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Sunday: Thirteen days before the First Wave

Chapter 1

The Third Click

He knows he’s being watched, thought Conan, gazing fascinated at the man’s image which filled the screens. His face was mostly obscured by a yellow cap and scarf, and the NO READING on the iris scan suggested highly illegal scan-resistant sunglasses.

The man was in a public library in Ord City and had accessed specifications of the National Broadband Network which could only be found on the Dark Web. Most who wandered into that location got out instantly when they realised what they were looking at.

A second click – and the fellow, using an old-style computer, complete with mouse, had found his way into the engineering maps which highlighted critical linkages. Such access might still only be guilty fascination – the AFP had enough to do without arresting every idle surfer who dallied in the Dark.

It was the third click that mattered. Anyone with half a brain knew they’d be under scrutiny by now. Getting out quickly was enough display of innocence to warrant being left alone, but accessing a third level where specific characteristics of vulnerable linkages might be found meant – to Conan’s mind – that the man in the yellow cap with the scan-resistant specs was a person of interest.

The man looked over his shoulder, licked his lips, and made the third click.

At that point Conan could have locked the library remotely, even all the way from Sydney. Instead, he accessed the peripheral vision at that location and immediately had a choice of images. From behind he saw a thin-looking man in a yellow football shirt with FENG in block capitals and the number 9. Abruptly, the man pulled a data stick from the computer, jumped up and strode from the room. Automatically, the peripheral vision network locked in – thousands of optical fibre terminals in light fittings, smoke alarms, any fixed electronic device and even overt surveillance cameras traced FENG 9 as he hurried from the library and out onto the street.

Conan knew he was taking a risk. If he’d closed the library, the man would have been apprehended easily and his data stick confiscated. Letting him outside admitted the chance (albeit small) that the man might get into enough of a crowd or blind spot to defy the cameras and drones. A small thrill of adrenalin tickled Conan’s guts as FENG 9 hurried through increasingly crowded streets. The vast amount of visual data coalesced into an all-but-perfect holographic image – occasionally flickering – as Conan hovered invisibly at the fugitive’s shoulder.

The man was clearly frightened – constantly looking back for pursuers – and Conan smiled grimly, content to let the man take him either to his refuge or, even better, a meeting with senior confederates. That was why Conan had let him escape – the Big Bosses don’t access illegal and sensitive data themselves, they send little fish like FENG 9. But the little fish always swim back to the Big Fish, and then the Big Fish to the WHALES. It was the natural order since the dawn of crime.

FENG 9 turned a corner and Conan realised the people around his subject were increasing rapidly – what’s more, many were dressed in similar yellow shirts and caps and Conan suddenly understood the risk. For an instant, he took his eye off the subject to read FENG 9 on another shirt, then when he turned back he realised he was no longer certain that the subject was the same man.

More and more yellow shirts pressed around him as the football stadium loomed overhead, and Conan was already inventing excuses for why he hadn’t locked the library.

• • •

‘I fucking despair of you, Tooley.’

Conan watched again as Kenny Cook, the chief analyst, replayed the holo of FENG 9’s computer search and flight from the library.

‘He knew what he was doing,’ said Kenny, ‘… dressed up in Peril gear. He knew he’d be watched, but if he made it as far as the stadium he’d blend in and get away.’

‘I was hoping he’d lead us to his contact,’ said Conan, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

‘He’s downloaded specs to the Node you arse!’ scathed Kenny, threatening Conan with half a donut. ‘What were you going to do … wait until he blew it up before maybe letting us know about him?’

Conan kept his mouth shut. He’d gambled and lost so there was little point trying to justify himself.

Kenny Cook was the fattest of the geek overlords who worked in dark rooms high in a Sydney skyscraper to anticipate and thwart crime throughout Australia, or anywhere else if relevant to Australian interests. Their work had changed profoundly since the creation of the quantum supercomputers – still only allowed for G12 governments and approved multinationals, but no one else had a legitimate use for that much processing power.

‘In any case,’ continued Kenny, ‘you were at the briefing about the political status in Ord City leading up to the First Wave.’

‘I know,’ said Conan, holding his hands up in surrender.

‘You know this bloke’ll be HT, don’t you?’

‘I assumed he was,’ admitted Conan, ‘… which is why I wanted to follow him back to base.’

The population of Ord City were overwhelmingly devotees of Habal Tong – a synthesis of the various Asian religions which had grown strongly since the City was established in 2020.

‘You were told,’ insisted Kenny, ‘… any chance to clamp down on radical HT sects must be taken and must be publicised.’

‘I know. But I seriously didn’t think he’d get away and he could have led us to a senior confederate.’

‘But he did get away. Meanwhile, the reffo newspapers are accusing us of looking for an excuse to renege on their visas. A public arrest might have cooled ’em down a little.’

Conan was perfectly familiar with the political situation in Ord City, but that didn’t stop Kenny teaching him to suck eggs.

‘It’s Habal Tong, of course, stirring up trouble … saying the government won’t honour the seven year visas.’

‘Why shouldn’t they?’

‘They will. They wouldn’t dare do otherwise when two and a half million people are watching their every move and ready to explode. Some of their leaders are already complaining we don’t provide adequate resources up there … especially policing.’

Something in Kenny’s voice warned Conan that the conversation was about to take an irritating turn.

‘What policing resources should we be providing?’ asked Conan, as Kenny finished his donut and licked his fingers.

‘Murder investigation,’ said Kenny, and Conan groaned with impending boredom. Murder would normally be the responsibility of the state police but Ord City, within the Temporary Citizenship Zone, was covered by a Commonwealth Act which brought all serious crime under the jurisdiction of the AFP.

‘Double murder to be precise,’ continued Kenny. ‘Gangland execution by the look of it. That used to be your forte, didn’t it … gangs?’

‘But surely I need to stay on this present case,’ objected Conan. ‘If he’s downloaded specs then clearly there’s a potential sabotage situation up there.’

‘Which will be monitored by someone else with a bit more responsibility,’ said Kenny. ‘Virtual investigation is a privilege … an expensive privilege … and when you let arseholes like FENG 9 access critical information and get away you breach the trust the community has placed in you. Maybe next time you’ll appreciate your responsibility a tad more keenly.’

‘Kenny … you know exactly why I held back,’ said Conan, who really needed to stay in Sydney. ‘If we’d caught this prick … big deal. Whoever’s running the operation would simply have passed the baton on to someone else. I wanted the head honcho.’

‘How do you know he’s not the honcho?’ demanded Kenny, reaching for another donut. ‘Or a lone wolf? Ever heard of interrogation?’

‘He won’t talk if he’s HT,’ said Conan, ‘… they never do. That’s the other reason I held off.’

‘There, you see,’ said Kenny, grinning, ‘… you’re already an expert on HT culture. Perfect.’

‘Are you kidding? I don’t know the first thing about HT or Ord City. Surely this is a job for a local.’

‘It’s been deprioritised … overflow. They’re too busy with other stuff, like First Wave security, and I’ve been asked to send one of my people. You’re suddenly the most expendable.’

Conan groaned again sensing politics, and gangland murder was non-political and non-virtual investigation – definitely a demotion.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Kenny, ‘no one expects you to find the killers. Just get your arse up to Ord City and fly the Sydney flag for a few days. Think of it as a holiday.’

• • •

‘Hey Lucia.’

‘Hey Conan.’

Conan fell silent – wondering how to breach the subject safely.

‘What’s up?’ she asked, a hint of unprofessional doubt in her voice.

‘Wrong number,’ he said, then hung up – knowing she’d call him back. Sure enough, about six minutes later, a withheld number flashed up on his phone.

‘I can’t do tomorrow night Lucia … they’re sending me to Ord City. Bloody murder investigation.’

Lucia worked in data and logistics and there was an uncomfortable friendship between the two – not least because of the time they’d ‘done it’ after getting pissed at a rare work party. Social functions were discouraged in the modern AFP and intimate relations outright forbidden. Lucia had shyly suggested, once or twice since, that if he wanted a relationship she might be willing to resign. But Conan didn’t want another relationship.

At least, he didn’t think so, and he couldn’t have borne the guilt of letting her leave her job and then breaking up with her at any point later.

‘Why are they sending you?’

‘Because I fucked up a virtual investigation and … where are you calling from?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s safe … as long as …’

They both knew all phone conversations were monitored in real time by the Quantum computer – listening for words like ‘heroin’ or ‘gun’ or ‘crimson’ – or any other combination of words that might need closer attention from an AI algorithm or even a human agent. As long as they kept it vague and banal and didn’t both use work numbers they were fairly safe to talk.

‘Okay … I’m going tomorrow and there’s stuff I need to do tonight. Can we catch up when I get back?’

‘Sure, Conan,’ she said, and he tried not to hear the pain under her carefree manner. It had taken them six weeks to arrange a date. ‘But don’t you think it odd they’re sending you? You don’t do murder.’

‘Not since I was a state Dee … I guess I’ve had experience.’

‘Plenty of others with more experience,’ she said, and he could picture her shrugging.

‘Maybe they’re busy? In any case, Kenny said no one expects me to solve the case.’

‘Then why go?’

‘God knows … politics. Something to do with keeping the non-natives happy.’

‘Ord City’s a weird place, Conan. You look after yourself … I better go.’

‘Okay … I’ll see you when I get back.’

‘Sure, Conan. Maybe.’

• • •

Three people – two men and a woman – sit before a huge picture window looking over a vast city, with an ocean to the north under a pink sky fading to purple. A servant pours tea and departs silently. None of them speak until all have savoured the tea and replaced their cups.

The first to speak is a large man dressed entirely in black.

‘It has begun then. There is no turning back.’

A woman in a pink and grey power suit with a necklace of black pearls responds: ‘It began some time ago … the preparations have taken years.’

‘The irrevocable step has been taken though,’ says the Man in Black, ‘… we are now committed … to see this through to the end.’

‘There will be unhappiness,’ says the woman, with an eye on the smaller man. It is clear the smaller man is in charge.

‘A great deal of it,’ agrees the smaller man, speaking for the first time, ‘… but as long as they are unhappy about the right things, we should have confidence in our mission.’

The last of the pink fades from the sky in the west. It is black to the east.

The woman asks: ‘What about the enticement?’

‘It went perfectly, as expected,’ says the Man in Black.

‘But there may be security issues,’ she replies.

‘We have taken steps to mitigate the security issues,’ says the Man in Black. ‘It is too late for the mission to be stopped … I don’t see how we can fail at this late stage.’

‘I agree,’ says the smaller man, ‘… and I thank you both for your efforts. Future generations will never hear of this, but our secret history will recall your names and deeds for all eternity.’

All three pick up their cups again, and sip contentedly.

The wheels are set in motion.