An Eighty Percent Solution

Implement—Phase Two



“Nanogate Building Four, Level one-hundred-fifty-one,” came the soft, computer generated, pseudo-female voice over the bus PA. Even the voices were designed to keep the sheep of mankind at rest. Tony mumbled his standard apologies as he got his 190 centimeter height and 150 kilo mass out through the tightly packed commuters.

He jogged through the 6 meters of uncovered sky and perpetual drizzle to the covered entrance of his personal purgatory—the Dental Division of Nanogate Corporation. “Wet day today,” he said to no one in particular. “Hope we’ll see some sun soon.”

He brushed at the rain clinging to his gray imitation-tweed suit and shook his long, loose hair. A quick check in the reflection of the great glass doors allowed him to straighten his burgundy tie before joining the rest of the throng entering yet another day as an insignificant cog in the megacorp machine.

The atrium stood 30 meters high, bearing a genuine Thaddeus sculpture filling at least 70 percent of that height—a grotesque and misshapen representation of a human worker floating over those starting their workday. It reminded Tony of the commissions Stalin made back in the Cold War. Some might call it art, but Tony chose to think of it as not-so-subtle intimidation. He couldn’t decide if it symbolized what the megacorps did to those that worked for them, or if its sheer size indicated how little significance the megacorps placed on each worker.

Tony’s cube, comprised of one-point-three-meter-high carpeted pseudo-walls with a desktop and computer workstation built in, held only one bit of uniqueness—a single climbing ivy decorated the otherwise sterile environment. One of the benefits of his grade level was an office on the floor of the Tri-Met drop. “No more climbing stairs,” Tony muttered to himself, nudging one of his peers next to him as they watched the multitude of drones climbing the bank of stairs. His mind, however, darted back to Cin—her playfulness, the softness of her fur, and how expressive the tiny face and large eyes could be.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus. “Time to hit the grindstone,” he said less than enthusiastically. The coworker mumbled his agreement.

His rear barely had hit the seat when a solido appeared on his desk. The less-than-honorable Mitch Anson’s face turned directly toward him. Having no innate engineering talent of his own, Mitch adeptly wormed his way into other people’s accomplishments and took some or even all the credit. From what Tony knew, Mitch could accept a bribe with one hand and the reward for betraying the briber with the other. Neither of these methods stood as particularly groundbreaking in history, but that’s how Mitch managed to become Junior VP of Research so quickly. Mitch even now lustfully looked forward to removing the “Junior.”

Even in these days of backstabbing and backroom deals, Tony felt his boss held a position one ecological step above a tapeworm without morals. The counterargument was that he knew his boss felt him to be the equivalent of a rabbit who existed only as an intermediate step in the food chain. Those were the words Mitch had spoken to a mutual friend. As a result of this mutual admiration, or lack thereof, Tony’s assignments often reminded one of beef jerky rather than caviar.

“Sammis, report to my office at once,” ordered Mitch. While the voice normally felt chilly, Tony recognized an abnormal brusqueness. The solido winked out as quickly and abruptly as it had materialized.

“Looks like Anson’s in an ass-kicking mood today, gang,” he announced over the low partitioning walls. A few snickers floated up from behind the anonymous facade. “Be on your best behavior.” Several more chuckles followed, but not too loudly, for fear of reprisals.

Anson’s office sported a 30 meter-wide view of the 170-acre Nanogate Botanical Forest. As the third largest open natural area within twelve hundred kilometers, and within the top four hundred largest in the world—moving up if the Yosemite Prison Bill passed the UN—it required eighty full-time gardeners.

The décor could’ve been copied out of any up-and-comer’s office, with an oversized desk, antique leather chair, plastic straight-backed chairs for underlings to sit in, private bathroom, wet bar, and a red-headed, buxom secretary who shot Tony lasers as he entered and she left. The two Nanogate security officers, in body armor not dissimilar to that of a Metro, on either side of Anson’s desk didn’t exactly fit the image. Nor did a short, blond man wearing only the yellow vinyl tights of a bodyguard. He stood idly nearby with arms carefully folded behind his back.

“No, don’t bother to sit down, Sammis. I’m going to make this short and sweet. You’re fired. You have one hour to collect your personal belongings—under the watchful eye of our security forces, of course—and get out.”

“Why?” Tony sputtered, barely even able to comprehend this disaster.

“You’ve been charged with practicing medicine without a license, possession of a personal vehicle, and resisting arrest. We here at Nanogate don’t need that type of publicity.

“Personally, I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammis, but the prime rule is ‘Don’t get caught.’ You are through in the corporate world.”

“B-but I’ve never done anything like those things!” Tony protested weakly.

“Doesn’t matter, Sammis. We don’t want you around. You’ll give Nanogate a bad name just by association. As far as the government goes, they’ll probably never get around to trying you for your crimes, so we here at Nanogate will take the appropriate action as defined by corporate precedent. You’re to be cut out like a cancer.

“If you go quietly, the parent company is willing to give you the following: one year’s severance pay, an equal length of full medical continuance, your accumulated retirement funds to date, and pay in lieu of accumulated vacation.

“By inference you can deduce what will happen to you if you fight.”

Tony shook in place. For years he’d felt ambiguous about his place as another bit in the great megacorp machine. Now, without his consent, he no longer even carried that insignificant distinction. His muscles and gut willed him to some action, however futile, and his mind somehow kept them both under control.

“Granted, I think this offer is overly generous for someone who’s violated the morals clause in their contract, but it wasn’t my call to make. Take it and get out. Cause the slightest trouble and I’ll strip you of even that crumb.”



* * *



In his butter-mellow baritone, Nanogate spoke. “Alea iacta est,” he stated—rather succinctly, he thought. He received nothing but blank stares despite the broad range of education and mental implants represented in the room. “The die is cast. Phase one completed without incident. We discovered an added bonus in time to make use of it. The subject has recently obtained a feline.”

With a scowl, Taste Dynamics, the only one at the table currently in a skirt, looked up. “How can that be a bonus, unless you eat those kinds of proteins?”

“Not at all. It has multiple benefits. It allays the fears of the members of the Green Peace organization, and the cat itself has already been set up as an additional weapon.” There were several knowing nods around the huge wooden table.

“Phase two is underway as we speak,” Nanogate went on. “We’ll continue to increase the pressure until our subject has no other choice.”

“Are there any indications of suicidal tendencies?”

“None for over seven generations. Mental profiles show no H-seven indicators of depression, no Cannon indicators of self-hatred or self-destruction. As an additional precaution, we added a deep-programmed block against suicide. If—no, when—he is probed, the terrorists won’t find it unusual. As you know, such blocks are standard practice to infants in over twenty-four percent of Earth and seventy-four percent in colonies.”

“What is the timetable for this next phase?”

“Phase two should last no more than two standard days. Phase three we theorize to take between seven to nine days. Gaining their trust, phase four, is variable, but we anticipate no more than two weeks.”

“And the weapon?”

“Phase five is timed to begin replication at T plus twenty-one days. This will give him time to become a valuable member and no longer under suspicion. Evaluation of results should tally shortly after that.”

“I suggest we move to the next topic of discussion then,” the chairman offered. “I turn your attention to the new anti-cloning legislation in front of the UN…”



* * *



All Tony’s personal belongings save one fit into his satchel. Under the careful and watchful eyes of the two Nanogate security officers, he packed the wedding solido of his mother and father and the boudoir solido of Carmine. Two plaques for completion of one course or another lay flat against his diplomas. He carefully folded a first-place T-shirt for longest softball hit at the Nanogate Sports Day Picnic and packed it in beside a toothbrush, a used tube of toothpaste and a Project Neptune mug.

“I guess that’s it,” he said sadly, wrapping his arms around the pot of green and white striped leaves. The spiderwort’s presence so often made such a nice counterpoint to the sterility of the corporate nature. His mom called it a Wandering Jew plant when she took the original cutting from a large healthy vine she grew over most of her living room. He’d been diligent in keeping it alive.

“I’m sorry sir, but the plant must remain,” said a scratchy voice from behind one of the security guard’s masks.

“What? This plant is mine. My mother gave it to me when it was just this long,” he insisted, holding his fingers apart by about three centimeters.

“That plant consumed light and water from Nanogate. By inference, it must belong to the corporation—Portland Statute eleven-fourteen-baker.”

Tony thought seriously about raising a fit about the plant, the only link to his parents, dead nearly a year now. But his mind still functioned. He remembered the derision heaped on him by Anson for being a good and trustworthy employee. His shoulders, set strongly up to this point, drooped in defeat. His eyes dimmed as his head slumped forward just the tiniest amount. He carefully set down the plant after visions of Anson playing the part of a vengeful and self-righteous god darkened his mood even further.

Tony knew that fighting anything Nanogate or Anson decided to do to him was a useless waste of time and resources. If Anson gave him the truth about the charges, no court in the world would entertain any case he put forward. Even if he did get it before a judge, the corporate lawyers would crush any representation he could possibly afford.

He was finished in this world. The best he could hope for now was menial labor or migration, if any of the colonies would consider him. His past employment didn’t exactly push him into any critical need category.

The briefcase seemed very empty compared to the number of hours he had labored here. He took nothing from the office except memories of an already extinct corporate career. With a sigh he closed the lid.

“I guess that’s all. Go ahead and do it.” As an act of finality, Tony lifted his wrist. The scanner sniffed the DNA from the loose cells at his wrist and crosslinked with the Nanogate mainframe. In picoseconds, every door, every machine, and every positive record within the corporation would now deny Tony’s very existence, irrevocably.

Silence filled the cubicle farm. The word passed quickly as the people with whom Tony had laughed, cried, supported, torpedoed, drunk beer, played softball, and competed against for the golden nuggets of corporate politics lined the hall. There stretched a human gauntlet of his life. A variety of reactions played on the faces of his former peers, subordinates, and everyone else who somehow had learned of his demise. Some wore faces that did little to hide their joy, sadness, or outright fear. Above everything else, the silence stung Tony. He half expected to hear the muffled sobs of a grieving widow. The analogy seemed fitting. Instead, he got nothing.

Tony maintained his composure through the procession, saying not a single word. He would go out as a man wronged with his head held high, not catching the eye of any of the silent witnesses. It was the longest two minutes of his life, putting one foot in front of the other, staring at a faded, four-year-old dental seminar poster on the far wall.

As he reached the exit, someone in the gathered crowd actually mustered the audacity to cheer, but only for a brief second and without great enthusiasm. Tony stiffened and stopped in the portal. He wanted to shout that they were next, to scream and plead for respite. Instead he looked to the group, now clustered in the entry under the monstrosity they called a sculpture. With as much sarcasm as he could muster, he quietly said, “Good luck to you all.”

Turning at once, he stepped out under the awning of the building. He bitterly rejected the protection of the corporation’s roof and he took several more steps. His dignity held until the light Portland rain chilled his cheeks. Finally he afforded a weakness that wouldn’t show. Tears rolled down his cheeks, invisibly mingled in the wet, hiding his shame.

Very briefly he considered just jumping off the ledge and plunging countless meters to an ignoble demise, but he needed to prove they hadn’t beaten him. Instead, he stood with a ramrod-straight back, mixing salt from his tears with the drizzle’s pollution as he waited for the lift-bus and a new, if unknown, life.

“I’ll make this right.”



* * *



Night herself held too obvious a danger. It caused decent and semi-decent people to guard themselves carefully. It gave hunters a place to lurk. It also gave camouflage and life to the hunters of the hunters.

The night gave rise to a backward kind of danger. With the predators that stalked the night dropping off to sleep and the daylight denizens not yet stirring, the afternoon provided, as it had for centuries, the perfect cover for the trade of thief, mugger, or in this case, terrorist.

Direct sunlight never soiled the shadow of the lower barrio. The weak sun fought its way through the gray smog and ubiquitous mist, just barely chasing away the darkness of the night. Sonya left her apartment wearing a black, white, and neutral pattern-disruptive cloak. She’d made the cloak herself four years ago, weaving cat hair and energy together for a simple efficacy. While not quite as good as light-bending clothing used by the military, it served its purpose—to make the wearer unnoticed and anonymous. As an added bonus, cloaks held the distinction of being nearly the universal slum outer attire, keeping occupant and cargo reasonably warm and dry. A large sombrero bundled up her long, brown hair. The hat’s excessive brim and a green surgical mask covered a good portion of her face.

Fortunately, Sonya preferred walking. By losing good people, the GAM learned years ago that lift-buses and taxis used automatic sensing equipment. They detected most high-order explosives, firearms of any caliber, and most edged or thrusting hand weapons. As a result Sonya had a four-hour walk east into the Pearl District, across the nearly rusted-through Steel Bridge—an ancient relic valued only as a tourist attraction to show people what life was like before lift vehicles. All this because the Metros objected to her cargo—fifteen kilos of high-explosive devices.

A thick cloud of some noxious chemical hugged the ground like an early morning fog. Sonya’s presence parted the worst of the mist for a meter in either direction, repelled by the energy-laden fibers of her outerwear. The few people who milled around the ground level streets in the afternoon light in Lower Portland were as dangerous as working with explosives in an oven. As a rule, they all had the capability to either deal with troublemakers or to be troublemakers themselves. The vast majority bore outward signs of heavy artificial body augmentation with metallic arms, ablative armor, or even artificial eyes.

While many would be frightened if the Greenies succeeded, Sonya’s mind instead drifted to what she hoped to remake of this world—one where green plants thrived, instead of withering sickly. A world where animals roamed freely, living as they should. A world her great, great grandmother would recognize, not this burnt-out, overpopulated place without hope. A place where justice came not from the credits in one’s purse but from men equally to all other men. A world where not being registered in a computer wasn’t a death sentence.

Any movement in any of those directions would be welcome. Her jaws clenched tightly and her fists formed and released.

Every single day the megacorps committed new atrocities. Governments couldn’t stop them as they learned to bend to the will of the highest bidder, either in the form of cash or threat. The last holdout to this corruption, England, finally knuckled under to Advanced Biometrics when they promised to poison three major cities, including London, if the Genetics Freedom Law passed. Since then it had become business as usual. Examples included China’s sale of absolute mineral rights of the Province of India to Materials Matrix Corporation for an undisclosed sum, or the Russian Coalition’s transfer of one third of all their nuclear devices to Priory Unlimited to prevent a war with the Czech Republic.

Corrupt police, city services, and government poisoned every corner of this world and all those it had colonized. Those with the money could buy anything they wanted. Only those innocent people who could afford to purchase justice could actually obtain it. The list went on and on.

Sonya’s dark musings kept her busy until she completed the first leg of her journey. Three of her fellow terrorists waited at ground level of their current target, the Colonization Unlimited Building. They milled around, chatting and blending into the rest of the scenery, dressed in dirty and heavily worn clothes with only a couple of the boxed internees in the vicinity.

The boxed—another abomination of this world, Sonya thought. A tiny minority of fearful Nils listened to the megacorp and government propaganda. They volunteered to have their brains placed into robotic equipment to do menial tasks just for the hope of someday earning the right to be returned to cloned bodies and legally registered. Just the sight of the two automatons trying to shore up the footing of a crumbling building left her sickened by the way one man enslaved another.

Turning her mind away, Sonya perceived her fellow comrades and wondered if they weren’t enslaved even more strongly than those inhabiting metal and plastic bodies. But by the same token, they carried hatreds that forged each into a weapon or a tool that might just change the world—but one that also condemned them, even as it might one day save others.

Arthur Lewton, a tiny man at 1.3 meters and only 60 kilos, ran an accounting department for OldsTransport until a lift-bus dropped on his wife as she installed a new undercarriage. OldsTransport faulted Linda with improper alignment of the grav impellers and refused to pay any benefits. Arthur’s private investigation revealed OT used out-of-specification impeller casings that showed a tendency to burn through and fail to lift.

Instead of admitting their mistake, the VPs of manufacturing at OT fired Arthur and discredited his findings by replacing all the faulty casings before he could prove anything. Despite his diminutive size, Arthur’s rage couldn’t be underestimated. Once, caught red-handed without a weapon, he rammed his finger up one corpie’s eye socket deep enough to perform an impromptu lobotomy.

Slightly chunky but nonetheless quite attractive, Beth Watkins wore the figure of a woman who’d birthed one too many children, yet she’d never been a mother. Beth’s grievance with the megacorps started when she received a temporary contraceptive which permanently damaged not only her uterus but also her abdominal wall. The contraceptive damaged thirty percent of the test subjects before being released to the market by Caring Health Systems anyway. A former runway model, Beth lost her looks, her job, her fertility, and her husband.

Martin Fox’s sympathies most nearly matched Sonya’s own. A Nil of average height, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes, and no distinguishing marks, he used these physically nondescript features to his advantage—basically, they made him a complete nonentity. Sonya had on more than one occasion watched him vape a corpie, drop the weapon and melt into a crowd. He could then stand a scant two meters away as the Metros arrived, with none the wiser.

Martin wanted to make nature a dominant force in the world again. His heartfelt dreams were even more radical than even Sonya’s, however. Given his choice, Earth would be cordoned off as a “no-human zone.”

Loyalty and passion embodied the most important traits of each member of her core group. All had been on more than one mission. She knew the color of their emotions.

“You all know what this mission’s parameters are,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper as she entered their circle. “Seven bombs planted at this corp’s primary entrances and set off at end of shift will remove a great number of their key people,” she reviewed, removing the deadly metal tubes from within her cloak. None of the other three offered a word in reply. They knew their tasks. Grim determination showed on their faces as they accepted their weapons.

“Each of you will carry two. I will carry only one but will be planting it in the most dangerous location. All of these devices are already armed and timed, so place them and get out. Just like last time.” The dirty, worn appearance of their clothing concealed their true nature as the bombs disappeared within specially designed pockets.

“One last thing. Remember, they must be placed outside the building, or they’ll be detected. You have your assignments.”

“For Nature,” Martin mumbled as he shuffled off into the mist. The others said nothing.

Each of them had to make their way up between one-hundred and one-hundred-fifty levels—or four times that number of meters—using long-forgotten elevator shafts and disused, prelift emergency stairs. Once in place, they’d attach the homemade explosives to walls, stonework, or any handy outcropping using a small chunk of adhesive putty. Success would be determined by a grisly count of dead and maimed.

Shaking her head, Sonya steadied herself for her own task. Each team member carried their own weight. She couldn’t do anyone else’s job for them, or she wouldn’t be able to perform her own.

Sonya mentally rehearsed her own assignment, blanking out worries about dangers to her team, human losses, or the chaos that accompanied her successes. Human and electronic security on a building as bare as a billiard ball made her target by far the riskiest. While the most difficult, it also promised greater satisfaction, for the structure she’d chosen served as the corporation’s executive landing pad.

Her green mask hid the smile of a predatory animal. Sonya liked most challenges and the rewards they brought.



* * *