Lunatics

Lunatics · Chap 017 · The man from the Moon

17 · The man from the Moon

DANTE’S TRANSPORTER was a Vixen-45, a model which Phaedro had stopped producing two years back. It had real problems with the hydrogen injection and the energy distribution; it was too much for those who could choose from the Ergos, with its trustworthy distribution and high performance, and the Zorkas, with popular prices and robust internal space. Phaedro had cancelled the 45’s and began to assemble the 52’s, free of the energy management problems, after having signed a billionaire contract with the administration of Andinos. They had mounted a plant in Arequipa specifically to provide flyers to the local police squadrons.

The Hermes OS was the strong point with the Vixen-45’s. Its protection keys were a headache for those who wanted to reprogram the controls to steal a machine in which it had been installed.

Unlocking Hermes security codes was a child’s play to Chico Manoel though. He was famous in Guararapes and its surroundings for his skills in liberating transporters for a night ride with his mates. Every time the groups of different districts had the intention of borrowing one transporter for an illegal race, they would invite Chico Manoel.

Reprogramming Dante’s Vixen was easier with the dead man’s IDCard. After having arrived at the garage and discovering two other transporters there—proof the octogenarian was not the only tenant in that vertical garbage dump—he was capable, even with his right arm hurt, of making the machine purr less than five minutes of light work. Being a left-handed made it quite simpler.

The batteries had charge enough to take him where he needed. His luck seemed to fail him when he faced the heavy traffic on the Expressway. He took unbelievable fifteen minutes to get at Suzano International Airport.

He left the Vixen with the garage attendant and walked up to the huge entrance hall where he disposed of the ticked throwing it into a trashcan—he had no intention of paying for the service and getting the transporter back.

There was a fancy post office at the hall and it was his goal.

At the safes section, he was nicely attended by an ugly young woman.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m leaving and need to fetch a pack I had left some while ago.”

“I’ll need your card, Mr…”

“Francisco.”

His hands were not shaking although he knew the moment she had his card read, the alert for the federals would be given. He had rehearsed that three times before. All the attendants—three different ones—spent no more than seven minutes to bring the pack back. He also had asked for police help and he was sure they would not arrive sooner than fifteen minutes after the alarm sounded. He knew the cracks were more predictable than post officers. He would have ten minutes ahead of them. His voice was also firm.

“Here it is.”

She immediately used the IDCard and the expenses were automatically charged. She checked the number of the safe and gave the card back to its owner, speaking mostly to herself.

“Safe 320.”

“If you say so...”

His ironic remark made her smile faintly. You’re less ugly without smiling, lass.

“It will take a minute or two, sir. Would you mind seating while you wait?”

“I’m ok, thanks.”

This time, his voice sounded uncertain. The ugly girl turned her back to him, going for the back part of the office while he turned to the front of the post office, checking the time displayed on the wall clock.