Zelda Verada's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

The blueprints went back into their folder, but the ledger stayed open on Zelda's cot. She had written two new names into it that morning, and the tin cup still held down a curling corner of paper. The problem was the paper itself. Every promise, every inventory count, every note on who owed what was living on loose sheets and the back page of a worn book. If she caught a fever and slept two days, the operation went blind. She sent word to Kira Dallas before noon. Kira came at dusk with a pack on her back and mud on her boots. She sat on the crate opposite Zelda and did not waste a greeting. "Show me the system," she said. Zelda showed her the ledger, the rolodex, the stack of index cards held together with wire. Kira flipped through in silence. "Look. This is a chokepoint. One book, one hand, one bad night. If you go down, nobody can read half of what's in here anyway." She set the ledger down. "Donovan restored four laptops last month. Two of them boot clean. I'll loan them against your standing account." Zelda thought of the runner bleeding out before he could tell them what he knew. "Medical records first," she said. "Patient histories, allergies, dose logs. Then inventory. Then the alliance ledger, encrypted." Kira nodded once. "Encryption I can handle. Kevin has a cipher tool he'll release to me if I ask." She paused. "He surprised me with that one, actually. He doesn't usually share…" She caught herself and moved on. "You'll need someone to set the machines up. I don't have the hours." Zelda found Donovan at the workbench behind the equipment shop, headphones around his neck, a bright red file case open at his elbow. She told him what she needed. "Oh man, yes," he said. "Those Katanas are solid. I already stripped the network cards so nothing broadcasts. Give me till morning and you'll have a working terminal." He was already reaching for his tool kit. "You want a paper backup routine too? Because hard drives die and I've watched three go this year." She said yes to the backup. He grinned and got to work. By the next afternoon two laptops sat on a plank between the cot and the autoclave, screens glowing pale in the tent light. Donovan showed her the login, the folder structure, the encrypted partition. He handed her a worn notebook filled with his own handwriting — every promise he had made and kept, every deal broken by someone else. "Reference," he said. "So you know how I track things. Copy what works." Zelda began with the medical files. She typed patient names, injuries, treatments. She typed until her wrists ached and the sun dropped behind the fence. She logged forty-three files before she stopped. The ledger sat closed beside the machine, no longer the only copy of anything. She reached for the next stack. It was the alliance inventory, and the first sheet listed Andy's keycard. She stared at the entry. The system worked. Now it held things that could get people killed if it failed.