Freenet (18 page)

Pan to the Bali boy in his leopard-skin costume. “No change. She’s in a coma.”

Roni turned back to the camera with grim anticipation. “Our young couple recently jumped from a crashing Transolar troopship where they were abandoned by the crew, and flew unaided through space to Cromeus from an estimated altitude of one hundred miles! Pretty amazing, wouldn’t you say, Zen?”

“Yes, it’s a miracle from Kiva.”

Roni smiled with multicultural tolerance. “The desert god of Bali reached his hand across the heavens that day, but you had some help from your
omnidroid
partner, correct?”

“Simara knew the ship was going to crash. She knew the captain had targeted us for death. But she planned every detail of our escape. I smuggled two spacesuits into a hidden locker, and we dove for the planet.”

“Wow.” Roni spread his arms in a dramatic flourish. “Our honeymoon couple
dove
into open space to escape certain death at the hands of Transolar Corporation. Pretty scary!”

Zen looked down and fondled Simara’s limp hand. Oops, the kid did not want to admit fear on camera in front of his family and friends. Okay, roll with it. “Simara Ying has been accused in the disappearance of her stepfather, Randy Ying. Do you think that was the reason the authorities abandoned you on the doomed troopship?”

Zen tilted his head with a subtle wince. “I don’t know. She’s been accused of murder, but she couldn’t have done it. I’ve heard rumours that all the omnidroids are being targeted for decommission.”

Whoa, the Bali boy caught Roni by surprise with a big word, but he took it in stride. “Many of our viewers might consider that to be
genocide
, but it certainly fits with the facts this reporter has discovered. Seventeen accidents appear to have been engineered across Cromeus, and two omnidroid lives have been lost. Can we pan out for a minute?” He paused as the camera view widened. “Ruis Limkin and Elana Mant, may they rest in fond memory.” Roni laid out a hand toward the two elves standing nearby. “Brother and sister to these two biogen children watching in silent vigil as their elder, Simara Ying, lies a helpless martyr to a vast conspiracy of evil!” Roni glanced to his editor to gauge her reaction. She grimaced and nodded—he was flirting with the edge, but not over the top, not yet.

Gladyz ducked her eyes to scan inner data for a few seconds as Roni rambled on with details about the helicopter accident. She looked up and signalled him to login. That was weird, and generally bad form during a live netcast—it could pull the audience out of the drama if they thought the anchorman was watching a different channel. He tapped on with a discreet touch to his ear.
::We’re getting great feedback, Roni. Transolar is falling all over us, of course, but there’s a message for Zen from the governor of Bali, Genoa Blackpoll. We need his permission for a shared feed. Do it now! We’ll go split-frame with the two of them.::

“Zen,” Roni said without missing a beat. “I know you’ve just recently had an earbug installed, and many viewers will remember their first days surfing the V-net as children, how confusing that can be! But there’s an important message coming in from the governor of Bali, Genoa Blackpoll. Would you be willing to login and share with our news audience?”

Zen looked up with alarm. “Does it have something to do with the investigation?”

Roni smiled to put him at ease as he backed out of camera view and Ngazi stiffened with galvanic energy. “Let’s login and find out, shall we?”

Zen touched his ear. “Login. Genoa Blackpoll. Are you there, Governor?”

Roni watched the split-view on his eyescreen as a staffer handed him a bottle of water out of frame. Genoa Blackpoll stood propped behind a lectern, a grey-haired statesman with an aura of dignity, perfect for the job and probably the centre of a hastily organized media scrum. Why did politicians always look so good on camera? Was it truly survival of the photogenic fittest?

“Zen, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I have good news, and I’ve been holding the release so that you would be the first to hear from me personally. They found the flight recorder from Simara’s shuttle by following your pinpoint instructions. They analyzed the data and discovered both voices on the record. Randy Ying was clearly alive after Simara left the ship. She could not possibly have killed him, and all charges have been dropped by the Crown attorney. You saved her, son.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s great. Thanks so much.”

“I understand you’ve run into some trouble on Cromeus, and I wish you well. Whatever happens, know that I’m proud of you and all Bali stands with you. Your family and every member of Star Clan rejoice in your survival and sacrifice, and you bring great honour to the memory of your father.”

Roni choked on his water and wiped his chin. Holy crap, better and better! It’s the great surprises that make history in news, those on-air twists of fortune that turn myths into legend and personalities into prophets. He rolled the bottle out of view as Gladyz gave him a three-count to camera. “You heard it here first, folks. Congratulations to Zen and Simara. Wonderful news! Our martyr, falsely accused from the beginning, has earned a reprieve from condemnation. Who, then, will dare slander the omnidroids now?” He stabbed out a palm to Simara, asleep on her hospital bed with the intravenous stand in the background, a pitiful sight to all, then turned to Zen. “Or continue to ignore the proud people of Bali who toil underground in the dark to bring us the strategic metals we use every day of the week? Let’s remember our friends today, all of us, and hug our families close. Let’s be quick to forgive and slow to accuse, and may the desert god Kiva bless us all. Perhaps Zen Valda will honour us with a final word to summarize his experience at this critical moment.”

Roni nodded to Zen as Gladyz relayed instructions in his inner ear, more news coming in, a feedback frenzy. The Bali boy sputtered nonsense and cried openly for Simara, predictable stuff, but he could have spoken a different language for all it mattered now. Fate had shone a wide spotlight on his haloed head, and he could do no wrong. Ngazi dripped with perspiration as he beamed out public sympathy and consolation, having a co-creative heyday with all the wirehead brains linked to the feed. Zen blubbered and thanked everyone for their support as the two elf children came on camera to stroke Simara’s forehead and whisper in her ear. Roni let him blather on to milk the moment as the netcast went viral and a shitstorm of new viewers came onstream.

Finally he put up his hand and waved for attention. “We’ve just received word . . .” He waited as Zen finished and sniffed his way back to composure. “We’ve just received word from the chairman and CEO of Transolar Corporation, Elron Pritchard, and I’ll paraphrase here for the sake of brevity. In light of the recent systems malfunction aboard a Transolar troopship that almost resulted in loss of life, and in view of the false accusations pressed against an innocent omnidroid woman that led her into harm’s way, the Board of Directors has established the Transolar Foundation, a new charitable organization designed to aid and improve the lives of all biogen children throughout the three planets. Elron Pritchard has personally kicked off the foundation with a donation of one million credits to start the ball rolling, and invites everyone to join with him in showing love and compassion for all people regardless of their mental configurations.

“Whew. Fabulous news, folks, and thank you to Transolar Corporation. We’re almost out of time. I’m all choked up about this, and I know our friends from Bali have celebrating to accomplish, so I’ll sign off back to the studio for now and see you all tomorrow . . . bringing the future to life . . . on the
Daily Buzz
.”

“And cut,” Gladyz said as she strode forward. “That’s a wrap. Thanks to New Jerusalem West for their gracious hospitality. Let’s pack up and let these people get on with their work.” The corridor outside was crowded with onlookers as doctors and nurses stood clutching databoards to their chests in silent awe. Gladyz strode over to Roni as the whole thing started to sink in. “That sure smells like culpability,” she whispered. “Good job. You always were light on your feet.”

Roni nodded, feeling vacuous as adrenalin seeped away. He had reacted with pure instinct to a stellar convergence of events, but what did it mean? What the hell had just happened? The real story seemed deeper now and farther away than ever.

“Funny thing about news,” Gladyz said with a whimsical smile, “it travels fast and turns into history so quickly.”

Zen came over with an elbow up like a wrestler performing a blocking manoeuvre. “Thanks for everything, Roni.”

“Uh, sure.” Roni lifted both elbows up like chicken wings, one after the other, unsure of etiquette, and Zen twisted awkwardly to cross his forearm with a manly prod.

“Can I buy you boys dinner?” Gladyz said. “We can start planning tomorrow’s show.”

Was it possible for news to be too perfect, the centre of the media hurricane too calm? Roni couldn’t sleep as he analyzed the bare facts in his mind, running events over and over, forward and back. The orchestrated message from Genoa Blackpoll, on a time delay from Bali no less, had set off a chain of events among the executives of Transolar, who surely must have been primed in advance to have their pocketbooks so close at hand, perhaps by usage data related to Roni’s own research or scuttlebutt among the hornets he had stirred.

And the little elf girl sleeping in a coma. How had she vaulted into stardom without lifting a finger? Roni had made her famous on a whim, or so he had thought. Her and the Bali boy on a magic honeymoon of misadventure—in retrospect, it seemed an obvious melodrama served up on a silver platter. What anchorman could resist such a potent lure? Was Simara Ying using the
Daily Buzz
somehow, manipulating the news, pulling puppet strings with strange telepathy? Was Simara scripting dangerous events to serve her own agenda? Had she sacrificed herself to secure a future for her omnidroid family? No, that was crazy space. Roni needed to get some sleep, just a few hours until dawn.

He tossed in his bunk and checked the time on his eyescreen. Too late to take a pill now—he’d be groggy until noon. He still had a show to grind out six days a week, and it’d be a hard act to follow after such mind-expanding success. Okay, back to work, back to basics, he’d peek behind the purple curtain and follow the money on its telltale journey. Who secured the most economic gain from yesterday’s spectacle on the
Daily Buzz
? Not Simara stuck in a coma, not the penniless Bali boy at her side, not the Transolar executives now forking out creds to save their corporate reputation. The omnidroid children were the only real beneficiaries of this drastic change in public paradigm—once reviled, now recompensed, once persecuted and slandered, now lauded across three worlds.

Roni Hendrik sighed and reached to touch his ear. “Login,” he told the darkness above his bed, “bring me up all the data on the omnidroids.” His mind brightened into a honeycomb of windows, and he began to peer through them with methodical rigour. Time of manufacture and place of upbringing, school records, career highlights, social contracts, who, what, when, where, why—the newsman’s invocation. Forensic analysis was not much fun, but often yielded surprising results. Every scrap of data was recorded on the V-net, every voice message, every download.

Roni blinked and scrolled, picked and niggled, reclining in his bunk with three worlds dancing before his eyes in a manic rush of inspiration. All the other omnidroids were younger than Simara Ying, the three oldest just fifteen years of age, the youngest seven—twelve boys and twelve girls in ideal balance, all manufactured by the same company, Neurozonics, a private corporation registered in New Jerusalem by numbered proxy agents. As with all biogens, the omnidroids enjoyed full citizenship by legal proclamation, including the rights to vote and to produce children. They could not be owned like robots or machines, though technically they were created beings. They were human, or at least they looked human, and their programming was by nurture and nature just like everyone else’s—they had problems, deficiencies, variations of design, but their one major cerebral augmentation was unlimited access to the V-net and no bandwidth filters. Omnidroids were born into zero-day digital space and lived in a fantasyland far beyond the mortal sphere of intelligence. Physical experience and bodily sensation were only tiny fragments of their transcendent existence, mundane accessories to digital infinity. In time, life itself might become a vestigial appendage. Anecdotal evidence indicated difficulty in social interaction, reticence in speech and public conduct, fear of crowds, and lack of
common sense
, whatever that was. Rumours suggested the possibility of precognition.

Roni read through corporate financial reports and quarterly analytical guidance, but could not cobble together a big picture in his mind. Neurozonics was part of a mesh of related companies in a variety of unrelated fields, with majority shareholdings and minority interests in hundreds of subsidiary entities. The mandatory filings were so abstruse and technical that a person could read them ten times and never get the gist. And then there was the problem of assets held in probate by cybersouls in limbo—technically dead until rules of procedure were enacted in parliament to grant civil status to eternals, if and when the complicated legislation ground through administrative committee meetings. Neurozonics was a grinning spider on a translucent web of intrigue.

Roni tracked down the details byte by byte, piecing together a complicated puzzle in his mind as the sun pushed morning through his bedroom window. He didn’t need sleep, he needed answers, and by the time his alarm sounded he had a sketch of a plan.

“I’ve got it,” he told Gladyz as he stumbled into the newsroom with a steaming cup of coffee cradled in trembling palms.

“Roni, you look like shit. Have you been up all night again?” Gladyz rose from her seat to get a better look at him. “You’re a mess.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, “but I’ve got a hot lead.”

Gladyz took him by the arm. “Come with me. We’ll see if Derryn can salvage something.”

“The omnidroids were all manufactured by the same company, Neurozonics Inc.”

“Great, Roni, that’s good. Derryn, we need help.”

Roni shrugged off her guiding hand, but settled into a recliner chair by force of habit. “Neurozonics goes back to the founding fathers, back to the first days of the Doorway. They have financial fingers in all the major pies, political influence, a vast army of cybersouls colluding in eternal storage. They have everything to gain and nothing to lose. I smell conspiracy.”

“Oh, starry heavens,” Derryn said as he scrutinized Roni’s eyes up close. “Are you packing for vacation?”

“Can you save him, Doctor?”

Derryn clucked his tongue and tipped his head from side to side as he inspected the damage. “I need an hour and some ice.”

“Done.”

Roni blinked past Derryn’s shoulder to get his editor’s attention. “Will you listen to me?”

Gladyz smiled. “We’re already on it, honey buns. Transolar cops have found Randy Ying operating under an assumed name on Babylon. He claims to be working as a consultant for Neurozonics.”

“They paid him to abandon his ship?”

“He’s clammed up about everything. His trading company had more liability than equity, so it’s gone into bankruptcy. The ship is up for public auction.”

“We need to challenge Neurozonics on this. The public deserves an explanation.”

“Leave it to me. You two get cozy while I hunt down the bad guys.”

Derryn resumed his clinical inspection and began selecting concoctions, arranging them in rows like soldiers preparing for battle. Roni sighed and forced himself to relax. At least he was at work and making progress against whatever invisible empire was out there. A feeling of futility was trying to drag him down, a sense of helplessness against a hidden colossus. Why would Neurozonics create biogen children to challenge their own vaulted position in society? Why risk the future of humanity by tinkering with
dna
to produce a telepathic species? Financial success in the investment arena? Prestige? Power? What possible outcome would justify such an outrageous gamble with the forces of evolution?

Derryn started work on his face by scrubbing with soap and water and massaging his temples and forehead with hot ointments. Then he covered Roni’s eyes with an ice pack, forcing him into darkness and back to his online research. What about the two omnidroid children who perished in the helicopter accident? Was there anything to set them apart, any reason why they might be culled from the herd? Roni surfed through data on the V-net while Derryn worked on his neck and shoulders. Ruis Limkin and Elana Mant were both registered biogens with elite status in society. They had astounding records in all measurements of gifted intelligence, genius levels approaching omniscience—nothing unusual. But they were dead, and all the other omnidroids had survived horrible carnage in which several humans had been injured, collateral damage in a mysterious war for the future.

An hour later Roni was ready for action, fuelled with caffeine and powered by protein, his showbiz blood pumping with sure promise. His face felt like a rubber mask, but Derryn seemed satisfied, which was generally regarded as high praise on the set.

Gladyz came back precisely on schedule. “Neurozonics won’t talk to us, and they seem defensive. I think you’re on to something.”

Roni’s grin almost cracked his makeup. “I knew it.”

“We’re going to shoot some studio footage on the omnidroids to mix with stock vidi, then go live back at the hospital with Zen. We’ll pick it up where we left off.” She held up cautionary palms. “We’ll go easy at first and see what shakes out. We’re already riding high, so this will be denouement, just a pleasant, lingering afterglow, got it?”

“I love lingering afterglow,” Derryn interjected with a wink. “Need any help?”

“Sure, come along.” Gladyz thrust a shoulder forward. “Pack up a kit. You worked wonders yesterday on Simara.” She turned to scrutinize Roni for a moment. “And great job on the little masterpiece.”

Derryn nodded. “He does look pretty good . . .” He winked again. “. . . for an older boy.”

“Yeah, don’t forget who’s paying the bills around here,” Roni said as he tugged the apron from around his neck. He strode into the studio like a peacock on parade, but the camera crew muttered bland greetings with little recognition for his triumph the previous day. The team was already hard at work sculpting a new episode. They shot some talking-head clips at close range to summarize Roni’s research, and put them in the script for later, then quit early for lunch to start preparations for the big event live at the hospital during primetime.

By now the story was taking shape, and a few questions were looming at the surface. Why were the omnidroid children always whispering in Simara’s ear? Could she hear them? How closely could they be connected to a woman in a coma? Documented evidence showed that some patients could indeed hear noises from a subconscious state, but there was nothing to indicate active memories could be formed by a hibernating brain, even in an augmented omnidroid. Roni had no scientific territory to put his foot on, but he wondered if Simara somehow might be aware of the media storm circling around her.

Zen was still sleeping when Roni returned to his apartment. The Bali boy had lost any vestige of a circadian rhythm and did not respond to the daylight streaming in the window. He seemed to be slipping toward his natural state as a night dweller on a planet too close to the sun, where people slept in caves and came out to play in the dark when the rads were low. On top of that, Zen was suffering from stress and a near-death experience, not to mention a switch to the twenty-four-hour Cromean cycle. He seemed to wake and sleep at random several times a day and never rose from bed with a smile. Roni poked him from a safe distance with a broom handle. “Wake up, Zen. It’s time to visit Simara.”

Zen groaned and peered out from under a tangled mop of auburn curls. He seemed fearful at first, tense and ready to pounce like a trapped animal, but his face softened with recognition. “Okay.”

They shared pastries and fresh fruit, Zen’s delicacies of choice, and Roni set some ideas in motion as they journeyed by tram to the hospital. He needed an authentic response on camera, so he never scripted his clients, but he planted seeds and watered them as best he could. It sounded a bit outlandish to voice his theory out loud: a nefarious corporation manufacturing a regiment of telepathic omnidroids to take over the world. What sober and cynical V-net viewer would swallow that tasty morsel along with her afternoon tea?

The street outside the hospital was crammed with pedestrians, and trolley traffic was at a standstill. A small squadron of protesters chanted “Shame on Transolar!” to the dissonant accompaniment of honking horns and shouts of impatience from frustrated commuters. A ramshackle memorial had been erected on the sidewalk with oversized pictures of Simara and Zen, and well-wishers had piled a huge mound of wilting flowers at the foot of the structure in homage, but Gladyz breezed by in disdain with her crew in search of bigger game and a brighter byline.

Inside the hospital, the foyer was jam-packed with visitors, the noise tumultuous and the air heavy with fragrance and clouds of pollen. Hundreds of people were lined up at the elevators for a chance to touch the omnidroid martyr and lay bouquets of honour at her door. Security guards had cordoned off hallways with caution tape like yellow tinsel in an effort to keep essential services running, but crowds jostled shoulder to shoulder along the perimeter in search of an easier route downstairs. Gladyz blinked in disbelief and turned to Roni with wide eyes. Her expression said it all: the
Daily Buzz
had created a monster!

But she meant it in the nicest way, of course.

Gladyz barged her way to the security office and tried to present press credentials to harried staff, but the jig was up and the guards were grim. The hospital was in lockdown mode under strict protocol. Zen was the only person allowed access to Simara, but Gladyz was not giving him up. There was no way the roadies could get a camera crew in past this horde, no way they could set up shop with Ngazi to shoot today’s show in Simara’s room. The clock was ticking and the primetime slot fast approaching as Gladyz returned to the outer vestibule ranting and cursing to no avail with her fists clenched in her bouncy brown hair. Derryn dropped his cosmetics case and perched on it daintily. He folded bony arms over his chest and tipped a slender shin across his knee as the roadies struggled to keep from bashing innocent bystanders with their lampstands and booms. Ngazi stood like a wooden statue staring off in the distance and humming with irritation.

“Let’s shoot it right here,” Roni said. “Grainy and gritty right on the street. Look at these placards.” He waved an arm at a forest of hand-painted signs:
We Love You!
,
WAKE UP!
,
Shame on Transolar!
,
Omnidroids Are People!
,
and a heart with the names
Simara + Zen
printed inside it.