Crystal Conquest (6 page)

“What about now? Are we safe?”

The chief checked his com. “They’ve been moved to lockup six
levels down. You’ll be safe, unless they’re more of them we don’t know about.”

Lenny woke with a start. The car’s annoying
ding signaled he’d arrived at his destination. His mouth was dry and his lips
felt chapped. Looking out the windshield, he groped on the seat next to him for
his water pouch.

“What the hell?” The car was parked in front of a store with
four large display windows. His eyes flicked down the row and became wider as
he absorbed the view. Each window held a display of several life-like
mannequins in various poses. The models were all women, and they all wore outfits
so revealing that Lenny flushed.

He shifted his gaze to the farthest window and, in a systematic
fashion, studied each display. Taking a sip from his bottle, he stopped to
squint. This one was wearing an outfit so small and shear, he had to study the mannequin
to determine if she was wearing anything at all. He took a large swallow as his
eyes skipped over the front door and started on the next window display.

And then his blossoming excitement collapsed. A pudgy,
balding middle-aged man stepped into the window and started dressing one of the
life-sized dolls in a wisp of an outfit. He watched the man’s rump jiggle as he
bent over to fish around in a box at his feet.

Lenny turned forward and began an unsatisfactory
conversation with the car nav.

“Why did you drive here?”

“This is our destination, sir. Davenport city center.”

“No, it’s not. I asked to be driven to the Crystal Research
complex off Route 29.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you like to go there now?”

“Yeah. And take the fastest route you can.”

“Very good, sir.”

Lenny glanced back for a final look at the window displays as
the car pulled onto the street. Then he checked his com and started rubbing circles
on his temples. From what he remembered before drifting off to sleep, he’d been
cruising fast on the expressway and was forty minutes out from Crystal Research.
Now he was three hours south of the complex in a densely populated downtown area.
Twenty minutes of busy roads stood between him and the nearest expressway.

He traced the route the car had followed to get to this
place on the far side of a city he’d never heard of. As he studied his com
display, his car slowed and then stopped. He looked up to see traffic
congestion blocking his forward progress.

“Something’s not working,” he said to the nav. “The central
routing system should guide vehicles to avoid these situations.” He leaned to the
right, pressed the side of his head against the window, and strained to see
past the cars in front. As he swooped across the seat to repeat the process
from the left side, he asked, “What’s the hold-up?”

“Traffic, sir.”

The road ahead was jammed as far as he could see. “Turn around
and take another route,” he said, the exasperation clear in his voice.

The car looped back in front of the Luscious Lingerie
boutique, giving Lenny a bonus opportunity to enjoy the wonders in the windows.
They drove in the new direction for less than a minute before the car stopped. City
traffic blocked this path as well.

They made no discernable progress for ten minutes, and Lenny
sat and fumed. His stomach rumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything
since the pizza slice.

“Keep moving with traffic,” he said to the nav. “I’ll catch
up with you in a few minutes. If traffic clears, pull over and wait for me.”

He hopped out of the car and approached a walkway vendor tending
a shiny food service unit. He picked it because he liked the large colorful
umbrella providing shade for the customers.

Lenny waited while an actual person made him a turkey and
cheese sandwich on thick wheat bread. In a practiced motion, the vendor rolled
it up in a sheet of paper that matched the color pattern of the umbrella. Lenny
added a pouch of water to his order and strolled up the street, taking small
bites as he walked.

He wandered two blocks, searching for a reason for the holdup.
As he scanned ahead, all he saw were more cars, vans, and trucks jamming the roadway.
Dozens of people had climbed from their vehicles and were gathering in small groups.

* * *

Sid rubbed the back of his neck as
he considered his next actions. They were in the midst of a leadership meeting
in his quarters at Lunar Base. Cheryl sat to his right. To his left was an image
of Juice relaxing in her office chair at the Crystal Research complex.

While Sid knew her presence was a projected illusion—one he could
pass his hand through if he leaned over and swung his arm in her direction—her three-dimensional
appearance was perfect in its realism. This told Sid that Criss was devoting
extra resources to this meeting, and that confirmed the high importance he placed
on the discussion and its outcome.

Criss himself, still dressed in military-style fatigues, sat
across from Sid. He always projected himself with detailed realism and included
common human mannerisms in his behavior, making it easy to forget he was a
simulation created by an artificial intelligence. Criss looked at Sid as he ran
through a summary of Lenny Barton and the threat he presented.

Sid paid careful attention to Criss and this issue because,
like Juice and Cheryl, he too ran a business. His didn’t have a name or central
office, or appear to have employees, yet his small outfit of ex-government operatives
spent long hours on covert activities. Sid worked with Criss to set priorities,
and those often centered on safeguarding Juice, Cheryl, and the projects they
led.

Sid had left his job as a clandestine warrior with the Union
of Nations Defense Specialists Agency—the DSA—at the same time Cheryl had agreed
to lead the defense array project and Juice had taken the reins at Crystal Research.
Criss had convinced Sid that by protecting and facilitating the success of the leadership
team, his work would benefit the safety and well-being of billions of people.

That level of impact resonated with Sid, and he used it to rationalize
his move to a private shop. He left unsaid that this new arrangement permitted
him ample quality time with the woman he loved—the talented and beautiful Cheryl
Wallace.

Wrapping up his summary, Criss requested that Sid return to Earth
immediately. “Lenny will reach the research complex within the day. There’s a
service transport prepping for departure from Lunar Base as we speak. It has an
open jump seat and will get you here before he arrives.”

“Criss,” said Sid, frustration showing in his voice. “Cheryl
was attacked just hours ago, and it caught you by surprise. How can I leave her
unprotected in such a dangerous environment?”

Cheryl moved to speak but stopped when Criss responded.

“I admit my failure and apologize.” He looked down at his
hands folded in his lap. His act of contrition was convincing. “I shifted much
of my attention to Lenny for a brief period when I recognized the threat he presented.
A portion of those resources came from what I was using to track the two of you
and the activities here at Lunar Base.” He looked up and caught Sid’s eye. “At
the time, I estimated the odds of a mishap during those moments to be vanishingly
small.”

Sid studied Criss for a few moments and chose to accept the
explanation. “Maybe we should slow Lenny down by creating some physical
challenges.” Both Cheryl and Juice glared at Sid, their frowns communicating
their displeasure. They knew this meant hurting the young man. Criss flashed a half
smile at Sid and resumed his solemn demeanor.

Sid, immune to judgment when it came to his tradecraft,
pondered the situation. It wasn’t clear to him why this Lenny—a twenty-year-old
college kid—caused Criss such concern. Other interlopers had been a bother in
the past, and Criss had flicked them away like a speck of lint on a coat
sleeve. Then again, in the two years they’d known each other and worked together,
Criss had never led Sid astray. And he certainly never cried wolf.

Sid glanced at his com. His men had arrived and, since they
were here posing as Fleet crew, were sitting through an orientation program all
new arrivals must endure. He looked at Cheryl and communicated silently that
she had a say in his decision.

“The service transport leaves in two hours,” said Sid. “Let
me touch base with Hop, Jefe, and Dent. If I’m on board, you can count on me
being there to greet Lenny.”

Sid stood up, signaling an end to the meeting. The images of
Criss and Juice blinked away. He stepped over, stood in front of Cheryl, and held
out his hands. She grasped them and he pulled her up from her seat. He wrapped
his arms around her and kissed her neck below her right ear. “I don’t want to
leave you,” he whispered.

“Let’s go meet your men,” Cheryl whispered back, pressing
her body against his.

“Let them wait. Help me pack and stuff.”

“And stuff?”

He kissed her beneath her left ear.

* * *

Sid loaded his few possessions into
his duffel while Cheryl, stretched languidly on his bunk, watched. He’d packed on
short notice so many times in the last decade that he could complete the task
in just over a minute. As he went through the familiar motions, he considered how
his current job was similar to when he had been a covert agent for the DSA and
how it was decidedly different.

The biggest difference was from an operational perspective.
He no longer needed teams for research and analysis, reconnaissance and surveillance,
logistics and resourcing, and similar mission support services.
Criss
provides me whatever I need, pretty much as soon as I ask.

And similar to his DSA life, he still had a partner for
backup and collaboration. But now that individual was Criss, a sentient AI
crystal housed in an underground bunker.

So far, having a partner who lacked a corporeal presence hadn’t
presented any disadvantages during an assignment. Quite the opposite; society
used image projection for routine interactions, and Criss was masterful at
impersonating a family member, trusted confidant, or business associate of a
target. People will respond to most any request if asked by the right person.

On occasion Sid’s outfit had a job that required someone to
remove something from a particular location, or perhaps have an item placed there.
Most of these were outsourced to contractors experienced enough never to ask questions.

And there were the sensitive tasks that were best not
delegated. A classic example was the need to look someone in the eye when
closing a deal with a friendly handshake, while at the same time using the
other hand to give an intimidating grip on the shoulder. Sid was the only
option in the partnership for these assignments.
I don’t mind
.
I’m
good at it.

As he fastened his duffel, he reassured himself that there
was one unique attribute he brought to the business, and that was the gift of insight.
It was an instinctual attribute; there was no magic.

The DSA had recruited him years earlier in part because of
his uncanny ability to find pathways to success in the midst of rapidly devolving
chaos. They tasked him as an agent-improviser and helped him hone the improbable
skill. Over time he proved himself often enough that Criss now asked him to
lead in particularly challenging situations.

He sat down to put on his shoes. “It’s time to meet the
men.” Smiling at Cheryl, he teased her. “You may want to fix your clothes.”

* * *

Cheryl followed Sid on a short jaunt
down the hall. They took a left followed by a quick right, and stepped inside a
billet that looked like a cookie-cutter duplicate of Sid and Cheryl’s own quarters,
down to the same panoramic view pics on the wall.

Three men stood together and, as Sid greeted them, he introduced
each one to Cheryl.

Cheryl saw similar qualities in all three. Like Sid, they
were tall, lean, and fit. They all conveyed a palpable air of confidence that
left no doubt they could handle themselves in most any situation. And like Sid,
they all projected a disarmingly modest persona.

“This is Hop Cassidy,” said Sid, shaking hands with one. In
his early forties, Hop was the oldest of the group. “He’ll be taking Geitz’s
place in the defense array command center. He’s embedded here as a lieutenant,
but two years ago he was a major in Fleet’s strategic tech center.” Hop met
Cheryl’s eyes as Sid continued. “He’s fluent in the jargon, understands the
technology, and should mesh well with Grace in running the center.”

“Hello, Hop,” said Cheryl, shaking his hand and smiling. She
knew Sid preferred that members of his outfit use pseudonyms during a mission.
It was a common practice during his time with the DSA, and she suspected that
carrying on the tradition was, for him, a rare display of nostalgia.

“This is Jefe Diablo,” said Sid, shaking the next fellow’s
hand. “Jefe’s replacing that tech sergeant who attacked us in the canteen.”

Jefe had started shaking hands with Cheryl and stopped to flash
a quizzical look at Sid. It was clear the attack was news to him. His eyebrows
scrunched slightly, and Cheryl imagined this information driving a fresh
assessment of how he might approach the mission.

Cheryl turned to Dent as Sid introduced him. Though too
polite to ask, she concluded this was a nickname rather than a pseudonym. He
had a crease in his skull on the left side of his forehead just at the
hairline. It was as long as her little finger, though not nearly as deep, and it
showed no sign of scar tissue.

She tried to picture an incident, perhaps in the tumult of
childhood, that might have led to such an injury, but could conjure only bizarre
scenarios. When she clasped his outstretched hand, she concentrated on meeting
his eyes. He returned a friendly smile and gave her a wink.

“Dent is here as an ops specialist,” said Sid. “So he’ll be
out and about. You probably won’t see much of him. But it’s not unusual to find
ops specialists anywhere on a base, working on just about anything. This gives
you freedom to use him as a utility player if the need arises.”