An Eighty Percent Solution Part 2

"Who isn't looking to move? Up, that is."

Tony worked hard to ignore the groping as he and Raymond, a rather pleasant man in his forties, chatted meaninglessly. They found a common ground with their mutual enjoyment of the Aussie Spiders, but stood opposed on politics. After ten minutes, Tony felt he might've made an important contact for his career advancement, but at the cost of developing permanent bruising on his gluteus maximus-and probably his gluteus sinister as well. In payment, he whispered indecencies in Lindsay's ear for the next hour, promising a repeat of their dirty weekend of Easter last.

Once free of his shepherdess's clutches, Tony breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He knew that politeness insisted he remain for at least another hour, soaking up even more of the artificial atmosphere created by the players in this production-identical in all but dress and locale to hundreds of others he'd attended throughout his career.

He wandered around the room, listening to s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversations and occasionally nodding his head to another colleague as he let the ice cubes dilute his drink. He avoided further entangling conversations with others by pointing across the room as though expected by another knot of people. Instead, he made his way to the ersatz balcony. Projections from the rooftop, the right mixture of air circulation, and carefully concocted scenting made him feel as though he actually looked out over the ma.s.sive borough of Portland. Tony breathed in deeply, as if the air didn't hang heavy with narcostick smoke.

"Nice, isn't it," said an unidentified male sitting in a chair across the patio.

"Should be, for what Chris and Michael paid for it," Tony answered, turning to regard the speaker with an air of indifference.

The other man smiled affably. The black suit he wore contrasted with a ma.s.sive codpiece, but the high-necked gauze blouse with a ruffle of black lace around the top gave a hint. His lipstick rivaled the color of Tony's suit and the earrings glittered brightly. Tiny solido vignettes within the jewelry proclaimed his proclivities.

"Yes. I actually thought of getting one myself until Chris told me what he paid."

"I couldn't..." Tony felt a slight tremor in the floor interrupting his train of thought. Moments later a flash turned his attentions to the "outside." A rising fireball, the size of a grapefruit at this distance, illuminated a gaping hole in the top of a building several kilometers distant. "What was that?"

"Oh, my," the ambi said, holding his manicured hands up to his mouth. A ba.s.s roar cut through the din, stopping all conversations. Many of the guests came over to the balcony to peer out. Chris called for CNI. Tony preferred to look at the real thing, forgetting for a moment that even this view was nothing more than a visual illusion, nonetheless listening carefully to Central News and Information.

"We have received reports that an incendiary device detonated on the loading dock of Gimbals just moments ago. We are s.h.i.+fting live to Barbara Moorc.o.c.k. Barbara?"

"Ben, the destruction is horrific. Body parts litter the scene. I can't even begin to estimate the death toll here. As you can see, here's what looks like part of a hand, and I think that over there is an eye.

"There's a physical crater in the roof at least two hundred yards across. Flames continue to race out from it. The heat is too intense for me to get close enough to estimate the depth. The scale is just incomprehensible.

"Emergency crews are racing about now trying to put out the flames. I'm receiving reports now that the pumps aren't functioning and the emergency reservoirs are completely empty, despite having been inspected just yesterday."

"One second, Barbara, we're receiving additional information. We have another manifesto from the group called the Green Action Militia." A certain twisted part within Tony jumped in fascination. "The Greenies claim..."

"Good evening, Mr. Kensington."

"What! How did you get in?" The blond Kensington sat straight up in bed between two well-endowed young women. From the thick smell in the air and their shared dreamy expression, all three suffered from the self-infliction of some type of narcostick and one too many s.e.xual adventures.

"Actually," came the nonchalant reply, "I slipped in through the plumbing crawls.p.a.ce."

Kensington's eyes focused somewhere behind the short, slight intruder. "How dare you invade my home!" Mr. Kensington demanded.

The tiny whipcord of a man lifted one of the b.u.t.ts of a narcostick and sniffed it closely, with some disdain.

"Wait a minute, this isn't even my home," Kensington mumbled almost inaudibly. One of the girls rolled over with a moan, cuddled up next to her benefactor, and fell back to sleep. He looked around with wide eyes sporting the quick, jerky motion common to his vice. He didn't notice the intruder's bodyguard-yellow pants.

"Do you know who I am?" Kensington all but shouted.

"Very certainly, good sir."

"Then you know you are dead!"

"We all bear that curse, Mr. Kensington. Unfortunately for both of us, you are going to lose to that curse first."

"Huh?"

"I'm here to kill you, Mr. Kensington," the man said without bravado or rancor.

With remarkable clarity and speed, especially for someone so intoxicated, Kensington pulled up a small machine pistol from beneath his pillow. "Really? Now tell me just why you're here and who sent you."

"You mistook your company's money for your money."

"How did you find me?"

"Satellite tracking of your tie-tack. I enabled it twelve hours ago."

"Who sent you?"

"Your CEO asked me to deliver this message..." In a blur, the tiny man rotated out of the line of any possible fire and smacked the back of his hand across the bridge of his victim's nose. Bone and cartilage exploded forcefully up into the former VP's brain before it could even send a signal to pull the trigger. "You're fired."

Mr. Marks nodded as the life left his victim's eyes. With great care and deliberation, he put a mask over each woman's face and released enough narco gas for the pair to overdose in the s.p.a.ce of twenty seconds. Carefully, he posed one kneeling over Kensington's body. Using the young woman's fingers on the trigger of Kensington's own machine-pistol, he fired two bursts into the nasal cavity he had just destroyed. The dead woman slumped forward, one of her augmented b.r.e.a.s.t.s spilling obscenely to one side, streaked in blood.

As he examined his handiwork, Marks tapped his right foot three times. Trillions of submicroscopic nanites swarmed out of his yellow shoes, programmed with the sole purpose to find and destroy his own DNA anywhere they might find it. Thirty minutes from now they'd quite obligatorily render themselves into inert components indistinguishable from the mult.i.tudes of other organic compounds that make up ordinary dust. The a.s.sa.s.sin faded out the front door, confident that he-or more importantly, his employer-couldn't be implicated in the justice he'd just imposed.

Home, Tony thought, pouring himself a stiff drink of rye over ice. So many different emotions lashed at him, but one stepped up to dominate his thoughts. How could he be happy about the deaths of so many?

He sipped gently. Could it be that he just wanted anything different? Maybe he felt he witnessed a little piece of history. Maybe he despised the political games he played to get ahead and wanted someone to get rid of it all? Perhaps more specifically, he wanted to get out from under the attentions of his over-amorous mentor? No matter what caused it, he couldn't deny he felt good.

His mind pondered for several more minutes before it just went blank. He downed the rest of his drink and put the gla.s.s down, catching sight of the half-cubic meter of gray plastic box sitting innocently in the center of the table.

"And what's in that box?" he asked himself. "I probably shouldn't, but what the heck. What's a little more trouble?"

Carefully lifting the lid, he peered inside. What stared up at him wiped away any questions of s.e.xual advances or terrorism.

A tiny calico kitten, barely bigger than a shot gla.s.s, sat patiently in one corner, looking up at him with head slightly c.o.c.ked. The creature let out the tiniest of mews and stood on its hind legs, batting at the air as an obvious plea for playtime. Without thinking, Tony scooped up the tiny ball of white and brown fluff in his hands and rubbed it under the chin while it batted at the gold and silver star hanging from the necklace in amongst the ruffles of his dress s.h.i.+rt.

"How adorable you are, little miss," said Tony idly, "but kittens and cats are against the law. Maybe I should turn you in."

Despite his outward calm, he'd never been so terrified in his life. Before this little bundle of fur, the worst he could reasonably expect to suffer from his little life-saving adventure would be temporary indentured servitude. Possession of a live pet carried a capital sentence.

Despite the heart beating in his throat, Tony made purring noises and wiggled the necklace charm around for his houseguest. His grandfather had won the Silver Star in defense of a Chinese village in the Aussie Civil War. "You like your toy?" Watching the charm gave Tony courage.

After a predictably short time, the brown and white feline tired of her new plaything. Looking up into Tony's eyes with uncompromising trust, the tiny kitten mewed. He brought the furry creature up for a closer look, and the kitten seized the opportunity to brush up against his face. Tony sputtered and tried to wipe the residual downy hairs from his mouth and nose with his free arm. Undisturbed, she buzzed with pleasure, jumped from his hand to the tabletop, the chair, and finally to the ground.

"What am I going to do with you? The law's quite clear. All proteins must be collected for food distributions. You, my cinnamon-colored friend, are protein."

With the vast majority of the Earth barely avoiding starvation, food often seemed sacred. The laws were selectively enforced, but the punishment for tampering with the Emergency Subsistence Act of '26 was execution by starvation.

"I don't want either of us to die," he said, absently watching the kitten poke its head under one of his dirty s.h.i.+rts on the floor, "but if I get caught with you, there isn't a thing in this world that's going to save me."

The object of Tony's dilemma stalked an errant dust-bunny with a wiggle of its bottom and tail high in the air. "I just can't imagine pus.h.i.+ng you into the calorie reclamation bin. You'd be ground into paste and flushed into the city's food return. It'd be the lawful thing, but not the right thing.

"With that said, I guess I better take the appropriate precautions." Tony securely locked and bolted his front door and switched on the active security measures. The kitten bounced across the floor and sat in the middle of the room, looking up at its new owner. "I haven't a clue how to take care of you, but we'll learn together.

"What are we going to name you, hmm?"

Establish Plan Coffee (no longer grown anywhere on Earth), fresh cranberry m.u.f.fins, and living servants-genetically engineered deaf/mutes, of course-attended the corporate heads to the faint strains of Mozart lilting across the room in time to a medley of mint scents.

"As you know, we needed a human weapon," said Nanogate, the plan's progenitor. "Someone who isn't in the critical path of any of our programs. I want to thank all of you for access to your personnel files. In this case, we didn't need them. I think we have the one we want. This one is exceptionally qualified for the task."

The room dimmed and a solid projection of a large, swarthy man floated above the table. Thick black hair spilled over his back like tar pouring from his head. Curly pubic and chest hair were his dignity's only protection as the solidograph rotated. "Born in Corvallis, Oregon, in 'twenty-eight, he's a second-generation Turkish refugee of the Chinese Amalgamation. No genetic manipulation of the birth, save the standard subdermal cybernetic implant. Left hand replaced with a Dec model five-dot-three cosmetic when the original was crushed in a lift-car accident at the age of five. In his teen years, he worked for Downput Demolition Company and learned how to handle and manipulate shaped explosives.

"He obtained a master's degree in Molecular Mechanical Engineering. He has an apt.i.tude of eighty-fourth, physical of ninety-first and an individuality quotient of ninety-sixth percentiles. He possesses first-aid skills and leaders.h.i.+p ability, both officially unrated but present-our sims say above eightieth percentile in both."

"He's currently employed by Nanogate Dental Products Division and thus at our complete disposal per our standard binding employee contract," offered another of the executives.

"In short," the plan's owner continued, "this is the perfect rebel and skill set for our GAM targets. Per the plan, I suggest we make certain he isn't wasted within our corporation but rather finds a new home with our target."

"Any known medical issues?"

"None. Standard childhood diseases: mumps, measles, and Martian sand lice. No known immunities and his only allergy is to eight of the old antibiotics, level four-annoyance only."

"Family?"

"A one-year term marriage at eighteen that both walked away from without looking back. Parents have been dead for over a year as the result of an industrial accident in the water purifying plant where they worked. His current girlfriend's profile reads, in short, pliant to our needs.

"Gentlebeings, I've covered his life in great detail. He's an underachiever who thinks he's better than he seems willing to produce. He tends toward loquacity-"

"Excuse me. Loquacity?" asked Taste Dynamics, a gaunt woman devoid of outward s.e.xual characteristics.

"Talkativeness, inability to keep his mouth shut."

"Thank you."

"To continue, he had a three-point-two GPA through high school and college and not a single one of his teachers seems to be able to remember him. He never joined a fraternity."

"Simulations?"

"The models we've built show a seventy-eight percent chance that our subject will be taken into GAM and a twenty percent chance that they'll destroy him outr-"

"Wouldn't his destruction impact our overall goal?" interrupted Pudgy.

"Even if they kill him, there's a sixty-three percent chance our plan will succeed anyway."

"Sixty-three? Planning on sixty-three percent seems on the weak side to carry any action forward," commented Percomm Systems.

"We aren't planning on sixty-three percent, but rather seventy-eight percent plus sixty-three percent of twenty percent or a total of ninety point six percent chance, or less than a ten percent of failure," he said directly to Pudgy. Nanogate's eyes then cast about the rest of the members.h.i.+p. "Let me add that the worst thing that can happen with a failure is that we've lost one insignificant employee. We can then choose to either pick a new p.a.w.n or we can look at a new plan."

No more discussion presented itself. Several attendees physically as well as mentally closed their folders on this topic. Not one of these individuals clawed their way to the pinnacle of power without using people. Only one had yet to directly order a person killed. None even hesitated at the use of one more. The choice pa.s.sed without debate.

Sonya opened the door to the outer foyer. A tiny, weasel-like man, impeccably dressed in a tailored three-piece Kao Brothers suit, held a caramel-colored Chihuahua in his lap. The tiny dog, no larger than a dessert plate, s.h.i.+vered constantly. The situation wasn't right, but Sonya motioned them into her examining room anyway. The seemingly sterile room looked like something out of an old medical flattie, with an examination table, removable paper covers, a small and uncomfortable chair, a swivel stool, and all manner of antiquated, s.h.i.+ny, and manual-oriented medical equipment.

"You do know that owning an animal in the state of Oregon is a felony? And a capital offense at that?" Sonya asked these questions of all her new customers as a matter of policy.

He hugged the dog tighter to himself as it squirmed in place. "Yes, but I've bought the police in my precinct."

She nodded. Anyone who could own a Kao Brothers suit obviously held some clout. This one obviously swung his with abandon. "A different solution than most of my clientele, but completely acceptable. Payment is due now. I take actual credit slips, plastic money, proteins, plants, medicines, charcoal, or chocolate." Her customer looked up sharply at that last. She smiled brightly. "I have a weakness for chocolate, but finding a supply is difficult." Cocoa was another plant which no longer grew on Earth.

"I can pay with any of those you wish in the future, but would prefer electronic credit."

"No. I have no electronics in my home. No motors, no computers, no vidlinks, no technology I can do without."

"Greenie?"

"I'm a member of the Greenpeace organization, but I don't partic.i.p.ate in any of their foolish extreme actions."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Don't be sorry. I'm not. I just wish the world were a slightly different place. I was born in the wrong age. Two hundred years ago, there were no prohibitions to keeping animals and there were only a handful of creatures on the endangered species list." Sonya paused, looking thoughtfully into s.p.a.ce. Her customer remained politely silent. "Anyway, enough of that. So I won't take electronic credit. h.e.l.l, I don't even have an account."

"Everyone has an electronic account. You have one programmed from birth."

"You're a.s.suming my birth was recorded."

Enlightenment showed in his eyes. Sonya had all but informed him that she belonged to that expendable minority known as Nils. They had no existence. They were in no way protected.

"As you were unprepared, I'll examine your pet for free."

"Thank you." He stiffly handed the dog to her, both arms outstretched and both shaking nearly as badly as the tiny dog.

Her hands didn't hesitate. From under the examination table, she pulled up an antique, silenced Berretta, pointing it at the man's head and pulling the trigger. For all its age, the gun delivered a quiet pop that efficiently deposited his brains in a red mess across the back wall. She caught the dog as the corpse's arms stopped receiving commands and flopped down with the rest of the body into a heap on the floor.

The tiny dog yipped at her, more in surprise than any outrage at the man's death. Sonya knew he wasn't the dog's master. The man didn't know how to handle an animal and this one certainly didn't belong to him. She tut-tutted to herself for the growing red puddle and the mess she'd need to clean up sometime later.

s.h.i.+fting the dog to the crook of her left arm, she opened her victim's jacket with her right and searched for some identification. The expired Private Enforcement license for one Auzel Small confirmed her suspicions. Someone wanted her out of the way. Knowing PEs, only the person who hired him would care about his disappearance. Her only concern involved the patron's intent for finding her-either her clandestine work as a vet, or even more clandestine members.h.i.+p in the Green Action Militia.

Sonya shrugged. It didn't matter either way, except for any follow-on attempts. In the meantime she'd inherited another dog and, she thought as she looked down at the body, more food for her animals.

Their Rose Quarter expeditions had started as a lark between himself and Carmine. They hobn.o.bbed with the lower cla.s.s, getting a vicarious thrill at being so close to the edge. Over the last year Tony's outings had become more and more frequent, with or without his companion. Tony fidgeted with a tiny sc.r.a.p of infamous blue TriMet seat fabric that had come loose. He all but leapt from his seat as the lift-bus landed.

The thickening of a rising fog, typical of the lower deck ghetto of Portland's Rose Quarter, added a dingy feel to the air. In spite of this, Tony's steps grew livelier as he walked out the TriMet doors. The slight wrinkle above his thick black eyebrows smoothed out as he relaxed.

Throngs of the poor, wretched, and homeless scurried by outside heavily armored doors and the many open, gaping holes in the abandoned lowest levels of the city. Garishly signed tube hotels, with their two-point-five meter long plastic coffin-shaped sleeping quarters for those lucky few who could afford even their modest prices, provided an eerie, if erratic, illumination.

A token girl, her State of Oregon prost.i.tution tattoo prominently displayed over one shoulder, wriggled her barely clad and unnaturally firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s against Tony's arm as he wound his way past her beat. Next to her, a man without a left leg hobbled on the other and a crutch bearing a filthy plastic sign claiming "Veteran. Praise G.o.d. Please help." Tony didn't even register either of them as individuals, but rather part of the background one endured to attend the hottest clubs.