"It feels that way, but I still don't have any evidence."
"Trust your gut," she said, then hesitated again.
"You realize you're implying that Yamatetsu's putting 2XS on the street."
"It makes sense," I said, a little defensively. "Assuming it is the same technology, what corp's going to turn away from another profit center?"
She shook her head. "I don't buy that. It's too much of a risk. There's got to be some other reason."
"What?" I challenged.
"Your doctor friend"-I'd disguised Bent's identify, at least to that degree-"said there were no records of any- one testing booster tech on humans, right?" I nodded. "But Yamatetsu had to run human tests before they could even consider selling it to the army."
I could see where she was leading. "You're saying they're using 2XS as a field test for SPISES?"
"Could be."
I grunted. It made a kind of sense, but still didn't ring totally true for some reason. Like part of my brain was saying, "Close but no banana."
"We're missing something," I mumbled. "But what?"
"I wish I knew."
"And how does Crashcart tie into all this?"
"A Crashcart clinic plugged 2XS circuitry into Daniel Waters."
"Your friend thinks," Jocasta amended. I jumped to Bent's defense. "The symptoms are the same, the circuitry's similar."
"Similar," she stressed, "not identical. If you're right about the 2XS-SPISES connection, maybe they meant to put a booster into him and it fragged up."
"Why would they do that?" I demanded. "Competitive advantage, maybe? God knows they're in a major marketing war with DocWagon." She paused. "Or, more likely, it's another case of putting beta-test SPISES on the street for field testing." Her voice and face became more animated as she followed that through to its conclusion. "Maybe that's why Yamatetsu created Crashcart in the first place ... As a way of disseminating SPISES ..."
"And of evaluating its effectiveness," I said. "They install it in someone who gets trashed, then bring him back for follow-up exams to see how the tech's working."
"That's why they're gunning so hard for DocWagon," Jocasta said. "If they can drive DocWagon out of business, there's less risk of anyone finding out what they 've been doing."
For a few moments I'd been carried along by Jocasta's enthusiasm. But suddenly the rush totally evaporated. The logical structure we'd built just didn't hang together. Again, I had the inescapable feeling we were missing something crucial. We had most of the pieces of the jig- saw puzzle, and we'd put them together to form a picture. But it felt like we'd hosed it by forcing a couple of pieces into spots where they just didn't fit. I shook my head.
"What?" Jocasta demanded.
"I don't buy it," I told her simply.
"Why not?"
"You said trust my gut," I reminded her. "It doesn't feel right."
"Why not?" she insisted.
"I just don't buy it." I looked at her steadily. "Do you?"
She looked ready to shoot back some angry retort, then suddenly seemed to deflate. She smiled, embarrassed. "Not really," she said quietly. "I feel ... I feel overwhelmed. The scope of this, it's just too big.
It seems like the only logical thing to do is jump into a hole and pull the hole in after me. You know what I mean? But you're probably used to this."
"Save me space in your hole," I said.
She laughed at that. "Maybe." She sobered again. "What are you going to do now?"
"See if I can find the missing pieces. But first try and get a line on my sister."
"Let me know how that goes," she said. "Call me at this number." An LTG number appeared on-screen. Jocasta smiled. "I hope you find her."
"Thanks."
She cut the connection before I could say anything else.
Chapter 14.
Hospitals in the sprawl are very careful about patient confidentiality and protecting their patients from scam artists or worse. But this caution has to be balanced with some accessibility, some means by which worried relatives and friends can find out if old Uncle Ted is lying critically injured in intensive care or if he simply ran off with that waitress he'd been eyeing.
Improved communication technology has managed to solve that problem, while creating many others.
All registered hospitals and the vast majority of private clinics now offer an LTG number giving access to a kind of limited bulletin-board system. Call in on your telecom and transmit the name-the true and complete name-of the person you're interested in. The bulletin-board system will tell you whether said person is currently registered at the clinic or hospital, but only a yes or no answer, no further information available.
Then you've got the option of leaving your own name, relationship to the patient, contact information, and any message. From there on it's up to the hospital staff and/or the patient to decide whether to get in touch with you. It makes it simple for the hospital to screen out the majority of scam artists, while providing a quick and efficient way to track down a missing person.
Of course, as the Seattle Tourist Board is proud to point out, there are fifty-four hospitals and clinics in the sprawl. Checking them all out would take a lot of time. If I did it manually, that is. Let us give thanks once more to modern technology. It was a job of maybe two minutes to whip up a simple exec program to instruct the telecom to phone all the possibilities, submit the name Theresa Mary Montgomery, and notify me of any hits. I could even download the exec to my telecom back in Auburn and have it run the program, leaving my phone in Purity free for other calls. I figured it would take maybe half an hour for the program to run through the whole list.
While it was doing its electronic thing, I called up Naomi Takahashi. At home, this time, since it was early evening by now.
She picked up almost at once. As usual, I had my video pickup turned off. "Yes?" she said.
"Yeah," I grunted, "I, uh, I gotta call you want an exterminator. Gotta bug problem, huh?"
Naomi smiled. "No bugs here, omae," she laughed. "I'm very careful about that."
I cut in the video. "You can never be too careful," I told her. "How's it going, girl?"
"Busy. I'm carrying extra load because people are being diverted to track some deviant called Derek Montgomery."
That sobered me somewhat-about as much as a bucket of ice water. "They're taking it that seriously, are they?"
"And then some," Naomi confirmed. "I don't know exactly why. You must be mixed up in something pretty heavy."
She hadn't asked the question, not right out, but I answered it anyway. "I am, Naomi, but I can't tell you about it."
She nodded. "Do you need any support from my end?" she asked.
"Two things," I told her. "First, promise me you'll be real careful, okay? No exposure, no risk. If you have to stick out your neck one millimeter, I can do without it. Do you understand?" I might have been laying it on a little thick, but I was still very scared.
Naomi took it in stride. "No strain, chummer, just tell me what it is. I know how to cover myself."
"I want whatever you can get me on a corp called Yamatetsu. Particularly their operations in Seattle, and particularly anything that's raised flags at the Star."
"Yametetsu, got it. Null perspiration. What's the second thing?"
I hesitated. The idea had come to me as I was placing the call. And in a way it seemed to make sense. The question was, did I have the balls to go through with it?
"Dirk?" she prompted.
I took a deep breath. "Where can I buy an 2XS chip?" I asked.
Maybe I live a sheltered life, but I'd never made a chip deal before. The only idea I had of how it worked came from cheap trideo shows. You know the kind I mean-shady neighborhoods and rat-infested chip-houses, gun-toting dealers who look like the scum of the earth and who'd be as happy to blow you away as look at you.
Probably there are places like that. But when I finally managed to persuade Naomi I was serious, she directed me to a place a
bout as far from my mental image as you could get. No run-down chip-house in some squatter neighborhood. The address was-believe it, chip-truth- a Trideo Depot store in a shopping mall. A fragging mall! What is the world etcetera?
As soon as I was off the line with Naomi, I checked the search program. It had completed the list and terminated, with no hits. In other words, Theresa Montgomery hadn't been officially admitted to any healthcare provider in the Greater Seattle area. Frag it.
Of course, the key was "officially." Every system has back doors. It was conceivable that Theresa had been admitted somewhere unofficially, or under another name. Neither of which I was equipped to explore at the moment. Much as it hurt to do so, I had to put the issue on the back burner. Lacking the least idea of how to proceed further in Theresa's direction, the best thing seemed to be getting on with something else and hoping for a flash of inspiration.
The Trideo Depot was in the Overlake Mall, down near the Touristville region of Redmond. Not too bad as Redmond facilities go: most windows and doors still intact, few bullet holes in the walls, and a vacancy rate of under 50 percent. The Depot was a typical trideo-rental facility. There were two terminals-"industrially hardened," of course-running directory search software, and a half-dozen screens showing selected scenes from the top-renting chips. For a few moments I was distracted by a wall-sized array alternating between clips from Neil the Ork Barbarian XIV (dialogue sample: "Die, scum-sucker!") and Behind You All the Way (dialogue sample: "Oh, oh yes . . ."), but shook myself free of the trideo spell and made my way to the counter.
On duty was a guy about my own age, whose job was probably dealing with unreasonable requests that the directory terminals couldn't handle. He looked clean-cut- almost abnormally so, considering the locale-and smiled politely as I approached. "Anything I can help you with?" he asked.
"Yeah, uh, maybe," I said uncomfortably. I recalled the key phrases Naomi had mentioned. "I, uh, I'm looking for a new chip. Something really hot, you know?"
His polite expression didn't change. He just handed me a hard-copy list about half a page long. "These are our new titles," he said. "See anything mat appeals to you?"
I didn't even look at the listing. "Not really," I told him. "I guess I'm looking for something . . . heavier.
Something ... excessive?"
He took back the listing. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he said mildly.
I knew what was going on, of course. He didn't know who I was, I could be a Lone Star undercover cop. So of course he wasn't going to volunteer information. If I was legitimate, I'd ask for what I wanted. If I was a narc, I couldn't because that would be entrapment. Of course, I didn't know him, and he could be a narc. I wasn't sure, but I assumed trying to buy 2XS was also a crime. I hesitated, then decided I'd take the risk.
I leaned forward so that our faces were just centimeters apart. "Look," I told him, "I want 2XS, and I'm tired of slotting around." I slipped a certified credstick across the counter. "Do you want my business or not?" Still his expression didn't change, but the credstick vanished. He moved back to a more normal distance, and said, "We aim to please. Just wait here." He vanished into the back.
I looked around the empty store nervously, regretting I'd ever come up with this fool idea. He was back quickly, with a garishly colored chip box. He handed it to me and said, "I think this will satisfy."
I glanced down at the box. The chip's title was apparently Space for Rent, and the cover picture made it abundantly and anatomically clear exactly what space was being referred to. The box appeared professionally shrink-wrapped. I looked up again and raised an eyebrow. If I'd paid five hundred nuyen-the going price, according to Naomi-and received nothing more than a hard-core porn chip, I'd definitely be back to speak to the salesclerk. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and I decided not to press the issue now. I thanked him and left.
What the frag was I doing? According to Bent, 2XS was a killer mind-bender that could only be used through a datajack. I had neither death wish nor datajack. So what did I think I was up to?
I suppose it was a perverted version of the old know-your-enemy rationale. Partially, at least.
Whatever was going down, 2XS seemed to be at the heart of it, and maybe knowing exactly what the chip did would give me some insight into events. I also had to know what it was that my kid sister had been feeding into her brain. Why? Morbid curiosity, a desire to understand, again the possibility of insight. Take your pick. Those reasons made up the acceptable party line, but maybe there was another reason. The need to prove that I could handle something that had slotted up my sister? Could I really be that petty? I forced that uncomfortable possibility from my mind.
That was the why, but what about the how? The question had a nice one-word answer: Buddy.
I didn't call ahead this time-I just showed up. For one thing, I wanted to do it now, while I had my courage up. The other thing was that if Buddy decided not to let me in, I'd have an excuse to bag out. I gave my name to the guard at the door, and suffered seriously mixed feelings as he nodded me through.
I rode the elevator to the fortieth floor, walked down the hall and pounded on Buddy's door. Then I shifted uncomfortably for about a minute, trying to decide whether to knock again, wait longer, or just bug out. I was leaning more and more toward option three when the multiple locks snapped free and the door swung open. Buddy was apparently going through a particularly quiet phase of her cycle. The rhythm synthesizer was still churning out its frenetic licks, but the volume was way down-somewhere just below the sound-pressure level of an idling Harley. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, and looked me up and down, the movements of her head quick and bird-like. Then she flashed a momentary smile and stepped back to let me in. "Hoi, Dirk," she said, for once actually giving me enough time to step inside before slamming the door behind me.
"Hoi, Buddy." I intended to go right into my spiel, but my dry mouth seemed to seize up on me.
She examined me again. "You're wound," she remarked. "Wound tight."
If my level of stress was such that even Buddy could sense it, I was definitely wound tight. "I need your help, Buddy," I told her.
She shot me another smile. "I figured. Come through." I followed her into the living room, watched in surprise as she pulled a remote from the folds of her ballistic-cloth sarong and cut back the percussion effects of a few decibels. Then she sank down into full lotus, and stared up at me. "What?"
I looked around, saw that the inductance headset still seemed to be connected to her cyberdeck. Part of my brain cursed: another excuse shot to hell. I pulled out the 2XS chip-I'd turfed the garish packaging on the way over-and held it out to her. "It's like a simsense chip," I said. In my nervousness, I found myself slipping into her own curt speech pattern. "I want to slot it." She looked at the chip but didn't take it. "Why?"
I didn't want to get into that. I'd asked myself the question too many times already. "I want to use the headset. Can you do it?"
"Simsense, sure." She stared into my eyes. "It's more than simsense, isn't it? BTL?" -
"More than BTL," I told her. "It's important, Buddy. Can you do it?"
"Course I can do it."
"Will you?"
She thought about it a long time. Two, maybe three seconds. Then she shrugged and pointed to the chair. "Sit down."
I sat. She took the chip, turned it over and over in her fingers. Then she met my gaze again. "More than BTL?" I nodded, swallowing a fist-sized lump that had inexplicably lodged itself in my throat. "I want to put some. conditions on this," I said. "I want you to run this for"- I hesitated-"for one minute. Sixty seconds only. Then I want you to cut it off. And I want you to destroy the chip. Destroy it. Got me?"
She looked down at the chip, then back into my eyes. "You're scared of this," she said. Damn fragging right I was scared of it. "It's going to slot you up?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Thirty seconds," she corrected. She tapped her Excalibur with a scrawny knuckle.
"I'll watch you."
"Don't ride along, Buddy," I warned her, not even knowing if that was possible.
"You kidding?" she snorted. "Don't want to frag my brain. I'll watch your brain waves." And then she busied herself with the connections between the crown-of-thorns headset and her cyberdeck.
I thought about that. I didn't have the first idea about the average deck's standard equipment, but if Buddy had an electroencephalogram or some other thing that monitored brainwaves built into her cyberdeck I'd feel a lot more comfortable. I took off my duster, put it-and my holstered Manhunter-well out of reach.
Then I tried to find a comfortable position on the hard chair.
Buddy's adjustments were quick. Much too soon she was settling the inductance headset onto my cranium. "Buddy ..." I began.
"I'll watch you." Her words were brusque, but I thought I heard something like real concern in her voice. Or was I just imagining it? She snugged down the last strap, sank back into lotus, and settled her Excalibur across her knees. I watched as she seated the chip into one of the deck's sockets. She looked up at me and smiled. "Show time," she said quietly.
I think I started to say something, to tell her I'd changed my mind. But before I could utter the first syllable, her skeletal finger hit a key ...
I stand on the hill, looking down over the battle plain. My helmet and my armor catch the golden light of the rising sun, and the many encrusted gems throw back spears of brilliance. I wear a king's ransom, but it is fit and it is meet that I do so. My position as king is mine through right of birth, but reinforced through achievement. No man has yet to best me in single combat, though some two score have tried. I heft my axe, feel its comfortable weight in my hands, run a callused thumb over the ritual notches in the shaft. I have taken life, I will do so again. Such is my right, my honor, and my responsibility.
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