Oversight Read Free Page B

tone makes Sam shiver. “Marilyn, silence.”
    “How many minutes would you like to buy?”
    “One hundred twenty.”
    “Transaction processed. I’ll catch up with you in two hours, Sam.”
    “Marilyn, copy local data to my private directory at GeoSync Five. Authorize by voice. Execute local wipe.”
    He leaves before Marilyn can reply, ashamed of being provoked by software. He doesn’t want to be that person again, the one who loses control.
     
    Weaving through surprisingly light traffic on Sixteenth Street with his engine rumbling, Sam fails to hear the street dusters passing overhead. Just as he crosses Mission Street, scented spray soap blankets the road. It’s the city’s latest scheme to deal with what it calls “indigent persons”—though most people just refer to them as ‘gents in mocking reference to the gentlemen they’re presumed not to be.
    The concoction covering him is a chemical marvel. Its nontoxic microbial scrubbers confer the sort of clean usually only seen on TV; under pressure, the slippery mist turns to sand, aiding tire traction on streets until the next rainfall sends it to the nearest storm drain. As for the fashion-magazine aroma, that’s supposed to be a feature rather than a bug—at least for the cosmetics companies getting greater exposure for their celebrity fragrances.
    Sam curses himself for going offline and missing the strafing alert. While he doubts Marilyn can take any real joy in his comeuppance, he nonetheless imagines her smiling smugly.
    He soon arrives at the Duboce Stalls, a farmer’s market without farmers, but full of buyers, sellers, and curiosity-seekers who gather every morning in one of the city’s few remaining historic parking lots—all of which are under the protection of the National Parking Service. Conveniently for Sam, scofflaws are out in force, barbecuing with charcoal that masks his scent with smoke.
    On a hill behind the market stands the Old Mint, now a day trip for history students and tourists too shortsighted to make reservations at Entertainment Corp’s Alcatraz. Off to the west, across the hillside of Twin Peaks, glass windows turn gold under the gaze of the rising sun.
    Sam elbows his way to the back of the market, where the antique dealers have set up their booths. Like a Buddha made of gingerbread dough, Amir Urutu sits at his table, arranging the day’s featured goods: netsuke figurines, genetically enhanced herbs, and assorted twentieth-century antiques. He nods as Sam approaches.
    “Hello, my friend.”
    “How’s business, Amir?”
    Amir beams. “Splendid. Have you seen these?” He holds up a pair of black plastic sunglasses. “Auglites. Just got a shipment from China, and they’re almost gone.”
    “What do they do?”
    “Dynamic resurfacing.”
    “You mean overlays?”
    “Not simple overlays. These are much better than an eyepiece. They can track your head movements perfectly, no ghosting. These are gonna be big.”
    Sam glances about. “Got time to chat?”
    “Of course. How’s your little one doing? I’ve been meaning to stop by to see her, but you know how it is.”
    “She still can’t see or talk. Her medical rep wants to get her into a drug trial for something called Lucidan. It’s supposed to stimulate her brain.”
    “I hope it works,” Amir says, pursing his lips. “I really do.”
    “Me too.” Sam makes an effort to smile. “Speaking of glasses, what do you know about antique specs?”
    “Some. What do you want to know?”
    “I came across a peculiar pair—rose-colored lenses, zinc wire with a copper disk at the end of each temple, and the letters J.M. engraved on them.”
    Amir’s face lights up. “May I see them?” he asks.
    “I don’t have them anymore.”
    “Oh, Sam. Don’t tell me you sold them.”
    “No.” Sam doesn’t want to reveal too much. “Why? Are they valuable?”
    Amir buries his head in his hands. “Yes, very.” He reaches beneath the table, produces a tablet, and