Skyway Angel

by James K. Douglas

  “Well, I seriously doubt they’re flushing them down the toilet.”

  “Exactly. Most biowaste in the city goes to the sewers, but that’s not where most of the bodies in the city go.”

  Cassdan breathed a curse as his eyes went wide enough for the whites to shine in the low light. “The protein farm.”

  Chapter 17

  Day and night, automated sweepers prowled the city streets. Roughly the same size and shape as an armored truck, they tirelessly cleaned the roads, gathering all manner of refuse with their constantly rotating brushes and scooping teeth in an attempt to fill their large bins. In front of the belly of each of these beasts remained a manual driving cab, a remnant of the days when the city council actually cared if people were employed. As I recall, it was about seven years ago that Future Computational Systems was hired to convert the entire fleet to an automated system. The mindless beasts didn’t do their job as well as their former human drivers did, but they kept the majority of the rubbish picked up. On occasion, though, they served another task.

  In a city of this size, cremation has become the most common form of body disposal. No space is wasted with burial, no harmful chemicals are put into the environment via embalming, and no money or materials are misspent on caskets. The simple efficiency of it has insured that both Uppers and Lowers tend toward this method of corpse disposal, as long as they can afford it.

  For the homeless, the unemployed, and those barely making it by, even the cost of a simple cremation can be too much. When you’re living in Immaculate Alley, every penny counts, so when your loved ones pass away, alternate methods of taking care of them have to be found. For these people, the body is usually wrapped in scrap cloth and set out for the sweepers. Rarely does anyone have to wait more than a couple of hours before their loved one is taken away, never to be seen again.

  Like all other forms of “discarded biomass,” the bodies are supposed to be sent to the protein farm outside the city, a massive complex where all of the raw materials for food printer paste cartridges are made. There, they are supposed to be sorted and stored until they are needed for crop fertilizer or insect food. If my guess was correct, we just might find a couple of people there that don’t belong.

  Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea where the protein farm was. An online search didn’t turn up an address, and going hunting for it in the back of a taxi would have been exceptionally expensive. I had no idea what direction the farm was in, or how far outside the city it was, but thankfully, the sweepers did.

  Realizing how late it had gotten, Cassdan and I decided to take a break at the market a couple of blocks down the road. Smaller than most markets I had seen, half of the courtyard was taken up by the rubble of a collapsed building. The rest of the space was crowded with vendor stalls so close together that one could barely squeeze between them.

  A surprising number of the stall signs were in Mongolian, or at least that’s what Cassdan said. I had no idea what was written in those neon letters, but the smells of cooking meat and baking bread had drawn me in. We stopped at the first stall, out next to the road. The vendor had a digital menu, buzzing with intermittent static behind the cracked screen.

  “Effin cops did that,” said the man tending the counter, a bald older guy wearing a bright red quilted coat. “Came around saying this neighborhood is too dangerous for his pay, that we better come up with a little extra if we want regular patrols to continue. What kinda crap is that? A cop running a protection racket.” He was punctuating every sentence with swings of his arms. “Too dangerous? The man in the fancy armor says where I live is too dangerous for him.” He finished with a loud, sharp laugh.

  “I’m sorry to hear about that,” I said, unable to think of anything more useful.

  “Be sorry for the cop. My people don’t take crap like that. If he comes back, we’ll get him out of that armor and dice him up into dog food.”

  “Did you report him?”

  He huffed. “Yeah, I got his badge number and filed a report. We’ll see if it does any good.” He snatched up a steel spoon to stir the chopped meat in his heating pan. “Now, what can I get for you?”

  A plate of Khuushuur was all I needed, and Cassdan opted to have the same. By the time the old man handed us our order, Cassdan had brought up something on his arm computer that was softly beeping once roughly every five seconds.

  “I don’t get it,” I said to my client. “Why can’t you just send out a signal to bring one here?”

  “Because they’re satellite controlled from a secure, offline facility,” Cassdan responded.

  I swallowed a bite of my meaty pastry. “But nothing is offline these days.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Jackson. The sweepers’ computer dispatch isn’t connected to anything online, not even the company’s website. The only way to hack one of the trucks is to be in close proximity and interrupt the satellite uplink.” He picked at his meal. “I know we’re trying to move quickly on this, but if you need some rest we can swing by your apartment for a couple of hours.”

  “No,” I answered. “I’m good. That last gig taught me a lesson about going home in the middle of a job. I’ll let you know if I start running out of steam.” I took another bite of my Mongolian Hot Pocket. “So, if you can’t hack it remotely, what’s going on with your computer?”

  “This is just the rounds schedule from the city’s traffic tracker. It’s not particularly accurate, but it’ll give us a rough estimate for when one will be by here.”

  “Once you get the sweeper to stop for us, how do we get it to take us to the farm? Are we just going to ride around with it until it’s full?”

  “I don’t have a solid plan for that one, yet,” he confessed. “Hopefully, once we’re inside, I’ll be able to trick it into thinking it’s full so it’ll go home. Then, it should be a smooth ride right to the evidence we need.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  We finished our meals, disposed of our trash, and waited on our ride to arrive. I watched the sky, hoping the light mist swirling around wasn’t going to turn into a full storm soon. Occasionally, when the breeze turned the wrong way, a putrid smell wafted over from the rubble pile on the other side of the courtyard market. I tried not to think about what might be causing it.

  People moved in tight packs down the sidewalks. Three graffiti artists added to a mural further down the road, creating broad, sweeping patterns in glow-in-the-dark paint. Tonight, the design only looked off-white, but if it managed to soak up enough light through the day, tomorrow night large waves and swirls would glow in a bright, psychedelic green.

  A block away from the artists, the vestibule of a Skyway escalator lit up. When the glass doors opened, two officers in ME-Slim power armor stepped out. The artists stepped away from their work, concealing their spray paint inside their jackets. I wondered if we were going to have trouble, if our chef’s harasser had come back with reinforcements. That sounded pretty typical of my usual timing.

  I was just about to start planning my strategy when the artists took care of it, moving on the officers quickly. The cops were only a few steps beyond the doors when they were blasted with paint, sprayed directly at where their eyes should have been. The artists laid on a thick coat and took off down the road before anyone could draw a weapon.

  It must have been effective, because the cops immediately started falling back. They stumbled into the vestibule, trying to rub the paint from their masks, but nothing they did seemed to work. When the glass doors closed, they pulled off their helmets. From the distance I was at, I could barely see the sullen scowls on their faces as they turned back to the escalator.

  I wondered if they’d have to explain the incident to their superiors, or if they were just going to find a way to wash the paint off, themselves.

  My eyes began to droop a bit. When things were moving quickly, it was easy to stay sharp, but when you’re already tired and things begin to slow down, the body tries to take advantage of
the moment. At times like that, your own mind can turn against you, tricking you into thinking it’s okay to just rest your eyes, or take a moment to relax.

  Back when I worked security, I grew familiar with situations like this. I learned just about every dirty trick my subconscious could play, and picked up a few techniques to fend them off. I knew exactly what I was doing.

  “She’s almost here,” Cassdan said.

  My eyes snapped open. I hadn’t put my head down or even slouched in my chair, but still I had a sense that time had passed. How much, I had no idea.

  I blinked my eyes and rubbed my face. “How long until it gets here?”

  If he heard me, he gave no indication. He was too busy typing something into his device and mumbling quietly to himself. From what I could see of the screen over his shoulder, it looked like he was already picking up a faint signal from the sweeper, or maybe it was the signal going to the sweeper. I couldn’t imagine that broadcasts from satellites could be laser beam focused on their targets. As I understood things, Cassdan’s signal would have to overpower the one from the satellite for this to work, which is why he needed to be close to the target. He hadn’t said exactly how close.

  I heard the heavy rumble coming from further down the road. Beneath my feet, I felt a slight vibration. Cassdan stood and walked to the edge of the road, with me close behind. It wasn’t long before the machine came into view.

  Sweepers found their way around with a combination of infrared and subsonic sonar. The sonar was used to avoid large obstacles like cars, while the infrared helped them to avoid swallowing up stray cats and dogs, and living people. With no need for headlights, the engineers had opted to remove them, redirecting the power they would be using to a string of LEDs along the edge of the underside of the machine, giving the lumbering beast a red halo to warn off pedestrians and drivers.

  “It’s not stopping,” Cassdan said. “I don’t think my signal’s strong enough.”

  It moved along the far side of the road, gathering paper cups and plates that hadn’t made it into the proper receptacles. It wasn’t moving fast, probably no more than ten miles an hour, but it was already getting away.

  With a curse of frustration, Cassdan threw up his arms. “It’s not working!”

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “If it doesn’t work, make sure my cat gets fed.”

  “What?”

  There was no time to explain. We needed that truck to stop, and it looked like there was only one way to make it. The risk, theoretically, should have been minimal.

  Out of habit, I checked both ways before I charged out into the road. Stretching my legs, I leaned into the run. It took me a moment to get up to speed and start closing the gap. Reaching the back bumper of the sweeper, I pumped my legs harder, veering away from it slightly to avoid the brushes along its sides.

  With a solid grip on the edge of the front windshield, I jerked myself forward with artificial muscles, giving me enough of a boost to clear the front bumper. I tried not to think about the danger, about the fact that if I were too far away, the truck might just swerve, but too close and it might not have enough time to actually stop. I also began to wonder if I would have made this same decision if exhaustion hadn’t been impairing my judgement.

  I cut off those thoughts as quick as I could. A final stride carried me out a few feet in front of the beast. I came to a full stop directly at the center of its grill, facing it down and bracing for what may come.

  From within the machine, I heard a shift. The engine quieted. The breaks engaged, emitting a loud squeal as the rust was scraped from its rotors. The tires froze in place, but couldn’t stop the truck. Rubber slid on slick asphalt, and the great bulk of the vehicle continued forward, continued toward me.

  Reflexively, I extended my right arm, taking hold of the beast in a bionic grip. In my adrenalized state, I lost focus. Artificial fingertips buried themselves into the front of the hood, digging deep grooves into the steel.

  I had nowhere near the traction it would take to stop the machine, but I could stop it from hitting me. Locking my elbow, I kept my stance wide, slightly lifting the heels of my combat boots. I could smell the rubber burning off of my soles, feel the unevenness the road as it dug grooves into my shoes, and just before I expected the road to breach my meager defenses against it, the beast and I came to a stop.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I did my best to slow my panicked breathing. Cassdan caught up to me, but didn’t say a word. Instead, he slapped a small device onto the keypad lock on the driver’s side door. Within seconds, the locksmith’s tool had the door open, allowing him to pull himself up into the cab.

  He reached over, unlocking and swinging open the passenger door, as he said, “Come on! Hurry up!”

  I took only a second more to recover, and then I got back on task. For just a moment, I had to remind myself that killing him would also kill my paycheck. I liked Cassdan well enough, but politeness was not one of his strengths.

  The sweeper was moving again before I had my door closed. Cassdan was fast at work removing the access panel from the dash computer so he could plug directly into its guts. I stayed quiet while he worked, enjoying the surprisingly comfortable passenger seat.

  After a few minutes of work, a scroll of text appeared on Cassdan’s arm mounted screen. It was all rolling too fast for me to read, but he seemed engrossed, taking it all in as his eyes darted side to side. When the scroll came to its end, he slumped back into his seat and sighed.

  “Bad news?” I asked.

  “Bad and good. The bad news is that when they converted the truck to be automated, they bypassed a lot of the onboard systems. I was hoping I could jack directly in and convince it that the truck is already full, but this thing is barely even a computer anymore. I thought about overriding the weight monitor to convince the computer that it was at max capacity, but the system is designed to ignore sudden increases in weight. That’s a failsafe to prevent potholes or speed bumps from tripping the weight sensor, and I can’t just delete the failsafe from the system, because, like I said, this is barely even a computer. It’s basically just temporarily storing and relaying commands from the satellite.” He growled quietly as he replaced the dash computer’s cover. “And, as you saw, my portable isn’t powerful enough to override the satellite feed. Frankly, I’m beginning to get worried that we might get cancer just from sitting in that thing’s beam.”

  I smiled. “That still leaves the good news.”

  He pressed the buttons on the side of his seat, sliding the base forward as the backrest angled to forty-five degrees. “The good news is that we have time for a nap.”

  I glanced around at the windows and all the light spilling in through them. “What if the cops see us in here?” I asked. “I’m sure there’s plenty of sleep to be had in a jail cell, but that might interfere with our investigation.”

  “Right,” he said, eyes popping back open.

  One tap switched on the screen of the dash computer. A second switched on “privacy mode.” The glass surrounding us dimmed to nearly black. Neon signs were still visible through the dark tint, but only the most direct light shone through, leaving them looking like pencil thin ghosts of what they had been. A message reading “enjoy your break” appeared on the truck’s computer screen in yellow letters, before the monitor switched itself back off.

  I slid my seat down into a resting position. “How long do you think we have?”

  “The readout said it was eighty-three percent full, so it might be a couple of hours. Hard to say. Either way, we’re on the right path.”

  That was a comforting thought. Little else had gone right for us so far, and we didn’t seem any closer to finding our killer. But still, with a little luck, we just might have been a couple of hours from taking down one of the most corrupt corporations in the city. That left me with a smile as I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 18

  I woke before Cassdan. The in
terior of the cab seemed brighter than before, but I couldn’t be sure if it was just my night vision or not, and I had no idea how much time had passed. I reached for the computer screen to check on the world outside.

  Two quick taps, and the tint faded away. There was no neon. There were no streetlights. I couldn’t even see the headlights of other cars around us. The red halo encircling the base of the machine illuminated nothing but the white lines on the edge of the road. I began to wonder if we were back in the business district.

  I slid forward in my seat to try to look up, to see the edge of where the deep shadows of the buildings blocked the ambient light of the city. Instead, all I found was a deep purple sky, stretching from horizon to horizon, growing brighter off to my left. As I sat there watching, the purple glow turned into a dark blue, and then orange.

  Against a background of growing light, shapes began to form. Low, rolling hills appeared like frozen black waves, each one topped with a tall pole, like the mast of a sinking ship. As the light increased, I began to see large fan blades slowly rotating at the tops of the poles. I had thought they were no larger than flagpoles, until one appeared beside us, so wide that it briefly blocked my entire eastern view, so tall that I couldn’t see its peak.

  The upper edge of the Sun crested above the distant horizon, flooding the world with blinding light. Through blinking eyes I saw empty fields of tall grass reaching into the distance on all sides, swaying in the gentle breeze, the far edges looking like a ring of fire in the intensity of the early light. Drops of morning dew glistened on the tips of the brown grasses. The stalks all seemed to wave at us as our automated ride forced the air out of its path while we traveled down the oddly well maintained road.

  I felt my heart pounding in my chest. We were no more than an hour’s drive outside the city perimeter, but I had never seen anything so flat, so disturbingly empty. Living in the city was like being inside a dense forest of concrete redwoods; though you were constantly reminded of how small and unimportant you were, there was also a sense of security, as if you were hidden away from the most dangerous predators. It’s the kind of security that you’d never notice, until it’s suddenly stripped away.