Authors: Thomas Claburn
The vehicle’s downdraft disperses the onlookers. Ernesto remains, hands bound with plastic ties. He’s being questioned by two uniformed officers from the cruiser and a hooker—presumably an undercover cop he had the bad luck to run into.
Sam introduces himself and explains his interest in Ernesto. At the mention of Luis’s name, the cops relax, as if among one of their own.
“What’d you do to light a fire under this guy?” the undercover cop asks, adjusting her bustier.
“He just bolted.”
“I thought you were someone else,” Ernesto says.
One of the officers rolls his eyes. “You want to explain?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You were speeding.”
“Come on, man. Speeding?”
“Misdemeanor, Vehicle Code Section 4000.15.”
“Reckless ambulation,” the second elaborates. “Good for a sleepover downtown.”
“And a fine,” the first officer adds.
Ernesto looks up in despair. There’s no help forthcoming from above. “I owe some money, okay?”
Sam says, “You mind if I ask him something?”
“Fire away,” says the second officer.
“How you doin’, Ernesto?”
The diminutive waiter snorts. “How the hell do you think?”
“Look, I’m sorry about this. I’m looking into the death of a guy who used to eat at Aquamarine, Dr. Xian Mako. He dined there back in January. It’d really help me if you could remember something about the people he was with.”
“Why should I help you?”
“’Cause maybe if you’re helpful, our friends here won’t arrest you.” Sam glances at the cops, guessing they’d rather not deal with the arrest forms, and is rewarded with reluctant nods of agreement.
A bit more at ease, Ernesto scratches his ear with his shoulder. “January was a long time ago. I serve a lot of tables.”
“Dr. Mako ordered fugu. There were three others with him. The bill was $25,600.”
Ernesto nods. “Okay, I do remember that. Some sort of party.”
“Names?”
“Sorry. But they charged the meal to a company called Biopt.”
Suppressing a grin, Sam asks Ernesto to spell it out.
“Is that all?”
“One more thing. Did Dr. Mako come in on Sunday?”
“Not that I know of.”
Sam nods, thinking through permutations of what might have happened. If Mako didn’t come to the poison, perhaps the poison came to him. “Who supplies fugu to the restaurant?”
“Ikura Industries. I forget where they are.”
“Ikura Industries is on Pier 29,” Marilyn volunteers.
“Thanks, Ernesto. I appreciate your help.”
Following handshakes with the cops, Sam heads back to his bike. He’s thinking about Marilyn. As much as he resents her constant attention, he can’t help but feel flattered.
The Zvista Research Hospital stands across from the UCSF Medical Center on Third Street, just south of SlimNow Park. (SlimNow Inc. bought the naming rights to the stadium when company executives recognized the potential synergy between its calorie-control regimen and the stadium’s booming concessions business.)
Sam arrives in the parking lot and gets off his bike. He’s eager to see how his daughter is taking the change of scene.
Several packages scurry by, coifed with gripping tendrils that resemble spaghetti. Unlike passive containers, glom boxes arrange their own transportation by scuttling between hitched rides, when they’re too heavy to be sent by drone. A box clinging to the roof of one’s car is usually a welcome sight; the parcel credits funds to its carrier for miles traveled. But for motorcyclists, glom boxes take up too much room. Worse, their sense of balance is poor, forcing bikers to compensate constantly.
Tempting though it is to kick the parasitic little bastards, Sam knows better. The synthetic muscle wrapping that moves and protects the packages has the strength of an anaconda—as many would-be thieves have discovered.
In the entryway, Sam endures what amounts to a virtual cavity search. Sensors on articulated wire arms pass to and fro about his body. Lights flash and a mass spectrometer sniffs the air.
A female voice, firm but nonconfrontational, says, “Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.”
“Sam Crane. I’m visiting my daughter.”
Somewhere, a voice-stress analyzer, satisfied that it has heard the truth, signals the door mechanism to open.
“Proceed to the elevators at the far end of the lobby. Fiona Crane is in Room 305. On the third floor.”
Sam raises an eyebrow at the video lens, surprised that the security system sounds so haughty. On the third floor, dumbass!
A cleaning bot pauses as Sam passes, then resumes its caress of the terrazzo floor.
Exiting the elevator, Sam follows the sign toward Room 305. He passes an attendant at the monitoring station. The man glances up only briefly from a bank of monitors. He can see his own image on one of the screens, a security profile propagating throughout the building’s network. On the back wall, a picture screen fades from image to image. One of them catches his eye.
Sam waits for the pictures to cycle again. They look like they might be part of a visual press kit—happy doctors with happy patients, Zvista’s success stories.
The attendant watches Sam watching. “Can I help you?” South African, to judge by his accent.
“There!” Sam points as the image reappears. Dr. Mako stands behind a podium with two colleagues at an awards ceremony. “Do you know any of the people in that picture?”
A shrug. “I’ve only been here a year.”
“Do you know who would?”
“Probably Shannon Vole. She’s the facilities manager.”
“Where’s her office?”
“Room 719.”
“Thanks.”
Sam lingers a moment longer. He’s tempted to think it a coincidence, but the words to one of his favorite songs counsel otherwise: “Accidents never happen in a perfect world.” While it might sound like a mantra for the paranoid, it’s the simple truth of life under the network’s sponsored benevolence. Planes fall from the sky, pictures appear, and doors open. The network moves in mysterious ways.
Sam slows as he approaches Room 305, indulging in a momentary reverie, envisioning Fiona sitting up, smiling. He knows better.
The room is sunny and sterile. He asks Marilyn to load the wall display with photos from a vacation in Hawaii, before the accident. This requires some negotiation between his agent and Zvista’s systems, but it’s quickly arranged. Though he finds the snapshots painful to look at, he hopes they’ll help bring his daughter back. In addition to images of Fiona wading into the bright surf, ads for fitness centers, skin cancer awareness, and the Catholic Church appear periodically. Sam cannot help but wonder whether the CPM—cost per thousand impressions—is lower when the target audience is comatose.
Sitting beside the bed, Sam updates Fiona on the case. He does so both for her stimulation and for his mental organization. And because he knows his voice is being logged; the recording might prove useful if something were to happen to him. But nothing will, he tells his daughter.
Shortly after four, he kisses Fiona and departs.
In the hallway, he asks Marilyn to locate Shannon Vole.
“She’s in her office,” Marilyn replies cheerfully. “Her agent says she does not wish to be disturbed.”
“Explain that I’m investigating a murder and that it’s important that I see her.”
“Her agent wants to know if you can help her fix a parking ticket.”
Sam rubs his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just arrange the meeting.”
After a brief silence, Marilyn says, “It’s all set. You now have access to the seventh floor. Please proceed to Room 719.”
“Thanks, Marilyn, “ Sam replies as he returns to the elevator.
“Have you heard of Netiquette, Sam?”
“Social Graces for the Modern World, by Emily Bass. You’ve only pitched that book to me three times.”
“I think it’s something you should consider. And it’s been marked down to $219, for a limited time only, from the Book-A-Year Club. It could be waiting for you when you get home.”
“Or not.”
“That sort of tone is why I keep recommending it.”
“Do all network agents explain their programming to win sympathy?”
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I cannot discuss operating parameters,” Marilyn chirps.
The elevator arrives just as Sam does, thanks to the local network’s traffic prediction routine. It knows he’s headed for the seventh floor. It has no idea he’s ready to hit something.
The doors part at the sound of a dull chime. The hallway is filled with a mix of doctors in lab coats and administrators in business suits. Arrows appear on wall monitors as Sam passes, directing him to his destination.
A door opens. Room 719. A masculine woman emerges. “I’ll be right with you,” she says, then turns back into the room. She’s conversing with someone over the net.
Unsure whether to step inside, Sam remains in the hall. When it dawns on him that he’s letting Marilyn’s low opinion of his manners make him timid, he steps into Shannon’s office for spite.
“…I realize that, but the vision lab isn’t available. Dr. Dunnart is directing tests there personally. … I have no idea. They don’t tell me anything. … Hold on for a moment.” Shannon turns to Sam. “Would you mind waiting outside? This is taking longer than I expected.”
“Right.” Sam retreats and the door closes.
A few minutes later, Shannon opens the door and beckons. “Sam Crane, is it?”
“Yes.” Sam takes a seat. He’s bothered by the lack of bookshelves. Apart from a framed photo print of a beagle in a sweater, the office feels like a hotel room, impersonal. It offends him as an investigator, not being able to tell anything about the occupant.
Shannon steps behind her desk and drops into her chair. “I was told you’re working a murder. What brings you here?”
“My daughter, actually. She’s here for the Lucidan trial.”
“Well, isn’t she the lucky one.”
Sam stiffens. “She’s in a coma. She’s not that lucky.”
“I’m sorry, I mean she’s lucky to be in that trial. We turned a lot of well-connected people away.”
“Really? Like who?”
“Well, that’s just what I hear. Mr. Cayman was the one who approved the final list.”
“Mr. Cayman?”
“Harris Cayman. He’s the chairman of the board.”
“Is the list available?”
“Our records are confidential. It says that in the patient agreement.”
“I guess my agent missed that in summarizing it.”
Shannon leans forward. “So who was it who got killed?”
A brief silence. Sam notices her tremors of anticipation. A mystery fan, he supposes. Someone who romanticizes the hunt. Perhaps an ally, if properly fed. “Does the name Xian Mako ring a bell?”
A glimmer of recognition appears on Shannon’s face. “Was he a doctor?”
“Yes. Do you remember him?”
“I’m not sure. The name sounds familiar. But there are a lot of doctors here.”
“Let me get a picture. Marilyn?”
“Yes?” she answers, her sultry voice stripped of its power by the micro-speakers in Sam’s jacket.
“Facial recognition match. Use Dr. Xian Mako from my files. Search today’s personal video log from a quarter of four onward. Copy hits to Shannon Vole’s desk monitor. And no ads, please.”
“Done. Seventy dollars will be debited from your account.”
“You’re lucky to have your employer picking up your computing tab,” Sam grumbles.
Shannon nods. She agrees to receive Sam’s data. The image of the attendant at the monitoring station appears on her screen. “This is Nelson. He works here.”
“Zoom in on the wall display. Mako is the one behind the podium.”
Shannon adjusts the image, then shakes her head. “The picture is part of our public relations campaign. That’s all I know.”
Sam sighs. “Do you know where the picture came from?”
“Greta, where and when was this picture taken?”
“One moment,” says a voice with a Swedish accent. “Insufficient data.”
“Elaborate,” Sam commands—and then turns to Shannon. “Will you ask her to explain the error message?”
“Greta, please elaborate.”
“The Absolute Position System data field does not correspond to a terrestrial location.”
Sam buries his head in his hands. That can’t be accidental. “Do you keep offline backups?”
“Yes, at Past Perfect.”
More secure than Fort Knox. No bluffing his way in there. “Could you pull a copy of this picture?”
“I can submit a request through our system administrator.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate it.” Sam stands, his mind racing. Something is missing, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.
“Good luck,” Shannon says.
Already weary, Sam drives down to China Basin to collect his thoughts. He parks his bike at the South Beach Marina and ambles onto the concrete pier. Asian men and their sons press against the railing, fishing in a bay that’s all but dead. Serious anglers frequent fish farms. But perhaps the nylon lines keep these casual fishers tied to a way of life left behind. In the Port of Oakland, aging tankers that once held oil unload water destined for fields in the Monsanto Valley.
The sound of the sailboats, the tolling of rigging against mast, is what brings him. Like wind chimes, but hollow; mournful rather than tinkling. It’s found music, not the calculated hippie kitsch that peals from porches when a breeze kicks up.
Sam sits on a bench toward the end of the pier. He buys half an hour of silence from Marilyn to avoid the ads about swimming, boating, and Fisherman’s Wharf that plague anyone near the water. He doesn’t have enough money to live the unsponsored life for long, but sometimes it’s necessary for his sanity.
Feeling much more relaxed for the quiet, Sam plays back the past two days in his head, then goes through the log files. There’s something odd about what Luis said at the crime scene:
“We found his name, degree, and affiliation in the metadata. We used that to seed a search and got one relevant hit in the GeneTrak database. But apart from his name, all the form fields were blank. Not even a valid home address.”
He replays the audio log several times before it hits him. Why would he say a “valid” home address? That suggests uninterpretable data, not a blank field. A subtle point perhaps, but the picture of Mako from Zvista had the same problem.