The Dyson File, page 18
“Hello,” Isaac said. “I’m Detective Cho, and this is—”
“A SysPol detective! Oh my. I have just the thing for you!”
“Ma’am, if you’ll let me—”
Before he knew it, Nautila placed hands on his shoulders and back, urging him toward a display featuring a solidly built, if somewhat skeletal synthoid.
“Tell me, Detective,” Nautila began, two tentacles around his shoulders, “would you say your line of work is dangerous?”
“Not especially.”
Susan cleared her throat noisily behind him.
“I . . . well, yes,” he corrected. “I suppose sometimes it can be.”
“And yet look at you, still in your original flesh sack. Poor thing.” Nautila shuddered in what might have been revulsion. “Well, you’ve come to the right place to fix that! Have a gander at the Bastion XZ 3000, our top-of-the-line security synthoid! Fully customizable exterior with optional cosmetic layer, and an interior compatible with a wide range of exciting upgrades. I’ll have you know I’m fully licensed to sell restricted SysPol patterns to qualifying customers.” She brushed a tentacle-hand across the Themis Division insignia on his pressure suit. “No problems there, I see!”
“Ma’am, perhaps you misunderstood—”
“Height and build are adjustable.” She patted him on the top of his head. “Though, we might have to add a few centimeters to you. Hope you don’t mind.”
Isaac frowned at her. “I believe—”
“Did you know the Bastion’s skeleton is printed from a prog-steel pattern found in SysPol cruiser armor? On top of that, all vital systems are sheathed in the same durable material. Now, wouldn’t you like a body that can take a hit and keep going?”
“Yes, he would,” Susan commented behind him.
“I . . . ” Isaac sent Susan a sharp look, only to find her eyes laughing behind the stoic mask of her face. He turned back to Nautila and pulled her tentacles off his shoulders. “I’m not here to buy a synthoid.”
“But surely you’d feel safer with a body that’s less . . . squishable?”
“I have no plans of transitioning anytime soon.”
“And there lies the problem, don’t you see? You might say that, but life has a way of wrecking even the most carefully laid plans.” Nautila let out an exaggerated sigh. “But if you’re convinced you don’t need a synthoid, then perhaps you might be interested in an insurance policy?”
“No, thank you.”
“Insurance?” Susan asked.
“Early Abstraction Insurance,” Nautila explained. “A person’s first synthoid pattern is a significant investment, and not everyone is ready for the financial burden, especially if the transition is forced upon them by an accident.” She leaned toward Isaac. “Being gravely injured in the line of duty, for example.”
He grimaced at her over the suggestion.
“An EAI policy can guard against hardship during an untimely transition by providing funding for your first body. On top of that, here at the Body Shop, we offer a variety of thrilling incentives to help customize the EAI to your personal needs. These policies are quite popular with both SSP and SysPol. Perhaps you’d like to see—”
“No, thank you,” Isaac cut in. “We’re here to discuss a case we’re on. We’re looking for information on someone who visited the store about a month ago. An AC by the name of Antoni Ruckman. Can you tell us if he purchased anything? Or if there was anything unusual about his visit?”
“Oh, I see. Sorry, my misunderstanding,” she said, though Isaac suspected her “misunderstanding” had been intentional. Nautila crossed four of her tentacles over her chest. “Can I see your badge? Company policy before I share any customer information, I’m afraid.”
“Here you go.” Isaac transmitted his badge.
“Checking.” She waited a few seconds. “And Kronos has verified your ID. Now that that’s taken care of, give me a moment to pull up my records.” She opened an interface obscured by a privacy filter. “Hmm, Ruckman. Ruckman. Ah, here we are. I have an inbound and outbound transit log for an AC by that name twenty-nine days ago. No sales record. He may have just come by to window-shop.”
“Do you remember the particulars of his visit?” Isaac produced an image of Ruckman over his palm.
“Vaguely. I believe he was looking to rent a synthoid pattern but decided against it and left.”
“Did he say why?”
“If he did, I don’t recall. He must not have shown much interest. Otherwise, I would have taken some notes in case he returned.”
“I see.” Isaac let the image fizzle and glanced over at Susan.
“Anything else I can help you with?” Nautila asked.
“Not at this time.”
“On to our next stop?” Susan asked.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Before you leave, can I ask you something?” Nautila undulated toward Susan.
“Sure. Ask away.”
“I’m curious about your synthoid. You see, I have scanners installed by the entrance that clue me in to the current body a customer uses. It helps me match the right sales pitch to the right customer. I’ve seen hardware from just about everyone in this industry, big and small, but I’ve never seen a body quite like yours. It’s . . . oh, how to put this. There’s what you might call a brutal simplicity to its design once you go beneath the cosmetic layer. Nothing fancy or superfluous underneath the skin. In fact, it seems almost primitive to my eyes, though strangely refined at the same time. As if it’s the product of years—if not decades—of careful, iterative design work that sought to remove everything not strictly needed. Such a strange contradiction, you see! I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“No, nothing of the sort,” Susan replied.
“Who designed your synthoid, if I may ask?”
“The System Cooperative Administration.”
“Ah.” Nautila shifted back and regarded Susan more carefully. “Silly me for not realizing sooner.”
“Is there a problem?” Susan asked.
“No, not at all,” Nautila said stiffly. “But my products aren’t suited for . . . your kind. There’s no point to you coming back here, if you catch my meaning.”
“That’s quite all right,” Susan replied with equal stiffness. “It seems my duties require my presence elsewhere.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The car followed narrow side streets back to a congested, high-speed freeway. The major thoroughfare funneled traffic toward the intake wall with its towering patchwork of grilles and flexible apertures, then split into single-lane tunnels that cut through the intake wall. Prog-steel mechanisms at each mouth produced translucent barriers that followed every few vehicles through the tunnel, allowing the atmosphere to be exchanged in controlled segments.
The surrounding atmosphere registered as breathable once they were about halfway through the tunnel, and the prog-steel curtain following their car retracted into the tunnel’s roof mechanisms.
Isaac tugged on his pressure suit collar. The suit came apart in strips that retracted into the backpack. He slipped his arms out of the straps and set the pack down on the seat next to him.
“Good riddance.”
“I know what you mean.” Susan took her own suit off and tossed the pack onto the same seat.
“Wearing the suit bothered you, too?”
“Sort of. I know this might sound odd, but relying on that suit made me feel vulnerable, even if it’s only my cosmetic layer that’s in danger. Back home, if I were deploying into vacuum or a dangerous atmosphere, I’d be in my combat frame.”
“Why didn’t you ask to switch out?”
She grinned at him. “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
He smiled back. “You might be right.”
“I am right. When’s the last time you said anything nice about my combat frame?”
“Can’t seem to recall one.”
“See?” She leaned back in her seat. “Hence, I felt no need to ask.”
“Point taken.”
JIT Deliveries took up a blocky section near the top of the intake wall, the zone large enough to span multiple shelves. The orange-and-red exterior was a honeycomb of docks, some with quadcopters and ground vehicles waiting to receive their shipping containers from the automated storage-and-retrieval cranes within the center’s interior.
A steady stream of traffic—both air and ground—funneled through the center in a ballet of logistical movement. The car pulled off the main road and into a small visitor and employee parking lot recessed into the intake wall. It parked next to the only other vehicle in the lot.
Susan climbed out of the rental and followed Isaac to the lone door at the far end of the deck. Cephalie brought the LENS up behind them.
Isaac palmed the buzzer, and they waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
He palmed it again.
“Yes?” came a man’s bored—and somewhat irritated—response over abstract audio.
“Hello. My name is Detective Isaac Cho. We’re here to—”
“Who’re you?”
“Detective Cho, SysPol Themis.”
“You don’t say?”
“Yes,” Isaac replied patiently. “I did say.”
“You really with SysPol?”
“I am.”
“Is this a prank?”
“Sir, it is illegal to impersonate an officer of the law.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.”
“That’s not you, Tony, is it?”
“It’s not.”
“Cuz this sounds like a prank Tony would pull.”
“I assure you, I’m who I claim to be. We’re here because—”
“Sorry, but can’t you go pester someone else? I’m busy.”
“Sir.” Isaac shifted from one foot to the other, the muscles in his face tightening. “Is there someone else we can talk to?”
“Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not in the mood.”
“Sir, if you would . . . and he disconnected.” Isaac grimaced at the buzzer and began to raise his hand to it.
“You want me to bust down the door?” Susan asked, only half joking.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Isaac palmed the buzzer again.
“Wha-a-a-a-at?”
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself entirely clear the first time.”
“You again?”
“Yes. Me. Again.”
“Can’t you tell I don’t have time for this?”
“No, and at this point, I don’t care. I’d like to speak to your manager.”
“Not here.”
“Then someone else. Anyone else.”
“Sorry. I’m the guy on site today. I’m all you’ve got, buddy.”
“There’s no one else here? That seems a little odd.”
“Are you kidding? This place is completely automated. I’m just here in case one of the cranes has a fit and needs a little TLC. Other than that, I just sit around with nothing to do.”
“Then it sounds like you have time to answer our questions.”
“You really with SysPol?”
Isaac transmitted his badge.
Long, silent seconds followed, and then, “Oh. Oh crap. Umm, hello, Mister Detective. What did you say your name was again?”
“Would you kindly come to the door before I decide to charge you with obstruction?”
“Right. Sorry!”
The line closed, and the door split open less than a minute later, revealing a young man with pale skin, shaggy brown hair, and a notable slouch. He wore an orange-and-red jumpsuit with the JIT Deliveries logo on the breast pocket. He took in Isaac’s uniform, the LENS floating behind him, and the gun on Susan’s hip before his eyes flicked back to Isaac’s.
“Sorry about that. My bad.”
“And you are?” Isaac asked.
“Albert Marrow, registered DCT.”
“DCT?” Susan asked.
“Drone Control Technician. I’m here in case one of the cranes takes a dump. Umm, I mean breaks down. When that happens, I guide and monitor the repair drones. Sometimes I have to go out onto the cranes if the problem’s really bad; and rarely, I’ll call in help from our corporate HQ.”
“Is there anyone else on site?”
“Nope, just me.” Marrow flashed a forced smile, but the expression melted away when Isaac didn’t return it. “JIT has an office in the Second Engine Block, but they don’t come out here too often. Sorry about the confusion. Hardly anyone drops by out here.”
“You said you were busy,” Isaac noted. “Is some of the equipment down right now?”
“Uhh, no. The cranes are fine. I was . . . ”
“Yes?”
“You caught me in the middle of a Solar Descent session. You know, the new season? I was just getting to the part where we find out what happened to Natli Klynn.”
“You were playing Solar Descent while on the job?” Susan asked.
“Sure, why not? The boss doesn’t care what I do as long as the equipment keeps running. If anything breaks down, I pause my game and take care of it. But if nothing breaks during a shift, then my time is my own.”
“Mister Marrow,” Isaac began, “perhaps it’d be best if we get to the reason for our visit, so that you can return to your . . . duties. We’re investigating the movements of an AC who we believe passed through this center twenty-nine days ago. Is this something you can assist us with?”
“Abstract transits? Sure, I can look those up back in the control room. AC techs will sometimes transit in to help with the nastier breakdowns. Is that what you’re after?”
“Unlikely. This would be a civilian transfer.”
“Hmm, I don’t know about that, but I can certainly check for you.”
Isaac waited for what he thought was the inevitable follow-up.
“Do you . . . want me to check?” Marrow asked after the uncomfortable pause.
“That is why we’re here.”
“Okay, got it. The control room’s right over here.”
Marrow led them down a short corridor to a cramped room with a single bucket seat equipped with deep prog-foam cushioning. The wide window provided a live view of several robotic cranes in motion, their tall frames extending from the ground floor all the way up to the ceiling dozens of stories above. One of them sped toward the booth, screeched to an abrupt halt, and extended arms from a central hoist. The arms locked onto a shipping container then retracted, pulling the container out of its bin. Once the container was secured to the crane hoist, the brakes disengaged, and it sped away from the control room.
Marrow summoned a dense array of abstract screens with a wave of his hand: crane status displays, storage allotment, retrieval queues, and fault logs. He sank into the bucket seat, swiped a few of the screens aside, and summoned a new one. Isaac and Susan slid in behind him, their backs pressed against the rear wall due to a lack of space.
“Okay,” Marrow said. “I’ve got the transit log open. What do you want me to look for?”
“Search for the name Antoni Ruckman,” Isaac said, then provided Marrow with a copy of the man’s connection string and connectome identifier.
“Ruckman . . . ” He entered the identifier and ran a search. “Nope. Nothing.” He twisted in his seat and gave them a shrug. “Tough luck, huh?”
“What did you just search, exactly?”
“This cabin’s transit log.” He paused, then tilted his head. “Why?”
“Aren’t there other places someone could transfer to in this center?”
“I suppose, but why would they?”
“Just humor me. Can you widen your search to include all possible points of digital entry?”
“I suppose I can.” He settled back into a more comfortable position and worked the interface, pulling up several new tables stacked one on top of the other. “And . . . searching.” He toggled a commit key.
One of the tables moved to the top, and a single entry pulsed green.
“Huh,” Marrow said with a frown. “That can’t be right.”
“Where did he transit in?” Isaac asked.
“Says here his connectome was diverted into one of the bins. Level thirty-five, column six, row nineteen, to be precise.”
“I take it that’s not normal.”
“No, it’s not. I mean, there’s nothing to prevent someone from doing that, assuming what’s stored in the bin is connected to the infostructure.”
“Can you check what’s stored in that bin?”
“The timestamp is a month old. Whatever was there is long gone.”
“Then can you look up what was there at the time?”
“Sure can.” Marrow closed the transit logs and opened a storage archive. “That’s weird.”
“What is it?”
“That’s a blocked bin.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means it’s unavailable. The system won’t store anything there until it’s unblocked.”
“Why would a bin be blocked?”
“Any number of reasons. Could be for maintenance. Or maybe we need to bring in something big. Sometimes we merge the bins together for larger freight.”
“Does your log say why it’s blocked?”
“Nope. Just when.”
“Which was?”
“About a year ago.”
“A year?” Isaac said. “And no one’s unblocked it in all that time?”
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but look at it from the company’s perspective. This place has over sixty thousand bins, and we rarely hit three quarters of our max capacity. No one cares about a blocked bin or two. A downed crane will get people’s attention quick. But one measly bin blocked off?” Marrow shook his head. “Management couldn’t care less. ‘Just keep the center running,’ they’d say.”
“What’s the bin’s status now?”
“Blocked and empty. Same as it was a month ago.”
“During which time a connectome was transmitted to it.”
“Uh, yeah . . . ” Marrow glanced back at his screens. “Doesn’t sound right when you put it like that.”
