Body Shop - Book Two in the Annihilation Series

by John Hindmarsh

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean, yes, yes?” questioned Pitera.

  “What?” Billie’s expression reflected confusion.

  “Is that your friend—McIntosh?” He was almost shouting.

  Before Billie could answer. Pitera’s cell phone rang again. He grabbed it, pressed the answer button, and shouted, “Yes?”

  Bronwyn copied the conversation to the flip phone so both Toby and Billie could hear the caller.

  It was Vince again. He said, “Boss, I checked with the bank manager. He confirmed all the accounts have been cleared out. Everything’s gone including your bitcoins. We’ve got no funds, nothing at all, anywhere. Whatja want me to do?”

  Pitera threw his cell phone against the wall. It shattered. He swore. He stared at Billie. “You—you and your lover. Somehow he did this; he’s responsible. You’re both going to pay.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Pitera said, “Mitch, take her back to the cell. I’ll deal with her later. I’ve got to sort out this finance mess. I’ll be back later this afternoon.” He stormed out of the room.

  Mitch removed the flip phone from Billie’s grasp.

  He unwrapped the chain and tugged it, forcing Billie to stand. She staggered, cramped from sitting in the chair while restrained. Bronwyn’s contact continued to calm her fears. The return trip to her cell did not take very long and did not offer any insights—both her escorts were silent. The door thunked shut when the two men left. Billie sat on the bed, the wire frame sinking at the edge. Her feeling of isolation returned when the closing door ended her link with Bronwyn. All she could do now was wait.

  oOo

  Chapter 6

  The motorway stretched ahead for miles, eventually fading into the rippling heat waves ascending from the black bitumen. He was in a HAT lane, built and reserved to accommodate advanced heavy autonomous trucking convoys, and it was empty. Dash checked the heads-up display; his convoy, twelve loaded trailers each pulled by Spark tractor units, had departed on time and, according to the display, was twenty minutes into their journey; speed was ninety-five miles per hour, and they were on target to achieve their Denver ETA in some minutes under twelve hours.

  He was the pilot for this trip; his logbook recorded more than two thousand hours as convoy lead pilot, and every one of his journeys had been completed on time, without accident, and without loss. He checked the train of autonomous trucks following behind him; each was separated by less than five feet from the other, all taking advantage of slipstream efficiencies. Slipstreaming autonomous vehicles resulted in fuel savings in excess of twenty-five percent while reducing transit times by similar percentages. Those savings, plus the elimination of risks—autonomous vehicles rarely suffered driver-related accidents—reduced overall transport costs, accidents, and road deaths, more than justifying the cost of dedicated HAT lanes.

  Of course, there were other risks.

  He adjusted the HUD and changed the angle of the rear vision camera. A soft noise had alerted him.

  “It’s illegal to stowaway on HATs,” he said, addressing the rear of the cab.

  The unauthorized passenger somewhere behind him did not reply, although Dash detected a slight movement. The intruder presumably had penetrated cab security and climbed aboard at the charging station located outside Los Angeles. He wondered how it had managed to override the cab’s security. He made adjustments to the vehicle’s controls, most of which were unnecessary and which were unlikely to impact his vehicle or the convoy. Of course, the virus was unaware of his subterfuge.

  He halted his game playing and closed the link. He could log back in later and restart his attack on the palace, after he dealt with the virus. His absence would disappoint the other players, but they knew his duties could cause his withdrawal without notice. For the moment, he wanted that extra bandwidth to be available. He kept open his link to the BlueStream chatroom because that required minimal resources. Dash was close to identifying his current contact; either she was who she said—an attractive, twenty-two year old blonde—or else her younger brother had hacked her account. He chuckled silently to himself. If it was her brother, he promised the young teenager would receive the shock of his life.

  He detected further movements from the unauthorized passenger. He adjusted the rear vision camera again. He needed to have it focused on the trailing convoy units; he made a note to recommend more cameras be installed in the lead cabin in future.

  There was a faint touch, cold, hard, at the back of his head.

  The US corporation’s HAT control center supervisor noted the automated signal. There was no message, simply an amber light pulsing in constant quarter-second units. He frowned. That was atypical of a pilot and certainly not expected of Dash. He buzzed the duty programmer for the south-west convoys.

  “Krishan, take a look at Convoy LA35. They’ve just commenced their LA to Denver section. Dash is the pilot. He’s usually on top of everything, but he triggered an odd signal. There’s no message, only a pulsing amber light showing on my monitor next to his name. It’s flashing about every quarter-second. I didn’t even know pilots could do that.”

  “I agree that shouldn’t be possible. It requires a hack into our control center software. I’ll have a look.”

  Krishan was located in New Delhi, and Thomas, the duty supervisor, was based in Beijing. They both were working shifts. The control center was virtual, without a physical location, and it managed all autonomous convoys in the US that were operated by AV Industries, one of the world’s largest logistics companies.

  It took fifteen minutes for Krishan to respond. “Boss, there’s not so good news and possibly bad news.”

  “Yeah?” It was near the end of Thomas’s shift, and his sense of humor was evaporating.

  “I tried to contact Dash. There’s too much interference, even on a direct link, so I wasn’t able to speak with him. I can get camera and instrument relays—except for the cab—and the convoy is maintaining pace and everything looks okay.”

  “That sounds like mainly good news.”

  “There’s more. Central office sent out a Darwin notice yesterday. You should have a copy?”

  “The latest virus alerts? Yes, I read that. Your point?”

  “There was mention of a convoy virus. Its code name is Amber25.”

  “You think—?”

  “It’s like something Dash would do. He’s under threat, his unit could be corrupted, he wants us to know, and doesn’t want to alert the Amber25 virus.”

  “That’s a stretch, even for you and him.”

  “It’s logical.”

  Thomas didn’t debate Krishan’s point. He said, “These Amber25s are pirate-related?”

  “I checked, and yes, according to the Darwin notice, they’re structured to take off-line all the convoy’s defensive weapons. It’s probably Russian, from what I’ve heard. So if the convoy’s ambushed, Dash and the guard would be unable to mount a defense.”

  “Damn. I’ll have to bounce this up a level. Get it off my plate.”

  “Do you want me to continue monitoring the convoy?”

  “Yes. Danielle will be on duty in an hour.” Danielle was based in Singapore. “You’ll need to keep me updated until then and after that you’ll report to her. I’ll burst a message to Harrison; he’s the duty manager. He might have questions for you.”

  Krishan was silent.

  Thomas said, “Yeah, I know. He doesn’t like you. Note—he doesn’t like anyone.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep trying to contact the convoy.”

  Harrison reacted with a hiss and a roar; he conferenced in Thomas, Danielle, and Krishan. “Don’t you dummies know how to manage a convoy? Dash is one of our best pilots. I checked his record and it’s impeccable. So what’s this nonsense about Amber viruses and flashing lights?”

  Thomas took the responsibility to answer; he was off-shift in another ten minutes, anyway. He unconsciously parroted Krishan’s wo
rds. “It’s logical. He knows the convoy has been penetrated and doesn’t want to alert the virus.”

  “Amber25? I read that alert. So these animals are getting more sophisticated?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Thomas, you can go, I know you’ve been on a double shift. Danielle, take over. Work with this guy—Krishie—”

  “Krishan,” Krishan corrected.

  “Yes, yes. Whatever. Also alert the duty guard on the convoy. She should be able to get to the pilot’s cab and help him fight this damned virus. I want reports every hour. I’ll see if we have access to a security drone or swarm along that route. There are two or three hijack hot points that we should monitor.” He disconnected without further words.

  Danielle said, “Thomas, you heard, scoot. You’re off duty. Krishan, work with me. Connect to my workstation and let’s see what we can do. Dash will need all the support we can arrange.”

  Danielle had three crises to manage. Her responsibilities included assisting the European control center when they had language demands and resolving North American issues, and she kept switching focus from one problem to another. It took only seconds to alert the security guard on LA35, who was stationed in the rear vehicle. It would take her a few minutes to transit through to the lead vehicle while the convoy was traveling at speeds approaching a hundred miles per hour. The guard had promised to report as soon as she reached Dash. Meanwhile, Krishan continued his attempts to communicate with the convoy’s systems.

  Dash looked up, startled, as the overhead roof panel was slid back with a sudden push, and a body dropped into the seat beside him. His reaction was immediate. He triggered the intruder routine and, with a rush of compressed air, it released a restraining net from the front of the cab targeting the newcomer. The net wrapped around the victim’s upper body and tightened, restricting most movement. At the same time, the routine pushed a half-inch thick glass panel into position, dividing the front of the cab into two sections. It was a guillotine-like process, and the force of the action severed the newcomer’s hand at the wrist. He was almost completely protected from the now isolated intruder.

  The severed hand twitched and its steel fingers flexed as it attempted to turn over to face palm down. If it succeeded, Dash realized, it would be able to move across the seat, possibly in his direction. He pulled his attention away, distancing himself from the body part.

  He checked the HUD again. All was well. He made fine adjustments to controls; again, these would not impact the pace of the convoy. He checked the rear-facing cameras. The following vehicles were in position, almost to the inch.

  He regarded his new companion with caution. She had a snarl on her face.

  “You don’t push your way into my cab without permission,” he challenged.

  Her soft voice came back. “I’m authorized. You’ve had your fun. Now let me out of this mess.”

  Dash shifted the camera. He still couldn’t catch an image of the stowaway. He focused on his companion. Her red hair was shoulder length and was offset by remarkably green eyes. She’d seen service in the desert—the sandpit—and had facial scars as mementos. She—her name was Anne, and he thought she was of Irish descent—was mainly wetware; human, in other words. Hardware replaced body parts she’d lost in the desert—her now severed hand was an example—and she’d been upgraded with a quantum processor with related software. Her military experience together with her upgrades resulted in a top-ranked, highly effective security guard. In reality, Anne was probably under-utilized, but she enjoyed the HAT environment and the related challenges.

  Notwithstanding her scars and hardware enhancements, she was an exceptionally attractive woman. Dash had watched her walk away from the convoy more times than he could count. He sometimes daydreamed—

  He focused his thoughts back on the challenges he had to meet. He hoped he’d successfully separated the guard from any possible contact with the stowaway.

  Dash again felt the soft touch of what had to be a data transfer probe on the back of his head. It pressed against him, searching, seeking his upload hub. It would have to search for a long time.

  He looked down. The severed hand had managed to upright itself and was slowly making its way towards him. He ignored its movement; he didn’t want to draw attention to it. He looked across at the security guard.

  “You’ve been contaminated,” he said.

  “What?” There was perplexity in her voice.

  “There was a Darwin notice about a wetware virus. You’ve been contaminated.” He assumed the stowaway would not be familiar with the Darwin notices. He knew Anne would be.

  “That’s nonsense. Are you going to release me?” She struggled in an attempt to hold up her arm, minus the hand that was now just inches away from him.

  “No. Not while there’s a risk.”

  The metal pressure on the back of his head grew more insistent. Dash ignored it; his input data hub had been damaged a month prior when a careless heavy loader had misjudged distances and a corner of a container had scrapped across the back of his neck. He had not reported the accident. Instead, he’d removed the damaged part, patched over the area, and carried on. Most of their data uploads were via wireless networks, anyway.

  That reminded him—he should have details of the actual person posting on the chatroom, confirming whether it was the young woman he hoped it would be, or her young brother. Dash had set off a small intruder algorithm, tasking it to penetrate the device sourcing the postings. It probably was waiting for his next instruction. He checked. Yes, it was in place. He transmitted a short series of bits, and the device’s camera switched on. He chuckled softly to himself. A young teenager, male, was at the keyboard. He captured four or five images and a short video, and terminated the link, destroying all evidence of the algorithm’s penetration.

  Dash exercised a degree of artistic license and added one or two embellishments to the images. Long blond hair was followed by an anatomical adjustment, and now the young man was definitely female. He checked for links and social networks that the teenager frequented and posted images with suitable short messages. While he knew it was hardly proper behavior, he surmised the boy would think twice in future before trying to use his sister’s identity to create mishaps, misunderstandings, and possible mayhem.

  The diversion took a fraction of his bandwidth and only two or three minutes. He could still sense the stowaway in the rear of the cab.

  Danielle, after a terse message from Harrison, the control center manager, spoke again with her programmer. Krishan’s reply was not helpful.

  “I can’t tell Harrison we’ve been unsuccessful,” she complained. “He’ll want to hear progress.”

  Krishan said, “Sorry, Miss Danielle. I’ve been trying for nearly two hours to break through the interference caused by that Amber virus. I can connect to almost everything except the cab cameras and pickups. I was able to contact the guard earlier and now she’s blocked. She was heading to the lead cab to check with Dash.”

  “Damn. No, not you, Kris. Just generally. Is the convoy on schedule?”

  “Yes. Dash has increased speed, though. He’s traveling a few miles per hour over the limit, but not enough to receive a penalty. He’s managed to get fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.”

  “Show me the route maps—the satellite images.”

  Krishan displayed the images on his supervisor’s monitor. He’d been studying them to make sure he knew the convoy’s location. He said, “They’ve almost reached Mesquite. There are some mountain ranges ahead in Utah, which will slow the convoy. The HAT lanes follow a new route, a lot of it through tunnels because Utah wasn’t very happy about the possible damage to their state and national parks. It’s through an area controlled by brownshirts, according to LEO messages.”

  Danielle swore. “So we take a risk and allow Dash to continue or we call up the local law, who may also be brownshirts, and we’d be forced to pay a rescue fee. Either result could be a net loss for the con
voy.”

  “I know Dash, Miss Danielle. He’s very cool. He’s likely to think of something. He’s got a very devious mind.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ll see if I can convince Harrison to leave it in Dash’s hands. As you said, he’s got a very good record.”

  “Miss, look, the amber light. It’s stopped flashing. Hah! He’s changed it to alternating green and amber.”

  “Hmm. Maybe that will convince Harrison. Okay, Kris. Go on home, but brief your relief first. If it gets murky I might have to call you.”

  “That’s okay. Lu has been following along for the last half hour, so she’s ready to help. Good luck.”

  “I’ll need all of that I can get when I talk to Harrison. Bye.” Danielle disconnected the voice link and stared at the monitor, deep in thought. She had to reach a decision that would get Harrison’s support.

  Dash used some of his spare bandwidth to write and test a small module that he hoped would work the way he planned. There were two recharge units in the rear of the cab. Normally, they were used by smaller bot units to recharge their power cells. Dash was convinced he could reverse their processes. He wanted them to drain the Amber virus of power, without impacting anything else in the cab. At last, he was ready. He triggered the process. He hoped the virus would be unaware of the slow power drain and that if it did detect his subterfuge, it would be too weak to respond. He estimated it would take fifteen or so minutes.

  While he was waiting for the process to impact the virus, he reviewed the road map in the HUD. They’d passed Mesquite. Now the HAT lanes would separate from Interstate 15, veering off more to the east. There were tunnels; they’d provide ample opportunities for ambush. He cursed under his breath. He looked down. The steel hand had reached him, and a finger stretched out towards his body. The faint touch would be enough.

  He transmitted a quick burst of data. The virus unit did not react. The guard was still, her anger evident in her body language. He detected an even briefer return message. It said: okay. He relaxed.