Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script)

by David Collins-Rivera

"Can you emendate that log?" I asked.

  She nodded, still without looking up, still coding.

  "Can you unlock the door remotely?"

  She shook her head in the negative, eyes never rising, fingers swiping and dancing over her input plate, all very Stinna-like.

  "I can probably open it," Dieter offered.

  "Me too," John put in.

  So, getting through the door, and deleting any record of opening it, were covered. Dealing with the IDent sensors in the station proper, however, went way beyond your typical B&E techniques.

  What Stinna had been so busy working on was this very next step in the process. It required two more days of close labor and creative thinking by both specialists, followed by a particularly scary data injection to force the automated corruption-repair system in the backup network to pick up their changes, and see them as valid code that needed propagating. They now had access to the station's personnel records, without actually having or needing official clearance of any kind. John acted like it could have easily failed and been spotted as an attack (Stinna didn't comment), but to me, it all looked as smooth as silk.

  The next day, we put the whole thing to the test, soup-to-nuts.

  SS1 and SS2 put together valid IDent accounts for our Mission Leader and engineer. This didn't include backgrounds or fictitous histories or anything like that -- just their sensor profiles in the database for on-station personnel, both of them marked as being authorized for non-secure locations. That meant they could walk around the main companionways and go into the shops and other public places.

  The movement bong started sounding as soon as the grating at the end of the shaft popped open. It kept ringing the whole time the men were ditching their suits and unlocking the door. Stinna turned it off eventually, though Mavis had to ask twice.

  "Good luck," I said to Chris, who was exiting first, with Dieter right behind. Neither of them wore immediately-identifiable clothing, and we'd made sure their visible gadgets and wearable tech were all generic-looking -- at least to a cursory glance. The IDent hack was the biggest concern for everyone, though, and after a second or two, our ML said he was opening the door.

  After this, they closed their comm connections: such things, originating from inside the station's public spaces, could well be monitored as a matter of course. We were cut off from them then. We still didn't have realtime access to the data streams of Mylag Vernier, so we just waited.

  They'd agreed upon a short, twenty-minute excursion, just to get the lay of the land, and try to pick up on the informal etiquette of how the residents of this particular station behaved while walking around in public. That might sound like an odd concern, but more than one covert agent, Chris assured us, had been tripped up by local customs.

  Whatever the case, they didn't have trouble, nor did they pull anything cute, like shopping for souvenirs. At the twenty-two minute mark, we got a movement bong from the service closet (Stinna didn't turn this one off until she was told to, either). Chris called in a moment later.

  "It went smoothly!" he exclaimed quietly, but with excitement. "No audible alarms, and no guards popping up to indicate any silent ones. Great work, everyone! We're coming back now."

  Getting up the shaft was as simple as re-donning their pressure suits (stuffed unceremoniously into the vent) and clipping on the pull cable attached to the winch. Within just a few short minutes, they were back aboard Shady Lady. Complicated though it all was, actual transit time for the two of them, from closet to ship, was less than five minutes.

  "It's nice down there," Dieter remarked, as soon as his helmet was off.

  "And no one batted an eye," our ML added. "I guess, like with any big project, they have a lot of turnover. New faces don't seem to be unusual."

  "How soon can Dieter and I get our personnel data on file, with our backgrounds and such?" I asked John.

  "A day or so? It's pretty straight forward."

  "And then we just climb down, walk out into the open, and apply to Human Resources as transfers?" I pressed.

  "Yep."

  "And the sooner the better," Chris put in, bringing down a recent update of arrivals to the station that he'd plucked from the backup records. "We already had a couple of fast Corporate Security transit boats dock this past shift. Those will be the planners and coordinators, sent on ahead to get on-station management ready for a total Team takeover." He highlighted an ETA further down. "Large personnel ferries are inbound carrying officers, grunts, and civilian contractors. Once they get here, the real changes will begin."

  "Maybe we shouldn't do anything until we see how that plays out," Mavis commented.

  Chris shook his head.

  "Management shakeups are a good time to penetrate facilities and organizations: there's always confusion about who to verify things with, and what new procedures are being put into place."

  "I'd have to agree with that," I said, and Chris looked at me with, I think, surprised gratitude.

  The captain thought about it a bit, then conceded the point with a nod.

  John brought up a hologram representing a series of inter-connected networks.

  "We're also working on a viral crack to another system," he said, pointing to one highlighted in blue. "Looks like the datapads in Human Resources have dual access with a network used solely by Station Security. I guess it's so any questions or comments HR has about an an employee's criminal background will get appended to StaSec's records as well. Once we're inside this system, we should be able to edit any data written to a person's StaSec profile."

  "Do we need to?" Mavis asked.

  "Well, if the cops get curious about Ejoq or Dieter, for whatever reason, it would be nice to have a heads-up. Maybe we could even do something about it. And anyway, StaSec will have access to other networks. You never know what we might need."

  So, it was more work for the Sensor Specialists, and more waiting around for the rest of us.

  Actually, the next couple of days were productive from a data gathering standpoint, as we were able to deduce a pattern of usage for the maintenance closet below. Between the bonging alarm and some routine service reports pulled from the backup data, we learned that electrical inspections on the panel down there were carried out approximately one hour into each thirdshift. There were also some oddball entrances, when supplies were picked up and dropped off, so there was a random element to be navigated too.

  Things were nearly ready, but we still hadn't determined what Dieter and I could do for cover jobs. Since we were just going in as ourselves, we had our full publicly-acknowledged skill sets to draw from -- but that didn't mean Mylag Vernier had any need of them.

  That opening with Life Support we'd seen before was now closed, but another one, fairly similar in the kind of responsibilities involved, had been posted by Technical Maintenance. Dieter certainly had the qualifications for it, and it specifically listed field work as part of the expected duties. In stationer terms, that meant he'd be working all over Mylag Vernier, seeing to systems such as electrical and data cabling, artificial gravity, lighting in the companionways and other public spaces, and much more. He'd be out and about, and often on his own.

  "I'll apply for that," he said.

  "I can do you one better," John offered with a grin. "I'll mark you as being already hired. The notation will propagate back to the live systems within a couple of hours. You just show up at the right Tech Maintenance office on the designated date, and tell them you're the new hire." He then made the necessary adjustments to the record with a few hand waves.

  "Dieter's background makes that one easy," I complained while I sat there with them. "I don't know what I can bring to the party. I have hands-on Engineering experience, but only a basic cert. I'm a registered steward, as you know -- could that get us somewhere?"

  "Actually," Chris responded, "your gunnery skills might be more valuable. What if we try to get you on to the forensic analysis team deconstructing the events of the fight? Stinna, call up that
interdepartmental memo you showed me...?"

  With a wave, she brought forth a list of names -- managers responsible for investigating what was now being dubbed, The Jaybird Incident. She highlighted a mandate they had put forth the previous day.

  "Oh, hey...I could do that," I muttered, studying the document. "These positions all require certificates I don't have, but this one..." and I tapped the air, making the words wobble a bit, "...my Class-A License covers that. Here's a list of names and qualifications; looks like they're already putting together a group. Hmmm. They have a glaring hole: according to this, none of these people have any Civilian Class experience."

  "And they know it, too," the ML added, pointing to a posted position linked to the file. This opened up onto an urgent system-wide call for a consultant with both civvie gunnery and engineering certifications. It specifically stated that no one currently connected to the experimental team or its support staff was allowed to apply.

  "They want outside eyes on this," I stated.

  "But no one who is not already in 216-11B," Chris emphasized. "It's marked for in-system sourcing only. I'm assuming they don't want to bring in any more strangers. We'll set you up as having been aboard one of the service vessels out at the jump point, doing...whatever. Stewarding works. We then create some records showing you were already on your way to the station, transferring from your stupid job out there, to another stupid one here, when this listing got posted. It would explain why you just so happen to be here exactly when they need you. You'll be able to step right in -- and right on schedule. Heck, using your real name, you'll even get Corporate Contribution Points to your valid record."

  "They'll be doing background checks on any applicants."

  "And that's where having a real identity comes in handy, a valid IDent profile, and a current Cross-Border Pass. We would just need to place an older posting for a steward position here on-station into the backups -- fake of course -- along with other fake records of your work on the ship you're supposedly coming from. John, are we in the comm directory yet?"

  "Yep," SS1 replied, pulling up a massive list of contact numbers. "This is always updating, and includes public contact information for everyone currently in the star system."

  "Good," our ML said, looking at Dieter and me. "We'll create some new numbers, mark them as being for supervisors at your previous jobs, and have any calls for background checks or references redirect to here, where we'll give you glowing marks. Ejoq, this Admin forensic group will need to organize itself quickly, so you might be officially employed before Team even takes hold."

  "If this goes badly," I said quietly, thinking it over, "my rep here in Moneyland will be shot."

  "It always would have been if we were caught," Chris countered. "With this job, you would be playing a role, but you'd also just be you. And, anyway, it's only until Dieter gets what we need."

  "It's acting," Stinna injected a little late, but with enthusiasm. Or boredom.

  "Let's do it," I pronounced after only a little pondering, mostly so I wouldn't seem overly enthused or bored myself.

  "And I can go aboard, if or when either of you need some help," the ML added.

  Mavis was up front in her seat as usual, but followed the conversation closely.

  "No more than two people in the field at a time."

  "I'm not sure half-measures are the best approach here," Chris countered. "Modern interrogation techniques being what they are, if one of us gets caught, we're all caught. It's sink or swim time. I'd like to be out there in case they need an extra pair of hands or eyes."

  "It's a ship-related problem," the captain responded firmly.

  Chris opened his mouth to argue further, but then seemed to change his mind.

  "Okay."

  We all looked at each other -- I think genuinely surprised to have put a plan together at last. Chris then focused on the engineer and me.

  "Looks like you guys are going to work."

  OOOOOOOOOO

  Bluelight Station was a well-armed military highdock circling a red giant of no particular note. It's orbit was fairly close to the jump point -- only a few hours into the gravity well. Just enough to keep ships from popping in, blowing them up, and popping out again: a valid and widely adopted practice that would likely get reevaluated soon enough.

  Team was waiting, as expected, and they had many, many tonnes of warships and warboats standing by. There was even a Linebreaker Class Security Cruiser present -- not Liquidator, but it's sister ship, Wildcard. This vessel had seen picket duty of its own over in 216-11B, before everything had gone to crap, so its command staff was fully aware of the stakes involved. The AIN Fleet Carrier Detachment wasn't entirely outclassed by Wildcard and its posse (I mean, Citystate was an impressive beast, too), but it was certainly outnumbered, and out-gunned.

  I wasn't told where the tiny recovered ship was physically being held, but the fact that an Alliance ship-o-the-line had been dispatched in this manner implied it was actually aboard the carrier at that moment, just like me. If true, Citystate wasn't here to impress a foreign nation with a show of force. It was here to safely return a foreign nation's lost toy.

  As if to emphasize my conclusion, Team immediately scrambled a contingent of guards and technical support staff from Wildcard, and they were admitted to the huge Alliance vessel with both speed and courtesy.

  Because it had an external feed, and was one of the few places I was authorized to go on my own, I sat in the same borrowed meeting room where I'd wasted time with Emaross and the rest. For hours I watched the wall screen. I even took my meals there. Eventually, a cargo boat of some moderate size exited Citystate, under a mixed fighter escort from both nations. The hauler cruised over to Wildcard, stayed for only an hour or so, and then returned -- notably without the escort this time.

  So AIN gave it back -- and right away.

  That didn't track at first.

  Why wouldn't Fleet keep it? Weren't they curious? Weren't they worried?

  Granted, AIN's military commanders might not have had any idea what they'd gotten their hands on, but that seemed remarkably thick-headed -- which was not the way I remembered them!

  Even if that was the case, and this Admiral Dusane was a dunce, they still had my testimony, under oath, of what had happened -- or those things I could freely speak about (completed the previous day while still in transit, thank you very much). Plus they had the early feedback of the four techs who'd gone inside. Those clowns could have been more stealthy with it, maybe, but I've no doubt they reported what they found. All this should have been enough for Fleet to at least take a closer look at what had popped into the universe on their side of the border.

  Yet, here they were, giving the ship back, without hesitation, like it was completely unremarkable.

  Like it hadn't surprised them at all.

  OOOOOOOOOO

  fourteen

  * * *

  "Let me repeat that," said Sydney Bailey, Vice-President In Charge Of Special Assignment 228-1-L, Codenamed The Jaybird Incident, (that was her actual title, by the way). She spoke to us all firmly, using her chin for emphasis, sticking it outward like a jabbing finger whenever she had a point to make, "Interstar sees this as Priority One! We need to know who these people were, where they were from, and why we didn't see them coming from the start. Answers people, and quickly!"

  Interstar was a colony station here in Corporate Territory that had started life as a tiny waypoint between star systems. Through a convoluted series of legal and financial dramas, it became the official headquarters for the Montaro TransStellar Commercial Federation -- essentially, a collective ruling body of all the major corporations allied and active in this area of space.

  In theory, the Montaro Group, as it was also known, was something like a democratic government, with voting partners, and advising partners, and a whole lot of other partners who had to be seen and heard whenever there was a common interest or problem to deal with. In reality, it was an Old Boy's Cl
ub, with just a handful of companies dominating the rest. It had been described to me once as acting like a textbook commercial oligarchy.

  Whatever that was, it didn't soften the deja vú of having nearly the same pep-talk by two different women of roughly equal rank, in two different companies, in two different parts of space, within the exact same mission.

  Background checks! NDA's! Stern warnings about the required secrecy, and consequences for breaking it!

  After sneaking aboard and just walking out into the street like I belonged there (Dieter did the same, moving off in the opposite direction with a simple nod), I checked a local directory and reported to a perky HR coordinator in an overly-bright office on a busy thoroughfare. She took my name and did an IDent scan, then sent a huge Employee Package to my Inbox. It included all the rules, regulations, rights, and responsibilities of being a valuable Montaro employee.

  After this came hours and endless hours of orientation and paperwork, as well as the induced hospitality of temporary housing in a cramped one-room flat, monitored and guarded all shift, every shift. Until all these formalities were fully observed, I was told, I was an unknown element upon a secure facility, and I would be treated as such.

  It all must have gone well, because I was eventually sent to the perky lady again, who, in turn, directed me to report to something called Administrative Security, in a nondescript building down the road a piece.

  As I sat in the briefing room now, listening to my new Big Boss, I found myself wishing for some of Siddel's subtle irony, along with someone to appreciate it. The most I could usually conjure was sarcasm -- and there was no one here now that I knew.