Enter? There doesn't seem to be any way in. It's been sealed better than most tombs.
“Look to your left,” Ana says.
I look. And see nothing other than a dirty hole in the wall, leading into a narrow duct littered with used drug applicators and respiration pods.
“You want me to crawl in there?” I ask.
“It's the only way in, unless you want to try and get through the authorities on the other end. Don't worry, I'll guide you. It gets wider.”
Cursing, I get down on my belly, tuck my hands up inside my jacket sleeves, and crawl into the duct. It's real narrow, pinching my arms to my sides. But by wiggling like a restless worm, I'm able to keep myself moving at a steady pace.
Ana's right. It does get wider. Eventually I'm able to get my elbows under me and move faster. Her voice in my ear guides me along. Left, right, straight, left again. Finally, I come out into a dark cavernous space, and stand up.
I'm on the station platform. Cracked, pulverized tiles crunch under my shifting feet and my popping joints echo loud in the empty silence as I stretch out my compressed body.
“There are dopers in here,” Ana says. “Always are. Probably passed out. As long as they stay that way, you'll be fine.”
“Where to now?” I ask.
“Onto the track.”
There's not much light to go by. Just what little manages to filter down through the street-level grates up above. I climb down, feeling slick metal underfoot. The magnetic plates, which used to drive tram cars through here at ridiculous speeds.
There's a stench hanging around this place. A stench like death. Some dopehead must have met their end nearby, and now was silently decaying in the dark. All alone.
“Turn left,” Ana says. “Follow the tunnel along. Let me know when you get to the part where the tunnel curves.”
I do what she says. And I let her know.
“Good,” she says. “To your right, you should see a conduit of wires snaking up the wall. A junction box lower down. Three tile squares to the left of that, you should find a tile with one of its corners missing...”
Following her directions, I find the tile. I dig my fingernails under the broken corner and pull the tile outward. Behind it is a small hollow in the wall. I reach inside and pull out a tiny box, sealed magnetically. Inside the box is a data transfer wafer. About the size of a fingernail and as thick as a small coin.
“Is it there?” Ana asks.
“Yes.”
“Great! Get out of there.”
I close the box and slide it into my pocket, the same one that holds my omni.
Suddenly, I'm blinded by a flash of light.
Thundering feet approach me at a run, clapping and drumming against the magnetic track plate.
A synth patrol. Probably after dopeheads. But I guess they've already decided that I'll do just fine. At first glance, they just look like four heavily armed pretty boys, but I'm wise enough to know better. Wise enough to know that each member of this rapidly approaching boy band is roughly eight times stronger than a natural born human. Without a word, they shove me to the ground. One of them gets his knee on the back of my neck. Another pulls my hood back and yanks both my arms out behind me, painfully wrenching my shoulders.
A hand snakes into my coat pocket, just misses my omni, and closes around the box. Ana's stash. He pulls the box out.
“What is it?” one of them asks.
“Data storage.”
“What’s on the drive, meatbag?” the one with his knee in my neck demands.
“Don’t you robots have anything better to do?” I sneer, knowing the term robot will piss them off.
“Did he just call me a fucking robot?” the synth officer fumes, glancing up at his colleagues in bewilderment.
“Come on, officer… There’s no such thing as a fucking robot. Everyone knows Maestro didn't give you guys dicks,” I mock, bursting into laughter at my own joke. A few years ago, an organic comedian started a rumor that male synths didn't have cocks. As far as I know the rumor wasn't true but for some reason it stuck, and the synths tend to hate it.
“Ha ha,” the angry synth says, his perfect inflection barely managing to register his intended sarcasm. “You organics think you're funny don't you? You know what I think?”
I momentarily close my eyes and exhale, already anticipating another tired variation of the age old meatbag slur.
“I think you're all just a bunch of sausages,” the angry patrolman sneers. “Just a bunch of worthless meat packed into a casing.”
“At least I have a sausage,” I chuckle.
“What’s on the drive,” the synth patrolman growls, doing his best to ignore my quip, even though his counter parts clearly found it lightly amusing.
“Listen, robot,” I snap. “I don’t have to—”
My words are abruptly interrupted, and my heart rate spikes as the synth removes his knee from my neck then reaches down and wraps his right hand around my throat. His unnatural strength is on full display as he yanks me from the ground and dangles me in midair in front of him.
The tail of my coat flutters in the cool night wind as I consider my options. I could stop him. My synth assailant doesn't know it, but I’m more than capable of taking him down. Instead, I sit there and take it because I know his buddies would likely kill me after I make my move.
“I’ve got a question for you, meatbag,” the enraged synth officer says as he glares up at me. “Did you hear a beep... or a fucking boop come out of my mouth at any point during this conversation?”
I try to choke out a smart remark but his grip around my throat is far too tight for me to speak. Instead I simply shake my head from side to side to answer 'no’.
“That's because I'm not a fucking robot!” the synth bellows as he flings me to the ground.
They all laugh at my expense as I hit the ground and scramble to regain my composure.
“What's on the data wafer?” the hostile synth officer asks, while I climb to my feet with dull pain still echoing throughout my body.
“Robot porn,” I quip, causing the officer’s counterparts to chuckle. “Of course, they’re all using strap—”
Before I can finish my statement, I hear the crunch of circuitry being turned to dust under a boot heel. My heart sinks and anger swells in my chest as I realize that the grumpy synth officer had just purposely stepped on Ana's stash and destroyed it. My coat flutters open and my right hand lingers dangerously close to the heavily modified side arm on my hip.
“He has a weapon,” one of them says and then they all draw their firearms and aim at me.
“This is a licensed weapon! I'm a goddamn PI. Roman Ibarra! Look it up,” I bark, hoping they don't check my gun due to its illegal modifications. Mods that would make me a nightmare for unwary synths like them if I took a notion.
“He checks out,” another of them confirms, staring into his omni display as he addresses his squad.
They have no choice but to cut me loose. My license is valid and I'm in good standing with the synth authorities. With that in mind, this squad knows their overlords wouldn't want them making any more trouble than they already have. Finally, they lower their weapons and I trudge past them without another word, vanishing into the darkness from whence I came. Feeling broken, and shaking with anger, I pull the hood of my coat back over my head and make my way back towards the spot where I had entered this wasteland of a place.
“They're gone,” Ana whispers in my earpiece.
“So is your stash,” I grumble.
“No, it isn't. I used your omni’s pulse to extract the data. I suppose they weren't counting on you carrying a full persona in your pocket.”
“You beautiful thing, you,” I say, cracking a smile as I envision how excited she always gets when she does something awesome. “Have I ever told you how great I think you are?”
“Many times. I told you I'd pull my weight. Now get out of this place and let's see what I've been up to.”
CHAPTER 6
◆◆◆
I'm beyond anxious and I can't wait to glean the data from Ana's stash. But I'm even more eager to wash the filth of the mag-tram station off me. So, the first thing I do after getting home is jump in the shower.
When I get out of the shower, my omni is sitting out on the counter right where I left it, but I’m surprised to see that Ana has projected her hologram form onto the counter in scaled down form. Small enough to stand on the palm of my hand. And she's watching me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, quickly and reflexively hiding myself.
“What?” she asks, looking confused. “I just wanted to see you. Is that so bad?”
“It's weird,” I admit.
“But it's me, Rome. It's not like...” her expression droops and she trails off into silence as she realizes that she's done it again… confused herself for the real Ana.
Once again, I don't know how to respond. It really isn't her, and I know that it isn't but somehow a part of me is having a hard time believing that she is anyone other than the one true Ana Graves. Still, even if she was her, she hasn't seen me naked in many years. Strangely enough, I actually feel a bit self-conscious. How different do I look compared to what she remembers? Probably not much. I'm still technically a young man, a few years shy of turning forty, and I do enough running around and climbing over things to stay in great shape. But still...
I get dressed fast, feeling my shirt sticking to my wet body. I carry my omni out into the main space and hook it into the beefier wall projection rig, which can generate larger than life holograms. Ana does the rest, flashing through her files, searching for anything pertinent. Most of what I see, flying by in the hologram, is old news. Cases she worked on years ago. Petty murders that had been long since solved. But she has to go through them linearly, systematically, so we don't miss anything. We could just go to the most recent entry, but who knows how far back this case goes?
“Here!” her voice chimes, excitedly. “This has to be something...”
I step closer to the projection, my arms folded, my sharp eyes narrowed. There isn't much here. The records are concise, stripped down to tiny entries. As though she either didn't have time to put down full reports or was trying to keep her records to a minimum for reasons of secrecy. But there's enough to get me salivating.
Something about a cryogenics facility. The place is named, the address is given.
Cryo facilities have been popping up more and more. After the Second War, when organic humans were nearly extinguished by their synthetic counterparts, the response of the surviving organics was a predictable one. Revolt was out of the question. There could be no uprising. Not after what happened during that last global conflict. We gave those sons of bitches our best shot and they still mopped the floor with our entire species. After that most organics felt the only choice was to join the synths in their perfect immortality. In the decades following the war, nearly half of all remaining humans transferred themselves into cyber bodies, and cyber brains.
But joining with the synths wasn't the only response. Other, organic-run companies began to offer cryogenic storage solutions. Facilities that allowed organics to put themselves into suspended animation, for however long they could afford. Many of those original cryo-people are still frozen to this day, and others are joining them all the time. Might be a thousand years or so before any of them ever see the light of day again. This was basically their last resort. The only viable solution besides death for those who couldn’t cope with life on a synth-dominated planet. Their plan, tenuous and unlikely to be fulfilled, is to someday wake into a world where organic humans have once again become the dominant group.
Enter Lois Namara. There's information aplenty about this woman in Ana's stashed files. Biological age of thirty years. But she has a daughter who is elderly, in her sixties. How do you figure that? Well, Lois got herself frozen when her daughter was only fifteen years old. Tried to have her daughter frozen too. So, they could wake together in a brighter future. But I guess the dad or someone, had a different idea, and the daughter—a woman named Ilsa—was never frozen.
But Ilsa was close to her mother. And it seems they have stayed almost as close, all these years. Ilsa Namara visited her mother in cryo storage at least once a week. Used to sit outside the tank, staring in the tiny window at her mother's frozen cheek, and tell her stories. She would tell her mother about the recent news, or about things that had happened in her life.
These days, life expectancy is down for organics. We don't age visibly much faster than we used to, but we tend to die suddenly before we ever reach our seventies. So, Ilsa is quite old. Old people are sometimes gullible. They come from an old world, where things were different. And there comes a time when the human brain decides it's had enough and quits taking in new information. That's when people get left in the dust. They can seem like senile idiots, but they're often not; they're just operating on outdated information. Obsolete assumptions.
I don't get that vibe from Ilsa though. When the recorded interview plays, with Ana on one side of the table and Ilsa on the other, all I see is a bright-eyed woman who seems exceedingly sharp, even for someone much younger.
“How often did you visit your mother?” Ana asks.
“Once a week,” Ilsa replies, laying her wrinkled hands flat on the table on either side of a cup of water. “Sometimes twice. Or three times. Just whenever I was missing her, or I had something I thought she ought to hear.” Ilsa shakes her head, chuckling. “Not that I thought she could hear me, mind you. It was for me. Just for me. I couldn't stand the thought of her being all alone.”
Ana nods, waiting patiently, then asks the next question. “And there was a problem with your mother's contract?”
“You can say that again. It was cancelled. I went to visit her...”
“This was the day before yesterday,” says Ana, bending over her omni to read something. “Around... ten o'clock?”
Ilsa nods. “That's right. I went to visit her. I remember the people there kind of looked at me funny, and they had a doctor follow me, which is the first time that ever happened. When I stepped into my mother's room, I knew something was wrong. She wasn't there. The tank was empty, flushed clean and ready for the next human popsicle.”
“Obviously, your mother didn't terminate her own contract. So, who did?”
“They're saying it was me,” Ilsa replies, lifting the water cup to her lips with a trembling hand. “They said I signed some paperwork and took my mother out of there. But it wasn't me, Ms. Graves. My mother is missing. She's been stolen.”
In the interview room, Ana turns on a hologram which shows a security camera feed from the cryogenics facility in question. In the feed, Ilsa Namara can be clearly seen giving her digital signature to an omni-slate at the front desk. The footage is very high quality; I can almost count the pores on Ilsa's face.
Seems pretty cut and dry to me after that. I guess the old bird had a lapse after all. It happens to the best of us at that age, I suppose. We forget things. Shit gets foggy. Just another part of being organic.
In the interview, Ana says nothing. She just lets the camera footage play out, then turns toward Ilsa expectantly. Patiently. Trusting.
“It's not me,” Ilsa says. “The facility manager said... well, he implied, in more polite words, that I must be going senile. But you can visit my physician, Ms. Graves. A lovely synth man named Cowel. He'll tell you. I'm fit as a fiddle. No measurable cognitive decline, no markers for an episode like this. They tried to convince me I was crazy. They even tried to pay me a lot of money to just go along with their nonsense. What do I need money for?”
And just like that I'm back on the fence. Why does she seem so convinced? I think to myself as I study Ilsa's determined expression. I've met a lot of liars in my career. Spoken to many. I know how to spot one. Ilsa isn't lying. She believes what she's saying.
“The only explanation,” Ilsa continues, “is that this is al
l a fake. Someone wanted my mother for something. And they know I'm the only one who can alter her storage contract, so they created all this nonsense to make it look like I'm responsible for her disappearance.”
Ilsa's theory is starting to make more sense by the second. The synths will never let you in on the full breadth of their technological capabilities, but the tricks for creating a deep fake video, impossible to tell apart from reality, have existed for quite a long time.
But the question is...
“Who might want her?” Ana asks Ilsa. “Can you think of anyone?”
“So, you believe me?” Ilsa questions.
“I won't commit to saying that just yet, Ms. Namara. But I cannot discount your claims. Not until I have more evidence. And not until your mother is found. That is, if you are choosing to hire me.”
At that point, the interview footage ends, and the hologram dims a bit.
“I've scrubbed through the rest already,” Ana's persona says in my ear. “Basically, Ilsa has no idea at all who might have wanted to take her mother. But there are other things you should see.”
We go through more notes. Little memos and reminders she left for herself. They're all just hints of clues, tantalizing bits of richer information that she apparently decided to refrain from leaving anywhere but inside her own brain.
Her notes tell us a couple things which would probably come in handy.
For one, Ana apparently knew of several other similar cases. People having their loved ones removed from cryo without their knowledge or consent.
Second, she had dug into the history of the cryo facility where Lois Namara was stored. Future Solutions Incorporated. That was the name of the place. Apparently, its ownership had recently changed hands. It was purchased by an enigmatic shell company called Latticework Systems.
“There's not much information about Latticework out there,” Ana says. “But I found a little bit in here. Their function and goals are unknown, but they are rumored to have ties with certain radical synth groups. Ultra-national causes that call for the complete annihilation of organics. Kind of a troubling tie for a cryogenics facility to have, don't you think?”
Darkside Dreams - The Complete First Series Page 40
