The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  Carpe Diem is owned by Fumiko Nakahara, the eccentric daughter of business magnate Hideo Nakahara, and is about the dumbest, most cliché boat name there is. C'mon, Fumiko, dig a little deeper.

  She's usually on the hook, picking up and anchoring in random places around the Seattle Isles, never staying in any one place for more than one night. But when her navigation and computer system started acting twitchy, she wisely made the decision to head for port in the marina. And the marina will gladly welcome back one of their own, kindly letting her—and everything attached to her hull—in through the security perimeter around the docks.

  The pitch of the motors revs down. The pull of the water trying to push me off the hull lessens. We're approaching the entrance.

  Security in the marina is focused outward. They can't monitor the water inside the marina: people are getting in and out of the water all the time to perform maintenance on the boats. As for land and air security, those are focused outward as well, but for less practical reasons. The wealthy do not like being tracked, particularly not who they are with and bringing onto their fancy-schmancy boats.

  It's a little after eleven o'clock at night and overcast—not as late as I would like, but we had to make sure Fumiko saw the problem before going to bed. Before we dove there was only the glow of boat lights on the water, building lights on land, and hovercars in the air. It might not actually be that much darker than when the moon and stars are out, but weather has an effect on people. It makes them seek shelter, hunker down, move less, and that's what's really to our advantage.

  But under the water it’s dark, dark. I can't see anything beyond the occasional red or green light filtering down past the surface as we drive by. The only way I know when we cross over into the marina is when we slow to a putter. I can't see the security perimeter: the underwater fence, the diver detection sonar nodes, or the underwater thermal imaging cameras—which is why we're enjoying the good vibrations over the warm engine room.

  The white lights of the floating dock effuse the water and pass by regularly as we draw closer to Fumiko’s slip.

  I whisper to Winn, "On my mark."

  We need to slip away before the boat actually stops; her crew will be jumping off the boat, tying it to the dock, looking and combing Carpe Diem over. We don't want them to find two human-sized barnacles.

  "Mark," I whisper.

  I detach one of the handles and pull myself forward on the hull and reattach it farther up. I repeat the process to scale the hull toward the bow.

  Several seconds later, Winn whispers over the comm, "In position."

  "Standby," I whisper back. One more leapfrog and I'm where I need to be. Was Winn's tone normal? Perfunctory? Morose? I check my dive belt stuffed with dive weights, make sure my buoyancy control device is negative. Here we go.

  "Mark," I whisper and detach both handles, pushing off as much as I dare to try and get away from the motor now chomping toward me.

  I start to sink. All that extra weight is trying to pull me under the looming motor which I can't see. It's getting louder though, the rhythmic chump-chump-chump of the propeller.

  How deep do those propellers sit in the water? Three feet? Four feet? I imagine I can see the curved edges of the propeller tapering down into a fine point to slice through seaweed and unlucky flesh.

  I can feel the water start to move around me, a slight sucking toward where the stern is. The motor screams all around me.

  I curl into a ball to try make myself smaller and get under the propeller—

  The black motor shaft crashes out of the swirling darkness at me. The propeller churns the water behind it in a mass of violent bubbles.

  I throw my arms out and catch the back of the motor shaft, desperately trying to keep my lower body from turning into fish feed. My heart beats wildly in my chest. My wrists strain against the shaft.

  "Winn," I say, "I'm stuck behind the propeller. Did you—?"

  "What—!" Winn starts.

  "I'm fine for now. I'll have to drop as soon as they cut their engines. Proceed to—"

  "I'm coming to get you," Winn says.

  "How?" I grunt, focusing on remaining out of the propeller.

  "I'll damage the propeller with a rock. They'll cut their engines to investigate."

  "Negative," I say. "They'll know something's up that way." A man coming to the rescue of a woman with a rock in hand—something about that would strike me as funny if I weren't straining not to get maimed. It's a cute, barbaric idea, but not one without merit. "Hey, Puo," I say. "Could you—?"

  The engines cut out. The propeller slowly stops whirling.

  "Thank you, kindly," I say. I let go and free-fall toward the bottom.

  "At your service, ma'am," Puo replies. I imagine Puo tipping his imaginary cowboy hat at me.

  Puo must have been working on it as soon as I got trapped; he was already hooked into the yacht to mess with Fumiko's navigation system to scare her into returning to port.

  "Winn," I say, "I'm free."

  "You okay?" he asks, at the same time Puo restores the motors—hopefully, Fumiko will think it was just a glitch tied to whatever is going on with the navigation system.

  "I'm fine. You still have that rock?" My Prince Valiant.

  "No," he says, a note of petulance in his voice.

  I swear I hear the rock hit the bottom through the comm-link.

  I let it go and say, "Proceed to point B."

  Time to split up.

  * * *

  Valle's yacht is dark (a good sign, no staff on board). But the dock lights around the yacht, not so much.

  West Union Marina doesn't allow liveaboards, which is why Fumiko was out on the hook, so there should be little concern of being seen. But just because a place doesn't allow it doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Plus, that doesn't account for late night rendezvous or parties where sleeping is not on the agenda. Fortunately, with yachts this fancy, everyone's attention is usually drawn inward.

  Still, I don't just flop out onto the back of Valle's yacht and invite myself in. I maneuver to be under the dock and raise my head slowly out of the water. I increase my buoyancy controls to be strongly positive to keep my head and upper chest out of the water, and then I unhook the helmet as quietly as I can and carefully take it off, keeping it above the water to protect the electronics. One-handed, I remove my comm-link to better hear inside the marina and set it in the helmet. I measure my breathing so it doesn't sound so loud in my ears.

  Water gently breaks against the docks. Boats quietly bob in their slips from Fumiko's entrance. The lights on the docks electronically hum. The hovercars far overhead give off their low whine. Fumiko and/or her crew start scrambling around the dock to secure Carpe Diem. Its engines are quiet, but the night is quieter so that the engine noise obscenely fills the silent marina with its racket.

  I strain to hear if Fumiko's racket stirs anything awake in the surrounding boats, if any lights suddenly turn on. Nothing.

  I keep my helmet above water and slowly, silently move through the water to the back of Valle's yacht, pulling/pushing myself one-handed along the side of the hull, keeping Valle's yacht between Fumiko and myself. Little laps of cold water spill down into my dry suit through my neck, sending splashes of icy chill down my chest—it certainly keeps things interesting, having to suppress icy screams.

  The back diving deck of the yacht is made of darkly stained vertical wooden slats about three feet deep before ending in three steps up to the main deck. I set my helmet down on the back edge and then slip off my fins to put them next to my helmet. I retrieve the comm-link and put it back in.

  "I'm in position," I whisper.

  "Roger that," Puo says. "Winn?"

  "I'm nearing position," Winn answers, "Another minute, maybe."

  "Okay," Puo says, "Isa, you're clear to go. Winn, you're rigged-for-silent."

  I retrieve the squeegee—the kick-ass, ill-gotten Cleaners' device that hooks us into the security system—from my under
water fanny pack, and then slowly ease myself up onto the diving deck, giving time for the water to run down my body back to the surface without making too much noise. Once my feet are on the deck, I quickly move up the three steps and past the group seating where I tuck my fins and helmet out of sight.

  I ignore the tinted glass hatch doors to the main cabin that stay shut, and scale the white built-in steps up to the upper deck. The nonslip coating on each of the steps is rough, gravelly under my wet scuba boots.

  The upper deck has a small lounge area with a white padded bench and dark-blue backing. A sunbathing area is up front, while the center is dedicated to the fly bridge—which lets owners drive with a near three hundred and sixty degree unobstructed view.

  I sidle up to the controls on the fly bridge, staying low, and hook the squeegee in.

  That's weird—the security system is on its lowest level. Basically lock the doors, but don't record anything. I check to make sure the boat's empty (it is), then I open her up for business.

  Back downstairs the tinted glass doors slide open at my approach like friendly supermarket doors, inviting me in to poke through their wares. The lights stay off—I'm good like that.

  "Puo," I whisper, once the doors shut behind me, "I'm in."

  "Acknowledged," Puo answers.

  "The security system was on its lowest level," I tell him.

  Puo is silent on the other end as I make my way to the main bridge.

  The luxurious, main indoor lounge area has a thin dark diagonal parquet floor that I can barely feel the cracks of under my scuba boots. The space is lined by tinted windows for almost three hundred and sixty degree views. The couches look to be a light color, white maybe, hard to tell in the dark. I pass a dining area at the back, and duck around a dividing wall, taking the half-flight of stairs up to the main bridge.

  Puo finally states the obvious, "That's weird."

  "Yeah," I whisper back, "a lot about this is weird."

  "What else do you see?" Puo asks.

  "I meant about the whole situation," I answer.

  "Oh," Puo says. "Yeah—"

  Winn breaks in, "I'm in position."

  "Roger, that," Puo says. "Isa, you clear for now?"

  "I'm clear," I answer, as in it's time for me to shut up so Winn can sneak into the maintenance dock and poke around.

  "Winn," Puo says, "You're clear to go."

  I can hear little bits through the comm-link of Winn getting out of the water and moving around.

  Valle's yacht control room has two cushion-backed seats with arm rests in front of an array of controls and slim windows that wrap the small room to look out over the bow. There are small lockers and pockets stuffed around the room filled with various equipment and maps. The ceiling here is plain and low—I think the top of Winn's head may bump the surface.

  I walk over to the main control display and turn it on. That's one of the nice things about the Cleaner software on the squeegee—once you're inside, there's no need to pretend you're not supposed to be there. I start scrolling through the logs, looking for the entries around the last time Valle took the yacht out to Pacific View Bank.

  I hear a door creak open, sending my heart into overdrive—it's Winn. He must be in Rodrigo's office now to find out what was wrong with Colvin's boat.

  A few seconds later, Winn says, "I'm in. Downloading now."

  There's nothing out of the ordinary in Valle's logs that I'm scrolling through. The only discrepancy on the nights he went out to Pacific View Bank is that he went out alone. Every other time, the manifest lists more than one person going out.

  I scroll back another month—the first time after we arrived in Seattle—same thing. I scroll back another month—nothing. Shit. He didn't go out when he should've in May. I start scrolling back to April—

  Sounds burst through the comm-link.

  A chair knocks over. Grunts and sounds of Winn struggling fill my ear.

  "Attack," Winn manages to get out while sounding like he's being choked.

  I slam the controls off and kick on the security, and run out the back. "Puo?" I quietly scramble for information, my heart pumping in my chest.

  "I don't know," Puo rushes. "Nothing showed on the video feeds."

  I grab my helmet and fins and survey the dock before jumping out onto it and slinking to a shadow to scan ahead of me.

  Puo continues, "Either they came in the same way you did, or—"

  Or they have a real bona fide Cleaner with them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I MOVE AS quickly as I can, holding my helmet and fins, flitting in and out of shadows, stepping lightly, using all my stealth tricks collected over a lifetime of not having everything handed to me.

  The alarming sounds of Winn fighting for his life continue to pipe into my ear through my comm-link, forcing me faster, overwhelming my sense of self-preservation—I'm not done being mad at the existentialist whiner yet. I still need him in one piece.

  There are other things in play here that wait quietly in the back of my mind to torment me while I run to Winn. If they have a Cleaner with them, then there's no telling how many of "them" there are. Winn should have used his own squeegee on the marina—can a Cleaner detect another Cleaner's software? Would they be able to tell where we got it?

  It's just too much of a coincidence. They have to be here for us. A shadow job? A frame job? An elimination job?

  There's a loud slamming through the comm-link, then everything goes silent.

  I instinctively slow.

  Fortunately, Puo is my voice asking after Winn, "Falcon? Falcon! Are you there?" Puo thinks the line is either tapped or they might overhear—no real names from this point forward.

  I duck into the warehouse-like marina building. It feels cavernously large in the dark; what little sound is out on the water is trapped and echoey in the building. I use the row of boats on dry lifts as a screen to approach the entrance to Rodrigo's office.

  Puo continues in a raised voice, "Falcon, are you there?"

  No response.

  Rodrigo's back door comes into view. It's shut tight.

  I set my helmet and fins down under the boat I'm hiding behind. Rodrigo's door is thirty feet away.

  I quickly cast around to see if there's anyone nearby. I can't tell—it's too dark.

  I can't just sit here. I try and look everywhere at once as I cross the thirty-foot gap to Rodrigo's wooden door and crouch down next to it. There's no gap at the bottom, I can't hear anything besides the sounds of the marina and my breathing.

  I reach up carefully and test the door. Locked. Whoever followed Winn wanted to be left alone.

  The lock is a pin tumbler lock—I noticed this afternoon when Rodrigo led me through it. I slip two thin lock picks out from between the girls and—

  Crash! The door jumps in its frame.

  The noise hits me from behind the door and explodes in my comm-link for a disjointed effect.

  Scuffling. Grunts. A woman's grunt. One of them is a woman.

  A mechanical release cracks the air.

  Winn sounds like he starts convulsing. A body hits the ground.

  I stand up, and kick as hard as I can above the lock. Pain shoots up my foot.

  The door splinters inward.

  A woman of medium height stands over Winn, her head and ponytail silhouetted against the faint light from the front office window. She's dressed in street clothes—they definitely have a Cleaner with them. And the Cleaner must be one cocky son of a bitch for them to just stroll in off the street, confident the Cleaner could erase their images.

  With a place like Rodrigo's, given the nature of his clientele, we were too hesitant to try something so bold. Safer to sneak in (at least notwithstanding propellers), get a sniff on the security tech, and then decide if something like that were possible.

  I catch Winn's assailant in the act of twirling around to the back door and I side-step kick her as hard as I can. I catch her on her left side on the ribs.


  She stumbles away and drops whatever she was holding. Winn is on the ground, but stops shaking.

  I run forward before she can catch herself and leap with both feet connecting with her upper torso.

  She flies off her feet. Her lower body slams into a filing cabinet, her upper body snapping over it to strike her head on the wall.

  I land straight on my back, the thin carpeted floor knocking my breath out of me.

  She crumples to the floor and doesn't move.

  I force myself up with a groan and rush over to her ready to strike her again.

  But she's knocked out. I smack her a little, open an eyelid. She's out.

  I run back over to Winn.

  Tasered. I removed the two prongs and throw them to the side.

  I push his curly bangs gently to the side. "C'mon, wake up." I try shaking his shoulders a little.

  I turn my head to look out the broken-in door toward the dock and water. If I could get some water—

  Winn suddenly comes to life and grabs the back of my hair, yanking my head back. He tries to shift his right leg to wrap me in a lock.

  "It's me," I manage to say. "Falcon, it's me."

  He lets go at once. After a slight second, he whispers hoarsely, "Queen Bee?"

  He doesn't sound good.

  "Yeah," I say. "Can you move?" We need to get out of here ASAP.

  That's when I notice a third body. It's on the other side of Winn, behind Rodrigo's desk.

  "How many are there?" I ask.

  "I don't know," Winn manages to say. "I need a minute."

  We don't have a minute. "Okay."

  I shift over to the third unknown body. It's a male, beyond that, not anyone I recognize in the dark. I rifle through the canvas pouch slung over his body like a messenger bag and find a squeegee: he's the Cleaner. I pocket his device.

  "Toad—" I start to say.

  "Aww! C'mon!" Puo whines in my ear. "Not fair! That's awful!"

  Yeah, it kinda is. But we're hurting on time, so "Toad" it is.