IN DEVELOPMENT - "Local Event Chapter 9"

Local Event - CHAPTER 9

The Core

Sal surrendered her access card to the Marine at the front desk. Someone had already called the elevator, so there was nothing to do but wait for it. Still, she couldn't keep herself from punching the call button a few times, wanting it to come faster. She was still keyed up from the events of the past several hours, but she could tell she was running on adreniline. She knew she wasn't a patient person, and she considered that one of her better points, but when she was short on sleep, as she was now, there was always the chance her impatience would overcome her control. She knew she needed to get away for a while, needed some sleep and some R&R.

Finally, it came. Once she stepped on board and the doors closed off that part of her life, she felt herself begin to relax a bit. The ride up to the tower was not a fast one, but it transpired without problem. The elevator speed had been set, per her instructions, to allow the sensors in the shaft sufficient time to verify that only authorized personnel were on board.


####

The Hearth Room

Beauchamp watched as Ashby took the matte black sphere (What had he called it? A Tab?) and placed it into a receptacle in the side of the machine. The sphere began to spin, picking up speed. Spinning rapidly, it caught the distant light of the fireplace, and, though Beauchamp could not understand how, threw the light back onto nearby surfaces in a prism effect. Then, with a solid "tock", it stopped spinning.

Instantly, a three-dimensional scene appeared, apparition-like, above the machine. The scene had the look of a lexcite cube, only, instead of being a few cubic inches in size, it was more like four feet on a side. Getting up, Beauchamp walked around the depiction. It was clearly three-dimensional, but it had a definite orientation. Suddenly, it hit him. He was looking down into the crime scene.

With a couple of exceptions (like a dead body, he thought), it looked the same as when he had been in it. Smaller, of course. It appeared that he was viewing the room from somewhere high up on the south wall.

“David? Where did you get this thing? This must be top tier tech. I mean … I’ve never seen anything like it, and I have the clearance to see almost anything. If this is black market you could be in a lot of trouble. The technology laws-- Only the government could have something like this!”



Ashby continued adjusting various switches and dials along one edge of the machine. "This is from April, two years ago. Once I put everything into motion, it will display, continuously, a lot of data about the scene; including date, location, time, etc. You'll see it appear along the bottom of the projection."

Without further comment, he placed his left hand on a panel near the rear of the machine. Though the scene remained frozen, a legend began to take shape along the bottom of the projection; "Austin, Texas - April 23, 2036."

Abruptly, the scene came to life.

Beauchamp was startled to hear the chirping of birds and what was certainly a burbling brook. He looked across at Ashby. "Those aren't real," Ashby explained. "They're the vibratory part of her snoop shield. Pretty good system, really; selectively jammed a broad array of media and spectrums. You know, even her windows were special. I mean, she had Lexan panes, just like everyone else in Austin since the aftershocks, but hers were designed to not vibrate. On top of that, they only transmitted light in; true one-way panes. We're talking Pentagon level security, here. It kept everyone out. Well, everyone except this little fella." He nodded toward the TAB.

Pointing, he continued, "See that '3' on the lower right of the projection? In red? Yeah, right there. It means three other attempts were being made to spy on her while this TAB was present. Now, if any of them were being successful, the projection would show a green number to the immediate right of the red one. That would tell us how many were actually getting information out of there. The absence of a number, as in this case, means no one scored."

In the projection, a woman walked in carrying a mug of dark, steaming liquid. New words appeared in the legend indicating volume and temperature, and identifying the liquid; "Coffee, Colombian".

"But, that's impossible," exclaimed Beauchamp. "Colombian coffee has been contraband since before The Strike. Where would she get it?" Before Ashby could answer, the angle of the view began to change. The orientation was changing, too. Beauchamp suddenly felt as though he was floating somewhere high up in that room, slowly moving along the upper edges, turning at the corners. When the sense of movement stopped, the orientation was 180 degrees from where it had began. He was still looking down, but from the North wall, now.

Before he could get fully settled, things changed again. Beauchamp gasped. He was looking into the face of the dead woman, so close it almost filled the projection. Only here, she was very much alive. She had an interesting face, he reflected. It looked, somehow, different than he had recalled; maybe because it was animated. He had never seen her alive. She was not beautiful, but still attractive. She had intelligent looking eyes. A person might see her on the street and think, pretty. But, there would be no double takes. She was not a wow. You would not remember her. His last thought came unbidden. I know operatives who have paid large sums for a face like that.

She lifted the mug of the illegal coffee and took a drink. Though still steaming, the heat of it didn't seem to bother her. Her face flushed, and she exhaled a little "Ahhh" of pleasure. With a start he realized that all of this was in color. The close-up had caught Beauchamp off guard. He was forcefully reminded that his original reason for being at the crime scene was to determine if this woman was his own, long-lost daughter, and he was suddenly full of questions. Before he could ask, Ashby spoke, "Just watch and listen for now. We can analyze it after you've seen everything."

Not particularly happy about it, but seeing the sense in it, Beauchamp settled back into a nearby overstuffed chair, really paying attention now. In the projection, the woman (What was her name? Oh, yes, Kara Powers.) looked directly at the computer screen before her and spoke several sounds. It was no language he recognized. As she continued to do this, he decided that she must have been using nonsense syllables as code to access some program. He noted that she had a deeper voice than he had imagined. But, since it did not have that husky quality evident in many smokers, he cast his thoughts back to the Crime Scene Report. Reviewing its contents, he found nothing to indicate she was a smoker. He decided she was probably just an Alto. There was something comfortable about the sound of it; even pleasant. And, in a way he could not quite figure out, familiar.

He got that floating sensation, again, as the orientation returned to its original placement. When the movement stopped, he was viewing the back of her head, and beyond it, the computer screen. On the screen was a blurry image that, nonetheless, seemed familiar to him. Kara Powers' head turned so that she was looking off to her left. His own view adjusted to follow. He could now see what looked like a pair of binoculars clamped to a stand. They were pointed out a window, angled slightly down.

She spoke another nonsense sound. His view shifted back to the computer screen where he saw the flat image begin to sharpen. She repeated the sound and the scene came fully into focus. Beauchamp now realized why it had looked familiar. On her computer screen was a view of the plaza, the same one he had observed when he had looked out her western window. The binoculars were, somehow, transmitting that image to her computer by direct wireless means. Of course! He thought. Even with most satellites knocked out of commission by The Strike, direct transmissions have continued to work. But, with all the atmospheric debris, I cannot recall when I have seen such clear reception. Maybe because the distance is so short...?

She spoke again, and the picture tightened up on the little chapel at the back of the plaza. Suddenly, the door, what had looked like one door, split down the center, the two halves sliding apart until they were no longer visible. The opening was dark. Even reflected daylight revealed nothing of the chapel's interior. A motorized wheelchair came rolling forward from out of the depths of the chapel's darkness. Beauchamp saw that it was occupied by a man whose legs had been amputated below the knees. By his outfit, Beauchamp concluded that the man was a veteran of the Green Wars. As the chair moved forward, the man's face could be clearly seen. He looked to be in his fifties. There was something wrong with his skin. Powers spoke again and the scene on the computer screen widened to show a broader view of the plaza.

Beauchamp couldn't tell how the man controlled the chair's speed and direction. There were no controls evident. The chair appeared to move across the plaza of its own accord. He watched as the chair slowed, then stopped next to the statue. The man reached out and touched the statue, stayed just
that way for about a minute, then rolled on. The chair stopped again where the plaza gave onto to sidewalk. A few seconds passed before the chair moved onto the walk, turning left to move southward alongside Congress Avenue.

"Street agents prepare for transfer." Beauchamphad gotten used to her speaking in nonsense sounds; to hear her speaking in English gave him a start. "Stay in sight of relay stations. It is important that we capture all of these transmission on a transportable medium."

"Mark." Even giving orders, she sounded pleasant and warm.

Peering into the 3-D projection, Beauchamp saw the image on the computer screen jump, then settle into a picture of people walking toward him. There was a certain amount of disturbing movement about the image, a kind of subtle jerkiness. Beauchamp realized that the camera (or whatever) must be attached to a person who was walking. A few feet in front, Beauchamp could see, was the back of the motorchair with its amputated veteran. The chair was pulling away. The walker picked up the pace. Apparently, the veteran was the subject of this surveillance.

Despite the jerkiness, Beauchamp was determined to see what came next.

####

Austin, Texas
April 23, 2036
Approximately 3:30 PM CST

As the man in the motorized chair accelerated forward, the doors behind him slid soundlessly toward each other until the entryway was shut. Once again, it appeared to be a single door, the central seam all but undetectable. The entry was level with the small plaza which fronted the chapel. Thank God there are no ramps to navigate, the man thought. It'll be difficult enough without additional challenges.

He motored across the plaza, passing close to the statue, slowing down to touch his left index finger to the base as he went by. Unlike several of the newer acolytes, he knew there was no magic in that action. He just drew strength from it, like a touchstone connecting him to the will of the Almighty. The Word said that God's chosen did not need to pray through statues in order to be heard. Besides, he had already been assured that his mission was in service to his Lord.

He slowed as he came even with the sidewalk, looking both ways to ensure he didn't run into anyone. He looked to where his lower legs should have been. Nothing. Satisfied with the inventory, he took a deep breath. The hardest part would be the next eight blocks. Having steeled himself, he moved the chair forward, turning right, toward the Gulf of Mexico.

Those walking toward him saw a double amputee, scooting down the sidewalk in a motorchair. Due to extremely well done makeup, observers would have placed his age somewhere in the fifties; the late fifties. The beard helped; as did the unkempt hair. What nailed it was the scruffy looking denim jacket. By removing the sleeves and strategically applying oil and dirt to it, they had managed to make it look like the genuine item. Though the campaign patches were hard to read, almost everyone recognized that they were from battles waged during the Green War. One look, and people just knew this man was a veteran.

It didn't take long for trouble to start.

He hadn't gone two blocks before someone passed by, then called back, "Hey, Greenie! Get that thing off the sidewalk! This is for walk-ers. Get it? Side-walk for walk-ers." He kept going forward, but he could hear the woman giggling with her friends, reveling in her witty remarks.

He was still thinking about it when he almost ran into the cop. Breaking quickly, he waited to look up until the policeman tapped his baton lightly against the side of the chair. "Hey. Greenie. Where's the fire? You're barreling along here like you were being chased by the Devil himself." The vet touched the fingers of his left hand to his throat, shaking his head. "Oh! Can't talk, hunh? What the matter, cat got your tongue? Or did you lose it in the war?" Up to then, even with the sarcasm, he had sounded as though he might be, if not friendly, then fair. That changed with the next sentence. Leaning over so he could get right in the vet's face, the policeman said, in a loud voice, "Well, don't think that's going to cut you any slack with me, buddy roe. I can't have you speeding along here knocking into people. Now, you get that...thing...over to the street side. And stay out of people's way, you hear? I got my eye on you, boy. One little bump and I'll haul you in. Now, get out of my sight."

The vet scooted away in his motorchair, suppressing a smile. That went pretty well, he thought. Looks like all my camouflage worked. He thought I was a Greenie. Excellent.

He continued down the sidewalk, keeping to the street side. Periodically, someone would intentionally move into his path, hoping to get nicked by the chair so they could start something. But, since he had known what to expect, he was always able to swing away before contact.

When he arrived at his destination, he was a bit surprised. What with all the dodging, he had not been paying attention when he had turned off Congress and onto Sixth Street. As he turned the chair into NuCaf, he was quite pleased at how well the trip had gone. He had only been spit on twice.

#

CHAPTER 10

The Hearth Room

Beauchamp continued to watch the three-dimensional depiction as the veteran's chair moved into a doorway. Shortly after the door closed behind him, the view angled upward to take in a sign. On it was the word, NuCaf. Then the, he decided to think of it as a camera, realigned on the doorway. After a short pause, it moved forward toward the door. When the door opened, Beauchamp got a quick glimpse of people milling about, some sitting at low tables, some standing at tall tables...then the picture went black.

Beauchamp looked over at Ashby, who said, "Sorry. That's pretty much it for about two hours."

"What's going on?" asked Beauchamp. "Why did it suddenly blank out? And, what do you mean about the two hours?

"Well, podnuh," said Ashby, intentionally beefing up his drawl, thumbing up the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat. "Thuh answer to both you-uh questions is the same. That danged ol' NuCaf is shielded tighter'en Cheyenne Mountain and the stalker was unaware of that. So, we end up with two hours of nothin'."

Despite himself, Beauchamp laughed. Ashby had always been able to make him laugh with that Kentucky hillbilly shuck.

"So, there's nothing we can do about it? Fast forward or something?"

"Sorry. I'm doing good to get this thing to run at all. I'm still pretty new to this technology. I haven't figured out fancy things like fast forward. What do you say we get something to eat and drink? Then, maybe look around a bit? I can get us back in here before the next part shows."

In answer, Beauchamp rose, stretched, and said, "Alright hillbilly. Let's mosey."

Ashby liked the changes he was seeing and hearing in Beauchamp. Hoping that would continue, he began to believe that he could broach the subject he had been wanting to talk about ever since he saw Beauchamp at Powers' apartment. Maybe tonight. But, for the moment, he was happy to lead the way toward the kitchen.

As they passed out of the Hearth Room and moved into the hall, Beauchamp sounded wistful when he mused, "It is too bad we will never know what happened in that restaurant."

Calling back over his shoulder, Ashby said, "Oh. I wouldn't say never."

#

Austin, Texas
April 23, 2036
Approximately 5:00 PM CST

When his combadge vibrated (twice!), Thomas Tankengian was standing out on NuCaf's loading dock staring at the sky and wishing he still smoked. He was wishing he still smoked, or still drank, or still thought of women as sex objects, or still did anyof the things he used to do ... anything to take his mind off the mounting stress. The sky over Austin had a strange look to Thomas' eye. Though he had been staring up at the sky for the past several minutes, his mind had been elsewhere. He was only now really seeing that the clouds had that flat-bottomed shape. He wondered if it had always looked this way. But, then decided that that was unlikely. The asteroid strike that had moved the Gulf of Mexico coastline to just south of Austin, had undoubtedly affected the weather, as well.

The stressing thoughts returned. Had it only been a few short months ago that he was living near Boston, working on his doctorate, working in a prestigious Graduate Assistancy at a well-known women's college? One decision; one small change, and his life had become a long tumble to obscurity. Sometimes he wondered if he had known then what was to come of it, would he have made the change?

Some days were better than others. On days like today, when his insecurity rose to all but fill his mind, he felt he really missed his old self; longed for the simplicity of having not known. No doubt about it; the old Thomas Tankengian had a good life and a great future, all unencumbered by the kinds of complexity which filled the life of the new guy. The combadge did its double wiggle, again. He flipped his imaginary cigarette off the dock and into the mist that came, most days, with the sundown. He looked at the canal-side gates, satisfying himself that they were locked. Then, he headed into the building.

Stepping into the back hallway, he saw no one. He set the security on the rear door. Though he had never had it happen, he knew from the Manager's Manual that twin buzzes indicated a problem. He moved along the hall to his office. The door recognized him as he approached, and slid open automatically before he could touch the button. Moving over to the console, he waited until he heard the door slide shut before he pressed his forefinger to the word "RESPOND" flashing on the screen. The letters were quickly replaced with the visage of Clementine Zapalac.

"What's up, Clem?"

Mr. Tankengun'? (He hated it when she called him that. It sounded too much like tank engine).

"It's Tan-ken-ge-un, Clem."

"Yessir. Uh, there's a problem."

"Go ahead."

"Uh, if its OK with you, I'd like to go on private."

NuCaf was located on East 6th Street, or, as the promos stated "Centrally located on Austin's historic 'Old Pecan Street', 4 blocks east of I-35." Strictly speaking, this end of 6th Street had never been called "Pecan Street", and it was never thought of as "historic". If anything, "notorious" would have been a better descriptor. NuCaf was a sort of combination coffeehouse (including endless retreads of beat generation poetry styles) and sportsbar (complete with cheering fans; all made possible by the individual screens which could be swung up from beneath the tables). The chances of anyone actually hearing even the tiniest part of their conversation was truly nil. Or, so Thomas thought. Clem, on the other hand, looked serious. Clem had already been working here a couple of years when he started as Manager. He decided she probably knew what was best.

"OK." Glancing at the status board, he saw the staff lounge was empty. "Go through the kitch. I'll buzz you through to the breakroom. Nobody's taking a break right now, and it's shielded from the front, so no one should be able to listen in." It had finally occurred to him she might not want her co-workers to know what was on her mind. He guessed he could have had her come to his office, but thought better of it. Maybe it was a holdover from his days in academia, but he could see no sense in fueling rumors.

He sat down. While waiting for her to make her way, he stared out through the one-way lexa-wal that separated his office from the restaurant's main floor. As far as the patrons knew, it was just one more mirrored surface. It looked no different from the dozen of so others which were scattered about the room. It was actually one of four security walls which, collectively, allowed for unimpeded views of every public spot in NuCaf. The security monitoring system was set
on 15 second rotation, changing views at each interval; public-1, then the Kitch, public-2, then breakroom, public-3, then the lockers, public four, then the dock. Sitting in his office, he could obtain a full facility review every two minutes.

In addition to the views, the lexa-wal had another feature he treasured just as much. It was totally bulletproof. It was composed of a 25th generation material that was a distant cousin of the original Lexan. He felt safe and secure sitting behind it; two states he had come to prize.

He remembered his Grandfather telling how he had been a bank teller back in the late 70's. The joke among the tellers had been that they served the public behind the best bullet resistent glass the bank could provide! Thomas had almost as much trouble imagining humans risking their lives working in a bank as he did with the concept of them making light of it. Human tellers ... could that have been true? Or was that just one more example of Gramp's weird sense of humor?

Not long after starting this job at NuCaf, he had reconfigured the system so that the camera in the back hall provided a continuous feed to a separate monitor in his office. He wanted to know if someone was coming for him. And, after the events of the last few months, he felt there was nothing remotely paranoid about that view.

He felt the thrumming on his right shoulder, again. Turning toward the main screen, he said, "OK, Clem. Tell me what's so important that we need privacy for it."

"Yessir. Uh, you see the fella at 27? ... the one just sitting there?" Thomas could easily see the man through the wall. The table was nearby. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just in case he was missing something, he interrupted the SecuriCam rotation and placed public-1 on continuous. The head-on close-up provided no additional clues to Clem's concerns. "When Perry left, he told me the guy had been sitting like that for over 30 minutes. I've been on for another 30 minutes. So, he has been sitting there for over an hour."

Thomas was furious with himself. While he was out back feeling sorry for himself, he had missed a shift change. Disgustedly, he thought, How many more times will I screw up before the mysterious Mr. Duval decides he's had enough and finally fires me?

"Uh, Sir?"

He focused on the screen and saw that she was distressed. "Don't worry, Clem. It's nothing you did. I was just thinking about the shift change. Go on with your story."

"Yessir. Well, it's a four-top, so I finally went over to see if I could maximize the table." Tankengian smiled at the euphemism for make-the-customer-spend-more-money-or-leave. "I asked him if I could get something else for him, and he told me no, and I asked if there was a problem, and he said there was, and I asked what it was, and he said he wanted his bill so he could pay and leave." All of this poured out of her in that sort of a singsong whine that passes for a rush in Texas. "And, that's when I did it."

"Did what, Clem?"

"I looked right at him and said, 'Just stand, sir.'."

NuCaf had an automatic billing system. Once a patron finished, all they had to do was stand. The sensors built into the table would notify the computer to produce a bill. Just about everyone carried a biometric implant in the back of one hand. The computer would scan the implant for a bank code, then charge accordingly. All a patron had to do was stand. The bill would be presented on a screen at the table; groups could indicate how to allocate the charges, individuals need only press AGREE on the screen, or simply walk away. Everything would be handled automatically.

Growing impatient with the pace of the interview, Tankengian said, a little sharply, "So, why is he still sitting there?"

"Uh, well, he, uh, can't stand. He's got no legs. He's in one of those motorchairs. Oh, Mr. Tankengun, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean anything by it. I bet I say that same
thing a hundred times a week...'Just stand, sir.' Why, it just comes out automatic, you know? He looked so disappointed! Like he was expecting better of me. I don't know what I'm going to do."

One good thing you could say about Clem. She didn't expect you to fix her problems for her. In a way, Thomas was proud of her. She wasn't asking him to fix it. She just wanted some advice. But, be that as it may, he would have to step in on this one.

"Clem. Calm down. You're not in trouble with me. Now, I know you want to see this through, but I've decided to take it from here. I think I know what is going on. Just relax. Everything's going to be fine. I want you to take a few minutes to get yourself together, and just forget about 27. Go make us some money. I'll handle this guy."

Despite her resolve, she looked completely relieved when she realized she was not in trouble and she didn't have to solve the problem. She thanked him, and the screen went blank.

Thomas swiveled back to look at Table 27. He was still sitting there. A man with no legs could mean only one thing. He was a Brazil Vet. The "police action" in Brazil had been brutal. The use of biological weapons had caused many to die, and just as many to live, horribly. Genetic engineering had allowed scientists the ability to create smart viruses; they could target a portion of the body while ignoring the rest of it. Bi-weaps didn't stop with eating off an arm or a leg, they went for the central nervous system, too. A legless Brazil Vet would never be fitted with artificial legs because he would never be able to command those new legs to walk. It wasn't just the loss of the appendages, it was a complete loss of the ability to perform the functions. It was insidious. The enemy wanted to be sure that combat survivors didn't return to the field of battle and that they became as much a drain on the nation's resources as possible. Killing was not so much the goal as it was a by-product.

The war in Brazil had been over for years, but its impact on the US would be felt for decades to come. Also, since all of the troops we sent to Brazil had been volunteers, many people had no sympathy for those who returned crippled by useless limbs or chronic illness. Since it was voluntary, almost no one went who didn't need the money. It was a fight over the environment. The then leaders of the US felt the rapidly shrinking Rain Forests of Brazil posed a threat to the entire world. It didn't really take much persuading in the Security Council to slap Brazil with economic sanctions. When they refused to stop their slash and burn, it was a quick step to mobilizing a United Nations battle force to "quell the globe-threatening Brazilians".

Most of the people in the U.S. did not support the "enviro-war" or, as some called it, the "Green War". Those who remained safely behind at home felt that the volunteers should have returned, whole, and collected their pay, or had had the good grace to simply die in the jungle. Post conflict traumas were not very well tolerated by the citizenry.

And, now, here was a legless Greenie in his café. Tankengian noted that the nearby tables were empty. No one will sit by the guy, he thought. The handbook addressed what to do with troublemakers. But, did this guy qualify as a troublemaker? He hadn't actually done anything. Well, there was nothing for it. Tankengian could see that he would have to go out there.

There were two problems that he could see. First, he didn't have a clue what he was going to say to the guy. Second, he was very uncomfortable being out on the floor. There was no real protection out on the floor. While it was true that the club was very well shielded from all sorts of eavesdroppers, and that there were a host of sensors that prevented patrons from smuggling in concealed weapons, there was nothing to keep a determined person from hitting him or, God forbid, kidnapping him. Of all the possible negatives, the one Tankengian most wanted to avoid
was being taken back. Knowing what he now knew, going back was out of the question.

With sudden decisiveness, he reached into the office closet and pulled out a Neural Disrupter. It was considerably smaller than what the average citizens would own. But it gave nothing up in power. There was enough stored energy to take out three or four burly guys. Miniaturization and some new design features had resulted in something that, even under some scrutiny, looked just like a wrist computer. This was state of the art, or so he had been told. He was inclined to believe it. The device had cost him three month's salary. But, when one lives in the back of the business one manages, room and board were not drains on one's economy.

He approached the table, slowly, ready, he hoped, for trouble. When he arrived, the old guy had his head down, staring intently at the tabletop. Suddenly, Thomas didn't know what to say. Without looking up, the vet asked, "So. You gonna "D" me? Or do I pass the test?"