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You feel the breeze blow around the edges of your suits drawstrings. Looking through the window, you can see the security guard making his second loop of the office. Suspended by gecko-tape, you watch him pump his credstick into the machine and dial up yet another coffee. If you could call that crud, coffee. With a loud peep, the machine spits out a cupful and after blowing on it noisily, he heads back towards the main desk downstairs.
Your B&E bag nestles against your ribs and you thumb open the insta-zip on the suit. No zippers or poppers on this baby. It's midnight black and only a thermograph is going to spot you... but not at this range. Reaching into the toolbag you pull out a fibre optic camera and some contact wire. You just need to find the alarm sensor on this window. After that, it's a straight swap job on the administrator's desk. Honestly, some people will do anything for a promotion won't they. You fight back the memories and work on the window. Just finish this, you say, then it'll be time for drinks with Bailey.... and a nicely loaded credstick.
Ophelia paused as the guard made his round, enjoying her virtual invisibility. If he only knew that she was mere yards away, watching, she mused as he purchased a coffee from the office machine. She had sampled the crud it produced herself over the previous few days and while she wasn't entirely sure what it was, it sure as hell wasn't coffee. Ophelia remembered imported coffee, something that rarely came her way these days and she didn't envy him. One memory led to another, of when she herself had been in the sometimes cutthroat race for any promotion available, and those that weren't.
He was gone. Back to the main desk to drink his coffee and do whatever security guards did to amuse themselves till the next circuit. Pushing the memories aside she focused completely on the job, taking out the necessary equipment from the bag tucked safely inside the suit. A few minutes work and she located and dealt with the alarm sensor on the window. A little more and she slipped through into the office. Making her way swiftly and silently to the administrator's desk, she took out the item provided and quickly made the switch.
She knew she should leave as quickly as she had arrived, it wasn't safe to stick around any longer than was necessary and there were drinks with Bailey to look forward to, not to mention the fat credstick.. someone badly wanted promotion it seemed, but Ophelia couldn't resist a quick look around the desk and a check of the drawers, remembering a time when one such as this had been hers.
The office environment is rather plush. The furniture is in good condition and the carpet still has a bit of spring to it. The desk is reasonably tidy and the draws are unlocked. Sitting in the executive leather chair, you carefully work your way through the usual office junk of pens, staplers, memo recorder chips and spent shuttle tokens for the corporate subway.
In the bottom draw there are few more files and these contain printed copies. Normally print outs are reserved for the office big wigs, everyone else has to make do with that recycled film cr*p or dodgy smart-paper (one EMP gun and the document's gone).
The first report deals with accounts and expenses claims for the sales force. The second report is from Marketing and talks about exploiting the decker rumour about Number Syndrome - whatever that is.
Your gloved fingers reach for the Numbers report and you pause. Something is not quite right. What was that? The whisper of a door opening or just the lift passing by in the distant corridor? There's a rattle of keys. Someone is coming into the main office.
Ophelia reclined in the comfortable chair as she perused the contents of the drawers. Just usual office stuff, but there were files in the lower drawer. She flipped through the expenses and accounts report for the sales force. Nothing exciting there. Another report. What was Number Syndrome? Something to be exploited by the looks of things.
Reaching for the document, Ophelia paused. What had she heard? There should be no noise on this floor, the security guard wasn't due back for some time yet so why could she hear the sound of keys? Someone was coming in here.
Hurriedly replacing the report and closing the drawer, Ophelia slipped silently back to the window. The job she came here for was done and she cursed herself for lingering. Relying on the suit to mask her presence, she hoped to be able to get out before the unexpected company showed themselves.
The report is rather long and you skim through it looking for the hooks. It's not long before you hit pay-dirt:
"Rumours within the decker and stim-head community (see appendix, section 2a for definitions) persist of Number Syndrome. Indeed files found on the run against the St Mary's server, sourced from a Dr Baxter, confirms this condition to be quite real.
Victims of this condition withdraw from conversation and become obsessed with counting or basic mathmatics. Soon numbers pepper their speech in something akin to Tourette's (see appendix, section 3c). After a time the person will cease all conversation and withdraw to concentrate on their mental arithmatic.
It is unclear at this time if this is a new form of psychosis - a variation on the 'battle rage' we would see on cybernetically enhanced solidiers as see in the earlier parts of 2104. It may also be a mind-war virus from the British Eight Year War, more likely a combination of drug related psychosis and poor stim programming.
The R & D department state that by rebranding parts of the Cool-You and Nirvana help-ware, we could capitalise on this fear by...."
You slip the report back into the draw and make you way towards the window. It slides open with a gentle pull and you step out into almost thin air. Your gecko tape still holds and your foot finds its place quickly. Drawing the window down the a wind picks up and blows against the tape. Before the window closes completely you hear two male voices. Despite the fear of being caught, something nags at the back of your mind. Whatever it is, it's illusive.
Two men enter the dimmly lit office. Fancy knee length coats swish passed your hiding place. One of the voices is quite agitated. "... give a **** if they say they've got the bugs ironed out. I don't want anything to do with it until Mindstar goes on line."
The other voice is calm and low. "I would keep that to yourself if I were you," it says. "The Old Man has a way of finding out who has been blabbing his secrets. You would do well to remember that."
"Yeah, yeah. Like he'd be bugging a micro-firm like this joint," retorts the first. "Let's just find the Number's report and go."
"As you wish," says the cold voice. "Bottom draw." There's a pause. One of those pauses where your paranoia kicks in and you think you can't breath. Instinctively, your finger reaches forward with the catalyst stick; the one that'll dissolve all the tape and send you skimming down the building with only a slow feed X-sports safety wire to stop you being pavement jam.
"This one?" adds the first voice breaking the cold frenzy that has gripped your guts. "Got it. The decker team have been in and out yes?"
"Indeed," replies the voice. "Just three loose ends to resolve and we are done here. Number Syndrome will go back into crackpot psychology."
With a creak, the office door is pulled two and the men make their way back to the entrance.
"No, after you. I insist," says the man with the cool tone.
After you.... Doctor... I... Insist....
I.... Inssssist.
His words open a rush of memories. The look on the Doctor Altris's face. The splash of blood against the boardroom table. Hopton's sneering visage. Him turning to you as if he had all the time in the world and firing again and again. The burning pain of the bullets as they hit. Your shoulder. Your back. The blackness.
Hopton.
Fear and hatred storm from within your soul, surging like twin snakes.
Ophelia felt her blood run cold as she recognised the voice. Hopton. The one who had murdered her former boss, the one courtesy of whom she had known death. She remembered the pain of the bullets hitting her then feeling nothing, then the blackness. She had been so frightened then and now, even though death itself no longer held a mystery for her, she still feared this man, feared what he would do to her if he found out she was still alive. And she hated him, with a vengeance. She wanted to make him pay for ruining her life.
She listened as the men left the office, emotions twisting within her. She had hoped never to see him again, but whatever he was involved in it must be something big. Who was the 'Old Man' and what was Mindstar. She resolved to ask around about that and the number thing, it might be useful to know about. A shame they had taken the report with them, a few minutes difference and she could have had it herself. Who knew, it might have been worth a good price to the right people.
Her work here was done, time to be somewhere else and fast. Descending the building swiftly, Ophelia retrieved and changed into her concealed street clothes before hurrying off to the bar to meet Bailey.
The skinsuit's pattern changes to a default black as you pull your day clothes on. A soft rain of dust falls as the zip line and gecko tape disintegrate into nothingness. You reverse the bag that held your clothes and roll it into a ball. It disappears into your jacket.
Walking slowly from the building you merge with the early evening crowd, joining them in a stroll under the tree-lined avenue. Cafes and fancy shops fill the lower parts of the office blocks. Why leave work early when everything is on hand? Another way the transnational corporations get their pound of flesh. The late shift traffic absorbs you and you go with the flow. Questions flutter around your mind as you walk on auto-pilot: Hopton, Mindstar, Number Syndrome, and The Old Man. You are tempted to use your mobie, but that would mark you down as having been here. With Bailey's travel token, officially, you were never here.
Leaving the corporate zone, you find yourself at Arab Station. Piped ambient music filters through the evening air. No stink of petrochemicals or shouts from hawkers. Just suits, briefcases and muted clothing. Security walk on by, your disinterested reflection showing in their visors. The mono-rail hums slightly as it picks up a charge and the robot shuttle carriage slides in with a whisper. With a soft hiss, the automatic doors close and the carriage sets off. Bailey's travel token rests in your hands. You find yourself studying the coin wondering about its history. It, like Bailey, is an unknown. You know what it is on the surface, but the past? Who can say.
Two transfers later, you are off the shuttle on back on the bumpier rails of the Black Line - the train loop that skirts Necroville. You get off at Stoker and head towards the Stack. Bailey will be waiting and you'll be paid well for your exploits.
Against the acid picked brick wall of the last station, a faded holo-poster of the city-state's founder peeps out at you: Johnathan Klass. His kind face - clearly heavily air brushed or a shot from his military file? - smiles at you. The Founder. Could this be the Old Man Hopton was talking about? No, Klass is on life support and rarely leaves his ivory tower. Even the Christmas Broadcast had to be put back due to his ill health.
Her mind still buzzing with questions about the scene she had just witnessed and the things she had overheard, Ophelia alighted from the train and headed for the stack. Number Syndrome, it sounded like a pretty bad thing to have. What was Mindstar? and Hopton, what had he been doing there? Was this anything to do with the murder of Dr Altriss? If so, it must be a far bigger thing than she had ever imagined.
She paused before a holoposter showing the Founder. Looking into his kindly face she wondered, "Are you the Old Man he was talking about?" No she decided, it didn't fit. By all accounts Klass was on his deathbed and she couldn't see him running some kind of big operation in that state.
She had wasted enough time already. Time to head for Joe's, Bailey would be waiting by now and most importantly, ready to pay well for her services. He might even have another job lined up for her. It sometimes amazed her how easily she had taken to this life, so far removed from her previous one, but she loved the thrill it gave her. The anonymity of setting things up, then a quick hit and off again, no one any the wiser as to what she was. And always the risk she would be caught.
Klass, the dedicated hero of the war. He organised the tent city in the old railway tunnel. He sourced heat and food for people before finally brokering the deal for the plas-steel structure that would grow into Magdalene's protective skin. Founder's Day is dedicated to him. His only son, Andrew Klass was killed in a riot during the Heartland Bombings.
You pull yourself away from the memories of childhood street parties and make your way through the evening human traffic of The Stack. Necs, normals and breed rub shoulders with SHARCs and trixs. After taking a short cut through Alice Street, lines of washing drying overhead in the waste heat from the underground plasma station. The ground is wet and steams slightly. Strange to see a wet floor in the covered city-state.
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