by L M Rozycki
L M Rozycki
The Ranger
First published by White Flag 2020
Copyright © 2020 by L M Rozycki
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
L M Rozycki asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
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One
The client was on the sixth floor.
The tower block on the corner of 6th and West Avenue was a swollen infection on the Los Atmos district. A swarming hive of vagrants and ne’er-do-wells. The rusty elevator grated to a stop, the door only partially opening, and Carter stepped out. The strictured concrete bowel of the building was marred in characteristically banal graffiti, the floor congested with the homeless. He gave the door three short raps of his knuckles. It opened and he was welcomed by a surly, burly bruiser with a bevelled face who eyed him dubiously.
‘Is that him?’ a voice floated over his shoulder.
The bruiser curled up his lip into a grotesque snarl before stepping aside.
‘Carter? My man. See Tony, told you he’d come.’
‘Mr White.’
‘Come in, come in. Tony here dared to doubt your return, yet here you are. You’ve restored his faith.’
Carter stepped into the smallest apartment he’d ever been in to reunite with the shortest man he’d ever met. ‘A prayer would be cheaper.’
Mr White laughed. ‘See Tony, what did I tell you? This was the one for the job, I said. Can you believe he wanted to hire useless goons, just your regular run-of-the-mill morons? But no I said, I needed a ranger to do the job. And here you are. Can I get you something, a glass of the hot stuff?’
Mr White was short and gap toothed, his sprightliness as broad as his belly. His one good eye roamed over Carter while the other, augmented by a cybernetic implant, protruded out like a kaleidescope.
‘No thanks.’
‘All right, no problem. Do you have it?’
Carter thumbed in his pocket and felt the irregular angles of the chip. He tossed it to Mr Universe.
‘Over there. Get it checked out. Don’t be like that, Carter. Just quality control. You know how these things go.’ Mr White slushed a drink into a glass spilling some on the table. ‘You have any trouble?’
Carter shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
It wouldn’t matter if he had.
He’s just making me sit through another painful interaction until the quality control is over. Like a damn bank. For those stupid enough to be in his situation and get distracted by the feigning interest, they deserved the bullet they got for switching off.
‘Not really. I just like a good story, a bit of entertainment, you know. Like me for example.’ Mr White sipped the golden liquid from the glass. His face twisted horribly as he swallowed. ‘I like to use aliases when conducting my business. Oh, nothing new about that. But look at me, Carter. As black as the ace of spades. So why not be a bit whimsical? No-one’s going to forget the black Mr White. It’s not like I know where it comes from either. My mother only knew my father long enough to sprout me. Who is he? The devil knows. But he sure must have been black as her record to end up with me. Ha ha.’ A chuckle rumbled round his throat. ‘See? Whimsical.’
Hysterical.
‘Oh come on, Carter. Not even a little smile?’
‘Funny.’ Carter said. I need to remember to laugh at it later. ‘And Tony?’
‘Ah. Tiny Tony. Well, why not? Everyone else is so obvious in a vane attempt to be intimidating. Like Drake “the knife” Malone. Ugh. So tasteless it borders on nauseating. So we went with plain old Tiny Tony. Irony. But I can see this isn’t your taste in humour.’
On the contrary, if Bilbo keeps telling jokes I’m in danger of busting a gut.
Seeing as he didn’t get the expected reception, the whimsical Mr White asked about the chip. Tony had been tinkering with it using some small tools he kept hidden behind his bulk. After another minute, Tony returned the chip with a wry smile and gave Mr White an acknowledging tap on the shoulder. Mr White finished his drink and put the glass down, condensation pooling at its base.
‘Nice work.’ His one eye greedily roamed over the chip suspended between finger and thumb. ‘You’ve lived upto your reputation, ranger. A nano hack card. Plug into any military terminal and press delete. The ultimate reset.’
Carter couldn’t tell if Mr White was druelling over the card or if it usually ran free, unrestrained by his lack of teeth. Either way it gave his every word a noticeable lisp.
‘Payment.’
Mr White’s human eye turned up at him. ‘Hm, see, this is the thing, Carter. I’d be obliged to pay anyone for their services. I believe in honest business. But you’re not just anyone.’
Carter stayed silent.
‘You see this.’ Mr White pointed to his bionic eye. ‘I got this, when was it now, three? Four years ago? Anyway, it was after a military excursion gone wrong. You know how it goes, damaged goods, signed off with no pension. So I got this, and the guy assured me it’s the best of its kind in the district. The black market guys have a tendency to oversell these things but it serves its purpose and he assured me it’d show many hidden things.’ He laughed forcibly. ‘And boy, was he right. I can see what you’re hiding under there. Nothing. You’re not armed. And the pressure plates screamed when you stepped on them which tells me you’re bionic, whole or in part.’
Carter tensed. ‘Don’t make this anymore than it needs to be. Pay me, and you’ll never see me again.’
So much the better.
‘And you know the law.’ Mr White ignored him. ‘Anyone with more than 50 percent bionic parts is reclassified as a droid and is without rights. No rights means no payment.’
‘The law?’
‘Yes, the law.’ He snapped. ‘Which as far as I’m concerned, knows only that a droid has relieved them of a prototype nano-card of its own defective will and accidentally rolled through my door. I tried to detain it but…’
Carter knitted his brow. Tiny Tony snaked a hand round his pistol butt. Mr White licked his lips.
Carter jerked convulsively towards Mr White and the impetuous Tiny Tony drew and fired, the shot deafening in the small room. Before the chamber reloaded, Carter kicked up the small table and it smashed willingly against Tiny Tony’s immovable frame. As he shielded himself and took a defensive step back, Carter leapt at him through the splintered furniture twisting the gun out of his hand and sent a paralysing shock through his body with a touch of his electrically charged hand. Tiny Tony fell with a thud.
Mr White recoiled frightfully.
‘Now, now just wait a minute, Carter. I’m sure we can make a deal-’ his voice rose uncontrollably as Carter moved on him.
Carter easily overturned Mr White, groped for his hand and forcibly pressed his thumb against a digi-pad. A thin blue line traced down the screen and the device screeched in alarm.
‘Damn it.’ Carter sighed heavily. ‘You didn’t have the money to begin with?’
‘Hey, now. These are hard times.’ Mr White spat through his toothless grin.
Frustrated, Carter nullified the bankrupt Mr White with a decisive thump to the back o
f the head. After a brief frisk, he found only a gold watch on his wrist. It could bring maybe a few hundred. The least he was owed. Treading the nano-chip underfoot, he left the door open and returned to the elevator.
He jabbed the button angrily and slumped against the wall as it grated him back down to the foyer. His reverie in the elevator was broken by a dull ring. He rummaged in his pocket and finding the source, barked into the handset, ‘What?’
‘It’s me. I’m sending you an address. Get here. I’ve got us a job.’
Another headache. Another day gone before he’d get to sit down. Replacing the handset he mumbled to himself, annoyed, ‘I hate this district.’
Two
The horizon of Los Milos - broken by rows of skyscrapers cut into the horizon - was covered by an ochre smog, the declining sunlight sieving through the glass towers.
Los Milos and Los Atmos shared only their proximity. The similarities ended there. Like Siamese twins separated at birth, Los Milos received the better half. Drowning in opulence, the well-nourished twin had grown into a healthy adult and was pleasingly obese from the booming economy. While Los Atmos, starved for affection and nutrients, had been left to wilt. Uncared for and unwanted. Carter drove the distance between the two using one of the many roadway thoroughfares which could be a viaduct keeping one country away from another for the residents.
He pulled upto the apartment building tired and fed up. But a job was a job and rent was rent. The vicious cycle of life. The snake eating its own tail. The address specified the fifth floor.
He rolled his eyes.
Political activists, recognised by their unilateral shirts bearing the same logo, not interesting enough for him to look at much less remember, barred the entrance like a military checkpoint. An examination of his papers while he was bent spread-eagled over the bonnet of his car awaiting the sergeant’s judgement, felt like the lesser of two evils. The alternative was to pass through this phalanx of political beggars, eager for his vote. Carter held his breath and pressed on.
‘Remember to vote.’
‘The time is near. Don’t forget to vote.’
‘We must make a difference. And we can with our votes.’
‘Robertson for Mayor!’
‘We need strict control measures on augments!’
The shouting and demanding faces all blurred together like another strange Picasso.
Carter swam past the school of sharks but didn’t come away unscathed as one of them pressed a flyer into his coat pocket. He made for the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The doors closed on the endless drone and ushered him upwards. He ironed out the wrinkled flyer.
The round face of Mayor Goldstein on the left, Robertson the challenger on the right; two opposer’s in the ring. Another campaign. Yet another endeavour of belittling tit-for-tats until there was left elected another over-paid under-worker known as a bureaucrat.
Three
‘Sorry for the late call. But, I think you should see this one.’
Otis greeted him at the door.
No how do you do? No pleasantries? Just the same old come on, back to work. Efficiency wholly characteristic of droids. Although you wouldn’t think to look at him. His eyes were the giveaway. Those pale eyes a certainty of his autonomy. Otis was tenth generation droid. And up until recently, droids had stood out in a crowd. They could’ve been wearing a banner. The skin they wore was a crude replica, thick and mealy. It stretched well over the main features but gathered in obese rolls around the neck; a plastic surgeon’s nightmare. But tenth generation wore a fully developed synthetic skin grown from DNA. It was a thin membrane available in a variety of colours and hugged their features. If Otis was put under a strong enough light it showed his metal face underneath, the servos in his jaw.
‘Did you get the payment from Mr White?’
Carter looked at Otis from the corner of his eye as they strode down the carpeted hall. ‘He came up a little short.’
Otis stopped and thought about it. He blinked, a human characteristic he’d programmed himself, but didn’t say anything.
‘In here.’
The room was dark. The curtains drawn and a sole pathetic lamp cast a yellow light from the bedroom.
‘Gentlemen. My colleague. Carter, this is Mayor Goldstein.’
Ah yes, the prestigious Mayor. The round, double-chin from the flyer. I’d break out into the same uncontrollable sweat the Mayor is exhibiting if I had to step into the ring with him. He felt bad for his competition, Robertson. The two of them locked eyes. Carter didn’t shake the Mayor’s outstretched hand. Goldstein wasn’t the mystery. So who’s Tweedledum?
‘And his associate, Mr Lankome.’
Mr Lankome, a tall glass of skimmed milk next to the sumo-wrestler, didn’t offer his hand. Carter sucked air through his front teeth and addressed the fifth person in the room.
‘Who’s lifeless?’
‘This is one Reese Callahan.’ Otis rhymed off from memory. ‘Thirty years old. A clinician.’
The decidedly dead Reese Callahan sat strapped to the chair with bound hands and didn’t interrupt. He looked thirty. But names were cheaper than hookers and used almost twice as much. A clinician? Possibly. His bloodied white shirt, a frontline piece by Vittori worth at least 300 credits, was paired with black trousers and shoes shined to a mirror. He definitely looked the part. And the apartment was of the sparsely decorated variety, the decor of the rich. Less is more. Like common sense.
Drip feeding the black market would undoubtedly pay well if his addiction hadn’t taken hold; the overused needle marks in his arms big enough to thread a shoe lace. A lone shark out of patience?
‘Cause of death-’
Aside from short of breath?
‘Blood loss due to forced removal of augmentations.’
Blood the deceased had lost leading to his demise dripped freely from an open wound where is right leg should be and into a congealing puddle. A shiny bone plate of his skull showed where his facial augment had been. The skin flailed like torn fabric, the edges sealed with dried blood.
Carter said nothing.
The beady-eyed Mr Lankome looked to Otis quizzically. Was this the guy they wanted? The right man for the job? It said.
‘You’re not surprised to see me.’ The Mayor said.
He held Carter in a hypnotic gaze. His deepset eyes masked an intelligence. The same intelligence that stripped other players of all their chips. An intelligence that liked to play dumb to lure people into a false sense of security. Appropriate intelligence for a politician.
Carter constructed his reply carefully. This sort of man wouldn’t suffer fools lightly. ‘Politicians are big business.’
No truer words had ever been spoken. Along the same truths as “Money Makes the World Go Round”.
‘Are you accusing the Mayor?’
So, Mr Lankome is the beta.
‘No.’
‘Then, do we have your confidentiality? This is a sensitive case.’ Mr Lankome stepped forward while asking, announcing himself. A punitive shield against the indulgent Mayor. ‘Do we have your attention, ranger?’
A sensitive beta. Carter sucked air through his front teeth.
‘You’re being commissioned to investigate these murders.’
The commission was cause enough for him to erupt into a gigantic, exasperated sigh. But, now. Plural? It caught his attention and he determined it warranted the raising of an eyebrow. ‘How many?’
‘This is the fourth in as many weeks. We are dealing with a serial. These murders have happened under the Mayor’s jurisdiction and as such he intends to bring the killer to justice. Is he even listening to me?’ Mr Lankome asked Otis.
Carter wasn’t.
Mayor Goldstein was the interesting presence he was scrutinising. A presence he couldn’t help but stare at. He couldn’t tell if Mr Lankome was frustrated or not. His thin face stayed hard as a corpse.
‘And what’re you doing here?’ Carter
decided to ask. ‘Or do you pride yourself on always giving the personal touch?’
The Mayor stifled Mr Lankome who was brewing an outburst. Mayor Goldstein pursed his lips, took a long stare at the deceased, and wrought his shoulders back. ‘It’s important that this situation be handled tactfully, and covertly.’
‘So call the police.’
‘I’m hosting a convention in the morning of which I am chair. One of my primary benefactors will be present.’ Mayor Goldstein plucked a chunk of food from his tooth with the tip of a clubbed finger ringed in a gold band. ‘Kawasaki Cybernetics is taking the lead in augmentation technology and the murder of people in my district, all of whom have had their augments stolen, threatens to damage my reputation. I might lose support. Something which I won’t tolerate. Especially in light of the upcoming campaign.’
‘Mr Mayor, please.’ Mr Lankome blurted out. ‘He’s not interested. I’m afraid to say you’ve wasted your time. Please. Allow me to escort you out.’
While Mr Lankome moved to leave, Mayor Goldstein stayed rooted.
‘You’ll be handsomely compensated.’
Carter had no doubt. Money talked. And he was obliged to listen. And he was certain it wouldn’t end with him being as empty handed as his previous job.
‘Any leads?’
A wry smile curled up the Mayor’s round face showing his approval of the decision.
Mr Lankome read the exchange of agreement and whatever objections he had, he held down.
No doubt saving them in his little black book for the future.
‘There’s little evidence thus far. The perpetrator leaves no prints and-’
‘Any connection between the victims?’
The corpse’s eyes narrowed.
So, he doesn’t like being interrupted. Well, who’d have thought?
‘Not so far as we can tell.’
Mr Lankome started down an explanation but for Carter, it melted into a toneless drone.
‘I’ll need access to the morgue.’ He cut across. ‘And I’ll need to see the other bodies.’
