“What are you talking about?” Tam frowned. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m not quite sure. I have a couple theories. But I need to know… where did you get him?”
“You’re serious.”
The doctor nodded.
Tam pursed his lips, and after a moment, he blew out a long slow breath. “OK. We did a run for Asian Pacific into Dawson-Hull territory. Dropped into one of their research facilities outside Toulouse and picked him up. It got a little… hairy as we were pulling out. Poet got hurt, and we had to go to ground here. End of story.”
Ibram nodded some more. “So, you’re telling me APAC hired one of the best covert outfits available just to pull a kid out of a secure location. I’m betting it was a biotech lab?”
Tam gave a little smile.
“And they offered a larger than normal fee, am I correct?”
“Huge like a fairy tale,” Tam said. “Practically a blank check as long as we got him. Why do you ask?”
“Wait. I’m not done. This kid happens to be a clone. And the series shotcode on the back of his neck is unlike any I’ve ever seen or heard of.”
“So?”
“Now it’s been a while, but I still have connections in the field. Let me put this together,” Dr. Kalahani started counting off points on his long fingers. “First, not only is whoever made him breaking a couple dozen international laws, but he’s a child. That alone is unusual because all clone series to date have been engineered for specific purposes. They’re only de-tanked when fully mature. Second, this one-of-a-kind child clone has a cybernetic jack behind his ear.”
“I noticed. What, you’re a detective now, Ibram?”
“No, just a doctor examining a little boy with a headache. Don’t be a smart ass, Tam.” He looked narrowly at him and went on, ticking off the next point. “Finally, that jack implant isn’t connected to any discernable interface device.” He stopped to let that thought sit in the air. “I’d wager that boy Gibson is a nano-host.”
“A what? I’ve never heard—” Tam said.
“I’ve played cards with you, my friend.” Ibram stared at Tam, waiting. “He is, isn’t he?”
Tam held his gaze as long as he could, then tossed the book aside and raised both hands in mock surrender. “Yeah. The contract didn’t spell that part out though. We got hired to loot and scoot on a Nanotech Neural Network prototype. It was reportedly in final trials before public disclosure. We had no idea it’d be in a clone.” Tam leaned forward in the chair and cocked his head to the side. “So how’d you suss it all out?”
The Israeli rubbed his hands over his face again, more slowly this time, and spoke quietly. “Eighteen months before the war, I was assigned to the Mossad bio-weapons division, consulting for a series of high-level strategic planning and response meetings. Things were heating up. We knew another attack was coming, we just didn’t know what. Everyone was desperate for any lead over the Jihadists, however slim. Even though the Bruges Treaty had been signed and all the clone laws were in effect, we knew other nations were funding black labs, so all the Israeli intelligence services were pushing for cutting-edge cyber-ware and bioengineering. They were convinced those would be our new force multipliers. That initiative put nanotech at the top of our list.”
The older man’s voice caught in his throat at a memory, but he dismissed it like a foul odor with a wave of his hand. “Because it’s so unstable, I remember one of the theories bounced around was to introduce nanites into a human embryo when the cerebral and central nervous systems were still in their formative stages. A number of scientists thought the human body and the nano-system could develop together simultaneously. Through a biomimetic process, the human host would adapt to the invasive nature of the technology to form a more resilient, symbiotic relationship. But that line of thought was rejected on moral grounds.”
“Why? I didn’t notice any Jihadists exercising restraint.”
“Ah yes. That’s the trouble with having something of a conscience in a civilized society; you cling to the desperate illusion that on some level everyone is going to act rational and remotely humane.” He shook his head. “You see, cloning is already an ethical gray zone, so we decided that integrating volatile nanotechnology into unborn children was crossing too many lines in an already controversial area. Rather than pursue that approach, our engineers then began looking for ways to stabilize nano-systems for voluntary adult hosts.”
“Apparently someone at Dawson-Hull didn’t share your compunction,” Tam said quietly.
“Apparently not. You say the boy is a prototype?
“That’s what I understand.”
“No wonder they’re frantic. A viable nano-system will turn everything on its head. Of course they’re storming around with corporate security and police,” Ibram said. “But I’m worried about the boy.”
“Don’t be. No one’s going to hurt him. Not us, certainly not the Garcías. You know we’re not like that.”
“I know.” Ibram placed his hand gently on Tam’s shoulder. “–Not who, what. The nanotech is the problem.”
“What? How?”
“The very concept of nanotechnology is its fundamental flaw. It is foreign material, an incompatible system inside a human body. Even if D-H geneticists tweaked him to be even more receptive to the nanites, any equilibrium between Gibson’s body and the nanites would degenerate over time. I’m afraid the nano-system is self-replicating inside him, shifting into a rapid, uncontrolled growth phase. Like cancer.”
“Cancer?”
“It’s killing him, Tam. Gibson’s not having stress headaches. He’s dying.”
---------------
It was past midnight when the man called Hester slid into the small room and softly pulled the door shut. It was a decent hotel in a better location: the fourth floor on a corner overlooking the Plaza Del Ermitaño. This was as central as he could get in the northern sprawl called Sant Adrià de Besòs, and Hester thought it fortunate he’d made it in before the curfew. Not that it would have stopped him. Delayed him perhaps, but delays annoyed him because he prided himself on being prompt. His Dad always said neatness is a sign of professionalism.
He flipped on an e-paper map of the district. Neat lines divided the spread into a search grid of smaller irregular blocks. After several hours of cross-referencing the files from his boss and ransacking the Guardia Civil’s criminal database, he followed a single tidbit of information north.
He squared away the rest of his gear, set the tracker on the nightstand, and went right to sleep. Tomorrow, he’d see how well his hunch played out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: ON THE CORPORATE GRASS
Barcelona Metro Zone, Old Barcelona, UpCity District. 2:05 a.m. Day Three.
Curro and I made it to the hospital without a problem. We climbed down into Old B. in a commercial neighborhood, its wide streets lined with shuttered boutiques and tiny cafés. Being late on a weeknight, the avenue was empty, but I nearly blew it before we’d gone half a block. Our passing triggered several ad projectors, and for a minute, a gang of the brilliant and beautiful people catwalked and kissed all around us, inviting Curro and me to their tragically cool, carefree existence. They shattered in a static crackle like petulant phantoms when we ignored them, but an evil little part of me still wanted to shoot them.
As we got closer, we found ourselves in a subdued white-collar neighborhood with frosted glass and steel offices mixed with the occasional checker-lit hab-rise. Real people started appearing: couples, late shift workers on their way to and from jobs. We stayed out of their way, alert but not worried. The only real surveillance was the cameras on the traffic lights and at the building entrances. Not a single cop cruised by.
It’s a little-known fact that there’s a very limited police presence in the enclaves. Automated security blunts down on most felonies, and with everyone toting around the latest fashion in bodyguards or personal protection devices, street crime is almost nonexistent. UpCity cops are s
trictly call/response units. At the same time, your average enclave citizen is just too self-absorbed to notice a couple of dark shapes gliding by. Even if someone had caught a glimpse, I doubt it would register. The walls have been up for so long, most Upcity residents only see sprawlers on the newsnets or in movies, and the occasional scab cleared for service work might as well be invisible. They can’t fathom a zone scab treading on the corporate grass. We made it to the hospital by three in the morning.
Sant Honorat’s rear loading dock was lit by a single large floodlight bolted over the roll-down shutter. The only visible security was a number pad lock on the metal door next to the bay, and an ancient wall-mounted camera on the right stuttering its way through a half arc over the kitchen entrance. Admin must be touchy about hired help walking off with hospital food. The kitchen door opened, and we heard the chatter of the nightshift cooks drifting on the cool air. One of them stepped outside, flipped off the camera and lit up a cigarette. Alejo was right: who breaks into a hospital? When he finished his smoke and went back inside, I mugged the key pad and we were in.
Curro and I crouched in the corner of a long room that reeked of bleach and clean linen. Rows of washers were humming through their spin cycle. I flipped open my data pad and started thumbing through the hospital floor plans. I practically had to shout at Curro over all the noise.
“We found the laundry all right. It says here, there’s an elevator right outside the door, and a stairwell about twenty meters down the hall. The high-tech surgical suites should be right above us, three operating rooms in a row.” I tapped the tiny screen. “The supply closet is at the end, and it looks large. We’ll check there first.” I folded the data pad away. “If there is a God, I hope He’s listening to your mom right about now ‘cause here’s where it gets interesting. You ready?”
“Sure. But look,” Curro pointed. “Mama always wanted me to go to medical school.”
Behind me, neat stacks of crisp green hospital scrubs sat on wire shelving. It took me a second, but I saw the gleam in his eyes, and a minute later, we were tucking our gear underneath the loose fitting garments. They’d conceal the odd bulge of weapons long enough for us to bluff our way past any casual glance. We looked the part, but the whole idea hit me as bold-faced madness. I was fitting a cloth surgical cap on my head. “This is crazy you know. We’re making this up as we go along.”
“‘Walking on water’ as Papa would say. Besides, crazy can be good camouflage, no?”
“If it’s all you got,” I said.
“It will be easy, no one expects us. Besides, Mama is praying... good things happen when she prays.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know, when your father made a comment about ‘air cover’, I’d hoped for something more… substantial.” I folded my Blizzard into its shoulder holster. “Of course, if this works, she could contract out as Fundy Tactical Support.”
Curro laughed like a little kid. “Papa said you might get grumpy. We’ll get this machine for your friend, you’ll see.”
“You’re actually getting off on all this, aren’t you?”
Curro nodded as he tied off a pale green top. “How do I look?” he turned in place. “Anything printing through?”
The shirt was two sizes too large on him, but it hung clean and smooth over the tactical vest. I frowned. “You look like a minty-fresh Jelly Baby. Other than that, you’re clear.”
“Now we go and see what happens.” Curro winked just like his father used to. Scraps of memory skipped through me, and the phrase ‘running on a wing and a prayer’ came to mind. Alejo used to say that all the time too. I looked over. Curro stood waiting.
“Right. Because this is what you do for friends.” I appraised the new medical intern, Curro García. “OK, you remember what we’re looking for?”
“Si. Dr. Kalahani says it’s three separate units. One is the cranial imager, the second is the instrument rack, and third piece, the control unit, has four small screens on it. And we can’t forget the cable linkage.”
“Why do I feel like we’re gonna have to steal a truck to scoot this thing out of here?” I let out a short sigh. “You ready?”
“Ready.”
“We’re on.” I smoothed down the last of the wrinkles, and we stepped out into the corridor. By the time we hit the stairs, we had our best privileged enclave attitudes firmly in place, and we strode toward C-Wing, Advanced Surgical Unit with blue latex hands and sterile face masks, looking down our noses at every passing graveyard shift staffer. This late, the wing was quiet, and nearly empty, save a clutch of nurses at their station and lone white-haired custodian steering an antique floor polisher across the red and white laminate floor. The nurses barely glanced up, but the janitor switched off the machine as we approached.
“Can I help you?” he removed his hat and bowed slightly.
I started pressing him right away. “Only if you can access Storage. We need to run diagnostics on the equipment for tomorrow, and not only are we late, we’re in a hurry. There someone around here with a key?”
“I’ve got a passkey, sir. But I didn’t hear about any cyber surgery on for tomorrow.”
I looked at his nametag. “I see, Mr.… Morales. Are you on the surgical team?”
“Well no, I’m just—”
“That explains it then. You weren’t informed because you don’t need to know.” I let my irritation mount. “Now can you open up for us? Or do we need to find someone else?”
The arrogance clicked and the older man defaulted to subservient posture. He pushed the machine aside and started shuffling forward. “Of course, Doctor…?
“Anderson. And Torres.” I waved him on impatiently.
“You’re new here to Sant Honorat?” he tried smiling at Curro, whose brown eyes looked through him.
“Luckily for you we’re temporary—consultants for tomorrow’s procedure,” I fired back. “Do you interrogate every doctor that comes in?”
“No, no, sir. Of course not. I’m just trying to be friendly. Been here forty years, and I try to know all the staff.”
“Try being more productive and less talkative, Mr. Morales. And I’ll try to forget your attitude,” I said. “Now… Storage?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The three of us started walking.
The halls were deserted, the bright ceiling strip light enlarging the white space and the empty sound of our steps. We passed through double doors into the east surgical wing. “I’ll wave the fob, but one of you will have to thumb in.” The janitor smiled weakly at us.
“Thumb in? The locks are biometric?” I asked. We were at the door now.
“Last year, Administration ruled they want only medical staff handling the equipment. They said it cuts down on the chance of damage.” Mr. Morales had pulled out his keys, a ring of numbered gray plastic tears, smooth as river stones. His head bobbed as he continued. “I’ve always been careful with hospital property. Always. I can still get in, but I don’t want any trouble.”
Curro and I passed a look, and he stepped in seamlessly, playing up his accent for the old man. “I’m sure you have, Señor Morales. Listen, my partner and I arrived late and Admin hasn’t had time to input our profiles into the hospital database. We’re behind schedule already. We’re going to need you to open this for us.”
The older man stammered. “No, No Dr. Torres, the policy is specific. I’m not allowed. Admin should only take a few minutes to update the computers. If you wish, I can take you right there and speak with Gizelle for you. She will take care of it right away.”
He smiled again, nodding as Curro sidestepped toward the door, drawing the man’s attention with him. I glanced back, double-checked for camera domes and wandering staff, then snatched the older man in a chokehold. He was out on an eight count. Curro lifted the key ring from the man’s limp hand as I eased him down to the floor.
“Use his thumb and wave that thing. We’ve got about ten minutes. We need to be long gone,” I said.
The bio
metric lock beeped to green and the door slid open.
“What will they do to him? He’s a good man,” Curro asked as we dragged the janitor in with us.
“I’m sure he is. But we’re here for Poet9. Now hit the lights and look over there.” I gagged and zip-cuffed the old man, but not too tight. They’d find him in the morning, alive.
We found all three units already on an equipment caddy. Trouble was they were big, and plugged into a fourth unit, which was just as big. We sure as hell weren’t walking out with all this under our hats.
I threw a sheet over the first set. The janitor stirred. We were down to five minutes, tops, so I made a snap decision. “Forget that last one. Doc didn’t say anything about a fourth piece. Just disconnect those cables—we’re leaving it.”
“But what if it’s important?”
“What if it’s not? We don’t have time to figure it out. Now move—we won’t do Poet9 any good in jail being mind-pharmed. Stuff they IV into you nowadays, you’d be hallucinating, making stuff up just to get them to stop. Leave it.”
We started toward the door, pushing the covered equipment. It had the jutting twist of some neo-tribal totem waiting to be unveiled. “Guess I am going to have to steal a truck after all,” I muttered.
Curro laughed. “How about an ambulance?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: FLIPPING THE SWITCH
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro “Trouble Alley”. 5:13 a.m. Day Three.
“What do you mean it’s not going to work?” I was mad. “The power supply unit? Ibram, we lifted the three parts you said, thank God, from the first place we looked. I thought you could just plug the thing in. Why didn’t you say something about a special power unit?”
“Jace, it’s an incredibly delicate procedure. There’s not a lot of wiggle room when you’re operating near the corpus callosum. It seemed obvious. You said it was connected when you found it. What other kind of hint do you need?” the doctor asked.
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 13
