Revelation of the unprecedented fourth successful jacking at the Port’s maximum-security transshipment facility placed those responsible for its security even more on edge. The uneasy conversation and nervous speculation that the previous heists had engendered resumed unabated.
“Would you be believing in black magic, Michele?” one of the Company’s own agents said to his partner later that evening. “Or for that matter, any kind o’ magic?”
“Not a chance, Ryan,” she replied from behind her desk. She rapped firmly on the half-filled coffee mug that had been a gift from her younger sister. “The Little People aren’t behind this. Knock on wood.”
In the techno-crammed, claustrophobic cubicle that served as the nerve center for Administration Security, a frustrated Hafas was alternately berating and empathizing with the Port Authority technician in charge.
“… And you saw nothing?”
The man winced but didn’t back down. He was very pale, with hair blonded to match, skinny but not nervous. When he responded, his voice did not shake.
“I’ve been here since the shed was sealed, sir. I may have looked away from the monitor for a few seconds every now and again, but the recorder was on and I’ve reviewed everything. There’s no indication anywhere that anything went amiss.”
Hafas turned, running his fingers through his thick black curls. “There are no monitors in the shed mounted on the floor and looking upward. I guess that’s our next adjustment. These bastards always seem to be one step ahead of us. I’m puking sick of going in circles.”
“You’re not going in circles, Inspector.” Vyra was studying the images on the multiple screens. They displayed the interior of the atrium, the shed itself, and precious little that was of any use. “You’re on a Möbius strip. We all are.”
“What finally set the alarm off?” Manz asked quietly.
The technician turned to him thankfully. “A minute amount of smoke from the hole the intruder cut in the bottom of the titanium case. It took too long to disperse and register. Since there was no air in the shed, combustion by-products were minimal.”
“If there was any combustion at all,” Moses added.
Manz glanced at the mechanical. “Explain yourself.”
“I’m envisioning a small, very precise, high-frequency acoustic cutter. Wouldn’t activate most alarms and doesn’t require oxygen for operation.”
The door to the cubicle burst open and a uniformed JePPO stood in the portal, breathing hard. His gaze traveled from the inspector to Manz and Moses before eventually settling on Vyra. She smiled at him and he blinked, as though forgetting what he’d come for.
“Yes, Officer?” Hafas had to prompt him.
The man tore his gaze away from Vyra. “Sir, they just found Officer Dominguez and Sergeant Dutoit.”
“I wasn’t aware they were lost,” the inspector replied coolly.
The officer glanced again at the visitors, continuing when his superior raised no objection. “Sir, they’re both dead.”
Manz peered hard at Hafas, his voice taut. “This is unprecedented, isn’t it?”
Hafas looked dazed. “It might be unrelated. A Port Authority this size deals with trouble on a daily basis.” He started for the doorway. “I have to look in on this, jacking or no jacking.”
“I know,” said Manz. “It could be related, too. Mind if we tag along?”
“No. My brain's already operating at capacity. I can use the extra storage.”
They followed him out. Moses, for once, offered no comment.
More killing. You do that all the time. Sometimes for a recognizable motive, just as often not. I tend to think of it as an inherent form of postadolescent population control. It’s in your genes. As medical science extends your organic lifespans, the murder gene becomes more dominant within the population. As infant mortality declines and individuals live longer, nature finds other ways to limit your numbers. Good thing, too. There are far too many of you on the settled worlds as it is.
VI
The blank, drying eyes of JePP Sergeant Pascal Dutoit were focused on something of vital importance. Of that there was no doubt whatsoever in Manz’s mind. Unfortunately, they had no way of finding out what it was. Dutoit wasn’t going to tell them, ever. The expression permanently frozen (or at least until the morticians got ahold of him) on his face suggested surprise, shock, recognition of the unexpected. It implied that he had had time to recognize his assailant, if not to react.
Manz studied the expression closely. You could learn a surprising amount from a dead man’s visage. Vyra had turned her attention to his deceased colleague, who lay sprawled facedown on the corridor floor. A Port Authority officer was making a recording of the dead man and his immediate surroundings.
Officers and Braun-Roche-Keck agents clustered around a tall woman clad in a red-striped white coat. An embroidered caduceus was prominent on her chest and back. Turning from his examination of the unlucky sergeant, Manz strained to overhear.
“Necks broken,” the woman was informing her audience, which currently included Hafas. “Both of them. Almost as if they were hung.”
“Garroted, more likely.” Everyone turned to stare at Vyra. “By someone with extraordinary strength. Then carried back into this service corridor and dumped.”
“Yes,” agreed the other woman readily. “That is my opinion also.” She gestured to several white-clad associates as they backed in a self-propelled medical gurney. Under her supervision they proceeded to load the two corpses. The PA officer continued to record, the tiny cam an extension of his own eyes.
Hafas drifted away. “I tried to interview everyone in the immediate vicinity at least once. Again nobody sees or hears anything. Electrician found the bodies. Something finally happens and we’re no wiser than we were before. Except that this time Security has two dead operatives to account for. What’s the use of having eyes if you don’t use them?” His own were blazing. “It’s not just jacking anymore.”
“Gentlemen, an evaluation.”
Manz turned to his mechanical. “Not another restatement of the obvious, sand-brain. Not now.” The mechanical subsided.
“If I may be permitted.” Manz glanced at his attendant Minder in surprise.
“You have something to contribute?”
“I do not speak as often as certain other mechanicals,” the sphere declared via its integrated membrane, “but when I do it is based on conviction rather than speculation. The now quadruple successful jackings of insured Braun-Roche-Keck shipments appear to require great dexterity as well as cleverness. These recent deaths, from which we cannot yet draw an ineluctable connection, demanded great strength. If a connection can be established, this would seem to suggest the participation of more than one perpetrator, each with specific and very different capabilities.”
Manz conceded the sphere grudging approval. “Not a brilliant conclusion, but one that’s hard to argue with. We assumed all along that we were dealing with a gang and not an individual.”
“Did you?”
