“What is the timetable for this next phase?”
“Phase two should last no more than two standard days. Phase three we theorize to take between seven to nine days. Gaining their trust, phase four, is variable, but we anticipate no more than two weeks.”
“And the weapon?”
“Phase five is timed to begin replication at T plus twenty-one days. This will give him time to become a valuable member and no longer under suspicion. Evaluation of results should tally shortly after that.”
“I suggest we move to the next topic of discussion then,” the chairman offered. “I turn your attention to the new anti-cloning legislation in front of the UN…”
* * *
All Tony’s personal belongings save one fit into his satchel. Under the careful and watchful eyes of the two Nanogate security officers, he packed the wedding solido of his mother and father and the boudoir solido of Carmine. Two plaques for completion of one course or another lay flat against his diplomas. He carefully folded a first-place T-shirt for longest softball hit at the Nanogate Sports Day Picnic and packed it in beside a toothbrush, a used tube of toothpaste and a Project Neptune mug.
“I guess that’s it,” he said sadly, wrapping his arms around the pot of green and white striped leaves. The spiderwort’s presence so often made such a nice counterpoint to the sterility of the corporate nature. His mom called it a Wandering Jew plant when she took the original cutting from a large healthy vine she grew over most of her living room. He’d been diligent in keeping it alive.
“I’m sorry sir, but the plant must remain,” said a scratchy voice from behind one of the security guard’s masks.
“What? This plant is mine. My mother gave it to me when it was just this long,” he insisted, holding his fingers apart by about three centimeters.
“That plant consumed light and water from Nanogate. By inference, it must belong to the corporation—Portland Statute eleven-fourteen-baker.”
Tony thought seriously about raising a fit about the plant, the only link to his parents, dead nearly a year now. But his mind still functioned. He remembered the derision heaped on him by Anson for being a good and trustworthy employee. His shoulders, set strongly up to this point, drooped in defeat. His eyes dimmed as his head slumped forward just the tiniest amount. He carefully set down the plant after visions of Anson playing the part of a vengeful and self-righteous god darkened his mood even further.
Tony knew that fighting anything Nanogate or Anson decided to do to him was a useless waste of time and resources. If Anson gave him the truth about the charges, no court in the world would entertain any case he put forward. Even if he did get it before a judge, the corporate lawyers would crush any representation he could possibly afford.
He was finished in this world. The best he could hope for now was menial labor or migration, if any of the colonies would consider him. His past employment didn’t exactly push him into any critical need category.
The briefcase seemed very empty compared to the number of hours he had labored here. He took nothing from the office except memories of an already extinct corporate career. With a sigh he closed the lid.
“I guess that’s all. Go ahead and do it.” As an act of finality, Tony lifted his wrist. The scanner sniffed the DNA from the loose cells at his wrist and crosslinked with the Nanogate mainframe. In picoseconds, every door, every machine, and every positive record within the corporation would now deny Tony’s very existence, irrevocably.
Silence filled the cubicle farm. The word passed quickly as the people with whom Tony had laughed, cried, supported, torpedoed, drunk beer, played softball, and competed against for the golden nuggets of corporate politics lined the hall. There stretched a human gauntlet of his life. A variety of reactions played on the faces of his former peers, subordinates, and everyone else who somehow had learned of his demise. Some wore faces that did little to hide their joy, sadness, or outright fear. Above everything else, the silence stung Tony. He half expected to hear the muffled sobs of a grieving widow. The analogy seemed fitting. Instead, he got nothing.
Tony maintained his composure through the procession, saying not a single word. He would go out as a man wronged with his head held high, not catching the eye of any of the silent witnesses. It was the longest two minutes of his life, putting one foot in front of the other, staring at a faded, four-year-old dental seminar poster on the far wall.
As he reached the exit, someone in the gathered crowd actually mustered the audacity to cheer, but only for a brief second and without great enthusiasm. Tony stiffened and stopped in the portal. He wanted to shout that they were next, to scream and plead for respite. Instead he looked to the group, now clustered in the entry under the monstrosity they called a sculpture. With as much sarcasm as he could muster, he quietly said, “Good luck to you all.”
Turning at once, he stepped out under the awning of the building. He bitterly rejected the protection of the corporation’s roof and he took several more steps. His dignity held until the light Portland rain chilled his cheeks. Finally he afforded a weakness that wouldn’t show. Tears rolled down his cheeks, invisibly mingled in the wet, hiding his shame.
Very briefly he considered just jumping off the ledge and plunging countless meters to an ignoble demise, but he needed to prove they hadn’t beaten him. Instead, he stood with a ramrod-straight back, mixing salt from his tears with the drizzle’s pollution as he waited for the lift-bus and a new, if unknown, life.
“I’ll make this right.”
* * *
Night herself held too obvious a danger. It caused decent and semi-decent people to guard themselves carefully. It gave hunters a place to lurk. It also gave camouflage and life to the hunters of the hunters.
The night gave rise to a backward kind of danger. With the predators that stalked the night dropping off to sleep and the daylight denizens not yet stirring, the afternoon provided, as it had for centuries, the perfect cover for the trade of thief, mugger, or in this case, terrorist.
Direct sunlight never soiled the shadow of the lower barrio. The weak sun fought its way through the gray smog and ubiquitous mist, just barely chasing away the darkness of the night. Sonya left her apartment wearing a black, white, and neutral pattern-disruptive cloak. She’d made the cloak herself four years ago, weaving cat hair and energy together for a simple efficacy. While not quite as good as light-bending clothing used by the military, it served its purpose—to make the wearer unnoticed and anonymous. As an added bonus, cloaks held the distinction of being nearly the universal slum outer attire, keeping occupant and cargo reasonably warm and dry. A large sombrero bundled up her long, brown hair. The hat’s excessive brim and a green surgical mask covered a good portion of her face.
Fortunately, Sonya preferred walking. By losing good people, the GAM learned years ago that lift-buses and taxis used automatic sensing equipment. They detected most high-order explosives, firearms of any caliber, and most edged or thrusting hand weapons. As a result Sonya had a four-hour walk east into the Pearl District, across the nearly rusted-through Steel Bridge—an ancient relic valued only as a tourist attraction to show people what life was like before lift vehicles. All this because the Metros objected to her cargo—fifteen kilos of high-explosive devices.
A thick cloud of some noxious chemical hugged the ground like an early morning fog. Sonya’s presence parted the worst of the mist for a meter in either direction, repelled by the energy-laden fibers of her outerwear. The few people who milled around the ground level streets in the afternoon light in Lower Portland were as dangerous as working with explosives in an oven. As a rule, they all had the capability to either deal with troublemakers or to be troublemakers themselves. The vast majority bore outward signs of heavy artificial body augmentation with metallic arms, ablative armor, or even artificial eyes.
While many would be frightened if the Greenies succeeded, Sonya’s mind instead drifted to what she hoped to remake of this world—one where green plants thriv
ed, instead of withering sickly. A world where animals roamed freely, living as they should. A world her great, great grandmother would recognize, not this burnt-out, overpopulated place without hope. A place where justice came not from the credits in one’s purse but from men equally to all other men. A world where not being registered in a computer wasn’t a death sentence.
Any movement in any of those directions would be welcome. Her jaws clenched tightly and her fists formed and released.
Every single day the megacorps committed new atrocities. Governments couldn’t stop them as they learned to bend to the will of the highest bidder, either in the form of cash or threat. The last holdout to this corruption, England, finally knuckled under to Advanced Biometrics when they promised to poison three major cities, including London, if the Genetics Freedom Law passed. Since then it had become business as usual. Examples included China’s sale of absolute mineral rights of the Province of India to Materials Matrix Corporation for an undisclosed sum, or the Russian Coalition’s transfer of one third of all their nuclear devices to Priory Unlimited to prevent a war with the Czech Republic.
Corrupt police, city services, and government poisoned every corner of this world and all those it had colonized. Those with the money could buy anything they wanted. Only those innocent people who could afford to purchase justice could actually obtain it. The list went on and on.
Sonya’s dark musings kept her busy until she completed the first leg of her journey. Three of her fellow terrorists waited at ground level of their current target, the Colonization Unlimited Building. They milled around, chatting and blending into the rest of the scenery, dressed in dirty and heavily worn clothes with only a couple of the boxed internees in the vicinity.
The boxed—another abomination of this world, Sonya thought. A tiny minority of fearful Nils listened to the megacorp and government propaganda. They volunteered to have their brains placed into robotic equipment to do menial tasks just for the hope of someday earning the right to be returned to cloned bodies and legally registered. Just the sight of the two automatons trying to shore up the footing of a crumbling building left her sickened by the way one man enslaved another.
Turning her mind away, Sonya perceived her fellow comrades and wondered if they weren’t enslaved even more strongly than those inhabiting metal and plastic bodies. But by the same token, they carried hatreds that forged each into a weapon or a tool that might just change the world—but one that also condemned them, even as it might one day save others.
Arthur Lewton, a tiny man at 1.3 meters and only 60 kilos, ran an accounting department for OldsTransport until a lift-bus dropped on his wife as she installed a new undercarriage. OldsTransport faulted Linda with improper alignment of the grav impellers and refused to pay any benefits. Arthur’s private investigation revealed OT used out-of-specification impeller casings that showed a tendency to burn through and fail to lift.
Instead of admitting their mistake, the VPs of manufacturing at OT fired Arthur and discredited his findings by replacing all the faulty casings before he could prove anything. Despite his diminutive size, Arthur’s rage couldn’t be underestimated. Once, caught red-handed without a weapon, he rammed his finger up one corpie’s eye socket deep enough to perform an impromptu lobotomy.
Slightly chunky but nonetheless quite attractive, Beth Watkins wore the figure of a woman who’d birthed one too many children, yet she’d never been a mother. Beth’s grievance with the megacorps started when she received a temporary contraceptive which permanently damaged not only her uterus but also her abdominal wall. The contraceptive damaged thirty percent of the test subjects before being released to the market by Caring Health Systems anyway. A former runway model, Beth lost her looks, her job, her fertility, and her husband.
Martin Fox’s sympathies most nearly matched Sonya’s own. A Nil of average height, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes, and no distinguishing marks, he used these physically nondescript features to his advantage—basically, they made him a complete nonentity. Sonya had on more than one occasion watched him vape a corpie, drop the weapon and melt into a crowd. He could then stand a scant two meters away as the Metros arrived, with none the wiser.
Martin wanted to make nature a dominant force in the world again. His heartfelt dreams were even more radical than even Sonya’s, however. Given his choice, Earth would be cordoned off as a “no-human zone.”
Loyalty and passion embodied the most important traits of each member of her core group. All had been on more than one mission. She knew the color of their emotions.
“You all know what this mission’s parameters are,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper as she entered their circle. “Seven bombs planted at this corp’s primary entrances and set off at end of shift will remove a great number of their key people,” she reviewed, removing the deadly metal tubes from within her cloak. None of the other three offered a word in reply. They knew their tasks. Grim determination showed on their faces as they accepted their weapons.
“Each of you will carry two. I will carry only one but will be planting it in the most dangerous location. All of these devices are already armed and timed, so place them and get out. Just like last time.” The dirty, worn appearance of their clothing concealed their true nature as the bombs disappeared within specially designed pockets.
“One last thing. Remember, they must be placed outside the building, or they’ll be detected. You have your assignments.”
“For Nature,” Martin mumbled as he shuffled off into the mist. The others said nothing.
Each of them had to make their way up between one-hundred and one-hundred-fifty levels—or four times that number of meters—using long-forgotten elevator shafts and disused, prelift emergency stairs. Once in place, they’d attach the homemade explosives to walls, stonework, or any handy outcropping using a small chunk of adhesive putty. Success would be determined by a grisly count of dead and maimed.
Shaking her head, Sonya steadied herself for her own task. Each team member carried their own weight. She couldn’t do anyone else’s job for them, or she wouldn’t be able to perform her own.
Sonya mentally rehearsed her own assignment, blanking out worries about dangers to her team, human losses, or the chaos that accompanied her successes. Human and electronic security on a building as bare as a billiard ball made her target by far the riskiest. While the most difficult, it also promised greater satisfaction, for the structure she’d chosen served as the corporation’s executive landing pad.
Her green mask hid the smile of a predatory animal. Sonya liked most challenges and the rewards they brought.
* * *
Tony ripped off the filmy stuck to his door. He read it as he let the door sniff his wrist for epithelials.
From: Council Crest Tenant Association
To: Tony Sammis, Owner of 115-16d
Pursuant to clause 17 subsections j through n of the Organization Code (section IV of your Conditions, Covenants and Restrictions) your property will be placed under forced sale at the next available auction.
Proceeds of the sale will pay, in order: auction fees, Council Crest Tenant Association penalties and expenses, and lienholder fees and loan balance. Any additional funds or balance due will be forwarded to your electronic address and/or account.
In order to expedite this sale, please remove your belongings no later than this Saturday or CCTA will have to resort to employing a professional eviction service as an expense incurred within the sale of the property.
We regret having to take this action but your lack of character and willful flaunting of civil, criminal and moral codes makes our community a lesser place to live.
Sincerely,
Association President,
Rosa Cleveland
cc: Portland Metro Police
“I wonder who else can spit on me.” Tony would’ve laughed if it weren’t so tragic. The equity in his home would easily be eaten up in the vastly inflated fees and charges. There’d be n
othing left for him, and as a cherry on top they’d probably present him with a balance due bill.
“Music, classical.” Tchaikovsky filled the room. As Tony let Cin out of the bathroom, tears welled up in his eyes again, but this time didn’t quite escape. Cin brushed against his legs. Tony picked up his new friend and held her tight.
“At least I have one friend. And maybe Carmine. Maybe she just needs to get to know you so she won’t think of you as sausage.” Purrs and a rough tongue across his nose made him smile weakly.
“My job and home both taken,” he said to Cin. “I’m surprised they didn’t kill me outright. It would’ve been faster. I didn’t even get to tell my side of the story.” The ramrod Tony received involved only standard operating procedure for those his society deemed misfits or criminals. He’d seen and approved of it in others. Now they turned it upon him. All of a sudden its injustice rankled.
“I guess that makes me a hypocrite,” he muttered. “Well, girl, I can fight this. I think it’d probably cost me somewhere around forty thousand credits to get my case heard in front of a judge. Then another quarter million to get any kind of impartial judgment.
“Now with all this severance pay Nanogate’s throwing at me, I probably could scrape that much together by begging and borrowing from friends, maybe a loan from the labor union and another from the Justice Department.” He watched as Cin toyed with a thread from an antique wool throw rug. “But what am I going to do in the five years it’ll take to get to trial? What would I live on? Where would I live?”
Tony picked up Cin when she managed to pull the thread into a runner. He looked her right in the face. “Worse, my case isn’t all that powerful. Oh, possession of a personal vehicle and resisting arrest would be easy to beat, but practicing medicine without a license—that’s a horse of a different color. I’ve got several hundred people, not to mention the TriMet sensors, willing to testify that I helped save the old woman, but that’s about it.”
An Eighty Percent Solution (CorpGov) Page 6
