Episode 5 Moving on

Summary of the week before: Zach whipped the thugs but now their boss wants to meet with him.

I left my office and walked along the docks towards my car, a bright red 2020 Honda Mustang. As I walked, I couldn't help wondering what it must have been like here decades ago, before teleportation devices turned the docks from bustling, grimy places filled with grunts and groans to an overcrowded, sterile tourist attraction filled with the whirs and hums of recording devices. That's one of the perks about being the only PI on the planet. You get to ponder about things like this and pass it off as "atmosphere." Unfortunately the atmosphere was abruptly interrupted, by what I considered to be my most feared adversary. Though thugs, killer mutations and assassin cyborgs may be dangerous and deadly, they aren't nearly as annoying as what approached me now.

The press.

They weren't all actual, organic journalists of course. With all the so-called "newsworthy" things going on in the world, newspeople just don't have time anymore to actually be anywhere. God forbid, they're interviewing me in Frisco when an Elvis clone slips in his bathtub in New Vegas. So, most journalists now have a dozen or so pressbots, cheap low-tech androids that mimic the owner's voice and personality, plus they are fully equipped with direct audio/visual feeds to the network. This way a journalists can chase a dozen stories at the same time while remaining in the cool, safe comfort of their network office. Truth to tell, though, it's only a matter of time before the network executives realize that they only really need the pressbots. When that happens there'll be more vapid personalities on the unemployment line than the great budget crunch of 2017 when the government laid off the House of Representatives.

One of the pressbots thrust a broadcast stick in my face and smiled through robotic teeth. "Mr. Johnson, I'm Bill Gibbon the Third from Entertainment This Moment. There was a report of a commotion in your office five minutes ago. Care to comment?"

"Not to worry, Mr. Baboon..."

"Gibbon."

"Whatever. It wasn't a real commotion," I said, "just a full contact rehearsal for my upcoming made-for-HV special: Zachary Nixion Johnson versus the Cheap Thugs in Expensive Suits. Net with your local video provider now to ask about availability in your area. Now if you'll excuse me, I have important PI stuff to do. Never a dull moment when you're me."

The press followed me like a pack of noisy rats after a (charismatic) mobile piece of cheese. I ignored their questions and moved quickly to my car.

"Door open, it's me Zach," I called to the car as I reached it, still surrounded by the press brigade.

The door popped open obediently and I jumped in as fast as I could. Deep down, I knew they were only doing their jobs, and that the media's overzealous pursuit of celebrity stories was what kept me in the public eye, but they were annoying enough to totally drive a guy Perot.

"Engine start," I barked to my car computer. The dashboard lit up and the engine gently turned over and purred like a cat on genetically improved catnip.

"Destination please? So I may compute the quickest, most efficient route," the car computer asked.

"Dr. Pool's office," I responded.

"There are currently seven different Dr. Pools located in the greater New Frisco area," the car computer informed me. "Please be more specific."

"Dr. Randy Pool," I stated, clearly and calmly.

"There are currently..."

"The same Dr. Randy Pool that you've driven me to every week for the past three years!" I stated, loudly and not so calmly.

"Oh, that Dr. Randy Pool!" the computer responded. "Do you wish me to drive?"

"For the time being," I said. "I need HARV to give me some info."

"As you wish," the computer said as it gently eased the car into the street.

As if on cue, HARV's simulated face popped into a window on my dash.

"I wish you'd let me override this antiquated car computer. It's embarrassing to be seen with it."

"How many times do I have to tell you HARV? A classic car..."

"...needs a classic computer," HARV mimicked. "Yes I know. You have made that specious argument to me exactly one hundred eleven times in the past three years."

"You think you'd figure it out by now!" I said, and the car computer gave HARV what sounded like the raspberry.

HARV, in true HARV form, kept his dignity and ignored us both. "Nice cover up on that Zachary Nixion Johnson versus the Cheap Thugs blah blah blah blah," he said, sarcastically.

"And I don't even have a virtual processor," I said, ignoring his sarcasm.

"That is quite apparent," HARV said, ignoring the fact that I was ignoring his sarcasm.

"Give me all the background info you can on BB," I said in a fairly bossy voice (just to make certain that HARV hadn't forgotten who was in charge here).

"How much do you already know?" HARV asked, still not quite conceding that I was running this show.

"She use to be a stripper."

"Exotic dancer," HARV corrected.

"You say tomato I say potato, whatever. She married an old billionaire, he died, surprise, surprise, now she's a billionaire."

"Well yes," HARV agreed. "That is one way of putting it. Not a very complete way, but it is accurate in its own simplistic way. Would you care for a more detailed version?"

"That would be nice," I said, with a wee bit of my own sarcasm.

"Her name was BB Baboom. Though I am relatively certain that was a stage name." He paused for a nano, "Yes, here it is, her given name was Betty Barbara Backerman."

"I can see why she changed it."

"She met BS Star," HARV continued, "then owner and chief operating officer of ExShell in 2054 month three day twenty-one. They married on month four, day twenty-one. He died the night of month four, day twenty-one 2055."

"We can assume he died smiling."

"You can if you wish," HARV retorted. "I am a computer, I assume nothing. I can speculate, of course, in matters where variables and probabilities are present and such speculation is imperative but I don't think that..."

"It was a joke, HARV."

"And I am sure that it may have been funny but, as you know, I am not programmed for humor."

"You're telling me," I retorted.

"Actually, I have told you exactly two thousand three hundred seventeen times. I do, however, have access to an extensive database of jokes. For example, how many computer consultants does it take to change a florescent bulb?"

"None, because no consultant would ever do physical work," I answered.

"Oh, you've heard it?" HARV asked.

"Only two thousand three hundred seventeen times," I said.

"Perhaps I should run a diagnostic on my random number generator?" HARV suggested.

"Perhaps we should get back to business?" I prodded.

"Oh right, sorry it slipped my chips for a mili-nano. I'm back on line now."

Pictures and information about BB scrolled across the window on my dashboard. HARV gave a commentary, as the images and numbers rolled by, too fast for the human eye to comprehend.

"The information on BB is quite plentiful before her marriage as you can see. She was featured on Entertainment This Moment and World Right Now quite often during sweeps periods. Not counting references to and ads for her show there are three thousand one hundred twelve references to BB from the ten years before her marriage, three thousand three of those are about whom she was or was not dating. The rest are rumors of offers made to her to star in vids, which she never did."

"Maybe one of her old flames is trying to burn her now?" I offered. "Credits tend to bring out the worst in people, especially people who don't have a lot of them."

"I suppose that is a possibility," HARV agreed, though I could tell from the tone of his voice he wasn't committed to this theory. "Her last lover was Manuel Mani, her personal astrologer."

"Okay, we'll file him in memory to check out later if we need to. Anything else on BB?"

"She's become quite the recluse for the past year. There is no record of her even leaving the living and office suites of her headquarters."

"Odd..." I said.

"Perhaps she is still in mourning?" HARV suggested.

"Perhaps she's in hiding or hiding something," I said. "How has ExShell done since she took over?"

"Amazingly well. Their known assets have doubled. They have been the biggest conglom in the world every hour except one, for the past year. All this while under the guidance of a woman with little education and no formal business training."

BB's school records scrolled across my dashboard.

"Her guidance counselors all advised her to work with her hands."

I started to say something (the opening was just too good) but the car computer interrupted and broke the moment.

"Arrival achieved. We have reached Dr. Pool's laboratory."

It was just as well, I thought. After all, as HARV so often liked to remind me, he wasn't programmed for humor.