There was no future in crime. 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 own attitudinal clumsiness than any concern for his suit, which would reject any matter it could not make use of 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.”
"Almost 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 it innocently like a baby elephant holding it’s 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 were employed, 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. Over the centuries, as computerization and robotic production eliminated the need for a workforce, many others in all walks of life had 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.
Mac recalled in 2395, at a meeting of the World Council, Isaac Elphin put forward the Social Justice Mandates. The ideas contained in Elphin's submission were not new, especially to a student of history like himself. They were first tried a century or more before, in an atmosphere of global desperation, and they died, as all good ideas usually die; because no one really wanted to believe in them. In the flow of the fashion of ideas, they resurfaced in good old Isaac's brain, only this time, the desire and the means of making them happen was there. There was no alternative course for civilisation. There was a world-wide cognisance of pure necessity, where even the simplest and most rapacious, realised things could not go on indefinitely as they were. The Mandates took root and over the intervening years a series of legal and cultural imperatives slowly changed the face of society.
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. The bald fact was: no more theft. The citizens had no reason to steal once all their material demands were satisfied.
At first he thought having everything handed to you on a plate might dampen any enthusiasm to actually work at anything, but the reverse occurred. By removing the burden of consumerism and maintenance of peer standards, only people with an ulterior motive beyond a pay packet worked. The reforms allowed the blossoming of numerous brilliant individuals previously obstructed by material considerations. Businessmen worked not for gain, but for the honour and satisfaction of achieving efficiency and increasing investment in research and development. It was built into the human to create and improve, and to challenge the unknown.
In the last years there had been no serious theft; only misunderstandings of ownership, which usually ended up in court. Extortion, embezzlement and kidnapping disappeared. Homicide statistics dropped off the chart. The only crime maintaining a presence was rape. He’d always based his job security on faith that there would be stealing, nicking, lifting, and grand larceny - there had to be. He put it down to 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. Yet, year after year, as the report came in on the ‘Mandates` implementation, so far so good.
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 fucking arse for more than twelve months doing fuck all. 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. He recognised him immediately.
“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 his 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 slowly 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 hand 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 at times drove him to distraction with the obscurity of verbal clues in its navigation system. Bellevue now 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 which had become the fashion of late, 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 stepped out, and 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 composed of odd and threatening shapes, through a sort of underworld of antiquities, until eventually 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.
He 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 his curly hair which spanned 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 actually 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 then, 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.
Mac turned as he followed Clancy. “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 all 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 virtual 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 would 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 turn something up. 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 of glass. 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 all 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 the 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 that tapered to two centimetres or so wide and a centimetre thick. According to impact analysis, the implement was most likely curved in some way. 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. He could stop racking his brain at least. What more could he do? Nothing. 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.
© Brian Armour 2009
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