by Mel Odom
* * *
Four hours and twenty-seven minutes later, Royo and I entered Three Steps through its private airlock. Private airlocks were used in places where smokers gathered. The businesses had to provide their own air scrubber systems, and the cost was reflected in the pricing.
The enterprise was another blue-collar bar dedicated to servicing cargo handlers from the warehouse district, like the eight we’d been to before while looking for leads to Martian terrorists. There were three main warehouse areas in the city. In Heinlein, the warehouses were scattered throughout the city along tube lines, making it easier to ferry goods to the various businesses, shops, and outlets.
The Docklands contained a larger concession of warehouses. All of them were technically out of NAPD jurisdiction. The NAPD couldn’t go there to search for anything without a warrant and those warrants were extremely hard to get. Judges didn’t like signing off on warrants because they were elected officials and were dependent on corp funding for elections, as well as their support.
People in the district attorney’s office were just as difficult to convince. A detective had to know exactly what was being searched for, where it was, and who had it in order to get a warrant approved. If an investigator knew all of that, there was no reason to get a search warrant.
The other downside was that once a search warrant was granted, generally whoever or whatever was being searched for would disappear from that location before the order could be executed. On top of that, looking for anything in the Docklands was exceedingly dangerous.
I’d only been there a few times, and I’d never once gotten what I had gone there to get.
The third section of warehouses lay just outside the megapolis. Those were easier to get to with search warrants, but contraband was not often found there. The corps used them as staging areas, housing the bulk of their stock in those locations and later moving it into the city in smaller increments.
Three Steps was a step up from many of the small drinking establishments on the lists that Royo and I had. According to the economic profile I pulled up on the Net, the bar did a good amount of business in a medium-sized arena on the seventeenth floor of an office building. The décor was 1940s Hollywood, California. Framed posters of movie stars popular at that time hung on the walls, dividing the big room into smaller areas focused on particular entertainment personalities.
A bar occupied the left side of the room. Three bartenders, two women and one man, served drinks to patrons sitting on stools and to servers working the tables. At the front of the room, spotlights burned down on a young woman in a strapless blood red dress that clung to her body like a second skin. Gloves of the same color ran to her elbows. Her platinum blonde hair trailed down past her shoulders and covered her left eye. Diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat, flashing blue-white fire when the light caught the different facets.
The woman held a retro-style microphone in one hand and sang in a breathy fashion. Her voice was deep for a woman, and sounded husky. The effect was quite unique, and I knew it was her natural voice and not one that had been electronically altered.
Band members played behind her, but the sound was mixed with computer-generated enhancements that made the music bigger than it was. The melody was deep and sultry, a good match for the woman, and her body swayed a little with the beat. She gazed out into the crowd with real interest, and many of the patrons returned her attention.
A big man with cyber-enhanced hands approached me. He wore a black suit, black shirt, and red tie. His hair was greased back from his broad face. The chrome on the back of his hands caught the light and gleamed, and I estimated from the thickness of his sleeves that he was cybered up to the shoulders and probably had had some spinal work done as well.
“He’s a bouncer.” Shelly stood beside me in the bar. The thick tobacco smoke and narco haze eddying through the room made her look like she was underwater, faded. “Probably got into some trouble down on Earth and they cycled him up here to chill.”
I agreed, and a quick ping of his e-ID confirmed Shelly’s guess. Teton Falk was licensed as a “security officer, enhanced” and under contract to Apple Moon Entertainment Enterprises, a subsidiary of Solange Brewery, Inc.
Falk came to a stop just beyond my arm’s reach. He nodded to me. “Can I help you?”
There were no other bioroids in the bar. I knew I stood out among the patrons. I raised my left hand slowly, palm up. Then I pulsed my e-badge.
Falk’s features tightened. “Is there something I can help you with, Detective?”
Royo was talking to the bartender, but I knew he was watching me as well.
“We’re looking for someone.”
Falk’s gaze slid to Royo at the bar. “This someone have a name?”
“Not yet.”
“So you’re on a fishing expedition.”
“We’re looking for information about terrorists with Mars sympathies.”
Falk hesitated. “What made you decide to come in here?”
“Three Steps is on the list.” I didn’t tell him what list that was, or how large the list was.
“Gotta be some kind of mistake.” Falk shook his head. “This isn’t a terrorist hangout.”
“It has been my experience that terrorists don’t make themselves known until they’re ready to send a message.” I blanked the e-badge and lowered my hand. “We’re just here to ask a few questions.”
“Management doesn’t like the patrons getting hassled.”
On the stage, the woman in red had shifted to a new song, this one slower and sadder. Most of the bar’s guests continued watching the show, but many of them were now watching Royo and me as well.
I thought of what I’d heard Shelly say when confronted by someone with this argument. “I’m sure that my partner and I will be less hassle than if I have to bring in a dozen uniformed police officers to do the same job. What do you think?”
Falk muttered a few choice curse words. “In and out. And if you get to be too big of a bother, I’m going to throw you out anyway. And maybe those dozen policemen as well. We’ll let the courts decide who had the right of it.” He retreated to his position against the wall and scowled at me.
I went to the nearest table and patted an empty chair. Two men and a woman in their early thirties sat there looking at me. They were a scruffy lot, hard men used to hard labor. Even in a full spacesuit, hands got hard and callused from hours spent using a pickax or other tools in the mines. The woman’s hands were no less hard than the men’s.
“Do you mind if I sit?”
The two men ignored me and shifted their attention back to the singer.
The woman eyed me with open speculation. She shrugged and gave me a half smile. “It’s a free country.”
The man on the left, the one with a burn scar that tracked below his right ear and disappeared into his shirt collar, snorted with displeasure. “You got guys like this coming around? The country ain’t as free as you think it is.”
I pulled out the chair and sat.
The woman put her elbows on the table and leaned forward toward me. “So what would you like to talk about?”
I went through the spiel that I had been using all night, talking about terrorism in general without mentioning Gordon Holder.
That was how the visit to Three Steps began, but that wasn’t how it ended. Royo and I both circulated through the bar, not getting much out of anyone, which was what we had achieved at the other bars we had visited. While asking about Martian terrorists in general and dodging political debates about the colonies’ rights, I also flashed the image of the cargo manifest I had seen after the explosion.
A young Asian guy dressed in dirty clothes and wearing a baseball cap with HeavyDuty Transport embossed on the front studied the manifest for a moment. Then he nodded and took a sip of his beer. “Sure. I know something about that number.”
Chapter Thirteen
The young man’s statement met with immediate disapproval from hi
s peers. Two of them excused themselves to go get fresh drinks. A third man, old enough to be the young man’s father, pushed his hat back with his thumb and focused on the young man. His hat also bore the HeavyDuty Transport logo.
“Dong-Min, maybe you should think before you start telling what you know.”
The young man looked puzzled. “It’s no sweat, Miguel. Doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
I raised my voice and spoke a little more forcefully. That was something Shelly had taught me to do when I needed to get an interviewee’s full attention. “Tell me about this number.”
That was another thing she had instructed me to do: stop asking questions when I really wanted to know something, and order the person I was interviewing to tell me what he or she knew. People responded to commands. In some ways, humans weren’t all that different from bioroids. Both were hardwired to take orders.
Dong-Min shrugged and looked nervous. “It’s no big deal. Those manifest numbers tell me that the cargo originated with Zona Sul.”
“What’s Zona Sul?” A quick check on the Net told me that Zona Sul translated to “south zone” in Spanish. It was also a neighborhood located in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.
“Zona Sul Shipping. They own a bunch of warehouses outside the megapolis.”
I searched the Net again. This time my search turned up something different. Zona Sul Shipping was a Moon-based cargo company with a questionable history. The company had been up on charges nineteen times in the last eight years. It had come close to having its license revoked on three of those occasions. High-powered attorneys from different manufacturing corporations had stepped in and negotiated reduced charges.
Four years had passed since the last infraction. At that time, employees at Zona Sul had been convicted of transporting stolen merchandise, primarily parts for earthmoving equipment being used by different mining endeavors. The owners had been indicted, but had not been convicted. Once the legal problems had gone away, Zona Sul had sold out to a small corporation called Vulcan Technologies.
I wrote a small subroutine program to search out who owned Vulcan Technologies while I continued to question Dong-Min. I added another program to cover the names of the attorneys involved in the litigation. One of my primary strengths over human detectives was my ability to multitask.
“What do you know about Zona Sul?”
Dong-Min reached up and adjusted his hat self-consciously. He shrugged again, not making eye contact as easily now. Obviously he was experiencing discomfort from his companion’s attention. Miguel sat quietly in his seat and did not drink. He put a lot of effort into not drinking, and I think that was what Dong-Min was supposed to notice most of all.
“It’s just a transport company, that’s all. No big deal.” Dong-Min lifted his eyes to my face. “No offense, Officer, but me and my friends, we came here to relax after our shift.”
“Of course, but I have just a couple more questions.”
Dong-Min really didn’t have a choice and he knew it. He had been forthcoming, and to suddenly shut down now would be suspicious.
I wanted to allay his qualms as well, so I put my hand palm up on the table and projected several images of known Martian terrorists. I asked Dong-Min if he had ever seen any of them. He relaxed at once when he saw the new course of the questions. These were simple for him. He didn’t have to worry about giving too much information. He didn’t know any terrorists.
But he knew cargo manifests.
“That, partner, is what we in the business call a clue.” Even though she was deceased, Shelly had kept her sense of humor.
* * *
Royo and I spent another thirty-five minutes in the bar. We didn’t get any more information about Martian terrorists than we’d had when we’d walked in.
Outside the airlock, once more on the underground street, I fell into step with Royo. I waited until we had gone down the street another three blocks before I spoke. “I believe I have a lead on the cargo manifest.”
Royo glanced over at me and frowned. “The one you say you spotted in the tube tunnel?”
“Yes.”
“The brass told us to leave that alone.”
I agreed that I had been told to do exactly that. However, Zona Sul, with its background in criminal activity, deserved some investigation. Technically, I was investigating potential black market shipping. That gave me enough leverage to step around the order. Once I discovered something there, if some such thing existed, that tied that case into Holder’s assassination, I would have to step back. Orders were hard to write for higher functioning bioroids. Especially ones that had been trained by Shelly Nolan.
“Then why are you poking around in it?”
“I’m not. I’m investigating the possibility of black market shipping.” I pushed the stats of the contraband reported in connection with Zona Sul over to his PAD.
Royo ignored the text. “That’s not the only reason you’re going out there.”
“We were sent out here to find Martian terrorists. They might be in this area.” That was another piece of leverage I could use to get around the departmental order.
Royo shoved his hands into his jacket and shook his head. “If you were human, I’d say you had a death wish. But you’re not. So I don’t know what is wrong with you.”
“I take that to mean you are not interested in going?”
“You can definitely take it that way.” Royo blew out a breath. “Are you planning on going out there?”
I considered that. “Do you want to know?”
Royo held up his hands in surrender. “No. No, I don’t. And if someone asks me later if I knew anything about this, I’m going to tell them I didn’t.”
I didn’t bother to point out that I was recording our conversation. I was always recording conversations. That was how I was built.
“Our shift was over hours ago, Drake. I’m scheduled off tomorrow and I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going home. If you had any sense, you would do the same.”
I didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.
With a final curse, Royo turned and walked away from me. Silently, I watched him go.
Shelly stood beside me. “Some partner you have there, partner.”
I studied her as she stood there beside me. The neon from the various entertainment venues glowed through her, reminding me that she wasn’t really there. I wondered if Miranda would find out why Shelly was with me, but it made me uncomfortable to think that Miranda would find out and then one day Shelly would no longer be there.
“I miss you.”
For a moment, Shelly just stared at me in silence, then the green neon from a nearby club sign seeped into her and she faded from view. For a moment, I stood there alone. Then I punched the address of the Zona Sul Shipping Company into my on-board PAD and got a location. I headed for the nearest tube station.
* * *
The warehouse sector outside of the megapolis was large and rambling, several rat warrens honeycombed together on several levels above and below the lunar surface. Scattered elevators led to different sections, and no one elevator serviced all of the warehouse areas.
Nine tunnels led to the hub like the spokes of a wheel, only the wheel was at a slanted angle like someone had given it a good slap. The inner floor had been carved into a series of level platforms in front of the various elevators. Steps led down to each platform.
A tired woman manned the security window at the entrance to the hub when I arrived. She sat inside a cubicle and studied security monitors, regularly sweeping them with her gaze. She was in her later years and was far too heavy. On Earth, her size would have been a liability. In microgravity she had no problems, but that only complicated her health issues because lesser gravity also made bones less dense.
She looked up at me. “Let me see your work orders.”
I held up my hand and flashed my e-badge.
Surprise took away some of her fatigue. “Well, I didn’t see th
at coming. What can I do for you, Detective?”
I wanted to investigate the grounds without tipping off anyone at Zona Sul. On the security wall beside me, a map showed the various sectors and levels of the warehouses. I located Zona Sul, now Vulcan Technologies, and checked its neighbors. Only a short distance away, a small business called The Jade Kite occupied one of the warehouses.
I pulled up a quick history of The Jade Kite and discovered they had been investigated three times so far this year. “I need to see The Jade Kite warehouse.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“I’m not going inside the premises. I just want to look around the exterior grounds.”
The woman sighed. “Do you have a warrant?”
“No, but I can get one.” I took a tactic from Shelly’s playbook. “In fact, I can get several warrants and come back with more people. Would you like to call your boss and make certain that’s what he would want you to do?”
The woman didn’t take long to make up her mind. She stabbed a finger forward, tapped a button, and the plascrete wall that kept me from entering the warehouse hub separated into a doorway. I thanked the woman, but only got a grudging and half-hearted response.
On the warehouse grounds, everything was bustling. Bioroid cargo handlers, specially modified clones, and humans transported various cargoes on small mag-lev sleds. All of them used RFID hand scanners to keep track of the cargo. One hundred meters lay between me and the elevator bank I needed to reach.
I had to move quickly to keep from getting run down. The bioroids and clones were much more polite than the humans as they hurried around me. Several humans, especially ones that appeared in charge of the others, watched me as I walked across the open areas. I used my NAPD e-badge to summon the elevator. The woman at the security desk had already logged me into the system.
Five humans and four bioroids were on the elevator when I boarded. One of them spoke the level where they were headed. The humans talked among themselves and ignored me. Three of the bioroids, all of them low-level manual labor units, stood silently and awaited commands.
