Homesick
Chapter Twenty-One - Counterfeit

Vladimir’s face was sweaty as he keyed commands into his hand-held, being careful not to dislodge the lead, which stuck tenuously to the key, still connected to the console. He was used to being thwarted by one barrier after another, and now suspected he’d underestimated his hated Canadian captain. Taking a deep breath, he inspected his contraption.

“Access!” he panted. “Show operator ID!”

A picture appeared next to the key card. It was a picture of him, his face not quite shaven and his eyes half closed. Below it was an eight-digit number. Normally, this number was not visible on the console. The same number was lit up on his hand-held in a field that glowed green, indicating that it was selected for editing. At a stroke, the last digit in the string changed. The picture, together with the identity tagline went blank. Entering another command, the digits began to advance sequentially, both on the hand-held display and on the console. At the touch of another icon, they sped up. He watched the console unblinkingly, breathing heavy with anticipation. Briefly, a picture flickered on in the identity field as one of the numbers flying by made sense to the computer. He stabbed the touch screen and the numbers stopped. He punched in other commands and the numbers slowly rolled back in reverse order. The picture appeared again, staying longer. Working feverishly, Vlad scrolled the numbers back and forth, finally stopping them when the image stabilized. The number on the display now matched the ID of another member of the crew, and the picture confirmed it. The picture was that of a broad-shouldered, baby-faced man with a crew cut and a confident smile. The caption below it read, “Scott Charles Anderson.”

Vladimir copied the number onto another field for later use before setting the numbers cycling again. Another picture flew by. With more practice now, he caught it more quickly. There was his pay-dirt. Sally Buds’ beaming face looked out from the screen. She appeared slightly younger in the picture, but her blonde hair held the same organized flow over her shoulders. Her countenance looked content, optimistic, and perhaps a little naïve, with all the fear of the last few weeks effectively erased from her eyes. He took down the number with a triumphant laugh.

“Now I have won, Canada bitch!” he chanted. “Now I have won!”

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