The Last Rats, A Bastion Saturn Short Prequel

  With a practiced hand, the window dresser placed the jacket on a hanger and stepped to one side revealing the nude display bot. The impossibly beautiful machine stared out the window with seductive smokiness, her eyes casting about, beckoning to no one — the street was nearly void of transport or pedestrians. The window dresser was certainly attractive, perhaps even beautiful, but it was the robot that pulled at Spruck's gut and groin. Stop. Focus on the living, he thought. He looked again at the woman, the real person. He forced his eyes to stay on her, angling his view to leave the artificial one in his periphery. As the dresser bent to pick up another hanger, her white silk blouse fell slightly open to reveal a double strand of pearls swinging gently with the easy motion of her bosom. There. See? That's nice. He decided that she wore lilac perfume, like the last bot he'd been with. The last bot... God, I'm obsessed. His gaze drifted its way back to the machine. It was a late model; bright white, just like the current ones, but lacking the refinement of today's designs. Weather and sunshine had faded the signs that hung across the window. A blowout store-closing sale had long ended. Now it was on to the dismantling. Though one sign inconveniently covered the machine's pubis, it was the eyes and the impossible shape of its breasts that kept Spruck distracted from his plan. He was pretty sure this was the last store of its kind in this isolated portion of the city. Despite the local residents living in complete rejection of AI — and its co-opted bulk of humanity — the streets were relatively empty. Not a surprise really; the less desirable inhabitants had been...dealt with...over the past year. No one wanted to say killed — though the rumors seemed nearly irrefutable. Now, perfectly financially stable folks, people who just wanted to get on as original uncorrupted Homo sapiens, seemed to be disappearing as well. The official word was that more and more people were throwing in the towel and joining those holed up in tiny apartments, living in virtual worlds. Spruck didn't buy it. Either you were for connecting with AI or you weren't. Over the last year, humans had finished dividing themselves. The lucky ones who wanted off the planet were doing it...well, the ones with money...or knew how to get it. Saturn and its sixty-three moons were the new frontier.

  His eye caught the display bot staring right at him. Her seductive come hither look caused his heart to skip a beat and he felt a tightness in his throat. I'm such a sucker for that look. He made himself turn away.

  He was seated in a diner across the street from the dress shop. In a lame effort to look at something else while he psyched himself up, he glanced at his own hand clasping a chipped white coffee mug. He'd never really gone for the augmentation thing, and the last thing he was going to do was volunteer to let a bunch of nanobots swim around inside his body. His lack of augmentation was apparent. It was disconcerting the way the bright white LEDs revealed entirely too much about time; his skin looked papery, and his dull blue anemic-looking veins seemed a bit thin; and was that a faint hint of what would eventually become liver spots? And, When did that happen? — an unnoticed abrasion across two knuckles. Idleness...well, getting laid off, had caused the thick calluses that once protected his hands to slowly peel off.

  He let his gaze drift back across to the dresser, forcing himself to avoid the eyes of the bot. The flesh and blood woman had turned her back to him. She had quite the figure, and it was probably real. He doubted she could afford nano upgrades. He glanced back at his hands. For once in his life, they were soft enough that they might be able to caress a woman like that and not have her recoil from the roughness of his touch. He caught the eye of the bot again. Was it really focused on him? It was programmed, after all, to make eye contact with potential customers and entice them to enter the store. He was hardly an obvious customer. He decided to give it a little wave. It gave a little wave back. He smiled and the bot returned the gesture. Ok, enough distractions. He turned his attention to the diner. It surprised him a bit that he didn't feel nervous.

  The restaurant was a relic; a once vibrant place that was now dank from greasy air and decades of fryer smoke; a place that hadn't changed for a hundred years or more. The red and white floor tiles were scuffed and stained to a dull reddish brown. Bolt-holes and discolored squares on the floor offered a hint that other furniture had at one time been affixed. As far as he was concerned, the place was failing to embrace its decrepitude correctly. It disturbed his sense of aesthetic. Despite the patina, a place like this should have felt warm and welcoming. Instead, it felt old and battle-worn. Spruck liked shiny things, especially older things that he could make shine again. This place was barely making ends meet. Must have been the cost of the food. God only knew where they were getting the fresh stuff. As far as Spruck knew, farms were all geared to make whatever crap the AI freaks ate now. With so many choosing symbiosis with AI, customers wanting real food and real life had become more scarce. Diners? More common on Mars now, or from what he'd seen of the Saturn ads, in the new cities of Hanson and Soul — the rest of the moons were mostly a mystery to wanna-be-colonists like him.

  Thinking about food caused his stomach to growl with sour bile. Evidently, the metallic tasting coffee and the day-old donut weren't cutting it. For the second time since entering the diner, he became aware of the smell of the place. Cooking fat was primary: buttery eggs, bacon, sausage, all of it overlaying the antiseptic smell of some kind of floor cleaner. His gurgling stomach would have to wait. He had to husband his last credits carefully. He glanced outside, looking up past the canyon of buildings that the restaurant was nestled in. The summer sky was heavily blanketed with low, rain-heavy, clouds obscuring the tops of the skyscrapers and making the day almost twilight. Thunder rumbled in the distance and echoed softly among the buildings. Spruck looked at the hundreds of windows down the avenue, beyond the unmarked border that was this living neighborhood. Behind those windows were millions of compartmentalized lives, all connected with each other and AI. They were oblivious to or perhaps ambivalent about the coming summer storm — an occasional flash of lightning the only thing to disrupt their steady intercourse with the artificial.

  An older man of undeterminable race ducked inside the diner, the wind behind him giving him an extra shove. The heavy outer breezeway door cut off the growing storm with a whoosh. Spruck noted the man's poor state of dress and his sickly looking pallor. Unlike the rest of the patrons, the man wasn't even wearing an old-fashioned brain interface — a device that allowed the wearer to mentally connect with the world web and even pass thoughts to those within a network.

  The tired waitress offered the new customer a weary glance and prepared to pour another cup, plate another pastry.

  I'm not that guy yet, thought Spruck. He couldn't see it falling, but the sidewalk and street were becoming speckled with gray dots. Then it came all at once — the rain smashed into the pavement with a ground shaking wallop, like a black theatrical curtain dropping with a wet slam.

  A man with a mustache and a bit of a sunburned complexion ducked inside, stomping his feet, shaking off a small umbrella. His clothes said country, not city. Another out-of-towner looking for refuge, thought Spruck. The countryside was being swept clean. Refugees who chose to resist kept trickling into blocks like this and a few others like it. The waitress perked up as a couple of other people dashed inside as well. With rain came the need for cover. It was going to be an early and busy lunch. Spruck smiled at the woman's sudden energy. Just as he'd hoped, the predictable storm would be his friend today, too.

  Within half an hour, the air was filled with a hubbub of voices; a mixture of accents; a few scattered languages. It was unusual to be in a space with so many others holding actual conversation, choosing to turn off their interfaces. Th
e sounds of interacting voices put him at ease. These people felt safe from the all-knowing.

  A mother came in pushing a stroller laden with damp shopping bags, the cheap ink on their bright sides streaming down, turning to mud. One of her two children quietly whimpered in the stroller while an older child, perhaps five, clung to his sister's hand to comfort her. The mother bumped her way to the back where the only available table was squeezed in as an afterthought, close to the bussing station and a filthy bathroom. Rather than passing the thought with his interface, the five-year-old stated emphatically, "I don't want to eat the food in this place. It smells like potty." The mother grimaced and looked apologetically toward the kitchen. The waitress just shrugged.

  An attractive black woman sat at another window seat. Spruck was sure that she'd augmented her appearance. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but he knew better. Besides, something about her eyes said that there were several more years hidden in there. She was wearing a business suit, her hair dyed blond and pulled into a tight ponytail. As she had been since Spruck followed her inside, she was punching her thumbs into an ancient com device furiously tapping out a message.

  Spruck observed the rare device with admiration and a mild feeling of envy. Amazing that folks can still find the things. Can't believe it works. A true refusenik. Others were aware of her bold typing. They glanced furtively at the device and then occasionally outside, like they were expecting some authority to show up. It wasn't illegal — yet. There was talk though. For perhaps the tenth time Spruck noted the cut of the woman's suit; sharp but in deep need of a cleaning, the shoes, expensive but practical and scuffed. He knew she lived in a hovel, clearly spending all of her money pretending otherwise. An actual refusenik who could afford a suit like that would be in hyper sleep on a Hanson ship right now, or at least buying passage on one of the last ships out. He glanced at her briefcase sitting on the floor. It leaned against her leg, which bounced with nervous energy. She had a healthy glow that said she wasn't desperate yet — maybe someone who was pawning her last precious heirlooms and still treading water like he was. She paused in her typing and looked out into the room. Her face had a strained look on it, like she'd read some bad news. She absently pulled the briefcase closer to her leg. There was weight to that briefcase. Spruck thought she made eye contact with him, yet when he gave her a slight smile and offered what he hoped was just a friendly nod she didn't even flinch, apparently looking right through him. She went back to the device and proceeded to jam her thumbs into it with deeper concentration. When her plate of french fries arrived, she smothered them with ketchup and stabbed at them with a fork while continuing to type with one hand. He felt relieved that she hadn't noticed him. Why would he want her to notice him? Not yet anyway. He hadn't fully psyched himself up. Am I really doing this?

  The rain continued to come down in earnest, with strong gusts of wind occasionally pushing it sideways down the street. The rare single transport on the road rolled forward at a crawl, its sensors nearly overwhelmed.

  A huge man, obese but thickly muscled, squeezed through the door. His drooping mane of curly salt-and-pepper hair looked like an oversaturated sponge. His enormous expensive natural fiber greatcoat had been overwhelmed by the heavy downpour and hung on the fellow like a defeated tent. The man observed that a single counter stool was available. It was obvious that his girth would literally squeeze out the patrons on either side. He took a step toward it, but was given a stern shake of the head by the now very harried waitress. Appearing irritated, he turned and looked back at the storm, then considered the breezeway, the no-man's-land between the weather and this warm place of refuge. Scanning for other options, the giant fixed his gaze on Spruck and the unused seat across the table from him. With legs built on a lifetime of carrying the physique of an ox, the man stepped lightly forward and noted, with typical distaste, Spruck's lack of an interface. He ran his tongue around inside his mouth as though prepping the orifice for unexpected use. He pointed at the chair and asked, "Are you using that?"

  "Hm? Oh, no."

  "May I?"

  Spruck glanced at the deluge and then back toward the giant. Did it matter? Probably not. "If you must."

  "Thanks. I appreciate it." The man sat with some difficulty, the center of his enormous buttocks searching for the small cafe chair without the help of peripheral vision. There was a brief struggle as he shrugged off his overcoat, revealing a damp suit beneath. Spruck noted the suit's expensive fabric, most likely Italian silk. The fine cloth had been admirably tailored to fit the man. Spruck assumed that he must be an executive at the single remaining investment firm in the neighborhood. But if so, why on Earth would he be out on a day like today? Why not lunch in the executive lounge, a nice thick steak or a slab of swordfish to pack onto his frame? No matter, the man was clearly of means, which suited Spruck just fine.

  The giant took note of his table partner's shabby appearance: multi-day beard, gaunt face, cheekbones that were pronounced from the loss of subcutaneous fat — downright ghostly under the diner's greenish-white lighting. Not an outdoor bum, thought the giant. He noted that the fellow's clothes spoke of better times, quality, but fading. He wondered what it might be like. How does a man get to this state? There was still strength in the eyes, intelligence. He decided he'd ask. After all, if he'd done his calculations right — and he always did — he himself was a mere six months or so away from a similar fate. "You look hungry."

  "Excuse me?" said Spruck, caught off guard.

  "I see you've got a cup of coffee. Those donut crumbs... Anyway, you look hungry. I'm going to order some eggs. Do you want some eggs? I'll buy you some eggs. It's the least I can do for your sharing the table."

  Spruck looked hard at the man. Do I really look that bad? His stomach growled in the affirmative. He looked outside again. The rain was coming down too hard, too much wind. Summer storms these days always seemed to border on hurricanes. He needed it to be a little lighter, but not too light. He'd have to wait awhile longer. He replied, "Sure. I appreciate it."

  While their order made its way to the fry cook, the giant decided to get his answer. "Would it be too much to ask how you...you know, how you found yourself to be in this state? You strike me as mentally capable. What happened to you?"

  Spruck was taken aback. He was about to tell the guy to screw off when...on the other hand, he couldn't remember the last time someone had been interested in his life. "I look that bad?"

  "Sorry. I don't mean to offend. I'm often accused of having a morbid curiosity. Don't answer if you don't want."

  Spruck was quiet for a moment. This was a distraction. Screw this guy and his fancy suit.

  The big man could see that he had insulted the fellow. A man still needs his pride, right? "Don't sweat it. I'll still buy you some eggs."

  Neither of them spoke again until the eggs arrived; Spruck's, scrambled with toast, the big man; five, sunny-side-up, two sides of bacon, skip the toast.

  "Atkins," said the giant.

  "Huh?"

  "Like you, I don't go for that nano augmentation crap. I eat the Atkins Diet. Found it in an old book. An actual book. I lost thirty pounds in a month. Of course the last two weeks, I've lost more." He shoveled in a few bites and then spoke with his mouth full, yellow yoke stretching between his teeth. "Downsized. No pun intended. Takes the weight off faster than Atkins."

  Disgusted with the sloppy mastication, Spruck angled his view to avoid the man's smacking lips. He really needed to stay focused. Still...curiosity made him ask, "I thought the big banks were, you know...doing OK; had figured out the whole alt-reality game."

  "What makes you assume I work at a bank?"

  "I used to install engineering platforms, a few big banks included. I know a banker when I see one. Let me guess, you got to be the scapegoat when your firm got caught making physical gold transactions."

  The banker sat in stunned silence. How right this vagrant was.

  Spruck offered a wry smile of acknowl
edgement. "Strange, huh? How the AI freaks are trying to make it harder to leave. I thought they wanted us all gone." He turned and ate his eggs quietly, while watching the rain.

  The banker noted that the talk in the room was loud, the conversations competing against the storm and the fry cook's sizzling grill and exhaust fan. Most wore interfaces, but chose not to use them. Speaking was the way with all of these people. They were the rare types who still labored for a living, maybe a few lower-management, doing the stuff that robots didn't. The little people as he habitually thought of them. His arrogance, or perhaps ignorance, assumed that none had ever experienced a sea breeze on an East Hampton summer day. He observed a Latino couple. Their heads nearly touched as they leaned close, trying to be heard, neither wearing an interface. The man wore a greasy repairman's uniform (she, in a grocer's smock, probably from the deli two doors down). It made him think of his human housekeeper way out there on the end of Long Island. It occurred to him that he didn't even know where she lived. A human housekeeper was a status symbol; one that he had been determined to keep, even as he did more and more without. He pondered, perhaps for the first time, how Consuela got to his home. Did she take the old rail metro from Queens? He knew that she woke at some ungodly hour to somehow travel the 130 kilometers from Jamaica — or wherever she lived — to clean his house and watch and feed his two spoiled rotten kids. The boys had spent this most recent summer whining all day about being bored, rebelling over reduced interface time and fighting him all the way about wanting implants. It was quite a mix of people in this place — none of them from his tribe...his old tribe. They didn't appear to be even remotely tied into AI. Maybe that was his new tribe; the analogs, as the nickname went. He returned his gaze to the grungy looking guy across from him. The man was picking up toast crumbs with his last morsel of egg. What in God's name possessed me to buy this loser breakfast? He readjusted himself on the chair. And who makes chairs like this? Didn't the people making chairs know that real Americans are big people? Goddamn discrimination. Like those tiny little hyper sleep pods on those Goddamn Hanson ships. Double the price for guy's like me? Screw that. He stuffed the last piece of bacon in his mouth and looked out at the street, calming himself, remembering his non-nano protected blood pressure. The rain was letting up slightly. What am I doing down here? He had decided to pop down to the gourmet faux burger place on the street and try to lunch with old colleagues — everyone was busy. When he'd been forced to let go of the membership at the Metropolitan Club, his dance card had become downright anemic. He paused in his self-misery to take in his table companion again. The guy looked like he was psyching himself up for something. Why is this bum suddenly looking nervous? What's up with this guy? The fellow kept looking outside, then back at the customers. The banker tried to follow the vagrant's gaze. It was just rain outside, no people, just some hints of summer heat lightning — though heat was a misnomer — it was a chilly day. "Something eating you? You see something I don't?"