Analog Science Fiction and Fact

by January February 2018 (pdf)

  tube? What does that tell you about its in-

  him in Endless City, stalking him in meat-

  come? Does it suburb or supra? Or does it dis-

  space. So, if we track Cobie’s movements for

  appear into the Jumble—that’s another slice

  the past six months and expand that to in-

  of information. Just finding the home-locus of

  clude an area-search of everyone who passed

  the blot is critical. If the blot abruptly disap-

  within his local radius, eliminating all the ran-

  pears—whoever’s in the suddenly revealed

  doms, minimizing the residents, we should be

  space, there’s your list of suspects. Track them

  able to reveal any unusual patterns that are

  now.

  semi-congruent with Cobie’s. Every traff ic-

  If the blot doubles back, twists and turns,

  cam, every security monitor, every smart-

  moves across the map in an erratic pattern to

  phone, every ad-tracker, every functioning

  make sure it isn’t being followed, it still gives

  device plugged into the net, and every app on

  itself away. It reveals it has a secret to hide.

  all of those devices—every photo or video or

  Just one problem.

  audio captured within Cobie’s radius was raw-

  Yes, there was a blot—but it wasn’t follow-

  data if you had the resources to tap into all

  ing Cobie Ferguson. It was Cobie Ferguson.

  those separate data-feeds. Miranda did—and

  Every time it shut down, there was Cobie. No

  had.

  other suspects.

  Eezy-peezy, right?

  Miranda was good. Cobie thought he’d been

  Wrong.

  careful; he’d only shut down his blocker when

  Because the next part of the assumption

  he thought he was in the presence of other

  was that if someone could upload “Death by

  blockers. But Miranda tracked everyone leav-

  Oompah” to a high-end sextable, they’d also

  ing the blank areas and Cobie’s presence was

  be smart enough to know that simply step-

  the only repeating factor.

  ping out onto a public street would create a

  Well, crap.

  permanent record of their every movement.

  The case just got a whole lot weirder. I was

  Their every step and gesture—every fart,

  now looking for an invisible murderer—one

  sneeze, and exhalation—would be logged

  who wasn’t blotted but still didn’t show up in

  somewhere. There would be only one protec-

  any data-feeds. One who could track his target

  tion: a blocking field.

  even when the target was inside a blot.

  Blockers are usually licensed to celebrities,

  Okay, let me think about this. If the answer

  politicians, corporate leaders, billionaires, and

  isn’t in the evidence you’re looking at, it has to

  various government agencies. Ordinary citi-

  be in the evidence you’re not looking at. Mi-

  zens have to demonstrate a compelling

  randa had brute-forced the raw data, she’d

  need—witness protection, stalkers, restrain-

  minimized all the randoms and all the resi-

  ing orders, that kind of stuff. Anyone else has

  dents, and anyone else who might have had

  to pay a hefty premium—because why would

  business in the area.

  you want to hide your movements if you

  So . . . the man or woman or neut that I was

  weren’t doing something unlawful?

  looking for was probably a shifter, like me—

  A blocking field interrupts the local flow of

  someone who could burn through a dozen

  packets associated with your image, your

  identities in a week. A lot harder to track, but

  voice, your location, everything. All the data

  not impossible. It requires some pretty deep

  going back and forth between your devices

  scanning, but you can find identities that are

  and the rest of the world is triple-encrypted.

  too shallow, too perfect, too well construct-

  You show up on the displays as an empty

  ed—or just too good to be true.

  space.

  Miranda had flagged identities she trusted,

  But even an empty space reveals a lot—es-

  individuals who’d existed in her own databas-

  pecially if it’s ambulatory.

  es for three years or longer. That eliminated

  If the blot tracks to the restroom, did it cen-

  more than half of the randoms. Others were

  ter on the men’s, the ladies’, the neuts’, or the

  minimally suspect candidates—too old, too

  ENDLESS CITY

  125

  ANALOG

  young, physically disabled, medically impossi-

  Every time you turn on the electricity, you

  ble, emotionally unfit, intellectually impaired,

  leave a data-trail. Every appliance. Every light

  chronically ill, and so on—all the different out-

  bulb. Every electrical socket. Everything.

  liers.

  Everywhere.

  And then there were the ones with big rip-

  If you go to the circuit box and flip all the

  ples: deep family ties, long-term business con-

  breakers, that’s still no defense. If you have

  nections, anyone with a hint of celebrity,

  anything in your pocket or your purse that

  those were the least likely to be burners.

  runs off batteries, if it connects to anything

  Burner identities tended to be disconnect-

  else, if it taps into, if it reports, if it monitors—

  ed, enclosed, not a lot of interaction with the

  that’s a data-trail too.

  rest of the world. Yeah, that includes a lot of

  If you go lo-tech, disconnecting from the

  shut-downs, introverts, hiders, and agora-

  grid, generating your own life support, you

  phobes. And a lot of petty crooks, farmers,

  can still be observed—from the sky, from

  dealers, and distributors. But those are trace-

  across the street, and even through the walls

  able too. The problem gets harder when

  of the apartment next door. Lasers can read

  you’re dealing with pros. A good burner is

  the vibrations on your window glass, thermal

  usually connected to at least a few dozen oth-

  detectors can tell how many people are in the

  er good burners to create the illusion of a life.

  room, and microwaves can monitor your

  Miranda had eliminated at least two thirds

  movements.

  of the randoms, leaving only two dozen on the

  There is no privacy. There is no anonymity.

  list of possibles. Not a bad winnowing, but

  Put on a burka and walk down the street,

  still a time-consuming effort.

  you still leave a data-trail. Even if you wear a

  Put that aside for a moment, consider some-

  mask or a hood, cameras will still record your

  thing else instead. Why had Cobie blocked

  height, your gait, your body-movements, as-

  himself in meatspace? What was he hiding

  sembling a pe
rsonality-pattern that will be

  from? And as good as his blockware had

  matched with the paths you take, the pur-

  been—and it was state-of-the-art—how had he

  chases you make, the signs that catch your at-

  been tracked? The easy answer, the obvious

  tention, everything.

  one, was that he hadn’t been tracked; he’d in-

  Someone smart enough to be completely in-

  vited the killer in. And the killer had installed

  visible would also have been smart enough to

  “Death by Oompah.”

  plan a perfect murder. He hadn’t.

  A thought occurred to me—

  What’s a perfect murder? One that doesn’t

  Yes, Miranda had uploaded Cobie’s autopsy

  get discovered, one that no one ever knows

  report.

  about—no one except the murderer.

  Cobie had been hardwired into the ma-

  So . . . Cobie’s killer wanted the murder to

  chine. He was getting direct stimulation to the

  be known. Why?

  brain’s pleasure center. And just in case, his

  It didn’t make sense.

  blood had high levels of pain blockers.

  Maybe the murderer wasn’t invisible.

  Cobie had died happy—very happy.

  There was no evidence that Cobie had invit-

  So . . . the murderer hadn’t been vindictive.

  ed anyone into his penthouse apartment.

  That suggested a whole other set of motives.

  There was no trace. No physical evidence. No

  I leaned back in my chair—in meatspace.

  data-trail. Nothing.

  Mrs. Kilmartin did likewise in her pink gaze-

  And there was no evidence of anyone leav-

  bo.

  ing afterward, not even a blot.

  There’s this:

  Which brought me back to the f irst ques-

  If you live in Endless City, everything is

  tion . . . how did “Death by Oompah” get into

  recorded. Everything. There is no privacy—

  Cobie’s sextable?

  anyone with a warrant can prowl.

  Malware? Not with Cobie’s level of hard-

  If you retreat to meatspace, you can have

  ware. He would have had multiple state-of-the-

  the illusion of privacy. You can lock yourself

  art firewalls. So he would have had to install it

  in your apartment, live off the Basic, and have

  himself. . . .

  all your meals delivered.

  Did he think it was “Frat Boy Shenani-

  But that’s still not enough.

  gans”—or did he know it wasn’t?

  126

  DAVID GERROLD

  JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2018

  Because the son of a bitch had been wired

  span the gaps, canyons, cables, and tubes, bal-

  in like a screwhead and narked like a man

  conies have been turned into shops, staircases

  strapped to an execution table. It was painless

  transformed into vertical habitats, banners and

  because he wanted it to be painless.

  canopies are everywhere, tangles of wires

  Son of a bitch.

  lead every which way, vertical farms of all

  But why then? Following that train of

  kinds abound, blankets for walls, ladders, rick-

  thought, it doesn’t make sense. . . . Why

  ety staircases, an ancient aqueduct, twisting al-

  would he want me to investigate a murder

  leys wind through various pretenders to street

  that didn’t happen? And why would he blow

  level, and, beneath everything, abandoned

  up my office?

  tubeways where trains no longer run, crum-

  Unless . . .

  bling sewers, the whole a tottering slum,

  That was a little far-fetched, but—

  clinging to unfinished concrete towers, a gap-

  All right, back to Miranda’s reports. There

  ing triangular spire, heli-decks, windmills, and

  was something I’d missed.

  open catch-barrels for the monsoon rains—a

  But now I knew what I was looking for. I

  wild collection of humanity, clustered in its

  had to backtrace the movements of Cobie’s

  walls, morphs and neuts, cross-players, gen-

  blot. Only a few days were needed; he’d taken

  dernauts, inflatos, slendermen, barbies, twin-

  a trip, not too far, but far enough. He’d gone to

  kles, bearables, mandroids, femmiloids,

  a place where his blot overlapped with anoth-

  remods, rejuves, sportsters, shifters, grifters,

  er blot. Then the other blot disappeared.

  xenoids, saleables, whatevers—there’s no di-

  They’d merged. Then his blot went home.

  rectory. If you have to ask, you don’t want it

  So . . . backtrace that other blot—and it goes

  badly enough.

  all the way back to the Jumble.

  The Jumble is a self-contained paradox, si-

  Crap.

  multaneously the most connected and the

  And crap again.

  most disconnected place in the urban sprawl.

  Mrs. Zoe Elaina Kilmartin said some very

  It exists, it continues to exist, because no au-

  bad words and winked out of her beautiful

  thority wants responsibility of the physical

  pink gazebo.

  realm, no agency dares to attempt cyber-con-

  I’d need to switch to a burner identity. Hell,

  trol—not any more. No one wants the eco-

  I’d probably have to burn through half a

  nomic burden, the legal burden—no one

  dozen.

  wants to inherit the morass of the Jumble’s

  This was going to take some thought and

  bizarre societies and ungovernable residents.

  some careful preparation.

  In short, no one knows what to do with it, so

  the Jumble exists, a great machine of self-

  The Jumble is all proxies and untraceables.

  evolving survival.

  The whole area is blotted—it’s splattered with

  Within its walls, the Jumble is anything and

  multiple overlapping blots. And they stack.

  nothing: sanctuary, brothel, casino, hideaway,

  There are few visible cues. Endless City is

  drug den, fantasyland, shops of all kinds—tat-

  woven in and out of its structure so deep, it’s

  too artists, mutation parlors, transformatories,

  impossible to navigate without plugins.

  fetish-holes, meal-vendors, cafes, tailors, boot-

  Nothing is what it seems. Nobody is who

  makers, indigo marketplaces, purple holes,

  they pretend to be. If Endless City is one re-

  exo-printers, fabbers, xeno-labs, crack-

  lentless performance, the Jumble is its physi-

  doors—everything. The Jumble has its own

  cal counterpart. It’s Kowloon’s Walled City

  unwritten rules; you’re safe as long as you fol-

  reborn—with a vengeance. The Jumble exists

  low them. Don’t take what isn’t yours. Don’t

  where three, or maybe more, jurisdictions fail

  ask what you don’t need to know. Don’t go

  to overlap—each one retreating from the re-

  where you have no business. Whatever you

  sponsibility of governance. The result is a hole
r />   want or need, it’s here—buy or trade, cash

  in the fabric of responsibility: a gigantic un-

  only, no credit. No wires, no traces, thank

  governed enclave, sprawling like a cancerous

  you. Next, please?

  amoeba across several square kilometers of

  Old identities disappear into the Jumble.

  broken terrain. Ancient buildings lean against

  New ones come out. And Cobie Ferguson had

  each other for support, bridges to nowhere

  done a lot of business here. The money wasn’t

  ENDLESS CITY

  127

  ANALOG

  traceable, but Miranda’s data-diving had re-

  much more intricate and complex map than

  vealed large sums converted into cash over a

  most people. This iteration of Max Blankman

  three-year period. Gambling losses, he said,

  was probably getting a lot of attention because

  but there weren’t many trips to the Endless

  of that. Somewhere—a lot of somewheres—a

  City casinos—none that could be tracked. No,

  lot of someones were poking someone else

  he told his taxman that he gambled in the Jum-

  and saying, “Hey, look at this, we’ve got a Max

  ble. There were certain games within its walls

  who can see us.” There must have been a hun-

  not available anywhere else. The taxman

  dred sets of eyes on me, my only protection.

  didn’t ask for details—and if he had, Cobie

  Nobody was going to assault me with that

  wouldn’t have answered. Because he wasn’t

  many witnesses.

  gambling. You didn’t stay as rich as Cobie Fer-

  I followed a blinking red arrow up an esca-

  guson if you had that kind of gambling habit.

  lator, one of the few that worked, the rest

  No, he was investing in something else—not

  were just stairs, halfway up, then right along

  illegal if you intend to use it legally, but def i-

  “the becauseway”—called that not because it

  nitely illegal if you don’t.

  was a causeway, but because it was a “be-

  There were only three practitioners of this

  causeway.” Because. You either got it, or you

  art in the Jumble—well, only three that I

  didn’t. Maybe you had to be there.

  knew of—but only one of them had a reputa-

  Stopped at a noodle shop, put a copper

  tion for clean hands. I’d start with Her. Him.

  coin on the counter and ducked behind the

  Whatever. Depending on the moment. Be-

  curtain, still following the blinking arrow,

  cause there was no him, her, or whatever—

  through six interleaved apartments, then out