Working uniformed corporate security is 80% tedium, 20% embarrassment. Escorting some newly sh*t-canned suit from the building and watching them stand there on the sidewalk, clutching a box of personal effects, you could almost feel sorry for the blood-sucking scumbags. Almost.
HanaMed owned Inspiration Tower, on Oakhampton Plaza, and nightshift there was a breeze. I’d been teamed with Randal, a lanky social sciences major who needed a no-brainer job to see him though college without drowning in debt. We had this big curved desk set back in the foyer; swivel chairs, bank of CCTV monitors below counter level, panic button for the local Precinct. Throw in the complimentary coffee machine for suits waiting to see other suits and all-in-all it was a sweet deal, primo.
The surrounding business sector didn’t have any 24-hour trading floors anymore, so all we had to do was sit there, looking out through the three-quarter glass walls at sparse traffic and occasional street-cleaning wagons. Randal, he’d bring in his laptop and beaver away at some term paper while I, well, I just sat there. I’m one of those guys who doesn’t need a distraction during a shift – like TV, or YouTube, or even a book – I can simply look on. It’s one reason I used to pull endless sentry duty in the army, one reason why my nickname back then was ‘Rooty’. No worries.
Back in the day I’d occasionally take a turn around the building, but not now it was ‘smart’ – smarter than me, at any rate. You had to disarm the housekeeping systems to avoid tangling with cleaning robots or getting classified as a rodent infestation. There were sensors everywhere, including the service ducts and restrooms, so we had total surveillance, right here at our fingertips.
Chill city, man.
An alarm came on; top floor panel. Audio was muted, so Randal didn’t notice – too busy staring at his laptop. I tapped the screen, even though it was LED and not some bulb with a loose connection, but I’m old-school, with old habits.
Intruder alert, room 1313.
I punched it up on my monitor and the camera showed an executive office used by Adamson, Vice-president of Corporate Affairs. The blinds were open and in the soft background light of the city I could see there was no-one there. Even when I brought up the infrared overlay there were no hotspots, nothing.
Still…
I cleared my throat, but my partner was lost in his head, so reached over and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Randal, need you back in the here-and-now.”
“Huh?” He swung round, all different planet, then saw the alarm and frowned. “What’s that? It for real?”
“Could be, could be nothing. Either way we have to go check it out.” I stood up, settled my belt. “Got your nine?”
His hand reached for the holstered Glock on the shelf beside him, then paused. “Seriously, dude? I was paying attention during orientation and this place is a goddam fortress. We got banks back home with less security. Plus, that room sure looks empty – it’s gotta be a glitch.” He sniffed. “Send a remote.”
I shrugged. “Protocol. Human response required. I guess they figure if someone can mess with the cameras then a drone would be easy meat. Anyway, won’t take long.”
Randal stood up, wiped his mouth. “Then I say we call the cops. Wait till they get here and go in team-handed. Because if it’s for real, if it is some serious badass crew screwing with the system, then we’ll need backup.” He half-smiled. “And if it’s a glitch, hell, Metro won’t think any less of us. Face it, dude, to them we’re no better than mall cops with health care.”
OK, that irked me, I admit.
I lifted a flashlight from the alcove, checked it. “I’m senior, and I say we go take a look. Either stick that piece on your belt and follow me, or figure on re-joining the job market come tomorrow.”
He got to his feet, face like a clenched fist. “OK, OK, I’ll come watch you play hero. Just less of the John McCain, right?”
I turned and headed for the elevators, smiling to myself slightly at the comparison. Randal trailed behind, clipping the holster to his belt. The doors closed and we ascended in silence – the Muzak only ran nine-to-five – with him scowling at me in the mirrored panel while worrying on a hangnail.
We arrived on the thirteenth floor with a soft ‘ping’. The doors opened onto a plush corridor lit only by the exit sign above the stairwell. I’d left the environmental systems in ‘unoccupied’ mode, otherwise the uplighters would come on as they detected our presence – and I wanted whatever element of surprise was on offer. Housekeeping ran top-to-bottom and had long since cleared this, the executive sanctum, so we had the entire floor to ourselves. Hopefully.
We stepped out and stood for a moment, letting our eyes adjust. All the main corridors ended in full-length windows, so there was enough light to navigate without upending a water cooler. I led the way. The thick carpet deadened our footfalls, and neither of us was a heavy breather, so it felt more like a VR game with muted audio than real life.
Room 1313 took up the entire south-east corner, with commanding views over Downtown. I’d been there once when one of Adamson’s previous personal assistants overdosed on Prozac. Unfortunately, the décor meant we wouldn’t see any tell-tale light from under the door. I shifted the flashlight to my left hand and popped the safety tab on my holster. Randal drew his piece, holding it a two-handed stance probably copied from the TV, covering me as I reached for the door handle.
I nodded at Randal, he nodded at me.
Handle twist, barge in, step smartly to the left, flashlight on, right hand on the butt of my gun…
…and nothing.
An uncluttered desk in a chic office. I swept the beam over framed professional qualifications plus photographs of Adamson shaking hands with two former presidents and – bizarrely – the lead singer from Chrome Koran.
Randal let out a nervous laugh and lowered his gun. “Told you, man, nothing more than a glitch. Now, can we get back downstairs? I got another five-hundred words-”
My raised hand cut him off. I killed the flashlight and looked, really looked, at the city beyond the glass. The Godwin Building was topped by a translucent pyramid with blinking navigation lights at the four corners and apex. But I was certain, certain as the gun now in my hand, that the north face was under repair following a bird strike.
I stepped forward.
The world shimmered.
The man sitting behind the desk held a revolver aimed at my face. All I could make out was a thin face with receding hair swept straight back. The desk lamp turned his rimless glasses into two circles of green fire. When he smiled it was pure predator.
“Well, this is unfortunate. For you, I mean, officer Lehman. Also the man who assured me this projector was without flaw. It’s so difficult to find true craftmanship these days, don’t you think?”
I took that to be the glowing snowglobe on the blotter, sitting alongside a pad plugged into Adamson’s smartdesk. “Wrong picture, that’s all. You should have paid extra for real-time, not recorded.” I squared my shoulders. “I guess this is the bit where I tell you to come quietly?”
His smile widened. “And I counter with an obscene bribe to look the other way? Well, how about ten years salary in an off-shore account for both you and your cash-strapped partner? In return you open an external landline such that the security feed is subjected to some good, old-fashioned, hacking. Not my preferred option, as it always leaves a trace, but only if someone knows to goes looking. I walk away and all this…” He gestured around the room with his free hand, “…never happened.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “And, what, we take it on trust the money will be there?”
“Absolutely. This had to be a stealth op, zero trace, to justify the outlay. Anything else and my employers will be most displeased – and I certainly don’t intend to become a loose end they could well do without. I welch on the deal and you go running to corporate security, if only to secure a severance package. The data I’m here to gather is worthless should HanaMed learn it’s been compromised.”
For a long moment we stared at each other. “Well, I can’t speak for my partner-”
“Who can’t hear any of this – I did pay extra, but only for acoustic muffling.” He laid his gun on the blotter. “My name is Ghent, by the way.”
“And you’re Mister Screwed.” Randal spoke from right behind me. I felt his gun in my back. “Now it gets messy, dude. Now it gets messy.”
HanaMed owned Inspiration Tower, on Oakhampton Plaza, and nightshift there was a breeze. I’d been teamed with Randal, a lanky social sciences major who needed a no-brainer job to see him though college without drowning in debt. We had this big curved desk set back in the foyer; swivel chairs, bank of CCTV monitors below counter level, panic button for the local Precinct. Throw in the complimentary coffee machine for suits waiting to see other suits and all-in-all it was a sweet deal, primo.
The surrounding business sector didn’t have any 24-hour trading floors anymore, so all we had to do was sit there, looking out through the three-quarter glass walls at sparse traffic and occasional street-cleaning wagons. Randal, he’d bring in his laptop and beaver away at some term paper while I, well, I just sat there. I’m one of those guys who doesn’t need a distraction during a shift – like TV, or YouTube, or even a book – I can simply look on. It’s one reason I used to pull endless sentry duty in the army, one reason why my nickname back then was ‘Rooty’. No worries.
Back in the day I’d occasionally take a turn around the building, but not now it was ‘smart’ – smarter than me, at any rate. You had to disarm the housekeeping systems to avoid tangling with cleaning robots or getting classified as a rodent infestation. There were sensors everywhere, including the service ducts and restrooms, so we had total surveillance, right here at our fingertips.
Chill city, man.
An alarm came on; top floor panel. Audio was muted, so Randal didn’t notice – too busy staring at his laptop. I tapped the screen, even though it was LED and not some bulb with a loose connection, but I’m old-school, with old habits.
Intruder alert, room 1313.
I punched it up on my monitor and the camera showed an executive office used by Adamson, Vice-president of Corporate Affairs. The blinds were open and in the soft background light of the city I could see there was no-one there. Even when I brought up the infrared overlay there were no hotspots, nothing.
Still…
I cleared my throat, but my partner was lost in his head, so reached over and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Randal, need you back in the here-and-now.”
“Huh?” He swung round, all different planet, then saw the alarm and frowned. “What’s that? It for real?”
“Could be, could be nothing. Either way we have to go check it out.” I stood up, settled my belt. “Got your nine?”
His hand reached for the holstered Glock on the shelf beside him, then paused. “Seriously, dude? I was paying attention during orientation and this place is a goddam fortress. We got banks back home with less security. Plus, that room sure looks empty – it’s gotta be a glitch.” He sniffed. “Send a remote.”
I shrugged. “Protocol. Human response required. I guess they figure if someone can mess with the cameras then a drone would be easy meat. Anyway, won’t take long.”
Randal stood up, wiped his mouth. “Then I say we call the cops. Wait till they get here and go in team-handed. Because if it’s for real, if it is some serious badass crew screwing with the system, then we’ll need backup.” He half-smiled. “And if it’s a glitch, hell, Metro won’t think any less of us. Face it, dude, to them we’re no better than mall cops with health care.”
OK, that irked me, I admit.
I lifted a flashlight from the alcove, checked it. “I’m senior, and I say we go take a look. Either stick that piece on your belt and follow me, or figure on re-joining the job market come tomorrow.”
He got to his feet, face like a clenched fist. “OK, OK, I’ll come watch you play hero. Just less of the John McCain, right?”
I turned and headed for the elevators, smiling to myself slightly at the comparison. Randal trailed behind, clipping the holster to his belt. The doors closed and we ascended in silence – the Muzak only ran nine-to-five – with him scowling at me in the mirrored panel while worrying on a hangnail.
We arrived on the thirteenth floor with a soft ‘ping’. The doors opened onto a plush corridor lit only by the exit sign above the stairwell. I’d left the environmental systems in ‘unoccupied’ mode, otherwise the uplighters would come on as they detected our presence – and I wanted whatever element of surprise was on offer. Housekeeping ran top-to-bottom and had long since cleared this, the executive sanctum, so we had the entire floor to ourselves. Hopefully.
We stepped out and stood for a moment, letting our eyes adjust. All the main corridors ended in full-length windows, so there was enough light to navigate without upending a water cooler. I led the way. The thick carpet deadened our footfalls, and neither of us was a heavy breather, so it felt more like a VR game with muted audio than real life.
Room 1313 took up the entire south-east corner, with commanding views over Downtown. I’d been there once when one of Adamson’s previous personal assistants overdosed on Prozac. Unfortunately, the décor meant we wouldn’t see any tell-tale light from under the door. I shifted the flashlight to my left hand and popped the safety tab on my holster. Randal drew his piece, holding it a two-handed stance probably copied from the TV, covering me as I reached for the door handle.
I nodded at Randal, he nodded at me.
Handle twist, barge in, step smartly to the left, flashlight on, right hand on the butt of my gun…
…and nothing.
An uncluttered desk in a chic office. I swept the beam over framed professional qualifications plus photographs of Adamson shaking hands with two former presidents and – bizarrely – the lead singer from Chrome Koran.
Randal let out a nervous laugh and lowered his gun. “Told you, man, nothing more than a glitch. Now, can we get back downstairs? I got another five-hundred words-”
My raised hand cut him off. I killed the flashlight and looked, really looked, at the city beyond the glass. The Godwin Building was topped by a translucent pyramid with blinking navigation lights at the four corners and apex. But I was certain, certain as the gun now in my hand, that the north face was under repair following a bird strike.
I stepped forward.
The world shimmered.
The man sitting behind the desk held a revolver aimed at my face. All I could make out was a thin face with receding hair swept straight back. The desk lamp turned his rimless glasses into two circles of green fire. When he smiled it was pure predator.
“Well, this is unfortunate. For you, I mean, officer Lehman. Also the man who assured me this projector was without flaw. It’s so difficult to find true craftmanship these days, don’t you think?”
I took that to be the glowing snowglobe on the blotter, sitting alongside a pad plugged into Adamson’s smartdesk. “Wrong picture, that’s all. You should have paid extra for real-time, not recorded.” I squared my shoulders. “I guess this is the bit where I tell you to come quietly?”
His smile widened. “And I counter with an obscene bribe to look the other way? Well, how about ten years salary in an off-shore account for both you and your cash-strapped partner? In return you open an external landline such that the security feed is subjected to some good, old-fashioned, hacking. Not my preferred option, as it always leaves a trace, but only if someone knows to goes looking. I walk away and all this…” He gestured around the room with his free hand, “…never happened.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “And, what, we take it on trust the money will be there?”
“Absolutely. This had to be a stealth op, zero trace, to justify the outlay. Anything else and my employers will be most displeased – and I certainly don’t intend to become a loose end they could well do without. I welch on the deal and you go running to corporate security, if only to secure a severance package. The data I’m here to gather is worthless should HanaMed learn it’s been compromised.”
For a long moment we stared at each other. “Well, I can’t speak for my partner-”
“Who can’t hear any of this – I did pay extra, but only for acoustic muffling.” He laid his gun on the blotter. “My name is Ghent, by the way.”
“And you’re Mister Screwed.” Randal spoke from right behind me. I felt his gun in my back. “Now it gets messy, dude. Now it gets messy.”
