March 2012

"Help Desk call centre, this is Taylor, operator 4191. This is not a secure line. How may I help you?" Taylor leaned back in his chair, thinking mostly about the programming manual he'd downloaded onto his phone earlier. RQOS had come out with an update, and he was considering installing a monitoring system for his flat. A few local properties had been burgled recently.

"If you were a mafia boss with a private art collection, what would you install under a floor plate?" came the bizarre response. "Oh — it's Bond again. I've been dialling the Help Desk for the last hour trying to get you. Does no one there know how to transfer a damned call?"

Taylor smiled, thankful that the interruption from RQOS had been worthy of his attention. "Agent Bond. I'm glad you survived New Zealand. It's all automated, so I don't know that anything actually can be manually transferred," he said with a chuckle. "What kind of metal is the floorplate?"

"Excellent question, since it's under a cobalt blue Persian rug — the thick, hand-woven type. I'm surrounded by paintings, so the usual suspect, something explosive, is out of the question. I'm suspecting it'll just communicate an alarm, but since no one's come running, it's most likely a step-off trigger, like a landmine. Which would be awkward, given that I'm most definitely not supposed to be in this particular country."

Taylor sat up a little straighter, alarmed. He tried not to let it bleed into his voice, though, when he responded with a simple, "Oh. That's awkward. Give us a sec."

It seemed unlikely that there would be anything really powerful under the plate — if it had been strong enough to hold Bond's weight for any length of time, it would probably ricochet any directed ammunition into the paintings. So it was most likely a control switch or relay.

"Wait," Taylor suddenly said. "You've been standing there for an hour, waiting for me?"

There was an embarrassed sort of pause. "This is his vacation home, so no one's here except the maid service, and they left earlier this morning. And my idio— er, Q Branch contact is... I don't know, in after-school detention or something. I need a communications specialist, not an inventory fetishist who expects me to account for every bloody bullet I fire," he added persuasively.

Taylor chuckled. He didn't mind playing Q Branch stand-in for 007. In fact, he wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that in the weeks following the last call, he'd been slightly disappointed every time the phone rang and it wasn't Agent Bond. James. Not that Taylor would say that to the agent himself. "Fair enough. How big is this rug?"

"Twelve-by-nineteen or twenty feet, give or take — I'm estimating the far side. I'm at the principle border, lower right, by the room's secondary entrance from the servant's corridor. There's a truly horrid glass sculpture covering the central medallion. The floor beneath should have been all travertine, so if there's a pressure plate under the travertine, it's got to be strong enough to withstand the weight of two-foot-square tile. I barely even felt the click, truth be told." His sigh was frustrated. "If it's going to call out for help, I'd just like to know, since I'm a bit limited on ammunition."

Well, it would be easy enough for Taylor to find out — but it wouldn't be wise to do a quick bit of hacking from the Help Desk. Taylor hesitated, contemplating the risk of being caught (quite small, if he were honest with himself) versus the fun of keeping the operative alive (and thus likely to call again). "If you give me the address, I'll know in five to ten minutes. But you absolutely cannot share with Q Branch that I helped you, or I'll be fired. Or deleted."

"Actually, you won't. I can guarantee that," Bond answered grimly, before reciting an address that he had to spell out twice. Mike had never heard of Lubyanka, which was apparently a suburb of Moscow. That explained a bit about why Bond was so concerned about an alarm going off.

"Either way, I don't want the attention," Taylor said as he started doing a static IP records search for the address. The suburb was served by several telecoms organizations, but they weren't exactly models of modern security, so it only took a few moments before he was trolling Whois for the security designer's name and pinging the IP for verification. Hacking the network was disturbingly easy (should have gone with Red Queen, he thought evilly), and between that and the schematics the designer kept on his personal server (idiot), it took only a few quick minutes to figure out exactly what tricky little contraption Bond was standing on.

"Oh," he said to himself as he fiddled with the router. "OK, so, I have good news and bad news."

"Which is actually an improvement over a customary mission, believe it or not," Bond said wryly.

"The good news is that I've disabled all outgoing communications from the security system, so you don't have to worry about the Rent-a-Cops. The bad news is that there are lethal countermeasures installed under the plate, so you can't step off it just yet."

"Fantastic. I'm going to guess the security is gas," Bond said thoughtfully. "Probably something inert to displace the oxygen. The room's environmentally sealed to protect the paintings."

"Yes, it's noncorrosive so as not to damage any of the artwork." Taylor looked at the name of the gas on the designer's schematic, but decided to save himself the embarrassment of trying to pronounce it correctly. "That means that if you can hold your breath long enough to get out of the room, you'll be fine. I'll open all the doors and ensure nothing is locked, so you will be able to run. Then I'll lock it behind you again to keep it contained, so the poor maid doesn't get a nasty surprise when she gets back. Just give me a moment."

"You can do that?" Bond sounded impressed.

"It's not that hard once you're in the system," Taylor murmured as he set the doorlock timers. "Are you ready? Count of three?"

"Ready."

Taylor unlocked the doors and waited a few extra seconds for the command to reach Russia. Then he started counting for Bond, hand hovering over the lock button. He need to make sure none of the gas escaped to the rest of the house — Bond may not mind having fatalities, but Taylor would avoid it wherever possible. "One... two... three!"

He didn't hear anything except a soft huff of breath.

Then there was a loud, metallic click — followed by a series of additional clicks that shouldn't have happened.

Taylor sat forward, closing his eyes to concentrate on the sound through the single, low-quality earpiece on his headset.

"Privyet," Bond said cheerfully.

"Thank Christ," Taylor said with relief. This helping out against lethal security systems wasn't something he had much experience with — it was a lot more dramatic and adrenaline-producing than he realized. Suddenly, RQOS didn't seem quite so attractive.

"Not quite," Bond said, just as Taylor heard voices start to shout in angry, harsh Russian.

He jerked the earpiece away from his head as gunfire rang out, deafeningly close. Then, he remembered Bond saying something about limited ammunition. He scanned the security system quickly, looking for something, anything, useful to use to help Bond escape.

Then, thank god, he heard Bond say, "Interesting," before there was another loud flurry of explosions, followed by the sound of splintering wood.

"I'm looking for something to help you. There must be more lethal countermeasures around there somewhere..." Taylor muttered. "What's interesting?"

"AK-12, prototype," Bond said over three more sharp explosions. "Guessing 7.62 NATO, could be 39mm. She's lovely," he almost purred, followed by another quick burst of gunfire.

"Shiny," Taylor said with a grin. "I've read a little about them, from one of the inter-office circulars. They're not due to come out until next year, are they?"

"Which makes it very" — he cut off for a moment, over a loud thump and agonised scream — "interesting that they have them." He huffed in irritation. "That was a new silk tie."

"There have been rumours about accuracy, so if it doesn't have a muzzle break on it watch out for that." He paused. "Or, just empty as many rounds as humanly possible into the bad guys. I hear that the sound of shells falling during rapid fire is like a bell choir."

Bond laughed grimly. "Let me just — Spasibo," he said, and there was a single gunshot, followed by, "Now I have spare magazines. Check the fence. Is it wired? It wasn't when I snuck in."

Taylor did a quick scan. "Yes, looks like they've reactivated some of the security measures from the control room. Don't touch it until I tell you. How long do you need to clear it? I'll reactivate it behind you."

For a moment, Bond said nothing, and Taylor wondered if he'd been hurt. Visions of blood loss and unconsciousness filled his thoughts, and he started to wonder if there was someone at MI6 — someone more qualified — that he should notify.

And then, almost reverently, Bond asked, "There's a control room?"

"Well, yes," Taylor said. Of course there would be. No one type-A enough to have deadly floor panels under Persian rugs would trust the running of his home security to someone offsite. "It's the office in the front right corner of the building."

"The one listed on my blueprint as 'cleaning supplies'." Bond took a breath. "Right, then. Care to have some fun, Taylor?"

"Something tells me you're not about to invite me out dancing," Taylor said dryly. "All right. Let me lock the guards out."

"I'll let you know when I'm at the control room," Bond said, and went back to shooting a few seconds later.

There was definitely something to be said for having a pet Help Desk operator, even one who didn't speak a word of Russian. With Bond providing translations, Taylor was able to help him figure out some of the more obscure security systems, and the experimentation never sounded a remote alarm, thanks to Taylor cutting off external communication. Of course, Bond had no damned idea how he'd managed — only that he had.

The quick response of the guards was worrying — especially given the military-grade hardware they were carrying. They'd operated like a trained squad, too, forcing Bond to take measures that were more reckless than even he generally preferred. Taylor couldn't help with that, but he stayed on the line anyway. Not that Bond blamed him. Even listening in on an action movie had to be more fun than clearing printer jams or whatever else he did with his day.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder how Taylor was keeping his cool, listening to a total of sixteen deaths. Was he treating it like a video game? Refusing to think about the aftermath of the shots Bond fired? Hopefully he wouldn't end up in Psych for this. Just the thought made Bond feel a bit guilty, even though technically Bond was permitted to use any and all MI6 resources to complete his missions, including an unsuspecting Help Desk technician.

"I believe it's clear," he said, once he returned to the control room for the last time. "Since I've managed to completely cock-up the 'leave no trace' parameter of the mission, I think I'm safe to do as I like. Do you see anything that looks like a security vault?"

"Wine cellar, second door on the left," Taylor answered quickly.

"Lovely." Bond headed that way, stepping over a body and onto a handful of shell casings. When the metal rang out like bells, he paused and gathered them up, remembering what Taylor had said. He grinned and went to the back of the sprawling house, where the stairs led down to the wine cellar. At the top of the stairs, though, he stopped, realising he didn't hear any emergency sirens. "Wait. Why aren't the police coming?"

"Because I intercepted any calls that were from anywhere around you." Taylor paused. "Don't tell anyone I did that, either."

Bond grinned fiercely. "You're not going to get in any trouble. And if you did, I have a lovely illegal black market AK-12 that says otherwise." He headed down the stairs and into the sort of wine cellar that could tempt Bond into a life of crime. He wasn't poor by any measure, but he didn't have quite this much cash to invest in a collection. He rather hoped he wouldn't have to blow the house, but it was looking likely. He'd have to cover up the deaths somehow.

"I just don't want the attention, Bond," Taylor said insistently. "Did you find it?"

"Hmm." Bond eyed the heavy steel door without touching it. It was a custom install, not a specific brand — probably the size of a full room, rather than a large single-piece unit recessed in the wall. "Security measures?"

"Disabled." Taylor's voice was matter-of-fact and free of smugness, however deserved. "It's unlocked."

"Suddenly I'm feeling redundant," Bond said, grinning, as he pulled open the vault door. Automatic lights came on, and he let out a low whistle. "Well. I found the rest of the guns," he murmured as he walked between the racks hanging on the walls to either side of the doorway. "Don't let that lock behind me, please."

"Don't tell me you're claustrophobic?" Taylor asked, sounding amused. "Super secret spy agent, who just killed almost twenty people, afraid of small spaces? I might have to have a chuckle, if that's the case."

"Rather enamoured of breathing. Remind me to tell you about the sarcophagus one day... Well, there you are," he said as he finally found the computer. He knelt down, took a multi-tool out of his jacket, and opened the screwdriver end so he could open the case. With any luck, the security codes to the Novaya Zemlya defence base — which didn't exist — would be on the hard drive. "Technically, this doesn't exist. You're certain you don't want me mentioning this? This could damn well get you a commendation, you know."

"No, thank you. I'm happy here at the Help Desk, not banished to Alaska or forced to be one of the incompetents in Q Branch," Taylor said with a huff. "And what is the 'this' you've mentioned? Never mind. I'm certain it's above my security clearance."

"Just a bit," Bond admitted, unscrewing the side of the case. "What colour's your living room?"

"Blue. But don't laugh. It came that way, and I'm not one for painting," Taylor said defensively. But then it seemed to occur to him that wasn't a normal sort of question to ask a Help Desk operator. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"What's wrong with blue? I like blue," Bond said absently as the side of the case clattered out of the way. He looked into the computer and frowned. "Well, bugger. Which one of you bastards is it? I don't have enough pockets to carry all of you."

"Something wrong?"

"Two hard drives in front — one's an SSD — and four more down at the bottom."

"What are you looking for?"

"Intel. Very illegal, very classified, very valuable intel that he's using against a certain ministry official whom we like."

"Is the computer on? I can probably find it for you."

"It is," Bond said, feeling the fan at the back, "but it's not hooked up to anything — no keyboard or monitor."

"That's fine. You don't need to see it; I do. Give me a name or some sort of identifier I can use to search out the files while I look for where it lives on the network."

Bond searched the computer for stickers, and then he chuckled. "Would a Dell service tag work?"

There was a pause. "You're kidding." Taylor laughed. "The guy is keeping spy shit on a Dell that's still under warranty?" There was a pause, followed by some typing. "The SSD is the only one that has serious encryption on it — the rest are... Oh. That's just sick."

"Stay away from that," Bond said quickly, knowing exactly what Taylor had found. "Be comforted that it'll stop as soon as I have this intel verified. Anything I should know before taking out the SSD? Do I need to power down or can I just unplug things?"

"Shut it off first," Taylor responded quickly. "Though if you turn it back on when you're done, I can melt the rest of the drives," he said darkly.

Bond grimaced. "Are any of them just... that? I can take it back to Station M to run facial recognition. We might get one or two missing person's hits. Then we can burn the rest of the drives."

"You said you don't have room to carry them, right? What if I copy the files to a Station M server for you? Then you won't have to physically carry them, and I can make sure the, uh, files don't end up anywhere else?"

"Perfect," Bond said, relieved. He powered the computer down and started to remove the SSD. For all the things he'd done in his career, there were some lines he would sooner die than cross. Even thinking of touching that particular drive made his skin crawl. "I know the DGSE is working — well, this may have links to Austria and Belgium. If this works... well, a lot of people will be very pleased. Let me call Station M and get you a server address. I'll tell them I'm doing it. Does that work?"

"Yes." Bond could hear as Taylor typed and clicked, then stopped. A chair squeaked. "Is he dead?"

"No. Not yet, at any rate. Why?"

"I can make it pretty hard for him to find a computer, anywhere, that will ever work properly for him again," Taylor said with a dark chuckle. "I may not have a gun, but I can certainly make someone's life hell."

Bond grinned fiercely. "I'll keep that in mind. For now, though — well, not that the sixteen corpses in his house will be any help. Believe me, I don't plan on letting this drop." He pocketed the SSD and then hit the power button. "Right. Calling Station M. Look for a directory there with my name. Dump the information there, and then destroy this computer."

"Excellent." The typing resumed. "This was kind of fun. Not the... well, the horribleness. But actually doing something useful. Thanks."

"Thank you, Taylor." Bond hesitated, and then hung up to call Station M. He wished Taylor weren't quite so secretive about this, but it did guarantee that no one else would learn just how useful he could be.

April 2012

Mike flipped the printer over on his desk and started pulling off the back panel. It technically wasn't his job to do repairs to broken equipment — he was supposed to put a 'DNR' (dead, needs replacement) tag on it and let someone else do the switch — but he was restless. Last month's phone call with Bond had actually been incredibly exciting, and going back to routine power cycling was... not.

He sighed, and stabbed a screwdriver into the the crack between the panel and the casing with more force than was strictly necessary. He knew that if he let himself get promoted to Q Branch, he'd be able to do that sort of thing more often. But it wasn't worth it. He'd spent enough time being the golden child (who was never actually good enough) to know that showing off and being clever never actually got you anywhere, except under a pile of crushing expectations. It was why he left MIT without finishing, why he was a freeware developer, and why he would never leave the Help Desk.

Besides, there was something... delicious, he decided, about being Bond's personal tech.

He didn't recognise the clerk who walked over and tapped his cubicle wall. "Taylor, 4191?"

"Yes?" he asked suspiciously. He'd been thorough in covering his tracks, but it didn't stop him from being slightly worried that he was about to be busted at any moment.

The clerk offered a box, a foot square and a few inches deep, with a clipboard on top of it. The box was from an office supply company. "Sign."

Taylor signed and took the box, unable to stop himself from shaking it. Though it was light, it jangled a little in what sounded like metal hitting metal. "Thanks," he told the clerk before turning back to the box.

"Uh huh." The clerk took the clipboard and left.

Annie wasn't currently on duty, so Taylor spun his chair and rolled over to her desk to steal her scissors. He used them to cut the thick layers of tape, smiling at the TAYLOR 4191 HELP DESK scrawled in red marker across the top of the box. Inside, instead of peanuts, he found layers of bubble wrap. He put the scissors back in Annie's drawer and returned to his side of the shared cube, where he shoved the dead printer out of the way.

Carefully, he removed the bundle of bubble wrap, exposing something painted in black and gold. He unwrapped the layers gently, revealing an exquisite black box painted with delicate gold filigree along the sides and around the top. In the centre of the top was a painted scene of two cranes in a pool under a starry sky. The brush strokes were hair-fine.

It was gorgeous. Taylor smiled as he ran his hands lightly along the surface of the image. For a brief moment he worried that it might actually be from the creep's house, but dismissed the idea. Not only did it seem unlikely that Bond would be that crass, but the main colour in the background of the image was blue. He smiled at the idea that Bond had poked around some Russian shop, looking for something that would match his living room.

The lid was hinged. He opened it and then his smile turned into a grin when he saw a half dozen spent brass bullet casings, about two inches long. A small scrap of paper — a receipt from a Russian Starbucks — had a note on the back:

He's dead. — 007