Damage Time

by Colin Harvey

  It wasn't actually one team: since the raid was on New Jersey soil, one vehicle came from the State Police's Technical Emergency and Mission Specialist's team, one from the New York State equivalent, and one from the NYPD's Auxiliary Police Support Unit. Shah wasn't sure what strings Nancy Grunwald had had to pull to arrange such rare inter-jurisdictional brotherhood, but he was glad that she had. The convoy of three SUVs swept through and rolled up the long gravel drive while one SWATter stayed with the guard.

  "Wow, that's what money can buy you," one of the team said, chin-cocking what Shah had read was an "English manor-style home" in a two-acre lot. To Shah it looked like a pink and brown block with a pointed roof from which thrust two high, thin protuberances, but what did he know?

  The vehicles halted at three equidistant points around the house in a spray of gravel, marksmen spilling from the vehicles and sprinting into position. Shah and Bailey marched toward the door, which was opened by a liveried footman, whose indignant protestations the officers ignored. Instead they brushed past him into the lobby, then the house proper.

  Sunny emerged from a side corridor shouting, "What's this about?"

  Shah ignored the question, waving an officer forward to fit the cuffs while a second pointed her rifle at Sunny. "Sunil Kotian, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything…" he screened out the rest of it even as he recited it on auto, instead looking around at the mahogany paneled fittings, at the separate doorways in which stood Kotian and a woman, who must have been Kotian's wife, clutching at two small children. No sign of Aurora. Good.

  "Why, officer?" Kotian senior said.

  "New evidence, Mr Kotian." Shah wondered whether he should mention the ring that he'd spotted in the last download. "That's all I can say. I'm sure that you'll have your attorney meet us at the courtroom."

  "Oh, depend on it."

  Monday

  Kotian steepled his fingers and sighed. "At least you're out, even if only on bail."

  Sunny snarled, his voice rising and tightening with each word, "Oh, yes, Appa, there is that. I can't leave the immediate vicinity, let alone fly up to Boston or Washington, I've got to report to their bloody, bloody front desk every evening at six, and I've got to wear this damned ankle tag. But it could always be worse."

  Kotian stared at his son. Sunny's skin speckled with sweat, his eyes swiveled from side to side, and the cords on his neck stood out. My boy, what am I going to do with you?

  "We have the best defense lawyers available. They'll disallow the prosecution evidence piece by piece. Sit back and let them do their job." Kotian wished it were as simple as that but he allowed none of his doubts to show, "All we have to do is create doubt in the jury's mind. Meanwhile, we'll start our own campaign. File harassment charges against NYPD and attack Shah's standing as an investigator." He couldn't let Sunny know that even as they were talking, the IRS, Homeland Security and the DEA were rampaging through the Kotian family's files. The bastards had clearly been biding their time, and when Shah had struck they too had pounced.

  Kotian couldn't tell Sunny how stark a choice they faced. To allow the boy at least a little autonomy he'd ignored his son's sideline of running a memory-ripping operation. Selling the memories to Pacific net-havens allowing subscribers to download the victims' –and sometimes the attackers' – memories was a lucrative operation, but it was also risky.

  Kotian was sure that the killings were never part of his son's original plan, but Sunny's propensity for violence had gradually escalated with each successive attack. Worse, he had been criminally careless. How the hell did Shah get the original of that first killing in Boston? It has to be that bitch hijra. I don't know how, but it must have been her. Why else would she refuse my calls?

  She'd personalized a voicemail response to his number: "I can't afford any scandals, Abhijit, I'm sure that you know how it is."

  He was too soft, that was his trouble. He should put a contract out on her. But it would be too obvious, and if anything went wrong, there were too many ways they could trace any instruction or even hint back to him. He was sure that at least one of the agencies ransacking his houses and offices were watching him.

  Worst of all no one would believe that he wasn't running Sunny's operation. It was ironic that allowing his son that little independence was probably going to cost him dearly. Unless he could find a way of putting some distance between them…

  XLV

  Tuesday

  Shah sat in his chair, hooded, but playing no burns or rips. Instead he used the hood's sanctuary to think, assembling the multitude of downloads that comprised his memory. The ME had checked him over the day before, pronounced that Shah had recovered seventy-five, perhaps eighty percent of his memory.

  It didn't feel like it.

  He'd relearned most of his semantic memories, and many of the procedural ones like how to drive. But his own episodic memories, the sense of who he was, were mostly missing. Some parts were almost completely reassembled, if he counted those events he'd been involved in being remembered by other people. But they weren't his.

  So every little fragment was precious.

  When the antique CD had arrived on Saturday morning, Shah was instantly suspicions. Physical packages were rare. Data was too easily moved electronically to need the mail. The wrapper was blank but for the name 'Officer Pete Shah' in block capitals on the envelope. It had been screened, x-rayed and smelled by sniffer dogs the night before, so there was nothing to fear, but its very strangeness made Shah handle it as if it might bite off his fingers.

  Inside was a single disc, unlabeled; attached to it a note, also block lettered.

  You have to know where to look.

  Shah swallowed, licked his lips nervously.

  It took several minutes to find a machine with a CD drive; when he read the disk's properties, he had to find another machine, to which he attached a scanner. When he'd loaded the disk, Shah saw there no tags, no clues to where it had come from. He assumed it had been downloaded from a web address, but it was only a guess. There was one file.

  Despite the clues, he'd been completely unprepared:

  You're walking beside John Marietetski, snow crunching underfoot, although the sky has cleared to a glorious bright day.

  Marietetski says, "You know, you haven't mentioned this Aurora once since the news broke that you were off the hook."

  "Funny that, isn't it?" You squirm inside at the thought of touching that little cock. "You'd think I'd be talking about it nonstop."

  "I guess as a Muslim, you disapprove," Marietetski says. "Is that right? Does the Qur'an have opinions on intersex people?"

  "I think the word 'abomination' probably covers it," Shah said. "Can we change the subject?"

  "Because you were fooled – or does the whole subject disgust you?" Marietetski said. "I mean, you know I'm bi, yeah? Neil and me, it's not like you and McCoy where you just share a partner rotationally."

  You open your mouth. Close it again. Rotationally? You try to banish the images of Leslyn that word conjures. "Yeah, I know. I got no problem with that." The thought of Marietetski and another guy kissing makes your gut clench. "So you and the girls?"

  "Oh, we got a rota for that, too," Marietetski says. "Just like your laundry."

  "Yeah, funny."

  "I wasn't being funny when I asked you about her," Marietetski says. "I got no problem with gender, but you obviously have."

  You ponder. "Back to your earlier question, I guess I'm mostly pissed because he – she, it, whatever – fooled me. But also, I really, really liked her. I let my guard down, and look what happened."

  "What you going to do if we ever see her again?"

  "Do?" You lie, "Nothing. Far as I know, it committed no crime. We got nothing to say to each other."

  "Haw," Marietetski says. "You're so deep in denial you're up your own ass. Compromise, talk to her."

  You wait on a corner for an oncoming pedicab but Marietetski dashes across the
road, drawing a barrage of abuse from the cabbie. You eventually cross to where your sheepish-looking partner waits. "Thought you was with me," Marietetski says.

  You wag a finger. "You are so damned impatient."

  "Part of my charm." Marietetski grins.

  "Maybe," you say. "But while I find opinion, impatience and ambition constantly amusing, not everyone finds a rookie with that combination so endearing."

  "Uh-oh," he says. "I sense a wise sage lecture."

  You shake your head. "Nope. I'm not going to waste my time, John. I know you think you already know it all."

  "I know I don't," he says. "That's why they teamed me with you."

  You continue as if he hasn't spoken, "You've already irritated a lot of people within the Department, and made enemies out on the streets – that isn't a promising combination for someone who wants promotion." He laughed. "And you're lecturing me on compromise? That's quite something."

  "Yeah, well maybe seeing you beat yourself up is the reason I'm suddenly embracing the concept."

  "It's a bit late for epiphany," you say.

  You've been so deep in conversation that you've only just noticed the block you're passing through. It's haunted by dealers, hookers and other crims. Some sixth sense triggers.

  Too late: there's a hiss, and you smell something like the

  old-fashioned nail varnish your mother wore when you were young. A muscle relaxant. You jerk your head away, in case it's something the anti-tox injections don't screen out.

  A blow sends you sprawling and as you land, pain shooting up your wrist, a boot thuds into your ribs, winding you. The blow of the impact jerks your head around, scraping your eyepiece away, where there's a crunch of it being trodden on and ground to minute fragments. You try to shout for help, but blows and grunts indicate that Marietetski is busy as well.

  You glimpse a masked assailant as someone grabs your ankles and drags you backwards into an alleyway. Marietetski shouts "Officer down! We need help at eighty-sixth and–" a kick in the ribs guillotines his Mayday.

  You wriggle and kick out, your foot connecting with something. "Bastard!" Someone grunts, but you've no time to do more than clamber to your feet before a fist crashes into your ribs with the force of a brick, driving the wind from your lungs.

  A pair of clasped fists slams down onto your shoulder blades, driving you to your knees. A hand grips your hair, yanking your head back. As if from a long way away you hear a scraping sound: two hooded man hauling Marietetski into the alley.

  Hands push your wrists together behind your back and handcuff you. Analgesic stings your temple, and seized by panic you jerk your head away, but the hand yanks your hair back.

  Someone says, "Leave him functional. I want him to be a walking, talking reminder of what happens to people who ask awkward questions."

  That's Sunny Kotian. But just as sensation fades from your temple, you feel the kiss of a probe. Then something's drilling into your mind, and everything goes black.

  For a moment, Shah sat still, thinking. He could have been watching a film of a stranger viewed through a close viewpoint camera. So that's what it was like, he thought. How much of me has it destroyed? Can I get it back?

  Then the bombshell hit him. He had eyewitness testimony of the attack.

  He leapt into action, and by the afternoon, they were in Llewellyn Park.

  For three days now, he'd been retreating under the hood. Bailey assumed that it was to gloat, but the truth was, he was trying to make sense of his reaction.

  He felt nothing. Sunny Kotian was on borrowed time. But instead of triumph, Shah felt hollow. That was what he'd been battling to recover? Sighing, he removed the hood

  As if waiting for him, Shah's eyepiece chimed with the deeper tone of a secure line, supposedly proof against eavesdroppers. Shah was sure that in the never-ending race between security and counter-measures, someone had – or was about to – devise a gizmo to crack the line's countermeasures. Kotian's face appeared. The man looked tired and rumpled, and his greeting was curt. "We need to meet."

  "Why?"

  "I want a deal. But you come alone, no taps, no eyepieces, no surveillance."

  "Nothing we discuss will be binding without witness," Shah said.

  Kotian's smile was wintry. "Those talks are what we're going to talk about."

  "Ah. Talks about talks."

  "Exactly." Kotian added, "Meet me at the East 66th Street entrance, in thirty minutes. Alone." The call ended.

  Shah sighed.

  Bailey looked over. "Who was that?"

  "Kotian," Shah smiled at her look of surprise. "Wants to talk, but only to me. And bareback."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  "You going?"

  Shah made a dunno gesture. "Every instinct I have says no. Could be a hit, hell, could be anything, but it might also be our chance. Guess I have to." Pushing back his chair, Shah grabbed his coat.

  "Then I'll come with you. Give me a minute." Bailey scrabbled for her handbag.

  "Nope." Shah kept walking.

  XLVI

  The alarm radio blares into life with Rebel Cutie blasting out "Keep on Loving You" with a skankamatic back beat. You stretch to slap the alarm down, but Mom's moved the freaking thing out of reach and you forgot to move it back last night.

  "Ohhhh!" You growl as the moron jock yells out, "Monday morning Binghampton! Get yo' tushies outta the sack!"

  Finally you reach it and slap him into silence. He's a jerk, but since the power's had to be rationed and most of the radio stations have gone to the wall, he's the only halfway listenable one, though even that's debatable.

  You feel like crap, so everyone's a jerk today, even your Mom. Especially your Mom.

  As if you've conjured her up, she bangs on your door. "You awake in there, sweetheart?"

  "Hrmph," you grumble.

  Your nipples are sore, and your gut hurts. The curse first struck about a year ago, but it's been irregular as fuck, so it'd be no surprise if you hadn't started a week early.

  Monday morning, and your period's started early. How much worse can it get? Diving under the duvet, you will the world to go away and leave you alone.

  Think of something nice, you tell yourself. Seth, who you let pick you up the night before, over in Johnson City. Seventeen, with his own car – even though it's a junkheap. He has wheels, and he's the hottest boy you've ever seen.

  You've got big tits, and can pass for much older than thirteen, so when he gave you that big, pussy-melting grin you thought you'd die with happiness. Even when he got a bit grumpy 'cause you wouldn't let his hands go anywhere near your pussy, instead kept moving them back to your tits, you didn't mind distracting him with a blow job.

  You smile. From the look in his eyes you hadn't done a bad job for a beginner, braces or not. And it hadn't tasted as gross as you'd heard the other girls say.

  The other girls. You wish you hadn't thought of them.

  Bang bang bang! "You up, missee?"

  No escaping it. "OK, Mom!" You haul your but out of bed and totter over to the door, pulling your nightshirt down, past your crotch.

  Pulling the door open you squint out at the world outside your room, and dash to the bathroom.

  Turn the shower on, good and hot, stand under it, let it blast your thoughts away. Your gut still hurts, you feel bloated and ugly, and touching your arms feels ugh. You wonder whether you're coming down with something. Or is this adolescence for everyone? Probably just you – Ms Freakazoid, as the Shelly Kovack Bitch would say.

  "Aurora Debonis!" Mom yells. "Are you determined to bankrupt us?"

  "For – oh, Mom, it's just a shower!"

  You begin to towel yourself off, and then it all gets too much for you. When Seth learns you're a mutie, 'cause the hottest boy you know won't settle for a metal-mouthed blow job forever, think he'll want anything to do with you, cum-bag? You can almost hear Ellie Maitliss' voice.

  Suddenly it's all too much. />
  You sit on the john and cry.

  "Sweetheart, what's wrong?" How the hell does Mom do that? Has she got the place bugged? "Are you ill, honey?"

  "I think it's the wrong time of the month," you quaver. "Can I stay home today?"

  The door rattles, and you get up to let her in before sitting down again. Then Mom's there, cradling your head to her ample bosom. "Are those girls bullying you?" Mom says. "Because I know how you feel, honey, I really do."

  "Ho-o-ow?" You wail.

  "Because I'm like you, too, like I've always said. You take no notice of bigots. There's nothing wrong with us."