Matrix Man (7 page)

The video shimmered and coalesced into a shot of a middle-aged woman. It had the look of a publicity still.

"This is Corvan's mother, Lisa Kelly-Corvan, now retired. She was a highly regarded, though somewhat controversial journalism professor at the University of Washington, and according to those who know the family, it was she who provided Corvan with his world view."

The video changed to show a typical graduation picture. Corvan was laughing and looking off-camera toward someone else.

"Corvan graduated from the University of Washington with a masters in communications, tried a couple of part-time jobs, and joined the army."

Another shot came up, this one clearly from army files and marked "Confidential" across the bottom of the frame. Corvan was dressed in the uniform of a Green Beret. Silver lieutenant's bars were visible on his shoulders. The shot changed, and Dietrich saw that Corvan had an implant.

The German's respect for Corvan went up a notch. The Green Beanies were some tough troops, and only the best received implants.

Fawley continued, "Corvan served with the Green Berets just before that unit was absorbed into the WPO forces, and fought in a couple of minor police actions. As you can see, the army equipped Corvan with a weapons-implant interface. Consistent with army policy, the implant was left untouched at discharge."

Dietrich frowned: something to remember. Corvan had the ability to wire up a variety of man-operated military hardware.

A new shot appeared, this one lifted right out of Corvan's stand-up close on the Canadian raid.

"After his discharge Corvan went to work for a number of small-time networks, eventually winding up with an outfit called Earth Net in Los Angeles, and that's where he met Frank Neely. Both were known for their iconoclastic behavior, both had frequent disagreements with management, and both left when the company was taken over by a large conglomerate. It was shortly thereafter that Corvan purchased his bod-mods and became an instant celebrity."

"And Neely?"

Fawley consulted his pocket comp. When he looked up, there was a frown on his face. 'T don't know. Neely's records are Z-sealed."

Dietrich was careful to conceal his surprise. A Z-clearance was as high as they went. What the hell had Neely done to deserve that? Whatever it was had gotten him killed.

"Anything else?" Dietrich demanded.

Fawley shrugged. "I was going to mention that Corvan has apartments in both San Francisco and New York. He hasn't been to either one of them since before the raid. He's well paid and has investments totaling four-hundred-and-sixty-two thousand dollars, which when combined with the value of his two coop apartments makes him worth about two-and-a-half mil."

Dietrich nodded. "Okay, how 'bout his movements since the raid?"

"Give me data file, Corvan Rex, reference number 0037891," Fawley said, and the computer obeyed. The shot of Corvan disappeared and was replaced by a list of his movements.

"As you can see, Corvan checked into a Vancouver hotel immediately after the raid. He used his telecard to make a number of routine business calls. The next day he left Vancouver for Seattle, where he visited News Network 56 headquarters and spent some time with a technoid named Kim Kio. She's the one who rode electronic herd on his Canadian report."

"Video?" Dietrich inquired, his fingers steepled in front of his eyes.

"Video please," Fawley instructed, and moments later it was there. There were six shots in all. The first five were of Corvan. The first showed him in an airport, the second aboard a plane, the third in some sort of lobby, the fourth was blurred, and the fifth in a subway. All had the sloppy, imposed look of candid photography.

The sixth and last shot was of Kim Kio buying something from a street vendor. Illegal fags from the look of it.

"All six of these shots were obtained by running a high-speed skim on the most recent data dump from our northwest chip heads," Fawley volunteered.

Dietrich was aware that the WPO made regular use of the data gathered by chip heads. Not the advertising-related stuff, which they didn't care about, but the things in between, the shots of people the WPO was interested in. There would be hell to pay if the press ever found out, but what the heck, the rewards were worth the risk. Access to millions of roving surveillance cameras was just too good to pass up. And since the same companies who owned the WPO also controlled the rating services, it was easy to do.

Dietrich came to a decision. He couldn't be sure that Corvan's visit to News Network 56 and Kim Kio had anything to do with the raid, but odds were that it did. Why else would Corvan go there rather than accept another assignment or head home? Nope, Dietrich didn't believe in coincidence, and that meant trouble. At the very least Corvan would have to be neutralized, and depending on what he found, Kim Kio might be close behind.

Dietrich turned to Fawley. In spite of the room's air conditioning a sheen of sweat covered the functionary's forehead. "I'm afraid that Mr. Corvan has become a serious liability."

Fawley ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. "Yes, well, I was instructed to anticipate that possibility and identify some potential scenarios."

"And?" Dietrich asked.

"And we have just the thing," Fawley assured him. "There's a prison riot aboard Barge Farm 648 just north of here. At our urging the local authorities have managed to keep a lid on it, and since Corvan's in town, an anonymous tip should be sufficient to get him going."

Dietrich nodded thoughtfully. "All sorts of terrible things could befall a reop during a prison riot. Make one of them happen.''

 

 

 

5

 

 

It was dark as the Hovercraft roared up the inside passage. A stiff breeze blew the tops off the whitecaps and splattered them against the vessel's windshield.

Then, just when the thousands of tiny droplets threatened to obscure the helmsman's view, three wiper blades scythed downward and wiped the windshield clear.

There was nothing for Corvan to do but sit inside the vessel's small cabin and sip black coffee. Earlier they'd passed a huge Japanese container ship as it carefully eased its way down the main channel towards Elliot Bay. Since then, however, they'd seen nothing more than a few fishing boats.

To his left the thin green arm of the radar swept around and around, eternally discovering Whidbey Island to port and the mainland to starboard. And there, right up toward the top of the screen, a series of blips marked their destination. One of them was Barge Farm 648.

Like the many other barge farms in and around Puget Sound, number 648 was engaged in aquaculture. The barge was not so much a vessel as a floating framework from which salmon-rearing pens were suspended. Pausing in one place for a few months, the barge would move on before the salmon had caused any damage to surrounding marine life, and before annoyed shore dwellers complained about the way it spoiled their view.

Even with America's vaunted ability to produce food, the ever growing world population was pushing things to the max. Backyard gardens were back in vogue, the hydroponics industry was flourishing, and barge farms operated wherever conditions allowed.

But one thing made 648 different from all the rest. It was a prison, and the men who did the work were prisoners, felons mostly, too violent for computer-monitored home incarceration.

The whole thing had started in the late Nineties when taxpayers, fed up with the cost of building new prisons, started looking for alternatives. Home incarceration was one and self-supporting prisons were another.

There was nothing new about the concept—the state of Texas had done it for years—but there had been questions of propriety. Should prisoners be asked to repay some portion of what it cost to support them? Were they treated well? Were their rights observed?

Working under the twin pressures of high taxes and a burgeoning prison population, legislators began answering all three questions in the affirmative. Pilot projects were started, and before long, penal farms sprang into existence across the land. Blessed with waters ideal for aquaculture, Washington State had launched a number of correctional barge farms. Number 648 was one of them.

And, from what Corvan had learned during the short period of time available, the experiment had worked very well indeed. While the barge farms were not entirely self-supporting, they did bring in sufficient revenue to help offset costs, and were therefore a cut above the human warehouses they'd replaced.

On top of that the barge farms produced some of the food required by the world's exploding population. Due to the rising temperatures, tropical rice production had fallen more than ten percent during the last twenty years. American wheat production was off too, some eighteen percent over the same period of time and still falling.

Fortunately the greenhouse effect had blessed other areas of the world. Due to warmer weather in Canada and Russia, their wheat production was way up, but just barely keeping pace with demand. However, one bad year, one lower than average harvest, and six months later the entire world would go to bed hungry.

Corvan staggered as the hovercraft hit some chop and grabbed onto a hand hold. The helmsman saw but managed not to smile. Dumping VIPs on their rear ends was one of his hobbies, but it wouldn't pay to tell
them
that.

Corvan returned to his thoughts. After checking into his hotel, he'd had dinner sent to his room and hit the sack early. He'd just dropped off to sleep when the anonymous call woke him up. The voice was distorted^ intentionally so in case he tried to record and analyze it.

"Shut up and listen. Prisoners have taken control of Barge Farm 648. Two guards are dead, one's missing, and the rest are being held hostage. It's an exclusive if you move now."

At that point the mysterious caller had broken the connection, and Corvan had rolled out of bed. A call to the state prison authorities, a threat to give what he had to the wire services, and suddenly he had every reporter's dream: a sound and pix exclusive. Thanks to his bod-mods he'd been able to cover the story solo and auction it off to the networks later.

There was only one small problem. The whole thing was too damn easy, too pat. Who was the anonymous caller? He had some sort of ax to grind, but what kind and why? And how had the authorities managed to keep a lid on the story this long? Sure, they wanted to solve the problem first and announce it later, but where were the leaks? From a reporter's point of view, it often seemed as if government officials competed with each other to see who could leak sensitive information first.

There were lots of questions but damned few answers. And that made Corvan even more interested. "There it is, sir, up ahead, just off the port bow." The helmsman was a short, stocky silhouette against the soft glow of the instrument panel.

Using his eye cam to zoom forward into the night, Corvan saw a pattern of bright lights. Two were up in the sky, where a pair of police helicopters circled like twin vultures over a kill, and the rest were laid out on a grid-shaped pattern which rose and fell with the movement of the waves. And yes, now that his auto-iris had adjusted to the variance between the bright lights and dark water, he could see some red and green lights as well. Running lights, marking the dozen or so patrol boats which circled the barge farm like waiting sharks.

The barge farm itself was huge, much larger than Corvan had imagined, and quite impressive. By mentally connecting the dots of light Corvan got the impression of a three-story structure, fairly open at water level and enclosed up above. That matched the 3-D still which Lieutenant Halverson had shown him just prior to stretching out across a bench seat and falling asleep.

The top deck boasted a heliport, the usual array of solar collectors, and a variety of engineering spaces. The middle deck consisted of cell blocks for the men, a cafeteria, a gymnasium, and laundry facilities. And the lowest deck, the one at sea level, provided access to the fish pens. This deck was covered with equipment lockers, pen hoists, and storage tanks for the food pellets.

And hanging below the lowest deck were the fish pens, their considerable weight serving as a counterbalance for the superstructure above.

Huge pontoons kept the barge afloat, and would, barring anything short of a massive tidal wave.

"So we're there," Halverson croaked, rolling off his makeshift bed to join the other two men at the front of the cabin. He turned to regard Corvan with open curiosity. He had thick red hair, a pug nose, and the open grin of someone's kid brother. "So what now?"

Corvan smiled, his eye cam whirring softly as he turned toward Halverson and brought him into focus. "So let's talk with the warden. She's the one who can get me aboard."

"Aboard?" Halverson asked in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? Those guys would eat you alive."

"Not necessarily," Corvan said gently. "I'm a reop. It's a rare criminal indeed who doesn't want his or her moment of fame. That makes me one of the good guys."

"Maybe," Halverson replied doubtfully. "But I wouldn't bet on it. You still want the warden?"

"I still want the warden," Corvan replied.

"Okay," Halverson said with the tone of someone who's done all they can. "The warden it is."

It took forty-five minutes for Halverson to reach the warden by radio, for Corvan to wheedle and threaten his way into an audience, and for the hovercraft to nudge up alongside the seventy-five-foot Coast Guard hydrofoil which had been pressed into service as a command post.

Halverson's helmsman did the best he could to dump Corvan into the sliver of water between the two vessels, failed, and shrugged his shoulders philosophically. You can't win 'em all.

Corvan had just barely gotten a grip on the hydrofoil's ladder when the hovercraft started to back off. As he struggled to find a foothold, the larger vessel rolled toward him and dipped his feet into the frigid salt water. Then, just as his feet found a purchase, the hydrofoil roared away and showered him with more cold water.