Freenet (19 page)

Gladyz put a finger to her chin as she surveyed the scene with an editorial eye. “I have never seen so many exclamation marks in one place.”

Roni spread his hands to the crew as though presenting indisputable evidence. “This is
news
, people. Let’s bag it.”

“Damn,” Gladyz said, but her face brightened with determination. “Drop the booms and lamps here with Derryn. Give me two cams on shoulder mount. We’ll have to work in close quarters, but try to keep some space around Ngazi so he doesn’t freak out. Get a hand mike for Roni. Where’s the sun?” She spun in a quick circle like a windup toy and pointed. “Gritty it is. Over there by the gift shop with north light on their faces. Zen and Roni centre stage. Let’s go. What are you waiting for? Go! Go!”

The crew scrambled to work with a few professional expletives in the line of duty, and no bystanders were seriously injured as they claimed a small circle amidst the crowd and propped Ngazi in position like a lighthouse beacon in a milling sea.

“Okay?” Gladyz yelled into mayhem. “Thirty seconds, okay? Just throw the script out, Roni. It’s a disaster movie now, got it?” She pumped her fist in the air for attention while the cameramen braced themselves inside a protective huddle of roadies. “Five,” Gladyz yelled as she began the countdown with her fingers—
three, two, one
, she pointed to Roni with fierceness in her eyes.

“Welcome to the
Daily Buzz
and thanks for tuning in again to this incredible story! This is Roni Hendrik reporting live from New Jerusalem West with Zen Valda from Bali. We are in a pickle today as you can plainly see. Thousands of well-wishers and protesters have assembled peacefully at the hospital where Simara Ying still ekes out a fragile existence in deep coma. Most are here just to catch a glimpse of the amazing girl who fell from the stars. Others are angry at the court system that put her in jeopardy and the cold-hearted corporation that left her to die in the void of space. I hope you can hear me okay with all this noise. Have you ever seen anything like this, Zen?”

“No.” The boy’s eyes were panicky, his face fretful, but Roni had to force something out of the kid to keep him in the game.

“Are you angry at Transolar for what they did to your wife?”

“Yes.” One-word answers pressed through grim lips—too many people for a wilderness recluse! Ngazi began murmuring, “hunh, hunh,” in the background as his emotional bandwidth went into overload.

Roni turned to the camera for support. “A million Transolar creds can buy a lot of goodwill for the omnidroids, but the stain of guilt gets right into your skin, doesn’t it?” He wiggled the fingers of his free hand for emphasis. “The
Daily Buzz
has uncovered new information about this nefarious case. Following closely on the genetic pattern of the mysterious elder, Simara Ying, all twenty-four omnidroid children were brought to life right here on Cromeus in the research labs of Neurozonics Incorporated. Bioengineered from human DNA and augmented for specialized communication and high intelligence, these innocent children were manufactured as modern slaves to serve corporate masters right here in New Jerusalem!” Roni paused for dramatic effect and swallowed saliva to soothe his dry throat. He turned again to Zen. “Did Simara say anything about her childhood trapped in a sterile laboratory?”

Zen frowned. “Not really. She had an unhappy youth.”

“No doubt, robbed of human contact and compassion. Who knows what rigorous tests were performed on these biogen babies during early experiments? They are said to have been programmed for precognition, to be able to communicate across vast distance. Have you seen any evidence of special telepathic powers?”

The crowd surged around them as the news team became a focus of attention. People with placards were trying to get their slogans visible in the background behind Zen, and roadies were holding them back with arms spread wide. Ngazi was sweating bullets and flapping his arms in an autistic episode while he turned in a circle moaning, “hunh, hunh.” Roni glanced around as a bouquet hit him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, folks. We’re on the front lines of news today, keeping it real in search of tomorrow.” Gladyz rolled a finger in the air to signal an upcoming transition back to the prepared footage in the studio. There was only so much you could do with street theatre. “Back to Zen Valda now, have you seen any evidence of exotic communication among the omnidroids?”

Zen nodded, a picture of sincerity, a man you could trust. “Yes, they hear messages from a collective voice they call the mothership, a hive-mind like a guardian angel.”

“Really, and can they communicate with Simara even in her coma?”

“Yes, Simara’s just sleeping.” He turned to the camera audience with unfeigned faith. “She’s okay. Mothership is looking after her.”

“There you have it, folks, and we can only conjecture at this point who controls the so-called mothership. Or what influence Neurozonics maintains from afar to manipulate their omnidroid slaves, and to what ultimate, nefarious purpose. These are some of the secrets we’ve already uncovered on the
Daily Bu
zz . . .”

“Okay, we’re offline,” Gladyz shouted with a hand covering her ear as she continued to monitor the studio feed on her eyescreen. “Get me a head shot of Roni to keep for the closer. Both cameras, ready?” She held her arm high in the air as a trio of men bumped her away from view and a woman lurched out of the melee to clasp Zen tight around the waist. “Five . . .”

Roni counted down in his mind as Gladyz struggled to push back into position. “Sorry again about all the consternation today. News happens, and we’re on it six days a week. Tomorrow is Heritage in honour of all religions past and present, so we’ll be spending our weekly day of rest along with family and friends like you. Let’s take some time to calm down for a day, and please refrain from visiting the hospital. Thanks to everyone who joined in the flash mob today. Your voice has been heard, and a cry of challenge has been launched against Transolar and Neurozonics. This is Roni Hendrik reporting live and kicking at New Jerusalem West Hospital where crowds continue to worship the omnidroid martyr, Simara Ying. Stay tuned to this story, and we’ll see you again on Firstday . . . bringing the future to life . . . on the
Daily Buzz
.”

Gladyz poked up on her toes above the crowd and slashed across her throat. “And cut! Send that back to my studio folder and clean up this goddamn mess! Someone rescue Ngazi before he shits himself!” She stalked away with her hand shielding her eyescreen from the sunlight, trying to keep some semblance of control over the show.

Zen panted and pushed against the crowd as women pawed at his now famous leopard-skin tunic. He had become a celebrity overnight, a mythical figure launched from a fairytale, larger than life and cute as a button. His face was crimson with outrage at this orgy of flesh.

“Follow me,” Roni yelled, eyeing an escape route to the door. “Stay close.” He pressed forward slowly, braving a path through the bedlam and keeping both feet on the floor to maintain balance. “Make way,” he shouted, brandishing his wireless mike like a threatening club. “Let us through!” He grabbed Zen’s arm to drag him free from the clutch of his fans, making slow but sure progress toward the sunlight outside. The crowd was still surging in through the out door, but Roni pushed against the tide, stepped on a few toes, and took a wicked hit to the groin. He gasped and bent forward, clutching his family jewels and bumping his head on the doorframe. For a moment he thought he might puke, but he clenched his teeth against vertigo. Zen steered him toward an opening with the strength of a bouncer, and they burst out onto the street.

“Shit,” Roni said as he rubbed circulation into his crotch.

“You okay?”

Zen’s fake leopard skin had been torn in half and his bulging pectoral muscles glistened with sweat—he really was Tarzan, a boy with the strength of a horse. Roni laughed.

“What?”

Roni waved a weak arm. “Nothing. Let’s get out of here.” He started haltingly forward, and Zen followed in his wake.

“Is it always like this in the news business?”

Roni laughed again. “No, sociologists will be studying this for months to come, trying to analyze the crowd behaviour—pent-up pressure released like a steam whistle, cultural imbalance, economic inequality, all that crap. A whole raft of kids will get thesis funding from the government. This is how history is made.”

“Is this all part of your strategy?”

“Ha,
my
strategy? No, I’m just a reporter, a watchman on the tower. Someone else is planning this news, and I’m going to find out who.”

They ducked into a transit station and palmed a sensor for access uptown. An amber light showed around Zen’s hand with a hum of warning.

“You’d better login to the V-net soon, before your creds run out,” Roni said as they stepped into a crowded tram and found an open area to stand. “Just tune in to a comedy show or something.”

“I will,” Zen said, but his voice lacked assurance. “Why was Ngazi doing a dino-bird dance?”

“The hand flap? That’s just a thing autistic people do to relieve tension. Sometimes it’s their only outlet. Have you seen it before?”

“It’s the mating dance of a male dino-bird. He stiffens the red crest at the back of his head and jumps up and down, sticking his neck out and flapping his wings.” Zen held his arms aloft and poked his head forward in curious imitation of a hand flap.

Roni laughed and shook his head at the absurdity. “Who knew Ngazi was so talented? A red-crested dino-bird, huh?”

“They’re actually quite dangerous,” Zen said without humour. “They can pierce a man’s skull with their pointed beak.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’ll keep my distance.”

They made it back to Roni’s apartment unscathed and quickly cracked out the allkool. Roni downed a stiff shot to get his thoughts in order. Man, what a day, good times for all.

Zen chose a lemon-lime mix for his allkool, a girly drink, and sipped it with hesitance. He made his way to the common room and settled into his own private catatonia on the couch. That was okay, the kid had been dragged out of his comfort zone and Roni felt responsible. But, he had to admit as events settled in his mind, today they had broken this case wide open.

Roni put on some relaxing music in the background with flutes, chimes, and assorted percussion sounds, and opened a window to get some ventilation. He planned a warm meal for dinner to celebrate their misadventure, stir-fried veggies in a garlic base ladled over rice noodles. His second allkool went down slower, seasoned with oak extract and whiskey spice, as he gathered resources from the refrigerator—zucchini, mushrooms, carrots, and an onion. The simple kitchen rituals calmed him down as he crushed garlic and diced vegetables on a plastic cutting board. The smells stole his attention for a transient moment as he worked. Food was a universal language, common ground for all humanity. Even biogens had to eat.

When all was prepared, Roni called Zen to the kitchen and woke him from his trance. He served the noodles on ceramic plates and ladled out the garnish as the boy pulled up a stool. Zen studied his plate for a moment and pinched up some pasta with his fingers to sample the strange concoction. Roni tapped his fork on his plate and showed by example how to twirl noodles onto the tines with a chunk of veggie on the tip to hold the bite in place. Zen was not adept at using flatware and made a colourful mess on the table, but neither one of them cared as the allkool began to flow in their veins. They chatted about life on Bali, and Zen recounted tales of hunting fresh meat in the desert, chasing down baby raptors with dune buggies at dusk with a torrid sun hovering on the horizon.

The boy was an alien. His body was adapted to an exotic environment with thin air and strong gravity, and his mind was focused on the flesh, the struggle for food and companionship, simple things that digital civilization took for granted. Water was the most precious thing he could imagine. Gold was as common as dirt, something they hauled up from the ground and sold by the bucket. And the sun, which everyone else regarded as the source of life and electricity, worshipped by humans since the dawn of time, was for him a vicious enemy, a killer.

Gladyz arrived at their door late in the evening with an open travel thermos in hand, still dressed in her wide-lapel skirtsuit from work and reeking of allkool. It was Heritage eve, so what the hell. Roni swung open the door. “C’mon in.”

“Thanks. Is he here?”

“Hi, Gladyz,” Zen said from the common room, comfortably slouched at one end of the couch, bare-legged in boxers and a pyjama shirt.

“Sorry to intrude,” Gladyz said with a slur. “You guys gettin’ busy?”

Roni frowned. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Juz’ a titch,” Gladyz said as she waltzed into the room and twirled in a quick inspection. “You’ve never invited me over. Lovely spot. So spacious.” She wandered around peeking in open doorways.

Roni freshened his drink from a jug of mix in the refrigerator. With great deliberation, he and Zen had concocted a fruit drink from a recipe called tequila sunrise. “Two bedrooms, one bath, nothing special.”

“Magnificent view of the park,” Gladyz said as she peered out a window near the couch. “At least you’re putting your bonus creds to good use.”

Zen sat up a bit straighter at her proximity, his docility replaced by sudden vigilance like a hunter sensing game. Roni sipped his allkool. A leopard on the prowl? No, that was too weird. “You out on the town tonight? Want to hop the boulevard?”

Gladyz sank into the couch near the midpoint, close to Zen but not touching. “No, I wanted to party with the boys. Just take it easy.” She turned woozily to Zen and sipped from her thermos.

Zen smiled with cautious grace.

“Let me get you a glass,” Roni said as he stepped forward and offered an open hand. “What are you drinking?”

Gladyz relinquished her thermos. “Sparkling white grape juice fermented with yeast. They call it bubbly champagne.” She turned back to Zen. “Want to taste?”

Before he could answer, she planted a kiss full on his lips, her body hunched over him, her hand firm on the armrest. One, two, three seconds—an awkward eternity of intimacy. She released him and smacked her lips with delight. “What do you think?”