Work Text:
The Istanbul Hotel is one of those buildings that cities build to show they’re prosperous and relevant and generally unlike Manchester. Not one of the ones meant to hold onto a world record for a few years or months, though it’s still pretty damn tall.
We have half-decent floorplans, but almost nothing on their network security. Unsurprising, almost reassuring. It would be exceedingly suspicious if they hadn’t planned for people like us. For what we’ve become in the last, what is it, two hours?
“So. Credit Goblin. Or should I say, Cr-three-dit Go-eight-lin?” The man in the suit practically beams with pride at himself. “Real name, Derek Mossman.” He’s probably disappointed it isn’t something like Ahmed or Nhlanhla, so he could pronounce that too.
“Real age, sixteen,” he continues. “Which presents a problem.”
What, you can’t strip my citizenship until I’m eighteen? I think but don’t say.
“However, I believe our policies may allow for a workaround. In the form of an internship.”
What? I know he’s trying to keep me disoriented.
“You see, Derek,” he says with the beneficence of a head teacher, “I am not here from law enforcement. I assume you are familiar with the Pan-Euro Infosec Agency?”
So, you know, it’s not like I haven’t been here before. Outside the law. Of course, “law” is hardly even relevant. Just call it what it is: on the wrong side of power.
A lot of moving parts, little room for error. But if I thought there was a chance something simpler could work, we’d be doing that.
I watch one of the moving parts inspect her sawn-off flurry gun. One barely controlled explosion holding another. I wouldn’t bet on her not making it out alive. But then, I’m not a betting man. It’s a sucker’s game.
I go back to the schematics I have.
Olivia Gladstone walks by, and I don’t look up. I’m on thin enough ice already, and with all the meetings she’s been walked into, maybe she is too.
The smart thing to do would be to cut my losses. Pick someone else to suck up to, ahem, cultivate an enhanced professional relationship with. The smarter thing would have been to have picked someone else to begin with. Someone popular, someone full of beautiful bullshit.
But I didn’t do that. Instead I did the other thing, namely burning through approximately 90% of my non-PEIA-sanctioned contacts to rescue Olivia Gladstone and restore her as a PEIA asset.
I keep my head down even as Georgiou announces, “Team Epsilon, meet your newest Operator.”
Draco is either sweaty or wearing too much sunscreen. I know he’s taking this seriously, because he hasn’t even objected to the implication that Colette Phan is more famous than him. Or at least, more capable of drawing a crowd. Just for a moment, a crucial moment, before she extracts herself to deploy her skills elsewhere.
Yes, this truly is the plan that has everything. Distraction. Social engineering. Secret tunnels. (Not through a mountain.) Spoofed biometrics. Bombs. Guns. And every single one of my areas of specialist expertise.
Once again, I knew better. Don’t become an expert in something, or it’ll become your job. And especially don’t become adept at troubleshooting a bleeding-edge short-range teleportation device, or you’ll end up with nanotech in your skin, a promotion to field agent, and six guards between you and the exit.
“Derek,” says Gladstone in my brain. “Lola will distract the H3 and S2. You can slip by the G4 and the G2A.
Yes, that is possible. Six seconds later I’m behind a bookcase.
“Throw the beacon when the G2B turns. Then get to the console I’ve marked and siphon PWR.”
Right. Done.
And done.
“What was that? Investigating!”
That’s the S2, not talking about me. Through the doorway, I see Lola pick up the beacon.
“Derek, I need you to let the H4 see you. Will draw attention away from the exit.”
Great. I must simply override every single one of my survival instincts.
“Intruder! Stop right there!”
“Derek, now.”
Disintegrate. Reintegrate. In a stairwell. Run upwards.
Still alive. And doing science.
We’ve been in the Aegean-Black Sea Joint Defense Zone for five minutes and nothing has blasted us out of the sky, so I allow myself to be reasonably confident that nothing’s going to. I start putting on the outer layers of my disguise. Last-minute, but it only needs to be able to fool civilians and civilian-level tech in stages 1.2 and 1.3 of the plan. Otherwise, you wouldn’t catch me dead in a wig.
If you check my job title I believe you’ll find it does not read “Personal Fashion Consultant to the Director of the PEIA”. Part of me wants to say that, but part of me knows this is actually important.
“I advise against shaving your head,” I say. “From a memetics perspective, it’s not optimal.”
Neither is the balding, to be honest, but the Lex Luthor look would be worse.
“So, ähm… what should I do, then? Surely not a toupé?”
“No, I… recommend against that too. I’d keep it the way it is. Maybe a bit shorter on the sides.”
“That is the best we can do, then?” He grimaces wryly. “Well, thank you for helping an old man out.”
Steensen was actually one of the better directors we had. But in retrospect, it was probably inevitable that Gladstone would end up putting a bullet in his skull.
“I’m not going to say the odds are against us, because this is not a matter of odds. We have all the tools we need to achieve victory. I’m also not going to stand around wasting your time with an inspiring speech. We have a job to do and I know we can do it.”
Personally, I would have gone for a bit of an inspiring speech, but I’m not the director. She is, now.
“That this job entails nothing less than saving the existence of sovereign states and the institution of democracy is no reason to be dramatic about it.”
That may have been a bit too English to land, but looking round, I see faces that are more or less inspired and unambiguously determined.
She’s right. We’ve got work to do.
The helicopter lands. We took a gamble that the corps haven’t cracked our latest cloaking tech. It’s paid off. Time to get to work.
I wake up from a short nap, the most sleep I’ve had in, what is it, sixty hours? Instinctively I try to check the time, but Gladstone has the only burner phone.
I cough quietly so she knows I’m awake. She hasn’t slept, and I’ve lost track of how many stims she’s injected.
“What day is it?” I ask. “I just want to know.”
“July 10th, July 11th if you want local,” she rattles off without looking up. “Oh two fifty-three, PKT.”
We’re in Karachi, hiding under a bookshop awning, behind giant stacks of used paperbacks that apparently there’s still a market for. My, Earth certainly is full of things.
A car goes by, and we both instinctively duck lower, but it’s too loud to be a corp engine. It stops and I hear laughter. Footsteps. Walking away from us.
I wait a few minutes, then whisper, “Is there a plan?”
“Yes. I have contacts.”
I nod.
“Believe me, I committed everything… to…”
We don’t have time for this. Well, maybe we do, since there was time for a nap, but…
“But I did have an exit strategy.” Good, she’s back on track.
She pulls out a datacard. “InCog systems. The only remaining copy. I made sure of that.”
What? The AI? It was useful, I admit, under directors who knew its limits. But there’s no way in Hell it can…
“It’s a proof of our sincerity, to our allies.” She’s anticipated my objections. “And a powerful tool in its own right.”
Okay. I’m pretty sure I know her plan. It’s probably not a coincidence that she’s brought us to a port city. Either way, she counting on the East African Federation still existing when we get there. And then holding out against Plastech for, what, another week?
“Gladstone, does the PEIA still exist?”
“What? That’s… I… Derek, what’s your point?”
“I’m asking if your plan is an order. And if you need two people for it. I’ll come with you if you do.”
“Oh. So this the part where you reveal that you have your own contacts.”
“Yes. Not ones that could have helped us with the… previous situation.” I don’t want there to be any doubt about that.
Silence. Then: “There might be an advantage in splitting our trails.”
Whether or not the PEIA still exists, we both know that this is permission.
“Do you need anything? A ride hacked?”
“No. I’ll manage.”
Derek Mossman, PEIA agent, walks into an alley in Karachi.
From the other end of the alley, Credit Monst3r emerges.