Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1)

by Lyn Forester

  I hope he sees the yes on my face. Explaining to Mr. Black how his bodyguard died on the first day isn't high on my list.

  He shifts his weight back to his heels and releases my legs. I wiggle out from under him, eyes and gun steady. We stand at the same time.

  I can hear gears working as he problem solves the situation. Either he missed the weapon when he searched my place, or I hid it under my clothes. He gives me a more thorough inspection.

  Today, I'm wearing spandex. He can wonder all he wants.

  "Why don't you have a seat?" I point my psy-gun toward the couch.

  He moves the chair to an upright position and resumes his seat. I lower the gun. He's not here to kill me. This is a dominance thing. He's not happy as my babysitter and chafes at following my lead on the case.

  Our little tussle won't make him happier about the situation. It sure as hell didn't give me any warm fuzzies.

  "I will get ready for the day." I put extra ice in my tone as I loom over his seated form. "You will stay where you are. If you move, I will shoot you, and Mr. Black will assign me a new babysitter."

  I turn my back on him and head to the bathroom, telling myself that was not amusement crinkling the corners of his steel-colored eyes.

  The psy-gun goes with me.

  ~

  In the bathroom, my legs tingle with the need to hurry through my shower. Do humans have this problem, or is it special to the halion blood in my veins? My territory's invaded, and I want to storm back out there, beat on my chest, and roar.

  He touched my things. Riffled through, and judged, my life.

  Water sputters out of the showerhead as I twist on the faucet and force myself into the stall. I lather, rinse, and repeat. Shave my legs and buff my heels with a pumice stone. After toweling dry, I moisturize.

  Anger bubbles beneath my skin. It's not working. Steam covers the mirror, and when I wipe it free, feral, blue eyes stare back. I can't go out there until I have myself under control.

  Eyes closed, I pull air into my lungs, filling myself like a giant balloon. I blow it out through my mouth.

  In, in, in.

  Out, out, out.

  As a child, I was wild. To rein in my overwhelming energy, my grandmother forced me to sit in stillness for hours, breathing.

  In, in, in.

  Out, out, out.

  She told me to focus inside, to find the source of my energy, the house of my soul. She described a garden, with a burbling pond. Blue skies with wispy clouds and gentle winds.

  It took me more than a year to find the house of my soul. More than a year of breathing.

  In, in, in.

  Out, out, out.

  The house of my soul is not a gentle place.

  I open my eyes into deep shadows. Wind gusts down a sheer rock face and I lean into it to keep my balance on the thin ledge. Small rocks roll beneath my feet, biting into tender heels, as I step forward and twist sideways to slide through a narrow gap in the cliff wall.

  Jagged edges tear my flesh as I push my way through. It goes on for miles. It takes seconds.

  At the end, bloody and raw, I step into an immense cavern. The walls and ceiling stretch into darkness, where quiet rustles hint at living inhabitants. The heavy air smells honey sweet, and every breath hurts.

  According to my grandmother, this cavern is the house of my soul. The lake inside, whose shores lap a mere ten paces within, represents my soul.

  At the shore, I stare into the glowing surface and wait for a sense of connection, of belonging. Nothing. If these waters represent who I was, who I am, and who I will be, then I'm seriously disconnected.

  I'm not sure if the house of my soul is a real place. Not real physically, as the size of the cavern was the same to my child self as it is to my adult self, but real metaphysically. It seems like extreme hubris to think I imagine myself on such an enormous scale. I don't spend much time wondering why and just go with it.

  When my grandmother taught me to find the house of my soul, she also taught me about the gifts of Rah. She was one of the last generations of True Believers and told me that when I pray at the shore in the house of my soul, I pray at the altar of All Souls, and that Rah will honor my devotion with His gifts.

  When I was little, I tried to be a Believer. Once I found this special place inside myself, I spent hours kneeling at the edge of the lake, praying. But my waters stayed still, and after my grandmother was murdered, I stopped praying.

  Now I come here for another reason.

  Since my waters fail to give me anything, I now give to them instead. I focus on the buzzing in my head, the rage at my home being invaded. I picture it like bugs crawling from my pores. It manifests as hundreds of tiny, red, droning lights, a miasma that seeps from my skin. I collect them into a ball, grimacing at the uncomfortable vibrations against my palms.

  And then I drown them in my lake.

  I'm not sure how other people deal with their emotions, but this works well for me.

  I close my eyes again and breathe.

  In, in, in.

  Out, out, out.

  Steam still streaks the mirror and hangs heavy in the air. My black hair drips cooling water onto my shoulders. Calm, thick-lashed eyes stare back at me.

  I pull clothes from the vanity I use as a dresser. Socks, underwear, bra, pants, and t-shirt. I don't hurry to dress, but don't linger, either. I run a brush through my hair, grab the psy-gun, and leave my bathroom.

  The goon sits where I left him, though he's made himself at home, relaxed with limbs loose and sprawling. His head back, eyelids at half-mast, he looks sleepy. In my periphery, I see the shine of his eyes as he tracks me the short distance from bathroom to kitchen.

  When I set the psy-gun on the counter, it makes a metallic click. Black, its metal shines against the discolored faux marble. A hint of yellow glows on the handle, and I remind myself to paint over the indicator lights again. Threats are less scary when targets can see how serious you are by the shade of light on your weapon.

  I open the drawer next to the stove where the previous owners kept their hot pads. Since I don't turn on the oven, I use the drawer to store my shoulder holster. Exactly where I threw it last time, but I know he moved it around. At least the goon has good searching skills.

  Unused for a couple days, the black rubber holster needs a couple stretches to loosen up before I can slide my arms through and wiggle it into place. Firm, it cups my shoulders with enough give for unencumbered movement. The psy-gun slides into the holster between my shoulder blades, pommel down, with a magnetic snick.

  Then I turn. No longer pretending to sleep, the goon’s steely eyes focus on me. A subtle tension stiffens his shoulders, his core muscles tight, stretching his shirt in nice ways. Damn, he's pretty. He knows it, too. He's sprawled to showcase his assets.

  I prop myself against the counter and cross my long legs out in front of me. In the small space, we can almost play footsie. I meet his gaze, calm, once more Zen in my garden. We watch each other. He does well at the patience game.

  "Did you hack your way in, or did Mr. Black's people get you access?" I know the answer, but it's important to see what he says.

  The muscle under his right eye ticks. Either he's planning to lie, or he doesn't want to admit the truth. Both are interesting.

  "Mr. Black's people granted me access." His voice rumbles deep in his chest and sounds like it collects grit on the way up his throat. He's chosen truth. While Mr. Black's tech team has the equipment to bulldoze through most obstacles, they're also sloppy. If not for my neighbor, I would have realized something was wrong sooner. I might spend personal time on the hall stalker's data files to have him deported a few city levels.

  "You don't like working with me." He doesn't deny it. As if he could. "I don't like working with you." I'm sure this comes as a big surprise. "However, since both of us work for Mr. Black, we'll just have to pull on our big-girl panties and deal with it."

  His eyes drop to my hips, and his
lips twitch at the corners. I hope he enjoys his imagination.

  "Have you reviewed my personnel file?" I watch him while I ask the question. I've never seen the file Mr. Black keeps on me, and based on the scowl that twists the goon's mouth, I'm guessing it's not flattering. That's okay. My life hasn't always been flattering.

  "Mr. Black made it available in the hopes it would help us work together better." Diplomatic, but micro expressions flash across his face. Anyone else might miss the flash of condemnation.

  I hop away from the counter and cross the short distance to my office. Located in the back of my living unit, almost equal in size to the front room, the space is meant to be the bedroom. My desk, bowing beneath the weight of multiple monitors, takes up most of the room. I retrieve the palm-port and return to the main room.

  The goon spreads his arms out across the back of the couch, and I wonder if he sat there because he knows it's also my bed. I think he did. All part of unsettling me in my own home. Thumb swiping across the palm-port's screen, I type in my passcode and open the file that arrived last night.

  I sit at the small dinette and scroll through a couple pages before finding what I'm looking for.

  "Drake Esten, age twenty-nine, employed at NuArc Towers since age twenty-two." I glance up from the screen to catch his expression. His brows arch in surprise and curiosity. Must not have ever seen his own personnel file. "Halfbreed. Displays heightened sensory and strength. Good marks in hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. Motivated to rise within the company." A smile spreads across his face and he straightens, preening in his seat. I read on. "Displays willingness to step outside social norms. Aggressive tendencies. Has passed morality test levels E, D, and C. Has passed loyalty test levels F through B. Unaffected by interrogation tactics. Reprimands."

  I glance back at him. Done pretending to be comfortable, he now props elbows on knees, face a stony mask. I show him my teeth.

  "Well, I'm sure you're already aware of your reprimands." I mirror his posture, using my knees as support. In the small space, we breathe each other's air. "Your personnel report says you're an amoral son of a bitch. Mine probably gives a similar, rosy glow. I don't care. You don't need to trust me right now, just as I don't trust you. But we need to work together. The better we work together, the sooner we can go our separate ways."

  His eyes lose focus and a clicking noise comes from his head. A metallic tap, tap, tap. He focuses back on me, and silver flashes when he wets his lips. Tongue piercing. "Where do we start?"

  Not a white flag, but it's a start.

  I push up from the seat to stand. "We go check out the dead body."

  ~

  The Halls of Justice reside at the center of every city level. It houses all of Roen’s Peace Keepers. Blue Hall, comprised of human and halfbreed employees, takes up more than half the building. White Hall, their halion counterpart, tenaciously holds another quarter, despite their much smaller guard. The remainder is partitioned out to other areas of law, including the judicial system.

  Built as a single, giant, silver spire, the building punches through the holo-sky and keeps going, all the way to Level 13. It makes a statement to the masses that all citizens, no matter the level, are subject to the same law.

  Nice thought, but the practice needs improvement.

  We enter the Hall through a set of rotating plas-glass doors. The busy lobby fills with the quiet drone of multiple conversations. Humans, halions, and halfbreeds mingle together in business suits and casual clothes alike. Dotted throughout, the Peace Keepers' uniforms pop in bright white and varying shades of blue. The faux marble floor, once polished, now shows the scuffs of thousands of feet.

  A wide, curved desk blocks our way. The same material as the floor, it turns the man behind it into a floating torso.

  Kind of creepy.

  "Hey, Reagen." The floating torso nods in greeting as we stop in front of him.

  "Hey, Ricky, how's the wife?" I put on my professional smile. Always be nice to the gatekeeper.

  "Not bad, not bad." He gives the I.I. badge I hand him a perfunctory glance before he runs it through the scanner and passes it back. "You here for a new case?"

  Ricky's a good guy, loyal to the Peace Keepers. He also has a wife who desperately wants to move up a level. They can't afford that on Ricky's salary. For a few credits, Ricky lets contractors like me know when high-credit cases are registered before they're posted on the main boards.

  "Not today." I shake my head. He leans against the counter with sleeves rolled up and datband facing out. I tap my own datband a couple times before brushing it against his. Never hurts to keep the gears greased. "We're here to visit the freezer."

  His eyes flick over Drake, who stands silent at my shoulder. "New recruit?"

  "He's undecided." I lift my shoulders. "I'm taking him on a run to see if he's a good fit for Investigators, Inc."

  "And you're starting him out in the freezer?" Ricky whistles low through his teeth. "You trying to scare him off?"

  "Kid needs to see what he's in for. Don't want him to get contractor's regret later." I wink, and Ricky laughs with appreciation. We've all seen how quick a newb bails when faced with more than paperwork. "Can we get a junior pass?"

  Ricky sucks his teeth for a moment, gaze taking in the room in a casual sweep. I'm supposed to request a junior pass in advance, to allow time for a background check. I brush my datband against Ricky's again, and he gives me a gamin smile.

  "Let me verify your registration is in order." He taps at his palm-port, humming to himself. After a moment, he passes over a plastic I.I. badge with the word Junior in bold letters across the bottom and a little metal clip on the top. "Looks like everything's in order. Please return the badge before leaving the building."

  He presses the button to turn off the weapons detector and waves us through to the main lobby.

  I turn to Drake and hold out the badge. The muscles in his jaw clench and unclench, his eyes narrowed to slits. He takes the badge and glares down at it.

  "The little clippy attaches to your shirt, kiddo." I keep my professional smile in place and wait.

  He transfers the glare to me, and I admit it's good. I believe he wants to do violence in a bad way. He steps close, invading my personal bubble.

  "My name's Drake. Not goon, not kiddo." His growl vibrates from deep in his chest. From a few inches away, heat radiates off his body to warm me.

  I don't like it.

  Hand on his chest, I push him back a step. His brows lift in surprise, and the glower dims. I wipe my hand on my pants, not appreciating the way my fingers tingle from the brief contact. He tracks the motion, and the corners of his mouth twist. I turn and head across the lobby before his anger revs up again.

  "The lifts are this way," I call over my shoulder.

  Over the background din, I hear the quiet click of metal against teeth, so I know he’s following.

  The main lobby divides into two sections, with archways leading to Blue Hall and White Hall. With zero interest in ever venturing into the halion Peace Keepers' side, I lead the way to the archway for the blue guards.

  As we pass through, I brush my fingers against the symbols carved into the faux stone. All Paths Lead to Truth. Or, at least, that's what I think it says. Only scholars know the old tongue anymore, and it doesn't translate well. For all I know, it's something super smutty and our ancestors are laughing at us.

  Through the arch, kiosks line the left wall. Here, Investigators, Inc. employees can log in to the open boards to check for new or unsolved cases. In the center of the room, a smaller version of Ricky's desk allows people to make appointments to speak with a member of the blue guard. At the back, another arch leads into a large room stuffed to the brim with desks. There, guards file paperwork while not on foot patrol or running their own cases.

  I angle for the lifts to the right and press the call button. Up will take us to conference rooms and offices reserved for higher-ranking members of the guard. But tod
ay we need the freezer.

  When it arrives, we step inside, and no one follows. Not surprising. No one likes the freezer. I keep my professional face on until the doors close.

  Deep breath. In, in, in. Out, out, out.

  I slam Drake against the wall, invading his personal space. Caught by surprise, he doesn't immediately fight me off. I hold his gaze and let him see I'm calm, almost passive. Combined with my violence, it must be unnerving.

  "What the fuck?" Muscles tense, he pushes against me, and I hold him in place.

  "I don't know how you've lasted working for Mr. Black, because if you were my employee, I would have booted your ass already." Voice level, I shove him a little higher against the wall. My strength is awesome. "I don't recall teenage angst being listed in your file, so if your ego can't handle a little name-calling before you're ready to throw down, we will have some serious problems. Get it, the fuck, together."

  I shove away from him and return to the center of the lift. My muscles are loose and relaxed. I put my professional face back on.

  A soft rustle, and in my periphery, I hear him smooth out his shirt and adjusts his jacket. He returns to his place at my shoulder. I glance at him from the corner of my eye as he clips his junior's badge to the fabric above his heart. He doesn't have an eager investigator-to-be expression on his face, but, if I overlook the flush in his cheeks, he appears calm.

  It will do for now.

  The lift glides to a smooth stop. Time to check out the dead body.

  The smell of antiseptic stings my nose as soon as the lift's doors open. An unpleasant odor when combined with the alcohol-rich, floral scent wafting from a box on the wall next to the elevator. Someone's misguided attempt to disguise the sterile business of dealing with the dead.

  Low-pile, beige carpet softens the waiting room and matches the lighter beige wall color. Soothing, easy on the eyes. A counterpoint for what awaits through the plas-glass doors that lead into the morgue. Padded chairs press up against the walls on either side. They face away from the freezer, as if the designer wanted to give visitors time to forget that they were there to see the body of someone they'd known.