Oversight (3 page)

CHAPTER Three

K
enneth Wren’s Unusual
Antiques opens at 10:00 a.m. It’s only 8:15. Sam scolds himself for failing to check the store’s hours before driving across town. Standing among the quaint brick shops on Jackson Street, he glances about, trying to figure out how he’ll kill the next two hours. Traffic is unusually heavy. In the thin fog above, a relay blimp bristling with antennas floats just above the Transamerica Pyramid.

There’s a gentle beep from the tiny speaker on the collar of Sam’s jacket. His two hours of silence are up. “Sam?” Marilyn’s voice squeaks. “Are you okay? You haven’t moved for two minutes.”

Mesmerized, Sam keeps staring at the prickly blimp. A bus passes, ghostly in its electric silence.

“Sam? Please answer me.”

A few years ago, a Sino-German consortium announced the construction of several hundred lufts—lofts suspended by mammoth Levitas airships—above the coast of Queensland, Australia. But what began as a compromise between anti-immigrant Aussies and politicians courting the island continent’s powerful Asian voting block quickly took off, both figuratively and literally. Far from being punitive, luft living afforded seclusion and security unavailable to harried pavement dwellers. And the views were to die for. The few refugees from occupied Taiwan who resettled in the initial luft cluster packed up and sold out when the offers became too good to pass up. After that, the developers went global.

Sam struggles every time he sees the network interstitials depicting an exclusive luft community moored to the cinderblock reef off the Florida Keys. He imagines that life in the air will be somehow less laden with mundane concerns.

“Sam, you haven’t eaten in twelve hours. The Old Fog Diner is located just half a mile north of your location. The diner is offering a 15 percent discount for network referral walk-ins. Would you like to hear some customer recommendations?”

Sam glowers. “No, Marilyn, I really wouldn’t.”

“Maybe your appetite would improve if you went to the gym.”

“What’s my grid debt?”

“You owe 0.7412 kilowatt hours.”

“So where’s the nearest Station?”

The Power Station on Broadway and Columbus is busy for a Tuesday morning. Sam inquires about the crowd while buying some disposable sweats at the front desk.

The attendant, a wiry brunette with the physique of a mannequin, scowls from behind her bulletproof-plastic window. “Apart from a few stock-market jocks, they’re mostly addicts trying to meet their community service and baseline health contracts,” she answers. “A Probation Nation drive-thru just opened on Clay Street.”

“Pretty fit-looking bunch of junkies.”

“You should see the guys who shoot Andro.”

“I said ‘fit,’ not ‘freakish.’”

Sam follows the sign to the men’s dressing room. The scent of perspiration and bleach lingers amid metal lockers. He guesses it’ll take him seven hours to generate three-quarters of a kilowatt hour. Back when he fought in the ring, it might have been possible in six, but he’s been out of training for too long to sustain that kind of output. Not that it matters. His sweats are only rated to last ninety minutes before disintegrating.

Just after ten, his outfit now stylishly ragged, Sam dismounts from the stationary bicycle and offers a polite goodbye to the anonymous New Yorker he’s been racing over the network. He showers, dresses, and hits the street humming the Gut Buster jingle that was hounding him during his ride.

Outside, it’s a sunny North Beach morning. Sam threads his way through the tourists. He waves at the security camera at Montgomery and Broadway, figuring his friend Tony Roan might be fielding surveillance hits for the city today. They did some break-in jobs together a number of years ago, before the stability of government contract work weaned Tony from the spec’s life.

It occurs to Sam that his former partner might have access to cameras run by the National Park and Mining Service. “Marilyn, finger Tony Roan at the Department of Surveying.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“Send him a voice message. Begin: Hi Tony. It’s Sam Crane. I hope all’s well. Listen, I need a favor. I’m working a murder that took place in the headlands about two a.m. on the morning of the second. I was wondering if you could ask around and see if there’s any video coverage out there. It’d make my day to see it if so. Ciao. End message.”

“Message sent, Sam. Based on speech analysis, the network has determined that your call was business-related. You will be billed accordingly.” The tone of Marilyn’s voice shifts from informational to evangelical. “If you’re ever struggling to find the right words, Electric Expressions can help. With Electric Expressions’ patented NewVoice real-time audio sweetening, we take the ums, ahs, and awkward pauses out of your voice mail so you sound smarter. If you act now and send a NewVoice-enhanced message before the end of May, we’ll add a moving, contextually appropriate soundtrack to the mix, absolutely free.”

Sam tries to drown Marilyn out by humming some more. It’s futile, though; the speakers in his collar come equipped with an automatic gain compensator. Even the rumble of a street cleaner wouldn’t silence her. He’s been tempted to install a volume attenuator in his jacket, but hacking the piezoelectric thread used in network-enabled clothing isn’t as easy as rewiring his motorcycle helmet.

Reaching the antique shop, he opens the glass door, finding it heavier than he expects—bulletproof, no doubt. As he steps inside, the pneumatic security gate at the far side of the foyer slides open and the door behind him clicks shut. He guesses the mirror on the wall conceals an identification system.

Kenneth Wren sits upright at an antique desk embellished with gold leaf. He wears a cream-colored suit and a matching turtleneck that presents his slender face as if it were one of the artworks in the room. His small eyes dart between Sam and the monitor that is almost certainly displaying Sam’s public file.

“Come in, Mr. Crane.”

The Bach playing in the background fades to accommodate conversation. Sam approaches slowly, entranced by the splendid antiques. “Good morning,” he says.

“You must pay a lot to have so little in your file. I like that in a man.”

“Money or secrets?”

“Is there one without the other?” Kenneth asks.

Sam offers a faint smile in reply. “Sometimes. But I’m afraid I may disappoint you. I have far more secrets than money. I’m a spec.”

“Ah, what a pity.” Kenneth pouts. “I had so hoped to plumb the depths of your pockets.”

“I have a few questions.”

“Are you logging?”

“Marilyn, offer privacy. Use Threefish encryption. Accept all charges.”

“Attention,” Marilyn calls out. “Sam Crane is requesting a private conversation. If you accept, all local sensors, including but not limited to video, audio, molecular, seismic, geospatial, biometric, and thermal monitoring devices, will be disabled until reactivated by voice, except for sensors required under secret law. Mutual consent will be required for reactivation if accepting parties remain within fifty feet. Those present must signal their willingness to participate by stating their names and their dispositions.”

Glancing at the monitor on his desk, Kenneth nods. “Kenneth Wren. I accept.”

“All logging suspended at 10:36 a.m. by request,” answers a voice that sounds vaguely familiar. “Service charges billed to Sam Crane.”

“Orson Wells?” Sam asks.

Kenneth grins. “A student of the Golden Age.”

“Now there’s a name for you. Much better than ‘Dylan Michelob.’”

“Or ‘Samantha Virgin,’” Kenneth adds with understated contempt. “Though if he’d been offered a naming deal, I imagine he’d have taken it.”

“I didn’t realize Wells had become available. Always liked the sound of his voice.”

“Just last year. His heirs fell on hard times.”

Sam sits down. “I’ve been thinking about retiring Marilyn. She’s been getting on my nerves.”

“They did a good job with Mr. Wells. He smolders.” Wren gestures lazily. “So what brings you here?”

“Are you familiar with galvanic spectacles?”

“Indeed.” Kenneth’s eyebrows bob. “Lovely medical antiquities.”

“Ever sell a pair to a doctor by the name of Xian Mako?”

“I can’t discuss client purchases or inquiries, unless you have a warrant.”

“Would it be worth my while to get one?”

After pondering the question, Kenneth shakes his head.

“Come on, help me out here. We’re off the record.”

“Mr. Crane, my clients rely on my discretion.”

Folding his arms, Sam makes no effort to conceal his annoyance.

“The man you want to pester is Roderick Pigeon. He runs an antique shop in London specializing in medical devices.”

“Will you send me his profile?”

“Orson, forward Roderick Pigeon’s public key set to Sam Crane.”

“Done,” says Orson Wells.

“Thanks for your help.”

Before passing through the security gate, Sam turns and leans against the doorframe. “You never asked what I’m looking for.”

“That’s true.”

“Most do.”

“Could be I already know.”

“That’s what I think.”

Kenneth waves and faces his desktop monitor.

Sam lingers, jaw clenched.

“Quit while you’re ahead, Mr. Crane,” Kenneth says without looking up.

Sam returns to where he was sitting. “You’re a brave man to talk like that. You must have a high-end personal defense system. A Heliolith Guardian maybe?”

Kenneth hoists an awkward smile as he crosses his arms.

“Yeah, that’s a good system,” Sam continues. “Tetanizing lasers can be targeted very precisely. But the Heliolith triggering algorithm has some flaws. The personal boundary check doesn’t return a fire command unless the motion detector has gone off too. But the motion detector’s default threshold is set too high. It only detects very sudden movements.”

Casually, Sam reaches across the desk and takes hold of Kenneth’s shirt.

“Orson!” Kenneth cries, startled.

“Yes, Kenneth?”

Sam releases his grip and steps back. “If you quit when you’re ahead, you never know how far you can go.”

Lips curled in contempt, Kenneth brushes away the wrinkles in his shirt.

“Can I be of assistance?” Orson inquires.

“No, never mind.” Kenneth glares at Sam. “I could have called the police.”

Sam clasps his hands behind his back. “The bill for their visit would be more than my fine. Look, a friend of mine’s dead because of those damn glasses. Maybe Dr. Mako too. I can’t get a warrant because I’m not police, but I can get a subpoena. And if I have to rummage through your records, it could be very disruptive to your business.”

“I don’t like being pushed around, Mr. Crane.”

“And I don’t like having to push you around.” Sam doesn’t convince either of them.

Kenneth snorts. “With the right drugs, you’d be charming company. Now get out.”

With a shrug, Sam leaves.

Across the street, beside an antimicrobial hydrant, stands a bus shelter. Sam walks over to it, palming the wall-eye in his pocket. Casting a furtive glance back over his shoulder, he bends down, plants the dime-sized lens at the base of the shelter, and presses once to activate it. The tiny disc shimmers, adjusting its color to match its surroundings, and then begins its vigil.

In a dingy teleconferencing booth that has been splashed with cheap perfume to mask scents far worse, Sam waits for Roderick Pigeon to appear. A Dupont Whiskey spot plays in 3D over the viewing glass, which is angled like a windshield to redirect and split the ceiling-bound projector beam. The star of the ad, a tough lounging in a smoking jacket, is rendered in real time to resemble Sam. The woman pouring his drink is generated with only a G-string, as per his solicitation preferences. He’d enjoy a full frontal pitch even more, but there are purchasing requirements, and Sam is trying to be thrifty.

Sam wipes the projection lens, but the image quality doesn’t improve. From the look of it, someone has scratched the glass. “Marilyn,” he asks, “has the Medical Examiner filed anything on Dr. Xian Mako yet?”

“Please be more specific.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Has the Medical Examiner filed a report on Dr. Xian Mako’s cause of death?”

“Yes. The report was filed at 9:17 a.m. today.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Tetrodotoxin.”

Sam leans forward, pressing against the greasy touch pad used by those unable to speak. “Reference, summary only.”

“Tetrodotoxin is a powerful neurotoxin that causes death in approximately 60 percent of humans who ingest it,” Marilyn says with a bit too much enthusiasm. “It can be found in the liver, gonads, intestines, and skin of fish in the Tetraodontoidea family, which includes ocean sunfishes, porcupine fishes, and fugu.”

“Marilyn, copy reference details to my private directory at GeoSync Five, along with the Medical Examiner’s report. Authorize by voice.”

“Your request has been received, Sam.” Her voice suddenly sultry, Marilyn continues, “If you’re interested in exotic seafood, you should really try Aquamarine. It’s the only restaurant in Northern California licensed to serve fugu, the blowfish much beloved in Japan. Chef Shingen Saba hasn’t lost a customer in fifteen years. His five-course fixed-price menu includes hireshu, sashimi tessa, and tetchiri stew. For those who prefer to be reassured, Aquamarine will run a toxin test on your fugu for an extra $490—and no one will think any less of you. In seven months, on December 3, a table for two will be available at 6:00 p.m. Would you like to make a reservation?”

“No, Marilyn.” Sam continues waiting for his call to go through. He recalls the wounds on Dr. Mako’s body. If Mako was poisoned, such cuts might have been inflicted post mortem, in anger. The alternative—that he was tortured and then force-fed fugu—makes no sense. The facial mutilation means its personal. He knows the feeling, an adrenaline-drunk rage that’s owned him for years. It’s an understanding he longs to give up.

“Handshake received,” Marilyn finally says. “Begin transmission.”

The image of an elderly man with sparse gray hair appears, hovering in the air. Only his torso is visible. “Mr. Crane, what can I do for you?” he inquires.