by Steve Rzasa
Aldo turned over the young Miss Ruiz to a man and a woman from the Pennington County Sheriff’s Office.
“Got your transmission,” the female deputy said. “Anything else off data we need to know?”
Ruiz spit on the ground. Aldo scowled, and scuffed his shoe against his pant leg.
“Off data? She’s a pain,” Rome said. “Rest of the data’s collected from our comp—vids, scans, and all.”
“Right. We’ll drop you a signal when the prelim hearing comes up. County attorney will want both your testimonies.”
“We know the drill. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Driver.” The deputy and her partner each took one of Ruiz’s elbows and led her across the tarmac.
Rome watched her go. Stupid kid.
“You think Daddy’s really going to delete this mess?” Aldo asked
“Who knows? Not our problem.” A pair of beeps caught Rome’s attention. Both his and Aldo’s implants flashed green.
“Ah. Favorite color.” Aldo tapped his. “Bingo.”
Rome did likewise. Got to hand it to the FTZ—once your target was turned over to local LEOs, the bounty was in your account within seconds. Minus federal taxes, of course.
“Ten percent.” Aldo moaned. “Man. That’s America for you.”
“Don’t knock it. Roads, parks, and guns. That’s all we’re paying for.”
“Yeah, well, still…”
Another light flashed on Rome’s implant—yellow, double pulse. Incoming signal.
The whine of the Condor’s engines increased. Aldo glanced up. “Better get back aboard before Gabby leaves us stranded in West Nowhere.”
“Give me two. Got a call.”
“Okay. I’ll tell her. But you know how she gets.”
“No kidding. But she’s more likely to take off without you than without me.”
Aldo gave him the finger and sprinted for the hatch.
Rome tapped the screen. A girl’s face appeared—all smiles with black, curly hair cascading over her ears. She must have registered his face on her end because her smile—impossible as it seemed—got bigger. Eyes like blue sky sparkled.
“Daddy!”
“Hey, Viv.”
“I signaled ’cause Mommy said to remind you the concert’s Friday.”
Her voice was warm in his earpiece as if she stood right there. He imagined soft, tiny fingers wrapped in his hand. “Yeah, I remember. Early Level Band.”
“You’re coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay.” She blew him a kiss. “Love you, Daddy!”
He put two fingers to his lips, kissed them, and then pressed them to the tiny screen. “Love you too, Pumpkin.”
Her face ducked out of view. The woman who replaced her was slender with blonde hair and hazel eyes. No smile, though a hint of one hid in the curve of her lips. “Hey, Rome.”
“Hey, Kelsey.”
“You are coming.” Less of question, more of a command.
“So far as I know I’ve still got the time off logged.”
“Double check, please. I don’t want you to miss Vivian’s concert.”
“I don’t want to either.”
He felt awkward during the pause as Kelsey looked off camera. Wasn’t any easier on his end. “Where’s Jake?”
“Out. One of his friends. The car tracer shows them downtown. Who knows where they walked after that.”
“Tag turned off again?”
“He’s eighteen. Legally he can switch it on and off any time. We—I don’t have the PIN.”
Rome nodded. “Funny how the kids always experiment with shutting down their tags. Pursuit can switch ’em back on whenever we want.”
“I don’t want our son’s every movement tracked, like everyone else’s,” Kelsey said stiffly.
“Really. Is yours on right now?”
“That’s none of your business, or anyone else’s,” she sighed. “Sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too. Wasn’t aiming for a fight.”
“We always seem to find one.” Kelsey smiled, but it looked hesitant. “I’ll tell Jake you’re coming.”
“Thanks.” Rome scratched the back of his neck. “He didn’t answer my last signal.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s hardly ever around. Maybe—when you’re in town—we could all go out for dinner.”
“That’d be nice.” He wished he could stay longer. Things used to be different—tense, but not awkward. He liked tense better. But that’s why they called it divorce. “Got to go. My ride’s waiting.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
She always said that. Even five years out. “Thanks. I will. Take care of yourself.”
Kelsey’s face vanished.
Rome stared at the tarmac, shadowed by the hovering Condor. Wind blew his jacket and his hair around. For a moment, there was just the rush of the air… the roar of the jets. In the distance, cars and trucks rushed back and forth along the Ninety.
Orderly.
Safe.
Not a single person in control.
His palms itched. Rome climbed aboard the Condor and patted the side of the Halcyon as he walked through the bay.
~
The Cascades were a jagged row of dark emeralds capped with snow, turning pale blue in the fading light. As the Condor crossed the mountain range, Seattle’s crown of lights exploded through the gloom. The first things to greet westward visitors were the soldierly ranks of agricultural towers that sprouted from the foothills on the edge of Bellevue and Issaqah. They sparkled like columns of gems, verdant sprinkled with rainbow colors the closer they flew.
Beyond that, the sprawl of dimly lit city streets was barely visible. Only intersections and housing complexes were well lit. The faintest glow of car indicators turned the streets a soft gold.
Gabriela locked the Condor into auto-approach, monitoring for gusts. The FTZ West complex was a compound of nine identical domes stretched along the south seafront, not far from the old Sea-Tac airport and at the dead end of the old 405. The Ninety had long ago subsumed that road into its own network. Headquarters was two, twelve-story offices joined by a garden skyway topped with solar sheeting. Gabriela took manual control for the final seconds of flight and settled the craft into an open dome. Its top split open like eyelids.
“Better get the Halcyon over to the garage,” Aldo said as they disembarked on to the tarmac.
Rome breathed deep. The air was muggy—saturated with moisture. A far cry from the dusty, rain-desperate plains they’d left.
“Negative on that, boys,” Gabriela called to them from the open hatch. “Director wants you in his office without pause. According to him, you’re queued up for departure in an hour.”
Aldo made a face. “What? How’s that enough time to—”
Rome clapped his shoulder. “Have the garage send a tech team over to retrieve the car, Gabriela. Relay the same time frame. Tell them we need the basic repairs.”
“Roger that. Good luck.”
Security was tight in the lobby of FTZ West headquarters. The walls and floor were polished stone—white and gray, respectively. A guard-bot waited beside the white arch of a body scanner. It was as tall as Rome, and a bit on the pudgy side. Its oblong barrel torso made him think it’d be out of shape, were it a human.
[Identity.] The voice was stern and echoed like a grating gear throughout the empty lobby.
“Wow. The new Pike series aren’t much for public relations,” Aldo said.
“Don’t have to be.” Rome extended his left arm, wrist bent down, hand in a fist. “Pursuit Specialist Roman Franklin Jasko.”
The Pike had a single circular port on its “face,” near the top of its pointed head. It flashed red, casting a light on Rome’s implant.
[Confirmed. Clearance accepted.]
“Information and Support Specialist Aldrich Harold Burns.” Aldo’s forced formality was almost as funny as his ramrod stiff posture.
[Confirmed. Clearance acce
pted.] The guardbot rolled aside.
Rome and Aldo walked through the scanner, which pulsed with a soft, golden glow. Nothing to object to, apparently, for they were admitted without further scrutiny.
One elevator ride to the top floor deposited them outside the opulent office of Director Marcus Cho. The walls were entirely glass—transparent ones fronted the corridor while the polarized ones looked across the bay and Seattle. Here, another Pike guard-bot let them pass without interrogation.
Two men flanked the doors to Cho’s office. They were of larger build than the robots. One had dark brown skin while the other was of Chinese descent,
“Security check.” The black guy held up his arm. His implant glowed.
“We did this downstairs,” Aldo muttered. “Think we picked up contraband between the lobby and the penthouse?”
The black guard’s face was immobile. He scanned both their implants. Something blinked red on his screen. “Firearm? Turn it over.”
“Licensed to as an independent contractor for FTZ,” Rome said. “Resolve Interception. We have a federal waiver.”
“Don’t care. FTZ house rules.” The black guard held out his hand.
“Which part of ‘federal’ are you not understanding?”
“You wanna argue? Send your Senator a signal. Hand it over.”
Rome waited a full five seconds, then pulled the Hunsaker from its holster. He ejected the magazine, and racked the slide. “Don’t lose it.”
“Like I could do anything with it.” The guard handed it to his counterpart. “Tagged to you. Store it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The black guard opened the door and led them through a small waiting room, furnished with four chairs and a small silver table. Off to the right, a woman with white hair styled in a long braid sat at a desk of black stone and blue glass. Her glowing nameplate said simply, “Mrs. Liu.” Six holo displays cast a rainbow glow on her face, turning her pale gray suit and skirt into something approximating stained glass. She didn’t look up.
“Driver Jasko and his tech, for the director,” the guard said.
“They’re expected. Pass.” She arched a single, razor-thin eyebrow their direction.
Rome met her stern gaze and winked.
“Drivers,” she muttered.
Aldo snorted into his hand.
A double door slid open on the other side of the office. The guard left them there.
“Ah, good! Thanks, Garrick. Fellas, come in… pull up a chair.”
Marcus Cho had an easy smile, and his posture—though relaxed—was that of a man who knew he was in charge and wanted everyone else to be cognizant of the fact. A silver-gray jacket hung over a black leather chair. His slacks and shirt were charcoal and his tie was a solid, bold blue. Cho had white hair and brown eyes as dark as Rome’s.
“Driver Jasko, a pleasure to meet you in person. And Mr. Burns, likewise.”
Cho’s grip was sturdy, not something Rome expected from a desk-rider who looked as pale as one who didn’t see much sunlight. Though—this being Seattle—Rome doubted anyone got enough Vitamin D outside their daily supplements.
“Glad to put flesh with the faces. Please.”
Rome and Aldo sat in chairs facing Cho’s desk. Rome realized the seats were a few inches shorter than the director’s. Yes, the glass desk with its onyx top and the chair were centered on a dais—one Rome had missed when they first entered. Besides the bit of commanding furniture, the office also contained a loveseat and sofa in the far corner, nearest the windows that revealed a breathtaking spread of the harbors. Pottery adorned the end tables and shelves.
“The Ninety Free Travel Zone is in the black,” Cho said without preamble. “I want it to stay that way. Our profitability is based on our safety record. People need to feel they’re as protected in their cars as they are in their homes.”
“Wasn’t aware there was anything troubling that record, Director.”
“What do you and your partner experience out there, Rome? What’s the primary disturbance?”
Rome and Aldo shared a glance. Aldo’s eyebrows were raised—it was his “Is this guy freaking kidding?” stare.
“Come now, I’m not asking for you to sugarcoat anything.” Cho spread his hands in a slow sweep. Holographic reports sprang up from his desk like plants in time lapse—white and yellow sprays of words, charts, and images. “These are reports from all seventy-seven of the pursuit contractors running across the United American States. I pay special attention to the ten operating on the Ninety. Regardless, I want to hear it straight from you.”
“Unregistered drivers,” Rome said. “No question. They cause the most accidents—more than 80 percent of them. The rest can be chalked up to severe weather. You know, car users who override their automaton systems when they really feel like they have to be somewhere.”
Aldo snorted. “Only the people rich enough to afford cars modified for the overrides. So, we wind up sending in a Condor to pull Moneybags out of a ditch.”
Cho chuckled. “Understandable. Some people are loath to give up their independence when it comes to driving, or even owning a car. But I suppose you can commiserate, Driver.”
Rome shifted in his seat. Something about the way the guy scrutinized him—with a gaze as deep as any Pike guard-bot—made him uneasy. “Anything else?”
“That’s what I ask of you. Besides unregistered drivers…?” Cho paused.
“Theft,” Aldo said. “You wouldn’t believe it unless you’d seen it, Director. Guys who’ll roll up on a Famtrac doing eighty, with these specialized rigs they latch right onto the sides—”
“Remoras.”
Aldo stopped, mouth open, hand in mid-gesture. “Uh, yeah. That’s it.”
“I’ve seen the specifications from the reports you filed back in August of last year. Two of them, weren’t there? Operating between Boston and Niagara Falls.”
“Ballsy.” Rome’s head crowded with memories of the month-long operation. “Night raids. Like the train robbers of two hundred years ago, only faster. Took us a while to figure out where their base of operations was.”
“A little more than that. You posed in a modified Famtrac to catch them.”
Rome shrugged and smiled.
“Yeah, that was slick,” Aldo grinned.
“See, I knew I’d selected the right men.” Cho’s expression became stonily serious. “There is a grave new threat running the Western stretch of the Ninety. A new gang of thieves is targeting travelers.”
“Haven’t seen any bulletins to that effect, Director,” Rome said.
“That’s because we’ve kept them quiet. Do a deep search on the Net and you’ll find the commentary. People are worried because of the frequency, and the audacity.”
“What are we talking about?”
Cho brushed his hand through the data displays. Most disappeared, except for one stream cascading down the right side of his desk. “Eleven robberies in the past two weeks.”
Aldo whistled.
“That’s… quick work.” Rome kept his profanity stuffed back in his head.
“Too quick. These people are fast… and brutal.” Cho moved his hand again. One image from the stream expanded to the size of his chest.
Rome recognized the implant immediately. “That’s a Garelli. Has to be worth upward of twenty grand.”
“Is that… skin?” Aldo’s face paled.
“Yes. The thieves gouged the implants out of the hands of one couple who was targeted just five days ago. The attack happened in Montana. Authorities recovered one implant nearby, in Wyoming.”
“Ow…”
“Certainly is. They took jewelry, too, and the silver and gold coins the couple were carrying. Those, apparently, are long gone.”
That piqued Rome’s interest. “So, this wasn’t just a data hit. They knew the couple carried currency.”
Cho nodded. “That was the case in all the other thefts, too. Not random. We know that much.”
“Any hints to ID? We can start with DNA left behind and—”
“There is none.”
Rome laughed. “Sorry, you said none? Not possible.”
“I mean what I say. The only DNA present was from the couple, and the last tech to work on their car.”
Aldo cleared his throat. “Okay, that’s wrong. Has to be. What about Bact?”
“No bacteriological profiles, either.” Cho ticked off on his fingers. “Nor is there facial recognition or voiceprint.”
Aldo shook his head. “You can’t have a complete failure of every known evidence gathering method. We need data.”
“This, gentlemen, is all we have.”
A video played at the center of Cho’s desk—a highway, with cars spread apart by wide, precise margins. A black Lexus cruised into the frame.
“And… here.”
The vehicle that rolled alongside the Lexus was a cross between a Famtrac, a freighter, and an off-road Search-and-Rescue rover. Its broad body filled the whole lane. A bulge on its top gave it a hunchback appearance. It was colored a mottled gray.
Somehow, it seemed familiar to Rome. “Where’s the feed from?”
“Patrol drone.”
The vehicle matched speed with the Lexus. The top sprang apart and a docking collar—like the kind used at shipping warehouses—slapped over the roof and the passenger side door. It was loose until whoever was at the controls triggered the solidification process. The two cars drove along, linked.
Data sputtered across the bottom of the screen. Cho pointed. “The drone picked up a signal transmitted on military channels. Whatever it was, we figure it prevented the Lexus’s automaton from calling for help.”
“Or trying to maneuver away.” Rome watched the robbery—or rather, the view from the outside. Whoever ran this operation was good. Scary good.
“Right here… when they separate… is when we get our one good look.”
Cho accelerated the video. The collar retracted. Rome saw a young, black couple—well dressed—yelling inside their car. Their roof and passenger door were missing. The collar dropped both parts, letting them disappear down the highway. A person hung partway out of the collar—a woman’s body wearing a form-fitting black suit. Her face was masked with a reflective visor and a breathing apparatus.
