It was a bit disconcerting how easy it was to get through the security checkpoint at the airport. But on the other hand, they never really had a chance.
The computer did all the work nowadays, and the computer knew without a doubt that my ID was legit.
It had taken Spectre no more than a few minutes to establish the identity of Veronica Sinclair. Including my biometrics was not even worth thinking about. And changing the biometrics and pictures of Vivian Juliette DuClare was standard protocol. Those who did not know me personally were actually searching for a tall blonde, instead of for the tiny redhead walking through the checkpoint.
The security was not at fault here, as Spectre was one of only six hackers who could do the switch. And few outside of the Abyss knew of the connection I had with one of the most wanted hackers of the world. I had made damn sure of that.
And I still had activated the new identity only a few hours earlier, to make sure the fail save of the NWC bureaucracy would not come into play.
The check of my luggage brought no surprises. My PDP 22 .40 was registered, and obviously legal (at least that was what the computer told the guards), and nothing else had to be licensed.
I reached Bay 9 a bit more than 30 minutes before launch time and for a moment questioned my decision.
On some level, I was aware of the fact that the Drunken Owl was old. I mean, the Camel was discontinued 40 years ago. So I was not completely surprised that the grav ship was somewhat decrepit. But the vision greeting me was even less than I expected. The ship was mottled with rust spots. I could see a few oil streaks, and the landing gear was a bit bent. But then I remembered my research. Ernest Willinger may be disreputable, but he made the flight to and from New York several times a week and was always reliable. It was the reason why I even talked with him, much less paid 30k credits for the flight.
As I watched my crates were loaded into the freight compartment. My life here in Seattle was over.
A screech behind me made me turn around.
A group of apparent passengers had entered the bay, and at least one member was less than satisfied with the grav ship.
Four Mongrels, two male and female each, and a Mute without any outward gender identification. A midsized blonde woman, mid-twenties I would guess, was berating one of the males, a big and strongly muscled man around thirty with black hair. The other woman was a bit smaller and younger than the blonde, with shoulder-length brown hair. The second man was a bit shorter than the first, with dark brown hair and roughly the same age. The Mute had a canine face, dark grey fur, and four arms. I had to respect his or her courage. Running around in Seattle as such an obvious mutant could not be easy.
While only half of the street gangs here were anti-mutant, the Pures in control were less tolerant than the government nearly everywhere else. I briefly wondered how it had come through the checkpoints here at the airport without being turned into a sieve. But I was not interested enough to really ponder the question.
In the short time while I looked them over, the man not trying to calm the blonde down moved up to me.
“Hi. Are you part of the crew? This ship is a bit…” he wrestled with the sentence before continuing “rusty. Are you sure it is safe?”
I couldn’t help myself. Such an opening was to be used.
I shrugged and simply said: “No.”
He seemed a bit stumped, and I began turning back to the ship when he tried it again.
“No, it is not safe?”
“No, I am not part of the crew. As far as I can tell, besides the pilot, there is no crew.”
“Oh, then you’re a passenger? I am Marc Holt.” He held out his hand.
I was contemplating using sarcasm, but I guessed it would be wasted, so I just ignored his hand.
“Veronica Sinclair. Yes, passenger. And before your next question, yes it is safe. The ship makes the trip and back four times a week. So you should calm down your friend.”
With that, I finally turned around and entered the passenger compartment. Willinger acknowledged my presence and I looked over the seats.
As I had expected, the interior was no better than the exterior of the ship.
The seats were old, and a few were obviously damaged. The smell was barely tolerable. Where there was no crud there was either blank metal or the remains of a carpet on the deck. A few of the seats still had their view pads, but mostly it was disconnected wires coming out of the openings.
But I was not paying so much for comfort. I looked around and saw a seat in the back that seemed relatively clean and had neither holes in the cover nor defective upholstery. More importantly the same could not be said of its neighboring seats. It was the best bet I had to be left alone.
I stuffed my luggage in the overhead compartments, activated my link, and began reading. Not even five minutes later, Marc sat down on the other side of the aisle.
“That was not very friendly, you know?”
Annoyed, I grabbed the bridge of my nose, and took a deep breath, before I answered.
“Yes, I know. That was intentional.” All the while I tried to get into Professor Nicolins’ not very accessible text.
I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“You could at least look at me if we are talking.”
“We are not talking. You are talking and I am reading. An activity I prefer to do alone. So would it be possible for you to leave me alone and talk with your friends? Thank you.”
Obviously, he did not get the hint.
“Oh please, if you have to make up excuses then use believable ones. I mean no book, no tablet, no computer, no smart goggles, not even a smartphone. My god, why do I always meet the bitchy ones?”
“Implants. And it may be because you come on much too strong. So if you have no other questions, and on second thought, even if you have, would you please leave in peace? If you want to talk to somebody, go to your friends or one of the other six passengers. Thank you.”
I began to search in my messenger bag.
“What other passengers? And why do you want to be alone?”
He couldn’t let it go. A low growl came unbidden from my throat. He began leaving annoying and slowly entered aggravating.
“Peace. Commonly defined as a state of tranquility or quiet, freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions, or harmony in personal relations. As we have no personal relationship and while your presence is certainly disquieting, my request for peace was mostly intended to get you to stop disturbing my state of tranquility. So if you would, please, leave me alone, I would be very thankful. If, on the other hand, you find yourself compelled to further incommode my tranquility it will result in a contest of wills. And while I concede you the advantage in a physical struggle, I would not let it come to one. So pester somebody else.”
He confirmed my opinion about his cognitive abilities with his sophisticated reply.
“Huh?”
When I did not react, his grip on my shoulder tightened.
“What did you mean with that?”
“So much for taking a shortcut. As you obviously do not know the meaning of the word, “peace” I explained it to you instead of going through the motion of asking what in the sentence you don’t understand. I! Want! To! Be! Left! In! Peace! Is there any ambiguity left in these words? Do you understand them? If not, could you please ask somebody else to explain it to you? I don’t have the patience to translate it into two-syllable words for you.”
Meanwhile, I had found my earbuds. Not that I needed them to hear music. My implants were wholly adequate to the task. But I learned long ago that they did not convey the fact that I was not listening. So the earbuds. While I began to insert them into my ears, another voice interrupted us.
“Marc! Every time. Why do you make an ass out of yourself every single time you meet an even halfway attractive woman? Go upfront, before I kick you there.”
The Mute had come back to us.
I forced a smile to the Mutant, and said a fast “Thank you.”
Then I concentrated on the text again. While I wished that Nicolins could write better, or at least had a better proofreader, he was one of the foremost experts in implant surgery. Circumstances prevented me from being one of his students officially, but I was still learning much from him. I had watched his lectures on the web. His anti-rejection nano therapy was brilliant, even if he had to do with nanites four generations old, but so far he missed the obvious solution. Again I felt an urge to simply send him a message. But as so often I held myself back. I had worked hard on finding it and had created completely new processes and machinery. It was worth an inordinate amount of money. And more importantly, it was worth an enormous amount of protection if I found the right place. And if I was the only one who could provide it.
That I had access to a bleeding-edge nano factory and had the blueprints for the next-gen nanites was only the cherry on top. Oh, and of course the backdoors into the research facilities. Those were invaluable for me.
Then the soft vibrations going through the ship got stronger, as the fusactor spun up from standby. Shortly a low growl announced the waking of the grav coils. And then we were underway.
I finally managed to relax a bit. While I was not freely out of Dodge yet, the probability that the peacekeepers would get me now was minute. I had made it out of Seattle.
Roughly an hour into the flight, I felt a short touch on my shoulder.
As I opened my eyes, I saw the black-haired man standing over me. I inwardly steeled myself, deactivated the music player, and took one of the earbuds out.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, for Marc. He is not so bad, but… okay, he is an asshole, but if you give him a bit of time he is all right. He is a horn dog though. So everything ok?”
“Just keep him away from me and it’s ok. I just want to be left in peace.”
He looked at me for a few seconds, before he nodded.
“Ok, I will leave you alone then. Have a quiet flight.” With that, he walked back to his group.
The rest of the flight was quiet and peaceful for me. Four hours in I finished the book. I was contemplating starting another one, but in the end, I gave in to the exhaustion that I now felt creeping in and dozed off.
It was a bit disconcerting how easy it was to get through the security checkpoint at the airport. But on the other hand, they never really had a chance.
The computer did all the work nowadays, and the computer knew without a doubt that my ID was legit.
It had taken Spectre no more than a few minutes to establish the identity of Veronica Sinclair. Including my biometrics was not even worth thinking about. And changing the biometrics and pictures of Vivian Juliette DuClare was standard protocol. Those who did not know me personally were actually searching for a tall blonde, instead of for the tiny redhead walking through the checkpoint.
The security was not at fault here, as Spectre was one of only six hackers who could do the switch. And few outside of the Abyss knew of the connection I had with one of the most wanted hackers of the world. I had made damn sure of that.
And I still had activated the new identity only a few hours earlier, to make sure the fail save of the NWC bureaucracy would not come into play.
The check of my luggage brought no surprises. My PDP 22 .40 was registered, and obviously legal (at least that was what the computer told the guards), and nothing else had to be licensed.
I reached Bay 9 a bit more than 30 minutes before launch time and for a moment questioned my decision.
On some level, I was aware of the fact that the Drunken Owl was old. I mean, the Camel was discontinued 40 years ago. So I was not completely surprised that the grav ship was somewhat decrepit. But the vision greeting me was even less than I expected. The ship was mottled with rust spots. I could see a few oil streaks, and the landing gear was a bit bent. But then I remembered my research. Ernest Willinger may be disreputable, but he made the flight to and from New York several times a week and was always reliable. It was the reason why I even talked with him, much less paid 30k credits for the flight.
As I watched my crates were loaded into the freight compartment. My life here in Seattle was over.
A screech behind me made me turn around.
A group of apparent passengers had entered the bay, and at least one member was less than satisfied with the grav ship.
Four Mongrels, two male and female each, and a Mute without any outward gender identification. A midsized blonde woman, mid-twenties I would guess, was berating one of the males, a big and strongly muscled man around thirty with black hair. The other woman was a bit smaller and younger than the blonde, with shoulder-length brown hair. The second man was a bit shorter than the first, with dark brown hair and roughly the same age. The Mute had a canine face, dark grey fur, and four arms. I had to respect his or her courage. Running around in Seattle as such an obvious mutant could not be easy.
While only half of the street gangs here were anti-mutant, the Pures in control were less tolerant than the government nearly everywhere else. I briefly wondered how it had come through the checkpoints here at the airport without being turned into a sieve. But I was not interested enough to really ponder the question.
In the short time while I looked them over, the man not trying to calm the blonde down moved up to me.
“Hi. Are you part of the crew? This ship is a bit…” he wrestled with the sentence before continuing “rusty. Are you sure it is safe?”
I couldn’t help myself. Such an opening was to be used.
I shrugged and simply said: “No.”
He seemed a bit stumped, and I began turning back to the ship when he tried it again.
“No, it is not safe?”
“No, I am not part of the crew. As far as I can tell, besides the pilot, there is no crew.”
“Oh, then you’re a passenger? I am Marc Holt.” He held out his hand.
I was contemplating using sarcasm, but I guessed it would be wasted, so I just ignored his hand.
“Veronica Sinclair. Yes, passenger. And before your next question, yes it is safe. The ship makes the trip and back four times a week. So you should calm down your friend.”
With that, I finally turned around and entered the passenger compartment. Willinger acknowledged my presence and I looked over the seats.
As I had expected, the interior was no better than the exterior of the ship.
The seats were old, and a few were obviously damaged. The smell was barely tolerable. Where there was no crud there was either blank metal or the remains of a carpet on the deck. A few of the seats still had their view pads, but mostly it was disconnected wires coming out of the openings.
But I was not paying so much for comfort. I looked around and saw a seat in the back that seemed relatively clean and had neither holes in the cover nor defective upholstery. More importantly the same could not be said of its neighboring seats. It was the best bet I had to be left alone.
I stuffed my luggage in the overhead compartments, activated my link, and began reading. Not even five minutes later, Marc sat down on the other side of the aisle.
“That was not very friendly, you know?”
Annoyed, I grabbed the bridge of my nose, and took a deep breath, before I answered.
“Yes, I know. That was intentional.” All the while I tried to get into Professor Nicolins’ not very accessible text.
I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“You could at least look at me if we are talking.”
“We are not talking. You are talking and I am reading. An activity I prefer to do alone. So would it be possible for you to leave me alone and talk with your friends? Thank you.”
Obviously, he did not get the hint.
“Oh please, if you have to make up excuses then use believable ones. I mean no book, no tablet, no computer, no smart goggles, not even a smartphone. My god, why do I always meet the bitchy ones?”
“Implants. And it may be because you come on much too strong. So if you have no other questions, and on second thought, even if you have, would you please leave in peace? If you want to talk to somebody, go to your friends or one of the other six passengers. Thank you.”
I began to search in my messenger bag.
“What other passengers? And why do you want to be alone?”
He couldn’t let it go. A low growl came unbidden from my throat. He began leaving annoying and slowly entered aggravating.
“Peace. Commonly defined as a state of tranquility or quiet, freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions, or harmony in personal relations. As we have no personal relationship and while your presence is certainly disquieting, my request for peace was mostly intended to get you to stop disturbing my state of tranquility. So if you would, please, leave me alone, I would be very thankful. If, on the other hand, you find yourself compelled to further incommode my tranquility it will result in a contest of wills. And while I concede you the advantage in a physical struggle, I would not let it come to one. So pester somebody else.”
He confirmed my opinion about his cognitive abilities with his sophisticated reply.
“Huh?”
When I did not react, his grip on my shoulder tightened.
“What did you mean with that?”
“So much for taking a shortcut. As you obviously do not know the meaning of the word, “peace” I explained it to you instead of going through the motion of asking what in the sentence you don’t understand. I! Want! To! Be! Left! In! Peace! Is there any ambiguity left in these words? Do you understand them? If not, could you please ask somebody else to explain it to you? I don’t have the patience to translate it into two-syllable words for you.”
Meanwhile, I had found my earbuds. Not that I needed them to hear music. My implants were wholly adequate to the task. But I learned long ago that they did not convey the fact that I was not listening. So the earbuds. While I began to insert them into my ears, another voice interrupted us.
“Marc! Every time. Why do you make an ass out of yourself every single time you meet an even halfway attractive woman? Go upfront, before I kick you there.”
The Mute had come back to us.
I forced a smile to the Mutant, and said a fast “Thank you.”
Then I concentrated on the text again. While I wished that Nicolins could write better, or at least had a better proofreader, he was one of the foremost experts in implant surgery. Circumstances prevented me from being one of his students officially, but I was still learning much from him. I had watched his lectures on the web. His anti-rejection nano therapy was brilliant, even if he had to do with nanites four generations old, but so far he missed the obvious solution. Again I felt an urge to simply send him a message. But as so often I held myself back. I had worked hard on finding it and had created completely new processes and machinery. It was worth an inordinate amount of money. And more importantly, it was worth an enormous amount of protection if I found the right place. And if I was the only one who could provide it.
That I had access to a bleeding-edge nano factory and had the blueprints for the next-gen nanites was only the cherry on top. Oh, and of course the backdoors into the research facilities. Those were invaluable for me.
Then the soft vibrations going through the ship got stronger, as the fusactor spun up from standby. Shortly a low growl announced the waking of the grav coils. And then we were underway.
I finally managed to relax a bit. While I was not freely out of Dodge yet, the probability that the peacekeepers would get me now was minute. I had made it out of Seattle.
Roughly an hour into the flight, I felt a short touch on my shoulder.
As I opened my eyes, I saw the black-haired man standing over me. I inwardly steeled myself, deactivated the music player, and took one of the earbuds out.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, for Marc. He is not so bad, but… okay, he is an asshole, but if you give him a bit of time he is all right. He is a horn dog though. So everything ok?”
“Just keep him away from me and it’s ok. I just want to be left in peace.”
He looked at me for a few seconds, before he nodded.
“Ok, I will leave you alone then. Have a quiet flight.” With that, he walked back to his group.
The rest of the flight was quiet and peaceful for me. Four hours in I finished the book. I was contemplating starting another one, but in the end, I gave in to the exhaustion that I now felt creeping in and dozed off.
