I rolled in my bed, yawning as I hauled myself upwards. Two weeks since the heist. Patterson had said the sale would be set up inside two weeks,during our hand-off of the Stane disks.
Having a abundance of spare time, and having decided to keep my head down for a bit, I had decided to get my ID situation handled via Vito. Vito had given me a number for the best ID people he knew. After a brief, carefully vague phone call, I'd been given an address and a time.
The meeting had been in Riverside Park. A man on a bench, waiting with an air of practiced disinterest. I sat down next to him. He didn't look at me. I slid the envelope across containing a headshot, a birthday, a name, and two thousand, five hundred dollars in cash. The man palmed it smoothly.
"PO box," he had said, and gave me a number and a combination. "One week."
After a ten minute walk through the morning noise of Hell's Kitchen, I jogged up the stairs of the Farley Post Office. I had never been here in my old universe,and the place was enormous. Making my way through, I found the appropriate PO box, used the combination I'd been given, and pulled out a brown envelope.
I opened it outside on the steps.
Virginia driver's license. Social Security card. Birth certificate. I'd gone for the most expensive package that the gentleman on the other end of the line had offered. The license looked good and they had gotten my name correct. I was now Nathan Winston Smith, twenty-four years old, born in Alexandria, Virginia. More importantly, I'd paid extra to have the name placed into the relevant databases. The last thing I needed was to get tripped up the moment someone started properly computerizing the Social Security Administration.
I stood on the steps of the Farley Post Office on 8th Avenue and let that percolate for a moment.
I had a name. A legal identity.
The mental accounting hit me immediately after, as it always did. Twenty thousand to start. Five to Angela. Two and a half for this. Twelve thousand five hundred left, and the Stane payout still pending.
Next problem. I needed somewhere for that payout to land. An offshore bank account wouldn't cut it for my day-to-day needs.
I ducked into a payphone booth and flipped to the bank listings in the Yellow Pages. I spent a couple of futile minutes looking for Bank of America before I stopped and slapped my forehead. The merger that created it hadn't happened yet. I needed something national. After a bit more paging, I found what I was looking for. Citibank had a branch on 57th, a manageable walk from the warehouse. They were national. They had California locations, which I'd need when the time came to move west.
The account opening was anticlimactic, which was the best possible outcome. A young woman behind the counter processed the Virginia license and Social Security card without a flicker of suspicion. Two forms of ID, a small cash deposit to give the account something to stand on, and I was done. I walked back out onto 57th with a deposit slip in my pocket and a domestic bank account in the name of Nathan Winston Smith.
I smiled. I was finally getting ready to be done with street-level crime.
The train out to Jersey at 10 AM the next day was quiet. I had a backpack with me, empty except for my notebook. Hopefully they'd be able to give me some of the Stane data today so I could start taking a crack at the Iron Monger suit.
Patterson was waiting in the AIM facility's main underground foyer when I came off the elevator, ears popping as usual. He nodded a greeting and gestured for me to follow.
"We're set up down the hall."
He led me past the manufacturing room, which was running at its usual measured pace. The room he brought me to was smaller than the server room, a few terminals arranged along one wall, a whiteboard with something half-erased on it, and a conference table with chairs. Darrell was already there with coffee, looking like he'd been there for a while.
A young woman I didn't immediately place was at one of the terminals, running what looked like an energy systems model. Japanese-American, mid-twenties, dark hair pulled back practically. I vaguely recalled her from my first visit. She had the particular focused stillness of someone deep in thought, though she glanced up when we entered.
"Morning," I said politely.
She nodded. "Morning."
Darrell nodded back to me. "Morning."
I pulled out a chair, set my backpack down, and without thinking particularly about it, dropped my wallet on the table beside it. Old habit. I hated sitting on it.
Patterson glanced around the room. "I left my notebook downstairs. Give me a minute." He stepped out.
Darrell settled into his chair with his coffee. I looked at the terminals, then at the half-erased whiteboard, then at Darrell. Time for some small talk.
"What do you think about microkernels?"
Darrell leaned forward. "Interesting concept. The modularity aspect is genuinely useful. Being able to tweak stuff in userspace without recompiling the whole kernel, and if something goes wrong it doesn't crash the whole machine." He paused. "The performance hit compared to monolithic kernels ise nasty though."
I shrugged "I'm sure the performance relative to monolithic kernels will get better eventually."
"Maybe. The theory's sound" He stopped.
I followed his sightline.
The young woman from earlier had materialized near me and was going through my wallet with the same calm, methodical attention she'd given her work. She wasn't taking anything. She was just looking, flipping through my driver's licence and the few business cards I kept in my wallet.
"Excuse me," I said pleasantly. "Could you not do that?"
I was trying to keep my new identity as compartmentalized as I could, and her flipping through my wallet rather undermined that.
She looked up. No guilt, no embarrassment. Just the mild surprise of someone interrupted mid-thought.
Darrell set his coffee down. "Keiko." He said it the way I addressed my family's often recalcitrant dog. Firmly, but with a hint of resignation.
She set the wallet back on the table. "Sorry. Wanted to see what restaurants you kept business cards from."
She walked out. The door clicked shut behind her.
An awkward silence descended upon the room. Thankfully, Darrell broke it.
"Physics genius," Darrell said. "Genuine, actual genius. Terrible at human interaction." He picked his coffee back up. "She doesn't mean anything by it. She's just." He paused. "Unbound by societal convention."
"I've seen the type," I said.
I picked up my wallet and pocketed it, deciding to remove the temptation in case she returned.
The more pressing concern was whether she'd actually looked at the license. There wasn't much I could do about it if she had. I couldn't run after her and politely ask her to forget the name. There was a good chance the name on the license wouldn't stick in her head. People like that tended to retain what interested them and let everything else slide.
I decided to not worry about factors beyond my control.
A few minutes later Patterson came back in, notepad under his arm. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table, sat down, and opened it.
Patterson opened his notepad. "I've been in contact with some people."
The door opened explosively, slamming into the wall. I wondered idly how anything got done around here with the constant interruptions.
Dr. Patel leaned in from the hallway. I recognized him from a while back. He'd crossed my path briefly when I'd been working with Jimmy on the Sentinel business, the first time I had been at this facility. He had the slightly disheveled look of someone who had sprinted down the hall. He was obviously suppressing a smile.
"MODOK is dead." He adjusted his glasses. "One of the other cells confirmed it about ten minutes ago." A pause he couldn't quite fill with neutrality. "Knew him before the transformation. Grad school. Arrogant git." He pulled the door shut with exaggerated care, having evidently spent the majority of his remaining energy on the entrance.
Patterson set his pen down. The careful professional expression he'd worn through every meeting I'd attended was simply gone, replaced with an unguarded smile. He didn't seem to notice.
"Well." He exhaled slowly. "That changes things considerably." He shook his head slightly. "We've been operationally constrained since the schism. Half the AIM cells not talking to each other...It'll be good for us all to work together again, get the MODOK-aligned cells back to doing science, not being henchmen."
Darrell had both hands around his coffee cup, with an expression of quiet satisfaction.
I was doing math.
Iron Man 200 had been roughly two weeks ago. MODOK's death put me somewhere in the early 300s of Captain America. Those two reference points gave me something to work with for puzzling out the timeline. The events I remembered weren't evenly distributed. Some runs had sprawled over years of publication time while covering a few weeks in continuity. Others had burned through months of story in two issues.
But it was something to at least try to work with.
I rubbed my forehead.
"Happy for you," I said.
Patterson cleared his throat. "Back to our buyers. We described the content as materials science and aerospace applications, recent vintage. Nobody asked where it originated and we didn't volunteer it. Standard practice." He paused. "Hammer Industries has been sniffing around through back channels."
I scratched my head. "As in, the UK's biggest defense contractor?"
"The same." Darrell shrugged. "Not interested in buying. Just asking questions." He turned his coffee cup. "My read is that their technical people recognized something in our sampler and kicked it upstairs." He paused. "Which tracks with something else I heard. I know someone at Falsworth Industries. Spent money on a transatlantic call to find out what the mood is in the UK defense community."
Patterson glanced up. "Falsworth. Aren't they on the way out?"
"Privately held, so hard to say for certain." Darrell set the cup down. "Regardless, the rumor in British defense circles is that Hammer is looking at acquiring a chunk of what used to be Stark International once Stane is out of the hospital" He shrugged.
I fogged temporarily. Stane was dead. I had SEEN his corpse first hand. I resisted the urge to slap myself. The Deltites. They had replaced him with a LMD. The Hammer buyout would probably happen after the wheels fell off thatwhole arrangement. If I had a bit of spare change, and if I could figure out the timeline, I could probably have a broker make some trades off that knowledge. I wouldn't want to do that too often though. Some nice people from the SEC might have some pointed questions for me. How did the SEC handle precognitives and time travelers?
I racked my memory on Falsworth. Defense company. It was owned by a family of British superheroes. I had a vague recollection of something involving vampires that I couldn't quite place. Nothing that seemed immediately relevant. I'd rack my brain on it later, but realistically, this was never going to affect me.
I wrenched my attention back to the table.
"Understood," I said. "Hammer's sniffing around. Who else?"
Patterson continued."For our first corporate buyer, we have a cutout for Madame Menace. She's an arms dealer from the west coast."
Sunset Bain's alter ego. I wondered what she was up to. More interestingly, how did Patterson know she was corporate. From what little was shown on panel, she kept the division between Madam Menace and Baintronics pretty clear.
I coughed. "Why'd you say she's corporate?"
Patterson shrugged. "Too well equipped. She has an inside track with a big company, I'm just not sure who."
Darrell muttered something darkly that I didn't quite catch.
Patterson stretched, cracking his neck.
"We also have someone who's a cutout for someone with some space interests. Aerospace concern. Asked about what we can give them on one moon rover prototypes and hardening space vehicles against radiation. They didn't seem to care about much else. They're offering good money for it"
He drummed his fingers. "Most interesting corporate buyer is a new one. Shell company, recently incorporated, no prior market history. Routing through two intermediaries neither of whom has worked with them before." He paused. "Someone gave them our name. We don't know who."
"What do they want?"
"Anything related to power armor actuation," Patterson said. "Specifically artificial muscle systems. Carbon nanotube based approaches, thermal actuation, that whole area." He tapped his pen against the table. "They also asked broadly for anything in the database touching on actuator systems generally. Cast a wide net."
Darrell shrugged. "My bet is a defense subcontractor with a troubled internal program trying to scrub the serial numbers off someone else's IP." He turned his coffee cup in his hands. "One thing is interesting though. They sent a follow-up query after the initial contact. Wanted to know specifically if we had anything on powered armor performance against superhumans." He paused. "They tiptoed around that one, but that's what they were asking."
Well that was ominous.
Patterson took a sip of his water. "Serious money behind the shells, but whoever set this up is new to it."
Patterson shrugged and flipped to the next page on his notebook. "I'd still deal with them, but I'd keep my eyes open."
He cleared his throat. "Now, to our government friends?"
I raised an eyebrow. "No smaller concerns want in?"
Darrell chuckled. "Small ball clients don't really have the on-hand capital for transactions like this." He gave me a collegial slap on the back. "You're running with the big dogs now, Quince."
This was less reassuring than it was meant to be, but I accepted it in the spirit in which it was offered.
"First up," Patterson said, opening the folder again. "Someone representing the Genoshan government. Looking specifically for high-performance computing information."
I shook my head before he'd finished the sentence. "Pass."
Ethical concerns aside, and that was a HUGE aside, I didn't even want to tangentially get involved in Genosha's brand of stupidity.
Patterson nodded, unsurprised, and moved on. "Symkarian government representative. Operating through a new group of guns for hire." He frowned slightly. "They're working through a group of mercenaries, but the money they're flashing makes the government connection obvious enough. They want anything with military applications related to directed energy weapons. If we have it, they want it." He paused. "They're paying very well too."
Darrell leaned back in his chair. "Can't really blame them for looking for an edge. Living in a country next to Latveria can't be great from a security standpoint."
"Thirdly," Patterson continued, "A probable go-between for one or more eastern bloc concerns. They want information on space launch systems." A brief pause.
I shrugged. "Pass."
Patterson closed that page. "Finally, the odd one out." He glanced at his notes. "Madripoor connected. Not interested in the majority of the Stane data at all. What they want is anything related to cryogenics, cryonics, suspended animation.."
The table went quiet for a moment.
Darrell turned his coffee cup slowly in his hands. "Huh..."
I thought about the list. I didn't want to sell to anybody who could cause too many ripples, and sour most of my foreknowledge. The increased capital wouldn't be worth ruining my biggest edge. The mystery space concerns, the Madriporian with an interest in cryogenics, along with the Symkarian government all seemed safe to me.
I nodded after making my decision. "The Symkarians, the buyer interested in space, and the Madripoor buyer."
Patterson nodded, unsurprised. "Solid choices." He opened his folder to a fresh page. He pulled a slip of paper from the folder, wrote three things on it, and slid it across the table. A bank name, a number, and two words that looked like they'd been chosen at random. "Account number, and your code phrase. We can deposit into it, but only the phrase holder can withdraw."
I looked at it for a moment, then committed all three to memory.
"Call the bank in about a week," Patterson continued. "Give them the account number and the phrase, then change the phrase to something only you know. Standard practice." A brief pause. "The call will cost you a few dollars. Bring quarters. "
I pocketed the slip. I'd memorize it and burn it tonight.
"I have your crew's banking details. What cut are you giving them"
"Stack gets eight percent of my share. Angela gets ten."
Patterson noted both without reaction. He capped his pen, closed the folder, and stood.
"You should expect just over a million USD in the Swiss account once the buyers settle. That should happen in about a week."
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Quince." He extended his hand.
I shook it, slightly dazed. That was far more than enough capital to see me to California, and tide me over while I worked on arranging my final injection of illicit capital before I became an upstanding member of society.
Darrell stood as well, reaching across the table. "Likewise." His handshake was slightly less rehearsed.
Patterson picked up his folder and walked out without ceremony, already moving on to whatever came next in his day.
Darrell watched him go, then turned back to me. He lowered his voice slightly, not quite conspiratorial, just habitual. "The database. What do you want out of it now? The whole thing isn't going to be in a more compact format for a while."
"Anything power armor related."
Darrell nodded slowly. "We won't have the whole thing ready to roll for a month. We're transferring every bit of information the clients are paying for first, and that takes priority." He shrugged. "But power armor is a specific enough slice that pulling it separately isn't a problem. I'll get you that right now."
"Appreciate it."
He picked up his coffee cup, found it empty, and set it back down with a distinct air of resignation. "You got any plans after you get the money?"
"Move out of NYC. See some new scenery."
Darrell nodded. "West coast?"
"Probably. Want to leave soon though,so I'm not going to be around to pick up the storage medium for the DB. Can you mail it?"
"Nothing so crude as mailing it." He was already moving toward one of the terminals. "I've got people out there I can coordinate with. Standard drop arrangement. You call a number when you're settled, they set a location, you pick up the package." He pulled up something on the terminal, copied a number onto a Post-it, and handed it across. "Keep that somewhere safe. Don't call it until you're ready."
I pocketed it.
Darrell turned back to the terminal and spent about four minutes typing commands with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this particular task many times. A drive bay clicked open. He slid in a cartridge, waited, pulled it back out when the indicator light stopped blinking, and held it out.
The cartridge was roughly the size of a thick 3.5-inch floppy, beige plastic casing, and no visible branding. He set it on the table next to a small adapter unit slightly larger then the cartridge with a serial port on one end.
"Proprietary storage format," Darrell said. "We borrowed the concept from a startup that was doing interesting things with magnetic media density." He picked up the adapter. "You'll need this to read it. Standard serial connection, should work with anything reasonably current." He set both on the table. "About six hundred megabytes on that cartridge. More than enough for what I pulled."
I picked up the cartridge and turned it over. No markings except a small handwritten label in Darrell's neat block letters. POWER ARMOR.
"The Iron Man program material is gone," Darrell added. "There wasn't much of it in the main computer to begin with and whoever deleted it was thorough. What's on there is Mandroid specs, Guardsman documentation, and scattered materials science data that was adjacent to the main program but not part of it." He paused. "There's also something from a third project I couldn't fully identify. Flagged it in the index."
I restrained a curse. I'd look through it myself tonight and see how badly off I was.
I slipped both the cartridge and the adapter into my backpack
"Thanks Darrell."
He waved it off, already turning back to his terminal. "Go west, young man."
I rolled my eyes and made my way back through the facility. After an elevator ride back upstairs, I nodded at the LMD on the way out, and pushed through the glass doors into the early afternoon.