Under the Skyway
by: James K. Douglas
Chapter 1
Neon lights lit the night, drowning out the stars above. Cars stood still in the streets, bumper to bumper. I slipped between slow moving bodies on the sidewalk, lifting my collar against the wind howling from the alleyways. There had been no rain for two days, yet my old combat boots splashed through rainbow colored puddles as I made my way to an appointment.
Above me, a police drone flew over. Silent propellers embedded in its jointed gull wings carried it along, passively scanning the faces moving below it. The spinning blue lights on its back and tail were lost among the video billboards wrapped around the corners of every building on the street. I kept my head down until it moved along.
Twenty paces ahead of me, a short man in a black suit ran a hand through his slicked back hair. With skin the color and texture of a pale orange peel, he wasn’t getting a lot of long looks, yet he moved with confidence, head high and shoulders square. Two larger men followed a step behind him, their suits matching the color and design of their boss’s, a show of unity in a dangerous world. As they approached the entrance to the nicest bar on the road, the valet on the right stepped forward to get the door. I slowed my pace, making certain I didn’t enter “Tina’s” too closely behind them.
Inside, I pushed my way through the well dressed men and women standing shoulder to shoulder, wearing loose ties and colorful shirts as they bragged about the legal precedents they argued last week or the mergers they’d overseen last year. The smell of overpriced cologne offended my nose, getting up into places that would take days to clean out. I took position at the corner of the bar, made eye contact with the young lady pouring drinks, and ordered a Bulleit, neat.
“A bit underdressed, aren’t you?” she asked as she set the Glencairn glass down beside me.
She wasn’t wrong. A black field jacket over a blue tee-shirt wasn’t the norm for a place like this. I wasn’t fitting in, and I didn’t care. I liked to be comfortable while I worked.
My eyes were on the room as I passed her a folded twenty and told her to keep the change. The black suited man had taken a seat at his reserved booth in the back corner. His guards flanked him, standing to each side of the table, watching the crowd with suspicious eyes.
“Holy shit,” the bartender breathed. “Is that…”
I turned to face her. She was staring at my right hand, and she hadn’t taken her money yet. “Problem?”
“No,” she said, taking my hand in both of hers. “Is this the new model from AlterBionics? It’s gorgeous.”
She caressed my hand like a lover, admiring every detail of the black surface and rubber grip pads on the fingertips and palm. Whole-bodied people sometimes forgot that this was my limb, a part of my body, not a fancy toy I was showing off. I tried to be polite with them, especially the attractive ones, but it still made my spine stiffen every time a stranger touched me without asking first.
“No. Actually, I built it myself.”
Her brown eyes lit up. “Seriously? You must be some kind of mechanical genius. My sister had her left leg taken off by an I.E.D. five years ago. I’ve seen inside her replacement. It’s super complicated. Why is it warm?”
“Pardon?”
“Your hand, why is it warm?”
“Oh, uh, it’s because of how the muscles work. I built artificial muscles out of coiled nylon monofilament line. It contracts when you heat it, which kind of generates an artificial body heat.”
“That’s amazing! Is it just your hand?”
“No,” I said, feeling a smile breaking through. “It’s the whole arm, up to the shoulder joint.”
While the young woman continued to examine my artificial parts, my attention was drawn to the mirror behind the bar. Another man who didn’t quite belong in here had just walked in. He was dressed correctly, in his dark blue suit and button up shirt, but between the high and tight haircut and the two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on his tall frame, I had a hard time believing he was the kind to spend ten hours a day sitting in a cushy office chair.
I checked over my left shoulder. Someone new was sitting at the corner booth, an older Asian woman with sharp eyes and a subtle smile. Her suit was the same steel grey as her hair, and she didn’t appear to be traveling with any guards, though a young Asian man stood next to one of the black suited figures. His grey suit, cut from the same cloth as hers, said the two were definitely here together, but his slouched demeanor and stubbled face said he wasn’t her security. Over my other shoulder, the suited soldier was moving toward them.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” I said, dropping the cash onto the bar and gently extracting my hand from hers.
The soldier closed the gap quickly, bar patrons bouncing off his muscled physique as he forced his way through the crowd. He throat punching the first guard he reached. A swift kick to the side of guard number two’s knee produced a pop I could hear over the din, dropping the guard to the floor. As the soldier reached inside of his suit jacket, I came up from his left, grabbing his right hand with my own and holding firm. Finding his gun still tight in its holster, he looked at me. The surprise on his face turned to anger in a flash.
“This arm is fifty times stronger than a human arm of the same dimensions,” I said flatly. “That’s three times what I would need to crush your skull.”
The statement was true, but whether he believed it or not, his training kicked in. He drove his free elbow up into my ribs, knocking the breath out of me. I heard the crunch of metal and bone. The soldier let out a short scream and barrelled past me, cradling a mangled hand against his chest. I was too busy catching my breath to give chase.
When I looked up, the crowd was still standing as far back from the corner booth as it could. Two unspent rounds and what looked like a trigger sat in a puddle of blood on the ground. Dark crimson drops fell from my synthetic hand. The smell of iron mixed with the cologne stuck up my nose.
“Clean yourself up, Mr. Bell,” the black suited gentleman said as he tossed me his napkin. “You’ve certainly earned your pay tonight.”
I took the napkin and began to clean up what I could from my palm and between my fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Rossi.”
“How about you go ahead and make yourself scarce. My overpaid assistants will take care of this mess.”
“If you think that’s best, sir.”
I gave Rossi and his companion each a quick nod, though the woman hadn’t yet acknowledged my presence, and made my way for the door. Wide eyes remained fixed on me as bodies moved from my path. The “invisible bodyguard” strategy had worked well, but the job wasn’t over.
Outside, the attacker’s trail was easy to pick up. The light misting of rain swirling in the air did little to thin out or wash away the dotted red line on the sidewalk left by a drizzling wound. The man hadn’t bled to death yet, so he had no doubt wrapped his crushed hand in whatever he had on him. He was moving quickly, but to where?
I kept my eyes on the red line as I made my way through the sidewalk crowd. There was no need to hurry. The guy would either bleed to death, or show me the way to whoever hired him. Good for me either way, assuming no one looted his body before I caught up to it.
With that thought in mind, I picked up my pace a bit.
The hospital was to the west, but this guy was heading north, into the market district, where the Lowers like me bought our groceries and the Uppers came to get their “authentic” cuisine. In a city like this, there was never really a spot to stand outside the shadow of skyscrapers, but there are places where those shadows let up a bit. As I neared the market district, the street corner
businesses became more grocers and pharmacies rather than bars and pubs. Near some of the larger apartment complexes you could find a courtyard that had been converted into an outdoor market, full of little vendors with pop up stands selling fried bits on a stick or spicy corn cups. Some of the more ambitious bottom level apartment owners had installed awnings and cooktop counters outside their front doors, cleverly turning the expense of a small apartment into a decent income selling dinner to shoppers, vendors, and the Uppers who popped down from the Skyway to slum for an evening.
It was at one of these entrances to the Skyway where the trail ended. Just outside of the Miller Street Apartment and Market, I found the last drops of blood soaking into the pavement four feet from the ballistic glass doors separating the Lower dregs from the escalator that took only the wealthy and their servants to and from the network of automatic walkways woven through the skyline of the city. A retina scan would have been required to open the doors, which a wealthy enough employer could have had authorized, but the distance between the blood and the door gave me pause.
I stepped close to the thick glass to peer beyond it. No blood streaks on the escalator or drops in the entryway. If he had met someone here, someone with medical skills, they could have quickly bandaged his hand before going any further. Unfortunately, this still told me very little. A hitman and an on call medic could be employed by a white gloved mob boss, a corporate CEO, or anyone in between, so long as they had the capital to spend.
On the other end of the spectrum, the blood trail stopping at the Skyway entrance may have simply been a red herring. If some low life thug wanted to trip up whatever deal Rossi had been making that night, convincing him that the hitman had been sent by some powerful Upper wasn’t a bad idea. It would have taken a lot of planning, but it was possible.
My train of thought was interrupted when the glass flashed red. Block text reading “RETINA NOT AUTHORIZED” slammed into view, helpfully informing me that I wasn’t the right type for the gated community above.
Calling it a community might be too much of a stretch, though. I’ve been there. I used to work there. Uppers practically pride themselves on how little they interact, how little they are connected to the world around them. And yet, so many of them come down here when the sun goes down to pick up cheap dates, enjoy food they can’t get upstairs, or just breath in the unfiltered air.
I stepped back from the glass doors to look around the area. Cars moved slowly along the road. A vendor handed out bowls of rice to the homeless who sat in a small shelter erected in a corner at the far end of the courtyard. A throng of young women sat laughing at a table, faces illuminated in cell phone glow as well dressed men standing all around them pretended not to stare. Married couples selected fresh vegetables from the wooden bins of a man in a clear plastic douli hat. None of their faces looked like the soldier’s.
A little over two blocks away, two black clad police officers in bulletproof vests took an interest in me, eyeing me as they began to move my direction. When the one in the lead drew his sidearm to check its clip, I took that as my cue to leave. Preferring not to be caught with the smell of dried blood on my bionic hand, I made my way into the courtyard. I intended of lose myself in the crowd, but as I took in the sights and smells of the market, I suddenly got a craving for gyudon.
“Nikie, I’m home,” I called out as I entered the narrow kitchen at the front of my apartment and locked the door behind me. “I already ate, but I brought something special home for you.” A ginger haired beauty lifted her head from the living room couch, eyes still half closed. “Oh, honey, did you fall asleep on the couch again? You know you don’t have to wait up on me.”
“Reow?” she asked, standing on the warm cushion and stretching.
I set my bag of groceries on the short space of counter to the right of the door, between the sink and refrigerator, and drew out a small plastic container. Nikie climbed up onto the arm of my old couch and took a short hop over to the top of the laundry unit beside of the fridge to get a better look at a jug of apple juice as I put it away. Her wide eyes turned to me, waiting expectantly until I again reached for the plastic container.
By the time I had peeled the lid off, Nikie was trotting little laps around my legs. “Now eat slowly,” I said as I set the small container of cooked meat scraps down in front of her.
The bedroom door rebounded off of the foot of the bed as I stepped through it. I stepped aside and let it swing mostly closed to get behind it, squeezing between my bed and the wall to get to the small closet where I hung my jacket. I peeled off my shirt, throwing it in the hamper at the foot of the bed, and stripped off my belt, dropping it into a drawer in the bed, before having a seat to unlace my boots. Combat boots are good for a lot of things, but it always felt better to get them off.
Continuing my routine, I checked my inner arm, just below the bicep, to see how my battery was doing. I pushed the artificial muscles out of the way to see the simple LED display. Eighty percent charge, meaning there was no need to swap it out for a couple of days at least.
“Computer,” I called out to the wall-mounted receiver, “display news.”
A section of the bathroom door beyond the foot of the bed lit up and switched to a newsfeed site. I slipped out of my jeans as the image of a white haired man in his sixties appeared on the screen. A black pinstriped suit added unnecessary length to his already tall and slender frame, its perfect tailoring adding the illusion of strength to his shoulders. Once upon a time, he was the best surgeon in the city, but as times changed Dr. Alexander Marshall had moved on to more profitable pursuits.
Janet Burgess, a lovely young blonde, sat opposite him on my screen, a stack of notes in her hand. As this week’s popular news channel host, Janet was given the privilege of Marshall’s temporary attention to discussing his favorite topic. Her fixed gaze almost made her seem interested.
“I assure you, Janet,” he continued, “repealing this unnecessary ban is the right thing to do, not only for my company, but for everyone. The Bionic Choice Bill should be endorsed by every person that wants what’s best for humanity’s future.”
Ms. Burgess continued her line of preapproved questions as I placed my watch and phone on their chargers in a small drawer in the head of my bed. “And what do you have to say to those who would argue that allowing medically unnecessary prosthetics would be tantamount to legalizing new, more dangerous weapons on the streets?”
“Janet, these aren’t like guns. They’re not weapons at all. They’re tools, tools that any man or woman has a right to have access to.”
“It’s been rumored that even David Wright has been quietly opposed to passing the bill to lift the ban. What might you have to say to that?”
I straightened my pillow as Dr. Marshall released a rehearsed chuckle. “Janet, no offense to Mr. Wright,” he said, emphasizing “Mr.” a little too hard, “but AlterBionics and its owner have fallen behind the times. While we all certainly owe the so-called ‘Self-made Man’ a debt of gratitude for paving the way, it’s no secret that Marshall Engineering is producing far more advanced prosthetics today.”
That was a lie. Anyone who bothered doing the research knew that David Wright’s carbon nanotube nerve interface had made myoelectric systems, like the ones Marshall Engineering used, obsolete fifteen years ago. With Wright keeping such a tight grip on his patent, Marshall was constantly trying to play catch-up, though he would never admit to it. Shiny chassis and predictive motor algorithms kept ME-Limbs looking more advanced than they were, while elitist marketing tactics, planned obsolescence, and government contracts kept Marshall’s books in the black. It was all just a fancy magic show designed to keep the public at large from figuring out the truth.
“Dr. Marshall, I’m sure you’re aware of the alleged Marshall Engineering email leak yesterday.” The skin at Marshall’s temples visibly tensed. “One email in particular seems to suggest that a number of doctors around the city are receiving payment and favors in exch
ange for the falsifying of medical records for the purpose of allowing unnecessary amputation.”
He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Janet, those emails are absolutely fake. While I have no doubt that some people, sick people, are going to extremes to obtain ME-Limbs, everything we do at Marshall Engineering is completely above board. Always has been. Always will be.”
Janet brought the interview to a close and I slipped under the covers. “Computer, bed time,” I said, triggering a preprogrammed sequence.
The television turned off, as did most of the lights in my two hundred square foot home. The kitchen light dimmed to thirty percent and switched from yellow-white to red, while the thermostat turned itself down two degrees. Almost the second I settled in, I felt Nikie’s weight depress the edge of the bed. She tucked herself between my ribs and arm, and began to purr.
Chapter 2
When I woke, I was laying on my side and Nikie had gone to find a less fussy bed. “Computer, good morning,” I called out to the dark room. With no windows in the bedroom it could have been after noon for all I knew, not that it mattered much.
“Good morning, Jackson,” came the vaguely feminine robotic voice, while low lights illuminated the room. “It is October seventeenth, seven-oh-two A.M. It is forty-three degrees outside, with an expected high of fifty-six. You have three new messages.”
I sat up and placed my feet on the cold floor, running both hands through my short hair. A few blinks cleared my vision and helped me adapt to the light. No matter how late I got in the bed, I always seemed to wake at the same time.
“Computer,” I said, “read first message.”
“Mr. Bell,” the message began in the computer’s voice, “I just wanted to thank you again for your quality work last night. I added a bonus to your transfer, in case you happen to come across any additional knowledge about our unexpected visitor. Take care, now.”
Apparently, businessmen wake even earlier than bodyguards. “Computer, no reply. Next message.”
Under the Skyway (Skyway Series Book 1) Page 1
