The bodies of the seven other members of the Enforcement team were piled up over the hotel furniture, two or three deep on the clothing dresser and suitcase holder. They were frozen, gap mouthed, ugly in death. At the left end the bodies were clean, without a mark on them. Then, as the extraction machine had failed, one after another, to get useful information Slim had tried increasing levels of physical torture. At the far end of the dresser, a fair-haired boy sat, crumpled, bloody lines leading up his lap to his fingerless hands.
Slim waited for a minute, then came around in front of Sonja. He grabbed hold of her hair and pulled, twisting her head sideways. “I want to know what you know about the murders. You’re smarter than them, aren’t you? I want to know what’s in that pretty little encrypted brain of yours.”
Sonja shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Tell me, you bitch.” Slim slapped Sonja across the face.
Tony sighed and left the room, rubbing his large stomach. This violence was unsettling. Now he’d never be able to enjoy dinner.
14
* * *
“STOP THAT,” MIKE SAID, rubbing his head. “You’re interrogating my implant every five minutes. My ID is off, dammit.”
“Sorry,” Leon said, still unsettled after his experience at the Institute.
“We’ll rent an aircar to visit Shizoko,” Mike said. “It’ll be private, so no one will spot us, and we can be in Austin in eight hours.”
Leon thought about flying in a computer-controlled aircar. “We’ll be sitting ducks if there’s an AI on the side of the extremists. Aircars are fully automated and tracked.”
“You want to go with a commercial flight?” Mike’s voice rose in disbelief.
“No, I want to be totally off the grid. What if we take the Continental?”
“We’d still be on the passenger manifest.”
“Then let’s get a car without a computer or transponder.”
“They haven’t made those in twenty years.” Mike said. “Besides, you know how long it takes to drive to Austin?”
Leon looked it up. “Twenty-five hours, if we take turns driving.”
Mike grunted. “I read once that if they expect you to go high-tech, then you should go low-tech. And you and I are as high-tech as it comes. So yeah, I like it.”
After researching the net, they found themselves at an exotic car rental next to the Waterfront. The glass-fronted building was filled with gleaming aircars and a smattering of expensive roadcars, with a black and white Bugatti as the centerpiece, massive ducted fan ports at the four corners. A Lotus Xavier roadcar quivered as they passed it, startling Leon, who jumped away. It was unnerving, not knowing what was sentient.
“We want to rent an antique,” Mike said to the wall in the office.
A head popped up behind the counter, hair standing tall in multicolored spikes, eyes blinking in adjustment to the light. “We have last year’s Lotus.”
“No, a real antique,” Leon said. “We don’t want modern cars. We want something really old, a roadcar. Something you drive manually.”
The teenager’s eyes went wide. “You want to drive it?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s absurd. You don’t drive cars. AIs do the driving.”
“Look, it says on the net that you have exotic antiques,” Leon said. “Show them to us.”
He went blank for a second and then refocused. “They’re in the basement.”
They took a vehicle-sized elevator down, the door opening to admit the smell of old leather, oil, and dust.
Two dozen vehicles sat at odd angles around the open floor. An armored black stretch limousine was closest. The specs floated above the car in netspace, and bulletproof tires gleamed in high intensity spotlights.
“That’s nice,” Leon said. “I like the idea of armor.”
“Too flashy,” Mike said, passing it by.
A 2011 Lotus Exige was next. “Last Exige manufactured. Number twenty-five of twenty-five, limited production run.” Leon whistled. “It’s beautiful.”
“Too small,” Mike said.
Leon ignored Mike, and crossed to the opposite side, spotting a curvaceous gleaming silver car. “Ever hear of something called a split window Corvette?” he called across the floor.
“Come here,” Mike yelled. “I found it.”
Leon reluctantly left the Corvette and came to stand next to Mike, in front of an enormous, blocky white car. “What the heck is it?”
“A 1971 Cadillac convertible,” Mike announced. “Now this is a road-trip car.” He caressed the fender.
Leon was doubtful. Mike had gone crazy. “It doesn’t look very fast, and there’s no protection, not even a roof.”
“No, this is perfect. I have a good vibe about it.”
Leon threw his hands up. “You’re insane.”
Mike turned to the attendant. “Does it run on gas?”
“On gas?” he replied, his mouth hanging open. “No, it’s electric. Like all cars.”
“It’s a seventy-one Caddy. They didn’t have electric cars back then.”
“It’s electric,” the teenager insisted. “There are no gas stations anymore.” He pulled open the fuel cover to display an electric outlet. “See?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Mike looked the car up and down one more time. “We’ll take it.”
Leon shook his head in disgust. “How about this armored hovercar?” he asked, gesturing to the half-tank floating car in the back corner. “It can do two-fifty on a straightaway.”
“Nope. We’ll take the Caddy.”
“Argh!”
Thirty minutes later, they were cruising down I-95 in the pristine white antique with Mike behind the wheel.
“I can’t believe you never learned how to drive,” Mike said.
“Everything was automated by the time I graduated,” Leon said, fondling the red leather seat, “and before that I took mass transit. But I’ve driven simulators.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Right, it’s better. In the simulators I drive cars with real cornering ability that can hit one-fifty in the quarter mile.” Leon still felt bitter they’d taken a clunker that’d be lucky to hit a hundred, and had no airbags or roof.
Mike pulled over to the shoulder. “You drive.” He got out of the car, coming around to the passenger side.
“I don’t have a license for manual driving,” Leon said, refusing to move.
“Just drive. You’re twenty-nine years old. Try it.” Mike waited, still standing next to the door. Every few seconds, a car whizzed by, buffeting them.
Leon groaned and slid across the bench seat, putting the flimsy lap belt on. He experimentally tapped the accelerator, but nothing happened.
“Put it in drive,” Mike said, buckling himself.
Leon took off with a lurch, sending gravel and dust spitting out behind them. Mike let out a whoop, and Leon cautiously smiled. He pulled out erratically, AI-driven cars smoothly avoiding him. He continued to accelerate, and soon they were cruising along with traffic.
“Not bad?” Mike yelled over the wind.
Though he kept his attention on the road, Leon could feel himself grinning.
15
* * *
THE CHROME-AND-TILE DINER probably looked fantastic once, maybe fifty years ago. And had likely gone in and out of style a dozen times since. Judging from the dull-brown stains on the floor where a booth had been removed and not replaced, the place had been down on its luck for a while now.
The cook looked her over, a long leer that traveled up and down, making Cat wish for something to wrap around her body. She forced herself to keep a bright smile on her face and not cross her arms. She’d let him ogle if that’s what it took to get the job.
“Look dumb,” was what Sarah often suggested in situations like this. Somehow it came more naturally to Sarah. Funny how Cat hadn’t thought of her housemates in days.
The cook finally managed to work h
is gaze back up to Cat’s face. “No experience, huh? You can start at ten bucks an hour.”
“But—” The sentence died on Cat’s lips. She didn’t know how she could survive on minimum wage, let alone half of it. Then again, she must have been in sixty other places during the past week, and this was the first job offer. “I’ll take it.”
“Fine. You can start tomorrow,” he said, staring again at her breasts. “But I’m gonna need your implant ID. It’s not legal to hire you without it.”
“You’re not even offering me minimum wage.” If she could just charge this guy for staring at her, she wouldn’t even need the job.
“You’ll make minimum with the tips. But I gotta get the ID. Otherwise, some inspector comes down here, and I get into trouble.”
Cat looked at the empty diner, doubting the tips could amount to much. There had to be a way around the ID. “How do you hire people without implants? You can’t tell me everyone who has worked here”—she gestured with both hands at the worn-out eatery—“has an implant.”
“They get a skin chip from Social Security. But I can see your implant is on, you just got the ID masked.” He tapped two fingers against his forehead and pointed at her. “Look, kid, you got some kind of trouble about ya, that’s obvious from a mile away. I can’t give you a job without your ID, or your problems become my problems.”
Cat didn’t reply; anger, frustration, and hunger warring inside her. She should have powered down her implant.
“Look, you’re a pretty thing. My brother-in-law, he’s got this online studio, and he don’t ID the actresses. You can make some easy money.”
Oh, God, he was pitching a porn parlor to her. Cat didn’t wait to hear any more. She spun on one foot, banging through the doors on the way out. Her face burned, but she was not going to let herself cry.
Two blocks away from the diner, she sat down on the curb. What a complete asshole he’d been, and she was so desperate she would’ve taken the job. Her boot was empty, the payment cards gone. Her stomach growled, but she had spent the last of her money on yakionigiri at a street vendor last night. If she wanted to stay in her room, she needed money by tomorrow.
She kicked at the street. She was going to have to steal again. She didn’t like it, but if it was theft or making porn, it was an easy choice. She suspected even her mom would approve. But she needed to be smart this time. Payment cards were too much risk for too little reward. She had to steal dozens to make it worthwhile, and she rarely got the chance to take more than one or two at a time. She needed something small but worth a lot and easily resold. She sat for ten minutes, half meditating, half thinking, until she decided on jewelry. If she went into a large store, there was bound to be more than one of the same piece. She could wait for someone else to make a purchase and then replay the transaction just as she’d done in the bodega. There’d be more security, so she’d have to do it perfectly, but the payoff would be huge.
She checked the time. Nine at night was not exactly a jewelry-shopping hour, so she’d have to wait for tomorrow. She could do it first thing, sell the jewelry at a pawn shop, and still be able to pay for her room before she was kicked out.
Cat took an electric bus back to her neighborhood and walked the eight blocks to her building. At the door she used the room key to open the main lock and her implant to unlock the secondary bolt she’d installed two days ago. While it didn’t drown out the late-night screams, banging on walls, or crying, it offered some meager protection for her few possessions. She had two changes of clothing now, not one, and a black-and-white checkered hot plate.
She checked the clothes in her bathroom, found them dry, and folded them. She took off what she was wearing and washed that in the sink, using a little detergent she’d taken from the laundry room downstairs. Her chores done, she climbed into bed and sat meditating.
Once her mind was at rest, Cat spent twenty minutes exercising her implant, seeing what signals she could interpret. Security cameras and motion detectors were ongoing unidirectional streams trickling in the distance. Nearby, in her own building, she felt the bidirectional flow of massively multiplayer games, and large chunked data streams of downloads. She skimmed them, finding porn and old movies. She pushed herself to practice until she started to fumble the data, exhausted. Mastering her implant and her control over the net was now the difference between life and death, freedom and imprisonment, food and starvation. She crawled beneath the covers and tried to ignore the late-night sounds of the building, which would continue for hours yet.
The next morning, Cat woke at eight. She contemplated the dimensions of the small room, looking at the extent of free floor space, two narrow strips around the bed. After debating whether it was worth doing her entire routine, she decided yes. She wanted to be in the zone when she went to the jewelry store. She lifted the mattress off the bed, leaned it against the wall, then did the same with the bed frame. Now there was enough room for kata.
She started with qigong, as she did at home, then moved into karate, and closed with vipassanā. With no breakfast to eat, and no one to talk to, she had a long time to meditate. She finished, surprised to discover herself crying. She missed Einstein, her puppen. She missed her backyard with its mix of weeds and flowers. And she missed Tom and Maggie and even Sarah. She balled her hands into two fists. It wasn’t fair! Why was she, the only one of her friends who even gave a damn about doing anything with her life, the one that lost it all? She punched the mattress standing against the wall as tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t be condemned to this life. She just couldn’t.
The repetitive strikes gradually relaxed her, and it turned from an assault into a meditative punching practice. When she finally stopped, she was sweaty but calm, her muscles tingling, fully in the moment.
She went into the bathroom and showered. Standing in front of the mirror afterwards, she wiped the steam away and was surprised to see the gaunt expression staring back at her. She’d always been slender and well-muscled from her karate practice. But the girl who stared back at her in the mirror looked like someone from a war zone. Three weeks of too little food and sleep and the stress of living on the edge had carved something away from her.
She threw her towel over the mirror and focused on dressing, choosing her better pair of jeans and a black button down shirt with half sleeves. She wished she had better clothes to wear. She could do something with her hair though. Pulling the towel off the mirror, she rubbed her damp hands on the cheap bar of soap, working it into her palms where it made a rough paste. She used it to style her hair, modeling it after the women she’d seen in LA.
Outside, she used her implant to get a list of jewelry stores, filtering them by size and price range. She needed something moderately large, so there’d be more than one cashier. And it couldn’t be a boutique, because she needed them to have duplicate pieces for her replay hack to work.
When her filtering provided a list of fourteen jewelry stores, she chose one at random, using a net service to pick a number. She had to avoid even an unconscious pattern that might be anticipated by an AI.
Thirty minutes and a short bus ride later, she found herself in the jewelry district. In the back of her mind she juggled nearby security cameras, replaying previously captured snippets of footage as she passed into view, so there’d be no record of her.
She found the target store, a place called InterGems. White porcelain walls trimmed by stainless steel surrounded a set of double doors manned by a security bot just inside. Cat walked by once to glance over the interior. Through the window she saw three jewelers behind a U shaped counter that ran along the walls. Then she was past the store, and that was all she’d get.
She walked into a coffee shop on the next block and waited so she wouldn’t trigger the security bot’s suspicion. Her stomach flipped at the smell of coffee and pastries. She checked her pockets for money, even though it was a pointless exercise. It’d been thirty hours since she ate. Her mouth watered as a lemon scone float
ed by in front of her, carried by a fat woman who gave her a dirty look for eyeing her food. Cat ignored her and focused instead on the timer in the corner of her vision. When it hit nine minutes and ten seconds, she went back outside in the direction of InterGems.
At the entrance, she took a deep breath and turned in. She gripped the right hand door, remembering just in time to null out the fingerprint scanner. She stepped into the hushed interior, air smelling faintly of lavender. The robot guard stood just inside, a basic semi-humanoid bot, six feet tall. Its body was draped in porcelain white and stainless panels, obviously to match the storefront. The waist high glass counter top she’d noticed before ran around the perimeter of the store, while two square display cases filled in the middle. Cat took all this in as she nodded to the robot.
Three clerks stood behind the counter, two of them already busy. One customer was a mid-forties man shopping for what seemed to be women’s earrings, and the other, a woman trying on a necklace. The remaining cashier, an older Asian woman, maybe Vietnamese, approached. “How can I help?”
But Cat was suddenly distracted from answering by a huge chunk of data coming through the net. The hairs rose on the back of her neck and she felt time slow down. She started turning toward the security bot. She traced the data, tinged blue, back to its source, a feed for police bulletins. She continued swiveling toward the robot, which was absorbing the last of the data. Her right foot started moving toward the door, an infinite slowness compared to the speed of light movement of bits across the net. She felt a subtle distortion in cyberspace as the bot spun up more processing cores, pattern matching the police bulletins. There was only one reason for the sudden activity: her.
Her meatspace body, moving like molasses, continued its instinctive fight or flight response to the impending threat, still taking that first step toward the door. The bot hadn’t moved yet. Cat reached out into the net and cut off all the data streams to and from the robot. She felt it retry the connections dozens of times, but she squelched the attempts. The bot probed her implant, looking for her ID. She kept it masked, and probed the bot in return.
The Last Firewall Page 7