Oversight (13 page)

“Why’s that?”

“We’re a hundred seventy-five pounds over our declared weight.” Emil then says to an unseen companion, “Ouvrez la porte.”

That Sam understands: “Open the door.”

Sam dives at Emil’s feet as the door slides up into the fuselage. The sucking sound is sudden and deafening. Pressurized air explodes outward. Oxygen masks drop.

Sam’s ears pop. The vacuum draft throws him against the wall. He flails, frantic. His arm catches the safety belt beneath a folded seat. His feet flap just outside the plane, like coattails caught in a car door.

The pressure equalizes, but the wind and the open door still present major problems. It’s freezing. Sam again tries to stand.

“Allez!” Emil shouts through his yellow mask. He’s barely audible over the roar.

Sam has no trouble hearing the gun.

The bullet strikes his chest, knocking him back. He falls, but there’s nothing below him for thirty thousand feet. There’s nothing to breathe, either.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes; instead, everything goes dark as his boom suit expands around him, detonated by the shell. Pressurized foam bursts from the fabric like popcorn. But getting air isn’t any easier at the center of a white foam ball. Sam blacks out.

He’s still falling when he comes to, but slowly. He can tell the air isn’t as thin, but he can’t see a damned thing. He’s tumbling to earth in the style of a Mars drone, protected by polyurethane rather than a balloon. He can only imagine what he must look like from below—a downed cloud.

Though his chest hurts like hell, he starts to laugh. There isn’t enough air coming through the tiny pores in his cocoon to sustain his glee for long. Still, he’s feeling rather pleased with himself when he finally strikes solid ground. Only then does it occur to him that getting out might take a while.

CHAPTER Six

“D
on’t move,” says
the paramedic. “We’re cutting in now.”

Sam squints as the setting sun strikes his face. The air is cold. “Where am I?” he asks.

“In the Sierras, a few miles south of Truckee.”

Tree branches shift in the breeze. Jagged rocks resembling shark fins furrow the earth. In a clearing perhaps a hundred yards away, a helicopter sits idle.

A second paramedic guides a heat saw through Sam’s foam packaging. “Feels like bread dough,” he observes. Wisps of acrid smoke rise from the emitter.

“Not too close,” Sam suggests.

“No worries.” The second paramedic smiles reassuringly. With his reddish beard and broad frame, he looks like the sort of lumberjack that appears on maple syrup labels.

Once the foam has been cut, his partner makes a few strategic slices in Sam’s shredded clothing, then offers his hand.

Sam emerges clad only in boxers. He gladly accepts a blanket.

“I’m much obliged,” he says. As an afterthought, he introduces himself.

“Doug,” the first paramedic replies. “That’s Slevok.”

“Slevok? What’s that? Hungarian or something?”

“It’s sponsored.”

“He’s a bit defensive about it,” Doug says.

Slevok glares.

Sam shrugs. “What’s it promoting?”

“The name comes from a character in a video game, Gazebo of Death.”

“Never heard of it.”

“No one has heard of it,” Doug says. “It was released like twenty-five years ago.”

“So it was your parents who sold your name.” Sam suddenly understands. “You know those contracts expire when you turn eighteen.”

“Yeah, I know. I never bothered to file for a new name. So shoot me.”

“He likes it,” Doug teases. “Says it’s an icebreaker.”

“Hey, whatever,” Sam says to defuse the tension. “I’m just glad you guys found me.”

Doug inspects the blood-black bruise on Sam’s chest. “Looks a bit like a bull’s-eye,” he says. “What hit you?”

“A bullet.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

“And your boom suit stopped it?” he asks, nodding his head in anticipation of the answer. He pulls an anesthetic from his med kit and sprays it across Sam’s chest. “I guess SilkSteel is worth the money.”

Now comfortably numb, Sam feels relieved. “Well, it wouldn’t do if the detonator penetrated the inner lining.”

Slevok pours a bio-solvent on the foam meteorite, melting it away. “Please tell me this isn’t the start of another extreme sport,” he says.

Sam grins. “I wonder if I can get an endorsement out of this?”

Shouldering their gear, the two paramedics help Sam to the helicopter. All things considered, he feels pretty good.

At the Tahoe Forest Hospital, in a room built for waiting, Sam waits to be debriefed. There’s an FBI agent inbound, he’s told. The usual waiting room diversions make bids for his attention: manhandled magazines and a television perched at a height guaranteed to drum up business for orthopedists. The monitor is tuned to Celebrity Weather, a look at the climatic challenges facing the famously underdressed in such storied destinations as Club Med and the Hilton Islands.

Sam tries to change the channel, but his verbal commands go unanswered. He fumes. There’s nothing more frustrating than being ignored by appliances. Unable to reach the manual controls, he tries to move one of the benches, but finds it’s bolted to the floor.

In exchange for his blanket, the paramedics gave him an orange jumpsuit bearing the familiar silhouette of the Yosemite oil fields. It’s definitely not his color. At least it has a network interface sewn in. He asks Marilyn to acquire a new outfit for him and to have it delivered as soon as possible. “I might be mistaken for someone sentenced to community service,” he complains.

To his surprise, she accepts the explanation without a keyword-based ad pitch. Something’s not right. The absence of solicitations usually coincides with heavy casualties somewhere; advertisers know their copy can’t compete with reality. Perhaps the war on terrorism has been renewed for another season.

Sam wanders down the hallway, past several examination rooms, to the cafeteria. The granite floor has been scrubbed raw, probably by poorly calibrated bots. A medical technician seated at one of the tables looks up from his meal and tablet for a moment.

Lining the far wall, seven vending machines offer the best of mechanical cuisine. Sam scrolls through the terms of use and liability clauses on the display screen of the leftmost machine and taps the Accept button. A shrink-wrapped vat-ham sandwich tumbles out of the illuminated cabinet’s maw. He tears it open and devours it, discarding the crumpled Paranatural Farms label on the floor. This despite having agreed in his snack contract to “dispose of any brand-identifiable wrapping in such a way as to not call into question the value or quality of said product or its producer(s) or agent(s).” It’s not like anyone really gets sued for abandonment of packaging; the charge only comes up after someone is nabbed for littering or some related crime.

Taking a seat, Sam asks Marilyn to stream News Tonight through the speakers in his jumpsuit. The announcer sounds hypermasculine, like a parody of John Wayne.

“…police moved quickly to control the crowd of hooligans. A department spokesman indicated that seven officers were injured in the melee before order was restored…”

“Marilyn,” he asks, “what’s the default filter for this stream?”

“Federal Patriot,” she says as the audio fades.

“Please change it to Urban Cynic as per my preference file.”

“Unable to comply. You do not have permission to overwrite government-mandated translation filters.”

Sam rolls his eyes. As government-issue clothing, apparently the jumpsuit doesn’t support personalization. “List authorized alternatives.”

“Massachusetts Academic, Armed Texan, and Kansas Creationist.”

“Set filter to Armed Texan and regenerate,” Sam says without much enthusiasm for any of the choices.

Marilyn returns the volume of the stream to its former level. The announcer now has a noticeable Dallas drawl.

“Elsewhere in San Francisco, reaction to the quarantine was less violent, but just as impassioned. At City Hall, National Guardsmen carrying M50 assault rifles and Colt sidearms oversaw a spontaneous protest of the government’s containment policy. Local hospitals, meanwhile, dealt with a deluge of anxious citizens, someone of whom carried guns for self-protection despite local ordinances…”

Perplexed, Sam rubs his brow. What the hell is going on? “Marilyn, stop. Summarize top news related to San Francisco in the past four hours. Sort in chronological order.”

“5:45 p.m., Federal Aviation Administration closes airspace within fifty miles of San Francisco. 6:10 p.m., San Francisco quarantined; bioterrorism suspected. 6:12 p.m., Centers for Disease Control identify viral outbreak. 6:14 p.m., Governor Hutias declares state of emergency, asks for federal aid—”

“Marilyn, stop. Connect to the Zvista visitors’ server. Poll Fiona’s vital signs. Summarize.”

“Nonessential data traffic has been deprioritized,” Marilyn explains. “One moment please.”

Sam just nods. He steps on his left foot with his right to keep it from tapping.

“Preferred packet routing is now available from government agencies facing budget shortfalls. Would you care to hear the pricing?”

“No, Marilyn. Just tell me if my daughter is okay.”

“Her data conforms with established parameters.”

Sam buries his head in his hands, relieved. “Okay. Send a voice message to the nursing staff. Begin: This is Sam Crane. I realize things may be kinda hectic around there now, but please contact me directly if the quarantine has any impact upon my daughter Fiona’s care. End.”

“Message sent, Sam. Based on speech analysis, the network has determined that your call was unrelated to business. You will be billed at the social rate.”

Sam spends the next few minutes trying to contact friends and acquaintances in San Francisco, but to no avail. He’s in the process of hiring a crier bot to find Tony Roan and deliver a message when someone calls his name.

Dr. Stephen Ursa is approaching from across the room. Agent Gibbon is with him, though his body language suggests the two don’t know one another.

“What’s going on?” Sam demands.

Stephen beckons, leading the way to a vacant examination room. He shuts the door. “Was Caddis on board?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sam replies. “But before I say anything, I want to know what’s happening. I haven’t been able to reach anyone.”

Stephen leans on the papered examination bed and considers his reply. “San Francisco was hit with a biological attack two hours ago,” he says finally. “An engineered virus was used. Preliminary tests indicate that the virus attacks the optic nerve. But it’s still too early to determine the full impact.”

“It was serious enough for you to leave town,” quips Sam.

Stephen glares.

“Sorry, that was out of line,” Sam says, chastened.

“Direction of this investigation has been moved up the chain,” Ursa explains. “I was ordered here to determine the extent of your involvement, given that the plane you were on seems to have been the dispersal method for the virus.”

Sam blinks. “Cayman’s plane?”

Stephen nods. “It was ditched in the desert shortly after you made your exit.”

The phrasing draws a chuckle from Gibbon.

“Made my exit?” Sam says. “Caddis was trying to kill me.”

With a gesture from Stephen, Sam recounts his actions since the two last spoke. After some back and forth about his relationship with Amy, he describes the takeoff—and the unusual amount of mist he noticed trailing the plane.

At this, Stephen just shakes his head.

“There was a story a couple days ago about an outbreak in Brazil,” Sam ventures. “Related?”

“We think Brazil was a trial run. We’re still waiting on CDC confirmation. But we expect people to become symptomatic by tomorrow morning.”

“Meaning they’ll go blind?”

Stephen nods, lips tight. “Well, most of them,” he says after a moment. “Based on the numbers reported in Brazil, three in ten should either be immune or lucky.”

“I guess I should’ve bought stock in Automated Sciences when I had the chance.”

A quizzical look from the two agents prompts Sam to add, “A company that makes eye-repair equipment.”

Dr. Ursa gestures to Agent Gibbon and the two huddle to converse for a moment. Sam looks at the acoustic foam panels on the ceiling.

“Mr. Crane, before Emil Caddis tried to kill you, did he say anything?”

“Please be more specific,” Sam says, intentionally echoing the network’s vernacular.

“It doesn’t make sense that you two would both be on that plane by coincidence.”

“Accidents never happen in a perfect world,” Sam recites.

The two FBI agents appear puzzled by the assertion.

“I agree, it doesn’t make sense,” he adds, replaying the events in his head.

“Dazzle us with a theory,” Gibbon suggests.

“He wanted to kidnap Amy Ibis and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You’re contradicting your last theory,” Stephen points out. “I don’t believe you were on that plane by accident either. So why?”

Sam had been hoping to keep from mentioning Mako’s glasses, but it seems futile. “Well,” he admits, “Caddis did want to know about a pair of antique glasses. Come to think of it, I discussed them with Amy too.”

“Glasses?” Stephen asks. “What did Caddis say?”

“Right before he tried to put me off the plane, he asked if I knew where they were, which is strange because I thought he had them.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Is there somewhere we can get a drink around here?” Sam asks. “This may take some explaining.”

Reclining in his motel room, all polyester and plastic, Sam tries to relax in his newly delivered clothes—a T-shirt and chinos. The images on TV make it difficult. Both the Entertainment Channel and the News Channel are broadcasting live from San Francisco. Panic has already set in. At the entrance to the Bay Bridge, people press toward the National Guard blockade, only to be repulsed by water cannons and people-heaters. The scene is echoed at the Golden Gate Bridge. From airborne news drones come shots of roadblocks along Highways 101 and 280. Military vessels stalk the bay. Crowds seeking relief from fear have gathered at local hospitals. Scores of aircraft rain searchlights down on a city that will see nothing but darkness by dawn.

Sam wants to get back to see Fiona, despite having been told that’s not possible at the moment. He feels certain Dr. Ursa could arrange it. He resolves to raise the issue again in the morning before Ursa departs.

He’s beginning to regret recounting his investigation into the death of Xian Mako. For showing his hand, all he got was a vague promise of assistance. He knows how it goes. Sources get drunk dry and discarded. The Feds don’t give a damn about Mako and they want to catch Caddis on their own. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

Sam rises to rifle the minibar and flops back down on the bed gripping a child-sized bottle of gin. Toying with it seems somehow appropriate, given its diminutiveness. He holds it up to his eye, enjoying the sensation of cold. Though the glass, televised light flickers, bent but beautiful.

That’s how he’d describe Amy: bent but no less beautiful. Thinking about her makes him smile. Not good, he tells himself. Then he remembers wanting to run a voice-stress check on their conversation.

“Marilyn,” he asks, “cue my audio log to 6:00 p.m. Identify Amy Ibis. Scan for voice stress through—”

“There is no data between 5:12 p.m. and 7:43 p.m.,” she interrupts.

The interval corresponds to the time when Sam boarded the plane to the moment when the paramedics gave him the jumpsuit. Then he remembers: Caddis said the relay was closed.

“Marilyn, cue my audio log to 3:00 p.m. Identify Amy Ibis. Scan voice stress through 5:11 p.m. Flag irregular patterns for review.”

“Working,” she says. A few seconds later, she announces that she’s done.

“And?”

“Please be more specific.”