Matrix Man

by William C. Dietz

  There was a steady flow of pedestrian traffic and it was picking up as the ants poured out of their metal anthills and headed for lunch.

  As far as Hans Dietrich was concerned, they were visual wallpaper, happenings with little or no meaning, variables to be stepped around or over.

  Across the street a commercial graffiti artist went to work spray painting a freehand likeness of a water-beaded Coke can over a similar picture of an ice-cold Pepsi. Within hours, days at the most, another commercial artist would spray paint something else over those until the city sandblasted the wall and the whole thing started over again.

  A ray of sunshine found its way down through the labyrinth of metal and glass to touch Dietrich's face. He smiled. Life was good. The kind of good that goes with money, power, and interesting things to do. Subido might be an ice queen, but she was a generous ice queen, and between the salary she paid and the stipend Numalo gave him to keep an eye on her, Dietrich had lots of money. More money than he could spend.

  But the money was nothing next to the power. Ah, the power. It was the thing which had first attracted him to the military, to the uniforms, to the symbols of rank. But now he had something even better.

  Now he had invisible power, the kind which means more because nobody's sure how far it extends, so they assume that it goes all the way.

  But power is nothing unless it's used. So the lucky man has power and a purpose, and thanks to Carla Subido, Dietrich had both.

  He grinned, checked a street sign to make sure he was still on course, and allowed the crowd to carry him along. All around him lights flashed on and off, electronic billboards hawked their wares, and the occasional cop car whirred by.

  Regular motorized traffic had been banned from the city's streets years ago to make room for more foot traffic and to reduce pollution. Now only official vehicles like police cars and Dietrich's limo were allowed to enter the downtown area. Everything else, the buses and the light rail, were underground.

  Two blocks later Dietrich arrived in front of the WPO's Seattle headquarters. It was a short building by modern standards, only twenty stories or so, and sheathed in black glass. In many ways the structure was typical of the World Peace Organization, because while it performed a function, it was a good real estate investment as well. The WPO was not, and never had been, a nonprofit organization. Quite the contrary.

  Frustrated by constant regional and religious wars, a consortium of large multinational companies had pooled their resources and founded the WPO some twenty years before. Their goal was more specific than that of the United Nations and therefore more attainable. The founders of the WPO sought to promote world peace not as an end in itself, but as a means of fostering predictable world markets.

  And, like the hardheaded business people they were, the founders had conceived of an organization which would break even, and if well managed, might turn a profit.

  Well, the profit had taken awhile to develop, but develop it had, and now the organization produced a regular surplus. The WPO accomplished this by charging for its services, ironically the same services the United Nations had once provided for free but with far less success.

  Over time the WPO had evolved into a multinational, quasi-governmental organization which hired troops from member countries, integrated them into a single force, and made them available for a price.

  Client countries got more than just troops, however, and in most cases, way more than they bargained for. What they got was a team of economic advisers, advisers of their own nationality and religion, who had been selected while children and educated abroad. And during that education they'd been thoroughly indoctrinated, so that when they returned to their native lands they remained loyal to the WPO and acted with its interests in mind. Years would pass, and many of them would make the transition from adviser to citizen, and little by little they would weave WPO companies and organizations into the fabric of the local economy. The result was a worldwide network of stable markets which functioned to enrich WPO companies and supplant all others.

  Dietrich was a graduate of that system, as were Subido and Numalo, although the African had moved up through the ranks so quickly that it was hard to say who worked for whom, Numalo or the WPO.

  But unlike the other two, Dietrich's talents were deemed to lie in other areas, the activities euphemistically known as "market design" and "market discipline," but really meant killing anyone who got in the WPO's way. And that accounted for his presence in Seattle.

  As Dietrich made his way up a short flight of stairs and into the building, he marveled at the WPO's power and reach. His power and reach since he was the embodiment of the organization itself.

  The uniformed receptionist almost had a nervous breakdown when she saw the T clearance on his ID card. She took him to the VIP elevator and ushered him inside. She rarely saw anyone with an S-clearance, much less a T.

  Leather-covered walls oozed a rich odor and amber numerals flickered quickly by as the elevator rose to the top floor and glided to a stop.

  As the doors hissed open, Dietrich stepped outside and found two people were waiting for him. One was balding, with the sleek, slightly overfed look of a minor functionary, and the other was blade-thin, with greasy, slicked-back hair. He was armed and liked to let people know it. There was a visible bulge under his left armpit.

  The functionary spoke first. "Welcome, Mr. Dietrich. My name is Christian Fawley, and this is Nicolai Slovo. Nicolai will serve as your bodyguard during your visit to Seattle. Your limo arrived a few minutes ago and your luggage has already been transferred to the VIP suite."

  "Thank you, Mr. Fawley," Dietrich replied calmly. "Is the information I requested ready?"

  "Oh, yes, certainly," Fawley replied eagerly, dry-washing his doughy hands. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you what we have so far."

  Fawley led him down a richly paneled hallway and into the vast quietness of a large conference room. Banks of sophisticated electronic gear hummed along one wall; green indicator lights signaled their readiness to serve as the computer-controlled lights gradually turned themselves on.

  "Please take a seat," Fawley said smoothly, indicating the chair at the head of a long conference table. Dietnch smiled internally. This guy was a world-class ass kisser.

  Dietrich settled himself into the power-assisted chair. He saw Slovo complete a circuit of the room and take up a position by the door.

  "So my new bodyguard takes his duties seriously," Dietrich thought to himself. "Laudable, but somewhat disturbing."

  Was he really in danger? Or was Slovo just for show? Dietrich felt something heavy drop into the pit of his stomach.

  It could be real. After all, he was the one who led the raid into Canada, he was the one who had killed members of the Exodus Underground, and he was the one Corvan had splashed over video screens worldwide.

  He'd heard rumors, allegations of Exodus Society hit squads, and some of their enemies had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Still, there was no proof, and no reason to believe that he'd been singled out for a hit. Unless the two men knew something he didn't. What if the Exodus Society had threatened to assassinate him? What if Subido was using him to bait a trap? The resulting propaganda opportunities might be more valuable than he was. The power seemed to suddenly fade away, leaving Dietrich alone and extremely vulnerable.

  But if the military teaches you anything, it teaches you to hide what you're feeling, and Dietrich used that training to conceal his fear. He waved a casual hand in Fawley's direction.

  "Show me what you have on Corvan." Even though Dietrich had met the reop face-to-face, he knew very little about the man. Another rule for the hunter. Know more about the quarry than the quarry knows about himself.

  Fawley cleared his throat and said, "The Corvan video, please."

  The conference room's primary computer heard the instruction, loaded the proper disk, and played it back. The far wall swirled with color and locked up into a 3-D passport shot straight
out of the State Department's files. Fawley rocked back and forth on his heels as he spoke:

  "The subject is thirty-six years of age, six-one, and weighs one ninety. He was born and raised right here in Seattle."

  The shot changed to show an upper-middle-class condo complex. Then it dissolved to a shot of a man in a swimming suit standing behind the wheel of a Boston whaler and smiling into the camera.

  "That's Corvan's father, Tom. He died in a diving accident when Corvan was five."

  The video shimmered and coalesced into a shot of a middle-aged woman. It had the look of a publicity still.

  "This is Corvan's mother, Lisa Kelly-Corvan, now retired. She was a highly regarded, though somewhat controversial journalism professor at the University of Washington, and according to those who know the family, it was she who provided Corvan with his world view."

  The video changed to show a typical graduation picture. Corvan was laughing and looking off-camera toward someone else.

  "Corvan graduated from the University of Washington with a masters in communications, tried a couple of part-time jobs, and joined the army."

  Another shot came up, this one clearly from army files and marked "Confidential" across the bottom of the frame. Corvan was dressed in the uniform of a Green Beret. Silver lieutenant's bars were visible on his shoulders. The shot changed, and Dietrich saw that Corvan had an implant.

  The German's respect for Corvan went up a notch. The Green Beanies were some tough troops, and only the best received implants.

  Fawley continued, "Corvan served with the Green Berets just before that unit was absorbed into the WPO forces, and fought in a couple of minor police actions. As you can see, the army equipped Corvan with a weapons-implant interface. Consistent with army policy, the implant was left untouched at discharge."

  Dietrich frowned: something to remember. Corvan had the ability to wire up a variety of man-operated military hardware.

  A new shot appeared, this one lifted right out of Corvan's stand-up close on the Canadian raid.

  "After his discharge Corvan went to work for a number of small-time networks, eventually winding up with an outfit called Earth Net in Los Angeles, and that's where he met Frank Neely. Both were known for their iconoclastic behavior, both had frequent disagreements with management, and both left when the company was taken over by a large conglomerate. It was shortly thereafter that Corvan purchased his bod-mods and became an instant celebrity."

  "And Neely?"

  Fawley consulted his pocket comp. When he looked up, there was a frown on his face. 'T don't know. Neely's records are Z-sealed."

  Dietrich was careful to conceal his surprise. A Z-clearance was as high as they went. What the hell had Neely done to deserve that? Whatever it was had gotten him killed.

  "Anything else?" Dietrich demanded.

  Fawley shrugged. "I was going to mention that Corvan has apartments in both San Francisco and New York. He hasn't been to either one of them since before the raid. He's well paid and has investments totaling four-hundred-and-sixty-two thousand dollars, which when combined with the value of his two coop apartments makes him worth about two-and-a-half mil."

  Dietrich nodded. "Okay, how 'bout his movements since the raid?"

  "Give me data file, Corvan Rex, reference number 0037891," Fawley said, and the computer obeyed. The shot of Corvan disappeared and was replaced by a list of his movements.

  "As you can see, Corvan checked into a Vancouver hotel immediately after the raid. He used his telecard to make a number of routine business calls. The next day he left Vancouver for Seattle, where he visited News Network 56 headquarters and spent some time with a technoid named Kim Kio. She's the one who rode electronic herd on his Canadian report."

  "Video?" Dietrich inquired, his fingers steepled in front of his eyes.

  "Video please," Fawley instructed, and moments later it was there. There were six shots in all. The first five were of Corvan. The first showed him in an airport, the second aboard a plane, the third in some sort of lobby, the fourth was blurred, and the fifth in a subway. All had the sloppy, imposed look of candid photography.

  The sixth and last shot was of Kim Kio buying something from a street vendor. Illegal fags from the look of it.

  "All six of these shots were obtained by running a high-speed skim on the most recent data dump from our northwest chip heads," Fawley volunteered.

  Dietrich was aware that the WPO made regular use of the data gathered by chip heads. Not the advertising-related stuff, which they didn't care about, but the things in between, the shots of people the WPO was interested in. There would be hell to pay if the press ever found out, but what the heck, the rewards were worth the risk. Access to millions of roving surveillance cameras was just too good to pass up. And since the same companies who owned the WPO also controlled the rating services, it was easy to do.

  Dietrich came to a decision. He couldn't be sure that Corvan's visit to News Network 56 and Kim Kio had anything to do with the raid, but odds were that it did. Why else would Corvan go there rather than accept another assignment or head home? Nope, Dietrich didn't believe in coincidence, and that meant trouble. At the very least Corvan would have to be neutralized, and depending on what he found, Kim Kio might be close behind.

  Dietrich turned to Fawley. In spite of the room's air conditioning a sheen of sweat covered the functionary's forehead. "I'm afraid that Mr. Corvan has become a serious liability."

  Fawley ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. "Yes, well, I was instructed to anticipate that possibility and identify some potential scenarios."

  "And?" Dietrich asked.

  "And we have just the thing," Fawley assured him. "There's a prison riot aboard Barge Farm 648 just north of here. At our urging the local authorities have managed to keep a lid on it, and since Corvan's in town, an anonymous tip should be sufficient to get him going."

  Dietrich nodded thoughtfully. "All sorts of terrible things could befall a reop during a prison riot. Make one of them happen.''

  5

  It was dark as the Hovercraft roared up the inside passage. A stiff breeze blew the tops off the whitecaps and splattered them against the vessel's windshield.

  Then, just when the thousands of tiny droplets threatened to obscure the helmsman's view, three wiper blades scythed downward and wiped the windshield clear.

  There was nothing for Corvan to do but sit inside the vessel's small cabin and sip black coffee. Earlier they'd passed a huge Japanese container ship as it carefully eased its way down the main channel towards Elliot Bay. Since then, however, they'd seen nothing more than a few fishing boats.

  To his left the thin green arm of the radar swept around and around, eternally discovering Whidbey Island to port and the mainland to starboard. And there, right up toward the top of the screen, a series of blips marked their destination. One of them was Barge Farm 648.

  Like the many other barge farms in and around Puget Sound, number 648 was engaged in aquaculture. The barge was not so much a vessel as a floating framework from which salmon-rearing pens were suspended. Pausing in one place for a few months, the barge would move on before the salmon had caused any damage to surrounding marine life, and before annoyed shore dwellers complained about the way it spoiled their view.

  Even with America's vaunted ability to produce food, the ever growing world population was pushing things to the max. Backyard gardens were back in vogue, the hydroponics industry was flourishing, and barge farms operated wherever conditions allowed.

  But one thing made 648 different from all the rest. It was a prison, and the men who did the work were prisoners, felons mostly, too violent for computer-monitored home incarceration.

  The whole thing had started in the late Nineties when taxpayers, fed up with the cost of building new prisons, started looking for alternatives. Home incarceration was one and self-supporting prisons were another.

  There was nothing new about the concept—the state of Texas had done it for years—bu
t there had been questions of propriety. Should prisoners be asked to repay some portion of what it cost to support them? Were they treated well? Were their rights observed?

  Working under the twin pressures of high taxes and a burgeoning prison population, legislators began answering all three questions in the affirmative. Pilot projects were started, and before long, penal farms sprang into existence across the land. Blessed with waters ideal for aquaculture, Washington State had launched a number of correctional barge farms. Number 648 was one of them.

  And, from what Corvan had learned during the short period of time available, the experiment had worked very well indeed. While the barge farms were not entirely self-supporting, they did bring in sufficient revenue to help offset costs, and were therefore a cut above the human warehouses they'd replaced.

  On top of that the barge farms produced some of the food required by the world's exploding population. Due to the rising temperatures, tropical rice production had fallen more than ten percent during the last twenty years. American wheat production was off too, some eighteen percent over the same period of time and still falling.

  Fortunately the greenhouse effect had blessed other areas of the world. Due to warmer weather in Canada and Russia, their wheat production was way up, but just barely keeping pace with demand. However, one bad year, one lower than average harvest, and six months later the entire world would go to bed hungry.

  Corvan staggered as the hovercraft hit some chop and grabbed onto a hand hold. The helmsman saw but managed not to smile. Dumping VIPs on their rear ends was one of his hobbies, but it wouldn't pay to tell them that.

  Corvan returned to his thoughts. After checking into his hotel, he'd had dinner sent to his room and hit the sack early. He'd just dropped off to sleep when the anonymous call woke him up. The voice was distorted^ intentionally so in case he tried to record and analyze it.