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!"

Local Event - Chapter 01

LOCAL EVENT (a novel) - CHAPTER 1

by Steve Orr

CHAPTER ONE - The Book

April 23, 2038

Gimmelwald, Switzerland

His carriage erect, his shoulders squared, Ansel Yopp strode through the Great Hall at a pace that belied his years even though he knew he would pay for his bravado with aching muscles and sore joints. However, since he knew that Davidson, hurrying along in his wake, would make note of his apparent vitality and could be counted on to tell the others, it was worth the price.

The room was a rough isosceles triangle. Yopp's immediate goal was a little reading area before the massive fireplace which formed the "peak" of the three-sided hall. To either side of the fireplace, stretching over 20 feet along each wall were floor-to-ceiling windows. He settled into the wingback chair and gifted himself with a long, savoring gaze out the tall glass panels. He saw a breathtaking view of the waterfalls, sparkling in the sunlight of, by alpine standards, a beautiful spring day. Windows like that were just two of the joys of living in a house with twenty-foot ceilings.

Reluctantly, he tore himself away from the view and looked at the book Davidson had urged upon him just minutes earlier. According to the stamp on the spine, it was published by Third Coast Press, whatever that was. On the cover, in garish colors, was a large rock hurtling through space, apparently on a collision course with the Earth. The rock seemed to be on fire -- on fire . . . in outer space. Above this were the words, "The Strike: Coincidence or Conspiracy?" The large letters of the title appeared to have been hewn from the same flame-edged rock. Below, in similar but smaller letters, was the author's name, "Charles Dexter." The words also appeared to be rushing to bombard the Earth.

Quickly, before Davidson could do it, Yopp reached out and pulled the floor lamp closer to the chair. At one-hundred-twenty-three years, he was, to the best of his knowledge, the oldest man on the planet. Despite all the years, he felt healthy and strong. He resented having people always trying to do things for him. Hadn't he clawed his way to the top of this organization? Did they really think he would let something like age impair his ability to lead? Besides, it just plain got on his nerves to have them hovering about all the time.

Ignoring Davidson for the moment, he opened the book to the Preface and read silently:

It finally happened. After all those stories and books, all those radio plays, television shows, movies, and mini-series on holovision; after all the scientific speculation about what could happen, should happen, would happen; after all the publishing in journals, it really did, finally, happen. Shortly after the beginning of the third millennium of the so-called "Christian era", a sizeable chunk of space dust finally found its way to the Earth.

Perhaps you wonder at the title to this book. How, you might ask, could it be anything but a coincidence? How could anything so massive, so destructive, so . . . astronomical be the result of a conspiracy?

But, suppose for just a moment, suppose you really believed it was a conspiracy. You would have to wonder just what kind of beings would have the ability to rain death down on an entire planet. The scale, alone, boggles the mind. There is an even more fantastic consideration. What kind of beings would do such a thing?

Many people will read no further. Some may have already closed the book and moved on down the aisle. Only those of you who have always wondered remain; only those who are labeled 'paranoid' by unbelievers. You know, though, don't you? You know about Roswell, and Kennedy, and Area 51. And you know about this, too.

Yopp was already irritated at Davidson for his solicitude; and now, this book. The writing was amateurish; even the punctuation was done poorly. He had the distinct impression of conflicting styles; as if more than one person had written it. Why was he even bothering with this thing? Behind him, he could hear the voices of the children playing out on the lawn. Well … yes … that's why he did these things. If not for the children, he would never involve himself with such matters.

With a wave of his hand, he indicated that Davidson should sit, then smiled to himself because the only place nearby was the ottoman. It positioned the younger man slightly lower in relation to himself.

Speaking without preamble, his gravelly voice echoing faintly in the cavernous room, he asked, "Why have you brought this to me?"

Davidson had not quite lowered his bottom onto the ottoman and now stopped with mere inches to go. "Well, your eminence, I thought it might be important."

"Tell me Davidson, do you call me 'your eminence' because you respect me or because that's what you want to be called when you manage to take my place?"

Davidson's face turned a deep crimson.

Having gotten what he wanted, Yopp moved on. "Never mind. Sit, sit! Tell me about this book and why it is so important that it needs my personal attention."

Still red in the face, Davidson sat. He cleared his throat. "It came to my attention that this book, the distribution of it I should say, was quashed by Lars Wol over two years ago. We’re puzzled why he never reported to us that he did so."

"The real mystery," countered Yopp, "is that he ever bothered with it in the first place! Just look at it. What possible impact could a piece of trash like this have on us?"

Flipping it open to the same page, he found the place where he had stopped before, and read aloud.

If we are going to find the truth, though, we are going to have to move beyond speculation. We have to start with what everyone knows.

It's been said that numerous "strikes" have occurred in the deep past. Some believe just such a strike killed off the dinosaurs. However, with the possible exception of the mysterious Siberian explosion of 1908, there have been no large strikes in recorded history. If comets or killer asteroids or giant meteors have hit the Earth, the best we can do is point to craters and cracks in the ground as evidence of the events.

Still, most everyone thought it was just a matter of time before it happened again. So, when the announcement finally did come, one would think people would not have been so unprepared. But almost every person on the planet was unprepared. Almost every person.

The stories of what happened before The Strike are numerous, and can be found in any bookstore or library. The fear and panic, the suicides, the murders and other acts of lawlessness have all been well documented.

Yopp looked up from the page, staring off into the distance. "What was Wol thinking? Why involve himself with this? We've seen these I-Found-Atlantis-In-The-Bermuda-Triangle kinds of books, before. The decision was made long ago to just leave them alone, to allow the conspiracy buffs a little bone to gnaw on."

Davidson shifted on the ottoman, apparently unable to make himself comfortable. "Sir, I think this section is not a true representation of..."

Yopp resumed reading aloud, his voice drowning Davidson's.

As we all now know, The Strike was not the extinction level event so many had postulated. At the (cosmically) last minute, the big brute broke apart. We all call what happened "The Strike"; but, in truth, there were many strikes, scattered across the globe; each one of them a local event.

The stories of what happened, as each chunk slid down our gravity well and into history, are as numerous as the lives of those affected by the impacts. The effects of those impacts have been long-term. We even divide our memories between BTS and ATS.

It has been almost two decades since The Strike. Yet, questions remain. What were the forces that shaped these events?

Or, instead of “what,” should we be asking, "who?"

Was it all just a big cosmic coincidence? Or was it accomplished through an intricate and devious plan? Only now are we beginning to discover the truth.

What kinds of beings could do such a thing -- would do such a thing? The most dangerous kind of beings in the known universe. Human beings.

Yopp raised his eyes from the page, this time fixing them on Davidson. "Now, really, does that sound like something we should fear? There's not enough reality in there to matter."

"Sir, I think you should read something besides that page. I've taken the liberty of marking certain sections. If you will read those, I think you will see the problem."

Yopp continued to stare at Davidson for several seconds. Then, he closed the book, setting it on the side table next to a small handbell. He lifted his eyes to the enormous hearth and continued to stare at it until Davidson cleared his throat again. At that, Yopp picked up the bell and rang it.

To Davidson he said, almost offhandedly, “Where is my angel?”

Flustered at the change of subject, Davidson struggled to respond. Before he could do so Yopp asked, clearly agitated, “Well? Where is he?! It’s been over a year now. Why do you waste my time with such matters as this book, when you should be bringing me a report on my angel?

Finally finding his voice, Davidson sputtered, “But sir … the book…”

"Oh, all right! I'll give it some thought. Leave me now … and find my angel!"

He could see that Davidson resented the dismissal, wanted to say more, but kept it in check.

He watched Davidson leave, passing the servant arriving with a load of firewood. While the servant busied himself building the fire, Yopp reclaimed the book.

He had, of course, lied to Davidson. Even in the rubbish he'd just read there was enough truth for them to worry. He would read the selected sections, and more. Indeed, the irritation of a few moments ago was gone.

Looking again at the book's cover, he felt something else, something that caused him to shiver. At first, he could not identify what it was. When he finally did understand, he realized his chill went beyond what the fire could address. For the first time in several decades, Ansel Yopp felt the chill of fear.

####

Washington, DC

The Hill

Sal's weekly meeting with the Congressional Oversight Committee was not going well. For starters, the heat in the meeting room was pervasive and inescapable. The relentless questioning ground on her, as well.

"Ms. Wozniak? Are you familiar with a term or concept referred to as U-D-M? Have you and your folks gathered any information on this?"

The question came from the new Chairman of the Oversight Committee. Sal reviewed what she knew about the woman; Southerner, bright, multi-term member of the House, extremely ambitious.

Chairwoman? How did she want to be addressed? Oh, yes. "Sorry, Madam Chairman, I have no knowledge of such."

"Mmm. Well." Sal watched as she wrote on a pad of paper. "Then do you have any information on a person named Charles Dexter?"

"Sorry, Madam Chairman, I have no knowledge of such."

The Chair, again, made notes on her pad. Sal had lost count of the number of questions to which she had responded "no knowledge of such."

"I've done some checking on you, Ms. Wozniak. The previous Chair of this committee was very forthcoming when I telephoned and asked about you. He says you have a problem with -- How did he put it? -- 'deliverables?' He told me you and your staff seem to always be busy, but that you rarely finish anything. I must say, I have begun to wonder, as well. Tell us, Ms. Wozniak, what have you done for us, lately?"

Nothing Sal did to ease the impact of the heat had any lasting effect. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs for the momentary relief it gave her. It didn't help that she had to wear so many layers of clothing to attend these things. Never far from the center of her thoughts was the desire to shed some of it, all of it (maybe just the nylons) . . . any of it!

From her seat near the foot of the long, oval table, Sal was not even an arm's length away from the thermostat. She could see it was cranked all the way up to 35C. She desperately wanted to reach out and dial it down to a far more comfortable 25C, or, better still, 20C. It was so close, so tantalizing.

She knew better, though.

Besides, honesty kept her from blaming it all on the thermostat. Not a little of the heat coming her way was political, with the main source being the Chairman, herself. The fruitless questions had been streaming toward her for the better part of an hour. She had yet to recognize a single reference.

"Ms. Wozniak? Did you understand the question? The Committee is waiting."

Madam Chairman's honeyed tones, a product of her southern heritage, often served to misdirect her opponents from a razor-sharp intellect, itself a product her genetic heritage and the best education Wellesley College had to offer.

Sal was not taken in by the woman's drawl. She knew exactly what was going on here. She was being put in her place. She wanted to reply in kind, but held back because she knew the stakes. Sal was not in a position of strength, here. This Oversight Committee had the power to shut down her baby, and this particular Oversight Committee would do whatever its Chairman wanted. The change in administrations had seen to that.

Sal looked from face to face.

With the notable exception of their chairman, there were no women serving on the Oversight Committee. She knew that most of them would, given the chance, be looking up her dress. She supposed she appreciated it in a certain way. Still, she doubted she would have to dress this way if any of them had any experience wearing women's clothing, and none of them did. Then her eyes lit upon the esteemed member from a small New England state. Well, OK. He does. She wondered if he was wearing pantyhose, today.

And, she thought, every person here had reason to want her gone. She was the only barrier between them and their dominance of her staff. She hadn't made any friends here over the years.

Sal remembered the early days. The face-to-face meetings, then, were annual. She'd enjoyed a truly collegial relationship with the original committee Chair. And she missed it still. A lot can change in 15 years, especially in the shifting political landscape of Washington, DC. She'd lost control of this committee two Chairs ago. That's when the “command performances” had jumped to quarterly. The next Chair insisted she appear no less than monthly, and that's when the questioning began.

Sal decided now was the time for her prepared remarks. Collecting the eyes of all the members, Sal then focused her gaze on the Chairman and gave them all a truly dazzling smile. It was a high wattage, photo-op kind of smile. It was the one her mother's sister had called her 'angel smile,' and it was the reason classmates at the Academy had dubbed her 'the shark' ("Sure man, it's plenty toothy. It's just not a smile.").

"Madam Chairman. Esteemed members of the committee. I appreciate this opportunity to speak with you today." She spoke the words from memory. This was the same formal opening she had used the last one hundred times (and change) she had appeared here. "As many of you know, The Core's charter calls for us to concentrate our activities on the policing of the Federal Investigators, the FINs. Your questions, today, while certainly intriguing, do not appear to fall within our charter."

The Chairman interrupted. "Oh, yes, the fabled government bogeymen. The FINs."

Before she could go on, the door behind Sal opened and a member of Madam Chairman's staff hurried to the front of the room. She leaned close and spoke so low that Sal couldn't hear. She did see Madam Chairman's eyebrows rise, just a fraction. Turning back to face the group, she said, "I apologize to you all, but I must close out this session, immediately. My staff will make contact regarding a re-schedule. Ms. Wozniak? Could you come forward please?"

Such was her power that none of them questioned her abrupt adjournment. As the Committee members, most with puzzled looks on their faces, exited from the room, Sal swam against the tide, slowly making her way to the front.

The Chair did not speak until everyone else had exited the room. Handing Sal a small piece of paper, folded once, she said, "It appears you have a little crisis to handle."

She watched as Sal opened the note and read its contents. When Sal looked up, stunned at what she'd read, the Chair was smirking.

"You realize, of course, if this kind of thing keeps happening, there won't be anything left for your little group to do. Now, wouldn't that be a shame?"

Without another word, Madam Chairman turned her back on Sal and strode from the room.

####

Washington, DC

The Metro

So, thought Sal, the woman in the apartment is dead. It was an unwelcome bit of news, more so in that she had learned it from the Chair of the Oversight Committee. That's just great, she thought, making a sour face, one more nail in our coffin. She would have to investigate as soon as she got back.

"Farragut West," purred the standard announcement in a deep, male, voice. "Doors opening on the right. This is the Orange Line to Vienna."

Packed into the subway car, literally shoulder to shoulder, Sal had to admit, at least to herself, that she was not happy.

As the doors opened, people flooded all around her, leaving the car to accomplish whatever business they intended in the blocks surrounding The White House. In her distracted state, she was almost carried out with them. Then, as others poured into the car, she found herself being pushed deeper in. She snagged a purchase on a pole near the door.

Sal Wozniak smoked too much and she drank too much. She knew these things about herself. Neither was the cause of her present unhappiness, though. A growing part of it had to do with the way she looked. Her not-as-blond-as-it-used-to-be hair came from a bottle these days. She had a hint of a double chin and she hated it. She could see in the mirror that she was heavier. Sal was on the downhill slide. Such was her self-perception.

The truth, she had been told by others, was the exact opposite. She still retained much of her earlier beauty. She was no longer model thin, but the extra fleshiness laid on by the years, and by her vices, made for a pleasing effect rather than the other way around. Of course, she dismissed this. Sal had never been one to look beyond herself for personal affirmations. So, the periodic appreciative comments she heard did nothing to alter her own negative perception. She held, as her mother used to say, firm views.

"Please stand clear of the doors," harped the announcement, this time as a perturbed female. Sal could see that the doors were not closing completely. However, on each attempt, they got a bit closer together.

"Please stand clear of the doors," it cried again. Then, Sal felt the crowd shift, saw the doors close, and they were underway.

None of this was at the forefront of her thinking. She was aware of it, but not distracted by it. She was unhappy, mostly, because the meeting on the Hill had not gone well. Sal was worried about funding. The Core (my baby … my brainchild) was in jeopardy; she felt its days were numbered. If the Oversight Committee decided to cut off funding, it was history.

Sounding exactly like the well-known host of an all night easy listening program on cable-audio, the voice said, "Foggy Bottom. Georgetown. George Washington University. Doors opening on the left. This is the Orange Line to Vienna."

Her thoughts went back to the Committee meeting. She had tried, for the umpteenth time, to reason with them. Once again she tried to get the Committee to see that what it was she did was stalking; stalking the bad guys. That was what the Core had been designed to do. The proper term, the less exciting term, the one used by the Committee members, was "surveillance." Instead, they saw the Core as an arm of their committee, developed and funded so that their part of the federal government could keep tabs on other parts of the federal government.

Rocking slightly with the Metro car as it followed its Stygian path under the Potomac, Sal tightened her hold on the bar. But it’s more than that, she thought, feeling the abrupt tug on her arm as the car came to a stop. Someone has to guard the guardsmen, to watch the watchmen.

In this case, the "watchmen" were the FINs, the Federal Investigators. As far as Sal was concerned, they were the enemy. If asked to explain that, she would have said, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

She knew that their power was not really absolute, but it was extensive enough to have corrupted several of them. That is where The Core came in. As sordid as it might seem to an outsider, Sal knew that she directed an effort of high purpose and of unusual importance.

Plato was wrong, she thought, there's nothing absurd about guarding these guardsmen.

Over the years, The Core had scored several impressive successes, bringing an extensive array of technologies to the task. Early on, they had nailed several of the original target group, FINs who thought they could act with impunity. Those people weren't acting with anything, anymore. But, in recent years high profile wins, the kind needed to keep their black ops funding flowing, had been sparse. It was beginning to look, even to Sal, like

The Core's glory days were gone. In Washington, DC, the question had ever been, "What have you done for us, lately." It was getting harder for Sal to come up with good answers to that one.

"Rosslyn," soothed the announcement. "First stop in Virginia. Doors opening on the left. Change here for the Blue Line. This is the Orange Line to Vienna."

She wondered why they had never changed the announcements on this line. It's not like any of us can actually go to Vienna, anymore.

####

As the crowd flowed out of the car and onto the platform, Sal allowed herself to be carried along. She was swept up the stairs and on outside to face the cold and gray of April in Washington, DC.

The tread of her steps purposeful and steady, she headed up the hill. The sunlight was wan; she could barely feel its warmth. All the same, it was nice to be outside, even if only for a short time. She could have taken the tunnels, but she felt she had earned a few minutes of open air. Besides, the Rosslyn area was safe enough, especially during the day. She let her mind fill up with the sensations of sun, wind, and snow.

Too soon, the non-descript granite building that housed, among other things, The Core, appeared on her horizon. The closer she got, the larger it appeared, and the more her thoughts turned to what was ahead for her. She would have to address the matter of the dead woman, and then, she would have to do some serious thinking about how to save her baby.

####

The Core

“Ground Level” was the only open-air entrance to the building, and was as nondescript as that of any other federal building in the DC area. Sal took the elevator down to “Tunnel Level” where she rejoined the crowd of people entering and leaving via the vast tunnel system connecting all buildings in the District of Columbia. On this level, connecting directly to the Metro a few blocks away, was a brightly-lit tunnel filled with restaurants and shops. Exiting the elevator, Sal walked in the opposite direction, passing several solid and uninviting doors until she arrived at a Community Based Outpatient Clinic, or CBOC, run by the Department of Veterans Affairs. She pushed her way through the glass doors, waved to the receptionist, and walked into a hallway on the right. This brought her to the Veterans Canteen Service which had no door, but required her to step through by a metal-detecting arch. Sal passed through this without tripping any alarms, but not because she wasn’t armed. Several people, some dressed as medical professionals and some looking more like patients, were either shopping or eating. At the back of the canteen, she stepped through a closed door into a side hallway. The door locked behind her with a solid click. This passageway was brightly lit by florescent lights embedded in the ceiling and was entirely empty. She continued to move briskly along until she came to a door marked “Records.” Using a standard looking key, she opened the door and entered a poorly lit room.

Before her were several rows of floor-to-ceiling file cabinets; a narrow catwalk fronted each row at about the six-foot level. She turned left and walked a short distance to one of the unlit corners of the room. Facing the wall, she raised her hands, palms out, to be level with her eyes. She waited for the scan. There were no lights or sounds to indicate it was taking place. Its sole purpose was to verify a set of biometric implants. Anyone attempting entrance without them would be met by armed personnel and escorted to a holding area until a determination could be made about them. Once the scan was done, a narrow portion of the wall to her immediate left slid open. She stepped through it into a large room.

As soon as the wall section closed, the entire room began to descend. The one-floor drop took her to the first security checkpoint. When the opposite wall opened, she was met by six armed Marines. They stood behind lexawall barriers, their weapons pointed at her through narrow slits. She took off her coat, boots, and gloves, dropping them onto a conveyer belt on her immediate right. Once they had been cleared for possible biohazards, and any other potential threat, they would be returned to this checkpoint for her to claim when she left the building. She then walked directly to the 'decon' room under the alert eyes of the Marine guards. Closing the door gave Sal some privacy, but she was quite aware those weapons were still aimed in her direction.

Once inside, she disrobed, placing her clothing into a large plastic bin. These, too, would be processed and held until her return. Sal placed her hands on rungs embedded in opposite walls, and then she placed her feet on cold metal pads set widely apart in the floor. The effect, she knew, was to make her appear as a human 'X' with a head. Many might find the situation uncomfortable. Sal gave it no thought at all. She had designed all the security protocols for entrance to and exit from the building; to her, this was part of going to work every day. These scans came with lights and sounds. Their purpose was to discern any biological threat that might be on, or in, her body.

Once the scanning was done, the 'decon' room opened automatically into another. There she donned a blue jumpsuit and comfortable sneakers.

She walked back through the 'decon' room, opened the door, and once again faced the Marines. Weapons following her passage, she stepped back into the elevator and she waited.

A metallic sounding voice said, "Clear."

At that, the Marines lowered their weapons, the doors closed, and she continued her descent.

When the elevator stopped a few seconds later, she exited and walked down a short corridor. At the end were several scan stations. Going to one, she stepped onto the base, placed her palms on the respective hand scanners, and leaned forward to align her eyes with the retinal scanners. At the word, "Clear," her station rotated 180 degrees. When she stepped back, she was in a different corridor, one that led to a third, more conventional elevator. This time, the drop took a full minute.

At the end, she walked out into a brightly-lit lobby. There were Marines here, as well, but none with weapons drawn. Blocking the path from the elevator was a desk. She stopped there and retrieved a photo ID card that would adhere to her jumpsuit. Without a word, she moved past the desk and into a short hall. No one challenged her; at this level, she was the ranking person. She swiped the ID card through a reader, and then smoothed it onto the front of her jumpsuit as a door opened into The Core.

When she had designed it, her inspiration had been a can of tuna. Of course, she had never actually told anyone that. Government workers were notorious for appending humorous nicknames to their buildings and agencies. She was serious about her work, and could not abide anyone making light of it, even the work space. Mostly, it was one very large, circular room, its diameter more than twice its height. But, with the screens filling almost half the circumference, and tier upon tier of console stations terraced up the other half, the room seemed smaller than it was. It existed in perpetual twilight. In fact, none of the people who worked so industriously within it, save Sal, had ever seen it in greater illumination. Outside light did not reach The Core.

Stepping up to her station at the center of the main floor, Sal could see that each person was going about his or her work at a steady, thoughtful, pace. Everything was not in readiness, though. She had expected to return to find things neat and tidy. Instead, here and there wall panels and floor plates were still open, providing a clear view of The Core's naked entrails. Heads appeared at floor level and backsides jutted from the walls where service technicians were implementing her latest budget wizardry.

The repairs and upgrades were needed, at least in her view. The fact that the Oversight Committee wouldn't allocate funds for them wasn't about to keep Sal from making them. She just had to take the monies from somewhere else. She wondered, without any true concern for the answer, if they would someday find out what she had done.

Due to what the Chairwoman had called "the present downtime," the Core had been reduced to performing routine surveillance activities on whatever persons or groups were deemed important by the Oversight Committee. These were really pet projects, though, and it galled Sal to have to do them.

At the moment, the denizens of The Core were busily trying to determine why the subject of their current assignment was dead. All manner of sensitive equipment had been secreted within the woman's apartment. Today was to have been the first day they observed her. What they had planned to do was check each surveillance device, ensure its operability, and then check each backup device for the same thing. They were going to do a test recording of all the data flows. Today was supposed to have been a low key "shakedown cruise."

When they brought up the sensors for the initial run through, they discovered instead an apartment full of police, crime scene investigators, medical examiners, and EMT's. And, of course, the dead woman. Even though she would never say it out loud, Sal was thinking, Well, at least this will be interesting. But, she also knew that, with one less person to surveil, her group was going to move one step closer to zero funding.

Raising her voice slightly, she said, "All right boys and girls. Listen up! Please include the following in your search routines: the letters U-D-M -- probably an acronym of some sort -- , and the name 'Charles Dexter' -- that’s D-E-X-T-E-R. Oh, and reprioritize 'hummingbird' to 1-A. We need to find out what that refers to. It's been two weeks since that first came to our attention and I've had nothing from you.

"Now, we're going to go ahead with our data flow check. Or, as best we can with repairs continuing. While we're at it, let’s see if we can find out what happened to Ms. Powers while our backs were turned, hmmm? Let's get everything recorded. Hopefully, we can learn something use ---."

Even though she had been talking to the tiers, she had been facing the screens. The largest screens in the center, about forty of them, were combined to show an oversized view of the dead woman's Austin, Texas apartment. Sal had stopped talking when, up on the screens, the man had walked into the apartment, holding up his ID. The distinct four-pointed star of his badge flashed in the crime scene spotlights and identified him to everyone as a FIN.

"Target!" she barked.

Suddenly, everyone in The Core was scrambling to get fully operational. She waited, impatiently, as the seconds seemed to crawl by.

Near the ten-second mark a crisp female voice called out of the twilight, "Our database indicates the target is Samuel Jones. He is one of the original Federal Investigators, fully empowered. His record is spotless. We have never been able to catch him abusing his portfolio." Sal made a mental note that this report came from Hardiwick. She thought, Way to go, girl.

Without taking her eyes off the screens, Sal called out new orders. "Full push. I want every thing. I want to know why he is at that apartment. I do not believe in coincidences, so don't try to sell me any! And turn up the volume. I don't want to miss a single word."

Up on the screens, the FIN was arguing with someone, most likely the police detective in charge. She saw that the detective, if that's what he was, had lost the battle. The sound came up. People in the apartment were gathering up equipment, closing notebooks, and heading for the door. She could hear people grumbling and cursing, but not loud enough to bring any of them to the FIN's attention.

This is going to be more interesting than I thought. She lit a cigarette and settled back to watch.