Wake slowly, lazily, with an immense feeling of contentment. Bed warmed by more than one body, always a nice feeling to have someone cuddled up next to you. Flash, curled in the corner of the cabin, looks at me and laughs.
“OK, friend?” Sometimes it works with Flash, usually not. She always hears me, at least I think she does, but rarely answers unless she is in the mood.
“Hungry.” This time it works. She is positively chatty. “Good kits from breed time. Hunt?”
“Hunt soon. Meat, next cave.” I send a quiet message to Ship to feed Flash. She rises, stretches luxuriously, and pads through to the galley to investigate what is on offer.
Hold on … good kits? Oh, fucking hell! Just what I need right now. I don't even have a breeding license! Distant rumble of a growl from the galley. “Kits good.” Of all the times for Flash to want to chat. And, like all female cheetahs, she is immensely protective of kittens.
“Yeah, kits good. Much danger. Bad.”
“Kill danger. Eat now.” She resumes munching on two of my precious steaks.
Force it out of my mind, temporarily. That is a problem for another time. Slip out of bed and head for the cockpit. Time to get back to work. Check main mailbox. Official and friend messages first. No sign of the Reaver. It could be anywhere, so full tracking net, including orbital, searching out any hints of its presence.
The trainee Zeros under guard and responding as well as anyone ever does to enhancement, that is to say with much crying and screaming, and not all from the patient. Private message from Luis, saying, in the guise of chatting about a bet, that he has brought Marageta up to speed. Another from Vasquez, reminding me I owe him a beer or several, code for yesterday's assistance and a quiet plea for the badge to be returned before his weekend escapades. Seventy three spam messages, that somehow made it through the filters.
One brief one from Nyasi.
Felix.
Your co-habitation permit, and basic two child breeding license, has been approved and is attached, courtesy of the Seers. Enjoy your honeymoon, my son.
Nyasi, Council.
For fucks sake! Haven't even asked her yet! A guy gets no damned privacy at all with Sighted people working for the council. And as if I want to co-habit with someone I hardly know – the sheer fucking arrogance of the guy!
A small giggle from the cabin behind me. “I think you know me well enough, at least after last night. Now, come back to bed.”
When all events, destiny, and the stars themselves conspire against you, give in to the inevitable gracefully. Besides – I am officially on my honeymoon. Smile, rise, and head for the cabin. Fast.
* * *
Ninety percent of modern investigative journalism is trawling the web, databases and breaking news, looking for that odd little fact that simply doesn't fit with the rest. About five percent is pounding the street and good, reliable sources. The other five percent, the five percent that turns a good journo into an award winning one, is intuition. Which fact is garbage. Which fact breaks a story wide open. And of course, what to look for in the first place. Ronnie J is one of the best in the last century, with multiple award winning stories for each of the last fifteen years. Including four Journalist of the Year awards, twelve of the antique but still immensely respected Pulitzer Prizes, and two medals of honor from the world government.
Hans looks around in disbelief. Ronnie's office is about the size of a double bed. Every surface is covered in hard copy. The walls, the door, the window, even the lampshade has sticky notes on it. Untidy mounds of paper on the floor, sixteen monitors, data ports and a spooler, and, totally unbelievably, two chairs somehow crammed in with just enough room for both people to sit. Ronnie waves him to the less comfortable of the two chairs, plops down into his own and starts jacking into the web.
“Sorry about the mess. Got a bigger office one floor up a couple years ago, but never got round to moving there. If I try, I'll never be able to find anything. Coffee dispenser is just under your left armpit. White, three sugars for me. Empty the pens out of the spare mug for yourself.” Hands already frantically moving, setting up search strings, eyes half closed as he searches his mind for the terms that will bring up the data he wants. So much for the charm that can persuade anyone to talk. Ronnie is in his own place, all extraneous things like politeness forgotten as he dives into the research. Hans leans back, overrides one of the monitors, closes his eyes and triggers his security access. It is so much easier to do with an implant.
* * *
“Vecchio scemo! Why did you not come to bed?” Marta's tone is both very sharp and loving. Clatter in the kitchen as little Annasophia gets ready for school. Luigi rubs his eyes and tries to focus. Fails miserably, considering he has only been asleep for about half an hour.
“Vecchio scemo, indeed! I was busy, mother.” he grumbles. “And made a discovery that is molto terribile. I have spent all night checking it over, but I have not the book that is constantly referred to.”
“The Vaticano will have it. Give me the title and I will leave a message for Cat to bring it.” She bends and gives him a quick kiss. “Now, go to bed for a few hours. I can handle the morning trade by myself for once.” He gives a wearily grateful smile, scribbles down a title and stumbles upstairs. She hears the thump of his shoes hitting the floor, the creak of the bed, then silence. Shakes her head. “He didn't even get undressed.”
Punch Cat's personal number into the wall screen to give him the book title. Soft chime.
“The person you are calling is currently unavailable. Unable to transfer you to voicemail.” Typical man! Never available when needed. Wait a minute, Sergei is staying with Cat. Punch in the number for Cat's quarters. It rings and is answered, no vision.
“Sergei, pick up please if you are there.” She waits.
“Ja, Marta. Good morning.” Her screen flickers to life, showing Sergei seated at the remains of his breakfast.
“Luigi needs a book from the restricted library in the Vaticano, and I cannot get hold of Cat.”
Sergei smiles. “He is off planet. However, I should be able to get you the book in an hour or so.”
“You are a member of the Library?” She sounds incredulous.
“No. But I am good at getting into places I have no business to be in. What is the title?”
“Bene. It is called,” squint at her husband's terrible handwriting, “Summoning Greater Demons, by Aleistar Crowley. A hand written manuscript, according to the note I have.”
“Good. See you in two hours or so. Sergei out.” The screen flicks off. He is impolite, that one! She looks at the note for a minute, then makes for the kitchen to chivvy her daughter to school and start preparing for the morning customers. The note will be burned. Just in case. Just like the old days of the persecution.
* * *
There is an art to getting into places you should not be. Oh, you can try sneaking in through service ducts and back ways, but you will get caught. And, in the places he usually tries to go, shot. The best, and simplest, method is to look like you belong there. Of course, a bit of technology goes a long way in helping with that.
Waiting just outside the library, in a corridor alcove, access hatch open. Nondescript clothes, tool box. Obviously a maintenance tech of some sort. A man, in the robes of a senior librarian, passes the alcove on his way out of the library. Call him. “Excuse me, father?”
He stops, looking impatient. “Yes, my son?”
“Sorry to bother you, Sir, but could you pass me the red handled screwdriver please. I can't let go of this fan without causing serious damage, and cannot quite reach my toolbox from here!” The librarian sighs, enters the alcove and proffers the correct screwdriver. Implants scan for information – his ID badge, internal implants. Hold him here for a minute.
“Thank you, father. It isn't many who will take the time to help a technician.” A bit of flattery doesn't hurt. The librarian relaxes slightly. “It was no trouble, my son. We are all doing his work here. What are you working on”
“This is the primary climate control for the restricted stacks. There was a variation in humidity reported.” Got it. All his access codes to the different parts of the library.
The librarian looks concerned. “Oh, no real problem, Sir. We get an alarm if climate control in there drifts by one tenth of one percent. It is nearly always a fan bearing running hot. A couple of drops of grease, and it is fixed.”
“I didn't know that. We librarians know little about what you do.”
“We try not to be intrusive, Sir. Just doing our job, and allowing you to do yours, after all.” Refit the cover plate. “I'll need to check inside the restricted stacks as a precaution, it will take five minutes.” The librarian makes the start of a frown. “No need to put yourself out, father, I have my access card, and the duty librarian can let me in easily enough.”
Suspicions eased. A small amount of further chat, while putting the tools away. Accept the proffered blessing with the proper humility and gratitude. Bow, and watch the senior librarian go on his way. He'll remember little about this, beyond the satisfaction of helping one so far beneath him. When was the last time you really looked at the face of a technician, or a bus driver, or a shop assistant. No one ever does. It is better than a cloak of invisibility.
Head for the library entrance, implants rippling and changing the shape of his face to that of the senior librarian, holo generators in his clothing giving the illusion of robes.
Most jobs are as simple as this. Thirty five minutes later, the toolbox back in the locker it came from, and the manuscript in his shoulder bag, Sergei left the Free State openly, though not wearing his real face, one of the horde of tourists that flow in and out every day.
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