buy Bleedr, a start-up machine that let people oxygenate and “youthify” their blood at home. There was a big scandal and a class action lawsuit after it was discovered a bunch of hedge fund managers were draining their maids and butlers. The Yanks survived though while the rest of the MLB teams faded into irrelevance or sold their trademarks to biopharm corps.

  “They fired me.”

  “Over the Arocha thing. They must have had big plans for her. That’s a bad break.”

  “You heard about that?”

  Dolores shrugged. Although her cybernetic goggles transcribed conversations around her, she was studying my lips. Seeing how much they trembled, I guess. “I’d heard they cut you over a botched pickup. You know how scouts talk.”

  “They talk about how Zunz was murdered?” It came out nastier than I’d intended.

  Dolores reached across the table and rested her flesh hand on my metal one. “He was a good guy. I can’t even imagine. I remember when he threw you a surprise birthday party. He had us all wait in dazzle suits for you, turning them on right when you came in.”

  I laughed. “I was blinded for a full five minutes! God, that was a long time ago.”

  “He cared about you. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry like you’re sorry a stranger died of cancer, or sorry because you know something?”

  Dolores sat back, gave me a sad sneer. “Is that why you asked to meet up? To accuse me of assassination?”

  The bar erupted in cheers as Nazari struck out an Orioles batter to end the top of the first. The birds went three up three down. Not a great start. Some baboon in the back screamed, “Hell yeah! He melted at the plate quicker than JJ Zunz.”

  A glistening scarab drone the size of a baby floated around the booths. The waiter in this joint. I signaled the beetle for another drink. It clicked a confirmation and putted off.

  “I’m sorry, Dolores.” I tapped the side of my glass. “I know you play it clean. But you still work for Pyramid. The same biopharm who paid half a billion in damages to the families in Detroit who’d been mutated by lab runoff. You’re telling me you all aren’t capable of killing a rival player?”

  Dolores shrugged and sipped her martini in a single movement. “Every team is capable of that. Whether they’d do it is another question. Zunz’s death was being streamed to the entire country. That’s a risky venture.”

  Another wave of claps went through the bar as the right fielder Alvaro “the Sandman” Sanchez hit a homer over left field. From the bar’s central holopad, the ball soared toward me and disappeared a few inches from my face.

  Dolores cheered too. “Damn, I miss playing. Don’t you? Being out there under the bright lights instead of hiding in the shadows.”

  “Yeah, I miss it,” I admitted. “I don’t care if the fans were gawking. People have been staring at me my whole life. I liked being looked at with admiration instead of disdain.”

  I still dreamed of those days. Standing on the mound, ball in my hand, batter at the plate, and all around me thousands and thousands of fans. With the floating stadium lights, I could barely make them out. But I could hear them cheer. I’d been looking for that feeling ever since.

  “It kills me they banned cybernetics. The stuff they pump into these guys is at least as powerful as our bionic parts. I bet I could still throw a breaking ball that would break their minds.” She stared at the game, her head shaking back and forth.

  It was nice shooting the shit with Dolores. She’d been the only partner I’d ever had who I could discuss anything with. We’d spend hours in bed, talking nonsense and making plans until it was so late we’d have to run to practice. Coach would yell at us for drinking before a workout, never realizing we hadn’t sipped a thing.

  But when the Cyber League fell apart, I didn’t take it well. I couldn’t handle my body backsliding without
team-subsidized operations. I took out loans. Bought off-brand upgrades. Worked odd jobs for dwindling pay. Ended up with a mountain of debt crushing me and I hadn’t wanted another person to be buried in the rubble. At least that’s what I’d told her at the time. And myself.

  “I don’t see your outfielder today. Jung Kang.”

  “What about him?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

  She took another sip of her martini. “And here I was hoping this conversation was more social. Like the old days.”

  She still had her hand on mine. Tapped her fingers around my knuckles. I didn’t move.

  “Okay. Have it your way. Kang. Recent acquisition, thrown in with the big bullpen trade. Point seven two three OPS. I heard he caught that new skin fever that’s been flying around. He got demoted out of the lineup recently. Honestly, a pretty unremarkable player.”

  “That’s all you know?”

  “What else is there?”

  I looked at the holofeed as Nazari checked the runner on first before he could steal.

  “Listen, I’m lost here, Dolores. You know I scout players. That’s my specialty. I’ve never been good on the laboratory side. I never understood the chemistry like you did.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s say, hypothetically, you were going to kill a rival player like that. How?”

  Dolores leaned back into the booth cushions. Her face went blank, which it always did when she was thinking. “There’s a lot of ways to destroy a person. Gas, zootech, toxins. We develop a new way to destroy each other every year. Then someone else comes along with a new upgrade to make people think they’re safe. Sell one guy the sword, the other guy the shield. This is the business we’re in.”

  “Zunz was a star. He had enough money to buy safety.”

  “Maybe. All I know is his death was quick and seemed to affect his whole body. That suggests destabilization at the cellular level. Radiation would be my guess, but that would hit a lot more than just Zunz. Whole lot of people would have gotten sick. It’s like dropping ink into a glass of water. That crap gets everywhere.”

  “Doesn’t ChicagoBio do RadGen?”

  “Sure, so does half the league. The machine is gigantic and nowhere near the field.”

  Dolores was right, I was reaching. Whoever killed Zunz did it with some weapon the public didn’t know about yet. And it didn’t matter what killed him as much as who and why.

  “Why were you asking about Kang?”

  “Zunz mentioned him to me a couple weeks ago. It was one of the last things he mentioned to me.” My voice trailed off. I looked at the holopad, then back at Dolores. “Could you get me inside the compound? To talk to Kang? Just talk. For old times’ sake?”

  Dolores sat back, shaking her head. I thought I saw her roll her eyes beneath the goggles. “Come on, Kobo. You know I love you, but I love my job too. And that love pays the bills.”

  “Yeah. I know. Had to ask.”

  Suddenly a great tiredness came over me. Despite the erasers, I could feel the weariness in my bones. I wasn’t ready to deal with a world without Zunz. I wanted to go home, sleep, and hope I woke up in a new reality.

  I tipped back my glass, finished it. “Well, keep an ear out, will you? Figuratively speaking.” I slid her my encrypted address, told her to send me any info she might uncover.

  “Of course.” Her goggles looked me up and down, then back up again. “You know, you look like you could use a break from work. How about another drink, without the splash of business?”

  I couldn’t find a reason to disagree and sat back down.

  8

  THE MORNING LIGHT

  Since Zunz’s death, I’d become paranoid my own body was falling apart. That at any moment my fingers would snap off, or my toes would end up clogging the shower drain. Or my eyeballs would melt and dribble down my cheeks. The molecules that made me would forget what they were doing. Protons, neutrons, and electrons wandering apart like lost children. If it could happen to Zunz, it could happen to me.

  But when I woke up, I felt peaceful for the first time since his death. The apartment was filled with light. Outside, the cars of the city sputtered by and pigeons cooed to each other through the smog. Dolores had her arm draped across my chest, her breath hitting my neck in warm little puffs. My muscles ached and my hip hurt, but I felt good.

  I imagined myself living there. Getting up to make coffee in the morning as Dolores slept in. Checking the news while eating breakfast on the enclosed balcony. It was the life I could have had, maybe, if I’d been interested in building a life instead of buying new parts.

  Dolores started to stir. I closed my eyes. Pretended to be asleep. She slid her arm off my chest, slipped out of the bed. I opened them to watch her disappear into the bathroom. On the nightstand beside me was a small human figure displaying data across the corresponding parts. Heart rate, blood sugar, bladder level. I saw the teeth on the figure light up as Dolores started brushing.

  I let myself relax. Tried to fall back to sleep. But with my eyes closed, the images of Zunz filled my mind. I heard the screams. Saw the panic in his face.

  I checked my bionic eye. The scan of Dolores’s iris looked complete. My ticket inside the Pyramid compound where I could pay Jung Kang a visit. I felt bad stealing a person’s eye pattern while we were making love, but happy the old software still worked. Plus, Dolores was alive and Zunz was dead. I had to give my loyalty to the person who needed revenge.

  I told the wall screen to turn on. The local channel projected a hastily made biopic on the life of JJ Zunz, “an American icon cut down in his prime.” A bad actor was sitting in what was supposed to be a tiny apartment, but was three times the size of the hole we grew up in. His haircut was a style that wasn’t popular when we were kids.

  “Will I ever make it to the Big Leagues, Mama? Can a poor boy like me catch a fly ball break in the outfield of life?”

  The Mrs. Z actor knocked her stirring spoon against the pot. “Anyone can make it in America, son. As long as they know how to dream.” The screen had noticed Dolores’s goggles were disconnected, and an androgynous holographic figure appeared beside it to sign a real-time transcription.

  I skipped to the next channel.

  It was the game show Hands on Your New Body. A group of people huddled over a cadaver made of replacement parts, some metal, others pulsing flesh. Each contestant was touching a different piece—a leg, a lung, a set of teeth—that they could win. The people looked sick, and almost certainly were. A woman gripping the wetframe lung kept coughing blood into her other hand.

  “This one is going to be a squeaker, folks,” the host said. She was a tall, pale woman with freckles engineered into swirling patterns on her arms and legs. “Who do you want to see win a new organ? Send in your vote.”

  I scrolled through my messages. It was mostly condolences from old friends I hadn’t seen in years, mixed with a few threatening messages about my late medical-loan payments. The Yankees had cut off their support. I’d probably get a visit from Sunny Day Healthcare Loans soon.

  Dolores was in the shower and I got up, looked through her drawers. I didn’t find much. But her bytewallet wasn’t encrypted and I flicked a little bit of her cash to mine. Not much. Just enough to get me through a few days. I told myself the old lie about paying her back when the case was closed.

  “Switch to the news,” I said.

  President Newman was giving a press conference about One China’s testing of nerve mosquitos on protesting Tibetan monks. Hundreds had been paralyzed. Newman was saying zootech “should only be used for peacekeeping, never as weapons of war.” Not that he honored this rule himself. On the side scroll, the feed said Mets Honor Zunz and Zoom to Win. Monsanto had finished off ChicagoBio by two runs to one. The Mets would face the Sphinxes in the World Series after all.

  Dolores’s shower ended. I told the wall to turn off, then started to get dressed. My body wanted nothing m
ore than to crawl back into those sheets and have Dolores wrap her warm limbs around me. Relive old times. But my mind was focused on JJ.

  I needed an excuse to leave. Get to the Sphinxes stadium before Dolores realized I’d stolen her iris access. I thought of telling her I had to go to Zunz’s funeral, but she’d know that the Mets were holding on to the corpse until after the World Series. He was corporate property, even when dead.

  The bathroom door slid open and Dolores emerged fully dressed, wrapped up in a red jumper with crimson goggles to match. Her neck was decorated with pomegranate pearls.

  “Do you want children?”

  I froze, hunched over with my pants halfway up my legs. “What?”

  Dolores laughed. “I wanted to see your face. Anyway, this was fun, Kobo. You want to spitball the case, or spitball something else, give me a call.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  Dolores held up two earring options, one a set of fashion succulents and the other tiny holoprojectors of her own face in Cleopatra garb right below the lobe.

  “For a Pyramid board meeting.”

  “The latter,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She put them on. “Well, I have work to do. Preliminary scouting on a bone lab in Baltimore. Sorry to fuck and run on you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I mean, sure. Me too. I was going to say the same thing.”

  At the door, she looked back at me. “Listen, I really am sorry about Zunz. He was a good man. I know he cared about you. I’m here to help if I can.”

  “I’m not good on a team.”

  Dolores shook her head, sending her holographic heads spinning. “You like to screw yourself over by not taking help when it’s offered.”

  “Old habits and all that,” I said.

  Dolores scratched her neck and looked at me for a long second. “I know what you mean.” She blew me a kiss. Walked to the door. “Good luck. The door locks itself.”