The Nexus (21 page)

The office computer of Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery, on the Aurora Bridge Mall, contains a list I should very much like to see.  It is a document entitled HPCAMVEN.  Please copy the document in its entirety onto the subsequent pages of this notepad...

This
notepad.

Hmm.

THE floor of HQ was too busy to notice her making her way around the balcony and down the dark hall toward the room where Sherlock was housed.  Soon she was alone in front of the bullet-proof glass doors that guarded his extensive mechanized brain.  She went to the kiosk beside the doors.  It was the only console she knew of where she could be alone.

Alone besides the company of a machine, that is.

“Sherlock?”

“
Yes, Jillian Branch?
”

It wasn’t unexpected, but it still gave her chills to hear the mechanical voice respond to her.

“You recognize my signature, don’t you?”

“
Of course, Miss Branch
.”

“I’d like to perform a test.”

“
May I inquire as to the reason?
”

She’d thought about this, and she was ready with an answer:  “I’m still skeptical about your skills—no offense intended, of course.”

“
None taken, Miss Branch.  I am, after all, an unemotional object
.”

“Right.  Anyway, maybe it’s just because I’m new here.  I’m not sure.  I’d just like to see another demonstration of your abilities.  The more confident I am that you can do what they say you can do, the more secure I’ll feel doing my job.”

“
That is
reasonable, Miss Branch.  Please explain the nature of the test.
”

“I’d like you to report when you detect my signature being written over the next thirty seconds.”

“Gladly.”

She took a page out of the console printer, as Holiday had done a week ago, and placed it on the flat surface of the console.

Then she took out Sketch’s notepad, careful to obscure it from the security cameras.  She signed her name on the bottom of the page.

Sherlock said nothing.

She signed her name again.

Nothing.

She signed the page from the console printer.

“
Your signature was detected approximately three seconds ago
.”

The console displayed her signature, as she had signed it on the printer paper.

She signed the notepad again.

Sherlock said nothing more.

She tucked the notepad into her pocket.

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“
Of course, Miss Branch.  How is your shoulder feeling?
”

“Fine, thanks.  Gee, for an unemotional object you’re pretty thoughtful.”

“
I try.  But I would be amiss if I did not tell you that this demonstration has been overly simple.  If you like, I can suggest some other ways I can prove myself to you
.”

“Maybe later.”

“
Of course
.”

SHE was back in her room, with Sketch’s notepad on the desk in front of her.  The letter would have to be a little different than the one she’d originally planned on writing.  For a while she didn’t write anything, just sat thoughtfully.

She got up, locked the door, got herself a drink of water, sat down again, and started writing.

She finally went to bed at about 2 a.m.

“I don’t have to tell you how sorry I am for what happened,” said the director.

She’d caught him alone in his office first thing in the morning.  He was kind enough to put aside whatever he’d been working on and offer her the chair across from him.

“All in the line of duty,” said Jill.  She leaned forward on his desk.

“You didn’t waste any time taking a hit for the team.”

“It wasn’t my plan, believe me.”

“Things don’t always go according to plan in this business.”

Jill sat back.  “Not always...but sometimes?”

Holiday nodded slightly.  “Sometimes.”

“You trusted me awfully quickly, didn’t you?”

Holiday gave one of his most standard smirks.  “Oh, we may have sent you on a mission right away.  But trust you?  I can’t say we did that, entirely.”

“I see.  I’ll have to prove myself.  Somehow.”

Holiday looked at her intently.  “If I know you, you’ll find a way.”

“Working on it.”

The director put his hand in his pocket, and stood.  “Come this way, if you have a moment.”

“Sure.”

He led the way to the side of his office through a door she hadn’t known was there—it looked like a part of the wall until it opened.  Beyond was a short hall, followed by a sitting room of old fashioned tastes.  The room was perfectly tidy except for an old-looking leather bound book lying open on the sofa.  Beyond the sitting room she saw another short hallway leading to other rooms.

“I rarely invite female employees into my living quarters,” he said.  “But, then, Sherlock is watching us very closely.”

“You live down here too?” Jill asked.

“I find it easier if I don’t have to commute to work.”

“Same as us.  So how often do you get above the surface?”

“Not often.  Sometimes I go weeks without going outside.”

“That can’t be very healthy.”

“I won’t argue with you.  I’ll be taking a very brief sabbatical as soon as possible.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“You may be surprised to learn that there was a time when I spent practically all my life outdoors.  On the Home Planet, in fact.”

“I thought you were an Anterran native.”

“I’m afraid not—though I got here before you were born.”

Holiday led the way behind the sofa, where several glass-encased frames hung on the wall.  Inside the frames were pinned butterflies of every size, shape, and color.  “This was my former passion.”

“It’s quite a collection.”

“Thank you.  It was years in the making.  I began with the local species in my native England.  Soon I was travelling around the world in search of others.”

“Why the interest?”

Holiday smiled and answered immediately.  “Metamorphosis.  You’re familiar with the term?”

“I vaguely recall it from school.”

“Nothing compares to the drastic change these creatures undergo from larva to maturity.”  He seemed to be looking at her a little too intently during this part.

She moved the conversation along.  “Why did you come to MS9?”

“That’s a long story—one with which I will not bore you at the moment.  Suffice it to say I’m happier where I am now than I ever was running around the countryside swinging a little net.”

“Still.  It has to be hard, being a nature lover and now living on a completely artificial world.”

Holiday chuckled.  “I was never cut out to be much of a naturalist.”  He gestured toward a particular butterfly in his collection.  It had vivid blue wings edged and veined with black.  “This was always my favorite.  It’s a Cobalt Viceroy.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I always thought so.  It’s also genetically engineered.  They don’t exist in nature.  Scientists manufactured them in a lab by manipulating the DNA of other species.”

“Oh.”

“It was a failed experiment.  They died moments after emerging from the chrysalis.  This is one the very few preserved specimen.  If I’m ever in a tight spot I can auction it off and retire immediately.”

Jill raised an eyebrow.  “But you keep it.”

He shrugged.  “I happen to like my job.  Besides, I wouldn’t want to part with the specimen.  It reminds me that sometimes what people call a ‘failed experiment’ is actually something incredibly beautiful.”

“You’re a fascinating man, Director Holiday.”

“Tell that to Home Planet Liaison Riley.”

“Maybe I will.  Has he seen your collection?  That might help.”

Holiday shook his head—almost sadly, Jill thought.  “I’m afraid Riley doesn’t share my passion for metamorphosis.”

“I think maybe I do,” Jill told him.

IT wasn’t hard to get permission to sign out and go above the surface for the day.  With her injury she wasn’t supposed to work anyway.

From Pete’s Fish Cannery Jill guided her skybike south of the lake.  The voters of Anterra had ordered a sunny day with a few fake feathery clouds.

She cruised into the nicer neighborhoods until she got to a huge shopping mall.  From the entryway she zigzagged up the escalators to the fifth level, and dodged shoppers across the polished floor between shops of chic electronics and the latest clothing fashions.

She got to a row of phone booths behind a jewelry shop.  The last booth had a sign taped to it that said “out of order.”  She ignored the sign, picked up the receiver, and dialed a number from memory.

A man’s distorted voice answered in Korean.

“It’s me,” said Jill.

“About time,” the voice replied in English.

“It’s not easy to get away, okay?  I basically had to get shot to come here, as you probably heard.”

“Then I guess you must have some big news for me.”

“You could say that.  But I’m not telling you over the phone.”

“It’s a secure phone.  Sherlock can’t hear us.”

“Still.”

The voice on the other end paused.  “Fine.  We’ll meet in person.”

“Hotel Harvest on the west rim, tonight, 11 p.m., Suite 607.”

“You feel more comfortable meeting at a hotel than speaking over a secure line?  Hotels are full of eyes and ears.”

“Not this one.  Believe me.”

“If you say so.  You ought to at least give me a little information, being as you’ve waited so long to contact me.”

“See you tonight,” she said, and hung up.  She left the phone booth.

Someone in a high-collared coat and low-pulled cap was on the phone in the booth next to hers.  Jill didn’t bother looking his direction.

IT was late afternoon when Amber, Dizzie, and Bradley walked into the coffee shop near the Aurora Bridge.  Corey was already there waiting for them in a booth in the corner.

“You look as happy as a kid on the first day of school,” Dizzie observed unsympathetically.

“Have a seat,” Corey said somberly.

He’d invited the three of them to join him here for some relaxation on their day off.  Apparently that had only been a ruse; there were obviously deeper purposes for this get-together.

“Is Jill coming?” asked Amber.

Corey ignored her.  He launched into what he had to say without giving them time to order drinks.  “The department has been compromised.”

That got their attention.  They waited for him to elaborate.

“I invited you all here so we could talk somewhere privately.  I can’t let Sherlock hear what I’m about to tell you.  We don’t know who has access to Sherlock right now.  I started to suspect something the night I brought Amber and Jill to the cannery entrance.”

“Someone was watching us,” Amber remembered.

“We tried to catch him,” Corey reminded her.  “Jill insisted she go after him directly, while you and I doubled back to trap him.”

Amber looked puzzled.  “You’re saying Jill
let
him get away?”

“She knew who he was?” asked Bradley.

Dizzie squirmed in her seat, saying nothing.

“I can’t prove it,” admitted Corey, “but it’s not illogical to assume.  I didn’t think anything of it at the time.  But that spy isn’t the only person who’s managed to avoid us lately.”

“Mr. Love’s client last night,” said Bradley.

“Exactly.  And it was the same in that case.   Who was the one who actually encountered the client?”

“Jill,” Amber whispered.

Dizzie squirmed even more.

“Remember,” said Corey, “Jill had chased him one level below us at the parking garage.  We heard them talking.  By the time we got there, he was gone.”

“You think she let him get away too?” asked Amber skeptically.  “Why would she want to do that?”

“Because she’s working with someone on the outside—someone who wants to know the department’s secrets.”

Even Bradley, whose low opinion of Jill was no secret, still seemed unconvinced.  “She did get shot, remember?”

“What better way to appear innocent?”

“So,” Amber said skeptically, “she sees this guy, figures out he’s working for the same people she’s working for, says, ‘Hey, shoot me to make it look like I tried to catch you and you escaped.’”

“Something like that,” said Corey.

“We did hear them talking to each other before the shot,” put in Bradley.