The Radioactive Redhead with The Peach-Blonde Bomber

by John Zakour

  The OLED flashed again and I let a blast loose at the nearest attacker. The recoil from the blast nearly knocked me over but it did its job on the other end, cleanly piercing the battlebot’s shell and blowing it to bits. I spun around and fired off two more rounds, falling back to the ground as I did so. Two more bot-shaped fireballs lit up the lot and showered the expensive hovers with high-tech drek. After that it was eerily quiet in the parking lot save for the cacophony of hovercraft alarms that the firefight had set off.

  “Something tells me that I won’t have any problem meeting my car insurance deductible this year,” I said.

  12

  I reached my office on the New Frisco docks with no other major entertainment-related incidents (although Rupert Roundtree called me on the way over to rave about my performance in episode two of the series, referring to it as bombastical). I called him an idiot and a fraud but he took it as a compliment and then excused himself so he could attend a focus group of white trash Americans (he didn’t say if he was running it or one of the participants). Other than that, the trip was uneventful.

  My office is an oasis in the desert of late twenty-first century technology-centric chaos. It’s a throwback to an earlier time (as am I), a technologically simpler time when everything wasn’t wirelessly connected to everything else; when machines weren’t connected to one another and, more importantly, when machines weren’t connected to people.

  It’s a place where I can sit in my simulated leather chair, prop my legs up on my real wood desk, put my arms behind my head, and let my mind do its thing. It’s also a place where bill collectors, unsatisfied clients, angry pressbots, assassins, and enemies of the state can easily find me, but every oasis has its drawbacks.

  First order of business was to reestablish contact with Tony Rickey.

  “What do you want now, Zach?” he said.

  “Tony, I’m hurt that you think I only call you when I want something from you.”

  “That’s right. You only call me when there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

  “Well played, Captain.”

  “Do you know that the department has a listserver called Guess-What-Zach-Did-Now?” he said.

  “Really? Is it accurate?”

  “Most of it’s way off. Third-hand stuff. I try to post the real stuff but I keep getting kicked off because no one believes it. You know, like last night’s Kabuki fiasco.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Last night was nothing. I’ve had more people try to kill me at a softball game.”

  “That’s what happens when you pitch spitballs to a Police Athletic League team.”

  “It was sweat, Tony. I have no control over my pores.”

  “I didn’t know the mouth was considered a pore,” Tony said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you know anything about a group called PATA?”

  “Not off the top of my head.” He turned away and typed into his computer keyboard. “They don’t show up in any of the databases. I’m afraid to ask this, but why are you interested?”

  “They’ve threatened to kill Sexy Sprockets.”

  “Have the threats been reported?”

  “They will be. You should be getting the call any time now,” I said. “I’ll have HARA send over copies of the threats.”

  “HARA is HARV, right?”

  “Sadly, yes. I’ve made it clear to Sexy and her people that they should cooperate with your department.”

  “Great. I’ll send some men over. She’s at the Elite?”

  “Where else? What kind of security will you have at the concerts?”

  “Her fans are more exuberant than most so we planned to have extra personnel and machines there, both uniform and plainclothes.”

  “Plainclothes machines?”

  “They double as popcorn dispensers,” he said (straight-faced). “So you’re on Sexy’s payroll now?”

  “She’s asked me to help her security.”

  “Zach Johnson, bodyguard.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “You mean like reality star?”

  “There is no show,” I said. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “Whatever you say,” he replied. “And HARV’s still a woman?”

  “She’s called HARA now.”

  “She looks good for a computer. You’ll have to tell me the whole story sometime.”

  “Yeah, let me know when you have a free month. Right now I’m just trying to keep Sexy alive.”

  “Like I said, Zach, I’m not going to let anything happen to her on my watch. Thanks for the info. I’ll make sure everyone’s on guard.”

  “Hopefully there won’t be any trouble,” I said.

  Tony smiled. “Believe me, Zach, with you on the case, there’ll be trouble.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Tony. Let me know if you turn up anything on PATA.”

  Tony smiled and his face disappeared from the screen just as HARA’s hologram appeared back on my desk (legs crossed, skirt riding high).

  “Wow, sharing information and cooperating with the police,” she said. “Is this the start of a new Zach?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure my goodwill with the police department is only temporary. Any new information on PATA?”

  “Nothing yet, but I’m still digging. You need anything else?”

  “Run background checks on Sammy Smiles and Sexy’s bodyguards. Saucy, scrappy, and scurvy.”

  “You mean Misty, Sissy, and Lusty.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Got it.”

  “When you say got it, do you mean that you understand the request or that you have the actual info?”

  “Both, Zach,” HARA said. “I’m very intelligent. Try to keep up. By the way, you have a message from Electra.”

  “Hate mail?”

  “More like a shot across the bow,” HARA replied, morphing into Electra’s form, then mimicking her voice. “I’ll be home tomorrow, Chico.”

  “That’s it?” I asked

  “That’s it,” HARA said, morphing back to her current form.

  I shook my head. “She’s mad at me. And for once it’s not because of something I did or had any control over.”

  HARA smiled. “I think it’s cute that she’s jealous of us.”

  “She’s not jealous of us!” I said. “There is no us. I’m me and you’re the holographic interface of a supercomputer.”

  “There have been stranger couples,” HARA said, smile widening.

  “We’re not a couple.”

  “We’re partners.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Would Electra have loaded your gun with bot-busters?”

  “DOS, where’s Rupert Roundtree when you need him?”

  “Oh, I get it,” HARA said, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m not good enough for you.”

  “What?”

  “Sure I’m the world’s most sophisticated cognitive processor, but you’re Zachary Nixon Johnson private eye. Nobody’s good enough for you, are they?”

  I buried my head in my hands and thought nostalgically about how good my office used to feel.

  “This is what hell feels like, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Don’t talk to me now,” she said, waving her hand dismissively at me. “I’m mad at you. By the way, I have the info that you requested.”

  “I thought you were mad at me?”

  “I am, but I’m also a professional. I am not going to let our personal relationship get in the way of our work relationship.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said.

  “As well you should,” she said. “I’ve learned the initial death threats from PATA came in via an ultra-encrypted line. They’re untraceable.”

  “That figures. So it’s a dead end.”

  “A dead end that tells us much.”

  “How so?”

  “A line that’s encrypted to such a degree is ripping edge.”

  “So whoev
er sent the threats has access to some serious tech.”

  “Correct.”

  “Which means they’re either rich, powerful, or both.”

  “You know, you’re almost as smart as you think you are,” she said rolling her eyes.

  “Well, it’s a start,” I said, grabbing my hat.

  “What now?” HARA asked.

  “We’ve done all we can from here,” I said. “We’re not going to track PATA down today so it’s time to start being an actual bodyguard.”

  “Which means?”

  “It means we prepare for the worst and hope for the best.”

  “It also means backstage passes to Sexy’s concert,” HARA said, hopping off the desk.

  “I’m not sure if that falls into the best or worst category,” I said. “But let’s stop at the store while we’re out and pick up some earplugs just in case.”

  13

  New Frisco’s municipal arena is a wonderful entertainment and sports venue that’s smack in the middle of the old Mission District. It’s a fine facility with perhaps the most unfortunate name in the history of … names.

  You see back when the arena was being built, the city auctioned off the naming rights and got several strong bids. The city planners, guided by their terminal myopia and fueled by their unquenchable greed, accepted all the bids and named the arena after the conglomeration of conglomerates that were willing to pony up the necessary credits. So officially the arena is called the Faux-ExShell-Relapse-HTech Center but one day some kid noticed the acronym (FERHT) and couldn’t get his mind out of the gutter. His little joke spread (through the adolescent population first, then into the mainstream). Before we knew it, the joke just sort of entered the regional vernacular and, despite the city’s best efforts to shake it, the nickname name stuck. So New Frisco’s state of the art entertainment and sports arena is lovingly known the world over as “the Fart.”

  To my mind there’s no better place on the west coast to see a concert or a game (basketball or hockey that is, the baseball and football stadiums moved to the suburbs years ago). The hot dogs are a little pricey, the beers extremely so, but the bolgoki and nachos are first rate. All in all, the Fart’s not a bad place to spend an evening with fifty thousand of your closest Bay Area friends. Unless of course one of those fifty thousand is a hired assassin who’s out to put an ice pick through your client’s eye. Then it’s sort of the needle and haystack dilemma on a grand and deadly scale.

  I had a little trouble at first getting into the Fart. It was after all, three hours before the doors opened and I had no actual ticket to the concert. But a quick call to the facilities manager from Sammy Smiles opened the doors pretty quickly and got me an all-access pass. Before long, I was standing center stage in front of fifty thousand empty seats and trying hard not to get in the way of the roadies and techies as they prepped for the show. And I must say that the stage itself was something to behold.

  “Being front and center like this certainly makes Sexy an easy target,” HARA remarked, her hologram shimmering to life beside me (and garnering a number of looks from the workers).

  “She’s the main attraction, all right,” I replied.

  “And by the way, I never would have thought that one stage could hold this much red velvet and black satin.”

  “Yeah, what’s with that?”

  “It’s part of the motif for the tour, I suppose.”

  “And what’s that over there?”

  “A guillotine and a sausage-making machine,” HARA replied.

  “What motif, exactly, are they shooting for?”

  “Ménage abattoir.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the name of the tour. The Ménage Abattoir Tour.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think it’s a pun,” HARA said. “Sexy thought it was … sexy.”

  “An abattoir is a slaughterhouse right?”

  “Very good. My understanding is that she confused ‘abattoir’ with ‘boudoir’ but by the time anyone had the courage to tell her, the tickets had already gone on sale. Turns out it’s very popular.”

  “Yeah, very cutting edge.”

  “So to speak.”

  I stepped over a saddle-covered rocking chair and walked the length of the stage, scanning the wings as I did so. The entire space made me worry. It was far too open, far too dangerous.

  “The police will scan for weapons as the crowd arrives. And there are sensors in the arena that can pick up the energy signatures of any unauthorized weapons that are activated. But she sure is out in the open here. Maybe we can convince her to wear body armor.”

  “Please, Zach,” HARA sighed, “it took a court order to convince Sexy to wear underwear on stage.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I ducked under a huge rack of leather whips and cured meat that was being lifted into place above stage and headed to the backstage area.

  “Get a list of everyone on Sexy’s crew that will be here tonight. Musicians, programmers, roadies, butchers, everyone. I want background checks run on all of them.”

  “You think that PATA could have someone inside Sexy’s camp?”

  “Let’s not take any chances. We know next to nothing about PATA right now other than that they have access to high tech and that they’ve gotten very close to Sexy already.”

  “Got it,” HARA said. “There are a lot of people on the payroll for this event. It will take some time to screen them all.”

  “Do what you can, just flag the odd ones for me.”

  “Odd is a very relative term when you’re surrounded by satin sheets and pork by-products.”

  “I hate this,” I mumbled.

  “I know. Pork gives you gas.”

  “We’re coming into this late in the game. We have no idea who we’re up against. We have no control over the schedule or the venue. We’re so far behind right now we can’t even see the starting line.”

  “So what do we do?” HARA asked.

  “For tonight, we have to narrow our focus,” I replied. “We can’t safeguard this entire space but the good news is that we don’t have to. The only thing we have to guard is Sexy. So we stay close to her.”

  “Are you planning on going on stage with her?” HARA asked. “Because I should warn you, Zach, this crowd probably won’t respond well to your Elvis impersonation.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “With Sexy and her dancers on stage, no one’s going to be looking at a forty-year-old guy in a trench coat. But just to be safe, you better make sure that your hologram projector is working. You never know when we might need to disappear.”

  Two hours before the show, HARA and I were back at the Elite scoping out the parking lot. The valets, I’m told, had spent the better part of the afternoon clearing the aftermath of my bot battle. They weren’t too pleased to see me and I couldn’t blame them. I’m sure that one doesn’t get the best tip in the world when you have to bring a customer’s car around in a giant plastic baggie.

  While Sexy and her posse (Carol included) were inside the hotel, gathering themselves for the limo ride over to the Fart, I took it upon myself to have a chat with the limo driver.

  Like I said earlier, Sexy’s hover limo was sleek and really, really long. HARA brought up the phallic symbolism of the vehicle but it was way too late in the day to have that conversation. So I ignored her and tapped on the dark rose-tinted driver’s window.

  “I’m busy!” came the voice from within, a little high-pitched and squeaky.

  “And I’ve got a gun,” I replied.

  The window slid down neatly and revealed a plump teenage kid in a black chauffeur’s cap and uniform.

  “You better really have a gun,” he said. “I’ll get in trouble if I fall for that line again.”

  “Trust me, kid. I’ve got one. What’s your name?”

  “Joey Matteo. But people call me Shreek. I’m Sexy’s driver.”

  “Nice to meet you Shreek. I’m Zach Johnson. Sexy’s new b
odyguard.”

  “The Zach Johnson? Wow! You’re not going to, like, blow up the limo are you?”

  “Your reputation precedes you,” HARA whispered.

  “Listen, Shreek,” I said, “I know you’re a great wheel-man but I’ve got a more important job for you for tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Shotgun.”

  “What’s shotgun?”

  I opened the door and shoved him toward the passenger side of the front seat.

  “Scoot over into the other seat and recline it just a touch so you’re comfortable.”

  He did as he was told.

  “Now what?”

  “Now rest your right arm on the side so you look good. Feel free to hold a drink in your left. Shotgun’s thirsty work.”

  “Got it.”

  “Your job for the night is to keep lookout while the limo is parked or while it’s moving. Keep an eye out for anyone strange approaching. Understand?”

  “Sure,” he said, “but who’s going to drive?”

  HARA’s hologram shimmied up behind me on cue. She was dressed in a tight jacketed chauffeur’s uniform (complete with cocked hat, short skirt, and stockings).

  “Hi there, big boy,” she said. “Want to go for a spin?”

  “Man, this is so cool,” Shreek said, eyes wide.

  “Don’t get too excited, shotgun. She’s mostly intangible. Now fasten your seatbelt. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

  We got Shreek settled in the shotgun seat (and eventually got him to look at other things besides HARA) just as Sexy and her entourage of redheads emerged from the hotel, giggling and bouncing and strutting and primping all at once as they moved like a bumptious sea of spandex, porcelain skin, and red hair.

  “Here they come,” Shreek said, his attention slipping from HARA for the nano.

  Smiles was with them, now wearing a black-and-red striped suit and looking like a shard of jagged dark glass in a serving of cotton candy.

  “Where’s Carol?”

  As they flounced closer, Shreek hopped out of the shotgun position and opened the passenger door. The girls giggled at his bumbling yet energetic chivalry and continued their way toward the hover.

  “I told her to stay with Sexy.”