by Peter Tylee
He read them hungrily, his appetite whetted by the developing mystery. “Oh my God.”
Samantha had just walked in, balancing two plates of slop and two sets of cutlery. She put one on the bench Cookie was using as a desk. “Here’s your soup.”
“Ta,” he replied absently, reading the final records a second and third time.
“What’s ‘oh my god’?” Samantha asked, tasting her concoction and wishing she’d found some salt in the cupboard.
“I know why Dan’s wife was murdered… and I know why Esteban was the one who did it.”
“What?” She abandoned the soup and leant over his shoulder to read the words herself.
“We’ve gotta buzz Simon.” Cookie was trying hard to regulate his breathing. “Dan would wanna know about this.”
“Already? The poor guy probably just got home.”
“He said to call him if we needed anything, and this is important,” Cookie rationalised.
A few seconds more and she capitulated. “Okay, what’s the number?”
He gave her Simon’s card. “Just one ring.”
“I remember.” She dialled his number, let it ring once, then terminated the call and replaced the receiver. “Okay, now what?”
Cookie resumed datamining. “Now we wait.”
Chapter 8
The earth is not dying, it is being killed. And those that are killing it have names and addresses.
Utah Phillips
Saturday, September 18, 2066
UniForce Headquarters
01:29 San Francisco, USA
To say James was in a foul mood would be a grievous understatement. Dark bags had settled under his eyes, the product of ten hours sleep in three days. Sweat soaked his clothes and a repugnant odour, a thousand times worse than deodorant alone could mask, leaked from his armpits. He was treating a throbbing headache with unwise doses of Hexadril, a new Xantex painkiller. And he was beating back fatigue with stimulant after stimulant, which were rapidly losing their effect. His mind would race for half an hour after popping a pill before nestlingback to a numbing daze. Yet he’d surprised himself with his gutsy determination and endurance. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since he was a student and he’d never attempted a foolhardy four-day marathon. The ten hours rest didn’t count because he’d hardly slept – the dangerous quantities of stimulant he’d ingested had ensured that.
His efficiency was suffering too. It’d taken him twice as long as usual to erect a barrier around Echelon. He checked the system’s pulse. James was proud of the defence he’d designed. It should go in the next issue of Computing Genius!He had the only key, a memorised sequence of alphanumeric characters that he needed to apply in sequence in order to pass through the digital fortress. Stupid UG7… this wouldn’t benecessary if that bloody network had kept them out in the first place.Indeed, overconfidence in the UG7-rating was why there was no security on internal systems. Everybody had believed UG7 protection was more than adequate.
Other members of his team had done a superb job securing the mail system. One less thing I have to worry about,he thought while chewing a fingernail. Now… let’s kick this hacker’s butt back to his terminal.James surveyed the sorry state of the network. His team had made spaghetti of it. Oh Christ.It was tempting to shut everything down and repair the damage at his leisure. But Ice Bitch would kill me. He snorted. Disconnecting the network would necessitate shutting Echelon down and he had no idea how long it would take to repair. We could be offline for a week. Hell, it might be faster to rebuild the fucking thing from scratch…Interrupting Echelon was not an option, not even for a second. Besides, he’d just spent two days protecting it from internal attack, which had purchased him time to isolate and eradicate hostiles behind the firewall.
Echelon was the lifeblood of UniForce. Without it, UniForce couldn’t generate income. And if the shareholders thought Echelon were vulnerable, they’d abandon UniForce stock in droves and the company might go under. That reminds me,James thought with a satisfied smile. I should dump myUniForce stock before tendering my resignation.He still planned to jump ship. I’ve just gotta wait for this to blow over.
His wife had phoned twice in the past 24 hours, becoming increasingly annoyed that he hadn’t come home. She’d started to suspect James was avoiding her. After all, who in their right mind would demand an employee stay at work for three consecutive days? He snorted. How about my boss, the Ice Bitch?
And James’s mind was starting to play tricks on him, either from fatigue or an unforseen side effect of taking ultimately damaging doses of stimulant. A few hours ago his water bottle had talked to him, conversing authoritatively about the nuances of the chip-economy. Before that, the colours on his monitor had swirled into a dizzying fractal and he’d had to close his eyes. Impossible things had happened, disconcerting things, things that only years of therapy could help him understand and deal with. But, if seeing meant believing, then he had to believe a speckled snake sat coiled in the corner. It was huge, had a diamond-shaped head, and would periodically rear into the air and hiss at him to hurry up. At first he’d rubbed his eyes and stared in open-mouthed astonishment but more recently he’d begun talking back. Michele, bored as bat shit, had decided that was an appropriate moment to leave him alone with his apparitions. She’d then retired to her office, annoyed that Jackie expected her to stay throughout the crisis.
Another facet of James’s distorted reality was his growing obsession with winning the online battle. It had become so vitally important to him that he considered it more crucial than life itself. David Cooke might be a legend on the hacker circuit,he thought. But I’m better!He shouted in his mind repeatedly: I’m better! I’m better! I’m better!And he was surprised to find those words filling three hundred pages in his favourite text editor when next he opened his eyes.
He slapped some precious water on his cheeks. Come on James, get with the program.He refocused, trying even harder to lock onto the source of the signal that had come uninvited into what he’d started to regard as his personal network.
*
Saturday, September 18, 2066
05:28 Baltimore, USA
Jenlay on her back, staring at the ceiling. From the outside she looked calm, but her unblinking eyes masked a whirlpool of frustration, anger, and fear, each fighting hand-over-fist to dominate her at any given moment.
She’d tried to sleep with little success; she doubted she’d be tired until morning. The difference in time zones was wreaking havoc on her circadian rhythm, but she intended to use that to her advantage. A loose plan was forming in her mind and desperation made her believe it was a good one.
But several questions blared through her mental anguish, demanding answers lest she go insane: How can they get away with this? How can they steal women from their homes? Why aren’t investigators barging through the portals to arrest them?She studied the problem from every angle trying to justify answers, but found none.
She checked her watch. The ghostly glow of the analogue hands was just visible in the gloom. It was nearly time to give impetus to her plan. Like any good tactician, she fretted about whether it would work and the excess nervous energy left her giddy.
Jen hauled herself off the mattress and the carpet tickled the soles of her feet. The Guild was quiet. She’d monitored and catalogued every sound for hours, hearing nothing to indicate human activity for at least two. Not that she’d expected a din, Dan’s house had been quiet too – earth was a wonderful insulator. She obeyed her plan like an unquestioning soldier because she knew doubt would only wheedle her back to bed, defeated. The halls were empty, though she suspected cameras were constantly scanning the corridors.
She’d talked to Claire for almost an hour and already felt a special bond with her. If I can just break free, I can…She seized her thoughts. If? When!She charged her psychological batteries for the ordeal that lay ahead, telling herself it would work. It had to work. Every cell in her body demanded freedom. She couldn’t cope with captivity, not
for long, and that knowledge scared her. What if it fails?But she snubbed the thought before she could answer and hope glowed like a fragile ember in her stomach, driving her forward. Break free. Return with police. Free the others.She ticked the steps off on her fingers. She hoped to stay in touch with Claire afterwards. But I’m ahead of myself again.She swallowed and focussed on the moment.
The dark licked oppressively at the fairy-like safety lights, which lit the corridors at baseboard level. They timidly illuminated the way to the toilets – the Guild didn’t want captives sullying their perfect décor with pungent urine if they were unable to hold on until morning. But the glow was eerie and a shiver crept down Jen’s spine. She’d thought of two ways to reach freedom. Esteban had one in his pocket. If she could retrieve her chip selector, she could crack it apart, hand out microchips as if they were candy, and lead an exodus. Or, failing that, the hard way.She wasn’t yet sure she had the stomach to kill a man, let alone gouge the microchip from his body. But if that’s what it takes…She wasn’t worried about her captors’ souls; they were black beyond repair. Of that, she was sure. But neither did she want blood on her hands; she was only considering it because the alternative was life as a sex slave.
Leaping into a portal with a Guild member wasn’t an option due to PortaNet’s safety mechanisms. Every portal scanned for multiple signs of life and would deactivate the instant it detected a positive reading. There was also the weight to consider. Every microchip contained a field for the individual’s weight and portals refused to operate if they sensed more than 30 kilograms above the posted amount. PortaNet deemed anything heavier was cargo. No, if Jen wanted to escape on a Guild member’s microchip, she’d have to rip it from his spine.
She blinked moisture back into her eyes. Given the chance, she knew what she’d choose. All I need is an effective weapon.That was the first task. She scoured her room for anything even mildly weapon-effective but the best she found was a table leg, which she could use baseball-bat style. First, she’d have to smash the table. No. It’d be hard to hold… not good enough.It certainly wasn’t suitable for what Jen had in mind. She needed something better, like a knife. Or better yet, a gun.She doubted her captors would be stupid enough to leave weapons lying around but she intended to check.
An icepick maybe?It was an intriguing thought and far more effective that a hunk of wood. Easier to conceal too.She remembered the bar in the lounge and made a beeline toward it.
She was tiptoeing silently across the carpet when a slurred voice startled her from the dark.
“What are you doing here?” He had a thick English accent, reminding Jen of an Oxford professor who had once guest-lectured at her university.
Shrill panic squeezed adrenaline from her glands and conflagrated a fire in her stomach. The only sensible answer came unbidden to her lips. “I was thirsty.”
“Ah, you must be the new girl they warned me about.” He was tipsy and Jen wondered why he’d been sitting alone in the dark. “I’m Edward Tinlin.”
Jen started sidling past him, unsure whether to classify him dangerous. “I’m Jennifer Cameron.”
“Oh yes, I know,” he said. “Mike Cameron’s granddaughter, they told me.” He pressed a button on the remote he was cradling and a light flickered on, temporarily blinding them. “Oh sorry.” He pressed another button and the light dimmed to an acceptable level. Under other circumstances Jen would have called the duskiness romantic, but now it just felt unsafe. “Ah, there, that’s better.” He gestured casually to the bar and said, “If you’re thirsty… Of course you’re not allowed alcohol, but you’re new so they probably won’t mind.”
Jen noticed that he kept saying ‘they’, as if he was an outsider. Quickly, she forged another plan, one that didn’t involve killing. “Thanks.” Still, she canvassed the area for a weapon while pouring a glass of tonic, just in case her new plan failed. The Guild had stocked the bar well and it included a hefty icepick. She tucked it into her jeans and folded her shirt over the top to keep it hidden.
“Where are you from?” She carefully gauged his reaction while lowering herself into the furthest armchair.
“England, would you believe? I only come here when in serious need of getting drunk.” He beamed happily through an alcohol haze, doing a poor job of concealing a deeper misery. Jen didn’t care what it was or why it was there, but he enlightened her nonetheless. “I arrived home early today.” He chortled and spilled liquor unnoticed onto his crotch. “I thought I’d surprise my wife on our anniversary with flowers and a box of chocolates. But wouldn’t you know it? She surprised me… fucking her girlfriend she was.” He downed the contents of his tumbler with a quick gulp and looked ravenously toward the bar.
“I’m sorry,” Jen said. But she wasn’t sorry at all. She didn’t give a toss what happened to him or his wife. She just wanted to keep him onside.
“Yes, well, shit happens.” He looked lazily at the rainbow of light refracted by his tumbler, lost in thought.
She didn’t want to risk waiting any longer. “You look like a decent person.”
“Really?”
“Uh, yeah.” Is he too drunk to help?Jen wondered, fretting that he may not even comprehend her plea. “There are women here, held against their will.”
“Oh, ‘s that right?”
Jen nodded, trying to snare his attention for long enough to make her proposal. “I’m one of them, Edward.”
Hearing his name jolted him back to the present. “Yes, I know.” He regarded her blearily and without much emotion.
“Do you think that’s right?” Talking to drunks had always frustrated her, which was why she rarely drank anything herself. She despised feeling intoxicated.
Edward shrugged. “I don’t suppose it is, no. But then, you’re either going to be here or in gaol, which would you prefer?”
Neither.“Secret option number three…” She let her voice trail away, sensing the conversation would go nowhere.
“Well,” he spread his palms, “you should’ve thought of that before you went and broke the law.” His eyes drifted away from her face. “You know what my wife always said?”
“What’s that?” Jen felt ill thinking about plunging the icepick into Edward’s temple. She felt like a criminal, just as he’d said. I should’ve thought of that before breaking the law.She wished she could rewrite the law, or have her vengeance upon those who’d written it.
“Never pass a golden opportunity.” He licked his lips, his pinched face looking suddenly wolfish. “How about you take me to your room and we have some fun? If you do that for me, I’ll see what I can do for you.”
A wave of repulsion rippled through Jen’s body. A proposition from an intoxicated English self-righteous snob wasn’t her idea of a good time. But,she thought,itwould be the perfect opportunity to steal his chip. So she nodded and forced a sultry smile.
She set her tonic water on the carpet and stood, offering to help him to his feet. He accepted her hand and pulled himself onto unsteady feet. Three seconds later, he shoved her roughly to the floor and toppled onto her. “On second thought, I can’t make it to your room. How about we do it here?”
He was heavier than he looked and was crushing the air from her lungs. “What? No! Get off me!” She raised her voice shrilly and twisted, trying to worm her arms free and reach the icepick.
He squeezed her right breast hard enough to bruise and used his knees to pin her arms to the floor, leaving his other hand free to undo the latch on her belt. He was kneeling on her injured wrists, making her skin smart and her joints pop.
She lashed out with her legs and rammed a knee into one of his kidneys. But, anesthetised by alcohol, it merely made him angry and he slapped her roughly across the face. The impact whipped her head to one side and split her lip, and the taste of warm blood trickling into her mouth. He’d worked her jeans down by the time she recovered from the shock, hopelessly entangling her legs in the unyielding denim.
“Hello, what’s this
then?” He found the icepick.
“None of your fucking business,” Jen spat back. “Now get off me!”
Edward shook his head and tossed the icepick aside. “No, I don’t think so you stupid cow.” His fingers clutched at her underpants.
“Stop it!” Jen was nearly screaming, the pain in her wrists unbearable.
“You’d better do what the lady says, Edward.”
He stiffened, looking into the gloom with wild grey eyes. “Why? She’s a fucking whore, what does it matter if I drill her?”
“It matters to Esteban, do you want to argue the point with him?”
Edward hung his head and reluctantly released the pressure from Jen’s wrists. She clutched the opportunity to slam a fist squarely into his gonads, taking pleasure in his squeal of pain. He whipped his hands into a protective cup over his testicles, far too late to save them from permanent damage. He didn’t know it, but later it would develop into testicular cancer. “Ah, you fucking bitch!” He slapped her again, harder than the first time and drew his fist back to land a punch when Junior knocked him aside with a kick. Edward was too drunk to do more than lie on the ground and writhe in agony.
Junior used the remote to cast more light on the room, sending another stab of pain into Jen’s retinas. She pulled her jeans up and fastened her belt before gingerly rubbing her wrists.
“That bitch! Did you see what she did?” Edward moaned, incensed.
“Yeah, and you deserved it too,” Junior retorted. “You’re just lucky you’re as drunk as a skunk or it’d hurt even more.”
Jen rolled to her feet, snatched the abandoned icepick, and rose to a defensive crouch. Junior watched her with a mixture of surprise and amusement.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Give me the pick.”
She refused and waved it menacingly, jerking it back and forth in the air with a stabbing action. If she landed it in the right place, she knew she could kill him, which was deterring enough to make Junior cautious. But she knew time was her greatest enemy. “You’ve been watching me?”
