by Corey Ostman
“My name is Clark Terkle, and I’m a private staffer contracted through the compstate to fill positions with certified professionals. Your recent registration can be shopped in the public market. That’s how most find gainful employment. In your case, the registration was flagged immediately and that’s why Ms. DuPree suggested you visit me.”
Grace blinked as Terkle looked back at his display. Ms. DuPree? The robot had a name? Or had she been a real person after all?
“The cert registration is the way jobs get filled fast. No interview; no application. Your certification will do. Just a list, a contract, a yes or a no, and the job is filled and terms are set. Nepotism, gone. Racism, gone. Unions, gone. Well, mostly.”
It sounded like a memorized speech. A little man in a tiny room in a gray suit dances around the truth. Score one for bureaucrats, Grace thought. Did he ever leave this room?
“Had trouble at the academy, Protector Donner?”
Grace recognized her uniformed image on the display. She was about to reply when he continued.
“But no trouble with the certification waiver. Impressive.” Terkle looked back at her and folded his thin hands over the screen as it went dark.
Grace nodded but said nothing. She was used to military bureaucracy. If he was going to wait for her to speak, he’d have to wait far longer.
Fifteen seconds passed.
“No upgrades whatsoever. Well, then,” he said, “let’s get this underway, shall we?”
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a phasewave grenade. He calmly activated it, tossed the safety switch behind him, and set the explosive on the desk. The device wheezed out a count toward destruction.
Grace instinctively went for the door. But there was no knob or panel on this side. She turned back to Terkle, glaring, then looked up. No vents. She grabbed the grenade, tossed it into a corner of the room, and kicked over the metal alloy desk. The embedded display shattered.
She grabbed Terkle by the neck and forced him and herself behind the desk in a crouch. She drew her weapon and tucked it under the thin man’s jaw, barrel pointing up toward his brain.
“What are you doing!” he squawked.
“I just want to make sure you don’t survive this test if the grenade does me in. Goodbye, Mr. Terkle.”
“Please, this isn’t necessary, oh…!” Terkle stared wide-eyed.
They waited behind the desk. Grace mentally counted down, bracing herself. But the beeping of the grenade halted. Was this part of a test? Of course, she thought, angrily. No bureaucrat would blow himself up if I failed. Grace eased her finger over the trigger guard and holstered Ronnie.
Terkle snickered as her grip on his neck relaxed and she allowed him to stand. He straightened his clothing and took deep breaths through his nose.
“Protector Donner, I apologize,” he said, smiling. “A stupid, dangerous test. It is insulting to you and embarrassing for me, warrior to warrior. Illegal as well. Internationally, anyway. A method proving nothing except that you’re not afraid to die or kill.”
He unbuttoned his jacket and Grace glimpsed a tiny, but deadly, rail gun in a holster under his right arm.
“Did I pass?” Grace said.
He continued to tidy.
“Protector Donner, I just sent a list of available contracts to your ptenda: the acceptance terms, locations, everything. Look at it as soon as possible. Sometimes these things expire within hours. The ones I sent you are timed so you have a chance to read them. Thank you for entertaining my invitation.”
The door popped open, revealing the hallway and the sliding door leading to the waiting room.
“Thank you?” she said.
Terkle said nothing. Grace backed out slowly and turned on her heel. Within seconds, she had walked through the waiting room and back onto the street.
That was easy, she thought. Intense, but easy. She headed down Avenue Main Mall, passing the Frawley Building and another squeal of ads. The chirp of her ptenda meant messages were arriving. Contracts. She should review them soon.
Following her map, Grace turned onto a street with a busy cafe and eatery district. The smells of oil, garlic and onions drew her to Marion Avenue. Every diner and pub had indoor and outdoor seating. Grace eyed the food on the plates of patrons eating outside. She felt hungry and curious, and perusing the contracts required a decent booth at a sit-down. Grace stopped at a place serving grilled pork, rice, and vegetables. The food appeared synthesized, but her nose led the way. It smelled like home.
She ducked inside and met a child, no older than thirteen. Was child labor allowed here? Or did she just look that young? The girl took her to a booth and updated Grace’s ptenda with a menu. Flames flared and roared behind the counter of the dark restaurant.
“Water, please,” Grace said as she fingered her ptenda and opened the first of six contracts on her list. It was for a company called Unlimited Unlimited. The job was an on-call security assignment that paid well, but the work schedule appeared erratic, even random. Housing and equipment allowances were included, which surprised her.
She had studied contracts at the academy when she and Flora were tyros. The course was titled “Agreements and Responsibilities.” Many were boilerplate protector contracts of thirty days or less, used mainly for assignments like guarding construction sites, dispersing flash riots, and traffic control. Equipment allowances were rare, and housing was rarer.
She flipped through to the second contract. It described another on-call general-purpose assignment, but the length of the contract showed a three-and-three: three months probation and an auto-extended three additional months, post probation. Her certification noted that her proficiency in high-level critical thinking matched one contract stipulation. It came with housing, too, along with an on-duty spending account and a right of first refusal on the apartment should either party terminate or choose not to renew an extension. Grace was impressed. The offering company read Italitech-Bransen, and Terkle was right: the contract had twelve minutes until expiration.
The girl placed a glass in front of Grace.
“Are you ready to order?”
Grace stammered and looked at the menu on her ptenda.
“Let me see. Uh, the pork, cloister style. Cloister style?”
The girl left without comment. Grace scrambled to check her credit on the ptenda, but Raj had done as she asked: there were funds available.
A shared view alert appeared in the corner, indicating several other job-seekers were watching the ITB contract. Six minutes remained.
“Back off,” Grace said aloud, accepting the contract. “The apartment is mine!”
Chapter 8
Maud Van Decker strolled across the Martian surface. She hummed a popular tune, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. Before her, Planitia Dome silently received and surrendered craft of many sizes. People and cargo zipped back and forth under the shining hemisphere. Activity centered on the trading floor, the common area, and the spokes leading to the lift-off pads. Elevators soared fifty stories above the city.
Today, Maud toured the territory surrounding Planitia. Tomorrow she would take another look at its primary spaceport. Her future. Once she had enough saved and sufficient patents hidden away, she would emigrate to the red planet. Away from Port Casper, away from Cloister Eleven.
Her ptenda chirped, its sound nearly lost in the thin Martian air.
“Protector Van Decker, CEO Varghese is on channel for you.”
“Encrypt. Red 12-34. Off,” Maud said.
Mars dissolved around her as she stepped off the 360-walker pad. She ignored the view outside and trotted across her office. Of the fifty large displays on the wall, one held her attention. She sat down at the desk and migrated the link to the local viewscreen. She saw an image of the CEO of ITB, absent-mindedly rubbing his immaculate beard.
“Yes, Mr. Varghese,” she said.
“Good morning, Maud. Had breakfast?” Tadi Varghese’s high Hindi accent ran deep. It was
rare for high-ranking gene addicts to use anything but their native tongues when speaking to employees, but it was evidence of his trust and respect for Maud, his chief of security for a hundred and eight contracts, that he spoke English. Maud felt no reciprocal trust, but she was good at acting the part of loyal servant and company drone.
“Yes, sir. Good morning sir. I have had breakfast.”
“I need you on a detail with me, today.”
“I’ll have a team ready, Mr. Varghese. What’s your departure point and time?”
“No, Maud. Just you,” he said with a sly smile. “We’re leaving as soon as you arrive at Bay Two. I have an appointment this morning and I want to talk to you about something, but not here in the building. Bay Two, Maud.”
The screen flickered and displayed the ITB company logo.
“Damn,” she said.
Maud leaned back in her chair and brought steepled hands against her pursed lips. Her eyes moved to the phasewave on her desk, nestled in its tactical holster.
She wondered what the old man wanted to discuss this time. She didn’t need more micromanaging of her covert missions. She strained enough finding loopholes in the Cloister Act. And finding fresh recruits to keep things moving forward.
Maud looked at the local display. She had a few minutes to spare. She waved her hand to the right like she was batting a fly and banished a data record from the display while another took its place.
“Wilmer, Darrel, 13324-Epsilon. Idaho Cloister Fourteen. Graduate Rank, 6th Percentile, Graduation Date…” Her computer showed the stats of the recently accepted contracts, thirteen in all. She had to choose which would be ramped up and brought inside the circle, or placed on strategic assignments that would keep them ignorant but useful. She waved off Wilmer’s profile in the middle of the readout.
“MacDaniels, Yvonne, 089908-Alpha, California Cloister Three. Graduate Rank, first, Specialist Psych-Op…”
Maud interrupted the display. “Save that one for later.”
She continued to scan: “Contract history. Ironclad Security, 3 and 3, extended 18 months. Chrono Form, Inc., 3 and 6 extended 6 months.” She batted another fly.
Maud’s secure comm bleeped. She looked away from her display and pulled out the small, bean-sized device.
“Go,” she ordered.
“Protector Van Decker, we have a hit on UU. It’s connective. Sending report,” the bean said.
“Good. Out.” Maud allowed herself a small smile as she turned back to the display. “Resume.”
“Donner, Grace, 0016-Alpha, Wyoming Cloister Eleven, Waiver, Red Fox Academy. No work record.” The voice paused and resumed with Grace’s birth record and family history.
Maud put a finger to her lips and studied the image. “What have you been up to, Terkle?”
Maud leaned forward. “Display. Split. Van Decker, Maud 93642-Alpha.” She brushed the face of the display and the two records sat side by side.
“Van Decker, Maud Ann, Wyoming Cloister Eleven, Waiver, Red Fox Academy. Work Experience…”
Maud scanned Donner’s file. Discharge because of contraband technology: a dermal dot. She read further. Perfect score on WSTQC Master. This cadet obviously didn’t need a dot. Had she been gangplanked, too?
Maud closed her eyes and remembered that morning nearly thirty years ago. The drill instructor had pulled her out of the rack and pointed to her locker. That sinking feeling as she lifted the lid and saw a purple cloth that didn’t belong to her. When she removed the cloth, a Kwong Amory P44 lay beneath. She never found out who had planted the phasewave there. It would be another decade after her expulsion that phasewaves were allowed in cloister. Something they should have allowed in the first place.
She still felt bright red anger at the betrayal. She wondered if Terkle realized how angry she still was. Was it sentiment, or mockery, that moved him to suggest this new recruit?
Still, she couldn’t afford to ignore his instincts. Between Varghese’s second guessing her protectors and the whisper campaign against ITB, it was getting difficult to find excellent recruits. She shot off a message to Terkle as she walked out of her office to the elevator.
“Bay Two.”
Varghese and his interruptions. It would be so much easier once the old man was out of the way.
She closed her eyes, imagining herself a cat in the glow of the Martian sun. A fat, Indian mouse squirmed in her mouth, its tail dangling from her fanged maw.
• • •
Maud and Varghese sat in silence at the rear of the armored transport. Maud scanned the route as a standard security protocol, appearing to look busy, but roiling inside as she wondered what Varghese wanted. He was not usually this reticent. Had he decided to terminate their contract? To kill her, perhaps? Paranoia was a rare side effect of gene addiction, but it did happen.
Maud shook the worries from her mind. Wealthy gene addicts didn’t spring traps on protectors. A protector might kill if crossed on a contract. Protectors could be hazardous to one’s health. And who valued health more than a gene addict? Years spent modifying a body for immortality. What could be worse than death to a gene addict? True, gene addicts might try to destroy a protector’s legacy, but even that was a dicey proposition. Protectors come from families, and families have long memories.
Maud assessed the danger, but didn’t see paranoia in Varghese. It was a mundane, angry impatience. Maybe I am the one getting paranoid, Maud mused, so close to my goal. There was no need. She would listen to what Varghese had to say and play the part. She had what she needed to make the next move. Just two more pieces in the puzzle. Plenty of time to find out what cooked at Unlimited Unlimited, and who was doing the cooking.
“I want the tech, Maud,” Varghese said without preliminaries, looking straight at her. It was unnerving. He seldom stared into her eyes.
“I want to know what it is and who’s developing it,” he continued. “I want it under ITB control before it gets to market. I don’t want to buy it afterwards.”
So he still brooded about the hints of AI they found three months ago. Maud kept her eyes on the route, scanning updates from security operatives under her command.
“The nets are deployed, Tadi,” she said. “It’s just a matter of time before our people figure out where UU is going with this. Then we can put the pieces together.”
Maud let her assurance of success roll out, free of any anxiety. But her words sounded hollow, mostly spin. And Varghese had lifetimes of reading body language. He picked up on it.
“Not good enough, Maud. Look where we’re headed.”
“Wyoming Compstate House. Either Vice Minister Gobi or Minister Harker, the subject being the imminent patent expiration of the Thorium-NuChain drive,” Maud said, dismissing Varghese’s frown with a wave of her hand. “We have time. The last meeting indicated at least two years until you have to start licensing the entire patent portfolio.”
“Not much time, Maud. Too many patents expiring. Revenue will drop off quickly, my dear. Don’t get carried away when you take your strolls on Mars,” Varghese said.
Maud seethed. She was careful about her Martian strolls. Nobody was ever supposed to know. She mentally ticked through a list of possible security breaches, but rejected each. She would plug the gap later.
“Maybe you’re the one getting distracted by this AI nonsense,” she said. Damn. She had to get her emotions under control.
“Your time might be better spent on the existing patent portfolio,” she amended. It wasn’t quite a save.
But Varghese, oddly, was not baited. He continued as if she hadn’t said anything.
“If we don’t capture this AI, Maud, this particular AI…”
Maud watched as his gaze shifted toward the Compstate House, two blocks head.
“Are you afraid of the dead?” he asked.
“No,” Maud said.
“I am.”
Chapter 9
Raj’s security recognized Grace’s ptenda and let her into the
apartment. She avoided a pile of mechflesh components strewn by the door. She liked Raj, but after living an academy life, the disarray of Raj’s home was already getting to her. She couldn’t wait to get into her own apartment. Her own apartment! She’d never had her own place. She wanted to shout out her success, but stopped short when she heard an unusual voice wafting out of the workroom.
Grace walked over and listened in the doorway. Raj was apparently finishing up a contract with a surgeon on the Moon. He was reconstructing the nervous system of a steelback roider. The roider had, against good advice, used a makeshift power cell to finish a contract faster and garner a bonus. She’d heard Raj talking about this before—it must be a common problem. She knew that even with upgrades available, mechflesh relished operating outside their designs. Four out of five times a steelback lifted more weight without being caught, but the fifth time often proved fatal.
“You have to be extremely cautious of the voltage level as you reset his neural network, Manuel. In any other reset, it doesn’t have any bearing, but in this case it’s a prime indicator the reset has gone wrong. He’ll die if the current spikes.”
“Understood. I’ll reconnect with you later, Raj.”
The connection terminated. Raj swiveled in his chair and raised his eyebrows at her. “Well?” he asked, giving Tim a playful scratch behind the ears.
“Go figure, Raj. I start in forty-eight hours.”
“Where?” Tim and Raj said at once.
Grace frowned at Tim. “Your toy is programmed to be inquisitive?”
“Yes and no, Grace. Just a gadget, remember?” Raj said. “What company? Did you get housing? You’re still welcome here, if not.”
“ITB. Security Specialist II. Paycheck, housing, operating stipend, auto extend three-and-three with a six. Mango, or what?”
Raj slouched into his chair and looked at Tim, who returned the stare. Grace glanced from one to the other.
“What?” Grace asked. “Something wrong?”
