“Oh.” Brickens began typing away on one of the new keyboards that wrapped in on itself like a ball. Dresker never could get used to those things, but they were the rage with the younger crowd and the tech folks. “His brain was rezzed,” Brickens said.
“And that means?”
“The internal circuits were fused so that they caused burnout on the relays. Even if his memory could be salvaged, the pressure on the channels was such that things would be scrambled at best and whatever we did turn up would be a series of dangling locations littered with null references.”
Dresker dropped his one eyebrow and raised the other.
“His brain was crushed,” Brickens said. “Destroyed. Annihilated. There is nothing left.”
“Der,” Truhbel said. “Wasn’t dat easier to say?”
“Not really, no.”
“All right, all right.” Dresker shrugged. He knew there weren’t any backups since that was outlawed during the infamous Dupe Wars where many artificial lifeforms were replicated and made to commit all sorts of atrocities. “So he’s a wash. What’s the chance that I can get you to break in to The Starliner’s computers and get me some information on them?”
“You mean that new Mechanican cult?”
“Correct.” Dresker smirked at Truhbel. “We think they’re tied to this.”
“It’ll be a challenge,” Brickens replied. “They’re Mechanicans, and that’s the toughest crowd to bypass when it comes to security.”
“Tell me about it,” Dresker said, thinking of all the struggles they’d had thus far.
“Well, the first thing is that their encryption schemes are often run through multiple—”
“I was being rhetorical,” said Dresker. His brain couldn’t handle another technical foray. “Can you get in or not?”
“No.”
“Damn,” Dresker said as Truhbel grunted.
“But one of my devs may be able to.” Brickens got up and led them out of his office. “He’s the best there is at this stuff, so if he can’t do it, nobody can.”
“Merchanercan?” Truhbel asked.
“No,” Brickens said as they followed him through the maze of cubicles until they came upon one that was most untidy. “Neflirian.”
Dresker peered over the edge and saw what appeared to be a Neflir man in his middle years. Neflir were not known for their ingenuity, and were definitely not high on the list for the first person to call when you had a technical issue. Dresker thought to dismiss this course of action, but he would let it play out since there was nothing left to do but sate his own curiosity over whether or not a Neflirian could actually prove him wrong.
“Qweebdin,” Brickens said, jolting the man from his work. “I have a couple of people from the Internal Investigation Bureau here that need our help.”
Qweebdin rose from his chair, a squishing noise following him, and moved to shake hands with Truhbel. Dresker’s skin crawled, knowing he was next. But Qweebdin didn’t seem interested in Dresker.
“Ah,” he said in a voice that betrayed his looks, “it is the beautiful Agent Truhbel.”
“Dat’s right,” she replied as though there was no question in the matter.
“And how do you know that?” Dresker asked.
“I know a lot,” Qweebdin answered, not taking his eyes off of Truhbel. “It comes with the territory of what I do.” A drip of snot was edging off his nose. “Name what it is you need of me, my lovely, and it shall be so.”
Truhbel pulled her hand away and wiped it on the Neflirian’s shirt.
“Break into dat Starliner and find us information.”
Qweebdin grimaced. “That’s a tall order, my lady.”
“You said anything,” Dresker pointed out.
“Dat’s right,” Truhbel said, moving so that her breasts were directly in line with Qweebdin’s eyes, and close enough that they were all he could see. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you? What, wif dis being our first meeting and all.”
“Um...”
Brickens was mumbling something under his breath. Probably noting that it wasn’t fair that some people got all the glory. That was a thing that Brickens had a tendency of doing. Dresker had heard it every week at Zarliana’s meetings.
“You know what they say about first impressions,” Dresker said to Qweebdin and then let that sink in a moment before adding, “You only get one chance at those.”
“These?” Qweebdin’s eyes were entranced with Truhbel’s chest.
“No, not those. I mean you only get one chance at a first impression.”
Truhbel put a finger on Qweebdin’s chin and pushed up until he was looking into her eyes.
“So, you gonna get into dat Starliner or not?”
“I’m sure as hell going to try.”
Qweebdin spun to his machine and within moments seemed back in his element. A miniclick later all of his monitors had various windows popping up with bits of data streaming in each. Neflirian or not, this guy was flying.
There was something about watching a full-blown geek in action that mesmerized Dresker. He hadn’t witnessed the event very often, being that he didn’t haunt locations littered with tech-types, but on the few occasions that an investigation brought him face to face with the wizardry, he became amazed and equally thankful that he was not gifted with such skills.
Dresker impelled his VizScreen to check for any updates from the team. Two taps listed his messages, of which there were none from his team. There was one from his ex-wife wishing him a belated happy divorce day. He cringed and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. If there ever were a crime that he could commit, it would certainly involve her. Nothing too dastardly, of course. Maybe just a partial sawing off of all her high-heeled shoes. She had loved them so. With a shake of his head and a deep breath, he pushed the fantasy away while explaining to himself that anything premeditated came with a higher price.
“Hmmm,” Qweebdin said after a couple of microclicks.
“What?” Truhbel asked.
“They don’t seem to have a connection to GalactiNet.”
“That’s impossible,” Dresker said. “We were just at their offices and they certainly had devices running.”
“I’m sure they did, but I don’t see anything connecting through that building... Wait a second.” Qweebdin ran his finger along one of the screens, leaving a bit of slime behind in the process. “Okay, I see what’s going on. They don’t have a permanent connection. They access only when they feel the need. Pretty smart, actually.”
“What does dat mean to me?”
“It means, my Uknarian princess, that unless they connect to the Net while I’m watching, I’m not going to pick up anything. And, honestly, even if I do catch the connection I won’t likely have enough time to piggyback on their feed to get enough information to work through. It would take at least a couple of days of constant access to get something to go on.”
“If you got hooked in,” said Dresker, “would you find out what they sent or what they connected to?”
Qweebdin shrugged. “Possibly. Hard to tell without seeing their transmission schema. I’m assuming there is encryption, but if they grab anything directly from the Net then I doubt breaking the code would be a problem. I’ve seen instances where a one-way encryption has—”
“Dat’s good enough,” Truhbel interrupted, much to Dresker’s appreciation. “You keep on der and find somefing for me and maybe I’ll let you buy me food.”
“Wow,” Qweebdin said, looking surprised. “Really?”
“Why not?”
Why was the more suitable question in Dresker’s head. Truhbel always did like the odd ones though, and Qweebdin was definitely odd. He made a mental note to ask her what she saw in the slimy fellow, and then thought better of it.
“I’ll work all night!”
“You do dat,” Truhbel said and patted him on the head.
Then she wiped her hand on his shirt.
Then she
wiped it on the wall.
BRAINWASHED
ZIMP PEEKED OUT and found the hall was clear.
He had sat in his room for a click, counting each miniclick as he studied the camera that Telian had gotten for him. It was a ConnectoCam that attached to his headpiece and fed data directly into his banks. His test images were crisp and clear, and so he felt confident Prime Dresker would be pleased with the output.
Sneaking across the hall, Zimp pushed open the door to the documents room. The room illuminated and he brushed the controls that set the windows opaque. It wasn’t much privacy, but he didn’t need too much time.
He attacked the first cabinet, pulling out various books and papers.
Then he stopped.
Why would they be using papers?
He thought about this. They were all Mechanicans. Digital information was far more sensible and easier to transfer. Then he saw a piece of paper that cleared up the mystery. It seemed that The Starliner chiefs wanted to make sure that the data could not be accidentally transferred so they made hard-copies instead.
The papers were simple receipts for books. He put those back and went through the books one-by-one, taking pictures of each cover.
Starting Your Own Cult had a nice blue picture of a distant mountain range. The back of the book read, “Have you ever wanted to do something that didn’t require a 9-5 schedule? Something where people would worship you regardless of your personal hygiene, looks, or intellect? Did you know that people, in general, are stupid and will fall for all sorts of crazy things you tell them? If you have a strong personality and thrive on manipulating others, you need this book!”
How to Be The Leader was written by someone called Jinkers Patleewith. Zimp wondered if it was the same leader that headed up The Starliner. He flipped it over. “Whether in battle or in business, all of us have the capability to lead. For some it takes years to find the strength inside to take the reins; for others it takes the right mentor. This book, and my experience, will guide you into the world of leadership. I have stepped on so many heads on my way up the corporate ladder that I can instruct you precisely in where you should place your foot when climbing.”
Other books included: Religion Building for Morons, The Mechanican Candidate, and Diversity: It’s Not Just For Humans.
He put those back and started in on the next round.
§ § §
Telian could have sworn she’d heard a giggle as she entered The Leader’s office. He motioned her over and she saw the source of his joy. Through his iPane, she watched as Zimp poked through various papers, snapping images and saying “Huh!” a lot.
“He’s been going through all the false papers you planted,” The Leader said. “I have to say that my programming is surprisingly amused with the beguiling of this Zimp fellow.”
Telian backed away. “False papers I planted? I thought you were going to plant the false papers?”
The Leader spun on her so fast that Telian almost fell backwards.
“You didn’t do it?” he asked in that tinny voice.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to do it,” she replied desperately.
“Telian,” the cadence started, “I am The Leader. It is not my job to do the menial tasks. I come up with the plans and expect that my subordinates carry them out. You are my subordinate, thus, you should have carried this out!”
Telian had just about had enough of being yelled at over the last year, but she had so much respect for The Leader, not to mention the sheer faith she’d built up regarding his capabilities, that she stoically refrained from outburst. Instead, she called on her calming chip and said, “I take full responsibility.”
“If you had done that before, this wouldn’t be an issue.”
She bit her metal—albeit metaphorical—tongue.
“That means that our friend Zimp has actual data about our facility and its enterprises,” The Leader said as he jabbed at his iPane. “We need to make sure that the data doesn’t get out until after we have left tomorrow.”
Telian didn’t respond.
“By we I mean you, Telian,” The Leader said, adjusting his gloves. He then put on a very condescending voice and added, “Just to make this clear. I just stated a plan that our friend Zimp must not get the information he has accumulated out to his cohorts. So you must take it upon yourself to ensure that he does not. I create the plan, you enact the plan. Elementary, really. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Telian said, relieved that he hadn’t gone into his thesaurus again.
§ § §
Sitting at the back of the last cabinet was the telltale document that Zimp had been hoping for.
The Captain’s Return was the title. Directly beneath sat the byline, which read, “by The Leader (a.k.a. Coremon),” and below that was a very distinct instruction that said, “DO NOT PRINT!”
Zimp was unsure why this document was not to be printed, but he was glad that it had been.
He placed it on the table and began reading. It was mostly fluff about The Leader’s acumen, and the great lengths he had taken to ensure nobody knew of his true identity. Zimp looked back at the byline and rolled his eyes. Getting beyond the narcissistic prose, Zimp found something interesting.
“The Captain will return with The Starliner, and it will be miraculous,” the text read. “On that day, all faithful Mechanicans will eject their batteries and prepare for pickup. The streets will be closed to all races except the Mechanicans prior to the battery removal. Any who trespass during this time will be smote. Once the disengagement is complete, the doors will reopen and members of the CCOP, those very same that used our brethren as slaves all these years, shall see that they must learn to run their precious world without us. My perspicacity will be put to use on a world where...” Zimp kept skimming the text. “...and it will be on the date of Galactic 3719 that the event will occur.”
“Zimp thinks that Galactic 3719 is tomorrow,” he said aloud as he bypassed the camera link and checked his internal clock. “Zimp is right!”
An older, crinkled, sheet of paper was sitting in a plastic wrapper under The Leader’s The Captain’s Return document. Zimp removed it and found many of the words had been smudged away. He set it gingerly on the table.
Calling all Mechanicans! Calling all Mechanicans!
Are you feeling ***down? Is the CCOP ******* *** *** *** ***** *** treating you like a slave? Are you taking on risky missions just to keep your head ***** *******?
Escape to a better place with Captain ************ ******** on his miraculous Starliner. ****** ****** ** ** ******* built specifically for the betterment of all Mechanicans. *********** ******* ********* ************** *** countless ***** wondrous options to rejuvenate your life.
It’s YOUR home **** **** *** ****!
Your ** ** salvation ** at hand! **** set your transponder to 879.12 and be ready *** ****** at midday ** Galactic 3719. *** ******* ** ******* **** *** ************ ** ******** **** ** **** ** *** ******* ******* *** ask ************ ** ***** for help* *** ***** ****** ** *** eject your batteries *************** ********* ** ******** *** **** * ****** ** ****** ** set your mood.
Don’t listen to *** naysayers **** **** *** **** **** ******* *** * *** **** **** bring the Hub to a halt! **** *** *********** ********* you have just as much right ** * ******** as any other race!
** join The Captain on Galactic 3719* ******* ********* *** *** *** **** ***** ***** *** *** ******* *** * *****!
(All **** ** ** ******** ** *** **** ** ********** *** Mechanicans ****** ** *** ** **** **** ** *********** ******* **** ***** ** ******* **** ** *** ********** *** will be held solely accountable to The Captain ** ** ******* ******* ************* ********** ********* ****** ** *** *********** *** *** **** ****** ************ ****** ** ************ ** *********** ********** *** ** **** ************ ****** ** leave the CCOP!)
Zimp read the text over and over again, unable to believe what he was seeing. Then he remembered the date and shook himself back to reality. The
scene was worrying him. He just had to take the pictures and get out of there!
Moving to the next file, he picked up a page that detailed how the gears at the central Hub were to be stopped in order to disrupt the CCOP. Zimp snapped a few images figuring that it was enough evidence to lock the place down.
Then, as he went to replace the folder, a small cartridge, about the size of a finger, fell from between the pages. He connected it to one of his data ports and gaped as he watched a video of Walter Blitterbent, Telian, and a large CrushBot with the name of Anne. Zimp had only met Telian, but whoever was responsible for this video had placed names over the heads of the Mechanicans in the movie.
There was a lot of discussion about the Hub and The Starliner in general. Telian was backing Walter into the alley where the CrushBot was waiting. As the scene unfolded, Zimp winced. He had read the feeds from the incident and knew what was coming. Sure enough, though he struggled and begged, Walter Blitterbent was crushed into a nice tidy square.
On the one hand, Zimp was appalled; on the other hand, his processor was humming along since he’d hit the proverbial jackpot.
Prime Dresker would be proud!
He made a copy of the files from the cartridge and then quickly shuffled through the rest of the documents, rushing through the final pictures before removing the camera attachment. All he had to do now was encrypt the images and video, get to an open channel, and transmit everything to Dresker. Well, technically to Bintoo, who would then forward them along.
Damn. The Hub connection was blocked. He adjusted his relays. Nothing. The secret room had a conditioned perimeter.
Zimp returned the windows to full transparency and walked back out into the hallway to try the connection again. Still nothing. His room didn’t have any hard connections either. He would have to get outside in order to transmit the data.
“There you are,” a happy voice that was attached to a rather large Mechanican said. He was heading down the hallway directly toward Zimp.
Starliner (The Intergalactic Investigation Bureau Book 1) Page 20
