Section B exchange uncertain glances between the edifice and an astonished Brock as he stares at the side of the building.
“How the fuck is this possible?” he asks dumbfounded, addressing no one in particular.
Attempting to understand Brock’s reaction, Dominic cranes his head forward and offers, “Probably built like any other building, brick by brick.”
“No,” Brock cuts in curtly. “It’s … I know this building. I saw it before, in the pod. This was the building in the photo … this exact fucking one.”
“Could you have seen this building before?” inquires Rebekah cautiously. “Maybe it’s a buried memory. Our old boo’s around the corner I’m sure I walked past here a hundred times but I don’t recognize it, not consciously. It’s so … grey.”
His face beaming with amazement Brock turns to her and responds, “Maybe. But out of all the buildings I’ve ever seen in my life why this exact one?”
Joining the conversation with concern, Elvis asks, “You saw this building?”
“Yeah, this one. Full detail, clear as fucking day … like here, now,” confirms Medic, pointing to the building in front of them with both hands.
“Wasn’t that your calibration session?” injects Dmitri. “I remember you going into a lot of detail. We might still have a recording of it.”
“That’s probably not necessary right now,” asserts Dominic. “What we should do is congratulate Brock on the deflowering of his agency cherry.”
The members of Section B offer Brock gentle commendations while briefly describing similar experiences.
“Except,” adds Dmitri, “as you already know, the intel we get is much more vague. If your result can be reproduced then the neural net might be completely unnecessary for you. Maybe this is one of your special abilities, an exceptional skill.”
Still somewhat enthralled by the experience, Brock smiles cautiously at Dmitri’s suggestion.
“It’s a shame I didn’t treat it like a standard session and record your intent,” continues Dmitri with a look of mild regret. “Do you remember it?”
Brock shakes his head with disappointment.
“It’ll probably come back to you at some point,” interjects Dominic, nodding his head reassuringly, “but right we have no idea what’s in this building or exactly where we’re supposed to go once we’re inside. Unless Brock has something on that too?”
Noting the expectant look on Dominic’s face, Brock shakes his head a second time.
“So,” resumes the large man, “I don’t think that this is something we should be winging.”
After asking for an explanation of the phrase, Mirabelle joins Section B in agreement.
A quick reconnoiter of the building’s perimeter is completed and it’s decided that Elvis and Dominic will stay outside to guard the Section’s luggage and to keep a lookout. The rest will enter the building and, barring any unforeseen problems, proceed to methodically search it for any useful information.
A time limit is set, after which it will be assumed that something’s gone wrong. In the event of such an occasion a rendezvous point is set for a subsequent regroup. There is some apprehension in both groups as they split up.
Outside, Elvis crosses the street and begins a slow patrol around the building while Dominic leans up casually against its most inconspicuous and unmonitored corner, the Section’s baggage stacked up behind him.
In the meantime the other group is moving through the huge, gilded, main entrance doors of the imposing structure. Their footsteps echo on the marble floor of the ornately cavernous lobby as they glide through mixed odours of office supplies, ancient tobacco smoke, and industrial cleaning products.
A frail-looking gentleman wearing a bulky blue shirt topped with droopy epaulettes pokes up from behind an imposing marble slab at the far end of the room. His ill-fitting peaked cap pulled down and seemingly engrossed in something behind the reception counter, the elderly security guard takes no notice of the group.
Spotting an electronic company directory hanging prominently on a nearby wall the team make a decisive turn toward it. There, Dmitri scrolls slowly through the list of suite numbers and associated names as he, Rebekah, Brock, and Mirabelle examine them.
About halfway through the information Rebekah removes her sunglasses and asks Dmitri to pause. A smile slowly pulls itself across her face as she leans in to examine an entry.
Satisfied and pulling back she says, “Okay, thank you.”
“Did you see something?” asks Dmitri.
“Maybe,” she responds, still smirking. “Let’s go through the rest just to be sure.”
Dmitri continues scrolling and without further interruptions they quickly reach the end of the list.
“So?” inquires Dmitri, making expectant eye contact with Rebekah.
She restores her sunglasses and replies, “Three oh three. If I’m wrong then we just continue with the plan but I think we should try three oh three first.”
Dmitri quickly scrolls back up to entry 303 which is accompanied by the name “Schatz, Liebling, & Tochter”.
“What does zis mean?” asks Mirabelle, echoing the question on her fellow agents’ minds.
“I can’t tell you that now,” replies Rebekah.
With visible reservations they tacitly accept her proposal and make their way toward the wide staircase to the left of the reception area. As they cautiously approach the slouching security guard they discover that his posture and slow, rhythmic breathing are due to his being fast asleep.
Trying their best to move stealthily past the napping man, the group begin their ascent up the stairs.
After only a few steps a croaking voice calls out to them from behind.
The agents freeze mid-step and slowly turn their heads toward the source of the sound.
Apparently having suddenly come to consciousness the aged security guard raises a speckled hand and points to Rebekah with a bony finger. “Miss! Just hold on there!” he instructs.
A friendly but concerned smile forms on her face. “What seems to be the problem?” she responds with artificial demureness.
Some few tense and uncertain moments pass as the old man rises shakily from his chair and makes his way to the base of the stairs. “Just hold on,” he repeats with a rasp as he shuffles to the bottom step, then waves them back downstairs with a skeletal hand.
“You don’t need to walk up. There are elevators around the corner here.”
“Oh!” replies Rebekah, relieved surprise melting the unease in her smile. Regaining her composure she thanks the kindly guard for his thoughtfulness.
“I keep telling them that they should put up some signs,” continues the old man as he leads the agents to a small alcove on the other side of his desk. “But then I guess I wouldn’t have a job, huh?” he concludes, pointing to the two elevators with a laboured laugh.
Thanking him again, the agents of Section B board one of the cramped lifts and ride it to the third floor. There, signs on the walls lead them directly to the end of the hallway and a nondescript black door. Compared to the signage around the entrances of the other offices, the small silver plaque etched with number 303 is the only moderately prominent element on the otherwise unassuming portal. The dim overhead lighting being maintained by a struggling fluorescent tube adds to the sense of mystery.
Moving in to knock on the door, Rebekah pauses and turns back to face the team.
“If something … bad … happens to me,” she whispers haltingly, “you guys need to get the hell out of here, okay?”
“Aaaaand?” Dmitri confronts her, rolling his hand forward to coax more out of her.
Removing her glasses she looks at him with genuine confusion.
“Avenge your death!” he hisses back sharply.
The nervous anticipation in the air temporarily dispels as Rebekah barely stifles a laugh.
Taking a deep breath she whispers back, “Yes, avenge my death.”
Standing up she confirms if everyone’s ready, then turns around to face the door. She knocks three times and waits a moment.
There is no response.
She knocks again, followed by a longer wait.
Still nothing.
Briefly turning around to flash an “I don’t know” shrug to the team, she places her hand gently on the handle and pushes down slowly. The door opens almost noiselessly, the gentle click of the permissive locking mechanism producing the only sound.
Rebekah pushes on the door. As it swings gently inward, a small and darkened room is revealed beyond. Some dim illumination is provided through the slits of a horizontal window blinds at the far end, enough to make out some basic shapes inside.
In the middle of the space sits a small, round table on which sits what appears to be a very old personal computer, monitor, and keyboard. A single chair is lying on its side the wooden floor near the table. On the dark ceiling appears to be a fluorescent light, not unlike the one in the hallway. The walls seem bare.
For a few seconds the team stand breathlessly, staring intently into the obscuring shadows.
“Hello?” inquires Rebekah into the murk.
Again she receives no response. Tilting her head and pursing her lips with determination she advances, slowly.
After a few moments her eyes have adjusted and she’s found her way to the blinds. There she quickly finds the lift strings and hoists the blinds up, plunging the room into cheery outdoor light. Taking a few seconds to examine the inside of the tiny suite, including behind the door, she concludes, “I don’t see anything else. This is it.”
Dmitri is the second person into the room and quickly moves in to examine the ancient machine on the table. Motioning for everyone else to, “Step back, just in case,” he pushes the power button on the monitor.
The beige CRT monitor takes some time to warm up, eventually coming to life with some faintly flickering scan lines and a green “>” prompt. A gently flashing block cursor next to the prompt waits patiently for input.
“This might be antique,” remarks Dmitri as he examines the similarly beige keyboard and dull metallic case beneath the display. “The keyboard and screen are commercial … old, by which I mean that the companies don’t exist anymore, but commercial. The box though,” he points to the case, “that looks custom. Everything’s welded shut in the back, nothing we can connect to even if we had the right cables and hardware, which we don’t.”
“What about this?” asks Rebekah, pointing to the prompt.
“I have no idea what that is,” he responds with a head shake. “Could be the OS, could be an executable, maybe this is just a terminal for some other system.”
“Then I guess we’re in the same boat because I don’t know what any of that means,” she remarks wryly.
“Only one way to find out,” he replies, raising his eyebrows.
Leaning in Dmitri types “help” on the keyboard, lingers for a few moments over the “ENTER” key, then presses it with an audible click.
The cursor quickly glides down and right as it prints out the help screen:
commands:
/admin
/sectionb
/shutdown“Oldie but a goodie,” remarks Dmitri as he reads the commands.
“I’d guess that second one is for us,” observes Brock as he points to the list.
With a nod, Dmitri looks around at his fellow agents and asks, “Shall we give it a try?”
With unanimous agreement he types in the command, then forcefully taps the “ENTER” key.
This produces a “password:” prompt on the following line with the same pulsing cursor at the end.
With frustration Dmitri inquires, “Anyone have a clue what this could be?”
Rebekah responds with a “no”, Mirabelle shrugs, Brock shakes his head.
“I guess we’re just guessing then,” Dmitri states flatly. “In that case how about Rebekah?”
“I already said I don’t know,” she retorts.
“I mean Rebekah as the password,” explains Dmitri.
“Ah,” Rebekah nods in comprehension. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
He types in the password, presses “ENTER”, and a new message is displayed:
incorrect - 2 tries left
hint: the most likely result of a fair coin toss“Shit,” remarks Dmitri as a new “password:” prompt appears below this. “I don’t know what this’ll do when we run out of tries. We need to discuss this before I type anything else.”
After a brief discussion in which even Mirabelle participates, it’s decided that the next most obvious password is either “heads” or “tails”. It’s decided that either answer being equally likely, they might as well choose by alphabetical order.
Dmitri types in “heads” which produces the same message but this time warning of only one remaining try.
A further discussion ensues and the group decides on the only other possible option, “tails”.
Dmitri types the word on the keyboard and pauses hesitatingly over the “ENTER” button. “This is it,” he cautions. “Any final guesses? This is the time to speak up.”
As his index finger begins to move downward Rebekah shoots out an outstretched hand and exclaims, “Stop! Wait! Just … wait.”
As Dmitri retracts his hand, Rebekah does the same, putting her index finger to her lips as she descends into contemplation. A few times she absentmindedly repeats the word “password”, putting emphasis on the second syllable.
Eventually she assumes the same determined look as when she first entered the room and offers, “I think it’s face.”
“Face?” repeats Brock, clearly baffled.
“Yeah,” she explains. “One day when my father was showing me some new coins he was adding to his collection he asked me a question like this. In his riddle the answer was the edge but it’s the same thing.”
Brock shakes his head in continued puzzlement.
“If you flip a coin it’s very unlikely that it’ll end up on its rim, the edge, right? Most likely it’ll end up on one of the two faces, either heads or tails.”
Brock acknowledges the obviousness of the answer with a simple, “Oh.”
“So the most likely result,” finishes Rebekah, “is a face.”
“I hope you’re right,” expresses Dmitri as he backspaces through the previous word and types in “face”.
“So do I,” she says with concern as he finishes typing. With one last uncertain pause and a final glance of confirmation around the group, Dmitri presses “ENTER”.
With this a new message appears beneath the prompt:
come to boathouseBeneath this a new prompt appears asking to “confirm (Y/n)?”
At this Rebekah produces an audible laugh, visible relief replacing her worry. “I know exactly where this is!” she rejoices, a wide grin on her face.
“Finally we know something,” says a similarly relieved Dmitri. Brock and Mirabelle both nod in approval.
Dmitri turns to Rebekah and inquires, “So what now?”
“Now we go to see my parents,” she replies, smiling. “It’s too far to walk but we can get some more taxi money from one of the stashes. I’m certain I left a few around this area but the bag will know for sure.”
“Should I confirm the message then?” asks Dmitri, his hand over the aged keyboard.
“Yes and then let’s get out of here,” she confirms cheerfully.
He hits the “Y” key followed by “ENTER” which is followed by the response:
destroying...Shortly after that the screen goes black, leaving them staring at distorted and darkened reflections of themselves. A few moments later Dmitri pulls the blinds back down and the group exit, leaving the room as they found it and closing the door behind them.
Back down in the lobby they say a final thank-you to the helpful security guard and, with the exception of a nonchalant Mirabelle, they exit the building with upbeat strides.
“By the way, it’s sweetie, darling, and daughter,” states Rebekah as they walk along the sidewalk, the unprompted nature of her remark causing Brock to squint with curiosity. “What is?” he asks.
“The name of the company in three oh three,” she explains. “It’s German. My father’s called me that since I was a kid.”
“Why did you have to hold off telling us that?” inquires Brock.
“It’s not as if we haven’t been listened in on before,” she continues, “and I wasn’t going to say anything inside that building.”
Brock accepts the explanation with a nod.
Around the corner, Dominic and Elvis are filled in on the news. From there Section B retire to a more private spot nearby so that Rebekah can show them how to decode some of the documents in her messenger bag.
A location is quickly extracted and Dominic volunteers to retrieve the nearby cache.
A few minutes after Dominic’s departure Brock makes a sudden announcement. “Now I remember,” he proclaims, drawing the remaining Section’s attention.
“What’s that?” prompts Dmitri.
“My intent. Before the pod. I wanted to know who was after us.”
Suddenly realizing the implication of the recovered memory, Brock plaintively shifts his attention to Rebekah. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Maybe I’m misreading it. Maybe it’s someone else in that building.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she acknowledges resolutely, then falls into silence.
Soon afterward Dominic arrives and reports a successful retrieval. The small cylindrical parcel is placed in front of the group, the remnants of the dirt in which it was buried brushed away, the numerous layers of insulation ripped off, and the rolled-up contents counted. Rebekah assures them that there’s more than enough cash there to get them to the “boathouse”.
With their earlier ebullience somewhat blunted by Brock’s latest revelation, Section B hail two taxis, pile as much of their luggage into the trunks, the remainder at their feet, and depart on what they hope is the final leg of their long journey.