He waited in the lobby of the building, sitting in a circle of chairs and reading the newspaper on a reader. There was a small article about Revis in The Intelligencer, a short blurb that recounted the details of the prior article—save for a link to his obituary. Coe was about to click the link when he spied Janeiro—Susie Blanchard—stroll across the marble floor to the wall of mailboxes where she proceeded to go through the day’s offering of bills and junk mailers.
He watched her over the top of the reader, and when she had properly sorted her mail and deposited the junk in the waste basket, Coe stood and followed her. As she entered the elevator, Coe placed his hand inside the doors and stopped them from closing. She was slow to recognize him. It wasn’t until he’d said, “You’re a long way from the red planet, Janeiro,” did she react at all. She moved slightly away from him, hugged the wall.
“Have you ever even been there?”
“What do you want?” she asked. There was a detectable nervous lilt in her voice.
“I want to know what it’s about?” he said.
“Look,” she said. “I feel horrible I did that to you. Okay? It was just a job...an acting job. Work, you know? It was work. Who’s anyone to turn down work nowadays?”
“Who hired you? Quantum?”
“Where you work?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fucking crazy. Why would they—”
He grabbed her by the arm.
“Hey—”
“Who hired you?” He realized as he held her arm—touched her—that he would have given anything to do so when he thought she was millions of miles away. He relented his grip. “Who hired you?”
She rubbed her arm. “I never took you for a brute.”
The elevator opened. She stared at him.
“Are you going to allow me to leave?” she asked.
“Let’s go to your apt,” he said.
She walked slowly down the hallway, Coe walking a half-step behind. As they approached one unit, a door opened and an old woman exited. She smiled when she recognized Janeiro.
“Hello, Suzy-Q,” she said.
Janeiro managed a smile and said, “Hello, Mrs. Martin.”
The woman looked to Coe. He forced a smile. She then turned back to her door and locked it. Coe and Janeiro continued walking for several feet. Janeiro stopped suddenly. “Mrs. Martin!” she cried.
Coe tensed.
The old woman turned to them, suddenly alarmed.
“It’s raining out, Mrs. Martin,” she said. “Don’t forget your umbrella.”
The woman thanked her and made a spectacle of re-entering her apt. Coe and Janeiro continued to a door marked 710. She swiped her access card and the door opened.
“Ah, yes,” Coe said, upon entering. “Your Martian apt. Looks bigger on vid phone.”
“What is this?” she asked. “What are you planning to do to me?”
He walked around the living room. Paused to scan over a shelf of books, to run his hand over a marble bookend. It was cold to the touch. “Relax. I’m not interested in you.”
Her features softened. Coe detected what he thought could almost be mistaken for disappointment.
“What do you want?”
“I already told you,” he said, sitting down on a divan where he’d once watched her masturbate on vid phone. “I want to know who hired you.”
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. It was part of the contract.”
“You’ve been paid?”
She nodded. “They weren’t happy about the job ending, but sometimes shit just happens.”
“You fucked with my life,” he said. “I’ve gotten myself into a jam because of you.”
“I told you I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone’s feelings would get hurt. They told me it was just an acting job—a goof. It wasn’t supposed to get so serious, so intense.”
“You played your role well,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said and briefly smiled before she seemed to realize there was no praise in the compliment.
“So a company hired you. Did you audition?”
“No. They—they had used me before—”
“Quantum.”
“Why do you keep fucking saying that? I’ve never worked for them—”
“I saw you in a Quantum training video.”
“I did those for Green Wall—”
“Who’s Green Wall?” he asked.
“A production company—”
“They hired you to fuck with me.”
“They hired me to portray a character.”
“Why me?”
“They said you would be calling me on a certain day at a certain time on a dedicated line they had installed here—I’m not even supposed to be saying this much.”
He sat next to her, held her arms by her wrists. “They knew I would call you? They knew about the mistake—”
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
He let go of her arms. “There was no data entry mistake,” he said. “I thought I was the one playing Quantum...but they were playing me the whole time.”
“What does this have to do with them?
“Where do I find Green Wall?”
“You’re not going to contact them, are you?”
“I want to know why they chose me,” he said.
“Maybe it was just a joke,” she said, “an elaborate prank—”
He stood and looked down at her. It was like he had fallen in love with a character in a movie. “They gave you a bio on your character, too, didn’t they?”
She nodded. Her eyes glistened with tears.
“They created a character, a woman, they knew I wouldn’t—couldn’t—resist. Someone has done their homework on me...”
“I started to like you,” she said. “I honestly did. You’re sweet, Scotty. I started to—”
“Don’t say it,” he said.
“I had feelings for you, I did. It wasn’t all an act. I started to—”
“Your character did,” he said, moving toward the door. “Not you, Susie Blanchard; Janeiro did. You just got lost in your role.”
“Do you think you’re in danger?”
“One man’s already dead,” he said, turning the door knob.
“Am I in danger?” she asked.
He left her apt without answering.
He picked up on the tail as he left the condominium. Two hovercars. They stayed back off of him by maybe one hundred yards. There wasn’t much hover traffic; the cost of the machines—not to mention the fees, licensing, cost to maintain, and limited availability of hoverpads—made it still more of a rich man’s plaything. He decreased altitude and descended from the rooftops so that he was following just a few hundred feet above the street-level traffic, but still high enough to avoid light poles and power lines. His followers did the same. He called up Ms. Hunter on the dashboard vid phone. When her face appeared, he said, “Can you see how many other hovercars have been signed out of the company pool?”
While still online, she punched up transportation and checked the hovercar availability. “Just you,” she said.
“I’m being followed. Two hovercars have shadowed me from Blanchard’s building.”
“They’re not ours,” she said.
He turned onto a wide thoroughfare and increased his speed. His tails did the same.
“Are you in danger?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. If they’re the same group that shot up my apt, I definitely may be.”
“Be careful, Mr. Coe,” she said. “I love—”
He disconnected. He adjusted the focus on the rear cam, zoomed in on the pilot of the lead hovercar. It was no good. From the distance, the face was grainy. He was unable to determine even the gender of the driver. Below him, traffic was snarle
d; thousands of people marched on along the sidewalks, the streets—faceless, anonymous, and ultimately meaningless.
He buzzed an open-air farmer’s market, flying so close to the tent roofs he could see the canvas ripple in the wake. It created a minor incident when the people below panicked, shoving one another to get out of the way. His pursuers took a similar trajectory. Coe abruptly pulled up, quickly ascending to the rooftops of neighboring buildings. Again, the hovercars followed; they weren’t even trying to be discreet and that worried him.
A hovercar traffic monitor broke in on the open radio. “Two-Seven-Two-Two-Five. You are operating your craft in a highly erratic manner. Identify yourself.”
Coe ignored the transmission. He wondered if the monitor had dialed up his pursuers, as well.
“Two-Seven-Two-Two-Five. Identify yourself,” the monitor said, this time with a hint of mounting anger.
“I’m being followed,” he said.
“Followed?”
“Chased.”
The monitor fell silent while processing the information. After a moment, he said, “Can you identify your pursuers?”
“Surely, you have them on your radar, they’re right behind me.”
“Negative, Two-Seven-Two-Two-Five. We show only your craft registered to The Quantum Corporation—”
Coe checked his rear cam. There they both were darting and weaving on his screen. “They’re right behind me. I’m looking at them!”
“Negative, Two-Seven-Two-Two-Five. We show only your craft registered to The Quantum Corporation,” the monitor said. “Have you been drinking?”
Coe did not respond. He slowed and turned quickly down an alley. One pursuer followed; the second continued straight.
“Two-Seven-Two-Two-Five...do you read? You leave us no choice. A patrol craft has been dispatched. Park your vehicle at the next available hoverpad and wait for assistance—”
Coe flew through the alleyway, not stopping for intersections. In his rear view, the other hovercar looked identical to his own.
In the distance, a siren sounded. Soon, a police hovercar appeared over the rooftops of a series of tenements, its lights flashing blue, red, and white. It dropped down in line behind the pursuing hovercar and joined in the chase.
A new voice broke into the hover traffic station. “Pull over,” the officer said. “Set her down atop of the hoverpad at the hospital up a head.”
“Do you see the hovercar following me?” Coe asked.
“Affirmative,” the officer said. “Identify.”
Just then, the second pursuer reappeared, heading straight for Coe.
“Pull up!” the officer commanded. Then, seemingly to the second pursuer, the officer said, “Stand down...”
Coe pulled up, quickly ascending; the first pursuer did the same.
The officer said, “Last warning—”
The hovercar suddenly opened fire on the patrol vehicle. The policeman returned fire from its side-mounted automatics. One of the bullets seemingly struck an on-board computer, because the hovercar spun out of control and crashed onto the street below.
“Craft down,” the officer said. “I repeat: craft down. First responders needed at the intersection of Tilbury and Arch Avenues near the public water slide...”
A stray radio signal cut into the transmission:
...our unprecedented third decade of global peace, we offer mediation and arbitration services to corporate and political entities, alike...The Blue Consulting Firm, a Fleetwood Armistice Company...bringing peaceful resolutions to all disputes for over a century. Who says there are no winners in a successful resolution? Not Blue... The Blue Consulting Firm...Blue People are happy people...
The second pursuer closed on him in the rear view screen. There was no driver.
“It’s empty,” Coe said.
“Affirmative,” the officer said. “The downed craft was unmanned, as well. It was a drone—”
Coe recognized the tip of a warhead peaking out from beneath the belly of the hovercar. He gave his seat belt a tug, hastily tightened the straps. “Eject,” he said.
The hovercar asked in its polite, aristocrat voice, “You have requested to eject an occupant, Coe, Scott S. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“By affirming yes, you understand and agree to release and hold harmless Dynamic Motors LLC and all its subsidiaries, past and present, from any liability resulting directly or indirectly from this action, Coe, Scott S?”
The dual missiles launched from the speeding hovercar.
“Yes...fucking eject...now!”
As the top of his hovercar lifted off, and his seat propelled skyward, he could still hear the on-board computer calmly recite its disclaimer. “...and by ejecting from the craft, you acknowledge that you are leaving an unpiloted vehicle and assume any and all liability stemming from—”
The hovercraft exploded before the computer had finished. The missiles had found their target.
Coe momentarily tumbled through the air above the city, strapped to his seat—rolling, pitching, and then plunging—before the parachute in the seat successfully deployed.
Nine.
(Translated from French): Biotix is a French nanomedicine company, based in Annecy, specializing in innovative nanoparticle technology. Biotix is dedicated to developing new treatments and therapies to maximize cellular growth and human potential. Biotix technology has the potential to cause a paradigm shift in how we view life, longevity, and ultimately—mortality. Specifically, Biotix technology may soon overcome the current limitations of the accepted length of human life, and some point in the near future, extend the human life infinitely. In the past, Biotix has played a seminal role in the cure and systemic treatment of the world’s most deadly viral strains and bacterias. Biotix is a subsidiary of...
Jansky seemed to relish the coffee from the paper cup. He sipped it carefully while not spilling any of the rain that was collected around the brim of his beige fedora. Both Coe and the police detective stood near the beige Ford with the caved-in roof where the remains of Coe’s hovercar seat still remained—its final resting place marked by the flowing parachute, that doubled as a cover to blanket the instantly-totaled sedan.
“Maybe it was the fella with the bird head,” he said, and Coe could not tell if he was joking.
Coe stared at what was left of the hovercar: twisted steel; smoldering cab; a melted steering wheel.
“Not having a good week, are you?” the detective asked.
Two men, wearing gray flannel suits, black raincoats, and holding briefcases, appeared staring out dispassionately from beneath a pair of matching black umbrellas.
“Mr. Coe?” the one asked.
The other said, “We’re Locksley and Shackleton.”
Jointly they said, “We’re house counsel for Quantum. We’ll need you to come with us.”
Jansky stopped drinking his coffee long enough to say, “Now, wait just a minute...I’ve got an investigation to run here...”
“We’ll take over from here,” either Locksley or Shackleton said with a hand on Jansky’s shoulder.
“But this is official police business—” Jansky said, the rain finally rolling off of his hat.
The lawyer withdrew a card from a sterling case and presented it to the detective who proceeded to read it, his lips silently mouthing the words. When he had finished, his shoulders slouched with an undeniable look of resignation.
“Now then,” the lawyer said. “Off we go.”
The other lawyer placed his hand atop of Coe’s shoulder and directed him toward their own hovercar silently idling 18 inches from the ground on the street not more than 100 feet from them. Coe cast a final glance back at Jansky who stood helplessly watching them go.
“Front seat,” the other lawyer said.
“Which one of
you is Locksley?”
“He is/I am,” they said, and Coe determined the lawyer who had furnished Jansky with the business card was, in fact, Locksley. “Shackleton, I presume?” Coe said to the lawyer escorting him into the hovercar.
“Watch your head,” Shackleton said, and helped him into the craft.
“There’s been a breach,” Locksley said, when they were airborne and looking down at the rooftops and the puddles of water collecting atop them. He was seated in the back seat. Shackleton was driving.
“Another breach?” Coe asked.
Shackleton made a slight, but audible, noise with his teeth.
“Information regarding Quantum products and services currently in development,” he said.
“Things we naturally want to keep and safeguard from our competitors,” Locksley said.
“Understandable,” Coe said.
“The most recent breach occurred this week,” Shackleton said, and Locksley added, definitively, “The day you joined Home Office.”
“I see,” Coe said. He looked out at the rooftops. He could make out details on them: condensers; chimneys; and fire escapes. On one, there was a woman huddled in a doorway to a stairwell, smoking a cigarette.
“We have cause to believe you are involved in the breach,” Locksley said.
“Responsible for, even,” Shackleton said.
“It’s almost creepy how you do that,” Coe said to them.
“Who did you speak with on the vid phone outside of the cafe in the piazza?” Shackleton asked.
“Who did you speak to on the vid phone on Barge Avenue?” Locksley asked. “The Canal District?”
“You’ve had me watched?” Coe asked.
“Everyone is watched,” they said.
“What did you tell them, Mr. Coe?” Locksley asked.
“Tell who?”
Suddenly a gun was in Shackleton’s free hand. It was pointed at Coe. Locksley leaned forward. He also had a gun. They looked to both be .45s if Coe knew anything at all about guns. He was conscious of the weight of his own gun still strapped to his ankle and concealed beneath his trousers, but also aware that any move to retrieve would result in his being shot.
There's Only One Quantum Page 10