“How you like the new shoes?”
It was a bit of a non sequitur, but for the gray agent Roger Steele, it was as good an icebreaker as any. Sitting across from him in the low warm lights of the Valle Restaurant in District 477 was a lean black wolf in a blue-and-white wide-striped bowling shirt, gray slacks, and smart, brown shoes.
“Shoes are nice, shirt’s a bit out there for me.”
“Beats the gray-scale shuffle though, right?” Steele winked.
The black wolf nodded. “Besides, with champagne this good, you could’ve gotten me in here with a tutu and the ballet slippers to match.”
The hounds chuckled. They carried on the light talk as their meals came to them. Roger went for the beef wellington–medium rare–with lemon-pepper green beans on the side. The black bowler went all in on roasted chicken with a well-seasoned side of mashed potatoes with an extra shot of cream in the mix. When the conversation wasn’t about the food they were savoring, it was the usual idle chatter about the day’s events. Who you saw, what you did. Classic cover stuff. It wasn’t until the black wolf’s given name finally slipped from the gray muzzle of his host that he knew it was time for the real conversation.
“How do you feel about it, Chet?”
The black wolf nodded between bites, twirling the fork between his thick fingers. “I’m just glad to help a friend out.”
“Feeling’s mutual.” the svelte gray smiled in kind.
From out Chet’s pockets came a plain white envelope. No writing, no crimps, no tears. In fact, the envelope itself wasn’t even made of paper.
“Keys to the kingdom, all in a row.” the black wolf said, sliding it between the high glasses of Dom Pérignon. For the first time in his career as a recon agent, Roger Steele took the lead-lined plastic envelope on faith as it slipped straight into the pocket of his leather jacket without a second glance.
“And your passage to India, secured.” bowed the gray agent. “But to hell with all that, we’ve still fine dining before us and a few odds and ends between us. See all that racket on the news coming from Empire Square?”
“That stateswoman Devenreaux sure makes a stink, don’t she?” Chet chuckled. “Just as she kept promising when she was just a hippie pup trying to peace-and-love the joint to death.”
Steele scoffed. “Keeps ‘em on their toes at least. Probably gives the old girl plenty to think about. We’ll see how it all pans out. 2476 is gonna be a big year regardless, and at least she makes it one for good Comm/Ent viewing the way they broadcast those committee meetings.”
Chet nearly snorted his champagne thinking of some choice clips.
“I swear she was going to jump the desk to get that creep Joseph Bradford during the data transparency hearing. Bitch could turn a white wolf translucent the way she comes on.”
Steele nodded solemnly. “Well, that’s what the public voted for and that’s what the Senate got.” He polished off the last of the beef wellington before waving the waiter over for the “bill.” It didn’t mean anything–just another part of the Old World ritual of eating out–and the two carried on chatting. Chatting of their mutual fondness for Senator Devenreaux, of other exciting shows pumped out by the Communications/Entertainment division of the A.C.E.S., and idle chatter about all the usual mundanities like “how the weather was in your district?” and “what’s on your module plans for the next few days?”
For Chet, he didn’t have much. Once their meals had settled, Roger helped his friend into the passenger side of his slender black Charger and drove gingerly down through the many blocks until reaching the edge of the city itself.
“Oh by the way,” Roger smiled. “You won’t be needing this anymore.”
He pressed a small silver coin to the back of Chet’s neck. One click, a zap no stronger than static fresh off a carpet floor, and the black wolf was a free man.
“Thanks.” he smiled. “Been waiting too damn long to kill that chip.”
“And where you’re going, you won’t ever need one like it again.”
Waiting by a derelict section of the Haven border in all its titanium chain-linked glory was a smart red Mustang and her cowboy to match; a white wolf clad in black denim with sharp suede boots and a bullet belt chambered in .223. He gave nothing away, simply stood there with one leg kicked up against the Ford’s front tire and waited as Chet stepped out of the Charger and walked right across. His shoulders tensed for a moment–Roger left wondering if the chip at the base of his neck hadn’t been properly deactivated–but once the black wolf was over and helped into the passenger side of the Mustang, it was only a matter of nerves. Nerves which subsided as the white wolf got behind the wheel and turned the key.
Chet gave Roger a gentle salute before the car tore off into the desert, down the winding road through the canyons of the Ivory Coast, and then up the other side into the distance. True to his word, passage to India had been secured. And true to Chet’s word, Agent Roger Steele held the keys to the kingdom. He had all the security clearances necessary for the role of a lifetime: a White Coat technician. He was about to meet the mother of Haven herself, face-to-server, for the very first time.
Just not all at once, of course.
True to form, the farewell dinner with Lita was as street as Chet’s was high-class, but both wolves knew this one was all business. Besides, for all his affinity for haute cuisine, the svelte gray spy wasn’t above a good supreme pizza hot out of the Creed’s synth station. The forever-dim lighting of the Creed’s HQ left a little to be desired, but smoke from the two wolves’ cigarettes and some prime Miles Davis on the jukebox made up for it in atmosphere.
The darksome hippie-punk sat across from him still knew how to tease him too; she got him a plastic fork and knife for the occasion, ones he used while dead-eyeing her from across the table. He held himself like that for a solid minute before the two broke up in a fit of snickering.
“Twenty years in the biz and you still know how to live it up, kid.” Lita winked. “Keep that head of humor on while you’re in.”
“Oh trust me, it’s screwed on tight kiddo,” Roger winked back. “Jeez, you got a lot of nerve sometimes.”
“Well five years don’t mean much between friends now don’t it, even if your junior partner’s the senior manager, right?”
He raised his rather stout beer to that before adding, “and twenty years working every lead to get here.”
They put their glasses together and took a good swig.
“And twenty years of looking at you rocking the same damn mohawk.” Roger teased.
“Hey, the AARP card won’t roll in for another decade!” the hippie-punk shot back, “I get to be as punk as I want till then.”
“Until you’re hanging with Nicky-poo back on Base and you’re like putty in his hands.”
“Well he’s a special case,” she retorted, “A hound that big an’ strong can make me spell ‘run’ any damn day he wants.”
Roger shook his head, grinning all the while. “Thank God my quarters are on the other side of Base when you’re in town.”
“What? You don’t dig the music we make?”
“You were spelling more than ‘run’ the way you two got at it last time.”
Lita broke up in hysterics, falling back out of her chair. “We havin’ a one-liner-off tonight or what?”
“Gotta get the last few in before it’s Bon-Voyage, Charlie Brown.” Roger shrugged between bites. “I could be under for quite a while. And I’ll come right out with it: you aren’t half-bad at the spymaster game.”
Lita picked herself back up and got back to chowing down. “You’re cute too.” she smiled. “And hey, I’m gonna miss you classing up the joint. You’re the last gentleman of Haven after the Professor, God rest him. Nice seeing all my hunks rocking the pencil-tie look on a mission ‘cuz of you.”
“And yet you remain. Same raggedy denim, same raggedy Birks, unmoved by the majesty of a fine Windsor knot.”
Lita raised her sandaled paw up and rolled her ankle, flaunting her ancient footwear. “Never leave home without ‘em, Mista-Prim-an-Proper. Now if we’s all wrapped on the ribbin’–which reminds me, I should really get a good recipe for ribs going on the synth–let’s tack down the big deets.”
Roger nodded, wiping his muzzle clean with a napkin before laying the plan out.
“Easy,” he began. “I got a pad up in the 200s, not too far from Knox’s old place. Gonna set up shop and suit up there. The envelope had it all; access codes, ID cards, DNA samples, fingerprint pads.”
“And the e-cable from the Force says our mutual friend Chet is safe and sound,” Lita added. “You got that little wonderbox of yours all rigged to record?”
Roger pulled the silver data reader out of his pocket and nodded. “‘Neva leave home without it,’” he teased in a sing-song voice. “Got a lead-lined case for it too to avoid detection. Full siphon-circuit conversion; she’ll be a data sponge for however long I’m under.”
“How long you figure?” Lita quizzed. “I ain’t gonna rush you, but it’d be good to have a rough ETA in mind.”
“Well it all depends on how far I get,” Roger replied. “There’s scaling within the WCC to consider. I’m starting out in Level 2 clearance and the food chain tops out at 10. I gotta run this organically so they don’t catch on. If I do the job and do it well, advancement could only take months. Could be a year. It’ll all be on file.”
Roger shook the data reader for emphasis before pocketing it and returning to his meal.
“Fair enough,” Lita nodded, scarfing down the last of her crust. “Last question: where do you want the old girl tucked away while you’re under?”
“She’s staying with me.”
Lita cocked her head in confusion. “That kinda blows the lid off, now don’t it?”
Roger cocked his in kind before realizing what the problem was. “Now hold it a minute, you don’t think I’d drive her right up to gates, now do you?”
He pulled a photo out of his leather jacket pocket and passed it across the table. There in the frame was a sterling silver hovercar. More rounded than the sleek HOV-KRAFT 4K Autocop, but not quite as bubble-shaped as the old Class A crafts.
“Chet left me his Class G. Had the plates changed, no questions asked. She’ll be my daily driver, but I still need the Charger’s kit if anything goes pear-shaped. I got a cloaker on her from one of our friendly neighborhood autocop wrecks. She’ll be parked in the alleyway, waiting for her turn.”
Lita took a long hard look at the hovercraft. “The Class G I like, but I still don’t want you to get clocked with an Old World ride.”
“Well look at it this way: after Level 5, you start seeing all those perks dear Miss Devenreaux wanted stripped away in the name of fairness. That includes your pick of impounded Old Worlders from the streets. When I hit Level 5, we could stage my acquisition of the Charger. Then I can drive the old girl right up to their doorstep and they won’t know a thing.”
“You always cooking plans inside your plans, ain’cha?” Lita smirked. “Just remember who to call if yo ass need’s a bailing out.”
Roger gave a firm salute before knocking back the rest of the beer.
“Yes ma’am.”
It was already just how he liked it; thermostat at 68, walls a wood-paneled burgundy, and a clear view across the city from the living room. He had to live here for God-knows how long so he might as well enjoy the luxuries this latest assignment afforded him. He had dwelled in the poverty of a Tower Network engineer for most of his attempts at locating the A.C.E.S. server farm. He’d spent years putting up with the noise of the tenements, the threats on his life by thugs who were only fucking with him for kicks. Not anymore.
Insofar as spy work could be luxurious, this was the job to beat. And this was the one night Roger wanted to savor the most, the night before.
He gave the kitchen module his music requests and got right to business as the sonorous rush of a Mozart symphony thundered from the speakers. The slender gray wolf chose the toughest task first, the chip.
All White Coat crewmen were naturally subject to the same vital chip at the base of the neck. If the A.C.E.S. couldn’t scan for the worker’s vitals, they were good as dead, and Agent Steele as good as given away. What he was trying out tonight was what could be a compromise. He had gotten a port at the base of his neck, but it didn’t extend into the brain stem. The chip, once inserted, could still read all the usual data–blood pressure, oxygen level, and so on–but it could be released just as easily.
The tricky part was making sure no one could see it.
Craning his neck over his shoulder, Roger slipped his chip in, ruffled the fur on the back of his neck and pulled out his data reader. He punched in the siphon circuit activation code to test, and sure enough, all his vitals were registering.
“Hmph, 140 over 82.” he said, observing his blood pressure. “Running a little hotter than usual tonight.”
Though still within range, it did raise an eyebrow, one which lowered as he tucked the silver reader away and got back to his preparations. He got himself the WCC standard issue uniform all in check; plain white button up, gray slacks, black shoes. The keys to his Charger he’d keep in the heel of his left dress boot.
Then came the application of the fingerprints, no different than contact lenses, albeit with the benefit of a thin adhesive to bind the prints to the black pads of the wolf’s hand. With the prints in place, there was only the final touch to complete the image: a pair of black rectangular glasses.
When all was said and done, these few changes turned the debonair spy into a slightly bookish scientist. He took a good long look in the mirror, his ice-blue eyes framed by the angular specs as he surveyed the uniform in full. He stroked his chin and gave an approving nod to his reflection.
“And all before 8,” he observed. “Means I can have the rest of the night to myself.”
He got out of his ensemble, carefully folding it and assembling it into its proper stack for the morning, and got back into his powder blue button-up and black slacks. Content in the job well done, he drew back the blinds and drank in the view.
He was supposed to “hate” this town, but he could never quite bring himself to. In spite of having been born and bred in the desert, he was simply too urbane for his own good. In his tastes, his tailoring, it all called to him, life in a city like Haven. There was something about that damn skyline that always suckered him back in, the tall dark spires against the velvet blue of night sky. Maybe it had been one too many trips undercover, maybe it was just his nature. Maybe it was the ghosts of New York and L.A. dancing in the dark, the postcard visage of the nation he always kept in the back pocket.
“Maybe you’re just getting too sentimental in your ‘old age,’” the gray wolf muttered into his brandy. 45 wasn’t old, but spycraft always seemed to age you in double-time, and he could probably stand to lose a decade in real time if he didn’t play the game right. But he did think about that word, sentimental. He’d have to be wary about it once he was under because he knew there was something about A.C.E.S. that kept this whole little world of Haven going round.
Sure there was dissent, outcry, rallying in the streets. But with a mother hen as big as the Artificially Controlled Eco-System, you couldn’t count out her many chicks. The hounds about town who had nothing but fond memories of golden years and a heaping spoonful of benefit-of-the-doubt on their tongues if things went wrong.
Roger would be swimming in a sea of wolves who dedicated their lives to maintaining this great marvel in all her benevolent glory. They were the true custodians of Haven. Not the pencil-pushing politicians in Empire Square, not the public-facing outfits. They tended to the great neon goddess of this land as dutifully as a wilderness tribe to a long since forgotten deity. Only instead of bloody sacrifices and drumming on heads of leather, they pounded keyboards, ran reel-to-reels, and allowed her to do all the dirty work she needed to keep holding this dream together with those two great electric hands of hers.
All these thoughts and more swirled in the hound’s mind between each sip of his amber spirits. And though the mind swirled, the ears were still keen. Keen enough to catch the sound of something being left at the front door.
Roger left his million-dollar view with narrowed eyes, reaching for his Mauser. With the handgun held tight, he made his way to the front door in dead silence. Each step taken in time with his heartbeat, his loafer-clad paws scarcely ruffling the carpet. Once he was at the door, the moment of truth; the peephole.
He pressed his eye up to the glass and looked… nothing.
Carefully, he lowered himself to the floor and looked in the crack between it and the base of the door. There on the tiled hallway was but a single envelope, a paper one.
Agent Steele let out a deep breath. “There’s only so many ways you can do a hound in with one of these.”
Quick with his gloves, he opened the door and picked up the envelope. Once it was on his desk, he drew a vial from his briefcase and sprinkled some of the solution on the paper. No reaction was good news; it wasn’t poisonous. Still, he was careful with his letter opener as he slit the top and drew the message from within:
“To Mr. Irving. Thank you for staying at Belmont Highrise. We hope the room meets your specifications. Exclusive credit-free wine selections may be secured through your module via the Belmont logo on the home screen. Do enjoy. – Management.”
Roger didn’t know if the relaxing of his shoulders was relief at the message’s banality or disappointment in the kinds of things considered “luxuries” in a high-rise in the 200s. “Sending it by card instead of notification’s a nice touch at least.”
He traded his glass of brandy for the “Company White” on tap. After a quick sniff and short swish, he found it rather charming. Hewing dry but with exotic, fruitful notes throughout.
“Almost made of real grapes, this one.” he mused with a sardonic chuckle.
With the slim wine glass hand, he returned to that thousand-dollar view of his. He could’ve thrown the telescreen on instead, but that placid night sky and the hushed, distant rumble of late night traffic were a better head-clearer than anything on the tube. Besides, out there was the world as it was. In here, in that black slab hung on the wall, it was whatever confection A.C.E.S. ordained. As his gaze drifted downward to the street, he could see a good cross section of the lives he was about to take into his hands tomorrow. A white couple on a date or on their way home, some tan-furred youths enjoying a night on the town. A lonely gray fellow, not unlike himself, lost in thought. If he stayed there long enough, he’d no doubt find himself witness to a mugging for kicks or some other petty crime. A street fight, a hit-and-run, the kind of juicy tabloid stuff that always struck the more rundown parts of town.
It was hard not to take the “let it burn” mentality during those darker nights working the Tower Network and the force-field it maintained, but then he’d think back to a sight like that young couple who were down the block and out of view. He’d think of the family men he’d met on his many jobs. In many ways, the Force’s motives for liberating Haven were selfish. It was to get this crazed digital bitch off their back with the freedom of the city’s populace being a great big bonus. It was through his time in this town that he branded himself in a quiet altruism. It was right to free these wolves. And as the protests grew in numbers and their voices grew in strength, Roger knew that there was an animating will for it. And again, if he played the game right, that freedom would soon be in hand.
As he neared the bottom of his glass, he turned back to that pile of clothes prepped for tomorrow morning. He raised a toast to the disguise and shotgunned the last of the wine. “Here’s to you, Irving.”
He could’ve gone for his usual evening constitutional, but tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of his life. And little did he know, it would already be one of his most dangerous.