6

The scooter would only get him so far; AnSIL expected that from the beginning. He stood in line for fifteen tense minutes before presenting his ID card to a soldier cop, who eyed him suspiciously and read Bert’s old travel permission letter carefully. “Turley, scan this in and open the gate,” The guard yelled over his shoulder to a guard who was busy filling out forms.
Turley was obviously a rookie who was given the duties that no one else wanted, a servant to the public servants. He stood quickly and beckoned to AnSIL, “This way, remove your glasses and walk between the sensor barricades but otherwise follow me.”
Turley looked up at the black rectangle that showed up on the scan, “Empty your pockets. Slowly please.” He rested his hand on his electro-laser pistol and silently loosened the strap.
AnSIL followed officer Turley’s orders and produced the inheritance tin, opening it before Turley could flag it as a possible bomb.
“Did I tell you to open it? No, I didn’t,” Turley stepped back for a second, seemingly to catch his breath, “Okay, dump the contents on this table.” He gestured to a small glass shelf attached to one of the scanners.
AnSIL complied and Turley watched carefully as he bent down to pick up a fallen pen. The officer scanned the inheritance code and grunted in surprise when it was verified.
“Alright…” Turley pressed a button on the recorder beside him, “A dial, debit case, projection and hard-copy map, three pens and a notebook, a book of poetry, a poncho and survival blanket, a sonic scrubber and a piece of… clear crystal?” “Bathing salt, sir,” AnSIL corrected.
“Bath salts?” Turley raised his eyebrows and looked closely. “It’s mined on old-world, neutralizes odor,” AnSIL answered, wondering if bath salts would be his undoing, “That’s all I know.”
“That would explain why it doesn’t smell like armpit,” Turley grunted and seemed to loosen up after he ran a quick search and found the salts on the net, “You learn something new every day.”
Turley looked back at the line of people backing up behind AnSIL, “Chipper… be on your way.”

After packing things back up, AnSIL stepped out into the orange glow of the sunset and walked away as calmly as he could muster, he wasn’t sure where he was going but he had to get there before curfew. Auto-tanks were already moving into place and an officer was telling a private garbage truck driver that he’d have to make his remaining stops quickly.

Bert heard a beep from his net terminal and reached across his desk to answer.
A confirmation request appeared from the Fed Travel Ministry with the certified permission letter that he’d signed a year before.
Bert quickly entered his confirmation and FTM identification number, shut down the terminal and called up SILer, “He’s heading for the city. The idiot just used my permission letter in zone 91933, ground level. Go finish him.”

(What I’m listening to: No Excuses by Alice in Chains)

5

“No. Security andros don’t just drop everything and help family friends. What the hell was her objective?” Bert glared out the window at the cityscape. “She seems to have a personal connection with him,” SILer informed his boss.
“Do you have a complex on her?” Bert asked impatiently. SILer nodded thoughtfully, “She can’t pick up groceries without a receipt showing up on my sensor report.”
“Good,” Bert paced, “I don’t want that thing causing any more trouble than it has.”

The Pratt-Martin building loomed over Tracy as she drove toward the lake. The massive archway was the site of countless public events, a world wonder in its own right, galvanizing the reputation of its ruthless owner. Spotlights shone up at the building and the sunset beyond framed it, pretty as a picture.
“How’s life, ma’am?” the gate guard asked and turned to scan her identification. “Troubles and intrigue,” Tracy said, staring thoughtfully ahead.
“Thank heavens for that,” The guard said with a smile as he returned her card, “Otherwise we’d be out of a job.”
Tracy looked at the guard in surprise. She hadn’t expected any real reaction from him, “Very true.”
“You have a successful, intriguing day,” The guard said when his computer beeped confirmation and he raised the gate for her.
“And yourself,” Tracy replied simply before driving into the parking garage. Humans were a puzzling lot. Just when you think you’ve figured them out, they grow a new personality.
Tracy parked her car in a quiet sublevel garage. Humans wouldn’t have noticed that the guards on the far side of the garage were watching sports on one monitor rather than cameras, they may have noticed that specks of coating from one part of the floor had a different kind of crunch to it because it was cheaper. Where the human brain would ignore most of its input, Tracy saw every glint and shadow, heard every whisper on the floors above, below and in the elevator ahead of her.

“So, what do you think?” A man in a grey wool suit asked Tracy when the elevator doors closed behind her.
“They’re hiding something alright,” Tracy answered smoothly, noting that this was Martin’s secure elevator car, no cameras and no microphones, “Calista’s synth bolted from the funeral.”
“The security fellow?” Rod Martin asked from the other side of Tracy.
“No, I spent the afternoon following him around the town looking for the sex toy,” Tracy answered, “SILer seemed very intent on killing his synthetic brother. …He told me that it was a tranquilizer but I can recognize a rail mag when I see one.”
“Good girl,” Rod smiled, glanced at the other man in the elevator and turned back to Tracy, “So, your new objective is to locate said synth, find out what he knows and why he’s running. It could be juicy.”
Tracy nodded quickly, “Yes sir,” and proceeded out of the elevator on her intended floor.
Rod Martin waited for the doors to close and patted his friend on the back, “She’s good, we’ll get him for you.”
The man removed his hat and brushed some dust off of it, “You really believe that your dinner party bouncer can break this?”
“Count on it,” Rod nodded seriously, “That’s the best system that money can buy. She protects me in my sleep.”
“-It- is a step above those little robotic guard dogs, it simply looks better in pumps.”

(What I'm listening to: "Treason" by Mushroomhead)