After that came the story of her short-lived marriage to some jock, a glowing description of her four-year-old daughter, and the sad story of my rather truncated college career.

  Then there came a pause, a point where the past was all used up, and the conversation should turn to the future. But I didn’t know how to do it, how to broach the subject, how to tell her what I wanted.

  Much to my surprise Kathy did it for me. “Greg . . . maybe it’s none of my business . . . but you were in this morning’s paper. You and that Larry guy. The one who spray painted the front of the school. They say you robbed a bank . . . and killed a policeman.”

  The words came as a shock. My god! She hadn’t said a word . . . Or had she? For all I knew the police were on the way. I started to rise but she stopped me. “No, Greg . . . I didn’t call the police.”

  She smiled. “Outside of my mother . . . and some distant relatives . . . you’re the only one who came to see me. I had to know why.”

  There was a long moment of silence during which all sorts of things bubbled up inside me. Finally the words came spilling out, everything, the way I’d worshipped her from afar, the robbery, my conversation with Larry, everything. By the time I had finished, there were tears streaming down her face, and I felt terrible. But she wiped them away and held my hand.

  “Don’t feel badly, Greg . . . you’ve made me happy in a way that no one else could . . . I simply wish that sixteen-year-old girls were smarter, that’s all. We’re kind of similar you and I. Lots of potential and nothing to show for it.”

  Well, that seemed to say it all, and we just sat there for a while, holding hands, and thinking our separate thoughts. That’s when I made my proposal. It was simple. Once Kathy arrived on the other side, she would find Larry, and raise the subject of the bank job. And Larry, being more than a little susceptible to female flattery, would spill his worthless guts. That’s when Kathy would call the police, tell them where to find the money, and turn me in. There was a reward for my capture, that’s what it said in the paper anyway, and the money would go to her daughter.

  Not bad, huh? And guess what? The whole thing went without a hitch. Slower than I would have liked—but smooth. Weeks passed before Kathy died, passed through orientation, and located Larry. Weeks during which I lived on the little bit of money she gave me—and passed the time watching myself on Americas Most Wanted.

  But finally it was over. Kathy got the information, passed it to the police, and told them where to find me. I was arrested, charged with murder, and pled guilty. Not only that, I told them I wanted to die, and the sooner the better.

  Well, you can imagine the furor. I was the toast of the tabloids. The criminal justice system was in a quandary—since no one had figured out what to do with the death penalty. I mean, where’s the penalty? Not to mention the fact that folks on the other side were sick and tired of having the freaks and weirdos shipped over to them.

  But the law’s the law, so they have to kill me, and today’s the day. I talked to Kathy just yesterday, and she’s waiting for me, along with that son of a bitch Larry.

  Just wait till I get over there! I plan to kick his ethereal butt! As for Kathy, well, we plan to spend some time together. Give me a call sometime . . . I’ll let you know how it turns out.

  The Bodyguard and the Client Who Wouldn’t Die

  William C. Dietz has published eighteen science fiction novels, the latest of which is called By Blood Alone (sequel to Legion and The Final Battle), three Star Wars-related novellas, and five short stories. He grew up in the Seattle area, spent time in the Navy, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa for half a year, and has been variously employed as a surgical technician, news writer, college instructor, television director, and public relations manager. He lives in the Seattle area with his wife, two daughters, and two cats. He enjoys traveling, snorkeling, canoeing, and, not too surprisingly, reading books.

  SUB-LEVEL 38 of the Sea Tac Residential-Industrial Urboplex is not a very good place to entertain clients. Not unless they have a Jones for druggies, wire heads, and brain-damaged ex-marines like yours truly.

  That’s why it’s a whole lot smarter to meet them somewhere else, like for lunch in a classy restaurant. Then, if they blow you off, you still get the meal. Pathetic? Well, hey, welcome to my life.

  That particular day started the way most of them do. I awoke with the usual headache, a mouth that tasted as if something had died in it, and the memory of a strange dream. The same dream I had dreamed many times before.

  I felt myself being lifted into the air and lowered onto the surface of an operating table. A distant aspect of my personality urged me to escape but that was impossible.

  Time passed. There was talk of “local anesthetics,” “head preps,” and “neural interfaces.” None of which meant anything to me. That’s when it started, the general sense of inflow, of words and numbers that tumbled around me to build vast informational structures so large and complex that they could be compared with cities, except that try as I might I was unable to back away far enough to see and understand their function and purpose.

  But I did notice that as the city grew larger and larger, I became smaller and smaller, until it towered over and around me. The air became so thick with words and numbers that I choked and couldn’t breathe. That’s when I decided to escape, to go where they wouldn’t follow, and leave everything behind.

  And no sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I was gone, drifting under the ceiling, while the bald man worked to bring me back. I watched my body jump as they passed electricity through my heart. The light grew more intense, and seemed to beckon, but I was reluctant to leave. Life had been good once. . . .

  Then, like fishermen, the medics reeled me in. My head was full. So full I thought it would explode. I screamed. . . .

  Weird, huh? But nothing unusual. Not if you’re me . . . which I definitely am.

  The shrinks call it battle fatigue, post-traumatic stress disorder, and a whole lotta other shit. All because I took a hit in the noggin. That’s why the top of my head is covered with a chromed skull plate, why they kicked me out of the Mishimuto Marines, and why I take fluoxetine, buspirone, and various beta-blockers. When I remember, that is—which is sometimes.

  All of which doesn’t mean jack-shit, except that it explains why I’m a bodyguard instead of a rocket scientist.

  The client, my only client at that particular moment, had suggested the Celestriala, a very high torque eatery located on Sky-Level 46, about as far from my one-room abode as heaven is from hell.

  In order to get there I had to take the low-rise lift tube up to ground level, switch to the high-rise tube, and push my way in.

  I stand seven feet two inches tall, weigh about two-fifty, and have lots of prematurely white hair. Add the skull plate and the .38-caliber bulge and most people make room.

  Not this crowd, however, all of whom were service droids, and didn’t give a shit what I looked like. They were on their way to work, which was more than most humans could say, since most corporations employed no more than ten or twenty people, and used freelancers for the scut work. Freelancers plus androids, of which there were far too many.

  They looked human, well, kinda human, except for the Droidware logos on their foreheads and the spray-painted butler outfits.

  I felt a sense of excitement as the platform rose. Not about the case, but about the free meal—and the chance to scope the restaurant.

  That’s my fantasy, you see, to open my own place, where the customers know me and the coffee is good. Good and hot, since most restaurants serve it lukewarm.

  Silly, you say? Well, you have your dreams, and I have mine.

  The platform paused on a service floor and the robots whined, buzzed, and in one unfortunate case clanked off to work. That left me with the entire compartment to myself. A rare occasion indeed.

  The lift tube’s computer scanned for targets, compared my image to a long list of criteria, and dropped a holo in front of my mug. The face jockey was pretty, very pretty, and wanted to make love to me. That’s what her expression conveyed anyway. “Hey, baby, tired of being bald? You could have a full head of hair by tomorrow night. Just dial 888-MOR-HAIR for an appointment.”

  The face jockey winked beguilingly as the doors parted. I stepped through her image and out onto a transparent floor. Not entirely transparent, because there were what looked like clouds drifting just below my feet, but mostly transparent so I could see Earth the way some artist imagined it, still covered with glaciers, unpolluted oceans, and virgin forests.

  The voice caused me to look up and straight down a heavenly street. It was lined with shops and paved with what looked like gold bricks. “Welcome to Sky Mall,” the invisible being said seductively. “We couldn’t help but notice the rather inexpensive nature of your clothing.

  “If you are wealthy but eccentric, on your way to a costume ball, or here to deliver some pizza then continue on your way.

  “Otherwise be aware that the police have been notified and will arrive at any moment.”

  True or not, the claim was intended to send riffraff such as myself packing. And it might have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for the prospect of a free lunch, and some much needed cash. I forged ahead.

  The shops stood in marked contrast to what I was used to. Judging from my surroundings, the upper crust had no need of anything other than purses, shoes, and expensive jewelry.

  No one noticed at first, but it wasn’t long before heads started to turn and eyes began to pop.

  Fortunately it was about then that I spotted the Celestriala’s tasteful sign and headed in that direction. Even freaks with chromed heads can go where they please so long as they look confident and don’t ask for directions.

  The doors sensed my considerable presence and hurried to part company. The maitre d’ was a real pro, the kind who assumes nothing and never gives offense. Too classy for the place I have in mind . . . but a study in how it’s done. He saw me, raised a well-plucked eyebrow, and nodded. “Good afternoon, sir. One for lunch?”

  I smiled. “Two actually—has Miss Jones arrived?”

  The maitre d’ gave the slightest of nods and motioned for me to follow. “I will show you to her table.”

  Few if any of the restaurant’s patrons were as refined as the maitre d’. Heads turned, frowns creased artificially smooth skin, and whispers flew left and right.

  The Jones table occupied a choice location, right by a floor-to-ceiling window where one could look out over the real Mother Earth, or what human beings had done to her, which wasn’t pretty.

  The sprawl started somewhere south of Ensenada and stretched all the way to Vancouver. There were patches of green, parks and so forth, but not very many, since the whole thing was an endless jumble of factories, hotels, refineries, slums, tank farms, landing grids, and haz dumps.

  The immediate view was a study in rectangles. There were tail ones, short ones, and medium ones all jumbled together like some sort of mad puzzle.

  Neon caught the eye, as did the brightly lit air cars, and the holo images that bloomed like flowers above the rooftops.

  The maitre d’ waited while I took my seat. “Miss Jones will be a couple of minutes late, sir. May I bring something while you wait?”

  The offer was tempting but what if she failed to show? I’d be stuck with the bill. Still, I felt kind of lucky, so I nodded. “Yes, thank you. An Americano, please. Very hot.”

  The maitre d’ delivered one of those infinitesimal nods that he was so good at and disappeared. The Americano arrived three minutes later. It was boiling.

  A full fifteen minutes had passed by the time Cleopatra Jones finally made her appearance. She arrived as if borne by a perfumed wind. Faces smiled, hands fluttered, and lips pouted from every corner of the room.

  Jones looked about fifty, but, given all the miracles of modern science, may have been considerably older. She wore a pillbox hat trimmed with lab-grown leopard skin, a matching waist-length jacket, and long narrow pants. They were black to emphasize long shapely legs.

  I stood the way a gentleman is supposed to. Her heels clicked like castanets and one arm was extended. No small task given the size of the diamond she wore on her hand. “Mr. Maxon! What a pleasure!”

  She carried it off so well that I damned near believed it. The handshake was warm and firm.

  We sat and made small talk about things I knew very little about while we waited for her Bloody Mary to arrive. She slammed the drink down, winked as if to a conspirator, and ordered another. I noticed that her face had been pretty once—and still was, in a hard sort of way. “So, Mr. Maxon . . . what do you know about my family’s company?”

  The truth was that I didn’t know diddly about her corporation—or hadn’t eight hours before. So, cognizant of how unreliable my gray cells tend to be, I had waited until the last minute to visit the company’s web site.

  I shrugged noncommittally. “What everyone knows, I guess. . . . Jones is a privately held firm centered around transportation. That includes three highly integrated subs known as EarthFreight, MoonFreight, and MarsFreight. In aggregate they earned more than 20 billion credits during the last fiscal year.”

  The second Bloody Mary arrived and she sipped approvingly. “Very good. You track this stuff, did your homework, or both. I like that.

  “Our conversation is going to center around the first part of what you said: Jones is a privately held corporation. My father, Jerimiah Jones, was chairman. I was president.”

  “Was?”

  She nodded. “My father passed away about three weeks ago. More on that in a moment. . . . First you need to understand that the family is large and most of us work for the company.”

  For some reason the image of a corpse riddled with maggots came to mind. I wondered what that had to do with me, and when we would eat. “Yes, of course.”

  Satisfied that I understood the full significance of her point, Jones continued. “So, you can imagine how everyone felt when Daddy died.”

  “Sad?”

  Jones frowned. “No, silly, of course not! The old bugger was 156 years old. We were tired of listening to endless drivel about how hard he worked to build the company.”

  Our waiter arrived at that particular moment and saved me from yet another gaffe. I ordered the largest meal I thought I could get away with . . . and waited for my client to continue. A third Bloody Mary set the wheels in motion.

  “No,” Jones said. “It was our turn, or more precisely my turn, since I was designated to replace him. That opened my slot to my brother, his slot to a cousin, and so forth all the way down the line.”

  “So, where’s the problem?” I inquired brightly, my eyes on the approaching food. “Is someone out to get you?”

  “Of course people are out to get me,” Jones replied matter-of-factly. “I’m the chairwoman, aren’t I? That’s what my security team are for.”

  “Then why hire me?” I asked, mouthwatering as the food hit the table.

  “For my father,” she replied darkly. “To guard his body.”

  Something about the woman’s tone drew my eyes to hers. “But why? He’s dead.”

  Jones nodded. “Yes, he is. And your job is to ensure that he stays that way.”

  The platter was so hot that grease splattered the crisp white tablecloth. The steak was enormous—and so was the potato. I spoke with food in my mouth. “Make sure he stays that way? What do you mean?”

  Jones ignored her teensy-weensy salad. “I mean that about two weeks after the old goat was buried he turned up at my office. His clothes were muddy and he was madder than hell. He claimed we had buried him alive! That’s when he called the lawyers and went to work on the will.”

  I paused in midchew. “Really? How could something like that happen?”

  “All too easily,” came the cryptic reply. “My father didn’t make it to 156 by eating plenty of carrots. He was the beneficiary of countless implants, transplants, and bionic surrogates. Artificial organs that can repair themselves. Even after death. That’s what happened to Daddy. He died, or we thought that he had, but the surrogates brought him back.”

  I racked my so-called brain. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “And you won’t,” Jones predicted. “The biomed firms want to suppress the information—as do families such as mine.”

  I stuck my fork into the last piece of steak and used it to polish the platter. “I’m confused. You said your father died—then turned up at your office. So, which is he? Dead or alive?”

  “Dead,” she confirmed. “For the moment at least. When he arrived at my office he was so angry, so upset, that it triggered a heart attack. The new will, the one he and the lawyers were working on, went unsigned.”

  “I see,” I said, in spite of the fact that I didn’t. “So, where’s the problem?”

  “We’re sending the body back to the family plot in North Dakota,” Jones replied. “I want you to go along. If Daddy tries to rise from the dead then shoot him—and keep shooting—till he’s down for good.”

  The proposition was dubious at best . . . which was why they wanted me to do it. Still, where was the harm? The guy was dead, wasn’t he? So if he came to life, and I put a few bullets into him, it wouldn’t matter. Or would it? My head started to hurt.

  Jones, sensing my hesitation, reached for my hand. She had large brown eyes and they drew me in. “Please, Max? I’d be ever so grateful.”

  I struggled but the hook was set. I said, “Ingo nordle doodly pop,” realized my error, and faked a cough. The nonsensical sounds manifest a lot more frequently when I’m stressed. The doctors can’t explain it and neither can I. She had a questioning look and I hurried to respond. “Yes, well, I don’t see why not. As a favor to you.”

  “Wonderful!” she said brightly, dropped my hand, and signaled for the check. “What’s your normal fee?”

  Most of the time I don’t make any money at all—but even I knew better than to say that. I screwed up my courage. “Five hundred credits per day. Plus expenses.”