MINDFRACK Read online

  “No. Keep your voice down,” growled Dorsey, “I didn’t say that. Hang on, I need to take this …” He looked away from them, his eyes settling into middle distance.

  The fact that whatever was going on might involve the eighty-eight-year-old trillionaire meant the media would be sucking up the story like flies on soda, even if all Grist was guilty of was reckless endangerment; people had been dropping objects from tall buildings for as long as they existed. Logan knew that the 6thgen’s destruction was inconsequential, though strange. Only the hooker’s injuries were likely worthy of investigation.

  They waited for Dorsey to come back to them. His selfie-cam hung in front of him like a glowfly. He said a few yes, sir’s and a consider-it-done, supported by a couple of nods. His beady eyes returned to Logan and Diaz and he told them, “Okay, I have it straight from the Chief. Diaz, you’ll continue to record and rake through the mess here, then bag it and take it back to your lab. Let me know when you get there. Logan, get your shit sorted and join me over by the main entrance in thirty. I don’t want you smelling like some juiced-up barfly on my watch. It’s unprofessional. Get some deo from the support crew and spray it down your throat if you have to. And borrow some clothes … And get rid of those,” he said, scowling at the iTatts.

  “Why? I mean, what do you need me for?”

  Dorsey stared at the playmate’s remains. “George Grist claims it ran amok, hit the escort and jumped. I need you to ask the right questions.”

  “Shit, we’re going up to interview George Grist?” So that’s why Dorsey wanted him on-scene. He wasn’t a fan of GNG’s founder and CEO, but this sort of opportunity was exactly why he took on the consulting gig with the department.

  Logan was denied further details as Dorsey marched off, his hand to his ear, talking to someone else.

  Diaz folded her arms and cocked her head; her expression read, screw you.

  “What?”

  “Now you happy Dorsey dragged your sorry butt out?” said Diaz. “You know how many people have ever seen George Grist in the flesh?”

  “Can’t say I do, tens of thousands?”

  “Smart ass. I’d give a week’s salary to meet him and see the inside of his penthouse.”

  “You serious?”

  “Well maybe a half day’s.”

  “I’ll post you some selfies with Grist. Now, can you remove these?” Logan tapped one of his party iTatts with a finger.

  “Standard twenty-four-hour skin meld?”

  “Yeah. And without trashing my permanent tatts underneath.”

  She gave him a look that said: Duh … and then, flicking her head toward the cordoned forensics vehicles, she said, “I keep a kit in my bag. Let’s go.”

  Logan stayed put. He’d experienced an overwhelming sense that he was being watched from the bystander crowd, and not in a casual-interest way: it felt like he was being studied like bacteria in a petri dish. He used his smartlenses to magnify and scan through the ragtag collection of voyeurs. Nothing seemed abnormal until he saw the hooded lizard-lady and the kid standing by her side, both staring at him. A movement drew his attention into the park beyond them, to a shape moving amongst the trees. It was too big for a man, at least without an exo, the construction worker sort, yet it moved too lithely for someone clad in alloys and servos. He knew there were horses in the park; maybe it was a trick of the shadows, an odd angle …

  "Hey, you coming?” called out Diaz. “What’s got you so spooked?"

  Logan tore his attention away from the SOC perimeter. "Hang on, some people over there – they seem odd."

  “Right. Odd people in New York. That’s unusual."

  He ignored the patronizing tone. “Yeah, over there.” He turned back to point them out. “Dammit, they’ve gone.”

  “You need to lay off those nanos, Mac. Drones would spot anything suspicious anyway."

  Logan caught himself. “Maybe you’re right.” He glanced over his shoulder as he followed Diaz towards the Ops van. Seeing nothing, he surreptitiously popped another purple.

  2

  When Emmett Tucker was awoken by his iSense PA, he reacted as though someone had poked him in the ribs with a cattle prod. He sat bolt upright, his heart thumping.

  Only two individuals were permitted to interrupt his sleep, barring any other emergency. The first and most important was the medibot that looked after his wife.

  “Is Jennifer okay?” he asked, alarmed.

  Emmett’s virtual PA was bland, being an un-personalized female persona with a voice devoid of any character. He didn’t care for making anything special of the AI considering the circumstances under which it had been foisted upon him. It didn’t even have a personalised name, just the default, Jane. The PA smiled at him and said, “Yes, she’s fine, sir. It’s George Grist.”

  “All right, tell George to give me a minute. Tell him I’m in the middle of taking a shit.”

  It was because of Grist that he’d taken on iSense at such a late age; it was part of their agreement, or the “contract”, as Grist had called it.

  The contract was based on a deranged and maddening ransom.

  Emmett allowed himself to fall back into his pillow and take an extra few seconds to come round. At the height of his career within the CIA he would have been out of bed by now, his senses as sharp as spurs.

  But George Grist …?

  Emmett groaned inwardly at the thought of engaging with the old bastard. Whenever they spoke, he took umbrage at Grist’s tone of condescension. Being pure Texan stock, it made him feel as though he was being treated like a Southern redneck and had the odd effect of making him acutely aware of his own heavy Texan drawl.

  Noting, irritably, that it was 2:30 a.m., he thought-invoked his selfie-cam via iSense. The insect-like drone flew from his bedside table and hovered in front of him, its wings emitting a faint skeeter-like whine.

  Rubbing his eyes brusquely, he accepted the call. A security request emoji, from Grist, slid into view. Emmett reached over to his side table and pressed a button.

  Grist materialized, iSense placing him as though he were sitting on the end of the bed. Congenitally hairless, with waxy fair skin, he’d been featured in satirical magazines as an aging shop dummy, which was, perhaps, unfair, though up close he did possess a hooded, dead-eyed creepiness. Despite the early hour he was fully dressed and sporting a pale blue polo shirt zipped up to his neck. He looked rattled and was being fussed over by an equally old, bushy-haired and somewhat dishevelled 6thgen, a facsimile of Einstein. It was an odd sight. Grist shooed his helper away and turned to face him.

  “Emmett.”

  “Jesus F. Christ, George, this better be good to wake me at this godforsaken hour.” He knew full well that Grist could interrupt him whenever he chose.

  “Just listen, I want you to do something for me. The police will be here in a few minutes and I don’t have much time to explain.”

  “Maybe you should start from the beginning?”

  “It’s all over the damn news.”

  “What is?”

  “She shouldn’t have come here.” Grist’s face darkened and he pouted like a dotard, though Emmett knew it wasn’t senility. Something had happened that had undermined the old man’s self-assurance.

  “She? Can’t the Guild help you?” Emmett suggested, hardly wishing to get involved in an embarrassing sex scandal with a twenty-four-hour half-life.

  Grist wagged a finger at him contemptuously. “Remember, you’re part of the Guild, too. And I need your help. As per our contract.”

  Emmett dearly wanted to place his hands around the old man’s throat and slowly crush the life out of him. He’d looked at using his resources to assassinate him, but he couldn’t guarantee that Jennifer’s meds wouldn’t be cut off for good once the deed was accomplished. Capitulating, he said, “Then I need more information.”

  Grist nodded. “The woman tricked me. I had to defend myself.”

  “There’s a woman involved, I’ve got th
at much. Now, who is she and what did you do?”

  “Nothing, as far as you’re concerned …”

  “All right, George. I can see you’re all wound up. Go ahead, tell me exactly what you want.”

  Grist turned away, happier that Emmett appeared to be listening, and threaded his arms into a blue flannel blazer that was being held up for him. “Other members of the Guild can handle the fallout and the optics. But right now I need two things from you. Firstly, intel – I need to know what the police department are doing.”

  “Done. What else?”

  “She mustn’t be allowed to speak to them or the media.” Grist hesitated before adding, “Or anyone, for that matter. Her name is Dexy Please. She’s been taken to a hospital. Should be easy for you to find which one.”

  Emmett ignored Grist’s subtext and snorted. “Dexy Please? Sounds to me you’ve been having yourself a midnight fuckfest.”

  Grist accepted a flannel from his iconic helper. He held it over his face for a few seconds before it was taken away. “You have no idea just how serious this is.”

  “All right, all right. Now, what do you need regarding the hooker? You want background? Stuff to keep her quiet? Maybe relocate –”

  “No, none of that.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Grist paused in his activities and levelled an icy gaze. “I need her gone. Permanently. You understand?”

  Emmett pulled himself up. “Goddamn, George, stop right there. We have security going here but be careful what you say. Why didn’t you take care of the situation yourself? I know you have the means.”

  “You don’t need to know why.”

  “Come on, George, if you want this done you need to give me more than that.” Emmett held his hands open.

  Grist blinked at him. The silence made Emmett nervous. Any playful rancour between them was an illusion. “All right … she told me people knew where she was – had proof. Said she’d iSensed her entire journey to my penthouse.”

  “Who to?”

  “If I knew, do you think we’d be having this conversation?”

  “I guess not – but I know you’ve got more security up there than a CIA ops room. So how the hell she do that?”

  “Yes, well, it was that damned playmate. It got outside my firewall. Said it was sending everything – before it fell. I don’t know how she could have known about technical things like that. But I couldn’t take the risk. Had to let her leave the building.”

  “Still don’t understand why you need such a permanent solution.”

  “Not your concern.”

  Emmett shook his head. “Christ, I just don’t know, George. This is just too damned risky. I don’t know what the hell I’m getting myself into.”

  “You will do this,” said Grist, turning away to take something from Einstein. “Remember Jennifer.”

  Emmett bridled. “Now you leave Jennifer out of this, you hear. I’ll do what you want.”

  “Good, we have an understanding. Now do it, straightaway. Is that clear? And it needs to look natural. Nothing to link back to me.”

  “George, I have to ask –”

  “My HeliStar is arriving with my legal aid ...”

  Grist promptly popped out of existence.

  The bedroom window came into view, its drapes billowing inwards, as though drawn in by the void that was left. Carried on a Texas westerly, leeching through the mosquito netting, was the scent of a linden tree that he’d planted for Jennifer as a birthday gift, twenty-five years ago, long before her “illness” was diagnosed. The fragrance from the star-shaped flowers was always a powerful and emotive reminder of what had once been, and what had been cruelly taken away from him.

  He worked his jaw, grating his teeth until they made a cracking noise. Yes, he’d gouge out Grist’s eyes first before wringing his neck. The violent imagery brought small comfort, though, his sense of impotence swamping any such fantasy, since he’d been through the facts a thousand times. For a man of action like Emmett, the situation was intolerable and burnt away in his gut as fiercely as any blowtorch.

  He got up and walked to the adjoining door. Quietly opening it, he checked in on Jennifer. She was sleeping on her back, her breathing assisted by a ventilator. He knew she was comfortable.

  A medibot stood in the corner. It looked over to him. A question emoji appeared in his iSense head-up. He raised his hand and gestured that nothing was required.

  He turned around stiffly, his eyes hot and filling out of self-pity and anger. Then he closed the door behind him, knowing he’d do whatever Grist required of him.

  3

  While Logan waited for Dorsey to finish another call, he took a swig from a water bottle that Diaz had supplied, hoping to eradicate the taste of the “mouthwash” that the forensics team had gleefully manufactured on the spot.

  He took the opportunity to take in the colossus that was the GNG Tower. It was a building he’d looked at a thousand times, since it could hardly be missed from any corner of Manhattan. Placing it in prime position between 5th and 6th on 59th Street was an overtly blatant statement, since it overshadowed “Billionaires Row” a couple of streets back; Logan thought of it as Grist scent-marking his patch in the city.

  Ideas and questions regarding the SOC were circulating more freely in his mind. The purple nanos had done their job and there was only a residual headache to deal with.

  He tracked his gaze back to ground level, imagining the fall and ferocity of the impact. Studying the crumpled roof of the cab, he’d dismissed deliberate self-destruction or technacide, since if the bot was aware on the way down why wouldn’t it direct itself onto the street or the sidewalk to ensure its annihilation? It’d be in a hundred pieces or more, instead of a couple of dozen.

  “Hey, Mac. You ready?” Dorsey had finished his call and was standing near the Tower’s main entrance, directly under the largest free-standing animated holographic figure in the world, an unabashed statue of David. It was four times the size of the original marble version in Florence. The naked figure was inspecting the core of an atom held up in its left hand while strands of DNA dangled from its right.

  “Yeah, let’s do it. Any news?” asked Logan, tugging the cuffs of his borrowed shirt from under the sleeves of his jacket.

  David’s eyes tracked them as they walked up the steps.

  “I’ve got new orders. I’m interviewing Grist, informally – and alone.”

  Logan halted his ascent. “You serious?”

  “Don’t look so hurt, Mac. I still need you to check out the terrace where the playmate jumped from. Interface with the penthouse AI, security, anything else that might be useful, but only if you’re permitted, you understand?”

  “This better be worth it ...”

  Dorsey didn’t bite.

  They continued into the vast foyer, a contemporary take on a cathedralesque basilica with grey, silver-veined marble pillars, each with a footprint the size of a house and reaching up to flare out into a distant synergy of steel and stone buttresses. Logan didn’t curtail iSense’s tourist feed, and it pointed out the stained-glass ends of huge light funnels that poured coloured sunlight into the needy space during daytime hours.

  Their shoes squeaked on the polished stone floor, making Logan feel conspicuous: human traffic was sparse at this early hour. Cleaning bots scuttled out of their path as they made for the reception desks.

  Dorsey fished out his badge and flicked it open to reveal his apple-sized rotating head, underpinned by the timeless nickel-silver NYPD shield. Logan took the detective’s lead and showed his civi version.

  GNG security allocated a couple of discreet flying visitor drones that followed them through the security stalls.

  Logan spotted a second reception and security area far over on the left. iSense told him it was the main entrance to GNG’s Institute for Senescence and Terminal Illnesses. The research faculty took up the first two floors and a basement floor below them.

  They were guided to a
n elevator that stood out from the others by the absence of any external panel. It would take passengers by strict permission only.

  There was a gentle ping and the doors of the elevator opened. Once inside they both felt a gentle sideways nudge as it traversed the building before ascending at speed.

  “So why are you interviewing alone?”

  “Orders, Mac. Grist’s doing this on a voluntary basis – just wants a conversation. Doesn’t want to be cross-examined by any experts.”

  “Because we’d figure the truth? 6thgens don’t go around beating up people and throwing themselves off buildings.”

  “You’re telling the wrong man. As I said, just following orders. And in any case, you shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions.”

  “You do realise that this is possibly the most interesting case I’ve been involved in and I can’t properly contribute?”

  “So?”

  Logan paused. “I haven’t told you this before, but I took this contract to juice up my life a little. Did you know that my friends refer to me as a robot-shrink? Yeah, really. It's pretty much a conversation killer at parties. These days people think robots are dull.”

  Dorsey shrugged. “Sorry, Mac. If it were up to me …”

  The elevator decelerated to a stop.

  “Okay we’re here. Two seventy-five,” said Dorsey, straightening his tie.

  iSense informed them they were at the bottom level of Grist’s five-story, mile-high mansion.

  They walked directly into a gloomy and expansive corridor lined with oak panels, red thick-pile carpeting and antique furniture. The air was stale and smelled of beeswax and must. In contrast to this theatre of age and stasis, a swarm of security gizmos came out of nowhere like someone had rattled their nest. Logan resisted the urge to bat an aggressive-looking hornet drone away. At the end of the corridor were two large, impregnable-looking doors and a bulky security guard dressed in a black suit. As if all of this wasn’t enough to dissuade a would-be intruder, there was a behemoth of a security bot stationed in a shadowy recess.

  Dorsey reluctantly handed over his favoured Smith & Wesson RAL500, as they were not there on the back of an official warrant. The security guard nodded appreciatively at the large handgun. A couple of new flying drones, heavier, security types with combative abilities, joined them.