Freedom Incorporated (63 page)

Dan didn’t care about the
technical specifics; he just wanted to know what was possible and
what was not. “So if we find you that number, can you get us past
portal security?”

Hans nodded. “It is a
40-digit alphanumeric string, not a number… but yes. Security is
all handled by the supercomputer of PortaNet, and since I can
bypass that, I bypass the lock entirely.”

Simon whistled softly.
“That makes you a dangerous man – not to mention suspect number one
in all unexplainable bank robberies.”

“
And where
would I get that… string?” Dan asked.

Hans shrugged. “It is
printed on the frequency modulation unit and the network connection
card of every portal, but you must open the case to read it… and I
presume that if you are in a position to open the portal, you will
have no need of my services.” He paused to think. “Or, you could
kindly ask someone from PortaNet to look it up in their
database.”

“
Right.” Dan
abruptly stood. “I’ll get you the code. And if you help me by
letting me use your portal, I’ll do my best to help
you.”

“
Really?” Hans
looked dubious. “And how do you plan that?”

One more
crusade.
This time, Dan
knew
he was biting off more than he
could chew. But he’d committed himself; this opportunity was too
good to pass up. “I’m not sure yet. But I promise to do everything
I can.” He extended a hand, hoping Hans would accept the
offer.

Hans stood slowly,
stretching his back and rotating his whiplashed neck. “You should
understand something first. PortaNet has dampers for a reason, the
same reason they won the right to form a monopoly on portal travel.
Every space fold must be precisely co-ordinated with all the
others, which is why every portal talks first to the supercomputer.
If the space fold from my portal crosses a PortaNet fold it may
merge you with another traveller and subject both of you to
gravitational distortions.”

“
So I’d be
fried?”

Hans nodded.
“A fragment of bone and a splatter of blood was all that was left
of the chickens they experimented on. I think you have about five
percent chance of colliding with another fold, killing you
and
someone
else.”

Considering his options,
Dan thought it was an acceptable risk. “Fine.”

Hans studied his guest
for a long time before slapping his cat-fur-covered hand into Dan’s
outstretched palm and shaking vigorously.

*

S
unday
,
September 1
9
,
2066

02
:
26
Brisbane
,
Queensland

He felt better after his
much-needed rest. Processing was easier. The interface between his
brain and processor felt agile and lubricated instead of coarse and
frail. He’d been following Dan Sutherland’s financial trail and
it’d led him to the backwater surgery. The Raven already suspected
why Sutherland had been there, but he needed confirmation for his
theory.

He sprung like
a lithe cat from his shadowy hiding place and prowled to the front
door, clawing at the handle. But the lock was expensive and the
alarm system sensitive.
It won’t be easy
to override,
he thought irritably.
So… the hard way.
He sat
with his back to the door and accessed the surgery’s network by
mentally drilling through their firewall. Then he posed as a
chronometer and fooled the building’s time server into believing it
was nine o’clock in the morning. There was a click at the door and
a flicker of lights from inside as the building sprung to
life.

That wasn’t
hard at all.
The Raven marvelled at the
gaping flaw security personnel had overlooked in the system. It was
a common oversight, which granted him easy access to many
medium-security premises. He slid quickly inside to avoid prying
eyes and headed to the receptionist’s counter. It was a
mess.
So much for the paperless
office.
He’d already canvassed the surgery’s
network, with limited success. The information he sought simply
wasn’t there, so he’d expected to find a stand-alone computer with
patient records and appointment times, possibly connected to a
sperate internal network. But there was no such computer at the
receptionist’s counter and he could make no sense of the jumbled
paper.

Okay, again
the hard way.
He wandered the halls for ten
minutes, mentally jotting the names of the surgeons that worked
there. Once he was finished, he exited the building and reverted
the network’s time to normal before erasing himself from the
security videos. The lights turned out and the doors automatically
locked, returning the building to sleep.

Next, he accessed the
financial records database, using a backdoor the network ‘geniuses’
hadn’t noticed for two years. Sometimes he pitied the sheep around
him. But most of the time he thought they received exactly what
they deserved. He scanned for unusual deposits in the surgeons’
linked accounts.

One matched.

Sutherland had
transferred 10,000 Credits into an account that belonged to a man
named Doctor Ingles. A few minutes later, Doctor Ingles had
transferred 1,000 Credits to a third account.
Whose?
He suspected the answer to that
question would tell him what he desperately needed to know:
Sutherland’s new identity. The Raven licked his lips and prepared
to swoop.
So, Doctor Ingles… ready or not,
here I come.

*

“
That’s five.”
Chuck grinned while scanning Dan’s false chip and tagging his
weapons. “What’re you trying to do? Turn me into an
alcoholic?”

*

His next stop
was an elite suburb on the Sunshine Coast, approximately two hours
north of central Brisbane by car – or one heartbeat by portal. The
cloud-streaked night was even gloomier there and the Raven cursed
the humidity. The sliver-like waning moon occasionally found a gap
in the clouds but barely cast enough light for the Raven to see
where he was placing his feet. The walk from the portal station to
Doctor Ingles’ house took five minutes. And a magnificent house it
was – not the grandest on the street, that prize went to his
neighbours, but it was splendid nonetheless. Its splendour made the
Raven wonder how Ingles could afford such luxury on a doctor’s
salary.
Black-market operations no
doubt.
Everything was slotting into place to
confirm the Raven’s theory.

And he bet the
Doctor’s mansion had elite security.
Not
that it matters.
He sauntered across the
garden, ignored the floodlights, ascended the steps leading to the
veranda, and punched a windowpane with his gloved fist – but the
impact only caused his wrist and knuckles to smart.
I hate cured thermoplastic.
The Raven half-heartedly tried a boot before giving up on
smashing a window.

Come on,
don’t make me wait until morning.
He rang
the doorbell.

Moments later, a groggy
voice came over the intercom. “Yes?”

“
I’m looking
for Doctor Ingles,” the Raven said in calm monotone.

“
What do you
want?” He sounded grumpy, understandably too. Honest members of
society were asleep at three in the morning.

The Raven played his
trump card. “I want to ask you questions about several microchip
removal procedures traced to your surgery.”

Ingles’ sigh came through
the speaker as a buzzing hiss. “Can’t it wait until
morning?”

The Raven kept his tone
level and stern. “The beckon of justice and truth can never wait,
sir.”

“
Hang on a
minute.” The intercom static died and a trail of lights accompanied
Doctor Ingles through the house. He cracked the front door just far
enough to see the man on his veranda, but didn’t remove the chain.
“Can I see some ID?” After all, he did look suspicious; he’d never
known a cop or chipping squad officer to wear entirely
black.
Come to think of
it,
he reasoned sensibly,
I’ve never known cops to work at three in the
morning either.
It all looked fishy and
Doctor Morgan Ingles was proud to have the presence of mind to ask
for identification even though he was half-asleep. He just hoped he
could keep his head level when the questions started to
flow.

“
ID?” The
Raven slowly nodded. “Sure.” But instead of reaching for a wallet,
he raised a leg and kicked the centre of the door with all his
might, snapping the chain from the wooden frame and sending the
good doctor sprawling onto his back, clutching a broken nose. “Is
that what you were looking for?”

Doctor Ingles writhed on
his expensive carpet, clutching his nose with both hands and
spitting blood from his mouth. “My nose!”

The Raven drew his
Redback and aimed at the Doctor’s left eye, the muzzle scarcely an
inch away from his cornea. From that distance, the weapon looked
even more menacing, if a bit blurred. And, proud to call himself a
weapon buff, Ingles recognised the PX7 model and understood what it
could do. Fear shuddered through his body, overcoming the pain in
his nose – a nose that was quickly turning dark purple.

“
What do you
want?”

“
Like I said,
I have some questions.” The Raven cocked his head to one side,
keeping the Redback level with Ingles’ eye while the surgeon
crawled backwards to slump against the parlour wall. It was more
comfortable for the Raven too; he no longer had to bend so far to
keep his muzzle close. “I didn’t pretend to be an officer of the
law; that was your assumption.”

Ingles wrestled with his
fear and managed to keep his voice steady. He studied the
aggressive man’s pallor and striking skeletal structure. “You want
a chip removed?” He hoped so.

The Raven shook his head
in a frightening, detached manner. “No. I’m quite comfortable with
my chip where it is. I want to know about Dan
Sutherland.”

“
Then you have
the wrong doctor because I’ve no idea what you’re talking
about.”

Brave.
The Raven had to commend him for that.
But foolish.
He used his
boot to crush the hand Doctor Ingles was propping himself up with.
Then he watched Ingles’ face turned ghostly pale as he leaned more
heavily upon the hand and twisted his boot. The grip of his sole
was doing untold damage to the Doctor’s metacarpus. “You need fine
motor co-ordination to be a surgeon, don’t you?”

Ingles could only nod.
The air was already gone from his lungs and the pain forbade him
from drawing another breath.

“
Then you
don’t want me to pulverise your hand. Which means you should stop
jerking me around. Understood?” The Raven viciously twisted his
boot again before easing the pressure. “Next time it’s your balls.
Fair enough?”

Ingles cradled his hand
and nodded. “He wanted his chip removed.”

“
And you did
it?”

“
Yeah, of
course I did,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s good money in
it.” He definitely had no remorse for his illegal
actions.

“
He needs a
chip. Which chip does he have?”

Thinking about the damage
the Raven’s boot could do to his testicles was enough to sweep
aside any noble ideas Doctor Ingles had about protecting his
patients’ identities. “He has two.” He squinted in thought. “Tedman
Kennedy and Brent Bertrouney if I remember correctly.”

“
You had
better be remembering correctly,” the Raven warned menacingly. His
eyes lost focus for the few seconds it took to check the profiles.
Intriguingly, one linked account had received the Doctor’s payment
of 1,000 Credits.
Probably a refund, but
best to confirm.
“You transferred 1,000
Credits into his account after the operation. Why?”

How could he
know that?
Morgan Ingles had growing
suspicious to feed his fear, making him turn even
paler.
He can’t be a cyborg… can
he?
He swallowed hard before saying, “I
based the original quote on three new identities, but I could only
give him two.”

“
Why?”

“
He wanted
profiles with authority to carry arms internationally and I only
had two for sale.” Doctor Ingles was regretting his greed. Sure,
it’d landed him a magnificent house, but people seeking a new
identity were always running from something – or someone. He should
have expected that, sooner or later, ‘someone’ would come looking
for him. Ingles had turned himself into his patients’ guardian. And
he suddenly disliked the responsibility.

“
Thank you
Doctor.”

*

S
unday
,
September 1
9
,
2066

N.S.W. Police Department,
Parramatta Office

03
:
15
Sydney
,
Australia