by Titan Books
He nodded. “If nothing else it’ll be an interesting way to kill some of the days left until departure. Meet me tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred, in civvies. I’ll send you the location.” He rose. She did likewise, cocking her head sideways as she did so to eye him uncertainly.
“You sure this isn’t some kind of pickup line?”
“I’ll enlighten you tomorrow,” he assured her. “You might as well spend one night wondering. Once I explain—well, ‘the truth shall make you free,’ as they say.”
Exiting the building through the temporary exit that had been constructed, they went their separate ways. Each briefly tracked the departure of the other.
A good security officer always watches a colleague’s back, he mused.
XVI
They met the following day at one of the two remaining bookshops on Charing Cross Road. “Books” being those grand old antiques that had been printed on the sheaves of dead trees. The famous sloping street had once been home to a double row of wonderful retail establishments. Those shops that were left were as much artifacts as the objects they sold.
Live booksellers continued to cater to a growing number of wealthy aficionados who focused their money and interest on a product that was no longer available to the general public. Not because there wasn’t a larger market for such books, but because the paper they had been printed on had grown too expensive. Or too rare.
Lopé hoped that his latest and final recruit would appreciate his choice of a place to meet. He wasn’t a big reader himself, but he enjoyed tradition, and hoped she would approve of the sentiment. In a little while they were due to take their leave of Earth forever. Where better to do so than in the vicinity of a wonderful callback to the planet’s past.
Having connected, they moved to a drink shop two doors down. Clad in civilian attire, Rosenthal seemed to make a barefaced effort to look demure. It didn’t quite work. Not that someone of a different bent wouldn’t have found her attractive—it wasn’t in Lopé’s nature to judge such things. Still, despite the liberal use of cosmetics and clothing, the effort couldn’t quite overcome the underlying toughness evident in her physique and posture.
Still, they were going to be working together for—well, for the rest of their lives—so he made an effort to respond appropriately as she slid onto the seat on the other side of the small table.
“You look nice, Rosenthal.”
She looked back at him. “Not ‘Private’ Rosenthal?”
“Not until we’re on board ship, no.”
Reaching up, she ran a hand through her hair. “Took one of my last long showers. Such a simple pleasure, but one of my favorites. I expect showers will be timed from now on. Going to miss that.”
“The Covenant’s resources might surprise you.” He nodded to his right, toward the frosted glass wall. “What did you think of the shop?”
She followed his glance. “The real bookstore?” She nodded affirmatively. “My people have always had a thing for books of all kinds. The love is passed down even as the books themselves disappear. No room in crew belongings for more than a couple of volumes, and those mostly for the nostalgia value.”
Lopé looked thoughtful. “Never was a book man, really. Didn’t have the urge after plowing through hundreds of manuals. Read those so I’d know how to make the best use of equipment. This, for example.” He held up his military-grade comm unit.
Adjusting his seat so that he slid as close to her as possible, he activated the device. The imagery it generated appeared only on the screen. Had he left it set on “projection,” it would have meant that anyone in the drink shop would have been able to view the contents.
They immediately recognized the interior of the Weyland-Yutani tower lobby. Neither said anything as the escape of the red-haired woman and the subsequent attempt on the sergeant’s life was replayed from several angles, as recorded by different security monitors.
He smoothly manipulated the device’s controls. Once again the incident was replayed, but this time instead of tracking him, the focus was on the face of the redhead. Following that, the images from the multiple pickups were combined to generate a three-dimensional portrait of the woman that could be viewed from any angle. Rosenthal sat back and looked at him.
“Very impressive. What now? I suppose you entered that composite into the general population database?”
“When you work security,” he said, “you learn never to accept the first thing you see. Or the second. Human vision is a wonderful thing, but it isn’t perfect. It can be deceived. Easy to miss something that’s right in front of you.” Once again he adjusted the controls on the comm unit.
The image on the screen rotated and zoomed, until it focused on a small area on the back of the woman’s neck. Rosenthal leaned toward it, searching, and finally frowned.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
By way of explanation, Lopé zoomed the image in closer. Rosenthal squinted. There was a tiny, almost imperceptible ripple at the base of the neck.
“I see something, but I’m not sure what it is. Surgical scar?”
“Good guess—but no. She’s wearing a whole-head Venetian collagen wrap. Almost perfect.” He indicated the image on the screen. “Except for where it was snipped off after being installed.”
Rosenthal examined the image anew, then eyed the sergeant with new respect. “I know what that is. I’ve just never seen one utilized outside of an entertainment venue.”
“One reason for that is because they’re damned expensive,” Lopé informed her. “Way too costly for the average citizen, but not for an operative being underwritten by, say, the Jutou Combine.”
“What made you suspect it?” Rosenthal asked him.
“First you run the kind of database search you mentioned. When you don’t find anything, you assume your subject doesn’t want to be found. That suggests the use of a disguise of some kind. Fake noses and wigs were supplanted by more sophisticated prosthetics a long time ago, so you look for something that’s current. A good wrap is virtually invisible, unless you know what to look for and where to look.” His expression twisted. “If she’d done a full body wrap, I never would have found the snip point. I guess she and whoever she’s working with—or for—didn’t think a full body wrap would be necessary just to get her through one interview.”
She indicated the screen again. “Why do I think that’s not commercially available software?”
He looked at her approvingly. “Good observation. It’s military-grade kit. As chief of Security on a colony ship, I have access to some stuff the general public doesn’t even know exists.” The last was spoken without a smidgen of swagger, he realized after he’d said it.
Rosenthal nodded thoughtfully. “So we know what she doesn’t look like. What now?”
Lopé worked the comm unit. “You want to know what someone looks like under a wrap, you do a peel. You just need the relevant software.” Having entered the necessary request, he turned the device slightly toward her.
As Rosenthal watched, the image on the screen changed. From the top of the head, change worked its way downward until the wrap had been electronically removed to reveal the authentic visage beneath. The screen revealed a mildly attractive woman whose true appearance indicated she was younger than the peel had suggested. Short hair covered the back half of her head and a motile tattoo of a prancing horse the front, unveiled due to the damage a tattoo did to the skin. Her eyes had gone from blue to brown and her nose was now noticeably smaller and rounder than it had been in the initial composite. The rest of her face revealed a plethora of smaller, additional differences.
“So now you’ve got her,” Rosenthal said.
“Not necessarily,” Lopé replied. She looked surprised, and wary.
“Know the first thing you do after running a wrap peel?” Lopé asked her. Rosenthal shook her head. “You run a second one. That’s one way professionals can throw off searchers. Do a wrap on top of a wrap. A lot of seekers will
assume there’s just one wrap, and use the resultant image to run their search. In this case, however, there was just the single wrap. So whoever’s behind this is sophisticated and knowledgeable, but not that sophisticated and knowledgeable. It’s encouraging.”
“So that’s the face of the real applicant?”
He nodded. “Once I was certain every square centimeter of the final composite was genuine, and that there were no secondary or partial wraps, I ran it through the citizen database again.” He touched a control. A series of images appeared on the screen, accompanied by scrollable information. Rosenthal studied it. When she spoke again, there was surprise in her voice.
“A schoolteacher? I wouldn’t have guessed—”
The sergeant interrupted her. “That’s the idea. That anyone trying to track down a false applicant for a security position would never think her true identity would be something so mundane. Only, maybe not so mundane.” Yet again he manipulated the comm unit. Once more Rosenthal scrutinized the latest information.
“I’ll be damned,” she said. “She moonlights as an ecdysiast. Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.” When Lopé eyed her blankly she explained. “It’s a reference from one of those books you never have time to read.”
“The address is in Covent Garden,” he muttered, refusing to let her bait him.
“Easy walking distance. That why you wanted to meet here?”
He nodded. “That, and the chance to add some memories of old Earth before leaving.” He checked the time. “Our multi-talented Ms. Hazelton doesn’t start her second job until twenty-one hundred. Can I buy you lunch?”
She played at hesitating. “If I can buy you supper,” she finally said. “Strangely enough, I’ve recently been awarded a substantial signing bonus thanks to being hired for a new job, and I don’t have much time in which to spend it.”
“Okay, but it’ll have to be an early supper,” he countered. “Never a good idea to try a takedown on a full stomach.”
XVII
The club was resolutely middle-class. Narrow street frontage was crowned by a single low-key three-dimensional signbox in which a succession of full-bodied images of assorted genders cavorted in a farrago of positions, some of which defied easy mathematical description.
A simpler sign nearby proclaimed that the club was “All Natural,” indicating that its performers hadn’t been in any way cosmetically enhanced. Or at least it was so claimed. Given the skill of modern manipulative surgeons, it was usually impossible to tell where nature ended and cosmetic ingenuity began.
Even narrower stairs led down to a street sub-level at the end of which was a distant door that pulsed a deep red, like a squashed ruby. The doorman was human. Not as perceptive as a machine, but cheaper. His evident boredom matched his size. Lopé and Rosenthal were admitted without hesitation.
Once inside the club they found themselves immersed in purple lighting and the thumping base of generic music. Padded and plush, the walls were also a soft purple. He hoped the padding was intended as a decorative touch, rather than being reflective of the frequency with which patrons tended to be thrown against it.
The premise of protection continued throughout. Tabletops were fashioned of inflated lavender fabric, while their sturdier supports were wrapped in padded fabric of alternating purple and black. Lighting overhead and underfoot consisted of whorls and abstract designs that had been etched with photo luminescent paint. Bathed in proper light during the day, they would shine it back at night until the wee hours of the morning. By that time, he decided after scanning the crowd, anyone remaining in the club would be approaching a communal state of blotto.
Lopé noted the location of security cameras, ceiling-mounted vents that might dispense soporific gas, and the position of the three tenders at the two bars—one was mechanical and the other two human. There were a couple of potential escape routes, and numerous items, from chairs to bottles, that could be requisitioned in a fight.
The place was moderately crowded. Though there weren’t many couples scattered among the predominantly male clientele, he and Rosenthal drew no stares. Most likely, he decided, because the majority of male eyeballs were focused on the three figures performing on the three separate small stages.
Bathed in intense but rapidly flickering spotlights, the gyrating forms seemed to pass in and out of perception. Occasionally, the two women and one man would switch stages via some clever bit of mechanical alchemy. Neither the performances nor the performers were the equal of those found in the more expensive Covent Garden establishments, but they were a cut above the cheap grindups that clung like diseased limpets to the district’s dank, wholly subterranean byways.
Rosenthal looked bored, while the sergeant had seen it all before, in greater variety and in more interesting parts of the world. Nevertheless, their attention locked almost simultaneously on the performer undulating on the far left-hand stage. They started in that direction, and were intercepted by a hairless, convex creature with attentive eyes and thick lips.
While shorter than Lopé, the bouncer was about as wide as he was tall. Raising a hand, he gently rested on the sergeant’s left shoulder a cluster of fingers that looked like a damaged package of knockwurst.
“No more tables down front, friend,” he growled loudly enough to be heard over the music. “You and the lady need to find one in the back.”
Lopé ignored the implication inherent in the gripping fingers. “We need to talk to one of your dancers.” He nodded toward the woman on the stage in front of them. The bouncer’s expression didn’t change an iota.
“Everyone wants to talk to one of our dancers.” A flicker of interest appeared as he shifted his attention to Rosenthal. “You two boy dem?”
Shaking his head, Lopé offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he reached—slowly—into an inside coat pocket to remove a wallet. He thumbed through the solid piece of plastic until it stopped at his official identification. As soon as he saw this, the bouncer’s demeanor changed dramatically. Removing his fingers from the sergeant’s shoulder, his small bright eyes widened.
“Covenant Security?” He looked up at the sergeant, over at Rosenthal. “For real?” She nodded affirmatively. “You go where you want, sir and ma’m. If I can help in any way…”
“Thanks.” Lopé returned the slip of wallet to his pocket. “We just want to talk to the lady.”
The bouncer glanced over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the notable pair of visitors. “Aurora? She’s off stage in ten minutes. Break time. Would you like me to introduce you?”
“No need. Ten minutes?” The bouncer nodded again, plainly excited to be in the presence of such celebrities. Anyone outbound on a colony ship was considered a celebrity, both for having the guts to leave everything behind and for taking on the risk of settling a new and unknown world. Noting the stocky enforcer’s enthusiasm, Lopé added, “Don’t go around pointing us out to the crowd or your colleagues, okay? We want some quiet time before… you know. Departure.”
The bouncer nodded enthusiastically, and offered to guide them to a front row table. Lopé thanked him politely but declined. If their quarry was going to be off stage in a few minutes, it would be simpler just to wait for her to finish.
They took a table off to one side, and bought a couple of overpriced drinks. When asked for directions to the backstage waiting area, the bouncer eagerly pointed the way. As soon as the electronic tones of aural aphrodisia began to fade, the three performers abandoned their podiums, one by one.
Following the bouncer’s directions, Lopé and Rosenthal headed toward the staging area out of sight of the main room. They found the tall but no longer redheaded security applicant in a small private dressing room. They entered without knocking and caused her to whirl in her seat. The tattoo work that covered the front half of her head was even more impressive close up. So was the fact that at the moment she was wearing nothing but sculpted light.
“What the hell?” Gaping first
at one unannounced visitor and then the other, she raised her voice to a shout. “Hekel! Get in here! Hekel, dammit!”
Rosenthal replied calmly. “If you’re referring to the club bouncer, he’s probably busy by now letting a few close friends in on our secret.”
The woman’s outrage morphed into uncertainty.
“Letting a… who the hell are you two?” Her eyes grew wide as she stared at Lopé and recognition began to dawn. “You… I know you. You were the bastard who…”
He smiled thinly. “School’s out, Ms. Hazelton.”
She gaped at him a moment longer, then made a dash for the back of the room. There was a bathroom there, but no exit. Not below street level. Still, things could get awkward if she locked herself in the loo and began screaming. A pursuing Rosenthal forestalled any such concerns with an adept sweep of her leg. The woman went down hard. Looking up from the floor, their quarry glared.
“You broke my damn leg!”
Standing over her, Rosenthal pursed her lips.
“No I didn’t. If I’d wanted to break your leg I’d have hit you behind the knee, not the ankles. And if I’d hit you hard enough to break your leg, you’d be screaming something besides ‘you broke my damn leg.’” Extending an arm, she reached down. With Lopé’s help, they hauled the woman to her feet. Pinioned between the two of them, she found her range of motion greatly reduced.
Her gaze flicked from one to the other.
“What do you want with me?”
“Well, I didn’t come here to tell you you’re hired.” Lopé nodded toward Rosenthal. “Actually, she got the position you were applying for. To answer your question, though, I don’t want to know much. Maybe why you ran when you did.” He feigned surprise. “Oh, and why your accomplice—or colleague, or whatever the hell he was—tried to splatter my brains all over the main lobby of Weyland Tower.”
Hazelton again looked from one to the other, then slumped slightly. “Can I get dressed? We can go somewhere and talk.”