The Blue-Haired Bombshell

by John Zakour

  ‘‘Yep!’’ GUS said, in a chipper tone.

  ‘‘GUS can make sure the Colt 2062 never falls into the wrong hands.’’

  That was a good point. Of course, with a hand weapon this powerful I wasn’t sure there was such a thing as the right hands.

  ‘‘If I am separated from you Mr. Johnson, I can find you by rolling myself up and well, rolling . . .’’

  HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Mr. Johnson, what a suck-up.’’

  I had to give Randy kudos. It seemed to be an impressive weapon, at least in theory. Which led me to my next question.

  ‘‘Has it ever been tested?’’

  ‘‘In theory, yes.’’

  ‘‘Is this like the theory that if you put 200,000 monkeys in a room with an old-fashioned word processor one of them would bang out the next hit holographic movie?’’

  ‘‘Along those lines, yes,’’ Randy said, as straight-faced as I’ve ever seen him. Randy burst out laughing. Melda and HARV joined in, too. I got the feeling they were laughing at me, not with me.

  Randy turned to Melda. ‘‘Laymen can be so simple some times. It would take at least 940,892 monkeys to make a hit holographic movie. With a mere 200,000, you’d be lucky to get a hit HV show.’’

  ‘‘So you in fact have no idea if it actually works?’’ I said.

  Randy crossed his arms and looked at me. HARV did the same. Melda just looked on politely; she didn’t know me well enough to ridicule me yet. (She may have been laughing on the inside—it’s hard to tell.)

  ‘‘No,’’ Randy said meekly. ‘‘How could I? It’s synched to your DNA and brain patterns. This is the first time I’ve ever activated GUS.’’

  ‘‘Can I at least test it?’’

  A sly smile spread across Randy’s face. ‘‘I thought you’d never ever ask. Targets zero-zero-one, zero-one-zero, zero-one-one, one-zero-zero activate!’’ Randy shouted.

  I looked around the room. Four targets had fallen from the ceiling, one along each wall. Since we were in the middle of the lab and it was quite a large lab, each target was at least two hundred meters away. Randy pointed at each of the targets. ‘‘Fire away!’’ he said.

  ‘‘Here, in your lab?’’

  ‘‘It’s a very well-built lab,’’ Randy stated, calmly. ‘‘Plus, the bullets or energy bolts self-destruct if they miss their target. So fire at will.’’

  ‘‘Which one is Will?’’ I asked, jokingly.

  Randy pointed to the clay duck target moving back and forth along the north wall. ‘‘I named the duck Will.’’

  I should have known better than to joke with a scientist. I extended my arm, aiming my gun. The site popped up. I took a deep breath. I concentrated on the duck target darting left and right, up and down.

  ‘‘I’m ready when you are,’’ GUS chirped.

  I put the gun down. I turned to Randy. ‘‘Can I do this one myself?’’ I asked him.

  Randy shrugged. ‘‘Of course, just think GUS off.’’ Randy turned to Melda. ‘‘Zach is a little slow sometimes.’’ He pointed to his forehead then whispered (though I could still hear him), ‘‘One too many shots to the head.’’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw HARV nodding in agreement. I turned my attention back to the target. I thought, GUS off. I picked up the target with my left eye. Adjusting my gun, I pulled, well, squeezed the trigger. It had a nice feel to it.

  My gun made no sound. I felt no recoil, but the target exploded. I watched pieces of simulated clay falling to the ground like a really ugly snow storm. I looked at Randy, he had the smile of a proud father.

  ‘‘I miss the sound and the recoil,’’ I said, even if I had to admit I saw the advantages of not having either.

  ‘‘Sound and recoil are both programmable options if you feel like being macho. In fact, you can have sound and or recoil without firing anything if you wish,’’ Randy said.

  ‘‘Wow, you’ve really thought of everything,’’ Melda said both hands under her chin.

  ‘‘Pretty much,’’ Randy agreed. ‘‘Just to prove it . . .’’

  Randy ducked down under one of the lab benches. He motioned to Melda to do the same. I got a bad feeling about this. ‘‘Targets, attack Zach,’’ Randy ordered.

  I didn’t have to look to know that the targets from the south, east, and west walls were heading toward me. Yep, with friends like mine, I didn’t need half the enemies I had. Only I could turn from target-shooter to target. I spun clockwise, not sure why other than it just felt more natural. That and from my positioning in the room, the target on the east side would reach me first.

  I was thinking without thinking, activating GUS. A targeting cursor appeared in front of my eye. I picked up the east target, its clay pigeon zooming in on me. I aimed my gun. The pigeon split into five small pigeons, each making a beeline for me. I pulled the trigger five times, adjusting my arm ever so slightly for each shot. It was more of a reflex than a thought. Each of the five attacking pigeons shattered. Their remains fell to the ground like holiday confetti. In fact, I think it really was confetti.

  I turned my body and my attention to the targets coming at me from the south wall. These were actually disk-shaped targets with bull’s-eyes on them. Of course, they were flying at me like a ninja’s throwing stars. They were coming down on me fast from every conceivable angle.

  ‘‘I suggest a wide-area, low-yield energy blast,’’ HARV said in my brain.

  ‘‘What a super idea!’’ GUS chipped in.

  I thought, aimed, and fired all in one fluid motion. The attacking targets fell to the ground as if they hit an invisible wall.

  Throwing myself to the ground, I felt the last target (or targets) whiz pass me. Rolling for cover, I stopped in the prone position, peeking up to try to catch a glimpse of the last target. I saw the target was a series of baseball-shaped objects. They had shot past me, but figured it out and were now heading back at me. If they made contact with me they wouldn’t kill me, but they would certainly sting a hell of a lot. Randy thought you needed pain for gain in scientific progress. Of course, the pain was always mine.

  ‘‘Computer tracking, on,’’ I yelled to HARV and GUS.

  ‘‘How do you know there’s computer tracking?’’ HARV asked out loud.

  ‘‘Tracking activated with pleasure,’’ GUS beamed.

  ‘‘Suck-up,’’ HARV said to GUS.

  Rolling over to my back, I sat up. The targeting cursor appeared in front of my eye again, but this time with an arrow pointing left. Sliding my arm to the left the word FIRE flashed in front of my eyes. I pulled the trigger. One baseball-type object exploded. The cursor appeared with an arrow pointing right. I adjusted my gun every so slightly until the word ‘‘FIRE’’ appeared again. Squeezing the trigger, I caught the third and last ball coming at me from a bit farther right. I adjusted my gun and blasted it. The target was so close to me when I hit it that I was dusted with its debris.

  I stood up, shaking target remains off of me. I turned to see Randy was already standing and smiling ear to ear. DOS, his smile practically ran over onto Melda. Randy helped Melda up from behind the table with one hand, while clapping on his chest with his other hand.

  ‘‘Excellent job, GUS, HARV, and you, too, Zach,’’ Randy said.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ HARV said.

  ‘‘Incredible,’’ Melda said.

  ‘‘Ah, Zach did the hard part,’’ GUS added.

  ‘‘He did not,’’ HARV contradicted.

  ‘‘I know. I’m just trying to make Zach feel good about himself,’’ GUS whispered.

  Randy walked over to me. If he had been any more pleased with himself he’d be patting himself on the back with both hands and nominating himself for a Nobel Prize.

  ‘‘So Zach, does the GUS enhanced Colt 2062 pass its field test?’’

  I took out a series of intelligent targets in under a minute with a weapon I hadn’t even seen until ten minutes ago. It certainly was intuitive. I had to give Randy pr
ops, just not out loud.

  ‘‘Pretty impressive. Isn’t it?’’ Randy said looking more excited than a kid on Holiday morning.

  ‘‘It’ll do. For now.’’

  I popped the Colt 2062 up my sleeve. It felt good there.

  ‘‘I’m still going to keep my knife and a good old-fashioned magnum or something similar around, just in case.’’

  Randy smiled. ‘‘Zach, you’re so old-fashioned. But if it makes you happy that’s fine.’’

  HARV rolled up his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘‘Zach, if you’re going to make your breakfast appointment with Electra at the Lombard Street Bistro I suggest we leave now.’’

  I turned to Randy. ‘‘Do you have anything else for me to test?’’

  ‘‘Zach, I just gave you the most sophisticated personal weapon in human history. I’ve connected you with the most advanced cognitive processor on the known planets. What more could you possibly want? At least for the next few months.’’

  ‘‘The winning lottery numbers would be nice.’’

  Randy shook his head. ‘‘You don’t want to miss your breakfast out with Electra.’’

  I tipped my fedora to Melda. ‘‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’’

  She bowed. ‘‘The pleasure was all mine.’’

  ‘‘How long will be you be on Earth for?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘A day or two longer.’’

  ‘‘I hope we meet again,’’ I said, mostly being polite.

  ‘‘Somehow, Mr. Johnson, I’m sure we will. I’m sure we will,’’ Melda said with a pleasant smile.

  I don’t know why, but that smile sent a shiver down my spine.

  Chapter 3

  A couple of years ago, I could have driven from Randy’s lab near the pier to The Lombard Bistro in less than ten minutes. This was because not only did I enjoy driving my slightly modified 1973 cherry red Mustang convertible fast, but back then I had the roads pretty much to myself. I only had to share them with a bunch of grannies who refused to use hovercrafts, teleporters, or the most scary of all, public transportation.

  Land-based travel had fallen out of favor with the general populace. It was too slow for today’s fast paced lives. That was fine by me. I didn’t mind having the roads to myself.

  That all changed almost overnight. First, there was the first teleporting accident in history. Ten UltraMegaHyperMart insurance salesmen got stuck in stasis for ten hours. None of them were killed, but they were all inconvenienced and missed their sales quotas for the day. For a salesman, that’s a fate much worse than death.

  Much as it pains me, I also contributed to the rise of cars by taking ex-teen-pop-star, now World Council Member, Sexy Sprockets for a ride on the ground. Sexy is both an old client and, for some reason unbeknownst to me, now one of the most powerful and influential people on the planet. Not because she’s one of the twelve main World Council members mind you, but because she’s a retired (at twenty) ex-pop-princess. Though she prefers to refer to herself as ex-pop-princess-sex-goddess-current-coolest-World-Council- member-in-da-world. I have no idea how she gets that on her business card.

  Sexy found the ride completely stimulating (she actually used the word orgasmic, but Electra would kill me in the most painful way possible if she heard that). Sexy was so jazzed by the experience that she announced on a worldwide HV State of the World Address that, and I quote, ‘‘Ground-based cars are so way past absolute zero they are smokin’ red hot!’’ I, being over thirty, had no idea what she meant. Others did though.

  Thanks to mass media (over) promotion and robotic mass production, land-based cars became an instant hit again. Most people couldn’t even remember why we left the ground in the first place. Some will now deny that they ever even used a hover.

  I just shake my head and moan that I now have to share the roads with throngs of others. The 2060s cars are all fly-by-wire and have the same basic sleek bullet on wheels shape. All the newer cars are computer controlled so the ‘‘drivers’’ are more riders than anything else. ExShell and Htech, makers of most of today’s cars, justify this ‘‘same as the next guy’’ look by claiming that cars come in millions of downloadable and customizable colors for the car body, wheels, and windshields. They also state the driving experience is limitlessly customizable as the car’s users have complete control over the internal experience: the sounds the car makes, the holographic displays on the windows, and the type of coffee it serves.

  I take some solace in the fact that my car isn’t almost totally computer-driven and that it has style and class. It was just like the ones my ancestors drove nearly a hundred years ago.

  HARV appeared in my car’s dash. Okay, maybe not EXACTLY like the ones they drove. Back then, this car wouldn’t have a computer interface and be solar powered, but outside of those two tiny concessions to the modern world, that was it.

  HARV pointed to the left, ‘‘I’ve checked with the traffic satellites, you should take Reagan Avenue.’’

  I shook my head no. ‘‘Sorry, can’t do.’’

  HARV sighed in my screen. He dropped his forehead to his hand. I saw a lot of me in that move. ‘‘Zach, I don’t believe you won’t drive on a street because of its name. After all, he was one of the finest presidents in history.’’

  I pushed down on the accelerator.

  ‘‘You’re going too fast,’’ HARV scolded.

  I eased off the gas slightly. ‘‘I just think Clinton deserves his own street, too. After all, he was a great president.’’

  HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Please, he was the third best politician in his own immediate family.’’

  ‘‘Oh, come on HARV. He was a man’s man and a lady’s man.’’

  HARV’s eyes stopped rolling and started spinning. It was unsettling but you learn to live with these things when you have a computer wired to your brain. ‘‘That’s your criteria for a good president? How about adding spiffy dresser to the list?’’

  ‘‘Not my only criteria, but I just like the guy. He’s like the Elvis of presidents.’’

  HARV just looked at me through the screen. He looked at his watch. ‘‘We should be at the bistro in a few minutes. I suggest we don’t talk so you can concentrate on the road. The traffic is very heavy these days.’’

  HARV disappeared from my screen. I drove on in peace to meet Electra.

  I arrived at the top of Lombard Bistro only ten minutes late, which is pretty much a record for me. The bistro was a quaint little outdoor place that still employed only human waiters and waitresses. To make matters more noteworthy, all of the employees were on roller skates. I’m not sure who thought of the idea of putting a restaurant on top of one of the highest streets in the world and then top it off by putting all your employees on wheels. It did make the place interesting.

  I found Electra sitting at a table in the middle of the floor, sipping on an ice water.

  ‘‘Sorry, I’m late,’’ I said, bending over to give her a kiss.

  She kissed me back.

  ‘‘With you, amor, ten minutes late is early.’’

  A pigtailed waitress in a plaid micromini skidded over to our table. Electra lifted up her water, catching it from spilling.

  ‘‘Sorry, I’m new,’’ the waitress said, sheepishly. She handed me a menu. Yep, they even had old-fashioned paper menus here.

  I waved it away. ‘‘I’ll just have bacon and eggs and coffee. . . . Lots of coffee.’’

  She looked at me. ‘‘Real bacon or simulated soy bacon?’’

  I looked at her. I pointed to myself. These days, folks dress in many eclectic ways. This is the anything goes era. To look at me though, you knew I wasn’t into the latest dress fads. I’m an old-fashioned guy, despite the computer attached to my brain and the high-powered mini army I kept up my sleeve.

  The waitress studied me. ‘‘You’re not wearing a PIHI-Pod, you need a shave, and your face has some lines in it,’’ she said, obviously not bucking for a big tip. She looked at my head. ‘‘And
you’re wearing a really funny old hat,’’ she said, totally killing her chance at a tip.

  ‘‘It’s called a fedora,’’ I told her.

  She shrugged. ‘‘I bet you want the real bacon.’’

  I touched my nose. ‘‘Vingo.’’

  ‘‘Real eggs or soy eggs?’’ the waitress asked.

  ‘‘I’m still me.’’

  She touched her order pad. ‘‘I’ll put you down for real eggs.’’

  ‘‘Smart girl.’’

  ‘‘I’m not just a waitress, I’m also an actress,’’ she said proudly.

  ‘‘These days nobody is just a waitress,’’ I told her.

  ‘‘Real coffee or soy-coffee?’’

  I just looked at her. That didn’t even warrant an answer.

  ‘‘I’ll put you down for the real coffee,’’ she said, punching her order pad. She looked up at me. ‘‘That’s three credits extra.’’

  ‘‘I’ll splurge.’’

  The waitress turned to Electra. ‘‘And you, ma’am?’’

  ‘‘The fruit platter of the day with more ice water.’’

  ‘‘Very good choice,’’ she said.

  The waitress skated off. Electra turned her attention back to me. ‘‘So, problems at Randy’s?’’

  I took a sip of water. ‘‘I got attacked by a couple of plants.’’

  Electra smirked. ‘‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’’

  I get that reaction a lot. My life reads like some sort of eight-credit pulp story. ‘‘Randy is hanging out with some tall, exotic woman from the Moon.’’

  Electra raised an eyebrow. Electra’s a class-A surgeon, brilliant in every sense of the word, but she loves a good piece of cheese as much as the next person. ‘‘Really? What does she want with Randy?’’

  ‘‘She’s there observing his methods,’’ I said. ‘‘Of course, he’s crushing badly on her. It’s not going to end well.’’

  Electra shook her head. ‘‘Geeks and babes, it’s the age-old story.

  My eyes lit up. ‘‘The trip was pretty beneficial though.’’ I flipped my wrist. The Colt 2062 popped into my hand.

  Electra eyed it. ‘‘So now you carry your HV remote around with you.’’ She sat back in her chair. ‘‘I’m scared.’’