“Just the reports we were finishing today. We usually submit our reports the following morning.”
“Your laboratory is equipped with a…” He checked something offscreen. “Quantum modulation broadcast receiver, correct?”
“I’m afraid not. It was moved to a sister facility six weeks ago.”
“Do you have a universal receiver?”
“Yes.”
“Activate it and monitor the… A5F2 subspectrum.”
Dreyfus sighed, grudgingly drifting to the appropriate device. “I’m not accustomed to the military taking such an active role in the operations of this facility.”
“This is potentially an extreme circumstance.”
The researcher tuned the machine as instructed. Instantly his expression intensified. “I’m getting periodic bursts. Similar size, similar structure each time. Possible background interference. Activating secondary receiver… Triangulation suggests the transmission may be coming from the specimen. Without the QMB receiver, I can’t be sure this isn’t just noise, but if we can confirm, then it means the specimen may be attempting to communicate!”
“Until a final determination can be made, the TKUR military hereby formally assumes control of this project. You will relinquish all data and backups relevant to the project immediately, provide the specimen with the minimum resources necessary for six days of survival, and seal the laboratory until personnel arrive for detailed analysis.”
“But, Colonel, this is potentially the most important discovery of our time.”
“You will discontinue contact with media; you will not disseminate any additional information to anyone without project specific security clearance; and you will instruct your team to do the same. This matter is now classified until military advisers deem it otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.” The anger and resentment shuddered in his voice, but he knew there was little he could do. A great deal of their funding came from the armed forces contracts. Such funding came at a price.
“Good. Researchers will arrive in five days.”
“Perhaps I could at least be allowed to continue conducting additional research while they are en route.”
“Negative. No further experimentation unless it is under strict military supervision. You are to treat the specimen as a Class Omega threat.”
“Class Omega? It isn’t a biological weapon, Colonel. It has been entirely docile.”
“You have your orders.”
The connection terminated, leaving Dreyfus to seethe for a moment before taking the indicated actions.
“Six days of resources…” he said, pulling up the list of organic and electronic materials the creature had consumed. A bit of extrapolation produced a reasonable list. When he turned to the primary display to bring up the requisition form, he noticed the pattern match had completed. A match had been found. “I knew it! You repair yourself using found technology. That’s why you’re such a picky eater. You pick the components with the best compatibility with your own.” He looked over the list again, then compared it to the scans of the electronic components of the mechanical node. “A few minor changes to the menu, eh? To better suit your appetite. If I might be losing you to the military, you may as well have a farewell feast.”
#
Chris Ronzone sat at a small desk in a bland cubicle. The cubicle was completely devoid of personality, which made it a reasonably good match for its occupant. There were no family photos, due largely to a lack of family, no humorous posters, and no indications of sports allegiance. Nothing remotely human. Instead the walls were arrayed with identical datapads all displaying different bits of information. Some showed stock prices. Others showed news reports. Still others displayed local laws and ordinances. It was a visual definition of soulless bureaucracy if ever there was one.
He pored over the different screens, swiping at a larger one docked to his desk to pull data into focus for closer inspection. Frustration twisted his face into a scowl, and every few moments he’d mutter something unintelligible from somewhere in the profanity spectrum.
“Nope… no match there,” he grumbled, leaning back in his seat.
“Knock-knock,” said a man stepping up to his cubicle door.
Chris turned a withering gaze to the man, a newcomer to the department. Tommy Something-or-other. He was a notch or two below Chris, and thus was not relevant enough to warrant the sort of mental real estate it took to store a last name. Tommy seemed blissfully unaware of the subtext of hatred that he was trying to cultivate.
“I sent you that travel manifest you wanted,” Tommy said.
“… Yes, Tommy. I know. I received it. Thank you,” Ronzone said, turning his whole body toward his screen.
“Seems like you’ve been asking for a lot of really dense data.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been getting approval for some pretty big budgets.”
“Yes, Tommy. I know. I’m the one doing these things. I’m a little busy right now.”
“I bet.”
Tommy lingered silently in the door. When just enough time had passed for Ronzone to start reading through the data again, the glorious silence was broken.
“So what’s it all about?”
“I’m doing a Code 3, Tommy,” he said wearily.
“Oh… so that’s…”
“Oh God. You don’t know what a Code 3 is?” He slapped his forehead. “Did Wilkens send you in here? I’m not a trainer.”
“I’ve read the handbook from beginning to end. There’s no Code 3 that I know of.”
“Of course it’s not in the… you don’t really think… okay, fine. You know what a Code 0 is, right?”
“Sure. That’s a rating for a VectorCorp file for someone with no reprimands or grievances against them.”
“And a Code 1?”
“That’s when there are minor to major infractions on file, and the person has been fined and is being watched.”
“Uh-huh, and Code 2?”
“That’s when there are enough major infractions that heavy fines, legal action, and-or account termination are being pursued.”
“Well, Code 3 is the next step.”
“What do you mean next step? What can we do beyond banning them from service and having them arrested?”
“We can make sure they never do anything else to injure the company.”
“What do you… wait… you don’t mean…” He stepped farther inside the cube, much to Ronzone’s visible displeasure, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You don’t mean having someone killed.”
Ronzone groaned. “No, Tommy. VectorCorp doesn’t kill people. And even if they did, which they don’t, that would be VectorCorp Security’s job.”
“Then I don’t get it, what’s a Code 3?”
“A Code 3 is the whole reason this department exists,” he snapped. After a deep breath to restore composure, he continued, “Look, we’re the Department of Acquisition, Compliance, and Oversight. VectorCorp already has individual departments for those things. Did it ever strike you as odd that we also have a department for all three of those things?”
“Companies like redundancy,” Tommy said with a shrug.
“Yeah, whatever. This department exists to find and punish those people who are habitual offenders but don’t cross enough lines to make formal punitive action possible. We are the nitpickers. We find technicalities. We stretch, bend, and twist the rules and regulations until we find the angles that let us come down on our targets. We use the rulebook as a weapon. And a Code 3 is an order to use that weapon to financially execute someone. The purpose of a Code 3 is to turn a Code 0 into a Code 2. I’ve done nine of them so far, but this most recent one is a challenge.”
“What’s the problem?”
Ronzone sighed angrily but grew resigned to the fact that his visitor wasn’t going to take the hint. He may as well do some thinking out loud. He pushed a pair of files to the datapad beside the door.
“Trevor Alexander and
Michella Modane. She’s a reporter. Not really a problem. I just need to keep the pressure on her distributor to prevent her from doing anything interesting and she’ll fade from relevance eventually. But he’s tricky. He had a few real jobs, but we squeezed him out of those. Wasn’t hard, he was a terrible employee. But he can still keep his head above water with his freelancing gig.”
“Freelance what?”
“You work for VectorCorp, Tommy. When we say freelancer, we always mean freelance transit. He’s a freelancer.”
“Oh, well that’s against our policies, so you can just get him for that, right?”
“Only if I can prove it. This guy has been incredibly careful. I don’t know if he’s using different ships or using a hacked transponder, but I never have any consistent travel records for the guy. Starting a few months back, I can’t even track his location with slidepad usage, because he enabled some pretty sophisticated countermeasures on it. All legit, so I can’t fine him for that. I know he’s been traveling outside VectorCorp corridors, but that’s not against policies, it’s just stupid and reckless. And I know he’s been carrying passengers from time to time. I can track their slidepads just fine. But it isn’t illegal to transport people. It’s illegal to charge people to transport them through our space without a permit. That means he’s only technically breaking our rules once he comes back into our space, and that’s only during arrival and departure. To catch him, I’m going to have to essentially witness him doing something. He’s just not leaving enough of an electronic trail…”
“So what are you thinking?”
“See, I know he and Modane are heading toward the Myer system, together. I’ve got a few conversations to that effect pulled from the com archive. Normally I’d send word to the local VectorCorp agents to go over their actions with a fine-tooth comb, but our presence in that system is vestigial at best. All of the local agents are idiots. I hate to say it… but I’m going to have to leave the office for this one. Which means I’m going to have to get Barney crated up for the kennel. Do me a favor. Get Sonia Peterson to give me a call. I’ve got to set up some priority transit…”
Chapter 9
That evening Lex and Michella were enjoying some Chinese takeout in their low-budget hotel provided by the network. Initially Lex had hoped to take her out to a nice restaurant, but the odds were stacked against that little plan. For one, having been fired from his main jobs, it probably wasn’t wise to be spending money on expensive food. The other reason was that the day’s activities had whipped Michella into a veritable journalistic frenzy. She was so thoroughly focused on what the Movi specimen was, what the Neo-Luddites wanted with it, who could be pulling their strings, and how to find them that putting a fancy plate of food in front of her would have been a waste of time and money.
“Listen,” Michella said through a mouthful of lo mein while adjusting the glasses she’d finally retrieved from the luggage, “I think you should get some practice with the camera rig. If something is going to go down, you’re probably going to have to record it.”
“I thought those things pretty much ran themselves.”
“They do, but it is horribly amateur to provide footage on full autocam.”
“More amateur than using a literal amateur to do the camera work?”
“Believe it or not, yes. The news just isn’t the news without a little bit of shake to the camera. If it’s too smooth, it looks staged.”
“Okay, let’s give it a try,” he said. He flipped open one of the cases she had brought along and started to assemble the camera, which amounted to a palm-sized disk of electronics hooked up to five pounds of lenses, hand grips, hover modules, and controls. Fitting it together called upon his long disused insert-tab-A-into-slot-B skills, but in short order he had a functional camera. He pointed it at her and adopted an announcer voice. “Ms. Modane, a recent study has shown that eighty-five percent of duck sauce does not contain actual duck. Your findings?”
“While culinary experts declined to comment, terminology pundits were stunned by this discovery and have petitioned seven of the nine central food oversight agencies to more closely monitor naming conventions used by condiment manufacturers. We’ll have more details on this scandal as it develops,” she riffed. “Seriously, though, are you clear with the controls?”
“Record, automode, stream. Yep. These things haven’t changed since I was shooting your class projects for you in college.”
“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t bad if I remember right. Hey, maybe for your new job you could get certified and be my cameraman. The network would love that. Cameraman and driver with one paycheck.”
“Again, babe, much as I’d love to be your news sidekick, I’ve got a few options to consider.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, pushing aside a container of brown rice to make room for a datapad.
“Well, I was thinking about…” He paused, his thoughts lingering on the business card from Ms. Misra that was even now sitting in his pocket. Most of his better instincts told him that telling the truth right now would lead to a massive fight, which was something he was hoping to avoid. But still, the sooner he got it out of the way, the better. “I was thinking about getting back into—”
He was interrupted by a tone from her slidepad.
“Oh! Sorry, Trev, I’ve got to take this. It’s Stu.” She removed her glasses, adjusted her hair, and put on her on-camera smile. “Michella Modane,” she answered brightly.
“Good evening, Ms. Modane. Dr. Dreyfus, from the laboratory. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, no. Nothing more important than my top story. Are you calling to set up our next meeting?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said with a sigh. “Our military contractors have decided to invoke one of their many clauses in our contracts. The specimen is now theirs to investigate, and the full weight of the nondisclosure agreement is being imposed. You will not be permitted to share the information you have, nor will I or anyone else on the project.”
“No. That’s terrible. Did they give any reason?”
“If they did, I wouldn’t be able to share it with you.”
Lex sat for a moment, listening as his on-again–off-again girlfriend of many years cut him off to take a business call. One voice in his head quietly reminded him that he hadn’t really been looking forward to telling her his racing plans. Also, this was a business trip for her, and one that was shaping up to be another career-defining event. It was probably best that he hold his tongue and let her get her job done. At the same time a second voice, one that had been festering in the background for some time, finally decided to make its presence known. It growled in his ear about fairness and honesty. Michella continued talking on the phone, not even glancing in his direction as she felt out the details of the NDA and tried to find the cracks. Before long Lex realized it was taking all of his willpower to avoid clenching his fists, twitching his eye, and otherwise showing off the dozens of mannerisms that Michella had learned to watch for when he was upset.
“Would you be able to share with me the name of the person or persons responsible for making this decision?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“If we were able to find some aspect of the NDA that would allow us to further discuss what findings were already shared, would that interest you?”
“I believe so.”
“Okay, great! Hold on one minute. My partner back in the newsroom is a whiz with paperwork. I’ll conference him in. Oh, except… one moment.” She muted and pixelated the call, then turned to Lex. “Sorry, babe, but I sort of need the room. No one outside our two organizations is allowed to know the specifics of the nondisclosure agreement. Maybe take Squee for a walk. I’ll need twenty minutes. An hour tops.”
Lex’s expression flattened. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”
He grabbed Squee’s leash, gave Michella the universal gesture for “call me” and headed for the door.
“I’ll call you as
soon as I’m done. Promise,” she said.
Lex nodded and led Squee out the door. Once outside he walked briskly down the hallway of the hotel, out the front door, and into the muggy evening. The temperature hadn’t dropped at all with the declining sun. If anything, it had gotten warmer. Meanwhile, it normally only took a few minutes for him to cool off, even if, in this heat, it would only be figuratively. This time it was taking longer. He walked for ten minutes in a randomly selected direction until he found a bar, which he took refuge in for the air-conditioning. They were only too happy to have him, a rare newcomer to their establishment. They were even willing to wave the “no pets allowed” policy and let him bring Squee inside.
An hour and a half of extremely attentive bartending had left him pleasantly inebriated and glad he hadn’t taken a vehicle to get there. Despite the friendly staff and steady supply of booze, his stewing anger hadn’t evened out at all. To the contrary, the lack of a follow-up call from Michella as it closed in on two hours since she’d booted him out only stoked the flames. Shortly after he crossed the threshold from buzzed to sloppy, he decided to take advantage of the lack of a “drinks on the street” restriction and find someplace to finish his last beer without worrying about someone topping it off. Not far from the bar stretched a completely deserted block of tennis courts. He stalked there, walking in angry circles with Squee in tow for another half hour before the last of his willpower ran dry. The long-suppressed voice in his head found its way to his mouth, and did so at an angry rumble.
“Two and a half hours. Missed messages? None. Great. That’s just great. So this is where we are, Squee. This is what I’m dealing with. Again… or still. Whichever it is, I don’t know.” He tried to take a sip from his cup, which had been empty for some time. “When is it going to stop being about her? I don’t need it to be about me all the time. But once in a while would be nice. Maybe once a month. Just not during her time of the month. I mean, I know the drill. I’m a sensitive guy and all that. I know I’m supposed to be supportive and helpful. I know this is her dream coming true here, and I should help it happen. But why is it perfectly kosher for her to run smack dab into horrible decisions to get what she wants, but I can’t even suggest my potential horrible decisions without risking the relationship? What kind of relationship is that? I’ve got horrible decisions I could make too, you know. Loads of them. I’ve got more bad decisions than you could shake a dead cat at… or something.”
Artificial Evolution Page 13
