by G M Steenrod
Mike had seen the temperature maps. The climbs of temperature had diminished. Graphed, average temperature ran a bumpy sideways for the last 5 years. It was hope.
“It's all about life and the sun now. How remarkable that it comes back to Ra, my brother,” Osir continued.
“This is tank protein then?” Mike asked.
“Yes, the very best. It's raised near the coast not too far from here. The tanks are manned mostly by old fisherman. No, those are all dead. By their children. It must be in their blood. I have come to think that we are compelled mostly by our blood,” Osir said, slamming the table in emphasis.
“These new strands are remarkable,” said Mike admiringly. Once the basics of genetic growing were established, the technology had matured quickly to allow specific organic mechanisms to be reproduced. The flesh profile of a fish could be grown using an artificial cell. The parts of the cell were organic, but they were arranged and produced on a controlled template. It was an approach similar to the making circuit boards, something that modern technology was very good at. With the circuit boards, subtlety of flavor returned for different species. One cultured herring tasted like all cultured herring, however. One salmon, like all salmon. It was difficult to produce individual variation cheaply and on the scale of millions.
Osir finished his plate.
“I could use another portion. How about you, brother? You are almost done,” Osir asked. Mike had about a half of his fish remaining.
“I definitely could use another,” Mike responded.
Osir nodded. Food was one the pleasures of his late life. He hadn't forgotten the hunger of his youth.
“Bot, more fish!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Practice, Practice, Practice
On his wristband, Fillmore worked his way through the coded message from Kumar. The success of the Grenada show had convinced him that it was time to push for higher profits. He wasn't wrong: Leera's popularity was growing. She had broken the top 1,000 performances on Earth, and managed to hold the position for 2 days. No one's spot in the sun lasted forever.
Kumar had decided to take an enormous risk in Fillmore's eyes. He had booked Carnegie Hall. While this tour was now highly profitable, if this performance failed, the profits would be halved. Kumar was the brains behind the operation and he had a taste for risk. Everything that Kumar had had Fillmore do had had a risk to it.
Fillmore's job was risk, and insulating Kumar. Kumar seemed to have spiraled a little out of control to him. It was a lot of credits that could be lost on this venture, when they were all far ahead right now. He couldn't help but think that this was due to the closeness of Carnegie Hall to that little girl, Cassie. The one that was the credit machine for Kumar's management. She was a prime asset to Kumar, and Fillmore spent a lot of time making sure that competitors had no inroads to her. While she owed much of her success to Kumar's clever management, he still seemed to feel that he had to impress her. Fillmore wouldn't be surprised if this was a display for her, a big show in her backyard. He might even invite her to it, although Fillmore knew her to be reclusive.
Fillmore looked out of the window of the business class cabin. The great city of New York was visible on the horizon. Leera and the band were in the observation hall of the blimp. The view of New York was legendary, and there was no site on Mars to rival it.
It was Earth's largest city. While many of the great cities of the Earth had been inundated or had shrunk during the Troubles, New York had put controls for sea level in even before the Troubles. As technology from Mars emerged, the city added doming technology quickly. Barons, eager to offset the social backlash of the Troubles, poured fortunes into the wall. What emerged was a city in a translucent bowl, much like a giant stadium. The lights from the city would refract through the walls and the sea, surrounding the city in a sparkling nest of colors and luminescence. In many ways, it looked liked a bio-luminescent sea creature.
Fillmore climbed a wall-mounted sofa with his large frame and pressed his face against the glass for a better view. He had arrived in the City last 8 years ago, fresh with anticipation for the sites and sounds. He had left hurriedly, and in a short while had embarked to Mars.
It was the reason for that departure that filled him with tension now. The memory of it wafted around him like bad smoke. He didn't feel like contaminating the band with his mood, and had claimed the need for work to stay in the cabin. Working with them day after day, he had noticed that they were a highly emotional lot, and small vagaries of the day could influence their performances at night.
Fillmore sat back down into his chair. The blimp was moving at a leisurely pace. It had entered a holding pattern as it waited for its turn at a mooring station in the city. It could take hours for traffic control to provide clearance before it traveled the remaining distance.
He pulled up Kumar's last message to review the steps and make sure everything was in position. Kumar had taken care of the actual booking and the rooms. He had booked a set of luxury pagodas on one of the high, floating platforms. A tap on the booking provided pictures of a lush, green environment. Oxygen rich, partially cooled by the greenery, it would be a small paradise. Kumar had a feel for the right touches to get the best performances from people.
Another blip came up on his wristband as he reviewed. It was another coded message. Likely Kumar obsessing over detail. There was enough at stake that Fillmore wanted to see the extra care from Kumar. It comforted him.
He sighed, smiled, lightly licked his lips, and tapped it. The icon took a moment to decode to a message. The cipher being used on it was stronger than the earlier message. As it decrypted, his smile faded and his dark complexion grew ashen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Pax
Mike woke slowly on a couch in the living room. Osir was sprawled on the opposite end with one leg draped across Mike's. 20 years ago, the floor would have been littered with bottles, and the carpet soaked with splashes of wine. There wasn't a trace of bottles or wine or glasses to be seen. It was part of the magic of a cleaning bot. Everything had been put in its proper place.
Mike grabbed the leg of his old friend to move it. As he did so, he could feel the replacement hardware beneath the skin. A few small squeezes and he realized that the replacements had been more extensive than Osir had indicated. Even the underlying tissue felt different to Mike, artificial. He was correct in that cybernetic muscle had been grafted to augment Osir's genuine tissue. While he had not spoken of it, Osir had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis shortly after Mike's appearance. It too progressed to a point beyond the reach of stem cells by the time stem cell technology had been approved and matured.
Mike set his friend's leg gently on the floor. Osir didn't stir. In the old days, he would have tossed his leg vigorously down, and Osir would have gone undisturbed.
“Old Man!” Mike shouted at him, “Old Man!”
Osir opened one eye at his friend. “Flame yourself, you young donkey fucker,” he responded, and turned onto his side.
Mike rose and stumbled toward a first floor bathroom. Last night's wine was still flowing through him. It would be several hours before he was clear of the alcohol. He would be fully functional in 15 minutes.
He found a bathroom down the hall. It was in the same location as 20.5 years ago. As for many of the elderly, the bathroom had been modernized, but it still had a fixed sink and toilet similar in appearance to fixtures from the time of the Troubles. No toilet in a technology zone used water, however. Waste was moved used a cycling, clear medium that also cleaned the bowl. The waste was moved to the household's processing center. Even in the close, side by side environs of Oneonta, buildings were independent of a municipal infrastructure.
Mike washed his face in the sink. He checked his reflection in the mirror. It was a true mirror—an antique in the age of screens. He had no need to use the sparkling bowl. Likely, both had made trips to it during the evening. His memory of the night was fuzzy, and the cl
eaning bot would have removed any indicators of a bathroom trip.
He glanced at his wristband. There was no pending appointment or even mandated time line. He felt an urgency, though. That same urgency had compelled him to come here.
“Osir!” Mike called from the hall, to wake his friend.
“Yes,” Osir emerged from around the corner of the hall. He had changed into a blue jumpsuit, with a repeated motif of camels and oases. He showed no indicator of last night's festivities or the lump he was on the sofa 15 minutes ago.
Mike's mind was clearing. He smiled and nodded in appreciation of his friend's quick change.
“Did you shave?” He asked Osir.
Osir rubbed his smooth chin, “As polished as the icy rivers of old, brother. Are you ready for some Ful?”
Mike's stomach was a bit unsettled from the wine and waking. Osir had a prodigious knack for eating after drinking. Mike didn't.
“Why don't we do some business first?” asked Mike.
“I thought you might be here for a purpose. Follow me,” he said. Osir walked past Mike, down the hall and up a set of stairs. Mike followed him. His legs were getting stronger as they walked. The two of them had started more than one morning like this—a drunken evening followed by immediate action. Osir paused after passing two doors, and gripped the third door frame. It, like the others, were made from reclaimed mahogany. A hidden touch panel scanned his prints. The metals rods that passed deep into the core of the door withdrew. On its exterior, the door seemed no more than an expensive wooden door. Beneath the wooden facade, it was a titanium composite.
Osir slid the door open. The interior walls and floors were composed of dense composite that gave it the look of a space ship cabin. In reality, the room was a standalone unit mounted into the frame of the house. The two entered.
“This is a long way from twenty years ago,” Mike said, commenting on the setup.
“We are a long way from twenty years ago, brother. That was a chaotic time. It is the great Pax now. The great, new peace,” Osir said, smiling sarcastically.
“You don't believe it?” Mike asked.
Osir paused. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to imbue the negative possibility with any energy.
“No, I don't. You wouldn't be here and now, if it were. You. You, my miraculous friend,” he answered, gripping Mike by the shoulders for emphasis.
“We are headed in that direction, though,” Osir said, continuing, “but you and I know what it took to make that journey. What it will yet take.”
“What it will yet take,” Mike repeated it, in a homily-like style.
“The chaos of the Troubles made concealing our work easy. It also made that work necessary. Now it's all harder,” said Osir.
Osir sat down at a work table mounted into the wall seamlessly. He tapped the wall behind it and a drawer slid open. A light blue glow radiated up from the drawer. Osir pulled a black tube from it and sat it upright on the table. Mike looked at it closely. It was about 3 centimeter long and 1 centimeter wide. The surface was smooth, except for the top, which was corrugated.
“It's a new delivery system,” Mike stated.
“Yes. The tube holds 5 doses. The dose is applied by touching the ridges here to a surface, and squeezing the sides twice—quickly.”
Mike picked up the tube between his thumb and index finger. He rotated his hand, touched it to the counter and double squeezed it.
“Mike...”
A small deposit of caviar like eggs mounded onto the table surface. After two seconds, the eggs dissolved. A patch of moisture formed and then dissipated.
“Now you have 4 doses! I have a tester for the tube,” Osir was aggravated.
“Osir, my apologies, my friend. I was careless.” Mike could see that the process was agitating Osir more than his impromptu test. It had likely been a long time since he had been in this part of the business.
“Yes. It's alright. It's all very safe now,” Osir took the tube from Mike. “You have two seconds to brush the eggs off. 95% of the dose must be on the person for it to be effective. It becomes harmless otherwise. It'll work through thin layers of clothing—your jumpsuit, for example. That's a handsome jumpsuit on you, by the way.” Osir's humor was rebounding.
“How fast is it?” asked Mike.
“That hasn't changed. It's instant,” Osir answered. Nerve death. In less than a second, the poison caused a full shut down of the nervous system. There was no pain, because there was nothing to relay pain, or to process the concept of pain. It was originally a solvent that was used when producing the first quantum chips. The solvent was produced by nano-factories that could order the molecules in highly structured chain networks—a state in which it could be rubbed harmlessly between a person's fingers. Following production, however, the solvent became a deadly poison with quantum properties.
Quantum chip production had changed since that time, eliminating most of the need for the solvent.
A scientist working in early chip production was also a part of the resistance to the Ecu. He had recognized the potential of the solvent as an untraceable poison, and would appropriate it for the Resistance. It saw significant use during the roughest periods of Troubles. The poison had been refined in Mike's twenty year absence, making it safer to use, and reducing the chance of accidental self-poisoning.
As humane, pain-free, fear-free methods of killing went, it was an unmatched implementation.
“Are four doses enough, Mike?” he asked, offering the tube up for Mike. Mike took it from Osir’s hand and put it into his waist satchel.
“Yes, I'm still hoping that I'm wrong, and that there will be no need for it. There is a possible danger emerging, and the balance in the world right now is tenuous. So many of the world's problems came from irresponsible advances.”
Osir nodded, “The solutions have come from advances too. That's the complication.”
“I know. It weighs on me. The problem with the Ecumenical Council was that they craved the past when the time for the past was gone.”
“They still do. It's unfortunate, but their literature, and that of the subordinate faiths, is essentially unchanged from the time of the takeover. They still lambaste Mars and space travel,” said Osir. His point was studied and professorial. At his advanced age, he was highly-regarded within the Reformed Temple as a source of wisdom and guidance.
Osir lightly gripped his friend's arm. “You've always been cautious and prudent in killing. Always with the surgeon's touch. Always to simply remove a burden or danger. The world is better for it.”
Mike smiled, “Thanks for eulogizing me, Asshole.”
Osir laughed delightfully. “How about that breakfast?” Osir asked.
Mike patted his stomach. “I could eat,” he answered. Surprisingly, he could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Antonio
Cassie sat in the chamber of her quantum cpu. Unlike the lab, the cpu room had been outfitted for light mechanical work. A trio of hand-sized drones lay before her on a work bench extended from the wall. She had pulled the drones from a storage bin of old projects from her mother. These were older model drones, top of the line 9 years ago. She had upgraded the battery, cpu, memory, and flight control chips with a quick order from an Ether shop. Normally, they wouldn't be worth the expense of the upgrade, but the rest of the hardware was custom.
She wore a custom wristband as well, bulkier, but with specialized transmitters. With a tap of an icon, the drones rose up silently off the bench and hovered.
“Alfie, run flight and coordination diagnostics, please.”
The drones took flight in a murmuration pattern, like birds at sunset, and moved throughout the room.
The test completed, and Cassie looked at the results on her wristband. 95%. She had seen it herself. There was a drone that had a slight lag to it. 95% should be sufficient for her test. It was a marginal component failure, and could end up being outside her capability to repair. She didn't want to get
into a repair that could run long. It would spoil her plans.
She gestured with her right hand. In response, the drones lined up in the air near the right-side of her head.
“Madam, Gramps should arrive in 45 minutes,” Alfie said. The wristband Cassie wore contained software to control the drones, and had little of the capability of a standard wristband. Add to that that it was 9 years old too, and Cassie had handed off most of her normal wristband tasks to Alfie to keep up normal functionality.
Cassie hurried into the hall. She paused to check her clothing in the screens. She wore a sleek, grass-green dress in the style of the Little Black Dress. It was a signature piece of her grandmother and grandfather's era. She smiled, and turned slowly from one side to another. There were differences in physical position that favored the angles created by the dress. She had memorized them when she first modeled it, but the angles were still fresh, and could use small bits of fine tuning. It would work for her grandfather. She had noticed that he wasn't as sensitive to small pose changes as Kumar, for example.