Chapter Five (And a Half): A FAIR AMOUNT OF TROUBLE
The long-awaited next installment of TECHNATE 2051
Start at Chapter One
Return to Chapter Five
As soon as he was certain that Nurse Trisha and her son were gone from the hallway, Zappa let the squeaky landing door slam shut and took off flying, down the stairs instead of up.
Somewhere down there was a ground floor, with a door that led to the outside world. Somewhere beyond that door was Shen, and somewhere in the cracks and crevices of Charlanta, if there was any goodness left in the world, a way out of the megacity.
There was a way out. He had to believe that.
Somewhere beyond that door. Would the door open for him, as the stairwell door had? He needed to know.
There were a great many flights of stairs. So many, he lost count. His legs, so recently rehabilitated, still unaccustomed to so much strenuous activity, threatened to give out. But he pushed on.
Finally, he reached a landing with no descending flight of stairs. Perhaps the windowless metal door was all that separated him from that final door—the door to what lay beyond this prison. Something was happening on the other side of the landing door. He could hear the muffled sounds of directions shouted across a large room, heavy items being pushed across hard floors, robots beeping out their urgent tasks. Heart pounding, Zappa eased the door open a crack, careful not to let it swing wide like the last door he’d operated.
There was an anteroom containing the bank of elevators and some restroom entrances, opening out to a wider space beyond. The sounds of commotion came through louder and more distinct, but there was no one in the anteroom itself. Zappa slipped through the door and closed it gently behind him. He edged along the wall so as not to be spotted by anyone passing by, and when he reached the transition space between rooms, hid himself behind the wall and peeked around the corner.
On the day he’d woken up in this place, Zappa had dreamed that he was in a hotel from before. Now, looking around at the layout of the ground floor, he realized that it was true, in a sense. This building had not always been a holding facility for senior citizens. Its intended purpose, when built, had been as a grand hotel. Beyond the anteroom was a spacious lobby, richly carpeted, bedecked in brass fixtures and lit by a glittering chandelier hung from its vaulted ceiling. A fancy old concierge desk had been turned into a charging station for robots, and at the rear of the space, two sets of heavy, wooden double doors stood open onto a grand ballroom.
The source of the commotion he’d heard in the stairwell became evident here: workers, mostly android but some of the human variety, were setting up for an event.
The dinner with the World Health Tyrant. Yogra? Yugaw? Something like that. Distracted by the morning’s adventure, Zappa had almost forgotten.
Racks of tables and chairs were being wheeled into the ballroom by lifter-pusher robots similar in appearance to Orderly. A few bipedal robots were carrying in stacks of dishes and crates of cutlery. A human crew in black jeans and t-shirts was bringing in sound equipment under the direction of a gray, curly-haired guy who looked old enough to be a Tranquil Meadows habitator, not that the age bar was very high.
Zappa hadn’t realized that the dinner was going to be this fancy. He’d envisioned a regular sit-down meal in the cafeteria, maybe with extra calorie allotments or something. But the set-up indicated a large banquet with many guests. He couldn’t imagine that he and his podmates would be invited to such an affair. More likely it would be faux cheese sandwiches for them in the cafeteria, and the World Health Whatsit would pop in for a brief inspection before returning downstairs for the banquet.
If only he already had some idea of where to find Shen, tonight would be the perfect opportunity to escape.
Now, where was that door that led outside? He craned his head around the corner to get a view of the front of the lobby area. The front wall was glass, and he could see the little green autonomous vehicles zipping by on the street outside. Three sets of glass double doors stood open to the outside world, but with all the set-up commotion, there was no chance he’d be able to get through them without being seen.
There must be a loading dock somewhere, or at least a hallway where things would have been stored for easy access by the hotel staff back in times of greater sanity—cases of liquor, folding tables and chairs, catering equipment. The hallway would lead to the loading dock. Probably at the other side of the ballroom. A loading dock was more likely to be unwatched. That would be his best bet, if he could find it.
Most of the activity was happening to his left, in the open space between the wall of glass and the ballroom entrance. To his right, toward the rear of the lobby, there was what looked to be an entrance to a corridor. That corridor might lead around behind the ballroom, and if he followed it, he surmised, he would probably find an access point to the loading dock. The way was clear—no workers, human or otherwise, were stationed alongside that wall, from here to the corridor.
He decided to risk it.
Keeping close to the wall, but at the same time trying to appear natural, like he was supposed to be there, Zappa made his way toward the corridor entrance. Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back. He didn’t think anyone was watching, but if they were, a furtive glance over the shoulder would only make him more conspicuous.
Two dozen paces brought him to the corridor entrance. Under the relative cover of two close walls and a low ceiling, he allowed himself to relax. No one was back here. Doorways to other rooms, or perhaps other corridors, branched off of the hall on both sides. He paused at each door to listen for voices or activity before opening them to see what lay beyond. He was looking for a service hallway, but all he found were storage closets, some disused offices.
He came to a door, standing ajar on his right side. The sounds of an angry exchange carried out into the hallway from within. Zappa couldn’t see inside without showing himself to whoever was in there, so he paused just out of view to listen. A woman’s voice, stern and commanding, was saying, “How am I supposed to know how to use all this dinosaur tech? Anyway, what were you thinking, admitting a body to the facility with no surveillance implants? And a feral, at that!”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Her conversation partner responded in a patient drawl. Lab-grown biscuits and gravy. “I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.”
“You don’t know that,” the woman snapped. “The lax security in this building is outrageous. I’m putting the entire facility on high alert for possible terrorist activity.”
“Hold on now,” said Dr. Ignatius. “I don’t think that’s called for. Zap isn’t dangerous.”
“He’s a feral.”
“He’s just a little different, that’s all. He hasn’t adapted to the new lifestyle as quickly as I’d hoped. But think how difficult a transition it must be for him. It’s in the facility’s best interest to handle him delicately. If our response is too heavy-handed, we risk further compromising his assimilation—”
“He can go assimilate into an incinerator, for all I care.”
“—and a terror alert would come across as paranoid if no terrorism materialized.”
“This is basic security protocol. I can’t believe I’m debating this with a—a psychologist.”
“Think of how the guests will react,” said Ignatius. “It could ruin the whole event. Better to keep quiet about it. Find Zap, put him on lockdown until the banquet is over.”
There was a long pause while the woman seemed to mull over Ignatius’s advice. Zappa didn’t know what to do. If he crossed in front of the open door, they’d surely see him. Maybe he should go back to the stairs, return to his pod. He glanced back in the direction from which he’d come, but the way was no longer clear. A group of workers was setting up what appeared to be a bar next to the anteroom. He was trapped. Standing in the hallway, listening at a door, looking as suspicious as he possibly could.
“Fine,” the woman said. “We’re going to find him and we’re going to interrogate him. Then put him on lockdown. Now, help me figure out how to turn on these surveillance thingies.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. Try that button, there.” There was a shuffle and a clack, followed by sounds of electronic equipment booting up.
He needed to get into one of those other rooms. The nearest door to the one he was standing at had been a storage closet. He dashed across the hallway and opened that door, but then stopped. It was pointless to hide. Eventually, they’d find him, no matter where he hid. He was better off turning himself in, feigning confusion. It was his only chance to maintain their perception of him. And the longer he waited, the more creative the punishments that would be dreamed up by whoever that woman was.
Zappa closed the storage closet door and went back to the open room. He paused, rumpled his hair, tried to arrange his expression into one of benign befuddlement. He walked into the room.
“Thank goodness,” he said. “Doctor Ignatius, it’s you.”
The woman pounced on him. She was tall, sturdy, substantial of frame. The seams of her white lab coat strained to contain the breadth of her shoulders, and she utilized every fiber of muscle at her disposal to wrestle Zappa to a prone position on the ground. She drove her knee between his shoulders, sending a white hot pain shooting down his spine, and pressed his cheek to the floor with her beefy hand.
Zappa groaned, and the woman dug her knee harder into his back, forcing the air out of his lungs. His ribs felt like they might crack at any second.
“Expert, this habitator is recovering from a nanite-induced coma!” Ignatius’s voice sounded urgent, commanding.
“That didn’t stop him from traipsing all over the building, did it?”
“Yes, but I must object. He is in no condition—”
The woman cut him off. “Leave the security to the security Experts, Doctor.” She ground Zappa’s face into the old industrial carpet for emphasis.
It all seemed a bit unfair, seeing as he had just turned himself in on his own recognizance. He probably could have bested her if he wasn’t still frail from the lost weeks. But it wouldn’t have been an easy fight. As it was, even if he’d wanted to fight back, his body wouldn’t let him. But he hadn’t wanted to, he realized, as he contemplated the dust bunnies underneath the desk. He gazed up through the outer corner of his left eye at the woman’s lab coat, which had the words “Expert Myers” embroidered in green thread on the breast pocket.
“How am I supposed to restrain this body?” She demanded.
“What do you mean, he looks restrained enough to me,” said Ignatius.
“This is why you leave the security to the security experts,” she replied haughtily. Then, as if explaining to a kindergartener, she said, “The habitator is restrained on the ground presently, but sooner or later I’ll have to get him up onto his feet for transport. At that point I will need to remove my knee from his back and let him stand. But something will need to be done with his arms. You see, normally during an arrest or detainment, we simply issue a restraint command to the body’s implant, which activates specialized nanites to numb and immobilize the arms from shoulder to fingertips. But since this habitator has no implant, I can’t do that.”
“Don’t you have any handcuffs?” Zappa asked, his voice muffled by carpet pile.
“Shut up, habitator,” the expert barked. “Handcuffs,” she muttered. “This isn’t the Wild West.”
“Prior to the advent of nanite-enhanced security technology,” Dr. Ignatius drawled, “Law enforcement officers used to carry zip ties for quickly cuffing suspects’ wrists together. Do you have any of those?”
“I don’t know what a zip tie is, but it sounds primitive.” Expert Myers tsk’d her tongue in annoyance. “Are you sure this habitator is as docile as you say, Doctor?”
“I’ve never had any reason to suspect otherwise.”
“We’ll just have to make do,” the expert said as she heaved herself to her feet, crushing the air out of Zappa’s lungs for the third time. “Stand up, habitator.”
She hauled Zappa up to his feet with a bone-cracking grip on one arm. He wobbled involuntarily as he regained his bearings.
“Put your hands behind your back,” said Expert Myers, and Zappa did as she said.
“Now, don’t move them. Just pretend they’re held in place by invisible handcuffs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If I see you twitch a muscle, you’ll be back on the ground in a millisecond, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve got my eye on you.” Behind her, a bank of surveillance flatscreens blinked out identical red warnings: CAMERA OFFLINE.
Dr. Ignatius stood to the side of the desk, its white faceplate running a frantic series of robotic emotions in blue. “Have a seat, Zap,” it said.
Zappa sat, careful to keep his hands behind his back as he did so.
“Why were you out of your pod, habitator?” Expert Myers barked.
“I was going for a walk,” said Zappa.
“For what purpose?”
“I need to strengthen my legs and increase my health score.”
“You left your pod this morning before breakfast, correct?”
Zappa squinted in feigned confusion. “I’m having trouble remembering.”
“How did you end up here on the ground floor? Did someone let you onto the elevator?”
“No, I took the stairs.”
A look of surprise passed over the expert’s face, as if the concept of stairs was foreign to her.
“What was your objective in leaving your assigned floor?”
“I—I don’t know. I was walking. I came to a door, and I was curious where it led. So I opened it and found stairs, and I walked down them.”
“Cut the crap,” said the expert. “I know you were up to something. What was it? Were you trying to spy on the World Health Director’s event? Are you collecting sensitive information for a terrorist group?”
“What? No, how would I—I don’t even have any way to contact anyone outside of these walls. I’m telling you, I was just going for a walk.”
“Why did you enter out-of-bounds areas, then?”
“I didn’t know they were out-of-bounds,” said Zappa. “No one told me. There wasn’t a sign posted or anything.”
“This is probably my fault,” said Dr. Ignatius. “All of our other habitators are monitored in the usual way. Therefore, we haven’t had the need to define the boundaries of the program in our orientation.”
“It didn’t occur to you that an un-implanted feral might require extra security?” The expert asked.
The blue lights on Dr. Ignatius’s faceplate formed triangular wincing eyes at the Expert’s use of the pejorative feral, but it made no comment. “We should have realized it,” said Ignatius. “But our staffing shortage has put a real strain on things. That’s why we’re so thrilled to have you here, Expert Myers, and all the new staff members. I’m sure things will run much more smoothly from now on.”
Expert Myers crossed her arms over her chest and hmmphed.
“Zap,” said Dr. Ignatius, “When you first entered this room, I sensed that you might be experiencing some anxiety. Can you tell me why?”
“I was lost,” said Zappa. “When I saw you, I felt relieved because I knew you would help me get back to my pod.”
“He’s lying,” said Expert Myers.
“Perhaps,” said Dr. Ignatius. “Though he has been through a lot in recent weeks. Such trauma and transition can take a toll on the human brain. I recommend putting him under observation for a few days while we investigate the matter.”
“Your recommendation will be taken into account,” said Expert Myers curtly. “This habitator must be implanted immediately, at the very least. In my expert opinion, he should then be shipped off to a work camp. He’s not worth the risk of housing him. But that decision is of course up to the Consensus. In the meantime, I’ll direct Maintenance to install locks on the stairwell access doors. And somebody needs to figure out how to get this ancient tech working.” She lightly kicked a PC tower that stood beneath the desk.
“Certainly,” said Ignatius. “I’ll file my report directly with the Consensus. Shall I escort Habitator Dobroshtan to his—”
“Yes. I have to take this,” said Myers, tapping a spot of nothing in midair with the tip of her index finger. Her eyes glazed over. “World Health Director en route, arrival in ten minutes, copy that.”
Dr. Ignatius led Zappa out of the room, down the corridor, and to the anteroom. The elevator door slid open at the robot’s approach, and Zappa was ushered inside and swept up to his assigned floor. When they arrived to his room, Zappa climbed into bed, sore and exhausted.
“You seem to have gotten yourself into a fair amount of trouble today,” said Dr. Ignatius.
“I know,” said Zappa.
“How do you feel about that?” The good doctor was programmed for empathy.
It was strange, this algorithmic empathy. Rationally, Zappa knew it wasn’t real. It didn’t come from genuine feeling or experience or ability to emotionally connect. It wasn’t as if the machine had a soul.
And yet, it disarmed him. Certainly, that had been the intent of the design. So perfectly was it executed, so warmly expressed, that Zappa couldn’t help sinking into his vulnerability with Dr. Ignatius. There were times when he felt that he could share anything, anything at all with it, and not be judged or punished or censored. Which clearly wasn’t true. The machine’s basic program compelled it to censor Zappa’s very name. Nothing about it was real.
Still, Zappa had a role to play. Better to go with transparent vulnerability than to set off any more red flags.
“I’m scared. What will happen to me?”
“You’ll be confined to this room until further notice. Orderly will bring your meals and someone will come three times a day to escort you to the lavatory.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Zap. Your actions today have put you in danger of severe consequences.”
“Work camp,” said Zappa.
“I have put in a good word for you in my report to the Consensus. But the ultimate decision is out of my hands.”
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