Replicate: Beneath the Steel City: Book 2

by Ben Lovejoy

  “Hope it doesn’t turn out to be empty,” she said with a grin, as I placed the envelope into a scanner. “We’ve gone to rather a lot of trouble to get hold of it.”

  “Someone has also gone to a lot of trouble to get the message to us,” I replied. “Somehow I don’t think this is an elaborate practical joke.”

  The portable scanner I’d used in the bank had confirmed it clear of tracking bugs and explosives, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I set the scanner to check for noxious substances. Ten seconds later, it declared it clean.

  “Would you like to do the honours?” I asked.

  “Am I your final line of defence?” she asked. “An expendable person, in case the technology has let you down?”

  I opened the envelope myself.

  Inside was an unlabelled digital key and a pair of latex gloves. I examined the fingertips of the gloves: as I suspected, there were fingerprints on both index fingers. I held them close to one of the cameras in the skycar cabin and examined a magnified view on one of the display screens.

  “High-quality work,” I told Philippa. “These fingerprints would fool anything out there.”

  “The voice of experience, I assume.”

  “I have a certain amount of knowledge of the field,” I said.

  I slipped the digital key into a standalone computer with no network connections. The computer automatically scanned it for malware and declared it clear. It contained a single file, with login credentials for a Gmail account.

  I swivelled a computer terminal toward me, connected to Gmail and entered the credentials. I was prompted to verify by fingerprint. I slipped on the right glove and presented my index finger to the reader on the terminal. The mail window opened, and there was a single message waiting for me, entitled ‘Contract details.’

  Philippa was looking over my shoulder.

  “Not very imaginative when it comes to labels, your friends,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  I opened the email. It contained just two sentences.

  ‘Prepare to arrange for the release of a prisoner from the penal colony on the Moon. Check email tomorrow for the name and serial number of the prisoner concerned.’

  I sat back.

  “That’s quite the assignment,” I observed.

  The facility housed only the most dangerous of criminals, and there had never been a successful escape.

  “Interesting omission from the message,” said Philippa.

  I nodded. “Details of the prisoner.”

  “Not that,” she said. “It didn’t ask whether you could do it; it just takes it as read that you can.”

  “True.”

  “And can you?” she asked. “Or can we, I guess I should ask now?”

  “In principle,” I said. “The key allows me to generate logins for any government system, which should include the penal system. But there’s an obvious complication here.”

  “That nobody ever gets released.”

  “Exactly.”

  The penal colony was created for those who would, in more barbaric days, have been executed. Those who were considered utterly beyond rehabilitation. All those sent to the colony had the same sentence: life without the possibility of parole.

  “Which means there may not even be a mechanism for creating release orders,” she said, “and if there were, all involved would be asking a lot of questions before acting on them.”

  “Right again. Plus the small moral issue that there’s not going to be anyone there we’d ever want to see freed.”

  “So we do nothing,” she said.

  “That would seem the logical course.”

  “There’s not even any point checking the email account tomorrow to find out who it is.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Unless we were, you know, curious.”

  “Unless that.”

  Chapter 16

  I’d opted for the Skycar as the meeting point last time because it had felt like neutral territory, but since Philippa and I were now partners – in crime if not in life – I felt it was silly not to meet at my apartment. I’d keyed the entry system to recognise the transponder code in Philippa’s Skycar, so a few minutes after touching down precisely as instructed, she walked into my apartment.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  Saira needed no prompting and brought it to her.

  “Thanks, Saira,” said Philippa. “Good to see you again.”

  “And you, Philippa.”

  I gestured for Philippa to join me at the computer desk.

  “You haven’t opened the email yet?” she asked.

  “I was waiting for you. Partners, and all that.”

  “Knowing your curiosity and impatience, I’m honoured,” she said.

  “Well,” I admitted, “there was one other factor.”

  “Namely?”

  “I didn’t want to look too keen to our would-be employer. I’m sure he/she/they will be alerted when we open the message. I wanted to leave them stewing for a while.”

  Philippa sipped her coffee.

  “You think we’ve demonstrated enough restraint now?” she asked.

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “So.”

  “So.”

  I connected to the account and again verified with the fingerprint glove.

  ‘Contract details (2 of 2).’

  I clicked to open it. It was exactly one line line.

  ‘Prisoner #Luna378 Simpson, Emma.’

  Philippa and I looked at each other in surprise.

  “A woman,” she said.

  “I didn’t know there were any women there.”

  “Nor me.”

  “Ever heard of her?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  That wasn’t necessarily odd – there were over 400 prisoners there from around the world – but you’d expect a female Luna prisoner to have been sufficiently unusual to have made the headlines.

  “Computer, Luna prisoner 378, Emma Simpson – details of conviction.”

  “No information on that individual is available.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Very,” agreed Philippa.

  I hesitated. The circuit board that would allow me to generate an access code for the WorldPol database was my most closely-guarded secret. I’d already told Philippa of its existence. Did I want to take the further step of revealing its location?

  I reached a rapid decision. All or nothing. I trusted her or I didn’t.

  I walked across to a featureless section of the wall and made a complex gesture.

  “Incoming message,” said the computer.

  It was nothing of the kind – rather it was the prompt for the correct response that would slide a section of the wall aside.

  “File it under pending messages for the moment,” I said.

  A 50x50cm section of the wall opened. Behind it was a blank piece of perspex. I placed my palm on the perspex and that too slid aside to reveal a metal plate with a keypad. I selected the correct finger to tap in the 16-digit code, pausing for the correct amount of time between the two sets of eight digits. A metal handle eased silently out from the metal plate. Grasping it in the correct way with my left hand, I pulled it toward me. I then reached in and pulled out the circuit board.

  I returned to the computer, opened a slot and inserted the circuit board.

  “Your magic key,” observed Philippa.

  “The very same,” I confirmed.

  I connected to WorldPol and generated an access code. A few seconds later, we were in.

  Having a key that permits access to any government database is one thing; knowing how to use that database is another. I’d accessed WorldPol exactly once, and that was to double-check whether a particular alias of mine was listed. I suspected this search might be a little more complicated.

  I entered Simpson’s name and serial number and hit Search.

  �
��Entry is Classified. Clearance level Alpha 4 or above required.’

  The key used a call-and-response approach, so should automatically generate the appropriate access code in response to any request for same by any government computer. There was just one small problem here: the WorldPol computer wasn’t requesting a code, and wasn’t giving any clue as to what response it required.

  I nodded my approval: that was exactly how I’d design the system. Don’t prompt, just ensure that those who are supposed to have access know what to do.

  I was not supposed to have access, and had no idea what to do.

  Fortunately, I do know computer systems. I know that even the most secure of them have holes, and it’s often the simple things people don’t think about when designing security. Especially bureaucracies. I had a good notion of how to solve the problem, and wondered whether Philippa had come up with the same one.

  “I have one idea,” I said. “You?”

  “Two,” she said.

  “That’s just showing off. So, between us we have either two or three ideas.”

  “Two,” she said, confidently. “One of my ideas is so obvious even you must have thought of it.”

  “Hmph.”

  “So, shall we see whether it works?”

  I clicked on the Help link, and Philippa smiled.

  A few minutes of searching, and I’d found what I was looking for: the user guide for classified searches. A crazy weakness, but bureaucracies are predictable: the specs say that all features must have support documents, so they do. A little reading later, I knew the command I needed to enter.

  “Obvious when you know how,” said Philippa. “But …”

  She gestured to the paragraph explaining that access was restricted to official police buildings.

  “Not a problem,” I said. “I solved that one a long time ago.”

  I disconnected from WorldPol and changed the settings on my VPN system to spoof a location in New Scotland Yard II. I then reconnected, and re-authenticated. When I carried out the same search, I entered the required command:

  ‘Security clearance verification’

  A prompt appeared, and the key generated the appropriate response.

  Almost immediately, a summary prisoner record was displayed.

  ‘Prisoner #Luna378 Simpson, Emma.

  Sex: F

  Age: 32

  Nationality: British

  Offence code: HOMMAS.

  Sentence: Lunar Exile.

  Present location: Lunar Penal Colony.

  Time served to date: 29 days.

  Time left to serve: Life.

  Planned release date: N/A.

  Previous offence codes: N/A.’

  “Hommas?” asked Philippa.

  “Mass homicide,” I replied.

  We looked at each other. Mass murderers were rare. Female mass murderers were almost non-existent. No matter which part of the world this occurred, everyone on the planet should have heard about it.

  “Computer, news search. Mass murderer or serial killer, Emma Simpson.”

  “There are no matching news stories,” replied the computer.

  “This makes no sense,” said Philippa.

  “No argument there. Computer, repeat search for any female mass murderer or serial killer convicted within the past 30 days.”

  “There are no matching news stories,” replied the computer.

  “Extend search to 90 days.”

  “There are no matching news stories,” replied the computer.

  “Intriguing,” said Philippa.

  “Most,” I replied.

  I navigated to a different section of WorldPol, headed Identity Search.

  I was presented with 24 fields. These included legal name, aliases, age, sex, nationality, known addresses, known associates, offence codes and a range of physical features from height to body modifications.

  “I doubt we’re going to have any luck entering HOMMAS in there,” said Philippa.

  “I doubt it too.”

  I entered the little information we had: name, age, nationality.

  ’31 matches.’

  The computer listed brief details for each. There were no immediate clues in the information shown. Only one had a criminal record, which was for a series of drug possession and theft offences. Druggies frequently committed minor crimes to fund their habits, but weren’t likely candidates for serial killers.

  “Any ideas?” asked Philippa.

  “I guess we ought to just try the obvious one first. Computer, switch WorldPol connection to voice input,” I said.

  “WorldPol voice input active.”

  “WorldPol, until further notice, all queries relate to the 31 individuals shown.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Are any of them presently incarcerated in the Lunar Penal Colony?”

  “Negative.”

  I turned to Philippa.

  “You want to have a go?” I asked.

  “WorldPol, how many of the individuals have a known, definite location as of today?”

  There was a very slight pause.

  “All 31 have a digital footprint placing them in a definite location at some point since midnight today.”

  “Are any of those locations on the Moon?” she asked.

  “Negative.”

  Philippa smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” I asked.

  “I do so enjoy a puzzle,” she said. “WorldPol, if same search had been carried out 31 days ago, would the results have been the same?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Check same search daily prior to that. Repeat for up to two years and report any discrepancy.”

  There was no pause this time.

  “Same search conducted 47 days ago would have generated 32 matches.”

  “Display details for additional individual.”

  “No information is available.”

  “What security clearance is required to access information on that individual?” she asked.

  “No information is available at any security level.”

  “WorldPol, pause voice queries.”

  She gestured to Saira for a coffee refill, and Saira provided it. She took a sip before turning to me and checking off points on her fingers.

  “Item one,” she said, “Emma Simpson ceased to officially exist 47 days ago. All trace of her seems to have been erased prior to her incarceration. Item two, she is now a prisoner in the Lunar Penal Colony. Item three, there appears to be no record of any matching offence. Have I missed anything?”

  “Let me double-check something,” I said. “WorldPol, resume voice queries. Start new search 47 days ago. Look for any mass-murder or serial killings solved on that date. If nothing, check same search daily prior to that. Repeat for up to 90 days.”

  “No matching offences.”

  “WorldPol, pause voice queries. Computer, carry out news search on same basis.”

  “No matching offences have been reported.”

  I shrugged.

  “Item four, she doesn’t appear to have committed the offence for which she is imprisoned because the offence itself doesn’t appear to have occurred.”

  “Ok,” said Philippa, “I’ve done my bit, it’s time for you to come up with a bright idea.”

  “Well, there does seem one obvious course of action,” I said.

  “There does?”

  “I think I need to go visit Ms Simpson at the Lunar Penal Colony.”

  Chapter 17

  Philippa looked at me much as one might look at a particularly stupid child.

  “You do know they don’t exactly have visiting hours?” she asked. “They are allowed one visit a month, and that takes place via holo link. The visitor doesn’t get anywhere near the Moon.”

  “It would admittedly require a certain amount of planning.”

  “And this plan,” she asked, “you have one?”

  “I do need to figure out one or two of the finer details,” I admitte
d.

  “Such as?”

  “How the hell I would do it.”

  “We,” she said. “How we would do it.”

  I decided there were some arguments I wasn’t going to win.

  It took a little research, but there was exactly one circumstance in which someone might visit a prisoner in the Lunar Penal Colony: a police interview regarding past unsolved offences which might be the work of a prisoner. These were normally carried out by videophone, but the authorities recognised that sometimes a personal visit could prove more effective.

  I’d impersonated police officers on numerous occasions; with the access I had, it wasn’t particularly difficult. I had to be particularly careful this time, of course. I requisitioned a genuine police shuttlecraft for the trip, and went to great lengths to ensure that our identities and orders would stand up to the most stringent of scrutiny. With everything in place, it seemed a perfectly sensible plan.

  It seemed a far less sensible plan 72 hours later, when we were approaching the Moon and listening to the terse radio message from the colony.

  “Police shuttlecraft Delta 419 Quebec, switch to external control.”

  I punched the buttons that would place the shuttlecraft under the control of the spaceport. From that point on, we were in some unknown person’s hands. While they were seemingly satisfied with our identity as a police craft, it was hard to escape the feeling that we were about to become permanent residents of the colony.

  On the view screen in front of us, we could see the lunar colony. There was one large dome connected by a tube to a smaller one. I knew from the little information available even to the senior officer I was pretending to be that the large dome was the prison itself, while the smaller one was a guardhouse. A little further out, closer to the smaller dome, was a small spaceport. There were two landing pads, one larger, one smaller. We were heading for neither.

  “Um, where exactly are they taking us?” asked Philippa.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I replied, staring at the seemingly empty lunar landscape ahead of us, some way off to the left of the colony.

  We continued our path forward and downward towards the dusty surface, when I started to make out a small, flat area. It was dusty and difficult to be sure, but it looked too flat to be natural. I pointed it out to Philippa.