Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  “Please refrain from tapping on the glass, Mr. Fallows. They hate that.”

  Cellar appears as I remember him, tall and thin with sharp features and a humorless expression. He looks even more uncomfortable in the light, though it may have something to do with the circumstances of my arrival.

  “Seems that you still struggle with the subtle art of keeping a low-profile. I wonder how a man with your disturbing lack of finesse managed to evade authorities for so long.”

  “Calm down, buddy. Everybody has off days.”

  “Not in your line of work they don't. And certainly not in ours. These little muck-ups find only incarceration or death. Neither of which we can afford with our current predicament.”

  I can feel the shame welling up inside of me. My instinct to channel it away into something more destructive is curiously absent and I find myself hanging my head in shame. “It was a severe error in judgment, sir. It won't happen again.”

  The apology seems to catch him off-guard, perhaps more so than myself. “Very well. What is done is done and we will deal with the damages later. Walk with me.” He turns on the heels of designer shoes so polished they could reflect a full district-block. “What got into you anyway?”

  “That’s what I would like to know.” I retrieve the needle from its smuggling spot behind my ear. “Picked this up earlier this morning when a gaggle of goons came a-calling. No clue what it was tipped with. Seems nothing fatal, but it’s brought about some curious side-effects.”

  Reaching into a coat pocket, he withdraws a shock-white handkerchief and meticulously folds it open, extending it for the object. I drop it with far less formality than he displays in folding it back along the creases. “I will have toxicology run tests on it immediately. But you are sure you are capable of operating in the meantime?”

  “Aside from some wicked flashbacks to puberty and a few awkward scenes played out with unlikely actors, I feel better than ever.”

  “I see.” We walk past another set of glass walls and he gestures to the books inside. “Tell me, Mr. Fallows. What do you see here?”

  “Rows of books?” I shrug.

  “Is that all?”

  “Glass?”

  For the first time since my arrival, the corners of his mouth turn up into a smile. It holds no joy. “I figured as much. The value of information that has passed through your hands during your brief career in espionage could cripple a district, rebuild society, or endow an individual with wealth or power beyond his wildest dreams. That's your problem, Mr. Fallows. You never look at the true value of things.”

  I keep silent. The few times I've looked into the data I've procured, terrible things have happened. People died. My life got that much harder. I think back to the roll of film sitting undeveloped in my apartment, the one that I stole from Chauncelor as payment for the murder of my associate. If I'm smart, I'll smash that lightbulb and dump the developer fluid down the drain, never letting whatever information it hides see the light of day.

  “Do you know the going price of a single book these days?”

  “I dunno, Cellar. Twenty creds?”

  “Twenty-thousand.”

  I let out a whistle, then look around the walls of the library with a little more appreciation. “Now I see why you have the place so well guarded.”

  “The guard is only there for show. Only those who know the true value of books know where the true security lies. Follow me.”

  He leads me through more aisles of filing cabinets and finally through a door in the back. We pace down a long hallway with few windows. Each offers the view of a single room where a single person sits with a single open book in front of them and a single laptop to the side. I watch as one man uses tweezers to delicately turn the page, as if the slightest pressure could shatter it to dust.

  “What you're looking at is one of the most stressful jobs in all the districts. Any damage to the books themselves is taken directly from the person's pay. As you can well imagine, destruction of a single book would cripple a worker's salary. Attempts to steal a book will set off alarms, securing the doors and alerting the system to remove all traces of oxygen from the air for a period of no shorter than an hour.”

  “Brutal. Bet you get a long list of applicants for that position.”

  A humorless smile creeps across his lips and makes my skin crawl. “Nobody applies for this job.” The implication is enough to run a block of ice through my veins. He returns his attention to the room. “The display cases are impervious to all but the strongest of forces. Forces that would destroy the books inside along with the glass. Only two people alive have the ability to access the cases themselves. Also the only two people who understand how the security system works.”

  “That's fascinating.” He shoots me a glare. “No. Really,” I say flatly. “Got the goosebumps.”

  We continue to the end of the hall where he stands in front of a door, blocking my entrance. Or exit, as the case may be. “The trade of books is so serious that men are murdered on the slightest rumor of possession. These are a link to the old world. Old ways of life. Things long forgotten and knowledge that would shatter the beliefs of the masses as to what their lives truly are.”

  I stifle a yawn. “Is this the job? You want me to get a book?”

  “No. I want you to protect them.” At least he didn't say read them. “But I will ask you one last time before we venture further. Is this something you're willing to undertake?”

  My mouth opens to deliver a snarky quip, but the look in his eyes disarms me. “Yes.”

  “Excellent,” he smiles. “Then let’s begin.” He opens the door and we step into a small office with dozens of screens displaying surveillance footage from across the districts. “Have a seat.” I settle myself into one of the swivel chairs while he gestures to a cluster of four screens. “This is what I want you to see.” He taps on a keypad and the views change. Two of the screens display a group of four individuals in street clothes wearing fancy goggles that cover their eyes. The other two track the movements of an individual security team.

  The performance of the infiltrators moving through the building can be described as lackluster at best. They sneak through the halls as if they could find cover in an open white field. I suspect they'll be caught at any moment, but the guards can never make contact. Every time they come close, a door is closed and secured or an elevator is sent off-course, skipping the floor entirely.

  I lean in closer, watching them intently. They haven't removed a single security panel, but seem to gain access to the security system with ease. No datapad. No scanners. The only thing I can note of their hands is the gloves they're wearing. They wave them over security entrances and wiggle their fingers as if casting some magic spell or silently applauding a pretentious poet for his undertaking on the beauty of linoleum.

  The criminals scatter through the halls, each accessing separate points. All performing the same techno-magic, if there is such a thing. When they finally gain access to a server room, they do nothing. One kneels by the doorway, wiggling away while guards try desperately to enter. The other three only stand statuesque in the middle of the room.

  Time passes in monotonous silence. Finally, the man at the door stops wiggling and steps back. The door opens and the guards enter, throwing the men roughly to the ground, confiscating their equipment, and dragging them out. Not a single one resists. “Wait!” I call out, the urgency in my voice causing Cellar to lurch back. “Freeze the frame.”

  He does so with the simple press of a button. With all monitors centered around the same location, I’m able to get multiple angles of the scene. Glasses and gloves removed, I can detect hints of metal. Two have cybernetic hands, one with a cybernetic eye encased in hap-hazard scrap metal bolted to the side of his face, and the final one has one abnormally thin leg. Odds are, were his pants to be hiked high enough, I’d catch a glimpse of aluminum. Cybernetics are illegal in all twelve districts. With enhancements this obvious, there’s no way the
y could blend into society. Not even on the streets.

  “It seems you’re being infiltrated by robots.”

  “Is that all you noticed? Any other obvious revelations?”

  I remember that the suspects were apprehended. Of course they would have that marked and noted. I flop back in my chair, staring blankly at the screens as they go black. “I don't get it. Where did this take place? What were they after?”

  Cellar stands silently behind me, the picture of calm. Except his hands. They're shaking ever so slightly, knuckles bone white. “This footage is from three days ago in the Phoenix District Chamber of Commerce. We have no clue what they took. The amount of data stored in that server room would take days to transfer by normal means, though it doesn't seem that they accessed any of it.” He stands and paces the room, not looking back at me. “The fact that they gave themselves up willingly, and that they have no previous record, is deeply disconcerting indeed. But their methods of entry are the truly astounding part. Did you recognize the security scanners on the doors?”

  “Thermal retinal scanners. They require eight fingerprints and two retinas to gain entry.” They also have an intricate circuit-board that would keep an old-school cracker like myself busy for at least ten minutes.

  “Precisely. But they broke through the defenses in a matter of seconds. Even with the clearance necessary to enter such a room, the greatest amount of time the legal system could sentence them was two weeks time.”

  No previous record. No reckless endangerment. No weapons. All they could do was trespassing and perhaps criminal mischief. They didn't even resist arrest in the slightest, but came away peacefully. Who would do that? “Because they’re not citizens,” I mutter under my breath. “Deportation is just a ticket home.”

  Cellar approaches and places a datapad on the desk in front of me. I recognize the standard form for a non-disclosure agreement. “You have limited access to our resources. Security clearances, equipment, and personnel are off limits.” In other words, I’m still not part of the team, just a substitute. “Beyond the district libraries, there is an abundance of information that we cannot risk falling into the wrong hands. Understood?”

  “Understood.” I stare at the agreement, wetting my lips with the tip of my tongue. As much as I hate to admit it, this job goes far over my head. I can't do it alone. “I want to put together my own team. I need authority to bring select others in on this.”

  “That is inadvisable. While you have proven yourself capable of results and, more specifically, ignorant to the power of knowledge, I do not feel confident that others will share your particular qualities.”

  “So screen them,” I suggest. “I’ll shoot you a list and you can approve or deny as we go.”

  “Fine, but you will be assigned a handler.”

  “I'd be surprised if you didn't.” Thrilled, but not surprised.

  “And you have seventy-two hours to solve this mystery.”

  No pressure. “What happens after seventy-two hours?”

  I turn to face him. Cellar stares me down to the size of a cockroach. “We wipe it all.”

  Four

  The day shift tending bar at the Rosy Coaster is another beast entirely, the most noticeable feature being elbow room. The break-neck hustle servicing the upper crust as they drown worries with alcohol and tantalizing the senses with the high quality dancers the place is known for is replaced with an almost relaxing pace. Party patrons return to ween their hangovers with fluffy cocktails. Salesmen schmooze their clients. Married men and women cheat on their spouses with diet-blowing junk food instead of satisfying other appetites. And of course, bosses shame their employees with brazen forwardness, stuffing petty cash into the thongs of the day-shift dancers and slapping high-fives on the lower extremities of passing cocktail waitresses. One such waitress catches my eye.

  One of the perks of switching shifts was avoiding confrontation with Jenna. Being asked to escort her home a few weeks ago sparked a mutual interest that I have zero interest in pursuing. Nothing against her, but I don't lead the kind of lifestyle that caters to healthy relationships. That and I firmly follow the policy of 'Don't shit where you eat'.

  “Hey bottle-slinger. So this is where you've been hiding.”

  “And what exactly would I be hiding from, Jenna?” Besides you.

  Her darkly outlined eyes narrow to accent the accusatory smile, but no words are offered on the subject. “Rex says to stop in after your shift is over. Seems a bit high strung.”

  “Sure thing.” I fill her drink order and step away to attend to a couple of gentlemen that just walked up. She takes the hint and flits away, purple pixie-cut bobbing through the bar, but returns shortly after dropping off the cocktails. For once, I'm wishing I was busier. It doesn’t help that I’ve been on edge since my chance encounter this morning. The mere sight of her is enough to raise my blood pressure in all the wrong places.

  “Rex move you to mornings?” Jenna slides her tight denim shorts across a bar stool, leaning her elbows on the counter and propping her chin with long fingers. I pour a cup of coffee and set it down in front of her.

  “Yeah, she wanted to keep my evenings free in case I needed to stay after for extra credit,” I lie. I’d practically begged for the day shift. Truth be told it didn’t make much sense. Now I was getting fewer opportunities for creds under the table and less tips above it.

  “Or detention.”

  “Not with my angelic ethics. So what are you doing here so early?”

  “Filling in for Margo.”

  “Margo? But I saw her just a little bit ago.”

  “I know, she's dancing for Kimmie. I'm covering her cocktail shift.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Which means I'm free this evening.” She stares expectantly, but with no amount of patience as I nod my noncommittal reply. “What are you doing tonight?” Her tone seems to have lost a bit of honey.

  “Hitting the books.” It's as close to honesty as I care to venture. Though somehow I suspect physical violence is more likely than higher learning.

  She leans back in surprise, eyes widening. “You're what?” A smile grows broad across her face. “Really? Is that where you've been? Why didn't you say anything?”

  “There's nothing to say, yet. Just have to wait and see where it goes.”

  “Look at you taking your own advice. Are you doing one of those online University things? Maybe we could take a class together, be study buddies.” I doubt much studying would go on. I try to stop my mind from wandering again. Fail miserably. At this rate I’m praying the showers in the locker room double as an ice-maker for how cold I need that water to be.

  “Slow down there Miss Ambition. I still have some basics to cover before digging in that deep. You gotta remember that I'm missing a few years of standard education.” Nearly ten by my count.

  Something in the way she looks at me hits a nerve. Maybe shimmering eyes or the unfaltering smile that sings a chorus of respect and admiration. Like she believes in me. It's an expression that's grown cold and dead in my memories and I almost feel guilty for leading her on. “I tell ya what,” I say, pulling out my phone. “How about I give you a call if I finish up early.”

  “You honestly expect me to sit around waiting by the phone for a boy to call? What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “Not that girl, for sure. Go ahead and enjoy your night off. If I finish up early, I'll come meet up with you.”

  “Deal,” she says, snatching the phone from my fingers and navigating the touch-screen like it was her own. I watch in wonder, painfully aware that I've had the thing for weeks now and haven't toyed with it enough to know how to make a call. Then she does something I hadn't expected. She calls herself, nose wrinkling in mischief as she slides the phone back across the counter towards me. “Now I'll know it's you calling and not some cheap hustler.”

  “There's a difference?” I smirk, dread boiling up inside of me. I had no intention of giving out my number. For
one because I have no idea what it is, and two because I don't want people calling me. I make a mental note to keep the stupid thing off.

  “Only in the slightest.” Jenna pushes herself up onto the counter and leans in to give my cheek a soft peck before whispering, “I know where to find you if you stand me up.” Dropping back to the floor, she finishes off the last of her coffee and gives me a wink, then twirls on her heels and heads back to her customers.

  *****

  “Close the door.”

  I do a quick check to see if anything new has been added, but the swinging red door still has no latch of any kind. I gently prop my hand against the end to stop its momentum. “You wanted to see me?” Rex Littleford, despite her delicate frame, holds a high seat in the corporate underworld. Ruthless business practices have made her a force to be reckoned with, though I've come to conclude that only a chosen few are aware that she's an elderly, albeit well-manicured, ritzy club owner.

  “How are you enjoying working the morning shift?”

  “Fine. It's not-”

  “You’re not making enough to cover your payments to the Captain and still walk out of here with anything in your pocket,” she snaps, interrupting what I mistook for casual conversation.

  “I’ve noticed a lull in pay, but-.”

  “Good. Now that you’re aware, let’s discuss our options.” Her posture changes and she resumes her business, alternating between typing on a keyboard and tapping on a datapad. The phone rings and I'm treated to a brief, one-sided conversation of demand and confirmation. Only when she hangs up does she look up at me for the first time since I entered her office. “Well?”

  “I don't know what you have in mind.”

  “Of course you don't. You wouldn't be standing here wasting my time otherwise.” Her tone is enraged, forceful, and only a little shaky. Rex is worried, but would never let anybody know that. It can't be easy to command that much responsibility and have nobody to let her guard down to. I only stand patiently. I'm not that guy.