The Last Firewall (18 page)

The car pulled away, Helena overriding the autopilot. The aircar paralleled their route, taking the airlane two levels up. They stuck to the speed of the traffic, doing nothing unusual to draw attention. Slim looked at the cars around them: frazzled families coming home from vacation and tired business travelers taking a nap while the autopilots drove them home. He couldn’t imagine the mundaneness of such a life. Then they merged onto the highway and soon the speeds got too fast to see anything. Slim leaned back and closed his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled off the highway and parked in the alley next to the noodle shop where Tony was waiting. Slim checked his own two handguns. He had the anti-bot gun in a holster under his jacket and the stunner was in a holster pressing into his back.

Helena waved a metallic tentacle. “Beverly’s circling around the back in the aircar. I’ll wait here while you two confirm the target’s status.”

“She’s got a name, you know,” Slim said, leaning forward. “Catherine.”

Brett turned around. “Not to us, she doesn’t. Now let’s go.”

They exited the car and walked around to the front of the restaurant. Tony still sat at the same table as before, but the surface was suspiciously clear of food. Slim was startled to see Tony’s nose was swollen, maybe broken, and his face turning black and blue.

“I’m Brett.” He seemed oblivious to the state of Tony’s face. “Where’s our target?”

“Still inside,” Tony said nasally. “I haven’t seen her.”

Slim was incredulous. While Brett inspected the apartment building, looking away, he shrugged his arms and shoulders, and mouthed “What the fuck?”

Tony subtly shook his head.

Slim got a bad feeling. They weren’t going to find the girl in the room. He wondered how Tony had screwed up.

“We’re synchronizing implants,” Brett said. “As you two don’t have any, you’re gonna have to wait here. We’ll send you a message once we get the girl out. Thanks for your help.”

Slim watched Brett go out the front door, as Helena, fully unfurled, crossed the street at the same time, both converging on the front entrance of the apartment building.

He turned to Tony. There were the faintest smears of blood under his nose. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.” He sighed. “The girl came in the back door, through the kitchen. She was totally silent. The next thing I knew, my chair was falling backwards.”

Slim waved his arms around in exasperation. “She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. She’s a third of your size.”

“She’s strong, man, and she moves like fucking lightning. Twice I had a hold of her, and both times she got loose. She broke my nose and she kicked me in the balls. She’s some sorta Kung Fu master. What the hell do you want?”

Slim was silent for a minute. “How’d she know you were here?”

“No freaking clue. I’m just sitting here eating my noodles, and she walks in. She made me somehow.”

“You do anything to give yourself away?”

“No.” Tony shook his head vigorously. “I swear.”

Slim doubted Tony’s heart was in their work, but he’d had no objection to this job. Slim slumped his shoulders in resignation. “And she’s gone now?”

Tony nodded.

“Well, let’s just play it cool then. We don’t know nothing. And these guys, luckily they don’t know what you look like normally. But you gotta get some meds quick, before you turn all black and blue on us. There’s a drugstore two blocks down. Go now, quick.”

“Thanks for not saying anything.”

Slim just nodded, and watched Tony go. They were going to be dead or worse if Adam found out. This whole job was turning fubar. And to think they thought it was going to be easy.

31

C
AT SLOWED TO A HUNDRED
as she approached San Diego, bleeding speed with reverse thrusters. She’d stolen the exotic hovercar outside a strip club in downtown LA. Between the flared wings and massive air scoops, she’d been afraid the extravagant car might be sentient, but fortunately it only had a dumb autopilot. She had considered switching to something less flashy, but once she overrode the car’s ID she figured it would be safe.

She’d taken the most indirect route she could, to mislead followers. She headed far east on Interstate 10 to give the impression she was going toward Tucson, then veered south and came back on Interstate 8. Even though she turned the trip from Los Angeles to San Diego into a 330 mile detour, the wickedly fast car made it in under two hours.

Twenty minutes after reaching San Diego, she drifted to a crawl on Cable Street and slowly rode the ramp down to a narrow beach. Cat spent a few minutes tinkering with the autopilot. As she stepped out, the hover headed for the water, sending up a spray of loose sand.

She looked around, but no one would witness the sendoff. The autopilot would take it three hundred miles offshore, then kill the motors with the canopy open, sinking the vehicle.

The course would keep it well within US territorial waters. Mexico was notoriously finicky about its borders, and if the hover strayed over, their military would detect it. If it wasn’t for that, she would have tried to ride across the border herself. As it was, she’d given herself a couple of days to figure out how to cross in a more discreet fashion.

She left the beach, vigilant as she juggled security and police cams as well as airborne drones to hide herself. If Adam had found her in LA, it had to be through a digital trail.

She picked up a bus into the Hillcrest neighborhood, closing her eyes to research her destination. Ten minutes later she got off, her implant carefully reconfigured with a new identity. She reached a concrete building masquerading as adobe. Metal shutters covered the windows while neon announced San Diego’s largest pawn and gun shop.

She walked in and squinted in the glare of off-color LED lights. She walked past rows of musical instruments and home electronics to the gun section. The back wall was a long display stretching across the width of the building. Rifles stood on end, secured with barrel and cable locks. Handguns filled the counter display case, the milky white color a dead giveaway that it was bullet-proof transparent aluminum. A regular suburban armory.

“I’m here to pick up my stuff,” she called.

The middle-aged man wearing a checkered flannel shirt and staring off into space blinked twice, unfolded his arms and got off his stool. He picked up an old-fashioned scanner. “I gotta read ya twice, with my implant and the security scanner.” He wiggled the device.

Cat felt the electronic ping, and let the man and the machine read her ID.

“Jerry Holm?” he said. “Ain’t that a man’s name?”

“My mom meant to name me after some actress from Star Trek, but it’s supposed to be J-E-R-I. My mom’s not too smart.”

The man peered over his glasses. “You don’t look 5′8″.”

“Yeah, that’s a mistake in the system. It’s supposed to be 5′3″. Look, can I just get my stuff? Four handguns I pawned a month ago?”

“You got the money?”

“I got a trade. Two diamonds from my mom’s earrings.”

“You must not like your mom much.”

“She named me Jerry, didn’t she?”

He smiled. “Let me see ’em.”

Cat pulled out a red handkerchief and unfolded it, displaying a matched pair of diamonds.

The pawnbroker pulled them closer, and looked at them under a handheld imager, and then slid them onto a tray and put that in a stainless box. He sat back down on the stool. “It’ll take a minute, then make a proposal.”

Cat just nodded, familiar with the process. They both waited, listening to the quiet hum of ventilation fans somewhere. Cat was grateful that the guy didn’t seem to be mentally undressing her.

When the analyzer chimed, he looked at the display. “You can get the guns and either a store credit for two grand or twelve hundred in payment cards.”

Cat gestured at the ammo with her chin. “I’ll take the store credit.”

“Alright, let me get the guns.” He walked down three display cases, and unlocked the door with his implant, in a tiny flurry of grey-red data. He brought the guns back.

“Nice collection you’ve got there,” he said.

“Can you divide up the store credit? I need a holster for each of the smaller ones, and ammo for each.”

He nodded. “Give me a few minutes.”

Cat found a chair and sat, checking the guns against an online database. She’d just bought two conventional handguns, both H&K, one chambered for .40 S&W, and the other for a new 12 mm anti-robot military round. The third gun used electronically guided cartridges that could follow a moving target. The last didn’t appear to be of much use: it had a twelve inch barrel and a tiny tripod stand, for hunting rabbits and squirrels.

The pawnbroker cleared his throat. “You didn’t tell me what kind of rounds you wanted, so I gave you hollow-point for the .40 caliber, armor-piercing for the 12 mm, not much point otherwise. I only had six of the guided rockets, and you couldn’t have afforded more anyway. As for the .22, I gave you five hundred standard rounds, and a hundred HMX rounds.” He leaned forward. “Makes a normal .22 green with envy.”

Cat gaped at the huge mound of weapons and ammunition in front of her. What had she been thinking? She knew nothing about guns.

She left carrying two heavy bags and sat down at the bus stop, waiting anxiously. When she got on she imagined everyone would stare at her bags full of dangerous things, but they paid no attention to her. She took the bus to the Gaslamp Quarter, and walked up to the fanciest hotel she saw, the U.S. Grant. Standing outside the main entrance, she hacked the reservation database, inserted an entry, and backdated it so it would look like she checked in three days before.

She walked up to the registration counter. “Mary Margaret,” she said. “I forgot my digikey somehow. Can you upload me a new one?”

A few minutes later she found herself on the third floor. She liked being low enough to make an exit by stairs if needed.

Sitting on the bed, she took a quick peek into one of the bags and then looked away. Well, she’d bought the guns because she thought she needed them. There was no point having them if she didn’t know how to use them. She lay back on the bed and downloaded instruction manuals and half a dozen training programs. Halfway through the first program, it hit her that this was no different than learning karate. She kicked off her boots, cleared floor space, and spent five minutes in standing meditation. With her mind clear and focused, she pulled out the first handgun, checked that the chamber was empty, and started the combat training program again.

Just before bed, she decided she’d go out to the desert tomorrow and practice with live ammo. Exhausted, she still tossed and turned, wondering who Adam was, and why Tony was so scared of him.

32

“P
LEASE HURRY
,”
Shizoko urged.

Leon glanced back, saw Mike slowly climbing the stairs. “Why the sudden rush?”

“The pace of events is increasing,” Shizoko said, shepherding them toward the roof with both right arms. “The crowd has doubled in size.”

“I thought you said the building was secure.” Mike called, out of breath

“It is, but please keep moving. There’s been a new development, disturbances in the San Diego net.”

Leon stopped. “And that’s important, why?”

“Get on the plane, and I’ll explain.” Shizoko zigzagged around Leon, leading the way onto the roof. Six aircars waited, their long fuselages and streamlined shapes indicating that they were long distance models, really glorified airplanes. “Take the second one from the left.”

Leon climbed inside the large cabin. The executive model had no driver’s or pilot’s seat, just eight bucket seats with room to move and a small wet bar. His pulse beat quicker at the sight of glass windows all around. “Aren’t we a little exposed in this?”

Shizoko pivoted his head 180 degrees to look at Leon. “The windows are transparent aluminum, bullet-proof and able to withstand a bird impact at a thousand miles per hour.” Shizoko levered himself into the cabin. “Now please be seated.”

Leon picked a seat next to Shizoko in the middle row. Mike sat closest to the back, eying a coffee maker in the wet bar.

Shizoko fired up engines on all six aircars simultaneously. The pack rose as one and flew north.

“I’ve masked the transponder IDs,” Shizoko said. “Even if they track us visually, they won’t know which car to follow. In half an hour we’ll will diverge and head west for San Diego. Total flight time will be three hours.”

“Fine,” Leon said, “now tell us what the last-minute rush was for.”

As the aircar leveled out, Mike headed for the back to fiddle with the coffee maker.

“There’s a limited number of Class IV AI. Each of us has a specialty. It’s part of the permitting process. Mine is network traffic analysis, the pattern of bits that flow across the fifty billion nodes of the net. That’s why I spotted the unusual bandwidth use associated with the murders.”

“So this is a lead? It’s similar to the other deaths?”

“Yes and no.”

Leon sighed. Why couldn’t anything in this mess have a simple answer?

“I don’t mean to be obtuse,” Shizoko said, “but there are multiple factions at play. There is encrypted traffic that bears similarity to the network conditions at the murders. But there’s also someone replaying network packets, and I believe it’s a woman named Catherine Matthews.”

Mike brought a coffee back to Leon. Then he took a seat in the front row, holding his own mug, and swiveled to face them.

“Catherine,” Shizoko continued, “was a suspect in a triple murder in Portland, Oregon. However, a robot later came forward saying that Miss Matthews defended him in a life-or-death situation. If true, she could use a defense-of-others justification that would excuse her from responsibility. But it’s never been tested whether that legal defense applies to AI.”

“Fascinating,” Leon said, pondering the idea. “I’ll be interested in the outcome. But how is she relevant?”