Idempotency (11 page)

After parking in a spot that he surmised would bait people to take notice of his ride, he walked into a tunnel heading toward the casino. The tunnel was lined with strips of material hanging down from the ceiling. Each strip was showing a video of some kind, flashing media at a fevered pitch. At one point the strips began waving back and forth, as they simultaneously began showing video of a sea of seaweed, as if he were wading underwater. Seconds later, each strip of hanging video erupted into a different advertisement of some kind. It was a dizzying display of media—and again, Dylan loved it. Media was the heart of sales and Dylan was a salesman at heart.

The tunnel opened abruptly into an expansive room in the center of the cubed structure. Strips of diaphanous, media-enabled material hung off the ceiling draping, just above the heads of the patrons, waving in the air. Slot machines buzzed incessantly. Holographic blocks above each machine danced convulsively, then spun on their corners like tops, seizing until they all suddenly came to rest with various lines of success or failure shooting through each block. Bells, whistles, and various cacophony would accompany the holographic show. Odors would spurt out of the machine to indicate particularly good or bad results. Some lucky people used extra spins to push the holograms around, desperately trying to coerce a different conclusion.

Dylan had become momentarily transfixed to the point of forgetting the reason he had come here in the first place, though he was starting to affirm his decision. He was also itching to play a hand (or many) of poker. With the intent to get a drink and loosen up before gambling, rather than meet some mystery man, he headed to one of the four bars located in each corner of the cubed casino.

The bar was sparse in decoration and patronage, though entirely covered with media—even the tops of the stool cushions displayed an ever-changing advertisement for a particular beer. Dylan sat down on a stool the moment the cushion had displayed a girl’s face smiling back at him. This disturbed him, but he let it pass and motioned to one of the several bartenders who were on tap tonight.

Before he could get out the words, someone else did it for him. “Two gin and tonics—make them doubles." A man’s large face turned from the bartender toward Dylan and asked, “That’s your drink, right?”

Dylan smiled and said, “One of many. If you’re buying, I’ll let you guess the others later.”

The man stuck out an arm that appeared to be on fire. A bright conflagration danced on his skin. He had a dynamic tattoo of several flames that danced differently, depending on the direction his arm was pointing; the flames always danced upward, becoming more haphazard the faster his arm moved. Dylan had seen some examples of dynamic body art. It was popular with the lower class and the technorati—aniToos, they called them—but he hadn’t seen anything this detailed up close until now.

“Simeon,” the man said flatly, offering his hand.

“Dylan, but I guess you already knew that.” He shook the man’s hand firmly and looked at the flames with an approving grin. He then realized the man was muscular, rather than overweight. Simeon was only slightly taller than Dylan, but he appeared taller still owing to his massive frame. His shoulders were as broad as his belly was wide. His muscles flowed naturally, smoothly; they did not appear artificially enhanced.

As Simeon stared back at him, Dylan was quick to notice flames dancing around his black pupils, and he was immediately certain that Simeon’s ocular implants were the product of a competitor’s virt technology, or illegal darkTech.
Probably the latter—invasive, to say the least
, Dylan thought. The man had long, reddish-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, allowing him to show off shiny gold earrings. Dylan recognized the ponytail—this was the man who had bumped into him in the EGC lobby.

Simeon sat down to Dylan’s right. He didn’t speak until the drinks came, which was fine with Dylan. When the drinks did come, both customers took large swigs, then Simeon twirled in his chair toward Dylan and laughed, a deep, bass-filled chuckle. Dylan turned to him with a questioning look.

“I tell you to take public transit, stay underground, pay direct for a rental—” more laughter “—and you go and rent the most obnoxious car you possibly can! Damn, Dylan!” Dylan took to Simeon’s hearty laugh immediately.

“What’s with the Cold War crap? You’re lucky I’m even here, Mr. Simeon,” Dylan replied.

“Just Simeon, and I wouldn’t call either of us particularly lucky.”

“Okay, Just Simeon, get to the point so I can go play some 50K Limit Hold’em.”

“All right then—“ Simeon started, but was quickly cut off by Dylan.

“And, let me be clear: the
point
—which happens to be the only reason I came here, and the only reason I’m talking to you right now rather than playing poker—the
point
is, what do you know about my uncle, and how do you know about Sabrina?”

“I think I’m going to like you, Boxster.” Simeon said, beaming, as the bartender returned with two watered-down gin and tonics. He took a swig, asked the bartender for two shots of synthetic tequila, and then continued. “Okay, tell me this: When was the last time you went to a public park?”

“What do you mean ‘When is the last time I went to a public park?’—I was in Central Park just last week on business.”

“Let me reiterate.” The tinge of an East Coast accent seemed to be creeping in.  “I said . . . when is the last time you were in a
public
park?”

Dylan shrugged. “Okay, I give up. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Central Park is
leased
by a company responsible for sanitation and security. The lessee is PubSecCorp, and the lessor is, of course, New York City. Guess how long the lease is for?” Simeon motioned for an answer with his glass, the ice clinking as he did so.

Dylan shrugged. He was becoming quickly frustrated by the lack of a
point
.

“A hundred years, Boxster." A rumbling guttural chuckle issued forth from Simeon’s broad chest. “One hundred years. A virtual unknown corp—PubSecCorp—
owns
Central Park for all intents and purposes.”

Dylan’s business curiosity overtook him briefly and he asked, “Why a lease? Shouldn’t the government be paying PubSecCorp for the sanitation service? What’s that about?”

Simeon chuckled again. This time it almost sounded like a growl. “Heh, there’s the rub. It’s a lease giving PubSecCorp all rights to the space. But the thing is, the lease is
free
." As he spoke, Simeon raised his hands and gestured air quotes around
free
. “The security and sanitation is merely a cover for the actual business: marketing. Central Park advertising is some of the most lucrative around. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ads are everywhere in that place. The park benches have all been replaced with dynamic-vid materials. The structures: all dynamic-vid signage. If you access the Net in there, you will have to go through a corp proxy; there’s targeted corpNet ads from that point on. There are usually holo displays in the sky at night. It’s subtle—elegant, even—but make no mistake, it’s ubiquitous. And it’s not just parks. PubSecCorp is buying or leasing public land across multiple nations. At the same time, they’re building enormous housing facilities. Structures so large a decent city could survive in them. In the US alone, PubSecCorp—through subsidiaries, or partnerships, or other machinations—leases or outright owns over 70 percent of public space. When was the last time you went to a beach?” he asked rhetorically.

“Apparently they haven’t gotten to the San Diego HSmR station yet.”

“They haven’t," Simeon replied flatly. “That’s one of the reasons I had you come that way." He stopped abruptly and looked around quickly, whipping his long ponytail back and forth.

“So what? Why?”

“Someone has found a way to monetize the poor,” Simeon responded.

“This is insane, man. You better tie this into my initial question real soon." Dylan remark was laced with sarcasm, but his interest was piqued slightly. The shot glasses arrived.

“Getting there. First—PubSecCorp happens to be a wholly owned subsidiary of a small company you might’ve heard of known as NanoRegenSoft, otherwise known as NRS.” Simeon let this hang as if it carried extra weight. Dylan pretended it didn’t—but it did. “The same NRS that helped your great-uncle live to the spry old age of one hundred and seventy-eight. The same NRS that is interested in SolipstiCorp’s deathTrip tech.”

Dylan pivoted to face Simeon. “I’m listening,” he replied.

“Right, good. Listen hard here. Your great-uncle, Randy Dansby, was scrambled due to a botched backup-and-restore procedure. The reasons given publicly were that NRS was attempting a delicate and new backup procedure of his own memories. We believe this failure is why NRS is after SolipstiCorp’s tech. Their tech failed; now they want yours.”

“Okay.” Dylan shrugged. “What makes that nefarious?”

“We have data to suggest your uncle did not consent to those tests willingly. Rather, we have evidence that your uncle has a rare genetic marker making his mind more malleable to transference of memories. NRS forced him to take part in those tests. We also believe it wasn’t his memories being restored.” Simeon paused and took a sip of his drink. “We think you have that same genetic marker, and that they did the same test to you during your deathTrip. They tried for transference; they intentionally attempted to fail idempotency. You have other family members, of course, but the fact that you work for SolipstiCorp is a lucky break for them.”

“No, this is impossible. They’d need people on the inside. My girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—was one of the lead developers on the project. I don’t believe it.”

“Hiding code in a function is easier than hiding hay in a haystack,” Simeon responded. “This isn’t rocket science, Dylan.”

“Presupposing I buy this inane line of reasoning, why would I trust you? An anticorp conspiracy theorist with no credentials whatsoever—according to corpNets, you don’t even exist.”

“What do you know about the activist group Sons of Pseudo?”

“Jack-shit.” Dylan picked up a new shot of something golden, slammed it down, laughed, and shook his head.

Simeon was visibly agitated. ”Damn, Dylan, how the hell don’t you know them?”

Dylan waved his hands in the air dramatically. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m not some activist technorati virtTripper?”

Simeon pressed on. “Well, Sons of Pseudo—or SOP—is one of many activist groups intent on regenerating our lost middle class. However, SOP does so utilizing any technological means possible. We have some of the brightest technical minds working for us. We meet, like most anonymous activist groups, within user-generated darkVirts—usually called multiVirts.” Simeon paused, fearing he was losing his listener—and he was. “Look, I represent an entity that is more powerful than you realize. We’ve effected change for decades—look it up sometime. Dylan, our country is lost. SOP is fighting to find it and we need your help.”

Dylan laughed. “The United States is lost? Oh no! Where did it go? We oughtta go look for it?” Dylan let the liquor take hold. He was past frustrated. In a low voice he stated firmly, “Simeon, please,
get to the damn point
.”

“Almost there. Just bear with me—“

Feeling drunk now, Dylan interrupted, “So what’s your role in SOP?“

Simeon shook his head. “SOP is roleless and anonymous, remember?”

“Right—whatever. What’s the point, then? What is SOP trying to do? Initiate a change of parties?”

Simeon guffawed with a deep baritone. “Oh, Boxster, this goes way beyond politics. I’m not being dramatic when I say there is a war brewing . . .” Simeon let his words hang again, but they fell on deaf ears, as Dylan was now watching a vid of a shadow dancer on the wall in front of them.

Simeon continued. “In the last election alone, each major candidate—affiliated party aside—was funded 99.98 percent by corporate contributions. There is no individual voter anymore. Corps are doing the voting.”

Dylan slammed his drink down on the dynamic advertisement for a new fall line of sports coats. “Okay, I’m done. Thanks for the social-science lesson, but I’ve had as much as I can take. The world isn’t fair, I get it; poor people are screwed and corps are soulless. Simeon, this argument has been going on for centuries now. It sucks, it really does, but it is what it is. As for you, I’m fairly certain you learned about Sabrina from a broken NDA and the rest of your story is conspiracy hogwash. Frankly, the main reason I’m meeting with you is to try and find out which of our
loyal
employees broke their NDA so we can fire their ass. You, unfortunately, are proving to be one step away from completely useless, if not completely bonkers. On the plus side, at least you bought my drinks tonight. So thanks for that." Dylan gave a salute, stood up, and began to walk away.

Showing no desperation, Simeon whispered loudly, “I have reason to believe NRS wants your tech for nefarious purposes."

Without turning, Dylan shouted, “I don’t have time for conspiracy theories, Simeon.”

Utilizing his full bass-filled voice, Simeon rejoined, “I have your entire holoVid, Dylan, and I’ll release it on the darkNets if I have to. First-person perspective. All 587,482 hours. That’s just over thirty-five years. I have it all, Boxster.”

Dylan stopped. He shook his head, turned around and shouted, “Prove it.”

Simeon waved a hand in front of his face, and his eyes turned into a fiery undulation of oranges and reds. He waved his hands more, poking at images only he could see through his ocImps.

A buzz sounded in Dylan’s ear; he clicked on his BUI while raising his hands, then made a motion to enlarge the notification that had just arrived. A holoVid began to play in Dylan’s BUI. It was a 3-D holo shot from a first-person perspective. A man was making love to a woman. She smiled up at him, looking into his eyes, grabbing his head with her hands. Sweat beaded on her brow. She bit her lower lip. The man looked up at a mirror attached to the wall in front of him. The reflection was not that of Dylan, but Dylan knew this man as well as he knew himself.