The air here is different, desert-dry. He’s hungry again, so some time has passed. He could really do with a glass of water. The uncomfortable vinyl chair in which he is reclining would be well suited to an unlicensed dental practice based in the back of a van.
“Marilyn, where am I?” he croaks.
“Your agent can’t hear you here.” It’s a young man’s voice, unfamiliar. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I’ve been better. Are you a doctor?”
“I’m just the box op.”
“The what?”
“I run the Cherry Picker.”
Sam tries to rise, but can’t. “What the hell did you do to me?”
“I upgraded your eyes.”
Sam’s heart slams. “You…messed with my eyes?” He can barely form the words.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be able to see fine before too long. It’s just about time to take the bandages off.”
“You replaced my eyes!”
“Chill,” says the young man. “I did you a favor. You’ll see. These are special.”
“Let me up,” Sam says, trying to buck his restraints.
“Uh, let me get Mr. Cayman.”
Footsteps recede, to be subsumed by the drone of the ventilation system. Sam waits, testing his restraints repeatedly, though certain their strength remains the same.
A few minutes later, several people enter the room. Someone loosens the leather belts. Fat fingers replace the straps and lift Sam to his feet. He resists, to no avail.
“Easy, Mr. Crane.” It’s Cayman’s voice.
Sam is seething. “You’re a dead man.”
“In time,” Cayman replies. “In time.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You should be on your knees thanking me. But you need to keep up.”
Footsteps again, heading away.
“Come, Mr. Crane,” says Fossa, squeezing Sam’s right arm. “Don’t struggle.”
Sam guesses Civet must be the one gripping his other arm. He’s led along a corridor, then up some stairs. The air starts moving again, suggesting a more open space beyond a door. Footfalls form a polyrhythm with themselves as they echo off stone walls.
“Watch your step,” says Fossa.
After the threshold comes the warmth of the sun. Light too, red as seen through the blood in his eyelids—an approximation of dawn. The gauze comes off and Sam’s eyes clamp tighter.
“You’ll be sensitive to light for a few more hours,” Cayman says. “The blurring should be just about gone.”
Fossa and Civet release Sam’s arms.
“What do you see?” Cayman asks.
Sam opens his eyes and a Mexican village fades into view. He’s standing in the doorway of a Franciscan mission. Its neoclassical adobe façade appears untouched by the passage of time. The surrounding buildings all hew to the mission style. A short distance down the road in either direction, locals go about their daily business. Shoppers pick over the selection at a fruit stand. Others travel to and fro, some with bags in hand. Outside a bicycle shop, an elderly man is adjusting some spokes.
“Everything in its right place,” Sam says, thinking of Amy.
“Indeed,” Cayman answers, eyeing Sam strangely.
More notable is what’s missing: There are no power lines or street lamps. No cars. No animals, despite the twitter of unseen birds. No signs. No ads. Not a scrap of trash.
“Where are we?”
“In my head,” Cayman says. “That’s the easiest way to describe it. More literally, you’re at our main beta site south of Nogales. But rather than explain, allow me to show you.” His gaze drifts up toward that ghost space occupied by agents and others without a physical presence, a place always above the ground and beyond the circle of personal space, the traditional residence of the divine. “Begin demo,” he says, then glances back at Sam. “Don’t worry about the sound. That’ll be addressed in our next release.”
Cayman and his henchmen fade from view, followed by the villagers. Sam turns in place, confused.
“We’re still here,” Cayman says. “Just watch.”
Some of the ambient sounds drop out—the birds, distant hammering, voices. The wind remains.
The wire-frame view of a 3D modeling environment appears over the visible objects in the world. Every angle, every line of every structure glows. Then each object disappears, one by one, until nothing is visible but a grid of lines that converge at the vanishing point of the horizon. The effect is profoundly disorienting. Sam himself is the last object to vanish.
“Christ.” Sam covers his face with hands he can no longer see. The lines disappear too, leaving only darkness.
A voiceover begins. “In the beginning there was nothing. Then God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And there was still nothing, but you could see it better.”
The grid is visible once again. Sam can’t quite place the voice, but he’s certain it’s someone famous, which counts for something.
The voiceover continues, “And as Nature abhors a vacuum, we at Synthelegy said, ‘Let there be ads.’”
Sam’s sight returns. The village is different: Every square inch of wall space now boasts a billboard, poster, or storefront display. There are more people than before, too, some with strategically tattooed logos, some saddled with sandwich boards. The streets now have trash, though every candy wrapper and cast-off soda bottle appears positioned for optimum brand visibility.
A Global Cola BigBuckit cup rolls by. It’s actually more barrel than cup; even on its side it comes up to his knees. Sam reaches down to pick it up. His hand passes through and the cup vanishes. A coupon appears in the air, accompanied by a short trumpet blast. It’s mostly transparent, but no less legible: “You’ve earned ten percent off your next cool, refreshing Global Cola!”
There’s a second paragraph in a remarkably small font: “Some exceptions apply. Offer void where prohibited. This advertisement is in no way intended to induce consumption of Global Cola. Any such act is solely the choice of the consumer, who assumes full liability for his or her actions and their consequences including, but not limited to, gastrointestinal distress, tooth decay, fructose-induced violence, and obesity. Global Cola is not guaranteed to be cool or refreshing.”
As soon as Sam finishes reading the words, the coupon fades and a colorful arrow appears. It hovers over a storefront just down the street, beneath the words “Redeem your coupon here in the next five minutes and receive a free refill (if you can handle it)!”
“Once we link up with network profiles, the ads will be much more closely tailored to your interests,” Cayman explains.
Sam offers no acknowledgement. He’s busy turning his head this way and that to see which graphics track with his gaze and which remain fixed on the landscape.
The voiceover resumes. “This is the world seen with Oversight, a new sensory mediation technology that allows real-time dynamic masking as well as static graphic overlays. It grants content providers the ability to overwrite any visible object, moving or still, with alternate imagery. By interfacing directly with the optic nerve, Oversight ensures uninterrupted delivery of marketing messages and quarantines customer perception from the distractions of competing ads.”
An eye logo appears. The accompanying ad copy reads, “Oversight. Because seeing is buying.” The logo fades.
“Rather seamless, wouldn’t you say?” says Cayman. “I’ll concede our audio delivery needs work. But we’ve had to push up the release date due to recent events. Once we upgrade the cochlear module, we’ll have full surround and source placement. Next year, we hope to bring olfactory and haptic input online too. Then the illusion will be complete. In the meantime, things may sound a bit tinny.”
Clutching at his temples, Sam groans. “You stuck a pair of Auglites in my head.”
“Much more than that, Mr. Crane. Auglites are a novelty item. We’re in the processes of litigating them away; they’re based on stolen alpha code. That’s why they’re really only usefu
l for overlays on fixed objects. Your eyes see so much more. We can mask people, or any object in your field of vision, fixed or in motion. We can do it so it looks real. The light and shadows behave as they should. There are no blank spaces in revealed background surfaces. These are nontrivial technical challenges. It’s regrettable that the introduction of Auglites to the market has forced us to launch earlier than we’d have liked, but there it is.”
“So this is your bid to win the war for eyeballs?” Sam’s voice drips with contempt. “Who’s backing this? Content Corp?”
A subtle smile takes shape on Cayman’s lips. “You have to ask yourself at this point, ‘Who isn’t?’”
“The Amish,” Sam says.
Cayman laughs. “Think about it, Mr. Crane. What better way to deny the intrusions of the modern world than with new eyes? Every object that offends their sensibility can be banished from sight. Cars become horse-drawn carriages. Power lines become one with the sky. Bare midriffs become modest sackcloth. Faces can be veiled.”
“At what cost?”
“None. The cost is underwritten by the many interested parties.”
“I’m not talking about money.” Sam stares skyward. The witch from The Wizard of Oz flies by on a bottle of Brahmin Beer.
“You’re implying that there’s some spiritual cost, is that it?”
“Your world sickens me.”
“But it’s not my world,” Cayman insists. “It’s yours. People see what they wish. They seek out that which corresponds to their worldview. They congregate with their own. For years, we’ve had news and entertainment tailored for Republicans, Democrats, Christians, Muslims, and Jews. How is this any different?”
“Not everyone is like that.”
“Not everyone, I’ll grant you. But such independent thinkers are statistically insignificant in the overall scheme of things. And even they have to apply some filters to their reality to avoid being overwhelmed by contradictions, by the hypocrisy and horror of it all. There’s simply too much irreconcilable information. What I’m offering is a way to see clearly.”
Sam struggles to find the words. “People won’t stand for this,” he stammers, clutching his head.
“No, they will fall to their knees and beg for it, as they do when they pray. We’re talking about people who traded their privacy for the opportunity to share cat pictures with the world. You’re resentful because it was forced upon you.”
“As opposed to those infected in this outbreak?”
“That’s not my doing,” Cayman says.
Sam sneers. “Your opportunity then?”
Cayman smiles. “You’ve got it all wrong. We’re not taking anything away. We’re retrofitting reality with power steering. You’ll still be welcome to watch the homeless starve while you fill your belly. But most will appreciate the option to overwrite them with a lamppost.”
Fighting nausea, Sam takes long, slow breaths. His new eyes fill him with revulsion. Overhead, birds swerve in formation. Or they might be a flock of pixels tracing some equation. It’s hard to tell.
Cayman pats Sam on the back. “If you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, we can talk business,” he says, setting off down the street. “Come.”
Sam follows, with Fossa and Civet bringing up the rear. He’s staring at Cayman’s impossibly white jacket when the words “Sport coat by Armani, $45,000” appear. He looks away and the characters disappear. The system is tracking his eye movements. Further testing reveals there’s a one-second threshold before any imposition appears.
Cayman turns right and heads through a crowd. He makes no effort to avoid those shopping at the market, but he does not collide with anyone either. They have no substance; they exist merely to augment the experience of shopping. Sam wonders if Cayman even sees them.
A moment later, it looks as if Cayman will walk into a wall. Instead, he disappears. Sam hesitates, extending his hand. He grasps at air.
“Disconnect Mr. Crane,” Cayman says to his agent.
The sky fades to a less appealing shade of blue. The village disappears. In its place, there’s parched earth and scrub brush. A single structure stands a stone’s throw ahead. Relatively narrow, it extends several hundred yards to the west. It looks like a hydroponics facility, the sort of place that grows square tomatoes. Perhaps a dozen dust-caked vehicles bake in the sun. On the southern side, three massive pipes bridge the gap between the main building and what appears to be a pumping station.
The four men enter and pass through a security checkpoint. They’re greeted by a Honda bot in marionette mode—the operator, wearing a motion-mirroring suit, is standing in an adjacent room behind bulletproof glass. Machine mimics man as both wave everyone onward.
“Why are we here?” Sam asks.
“We’re sightseeing,” Cayman answers.
They pass a pair clad for the clean room. Nods are exchanged, but no words. Ahead, a pair of steel doors bears a sign warning that only authorized personnel are permitted.
Just inside is a dressing room. Cayman, Fossa, and Civet slip into bio-containment suits. Sam does likewise. The group continues through the next set of doors into a decontamination chamber. Sprinklers erupt overhead, a sudden bloom of inverted flowers. Blowers dry everyone, and then the air is still. The final set of doors open.
A steel catwalk extends into the distance. To either side stretch lap pools, perhaps twenty feet wide and hundreds long. At first glance, the two pools appear to be tiled with turquoise and alabaster. It takes a moment before Sam realizes he’s looking at eyes in brine.
There are thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of them, staring into the air, expectant. This batch is blue. They glitter, even in the dim light. Disembodied, they might be pale sapphires, or rows of roe from some fantastical fish. It’s easier to see them so than as organs of sight.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Cayman asks, muffled by his bio suit.
“And you don’t have to pay extra for surveillance,” Sam observes.
Cayman chuckles and continues walking at a leisurely pace. Sam follows absently, mesmerized by the sea of eyes. Fossa and Civet are never far behind.
“Why bother growing tissue when you could use chips?” Sam asks.
“You’re talking about retinal implants?”
“Yes. Isn’t that what doctors usually use for eye problems?”
“If cost were the only issue, then yes, silicon fabrication would be the answer. Or mere contact lenses. But there’s the issue of marketing. A chip in the eye is an artificial alteration. What we’re offering is a natural replacement. Our focus group was far more receptive to the latter.”
“So? You use chips too.”
“But they’re packaged in eyes. And that’s what we’re selling.”
Some distance ahead, where an intersecting catwalk leads to doors left and right, a handful of workers in clean suits operate a dredge attached to a track in the ceiling. They’re working quickly, packing the spherical harvest in coolers for transport. The floor grating glistens with the jelly of eyes crushed underfoot.
The four visitors pass them and exit through the door to the right, removing their bio suits in another decontamination chamber.
They step outside, into the shade of the building. Out in the sun, laborers are loading refrigerated trucks that bear the logo of the Safefood grocery chain—the import tax on edible goods is much lower that the tax on medical goods.
“Your ride back,” Cayman says, gesturing toward the nearest semi.
“All out of private planes?”
Cayman ignores the jibe. “I want you to go home and make discreet inquiries about selling Dr. Mako’s glasses,” he says. “Soon thereafter, expect Emil or one of his doubles to contact you—”
“One of his doubles?”
“He has several in his employ,” Cayman explains. “Now let me continue. You will say that the glasses can be found in a revolving escrow vault on the border of North and South Korea. The price is the return of my daughter.
Regardless of what he says, that’s the only possible deal. I have arranged for you to work through a Saudi agency, International Hostage Brokers, Ltd. With Amy and the glasses both in the vault, the exchange will be made. After that, you and your daughter are free to do as you please. You will, of course, receive some consideration for services rendered.”
Sam doesn’t reply immediately. He’s pissed. But he can see no way out. And he’s still trying to fathom the magnitude of Cayman’s scheme. It must go beyond Cayman; one man doesn’t redraw the global media landscape without friends in high places. What was it Ursa said? “Direction of this investigation has been moved up the chain.” Could Cayman and the Feds be working together? Why? Do they just have a common enemy in Emil Caddis?
“Alright,” Sam says finally. “I happen to like Amy, so I’ll do what I can. But what makes you think Caddis will believe me?”
“He thought you had the glasses before,” says Cayman. “Convincing him that he was right all along should be easy. That’s why you must be the delivery boy.”
Sam nods.
“Your biometrics have been registered for Room 451 at the X Hotel. Inside, you’ll find an eyeglass case with a replica of Dr. Mako’s spectacles. You’re registered under the name Ryan Wolfe. Don’t go home.”
“What’d you do? Make a cast of my body while I slept?”
“Don’t use any standard network interfaces,” Cayman says, ignoring Sam’s question. “You can be located if you do. We’ve deactivated your earpiece and the inputs in your clothing. You can issue voice commands as if you had a dentonator; your cochlear audio module will transmit them. This one also has the advantage of being able to broadcast incorrect location data. It can mask you from anyone but us when you’re not using the network. Anyone searching for you can still get close when you do go online by checking router proximity and triangulating, even without the APS data, but we’ve got people on the ground in San Francisco with cloned chips to make that more difficult too.”
“Who’s going to be searching for me?”
“Caddis’ people, federal agents, Sinotech spies, to name a few. If they catch you, don’t mention your new eyes if you want to keep them.”
Oversight Page 14
