Those the future left be.., p.23
Those the Future Left Behind, page 23
The pills themselves weren’t terribly expensive, especially with regards to other weight loss solutions, and people were not finding it difficult to replace a meal or two a day with this alternative, especially since their egos tended to inflate along with their perceived stomachs at the thought of doing their part to lay off of true food so that some malnourished individual somewhere else in the world might be able to gain access to the foodstuffs the customers would have ingested otherwise. Rarely is that the case, of course, but the idea was as fashionable as a slim waistline.
The establishments make a real killing by only providing bottled water, the price of which has remained at an all-time high of .15 GCs per liter for the cheapest of brands for the last eight months. I was about to squirt in my first dropper as the indignant sole of a beat cop boot kicked the pedestal upon which I had perched.
“Hey there, Collie! Don’t you know? There are no dogs allowed in these types’a shops, govy or otherwise. Why don’t you mosey on outta here! You’re bad for business.”
The more corpulent of the two cops from whom I had attempted to flee smacked her chops as she finished what certainly had been one of her most brilliant badgerings of her illustrious career, given the busting of her partner’s slightly less-gelatinous gut. About half of the patrons of the place had turned around expecting to see trouble, but I had little time to spare, as avoiding an altercation had been the entire point of my purchase and I had immediately grown tired of the torment. I had dealt with police-borne antipathy for Collectors a few times in my career, but the tapestry that is my patience had worn threadbare in the early hours of this morning. I supposed winning over the crowd would expedite my escape, so I stood on my stool.
“Bad for business?!” I yelled. “I should think not! People, if I may tug your ear for but a moment! The Bureau of Fortune appreciates your continued patronage at a venue whose taxation provides us the opportunity to continue paving the roads you follow to your dreams. As such, I would humbly beg you to allow me the courtesy of purchasing your next cuplet of pills as a demonstration of our appreciation! What say you?!”
A roar followed by the clinking of a great many metal cuplets made it clear where the crowd stood, and I took my seat as they rushed the counter.
“Still bad for business?” I whispered, as I leaned toward the portly police officers, who had more than a few pairs of eyes on them now. “I am uncertain as to your quarrel with my person, but I’d be happy to leave it at this if you would leave by that.”
I finished by pointing towards the door as I looked back at my data pad.
“You Collectors think you’re so great. Getting all the attention. You think you’re untouchable.” The second surly sow oinked before prodding my vest. “A day will come when you pooches are kicked to the street like the mongrels you are, and we upstanding role models of society will get the attention we deserve for protecting the public again.”
“Protecting the public, you say?”
I let off the throttle that had been holding the emotions I had been experiencing from my harrowing personal life in check a smidgeon and bared my lupine canines at the porcine problem barring my passage while showing her the active timer on my data pad.
“I’d say this little piggy joined up solely for attention. I don’t find my career particularly glorious, and I don’t revel in attention, though I did join the Bureau for equally vain a purpose, or lack thereof, really. At least I am professional in my conduct as opposed to one so indecorous as yourself, who indulges in harassing passersby. For that, I am at least welcomed to gnaw at the bones of the public’s meal of excess from my place under its table, but dirty cops like you, content to wallow in the banal pens of insouciant insult that has become the public’s prerogative in this hedonistic age of impersonality when you claim to be their paragons … ever will the trough be where you are welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a job to which I must attend, and I will remind you that interfering with a Collector during an active Collection would ensure that you lose yours.”
I brushed past the blubbery blockade and swiped through the street cam views that had been tracking my quarry as I ran out the doors of the swanky storefront into the sweltering heat, ignoring the holo–projected lines and barriers of the crosswalk nearby, to cut across the marred surface of the ruins of a neglected basketball court on my way to the Collectee’s complex, minding my footing amidst the pockmarks that would no longer permit any but the deftest of dribblers a legal approach to the hoop-less backboards, skirting the makeshift dwellings some dingy denizens had erected around it.
Alder Rousseau had played the game quite well and better than most. He had been awarded a fortune at the age of twenty-two under the declaration of “Luxury Purchases.” He was a salaryman for the first four years of his career at a low-tier insurance company, and he purported that he had “grown weary of the pushing. Pushing keys every day only to be pushed around by his superiors.” He had incurred a small amount of debt from his education that he paid off with the first of his fortune and then he purchased a secondhand yacht and membership to a second-rate yacht club in Maryland, ate not quite like a king but sufficiently well for a prince, waited a few years, vacationed in Florida, and got there via a pass to a private transport drone that he used twice, waited a year, all was fine, and then he made a mistake. He peppered in a couple of fine art purchases, got a country club membership, made a donation to a local hospital, and lost a few hundred GCs betting on prize fights.
There is not a single thing you can do with a fortune to court suspicion quicker than to make a donation. Infrequent donations of 60 GCs or under might get through without incurring scrutiny. Anything above that will start turning digital heads. Anything above 200 GCs will start turning fleshier heads. Anything around, let us say, a nice, round 14,000 GCs will bring at least two, if not three separate BoF auditors to the back door of every account you have ever owned, and a Collector to the front door of your residence to lock down your person until a verdict is passed down from accounting. Unlike the typical houseguest, we tend to let ourselves in.
ComCom: Send: Oracle 2–7: “Requesting override for target’s unit sec sys. I am approaching the premises.” PendCom
I waited on the stoop of the building and screened in my beleaguered target jaywalking across a street, about a little less than three and a half kilos from my position, and watched him accidentally drop his beverage on a curb, which burst open and splattered his trousers. His shoulders heaved as he let out a world-weary sigh, but he didn’t tidy himself up as he bent down to retrieve his waste to deposit it in the next appropriate recycling receptacle. He was sleep-deprived as he made his way home from the hospital he had been visiting the previous evening, which was a sister hospital to the one to which his transgression had been donated. The entry door to the complex slid open behind me as the newly transferred passcode notification blinked up on my data pad.
“Done. Target’s unit is 503 and that access code has been forwarded as well. Try not to make a scene and wait for auditor confirmation. They are closing in.”
ComCom: Send: “Copy.” EndCom
I authenticated to Rousseau’s door on the fifth floor and walked into the extravagant apartment. The décor was almost full metal except for a few appliances here and there, at least in the main room. I figured it would be untoward to check the bedroom and bathroom without good reason, and this Collection had been shaping up to be open and shut. I slid a chair out from the window bar overlooking the Hagerstown metropolis and pointed it towards the door.
“Irregular footfall pattern detected. Intruder. Images have been recorded. Door lock has been overwritten. Authenticate to terminal designate: Charlie in twenty seconds or local authorities will be notified.” A smooth-talking voice from the ceiling warned as a Domestidrone wheeled out of its storage closet to assist in the detention.
A redundant sec sys. I should have figured this a possibility. Only one thing to do.
ComCom: Send: Oracle 2–7: “Emergency request for unhidden retina ID confirmation link to my profile. Active thirty seconds. Trace and erase all accesses on command.” Pendcom
“Charlie: Do you have retina scan capability?”
“Affirmative. Eleven seconds remaining for authentication.”
“Granted. Working trace and erase.”
“Charlie: I am a Collector. I will submit to a retina scan for identification. Upon confirmation, you will disarm, reinstall the previous entry door access code, and surrender yourself to Bureau of Fortune questioning.”
“Scanning.”
The Domestidrone wheeled over and ran its hand over my eyes.
“ID confirmed. Security system disarmed. Entry code restored. Welcome to the Rousseau and Hanson home. Please make yourself comfortable. Would you care for refreshment?”
“Trace and erase added. Accessing terminals will be decommissioned on run.”
A portion of the wall screen in my field of vision illuminated and enumerated the possible drink combinations for which I could ask, complete with pictures dribbling with condensate or puffing with steam, after syncing with the refrigerator.
“I would not but thank you.”
I checked the street cam views on my data pad again, and Rousseau was turning on to the street in front of the unit.
“Charlie: How many hours has it been since Hanson’s signatures have been recorded in this apartment?”
“38.459 hours.”
“Charlie: How many distinct access codes have been recorded accessing this apartment in the last forty-eight hours?”
“Four distinct codes.”
“What are the identities of the terminal owners for those accesses?”
“Alder Rousseau. Solara Hanson. Hagerstown Emergency Medical Services Operator T873. Yourself.”
Rousseau was entering the building.
“Charlie: This concludes the Bureau of Fortune’s questioning. Run forwarded trace and erase protocol.”
I scooted my aluminum composite chair away from the dormant Domestidrone and pulled over an additional frame for my imminent guest. I remained standing as I waited for the door to open.
ComCom: Send: Oracle 2–7: “Inform auditors that target cohabitates with one Solara Hanson and have them run a patient search in all local hospitals.” PendCom
The entryway door swung in, and Rousseau was speaking with someone on an open line via his data pad, despite being a registered ComCom user. He seemed relieved, and his haggard disposition from before had been replaced with an energetic and inquisitive expression that wouldn’t be long for this world.
“That’s a bingo. Auditors just confirmed. It’s an IPLC infraction. You may proceed with immediate Collection of the target and details on Hanson will be forwarded to your data pad for a follow-up. Do you need to review the standard transplant repossession protocol?”
ComCom: Send: “I do not.” EndCom
“Do you feel any pain? I mean, does it hurt a lot? Oh shit!” Rousseau wailed, as he finally noticed my presence.
I pointed at his data pad and then spun the same index finger to signal him to wrap it up.
“What’s wrong?!” The disembodied voice of a woman cried in concern.
“Uh. Dearest, something has come up. I … I have to go now. I love you so much, and I hope you feel better soon. Uh. I’ll talk with you again soon?”
Rousseau looked at me as if to ask me the question. I considered his plea while tilting my head a couple times toward each shoulder in order to receive input from the devil and angel jurors gathered there, and I nodded hesitantly to convey the possibility.
“Okay. I love you! I’ll be waiting.”
Rousseau cut the feed.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rousseau. It is apparent you were not expecting me. Care to have a seat?” I gestured at the chair I had pulled over for him.
He took off his jacket and tossed it on to a nearby table.
“Do you uh …” He cleared his throat with a nervous twist of his neck. “Do you guys do last meals?”
The gall of this man was incredible, but I still had a few questions I had to ask.
“If you’ve got instant, I don’t mind.”
“Really? I was just joking, but I could eat if you’d let me. Is it normal to feel so hungry just before you kick it?” He asked, nervous.
“I have no idea. I have never tracked that trend.”
I waved him over to the cabinetry as I pulled my EinIn and set it on the island countertop next to me. He opened one cabinet up that was laden with packets of myriad shapes, sizes, and colors.
“I actually, heh, became a bit of an instant aficionado during my job. It was all I had time to eat.” He paused as he tipped on to his tarsals to reach up to the highest shelf. “I could never get off the stuff no matter what I ate, and I’ve always found cooking for myself to be such a chore. So convenient and life is too short, you know? Especially now. You want one? I’ve got some pretty rare packages.”
“You’re oddly hospitable,” I accused, as I hearkened to my own resurging hunger.
“I was thinking the same thing about you. Will you actually let me talk to her again?” He asked while rattling a package labeled “Pot au feu” behind his back in my direction as if he were offering a treat to a pet.
I wondered just how many packages I could ransom for one last chat with his chérie before thinking about Daria and rebuking myself for such a churlish thought.
“I could tell solely from the glimpse at your face in a passing moment how much you care about her. That was Solara on the pad, correct?”
“I can’t help it. She’s everything to me. And the only kind of person in your line of work that would even consider allowing me such a courtesy has to have someone that special as well. So, can I take that as a yes?”
“Sure. I could eat. What would you recommend?”
“There’s only one thing for it, though it won’t be as good as maman’s.”
He tore open two packages of the Pot au feu, tossed the contents into bowls, sprayed some water into them from a tap that notified him that he had used 37 percent of his monthly allotment, and slid the bowls into two housings of a three-bowl-capacity bombarder before slamming the door closed and tapping in the cooking protocol. He slid a bowl across the countertop twenty seconds later along with a fork. The stew was warmed perfectly so that we didn’t have to wait at all before digging in.
“This is the earliest meal I can remember eating. Not in this bastardization, obviously. It’s nice to have it again at the end. Solara hates it, heh.”
“How long did she have left without the operation? I know it seems odd to say it, but I hope the problem was immediately life-threatening to warrant your choice.” I trailed off as I spun a potato in the broth, thinking about a choice I was going to have to make soon enough.
“Not long. I can’t remember exactly. I had put something into place a few months back and when she collapsed … I kind of just went. Followed the plan. There was no doubt.”
“And now?”
“Not really any doubt. Regret? A bit? I keep thinking about that old saying about being born in the wrong time. Like, if we were born a few centuries ago, we would have been happier. Things would have been easier,” Rousseau despaired, idly pushing his bowl, only half– depleted, back and forth in front of him with his fork.
“What if she had a heart condition then as well?”
“That’s a good point. Never actually thought of that.”
“There was no other way for her to get a heart?”
“Not legally. Artificial would only get her four years. She won’t live long enough to make it to her spot on the natural list, and she made me swear not to try black market because she didn’t want me to end up dead in a ditch somewhere, not that they would take fortune money anyway.”
“So you tried gray market? At least you were able to guarantee the money aspect of your attempt through the Bureau. One less obstacle, I suppose. I haven’t heard from the auditors yet exactly how you worked out the deal. Care to illuminate?”
“Not really.”
Rousseau walked over and slumped into one of the chairs I had pulled out as I circulated around the island, hand on my pistol, to maintain distance. I took the two bowls and poured his out in the drain before putting both of them into the steamer along with the forks. Then, I took a seat across from him.
“And your motivation?” I plied.
“Simple numbers game. If I did nothing, she would die soon, and I would live on, dragging myself through a life that no longer felt worth living without her. If I went for it and didn’t get caught, we would be able to enjoy another ten years or so together, as I would rather have ten more years with her than spend the rest of my life without her. If I went for it and got caught, I would die soon and she would be able to live on, hopefully in a life that might be worth living without me. She’s always been a lot stronger than me, so she’ll have a better chance at making it without me than I would without her. She has other people that depend on her, that would benefit from her being around. I’ve always been alone. I haven’t touched so many lives. For me, it was only Solara.”
The parallels were unbearable and the portents demoralizing.
“I can’t allow an active communication with Solara, hence my ambivalence when nodding. It’s too messy. However, I can allow you to record a message for her. She may want to replay it anyway. I’ll supervise you cueing the function via your data pad, and I’ll transfer it when you are gone. On my honor, it will reach her.”
