The Beam: Season One (4 page)

Kai swiped the surface of the wall behind the bed. A screen appeared. She watched the tablet scan his hand, then began poking around in the diagnostic tools. He’d had a few upgrades (there were several types of nanos in his system and he seemed to have an extra memory buffer, for instance) but she couldn’t access stats on any of them. Kai tried to use his palmprint to identify him to the system, but found she’d need a password.

And…
FUCK
. There was a firewall between her canvas, the tablet, and the lowest identification protocols. So much for finding his Beam ID through a backdoor.
 

Kai looked down at the naked man on her bed, lying on his stomach with one strong arm up. She wondered if any of his muscularity was natural, or if it was all the work of nanos. Even as a woman who’d cheated her way to a flat stomach and gravity-defying breasts, she found herself strangely judgmental of Ralph’s muscles. It was probably because she was feeling so resentful about his secrets, but she suddenly thought that if he hadn’t grown those arms himself, he was a fucking pussy.
 

Yes, she was letting it get to her. But Kai Dreyfus was a girl who always got what she wanted, and she didn’t like this one bit. The idea that someone had put up such a thorough firewall around this man’s true identity made her wary. Who was this man on her bed? What was he up to? Was he just here for a good time, or did he know something about Kai? Did he know the secrets she’d taken over the years — and if so, what might he be planning to do to retrieve them?

She slapped his sleeping face lightly, playfully.
 

“What are you hiding, buttercup?” she asked him.
 

Regardless, it would be prudent to wipe his memory. It would be impossible to do a decent job with all the protections in place, but she might be able to force a soft reset with a few nanos who could go in and manually induce some light damage to his hippocampus. She’d have to be careful. Too many nanos and he’d end up burned. She didn’t want him burned, just mildly forgetful. Then she wanted to get him the fuck out of her apartment.
 

Kai pulled up the diagnostic screen, checked for perimeter protection at his ears, and found none. Then she pulled a small lancet from a sterile pouch, slid it into a doser attached to a nano pack, and gave instructions to six scavengers. She pushed the lancet into the skin behind his ear, tossed it into the garbage, and started to clean. She could have the doorman take him away. She’d owe the doorman a quickie for the favor, but it was okay. The doorman was kind of hot.
 

Just as Kai was about to retrieve her tablet, something on the screen caught her eye. It looked like a software tag left by the developer who’d put her mystery man’s protections in place. She chuckled. Watch it be Doc. But of course, that was stupid. Doc didn’t deal in upgrades this sophisticated.
 

But when she looked closer, she saw that it wasn’t an identifier tag at all. It was a prime sequence — a piece of code that was meant to form an interface with another piece from an external source. It meant he was prepped for an upgrade that could be taken on and off of his body, like enhanced glasses. But as much as she tapped her tablet and searched her mind, Kai couldn’t place the prime sequence. It certainly wasn’t for enhanced glasses.
 

Mystified, she entered the code into her canvas and sent it to her network on The Beam.
 

The response returned three words that, to Kai, meant nothing but smelled like poison:
Stark Centurion Program.

Chapter 4

It was only 8am, and already the streets were filled with assholes.
 

Thomas “Doc” Stahl sat in a cab, looking down at his wrist. As he straightened his arm and rolled it back, the tattoo faded away. It was an unpopular upgrade, and people who didn’t know Doc sometimes commented that looking at his wrist to see the time was something that made him look stupid, not retro. The local time was on every canvas, every surface in any public building, in the corner of every heads-up display (retinal, projected, or even the poorest VR glasses in the ghetto), and available for the asking at just about any place in the NAU. Most people in the better parts of the city had cochlear implants for audio calls, and even some of the bums had ancient phones. The time was on every digital billboard, every screen.
 

But Doc hadn’t gotten the watch upgrade because he wanted to see the time on his wrist. He’d gotten it because he liked the affect of looking down. The gesture conveyed class when he wanted it to, and it conversely conveyed “fuck you, hurry up” about a thousand times better than anything else a man could do. People hadn’t worn functioning watches for over fifty years, but tapping one’s wrist still meant “let’s hurry up” in the same way people still referred to “getting something on tape” when they meant making a recording. And looking down at a cocked wrist was still singularly insulting in a way that checking a display could never be. It told the person he was talking to that he gave less than a shit about whatever they were telling him, and that they were just wasting his precious time.
 

“Run them down,” Doc told the driver.
 

“Hey, they’ve got a right to protest,” the balding man in the driver’s seat said without turning back.
 

Doc drew a deep breath, then exhaled, watching the line of protesters through the cab’s window. He touched the glass, brought up a tint panel, and dragged a screen across the glass to block his view. The cabbie would, of course, be sympathetic. Here he was, carting some uppity Enterprise man around in his cab while a bunch of his fellow low-end Directorate protested the same uppity Enterprise bastards. Doc wanted to argue — to point out to the cabbie that every single one of those protesters could have chosen to make their own way in the Enterprise instead of accepting a fixed government dole that was barely adequate — but his words would fall on deaf ears and possibly result in an “accidentally” higher cab fare. Directorate members didn’t want to hear that they’d made the wrong choice. And you know what? Doc thought. They wouldn’t move over to Enterprise when Shift came, either. It was easier to bitch about how the system was unfair and suggest taxing the wealthy members of the Enterprise so that Directorate stipends could be increased. All while half of the fucking Directorate sat on their asses and didn’t work at all, because so much could be automated.
 

“Look, fella,” said Doc. “I’m not trying to be uppity. But I’ve got an eight-thirty sixteen blocks down, and that parade ain’t getting any thinner. Can we go around?”
 

The cabbie looked at the meter and they both watched the fare click up. “Not really.”
 

“Can I ask you a question?” said Doc.
 

“Hell,
you
can do anything,” said the cabbie.
 

“You don’t have to work. This cab could drive itself. So why do it?” Doc wasn’t trying to be rude. He wanted to know. Besides, Doc — always an entrepreneur and a fierce determiner of his own future — believed there was a little Enterprise logic in everyone.
 

The cabbie opened the window and stuck out his arm. “Scintillating conversation,” he said.
 

“But it could have an AI driver, and you could sit in your house and…”
 

“Sometimes the dole ain’t enough,” said the cabbie. He hooked his arm over the headrest and looked Doc over from top to bottom. Doc was wearing jeans, boots, and a simple suitcoat, but it was all expensive. Doc’s shoulder-length blonde hair had a sheen that could only be maintained by nanos. “Not that you’d know that.”
 

Doc wanted to debate, but it was pointless. The cabbie had already judged him, just like Directorate protesters always leapt to judge the well-off Enterprise every six years, in the weeks preceding Shift. He wanted to argue that he’d scraped his way up from the bottom, but he stopped when he remembered that he was talking to a man who’d taken a job that existed solely so that he could take it. If the cabbie died, AI would drive the cab the next day and the city would save money. It was a loop that existed only within itself.
 

Doc fished a twenty-credit note from his pocket and pushed it toward the driver. The fare stood at eight-seventy. Doc told him to keep the change and announced his plans to walk the rest of the way. As he exited the cab, the driver gave him an angry look. Doc had meant the tip as a make-peace gesture, but of course the driver had taken it as condescension.
 

Doc skirted the protesters, stuffing his annoyance low, figuring they were doing him a favor. Yes, the streets would be thick with assholes for a while, but Doc felt that there was no objective “good” or “bad” about anything. A self-made person understood that it wasn’t what happened to you in life that mattered, but what you did with those happenings. So yes, this all meant opportunity. The protestors wanted an end to decadence and inequality between the rich (who could afford the best upgrades) and the poor (who had no upgrades and accessed The Beam via old consoles and handhelds). Doc didn’t usually sell upgrades to the truly rich or truly poor; he sold mainly to the upper-middle, middle, and lower classes. This hullabaloo meant he had an opportunity to show the poorer of his customers that they could, indeed, afford upgrades on his easy payment plans. And for the upper tier of customers? Well, they’d buy fancier upgrades than ever if they thought their rights were being threatened. They’d consume out of fear. They’d consume to justify their previous consumption. And they’d consume to raise their middle fingers — to show the protestors that they intended to do whatever the fuck they wanted.
 

Doc cocked his arm and the nanobot-generated tattoo reappeared on his wrist, seconds ticking off near where his forearm began to thicken. He had fifteen minutes. And there wasn’t a cab — hover, wheeled, or pedi; human- or AI-driven — to be seen. The rails would take him too far out of his way. He’d have to run, and he was going to be late.
 

Doc hoofed it toward Xenia Labs, referring to his wrist every few minutes like a compulsion. Twelve blocks left. Eight blocks. By the time he had five blocks remaining, his time was up and he was sweaty as hell. He sold an upgrade that short-circuited perspiration and cooled the user via a rather toxic coolant circulated and (hopefully) contained by nanos, but Doc didn’t have it. Now, approaching Xenia, he wished he did, despite the occasional disastrous side-effect. He was going to look and smell disgusting. Then, because he decided he might as well embarrass himself fully, Doc tapped his ear and rattled off the voice message to Nicolai that he kept forgetting to send. Nicolai had been bugging him for days. Doc let him know that his new upgrade was in and that he could stop harassing Doc about it and come pick it up. With Doc running, Nicolai would get the message and hear his dealer panting. Not exactly the professional image Doc hoped to convey, but what the hell.
 

He kept running, his boots smacking pavement. He arrived at Xenia ten minutes late, rushed into a bathroom, and splashed cold water on his hot face. The bathroom didn’t have a groomer, so he ran his fingers through his blonde mane. His suitcoat was dark. Hopefully it would hide his sweat-stained pits. He took a final look in the mirror, trying to feather his hair away from the sides of his face where he refused to stop sweating. He failed. Doc’s hair stayed plastered to his skin like a dark blond halo.

That done, he crossed the hall to Xenia’s suite and trotted up to the receptionist. The girl behind the desk had three different clips on her ears. Doc wondered if she ever hit the wrong one and ended up rattling off her hilarious drunken stories to her boss instead of her girlfriend by mistake.
 

“Hey, sweetheart,” said Doc. “My name is Thomas — although people call me Doc — and I’m here to see…”
 

“Oh, yes!” the girl said brightly. “You’re the salesman. You’re early. Mr. Killian is in with a distributor. I apologize that he’s a little behind. He’s been tied up with a bunch of loose ends. The other day, some protestors beat in the door of our warehouse and disturbed a swarm of nanos that had been developed for police use. It was almost a disaster. You wouldn’t believe the mess, but luckily nobody was hurt, and now…”
 

Doc held up a hand. “Hang on a second, darlin’. I’m here to see Mr. Nero.” Every other Friday, Doc stopped by to see Nero for more stock and to see what was new, if anything. Nero was a prick of immeasurable proportions and despised even the slightest delay, but he also cut Doc a tremendous wholesale deal since Doc moved so many upgrades. When Nero wasn’t being pricky (which was rare), he sometimes told Doc that none of the other independent salesmen could sell to the wide spectrum that Doc did. Most of the reps who sold Beam-enabled personal upgrades catered to the low or high end of the market, but Doc could sell to both and everyone in between. Doc sold rudimentary tablets and handhelds to people below the line, but also sold memory and creativity enhancers to those near the top of the food chain. He didn’t discriminate where profit was concerned

The usual desk jockey — an uppity little cocksucker named Templeton — knew Doc and would have rebuked him for his lateness. But Templeton wasn’t here, and his replacement had no clue.
 

“Oh, Mr. Nero isn’t here,” said the girl. “He’s dealing with the police. The swarm, like I said. You’ll be meeting with Mr. Killian. Have a seat over there.” She pointed to a chair in the waiting area, near a plant.
 

Doc’s heartbeat was still coming down from his run, so he forced himself to breathe slowly and sit. While he waited, he tried to fan his armpits and cool off. He wasn’t late after all. This Mr. Killian wasn’t even ready for him. Doc wondered if Nero had told Killian to give him his usual discount. He’d be pissed if he had to pay full price and would grill Nero about it in two weeks if he did. Nero had a big bark, but ultimately spoke credits. If Doc threatened to move and start buying from Yeardley, he’d immediately cough up a rebate to cover the discount.