“I only have time for a thirty-minute lunch,” she said, breaking a painful silence. “Los Cubanos at 1 PM. Don't be late again. You're buying.”
With everything going on, I had forgotten my gift. I went back to the table by the front door to grab the flowers I had bought from Ms. Hsu.
“I wanted to give these to you earlier, but you were busy,” I said, holding them out to her, a yellow and red aromatic armistice. “They're dying of neglect here.”
She took the flowers, inhaled deeply, and chuckled. With that laugh, I dared to believe that hope still breathed a nurturing air on the near-extinguished fire of my relationship. Twirling her fingers, she revealed a hand-written card from Mrs. Hsu that read “Don't screw up again”.
“Cute,” she said, smiling. “She made a beautiful arrangement.” She paused for emphasis. “Once again.”
“I love you,” I said softly. “I’ll try not to screw up again.”
“It's late,” she replied, walking over to me. “I need to go to bed, Jonah. You should too.” Although there was a slight hesitation, she did lean down to kiss the top of my head. Then she turned her back to me and headed toward the bedroom. “You know where the sheets are and pillows for the couch. And thank you for the flowers. Mind putting them in water?”
The bedroom door closed and I rose from the couch, grabbed the flowers, and placed them into a thin blue vase by the kitchen counter. Before I went to bed, I needed to make preparations. The Devereux job had exposed weaknesses in my ability to cope with different situations, and since I would be operating solo, I needed something extra. I walked to the kitchen counter and went to the repli-pantry and spoke my code words. “I'd like my six course meal, please.”
The pantry refrigerator opened and the rotating shelves moved to accommodate my request. My secret shelf, hidden between the leftover preserved turkey and root vegetables, swiveled into my view and extended out to me with a whisper-like mechanical whirring.
The shelf contained my own mini-arsenal that I’d kept since leaving the military and collected over my months of IRS service. It was by no means as extensive or as lethal as Spenner's trove, but it got the job done. The shelf contained my jet-black grav-gun, a police baton that I had converted into a stun-rod, and an assortment of mini-grenades. I took two cryo-grenades, the stun-rod, and the grav-gun for good measure.
My gaze lingered on our bedroom at the end of the hall. It looked so comfortable. With a sigh, I prepared my own sleeping arrangements. One thing I learned that night was that no amount of futuristic technology softens a couch enough for a proper night's sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Terra Cotta Woes
“Death is a cycle. The soul must walk on to the next road along the Wheel of Life.”
- Dalai Lama, before self-immolating in protest of
the 2024 MSA Act.
>> DATE: Sept. 24th, 2039. One day before present time.
>> LOCATION: Manhattan, New York City.
“Early to bed, early to rise!” announced Sasha. She assumed a form with the v-cast projector and assembled sufficient proto-matter to nudge my head.
“Makes a man grumpy and unwise,” I answered with a growl. The thought of deleting her alarm program crossed my mind.
“Sir, it is time to wake. Last night you instructed me to allow only two snooze dismissals. Please do not make me employ the stun-rod to rouse you.”
An unintelligible grumble escaped my lips while I contemplated going back to sleep.
Since she lacked a convincing bluff algorithm, her stun-rod threat represented a good reason to get up. Furthermore, my practical brain reasoned, completing these last two jobs would pay off my mother’s bills. After that, I would be able to stop collecting and repair my relationship with Vanessa. This combination of duty and fear of electrocution pushed me off the couch.
Anticipating compliance, Sasha had programmed the mobile armoire unit to collect my clothes in the bedroom without disturbing Vanessa. Within seconds, the simple box-shaped robot returned with a tasteful outfit. I slipped on a white shirt, put on my shoulder holster, covered it with my black blazer, and chose a cream-colored tie. The grav-gun still felt cool to the touch as I tucked it into my shoulder holster. Then I slipped the two cryo-grenades into special pockets sewn in my pants’ belt loops. With my hands freed, Sasha delivered a steaming cup of coffee to me.
“Thank you, Sasha. Time to go,” I said, sipping the drink as she disappeared and returned to my wrist-com. Like a jumpstart to a dead battery, the life-giving caffeine jolted my system awake. “Brazilian dark roast, excellent choice.”
Upon leaving the apartment, thirty-two ghosts, all waiting for Vanessa, pleaded with me as I entered the hallway. Their intrusion onto our apartment floor bothered me, almost as much that my poor girl was in for another long day. My hand slipped into my jacket while I considered blowing the v-cast projector off its ceiling fixture. Instead, I walked through two translucent visitors, opened a wall access panel, and hacked into the v-cast generator.
“What are you doing?” a ghost complained. “Leave that alone!” Two more ghosts approached and swiped at me with their arms. Without enough substance, the futile attack felt like a strong gust of wind.
Ignoring them, my fingers jabbed at the console, giving me access to the privacy protocols of the apartment's v-cast system. Vanessa had allowed visitors to begin calling to her apartment at 6 AM, probably as a wake-alarm to start her day earlier. With a quick adjustment, I changed the permissions to 9 AM. The least I could do was let her sleep in for one day.
After scanning the program further, I detected an invasive malware virus installed into the projector system. It allowed these resourceful, and desperate, v-casters to bypass the safeguards in the lobby and materialize in our hallway. The virus attempted to breach deeper to allow them to enter my apartment. Feeling violated, I deactivated the virus and fired back with a data-worm program that would snarl their connections. It was a virtual warning shot across the bow. When my program initiated, five of the v-casters in front of the queue.
“They didn't play by the rules,” I announced to the remaining ghosts. “Please respect our privacy, go back to the lobby, and Vanessa will see you when she can.” The ghosts fell silent, faded away to return to the lobby, while I strode through their glowing remnants on my way to the elevator.
* * *
All of the driving routes, the street and air lanes alike, enjoyed light traffic this early in the morning. The orange radiance of the sunrise breached the tight line of skyscrapers every other block. Taking a series of cross-town short cuts through midtown Manhattan, my car arrived and parked across the street at the construction site within twenty minutes. A wide metal fence had been erected around the whole block for the construction crews to renovate the New Millennium high-rise complex. A steel gate blocked entrance into the site, flanked by two security guards, with more just out of sight. In front of the gate, twenty-one construction workers gathered outside the fence, all of them engaged in a heated argument with a distraught-looking man in a white collared shirt.
“I took the liberty of downloading the building schematics from the city’s zoning approval office,” Sasha reported, her light blue face appearing in the smart-glass of the rear view mirror. The car’s windshield darkened, becoming a virtual display, revealing the building layouts. A system of under-tunnels beneath the site appeared to be a promising place to start looking for Mr. Grand.
“I have also started gathering satellite photos of the compound and the company's work logs. It looks like most of the workers have been given the day off.”
“Good work, Sasha,” I replied. “A day off would make it easier for the family to do some unauthorized construction. What about the financial records?”
More information streamed onto the glass as Sasha complied with my request. Over the last three years, Mr. Grand had sunken into deep debt to Gabriel Charon. He also owed the government nearly twenty mil
lion in back taxes. The list of debtors filled the screen. In fact, he owed so much that I estimated his afterdeath repayment to be three hundred years. No wonder Gabriel wanted the body so badly.
“It appears Mr. Grand has made many bad choices,” Sasha noted. I didn't take any joy or pleasure in doing collecting jobs, but it certainly made it easier for my conscience when the target was either a mobster or a pawn of mobsters.
“I’ll need a cover to get through the security gate,” I said, tapping into the car’s computer archives. A digital wardrobe of forged personas flashed across the windshield glass.
“Will you attempt the flower delivery man again?” Sasha teased, citing one of my previous mishaps. My hero Sherlock Holmes was a master of disguises, a skill he used often to solve cases. My track record with assumed identities proved much less consistent. “Or the pizza delivery man identity that almost landed you in the hospital?”
“Perhaps something a bit less devious,” I mumbled. Police detective? No, too risky. My hand waved through a maze of choices until I found Jeremy Blumfield, a mild-mannered building code inspector working for the city.
“Your credentials are printing, Jeremy,” Sasha said. An output slot below the glove department glowed red, then dispensed an official-looking badge emblazoned with New York City’s official seal. As I exited the car, I heard the frustrated workers from across the street.
“This is total bullshit,” said one of the construction workers to another.
“Closed for the day?” said another. “What the hell is going on?”
“I hope they’re not bringing in more shades,” complained another. “I need the work!”
“Take it easy, fellas,” said the short man wearing a yellow hard-hat and a white-collared shirt. Judging by the lack of grime on his clothes, I assumed he was the foreman or the building manager. “No one's getting replaced. We have some, uh--inspections today. So, the boss is giving you all a paid day off.” He pulled out a stack of papers and handed out checks to the workers. This seemed to appease the workers, as they started to disperse from the locked gate.
When the last of the workers left, I approached. The foreman held a hand out to stop me.
“Hey you, where the hell do you think you're headed?” he demanded. “We're closed today. Off-limits, you hear?”
“Not to the city you're not.” Flashing a scowl, I shoved my fake badge in and out of his face, and leaned toward him for added intimidation. “Just yesterday a utility-shade worker took a dive and nearly killed a pedestrian due to faulty harnesses not being up to code. We're inspecting all operations in the city that expose citizens to unsafe working conditions, especially with shades doing high-rise work. I will have access to the premises.”
“Inspections?” the foreman gasped. “What do you mean?” His brow furrowed and he crossed his arms in defiance.
“Didn't you just tell your men that you're closing for inspections?” I countered. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”
“Uh--hey, it's not a good day for that,” he stammered, looking back and forth for someone that might help him. “I mean, what I said was…what I meant was…the company was doing our own internal inspections, you know, cleanup maintenance.”
“Tell me your name,” I requested, tapping my wrist-com. “I will be recording this for my investigation.”
“Ph-Phil,” the foreman gulped. “Phil Horsely.”
“Okay Phil, Phil Horsely, my name’s Inspector Jeremy Blumfield, and you may not realize it yet but I could be saving you a shitload of trouble,” I said. “Imagine what happens if one of your shades falls off a beam and hits a citizen on the street?” I said, raising my voice, pushing in closer. “The manager of that window cleaning shade I mentioned earlier? He's in prison for not keeping his operation within code. You still feel solid about your setup here? Or do you want me to make sure you guys are secure?”
“Prison?” the foreman gulped. “Look, you can walk the grounds, check out what you need. But the interior offices and belowground tunnels are off-limits. We’ve closed those off for renovations. Can you be done in an hour? My wife wants me home for dinner.”
“Sure, Phil, no problem. Just stay out of my way. I’ll need access to your security cameras and diagnostic monitoring systems. I can do my tests from the ground floor.”
“Oh, that’s great, thanks, Inspector!” the foreman said as he opened the gate. “I’ll be in the security office if you need me, sir. There’s a monitoring console about thirty feet ahead.”
Entering the compound with confidence, I pretended to jot down notes onto my wrist-com and surveyed the site. A crisscrossing system of ropes, pulleys, and cranes supported large containers filled with building materials. None of the living workers remained in the area. However, twenty shade workers still shuffled along the scaffolding of the higher floors, delivering stacks of metal girders to higher floors. As I approached the terminal that the foreman had mentioned, a nearby camera pivoted toward me to scan my badge. It beeped and the computer’s display flickered to life.
“Sasha,” I whispered, “time to be a good little mole and burrow into their network.”
“I’m in. The foreman conveniently removed all security layers for us,” she responded into my ear. Her shimmering face smiled at me through the now static-filled computer screen. I pretended to look busy, tapping at the console to inspect low-level operational diagnostic data.
“Good girl. Now try to gain access to any v-cast projectors they have in the vicinity. Do they have any?”
“Yes, sir,” Sasha responded. “There are twelve total projectors, most of them mark-3 units, all with an abundance of proto-matter.”
“Excellent,” I responded. “My instincts tell me they hid Mr. Grand in the under-tunnels. When I reach that door I want you to run the chameleon program. Can you do that, dear?”
“Yes, sir. According to the security monitors, there is no one in the tunnels down below. That area looks secure.”
I walked away from the terminal and acted like I was interested in various structures around the compound. I assumed that Phil was watching me with his own security cameras, so I needed to make sure that I looked like I was doing a thorough inspection.
When I reached the southwest side door that lead to underground tunnels, I stepped to the side and whispered to Sasha to start the program. Taking over their v-cast projectors, Sasha created a life-like virtual duplicate of me walking the grounds and completing the inspection, while at the same time blocking out the security view of the door I stood near. This ruse, the chameleon program, allowed me to enter the tunnels while my virtual projection looked serious and continued his patrol.
I climbed down a short flight of stairs, taking care to minimize the sound of my footfalls on the metallic surface. The old maintenance tunnels connected to a labyrinthine system of underground passageways. City crews used these tunnels to access electrical lines and sewer plumbing to keep the skyscrapers above functioning.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, one section of the tunnel wall stood out. While brown and green lichen covered most of the tunnel, the black door at the far end of the passage looked pristine. When I walked toward the door, I noticed that a sophisticated magnetic lock protected it. More of a pain in the ass than impossible to break, the lock represented a potential significant delay.
“Sasha, do you have any access to the floor that I’m on? I’m wondering if you can query for the override password on this door?”
“Searching, Jonah,” Sasha responded. “Unfortunately, no, there is no record of that door in the company’s records. It should not be there.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Of course no records, Mr. Grand didn’t want to be found.” I pulled out my stun-rod and reached into my pocket for a very sensitive tool I had hidden away for just such an occasion. The nano-picks looked like two thin wires fused together, similar to a steel-colored woman's hair barrette. For this job, I would need the e
quivalent of a hammer and tweezers.
My fingers adjusted the controls hidden on the shaft of the stun-rod, focusing the plasma fields, allowing me to use it like a blowtorch. The weapon, vibrating on overload, blazed like a torch, frightening a trio of rats down the corridor and revealing a number of fresh boot prints in the thick layer of dust nearby. It looked like five or six workers had been down here recently to install the new security door.
I needed to hurry. The weapon would detonate at this high setting. Making an educated guess to knock out the door’s power supply, I pushed the burning end against a cracked portion of the wall. The old rock smoldered, blackened, and then crumbled, revealing several conduits and wires feeding the magnetic door with power. I reached for the small nano-picks, wire-thin instruments that enabled me to interface with an access point. I held my breath, hoping not to create a detectable spike in disrupted energy. The trick would be to siphon off just the right amount of energy and starve the door of power without it showing up on the security grid.
Lucky for me, the door deactivated not with a bang but with a whimper. Unluckily for me, the door did not open all the way once its power flow stopped. I thought about risking another hack to feed it just enough power to open, but I worried that another power irregularity might trigger a security alert.
My hand groped around the edges of the door and I found a small handle to help open the door. Pushing against its heavy weight, I stifled a grunt and slid the stone door open. I felt like an old-time archaeologist pushing open an ancient set of stone doors. The analogy proved to be quite apt as I crept into the large room. A musty, decaying scent hung in the stale air. Inside I discovered a large square room, about thirty by thirty, encased with thick granite walls that belonged to the building's original foundation. My eyes darted to the large gleaming black coffin at the far end. It almost felt like I had stumbled upon some ancient burial site, except this was no ancient tomb. A single bulb cast a weak pool of yellow light around the coffin, highlighting that it rested on a stone slab three feet off the ground. The dais kept the coffin off the shallow pools of drainage water that trickled through tiny pipes around the room.
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