Millennium Falcon Business Class is a bit of an unhinged crime caper.
This is part 5 of 5.
If our insider intel is correct, and for the sake of Aira’s body structural integrity it better be, Herr Caspar has a full day of market hours in stock exchanges on both sides of the Atlantic ahead, and sure as hell is bound to do some day trading — another thing that makes this particular flight so damn perfect.
That’s where our sweet complimentary WiFi service comes into play. Each trading transaction needs to be verified by a few layers of unbreakable biometric checks. Real time facial recognition enhanced with all kinds of spatial data and challenges — smile this, turn your head that — capacitative fingerprint scanners, and code generators. As brilliant as we are, breaching stuff like that is miles above our collective hive mind.
We won’t have to crack it, though. Instead, we have our own server spoof the appearance of the legit trading service. Every time the esteemed money guru will try to make a transaction, our server will initiate a sale of our own then pop the biometric challenge for Conradin’s approval, which he’ll do, confirming our trades instead of his.
With a staggering half a bil Dollars warchest at Caspar Wealth’s disposal, it should be easy to manipulate the markets to move a significant pile of dough our way. In the course of the next 12 hours, we will be buying vast amounts of specific undervalued stocks for Conradin’s fund, increasing their value with each sale, and hopefully, triggering investors’ FOMO, skyrocketing the target companies to ridiculous valuations. Businesses that we’ve been thoughtfully buying up for mere pennies. Once the valuations hit a 20-30x point, we’ll sell our stock, cash out, and leave Herr Caspar’s fund with a crapton of shitty stock. Easy.
“Can’t we just grab the money and call it a day?” Asked Kevin when I laid out the plan, what now seems a lifetime ago.
“Nah. They’ll trace that shit.” I shot back then, rolling my eyes. “Good luck ‘splaining a sudden million bucks in your account to authorities. There’s no such thing as anonymous accounts. Not unless you live in a movie or something. Winning big from market bets is safer and perfectly legit.”
My phone pings announcing a message. It’s from Aira. “CALL ME RIGHT NOW!!!” it says. What the?
A grunt from across the aisle draws my attention away from the screen as Conradin raises his head groggily. As if on cue, Kim jumps up to him. “Welcome on board, Herr Caspar.”
The man looks around with bewilderment like he has been woken up on another planet, then says something that makes my innards turn to stone.
“How did I get here?” He asks. “And… who’s Caspar?”
While I have you, my tiny but feisty dark story Perfectopia is currently just 99c on Amazon (or free with Kindle Unlimited subscription). It's a totally unhinged near-future dystopian shit. You’ll love it.
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