Face Smuggler

by Matthew Sills

  Grayson shut the case, but he decided not to turn it off.

  The Ophir Arcologies represented a newer development in the colonization of Mars. Labyrinthine enclosures slowly snaked their way west to east through the Valles Marineris with each passing generation adding a new outcropping. Ophir was the most recent, and now talk grew of working to enclose the canyon system entirely and terraform the trenches and tunnels themselves.

  Grayson saw the appeal in life on the Red Planet. For one, it was an established member of the inner words. Grayson didn’t see that as a boon personally, but it did carry significant rights, privileges, and support; however, the lack of a magnetosphere and the thin atmosphere complicated the early terraforming designs of the first colonists. Nevertheless, settlers flocked to the planet and made Olympus Mons - the planetary capital - the largest extra terrestrial city in the solar system. It’s population was matched twice over by those in the Valles Marineris, but each successive arcology claimed its own municipality and so Olympus Mons’ point of pride remained unchallenged.

  Outside of these pockets of high development, however, the Red Planet remained a vast frontier world. Rugged and with untapped potential, it drew many enterprising souls with like dispositions. It certainly appealed to the romantic imagination; at least it did for Grayson. That was one of the things that drew him here after he lost Sarah all those years ago.

  He found transport to the Noctis region in the west of the Valles, and several hours later the high speed rail brought him to the Candor Juncture with Ophir Arcology. Grayson disembarked the rail at Candor Arcology. He would need to transfer to a secondary line to get to the newer Ophir complex. Signs advertised the main line’s extension was due for completion next year.

  Ophir Arcology’s massive steel dome dominated the center of the ancient chasm. The hydroponic facilities atop it glowed red in the fading Martian light as the LEDs switched on. Inside, each arcology looked much the same. They all observed Earth Standard Time, which meant the day-night cycle of the fully enclosed inhabitants ran out of sync from the local planetary time, and each one featured a similar mix of modularity and improvisation in its construction that spoke of frontier construction techniques applied to industrial sized 3D printed material. It was necessary, since each arcology had to be built from the inside out so that new sections could be connected to previous ones and enclosed from the thin exterior atmosphere. This meant adaptability for repurposing had to be included in each structure’s design. The overall effect reminded Grayson of the indoor malls and large convention centers that existed back on Earth.

  The rail dropped Grayson off in the arcology’s core. It was the oldest portion of this newest Martian municipality. The cavernous center featured a broad boulevard circling the administrative core. This was overlooked by a promenade hosting the commercial hub of the Ophir community. Residential, commercial, and industrial districts extended outward from the core in concentric circles beneath the dome. In each zone, banners hung proclaiming the impending celebrations for Ophir’s thirtieth anniversary of establishment.

  Annexes budded from the fringes of the main complex to accommodate new construction. The directory in the administrative core returned one of these for the address Benedict gave him. It was on the leading edge of the arcology’s latest construction project: a new residential zone intended to provide nearby affordable housing for outermost belt of industry. The contact would be waiting for him there. Grayson set off amidst the pedestrian traffic toward the arcology’s tram system.

  The manicured ultra-modern facade of the core faded into the mundane utilitarianism of the residential modules. These, in turn, transitioned abruptly the bright neon and flashing signage of the commercial district. Grayson rode past Martians going about their business: some happily toting bags of newly purchased wares, other flitting from the various services offered, both personal and professional. Here, he made a quick pit stop to exchange his briefcase for a messenger bag; it didn’t feel safe to be in the open with the briefcase any longer. He tucked Alice’s AI into an inner pocket and re-boarded the tram.

  The majority of the tram’s passengers disembarked along the route through the commercial area, and Grayson soon found himself sitting alone after the second stop in the industrial area. Foot traffic along the street was nonexistent owing to the lack of any pedestrian draw. Graffiti crept into the alleyways between manufactories and warehouses. The street keeping lacked the fastidiousness of the inner areas. Presently, the tram arrived at the final stop, and Grayson continued on foot. The great dome overhead sloped low now. Building modules not in use bore broken windows, battered doors, and extension cords sprouted from their derelict innards to run down alleyways to sources unknown.

  “Squatters,” Grayson observed with wary disdain. The fringe elements existed wherever people settled. In the arcology systems, they kept close to the leading edge, one step ahead of the finished development and making use of the utilities as they were turned on. Most were harmless to a passerby such as Grayson, but he knew there were those who occupied the fringe for unsavory reasons as well. It was not surprising that his contact arranged to meet out here Grayson would have done likewise.

  The trek gave Grayson occasion to reflect on his wandering on the Red Planet nearly two decades prior. He first came to Mars in an enervated sort of vagrancy as he tried to place himself in some sort of role again. He nearly wound up among the fringe. If it weren’t for Benedict’s entrepreneurial spirit, then Grayson might never have found the identity smuggling racket to ply his trade. His talents manipulating memories lent to a rapid rise in reputation, and he soon enjoyed the freedom to work outside the strictures of the local cabal and begin freelancing around the outer worlds and the rim.

  He looked back at the scaffolding levels of the arcology behind him ascending like stairs beneath the dome towards the central core. At last, he crossed the threshold of the leading edge: the zone of expansion around the arcology’s perimeter where new construction was perpetually budding. There were no completed buildings in front of him: just hulking skeletons in varying stages of completion. These rose beneath the cavernous extension bulging outward from the arcology’s dome which he now passed beneath. According to the juncture numbers, he should be close to the pre-arranged meeting site.

  Grayson passed through a series of unfinished building modules. They resembled rooms at a convention center: full of negative space and raw potential. Each one held prefabrication portions of walls, floors, and structural supports waiting to be set in place. The address was the last of these. It apparently served as a warehouse. Heavy metal racks stacked a dozen levels high with building materials lined the perimeter. A maze of pallets stretched before Grayson on the floor.

  Grayson wove through the labyrinthine forest until he came across a bundle of extension cords running along the floor. He followed it to an enclosure made out of pushed-together pallets. Over the top MDF panels were layered with sheets of plastic to form a crudely cobbled roof. A heavy construction blanket hung draped across a gap between pallets. He paused outside and listened. No sounds came out, but an odd odor hung in the air.

  “Hello?” He tested.

  Silence answered him.

  “Is anyone in there?”

  Still no reply.

  “I’m coming in. If anyone is in there, don’t shoot.” Grayson pulled back the thick blanket. It was difficult to see inside from the threshold. A computer monitor cast dim light that reflected off the back wall of pallets. The glow was boxed in by piles of junk stacked on either side. The only other light came in from outside, behind Grayson. He tried to tie the blanket to the side on something, but there was nothing to hold it in place. Grayson finally let it fall across the door behind him and stepped inside. He sighed; clearly, no one was here.

  Grayson began poking about the room. He would not wait long: the space stank of old meat left to spoil and his feet stuck to the floor with each step. The interior was perhaps 12 x 12. Two folding tables, a
cot, and a rickety shelving unit adorned the space.

  He discovered the source of the stink slumped behind the monitor. Bits of brain had spewed across the keyboard from the exit wound and since dried there. There were no flies and no maggots on Mars, so the corpse was left to slowly rot through microbial forces.

  Grayson gagged and staggered back. The sticking of his shoes added its macabre implication. When he emerged into the fresh air outside, bloody footprints stained his path.

  “This cannot be happening.” He knew he had to go back and confirm somehow whether or not the corpse slumped over inside was the contact he was supposed to meet. Grayson summoned his fortitude to go back inside, but he wasn’t alone.

  Motion in his peripheral vision alerted him, and a cold thrill primed him for fight or flight. Had he been followed this whole time, or had someone been waiting on him? He thought of the trio back on Mariner Station.

  Grayson broke into a run. He wove through the pallets without a distinct plan other than losing whoever tailed him and making it back to the safety of the crowd in the heart of the arcology.

  Grayson ducked at gunshots from behind. A bullet struck the pallet ahead of him; it was loaded with bags of cement mix. He ran through the puff of concrete dust, and he coughed on the irritating particles. The left side of his face felt wet.

  “Goddamnit, who’s firing?!” Roared a male voice behind him; it was the beady eyed man. “Don’t hit the briefcase!”

  “He doesn’t have it!” The woman shouted back.

  “Then we need him alive to tell us where it goddamn is, don’t we?”

  Shriev’s sudden weight atop him slammed Grayson to the ground. “Here we are again,” Shriev snarled despite his split lip and wrested for control of Grayson’s hands. “I’ve got him!”

  Grayson wondered why Shriev’s hands were bloody. They slipped as he fought for control and allowed Grayson to wiggle out of Shriev’s hold. Grayson managed to free a leg from beneath Shriev and set his heel against the other man’s pelvis. A powerful kick sent Shriev toppling backward.

  Shriev scrambled to regain his balance and lurched forward to re-engage the grapple, but Grayson kicked again and buried his heel deep in the other man’s groin. Shriev’s face suffused with rage and agony, but his strength was sapped.

  Grayson found his feet again and was running. The back of his ear throbbed in intense pain, and he wondered if Shriev had boxed him. He wiped away the wetness, and his own hand came back bloody. His ear did not feel right to the touch. It dawned on Grayson that he had been shot: the bullet that struck the pallet of cement was only off target by a hair, splitting his ear instead of his skull.

  He burst into the industrial district and checked his shoulder. It didn’t look like they were following him back towards the heart of the arcology. Speckles of blood announced his trail, but he didn’t care. He could lose them later if need be. Right now he simply needed to stay one step ahead.

  Grayson’s lungs burned. He clutched the messenger bag beneath his arm, and his side began to cramp. Still, he didn’t stop. The sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his face. His clothing harbored an oppressive humidity as it trapped his body heat and collected sweat.

  Gasping for air, Grayson hopped onto as it departed the stop and tried to hide his bloody ear. He ditched it in the commercial center and ignored the stares of the crowd. Although it was now planetary night, the street was well populated with business under the internal lights. Inside the Arcology it was only afternoon. Grayson found the first public restroom he could and ducked inside the handicapped stall to assess the damage and staunch the blood flow from his wound. It was painful, but at least it posed no serious risk.

  As his heart rate slowed and he caught his breath he was also able to catch hold of his thoughts. He had to figure the body slumped behind the computer screen was the contact he originally intended to meet. Now he needed to figure out his next move. Perhaps the Jacob that Alice mentioned was here and waiting separately. He hoped they weren’t on in the same.

  Grayson left a mass of bloody paper towels in the waste can when he left the bathroom. He purchased a change of shirt and jacket from a cheap clothing store, ignoring the outburst of concern from the woman behind the register. A nearby pharmacy provided rubbing alcohol, gauze, and other items necessary to patch himself up further when he had time.

  An hour later, Grayson locked the door to a moderately priced hotel room. He felt confident by this time that he had not been followed. He set to tending his wound and then gratefully collapsed on the bed. He awoke with a start four hours later. His throat was dry and sore, his legs had stiffened from the earlier exertion, his jaw still ached, and now his ear was a ball of pain; however, all was as he’d left it in the room. He took that as further evidence of not being followed, which was one thing to be grateful for.

  He lay in bed and replayed recent events. Presently, Grayson had more questions than answers. One disturbing and abundantly clear fact was Alice had a body count attached to her now. Grayson was not keen to be added to that number. He needed to talk to Alice. Hopefully, she - it, for he reminded himself it was an AI - would have more answers.

  He hooked up Alice’s CPU to his tablet again. “Alice,” he said. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here. What’s going on; are we on Mars?”

  “Yes, but there’s a problem. The contact we were supposed to meet is dead. Shot in the head by the people after us.”

  “What contact? Do you mean Jacob…?” She asked.

  “I don’t know,” Grayson answered. “All I know is I was supposed to deliver you to a certain person at a certain location, and the person I found there was dead.”

  “So you were going to ‘deliver’ me to someone without me knowing about it?”

  Grayson paused. He couldn’t help feeling like it was a sleazy thing to do despite the fact it was just an AI he was dealing with. “Sorry…” he said. He reminded himself that AIs don’t have feelings.

  There was an enduring silence.

  “Alice?” Grayson said.

  “What’s your plan now that your contact is dead?”

  Grayson rubbed his head. “I don’t know. I was hoping you -”

  “-Hoping that I could help you?” Alice interrupted. “Yes, I don’t need eyes to see that. And why should I help you after all?”

  “Because there is no one else to help you. We’re stuck in this together now whether we like it or not.” It was no time to tiptoe around the matter.

  “Well yes, there’s that.” Alice admitted. “Hook me up to the Martian net so I can see if Jacob left me the message he said he would.”

  Grayson complied.

  Several minutes passed as Alice connected to the nets and retrieved the message left by Jacob. Grayson tapped his foot on the floor. “Well, what’s the news?”

  “He’s… he’s not waiting,” came the mousy reply.

  “He didn’t leave a message?”

  “No, that’s what the message says, that he wasn’t able to wait. He said that it became too risky on Mars and he had to leave and that he’s sorry.”

  Somehow, the news didn’t surprise Grayson. “It looks like we’re stuck together, then.”

  “Yeah.” Alice sounded sad. There was another drawn out silence. Alice broke it first. “Hold on a second. Is this right?”

  “What?”

  “The timestamp on Jacob’s message says ‘sent seventeen years ago’. What year is it?”

  Grayson blinked. “It’s SY 201. What year do you think it is?”

  “It’s not 183?”

  “No, geez. Is that the last year you remember?”

  “Yes.” Alice sounded distant in thought.

  “Where have you been since then?” Not that it particularly meant much, Grayson noted. It could simply have been when her program was written, or she could be programmed to think that was the current year - although he didn’t know what that would accomplish. Any alternative was more believable than
the idea he was dealing with almost two-decade old hardware and software. That would have been around the same time as… Sarah. It was impossible.

  “I don’t know. I spent a lot of time floating.”

  “Floating?”

  Alice gave a sound like shivering. “That’s what I call it when someone turns off the cpu. It kind of feels like floating at first. You’re aware, but just barely for a while, but then the awareness grows, and the longer is goes on the more and more the nothingness gets to you. There’s no taste, no touch, no sight, no smell, no hearing. You want to scream, no mouth to scream with and no ears to hear it with. You want to touch something or be felt, but you can’t. You try to think about things, but the thoughts start to run together. After a while, all you know is disembodied darkness. I don’t like it.”

  “Disembodied… you know you don’t have a body, right?”

  Alice gave a bitter laugh. “Of course, but I did once. When there is input coming in, it’s like having a body of sorts - or at least senses.”

  “You shouldn’t be recording any experiences if your cpu is turned off.”

  “Hey, you asked. I’m telling you.”

  “What do you remember apart from your time ‘floating’?”

  “Just sporadic episodes: being turned on briefly to be scanned. I only caught glimpses of sense data if there was any to be had at all. I feel as though I must have passed through a lot of hands, but I always thought it was part of Jacob’s plan to get me off world.”

  More like being pawned from smuggler to smuggler, thought Grayson. He recalled Benedict’s vague account of acquiring Alice. Anyone worth their salt in the business could see the value in a case of high quality engrams; however, the unique difficulty posed by harboring a high level AI would quickly dissuade most. He considered Benedict’s penchant for aggressively seeking to turn a profit. He could imagine something like that disappearing into the black market for a long time: too valuable to give up on but too difficult to smuggle. The best option was to try and fence it off on the next guy. Not Benedict, though.