by Todd McAulty
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Breakfast this morning was something of a celebration. The hotel restaurant had finally reopened after the street attack, and everyone was downstairs, standing in the buffet line and swapping stories of where they’d been, how they survived.
Before I joined Martin for breakfast, I went looking for Sergei. The big room on the third floor where the field hospital had been was mostly empty, just a few tables and sheets, but he wasn’t hard to find. Down the hall a bit, one of the conference rooms had been converted into a command center. Peeking in from the door, I saw the Venezuelans had set up tables with dozens of monitors, a lot of mobile comm equipment, and plenty of other equipment I didn’t recognize. I spotted Sergei near the back.
There were two guards stationed at the door, both with rifles, and they just shook their heads when I tried to mosey on inside. I hung around for a few minutes, hoping Sergei would come out, until I saw the kid—the one Van de Velde had set to guard me yesterday—approach. He was carrying a bunch of boxes.
“Hey,” I said. “Can you get a message to Sergei for me?”
“Where is he?” the kid asked.
I indicated the back of the command center. The kid nodded, and headed into the room, motioning me to follow. When the guards objected, the kid said something in Spanish, and they moved aside, still eyeing me suspiciously.
“What the hell did you say to them?” I asked when we were out of earshot.
“I told them you’re a doctor,” he said. I thought briefly about correcting him, but decided it was best to let that misunderstanding lie.
“How is your friend?” the kid asked as we walked. “The robot?”
“Okay, far as I know.”
Two mobile machines from the Manhattan Consulate had shown up after Black Winter made a call from the lobby yesterday afternoon, and they’d whisked him away. One of them, a lumbering seven-foot crane that looked like two lampposts welded together, came back later and grilled me for forty-five minutes, and she wasn’t friendly about it. Apparently no one in the AGRT had bothered to tell the Consulate what had happened to their machine. Black Winter was right—diplomatic relations with Sector One just didn’t seem very high on the Venezuelan priority list.
“Why didn’t you contact us?” she’d asked me. For the second time.
“Contact who?” I said, getting a little annoyed. “I don’t have a phone. And all I knew was his name. If I’d spent my time trying to find a phone, he wouldn’t be here now, I guarantee you that. He needed help immediately; I helped him.”
“You had no right to authorize an organ transfer for a defense attaché of the Kingdom of Manhattan, especially with substandard components. If anything happens to him, we will hold you responsible.”
“Fine,” I said. I was tempted to ask just who was going to pay for those substandard components, but figured I was on thin ice with these people already. Besides, the damage to my expense account was already done. I was going to have to get pretty damn creative to explain why I’d spent ten thousand dollars of Ghost Impulse money on a foreign machine for “consulting services.”
“We will need to talk again,” she said, handing me a slender metal card. “In the meantime, if you recall anything else about the incident in which our attaché was injured, please call this number.”
“I don’t have a phone,” I reminded her. “None of my mobile devices work. The AGRT is still jamming all commercial bandwidth in the city.”
“You can reach the Consulate from the phone in the hotel lobby.” With that she packed up and was gone.
I was touched to hear the kid ask about Black Winter, anyway. I was glad I wasn’t the only one thinking about him. “Have you heard from him since yesterday?” the kid asked.
“No,” I said.
“You probably never will,” the kid said. “And you’ll never see that ten thousand dollars again, mark my words. You can’t trust a damn robot.”
There were dozens of technicians and soldiers in the room, most of them sitting at makeshift communication stations. I tried not to obviously gawk at everything as we made our way toward the back, but it was hard. The Venezuelans had some sweet equipment—and very clearly had access to the kind of unimpeded bandwidth that civilians could only dream about. I couldn’t access any commercial data networks from my hotel room, not even the private ones I’d paid a fortune for. But the AGRT didn’t appear to have that problem. Every one of the monitors I passed showed what appeared to be live data.
They had a weather station, an air traffic control display, a cluster of camera feeds from the hotel, four or five screens showing what look like live feeds from airborne drones, a comm dashboard, a network hub, and a whole bunch more equipment I couldn’t suss out at a glance. Nothing looked ultra-sensitive though—no obvious display with troop placements, or anything like that—which made me relax a bit. I’d already been involved in one misunderstanding with the Venezuelan high command. I didn’t need to be mistaken for a spy in the same week.
There was a single robot in the room, a hulking brute snoozing by the door. At least it seemed to be snoozing. It was a mobile combat unit, all folded up, and at rest it mostly looked like a giant black refrigerator. It didn’t have a head, far as I could see. I couldn’t tell what its make was. Argentinean, maybe? It gave no indication of any kind of readiness, and if it had any status lights, they were all dead. But it still looked plenty imposing, and I didn’t stare at it for long. I’d seen too much footage of what these things were capable of during the war.
Sergei had a little medical station at the back of the room. It was a modest little one-man operation, but it seemed cozy enough. He had a bunch of equipment crammed under the table, a plastic chair, two monitors, what looked like a blood kit, and stacks of small vials. He glanced up as we approached. He didn’t smile, but he did give me a polite nod.
“The doctor is back,” said the kid as he dropped me off. Then he headed toward the weather station to dump his boxes.
Sergei looked at me questioningly. He was wrapping loose cord around a blood monitor.
“I just . . . I just came by to thank you,” I said. “For writing that note to Perez.”
Sergei nodded, putting the monitor on the table. He picked up his GPU, the standard-issue ID card all the AGRT soldiers carry, and tucked it into his pocket. He grabbed a med slate.
I looked around, a little awkwardly. I felt extremely out of place, standing here in the hive center of the Venezuelan occupation. And just like yesterday, Sergei didn’t seem in the mood for conversation.
But a quick thank-you and goodbye hardly seemed adequate for what he’d done. I made a decision, seizing a chair near an empty table. I slid it over so it was across from Sergei, and sat down facing him.
“Listen . . . I was in a tight spot yesterday. And I think your note may have helped save my life.”
Sergei just shrugged. But he’d stopped playing with his med slate.
“What did you say in the note?” I asked.
“I said you were stupid.”
“Stupid?” I repeated.
“Stupid. But that you liked to help people.”
“Well . . . thank you, I guess.”
Sergei put the slate down. He had a look on his face, like he was explaining something to a child. “Colonel Perez needed facts, to understand why you were found with his dead officer. Sergeant Van de Velde offered a sinister, but unlikely, interpretation. I offered a more plausible alternative.”
“That I’m stupid.”
Sergei shrugged again. “A stupid American who risks his life to help others. I had facts to support my theory.”
“What facts?”
“Yesterday. You escaped arrest to assist me in the field hospital.”
“Escaped arrest.” I almost snorted. “I walked ten feet from a
seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to use a rifle.”
“To help me,” Sergei said, as if that proved his point.
“Well, however you phrased it, I deeply appreciate your intentions. Even if you didn’t exactly have all your facts right. I’m Canadian, not American.”
“Ah.” Sergei sat back, seeming to reappraise me. “Perhaps that is why he did not have you shot.”
I laughed. “You think so?”
Sergei didn’t find it so amusing. “The colonel has orders to be very hospitable to foreigners. Venezuelan high command believes other nations are watching Sector Eleven with some scrutiny. There is pressure to demonstrate that AGRT can maintain peace and get city back on its feet.”
That made a certain amount of sense, when I thought about it. “How do you know all this?”
“Senior staff is briefed.”
“Whatever the case, I do believe your letter made a difference. I’m in your debt.”
“There is no debt. Yesterday, you saved lives. The rest—” He waved his hand. “Just politics.”
“Speaking of saving lives . . .” I said. “Where are all the patients?”
“They have been transferred to Army Surgical Unit at Burroughs.”
“Are they going to be okay? Will they all make it?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.” Sergei seemed to consider for a moment, then reached under the desk and pulled out a broad black slate. He turned it on and handed it to me.
“Hey,” I said after a moment. “These are all of them?”
“Yes.”
The slate showed the vitals for thirteen men and women, in what looked like real time. There was even a picture for each of the eleven soldiers, although the two civilians had faceless placeholder images. I poked the screen, and it responded to my touch. After a minute I was getting more detailed info.
“Vasquez has an infection,” I said.
“Yes, as you predicted.” Sergei reached over and took the slate. “But not too serious.”
“They look like they’ll be okay.” I felt a strange sense of relief. I hadn’t known any of our patients, but after spending a few hours helping Sergei fight to keep them alive, I felt an odd sense of responsibility for them.
“Yes,” said Sergei, with some satisfaction.
“You do good work.”
He nodded. Before he could say anything else, something caught his attention. I followed his gaze over my shoulder.
A man in a hotel uniform carrying a cardboard box was walking toward us, accompanied by a soldier. When he reached us, he set it down on Sergei’s desk. A name tag pinned to his chest read nguyen.
“Will these do?” he asked Sergei.
Sergei stood and shooed away the guard. When he was gone, he lifted a cloth napkin concealing the contents of the box and reached inside.
I watched him pull out two oranges. “Yes, is good,” he said.
Nguyen smiled, obviously pleased. While the two of us watched, Sergei cut one of the oranges in half, then pulled a plastic bag containing a syringe out of his desk. Sergei expertly pulled on a pair of disposable gloves, and pulled the syringe out of the bag.
It held a small amount of yellowish fluid. Sergei injected the fluid into the skin of one of the orange halves, then returned the syringe to the bag. Holding the orange aloft with his left hand, he cleared a small space on his desk and then pulled the skin-tight plastic wrapper off a new medical slate, one-handed.
I moved to help him, but he shook his head. Putting the slate on the desk, he carefully placed the orange, sliced side down, on the glass face of the slate. He brought up a virtual menu on the bottom of the slate and punched in a quick set of instructions. The slate began to flash at regular intervals, like it was taking pictures.
Satisfied, Sergei pulled off the gloves. He carefully bundled the gloves, bag, and empty syringe together and stepped toward a nearby medical waste disposal.
Nguyen and I exchanged glances. Nguyen’s look said, That was weird, and I was inclined to agree.
Sergei returned and began pulling open drawers on his desk, pulling things out and putting them in a paper bag. While he was occupied, Nguyen introduced himself. “Randolph Nguyen,” he said, shaking my hand. “Call me Randy.”
“You work for the hotel?” I said.
“I’m with Purchasing,” he said.
“That must be challenging these days.”
Nguyen grinned. “You’d be surprised. Most things are still available; it’s just the medium of exchange that’s in flux. For a lot of things, we’re back to the barter system.”
“People don’t use American money?”
“The Venezuelans don’t,” he said.
As if to illustrate his point, Sergei turned around and handed the paper bag to Nguyen. Nguyen took a minute to inventory its contents. I couldn’t see what was in it, but I did see him pull out two sheets of condoms and what looked like some diagnostic strips.
“Everything seems in order,” Nguyen said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Sergei’s attention had already returned inexorably to the orange. I stood up and said goodbye, and Sergei dismissed us both with an absent wave.
Nguyen was ready to leave, but seemed hesitant. “Can we walk around without an escort?” he whispered to me nervously.
“One way to find out,” I said, setting off for the door. He followed, clutching his bag.
“You a guest?” he said. He was putting on a brave front, but it was obvious that being surrounded by this many AGRT soldiers deeply unsettled him.
“Yeah. You know how many floors on the hotel are open?”
“Not very many—just a handful at the moment. The Venezuelans gave the owners permission to reopen half a dozen floors about a month ago.”
“The hotel’s only been open for a month?”
“Yes. Things seemed like they were returning to normal, and Renkain—the manager—was hoping to reopen more floors by May. But that was before yesterday.”
Nguyen grew quiet as we were approaching the door. No one had given us more than a casual glance, but he slowed as we neared the guards with the rifles, and he eyed them nervously.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” I said.
He walked alongside me as we exited. He seemed too nervous to speak, but I kept up the conversation, keeping my voice casual. The guards didn’t even look at us. Sixty feet down the hall, by the stairwell, Nguyen turned and pumped my hand warmly. Relief was evident in his voice.
“You need anything—anything at all—you come see me. I’m in the basement, below the kitchen.”
“I will,” I said.
I made my way down to the restaurant on the first floor. Suddenly I was starving. It seemed like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I wanted to eat, and I wanted to celebrate.
The restaurant was as busy as I’d seen it, which wasn’t saying much, but there was definitely a celebratory mood among the diners. Martin spotted me as I entered, and waved me over. There were already half a dozen people crammed around his table, but they made a show of pulling over an extra chair for me.
Martin introduced me to everyone as I took a seat. “This,” he said, clapping me on the back, “is the crazy Canadian I was telling you about.”
The food was very good. They had a buffet with eggs, real bacon, and even fresh produce. It seemed that Nguyen was good at his job. We enjoyed the food and shared stories.
For the first fifteen minutes, Belgium was the big topic of discussion. Word was going around about the results of yesterday’s referendum. By a narrow margin, the country had voted to dissolve Parliament, and surrender authority to the Arenberg Machine Cabal, one of the nastier European robot alliances. I exchanged a grim glance with Martin across the table. One of the last human governments on the planet had just succumbed to the machines. The thought left me chilled.
Sabine, an inner-city Chicago native who’d been hired as a communications specialist by the AGRT, was one of the fe
w optimists at our table. “The Cabal has pledged to abide by the human governance guidelines of the Helsinki Trustees,” she said. “So that’s something, yeah?”
Mike Concert—whom I’d met shortly after I’d moved in—audibly snorted. He was a contractor with a local construction outfit, managing one of the countless reconstruction jobs downtown. “Right,” he said. “Acoustic Drake promised the same thing when he seized Cameroon, and half that country is now a goddamn wasteland.”
Martin, who seemed to enjoy these debates a lot more than I did, waved a butter knife in my direction. “You know who’s an expert on living under machine rule? The distinguished Mr. Simcoe.”
I grimaced involuntarily. I had no desire to be in the center of this discussion. But Sabine slapped the table, pleased to welcome an apparent ally to the conversation. “That’s right,” she said. “Canada’s been ruled by machines for years now, and that’s turned out okay. Ain’t that right?”
“Well, our situation is very different from Belgium’s,” I said reluctantly. “Our prime minister is a machine, yeah. But Distant Prime is a Canadian machine, with Canadian interests. And truthfully, she’s done a decent job. But I wouldn’t say we’re ruled by machines—”
“The situation isn’t that different,” Mike said to Sabine, interrupting me. “Distant Prime seized power from the constitutional government. She dismissed the Canadian Congress in 2080—”
“Parliament,” I said, starting to feel annoyed. “She dissolved Parliament.”
Mike ignored me. “She seized power illegally two years ago, and has refused to yield it since,” he told Sabine flatly. “Canada is ruled by machines, no matter what they tell you.”
Sabine glanced back and forth between me and Mike, her face questioning. “Is that true?” she asked me.
It wasn’t true, but I’d encountered American prejudice against machine governments before, and I didn’t have the energy or the patience to get in a lengthy debate about it. Many Americans don’t see a whole lot of difference between the peaceful Canadian government and the territorially aggressive Arenberg Cabal. They were both run by machines, so they were essentially the same, right?
