Underneath the statues was a monstrous plaque that read, From past to future, blood and metal, science and spirit.
I wasn’t too fond of coming here. As I approached the desk, the receptionist peered up at me, irritated at being made to look up from her paperwork.
“Yes?” She had a thick Brooklyn accent, sounded like a showgirl from one of the theatres around town. Maybe this was a part-time job to help her pay rent or for other amenities. There was no uniform required at GE, and I knew the suit she was wearing was far too expensive for her to have purchased on her own dime.
“Detective Roche.” I flashed her the badge. She had no way of knowing it wasn’t my number on the front. “I need access to your Automatic database. Official police business.”
“Sorry, no can do.” She turned to the terminal next to her and started clicking on the metal keyboard until I cleared my throat to get her attention again. She looked back to me with annoyance — a look I knew well.
“This is official police business, and I’m demanding access.”
“You can have all the access you want … down here. But unless you know how to go through that database — which you don’t — or unless there’s someone on duty who can — which there isn’t — you ain’t getting in and you ain’t doin’ your job until tomorrow.”
She turned away before I could respond, so I placed the badge back in my pocket and retreated from the desk. Away from her gaze, I circled the desk and found a small directory on the wall, which I scanned until I found what I needed: Depository and Database Access, floor fifty-three. The only way to get up there was for me to be an assembly-line worker or a Tinkerman. Thankfully, both types of employees used the same elevators. I definitely couldn’t pass for a Tinkerman, but I sure fit the bill as a worker. Thank Rockefeller for saving costs by not allotting separate elevators.
I leaned against one of the walls in the main foyer, taking my time scanning for workers. While I waited, I examined the strip of metal bearing a serial number that I’d removed from the dead Automatic. It was remarkably intact, as though it had already begun to peel away before I’d torn it off. What sort of idiot Mob Tinkerman would have left it on? Maybe they’d just forgotten. But something about that idea didn’t sit right with me.
I planned my route carefully. I had to slip into the stream of returning workers nonchalantly, lest the receptionist catch a glimpse of me gaining “access.” As the train of dirty men approached, I began walking forward and grabbed one aside as we slowed down, making sure he saw the glimmer of my badge before he called for assistance. The man had a gaunt face, thin arms, and dirty overalls. Poor bastard could have been in his thirties or his fifties — I wasn’t sure.
The only way into the elevator was with a temporary access card workers received every morning at roll call. I slipped a twenty into his hand and he passed me his card, as I’d known he would. I joined the line of workers funnelling into the main elevator, flashing my card in front of the blue light just outside the doors. A high-pitched chime confirmed that it had been successfully scanned. I entered and asked the elevator operator — he looked slightly less dishevelled than everyone else — to press the button for level fifty-three as the elevator shot upward with intense speed.
GE had tech the world wouldn’t see for years. Though their cameras were rudimentary, anyone running security would know something was up if they saw someone looking like me on a technician-only floor. Once I got up there, I’d have little time to try getting in and out unscathed.
I felt like a bullet shaken in a barrel as the elevator stopped intermittently to let workers exit at various floors to get to their stations. Whenever the silver door slid open, I could see presses, assembly lines, power tools, Tesla Batteries — the works. The air that seeped inside the elevator as it stopped at each floor was rank and smelled of oil, making me choke. I got a suspicious look from the elevator operator. Probably most everyone who worked here was accustomed to the air by now. But before long, the doors slid apart at my destination. I exited as though I knew where I was going, trying to look confident for the benefit of anyone who might be spying on me. In truth, I had no clue where I was going.
The sound of typing emanated from most of the small offices that lined the many corridors sprouting away from the elevator doors. Most of the people there looked to be catalogue workers, who made sure that every metal man pushed out or brought in was accounted for. Directly across from the elevator was a solid glass wall and a set of double doors leading to a mainframe. I could have walked right in and used that main terminal, but someone
