Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1)

by Lyn Forester

  A woman, hipbones protruding above the low rise of her cream skirt, sways against the wall. The motion draws her ever closer to a security stand that blocks the hall into the main club. A man behind the podium drops a metal baton into her path, the motion unconscious. Pure reflex.

  “Not yet, Margie.” He nudges her with the stick.

  “Are you sure? Check it again. I know it’s time.” She holds out a thin arm and shakes with the effort. Her bones form visible knobs at her wrist and elbow. Her skin sags.

  The security guy lifts the scanner from his stand and scans her datband. A light over the club entrance flashes a red X.

  “How about I call Natasha up here? She’ll get you set up in the lounge with a nutrition drip and a nice cot to rest on?” He gestures at a curtain-covered archway in front and to the left of the security desk.

  “No. No, no, no,” Margie mumbles. She sways back to her place at the wall. “It will be time soon. Soon, soon, soon.”

  She smooths the front of her skirt, fingers fumbling over the pockets. She continues to mumble, chapped lips forming the drawn out shape of “Soooooooon”.

  The man checks his watch again and lurches forward in excitement. He falls across the security desk in his eagerness to have his own datband scanned. The light flashes a green plus sign, his hand receives a stamp, and he stumbles down the hall and disappears.

  Drake glances at Reagen, and she nods him forward, willing to give him lead for now. His brows lift in surprise that she cedes control so early in the case. But Mr. Black called her extremely realistic. Maybe this is a byproduct of that. Drake knows the dens better than she does. That simple.

  Drake squares his shoulders and stomps past the swaying woman and up to the podium. The security guy gives him a once over and frowns.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I think you have the wrong club.” He taps at a little plaque on his desk that reads Halions and halfbreeds prohibited. “Did you mean to go to Penned? It’s four doors down across the street.”

  Relieved at how fast he was turned away, Drake holds a hand up to stop the other man from continuing. “I’m here to see Newland.”

  “Mr. Newland isn’t taking guests today.” The guy’s eyes dart behind Drake and he scowls. “Hey, get away from there!”

  He grabs his baton and moves around the security desk. Drake turns to see Reagen at the lounge curtain, peeking inside. Her fingers tap at her thigh as she pulls back. Face impassive, she walks away from the arch as her gaze flickers around the hall.

  “You might want to stop her.” Eyes on the ceiling, Reagen points toward the podium. The security guy spins and swears. Margie’s almost made it to the hall.

  “You know they won't give you an inhaler without the stamp.” The guard hurries back to his post and grabs Margie’s arm. He hustles her to the curtain and shoves her through, barking for Natasha without going inside. He keeps a suspicious eye on Reagen as she wanders to Drake’s side.

  She rocks on her heels and peeks at him from the corner of her eye.

  “Are you going to tell him she has an inhaler in her pocket?” Reagen keeps her voice low, tone curious.

  Drake stares at her, blank. He tries to remember what the woman was wearing, finally clicking on the image of her fingers bouncing over a slight bulge in her skirt pocket.

  Shit. How had Reagen seen that?

  She turns her head, a frown at the corners of her mouth.

  Shit, he was quiet too long; she’ll know he didn’t see it.

  Shit, she already knows.

  The security guy still hovers at the curtain. Drake calls to him, “Hey, my partner says she has an inhaler in her pocket.”

  Reagen’s eyebrows lift in surprise and he shrugs. He’d be an ass if he took credit for noticing. And if they don't find a pipe, she can look like the ass.

  Win, win.

  The guy swears some more and shouts back through the curtain. Yells follow, then a crash, and more shouting.

  The curtain flings open and a woman storms out. Tall, she stands almost a head above the security guard, and not all of it comes from her five-inch stilettos. Biceps bulge under her lace shirt and a long, auburn ponytail swings down her back as she yanks Margie out of the lounge.

  Margie wails and slaps at the other woman, without effect, as she’s thrown out the front door.

  “Thanks, Natasha,” the security guard grumbles, as embarrassment turns his neck red.

  “Anytime, Steve.” Natasha’s voice is low, husky. She straightens her form-fitting skirt and glances over at Reagen and Drake to assess whether they’re troublemakers.

  She straightens and adjusts her ponytail as her gaze drifts back over Drake. When she smiles, her Adam’s apple bobs the choker at her throat and makes the purple jewel sway.

  Drake’s lips curve with appreciation as he returns the look through lowered lids. Tonight can still be fun.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” Natasha licks her bottom lip, adding shine to the plump, red flesh.

  “Yeah,” Steve snaps as he moves to block Drake’s view. “Make sure no one else in the lounge has snuck in their own inhalers.”

  Drake’s gaze shifts to the jealous human, annoyed at the interference.

  “Fine.” Natasha swishes back to the lounge, silent on her spiked heels. “But don’t forget, I’m off in an hour.” She casts a coy glance back at Drake, just in case he missed that the last bit was for him.

  Steve yanks the curtain in place and stomps back to his station. His glare fixes on Drake.

  “Now, as I was saying. Mr. Newland isn’t seeing anyone today. So take your girlfriend and go somewhere else.” He sneers at Reagen, including her in his anger.

  “Newland will see me.” Drake pulls out his Black Corporation business card from his back pocket and places it on the desk for Steve to read. Matte black, his corporation title and rank glint from the surface in embossed silver. “The only question is whether you warn him I’m coming, or we surprise him.”

  Steve’s eyes widen as he pulls a palm-port out from under the security stand to call his manager. He probably pressed an emergency button, too. Who knows what the staff is hiding while Steve takes his time talking to his boss. It sucks Drake had to use the business card, but Steve wouldn’t have let them pass otherwise.

  It’s one of the few places that his halion blood interferes with his work.

  Reagen wanders back toward the front door.

  Shit, what’s she doing now?

  She looks bored, but her eyes flicker all over the place. Drake glances around, too. The walls need a fresh coat of red paint. The den’s distribution license should be posted next to the door, not behind the security desk. Otherwise, nothing special. His gaze shifts to the curtain where Natasha disappeared. Lots to see in that room.

  He should go check it out and make sure she has his number, just in case she needs anything.

  “Mr. Newland’s secretary will be right out.” Steve draws Drake’s attention back to the security stand. The guy fondles his business card, bending it so the silver letters catch the light. He can imagine the plans tripping through Steve’s brain, the questionable clubs he can get into with that card.

  Drake’s fingers itch to snatch it back.

  A man steps into the archway of the main club. A big guy, way bigger than Natasha. Steve becomes tiny next to him, which makes Drake smile.

  “Mr. Esten.” The man comes forward, hand outstretched. “Mr. Newland is finishing up a phone call. I can take you back now.”

  The other man’s hand engulfs Drake’s, long fingers overlapping themselves. He squeezes hard enough to grind bones together. Drake squeezes back, makes it obvious he could break the other man’s hand.

  It’s not a shake; it’s a pissing contest and the other guy lets go first. He extends his hand to Reagen.

  She stares at it, long enough to be rude, and shoves her own into her pockets. “No, thanks.”

  The man’s smile ticks at the corner, and he reaches into his coa
t pocket. He withdraws two clear masks. Smaller than the gas masks worn at the wall, they have little vents on the sides. Designed to cover the nose and mouth, they filter out any lingering chemicals in the air.

  “Put these on for your safety and follow me.” He waits for them to take the masks, then turns on a hard heel. His boots thud heavy against the linoleum floor, a sound felt more than heard over the rumble of the club.

  Drake snaps on the mask and glances at Reagen. Her mask on tight, she peers back at the exit.

  He walks around the desk and plucks his card out of Steve’s fingers. The guy looks annoyed, and Drake’s glad for whatever plans he just ruined. At the arch, he stops to investigate a metal bar installed into the wall. On hinges, it can swing down to block the opening. More security measures to prevent eager customers from sneaking inside. Lights flicker at the end of the dim hall.

  Reagen joins him, calm and professional, She appears unaffected as they enter a world of poison.

  ~

  A floor-to-ceiling, glass wall divides the club down the center. Smooth and crystal clear, invisible except where the dim, overhead lights reflect off it. Even with Black Corporation’s insider discount, installing that would have cost a fortune on this level, where even high-quality plas-glass is rare.

  On the glass's far side, a circular bar takes center floor. Around its counter, mini lounge chairs perch on stilts. The seats, extra plush, encourage guests to linger.

  Both men and women surround the bar, glass stems clutched in shaky fingers as they puff away. The club provides the stems. Each customer receives a fresh one when they check in at the bar and show their stamp. The stems attach to hoses that lead up to a beautiful glass sphere suspended from the ceiling. Clear, so guests can see the shifting, opal liquid inside and verify the aphremore’s purity. The drug flows down the tube and vaporizes in the stem, to enter the body as a sap-flavored gas.

  To make their aphremore stand out from their competitors, Gr8 Games adds tobacco as their special flavor. They trademarked the flavor so no other dens in the sector can use it. It helps add to the gambling theme of the club and has the added benefit of furthering the addiction.

  The madam behind the bar clocks each puff. Guests receive a maximum of ten hits in a rolling twenty-four hour period. Some stay in their seats and suck down the full round in one go, a fast high that lets them move on to the rest of their night.

  Others go slow, take one puff, then meander into the play area. When the high starts to wear off after an hour, they go back for their next fix, and it becomes a loop. They’ll spend hours marveling at their improved skills at 8Fold, their senses heightened, their ability to remember their cards now infallible.

  A deceptive illusion. Most guests, overwhelmed with their new senses, lose themselves in the slick material of their cards, the shine of the lights. They forget they put their datbands on auto-withdrawal, and the club continues to run them until their weekly paychecks red line. Then the discreet security guards, peppered throughout the club, step forward to escort them out with coupons for next week.

  The customers not overwhelmed are encouraged to leave.

  The secretary leads them through the bustle, on the safe side of the glass. He keeps his steps unhurried to allow Drake and Reagen plenty of time to take in the club.

  It’s supposed to put them at ease. Nothing to hide here.

  It makes Drake suspicious.

  Ten bouncers are between the bar and card tables. More might hide in plain clothes among the guests. Aphremore heightens emotions, and angry people can become enraged. Fights break out, so clubs need bouncers. But there are still too many for the club.

  He glances over his shoulder at Reagen, expecting to find her bouncing around the club, checking people’s cards and counting the dealer wins. Marking cameras, exits and every weapon within easy reach, while making the bouncers nervous and freaking out the clients.

  Like she did in the entry room.

  Reagen sticks close to his back, though, just out of arm’s reach. She doesn’t give the club a glance. Her eyes flick up to meet his, suspiciously serene. He suspects she uses this face to keep thoughts to herself.

  The secretary pushes a dark red curtain aside to reveal another archway. They pass out of the dim club and into the bright light of the back staff area. No customers allowed.

  Better visibility highlights the place needs a good scrub. Drake’s shoes stick to the floor, and herds of dust clump in the corners.

  Their escort passes two flimsy doors, set uneven in the frames. A fist-sized hole punches through one. Drake peeks through at the small tables with chairs, a man slumped over a cup of instant noodles. He wears the red shirt of a card dealer. A break room.

  At the end of the hall, a staircase leads up to a blank wall and switches back on itself. A blind spot that would make an excellent place for a trap.

  Reagen stays behind him, not volunteering to go first.

  He paces up the creaky steps behind Secretary’s back while she waits at the bottom. He reaches the landing and peers up the next flight of stairs. No surprises wait for them. He gives her a small nod, not even a little annoyed. Good strategy is good strategy, even if it puts his neck on the line ahead of hers.

  The cleanliness of the upstairs comes as a sensory shock. Fresh paint coats the walls, and a carpet runner hides the torn linoleum. Metal bars reinforce the door at the end. A large, gold plaque with Newland’s name hangs at eye level.

  Secretary’s knuckles rap against the door. No echo, which means a solid door. Even with his heightened senses, Drake hears nothing from the other side. With some invisible acknowledgement, Secretary opens the door and moves to the left to gesture them inside.

  They pass him into the office. Like the outer hall, Newland’s office displays higher quality goods than the rest of the club. He makes good use of his connections with Black Corporation. The faux wood of his desk costs as much as the den makes in a week.

  Newland powers down his digital ledger book and glances up. Attired in a respectable suit and vest, the older man forgoes the standard tie and his jacket rests unbuttoned. The perfect image of a serious workingman.

  “Mr. Esten.” He stands and walks around his desk, hand extended. “What a surprise.”

  Drake accepts the handshake. The other man’s firm hand, cool and dry, clasps his without crushing. Professional.

  “Newland, let me introduce my partner, Ms. Thorpe.” Drake releases the man and turns to locate Reagen. She stands at the back of the office, where she can keep an eye on both Secretary and Newland. Her hands stuffed into her pockets, she makes no move to come closer.

  Newland gives her a questioning smile. “A pleasure.”

  She returns the greeting with a nod and stays in place.

  “May I offer you anything to drink?” Newland motions to a bar against the wall. Amber liquid fills a crystal decanter, and four plastic-covered cups sit next to it. Nice and clean.

  “It would be difficult.” Reagen gestures at her mask. Despite the little vents on the sides, fog gathers inside the plastic.

  “Ah, yes, my apologies.” Newland smooths a hand over his thinning, brown hair. Silver strands highlight his temples, and small wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes when he frowns. “You may leave, Adam.”

  The secretary bows and backs from the room. An odd gesture, but the large man makes it look natural. With the door closed, the club noise cuts off. The room takes on a pressurized weight.

  “Please, have a seat and remove your masks. I have the room sealed against chemical contamination.”

  Drake takes one of the proffered seats and pulls his mask down with a hesitant sniff. Not a hint of sweet sap smell anywhere in the office. The seal has to be halion-engineered and beyond expensive.

  Reagen doesn’t remove her mask. Her gaze moves from the corners of the room to the ceiling. Next will come snooping. He waves at her to take a seat, and she pretends not to notice.

  Shit, whatever. She’ll d
o what she wants anyway. He faces Newland and shrugs. “Please forgive my partner. She’s nervous. This is her first time in an aphremore den.”

  Newland takes the seat across from him, with a sympathetic glance at Reagen. When it becomes apparent she won’t join them, he folds his hands in his lap and gives Drake his undivided attention. “What may I do for you, Mr. Esten?”

  Yeah, just ignore the rude chick in the background.

  Drake leans back in the chair and runs a hand over the brocade arm.

  “This is nice.” He traces the raised, circular pattern, stitched in a darker blue, slippery beneath his fingers like silk. “Real high-quality. Is it custom?”

  Newland sits a little straighter, his shoulders back as he preens. “Yes, I had a local shop owner do the set. Given the right materials to work with, the man performs wonders.”

  “It’s beautiful craftsmanship. I’m surprised he still lives on this level.”

  “Yes.” Newland smooths a proprietary hand over the chair. “It’s difficult to shine with the materials provided down here. It’s only because of my trained eye that I could see the value under the rubbish he had to work with. I imported special products from Level 9 to have a demo piece done. Once I saw what he could really do, I had him do the whole set.”

  “I’d love his contact information.” Drake traces the pattern with his finger. It looks like an aerial view of Level 4. “My living unit could use a personal touch.”

  “Now, now.” Newland shakes a playful finger. “You’re not trying to steal him from me, are you?”

  “I’ll keep it a secret, just between us.” Drake laughed. “I wouldn’t want him upgrading to a higher level. I’d never be able to afford him then.”

  Newland chuckles in appreciation. “Too true, too true.”

  “Did you commission the fabric, as well?”

  “No, no. I was fortunate enough to find a pattern I liked at my local seamstress.” He leans back with a satisfied sigh.

  “On Level 9? I live up there. I should visit her shop.” Drake stands. “Maybe I will take that drink. Would you like one?”