The Hunt Begins
28 Apr 2019Kodeyne
Blotches of corrosion bloomed on once-white walls. The lights that worked were dirty, or flickered madly. You wouldn't think this is in the heart of the Federation, Cornelius Monfort pondered as he made his cautious way down the corridor. But every city, no matter where, had its run-down parts, areas of decay; and an Orbis starport was still a city. M. Gorbachev to be precise. He had arrived the previous day, Sungrazer utterly dwarfed by the station as he docked.
His normally neat hair was dishevelled; three days worth of stubble on his face. A grubby maintenance department overall, battered toolbox. He looked like he belonged in this place.
About a week ago, he had paid a discreet visit to one of his contacts. Standing in a room crammed with servers, coolant cyclers, security monitors and other equipment whose purpose he couldn't even begin to guess at. A chair swung round to reveal a middle-aged man, gaunt and swarthy of skin. His hair was shaved at the sides to allow for skull-jacks and other implants; the hair on top was spiked and bleached. A similarly treated beard adorned his face. Dressed in a leather vest and jeans. One might suppose that the place would be littered and reeking, but in fact was tidy and smelt faintly of pine disinfectant.
"Mr Monfort," the man said, in the crackling voice of one not used to talking, "how can I help you today?"
"Good morning, Corrosion," he replied. Hackers seemed to like their odd nicknames; who was he to argue?
"I require the services of one of your associates. Sol system."
Corrosion nodded, jacked a lead into a socket behind his ear. There was a brief pause.
"M. Gorbachev. Name of Pitchfork. I'll give you directions, let them know you're coming. Don't knock or anything, just wait outside..."
The door facing him now was reinforced, free of rust and scratches, in contrast to the rest of the area. Monfort stood patiently, grasping the toolbox in both hands. It contained no tools though; just scan-shielding and the payment he had been told Pitchfork would want. Ten minutes, he stood. But the years had taught him patience, and he simply allowed his mind to focus on sensations; how his feet felt in the unfamiliar work boots, the colour of the walls in the gloomy light, the distant crackles, hums and hisses of the station's internal workings.
The door slid slowly open. Just inside, a red light turned to green. Through the doorway, immediately faced with another portal. Only when the first one shut behind him did the next one open.
The chamber beyond was round, lined with the same kind of equipment he had seen at Corrosion's den. A circular desk, covered with consoles, and in the centre of it all, a woman, maybe in her thirties. Like Corrosion, hair shaved at the sides, but a bright pink ponytail flowed down her back. Dressed in loose casual clothing. Her face was heart-shaped and quite pretty, though her eyes bore the glazed look of a regular narcotics user.
"You would be Monfort," said the hacker in a thin but clear voice, "first things first. Colour of your money, please..."
He carefully set the toolbox down on the desk and opened it so she could see the contents. Half the box was filled with film-wrapped gold bullion. The rest with ampules of Onionhead.
She smiled. "That looks real good, Mr Monfort." She turned her seat and opened a hinged flap in the desk, and beckoned him in. Pulled a stool from under the table.
"Let's discuss your needs..."
She tapped a finger on her chin, face lit by the nearest monitor. "Dobie-Bachmann, huh?" She looked thoughtful. "Corrosion said you're a PI, so I guess you aren't wanting their R&D or just straight money..."
"Their personnel records. With some very specific requirements."
Pitchfork smiled. "Let's get through their defences first. Then we can get specific."
All around them, cooling fans began whirring as more equipment came online. The flash of tiny red and green lights on casings became almost hypnotic. Pitchfork leant over her desk. Leads ran in behind both ears now; fingers moved rapidly over a virtual keyboard. There was nothing on the screen in front of her. All the information she needed was going straight into her mind.
The temperature in the room rose steadily as the machines worked. Monfort shifted uncomfortably. A bead of sweat ran down Pitchfork's face. Without breaking rhythm, one hand tapped a switch off to one side and air conditioning came on. She glanced at him and winked.
Twenty minutes later, she sat back and the monitor filled with words and numbers.
"We're in," she said, voice shaky. "So tell me what you're after, Mr Monfort."
He leant forward.
"Administration department. Female personnel listed as having left due to pregnancy. Marital status, single. Timescale...hmm...going back ten years from the present please."
He watched, fascinated, as the hacker's fingers danced over the glowing keys. Information scrolled and shifted down the screen.
"Filters in place. Have a look..."
Pitchfork moved her seat back a little so he could see. He smiled with satisfaction, ran his eyes down the list of names. One or two every year.
"Bang on. Exactly what I wanted. Thank you!"
"You want a copy, yes?"
"Run it back another ten years, please, then print out. Can you do microfiche?"
Her eyebrows raised. "Old school! But yes."
Oh, he could have just saved it to his wristerm, or onto a datastick But hackers were hackers, after all, and he didn't want any uninvited little programs making their way into his systems.
She worked quickly, then carefully extricated her machines from the D-B servers.
"Fiche is printing," Pitchfork said, "anything else I can do for you?"
"Yes. First ten names on that list, their current whereabouts."
Pitchfork nodded. "I'm almost disappointed...that's child's play, you know!" She laughed.
"For your good self, maybe..."
Ten minutes later, he was making his way back to the docking ring, the toolbox considerably lighter.
Back aboard Sungrazer, he removed the overalls, had a shave and a shower. A couple of glasses of brandy, and he headed for his bunk. That was the easy part done. He wanted a good sleep before the next part.