Chapter 6
I left my office and walked along the docks toward my bright red 2030 Honda Mustang. It’s a classic, although, as HARV constantly reminds me, slightly outdated, piece of machinery. As I walked, I couldn’t help wondering what it must have been like here on the docks decades ago, before teleportation devices turned the docks from bustling, grimy places filled with grunts and groans to an overcrowded tourist attraction filled with the whirs and hums of recording devices. That’s one of the perks that comes with being the last private eye on the planet. I get to ponder things like this and pass it off as “atmosphere.”
Unfortunately, the atmosphere was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of what I consider to be the most hideous pustule on the underbelly of the New New World Order. Crime syndicates, killer mutations and guilds of assassin cyborgs may be bad, but they aren’t nearly as annoying as the monster that I was about to face.
The press.
They swarmed me like flies on a day-old road apple … wait a minute, that makes me look kind of bad … they were more like flies on a fresh Twinkie … a charismatic Twinkie.
They weren’t actual, organic, human being journalists of course. With all the so-called “newsworthy” events happening in the world today, newspeople just don’t have time anymore to actually be anywhere. Gates forbid, they’re interviewing me in Frisco when an Elvis clone slips in his bathtub in New Vegas and they get scooped by the net-dude on another bandwidth. Most journalists now have a dozen or so pressbots to cover their beats. Pressbots are low-tech androids programmed to mimic the owner’s voice and personality, equipped with direct audio/visual feeds to the central studio. This way, a journalist can chase a dozen stories at the same time while remaining in the cool, safe comfort of his or her office. Truth to tell, it’s only a matter of time before the netnews execs realize that they only really need the pressbots and toss all the actual human reporters out on their collective earpieces. When that happens, there’ll be almost as many vapid personalities on the unemployment line as there were during the great budget crunch of 2017, when the old U.S. government laid off the House of Representatives.
One of the pressbots thrust himself (mike first) into my face and smiled through robotic teeth. “Mr. Johnson, I’m Bill Gibbon the Third from Entertainment This Nano. There was a report of a commotion in your office ten minutes ago. Care to comment?”
“Not to worry, Mr. Baboon …”
“Gibbon.”
“It wasn’t a real commotion,” I said, “just a full-contact rehearsal for my upcoming made-for-HV special: Zachary Nixon Johnson versus the Cheap Thugs in Expensive Suits. Net your local video-feed provider now to ask about availability in your area. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important PI stuff to do. Never a dull nano when you’re me.”
The press continued to follow me like a pack of noisy rats after a good-looking piece of cheese on the run. I ignored their questions and moved quickly to my car.
“Mr. Johnson, is it true that you and the lovely Dr. Gevada will be married next week on Mars?”
“Do you confirm that you are considering quitting the PI business to pursue a singing career?”
“Do you deny that you punched out a man last week simply because he looked at the lovely Dr. Gevada the wrong way?”
“Do you not deny that you punched out a man last week simply because he looked at your beautiful secretary the wrong way?”
“Will you please say absolutely nothing if it is true that your computer, HARV, is having a romantic relationship with your beautiful secretary?”
“Door,” I called to the car as I moved, still surrounded by the press brigade.
The driver-side door popped open obediently and I jumped in fast, trying hard to crush as few mikes as possible while slamming the door in the crowd of collective pressbot faces. Deep down, I knew they were only doing their jobs and that the media’s overzealous pursuit of celebrity stories was what kept me in the public eye, but they were annoying enough to drive a guy downright crazo. And there wasn’t much of a story here … yet.
“Engine,” I barked to my car computer. On command, the dashboard obediently lit up and the engine gently turned over and purred like a cat on genetically enhanced catnip.
“Destination please?” the onboard computer asked.
I plugged the coordinates into the driver keyboard.
“Do you wish me to drive?” the computer responded.
I hit the “yes” button.
“As you wish,” the computer said as it gently eased the car into the street.
I touched another button on the steering column and HARV’s simulated face popped into a window on my dash.
“I wish you’d let me override this antiquated car computer.” HARV said. “It’s embarrasses me even to use its interface.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, HARV? A classic car …
“… needs a classic computer,” HARV mimicked. “Yes, I know. You’ve made that specious argument to me exactly one hundred eleven times in the past three years.”
“You’d think you’d have figured it out by now,” I said, and the car computer gave HARV what sounded like the raspberry. HARV, true to form, kept his dignity and ignored us both.
“Nice cover-up on that Zachary Nixon Johnson versus the Cheap Thugs thing,” he said, sarcastically, “but did you really need to add the ‘never a dull nano when you’re me’ part?”
“You didn’t like that?”
“A bit egocentric, don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe,” I said, “but it’s true. I was after all, attacked by killers during a backgammon game.”
“Point taken,” HARV reluctantly agreed.
“Okay then. Now, I’m going to need all the background info you can give me on BB Star.”
“She’s rather famous. How much do you already know?”
“I know she used to be a stripper.”
“Exotic dancer,” HARV corrected.
“Oh, well, if we’re going to be geopolitically sensitive about it, I guess the proper term would be ‘professional artistic gyrator.’ Whatever. She was a stripper who married an old billionaire. He died, surprise, surprise. Now she’s a billionaire.”
“Well, yes,” HARV agreed. “That is one way of putting it. Not a very complete way, but accurate within its own simplistic scope. Would you care for a more detailed version?”
“That would be nice,” I said, with a wee bit of my own sarcasm.
“Her name was BB Baboom. Though I am relatively certain that was a stage name.” He paused for a nano. “Yes, here it is, her given name was Betty Barbara Backerman.”
“I can see why she changed it.”
“Born and raised in Oakland, until the age of ten. At that time, she and her mother, now deceased, moved to New Wisconsin. Betty became a local beauty queen at the age of sixteen and three years later became a professional exotic dancer.”
“That’s when she changed her name.”
“Correct. BB Baboom was born. Apparently, she was quite good at her craft because over the next few years she developed a loyal following in the northern middle states. New Wisconsin, New Minnesota, the New Dakotas …”
“Cold winters …”
“She found popularity as a download-girl, then moved to New LA where she did the circuit of the high-priced clubs. Then finally came back to the Bay Area and settled in New Frisco. By this time she had found fame and fortune as the net’s most downloadable dancer.”
“Ah yes, the geek train to fame.”
“I don’t care to have you explain that reference, so I’ll just accept that it’s accurate and move on,” HARV said, a little annoyed that I’d interrupted. “Now, then, she met BS Star, then owner and Chief Operating Officer of ExShell in 2047, month three. They married exactly one month later. BS Star died of a myocardial infarction, the night of their second anniversary.”
“We can assume he died smiling?”
“You can if you wish,” HARV retorted. “I am a computer. I assume nothing. I can speculate, of course, in matters where variables and probabilities are present and such speculation is imperative but I don’t think that …”
“It was a joke, HARV.”
“And I’m sure it was quite funny but, as you know, I’m not programmed for humor.”
“You’re telling me,” I retorted.
“Actually, I’ve told you exactly two thousand three hundred seventeen times. I do, however, have access to an extensive database of jokes. For example, how many computer consultants does it take to change an illume fixture?”
“None,” I answered, “because no consultant would ever do actual physical labor.”
“Oh, you’ve heard it?” HARV asked.
“Only two thousand three hundred seventeen times.”
“Perhaps I should run a diagnostic on my random selector?” HARV suggested.
“Perhaps we should get back to business?” I prodded.
HARV sighed, and his image faded from the dashboard window and was replaced by scrolling pictures and information about BB Star. HARV gave voice-over commentary as the text and images flashed by, too fast for the human eye to comprehend.
“The information on Ms. Star before her marriage is quite plentiful as you can see. She was featured on Entertainment This Nano and World Right Now quite often during sweeps periods. Not counting references to, and ads for, her dancing appearances, there are three thousand one hundred twelve references to her in the news archives from the three years before her marriage. Three thousand three of those are about whom she was or was not dating. The rest are rumors of net specials, vidfilms and HV series in which she was supposed to star. None of these projects ever came to pass.”
“Maybe one of her old flames is trying to burn her now?” I offered. “Blackmail her with a dirty secret from her past. Credits tend to bring out the worst in people, especially people who don’t have a lot of them.”
“I suppose that is a possibility,” HARV agreed, though I could tell from the tone of his voice he wasn’t committed to this theory.
“Who was her last known boyfriend?”
“Well, when it comes to BB Star’s love life, everything is always speculation and conjecture rather than fact,” HARV said, “but the last person to whom she was linked romantically was a man named Manuel Mani, her personal astrologer.”
“Let’s keep him on our short list of people to check out if we need to. I don’t trust ex-lovers or astrologers. I’ve had bad experiences with both. Anything else on BB?”
“She’s become quite the recluse since assuming her post as the head of ExShell. There is no record of her leaving the living and office suites of her headquarters in the past year.”
“Odd …” I said.
“Perhaps she has become a workaholic?” HARV suggested.
“Perhaps she’s in hiding or hiding something,” I said. “How has ExShell done since she took over?”
“Amazingly well. Their known assets have doubled. They have been the biggest conglom in the world every hour except one, for the past five years. That one hour was in month eleven of last year, when the mutant monkey workforce at their computer chip plant in New Northern Africa staged a wildcat strike. BB Star herself managed to settle that strike quickly by relocating the plant and the monkey workforce to a banana republic.
“In any event, ExShell has performed extremely well under the guidance of this woman who has little education and no formal business training.”
BB Star’s school records scrolled across my dashboard.
“As you can see, her guidance counselors all advised her to work with her hands.”
I started to say something (the opening was just too good) but the car computer interrupted and broke the nano.
“Arrival achieved.”
It was just as well. After all, as HARV so often liked to remind me, he wasn’t programmed for humor.