What was it that sent them to him? The Pitman wondered and stood, stretching his arms over his head. The Pitman, known by name and revered in his craft stood an inch over six feet tall, he tossed his head from side to side, long ebony hair flopping, tension snapping from his neck. Pitman would have appeared small against the backdrop of the rooftop’s clapboard encased water tower. It was night and the orange sodium vapor glow of city arc lamps cast almost a palpable fog on busy sidewalk below.
A small silver sphere bobbed in front of Pitman’s head-mounted zoom-lens. The globe was designed to be light enough to ride air currents, but sturdy enough to pack the finest in broadcast sound and self defense capabilities. At just over 15 decimeters in diameter, it never went unnoticed. The globes were commonly used as information curriers. You want sensitive info transferred from point A to point B and can’t trust the Net-use a messenger. A given city block might find hundreds floating to destinations. This was the ghetto, The Clink, there were maybe a dozen.
Pitman’s zoom-lens, his spex, were dark sunglasses with telescoping features. The computer enhanced zoom-lens whirred as the tiny servos focused on the globe. Pitman pressed a key-sequence on a small plastic control device in the palm of his right hand. The globe zipped off to his left, low to the rooftop, speeding over and under every obstacle. He watched the globe for a moment, then returned his gaze to the sidewalk directly beneath his perch-servos whirring to bring the sidewalk five stories below into resolution.
The street traffic was heavy for this rough section of town. In The Clink, 3am pedestrian traffic was the norm. Pitman pulled at the elastic fabric of his charcoal grey pant suit. The polylycra material clung to every ripple in his muscular body.
After a few minutes, he watched his globe glide into the air stream above the foot traffic. There were perhaps a dozen globes jockeying for air space above the pedestrians. The spex marked his globe’s path with a small heads-up display mounted in the lower right hand corner of his vision-an orange arrow indicated his globe’s position.
“Now,” he whispered and pressed a control in his right palm. All globe traffic halted. Pedestrians continued about their business, no one noticing that dozens of globes were no longer gliding, but were now hovering over them.
Pitman pressed a series of control buttons.
The globes flocked to his sphere. Now some people pointed up at the globes. The globes parted, radiating slowly out from Pitman’s globe.
Someone dressed in the latest thug-wear threw half a hotdog up at a globe, and missed. A prostitute shrieked when she caught a globe hovering in the corner of her eye. Her cry created a stir.
“There,” Pitman whispered. From his position, the dance of the globes was quite impressive-they spaced out evenly, matching the pattern of the people below them.
Pitman spoke into a throat mike, “Execute zero gain, pattern matrix forty.”
Pitman had been programming pattern matrix forty for over a week. He was very eager to see it play out on the streets. His spex whirred the focus widened to include as much of the scene as possible.
“Showtime,” he whispered.
A hum rose above the din of the crowd. The hum took the form of a solid bass beat. Each globe broadcast a part of the beat. The crowd moved from random chaotic actions to stunned silence.
Pitman felt the awed hush of the crowd as an almost palpable note of triumph. This was the beginning. He shifted to one knee and settled in for the show.
Carry crouched behind a dumpster nestled on the end of an elevated loading platform. The dumpster’s lid, thrown back against mounds of plastic packing materials, partially obscured her view of the street. Carry was twenty years old and wore her hair close-cropped and dyed cherry red.
“Holie mollie,” Carry said. From her position the activities of the block spread out before her. Pimps, whores, blackmarketeers, and folks just hanging out or doping it up. She watched a series of messengers halt in midair, which was odd enough, but these messengers seemed stranger still.
Carry crept forward for a closer look. The messenger globes converged on a central globe and hovered in place.
“Erie,” Carry said aloud.
“Like they’re talkin’,” said a high pitched voice from behind her.
Carry glanced down to the ground below the platform and then behind her.
“Stringbean!” Carry exclaimed.
Stringbean, was a teenage girl who dressed in the latest black synthetic leather fashion like Carry, but who always wore her hair dyed green and sculpted into the shape of a string bean.
“Hiya Car. Like I said, they’re talkin’”
Carry frowned, “But messengers don’t-“
“Some do. I’ve seen clusters of them jabberin’ away at dispatch stations. You know, getting their tickets, downloadin’ and ‘criptin’ their fares.
Carry shook her head. The middle of fifth street and seventh avenue was not the dispatch center, and the globe in the center looked too…purposful. “Don’t know, String. Long way from dispatch center. Sort of creepy. Like they’re actin’ on their own.”
“I know, whoa! They’re breaking up.”
Carry watched the dozen or so globes fan out from the center globe. The messengers took up positions evenly spaced above the crowd. Then a beat could be felt.
“Feel that kickin’ bass,” Stringbean said. She was excited.
“Yeah, weird.” Carry acknowledged. The bass rhythm intensified.
Pitman eased a little closer to the roof’s edge. The street scene below filled his spex. He could just make out his globe in the epicenter of messengers. This pattern matrix program was designed to flex with crowds.
“Commence herding step one,” he whispered into his throat mike.
The bass rhythm intensified, speeding up. The crowd grew visibly anxious, with a third turning to leave the block. Then synth guitar riffs cut through the bass, underpinnings of keyboards-liquid tones, soothing and powerful wove between the layers of guitar and speed bass. Those who had turned to leave stopped, fixated on the rhythm.
Pitman smiled. It was always like this, herding step one. People captivated, realizing that something wasn’t quite right, yet compelled to experience-next step.
“Herding step two,” Pitman ordered, watching the globes hover over segments of the crowd, tethered to the group dynamics. The pattern matrix tapped into desire, curiosity-need. And the tones melted into music, fast, furious, speed metal.
“What’s going on?” Stringbean shouted. She stood next to Carry surveying the street scene. Hundreds of people from disparate origins anchored to rich speed metal. It was beautiful, yet unsettling. Stringbean tapped her feet, in spite of her concerns.
Carry’s mouth tightened. She didn’t like what she saw-too many people that’d never get along, rockin’, head bangin’ together. She even felt compelled to crank to the tunes-it was intense. “I, I’m not sure. This is very queer. But the sounds are fantastic. Just think we should stay put.”
“I’m gonna get a closer look.” Stringbean announced and hopped down from the platform.
“Wait,” Carry said, “I really think we should sit this one out-don’t think it’s the usual free ‘cast. Something’s different. At least give it a few minutes.”
Stringbean looked up through heavy eye makeup and nodded, “Okay, but if it’s a free ‘cast-we gotta jam!”
“Agreed,” Carry said, but already felt herself compelled to call it a ‘cast and join the flareup.
Pitman flicked his head, tossing a tuft of hair from his face to his shoulders. He surveyed the crowd dynamic. The pattern matrix had wrought order from the disparate units. They engaged in a common action-dance.
“Execute control sequence,” he muttered.
Viewed from the roof’s edge, the messengers seemed to work in pairs, moving closer to each other. Rifts opened up in the once thick mob. The messengers effectively slicing up the crowd. After a moment the dancing mob was transformed into six dancing wedges.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Now lets take it up a notch.” He pressed a sequence of keys in his palm. The music worked the six units into a frenzy. Each of the six crowd units morphed into torus-shaped mosh pits. Men, woman, beggar and thief gracefully slamming each other in cadence. Seen from above the six little active donuts slowly spiraled around the epicenter-Pitman’s globe.
Pitman pressed another precise sequence of keys on his palm control and the messenger globes shifted. The disparate units began conflicting with each other. Adjacent units merged, six to three, three to one. Pitman grinned openly. He’d effected a giant mosh pit-huge hurricane of people. He felt the rush, the surge of power. Then the black government drones dropped from the sky like hungry pidgeons.
“Oh shit,” Carry said, grabbing Stringbean’s shoulder, “we gotta jet. Drones.” She pointed up.
Stringbean, shook confusion from her head and looked up into the night sky as dozens of sleek black globes fell upon the crowd.
“Oh hell,” Pitman said, his spex trying to focus on the dozens of black federal drones. “Exit zero-gain pattern matrix forty. Rondesvous K!”
Pitman was already running away from the roof’s edge as the first perimeter drone found him. His mind raced through the few options available.
“Citizen, halt! This is a federal patrol. You must halt!” Exclaimed the drone.
He dove into a meter high space under a water tower. There was a rooftop access hatch. If it wasn’t locked, he could take that down into the building-try to slip into the domestics. The rooftops were separated by only a couple of meters in places-rooftop to rooftop. Pitman scrambled out from under the water tower. He reached the access hatch and tugged hard on the door handle-it actually opened.
“Come on Stringbean!” Carry shouted. She had already jumped down from the loading dock and was striding for the street. Stringbean had stopped to snap some images of the federal action.
“Minute. Need some shots-gotta upload. This is oppression! Feds cant get away with this!” Stringbean held a small camera up to her eyes-capturing the drones actions.
“Hurry.” Carry turned the corner from the alley. She stood trying to decide which way would avoid questioning. She turned to Stringbean and shouted, “We get caught, we grooved to the tunes-Feds’ll need a pin-ain’t gonna be us.”
Stringbean nodded, slipping her camera into a thigh pouch. “Bitchin’ free ‘cast,” she said jogging down the sidewalk after Carry.
Pitman dropped two meters to the hallway carpeting. The hatch cover slammed shut behind him-no chance of the drone pursuing. A single fluorescent tube sputtered overhead illuminating the worn, stained industrial carpeting. An elderly man lay face down at one end. Trash bags were piled high at the other end of the hallway. He needed a means of escape-given the number of drones patrolling the area that would be very difficult. The fed on the roof would have automatically reported having chased a suspect into the building.
“Suspect,” Pitman whispered. What had he really done-brought a momentary level of order to the street’s usual dischord. Caotic cries rose up from the street. He jogged down the hallway towards the old man.
“Where are we going?” Stringbean called out, she sprinted after Carry. They were over two blocks from the free ‘cast. Dozens more drones had dropped down into the area. It wouldn’t be long before a drone noticed them running from the scene.
Carry slowed to a stop in front of a pawn brokers store. “Here,” she said, breathing heavily. She knocked sharply on the wire mesh that covered the front door.
“Why here?” Stringbean asked.
“Know a guy. He’ll let us lay low. Has no love for the feds.” She pounded the mesh loud enough, she hoped, to wake the owner. A light came on from far back in the store.
An older man with a long grey beard and sideburns to match crept forward. He held a double barrel shotgun under one arm and a can of riot mace in the other. “Go away!” he shouted.
“Tell him,” Stringbean urged.
Carry swallowed hard. “Abner-” she began.
The old man squinted, “Do I know you?”
“Yes. Well, no.” Carry admitted.
“No,” Stringbean exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”
“Get away. Need sleep. G’won now.” He waved the rifle at them from across a cage of steel mesh.
Pitman paused next to the old man. He was tempted to strip the man and dress in the shabby clothes, but there was little time for experimenting with disguise. He started down a dimly lit stairwell. At the third floor landing, he decided to try the door, stopping to take in some elaborate graffiti portraying, the Movement, his Movement’s fight against the Federal Territories. The knob turned and he stepped into the third floor hallway.
“Carry,” Stringbean said, her voice strained, “what do you mean you don’t know this guy?”
Carry inhaled sharply and spoke, “Abner, I don’t know you personally, but your reputation precedes you.”
“Eh,” said the old man, shotgun leveled on the girls.
“That’s right. I heard from JohnnyCat that you always knew good tech when you saw it. Knew how to move tech. And that you had no love for the Feds.”
Abner hesitated, his brow wrinkled in concentration, “As true ’bout the Feds. No love for that theavin’ bunch. Tech, I can-“
“You have to take at look at Stringbean’s camera, tell us what its worth.”
“What are you-” Stringbean said.
Carry continued, “So you want to take a look at the camera or what?”
Abner hesitated then said, “Well, I don’t need another camera-have too many of ’em as it is. Why don’t you let an old man get some sleep.”
“Not the camera that you’ll want, but what’s on it that you need.” Carry delivered, her voice cool and firm.
“What do you mean? I’m not a news service. I’ve got to get some sleep. You girls dissapear.” Abner turned around, tossing the riot mace onto a shelf.
Carry looked from Abner to the street, she could just make out a Fed drone patrolling the sidewalks. She turned back to the old man. “Abner, look, we have some rather interesting data, some shots of Fed activities.”
Abner paused, but did not turn around, “What sort of Fed tape you have?”
“You have to see it to find out.” Carry returned.
“Naw, not interested. Now git, or I’ll call the Feds.”
Desperate, “You can keep the camera too.” Carry said, her hand already covering Stringbean’s mouth.
“Keep the camera?” Abner said, and turned back to face the girls through the wire mesh. “Now why would you do that? You must really need to get off the street. But as I said. I already have enough cameras. Too many cameras to get involved in whatever you’re so scared of.”
“This is a Nikon FX Plus,” Carry offered, “You can not find a newer model.”
“Are you crazy!” Stringbean blurted.
Abner said, “Let me see the camera.”
Carry turned to Stringbean, “let him see the camerra.”
“What?” Stringbean asked. “I am not going to give him my camera-it cost me-”
“It cost you nothing. You bought that camera with a weekend’s allowance money-rich ‘rents got that camera.”
Stringbean knew it was true-her secret shame, being wealthy. She pulled the camera from a thigh pouch and passed it to Carry.
The old man looked at the Nikon FX through the mesh. Satisfied, he pulled the curtain of steel open. The girls stepped inside. A black drone globe zipped past as he slammed and locked the door.
The hallway was dark, not even emergency lighting, Pitman thought, moving cautiously down the hallway. His spex had switched to infrared mode. He paused for a moment letting the situation sink in-he could not count on escaping the building unseen. Fed law made it a rather serious crime to organize public demonstrations. His experiment in crowd control would not go unnoticed-nor would it be swept under the carpet. He reached the end of the third floor. There was another stairwell.
Pitman chose the door nearest the stairwell and leaned in, ear pressed against the cool fiberboard-nothing.
That no sound could be heard at 3am was not surprising. He reached down and pulled a thin palm-sized device from his right thigh pocket. Sweat dripped on his hands as he pressed a series of instructions into the device and waved it slowly over the door knob’s locking mechanism and finally over the doorframe-he glanced at the digital readout: “Titanium, explosive repulsion bolts, electrical grid 1.4 meter square.”
“Jesus,” he whispered, “Somebody means business. I’m standing on enough electrical to fry thirty people.”
Pitman thought it through: not enough time to go door by door-for all he knew high security systems were the norm. Again, so much black market security was expensive. You need to have a reason for installing it, something to protect. He could walk away.
Voices echoed up the stairwell.
“What the hell,” Pitman said, pressing another series of commands into his palm-sized device.
After a second, Pitman tested the doorway again-the readout was clear-no security in place. He tried the knob. Voices were just outside the stairwell. The knob turned-he pushed the door open and slipped inside.
“Some kind of Fed activity out there?” Abner asked as he ushered Carry and Stringbean towards the back.
“Always Fed activity,” Carry answered, hoping to play on Abner’s hatred, “Tonight was worse than usual. It’s on the camera.”
“Right,” he said, thumbing through a pile of electrical cords.
“It doesn’t need any power or connection cabling,” Stringbean said.
Abner looked them over, eyes knit skeptically, “No?”
“has a self-contained battery powered holo projection system-real clear too. Let me show you.”
Abner handed the camera over to Stringbean who slid a panel and pressed a button. She set the camera on the counter, stepped back and crossed her arms.
“Well?” Abner said, an edge creeping into his voice.
“Project chrono frames from 2:55am to present,” Stringbean said and smiled at the confused look on Abner and Carry’s faces. She continued, “I activated the voice-control module.”
The meter square area between the three of them was lit with life-sized holographic glow: scene from inside an alley looking out on a street crowd. The crowd was milling about, normally enough for The Clink at that hour.
Growing impatient Abner snorted, “Put you girls back on the street-this all that’s there.”
“In a minute,” Carry said, “Notice what an ordinary looking street scene this is.”
“How could I miss?” Abner said.
“Right,” Carry continued, “But pay close attention to the messengers, here and…here.” She pointed out two or three globes hovering in place.
“They’re not going anywhere.” Abner said.
Carry pressed a serious expression and pushed on, “Now notice how there’s sort of a control globe that the other messengers are flocking to.”
The hologram showed messengers coalescing on a central globe, pausing beside the globe then radiating out.
“That’s odd,” Abner began, “But not Fed activity.”
Pitman eased into the dark apartment, his spex illuminating the outlines of a plain table, a pair of wooden chairs, a yellow foam cot and a dark form shaped like a cube. Pitman slid a pencil thick flashlight from his thigh pouch and clicked it on. The tiny beam fell on the cube-it was a Cray-hot. He thought, moving closer.
“By the Savior, what’s this?” Pitman crouched next to the cool cube. He ran his fingers over its smooth surface. A huge data cable trunked into its side flanked by a prodigious power cable. “Hot. Definitely blackmarket,” he whispered.
Crays were used for processing the best artificial intelligence algorithems going. There were rumors of whole nations run by Cray-based AI. The very thought stood Pitman’s hair on end. He stood, surveying the rest of the room.
There was a counter with food warmer, a small refridgerator-and something struck Pitman as odd-no roaches, no bugs, no life of any kind. He went over to a sink and turned the faucet on. Brown water splashed into the sink. “Bon apetit,” Pitman said, turning from the sink. His flashlight beam traced the outline of a small cot. Two rumpled blankets curled around each other. He moved towards the closed bathroom door, took another step and stopped.
“Ahh,” he whispered, retrieving his security detection device. He turned it on and scanned the bathroom door area, he almost whistled. The readout stated, “Titanium, explosive repulsion bolts, electrical grid 1.4 meter square, sonic disruption field emitter.” At the latter, Pitman stopped moving altogether.
A sonic disruption field emitter was nothing to trifle with. He paused to think-needed to disable the sonic, then the electrical and finally the bolts. Not an easy task, but one he happened to be up to as he tapped a sequence of custom routines into his palm device. After rescanning, the sonic disruptor was still reading as being active. He scarcily breathed as he tried yet another series of commands intended to turn the disruptor off-he sighed as the readout indicated inactivity, he shut down the grid and disabled the explosive bolts.
“Tricky, tricky. Someone doesn’t want company.” Pitman eyed the bathroom door skeptically-he had his doubts that there was anything particularly important hidden away in there. Figured that it was more set up to kill anyone who was smart enough to make it into the apartment alive, but not thoroughly vigilant. He sighed, all in the way of procrastination-he still needed to check it out. He turned the metal doorknob and pushed the door open.
“Can’t you see it?” Stringbean asked, exasperated.
“Yeah, but give an old man a chance will you,” Abner watched again, as the messenger globes flocked to a central globe. Dozens of people stopped on the sidewalk, staring up, trying to make sense of the unusual behavior. Then a slow rhythmic beat insinuated itself like a living heartbeat thumping.
“The noise,” Abner added.
“Music,” Stringbean insisted.
“It’s starting,” Carry said, drawing their attention to the globes.
The globes floated over the people’s heads in pairs, the music becoming prominent, overwhelming. Fissures opened up in the crowd.
“What’s happening now?” Abner demanded.
Carry answered, “The globes are dividing the sidewalk crowd. We can only see a portion of this through our alley vantage point.”
“Herding,” Abner said, whistling through old teeth. “Feds used this in California, LA.”
“What?” Stringbean asked.
Abner, his eyes transfixed, answered, “Back thirty years, LA went up in flames. It was known as the Barrio Wars and it was bloody. A dark time for all. They say smoke could be seen as far away as Vegas!”
Impatient, “And,” Stringbean said.
“Feds needed a quick fix. Needed order. Needed a lever in a domestic land as foreign to them as the Asia Bank. Scientist named Pohl.”
“Pohl?” Carry asked.
“Yeah, Pohl. He specialized in behavior modification and the like. Stanford Univerisity.
Feds sort of drafted him Los Alamos style. Had been working with dolphins and-“
“Who? Dolphins.” Stringbean asked.
“Right, Pohl had a radical theory. Claimed that dolphins were able to practice herding, agriculture of sorts. That they could define responsibilities among their [flock] where some would work in concert to push schools of fish where they were needed.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Carry said, “You’re saying that this guy Pohl was studying dolphin behavior-that he claimed dolphins were sort of deep sea nomads?”
Abner’s eyes lit up, nodding, “Precisly. Pohl was convinced the dolphin sonar was more than mere communication, but functioned as a coordinate positioning system. He attempted to duplicate this on human trials-students if my memory serves me correctly.”
“What about the Barrio Wars?” Asked Stringbean.
“Well, Feds had Pohl work some rather untested sonic on block after block. I remember the images-these huge helicopters circling low over the heads of rioters, blasting weird-assed music at these folks. Most of the film was destroyed, but some film records of the events slipped past the Fed news quarentine-it was scandalous.”
“What happened?” Stringbean and Carry asked in unison.
“The thing is Pohl’s work was experimental. He hadn’t had sufficient time or funds to test on volunteers.”
Impatiently, “And,” Stringbean persisted.
“And whole blocks of people, numbering in the hundreds went from outwardly directed rioting to inwardly projected rage. People shot, stabbed and clubbed themselves. In effect the Feds had a solution of sorts for the Barrio Wars-just slip into a hot spot, turn on the radio and watch the civilians kill themselves-quite elegant, because it worked.“
“We’ve never heard anything about that kind of tech.” Carry protested.
“Well by the looks of your holo recording, you’ve been a part of the tech today. Look at how uniformly the messengers work the crowd. I’d bet this wasn’t Fed. No. This has the Movement written all over it.” Abner stepped closer to the holo, drinking in its rich detail.
The globes had herded the crowd into six neat torus-shaped mosh pits. These individual pits merged quickly into one large hurricane of bodies bent on thrashing to the intoxicating speed metal. Then the first of the Feds dropped from the sky.
“Feddies,” Abner said as if expecting a late arriving guest. “Only a matter of time. Feds’ll be all over this display of disobedience.”
“We thought this was a free ‘cast,” Carry said.
Abner smiled, “Oh it was free alright. Just pity those caught up against their will. See the Feds never really got the formula right during the Bario Wars-over ten thousand killed themselves due to the Fed-Pohl sonic weapon. After the public found out was had happened, more riots hit all the major cities-the Feds had to publicly execute Pohl.”
“Why?” Stringbean asked.
“Scapegoat-I think the line went something like, ‘dishonorable Stanford professor infected Fed peacekeeping efforts with self-immolation virus’ this was what the public saw and it helped them to repress the whole dirty spot on our national history.”
“So the Feds will-” Carry started.
“The Feddies will want two things to happen and quicklyf. One, they will want to apprehend those responsible for these tests. Two they will want the tech behind these tests.”
“The Movement,” Carry said.
“Precisely,” Abner said. “And I think you two have captured a lead there!” Abner pointed to a distant rooftop where a tiny figure could be seen wearing spex. “Magnify eight hundred percent.” Abner commanded.
The hologram blew up the rooftop, resolving in clear crisp digital the form of a dark-clad heavily muscled man wearing black spex. The man watched the street activity with more than passing curiosity. Then a Feddie floated nearby and the man burst into a run.
The bathroom was empty. He had flipped a lightswitch. Broken white porcelain sink, dingy shower stall with no shower curtain. Cracked yellow floor tiles harkened to a sunnier, more optimistic time. But no sign of human use. Pitman exhaled. “Just a holding room,” he said, turning around and reentering the apartment.
He stood over the silver cube. The Cray was silent-one of the hallmarks of the device. Pitman was unsure of himself, “Wish I had my drone, it’d help me reason this.”
He had found a spot where he could cool his heels for a while-there didn’t seem to be any human inhabitants to be concerned with. “Somebody must keep tabs on the Cray,” he said aloud. He crouched beside the expensive little computer. “Ahh screw it,” he said, standing and walking over to the front door.
Pitman pulled his palm device and reactivated the explosive bolts. “Gotta hang maybe a couple of hours,” he said, approaching the bathroom. He paused, considering the foam cot, but shook his head. “Better play it safer.” Pitman pulled the bathroom door closed behind him.
“Okay, okay,” said Stringbean. “Now I see the guy.” She pointed at the magnified image of the large man with black spex perched on the edge of a rooftop.
“We’ve been through this enough times,” Carry sighed.
“But you children don’t understand the significance,” insisted Abner who continued. “The Feds will want this guy to be sure, but I’m more interested in what group he’s working for. There was a time when I know all the players in the resistance movements. Now I’m lucky if I get a couple of ragged children’s data.
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