MESSAGE TYPE: Unencrypted
MESSAGE CLASS: Class D, Public Service Access, in accordance with Congressional Bill 4892-18, May 2118
ORIGINATING GROUP: “the Carter tribe,” Texas
MESSAGE:
To Miranda Sharifi,
The Carter family ranched West Texas for 250 years, us. We stick together. Now there’s no more ranching, it, but we still stick together. I’m Molly Carter, me. I got six kids, seventeen grandkids, twenty great-grandkids, more on the way. But we got no more Change needles for the new great-grandkids. I’m asking you, me, to please send us more.
My son Ray Junior is taking this cartridge, him, to a radio place in Lubbock to send to you in space.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT: None received
Fifteen
Nothing, Jackson thought, was ever what you expected.
When he’d taken Shockey, Lizzie, Dirk, and Vicki to Kelvin-Castner Pharmaceuticals, he expected a difficult ordeal. He expected panic after panic from the Livers over being in an environment that would have been strange and unsettling to them even before they’d breathed in whatever neuropharm had made them so anxious and fearful of anything new. He visualized physical struggles with Shockey to provide tissue samples, and hysterical protest from Lizzie when samples were taken from Dirk. He counted on Vicki to help with these hypothetical struggles. Then, he expected, he and Thurmond Rogers would have a long intense talk about the implications of a drug that was not subject to the Cell Cleaner. The tissue analysis would be a top priority for Rogers, so the report would come swiftly.
None of that had happened.
Instead, his aircar had been met on the roof of Kelvin-Castner, inside the Boston Harborside Enclave, by two high-quality security ’bots. The ’bots had efficiently grabbed everyone but Jackson and fitted them with breathers that had instantly knocked them out. Even Vicki. The ’bots had then loaded the four unconscious people onto floaters and, ignoring Jackson’s protests, guided them down an elevator to a lab. Here more ’bots had stripped Shockey, Lizzie, and the baby and had taken samples: saliva, cerebrospinal fluid, blood, urine, feces, and cells from every organ. The samples were extracted with the long nanobuilt needles, their walls only a few atoms thick, of state-of-the-art biopsy. Next had come the scans, everything from skin conductance to brain imaging under various stimuli. No actual person appeared. It was clear to Jackson that this procedure had already been in place.
How long had Kelvin-Castner been abducting research samples from Livers who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, protest?
Jackson protested. “Thurmond, I want to talk to you!” But all Jackson had gotten was a bland, prerecorded holo: “Hi, Jack. Sorry I can’t attend to you personally, but I’m in the middle of something I can’t leave. If you want anything to eat or drink while the samples are being taken, just ask the room system. I’ll call you when I have anything to report. My regards to your sister.”
“Thurmond, damn it… room system on!”
“Room system on,” the room said. Needles so thin they were barely visible descended simultaneously into the naked bellies of Shockey, Lizzie, and Dirk. Vicki, still clothed, lay on her floater in the corner, breathing whatever her mask supplied her with.
“Give me a priority link to Thurmond Rogers!”
“I’m sorry—this system can provide only recording capability and dietary orders.”
“Then link me to the building system!”
“I’m sorry—this system can provide only recording capability and dietary orders.”
“This is a medical emergency. Give me the emergency system.”
“I’m sorry—this system—”
“System off!”
He could record a blistering message for Rogers. He could remove Vicki’s breathing mask and see if she could dip the system. But it was Lizzie who was the dipper, not Vicki, and Lizzie at the moment had a thin flexible probe down her throat, taking cell samples from her bronchial tree. So Jackson did nothing, fuming and pacing for an hour, refusing even to sit in the room’s one comfortable chair, out of either anger or ludicrous self-flagellation.
When Kelvin-Castner had taken all the human pieces it wanted, the security ’bots took Shockey, Lizzie, Vicki, and the baby back to the roof, efficiently loaded them into Jackson’s car, stripped off their breathing masks, and floated away. A minute later their lungs cleared and they woke up.
“Well.” Lizzie said, “what are we waiting for? Aren’t we going inside?” And Dirk had cowered against his mother’s neck, wailing in fear because the world held more than his mother.
Jackson flew back to the camp, and the three Livers disappeared inside. Vicki said, “I’m not happy about this, Jackson. You should have revived me. I had questions of my own, you know.”
“You wouldn’t have got any answers.”
“Nonetheless.” She scowled at him. “Promise me you won’t go back to Kelvin-Castner, or even talk to Rogers, without including me. Lizzie’s system can multilink us.”
“I don’t think—”
“I do. Promise me.”
And Jackson—out of weariness or resignation or consideration or something—had promised.
Since then, nothing had happened. Four days passed, and Thurmond Rogers neither contacted Jackson nor returned his calls. Theresa spent all her time in the upper-floor study that Jackson wasn’t supposed to know about, not appearing even for meals. She left periodic messages for Jackson that she was all right. Jackson paced and fidgeted and forgot to eat, until his body rebelled and he fell asleep naked in the feeding room while his body absorbed the nutrients it needed.
The fourth day, very early in the morning, Cazie called. Jackson didn’t answer. He rolled over in his darkened bedroom so that his back faced the wall screen, and let the message record.
“Jackson, come on-link. I know you’re there.”
All of a sudden Jackson was annoyed. Why did she always assume she knew everything about him?
“Listen,” Cazie said, “we need to talk. I just received a private message from an old friend of mine, Alexander Castner of Kelvin-Castner Pharmaceuticals. I think I introduced you once, at some party—do you remember him?”
Slowly Jackson turned over in bed to stare at the screen. In the lower right corner, under Cazie’s face, glittered the encryption signal. She was sending to him on a heavily shielded link.
“Alex is contacting several major investment players, very privately. Kelvin-Castner is onto something really big. Something they want to develop very quickly… Alex thinks his firm can get an entirely new pharmaceutical system to the patent stage before anybody else. Get this—it bypasses the Cell Cleaner to effect permanent pharmacodynamic processes. The applications in the pleasure market alone are staggering. You could eliminate inhalers!
“But Alex doesn’t know who else is working on this, or how close they are to applying for a patent, so he has to move as fast as possible. He needs massive commitments of capital, talent, computer time. Jack, TenTech should get in on this, early and hard. It’s the kind of opportunity that could move us into the International Fifty. I’ve pulled together some preliminary figures for you—and for Theresa, too, of course. But we need to commit soon, today if possible—damn it. Jackson, answer the link!”
Jackson climbed slowly out of bed. In the dark he pulled on yesterday’s clothes.
“All right,” Cazie said, “maybe you’re not there. But where are you? I already called that ridiculous woman at your pet Liver camp, Vicki What’s-her-name, and she said you weren’t there. If you’re spending the night with somebody, when you call in for your messages, please contact me on a shielded line at my office at TenTech. If you don’t—”