Oversight (15 page)

“You’re right, of course, about your daughter,” Cayman says. “She is my hostage. But before you go reaching for my throat, allow me to explain.”

Sam relaxes his grip on his butter knife, despite being confident that he could drive the blunt blade through Cayman’s neck before the bodyguards could react. He knows it would be a stupid move. Score one for impulse control.

“You were supposed give up on Dr. Mako,” Cayman says, hands pressed together as if in prayer. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was supposed to take a fall? That’s how Luis put it.”

“Indeed. Sadly, you’re more competent than Luis indicated.”

“So, did you have Mako killed?”

“No, actually.”

“How about you make my life easier and tell me who did?”

Cayman shakes his head. “I can’t help you there.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

For once, Cayman is silent.

“Why involve me at all?”

“Local police franchises have reporting requirements that specs don’t have to observe,” Cayman explains. “Farming cases out means certain details don’t make it into the federal databases in a timely manner. It was our hope that you’d go through the motions, get frustrated, and move on to something more likely to pay off.”

“I probably would have, but for Jacob getting killed.”

“For the record, I had nothing to do with that.”

“Who did?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“Do you know why?” Sam asks.

“Dr. Mako’s glasses, I presume,” Cayman answers, reaching for some salad.

Sam serves himself too. “The question remains: Why? Why are they so important?”

“Heaven’s hiring.”

Sam stares at Cayman, who smiles back oddly. “Are you mentally ill?” he asks, half-serious.

Cayman’s eyebrows rear and he laughs. “We all want such power. You, to protect your daughter. Me, to protect mine. Others, for other reasons. Amy and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she’s all I have. As a father, I expect you understand.”

“To protect her from Emil Caddis?”

“Yes. She had a relationship with him some years back, before he took up arms. Now she’s his hostage, though I’m not sure if she knows it.”

“Like Fiona?”

Cayman’s lips hint a heroin smile. “Such a quick study. I warned Amy about Emil, but she delights in displeasing me. It’s how she works out her guilt about her wealth and mine.”

“What does Caddis want?”

“The very thing you’ll use to find him: Mako’s glasses.”

“What’s so damn important about those glasses?”

“They contain the key to the kingdom.”

“Can we dispense with the cryptic self-indulgence?” Sam snaps.

Cayman looks disappointed. “The word you’re looking for is ‘cryptographic.’ But I’ll show you the kingdom tomorrow.”

“Why wait?”

“You look tired. It’s something best seen with fresh eyes.”

Sam does feel tired. Too much so. He can’t find the words.

“Don’t fight it. The trip’s more enjoyable asleep.”

Cayman’s lips continue to move, but the sound fades. Looking up, the sky seems slick with Vaseline. Sam tries to rise, but descends instead. Cutlery clatters on the terrace. Facedown on the flagstone, he can see his reflection in his host’s newly shined shoes, then nothing.

Sam awakens blindfolded by gauze. His eyes are burning, as if he’s spent too long in a public pool. The skin on his face feels taut—like the restraints on his arms and legs. The scent of antiseptic is overwhelming.

The air here is different, desert-dry. He’s hungry again, so some time has passed. He could really do with a glass of water. The uncomfortable vinyl chair in which he is reclining would be well suited to an unlicensed dental practice based in the back of a van.

“Marilyn, where am I?” he croaks.

“Your agent can’t hear you here.” It’s a young man’s voice, unfamiliar. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I’ve been better. Are you a doctor?”

“I’m just the box op.”

“The what?”

“I run the Cherry Picker.”

Sam tries to rise, but can’t. “What the hell did you do to me?”

“I upgraded your eyes.”

Sam’s heart slams. “You…messed with my eyes?” He can barely form the words.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be able to see fine before too long. It’s just about time to take the bandages off.”

“You replaced my eyes!”

“Chill,” says the young man. “I did you a favor. You’ll see. These are special.”

“Let me up,” Sam says, trying to buck his restraints.

“Uh, let me get Mr. Cayman.”

Footsteps recede, to be subsumed by the drone of the ventilation system. Sam waits, testing his restraints repeatedly, though certain their strength remains the same.

A few minutes later, several people enter the room. Someone loosens the leather belts. Fat fingers replace the straps and lift Sam to his feet. He resists, to no avail.

“Easy, Mr. Crane.” It’s Cayman’s voice.

Sam is seething. “You’re a dead man.”

“In time,” Cayman replies. “In time.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You should be on your knees thanking me. But you need to keep up.”

Footsteps again, heading away.

“Come, Mr. Crane,” says Fossa, squeezing Sam’s right arm. “Don’t struggle.”

Sam guesses Civet must be the one gripping his other arm. He’s led along a corridor, then up some stairs. The air starts moving again, suggesting a more open space beyond a door. Footfalls form a polyrhythm with themselves as they echo off stone walls.

“Watch your step,” says Fossa.

After the threshold comes the warmth of the sun. Light too, red as seen through the blood in his eyelids—an approximation of dawn. The gauze comes off and Sam’s eyes clamp tighter.

“You’ll be sensitive to light for a few more hours,” Cayman says. “The blurring should be just about gone.”

Fossa and Civet release Sam’s arms.

“What do you see?” Cayman asks.

Sam opens his eyes and a Mexican village fades into view. He’s standing in the doorway of a Franciscan mission. Its neoclassical adobe façade appears untouched by the passage of time. The surrounding buildings all hew to the mission style. A short distance down the road in either direction, locals go about their daily business. Shoppers pick over the selection at a fruit stand. Others travel to and fro, some with bags in hand. Outside a bicycle shop, an elderly man is adjusting some spokes.

“Everything in its right place,” Sam says, thinking of Amy.

“Indeed,” Cayman answers, eyeing Sam strangely.

More notable is what’s missing: There are no power lines or street lamps. No cars. No animals, despite the twitter of unseen birds. No signs. No ads. Not a scrap of trash.

“Where are we?”

“In my head,” Cayman says. “That’s the easiest way to describe it. More literally, you’re at our main beta site south of Nogales. But rather than explain, allow me to show you.” His gaze drifts up toward that ghost space occupied by agents and others without a physical presence, a place always above the ground and beyond the circle of personal space, the traditional residence of the divine. “Begin demo,” he says, then glances back at Sam. “Don’t worry about the sound. That’ll be addressed in our next release.”

Cayman and his henchmen fade from view, followed by the villagers. Sam turns in place, confused.

“We’re still here,” Cayman says. “Just watch.”

Some of the ambient sounds drop out—the birds, distant hammering, voices. The wind remains.

The wire-frame view of a 3D modeling environment appears over the visible objects in the world. Every angle, every line of every structure glows. Then each object disappears, one by one, until nothing is visible but a grid of lines that converge at the vanishing point of the horizon. The effect is profoundly disorienting. Sam himself is the last object to vanish.

“Christ.” Sam covers his face with hands he can no longer see. The lines disappear too, leaving only darkness.

A voiceover begins. “In the beginning there was nothing. Then God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And there was still nothing, but you could see it better.”

The grid is visible once again. Sam can’t quite place the voice, but he’s certain it’s someone famous, which counts for something.

The voiceover continues, “And as Nature abhors a vacuum, we at Synthelegy said, ‘Let there be ads.’”

Sam’s sight returns. The village is different: Every square inch of wall space now boasts a billboard, poster, or storefront display. There are more people than before, too, some with strategically tattooed logos, some saddled with sandwich boards. The streets now have trash, though every candy wrapper and cast-off soda bottle appears positioned for optimum brand visibility.

A Global Cola BigBuckit cup rolls by. It’s actually more barrel than cup; even on its side it comes up to his knees. Sam reaches down to pick it up. His hand passes through and the cup vanishes. A coupon appears in the air, accompanied by a short trumpet blast. It’s mostly transparent, but no less legible: “You’ve earned ten percent off your next cool, refreshing Global Cola!”

There’s a second paragraph in a remarkably small font: “Some exceptions apply. Offer void where prohibited. This advertisement is in no way intended to induce consumption of Global Cola. Any such act is solely the choice of the consumer, who assumes full liability for his or her actions and their consequences including, but not limited to, gastrointestinal distress, tooth decay, fructose-induced violence, and obesity. Global Cola is not guaranteed to be cool or refreshing.”

As soon as Sam finishes reading the words, the coupon fades and a colorful arrow appears. It hovers over a storefront just down the street, beneath the words “Redeem your coupon here in the next five minutes and receive a free refill (if you can handle it)!”

“Once we link up with network profiles, the ads will be much more closely tailored to your interests,” Cayman explains.

Sam offers no acknowledgement. He’s busy turning his head this way and that to see which graphics track with his gaze and which remain fixed on the landscape.

The voiceover resumes. “This is the world seen with Oversight, a new sensory mediation technology that allows real-time dynamic masking as well as static graphic overlays. It grants content providers the ability to overwrite any visible object, moving or still, with alternate imagery. By interfacing directly with the optic nerve, Oversight ensures uninterrupted delivery of marketing messages and quarantines customer perception from the distractions of competing ads.”

An eye logo appears. The accompanying ad copy reads, “Oversight. Because seeing is buying.” The logo fades.

“Rather seamless, wouldn’t you say?” says Cayman. “I’ll concede our audio delivery needs work. But we’ve had to push up the release date due to recent events. Once we upgrade the cochlear module, we’ll have full surround and source placement. Next year, we hope to bring olfactory and haptic input online too. Then the illusion will be complete. In the meantime, things may sound a bit tinny.”

Clutching at his temples, Sam groans. “You stuck a pair of Auglites in my head.”

“Much more than that, Mr. Crane. Auglites are a novelty item. We’re in the processes of litigating them away; they’re based on stolen alpha code. That’s why they’re really only useful for overlays on fixed objects. Your eyes see so much more. We can mask people, or any object in your field of vision, fixed or in motion. We can do it so it looks real. The light and shadows behave as they should. There are no blank spaces in revealed background surfaces. These are nontrivial technical challenges. It’s regrettable that the introduction of Auglites to the market has forced us to launch earlier than we’d have liked, but there it is.”

“So this is your bid to win the war for eyeballs?” Sam’s voice drips with contempt. “Who’s backing this? Content Corp?”

A subtle smile takes shape on Cayman’s lips. “You have to ask yourself at this point, ‘Who isn’t?’”

“The Amish,” Sam says.

Cayman laughs. “Think about it, Mr. Crane. What better way to deny the intrusions of the modern world than with new eyes? Every object that offends their sensibility can be banished from sight. Cars become horse-drawn carriages. Power lines become one with the sky. Bare midriffs become modest sackcloth. Faces can be veiled.”

“At what cost?”

“None. The cost is underwritten by the many interested parties.”

“I’m not talking about money.” Sam stares skyward. The witch from The Wizard of Oz flies by on a bottle of Brahmin Beer.

“You’re implying that there’s some spiritual cost, is that it?”

“Your world sickens me.”

“But it’s not my world,” Cayman insists. “It’s yours. People see what they wish. They seek out that which corresponds to their worldview. They congregate with their own. For years, we’ve had news and entertainment tailored for Republicans, Democrats, Christians, Muslims, and Jews. How is this any different?”

“Not everyone is like that.”

“Not everyone, I’ll grant you. But such independent thinkers are statistically insignificant in the overall scheme of things. And even they have to apply some filters to their reality to avoid being overwhelmed by contradictions, by the hypocrisy and horror of it all. There’s simply too much irreconcilable information. What I’m offering is a way to see clearly.”

Sam struggles to find the words. “People won’t stand for this,” he stammers, clutching his head.

“No, they will fall to their knees and beg for it, as they do when they pray. We’re talking about people who traded their privacy for the opportunity to share cat pictures with the world. You’re resentful because it was forced upon you.”

“As opposed to those infected in this outbreak?”

“That’s not my doing,” Cayman says.

Sam sneers. “Your opportunity then?”

Cayman smiles. “You’ve got it all wrong. We’re not taking anything away. We’re retrofitting reality with power steering. You’ll still be welcome to watch the homeless starve while you fill your belly. But most will appreciate the option to overwrite them with a lamppost.”

Fighting nausea, Sam takes long, slow breaths. His new eyes fill him with revulsion. Overhead, birds swerve in formation. Or they might be a flock of pixels tracing some equation. It’s hard to tell.