The notification of a new message blocked Bett’s sightline of the room. It was addressed to the conglomerate executive he was impersonating but the preview of the first line had his name on it. No one was supposed to know he was here. Opening it could be a trap, but leaving it untouched was an affront to his professional capabilities. He began setting up encryption to protect himself.
Pink and teal sine waves streaming across the dark blue terminal-walls of the office. During working hours stock prices and the latest news would replace the screen saver. It was an inoffensive animation and Bett felt it didn’t do the company justice. If it was up to him the walls would stream Death Reports so the executive that occupied the office during business hours could be reminded of who he’d killed lately.
A flatworm cable ran from the itchy microfuser embedded around his eye to the desk in front of him. The microfuser had yet to heal. The encryption setup took his mind off of it. It’d be another two hours before he could retake the Clarvo pain relievers.
If he retook the Clarvo. The less of it the better. The less he took the less money execs like… he looked at the desk’s name plate… Shawn McNeal would get in monthly bonuses. Shawn… what a neat name. Just like the neat family pictured on McNeal’s desk. McNeal was clean shaven with neatly combed black hair, his wife was at his side, straight black hair make up around her eyes instead of a microfuser. Two girls stood in front of them wearing unwrinkled conglomerate school uniforms. It reminded Bett of high school. He hated it.
Bett was higher than he’d ever been in the valley. Napalm’s bright green car hovered behind him. He could hear the engine through the gap between the window and the wall. The office sat higher than his grandfather’s apartment, higher than Bett’s ‘glom high school. It was certainly higher than the bar they’d discussed this job in.
The fresh air of the night carried wisps of cloud in through the window’s gap. An open window hundreds of stories above the streets of Galleria Valley seemed dangerous to Bett. But the War of Acquisition a few decades ago led to strange office design decisions. Like the fact the desk was in a cubby instead of the center of the room.
The office was freezing cold. Not just because the window was open or because the place was unoccupied. Bett had heard rumors that offices were kept chilly because the execs needed to wear full 9 piece suits, three of those pieces being body armor, which kept bullets out and heat in.
Bett on the other hand wore a high collared neon green raincoat with little insulation and a kevlar vest that Phlox had gifted him a few jobs back. So far he’d kept the holes in both of them to a minimum.
It was eerily quiet this high in the valley. There were no street merchants shouting about their wares, no gunshots echoing like thunder, no taxi engines zooming past kicking bitter smelling smog in your face. Bett’s chest wasn’t restricted by anxiety, despite being on a job. For the first time in a long time he could breathe easily.
The computer chimed notifying him that the Delauren process had completed and the files he came for were ready. He began transmitting the data out of the security of the office. He put some finishing touches on his encryption and opened the strange message.
Robert, Thanks for the sour gum – QB.
Attached to the short message was a cyber-ton of data. Scanning it for threats he found none. There was too much to read so he sent in summarization bots to comb through it. He’d get the gist of the data in only a few seconds.
Phlox dragged a couch across the office. It wrinkled the rug and let out a deep scraping groan and the feet gouged into the floor. Her broad bionically ‘hanced shoulders were locked in place making them appear wider than usual. Napalm leaned on a wall, not seeing any point in helping Phlox. Bett knew his unenhanced torso wouldn’t do much. Instead Napalm contributed some moans about her fortifying the office at all.
“If we get pinned down you’ll be glad this is here,” Phlox said.
“It’s a couch,” Napalm replied, “it’s going to stop a bullet as well as a fly stops a bus.”
“It’s a glom couch.” Phlox patted the cushions.
“And?”
“And the cushions are filled with bullet proof stuffing. Desk has some too.”
“You done yet, kid?” Napalm asked Bett. The driver didn’t help lift the coffee table Phlox was now moving but he did reorient himself in the room so the couch sat between him and the door. The door was locked. The trio hoped it would stay that way. But their boss Mack had only promised ten minutes of concealment.
“Just got some files about some Clarvo research,” Bett replied. He wasn’t sure the summary bots were getting everything right. Some of this data was making some radical claims. He looked into the authenticity manually.
“Are you clocked or something?” Napalm didn’t wait for the answer to take a sour tone. “We’re looking for data about next month’s merger. It’s going to be bloody and Mack wants an edge.”
“That’s sealed up like a suit. It’s transmitting to Mack now. This Clarvo stuff is…” the authenticity came back legit. He didn’t know how it’d wound up addressed to him. Let alone sent to McNeal’s desk. Based on the brief of McNeal he wasn’t even a part of the medical branch of the Mandlestadt conglomerate. McNeal shouldn’t have even gotten it, Bett certainly shouldn’t be reading it.
Bett checked the notification again.
Robert, Thanks for the sour gum – QB.
Sour gum was a kid’s treat. Bett hadn’t had it since he dropped out of glom school.
“Bett. You good?” Phlox asked. She dropped the glass coffee table on the wall of furniture with a thud. It didn’t shatter.
“I knew he’d blow it,” Napalm said. “You and Mack put him in over his head.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Phlox said. “You’re not going to blow it, right?”
“You’re not going to blow it, right?” Phlox asked. She stood between Bett and Napalm, arms stretched wide. Her ‘hanced hand was massive, like her shoulders and hips, her thumb and pinky spanned Bett’s thin frame. Her metal fingers pressed into his chest. “You’re not gonna do anything to his car.”
The private booth at the Ending Theme was becoming conspicuous. Eyes stared and security seemed to apparate from the crowd. The dance music thudded through Bett’s body, his back was against a wall with shaggy fur hanging on it. It didn’t provide him much comfort.
“Should put a crater in your head here and now,” Napalm said.
Bett stared into the dark barrel of the electric blue gun. He was in over his head. His threat slipped out before he could catch it. The burn of the microfuser on his face was making Bett irritable. The computer was under his skin, so he wanted to get under other’s.
“He’s not gonna do anything to your car,” Phlox reassured Napalm. “You’re not doing anything to his car,” she instructed Bett. She lifted her eyebrows encouraging him to take the life preserver she was offering.
“I’m not gonna do anything to your car…” Bett considered adding something to the end of the sentence. Phlox’s gaze kept him quiet.
“Let’s take a seat ‘Palm,” she suggested. She grabbed the tall collar of Bett’s rain jacket and guided him back to the couch like a dog then sat down next to him.
Bett heard the hydraulics of her bionic chest expand as she stretched her metal arms across the back of the couch to act relaxed.
Napalm holstered his gun at his waist and sat opposite of Phlox. The man’s hair was dyed orange and cut high and tight with long curls at the top making it look like a cloud sat on his brow. He wore bright red driving gloves that matched his jacket. His left eye was surrounded with the metal plates of a microfuser. If he had other ‘hances Bett couldn’t spot them. They were likely cerebral. As an elevator Napalm would need to think fast to drive fast.
Bett lost sight of the club’s security. Scuffles were always good for business. Gave the joint real street credit. But things could go from entertaining to problematic in seconds. Security kept it from getting there. Bett wasn’t sure they’d intervene fast enough to save his head.
“You mentioned Mack gave you a terminal with data for the job?” Phlox asked.
Napalm slung a translucent tablet across the table. Phlox booted it up. A man’s head, clean shaven and neatly combed black hair hovered above it as text scrolled vertically next to the bust.
Bett’s cheek burnt. He didn’t feel like reading the exec’s profile. He looked at the terminal’s clock, ten minutes until he could dose up again. What was ten minutes? He reached into his jacket to pull out the Claro.
Napalm’s hand sprung to his waist. “Whatchu doin’ kid?” The words came out measured like a dog’s growl.
“Relax,” Bett revealed the inside of his coat with his other hand to show the auto-IV coming out of his pocket. “It’s for the microfuser.”
“You’re still on that sewage,” Napalm scoffed. “Stopped using mine two weeks after the install.”
“The doc installed mine today.”
“Today?!” Napalm wasn’t impressed. He sounded scared. “Mack said yous were crazy. Fuck we don’t know if he’s even stable.”
“He’s stable,” Phlox said, swiping to the next screen on the tablet. Stock price on 3d graphs hovered in front of her. The data was more than Bett wanted to parse right now.
“I’m stable,” Bett echoed. He rolled up his sleeve to take the meds.
Despite getting the install from a deep doc, instead of a high one, it’d gone well. His mother had a high doc do it. Under conglomerate reimbursement at that. Hadn’t helped.
Phlox put up the cash for the install. She claimed it’d pay for itself with the extra jobs they’d be able to pick up using it. It was the same logic his mom’s project manager used. Unlike his mom Bett held out and didn’t jump at Phlox’s first pitch.
However, he eventually folded. It was expensive to climb out of the valley. Phlox took him to the sketchy doc deep in the Valley. Phlox vouched for him; said he was ex-glom. Did her the shoulder and back ‘hances after the guy who did her arms got gutter service.
“He hasn’t gotten the hang of it. What if he overclocks?” Napalm whined, “The microfuser could get out from under him.”
Bett’s hand shook as he set the Auto-IV on his inner elbow.
“He’s fine,” Phlox assured him. “The encryption needs a Delauren process ran on it,” Phlox told Bett. “You know how to do that?”
Bett took a deep breath and pressed the start button on the Auto-IV, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time. “It’s been a while since I ran a Delauren.”
Lights flashed under the auto-IV running image processing to find his veins. Pneumatic hisses lowered a needle to his skin. The needle, not as sharp as it should have been, went in with a noticeable prick. Bett tried not to gasp.
“We’ve got a couple starter keys here with the tablet.”
Bett failed to stifle the gasp. He felt the cool medicine stream through his veins.
Phlox looked over to him. “You know what to do with them?”
“You’ve got a couple starter keys here on the assignment,” his mother put her finger on the homework problem Bett was working on. “Do you know what to do with them?”
“Of course I know what to do with them,” Bett replied.
His mom’s face looked back at him, she smiled knowing the truth. The smile was kind but the face was unfamiliar. Like when his science teacher Mrs. Galia got a haircut last month. Bett knew it was the same person, but his mind took a moment to realize it.
His mother’s left eye was ornamented with metal plates around it. They tapered to points as they ran around her scull behind her ear. Her hair was shaved for the procedure, small hairs beginning to grow back. The metal plates, he knew they were small computers, protruded out of her skin like hovercar roofs lifted above the trunk and hood. Except unlike the cars the microfusers were surrounded with red skin. Not red like blood but red like his acne.
Small lights flashed across the microfusers indicating that some process was running. It was likely an automatic process but he didn’t know for sure. His mom always focused on people when she talked to them. She refused to multi-process conversations, an inefficiency her manager often pointed out.
“Why’d you have to get that AI installed?” Bett asked.
“It’s not an AI. It is for work.”
“Grandpa never had to get one.”
“Grandpa was higher up than me.”
“Why didn’t you inherit his position?” His grandpa had died two and a half years ago. The only things they’d inherited were his high Valley apartment and access to ParaMed insurance plans, both of which were more than his mom’s salary could support despite working for one of the biggest conglomerates in the valley, Mandlesadt. “Beatrice says that her mother inherited her executive position from her grandmother and someday she’ll get to inherit it from her.”
“Your grandfather wasn’t an executive,” his mother said slowly, almost regrettably. She put her hand to her face, pressed the microfusers, winced, and put her hand in her pocket then looked back down at his homework between them. “The keys, let me show you what to do with them.”
“He fought in the war. Didn’t everyone who survived get to be an exec?”
His mother groaned. Not in anger or frustration. It was the same groan she let out when Grandpa told the stories. “The keys, you plug them into the Delauren function like this,” she started putting together a program on his tablet. Explaining each line she put into place.
The tablet was new. She’d got it for him so he could take an advanced programming class. The same advanced programming class he was putting off homework. “Can’t I do this later?”
“No, we should do it now. You’ve got it in front of you now, easier than trying to dig it up again later.” She spun the computer around to him. “Does this all make sense?” She pressed her hand against her face again but not hard enough to wince. She looked at the time on the tablet then said, “give me a minute.”
“Grandpa always said he should have gotten an executive office. Said we should be higher up in the Valley. But Huntson stabbed him in the back for the position.” He remembered seeing the scars on his grandfather’s wrinkled back every morning when the man made coffee in his underwear.
His mother carried her medicine back to the table and cleaned her inner elbow with a disposable swab. “Did you look over that function I made for you?”
“No,” Bett admitted. “But it’s okay I’ll have an AI on my face like you do if I ever need to do this.”
“The microfuser can’t write the program for you, it’s not an AI.” She placed the auto-IV onto her clean inner elbow. “Besides, an AI would be too dangerous to put in your mind.” She pressed the button and the machine flashed and hissed. “This is just an assistive program that helps speed the processing time–”
Her arm shook, pushing the new tablet off of the table. The auto-IV stayed in place on her arm but her arm flopped uncontrollably.
Bett looked at her, the metal plates were no longer the strangest thing about her face. Her eyes were rolled back into her head. The long hair on the right side of her head flung wildly over her shoulders. He rushed to her side of the table, grabbed her arm, and pressed some buttons to release the auto-IV. It wouldn’t come off. Her whole body was shaking now. She slipped off the chair.
Bett tried to catch her. She wasn’t very big. He wasn’t any bigger. There was little that could be done except ease her fall to the ground.
Her head bumped up and down on the rug. It shook like a sonic-ball, he tried to hold it but it wouldn’t stay still. He wedged his legs under her head, and shouted at the tablet to call the ParaMed emergency number.
The Auto-IV made some more pneumatic sounds then fell off the ground with a thud.
The paramedics would be here soon, conglomerate medics showed up fast, unlike Public Health Service. But the emergency line rang over and over. Bett wondered why it wasn’t an instant connection. His mother’s breaths were shallow. He wondered if he needed to do chest compressions or something like they did in the movies. The medics would tell him on the phone.
“ParaMed ParaMed, we’ll help you out, unless you’re dead,” An automated female voice sang out the company’s jingle. “How may I direct your call?” she asked.
“It’s an emergency, my mom, she,” his voice was frantic, “I don’t know fell over. I need help.”
“There is no policy associated with this account,” the automated voice was a calm and even rhythm.
“It’s under Spencer. I’m Robert Spencer. My mom, she’s Mia Spencer. We’ve got a Mandlesadt plan.” They’d inherited it from their grandfather, at least the discount to afford a plan above their means.
“I’m sorry the policy for Mia and Brett Spencer was discontinued three months ago. I can connect–”
“No! She wouldn’t cancel it. We need medics right now. She needs medical help.”
“I can connect you to the public health service,” the voice repeated calmly.
“No, I don’t want Public Service. I want help right now. There’s a policy. We have a policy.”
“ParaMed can not send private health care medics to an uninsured household. I’m connecting you to the Public Health Service for assistance.”
“I don’t want Public Health!” Bett shouted at the tablet. The cursed thing had been nothing but trouble this evening.
The line rang once then a cheap automated voice notified him it’d be ten minutes before he connected. His mother’s breath had stopped. He tried the things he’d seen in movies, he pressed on her chest, he blew into her mouth, he considered ripping the foreign computers off her face, but knew it wouldn’t help.
When a tele-medic picked up the line, Bett sobbed the story of what had happened into the microphone of the three month old tablet, already out of date compared to his classmate’s tech.
“I’ll send a body crew,” the tele-medic said, “Sorry kid, we can’t fix overclocks.”
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