Bodyguard

3

“We pay cash for used body parts.”

From the sign in front of Arturo’s Pawn Shop, Sub-Level 26, Sea-Tac Residential-Industrial Urboplex

It took the Zeebs about thirty minutes to summon the meat wagon, ask my neighbors stupid questions, and toss my apartment. Then, having assured themselves that I had nothing worth taking, they left a microbot to keep an eye out for me and headed for the nearest doughnut shop.

Had I been one of the wealthier freelancers, or an honest-to-god lifer, things would have been different. That’s because the Zebras work for a company called Pubcor, which makes most of its money providing security to other corporations. I mean, who would you worry about? The people who pay you millions each year? Or the great unwashed horde who ante up six bucks a month? Right. Me too.

So, having left the lady’s door open so someone would discover her predicament, I joined the crowd on Level 37. It isn’t easy for me to blend into a crowd, but I did the best I could. Membership in the great unwashed horde is based on more than appearance. It’s a matter of attitude. And to have the right attitude, you need to live the kind of hand-to-mouth existence freelancers do.

It wasn’t always that way, I hear. There was a time when companies offered their workers what amounted to lifetime employment. But that ended back around the turn of the century when the last of the communist governments collapsed and capitalism reigned supreme.

After all, why pay employees during periods when you don’t need them, especially when the population continues to increase? And automation drives the total number of jobs downwards? So that’s how nearly everyone wound up as “freelancers,” working when companies wanted them, and waiting when they didn’t.

Knowing that, I imitated the slump-shouldered shuffle of a work-starved freelancer, avoided eye contact with oncoming traffic, and moved at the same pace as the rest of the crowd. Sameness. That’s the key. People who act differently stand out from the crowd and are easy to remember.

The further underground you go, the worse the conditions get. My particular complex includes fifty sub-levels altogether so 37 is pretty bad. God only knows what 45 or 50 is like. I’ve never been there. The corpies who run the place save money by leaving every other lighting fixture empty. The substandard plumbing that the original contractor installed bursts on a regular basis, causing unexpected waterfalls that slide down walls or pour through broken ceiling tiles. Additional cable, not included in the original bid, hangs suspended beneath the overhead. Trash, including used condoms, drug injectors, stripped droids, food cartons, soiled clothing, and other stuff too gross to mention piles up fast. The robo-cleaners come through every night, but by noon the next day everything is just the same.

And the human debris is almost as bad. Addicts of every description laying unconscious in the filth, beggars who sold arms, legs, eyes, and god knows what else for a few credits, and street children, wise beyond their years, selling, stealing, and scamming their way through another day. I hate to say it, but Earth is a toilet world, ready to flush.

My first stop was a hallway hotel where I could rent a seven-by-four-foot sleeping compartment. It cost five bucks for twenty-four hours. I slid inside, checked to make sure that it was reasonably clean, and closed the door behind me. Like most sleep slots, this one boasted graffiti-covered walls, a mattress with a patched cover, and a beat-up vid set.

It took ten minutes to disassemble the.38, wipe it down, install a new barrel, and change the firing pin. Something I could do blindfolded if I had to. The change-out isn’t foolproof, but it does serve to slow the Zeebs down and weakens their case. Assuming they made a case, which was damned unlikely. Snatchers are far from popular, and without a lifer goading them on, the Zebras could give a shit. Still, you need a license to carry heat, and the Zeebs would like nothing more than to jerk my ticket. So why tempt the bastards?

Yeah, I might have turned myself in and claimed self-defense, but that would have consumed one, maybe two days, and lessened my chances of finding Sasha.

I left the bag in the sleeping compartment, dumped the incriminating parts down a recycling chute, and headed for the escalators. People swirled around me, and an interactive wall ad tried to engage me in conversation. It had a high-resolution flat screen with pinpoint sound. The electronic pitchman had black hair combed straight back, a biosculpted face, and fervor-filled eyes. They followed me as I moved.

“Hey, mister! You look like a guy that has jock itch. Let me show you the Elexar 9000 Groin Grooming System and I’ll…”

I never found out what he’d do, because the foot traffic narrowed as we approached the escalator and sucked me along with it. The crowd was typical, low-end day workers mostly, wearing beepers that rarely beeped, hoping for the five or six days’ worth of work necessary to pay that month’s rent. And there were predators too, scammers, zonies, and bangers, all looking for easy prey. And why not? They were self-employed, worked when they felt like it, and didn’t kiss ass.

A banger, big in leather and lace, shifted his hockey stick from one shoulder to the other and moved my way. A buddy followed.

I made eye contact, grinned invitingly, and blew him a kiss. I like to shoot bangers, and it must have showed. He said something to his companion and they turned away.

The crowd poured off the escalator and headed down-corridor. I followed. Tracking someone through a major urboplex isn’t as hard as you might think. Yeah, the halls are packed with people, but the trick is to see through them. Look for the things that stand still. Like the expresso stand that occupies the same spot every day, the kids who throw pennies against the wall, and the blind man who isn’t so blind.

I don’t know why Marvin runs the scam he does, but he’s been at it a long time, and knows Level 39 like the back of his hand. I bought an Americano at the expresso stand and drifted his way. Marvin has black skin, wraparound electro-shades, and hair that looks as if it’s exploding off his head.

“Shoeshine? Shoeshine to help the po’ blind man?”

I stepped onto his stand, sat on the red vinyl seat, and put my boots on a well-worn foot rest. “Poor, my ass. What do you rake in from this racket, anyway? Twenty? Thirty a year?”

Had I been a corpie, just passing through, Marvin would’ve asked me what color my boots were. But I wasn’t, so he let it slide. Carefully manicured hands, stained dark by constant exposure to the polish, slid over my boots. The movement had started as part of the act and evolved into a habit.

“More money than some dumb-assed white-bread shield, that’s for damned sure,” Marvin replied. “Shit, Maxon, they took the bitch right out from under your god-damned nose and left you looking like a chump. My mother could’ve done a better job.”

Mysterious are the ways of a Marvin, so I didn’t bother to ask how he knew about the girl or the fact that I had lost her. “Yes,” I agreed sagely, “your mother could have done a better job, as any mirror will attest.”

Marvin smeared brown polish on my boots and gave a snort of disgust. “Chrome-headed motherfucker.”

“Not so,” I replied solemnly. “It’s true that I have a chrome-plated head…but my relationship with Mom was strictly platonic. Or so I assume.”

Marvin laughed. “So what’s up? You goin’ after her? Or gettin’ ready for a date?”

I sipped my coffee, watched an androgynous hall ho strut by, and looked down at the top of his head. A number of tiny silver bells had been woven into his hair. They tinkled as he moved.

“I’m going after her. Got any idea who they were? Or where they went?”

Marvin grabbed a pair of brushes and buffed my boots. “Shit. If you know who they are…then you know where they went. Everybody knows that.”

Marvin likes to piss me off and knows how to do it. I forced a smile. “Thanks for the insight. Nifwamp iggledo reeko. So who the hell were they?”

Marvin looked up and grinned. “Snatchers.”

I took a deep breath. “I know that. Who did they work for?”

Marvin produced a rag and snapped it across the top surface of my left boot. “Shit. Ain’t my fault if you don’t ask the right questions. They work for a company called Trans-Solar.”

“And how do you know that XXX672TTT?”

“’Cause they wore matching holo-jackets with the name ‘Trans-Solar’ written across the backs. And my name ain’t triple X whatever, turdface.”

“Sorry. They passed your stand?”

“They sure as hell did.”

“And the girl? She was okay?”

Marvin shrugged. “A bit mussed but otherwise fine.”

“Trans-Solar, huh?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Deederwomp.”

Marvin shook his head sadly. The bells tinkled cheerfully. “Deederwomp to you too, asshole.”

I racked my brain trying to remember if the deader had been wearing a jacket, and if so, whether it said “Trans-Solar” on it. As with so many other things, the information was missing.

Marvin gave the rag one last snap and straightened up. My boots looked better than they had for years. He stuck his hand out. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks. Twenty for the information and five for the shine.”

I stood, slid a greasy twenty-five-dollar bill out of my wallet, and slapped it on his hand. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Screw you.”

We grinned and parted company, Marvin to work his scam and me to find my client. The crowd closed around me like a river around a raindrop. No matter how poor they might be, most of the people around me meant something to somebody. You know, friends, family, people who cared. After all, what good are accomplishments without someone to share them with? And a background to compare them to? But, according to the disk the corpies had given me along with my medical discharge, I had no family, no friends, and, outside of a talent for mayhem, no marketable skills.

So that, plus my tendency to make mistakes in social situations, had relegated me to the status of the eternal outsider. And, while some might envy my so-called freedom, they didn’t sleep alone every night.

But that sounds like whining. Something I detest. Work, that was the answer. The fifty K Seculor had promised me was enough for a down payment on a hole-in-the-wall-café. And, surrounded by my regulars, I’d have someone to shoot the shit with. Pathetic, huh? Well, who said I was anything else?

So, back to business. If Marvin was right, Trans-Solar had put the snatch on Sasha. Now, some other person might have wondered why the snatchers revealed their identities when they didn’t have to, but I didn’t. No, it seemed like an accidental slip-up to me, and I proceeded accordingly.

The first step was to make some travel arrangements and find out where Trans-Solar was located: a task made relatively easy by sliding my single credit card into a slot, waiting for the door to slide open, and stepping into a com booth. The door hissed closed behind me and I damned near gagged on the smell. Someone, or a number of someones, had urinated in the enclosure rather than take their chances in a public rest room along with everyone else. Assholes.

The lights dimmed, and a rather seductive female voice intoned the words that everyone has heard a thousand times. “Welcome to the Pubcom Gateway 4000. Lean forward until your forehead touches the padding, take hold of both grips, and wait for the main menu to appear. You may choose between tactile or voice control. Please indicate your preference now.”

“Voice.”

“You chose voice. Thank you.”

“Bite my ass.”

“I’m sorry, but the service you requested is not among those I am programed to provide. Please choose from the following menus.”

Characters appeared as the voice read them off. They were pink and floated over a black background. There was everything from a com directory, to on-line games, to travel services, to a gazillion different databases.

When the voice said “travel,” I pulled the trigger on my right hand grip. An arrow appeared. I pulled the trigger on the left side and was sucked into the network. This particular sense-surround had been designed by the famous cyber-architect Moshi Chow. It was designed to seem like a futuristic race course, complete with bullet cars, and a pipe-shaped track. A track on which you could drive right side up or upside down.

I gave the grip another squeeze, felt my car pick up speed, and used the arrow to steer. Other cars were all around me. They came in every color of the rainbow and wove in and out with what seemed like death-defying courage.

I gloried in the feel of it and understood how people came to be addicted. After all, virtual reality was everything that reality wasn’t: exciting, fulfilling, and forever fun. It was, the critics complained, a carefully orchestrated opiate for the people, subsidized by The Board to keep the workers under control. I tried to think my way through the problem, but my head started to hurt and I gave up.

I felt-sensed my destination ahead, took the proper exit, and was downloaded into a custom-made reality. There was no such place, of course, but it looked real, sounded real, and, thanks to kinesthetic feedback, felt real as well.

My not-real vehicle slowed as it entered a glass-and-steel high-tech building and coasted to a stop. I got out. The car pulled away and accelerated out of sight. The room was huge, or seemed to be anyway, and was rather pleasant.

A network of paths led here and there, passing countless kiosks, each designed to look like the sort of destination you had in mind. I saw tropical gardens, a night club, an English pub, a beach motif, and many more.

Navigating by means of the arrow, I made my way over to what looked like a high-tech control console. A woman, crisp in her ship-type suit, looked up and smiled. Her teeth were slightly uneven. A nice little touch by a programmer somewhere.

“Yes? How may I help you?”

“1111000111000110000100100100100000.”

“What was that?”

“I want to visit Europa Station.”

The woman nodded agreeably and gestured towards a command chair. “Have a seat.”

It felt strange to sit in a chair knowing that I was standing in a com booth.

“How would you like to travel?”

“A space ship would be nice.”

The woman smiled patiently.

“No, how would you like to travel? First class? Business? Or coach?”

“Well, I normally travel first class, but the rich food plays hell with my waistline, so coach is better.”

She nodded as if my response was perfectly believable and consulted a free-floating computer screen. “The fair is $23, 879.12 one way.”

I shifted in my chair. “I don’t suppose you have anything less expensive? Dowand imbu odlepork.”

She shook her head. “No sir, I’m afraid we don’t.”

“Hmmm. Well, that being the case, perhaps a shorter trip would be best.”

She raised a carefully programmed eyebrow. “How short? Mars? The moon, perhaps?”

Like most freelancers, I knew exactly what I had in the bank. There was three hundred credits plus my pay from Droidware Inc. “How far could two people go on $800.00?”

The woman consulted her screen again. “Staros- 3.”

“Excuse me?”

“Staros-3 is an Earth-orbit habitat. That’s how far the two of you could go on $800.00. Assuming you’re willing to travel aboard a cargo shuttle with no amenities.”

“I see.”

Staros-3 fell way short of our destination, but it was a step in the right direction, and a reasonably good hiding place. Something we would need when Sasha was free. And if that seems a tad optimistic, remember that I’m half a lobe short of a full brain, and given to occasional oversimplification.

“Okay, Staros-3 it is.”

“Name?”

I gave it some thought.

“Roger Doud.”

“The name of your companion?”

“Imbelzweetnorkab.”

“Spell it please.”

“I meant to say ‘Mary Cooper.’“

The woman nodded, and her electronic hands went through the motions of typing while a computer did the real work. “Method of payment?”

“Electronic transfer.”

“Account number?”

I quoted the number from memory.

“Authorization code?”

“Privacy, please.”

The world went temporarily dark. I gave the code. “Lima beans taste like hammered owl shit.”

The computer heard, transferred the funds, and the surround reappeared. The woman smiled.

“Thank you, Mr. Doud. When would you like to lift?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

She checked the screen. “That will be fine. FENA Air Flight 124 will board from Gate 426, Surface Port 12, at 3:35 p.m. Each passenger is limited to ten pounds of baggage. Questions?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you, and have a nice day.”

I liked the sentiment but didn’t think it would come true. I decided to forgo the subjective ride and jump to the com booth instead. The voice returned along with the main menu. I asked for the business directory, ignored the characters that floated in front of me, and requested a listing of all Trans-Solar facilities located in the northwest section of the North American continent.

Looking back, I realize it would have been a good idea to learn more about the company in hopes of understanding why they had put the snatch on Sasha, but at the time the idea never crossed my mind.

The voice read them off. Trans-Solar had two northwest locations: a downtown business office, and a hangar complex out at the spaceport. It was an easy choice.

The days of enormous high-rise buildings crammed to overflowing with staff were long gone. A regional business office would house five to ten lifers, some overworked freelancers to make coffee, and some security types to protect them. The real day-to-day administrative work would be done by computers and freelancers telecommuting from home. No, all things considered, the office didn’t seem like a place to stash prisoners. Not with a hangar complex to work with.

The entire com booth shook as someone kicked the door. “You been in there long enough. Come the hell out or pay the price!”

I ignored the voice and summoned a map of the spaceport. There was a maze of yellow lines, lots of little red words, and a pulsating orange dot to mark the hangar’s location. Maps give me headaches, so I gritted my teeth, squinted my eyes, and forced the information into my unwilling brain.

A boot hit the door and it bulged inwards.

“You better come outta there, asshole! Or I’m comin’ in!”

My eyes found the main terminal, made obvious by its size and location, and followed a sequence of yellow lines to an orange dot. North, left at the first intersection, then north again. Right at the third intersection, let four grids pass, and watch for it on the right. I closed my eyes, visualized the pattern, and repeated the directions three times.

The door was ripped aside. A gang banger filled the opening. He was young enough to have peach fuzz and old enough to support fifty pounds worth of chromed chain. He wore leather pants, a matching jacket, and a light blue tutu. He held a piece of rebar, painted to match the tutu, and tapped it against his right shoulder. He grinned. “Hi there. My name’s Alice. Wanta dance?”

I showed him the.38. His eyes grew bigger. “Sorry, Alice…but my dance card’s full. 789123789456123.”

I watched him figure the odds, trying to calculate whether he could hit me with the rebar before I pulled the trigger. Caution won out. He bowed and made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Until next time, then.”

I stayed where I was. “Is that a threat? Because if it is, I might as well kill you right now and have done with it.”

His face grew paler and he backed away. I nodded agreeably and left the booth. Kids these days. What’re you gonna do?