YOUR DEATH THREE DAYS AGO
1563 4D
“Certainly, Lady.” The van ambled forward into a dark narrow tunnel. “Would you like a selection of music? I have the last seventeen euphonies of Quisindarr, and a wide range of commonly-enjoyed—“
“No, thank you,” Ezzar said. She muttered to Andrew, “They must have stolen this one upcity. I hope it shuts up—“
The van continued, “In that case would you prefer something elegiac? Metrical recursions by Twitnell—“
“Shut up,” Ezzar said.
“Very well,” the van said, “But you should realize the value of minimally-demanding sound patterns in any task calling for alertness.”
“Understood. Now, shut up.”
“The tension in your voice indicates—“
“SHUT UP.” Ezzar turned to Andrew. “How do people put up with this?”
He chuckled. “You obviously don’t hook into the sensi feeds here. They’re a lot worse.”
The van emerged from the darkness and turned left into a straight corridor, broad but low-ceilinged, lit with yellow-white lamps spaced every ten strides. Shuttered and locked corridor walls meant storefronts and displays closed for the night cycle. A few hurrying figures slid past them as the van plodded forward.
“Van,” Andrew said, “Who is your owner?”
“I am the property of Siglin Farcross Seventeen, the Prime Finance Organizer for Dannemor Zone. He has permanently contracted me to Mountain Movers.” To Andrew, the van‘s voice seemed a bit curt.
“Please describe your owner,” Andrew said.
“I cannot do that. Access to information concerning owners is restricted.”
“I understand.” Andrew reached under his seat for the set of microrepair tools carried in every van. He pulled it out and placed its eyeface over his left eyeball. He plugged a hair-thin strand into the dashpanel, and a world of electronic buildings overlaid the cab of the van. This view showed him the outside of a complex that mapped the logical structure of the van‘s reasoning unit.
Flicking his vision through the tags and marks and signposts of the complex, he found a purple street with many yellow lines running along its surface. He reached out with a mental multi-hand and severed two of the lines, then uncrossed and recrossed then three times in rapid succession, then once again. The vision flipped and twisted, then returned to its earlier steady state. Andrew rejoined the lines. “Please describe your owner,” he said again, removing the eyeface and stowing the tools.
“Physically, you are six and a half feet tall,” the van said in a calm tone. “You weigh the ideal for that size. Your build is classified NR-86: muscle density and size above normal, high bone density, tissue tensility slightly subnormal. Metabolism high by 10 percent. You are three hundred and seven years old.”
“Three hundred and seven!” Ezzar breathed. “How did you get it to talk?” she asked Andrew.
“I worked on these systems for years,” he said. “Van, continue.”
“Your mental categorization is Rhin 233, Argo 8F. No dependencies except Xerofurnan. Bioenhancements: mnemophasic, reentrant, amplificative in Modes 7, 34, and 291. Emotional categorization: Tiger A. Social categorization: Polymorphic male.”
“You possess leadership characteristics which make you a good candidate for inter-corporation managership. As Dannemor PFO, you hold a position already attuned to your abilities. The suspicious aspects of your nature serve you well.”
“Didn’t help him much,” Ezzar whispered.
The van added, “Your death three days ago has limited your ability to communicate with your colleagues. Based on your profiles, you find this frustrating. The news of your PFO replacement will not please you.”
“How did I die?” Andrew asked.
“Just after you contracted me out to Mountain Movers, you were shot accidentally through the spine. Your somatic systems were reactivated through NBS, neurobiological substitution. I dropped your systems off at Santi 4039, 62, 311.”
“A biopuppet,” Ezzar whispered, “They turned him into a biopuppet.”
“Was I… were my systems with anyone?” Andrew asked.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A woman. She told you her name was Derain.”
“Was she the one who shot me?”
“Yes.”
“Accidentally?”
“That’s what she said: ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’" The van‘s placid tone wavered in a deadpan mockery of apology.
“Thank you, van, that’s all,” Andrew said. “Who’s Derain?” he asked Ezzar. She shrugged and inclined her head forward. The van slowed. Andrew looked ahead at the blue of uniforms. Four militiamen, guns ready, waved them to a halt.
One stepped alongside the window where Ezzar sat. He raised his blast visor and looked in. “This is listed as a stolen vehicle,” he said. “Please keep your hands in sight and get out. Put your hands on the wall above your heads and wait.” Ezzar obeyed.
Andrew‘s mind raced. He said, “Officer, I’ve just recovered this vehicle. It’s mine. Ask it.” He got out and put his hands on the wall opposite Ezzar, wondering what Grendel was doing in the back.
The officer spoke into the van. “Van?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Who is your owner?”
“I am the property of Siglin Farcross Seventeen, the Prime Finance Organizer for Dannemor Zone. He has permanently contracted me to Mountain Movers.”
Glancing at the upcity coveralls Andrew and Ezzar wore, the officer cleared his throat as if something had just stuck there. “Who is the man who just got out?”
“He is Siglin Farcross Seventeen.” Andrew adopted a suitably calm but offended expression, raising his head and tightening his lips slightly as he looked over his shoulder.
The officer looked back at the other three militiamen; they slowly shook their heads. He coughed once and lowered his gun. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been fighting in this zone. You shouldn’t be down here after a van. Just get through here and upcity again, okay? Please don’t take offense, we’re just trying—“
“That’s all right.” Andrew lowered his hands and turned to get in. “I didn’t get where I am by letting little things like a stolen van get away, did I?” The officer nodded rapidly, lowered his visor, and waved them on. Andrew said, “Van, continue.” Ezzar got in, and a smile spread across her face. As the van swayed forward, she squeezed Andrew‘s knee with her hand.
