“Why don’t you use the security tag you picked up earlier?”
I was silent for a few heartbeats. I’d forgotten about the tag. But even if I’d remembered it, it didn’t really solve my problem. “What good is that?” I asked. “It’ll open doors but it won’t get me into anything else. The security systems all require two levels of authorisation – as well as the card I’d need to pass the bio scan.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Trixie said. “You think about it for a few minutes and if the solution doesn’t come to you, you can ask me.”
“Just tell me!”
“If I do everything for you, you’ll never learn to do it yourself.”
That sounded so like my mother it was spooky. I think Trixie had been a school teacher in another life. She had laid down the challenge and my commanding her to give me the answer would have been an admission of defeat. I picked up the security tag.
“Don’t smudge it any more than you already have,” Trixie warned.
She’d just given me the answer. I held the tag carefully by its edges and tilted it, examining its surface under the light.
“Fingerprints?” I said.
“Or possibly DNA,” Trixie said.
“Enough to fool a bio scan?”
“Won’t know until we try,” she said. It sounded like she was smiling. A virtual smile of virtual smugness.
I held up the tag so that Trixie could scan each side of it. She analysed the images, separating my prints from those left by the tag’s original owner.
“Anything?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’ve touched, but you should wash your hands before you next eat,” she said.
“Yes, mother.”
“There’s no DNA,” she said. “Are there any stray hairs on the shoulders of the jacket? Or dandruff?”
I went to look. It seemed that Kyle Rose was one of those military types who used a clothes brush on his jacket every morning – there wasn’t a speck on it.
“What about fingerprints?” I asked.
From her scans of the security tag, Trixie managed to recover three fingerprints, but all of them were slightly distorted. She set about teasing the print from an index finger back into shape. It didn’t need to be perfect – just good enough to provide enough points of comparison to trigger a positive identification from the security system sensor.
I dug the glove out of my jacket pocket. It looked like a well-worn leather driving glove, but it had some interesting electronics built into it. I hadn’t used it for a while and it felt tight and dry when I pulled it on.
“Try it now,” Trixie said.
The glove warmed to body temperature and the index finger adopted the pattern of the fingerprint Trixie had recovered. I pressed my finger to the sensor at the side of the security terminal. The little screen above it flashed red and the words ‘Please try again’ were superimposed on it. I pressed my glover finger down again, rotating it a little as I did so. After a moment’s thought, the little screen turned green. The monitor attached to the security terminal lit up. I slid the security tag into the reader built into the keyboard.
Good afternoon, Kyle appeared on the screen. Apparently he had thirteen unread messages, but I didn’t want to look at them. I was only interested in his security level. If it turned out he was a ‘facilities manager’ who only had access to the mop cupboard, I was going to be disappointed and would feel the need to mock Trixie mercilessly. I called up the menu of systems his work required him to use.
“Level four security,” Trixie said in my ear. Again with the smug smile.
I wasn’t sure how many levels of security there were here on the Celestia, nor did I know whether ‘1’ was the highest or lowest, but judging by the menu items, Kyle was relatively high on the food chain.
“Can you make a connection?” I asked.
Trixie chuckled. “You’re going to have to plug me in.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope. Wireless communication was regarded as a security risk on these old warships so it is all triple-encoded. You can’t access it unless you know the secret handshake.”
I pulled open the desk drawer. There was the usual accumulation of old paperclips, decayed rubber bands and blunt pencils. There were also several wires that had that odd sticky feeling and smell that some of the old tech in Abbie’s bedroom had had.
“Take your pick,” I said, holding up the cables so Trixie could see the connectors on both ends.
“The red one,” she said, “plug the larger connector into the terminal.”
I did as she asked. Meanwhile, Trixie’s nano-bots reshaped the end of her casing, creating a socket to match the other connector. I slid it into place.
Trixie giggled. “That tickles. Give me a minute, I’m going to tap into the communication grid and see if I can trick it into giving me a wireless connection. There we go. I’m not sure what sort of range we’ll have and it will only work in parts of the ship where the grid is undamaged.”
“But it’s better than having a plug up your butt,” I said. I disconnected the wire.
“Keep that with you in case we need it again,” Trixie said.
I coiled the wire and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. “See if you can get into the security database and look at how the input is structured. Then take my data and format it ready to create a new profile.”
“Ready,” Trixie said. “I’m inputting basic facial profiling, voice pattern, retinal scan, and gait. Do you want me to set it to auto-erase?”
“Always,” I said, “Wipe it after forty-eight hours – we should be long gone by then.”
“Who do you want to be?”
Kyle Rose’s security clearance would only permit him to create a profile for someone at a lower level than him, which made sense. “Make me an engineer with as much clearance as you can – I need access to utilities and life-support as a minimum. And make me the duty engineer for the current shift.”
“I like it,” Trixie said. “Do you want to be Mario or Luigi?”
“Just give it my name,” I said.
“I’m going to have to reprogram the security tag,” Trixie said. “That’ll give you access as your new identity, but it will mean you can’t use it to get back into the system as Kyle Rose.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “But try and keep this terminal logged on as Kyle if you can – just in case.”
Trixie wrote my new identity to the security tag and then set the terminal to playing a game of Hearts to make it look as if Kyle Rose was still hard at ‘work’.
“You’re all set,” she said. “The first blocked toilet that comes along will be yours to fix.”
“Now we need to put someone inside the vault,” I said. “Find out who was the last person authorised to enter. And retrieve the security video from the vault for that shift.”
“Searching,” Trixie said. “I don’t know who created this database, but I would have serious concerns about his reasoning abilities.”
“Or hers,” I said.
“What?”
“It might have been designed by a female person,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Trixie said. “Trust me, this file structure was thrown together by a man. And I would put money on the fact that he wore odd socks.”
I decided not to mention the fact that most of my socks were odd.
“I’ve found you the ideal young woman,” Trixie said.
“Remember how well it turned out the last time you said that?”
“Her name’s Zola Brandt and she’s probably been dead for forty years,” Trixie said. “Even you couldn’t screw up this relationship.”
“When we get away from here, remind me that it’s time for your annual check-up,” I said.
“I’m not letting anyone in rubber gloves anywhere near me,” Trixie said. “I have the video. The quality isn’t great.”
“Degraded due to age?”
“No, a squitty camera
to begin with.”
“I need a loop of five or ten minutes – I want to use it to replace the live feed. Give it the current timestamp.”
“This is actually not a bad idea,” she said.
“Why do you sound surprised?”
“Do you want me to list some of your previous ‘great ideas’ for comparison?”
“Annual check-up, I’m warning you. And I may ask for a factory reset.”
“You need me if you want to get out of here alive.”
Trixie had a point.
“I need you to go back into the logs and delete the record of Zola Brandt leaving the vault – we need it to look like she’s still in there. Then start the video feed showing her in the vault.”
“Just tell me when to hit ‘play’.”
The next step was for me to go out and sabotage the cooling system that fed into the vault. To do that, I would have to go back out through the robot garage.
“Any chance of you being able to keep the security robots away from me?” I asked.
“Sorry. Control of them requires clearance above Kyle Rose’s level. I’ll monitor their positions and warn you if they get close.”
“What about the one outside the door?”
“Battery currently at less than one per cent but it is back on the charger.”
“I’ll take his head off on my way out,” I said.
Chapter Ten
The plan was simple. I was going to trick the ship so she opened up the vault door and invited me in. To make that happen, we were going to make it seem that someone – Zola Brandt – was trapped in the vault. Then I was going to arrange a fault so that poor Zola was at risk of dying in there, causing the ship to open an emergency hatch so she could get out. As that happened, the ship would send a call to the duty maintenance engineer to come and fix the problem in the vault. I would be playing the part of the engineer. Once I got into the vault, I would improvise. I didn’t expect to be in there very long. Grab the Navigator and get out, hopefully before the three remaining security robots were alerted to the theft. Like I said – simple.
“Any sign of those security robots?” I asked. I didn’t like not knowing where the robots were. I opened a maintenance hatch that would give me access to the refrigeration system that sent coolness into the vault.
“Negative,” Trixie said. “There are large sections of the interior monitoring grid down – dark places that I can’t see into.”
This wasn’t surprising given the damage caused by the crash. It was a miracle that this armoured middle section of the ship had survived as well as it had. It was possible the missing robots had been destroyed when the Celestia hit the ground, but I wasn’t going to bet my life on a possibility.
“Keep an eye out for them,” I said.
“About that factory reset...?”
“It’ll never happen,” I assured her, “I love you just the way you are.”
“You say the sweetest things, Quincy. But you probably ought to find yourself a real girl. Or boy.”
“I’ve sworn off relationships,” I said. I was using my new identity to log into the refrigeration system control panel.
“Just because you’ve had a couple of bad experiences...”
“A couple? Would you like me to list my top ten relationship disasters?” I said. “You haven’t forgotten how we ended up in this squit hole, have you?”
“She was just one...”
“One of a long line that includes both my first wife and my husband.”
“I just think you need to get back into the saddle. It’s been six months since you...”
“Thank you, I know. But please promise me, no more matchmaking. How’s our friend Zola Brandt doing?”
“She’s carrying on as normal, quite oblivious to the disaster that is about to befall her,” Trixie said.
“Any sign that the ship is suspicious about us?”
“Nope. It has already added a couple of minor repairs to your job sheet for this shift. Apparently there’s a hole in the hull it wants you to have a look at.”
“If she thinks that is a minor repair, this battleship has a gift for understatement. Okay, I’m about to flood the vault with refrigerant. Blur the video so that it’s not obvious that the lovely Zola isn’t panicking about the vapour flooding her work area. And then make it look like she’s triggered the panic alarm.”
“Aye, aye, skipper.”
I now had a toolbox. A proper one, battered metal and lots of compartments, with all the tools a maintenance engineer might need. Plus a few extra bits and pieces that a thief might need. I still had the red fire axe and I’d also picked up a blowtorch from the ship’s stores, in case I needed to set fire to another corpse or anything.
“Any communication out from the Navigator?” I asked.
“Nothing. Oh, that’s odd.”
“Odd? I don’t like odd.”
“It may be nothing. But there’s no data at all coming out from the Navigator. I’m just looking back through the logs. There’s been nothing out of there for some time.”
There was no way of knowing what this meant. Maybe the Navigator had been damaged during the crash or maybe it had recently suffered a flat battery. I wouldn’t know until I got into the vault.
“Incoming message for the on-duty maintenance engineer,” Trixie said. “You’re wanted in sector 3A.”
“Blocked toilet?”
“The next best thing. They need a clean-up in the Navigator aisle.”
“On my way.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that Zola made it out of the vault safely. She’s currently catching her breath in a sub-corridor where the cameras aren’t working. A medic has been summoned to check her out.”
“Unthinking, unquestioning automatic response systems, you’ve got to love them,” I said.
“Technology has sure moved on since then,” Trixie said.
“In some ways.”
“I’m picking up two – no, three signals. It may be the security robots.”
“Where?” I asked.
“There’s something wrong with these readings, unless... they may be outside the ship.”
“Keep them in sight and update me if they move. I’m approaching the vault.”
“I’m sitting on your shoulder, I know exactly where you are,” Trixie said.
“I just feel the need to provide some sort of narration. Maybe it’s just nerves.”
“Maybe you just like the sound of your own voice.”
“Humour me.”
“I always do. Can you see Zola? I hope she’s okay,” Trixie asked.
Above me a camera turned, scanning me and comparing my movements against the patterns stored in the security database. If we’d done our work properly, I would show up as the expected duty engineer and given a snappy salute as I walked in through the open hatch into the vault. I wasn’t sure if they saluted maintenance men in the military, but anyone who appreciated a hot shower and a flushing toilet owed them respect.
“I’m at the hatch.” I slid my security tag into the slot. The little screen hiccoughed and then turned green. The heavy hatch swung slowly open. I tried not to mentally compare it to a prison door.
There was a thick mist inside the vault, lit up by a steady flashing red light. It looked like a low-budget stage set depicting hell.
“You’re not going to suffocate in here, are you?” Trixie asked. I like to think there was concern in her voice.
“Not unless some idiot closes the hatch and seals me in,” I said.
The hatch clanged shut behind me and I could hear the locking mechanism slide into place.
“You were saying?” Trixie said.
“Nothing to worry about. I won’t be breathing this stuff long enough to lose consciousness.”
In my inner eye, I could see Trixie call up my heart rate, blood pressure and blood-oxygen levels. “You do care,” I said.
“My motivation is purely selfish: this is not where I wish to spend t
he remainder of my existence. Open the coffin, grab the brain, and let’s get out of here. You can get us out of here, can’t you?”
“Um...” I said. In theory, I could hit the panic button and the ship would let me out. But there was no guarantee it would fall for the same trick twice. I was pinning my hopes on the fact that my newly programmed security tag would open the hatch door and get me out. “Of course,” I said. “I planned for just such an eventuality.”
“I’m monitoring your vital signs. I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Stop talking, you’re wasting our oxygen.”
“I don’t breathe.”
“Then you’ll grow old alone here. Are you picking up anything from the Navigator?”
“Nothing. But I think the three security robots are back on the ship. I picked them up just before they entered another of the dead zones.”
Being locked in the vault gave us the advantage of being safe from the robots – for the time being at least.
In my guise of maintenance engineer, I reset the emergency system and turned off the annoying flashing lights. I flipped the switch on the overheads and the vault was revealed in all its silver and white and brown-stained glory. It was like the set of an old science fiction movie. And I wasn’t the only actor on stage.
My co-star looked a lot like Mr. Skellington, except that he had much shorter arms. And no hands. He was also a little better preserved – mummified almost. I peered at him more closely. Presumably, he was another of Old Jack Sterling’s crew who had made it further than his teammate. But how could he be a thief if he had no hands? Then I realised that the brown stains splashed around the vault were his blood. He’d had hands when he came in here but somehow his arms had been chopped off just below the elbow. Just the thought of it made me shiver. I had to figure out what had happened to him. Because I wanted to be sure it didn’t happen to me.
The brown stains were heaviest around the Navigator’s coffin. My guess was that Mr. Hands-Free had opened the lid and reached inside – only to have the lid slam shut like a high-tech guillotine. The would-be thief had bled to death in here, unable to do anything to help himself or to summon help. I promised myself that I would be very, very careful about where I put my hands.
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