Gotta get some information somewhere. I drive over to the Prostheticore building and park in a space near the middle of the parking lot. Now I need a plan. I can’t just go in guns blazing – metaphorically – I have to play this cool. Then it hits me. I know exactly what I need.

I open up my glove compartment and start fumbling through it. C’mon, it’s got to be here. What self-respecting private eye doesn’t have a . . . ah! Here it is. I pull out my laminated press pass, forged of course, identifying me as Jack Case, reporter for AllNews.Com. It still shimmers in the sunlight, even though it’s well worn from serving me many times in the past.

I step out of the car, brushing my tangled hair back and smoothing the wrinkles in my trench coat. A second later I affix the pass to my lapel, and I’m ready. Play this right, and the world is mine.

The girl at the front desk could be a caretaker AI in the Metascape if she tried hard enough – she has the bland prettiness and the vapid look down pat. “Can I help you?” she asks with that perfectly measured blend of flirtatiousness, nonchalance, and utter boredom.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. I’m Jack Case, reporter for AllNews.Com, and I’m co-writing a story on Prostheticore and its contributions to the future of cybernetic medical and enhancement technology.

“Oh, well, isn’t that exciting. Would you like to arrange some interviews?”

“Oh no thank you, another reporter will be contacting you for interviews. However, I did speak to a . . .”

Damn, who’s a higher-up here that I could have spoken to. My eyes quickly scan of the room and find exactly what I need – a listing of offices. Hrm, higher floors probably mean higher positions so someone on floor . . . twenty out of thirty should do nicely.

“. . . a Mr. Ishigawa about looking into reading some of the more technical files on Prostheticore’s processes. However, he said that I would need to come to the physical building, as company policy forbids him from simply sending those documents to a non-employee. So if possible, I’d like to use a computer terminal. It shouldn’t take more than an hour at most, and holographic technology isn’t necessary.”

Her vapid gaze shifts to it’s other preset emotion, bewilderment. “Well . . .” she says, “If you spoke to someone here I suppose it’s alright if I let you use a computer.” Then she adds “I mean, all the confidential files are secured even on our own networks,” probably to reassure herself. Looks like I’m home free. “I’ll have to supervise your usage though.” Maybe not.

She leads me to a room containing a few computers, all in relatively new condition, and she types in a password to log me onto the system. Then she sits down at the terminal next to me and proceeds to type in a long string of text. I have to get her out of here. I have an idea.

There’s a phone on the back wall of this room. Hoping she won’t notice, I activate my implant and enter the Metascape. I download a conversation AI, and then refocus so that I’m only seeing the Interweb text command for the Prostheticore phone system. A little tampering and the AI is uploaded to the phone network. Now I just have to make that phone ring, and . . . shit. Nothing happens. Why didn’t that phone ring, it should be – the phone at the front desk starts ringing.

“Oh, I guess I’d better get that. I’ll be right back.” she says. That works too.

I only have a few minutes, so I jack back into the Interweb, this time uplinking to the Prostheticore computer servers. I wish I were better at this, but I’ll just have to make do. I’ve got a limited time frame here. I do some amateurish hacking, and discover what I hope is the password to mid-level classified documents, but I can’t actually access the documents from the Interweb. I jack out and resume typing on the machine in front of me. From the front desk, the receptionist is still trying to have a conversation with the AI. I’ve got a few more minutes at least.

I enter what I hope is the right password and search for Drake Collins. Luckily, the first document that shows up has a midlevel classified ranking – guess the password worked. I open the document, which says: “Drake Collins was the first recruit in Prostheticore biotech experiment 101C, an experiment with three basic parameters:

1. To enhance the human muscle tissue and organs to a point of superhuman strength, endurance, toughness, and resistance (all known diseases, including the nanovirus).
2. To facilitate synaptic communication in order to shorten reaction time to the minimum possible amount.
3. To provide a means of monitoring, and if necessary mental override of the subject.

So he’s a mind-controlled super-soldier, basically. That pretty much makes my day.

I click the link to another file, and in it I find an image of the contract Drake signed and the waiver form releasing Prostheticore from any liability to his person. Then I transfer to the file on experiment 101C.

The first document is a copy of the budget for the project. It’s over 100 pages long so I skip to the last page and that’s where I find the real bomb. It’s signed by Gregory Frickson, CEO of Prostheticore, and that’s no surprise. But it’s also signed by Henry LeCerc, one of the CyberCorp board of directors, and right next to the Prostheticore logo is the CyberCorp logo.

It’s all so clear now. Cybercorp, the largest cybernetic corporation on the planet, is building an army of mind controlled super enforcers. Because, obviously, they need more power. Assholes.

At this point, I realize that the beeping coming from the room isn’t a paging system, it’s an alarm. Someone’s figured me out. Time to go.

I rush out of the building, flying past the receptionist, knocking her on her ass in the process. I have to get out of here before the authorities come.

Run