The Dustman

By Paul R. Green

“You can go through now, George.” Christine said with a friendly smile. Doyle stood, fastened his suit jacket, and returned the girl’s smile with an added wink before opening the door to his CO’s inner office.

Topps’ heavy-set frame blocked out most of the light coming through the large window that provided such a spectacular view of the capital. He was out of his seat, which was never a good sign. Not that Doyle was ever called in for anything that was. He positioned himself before his chief’s desk, as if the man was sat behind it, stood at parade rest and waited.

“What do you know about vX13 George?” The big man said without turning.

“vX13. The thirteenth dimension our boys have discovered; back in ’08, I believe. They’re the first D we’ve come across that comes close to ourselves in both tech and psychic ability. We run a small team out of the capital as S.O.P. but migration has been rather limited, presumably due to them being so close to us in a lot of respects. Though obviously they haven’t learnt how to D-hop yet.”

Topps turned away from the window with a meaningfully raised eyebrow and lumbered across to his seat. He dropped into it with a sigh and made himself comfortable before looking back at his agent with steely eyes that defied his jowly features. “We think they might have rampart tech.”

“Who’s the source?” Doyle enquired.

Logan.”

“A good man. How’d he come across it?”

“The usual. He was working a case, tied most of it up but lost a lead on a tenuous link. Not enough to keep the case open, but enough of a niggle for him to mention it to me. And now, I’m mentioning it to you.” He nudged a hard copy file across the desk toward Doyle – the Dust Squad didn’t use electronic files. The file would be read and burned after reading. Doyle picked it up and turned to leave.
As he went to open the door his boss added, “Be careful, George” a note of genuine concern in his voice. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

***

The oppressive humidity hit Doyle the second he stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the commercial airliner and followed the rest of the passengers, most of whom were clearly visiting the tropical island resort for reasons other than business. Once he’d collected his luggage and checked through customs – which included a discrete mind probe that he’d been half expecting and therefore prepared for – he hailed a cab and soaked in the sights on the short trip to his hotel.

Once checked in he unpacked and went through the ritual of leaving himself indicators should anyone decide to rummage through his possessions whilst he was out. Satisfied, he exited the room – leaving a hair stuck with a dab of saliva attached to the door and jamb – and headed downstairs.

From his place at the bar Doyle looked out at the pool as he savoured the rum he’d ordered. The alcohol nicely topped off the buzz he had received from the couple of vodkas he’d enjoyed inflight. He watched with barely disguised admiration as the lithe, sculpted figure of a man so white he couldn’t possibly be a local towelled himself dry as he approached the bar. The man smiled as he approached Doyle, and the agent returned the smile, greeting him with a hello and asking if he’d like a drink. The man, who introduced himself as Thorsson, took the stool next to Doyle and ordered a local beer.
Doyle took another drink and sighed contentedly. He much preferred assignments in the more advanced dimensions. Sure, there was usually more risk involved, and the locals weren’t so easy to impress, but advanced thinking tended to lead to more liberal attitudes, and Doyle was all for that. Especially, when Doyle considered fraternising with the indigenous population a vital part of his job. And the more intimate that contact, the more he could exploit that relationship towards advancing his mission.

Of course, Doyle’s chance meeting with Thorsson was anything but. He’d gone through the file Topps had given him and judged him to be the best route into Hart-Tek. Once he’d established that, it was simply a matter of having the local team knock him up some Bona-Fides, and book him a place at the seminar Thorsson was due to attend on tropical Tatimi.

“What’s your speciality, George.” The big man enquired. “I take it you’re here for the seminar.”

Doyle smiled, knowing he had the man hooked now. “I shouldn’t really say, my friend. Confidentiality clauses and all that. Let’s just call it data security, shall we?”

Thorsson grinned back. “Then I too am a data security specialist.” He ordered two more drinks and held his up in a toast. “To the unbreachable wall.”

Doyle clinked glasses. “May it never come and keep us out of a job” he replied. The two men knocked their drinks back in one, and Doyle signalled the barman for more.

***
They were back in Thorsson’s room; Doyle was searching through the man’s belongings whilst the big man slept away their afternoon’s excess. That and the mild sedative Doyle had slipped into the post-coital glass of juice he’d poured meant he had at least a couple of hours.

He had swept the room for bugs and weapons as a matter of course and was now going through Thorsson’s briefcase. He located the man’s ID and pass and settled himself on the end of the bed, stretching out his consciousness to touch the thoughts of the sleeping Thorsson.

The first time he’d tried to access the mind of a drunk and sedated mark, Doyle had been pleasantly surprised. He’d expected the thoughts to be vague and confusing, the thought paths to be myriad and clouded, leading to a host of dead ends and tangled threads, but he’d found the opposite to be true.

Thorsson’s thoughts were dominated by the bright golden rope of his subconscious dream state, making it easy for Doyle to follow to the nexus point of the scientist’s memory. From here Doyle quickly found the branch he was looking for and due to Thorsson’s state it was a simple matter to navigate the natural barriers and steal his passwords. He was just about to break the link when an associated thought strand gave off a slight pulse. Intrigued, he accessed the thought which led him to the image of an attractive looking man named Campbell, who was some form of consultant. The nature of the image suggested it to be part of Thorsson’s fantasy world rather than an actual memory and as there was nothing much else related to the man, just the letter ‘V’, Doyle put it down to some form of office crush. Still, he made a note of the name, just in case.

Before breaking the link he couldn’t resist slightly nudging the man’s memory of their time together, suggesting it had been even more pleasurable than it had been. That done he detached himself from Thorsson’s mind and pepped himself up with another stiff drink.

The ID and pass were sophisticated for this D but relatively simple for Doyle to replicate. Within half an hour he had one of his very own. Then, using Thorsson’s tablet and ID, he hacked into Hart-Tek’s systems and added his details to their personnel files. He also searched for Campbell, but came up blank. Once finished he returned everything to where he’d found it, poured himself a drink of rum, took a generous sniff to savour the aroma and sat on the balcony to await Thorsson’s return to the land of the living. After all, the thought, he might as well enjoy himself a little more before starting the next stage of his mission.

***

Dark skies and freezing cold weather greeted Doyle in Helso, home to Hart-Teks scientific division. He’d had no problems getting through security at the gate and was in the process of orientating himself to the large complex that they worked from.
Inside the main building he found a locker room and had to stop himself from laughing aloud at how easy it was to access the locker he needed. Earlier he had dropped into a security office that stank of stale coffee on the pretence of having found a mobile comm device in the rest rooms. Whilst there he had been able to catch a glimpse of the shift rota that was written for all to see on a white board at the back of the room. He’d made a mental note of a couple of names who weren’t on shift until next week and then searched their lockers until he’d found one whose uniform would fit.

Now, with most of the staff having left for the day, Doyle made his way to the executive offices on the top floor. Once inside he made short work of accessing the database, locating the information he was searching for, and replacing the files in question with a nasty little virus that would destroy any further copies on other systems, as well as any files that contained certain key words.
Now all he had to do, was destroy the prototype, that according to what he had just read was in a separate annex lab to the rear of the building.

***

Doyle crouched behind a large chrome machine, his psychic defences on full alert. He shouldn’t need them, but if these boys were fooling around with rampart tech then best be prepared. There were five of them, two pairs coming from opposite ends of the large lab building and a single overseer who was waiting by the main exit. Getting out was always the hardest part.

Adrenalin focussed their minds upon their task, making it trickier for Doyle to find an in. Tricky, but not impossible. One of the men approaching from the North was new, and every now and then a wispy thread of red fear would detach itself from the white line of his determination and attention.
Doyle bided his time, waiting for just the right thread to pop up. There! He was in. With a grasp on the strand it was a simple matter to tug on it; gently though, just enough to make the man nervous. More wisps appeared; bigger and more frequent. Doyle smiled to himself. Now for some fun.

A quick sweeping probe allowed him to place his opponents upon the map he had created in his mind. The two pairs of guards were getting closer and their leader still hadn’t moved. All he had to do was wait until they were in just the right place.

Now.

With a deftness that came through years of experience Doyle pushed through a thought to the new man, then cut off all links with his foes. The guard’s subconscious took the suggestion and reacted accordingly, telling his brain that his eyes were seeing an armed intruder up ahead. The brain responded by instructing his body to raise the pistol and fire.

The lab came alive with a cacophony of noise, lit by sporadic flashes of muzzle flare as the pent-up emotions of the guards were unleashed in a hail of bullets.

From the direction of the entrance he could hear the shouts of the overseer as he tried to ascertain what was going on and gain control of the situation. The distraction made it easy for Doyle to fix on the man and enter his mind. Orange sparks of confusion spun around a branching line of yellow light as the man fought over what to do next. It was a simple matter for Doyle to suggest he leave the door and go help his men.

With the man gone Doyle slipped unnoticed through the door. Behind him the gunfire had ceased as the overseer managed to convince his men they were shooting at each other.

Once outside the agent took a bracing sniff of the cool night air and walking calmly and casually away from the building triggered the explosives.

***

Doyle was back in Topps’ office, staring down the barrel of one his boss’s legendary disapproving glowers. He shuffled a bit, and became suddenly aware of just how uncomfortably sweaty he was feeling and how dry his throat felt. He could do with a drink. Shame that alcohol and other stimulants were banned on his home dimension.

“Industrial accident caused by faulty wiring; that’s how it’s been reported on vX13,” the big man finally said after what seemed an age as he dismissively dropped the file on his desk.

“Thank you, sir. I try my best.” Doyle acknowledged with a smile of relief. The smile soon dropped under Topps‘ stern gaze.

“You were lucky at best, Doyle. Careless at worst. That was bloody sloppy work. I expect better from my agents.”

Doyle knew better than try and make excuses, he simply stood quietly and waited to hear what his boss wanted to say.

The big man pinched the bridge of his nose as if bracing himself for something, then seemed to change his mind. “Still, you were ‘Jonny-on-the-spot’ and I hate to second guess my boys in the field, so we’ll let it go this time.” He picked up the file again and waved it at Doyle. “This time.” He stood with a grunt and moved across to a steel cabinet which he unlocked with a key attached by a chain to his belt.
Doyle took the cue and slipped quietly from the room.

***

Topps watched his agent leave then moved to stand at his window. He often stood here when he had a lot on his mind, or something bothered him. Right now it was a single letter:’V’. It could be nothing but Topps was a careful man. He liked to think of himself as an iceberg. On the surface huge, cool and imposing, but with a lot more going on beneath the surface. And dangerous, too, especially to the unwary.

“Are you one of mine, V?” He asked himself quietly, not really wanting to think it even may be true. After standing for a few more minutes he came to a decision and returned to his desk and hit the inter-com. “Christine, could you clear my schedule for this afternoon then come in please? We have work to do.”

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4 thoughts on “The Dustman

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