“Yes, thank you. Team B is boxing him. He just sat down in the fifth carriage.”
He bought a coffee for himself and a tea for Paula. “So do you suspect any of team B?”
“I don’t have any real suspects, sadly,” she said, and blew across the top of her cup. “That means I have to treat everyone as the possible leak.”
“Does that include me?”
She sipped her tea, and gave him a thoughtful look. “If you are working for an executive security service, or some corporate black ops division, then whoever planted you has resources and foresight beyond even my ability to counter.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Thank you for doing this, Hoshe.”
“My pleasure. I just hope it gets you what you need.”
“Me, too.”
He stood beside the Bean Here stall and watched the train pull out of the station. All in all, it was a strange business, and whatever the outcome, he knew he wouldn’t like it. Either the President was killing off citizens with impunity, or that lunatic Bradley Johansson had been right all along. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
It took ten minutes for the loop train to reach LA Galactic. Most of that was spent crawling slowly through the Seattle station as they waited for their slot amid the goods trains at the trans-Earth loop gateway. Centuries ago, when it was starting out, not even CST could afford a chunk of real estate in LA the size it needed to house a planetary station. So it moved south of San Clemente and leased some of Camp Pendelton from the U.S. government, in an agreement that provided the Pentagon with direct access to wormholes, giving them the ability to deploy troops anywhere on the planet (or off it). The military requirement had slowly ebbed as more and more of Earth’s population left to find their own particular brands of freedom and nationalism out among the stars, leaving fewer and fewer warlords and fanatics behind until finally the Unified Federal Nations came into existence. While the old armies were dying off, CST had continued its inexorable expansion. Over half of phase one space’s H-congruous planets had been discovered and explored from LA Galactic; and when the CST finally moved its exploratory division out to the Big15, the commercial division quickly stepped in to take up the slack. LA Galactic rivaled the stations on any of the Big15 for size and complexity.
Stig got off the loop train on platform three in the Carralvo terminal, a giant multisegment modernistic building of white concrete bled even whiter by California’s unforgiving sunlight. Despite the sheer size of the structure, it thrummed and vibrated from the passage of trains that wound in and out of it along elegant curving viaducts, that were sometimes stacked three high thanks to elaborate twisting buttresses. He could have found his way around the Carralvo in complete darkness, and not just the public areas; the utility corridors, management offices, and staff facilities were all loaded in his insert files. Not that he really needed the reference. The other seven passenger terminals were equally familiar.
He had spent years working here. If the Guardians could be said to havea regular base of operations in the Commonwealth it was at LA Galactic. It was the perfect, and essential, place for them. Hundreds of thousands of tons of industrial and consumer products were routed between its gateways every day. Food imports came to over a million tons, while raw materials in transit accounted for an even bigger market. Thousands of import-export companies, from the Intersolar giants to virtuals that were no more than a coded array space and a numbered bank account, had their offices and warehouses and transport depots within the city-sized station compound. Each one was plugged into the giant network of rails and CST cargo-handling facilities, both physically and electronically. Each one with multiple accounts in the finance network. Each one with links to the Regulated Goods Directorate. Each one with offices, from entire skyscrapers to suites of leased rooms. They grew, shrank, went bankrupt, floated and went Intersolar, moved headquarters from one block to another, changed personnel, merged, fought each other bitterly for contracts. It was supercapitalism in a confined pressure-cooker environment that was merciless to any weakness.
Over the decades, Adam Elvin had formed and folded dozens of companies at LA Galactic. He wasn’t alone. The number of companies that came and went within a single month could often be measured in hundreds. His were hidden amid the flow, no different from all the other chancers who set themselves up to supply markets they either knew about or believed in. He would create identities for himself, along with all the associated datawork, and use the name to register a company that wouldn’t be used for years. When he did start it up, it would be as a legitimate business competing for trade along with all the others.
It was a process that had served the Guardians well. Every operation to deliver armaments and equipment to Far Away involved a front at LA Galactic. It allowed him to track the shipments passively. And at some time all the items would pass through for checking, or switching, or to be disguised. As far as Paula Myo and the Serious Crimes Directorate knew, they were just another rented warehouse in the chain.
This time, with Johansson embarking upon his planet’s revenge project, and the navy becoming perilously efficient in pursuing them, the scale of the operation was larger than ever before, and its focus expanded. After Venice Coast, Adam was developing his paranoia to new heights.
Lemule’s Max Transit had leased an entire floor of the Henley Tower, an unimaginative thirty-five-story glass and carbon and concrete building on the San Diego side of LA Galactic, standing in the forest of similar office towers that made up one of the station’s commercial administration parks. Twenty Guardians worked in its offices. Four of them were occupied by the shipments of illicit goods to Far Away, while the rest devoted themselves to security.
As soon as Stig bought his ticket for the loop train he sent a message to a onetime unisphere address. Kieran McSobel, who was on duty at the Lemule office, received it, and as procedure required, launched a battery of onlook software into the planetary cybersphere. The programs installed themselves in the nodes that served the loop train Stig was using. They began analyzing the data flowing through the nodes.
The results flipped up across Kieran’s virtual vision. “Damnit. Marisa, we’ve got internal encrypted traffic in Stig’s train. Five sources, one in his carriage.”
On the other side of the open plan office, Marisa McFoster accessed the onlook information. “That doesn’t look good. It’s a standard box formation. The navy’s burned him. Shit!” She called Adam.
“We need the software he’s carrying,” Adam said. “Can we go for a dead recovery?”
“The bots are in place,” Marisa said. She ran diagnostics on the little machines, bringing them up to operational status. “We’ve got time. Gareth is covering the Carralvo. He can walk by.”
“Do it.”
“What about Stig?”
Adam kept his face composed, not showing the youngsters how worried he was. How the hell did the navy find him? “We can’t break the box, that’ll alert the navy and betray our own capability. He’ll have to do it himself. Send him a discontinue and break order when we’ve confirmed recovery. And activate the Venice safe house. He’ll have to undergo reprofiling if he makes it there.”
“Yes, sir,” Marisa said.
“Don’t worry, he’s good, he’ll make it.”
Stig walked down the long curving ramp at the end of the platform. It was one of ten that connected platforms to the central concourse where the flood of people had reached the density of a baseball stadium crowd rushing for their seats. He counted off the emergency exits as he moved along the ramp. When he reached the concourse it would take another three and a half minutes to get to the taxi stand. From there to the office would take another ten minutes at least, depending on how heavy traffic was on the station compound’s internal highways.
Ahead of him, Gareth stepped onto the ramp, and began walking toward him. He was wearing a smart gray jacket over a yellow shirt.
Training made sure Stig didn’t turn his head as the two of them passed. But it was hard. Gray on yellow. A dead recovery order. There could only be one reason for that: he was under observation.
They were good, he had to admit that. For the whole trip back from Oaktier he’d been checking, and hadn’t seen anyone. Of course, it could be a virtual surveillance; a team with an RI hacking onto him through public cameras and sensors. Even harder to shake.
As he stepped off the ramp, the concourse layout was looming large in his mind. He headed left for the even numbered platforms, then took one of the triple escalators down to the lower level mall. All the while he was watching. It was difficult now. He was conscious of looking up when he reached the midlevel and took the next set of escalators. The sure sign of someone hunting for a box. Would it tip them off? Yet if they’d been following him, they would have seen him going through the check routine. Not looking might be worse. He settled for a brief, casual glance upward, locking the image in an insert file.
As the escalator slipped smoothly downward he studied the ghostly image in his virtual vision. There was one person up there, a typical West Coast surfer standing close to the balcony rail, who had also got off the loop train from Seattle. They hadn’t been in the same carriage, though. Stig expanded the image and studied the man. Thick blond hair in a ponytail, sharp nose, square jaw, casual plain blue shirt and jeans. He couldn’t tell. But the image was on instant recall now.
The escalator delivered him to the marble and neon mall, and he walked over to the public washroom. Most of the stalls were empty. A couple of guys were using the urinals. Father and young son at the washbasins.
Stig took the second empty stall, locked the door, and dropped his pants. If the box had covered the washroom ahead of him, there was nothing for them to be suspicious about yet. On his handheld array he transferred the software he’d collected from Kareem into a memory crystal, and ejected the little black disk from the unit. He put it into a standard-looking plastic case, wrapped that in toilet tissue, and dropped it into the pan. It flushed away easily enough, and he left the stall to wash his hands.
When he went back out into the mall, the blond-haired man in the blue shirt was window shopping twenty meters away.
Stig went into the nearest sports shop and bought himself a new pair of trainers, paying cash. The box team would have to check that out. Next was a department store for a pair of sunglasses. He went back up to the main concourse, and stopped at one of the small stalls that sold tourist T-shirts and chose a fairly decent sun hat. Then he went along to the left luggage lockers and put his credit tattoo on the locker he’d taken three days before. It opened, and he removed the black shoulder bag that contained the emergency kit.
Without looking back or running any more checks he went straight to the taxi stand. As the revolving door offered him up to the warm Californian sunlight, Stig smiled; despite the seriousness of being burned, he was going to enjoy the next few hours.
The warehouses didn’t annoy Adam as much as the districts of office towers that nestled along the southern side of LA Galactic. He hated the multitude of handling and transport companies that survived in parasitic bondage with the CST rail network. They were true capitalist entities, producing nothing, charging people to supply products, adding to the cost of living on a hundred worlds, living off those who worked in production. Not, he had to concede, that those who worked in production these days were the old working classes in a true Marxist definition; they were all engineers who went around troubleshooting cybernetics. But for all the changes and undeniable improvements automation and consumerism had brought to the proletariat’s standard of living, it hadn’t changed the financial power structure that ruled the human race. A tiny minority controlled the wealth of hundreds of worlds, bypassing, buying, or corrupting governments to maintain their dominance. And here he was, living among them, a keen consumer of their products, daunted by their size, his life’s purpose almost lost as he sold more and more of himself to Johansson’s cause. A cause that was now giving him a great deal of concern. It wasn’t something he’d told anyone—after all, who could he tell?—but he was having to
