Idempotency (9 page)

Reaching the front entrance after crossing the street, Dylan was startled by the run-down appearance of San Diego’s HSmR station. Once the pride of the city, the station had served as the location of the groundbreaking ceremony for the West Coast HSmR system over a hundred years ago. The system was outdated before it was built. Nonetheless, the government at the turn of the twenty-first century was trying its damnedest to justify its bloated existence, and a vast high-speed magRail system seemed as good a project as any to waste money on. Upon completion, the station was hailed for its retro 1950s-era open-air Spanish architectural style. Now, however, the exterior of the station was tagged with graffiti upon a canvass of older graffiti, with much of the newer designs having been created with light-emitting paint. The tags glowed, sparkled, swayed, and sometimes strobed. It was sensory overload. Beyond the tags, Dylan noticed much of the facade of the building was crumbling. The once-impressive covered ceiling, a sweeping arch structure, still remained, though many panels were now missing. Dylan was certain the roof leaked when the heavy autumn rains kicked in. Further, the once-tiled floor was now mostly sand mixed with fine dirt, often covered with trash of some kind.

He shook his head in dismay and walked into the building and was astonished to see hundreds of homeless people who seemingly made the lobby of the San Diego HSmR station their home. Nearly every seat was taken, and most appeared taken in a permanent manner. Rudimentary forts had been constructed around groupings of chairs, made of large freight boxes and various pieces of luggage. Dylan stood, stunned, at the entrance of the open-air lobby for several minutes. The air smelled putrid, even though the area was not enclosed.

Pulling himself away from his trance, he spotted the ticket counter on the far side of the lobby. He charted a path through the desolate and destitute. Dylan was aware of the many nonprofit corps who were attempting to help the vast lower class, and the issue was certainly a bellwether topic on the darkNets, but Dylan had never been directly affected by it until now, and he was in awe.

Walking slowly, he could feel the people observing him. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at them. Their faces were old and weathered; some were beginning to suffer from dermatrophy. Their government health care did not afford them the auspices of gene therapy and cell regeneration. Basic organ transplants were simple enough now—new livers could be grown en masse at bio factories—but extensive cell regeneration enacted directly on a person’s skin, or inside their bones, was far, far more costly.

An elderly lady to Dylan’s right spasmed through a fit of coughing. He instinctively turned and witnessed her rubbing blood and phlegm across her cheek. His pace slowed. Sensing his disdain, she swiveled her head and met his gaze. He quickly looked ahead and kept moving.

Several rows away and in front of him, Dylan noticed an old man who was removing his shirt. The man had a long, sparse gray beard and a bald head. He looked as though he should have died several years ago. As he lifted his shirt, Dylan saw makeshift bandages all around the man’s torso—several appeared soaked through with a mixture of blood and yellowish pus.

Dylan resolved to simply look at his feet and nothing more. As he did so, he was becoming acutely aware that someone was walking behind him at an uncomfortably close distance. Then, inches from his left ear, a raspy voice spoke quickly while spitting on him just slightly, saying, “Whatcha fuckin’ lookin’ at, ya fuckin’ classy cocksucker?” Dylan smelled a rancid after-waft of air float by his face.

With his back to the man and still walking slowly, Dylan replied, “Nothin,’ man, just catching the rail up north. Don’t mean any trouble.”

The man grabbed Dylan by the shoulders, stopped him, and flung him around. He was short and stocky, similar in build to Dylan, but his muscles were overgrown and bubbling, obviously enhanced. The top of his head was bald, but random strings of gray hair fell from above his ears. Dylan estimated the muscle-bound man had to be at least a hundred years old. The man smiled a toothless smile, mouth agape. He wore a tattered, bloodstained T-shirt and jeans. The cracks across his wrinkled, round face bore horrible pus- and blood-filled sores. The sight was wretched, and Dylan stifled a gag.

Deliberately, the man shouted, “You getchyer rich ass outta our house." He then blew into Dylan’s face as if he were trying to kindle a flame, and finally began laughing maniacally. Dylan stood, stunned. He was about to fling the man’s arms off of his shoulders when the man took them off himself, then shoved Dylan in the chest with a great force. Staggering backward, Dylan dropped his bag as he reached out behind him to stop his fall. Several older women pounced on the duffel bag and began clawing at each other over the bag’s precious cargo. Dylan instinctively reached for it, but the women violently turned away from the bag and toward him. Startled, he took a step away from them. The old man’s laughter was amplified, and several others nearby began to join in. The women had torn open the bag now, as well as each other’s frangible layers of used-up skin. Blood was dripping around them. Dylan turned and began to walk briskly toward the ticket booth, conceding his bag without a second thought.

The man stopped laughing and began shouting a nonsensical, expletive-laden rant that started with “—the fuck outta here ya fuckin’ high-class cunt!” All around the lobby now people were yelling, most appearing not to be aware of what they were communing about.

Dylan began to sprint. He reached the desk, and a rotund, fake-blonde woman with permed hair, sitting comfortably behind a row of sizable security bars said, “Where to? And you better be quick about it so you can get through the security gate in one piece. Those folk aren’t allowed in the loading area.”

“Olympia, Washington,” he responded quickly, then caught himself. “Wait—secure debit transaction, please.”

“Okay . . .” The lady waved her fingers in front of her for about ten seconds, then flung a tablet through the bars. Dylan laid his hand on it briefly, before she pulled it back in, then said,  “Done—thank you, Mr. Dansby. Track five. And a piece of advice for next time: When someone of your ilk feels compelled to take public transit, we usually recommend they at least forego the bag, throw on an old shirt, and skip a few showers.”

Dylan didn’t stop to thank the fake blonde for her too-late advice; rather, he charged toward the gate, which resided past several rotating doors that were marked with signs reading
Ticket Holders Only Beyond This Point
. The signs had eroded with age.

He pushed through one of the five rotating doors, then stopped on the other side to look back through the barred gate at the lobby. His bag had been devoured. One of the old ladies was trying on one of Dylan’s favorite jackets. She reached up and scratched her face absentmindedly, tearing the skin away as she did so. He gagged again and brought his hand to his mouth, wanting badly to retch. Shaking, he turned and walked slowly to track five.

The only optimistic thought Dylan was able to take away from his observation of the lobby inhabitants was the fact that there appeared to be no children among them.
Thank God
, he thought.

“Searle, what news is so urgent that you felt the need to interrupt my afternoon sail on the lake? The one and only selfish act that I allow myself?”

Searle was calling Rev. Edward Lee Coglin from a graviCopter heading back to Seattle after having just inked another in a long line of deals guaranteeing their plans would move forward at an ever-increasing pace. And he had justifiably assumed Coglin would appreciate this bit of good news. But Searle should have known by now that nothing ever satisfied his partner.

Don’t you mean your boss?
corrected a voice within Searle’s noisy mind.

No, we’re partners
, Searle replied.

“The deal is inked, Edward. NRS is now the sole and singular license owner of SolipstiCorp’s deathTrip technology. The license is a one-year deal, with first right of refusal on renewal, 10 percent escalation baked-in. The deal came in well below our upper-bound estimate. And we’ve formally started buyout negotiations.”

Coglin was silent. Searle could see the fall breeze tussling the old man’s gray hair. He also heard the quiet hum of an electric motor powering the vessel Coglin was steering atop the choppy water of Lake Washington.

After a minute, Coglin looked in the screen and replied, “And?”

“And what?”

“Why did you call me to tell me this? You of all people, Korak, should understand—” Coglin cleared his throat, but it didn’t seem to help his scratchy voice. “Forget it. Look, next time let’s just both assume that you will meet expectations, and if you do need to call me, I will assume there’s a good reason behind it.”

“Well, Edward, I’m sorry to have bothered you with the gory details of our successes. So you know, I’m coming back to Seattle to oversee the construction on our new facilities; specifically, Titus and Haida Gwaii.”

“And are we on track for our capacity goals?” asked Coglin, as if the topic barely interested him; he was throwing his dog a bone.

“You mean for the original goal of 50 percent by spring, or your newfound goal of 75 percent by midwinter? We are green for the former, red for the latter.”

Coglin’s attention was refocused. “I never heard adequate reason why the new goal wasn’t attainable.”

“I never committed to the 75 percent goal.”

At a crossroads, the men sat silent for a moment. A tension carried over the holoVid.

Coglin smiled. “And yet, I’m sure you will find a way. You always do, Searle, that’s why you’re great. What’s your path to green?”

“Optimism?” Searle fired back. “Edward, I plan to head to Mexico next month to recruit for facility staffing and, ultimately, to begin filling the place. We won’t fail for lack of effort.”

Coglin let the issue drop. “Oh, Korak, this reminds me: I’ve promoted someone to head security at our new facilities. I’ve been working with him for a while now on a few special projects, and decided he was ready for the next level. I’d like him to travel to Mexico with you for facility staffing and capacity planning. He was a director at PubSecCorp, very loyal; name’s Kane. You’ll be working closely together moving forward.”

“What?” Searle’s face was a confused canvas. “What happened to Grabler?”

“Grabler received a better offer from a competitor.”

“Really?” Searle was incredulous; he had always liked Grabler, trusted him. “Who pays better than us, and why wouldn’t you match?”

“Look, at the end of the day, he didn’t agree with our vision and he needed to move on. It was a bad culture fit.”

“How did I not know about this? And why wasn’t I on the interview loop for this Kane person?”

“I’m sorry, Korak, but this just transpired in the last week. I didn’t want to trouble you. Your plate is already overflowing. There was no interview loop. I handpicked Kane and promoted him posthaste. He’s reporting directly to me.”

“To
you
? Grabler was reporting to
me
.”

“Right.”

Another hushed tension settled over the holoVid, but it seemed awkward only to Korak Searle. Rev. Coglin went about his business—pulling and pushing various antiquated knobs on his vessel—as if there were no problem.

“Edward,” Searle saved the use of Coglin’s first name for priority discussions—he wasn’t certain why, but something here seemed off. He continued, “I’m sorry to question your judgment, but why wasn’t I at least consulted about this change?”

Coglin looked up from his wheel, and his compassionate eyes washed over Searle. “Korak, come on now—as we grow as a corporation—no—as we become pioneers of a new world of educators and care providers, we have to learn to
delegate
. To
trust
. Look, I have you managing the buildout of three of our most vital and vast facilities. I can’t hassle you with the minutiae of hiring a leader for our security division. My actions were purely to help you, to keep you focused on our top priority.”

Coglin sighed, pursed his lips, then shut off his boat’s engine and gave his old colleague his full attention. “Korak, we are so close now, we need people we can trust—an inner circle. That inner circle can’t just be the two of us. Our efforts are getting too big for two people; we need others. Kane will help.”

“I get that Edward—I do—but I’d still prefer to be consulted, at least. On that note, I heard you were hiring, or have already hired, a new chief science officer.”

Coglin nodded, then smiled warmly and stated, “You’re right, Edward, I should have talked to you in advance. It won’t happen again. Do you want to interview him? We can always demote him if needed—”

“No, no. I’m sure he’s fine,” Searle acquiesced. “You’ve always hired well. After all, you found me, right?”

“That’s true, my friend!” Coglin said, smiling back.

The pair disconnected and the hum of Coglin’s boat was replaced by the hum of the expansive rotating blades that sat underneath the capacious v-wing craft. The blades rotated in opposite directions using a combination of air and sound to defy gravity. Flying in audible powered graviCopters had always made Searle uneasy, similar to his just finished conversation with Coglin.

He’s using you
, spoke Searle’s inner voice.

He’s not using me.

He’s always been using you.

Rev. Coglin turned the wheel of his ten-meter motorboat and headed back to the NRS-owned dock. Sometimes he thought these relaxing afternoons on Lake Washington worked more wonders in extending his terminal lifespan than the myriad of drugs his estimable doctors were pumping through his system.

The air on the lake was humid, though the temperature hovered near a frigid three degrees Celsius. The humidity helped his ailing lungs and abated the now-frequent coughing attacks. In addition to the moisture, the meditative tranquility of the water allowed him to collect his thoughts and pray to his God. And so, when Korak had pinged Coglin with an “urgent” vidChat, Coglin’s frustration had been justified.