by Zachary Adam
Grey Angels, when on what they called “clan business”, never went anywhere without the protection of mask and pseudonym. The masks were unique, so far as Niles knew; a sort of underground heraldry for the Angel in question. His contact among them was a man who called himself Scion. He always met Niles in a heavy grey coat, black trousers and boots, with a deep hood behind which was a mask of black, peppered with a galaxy of silver dots. His hands, when Scion rarely exposed them, were protected with those heavy, blue surgical gloves that were the bane of forensic analysis. Scion existed, as near as Niles could tell, to keep him abreast of the gang’s activities – and their interactions with the Cult of the Eye.
“You’re early. There’s coffee for you on the table, as usual. Not that you ever drink it.”
Niles looked to the side-table – the only piece of furniture in the room – and found that there was, indeed, a sealed bottle of water, sealed packet of instant coffee crystals, a clean kettle, and a clean glass. He was amused by Scion’s respect of an appropriate level of paranoia… but he wouldn’t be drinking anything from a man to whom he could not assign a face. “I’m fine. You got my email.”
“I did, which is the only reason I came back.”
“Back?”
“I was vacationing abroad,” he said, moving on brusquely so as not to allow further questions. The message was received loud and clear by the detective. “You have concerns regarding the death of Gloria Creena.”
“Agency Division considered it a crime of national importance and assigned me a… what did he call himself. Cultural Anthropologist.”
The other gave a nod. “They would, considering it was somewhat embarrassing that someone managed to kill someone in what amounted to a government facility.”
“Someone under maximum security, no less,” Niles continued, searchingly. “For a moment, I thought it might have been one of your boys.”
“We have better things to do than trifle with the members of the Cult who are already in custody for their crimes.” Scion said, looking away slightly. Niles found it very difficult to read him. “But that’s not why you contacted me.”
Niles had to admit that Scion was right – in point of fact, when it came to discerning motivation, he almost always was. He was so much better than Niles at playing the social engineering game, that Niles often wondered if he could trust his usually-reliable impressions of the man. “Right. The anthropologist told me that certain markings at the scene, which I sent to you, were inconsistent enough with the work of the Cult as to make it look more like a murder intended to appear as a suicide, than an actual suicide.”
“And you wanted a second opinion from experts in the activities of her particular band of lunatics.”
A reluctant nod from the detective. “You understand, of course, that this is all in the strictest confidence.”
“Ah, Detective Clayton, you are truly a prince among men.”
Scion reached under his coat, producing a manila envelope. “Let’s have a thorough look, shall we?” The photos were no less grisly than the scene itself – Scion had been spared only the images of the decedent herself, being as he was not a medical expert. The photographs – created from the digital stills that the Angel had been sent – were well-loved already, being bent and smudged. They had very clearly received the due inspection.
“Your handler is being not entirely untruthful – though they’re rarely totally honest or dishonest, in any event. Be that as it may, he does have a point. These sorts of markings, and the arrangement of the body - if I’m reading the blood on the floor correctly - are not in accordance with the cult’s preferred method of sacrifice. This is an older rite of theirs, less frequently conferred.” “What are you saying?”
“Two things, my dear detective. Firstly, you need look no further for the perpetrator of the scene than wherever the coroner left her. Secondly: You will find she is still very much alive.”
--“Here you are, madam.” The waiter set down an elegant platter in front of the artist’s lady of the evening. “Long pork char siu and steamed mushroom rice with bak bon dzhow.”
“Thank you.”
“For you, sir: Chicken Birdsnest.”
“Thank you.”
The artist, by the name of Emir Jawad, considered the plate of his guest with a cool eye, while she selected a piece of the barbeque pork, dipping it directly in the dish of white sauce she had been served, and eating it with some great delight. He was offended on religious grounds
– pork of course being Haraam – but the greater offence was to follow.
“I don’t recall seeing that listed on the menu.”
Emir was the flavour of the month, and it had been a long month. He was getting used to throwing his weight around in his social circles, and it was in part this woman’s resistance to it that was attracting him, bored as he was with the casual and easy lays the semi-famous could expect. It was a chance encounter, an introduction by their mutual friend, the broker Erwin Baha, which had lead to this more intimate dinner.
His guest gave him a warm, smug smile, brushing a thick curl of dark hair out of her face. “It’s not. I happen to know the chef. It’s a regional speciality of his.”
Directly translated, with some liberty taken, bak bon dzhow was Long Pork Nerve Sauce.
--There was something that always nagged at the periphery of Vidcund’s memory, a sense that could not be deprived. Vidcund never felt alone in his isolation tank, though he never had a sense of anything other than this being proper. Whatever he was feeling in the tank was some part of himself, some great multitude of parts, that for some reason he could only feel when all other feeling was forbidden to him. Every time he went under, he felt that much closer to understanding this perception. It felt akin, to him, to the sensation of knowing where your hand is, in relation to the other parts of the body –
proprioception, as it was called.
It was out there, somewhere, or they – of late, he had come to think of the perception as having multiple components. He just had to keep chasing after it, and, like all other things, it would become clear to –
The sudden flood of light into his tank called him, reeling, back into reality.
“We have a problem,” his supervisor stood there rather calmly, with a towel ready in her hand. “Actually, several problems.”
Fifteen minutes later, Vidcund was holding a drink in his hand that was in every way a perfectly ordinary mint hot chocolate, save for the supplemented caffeine and protein content. He was immaculately dressed, as always, leathergloved hands protecting the paper cup from cooling too quickly while he considered what was being shown to him. In the dark of the room, the displays reflected off of his rectangular AR sunglasses.
“0815 this morning. Niles Clayton – of the National Police Force, and under your supposedly watchful eye – arrives in Kraterburg. He reports in at the Campus of the College of Judges in order to make his report to his superiors. Personally.”
“That would suggest he was also there to receive either a commendation or a reprimand. I trust we have a transcript of the conversation.”
“Naturally.”
“And?” “High Commissioner Vaillo requested clarification on the nature of the scene of the death of Professor Johnson. Particularly the bathroom you had scrubbed.”
“If the cleaning crew had done their job properly, the whole apartment could have been scrubbed. Or the bathroom could have been re-filthened, as suited them.”
The supervisor nodded her acknowledgement. “Either way, it’s something you’re going to have to figure out how to clarify.”
“My cover to Niles doesn’t include that case.”
“Find a way to bridge the gap. We’re too short-staffed to have two agents assigned to a bloody detective.” Vidcund sipped his drink. He had grown beyond the need for acknowledging commands, and his supervisors had all grown beyond the custom of expecting
acknowledgement. If he was told to do something, it coul
d be counted on as done. “You mentioned multiple problems.”
“Right. Problem two: 0917 this morning, we trace our little knight errant to this facility, owned by Tiger Automotive.”
Vidcund was familiar with that particular web of lies. Did anybody ever use the name Tiger for legitimate purposes? “There’s no such thing as Tiger Automotive.”
“Right. He was meeting with the Grey Angels. We believe Scion, though it’s impossible to tell for sure. They’re remarkably thorough in their defences against remote viewing.”
Vidcund considered that, as an image of Scion was flashed on the screen along with some statistics that matched what his glasses were currently reminding him of. Scion was an almost complete unknown. No listed date of birth, hometown, blood type. All they had to go on was a list of known engagements (the Agency euphemism for violent, usually criminal, incidents) and an overall Threat Assessment Ranking of A. The secondhighest Agency acknowledged ranking.
Vidcund had the agency-side equivalent of the highest ranking – he was considered S-Proficient. “What the hell would a police officer be doing talking directly with a member of a criminal syndicate on their home turf?”
“We don’t know, but, they’re as much a thorn in our side as they are for the police. Either way, this should be discouraged. You may go so far as to try to implicate them in the cult’s activities. After all, it’s not entirely untrue.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but Detective Clayton is the closest thing the NPF have to an expert on the cult. Its possible he already knows of the… rivalry between the two groups.”
“Do what you can. Now, onto the third case.” How long was I out? “There’s more?” “Just one other. A break in at the Terrwald Precinct Morgue. The body of Gloria Creena was stolen. A fairly sophisticated attack, too. There’s no security data to go over, yet. Your pet cop is en route to look into it as we speak.”
Vidcund glanced just barely upward to see the time at the edge of his glasses. “Ah. I think I can head him off.”
“Good luck, Agent.”
Do you think we should suspend him? He was exposed to it, after all. +> His histamine response matched his account ofthe situation. What’s more, he’s shown negative for all interactions. Even on psychological testing. Keep an eye on his progress and report back to me ifthere’s any change. -SD
--Vidcund, or rather, Donny Mallard, was rather pleased to see that the area was much less heavily populated than the original crime scene had been. The morgue itself – specifically “Cold Storage” – had been cordoned off, as had the corridor from it to the back entrance, and any other room off of that passage. Only Niles remained, notwithstanding a few technicians busy photographing, printing, and doing all those other flashy crime-fi tricks.
“I got here as soon as I could, Detective.” Niles did a poor job of concealing his contempt. Vidcund suspected it was on purpose, and couldn’t have complained in the least. He had been cultivating such an attitude intentionally. It made him less repulsive, than if he had been suspiciously friendly. “I didn’t send for you.” Vidcund smoothed right over this with a casual shrug, and launched into a routine to determine how honest Niles was prepared to be with him. “Are the others finished with their inventory? Was anything else missing, apart from the body?”
“No. We thought the video recordings were missing, or the drives were damaged or physically missing as well. It turns out they weren’t, just the computer hosting them was.”
“Was damaged, you mean?”
"Right. Some sort of electrical problem. The disks are being analyzed.”
Vidcund considered that highly unusual. He certainly wasn’t a computer science expert. There were any of a hundred components in a computer that could fail and render it inoperable without damaging the hard-drive, but it was a difficult task to imagine a failure mode that would damage one of those components without collateral damage.
Then again, it wasn’t unbelievable the computer had been tampered with. “Have we figured out how they entered and exited?”
“Sort of,” Niles frowned at his advisor for a lengthy moment. “... Actually, I’d better show you this. I’m fairly certain it’s just graffiti, but you being an expert on people and symbols and whatnot...”
The agent frowned behind Niles’ back as he followed him through the halls. The morgue, which would have been somewhat eerie to a normal person anyway, was somewhat the worse for being so empty of activity, and yet so brightly lit and well-maintained. What was more, that Niles would suddenly enlist his help willingly meant that whatever was bothering him went beyond the usual gang signs.
Niles set his hand on the rear exit door, pushing it open. “We believe the suspect or suspects entered the building through the rear door of the complex. I’m also willing to guess that at least one of them was a staff member. No sign of forced entry, and I looked at the lock under pretty strong magnification, just to make sure, though I’m trying to get it removed for a closer look.”
On the back of the black-painted door was a yellow, twisted triskelion with a stylized eye, done crudely in yellow spray paint. Vidcund found the glyph singularly striking, though he could not say why. He didn’t recognize it, and while he felt he would never quite forget it, he belatedly snapped a photo with his smartphone to aid in further research.
“Any clue what that could be, Doctor Mallard?” “Not yet. I’ll let you know if I find anything more concrete.”
“You do that. Pop along, now.”
Niles did not expect to find that there had ever been forced entry. If Scion was not steering him wrong, however impossible it seemed, Gloria could easily have walked out of this building all on her own.
--The artist’s guest loomed over his battered and broken body, a faint smirk on her face. “Gone a little soft around the edges, have we?”
He tried, and failed, with his fleeting consciousness, to formulate a fitting retort. Her smirk deepened, and she turned to the man who had attacked them, as calmly and coolly as one might turn to the maitre d’.
“You’re late, Crowe.” The huge, heavily-tattooed man seized the pendant that hung around her neck, snapping the chain it hung upon with a sharp jerk of his wrist. “You weren’t easy to find. You’re never easy to find.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You found me anyway.”
“... I’m hungry, Gloria.”
“Bring him with us,” She said, looking to the dying artist. “And give me his phone for a moment.”
--Vidcund loved heights. Most people avoided them where they could, or treated them, at the very least, with a healthy respect, but not him. Some of the buildings in Kraterburg were so tall that you could reliably stand on the very edge of the roof without alarming a soul below, and those were the buildings he sought out to get a fix.
You could get a real sense of the scope of humanity, from a good height, and yet he knew that there was still the better part of 400 km between how high he stood, and how high the highest human settlement was. A sobering, but irrelevant thought.
More importantly though – or at least, more immediately
– he got a rare sight of the city of Kraterburg in whole, or as near to whole as you could without looking down on it from orbit. Though it was hardly the largest city in the world at a standing population of 8 million in the city proper, it had bafflingly low population densities. The city and her proper suburbs extended over two hundred kilometres to the south from where the Agent was standing, all the way to the coastal burb of New Zvanesburg, where the rich lawyers and politicians kept their opulent homes. To the north, a hundred kilometres even further, would have lay Wolverhampton, in the southern foothills of the Northern Guardians, that impassable mountain range that so far went uninhabited.
Of course, Kraterburg proper, which was about all he could see from his lofty post, was far closer, and denser. The caldara stood in a wall to his north – and inside that raised bowl of earth he knew the Old City itself lay, getting older and stranger
by the day. All around it – and around him – was a city in the process of getting taller. Mankind reaching for the ceiling that wasn’t there, scraping a sky you couldn’t touch while dwarfing the buildings that had originally earned that lofty title.
She was an old city, make no mistake. A history that dragged on, as the City of London claimed, into “time immemorial”. Certainly, even the earliest legends and myth-cycles of the Zaxti people – the original population from whom the name of the Island and the whole Union was ultimately derived – mention their Great Emperor having come up from their traditional homeland and fortresses in the south and “taking” Old Kraterburg – from who or what was lost to time. Time and again, wars had been fought over control of the city. Hell, the Legalization of the Union in the 1890s had almost fallen to pieces when the Tererrans threatened to pull out when Kraterburg was chosen for the capital.
Vidcund forced himself out of his retrospections. He’d come up here to get some perspective. As it was, his current case seemed to be getting out of hand. He was no closer, yet, to discovering who had supplied Johnson with the Pnakotic Manuscripts, or indeed what the shapeless, organic mass in the bath-tub had been. The
disappearance of a corpse was a needless complication.
And yet, with that strange symbol on the door, he wondered if they couldn’t be related. The computers at the office were running the image through analysis, looking for a source for it to have come from, or at least be an imitation of.
He wasn’t entirely surprised his phone was going off. His glasses told him it wasn’t Niles, so he answered it as was his custom. “Därk.”
