The video shows a brick of eggs—a fine, densely packed, dark powder—compacted by a machine and wrapped in airtight foil, then stamped with a hologram and barcode.
“The room,” Greenman continues, “is isolated, similar to the one we’re currently standing in. It is covered by surveillance cameras that run ceaselessly. Brady, I trust you’ve given her the footage we supplied you?”
As I glance around the room at the cameras bolted to the walls just above our heads, the auditor answers, “I got the files this morning and will pass them on.”
Was he really planning to? Would he have even mentioned those files if Greenman hadn’t mentioned them? He still might not send them. His motives are still uncertain to me, but I’m fairly sure that my investigation is not a high priority for him.
The video cuts to an image of an automated robotic arm loading the foil-wrapped bricks into a mechanized cart of the same type as the one sitting in the middle of this room as two security guards watch. Could one of those guards have gamed the system somehow, rigged the video, swapped out some of the bricks? It seems possible, at first, but if it was done on a large enough scale, Collections would notice weevils failing to hatch. And if one of the guards succeeded at stealing a brick or two, he would have to somehow get it off the Orbital and planetside to get any money for it. A system of defense satellites guards Brink from unauthorized landings just like any other settled world. Those two men are probably not the culprits.
On the screen, the loader finishes, and the cart automatically closes its own hatch, then rolls forward. The guards march along with it, keeping their distance, and the cart rolls up a ramp and into a small shuttle marked with the yellow-and-white SCAPE logo. The guards close the door.
“The bricks are then transported on automated carts over a distance of only twelve meters,” Greenman says as the video cuts away to an external image of a docking bay on the Orbital. It opens, and the unmanned shuttle launches from it. “They are loaded directly on a SCAPE shuttle, which comes straight to the landing pad you saw on your way in, which is incidentally one hundred fourteen meters away. We’d like it closer, but spaceport regulations wouldn’t allow it.”
The screen goes to security camera footage of guards escorting the cart as it unloads itself from the shuttle and rolls across the tarmac toward the storage cell we’re standing in. Heisting the product at this stage would be difficult. Probably impossible.
“The bricks are then moved here,” says Greenman, indicating the cart, “into this secured storage bay where they remain until they are taken to the Collections Agency Headquarters.”
“How do they get there?”
“I’m sure you’ve seen them deliver the bricks to the weevil locker at Collections,” Greenman answers.
“I have. But I don’t get to see the whole process.”
“Would you like to field this one, Brady?” Turning to Kearns, Greenman sips from his cup of coffee and smiles, a kindly smile that makes him seem like someone’s grandfather. Maybe he is, I don’t know. I also don’t know why he wants the auditor to answer the question. Each minute of this meeting reminds me that there’s a lot going on here, and too much I’m not aware of.
Kearns nods, humble and matter of fact. “The bricks are transported only once a month,” he says, “in these same carts, suspended on mass-sensitive alarm systems, in heavily guarded armored trucks. There’s a Commerce Board official on each one who oversees the feeding of the bricks into the weevil vault system.” He adds, “I did a study and audit of the system when I was at SCAPE. It earned me a promotion.”
Is Kearns still beholden to the Consortium somehow? I wonder if Greenman brought this up on purpose. What’s his game? Maybe I’m overthinking this, maybe he just figured Kearns had mentioned it. Why didn’t he mention it?
In any case, this last step in the process, the move from the spaceport to the Collections Agency, seems like the most likely spot for a leak. It’s a good place to start, at least.
Greenman motions to his guards, and they retract the video monitor back into its case, close it, and step aside. “The eggs never leave sight of a security camera,” Greenman says, “and the only time two or more security personnel aren’t watching them is in transit from the orbital to landing, where they’re sealed in cargo with no life support.” He takes the final sip from his little ceramic mug, then holds it aloofly out to his side, letting one of his bodyguards take it.
I look around the room again, trying to think like a criminal, searching in vain for a viable way to pilfer a brick of cultures here. Serious impediments bar the way at every stage. “This is, as you say, airtight,” I muse, walking slowly around the cart, scrutinizing it. I can feel Greenman watching me as Kearns stands silently near the door, hands in his pockets and a blank expression on his face. Finishing my circle of the cart no wiser than when I started, I cross my arms and face the Chairman again. “Has there ever been an issue with someone illegally manufacturing weevil cultures?”
“We’re not aware of any.”
“You’d think someone would try.”
“For one thing,” Greenman responds, “the process is secret and would take a high level of scientific expertise to reverse engineer. And for another, a manufacturing operation would require a minimum initial investment of at least ten million currency units, and if you’ve got funds of that magnitude already, why bother?”
“What about one of your competitor companies?”
“Another company would have no legal method for importing the weevils to Brink. The Orbital and defense satellites would catch it.”
Of course they would. Brink has the most thorough clearinghouse system of any inhabited planet except for Earth. The idea of a system of space stations monitoring shipping and travel was originally created as a method for screening imported items to prevent unforeseen dangers like contagious diseases or invasive species, but in our system, it’s taken on a role more focused on customs enforcement. Our economy is reliant on shipping and transit, and so the Commerce Board helps foreign governments enforce their treaties, all of which put limits on the importation of calcium. The clearinghouse is one tool they use to that end. The people and technology hounding out those imports would catch unauthorized weevil cultures as well.
“You guys thought of everything, huh?”
“I certainly hope so,” the Chairman says.
“With due respect, Mr. Greenman, your cooperation goes a bit beyond what I expected.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“Maybe it is.” I can’t read Kearns, who is still standing silently by the door. “But maybe you’re trying a little too hard to show me your clean hands.”
Greenman smiles coolly. “Neither this company nor any of its officers would run that kind of risk for so little,” he says. “You know, I’d like you to see the scale on which SCAPE works. Why don’t you come out to my ranch tomorrow night? I’m throwing a little ‘thing’ for charity, and I’d be thrilled if you both could make it. Black tie, twenty-hundred. Guest list gratis for you two.” He motions toward the exit, and the two guards snap to attention, stepping past him as the door slides open, letting in the harsh orange-yellow light of day. Wondering which one of them controlled it, I briefly consider asking about access, but decide against it and instead walk out onto the pavement beside Kearns, where the dry breeze rolls across the tarmac.
Passing by us toward a waiting car, Greenman nods. “Good day, Brady. Agent Dare.”
The guards step aside dutifully as the door of the storage cell rolls shut again. Greenman gets into his vehicle, and it drives off, out the opening gate.