by Brian Savage
This was much more serious than he had first assumed. There were only twenty-five Corporate Officials, each voted in by a majority of the citizens from each Corporate State. After the civil war, the state lines had been redrawn, new states created from old, until there were twenty-five of the original fifty. These twenty-five states voted for one each to represent them on the Board of the CSA. This board advised the President and CEO, and oversaw all decisions made by the most powerful man in the CSA.
Jack continued the video. Johanes Frond continued tapping his foot to the unheard music. Music Jack knew was probably an audio feed supplied by the man’s implant. A few more taps, and a very audible voice, the one that belonged to the aerial’s AI, spoke, breaking the silence: “Accident ahead, ten-minute delay expected.”
Within a space of no more than fifteen seconds, the video feed jerked, and Johanes’s face was launched forward, impacting the camera. That was probably when the aerial impacted the ground, Jack thought as he continued watching. The blow turned the camera straight down, which showed a distorted image of the aerial display, which would normally show a passenger exactly where they were in relation to their destination.
Jack paused the video. There was something else on the display. It looked almost like a logo of some sort, white with black details. He backed the video up to right as this logo came into view, then hit play. He could see letters beneath the logo, scrolling through, but the image was too distorted to make them out. Then nothing. The screen went completely white for a single frame before the video ended. Jack relaxed his eyes, closed them, then rubbed them with his fingers. He was focusing too hard on what was obviously a malfunctioning navigational system.
Maybe it was just a coincidence, he thought, not truly believing that coincidences existed. He had seen that logo somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where, couldn’t place it in the context of a solid memory. He took a deep breath, willing his taut body to relax.
“What did he know?” he asked himself. He knew that Johanes Frond was dead, killed in an aerial that malfunctioned and just happened to crash into a guard post in the Second Ring. The other possibility was Johanes had been targeted because of his position and the aerial had been hacked, and purposefully crashed. Not just crashed, but crashed into an entrance to the Third Ring, which at any time could be admitting high-ranking Corporate personnel, or at the very least, agents. No wonder they thought this could be linked to socialists. Something was off, though. Something Jack couldn’t put his finger on. He felt it in his bones more than knew it.
He pulled up the video file and paused it at the moment the navigational display was shown in the video.
The glass door to the office slid open. Jack didn’t even bother to turn around. “Good, you’re here. We have a new assignment,” he said, knowing that the only person who could enter the office besides himself was Brant.
“Sorry I’m late; some socialist prick flew an aerial into Gate One and the rest went on lockdown.” Brant removed his coat and threw it over his desk, onto the back of his chair. He looked up at Jack, still standing in front of his own desk, bent forward studying the picture. “Dude…are you okay?”
“Take a look at this and tell me what you think,” Jack said as he “threw” the image from his desk display onto the white glass windows of their office. The image immediately became larger, hanging like a framed piece of art on the glass.
Jack continued studying the image. He could see that Brant was still eyeing him, and he was starting to get annoyed. “What the hell are you looking at?” he asked, exasperated.
Brant took a step toward him. “Dude. You are covered in blood.”
Jack looked down at himself, just now noticing the dark stickiness that coated his jacket, and the collar of his shirt.
“Oh,” he managed, turning his head to see if any blood had gone down his back as well. That would explain the odd looks he’d received walking in. He slipped off his jacket and turned it inside out. Unbuttoning his shirt, he waved a hand at Brant. “I’m fine. This isn’t mine.”
“Anyone I knew?” Brant asked, half-jokingly.
“Some guard at Gate One. Got his arm blown off by a malfunctioning aerial.”
Brant’s face registered a combination of surprise and disbelief. “You were there?”
“Yeah. If you were on time, you might have been, too.” Jack crumbled up his shirt and dropped it on the jacket he had just set on the floor, noticing the dark circles of soaked-in blood that covered both his knees.
Great.
Jack made his way around his desk, pulling a clean set of jeans and a plain grey t-shirt from the bottom drawer. He undid his belt and slid his holster from it, setting it on the desk. He removed his wallet and set it precariously balanced on his weapon.
“Take a look at that image. It was what was on the navigation display inside the aerial, right before it crashed,” Jack said, bending down to untie his shoes.
“Didn’t the dude notice it? It’s obviously not a map,” Brant said, turning toward the glass wall of their office.
“He was reading and listening to a music feed.”
“Do we know who he is?” Brant asked, still studying the blurry image.
“One of the Corporate Officials.”
“Shit, which one?” He turned back to Jack, who was fastening his holster back onto his belt.
“Mid-Western Alliance. Not the biggest one, but it controls most of the agricultural production in the country,” Jack answered.
“Do you think it was socialists?” Brant asked.
“I'm not sure. A guy in his position could be a target for literally anyone. A socialist cell is just one of many.”
“Well, what the hell was he doing in the Second Ring of City Prime with no security detail, in what seems to be a taxi, not even a private aerial? That doesn’t make sense,” Brant said, not really as a question to Jack but as a way to state the obvious flaws in the reality that presented itself.
“Maybe it was standard procedure. Travel as discreetly as possible, with little notice or entourage to try and keep something like this from happening.” Jack shrugged and picked up the blood-stained clothes from the pile on the floor. “We’ll start close and work out. Let’s check with admin and see if Mr. Frond had any business in the capital today. By then, forensics should have had plenty of time to gather up what was left of the aerial. Call Mr. Frond’s office at the MWA capital building and see if there was anything of note on Mr. Frond’s schedule for today.”
“Right,” Brant said, moving around his desk, jacket swirling at the suddenness of his movements. He pulled the chair out and sat down in one motion. “Voice Call. Mid-Western Alliance, Office of Johanes Frond.”
Jack grabbed a draw-string duffle bag from the floor by his desk, his go-to bag for to and from the office. He shoved the soiled clothes into an inner-bag waterproof pouch. He pulled the one string, cinching the bag shut and dropping it back to the floor.
“Yes, I know he isn’t in right now. I was wondering if I could speak to his assistant?” Brant sat at his desk, drumming his fingers. “Whoever is in charge of managing Mr. Frond’s schedule then.” Brant shook his head.
“My name is Agent Brantley Trapp. I work for the Detection, Investigation, and Elimination Division of the Corporation. My Corporate ID is T2434747. Yes. Thank you so much.” The “thank you” was delivered just sarcastically enough to seem genuine to someone who didn’t know Brant well. Jack knew Brant; that “thank you” wasn’t meant to be genuine.
“Hello, who am I speaking to? Miss Truance? Hi, my name is Agent Trapp. I was wondering if Mr. Frond had anything on his calendar for today?” Brant waited a second for the glorified secretary to find the requested information. “He doesn’t? Do you happen to know where he is?” Brant sat straight up in his chair.
“He is in the office right now?” Brant struggled to keep the surprise from registering in his voice. Jack walked around to Brant’s desk and pointed at his ear. Brant nodded.
“Speaker,” he said under his breath. “Hello?” a young woman’s voice leapt from the speaker concealed above their head.
“Yes, sorry, could I, by chance, speak to Mr. Frond?” Brant asked, managing to calm his voice.
“He is a very busy man,” the secretary said, getting frustrated at the agent, who seemingly only spoke in questions.
“I understand that, Miss Truance—lovely name, by the way—but could you find it in your heart to ask for me? Besides, I am sure there is some devilishly good-looking man waiting on the other line to hear your sweet voice.” Brant smirked at Jack. Jack rolled his eyes and let out an audible sigh.
Miss Truance was somewhat taken aback. Either she wasn’t used to compliments or was trying to decide if she would get in trouble for admitting an unscheduled call to her boss’s office.
“Wait, please, I will see if he is busy,” Miss Truance finally said, breaking the silence.
“Thank you so much, darling,” Brant said, smiling.
“You are going to get a sexual harassment claim on your ass,” Jack said, hiding his amusement with distaste. Brant winked in reply.
“Agent Trapp, Mr. Frond will speak to you now.” There was a soft tone, then a man’s voice could be heard on the speaker.
“Yes, what is it?” the man said, clearly flustered.
“Hello, my name is Agent—”
The man interrupted Brant mid-sentence. “Yes, my assistant told me who you are, now what do you want?”
Brant pursed his lips. “Well, sir, you are Mr. Johanes Frond?” Brant asked.
“Yes, yes, so?” came the gruff reply.
“Well, sir, did you have business in City Prime today?”
“No, I have been in a Corporate negotiations meeting with the Southern States on price reductions all day. In fact, that’s the exact meeting I need to get back to, so if you would excuse me…”
It was Jack’s turn to interrupt.
“Sir, what if I told you we have video of you, in an aerial, within the Second Ring of the city, not three hours ago?” Jack leaned down, both hands on the desk.
“Who is this? What video?” Johanes was mad now. “I don’t know what you are talking about, and if this is your idea of a joke, then thanks for wasting my time. I’ve been in this meeting with every Corporate Official from the Southern States. You can call and ask them, but if you do, wait till after four, because that’s when our meeting is supposed to end.” The soft tone punctuated the last word of Johanes Frond’s sentence, before silence took over.
Jack stood up. He slid one hand into the pocket of his jeans and ruffled his hair with the other quizzically.
“What the fuck is going on?” Brant said, reclining back in his chair and looking at Jack.
“I don’t know.”
Jack walked over and grabbed his cinched duffle from by his desk. “Print,” he said aloud, waiting for the glossy eight-inch by eleven-inch picture to slide from a small slot on the top of his desk. He picked it up and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Brant asked as Jack pulled his spare jacket from the hook by the door.
“I need to think. Check with forensics and see if they have anything.” Jack turned and disappeared out the office door as it was still sliding open.
“Oh sure, I’ll check forensics, no problem. Have a good night! Oh, you too, buddy! See ya tomorrow,” Brant said to himself in an exaggerated Jack voice.
He shook his head and called forensics.
“What’s up, Cindy? Long time, no talk! Want to grab dinner later? No? Okay, then do you have the info on the aerial crash today? Cool, send it to me, sweetheart.”
Brant leaned all the way back in his chair, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He had a bad feeling about this case. A feeling like the one he’d gotten the night his dad tore out his implant. Maybe he needed to go somewhere and think, too. He questioned whether he could handle the partner with ice in his veins for much longer. He wanted more feedback but felt like a pussy if he asked. He took another deep breath.
The message tone sounded, breaking his silent reflection. He looked at the bouncing message icon with a red one in the corner.
“Oh well,” he said in defiance to the feeling of meaninglessness he felt as he opened up the new message.
Chapter 5
It was late. Jack blinked away the numbers suspended on the chess board before him: a fading 09:00 p.m. Hand-carved wooden pieces were placed seemingly at random to anyone who might watch, but not to the two men who moved each piece. This was Jack’s favorite place in the entire city, a specialty shop outside of the rings. A shop where you could buy cigars, hand rolled in the back room, books, though many didn’t even know what books were, and find someone to play chess against.
The owner, Jack’s current opponent, was an aged man in his mid-seventies. Clean-cut white hair surrounded a bald head. Heavily rimmed rectangular glasses sat pushed up above dark green eyes and bushy eyebrows that matched his white hair.
The man held a wrinkled hand across his mouth, deep in thought, staring at the chessboard, the other hand holding the deep bowl of a gnarled wooden pipe. Jack waited patiently, trying to divine his opponent’s next move, as he listened to the crackle of the fireplace. The walls were lined with books; leather high-back chairs scattered throughout stood next to stand ashtrays, and atop old, colored carpets impeccably maintained.
The shop itself stood in a standalone two-story building that had once completely been a home. It was one of the last of its kind in a city of modern cement and glass buildings. The uniqueness of its design, the old man would say, was one of the reasons he was still in business. That, and his self-proclaimed frugality.
Thunder gently rattled the windows every now and again, interrupting the silence. Jack picked up a cigar from the ashtray beside the marble board and puffed a taste into his mouth, blowing a smoke ring out above his head. The owner of the store before him wore a sweater of red, “Coca-Cola” woven in a darker red across the chest. The sweater had only the one logo, making it extremely expensive, or old. Jack guessed the latter.
“Ah,” the man said, picking up a dark cherry-red queen and sliding it forward to queen’s fourth. “Check.” He lifted the pipe to his lips, puffing gently.
Jack pursed his lips. His turn to stare intently at the board.
“Did you hear about the attack on the gate this afternoon?” he asked the old man.
“No, don’t pay too much attention to that sort of news,” he replied, coughing dryly.
“Well, an aerial crashed. It had one man on board. We have a video of him in the aerial, only we called his office and he answered.” Jack looked up to gauge the reaction on the old man’s face.
The old man didn’t look up from the board. He silently puffed on his cigar, knowing that Jack had more to tell.
“How can he be in an aerial that malfunctions and crashes, and in his office thousands of miles away?” Jack asked, confused. He lifted a small white pawn and slid it behind a dark one. He removed the dark pawn he had just taken and placed it down on the table. “En passant,” he said, puffing his cigar.
“It seems you have a problem with one of your premises,” the old man said, as he took the previously moved pawn with his queen. “Check.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked, placing his cigar in one of the notches on the ashtray.
“I mean, if two probabilities exist, then obviously one is not true,” he said, with extra emphasis on the word “mean.” “Two truths cannot exist that contradict one another. The limit lies in your understanding of reality.”
“But we saw the video feed with him in the aerial.”
“Right,” the man said.
“I watched the aerial crash and explode into a million different pieces, and we called and spoke to the man who was supposed to have been in that same aerial. Not just the man, but his secretary.”
“Okay,” the old man said, looking up from the chess board.
“Not to m
ention that he said he was in a meeting with the Officials of ALL the Southern States for the entire day.” Jack felt like he was ranting now, his slightly raised voice breaking the peace that had once permeated the small shop.
“Do you think the secretary was lying, and the man you spoke to was an imposter?” the old man queried.
Jack thought back to the conversation. Both the secretary and Johanes had seemed genuinely surprised at a call from D.I.E., and the anger and frustration about his interrupted day had seemed like a normal reaction. “No. I don’t think so; they both sounded genuine.”
“Well, then, perhaps the man in the aerial was not the man you believe him to be.” The old man blew a smoke ring toward the small fire place to his right. “It’s your move.”
The fire crackled and popped. Jack turned his attention back to the board. The computer had never misidentified someone before. Jack had even pulled up pictures of the Official at public events and found them to be identical in every way. He struggled with the idea that the computer could be wrong. He moved a knight two spaces forward and one to the right, blocking the offending queen again. He knew playing defensively was liable to lose him the game, but he had a lot on his mind.
As if reading his mind, the old men said, “Your heart isn’t in this game.” Setting his pipe into the holder by the ashtray and moved a rook into place. “Checkmate.”
Jack sighed.
“Go on, then,” the old man said, standing from his chair and turning to add a log to the fire. “I’m obviously not going to get a challenging game with your mind on other things. What is troubling you so much about this particular case?”
“We spoke to a man who was Johanes Frond, or believed himself to be. We also watched the same man die not five minutes before the call.”
“Like I said before, the man in the aerial must not have been who you think he is, or the man and woman on the phone were both very practiced liars.” The old man replaced a brass and iron fire poker back on the rack near the brick fireplace and turned back toward his chair. Jack stared at the marked absence of an implant below the man’s right ear. No matter how much time he spent here with the old man, he was still surprised by the uninterrupted wrinkled skin.
