“We don’t know that,” Slim said. “This one, I think she’s the leader. She’ll tell us something.”
Tony shook his head but said nothing. He hadn’t liked Slim’s plan from the start. And repeating something that didn’t work the first seven times was dumb. Slim had certain skills, but thinking wasn’t one of his strong suits. He broke open an ammonia smelling salt under the woman’s nose. The pungent odor overwhelmed the room immediately and her head jerked up.
“Hello, Sonja,” Slim said.
Sonja moved her body violently but ineffectually. Slim had duct taped her legs, arms, and body to the chair. She struggled, but there was no give. When she realized the effort was futile, she stopped and looked at the two of them. “I must be getting close.”
“Very good, Sonja,” Slim said. “You are. But now we need something from you, the records of your investigation.” Slim was silhouetted by the cheerful sun coming in the window. “We want to know what you know.”
Sonja said nothing, just stared off past them. “Let me go.”
Slim bent down in front of her face. “Just tell us, Sonja. It’s not hard. You’re investigating some murders.” He caressed her neck. “We already know you are. So it can’t hurt to tell us what you know.”
She grimaced again and tried to pull her head away. She was wearing a necklace, some kind of tribal carving. Slim looked at it and yanked it off. “Answer me. How did you find out about the murders?”
Sonja didn’t reply.
Tony looked over to the aluminum box on the table. Yellow indicator lights blinked. The box would block any attempt for her to connect to the net.
Slim put the necklace in his pocket. “Turn her around,” Slim said, looking out the window.
Tony reluctantly trudged over to the woman. He really hadn’t signed up for this. He didn’t mind the killing or the extracting memories. It beat dealing with junkies, who were as likely to try to stab you as to pay you. But this torturing business made him uncomfortable. A man’s gotta draw the line somewhere. Sighing, he put his hands on either side of the seat, and turned it around so that Sonja faced the opposite wall. The chair slowly pivoted on two legs, and Sonja gasped as the rest of the Enforcement team came into view.
“You fucking bastards,” she screamed. She fought against the duct tape again, her head jerking back and forth. She succeeded only in rocking the chair until Tony put his hands on the back to steady it.
The bodies of the seven other members of the Enforcement team were piled up over the hotel furniture, two or three deep on the clothing dresser and suitcase holder. They were frozen, gap mouthed, ugly in death. At the left end the bodies were clean, without a mark on them. Then, as the extraction machine had failed, one after another, to get useful information Slim had tried increasing levels of physical torture. At the far end of the dresser, a fair-haired boy sat, crumpled, bloody lines leading up his lap to his fingerless hands.
Slim waited for a minute, then came around in front of Sonja. He grabbed hold of her hair and pulled, twisting her head sideways. “I want to know what you know about the murders. You’re smarter than them, aren’t you? I want to know what’s in that pretty little encrypted brain of yours.”
Sonja shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Tell me, you bitch.” Slim slapped Sonja across the face.
Tony sighed and left the room, rubbing his large stomach. This violence was unsettling. Now he’d never be able to enjoy dinner.
14
“Stop that,” Mike said, rubbing his head. “You’re interrogating my implant every five minutes. My ID is off, dammit.”
“Sorry,” Leon said, still unsettled after his experience at the Institute.
“We’ll rent an aircar to visit Shizoko,” Mike said. “It’ll be private, so no one will spot us, and we can be in Austin in eight hours.”
Leon thought about flying in a computer-controlled aircar. “We’ll be sitting ducks if there’s an AI on the side of the extremists. Aircars are fully automated and tracked.”
“You want to go with a commercial flight?” Mike’s voice rose in disbelief.
“No, I want to be totally off the grid. What if we take the Continental?”
“We’d still be on the passenger manifest.”
“Then let’s get a car without a computer or transponder.”
“They haven’t made those in twenty years.” Mike said. “Besides, you know how long it takes to drive to Austin?”
Leon looked it up. “Twenty-five hours, if we take turns driving.”
Mike grunted. “I read once that if they expect you to go high-tech, then you should go low-tech. And you and I are as high-tech as it comes. So yeah, I like it.”
After researching the net, they found themselves at an exotic car rental next to the Waterfront. The glass-fronted building was filled with gleaming aircars and a smattering of expensive roadcars, with a black and white Bugatti as the centerpiece, massive ducted fan ports at the four corners. A Lotus Xavier roadcar quivered as they passed it, startling Leon, who jumped away. It was unnerving, not knowing what was sentient.
“We want to rent an antique,” Mike said to the wall in the office.
A head popped up behind the counter, hair standing tall in multicolored spikes, eyes blinking in adjustment to the light. “We have last year’s Lotus.”
“No, a real antique,” Leon said. “We don’t want modern cars. We want something really old, a roadcar. Something you drive manually.”
The teenager’s eyes went wide. “You want to drive it?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s absurd. You don’t drive cars. AIs do the driving.”
“Look, it says on the net that you have exotic antiques,” Leon said. “Show them to us.”
He went blank for a second and then refocused. “They’re in the basement.”
They took a vehicle-sized elevator down, the door opening to admit the smell of old leather, oil, and dust.
Two dozen vehicles sat at odd angles around the open floor. An armored black stretch limousine was closest. The specs floated above the car in netspace, and bulletproof tires gleamed in high intensity spotlights.
“That’s nice,” Leon said. “I like the idea of armor.”
“Too flashy,” Mike said, passing it by.
A 2011 Lotus Exige was next. “Last Exige manufactured. Number twenty-five of twenty-five, limited production run.” Leon whistled. “It’s beautiful.”
“Too small,” Mike said.
Leon ignored Mike, and crossed to the opposite side, spotting a curvaceous gleaming silver car. “Ever hear of something called a split window Corvette?” he called across the floor.
“Come here,” Mike yelled. “I found it.”
Leon reluctantly left the Corvette and came to stand next to Mike, in front of an enormous, blocky white car. “What the heck is it?”
“A 1971 Cadillac convertible,” Mike announced. “Now this is a road-trip car.” He caressed the fender.
Leon was doubtful. Mike had gone crazy. “It doesn’t look very fast, and there’s no protection, not even a roof.”
“No, this is perfect. I have a good vibe about it.”
Leon threw his hands up. “You’re insane.”
Mike turned to the attendant. “Does it run on gas?”
“On gas?” he replied, his mouth hanging open. “No, it’s electric. Like all cars.”
“It’s a seventy-one Caddy. They didn’t have electric cars back then.”
“It’s electric,” the teenager insisted. “There are no gas stations anymore.” He pulled open the fuel cover to display an electric outlet. “See?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Mike looked the car up and down one more time. “We’ll take it.”