The Nexus Series: Books 1-3 (7 page)

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
gear.  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 do 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 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, please immediately 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 did a
search on Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery, 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 had
never been 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.

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.”

“They told us not
to talk to the press.”

“I
understand.  In that case, maybe you could transfer me to the personnel
who arrested her in the first place?”

“Look, it wasn’t
my people who let that girl escape!  Make sure you write that in your
story.”

“Of course. 
In your view, Mr.
Bollis
, who
was
responsible
for her escape?”

“They sent
someone down to move her for questioning.  That’s when she made her
getaway.”

“
Who
sent
someone down to move her for questioning?”

“No idea. 
Our records just say ‘special branch’—that means we’re not supposed to know.”

“I
understand.  But someone acted on behalf of the special branch to put the
prisoner in your care?”

“Sure, that would
be Janice Moeller.”

“Great.  May
I speak with her?”

The warden was
only too happy to transfer the call away.

More canned
music.  Jill held her breath.  It was unlikely that this Janice would
still be at work, but there was always a chance...

“Janice Moeller
speaking.”

“I need to speak
with Director Holiday.”

“I’m...afraid I
don’t know who that is.”

“I’m afraid you
do.  Put him on, please.”

“I’m sorry, I’m
not aware of any Holiday.”

“Maybe this will
jar your memory:  He’s the one who had you put me in jail—until I
escaped.  I’m guessing he’ll be a little upset when he finds out you hung
up on me instead of putting me through to him.”

Janice cleared
her throat.  “
Wh
-who’s calling, please?”

“Jill Branch.”

Silence for a
long moment.  “I see.  I’ll find out if Director Holiday is
available.”

“If he’s not on
in one minute I’m hanging up.”

It took only a
few seconds.  Holiday didn’t bother with a greeting.  “If you’re
calling to rub it in, don’t expect me to be rapt with attention.”

“I’m calling to
say I’ve changed my mind.”

“Oh?  You’re
coming back to jail?”

“I want to accept
your offer.”

He paused before
replying:  “You’re assuming our offer still stands after your little
escapade.”

It wasn’t all
that surprising that he was being stand-offish.  “My record wasn’t exactly
squeaky-clean before that, but you wanted me then.”

“And since that
time you’ve done nothing whatsoever to indicate that you’re interested in
joining us.  Just the opposite, in fact.”

“Other than
calling you right now.”

“For what
purpose?  Who’s to say why you’ve really decided to give us jingle in the
middle of the night?”

“Why else would I
risk making a call and being traced?”

“Don’t pretend
you’re not blocking our trace, Jillian.”

“Trying to,
anyway.  But don’t pretend your tracers are not doing everything in their
power.”

“They are, of
course.  Unfortunately it will still take a few more minutes.”

“I’ll take that
to mean about thirty seconds.”

“Take it however
you want.  The point is, we would be foolish to extend our offer to you
any longer.”

“You wanted me
because I’m good at what I do.  All I did by breaking out of jail was
prove it.”

“I’m afraid that
is
not
all you did by breaking out of jail.”

“So I missed my
chance?”

Holiday hesitated
only a moment.  “All right, Jillian.  You want to join us, tell us
face to face.”

“Where can I meet
you?”

“Right here at
our headquarters, of course.”

What was he
playing at?  “How am I supposed to get there?”

“Oh, I’ve no
doubt you’ll find a way.”

“You’re talking
about breaking into a secure section of GoCom.”

Holiday
sniffed.  “You seemed to have no trouble breaking out of it.”

“I wouldn’t
exactly say it was no trouble.”

“Take it or leave
it, Jillian.  If you’d like us to extend our offer one last time,
demonstrate your worth one last time.  It’s only reasonable.”

She couldn’t deny
it.

“Oh, and
Jillian?  About the trace—I was a bit conservative in my estimation. 
You’ve only got a few more seconds.”

She’d hung up
before he finished saying it.

IN
his
office overlooking HQ, Giles Holiday smiled to himself as he broke the
connection.

Corey had been
talking with the director when the call came.  “It was her, wasn’t it?”

Holiday nodded.

“You traced the
call?”

“She blocked it.”

Corey
grimaced.  “Sherlock...?”

The director
shook his head.  “He hasn’t spotted her.  No VOFARE recognition as of
yet.”

“You’re not
seriously giving her another chance?”

“Isn’t that what
we do, Corey—give people another chance?”

“She already had
an opportunity.”

“And she turned
it down at first, yes.  Remind you of anyone in particular?”

Corey looked
away.  “I didn’t turn down your offer, exactly.  I just needed some
time to think.”

“And so did
Jillian, apparently.”

“She broke out of
jail!”

“And that means
we shouldn’t allow her to become one of us?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Should it? 
More than any other crime she’s already committed?...More than any other crime
you’ve committed in your past?”

“
I’ve
committed?”

Holiday
shrugged.  “You weren’t exactly a saint yourself when we took you on.”

“I didn’t break
out of jail to get away from you.”

“A dangerous line
of thinking, Corey, concentrating on what you
didn’t
do.  There’s
always something someone else has done that we haven’t done, isn’t there? 
Helps the ego immensely to focus on those things, doesn’t it?”

Corey was
indignant, and didn’t mind showing it.  “So we’ll just take anyone, no
matter what?”

“Anyone who
willingly joins our cause, yes.  You disagree?”

“It seems like we
have to have
some
standards.”

“Such as?”  Holiday
stood behind his desk and looked Corey in the eye.  “How many crimes must
one commit before one is disqualified?  Which sort of crimes?  How
many opportunities must one receive before it’s too late?  I suppose you
have a system in mind?  A system that lets you in but not Jillian, or I
miss my guess.”

Corey gritted his
teeth.  “No.  I don’t have a system in mind.  But breaking out
of jail after our offer has been extended!  If that doesn’t disqualify
someone, then what does?”

“How about
letting
someone break out of jail, due to personal negligence?” Holiday suggested.

Corey
swallowed.  “Don’t I feel lousy enough about that already?”

“If you still
think you deserve to be here more than someone else, no; you don’t feel nearly
lousy enough.”

Corey didn’t
reply.

Holiday softened
a bit.  “I know what you’re feeling, Corey.  You’re angry at the way
she used you.  I don’t blame you.  But if you’re trying to make
yourself feel better by comparing yourself favorably to her, don’t.”

“I’ll make myself
feel better,” Corey said under his breath, “when I find her and get her back
behind bars.”

MARTIN
P. Daniels awoke to the sound of the living room window shattering
downstairs—or rather, he awoke to the sound of his wife shrieking, and then she
told him the living room window had shattered downstairs.  She called the
police while he got his gun and tiptoed downstairs, trembling in his paisley
bathrobe.

He got to the
bottom of the stairs and peeked around the corner.  The window was broken,
all right.  Nothing was left but jagged teeth of glass around the frame.

The interesting
thing was that the window had been broken from the inside.  The shards of
glass were in the back yard instead of on the living room carpet.

The police always
arrived quickly in Palm Hills Estates.  They searched the house thoroughly
and determined that there was no intruder.  Mrs. Daniels then searched the
house thoroughly herself, and determined that nothing was missing.

“So why would an
intruder break in silently, steal nothing, and then leave by breaking the
window?” Martin P. Daniels thought out loud.

“Maybe to make
sure you got this,” said a cop.  He was gesturing to a note tacked just
below the broken window.  Daniels hadn’t seen it before.  He read the
note, then tossed it aside in disgust.

“What does it
say?” Mrs. Daniels asked.  When her husband didn’t answer, she read the
note herself.  All it said was:  “Thanks for the lift.”

It wasn’t until
the next morning that Martin P. Daniels realized the intruder had taken
something after all:  His GoCom identification card.

THE
man sitting across from Director Holiday was very tall and very bald. 
Those who knew him had a suspicion he was also very old.  But with those
tight facial features, and probably a plastic surgery or two, who could know for
sure?  People called him Riley.  It was probably his last name. 
If he also had a first name no one knew that either.

Riley was one of
the few who knew Holiday’s department existed.  His official title was
Chief Home Planet Liaison.  Basically he kept in contact with
Earth—specifically with the United Space Programs who had built MS9.  He
made sure they were up to date on all the excitement going on in the Anterran
government, let them know his complaints, and so on.  He probably had a
lot of those.  Complaints were one of Riley’s specialties.  Holiday
was reminded of this each time Riley paid him a visit.

Today was no
exception.

“You want the bad
news, or the bad news?” Riley asked.  Most conversations with Riley
started roughly this way.

“I’ve heard both
already,” said Holiday.  “A GoCom ID was stolen, and it was probably
stolen by Jillian Branch.”

“Not
probably.  Definitely.”

Holiday didn’t
seem to think the bad news was quite as bad as Riley thought it was.  He
was obviously suppressing a smile.

“I understand you
dared this Jillian Branch to find her way back here to your headquarters, is
that so?”  Riley crossed his long arms as he asked the question.

“It was an
invitation, not a dare.”

“Provided she
could get here by her own means.”

“Correct.”

“Director
Holiday, I hate to question your methods—”

“We both know
you’re only too happy to question my methods.  Go on.”

Riley sputtered,
then continued:  “Have you thought this through?  Is this girl really
what you’re looking for to staff your department?”

“Whether you like
the members of my staff or not is your opinion, Riley.  But what my staff
has accomplished is not a matter of opinion.  Our success is a
well-documented fact.  I’ll thank you to let me do my job the way I see
fit, and recruit the sort of help I want, so long as we’re getting results.
 Which we most certainly are.”

“Results such as
letting a girl escape from the GoCom jail?”

Holiday looked
amused.  “A girl who would never have been in jail in the first place if
not for my people.”

Riley sputtered
again.  “I’ll concede the point.  But you won’t be the one to catch
her again.  That’s up to the other GoCom departments—you know, the ones
that hire qualified professionals and don’t have to operate secretly? 
Don’t make us keep doing your job for you.”

“It’s none of my
business, of course, but exactly how do you plan on catching Miss Branch?”