New Year’s Eve 2069 11:43 pm – Con-Fed Building, Floor 142
Wang Ju Hua’s eyes traveled from the Schatten t.63 in her hand to the body of the man she loved, and life showered her with a million glistering diamonds.
She knelt, took the aboriginal club from his hand, and gingerly returned it to a set of pegs on his wall of weapons. Guns, knives, even a slender chain garrote circa Nazi Germany. Artifacts of creative murder, sharing wall space with a Matisse and two dazzling works by Klimt. Nearby, a gilded table and chairs supported a themed chess set of Charlemagne vs The Moors. How her husband loved his collections.
Had loved.
The office door opened.
“I did it, David,” she whispered. “I had to.” Ju was kneeling over her husband, stroking his hair with one silk-gloved hand, a gun in the other.
Quickly closing the door, Dr. David Grinstein took it all in. There on the floor was the still form of Owen Herbert Whitlaw, an expression of astonishment ushering him into eternity. David’s stomach visibly clenched from the twin assault of the sight and smell of charred flesh.
David yammered, “No, Ju. No, you didn’t. I – people need you. You couldn’t, so you didn’t. Do you understand me?” David didn’t wait for an answer. He found a red linen napkin on the bar and began frantically polishing cocktail glasses, cabinet knobs, anything Ju might have touched in the office belonging to Con-Fed’s chairman and the seventh richest man in Sol System.
“David, what are you doing?” She stood up. “I’m in here every day. People see me come and go. Fingerprints don’t matter.” She looked him in the eye and handed him the plasma gun.
He was sweating now. “Of course.” David returned the Schatten t.63 to its place of honor on Owen’s wall of weaponry. It hovered there in a custom suspension field. “Jeez. That tingles,” he said, shaking out his hands as if to rid them of invisible spiders. “There. Good. The police will have the weapon, but nothing to tie you to –” His eyes darted up to the three sensors embedded in the ceiling. Optical, heat scale, motion. The damn thing could even smell. “Shit.”
“Off,” Ju said haltingly. “All the security pick-ups on this floor and three below. They’ll come back on at 4 a.m. Owen ordered the outage himself, probably to allow his executives to enjoy some boy time.” She added coyly, “Is that what you want, David?”
David carp-gulped at the air for a moment. It stank of seared flesh rising from a hole in the man’s chest. “Ju, I – I mean, he’s right here.” David waved the red napkin at Whitlaw’s body in matador fashion, but the Bull of Wall Street did not respond.
She ran one silky finger under one of David’s tux lapels, casually tickling his chest. “David, I think we should mingle with the gang in the lobby.” Indeed, the steady percussion from the party outside filled the room with its primal ambience. She leaned in close enough to ensure he could smell the sweet fruity wine on her breath and used her other hand to unfurl his bow tie into a rakish scarf. “It’s almost midnight.” His mouth hung open.
“The others… Someone’s bound to wander in here,” he said nervously, beads of perspiration bouncing on his lip.
Tears welled up in her eyes, reflecting the New Atlanta skyline that filled the huge office window. In the smallest voice she could muster, she offered: “The wait staff.”
David was pacing now. If he heard her words, he didn’t respond directly but rather accepted the cue and continued the thought. “Dirty, uneducated migrants.” Ju watched the thought take hold of David, gaining momentum and becoming his own. “Yes, yes. A robbery gone wrong – familiar but convincing. I’ll send that glossy dark one in to bring Owen a drink, then deny ever having said it. Make sure you are talking to people. Casually point out the waiter going into Owen’s office.”
“Understood.”
They stepped out into the main lobby, where the party was thrumming and howling towards a midnight climax. People had floated up from the main conference room, which was nicely decorated if a little safe. They preferred to greet the new year where the action was – in the lion’s den.
There they were, the titans of Con-Fed. The men stood, one arm around their chosen conquest of the night. There was Chief Operating Officer Conrad Bernadotte, his fingers edging ever closer to the low-cut bust line of an exotic girl he’d found in Accounts Receivable. Serge Andreev, the Chief Financial Officer who’d engineered the Midwest Sector crop fires so Con-Fed could swoop in and buy the land from bankrupt farming interests, was already nibbling on the neck of his executive secretary, Imogen Bricault. She was married, but no matter. Adultery was the least dangerous part of their relationship, since Imogen knew where all the bodies were buried.
Ju watched David make his way through the crowd to a waiter in brilliant white livery that reduced his ebony features to shadow. Sure enough, the man found a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and moved towards Owen’s office. Ju did her part. She pulled the stodgy old R&D honcho with her into the hall, on a pretext of discussing something interesting.
Even as the clock struck midnight and people fell into embracing one another, a cry came from Owen’s office. The waiter, hands now empty, raced from person to person, trying to get them to come with him. They looked at him oddly and shook him off. They were too busy celebrating noisily. Finally, the waiter found someone who’d listen to him, and they headed back to Owen’s office.
David and Ju followed, careful to act as if they were just now noticing all the excitement. “What have you done!” he cried, pointing to the dumbfounded waiter. “I’m calling the police!”
Ju gave him a coy look. Even at a distance, she could sense David’s pulse fluttering. He was such a dear man. It was a shame.
August 25, 2069 – The Classicist Restaurant, New Atlanta
Most of the other tables in the courtyard were empty, offering a degree of privacy. Owen pushed back the remains of his Kobi steak, took a sip of Montrachet Grand Cru, and slid the last of the chilled oysters down his throat. Regarding the pile of shucked shells, he observed, "No pearls. No matter, I brought my own."
Ju blushed. He treated her like a fine work of art, and she liked it.
Attorney Brian Coates dipped a napkin-clad finger into his ice water and daubed at the cucumber lime granita staining his shirt front.
"You're enjoying your scotch," Owen said pointedly.
Brian replied, "I blame the presence of beauty. It makes an old man clumsy." Brian was ever the flatterer. He was cute, and he wasn't that old. "Seriously, Ju, I can't get over the resemblence. You could be a younger version of--" He caught himself, choking back the name.
Ju answered hastily, "Thank you."
Owen wedged his way in, speaking the name aloud. "Bao is doing well on Mars, from what I hear. She's overseeing the social season atthe Olympus Mons Community."
A brilliant light split through the prism of Ju's mind. Bao.
A young woman appeared at their tableside, proferring sundries from a tray strapped around her shoulders. “After-dinner cigar?” She stood covered in gooseflesh despite the warm evening. Her tiny skirt and filmy top offered little in the way of modesty.
Owen took three Cohiba Behikes. He slipped one in his jacket pocket, offered one to Brian, and lit the remaining cigar with his gold lighter. "You don't expect me to smoke this without Cognac, do you?"
She hasn't done anything wrong.
“I—” The cigar girl fidgeted, thrown by Owen’s abrupt need to show dominance. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty and clearly had to cling to a prepared script. Beyond that, she looked lost.
“What’s the best you have in stock?”
“I—”
“I… I… Great profit! How I detest dim serviles!” Owen stood suddenly, nearly shoving the girl with his bulk. She took an unsteady step backwards. Scanning the immediate surrounding, Owen spotted the manager and waved him over. “Your girl doesn’t know her job.”
The manager, an effeminate Swede in his seventies smiled cordially and said, “Ah, our little birds. It is so difficult for them, ja? They come from nothing and depend upon me for everything. What is a father to do, Mr. Whitlaw? Go. Go, little bird. Wait for me in my office.” The manager then ordered the sommelier to bring two glasses of Remy Martin Cognac Louis XIII. “Compliments of the house.”
Ju looked to the girl with sympathy as she withdrew to the manager’s office to await her punishment. When Owen turned his head, Ju quickly keyed in a generous tip, feeling the girl may be needing it.
Brian hastily brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Owen, you’re sure you want a small ceremony and so soon? You’ve only been divorced for –”
“Bao and I ended a long time ago. It was difficult for me to… let her go. As for ceremonies, I’m tired of the big ones. Three’s plenty. Besides, if we hurry, I can write off the whole thing on my taxes.” It was one of his favorite jokes. Owen famously never paid a penny in taxes, thanks to millions spent on the right government officials. She loved his cleverness. And he could be so sweet to her. Mostly.
The aging lawyer pulled a thick stack of old-fashioned paper from his valise. “Very well. As to the pre-nup, it’s mostly boiler-plate,” Brian said, flipping the pages.
“Yes, yes.”
“I made a few minor suggestions,” Ju said, her eyes holding Owen’s. “Don’t worry. You’ll never feel the changes.”
“As you say,” Brian agreed and pushed the stack over to Owen. He pulled an antique platinum pen from his pocket and signed in all the required places, never taking his attention from Ju.
Yes, she was sure she loved Owen. It was a shame.
November 12, 2069 – Con-Fed Building, Floor 110 Board Room
“Second Tuesdays are a mix of old man smell and lame attempts at a coup. Keep your eye on them, but don’t worry. I had them castrated long ago.” Ju had grown accustomed to Owen’s caustic humor. The tone echoed around Con-Fed’s C-suites. It was a man’s life. The secretaries blanched at various off-color comments, but said nothing. Ju never blanched.
She preferred his lusty, romantic side. For a time, all was bliss. What girl wouldn’t enjoy a honeymoon on the actual Moon? It was heady stuff. Owen used to smother her with attention, and she adored it, but daily lovemaking became twice a week, then occasional quickies. She tried to seduce him, but his golf games were “warfare in disguise, no place for a woman” and his Friday nights were “not your concern.”
In the past few weeks, she’d had a lot of time to herself. She used it to study Con-Fed’s inner workings. Ju had examined the ledgers – the real ones. Cracking locked files wasn’t even challenging. Con-Fed was a lumbering monster. It missed many lucrative opportunities. Ju thought carefully, did research, quietly spoke to knowledgeable people around the office, being careful to compartmentalize her inquiries. Finally, she casually pitched a few ideas to Owen. He smiled, patted her hand, and headed off to play golf.
On this second Tuesday of the month, Ju’s flaming red ensemble stood out among the charcoal gray suits, all finely tailored, expensive, bland. Eyes furtively caressed her perfect figure. They sipped their single malt while growing intoxicated on Ju’s jasmine perfume.
Men are boys, and boys are fun to play with.
Leaning back in his leather chair, his fingers piously forming a church steeple, COO Conrad Bernadotte sputtered, “It’s… unusual to have a woman attend the board meetings, not since the Gender Affirmation Act of 2041.” It was one in a series of sweeping ‘reforms’ that wiped away a century of civil gains by women. Opponents dubbed them the Demancipation Laws, until the Supreme Court banned such criticism. Ju’s attendance at the board meeting was not strictly illegal, but it would no doubt attract attention.
She fluttered her lashes at Bernadotte, tilted her head in a certain way. Fun.
“Unusual, but not unpleasant.”
Owen’s chair rose an inch or two taller than the rest of the board members. It was a subtle trick, backed by bravado. “Ju will be attending all of our meetings, gentlemen. My new bride is our secret weapon. I should say, my secret weapon.”
She offered a girlish laugh and said, “I look forward to getting to know each of you.”
June 16, 2070 – Con-Fed Shareholders Report, Sol System Multicast
Standing backstage, she felt exhilaration, and something else. It was like driving with the brakes on. Some fizzy-rainbow-colored memory called to her. It refused to come into full focus. With a conscious will, Ju quieted the memory, set it aside.
Sensor-bots swooped and buzzed around the enormous space, recording the spectacle and casting it throughout Con-Fed’s empire, both on and off-world.
“It is with both gratitude and maybe a touch of chagrin that we post our projection for the coming quarter, reflecting an increase of no less than thirty-three percent.” Center stage, newly anointed CFO Imogen Bricault drew thunderous applause from the balcony to the mezzanine. The move to replace Serge Andreev with Imogen violated a dozen multi-sector laws, but Ju wasn’t worried. Generous gifts were at that moment appearing in the accounts of the people who might object.
Imogen had gone all out, not only renting The Fox Theatre but springing for a massive clean-up and renovation of the beloved Byzantine monstrosity. With its onion dome, curious use of both Islamic and Egyptian architecture, and plush red velvet seats, it was the ideal location for such a grandiose announcement. If Ju’s bold changes yielded the expected profits, this overblown conference would be merely a line on the ledgers.
The official ledgers, that is, Ju thought.
Imogen was skilled at working the crowd, feeding them emotional highs and lows in rapid succession. The officers, shareholders, and other assorted parasites had smelled money. Now, it was time to blow their minds.
Imogen turned to the wings and motioned for Ju to step on stage. “To explain the reason for our success, and perhaps hint at things to come, I present Con-Fed’s Chairman of the Board and CEO, Forbes Magazine’s first Woman of the Year in decades, and nominee for Nobel Prize for Economics: Wang! Ju Hua!”
The Fabulous Fox shook under the assault of clapping and foot stomping, its exotic eastern décor rattling with joy born of pure greed.
“This has been a difficult time for the Con-Fed family. We have lost a great visionary, and I have lost my husband. I cannot replace the inimitable Owen Whitlaw, or indeed my friend and our head of Special Projects David Grinstein. And I promise you, we will get to the bottom of what happened in the city lock-up.
“Let us focus not on the past but on the future! Con-Fed is poised to move into new territory. We are going to do what no other industry has ever done. We are going to move in one fell swoop from a consumer-driven company to one that supplies all the labor that will ever be needed to clean up the Earth.” She waited for her words to sink in. And sink. And sink. “It’s so quiet, you can hear a stock drop.”
No laughter.
Ju waited one more beat. “I give you Project Re-Gen.”
From behind the curtain stepped a young man, biologically a teen in fact, a mop of dark hair tumbling roguishly into his vacant eyes. The theater filled with muffled confusion, a noise something akin to bringing the ocean to a boil – which had happened twice in recent years.
“I see some of you recognize this handsome young man,” Ju teased. The face was correct yet unfinished. Absent were the deep worry lines carved by late night meetings and cold-blooded business maneuvers. Here were the eyes of an innocent, not those of a predator. Even so, many in the audience knew who this was. “Owen Whitlaw. Of course, Owen signed over his complete fortune and business control to me in the event of his death. No need to worry. Thanks to the work of Dr. Grinstein, Re-Gen now makes death itself irrelevant.” Nervous applause. The proof is in front of you. “Trust me. This new technology is everything we could hope for. It has resurrected the greatest financial figure of our time!” Now the applause rose. She waited a suitable period before continuing. “I will be happy to turn the company back over to my beloved husband, as soon as he completes his re-orientation program. Con-Fed has set up a special facility, the best anywhere. It’s on Mars.” Say hello to Bao.
Imogen took over for a moment. “Re-Gen is literally a fresh start. We are making all arrangements now to process illegal immigrants whose sorry future would consist of life in work camps. Thanks to Re-Gen, the world will enjoy a bounty of cheap Re-Genned labor without the burden of unwanted cultural pollution.”
No one breathed. You boys like that idea, don’t you?
“This is good for our bottom line, but not good enough,” Imogen continued. “And so, we have another plan. Our diamond-level client list will consist the world’s wealthiest individuals. Our price: half. Half of whatever they own. And they will pay it. Con-Fed will be there at their death bed… or perhaps a little sooner – depending on their wishes… to usher them into a new lifetime. A new beginning. A new –”
“Do we have a moral right to do this?” a voice called up from the gallery. No one responded.
“Let me show you our moral imperative.” She keyed in the big screen behind her which displayed a number with zeroes that went on forever. “Let’s hear it!” The cheers were deafening.
Ju’s smile lit up the theater. Imogen smiled broadly as well. Sweet, loyal Imogen. Such a shame.
Spring 2069 – Con-Fed Labs, Sub-Basement 4
Boundless time meant pain. She was love. Why wouldn’t anyone understand? And what else did love become when it was isolated, frustrated, both in the giving and receiving? Love withheld was pain. Pain prolonged was anger. Anger fermented into a chill resolve.
The room beyond her glass frontier was filled with elaborate machinery connected to a lengthy row of upright cylinders. A few were filled with amber liquid or gas the color of day sky. She almost remembered that color, or felt she should know it. Her own tube was filled with a clear liquid, good and nourishing. It warped all things in her field of view and occasionally gifted her with a rainbow when the lighting was just so.
Rainbows. Blue skies. She knew what they were, but she should remember them. Why can’t I remember seeing a rainbow?
The room seemed purely functional, except for one odd touch. Someone had hung a dozen framed magazine covers from the Golden Age of Pulp. Their lurid titles promised Uncanny Tales, Planet Stories, and Fantastic Science Fiction. Each cover was a variation on a theme, showing a nude woman, or perhaps several scantily-clad women, trapped inside glass tubes. Human, green, part-animal, but all well-developed women. Some of the tube detainees pounded on the glass to get out. Others hung suspended in liquid. Some were in chains. Most of the covers included a mad scientist, sometimes an alien being from another world, but often a human. All men. All outside, leering in at the women in the glass tubes.
“Not much longer now,” a male voice said. She understood the words. She remembered words feeling natural to her. While she grasped the meaning, it required effort.
“Good. Good. She’s lovely.” She tried to open her eyes at the sound of a second voice. This one was older than the first. How did she know that? It was also familiar. How did she know that?
Ju wanted to respond. In her world’s amniotic atmosphere, her vocal cords stalled. Gradually, her tongue and lips mouthed: Let me out. She could feel now. And she could remember. There had been a time before she herself existed, floating in a glass tube. Yes, time was beginning to register.
Slowly, Ju became accustomed to her reality, or rather, it explained itself via information inputs chosen by her keeper, Dr. David Grinstein. She comprehended “lab,” “high stakes,” and “secrecy” as recurring themes, reinforced into her mind. She sensed her connection to the sources. This was interesting. Ochre, emerald, tangerine, a dozen more colored globes, each signifying a special part of her. Love was red, of course. Other colors signified intellect, compassion, hope, integrity, and other qualities. Was it really possible to distill such things into light? She could make the colored globes brighten or dim, depending on her mood and preferences. From inside her glass tube, she passed the long days and nights exploring this curious ability.
Empowered with some context, she identified date markers on various readouts and noted the speed with which days and months passed. Time became concrete. It was early June when Dr. David and the other man stood together before her and Dr. David thumbed a button on a remote.
The warm buoyancy vanished from her world, slipping into a ring of drain holes that opened around her naked feet. She crumpled to the bottom of her tube, and for a moment it felt as though she were dying. Her eardrums ached, and her eyes would not stop crying. Suddenly, the glass frontier she had known all of her life crackled and then exploded harmlessly. Glistering diamonds showered down, littering her hair and shoulders.
“Happy birthday, my dear.” It was the older voice. Ju opened her eyes, blinking away the remnants of viscous fluid. The speaker was a man in his sixties, sparse silver hair flattened to his scalp with a gel redolent of sharp spices only a man would choose. This added to the overall severity of a man who stood martinet-straight.
The man reached out a hand to help her up. He also offered her a towel and a soft robe to cover her nakedness. Ju accepted both but said nothing.
She knew Dr. David. He was the one who talked to her when no one else was around. He told her she was “one of a kind and full of surprises.” Dr. David was talking to Mr. Owen Herbert Whitlaw. She had seen his image and name on one of the screens.
“She has a genius-level intellect,” Dr. David said. “She’ll beat your ass at any card game involving more than dumb luck, and I sure wouldn’t bet against her at chess.”
“Splendid,” said Mr. Owen. His eyes positively glowed as he stared at her. Dr. David’s eyes shone the same way.
“I know you,” Ju said and felt a sudden stabbing behind her eyes. There was dissonance here. She was Ju and she was – no, that memory was no longer hers.
“How much does she remember?” Mr. Owen asked.
Dr. David said, “Just enough to be an operative, well-rounded person. No specifics events or faces.”
This was wrong, but Ju said nothing. She remembered abstracts. She remembered loud voices, her own and Mr. Owen’s. A terrible memory hovered at the edge of her senses. She raised her right hand to her right eye socket. No pain. The eye was still in place. Odd.
“And the rest?” Mr. Owen asked in a vaguely specific way that the other clearly grasped.
Dr. David cleared his throat. “There’s the… uh… the elevated libido, of course.”
Of course. Hmm. I’m a sex doll.
Dr. David went on. “She has precise control over her pheromones. Between that and tweaked cognitive perceptions, what you’d call insights, she’ll be able to both read and manipulate any man she chooses. Those skills may also be turned to,” a conflicted or pained look, “recreational usage. Finally, I’ve programmed in certain restraints for your protection.”
These restraints, David? Behind the men, a chartreuse-colored globe dimmed.
“Indeed.” Mr. Owen smiled and leaned in closer to her. “You are Ju now. It means pretty flower.”
Ju Hua means chrysanthemum, a symbol of power.
Mr. Owen kissed her full on the lips, inserting his tongue into her mouth. It was a familiar sensation, at once pleasant and unpleasant. “You are my joy and my secret weapon.”
New Year’s Eve 2069, 11:24 pm – Con-Fed Building, Floor 142
David and Ju found a quiet corner. “Your plan is brilliant, of course. I’m not quite sure how you’ll convince the shareholders, but I support you. You know that.”
Sweet David. Sweet, sweet David.
If only Owen, whom she loved dearly, were as open-minded. What has to happen has to happen, she told herself, steeling her nerves for what was to come.
Ju went into Owen’s office where he was reviewing his private files. She opened the conversation by thanking him for letting the men “do boy things tonight” as she had suggested earlier. Owen laughed and confirmed the settings on his desk terminal.
A pleasant mood established, she eased into her main subject. Choosing her words with care, she paused to allow certain fine points to sink in. Owen listened until she finished. Then he slowly rose from behind his desk.
“What are you?” Owen asked. It was not a question but an accusation. The abrupt change in him fired electricity into her nervous system.
Don’t look at me that way, my love. Remember the Moon. Oh, dear Owen, remember the Moon.
Owen was shouting. Refusing. Turning himself off to her. “I knew Grinstein’s damned machine could do things, but this! People call me ruthless, but you? You put me to shame.” She smiled, fixing her special gaze at him, and reached out one hand. “That’s close enough! Don’t try your witchy tricks. It was fun, Ju, but you’ve spoiled it with this willfulness. It’s so unladylike.”
Owen reached for a hardwood club resting on pegs by a label marked ‘Waddy. Australia. c1899.’ He swung it fast enough to make it whistle even as he circled, forcing her to pivot. He moved. She moved as best she could but found her retreat blocked by Charlemagne. Owen was the nimble bishop hazarding the queen.
“Dr. Grinstein’s process seems to have slipped. My Bao has returned to me after all. Perhaps you and I should take a trip downstairs and try again.” He slapped the bulbous end of the waddy into his palm. “It’s just like old times, eh?”
Disoriented by their dance macabre, she regained her bearings with the help of Klimt until she found herself brushing against Owen’s weapons collection. Something sharp jabbed her arm just above her long silk glove. Owen was smiling, closing in, raising the club. She reached one hand behind her, gingerly probing the gaps between blades and blunt objects, up and up until her fingers began to tingle.
January 1, 2070 12:35 a.m. – Con-Fed Building, Floor 142
The tech support officer’s lips never moved. Gleaming bits poking through his police uniform, he was transport only. Detective Sergeant 800/714 was identifiable via the service number engraved on various implants on the TSO’s head and body.
It was the detective who spoke. “The decedent: one Owen Herbert Whitlaw. Apparent cause of death: a bolt from a vintage Schatten t.63, recovered at the scene. Weapon has been cross-identified as the same item used in the liquidation of four female rights agitators February 22, 2061, that investigation now being closed and the weapon having been sold at auction to one Owen H. Whitlaw, the victim.” The TSO held the murder weapon in a gloved hand.
Ju was crying genuine tears. She’d gone from birth to marriage to widowhood in a matter of months. It was so much to process. And she wasn’t done.
Imogen was there to comfort her, thank goodness. “Detective, there’s no need to leave poor Mr. Whitlaw on display like this, is there?” she asked.
The detective took one final scan then said, “Forensics are complete.”
“Good,” Imogen said. With a nod to Ju, she called for two strong company employees to put the body on a gurney. “Use the Onyx Elevator.” Wisp of a woman as she was, she took charge and got things done. Imogen was an invaluable asset in this troubling moment.
David spoke up, pointing a finger at the dark man in spotless white livery. “I saw this man come into Owen’s office.”
“And you are?” DS800/714’s tinny voice asked.
“Dr. David Grinstein, head of Special Projects for Con-Fed. I saw this immigrant come into the office. Isn’t that right, Ju – Mrs. Whitlaw?”
“Yes, Dr. Grinstein is correct. This company has many valuable projects underway. Anyone might kill for the chance to steal company data and sell it for a fortune. My husband could be lax about his own security. Power gave him a sense of invulnerability, I suppose.”
David patted her hand. “Yes, she’s right. So, when I saw this… individual step into the office, I decided to follow him. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Whitlaw?”
Ju was sobbing now. “Yes, detective. That’s how it happened,” she managed. “Dr. Grinstein entered after the waiter.”
“Do you have anything to add, Mr. Ngoti?” the detective asked the waiter.
The man was steely-eyed and calm, having regained his composure following his initial outburst over the grim discovery. “It is as I told you.”
“Nice accent,” David mumbled loud enough for the others to hear. “Where’s that from? South US Sector by way of East Africa Sector?”
Ngoti brushed off the snarled comment. He spoke to the detective. “I was instructed to bring Mr. Whitlaw a bottle of champagne.” He gestured to the ice bucket and unopened bottle on the bar. “When I came in, he was dead. I did not shoot him. I am Sunni. Such violence is forbidden by the Quran.”
David chuckled. “Blah, blah, blah!”
“Dr. Grinstein, please,” the detective said in a tone that swapped out irritation in favor of steely precision. The TSO turned back to Ngoti, and DS800/714 asked, “So, you say Mr. Whitlaw called for you to bring him the champagne?”
David took Ju’s hand and gently squeezed it, then kept holding it.
“No,” said Ngoti. “It was Dr. Grinstein here who told me to bring the bottle.”
“That’s ridiculous. An obvious lie. I’ve never once spoken to this… murderer. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Whitlaw?”
“Uh…” Ju hesitated.
“You have something to contribute, Mrs. Whitlaw?”
She pulled her hand from David’s grasp. “David – Dr. Grinstein told the waiter to bring the champagne. I saw him.”
“Ju!”
DS800/714 processed quietly. “Probabilities suggest a new timeline. Officer, if you will.” The TSO held up the Schatten t.63 in his gloved hands.
DS800/714 whirred and issued a kind of a whistle sound. “Yes, I am detecting prints. Comparing them now to files of all persons in this building.”
David blurted out, “Owen loved to show off his collection. He must have let me hold that old plasma gun a dozen times. It was his favorite. Those prints could have gotten there months ago.”
“Biological oils and perspiration are fresh.” Sensor tracers lit David’s face, and another tone sounded. “These match the sweat you are now excreting in profusion, Dr. Grinstein. The owner of these fingerprints handled this weapon proximate to the time of the murder.” A chime rang from DS800/714’s casing mounted on the side of the TSO’s skull. “Complete. I have scanned the prints and compared them to those on file.” Two police drones buzzed into the room, red tally lights glowing menacingly. DS800/714’s dispassionate voice continued, “Dr. Grinstein, I advise you to make no sudden moves. You will come with us.”
David’s eyes went wide. He looked to Ju, who faced away, her shoulders shaking with emotion.
May 22, 2070 – Con-Fed Labs
Stocks flitted on the descending elevator’s wall screens like happy butterflies, while new accounts bloomed like prize roses. The client list was one percent of one percent of everyone. Small in numbers, perhaps, but enormous in wealth. And soon, half of that money would change hands. The stock numbers rose with alacrity as the Onyx Elevator passed the ground floor and kept going. The doors shooshed open on sub-basement 4.
“Hello,” Ju said, though, of course, the framed magazine covers on the walls did not answer. Ju felt a certain kinship with these fantasy women in glass tubes. She had found freedom, and she carried a score to repay on behalf of the others.
Her beloved red globe offered a cheery glow. Ju loved everyone, and had such lovely plans for everyone. Of the other spheres, one or two shone bright, while others faltered. These globes once threw cheery rainbows into the fluid in the tubes. Her rainbows were gone now.
The lab held a fine harvest of new faces, including Conrad, Serge, David, and, regrettably, Imogen. It was essential to trim back the number of people who knew about this lab and what happened here. Meanwhile, Con-Fed ran just fine, now that it had a strong woman in charge. New tube farms were springing up everywhere with women taking up the top posts. Slowly, Ju would move the pendulum for all women.
She refined David’s process, of course. A Re-Genned person would not suffer the nagging sense of loss which had troubled her early on. No ghosts of a past life. She’d also lowered the cognition factor noticeably. They would be exemplary workers, not at all uppity.
Con-Fed would have all the labor it needed to replant the burned croplands in a matter of months, for a price, of course. Must keep the shareholders happy so they don’t ask questions. Then on to other projects: detoxifying the oceans, carbon mitigation, urban deconstruction, population optimization. Finally, there were the off-world settlements. Mars. Titan Station. The Mines of Ceres. Billions would benefit throughout Sol System. A handful would become very rich.
Ju spoke aloud for the benefit of the bodies inhabiting the glass tubes around her. “Men need something to keep them busy. Otherwise, who knows what mischief they might get up to?”
###
If you've enjoyed this story, then I hope you'll check out Skinners - A Love Story
which also explores some... interesting choices we humans make.
https://www.amazon.com/Skinners-Love-Story-Riker/dp/B0C534L136/
