by Jeffrey Cook
Mina scanned every chart and list within reading distance, then scanned over the other people waiting, wondering why they were here. Some were harder to guess than others. She started running through a few imagined scenarios in her head, filling in details with speculation and context clues. Miko was watching and knew Mina far too well. There was a comm text. “What's the verdict?”
“Okay, the Oregon Kid, I'm almost positive,” Mina sent back. “Probably some kind of university research posting.” If there was a retirement or death within staff at a major research facility, it would make sense they'd be trying to fill it quickly.
“Big guy in his rumpled Sunday's Best?”
“Don't know about Montana Kid. Montana Dad may be a trucker. Tan darker on one elbow. Arm out of window a lot? Still doesn't mean anything. Montana Kid may be luckier than I.”
Aptitudes ran in families often enough that it wasn't unusual for kids to follow similar careers, but it was hardly universal. Still, Mina could imagine reasons why more transport workers might be needed in a hurry.
“Redhead?”
“I've got nothing.”
The copper-haired girl looked like an awful lot of the girls in Mina's class. T-shirt and jeans, painted nails with rough edges from the nervous habit, long hair kept in a braid—nothing that readily gave a lot away. She fidgeted in silence.
'Skick!' went the sound of another bitten nail, and the mother glanced up from her magazine sternly. The girl tried to sit on her hands in reaction. Yes, there was some tension between them. Mina found her attention drawn to the mother's nails. Brightly painted, definitely a good sign she didn't do anything that was going to scuff them up. On the other hand, the woman kept them trimmed short, perhaps for typing, or maybe playing piano or something, Mina reminded herself, with a glance aside to Miko's nails, short since those lessons started at age eight. Still, she could see the woman as a secretary—about the right amount of makeup and general sense of professional style in evidence for someone used to dealing with people, used to a steady 9-to-5 career. Mina guessed that perhaps the daughter was going into something drastically different, more socially isolated or unpredictable, and the woman didn't entirely approve. Perhaps it was even that this was a consultation, and the girl didn't even know precisely what she'd be doing yet. Good reason to be nervous there as well.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there when a small voice asked, “How long's it take to make somebody a prob'ly-lab-monkey?” The tiny blonde girl wasn't talking to Mina. With her family preoccupied, she was addressing Miko with earnest concern.
“Well,” Miko replied cheerfully, “It used to take years and years.” Then, soothingly, as the girl's eyes widened in distress, she added, “But that was a long time ago. If this is his day, he'll know all about labs by bedtime.”
“Oh.”
Mina noted the correct call just a little smugly. There were no prizes, of course; it was just a habit. And better, maybe, than turning those musings on what would happen to the girl who was wearing Danskins™, but clearly didn't have the legs to be a professional ballerina.
The probably-lab-monkey got called in first. He hadn't been gone for a minute when the family decided to collect the littler ones and go find some breakfast, or maybe it was lunch. The center felt immeasurably bigger and more empty the second they'd left.
Not long after, the nurse called, “Mina Teresa Cortez.”
“Excuse me,” Mina said, surprised. “Did you say Mina Teresa Cortez?” After all, she'd arrived last, so she expected to be called last. The nurse verified that it was her turn and that Miko wasn't going to be permitted back with her. The nurse and desk attendant both made a note of making sure security had Miko's name and license plate though so she could get back to the building and the waiting area at any point she wanted, if she decided to leave the chipping center.
“Thanks,” said Miko as she turned on her ear buds to listen to music instead.
The nurse led Mina back through a maze of hallways. She'd always had a fair sense of direction, which helped with her deliveries, but even so, she was lost within the first two minutes. The nurse navigated the center's labyrinthine ways with practiced—and probably chipped—ease, eventually showing Mina to a sterile room, this one white, in contrast to the steel gray and various shades of beige in the rest of the center. There was a padded table, a couple of countertops, and two chairs. An open metal secure box rested on the examining table.
“Please go ahead and get changed into a robe. Your clothes can go into that safebox there. Lock it up when you're done and leave it on the countertop. You'll get everything back when we check you out. Did you have any questions?”
“Wait ... so I'm actually being chipped? I thought this was just a consultation or something.”
“Oh dear,” the nurse answered, checking her paperwork. “Chipping Date: Mina Teresa Cortez. I can understand being nervous, honey, but it's not that big a deal. We'll have you out and walking by tonight.”
Chapter Five
“No, no ... I'm not nervous. I know all that. I just ... I'm going to be working at a flower shop. It's not like ... well, not like a Week Two thing.”
The Nurse shrugged. “This is the date we were given. If you'd like us to call your family, we can do that, but you're going to be in isolation through the surgery and a few follow ups. Still, if you thought it was a consultation, they should probably know. They'll want to be here when you're done.”
Mina bit back the comment that they'd probably want to know when she'd be ready to go back to work first. “Okay, yeah, give them a call. Just let them know it's no big deal for now. They don't need to be here. My friend can give me a lift back home.”
“Okay, I'll let them know. You're going to want to take it really easy for a few days. The procedure is minimally invasive, but we're still attaching something to your spine. It's—”
“Thank you,” Mina interrupted, with a small smile. “I'm okay, really.” She was sure, despite all the classes, some kids would want reassurance up til the last minute. Now that she was here, Mina just wanted to get on to the point she wouldn't need to be here any longer.
Once the nurse left, Mina quickly changed into the too-brief hospital gown. She managed to tie it reasonably well, found a pair of linen-white slippers, then shut her clothes up in the box and went to peek out of the room. “Okay, I'm ready,” she called.
The nurse returned, leading her through a few more empty, maze-like, hallways and eventually to a surgical room. She met briefly with the two doctors, then the handful of additional assistants and nurses. They went through the expected battery of explanations, whether she needed them or not.
“Some people process certain kinds of knowledge better than others. Chips don't reprogram anyone,” the doctor explained.
“—they just transmit electrical impulses, which translate into a certain kind of data, or encourage a certain kind of action,” Mina said. “I promise I wasn't one of the ones sleeping in class.”
“And you know that there's no guarantees, but the risk of chip rejection or complications has dropped to being almost negligible.”
“As long as you follow proper processes and don't try and mess with your chip or try and get anything added to it,” Mina continued. “I know. Most of the horror stories are at least a couple generations old, or turned out to be Black Market chips.”
Mina was given another chance to ask questions, then was helped onto the padded metal table, face down. She put her face through the small hole that would let her breathe easily while undergoing surgery. They assured her the anesthesia would help her sleep through the process and not feel a thing.
She felt the shot, then continued to hear voices for a little bit, which became increasingly distant as the medicine kicked in. Her last impressions were of marks being made on her upper back and neck with a marker while the surgical crew talked. Then, though Mina still wasn't ready to wake up a florist, everything went dark.
A taste like chewing on ti
nfoil and a slight burning sensation somewhere in her nasal cavity woke Mina. She registered that much, felt a rush of adrenaline, and before she picked up anything else of her surroundings, she rolled off of the table. She landed in a crouch, feeling the slight constriction of sweatpants around her legs. Before she could ponder how she'd gotten a change of clothes, or why she was behind a fixed table with drawers rather than an operating table, she heard a smack of hard plastic on the tabletop where she'd been laying a split second before.
The table wouldn't last as a hiding place for long, but she had moved across the way from her potential attacker, giving her a moment. At first, she detected chaotic movement. Something in her brain raced through assessing her situation, and she smelled three others in the room—two sets of actual movement, coming around the desk from opposite sides. At least a hint of synth-skin, so probably some cybernetics somewhere.
Two masked figures came into view, rounding each side of the desk. Despite the clear threat, though she wasn't sure why, Mina's initial adrenaline-laced panic started to fade.
She tensed, head snapping forward, watching both out of her peripheral vision. As they committed themselves to trying to corner Mina, her crouch gave her the perfect start for a spring upward, hands planting on the tabletop, turning into a smooth somersault to the other side of it and onto her feet.
That was when the surreality of being attacked got even more surreal. Not from the somersault—Mina could do a somersault. That was fine. What was surreal was the way her feet shifted into one of Miko's aikido stances. She wasn't clumsily copying what she'd seen. She was falling naturally into something she'd never actually done in her life. She felt a bit like a character in one of Scott's video games, like her motions weren't entirely under her control, but whoever had the controller was doing just fine
As one of the masked men reversed field, coming back around, she stepped into him. He brought the hard plastic baton up into an attack posture. Mina continued her momentum forward, using the heavy desk as a barrier to keep the fight one on one. She closed the distance before he could get any momentum behind the swing, one hand coming up to parry the attack at his forearm instead of risking blocking the baton with her bare arm. Her other hand lashed out with an open palm strike to his solar plexus. There was a muffled thump on impact, her brain registering some kind of light body armor under his shirt that kept the blow from knocking the wind out of him.
Already adjusting his position, he tried for a sapping blow under her chin. She ducked her head back and to the side even as she registered what he was doing, the man's hand coming up a millimeter from striking. Her dodge left her in better position to follow up than her attacker. She let her momentum carry her into a full spin, dropping into a low sweep kick. Her attacker jumped over it, but his landing gave her a split second free of his press. She pushed upward again, not even looking back, just remembering where the desk was to brace herself properly, turning her backwards leap into a roll across the desktop, coming up on her feet atop the desk.
From her position on high ground, a new flurry of motion caught her attention in time to let her snap a leg out, avoiding the attack to her shin, stepping down on the baton. Her defense was jarring enough that the attacker lost hold of the baton under Mina's foot. She hooked her toes under the baton, kicking it up into the air and catching it. Now armed, she resumed her stance, trying to assess both attackers.
As Mina was about to spring off the desk toward him, they were interrupted by a firm voice. “Enough! Her chip has obviously taken fine.”
Mina was startled enough that her readiness to leap almost translated into tumbling forward face-first off the desk. Instead, she felt her arm and shoulder tucking without her bidding, turning the fall into a graceful roll and perfect dismount off the desk top. She had in her mind to hit the guy who'd been swinging at her, just in case, but the same odd new reflex she'd been feeling guiding her through the action movie moves told her there was no more threat present. She almost smacked him anyway, on principle.
That urge dissipated as she finally got a look at the third person present, and immediately recognized her. The big woman from her bicycle wipe-out, with the cyber-arm. “What ...?” she stammered, eyes locked on the figure. The woman responded by gesturing to the pair of men. The one still armed set his baton down. Both removed their masks, and turned to face the woman with the cyber-arm. “There will be more tests, but you passed the most crucial one. You've accepted your chip. Welcome to the Secret Police, Miss Cortez.”
“Okay, okay ... slow down ... Secret Police ... what?” Mina started, tensing up again. “Who are you people? Why did they attack me? Why am I not in the center? Why do I know aikido? Why am I dressed?” she rapid fired, tone shifting from baffled to almost accusing as she locked eyes on the big woman.
The woman looked unstirred, just waiting for Mina to finish before saying a word. “A little respect, Miss Cortez. I know this is confusing, but not half as confusing as the bigger world you're about to enter. Let's begin with this: you are presently in no danger. This may be the last time in your new life I can say that with certainty. Secondly, I am Director Fiona Richter, henceforth, either Director, Director Richter, or Ma'am while here. Outside these walls, we do not know each other. Is that clear?”
Chapter Six
Faint hints of aluminum chewing, as one part of Mina's brain told her to salute. She ignored it and stopped the twitch of her arm before it got far into the reflex motion. She also bit back any number of sarcastic comments from another part of her brain entirely. Now that the adrenaline had died down, she was having an easier time recognizing the chipped impulses and reflexes. She still couldn't imagine why she needed those kind of reflexes, but at least she knew they were there. “All right ... I mean, yes, Director,” Mina answered, quickly starting to feel like she was talking to her father.
“Very good, Miss Cortez. You have been selected to receive one of the rarest chips in the world.”
Mina's brain, still firing off questions rapid fire, prompted her to interrupt the Director's all-too-slow explanation. “So, wait, I got a cop chip?”
The Director's response, maddeningly, was to slow down further, just fixing Mina with a stern gaze that chased any more urge to fire off questions to the back of her mind. Towering over her, the woman suddenly seemed like she'd grown another two feet, or Mina had shrunk. As soon as Director Richter was content that she had Mina's undivided attention, she continued in deliberate fashion.
“Police chips are admirable things. I wouldn't mind seeing more people get them, but no. You're not a policewoman, though that is one of the most common and broadly useful cover identities used in our line of work. You're now a deep-cover spy, of sorts. Inserted into the normal population with a complex chip capable of helping you with your other career. When called upon for assignment, you'll engage in espionage, high-level city security activities, counter-terrorism work, and the occasional black market investigation when it goes above the police's heads. You have a license to work within any of the nations signed on to the security agreement, as well as the necessary language skills, but will primarily be quartered here in Seattle.”
Mina blinked. There was a pause, then it grew longer while Mina absorbed some of what she was being told. She realized that the Director was awaiting some acknowledgment she understood, and the next question, along with a gaze that said that the next question had better be a very good one. “So ...” she started, “I'm not going to be running the flower shop? All my aptitude tests said I'd be perfect for, you know, selling flowers ... “She immediately felt like an idiot as the words left her mouth.
The Director's tone stayed even. “Well, yes, your file suggested you would be an excellent florist ... except the part in your psych profile that indicated that you'd snap within 5 years. Same reason we end up having to be so careful with postal worker and air traffic controller chips.” If that was a joke, the woman wasn't laughing.
After a brief pause, she continu
ed. “However, you will still be selling and delivering flowers. As far as your parents or most of the city are concerned, you are a delivery girl, chipped to eventually take over your parents' business. We could think of no better cover than someone who has an excuse to be absolutely anywhere at almost any time. We just have to call and place an order, and you have an excuse to be away for variable amounts of time. Many of the chip routines are also similar: perfect city maps, multiple programmed languages, and so on.”
Mina just nodded along, before the words actually registered fully. “So ... wait ... I'm a spy ... and a secret cop ... and whatever else ... and my parents still get to make me do inventory?”
The Director raised a brow. “Something like that. Though you have a significant expense account, suitable to your pay grade, you will be expected to live within your cover identity's means. No fancy car, no buying a house tomorrow, and due to risks of spies being compromised, very limited vacations. However, be assured, you'll someday be able to retire very comfortably. You will be expected to live up to the expectations of your cover: inventory, deliveries, sales ... everything you'd do otherwise. 80 to 90 percent of the time, that will be the extent of your work, in ideal circumstances. It needs to be believable over a wide span of years. Be assured, however, that does not make what you're actually doing any less important. During the remaining ten to twenty percent of your time, you will be helping to save the world as we know it—no exaggeration.”
Mina thought about it a few moments. Aside from the flower delivery part, it sounded kind of exciting. Besides, she supposed she'd have plenty of things to think on while running inventory or checking receipts. In any case, this didn't sound like the sort of job you turned down.” So ... who can I tell about all of this, exactly?”
“The people in this room, the Deputy Mayor and her entourage, and other individuals we specify. Your chip has clearance levels programmed in. You'll be able to recognize the handful of authorized people, and it will give you a warning if you're about to say something you shouldn't to anyone else.”
