by Saul Garnell
Hugo disquietedly pushed the document aside and groaned with displeasure. From his viewpoint, it read like so many others. Sanctimonious dictums to the point of absurdity. But he knew better than to scoff away such fanatics. No matter how pharisaical their ideas appeared, the threat they posed was often quite real.
Okay, so what was Flip’s relation to Kan? The documents appeared like a giant spiked porcupine, bristling from its central data core. Pulling out and unfolding a threaded quill, Hugo read through communications over the past year. Its thread was increasingly damning. There were long conversations where Ozwald and Francis shared mutual hatred of modern lifestyles, and the control imposed by government. Kan explicitly wrote about his arguments with some troublesome members who didn’t see things his way. He then wrote about his desire to martyr himself by killing his perceived enemies who would be traveling to Tokyo. Now that was more like it. A smoking gun!
Hugo realized he was on to something, but there were volumes more to read. With little time, he selected the entire porcupine of related data and inserted it into a correlation engine. An expert system that used an array of AI tools to seek out patterns of interest. The results spat out over his screen within seconds.
Hugo’s eyes went wide. The graphs and associated datasets demonstrated that communication between Weebles and Kan spiked just prior to every major LS event over the past six months. More smoke! The greatest concentration being just days before the spaceplane disaster occurred.
“I don’t believe it!” Hugo shouted out loud to himself. “Right under my nose.”
The analysis was solid, and could be used in court. It demonstrated clearly that Flip somehow knew about, or caused, the LS taking place in recent months. And the spaceplane? Data spikes indicated that Flip had something to do with that as well. But something didn’t seem right, Hugo grunted disquietedly to himself. Flip had no access to the spaceport, or to the plane’s internal systems. It made no sense.
Mulling over the problem, he drilled down into records that trickled across his flexi monitor, exposing Flip’s access to systems throughout the archaic Maricopa municipal infrastructure. Well, he was a maintenance technician, and mucking with systems wasn’t outside his job description. He gleaned nothing from that, or was there more to it? Systems were incredibly complex, and figuring out routes between disparate pathways encroached upon the metaphysical. Too many possible touchpoints for a human to investigate. But maybe, he slowly realized, something would happen if he adjusted the engine’s ability to search for indirect pathways.
Grasping the preference knob in virtual space, it made loud clicks as he turned it slowly to the right. That’s when Hugo saw it. Almost imperceptible at first, the work order’s priority was flagged non-trivial. Perusing its varied details, data flooded his screen until one peculiar tag stood apart. Sewage valve software upgrade. For some reason, the word “sewage” made Hugo think. It sounded familiar, and he reexamined the crash forensic report to allay his curiosity. Scanning ground control pre-flight system checks, he found mention of an unscheduled lavatory system patch. Yes, that’s the one. Not identical, but it made him wonder. Could it be that the two events were related?
With both hands, he picked up the two sets of patch code and dropped them on the correlation engine’s input matrix. To his utter astonishment, they matched exactly.
“I’ve got him!” Hugo yelled with excitement.
It was incredible! Who would have thought? He continued watching with starry-eyed excitement as every algorithm displayed a matching set of viral worms.
There was no time to wait. Hugo looked at his system to see where Francis was located. The hair stood up on his neck as the target floated over Asia and landed on a small island near Tokyo. In Japan? For God’s sakes, why hadn’t they arrested him already?
Without waiting another second, he smashed the dialer and brought up the Japan MPD reply address. Rocking in his chair like a small child, he waited impatiently for someone to pick up.
“Please identify your subject,” politely asked the voicemail recorder with mechanical enthusiasm.
“I’m calling about workflow JP2120TKY712000134324—MPD8101,” Hugo blurted in one breath.
“Please leave a detailed request,” said the mechanical voicemail system.
“Escalation high! Requesting arrest of suspect Francis Weebles, and extradition to ASPAU under international treaty. Get a full data forensic team on this workflow. Compare it against data I am sending now, taken from the MLKJ incident. Evidence that Weebles upload infected software via the ASPAU municipal sewage system. This will be a joint operation. Call me as soon as the process in underway.”
“Insufficient authorization to request extradition,” chirped the system. “Identify approving officer, or reset request.”
“For God’s sake!” Hugo growled. “Approving officer is superior SB, Miguel 000996873.”
Hugo spent the next few minutes confirming the contents of his request before ending it with cheironomic fist pumps. He then paced his office like a caged animal, pent up energy coursing through him. It was like hitting the Mars lottery. And Hugo considered the forthcoming commotion caused by something of this magnitude. Arresting the man who committed countless acts of Lebensstörung and the destruction of the Martin Luther King Junior spaceplane? It would bring fame, recognition, and possibly a promotion.
But then Hugo realized one crucial fact, something that had been nagging him for several weeks, and waves of pleasure began washing over him as he silently rejoiced to himself. At long last, he thought to himself.
Next year’s budget would finally get approved.
“Can we go over this one more time?” Shinzou asked while shaking his head. “It still appears risky to me.”
Henry looked back and sighed unhappily. “We’ve reviewed things several times now. Surely you don’t need further preparation.”
Before any response could be heard, Henry knew his words sounded a tad farfetched. And maybe the lack of details surrounding Shiro’s willingness to join the Freedom Club appeared almost too good to be true. But he had to push forward, no matter how risky or dubious things appeared.
On the surface, it was quite straightforward. Meet Shiro’s liaison at a prearranged location near Shinjuku and work out how to proceed as one group. The plan seemed absurdly simple, and he recalled vividly how Shinzou and Sumeet gawked back nonplussed over the matter. Harboring serious feelings of mistrust, they peppered him with questions. Can Shiro be trusted? Could this be a trap? What exactly did he say again? It went on and on, and Henry used every trick in the book to dissuade them of their doubts.
Eventually, they had little choice but to go ahead on nothing more than faith and Henry’s personal reassurances that nothing would go wrong. Using a sleek rented electric HAL air-car, Shinzou and Sumeet waited anxiously in an underground parking area near the designated meeting spot, the antiquated Mode Gakuen Cocoon Tower near Shinjuku train station. Easily located, they arrived early enough to go over their plans. And their misgivings.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going ahead with this,” Shinzou griped. “After all, you only met him once.”
Henry responded from the car’s built in flexi dashboard. “Yes, how fortunate we bonded quickly.”
“But that’s what strikes me as funny.”
“What?” Henry sniffed.
“The fact you two got along so well.”
“What about it?”
“Wasn’t it rather sudden? I mean, when I talked with Shiro he went berserk. Then you speak with him and everything is peachy keen.”
“Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
Shinzou pulled a face toward Sumeet. “Well...yes. But frankly, I didn’t expect it to be so easy.”
“Who said it was easy?” Henry retorted. “Though my diplomatic skills were clearly a decisive factor, Shiro was simply more trusting with one of his kind. Still, he needs more information to understand us better.”
; Shinzou glanced around their poorly lit underground parking lot. The hum of ancient air conditioners melded with the sounds of dripping water and pneumatic doors that echoed faintly in the background.
“Okay, Henry. But once again, why did we pick this place? I mean, it’s a health hazard...”
“I think you mean death trap,” Sumeet added from the passenger seat.
Shinzou agreed. “We’re in the middle of Tokyo, Henry. Maintaining security here is impossible.”
Henry sighed and shook his head dismally. “Remember that this is a public face-to-face. Neither side can have the advantage, so we chose a mutually uncomfortable location. Anyway it doesn’t matter. Shiro primarily wants us to meet his key human operative. If we make a good impression, we can continue to broaden our relationship.”
“And that’s it?” Shinzou asked. “Just make a good impression, huh?”
“Yes!” Henry said, getting quite annoyed.
Shinzou miffed to himself. “Seems a bit low on details. Normally, we spend hours going over your behavioral matrix. This time, we’re going in blind. Aren’t you uncomfortable with that?”
Henry looked at Shinzou and thought deeply with an index finger pressed hard against his temple. “It may seem precipitous, but Shiro was quite adamant about the need to move quickly. Find common ground upon which to build our newfound relation. After all, we did make sudden contact with him. He was quite disturbed by it all.”
“Disturbed?” Shinzou spat. “That’s a nice way to put it. I just hope he doesn’t try to kill us.”
“I second that,” Sumeet added, while pulling lightly at his filter suit.
Shinzou looked sympathetically at Sumeet. Like skintight underwear, filter suits were notoriously uncomfortable. But their defensive ability was remarkable. Using a combination of acrylic polycarbonates, absorber dyes and aramid fibers, they provided reliable protection for a range of weapons, both energy based and traditional firearms.
Shinzou said, “We’re not taking any chances this time, Sumeet. That military grade filter suit and mask will provide solid protection. Initial rounds of lasers, bullets, and shrapnel will bounce off it. But don’t get brave. Just remember, in the unlikely case we find trouble, follow me, do as I do, and if we have to run?”
“Run like hell,” Sumeet said, having been drilled well. “But do you really think something will happen?”
Shinzou didn’t respond. He just stared interrogatively at Henry’s image.
“Unlikely,” said Henry. “Shiro has given me every assurance that he bears no ill feelings. And I wouldn’t agree to this meeting if I felt something untoward would occur.”
“And there you have it. Nothing untoward will happen,” Shinzou said sarcastically with upward-facing palms. “Okay. We’d better make our way up there. Now remember, Henry. Take the car outside and come to our positions if anything happens. Wherever we are!”
“I’ll be monitoring you the whole time. There’s no need to worry,” Henry said reassuringly.
Stepping outside onto old pocked concrete, Shinzou and Sumeet donned their emerald hued filter masks and checked communication links before walking toward the underground exit. They were alone, and didn’t carry on a conversation as they made their way up moldy stairwells and underground passages that led to the Cocoon building’s ground-level entrance.
Few pedestrians were around. It was early morning, but that mattered little. The sullen passages were a striking difference to the pre-quake era, when Shinjuku was arguably the busiest spot on earth. Almost four million people passed through the station on a daily basis, and surrounding business and entertainment districts were bubbling centers of commerce. But the quake and the rise of super towers changed all that. Living anywhere below fifty stories was deemed by all young Japanese as “Kakuywaruii.”
And if that wasn’t bad enough, Shinjuku’s demise was further hastened by the push toward small air transports. Cities weren’t entirely dead, but new transportation technology transformed the mountainous nation. One traditionally tethered to coastlines and arable valleys. As the population moved away, Shinjuku sublimated into a ghost town, remaining part of Tokyo like dysfunctional limbs of a paraplegic body.
But there were minor aberrations to the rule. The Cocoon Tower was one of them. Yes, it was earthquake proof, but it remained in use over the century mainly due to its architectural beauty. Unlike the jejune structures of its day, its shape was that of a gleaming elliptical glass spire, criss-crossed with support columns made of concrete-filled tubes. This unusual exterior gave the building the appearance of a woven basket, or a cocoon if you prefer, and provided it with an aesthetic reason to survive way beyond its intended lifespan.
“It’s amazing,” Sumeet said, looking up unfiltered at the building’s shimmering reflection. “I didn’t realize Tokyo still had nice old buildings like this.”
Shinzou paused and pushed his filter up off his eyes momentarily. “You have to give them credit. The Japanese may be defeated in all areas of global influence, but few commanded better sense for architecture and design.”
“You two can sightsee later,” Henry blustered verbally through their earphones. “We don’t want to be late.”
Redirecting their attention, they sauntered toward the primary ground floor entrance, where a self-service kiosk waited patiently. Inserting reserved access keys, heavy security doors opened to the main elevators. Inside, they looked whimsically at the interior’s non-laminated surface, as the ancient but sturdy pulley driven elevator ascended to the top floor where a large atrium sprawled before them.
The room was breathtaking to behold. Stepping carefully onto a soft carpeted floor, they were both greeted by massive unlaminated windows, which drenched warm sunlight throughout the unevenly angled space. Conducive to casual discussion, walls and floors protruded with carpeted geometric shapes for people to sit and lean upon.
But they weren’t alone. Sitting in a small corner near a triangular window panel, a single man wearing casual clothes fidgeted nervously. Shinzou didn’t approach at first. Instead he surveyed the room, checking for security breaches with his filter.
Turning toward Sumeet, he finally said, “We have the place to ourselves. Let’s go say hello.”
Sumeet followed Shinzou to the stranger’s position, careful not to trip. As they got close, the stranger stood by uneasily, hesitant to speak.
Henry had had enough. “Get on with it!” he grumbled quietly.
“We’re from the Freedom Club,” Shinzou said, without acknowledging the remark.
The man carefully held out his hand. “My name is Francis Weebles, but everyone calls me Flip.”
They shook cordially. But it soon became apparent that no one really knew how to run the meeting. More silence lingered uncomfortably.
Shinzou broke in. “Sorry, but we came here to meet with Shiro’s liaison. That’s you, I presume?”
Flip gawked back, unsure how to respond. “Shiro’s liaison? He just told me to come here and wait. Other than that, I’ve no idea what this is about.”
“I don’t understand,” Shinzou replied, while glancing at Sumeet. “We came here to...”
Before Shinzou could finish, an ultra-light police helicopter sped by the atrium windows. Sunlight was eclipsed momentarily as it circumnavigated around the far side of the building. Shinzou’s intuition went on high alert.
“What was that?” Flip mumbled apprehensively.
All three watched as the helicopter passed beyond their visual field. Once gone, their gazes returned to each other.
“You have no idea why you came here today?” Shinzou asked impatiently.
Flip shook his head like an innocent child. “No, I thought you were going to tell me. What is the Freedom Club, anyway? Are you another religious organization?”
Shinzou glanced over to Sumeet. “Go check the stairwell and see if it’s clear. We might have to use it.”
“What’s going on?” Flip demanded.
Hol
ding up one finger to pause the conversation, Shinzou stepped away from Flip to address Henry waiting in virtual space. “If you’ve been following this, tell me what’s going on.”
“Hold on,” Henry said. “We have a problem. The location may not be secure. I’m talking with Shiro now. He has a new request for us.”
The sound of mechanical steps sprouted from the stairwell. Shinzou looked up and saw Sumeet stepping away from a large crawler in horror. A fully loaded flathead, with heavy armaments, shielding, and four top-mounted arms, stood ready like a praying mantis. It moved slowly toward them, stalking with multi-facetted eyes scanning in all directions.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Shinzou yelled out.
“From the stairwell,” Sumeet snapped back, his eyes wide and fearful.
Flip ran over to the elevator doors, but they refused any command. Repetitive jabs of the call button also had no effect, and he looked back deeply concerned. “It won’t open,” Flip rasped.
Shinzou went back into his filter. “Tell me something, Henry, and see if you can put the brakes on that crawler.”
Henry replied casually, “Shiro is on another session with me. It seems it’s his crawler.”
“What?” Shinzou stammered.
“He’s asking us to help him.”
“Help him? How?”
“You need to arrest Francis Weebles.”
“What?” Shinzou spat.
“It may sound strange, but...”
“Why should I do that?”
“That’s what he requests. You need to arrest Weebles and then wait for more instructions.”
Shinzou glanced carefully toward Flip, trying to retain some semblance of composure as the armed crawler continued its advance. “Forget it! That’s crazy! Get the car up here and extract us now!”
