Part 4 (1/2)
Tony's cube, comprised of one-point-three-meter-high carpeted pseudo-walls with a desktop and computer workstation built in, held only one bit of uniqueness-a single climbing ivy decorated the otherwise sterile environment. One of the benefits of his grade level was an office on the floor of the Tri-Met drop. ”No more climbing stairs,” Tony muttered to himself, nudging one of his peers next to him as they watched the mult.i.tude of drones climbing the bank of stairs. His mind, however, darted back to Cin-her playfulness, the softness of her fur, and how expressive the tiny face and large eyes could be.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus. ”Time to hit the grindstone,” he said less than enthusiastically. The coworker mumbled his agreement.
His rear barely had hit the seat when a solido appeared on his desk. The less-than-honorable Mitch Anson's face turned directly toward him. Having no innate engineering talent of his own, Mitch adeptly wormed his way into other people's accomplishments and took some or even all the credit. From what Tony knew, Mitch could accept a bribe with one hand and the reward for betraying the briber with the other. Neither of these methods stood as particularly groundbreaking in history, but that's how Mitch managed to become Junior VP of Research so quickly. Mitch even now l.u.s.tfully looked forward to removing the ”Junior.”
Even in these days of backstabbing and backroom deals, Tony felt his boss held a position one ecological step above a tapeworm without morals. The counterargument was that he knew his boss felt him to be the equivalent of a rabbit who existed only as an intermediate step in the food chain. Those were the words Mitch had spoken to a mutual friend. As a result of this mutual admiration, or lack thereof, Tony's a.s.signments often reminded one of beef jerky rather than caviar.
”Sammis, report to my office at once,” ordered Mitch. While the voice normally felt chilly, Tony recognized an abnormal brusqueness. The solido winked out as quickly and abruptly as it had materialized.
”Looks like Anson's in an a.s.s-kicking mood today, gang,” he announced over the low part.i.tioning walls. A few snickers floated up from behind the anonymous facade. ”Be on your best behavior.” Several more chuckles followed, but not too loudly, for fear of reprisals.
Anson's office sported a 30 meter-wide view of the 170-acre Nanogate Botanical Forest. As the third largest open natural area within twelve hundred kilometers, and within the top four hundred largest in the world-moving up if the Yosemite Prison Bill pa.s.sed the UN-it required eighty full-time gardeners.
The decor could've been copied out of any up-and-comer's office, with an oversized desk, antique leather chair, plastic straight-backed chairs for underlings to sit in, private bathroom, wet bar, and a red-headed, buxom secretary who shot Tony lasers as he entered and she left. The two Nanogate security officers, in body armor not dissimilar to that of a Metro, on either side of Anson's desk didn't exactly fit the image. Nor did a short, blond man wearing only the yellow vinyl tights of a bodyguard. He stood idly nearby with arms carefully folded behind his back.
”No, don't bother to sit down, Sammis. I'm going to make this short and sweet. You're fired. You have one hour to collect your personal belongings-under the watchful eye of our security forces, of course-and get out.”
”Why?” Tony sputtered, barely even able to comprehend this disaster.
”You've been charged with practicing medicine without a license, possession of a personal vehicle, and resisting arrest. We here at Nanogate don't need that type of publicity.
”Personally, I didn't think you had it in you, Sammis, but the prime rule is 'Don't get caught.' You are through in the corporate world.”
”B-but I've never done anything like those things!” Tony protested weakly.
”Doesn't matter, Sammis. We don't want you around. You'll give Nanogate a bad name just by a.s.sociation. As far as the government goes, they'll probably never get around to trying you for your crimes, so we here at Nanogate will take the appropriate action as defined by corporate precedent. You're to be cut out like a cancer.
”If you go quietly, the parent company is willing to give you the following: one year's severance pay, an equal length of full medical continuance, your acc.u.mulated retirement funds to date, and pay in lieu of acc.u.mulated vacation.
”By inference you can deduce what will happen to you if you fight.”
Tony shook in place. For years he'd felt ambiguous about his place as another bit in the great megacorp machine. Now, without his consent, he no longer even carried that insignificant distinction. His muscles and gut willed him to some action, however futile, and his mind somehow kept them both under control.
”Granted, I think this offer is overly generous for someone who's violated the morals clause in their contract, but it wasn't my call to make. Take it and get out. Cause the slightest trouble and I'll strip you of even that crumb.”
In his b.u.t.ter-mellow baritone, Nanogate spoke. ”Alea iacta est,” he stated-rather succinctly, he thought. He received nothing but blank stares despite the broad range of education and mental implants represented in the room. ”The die is cast. Phase one completed without incident. We discovered an added bonus in time to make use of it. The subject has recently obtained a feline.”
With a scowl, Taste Dynamics, the only one at the table currently in a skirt, looked up. ”How can that be a bonus, unless you eat those kinds of proteins?”
”Not at all. It has multiple benefits. It allays the fears of the members of the Green Peace organization, and the cat itself has already been set up as an additional weapon.” There were several knowing nods around the huge wooden table.
”Phase two is underway as we speak,” Nanogate went on. ”We'll continue to increase the pressure until our subject has no other choice.”
”Are there any indications of suicidal tendencies?”
”None for over seven generations. Mental profiles show no H-seven indicators of depression, no Cannon indicators of self-hatred or self-destruction. As an additional precaution, we added a deep-programmed block against suicide. If-no, when-he is probed, the terrorists won't find it unusual. As you know, such blocks are standard practice to infants in over twenty-four percent of Earth and seventy-four percent in colonies.”
”What is the timetable for this next phase?”
”Phase two should last no more than two standard days. Phase three we theorize to take between seven to nine days. Gaining their trust, phase four, is variable, but we antic.i.p.ate no more than two weeks.”
”And the weapon?”
”Phase five is timed to begin replication at T plus twenty-one days. This will give him time to become a valuable member and no longer under suspicion. Evaluation of results should tally shortly after that.”
”I suggest we move to the next topic of discussion then,” the chairman offered. ”I turn your attention to the new anti-cloning legislation in front of the UN...”
All Tony's personal belongings save one fit into his satchel. Under the careful and watchful eyes of the two Nanogate security officers, he packed the wedding solido of his mother and father and the boudoir solido of Carmine. Two plaques for completion of one course or another lay flat against his diplomas. He carefully folded a first-place T-s.h.i.+rt for longest softball hit at the Nanogate Sports Day Picnic and packed it in beside a toothbrush, a used tube of toothpaste and a Project Neptune mug.
”I guess that's it,” he said sadly, wrapping his arms around the pot of green and white striped leaves. The spiderwort's presence so often made such a nice counterpoint to the sterility of the corporate nature. His mom called it a Wandering Jew plant when she took the original cutting from a large healthy vine she grew over most of her living room. He'd been diligent in keeping it alive.
”I'm sorry sir, but the plant must remain,” said a scratchy voice from behind one of the security guard's masks.
”What? This plant is mine. My mother gave it to me when it was just this long,” he insisted, holding his fingers apart by about three centimeters.
”That plant consumed light and water from Nanogate. By inference, it must belong to the corporation-Portland Statute eleven-fourteen-baker.”
Tony thought seriously about raising a fit about the plant, the only link to his parents, dead nearly a year now. But his mind still functioned. He remembered the derision heaped on him by Anson for being a good and trustworthy employee. His shoulders, set strongly up to this point, drooped in defeat. His eyes dimmed as his head slumped forward just the tiniest amount. He carefully set down the plant after visions of Anson playing the part of a vengeful and self-righteous G.o.d darkened his mood even further.
Tony knew that fighting anything Nanogate or Anson decided to do to him was a useless waste of time and resources. If Anson gave him the truth about the charges, no court in the world would entertain any case he put forward. Even if he did get it before a judge, the corporate lawyers would crush any representation he could possibly afford.
He was finished in this world. The best he could hope for now was menial labor or migration, if any of the colonies would consider him. His past employment didn't exactly push him into any critical need category.
The briefcase seemed very empty compared to the number of hours he had labored here. He took nothing from the office except memories of an already extinct corporate career. With a sigh he closed the lid.
”I guess that's all. Go ahead and do it.” As an act of finality, Tony lifted his wrist. The scanner sniffed the DNA from the loose cells at his wrist and crosslinked with the Nanogate mainframe. In picoseconds, every door, every machine, and every positive record within the corporation would now deny Tony's very existence, irrevocably.
Silence filled the cubicle farm. The word pa.s.sed quickly as the people with whom Tony had laughed, cried, supported, torpedoed, drunk beer, played softball, and competed against for the golden nuggets of corporate politics lined the hall. There stretched a human gauntlet of his life. A variety of reactions played on the faces of his former peers, subordinates, and everyone else who somehow had learned of his demise. Some wore faces that did little to hide their joy, sadness, or outright fear. Above everything else, the silence stung Tony. He half expected to hear the m.u.f.fled sobs of a grieving widow. The a.n.a.logy seemed fitting. Instead, he got nothing.
Tony maintained his composure through the procession, saying not a single word. He would go out as a man wronged with his head held high, not catching the eye of any of the silent witnesses. It was the longest two minutes of his life, putting one foot in front of the other, staring at a faded, four-year-old dental seminar poster on the far wall.
As he reached the exit, someone in the gathered crowd actually mustered the audacity to cheer, but only for a brief second and without great enthusiasm. Tony stiffened and stopped in the portal. He wanted to shout that they were next, to scream and plead for respite. Instead he looked to the group, now cl.u.s.tered in the entry under the monstrosity they called a sculpture. With as much sarcasm as he could muster, he quietly said, ”Good luck to you all.”
Turning at once, he stepped out under the awning of the building. He bitterly rejected the protection of the corporation's roof and he took several more steps. His dignity held until the light Portland rain chilled his cheeks. Finally he afforded a weakness that wouldn't show. Tears rolled down his cheeks, invisibly mingled in the wet, hiding his shame.
Very briefly he considered just jumping off the ledge and plunging countless meters to an ign.o.ble demise, but he needed to prove they hadn't beaten him. Instead, he stood with a ramrod-straight back, mixing salt from his tears with the drizzle's pollution as he waited for the lift-bus and a new, if unknown, life.
”I'll make this right.”
Night herself held too obvious a danger. It caused decent and semi-decent people to guard themselves carefully. It gave hunters a place to lurk. It also gave camouflage and life to the hunters of the hunters.
The night gave rise to a backward kind of danger. With the predators that stalked the night dropping off to sleep and the daylight denizens not yet stirring, the afternoon provided, as it had for centuries, the perfect cover for the trade of thief, mugger, or in this case, terrorist.
Direct sunlight never soiled the shadow of the lower barrio. The weak sun fought its way through the gray smog and ubiquitous mist, just barely chasing away the darkness of the night. Sonya left her apartment wearing a black, white, and neutral pattern-disruptive cloak. She'd made the cloak herself four years ago, weaving cat hair and energy together for a simple efficacy. While not quite as good as light-bending clothing used by the military, it served its purpose-to make the wearer unnoticed and anonymous. As an added bonus, cloaks held the distinction of being nearly the universal slum outer attire, keeping occupant and cargo reasonably warm and dry. A large sombrero bundled up her long, brown hair. The hat's excessive brim and a green surgical mask covered a good portion of her face.
Fortunately, Sonya preferred walking. By losing good people, the GAM learned years ago that lift-buses and taxis used automatic sensing equipment. They detected most high-order explosives, firearms of any caliber, and most edged or thrusting hand weapons. As a result Sonya had a four-hour walk east into the Pearl District, across the nearly rusted-through Steel Bridge-an ancient relic valued only as a tourist attraction to show people what life was like before lift vehicles. All this because the Metros objected to her cargo-fifteen kilos of high-explosive devices.