by SJ Davis
“Bodhi, I am not truly interested in debating current decor.” Caroline waved her hands dismissively. “I do not occupy myself by making useless pincushions.” She removed a comb that held her hair up, placed the tortoiseshell in her mouth, and began readjusting her fallen curls. “And your opinion does not fall upon deaf ears.” She spoke in a muffled fashion, speaking around the comb in her mouth. “But as a nation, we have larger issues at hand.”
“You brought it up, Caroline,” said Bodhi, staring at her hands as they twisted, intrigued by her hairstyle.
“Yes, well now I am changing the subject to a different issue, aren’t I?”
“An issue pertaining to the upper class? Or to the rest of us?”
“To all of us.” Caroline walked the small length of the room. “No one is immune to our current state of affairs and I am mightily shocked by the present condition of London. The pollution, the unemployment and political unrest, the slums and factory conditions, all of these things must be addressed,” she paused to touch her cameo brooch.
Bodhi nodded and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe some wayward gear grease from his fingers. “London has changed much since you left, Caroline. Surely you father kept you informed,” he said.
“My father has always viewed me as a pet. A silly girl, now a silly woman.”
“I am sure he has heard you opinions? Encouraged your discussions?”
“We have briefly spoken about how the Industrialists have exploited the masses. One certainly can’t blame the underclass for fighting back,” she continued. “But it is also true that our world needs scientific advancements and industry to improve society overall. We understand so much more of our world! We have breakthroughs in medical advances! All of things are necessary and a right of Man!”
Bodhi was silent for a moment, wondering if this was the same shallow Caroline from his childhood.
“Those are my thoughts also, Lady Caroline. The key is for science to improve society, not just the pockets of a few powerful men. And not by breaking the backs of the common man.”
They sat quietly for a few moments and watched the fire sputter out.
The upstairs maid brought in the tea, setting warm strawberry scones and cream alongside the blue and white china, teapot and cups.
“Have you seen Josephine since your return?” asked Bodhi.
“Josephine never cared for me. You know that. I know she found me flighty and prone to silly outbursts.” Caroline straightened herself and peeled off her gloves. “How is she? Are you still close?”
“She is quite well. She tutors local children in French and Latin and keeps quite busy. We share a special bond of course, since her father brought me in to their household. It was the first stable time for me.”
“Indeed,” said Caroline. “I heard about the explosion and of Josephine losing her parents. It was a year or so after I left for boarding school. I was crushed for her, and for you. Did anything come of the investigation?”
Bodhi flinched. Her blunt query shocked him.
He picked up the teacup and stared down into the floating tealeaves. “I do love the Old Willow china pattern, Caroline.”
“Does that mean my question is being disregarded?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” he stammered. “I really do not know.” He shrugged and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.
“Do you take sugar, Bodhi?”
“No, thank you.” Bodhi sat for several moments of awkward silence; the subtle clinking of the teacups on their saucers punctuated the stillness.
Caroline leaned forward to unlace her boots. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I just need to loosen these a bit.”
“Not at all.”
“This room is getting a chill. Are you comfortable?” asked Caroline.
Bodhi nodded but walked to the mantle and grabbed a poker and bellows. He jabbed the dimming flame until the fire fanned back to life. “We were sitting in the dining room eating breakfast while Mr. Rolls was reading the newspaper, complaining about rising prices and moaning about unemployment. It was all, up to that point, a most ordinary morning.”
“I’m sorry Bodhi, I should never have pried. It was ill-mannered of me.”
“No, you should know, especially if you come across Josephine,” Bodhi said.
Caroline leaned forward, her chin in her hands.
“There was a sucking feeling as we were slammed into a wall,” he continued, his jaw clenched as he rubbed his temples. Bodhi sucked in some air, “I spotted Josephine lying face down a few feet away from me.” He breathed out slowly. “She was covered in dust and debris.” His voice softened, “At least she was breathing.” Bodhi cleared his throat as his voice cracked. “At that point, I must have blacked out.”
“Where did you go? How were you both provided for?”
“There was not much left of Mr. Rolls’ textile business. His workers were disgruntled over money and threatening to leave. The factory was hopelessly out of date, inefficient, and no money was left over to invest properly in modern machinery. So, the attorneys negotiated the sale of the Rolls’ family business, more of a dismantling really. We were able to continue our education but we lived on a dreadfully modest allowance.”
“To be alone so young, it’s unspeakable.”
“Last year, I inherited the money set aside for me and I opened my own clock shop. So here I am. Fixing your father’s clock. A bit of a happy ending.”
Caroline gently followed, “Did you ever find the responsible party? Who on earth dare bomb a private family residence? What could possibly have been a motive?”
“That’s a story for another day. Rumor and speculation, at best.” Bodhi’s face twisted and he shook his head.
“Of course a proper investigation was conducted?” asked Caroline.
“The investigation seemed thorough at the time but I was young. My instincts now tell me the investigation remains incomplete. Unfortunately, one can’t dwell on such things, one must move on with life.”
“I am so sorry, such a horrid loss.” Caroline looked sideways into the fire; her blue eyes reflected the flames. “The culprit must be made to pay somehow.”
“Most odd,” he said as he counted the peacocks on the wallpaper in his head. “Several months ago, after my shop was established, I received a note.” Bodhi had intended to halt the story, but found himself oddly moved to continue. “Out of the blue, a brief line sent anonymously claimed the floral bouquet camouflaged an explosive device. The note went so far as to hint at the responsible party.”
“Who? What kind of hint?” asked Caroline, her interest piqued.
His dark eyes stared back at her. “Not a hint at all, I probably shouldn’t spread unfounded accusations but the note accused Professor Anson. The inventor! Hard to believe and academic and a man of science would want to harm the Rolls family.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. “Anson? Really?”
“Merely the contents of an anonymous note, Caroline,” Bodhi said dispassionately. “One can glean from it whatever one wants.”
“I suppose you hadn’t enough evidence to bring anyone into the courts at the time?”
“Nothing. There was nothing left to gather as evidence. Just two children left in a wake of destruction. This anonymous note sent years later would never even open an inquiry against such a powerful man. To be fair, he may be of no involvement. The note offered no proof.”
“It would be difficult to get at him in order to ascertain his guilt, with his constant guards and security.” Caroline ignored the possibility of Anson’s innocence and gazed at the man in front of her. Bodhi’s elegant fingers wrapped around the teacup as her father's clock began to chime on the hour. She remembered the stories of how Mr. Rolls had picked Bodhi up from a London port, an orphan working the Indian trade route. He had given the boy a home, her father had told her, reminding her to treat Bodhi with kindness. Bodhi’s childhood had seemed like an adventure to her.
“What are you implying, Ca
roline? Retribution? Indictment? On a man accused via an anonymous note?” Bodhi sat stunned. “Absolutely not, Anson is considered by many to be one the greatest minds of our time.”
Caroline ran her finger around the rim of her teacup. “Yes actually, I am implying such a thing. I believe the note exposed Anson’s guilt. No one would slander such a man without reasoning and evidence. And the proper discovery of justice appeals to my nature; such a scathingly evil wrong should not go unpunished.”
“Whatever its name, I would never consent to lawless mayhem,” said Bodhi, unsure what Caroline was suggesting. “Even if he was guilty.”
“I am not suggesting criminal activity. London has had quite enough of that.” She pulled another small curved comb from her hair and set it on the table. She toyed with it, rocking it back and forth with her fingers. “However, I’ve recently become acquainted with three individuals who are very interested in Professor Anson. I will introduce you.”
Omni
September 2134
Yeshua sat by himself in the class. The close-up on the smart screen displayed the small absence of skin just outside the corner of the dead man’s eye. A bullet hole, tiny, it’s entry barely perceptible, the skin hardly disturbed.
“You’ll notice the absence of blood and lack of powder burn,” said the instructor, his laser pointer reddened the area around the ocular bone.
“Shot from a distance?” asked a slender woman from the back with close-cropped hair.
“Yes.”
The instructor clicked to another frame, which pulled back to reveal the full body of the dead man, blonde slicked back hair, in a brown bomber jacket. He lay sprawled on a bed with red spray paint cans peeking from under the bed, but otherwise nothing personal or identifying in the room existed. The obvious location was a recently rented room or hotel, an impersonal transient locale.
“One shot. Title 3.3 mission: 3 man team in, 3-man team out. Window to window stakeout, silencers, end of mission,” said a young man in the front row, a redhead with a hint of curls along his neck.
“Clean and complete,” said the instructor. “Correct.”
“Question.” Yeshua raised his hand. A tall and intelligent recruit, his dark hair has almost outgrown the short-cropped regulation cut. Small curls peeked around his ears and his sunglasses held the front of his hair from falling into his deep brown eyes. The instructor zoomed in the view of the smart screen; the dead man’s face filled the screen, as his red laser pointer aimed down to the floor.
“Go ahead.”
“What was Omni’s mission?”
“Confidential. Need to know basis only.”
“Okay, but as I look in the room…Can you zoom out again, please?”
The instructor cleared his throat and ran his muscled hand over his high and tight haircut. “Enough?”
“No. More.”
“This is as far as I can go.”
“Okay,” Yeshua said skeptically. “If you look, there are two beds, both unmade. Each bed has its own side table; each side table has a glass of water sitting on top. Where was the other occupant at the time of the shooting?”
“There were no other occupants,” the instructor said sharply.
“But the smudges on the glasses are different sizes indicating they were made by different people. And whoever slept in the bed on the right, got out of the bed differently that the occupant of the one on the left. You can tell by how the sheets are pulled back.”
“Not significant.”
“I think it is significant in that there was someone else living in the room. Not a girlfriend, because they would surely share the same bed. So the mission might not be as complete as you present.”
“Ops executed a perfect and thorough stake out. All comings and goings were tracked and recorded. We don’t execute an Omni mission without a full set of facts.”
Yeshua walked up to the smart screen and zoomed in on the spray paint can. Pulling and arranging the picture with his hands until he zeroed in on a small camera, a pencil thin rectangle with a lens was attached to the nozzle of the can. “What’s this? Was this left behind to be found or was it forgotten?” He pulled into to the screen even closer, until the entire fields was a section of the can. “It looks like a radio-activated incendiary device attached to some sort of remote camera. Who placed this? Or who left it might be a better question.”
“This is a closed case. Omni filed it,” said the instructor.
“So questions aren’t welcome?” asked Yeshua, returning to his seat, past rows of blank faces. The class quickly dismissed into a fluorescent tiled corridor that fed to the stairs.
“Yeshua,” directed the instructor. “Don’t dig beyond the facts presented to you. Okay?”
Yeshua said nothing as he nodded and left class. The new recruits of Omni Secret Ops descended like a single celled organism into the subway level. All wearing the black training t-shirt with ‘Omni Operations’ emblazoned in small block white letters across their backs, they marched evenly passed a wall of mailboxes, shipping tubes, and vendors. Yeshua stopped at a newsstand to download the Daily News. He leaned the side of his forehead to the red scanner on the side cart to both pay for and to receive his download purchase.
Ventilators in the ceiling were draped with strands of thick dust, hanging low and blowing to the south side like strings of grey fur. Smoke detectors, ceiling cameras, and small round speakers flush to the ceiling hung above him as far down the underground corridor as he could see.
“How long do I have access to the Daily News?” asked Yeshua.
“Twenty four hours from 100% download,” said the vendor. “Keep your head still, you’re at 90% now, you don’t want to be charged twice. Remember there is no access when you’re operating a motor vehicle. The site won’t activate and will automatically shut down if you try to open it. It’s not worth trying to hack around it either.”
The vendor’s scanner beeped, indicating the download was complete. Yeshua continued through the concrete shadows, the force of his gaze made the crowd walk around him. He stepped over an empty can of Coke, rolling on the ground but not yet crushed. A small child ran into the mix of commuters and grabbed the can and tossed it over the crowd into a bin held by his mother for recycling. In her eyes he could sense fatigue and defeat, and then she was lost again in the crowd.
In front of him, a shower of small pebbles flew from his right, they scattered unnoticed by the rest of the commuters. Yeshua knew who it was before he looked up. It was Nico, tossing pebble after pebble in his direction. He sat balanced on a four-foot tall concrete sidewall with a line of glowing directional lights at his feet. Yeshua kicked at the small rocks away and walked over, hopping up next to him.
“What’s up, hombre?” asked Yeshua.
“Just seeing how my man is doing now you’re working for the man, my straight edge friend,” said Nico. “Let’s go back up.” He pointed to the escalator. “You don’t like riding the sub anyway. It’s too crowded, right?” Nico’s blonde dreadlocks were decorated with blue beads, twisted into his hair. As Nico jogged up the escalator, his hair clicked as it whipped in motion. His jeans were ripped along the sides and he carried a camera bag, held together with duct tape.
Yeshua nodded and they walked past a building that had once been a bank. Thick brick walls, a vestibule, and a counter in the back – the smell of ink and paper still hung in the air. Omni converted it to a convenience store.
“Hungry?” asked Yeshua.
“Yep. Econ Ye Toki Etaha Hanhanla Ilaka,” answered Nico, switching to the Lakhota language, literally meaning let’s do it away from net control and go off-grid.
“Wecala,” nodded Yeshua in agreement.
They walked silently to the deregulated area. “Okokipe Kici Miye,” said Yeshua indicating the danger for him, as an Omni Ops trainee to risk entering a deregulated area. Nico nodded and tossed him a white T-shirt from his duffel bag to change into.
“Come on.” Nico put his ar
m around Yeshua’s shoulder and walked side by side with him across the dusty street. Sheets of plastic were rolled along the edge of the walk and a reel of steel wire lay on its side by an art studio and gallery. The door to the studio had a buzzer, unusual in the city, as most entrances identified newcomers by scanning their chip. Nico pushed the buzzer on the side with his elbow. The door made a buzzing sound in return, the latch clicked to unlock, and the door slid open automatically. Yeshua entered first and bumped into a small Buddha sculpture wrapped in ivy, he looked up into a retro modern painting. Large globs of warm primary colors – yellow and red – slashed across the canvas; inside the splashed smears of paint were crushed and broken cigarettes.
“Is this Renee DeChristopher’s new exhibit?” asked Yeshua. The sun was thinning outside as he wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. Outside the studio, halfway up the curb, a vandalized motorcycle lay on its side, ignored by the passers-by. Its windscreen had cracked into a spider’s web design and the front tire slashed. The sides of the black paint finish were gouged down to grey metal in various circular and crisscross designs.
“Yep,” said Nico. Inside the art studio, the walls were painted dulled institutionalized beige though the art shot color along the walls. Renee smiled, waved a heavily braceleted arm, but said nothing aloud; she pointed over her shoulder silently, to the back room where the entrance to a crawlspace was hidden. Underneath, large cement pipes and under barbed wire led to the area of the deregulated zone.
They both entered the dark tunnel; both said nothing as they crawled forward through the pipe. Cigarette butts and condoms littered their path, with an occasional single shoe left by someone.
