4
A hover limo the size of a city block came to take Sexy home. As she climbed into the vehicle, she gave me a mischievous wink that sent a shudder along my spine. I was too tired to dwell on it so I climbed back into my own vehicle and had HARV take me home.
I slept late the next morning, well deserving of the extra sleep. Electra, my fiancée, sometime roommate, and all around better half, was away at a medical conference focusing on carpal tunnel syndrome, so I had the bed to myself. It was just as well because Electra tends to steal the covers and snores a bit (which she denies). Also, with her not around, I didn’t have to explain what I’d been through, which saved me about half an hour of gory details.
When I finally rolled out of bed of my own volition, I noticed that the house was exceptionally quiet.
“HARV,” I said, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, “throw last night’s scores and highlights on the wall screen.”
There was no reply.
“HARV?”
The message: “One nano please. System updating,” flashed across my eyes and a sickening feeling began in my stomach.
“DOS, HARV. We don’t need an update!”
The message, “Change is good,” scrolled across my eyes.
“Things are fine the way they are,” I said. “Please don’t mess it up.”
“Don’t be a big baby,” scrolled the reply.
Every so often HARV and Randy make improvements (and I use the term loosely) to HARV’s system; boosting his power, streamlining his systems, or giving him new capabilities. Most often, the upgrades are useful. Like when they gave HARV remote Deep-C-phishing capabilities, allowing him to hack into all but the most secure computer systems. That upgrade’s highly illegal, of course, and officially I have to deny having said anything about it. So if anyone comes around asking questions, clearly you must have misunderstood what I said.
But sometimes the upgrades are—how shall I put this?—less than successful. Probability-based precognitive generation of needs and desires (pp-gonad for short), as an example, was particularly troublesome. The intent was for HARV to use my personality profile and current situation as a forward-thinking springboard to calculate the services I’d need in the immediate future and make them available to me before I asked. It was a grand idea in theory. In reality though, the nuances of reality were too much for even HARV’s computational abilities to accurately predict. As a result, he kept going back to the preset default and offering me junk food or pornography. Electra had to ban me from the Children’s Clinic until the software was uninstalled.
My point is that upgrades to HARV are very hit-and-miss and I’m never open to it, especially first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, my opinions on most technology-related subjects never count for anything. So all I could do in this case was to muddle through the update process and wait to see what cutting-edge bell or space-age whistle would adorn HARV when he reappeared.
But before I could get too deeply into the morning routine, the com-tone sounded, indicating that I had an incoming call.
“Whoever it is, take a message,” I said as I checked myself in the mirror for bruises.
Again the words “One nano, please. System updating,” scrolled across my eyes.
“HARV!”
“I’m off-line,” scrolled the reply. “What do you want me to do?”
I grabbed my robe and stumbled out of the bedroom.
“This is why you’re supposed to do all updates while I’m sleeping.”
“Then go back to bed.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The tone sounded twice more by the time I made it to the house computer control in the main hall.
“Which button is it?” I said, scanning the hundreds of options on the console.”
“Gates, you’d be lost without me,” HARV scrolled. “The red one, third row, on the left.”
I grumbled and touched the button on the com. The preview screen came up on the wall monitor and I saw that it was Electra. I smiled and officially answered the call.
“Hi, hon.”
Electra’s image flashed onto the full screen and she smiled back at me.
“Hola, Chico. Que tal?”
“As well as can be expected,” I said. “You look pretty chipper this morning.”
“Morning? Zach, it’s two-thirty in the afternoon.”
“Is it?” I said, looking uncomfortably at my bathrobe. “Then I guess I’m not dressed appropriately, huh?”
Electra’s smile broadened. She always enjoys it when I get flustered.
“Rough night?”
“Let’s just say that the service at the Kabuki Palace Theater leaves a little to be desired.”
The com-tone sounded again.
“DOS, I got another call.”
“Let HARV answer it.”
“Unfortunately, HARV is indisposed at the nano. Hang on; I’ll get rid of them.”
Every com these days comes standard with call screening. Unfortunately, a few years ago, HARV overrode the screening software so that he could personally handle all calls directly through his system. He’s a lot more efficient and he is better at screening out the less important (and sometimes downright malicious) stuff. The downside is that when HARV is off-line I have no screening device, which wouldn’t be a problem if I lived in a perfect world where everyone who called me was my friend.
“Zachary Johnson? It’s Bill Gibbon the Third from Entertainment This Nano.”
Alas.
Bill Gibbon is a well-coiffed talking head entertainment reporter (whose career I unknowingly boosted a few years back). Based on past experiences, it’s never a good thing when his face appears on my screen. This time was no different as the next seven words illustrated.
“Am I too early for the press conference?”
“Press conference?”
“To announce your new reality series on Faux.”
“Announce what?”
“Let’s Kill Zach. The press conference is today, isn’t it?”
“There’s no press conference.”
“You mean I’m getting an exclusive?”
“No. There’s no exclusive either.”
“Then how do you plan to promote the show?”
“I’m not promoting the show.”
“But you admit that there is a show.”
“That’s not what I said!”
“Well then you better clarify that last statement, Mr. Johnson because I’m going live with this news in two minutes.”
“Listen, Gibbon.”
The com-tone sounded again.
“Hang on.”
I put Gibbon on hold and brought up the next incoming call. To my surprise, it was Sexy.”
“Hi, Zach.”
“Sexy!”
I’m not sure if I was saying her name aloud or just subconsciously blurting out the first adjective that popped into my head.
“You’re looking good today, big guy. No ill effects from last night’s action?”
“None to speak of,” I said, trying to be professional, which is hard to do in a ratty four-year-old bathrobe.
“I guess that stuff happens to you all the time, huh?”
“More often then I’d like,” I replied.
“Listen, Zach, I hope I’m not being too forward here,” she said, “but I have to tell you that you were amazing last night. Really heroic. It was thrilling to watch. You were old-school hot.”
She was shy, almost coquettish with a Lolita-esque delivery that was so alluring it was guilt-inducing.
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“So, anyway,” she said, “and this is a little embarrassing, but if you’re not busy today, I was wondering if maybe …”
The com-tone sounded again, this time to remind me of the calls on hold (one of them, of course, being Electra).
“Wow, that’s bad timing,” I said. “Sexy, hang on. Okay?”
I stabbed the com-button to change calls.
“Sorry about that, honey …”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Johnson,” Gibbon replied smugly, “but I don’t fraternize with my interviewees.”
“DOS. Don’t flatter yourself, Gibbon.”
The com sounded again. I rolled my eyes and stabbed the receive button. Thankfully, the face of my good friend Tony Rickey popped onto the screen. Tony’s a captain with the New Frisco Police Department. He’s a great friend to have, especially in my line of business. He can’t say the same about me but he’s still my friend, which I think says a lot about him.
“Tony!”
“Hi, Zach. Are you busy?”
“Sort of. Can I put you on hold for a nano? I have Sexy Sprockets on the other line.”
“You have who?”
I stabbed the com button and changed the calls.
“Okay, Sexy …”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Electra purred. Then she saw the surprise on my face and the purr became slightly more growl-like in nature. “What’s going on, Chico?”
“I’ll tell you in a nano,” I said, stabbing the com button again.
This time I waited until I saw Sexy’s face on the screen before I spoke.
“Sexy?” I said, still a little flustered. “Where were we?”
“Look, Zach, I know I’m being forward here but after last night …”
“It’s okay, Sexy. I’m flattered, really I am …”
“… I’ve just been thinking about you since then …”
“… but we have to be realistic here …”
“… I think it was fate that brought us together …”
“… You’re a wonderful woman …”
“… I guess what I really want to say …”
“… But the thing is that …”
“… I’d like to hire you as a bodyguard.”
“… I already have a girlfriend.”
The long, awkward pause that followed, to my mind, could have been measured with a sundial.
“What was that?” Sexy said, nearly swallowing her gum.
“Did you say bodyguard?”
“Did you say girlfriend?”
“Um, no?”
“Whoa, Zach, did you think I was asking you out?”
I stuttered for a nano or two, not saying anything that remotely resembled words before finally blurting out the only thing that came to mind.
“Hold on. I have another call.”
I blindly stabbed at a com button.
“Any comment, Mr. Johnson?” Gibbon said.
I stabbed another button.
“Zach, a warrant has been issued for your arrest,” Tony said.
I stabbed another button.
“Zach, what’s going on?” Electra asked.
“Oh you know, hon, just the usual morning … wait a nano.”
I stabbed the com button again and brought Tony back on the screen.
“There’s a what?”
“You were involved in a shootout at the Kabuki Palace last night?” Tony asked calmly.
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“No offense, Zach, but I’ve heard that before. No one was hurt but the owner is suing for damages.”
“He’s what?”
“The Oakland PD report says that the dining room and the kitchen were destroyed along with a good portion of the hoverport.”
“Those Kabuki droids attacked me as part of a pilot for a reality-based series!”
“I have to hand it to you, Zach, after all the years I’ve known you,” Tony said, “you still manage to come up with excuses that surprise me.”
“I’m serious Tony.”
“Then it’s true? You were in a gun battle in the restaurant last night?”
“It was self-defense.”
“And the restaurant was full of bystanders?”
“Whom I was trying to protect.”
“From Kabuki actors?”
“They were droids and they were trying to kill me.”
“Did anyone have a gun or a blaster? I mean, aside from you.”
“The droids had laser swords. And I got hit with a samisen.”
“A samisen?”
“It’s kind of like a banjo.”
“And that’s when you drew your gun and started blasting?”
“Tony!”
“Zach, you have to admit, this sounds kind of bad.”
“It was a staged event. It was a carefully orchestrated attempt on my life as part of a show that Rupert Roundtree is trying to get me to do. He wants to kill me for entertainment.”
“You know, I might pay to see that,” Tony said, shaking his head.
“The show’s called, Let’s Kill Zach and … wait. Hold on. Let me conference someone in here.”
I stabbed the conference button and brought Gibbon into the call as well. The monitor went to split screen between him and Tony.
“Tony, this is Bill Gibbon from ETN. Gibbon, this is Tony Rickey from the NFPD.”
“Pleased to meet you, Captain,” Gibbon said. “Will you be one of the people trying to kill Mr. Johnson?”
“That’s a distinct possibility,” Tony replied.
“Gibbon,” I said. “Tell Tony about the show.”
“The show?”
“The reality series on Faux called Let’s Kill Zach.”
“Are you saying that the show is real?”
“Of course it’s re …”
I stared at Gibbon for a nano then looked past his image at the studio set in the background behind him. I realized that he was now netcasting live.
“I, um …”
Gibbon’s eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly in a smile, waiting for me to say the words, to confirm the existence of the show to the public and paint myself into a public relations corner.
I looked quickly back at Tony and I could tell that he was beginning to see the big picture and realize the spot I was in. That’s one good thing about Tony; he’s known me so long that nothing surprises him anymore.
“Zach, do you want to call me back?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson,” Gibbon said loudly, “you were saying something about a new reality series? Care to elaborate?”
And then, as they say, things took a decidedly unexpected turn (for the worse).
The words “Upgrade completed. Systems back online in five seconds,” scrolled across my eyes.
“About time,” I muttered.
4 … 3 … 2 … 1.
“What was that you said, Mr. Johnson?”
I opened my mouth to speak. I don’t remember what exactly it was I was going to say but it doesn’t matter because I was beaten to the punch.
“He said, Mr. Gibbon, that it will be a MAC day in DOS before Zachary Nixon Johnson works with a proto-scum network like Faux or before he makes any announcements to a tired old newshound like you whose head contains more botox than gray matter. So go jerk yourself a soda, Gibbon, and don’t call back until you grow a backbone.”
The words were throaty and silken, purred rather than spoken, and they carried sensuality and strength that made my neck hairs stand up.
Then a well-manicured female hand reached around me and hit the terminate button on the com. As Gibbon’s surprised image disappeared, my eyes traced the hand back to its owner, a woman who looked as though she’d just stepped off an old dime store paperback cover. My jaw dropped so far that I could taste my own shoe leather.
The surprise was not so much from the woman’s beauty (which was substantial) but because I recognized the all-knowing smug expression on her perfect face. And although my brain simply refused to register what was happening (or how difficult my life was about to become) I managed to put my fear into words.
“HARV?”