Alvin Baylor Lives! Page 4

  He arrived at Union Station just before midnight and worked his way past the oblivious holiday travelers staring at every flashing, screaming advertisement that hit their Opti-Comps. The coke was beginning to wear off and he felt jittery and exhausted. He dodged around them and hurried to the maglev so he could start working on a smart-band hack before he left LA.

  He followed the floating arrow in his view that led to the high-speed-train station outside. He pushed his way out the front doors, where the stench of sidewalk dwellers hit him hard in the nose. They hoisted signs demanding living wages and an end to squatter’s taxes. They were such a disgusting rabble that he wondered who would want to hire them and why they would scream about it at this hour. He wanted out of the pack and shoved aside a man carrying a sign that read, “No Jobs, No Future” then ran for fresh air.

  Up ahead he saw the checkpoint for the maglev. He began walking again. Running toward security would get him shot.

  There were three doorways through the freestanding wall that led to the platform, one for California’s Corporate-sponsored citizens, one for non-citizens, and one for the other North American Territories. Each entry was fronted by a tall block of glass that encased a virtual security agent. Beyond that, a body scanner and two armed guards waited.

  He was never so glad to have his Corporate sponsorship. The line was the shortest and Corporate passengers got to skip the automated personality interrogation and move straight to the body scanner. Money did all the talking.

  Only one woman remained ahead of him when a commotion broke out at the North American entrance to his right.

  “Am I armed? Of course I’m armed, you virtual bitch!” yelled a white man wearing a cowboy hat. “They don’t stand for this horse shit in the Republic!”

  He was obviously from Texas, where automation was even less popular, and ironically he was screaming at the virtual screener that was meant to detect unstable personalities.

  Seems like a positive diagnosis. Alvin crouched to the ground in preparation.

  Two guards hefted their assault weapons at the Texan as he dropped his bag to reach into his waistband. He was riddled with bullets before his hand came out of his pants.

  Alvin stood up again as travelers all around him dove to the ground in a panic.

  It’s over, slowpokes.

  A computerized voice came over the loudspeakers. “Security has been restored. Please return to your business.”

  That seemed to end the matter. Everyone stood up and went on as if nothing had happened. Alvin felt a twinge of concern when he realized that his multitool might be considered a weapon.

  The woman in line ahead of him passed through the checkpoint while he stood watching the guards throw a tarp over the dead Texan. Blood pooled around the body.

  This is why I don’t travel.

  “Corporation?”

  The words startled him. He looked ahead at the clear rectangle jutting from the ground. A holographic blond woman embedded in the glass block was asking the question. He looked past her at the body scanner and the armed guards and answered, “Alteris Asteroid Excavation Company.”

  “You may pass, Corporate citizen,” said the virtual woman.

  Alvin walked forward to the guards. “I have some tools that might—”

  “You’re Alteris, right?” interrupted one of them with a smile. He looked mixed race.

  Alvin’s look was similar. Although he was mostly Ashkenazi, he had enough Mongolian blood to benefit from the favoritism.

  “My boy’s gonna work there one day,” said the guard. “You gotta have the tools for the job.” He took Alvin’s bag from him. “Go ahead, friend.”

  The other guard just yawned.

  “Thank you,” said Alvin.

  He stepped into the scanner and was green-lit. The man handed back his bag on the way out and said, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Baylor.”

  Alvin nodded and hurried ahead. He figured he’d get a ping someday asking him to help the man’s kid into a job. If that was the only cost, then so be it. Security checkpoints were death zones and he was happy to be through the gate.

  One long workday had given way to the starless LA night. He felt loopy and nervous. Was Aimes’s call a dream? He wished.

  He felt his stomach rumble and turned his thoughts to sustenance. He needed something in his system besides drugs and alcohol. A line of printing kiosks stood in front of the train platform. Wedged between a Toy Box and a Smart-Band Express was a Vend-A-Meal. He got in line behind a mother and her young child. The boy was watching the Toy Box with his goggles. Various action figures battled it out in AR while waiting to be chosen for on-demand printing.

  “Ms. Righteous . . . The Man . . . Agent America. Mom, they have Agent America!” the boy pleaded as his mother scoured the food options.

  She hushed him tiredly. “We can’t afford it.”

  “But Mom, I want something real to play with.”

  “That’s a pro-government toy. Play in your goggles.”

  She pulled a package from the Vend-A-Meal slot and hurried off, dragging him by the arm.

  Alvin stepped forward and looked at the menu.

  He preferred real food when he could afford it, but he might as well get used to 3-D-printed amino-acid crap. Nutri-Paste was all there was to eat off-planet. Bland slop hardened and colored like a pizza would have to do. He tapped his band to pay and retrieved the small disc from the slot.

  He boarded the train, threw his bag under the seat, and slumped down with relief. One disgusting bite of the rubbery pizza was enough. He wrapped it back into the package and shoved it into his bag. He’d eat it later; right now his mind was an addled mess.

  His thoughts bounced around from the shooting to the unknown job ahead to the smart-band hack he’d been considering. He checked the train’s entertainment stream and peeped Play on an old film. Horse Feathers started up in his Opti-Comp. He tried to watch, but he was restless. The drugs were fading. He resolved to get working on the smart-band hack before he crashed. At this point it seemed less risky than allowing Alteris to know what he did to himself nightly. Honesty had not paid off in the past.

  He went into his bag for his multitool. Then he popped open the band and got to work adding a new memory module. When it rebooted he started an operating system download and a script to virtualize the Alteris code. When the process finished, he would have control over what they knew about his habits.

  I need to stop thinking now.

  He closed his eyes to the sounds of the Marx Brothers and drifted away. Sometime later, he felt a jolt as the maglev train began its journey. At nearly four hundred miles per hour, he would be in New Mexico in a couple hours.

  Six

  Alvin was awoken by a smack in the head. He opened his eyes and found himself hanging halfway into the train aisle. A rotund woman towing an overstuffed red shoulder bag banged into each passenger as she exited. He sat up straight as his thoughts coalesced. When he took a breath, he coughed up phlegm. His eyes were still tired.

  I gotta stop killing myself.

  He pressed a finger to his temple. His Opti-Comp woke up. It showed 3:00 a.m. in New Mexico. No Alteris logo appeared.

  It worked.

  He peeped through the menus and allowed location-reporting to his employer to commence, but he blocked the biometric data. He could show up dead now. As long as he showed up.

  He hunched over in the alcove above his seat as he put on his jacket. A sparse stream of travelers finished exiting then he made his move. He stepped out onto the black lacquered floor of the spaceport. Chrome beams supported the glass ceiling. The clear night sky was visible above.

  Wow, so many stars!

  A man walked into him with a thud. “Excuse me,” said the man without making eye contact.

  Throngs of people passed through the station. Nothing halted the space trade, not the holiday nor the time of day. Launches were scheduled according to the position of orbits, not the circadian rhythm of humanity
.

  Alvin spied a water fountain to his right and made a beeline to it. He sidestepped a janitor mopping the floor and kept his head held high with a stern expression. His glare deterred the few travelers who were not lost in their Opti-Comps; the rest he dodged.

  “Alvin! Good, you’re here,” said a voice from behind him.

  Already spotted. I can’t believe he’s awake.

  Barton Aimes trotted up next to the water fountain and stuck out a sweaty hand. Alvin shook it.

  Alvin smiled broadly with bloodshot eyes and Aimes recoiled. Alvin took his drink and felt his boss eyeing him as he slurped up water.

  “So what’s this all about?” asked Alvin when he finished his drink and straightened.

  They started walking through the terminal.

  “We’re sending you out with a delivery. We have an RnD test that has gone off schedule.”

  “Barton, I’m not trained for space.”

  “We need your synaptic skills. You’re our best. No doubt about it,” said Aimes.

  Yes, I am. He hadn’t heard words like those since his gaming days.

  “I know you should be on leave and I promise you will be taken care of,” Aimes continued.

  “How so?”

  He put his hand on Alvin’s arm and gestured forward. “This is big league. Come on, Meyer is waiting.”

  “For me?” said Alvin.

  “Yes.” Aimes guided them toward the hover tram and they boarded. “Excuse me, I need to send out a message.” Aimes took on the aura of a robot in standby as he worked in his Opti-Comp.

  Alvin felt his mood lighten as his mind raced over the possibilities. They wouldn’t send him to outer space without a bonus. Asteroiders were granted retirement for risking their lives in deep space. He would be doing the same and not because they needed any human to fill a quota, but because they needed him.

  The belt was very far away, but the chance to reclaim his dignity and change his fortune made the mission more than mandatory—it made it attractive. For the first time in years, he was getting some recognition.

  Ten minutes later the hover tram pulled up in front of the Corporate concourse. It housed the twenty-second century’s greatest space-bound companies. They stood in a towering block-long semicircle of glass, metal, and extruded synthetic materials. They sparkled in the moonlight.

  Alvin admired the design of the company headquarters as he and his boss started up the long path to its entrance. It had been constructed only a few years ago, as part of CEO Sabrina Meyer’s public relations outreach. She was a master of style. The building was over two hundred stories of intricately woven materials. The skeletal, cobalt-blue scaffolding seemed to rise to space itself. Large 3-D fabricators allowed the construction to feature numerous surface openings and outer decks. At this early hour, the building disappeared into the sky, leaving only the speckling of illuminated windows.

  As the path curved around manicured faux-lawns and plastic trees, the company logo came into view. A series of onyx rectangles rose like staggered steps from the artificial turf. The iron sculpture of a comet rose steadily over each block. Its tail formed an asymptotic line reaching for the sky. No cartoon asteroid-man on this marquee. This was the power logo, overdesigned and created by committee. Alvin wondered when and if Meyer would touch that redesign job.

  “I need you to clean up before we see her,” said Aimes.

  Alvin wrinkled his brow. “Sorry, I had no time.”

  “I have no religion about it, but Meyer is gonna have a fit if you walk in there looking like you just came off a bender.”

  Where does he come up with these sayings?

  “I can shave and change into my dress hoodie,” said Alvin.

  He eyed Aimes’s fitted business suit nervously. The boss was from Washington, D.C., a city that had refused casualness.

  Aimes’s mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t move. “That’ll have to do,” he said.

  Fuck, I didn’t think I’d be meeting with Meyer.

  As they approached the double doors security became visible. Aerial drones swirled about the building like fireflies. Beyond the glass was the human contingent. A small coterie of black jumpsuits stood behind a giant console. They looked like field marshals surveying the battlefield. The lobby around them held a smattering of Opti-Comp multitaskers who roamed around bumping into things.

  Alvin and Barton passed through the outer doors and entered a holding area. Another glass door stood before them.

  Aimes stepped forward and a computerized voice said, “Hello, Barton Aimes. Please provide retinal identification.”

  He leaned forward into a concave impression beside the door and rested his chin on a small perch. A light turned on and examined the pattern of blood vessels in the back of his eye.

  “Entrance granted, Barton Aimes. Please step forward,” said the voice.

  The translucent door opened.

  Aimes stepped through into another small room, waited for the door behind him to shut again, then the one ahead of him opened and he was finally into the lobby. He turned to wait for Alvin.

  Like rats in cages, thought Alvin.

  “Hello, Alvin Baylor. Please provide retinal identification.”

  He placed his head in the chin cup and stared ahead through his right eye. He waited for what seemed too long.

  “Unidentified pattern,” said the computer voice.

  Alvin pulled his head back and looked at his boss through the glass. He shrugged and flipped his palms upward to indicate his confusion.

  “Alvin Baylor, please provide retinal identification,” the voice demanded in the same monotone.

  Alvin stuck his head forward again, hoping to avoid a scene.

  “Unidentified pattern,” it said.

  The outline of the doorframe began to glow a pulsing red and an alarm went off. Alvin looked through the glass wall and saw the guards remove their sidearms. He stared bug-eyed at his boss.

  Aimes gesticulated wildly while talking to them. A single guard passed through the doorway, gun in hand.

  “What’s the problem?” he said.

  “Bad scan,” said Alvin.

  “Try the other eye,” said the guard.

  “Yes, sir,” said Alvin.

  I don’t wanna die because of a computer glitch!

  “Please provide retinal identification,” commanded the voice.

  Alvin again stared into the light, this time with his left eye.

  “Unidentified pattern.”

  The black jumpsuit tightened hold on his handgun.

  “Wait—it’s my Opti-Comp,” said Alvin.

  He tapped his temple to turn it off.

  “Entrance granted. Please step forward.”

  Alvin exhaled hard.

  The guard motioned to him with a tilt of his head and they walked through the doorway together.

  “What was that about?” said Aimes.

  “I had to use my left eye,” said a breathy Alvin.

  The guard shined a flashlight into his eyes.

  “Ack . . .” He grimaced as he looked away from the light.

  “Bloodshot. You party last night?” asked the guard.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “You do it a lot?”

  “On occasion,” said Alvin.

  “Uh-huh. Long-term abuse will change the blood vessels. Best to get rescanned,” said the guard.

  Aimes shot a glare at Alvin.

  “I’m sure it’s a stressful job,” said the guard. He walked away.

  Aimes shook his head. “Time to cut back.”

  Alvin nodded.

  You control my work time, not my free time.

  They continued on toward the bank of elevators and boarded the express car to the top floor. A guard waved them on, and when they entered, Aimes had to pass another retinal scan before he could speak the floor name.

  “Penthouse,” he said.

  Fuck, this is real, thought Alvin.

  The elevator doors p
arted to reveal a white plastic room. The shocking brightness of the decor kept Alvin in place. He wasn’t ready to be seen. Ahead, a desk rose out of the floor in one continuous piece. A perfect-looking secretary sat behind it. A well-dressed guard stood beside her.

  Aimes stepped off the elevator. “Clean up,” he said, pointing forcefully.

  Alvin hurried off the elevator. His shoes squeaked as he crossed the floor to the restroom. He pulled his fleece dress hoodie from his bag then dug around for an electric shaver. He began buzzing off his beard growth while staring at the mirror, which doubled as an AR promotions feed. It detailed the accomplishments of Alteris and Meyer. He knew the story, but read it anyway to quash his anxiety before meeting the CEO.

  Meyer had built a reputation as the head of QuickFoods, the company that cornered the market on amino solutions for 3-D food printers. The floating media display christened her as the nutritional savior of the poor. It moved on to explain how she would now lead Alteris to market dominance in the energy sector.

  He knew what it left out.

  The death of her predecessor—murdered while visiting a mining colony near the asteroid belt. A disgruntled employee had sneaked aboard the executive shuttle and planted an ax in the man’s brain over a contract dispute. Everyone had seen the video snippet of the blood-covered asteroider. The leak caused consternation among cause-oriented consumers. So Alteris brought on Meyer to polish the company brand. The public came to believe the ’roiders were simply unstable people, and a PR blitz wiped any talk of workers’ rights from the news. Asteroiders were necessary but expendable brutes. Automation would eventually eliminate them.

  He put down the clippers and brushed his fingertips over his now smooth cheeks.

  His eyes were still bloodshot so he practiced a broad smile, squeezing his almond eyes down to slits. Meyer would be intimidating, no doubt, but she had rushed him here for his synaptic skill and he had no lack of confidence about that. He could have been the best neural jock ever, had his gaming career not been cut short.