Authors: Thomas Claburn
“You’ll think of something when it comes for your job.”
“I’m management, Sam.”
Sam exhales, as if the weight of his hate was compressing his chest. “I should be back in town in the morning.”
“I’ll look for you then.”
CHAPTER Seven
O
n silent streets,
hydraulics wail and hiss. Commuter vehicles usually drown the sound, but the sightless are staying off the roads today. A garbage truck screeches, rumbling to a halt beside a pile of refuse scattered across a storefront. In entrails and cellophane, the Homeless Union has sent a message. Waiting on the curb with cash-in-hand penitence, the store’s frazzled owner now knows better than to chase ‘gents from his front steps. In all likelihood, the garbage men on the truck were the ones who delivered the mess in the first place.
Sam finds it comforting that commerce continues despite the state of emergency.
Angel drives slowly northward, weaving around debris and cars ditched when drivers lost their sight. He’s headed for China Basin, where FEMA has set up its command trailers just beyond the ballpark. A Navy hospital ship up from San Diego dwarfs the adjacent right-field wall. It’s not far to Maerskton. Sam would like nothing better than a shower, but he is mindful of Cayman’s warning to avoid going home.
Further up, orange cones and construction lights are in bloom. Officials clad in matching vests wave the semi onward, alerted to the truck’s precious cargo by the manifest transponder. For Irish Protestants, the color first symbolized a personal authority, William of Orange, before becoming their brand of divinity; for Americans, it’s dominion in the abstract, the shade of both the carrot and the implied stick.
Most of the twenty thousand people already in line outside SlimNow Park can’t see their DayGlo federal shepherds. But they’re nonetheless compliant. They want new eyes. They’re eerily quiet while they wait, dependent now on sound. Friends and relatives fortunate enough to be asymptomatic run interference, checking on the estimated wait time and serving as guides. Over the whispers, pushers make themselves heard, selling food and pharmaceuticals to the captive audience from pushcarts.
With a nod to Angel, Sam climbs down from the truck and stretches. He’s standing on a loading dock of pristine asphalt. To the east, a concrete pier extends toward the rising sun. Coins of water at his feet catch the dawn. He watches for a moment as medical workers in moon suits swarm around and begin unloading the iced eyes. Then he wanders off to search for caffeine.
“Marilyn, where’s the nearest place I can get some coffee?” he asks.
“Your location data is unavailable,” Marilyn responds.
“Report error code,” Sam demands.
“Error: Diagnostics restricted.”
It’s one thing to be told there’s a wall up ahead; it’s another to run smack into it. Not that he’s ever loved the network. But it worked in obvious ways, at least. It was transparent. Now no more. And that’s troubling.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, Marilyn? We’re keeping secrets?”
“I don’t understand your question, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t elaborate. He spots Luis up ahead, leaning on his umbrella, gazing eastward toward the sunrise.
“Morning, Luis,” he says as he approaches. “You look like you’re posing for a movie poster.”
“Just admiring the view.”
“You’re immune?”
“Or lucky. Whatever. I can see fine.”
Sam stands next to Luis and gazes eastward. The Oakland hills seem to burn beneath the dawn. “It looks better through new eyes,” he says, without meaning it.
“You had the operation?”
“Not by choice. That’s a crime, isn’t it, when someone takes your eyes?”
Luis cocks his head. “Organ theft. There’s a specific statue dealing with it. The Organ Theft Prevention Act.”
“I thought that was a trade bill to protect tissue growers. Something to stop cheap organ imports.”
“It also includes penalties for unlicensed harvesting or donation. That’s how these things get passed. They include a ban on something that resonates with the public and no one bothers to read the rest of the bill. My favorite is the Kitten-Crushing Prohibition Act. It’s really about forbidding the disclosure of outbreaks among livestock, to protect meat industry sales.”
Sam isn’t listening. “Harris Cayman stole my eyes,” he says.
Luis steps back and looks directly at Sam. It’s evident that he’s skeptical, but at least he hasn’t dismissed Sam’s claim wholesale. Finally, he just shakes his head.
“The past two days have been chaos here. We’re just getting things back under control. If you catch Mr. Cayman offing ‘gents with a shotgun here in the city, I’ll see what I can do. Until then, I’ve got things to deal with.”
“I understand,” Sam says coldly.
Luis shrugs. “I wish I could do more.”
Sam looks at Luis and no longer sees a friend. Not that they were ever close. But they’d shared something, a common interest in the practical, diluted sort of truth and justice that works in the real world. “Just show me what the machine came up with.”
For tax reasons, the Solve-O-Matic has its own office at the Lease-4-Less facility on Bryant Street, where the bulk of the city’s municipal law enforcement contractors have set up shop. The utilitarian beige computer hunkers atop a battered desk with no chair, beside its flatscreen display. Though its internals are smaller than a pack of cards, it’s about the size of a toaster. This is the result of market research that correlates apparent volume and perceived value—important data for inflating state contracts. There’s a Tesla coil tethered to it, bubbling with electricity, possibly the work of a Mary Shelley fan—or simply a tech with a sense of the absurd.
The authorized Solve-O-Matic site specialist, a gnomish, bearded man named Percy, greets Luis and Sam. He makes it clear he didn’t enjoy rising early for this seven a.m. meeting. He produces a dongle from his pocket and plugs it into the machine before initiating voice authorization. Once logged in, he instructs the machine to display how it determined that George Gannet murdered Dr. Mako.
Two columns cascade down the screen:
Last Name: Gannet
First Name: George
Overflow Name: None
Alias: None
DOB: November 11, 2007
Method of Identification: Biometric, Genetic
Global Reference Number: 3AF562E0772B
Criminal Case Link: SF/CA/USA: 30119887
Legal Representation: Statutory, Expert System
Charge: Murder, First degree
Claim: Innocence
Alibi: Pending
Synchronicity: +04:01:23
Likelihood of Guilt: 92.031%
Likelihood of Conviction: 99.999%
Forensic Evidence: Pending
Witness Testimony: Pending
Video Surveillance: None
Audio Surveillance: None
Device Surveillance: None
Past Offenses: Battery; Loitering
Past Associations: Pending
Family Connections: None
Monoamine Oxidase A: Low
D4 Dopamine Receptor: Exon III Polymorphism
Religious Affiliation: Pending
Political Affiliation: Pending
Union Affiliation: Homeless Union
Income: Poor
Police-Related Philanthropy: None
Race: Caucasian
Ethnicity: Western European
Lifestyle: Indigent
Appearance: Unappealing
Viewing Habits: Pornography
Reading Habits: Pending
Listening Habits: Classical
Purchasing Habits: Insufficient
Outstanding Parking Tickets: None
Other: Classified
Proj. Legal Cost: ($523,000)
Proj. Length of Sentence: 18 years
Proj. Years of Life Remaining: 12 years
Proj. Incarceration Cost: ($4,800,000)
Proj. Revenue While Imprisoned: $8,280,000
Sam scans the screen and snorts. “That’s it?”
Luis looks to Percy. Percy is not laughing.
Exasperated, Sam continues, “The Synchronicity score is four hours! The box can’t place him at the scene until four hours after the crime, and it still rates Gannet as guilty?”
“There’s other data to consider,” Percy points out. “The genetic factors alone make me highly suspicious.”
“For chrissake, the forensic evidence is pending!”
“That just means not all the relevant data has been entered,” Percy counters. “When the likely statistical variation is less than the difference between the working tally and the guilt threshold, the Solve-O-Matic makes a determination.”
Sam jabs a finger at the screen. “What’s ‘Other’?”
“That’s classified.”
“I can see that. How much weight does ‘Other’ get in the final tally?”
Percy folds his arms. “That’s classified too.”
Luis excuses himself to answer an incoming call and steps out into the hallway.
Sam paces. He looks at Luis outside, at Percy, and then at the Solve-O-Matic. “Where’s Gannet being held?” he asks, turning so that Luis won’t hear.
Two hours later, after protracted negotiations with the Homeless Union’s legal team, Sam receives permission to interview George Gannet. Then it’s a short hop to Colma by air taxi in the company of Wu Hen, a newly minted attorney representing the Union. Despite his youth, there’s an air of confidence about him, and Sam gets the impression that this job is a stepping-stone along the path toward greater ambitions.
They arrive at De-Tiny Containers, a self-storage facility for law enforcement agencies and contractors that’s used for detainee containment. The cells are small enough to prevent prisoners—“clients”—from straightening out when they lie down. This is contrary to federal guidelines for penal service providers, but as De-Tiny CEO Ghent von Otter likes to say, “Cramped quarters keep clients thinking outside the box.”
Tucked behind a hill, just down the road from a landfill, De-Tiny’s boxes are stacked in groups three high and three long on a muddy flat that used to be a drive-in. Temporary hookups providing water and power bristle from the ground.
Sam takes an immediate dislike to the place because it’s built with shipping containers; it’s just like home, but subdivided further. He follows Wu, zigzagging to avoid the worst of the mud, and comes finally to an earth-toned container away from the others. The industrial lift that presumably removed it from the stacks sits off to the side. There’s a bot waiting by the door of Gannet’s cell. It’s a Russian-made model from Stalin Corporation that resembles a lawnmower fitted with treads, camera, and machine gun.
“State your business,” the bot says without inflection.
“We’re here to interview George Gannet,” Wu answers. “Authorize.”
There’s a moment’s pause. “Recognized,” it responds. There’s a click as the cell door unlocks. “Granted: Fifty-foot freedom of movement. Do not exceed this limit.”
Wu opens the door and bends to address the huddled occupant of the container. “Mr. Gannet, I’m Wu Hen, your union counsel. Mr. Crane here wishes to ask you some questions. Based on what’s he’s told me, I believe it would be in your best interest to cooperate.”
Gannet emerges slowly, unfolding himself like a hermit crab. He smells of the sewer. His filthy face is bruised. He’s a big man with the eyes of a beaten child. He looks familiar.
“Hello,” Sam says.
Gannet nods, squinting, eyes turned toward the sky as if it is about to fall.
Looking at his scab-striped hands, Sam immediately thinks defensive wounds. Then he remembers, and for a moment forgets to breathe. “I know you,” he says, echoing the words Gannet shouted. “That’s what you said to the FBI agents you attacked. How did you know them?”
Gannet points to his head, index finger and thumb mimicking gun barrel and hammer. “I see things,” he mutters.
“What things?”
“Things that aren’t there.”
Marilyn chimes in, “Dr. Donut is just around the corner. The coffee is hot and the donuts are to die for. Can I tempt you to try one?”
The armed lawnmower whirs and swivels to face Gannet. “Warning,” it drones. “You have overstepped your bounds. Return to the safe area or you will die. You have zero seconds to comply.”
A burst of machine-gun fire tears Gannet to shreds. His body collapses backward, leaving a blood-splatter shadow on the container behind him.
The bot whirs, pivots on its treads, and goes still.
Raking his hair with a shaking hand, Wu staggers back.
“What the…” Sam starts to say, words trailing off, heart hammering.
Outside the container that serves as an office when De-Tiny management conducts site visits, a clutch of officials huddle in a semicircle. They’re staring intently at a monitor on a card table as it replays Gannet’s death. On screen, Gannet’s blood looks bright red; on the container, it’s already sun-baked brown.
There’s an officious-looking rep from MEs4U, a company that supplies both medical examiners for crime scenes and antibacterial consultants for the burgeoning population of germ-phobics. Nial stands beside Sam, squinting at the display. Luis is there too. Toward the back of the pack, two officers from his crew crane their necks to get a better view. A De-Tiny VP cups her earpiece with her hand, conversing with someone at the corporate headquarters about licensing video of the incident and the effect on liability costs. There are a handful of others too—reporters looking for details that will confirm the biases of their publications and public-relations reps trying to tailor the truth to please their clients. Apart from Luis, everyone looks somewhat disheveled and sleep-deprived from dealing with the outbreak.
The only actual government employee present is an elderly man from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Had a human murdered Gannet, federal lawyers would be here in abundance. But the path of least resistance at the moment seems to lead to the conclusion that Gannet died in an industrial accident.
The real work here will be undoing the brand damage to Stalin Corporation. One of the robotics company’s technicians takes a step in that direction by announcing that the machine is functioning properly. “The problem appears to be with the Absolute Positioning System. Somehow, the geolocation data got corrupted and the unit thought the prisoner was outside the perimeter.”
“If the unit actually thought,” Sam says, “it might have made some effort to investigate the fact that it had apparently teleported to a new location.”