Spin (Captain Chase) Read online

  That’s assuming Carme doesn’t show up first, pretending to be me. And if she’s not gotten there by now and doesn’t soon, then we have a much bigger problem.

  “Somehow, I have to be reconnected,” I tell ART out loud as I slip-slide along, the straps of my bags digging into my shoulders. “And is my sister on her way to the morgue?” It sounds ominous as I say it. “Is she okay? What’s happened to her?”

  It stands to reason that ART knows. If Carme and I share the same Artificial Research Technician because of our SINs, then obviously she’s talking to him at least as much as I am. Possibly more since she was implemented first. ART could be communicating with both of us simultaneously, and the thought makes me feel less important.

  He might give her preferential treatment because they’ve known each other longer. He might tell her things he doesn’t tell me, possibly leaking what I share with him in confidence, choosing her over me as pretty much everyone else always has done, and now I feel stung.

  “Bottom line, you know what’s going on with her,” I make my point firmly but respectfully, having learned my lesson about contagious demeanor. “You know where she is at all times and what she’s doing. Is she alive and unharmed? It wasn’t Carme in that accident, was it? Can’t you at least tell me that?”

  “Not authorized,” ART replies, and once again it’s up to Dick and whoever else comprises his Gemini project pantheon.

  “For the record, that’s unfair,” I reply, a slick of black ice dead ahead. “But if you’re not going to tell me what I want to know, at least let me find out for myself. Let me see for myself what I need to know.”

  Should Carme suddenly show up at the OCME, I have to be in the loop, I add a tad aggressively. Each of us needs to be privy to what the other’s doing so we can help without interfering or blowing our cover. We’re supposed to tag team, act as partners, be in this together while being apart, reminding him of Dick’s own mantra, my tone a little sharp.

  “You will be appropriately warned,” ART’s reasonable voice is about to get testy in my earpiece.

  “That would be much appreciated,” I dial it back, making sure I don’t sound bossy or strident. “Also, at this level of technical sophistication, I shouldn’t have been logged out of the camera system just because I hung up on Joan. Which wouldn’t have happened to begin with had you reminded me about background noise from the airfield,” I don’t say it accusatorily.

  “Do you wish to reconnect with her?” ART asks in my ear. “It will require logging back into the OCME CCTV surveillance system through her mobile device . . .”

  “No, please don’t!” That’s the last thing I want.

  “Copy. Unable to reconnect otherwise.”

  “What! Why?”

  “L-O-S,” is his response.

  Duh and shut the front door! I don’t need my own private Genius Bar to figure out that much. Of course, I’m disconnected from the OCME camera system because I have a loss of signal.

  Which is the same thing as informing me that my computer stopped working because it suddenly turned off. Or the power’s out because there’s no electricity. That doesn’t tell me why or what the frick to do about it!

  “Rats! Rats! Rats!” as I wade through snow, the Tahoe 15 meters (50 feet) out. “And don’t take it literally,” I’m quick to add, not wanting ART to research the slightest thing relating to rodents, nor do I want to be startled by photos of them in my lenses.

  I don’t understand why he can’t reconnect me to the OCME’s cameras unless I’m out of range. Certainly, this isn’t the best spot, surrounded by big trees, buildings, endless stretches of woods and water in a remote area of the Air Force base. What a bad time to be cut off, left in the dark, freaking out about my sister.

  I tell myself there’s not a thing I can do about her at the moment, to pay attention before I make matters worse by taking a bad spill. I pick my way across the slippery, sloshy parking lot as winter-bare trees clack like bones, and old evergreen shrubs rustle like stiff petticoats when the wind blows hard and fitfully.

  12

  I FOLLOW the vivid yellow path mapped in my FIND while monitoring all sorts of data in my PEEPS and SPIES.

  Constant weather and news updates crawl by, and also emails, messages, including a BOLO Fran just this minute forwarded. The be on the lookout notification is about a real-life grand theft auto at the Tidewater International Car Show, it seems.

  Two concept vehicles, together valued at half a million dollars, have vanished into thin air. Hampton police are on their heads about it, and I remember the snippet I heard on TV when I turned it on by pointing my finger hours earlier.

  Just local news so far, Fran says in her text. But gonna be a sh*t show. When are you getting here?

  “Text her back that I’ll be there in a few,” I tell ART.

  F-22 Raptor tactical fighters growl and roar like supersonic dragons, drowning out every sound, percussing in my hollow organs.

  “What’s the problem with the internet?” raising my voice over the deafening din as if ART is walking next to me and not part of my SIN. “And can you somehow fix it?”

  “Line drop error,” he says in my earpiece as I continue trudging.

  I detour as instructed in my FIND, and the closer I get to the shaded area where the Tahoe is parked, the icier and more dangerous the conditions.

  “Well that’s remarkably unspecific and useless,” I reply with a flare of exasperation. “Informing me there are system errors doesn’t tell me what to do about them.”

  “This might be a good time to test the Aerial Internet Ranger, the AIR,” ART suggests, and I can’t help but feel set up, manipulated, handled like a gaming character.

  I’m more than a little suspicious that the communication breakdown is intentional, leaving me no alternative but to try out the AIR prototype, Ranger, as we call him. Still in beta testing, he’s possibly the most useful PONG Dad and I have dreamed up so far, a combo missing link and guide with a little police dog mixed in.

  Ranger’s inglorious and hardworking purpose in life is to provide a faithful mobile network connection, riding herd on autonomous vehicles, in particular other Personal Orbs Not Grounded. They don’t do well when out of touch or unshepherded, and it’s an AIR’s job to avoid Ranger Danger by making sure signals aren’t interrupted, corrupted and dropped.

  It wouldn’t take much of a disconnect or miscommunication for a flock of synchronized drones to fall from the sky, follow the wrong command or never leave the perch. Soon enough AIRs will empower and guide Swarms of Unmanned Device Systems, SUDS, which is rather much what it will look like when the self-flying orbs travel in crowds like migrating birds.

  “Let’s try it,” I confirm to ART that it’s a go to give Ranger a run for the money, and the Tahoe is just ahead. “We’ll see how our flying hotspot does when put through his paces for real.”

  I instruct that we should set him in GHOST mode, Ground Hosted Operating System Transparency, a techy way of saying a PONG will go clear or reflective, rather much like a bubble or a mirror. That ought to work fine in this afternoon’s improving weather as opposed to going Vanish Object in Darkness (VOID) mode, the orb’s light-absorbing skin disappearing in the blackest nights and places.

  “To be on the safe side, we’re going to want the anti-ice function turned on,” I decide. “Should there be freezing precipitation, we can’t risk Ranger getting heavier and losing lift. I suggest we reset gyros and aerodynamic stabilizers,” as I reach my new take-home SUV. “And let’s go with force-trim mode to keep him on a steady flight path. We’ve got to be mindful that the wind’s still gusting pretty hard.”

  “Currently out of the west. Calm aloft starting at 61 meters, 200 feet and higher,” ART lets me know as Raptors rumble and roar,
taking off and landing from Runway 26.

  “Then set that as the minimum altitude unless the conditions shift,” I direct, and at first blush my Chase Car, like my other new equipment, looks like nothing special except the paint job is a matte shark gray instead of the usual shiny black.

  Reaching the driver’s door, I comment out loud that I’m surprised it’s locked while the engine is running. I wasn’t expecting that, and I try to remember which pocket I jammed the key into when I was walking out of suite 604, struggling with my bags, getting to know ART while lying to Joan on the phone and trying to cope.

  “It auto-locks for security reasons,” his explanation. “This is necessary because the Tahoe is set to remote start from as far as 1.6 kilometers, a mile away.”

  “Makes sense,” I agree. “We wouldn’t want someone else driving off in it before I get the chance.”

  “Biometric sensors won’t permit anyone unauthorized to operate the vehicle.”

  “Good to know. But can you open her up so I don’t have to dig out the key, please?”

  “You can use your WAND.”

  “Oh Lord, my what?”

  “The Working Animated Networked Digit,” he says, and I look at my right index finger, assuming that’s what he means. “What gesture would you like set in memory?” he asks next, and I have to think about it for a second.

  I’m trying to envision the best way to unlock my car without anyone (nosy Fran most of all) detecting my new abilities. It probably makes the most sense simply to do what I would naturally and without a thought, and I touch my thumb to my index finger as if clicking the button on a remote key.

  The subtlest of gestures sends an infrared signal to release the Tahoe’s electronic locks. A quiet snap, and I open the back door nearest me, reinforced with steel, lightweight laminates and ballistic alloys if I had to guess, the tinted window glass layered and thicker than normal.

  Dropping my bags on a rigid-shelled blast-resistant seat, I check out the cargo area, curious about the large storage box built into the ceiling. Two smaller ones on the floor correlate with the locations of the beefy dual exhaust pipes. And I do a walk-around, ART in my ear giving me a tour, describing everything I’m looking at . . .

  The oversize all-terrain run-flat tires . . .

  The emergency lights built into the front-mounted blacked-out steel grid and over the bulletproof windshield . . .

  The stubble of antennas and domed signal jammer on the solar-paneled roof . . .

  The hatch in the tailgate that reminds me of a doggie door, only this one’s for drone deployment . . .

  Climbing into the driver’s seat, I face the overwhelming reality that when Dick was talking to me earlier, he knew darn well what was in store this afternoon. A trial by ordeal and a bag of tricks would be one way to look at it, an education by extreme immersion would be another.

  Every detail has been carefully planned and calculated, I’m convinced. Whether it’s ART, a loss of signal necessitating an AIR, following a FIND across a hazardous parking lot or using my bionic WAND to unlock my Chase Car, I’m doing exactly what Dick or someone else divines.

  00:00:00:00:0

  “ALL RIGHT, let’s see what we’ve got here,” I begin surveying what looks more like the cockpit of a military aircraft than any law enforcement vehicle I’ve seen up close and personal.

  Barely 300 miles on the odometer, and I have a feeling my Secret Service–inspired chariot with its new-car smell is another prototype like almost everything else, including Carme and me. The mileage probably is from racetracks, test-driving ranges, and for sure I’ll never figure out and manage all the systems without AI assistance, starting with the dark-gray pleathery-looking upholstery.

  Based on transmissions I’m picking up in my CUFF, the material is woven with sensors, reminding me of the formfitting skin Carme had on at the Point Comfort Inn. I’m pretty sure my SUV’s smart materials are interactive, that they probably can self-repair, change appearance and are electrically conductive.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re able to stimulate circulation, bones, joints, muscles when one can’t do anything but sit for long bouts, on an extended standoff, an endless stakeout, a grueling chase or journey. We’re developing the same technologies for long-duration flights when astronauts head to the moon, Mars, and other faraway places.

  I’m betting dyes and pigments in fabrics, plastics and paints are photochromic, changing colors and shades depending on the need. And what a thought that I could be driving a gunpowder gray Tahoe one minute, and it’s red, white or blue the next. Or it might go into stealth mode on its own, blending with the surroundings and the weather rather much like a sea dragon or a PONG.

  The carbon fiber joystick next to the shifter seems to be the main control unit, and wherever there’s real estate, flat touch screens have been mounted, on the back of the visors, on either side of the heads-up display, and across the dash. Some are divided into quadrants showing multiple camera images. Others are menus with acronyms and labels, most of them unfamiliar.

  I figure a SRCH LT is what it sounds like. I know and appreciate what a FLIR thermal-imaging camera is, and infrared is always handy in low-light conditions. I have no trouble understanding the engine specs ART shows me as we go through the run-up systems check.

  By all indications my Chase Car is no slouch. Bi-turbo V-8, 700 horsepower with an 8-speed automatic transmission, it has ceramic disc brakes worthy of a Lamborghini. Additional not-so-standard features in my new ride include a High Energy Laser (HEL) that fires from a Retractable Attack Turret (RAT).

  Both work hand in glove with the Tracking and Targeting Locator (TATL) to warn and defend against Shoulder Launched Armed Missiles (SLAMs) and other Antisocial Gestures (AGs), I’m briefed through the truck’s speakers. It remains to be seen what I’ll do with a Flamethrower (FLTH), or a Water Artillery Disruptor (WAD) that fires a laser-guided Water Shot (WASH) able to penetrate metal.

  I wouldn’t want to try out any of this on a crowded street. Not the Smoke Retaliator (SMOKR) either, although leaving a dense noxious fog in my wake would be a good way to lose someone. Making my getaway, I could change my identity to my heart’s content with the morphing license plates (MORPs).

  Made of rugged glass-like polycarbonate, the faux tags are actually computer flat-screens. They flip up on command from the TATL, revealing Rifle Integrated Ports (RIPs) front and back that can unleash 800 rounds per minute from Full-Auto M16s (FAMs). And while it’s a handy feature to have, I’m not sure when I’d use it unless it’s to take out the tires of an entire convoy coming after me like Thelma and Louise.

  If shooting live ammo from a moving vehicle in an urban setting isn’t the best-laid plan, I suppose I could destroy your windshield or engine with a well-placed WASH from the WAD, now that I think of it. Or blind you with my SMOKR before flambéing your persistent tailgating vehicle with my FLTH.

  It would seem I have quite the selection of apocalyptic tools at my disposal to keep me in good order assuming they don’t do me in first. I wasn’t exactly given advance notice that I’d be piloting a Silverado pickup truck one day and a Death Star the next. There’s no instruction book beyond ART. Not even Carme is around to ask, maybe neither of us available to the other, and I honestly have no freakin’ idea what I’m doing. Or how I’ll manage.

  “Here we go,” a deep breath, I shove the Tahoe into gear, thinking, Now or never.

  I set out across the parking lot, reminded right away that something this heavy is sluggish getting started. And then doesn’t want to stop. So I’m careful not to do anything sudden, resisting the temptation to put the tricked-out SUV through its paces as the run-flats chew through slush and drifted snow like nobody’s business.

  “A laser for shooting down drones, front and back M16s, a water
disrupter for taking out engines, tires, who knows what,” I say to ART. “How many of these features are operational now?”

  “It depends,” his non-answers are getting tedious.

  “The reason I’m wondering is a few minutes ago this thing wouldn’t do much beyond remote starting,” as I gently, cautiously turn onto the shaded icy lane that leads to the main drag, the tires sliding a little. “What happens if I need to fire up the laser? Or if a bad guy launches a missile, a grenade, a weaponized drone with my name on it? That wouldn’t be a good time to tell me something isn’t operational or that we need permission.”

  “It depends on the conditions,” and what he’s saying is it’s about the algorithms. “I’m required to assist at all times,” my invisible copilot adds as if it’s nonnegotiable.

  “I can see why I’ll need help,” I’m objective about it. “But what happens if you and I can’t connect? Or don’t agree? Are there fail-safe overrides?”

  “Affirmative. But not all of them have been optimized yet,” a jargony way of saying we really don’t know squat about how things are going to work or not.

  “Well, that wasn’t what I was hoping to hear but I guess I’m getting used to it,” I comment, grateful the Air Force base is relatively quiet.

  Thank goodness traffic is light, as I would expect on a Sunday afternoon, and I’m lumbering along at a cautious pace, getting acclimated to handling my Chase Car. The biggest challenge is monitoring multiple screens that have multiple pages of menus and images, the potential for multitasking quantum.