Cap was no stranger to the zone either. He grumbled, “What's the hurry, damn it; let's stop and have a drink.”
“In a moment,” Marla promised, scanning ahead. “But only one drink. A drop more and you lose your daily bottle.”
“Mutiny, that's what it is,” Cap complained sorrowfully. “Would've thrown you in the brig when I had my own ship.”
“Put a cork in it,” Marla replied. “Here's the place we're looking for.”
They'd arrived in front of a featureless durasteel door. It bore no sign or other marking to indicate what might lay beyond. You either knew or you didn't. If you didn't, then you had no business going inside. Marla placed a paw on the black identastrip next to the door and waited. She knew that as she stood there some very sophisticated equipment was busy verifying her status as a cyberdog.
With a whirring noise the large surveillance camera mounted over the door turned to look at her. Its single unblinking eye irised opened slightly. The camera was intended to be intimidating and served its purpose well. “Welcome.” The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. The camera whirred again as it panned over to Cap. “Who's the biobod?”
“My date.”
There was silence for a moment as the camera tilted down Cap's rumpled body. “No offense ... but nobody would date that.”
“Are you going to let me in or not?”
“All right, all right. Don't get your circuits in an uproar.” There was a loud click and the door hissed open.
Marla turned to Cap. “You first.”
“Why?” his bloodshot eyes were suspicious.
“Because I said so.”
“I won't. For all I know it's a body shop.” Cap was referring to the illegal practice of killing indigent sentients and selling their organs to biobanks.
“Get serious,” Marla replied. “Who the hell would buy a liver like yours? Speaking of which, the drink I promised you is inside.” Without hesitation Cap stepped through the door and Marla followed.
Like most bars it was dark inside, but unlike most bars, it was quiet as a tomb. There was no laughter, no ribald jokes, no loud music. Those who came here did so to escape the company of others. They came to be among others of their own kind, beings who understood the pain of exclusion, and struggled with depression. For while it was a rare man or woman on Terra who didn't have some sort of prosthesis or surgical enhancement, no one chose to be a full cyborg—no one in their right mind, that is. Like Marla, most cyborgs had little choice. Some had been born into bodies so twisted almost anything else was preferable, some had escaped dying bodies, and a few, a tiny minority, had given up their bodies voluntarily. Marla was looking for one of these.
It was still early so the place was half empty. What patrons there were occupied the murky booths lining three walls. Each booth was equipped with an elaborate patch panel. By plugging into it customers could access a wide variety of recreational possibilities. Some were lost in intricate mind games, just playing for the fun of it, while others bet large sums on their ability to beat the house. Some were locked in the throes of electronic orgasm, their bodies jerking spastically as waves of ecstasy rolled through their circuits. And unable to find peace any other way, some were completely unconscious, having purchased an hour or two of electronic nothingness.
Marla understood the last all too well. During her time with Intersystems Incorporated, she'd come here often. Especially when she started to think about babies, to dream about them, knowing she'd never have one. Not even the best cyberbod in the world could make another human being. Yes, had they saved some ova, a surrogate mother could've been found, but unfortunately they hadn't done so. A profound sorrow rose up inside her. Gritting her teeth, she forced the feeling down and back.
Heading for the reception desk, Marla was struck by the variety of shapes and sizes that surrounded her. There were wheeled boxes, floating cylinders, various kinds of cyber-animals and other shapes dimly seen. Like herself, most cyborgs were designed for a specific purpose, and form followed function. Many, the majority in fact, were pilots, their brains encased in metal containers of one sort or another, passing a few days or hours while their ships were readied for space. Cyborg pilots were readily acknowledged as the best money could buy. It had to do with their special affinity for the ships they flew. For them a ship was simply a larger body, a larger more powerful extension of themselves, a feeling biobods would never know. But there were others too, submariners who ran Terra's huge ocean harvesters, security types like herself, and a dozen more.
As she approached the counter, Marla saw that it was empty except for a beat up looking cashcomp. “I still think your date looks a bit worse for wear, but welcome nonetheless. What'll it be?”
Marla looked around. It was the same voice she'd heard outside, but where was it coming from?
“Right in front of you,” the cashcomp said in bored tones, sprouting an optical scanner and a single articulated arm. “I'm a robot, so don't waste your time getting emotional. It won't do you any good. There's something wrong with my social interaction program, but the techs can't find it, and my owner doesn't give a shit. So what's your pleasure?”
“I'm here to see Machine.”
“Machine doesn't interface with just anyone. Who should I say is calling?”
“Marla. Marla Marie Mendez.”
There was silence as the cashcomp communicated with another room, and then said, “All right. I guess you're for real, Marla. Through that door.” A door hissed open behind the counter. “But the biobod stays here. Machine can't stand biobods.”
“The biobod gets one drink, and one drink only.”
“Understood,” the cashcomp replied. “I hope he likes whiskey. It's all we've got. There's not much call for alcohol in here.”
“Whiskey will be fine,” Cap answered eagerly.
“Just one,” Marla said sternly. “And wait here. If you're not here when I get back, then there's no bottle tonight.”
“Sure, sure,” Cap replied. “Ol’ Cap ain't never deserted a shipmate and never will.”
Leaving Cap to collect his drink, Marla padded around the counter and through the door. A steep flight of stairs awaited her. Although she'd met Machine years before, this was the first time she'd been invited to his quarters. Claws clicking, she trotted up two flights of stairs and emerged into a large loft.
“Down here.” The voice had an empty mechanical quality to it, and came from the far end of the loft. Light streamed down through a series of skylights to form distorted squares on the wooden floor. As she approached, Marla saw a high-backed executive-style chair, the back of a hairless head, and beyond that a huge wooden roll top desk. It could've been a replica, but Marla somehow knew it wasn't, and guessed that the desk was a thousand years old at least. There was, however, nothing old about the computer console which rested on it. It was one of the most sophisticated boards she'd ever seen.
Machine's ability with computers was legendary. Somewhere, in some secure place, Machine had a main frame of his own. By all accounts it was an awesome machine so intelligent that it met many definitions of sentience. Most agreed that Machine had designed and built it himself, though no one could say for sure. It was also whispered that Machine's resources were even greater than that. Many claimed he could access the huge computer known as “Earth Central Mainframe,” or “Earth Central” for short. If so, he must be very good indeed, because Earth Central belonged to the Imperial government, and the penalty for unauthorized access was death.
In any case Machine referred to himself as an “information interface,” and made a living by tracking down facts, in much the same way as a bounty hunter tracks down fugitives. A client would come seeking certain information. A bounty would be agreed upon and the hunt would begin. Unlike bounty hunters, however, Machine rarely left the building. Machine conducted his hunts electronically rather than in person. Of course, Machine wouldn't work for just anyone. He was quite adamant about that. He wouldn't e
ven see a biobod, much less work for one, and often refused work which he thought too boring, or unethical.
The chair spun around without warning. Knowing what to expect, Marla wasn't shocked. Machine's body was a parody of the human form, a life-size anatomical dummy, completely devoid of features. Machine's ovoid head had no ears, eyes or mouth. She knew he had sensors, lots of them, but none were visible. There were no clothes to cover his smooth sexless body. He looked like a store dummy come to life, and for reasons only he knew, Machine liked it that way. It certainly wasn't a lack of money. Everyone knew Machine had once been wealthy, a playboy dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, a member of that tiny group who already has what everyone else wants. But he'd renounced it all. His name, his wealth, even his body. For years now he'd lived a minimalist existence of his own devising. As always, Marla found it difficult to communicate with something which had no eyes. “Hello, Machine.”
“Hello, Marla. You are back from Swamp. I rejoice.”
“Thanks. You really shouldn't watch those junk holocasts, Machine, they're all hype.”
“Even hype is valid input, Marla,” Machine replied evenly. “It is information. And as you know, information is what I sell.”
Marla mentally kicked herself for attempting small talk with Machine. He either couldn't or wouldn't participate. “Right, and that's why I'm here. To buy some of what you sell.”
“Excellent, Marla. What would you like to know?”
“Everything you can get on a biobod named ‘Shinto.’ Where he lives, how much he's worth, his favorite color, everything.”
There was a long silence. Marla waited it out, knowing that Machine was thinking it over. Along with his wealth and physical body, Machine had rid himself of the social niceties, like stalling for time while he thought something over. If he wanted more time he simply took it.
“Shinto is a dangerous man, Marla. I know this without reference to my computer. He would not welcome strangers poking around in his affairs. Computer inquiries can be traced. Can you guarantee my safety?”
Marla considered. What ever else Machine had given away, he still had his sense of self-preservation. And he was right, computer inquiries could be traced, although from what she'd heard Machine was pretty good at protecting himself. She decided on honesty. “No, I can't guarantee your safety, Machine. We'll do everything we can ... but there's some risk involved.”
There was a long silence, during which Marla searched Machine's face for some hint of what he was thinking, and found nothing. Finally Machine spoke. “That is correct, Marla. You cannot guarantee my safety. But life offers no guarantees nor do I expect any. I am glad, however, that time and misfortune have not robbed you of your integrity. That is good. I have defenses which even Shinto cannot penetrate. You shall have what you want. Now we shall talk price.”
Marla nodded and sat back on her haunches. So far so good. Now to see if Machine would extend her some credit.
* * * *
Renn's job was not very difficult. Show up on time, check the computer terminal to see what goods were coming in and what goods were going out. Have coffee with his two human shipping clerks, tell them dirty jokes, and laugh when they told theirs. Ignore the fact that both hated his guts because he'd been brought in from the outside. Assign one to shipping and one to receiving. This was largely a formality because both had a preference. Luko, a short barrel-chested man with hair sprouting from his ears, liked shipping, and, Estaben, a somewhat overripe woman with bad breath, liked receiving. Not just goods, but anything else that might happen along as well.
Both clerks had a small army of robots who did the actual work, many of whom were smarter than they were. So, after their daily meeting with Renn, they'd retreat to their particular loading dock, and screw off for the rest of the day. Renn used the time to learn all he could about Shinto Enterprises.
By asking lots of questions, studying all the records available to his level of management, and reading the trade press, a picture began to emerge. Like many successful business operations Shinto Enterprises had begun to lose its edge. Day-to-day management of the company had passed from Shinto into the hands of bureaucrats who lacked both the vision and the guts to create anything themselves. Most had never even met their employer, and believed the public image his PR people had worked so hard to create. The orphan works his way up by means of superior ability and sheer determination, reaches the pinnacle of success, and stoops to help the less fortunate. Reading between the lines Renn suspected that those at the very top of Shinto Enterprises knew better. But they were probably just as guilty as he was, and remained silent because it benefited them to do so.
Renn also learned some interesting facts. Although Shinto Enterprises had begun to lose its edge, it was still enormously profitable, too profitable to be real. To Renn's experienced eye it seemed likely that other funds were being pumped through the company's books to cleanse and sanitize them. Of course, he couldn't be sure without seeing the company records, and needless to say, assistant warehouse managers didn't have access to those. He did learn, however that there were two sets of books, one in the company's Westerplex corporate headquarters, and the other at Shinto's residence on the Olympic Peninsula. Renn suspected that both would provide a detailed read-out on Shinto's legal and illegal transactions. After all, even if you're laundering money you must still keep track of it.
Further study uncovered more facts, the most interesting of which was that Shinto had indeed stolen his business, and was probably using it to commit the very crime for which Renn was sent to prison. Shinto had renamed the business “Interstellar Import-Export,” and tucked it under Shinto Enterprises as a wholly owned subsidiary. It was all there in the company's last annual report. Renn recognized it immediately. Shinto acquired the company at an auction of confiscated goods, paid the Imperial Government a fraction of its true worth, and immediately sold off the parts he didn't want. Then he staffed the company with his own people and let it run. Another profitable subsidiary. Like Shinto Enterprises, too profitable.
According to the last annual report the business had doubled its profits in a single year. Even allowing for more efficient management, and phenomenal market growth, that was too much. So Shinto had stolen his business, and was probably using it for drug smuggling or a similar enterprise. Now Renn knew for sure, and the knowledge filled him with grim satisfaction.
So now he knew Shinto was guilty as hell, but so what? He didn't have anything that would stand up in court. That kind of stuff was locked up in corporate headquarters or Shinto's home. He remembered his earlier bravado. Renn doesn't need courts. Renn the judge, jury and executioner. More like Renn the idiot. All he had against Shinto's money, power, and personal army was the element of surprise. And how far would that get him? Leaning back in his chair, Renn put his feet up and wondered what to do.
A few miles away Shinto sat behind armored glass on the top floor of the Shinto Enterprises Executive Tower. A frown creased his normally handsome features. He took great pride in his face. It was quite different from the original. The original was coarse, homely, and common. This one was cultured, refined, even patrician. Clear blue eyes, a nice straight nose, lips just full enough to be sensual, and a good firm chin. All the work of the best biosculpter money could buy. A biosculpter who had warned him against the effects of excessive sun and unpleasant emotions. So the frown was an unusual indulgence, one which his subordinates had learned to fear, and Shinto used to good effect. And it scared hell out of Signo Amad, his Chief of Security. As a result he sweated heavily as he stood before Shinto's wrath.
“Let me see if I understand this, Amad. We send a man to prison so we can acquire his business. Then, within a year and a half, he obtains a pardon and returns to earth. Lacking any source of income he applies for the job of Assistant Warehouse Manager with Shinto Enterprises. We, for reasons that completely escape me, proceed to hire him. Are those the facts?” The last was said in a voice which was completely calm bu
t as cold as arctic ice.
Amad nodded, his dark skin flushed even darker, sweat dripping from the tip of his blade-like nose. “Yyyess sir. Those are the facts.” From years of experience Amad knew better than to make excuses. His only chance lay in complete honesty and a good track record. For the thousandth time he wondered how his employer did it. Shinto had suddenly appeared the day before, obviously upset, and demanding a full-scale security check. “There's something out there Amad, something we don't know about. Find out what it is.” How did the bastard know? It was like he had ESP or something. Amad worked his staff through the night, and sure enough, there was something out there. A possible something anyway.
A computer cross-check between the content of the news holos and Shinto's personal enemies list turned up Jonathan Renn, one-time competitor, now a pardoned criminal. He'd applied for work under a phony name and made no attempt to disguise his finger prints or retinal pattern. A heavy work load delayed the routine background investigation which would have otherwise caught him. But excuses were not acceptable. Amad knew that. He'd screwed up pure and simple. Now it was a matter of seeing how high a price he'd have to pay.
Shinto reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a dart gun. It was a low-powered affair he sometimes used for target practice in the office. The target was mounted on the far wall just over Amad's shoulder. Shinto brought the gun up and aligned it with the target. Amad was careful not to blink. “So, in spite of all our security precautions, we hired a man with every reason to destroy us.”
Shinto flicked the gun left and squeezed the trigger. It went phufut. A dart sprouted from Amad's cheek. Shinto's sculpted features registered elaborate surprise. “Ooops! Sorry, Amad. I must be losing my touch.”
Prison Planet Page 21
