by Piers Platt
“That could be,” the avatar agreed politely. “Let’s try an iris scan. Please look straight ahead into the camera.”
Here we go.
He hadn’t found a perfect high resolution photo of Mehta online, but had been able to composite several shots together to form a decent picture of his iris pattern.
Let’s see just how decent it is.
The camera zoomed in, then backed out and tried again. Finally, the avatar smiled. “Excellent, thank you, sir.”
Rath relaxed.
“I’m sorry,” the avatar was pretending to look down at a virtual computer screen, “there seems to be an issue with your account.”
“An issue?” Rath asked.
“I’m going to hand you over to one of our live agents,” the avatar told him, fading away.
A door opened behind the desk, and a female clerk in a uniform suit made her way over to Rath’s desk. “Hello, Mr. Mehta, I’m Debrae. Apologies for the delay, let me just see what the problem is.”
“Sure,” Rath told her.
“Ah,” Debrae frowned at her datascroll. “Well, that must be a mistake. Sir, your account was inactivated several years back. I’m afraid we have you listed as deceased.”
Rath took an exaggerated look at himself and then met the woman’s eyes, smiling. “I beg to differ!”
Debrae smiled back at him. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I’m going to need to call our corporate office on this. It’s just a rather unusual situation.”
Rath bit his lip. “You didn’t throw out the contents of the box or anything, it’s all still here?”
“Yes, sir,” she confirmed.
“Well, I’m in a bit of a hurry, is there any way you can just pull it for me? I only need a minute.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ll just be a few minutes, though.” She pulled her phone out and hit a speed dial button. The bank’s manager left his corner office and made his way out to the floor, heading for Rath and the clerk. The nametag on his suit read Crollis.
Rath studied the manager as he approached, then made a show of checking his watch. “You know what, it’s later than I thought. Can you guys look into this and I’ll come back tomorrow to get what I needed?”
“Yes sir, absolutely,” the clerk promised.
“Great, thanks.” Rath turned and pulled his hood back on, nodding to the security guard before walking back out into the wind and rain.
Okay, we’ll have to do this the hard way. Good thing Beauceron’s not here.
* * *
The bank manager watched the customer leave, then turned to Debrae, who was still on the phone. “You on hold?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“What was that about?”
“His account was deactivated – records show him as deceased,” Debrae said, covering the mouthpiece on her phone.
The manager raised his eyebrows. “Back from the grave, huh? That’s a new one.”
* * *
Rath’s Forge finished the last component nearly forty-three hours after he had downloaded the blueprints. He sat up, groaning at the stiffness in his joints from lying on the storage unit’s cement floor for hours, and picked the drill bit up off the tray, giving it a quick visual inspection. Then he slotted it into place, tightening the locking nuts with the torque wrench. He checked his watch.
Two in the morning local time. Shouldn’t be anyone wandering around the storage facility at this hour.
Rath flipped the machine on via his neural interface, and then tested its movement by directing it to complete a circuit of the small storage unit. It rose up on articulated legs, walked around in a circle, and then stopped.
So far, so good.
Rath turned the drill itself on next.
The machine was loud up close, especially when he tested it against the cinder block wall of the storage unit, but after he ducked outside into the hallway and pulled the door closed, the noise was barely audible at normal hearing levels.
Not that it really matters.
He walked back inside the unit, shutting the drill off before it punched through the wall into the neighboring unit. Next he collapsed the device, folding it into a cardboard box several feet across. The box was heavy, but Rath levered it onto a pallet jack he found in the lobby, and then wheeled it out to the loading bay. There he rented a moving van from the automated kiosk, slid the box into the van, and climbed in.
The bank was a short ten-minute drive away, so Rath stayed on surface streets, taking his time and keeping his eyes open for police cars. The rain had stopped while he was in the storage unit, and the late night suburban streets were deserted except for a handful of unmanned delivery trucks making their rounds. Rath tracked his progress on the map in his heads-up display. As he drew near the bank, he triggered an EMP grenade, before pulling to a stop several buildings away. He checked the van’s rear view camera, angling it down to view the street itself, and backed up slowly, until his bumper was level with a manhole cover. Then he dropped the van into Park, and climbed quickly out, taking a pry bar with him.
He had the manhole cover open in seconds, and slid it to the side, then swung the van’s rear doors open, pulling out the box with a grunt. He had to crush the box a bit to get it to fit through the manhole, but after a second it fell, landing in the sewer below with a heavy, wet thump. Rath checked his timer.
About thirty seconds remaining on the EMP grenade.
To be sure, he set off a second grenade, then closed the van’s doors and jogged back around to the driver’s side.
“Auto-pilot on,” he ordered. “Return to storage facility.” The van dutifully started up, and Rath grabbed his Forge, stepping back as the door closed itself and the vehicle pulled away. He walked quickly back to the manhole cover and climbed in, stopping halfway to maneuver the cover back over the hole, then climbing down a few more rungs on the ladder. From underneath, he used the pry bar to push the cover fully into place, and dropped the final few feet to the ground.
It was pitch dark in the sewer, so he switched his visual feed to infrared and scanned down the tunnel in both directions, but saw nothing apart from the gentle flow of runoff water along the floor. He opened the box and turned the drill on. Rath set off along the tunnel and the machine stepped out of the box, following at his heels like a well-trained dog.
Rath stopped when he had gone a few short paces, and used his eye implants to measure the distance back to the ladder under the manhole cover. He shifted a few feet to his left, then tapped the tunnel wall with his hand.
“Right here,” he told the automated drill. “When you get my signal, start drilling right here. Go in at a ninety degree angle, for a distance of twenty-two feet.” On his heads-up display, the robot acknowledged the order via a pop-up message. He watched as the device adjusted its height and lined up the drill bit on the wall where he had indicated, then clamped its feet into place and powered down into standby mode.
“Good boy,” Rath told it. He returned to the manhole cover and pulled out his phone, ordering a taxi cab to come to his location. When it was a minute away, he triggered a final EMP grenade, pushed the manhole cover back open with an effort, and climbed back out. He had the manhole cover back in place before the cab appeared, and was several blocks away before the timer on the grenade expired.
* * *
Debrae arrived at the bank just after eight o’clock – the line at her favorite coffee shop just up the street had been longer than normal. Her manager generally frowned on tardiness, but she was surprised – and somewhat relieved – to see Crollis’ office empty as she walked in and greeted Tino, the morning security guard.
“Mr. Crollis isn’t in yet?” she asked him.
“No, ma’am, haven’t seen him,” the guard replied. “He usually beats me in, too.”
“Huh.” Debrae shrugged.
She was finishing up the client requests that had come in overnight when Crollis did walk in, nearly fifteen minutes later. He waved to her as he passe
d her desk, then disappeared into his office. She decided to give him a few minutes to get settled, and then picked up her datascroll and knocked gently on his door.
“Come in.”
She opened the door. “I’ve got the morning reports compiled,” she told him.
“Can it wait?” he asked, zipping his backpack closed.
“Sure,” she said, confused. “It’s just, I know you always like to see the reports first thing.”
“I know, sorry. I’m just not feeling so hot this morning,” he told her.
“Oh, sorry to hear it. The only critical thing is that we got a response from Corporate on the customer we asked about yesterday. The dead guy with the safe-deposit box?”
“Right,” Crollis said. “What did they say?”
“Well, they think it might be an attempted security breach, perhaps identity theft or fraud. So they asked me to fill out an incident report, and they said to expect someone from Interstellar Police later today to take custody of the box.”
“Really? What time?” Crollis asked.
She checked her notes. “They didn’t say. Kinda makes me want to take a peek inside that box, you know?”
Crollis gave her a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty curious myself. Is that it?”
She glanced at her datascroll. “Yeah, pretty much. Feel better!”
“Thanks,” he said.
Debrae went back to her desk and clicked on the link the Corporate Security office had sent her, then spent some minutes filling out the incident report, accessing the bank’s security system to attach video footage of the customer’s visit. She was about to submit the report when she noticed the coffee in her mug was vibrating gently. She put her hand on her desk and felt the vibrations there, too. Frowning, she stood and walked into the main lobby area.
“Tino, do you hear that?” she asked the security guard.
“Hear what, ma’am?”
“A high-pitched buzzing, or … I don’t know, like a humming?”
Tino cocked his head to one side. “Don’t think so,” he told her. “But my ears aren’t what they used to be.”
“Do you mind checking if there’s any construction going on outside?”
“Sure thing,” he said. He was back a minute later. “Nothing I could see. Now you mention it, I do hear something.”
“Yeah,” she said, her frown deepening. “It’s getting louder.”
Crollis came out of his office. “You hearing this?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s not construction, Tino already checked.”
“It’s weird, right?” Crollis asked.
Suddenly, a high-pitched siren shrieked to life, and the bank’s lights flashed red. “Security breach – vault perimeter has been compromised,” an automated voice announced.
Crollis’ eyes went wide. “The vault: someone’s trying to break in!”
“Oh my god, what do we do?” Debrae asked.
Tino drew his sidearm, hit a button to lock the glass entranceway, and stepped back, peering outside. “We should be safe – I just locked the door.”
“The vault isn’t even connected to the bank building, so even if they get in there, they can’t get in here,” Crollis said.
“That’s a relief,” Debrae replied.
Tino nodded. “It’s a good thing we didn’t have any customers yet.”
The phone in Crollis’ office started ringing – he ran over to it, picked it up, and answered, walking back out to the lobby. “Yes, that’s right – it just went off a few seconds ago. … No, I think it’s legitimate, we can hear what sounds like drilling. … Yes, please – send them quickly. How long? … Okay, please hurry. I’m going to hand you over to my security guard now.”
He walked over to Tino and handed him the phone. “The police will be here in about five minutes. I’ll let you coordinate,” he said.
“Fine,” Tino agreed. “You two better wait in your office.”
Debrae was still shaking, so Crollis ushered her into her office and pulled out a chair for her.
“Thanks,” she said. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
He snapped his fingers. “Wait a second, I know what this is about,” he told her. “First the dead customer yesterday, now the drilling – someone’s trying to get that safe-deposit box.”
“You may be right,” she agreed.
“Well, we can stop them,” he said. “What was the box number, eight-two-one-zero?”
“I don’t remember, but that sounds right,” Debrae said.
Crollis handed her the datascroll on her desk: “Have the system retrieve it. That way even if the thieves get inside the vault, they won’t get the box.”
She looked at the datascroll reluctantly. “Are you sure? Don’t we need authorization to do something like that?”
Crollis made a face. “By the time Corporate responds, it will be too late.”
Debrae took the datascroll and tapped on the screen, accessing the right menu. “What was the number again?”
“Eight-two-one-zero,” Crollis repeated. “I think.”
“I’m surprised you can remember anything, especially with all this commotion,” she said. “Okay, it’s coming up in booth number one.”
Crollis got up and jogged over to the first booth, and a second later, the tray opened to reveal a gleaming metal safe-deposit box. He picked up the box, but instead of rejoining Debrae, she watched as he disappeared into his own office. Curious, she stood up, but a second later he emerged, still carrying the deposit box, but also wearing his backpack.
“Where are you …?” she started to ask.
“Just going to check on the back door,” Crollis cut in. “I want to make sure that’s locked, too. Stay here.”
He disappeared through a door into the back office.
“Where’d he go?” Tino asked, from across the lobby.
Debrae shrugged. “The back door, to make sure it’s locked.”
Tino frowned. “Of course it’s locked. I locked it from here.” Tino pointed to his security control panel. As he watched, the indicator labeled Rear Entrance suddenly flipped from Locked to Open.
“What was he carrying?” Tino asked Debrae.
“The safe-deposit box.”
“Oh, god,” Tino said.
* * *
Rath triggered an EMP grenade and then stepped out into the bank’s parking lot, with the deposit box tucked under his arm. He ran across to Crollis’ air car and opened the door on the driver side, revealing an unconscious Crollis handcuffed to the steering wheel. Rath pulled a small syringe of adrenaline out of his pocket, injected Crollis in the arm, and then uncuffed him, shaking him roughly.
“Wake up, buddy. Time to make your big escape.”
Crollis moaned. In the distance, Rath heard police sirens approaching.
They should be within visual range now.
“Auto-pilot on,” Rath ordered, still mimicking Crollis’ voice. The air car hummed to life. “Fly home at maximum speed, safety override.”
“Please confirm emergency mode,” the car requested.
“Confirmed,” Rath said. Crollis was waking up, but Rath shut his door and stepped back, watching the air car lift into the sky and rocket off toward Crollis’ house. Rath walked briskly out of the parking lot, the safe-deposit box tucked under his arm.
* * *
His shuttle landed back on Alberon early in the morning, so Rath took a bus into the city center and on a whim, stopped by the diner where he had first approached Beauceron. He found the detective eating breakfast in his usual booth, and smiled. Rath sat across from him, earning a confused stare from the detective.
“Oh, sorry,” Rath said. He rolled up his sleeve to show the grey counter bracelet. “It’s me. I forget what face I’m wearing sometimes.”
Beauceron shot him a look of disapproval, then went back to buttering a piece of toast. “I read a troubling report about a bank robbery on Juntland a few days ago,” he noted.
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“Oh?” Rath asked innocently. “Did the report say whether anyone was hurt?”
“I believe a branch manager was drugged and kidnapped,” Beauceron said. “And he’s a possible suspect in the robbery.”
“But no one was killed,” Rath pointed out.
“No,” Beauceron allowed. “No one died. But that doesn’t make it any less of a crime.”
“Well, add it to my list, I suppose,” Rath sighed. “On a completely unrelated note, I came across this the other day.” Rath set a manila envelope on the table between them.
Beauceron ignored it for a few seconds on principle, then relented with a sigh. “Yes, that’s the death threat Mehta received. He showed it to me when we met.”
“That’s not all,” Rath told him. “He left you a data drive.”
Beauceron put his toast down. “Did you access it?”
Rath smiled. “I spent the flight back reading it over, twice. It’s got everything he collected – notes from interviews with a brothel owner, video footage of the mobile kitchens, a rough draft of his article … lots of stuff.”
“With your testimony, it would certainly bolster our case. Except that you stole it, so none of it will be admissible in court … which is why I argued that you shouldn’t go in the first place.”
“We needed information,” Rath said.
“The ends don’t justify the means. In a criminal case, the means are everything.”
“There was something else on the drive,” Rath said, changing the subject. “Did Mehta tell you he posted on a public forum, asking for additional sources to come forward?”
“Yes, he did,” Beauceron said.
“Did he tell you he got a response?” Rath asked. “A real contractor, and I think it was Paisen.”
“Do you know it was Paisen, or do you just hope it was her?” Beauceron asked.
Rath frowned. “I’m pretty sure it was her. The user claimed to have completed their fifty kills, and then survived an attempted assassination. And they used the same exact phrase she said to me when we met on Lakeworld. ‘I’m going to make them pay.’ ”