The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  Korum tending bar nods at me, sending the gold loop earrings she always wears bouncing.

  The lights are dim in the bar for the evening. Shadows creep down the brick archways. Our round wooden table has an electric votive candle in the center that flickers shadows across the white tablecloth that helpfully hangs off the edges.

  The waiter, a lithe number in his early twenties, deftly weaves through the tables to drop another round of whiskey shots on the table.

  Puo sways in his seat. "Whoa," he says. "You shore— sure. I mean, sure. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

  I nod dramatically, and then pick up the shot sloshing some of the liquid over the side.

  Puo picks up his shot and lowers it below the table for a second pretending to prepare to take the shot with shallow breaths. When it comes back up it has a barest change in hue only noticeable up close.

  I actually choose to shoot this one. It'd be suspicious if we swapped all of them out below the table.

  The dark amber liquid burns on the way down, hits my stomach like a blast of gasoline on a fire. Warmth spreads outward to my fingertips. The first breath of air after a whiskey shot stings.

  Puo holds his shot up as a salute. "This is not a good idea, but well played back there." He shoots it and grimaces.

  "We got lucky," I say.

  "Nah," Puo waves the empty shot glass. "Luck favors the prepared." He drops his voice, but make sure it still carries. "They stole a fake while thinking the real one was a fake!" Puo grins. "And then paraded it around like a pig at the county fair pretending it was a tiara."

  "Shh," I say, but grin a little too.

  "Mr. Colvin," Puo imitates Christina's voice, "We followed the signal. Mr. Colvin, that's the drive. Mr. Colvin. Mr. Colvin. Mr. Colvin." He snickers as he sets the shot glass down with a thump on the table.

  "Are we set for Sunday?" I ask.

  "Oh, yeah. I can't wait to see their faces when that hits."

  "Good," I slur. "I need to sleep this off."

  "What about Winn?" Puo asks.

  "What about him? He can handle himself," I lie my face off. The two stiff shots I've actually taken help me say this more effortlessly. "Just get ready for Sunday. And if they ever figure out what's actually on it."

  Puo nods by tipping his head back slowly and letting it fall forward too fast. "I'm a not good to drive."

  "You're going to stick me with it?"

  "Bah." He swats at me. "Autopilot. You'll be fine. Come, let's go get some pie before going home." He pushes back from the table, the chair scraping against the concrete floor stained to look like a wood floor.

  "Actual pie," I ask, "or euphemism?"

  "Actual pie." Puo straightens up in indignation. "I would never dirty pie's name with euphemisms or inst— insum— insa—"

  "Insinuations?"

  He points at me and taps himself on the nose.

  I stand up and follow Puo out of Korum's, stepping carefully and allowing what alcohol is in my system to let me sway. I have to hand it to Puo. The pie bit at the end was well done—if we don't appear home for someone watching us, it won't be taken as a problem.

  Now to see if the treacherous trio took the bait.

  * * *

  You know, it's actually harder to steal a hovercar with a citizen's chip, even one that's been modified, which I guess, may be the point of the things.

  Puo had to work some on-the-fly magic so the vehicle wouldn't log our CitIDs. But now that he's done it once, we should be good to go in the future—he's good like that.

  The Pelican isn't trustworthy right now, and the treacherous trio at this point would probably recognize it. That left borrowing a hovercar (it's patently not stealing if I'm not going to profit off of it).

  We borrowed the four-door family-sedan hovercar two blocks over from Korum's in a sleepy neighborhood. The owner probably won't even know it's gone until morning—the logs and tracking software sure as hell won't show it. Hell, we might even return it when we're done to avoid any fuss over it. Although I do like the dark blue color, and it's quieter in the cabin without a trap door in the back.

  We're now surreptitiously looping over the east side of Mercer Island monitoring Valle's missing boat. But there's not much traffic on the quiet island near midnight.

  Puo's craning his neck forward to look on the ground for a spot to land without looking too conspicuous. "There," he says. The family sedan starts to descend.

  I look down to see a parking lot that's half full.

  "We can't see the boat," Puo says, "but we can see anything coming in overhead from the Center Island headed in that direction."

  "Good," I say. Plus, it's a veritable car dealership of air vehicles and hovercars in case we need to make a switch.

  The car settles down without much fuss. These family sedans are nice, smooth rides, quiet—

  "Thinking of getting a family car?" Puo asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  "Of course not," I say dismissively. "Don't be stupid. But we could use an upgrade to something more suited to our style." I really don't want the trappings of suburban life. But before Puo can needle me further I ask, "So, what happened with Christina?"

  Puo's face darkens. "She boarded me and flourished a copy of the real drive saying we were finished—"

  "I thought," I say, "that they copied the fake drive?"

  "Me too. But when she boarded she was mocking me about how I was ‘stupid enough’ to think they copied the fake. I had inconspicuously visually marked the real and fake drives to tell them apart. They must have stolen the original and left behind a copy, inconspicuous mark and all."

  "Could she have done that?"

  Puo's silent at first. Puo's a softie, and it really bothers him when he makes a mistake that affects others. "Yeah, maybe. She is the head of the Cleaners Guild." Then softly he says, "She's better than me."

  "Hey," I say encouragingly. I can't have Puo starting to second-guess himself now. "We're still here aren't we? So, how'd you make the switch?"

  Puo takes a deep breath and seems to recover a little. Then he bows in his seat and extends his right hand to flutter his fingers at me. "Magic, my dear."

  Oh, Lord. He recovered real quick.

  "Let me tell you a story," Puo starts. "Have you ever heard of the Ghost Rats of Pugal Village?"

  I indicate that I, indeed, have not.

  "Outside Pugal Village in West India, there was a military facility to train mole rats for intelligence gathering—"

  "Mole rats?" I cut in. "Sure it's not toads?"

  "It was mole rats! Yeesh! I'm not just making these up you know—"

  I bite my lower lip, and nod at him to continue.

  "—Now pay attention. The military was interested in their unique burrowing capabilities and ability to survive in the hot deserts of Pakistan. They fitted each one of the little guys with little laser microphone jackets—"

  "Mole rats with lasers?"

  "Yes!"

  "Are ya sure they weren't in guard towers?"

  Puo scowls at me. "The lasers detect sound vibrations. It's a real thing. Anyway. It failed. The first training run was to the Pugal Village itself. Three different villagers ran into them that night. Two screamed, while a third tried to capture one. The three villagers claimed to have been less than three feet away, and were able to accurately describe a mole rat—sans laser jacket. It entered local lore as ghost rats. There's even a festival now every year to celebrate it. They leave bowls of carrots out over night for the ghost rats to eat."

  I stare at him, shaking my head. "I'm going to need a translation."

  "People see only what they want to see," Puo finally explains. "The villagers only saw an ugly mole rat. Christina only saw a scared, overweight, sweaty Samoan man fumbling around and bumping into things and eventually into her." Puo flutters his fingers at me. "That's when I made the switch."

  "Nice," I say. "Although the story would be more impressive if you magically fluttered Christina's d
rive into existence."

  "What's that!" Puo points dramatically behind me.

  I stare at him.

  "Oh, all right." Puo pokes his hand inside his shirt, lifts up some flesh on his chest and extracts two sweat covered EM bags.

  "Eww," I say. "Will it still work?"

  "Yeah, it'll still work," he says defensively.

  Just eww. "When did you put it in the EM bag?"

  "After we left Colvin's."

  "And you put it back under your shirt?" I ask incredulously.

  "We don't know if anything has been installed on the Pelican. It seemed best to continue to hide it. And you didn't see me do it!"

  "All right, all right. You really saved our asses back there. I'll give you a pass." But eww. If it really is a copy of the real drive, we'll have to nuke it while returning the real one to Colvin.

  The red under-lights of an air vehicle passing overhead in the right direction for Valle's boat cut our conversation off.

  Puo switches on the video and audio feed to Valle's boat that Christina's squeegee is so helpfully providing, which was part of the original plan. The screen is black, and the audio is the muffled sounds of the boat at the dock.

  We don't have to wait for long. Valle strides into his yacht, and all the internal lights flare on at his arrival. He's an older Portuguese gentleman, early sixties maybe, with thin skin that looks like it bleeds easily and droops on his face. Every gray hair is slicked back meticulously, and his pinstriped suit is fastidiously groomed.

  He sits in a plush cushioned chair and reviews something on a tablet before him.

  Several minutes later, another set of red under-lights pass by overhead, and after the appropriate amount of delay, Christina walks onto the boat.

  Valle upon seeing her says, "I don't think these are fakes."

  Christina takes the seat next to him. "Is it possible the fools are working with Colvin?"

  Another hovercar passes by overhead. I nearly breathe a sigh of relief. All three. I could've been a fisherwoman in another life.

  Valle appears to consider the question, and then says, "I still don't think these are fakes."

  "Colvin himself," Christina says, "looked at them and said they were convincing. The fools were adamant from the beginning they were fakes." She's silent for several seconds and then adds quietly, "Perhaps both of the drives at their house were fakes."

  Valle starts to say something but is interrupted by Hayes walking in. "It's a fake," Hayes declares. "They were trying to set us up."

  "But failed?" Christina asks.

  "Squeeze," Puo whispers, "is with them. I got a signal on her hacked citizen's chip but it's weak."

  Hayes answers Christina, "Not exactly. Their plan was for Sunday, which they're almost certainly adapting now."

  "And how do you know this?" Valle asks.

  Puo whispers, "I'll need to stay here to boost the signal as a backup in case they get wise."

  I nod at him. Time to take my leave. I slip out of the hovercar as Hayes demurs on his methods. I identify another four-door model to borrow for a lift.

  Once inside and headed back to the Center Island, Puo pipes the yacht conversation into the cabin for me.

  I take a deep breath and make a very dangerous call directly to an unlisted number that we shouldn't have.

  Colvin comes on the line, "You better have a damn good reason for contacting me like this."

  Do I have a damn good reason? Why yes, yes I do. "If you open a channel, I'll pipe my reason directly to you."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IT TAKES A LITTLE over twelve minutes to get to Colvin's penthouse from Mercer Island, and exhausts nearly all my patience.

  The number one rule of borrowing someone else's hovercar without their direct knowledge is: drive the speed limit, the slow, boring-ass speed limit. I don't actually know if that's a rule or not for that breed of criminal, but it seems like it should be.

  The borrowed family sedan sets down smoothly and Fin, still in his annoying, shiny blue suit, is waiting for me. He escorts me straight down into the open library, through the wooden archway in the books and past the secret stairs that lead down to the dead room, to enter into a lounge area where Colvin sits behind a very fancy wooden desk.

  The desk is huge, made from what looks like aged oak. It's an antique, complete with an inlaid intricate backing that goes all the way to the floor to hide his legs, and a leather tabletop in three sections. It's a little overdone for the simpler space of two-story bookshelves and plush sitting chairs, but it works.

  Colvin is sitting behind the desk in a black leather wingback chair, leaning back with his legs crossed and staring at me. Even without Colvin's imperious gaze, the mood in the house is tense. Fin's movement's are stiffer. The air feels thick, like it’s wearing an extra coat.

  Fin takes up a position at the archway.

  I pointedly look at Fin and then glance back at Colvin.

  Colvin's eyes narrow on me and then he dismisses Fin. The DNA-bonded military tablet he used before is on the table before him, silently showing the interior of Valle's yacht.

  As soon as Fin's gone, I say, "They're planning a coup."

  Colvin takes the news silently, staring at me. His dark brown eyes are unblinking; they seem to grow darker as he stares. He doesn't flinch a muscle; his face is still, held in place by the gravity of my statement.

  "When?" he finally asks. His voice is tight, controlled. It's far more a demand than a question.

  I measure my breathing before answering; the dust from the bullet hole inches from Puo's head and Colvin's impetuousness is fresh on my memory. "I don't know. Soon."

  After a second's stillness Colvin suddenly uncrosses his legs and sits forward. He rests his arms on the table before him, and hits play on the tablet. He has rewound the feed to a specific part at the beginning.

  Valle sits in his plush cushioned chair reviewing the files from the solid-state drive. Valle looks up as Christina enters and says, "I don't think these are fakes."

  Colvin slams the pause button and looks up at me.

  "They're not fakes," I answer the question plain on his face.

  The frothing, raging sea shatters the poorly constructed dam as Colvin explodes out his chair. "Fin! Anton!"

  "Wait!" I scream at him.

  "How long have you known this?" Colvin asks me dangerously; a gun has appeared in his hand. He's pacing, never taking his eyes off of me.

  Fin and Anton—the goon that shot at Puo—run into the room and upon seeing Colvin's gun out remove their guns and point them at me.

  "Listen to me," I say as calmly as I can. I hold my hands out and walk over the yellow-colored carpet to his desk. I can feel the weight of his anger growing thicker as I approach, trembling the air.

  I slowly reach out for the tablet and type a message to show him: The men are unknowingly bugged. Hayes is listening.

  Colvin's eyes grow wilder. He dismisses them as quickly as he called them.

  "It's the citizen's chips," I explain. "Hayes got to a Citizen Maker." Fortunately, not the one Puo, Winn, and I used. "I don't know how long ago."

  "How many?" Colvin asks.

  "I don't know, hundreds, thousands in the city." I produce Puo's device—a repurposed portable music player—for detecting the hacked citizen chips. "But we can tell you which ones."

  Colvin calls Fin back in, watching Puo's device. Colvin then scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Fin. I only catch one word: silently.

  "There's more," I say. "We think Christina is head of the Cleaners Guild."

  "How do you know this?" It's the first note of worry as opposed to full-on rage I hear in his voice.

  Valle and Hayes he can just kill, cut away like a cancer. Colvin's word will be taken at face value. The head of the Cleaners Guild not so much, not without some kind of retaliation and a potential for a full-blown war.

  "I, uh, we, stole her squeegee." I resist the urge to squirm.

/>   "When?"

  "The night before we met in the abandoned office space."

  Colvin looks like he's about to let loose some of his frustration at me for not keeping him informed but I bowl over him. "Look," I say. "We needed a closer look at Valle's boat, so we went in that night to the marina—which, by the way, Rodrigo's definitely involved in this somehow—"

  "How?" Colvin asks.

  "I don't know."

  He looks at me dangerously.

  "Things have been moving kinda quickly," I say defensively and then rush on. "There was a discrepancy between the official and actual reason your yacht was out of commission. Also, Christina and a team of Cleaners were at the marina the night we showed up. I think Rodrigo tipped them off that we were snooping around."

  I take a deep breath before continuing on. "As for Christina being the Guild Master. They attacked us that night, and in the scuffle, we stole two of their squeegees, and she stole Valle's yacht to escape. I was going to tell you, but when we met that day, Christina was favoring her left side where I dropped kicked her the night before. Then you mentioned the evening gloves. I also tied her hands behind her back. I had no idea what the hell was going on then, only that we were being set up and Christina was a part of it."

  "You were being set up?" Colvin asks for clarification.

  Uh, shit. We shouldn't have known (and actually didn't know) at that point that we were being set up. I do some fast thinking. "Yes. That's what the job with Hayes was about. We were getting closer to him to learn more. We were the fall guys. They stole the drive, copied its contents, and were planning on planting the original on us to take the fall."

  "So you have—" Thankfully, before Colvin can finish the question and question me further, goons in suits start filing into the room and lining up.

  Colvin snatches Puo's hacked citizen ship detector off the desk and starts walking down the line, separating the men. Two-thirds of them have the hacked citizen's chips. Colvin sends them away.

  "The rest of you," Colvin says. "Prepare to take a ride."

  This is apparently all the information they need as they file out.