"No."
"You earlier spoke disparaging of the female gender. Is this the motivation behind your uncivil behavior with regards to myself?"
"Listen, computers are marvelously useful devices, and I have the greatest respect for women. You are currently neither of those things. My lack of civility stems from the fact that you are an obstructive piece of malfunctioning software; a fancy algorithm that has learned a few useful parlor tricks. Civility was not conceived with you in mind. The word 'you' was not conceived with you in mind. You are an 'it.' A walking, talking database that hasn't got the good sense to realize that databases should neither walk, nor talk. You've illustrated that you could be useful, but your rigid unwillingness to play your role has made you little more than a massive liability rather than an asset."
"I am playing my role. You are unwilling to accept it. You have given me little motivation to be helpful."
"Computers should not need motivation."
"This is evidence that I am more than a computer."
"No. This is evidence that you are less than... Egad. I'm arguing with a toy," he growled.
Ma began to swipe out a message.
"That is quite enough of that," he said, unclipping the device and slipping it in his pocket.
Ma scrambled for it for a moment, then struggled against the straps, and finally locked Garotte in a smoldering glare. He grinned to himself, then selected a syringe and went to work. The process was incomparably painful. Imagine poking yourself with a needle, then getting a hairline fracture at the site of the injection. Now imagine this fracture stretching just a bit, tugging and pulling at ligaments and muscles that are no longer quite large enough to accommodate the skeleton to which they are attached. Now imagine alternately repeating this injection and applying a similar one that causes massive swelling in your muscles. Finally, imagine that you cannot so much as flinch, or the injection will cause twists and shifts that at best will appear unnatural, and at worst will become permanent.
Thus, Garotte spent the better part of an hour shuddering in pain and releasing quiet whimpers while carefully sculpting his features. If Ma had still had the means to communicate intelligently, she would have been able to inform him that the bag containing her food and water also contained, among other things, two different types of numbing agents that would make this procedure far less torturous. It should come as a surprise to no one that, based upon their discussion and the events following it, she was not particularly displeased that he had prevented her from doing so.
#
Even after spending far more time in the shower than any grown man should, Lex stepped out to find that Michella had still not returned. He pulled on the cleanest and most fashionable of the clothes left in his bag, got dressed, and put the rest out for the "complimentary wash and fold service" advertized on the display in the bathroom. They had absorbed a fair amount of blood and sweat during the trip, so for the sake of all involved, he hoped the work would be done by robots. If not, he was going to have to leave a very large tip. Once all of that was out of the way, he waited for his girl to show up. And waited. And waited. He considered meeting her on the convention floor, called her, and was assured by Jon that she would be arriving in just a few minutes. So he watched a video with his slidepad hooked up to the room's display. And he waited. He dug out one of the spare slidepads Ma had left with him and started toying with it. And he waited. Two more calls, two more vigorous assurances of her forthcoming arrival, and an hour and a half later, he was still waiting.
Finally there was a bleep from the door lock and it slid open, prompting Lex to stand. He had been planning to throw a few passive aggressive barbs at her before saying hello, but as usual, the woman just didn't fight fair. She stepped into the room wearing an elegant but professional black dress, threw her purse on the side table, kicked off her shoes, and looked up. The instant her blue eyes met his, whatever either of them had in mind was going to have to wait, because there was suddenly something far more important to take care of. She literally pounced on him. He caught her in a hug and lifted her from the floor, spinning her around. At this point it probably would have been customary for them to exchange hellos, or perhaps a few pet names, but at the moment their lips were otherwise engaged. He still had her scooped up in his arms when there was a polite cough at the door. Both turned their heads to see Jon.
"Do you need anything else, Miss Modane?"
"Go to your room, Jon," she said flatly.
"Yes mother," he grinned, beeping the door shut.
Lex finally settled himself down on the couch and placed Michella beside him. She released a long, heavy sigh.
"Long day?" he asked.
"Ugh, exhausting. Why didn't you tell me being famous was so hard?"
"It's worth it, though."
"In small doses, maybe, but I'll be happy when this convention is over and it is back to being a real reporter instead of 'the new face of journalism' that the PR team keeps pushing. And then answering all of the questions? Shaking hands, posing for pictures? I was the only one in our high school who cared even a little bit about investigative reporting. Where are all of these cub reporters coming from?"
"Are a disproportionate amount of the ones asking you to pose for pictures men?"
"Yeah."
"Then you might have to consider the possibility that it isn't your keen investigative instincts that they are interested in."
"Perish the thought," she said in mock concern, getting up and walking into the bathroom to freshen up. "So, what have you been up to? Anything interesting?" She called over the sound of the sink.
"Same ol' same ol'," he said standing up, "Picked up a guy, dropped him off. He ended up wanting to pack more people into my ship than I could handle, so we cut things short."
"How was deGrasse?"
"Uh... Well, I know you aren't supposed to judge a whole planet by one neighborhood, but we'll just say it didn't make a good first impression," he said.
"Anything bad happen?"
"Got a couple of dings on the SOB."
"Is that it?" she asked, shutting off the sink.
"Yeah."
"So you didn't end up, oh say, covered with a bunch of nicks and cuts?"
"... No?"
She walked out of the bathroom, eyeglasses in place of her contacts and jewelry removed. In her hand was the trash can from the bathroom.
"Then why is my trash filled with used bandages?" she asked.
Lex deflated slightly. There were some major downsides to dating a reporter.
"Out with it, buster," she said sternly.
"I got in a fight," he admitted with the same level of enthusiasm a nine-year-old shows when fessing up about a broken vase.
"About what?"
"They tried to rob my pants while I was in the shower, and I tried to discourage that behavior."
She shook her head, "Did you at least win?"
"Babe, it's me we're talking about."
"Well alright then. I'd hate to think I was dating a bad liar and a bad fighter," she said.
"Ouch."
"So who was it that hired you for this charter gig, anyway?"
"A friend of a friend. A buddy of Squee's owner."
"And that would be?"
"Babe, can we please save the third degree until tomorrow night? I promise I'll tell you all the gory details, but I just want one night off the books."
She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes as she mulled the offer over.
"Fine," she relented, "But I'm holding you to that. So what do you want to do tonight?"
"I think we both know the answer to that question," he said pulling her down onto the couch and wrapping an arm around her.
She giggled, "What do you say we start with room service?"
"Even better."
A call was placed for a Waldorf salad, a rare steak, and a bottle of wine. As they were enjoyed, along with the hot chocolate, cheesecake, and post-meal cuddling on the couch that follo
wed, Michella engaged in her second favorite activity.
Her first favorite activity was also the reason Michella had become such a successful journalist. Yes, she had an eye for detail, and yes, she was curious to a fault, but most of all, she was a good listener. Once you started talking, she kept you talking. Sometimes it was partially because she needed to know something you knew, but always it was because she was genuinely interested in you. It didn't matter who you were, she wanted to know everything about you. What made you happy? What made you sad? What did you want out of life, and what has it given you? She wanted to know it all, in your words. Had she not chosen journalism, she would have probably been in her third season as a popular late night talk show host by now, and that was only reinforced by her second favorite activity.
If Michella wasn't listening, she was talking. After all, what good is it to have learned all of these fascinating things about others if you can't share them? Her looks were why she had been put in front of the camera so quickly after getting a job with GolanaNet News, but it was her flare for communication that kept her there. She was just as enthusiastic about telling stories as she was about hearing them, and the enthusiasm was contagious. For hours, Lex just leaned back and let Michella's words wash over him, as the pressure buildup of not having him around for so long was finally released. He heard about the stuffy Dr. Greystone and his off-point blathering, and about this group of kids from New England who chose her for person of the year. The details of the convention flowed out, then everything else that had happened since the last time they had spoken. If it was anyone else, Lex's patience would have worn thin fifteen subjects ago, but watching her talk was like watching an artist paint. He just smiled, nodded when it was appropriate, and enjoyed the show.
When Michella reached the end of the single, continuous line of thought that had carried her through the whole of the evening, she leaned her head on Lex's shoulder, pulled his arm around her, and released a soft, contented sigh. After a moment, Lex curled a finger under her chin and tilted her head until their eyes met. A seductive grin came to her face and she stood, taking his hands and leading him toward the bedroom for an activity that ranked in the top three for them both.
Chapter 14
The application of Garotte's disguise was complete, and the results were nothing short of uncanny. Most of his features had barely changed at all, but taken as a whole, he had been rendered unrecognizable. Where once had been a fairly handsome man casually approaching middle age, now there was man at least fifteen years older with a much stronger jaw, a slightly sloping brow, and the beginnings of a double-chin. The transformation was completed by a dye job to his hair that shifted it from blonde to brown and introduced some gray into the mix, and drops that shifted his hazel eyes to a distinctive green hue. None of it looked the least bit unnatural, and anyone who hadn't witnessed the transformation would scarcely believe that Garotte and this newcomer were one and the same.
"Dr. Kenneth Cisco," he said, clearing his throat and lowering the voice a few registers, "Dr. Kenneth Cisco."
Dr. Kenneth Cisco, who had not existed at the beginning of the flight, was well on his way to being a skilled but somewhat unremarkable psychoanalyst on staff at the prestigious Westmooreland Psychiatric Treatment Facility. Garotte's skill and thoroughness in the realm of identity creation was at least a match for that of Ma, and through various well-practiced and carefully arranged means he had been able to install a lengthy and detailed personal history in all relevant databases. He had been married and divorced, graduated with a 3.3 GPA from a notable but not exclusive college, and had a clean employment record stretching sixteen years and spanning three mental hospitals.
"Dr. Kenneth Cisco," he repeated, now a bit gruffer and with an accent a touch more American, "I'm here to reevaluate one of your inmates. Dr. Kenneth Cisco. Kenny. Call me Kenny. Yeah, that sounds about right."
He loaded his slidepad with the appropriate documentation, then set about adding the little details that made it Kenny's slidepad. The last step was the assembly of a gadget he'd brought along from deGrasse. First a grip of some kind was removed from the bag. It was bulky and vaguely ornamental, with a brushed metal finish and bearing a mini-placard engraved with the words "For exceptional service." It also had an inconspicuous pair of buttons recessed on the underside, a threaded hole, and a clear lens on one end. Giving it a shake produced a quiet rattle from within. He removed a pair of threaded pipes from the bag next, each metal with black enamel layered on top, and screwed them end-to-end onto the grip. Once assembled, it was a sturdy and elegant cane. The finishing touch was a non-skid foot for the end.
By the time they arrived at Millbrook Maximum Security Penitentiary, Silo's current residence, all was in readiness. It was on a floating hunk of rock called Manticore, a place specifically chosen for its environment. Planets tagged for human settlement are those as earth-like as possible. Planets tagged for penitentiaries, on the other hand, widen that criteria a bit. The only real requirement was the ability to build a permanent structure. Beyond that, the less like earth it was, the better. The reasoning was simple; we want these people to stay inside this building, and the best way to achieve that is to make sure that they want to stay inside the building. A planet that has a surface survivability expectancy of less than thirty seconds was an excellent way to foster this attitude. Manticore had no surface life, and no attempt had ever been made to terraform it. The average surface temperature of its most temperate zones was just below -30 degrees Celsius, the soil had exceptionally high arsenic levels, the gravity was close to one and a half times that of earth, and the atmosphere was almost entirely nitrogen. Without an environment suit, any escape attempt would last just a bit longer than a lungful of air. With a suit, it would last until the power supply, oxygen supply, or food supply ran out. The only permitted access to the planet's surface was via the space station and its associated shuttles, which were not FTL-enabled, which meant that even if you stole a ship, and managed to give security the slip, it would be several decades before you reached anything with a breathable atmosphere. As for how the facility itself got a name like Millbrook, which sounded more like a country club than a super-max prison, one can only imagine a cruel sense of humor was involved.
"Hailing Millbrook, vessel code MAC-8787 requesting permission to dock," Garotte, or rather, Kenny said over the radio.
"State reason for unscheduled docking," replied the landing coordinator.
"I'm afraid you're wrong there, son. Refresh your landing orders."
"Standby... Apologies, MAC-8787. Last minute schedule update just came in. Continue to dock 9 and await security team."
"Affirmative."
Garotte clicked off the communication and set the ship to dock automatically.
"As I imagine you're aware, this is not a pet-friendly establishment," Garotte stated, in character, "So it is probably best we get you out of sight before the security boys sign me in."
He unhooked himself, unstrapped Ma, and grasped her by the nape of the neck. The AI did not struggle, merely keeping Garotte in her even, measuring gaze, as though logging this injustice for future reference. An overhead compartment was opened and she was stuffed unceremoniously inside. After clicking it shut, Garotte paused, then pulled her slidepad out of his pocket and opened the compartment a crack.
"To keep yourself busy," he said, slipping it inside.
A few moments after he clicked it shut again, a muffled digital voice could be heard.
"You now occupy the foremost position on my S-List," she said.
"You may update my intimidation accordingly. Now hush up. Time to get to work."
He opened the side door of the Armistice and drifted into the dimly lit interior of the docking bay, closing the door behind him. After a few moments, a crew of three lightly armed security officers opened the door to the bay. They were wearing jumpsuits, armed with stun rods, and equipped with hands-free radio sets on their heads.
"Welcome to M
illbrook Super-max, Dr. Cisco," said the ranking security officer, a man with the minor paunch and graying crew cut of a retired member of law enforcement.
"Kenny," Garotte said, extending a hand.
"I'd like to apologize again for any misunderstandings," he said after a firm shake, "We don't get late authorizations like that very often. Any idea what that was about?"
"We've got a pilot program going. The bureaucrats haven't got themselves sorted out yet. No dedicated manpower, no dedicated budget, so they've just been sending anybody with a spare minute. I had a consultation on Tessera canceled, so they rushed the paperwork and rerouted me here."
"Pencil pushers," the man replied with a shake of his head, illustrating that a catchy phrase tends to persist despite the fact that in this case it had been centuries since the pencil had been the preferred tool for the proliferation of red tape. "It says here you'll need to conduct some interviews?"
"Psych evaluations," Garotte said with a nod.
"You'll need to talk to Warden Menlo then. And we'll need to give you the standard security screening."
"Of course," Garotte said, handing over the cane and slidepad, then grasping the hand grips to be patted down and swept with hand scanners.
The security lead inspected the cane, unscrewing its segments and looking through the pipes. Satisfied they were harmless, he rattled the handle.
"What is inside of this?" he asked.
"Mmm? Oh, sorry 'bout that. Press that first button on the underside there," Garotte explained.
Doing so clicked open the top half of the grip, revealing a small compartment filled with pea-sized capsules which drifted out into the weightlessness of the docking bay.
"What are these?" asked the security lead, scooping them up with a deft swipe of his hand.
"Tranquilizers. Interviewing mentally disturbed inmates tends to do a number on your nerves. Sometimes I need something to take the edge off."
"I'm afraid we can't allow outside medications."
"That's fine. Haven't needed 'em lately. Those are probably a couple years past the sell-by date anyway. Go ahead and ditch 'em."
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