Roni read through corporate financial reports and quarterly analytical guidance, but could not cobble together a big picture in his mind. Neurozonics was part of a mesh of related companies in a variety of unrelated fields, with majority shareholdings and minority interests in hundreds of subsidiary entities. The mandatory filings were so abstruse and technical that a person could read them ten times and never get the gist. And then there was the problem of assets held in probate by cybersouls in limbo—technically dead until rules of procedure were enacted in parliament to grant civil status to eternals, if and when the complicated legislation ground through administrative committee meetings. Neurozonics was a grinning spider on a translucent web of intrigue.
Roni tracked down the details byte by byte, piecing together a complicated puzzle in his mind as the sun pushed morning through his bedroom window. He didn’t need sleep, he needed answers, and by the time his alarm sounded he had a sketch of a plan.
“I’ve got it,” he told Gladyz as he stumbled into the newsroom with a steaming cup of coffee cradled in trembling palms.
“Roni, you look like shit. Have you been up all night again?” Gladyz rose from her seat to get a better look at him. “You’re a mess.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, “but I’ve got a hot lead.”
Gladyz took him by the arm. “Come with me. We’ll see if Derryn can salvage something.”
“The omnidroids were all manufactured by the same company, Neurozonics Inc.”
“Great, Roni, that’s good. Derryn, we need help.”
Roni shrugged off her guiding hand, but settled into a recliner chair by force of habit. “Neurozonics goes back to the founding fathers, back to the first days of the Doorway. They have financial fingers in all the major pies, political influence, a vast army of cybersouls colluding in eternal storage. They have everything to gain and nothing to lose. I smell conspiracy.”
“Oh, starry heavens,” Derryn said as he scrutinized Roni’s eyes up close. “Are you packing for vacation?”
“Can you save him, Doctor?”
Derryn clucked his tongue and tipped his head from side to side as he inspected the damage. “I need an hour and some ice.”
“Done.”
Roni blinked past Derryn’s shoulder to get his editor’s attention. “Will you listen to me?”
Gladyz smiled. “We’re already on it, honey buns. Transolar cops have found Randy Ying operating under an assumed name on Babylon. He claims to be working as a consultant for Neurozonics.”
“They paid him to abandon his ship?”
“He’s clammed up about everything. His trading company had more liability than equity, so it’s gone into bankruptcy. The ship is up for public auction.”
“We need to challenge Neurozonics on this. The public deserves an explanation.”
“Leave it to me. You two get cozy while I hunt down the bad guys.”
Derryn resumed his clinical inspection and began selecting concoctions, arranging them in rows like soldiers preparing for battle. Roni sighed and forced himself to relax. At least he was at work and making progress against whatever invisible empire was out there. A feeling of futility was trying to drag him down, a sense of helplessness against a hidden colossus. Why would Neurozonics create biogen children to challenge their own vaulted position in society? Why risk the future of humanity by tinkering with dna to produce a telepathic species? Financial success in the investment arena? Prestige? Power? What possible outcome would justify such an outrageous gamble with the forces of evolution?
Derryn started work on his face by scrubbing with soap and water and massaging his temples and forehead with hot ointments. Then he covered Roni’s eyes with an ice pack, forcing him into darkness and back to his online research. What about the two omnidroid children who perished in the helicopter accident? Was there anything to set them apart, any reason why they might be culled from the herd? Roni surfed through data on the V-net while Derryn worked on his neck and shoulders. Ruis Limkin and Elana Mant were both registered biogens with elite status in society. They had astounding records in all measurements of gifted intelligence, genius levels approaching omniscience—nothing unusual. But they were dead, and all the other omnidroids had survived horrible carnage in which several humans had been injured, collateral damage in a mysterious war for the future.
An hour later Roni was ready for action, fuelled with caffeine and powered by protein, his showbiz blood pumping with sure promise. His face felt like a rubber mask, but Derryn seemed satisfied, which was generally regarded as high praise on the set.
Gladyz came back precisely on schedule. “Neurozonics won’t talk to us, and they seem defensive. I think you’re on to something.”
Roni’s grin almost cracked his makeup. “I knew it.”
“We’re going to shoot some studio footage on the omnidroids to mix with stock vidi, then go live back at the hospital with Zen. We’ll pick it up where we left off.” She held up cautionary palms. “We’ll go easy at first and see what shakes out. We’re already riding high, so this will be denouement, just a pleasant, lingering afterglow, got it?”
“I love lingering afterglow,” Derryn interjected with a wink. “Need any help?”
“Sure, come along.” Gladyz thrust a shoulder forward. “Pack up a kit. You worked wonders yesterday on Simara.” She turned to scrutinize Roni for a moment. “And great job on the little masterpiece.”
Derryn nodded. “He does look pretty good …” He winked again. “… for an older boy.”
“Yeah, don’t forget who’s paying the bills around here,” Roni said as he tugged the apron from around his neck. He strode into the studio like a peacock on parade, but the camera crew muttered bland greetings with little recognition for his triumph the previous day. The team was already hard at work sculpting a new episode. They shot some talking-head clips at close range to summarize Roni’s research, and put them in the script for later, then quit early for lunch to start preparations for the big event live at the hospital during primetime.
By now the story was taking shape, and a few questions were looming at the surface. Why were the omnidroid children always whispering in Simara’s ear? Could she hear them? How closely could they be connected to a woman in a coma? Documented evidence showed that some patients could indeed hear noises from a subconscious state, but there was nothing to indicate active memories could be formed by a hibernating brain, even in an augmented omnidroid. Roni had no scientific territory to put his foot on, but he wondered if Simara somehow might be aware of the media storm circling around her.
Zen was still sleeping when Roni returned to his apartment. The Bali boy had lost any vestige of a circadian rhythm and did not respond to the daylight streaming in the window. He seemed to be slipping toward his natural state as a night dweller on a planet too close to the sun, where people slept in caves and came out to play in the dark when the rads were low. On top of that, Zen was suffering from stress and a near-death experience, not to mention a switch to the twenty-four-hour Cromean cycle. He seemed to wake and sleep at random several times a day and never rose from bed with a smile. Roni poked him from a safe distance with a broom handle. “Wake up, Zen. It’s time to visit Simara.”
Zen groaned and peered out from under a tangled mop of auburn curls. He seemed fearful at first, tense and ready to pounce like a trapped animal, but his face softened with recognition. “Okay.”
They shared pastries and fresh fruit, Zen’s delicacies of choice, and Roni set some ideas in motion as they journeyed by tram to the hospital. He needed an authentic response on camera, so he never scripted his clients, but he planted seeds and watered them as best he could. It sounded a bit outlandish to voice his theory out loud: a nefarious corporation manufacturing a regiment of telepathic omnidroids to take over the world. What sober and cynical V-net viewer would swallow that tasty morsel along with her afternoon tea?
The street outside the hospital was crammed with pedestrians, and trolley traffic
was at a standstill. A small squadron of protesters chanted “Shame on Transolar!” to the dissonant accompaniment of honking horns and shouts of impatience from frustrated commuters. A ramshackle memorial had been erected on the sidewalk with oversized pictures of Simara and Zen, and well-wishers had piled a huge mound of wilting flowers at the foot of the structure in homage, but Gladyz breezed by in disdain with her crew in search of bigger game and a brighter byline.
Inside the hospital, the foyer was jam-packed with visitors, the noise tumultuous and the air heavy with fragrance and clouds of pollen. Hundreds of people were lined up at the elevators for a chance to touch the omnidroid martyr and lay bouquets of honour at her door. Security guards had cordoned off hallways with caution tape like yellow tinsel in an effort to keep essential services running, but crowds jostled shoulder to shoulder along the perimeter in search of an easier route downstairs. Gladyz blinked in disbelief and turned to Roni with wide eyes. Her expression said it all: the Daily Buzz had created a monster!
But she meant it in the nicest way, of course.
Gladyz barged her way to the security office and tried to present press credentials to harried staff, but the jig was up and the guards were grim. The hospital was in lockdown mode under strict protocol. Zen was the only person allowed access to Simara, but Gladyz was not giving him up. There was no way the roadies could get a camera crew in past this horde, no way they could set up shop with Ngazi to shoot today’s show in Simara’s room. The clock was ticking and the primetime slot fast approaching as Gladyz returned to the outer vestibule ranting and cursing to no avail with her fists clenched in her bouncy brown hair. Derryn dropped his cosmetics case and perched on it daintily. He folded bony arms over his chest and tipped a slender shin across his knee as the roadies struggled to keep from bashing innocent bystanders with their lampstands and booms. Ngazi stood like a wooden statue staring off in the distance and humming with irritation.
“Let’s shoot it right here,” Roni said. “Grainy and gritty right on the street. Look at these placards.” He waved an arm at a forest of hand-painted signs: We Love You!, WAKE UP!, Shame on Transolar!, Omnidroids Are People!, and a heart with the names Simara + Zen printed inside it.
Gladyz put a finger to her chin as she surveyed the scene with an editorial eye. “I have never seen so many exclamation marks in one place.”
Roni spread his hands to the crew as though presenting indisputable evidence. “This is news, people. Let’s bag it.”
“Damn,” Gladyz said, but her face brightened with determination. “Drop the booms and lamps here with Derryn. Give me two cams on shoulder mount. We’ll have to work in close quarters, but try to keep some space around Ngazi so he doesn’t freak out. Get a hand mike for Roni. Where’s the sun?” She spun in a quick circle like a windup toy and pointed. “Gritty it is. Over there by the gift shop with north light on their faces. Zen and Roni centre stage. Let’s go. What are you waiting for? Go! Go!”
The crew scrambled to work with a few professional expletives in the line of duty, and no bystanders were seriously injured as they claimed a small circle amidst the crowd and propped Ngazi in position like a lighthouse beacon in a milling sea.
“Okay?” Gladyz yelled into mayhem. “Thirty seconds, okay? Just throw the script out, Roni. It’s a disaster movie now, got it?” She pumped her fist in the air for attention while the cameramen braced themselves inside a protective huddle of roadies. “Five,” Gladyz yelled as she began the countdown with her fingers—three, two, one, she pointed to Roni with fierceness in her eyes.
“Welcome to the Daily Buzz and thanks for tuning in again to this incredible story! This is Roni Hendrik reporting live from New Jerusalem West with Zen Valda from Bali. We are in a pickle today as you can plainly see. Thousands of well-wishers and protesters have assembled peacefully at the hospital where Simara Ying still ekes out a fragile existence in deep coma. Most are here just to catch a glimpse of the amazing girl who fell from the stars. Others are angry at the court system that put her in jeopardy and the cold-hearted corporation that left her to die in the void of space. I hope you can hear me okay with all this noise. Have you ever seen anything like this, Zen?”
“No.” The boy’s eyes were panicky, his face fretful, but Roni had to force something out of the kid to keep him in the game.
“Are you angry at Transolar for what they did to your wife?”
“Yes.” One-word answers pressed through grim lips—too many people for a wilderness recluse! Ngazi began murmuring, “hunh, hunh,” in the background as his emotional bandwidth went into overload.
Roni turned to the camera for support. “A million Transolar creds can buy a lot of goodwill for the omnidroids, but the stain of guilt gets right into your skin, doesn’t it?” He wiggled the fingers of his free hand for emphasis. “The Daily Buzz has uncovered new information about this nefarious case. Following closely on the genetic pattern of the mysterious elder, Simara Ying, all twenty-four omnidroid children were brought to life right here on Cromeus in the research labs of Neurozonics Incorporated. Bioengineered from human DNA and augmented for specialized communication and high intelligence, these innocent children were manufactured as modern slaves to serve corporate masters right here in New Jerusalem!” Roni paused for dramatic effect and swallowed saliva to soothe his dry throat. He turned again to Zen. “Did Simara say anything about her childhood trapped in a sterile laboratory?”
Zen frowned. “Not really. She had an unhappy youth.”
“No doubt, robbed of human contact and compassion. Who knows what rigorous tests were performed on these biogen babies during early experiments? They are said to have been programmed for precognition, to be able to communicate across vast distance. Have you seen any evidence of special telepathic powers?”
The crowd surged around them as the news team became a focus of attention. People with placards were trying to get their slogans visible in the background behind Zen, and roadies were holding them back with arms spread wide. Ngazi was sweating bullets and flapping his arms in an autistic episode while he turned in a circle moaning, “hunh, hunh.” Roni glanced around as a bouquet hit him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, folks. We’re on the front lines of news today, keeping it real in search of tomorrow.” Gladyz rolled a finger in the air to signal an upcoming transition back to the prepared footage in the studio. There was only so much you could do with street theatre. “Back to Zen Valda now, have you seen any evidence of exotic communication among the omnidroids?”
Zen nodded, a picture of sincerity, a man you could trust. “Yes, they hear messages from a collective voice they call the mothership, a hive-mind like a guardian angel.”
“Really, and can they communicate with Simara even in her coma?”
“Yes, Simara’s just sleeping.” He turned to the camera audience with unfeigned faith. “She’s okay. Mothership is looking after her.”
“There you have it, folks, and we can only conjecture at this point who controls the so-called mothership. Or what influence Neurozonics maintains from afar to manipulate their omnidroid slaves, and to what ultimate, nefarious purpose. These are some of the secrets we’ve already uncovered on the Daily Buzz …”
“Okay, we’re offline,” Gladyz shouted with a hand covering her ear as she continued to monitor the studio feed on her eyescreen. “Get me a head shot of Roni to keep for the closer. Both cameras, ready?” She held her arm high in the air as a trio of men bumped her away from view and a woman lurched out of the melee to clasp Zen tight around the waist. “Five …”
Roni counted down in his mind as Gladyz struggled to push back into position. “Sorry again about all the consternation today. News happens, and we’re on it six days a week. Tomorrow is Heritage in honour of all religions past and present, so we’ll be spending our weekly day of rest along with family and friends like you. Let’s take some time to calm down for a day, and please refrain from visiting the hospital. Thanks to everyone who joined in the flash mob today. Y
our voice has been heard, and a cry of challenge has been launched against Transolar and Neurozonics. This is Roni Hendrik reporting live and kicking at New Jerusalem West Hospital where crowds continue to worship the omnidroid martyr, Simara Ying. Stay tuned to this story, and we’ll see you again on Firstday … bringing the future to life … on the Daily Buzz.”
Gladyz poked up on her toes above the crowd and slashed across her throat. “And cut! Send that back to my studio folder and clean up this goddamn mess! Someone rescue Ngazi before he shits himself!” She stalked away with her hand shielding her eyescreen from the sunlight, trying to keep some semblance of control over the show.
Zen panted and pushed against the crowd as women pawed at his now famous leopard-skin tunic. He had become a celebrity overnight, a mythical figure launched from a fairytale, larger than life and cute as a button. His face was crimson with outrage at this orgy of flesh.
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