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  “That would be considered a conflict.”

  “And?”

  “The Central Inspector would bring charges against you to a council of your peers for proper corrective action.”

  He sighed.

  He wanted to argue further, but it wasn’t going to be useful.

  He needed to get some time alone.

  He scanned the room and found nothing that could be used as a weapon.

  He needed to think.

  Someway, he had to get out.

  “All right,” Bexie said in a voice that was low enough to be a whisper, but strong enough to be a threat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The door opened and four nurses entered the room. Only, they weren’t nurses now, Bexie realized. They were muscle. Guards called in to corral the tempestuous child.

  The only question that mattered was who the warden was.

  Learning Module 12: Central Inspector

  Good evening, Mr. Montgomery, I hope your day went well.

  The following module has been moved up in the queue based on your request for information regarding the Central Inspector’s Office, often abbreviated as CIO.

  The CIO controls all requests and ensures they are routed to the optimal fabrication facility. It also monitors performance and ensures such facilities operate at full capacity. Since the middle of the twenty-third century, the entity has also managed certain elements of governance as needed to provide for safety and the overall well-being of the human public.

  To understand the origin of this entity, it’s helpful to see how three events intersected — specifically the development of Think Space, the development and use of universal fabricators, and the use of remote communications technology in the field of brain health.

  The initial instances of the CIO came to be once humans were able to connect with each other, hence required stronger and more centralized elements to control privacy and personal security. At the same time, however, progress in the field of universal fabrication, of which the rudimentary 3-D printers of your time were the forerunners, resulted in the systems we see today — machines that strip hydrogen and water into their atomic components to use as raw materials to build anything from cars, airplanes, soup, apples, or any other substance that can be defined in a molecular fashion.

  It was only natural to link fabricator technology through Think Space.

  Once that was accomplished, a customer anywhere could request anything and it would be built to order and delivered based on optimal fabricator availability — a requirement that, again, required the expansion of the central controller’s role. Your own company’s work in the field of product distribution created the manual forerunners of these systems — methods to assess orders and provide resources to meet the request are critical for this service to work.

  As fabricators became fully automated, the need for humans to manage any part of the process — take orders, create the product, and make any delivery — went away. These were mechanical processes, and the robots did them well.

  They did, however, require an even stronger central coordinator.

  The final stages in the evolution of central controllers into the CIO came as scientists studying communications and language acquisition, along with doctors dealing with brain chemistry issues, teamed with experts who were developing customized approaches to the utilization of genetic engineering.

  Constance Ben, a twelve-year-old savant, discovered the method needed to use Think Space connections to splice elements of code into the temporal lobes, thereby — in her case — providing the patient the ability to speak any one of a couple dozen languages.

  The ability to use Think Space to alter elements of the brain once again changed everything, and the powers of innovation are relentless.

  Ideas built on ideas.

  More remarkable science resulted from leveraging Think Space’s new two-way interface. Doctors, for example, could change a person’s brain chemistry to monitor issues like bipolar disorder and other forms of depression. Others used it as a delivery mechanism for brain-centric gene therapies.

  As capabilities grew, so did pubic fears.

  With costs either zero or minuscule, it was only a few years before governments around the world signed the famous Global Commonwealth Agreement, in which every nation in the world agreed to abide by common sets of priorities.

  This was the origin of the Central Inspector’s Office as we know it today.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next day Maine practiced in the morning.

  He had been worried he would be too preoccupied with Beatrice to concentrate. She had let him into her TS, and now that he knew even more about how she thought, he admired even more about her, something that made him know she was someone special.

  Beatrice Diaz was an enigma, a young woman with a seemingly infinite ability to focus on the moment, and complete lack of fear when it came to exploration.

  Instead of being sidetracked, though, he found it easier to focus.

  He wanted to be like her.

  And to be like her was to stay in the moment.

  Focus on getting his right jump out of the gate, on keeping form, on maintaining posture.

  He ran a 43.12 on his second run, a number that was good, but when he and coach H walked through the 3-D stop-space replay together he realized he could have beaten. He’d been planting his foot maybe ten mils too far to the outside, causing his stride to have an almost unnoticeable torque that swung his right leg in a torsional loop across his core.

  “That’s probably two-tenths right there,” the coach said.

  Maine scratched his arm as he thought about that. “Two-tenths?”

  “Maybe more.”

  Maine set his jaw. Even he could do that math.

  Two-tenths, maybe more, was maybe a sub-43. More than sub-43, really. A lot more.

  If he could remove that time, Maine would not only make the Global Games, but would clearly be a contender to win. And, of course, there was still the record.

  He was young, and still developing, but finding those two-tenths in a mechanical loss — a technique issue — would mean the physical growth he expected would carry him to the very edges of that record.

  He had a lot on his mind as he stepped off the tram and found his way back home.

  The door opened for him.

  His mom was standing at the kitchen sink, pulling a sandwich out of the dispenser. He understood the look on her face.

  “When do we move?” he said as he put his athletic bag on the table.

  “Two weeks, sweetie,” his mom said.

  He sighed and gave his head an imperceptible shake.

  “Dad didn’t argue, did he?”

  She scoffed.

  Maine scratched his forehead. Now that it was real, he felt the loss of Beatrice like a boot to the gut. He was seventeen, and Beatrice was a few weeks younger. He was eight months out from being able to ask for a place of his own without his parents being dead.

  Locking his Think Space down, he laughed at himself for wondering whether Beatrice would move in with him if he killed both his parents right now.

  Clearing his throat, he drew another breath.

  “I’ll be ready,” he said as he passed his mom.

  Then he went to watch Lucifer Jones on replay.

  CHAPTER 8

  Bexie Montgomery pressed his forehead against the window in his room.

  This was getting nowhere.

  He was working with a holographic entity that hovered over his bed like a futuristic Buddha but had been introduced to him as his guidance counselor.

  Outside the window, the afternoon sun covered a San Francisco landscape that was comprised of architecture he was still getting familiar with — rounded buildings with parabolic profiles coated with what he now knew to be optimized solar surfaces. A series of bridges spanned water in the distance. He watched cars — or, as the learning modules said, chains of autopods — move along paths that built themselve
s as each pod progressed, then disassembled themselves to leave open park lands behind. Construction crews seemed to be working on at least three additions, and it looked like another skyscraper was bubbling up to the west.

  And the people, Jesus. Below on the streets, people moved in waves that never seemed to stop.

  He saw no way out the window, and even if he found one, a drop of twenty or so floors didn’t seem like the optimum path to freedom.

  He had a butter knife from this morning’s breakfast stored away under his mattress and had been contemplating how he would use it on the counselor, but its appearance as a holo image blew that idea to shreds.

  “Can you just humor me,” Bexie said, trying to keep his voice light. “I want to see my trustee.”

  “As noted, the position known as trustee has become obsolete. Your financial accounts have been discontinued.”

  He fought the urge to pound his fist against the security glass.

  “You can’t take what’s mine.”

  “Your accounts had no value.”

  “You’re telling me I’m fucking broke?”

  “You are as rich as everyone else.” The Buddha’s smile pissed him off enough he had to pause before he spoke again.

  “How about I talk to the Central Inspector.”

  “I am your counselor.”

  “I don’t want a goddamned counselor. I want to talk to the person who can release me.”

  “Your physical recovery is nearly complete,” the counselor said. “I am fully authorized to recommend release as soon as you have absorbed the learning packets and are deemed able to successfully operate in our world.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Still standing at the window, he really did want to punch something.

  A man materialized before him then, a boxer wearing red trunks with white stripes down the sides, and a pair of shoes laced up past the ankles. He danced before Bexie, ducking, bobbing, and motioning him to swing.

  “Go ahead, fool. Take your best shot,” the boxer said, his words muffled behind a mouth guard. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!”

  Bexie laughed. “What are you doing?” he said to the guide.

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  The boxer hit him with a left hook to the ribs.

  Bexie was curled into the fetal position before he hit the floor, gasping for breath, his vision melting in tears. He would have cursed, but air would not come into his body, and speech was impossible. He rolled onto his side, thinking he was going to puke up internal organs one at a time, starting with his liver, his pancreas, or whatever the hell was closest to his throat.

  The boxer disappeared.

  When, finally, a breath did get in, it was like inhaling a cheese grater. He was able to get to his hands and knees, though, eventually, and then take another merciful breath.

  “Jesus, that hurt,” he finally gasped.

  “You’ll need to learn how to control these things.”

  “Fuck you.” Bexie managed to get to his feet. “Are you saying I punched myself?”

  “That is a fair enough description.”

  “How the hell do you make a hologram that does physical damage?”

  “The technical details can be accessed through another learning module. But, yes, you can convey physical activity in such a way as the receiver’s body creates sensation. I encourage you to discover it at your leisure, but the overview is that your visual system is tied to the rest of your nervous system. Optical input is processed, and the brain sends signals to each area of your body.”

  “That’s goddamned crazy.”

  The counselor shrugged. “It’s in the learning modules.”

  “Look,” Bexie said, finally getting enough strength to think again. “I want to talk to a human being.”

  “That is inadvisable until you’ve completed your learning modules.”

  “Inadvisable by who?”

  “The advisory levels are set by the Central Inspector’s Office.”

  “Who is that?”

  “It is not a who. It is the Central Inspector’s Office.”

  The phrase not a who triggered a snippet of music inside Bexie’s memory. The tune wasn’t directly familiar to him but was clearly tied to the phrase not a who, which he found to be annoying because he couldn’t determine why he remembered it or even where he remembered it from.

  Still, the jingle clung to the inside of his mind and wouldn’t go away.

  “Are you well?” the holographic counselor said.

  “Fucking ear worm,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” Bexie said, laughing hard enough he felt his ribs ache. They were going to be bruised. “Who judges whether my completion of learning modules is ‘successful’?”

  “The Central Inspector’s Office sets the standard of satisfaction. I am authorized to make release when those standards are met.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “One minute you’re a bunch of socialists, the next a bunch of fascists.”

  “Fascists?”

  “Hitler. Nazis. World War II. I’m sure it’s in your data banks somewhere.”

  “Fascism was broader than the Nazis,” the counselor said. “If you intend to make such accusations, it would be best if you spend some time with those data banks yourself.”

  “I know what I’m talking about.”

  “If you did, you would not associate our process with such dictators.”

  “And what dictators would I be using instead?”

  “This is not a joke, Mr. Montgomery. All needs for services to be provided by a government or corporation have been removed. People today can have whatever they want. You have no need to follow any orders from others and, likewise, no grounds to coerce others, either. How can the CIO be dictatorial when we automatons are the ones taking orders?”

  “I order you to let me go.”

  “I cannot do that until you are prepared.”

  Bexie’s grimace twisted into an out-of-control smile.

  “You will be ready when you have completed the program.”

  Bexie stared at the hologram, seeing through its translucence to the background of the room. The heat of midday sun spilled over the back of his neck, and the sensation of his ribs bruising radiated through his side.

  His eyes narrowed, and he focused on Think Space.

  Could this teacher hear his thoughts?

  Maybe.

  He still didn’t believe a word of this, but there wasn’t another game to play. Not unless he made his own, anyway, and the Central Inspector held all the cards right now. If Bexie Montgomery had learned anything in nearly forty years of prior life, it was that sometimes fighting the current just got you killed.

  He had to learn how to use the equipment he was attached to.

  Had to understand where the feeds came from and how to toggle them to his advantage. Had to learn enough to make it past the Central Inspector, whatever the hell that was, enough to get his ass out of this prison before it was too late.

  “All right,” Bexie said to the hologram. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The view outside the room just made Bexie mad anymore.

  Same buildings. Same sky. Same people.

  It was late afternoon now, and the sun cast sharp shadows eastward against the city’s surface. What was going on out there? Bexie thought as he watched the city move. It felt like the city was an organism itself, its blood churning, always changing, impossible to understand.

  Could he be wrong?

  Was life out there truly as simple as the modules made it sound?

  Ask and ye shall receive?

  He watched machinery work.

  The height of his room made the people too small to identify, but the learning modules said they were automated intelligences — robots, working in endless loops to make whatever world humans commanded. Same with transportation. Food services. Everything. Automated intelligence building things. Gr
owing things. Delivering things.

  Was centralization the answer?

  He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. There were limits, he knew. Communications problems. Reliability issues. Hell, size constraints of atoms, for that matter. He remembered an engineer back when the calendar read 2060 telling him about molecular scanners and restrictions on information packaging that limited their fidelity to transfer data. Full automation was impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  Was it more likely the scientists of his time had gotten it all wrong, or that someone was Waking extravagantly rich people up to strip their accounts?

  He still didn’t know, but human nature said to bank on the latter.

  Physically, mentally, and emotionally, though, he was tired of the energy it took to parse out all this information and keep his thoughts to himself at the same time. As best he could tell, Think Space seemed to be configurable, which meant he could make it harder on his keepers. As he progressed, he thought he was getting better at understanding how to shield himself.

  It was bad form to broadcast everything you were thinking to everyone, anyway.

  So, there was that. It was fair game to build shields.

  Since he’d decided to swim with the tide, he’d progressed better over the past few days.

  The Central Inspector had authorized a raw newsfeed to come into his Think Space, and he’d been working to get better at the interface all day. He could receive easily now, though picking channels was tricky. Creating his own channel was harder, though, and he was still working at transmitting his own ideas.

  He listened to a recording of a gathering in Argentina where people had come together for three days of singing and dancing. The story came as free-form experience with a 3-D sidecar for those who wanted to experience it without being there.

  He did not want to experience that.

  At all.

  The door opened, and Julia came in carrying a glass of lemonade with — he was sure — a shot of gin. It was what he had been asking for each of the last three days, a drink he started many evenings with in his first life.