It’s said that living well is the best revenge. People who say that sort of thing aren’t very
good at either. Over the years, I’ve
gone through millions of credits perfecting the art of living well. Tonight, well, it’s about revenge.
Eight weeks ago, my father came to the planet Mastrion to
clean out the vault in a small branch of one of the planet’s largest bank
chains. Bank robberies grab a lot of
headlines in the media these days because they’re pretty rare. Between three-dimensional high-resolution
holographic cameras, DNA profiling, digital cash, fast-moving robotic guards,
and a litany of other technologies, bank robbery isn’t a profitable enterprise
these days.
Occasionally you pick up a scrap of information about the
contents of a bank vault somewhere that makes the task worthwhile. Dad happened to be watching “Life with the
Wealthy and Reclusive” when he learned that a woman on this planet inherited a
fortune in bearer bonds from her estranged father. A few discreet inquiries later, and he found
they were in one of Mastrion Planetary Trust’s oldest and least-secure
branches. After dropping by the bank to
setup an account and scout the security options, he realized he could liberate
the bonds from the vault without too much difficulty.
“Should be a quick in-and-out,” he told me before he left,
“The vault’s against the back wall of the bank.
There’s a single robot guard stationed inside the vault. I’ll use a laser lance to put a small hole
through the back wall, flip a micro-EMP through the hole to take out the robot,
then cut a bigger hole through to go in and grab the bonds. It’ll take thirty minutes, tops.”
That was three weeks ago.
A little digging in the planetary news outlets found a news
story about a John Doe arrested during a robbery who suffered a heart attack
while in police custody. Posing as a
distraught son, which wasn’t too much of a stretch, I was able to view the
images of the John Does that the coroner had processed. As I flipped through the digital file, the
barely unrecognizable face of my father stared back at me. It was bruised severely, swollen in places,
and had clearly taken a beating. I
pretended not to recognize anyone in the files in case the planet’s police
force was watching, and left.
The photo told me all I needed to know, but I like to be
sure. The crime Dad planned didn’t
involve anything violent. If it had, I’d
have insisted on going with him. He was
getting on in years and wasn’t suited to the physical stuff anymore.
One good thing about all the security cameras we have on us
these days is that it’s hard for anyone, including the police, to keep many
secrets. Being an expert in security
cameras, alarms, and locking mechanisms – you have to be in my line of work –
it was child’s play to identify businesses between the bank and police station
with security cameras and footage. I
copied what they had and brought it back to an abandoned warehouse where I’d
set up shop.
On one camera, I saw Dad pretending to be a tourist looking
for a restaurant. I’d seen him do that
bit before. As he reached the rear of
the bank, the security camera facing the wall turned to static.
Nearby cameras showed the police arriving a few minutes
after Dad knocked out the security camera.
The police response on this planet must be breathtaking. Seconds after that, I saw my Dad being hauled
away in manacles and tossed into a truck.
Enhancing those images as best I could, I could see no indication of a
struggle. No cuts or bruises. Those happened while he was in police custody.
A few centuries ago, it wouldn’t have been unusual for an
uncooperative or violent suspect to suffer bumps and bruises at the hands of
the police. They didn’t have modern
drugs and tools for keep a suspect calm and restrained. But this planet had them, and from everything
I could find in the media archives, it made use of them. Police violence was unheard of. So why did they rough up my dad? The right medicines could force you to fall
asleep, tell the truth, or become cooperative.
Violence, especially in the case of an older criminal, was as out of
place as a two-trunked blue elephant walking down a crowded sidewalk.
Whoever did this to my father would pay for it. I would
see to that.
Before you start getting too concerned, let’s establish a few
facts. While I am quite capable of
violence, I employ it only when necessary.
When necessary, I use violence only to protect myself and my
freedom. If faced with the choice of
committing murder or being sent to prison, I will choose prison. No matter how terrible my adversary or how
desperate my situation, I will not kill.
I don’t believe in taking the life of another. It’s not my choice who lives or dies, or how
they do it. So when I say that those who
killed my father will pay, I’m talking about ensuring that they are brought to
justice… not dying by my hand. That’s an
important distinction for me. It’s the
number one rule I live by: Never kill.
No doubt this makes you wonder about the other rules I live
by. There are too many to go into, but
I’ll give you the most important ones. I
never kill, as I said. I will never
steal from someone who cannot afford or recover from the loss. I injure someone only when faced with no
other alternative. I never commit the
same crime twice, so that I don’t establish a pattern the police can
predict. Where I can, I’ll make sure
violent criminals end up in police custody.
In a nutshell, that’s me.
It was getting late, so I walked around the perimeter of the
warehouse, setting up an effective but low-tech security system as I went. If anyone opened a door, window, or roof
hatch on this building, I’d hear a loud sound – like glass breaking. I’m a light enough sleeper that this would rouse
me, and stir me to action.
Tomorrow, I’d find out which policemen roughed up my Dad and
why. Right now, I would sleep.
<*>
I’m normally a sound sleeper. Not so last night. I kept having disturbing dreams, of myself in
my Dad’s place. I’m cutting a hole in
the bank vault, slipping in the grenade, and taking out the robot. I start cutting the hole in the wall and… I’m
surrounded. Caught. The cops drag me back to the police
station. They’re yelling at me. I can’t recall why. They’re hitting me because I’m not doing
something. What? I can’t remember. I’ll keep thinking about it. It feels important, somehow.
The dream did make me realize something. Since Dad took out the security cameras, I
don’t know how far into his scheme he’d gotten.
Had he tripped some hidden alarm?
Had he been unable to knock out the robot inside? Had he been caught carrying out the
bonds? I needed to know.
Modern law enforcement techniques being what they are, I had
to be careful going near the bank.
They’d probably be watching the bank, to see if anyone other than my Dad
showed an unusual level of interest in it, figuring that there might be
accomplices still at large. I visited a
toy store and purchased a number of children’s toys that contained the
electronics I needed.
I spent a little time wandering about watching tourists in
the little seaside town. I studied what
they wore, the kinds of things they did, and using a few hidden microphones the
questions they asked the locals. Then I
set about acquiring clothes just like theirs.
With all of this, I was ready to play the part of the typical Mastrion
tourist.
I cobbled together the electronics from the children’s toys
into a crude but effective three-dimensional high-resolution imaging
system. I rigged this into the hat I was
wearing, a garish, flower patterned, floppy thing designed to keep the sun off
my delicate tourist skin.
I spent the morning sunning myself on the local beach, like
all the others. Then I wandered from
shop to shop, looking at overpriced souvenirs, and asking the occasional
tourist question. After an hour or two
of this, I asked a question that I knew the answer to.
I smiled at the shopkeeper, taking out my Guide to the Best
of Pecourt Tourism. “Excuse me, miss,
but I wondered if there is a pharmacy nearby.
My sinuses are having some trouble with the salty air.”
She pulled her eyes off the screen she’d been fixated on,
and looked me up and down. I noticed her
lip curling a bit before she caught herself and smiled with saccharine
sweetness. “Yes, sir. Go about six blocks south of here, turn
right, and walk about two more. There is
a pharmacy next to the bank.”
I tipped my hat, which turned on the built-in recording
system. “Thank you so much.”
She didn’t respond, and was already tapping on her computer
screen.
I followed her directions, stopping every so often as though
I was trying to remember where I was going.
If anyone was paying attention to me, and I doubt they were, I looked
like any of the other clueless off-planet visitors wandering the streets of
this little tourist trap.
I walked into the pharmacy, inquired about sinus and allergy
medications, selected the one the pharmacist recommended, and stepped
outside.
Pretending to be lost, I walked behind the bank, pretending
not to notice its existence despite it being the focus of this whole charade.
No sooner had I turned the corner toward the beach than two
pairs of strong arms grabbed me by each of mine.
“What’s going on?” I
stammered, trying to sound more surprised than I was.
“You’re under arrest!”
“Why?” I asked. “I just bought some medicine and was trying
to find my way back to the beach. What
have I done?”
They shoved me into the back of a police car. “You know what you’ve done. Now sit quiet until we get you back to the
station.”
<*>
Minutes later, sitting in the police station, I began to
realize a few things about the planet Mastrion.
First, its police force was unusually efficient and effective. Despite career criminals like me existing,
most planets see few real crimes. Sure,
there’s the occasional shoplifter or jealous person who murders their spouse,
but bank robberies, high-dollar frauds, and things like that just don’t
happen. There are too many
psychiatrists, genetic testers, and social programs in place. Someone like the old-time serial killers
would be detected long before they killed anyone. A person predisposed to violence would be
treated and counseled. Most police
forces focus on stopping the occasional mugging, burglary, or speeding
motorist. Not so on this world. They seemed to respond unusually quickly and
effectively. After all, they’d caught my
dad, and he’d spent decades learning to be alert, prepared, and ready to
escape. Now they had me, and I’d done
nothing illegal – yet.
Something else I knew was that this kind of police force
doesn’t exist without a reason. That
means there’s something equally rare here – organized crime. Why?
Organized crime generates a need for effective police response. An organized crime group protects its members
from arrest and imprisonment to some degree.
Most of all, organized crime ensures the kind of steady supply of crime
that warrants a well-trained, well-staffed, and well-armed police force like
the one on Mastrion.
Lastly, it might explain their reaction toward my dad. He’d committed the sort of crime they
probably associated with their criminal elite.
They wanted to know what he knew about the syndicate, so they could take
it down. They probably didn’t believe
him when he told them he knew nothing about the local criminal underworld. When the drugs didn’t get them what they
wanted, they probably figured (correctly, I might add) that he had a genetic
resistance to them. They resorted to the
only other thing they thought might work – good old-fashioned violence.
I’d solved the mystery of what happened to my father. Now I needed to focus my efforts on getting
out of the mess I was now in.
I looked carefully around the cell, trying to make it appear
that I was simply stretching my neck.
They had cameras in the corners of the room, which meant I was probably
being watched by a computer surveillance system. Any unusual or sudden moves and they’d be on
me in a second. I would have to bide my
time and look for another opportunity.
<*>
The cell seemed escape-proof, which was just as well. I couldn’t figure out why they’d arrested
me. Since I arrived on the planet, I’d
been very careful. I didn’t even look at the bank. They hadn’t bothered to grab my hat and its
hidden circuitry, so they obviously didn’t pick up any signals from it. I’d have been surprised if they had, since
I’d lined it to prevent that sort of thing.
Why had they arrested me?
A buzz and click from the electronic lock suggested that I
might have an answer soon.
The door opened. In
walked two uniformed officers, weapons drawn and aimed at my head. A few paces behind came Chief Raines. I stood to greet him.
“Sit down, you,” one of the uniforms growled. I sat back down.
The Chief motioned the officers to the corners of the
room. “You remember what his dad tried,
don’t you? Keep your distance. If he tries anything funny, make sure he
can’t get back up again.”
“I… I don’t understand,” I said, trying to sound frightened
and confused.
“Skip it,” the Chief said, “The DNA test shows you’re related
to the last guy we had in this cell. He
was your father, I believe.”
“Where is he?” I tried to sound scared and confused. “He asked me to meet him here, but I couldn’t
find him. Did he meet with foul play?”
He began to pace the room, constantly watching me. “We’ve got truth drugs and brain scanners,
the best in the galaxy. They didn’t faze
him. I’m betting they don’t bother you,
either. Genetic, I expect. The usual interrogation stuff won’t work on
you two. Probably kept your criminal
record cleaner than it ought to be.”
I didn’t say anything, but he was right. Crime was enough of a rarity that if you
could tell a good story and pass a scan, a lot of small-town cops would fine
you and cut you loose. They trusted
their technology, and the basic honesty of strangers, a bit too much for their
own good – but sufficient for mine.
The chief lit a cigar, took a draw from it, and eyed me
suspiciously. “I don’t need the drugs
and scanners, though. I see it in your
eyes, son. Don’t lie to me again. Didn’t work for the old man. Won’t work for you, either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me spell it out for you. Ever heard the term ‘honeypot’?”
I shook my head.
“In the old days, you’d set up a score that looked like easy
pickings. A pot of sweet honey there for
the taking. Then you’d lay in wait for
some crook to break into it. You’d
arrest him on the spot.”
I said nothing.
“Every few months, we hire some actors to pretend to be
tellers, customers, and managers. That
little abandoned bank comes to life like a real branch of the First Planetary
Trust. We circulate a phony story about
how the vault’s loaded with gold, jewels, bearer bonds, old currency…
something. We’ve got surveillance on
that building you wouldn’t believe.”
That explained a lot.
Dad had been suckered in by the First Planetary Trust story. As soon as he started to break in, they had
him. What it didn’t explain was how they
caught me, or why. I hadn’t even so much as
looked at the bank.
“When we caught that daddy of yours, we back-tracked his
steps. Found him playing the same little
game you did… stupid tourist with a medical problem. Surveillance computers flagged you the minute
you said ‘sinus trouble’. We watched
you, figuring you’d try to rob the bank, too.
When you didn’t, I had you hauled in anyway.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He took a drag on the cigar.
“Well, yes and no. You used fake
ID, but then half the kids on this planet have done that. You bought medicine under false pretenses,
but it’s not narcotic, so I can’t do much about that. On the other hand,” he said, waving toward
the door. “This I could arrest you for.”
Into the cell walked a uniformed officer holding a small
box. She handed it to the Chief, then
turned and left the room, locking the cell door behind her.
“I figure this,” he said, holding up a small object the
approximate size and shape of an olive, “is a sleep grenade. Found one like it in your daddy’s stuff. This one was in your hotel room. And this,” he said, pulling out a similar
one, “looks to be an EMP grenade. Your
daddy had those, too. The rest of it, I
had our experts look at. They’ve never
seen anything like it on anyone else we’ve arrested. They tell me you could probably use this
stuff to slip into half the buildings on the planet without setting off an
alarm. If you did, these little beauties,”
he said, holding up the grenades again, “would get you out without hurting
anyone. What I want to know is, who sold
you this stuff? I’ve seen every criminal
gadget made or sold on this planet, but I’ve never seen anything like these.”
“I made them.”
“I read people's eyes,” the Chief said, “You’re wondering how we
found this.”
I sighed and nodded.
“After we caught your daddy, he told us where he’d been
holing up. We found his little stash in
the wall of an old factory near the bank.
Made it a lot easier to find your little warehouse stash.”
I made a mental note that if I got out of this mess, I’d
make it a point to stop using dad’s old tricks.
They clearly weren’t working anymore.
“Don’t feel bad. Took
us six hours to find his. This little
box,” he said, looking down at it, “has enough inside it for me to put you away
for twelve years – maybe longer.”
“I sense an ‘unless’,” I told him.
“Do you? I don’t have
one. I’m only here to ask a few
questions. First, how did you get all
this past our Port Authority and Customs?”
“I didn’t bring it past them. I made it once I was here.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I see. And did you intend to rob
the First Planetary Trust?”
“No. I only came here
to find my father.”
He looked at me for so long it began to make my flesh crawl.
“You had no other business here on Mastrion?
Say, maybe with the Prime Syndicate?”
I shook my head.
“Never heard of it.”
“Hmm,” he said, looking into my eyes again, “You haven’t,
have you? They’re the planet’s only
criminal organization. I’ve been trying
to catch their leader most of my career.
A man they call First Prime.”
I caught a glimpse of a smile as he said the name. It didn’t make sense. Why would that make him smile?
He stood up, tucking the box under his arm. “Welcome to Mastrion. Enjoy your tour of our legal system and
penitentiary.”
With this, he and his men walked out. I noticed something next to the wall where
he’d been standing. It was small. About the size of an olive.
I had to suppress the smile.
<*>
Later that night, I made a show of feeling ill for the
surveillance cameras. Even managed to
force myself to throw up the meal they fed me. That wasn’t too much of a stretch. It was hard keeping the jail’s food down in
the first place. Most of it was gray. What wasn’t hard as a rock was runny and
slimy. I hope someone reserved a special
place in hell for their cook.
Conveniently, I landed next to the grenade the chief dropped. I palmed it carefully.
Over the years, I’ve learned to fake illness well enough to
fool anyone but a trained physician. You
can meditate and alter your heartbeat and blood pressure, things like
that. They guards were convinced enough
to load me on a stretcher and haul me to the police station’s infirmary. There, I pretended to be partially conscious,
moaning and looking around as though delirious – but taking in the layout and
occupants of the room. I’d have to move
soon.
And move, I did.
Slowly taking a deep breath, I carefully dropped the grenade on the
floor. I opened my eyes to find everyone
else in the room asleep. I jumped off
the stretcher, ran to the nearest window, and jumped through it. I fell about ten feet to the ground,
knocking the wind out of me.
Not much time. I told myself. Get
moving.
I gathered my wits, pulling out shards of glass as I
ran. I put as much distance between
myself and the police headquarters as I could.
Where would I run? I didn’t know.
Think. Places to hide. Places dad wouldn’t have used. Where?
I noticed a safety rail around an open manhole. I walked over and looked in the hole. It was dark.
Would a surveillance camera see me go in here? Probably.
I’d have to risk it.
I climbed down the ladder into the hole. It smelled like a sewer, and I was pretty
sure the skittering noises around me were rats.
I tripped over something solid, and bent down to feel it. It was a toolbox. Inside, I found a flashlight, headlamp, and
some tools I was sure would come in handy later. I loaded my pockets, put the headlamp on, and
started making my way through the service tunnels under the city. Fortunately, no one had thought to put
cameras down here. I hoped there weren’t
other sensors, either.
I walked through the tunnels for about three hours, taking
the occasional random turn and doubling back on myself. Police sniffer robots can track you by your
scent, but they’re not very bright.
They’ll literally follow your exact trail once they pick it up. You can use this to your advantage by leaving
a trail that will confound the humans following the robot, even if it doesn’t
fool the robot.
Finally, I reached an area that could charitably be
described as pungent and wet. I held my
nose, jumped into the muck, and rubbed it all over myself. While a police sniffer bot is an impressive
technical marvel, it’s not infallible.
In order to focus on the scent you want it to, dad taught me, you have
to teach it to filter out others. By covering
myself in this room’s fragrant bouquet, I could effectively disappear for a
while. As long as I didn’t leave
footprints or fingerprints, the bot wouldn’t know where I went.
I was free, for a bit longer at least. I was also exhausted. I found a dry,
relatively rodent-free area to hole up for the night.
<*>
I woke up a bit disoriented, but soon came around. I looked and smelled as though I’d been
flushed down a toilet. This would need
to be corrected soon. Anyone who saw me
looking and smelling like this wouldn’t ignore me. They’d either want to help or call the
police. Besides, I was getting tired of
my own stench.
My stomach growled, reminding me that it would need
attention as well.
I stayed in the service tunnels, periodically poking my head
out to get my bearings. When I found the
Grand Ritzee Palace Hotel and Casino, it was time to surface. Well, surface wasn’t quite the word.
In the hotel business, cost containment and occupancy are
the keys. You keep costs low by using
robots for all the menial tasks: maid
service, room service, laundry, baggage handling, and so on. The nice thing about robots is that most of
them will operate autonomously if the work is repetitive enough. This means that you’ll rarely find a human
working in the basement of any hotel these days. They do down there when a robot malfunctions,
or when a guest complains that their laundry is missing, or a robot doesn’t
deliver the guest’s breakfast on time.
The rest of the time, the hotel basement is a buzzing little hive of
robotic activity that the hotel employees largely ignore.
For someone like this, this is valuable intelligence. The basement of hotels like the Ritzee can
provide everything a weary fugitive needs.
I found a service hatch under the hotel’s laundry and climbed up and out
of it. A robot stared at me.
“Can I help you, sir?”
From its paint scheme, it was a maid service unit.
“Yes, I need a fresh towel, a washcloth, soap, and shampoo.”
“Certainly, sir.
Which room shall I deliver them to?”
“This one. I need
them here.”
It cocked its head to one side. “Sir, hotel policy does not permit me to—“
There’s a reason con men used to be called “confidence
men”. They had to exude confidence when
challenged by a mark – even a robotic one.
“I don’t have time for your rules. I’m a platinum card holder and I’m going to
be late for my board meeting. Get to
it!”
The robot shook for a second. “Yes, sir.
Right away, sir.” It sped
off. A few seconds later, it returned
with everything I’d requested.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And your room number, sir?”
It was calling my bluff?
“I, uh, don’t recall. It’s on the
twelfth floor. Does 1209 sound right?”
“Ah, yes sir, Mr. Rolando.
Have a nice day.”
Fortunately, I’d picked an occupied room. Otherwise it’s very likely my robotic friend
would have notified the security robots to pick me up.
I found an unused washing machine and configured it to do a
warm load of laundry, stopping as it filled the wash basin with water. Using the towel and washcloth the maid robot
provided, I cleaned and dried myself off.
Then I removed my prison jumpsuit and tossed it into the washer with my
underwear.
Then, I found another maid robot – or perhaps the same one,
they all look alike – and handed it the soiled linens. It wasn’t fazed by the fact that I was
standing there completely naked.
“I’m finished with these.
Room 1209. Mr. Rolando.”
“Yes sir,” the robot said, and sped off toward the laundry.
You might wonder why I bothered to return the used
linens. Any hotel with robots programmed
to assign every towel to a room would almost certainly be auditing its use of
towels. If Mr. Rolando were to check out
in the next few minutes, he’d rightfully claim not to have requested a
towel. A quick electronic inquiry would
lead them to the basement, and to me.
Returning the towel wasn’t so much a goodwill gesture as a survival
move.
I found a safe corner to hole up in while my jumpsuit washed
and dried. Then, I sprinted back to the
machine and removed it before it notified a robot that it was waiting to be
unloaded. While I did put on my
underwear, I did not put on the jumpsuit.
In fact, I tore it in two.
As I wandered around the laundry room, I looked for freshly
laundered clothing approximately my size.
When I found an inconspicuous-looking shirt and pants, I swapped the
shirt for the top half of my jumpsuit and the pants for the bottom half. Again this was a trick to buy time before I
might be detected. The laundry bots
counted each garment they washed, ironed, folded, and delivered. If so much as a single garment went missing, a
human response would be triggered to find it.
The Ritzee prided itself on never losing a guest’s luggage or
laundry. The loss of even a single sock
would have been treated like a major incident.
Last, but certainly not least, I stopped a room service
robot. I claimed to be a health
inspector. Some robots would have asked
for identification. With the reputation
the Ritzee wanted to convey, its robots would bend over backwards for an
inspector. It brought me a tray
containing every item on the restaurant’s menu.
When I’d finished eating, I felt human again.
I peered out through a robot service hatch to pick a good
time to emerge in the hotel lobby and onto the street. As I started to open the hatch, I saw a
familiar figure enter the lobby. It was
Chief Raines. I made my way through
robot service corridors until I reached one behind the hotel counter. I listened carefully.
“Chief Raines, how nice to have you with us again. Your usual suite?”
He nodded.
“Shall I have a robot take your case to your room?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
“Very good, sir. Here
is your key. Suite 1502.”
Raines took the key and got into an elevator. Fortunately, there were elevators for the
service robots, too. I told one of them
there was a spill on the fifteenth floor and rode up with it. The ride was a bit unnerving. I don’t think the elevators are designed to
carry more than the weight of a lone robot. It groaned and shuddered a bit as
it took us up.
I’m not sure quite how we managed to beat Raines to the
floor, but I had to jump quickly as he got off the elevator and walked to his
room.
Was Raines here to meet a secret lover? Was he making some kind of business
deal? I had to know.
Several minutes later, another man left the suite Raines was
in. I puzzled over this for a
moment. When Raines rented the room, the
clerk made no mention of another guest being there. That might have been a case of a clerk being
discreet, but then again he had referred to it as “Your usual suite” which
would have been a faux pas, too.
The more I looked at the man, the more he seemed
familiar. Something about his build, the
way he moved… It was Raines! Why was he
in disguise? An undercover sting
operation? A clandestine affair? Whatever it was I was determined to know.
<*>
Raines walked out to the parking lot and toward a Royal
Deluxe II, one of the more-expensive ground cars manufactured. It was way beyond a police department
undercover budget, and a lot more expensive than any honest police chief – even
the chief of an entire planet’s police force – ought to be able to afford. I knew I was on to something, I just didn’t
know what.
I hailed a robotic taxi.
Using the tools I’d swiped from the tunnel worker’s box the day before,
I disabled the robotic driver and manually controlled the cab. I followed Raines until he entered a gated
community. I drove the taxi several blocks
away, reactivated the robot, and slipped away.
Carefully, I climbed the fence into the community where
Raines had gone. Sticking to the shadows
and behind landscaping, I found the Royal Deluxe II parked outside one of the
largest mansions in the community. This
certainly wasn’t Raines’ home. Whose was
it?
I jumped when a hand touched my shoulder, and spun around
quickly.
“What are you doing in my flower bed?” A man asked.
“I, uh, I’m with the homeowner’s association. I’m checking to make sure your grass is being
kept within regulation length and that your mulch is to code,” I compared the
length of a few blades to my finger, then brushed away a bit of mulch. “You passed.
I’m not sure about that place,” I told him, gesturing toward the house
where Raines had gone.
The man turned white.
“You’re gonna go inspect that one?
Pretend you never saw me,” he said, and rushed back inside his house.
Trying to stay in character, I wandered about conducting
similar inspections of hedges, flowers, and garden gnomes, periodically looking
at the mysterious house.
It became clear the more I studied the house that it was
more headquarters than home. Armed
guards patrolled inside and out. I
thought I saw the glint of rifles in the attic windows. Snipers?
Whatever this house was all about, I doubted police work was part of
it. There were too many expensive cars
parked outside, and too many well-armed people guarding it.
I will find your
secret, Chief Raines.
<*>
The house was a fortress too well-defended for one many to
take on alone. The odds of getting in
and out without being seen were virtually zero.
If I couldn’t go in, I could at least watch who came out.
Swiping the necessary materials from nearby shopkeepers, I
setup a camera to grab an image of every person who went into or out of the
house. A few computer searches told me
all I needed to know. Virtually every
person going into or out of the house had a criminal record. The few who didn’t were known to associate
with criminals, or defend them in court.
This didn’t explain why Chief Raines was coming and going from the
place.
Suddenly, something Raines said during the interrogation
made sense. I’ve seen every criminal gadget made or sold on this planet, he
said. That bit of confidence betrayed
him. The only person who could possibly
have seen every criminal gadget would
be a criminal. Not just any criminal,
but the one in charge of making and selling those same gadgets. Raines
was First Prime of the Prime Syndicate.
Finally, it was time.
I would get revenge and live
well. A plan was forming in my brain.
<*>
Raines was leading a double life. As Chief Raines, he’d become the shining
beacon of law and order on the planet Mastrion.
He’d dazzled the media with daring arrests and raids. Conveniently, these always seemed to hit the
Prime Syndicate’s enemies, never the syndicate itself. He made loud speeches, boasting that he and
his men would find the First Prime and bring him to justice. No one would have suspected that Raines
himself was First Prime.
As First Prime of the syndicate, Raines could pull off
highly profitable crimes, virtually certain to have no police response. His criminal success made him the
unquestioned head of the syndicate. His
ability to recruit criminals who’d managed to be released from custody on
technicalities was almost uncanny.
All of this depended on no one connecting the dots. If the politicians and his fellow policemen realized
he was the First Prime, they’d come down hard on him. He’d find himself in a cell and never see the
light of day again. If the criminals in
the syndicate knew their leader was the Chief of Police, some would feel
betrayed. Some would worry that Raines would
spill the beans on their entire operation to save his own skin, and would kill
him before he got the chance.
If the syndicate thought Raines was stealing from them, so
much the better.
<*>
The plan had come together well. I’d bundled all my little surveillance photos
of the syndicate house, along with a floor plan and a grainy picture of Raines
in his First Prime getup marked “First Prime, aka Chief Raines”. I’d stolen copies of his hotel registration
record and included those. Copies of the
package were set to the news media, the planet’s governor, and Raines’ own second
in command at the police headquarters.
In a few hours, Raines would be answering some very tough questions.
I’d transferred one of the Prime Syndicate’s main accounts
to one of Raines’ personal accounts, then to the police general fund, and then
through a series of numbered accounts off-planet. I encrypted the account numbers and
transmitted them off-planet digitally, and deleted the originals.
By the time an auditor worked out the money trail, I’d
withdraw it and buy an island on some tropical planet. The syndicate would figure Raines decided to
cash out when the police figured him out.
Their response would swift and unkind.
Perhaps “those people” are right after all, living well can be the best revenge…
My face was all over the media as a fugitive from police
headquarters. Arranging a flight
off-planet was proving to be difficult, but I’d found a spacedock worker who
claimed he could slip me onto a freighter heading to the next star system. I’d arranged to meet him in a bar near the
spaceport, where I’d pay him a small fortune for his help.
I found a table in the back of the bar, ordered a drink, and
waited.
Three well-dressed men walked in the door. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my
neck, and started looking for an exit. I
slipped out of the booth and toward the kitchen door, but stopped when another
well-dressed man pointed a gun at me.
The others quickly moved into position behind me and tied up my arms and
legs.
“The First Prime’s been lookin’ for you,” one of said. I felt a needle sink into the back of my neck
and the world started going dark. I
should have realized the syndicate would have spacedock workers on their
payroll…
<*>
I woke to find myself chained to a wall in a basement. I had a pretty good idea where that basement
was. I’d probably been watching it from
outside a few days earlier.
“Tell the boss,” I heard someone outside the door say, “He’s
awake.”
A few minutes later, the door was unlocked and in walked
Chief Raines in his First Prime garb. He
looked in my eyes, then immediately turned and ordered the others out of the
room. “I need to talk to this one
privately,” he said. “We have some
unfinished business.”
Neither of us said anything until the door clicked shut.
“I see it in your eyes,” he said, and pulled out a gun. “You know.
Say it, and I shoot you dead. Understood?”
I nodded, “Got it.”
“I saw that same look in your dad’s eyes, right before I
caved in his skull.”
I felt sick, then I felt rage. Raines would pay for this… somehow.
“You’ve caused me a bit of trouble with my men. They think Chief Raines robbed them of their
operating funds, but I think we both know who did. No, don’t say anything. It’s in your eyes.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, attaching
something to the side of my head. “This
little gadget will explode if you say my other name, or if I press this button.” He held up a small device with a red button
on the top.
“In a moment, one of my men is coming in with a
computer. You’re going to give him the
account numbers he needs to restore the syndicate’s funds. If you don’t, I press the button.”
I looked at him. And if I do?
“If you do,” Raines said, “I’ll give you the button, and you can press it when you’ve had enough.”
<*>
I knew I couldn’t trust Raines. If I turned the money over, he’d press the
button, or leave me chained up down here without food or water until I pressed
it myself.
If I didn’t turn the money over, his associates would keep
putting pressure on him, and I would buy myself a little time. Time for what? I didn’t know. Escape?
Possibly, but not likely. Some
kind of deal with one the syndicate people? Maybe. The police.
They were my best bet, provided they didn’t tip Raines off beforehand.
I stalled. I told the
man I’d moved the money through a bunch of accounts, and I couldn’t remember
all the numbers. I’d encrypted them and
stored them on a chip. I’d sent the chip
off-world in a package.
Raines didn’t buy it until he looked me in the eye. He screamed when he did, because what I’d
told him was true. I’d sent a copy to
different off-world storage locations.
Even with his connections, getting to private files on another planet
would take time. He demanded the
encryption key I used. The key was very
long, and I went out of my way to forget, back up, and so on through it. If they had managed to write it down
correctly, it would be a miracle.
Raines told me that as soon as they had the data and
decrypted it, I was a dead man.
<*>
I heard gunfire in the house above me. It sounded like two small armies squaring
off, and perhaps it was. Gradually, over
time, the gunfire subsided and the sound of people walking through the house
grew louder and closer.
“Clear!” someone shouted and the door blew open. Through the opening stepped three heavily
armed SWAT officers and a uniformed policeman.
I tried to look pitiful and avoid eye contact. He was one of the two uniforms in the room
when Raines interrogated me.
“This is the one who escaped police headquarters a couple of
weeks ago,” he told the others. Turning
to me, he smiled. “Thought you got away,
didn’t you?”
<*>
I sat on the bunk, staring into the next cell at the bloated
form of the former Chief Raines, former First Prime. He sat there, shoulders slumped, head slowly
shaking back and forth, murmuring to himself.
The image made me smile. Was I
happy at seeing justice done? Surely
not.
An image of myself in the steel mirror on the wall jarred me
back to reality. I was trapped. They had my name, my face, my fingerprints,
and my DNA. The list of charges they
held me on ensure that I wouldn’t be out of prison until long after I’d have
the dexterity to pick a lock, the hearing to unlock a safe, or the strength to
haul away the loot. My criminal career
was over.
I laid down on the bunk, turning away from Raines. I didn’t want him to see me this way. He might decide that he’d won. Tears wanted to come, but I held them
back. I wouldn’t give Raines the
satisfaction of knowing this arrest was never part of my plan.
I began to curse my own hubris. What made me think I could take down the
Chief of Police for an entire planet?
Why did I think I could rob the planetary mafia and get away
scot-free? What was wrong with me to
think one man could do this? I had no
answers.
Wallowing in my misery, I barely heard the electrical buzz
and click of the cell door unlocking.
When it finally registered in my addled brain, I turned my head in the
direction of the door. A uniformed policeman
stood there, glaring at me.
“I said, let’s go.”
I didn’t need to hear the words again. I stood up.
I walked to him. He put cuffs on
my wrists and irons on my legs.
“Follow me,” he said, and walked out of the cell block. I followed, head down, more to keep an eye on
the path ahead of me than out of a sense of failure – though that weighed on
me, too.
The cop led me down to the parking garage and opened the
back of a ground car. He pointed at the
back seat. “Get in.” I got in.
He put a bag over my head.
The world went dark.
I tried to engage him in conversation, but failed. I felt the ground car make turn after turn,
speed up, slow down, stop, and start again.
I tried to picture the route in my mind but quickly lost track.
It wasn’t long before I realized what was happening. He worked for the Chief. He was taking me to some remote location
where he’d claim I tried to escape, and had to shoot me in self-defense. I wasn’t about to let that happen, but at the
moment I couldn’t think of a way to stop it.
I felt the car glide to a stop, and heard the cop get
out. A click from the door next to me
told me he’d opened the door for me to get out.
“No,” I told him, trying to sound more confident than I
felt.
“What do mean, no?”
“If you’re going to shoot me, you can do it here.”
“Get out.”
“No.”
He grabbed the bag and yanked it off my head, nearly pulling
my nose off in the process. It took my
eyes a moment to adjust to the light.
What I saw then confused me. We
were parked outside the Delandri Spaceport.
I was too confused to speak, and looked up at him.
“I don’t know who or what you are,” he said. “All I know is you have some very powerful
friends. They pulled me out of bed. They made it very clear that I was to bring
you here, and do this.”
He unlocked my chains.
I looked at my wrists and ankles.
They were free.
“Thank you,” I told the cop, and meant it.
“Don’t thank me. This
wasn’t my idea. I could end up in prison
just for bringing you this far. Your
friends told me to bring you here, hand you this envelope, and leave without
looking back. That’s just what I intend
to do. If you want my advice, disappear. If I see you again, you go back to jail.”
“Got it,” I told him, and climbed out of the vehicle.
He closed the rear door, climbed into the passenger seat,
and drove away as though I was about to explode.
I looked down at the envelope in my hand, and tore it
open. Inside I found a temporary
identity chip, a small vial with three pills inside, a ticket on the Starliner
Campbell Queen, and a note. The note
read simply, “These pills will rewrite your DNA. Take one each morning for three days. You will be renewed, with a new identity. When you grow tired of doing what you do for
mere money, call our name. We will find
you. We will give you a new
purpose.” It was signed simply, “The
Agency.”
I had no idea who this Agency was, but any group powerful
enough to arrange for me to get me out of jail, off the planet, and rewrite my
DNA was a group too dangerous to get close to.
I’d accept their ticket and their pills, then get as far away from them
as I could.
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