The Ominous was what had become of the atmosphere after three centuries of industrial and cultural advancements, improvements unbelievable in their ability to bond oxygen to argon and create darkness and perpetual acid rain that struck everything under 5,000 feet.
Alquin; another nebulous high-tech billionaire. He advanced me two days ago, but I delayed our meeting 24 hours after I arrived. I immediately checked into the Global Cybercenter and got what I needed of his corporate and personal histories mainlined into me in a dose of history serum. The underground stuff I got by reliving future events on El C.I.D.
(Cerebral Interlaced Device).
This wasn’t my first advance rodeo.
“Advancing” someone meant reaching back in time and propelling me forward to the twenty-second or twenty-third centuries. After 2400, advancements were outlawed. Corporate security and firewalls were so unscrupulously monitored that even I had only slipped through for one contract after 2400.
I didn’t enjoy compressing my body’s electrons and screaming through time-portal wormholes at the speed of light; it made me claustrophobic. But every profession has its occupational hazards. The money was good and in those kinder-gentler modern times of fabricated rights and protections; the job was usually as tough as safecracking a piggy bank.
“First things first,” I said. “Fifty kilos of PlatinumPur® now, fifty on delivery.”
His head shot up at the mention of money. For the first time he looked at me through lucid magenta eyes. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? We need to discuss the distress, your solution, your plans.”
“Wrong, chum. We need to see the dough. I don’t discuss my solution with anybody.” Then, for his sake, I added, “That’s for your protection. You don’t know anything about me, remember?”
“I know more about you than you do, mister,” he shot back. “You make history with a capital ‘H’. You’re in all the serums and El C.I.D. archives.” He paused. “I know when you’re going to die, and how.”
I gave him a twisted grin that made him cringe. “What do I care? Obviously it hasn’t happened yet.” The crack of my knuckles reverberated off his polished aluminum walls like gunshots. “Get the bars.”
“It’s easier for both of us to use a chip card. 500,000 chips now, balance of another 500,000 on completion. You can carry it out in your pocket.”
“Don’t make me laugh. That does me as much good back in 2002 as a wooden nickel.”
“You’ll need operating capital while you’re here. You can use the chip card for anything. I’ll reimburse all expenses, of course.”
“Right. And you’ll cancel it before I take off. No dice.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get the bars,” I said, “or I’m out of here.”
He closed his eyes. I could almost hear the processor implant in his cerebral cortex working the combination to the tumblers of his safe. A section of wall opened to reveal his liquidmetal vault. As he got up and crossed the room its door dropped and became a tray. Inside, a couple hundred kilos of PlatinumPur® bars gleamed their trademark patina.
I handed him the titanium valise that had been at my feet. He laboriously counted out fifty bars and set them inside. As soon as he finished, the tray closed up and the wall seamlessly refashioned itself.
“I expect regular reports,” he said. “I’ll set you up for direct telekinesis with me.” He tried to sound like the successful businessman who engineered one of the century’s biggest information conglomerates. He failed. The poor bastard’s nerves were in need of a neuroguru.
I gave my timepiece a quick glance. “I’ll be back in one revolution,” I said. “My meetings are in person.”
“Impossible. I’ll be in the Clark Belt at a formal affair.”
“Suit yourself, pal. You can stay here while I regain your position on the Forbes Interplanetary Power Poll or you can go party with your pals in the suburbs.”
“Alquin doesn’t wait for meetings with anyone,” he stated.
I was already at the portal, valise in hand. “Have a drink,” I said. “I’m your proxy.”
“But you don’t know where . . .” he started to ask.
The portal opened, then slid shut behind me.
