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Four towers in the dead center of the compound jutted out through a hole in the dome. While the largest of the towers was narrow, used primarily as an observation deck on its top floors, the other three towers were reserved for administrative purposes.
Access could be obtained through an employee’s-only corridor beyond the observation deck elevators. Beyond, the halls were the same clinical corporate off-white as in the industrial park.
City Hall – the curt signage stood over an unassuming double door.
“Keys to the kingdom ought to be here, right?” Germaine asked.
“This is a public facing office.” Miss Diaz said. “Façade for tourists. Keep walking. Real magic’s in the back.”
Down the hall and up a flight of stairs another double door, dubbed Operations, awaited. The doors here were thicker, triple-barred by multiple deadbolts and a buffet of authentication methods.
“Retinal, DNA, wristband. Any two will do.”
Vic’s armband served as the first method of authentication. The other methods, eye scanners, fingerprint scanners, would require them to track down an administrator. A keypad looked like the weakest method of defense.
“We can always shoot out the hinges,” Germaine offered with a smile.
Instead of trying to hack the keypad, Miss Diaz placed an open palm on a viscous gel-looking plate above the knob.
“Welcome back valued stockholder,” the speaker devolved into a garbled mess. “-am Devereaux. It has been eight-hundred-ninety-two days since the last attempted labor agitation.”
A metallic thunk came from deep in the wall. The double-doors swung open, revealing an operations room not unlike what the crew had picked through at Cape Canaveral.
Three rows of imbedded computing systems sat overlooking the “show floor,” hidden behind a two-way mirror. The setup allowed for a two hundred seventy-degree panopticon view of the Futureplex.
Miss Diaz and Vic made a beeline for a computer in the first row, the only one that was powered on.
A thick layer of dust was kicked up when Germaine ran a gloved finger over the nearest desk.
“Park and Futureplex are on autopilot,” Miss Diaz said. “Which means essential systems are online, as are any rides that don’t require computers.”
Soto and Dan investigated a set of three workstations on the righthand side of the room.
“The… Pinkerton Desk?” Soto poked around in a computer, which remained dusty, unlit, and powered down.
“Power is all routed to the park,” Miss Diaz said. “We need to re-route it back to the northern monorail track. Reactor substation should be beneath the parking lot.”
Germaine poked around at a desk labeled “power.” It, too, was inert.
“Reactor?” he asked.
There was no response from their employers.
“You’re telling me this sucker is nuclear?”
“Devereaux was leased total control of the future site of Devereaux’s World of Tomorrow Futureplex,” Vic explained. “Charter includes self-regulatory rights over all forms of power generation.”
“Nuclear power plant is far to the west,” Miss Diaz added. “It used to be part of the tour. They removed it from brochures and gradually reduced plant operations after some kind of accident up north wiped out a few towns in Pennsylvania.”
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“Executive tower is on lockdown until we manually grant ourselves access from here. That doesn’t happen until we get the power diverted.”
The operations center would be their base camp, for now. They dumped their packs at a spare desk.
“Someone needs to go down into the basement and flip another circuit breaker.” Miss Diaz pointed to a dense schematic.
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“Also need to hack into a substation,” Vic said. “It’s beyond the western neighborhoods.”
What’s more, this would have to be done near simultaneously.
Germaine scratched at his chin stubble. “We’re splitting into three groups. Somebody stays here on lookout. Garage sounds like a one-man op. Rest of us can then head out to the substation.”
“I’ll stay,” Miss Diaz said.
“Not alone. One of us stays here too.” Germaine said.
“The garage fuses are behind a security door,” Dan said.
“Then you’re going down there with us. Hey, Soto, stay here and guard our meal ticket.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Miss Diaz said. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“That’s the problem.” Germaine stamped his feet. “Worst case scenario: you get injured and incapacitated, to the point where you can’t sign our paychecks. Even worse case scenario: you leave us at the monorail station and take off with our cut of the loot.”
“Vic’s going with you,” Miss Diaz said.
Germaine shook his head, unimpressed. Who was this Russian manservant and/or mercenary to her, anyway? If Diaz ever felt like abandoning the whole salvage op on some pretense, she’d likely consider Vic an acceptable loss. He wasn’t family. And anyone funding this clandestine salvage-turned-urban-exploration mission out of pocket was typically no hero to their valet.
In the end, Soto and Diaz would wait in the operations room, as mission control. Vic, Dan, and Germaine were to find the lowest point of the garage and secure the circuit breakers. Only then would they decide how to tackle the substation.
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To reach the fuses, the away team had to walk around the show floor in search of an un-barricaded stairwell.
“Hey, ma’am, where the hell are we?”
The floor was a sea of red tiling. All around were shops, familiar brand names that had gone defunct in the turbulence of the last few decades. Germaine still recognized Woolworths from the main street back home.
“You’re in the shopping center.” Soto’s voice came over the radio.
“Well, that’s obvious,” Germaine said.
“Stairwells are clustered on the outskirts. Head to the border.”
They were standing just a block or two away from the tower. The border between this red shopping district and whatever was in the blue quarter ought to be closer than hiking to the far walls.
The humidity of the show floor grew stifling as the day wore on. Climate control would’ve been necessary to operate any park of this scale in this glorified greenhouse. Particularly in this climate. Florida heat practically turns it into a sauna.
Most, but not all, electric lighting was down. Diaz had mentioned something about an emergency power mode. One or two signs were still lit in a fading neon glow.
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Shadows fell over the pavilion as the towers came between the dome and the sun. When combined with a tinted ceiling, a full quarter of the Futureplex was bathed in an artificial twilight.
Germaine looked up. There was something above the dome now, hiding in the sun’s glare.
“That a blimp?”
An oblong, grey cigar-shaped monstrosity loomed overhead. A proper look could not be had, as the sun’s damaging corona still cut through the protective glass.
“It’s the Devereaux World dirigible,” Diaz said, via radio.
“Didn’t it used to show up for football games?” Germaine asked.
“I don’t remember it.” Dan shook his head. “You must be thinking of something else.”
“They’ve got eyes on us,” Germaine said.
“They’re probably more concerned with the barbarians at the gates,” Soto said. “Look east.”
Rocket propelled weaponry arced into the sky. Contrails stopped well short of the blimp and out of range of the Futureplex. They were unguided, not meant for true surface to air combat against anything more than a low-flying helicopter.
“Those rockets have to fall somewhere,” Germaine said.
Diaz’s voice came in over the radio. “Already crashing in the eastern neighborhoods. It’s mostly abandoned already.”
Nothing we need to worry about then, Germaine thought. At least not until they bust through the front gate.
Everywhere they checked, the stairs were cordoned off with a heavy metal gate. The whole place is locked down.
One of the stalls on the outskirts of the red quarter /shopping district was staffed. An industrial-strength fan sat on the table where a drink machine would’ve been. A lone employee, a fit mid-thirties or fairly haggard mid-twenties, was dressed in an all-black uniform too fancy for a simple food service clerk.
“Smoothie bar, huh?” Germaine read off the sign.
“You the new guys who came in on the monorail?” the clerk asked. “We don’t get many tourists these days. Not since the corporate raiders took over.”
“Where are the stairs?”
“At every intersection,” the clerk said. “Most are locked down, though.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“No reason to head down to the motor pool. Supplies come through by air now. And that’s mostly ‘bot fodder and the odd container of medical supplies. Supplies to build and repair the bots. Anything that keeps humans ticking is manufactured on site.”
“Let’s pretend that we do need to get down there,” Germaine motioned towards the revolver on his belt. “Where to?”
The clerk thought for a bit.
“International Boulevard may work. That was the last place to close. Contraband was always smuggled through there.”
Germaine turned to Vic and Dan. “You heard ‘em.”
The pair loitered, waiting for instructions from Diaz and Soto. Germaine turned back to the clerk.
“Pleasure doin’ business. You, ah, really work here?”
The clerk shook his head. “Nobody’s collected rent in two years. So long as I come in here and clock in, paycheck gets automatically credited to my DevereauxBank account. Company script of course – mostly just works with the stores here in the Futureplex. But those stores keep getting stocked, yeah? Automated systems, ‘bots handle deliveries.”
“Are there others?” Germaine asked.
“I make the rounds for the families still squatting in the south ward. Clock in for ‘em.”
This fellow was a walking anthropological study of… whatever oddball society this Futureplex was meant to house. Maybe once they were done, they could give the guy a proper interview.
“Be careful down there,” the clerk said as the crew disappeared down the nearby alley. “It’s only ever ‘bots that go into the basement these days. And steer clear of the maintenance bay.”
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