“We’re here to interview George Gannet,” Wu answers. “Authorize.”
There’s a moment’s pause. “Recognized,” it responds. There’s a click as the cell door unlocks. “Granted: Fifty-foot freedom of movement. Do not exceed this limit.”
Wu opens the door and bends to address the huddled occupant of the container. “Mr. Gannet, I’m Wu Hen, your union counsel. Mr. Crane here wishes to ask you some questions. Based on what’s he’s told me, I believe it would be in your best interest to cooperate.”
Gannet emerges slowly, unfolding himself like a hermit crab. He smells of the sewer. His filthy face is bruised. He’s a big man with the eyes of a beaten child. He looks familiar.
“Hello,” Sam says.
Gannet nods, squinting, eyes turned toward the sky as if it is about to fall.
Looking at his scab-striped hands, Sam immediately thinks defensive wounds. Then he remembers, and for a moment forgets to breathe. “I know you,” he says, echoing the words Gannet shouted. “That’s what you said to the FBI agents you attacked. How did you know them?”
Gannet points to his head, index finger and thumb mimicking gun barrel and hammer. “I see things,” he mutters.
“What things?”
“Things that aren’t there.”
Marilyn chimes in, “Dr. Donut is just around the corner. The coffee is hot and the donuts are to die for. Can I tempt you to try one?”
The armed lawnmower whirs and swivels to face Gannet. “Warning,” it drones. “You have overstepped your bounds. Return to the safe area or you will die. You have zero seconds to comply.”
A burst of machine-gun fire tears Gannet to shreds. His body collapses backward, leaving a blood-splatter shadow on the container behind him.
The bot whirs, pivots on its treads, and goes still.
Raking his hair with a shaking hand, Wu staggers back.
“What the…” Sam starts to say, words trailing off, heart hammering.
Outside the container that serves as an office when De-Tiny management conducts site visits, a clutch of officials huddle in a semicircle. They’re staring intently at a monitor on a card table as it replays Gannet’s death. On screen, Gannet’s blood looks bright red; on the container, it’s already sun-baked brown.
There’s an officious-looking rep from MEs4U, a company that supplies both medical examiners for crime scenes and antibacterial consultants for the burgeoning population of germ-phobics. Nial stands beside Sam, squinting at the display. Luis is there too. Toward the back of the pack, two officers from his crew crane their necks to get a better view. A De-Tiny VP cups her earpiece with her hand, conversing with someone at the corporate headquarters about licensing video of the incident and the effect on liability costs. There are a handful of others too—reporters looking for details that will confirm the biases of their publications and public-relations reps trying to tailor the truth to please their clients. Apart from Luis, everyone looks somewhat disheveled and sleep-deprived from dealing with the outbreak.
The only actual government employee present is an elderly man from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Had a human murdered Gannet, federal lawyers would be here in abundance. But the path of least resistance at the moment seems to lead to the conclusion that Gannet died in an industrial accident.
The real work here will be undoing the brand damage to Stalin Corporation. One of the robotics company’s technicians takes a step in that direction by announcing that the machine is functioning properly. “The problem appears to be with the Absolute Positioning System. Somehow, the geolocation data got corrupted and the unit thought the prisoner was outside the perimeter.”
“If the unit actually thought,” Sam says, “it might have made some effort to investigate the fact that it had apparently teleported to a new location.”
“But it doesn’t think,” the technician retorts. “It did as it was told.”
“It was only following orders.”
The technician folds his arms. “It obeys its code,” he says.
“You could also say it executes its code,” Sam counters. “But clear that with PR before you try it.”
The woman from De-Tiny moves through the group. She walks slowly, constrained by surgically tightened skin. Her suit hugs her like a sausage casing. She takes Sam aside, her hand on his shoulder. He notes resentfully that the others seem appreciative.
“I’m Karen Colt,” she says. “Vice President of Public Relations.”
In no mood to help her out, Sam nods. “Okay.”
“And you’re Sam Crane, I believe?”
“That’s my impression, too.”
“I understand you witnessed the incident?”
Again, Sam nods.
Karen shows scripted concern. “And after what happened to your wife,” she laments. “This must be difficult. Have you considered seeing someone to talk about the trauma?”
Her eyes recall oncoming headlights. The car accident that killed his wife plays in Sam’s memory. It’s an ad for caution, if such a thing could be boxed and branded like perfume. Karen must have seen his psych records somehow. She’s laying the groundwork for a litigation strategy based on mental instability: Shut up or face the pills.
Sam seizes her arm. He wants to break it. He can’t help himself. But he realizes too late that his show of force only weakens his position.
“You’re hurting me!” Karen exclaims for all to hear.
Sam lets go, ashamed. Assaulting women isn’t his style, he tells himself.
“I realize this has been difficult,” she says with a grimace. “It would be worth your while to seek counseling.”
On cue, the sympathetic face of Dr. Amelia Katz appears, transparent, over Karen’s shoulder. Sam knows the doctor’s name because it’s written in a white sans-serif font beneath her image, along with her specialty, chemical psychiatry. Then the graphics begin to fade.
Sam rubs his eyes as if he could wipe the characters away. He casts an accusatory glance at Nial, but it goes unnoticed. He finds it odd Nial is here at all; it was Luis who arrested Gannet, after all. But it’s hard to believe Nial would rat him out in retaliation for being decked so long ago. Between Cayman and the Feds, anyone could have tipped Karen off to the presence of the word “volatile” in an old mental-health evaluation. Whoever is responsible, Sam sees he’s been played.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says finally, pouring contempt into a smile. “I’m open to suggestions—as long as it’s someone more competent than your plastic surgeon.”
Sitting on the steps outside the San Francisco Public Library, Sam composes his advertisement for the replica of Dr. Mako’s galvanic spectacles. He’s using a disposable tablet, so he can’t be immediately identified from his hardware license, and a temporary identity purchased from a street vendor. He rereads the descriptive text, then publishes the post. It’s done.
Civic Center Plaza looks subdued. The ‘gents encamped around the various government buildings move slowly, if at all. There are few pedestrians and fewer cars, apart from the armored one parked in front of City Hall. Umbrella vendors, normally scarce on sunny days, are out in force, capitalizing on the demand for makeshift canes for the blind.
Sam smiles for the street cameras; he should be easily recognized. He wants to be identified, just not immediately. If Caddis—or anyone else—has spiders crawling the network, they’ll be made aware of his post. But it will take time to pinpoint his location and confirm that it’s him—processing video feeds for a facial-image match is slow—and by then he’ll have moved on.
White letters scroll across Sam’s field of vision. They read, “Well done, Mr. Crane.”
Sam shakes his head as if a fly just landed on his face. He glares at the heavens, cursing under his breath. The letters turn orange, adapting to stand out against the sky. “Get out of my head!” he barks.
Passersby take no notice. It’s as much disinterest as blindness. Erratic behavior is so often a scripted p
romotional event. Brawls to resolve the ongoing tastes-great/less-filling debate break out somewhere in the city at least once a day, under the watchful eye of a marketing rep.
More letters scroll across his field of vision. “Move along now. Your post has already been crawled. They will find you if you remain outside.”
Casting his tablet into the trash, Sam heads toward BART. Surveillance feeds in the subway tunnels are only accessible to registered law enforcement organizations and carefully vetted sponsors, so Caddis shouldn’t be able to track him there. As he rides the escalator down underground, something about the words he read in the sky bothers him. Then it hits him: Cayman, or whoever was keying in the text he saw, knew he was outside—they can see through his eyes.
Unbalanced by rage and revulsion, Sam reaches for the handrail. He’s shaking like a junkie. His eyes offend him, but plucking them out isn’t an option.
Sam’s self-pity is interrupted by the sound of air cars overhead. From the bottom of the escalator, all he can see is the ring of trash rippling outward in the draft of the descending rotors. There’s a bit too much commotion up above.
Sam heads down the corridor toward the fare gate. There are fewer people around than usual, though that’s hardly a surprise. Dance pop plays when he passes. Video billboards along the wall mimic mirrors. In their simulated reflection, he’s wearing a Monsta Thug jacket and pants, trendily torn and treated with buckshot and blood. Charles Manson’s voice reads the flashing onscreen text: “On sale now for only $999 at all Murderer’s Row and Murderer’s Row for Kids locations.”
At the gate, Sam places his hand on the biometric scanner, its plexiglass plate murky with the oil of skin. An alarm sounds; the gate remains closed. He glances toward the bulletproof attendant’s booth. It’s empty.
The slap of shoes on stone echoes from the corridor behind him.
Text scrolls across his field of vision: “Danger!”
Sam vaults the gate and starts to run. The escalator is going up at the moment, so he descends the stairs to the platforms. As the rate of his footfalls increases, the ads on the walls skew toward fitness products and deodorant.
There’s no train when he reaches the platform, but a breeze heralds one coming.
Two men in suits arrive at the top of the stairs, both of Asian descent. One points and pursues, taking the steps two-by-two. The other steps out of view, heading elsewhere on the upper level.
The overhead display flashes, “EMBARCADERO 1 MIN 9 CAR TRAIN.” That’s not the usual end of the line; apparently trains still aren’t allowed to leave the city. Light floods the tunnel, resolving into two incandescent eyes.
Sam backpedals and then bolts toward the far end of the platform. A commuter with a bike watches, vaguely curious.
Passing another set of stairs, Sam wheels about and starts to climb. The second man arrives at the top. He shouts something in Chinese.
Sam pivots and resumes his run. In the support column to his left, something catches his eye: a fire extinguisher. He smashes the glass and grabs it, triggering an alarm bell.
The train, slowing, rolls past.
Fifty feet away now, the first man slows too, pulling a gun from his jacket. The second, similarly armed, has reached the bottom of the stairs and isn’t far behind.
Sam ducks behind the column nearest his end of the platform.
The train stops; its doors slide open. Passengers peer out as the alarm wails.
“Weapons down, now!” someone shouts.
The two men stop.
Behind them, toward the middle of the platform, stands a BART security officer in firing stance. Moving behind the nearest support column, his partner takes aim as well.
The second man turns slowly, hands in the air. The first, very still, mutters something, and the lights die. For a moment, the darkness is complete. Then the emergency backups kick in.
Something clatters on the platform.
The two pursuers are nowhere to be seen.
A stun grenade detonates in a blinding flash-bang. Passengers scream and scatter. The fire suppression system kicks in, triggering the sprinklers. The fire alarm continues in the rain.
Sam’s ears are ringing, but he can see just fine; the flash doesn’t seem to have affected his sight. Shifting to the other side of the platform, he peers out from behind his column, fire extinguisher at the ready.
The second gunman is charging right at him. A torrent of chemicals explodes in his face.
The man recoils and slips on the wet tiles. His gun fires a fléchette in the air. He tries to rise.
Sam steps up and punts the man’s head, sending him sprawling.
Two gunshots come in quick succession. The first gunman emerges from behind a column midway up the platform and takes aim.
Sam tries to dive for cover behind the column. There’s a shot and a stab of pain. He collapses, convulsing, with a small dart in his back.
His quivering frailty subsides shortly. The gunman is kneeling beside him, checking his pockets.
“The glasses,” he demands in Cantonese-inflected English. “Where are they?”
All Sam can manage is a groan. As he lies on his back, words appear before his eyes: “Help is coming.”
His interrogator stands suddenly and barks something at his prone companion. There’s no reply; Sam’s kick has left him unconscious.
Shouts echo from above.
The first man looks about, cursing. He says something to his agent and waits, looking impatient. He starts to back away.
There’s a muted pop, like a champagne bottle opened within a coat. The second gunman’s chest begins to smoke. He convulses briefly. Then a blinding magnesium flame bursts from his torso and consumes him. The air around him explodes as the brilliant white flames break blood and water into hydrogen and oxygen, feeding the fire.
“Joi gin,” the first man says, grimacing as he turns away. In the nearest column, there’s a door marked “Emergency Exit.” He runs for it.
A half dozen riot police spill from the stairway in the middle of the platform and fan out.
Sam struggles to stand, backing away from the burning man. The stench of charred cloth and flesh makes him gag. With water streaming down his face, he fumbles for the fire extinguisher and points it at the flames.
Suddenly, everything looks red.
“Warning,” Marilyn says. “This unit is not safe for Class D fires. Activating it will void your medical coverage and may expose you to civil and criminal liability.”
The red tint fades.
Guns speak from the emergency-exit stairwell. Shouts follow. Through the window of the stairwell door, Sam sees another magnesium fire flare up.
Within ten minutes, power and order are restored. The fire smolders under sheets of salt. Cleaning bots traverse the platform, scrubbing and drying the floor tiles as they go. The two BART security officers, wobbly but no longer stunned, manage the milling passengers. After tenting the charred corpses, the riot team plants laser wards on tripods to form a crime-scene perimeter. An announcer apologizes for the delay and promises train service will resume shortly.
Leaning against the wall at the end of the platform, Sam waits. He keeps his eyes closed out of spite, hoping to bore whoever is watching with him, whether it’s Cayman or one of his lackeys. He’d like to put the whole incident behind him—or at least change into dry clothes—but he knows he can’t just leave the scene.
“Mr. Crane, follow me, please.”
Sam looks up at the riot officer armed with a submachine gun standing over him. He stands and stretches. His back still throbs where the fléchette struck.
The two take the elevator up. The top floor of the BART station is deserted except for a bomb-sniffing bot. The crackle of radios echoes from below. They pass through the fare gate.
It occurs to Sam to ask where he’s being led.
“Debriefing,” the officer says. “In here.”
The officer opens a door and motions for Sam to ente
r.
Sam stops. Agent Gibbon waits inside, stiff and expressionless. The office is empty but for a table and four chairs. A patch of brown, perhaps a coffee stain, mars the floor. Two long fluorescent bulbs bisect the ceiling. An air vent in the wall exhales like an asthmatic through a beard of dust.
Sam enters and takes a seat at the table. The riot officer leans on the wall beside the door.
“Nasty bump you’ve got there,” Sam says to Gibbon.
“Would you like one?” Gibbon asks.
“Are you asking or threatening?”
“There’s a difference?”
Sam shrugs. Making sure to keep the officer in sight, he sits down. “Where’s your partner?”
“Getting new eyes.”
Gibbon turns red for a moment—not flushed, but adjust-your-set red. Everything else in the room looks as it should. The word “Lie” appears over his head.
“So you’re immune?” he asks, trying not to react to the distractions being beamed into his head.
“I had mine done yesterday.”
“Yeah, they look a bit bloodshot,” Sam observes.
“Turn off your log.”
“Not after what happened last time.”
Gibbon sighs. “Command, authorize Agent Gibbon. Terminate civilian logging at my coordinates. Over.”
“Logging suspended,” Marilyn announces.
A slight smile appears on Gibbon’s otherwise impassive face. “Let’s talk about glasses,” he says.
“What would you like to know?”
“Show them to me.”
“I don’t have them on me.”
“Where are they?”
Sam pauses, just to torment Gibbon. “Why do you want to know?”
“They’re federal property.”
“Since when?”
“Since the Bureau took over the Mako investigation.”
“The Solve-O-Matic is going to be disappointed,” Sam says.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Gibbon shifts about in his chair. “So tell me where the glasses are,” he says.
“I told you I don’t have them.”
“You can’t very well sell them if they’re not in your possession.”
Oversight Page 16
