Oversight Read Free Page A

his head. “Don’t try to hit me again. You’re not fast enough anymore.”
    Looking for a way out of the moment, Sam clenches his jaw.
    “Why don’t we sit down over there,” Nial suggests, placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him.
    Sam yanks himself away. “Just tell me if he’s dead.”
    “Quite.”
    Eyes unblinking, Sam sinks to the pavement.
    “I’m sorry, Sam,” Nial says, crouching down. His long coat billows about his ankles. “The network doesn’t list any emergency contacts. Is there anyone we should inform?”
    “No.” Sam’s voice barely rises above the level of the wind.
    The two men remain motionless for several minutes.
    Just down the street, half a dozen local residents have gathered, their faces furrowed with worry and anger. Uniforms mean occupation here. Just in case the locals get uppity, one of Nial’s crew readies his microwave gun—known unofficially as “a heater” because it makes targets feel like they’re burning without doing any lasting harm.
    An officer approaches. Nial stands, straightens his coat, and withdraws.
    Sam stares blankly at the road beneath him. Every breath bears the weight of someone sitting on his chest. He can’t help but think that the glasses got Jacob killed.
    A few minutes later, Nial returns. “Jacob’s t-file designates you as his executor,” he says. “Not that you’ll have much to do. He didn’t have more than five grand to his name.”
    “Interested in helping me out?”
    Nial shakes his head.
    Sam glowers.
    “It’s not just that there’s no money in it, Sam.”
    “What, you’re still angry about that night at Jimmy D’s?”
    “You’re the one who’s angry, Sam.”
    “Spare me the psychoanalysis.”
    “I don’t need another of your goddamn crusades, and I don’t need more teeth knocked out.” Nial starts back toward his cruiser.
    When Nial is halfway across the street, Sam calls out, “Nial, did you find any glasses?”
    “No.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “What do they look like?”
    “Antique. With rose-colored lenses.”
    “Like I said, we didn’t find any. But I’ll allow you to look around after the techs have finished their sweep.”
    Shielding his eyes, Sam watches Nial’s cruiser lift off. It won’t be long before the techs arrive, but he decides not to wait. The glasses are long gone. He slips across the street to his steel home, to wrestle with his conscience and a bottle of vodka. He looks around for something to hit.
     

CHAPTER Two
     
    B y six in the morning, the implant on Sam’s wrist displays a blood-alcohol level low enough that he’ll be able to enable the ignition chip on his bike. He stumbles into the shower, but the water is off again. Retribution by City Water, no doubt, for buying the basic service package without the pipe-security upgrade. He grabs a bottle of icy water from the fridge to rinse his face.
    Taking a seat at his desk, he tries a few more searches, adding terms gleaned during his last attempt, like “Pharmalis” and “electrophysiology.” Again, he gets next to nothing. He ups his bid to five hundred on acceptance. The results are the same.
    He guesses he’s been outbid. Either someone bought his search terms and offered no results—the standard censorship mechanism since editorial and advertising became indistinguishable—or someone is paying specifically to target him with an empty list.
    Time to make some offline inquiries.
    Marilyn’s face appears on the wall-mounted monitor as Sam grabs his leather jacket. “Shall I keep inquiring, Sam?”
    “No.” Sam pats his pockets. Empty.
    “Are you going out?”
    “Yes.” From a banker’s box full of cords and tools, he takes a wall-eye and a radiomark sprayer that resembles a pen.
    “Where?”
    “Somewhere.”
    “Please be more specific.”
    “Why?” Sam asks in a reflexive attempt to shame her.
    “So I can arrange for appropriate advertising that will prepare you to enjoy your destination.”
    Her wounded