“Why hasn’t anyone found this before?”
“We may not have been looking. But, there’s not enough here to justify what you speculate. Either he gets paid a lot less, or he has other resources.”
“Other resources,” I said. “He’ll have some in Earth cash cards, some in bullion, some in tools and other infrastructure. He’s likely living high when he can. However, this is his nest egg. How much is it?”
“Currently about eight hundred thousand.”
“That is a not lot of money, really,” I said.
“I have no idea how to seize it, with our laws,” she said.
“We don’t need to. The government will. It’ll be snagged for escrow, put to earning interest, and if the owner comes forth and identifies themselves they get it back. Otherwise, it’ll default to the Freehold along with the interest. It’ll take a Citizen’s signature at the very least, but it’s doable.”
“How is it possibly constitutional?” she asked.
“That one rarely referenced section that prohibits entities from creating local government not respecting of the Constitution, exploiting minors and acts against the Freehold. Easy to prove he’s not the former, all he has to do is ID himself, show up and claim the money.”
“Since he’s doing one of the very few things our government would frown on, he can’t. If he were selling drugs, or pimping widows . . . ”
“Exactly. All legal. But exploitation of minors, espionage or acts against the Freehold, which this is, are proscribed.”
“What do we do?” she said.
“I send a message to the boss and we wave bye-bye to his bank account. I wanted him stressed. This should help.”
So, was he getting less than I thought he was? Failing to save enough? Having a lot of overhead for his gimmicks?
Likely money was not his major motivator. A means to an end, and he’d want a pension. He probably was doing it for the thrill, hence the risk-taking on the jobs.
There was only one way that could end. If he was at all rational, he knew that.
So I guessed he was living for the day. Whatever he enjoyed was the finest he could afford. The savings were to tide him over between jobs only. He didn’t expect to retire.
I understood it, at least. I’d made my career increasingly challenging and exciting. I’d retired because I had a daughter to raise who, despite being an accident, was the most wonderful thing that ever happened.
He didn’t have that. We’d all been loners and social misfits. We barely got along with our own type, and the more we advanced, the less we had in common with others. Those of us on that mission really were in it for the sheer challenge. Most had died, a few had lived.
I needed to find out who else had survived and what they were doing. That would give me insight into Randall.
I could easily see, though, that someone would want to maintain that rush as long as possible. Randall had that type of personality. They’d been trying to admin him out over some silly stuff when I found him. He was loyal in return for fair treatment, aggressive against attacks on his persona—his pride, his intellect, his capabilities. Always edgy and wanting to prove it. Now he was proving it.
I felt sorry for him.
***
Covering our DNA trace was messy and nasty, but just business. We both used the bucket for urine, brushed our hair over it, chopped up underwear into shreds over it, then snuck out with bottles and tubes to splash it over every tire and front deck in the parking lot, along with the exhausts of engined vehicles, so the heat would help disperse the material. She took one side of the lot, I the other, and we wandered around looking foolish whenever someone walked through the area. I should have thought ahead and dressed like scapers.
I had one close call as I bent over and started to spritz the tires on a Mercedes. Someone behind me called, “Excuse me!”
I looked up, feigned confusion, scanned through my memory and said, “Oh, sorry. Mine’s over there. I wondered why the tire looked clean.”
It worked. He assumed I wasn’t a thief, and he was correct. He drove off as I went to vandalize and contaminate another vehicle.
In short order, we could be traced to this lot, and then all over the capital. Our actual location should be lost among the noise, or too dim to place easily. He could verify our instantaneous location if he were in the immediate area and we were outside, but he’d have to get there first. My plan was not to let that happen.
I nodded to Silver when I was down to some puddles in the bottom. A quick look confirmed no one else was within view this late. I slung the bucket underhand into some bushes, where the real scaper could dispose of it later. We walked out of the lot and down the road. Cars passed us, disturbing the fresh air with exhaust or hints of ozone, which also disturbed hints of residue on us. We took hands and strolled as a couple into a Rabbit Hut restaurant. An hour later we’d scrubbed, ordered, eaten and returned to the room. To the best of our knowledge we were clear.
Next was to egress the area and get more discreet.
As soon as we were inside, Silver hit the comm to reserve two other rooms elsewhere. I packed our stuff. Tools, gear, the other comm, my basic slacks, kilt and shirts, shoes and boots, her tunics, unitards, blouses, lingerie. I treated it as any professional task, but I knew it would be a reminder later. I don’t have a problem not treating a female sexually. I do have a problem pretending to be intimate with a sexy, sensual woman while actually being a monk.
I cleared drawers, beds, curtains, for anything incriminating, hosed out the shower and wiped the tub and commode to minimize any traces.
Silver suddenly announced, “Hello.”
I stuck my head into the main room to look.
There was a banker on the news. It seemed someone had spooled the axles of his vehicle with monomolecular wire, even while it was parked in his secure compound. As the car drove, the wire wrapped around its special drum and sliced right through the undercarriage, the seat, and well into him. They noticed when he fell into several pieces and screamed as he bled out.
That was an impressive method, but silly. There were several things that could go wrong with it, such as the wrong victim, a failure of materials, being IDed on entry or exfil, vehicle changes. It certainly was visually outrageous, though. That was the MO.
The problem I faced is that there are just too many thousands of exotic ways to do people in. I couldn’t possibly plan for or even list all of them.
How many jobs did he have lined up here? At what point did he plan to retire, and where?
CHAPTER 17
I wasn’t keen on a house anymore, given the recent tail and other issues. I wanted to be able to fly in a second, and have the protection, distraction and concealment large crowds of people provided. However, we needed somewhere to fabricate tools. I found a small house in a quiet, lower middle class area just in from the port. It had one bedroom, one common room and services, a starter house for a couple without kids. I left enough cash to cover two months, and called it fair. Then I bought another car, and we repeated the registration scam. That made me nervous.
It had a covered garage, and Silver went to work, as did I. We installed a “barbecue” we could use for disposing of evidence and with a controlled air feed so we could do some basic metal treating. She adjusted, dismantled and modified parts of the car for better chase functions. I worked on some weapons. In between, we followed data and tried to figure who was next. We moved our car into the garage, our few possessions inside, and I made a quick trip to the store for an airbed and some thrift store utensils.
NovRos has some weird laws. They do allow weapons, unlike Earth. Their restrictions are all over the place, the requirements can vary by model, and the difference between a “sporting” arm and a military arm can be purely cosmetic—color or style of stock.
At an outfitters, I looked at a “sporting shotgun.” I’m not sure why it’s more “sporting” to shoot at targets or game with a 500-year old design rather than
a new one, but I don’t make the stupid laws. Again, due to a quaint local custom against anything effective, it had a two-round magazine. The barrel was seventy-centimeters, which was fine for hunting, but far too long for combat work. While asking about it, I found out that there’s a law against camouflage clothing. Apparently, if terrorists and rebels can’t buy camouflage, they grow despondent and won’t fight. At least I assume that was the logic. These fools held to the insane theory that inanimate objects create disorder and chaos. I nodded politely about how pretty it was. It actually was a very nice gun, just useless to my needs. It also had ID plates embedded in every component. I thanked them and left.
But I had done the basic improv weapons course, and I did have machinist experience, a Special Projects instructor, and a shop full of basic tools. We’d grabbed a pocket coordinate machine with lathe head at a farm supply store.
Steel or ceramic of a grade to make weapon barrels or liners was available in town, but I wanted to be discreet, so we settled for a shaft from a vehicle transmission from a cannibalizer. I straight-bored it and turned it on the lathe, not worrying about a forcing cone, rifling or choke, as this was a close-range combat weapon. A few strokes with the mill and a welded ring made it fit the receiver, then a pass through a fire while wrapped airtight in foil, and I had a forty-centimeter shotgun without filing paperwork with the government. It was not the lightest, strongest, most accurate barrel I’ve fired, but it would work, and safely.
For the receiver we chose plain steel. It wouldn’t be as durable as a professional product, but I didn’t expect to need more than a few shots before I abandoned it.
In the 1920s C.E. by Earth reckoning, Hiram Maxim created the first “silencers,” correctly called suppressors. His goal wasn’t to overthrow a government or enable assassination. Instead, he wanted to quiet a shotgun so he could hunt ducks without the flock scattering at the first blast. Also, no effective hearing protection existed back then. Suppressors are a very practical device and used on most projectile weapons today . . . except civilian weapons in nations where people are paranoid about such things.
All I did was drill a series of slightly rearward facing holes around the barrel and back ten-centimeters from the muzzle. I added several narrow, helical slots in among the pattern. We built a can with inner baffles and vent holes, stuffed it full of wire wool and slid it over the holes in the barrel, tacking it in place with a fusion welder. It protruded another ten-centimeters. Not elegant, not efficient, not low-profile, but it would quiet a kaboom down to a loud thump.
The receiver was a problem. It took several passes, and I finally stepped aside and let Silver do it, swallowing my pride. I’d never been formally trained, but relied on my wits, and I’d never been trained to build guns. I did, however, mill the internals. Then I cut a small bag and wired it with hooks. No need to leave shells around that could be traced to this weapon. All of this took about a local hour, plus time waiting for the heat-treat. While that happened, I folded two new sheet-steel magazines with bent wire for magazine springs. They loaded and cycled flawlessly no matter how ugly they looked, but we’d have to see how they handled combat. The originals held two shells, as I’ve said. Mine held five.
As soon as any decent product comes out, someone will make a knockoff. Thus it was with the crap at the store. This stuff was certainly fourth rate. I had a “field knife,” so-called because “combat knives” are illegal in NovRos. Twenty centimeters of steel is twenty centimeters of steel, as far as I’m concerned, but the people who obsess over such things will accept one and not the other. It looked a lot like the standard issue military knife, but that’s where the resemblance ended. This thing was decently constructed at least, but of third rate materials. The hilt was nylon and glass instead of boron fiber, the blade was a cheap utility steel instead of a good tool or cutlery steel. The sheath was neither a decent plastic nor fiber nor leather, but was flimsy vinyl. On a scale of one to ten, this rated perhaps a three.
The knife simply needed a molded thermoplastic sheath with a fabric liner to quiet it. That took a few segs. Sharpening it barely longer. It was ugly, but workable. For camo, I got some old work clothes, dyed them with carbon dust and grease, then washed them with strong soap and a little bleach. They came out a mottled gray-black. Perfect.
I was ready to go hunting, or to fight back against any intrusion. This was getting closer to my preferred environment.
Silver had a place to lay out tools and upgrade the vehicle, stitch armor if we needed it. She had encrypted channels to a remote booster, which I snuck up the side of a warehouse two hundred meters away, along with a spherical eye to watch for detection.
The one really tiresome aspect of this job is always having a bail-out bag and three escape routes ready. Every time one enters a building, one has to look for ways out, and assess everyone else. If you’re not paranoid when recruited, you are within a year. I remember one time six of us went out for lunch, and had to wait for a corner booth because no one was going to sit with their back to the door. Accordingly, our seats, desk and bed all faced out.
This also meant a lot more time working, but Silver and I could rest right on the spot, and generally in shifts. There was little overlap. I found it much easier to sleep, and I don’t think it was just the distraction of Silver’s body. I’d never had a regular sleep partner, and part of it seemed to be security tension; my hindbrain never believed I was safe with someone that close. Add in the sexual tension and it had been awful. I was much, much more relaxed and rested. It’s amazing how hard some things are to notice. Maybe it’s just me.
I did make a point of going out every morning with a stack of boxes to mail. It looked like we ran some home business or other.
This probably sounds like a major tasking, but we had most of it done in a local week—seven days, not ten.
The cargo hatch of the car was something we wanted to keep hidden. We lined it with some tools and scrap to make it look like a working car, to hide the guns, knives, spare clothes both camo and suit, node scrambling and spoofing gear, and other mayhem the police wouldn’t like if they found a reason to scan us. All we needed now was a lead on Randall.
***
The next day we made a patrol around the town, seeking signals, DNA traces, listening to news and getting familiar with the area. I felt good generally, but antsy.
Silver asked, “How long do you think he’ll be here?”
“Another couple of weeks. He seems to be on a cycle of about an Earth month, thirty days.”
“When does he run out of planets?”
“Yeah, there is that. He hasn’t gone too far afield yet, and Mtali seems to be an aberration. Everywhere else he’s been were wealthy systems. Eager to get home?”
“Eager to be done,” she said, and stretched. I stared at the road. “Home would be nice. This accidental tourism isn’t fun.”
“No, it’s not. I just realized I’ve never asked. Do you have family or relationship back home?”
“Nothing long term. Couple of guys in the unit I go out with. They won’t say anything.”
“Good,” I replied, though that wasn’t what I’d been asking about. It said a lot about me. She assumed I wanted a tactical brief. I was trying to take an interest in my subordinate’s social wellbeing.
She continued, “My parents and sister know I disappear for long periods on duty. I’d like to ping them via repeater, but I’m sticking to the letter of the reg. This guy is not someone to mess with.”
“Good. I’ll get you home as fast as possible. I wish I’d asked sooner.”
“Yes, you focus on yourself a lot,” she said. “Given your history, it’s probably a healthy and necessary adaptation.”
“I hope so,” I said. Except I’d been the same way before all the crap on Earth. It was just the nature of me. It’s not that I’m not interested and compassionate, but I really don’t notice other people except as resources. I do care when they get hurt, but it’s a responsive act, n
ot a natural interest. I don’t even know if that’s environmental behavior or instinctive.
Just then she said, “We’ve got one!” and brought audio up for me.
“—collapsed dead over dinner, apparently from a neural toxin. We will bring you other details as they become available.”
“Where?” I asked.
She popped up a map, I said, “Directions,” she keyed it and off we went. I exceeded traffic laws slightly, but generally complied, twitching in frustration as we went. If we could get there fast we could try for an intercept.
The place was cordoned, barricaded, had remotes up to first inform and then intercept vehicles, and a quickly building ring of press. Without a word, Silver handed me a press badge and grabbed two headband cameras from her ready bag.
I parked, we hopped out, and no one should question us rushing over. I looked for any kind of entrance, but there were too many cops and I didn’t want to be noticed. He was likely in the area, and might even have had a boobytrap waiting for me.
I walked around the whole building quickly and kept alert for him. Unlikely, but it could happen that I’d just run into him. The place was a restaurant and garden with wall at one end of a block of upscale shops and eateries. It had ironwork and nice bricks.
Silver took my cue and scanned around. She was looking for facial features, transmissions, signs of similar recon gear—that last had to be hard. I expected several of the news crews to be placed there, and that would complicate the search.
I didn’t see him, and Silver reported nothing at her end.
That done, I sought a gaggle of press on a grassy island overlooking the entrance and oozed in. There were ongoing mutters but I wanted something solid.