Zero Zero Zero Page 2

  Except for midday shoppers, who scurried from store to store, few people were about. A man was leaning against the wall a short distance away from the corner of Gruinard. The man’s overcoat was turned up at the collar and his face was lost under a wide-brimmed hat as he read a news journal.

  The man raised his head from his journal, only his nose betraying the movement, and then carried on reading. Sebastian smiled. This man couldn’t be experienced at undercover work, as everything about his self-conscious stance made him stand out.

  After replacing his shoe, Sebastian strode around the corner. Five minutes remained. That was enough time to swing around, return from the opposite direction and make sure he’d spotted any others involved in the delivery.

  A plain blue hovercar was parked twenty meters in from the intersection. It wasn’t a suspicious sight, except for the two men sitting slumped in the front, perhaps Sebastian’s ride away, members of another gang or even the police.

  Sebastian sighed and recalled the old joke that the secret of eternal life was to resist all vices. You wouldn’t live longer, but time would pass so slowly, you would feel that you did. This situation amounted to the opposite: you would die quickly, but you would feel like you lived longer.

  Sebastian ignored the men in the hovercar and headed across the street to stand in front of a store window. He couldn’t tell anything more from the reflection, other than that the hovercar was a standard issue model.

  With four minutes to go Sebastian slipped into an alleyway and jogged along, pleased that the cold, refreshing air had given him the clear head he needed, even if he couldn’t push anyone. Then he strode from the alleyway onto a street that angled left and not toward Applecross.

  Software, give me a map of the area, Sebastian said, annoyed now.

  He examined the map displayed on his optic display. If he turned and retraced his steps, he’d draw attention to himself, but if he went along this street, he could slip through another parallel alleyway and return to a route leading to Applecross.

  With plans made Sebastian jogged along the street and slipped into the right alleyway. He now had three minutes before the delivery. Pain shot through his abdomen. He slid to a halt, placed his hands on his knees and concentrated on drawing steady breaths.

  He needed to get fitter. Living in gambling haunts hadn’t prepared him for running two hundred meters. Sebastian dragged in a deep breath, straightened and strode on. He slipped out of the alleyway and marched along the new street.

  With four hundred meters to go in two minutes, he asked, Will I get to the corner in time?

  You need to hurry up, Software said.

  As he increased his pace to a slow jog, pain lanced through his side again. Ignoring the discomfort, he headed across the street to the right side and strode another fifty meters. At one minute left, sweat broke out on his back.

  Not wanting to arrive as a sweaty lump, he slowed to a normal walking pace. As distant chimes acknowledged the hour of twelve o’clock, the men in the hovercar slipped out and walked down the street toward the man reading the journal.

  Software, do you think these men might harm me, or are they waiting to help in the delivery?

  You’re the expert in these matters, not me.

  Sebastian halted on the corner and decided the men must be his pick-up, as they wore identical brown overcoats and wide-brimmed hats. El Duce had told Sebastian to let them come to him, so he withdrew his news journal from his overcoat and held the paper up as the two men approached the other man.

  Then the man folded the journal under his arm and slumped to the ground, to lie prone and still. One of the hovercar men rammed something metallic inside his overcoat, turned and strode back across the street.

  His colleague followed the first man. His overcoat swirled as he bounded along. Sebastian took two unsteady steps and then his heart thudded with the awful certainty that he needed to go somewhere else.

  With mounting desperation he turned around, but no one appeared to be interested in the altercation. He retreated to the store behind him, slipped the journal into a trash can and then walked along the street, away from the men.

  He maintained an unmemorable stroll. He flinched when a siren wailed in the distance, the shriek approaching fast. Sebastian sped up and ten minutes after witnessing the killing of his contact, he slumped onto his favorite bench in Memorial Park.

  Sirens wailed back and forth in the distance. A steady procession of excited people edged past him along the pathways on their way to view the latest sight. Sebastian held his head in his hands.

  Another gang had killed the man he was supposed to meet. Perhaps later, they’d come for him. The only good news would be El Duce’s reaction, as even a gangster famed for his uncompromising approach to failure couldn’t blame Sebastian for the disaster.

  If Sebastian returned the data shard and credits to him, he could even explain away the new envelope. Unfortunately, this was the least of his troubles as one fact was clear. A gang war could start and Sebastian was now a gang member. With his head still in his hands Sebastian read the Rigel asteroid colony advertisement.

  ‘It’s your chance of a new life,’ the advertisement said.

  The happy advertising family stood before the wide-open prairie, promising a life Sebastian only thought about in his dreams.

  “I’m getting a new life, thank you,” Sebastian said.

  He’d joined the strongest side, but that was irrelevant on the day when people started killing each other. Sebastian rubbed his forehead.

  Get a better new life, Software said.

  Could I?

  He could. Twelve hours later New Vancouver receded from view on the cruiser Mantilla’s monitor. A sprawl of multicolored buildings nestling in a sea of green forest merged and shrank before disappearing beneath the mottled clouds.

  Distance helped to put Sebastian’s problems in context and they drifted away like so much pollen on the breeze. Crandania became a globe. Then, when the Mantilla headed into open space, the globe shrank to nothing.

  Crandania and the colony on New Vancouver had become a home of sorts, but not one he’d miss. The Rigel asteroid colony probably wouldn’t be much better, as it was just another among the thousands within the Hegemony.

  Four other people were strapped into their seats on the main deck of the Mantilla. They appeared to be as desperate as Sebastian felt. They all faced the rear monitor, too, saying goodbye to whatever problems they’d escaped.

  When he had bought a ticket, the spaceport authorities had only checked the validity of his stolen credits, along with a lengthy scan of his belongings and body. Then they had let him board the cruiser without making any of the comments Sebastian had expected. He now assumed they were just pleased that the advertisements had fooled another idiot into making a trip to the Rigel asteroid colony.

  Chapter Three

  THREE DAYS INTO HIS dull, two-month flight, Sebastian gave in to temptation. He emptied the remaining contents of El Duce’s envelope into his hand and pushed the credit wad aside to leave the data shard.

  Sebastian examined the pure, transparent surface of the crystal, as if he could deduce its contents purely by squinting. The effect on a person’s port system from shards obtained from untrustworthy sources was a lesson everybody either knew, or learned the hard way.

  Sebastian couldn’t afford to maintain his diagnostics, so last week’s viruses could destroy his system. On the other hand, it must contain something of interest and no one provided entertainment on his journey.

  Sebastian slumped on his cot in his two meters by two meters luxury private quarters and juggled the shard. There was no point keeping it indefinitely, he concluded. Faced with ditching the shard or inserting it, Sebastian decided on insert.

  He bared his neck and ran his fingers over the external port behind his ear. With a practiced hand he inserted the shard in his neck port. Diagnostics flashed and swirled on his optic display, and then settled.

&n
bsp; Data port one status 999.9 appeared.

  Software, what do those numbers mean?

  Without more information, I could only guess.

  Guess, then.

  I have no idea.

  Thanks.

  Putting aside his disappointment, Sebastian sent the command to extract whatever information the shard had.

  There’s no information available, Software informed him.

  That seemed unlikely, as El Duce wouldn’t have given him a blank shard to deliver.

  Can you extract anything that looks like data?

  No.

  He hated such obtuseness most about Software. Unless he asked exactly the right question, Software never grasped what he wanted to know.

  All right, can you find any encrypted passwords blanking out areas on the shard?

  Software paused. Sebastian imagined he heard whirring.

  No.

  Is there anything not fulfilling the normal criteria, but which might be information, however minor?

  No. But the shard’s structure is different to any data storage device I’ve been programmed to read.

  Sebastian fingered his mustache. I accept you can’t decode, but can you tell if the device stores data that other information retrievers might access?

  I can’t tell.

  Sebastian thumped his cot. Perhaps El Duce didn’t want him to deliver information to his contact, but receive some, instead. Sebastian cupped a hand beneath his ear, under his neck port, and gave the command to extract the shard. For a few moments he waited.

  Software, eject the shard, Sebastian said again.

  The port is blocked, Software said. The shard will not eject.

  Sebastian sat up straight, thumped his cot into submission and screamed, annoyed that he hadn’t resisted temptation and followed the simple rules for dealing with unknown shards. After regaining his composure, he tried the command again, but without result. He had an active wrist port, but the malfunction irritated him.

  Is there any sign of other damage?

  There’s none, Software reported.

  Sebastian sighed. Perform a complete system diagnostic.

  After a few minutes, Software reported, Everything else is fine, but the shard has fused with your neck port. You will need to dismantle the system to free it.

  Sebastian settled down on his cot and sulked. The services of a PortDoc to remove the blockage would cost at least a hundred credits. Then he noticed that his optic display read 999.8.

  Why is the shard giving me a countdown?

  That is unknown.

  Then guess.

  Perhaps it has an internal power supply and it is now running down after activation.

  Sebastian sighed. Software’s answer was logical, if not helpful.

  Will it eject from my port when the power runs out?

  I have no idea.

  After making a mental note to update Software with programs that answered his questions in a consistent, useful manner, he checked his optic display again. The final digit of the countdown changed from an eight to a seven.

  Sebastian’s heart thumped a little louder than normal.

  THREE MONTHS AFTER leaving New Vancouver, Sebastian headed into the first bar on his nightly patrol. Inside were a dozen customers sitting singly, nursing their drinks. Concluding he had little hope there, he moved on toward the second bar.

  Outside, the ever-present light from the globe lamps bathed all buildings in the same harsh, impersonal glow so that even the colors of the most gaudily painted buildings appeared washed out. Unsurprisingly to Sebastian, Absolem, the Rigel colony’s main spaceport, wasn’t the haven of unremitting opportunity the advertisements had promised.

  Instead of the wide-open prairies and happy families starting new lives, there were only drifters and miners. Everyone lived in desultory shacks nestling under domes that offered protection from a harsh world that no terraformer could convert into anything other than barren rock.

  Absolem was a base for mining in the asteroid belt and a stopping off point on the way to the rim colonies, and nothing else. Like any place that people only visited to get somewhere else, the asteroid colony lacked any social atmosphere and in the bars everyone lasted out their drinks to fill the time while they waited to leave for someplace more interesting.

  At first Sebastian had enjoyed his new home. It was a place that was so impersonal and full of transients it was free of gang control, and he had relaxed after living so long in the shadow of gangsters in New Vancouver.

  As his funds diminished he’d searched for work, but he quickly realized his problem. He was trapped again, as he’d been trapped in New Vancouver. Absolem wasn’t as dangerous, but the result was the same.

  He didn’t have enough credits to buy a berth away, nor enough to invest in any of the business opportunities the frontier colony provided. His only option was the mere subsistence offered by working in bars and hotels.

  Sebastian balked at using his talents. Gambling establishments littered the colony, enticing him to this easy option, but there was always the danger that a victim would notice his talent.

  One gamble too many had been his downfall in New Vancouver and he didn’t want to get into such a mess again. Honest work was his way out, so he pushed open the glass doors to the next bar with a flourish.

  The interior was dark and the furnishings were sparse, so this was the type of bar Sebastian would never visit by choice, but somebody here might hire him. He shuffled a few paces inside and paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the half-light.

  A bartender was chatting at the opposite end of the bar, apparently oblivious to the chance for more custom. With a practiced eye Sebastian sought someone new to engage in conversation. After a few moments he caught the eye of the nearest man and moved a cautious step closer.

  “So, would you like a drink?” the man asked.

  The man was around ten years older than Sebastian, but gaunt. Clear blue eyes shone from deep within his lean face.

  “Sure,” Sebastian said.

  The man pushed a bottle and glass along the bar. Sebastian accepted the glass and offered his name, wondering if the man was buying or selling. He hoped for the former, although he’d settle for a drink.

  “The name’s Philippe LaGrain,” the man said. “I arrived in Absolem a week ago and this place sure is low on entertainment.”

  “That depends on what type of entertainment you want.”

  “I don’t want anything specific.” Philippe rubbed his chin, producing a faint rasping noise. “This place depresses me.”

  Sebastian nodded, but he’d now decided Philippe was a conman, who was already into his story. He had met many and they always followed the same pattern. They told you they’d just arrived, hinting at their vulnerability so you didn’t fear them. Then they dangled the bait.

  “So do you want to be hired?” Philippe asked.

  Sebastian spluttered over his drink, recalling his experiences with El Duce.

  “Hired?”

  Philippe rattled his glass on the bar. “Yeah, hired for spacehopper work. I remember you from this morning. You didn’t have any luck.”

  Sebastian had tried for a pilot commission at the spaceport that morning, but he’d been too long away from the work and nobody would hire someone so rusty.

  “Are you hiring?”

  “I do need someone.” Philippe rubbed his chin and swirled his drink.

  Sebastian smiled. The high rates the spaceport’s commissioned pilots charged had perhaps forced him to consider hiring a second-rate pilot.

  “How long do you need someone for?”

  Philippe shrugged. “That depends on many factors. It could be a month.”

  A commissioned pilot for a month would cost three hundred credits, and maybe more with agency fees.

  “I’ll do the job for two hundred, half now and half when finished.”

  Philippe smiled and pushed his drink across the bar. The glass screeched over the smoo
th surface. In the silence that followed Sebastian realized he’d made a mistake and he should have started higher.

  “I’ll pay you two hundred, but at the end of the job.”

  Sebastian sighed, accepting this meant Philippe didn’t have enough credits. Whatever scheme he had in mind, the money would come when it ended, and if his scheme failed, Sebastian would work a month for nothing.

  “Another drink might help me decide.”

  Philippe poured another drink even fuller than the first.

  “Have you ever heard of unbihexium?”

  “No.” Sebastian mentally groaned, as even in the few weeks he’d stayed in Absolem, he’d heard about plenty of schemes to find minerals or precious metals in the asteroid belt.

  Sebastian pushed gently at Philippe: He isn’t interested. Don’t tell him your theory.

  Philippe shook his head. “Not many have heard of the substance. After all, nobody has discovered it yet, so it’s not even been given a proper name.”

  “Is that so?”

  Philippe spread long fingers across his forehead and massaged both temples, and then continued.

  “It’s a theoretical stable, super heavy isotope. It’s stable because of the unusual lattice structure derived from the combination of distinctly-patterned atoms.”

  Confused, Sebastian concentrated on his drink. Usually only psychotics or, once, someone with a metal plate in his skull ignored his pushes. Sebastian leaned back, searching for a surgical scar, but found none.

  Philippe didn’t seem to notice, but perhaps he enjoyed droning on too much to care whether his mark was interested, so Sebastian tuned out his explanation. He knew Philippe’s scheme wouldn’t work and he wouldn’t pay his hired help, either. Finally, Philippe ended his description of the unlimited power source and the huge possibilities for anyone who discovered such an isotope in its raw form.

  “I was a spacehopper pilot for three years,” Sebastian said around a yawn, “and I never heard that unbihexium could be used as a power source. This sounds like a tall story and, believe me, I’ve heard a few.”