Free Provenance I - Flee The Bonds by V J Kavanagh Page B

he tapped the MCD screen and waited as the software navigated through a series of security gateways.
    He scrolled down the chronological list and tapped an entry from the previous Saturday, ‘Jason Valenbrotti 10.15 London.’ A map showed a dotted tracker line of Jason’s last journey. Selecting the Palace’s surveillance records produced a frown. Either the cameras weren’t working when Jason was in the store, or the records had been erased. From the vertical list of icons, he selected the sword. A photograph and text appeared.
    The serious man with hardened blue eyes was Paul Nicholson, a CONSEC Gold Agent. Jason’s Guardian.
    Steve grabbed his Private Network Phone off the table and tapped in the call ID.
    ‘Hello.’
    ‘Is that Paul Nicholson?’
    ‘Who’s this?’
    ‘Steve Arrowsbury. I’m — was a friend of Jason’s.’
    ‘Is this official?’
    Calling Paul at home had already answered that. ‘No. It’s off the net.’
    ‘I see.’
    Steve reached for his coffee and took a sip.
    ‘What can I do for you, Steve?’
    ‘Have you made any progress?’
    ‘Very little. I uploaded Jason’s MCD to your Quad bin. He did a tail-break into the Palace department store, although I’m not sure he realised he was being followed at that point. A woman, skiing jacket, tanned, brunette, bob haircut. She had a valid biofield ID so Palace security let her go. I picked her up later, but lost her after Jason was hit. She just disappeared.’
    Steve rubbed his chin. ‘Can we meet?’
    ‘Yes, so long as it’s off the net.’
    ‘Thanks, Paul. Do you know Mitzys?’

10:52 SUN 22:10:2119
    Blue Zone, Bordeaux, France, Sector 2
    A tramcar rattled by, following the Quai de Chartrons as it curved around the Gironde estuary. Autumn sunlight warmed the back of Steve’s graphite leather jacket, although not enough to counterpoise the crisp Atlantic breeze.
    On his left, cream stone facades climbed into a deep blue sky. Tall windows, ornate wooden doors, and cast iron balcons added classic French style. A variety of broad canopies sloped out over the wide granite pavement. Steve headed for the maroon one, its sides and roof embellished with a gleaming golden apple. La Pomme D’Or — the rendezvous point.
    He sat in the far left corner with his back to the café window. A man leaning over a newspaper and a couple conversing with a liberal sprinkling of hand gestures occupied two other tables. The glass door to his left creaked open and a thin man with a ruddy complexion examined his fingernails.
    ‘ Monsieur ? ’
    ‘ Un café, s’il vous plait . ’
    The waiter spun, letting the door clatter behind him. Steve took out his MCD and laid it in his lap. A map of Bordeaux’s inner Zones appeared, superimposed with dots: Continuity white, Defender grey, Agent gold, and Advocate platinum. There were no yellow or black dots, no suicidal Drones or SIS Prosecutors to assist them.
    Everyone had a biomechanical chip implanted in their left wrist at birth. From deep within Colorado’s Cheyenne Mountain, Integrated Network Command controlled EAGLE-EYE, a global network of satellites. If INC detected a human signature without a biofield ID, it would task a weapons-free Prefect to investigate.
    For Steve and the other members of CONSEC, the biomechanical chip inducted through the MPS, monitoring biomed status as well as location. Only Advocates and Prosecutors could switch it off.
    The platinum dot in the map’s centre represented him, the other Francois Thibeauchet. Steve tapped the screen again; Captain Thibeauchet would arrive in six minutes.
    While he waited, Steve reviewed his new 2IC’s file. Twenty-seven years old, Francois had been with PSYOPS before joining CONSEC. Unusual route . Equally unusual were his exemplary training scores. Eight-five percent of applicants failed Advocate selection, some permanently. Francois, and his eclectic mix of specialism’s had been assigned to Sector 1, which probably explained why they’d