I glanced at Gideon, thinking about the way he treated the bot. It wasn’t a disposable; it was an autonomous construct designed to fly taxis, and was only semi-conscious at best, and Gideon had treated it with casual contempt. Was there really that much of a gap between that bot and an advanced disposable like me? It was enough to give me pause, and think again about telling Gideon my secret.
Inside, we arranged to meet with the lead investigator looking into the bomb blast, Inspector Marcello Tomba, who, naturally, wasn’t available. The disposable desk sergeant invited us to wait for him in a coffee shop designed for this very purpose. We elected to sit and wait, and ordered espressos. We were both tired. My headware was flashing alerts suggesting I eat a good meal sometime very soon. It also offered restaurant suggestions and asked if I would like it to make a booking for later that evening.
I had hardly touched my espresso when I received a much more urgent bulletin from my headware, sent from my condo’s HouseMind.
Someone had broken into my place, trashed it, and then torched it.
HouseMind had already contacted Emergency Services and fire crews were on their way, and estimated to arrive in a minute or so.
I got HouseMind to store as much of the evidence regarding the intruder as it could, and said I’d be right there.
Stunned, I told Gideon what happened as we left. He looked surprised but not shocked, like he had been expecting something like this. “Your HouseMind didn’t alert you that someone was breaking in?” he said.
I had thought the same thing. The slightest sign of intruder activity when I wasn’t there would normally alert HouseMind and start it examining the intruder, taking whatever information it could get, burrowing into headware, capturing high-res imagery, and locking down every door and window in the place, not just the front and back doors. It was supposed to do everything short of impaling the heads of intruders on a pike by the front gate. Back in touch with HouseMind, I learned that the firefighters had arrived. “The system only realized there was an intruder when the fire started,” I said to Gideon.
We were back up on the roof of Police HQ trying to hail a cab. “The guy breaks in and HouseMind doesn’t notice?” Gideon said in disbelief.
I knew what he was thinking. Not just any bad guy. Someone capable of spoofing HouseMind, which required very high-level commercial quantum crypto. HouseMind used a system rated at ten to the fifth qubits, as strong as civilians could buy.
A cab pulled up and helped us in. It checked my headware for the destination and we shot off.
By the time we got there, the fire was largely under control. My place, though, was a loss.
Nobody had seen the intruder leave and HouseMind’s records were incomplete.
It was almost one in the morning.
Smoke stung my eyes. The last of the fire cast flickering orange light on our faces. Someone put a warm blanket around me, to keep out the cold wind from the sea. Gideon got me a cup of hot tea, which I sipped but didn’t taste.
Cop-hovs appeared, sirens howling, lights spinning. People questioned me. I rattled off what I knew without the awareness that I was talking. When asked why someone might have broken into my house and torched it, I said I had no idea, but that it was probably a bunch of middle-level offenders with decent hacking gear to get through HouseMind’s crypto. I suggested that they probably thought I was one of those retired people who kept all their money in their house. The cops made a note of this, nodded tiredly and turned to Gideon, intending to ask him what he might know.
I suddenly had a flash of panic. I couldn’t let Gideon tell the cops what we’d been doing.
I said, interrupting, “Look, do you mind? My house is burning down. Can’t we talk about this in the morning?”
The cops, junior uniforms, saw the look of trauma on my face, and saw Gideon trying to comfort me, and they believed I was upset about my house. “We’ll send someone around tomorrow. Where can we find you?”
“She’ll be at my place,” said Gideon. He provided details.
I stared at him, horrified. He looked at me with a “don’t give me any grief about this, McGee” face. I sensed defeat in the air.
The cops, satisfied for the moment, finished up their study of the scene and left.
Gideon and I stood together, watching the firefighters doing their best to save my house.
My house. I kept thinking about all my books.
I cried and I cried and I cried…
CHAPTER 6
Gideon offered to put me up for the night. It was late and I felt like a wreck; shivery, cold, and numb. I was getting headware psychostat advisories telling me I needed sleep and needed it now. Nonetheless, I refused, stubborn as ever. It was typical of me. I never wanted people to help me with things, particularly at the times when I needed help the most. The thought of imposing on Gideon’s hospitality, in my present state, was mortifying.
Gideon, however, refused to listen to reason. “Don’t give me that crap, McGee,” he said. “You’re staying at my place and that’s all there is to it.” He didn’t go on, as I had heard from him in the past, about how a woman would be thrilled to stay at his fabulous “bachelor pad”. I had never actually seen his condo, partly for that very reason: an abstract sort of revulsion.
So he took me back to his place, and I went along, grumbling and complaining. “If you so much as lay a finger on me Smith, I’ll deck you so hard your ears will spin!” I said.
Gideon had the grace to laugh. “I’m much too old for anything like that, McGee!”
When we got there, six condos along from my place, I saw immediately that his garden was much like mine. He did have roses, but also dahlias, lavender, huge sunflowers, even some banksia and kangaroo paw, which were a welcome surprise. “I didn’t know you were such a gardener,” I said as he and his own HouseMind conversed and the door opened.
“I just dabble a little. I like the idea of influencing things, watching how they develop.”
Inside, I was immediately taken aback. As the lights came on, I saw his walls were full of plant and wildlife paintings: birds, flowers, even a selection of fish, flashing under their halogen spots.
“Smith!” I said. “These paintings look like originals!” I moved closer to check. They were all signed by one G. Smith. “You did all these?” I momentarily forgot my aching fatigue.
“You needn’t sound quite so shocked, McGee.” He was listening to his HouseMind filling him in on messages and developments, and muttering responses as he got the kitchen fabricator to whip up some hot chocolate.
His place was — I was surprised to find myself thinking this — quite nice. It was tidy and smelled clean and he had quite a few books of his own, as well as shelves of music composed mostly of ancient jazz from Earth. Out on his own balcony he had his artist’s studio set up, where he was apparently at work on a new painting.
“Pelicans,” he said gesturing to the balcony. “I love the pelicans here. Have you seen the way they glide, with the tips of their wings just touching the water?”
I had been aware that Serendipity did have a colony of white and black pelicans, and that zoological authorities here were trying to breed them to the point that they might ship some out to other places. But I had never particularly noticed them, and certainly never suspected Gideon’s interest in them might extend beyond his “holds more food than his belly can” routine. I had seen pelicans curled up and sleeping on jetty piles, and I had seen them in the waterside parks, harassing people trying to enjoy their lunch, but they were just the equivalent of background noise; big annoying birds trying to scab food off me. But to Gideon there was something majestic and poetic about them. This sensitive side of Gideon — to say nothing of his view of pelicans — would definitely take some getting used to.
Elsewhere in his home there were pedestals featuring ancient o
bjects from Earth, complete with authenticity documents, and each lit with its own discreet spotlight. A Singer-brand pedal-driven sewing machine. He informed me it still worked, but he would prefer not to demonstrate, and I saw he had a modest collection of coins from the Roman Empire including denarii dating from the time of Julius Caesar. You could just barely still see part of the inscription, DICT PERPETUO: dictator in perpetuity. Mad bastard. There were only three of these coins, with a label on the display that read: “45 BC.” I had a difficult time looking away from them, which surprised me. They were alluring in a way that the nineteenth century sewing machine could never be. They possessed a glamour of time. Even before people left Earth for the stars, these coins were ancient to the point of being mythic; symbols of a different world. It was almost as though you could be transported back to those days just by touching one of them.
Gideon appeared next to me bearing two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. “I made yours extra strong, if that’s all right. Thought you might need it.”
I took it, and flashed a weak smile at him. “These coins are exquisite! Where did you get them?”
“Oh,” he said, between sips of his chocolate, “here and there, in the course of my travels. I have a couple of people who look out for certain things they think I might be interested in.”
Again, I looked at Gideon, as if seeing him for the first time. I saw that he too was drawn to the Roman coins.
We sipped quietly. I became aware that he had some light jazz going in the background, something very soft and mellow.
“You were born too late,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said, looking thoughtful. “I’ve often thought I was born too early.”
That was an odd remark. I was all set to ask him to expand on that comment when he glanced at me and got up. It was the first time all evening I’d heard him groan as he moved.
“Smith, are you quite all right?”
He took my cup and went over to the kitchen. “More chocolate?” It was typical of him that he’d evade questions about his health.
I nodded. “With a dash of brandy if you’ve got it.”
“Good idea,” he said from the kitchen.
I sat listening to the light jazz playing over the HouseMind speakers, trying not to think about tonight.
“Good God, McGee!” Gideon said, coming back with the drinks, looking more like his familiar roguish self. “You look worse than the south end of a north-bound dog.”
I was, as ever, charmed by the repartee. “Feeling pretty decrepit, too. You, on the other hand,” I said, glancing up at him, “you’re looking almost — what is that expression — smug? Is that it?” I took my hot chocolate. I could smell the brandy already.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.”
Glad for the distraction from the world outside, I played along. “Ah, the Man of Mystery bit.”
“It’s a good bit,” he said, waggling his bushy eyebrows.
“Come on, then. Spit it out. I’m too old and too bloody tired for suspense.”
“You’re not old, McGee. You just feel old.”
I glared at him. “All right. I’ll bite. What’s got you all smug and repulsive?”
He sighed a little. “Well, I was going to tell you over dinner, but we never quite got the chance. It seems I’ve come into a bit of money.” He said this very softly, and in a suggestive tone. Gideon never spoke about money, if he could help it. I knew that his “firm” had given him an excellent retirement/severance deal, and that he had been assiduously developing portfolios as quickly as he could ever since. Also, I knew he was looking for a new career. Retirement offered far too much free time, he said. I understood that only too well. It’s why I spent such a lot of my time reviewing old case files, looking at cases I’d never solved. Sometimes I had a thought or two about these old puzzles, and I sent messages to my old colleagues, the ones who still remembered me, offering some ideas on things they might try. So far, in the past four years, this had led to a number of arrests, and two successful trials with satisfying sentences.
“Mysterious unknown aunt leave you a nice bequest?”
Gideon grinned, his blue eyes gleaming. “Not quite. Last year, I acquired an interest in a near-mint bright yellow 1967 Volkswagen Beetle, still operational and with the original engine, for a modest sum. This afternoon an auction at Sotheby’s brought in—” He almost divulged the amount, he was so pleased. “Well, I made my money back nineteen times over, and then some. Turns out there’re people out there building collections of Beetles, the mad bastards!”
This kind of thing never failed to amaze me. “Old cars, Smith?”
“Very collectible old cars, McGee.” Again, he waggled the eyebrows. “I plan to retire quite a bit of my ship debt. Almost half!” It was Gideon’s pride and joy, a private starship, the SV Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time. He spent a lot of his spare time restoring it to its former glory, doing much of the work himself.
“You’ll never pay off that bloody pleasure barge, and you know it!”
He looked amused. “Another sweet deal like those Beetles might come along. You never know.”
“Old cars?” I could see the ancient appeal of some things, but not others.
“You’re surprised there are all these collectors out there?”
I remembered something. “Do you still have that old doubloon?” I hadn’t seen it in a while.
He grinned and pulled out a weathered, not-quite-circular gold coin. It shone under the halogen mood spots. Gideon made it walk over his knuckles, back and forth, as he smiled. “I wouldn’t go anywhere without it, McGee. It’s my lucky charm.”
“And how old is it again?” I knew perfectly well how old it was, but I also knew that he liked to talk about it.
“Seventeenth century. 1622 to be exact. More than likely first hammered into shape in Santa Fe de Bogotá, and carried aboard the Atocha at the time she foundered off the Florida Keys.” Gideon palmed the coin, and suddenly reached across the table, where he attempted to retrieve the coin from my right ear. Attempted because as he lunged across, I jumped, startled. Gideon was startled too. He froze, looking at me, the smile locked on his face. He looked briefly like a dead fish with killer eyebrows.
“Are you alright, McGee?”
I got my headware biostat to bring down my heart rate and blood pressure.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“The last time you told me that you very nearly disgorged your guts all over my patent leather loafers. Would you like some water?”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
A few minutes later I was feeling better, but very tired. The hot chocolate and brandy was catching up with me. I felt more relaxed. Images of my condo were still before my eyes, but they were less vivid, less horrifying. My headware psychostat could ease things a little in my mind, bringing down my brain activity to a point where sleep might be possible.
“You can have my bed, of course. I’ll hit the sofa here,” Gideon said as though reading my mind.
I moved to protest, but he interrupted me, looking annoyed. “No arguments McGee. The bed is clean and freshly made. I can assure you that any bed-bugs have long since vacated the premises. You look like you’re ready to topple over, at any rate.”
I did indeed feel like something huge and relentless had hit me and kept on going. Sitting on the couch, feeling drowsy, my sleepy mind was still working over details about tonight.
Gideon took my mug before I spilled the dregs on his expensive rugs. “Try not to think about all this crap,” he said. “Plenty of time for that in the morning.”
I was slumping further into the folds of the leather couch. The business tonight wouldn’t leave me alone. “There’s got to be a connection, Smith.”
“Connection?”
“Between Fallow and the c
ontainer, and my house. God, why my house?” I was nearly asleep now saying this.
“We’ll deal with it in the morning.” Gideon said trying to get me off the couch.
“Mmmm, that’s right…”
“Go to sleep, McGee. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
It was the last thing I remember Gideon saying.
I woke in the morning to the smells of coffee, bacon and eggs, toast and orange marmalade. Gideon had made me breakfast, from non-fabbed foodstuffs, and the big git was sitting there on the side of the bed, wafting the aromas at me until I surfaced. He had a mischievous smile going that made him look somehow boyish despite his years.
“Smith, you old bastard!” I said, grinning. My headware reported that it was almost lunch-time.
“And you look like something even a seagull would refuse, McGee. Good morning!”
“It’s too early for banter,” I said, squinting at him through bleary early morning eyes.
“It’s never too early for banter.”
“Remind me to wake you up at five in the morning sometime and test the idea,” I muttered, pulling myself upright.
“Your breakfast’s going cold. Eat up,” said Gideon.
I couldn’t remember anybody letting me have breakfast in bed since I was a kid, and Mum brought me breakfast when I was sick. “Your bed smells funny.”
“Funny ha-ha, or funny peculiar?”
“Funny different. Like when you go to a hotel or something. Only no chocolate on the pillows here. Very slack.” I dug into my breakfast. It was wonderful. I hadn’t had decent bacon in years.
“I’ll fire the maid and get someone with a passion for excellence.”
“You do that. My God, this marmalade!”
“It’s imported.”
“This is real fruit, isn’t it?”
“McGee…” Gideon said, his tone changing.
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