“I’m sorry, Sam,” says Marilyn, “but there are no active public streams going into Maerskton. Network Services reports that a high-energy radio frequency burst has interrupted all processes across the publicly accessible spectrum. Do you wish to modify your command?”
“Scan for shielded nodes in the area.”
“Do you mean the Maerskton area or your current location?”
“Maerskton.”
“Your voice has been recognized. I’m waiting for a capacity check from a San Francisco police dispatch node.”
A pause. Sam squeezes through the cluster of cars surrounding the diner; they’re parked in any available space—including up on the curb—for lack of legal parking areas. “Come on.”
“There are three police cruisers capable of transmission in your neighborhood.”
“Authorize packet relay to any available node in Jacob Gaur’s residence. Accept all charges.”
“Unable to comply. Devices registered to Jacob Gaur are unresponsive.”
“Damnit!”
“Please be more specific.”
Sam glares at his tablet. “Done. I’m done.”
“If you’re having trouble with your network connection, why not consider a BigBad Server?”
Sam finally reaches his bike.
“BigBad is the only original equipment manufacturer that uses military-grade shielding and redundant quantum processors for—”
He slides his tablet into his bike’s rear pannier, muffling Marilyn’s pitch, and rams his helmet onto his head. The engine rumbles to life.
With a twist of the wrist, he roars homeward.
Two police cruisers idle in the street. Their inboard rotors have left the wall of Sam’s container pockmarked by scattered gravel. Red laser wards cordon off Jacob’s conto. Within the beams, Captain Nial Fox and three of his crew are sweeping the area with full-spectrum lights while waiting for the forensic techs. Just outside the heavy metal door of Jacob’s container, Duke stands motionless.
Sam rushes through the warding beams, tripping the siren.
The nearest officer menaces Sam with his stun baton.
Holding up his arms, Sam says, “Jacob Gaur was my friend.”
Nial strides over, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. “It’s okay. I know him.”
The other officer withdraws.
Nodding in gratitude, Sam takes another step toward the container. Nial blocks his way. Sam’s fingers curl into a ball, instinctively as a pill bug.
Nial stands his ground. He’s a tall man, slightly stooped. He seems somehow liquid, always moving—a side effect of a reflex implant. His thin lips bend downward as if he’s trying to conceal a slice of lemon in his mouth.
“You’re not going to let me in?”
Nial shakes his head. “Don’t try to hit me again. You’re not fast enough anymore.”
Looking for a way out of the moment, Sam clenches his jaw.
“Why don’t we sit down over there,” Nial suggests, placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him.
Sam yanks himself away. “Just tell me if he’s dead.”
“Quite.”
Eyes unblinking, Sam sinks to the pavement.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Nial says, crouching down. His long coat billows about his ankles. “The network doesn’t list any emergency contacts. Is there anyone we should inform?”
“No.” Sam’s voice barely rises above the level of the wind.
The two men remain motionless for several minutes.
Just down the street, half a dozen local residents have gathered, their faces furrowed with worry and anger. Uniforms mean occupation here. Just in case the locals get uppity, one of Nial’s crew readies his microwave gun—known unofficially as “a heater” because it makes targets feel like they’re burning without doing any lasting harm.
An officer approaches. Nial stands, straightens his coat, and withdraws.
Sam stares blankly at the road beneath him. Every breath bears the weight of someone sitting on his chest. He can’t help but think that the glasses got Jacob killed.
A few minutes later, Nial returns. “Jacob’s t-file designates you as his executor,” he says. “Not that you’ll have much to do. He didn’t have more than five grand to his name.”
“Interested in helping me out?”
Nial shakes his head.
Sam glowers.
“It’s not just that there’s no money in it, Sam.”
“What, you’re still angry about that night at Jimmy D’s?”
“You’re the one who’s angry, Sam.”
“Spare me the psychoanalysis.”
“I don’t need another of your goddamn crusades, and I don’t need more teeth knocked out.” Nial starts back toward his cruiser.
When Nial is halfway across the street, Sam calls out, “Nial, did you find any glasses?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“What do they look like?”
“Antique. With rose-colored lenses.”
“Like I said, we didn’t find any. But I’ll allow you to look around after the techs have finished their sweep.”
Shielding his eyes, Sam watches Nial’s cruiser lift off. It won’t be long before the techs arrive, but he decides not to wait. The glasses are long gone. He slips across the street to his steel home, to wrestle with his conscience and a bottle of vodka. He looks around for something to hit.
CHAPTER Two
By six in the morning, the implant on Sam’s wrist displays a blood-alcohol level low enough that he’ll be able to enable the ignition chip on his bike. He stumbles into the shower, but the water is off again. Retribution by City Water, no doubt, for buying the basic service package without the pipe-security upgrade. He grabs a bottle of icy water from the fridge to rinse his face.
Taking a seat at his desk, he tries a few more searches, adding terms gleaned during his last attempt, like “Pharmalis” and “electrophysiology.” Again, he gets next to nothing. He ups his bid to five hundred on acceptance. The results are the same.
He guesses he’s been outbid. Either someone bought his search terms and offered no results—the standard censorship mechanism since editorial and advertising became indistinguishable—or someone is paying specifically to target him with an empty list.
Time to make some offline inquiries.
Marilyn’s face appears on the wall-mounted monitor as Sam grabs his leather jacket. “Shall I keep inquiring, Sam?”
“No.” Sam pats his pockets. Empty.
“Are you going out?”
“Yes.” From a banker’s box full of cords and tools, he takes a wall-eye and a radiomark sprayer that resembles a pen.
“Where?”
“Somewhere.”
“Please be more specific.”
“Why?” Sam asks in a reflexive attempt to shame her.
“So I can arrange for appropriate advertising that will prepare you to enjoy your destination.”
Her wounded tone makes Sam shiver. “Marilyn, silence.”
“How many minutes would you like to buy?”
“One hundred twenty.”
“Transaction processed. I’ll catch up with you in two hours, Sam.”
“Marilyn, copy local data to my private directory at GeoSync Five. Authorize by voice. Execute local wipe.”
He leaves before Marilyn can reply, ashamed of being provoked by software. He doesn’t want to be that person again, the one who loses control.
Weaving through surprisingly light traffic on Sixteenth Street with his engine rumbling, Sam fails to hear the street dusters passing overhead. Just as he crosses Mission Street, scented spray soap blankets the road. It’s the city’s latest scheme to deal with what it calls “indigent persons”—though most people just refer to them as ‘gents in mocking reference to the gentlemen they’re presumed not to be.
The concoction covering him is a chemical marvel. Its nontoxic microbial scrubbers confer the sort of cle
an usually only seen on TV; under pressure, the slippery mist turns to sand, aiding tire traction on streets until the next rainfall sends it to the nearest storm drain. As for the fashion-magazine aroma, that’s supposed to be a feature rather than a bug—at least for the cosmetics companies getting greater exposure for their celebrity fragrances.
Sam curses himself for going offline and missing the strafing alert. While he doubts Marilyn can take any real joy in his comeuppance, he nonetheless imagines her smiling smugly.
He soon arrives at the Duboce Stalls, a farmer’s market without farmers, but full of buyers, sellers, and curiosity-seekers who gather every morning in one of the city’s few remaining historic parking lots—all of which are under the protection of the National Parking Service. Conveniently for Sam, scofflaws are out in force, barbecuing with charcoal that masks his scent with smoke.
On a hill behind the market stands the Old Mint, now a day trip for history students and tourists too shortsighted to make reservations at Entertainment Corp’s Alcatraz. Off to the west, across the hillside of Twin Peaks, glass windows turn gold under the gaze of the rising sun.
Sam elbows his way to the back of the market, where the antique dealers have set up their booths. Like a Buddha made of gingerbread dough, Amir Urutu sits at his table, arranging the day’s featured goods: netsuke figurines, genetically enhanced herbs, and assorted twentieth-century antiques. He nods as Sam approaches.
“Hello, my friend.”
“How’s business, Amir?”
Amir beams. “Splendid. Have you seen these?” He holds up a pair of black plastic sunglasses. “Auglites. Just got a shipment from China, and they’re almost gone.”
“What do they do?”
“Dynamic resurfacing.”
“You mean overlays?”
“Not simple overlays. These are much better than an eyepiece. They can track your head movements perfectly, no ghosting. These are gonna be big.”
Sam glances about. “Got time to chat?”
“Of course. How’s your little one doing? I’ve been meaning to stop by to see her, but you know how it is.”
“She still can’t see or talk. Her medical rep wants to get her into a drug trial for something called Lucidan. It’s supposed to stimulate her brain.”
“I hope it works,” Amir says, pursing his lips. “I really do.”
“Me too.” Sam makes an effort to smile. “Speaking of glasses, what do you know about antique specs?”
“Some. What do you want to know?”
“I came across a peculiar pair—rose-colored lenses, zinc wire with a copper disk at the end of each temple, and the letters J.M. engraved on them.”
Amir’s face lights up. “May I see them?” he asks.
“I don’t have them anymore.”
“Oh, Sam. Don’t tell me you sold them.”
“No.” Sam doesn’t want to reveal too much. “Why? Are they valuable?”
Amir buries his head in his hands. “Yes, very.” He reaches beneath the table, produces a tablet, and says, “Sumi, search the Hague patent database for the term ‘galvanic spectacles.’ Limit results to entries that match the following criteria: Inventor’s first name begins with the letter ‘J.’ Also, inventor’s surname begins with the letter ‘M.’”
Sumi replies, “One result found.”
An illustration of a pair of glasses appears on the flex-screen, bearing the legend “U.S. Patent No. 78534, June 2, 1868, Judah Moses, Hartford CT.”
Sam leans over and turns the screen so he can read it more easily.
“My invention consists in the combination, with the temples or front of a pair of spectacles, of an electrogalvanic battery or batteries arranged in such relation that an electrical current may be produced, whereby a person is enabled to apply electricity to the nerves of the head and obtain the therapeutic effects thereof.”
So Jacob was right. “I can’t imagine they were very effective,” Sam observes.
Amir shrugs. “For people who believed in them, they probably worked better than being bled.”
“I owe you one. Would you forward the file to me?”
“Of course. You should talk to Kenneth Wren. He’s a dealer, high-end, got a shop on Pacific. If he didn’t sell them, he’ll know who did.”
Sam manages a slight grin and clasps Amir on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
“May I ask where you found such glasses?”
“On a dead man. And I lost them on another.”
Without further explanation, Sam waves and makes his way back through the crowd.
Standing on Twenty-Sixth Street, a block west of Potrero Avenue, Sam rings the bell at The Sambar Hospice. Peppered with the husks of insects, the light above the door hisses—a dirge for the flies that died within.
After turning several bolts, Maria Sambar admits Sam and opens her arms for an obligatory but kind-hearted hug. She stands at the level of Sam’s shoulder, dressed in a skirt and a sleeveless blouse. She wears her dark hair long to hide a disfiguring scar from an acid splash. Her Rubenesque figure suggests that she ignores the diet recommended by her health-insurance company.
Sam wonders how she manages to remain so cheerful with such hopeless patients, but he never dares ask, for fear his pessimism might be catching. Maria’s relentless warmth sustains him more than he likes to admit.
“Any change?” Sam removes his leather jacket.
Yawning, Maria shakes her head. “But…”
Sam’s eyes widen. “You heard from the rep?”
“Hannah pinged me last night. You must have friends in high places because Fiona’s been accepted in the trial. A transport team from Zvista will be by this afternoon.”
Sam punches the air and smiles ear to ear. “Fantastic!”
“I hope it works,” says Maria. “Give her the good news.”
Sam walks across the worn floorboards of the foyer and passes through the door to his right. In the living room, they’re barely alive. Six salvaged hospital beds stand on steel haunches, each at varying degrees of inclination. The still children occupying them seem to be held together by the variety of colorful fabric patches that transmit diagnostic data to display panels at the foot of each bed. Instead of the intravenous lines and clunky machinery found in budget-strapped trauma centers, smart pills, skin pins, and programmable shunts manage the delivery of fluids and medication.
He approaches Fiona and takes a seat by her bed. “Hi honey,” he says, leaning forward to brush away the wisps of hair that hang over her closed eyes. He takes her hand in his. “Hannah has managed to get you into a trial for a drug called Lucidan. It’s supposed to bring you out of your coma eventually. Some technicians will come by later today to transport you to the research center.” He pauses, offering her a chance to respond, then continues. “I won’t be here when they come for you, but I’ll stop by after you get settled in. Let’s keep our fingers crossed, okay?” Gently, he slides her middle finger over her index finger, then lays her hand down.
For half an hour, he talks to his five-year-old daughter—and perhaps she listens. He tells her about his day, without mentioning what happened to Jacob. He describes the sights and sounds and smells as best he can, hoping some detail might nudge her back toward consciousness. That’s how Lucidan is supposed to work—by firing sensory neurons, it stimulates the brain. The effect is said to be like a particularly vivid dream, but with a greater physiological response.
He lingers a few minutes longer, saying nothing, remembering too much about the wreck that took his wife, his daughter’s mind, and his faith that everything turns out all right in the end. Then he leaves, abruptly, still seeing shattered safety glass sparkling in the headlights. Really, it’s light splintered by tears.
CHAPTER Three
Kenneth Wren’s Unusual Antiques opens at 10:00 a.m. It’s only 8:15. Sam scolds himself for failing to check the store’s hours before driving across town. Standing among the quaint brick shops on Jackson Street, he glances about, tryi
ng to figure out how he’ll kill the next two hours. Traffic is unusually heavy. In the thin fog above, a relay blimp bristling with antennas floats just above the Transamerica Pyramid.
There’s a gentle beep from the tiny speaker on the collar of Sam’s jacket. His two hours of silence are up. “Sam?” Marilyn’s voice squeaks. “Are you okay? You haven’t moved for two minutes.”
Mesmerized, Sam keeps staring at the prickly blimp. A bus passes, ghostly in its electric silence.
“Sam? Please answer me.”
A few years ago, a Sino-German consortium announced the construction of several hundred lufts—lofts suspended by mammoth Levitas airships—above the coast of Queensland, Australia. But what began as a compromise between anti-immigrant Aussies and politicians courting the island continent’s powerful Asian voting block quickly took off, both figuratively and literally. Far from being punitive, luft living afforded seclusion and security unavailable to harried pavement dwellers. And the views were to die for. The few refugees from occupied Taiwan who resettled in the initial luft cluster packed up and sold out when the offers became too good to pass up. After that, the developers went global.
Sam struggles every time he sees the network interstitials depicting an exclusive luft community moored to the cinderblock reef off the Florida Keys. He imagines that life in the air will be somehow less laden with mundane concerns.
“Sam, you haven’t eaten in twelve hours. The Old Fog Diner is located just half a mile north of your location. The diner is offering a 15 percent discount for network referral walk-ins. Would you like to hear some customer recommendations?”
Sam glowers. “No, Marilyn, I really wouldn’t.”
“Maybe your appetite would improve if you went to the gym.”
“What’s my grid debt?”
“You owe 0.7412 kilowatt hours.”
“So where’s the nearest Station?”
The Power Station on Broadway and Columbus is busy for a Tuesday morning. Sam inquires about the crowd while buying some disposable sweats at the front desk.
The attendant, a wiry brunette with the physique of a mannequin, scowls from behind her bulletproof-plastic window. “Apart from a few stock-market jocks, they’re mostly addicts trying to meet their community service and baseline health contracts,” she answers. “A Probation Nation drive-thru just opened on Clay Street.”
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