by Ren Warom
“Okay,” he says through numb lips, “I’m listening.”
Stark takes a seat across from the body on an unsteady pile of rubble. He fumbles out a thick pad, bound with elastic, and unsnaps it; flips through, clearing his throat.
“To date, we have the Sphinx and the Crucifixion. Both labelled the same way, though in differing locations on the skin. Former found last Wednesday, latter two days ago. Both tied with the same double braid rope, same pulley system holding ‘em in place.” He gestures roughly to the walls. “All the bells and whistles, as you see it here, exact. You’d think it was the same room once you’re in it.”
Bone, back to examining the girl, pauses, surprise flashing in his eyes. “Both found dead?”
Stark snorts, says, “How else?”
Bone shrugs, his shoulders tight and awkward in the cold. “Depending on shock response, physical health, psychological strength, they could survive for some time before death under these conditions, beyond the usual span for starvation or dehydration. The temperature would benefit them by inducing a hypothermic state, slowing the body’s functions. Allowing them to survive longer on less.”
Stark scowls. “No such luck. They’ve all been in abandoned places like this, secretive, close to civilisation, but not close enough by a whisper. A fucking taunt. All three were found by pure chance.” A burst of anger tightens his broad face. “It’s making us look like idiots. This guy seems to know how long they’ll be left unseen, unaided.”
“Guy? Are we sure it’s a man?”
“I have no idea. But according to all the literature, because fuck knows we have no recent historical reference for this, staging like this generally presents as male psychosis.”
“Okay. But this killer can’t be working alone. Not even an augment could do all this by themselves.” Bone indicates the ropes. “This system could be put up by one, but the balancing of her weight requires two pairs of hands. It’s extraordinarily intricate.”
Stark’s eyes flicker approval. He says, “He’s not working alone, no, but this is one man’s vision, and considering the mutilation’s a reverse of usual physical violence, it’s scary shit.” He shakes a heavy head and pulls his hand down his face, exhausted. “We’re all thumbs here. It’s too far outside our remit. If I could, I’d bring in Suge to help us.”
“Suge?”
“Been on my team eighteen months or so, replaced a retiree. He’s augment. Eyes.” Stark heaves a sigh. “He’d be damned useful.”
“So why’s he not here?”
Stark grunts in disgust. “The Notary’s restricted access. It’s just me, De Lyon at Lower Mace Mort, and Mitt Faran’s Buzz Boy team. The fucking Guards out there don’t know shit. They’re just here to guard it. I dicked enough procedure calling you in to give the Notary ulcers, but they’re throwing bullshit like it’s confetti and I haven’t the time.” Stark returns to his notes. “Bodies have no contusions, no drug traces—lab says possibly a metabolised substance-–no sexual assault, prints, fibres … anything. Sphinx had a heart attack—De Lyon says an existing problem but I’ll go with your evaluation on that when you have it—and Crucifixion died from suffocation.” He slams the notepad shut, re-snaps the elastic, and shoves it back in his pocket with undue force.
Bone nods and taps the ripe, purplish blue patches on Ballerina’s face with the blunt end of his scalpel. “Acute cyanonsis. Pressure on the lungs. Ballerina suffocated, too. Could’ve been serene, hallucinogenic, detached.”
“So why the face?”
“This is art, pure and simple. She’s perfectly suspended, held by the rigging, not her muscles. The discomfort would be from the extreme positioning.” Bone indicates the acute curve of her spine. “From that comes intermittent muscle spasms, the slow build of cramping to seizure-like levels. It would’ve been excruciating. Everyone reacts differently to pain. She either couldn’t handle it, or wouldn’t accept it, fought it.” Bone touches a gentle finger to the puffed pouches of flesh beneath her clouded blue eyes. “Fighting makes it worse. In effect, by fighting, she slowly suffocated herself.”
Stark considers this for a moment, his eye twitching a little, then points at the balletic corpse and declares, “You’ve already noticed the only harm, apart from rope marks, is the removal of mods and the addition of the tattooed tag. She’ll be clean, not a fucking whisper, not even genetics. It was all gone from the others. Cleared out.”
“Yeah, I caught all that.”
With the end of his scalpel Bone traces the patterns of tiny scars that should contain hard nubs of bolts or ball bearings beneath, they’re smooth, empty, unnatural to everyone but him. It feels personal, unnerving, especially in the context of this carefully staged diorama. He’s inclined to agree with Stark. This killer, whoever he might be, wants him to see these bodies. To figure them out. Perhaps wants to show off to him. The thought makes him want to puke.
“He’s fastidious as all hell,” Stark says.
Bone nods. “He is, so let me ask you a question. These lights, were they on or off?”
Starting, Stark gives Bone a curious look. “Off. Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to know their purpose. If they were on when she was found, then they’re part of the framing, they’re significant.”
“And what do you make of them being off?”
“That they’re for us. For me. So I can see clearly, appreciate his artistry. He left her nothing but darkness and cold. Whatever the reason, it has meaning to him.”
“Agreed. You’re picking up everything I did.”
Stark’s impressed, but Bone can only think of how she must have felt and the unease from earlier rises upwards in spasms through his gut. He looks again at Ballerina, into her eyes. Is there despair in that milky blue gaze? Behind his eyes, there’s a sensation akin to the soft scrabble of spider legs. The nausea intensifies at the sensation and he swallows. Convulsively. No way he’s about to throw up like that Guard out there.
“Anyway,” Stark says. “De Lyon checked Notary records with facial recognition, came up blank. These Does are untraceable. He checked his contacts in the Zone for the tatt, and found zip.”
Bone laughs. “Unsurprising.” He touches her scars again. “I can’t even inspect these for familiar cutting techniques; they’ve healed almost invisible. Same on the others?”
“Yeah. The same. We thought he might be holding them somewhere, but tests showed the only deprivations occurred during their time suspended. If our killer is holding them before he ropes them up to die, then he’s treating them damned well, which fits none of the corresponding psych profiles in the books I’ve had to read to try and get a handle on this.” Stark sighs.
“I don’t like it.”
Stark rubs at his shoulders and Bone sees the outlines of heavy steel implants. How appropriate. This man reminds him forcibly of the tanks lined up outside. “No,” Stark says, heartfelt. “Your specialty’s Zone tracing; you’re the best there is. Is there anything you can do to find our guy fast, before he does this again?”
“I’d have to take the victim’s pictures to every single surgeon in the Zone with a psi-augment by my side, to see if one gives off a suspect psych wobble, and you know that’s not happening. The Establishment would never allow that shit.” Bone shrugs as Stark lets out a huff of irritation. “Stark, even if our killer isn’t a surgeon––which is doubtful––I can’t even try for simple ID. No surgeon is going to facially recall these patients from the thousands they mod every year. There are no eidets and no memory upgrades amongst surgeons. You know as well as I do how illegal that is. It’s a client confidentiality compromise. What the hell can I do for you?”
“I’m running on empty,” Stark tells him, sober. “I need someone who looks deeper. You’re already seeing what De Lyon, the Notary, even fucking Faran, refuse to see. This is no act of gang propaganda; it’s very carefully orchestrated and far too opposite to their philosophy. I’d bet a year of paychecks that it’s the virtuoso performan
ce of some evangelical mods extremist, and if anyone can cut clues out of this poor bitch and prove me right or wrong, or point me in a better direction, you can.”
“And if I can’t?”
“I have my own line of inquiry to follow alongside your efforts.”
Bone cocks a curious brow. “Which would be …?”
Stark grimaces and spits out, “Burneo.”
“Burneo?” Bone laughs. “You’re kidding me. You actually believe some lunatic man-machine who’s never once left the sewer is behind this shit?”
“These bodies, they’re statements,” says Stark, a dark edge to his voice. “If they became public, all hell would break loose. Anarchy. Burneo is all about anarchy, all about forcing ordinary folk to take on change they’re just not ready for, despite the Spires more exuberant approach to modification. Couple that with how difficult these bodies are to find, and yet how disturbingly close they are to secure or secret sewer outlets and I’ve a compelling reason to investigate him. Abandoning these people to die in the middle of nowhere may seem to be a form of sadism …”
“But that would be contraindicative to what we’re seeing. The staging, the deliberation, the care in the process. They’re meant to be seen, to be found,” Bone interrupts thoughtfully.
“Precisely,” agrees Stark. “It suggests our killer is operating under constraint, or to a very precise agenda.”
“You’re suggesting Burneo is helping to make the vision reality?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” Stark rises from his stone seat. “He’s a symbol to any half-baked whack job who wants shit like Transmog, the Monk psi-gen, irreversible animalistic gen-mutations, and meldings made freely available in the Zone.”
“How in hell would they meet?”
“By my reckoning, if I’m right and he is involved, then our killer would have had to go looking for him and found him way before the killing started, because this likely took one hell of a planning period,” Stark says. “However unlikely it might be, my gut’s telling me he’s in this, and I intend to find out how. My boss won’t like it any more than the Notary will like you knee-deep in this, but her …” He stabs his pen towards Ballerina sharply, a movement of rage and impatience. “She’s my tipping point. I’m done with the books. Time to step off the beaten path.”
“So you’ll be knee-deep in sewers whilst I’m elbow deep in flesh?”
“Once I get the green light. Lucky for me, my boss trusts my gut, even when he doesn’t like where it’s taking me.”
Bone shudders. “Rather you than me.”
“There’s nothing I like more than wading knee-deep into the shit,” Stark says cheerfully, grinning. The expression transforms his face, animates it, and Bone realises how lifeless it was before. No, not lifeless. Closed. Completely locked down.
“You’re a strange man,” he says, shaking his head.
Stark comes back at him, sharpish, “So the fuck are you.”
Chapter 4
In the mucid depths of the sewers, where rusted pipes form elaborate, interlocking puzzles, plumes of steam disperse into shadow, like machine breath. In the mouth of the machine––a vast cavern––drips of water slip to the tips of stalactites before free-falling to join the great, sulphurous body of liquid beneath. Their endless splashing creates a ripple of music upon the giant bowl of urine-coloured waters.
Sedate as an alligator, Burneo floats at the surface, his arms splayed in repose. Around him, the water barely moves, disturbed only by sulphurous bubbles rising to the surface to pop, spewing puffs of invidious yellow vapour. His chest barely rises. He could be dead but for the endless hissing of the pistons at the junctures of his shoulders.
Somewhere far up in the jagged roof, great lights switch on, one after the other. The hollow clack and hum of their activation spreads in ever-decreasing repetitions about the glistening walls. Something flickers in their illumination, a mirage. Cave walls to concrete smooth as marble and then back again. Burneo rolls a mercury eye, blinks its tawny counterpart. Dips his great skull back into the waters and gulps sulphurous brine, sighing deep relief as it travels his parched throat and cascades into the great steel box of his belly.
He expels a rush of yellow gasses, watches the lights as they begin their ponderous revolutions and send searching beams to sweep across the cavern.
“Time to leave,” he says, his voice echoing from the cavern walls.
The pistons in the junctures of his shoulders and elbows spit and sigh as he raises his arms to an arc, thrusts backwards, and dives, out of sight in seconds.
He surfaces in a square, shoulder-deep pool under the vaulted ceiling of an overflow chamber. The single exit, a humid, lightless void of a tunnel, rises in the wall ahead. Still as a stalagmite, thick tangle of black hair sodden, he peruses a congregation of massive rats ranged on the ledge, their eyes sparking red in the dull light. He evaluates them as they evaluate him.
Stand off.
Then he wades forwards and grasps the edge of the pool with huge hands, their fingers awkwardly jointed in gleaming steel. There’s a rush of stinking water and he stands on the edge, naked, a giant of tormented flesh corroded with metals. He rolls one leg, a shrug of movement. From within, deep metallic pops resound. Eyes quivering shut, he groans at the sensation, pain followed by pain. This is what he lives for.
Pistons fire. Liquid bubbles in clear plastic tubes. Blood, piss, shit. Inner workings exposed. His eyes snap open. He walks forwards, a shuddering lurch of unusual grace.
And the rats part before him.
Chapter 5
Forlorn grey sky provides a backdrop for the Avenue’s procession of black spires; frozen gyres punctuating haphazard, ivy-wound rooftops. In the rest of the Spires, these omnipresent helixes are kept to one aesthetic per district, affording each a different visual key. Here in the Zone, their architects were allowed free expression, and as a result, the spires are often eccentric, eclectic, or bizarre.
Twelve of the seventeen on the Avenue are slender as needles, tightly wound as DNA, bristling ominously between the tiled roofs like porcupine spikes. Of the remaining five, three are bestial, rising to three hundred feet and formed to resemble armies of gargoyles, dragons, and horned serpents crawling to the heavens, their mouths belching lightning. Intricate and grotesque, these guard the two ends and the centre of the street, a dismal sentinel trio.
The last two are gargantuan, so immense they make the eye baulk to look at them. Rising to pierce the Zone’s dense cloud cover, they break through at their pinnacles into bright sunshine that spills down their innards and transforms their stark, black solemnity into something altogether more ethereal. One of these giants rises from the courtyard of the Doghouse, an old-timer biker bar painted with fading murals of motorbikes and dusty sunsets.
Perched high in the innards of that Gordian monstrosity, drenched in sunlight that ignites his liquid tattoos to blinding rivers of white fire, sits Spaz, leader of the Establishment. Still and alert as a crow on a distant rooftop, his second in command, Dash, grins, relieved to finally spot him, and sets off across snow-bound rooftops, his feet light and sure, building up speed despite the ice skinning the tiles somewhere beneath that layer of snow.
He hits the Doghouse roof and knocks up a gear. The spire’s dead centre in the courtyard, some thirty feet from the edge of the roof, and if he’s not going fast enough, he’ll plunge to his death. As he hits the apex, he leaps, aiming for the curved edge of the spire. His hand wraps the black steel sure as a whip and he scales the spire in swift movements, with all the skill and assurance of a born runner.
He was a runner when he was younger, as was Spaz. It’s one of the accepted ways to rise through gang ranks, though many runners choose to stay on the pulpits and rooftops, considering it their personal territory. They wonder why anyone would reduce themselves to ground level and say that anything beneath the crow’s eye is beneath their notice. He and Spaz chose to move on, understanding that it’s no
t always necessary to climb to stand taller than everyone else. But no runner ever forgets how to run, nor ever quite gets the urge to do so out of their system.
Reaching the level beneath Spaz, Dash bunches his muscles and swings around, throwing his body upwards and over in a tight somersault to land beside his boss. He wobbles just a touch and splays his weight out to catch his balance.
Spaz raises a brow. “Nice one. Bit close for comfort, though.”
“Fuck off, that was damn near perfect.”
“If you say so.”
Dash takes a seat. “I’ve been looking for you. Got word Bone’s on it now.”
Spaz nods, his gaze distant. “Make sure the runners don’t lose him.”
“Lace said she’s got teams to back her up everywhere, even the Spine Freaks. Have to say, I’m impressed. Girl’s got considerable diplomatic skills.”
Spaz allows a smile. “She’s also got a directive from me recorded into her chip to play to any fucker who wants to ask stupid questions.”
“Ah. Nice one.”
“Her idea. And it was.”
Dash clears his throat. “This is necessary, right? Those bodies … It’s fucking wrong.”
Spaz reaches over and clasps Dash’s shoulder, his steel-tipped nails pressing into flesh, not aggressive but certainly not agreeable. “I wish it weren’t, but you know Yar won’t hesitate to use his position as Notary Chair against us.”
Dash drops his head. “No. But letting this happen. In our fucking city.”
Spaz chuckles, a dark, bitter sound. “Yeah. I know.” He releases Dash’s shoulder and gives it a friendly whack. “I need a drink. Sitting up here like a miserable cunt only makes me feel worse.”
