by Lyn Forester
“I still have to go through the particle extractor.” I nod toward the metal booth at the edges of the crime scene.
“Investigator Thorpe, I don’t know what to say.” The guard pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry you were subjected to this behavior.”
“It’s not pleasant.” I inspect the black crust under my nails. “I’m looking forward to the extraction process.”
“Please, allow me to escort you myself.” He glances at Drake. “Will you also need to be processed?”
“Just my shoes.” Drake peers down at the brown smudge that mars the toe of one boot.
“They can use one of the smaller extractors for that.”
Rinehart takes the lead, and lower guards scramble to make way for him. Drake follows on our heels.
“You like to scare the new recruits, don’t you?”
I blink in confusion before remembering.
“Don’t want to waste my time training someone who can’t take the long hours.” Forcing a laugh, I hope he doesn’t notice my brief hesitation. I’d forgotten we’d started the day with Drake posing as a junior in training. Sleep needs to happen, soon. Before I mess anything else up.
“We lose a quarter of our recruits every training cycle.” He nods in understanding. “Some people aren’t cut out for this job.” His arm brushes against mine as we walk, and he leans in closer. “I hope Blue Guard Allred wasn’t giving you a hard time. She means well.”
I hum, noncommittal, and pace my next step to put a couple inches between us. Blue Guard Allred might be a good guard, but she’s also a bully. Whether she received disciplinary action from the Halls of Justice would be up to whoever listened to my recording of the night. But I won’t press the issue since she didn’t actually fine me.
A tech next to the extractor snaps to attention when we arrive.
“Investigator Thorpe needs to be processed and released.”
“Yes, sir.” The tech’s heels click together, and he scrambles to fetch a silver bag. He holds it open in front of me. “Personal belongings in here, please.”
With a sigh, I empty my pockets. Plastic masks, Belly-E Up bars and wrappers, brochure from Penned, palm-port, psy-gun. My fingers pause at my datband, then leave it on. If it can stand up to a sanitizer, it can stand up to a portable extractor.
I take the silver bag and thrust it toward Drake, along with my disc-bike. “Watch my stuff, junior.”
“Yes, boss.” He passes his boots to the tech and tucks my items under his arm.
Shoulders squared, I step into the black cavern of the extraction box. The tech closes me inside with a metal clunk and calls through the door, “Put one hand on each wall.”
In pitch-darkness, my knuckles bang against the walls as I raise my arms. Elbows bent, I spread my fingers against the metal surface and close my eyes. “Ready.”
“One.” The box shudders and light glows against my eyelids. “Two.” The light brightens and vibrations travel up my legs. I push out a steady breath. “Three.”
Cold flashes against my skin with a vacuum suck of air. My ears pop, and the box darkens once more. Arms dropping to my sides, I shift to face the door as it pops open.
The tech peers in at me. “All done.”
“Thanks.” I step out and inspect my clothes. Not as clean as the sanitizer box, but not bad either. My hair floats around my head, and Drake covers his mouth to hide a laugh. I pat the strands down, and static zaps my palms.
Reaching for my silver bag, I zap Drake with a tiny lightning bolt.
He flinches and shakes away the sting. My gaze drops to his feet. Black boots back in place, he’s ready to go.
“I’ll walk you out of the scene,” Rinehart announces from nearby.
I turn to him with an impersonal smile in place. “You didn’t have to wait for us to be processed out.”
“I want to make sure you leave without further issue.”
Side by side, with Drake trailing behind, we walk toward the curb where his disc-bike flashes. While I appreciate the thought, Rinehart’s a professional, and there’s a reason he stayed with us so long with the scene nearby. I wait through an uncomfortable silence as he puts his thoughts in order.
“Do you think this murder is related to the case you’re running?” he asks when we come to a stop, quiet so no one can overhear.
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“No, of course not.” A hand sifts through his hair, displacing the gray strands he’d taken extra time to comb into hiding. “Let me know if you need help. I’ll back you up off the clock.”
He reaches toward my arm, and I brace myself for contact. He means well, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to dodge. My skin crawls with all the touching today.
“That’s what I’m here for, right, Thorpe?” Drake butts his way in, hip checking me straight off the curb and out of arm’s reach. I stumble, catch my footing, and shoot a glare in his direction.
The eye roll he sends back lets me know I’m not convincing.
“So you’ve decided to stay on?” Rinehart’s gaze shifts between us, uncertain as his arm falls back to his side. “Ms. Thorpe hasn’t scared you off?”
“Are you kidding? Today’s been a blast!” Drake wiggles in excitement. Stupid, grown-ass man.
“I should have started him on surveillance.” I open my bag and return the contents to my pockets.
Rinehart’s face creases into a relieved smile. At some point, he’ll get up the nerve to ask me out, and I’ll reject him. Until then, he makes a good contact.
“Are the lifts still running?” I press the top button on my disc-bike and pull the pieces into place.
“Only the ones at Central Plaza and the Halls of Justice.” Rinehart glances up at the dark holo-sky. “No idea why the Time Wardens shut the level down early. They'll be flooded with complaints come morning.”
“Not my desk, not my problem.” My bike powers on with a low hum as it spins into life. The tri-rings cast a twelve-foot circle of light all around. Not much for visibility.
Drake powers on his own bike, and the glow expands another few feet. We’ll have to keep close and go slow, but it will still be faster than walking without night goggles.
“Be careful on your way back.” Rinehart steps up to my bike to help me on.
I pretend not to see and swing my leg over, settling into the seat. “Have there been reports of pirates?”
“There’s always reports of pirates.” He steps back as I rev the boosters and latch my feet into the drop stirrups. “The early Lights-Out should give you time before the booby-traps get set up. But be careful.”
“Thanks for the warning, sir.” He gives a small, resigned smile.
He should give up on me and find himself a nice person who will take care of him. Because I’ll never fill that role for anyone.
“Nice and slow, Drake.” I glance over to see him settled on his bike, hands gripping the directional lever, ready to go. Strands of blond hair drift up from the breeze created by the spinning lights on his bike. I wonder if mine does the same. “Keep a watch out for nets.”
“Not my first time riding at Lights-Out.” He moves his bike into motion, pace slow and steady so I can line up beside him.
By the end of the block, the polygon of light disappears and true darkness settles in. Our small circle of light seems to shrink. I pull back on the speed, and Drake follows suit until our speed barely causes a draft. The light rings wreak havoc with my night vision, making it impossible to see the street signs until we’re past them.
Luckily, we’re going slow enough that making a wide U-turn doesn’t matter. There won't be any more turns from here, just a straight shot to Central Plaza. It shines in the distance, the blaze of lights from open businesses making it glow with a promise of safety. I resist the temptation to press down on the booster, to get there faster.
Faint flickers of yellow light scatter across the road, and I slow further. The circle of our lights reveal
s the shattered remains of another disc-bike. Looks like the pirates got their booby traps out. A broken net lies on the road next to a shattered seat.
We swing wide around the wreckage and continue on. The owner already lost their bike. No reason for us to risk our own.
The rest of the street shows no sign of pirate activity. They only had one trap on this street, and I’m thankful. While I want to upgrade my disc-bike, I don’t want to see it shattered down the street and collected for parts.
We pull over and dismount at the edge of Central Plaza’s light. People still bustle through the area, moving from hotels to entertainment houses to eateries, unaffected by the early Lights-Out the rest of the level suffers.
People who suddenly found themselves stranded, caught in the dark without night goggles like we were, trickle in from all sides, blinking and wide-eyed. They add to the line at the Central Lifts, shoulder to shoulder. The line wraps around the clear tube, now thick enough to disrupt the partiers trying to get from one place to the next.
Even if we hurry, the wait will take an hour at least, maybe longer.
Shouts come from inside the line, the mass of bodies rolling as a fight breaks out. Enterprising individuals use the distraction to cut closer to the front and another brawl breaks out.
“Let's sneak into the Halls of Justice lifts.”
~
The holo-sky on Level 7 still shows the bright pinpricks of the Star-Light cycle when we make our way down the stairs of the Halls of Justice. Most of the food stalls have shut their windows for the night, but the casino and entertainment theatre still bustle with activity. People talk in small groups while they wait for tables inside the higher-priced restaurants.
The street quiets as we leave Central Plaza, the businesses shut tight for the night. The few pedestrians we pass wear business suits and carry shopping bags; late night workers making their way home in the hush before Lights-Out.
Blue Horizon, gray and monochrome and blending in with its neighboring buildings, makes my knees wobble with fatigue. My feet ache, and I take the elevator up to my floor. I’m done with exercise for the day.
Even Hall Lurker’s gone to bed, or he took the hint and gave up the chase. I stop at my door, pressing fingers through the cool gel to key in the code. Black Corporation still hasn’t fixed the stupid thing.
Which reminds me. “Why are you following me?”
I glance over my shoulder, at the looming asshole persisting in sharing my personal space.
“The portals are closed. It’s too far to go home,” Drake grumbles.
“How’s that my problem?” My door swishes open and he follows me inside.
“I’m crashing here tonight.”
“The fuck you are.”
“Come on, we already cleared the floor space. There’s plenty of room.” He gestures to the open area where we’d removed my dining table.
“I don’t have extra blankets. Go to a hotel.”
“What’s the point? We have an early start tomorrow. This just makes more sense.” He pushes past me, over to the mini fridge, and digs out my last jar of water from the back. “Hey, you’re out. You need to restock.”
“Go to a hotel,” I growl. “And stop drinking my water!”
“Don’t be stingy.” He peels back the plastic and takes a sip, lips smacking in satisfaction. “There’s an extra pillow in the bathroom closet. A blanket, too.”
He sets the jar on the kitchen counter and wanders into the bathroom. The linen door creaks when he opens it, followed by the sound of rustling as he digs through my things.
Again.
A moment later, he comes out with my spare pillow and blanket cradled in his arms. Content, making himself at home. He drops the bundle on the floor, makes a nice little bed.
“Hey, you wanna tell ghost stories?”
I shoot him in the back.
The solid thunk of Drake’s body hitting the floor fills me with warm fuzzies. I step into the small space that separates his prone form from the little nest he made. It looks soft and cozy; too bad he missed it when he toppled. His hip gives under my foot as I shove him onto his side, further from the blankets.
A red bump rises on his forehead where his face caught the floor. I crouch in front of him, psy-gun dangling from my fingers.
“Stop glaring.” I shake the gun at his narrowed eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t drag your heavy ass out into the hall and leave you there.”
His eyes flicker to the closed door then back to me. He blinks slowly.
“What, you want to go out in the hall?” The psy-gun disappears from my hand in a flash of white light.
He studies my wrist for a second, then opens and closes his eyelids again. “Oh, that’s too bad. I was going to make you a ‘Free Rides’ sign. I think the neighbor would like that.”
Two quick blinks.
“No, not the hall lurker. The other neighbor. The cute strawberry blonde.”
His eyes squint into a glare again before shifting to the blanket and back.
“I didn’t invite you to stay.” When I stand, his eyes track me. “This is the result.”
He blinks again. No idea what that one means. I consider kicking him onto his back, but then he might choke on his tongue. And he’d block the bathroom.
I’ll already have to step over him to get to the kitchen. Maybe I should change my mind and drag him out to the hall. But that means more exercise. I glance back down and he blinks rapidly. Must have seen me eyeing the door. I sigh.
So troublesome.
“I had the psy-gun set to medium stun, so you’ll spend the next six hours reflecting on how you ended up on the floor. If you get bored, calculate escape routes and how many weapons are within your immediate reach.”
A long step takes me over his legs and into the kitchen, where I press the plastic seal down on the jar of water and return it to the fridge. Asshole. That was for a special occasion. Which so wasn’t today.
I squeeze some sanitizer into the water jar still in the sink, left over from this afternoon, and wipe it clean. The refill station gives a half-off discount for clean returns.
In the bathroom, I slip off my jacket and remove my psy-gun and holster, throwing them in the second drawer of the vanity, the one with a lock. Next, I empty my pockets into it, too tired to sort through the items. Closing it up, I press my thumb into the reader pad, and it turns red.
I slide open the top drawer of the vanity and pull out my tooth cleaning wand. Slender and white, my teeth tap against its hard plastic as I bite down to hold it in place. My cheeks glow blue as it goes to work, teeth and gums tingling with a mild buzz. That took some getting used to, but it was worth not paying extra to have digestible water routed to the sink.
While I wait, I change out of my work clothes. The shower beckons. I can still feel the slimy viscera on my body, even though it’s gone. A good scrub would help dilute the memory. But the extractor did a good job, and showering now would waste water. I pull on my gym clothes, short shorts and a tank top that also act as my sleepwear. Expedites leaving for the gym in the morning while removing the need for pajamas. My jacket, pants, and shirt go into the small cleaner under the sink, where my towel already waits with the gym clothes from this morning. A press of the button and the little machine vibrates into action.
It was worth the expensive upgrade to save me time carting my dirty laundry to the cleaners on the twentieth floor. They charge too much and take a week to return the clothes. Doing the cleaning myself allows me to minimize my wardrobe, and the machine paid for itself after two years.
The tooth wand beeps just as my cheeks warm. I rinse it off, drying off any trace of indigestible water, before throwing it back in the drawer. A quick brush of the hair completes my night routine. I’m ready for bed and wide-awake.
Stomping out of the bathroom, I glare at the lump on my floor. Bone-tired all the way home, and he had to get my blood pumping again. My legs shake with the desire to kick him, but he’s a
lready been punished. Stuck in that position, his muscles will be stiff tomorrow.
I step back over his legs and force myself to lie down on the couch. He was right, we have an early day tomorrow, and I need to be alert. The couch hugs my body as I wiggle and stretch, trying to relax. I shiver and frown. The unit’s temperature stays at a constant, comfortable sixty-eight. Blankets stay in the closet, where they won't tangle my feet if I need to move quickly.
I shouldn’t be cold, but pinpricks pebble my skin, the fine hairs standing on end. I shift my position, roll onto my side, and meet Drake’s stare.
“Stop it,” I grumble.
He opens his eyes wider, mocking me. Then his gaze flicks to the blanket and back.
“I’m not tucking you into bed, so stop staring.”
I roll the other direction, so my face squishes into the rear of the couch. But an itch starts between my shoulder blades. Logic tells me he can’t move, but instinct tells me not to leave myself exposed. I flop onto my back once more and turn my head to meet his steel-colored eyes.
Somehow, he looks happy when I roll off the couch and step over to him. Damn expressive for an immobilized man. I pick up the blanket and pillow and his eyes dance with victory.
The pillow makes a whump sound as I throw it over his stupid face. I roll myself in the blanket and plop back on the couch.
“Go to sleep, stupid face.” But I can’t take my own advice. The scent of someone else in my home smothers me. Instinct wins over logic, and I know I’ll be up all night watching him, unless I can gain control over my own mind.
In my teens, I befriended a prostitute who taught me the wonders of compartmentalization. Spaces in the mind like tiny apartment complexes. There, she could tuck away everything she wanted to ignore. It works for the short term, but not tonight.
So twice in one day, I seek out the house of my soul. I lie down, shut my lids, and breathe.
In, In, In.
Out, Out, Out.
Cold wind blasts against my face, rocking my body on the narrow ledge. Dirt and pebbles curl under my toes as I gaze down the sheer cliff, into the dark abyss below. Sometimes, I think I want to know what it would feel like to step from the edge and fall.
