The Nexus (5 page)

“Yes,” said Holiday, eyes drifting thoughtfully into the distance.  “I hope so too.”

WHEN he left the director’s office, Corey’s plan was to visit Bradley Park’s room.  It couldn’t hurt to talk things over before the mission and try to get on the same page.  He went down the stairs from the front of Holiday’s office to the elevator lobby, and crossed the blue carpet.

He paused in front of the hallway to the dorms.

So they were looking for more of a free spirit, were they?  They liked Bradley’s innovation, did they?

Corey headed for the elevator instead.

“I don’t know about this, Corey.”

He was in Janice Moeller’s office on the eighth story of GoCom.  Her window faced east across the lake.  In the distance Earth was darkening as night wore on.

“What is your reason for refusal?” Corey asked Janice levelly.

“It doesn’t seem like a good idea.”  Janice handled any interaction between Holiday’s department and the rest of GoCom.  Mostly she tried to help Holiday’s department go about its business undetected.

“You know the protocol, Janice.  Field agents have the right to see prisoners without the director’s consent.”

“That’s for emergencies.”

“The word ‘emergency’ isn’t mentioned in the policy.”

“But it’s implied.”

“Maybe.  How do you know this isn’t an emergency?”

“You didn’t say it was.”

“I don’t have to say.  Your job is to set up the visitation for me, not ask me why.”

“My job,” Janice said purposefully, “is to make sure you can do what you need to do without anyone else knowing your department exists.”

“Which is why I need you to clear me to visit the prisoner, so no one asks any questions.”

Janice frowned.  “Okay,” she said, tapping at her keyboard.  “Which interrogation room?”

“It’s not an interrogation.  I just want to visit her cell.”

“Fine.  They’ll be expecting you.  But I’d still rather Director Holiday knew about this.”

“He’ll know soon enough,” Corey said on his way out of her office.

When he was out of sight, he let out a tightly held breath.  He wasn’t used to doing things this way, but it had felt good.

Or so he told himself.

THIS time when the cell wall slid open there was no uniformed cop.  There was a young black man, Jill’s age or so.  He nodded in greeting.

She looked away.

“Hello, Jill.”

“What do you want?”

“Just to talk.  Really, that’s it.”

“Like your boss?  I figured he’d be sending someone down.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Now she looked at him.  In her line of work she’d learned to tell when people were lying, and this guy wasn’t lying.  “A little rogue operation, huh?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“What exactly do you want to talk about without your boss knowing?”

He pushed a button on a remote and the cell door closed.  He sat at the other end of her cot and faced her.  “I want to talk you into accepting his offer.”

Jill tried not to smile.  This was it—the chance she’d been waiting for.

But she’d have to play it just right.

She looked him in the eye, making sure she came across as mildly interested but not too eager.  “Okay.”

“I don’t think you understand just what’s being offered to you.”

“You’re right, I don’t.  No one seems to want to tell me about it.”

“It’s classified.”

She gave him a sideways look.  “Dangerous?” she asked.

He smiled.  He was trying not to, but he couldn’t help it.  “Sometimes.”

Now she had him going.  “So...how do you plan on talking me into joining up if you can’t tell me what I’ll be doing?”

“By telling you that it changed my life.  I was an errander myself for a while.  I was going nowhere.  Now I’m doing something with myself—something worth doing.”

If you did something with your life that you would do no matter what, even if it meant giving up all the money and all the comfort and all the convenience in the world...?

Jill pushed the thought aside. 
Find a way out of here
, her instincts yelled at her.  She had to focus.  “Just because it worked that way for you...”

“Not just for me; other people too.  There are a lot of people like us in this city, Jill.  This is the best chance we’ve got.”

She let her gaze drop to the cell floor.  She paused like she was thinking it over.  “Maybe you’re right.  The way you put it...well, it sounds a little better than when you’re boss talked about it.”

“He rubs some people the wrong way.  That’s all.”

“To be totally honest, I was actually almost convinced even before you came.  But I’m still not ready to take the plunge, you know?  Joining secret agencies who can’t tell you about what they’re up too...”

“Sure, I understand.”  He stood from the cot.  “Well, I’ll get out of your hair for now.  See you tomorrow.”

“You’re coming back here?”

“To do some more convincing.  And the next day and the next day and the next day—as long as it takes to get you to come around.”

She smiled shyly and looked away.  “Okay.  Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”  The wall ground to a close behind him.

This was going like clockwork.

MR. Love’s place of business was actually his residence—three cramped rooms in the back of a battered building nestled among a lot of other battered buildings a mile from downtown.  His place gave a new definition to the term “cluttered.”  True, he was a bachelor.  But most bachelors usually washed their dishes once in a blue moon.  Mr. Love’s method was to buy new dishes, and leave the old ones moldering in stacks in and around the sink.  Apparently he had a similar method when it came to laundry.

But his current client didn’t mind the mess, or at least didn’t say so.  His current client had other things on his mind.  He was fidgety man, and skinny, especially compared to Mr. Love.  He was a collector.  Most of Mr. Love’s clients were.  Mr. Love told him he had the addition to his collection he’d been looking for.  Now it was in a plastic shopping bag in the fidgety man’s hand.  In his other hand was a wad of cash, which was in Mr. Love’s hand a second later.  Mr. Love counted it twice and said goodbye.

The fidgety man went out the door, down the rusty metal stairs to the alley, and into his car.  He drove away in a hurry.  His driving was a little fidgety too.

Mr. Love plopped onto the couch.  There was just enough room for him between piles of old magazines.  He put his feet up on a stack of pizza boxes and turned the volume back up on his TV.  He was missing bits and pieces of his favorite show tonight.  No big deal, though.  Business was booming.  He’d had three clients in the last twenty minutes, and he was expecting at least one more.  Soon he’d have enough saved up to get out of this dump, and move into a much bigger, more expensive dump.

Another knock came at the door.  He turned down the volume again and got up to answer.

There was another knock while he was on his way.

“Be patient, will ya?  I’m—!”

The moment he unlocked the door it burst in on him.  Two figures in black leapt into his apartment.  They had guns.  They had black masks with reflective eyes. 

Cops?

One had a silver skull enameled on the front of his mask.  The other had the red and blue taegeuk and four trigrams of the Korean flag.

“On the ground!  Now!”

The voice wasn’t human.  It was electronic and distorted.  Mr. Love stood paralyzed.

They raised their guns.  “You heard!  Get down!”

Mr. Love got down.  His plan was to kneel, but he ended up doing more of a tripping-and-falling maneuver.  He was panting like he’d just run up a long staircase.

“Where are they?” the skull mask demanded.

“Wh-what?” Mr. Love stuttered.

“You know what.  Now where are they?”

Mr. Love’s lips flapped soundlessly, and he waved a shaking hand toward the bedroom.

The one with the skull mask kept a gun on Mr. Love.  The other one investigated the bedroom.  He came back with a small, thin black box.  “Must be these.  He’s got dozens of them on a shelf in there.”

“Hang onto that one,” said the skull mask.  “We’ll show the boss, come back for the rest later.  And you—get up!”

Mr. Love got up.  Slowly.  There was still a gun in his face.

Behind the skull mask, Corey Stone said into his microphone:  “We got him, Diz.  We’re coming in.”

“You guys are good,” Dizzie’s voice came through his earpiece.

Corey reached back behind his helmet.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Bradley Park demanded from behind the other mask.

“I want him to know who caught him.”

“No, Corey!”

The skull mask came off.  The voice sounded natural now.  “Remember me?”

Mr. Love’s eyes narrowed with angry recognition.  “You set me up, eh, Fredericks?  Or whatever your name is.”  He spat.  “What’s this town coming to?  Can’t even trust an errander these days.  What you gonna do, sell all my videos?”

“Actually we’re going to arrest you.”

Mr. Love’s frown deepened.  “You a cop now?”

“Something like that.”

Mr. Love put his hands on his hips.  “What are the charges?”

“Acquiring of illegal materials.  Subsequent vending of said materials.  For starters.”

“Prove it!”

“We intend to.  Meanwhile come with us.  I think you’re going to like your new living arrangements.”

Bradley looked around the apartment through his mask’s reflective eyes.  “Yeah; I think I’d rather go to jail than live here.”

It was tough getting Mr. Love down the metal stairs to the alley; even tougher getting his bulk into the back seat of the car.  But they managed.

“A video tape,” said Director Holiday, holding up the little black box for inspection.  “Or a videocassette, to be more exact.”

They were at a table in a small room just off the HQ balcony.

Bradley gave the director a puzzled look.  “What does it...do?”

Corey had to chuckle.  Bradley was typically so arrogant—always bragging about his pure Korean pedigree and acting like he knew more than everyone else.  It was nice to see the kid totally confused.  “You’ve seen old film reels?  It’s like those, but a lot smaller.”

“Back near the end of the twentieth century, this was just about the only way average people could personally store and display video,” said Holiday.  “The magnetic tape inside winds around these two spindles, see?  As it rolls from one side to the other the tape sends a video and audio signal to a television.  We’ll need a VCR—a videocassette recorder.  It’s the device that gets the information off the tape and sends it to the television.  Hello, Dino!”

A funny little man in jeans and a T-shirt appeared in the doorway at the back of the room.  Lights and consoles of countless old gadgets blinked in the room behind him.  “What’s up, Mr. H?”

Holiday held up the little black box.

Dino whistled.  “Videocassette!  I’ve heard of them; read all about them.  Never seen one, though.”  He held out his hand.  “Can I...?”  He took the video tape from Holiday and looked at it.  He looked like an art collector holding a Rembrandt.  “What’s on it?”

“We’re reasonably certain it contains material banned by the CMVLA,” said Holiday.  “Someone’s been renting and selling them, I’m afraid.  I assume you have a VCR in there?”

Dino laughed.  “Not at the moment, boss.  Had one up until a few months ago.  All it did was collect dust.  Sent it back to Earth, some museum called the Smith Sons, or something.  Got quite a few credits for it.”

Holiday gave Dino a cold, gray stare.

“Hey,” said Dino, waving the tape, “these things were only widely used for like thirty, forty years, tops.  Quick fad, before the digital age set in.  Can’t believe you got hold of one.  This would be worth quite a few credits too.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. H, I’m not going to sell it.  I’m just saying they’re rare, that’s all.  VCRs, even rarer.  I got quite a few credits for mine.  Did I tell you?”

“You did,” muttered Bradley.

“So can we borrow it back from the Smith Sons?” asked Corey.

Dino shook his head.  “Too much time and paperwork.  Besides, we don’t need to.  If your man is selling and renting these things, his clients have to have ways to play them.”

“Love probably has a VCR himself,” said Holiday.  “When you retrieve the rest of the videocassettes, look for one at his place.”

“Should be about this big,” said Dino holding his hands about eighteen inches apart.  “It’ll be black or gray, with a console in front.  There’ll be an opening just right for cassettes like these to slide inside.”