The Nexus

by J. Kraft Mitchell

  “I...I can’t say,” he stammered.

  A bullet whistled past him and took out the Ferrari’s passenger window.

  “Hey, quit it! You’re trigger happy, no problem. Just shoot at something less valuable, will you?”

  She shrugged and aimed at Fat Frank.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” he sputtered, cowering.

  “Talk.”

  “All right, all right! I don’t know who they were. They showed me your picture, told me your real name. I said, yeah, you lived here, all right. But you’re a tough one to get a hold of. I suggested bugging your suit. That’s how they were gonna track you down.” He scratched his head. “By the way, why did they want to track you down?”

  She gestured at the style-less gray pants. “You don’t recognize the material? Please, Frank, I’m sure you’ve been to jail a time or two.”

  “Well, yeah, but I had to give the pants back when...” His eyes widened, and he cursed and shook his head.

  “Why did you do it, Frank?”

  “They were persuasive people!”

  “Persuasive like they offered you a lot of money?”

  “Persuasive like they were gonna throw my butt in the slammer if I didn’t help.”

  “The police?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t seem like police.”

  “No idea at all who they were?”

  Frank shook his head insistently. “That’s all I know, I swear!...So why’d they want to track you down, anyways?”

  “No more questions, Frank.”

  “And how’d you get out of jail?”

  The next bullet took off the driver’s side rear-view mirror.

  “Okay, no more questions! Sheesh.”

  Jill took the empty clip out of the pistol and pulled out a new one. “I need a favor.”

  “A favor? You break into my storage and shoot up my car and you want a favor?”

  The new clip clicked into place.

  “Fine. A favor. Go ahead, tell me.”

  “First of all, our relationship as landlord and tenant will have to end.”

  “It’s a real shame.”

  “Isn’t it? And I’ll need a new ID card. You know the guy you recommended for my last ID?”

  “Oh, yeah. Joey. Joey’s good.”

  “Joey sucks. It took forever. Give me someone else. I know you know someone better.”

  “Well, sure, I know plenty of guys. But I don’t want to give away all my connections, you know?”

  She aimed at the Ferrari again.

  “Fine, fine! Look up Matt at the Northshore Garage. He’s the best I know. Don’t tell him I told you about him, okay? He’s used to dealing with high-rollers—no offense meant to you, obviously.”

  “Obviously. And another thing.”

  “What?”

  “My skybike.”

  “What about it?”

  “I need a new one.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re buying me a new one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I wrecked mine running from some people—the people you helped find me to throw me in jail, remember them? So you can replace my skybike.”

  “Look, it’s not my fault you—”

  She aimed at another car—a burgundy model, one of the original skycars.

  Fat Frank growled. “Okay. New skybike. What’s one of those cost these days? Like ten thousand credits?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I’ll see if I can dig it up.”

  “Start by digging in your wallet.”

  “What, you think I carry around that kind of cash?”

  “I know you carry around that kind of cash. Hand it over.”

  Fat Frank’s lips quivered. A minute later Jill had fifteen one-thousand-credit bills in her hand.

  “And one more favor,” she said, backing into the shadows again.

  He rolled his eyes. “What now?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I think of one.”

  “Gee, just how many favors do you think I owe you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Frank. If you don’t want to do them for me I can always come back here and take a few more potshots at your cars.”

  “Great. So I’m like your little assistant now.”

  “You seemed happy to be a little assistant for the people who caught me.”

  “All right, whatever. Listen, as long as I’m doing all these favors, couldn’t you answer just one more question?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I told you, I’m good at that kind of thing.”

  “Come on, tell me!” Fat Frank managed a wry smile. “Impress me!”

  “I’ll give you a hint: I got in the same way I’m about to leave.”

  “Which is...?”

  “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

  “So my security cameras caught you in the act?”

  “Why don’t you check after I’m gone?”

  “When will that be?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Hey, Jill?” But he couldn’t make out her shape in the shadows any more.

  8

  NOT surprisingly the Northshore Garage was on the north shore of Lake Anterra. It was a little cement-walled afterthought wedged among the industrial buildings.

  The midmorning sun was hovering above the Home Planet to the east when Jill pulled up to the place. She was riding her new skybike and wearing new black riding garb. A pair of bay doors revealed cars in various states of disrepair being looked at and tinkered with. In front was a wide lot strewn with car parts that may or may not come in handy at some point. The smell of the lake mingled with the smell of motor oil and tire rubber.

  A guy in a denim jumpsuit and cap approached Jill. He was chewing a wad of gum that was just a little too big. “Nice bike,” he said. His accent made it sound like “Nass back,” like he’d just shown up in Anterra from the southeastern United States.

  “Thanks.”

  “Looks new. Trouble with it already, huh?”

  “No. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “New paint job, then? Maybe give your engine a little more get-up? I can get this baby going three hundred kilometers per hour, no problem.”

  “Maybe another time. It’s not about the bike.”

  “No? Looking for a little date tonight, sweetness?” He smiled lewdly amidst his gum-chewing.

  “I’m not looking for a date of any size. I need to see Matt.”

  The guy gestured to the name tag stitched on his jumpsuit. Apparently it had said “Matt” at one time; it was too faded and grease-smudged to read at this point. “That’s me.” The smile was gone. “Who told you to see me?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Actually, it’s real important if you and me’re gonna do any business. ’Course I’m not averse to mixing business with pleasure.” The lewd smile returned.

  “Whatever. Frank sent me, if you have to know.”

  “Frank who?”

  “Fat Frank.”

  “Ah, should’ve guessed. So what you need, sweetness?”

  “A new ID.”

  “What kind?”

  That was an interesting question. This guy must do all sorts of odd jobs for the criminal community. “Just a Standard Anterran Identification Card.”

  “Sure. What name?”

  “Pick one.”

  “Okay. How old you want it to say you are?”

  “How old do I look?”

  “Got it. Black hair and dark eyes natural?”

  She nodded.

  “Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “What will I owe you?”

  “It’s a simple job, really—simpler than I’m used to, to be honest. Call it fifty credits...unless you’ll reconsider that date.”

  “Fifty credits it is, then.”

  “Why don’t you pick it up at my place? Here, I’ll write down my address for you.
”

  “I’ll pick it up right here, same time tomorrow.”

  “You’re a tough tiger to tame, eh sweetness?”

  She was already firing up her skybike to leave.

  MAYBE she should have accepted Holiday’s offer. Maybe she should have joined the department. The thought was still there in the back of her mind...

  And the back of her mind was where she kept it. There was no time for considerations like that right now. There was too much to do.

  By the following evening she had a new name and a new place out toward the west rim. These apartments were a lot nicer than Fat Frank’s. Of course they were a lot more expensive, too.

  And riskier. This landlord wasn’t like Fat Frank; he didn’t open communication between erranders and potential hirers. Jill had to reestablish herself on the grid—make sure the crime world knew how to reach her at her new number and by her new name to offer her jobs.

  She had a new errand within a day. The guy on the phone didn’t introduce himself. They rarely did.

  “You’ll be receiving instructions soon,” he told her.

  She didn’t ask how.

  Later that afternoon there was a knock at the door of Jill’s new apartment. A box sat on the doormat. Whoever had brought it was gone before Jill had opened the door.

  In the box was a small pad of lined paper. The first page had a carefully hand-written note in blue ink:

  Miss Branch,

  The office computer of Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery on the Aurora Bridge Mall contains a list I should very much like to see. It is a document entitled HPCAMVEN. Please copy the document in its entirety onto the subsequent pages of this notepad, and return it to me tonight at the address on the next page. Forgive me for ending these instructions with cliché admonishments, but instinct compels me to do so: Take every precaution to ensure that you are not caught. Upon copying the file, immediately please eliminate any evidence of your having opened it in the first place. I am aware of your record of excellence, Miss Branch, and am confident of your success. I shall look forward to meeting you.

  Sincerely,

  Sketch

  The first thing Jill noticed was that the letter addressed her by name. By her real name. Whoever this guy was had connections. Some clients referred to you by whatever alias you were using at the time. Some had enough connections to refer to you by your real name. It was just as well. Jill’s reputation came with her real name, and this guy was apparently impressed.

  The next thing she noticed was that the letter was signed “Sketch.” That got her heart racing a little. The Sketch? Anyone with any involvement in illegal activities on MS9 knew that name. Sketch was involved in just about every game in town—guns, drugs, prostitution, you name it. If there was a governing body for the local criminal underground, Sketch was the prime minister. If there was a mafia on Anterra, Sketch was the Don.

  And now he wanted to hire Jill.

  This job would definitely be the highlight of Jill’s career.

  JILL always did a little research before an errand.

  When she punched in the name of Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery on the net, she found out it had been in the news not too long ago. Last week an employee there had been arrested. Neither the gallery nor the police would say why.

  Jill knew why. Sketch had tried to use an inside man to get the list off the computer, and that inside man had been caught and thrown in jail. Jill smiled to herself. She wouldn’t be joining him.

  SHE flew her bike to the Aurora Bridge Mall early that evening. The bridge was a massive stone and metal structure overlooking the river. The river was actually just a long, skinny extension of the lake, north of the Avenue of Towers. The mall was made up of tiers of brick walkways just off the bridge, lined with shops of expensive trinkets, clothes, art, electronics, and so on.

  Jill found Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery on the third tier. It was a fairly small place between a coffee bar and a book shop. She paid a nominal fee and walked inside.

  Photography was never Jill’s thing—especially this kind of photography. The images were all black and white, or else tinted a single color like red or yellow. The photos were of people, trees, buildings, all at strange angles and with strange blurred effects. Most of the pictures were mounted on glass partitions that created a sort of maze through the little place.

  There was one security guard in the gallery. He didn’t look as bored as security guards usually looked. There was also a nicely dressed Japanese host who must be one of the Tanaka brothers. At one point she saw him disappear into a white door in the white wall at the back of the gallery. The office would be up the stairs behind that door.

  She’d have to get into the office after hours. Her original plan had been to hide until closing time, then have the place to herself. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d used that method. But there was no place to hide here—no restrooms, no furniture; just one room with glass partitions.

  Jill left the gallery, sat on a bench across from it, and started cooking up a plan B while shoppers buzzed around her. She made a quick survey.

  The Gallery offices were on the second floor. The book shop next door was three stories high.

  She went into the book shop. It had a nice atmosphere to match its merchandise, tall wooden shelves and reading areas with antique furniture. A stairway in back led to level two, which was not as busy as level one. Another stairway led to level three, which was even less busy. She walked to the back corner—the philosophy and theology section, which was the emptiest area of all. A door in the corner said “Employees only.”

  It was after six o’clock. Tanaka Brother’s Gallery closed at seven. The book shop closed at nine. Jill grabbed a volume off the theology shelf, and found a chair by the window across the room. She appeared to be engrossed in a massive, centuries-old religious exposition. She was actually engrossed in other things. To one side she could see out onto the mall walkway. Since the book shop was at an angle compared to the gallery, she could see the front door of the gallery as well. To the other side she could see the employee door across the room.

  The evening grew dark outside as she waited.

  At seven minutes past seven, she saw Mr. Tanaka closing up his gallery for the night. His security guard left.

  At a quarter past seven, a middle-aged woman in spectacles emerged from the employee door and went downstairs.

  At two minutes before eight o’clock, Mr. Tanaka left his gallery.

  The middle-aged woman hadn’t come back.

  Jill set the book aside and approached the employee door. There were no customers in sight. She knocked. No one answered. She knocked again. No one answered.

  Jill went through the door.

  She was in a small office in the back of the building. It had a window to one side—a window that overlooked the rooftop of Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery next door.

  A minute later she was on the gallery roof. The mall below was brightly lit and crowded; the rooftop was silent and dark.

  She went to the back edge of the roof. Metal rungs built into the wall made a ladder leading down to the alley behind the gallery. A window in the second story office was within reach of the ladder. The lock on the window would have been easy to jiggle open if she hadn’t been doing it leaning out from a ladder. She still managed.

  Now she was in the office. It was small and cramped. The computer glowed on the desk. The monitor played a slideshow of the Tanaka Brothers’ photos. How narcissistic.

  Just about every errander had basic hacking skills. It took only a few moments to bypass the computer’s security login; a few more moments to locate the document file called HPCAMVEN; a few more moments to scribble its contents—a couple dozen names and addresses from Earth—into Sketch’s notepad; a few more moments to cover any sign that the file had ever been opened.

  By the time the spectacled woman was wondering who had opened her office window, Jill was on her skybike a half a mile away from the Aurora Bridge Mall.


  9

  SKETCH’S address was a high rise suite up the river from the mall. It wasn’t really his address, Jill was sure; it was just a place he’d picked to conduct tonight’s business. Jill parked on the street a block away from the tall, round building and walked toward it. Behind one of those glowing windows on the twenty-third floor, he was waiting for her.

  She paused half a block away from the high rise.

  The thing about doing a job was that once it started you didn’t usually have time to think about anything except the job itself. It was rare when you got a breather, had a little time for your mind to wander.

  Like right now.

  The thought had been pushing its way further and further to the front of her mind.

  Maybe she should have accepted Holiday’s offer.

  In the notepad in her backpack was the list. She’d stolen it from people she didn’t know. She was bringing it to a man she didn’t know, who wanted it for reasons she didn’t know.

  She’d called Holiday’s offer ridiculous. And it was.

  More ridiculous than being a pawn for criminals who couldn’t care less whether you live or die once they’ve done with you?

  It was a long time before Jill started walking again. And when she did, it was away from the high rise.

  TWO hours later she was at a classy hotel near the west rim. Off the lobby was a row of empty payphone cubicles. She took out a screwdriver, opened the inner workings of one of the phones, and made some personal modifications including the addition of a device she’d brought along. Then she dialed.

  A few seconds of canned music played on the other end of the line. Then:

  “Anterran Governmental Complex. How may I direct your call?”

  “I need to speak to a jail warden, please.”

  “I’m transferring you now.”

  Canned music filled the line for several moments.

  “Warden Bollis.”

  Time for one of Jill’s best impersonations. “Hello, I’m calling with the Anterran Daily Recorder, regarding the escaped prisoner.”

  An uncomfortable grunt. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time—”

  “It will only take a moment, sir.”