Future Crime

By Brian Armour

Ian MacFergus, a redundant detective in the 24th Century, faced with a series of perfect crimes finds himself drawn into a new life in the future. With the young perpetrators, and a woman and her baby, he comes to understand crime has many meanings in the future, and the Universe may not be what it seems. The team, gathered across time and space, aided by a singular being, has the ultimate agenda.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Armour
• Release date: Feb 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301155293

Brian Armour

Brian Armour lives on the Far South Coast of NSW. Following a career in Information Technology, Police and National Parks he has devoted himself to full-time writing. Future Crime, his first novel to be published will be followed by another novel and a collection of short stories.

Book preview

Future Crime

by Brian Armour

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Brian Armour

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work is dedicated to:

Sam, my beloved son.

Chapter 1

There's no future in crime - the thought ricocheting around inside his brain case refused to come to rest. Mac swung his bio-boots onto the desk, leant back in his chair and spilled scotchliq down the front of his finely cultured suit. Aww Jees! He stood up, more annoyed at his clumsiness than any concern for his suit, which would reject any matter it could not use as food. He watched the droplets freed from his crotch fall through space, bounce and remain beaded on the equally uninterested carpet.

A loud thump and a crumpling sound made him look out the open office doorway down the hall. A desk gripped in the metal claws of an old removal bot was coming toward him. At regular intervals, weaving like a drunk from side to side, it scraped along the walls leaving long dark gouges wherever its huge metal body made contact. It stopped in front of him, juggled the table to a vertical position and began manoeuvring the legs around the corner of the hall leading to the lift bay. Behind the bot, he saw an operator holding a control unit.

Aft’noon, said the small, soft-faced man in the white baseball cap.

Afternoon, he replied automatically.

You movin' out too?

Me? Mac shook his head. No, I'm staying.

Most of them moved out now. The removalist looked over his shoulder down the long empty hall as if to confirm his efforts. See ya. He pushed a button on the remote hand unit. The bot continued down the hall scraping the walls, and Mac wondered despite, or because of the operator, who trailed behind innocently like a baby elephant holding its imaginary mother's tail.

He turned about, hands in pockets, cast his eyes down the rows of cleared workstations and kicked the air. Unlike the empty corridor of vacant offices his head was filled to overflowing, crowded with memories of the good old days: all jostling for position in his consciousness. Re-runs of my dynamic past, he laughed to himself. Old friends and comrades in scene after scene - brilliant, funny, awkward, stupid, brave, lucky - flashed across the screen of his mind like vision through the window of a runaway antigrav, speeding and spinning out of control until it all became a blur.

Sitting down, he slid on his elbows across the desk and pressed the lip of the cool glass against his forehead. All his old mates were gone, and he missed them. Division by division, squad by squad, man by man, and now he was the last member of the Anti-theft Squad. Twenty years ago, three hundred men - today, one.

The word they used to describe him was redundant. That his hard-won experience and abilities were worthless was the hardest thing to swallow. As computerization and robotic production eliminated the need for a workforce, many others in all walks of life complained, but eventually got used to redefining what they meant by work. His profession was no different, and as a policeman how could he disagree with measures that virtually eliminated crime.

He took a large gulp of scotchliq, shivered as it ran down his gullet and stared across at a wall full of prints of old adversaries who had long since gladly put down their bag of tools, and now glared back at him.

In the last years there had been no serious theft; only misunderstandings of ownership, which usually ended up in court. He had based job security on his accumulated knowledge of human nature. There was always someone wanting to take a shortcut, always some greedy little somebody waiting to snaffle the toys, always some lurking temptation in an egocentric breast. He felt a bit of a traitor to his fellow inhabitants, thinking that sooner or later one of them was going to slip up.

He took another sip of his drink and got terse with himself. So what are you going to do McFergus. You have been sitting on your arse for more than twelve months doing sweet ef-ay. Stay here, the token copper, a reaction to something that does not exist anymore. Bloody useless!

A golden afternoon glow filled the windows, and eyes narrowing he was beginning to drift off, when a tiny light implanted in the desktop sent a shaft of red tint upward through the dust motes. Incoming call. This is an occasion. He slipped down in the seat, and extending his toe, passed it through the beam. Out of the desk rose a holographic illumination of a miniaturised man in uniform.

Clancy. How ya going? He hadn't seen the man in years, but there was no mistaking that well-worn face, the line of his jaw and eyes surrounded by a pasty whiteness.

Hi yer Maccer! said Clancy jovially in a rolling accent, a remnant of the old west city from which he hailed. Everyone received the standard planetary electronic mind-induction learning when young, and a common language that allowed communication worldwide was an essential part of it. Clancy, like himself, and many others, searched their roots to add individual character to the language they spoke.

How long since I saw you, you old bugger?

Clancy took off his cap and rubbed his brow, Bloody long time. Dunno musta been when we was on Licensing, eh? He gave a mischievous grin. Ha, they were the good old days.

Yeah . . . what's with the uniform Clancy . . . security?

Yeah, could call it that. Retired 'bout five years ago. Do a bit of tidying up as well, you know. This job I keep an eye on it. The Museum, that's where I am. Lucky to have a job, I mean the chances of someone robbin' the place, just a load of junk most of it, and nobody's interested in it, eh? Something to do, I'm sort of a guide if anyone drops in, caretaker like, and they let me restore some of the models they have downstairs when I feel like it. I like to do things with my hands. Anyway the reason I called, didn't know it'd be you, someone's broken into the place, so it just goes to show I don't know everything all right.

What was taken?

Just some ancient notes.

Notes?

Yeah, he said with some amusement, money notes, like millions of dollars circa late twentieth century. Pretty messy. Broke two glass cases to get to them. But I don't see how they got in or out; the place is as tight as a drum. The exterior alarm wasn't triggered but the interior alarm was. All the windows locked. I don't know.

Are these notes worth anything do you think?

Well, they must be worth something I guess, to be in a museum. You couldn't spend 'em could yer? How would I know? Clancy shrugged. Professor Tino would be the man for questions like that. He's the Director of the Museum. I called him and he's on his way down.

Okay, tell him to stay there 'til I arrive.

Roger.

Clancy’s frozen form broke down cell by cell as it sank into the desk; the human image overcome by transparent snow. A museum break-in, an amount of worthless notes stolen for no obvious reason . . . a mystery. He rubbed his hands together and a smile spread across his face. A real honest-to-God crime – about time.

As the lift door opened on the 435th floor he looked out on a near cloudless day, at this altitude at least. Bending his right wrist back, a keypad flicked out and he pushed the summon button. In less than ten seconds, the sleek electric-gunmetal-blue antigrav slipped up beside him like a giant Persian slipper and opened a gull-wing door. On getting in, the pressure sensitive seat automatically closed the door and the dash displays lit up.

Where to Mac?

The City Museum. Do you know where that is?

The old museum?

Yes.

He waited patiently for an instant, unsure if it was going to ask another question.

Let’s go then, he suggested to the machine, which drove him to distraction with the obscurity of verbal clues in its navigation system. Bellevue had a better system. To the museum.

He joined one of the ropeways of thousands of vehicles straddling the sky like brightly coloured enamel beads all linked by magnetic fields following pre-programmed paths to their destinations. Free-graving was only permitted outside central metropolitan areas. Moving close to other vehicles from time to time he saw their occupants through the narrow slits of windows, before they suddenly branched off or were replaced by others joining the rope core. Seconds later he was below the operating level of the antigrav towers, descending to the old city blocks which came up to greet him - dark, grey and covered in moss, perpetually windblown by a confusion of down draughts. Below the hundredth level he tried to remember the last time he had come down so far. The thought of actually landing on terra firma tickled him. The readout on the dash indicated stationary status and the `door active’ light came on. You have arrived.

He opened the door and stepping out knew immediately he was on solid earth by the natural unevenness he felt through the soles of his boots. The smell convinced him; a fecund emanation of warm, humid earth. Not of compost or rich loam, but the stale, slightly putrid air of old excavations trapped under a building. This was a dark shadowy world, the sky obscured by the vague outlines of criss-crossing ropeways and the low dirty cloud like a mother’s blanket shrouding the near ruin of the old land-bound city. Walking up a set of wide stone stairs he saw an ancient intercom next to two large doors. He pushed the button below the rusting metal grill.

Hello, that you Mac? A voice crackled.

Sure is.

Good. I'll come down and get yer.

Waiting in the gothic portico he ran his hand along the sandstone. Despite centuries of constant exposure to the elements, amongst the spalling he felt evidence of the stonemason’s art in the skilful cut of the balustrade. Maintenance of physical heritage buildings was an unwanted burden these days, ever since the antigrav watershed. The door squeaked open and Clancy's head poked out into the darkness like a vampire from under a coffin lid. In yer come.

They shook hands walking to the elevator. It’s on the fifth floor. Professor Tino is already here.

Clancy lead him down well known aisles of darkness through an underworld of antiquities composed of odd and threatening shapes, until after much meandering they came upon a lighted oasis. In the circle of several spotlights stood Professor Tino, a very small, swarthy man, who extended his hand.

I'm pleased you came, Inspector, but I'm afraid I can't throw much light on this most amazing crime, he said without apparent irony.

Mac stepped past the Professor and Clancy, and examined the two large glass cases. The closest; two to three metres square and a metre deep, was near empty. A corner had been smashed off, and glass covering the floor crunched under his feet. Although notes remained in the case; they were all large denominations - the smaller value notes were missing. A piece of flat white material was lodged between the stacks of remaining notes and the glass. He pulled it out and turned it over. `A Ton of Money' it said.

Could you tell me the relative value of the stolen items? Do you have any idea who might want to steal them?

The Professor shrugged, his delicate shoulders almost meeting the black halo of curly hair spanning the lower portion of his smooth skull. They have no monetary value. As historical items they have a value of course, to collectors. But not a lot. What you must understand is, they are not rare. When they ceased to be legal tender the world was drowning in dollars. Only to be followed by the megadollars.

Paper dollars? He had never seen one.

Good lord no! Tino threw his head back. You’re talking ancient history. No, both were thin polymer, with a fine metal filament running through them. A security device against forgery.

That's another funny thing, leaving the megadollars. The professor pressed a finger to his forehead.

Why would they take all the small notes and leave the big ones? asked Clancy.

I don't know, answered Mac out of courtesy and smiled. He walked over to the smaller case near the wall, looked into it and then back at the Professor. Megadollars?

Yes Inspector, as much a conundrum to me as it is to you. I mean, if it was a collector, why not steal the megadollars. They're collector items, probably more so as there are less of them.

Well, he sighed, we know they knew what they were after. The thieves have been very selective. But it doesn't tell us much. He turned to Clancy. What about entries and exits, alarms?

Like I said, only the alarm on the cases went off. All the doors and windows are locked. And we're on the fifth floor.

Can you show me?

Sure, come with me, he said turning and beckoning with his arm before wandering off into the darkness.

Thank you for your help Professor. If I need any more information I will contact you?

Professor Tino appeared slightly disenchanted with the idea. Certainly, Inspector. Feel free to call me.

Half an hour later they were back in the circle of light and no better off clue-wise. After close examination and tests for body residuals - nothing. There were two small locked windows at the back in a store room. The only other exit, apart from the elevator they came up in, was another elevator, which after it creaked and squealed its way to their level, opened to reveal a floor covered with a thick layer of undisturbed dust.

He examined the corner of the case, smashed, apparently by repeated blows. So crudely done compared with the total absence of forcible break and enter to the building. An inside job would be a consideration, but that Tino or Clancy staged the crime was improbable. Both of them were too smart to steal something near worthless. The motive wasn’t monetary gain; in today’s society - an absurdity. In his mind’s eye he had a picture of a possible perpetrator, a crazy old man in a dressing gown, a fanatic coin and notes collector in his study, jealously gloating over his prizes as he mounted them in volumes.

Lifting his right arm toward his body, the fabric retreated revealing a sensor panel. He eye-triggered a number of the many coloured dots and activated a range of sensor and recording devices. Pointing his outstretched arm, he took evidential snapshots to be analysed later. He was interested in the broken corner of the case and the character of the breaks because he wanted to know what sort of implement was used - obviously large and heavy. Smashed - when you could pick up a laser knife anywhere that’d cut glass like cake.

How many times have you walked across here?

Hmm, just the once, all three of us only the once, I mean close, within two metres, considered Clancy rubbing his chin.

Mac looked at the sparkling floor and thought that just as the spray pattern of blood might assist the resolution of a murder, so might the spray of glass reveal something. He hunched down close to the wooden floor and saw the incisions made by the broken glass as the sole of his own foot had swerved over it, creating groups of small circular marks. Standing up he looked to the far edge of the shimmering expanse. It might be possible to pick up a pattern, identify an exit point; footprints across the glass. But he needed height for the shot. The ceiling was extremely high, but he noticed a narrow gallery hung with pictures.

Can I get up there?

Sure, follow me.

Near the lift well Clancy directed him to a door in a nook. Beyond the door a set of stairs led to a narrow corridor, running behind display windows on another level, which accessed the gallery. Observing the scene from above didn’t enlighten him. The light reflected by the broken glass blazed back. He pointed his arm downward, taking shots in automatic and several chosen sensor modes. He doubted anything meaningful would show up, just a lot of barely discernible scratches, unidentifiable as those caused by the feet of the thieves or their own.

Clancy met him at the doorway. The look on his face must have betrayed him.

Pretty hopeless, eh?

Yeah well, apart from finding out how, finding out why might just help. Give us a clue. It's bloody crazy. I'll go back to the office and go over the data, see if I can find something - sense maybe.

It’s got me, I’ll tell yer. Can I clean this up?

No, not yet. Will that upset the visitors?

What visitors? Clancy dipped his head and grinned. No one comes here any more. It’s more of a storehouse than a museum. All the information on the exhibits are available through HISTDOT, their computer data base link. That's how the students do it. Why would they want to come down here?

Okay, thanks Clancy. I'll contact you in a day or so. Leave everything as it is for now.

In the antigrav he rescued his thoughts from an endless theoretical array of dead ends long enough to hit the RETURN button. The vehicle rose silently leaving the museum behind in the low mist - an age-stained crypt in the graveyard of the city. He looked up to the comforting vibrancy and light of the sky city above.

Back in the office, while the data was analysed he made himself a drink of diluted scotchliq. By the time he returned to his desk the processing was complete. He had the lot: photographic close up sequence, infrared, electron spectrographic descriptors display, molecular analysis of all objects. But what did he really have after an hour scanning every bit of information about the scene? Sweet fuck all.

That wasn't strictly true. He knew the implement used to smash the glass case was metal; there being the presence of ferrous oxide on pieces of glass. Also it had a point or end tapering to two centimetres wide and a centimetre thick. According to impact analysis, the implement was most likely curved. He was heartened to discover the overhead shots of the floor revealed a noticeable higher proportion of foot scratches and finer crushed glass leading from the case to an area near the extremity of the circle of spotlights.

If the crime was committed by more than one person, because of the bulk of the goods in question, he wondered how they transported their booty. Sack? No presence of unusual or unsourced fibres. Case, or cases, possibly. So what, Mac? What the hell does it matter what they carried the loot in? Can't even see how they got in and out. Don't even know . . . Why?

He lay back in his chair and sipped his drink, staring at the junction of wall and ceiling. If he didn't find some lead or motive there was no point wasting time on it. Unsolved - he hated that. I can stop racking my brain at least. Nothing more I can do. He downed the scotchliq and went over to the bureau and got the bottle, laughing at the irony that his last case was a perfect crime; committed by unknown persons in an unknown manner, for unknown motives. One thing was for sure, he wasn't going to send himself mad trying to figure it out. It was dead already.

Chapter 2

Putting his palm on the hand reader, it scanned every vein and capillary. The door slid open and Mac glanced down the darkened corridor to left and right, before entering the empty squad room. The lights came on, his vision strobed and he staggered back into the familiar dreamscape. He made a cup of tea, sat down at his desk and called up the morning news.

Around eleven he strolled to Francie’s Sandwich Shop a few doors down from the fly-in service of Only Food, a recent and direct competitor with More Than Food in the continuing pseudo-battle of natural versus enhanced comestibles.

Manipulation of the ingredients that constituted food reached its zenith some two hundred years ago. There was not as wide a variety of food any more. He had noticed the return to packaging meat in the shapes of the source animal, or what people thought it still looked like. Chickens were exclusively grown in vats of solution because of the need for increased growth and body weights which exceeded the ability of the bird’s bone structure to support it. This was reflected in the diminished taste. There were an ever increasing number of people who could not care less what their food tasted like. He was not one of them.

Francie’s was different; she actually baked her own cakes in an oven. No artificial substitutes or additives. He had been in her kitchen smelling the wondrous aromas of fresh pastry, cake and bread wafting in the air, lifting him by the nose to the nearest rack of yummies. Bloody good stuff. Walking there he chewed over the decision at hand, settling on a nice fat, sugar-mottled, golden-brown, vanilla roll that Francie did exceptionally well, but once he was in the shop he spied a freshly prepared apple turnover bulging fully-laden with morning fresh whipped cream and snowed delicately with icing sugar.

Back in the office he switched to satellite news and tore open the bag. Carefully, he reached into the packaging and grasping the pastry began eating it with gusto as the cream squeezed out one side or the other. He paused and took a swig of coffee to wash it down. On the news the unions were still exerting pressure over the unmanned antigrav transporters. They did not dispute the safety of the transporters, only the elimination of yet another occupation a person was capable of doing. He resented the way technology had dissolved society and human worth, leaving animal needs unsatisfied in the new smick city.

Thoughts of the old city took him back to the days of infrastructure collapse; over population and the inability to replace ageing services fast enough as they lapsed into states of decay. From that chaotic, choked and filthy disaster area grew the beginnings of the new city. Unfortunately, he considered, humankind had been primarily reactive; always being pushed by the present effects of the current crisis. An incoming holo interrupted the news and in its place, sitting behind the cake carton were the head and shoulders of someone he didn't know. The man was wearing a business suit, his face was pale and his hair slicked back. His flashy red tie looked like it was strangling him.

Mac sat up in his seat, and smiled; ties always amused him. McFergus, CIB, can I help you?

Good morning. Ernest Hollingway, A1 Bank here. A corporate trend at the moment was to re-image organisations in the simplest way possible. There was the OK Bank, the AAA Bank, The Bank, and 1 Bank; all rather confusing he thought and unnecessary, just like the banks themselves. They were mainly credit transfer and tracking nodes on electronic networks. I'd like to report a robbery.

Really? That is most unusual.

Yes. We have a vault on time lock, which we only open for audit purposes once a year. Only this time we opened it, there was seven hundred million dollars missing.

He could not believe his ears Could you repeat that, you did say dollars?

Yes, isn't it incredible? We only keep them out of historical interest. Who in their right mind would want dollars? But that's what's gone missing. The man held up his hands in a gesture of disbelief.

Please stay where you are. I'll be right down.

Trading floor operations having ceased a long, long time ago, when he reached the bank he had to wait for Hollingway to let him in. He was much taller than Mac expected and possibly because of his height the man stooped slightly.

Thank you for coming, Inspector. My Director has arrived and wishes to speak with you.

Then so do I wish, said Mac playfully mimicking the formality. Lead on Mister Hollingway.

Hollingway led him through the transplanted interior of an old banking chamber with its ancient oak counters and whorled antique glass which spoke of another far away century of social interaction, through two large wooden doors and on down a long corridor that ended in some stairs. Hollingway looked back at him. There is a lift of course, but I thought this would be quicker.

Mac didn't bother to ask why. The crime at hand was uppermost in his mind. Another robbery of the same items pointed to a collector, but then it always had. Why now? Why after all these years did someone suddenly become so avid a collector they were prepared to steal from major institutions? Who needed the money? Who? He was sick of this.

They seemed to be going down into the bowels of the Earth. How much further, Hollingway? he asked gruffly.

We're nearly there, Inspector.

The staircase ended in a long, very wide corridor lined at intervals with massive safe doors of finely polished metal. A man of about forty-five approached them. He had the same strangled-by-a-tie look as Hollingway. His face was disfigured by his nose; a large, long, narrow-boned job. They shook hands.

Director.

Inspector.

Mac smiled, Mister Hollingway informs me there has been a theft of millions of dollars. If you’d tell me all you know.

The Director looked at his gold chrono and sighed, As you no doubt realize this whole thing is ludicrous. I mean theft, in this day and age, I ask you? And what is stolen? Seven hundred million dollars - ancient worthless notes. And where is it stolen from? The Director turned and with his hand invited inspection of the open safe, a big brass cave next to them. A time lock safe, only opened once a year. A safe fitted with infrared and mass sensing security. That Inspector is all I know.

Why didn't the alarms go off?

The Director looked at Hollingway, who in turn looked at the floor. They did, he mumbled, about six months ago.

Six months ago? Mac took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why wasn’t it reported?

It happened at 9.12 pm, sixteenth of July. We thought it was a malfunction. Hollingway looked forlornly about the floor before compelled to face him eye to eye. We came down and checked it. There was nothing wrong, everything was in order. There was no one trying to get into it. The alarm was reset. You can see there's no evidence of tampering.

So let me get this straight. Six months ago the bells went off and you . . .

And others, added Hollingway hastily.

You and others came down here and looked at the safe? You didn’t open it?

We couldn't even if we wanted to, it has a time lock! And why should we, I mean, what is someone going to do - burrow through a hundred metres of rock and then cut their way through three metres of solid metal?

Thank you, Hollingway, said the Director. Mac sensed the man was becoming a mite embarrassed by the defensiveness of his employee.

Inspector, if that is all, I wonder if you would mind excusing me? It's just that my wife and I have tickets to Don Giovanni tonight. If it was something of consequence I would be concerned but as it is . . . a little matter. He gave a little chuckle to match. I'm sure Hollingway can fill you in on any details. Tomorrow I will be completely at your disposal.

Okay. Once again he was confronted with a bare brick wall of clues and motives left by the perpetrators. One thing, do you have any idea why anyone would steal these notes?

A collector obviously, Inspector, The Director sounded surprised. They're absolutely worthless as means of exchange. Either that or it is some elaborate prank. Filthy, dirty money. I don’t know why anyone would even contemplate touching the horrible germ carriers. I really must go Inspector.

Quite, he replied verging on sarcasm. Of course, Director. Go, go. I hope you enjoy Don Giovanni.

The Director left and Mac walked into the safe. Roughly three metres wide, he estimated and the ceiling slightly under that in height and studded with sensing devices.

I've started reading a bit about them in our data archive, offered Hollingway. This safe was put in three hundred years ago, amazing isn't it? It seems quite unbelievable the lengths they went to make things secure in those days. If the combined mass of the contents rises or falls alarms are set off. There are motion detectors as well.

It all seems a bit superfluous.

It does, but there you go, they were paranoid, Hollingway expressed a commonly held belief.

After some seconds wherein Mac took the opportunity to scan in the entire surface of the safe Hollingway spoke again. What do you think Inspector?

Mac thought he would test the waters, for what it was worth. There is the possibility of an inside job. It is classic. No evidence of forced entry as you pointed out. Time lock.

Security was programmed God knows when, Inspector, Hollingway spurted nervously. In order to manipulate the time lock it would need to be reprogrammed. Besides the alarms went off?

But it is an assumption the robbery occurred at that time.

It had to happen at some time.

Mac gave him a probing look, followed by a creeping non-committal smile. Yes, the impossible seems to have happened. Thank you, Mister Hollingway. I'd appreciate it if you and the Director would log a statement in a day or so.

Hollingway looked down at him and nodded nervously, Yes Inspector.

* * *

The simplest explanation for the bank robbery was that it never happened. There was some accounting error, a mistake in adding up, reconciliation, they were confused about which safe, whatever. In actuality the money was still, or had never been, there in the first place. The whole thing was an illusion, or so he would like to believe. He put his coffee down, the scan had suspended and floating mid air, a square blue icon was flashing. He looked at it blankly, not understanding for a second. Fingerprint. He filed it and let the scan continue. Seconds later, another print. He put the program on auto file. All up there were twenty incidences of human contact with the interior surface of the safe.

He decided to ditch the inside job theory, at least until he discovered a magician that worked at the museum as well. Even as tempting Hollingway might be as a suspect, having the opportunity, he didn't have the motive, whatever that was. He eliminated all present and past employees of the bank. He did not discount completely the possibility of a disgruntled past or present employee, but he was following the mad collector line and looking for exceptions. The filter selected twelve individual prints. He requested an identity search on each one. Ten seconds later two names were displayed. Eleven of the prints belonged to Harry Leder, and one belonged to an Eduardo Delguardo. Leder turned out to be a rare find; an electrical engineer who repaired the camera in the safe, over a hundred years ago. If there was a camera, then there could be a record of what happened in the safe. That Hollingway hadn't told him of its existence, made him suspicious. But the man was such a pathetic, hapless fellow.

Eduardo Delguardo was a company director and prominent businessman. He was president of a corporation of the same name, and from what he knew, staked scientific innovation ventures. Fortunately, there had been some fantastic successes and the company was very well established. At the end of the last fiscal year they posted a net investment worth over six hundred and eighty billion credits. To put the figure in perspective, the database provided a quote from another article which put it as three quarters the value of the PacAsian Consortium. Supposedly, through a subsidiary Advance Futures, Delguardo Corp sold ideas, there being no proof; the employees of the business itself explaining its function as an enhancement consultant to think tanks. Delguardo was a big player globally and employed thousands of people worldwide.

There were no other body residuals; hair or epiphilials resulting from the scan. The single fingerprint was not much, but it was the only clue he had. He was curious to see how Delguardo was going to explain its presence in a time-locked bank safe three hundred metres underground.

Get Delguardo Corporation.

There was a brief pictorial mutant spasm and the next thing he was looking into the delightful PacAsian face of the company receptionist; a little darling, with coloured combs and feathers in her inky black hair.

I would like to make an appointment to see Mister Delguardo please.

I am sorry, Mister Delguardo is unable to see anyone at this time.

Why is that?

I am very sorry, sir. I am not allowed to reveal that information.

He pushed a small button on his desk and his police badge was superimposed on her receptor.

I am sorry, she appeared to read the name again, Inspector McFergus, but all I know is, that Mister Delguardo is on holidays.

Do you know when he'll be returning?

No. She shook her head apologetically, in a wonderfully innocent way.

Fine. Give him a message for me, that on his return I wish to speak to him, please. Urgently, you could add.

Certainly, Inspector. I'll store your details.

Thank you. And might I say you are the prettiest receptionist I've spoken to this week.

She blushed, Thank you, Inspector. Goodbye.

Bye, he said to the clear space where she had been.

No Delguardo for the moment, but he would get him. People of Delguardo's ilk, heads of major corporations, public figures didn't run. They stood and toughed it out. Earning a reputation was part of their business. Delguardo had a reputation for being elusive, like his father and his father before him, and also a reputation for being very generous, of giving millions of credits away to worthwhile causes. As a suspect, the man was a philanthropist just to be difficult.

Two weeks passed before he could see Eduardo Delguardo, and he reflected walking in through the glass doors to the reception desk, they were two of the most torturous in memory. He contacted Hollingway again who swore with his hand on his heart he knew nothing about the tape. In the end, he helped him find it in an obscure databank. A camera was triggered, and a tape recorded of something, even after all those years. Although there was some fragmentation, a reasonable quality image still remained. He had watched the ten minute loop many times since, and was still no wiser as to what went on. The tape began with the lens pointing into bright glare, as if the light were bouncing off something in close proximity. Around the edges were distorted sections of the safe caused by the wide angle lens. After about six minutes the glare abruptly disappeared and there was nothing except the empty interior of the safe.

The receptionist held the door open and called into the expansive and luxuriously furnished room. Inspector McFergus, Mister Delguardo.

Mac saw a chair spin in the middle distance, a man stand up and walk toward him. He was wearing a dark navy suit with a high collared turtle neck shirt. As he came closer Mac saw that he was really a youth. Delguardo smiled warmly and held out his hand.

We meet at last.

Eduardo Delguardo, Inspector. Pleased to meet you. I am sorry you had to wait to see me, but it could not be helped. Business you know. I am only here for the day. So, if you could begin? Jimmy turned and walked over to a lounge setting. Let's sit down.

If you make me hurry things along too much, I might think there is something you want me to miss. I don't want to think that do I, Delguardo?

Of course not, Inspector. Please sit down. How can I help you?

How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?

I'll be twenty in January. If you're wondering how someone so young is president of a corporation, the fact is, I inherited the core of it from my father. Most people will tell you I fill his shoes pretty well. I think I do a good job. Now can we get down to what you want?

Mac leaned out of the seat. I found your fingerprint at the scene of a recent crime. He watched for a reaction.

Oh, I see, said Jimmy, and looked down at the floor for a moment, hoping to communicate he understood the grave implications of what the Inspector was telling him. Important to play the part well, and dumb.

You see do you? Interesting. Perhaps you would like to tell me all about it, Mac said edging in on him.

Jimmy looked up and smiled, Look Inspector, I am not aware of being at the scene of any crime. Where did you find the fingerprint?

The A Bank, on the side of a cash box, in a time locked safe.

Hmm, well perhaps I have valuables in safekeeping at that bank, perhaps the cashbox is mine?

You do, but it isn't.

So you suspect me. May I ask what was stolen?

Money.

Money? Jimmy appeared perplexed.

Yeah money, old dollar notes, seven hundred million dollars worth. Look you can stop playing the game Delguardo, and start explaining how and why. Let's start with how?

Like the old money? What they used to call folding money, you mean? Is that what you're talking about? An indulgent smile crept across his lips.

I think you know damned well what I'm talking about. Mac stood up and looked down on him.

No, I don't know, Inspector McFergus. I'm used to thinking of money, if it can be still called that, as the credit units used to allow financial and market exchanges. Now dollars, they wouldn't be worth anything would they? I think you might be jumping the gun a bit, Inspector. This fingerprint of mine in the safe, it wasn't there before the robbery?

We don't know that. It is where it was found that is important, that requires explanation. How did your fingerprint happen to be in a time locked safe three stories underground? I am dying to know.

Jimmy shook his head. "This is plain stupid. Why would I do anything like this? Eh, answer me that? Look Inspector, I cannot explain why my fingerprint was in a time locked safe underground, or why someone is going to the futile task of stealing physical money. You have no motive for my actions, and no means, not a solitary scrap of proof or fact excepting that fingerprint. Does this, probably because it is my print, suggest to you that there may be an error in the databank or something?"

The young Delguardo looked at him; the corner of his mouth pinched in sour commiseration, while the youthful brow slanted in a frown caused by a squinted eye defying his logic. This adolescent was too gracious to make a fool of him. Nothing solid - no corroborative evidence at all, yet. Time to play it up.

True, though I hate to admit it. That's it then, another dead end. Mac slapped his thighs. Back to square one. He turned to look at Delguardo. You know, Delguardo you're right, I don't have a motive, or proof. Oh, I could have searches carried out, but even if you did have the money, someone like you could hide it very well.

Jimmy nodded agreeing in principle.

And there has been another robbery as well, Mac expanded, at the museum where five hundred million was stolen under equally mysterious circumstances, and the only motive I can come up with is the criminal is a currency collector. But if you were a collector thief in the museum wouldn't you rather have taken a mint 1901 penny or one of the hundreds of more valuable items in similar displays? Why go for a worthless pile of common old notes?

The comparative bulk of which only drives home the point. I understand your dilemma Inspector, answered Jimmy.

If I just had something to go on. Mac looked at Delguardo despondently, giving an appearance of being crestfallen in his bottomless gloom of eternal ignorance; sufficient he felt to break a heart. One case comes along in, what, three years and I'm not up to it.

Look Inspector, I wouldn't take it as any reflection on your competence. I wish I could help you some way . . .

Mac started walking towards the door and Jimmy got up and went after him.

I couldn't even tell you how they knew where to find the money in the first place. I suppose you've considered that, said Jimmy.

Yeah. Mac’s shoulders slumped, but his gut instincts stirred with this suggestion. Nah, time I gave it away anyway, he continued his ploy, though he doubted any more would come of it. This will be a fitting unsolvable crime, a suitable slap in the face, to finally prove the bad guys are smarter than the good guys, eh.

What'll you do?

Retire, I guess, like the rest of them. Settle down somewhere, live the good idle life you know. Why should I lose any more sleep over these crazy robberies?

Jimmy held the door open. I don't blame you. Yeah, why bother? I mean who cares? Is it really a crime these days to take something no one’s been interested in for hundreds of years?

Oh, it's a crime all right. You can't walk away from that. Mac took a couple of steps across reception, twisted around and looked back over his shoulder, his demeanor reverted. I don't have a motive, and I don't have a means, but I do know one thing, you're involved, for what it’s worth. Later Delguardo.

Back in his office he used his override code to tap into the Delguardo office system and download Delguardo's diary. Number one suspect was leaving today and wouldn't be back until the next board meeting, two months hence. He had to work fast. What was it Delguardo said, `where to find the money in the first place'?

Monetary inquiry, old dollars.

One moment please. The girl turned to one side giving the illusion she was consulting with another person. She nodded at this unseen off-sider. Veronica Robinson will help you.

The girl disappeared and was replaced with a view of a woman sitting at a desk some distance away. The view shortened and he appeared to move in on the woman, who turned to look in his direction. Then they were face to face.

Veronica Robinson pleased to meet you. You have an enquiry about old dollars, old currency?

Yes, where it’s stored, you know?

I think I do.

He noticed the hardly perceptible blur with the movement of Veronica's arm and realized he was talking to a holograph.

Veronica continued: "Mister McFergus even though this is old currency. It is still currency only noncurrent. May I ask why you desire this information? It is classified yellow or moderately confidential at this time."

It is a routine enquiry. I'm a detective investigating a crime involving the theft of old dollars.

Oh. Veronica pushed a button on her desk and immediately all his identification appeared in the bottom left hand corner of her display. The laws of the Privacy Committee specified that the results of any use of cross sensing devices was always known to the other party during a viscall. You are Inspector McFergus of the Metropolitan Police, Criminal Investigation Branch.

I know who I am, darling. I hope that after all this conversation you have some information for me?

Yes, yes Inspector I should say I do. Veronica tapped a few keys on her desktop and the holo-image in front of him was replaced with a display obscuring part of her office. These are the depositories of the Reserve Bank. A blue highlight moved slowly down through the list of world financial centres.

. . . For dollar reserves. Veronica tapped a few more keys, and a range of logos and menus flashed psychedelically in front of his eyes before he could read them. Old dollar concentrations, as at thirtieth of June, 2295, the last audit.

Before him was a list. Hold it right there, Veronica. He knew the first two addresses.

The third, the State Reserve itself, held five hundred million in old currency denominations.

Let me have that info will you, he asked and she moved the highlight to transfer and downloaded the addresses and other information into his personal database. Thank you, Veronica.

You're welcome, Inspector.

Perhaps we'll meet again sometime, he added idiotically, as if she were a real person.

Perhaps we will.

The words `log off' were now suspended above his desk. Pretty girl, that Veronica, even if she was only a holo. He remembered the story of the little boy who fell in love with the girl next door, only to find she was a holo for a childless couple, and had been dead for a hundred and fifty years.

Get State Reserve Bank.

State Reserve Bank. Will connect.

Almost instantly the fresh face of a young man materialized. May I help you Inspector.

I am speaking to?

Daniel Gausener, the Eleventh.

Another holo. Very good. I am investigating a crime. It is a very sensitive matter and I require the bank’s fullest co-operation. Please connect me with the person who would be most likely to satisfy my official request?

I will put you through to Simon Eastlake, the Operations Manager.

The holo must have transferred the call in autovis mode because the next image that appeared was Eastlake in the depths of some young lady’s throat. Mac watched for a moment, then cleared his own throat by way of alerting Eastlake, who the minute he saw he had a viscall reached out and hit the shade button like a man in fear of his life. Although unable to see what was going on, he knew by the sounds of fasteners and clips, bumps and groans, an act of hasty composure was taking place. Eastlake eventually reappeared seated at his desk, his chubby face still very flushed, but this time alone.

Simon Eastlake, Operations Manager. He looked at the display a little closer, the light bouncing of his balding pate. Inspector McFergus . . . what can I do for you?

Simon evidently decided to ignore the previous compromising scene as if it were another wrong number.

I am investigating a series of thefts and I have reason to believe that the State Reserve has been, or shortly will be, relieved of some of its repository.

Repository? Oh, really Inspector. Eastlake’s voice tripped along just below sarcasm. He pulled at the lobe of an ear, squashed near horizontal by the fat of his cheek and neck. And what exactly are these reasons?

That is none of your concern. I do however require your co-operation. The crimes involve the theft of old dollars.

Old dollars? Eastlake frowned.

Old money. I know it is of no monetary value, and it is of limited value even to a collector. But it is being stolen, and as such is defined as a crime. You can assist me by allowing me to inspect your repository of old dollars.

I don't think that will be a problem, Inspector. When can we expect you?

I'll leave now. Fifteen minutes.

Eastlake sighed and his hand went out to disconnect. Certainly Inspector, we'll drop everything. Nothing is too much trouble for our hard working police force.

On the way, in a stroke of inspiration he did a quick check through the download records of several Net monitor nodes to see if anyone was interested in the floor plans of old city buildings. The information was public domain, there for anyone who wanted it, and who would want it but a thief. His interrogation revealed the download of the three sets of plans two months ago.

The State Reserve was another land-based building circa twenty-two hundred. His police id allowed him entry through three security doors, all grand in scale, embedded in rock conglomerate like openings to a sealed tomb. Eastlake strolled across the vast, empty foyer to meet him, the long tails of his dress suit occasionally flapping about his knees. He extended an over eager hand which Mac shook firmly. Eastlake’s red swollen face moved like a fruit being squeezed when he spoke, and it always seemed to be acid.

Detective Inspector, I would have thought that was a rare breed these days.

And bankers? Mac considered a witty reply, but he didn't want his time spent in an ongoing verbal sparring match. Where are the dollars?

As he expected his no nonsense act put Eastlake off balance, however he quickly recovered his smarm.

Right to business, eh, Inspector. This way.

Eastlake took him to the transparent lift, and as soon as they stepped out into space they began to descend. The pressure sensitive floor calculated the weight of occupants and adjusted rate of ride accordingly. It's down in a basement somewhere; we have to meet a man on Sub Level 14. We used to have regular maintenance contractors for years, to clear up and keep order, but none of them could keep their staff. Be here one or two days and then, not show. It was always `He’s usually very reliable and enthusiastic, he loves to work.’ I decided to cancel the service, more or less seal the area up. No one comes down here anymore, except this man, part-time caretaker. Eastlake’s face concentrated in a sour squint. Doesn't it seem a bit odd to you, Inspector, to be honest, for someone to be stealing old money notes? I mean, it’s a joke isn't it?

Mac ignored him and continued to watch the blue illuminated floor indicators. Below them were panels concealing the activate buttons for the emergency braking wings.

Sub Level 14, Mister Eastlake, said the lift.

There was a man waiting for them. This individual was approximately sixty, dressed in navy denim overalls with a bright yellow shirt, and reminded him of a silky terrier; deep set eyes and all tufts of orange hair. Eastlake walked up to the man. Fred?

The man nodded.

I am Mister Eastlake, the Operations Manager. This is Inspector McFergus of the police. He would like to see whatever old dollars we have. In one of your daily reports you mentioned them.

It was Fred's turn to screw up his face. A contagious symptom associated with the case. Old dollars?

Eastlake gave Mac a quick despairing glance as if to say: 'You see I'm not the only one who thinks this is crazy!'

Mac decided to speed things along. Yes, old dollars, not megadollars, real old dollars like they used to mint four hundred years ago. You know the stuff? It’s polymer with a thin metal filament embedded. They’re colorful, usually have somebody’s picture on them.

The man slouched back on his hips and combed his ginger cowlick with his hand. Oh, I know what you mean. I was just trying to remember. He snapped his fingers and cocked his head. Yeah, I seen 'em. Follow me.

Fred led them out of the foyer through an automatic door and into a huge storehouse. There were corridors and corridors of huge bays of shelving, packed with containers, most of which were spilling their guts of paper over tape and twine, out of corners and seams. The air was musty, filled with floating mould spores. Who would have thought, buried fourteen floors beneath a bank, anyone would find what amounted to millions of acres of an absurdly preserved centuries-old forest. He looked at Eastlake, who obviously had never seen this before himself.

All this documentation must have been missed during the Paper Pogrom. Too far down probably. There is a limit to revolutionary zeal.

Mac had to ask; "What paper pogrom?"

Happened early last century sometime, I think. Environmental protester organisations turned up at offices in numbers and shredded every single piece of paper. Taking files off peoples desks, taking documents out of their hands. You get the picture. They were tired of the stupid and unnecessary waste of the trees. Everything was at the time recorded electronically, but many businesses and government departments continued to produce paper versions as a backup, I suppose. Anyway, as I say, it was on a pretty large scale and it caught on. It's all in that new Karl Blazer and Christina Tropi holo.

Fanshit, Mac said to himself, someone's fifteen minutes of fame blown out to a hundred minutes of crap.

They walked down canyons built of monstrous cartons stacked like boulders towering twenty metres above them. The entire place covered in generations of a greeny-brown, dusty moss and through the dark endless gaps spiders had strung out whole cities. Seeds, perhaps blown in by the air conditioning and fed by leaks in the fire sprinkler system had adapted to life under emergency lighting and dangled down in masses of spindly creepers. Not much light was reaching them at floor level, and the constant drip of leaking water above the dull echo of their footsteps on the concrete gave the place an eerie feeling. There were other sounds, faint dry sounds of paper moving like drafts of wind stirring dead leaves. Eastlake didn't look too comfortable.

How much further Fred? he asked for Eastlake's benefit.

Not much.

Fred disappeared from in front of him. Pitch black, the lights out, alarms piercing his ears, and bells ringing themselves to bits. Above it all Mac heard Eastlake shrieking. Eastlake ran into him activating his suit’s automatic protective body stun and two hundred volts went coursing through the poor hysterical idiot. Mac saw Eastlake’s arms and head flaying about in the stray arcs of electricity between them, before he felt the recoil of the man’s body being repelled down the corridor.

Fred leaned in and yelled in his ear, I'll have to turn off the alarms . . . fix the lights. I know the way, hang on here. I'll be back in minutes.

He nodded at the just discernible shape in the darkness, and set his attention to searching for Eastlake. He set his infrared filter and saw the slumped body about three metres down the corridor. Going to his aid, Mac heard something moving to his left. He peered down a contiguous gap to a parallel corridor some distance away. There was a bleeding flash of blue-red, then darkness again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He went over to where Eastlake landed. He was unconscious and one of his arms was at an odd angle; possibly broken. Mac placed his hand on the man’s chest and the indicators across the back of his gloved knuckles told him Eastlake’s heart was beating, but he had stopped breathing. Sitting on one knee, Mac pushed a pressure plate in the leg of his suit opening a compartment built into the hollow between the shin and calf muscle of one leg. He extracted a small mask for delivering various mixtures of gases and liquids and placed it over Eastlake’s nose and mouth. By the twitching movements of his body, Mac observed Eastlake was not any more subdued for his electrifying experience. He decided against a sedative - they still had to get him out of here.

Gently, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, while with the other he withdrew the mask. You're all right. I'm here. You just be calm, Mister Eastlake. Everything is going to be all right. Take it easy. Eastlake, still panicked tried to grab Mac’s arm. Mac stopped him, easily controlling Eastlake’s wrist. He knew Eastlake could not see him, but Mac did not want to turn on head lights for fear of startling him anew. He was such a nervous bastard. Don't grab or strike my person or you will be shocked again. I cannot prevent it. Relax.

The alarms stopped and the emergency lighting returned. Eastlake was a mess, covered in some sort of malodorous slime picked up off the floor, burst blood vessels clouded his eyes, and his hair continued standing out from his scalp even though the charge had dispersed. He groaned as the pain of the broken arm started to take hold. Mac tensed his right hand, bending his fingers back in a precise practiced manner and a small applicator sprang out from the finger sheath, an extension of his suit sleeve around his second finger.

I'm going to give you a small painkiller. You'll feel a slight sensation as the drug goes through your skin, okay?

Eastlake grunted something through clenched teeth. Mac took it to mean yes, and pushed the applicator head against the banker's upper arm. Eastlake's body tightened and then slumped. His heart was still ticking, and he was still breathing, and Mac assumed he had merely fainted. Thank heaven for small mercies. He reached over Eastlake’s head and taking hold of his twisted arm returned it to a normal alignment. Slowly with his outstretched hand he directed a sensor scan over the bone level structure of the injured man. The display on his retina revealed the shoulder was certainly dislocated and the arm broken below the elbow. Shit. He put the mask back into the inside shin compartment and stood up. There was no point in splinting the arm - it would wait. Although it seemed like they were lost in the jungle infested ruins of some ancient temple they were only in the basement of a building in the centre of a modern city, literally only minutes away from professional medical attention. Where the fuck is Fred? he said, and then saw him turn into the corridor from a cross aisle.

How's Mister Eastlake? He doesn't look too good, said Fred, bending as he approached.

He's not too good, you're right about that. Broken arm and dislocated shoulder. I gave him a pain killer and he'll be okay until we get done what we came down here for. He bent over and released a gas stimulant under Eastlake’s nose. He snuffled