speculative fiction short story begging to become a novel
—This room contains three potential threats: the two men sharing a booth against the far wall and the woman standing in the back, who is now approaching.—
‘She’s a waitress; don’t slack her until she gets my order’. Veach smiled to himself, turned around a table near the entryway, and sat with his back to the room. Sunlight illuminated the first few meters of the eat-shop, through a wall of bottles stacked like cord wood and mortared in place. His aug replayed the room-scan, superimposed over the colorful light pattern on the worn and cracked plastic tabletop, then paused to focus, zoom, and capture facial features (one of the men in the booth was in profile). Before the waitress crossed the room to his table, her identifiction portfolio and that of the two men were displayed for Veach to read. His aug began a voice-over synopsis.
—the waitress, Natalie Druj, also Natalie P. Standsberry, has a double shot carbon-oxygen projectile weapon strapped to her right thigh. No outstanding warrants. Is an affiliate member of a local group known as: Consul Lecture, which advocates political reform and—
The aug muted and ID folios faded from view as Veach touched his right rear molar with the tip of his tongue. He looked up and met the waitress’ eyes.
“I can get you a seat in the back if you’d like.” Natalie Druj said in a pre-pubescent voice more appropriate coming from a child than a middle-aged woman. The Hello, my name is ANGELA nametag on her green and white bib-apron was made with red tape from a label gun, which Veach was looking at in order to gauge the size of her chest against the timber of her voice. Nice firm un-bra-supported breasts were observable around the sides of her bib-apron.
“No, thank you, Angela. I prefer to sit in the sun.” Plenty of people don’t use their real name, he thought. ...Annnd now, coming to the center stage put your hands together gentlemen for: Aaanngelaaa. Not a big deal, she’s wearing a pseudonym.
“I don’t blame ya, with what little we get. Do you want a menu or just coffee this morning?” The left crease of her mouth had an old scar that caused her to talk mostly out of the right corner of her mouth. She looked as cute as she sounded. She was Betty Boop, in a slutty, deceitful, packing-a-derringer kind of way.
“A vanilla shake, two grilled cheese sandwiches, potato chips and dill pickle spears, please.” Veach said. Natalie/Angela/Betty Boop opened her mouth to say something, closed it, smiled, nodded her head and turned away. Veach followed her walk to the back of the shop. It was a pleasant not-too-hippy walk. As she pushed through a set of swinging doors into what was probably the kitchen, he tapped his tongue against the back of his lower right front bicuspid, upper, then lower, then upper again.
“....certainly got a better idea than you or I ever had, don’t you think...” a magnified matronly woman’s voice jumped from the back corner of the room. Veach slow-pivoted his head back towards the wall of different sized bottles. “....afford the amount of interest he would...” A young man said from the center of the room and then faded away, replaced by a whooshing of air and a squeaking of hinges: the kitchen doors. Veach tapped his right lower bicuspid, then upper, once more. Betty Boop’s muffled voice: “...lunch time yet, but it ain’t like ya can’t make...” Tapping his teeth a few more times, her voice got louder as the room noise was damped and filtered away. “...a couple of melted cheese’s while I make the shake. For crissake Leo, you act like you’ve got a silverware and china plate restaurant instead of a regular plastic eat-shop.”
An effeminate male sing-songed, “Is thiss coming from my very ssame Angela that growls at the free-refill fuckers and spits at the stolen-food-stamp mommy’s?” A clatter of plates and whirr of a blender; tooth tap, and the male voice was clearer: “Oh no, my child. I maybe walk this exceptional lunch out for you. See for my big self what kind of gorgeous can get my Angela to be making menu exceptionss.”
A little girl’s giggle was followed by Betty Boop’s voice: “Hands off Leonard. You know how I get when blondes with Steve McQueen eyes and a surfer body are dressed halfway decent? Well, this one’s all that and only eats a bag of chips. He can...” Veach flicked the gum below his lower bicuspid and the chatter-volume of the room returned to normal. Again, smiling to himself, he touched the back of his right rear molar. The ID folios returned and the voice-over resumed.
— has been connected with members of ultra-fundamentalist sects: ARMA and SCIONA.—
‘List all aliases. Cross-reference this address. List Angela or variations, like Angelica.’
— There is no record of additional alias. No record of her employment at this establishment. This establishment employs no Angela or variation of same; the owner of which is —
‘Obviously there should be. Add it. Today’s date. My credentials as point of contact.’
— Added as directed. —
Enjoying the smells of bacon and biscuits brought by Natalie/Angela/Betty to another table, Veach perused the ID folios of the two men in the far booth (boys, actually). Brothers: Jason and Joshua, greatly enjoyed residing at Southern Arizona Regional Rehabilitation Community for Youth. They both lived there—on and off—more than half their lives. (What a poor combination of words for a jeuvie-camp, Veach thought; such an ineffectual acronym.) The boys’ most recent offense: armed robbery, explained the projectile and edged weapons they each had concealed under their clothing. Although neither of the boys seemed to warrant any concern, Veach directed his aug to conduct PMS and screen the results. Passive Monitoring Surveillance, what a great acronym for a non-evasive, almost impossible to discover, untraceable examination of someone’s every word and movement.
“Here ya go.” Said Natalie/Angela/Betty, placing his order in front of him as well as a metal mixing-cup containing extra vanilla shake. “Anything else I can get?”
“The food looks great, thank you.” Veach said. “It would be nice to sit in the sun, here, and talk; but it looks like sitting isn’t something you get to do much.”
She rolled her eyes as she smiled, “There’s usually two of us, but not today.” Then in a hushed tone, she said, “I’d love to sit and talk but I don’t see a break coming any time soon.” As she wrote on the bill and placed it on the corner of the table she said—back in her normal Betty Boop timbre—“Thank you and I’ll take care of that whenever.” She turned to clear empty plates behind him and began taking a couple’s order.
The bill, once Veach turned it over, contained a few looped letters (obviously, coded acronyms for his meal) followed by the total: 27.80 and then twelve numbers broken with dashes.
‘Track this number.’
— Personal Auricular Gainsay Echelon listed to: Angela Rachel Montey.... Deceased, July 2087; blunt force cranial trauma.... McFadden Air Car accident in which the mandatory—
‘Connect. After identification tag, disconnect without leaving a message. Go to sub-vocal if actually answered. Also, attempt PMS trace to locate the receiver.’
— Use of government equipment, including specialized augmentations, for personal use is prohibited under Title 28, subsection...—
‘Nothing is personal. Ever. Discontinue all future notifications of this nature—visual or aural. Your assumptions are based upon erroneously templated information. Execute last directives.’
Veach alternated bites of warm sandwich oozing with several types of cheeses with a few salty chips, a sour crunch of pickle and a frothy gulp. It would be a generic metallic-electronic voicemail. He was certain. With one sandwich gone and a mouthful of cheesy-chips being masticated, his aug reported the location: 18 meters west of his current location, followed by one word—connected.
“Hello.” Betty Boop’s voice said, the sound of water splashing on a hollow metal surface in the background. There didn’t seem to be any recognition in her voice. No sub-vocal ability or incoming trace. Odd. Veach wondered if those abilities were unavailable to people who died over fifty years ago.
“Hello, Angela. I. Well...I intended to follow up with your voicemail because I didn’t think you would answer at work.” Veach said swallowing what was still in his mouth.
“Ummm. I don’t...”
“Sorry. How stupid of me. This is grilled cheese sandwiches and vanilla shake. My name is Veach and I would like to meet you after work?”
“Oh Hi. Yeah, that would be great. Maybe nineteen thirty or so?” She asked.
“Sure. You pick the place.” Veach said.
“A drink-shop on Evergreen called Myra’s, how about there?” She replied.
“I’ll meet you there tonight at nineteen thirty, Angela.”
“OK. Peach? Did you say?” She asked.
“Yep, just like that, only with a Vee.”
“See you tonight, Veach.” A giggle and the sound of running water ended.
Veach left two twenties on the table and walked out with half a sandwich wrapped in a paper napkin for Jerry.
‘locate a park or open-air zone. Direct me to it. Have Jerry maintain out of sight optimal circumference.’
— Nearest unrestricted zone is 1.5 kilometers west of this commercial-industrial area. Numerous buildings in the immediate vicinity have public access elevators for..—
‘Directions, visual only; automatic sunglass optics; maintain full bubble; music selection random SC-2.’ Veach tapped his teeth together in a short bite-like motion. Veach’s corneas darkened slightly and his current favorite selection began playing as he followed the yellow arrows that shimmered and disappeared ahead of him like heat waves on the horizon.
There were not many people using the shadowed walk-strips between the buildings, so Veach set a leisurely pace, his optics adjusting to compensate for the lack of sunlight by turning everything an ugly shade of amber. Every so often he would stop and look for Jerry. Once—when Veach stopped and sat on a metal bench—he thought he saw just the side of his cheek and tip of an ear around one corner of a rec-rec. But it was too far ahead of him to be sure and by the time he stood and walked the hundred meters or so, no Jerry.
Veach could see where the open-zone began because a slice of blue sky and white clouds replaced the buildings canyon-walls. As he entered the open zone and his optics darkened, he expected to see Jerry sitting in the middle by one of the trees. Still no Jerry.
There were more people here, enjoying the sunlight. The buildings appeared to be residential-commercial and upscale at that.
‘Move the MAC for pick-up at current location. Have Jerry rendezvous here.’ He scanned around this perimeter of towering buildings and decided on a rocky area used in the day by young children for playing and at night by older children for games of their own. At present, it was occupied by three large blue-white-and-black birds sharing a meal off the ground. As Veach left the shadow of the nearest tree and began ascending the low incline of granite, one of the three hopped in his direction and screeched. A definite warning threat. Veach smiled and looked over his shoulder. Coming up the rise from behind another tree, Jerry was in full predation mode. Slunk low so his belly touched the short grass, ears straining forward in the direction of the birds, his mouth opened and closed jerkily. Veach could hear Jerry chittering.
‘What’s he saying to the birds?’
— This is not a valid question. Jerry is making an instinct-driven noise, not speaking. —
‘I will take your answer to mean: you don’t know.’
As the air car lowered toward the birds, and its shadow slowly covered them, the birds looked up and flew off in unison. Before following Veach into the air car Jerry had to smell the remaining detritus the birds failed to carry off.
“Come on Jerry, I got something for you.” Veach said. Removing the napkin from his pocket and unwrapping it from around half of a grilled cheese sandwich. Jerry bounded into the MAC as the port hatch irised shut.
‘Begin a random false insertion program following unrestricted air-lanes open to all commercial and private vehicles. Once within public air lanes, remove coded transponder data identifying this vehicle as exempt from traffic regulations. Obtain and utilize transponder signature of a private delivery company; identify and mirror a real name and license from an existing company operating legally in this region.’
Jerry mewled up at Veach because he had paused during the process of peeling the slices of bread apart, prior to laying them on the napkin that was already open on the floor.
‘Obey all speed and traffic regulations. False insertions should be locations the principal would have probable reason to visit during a stay in this region. Full bubble at all times. Save all aural and optic scans from false insertion sites. I will reference them later.’ Veach could feel from the ever so slight shifting of his body’s center of gravity that the air car was already moving in the public air lanes.
— The lack of previous visits to this region by the principal prevent a random generation of false insertion points. Recommend map selections. —
A detailed map appeared in his optical aug. Although there were some building names, there were not enough for Veach to know what establishments were located within them.
‘Replace map with a local fine dining guide, pages 19, 21, and 56.’ Find the closest hospital to current location. Land at entrance utilized by general public for outpatient visits unless there is a VIP entrance; if so, use that.’
The map disappeared and Veach was left watching Jerry pull the cheese off the bread with his teeth and tongue the cheese against the roof of his mouth. At least he seemed to be enjoying himself. A color display replaced the map. Pages 19 and 20 contained advertisements. Nineteen for a MAC dealership and twenty for a something called Executive Shopping Plaza (ESP, Veach mused.) Pages 21 and 22 were also advertisements; 21 for a restaurant called: Em’s (the visuals, smiling people toasting champagne, were no assistance determining cost or what type of food they served) and 22 was for a restaurant called Food Shop (listing the catch phrase: For THE Fine Dining Experience!!!). Three exclamation points were sufficient reason to never consider eating there, Veach thought. Pages 55 and 56 contained listings for seven restaurants. They all began with the letter Q. Included after a brief synopsis was a cryptic group of symbols which were supposed, Veach decided, to indicate at a glance: an average meal cost (little knives crossed over forks), average drink costs (little martini glasses), entertainment value (little musical notes), and the last one was probably overall dining value (little colored faces with different expressions). A quick scan revealed that Qwerts on Quail was the most costly and had a little lime green face beaming with a look of adoration or worship.
— Currently on approach. Landing, 27 seconds. Mac Fadden wing of the Mendileno County Critical Care Facility. Because this vehicle now reflects local livery sedan status, Identifiction Portfolio of sufficient credential were required to obtain landing clearance. In keeping with current subterfuge, a local individual of sufficient status was provided. All scans indicate we are not under surveillance or being followed, recommend —
‘Visual aug of landing, on. Jerry remains in the MAC; I will be gone only a few minutes, so don’t rack. Oh, yea, who am I supposed to be?’
The optics changed to a quickly approaching building entrance as the MAC descended. Veach looked down between his knees to help adjust the dizzy feeling he got every time an optic aug view was moving from a different perspective than the angle of his head. A security cover was in place over the actual entryway. About a dozen MAC’s remained in stationary hover near the surface of the roof and Veach could see several people standing outside some of the ones that weren’t racked. Why stand near their vehicles? Personal security was ineffectual if visible outside the air car. Maybe they were actually drivers, waiting to see their principals in order to know when to bring the MAC to the entrance? How quaint, Veach mused.
— Milton Ulysses Gould, 73, retired politician. He lives 163 kilometers from this facility and has been a patient here in the past. He used the livery service currently broadcasting, to deliver him here in December of last year. Chosen because this was supposed to be a false insertion, you did not say you were exiting. —
‘Change of plans. Get used to those. I follow my intuition and since you are along for the ride, so to speak, you do too. I appreciate that you are gaining a sense of humor, though.’ The MAC slowly glided into the shade of the security awning, came to a halt, and Veach got out.
The outstretched hand of a man dressed in an impeccable business suit did not falter like his face did. Scanning the sky and horizon of rooftops for a second car and then looking behind Veach to determine if MUG was going to exit the MAC behind him. “Our incoming network reported Mister Gould was arriving, unexpectedly, but..” He said.
“I apologize for the ruse, my name is Veach. I would imagine your facility is not a stranger to receiving patients who are less than willing to forecast their identity.” They entered through a pair of sliding doors and the man in the suit nodded and shrug-motioned to two men dressed in starched white smocks.
‘Quick scan ID.’
— H. T. Drilbourne, Assistant Director of Public Relations, unarmed, unaugmented. A passive auto request for security personnel to respond has been deleted. —
The orderlies turned away, one pushing a wheelchair ahead of him. The glass doors closed behind Veach in a whoosh of vacuum pressure and an additional pair of sliding wooden doors opened ahead of the orderlies, creating a similar pressure of a smaller magnitude.
In a guarded but jovial manner, the suit said, “Mister Veach, we do have individuals from time to time, who arrive without advance ID. We refer to them as ‘UP’s for Unidentified Persons. But I would have to say it is highly irregular, and quite possibly illegal, to request and receive arrival clearance at any facility—especially one employing security measures as we do here, at the CCF—utilizing a stolen identity! Why it is not only wrong, it...”
“My credentials.” Veach said as they walked through the wooden doors. As he handed Drilbourne the slim case from his inside breast pocket, opening them with a finger to reveal the small gold and blue badge, before allowing the weight of the case to hang open. “You, sir, are Mister Drilbourne, with public relations?” Drilbourne’s face muscles tightened as he read the credentials and handed them back. Veach continued, as he pocketed them, “I think we need to meet with the chief of security as well as the Director of your division. Is that something you can set up immediately without any alarm bells being rung?”
“I’m afraid that is no longer possible. As I said, our security here is exceptional. Once the system didn’t receive confirmation of Mister Gould’s arrival...” Drilbourne allowed his words to trail off as he shrugged.
“Would we have made it this far into your facility, if there were a security alert?” Veach asked. At this point Drilbourne seemed to become aware of the amount of progress they had made—already very far along the carpeted hallway, already passed several glass and wooden doors which obviously connected to branching hallways—and he looked up at the ceiling.
“Well. I guess you are right, Mister Veach. We.” He hesitated. His jovial manner returned. “There would be a small flashing beacon in every seventh recessed panel and we should never have made it through that first set of wooden doors.” Pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll set up a discreet meeting.” He said in a quieter tone as they approached a bank of tobbo doors.
The meeting lasted long enough for Veach to explain the purpose of conducting an advance security survey of their critical care facility and gain permission to examine the complete floor plan.
Everything he had said was as truthful as need be: It was necessary to familiarize himself with hospitals, itinerary locations, hotels and to plan for contingencies; if he had a severely wounded principal, the time spent familiarizing himself today would be crucial in saving his principal’s life. But, none-the-less, it was a facade. Veach had no intention of bringing his principal here. Yesterday he conducted an advance survey of the Samaritan Trauma Center. It was centrally located to most of the principal’s itinerary locations and hotel. So, Veach figured, unless the MAC the principal is traveling in, gets rockblocked and drops onto this facility, he will never return.
But, he did find something he suspected he would need when Drilbourne allowed him access within the security firewall of their system. Veach manually scrolled, located and memorized an address: TZ 25976213. This address was something his new aug would certainly have found faster, but would probably have saved it to some internal network system. Possibly notified some mother-aug. Good old memory would suffice with something this valuable, Veach thought.
Chapter 2 - coming as soon as Veach gets a roundtuit.
