by Micah Thomas
She reached towards the wall, hand hesitating before making contact. “Well, I’m here. What the fuck do I do now?”
She didn’t expect an answer. “Nothing, Cassie. No one in or out in two years.”
Fuck. Jeff was there. He’d guessed where she was going and beaten her.
Cassie spun around and saw him. The first thing she noticed was that he had a gun in his hand. The second was that he looked at her like she was the enemy. Where was that kind veterinarian now? She scanned the area. Was there anyone else with him? A full SWAT team ready to take her down? She saw no one. Heard no one.
“I’m alone if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Why would I ever believe anything from you? You fucked up, Jeff.” She took a few steps towards him, away from the wall. Close the distance, she thought. 20 feet became 10 feet became 5 feet and she’d shove the gun up his ass.
Jeff leveled the gun at Cassie. “Don’t.”
“You gonna shoot me, Jeff? Haven’t done enough to me?”
“Just come back with me,” he said. “I can explain. There’s so much you don’t understand.”
“Why? You could have taken me in and locked me up on day one. Why did you fuck around for months?”
“We had to establish you weren’t a threat, and we did,” he explained. “After that, my feelings were real. We go back, we can have a normal life. Things can stay the same or we can move to a city. Up to you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t I have any rights as the father? Don’t I get a say?” He lowered the gun. “Please, be reasonable.”
“Nunca. No. You fucking liar. You don’t get a say or a vote.”
“Cassie, there’s something coming. Something bigger than this.” He gestured at the wall. “And sweetie, it’s not nearly as nice.”
“Don’t call me sweetie.” She stepped backward through the electric blue. She saw the cobalt glow but felt nothing as the wall accepted her through it. Did she hear a gunshot? She wasn’t sure.
CHAPTER TEN
THE WEATHER IN Chicago was better than anytime in the history of the place, but still, it wasn’t always a sunny day in the windy city. Sanders arrived at the call as heavy rain started to fall. He felt this was appropriate, as the rain lent itself to the detective image, even if the weather here was most certainly artificial. Even the setting was fit for detective work. He’d driven down Lower Wacker to reach the industrial warehouse. Few people lived on the street level, most preferring a lofty cloud estate—one fitting of the science fiction tropes that came with living in a magical paradise. Naturally, Sanders reasoned, crimes would be occurring down here. He parked his cruiser near the entrance. The car was capable of flight, superficially like something out of Blade Runner. The big difference was the lack of buttons and dials. Everything in Eden was smooth and shiny, controlled by voice or thought; powered by Hakim’s magic and not science. Flying cars. I’ll never get over being amazed by this stuff, he thought.
He sent a message to the caller, letting them know he’d arrived to take their statement. Sanders compulsively analyzed the overall city stats. Nothing new on the trend line, but he checked all the same. His job had perks, but the pressure was significant. Some days, Sanders felt the weight of it. They were playing god. Architecting a perfect society. How long before this soured? However long it would be, he didn’t doubt he’d see the changes. Something about this place had vastly improved his health. Sanders wasn’t a scientist—didn’t need to be one to see he and everyone else in the city were not only not aging these last two years, but subtly looking and feeling younger. His body was fitter than it had ever been and bore the work stress well. However, the transition from armchair quarterback with opinions on how things should be in the world to empowered was road full of self doubt. Hakim, for all his strangeness, certainly knew how to delegate.
Sanders delegated, too, but calls like this required a personal touch. While automation of the police had its place, investigators were needed to dig deeper into the story of any incident. More than that, he enjoyed doing a bit of this work himself. Dan called it an affectation. Said that Sanders pretended to be a detective. Perhaps it was true. Still, there was pleasure in the fact-gathering. Usually, it was little more than minor disputes, but this one was different. They’d gotten a call for a vandalized warehouse. The caller added, at the end of the recorded message, that he’d thought someone might have been killed. A murder not detected by the Coppers was something interesting.
The caller came out into the rain. If there was a reverse aging trend and an increase in general health, this man must have truly been a wreck before. He was an old-world stock, European model of the barrel chested butcher; round face and booze nose. From his body language, Sanders could see the man was impatient, tugging at his red mustache and shifting weight from leg to leg. Sanders got out to meet him.
“You really took your time getting over here,” the caller said. “Don’t you take murders seriously no more?”
“All right. I’m here now. Do you have reason to believe you or someone else is presently in danger?”
The man rolled his eyes. “Well, no. Still, though…I’ve got work to do and I’ve been waiting for hours. It was them crazies. Some sick fuck cult types.”
“Let’s go inside. Did you actually see someone doing something wrong?” Sanders asked.
“I ain’t seen anyone do any good—that’s for damn sure,” the man replied. “It was them. They are a menace to society.”
Sanders was at least convinced that there was a ‘they’ in this case. From almost day one, there had been a rise in new religions in Eden. Again, Hakim was just and didn’t care one bit about the spiritual life of his citizens. This alone made Sanders think Hakim might be suitable for worship. How many lives had been lost to jealous gods? But no, the ‘they’ he was investigating did not worship Hakim. There were organized types—and chaotic ones, which made them harder to understand. He kept an eye on them all, though they’d not caused any major issues. The bulk of the troubles, in Sanders’ opinion, was that even in Eden, it was hard when your definition of paradise conflicted with others’ definitions.
They stood at the gated entrance box of the warehouse. Beyond them, the open space had racks climbing to the ceiling—a maze of pallets and what not. “Yes, but what is your purpose—the issue you are reporting?” Sanders asked. The Coppers hadn’t been alerted to anything, but this citizen had raised an alarm. Sanders still hadn’t heard the issue.
“They ain’t right in the head,” the man said emphatically as if this should have been evident to Sanders.
Sanders nodded to signal that he was sympathetic. “Can you be more specific?”
“Look. I got the rights on this building two weeks ago. My application had been in the system for damn near a year. What about that?”
This is how I use my time? Sanders thought. “Sir, some things take time.”
“You bet. Especially when an honest man who ain’t connected to the grand party follows the rules. Anyways, I get the keys and take a look. I find all sorts of weird stuff in there and find out them religious crazies had been squatting in here since the heavenly doors opened.”
“Before you came into possession of the property?” Here was something. Sanders was interested now.
“That’s right,” the man agreed.
“So how is it you were injured by them?”
The man swung his meaty arms wide and gestured towards the back. “Why don’t cha just look yourself, huh? Why don’t cha?”
The man slid back the gate and led the way. Warehouses all looked the same to Sanders. Boxes stacked high, contents unknowable; could be anything. “What exactly are you storing in here?”
“That’s not why I called you.”
“Sure, but while I’m here…”
“Bit of this, bit of that.”
“Sir,” Sanders said, stopping for a moment, “you know the law. I’m not going to restrict the private busine
ss of a citizen, but I need to know for my report.”
“So what? It’s porn.”
Sanders didn’t react but continued to look him in the eye.
“Smut, filth, you know. I gots tapes, discs, magazines, dirty novels, comic books, you name it.”
“But why?”
“I know everybody has all the digital imagination wonderland shit downtown, but maybe somebody—or lots of somebodies—get whatcha call it? Nostalgic. Yeah, nostalgic for the way it used to be.”
“Okay, then. You wanted to show me something?”
“Yeah, over here. I ain’t cleaned out the lavatory yet.”
Sanders grimaced at the smell as the man opened the bathroom door and flipped on the light.
“You tell me that’s not a crime scene,” the man said.
The light revealed wall to wall shit and dried gore. Sanders was almost certain blood was amongst the filth there. Written in base relief, a work of finger art etched in the shit on the wall, was the word, “PIGGY.”
Sanders immediately made a mental connection to the Manson cult—a reference part of a collective memory that seemed a lifetime ago. Surely no Manson followers had come to Eden. The cult had died out or the members had been imprisoned. It was so long ago that there was hardly any mystique to it. Manson had believed in a coming race war in the 60s—one that had never materialized. Could be coincidence. Could be nonsense graffiti, but it could also be a reference to when police used to be called ‘pigs’. Either way, he’d have to get a Copper down here to analyze the carnage. If a death had occurred and been covered up, someone would have to pay.
“I’m sorry if this will disrupt your little business for a few days,” Sanders said, “but you are entirely correct. This is a crime scene.”
“You didn’t say nothing about business disruption. Ahh, fuck me.”
Sanders tapped his com with his mind, thinking out the sentences for a report as well as a request for analysis. The Copper would be here within the hour.
“Where you goin’?”
“The Coppers will take it from here. Please stay in touch should any revelers return.” Sanders paused on his way out. “And good luck with the business.”
“Ah, go fuck yourself.”
Some things never changed. This was probably nothing.
Back at his car, his got a video-call from a familiar face: Dan, his blue eyed, darling husband.
“Hey, handsome. Meet me for brunch?” Dan said.
“Finishing up a call. Where are you?”
“You’re the super cop. You find me,” Dan said and ended the call.
Sanders laughed to himself. This wouldn’t take deduction, though he appreciated the flirting. He set the instructions on the car to locate Dan. Big Brother was watching in a major way and everyone was findable. Tracked, but rarely observed. The vehicle cruised on a path upwards through the strata of new builds, up and over the city. Sanders had a great view of the lake and a rainbow above the misting rain. If someone was controlling the weather, they were doing a damned fine job at keeping this place beautiful and believable.
The car parked itself and Sanders nodded to folks on his way into the cafe. The uniform never failed to draw reactions—he was the only cop in their world, after all. Dan sat alone, reading a book, on the patio overlooking the city. In Sanders’ eyes, he could be a movie star or model, with his clear, white complexion and chestnut hair, cut in a style from 1950’s leading men. The rain stopped and beach-goers were crowding the shoreline below. Sanders sat down next to him and waited patiently for him to finish the section. They’d been married long enough for him to know not to interrupt when reading.
“Do you wonder what’s going on out there?” Dan asked and set the book down. He placed his hand over Sanders’ on the table.
“People enjoying their morning. What else is new?”
“No, not down there. Beyond the wall. In the old world.”
“Never.”
“You had family—cousins and the like. We’re still on the same planet. Global warming, fossil fuels, world wars; you think all that’s still going on?”
“I have no reason to believe that will ever change.”
“It’s changed here.”
Sanders’ demeanor grew serious. “Things are different here. The circumstances are different. Without wealth disparity—”
“Want a mojito?”
“Not while I’m on duty.”
“I’m on my second,” Dan said and took another sip. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t lecture me. There’s disparity here, too. It’s not measured in money, but in popularity. You can have all the stuff you want, but love still comes at a premium.”
“Well, I am certainly glad we have that covered.”
“Do we?” To fill his days and keep his mind busy, Dan had taken a job—entirely volunteer—as a docent for their instance of Eden. He was one of a hundred such early helpers. He took small groups through museums of the past and the architecture of the old city; into the celestial marketplaces where fresh, strange wonders bloomed almost daily. It hadn’t taken long before Dan grew jaded about their paradise. He may have been retired, but part of him would always be a detective—a better one than Sanders—and that was never in question.
“You know I love you. Always have, always will.”
“Good. I’ve never doubted it, but it’s nice to hear.” Dan paused. “Do you think anyone in leadership has even peeked outside?”
“Love, why are you getting curious about this now?”
“Sometimes I think we made the wrong choice.”
Sanders listened to the bird song, breathed in the clean air, and saw only smiling faces around him. It was hard to think they were anywhere but paradise.
***
By nightfall, Sanders was ready to go home and have the off-duty drink with Dan. All day on the computer, and he’d made no progress in the warehouse case. He’d reviewed a global list of minor incidents and planned to spend part of his week visiting local provinces for no reason other than to speak face to face with the people. He was generally recognized and enjoyed it. Dan would come with if his work schedule allowed; a few days on a beach and a change of scenery would be perfect even if it fell short of a vacation.
He was thinking about this plan when he heard the summons. No pretense of technology was needed when Hakim wanted him; the message traveled straight to his brain. When summoned, he knew to drop everything and go. Hakim would give him time, but if he dawdled—as he once had in the past—Hakim had ways of compelling performance. Sanders shuddered at the memory of it. Mind to mind communication was jarring between anyone using the tech available, but when Hakim did it, the alienness of his thoughts sent tremors through him. Sanders had the pleasure—if he could call it that—of having met two others of Hakim’s tribe.
This was in the past, but he thought of Henry and Eva often. In hindsight, both of them had probably touched Sanders’ mind with theirs, it had been gentle. They had used their human borne latent psychic abilities amplified by the entities they hosted within. Sanders had made a short study of psychic abilities in his days after really understanding. There were fictions and there were truths. Prior to a certain encounter over the course of his duties, Sanders had squarely placed all supernatural jumbo into the fictional bucket. He had no time for fantasies. His thinking had changed.
With Hakim, it was different. There was the man—a good man Sanders believed—in there somewhere, but the over-mind was something terribly powerful. Vast. Alien. Powering their entire city with its essence. Sanders never probed Hakim for the truth about what he was, or his connection to the Black Star Institute. Whatever Pandora’s Box BSI had opened, almost certainly Hakim had crawled out of it.
The way up to the citadel was lined with visitors Sanders stepped around; pilgrims making their trek to pay homage to the deity who had transformed the world. The citadel was unique among the madhouse, impossible architecture of Eden. In a geographic sense, not even Sanders knew where the c
itadel was located at any given moment. It was in all points of Eden simultaneously. The tower shimmered with a certain unreality, a palace in the sky. Sanders had a half-formed theory: the thing he saw as the palace was an illusion with some physical structure located off the map, but there was no way to prove it.
Sanders’ way was clear beyond the supplicants; only administrative types such as himself were given access. He nodded to a few acquaintances from city governance meetings. He wasn’t particularly close to any of them. Managing criminal justice cultured a certain distance between himself and others. Yes, there were few laws, but none had exemptions.
The entrance was grand, inspired by the height of India-Muslim architecture—the Taj Mahal, to Sanders’ layman’s knowledge—and built on a scale hard to fathom. Hands had not touched this construct. Resource limitations had played no part in it; the Citadel palace was purely manifested from Hakim’s will and it was beautiful.
The psychic summons ceased when Sanders entered the audience hall. In the presence of the man-thing, Sanders heard cicadas. An almost electric, constant noise ebbed and flowed in a distracting static chirp. The sound was in his head. The sound was Hakim in his head. Hakim’s actual appearance was the unassuming. He was a slight figure of undeterminable age, but if Sanders had to guess, he’d place him in his mid to late 30s. Nearly nothing was known about his biological orgins, but he was from the Indian subcontinent. His skin was a deep brown, and his eyes and hair, black. These were superficial things. Hakim was much more than he seemed.
“How is Dan?” Hakim asked out loud.
Somewhat surprised by the casualness of the question, Sanders said, “Fine. We are doing fine. He’s fine.” He left out that life in Eden had been a difficult adjustment for Dan. Sanders considered this. The openness with which they lived was fantastic. Dan was vocally proud of his husband’s rise in the ranks, but Sanders thought there was a certain sadness at what was left behind. Dan had made friends, even reconnected with old ones who had also made the leap, but he didn’t seem happy.
