| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <Shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Thinking Ahead |
| Date: | Wed, 12 Aug 1998 01:16:17 +0100 |
>>>>[I've found the datastore where he keeps his diary. It's at
>>encrypted<<, and I've got a frame inside to notify us of updates.
We can monitor him again. Much more easily than before, he's using a
public datastore, we can track it from here now.
+++++begin diary.txt
It's raining again. I know, happens a lot in Seattle... I like the sound
of the rain on the panes, though. Helps me think.
My situation's more stable than it was. Now I've got an apartment in
Everett, up in Nelson's Corner. Nothing fancy, but it's clean and
comfortable and furnished decently: and rented from a supervisor who
only asked questions about his deposit and how I intended to pay the
rent.
He was vaguely curious about what I did for a living: seemed happy to
believe that I was a computer repair technician, said there was no
problem about getting in and out as long on late callouts as I didn't
lose my key: physical as well as electronic locks after ten p.m. or so.
The stairwell (bare concrete) smells of cleaning fluid, which is a
pleasant change from the usual rotting-garbage-and-urine aroma of a
coffin motel, the elevator works without complaint and a copy of the
servicing sheet's tacked behind Plexiglas next to the "eight occupants
only" warning, and the building's clean and in decent shape overall.
Good enough.
The supervisor also said no dogs, but cats are okay as long as any
feline-related damage gets fixed or comes out of the damage deposit. So
now I've got a new friend, a tabby cat of no particularly distinguished
descent with white paws, who got dumped at a shelter by some brat when
he outgrew his cutesy-kitten stage and the bill to get him his shots and
neuter him loomed: he seemed to like me, so I adopted him.
Haven't really decided what to call him yet: 'Cat' seems to suit and
it's already starting to stick. When I get tired of listening to the
rain I watch him exploring his new kingdom. He already knows he likes
boxing with me. I suppose it's a novelty to him to meet a human who's
quicker than he is.
I missed having a cat around. Selfish, arrogant, self-reliant creatures.
Like me, I suppose. Just wish I were that good-looking.
As well as the apartment and the cat, I've got a vehicle. Of course,
it's a damn motorbike. Which is one reason the rain _isn't_ so pleasant.
And I'm still not convinced about belting around on a two-wheeled crotch
rocket like some testosterone-fuelled naval aviator, but on my budget it
was a second-hand Kawasaki ZX750 tourer, or a pre-owned Jackrabbit. Even
I still have my pride. And I imagine I might have to do some evading, or
cruise some rougher parts of town, and the bike at least shifts along in
lively style.
At least the fairing keeps the worst of the rain off, and when it's not
raining and the sun's out it's outright pleasant.
But, "Christopher Sharpe" is building himself up as a respectable
citizen with an apartment, a registered and insured vehicle, his
property tax paid, and his residency updated. He's been working in
Europe for the last two years, which is why the IRS haven't heard from
him in a while and why his records are so sketchy, but like a good
little boy he informed them immediately of his change in domicile...
bleah. It's bad enough doing all this crap for yourself, let alone for a
ghost whose name you're borrowing. But, it gets me legitimacy. A decent
house, power and water, neighbours to be polite to, Lone Star covering
my butt until I screw up in their jurisdiction. Once I've burrowed the
ID in deep enough, I'll go for a firearm permit so I can carry legally,
but that's for the future once the ID will stand the strain.
For now, though, I'm lying on the bed, watching Cat trying to eat one of
my shoelaces, while I decide where I go next.
I'm out of immediate danger. Commander Christian F. Mitchell, UCAS Navy,
is on hold until further notice and until I can find out what the hell
is going on. I want him back, but doing it won't be easy.
I've got a place to live, enough money to live on for a couple of
months. But that won't get me answers.
I need Matrix talent, datathieves, information gatherers. I need to find
out why I'm a hunted man.That's going to need large amounts of clean
cash, and I don't have any way to earn it honestly. Not without getting
caught, anyway.
I've got some pretty cutting-edge cyber, and the skills to use it. And a
few tools of the trade. And a couple of names. I could start running the
shadows. I don't see much else I can do right now.
Longer term, though. Consider a few contacts and a few connections made.
Assume I've met and worked with some other runners, got some folks who
owe me favours or who I can tap for information or equipment. What do I
do then?
I do believe I shall pull a score of my own. Too many runners here sit,
waiting for The Big Job to drop into their lap. I may go out and get it
for myself. Or get killed trying, but what the hell, I guess anyone who
bet against me makes some money.
The terminal in the bedroom's got a cordless keyboard, but no datajack
link. Doesn't matter, except Cat gets interested by the tapping noises
and then by my moving fingers and I have to keep breaking off to fuss
him, until he lies down beside me and decides to sleep.
What's valuable, portable and easily fenced?
Armed robbery's gone out of fashion since credsticks came in, cash is
pretty penny-ante stuff even if you hit a bank: bulky and heavy, you
just don't get big denominations of something so easily lost or stolen
and so hard to tax. But everyone knows that.
And of course it won't be easy to identify a replacement, or to steal it
once I find it. But it's a diverting search, even if I don't find an
answer.
It hits me as I take a break and look through tonight's trideo listings.
Channel 91 are rerunning 'Vegas Lucky 7' about the life and times of a
big Las Vegas hotel-casino. An excuse for lots of flashy sets, glitzy
rich-and-shameless lifestyle, designer clothing, brutal violence and
gratuitous sex, of course, but the viewers love it.
The casino's run by honest businessmen who fend off a different crime
syndicate every episide, crime never pays, and the showgirls only get
laid as an integral part of a deep and meaningful relationship; because
even though it's late night viewing we need to be seen to be moral here,
and Good must visibly win out over Evil.
Always a staple of the Chief's Mess, since you can virtually guarantee a
firefight, a topless revue or a lively sex scene between every ad break.
But what does the Vegas Lucky 7 run on? Money. Lots and lots of
untraceable credit.
You can't just walk in and steal it. It's electronic, you'd have to get
a decker into the heart of the casino for long enough to empty the
treasury. And then you and the decker have to get out alive. Out of the
casino, out of Vegas, out of Ute, probably out of North America, because
the heat that would come down on a score like that would be historic.
Not so much the Ute guys, as the Mafia wanting to make an example of
you.
Fencing the loot would be a tough job, too, though helped by the fact
that it came in as clean, diverse cred from thousands of happy
customers, and the fact that the casino wouldn't want it traced to them
easily either. Have to study up some. If I were still at SIGA I could
just ask Price...
No. Too risky. Check it alone for now, it's still only an idea.
It's never been done. If it's been tried, it's been kept quiet. But if
you could make it work, the payoff would be incredible... for those that
live to spend it.
After all, a man needs ambitions.
+++++end diary
He's insane, if you ask me.]<<<<<
-- Yefrem <01:15:43/08-12-59>
