Distraction - Bruce Sterling [106]
“Jesus, it is a fire!” Pelicanos said. Acting on instinct, he turned and began jogging after the fire truck.
Oscar thought it more sensible to stay with his bodyguard. He tucked his phone in his sleeve and walked over to join Kevin.
“So, Kevin, what’s in those delivery packets?”
“Heavy-duty sunblock,” Kevin lied, yawning to clear his ears. “It’s an Anglo thing.”
Oscar and Kevin left the ring road, heading south past the Computation Center. Their police escorts were still dutifully trailing them, but the little cabs were soon lost in a curious pedestrian crowd emerging from their buildings.
The fire truck stopped outside the Collaboratory’s media center. This building was the site of Greta’s public board meeting. Oscar’s carefully drummed-up capacity crowd was pouring from the exits, loudly milling in confusion.
A fistfight had broken out on the steps at the eastern exit. A gray-haired man with a bloody nose was cowering under the metal handrails, and a young tough with a cowboy hat and shorts was struggling to kick him. Four men were grappling reluctantly at the young man’s arms and shoulders, trying to restrain him.
Kevin stopped his wheelchair. Oscar waited at Kevin’s elbow and examined his watch. If all had gone as planned—which it clearly hadn’t—then Greta should have finished her speech by now. He looked up again to see the cowboy lose his hat. To his deep astonishment he recognized the assailant as his krewe gofer, Norman-the-Intern.
“Come with me, Kevin. Nothing that we want to see here.” Oscar turned hastily on his heel and walked back the way he’d come. He glanced over his shoulder, once. His police escort had abandoned him. They had dashed forward with gusto, and were busy arresting young Norman.
Oscar waited until he received official notification from the police about Norman’s arrest. He then went to police headquarters, in the east central side of the dome. The Collaboratory’s police HQ was part of a squat fortress complex, housing the fire department, the power generators, the phone service, and the internal water supply.
Oscar was quite familiar with the internal routines of the local police headquarters, since he’d visited three of his would-be assailants in custody there. He presented himself to the desk officer. He was informed that young Norman had been charged with battery and disturbing the peace.
Norman was wearing orange coveralls and a wrist cuff. Norman looked surprisingly spiffy in his spotless prison gear—he was rather better dressed than most Collaboratory personnel. The cuff was a locked-on shatterproof bracelet studded with tiny mikes and surveillance lenses.
“You should have brought a lawyer,” Norman said from behind the cardboard briefing table. “They never turn off this cuff unless there’s attorney-client privilege.”
“I know that,” Oscar said. He opened his laptop and set it on the table.
“I never knew how awful this was,” Norman mourned, rubbing at his monster cuff. “I mean, I used to see guys on parole wearing these things, and I’d always wonder, you know, what’s with this evil scumbag.… But now that I’ve got one myself … They’re really demeaning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Oscar said blandly. He began typing.
“I knew this kid at school once who got into trouble, and I used to hear him spoofing his cuff.… You know, he’d sit there in math class muttering ‘crime drugs robbery murder assault.…’ Because the cops run voice recognition scans. That’s how these cuffs surveil you. We thought he was totally nuts. But now I get why he did that.”
Oscar turned his laptop screen to face Norman, showing a dimly legible set of 36-point capitals. WE’LL KEEP UP THE SMALL TALK AND I’LL LEVEL WITH YOU ON THIS.
“You don’t have to worry about the local law enforcement people. We can talk freely here,” Oscar said aloud. “That device is meant for your own protection as well as the safety of others.” JUST KEEP YOUR ARM DOWN IN YOUR LAP SO THE CAMERAS CAN’T READ THIS SCREEN. He erased the screen with a keystroke.
“Am I in big trouble, Oscar?”
“Yes you are.” NO YOU’RE NOT. “Just