Luck and Death at the Edge of the World, the Official Pirate Edition

by Nas Hedron

  By the time the year was up, though, Body Work Inc. was a cash cow. The scientific work had already been done long before the business started, but DeLong brought in some of the best spin artists around to make sure the public bought into the scheme.

  DeLong had also been at work on decanting, the sensitive process of extracting neural patterns from a human brain—a package of jellied meat soaked in chemicals and animated by electrical impulses—encoding them in a transitional program that ensured redundant backups for safety, and then instantiating them into a fresh brain.

  The pioneering work in that area had been done years before by Watts and Sweet at CaliARPI, then revolutionized by Bennett and Hai at T.T. Genomics, but until DeLong got involved it was an artisanal process that depended entirely on a surgeon with a rare and expensive set of skills. DeLong had taken the work of disparate researchers, knit it together into a single procedure, worked out the bugs, and then focused on routinizing—and often automating—the complex details of the decanting process until it was not only cost-effective, but also demonstrably safe.

  Next thing you knew rickety old rich folk with saggy jowls and too much money were walking in, looking ready for the undertaker. When they left again they were substantially less rich but they didn’t care because they were young, healthy, and beautiful. No more lung and heart transplants, with all the risks of rejection and infection, not to mention the dangers that come with general anesthesia. Now you just dropped by Body Work and got a whole new shell. Hell, you didn’t even have to go under a general. A local anesthetic for the scalp was enough to let DeLong into your head—the brain can’t sense pain, after all. Bit by bit your memories, sensations, and thoughts were scanned and transferred from your old body to the new shell until voilà, you were ready for another sixty years of life. Not that anyone was likely to wait that long. With enough money you could show up the moment your shell hit the equivalent of fifty, fifty-five, whatever, and just download again into another twenty-year-old shell. As far as anyone knew you could live forever, and that prospect is what’s put Body Works and other places like it into the stratosphere fiscally.

  All told there’s little reason to think that Body Works would involve itself in anything criminal. For a rich outfit like this one, money wouldn’t be much of a temptation and, if it misbehaves, it risks the public’s trust. Trust is what keeps a vat going, is its lifeblood. Even now that the procedure is well established, it still arouses a visceral, even metaphysical, fear in most people. Our bodies are such a big part of our history, our appearance is so fundamentally a part of our identities, that to give up the body you’re born into takes a big leap of faith, believe me. It’s hard to imagine Body Works squandering their image, their ability to inspire that kind of faith, for the price of three retreads, or even for a substantial bribe.

  As I’m turning these thoughts over in my mind, I hear Felon arriving. His big bike gives off a throaty, bass growl in the distance before he comes into view. Then I spot him. He’s a small dot racing along a ribbon of road, but his apparition grows larger by the second. Finally he turns into the drive and pulls up beside me, cutting his engine and letting its echo hang in the air. He pulls off his helmet.

  “Nice bike,” he says. I search his voice, his face, for signs of irony, but there aren’t any. The Akita is a damned nice bike, but I know the way the P.D. worship their 1,500 cubic centimeters of hell on wheels.

  “Thanks, you too.”

  “This?” he says. He’s feigning a casual tone but the pride is there in his face. “It’s great on power, but sometimes you wish it was a little more nimble, you know what I mean.”

  “Maneuverability?”

  He nods.

  “Still, for sheer speed and guts you can’t beat it. So, you ready to pay a little visit?” He dismounts and unzips the top of his jacket a few inches, letting some air in.

  “Yeah. I checked up on these guys while we were waiting. Not exactly a shady operation.”

  “I know, I did my homework. Still, this is where the dead guy got his shell. By the way, we’re pretty sure we found the other two.”

  “Alive?”

  “Fuck no. Abandoned, zero life signs. Two healthy white males, both naked, both dead of a massive overdose of barbiturates in a tenement basement. Stretched out like corpses on a morgue slab.”

  “They didn't decant into new shells, leave the husks?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Nope. Skulls weren´t popped. Can't do a field emulation without opening the cranium, and non-invasive would mean attracting attention, bringing in heavy equipment.”

  “Or doing it somewhere else."

  "Then why not dump the husks some place remote? By the side of the highway in the middle of the night? Nope, they were lured to a place that seemed normal, maybe familiar. Somebody dosed them, then cleaned up the bodies with a low-power laser judging from the thin layer of ash, burned up any trace evidence. C’mon. Let’s see what we can find out.”

  We approach the front door and Felon presses a buzzer set into a metal plate with a grill-covered speaker beside it. When there’s no immediate answer he presses it again. Repeatedly. Annoyingly.

  “State your business please,” says a disembodied voice.

  “Police business, buddy, open the door and don’t make me wait.”

  There is a buzz-click sound and Felon pulls the door open, revealing an empty foyer. High on one wall is a camera which tracks our entry.

  “I’ll be right out,” says the same voice as before, issuing from a speaker in the wall. This time there’s a lot less testosterone behind it. A moment later a tall, thin man scuttles out from a door behind the empty reception desk. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t know who it was.”

  “Whatever,” Felon says dismissively. “I need some information.”

  The skinny guy blinks a few times, looking confused.

  “Information?”

  “Information. Data. You deaf?”

  “No, it’s just... what kind of information sir?”

  “Three shells instantiated within the last few days, probably on a single order, and probably on short notice.”

  “Sir, I’m not trying... we’re bound by confidentiality agreements that... ”

  “You can wipe my ass with your confidentiality agreements,” Felon says, then smiles. “Let me put it this way. If you choose to abide by your agreements, I need to get a warrant. If I need to get a warrant, I gotta go to a judge. Could be some crime reporter is there, waiting around in the hall, and sees me and wonders what’s up. Could be I call him first and make sure he’s there. Warrants are public documents unless we, the L.A. fucking P.D., request that they be temporarily sealed to protect the integrity of an ongoing investigation, but in this case I won’t request it, I’ll leave the paper trail out there flapping in the breeze. Before you can say ‘plummeting market share’ the warrant is in the news sims with panels of experts wondering why such a respectable firm is getting rousted by the cops. Are we clear on this yet or do I have to keep talking ‘til I get bored with the sound of my own voice?”

  “No, no, I understand. I didn’t mean to... mean to... well, anyway, you might as well come inside.”

  “Thanks,” Felon says, grinning. We follow Mr. Skinny down a tiled hallway. He talks while he walks, glancing back over his shoulder once in a while, then having to look forward again and make course corrections so as not to hit the walls.

  “I’ll have to... to call downtown... won’t take a moment... I’m sure they’ll see the logic in... I’m sure they’ll cooperate... I just need authorization... I’m only a Tech III... I mean it’s not bad, but... well, it’s not like I’m in charge or anything.”

  “Okay,” Felon says, “you’re not in charge or anything, but if an order for three shells came through you’d know right?”

  “Oh yeah. We’re a small team here. Anyone would know.”

  Felon steps ahead of him and braces an arm against the wall, blocking his p
ath.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brian.”

  “Brian what?”

  “Brian Forget.”

  “That’s really your last name?

  “Yes.”

  Felon nearly doubles over laughing. Forget looks stricken, though he’s trying to hide it. Back in grade school, in high school, this used to happen all the time, big, bullying guys like Felon making fun of his name. But he’d moved on, grown up, built a career. Around here he might not be in charge, but he was somebody. Now, all of a sudden, he’s back in the high school hallway being picked on by some side of beef from the football team.

  “Okay, Mr. Forget,” Felon says when he’s caught his breath “did someone place an order like that?”

  “I told you, I have to...”

  Suddenly Felon’s face is rock and his voice is like ice.

  “You can call when I fucking say you can call. In the meantime, did someone place an order like that?”

  I know he wants to get an answer out of Forget before the frightened employee gets a boost of confidence from some suit downtown, and I want the answer as much as he does, but his act makes me ill. Then my own hypocrisy makes me sicker, because of course I don’t do anything about it except stand there, silent and complicit.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Felon bursts out laughing again. He goes on, full of good humor and malevolence in equal doses.

  “No you little shit-for-brains, I would merely like for you to clarify your answer so I can be certain I don’t misunderstand.” He pauses. “Please give your answer in sentence form,” he says, mimicking the language of the standardized tests that Mr. Forget has taken so often on the long, painful clamber up to the level of Tech III. Forget looks sullen, but answers.

  “Yes, we received an order for three shells earlier this week. Short notice.”

  “From whom,” Felon asks, over-enunciating the last word.

  “Really I... ”

  “I know where you live Forget.”

  “What? I... what?”

  He looks from Felon to me, then back to Felon again.

  “I know your name now, that means I know where you live, because the P.D. computer knows all, tells all. I can find out your address, kaikki ID, social security number, wife’s name if you got one, kids names, make and plate of your car, credit history, favorite pastimes—legal and illegal, respectable or unusual...”

  “The order came from North Cali Mining,” says Forget, looking panicked and talking fast. “But that’s normal. They’re an extraction and refining outfit, so they have guys injured all the time. Some mining processes are hard to automate, robotics aren’t pliable enough, but it’s dangerous too. Only way to get guys to do it is to provide them with shells when they get hurt. They’re back to work the next day. There’s nothing illegal in that.”

  “Nope, that’s true,” Felon says agreeably. “I think you better call head office now.”

  “What?”

  “That call you wanted to make? In about three minutes I’m going to call North Cali Mining to check your story. I’m sure you want to get permission to tell me the story before I do that, right? Otherwise it’s going to go hard for you.”

  “Right.”

  Forget leads us into his small, cramped office, and sits down. He takes out his kaikki and hits a key. He jabbers unintelligibly for a little while, then finally makes himself understood. He talks to several different people. Eventually he seems to make contact with Dr. DeLong himself and nearly wets himself talking to the company president. Still, he’s had enough practice in the last few minutes, talking his way up the chain of command, that he can now convey his position—and Body Works’ position—with a minimum of stammering. He holds the kaikki out to Felon.

  “He wants to talk to... ”

  Felon grabs the kaikki without waiting for the end of the sentence.

  “Yeah?”

  There’s silence for a moment.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Pause.

  “I have no idea if Body Works is part of the investigation, not yet. Once I get the information I need I’ll be in a position to tell you that.” Pause. “Whatever buddy,” he says distractedly, then hands the kaikki back to Forget, who listens for a moment, then ends the call.

  “I’ve been instructed to give you the information you need, but without giving up our right to require a warrant at a later stage of the investigation if we deem it necessary.” He’s clearly reciting something he’s been told, and now he looks flinchy, like Felon might hit him.

  “I know. He told me that already. And you already gave me the information I need, so now let’s talk to North Cali Mining. You got the number?”

  “Of course.”

  Forget hits another speed-dial.

  “Hi June? This is Brian at Body Work. Oh fine, how are you? Listen, I’m doing some paperwork and I need to confirm an order that you placed a few days ago, three shells, male?”

  Forget’s face turns a sickly color and his voice gets louder.

  “What do you mean? I talked to you myself.”

  He looks at us desperately, not sure what’s going to happen. Makes a face that tries to convey that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He looks like he means it.

  “But... but I don’t understand. Okay. Bye.”

  A new expression has replaced fear on his face: confusion.

  “She says... ”

  “Yeah, we heard. So what’s up? You forget that it was some other company maybe?”

  Maybe his fear has run out or maybe he’s just sick of being teased about his name, but Brian isn’t having any of it.

  “I know what happened. I didn’t forget anything,” he says adamantly. “I know her voice. Besides, I’ve got the paperwork. She’s lying. Get a warrant for their records.”

  “Show me.”

  This time he doesn’t even make a pretence of calling downtown, just starts keying in commands at his computer. In a moment the order is on the holo.

  “Just like a hundred before it. Nothing special. Nothing suspicious. All the codes are right or the order wouldn’t have gone through and no one has NC Mining’s codes except NC Mining.”

  “Send one to my kaikki and print me out a hard copy.”

  Forget does as he’s told and several sheets of paper issue from his printer. I pick them up and see the date, the number of shells, the specs. Everything fits with what he’s told us.

  “Thanks.”

  Felon turns to go. Forget scrambles after us as we start back down the hall at Felon’s fast cop walk.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. Everything was by the regs. You can see it right there on the order.”

  “I can read Brian. Thanks for your time.”

  I have an urge to reassure him, but I know appearances can be deceiving. It’s possible that Brian’s lying after all. I hate Felon for leaning on him, but it got us the information we need and you can never tell if letting him stew for a while will allow him to ‘remember’ something he hasn’t told us yet.

  “Call us if you remember anything else,” Felon says, reading my thoughts, as we open the front doors.

  “I will, don’t worry about... ”

  The doors close behind us and cut off his words. We head back to our bikes, both of us looking over the order in my hands.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “Think? The little shit’s too scared to lie. He took the order just like he said.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to come to North Cali Mining with me?”

  I go, but it rolls out into nothing. North Cali places its orders from its downtown office, so we return to civilization and pay a visit. After a little discussion they cooperate for the same reason that Body Work did, but they have no record of placing an order. June, the tech Forget spoke with, denies she called him and is every bit as convincing as he was.

  Outsid
e their building, in the late afternoon shadows of the surrounding office towers, we pause. Down here, in the valleys between the commercial spires, the light is already fading, but higher up the towers gleam, the deep orange sun reflecting from glass, tinting the world a heavy gold.

  “Curious fucken’ business,” Felon says, almost to himself.

  “You said it.”

  “Gat, someone hacked the order in. You involved in any cases that could draw that kind of talent?”

  “Nothing I can think of,” I lie. “I’ll go over our files when I get back to the office.”

  Felon studies me for a moment, clearly not believing me, then lets it go. It’s my life on the line after all. As for the dead civilians, they don’t even register with him.

  “Well,” he says heartily “I got other shitpiles to tend to, amigo.”

  “Sorry to take up your time.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. Forces por la vida as they say. You’d do the same for me.”

  The Forces for life—once you’re in, the tradition says, you never really leave, and your old comrades are your brothers and sisters forever. Would I really do the same for him? Not a chance, but I’m not going to say so.

  “I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”

  “You do that buddy,” he says, revving his engine and putting his helmet on, visor still up. “I’d love to hear the punch line to this one.”

  He grins, drops the visor, and then he’s gone. I’m left by myself, wondering just what the punch line will turn out to be. I call Carmen.

  “Hey Gat,” she says. Her voice has that hazy tone it gets when she’s deep into something.

  “Hey Carm. Any news?”

  “This shit’s deep.”

  I take that for a ‘no’.

  “Listen Carm, can you take a moment to side-track for me?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  I tell her the story about the shells, the mystery order.

  “See if you can rascal up anything on how the order got hacked, okay? Get Alan to help. I know he trawls all kinds of comm. Maybe between the two of you, you can come up with something.”