Alan E. Nourse - The Bladerunner

by Alan E Nourse

  "All right, I know what was in the bag," Billy said. "So why don't you book me and have it over with?"

  "Book you? What good would that do? We want to know about your operation, who else is involved. Maybe we won't even want to book you if you play ball."

  "That I've got to see," Billy said.

  "Well, why not give us a try? We're not police, we're Health Control. We don't want you eating up our budget in jail somewhere. All we want is to protect the public from illegal medical practices. Now, where were you using all that stuff tonight?"

  "In Apartment Complex Eight Sixty-one," Billy said.

  "Fine. Like what apartment?"

  Billy just shrugged.

  "All right, who were you with? Which doctor?"

  "You don't really think I'm going to tell you, do you?"

  "Well, then let me tell you." The man pulled a sheaf of typewritten notes from a folder. "This is a surveillance report of your activities during the past twelve hours. About four fifteen p.m. you found a bug in your room and immediately disconnected both your phone and your computer. Went to a public phone booth, used a false ID to place a call. Proceeded on foot to the antique shop of one Jack Masters, more generally known as Parrot. You came out empty handed after thirty minutes, went to your room, went to Lazy Louie's for dinner, then went to pick up a blue flight bag from locker number seven-four-three-eight at the Two Hundred

  Ninety-first Street heli-port. Rode the monorail down to Health Control Hospital Number Seven—Do I have to go on?"

  "Sounds like you've got all the data you need," Billy said.

  "Not quite all. You could fill in some important holes."

  "Sorry." Billy shook his head.

  "There are ways to get the information, you know. If we book you for a grand jury probe, you'd face pretrial drug interrogation."

  Billy sat up, suddenly alert. "Not without a court order, I wouldn't."

  "So we'll get a court order."

  "Oh, no, not with what you've got. The most you've got on me is a misdemeanor, and that's no grand jury offense. If you had anything more, you wouldn't be sitting here talking. Now I want out of here. Either book me or don't book me. If you don't, I'm leaving. If you do, we'll have a computer-court hearing right here and now, and it'll convict me of a misdemeanor and I'll pay my fine and leave. So quit fooling around and take your choice."

  The Health Control man sighed, gathering his papers together. "You really want things the hard way, don't you?" he said. "You may not like the computer-court verdict."

  "I'll take my chances," Billy said. "If I don't like it, I can always appeal. Now why don't you get the sergeant in here to set up a computer-court and let's get going."

  It was a risky move, and Billy knew it. A computer-court would have the authority not only to convict him but to impose sentence then and there. The computer-courts were new, developed only in the past decade to speed up the handling of minor complaints, traffic violations, misdemeanor charges, and victimless crimes by adjudicating them on the spot on the basis of unchallenged evidence, presented by direct wire from any police station, precinct office, or street-corner hookup. In any case involving a small fine or suspended sentence, the computer-court could consider the evidence, adjudicate the case, and dispose of it in a matter of minutes. What was more, an adverse decision could always be appealed to a jury if the defendant so desired. Thus the computer-court was often used as a screening court to determine whether evidence was sufficient, or the alleged offense serious enough, to warrant further judicial proceedings.

  There were problems, however, and Billy knew that too. A computer-court conviction inevitably prejudiced any appeal to a jury, and reversals were few and far between. But the more Billy considered, the more he sensed that he had to take the chance. Something about this whole stakeout and arrest was strangely spurious. If Health Control really wanted him, they had him, without any further ado. There was enough circumstantial evidence alone to convince a computer-court that he had indeed been involved in an illegal surgical procedure. Yet they dallied and dragged their feet and merely pretended to question him, apparently hesitating even to book him.

  At Hie same time, it appeared that they had carefully ignored any leads that might have implicated Doc, and to Billy Gimp this did not add up. If Health Control knew his movements so closely, surely they knew he had met a doctor at Hospital No. 7, and they probably knew which one. They had to know that it was a doctor who had fled in the heli-cab, and they also had to know that at least one party to the illegal surgery—Molly Barret —had still been in the building when the trap was sprung. But there had been no stakeout to trace Doc's or Molly's movements; it was Billy alone they had been trailing, and Billy alone they had pulled in.

  However he looked at it, he kept coming up with the same answer: they had sprung the trap on him, but it was not him they really wanted. The one they wanted was Doc—but for some reason they could not, or didn't quite dare, try to tackle Doc head-on. They were interested in Billy only as a tool to corner Doc in some way—yet they could not use him if he would not testify.

  And there, of course, was the hole in the fabric. There was no way that Billy could defend himself against a court-ordered drug interrogation. It was the one risk that he dared not take. And it was for this reason that Billy chose the smaller risk of forcing the issue then and there through a computer-court. At best he might be exonerated, though this seemed unlikely. At the very worst, he could appeal a conviction and be released on bail pending a jury trial some months in the future. And at this point it was freedom that Billy needed more than anything else, however temporary it might be-— freedom for him to contact Doc and warn him of what was happening, time enough to give Doc a chance to cover his tracks in the face of certain knowledge that Health Control was preparing a strangely devious net for him.

  After the Health Control man stepped out to get the sergeant, Billy paced the room nervously. He knew that the computer-court would provide both defense and prosecution, reviewing the police evidence as a basis for prosecution, and any testimony he might give in his own defense. Testimony would also be matched against precedents established in prior cases and stored within the computer's memory banks. Throughout the "trial," the defense counsel would seek to minimize the defendant's culpability, while the prosecution would seek to maximize the penalty. Billy's past arrests would be data entered into the ligation—but so would his history of past exonerations and charges dropped for insufficient evidence. On balance, he thought, he should not do too badly, and the longer he waited, the more his spirits rose. Then finally the Health Control man returned with an officer and two communication units for the computer console.

  "You're sure you want to do this?" the policeman asked. "You know that whatever goes into the computer can be held as evidence against you, and that you have a legal right to be represented by counsel in a jury trial if you prefer?" As he spoke he typed the warning into the computer's intake to make it a matter of record. Instantly the statement appeared on Billy's print-out. Billy read it, shook his head, and punched two standard response buttons on his console, defendant waives right of counsel the machine typed out and then, after a pause,

  guaranteed right of appeal demanded.

  The sergeant pushed his response button, and the computer spelled out: right of appeal guaranteed

  by court. proceed with charges.

  At this point the Health Control man produced a tape cassette which was inserted into the computer console. "Everything's on there," he told the sergeant. "Charges, testimony, the works." Almost at once Billy's print-out machine began chattering:

  defendant william beckingham (possible

  alias) is charged with illegal possession of surgical instruments on rooftop apartment complex 861 trenton sector 11:45 pm november 17, 2009

  Billy stared at the print-out, waiting for other charges to be added. When nothing happened, he looked across at the Health Control man. "Where's the rest?"

  "T
hat's it," the man said.

  "Just possession?"

  "That's all."

  Bewildered, Billy looked back at the print-out. In this day and age illegal possession of surgical supplies was about equivalent to a traffic citation; Health Control was ignoring a dozen more serious charges they could press. Puzzled, Billy pushed the button to activate his own defense counsel, and watched with approval as the customary countercharges were printed out:

  defendant presses countercharges as

  follows: illegal seizure and search by

  police without warrant on rooftop apartment complex 861 trenton sector at above-noted time.

  For a moment the computer was silent; then the typewriter began chattering again:

  surveillance of defendant prior to arrest provides reasonable suspicion of guilt. defendant's past police record provided police waiver. no search warrant required on reasonable suspicion. countercharges dismissed. defense proceed with testimony.

  A signal light appeared on Billy's side. He reached and pushed a button indicating no testimony. Instantly the teletype began again:

  defense recommends plea of guilty in absence of testimony.

  Billy nodded and pushed the consent button to activate the plea. The teletype rattled briefly and the sergeant's print-out read:

  defendant pleads guilty.

  Now Billy sat back. With a guilty plea, and no testimony to the contrary, the computer-court had no alternative but to convict; all that remained was the sentence. Billy watched the teletype, eager now to have this over with, to pay whatever fine was required and to get back out on the street and into contact with Doc. Even as he watched, the machine began typing rapidly:

  defendant guilty as charged illegal possession of surgical instruments. in view of defendant's past police record, surveillance is necessary to avert repetition of same or similar misdemeanor crime. this court sentences william beckingham (possible alias) to six months of continuous personal electronic surveillance via broadcasting transponder. sentence to be implemented at once.

  Billy stared at the print-out, totally appalled. This, of all things, he had not reckoned with. A broadcasting transponder—a small shortwave broadcasting device clamped and sealed to the victim's wrist—was a crime-control device ordinarily reserved for hardened and dangerous criminals as a substitute for imprisonment in order to avert further crime or criminal association, for it enabled police to maintain close, continuous, twenty-four-hour computer surveillance over anyone sentenced to wear one. With a broadcasting transponder on his wrist, Billy knew, his movements would be an open book to the police; it would enable them to follow him everywhere he went, to identify every building he entered, every move he made. It could lead police to any underground medical case that he and Doc might undertake and could, if the police wished to monitor him that closely, enable them to identify by time and place virtually every other human being he might come in contact with. The transponder was, in effect, a prison without bars. It would mean that he was effectively out of business as long as he wore the device unless he could find some way to silence its broadcasting, and he was well aware thai any interference with the function of a court-ordered transponder was a gross felony offense that could put him behind bars for years.

  Billy stood up, shaking his head. "No," he said. "No dice. There's no grounds for that, and I'm going to appeal it."

  The Health Control man smiled broadly. "Fine," he said. "An appeal won't help, but go ahead."

  "That computer has got to be rigged. The courts never assign a transponder for a misdemeanor offense."

  "They can when a man has a record like you have. There's plenty of precedent."

  "Well, we'll see what a jury says about it," Billy said angrily. He turned to the read-in console, pushed the button to activate the defense side of the court and then typed out defendant appeals judgement.

  The print-out clattered briefly, grounds for appeal?

  Without Billy touching the console the defense printed out: cruel and unusual punishment for misdemeanor offense, defendant demands jury

  trial, release on bond pending trial date. Billy nodded approval; it was the only plausible approach. After a moment the prosecution side printed out: appeal noted. defendant will be notified when trial is scheduled. to be released on suitable bond pending trial.

  Billy leaned back in his seat with an audible sigh of relief. But the Health Control man, still smiling, was holding a whispered conference with the police sergeant. Then he tapped out a message for the computer:

  prosecution protests cash bond on grounds of arrest record. reasonable doubt defendant will appear for trial.

  Moments later the court print-out went into activity again. Billy watched as the words appeared on his print-out:

  protest sustained. defendant to be assigned to continuous personal electronic surveillance via broadcasting trans-sponder until trial date in lieu of other bond.

  It was incredible and unheard of, but it was there. He was being assigned a transponder whether he accepted the computer-court's original sentence or appealed it; the net result was exactly the same. As he lurched to his feet the sergeant moved to block his escape and two more policemen came through the door. The sergeant opened a leather case and withdrew a small chrome-plated device that looked like a wrist watch with no face on it. Seizing Billy's right wrist, he clamped the transponder in place and turned the tamper-proof seal. Then, as Billy stood staring at the device in disbelief, the Health Control man stood up, still smiling, his briefcase in his hand. "Great talking to you, Billy," he said blandly. "Any time you'd like to shake that thing, just let us know that you want to talk. Meanwhile, don't do anything you wouldn't want us all to know about, because we'll know about it."

  Moments later Billy Gimp was out on the street, clutching a computer-printed sheaf of instructions regarding the function and inviolability of the transponder. The rules were all there, plainly written; any attempt to tamper with the seal or remove the device without authorization was an automatic felony offense, and would generate an alarm signal that would be picked up by the nearest police copter or other police unit and bring swift investigation. The purpose of the transponder was surveillance and crime prevention, and Billy could be observed as closely as Health Control desired for a period of six months or more. Frightened and confused at the sudden turn of events, Billy took a ground-bus, disembarked within a few blocks of his room, and soon turned into the familiar Lower City street.

  No wonder the Health Control man had been smiling, Billy thought. He had been outmaneuvered from the start, and Health Control had been certain of the outcome from the moment Billy had been arrested. They had led him along, and now he was trapped in an electronic web from which there was no appeal, and from which he could not even risk momentary contact with Doc. Indeed, on the surface it seemed that Health Control had clamped down hard on Billy. Yet something deep in his mind was still insisting that it was not him they really wanted. If they had wanted him and him alone they could have placed him incommunicado in a prison cell until an accelerated jury trial could have been arranged.

  Only one thing seemed possible: that Health Control was really basically interested in trapping Doc, yet for some reason could not move directly against him; and that consequently they were using Billy, Doc's bladerunner, in some scheme to entrap him. And that meant that somehow, in some way, he had to warn Doc that grave trouble was brewing, transponder or no transponder.

  Back in his room, Billy found it was 3:30 a.m.; he had been at the police station for over two hours. Following a hunch, he crossed the room and lifted the sweater from the floor. As he suspected, the bug was gone. He looked at the transponder on his wrist and sank wearily down into a chair.

  Of course the bug was gone. They really didn't need it anymore.

  PART TWO

  DOC'S STORY

  I

  It had all happened to swiftly that Doc had already reacted before he had time to think. One moment he and Billy were
stepping from the elevator onto the darkened rooftop of the Merrimans' apartment and walking across to board the waiting heli-cab; the next moment Doc had heard Billy's warning cry, and the roof was ablaze with light from the police spotlights. Already climbing into the heli-cab, Doc had boosted himself the rest of the way in, slammed the door behind him and thrown the fast takeoff switch. A moment later he had heard the idling motor surge into a roar as the heli-cab rose swiftly into the air.

  It had been self-preservation and nothing more, a lesson he had learned years before in the jungle fighting around the little field hospital in the south of China where he had been stationed during the Great Eastern War in the late 1980s, and learned again during the Health Riots of '94, when angry torchlit mobs had swept through cities and suburbs, fire-bombing clinics and hospitals and tossing tear-gas grenades into the buildings to drive the doctors and nurses out. That Doc had survived those frightening days at all was a credit to his physical agility and his uncanny sense of precisely when to move, and how, in order to save his own skin. And now the lesson had come back full force as he coded the Health

  Control Hospital address—the first he could think of— into the auto-pilot computer and sent the little cab banking into a long curve to the north, fully expecting hot pursuit by the police. As the cab turned away from the rooftop, he had seen Billy's figure down below, running for the stairwell, then tripping and falling spread-eagled on the roof as two or three dark figures pounced on him and the flight bag that had been thrown from his hand in the fall. It was not until the heli-cab was moving steadily to the north, with no sign of any pursuit, that Doc began thinking and recognized what had actually happened. Obviously Billy had made a sacrifice move; if he, too, had tried to clamber into the heli-cab, the police would have nailed the vehicle to the roof, or at b^st followed in swift pursuit. Billy had gone down deliberately to give Doc a chance to get away—a chance that Doc had seized without question or hesitation.

  For a moment, then, he was half tempted to turn back and try something wild and foolish, a bravado rescue attempt or some such thing, but he instantly vetoed the idea, much as he felt guilty at leaving Billy in the lurch. He and Billy had long since agreed on the policy to follow in the event of an ambush such as this. If one were captured, they had agreed, the other should flee while he could, and then wait for the other to contact him when things were clear. Doc had recognized an unspoken obligation never to knowingly lead the law or Health Control forces to Billy or his bladerunning activity, and Billy had agreed never to knowingly implicate Doc in his medical underground activities, should he be apprehended. And in practice they had followed this policy before. Billy had been picked up more than once in police or Health Control dragnets thrown out as a result of underground medical blunders or disasters—all too common these days—but the blunders had never been Doc's, and Billy had always been released again after minor interrogation had cleared him in such cases.