Read Online The Nexus by J. Kraft Mitchell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Kraft Mitchell
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any size. I need to see Matt.”
The guy gestured to the name tag stitched on his jumpsuit. Apparently it had said “Matt” at one time; it was too faded and grease-smudged to read at this point. “That’s me.” The smile was gone. “Who told you to see me?”
“That’s not important.”
“Actually, it’s real important if you and me’re gonna do any business. ’Course I’m not averse to mixing business with pleasure.” The lewd smile returned.
“Whatever. Frank sent me, if you have to know.”
“Frank who?”
“Fat Frank.”
“Ah, should’ve guessed. So what you need, sweetness?”
“A new ID.”
“What kind?”
That was an interesting question. This guy must do all sorts of odd jobs for the criminal community. “Just a Standard Anterran Identification Card.”
“Sure. What name?”
“Pick one.”
“Okay. How old you want it to say you are?”
“How old do I look?”
“Got it. Black hair and dark eyes natural?”
She nodded.
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
“What will I owe you?”
“It’s a simple job, really—simpler than I’m used to, to be honest. Call it fifty credits...unless you’ll reconsider that date.”
“Fifty credits it is, then.”
“Why don’t you pick it up at my place? Here, I’ll write down my address for you.”
“I’ll pick it up right here, same time tomorrow.”
“You’re a tough tiger to tame, eh sweetness?”
She was already firing up her skybike to leave.
MAYBE she should have accepted Holiday’s offer. Maybe she should have joined the department. The thought was still there in the back of her mind...
And the back of her mind was where she kept it. There was no time for considerations like that right now. There was too much to do.
By the following evening she had a new name and a new place out toward the west rim. These apartments were a lot nicer than Fat Frank’s. Of course they were a lot more expensive, too.
And riskier. This landlord wasn’t like Fat Frank; he didn’t open communication between erranders and potential hirers. Jill had to reestablish herself on the grid—make sure the crime world knew how to reach her at her new number and by her new name to offer her jobs.
She had a new errand within a day. The guy on the phone didn’t introduce himself. They rarely did.
“You’ll be receiving instructions soon,” he told her.
She didn’t ask how.
Later that afternoon there was a knock at the door of Jill’s new apartment. A box sat on the doormat. Whoever had brought it was gone before Jill had opened the door.
In the box was a small pad of lined paper. The first page had a carefully hand-written note in blue ink:
Miss Branch,
The office computer of Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery on the Aurora Bridge Mall contains a list I should very much like to see. It is a document entitled HPCAMVEN. Please copy the document in its entirety onto the subsequent pages of this notepad, and return it to me tonight at the address on the next page. Forgive me for ending these instructions with cliché admonishments, but instinct compels me to do so: Take every precaution to ensure that you are not caught. Upon copying the file, immediately please eliminate any evidence of your having opened it in the first place. I am aware of your record of excellence, Miss Branch, and am confident of your success. I shall look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Sketch
The first thing Jill noticed was that the letter addressed her by name. By her real name. Whoever this guy was had connections. Some clients referred to you by whatever alias you were using at the time. Some had enough connections to refer to you by your real name. It was just as well. Jill’s reputation came with her real name, and this guy was apparently impressed.
The next thing she noticed was that the letter was signed “Sketch.” That got her heart racing a little. The
The guy gestured to the name tag stitched on his jumpsuit. Apparently it had said “Matt” at one time; it was too faded and grease-smudged to read at this point. “That’s me.” The smile was gone. “Who told you to see me?”
“That’s not important.”
“Actually, it’s real important if you and me’re gonna do any business. ’Course I’m not averse to mixing business with pleasure.” The lewd smile returned.
“Whatever. Frank sent me, if you have to know.”
“Frank who?”
“Fat Frank.”
“Ah, should’ve guessed. So what you need, sweetness?”
“A new ID.”
“What kind?”
That was an interesting question. This guy must do all sorts of odd jobs for the criminal community. “Just a Standard Anterran Identification Card.”
“Sure. What name?”
“Pick one.”
“Okay. How old you want it to say you are?”
“How old do I look?”
“Got it. Black hair and dark eyes natural?”
She nodded.
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
“What will I owe you?”
“It’s a simple job, really—simpler than I’m used to, to be honest. Call it fifty credits...unless you’ll reconsider that date.”
“Fifty credits it is, then.”
“Why don’t you pick it up at my place? Here, I’ll write down my address for you.”
“I’ll pick it up right here, same time tomorrow.”
“You’re a tough tiger to tame, eh sweetness?”
She was already firing up her skybike to leave.
MAYBE she should have accepted Holiday’s offer. Maybe she should have joined the department. The thought was still there in the back of her mind...
And the back of her mind was where she kept it. There was no time for considerations like that right now. There was too much to do.
By the following evening she had a new name and a new place out toward the west rim. These apartments were a lot nicer than Fat Frank’s. Of course they were a lot more expensive, too.
And riskier. This landlord wasn’t like Fat Frank; he didn’t open communication between erranders and potential hirers. Jill had to reestablish herself on the grid—make sure the crime world knew how to reach her at her new number and by her new name to offer her jobs.
She had a new errand within a day. The guy on the phone didn’t introduce himself. They rarely did.
“You’ll be receiving instructions soon,” he told her.
She didn’t ask how.
Later that afternoon there was a knock at the door of Jill’s new apartment. A box sat on the doormat. Whoever had brought it was gone before Jill had opened the door.
In the box was a small pad of lined paper. The first page had a carefully hand-written note in blue ink:
Miss Branch,
The office computer of Tanaka Brothers’ Gallery on the Aurora Bridge Mall contains a list I should very much like to see. It is a document entitled HPCAMVEN. Please copy the document in its entirety onto the subsequent pages of this notepad, and return it to me tonight at the address on the next page. Forgive me for ending these instructions with cliché admonishments, but instinct compels me to do so: Take every precaution to ensure that you are not caught. Upon copying the file, immediately please eliminate any evidence of your having opened it in the first place. I am aware of your record of excellence, Miss Branch, and am confident of your success. I shall look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Sketch
The first thing Jill noticed was that the letter addressed her by name. By her real name. Whoever this guy was had connections. Some clients referred to you by whatever alias you were using at the time. Some had enough connections to refer to you by your real name. It was just as well. Jill’s reputation came with her real name, and this guy was apparently impressed.
The next thing she noticed was that the letter was signed “Sketch.” That got her heart racing a little. The
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