Senescence (Jezebel's Ladder Book 5)

by Scott Rhine

  He steepled his fingers. “Define freedom.”

  “First, I earn 2 percent of all product revenues derived from his DNA.” A finder’s fee was standard, but not for such a large windfall.

  “A hundred million flat,” he countered.

  Laura pursed her lips and nodded. “Second, the company returns my reproductive rights.”

  “Fine,” he said. “That will end your allowance.” Mori provided her a steady income for not flooding the market with her multi-talented DNA. Most children enhanced by the company had to sign such contracts.

  “No interference from you ever again.”

  “Sooner or later, you’ll want a favor from me.”

  “That’s my problem,” Laura said.

  “When I die, you could inherit the company,” he tempted.

  She shook her head. “You’re like a vampire. You’ll outlive us all, especially if you gain access to Sanctuary regeneration pods.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Put our deal in writing. Do I need to free the astronaut?”

  Mori shrugged. “That doesn’t matter if you can get the sample without it.”

  “Agreed.”

  “That’s my Salome.” He insisted they shake hands on the deal.

  She wanted to take a shower.

  ****

  Because she was cute and a high-ranking member of one of the world’s largest defense contractors, Laura managed to bluff her way onto Edwards and into the offices of the Judge Advocate General. Over the next few hours, while she and a couple lawyers tried to navigate the maze of bureaucracy, the video of Stu speaking Panda on the beach trended upward. First, governments scrambled to analyze the veracity of the recording. Next, every linguist on the planet shared the video, calling their colleagues regardless of the hour.

  The legal clerk in the waiting room kept glaring at the required empath badge on Laura’s suit. Lawyers hate people who can tell when they’re lying. In his case, he doesn’t want to agree to anything I ask for in case I’m trying to influence him. Flirting and flattery didn’t work either. He wouldn’t even tell her where she could refill her water bottle. The tufts of hair on either side of his balding head reminded Laura of Krusty the Clown.

  Laura made online corporate donations to the World Wildlife Foundation and several zoos in order to increase panda exposure in the media. As pandas rose in the public consciousness, so did coverage of her client’s plight.

  At seven, the legal clerk informed her entourage, “We’re closed for the day. Come back tomorrow.” The little man clearly relished the power.

  “You haven’t even charged Mr. Llewellyn,” she objected.

  The clerk shut down his workstation. “We’re allowed to hold anyone for twenty-four hours—

  longer if they’re an enemy combatant.”

  “He’s an ambassador. You have no right to hold him.”

  The clerk replied, “We don’t recognize Sanctuary as an independent nation.”

  “Then how can he be an enemy?” she argued.

  “Okay, he’s out of uniform and guilty of espionage.”

  “We demand proof that Mr. Stewart is being treated humanely.”

  “You’re not allowed to speak to the prisoner for his own health. He’s in quarantine.” The clerk locked his file drawer.

  “Then let us speak to him by video!” The last time she had used that tone with a man, she had been holding a riding crop.

  The clerk considered for a moment. “No. As an enemy spy, he may attempt to communicate state secrets.”

  “A spy does not announce himself on live TV. Let me see a live video feed of Mr. Llewellyn in his cell.”

  “Submit your request tomorrow,” the clerk said, attempting to leave.

  Laura stepped into his path and read his nametag. “Mr. Abramowitz, if you walk out that door without giving us a video feed, you will regret wasting my time.”

  The clerk evicted the legal team. “I have my orders.”

  “I tried to be nice. I hope you don’t live too far away because you’ll be driving back here soon.”

  ****

  Sitting in a jeep outside the JAG offices, Laura called the head of Fortune security, Mr. Maurier. “The lawyers are shooting blanks here. Did your wife think of a medical loophole we can use to get Llewellyn relocated?”

  Maurier, originally one of the elite Swiss Guard, had emigrated to the States to be with his wife, a world expert in treating Page talents and helping them reach adulthood. “Lena says they might move him to the Beverly Hills Hyperbaric Unit if air quality becomes an issue.”

  Laura shook her head. LA had air-quality alerts almost daily. If the boy really had been raised in space, breathing in LA would be like sucking on an exhaust pipe. Desperate, she called a congressman she once had dated, who phoned a golf buddy in Special Forces, who called in a favor.

  Abramowitz was back in an hour with an IP address. Angry, he told Laura, “You haven’t won. We’re charging him tomorrow. They will break him in interrogation.”

  Laura entered the link address into her sleeve comp. Stewart was doing pushups on the tile in tight, black underwear and a T-shirt. His arms and legs were ripped. “Why have you taken his clothes?”

  “We confiscated the clothes he came with—standard procedure. It’s not our fault the stubborn bastard refused to wear the prison jumpsuit.”

  She suppressed a smile. I like him already. “Has he complained about anything since his ordeal began?”

  “Sloppy paint jobs. The baby blue wasn’t soothing enough for him.”

  Blue discrimination means he has Mercy Llewellyn’s talent with gravity. “Why aren’t they questioning him yet?” she asked.

  The clerk shrugged. “The prisoner seems too relaxed. He’s enjoying this too much. They probably want to deprive him of sleep. Now will you please leave this base?”

  She left gracefully. There was nothing she could do until the hearing. Her grandfather was assembling a legal dream team of the best litigators money could buy. One of them was a former prosecutor from The Hague. By obtaining proof of life, she had just established herself as the head of Stewart’s legal team.

  Chapter 6 – Infotainment

  Laura returned to her LA apartment and delegated round-the-clock surveillance on the astronaut’s video feed. She couldn’t sleep, though, because her heart rate was too high. She kept imagining what the government would be doing to that nice young man while she rested in luxury.

  Hans Eisen had mailed her a prerelease episode of Fortune network’s number-one reality show—Ballbusters. That meant he wanted something from her, usually scientific equipment or resources. Hans was always good for a laugh. It was too bad he was gay and hadn’t slept his way to the top like the rumors implied. Still, she enjoyed a meal out with him and his cronies on the rare occasion he came to town.

  When she pressed play, the moderator announced, “Tonight, we return to our popular deadbeat hunt.” The show did this ritual about once a month. It was cheap and entertaining. Her favorite hunt had been hogtying the cowboy at the rodeo. The banjo music had been hilarious.

  US legal code scrolled across the screen. Themis, the show’s ethics officer and legal counsel, explained it in eighth-grade terms. “Fertility is not an absolute right. Reckless operation of a car can be grounds for suspending a driver’s license or placing a police clamp on a vehicle tire. Irresponsible reproduction can have far greater costs for individuals and the society. For years, states have been placing warnings and conditions on marriage licenses to reduce loads on family court. According to recent rules, failure to pay child support for over a year means that man forfeits the privilege to reproduce. With a sworn warrant and three refusals to appear, a man may be sterilized by the state as long as such sterilization is humane, sanitary, and reversible. However, this rule is rarely enforced due to the expense. That’s where we come in.”

  The screen filled with the Ballbusters logo.

  Men on street corners bobbed their head
to the theme song as they sang along. The main verse encouraged men to guard the family jewels and not to act like fools. “Real men think yes is sexy.” Laura chuckled at this season’s new ending to the song, a mother yelling at her boy who waved a BB gun on his hip. “Careful with that thing. You could hurt someone.”

  Themis read a final, somber disclaimer. “Do not try this at home. The women you see in this presentation are trained professionals. This program does not endorse vigilantes. All missions have been certified as legal in the jurisdictions where they were filmed.”

  The first commercial was from the 49-er coalition, founded when women were paid forty-nine cents on the dollar compared to men. Laura skipped the ads.

  Back in the show, an auburn Amazon snapped body armor into place. “I volunteered for today’s hunt. I’ll be using a Genilock 54. This places a nanoclamp over the sperm vesicles better than a police boot on a tire. It’s like an electric vasectomy.” She held the gun-like device up for the camera. “I am a licensed bounty hunter. This weapon is keyed to my fingerprint. Each injection is numbered and transmits my credentials. I have three shots at each runner. Beyond that number of attempts is considered ‘cruel and unusual’ punishment.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I qualified as a sniper in the Israeli army. I’ve never missed a runner yet.” A hyperlink to another episode appeared in the upper-right corner.

  Regular viewers knew her comment was a dig at Sif, who lost her quarry in a government building—the only escapee in the deadbeat hunts to date. The man, Grant Thisbe, paid his fines in full on the air. Since then, he had made guest appearances to speak on behalf of the targets. He was now known to millions as the Devil’s Advocate. His input made for a more balanced show, although he was the favorite whipping boy during panel discussions. Lord knows why he puts up with it. He gets paid less than the camera operator. As a professional journalist, Grant had raised the show’s standards and won them several awards. Thanks to him, the show had an educational rating from the FCC.

  The huntress snicked an ammunition clip into position. “My name is Artemis, and I approve this mission.”

  Grant stood beside the armored woman. “For the patient’s safety, we took the following precautions. First, we confirmed that the man is not a heart-attack risk and has no known allergies.” Freya had to perform CPR last season. Another episode link appeared. “Second, the target recently ran in a marathon, so this should be an interesting hunt. Third, Artemis is accompanied by a registered nurse, Evangeline, who will verify the target’s identity, disinfect, and give recovery information to the patient. I’m the advocate, and I approved this mission.”

  The narrator voiced over a photo of a man with his mouth open and a beer in his hand. Since drought had killed off most of last year’s barley crop, beer prices had more than doubled. “Harvey Miller, age twenty-eight, has three children by three different women. He owns a jet ski, a fishing boat, an RV, and a big screen TV. The state confirms he hasn’t paid child support in five years or appeared in court. We have purchased his support-payment debt from his former partners, giving us the right to file civil suit.”

  A bench warrant appeared on the screen, revoking Harvey’s reproductive rights.

  The scene shifted to a bar room. The camera focused on the target with three empty imported-beer bottles in front of him. High blood alcohol always made chases funny. Under his name, the text showed he spent enough on alcohol and lotto tickets to have met his obligations for two of his children.

  A knockout walked past him in a red, latex dress. Saxophone music played, and the nurse’s name and credentials appeared at the bottom of the screen. The target swiveled so fast on his stool that he spilled the bowl of fried grasshoppers on the bar. “You’re new around here.”

  Evangeline smiled in response, halting at the hallway to the restrooms. “No. We went to high school together. You’re Henry, right?”

  He stood and straightened his stained shirt to cover his spare tire before he sauntered over. An ad for a gymnasium appeared in the upper-left corner. “Harvey, Harvey Miller. I would have remembered a babe like you in my school.”

  Pulling Harvey’s head close to her mouth, the nurse distracted the target while Artemis strode into the bar like a gunslinger. Most locals who recognized the star of the show scattered silently. Laura knew that two of the men near her were really guards who kept the spectators from interfering.

  Evangeline’s microphone picked up her seductive whisper. “Then I’m going to want to have a good look at what’s down your pants.” The camera zoomed in as she pulled his belt away from his gut and dropped a disc inside. He didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. The tech readout at the bottom explained it was antibiotic foam, used by the military in field surgeries. The foam also chilled the area to reduce inflammation and bleeding. “I’m going to help you feel so much better tonight. First, use ice for twenty minutes to reduce the swelling. Second, if you have redness, talk to your doctor.”

  “Huh?” Harvey grunted, his confusion evident as his shorts filled with icy foam.

  The arming of the Genilock made a high-pitched whine that everyone who had even seen commercials for the show recognized. Then Harvey made his biggest mistake yet. He bolted into the men’s room, hoping for refuge.

  Artemis followed seconds later.

  The women in the bar chanted, “Tag his bag!”

  Men fled the bathroom, zipping on the run. The cameraman had trouble pressing through the stream of humanity. The image switched to the feed from the floater drone, normally not allowed in public restrooms. The censors permitted this if no faces or genitals appeared. All it showed in this case was a row of three knotty-pine stalls and an equal number of empty urinals. A pop-up ad appeared over the condom machine.

  A single stall door was closed. Artemis played to the camera. “Hmm … he’s not in here.” She kicked the door of the first—empty. The loud slam caused a whimper from the final stall. “And he’s not in here.” At the bang, the target burst from his stall and darted for the small window.

  She let Harvey climb halfway through the window before pulling his pants down to his knees. “You, out of the gene pool, now!” She placed the barrel at the base of his underwear. The view switched to the drone outside the window.

  Framed by bricks on each side, Harvey’s mouth and eyes opened wide in panic. Every man in the audience winced at the burst of compressed air that sounded like a nail gun. Artemis taped the court order over his butt to cover the private parts—the money shot for this episode.

  Artemis kissed the nurse dramatically on the way out.

  After the theme music and a commercial for Mori Genetics, the show returned to interview Harvey’s friends, coworkers, and family. Normally, this part was hilarious. They would all confirm what an infantile, self-centered loser he was. Even his mother started her interview with, “It’s about time someone put a muzzle on that thing. They all expect me to babysit.”

  Nobody had anything good to say about him except his bowling team. When the waitress delivering their beer heard the news, she muttered, “Hallelujah.”

  The interviews were so sad, Laura skipped to the final segment, a roundtable of the regular contributors. The advocate was still wincing. “On behalf of all men, that was humiliating to watch.”

  Artemis shrugged. “You’re just upset that we have to fill in several minutes because I scored so fast.”

  The director, the always-dapper Hans in his trademark turtleneck, said, “Since we’re entering our third season, I thought this might be a good time to recap what we have accomplished with our team and what you would still like to achieve with this show.”

  “Boring!” said the Chinese woman dressed in black workout clothing. She propped her feet on the table, aiming the soles of her boots at the advocate. An info-bubble explained this was an insult in Sif’s home country.

  “I’m trying to earn our educational rating,” replied the director.

  “Do we have to sound like PBS?
” Sif complained.

  Grant snorted. “You’d prefer PMS?”

  Sif hopped to her feet so fast her chair rocked back. Grant didn’t move. Instead, he faced her calmly and said, “The show does educate. You proved that when you converted me to this team.”

  The two other huntresses on the team righted the chair and helped Sif back into it.

  The director started on his left and asked the resident hacker, “Nemesis, what was your favorite episode?”

  The unimpressive, heavy woman with long, brown hair grinned. “When we convinced the major phone companies to help us stop sexual bullying. I hated when guys posted naked photos of their girlfriends after breakups. Teenage girls committed suicide when those hit social media.”

  Hans nodded. “Thanks to this show, forwarding nude photos, other than those you legally own, can result in the loss of all mobile phone service for seven years. What still bothers you the most?”

  The computer expert pondered for a moment. “When a rape kit sits in a police lab until the statute of limitations expires. Not only does it rob the victim of justice, but the man is still on the streets hurting more women.”

  The team members around the table echoed the frustration. The director followed the thread. “Seems like we hit a nerve. We could get Mori to donate a DNA tech and an analyzer to work the backlog somewhere, and you huntresses could help with some arrests.”

  “Hell, yes!” Artemis said.

  Ah, this is what he wants from me. Laura typed a request to tap her division’s advertising budget. The cost was substantial, but she could present the device and demonstrate it personally on screen. The family and company would benefit, not to mention the victims and law enforcement.

  “Then we need to research the cities with the worst conviction rates to see where we’re going next week,” Hans said.

  The editors had removed the long delay for research, and a table of conviction rates by country filled the screen. “Ireland is the worst in the EU, even lower than a lot of third-world countries,” explained Nemesis.