by Jim Keen
This crop was thin, the winter sun not strong enough. Berries were forming but there wasn’t enough to meet the rent. Still, he had Takamatsu's letter. As soon as the bar opened he’d visit the Professor and get some coinage for the delivery.
There was a knock on the door. No one knew where he lived; no one ever visited. He locked the cage around his plants and took an old, but sharp, steak knife from the small kitchen. He crossed the floor on tiptoes but the old wood betrayed him with a creak.
“There’s no need to be scared. Let me in.”
Red knew that voice. He slid to one side of the door and peeked through the spyhole, but Mr. Bank did nothing to hide himself.
Red swung the door open, letting the knife catch the corridor’s yellow light.
“My name is Red.”
“And mine is Patsy. May I come in?”
Red looked at Bank—Patsy—unsure. The old man wore the same suit as earlier, but had also acquired a filthy and torn overcoat that hid most of his attire. His composite foot curved into an ancient leather boot.
“Sure,” Red said and moved back.
Patsy nodded. “Thank you,” he entered and crossed straight to the window boxes. “Yes, yes, very good. I see what you’ve done. We’ll need something bigger, though.”
“For what?”
“To grow sunflowers, of course,” Patsy said, and smiled.
23
“We are fortunate that an American firm made the breakthrough. It would be a serious situation if a rival nation-state developed sentient machinery before we did.
Be that as it may, we face many tough questions over their regulation. Automation got away from us, and we are now living with the consequences. It is time to accept that, and plan for the future. Uploads to Mars have begun, though our settlements there are power-supply limited. In the first twelve months we have relocated 7,500 unemployed to that new frontier. However, it is unlikely the process can be accelerated anytime soon. The question remains about what to do with, and how to cope with, the remaining 270 million people surviving without any long-term means of support.
This issue needs to be addressed in a more innovative and, if necessary, severe way before society as we understand ceases to exist. It is now or never for us. May we make the right decisions. God help us all.”
Department of Homeland Security and Employment report, “Eyes Only,”
President of the United States, 2054
Alice let the Hopper’s autonomous systems fly her back to NYPD headquarters while she alternated between checking her injuries and enjoying the view one last time. Central’s halls were the usual crowded mess of strung-out adrenaline junkies coming back or going out. News from the Bridge had preceded her: her partner was dead, she had broken the rules, she had lost her job. A large screen in Arrivals showed the mayor in handcuffs, alongside a UN raid on the Pentagon. Nobody talked; longtime friends melted away until she walked alone.
“When you’re out, you’re out,” Suit said as she entered the changing rooms and reached her locker.
“Want to stay?”
“Even though you bought me, I technically belong to the NYPD. Going with you would constitute an act of theft.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Of course I don’t want to stay here, but I have nowhere to go,” Suit said.
Alice plugged Suit into a charging socket, stripped off her damp thermal leggings, folded them away, dressed in faded black T-shirt and jeans.
“You have company,” Suit said.
She closed the locker door and turned to see an enormous man filling the space behind her. His shaved head hung just beneath the ceiling and his shoulders were wedged between the walls. Eyes full of intelligence stared out from skin so dark as to be featureless. He wore a smart-suit that whispered a commentary to him as he watched her, its deep-blue weave over a crisp white shirt and red tie. A left hand the size of a shovel held an open manila folder stuffed with paper and surveillance photographs.
Alice needed no introduction. This was Lieutenant Toko Morris. Over the last year he had established a series of undercover teams investigating New York’s rising tide of organized crime. No one knew who worked for him and who didn’t, only that they went in deep and more often than not didn’t come back. He’d led a series of successful operations recently that had received press and promotions in equal measure.
“Officer Yu?” He already knew, of course, and was just following protocol.
“No longer Officer, hadn’t you heard?” She pulled on her old leather jacket.
“I have, but you should never assume knowledge is correct. Do you recognize this person?” He handed over a black-and-white photograph. The grainy texture and flattened perspective of a spy drone blurred the woman’s features. Alice squinted and tilted the picture.
“She looks familiar, but no.” She paused. There was something there, in her memory, calling out. An aristocratic face, thin, angular, beautiful. Perfect executive suit and attaché case. The photo animated, the view moving past the woman to show a dead body being hauled away by two button men.
“That is Julia Rothmore, ex–Wall Street vice president and now head of Five Points. With Fourth Ward’s power vacuum there’s going to be a gang war. Are you busy tonight?” Toko looked at his file, then back up, his gaze pinning her in place.
Alice barked a tired laugh. “Yeah, bub, I’m swamped.”
“Well, put that on hold. You and I have a lot to talk about.”
THE END
Read the next book in the Cortex Series
‘This Automatic Eden’
Here
Where Alice investigates a desperate conspiracy aiming to solve to the unemployment problem once and for all.
Building a relationship with my readers is the very best thing about writing. I have spent years designing and drawing the characters, cars, buildings and gadgets from New York 2055.
Every few weeks I send these illustrations and stories out in my newsletter, along with the exclusive Contact Binary novella. Contact Binary bridges the year between Cortex Book 1 The Paradise Factory and Book 2 This Automatic Eden.
Newsletter topics and illustrations include:
Alice’s 2055 NYPD street gear.
The secret history of Charles Takamatsu, the man who invented MI and destroyed the world.
Where the idea for Mechanical Intelligences came from.
Mile High Towers and Future Masterplans.
Flying cars, Yo!
How to live forever (for a price, of course.)
And many, many more . . .
You can get all of this, for free, by signing up at https://signup.jimkeen.com/thankyou
I love hearing from you, so if you ever have any questions about the books, or anything from the newsletter contact me at [email protected] — I read every email!
Enjoy this book? You can make a big difference...
Reviews are the most powerful tools in my arsenal when it comes to getting attention for my books. Much as I’d like to, I don’t have the financial muscle of a New York publisher. I can’t take out full page ads in the newspaper or put posters on public transport.
But I do have something much more powerful and effective than that, and it’s something that those publishers would kill to get their hands on: A committed and loyal bunch of readers.
Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of other readers. If you’ve read and enjoyed my book I would be very grateful if you would spend just five minutes leaving a review (it can be as short as you like).
Review The Paradise Factory here
Thank you so much!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jim Keen is the author of the breakout Cortex series. After a career as an architect and illustrator he now makes his home at www.jimkeen.com. You can connect with him on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/jimkeenauthor/ on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/jimkeenauthor and email him at [email protected] if the mood strikes you. He r
eads every email!
The Jim Keen mail-list exclusive
CONTACT BINARY
Chapter One:
NEW YORK, JUNE 2nd, 2052
Wind roar grew as the truck accelerated to its two-hundred-mile-an-hour speed limit and settled into a steady cruise. The cargo vessel reeked of industrial antiseptic—bitter, acidic chemicals that made Susan lightheaded. Conner stood to her left, hands in the pockets of his bulletproof thrasher jacket, as Nikkei turned and drew his gun.
“Put that away before I hurt you,” Susan said, voice calm despite the adrenaline pouring through her system.
Nikkei’s small chrome pistol reflected the truck’s interior as it tracked her movements. Its laser-targeting system refocused on her eyes, the needle-thin actinic light making her blink. “No, I don’t think I will,” he said and turned to Conner, face pinched and white. “She’s the rat, brother. You must see that.”
An ugly CWS Beretta hung from Susan’s belt, but Nikkei was so amped he’d likely start firing if she reached for it. She looked for another weapon, but the vehicle was an autonomous drone with no cabin, windows, or doors. A dark gray composite formed curved walls and roof, the material’s weave just visible through layers of oily filth. Racks of reprinted limbs hung from the ceiling, body parts silhouetted inside translucent plastic sacks. The only illumination came from the sack’s algae-green glow, twin red emergency lights by the rear door, and the tablet’s blue screen.
“Grown some balls at last, eh?” Conner said in his southern drawl: ayt layst, eyuh? “I do strongly suggest you take a moment before making such a serious accusation.” He flexed his shoulders, jacket hiding the hand cannon’s bulk. A lane change sent all three of them staggering left, the sacks swinging in the tight space.
Nikkei tried again. “Conner, listen to me. Five Points’ encryption is secure. It has to be an organic leak, and she’s the only variable.”
“A rat explains a whole universe of things, but so would system infiltration.” Conner smiled, but his eyes were cold and hard.
“Don't be an idiot. I know you’re sharing her bed, but that doesn’t make me wrong about this.” Nikkei searched for a light, friendly tone. He failed.
Conner lifted the hand cannon from his pocket. The old, heavy gun glittered in the dim light. Susan had shot a few drones with it on their first date, and the damn thing nearly broke her wrist. As Nikkei stared at Conner, she flicked her Beretta to On; its centrifuge spun up with a mechanical whir just audible over the road noise.
“Put the itty-bitty pop gun back in your pocket, and let’s talk this out.” Conner didn’t shout and was all the more menacing for that.
No one spoke. The truck rattled, electric motor whining like a bandsaw below them.
“Ten minutes to delivery,” the tablet said in a creamy British accent.
A Transmission Digital LLC ebook.
Ebook first published in 2020 by TRANSMISSION DIGITAL LLC
Copyright ©️Jim Keen 2020
All rights reserved.
All the characters in the book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Contents
Contact Binary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23