by J Jordan
“If we can stop Devon now, then we have nothing to worry about. But we need to stop him now. While this is a small problem.”
Romney was still on his knees at the river’s edge. He could feel the high pile of his carpet digging in.
“What do I do?”
He could feel Katrese grip his shoulder. The weight of the world was crashing down on his head.
His sweaty, matted, drool-stained head.
Arindale Kinsey and the Other Ghost
For the eighth time that night, Special Agent Arindale Kinsey watched Tykeso Vandesko throw a bank teller over his shoulder and into the counting table. She knew a little about fighting styles, enough to know his was practiced. But Rikka Candrata’s form was perfect.
Before being thrown, Rikka had moved in lightning-fast, down under Vandesko’s guard, grabbed the gun barrel, twisted downward, kneed him in the side, dodged his elbow, twisted again, drove the stock up into his throat, and dug in. Vandesko was good, but he couldn’t hold a flashlight to this star. She moved with grace and power, like a true master.
They had never questioned the other tellers. The bank manager, Rella, had made it all seem so clean-cut. Balvance came in, demanded access to the vault, stole precious heirlooms from various lockboxes totaling around $30,000 ON, then threw pepper powder in her eyes and walked out. All of this while Queldin and Vandesko watched the front end. The quintessential bank heist.
This ninja teller didn’t figure into that.
In fact, Kinsey pondered, Rella didn’t want them to have the footage in the first place. Which was a moot point anyway. The OIB confiscated all security footage as part of any investigation. It seemed to Kinsey that these bankers were trying to keep secrets. But what?
On her computer screen, Rikka Candrata continued to knee Vandesko in the stomach. Then she ripped the gun out of his hands and threw it aside. She delivered a palm strike to Vandesko’s face. This sent him wheeling onto the ground, spinning away, covering his masked face with one hand. His other hand reached for his pocket. He had spare pepper powder rounds there. He was waiting for her to approach, waiting for her to end the fight.
“I got something else on the muscle,” said Salinger. He had a habit of appearing at her door without a sound. This time he was thumbing through some new piece of evidence he had just uncovered. This was a stack of papers, fresh off the printer.
She stopped the footage. Vandesko’s pepper powder attack was frozen mid-volley.
“Cresdale Martial Arts,” said Salinger, handing over a piece of paper. “For amateurs and professionals. Owner and proprietor, Tykeso Vandesko.”
“We knew that,” said Kinsey, “and there’s nothing wrong with it. He makes enough to keep it going and pays all his taxes.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Kinsey examined the paper. It was a legal document transferring ownership of one storefront in a small shopping center, from an investment firm known as the North Star Group to Tykeso Vandesko. The terms had been established in a separate document, said a small blurb within the tiny print, and were agreed upon by both parties. Vandesko had signed his name on the bottom. The other, Mr. Ero Kyodo, had signed on the line above.
“A standard loan with a cosigner. Where’s the surprise?”
Salinger sorted through his pile of papers and then produced another—the terms of their deal. One storefront in North Cresdale for $130,000 ON, paid in full by Tykeso Vandesko.
“Okay,” said Kinsey, “he saved up his notes and bought his own dojo. That’s the Ontaran dream.”
“Read that little bit right there.”
She followed Salinger’s finger to an asterisk. The transaction was paid for in foreign currency. $318,100 AK. Azerran khybers.
“He used foreign currency because he’s not from Ontar. Again, old news.”
Salinger had the next sheet of paper ready. It was an application for citizenship, filed by Tykeso Vandesko in 2009. It was approved in 2010.
“Where is this going, Salinger?” said Kinsey. “We’ve established that he’s an Azerran immigrant who moved to Ontar to start a business. That’s not a crime.”
Salinger took this to mean drop the stack of papers on her desk. Kinsey tried not to grit her teeth at this. She failed.
“Tax records,” he said, “from 2010 to now. Five years’ worth of numbers. And what’s wrong with that picture?”
“Again, nothing,” said Kinsey, reviewing some of the records. “Nothing flagged by the fraud department, because nothing was out of place.”
“Oh,” said Salinger, sorting through the pile, “it isn’t here. One second.”
He disappeared, giving Kinsey some time to fix the mess he’d left on her desk. She took the transfer title and compared it to his tax forms from 2011. Vandesko had claimed the purchase of the dojo in Ontaran notes, just like he was supposed to. She reviewed the others. It was small-time stuff in 2010: two jobs at minimum wage and a tiny savings account producing no interest income. The year 2011 didn’t look very lucrative either, even with his new business. Years 2012 and 2013 were better, but not by much. He just wanted the Ontaran dream. But, like so many others, he couldn’t make it work. And then along came Romney Balvance, promising an easy way out.
“Right, this was the stack.” Salinger came back in and dropped a new stack of papers on Kinsey’s desk. She picked one up and looked it over. From the Azerran Citizens Registry.
“What is this?”
“A request for information on Tykeso Vandesko.”
Salinger pointed to large, bold lettering on the page. It was hard to miss.
“Request denied,” read Kinsey. “Tykeso Vandesko is deceased. Deceased?”
“They like being ominous over there,” said Salinger, “but you can’t blame them for being vague about it.”
He pointed to a printout attached to the back of the request. It was a death certificate for Tykeso Vandesko. February 3, 1985 to December 1, 2001. Rest in peace. The same certificate was attached to the other papers, which were now fanned out across the desk. Each was a request for information, from agents all over the bureau. All of them were denied for the same reason. Tykeso Vandesko was dead. See attached. Rest in peace.
“Great,” said Kinsey, “another ghost.”
She picked up another request. This one was from Agent Tharander, asking for any materials regarding Tykeso Vandesko. He was denied, because Tykeso Vandesko had died and the only available information was his death certificate, attached to the back of the request. Another one, from Agent Glaiveman, asked for Vandesko’s birth certificate. A simple request, perhaps something to test the waters. But her request was denied. How about a death certificate instead? Attached on back.
“What were they looking for?”
“Anything,” said Salinger. “Vandesko is tied to several other robberies all over Lanvale Metro, but he played minor roles, like a scout or a driver. Vandesko was always a dead end. He was glossed over, because he never got his hands dirty, until now.”
“Then let’s make our own request. I’ll tell them Vandesko is on our top 10 most wanted and we need everything. Then we send them a picture to prove he’s very much alive.”
“Well, we could,” said Salinger, “except he isn’t on the top 100 list. Even Balvance is in the high 400s.”
“They don’t know that,” said Kinsey. “Vandesko is alive, and we need everything they have on him. End of story.”
“Right. Good thinking,” said Salinger. “Did you want to fill that out? You’ve got it, right?”
Salinger disappeared down the hall before she could give an answer. Somehow he knew it was always going to be no and managed to dodge responsibility.
Why did Kinsey have to do all the paperwork? She picked another report from the pile.
Agent Yaldarra to the Azerran Citizens Registry: Has Tykeso Vandesko served in any branch of Azerran military? The reply: Ghosts can’t serve in our armed forces. Please see attached.
There was a w
ebsite listed on the bottom of the page, for filing requests online.
Agent Kinsey decided to make her own request of the Azerran Citizens Registry. All those death certificates neglected to mention one important thing. How did Tykeso Vandesko die?
She stopped mid-sentence and looked at the mound of papers crowding her desk. She reached in and plucked a tax form from the mess. It had the address for Cresdale Martial Arts. The dojo was a twenty-minute drive from the office. They would be open tomorrow morning at seven.
The owner would know all about Tykeso Vandesko.
Romney Balvance and Cora Queldin
Correction: It was Cora Queldin grabbing Romney’s shoulders. When he opened his eyes, he saw Cora’s face staring back at his. There was something odd about her. Her glasses were askew and her cheeks were flush. She looked furious. He decided that “good morning” was probably a bad start. A question would work better.
“What’s going on?”
It was then that the world of his bedroom came into focus. He was on his knees at the foot of his bed, while Cora was holding his shoulder. She shook him once more to make sure he was awake, then released him to pace the area around his bed.
“Do you have a history of night terrors? Sleep apnea? Sleep walking? Irregular REM sleep?”
Romney thought about this. Another thought intercepted it. He was in his boxer briefs and nothing more. Romney pulled the sweaty bedsheets over him and made a makeshift sarong.
“What are you doing in here?”
Cora turned on him. She didn’t seem to hear the question.
“Is it stress? Sleep disorders are usually caused by large amounts of stress. Diet can also affect sleep patterns. And it looks to me like you have some serious issues. I’m not a medical doctor, of course, but you should really seek help for night terrors. If you haven’t already. Do you have any medications you take for this?”
“Cora,” said Romney, “what are you doing in my apartment?”
This came off as an accusation, which caused Cora to cross her arms.
“I was setting up your new computer. It’s a ProVock, the newest model. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
She moved to the kitchen and began rummaging around. Romney followed after her, then stopped at the couch in the living room. His head was pounding.
“And it’s a good thing I was here,” Cora continued, handing him a mug of water. “You were on your knees at the foot of your bed. And you were screaming at the top of your lungs.
Romney took a sip, then finished the rest in one gulp. He moved to the kitchen and refilled it at the faucet.
“That’s a lot of stress on your heart,” added Cora, “and your forehead was hot to the touch. Fever, most likely. Do you have a family history of this kind of thing?”
Romney didn’t answer. His headache was slowly fading.
“Romney?”
Cora was watching him fill his cup again. She looked worried.
“Please don’t drink out of the faucet.”
Cora explained the last few minutes in detail. Tykeso had picked the lock for her. She had carried the computer into the bedroom, while Romney was sleeping, and was unpacking it. As she was fishing out the wireless keyboard dongle, he suddenly jumped onto his bed and started babbling incoherently. Cora took refuge in the far corner of the room while he did this. The spectacle went on for entire minutes, before he finally slumped over and fell silent.
Cora took the opportunity to move quietly to the doorway. Her left foot had made it into the living room when Romney rose to his knees again. He opened his eyes wide and started screaming. In response, Cora started screaming. They carried on like this for a time, until Cora decided to shake him awake.
Romney listened to these details, in between sips of water. He was now drinking directly from the filtered carafe in the fridge, but the supply was running low. His head was still pounding.
“I know it’s not right. You’re supposed to let sleepwalkers wake up naturally. But I wasn’t sure if you were sleepwalking, because you weren’t actually walking. And you wouldn’t stop screaming. It was the only thing I could think to do.”
Romney nodded, sipped some water, then nodded again. He could only focus on one detail of this story.
“You broke into my apartment,” he said.
“To setup your new computer,” added Cora, “which is almost done. I need to get the mouse and the power cables ready. It’s a great machine. It comes with twin graphics cards, extra memory, solid-state drives, and it has the VeriVock ID so you won’t have to put in your passwords all the time. ProVocks can do anything.”
“Can it call a locksmith to change my locks?”
“Yes,” said Cora, taken aback, “once I plug it in and start the software updates.”
Romney sipped from the carafe again. There didn’t seem to be a bottom to his thirst. Or an end to his headache.
“Forget it,” he sighed. “Thank you for the new computer. And I’m sorry if I scared you with my night terror. Or whatever it was.”
“Don’t be sorry. See a doctor. You can’t let something like that go unchecked.”
Romney took another sip of water. He needed more than a doctor, unless there were doctors that cured you of divine providence. Like a psychiatrist or something. An exorcist, maybe? The idea of Semnir drifted into his thoughts. The little man with the leather vest and the hairy feet.
“Do you know Semnir?”
Cora shook her head.
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No, I guess he would be part of a folktale or something like that. He was a little guy, well-built, used to hang out with Katrese, and help her with stuff.”
Cora’s frown deepened. Her brow dropped back into its usual furrow.
“As far as I know, she did everything by herself. Then again, I never made it a point to study Katresean lore beyond its influence on Camerra. I’ve never read anything about her helpers.”
She pondered the idea a moment.
“Technically, you could say Andrea Lucana was a helper. But there’s a lot of back and forth on that point.”
“Who is she?”
“The Prophet of Andar, and the first pharaoh. She led the Andarans through the desert to an oasis, where they founded the city that would become Andarametra. I don’t know any of the details, but I knew someone who studied that lore extensively.”
Cora took the carafe from Romney and poured the rest into his cup.
“Why the sudden interest?”
“I can be interested in historical stuff. Some of it is interesting.”
“It’s just strange that you’re interested now. Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Yeah.”
Cora filled the carafe at the sink and returned it to the fridge. She paused at the doorway into Romney’s bedroom.
“Just stay there and keep hydrating. I’ll have the ProVock running soon.”
The ProVock Mark 7, updated to the latest vOS 13.7.9.2, made complete by the wireless VoWave Keyboard, the ergonomic egg mouse, the VoIce surround speakers, and the 28” VockVision color-corrected monitor. The Goliath of modern computing.
We could go into the exact specifications of Romney’s new computer, but it would likely make the reader laugh or, worse, wax nostalgic. You would likely say something like “they made RAM in gigabytes?” Or “where is the touch screen?”
Just know that in 2015, the ProVock Mark 7 was an absolute beast of a machine. It was designed to handle HD video editing, advanced 3-D rendering, database building, and multichannel audio editing—all at the same time.
Please don’t laugh.
The ProVock was a computing behemoth and a wonder of modern technology. And it was obviously too much computer for Romney to handle. Cora’s annoyance was quickly mounting. They were both staring at Romney’s reflection on the computer screen, trying in vain to calibrate the VeriVock.
“Don’t smile. It needs a baseline expression to work off of. Make a neutral express
ion.”
Romney did this. Cora’s sigh was exasperating.
“That’s a frown. Just relax all of your face muscles.”
“This is neutral,” said Romney, from the side of his mouth.
“It’s picking up as a frown. That’s what the sad emoji means.”
Romney tried a half smile. The sad emoji didn’t change.
“How do I use my computer?”
“We’ll need to update the VeriVock before you can use it. Let’s just make a temporary password for now.”
Cora navigated the sleek and well-designed menu to create a temporary password. The screen displayed two large cards, likely illustrated by a famous artist of some kind. The line work was exceptional, the coloring and shading on point.
“Cats or dogs?”
“What?”
“This is establishing your temporary password. You pick a series of cards to log in. It’s easier to remember than a complex password, and it’s more difficult to hack. Each card represents a complex and heavily encrypted string of data. You are essentially building an uncrackable password out of pictures. It’s genius.”
Romney nodded politely at these details. The card art was nice. Detailed, yet stylistic. He could only assume the encrypted strings were the safest around. He would not understand the massive computational undertakings happening behind the scenes, but then again he had no interest in those things. That was the computer’s job, anyway.
“So, cats or dogs?”
“Dogs,” answered Romney.
Cora made the selection. The dog card slid to the right side of the screen, as the cat card tumbled down into digital oblivion. The next two cards appeared.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea,” answered Romney.
“What? You always drink coffee.”
“I like tea more. But I only drink it on special occasions.”
The teacup joined the dog on the right. Two more cards appeared.
“Red or blue?”
“Blue, I guess.”
Cora paused mid-selection. The frown returned to her face.