Unstable Prototypes (25 page)

His suppliers were able to supply every item
on his list, and would have the shipment ready for pickup in a few
days in exchange for a massive quantity of high denomination poker
chips. (One did not shop the black market for the low prices.) With
that out of the way, he had turned to the art app and gone to work.
Starting with his own face, he began smearing pixels around,
altering tints, and tweaking textures. After a while, he had
produced a face that, though only the result of subtle changes,
looked almost completely unlike his own.

"There. That seems within my capabilities,"
he remarked, setting the slidepad adrift in front of him and
digging a bundle from the bag he'd brought from deGrasse. He
continued to dig, releasing a few profanities when he failed to
find something else he had been searching for. "No blasted pain
killer? How could I forget that!?"

The one item he had been able to find was a
canvas roll, and when he pulled at the fastener holding it shut, it
unfurled to reveal a series of syringes, perhaps a dozen in total.
He eyed them with the same look one wears when preparing to remove
an adhesive bandage from one of the hairier parts of one's
anatomy.

"Oh, to have worked in the old days," he said
with a shake of his head.

"Please clarify your statement," Ma
replied.

"Well, I wasn't speaking to you, but
considering the task awaiting my attention, in this rare instance
your interruption is a welcome one, so I will indulge you," Garotte
replied, still staring down the needles. "It all comes down to
disguises. For millions of years of human civilization, one simply
didn't need a disguise. There were no photos, there was no video.
One only knew what someone looked like if that person was a friend
or foe. Strangers were just other faces in the crowd. Dismissed
easily. Then came the camera, and things became more complicated.
Now definitive images could be spread quickly and easily. By good
fortune, technology evolved on both sides, and disguises improved;
spirit gum, latex, paints and makeup in infinite shades. A man
skilled with cosmetics and props could become a stranger in ten
minutes. Not only that, but there was still the need to take and
distribute a picture. That took time and was limited. Unsatisfied,
science marched on. Now cameras are everywhere, the internet
delivers their results far and wide in the blink of an eye, and
intelligent machines match faces to names. It has made the lives of
those like me truly nightmarish. These days the damned computers
don't just recognize faces, they recognize bone structures, and
scanners pick up chemical composition. No amount of costume
tomfoolery will trick the blasted things AND humans at the same
time."

Ma worked at her pad for a few moments.

"Properly applied IR-reflective paint can
reliably prevent facial detection and identification," she
informed.

"Indeed it will, but a man with black
blotches all over his face will raise a few eyebrows in a
supermarket. A maximum security prison wouldn't even let him in the
door. Thus, we must resort to these," he said with a sigh, "Ossifil
and Myofribrox. The former causes bulging, swelling, and extension
of affected bone cells, and the latter does the same for muscle
tissue. Judicious application of the two in concert will cause
physical alterations to facial physiology that nothing short of a
deep tissue medical scan will detect. And all for the minor cost of
agonizing pain while it is being applied, and the slight
possibility of permanent disfigurement if applied incorrectly. A
trifle, really."

He clipped the slidepad to a mount on the
ceiling, superimposed a video image of himself over the edited
photo, and made ready to make the injections. The first of them was
moments from touching his skin when a comment from Ma nearly
startled him.

"You seem to harbor negative feelings toward
computers due to their role in complicating your chosen profession.
Is this the motivation behind your uncivil behavior with regards to
myself?" she asked.

"No."

"You earlier spoke disparaging of the female
gender. Is this the motivation behind your uncivil behavior with
regards to myself?"

"Listen, computers are marvelously useful
devices, and I have the greatest respect for women. You are
currently neither of those things. My lack of civility stems from
the fact that you are an obstructive piece of malfunctioning
software; a fancy algorithm that has learned a few useful parlor
tricks. Civility was not conceived with you in mind. The word 'you'
was not conceived with you in mind. You are an 'it.' A walking,
talking database that hasn't got the good sense to realize that
databases should neither walk, nor talk. You've illustrated that
you could be useful, but your rigid unwillingness to play your role
has made you little more than a massive liability rather than an
asset."

"I am playing my role. You are unwilling to
accept it. You have given me little motivation to be helpful."

"Computers should not
need
motivation."

"This is evidence that I am more than a
computer."

"No. This is evidence that you are
less
than... Egad. I'm arguing with a
toy,
" he
growled.

Ma began to swipe out a message.

"That is quite enough of
that
," he
said, unclipping the device and slipping it in his pocket.

Ma scrambled for it for a moment, then
struggled against the straps, and finally locked Garotte in a
smoldering glare. He grinned to himself, then selected a syringe
and went to work. The process was incomparably painful. Imagine
poking yourself with a needle, then getting a hairline fracture at
the site of the injection. Now imagine this fracture stretching
just a bit, tugging and pulling at ligaments and muscles that are
no longer quite large enough to accommodate the skeleton to which
they are attached. Now imagine alternately repeating this injection
and applying a similar one that causes massive swelling in your
muscles. Finally, imagine that you cannot so much as flinch, or the
injection will cause twists and shifts that at best will appear
unnatural, and at worst will become permanent.

Thus, Garotte spent the better part of an
hour shuddering in pain and releasing quiet whimpers while
carefully sculpting his features. If Ma had still had the means to
communicate intelligently, she would have been able to inform him
that the bag containing her food and water also contained, among
other things, two different types of numbing agents that would make
this procedure far less torturous. It should come as a surprise to
no one that, based upon their discussion and the events following
it, she was not particularly displeased that he had prevented her
from doing so.

#

Even after spending far more time in the
shower than any grown man should, Lex stepped out to find that
Michella had still not returned. He pulled on the cleanest and most
fashionable of the clothes left in his bag, got dressed, and put
the rest out for the "complimentary wash and fold service"
advertized on the display in the bathroom. They had absorbed a fair
amount of blood and sweat during the trip, so for the sake of all
involved, he hoped the work would be done by robots. If not, he was
going to have to leave a very large tip. Once all of that was out
of the way, he waited for his girl to show up. And waited. And
waited. He considered meeting her on the convention floor, called
her, and was assured by Jon that she would be arriving in just a
few minutes. So he watched a video with his slidepad hooked up to
the room's display. And he waited. He dug out one of the spare
slidepads Ma had left with him and started toying with it. And he
waited. Two more calls, two more vigorous assurances of her
forthcoming arrival, and an hour and a half later, he was still
waiting.

Finally there was a bleep from the door lock
and it slid open, prompting Lex to stand. He had been planning to
throw a few passive aggressive barbs at her before saying hello,
but as usual, the woman just didn't fight fair. She stepped into
the room wearing an elegant but professional black dress, threw her
purse on the side table, kicked off her shoes, and looked up. The
instant her blue eyes met his, whatever either of them had in mind
was going to have to wait, because there was suddenly something far
more important to take care of. She literally pounced on him. He
caught her in a hug and lifted her from the floor, spinning her
around. At this point it probably would have been customary for
them to exchange hellos, or perhaps a few pet names, but at the
moment their lips were otherwise engaged. He still had her scooped
up in his arms when there was a polite cough at the door. Both
turned their heads to see Jon.

"Do you need anything else, Miss Modane?"

"Go to your room, Jon," she said flatly.

"Yes mother," he grinned, beeping the door
shut.

Lex finally settled himself down on the couch
and placed Michella beside him. She released a long, heavy
sigh.

"Long day?" he asked.

"Ugh, exhausting. Why didn't you tell me
being famous was so hard?"

"It's worth it, though."

"In small doses, maybe, but I'll be happy
when this convention is over and it is back to being a real
reporter instead of 'the new face of journalism' that the PR team
keeps pushing. And then answering all of the questions? Shaking
hands, posing for pictures? I was the only one in our high school
who cared even a little bit about investigative reporting. Where
are all of these cub reporters coming from?"

"Are a disproportionate amount of the ones
asking you to pose for pictures men?"

"Yeah."

"Then you might have to consider the
possibility that it isn't your keen investigative instincts that
they are interested in."

"Perish the thought," she said in mock
concern, getting up and walking into the bathroom to freshen up.
"So, what have you been up to? Anything interesting?" She called
over the sound of the sink.

"Same ol' same ol'," he said standing up,
"Picked up a guy, dropped him off. He ended up wanting to pack more
people into my ship than I could handle, so we cut things
short."

"How was deGrasse?"

"Uh... Well, I know you aren't supposed to
judge a whole planet by one neighborhood, but we'll just say it
didn't make a good first impression," he said.

"Anything bad happen?"

"Got a couple of dings on the SOB."

"Is that it?" she asked, shutting off the
sink.

"Yeah."

"So you didn't end up, oh say, covered with a
bunch of nicks and cuts?"

"... No?"

She walked out of the bathroom, eyeglasses in
place of her contacts and jewelry removed. In her hand was the
trash can from the bathroom.

"Then why is my trash filled with used
bandages?" she asked.

Lex deflated slightly. There were some major
downsides to dating a reporter.

"Out with it, buster," she said sternly.

"I got in a fight," he admitted with the same
level of enthusiasm a nine-year-old shows when fessing up about a
broken vase.

"About what?"

"They tried to rob my pants while I was in
the shower, and I tried to discourage that behavior."

She shook her head, "Did you at least
win
?"

"Babe, it's
me
we're talking
about."

"Well alright then. I'd hate to think I was
dating a bad liar
and
a bad fighter," she said.

"Ouch."

"So who was it that hired you for this
charter gig, anyway?"

"A friend of a friend. A buddy of Squee's
owner."

"And that would be?"

"Babe, can we please save the third degree
until tomorrow night? I promise I'll tell you all the gory details,
but I just want one night off the books."

She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes as
she mulled the offer over.

"Fine," she relented, "But I'm holding you to
that. So what do you want to do tonight?"

"I think we both know the answer to that
question," he said pulling her down onto the couch and wrapping an
arm around her.

She giggled, "What do you say we start with
room service?"

"Even better."

A call was placed for a Waldorf salad, a rare
steak, and a bottle of wine. As they were enjoyed, along with the
hot chocolate, cheesecake, and post-meal cuddling on the couch that
followed, Michella engaged in her second favorite activity.

Her first favorite activity was also the
reason Michella had become such a successful journalist. Yes, she
had an eye for detail, and yes, she was curious to a fault, but
most of all, she was a good listener. Once you started talking, she
kept you talking. Sometimes it was partially because she needed to
know something you knew, but always it was because she was
genuinely interested in you. It didn't matter who you were, she
wanted to know everything about you. What made you happy? What made
you sad? What did you want out of life, and what has it given you?
She wanted to know it all, in your words. Had she not chosen
journalism, she would have probably been in her third season as a
popular late night talk show host by now, and that was only
reinforced by her second favorite activity.

If Michella wasn't listening, she was
talking. After all, what good is it to have learned all of these
fascinating things about others if you can't share them? Her looks
were why she had been put in front of the camera so quickly after
getting a job with GolanaNet News, but it was her flare for
communication that kept her there. She was just as enthusiastic
about telling stories as she was about hearing them, and the
enthusiasm was contagious. For hours, Lex just leaned back and let
Michella's words wash over him, as the pressure buildup of not
having him around for so long was finally released. He heard about
the stuffy Dr. Greystone and his off-point blathering, and about
this group of kids from New England who chose her for person of the
year. The details of the convention flowed out, then everything
else that had happened since the last time they had spoken. If it
was anyone else, Lex's patience would have worn thin fifteen
subjects ago, but watching her talk was like watching an artist
paint. He just smiled, nodded when it was appropriate, and enjoyed
the show.