Oh, if only that embarrassment was enough.
Thomas switched between his personal pom and the station-issued device, transferring data points.
It was tricky, this business. He wasn’t an expert at backchannel financial transfers, but Thomas learned. He once held an account that sent UCVs into a private partition outside the Collectorate Central Deposit Network. Nexus paid him there – usually twenty-five percent up front and the rest after finishing the job.
Thomas spent many nights studying how to create ‘cubes,’ the deep layered, heavily encrypted partitions used by smugglers, embezzlers, and certain corporate executives to stash income best not seen in the light of day.
The key to this particular cube was understanding how to connect it to Trevor’s personal account without drawing attention. One wrong bifurcation in the underlying code risked exposure.
No worries. He dared not transfer all the UCVs into Trevor’s cubes at once. It had to look gradual, a mere resumption of special income the last Governor received from Atumwa. After all, why wouldn’t the execs want Trevor to look away, too?
Thomas estimated two more months would be sufficient. By then, he could quietly execute a deep-dive profile through Shadow Gambit and magically uncover the cubes. Trevor gave permission, after all: He insisted everyone in Central – even the top dog – submit to quarterly profiles. An anti-corruption agenda, he called it.
Smug asshole. There will be karma!
He could’ve gone on like this all day, but new business awaited.
A different kind of fun.
When Thomas heard the door chime, he tossed aside his holos and closed his station-issued pom.
The door slid open.
Rafe Murrill entered.
The man stampeded through the kitchen area and toward the bedroom. Did Murrill not see the trespasser on his couch?
Thomas wondered whether he should wait here or surprise the ex-Governor. No matter. Murrill returned, peering hesitantly around the corner into the outer living area.
“What the fu ...?” His eyes ballooned. “Quinlan! What in ten hells are you doing in my flat? How did you get ...?”
Thomas allowed Murrill to vent, although he suspected the man’s rage needed to be channeled somehow.
“Meeting with Stallion not go well?”
Murrill’s hair was frazzled, as if he’d been trying to tear it out. Poor sod. I warned him!
“Oh. I see.” Murrill rolled up his sleeves as if ready for a fight. “You’re in on it. Stallion told you to escort me to the spaceport.”
“Not me, friend.” Thomas crossed his legs. Much more comfortable. “Granted, I could have warned you not to take that meeting. It would be the worst mistake of your life. Our beloved Governor is a stickler for details; I knew he’d build a mountain of a case.”
Murrill swiped a hand through his discombobulated hair and glared at Thomas like the bizarre animal he was.
“Why are you in my flat?”
“The one you’ll be soon leaving? Likely good riddance. You’re about as corrupt as they come. You deserved a swift kick off this station. But not by the likes of Trevor Stallion.”
Thomas let those words sink in. Murrill calmed a touch. Did he understand the implication?
“Just tell me, Quinlan. Why are you here?”
Thomas patted the cushion beside him.
“Please, Rafe. Have a seat. I’ll explain.”
“No. If you’re not Stallion’s errand boy, I want you gone.”
Thomas twisted into his best frown. Ah, so distressed.
“Suit yourself. But I have to say, I’m surprised a man of your means would pass up an opportunity to put Stallion in his place.”
“I don’t understand. Is this a trick? You sound like he’s your enemy, but you two were both badges. You worked together for months. I don’t play games, Quinlan.”
Thomas hated when egoists denied the very things that defined them. Such dishonest cudfruckers.
“Games are your specialty. They’re also mine. For instance, did you know I wrote the message warning you of exactly what came to pass?” Murrill’s cheeks dropped. “Yes, Rafe. It’s true. I was looking out for you all those months ago. Please. Have a seat.”
“You?” Murrill shook his head as if trying to shake off a hangover. “You knew what Stallion and Haas were planning?”
“What can I say, Rafe? I’m connected. Now, how about you sit your ass on this couch so we may conclude business?”
Murrill stumbled toward the couch but halted.
“We have no business. And if we did, it wouldn’t matter. I have to pack.”
“Yes. You do. I assume Stallion booked you on the cruiser leaving from Bay 14 at H1120? Not much time, but I won’t need much. Sit.”
What a shriveled creature Murrill became. Nothing resembling the imperious asshole who used to tour the station like he owned it. Thomas wanted to feel sorry, but the dumbass did have advance warning. Oh, well.
