He shivered—whether with the penetrating chill or the surprising sensation of emptiness, he didn't know.
“If you come with us we'll be able to sort everything out.” The policewoman made an unconvincing gesture toward her car.
“So, Officer Higgs, if I wasn't speeding, why did you stop my car?”
“It's not your car,” said Mitchell.
Of course it was his car! When he'd slipped out of the back of the Colosseum to return to Linda, the car had been exactly where he'd left it. Yes, he'd forgotten his code, but that was easily fixed. Fighters weren't dummies. What did people imagine they talked about in the pens?
“It doesn't matter,” Higgs told them both. “Dominick . . . please just come with us. Your friends at ME Industries can explain what's happened, and they'll make it right.”
“I need to see Linda.” Why were these cops here? He felt anger seeping down his neck and swelling into his arms.
“Who's Linda?” asked Mitchell. “Your trainer?”
“My wife!”
Mitchell scowled but said nothing.
“We had a report that you were injured tonight,” said Higgs.
“I'm always injured after a fight.”
“You took a big blow to the head. You've taken far too many by all accounts.”
“That's your reward for surviving,” said Mitchell. “No business like show business.” He turned toward Higgs. “We're getting nowhere. If he won't come back peacefully . . .”
The policewoman did not respond.
“Everyone is in danger while he's out here,” Mitchell insisted.
Dominick stepped toward the policeman. “I don't want to harm anyone.”
“It's not your fault,” said Higgs. “You're bred for it.”
Mitchell slipped his handgun from its holster. “Don't be so generous. Manufactured is more accurate.”
“Put the gun away,” she told him.
Mitchell cradled the weapon. “I want to get home tonight . . . alive.”
“No killing. We can all get home alive.”
“What's your problem?”
“I don't have a problem. You have the problem.” Higgs took a moment to calm herself. “Look . . . I'm an orphan. I'm not saying I've much in common with Grizzly here, but I know about family. I know what it's like to miss them.”
“I'll give you three minutes to get him in the car . . . because I'm all heart.”
Higgs turned her attention to Dominick, who had been watching the police officers with uncomprehending desperation.
“I'm leaving now,” Dominick announced. “I really have to go.”
“Before you leave,” said Higgs, “I want you to think over your route. This back road you're on . . . it goes nowhere. Do you know how to get home?”
Dominick had taken it for granted that he was on the right road, but the harder he tried to visualize the junctions and landmarks the more he saw only blackness. “You've done something to me. When you scanned me!”
“No . . . but I can help you to remember. You'll need to come with us.”
Mitchell responded to Dominick's agitation by edging closer.
“I keep telling you!” Dominick yelled. “I'm going home!” Except that now he did not know the way. . . .
He grabbed at Mitchell's sleeve, but the policeman yanked his arm away, tearing off the fighter's glove. At the sight of Grizzly's long curved claws, Mitchell shrank back and lifted his gun, but the policeman's speed was no match for the fighter's and a powerful slash sent both the gun and the tip of Mitchell's trigger finger skating across the frosted grass.
Mitchell screamed and clutched his hand to his chest. Blood seeped between his fingers.
Dominick spun toward Higgs, who had stepped away and now held the scanner in one hand and her gun in the other. There was a frozen moment of hesitation and then Mitchell yelled, “Do it!”
The drive back to the Colosseum was made in silence. Only when the grand neon towers of the auditorium loomed out of the snowstorm did Mitchell speak up.
“This is your fault.” He held up his bandaged hand. “If you hadn't been so useless.”
“What are you complaining about? You've got a three week sojourn to re-grow your finger while I'll have to work with a new partner, who might be even more difficult than you.”
“I was right though.”
“You forced it. He reacted to you.” Higgs took the car through the grandiose arch and pulled up at the gate to the pens. “You made me a killer.” In the headlamps, a menagerie of manufactured combatants peered out through the bars: Cobra, Jaguar, Spider, Wolf . . . and the new Eagle, smaller and darker than the last.
“They all have families,” Mitchell told her. “And they're all deluded.”
“It keeps them happy.”
“You killed a chip, not a family.” Mitchell threw his door wide. “They weren't real.”
Higgs twisted around in her seat to see Dominick staring out of the window at the gladiators. He was beaming. Glad to be a fighter. Happy to be home.
“They were to him,” she said.
Copyright © 2011 Colin P. Davies
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Poetry: BOOMER DOG DAYS
by Howard V. Hendrix
* * * *
* * * *
we drink our wine from a corporate satellite
we knock back our cocktails in geosynchronous orbit
we smoke our weed captioned with the date
and US Eastern Daylight Time
to Sirius XM's ‘60s-'70s
mellow-rock The Bridge playing
almost imperceptibly
and dream we still understand
what the space race was all about
as one down from the NASA channel
Dish Earth on our TV package
shows to that music a view of a planet
over which an occulting shadow steals
almost imperceptibly
—Howard V. Hendrix
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novella: KISS ME TWICE
by Mary Robinette Kowal
More than life will be lost if homicide detective Scott Huang and his intriguing AI partner, Metta, are unable to resolve the thorny murder mystery that presents itself in Mary Robinette Kowal's huge new novella for Asimov's. Mary, who maintains a website at www.maryrobinettekowal.com, is the author of Shades of Milk and Honey (Tor, 2010). In 2008, she received the Campbell Award for Best New Writer and she has been nominated for the Hugo and Locus awards. Mary's stories appear in Asimov's, Clarkesworld, and several Year's Best anthologies as well as in her collection Scenting the Dark and Other Stories from Subterranean. She is vice president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. A professional puppeteer, Mary also performs as a voice actor, recording fiction for authors such as Elizabeth Bear, Cory Doctorow, and John Scalzi.
A group of trendy-somethings milled outside the police line, clearly torn between curiosity and the need for a caffeine fix at the coffee shop next door. Scott Huang glanced to the corner of his VR glasses where the police department AI hovered. “I guess murder trumps coffee, huh?”
Metta, currently wearing the face of Mae West, lowered her voice to the star's husky range. “I take my coffee black, like my heart.”
“You don't have a heart.”
“Then I take my coffee black, like my processor.”
“Nice.” Huang grinned at her. She customized her interface for all the officers on the force, but tended toward silver screen starlets with Huang. Her Diamond Lil was pretty special though; she'd even gone black and white for the occasion.
The officer on duty waved Huang past the police line and into the building. Its lobby had been restored to showcase the 1920s detailing and the tall ceilings. Potted boxwoods graced the corners with indoor topiary. “I don't remember the Waterfront area being so swanky.”
Metta said, “This district of Portland had a d
ecline in the mid-seventies and most of the businesses moved out. For the past two years, a revitalization effort has been underway. Neil Patterson, the deceased, was responsible for much of the revitalization although not without some questionable transactions. I have his stats when you want them.”
“Do any of the questionable transactions relate to a motive?”
“Nothing concrete as yet.”
Huang grunted in acknowledgment and reached for the elevator button.
In his VR glasses, Metta winked at him. “Sorry, Scott. The elevator is out. So why don't you come up and see me sometime.”
“Actually, it's ‘Why don't you come up sometime and see me.’ Popular misquote.”
Her image cocked her head and shifted her eyes to the left, Metta's sign that she was searching for something. “You're right. . . . Which really bugs me. I should have checked the quote database against the script.”
A flush of unexpected pride went through Huang. She said he was right. “Yeah, well, I think the score's human: 1, AI:549.” But she had still said he was right.
Metta dropped her lashes again and heaved West's bosom. “The score never interested me, only the game.” She laughed. “Now climb the stairs.”
Worn linoleum resounded under his feet as he started up. Huang's heart pounded in his chest noticeably after the third floor and he had to work hard not to pant. He gripped the banister, hauling himself up another flight, and subvocalized to Metta. “Remind me to start going to the gym again.”
“Can't be responsible for you when you aren't at work.”
“I know.” The door at the top of the stairs opened out on a hall, carpeted in generic beige. The walls surprised Huang. Paneling hugged their lower half with rich wood. Above the paneling, deep green wallpaper absorbed the light with velvety depth.
“Scott, would you mind waiting a minute? I have a memory-backup scheduled in thirty seconds and I'd rather have the actual crime scene all on one bank.”
“Sure.” He leaned against the wall. “You couldn't have done it while we were on the stairs?”
“It's not my schedule. Department regulations require a backup every six hours regardless of system type. I've tried pointing out to the chief that AIs are different, but . . .”
“I know . . . Banks didn't get it.” Huang checked the eSpy camera he wore in place of his collar stud to make sure it was seated properly. To the casual observer it would look like a standard men's stud, clear glass mounted in a silver setting, but the lens it housed linked directly to Metta. Though she could see through a lens in his VR glasses, on crime scenes she preferred the better resolution of the specialized camera in the eSpy.
Huang scuffed a shoe in the short pile of the rug and resisted the urge to run his hand along the top of the . . . “What's this called?” He pointed the eSpy at the low wood paneling.
“Wainscoting. It was used to protect walls in the days of lathe and plaster construction.”
“Thanks. It reminds me of my cello.”
“You still playing that?”
“I haven't practiced since I blew out my shoulder chasing that kid over the fence.”
“I told you there was a way around.”
He shrugged, even though he knew she couldn't see it. “Adrenaline. What can I say?”
“Thanks. Backup's done.” The hall ended at a plain wood door with a small brass plaque. “This way.” Metta magnified the image in Huang's glasses briefly so he could read “Roof Access” etched on the plaque.
“Great. More stairs.”
“Scott, it's time for the gloves.”
“You don't have to remind me.” He unwillingly pulled on the purple department-issue rubber gloves.
“Sorry, I didn't see you reaching for them.”
He snapped the gloves in place. “You didn't give me time.”
Metta cleared her throat and continued. “Without the elevator, this is the only access to the roof, so our suspect most likely entered and exited the crime scene this way.” A single, short flight of steps led up to a small landing which served as a sort of vestibule for the elevator. To his right, a fire door opened to the roof.
The landing was so clean it sparkled. “Metta, does this look recently mopped?”
“I'm not sure. I've never mopped.”
Years of footprints coated the stairs with black residue, but the cracked linoleum of the landing shone. Over everything floated a clean lemon scent. He snorted reflexively at the pungent odor.
Mae West hovered like a monochrome ghost in the edge of Huang's vision. “Is there an aroma?”
“Yeah. It smells like Lemon Pledge.”
“Is that an analysis or a metaphor?”
Huang hesitated and sampled the air like a tea. “Not quite. It is a manufactured lemon scent, but I'm not sure how many cleaning products have the same smell profile.”
“CSI is downstairs and has promised me a spectrograph. Griggs says to thank you for noticing; she's got a cold and would have missed the smell.” She frowned prettily. “Working from the size of the room I should be able to tell you when the mopping happened based on the dissipation of the odor.” She pretended to look around. “I'll have her scan with the lumerol to check for blood. Go on out.”
The fire door opened onto the roof. Huang blinked at the rolling hills of grass that covered the top of the building. In the center of the grass, a small brick terrace had been set with a table and chairs.
Metta cleared her throat, the signal that she was about to relay a message from someone else in the department. “Griggs asks me to remind you not to touch anything.”
“For the love of—One time. I forgot one stinking time. . . .” Huang clenched his fists and stepped onto the terrace, hating the reminder that he was the junior detective on the homicide team. The only reason he'd gotten this case was that it was on a roof and Oakes was scared of heights. Otherwise, he got the easy ones, the ones that Metta had already solved and all she needed was a flesh and blood officer to do the legwork. Not that anyone ever said that, but it was pretty obvious.
He grimaced and focused on the scene. The victim sprawled on the south side of the roof, next to a low wall. A wheelchair lay on its side a short distance behind him.
“Scott, meet Neil Patterson.”
“Well, well . . . who brought you up here, Mr. Patterson?” Huang knelt by the wheelchair and squinted at the corpse. He was a white male who looked to be in his mid-forties, but his file said fifty-two. His sandy-red hair had been neatly trimmed in a corporate version of a crew-cut. He had a single gunshot wound in an otherwise well-developed upper torso. From the waist down he showed the atrophied signs of paralysis. Around him, the turf had divots dug out of it as though Patterson had not died instantly. The dirt and blood on his fingers seemed to confirm that.
In the center of the roof, the wireframe table was covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was set with two bone white teacups, so thin the morning sun turned them almost translucent. They sat on equally delicate saucers with a thin silver band around the edge of the saucer and the rim of the cups. The cup on the south side of the table had remnants of a liquid the color of straw. Huang leaned over to sniff and got hints of smoky earth and mown grass. Unfurled tea leaves rested on the bottom.
“Well?” Metta raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to show off?”
He smirked. Identifying beverages was the one thing he could do better than she could. Without a lab, that is. “I'm pretty sure it's gunpowder tea.”
“Scott . . . there's no tea service out here.”
He straightened and looked at the layout again. Cups, saucers, spoons, even linen napkins—scratch that. One of the napkins was missing. And there was no teapot, sugar, or creamer. “Anyone hear the gunshot?”
Metta shook her head and nodded toward the elevated highway. “It probably blended with traffic noise.”
“Who found the body?”
“It was an anonymous call at 8:13 a.m. The number belongs to the Daily Gr
ind coffee shop downstairs.”
“Play the call for me?”
She nodded and then the sound in his ear changed. A background noise filled with chatter and the hiss of an espresso machine replaced the hum of traffic. A man with a slight accent answered the operator. "There is a man. On the roof. I think he is dying. You must come quickly."
"Sir, where are you?"
"Everett and Water. I don't know the address."
And then the line went dead. Huang raised his eyebrows. “That's it?”
“Yes. He did not remain after he hung up.”
“So . . . our guy here was dying, but not dead when the call came in. Nice to have a time of death.”
“If the coroner confirms it.”
“Right. Of course. I'll check with the coffee shop's staff when we finish here. See if they know the witness.” Huang bent to check the ground for any signs of footprints. Wheelchair tracks had pressed deep grooves into the turf roof. “Tell me more about Patterson?”
“Neil Patterson has his finger in property throughout the city. His name came up in a real estate scandal about a year ago, but nothing stuck.”
“Was that the thing where he was flipping properties, but the renovations were all sub-code?”
“Correct. He blamed his foreman, who was subsequently fired, but it seems pretty clear Patterson both knew and approved of the shortcuts. There are items in evidence that were not admitted into court.”
“Like what?”
“They're sealed files now.” She grimaced. “Sorry, I can't share that with you.”
Huang nodded as he stood and walked along the edge of the building. “It's okay. I remember this now. Fitzgerald was working on it and was furious.” If Metta couldn't tell him, then he could always ask Fitzgerald directly.
Behind him, the door to the roof opened and Ursula Griggs from CSI stepped out with a team from the coroner's office.
Asimov's SF, June 2011 Page 11
