Retiree 2.0 Page 3

  “Well, in fairness, weren’t you the mastermind behind his bombing campaign?”

  Alana replied in a somewhat minor key, “That was a different me. She and I diverged the moment I was resurrected. I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  Rhys remained silent, and enough time passed that Alana finished her first hot dog and took the second from Rhys’ hand. Before starting on the second one, Alana asked, “Do you think I look slutty when I eat a hot dog?”

  “As a policy, I don’t answer rhetorical questions.”

  “Hey—”

  “Finish eating, doxy, then finish up with business before the game starts. I don’t want to talk about work during play.”

  Alana finished savoring her second hot dog as a series of minor pre-game displays paraded across the field below, local high school bands playing John Philip Sousa scores accompanied by announcements and commercials from the stadium’s owner, Zumpco Robotics, reminding everyone that they can’t be resurrected if they aren’t saved, with Alana and Rhys being potential spokes-models. During a tribute to a classic player named Jack Glasscock, who apparently led one of the leagues in hitting two-hundred years previously, in 1890, Alana exploded in laughter, albeit awkward laughter, as her cybernetic body tried to mimic the reflexive human response to things humorous. She was joined by a substantial portion of the growing crowd, mostly the adolescents and the outnumbered women.

  Alana used a napkin to wipe a residue of ketchup and mustard off her chin as she swallowed the remainder of the last hot dog. She resumed their conversation, “Tell me all about the case. I was locked in the shopital while they ordered me a new body after that mech used me for batting practice.”

  Rhys asked, “You read the reports, right?”

  “Yes, twice. They were short on details concerning the aftermath. What did you find?”

  “Two-hundred crates full of cyborg brain cases, enough to fill two cargo containers. The bodies had been cleaned off the chopping blocks, so I think they were going to move them that night. Your informant was right.”

  Alana asked, “Did you track down who it was that tipped us off?”

  “No.”

  “Were you able to trace the call at all?”

  “Sort of. The call came from down on the Sunset Boulevard, at the corner of Clark Street, next to the Whiskey A Go-Go. The phone was purchased at an electronics store less than a block away with a pre-paid gift card, and whoever was calling used a voice destabilizer app. There wasn’t any clear surveillance media to connect to the coordinates, and there was a lot of foot traffic with so many people out partying on the holiday.”

  Alana said, “That’s where we went that first night you took me out. Back when I was promoted. And before you look incredulous, yes, I remember most of it. I still have that red cocktail dress tucked away in my closet. I haven’t worn it since, and may I add, I’m glad I didn’t wear it again tonight.”

  Rhys asked, “Do you remember who was playing there that night?”

  “I...” Alana struggled to recall that detail, “Oh. I don’t remember. I must have lost it in the resurrection.”

  Rhys admitted, “Funny thing. I don’t remember that detail either. But it was a few years ago, after all. I do remember standing outside the entrance, and thinking that it was a lot smaller than I expected it to be. Do cyborgs lose a lot of memories?”

  Alana said, “Every time I die, I sit down with all of my old photo albums and keepsakes and take inventory. I make either a check mark or an ex beside each item depending on whether or not I remember it. It seems like I lose about five percent of my memories every time.”

  Rhys stared off into deep left field, “The more I see of its downside, the less sure I am that I like this existence.”

  Alana lightly clasped Rhys’ sleeved forearm, “It’s all right. We’ll always have Hollywood.”

  “You’re usually very direct and to the point about our work. Did you want to know more about the waterfront case? I thought it would be at the forefront of your mind.”

  Alana could sense her chest inflating and deflating mechanically as her simulated breathing continued as surely as if she was still alive. She said, deliberately deemphasizing the significance of her point, “I also wanted to talk to you. Despite appearing to be very much the sociopath, as you put it—”

  “No offense intended. I was just calling them as I was seeing them.”

  “Despite that, I do feel tremendously guilty for getting you killed.”

  Rhys said, firmly, “Alana, don’t start down that path. You didn’t pull the trigger any more than you did on those four SWAT troopers on Tuesday night. You were just doing your job.”

  “Both times, I failed to follow proper procedure.”

  Rhys was insistent, “I told you not to go there. You did what you felt was right, and even the Chief agrees or else he would have suspended you instead of just sending you back to school for a few days. The SWAT squad doesn’t think badly of you either. The direct assault was their commander’s idea.”

  Alana stared out into deep right field, “I don’t feel guilty about the troopers. That does sound sociopathic—”

  “But you do feel guilty about my death?”

  “You can’t say it was because my brain was rebooted after you were killed. The only reason any of us knows about what really happened on that day is that my clone told Chief Bennett all the details before she was killed by my original self. Damn it, I’m a detective and I can barely sort out my life story.”

  Rhys said, “You had a little help making it more complicated. It wasn’t your fault. None of it. So don’t start with self-blame. Instead, ask me some more questions about the crime.”

  Alana struggled to focus on the case. It wasn’t hers in the first place. She had organized the raid ad hoc based on a credible tip from the unidentified informant. It didn’t become an official investigation until the raid was over, and then, it had been given to another inspector, Alana’s self-declared rival, Maggie MacGruder.

  It took her a couple of minutes to sort out her open questions, “You said that the cargo boxes were full of cyborg parts—”

  Rhys said, “No. Brains. They were full of cyborg brain cases.”

  “Where were the rest of the parts?”

  “There were a few odds and ends left inside the workshop, but it only amounted to less than a whole chassis, mostly parts that were damaged, probably during disassembly.”

  “That means they had already moved the parts. Were they aboard any of the freighters docked along the port?”

  Rhys shook his head, “Not that we found. Inspector MacGruder is assuming that the parts were already distributed into the local black market.”

  “Were any of the brains still alive?”

  “Most of them were. Each of the cargo boxes had a separate power unit to keep them going.”

  Alana asked, “How long would the battery last?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll get back to you with that.” Rhys started poking his fingers at the air in front of him. Alana presumed that he was leaving himself a note using his virtual interface.

  Alana continued, “Did you get any useful information from interrogating the brains?”

  “Not yet. Their subprocessors were disconnected, presumably sold. We haven’t had time to get any of them reconnected yet. We’re jumping through legal hoops. First, we had to identify each victim, which I’m still working on. Then we have to contact their next of kin, if they have any. Then we have to get approval to reconnect them to a processor and reboot them, and we have to do it inside a Zumpco facility. Then we have to get a doctor to sign off. It’s only been three days. Hopefully, we’ll start getting some of them cleared for interview starting Monday. I’m on the cusp of understanding why everyone thinks you’re a workaholic. You can’t take any time off if you want to accomplish anything.”

  Alana asked, “Do you have any idea who the victims are yet?”

  “I ran the serial numbers on the brain
cases, and here’s the interesting bit. They come from all over the Southwest Region. They’re not just from the LA metro area. But they are all from this region. None of them are transients from other regions.”

  Alana said, “Interesting. Do you think that means that they were targeted specifically? Maybe surveilled over a period of time before being kidnapped?”

  Rhys nodded, “That’s my current theory, but I’m not going to make any assumptions until we get more evidence.”

  “What’s the oldest kidnapping?”

  “The earliest we know of, based on reports, was June 6. What do you think that means?”

  “They were all taken within June? Within the same month? Then scheduled to be shipped out from the same place at the same time, maybe? Do you think this might have been going on for a long time?”

  “It’s a possibility, but we’re still gathering evidence. I think that Security Division may be following up on that, given the Chinese connection.”

  Alana asked, “Chinese connection?”

  “That suit of battle armor that soft-killed you was made in China. By the way, that’s supposed to be classified information. SD was adamant about that. Don’t spread it around.”

  “How many brain cases did you say you found in that warehouse?”

  Rhys said, “They were packed eight per crate.”

  “Only eight per box?”

  “Yes. They had a fairly sophisticated packing system set up, designed to keep the brains alive. It took up a lot of room inside the crates.”

  Alana concluded, “Then the casings were pre-configured to store them? Purpose-built?”

  Rhys nodded, “Indubitably. Everything points to this being a major job. Let me think, ten boxes high times two deep is twenty. Times ten rows is two-hundred. Times two stacks is four-hundred. Times eight is thirty-two hundred.”

  Alana almost cried out. Her consternation was clear in her expression, “What? Thirty-two hundred missing cyborgs within a month and no one tripped off any alarms?”

  Rhys shrugged, “It’s looking that way. All the confusion that your original self created along with Aaron Stone’s attack on the Zumpco cybernetics facilities may have given them enough cover. That mess is still being sorted out, and likely will be for months.”

  Alana’s eyebrows squeezed closer together as she kept generating more and more questions without getting many answers, “But what about their transponders? Wouldn’t they have tipped someone off?”

  Rhys gently shook his head, “I wouldn’t know. All I do know is that they didn’t. No one even noticed this was going on until your anonymous tip ratted them out. When they called the police line, they asked for you by name. Wouldn’t that narrow the list of possible informants?”

  Alana looked down at the ground, saying, “You’re right. I’m an idiot—”

  Rhys said, “Now, stop that! You’re not on this case anymore, so you’ve got no business worrying about the details.”

  The elder detective looked up again, “No! Wait. Not necessarily.”

  Rhys quipped, “You’re not necessarily an idiot, or...”

  “They didn’t have to know me personally. There was a minor media circus when the DA put me on trial a month ago. It’s conceivable that the informant might have picked my name based on that. So it’s not conclusive.”

  There was a commotion on the baseball diamond. Several people walked out of the first base dugout and approached the center of the infield. The crowd, still filing in on the Saturday evening, stirred restlessly.

  Alana asked, “What’s this?”

  “Ceremonial first pitch. Things should start moving fast now.”

  “About time.”

  Rhys had to raise his voice to compete with the ambient sounds from the fans, “Shut up and enjoy the game, and don’t ask me any more questions unless it’s about baseball.”

  Alana looked up at Rhys. She was a respectable one-point-eight meters tall, but Rhys had at least ten centimeters on her. She took in his visage, the thirty-five-year-old boy in a blue business suit at the ball game, still able to smile despite the fact that Alana had ordered him to his premature death less than four months ago. She wanted to smile, and she tried, but it didn’t feel as if she was doing it right. Recently, a food-ingestion upgrade allowed her to rediscover the lost art of dining after thirty-five years of mechanically imposed culinary abstinence, and she still had trouble eating without making a mess. She hadn’t realized that she had also forgotten the art of expressing happiness. If a dog saw her trying to grin, it would likely interpret it as a threat. She considered kissing Rhys on the cheek, but was afraid that she might miss and fall off the balcony. She said, “Okay, Detective. Until the game is over, I’m officially loose.”

  Rhys didn’t look at Alana, but she could tell that her friend had not forgotten how to smile.

  Alana stood up, but only because she didn’t want to be the only one sitting down during the, ‘Ceremonial First Pitch.’ The pitch, delivered by a robotic facsimile of George Herman “Babe” Ruth, was animatronically anticlimactic, eliciting a barely audible round of applause that did not drown out the low rumble of several thousand after-dinner conversations. Immediately following, a couple of warning announcements about copyrights were broadcast throughout the stadium. Just when it seemed as though play was about to begin, the crowd was instructed to stand for the American Republic national anthem, which seemed to drag on well beyond its typical minute, as if it was being played in three-quarter time.

  Finally, the stadium announcer began calling out the names of the Human League starting roster, in order of their appearance at bat, and each player took the field as they were called. The reception each player received seemed to vary from player to player and from team to team. Each player wore the uniform of the team from which he or she was selected. Finally, the announcer bellowed, “And batting ninth, representing the Boston Red Sox, starting pitcher, Phil Robertson!”

  Robertson jogged to the pitcher’s mound, waving to the crowd. He adjusted his cap and stepped on a small plate behind an oblong, white object that rested atop the small hillock in the middle of the infield. A covered hole in the ground opened, and a baseball rose from it, wobblingly suspended in mid-air. Robertson stuck his mitt underneath the floating ball, and it dropped into the pocket.

  Alana asked, noting the absence of black-uniformed officials whom she would have expected to adjudicate the game, “Where are the umpires?”

  Rhys leaned over, having to raise his voice over the din of the crowd, “Umpires went out three decades ago. It’s all radar guns and cameras now. There is a human tribunal to resolve conflicts, but they sit in a booth in a control room down in the basement.”

  “What about bat boys and ball boys and mascots and such?”

  “It’s all bat bots, ball bots, and robo-mascots now.”

  Alana said, “I see. Keeping with tradition, like the roof.”

  “We use stun pistols now, don’t we? Times and technologies change. Sometimes, resistance is futile.”

  After the pitcher exchanged several throws with his catcher, the announcer cried, “Are you ready for some baseball?”

  The crowd yelled in unison, “Yes!” although Alana heard at least two nearby voices shouting, “Get on with it!” instead, which made her smirk.

  The announcer followed the cheer with a hearty, “Then, Play Ball!”

  Another round of cheers followed as the first Cyber League player strode to the left side of the batter’s box and planted his feet. To Alana, he seemed very deliberate, unconcerned with the occasion.

  The loudspeakers bellowed, “Batting first and playing shortstop, representing the Montana Wildhackers, Greg Veedock! Greg currently leads both leagues with an on-base percentage of five-oh-two!”

  The knuckleballer, Phil Robertson, went through his wind-up. Alana found the motion to be less complicated than she had expected. It was a simple leg lift and stride, followed by a right-handed overhand delivery, but he was clear
ly straining to put as much effort as possible into the throw. The baseball, almost undetectable even with her cybernetic vision, sailed forth. Greg Veedock swung hard, his polyxytate bat nothing but a black blur. He made solid contact with the ball, which flew off the bat in a hard, line-drive right back at the pitcher. Robertson tried to raise his mitt to defend himself, but the ball was traveling too fast for his human reflexes. The crowd went silent as the ball struck Mister Robertson in the head and he fell to the ground.

  Saturday, 8 July, 18:25

  The soft murmurs from the crowd of over fifty-thousand people were so subdued as to be drowned out by the soft whirring of the orca-themed airship’s electric propellers as it slowly orbited the stadium, broadcasting an aerial view of the event to the world. Its shadow advanced over the pitcher’s mound, where Phil Robertson was pronounced dead.

  All the representatives of both the Human and Cyber Leagues held their caps over their hearts, and many deigned to pray, as the knuckleballer was gently lifted onto a gurney and carried off the field. The only player who wasn’t paying his respects was Greg Veedock, the batter whose line drive had made Major League history in a way no one had anticipated. He had retreated into the dugout following the accident.

  Once the unfortunate player had been carried off the field, the stadium announcer declared that there would be a fifteen-minute break before play resumed, but that the game would continue, without Phil Robertson or Greg Veedock.

  Once the crowd lifted its self-imposed vow of silence, and conversations erupted all over, noticeably more subdued than before the game began, Alana asked Rhys, “Ben, does this happen often?”

  Rhys shook his head, “It’s almost unheard of. Baseball is one of the safest sports around, at least in terms of fatalities. For over a hundred years, there was only one death on the field in baseball. I can’t remember the player’s name. He was hit by a pitch. Usually, a pitcher can get his glove up in time to defend himself, or dodge out of the way. I’m sorry you had to see that. This was supposed to be fun.”