by Corey Ostman
Her ptenda bleeped. Grace was being scanned.
“Welcome to ITB, Protector Donner. Your ptenda has been programmed with directions. Please proceed to the lift bank.”
Grace exited the lift at the eleventh floor. Turning left, she spotted Room 1142 and opened the door. Two leather armchairs and a low table sat in one corner. Unlike the beige carpeted hallway, the room had a deep red mahogany floor. Its temperature felt slightly warmer to Grace than the building: it was more to her liking. There were no windows on the unadorned yellow walls, but a frosted glass door was closed and, judging by the light, led into a room with an extensive exterior view.
Not wanting to breach an unknown protocol, Grace sat instead of knocking.
“I’ll be with you in just a few moments, Ms. Donner!” called a woman’s voice.
Grace saw movement in the room beyond, and heard several low voices. After a few minutes, the voices stopped and movement ceased.
“You may enter now.”
Chapter 13
A mature, red-headed woman sat behind an obsidian desk, her back to a vast window overlooking the spaceport. She rose and came around to greet Grace, her hand outstretched. Her clothing was utilitarian but expensive: a black protector combat-and-utility jumper, made of real, non-mimic fabric. It fit so well that it was probably handmade. A holstered phasewave hung at the woman’s side: preference for the authentic apparently didn’t extend to sidearms, Grace thought smugly.
“Maud Van Decker,” said the woman. “Pleased to meet you, and welcome to ITB.”
Grace shook Van Decker’s hand. Her boss had a strong, muscular grip.
“Please, have a seat,” Van Decker said, gesturing to a pair of chairs in front of the desk. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No thank you.”
Van Decker resumed her seat behind the desk. Grace took a moment to survey the room. She had heard other voices, but they were alone now. A conference call, perhaps. No, the seat was warm. There had been somebody else in the room.
“I see, Ms. Donner, you trained at Red Fox.”
“Yes.” Grace nodded.
“Commandant Huber still in charge?”
“Yes, he is. Have you met the commandant?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve met Commandant Huber,” she said, leaning to rest her elbows on the desk. “But tell me more about your unique method of graduating. Tell me about this waiver.”
Her boss smiled, but the tension Grace saw in her mouth and jaw made it look painful. Or forced. She had seen that smile on cadets after a particularly bad loss. Van Decker wasn’t fond of Huber, or the academy, or both. Grace adjusted her plan of presentation and took a deep breath.
“I asked for a waiver to graduate early, and they took it as an insult,” Grace said. If Van Decker had body monitors in the room, this lie probably wouldn’t set them off. Grace almost believed it herself. “They concocted a charge to kick me out. I still can’t believe it. I’d been training since I was twelve. They knew I was ready. Once I proved it in the Meat Grinder, they had to give me the waiver.” Grace shook her head as though annoyed at the wasted time. “Huber was a bean counter. I just wanted out.”
Van Decker grinned. This smile was real. “Well, you’re most definitely out, Donner.”
Grace smiled back. “Finally.”
“You scared the hell out of Terkle the other day. I watched the recording. Hilarious.”
“I hated to die alone,” Grace said with a shrug.
Van Decker sat back. “Are you in the mood for something challenging, Donner? Someone with your potential should be doing special things for ITB.”
“A good protector doesn’t get paid for what she does. She gets paid for what she’s willing to do,” Grace said. One of her father’s ranch hands had spoken similarly when asked to harvest sperm from their prized bull, Redshirt. She’d never forgotten it.
“A good philosophy if you’re a contractor,” Van Decker said. She reached to her side and drew her weapon, laying it on the desk. A phasewave, Noozer P99, with a polished black grip and a snub-nosed focusing chamber. Nicer than the dreck at academy, but mass-produced nonetheless.
“Let’s see yours.”
Ronnie and Jonnie looked ancient next to her boss’s sparkling phasewave. Grace was on edge. She couldn’t read Van Decker on this. And there had been too many tests since she got to Port Casper. Too much information spread around. How much does she know about me? Have I been tracked from the beginning? Grace wondered, understanding the power and meaning of a permanent record, even a short one.
“Look what we have here.” Van Decker reached out a finger and touched Ronnie’s grip. “A protector with a slug thrower. Two, no less! And I bet you can do as much with those relics as I can with this fully programmable toy.”
“I suppose.” Grace took her guns and holstered them. She didn’t like Van Decker touching her weapons.
The other woman leaned back in her chair, leaving the phasewave where it lay. She folded her black, gloved hands over her torso and watched Grace with cool green eyes.
“You’re a good liar, Donner.”
This is it, Grace thought. Messed up again. This city is just too big and advanced. Too many ways to get caught. Why had she tried to lie, anyway? It wasn’t like being involved with forbidden tech would be frowned upon here. Grace cursed herself and her stupid pride. Raj should have hired himself a professional.
“Protector Van Decker, nobody but trained protectors leave cloister willingly. It was my only way out, and I made it,” Grace began. Van Decker raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.
“You hired me. I hoped details of my last few days at the academy would not be a sticking point. It isn’t necessary for me to go into a story about myself, is it? I’m ready and able to work.”
Van Decker considered Grace in silence for a moment.
“I installed people at Red Fox Academy,” she said, finally. “That’s how we get good workers. And that’s how I heard about the illegal tech—a nice touch, Donner. Surprisingly, Huber gave you the chance you deserved.”
Surprising? Did Van Decker mean Huber had done the right thing, but the ouster had been wrong?
“I don’t care about anything except ability,” Van Decker said, standing up and leaning over her desk. “Your résumé is short, but what’s there already separates you from lesser protectors. Learn the protocols, execute your assignments, and check your ptenda for updates. You can go far at ITB.”
She paused, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
“Mini grinder Charlie was my favorite. I recognize the dye in your hair. How did you get it off your skin so quickly?”
“Well, I…”
Van Decker waved her hand. “Never mind. The manual is on your ptenda.”
She sat, turning to her desk display.
“Bounce, Donner!” Van Decker said, not looking up.
By habit, Grace stood, turned, and marched.
She was halfway down a random corridor when she got her breathing under control. Van Decker’s nostalgia had saved her. The forced ouster from academy and cloister now looked like an embarrassment for the academy rather than Grace: an injustice making her upset enough to lie but not enough to deny. ITB hadn’t fingered Raj and didn’t care where she got the dermal.
She’d done it! She’d shed the ouster and established herself as a licensed protector. It felt strange, exhilarating. Like vanquishing all of the grinders at once.
Her ptenda flashed. She was to report tomorrow morning at 0900 to 55 New Haven Road and rendezvous with a Mr. Gobi.
Bounce, indeed!
Chapter 14
Grace emerged from the Frawley as the sun lit the top of the buildings. She smiled as she faced east, her belly full of nuts and unseasonal fruit. Her old academy clothes, black and lightweight, were still good for exercise if nothing else. Grace started to run.
For the first kilometer, Grace passed no one. She was getting used to the rhythm of her feet hittin
g the pavement when her ptenda beeped. She brought her arm up and saw Raj smiling back at her.
“You’re up early,” he said, his voice ringing clearly in her dermal dot.
“Yeah,” she said between breaths, “got a few hours before my first assignment.”
“I wanted to show off my new toy,” he said. Raj turned his head and pointed to his right temple.
Grace squinted into her ptenda. “What’s that? Mosquito bites?”
“We don’t have biting insects in Port Casper.”
Best news she’d had all day. “Then what is it?”
“It’s my new gray grafty. Like it?”
Grace frowned. She didn’t understand the desire of mechflesh to upgrade their bodies. “Raj, you of all people have enough mods. Don’t tell me that’s hooked up to your brain.”
“Exactly, Grace. The grafty gives me increased storage, the ability to access the communication nets, and the regulation of conscious states. With this, I should be able to keep in contact with you at all times. Watch.”
Grace saw the words, good morning, Grace, appear in front of Raj’s smug expression.
“From that frown, I can tell the message is received,” Raj chuckled, more to himself than about her. “So, what’s your first assignment?”
“I got the order to meet somebody on New Haven this morning,” she said, panting. “I have no idea who this guy is, but I’m supposed to act as his protector.”
“What’s his name?” Raj said.
Grace wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Rendilon Gobi.”
She watched Raj turn to his left. “Tim?” he said.
The second kilometer ticked by and she saw a handful of others out for exercise, too.
“Rendilon Gobi is Vice Minister of Patents.” Tim’s voice was much fainter. “He’s held the post for the past seven years.”
“Does he work for ITB, too?” Grace asked.
“No,” Tim said. “It is against the law for ministers to have any job or interest outside the compstate. A minister can visit a private firm, but only in an official capacity.”
“It’s odd you would ride protector for a minister,” Raj said.
“These orders came directly from my new boss,” Grace said. “Maybe it’s standard fare for a newly hired protector. Free compstate oversight, and all.”
“Yeah, probably,” Raj said, a smile forming on his face. “But wouldn’t it be great if you got an order to kill the guy?” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time a protector received an illegal order.”
“I’m too fresh out of academy to be corrupted,” Grace said, laughing. “I haven’t even been bribed, yet.”
“You’ll have to stop tonight for dinner and let us know what all the intrigue was about,” Raj said.
“An excellent idea,” Tim added.
“I’ll let you go, Grace. Enjoy the run,” Raj said.
“Thanks, bye.” Grace watched his image vanish on her ptenda. She straightened her neck and decided, with a wince, that she’d just talk through her dot from now on.
The third kilometer brought her near the spaceport. This time, she was able to marvel at the roiders, grizzled unmodified humans and gleaming steelbacks both. In the past, people had postulated that automation would remove the need for manual labor. But the desire for simple, cloistered life and the mechflesh revolution had spun that prediction on its head. Grace supposed, in that way, the roiders had a lot in common with cloisterfolk.
Grace turned back toward the Frawley as a deep rumble punctuated a liftoff at the port. Already she was less startled, and didn’t bother to look up. The smells, sounds, and sights of Port Casper were beginning to feel like home.
• • •
Grace still felt restless after she’d returned to the Frawley and taken a shower. She checked her ptenda again: 0700. Two hours until her meeting with Mr. Gobi. She adjusted her black uniform jacket over Ronnie and Jonnie, snug in their holsters, then armed her apartment. She loathed sitting around.
The elevator was empty this time, but there was already a crowd on the garage platform. A two-seater pulled up in front of Grace and opened. She sat and entered her destination. It was only three kilometers away, but the ride would kill some time. She’d decide what to do when she got there. She might get some sense of Gobi before the meeting by surveying the location. She tried to use her ptenda to get more information about the area, but it kept showing her a map. She muttered sacrilege against her cloistered training.
The mover spent most of its trip underground, and no one got on or off. She wondered if two-seaters were less popular, or if protectors were more forbidding. When the mover emerged into sunlight, it careened a couple of blocks and came to a stop.
The building in front of her was number fifty-six. She looked across the street for fifty-five. It was easy to spot. In a city of metal and glass, the building was a simple white stucco. A large crack ran vertically down the wall next to the door. Above the door was a pulsating sign: FREER DINER.
Grace jogged across the street. A quick glance through the windows showed a crowd of well-dressed business types mingling with roiders and uniformed protectors. She could hear the noise of the crowd but, more importantly, she could smell bacon. And pork sausages. Grace glanced at her ptenda. Ninety minutes until her meeting.
She walked up the steps, opened the door, and stood just inside the threshold for a moment. The fancier restaurants in town would have pinged her ptenda for a reservation. The Freer Diner was more chaotic. A hundred or so patrons occupied tables, booths, and a twenty meter counter. A few waiters buzzed in and out with the breakfast rush. Judging by the rapidity of the kitchen’s turnaround, there was either a large cooking staff or an industrial food processor in the back.
Processor. Grace wanted to wrinkle her nose, but she reminded herself that it was still real food. It smelled enough like food for her stomach, anyway.
A small booth in the corner looked ideal, and she conquered it before it fell into enemy hands. With her back to the wall, she watched a nearby table of roiders plow through food. One, with a metarm lower jaw, devoured a big stack of flapjacks in a matter of seconds. An older man sat at the head of the table, barking orders at the others as he slurped his coffee. She didn’t see any visible upgrades, though he looked like he could use some new teeth. They were loud, obnoxious, and reminded her cheerily of the Red Fox Academy mess.
Her ptenda bleeped: PLEASE ENTER YOUR ORDER. The display morphed into a menu. Grace ordered three eggs, bacon, beans, tomatoes, four slices of buttered white toast, and a mug of coffee. Two mugs of coffee. And sausages.
Satisfied, she leaned back and languidly surveyed the room. Most of the patrons were mechflesh, but of the superficial sort. A man with three small children interested Grace the most. The man had no visible upgrades, but the eldest child, probably his daughter, sported a left forearm exactly like Raj’s. The other two, twin boys, each had a pair of metarm hands. Grace was getting used to mechflesh adults, but seeing upgraded children made her feel queasy. She wondered if the father had been pressured into it by all of those ads. Give your children the best chance!
“Hi, I’m Gail. Here’s your order.”
A young lady with a beaming smile, a large plate of food, and two cups of coffee appeared in front of Grace.
Grace promptly forgot about her queasiness. Everything looked and smelled delicious. She grabbed a slice of bacon and dug into her eggs. Processed or not, it tasted like the real thing. Her father had probably eaten the same sort of thing at daybreak today.
“Anything else?”
Grace’s mouth was stuffed with food; she smiled and shook her head. Gail disappeared in a blur.
Within ten minutes, the food had disappeared, the coffee was drained, and Grace’s stomach rumbled contentment. It was hard to keep up with a high metabolism. She still had a little more than an hour to kill, so she ordered another cup of coffee and a slice of chocolate cake. She slowly sipped the coffee, but left the chocol
ate cake undisturbed. Here was the time to relax she had wanted. Strange that she’d found it in a crowded diner.
An hour later, her ptenda chimed with a message from Rendilon Gobi: EN ROUTE TO FREER DINER.
Grace replied: I’m the blonde—she quickly deleted the word and continued—woman with black hair in the eastern corner booth. There’s a slice of chocolate cake on the table.
A few moments later, a round man in a black suit entered the diner. He glanced from table to table. When he saw Grace, he lumbered over to her booth.
“Protector Donner?” he asked.
Grace stood and reached out to shake his hand. “Yes, Mr. Gobi. A pleasure to meet you.”
Rendilon Gobi squeezed in across from her, scanning the diner in the mirror over her shoulder. One eye was green; one was brown. The classic chimerism of gene addicts.
“Were you followed?”
“I doubt it,” Grace replied. “I took the mover alone and nobody lingered when I got off. Other than my boss, I don’t think anybody knows I’m here.”
He continued his furtive scan of the diner. “Good.”
Gobi’s stout fingers hammered his ptenda. “Have you eaten anything besides the cake?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m stuffed.”
“I haven’t eaten, yet,” he replied. “I’ll need breakfast before the meeting.”
Gail arrived in minutes with a large steak, three scrambled eggs, a mountain of potatoes, and a carafe of orange juice.
Gobi demolished the eggs and grunted information to Grace.
“My life is in danger. Somebody’s been tracking me.” A big swallow of orange juice followed.
“Need extra protection. You. Glad compstate assigned me another protector.” Two huge forks of potatoes.
“I’ll keep you safe, Mr. Gobi.” She knew paranoia was typical of gene addicts. It was interesting that he thought she came from compstate. Grace decided not to correct him. She understood little of this mission.
Gobi kept eating in silence. Grace watched with fascination tinged by disgust.
“Stick close during the meeting, and afterwards deposit me in a mover,” he said finally, belching as he stood. “Let’s go, protector.”
