by J. N. Chaney
“I have pulled up several disturbing reports on Grigori Paavo,” X-37 said. “Customer reviews indicate that he is prone to meditate without reason or warning, often sitting down in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.”
"Weird, but not dangerous," I said, still somewhat distracted.
"One reviewer says that he is scornful of mundane activities, including paying his debts," X-37 advised.
"Man after my own heart,” I muttered. "What can we expect on Roxo III?"
He answered calmly, "There will be a lot of walking. I would expect several instances of public disorder, up to and including riots that shut down all transitways including stairs in manual sidewalks."
"Then we better get started," I said.
4
We followed Grigori Paavo through a maze of covered streets. The place had been designed to mimic outdoors. Poorly calibrated micro-projectors showed moving clouds as the sun set.
But it wasn't really setting; everything on Roxo III was fake, except the poverty and desperation. An automated voice from a loudspeaker announced that it was trash collection time. Several canisters along the side of the covered street closed, flashing lights warning passersby they were locking down. One of the old lids, weakened by lack of maintenance, snapped off to join other clutter and debris.
Moments later, the trash barrels rumbled away on rails as new containers replaced them. It should have been an efficient system to keep the habitat in order, but it wasn't. The constant malfunctions and vandalism were why the rest of the known galaxy had switched to hover tech.
People moved out of the way without having to think about it. Traffic flowed in both directions. There were a lot of people on foot. I saw a system for rail transport but didn't see any transport cars. In contrast to many other cities I'd been to, the lighting was nearly uniform, coming from everywhere at once. It wasn't at all like Greendale where so much of the experience involved neon lights and flashing signs.
Roxo III by comparison was drab and dreary, even when it was well lit. It was hard to explain.
I liked the way Path navigated the potentially dangerous space-city. He steered us around concentrations of people, sometimes pausing until I caught myself growing frustrated. Then, as though on his command, the way would clear and we’d proceed unhindered.
"We need to go down a level and follow Transit Route A010," Path said. "There is a shorter way, but my way is best."
We found a set of wide stairs and descended. The new level looked a lot like the covered street we had left. After descending stairs, I expected it to be darker but should've known better. No matter how hard they worked to pretend we were on the streets of a regular city, everything was inside in case the environment shields at the end of the tube failed.
“My research shows the domes were meant to be temporary until the environmental shield proved reliable,” X-37 informed me as we walked. “There is considerable evidence that keeping the domed sections operational has saved lives. The shields do fail from time to time.”
“What’s with the ceiling, Path? I feel like we’re inside an old moon colony instead of a tube world,” I said, using X-37’s information to prompt information from our guide.
"It is possible to go outside the city domes, but not recommended," Path said.
"I'll make a note," I replied.
"Or have your limited artificial intelligence make a note, I wager," Path said.
"Do you have a problem with that?" I asked.
Path smiled wryly. "You'll find that all manner of artificial intelligence is anathema here."
I nodded, expecting what came next.
"Why is that?" Tom asked.
"There have been several gambling scandals involving advanced computer algorithms," Path said. "With so many things on Roxo III in flux, there are people who are trying to cash out and take their lives elsewhere. This is hard to do when a gambler can't pay his or her debts."
We continued toward the residence of James Henshaw. Path proved to be knowledgeable on all aspects of Roxo III. He knew the people, the places, and how everything interacted.
He was quiet and reserved like a holy man, but would talk at length if asked the right questions.
It took hours to make our way through the streets of Roxo III. The covered streets eventually converged to form a kind of plaza. I saw several fountains that lacked water.
"Is there a water shortage?" I asked.
"Not exactly," Path said. "The pipes and aqueducts are controlled by various corporations."
"Wouldn't the local government regulate that?" Tom asked, sounding more curious than alarmed.
I didn't have an opinion on the regulation of plumbing. With luck, I wouldn't be here long enough for it to be an issue. Tom seemed to be asking to fulfill his insatiable curiosity. He liked to know how things worked.
"The local government turned over regulation of water services to the corporations decades ago. It was never a problem until recently. With the state of affairs in the Deadlands and the galaxy beyond, common sense and stability are in short supply."
Path took us down, across, up, and up, and up until we were in a main section of the dome. This area was vast, and it was like being outside. The landscaping mimicked rolling hills and a lake. Mansions surrounded two thirds of the water with less affluent neighborhoods encroaching on the third shore.
"We will be walking on open roads and walkways until we reach Henshaw's mansion," Path warned.
I catalogued details I thought might be useful during an escape from this place. Reapers were always planning for exfiltration after a mission.
Tom continued to ask Path questions. Elise looked bored.
The street became ominously quiet. Our path eventually led us to the front gate of Henshaw's estate.
A voice came across the speaker while the video display showed a scenic picture of the lake from another season. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Path stepped back, turning his head and speaking to me in a low voice. “He may be in one of his moods.”
"I believe that is Henshaw,” X-37 advised. “He is well known for contracting guards with Union military experience, though I haven't seen any today."
"Why wouldn't he have armed security with everything that is happening on Roxo?" I asked suspiciously.
"I don't believe he can afford them," X-37 explained.
“He’s very cheap,” Path said, thinking the question was for him.
"I heard that, you dirty street rat," Henshaw said through the speaker. “And before you go starting rumors, I fired them because they were jerks. And I’m paying you, aren't I?”
I waved Path to silence and stepped closer to the speaker box. "My name's Halek Cain. My ship, the Jellybird, scheduled an appointment. I haven’t got all day to talk into your box."
“Why are you so impatient and rude? I sent the guide, didn't I?” the peevish voice pointed out.
"You did," I said. "He’s the tops."
“Well, yes, I suppose he is. Are you a spy?" the voice asked.
“Uh, no,” Elise said.
"We have business, Henshaw. Open the gate and let us in?" I asked.
There were several pops and clicks on the line. "Well of course, Mr. Cain. You must come inside. I will ask that you leave any weapons you may be carrying behind."
"Of course," I said, making no move to actually comply.
Elise and Tom looked at me incredulously.
I pressed the button next to the speaker again. "What about the guide you sent? I don't see him putting down his sword," I said.
If my accusatory tone bothered Path, he didn't show it.
“He's a man of faith. I don't think it would be kind to separate him from his blade," Henshaw said.
"Kind? That's a strange way to phrase it," Tom said.
"He is known to me and quite harmless,” Henshaw said. “You and your motley crew, however, are another story. I find you very alarming."
“I should have a gun,” Elise whisper
ed. Then, to the speaker box, she said, “Some of us don’t carry an armory of deadly weapons.”
“That is reassuring, child,” the voice said.
“Child?” she said, looking surprised. “Who the hell does this guy think he is talking to? I’m not a kid!”
“You are a kid, kid,” I replied, more concerned with my surroundings than her feelings.
Ignoring the speaker box and the teenager who was crossing her arms and staring bullets at me, I looked over the supposed sword master who had yet to prove his skills. "He says you're harmless."
"As a kitten," Path said.
“Please try not to scare my guests. And remember that I'm paying you and that it is bad business to bite the hand that feeds you," Henshaw said, then he buzzed us in.
We passed through the gate without abandoning our weapons. I swept my gaze over the security booths, hoping that X-37 would record pertinent information. It seemed they were hardened, and a blast panel could be closed that would be difficult to penetrate. I'd seen similar arrangements on Greendale and the assassin's guild.
The difference was that in this arrangement, it would be possible to fly over the gate structure if someone had the right vehicle.
Path stayed with us, even though he wasn't needed to lead us once we were inside the grounds. There were scenic walkways and footbridges over meandering streams. We worked our way around part of the lake and climbed a wide set of stairs to a mansion like I'd never seen.
Gorgeous women and men moved about gardens carrying platters of food and pitchers of drink. Henshaw’s guests sampled a bit of everything, talking loudly and touching the staff more than was appropriate. Laughter filled the air, grating on my nerves.
If Henshaw couldn't afford guards, this definitely told me where his priorities were. He had more servants than I'd ever seen in one household. And I doubted they were cheap.
Unless he was saving money by refusing to issue clothing, because they weren't wearing much.
“Thanks for getting us here," I said to Path, squirming under his lazy gaze and wondering why I felt compelled to talk like an underpaid retail clerk.
"You haven't actually contacted him. Do not thank me yet," he said.
“Welcome to the Henshaw estate. Eat, drink, enjoy yourselves,” a lithe man in a formal suit said with a smile. “It is Mr. Henshaw’s desire than none go thirsty and few go without satisfaction. My name is Andre. Feel free to call for me or request any assistance you need from our staff here.”
After the steward left us to attend other guests. I found everything was very casual. We were offered food and drink by passing servers, which I ignored. Tom and Elise sampled some small sandwiches and some type of sour citrus drink. Path moved quietly as always, seeming somehow apart from reality.
He was taking his warrior monk persona too far, I thought.
"Hey, X, can you give me some help here?" I asked.
"I would continue through the house until you reach the pool on the veranda." X-37 made several clicking sounds indicating deep analysis of a data stream. "I have no direct observation of the house, but there are several blogs and entertainment videos made by individuals who attended parties at the Henshaw mansion. The veranda pool is often cited as his favorite place.”
“Tell me if you see him before I do," I said to X-37.
Path spoke up. "You'll know him when you see him."
The sword saint, warrior monk, and psychedelic tour guide wasn't wrong. I climbed a final set of stairs and saw servants and half-naked beautiful people orbiting an individual near a hammock. He was standing but had one hand on the mesh.
The man wore a loose blue, red, yellow, green, and gold shirt made of silk. His pants were less flamboyant but also loose, ending well above his ankles. His feet were minimally protected by high quality flip-flops.
But that wasn't what made him stand out. Both of his eyes were cybernetic. His intense gaze recorded everything. Steel grey one moment, pale green the next, his eyes were fascinating to watch. That they were artificial wasn’t obvious, but neither was it difficult to detect. He had freckles across the bridge of his nose, an irrelevant detail I noticed while studying his visage.
A dot of green light circled counterclockwise around the iris of his left eye and clockwise around his right. Elise and Tom gasped in surprise, then laughed in delight when Henshaw’s pupils pulsed neon purple for half a second.
So much for nearly natural, I thought.
"Interesting," X-37 said. "Most people with this much wealth work very hard to make their augmentations appear natural. Mr. James Henshaw seems to have gone the other way."
I made my approach, aware he was watching me despite talking to his guests and his attendants over a drink. When my party and I were close, he waved his guests away.
"Good afternoon, Halek Cain," he said. "Can I call you Hal? I hate to seem pretentious."
"Really?" Elise asked. "All of this wealth and you're trying not to be pretentious?"
We had come from some of the seedier parts of Zag City on Greendale, and before that, Dreadmax, a place where the worst neighborhoods were literally infested with cannibals. After all that, the opulence of this mansion was palpable.
"I doubt he’s as materialistic as he pretends to be," I said softly.
If Elise heard me, she didn't respond. X-37 also chose not to comment. I looked around and saw that the only person who appeared to agree with me was Path, but he of course didn't say anything.
"I see that you completely disregarded my requirement not to bring weapons," Henshaw said, not seeming to care.
I ignored the chastisement. "Our appointment was for a private consultation reference and ocular nerve augmentation package. Are you going to be able to examine me in the middle of this party?"
He looked around, feigning surprise. "This? This isn’t a party. Just a few friends who stopped by. I didn't want to be a bad host by turning them out.”
“Can the three of you stay out of trouble while I speak to our host in private?” I asked.
Elise and Tom nodded, though the extravagance of the party-not-party seemed to intimidate them. Path sat cross-legged near the pool and began to meditate. If the partygoers found this odd, they didn’t show it and steadfastly ignored him.
5
I followed Henshaw into the main house. He led me to a workshop in the basement. The austere and functional nature of the room contrasted with what I had seen above. There were workshop benches, computer interface stations, and cables hanging from clusters of electronic devices.
He motioned for me to have a seat on one of the benches. I complied, then he spent several minutes unpacking his tools. Most of them looked like small flashlights or data readers, but I saw scalpels and powered screwdrivers as well.
"Would you like me to regulate your hormones?" X-37 asked. "The look of Mr. Henshaw's tools is quite alarming."
I ignored my LAI.
Henshaw began the examination without a word. He aimed scanners into my left eye, pulling them back to study me from time to time, then getting back to work. It was difficult to watch everything he was doing because of our close proximity. I did, however, observe a change in his demeanor.
He was calm, focused, and curious. No matter what type of facade he maintained for the outside world, this man was a scientist who was compelled to do this type of work. In that way, he reminded me of Tom despite their obvious differences.
Time passed slowly as he worked—two or three hours at least. He put away his tools and sat back with his arms crossed, studying me intently.
"You have ghost images that don't originate from your Reaper eye. Did you know that?" he asked. He shook his head dismissively. "No, you probably didn't, and your LAI is unlikely to call attention to them."
"I can see the images, or part of them. It's distracting," I said, studying the engineer carefully. He didn't believe me.
"Truly?" he asked. “Because that is highly unusual.”
"It is what it is," I sai
d. "How much do you really know about me?"
"I know you're a Reaper, which is also interesting, since they were all dead so far as I've heard," Henshaw said.
There was something wrong with his statement. It sounded forced, like a rehearsed line.
"You hear a lot of things?" I asked.
He smirked. "I gather information and make logical deductions.”
"What did your examination tell you?" I probed.
"You won't thank me for the revelations I can provide," he said.
I laughed then took out a cigar as I leaned back against the wall behind the bench. “You might know about Reapers, but you have never met one face-to-face. Playing games with someone like me is a good way to die.”
"I'm a risk taker,” he said with a shrug.
"Can you fix my eye, or not?" I asked.
"I can fix it well enough. You'll need to find an actual Union technician at some point, and you need a software update from a Union station,” he said.
"That'll be difficult, since they shut down the Reaper program," I said.
"Not my problem,” he said dismissively, then paused. "I can fix most of the glitches with your eye, eliminate the static interference and the recurring headaches."
I didn't respond. He had figured out what my problems were without me telling him directly. That probably meant he knew what he was doing.
"As for the ghost imagery, they are artifacts of another device. When you linked with it, the result was cross-contamination of your nerve-ware. Did you bring the device so I can look at it?" he asked. Something about his expression was greedy.
"I'm traveling light," I explained.
"Yes, well, I suppose it was too much to hope. I am always interested in new technology." He pulled up his stool and began to scan my eye a second time, occasionally stopping to type on an interactive holo screen.
Time crawled by as Henshaw worked, tweaking and updating lines of code. I felt worse, not better. Henshaw assured me that I would like the results when it was over.
"I have nested software upgrades that will activate when you get back to your ship," he said when he was done. "There's something else I should tell you."