Local Event - CHAPTER THREE

Local Event (a novel) - CHAPTER THREE

By Steve Orr

Austin, Texas was never going to be Venice, Italy. But the construction of the canals, pretty much forced on the city by the sudden presence of the Gulf of Mexico, added some real charm where the supply had always been a bit short of enough. On the practical side, their high walls doubled as dykes. In combo, the canals and their walls made it possible for everything south of 6th Street, which would otherwise be under water, to continue serving as the financial center of the Southwest. And, of considerably lesser importance to their builders, they allowed the people in South Austin to continue living in their homes.

Having arrived at the South Austin Jetport less than 20 minutes earlier, Lars Wol had been pleased to find his chauffeur already waiting for him at the Jetport dock. He liked it when they traveled by water. The traffic was fairly light this late in the afternoon. Still, it would take them several minutes to traverse the watery path from private jet to private office. He was returning from a trip to Midland, ostensibly to negotiate some delicate business that would ensure his company continued to be the sole provider of oilfield communications in West Texas. By negotiating short contracts, he was able to travel there at least four times every year, even more often if he needed to.

There was another reason for the trips, though. The other thing Lars Wol did when he was in West Texas was to see his therapist. Of course, the public did not know he even had a therapist. By careful planning, and the liberal application of funds, Wol had ensured that this activity would remain confidential.

From the very beginnings of his, now vast, communications empire, way back BTS, Wol had made a point to employ Chicanos. These hard working, and, more importantly to Wol, loyal, people comprised well over fifty percent of his workforce, and over seventy-five percent of his management team. Because of these hiring practices, and because he avoided micro-managing his employees, he was respected among the Chicano community like few outsiders. These investments paid many intangible dividends. One of those was that they were fiercely protective of his privacy. The tabloids would like to have known where he went and what he did when he was spirited away to Odessa, Midland's sister city. But there was an impenetrable wall of loyal retainers keeping them at bay. Plus, he paid the therapist considerably more than the going rate; enough to make sure the man would abide by his doctor/patient confidentiality oath.

It was this aspect of the recent trip that occupied his thoughts as they moved slowly through the Southside canalways. He was musing, now, not really seeing the water traffic around them. In his mind, he was back in the darkened Odessa office.

####

"I've needed to tell you about something," he had told his therapist. "But, I haven't been able to."

"What has prevented you?" The therapist's voice held little emotion and did not convey curiosity.

"It's very painful. I'm not one to share my thoughts, as you know. But, I did just that, once, with Jennifer. I should have realized, should have anticipated her response. I let my guard down; something I just don't do. You don't get to where I am in this life without knowing a lot of secrets. I dare say you may have guessed a few of mine over the course of our many sessions together. But there are things you don't know and that I doubt you will ever know. There is one particular secret that I have kept to myself for many years. Love made me weak, though. It made me drop my guard."

"This is so bad," queried the voice, "to share a secret with a loved one?"

"The only time I shared my thoughts about this with someone, she walked out of my life. It just never occurred to me she would react that way. It affected her, somehow; made deep changes. In a few short weeks, she had become such a different person; a strange, furtive, secretive being. I think ... I think she felt she was ... less of a person. I was such a fool! Why hadn't I anticipated that reaction? Now. Now, I see it. Now, I am cautious. Now, I know like never before; knowledge can destroy."

"You are sad that she is gone?"

"Her leaving was not the worst part. Technology being what it is today, I could have maintained a vicarious position in her life. Oh, I know how pathetic that sounds. But, I was smitten. I may still be. If I could, I would TAB her; peek in on her life from time to time, get to know all about her family & friends, co-workers. With TABs, I could know everything about her, even see holo-vids of her. There is enough technology in my office for me to do that. I wouldn't even have to hire it done. I could do the programming, myself."

"Tell me more about this Jennifer."

"Jennifer was always smart, in a crafty sort of way. Oh, she didn't know the first thing about modern technology. But, she knew a thing or two about a thing or two," he chuckled, "enough about enough so she could disappear. She was always an independent thing. I had offered to pay all her expenses, but she always said 'no'; said that I wouldn't respect her if she became a 'kept woman'. Which, now that I think about it, was probably the truth. That was one of the things I loved about her, that independent streak of hers."

"So. You searched for her?"

"I used private detectives for a while. Finally, an honest one told me to stop wasting my money. Mr. Wayne was kind enough to explain what she had done, and why it was so successful."

"You sound as though you are impressed."

"It's pretty ingenious, really. First, she gave up her address. You know what the authorities do if you skip on your landlord? They freeze your accounts, and then, using your resources, they pay the landlord until a new tenant can be found. If there's not enough money, an automatic judgment is lodged for the balance. This system is foolproof for 99% of the population...or so they think. Of course, if you make friends with a nice guy & just move in with him ('just until I get on my feet'), the trail gets cloudy. And, if you leave plenty of money in your account, there is little chance of having your credit blocked forever. That was her first, crafty step.

"Next, she left her 'friend' without warning. He just came home one day and she was gone. It's almost cliché. Of course, he thinks he's just been dumped. There's nothing to report to the authorities. She's left a note...'Time to move on.' is what it said. I have it, now. It's in my safe. She was doing a fade, and doing it rather well. My new friend, Mr. Wayne, was able to track her for a while. She actually stayed in Austin! Amazing! She was right there for over two years, and yet, I couldn't find her."

"You have invested considerable resources in finding her. Do you truly care about her? Or, is this a matter of reclaiming what you believe to be yours?"

Wol had heard the question, but chose to ignore it. "She kept repeating her little fade routine for the first few months, always with a man. Along about the six-month mark, she switched to women. Wayne almost lost her trail when she made that switch. At first, he thought she had just lost confidence in her routine. She probably could not know just how successful she was being. Wayne was the ninth person I had hired to track her, and the first to really understand what she was doing. Once he tripped to it, all he had to do was interview the string of broken hearts; people always know a lot more than they realize. Each time she jumped to a new "friend" she adopted a slightly different persona. She out and out lied to them about her background. In essence, she became the person they were seeking in their lives. Once she made the jump, she began cultivating her next "friend" almost immediately. Within a few weeks of her first fade, she had severed all ties with her original set of family and friends. She would be living with a guy, meet one of his friends, and then manipulate things so she met friends of her friend's friends. Most of them never had a clue."

"Are you in love with her?"

As if the question had never been voiced, Wol pressed on. "As for money, she mooched. She never accessed her credits. You know, people can be amazingly accommodating for a week or two. And that's all she wanted from them. There has been no official record of her existence for almost two years. There were no transactions in her name. She also used an interesting form of borrow & barter. Yes, that's right. She stole. When her newest friend would show up to help her move, always when the current friend was not around ('I just want to avoid a messy scene. You know?'), she would manage to take some things with her. Sometimes it was a few books she knew the newest friend would appreciate. Once, it was a place setting of china. Another time, it was part of a coin collection. Always, it was something which would not be readily missed and which could be easily liquidated or used to ingratiate herself with her new host. And, if that was not enough, these idiots would even give her gifts of their belongings; a chair, an occasional table, clothing. Then, she would pass these things off, gifts and loot alike, as her own treasured family heirlooms; the better to enhance their value in trade or subsequent gifting."

The Therapist was well aware of Wol's penchant for ignoring what he didn't want to deal with. He continued on, using the "broken record technique" first used on him by his own parents.

"Do you want to re-establish you relationship with Jennifer?"

"What I learned from Mr. Wayne was this; as long as she wanted to be "lost" there was nothing I could do, no one I could hire, that would flush her out. Since no one in Texas had to register with the Feds to get the relief monies, and since no Texas politician would ever dare to attempt such a thing as registration, there is a sizeable group of untraceable people about. You know, we lost so much of the technology we had BTS. I think it might have been easier to find her then, than now."

"You are being evasive," said the voice, quietly scolding. "Why is this woman so important to you? That is what you must talk with me about."

####

The flash of late afternoon sunlight, sparkling on the water like fiery gemstones, drew him back to the present. As his chauffeur jetted the vehicle out of the Southside canals and into the wide expanse of Town Lake, Wol came out of his reverie, his attention quickly captured by the Austin skyline. He appreciated it in ways that no other person could. He owned a great deal of it. Situated comfortably in the back of his Water-Limo, he surveyed the scene before him.

It was more of a "Boston" skyline than a "New York" skyline. There were plenty of skyscrapers to be seen, but they were more along the lines of the 40-story kind. His favorites, of course, were the two tallest in the center of the scene. Until they had been built, the seismic laws had limited building heights to 40 stories. When the architect had shown him the model, the woman had said that anyone flying overhead could see that the two towers, set at angles to one another, formed a stencil-W shape. That shape was recognizable everywhere as the symbol for WORLD ONLINE and, to a much smaller group, for the parent company, WOL Enterprises.

Lars Wol was one of the richest people on the planet. In addition to being wealthy, he was also very powerful. He, along with everything that "W" stood for, was responsible for holding together the fragile communications network that connected the peoples of the ATS world.

He told her to come back when she had a design that made it so the 'W' could be seen by more than a few airline passengers. Without missing a beat, she had reached under the model and pulled out four triangular shaped blocks. She carefully arranged them atop the twin towers. One the north side, they added 10 more floors, but on the south side, their sharply pitched angles formed the same 'W' on a slant. The 65 degree slope made it so that the southern-most residents of South Austin could easily see his symbol.

She then explained that the seismic laws were, ultimately, more about the weight of the building that about the height. Through the creative use of some newer building materials, and by making each of the top ten floors successively smaller than the one below it, she had given him a fifty-story building that still met the code. He had smiled his assent.

Completely free now of his earlier thoughts, Wol reviewed the messages waiting for his attention. Among the messages was a priority from his Security Chief, Santos Ayala.

Touching a button, he was instantly connected to Ayala's office.

Government publications explained that particulate in the air, left over from The Strike, created problems with wireless communications. This was especially true aboard a jet. This close to the water, however, direct transmission was easily accomplished via the network of transmitters Wol Enterprises had embedded along all the canalways. Of course, no one could access them without leasing from his company. This was only one source of his present wealth. There were literally thousands of income streams, all tied to communication in one form or another.

"Hold on," was all he said when Ayala completed the connection on the other end. There was no need for him to identify himself, and he had long since abandoned greeting people who worked for him. Reaching to his left, Wol pressed a button that activated a white noise shield between himself and the driver. Once satisfied that the communication would be secure, Wol asked, "What's this about an attempted breach of the firewall?"

Ayala, expecting the call, was prompt with his response. "That is a perplexing matter. It was a very sophisticated probe. My guess would be government, federal. I would like to investigate it, try to track it back. However, it will take resources. If we want answers, quickly, I'll need to access several of the contract hackers to sniff out the trail. That will cost a lot."

"Is there any likelihood they actually got in?"

"No, sir. Nor can they. Our firewall is the best. The software engine behind it 'learns' from these encounters and then reconfigures to address future attempts. As good as that probe was, and it was considerably better constructed than what we usually get from industrial espionage attempts, it won't work a second time."

"Then, I want you to contact Bart Wayne. Give him everything you've got and let him run with it. I do want to know who it was and, eventually, why they were trying to get in. But, there doesn't seem to be any urgency in the matter. No sense tying up a lot of capital if time is not really a factor."

Wol was about to disconnect when he realized that Ayala had not responded to the instruction. "Is there a problem, Santos?" he asked.

"Well, sir," Ayala began slowly, sensing he might be on shaky ground. "I'm not really comfortable using a freelance like Wayne. When we've used him in the past, there have been ... discipline problems. I guess the nicest way to say it is that he doesn't take direction well. I feel we need someone who is both dependable and a team-player."

"Santos, I value you and your opinion. I have my reasons for wanting Wayne on this. I have a feeling this may be more than a simple probe from some government boobs. I think we may need a bit of a rule-breaker to follow this all the way back to its hidey hole."

"Sir," interjected Ayala. But, Wol cut him off.

"In all the years we've been in business, we've never had a serious probe from the Feds. When they've had a question, they've asked it straight out, all above board and civilized. There's something else going on here. If you and your folks, with all the sophisticated equipment at your fingertips, can't identify the exact source of that probe, then we are dealing with an unknown. That, then, is why I want Mr. Wayne. As you well know, he could have milked me for a considerable amount of money, but chose honesty, instead.

Plus, he demonstrated a certain ingenuity in divining the convoluted thinking of my former ... friend."

"Find him, Santos. And, tell him I need him." Wol disconnected before Ayala could say anything else.

What he couldn't tell his Security Chief, despite almost two decades of exemplary service and loyalty, was that he had been expecting this probe. Well, maybe not this particular probe, but something like it. He firmly believed that secrets cannot really be kept; they always come out. His grandfather had taught him that, along with just about everything else he really valued as a personal philosophy. The best you can hope for, the old man had told him, still alive in his memory, is that the really damaging ones don't come out in your lifetime.

####

Lars Wol owed everything to his grandfather.

By the age of 11, Lars had come to believe that he had been born into a situation guaranteed to turn him into a loser. He didn't want that, almost couldn't stand the thought of it, but couldn't really figure out what to do about it. He knew that his Grandfather had money; at least, he had a lot more than Lars and his mother did. He had even figured out that he had been named after the old man as some sort of peace offering. But Lars also knew that they weren't welcome in the elder Wol's home. And, he knew why. His mother.

When Darcy Wol had been young, she had been wild. After many years of trying to correct the situation, her father had put her out of his house. Darcy's mother had said nothing in the face of her husband's wrath. Lars felt that his mother could have repaired the rift had she only apologized and changed her ways. But, that had never happened. Oh, there had been plenty of schemes launched with the objective of getting back in the old man's good graces. None of them successful. Words mean nothing, boy. Only actions. That was another of the maxims the old man had later ingrained into Lars.

Finally, on the very day of his eleventh birthday, Lars had taken things into his on hands, Convinced his mother would never become the mature woman his grandfather expected, Lars ran away from home. Sort of. They had been living in a squalid two-room rental on the Southside of Odessa. He rose early that morning, careful to not make any noise that would disturb his mother, though he reasoned the effects of the previous night's party would keep her soundly asleep until well after noon.

Figuring he had several hours until someone noticed his absence, the boy had walked all the way to the north side of town. There, he had stood out on the road to Andrews, thumbing for a ride. When the oil servicing truck had stopped after only about 40 minutes, he had thought himself lucky. When the window on the passenger side came down, Lars could see the young man on that side of the truck cab, somewhat less of the man in the middle, and just the face of the driver.

"Where'r you headed little fella?" asked Passenger Side. He had a huge grin on his face.

"To see my gran'pa."

"Is that right? He live up the road, here?" Lars could see Middle Man start to grin. Passenger Side was already chuckling.

"He lives in Andrews."

"So, you was going to hitch all the way to Andrews? What if nobody stopped? We're you gonna walk it?" By now, Middle Man was laughing. The driver had turned away to hide a smile. Lars didn't see what was so funny. This was a serious enterprise for Lars.

"I'll walk it if I have to. Gran'pa and I have business to discuss."

"Business," Passenger Side called over his shoulder, laughing so hard he could only squeeze out the one word.

Then, Middle Man got control of himself, somewhat, and asked, "Who is your gran'pa, boy?"

Finally realizing that he, for some reason, was the butt of their joke, Lars grew angry. Hotly, he yelled out his answer. "His name is Lars Wol!"

It took a few seconds for the words to find their way through the mirth. When they did, though, it brought a quick halt to the laughter. These men knew that name. Everyone who serviced the West Texas oil fields knew of the Old Norwegian. They all knew the legend, how he had worked his way across the Atlantic, had worked in Galveston before the Strike, and had survived in West Texas through many cycles of boom and bust. The Lars Wol they knew had a reputation as a hard man. But, the price of oil was unpredictable, and when times were hard, Wol was also one of the few people who could afford to hire a servicing crew. Nobody ever crossed Lars Wol, not if they thought they might need a job from him sometime.

So, it was in fear and awe that the driver, suddenly very serious faced, reached across the cab of the truck and opened the passenger door. Without taking his eyes off of young Lars, he said, in a voice as dry as a West Texas dust storm, "Donnie, git in the back." Without a word of protest, Passenger Side climbed down from his seat and walked to the back of the truck. Lars watched as the young man hoisted himself over the truckbed's gate.

When young Lars had been helped up into the cab, and a few more minutes spent finding the seatbelt, they secured him to the seat and drove, silently, to Andrews. The driver had delivered him, personally, to his grandfather's door. When the old man, still a physically powerful presence despite advancing years, had answered his knock, the driver explained that they had found the boy standing alongside the road. The old man nodded his head just once, and the driver scrambled back into his truck, anxious to get away. As soon as the truck started up, Lars had launched into an explanation of his plan. When he had finished, the old man called over his shoulder, "Betty! It's your grandson." Then, he walked back into the house without another word. Since the old guy didn't send him home, it was a victory as far as young Lars was concerned.

He never lived with his mother, again.

That was the beginning of what came to be the most important relationship of his entire life. In time, his grandfather had taken Lars along to check up on the oil field servicing crews who worked for him. Eventually, he taught Lars all of the really important lessons; the meaning of hard work, how to save money and why, and the necessity of paranoia. Always be on guard, boy. If you are being successful, there is always somebody out there who wants you to fail. A little paranoia can be your friend.

Paranoia had kept him at the top of his game for over twenty years. He had always known, felt it in his soul, that some day, someone with some real clout would start to wonder about his role in the events surrounding The Strike. He had quashed just such an investigation a couple years back. That incident was all he had needed to validate his worries.

Now, if his hunch was right, someone else was working that same angle. Well, let them, he thought. I'll be ready. And, if the things are to fall apart after all these years, I will not be the only one whose secrets are revealed.

Local Event - Chapter 02

LOCAL EVENT (a novel) - CHAPTER 2

Crime Scene

Dull-eyed, Jones watched as the last of the local police left the scene. The guy looked back at Jones with undisguised disgust and what was probably hatred. Nobody liked a FIN. Not the criminal element, not even the cops. Maybe, most especially the cops.

Samuel Jones was a Federal Investigator; a FIN. After all these years, he no longer took umbrage at the slang reference to his profession. In fact, he often found it useful in pursuing his duties. Despite the ever-present sneer when his contacts said, "Oh. It's a FIN," he found it opened many a door; doors which would remain closed to the police, the FBI, bounty hunters, you name it. It no longer mattered to Jones, though. He just wanted answers . . . and being a FIN was a great way, the best way, to get them. He had access; he didn’t need acceptance.

The door made a slight click when it closed. The FIN was alone with the victim.

Jones quickly checked the other rooms to ensure his privacy. Returning to the main room, his goal was the desk in the corner; but he stopped to view the body on his way. She looked very young. But, he knew she had to have been close to thirty.

(doesn't have to be . . . she might not be . . .)

He shut down the thoughts before they could go any further. He had trained himself to compartmentalize back in his teens in Military School. Now was a time when he really needed to do that. He forcibly drew his attention back to the situation at hand. There was a lot still to do, and his federal credentials could only buy him just so much time, alone, in this apartment. He had bullied his way in and he had bullied them out. He hated to operate that way. But, this, this was...well, he couldn't think about that right now.

He turned his attention back to the young woman. The Medical Examiner would provide the official cause of death, later. But the basic facts were undeniable. She had been shot with a projectile weapon, at close range. Possibly by somebody she knew; somebody she trusted. The range was telling; but the presence of the outdated weapon was intriguing. He was impressed that the killer had left the weapon behind. He glanced over at the gun, resting on the desktop near the built-in Net screen, carefully tagged by a crime scene technician. It was a large caliber automatic. There had been no fingerprints, and only one of the bullets had been fired.

Even supposing you could get your hands on such a weapon, where would you get a bullet?

He knew it wasn't impossible to do; just very, very difficult. The laws were quite strict about weapons possession.

Who would risk even transporting one, much less actually using one? Why risk a lengthy prison term? There were so many easier ways to flaunt the law. Even thieves used the common, and fully legal, Neural Disrupters.

Why kill someone when you could just knock them unconscious long enough to steal their valuables? Besides, If you 'D'ed a victim, they would live to be victimized again at a later date. Dead ones would never yield another bounty.

So theft, he decided, was not the motive.

Looking back at the body--The body? Can I really be that cold?--he recalled that there had been no indication of assault, sexual or otherwise. In fact, he had noted with interest the comment in the crime scene report that the dead woman had been (the writer had used the slang) a "Vickie." The Voluntary Celibates were called "Vickies" because they rallied to "Vici!" the Latin word for victory. Her membership in the group had been determined when a search of the apartment had turned up her pledge of celibacy, signed, as they always were, in the blood of her own pricked finger.

So, most likely, it wasn't a lover.

Reaching the desk, he noted it was one of those hybrid things, part antique (real wood!) and part high tech accoutrements, all integrated into something that shouldn't have been as attractive to the eye as it was. (How did they do that?) Glancing at his hands to assure himself that he was wearing the plastic gloves, he picked up the e-mail flimsies. The date/time notation suggested that the copies had been printed sometime near, possibly even after, the time of death. When the local authorities had arrived, the flimsies had been lying on top of the desk. Someone had taken them from the output tray and placed them on top. The killer could have placed them there. But, nothing else about the scene had that "arranged" look. The clearest implication was that the dead woman had been reading them. The absence of fingerprints was troubling, though, contributing to the uncertainty.

He sat in the desk chair ... and then nearly jumped out of it when he felt the seat and back realign themselves to cushion around him.

What level of tech did this woman have access to?!

Now beginning to wonder at just what it was he was missing here, he flattened the earlier of the two e-mails on the desktop and read it.

####

The Core

Sal called out to the twilit room, "What's that he's reading? Someone get it up on the screen for me. Can we get a camera on it?"

A male voice replied. "I'm getting a feed off the computer. It's an e-mail. I'll put it up on the right side of the main screens."

Jenson. Hmmm.

Several of the screens on the right converted themselves into one large rectangular viewing surface. A giant e-mail sprang to life:

####

From: Gold, Garland M.

Sent: Wednesday, January 14, 2038 10:16 AM

To: Powers, Kara A.

I'm the guy you've been looking for. They call me "Wedge." Don't ask why. We don't know each other, yet, and it's too soon for me to start lying to you. I don't think it's really anybody's business why I'm called Wedge. All anyone needs to know, you included, is that you can find me if you need me; just ask around for Wedge Duval. I'll hear about it and get back to you.

Yeah. Yeah. I got an address, but you don't need to know it. If I decide you do, I'll tell you. In fact, I'm here today to tell you to stop digging. You won't find anything about me in your databanks; and you won't find me on the nets, either. I'm just not there. OK? So stop. You're making a lot of people nervous with your poking around. I don't like tech. In fact, I prefer no-tech to low-tech. Get it? I like to work with people. They're far more interesting than machines. And, it pays well.

That surprises you? I know you don't know me, but trust me on this. The "people business" is much hotter than the "machine business." I don't hurt for dough. And, I don't hurt for stuff to do.

So. OK. I understand you're looking for a story. You wanna know what happened in Austin a while back. And, for some reason, your investigation has led you to me.

Oh, I know you didn't know my name until just now, but you knew I existed in the abstract. That's why you kept poking people. You figured somebody would give me up. Well, this is better; don't you think? First, let me congratulate you. You are one of a very few who have ever flushed me out. I don't spook. In fact, I wouldn't BE here if I didn't think this was better than letting you continue your "research". There are . . . people . . . who might get hurt if you kept poking. Not me, but better to do this direct than to let your clumsy (OK, I know, AND effective) methods cause harm.

Here are the rules. I tell you the story, you change the names. Also, there are a few details that will have to be obscured. I'll tell you which. You agree to my rules and you will hear something VERY interesting. Think about it.

Otherwise, I disappear, in my own way, and YOU can never find me again. And, don't try to track me through this guy's e-mail. I'm just piggybacking. Heck, he doesn't even know I'm doing it. I may not LIKE tech, but I can sure use it when I need to. Poke the last pokee if you want to continue this on my terms.

Wedge

P.S. Here's a little bit to chew on. You remember when the Gates kid moved the business to Austin? You old enough to remember that? What year was that? '17? '18? Well, anyway, it was before '20. I remember thinking at the time, with apologies to Sam Goldwyn, "If your Daddy was still alive, today, he'd roll over in his grave!" Who could have guessed it? All those years in the Northwest, then, BANG, deep in the heart of Texas. Well, that's where it all started.

####

Crime Scene

Lifting his gaze from the flimsy, he stared out the multi-paned window. Several seagulls pinwheeled around each other about a quarter mile to the south. The questions in his mind seemed to do the same.

Who was this guy? What was he to her? Did she find him? Did he kill her? Was it something to do with his needing to remain anonymous? And, what was it she was trying to find out?

(or, possibly, who?)

This Duval person seemed to know the object of her research. Or, at least, he wanted her to think he knew.

With no answers forthcoming, he pulled the other sheets on top of the first and began to read them.

####

The Core

The central screens showed the FIN arrange the sheets in his hands so that a new e-mail was on top of the one he had just finished reading. Before Sal had to ask, the screens to the left of the central image re-configured to show the second e-mail:

####

From: Gold, Garland M.

Sent: Tuesday, January 20, 2038 11:21 AM

To: Powers, Kara A.

Well, now, THAT wasn't very smart. What? You didn't think I would KNOW you tried to track me? I gotta tell you, it was pretty funny watching you stand there and stare at that public access booth! What a maroon! Look. This is your last chance. Stop looking or I stop with the story.

Now, as a token of my goodwill, I give you the following. In some ways, the Gates move was almost as significant as The Strike. Who could resist that kind of pull? Of course, those that were already here fared the best. Even smarter than buying up potential commercial property, were the ones who bought land out in places like Moulton, Flatonia, Round Top, Cut and Shoot, Old Dimebox, Blue. Suddenly, everybody wanted a place "on the comma."

Funny thing about The Strike, how something so destructive could end up creating such a massive economic boom. You know, while Houston was sinking, while flashfloods were destroying crops and livestock almost as far north as Dallas, while aftershocks were shaking coastal Texas into rubble, there were people already thinking how to make money off it. It was one of Bush's Grandkids who came up with the plan. Right after that last chunk of that space rock carved us a new Gulf of Mexico, Texas made the whole deal a historical site. Did you know that everybody on the Texas Strike Commission is either a Bush, married to a Bush, or loyal to a Bush? I kid you not. It's the next Kennedy Dynasty in the making.

So, what I'm gonna tell you here is what's between the lines. By moving so quickly, Texas beat out the Federal government by one day. That's it; just one day. That's why, today, all that oil is still under the control of Texas. It was really genius, making it a historical site. NOTHING can be changed without their permission. And that means money in the coffers of the only state that used to be a nation.

Now, we all know that Texas wasn't the only place hurt by the Strike. But Texas was the only state to take care of itself. You know, I think DC would have made a bigger deal out of it if they could have seen the potential. Sure, it cost Texas a lot to sort things out on their own, but it was worth it in the long run. Today, the DC crowd's got no claims on Texas. So, maybe now you have a little better understanding of the tension between Texas and DC. Texas doesn't need anything from DC, but DC needs Texas.

Well, anyway, the point of this little lesson was to make sure you knew who the key players were. Next time we communicate, I'll complete this part of your education by telling you some pretty interesting things about Lars Wol. Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're wondering what any of this has to do with what happened in Austin. Yeah, you could find most of this in the history books. So, I can afford to give it to you, no charge. But, if you want more of those interesting little insights, then you gotta STOP LOOKING FOR ME.

This is a test. Don't fail it.

Wedge

####

The Core

"OKAY!" called Sal, making it an imperative, "What's going on here? What is the guy referring to? Give me some context to work with!"

Again, she heard Hardiwick's voice launch out from the upper gloom.

"I can confirm some of the information in the e-mails, but some of it may just be fiction. Also, I can give you a bit of elaboration on a few of the key items.

"The Gates move: Moving the Gates Empire to Austin, Texas effectively made that city the technological center of the world. Everyone wanted to be close to Number One.

"Moulton, Flatonia, etc.: all small towns near Austin. The Comma: a local term referring to the newer portion of the Gulf of Mexico, 'tail of the comma' jutting up into Texas.

"The Texas Strike Commission, or 'TSC': Our best intel supports the comments in the e-mail; but no verification on the rumor about the Bush grandchild. We have little data on its composition; the names are readily available, but relationships are more difficult to sort out. I've initiated a line of inquiry, but it may be some time before I can tell you more on this.

"Prior to 'the strike' Texas had maneuvered itself into a position where it had little dependence on federal funds. Pouring federal funding into a Texas recovery could have reversed the situation. It appears no one in Washington perceived the need to do so. There is, at present, a significant 'balance of power' issue between Texas and Washington. Texas doesn't really need federal money for anything. However, the federal government needs the tax revenues from Texas. It is, arguably, the strongest economy in the country.

"The Lars Wol reference: everyone knows who he is. I cannot, at the moment, determine what his involvement could be with these matters. I started the automated inquiry, but almost immediately hit a firewall."

Sal sat and thought for a while.

After a few minutes, fully aware that what she was about to do would violate the presumed "flat structure" relationship between the female agents and that she would be creating problems for Hardiwick as a result, she said, "Good work, Hardiwick. Migrate your workstation down here to the floor, next to me."

Turning her back to the tiers, Sal thought, The women will hate her because it looks like I've elevated her. The men won't like it either, but they will give her a little respect, perceiving her to be a winner. That won't really be enough to make up for the other, but it will have to do. Either you are a player or you have lots of friends. Lord knows, I've never been able to have both.

####

Crime Scene

Jones continued to hold the e-mail flimsies long after his mind's eye had stopped seeing them. Something told him these were more important to his mission than just the obvious, and the only way to figure that out was to let the information percolate. Years of experience had taught him that. To give his thoughts room to run, he put the flimsies the desk and looked about the apartment, hoping to distract himself from the pressures of the moment.

The advertisements described this particular complex as "Neo-Southwestern." The motif was clearly Southwest, but nothing about it seemed very "neo" to him. Some of these old buildings had weathered the after-strike seismic shocks quite well. Of course, with the layer of stucco slathered all over the outside of this building, no one could tell if it had been damaged or not. So, like most BTS buildings, this one no longer drew the better clientele.

These days, "The Drover" was inhabited by people of Austin's art world; musicians, painters, techno-artists of every variety, groupies, almost anything else that could fit loosely under the big, floppy hat called art.

Still, she had made the apartment comfortable. He thought about the other rooms. There was nothing to suggest why she was now dead. Somehow, in what appeared to be an absence of strait forward clues, he had to discover why this woman was dead.

(and if she was...the one...)

But, then, that was just the kind of mystery he was intended to solve; the really hard ones.

None of that was doing Samuel Jones the least bit of good at the moment. He had to know what had happened here, and yes, he had to know if this woman....

He could feel the hot tears spring to his eyes. Without warning his control had crumbled. A sob escaped from him. He placed his face in his hands and wept. He leaned forward, the backs of his hands flattened against the e-mail flimsies. Tears sluiced through his gloved fingers, forming clear buttons on the flimsies, magnifying the letters and words below.

He had to know if this woman, this very dead woman, was his daughter.

####

The Core

Sal was stunned. She neither moved nor spoke. The weeping FIN had transfixed everyone in The Core. For a few moments, absolute silence reigned.

Then, a new voice, excited, tense, male, exclaimed from half way up the tiered rows of consoles. "He's not alone! There's someone else in that room with him!"