by Nas Hedron
It was that sixth sense that had warned me, just in time, of danger earlier today, and it was those reflexes and that physical strength that had allowed me to survive. I look at the face in the mirror again and say a silent prayer of thanks for the body I live in, if not for the price I paid to get it.
Downstairs I retrieve my bike, which is parked illegally out back so I can leave through the alley instead of appearing at the front of the building again. I scan the street carefully before emerging, but no alarms go off in my head. When I merge with traffic, no one stands up with a gun. I aim the bike east, taking a circuitous route around the Monkeypox C quarantine, and make it to Max’s without incident. Carmen is in the security office, as I knew she would be.
“Hi Gat.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No sweat. What happened?”
“Pursuit and attempted termination.”
She looks cross with me. That’s how Carmen is. She’s the best tech I’ve ever found, but her emotional reactions are indecipherable, sometimes perverse.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She loses the angry expression and shrugs.
“Whatever. Who tried to terminate you?”
“Three guys dressed like homeless, only they were armed and had motorcycles. It got messy.”
“Anyone killed?
I look over her shoulder at her holo, trying to see the display. I’m anxious to know what progress she’s made.
“P.D. took out one guy,” I say. They’re trying to ID him now. The other two got away.”
“Doesn’t sound like you.”
Now she looks amused. I reach around her and amp the size on the display, but she reaches behind her and turns it back down. I look at her.
“There were three of them, unknowns. They could have been ex-Forces for all I knew. Plus there were a lot of civilians around. I’m not in the business of getting civilians killed.”
“Some died anyway.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes, Carmen, some died. I can’t save the whole world at once.”
“One fat rich man at a time.”
“Damn right. Now what have you got.”
“Zip.”
“Zip? Are you shitting me?”
It’s unheard of for Carmen to come up entirely empty-handed, but as usual she is calm, unfazed by it.
“Nope. There’s nothing. A great big nothing. A void.”
“I want details.”
“There are no details, that’s the point.” She takes on a lecturing tone. “Look, at every point from the time this guy—or woman, or alien, or whatever—came over the wall, the sensors failed systematically, one by one, along his exact route. It’s like his presence bored a tunnel in the security. Everything switched off ahead of him, allowed him to pass through undetected, and then switched on and operated normally once he’d gone by.”
“Well shit Carmen, what about safeties?”
Every decent security system has monitors that check continuously to make sure that the sensors are operational. If they stop working, even for a fraction of a second, the monitors—known as safeties—should notice and set off an internal systems check. If the results aren’t within permissible limits, an alarm should go off. It’s supposed to make the system tamperproof because the moment a criminal disables it, he’s set off the very alarms he was trying to avoid in the first place.
“Oh, the safeties,” Carmen says sedately. “Same thing.”
“They shut off too?”
“One by one in perfect sequence.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s supposed to be. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“To hell with interesting. It’s so interesting I almost got my brains ventilated this morning. Having someone after Max is one thing, having someone after Max and me is something different. I want answers.”
She smiles again, her eyes distant, like she’s discovered something beautiful and is charmed by the thought of it.
“That’s just it. There are no answers. The data trail is burned, but good. Whoever did this is the best. I mean better than the best. Got to be military.”
“Why would the military give a shit about Max?”
“Or ex-military. Hackers for hire.”
“Or the luckiest son of a bitch alive?”
“What?”
I don’t realize until she speaks that I’ve said it out loud.
“Nothing. Keep working it.”
“You know I will.”
“Yeah. If this is as perfect as you say you’ll work it ‘til you melt away to nothing.”
“It’s an elegant problem.”
I don’t really know what to say to that because even though I understand the words I know that I don’t really get them, don’t understand the depth of what they mean to Carmen. She admires whoever did this. She will still track and hunt them until she drops, maybe even moreso now that she has a worthy adversary, but she’s off in her own world.
“Why’s Alan in sim?”
The AI is sitting in one of the reclining chairs, oblivious to our presence. The mundane question seems to bring Carmen out of dreamland a little and back to something resembling her usual, businesslike self.
“He’s running some checks I asked him for.”
“I’d better talk to Jerome about this morning.”
“Okay Gat. I’ll be here if you need me.”
“I’m going to get TJ in here with you.”
“TJ’s surveilling Pileggi.”
“I’ll put someone else on Pileggi. TJ’s the best protection there is and I want him here.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Gat. No one’s getting in here.”
“They did before.”
She screws up her face in an expression I can’t read. It seems like the grimace of an unhappy child. Then she lets it go.
“Fine,” she says “just don’t let him get in my way.”
“Carmen, I don’t want anything in your way. Look, you know I believe you’re the best. If anyone can crack this hack it’s you.”
“I am the best,” she says without any particular tone, her eyes already drifting back to the holo display “but eventually someone better always comes along no matter how good you are. I’ll keep trying, Gat. I’d like to believe that no one can out-think me quite yet. Maybe when I’m older, but not just now.”
“Thanks. Stay in touch if you find anything.”
She doesn’t even nod—her elegant problem has its grip on her again. I call Jerome and explain that I want to talk to him. He says he’s at his office and I head out to find him.
I leave through the kitchen, waving hello to Saul, who’s back on the job today. Behind the house I take one of the carts that are parked there and head along a paved lane that leads to Jerome’s Victorian home. On the way I call TJ and assign him to his new detail. I also instruct him to set up a redundant camera system of our own at Cloud City.
Jerome is, as always, a portrait of lawyerly competence. Busy but calm, he’s on a call on his kaikki when I enter and he waves me in and keeps on talking. This time he’s dressed in an antique banker’s suit. They’re all the rage these days with corporate lawyers and I don’t doubt that his is an original rather than a copy. It looks like early twentieth century to me, with a vest beneath the jacket and a subtle pin-stripe design. I hate to think that on this idiot’s whim a museum-quality piece of history has been tailored to fit his frame, but for obvious reasons I don’t say anything. The other fashion craze amongst lawyers nowadays is carefully-honed slovenliness—perfectly messed hair, fake tattoos, torn ex-Forces pants, running shoes—but that’s something more often found in entertainment law than in corporate circles. Given that Max stopped entertaining anything other than fantasies long ago, and exists primarily as a font of investment, Jerome’s choice is appropriate.
While Jerome talks I content myself with standing by one of the windows, gazing out at the trees, which are swa
ying slightly in the breeze. The ground beneath them is dappled with sun and shadow. Just beyond them, through the foliage, I can see one of the lakes. I’m a long way from the real Los Angeles. Eventually Jerome finishes his conversation, puts down his kaikki, and comes to stand beside me.
“Beautiful view,” I say.
“I’ve earned it. Don’t get to look at it as often as I should any more.”
Those few words tell me plenty about Jerome. In his world everything has a price and beauty is reserved for those who can afford it. He also lives for his reputation as a hard worker. No matter how much he may complain that he doesn’t have time to enjoy the view, it’s far preferable to him—far more meaningful—to have a workload worth boasting about than to look at the trees. He wears that deprivation on his sleeve, like a badge of honor.
“Maybe you should retire,” I suggest. He makes a face as though I’ve suggested suicide, then retreats to the security of his desk, putting it between him and me.
“What can I do for you?”
I turn from the window and give him my full attention.
“Well, today I left my building and there were three guys waiting outside to kill me.”
He makes the same sour face.
“You’ve seen combat. Surely your retainer is enough to cover…”
“I’m not complaining, I’m just telling you. I thought it was important that you know. It seems clear that it’s linked to the attack on Max. I’ve been added to the list of targets.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Well, first of all whoever tried to kill Max hasn’t given up. Second, it means they’ve decided that killing me would be helpful in their attempt to kill Max. That’s the good news.”
“That’s good news?”
I shrug.
“Sure. Every time you try to kill someone you expose yourself. You take the risk of leaving clues, of getting caught. They wouldn’t be taking that chance unless I was a threat to them.”
“So if you had no chance of finding out who they were, or of catching them, they wouldn’t bother.”
“Right.”
He absorbs this thought for a moment. He’s no trial lawyer, but he thinks strategically nonetheless, so I’m sure he sees the logic in it.
“Do we know anything about them?”
“We know one of them’s dead. P.D. arrived and blew his head off and took out half his chest with a charged round. They’ll have an I.D. on him soon, I’m sure, and I’ve got a friend inside the investigation who’ll let me know who he is once they figure it out.”
“Good, good.”
He nods, happy, I think, that he made the right decision hiring me, that I have the influence to get the job done. My competence validates his decision-making. I wonder: Does this guy think of anyone besides himself and his pet celebrity? But I know the answer to that. It’s his job not to think of anyone else.
“The P.D. are tracking down the dead guy’s friends, of course. My contact will keep me posted on that too.”
“Excellent. Who’s your contact?”
“How does Alan scoop military comm?” I say, pointedly answering his question with a question.
He takes my point. We each have our ways of doing things—sometimes coloring outside the lines—and just as he isn’t going to share his, I’m not going to share mine.
“Nobody scoops military comm,” he lies, “it’s illegal.”
“My mistake,” I say, faking sincerity but not putting a lot of effort into it. “Anyway, I thought you should know about the incident.”
“You’d better inform Alan as well.”
“I just did, didn’t I?”
“Excuse me?”
“Alan is the living embodiment of Cloud City’s security system and right now he’s in sim, which means he’s back where he usually is, running security from every vantage point at once, seeing everything and hearing it too. Are you really trying to tell me that he didn’t hear what we just said?”
“Privacy…”
“Ends at the door of any residence, legally speaking. It’s perfectly legal to bug your own home and listen to anything you want, even record it. I should know, I’ve installed enough of the little gnats.”
“Is there anything else?”
He sounds annoyed now.
“Sure. There were a number of civilians killed and wounded during the attack. Considering the means at your disposal you might want to think about compensating them or their families.”
“We have no liability there. We didn’t attack them and we didn’t negligently permit the attack to occur.”
“I wasn’t thinking of liability, I was thinking of conscience.”
Jerome laughs like he hasn’t heard a better joke in a while. He clearly seems to think that I’d intended the comment as a kind of humorous banter.
“A little outside my bailiwick, conscience,” he says, still laughing.
No shit.
Suddenly a thought strikes him.
“The P.D. don’t know you’re working for us, do they?”
“Client confidentiality is the name of the game in my business, Mr. Jerome. I told them that my office had numerous cases and that the attack could have been related to any one of them. If they come snooping around my data files I’ll just… well, I’ll call you for a referral and then hire a high-priced lawyer to keep all our secrets safe.”
“Perfect, perfect,” he says, back in jovial mode. “Well done. I knew I made the right choice when I came to you.” He turns serious again. “Still, this is a disturbing turn of events. Let me make this plain. If whoever attacked Max is still on the hunt, I expect you to find out who they are. Information is key here. The only way we can protect Max, and you for that matter, is by knowing who the enemy is.”
“Absolutely.”
“Great. I’m glad to see we’re on the same track. Any ideas? Besides the Suerte?”
“And Porsche,” I remind him.
“She’s out of it,” he says dismissively. “Her wiring will hold.”
“No, nobody new is on the radar.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
“My tech is still working the data. I’ve called one of my men to come in and assist her, an extra pair of hands as it were. He’s on his way, so he’ll need clearance to the compound.”
“We’ll need to check him first.”
I shake my head.
“No time, I need him here now. You checked me Mr. Jerome, very carefully I assume, and I checked my man. I’m clean so he’s clean.”
He doesn’t look happy with it.
“If you say so.”
“Other than that I’m going to give the P.D. a little time to develop their case. It shouldn’t take long to ID the dead guy at least. Right now the men who attacked me are the only real lead we’ve got back to the source.”
“That makes sense.”
“What I do after that depends on what I hear from my friend. Hopefully whatever he discovers will point me in one direction or another.”
“And if his information doesn’t point you anywhere?”
“Then I have another plan, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“As long as it doesn’t put Max at risk. I don’t want him used as bait or anything of that sort.”
He really doesn’t get it. He things he’s in control of this thing, but he’s not and I’m not.
“He’s already bait, Mr. Jerome. They breached security once. Conceivably they could do it again. That’s another reason I want my man in here. I can’t be here all the time and I want someone with combat training and experience at hand for Max’s safety.” And Carmen’s, I think to myself but don’t say.
“All right then.” He stands, clearly signaling that our meeting is over. “Unless there’s anything else?”
“Nope. Anyone else tries to kill me you’ll be the first to know.”
He laughs again.
“You Forces guys, you crack me up. Nothing fazes you.”
<
br /> Nothing except fatass lawyers.
Ten: Peace, or Something Equally Absurd
I return to the house and head for security, where I find Carmen in a trance and TJ sprawled in one of the sim chairs. He’s not hooked up, though, just lolling there.
“TJ.”
“Hey Gat,” he says, a sleepy smile smearing across his broad face.
“Everything quiet.”
“As a fucken’ church man. I could go to sleep.”
His smile widens. TJ—short for Thomas James—would sooner kill his mother than fall asleep on duty. He’s a mellow guy with a quick grin, the kind who can talk with just about anyone, whether the other person is homeless or the New York ambassador, always at his ease. But appearances are deceiving. TJ can go from joking to killing and back to joking again in the space of second—I’ve seen it. Still, he’s no Felon. He’s fully human, just very effective at what he does. His smile is real.
“Nighty night then, TJ, enjoy your nap. I have to make a run. I’ll check in. Call me if anything pops, ok?”
“Aye aye. You’ll be the first.”
“Thanks for doing this TJ. I know Pileggi was a lot more interesting.”
He shakes his head, looking like a puppy.
“No man, thank you. Quality time with Carmen. I save her life, maybe she’ll finally go out with me.”
Carmen’s deep in her trance and can’t hear us, not that TJ would care if she did. He’s been asking her out for two years now and for two years she’s been saying no. After that long it either turns nasty or becomes a joke, and with TJ of course it became a joke.
“In that case I hope something pops. You’re gonna die of heartbreak one of these days.”