by PJ Manney
“It’s real.”
“Shit.” Winter crawled off the bed, moved to the shelf, picked up the crystal display, looked at it from all sides, and put it back. “That’s impressive. And pricey, I bet. Can’t afford that on a grad-slave stipend.” She grinned and flopped back onto the bed. “How’d you get it?”
“Long story,” said Veronika.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Winter.
“How much do you really know about Major Tom?” asked Veronika.
Winter took a raspberry out of the punnet and held it above Veronika’s mouth. “Lots. Studied him for years. He’s why I study bioengineering.”
Veronika opened wide, and Winter popped in the berry.
“You have good taste,” said Veronika as she chewed.
They giggled. Winter offered her another raspberry.
“Yeah,” said Winter. “Amazing dude. So innovative and creative. Did you know that he got his start because he played with”—she snapped her fingers, trying to recall a word—“uh, Arduinos? Isn’t that crazy?”
The geek-credential competition was on. Tom was incredulous.
“Yeah,” said Veronika. “Super old-school dude. Saw one in a museum. But did you know that he’s not even from California. He’s from someplace in New York.”
“Yeah, I know!” Winter looked distracted for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re just so cute,” she cooed.
“So are you,” said Veronika.
Winter looked toward the desk. The monitor was dark. “Whatcha doing there?”
“Work.”
“What kind?” asked Winter.
“It’s . . . like . . . hard to explain,” said Veronika.
“Do I look dumb?” said Winter. “I’m not. I mean, I could play dumb if that’s your thing. But I don’t think it is.” Her smile was sly.
Veronika laughed. “You’re not dumb.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Winter ran her hand through Veronika’s hair.
“Absolutely nothing,” said Veronika with a sigh.
“Better not be.” She grabbed the berry punnet. With a twinkle in her eyes, she slowly placed a berry between her teeth. Then she leaned in, hovering an inch from Veronika’s face. Veronika snatched the berry with her lips. They kissed.
“So . . . ” Veronika said with a heavy breath, “you know I’m . . . not finished, right?”
Winter smiled, her eyes tender. “Baby, I’ll take you any way you are.”
Adjusting her MR unit, which had slipped down her nose, Veronika smiled back with a little sadness.
Winter breathed in her ear as she reached to remove the glasses and said, “It’s more fun au natural.”
“No.” Veronika pulled her head away and winked. “It’s more fun with ’em on. Promise. And I just got a hot idea.” She gently rolled Winter off her and onto her back.
“I’m so looking forward to this, my dear,” Winter said with a sigh.
Kissing Winter’s neck, Veronika undid the top few buttons of Winter’s chambray shirt and slowly lowered the fabric over her shoulders and down her arms, almost down to her elbows. It had the effect of immobilizing Winter’s arms. Winter squirmed, trying to take the shirt off completely, but Veronika whispered in her ear, “I’ll do you first. Then you do me.”
This is a brilliant and brave young woman, thought Tom.
Raising Winter’s shirt over the jeans’ waistband, Veronika slowly unzipped the fly, kissing and licking the exposed skin as she went. She pulled Winter’s jeans ever so slowly over her hips, pausing with the bunched fabric at the knees, and moved back up to kiss Winter’s tiny G-string with puffs of hot breath.
Winter squirmed in delight. “Let me help take them off.”
“No, let me,” said Veronika. “I have a surprise for you.” Languorously sliding her hand between her mattress and box spring, Veronika slowly pulled out a sizable butcher’s knife, keeping it out of Winter’s line of sight.
But Winter’s eyes popped open in anger, and Tom realized that she had infiltrated the cameras in the house. She tried to wriggle away from the weapon, but her clothing bound her.
Scared and no expert with a blade, Veronika flailed, bringing the knife down hard and hitting the mattress. Struggling to pull it out of the foam and fabric, she struck again, hitting Winter’s shoulder. Blood spurted.
“Aarrgghh!” Winter roared.
Run! messaged Tom into her glasses.
Veronika thrust one last time, slicing into Winter’s thigh, cutting into the quadricep but not severing it. The muscle was too big. The sight of all the blood scared Veronika more than it did Winter, who ignored it, trying to roll into Veronika instead of away from the blade. With a large thud, Winter forced them both onto the bedroom floor, ripping at own her clothes in an attempt to escape. Veronika rolled away, grabbing at the wall for support, but Winter headbutted her in the stomach. Veronika doubled over and hit the wall. Winter struggled with her clothes and her leg wound as Veronika scooped up her backpack, threw the knife in, and staggered out the bedroom door.
Veronika bounded down the stairs, two at a time. “Mom! Get out of here!”
“What, honey? I’m in the bathroom.”
“Get out of the house, Mom! Now!”
“Be there in a minute . . . ”
She ran for the bathroom door but heard movement upstairs. Terrified, she banged on the door. “Mom! You gotta run away!”
“What?” said Mrs. Gascon. “Almost out.”
Veronika screamed, “Save my mom!” to no one in particular, headed for the front door, and dashed outside.
Tom couldn’t answer back through the house speakers without giving himself up, but Carter was smart. He’d know from Veronika’s entreaty anyway. The outside cameras picked up Veronika, unlocking her car with her handprint, jumping into it. It started. She lowered the window, screaming, “Mom! Please come out!”
Tom’s message came up in her MR glasses: Get away. Now. I will do what I can there.
“No!” said Veronika. “We have to wait.”
“I will help her. She’ll survive if you get away. Winter doesn’t want her. She wants you.”
Veronika thought for a second, then hit a random location. The car pulled out of the driveway and took off to the west.
“Let me into your car’s system, so I can get you out of there.”
“But . . . ”
“Do it!” he yelled.
She did.
He received a link inviting him into her car’s automated system. “Got it.” He downloaded a driving simulator and loaded the Fiat’s robotic software into it.
“Don’t touch the steering or brakes!” he said.
She shrunk back, and the car sped off.
“How the hell did you know to stow a knife under your bed?” asked Tom.
“I always have a knife, near me and on me. I’m paranoid. Shit!”
The Fiat barely missed the rear bumper of a large robobus ferrying a high school football team.
“Then learn to use it,” said Tom. “And why are you still living at home? You make good money.”
“It’s safe. My family loves me and wants me to be happy . . . ” She started to cry. “Transitioning is hard enough . . . and to have my family help . . . ”
Major Tom continued to monitor the cameras at the Gascon house. Winter had dressed and wrapped her wound. She was standing up, her expression betraying concentration.
Downstairs, Mrs. Gascon grabbed her handbag, not understanding the urgency of her daughter’s command. As she put her GO into her bag, it exploded, shocking and burning her hand.
Upstairs, Winter heard the scream and smirked.
Bang! A HOME screen exploded in another room.
“Housenet, stop,” said Mrs. Gascon.
Bang! BANG! The other HOME screens exploded.
“Housenet, stop!” she yelled.
The refrigerator’s doors flew open, its shelves spewing milk, eggs, meats, cheeses, and bottles of soda and juice. Mrs. Gascon made for th
e door but slipped on the tile floor and fell, knocking her head hard on the counter. A trickle of blood ran from her hair. The toaster and electric oven continued turning on and off until the fuses shorted. But the alarms were silent, and the sprinklers were off. Stunned and scared, she huddled on the floor.
Winter had hacked into the Net of Things. Up-to-date appliances and smart houses had net connections animating once inanimate objects. Refrigerators put in orders for delivery via robovan or drone. Occupants could turn off lights or ovens, lock doors, or start air conditioners before they returned home, either remotely or on automatic schedules. People had forgotten how to do basic things, and few companies cared how dangerous this might turn out to be if someone or something hacked into the systems. They didn’t pay for anything beyond the appearance of security. It was always cheaper to pay off lawsuits than to preempt them.
A small explosion rocked the garage. The solar array and batteries short-circuited. A fire began to smolder, and it would soon spread. Mrs. Gascon sat dumbfounded on the kitchen floor, too confused and in pain to understand.
Major Tom would not let Mrs. Gascon die or let the evidence of Winter’s deeds be destroyed, so he sent messages to the local police and fire departments, using the identity of the next-door neighbor, Mr. Alonzo Terranova, who might feasibly have heard the explosion and seen smoke if he had been home.
Winter limped slowly downstairs to inspect her mischief, holding Veronika’s DNA relic of Thomas Paine. She stared at Mrs. Gascon, crying and wet in a puddle of milk, eggs, juice, and condiments, her burnt and bloody hand applying pressure to her head wound.
“Please, help me up,” asked Mrs. Gascon, who then apparently noticed Winter’s injuries. “You’re hurt, too! Let’s get help!”
A nearby siren sounded. Winter smirked and limped back into the hallway toward the foyer, where she discovered a camera lens discreetly hidden in a wall sconce near the front door. She held up the crystal DNA display and waved it with a smile. “Souvenir!” Then she winked at the camera.
All the cameras went black.
Back in the Fiat, Veronika watched on her GO and wept.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Your mom’s going to be okay,” Tom said. “We have to talk.”
“Are you crazy? Did you see that?” wailed Veronika.
“I’ve got fire and police almost there. I know Carter. Your mom’s not worth it to him. He’s taken off.”
“She’s probably killing my mom right now!”
“If I could shake you by the shoulders or slap your face, I would. And why did you play Mata Hari up there? Concentrate! How did he find you?”
“Pronouns, dude! She’s taken off. She found me!” Veronika punched at her car’s directional control. “I’m going back right now.”
“I’m keeping control. We can see your mom on satellite. Look.”
Veronika saw a zoomed image of what looked like her mom, staggering out of the burning house toward a fire truck pulling into the driveway. Major Tom zoomed out, and they could both see more fire trucks heading to the house along Foothill Avenue.
“She’s okay,” soothed Tom. “Now, I’m sorry, but how did Winter find you?”
Veronika’s crying abated. She struggled to concentrate. “Someone followed me back from Prometheus?”
“Right, but that was hard. You shut us out from tracking, and I still don’t know how you disappeared. If I had a hard time, so would Carter or the club. Can they follow us now?”
“I don’t think so. We’re masked as a Toyota Prius in the DMV GPS database.”
“Was it always a Prius?”
“No. It randomly chooses a new common make and model every time the engine starts. Unless I disable it. I’ve got it on a random timed revolution now.” She wiped her tears. “At the moment it’s a Chevy Malibu that came from the supermarket parking lot.”
“What about highway cameras?” Cops didn’t bother with live speed traps anymore. With robocars connected to the data grid and obeying the laws automatically, cameras were built into the highways at regular intervals so that old-fashioned cars could be tracked. There were rarely live police on the highways anymore.
“Special optical shield over the entire car exterior. And I’ve disabled all the built-in identi-chips.”
“So the cops can’t find us easily if I speed?”
She stifled another sniffle. “Go nuts. We’re in a ghost.”
The car immediately took off as though possessed, searching for back roads to avoid any police just passing through. It wasn’t as fast as Tom had hoped, but what Fiat 500 was?
“How much do we think Carter knows about you?” asked Tom.
“He found my car. He knows what I look like and where I live. But it can’t be much more or, like, she would have killed me instantly. It felt like she wanted to get to know me and get, like, information. Or turn me.”
“I agree,” said Tom. “How much could she get from your room, beyond your obsession?”
“Not much. My setup is too partitioned, and it’s activated by biometrics.”
“You promise?”
“Yes!” yelled Veronika.
“But she knows your interest in me, with all that crap you’ve got,” said Tom.
“It’s not crap . . . ,” she said, sniffling quietly.
“And all this is leading us away from Dr. Who. The deeper we go, the further away we get.”
“Where’s the second robot?” she asked.
“Getting there soon. I hope.”
“Is Mom okay?” asked Veronika.
Major Tom zoomed back in. Paramedics took care of Mrs. Gascon while firefighters put out the fire.
“What about your dad? And your brother and sister?”
“At work, probably.” Veronika saw they were avoiding the 101 and heading down mountain back roads for the Pacific Coast Highway. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the Zumwalt,” said Tom.
“But my family . . . ?”
“Messaging them right now.” He pretended he was with the Santa Barbara Police Department by sending the message from a real investigating officer’s GO.
“You never considered that playing spy would get your family hurt?” he asked.
“I thought I was . . . like . . . smarter than them.” She teared up again, curling into her seat.
He didn’t want to torture her with all the failures of intellect he’d already lived through, like conspiracies, betrayal, murder, war, and chaos. “Well, now you know. No one—and nothing—is smart enough for every contingency. There’s always failure.”
“Then why do you do it?” asked Veronika.
“I have no choice. No one else can do what I can. And I started all this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Reengineered, reprogrammed, and rebuilt—a robot’s version of tanned, rested, and ready—Tom 1 swung from a body harness over the Pacific Ocean. He was lowered by winch from an old V-22 Osprey, a long-range tiltrotor aircraft that could take off and land like a helicopter but, with rotors forward, could also fly quickly and far like an airplane. Major Tom and Ruth had liberated the old piece of US military hardware from the same naval admiral who had sold them the Zumwalt. On his back was a sizable waterproof backpack full of anything he might need for this journey, including some crucial robotic replacement parts so he could self-repair if necessary.
Below him was a small tanker, painted white with huge red crosses on her sides and stern. Retrofitted into a hospital ship, it plied the Pacific’s seasteads and port towns for procedures that were too complicated or expensive for the communities to manage with their own medical support teams. Above the red cross on her stern was her name, Savior.
From the upturned faces below him on the ship’s deck, Major Tom could see incredulity and concern. He read one man’s lips. “What the fuck are we doing with a sexbot? Crew’s not that lonely.” The speaker was a big, brawny fellow. Curly dark-brown hair. Muscular, but with a beer belly. Full, thick facial hair over
olive skin. Smiled a lot. Tom 1 found a single facial recognition hit, deeply buried. It identified him as Franklyn Gottbetter, once of New York. That’s all he could find.
Tom 1 lipread the response of a grizzled face next to Gottbetter. “Just catch it in one piece.”
From the shaved head to the sea-worn skin to the respectful body language of the other crew to the eyes taking in the scene at once—it all added up to “Captain.” Facial recognition and searches of the captain’s background came up empty, no matter how far he dug. As Veronika would say, “Dude’s a ghost.”
So was the ship. Her name was on no ship registry or crew manifest anywhere in the world. The only history was in photos or social media that mentioned the remarkable rescues it had accrued over the last few years. The more unstable the world became, the more work the Savior’s team had to accomplish. Major Tom also noticed that no faces or identities were revealed in any links to the ship, which must have maintained a vigorous data-scrubbing team to keep it as anonymous as possible. He could imagine the reasons why. In a world where doctors may not have borders, they could still be targets. He would let Gottbetter know that he found a search hit, so their team could eliminate that as well.
The captain nodded to Gottbetter and walked back to the ship’s bridge.
Gottbetter manned the hook that grabbed the drop cable and guided Tom 1 down to the deck. He unlatched the harnesses and got the rig clear, waving to the Osprey crew that they were good to go. They did.
This might be a one-way trip, but Tom 1 hoped not. Despite its balance issues, awkward movements, and limited use, he was nevertheless coming to rely on and even like this ridiculous mechanical body, his mind quickly adapting to its new conditions and parameters.
A handful of crew members stood around, staring at Tom 1. Gottbetter broke the spell. “All right, back to stations. We got folks to take care of!” He turned to Tom 1, looked him up and down. “Okay . . . Sexy-3PO, follow me.”
“Are you a doctor?” asked Tom 1.
“Ha! Funny. Do I look like one?” asked Gottbetter.
“I admit you don’t act like one.”
“I’m the chief officer. And chief cook and bottle washer. And chief cut-up, according to Cap. Short of surgery, I can do most anything on this ship. But I’m a hell of a nurse.”