He glanced at the time in the bottom left of his primary Devscreen. 10:20am. He still had a lot to do. Gabriel leaned forward in the Biosense in front of the Devcockpit and pressed his eyes shut with his fingertips thinking back over the path that had brought him to this tiny room on the Moon.
Gabriel shook himself from his reverie. Thinking of Mark, his mood brightened. He was proud of what his brother had become, despite and against all the odds, he had made humanity’s choice. Blood is blood and the blood of a proud line of people ran in Mark’s veins. Although it placed him in great danger, it didn’t fail him when it had been called upon to do the right thing.
The Zumar blood ran strong in him, and Gabriel thought how much it must burn Sir Thomas to see the face of Philip Zumar as that of his own nephew. Or did he take some kind of perverse pleasure from knowing that the son of Philip Zumar and his wife Mariah, lived the lie of being his nephew? Gabriel didn’t know and really didn’t care. Whatever Sir Thomas thought was only of interest in how it might be used to bring about his death.
His primary Dev pinged. “Gabriel?”
“Yes, Maloo,” Gabriel said.
“How did it go?” The image of Maloo in the tunnel overhead talking to him on the Devstick came through with incredible clarity but then Gabriel had installed the Devs here himself and hadn’t spared on the cred needed to get the best high-def Devs there were. The comms were on a local grid and not connected to anything. The two men were free to talk normally.
“Well, Cochran reacted faster than we thought she would but other than that, it went as we planned, Maloo. He’ll do it, and if he is really lucky he’ll succeed. What time are we leaving? Is everything under control?”
“We’re on track. How long for you to pack? We’ve got to get to Peary before 3pm. I’ve set us up in a titanium freighter bound for the Congo. It’s straight in and it’ll be a hot bumpy ride, totally hardcore, but we should survive.”
Gabriel chuckled at Maloo’s throwaway line about surviving re-entry, but knew they really were in for a ride they’d remember forever, if they survived it. He began packing some of the peripheral equipment around the cockpit.
After taking a long drink of water, he said in an even voice, “I’m more worried about being in a sealed box with you for eight hours. What did you eat for breakfast?”
Maloo, which means thunder in the Aboriginal language, lived up to the name he had been given by the tribal elders in response to his loud and long farts as a baby. The tribe was the one that Gabriel had joined on leaving Darwin as a boy, Maloo being his boyhood friend and blood brother. “Well, don’t just stand there laughing, get over here as fast as you can, and help me get this stuff stowed away.”
“I’m on my way. Couldn’t you get anything faster than a golf cart?”
“Hey, don’t knock the golf cart. It represents the only six hundred and fifty-four yard hole-in-one in recorded history, at least according to the guy who sold it to me.”
“OK, I’ll see you in about ten.”
“Maloo?”
“Yes, Gaz?”
“What did you find out about Mariko?”
“Um, she’s OK. She’s just been manipulated into this by Cochran, but she’s not evil, far from it.”
“OK, and make it eight. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Gabriel took a look around the room. He’d been here on and off since he’d busted out of Level Ten. When they were done packing he’d get Maloo to sanitize the room while he packed the buggy they’d use to drive to Peary. They’d bought a disused buggy and repaired it so that now it looked, complete with serial numbers, exactly like a BHP mining utility vehicle, one of thousands traversing the Moon’s surface. The buggy would allow them to trav as far as Peary and then they’d board the ore freighter to the Congo. A straight long burn followed by a fast hot re-entry. He hoped the suits they’d bought would hold up. The freighter wasn’t designed to carry humans, but the box built into its guts and the titanium ore it was carrying should provide just enough protection from the heat.
He took a last look at Mark, his arm dangling by the side of his Siteazy in Super.
Chapter 18
UNPOL Headquarters, Deep Trace Operations Room, 188th floor.
Saturday, 14 December 2109, 4:45pm +8 UTC
Cochran called the meeting at 4:45pm with a soft voice command to the Dev.
The message from Cochran hit their Devscreens. “Full review of Case #JM-2109, 5:00pm, Conference Room 35.”
Dominique ‘just call me Dom’ Signora couldn’t believe it.
What a bitch, he thought, and with a scowl and shrug, turned to his colleague and fellow trace partner, Martine ‘Marty’ Shorne, and said, “Calling the meeting just when we’re going back to our Envs. What are we going to do about Fatima’s party?”
She just lifted her eyebrows in reply, and feet sprawled out in a huge vee in front of her, chin on her small chest, arms folded, she continued to scan the Devscreen. They’d been working together for over three months, him joining straight out of the Academy and her transferring into Trace Operations from Large Commercial Crimes Unit (LCCU).
She looked like she was asleep, but she was wide awake. It was just her style. In this team everybody had their own style — usually it only outed after you’d been in the team for a while — a style that would fit, that evolved into and synced with the other styles in the team. Marty came fully loaded with hers, and the team evolved and revolved around it.
Marty brought her knees up and her legs together, and pushing her hands into her spine, rolled onto her back in the Siteazy. She straightened her legs out and pushed back with her head until she was standing on her head, arms out straight and legs dead straight. She held the position for a count of fifteen and bringing her hands into play, slowly lowered herself in an arc over the back of the Siteazy.
“Let’s go,” she said, and turned for the door.
The meeting would be held in the executive conference rooms on the two hundred and forty-second floor. Marty held out her hand to Fatima who slowly walked from her Devcockpit in the south west section of the room to the door where Marty was waiting. Taking Fatima’s hand she nodded at the others and with the door sliding open they stepped out of the Cave. They all hated this part of their contribution.
Cochran stood at the head of the Clearfilm table, Marty sat opposite Cochran, with Dom and Fatima on her left and Stanislav on her right. She sat cross-legged on her Biosense knowing it annoyed Cochran and knowing that Cochran wouldn’t do anything about it.
Marty didn’t like Cochran. She knew the type: ruthless and selfish, overachievers with no interest in morality. But there was no need to call a meeting at this time. They could do this tomorrow. Cochran called the meeting to show them what a dedicated contributor she was and how she was totally committed.
And she is, totally committed to herself, thought Marty as she sat listening to Cochran’s intro. Now she’ll pick on Stanislav with his stutter knowing she freaks him out, she thought.
“Stanislav, can you give us a run-down on the illegals that our runner was running?” Cochran asked and sat down, swiveling sideways in the Biosense and crossing her legs. Stanislav stuttered under stress. He was brilliant at spotting something where there was nothing in the ether and being able to translate what it meant, but he was incapable of speaking to Cochran.
Marty didn’t like what was going to happen, so she said, “Sharon, before coming into the meeting, the team and I have discussed what we think has happened here and we’d like to present those ideas to you and then go and enjoy Fatima’s birthday party which is today. We can go over the objectives you set for us, of course. However, we believe that our time would be more productively employed if we focused on a new angle. Would that be acceptable?”