by Rich Horton
"High.” The suit kept his eyes on the Runner's light-scribed profile.
Aman nodded. Jimi was getting tense. He didn't even have to look at him, the kid was radiating. Aman touched the icon bubbles, opening the various files, hoping Jimi would keep his mouth shut. Frowning, because you never wanted the client to think it was going to be easy, he scanned the rough summary of the Runner's buying habits. Bingo. He put his credit where his politics were. Not a problem, this one. He was going to stand up and wave to get their attention. “Four days,” he said. Start high and bargain. “Plus or minus ten percent."
"Twenty-four hours.” The suit's lips barely moved.
Interesting. Why this urgency? Aman shook his head. No kinky sex habits, no drugs, so they'd have to depend on clothes and food. Legal-trade data files took longer. “Three point five,” he finally said. “With a failure-exemption clause."
They settled on forty-eight hours with no failure-exemption. “Ten percent bonus if you get him in less.” The suit stood. For a moment he looked carefully and thoroughly at Jimi. Storing his image in the bioware overlay his kind had been enhanced with? If he ran into Jimi on the street a hundred years from now he'd remember him. Jimi had damn well better hope it didn't matter.
"They really want this guy.” Jimi waited for the green light to come on over the door, telling them that the suit hadn't left anything behind that might listen. “The Runner's wearing Gaist sign."
No kidding. Aman knew that scrawl by heart.
"What did he do?"
"How the hell should I know?” Aman touched one of the file icons, closing his eyes as his own bioware downloaded and displayed on his retina. That had been the final argument with Avi.
"Oh, so we just do what we're told, I get it.” Jimi leaned back, propped a boot up on the corner of the desktop. “Say yessir, no questions asked, huh? Who cares about the reason, as long as there's money?"
"He's government.” Aman blinked the display away, ignored Jimi's boot. Why in the name of everyone's gods had Raul hired this wet-from-birth child? Well, he knew why. Aman eyed the kid's slender, androgynous build. His boss had a thing for the African/Hispanic phenotype. Once, he'd kept it out of the business. Aman suppressed a sigh, wondering if the kid had figured it out yet. Why Raul had hired him. “How much of the data-dredging that you do is legal?” He watched Jimi think about that. “You think we're that good, huh? That nobody ever busts us? There is always a price, kid, especially for success."
Jimi took his foot off the desktop. “The whole crackdown on the Gaiists is just crap. Bread and circus move because the North American Alliance..."
Aman held up a hand. “Good thing you don't write it on your head in light,” he said mildly. “Just don't talk politics with Raul."
Jimi flushed. “So how come you let him back you down from four days? An Xuyen is already backed up with the Ferrogers search."
"We won't need Xuyen.” Aman nodded at the icons. “Our Runner is organic. Vegan. Artisan craft only, in clothes and personal items. You could find him all by yourself in about four hours."
"But if he's buying farm raised and hand made?” Jimi frowned. “No Universal tags on those."
Aman promised himself a talk with Raul, but it probably wouldn't change anything. Not until he got tired of this one, anyway. “Get real.” He got up and crossed to the small nondescript desktop at the back of the office, camouflaged by an expensive Japanese shoji screen. This was the real workspace. Everything else was stage-prop, meant to impress clients. “You sell stuff without a U tag and you suddenly find you can't get a license, or your E coli count is too high for an organic permit, or your handspinning operation might possibly be a front for drug smugglers.” He laughed. “Everything has a U tag in it.” Which wasn't quite true, but knowledge was power. Jimi didn't have any claim on power yet. Not for free.
"Okay.” Jimi shrugged. “I'll see if I can beat your four hours. Start with sex?"
"He's not a buyer. I'll do it."
"How come?” Jimi bristled. “Isn't it too easy for you? If even I can do it?"
Aman hesitated, because he wasn't really sure himself. “I just am.” He sat down at his workdesk as Jimi stomped out. Brought up his secure field and transferred the files to it. The Runner got his sex for free or not at all, so no point in searching that. Food was next on the immediacy list. Aman opened his personal searchware and fed the Runner's ID chipprint into it. He wasn't wearing his ID chip any more, or the suit wouldn't have showed up here. Nobody had figured out yet now to make a birth-implanted ID chip really permanent. Although they kept trying. Aman's AI stretched its thousand thousand fingers into the datasphere and started hitting all the retail data pools. Illegal, of course, and retail purchase data was money in the bank so it was well protected, but if you were willing to pay, you could buy from the people who were better than the people who created the protection. Search Engine, Inc. was willing to pay.
Sure enough, forsale.data had the kid's profile. They were the biggest. Most of the retailers fed directly to them. Aman pulled the Runner's raw consumables data. Forsale profiled, but his AI synthesized a profile to fit the specific operation. Aman waited the thirty seconds while his AI digested the raw dates, amounts, prices of every consumable item the Runner had purchased from the first credit he spent at a store to the day he paid to have a back-alley cutter remove his ID chip. Every orange, every stick of gum, every bottle of beer carried an RNA signature and every purchase went into the file that had opened the day the Runner was born and the personal ID chip implanted.
The AI finished. The Runner was his son's age. Mid-twenties. He looked younger. Testament to the powers of his vegetarian and organic diet? Aman smiled sourly. Avi would appreciate that. That had been an early fight and a continuing excuse when his son needed one. Aman scanned the grocery profile. It had amazed him, when he first got into this field, how much food reflected each person's life and philosophy. As a child, the Runner had eaten a ‘typical’ North American diet with a short list of personal specifics that Aman skipped. He had become a Gaiist at nineteen. The break was clear in the profile, with the sudden and dramatic shift of purchases from animal proteins to fish and then vegetable proteins only. Alcohol purchases flatlined, although marijuana products tripled as did wild-harvest hallucinogenic mushrooms. As he expected, the illegal drug purchase history revealed little. The random nature of his purchases suggested that he bought the drugs for someone else or a party event rather than for regular personal consumption. No long-term addictive pattern.
A brief, steady purchase rate of an illegal psychotropic, coupled with an increase in food purchase volume suggested a lover or live-in friend with an addiction problem, however. The sudden drop-off suggested a break up. Or a death. The food purchases declined in parallel. On a whim, because he had time to spare, Aman had his AI correlate the drop off of the drug purchases to the newsmedia database for Northwestern North America, the region where the drug purchases were made. Bingo. A twenty year old woman had died within eighteen hours of the last drug purchase. His lover? Dead from an overdose? Aman's eyes narrowed. The cause of death was listed as heart failure, but his AI had flagged it.
"Continue.” He waited out the seconds of his AI's contemplation.
Insufficient data, it murmured in its androgynous voice. Continue? Aman hesitated because searches like this cost money, and the connection was weak, if there at all. “Continue.” No real reason, but he had learned long ago to follow his hunches.
* * * *
He was the last one out of the office, as usual. The receptionist said good night to him as he crossed the plush reception area, her smile as fresh as it had been just after dawn this morning. As the door locked behind him, she turned off. Real furniture and rugs meant a money and position. Real people meant security risks. The night watchman—another holographic metaphor—wished him good night as he crossed the small lobby. Koi swam in the holographic pond surrounded by blooming orchids. Huge vases of flowers—lilies
today—graced small tables against the wall. The display company had even included scent with the holos. The fragrance of lilies followed Aman out onto the street. He took a pedal taxi home, grateful that for once, the small wiry woman on the seat wasn't interested in conversation as she leaned on the handlebars and pumped them through the evening crush in the streets.
He couldn't get the suit out of his head tonight. Jimi was right. The Gaiists were harmless, back to the land types. The feds wanted this kid for something other than his politics, although that might be the media reason. Absently, Aman watched the woman's muscular back as she pumped them past street vendors hawking food, toys, and legal drugs, awash in a river of strolling, eating, buying people. He didn't ask ‘why’ much any more. Sweat slicked the driver's tawny skin like oil. Maybe it was because the Runner was the same age as Avi and a Gaiist as well. Aman reached over to tap the bell and before the silvery chime had died, the driver had swerved to the curb. She flashed him a grin at the tip as he thumbprinted her reader, then she sped off into the flow of taxis and scooters that clogged the street.
Aman ducked into the little grocery on his block, enjoying the relief of its nearly empty aisles this time of night. He grabbed a plastic basket from the stack by the door and started down the aisles. You opened the last orange juice today. The store's major-domo spoke to him in a soft, maternal voice as he strode past the freezer cases. True. The store's major-domo had scanned his ID chip as he entered, then uplinked to smartshopper.net, the inventory control company he subscribed to. It had searched his personal inventory file to see if he needed orange juice and the major-domo had reminded him. He tossed a pouch of frozen juice into his basket. The price displayed on the basket handle, a running total that grew slowly as he added a couple of frozen dinners and a packaged salad. The Willamette Vineyard's Pinot Gris is on sale this week. The major-domo here at the wine aisle used a rich, male voice. Three dollars off. That was his favorite white. He bought a bottle, and made his way to the checkout gate to thumbprint the total waiting for him on the screen.
"Don't we make it easy?"
Aman looked to up find Jimi lounging at the end of the checkout kiosks.
"You following me?” Aman loaded his groceries into a plastic bag. “Or is this a genuine coincidence?'
'I live about a block from your apartment.” Jimi shrugged. ‘I always shop here.” He hefted his own plastic bag. “Buy you a drink?"
"Sure,’ Aman said, to atone for not bothering to know where the newbie lived. They sat down at one of the sidewalk tables next to the grocery, an island of stillness in the flowing river of humanity.
"The usual?” the table asked politely. They both said yes, and Aman wondered what Jimi's usual was. And realized Jimi was already drunk. His eyes glittered and a thin film of sweat gleamed on his face.
Not usual behavior. He'd looked over the intoxicant profiles himself when they were considering applicants. Aman sat back as a petite woman set a glass of stout in front of him and a mango margarita in front of Jimi. Aman sipped creamy foam and bitter beer, watched Jimi down a third of his drink in one long swallow. “What's troubling you?"
"You profile all the time?” Jimi set the glass down a little too hard. Orange slurry sloshed over the side, crystals of salt sliding down the curved bowl of the oversized glass. “Does it ever get to you?"
"Does what get to me?"
"That suit owned you.” Jimi stared at him. “That's what you told me."
"They just think they do.” Aman kept his expression neutral as he sipped more beer. “Think of it as a trade."
"They're gonna crucify that guy, right? Or whack him. No fuss, no muss."
"The government doesn't assassinate people,” Aman said mildly.
"Like hell. Not in public, that's for sure."
Well, the indication had been there in Jimi's profile. He had been reading in the fringe ezines for a long time, and had belonged to a couple of political action groups that were on the ‘yellow’ list from the government ... not quite in the red zone but close. But the best profilers came from the fringe. You learned early to evaluate people well, when you had to worry about betrayal.
"I guess I just thought I was working for the good guys, you know? Some asshole crook, a bad dealer, maybe the jerks who dump their kids on the public. But this...” He emptied his glass. “Another.” He banged the glass down on the table.
You have exceeded the legal limit for operating machinery, the table informed him in a sweet, motherly voice. I will call you a cab, if you wish. Just let me know. A moment later, the server set his fresh margarita down in front of him and whisked away his empty.
"Privacy, what a joke.” Jimi stared at his drink, words slurring just a bit. “I bet there's a record of my dumps in some data-base or other."
"Maybe how many times you flush."
"Ha ha.” Jimi looked at him blearily, the booze hitting him hard and fast now. “When d'you stop asking why? Huh? Or did you ever ask?"
"Come on.” Aman stood up. “I'll walk you home. You're going to fall down."
"I'm not that drunk,” Jimi said, but he stood up. Aman caught him as he swayed. “Guess I am.” Jimi laughed loudly enough to make heads turn. “Guess I should get used to it, huh? Like you."
"Let's go.” Aman moved him, not all that gently. “Tell me where we're going."
"We?"
"Just give me your damn address."
Jimi recited the number, sulky and childlike again, stumbling and lurching in spite of Aman's steadying arm. It was one of the cheap and trendy loft towers that had sprouted as the neighborhood got popular. Jimi was only on the sixth floor, not high enough for a pricey view. Not on his salary. The door unlocked and lights glowed as the unit scanned Jimi's chip and let them in. Music came on, a retro-punk nostalgia band that Aman recognized. A cat padded over and eyed them greenly, its golden fur just a bit ratty. It was real, Aman realized with a start. Jimi had paid a hefty fee to keep a flesh and blood animal in the unit.
"I got to throw up,” Jimi mumbled, his eyes wide. They made it to the tiny bathroom ... barely. Afterward, Aman put him to bed on the pull out couch that served as bed in the single loft room. Jimi passed out as soon as he hit the pillow. Aman left a waste basket beside the couch and a big glass of water with a couple of old fashioned aspirin on the low table beside it. The cat stalked him, glaring accusingly, so he rummaged in the cupboards of the tiny kitchenette, found cat food pouches and emptied one onto a plate. Set it on the floor. The cat stalked over, its tail in the air.
It would be in the database ... that Jimi owned a cat. And tonight's bender would be added to his intoxicant profile, the purchase of the margarita's tallied neatly, flagged because this wasn't usual behavior. If his productivity started to fall off, Raul would look at that profile first. He'd find tonight's drunk.
"Hey."
Aman paused at the door, looked back. Jimi had pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes blurry with booze.
"Thanks ... f'r feeding him. I'm not ... a drunk. But you know that, right?"
"Yeah,” Aman said. “I know that."
"I knew him. Today. Daren. We were friends. Kids together, y'know? Were you ever a kid? Suit's gonna kill him. You c'd tell.” Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “How come? You didn't even ask. You didn't even ask me if I knew him."
Damn. He'd never even thought of looking for a connection there. “I'm sorry, Jimi,” Aman said gently. But Jimi had passed out again, head hanging over the edge of the sofa. Aman sighed and retraced his steps, settling the kid on the cushions again. Bad break for the kid. He stared down at Jimi's unconscious sprawl on the couch-bed. Why? Didn't matter. The suit wouldn't have told them the truth. But Jimi was right. He should have asked. He thought about today's profile of the Runner, that break where he had changed what he ate, what he wore, what he spent his money on. You could see the break. What motivated it ... that you could only guess at.
What would Avi's profile look like?
No way to know. Avi's break had been a back-cutter.
Aman closed the door and listened to the unit lock it behind him.
He carried his groceries the few scant blocks to his own modest condo tower. No music came on with the lights. No cat, just Danish furniture and an antique Afghani carpet knotted by the childhood fingers of women who were long dead now. He put the food away, stuck a meal in the microwave, and thought about pouring himself another beer. But the stout he'd drunk with Jimi buzzed in his blood like street-grade amphetamine. He smiled crookedly, thinking of his grandfather, a devout man of Islam, and his lectures about the demon’ blood, alcohol. It felt like demon's blood tonight. The microwave chimed. Aman set the steaming tray on the counter to cool, sat down crosslegged on the faded wool patterns of crimson and blue, and blinked his bioware open.
His AI had been working on the profile. It presented him with five options. Aman settled down to review the Runner's profile first. It wasn't all a matter of data. You could buy a search AI, and if that was all there was to it, Search Engine Inc wouldn't be in business. Intuition mattered—the ability to look beyond the numbers and sense the person behind them. Aman ran through the purchases, the candy bars, the vid downloads for the lonely times, the gifts that evoked the misty presence of the girlfriend, the hope of love expressed in single, cloned roses, in Belgian chocolate, and tickets in pairs. They came and went, three of them for sure. He worried about his weight, or maybe just his muscles for awhile, buying gym time and special foods.
Someone died. Aman noted the payments for flowers, the crematorium, a spike in alcohol purchases for about three months. And then ... the break. Curious, Aman opened another file from the download the suit had given him, read the stats. Daren had been a contract birth—the new way for men to have children. Mom had left for a career as an engineer on one of the orbital platforms. Nanny, private school. The flowers had been for Dad, dead at 54 from a brain aneurysm.