Nothing Is Ever Simple (Corin Hayes Book 2) Read online

  Hopefully, he would be out of it for a few hours. I would need them all to make preparations to get back into the city proper. The transport subs were probably the best bet or, if no alarm had been raised at the end of the night shift, I could take the walkway. Considering the day shift would be here before the night shift left, it was unlikely. Hope for the best because shit always happens.

  Chapter 27

  If I was going to get back into the City proper I would need a disguise. Admittedly, the finger and bruises were some cover, though I feared they might make me stand out rather than blend in. There wasn’t a lot I could do, here anyway, about my appearance. Certainly it couldn’t be improved much. I’d tried during my teenage years and through my early twenty’s before giving it up as a lost cause.

  I slipped the back off the computer tower, undoing the four screws and fiddled with the mainboard. One of the memory units came free of its housing and I put it on the desk, avoiding the coffee mug. From the Pad I drew forth a small cable, thin and clear, with a connector that slipped into the open memory slot. The Pad talked to the computer. The company computer asked a few questions, got some answers it didn’t like, tried to set off an alarm and the Pad, quite sternly, told it not to. The computer tried to fight back, but the Pad made it forget what it was fighting against and it floundered for a moment before settling back into normal operation.

  Now in control, so the Pad’s screen told me, the military software went to work, infiltrating controls systems, insinuating a little bit of code here and there, and opening up access to the City systems. That should have raised an alarm, but the software was designed to deal with this, mimicking the identity of the city’s own security codes.

  Once in and amongst the city control systems, the program located the required database and server. It sent in its own little tendrils, some to distract, some to infiltrate and nullify, and one to do the job it was supposed to do. Extricating itself, it wiped all evidence of its presence.

  The office computer woke up as I disconnected the Pad and plugged the memory back in. If the Pad software had done its job, this little computer would be none the wiser and more importantly the city computers wouldn’t know that anything had occurred. Unless, that is, and it was always a possibility, a City-AI took an interest and that was unlikely in this case. Now, when I went back into the city, all the cameras, and cities had lots of them, wouldn’t recognise me. Rather, the computers doing the processing would misidentify. In essence, I was invisible to the security system. Handy.

  I left the employee on the floor. He looked comfortable enough and exited the office, First-Aid Kit in my undamaged hand. The signs along the corridor pointed to the stairs and to the lifts. The heat of the stairs wasn’t something I looked forward.

  A journey to the docks via the lift was tempting, but I couldn’t rely on the natural awkwardness that folks felt in such confined spaces. The inability to meet each other’s eyes, the nods and half-smiles, and those annoying people that tried to strike up conversation.

  Heat hit me as soon as I opened the door and I almost turned back towards the lift. A last, deep breath of cool air, a look at the map on the wall and I started down. Only three levels this time, but just one flight down and I was dripping with sweat. At the second flight, I was wiping the sweat out of my eyes. On the third, I pushed open the door and stepped into a noisy hell.

  The machine floor. Giant machines that drew metal into infinitely long, thin rods. Steam rose from the glowing orange metal as it lengthened. Cutters, great lumps of cold triangular steel sliced through the hot rods of metal in rapid succession. Sparks flew into the air. Small cylinders, still hot, but cooling, rolled and were carried along conveyor belts until they cascaded off the end in a waterfall of grey metal into large hoppers. These were lifted and moved by thick chains and tramlines to other machines. It was bloody loud.

  A worker saw me enter, gestured at her ears with both hands and pointed towards the racks of headphones on the wall. I gave her the thumbs up and grabbed a set. The noise was muted to a deafening roar, but at least it wasn’t painful anymore.

  I needed to cross this floor to get to the docks. There was smoke, fire, steam and heat everywhere. Machines that stood taller than three men, all metal and riveted together as if they had been built in a rush. No smooth curves or fine lines. Everything was square and blocky. No designer or architect had been allowed near these machines, they were the products of engineers. Functional, practical and capable of doing the job assigned without breaking down too often. Oil and coolant leaked from seams and there was a thick layer of grime; old, burnt oil, flakes of metal and dust all rolled into one disgusting concoction that inhabited the corners and forgotten areas of the shop floor.

  Workers moved back and forth through the maze of machines. None of them changed course to intercept or question my presence. The sheer noise the machines would make conversation impossible. There were panels and screens hanging from the ceiling or attached, at strategic points, to the machines. I glanced at them to see if any alarms had been raised and, for once, luck was on my side.

  At the door that led to the docks, I took off my ear defenders and hung them on the rack. The noise came crashing back in and before my ears could start to bleed, I hurried through the door, slamming it shut behind me. The insulation was good and the sound of the machines was muted, not eliminated. Below my feet, the floor vibrated to the rhythm of the machines.

  The day shift would be coming in soon and I wanted to be in place before they did. I wasn’t sure where that place was exactly, but if I wanted to survive, ruin Rehja’s plan, whatever it was, and clear my name, if it needed clearing, I had to find it soon.

  Chapter 28

  There is something about a sub dock that makes me feel at home. It could be the sloshing of water against the hulls, the shouts of the dock-hands, the clank of cargo or the hum of engines. Might be the smell of salt-water, of oil, the odour of sweat, the aroma of fuel. This dock had it all and as I stood there, in the doorway, dressed in my medical scrubs and carrying a First-Aid box, I realised I looked out of place. Three doors down was a locker room.

  Steam, billowing out of an area at the far end of the room, and the sound of water falling to the floor in a staccato rhythm accompanied by some off-key singing indicated the showers were in use by at least one worker. I didn’t recognise the song. The lyrics I knew, but the unceasing search for the right note destroyed any semblance of a tune. As long as the singer, I was feeling kind, stayed in the shower, and kept showing his disrespect for all those years of toil and effort the musician put in to write that song, I was free to rummage through the lockers.

  After rattling the doors, with care and without creating too much noise, I found a locker that the owner had forgotten to lock. The inside of the door was decorated with a selection of images. For a moment, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and when realisation dawned, my eyes widened, eyebrows rose on my forehead and I shook my head. What was the world coming to? Who sticks pictures of old world ships on the inside of their locker door? This fellow clearly, but it was the first time I’d ever seen it. In the military, the fashion had been for half, or completely, naked women or men, or pictures of spouse and children. That was normal. This was just weird.

  There was no temptation on my part to probe too deeply into the contents of this worker’s particular locker and settled for taking the blue overalls off the hanger inside. Changing quickly, I replaced them with my borrowed scrubs and closed the door. Under the bench, below the locker, was a pair of boots. I tried one against my foot. Too small, so I had to keep the thin-soled shoes and hope no one I was yet to bump into had a shoe fetish.

  A last slather of the derma-cream from the First-Aid pack on some of the worst of my bruises and my aching shoulder and I was as ready as I was going to be. The dolphin strangler in the shower fell silent which I took as my cue to get moving.

  With my hands in the pockets of my new, stolen, jumpsuit, I resisted the ur
ge to whistle and sauntered onto the docks. All the familiar sights were there. This time I didn’t stop in the doorway but continued on, into the melee of dock-hands moving heavy boxes, full of the factory’s product, around. I picked up a Pad, not bothering to turn it on, and pretended to look at something on the screen, then around the docks.

  After a few moments, I’d picked my target, my way out of the factory and back to the city. It was a large, fat-bellied, ugly transport submarine that all the dock-hands were loading the boxes onto. All I needed to discover was its destination. A sub that size could be used for short range hauling or on a long range, cross ocean route. Luckily, the departure board was easy to read and it seemed that I was in luck. It couldn’t last.

  On the far wall, a level up, the windows of the offices looked down upon the docks and there were people moving back and forth about their business. If I stole a sub, they’d know straight away and the dock doors would swing close or security forces would be waiting outside. I wouldn’t get far that way.

  No. The best way on board was to walk on, acting like I belonged or doing some duty that was needed. Once I was on board I could hide, stowaway for the ride back to the city proper. Nice and simple. An easy plan. I liked it. The fewer steps, the more basic the plan, the less could go wrong.

  I put the Pad back down and looked around for an unattended cart. Two workers were having a chat about ten metres away. Behind them two carts, their carts, which they were paying no attention to. A couple of steps and I was back in character, such as it was. Just a worker, going about his work in the place where he worked. More an extra than a main character, which was the perfect role for me. One I was born to play.

  They paid absolutely no mind when I walked past them, put my hands on one of the carts and pushed it away. There was no cry of alarm, of ‘thief’ or the like. When I was comfortable none was going to come I changed course and headed for the line of workers who were waiting for the next box of screws, bolts or clamps. I joined on the end, nodding to the worker ahead, a bald guy with a squint, as I did so. He smiled back, at least I think that was the expression he was going for. It could have been a snarl.

  Queuing has always been boring, but at least this time I had the terror of discovery to keep me occupied. It was hard not to turn round every moment or two to scan the docks for security guards or irate dockers who’d lost their cart. My turn came and the warehouse handler loaded my cart with four boxes of heavy stuff. I didn’t offer to help. His job was to lift the boxes onto the cart, mine to move it to sub and unload it. A division of labour I didn’t want to interfere with.

  When you see a dock at work for the first time it is easy to see chaos. Look below the surface, or back off and look from a distance, and you’ll see a highly organised system. Everyone knows their place and goes about their business with purpose. Amongst it all there will be a few layabouts, a few folks who play the system, who know how to get away with things. The two fellows I’d stolen the cart from were an example of this type. I was playing the role of the former group and I followed the squinting man to the sub.

  Over the ramp, which clanked as the cart wheels passed over it, and onto the transport sub. Halfway there. The cargo hold was big, a cavern full of treasure, as long as nuts and bolts were your thing. My fellow worker pushed his cart towards the back and the stack of boxes that rested there. He unloaded his without apparent effort, lifting the boxes from the cart and laying them to rest on top of those already there.

  As he pushed his cart away, I moved in. The man had been a lot stronger than I gave him credit for, those boxes were heavy. I could feel the pull on my arms and the strain in my lower back as I lifted the first one up from the bed of the cart, tottered the two steps to the other boxes and bent down to place it next to the others. When I stood, it was with a groan.

  “You’re new?” said the man behind me.

  I turned in place and gave him a smile. “Taken on yesterday.”

  “Hurt your hand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Didn’t they take you through the safe lifting course?”

  I shook my head, reaching down for the second of my four boxes.

  “Not like that,” he said. “Bend your legs and don’t lift with your back. You’ll do yourself an injury that way. Remember, no sick pay for four months.”

  I raised an eyebrow and he nodded back, totally misunderstanding. I’d not had a job with sick pay since Tyler died and, I’m pretty sure, even before that sick pay was a rare feature on a contract.

  “It’ll be a long four months if you hurt your back,” he said.

  “Too true.” I tried to lift as he suggested and found, surprisingly, he was right. It hurt less and was a bit easier. I learned something at least.

  “Much better,” he said. “You’re a little slow though. If you hold the rest up too much, there’ll be complaints. Best you finish that lot off and get a move on.”

  “Will do,” I answered.

  True to my word, I shifted the two other boxes, moved the cart out of his way and was heading back to towards the loading ramp when I spotted the two men I’d stolen the cart from. They were heading along the docks and towards the ramp. They may not have seen me with their cart, but they may have seen me without one. It’s the little things like that which give you away.

  There was nowhere to hide, not with the cart, and I would need a few more loading runs, before everyone got used to me being there. Once they were, I’d be background, easy to miss. I turned away from the ramp, cart leading the way, and manoeuvred close to another row of towering boxes. Stopping the cart, I walked on another ten steps and bent down, pretending to tie my laces.

  Chapter 29

  My shoes didn’t have laces.

  I was still in the thin-soled ones I’d taken from the medical bay. My helpful friend hadn’t noticed because I was the other side of the cart or had noticed but figured I was too poor to afford proper shoes and decided, out of politeness, not to say anything. Making the best of my flimsy cover, I kept my head down and fluttered my fingers as if I did have laces.

  “I’m telling you, Maz,” one of the men, the taller, was saying, “I took the trolley with me after the last load.”

  “Couldn’t have done, Eno, or it would be outside, wouldn’t it? Stands to reason,” the shorter one, Maz, said. “You lose it, they’ll take it out of your wages.”

  “Don’t I bloody know it,” Eno said. “Only just finished paying off the one that fell into the pool, aren’t I.”

  “Then you should’ve kept better track of this one,” Maz replied.

  “And I’m telling you I did.”

  “And I’m telling you,” Maz said, “that you didn’t.”

  They passed me by, still arguing, and I stood, moving back towards the incoming workers, pushing their carts before them. There was an exclamation of discovery behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I looked around as I walked, changing character for a moment, heading towards the line of marching carts.

  “You lost something, mate?” One of the workers called as approached.

  “Second day,” I said. “Been stupid. Forgot where I left my trolley.”

  I’d almost said cart, but the overheard conversation had corrected my technical language. Maz and Eno should really have some sign of my appreciation, I thought. Perhaps finding the cart, trolley, was recompense enough.

  “They’ll charge you for that,” he said.

  “Yeah, so Maz and Eno told me.”

  “You know Eno,” he asked, a question in the statement.

  “Only a little, bumped into him while I was searching. Thought he had my trolley for a moment.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past him,” the worker said. “Think he’s still paying off the fine from the last one he lost. Might be worth checking around the boxes and rows. Some folks think it’s fun to wind up the newbies. Might have hidden it.”

  “I need the money, can’t afford the fines,” I said, holding up a foot. “Can’t ev
en afford decent shoes till I get paid.”

  “Life’s tough,” he said, nodding. “Good luck, mate.”

  “If you see a trolley loose somewhere, give me a shout, name’s Aver,” I said with a smile.

  “Will do, Aver.”

  I passed through the queue, the second helpful worker holding the line up for a little while. With a wave of thanks, I disappeared into the rows of boxes and crates, looking left and right for the trolley I had lost. More than that, I was looking for a place to hide. Right at the back, near the cargo that had been loaded first was probably the best place. Maybe move a few, create a little cubbyhole and wait for everyone else to go. When it reached the city I could just join in with the unloading crew. There was bound to be a few folks in blue overalls amongst them, overseeing the work, signing Pads, sorting out invoices, billing, that sort of thing.

  See, simple plans are the best.

  # # #

  The corner I found was quite comfortable. I could rest my back against a crate of easy-seal stem bolts, a product so ubiquitous in their use across the cities that there had almost been a total market collapse when one company had claimed to have invented self-sealing stem bolts. It turned out to be a rumour, but some people never forget these things. Apparently, I was one of them.

  I could hear, even back here, the sound of loading going on for over an hour. Eventually, the noise eased and there was a series of clanks and thumps. The loading doors being closed and the cargo bay lights went out. Utter darkness. Nothing new to me. Most of the ocean was totally dark, no light except that which you brought with you. A long time ago I had overcome my fear of the dark. Now it was my comfortable friend.

  However, back when I’d been part of a real crew, jokes and tricks had been played on friends by friends. My dark friend liked to do that sometimes. Little sounds that my mind inflated, conflated and imagined into some horrible terror. Waking nightmares. When Tyler had been killed, my friend in the dark was always there showing me things I didn’t want to see. In my apartment, at night, when my wife had finally cried herself to sleep, my friend would turn up. The sound of air filters became mocking laughs, the sighs of pipes became screams, and a dripping tap was the sound of Tyler’s terrified tears.