“I suppose, unless I get an urgent dispatch.”
Kirsten set up tables, putting buckets of plastic forks and knives out among piles of napkins, smiling at a few vagrants that filtered in. Taking a position behind the long table, she helped hand out bowls of reassembled food―beef stew. The fourth bowl had her unable to make eye contact with anyone.
When a lull in the line came, Fr. Villera leaned on the table. “What is bothering you? It is what you wanted to ask me earlier, no?”
“Is it bad to, umm”―Kirsten could not continue looking at his face, and repositioned the empty bowls waiting in front of her― “I had to eat. He had real food. I was so damn hungry.”
“Someone took advantage of you?”
“I lived in the Beneath after I ran away from home. I was so afraid of my mother finding me, I snuck topside at night to pick food from trash crushers.” Kirsten stared out over the crowd. “I didn’t know there were places like this. A boy, younger than I was at the time, said he got real food from begging and wanted me to go with him during the day. He never came back.”
Father Villera put a hand on her shoulder. “Chances are he got picked up by the police. Look at you now. What would you do if you found a little boy in dire need?”
Kirsten cried a little, thinking of Evan. Of course. Why did I assume something bad happened to him?
“Only a weak man takes advantage of a desperate person. He should have taken charity on you and just fed you. What he did to you was reprehensible.”
“I should have said no. Who knows what I could have caught, or if he would have killed me, or…”
“You tread down a path which leads only to destruction and self-loathing. Life sometimes gives us choices with no good answers. There is no purpose in taking on blame for the evil of another.”
“But he said it was my choice. I said yes. I let him…” Kirsten stifled her emotions, forcing a smile as a poor couple approached, astounded to see a uniformed officer handing out food. She gave them a bowl each, waiting until they had wandered away to a table before continuing. “I’m more upset with myself than him. I never really thought it bothered me much; compared to my mother, he felt caring.”
“Think about it, girl,” said Father Villera. “You were starving, desperate. You picked through others’ trash hoping to find something to eat that wouldn’t poison you. Was there really a choice for you to say no? A decent man would have shared what he had willingly. I can understand why you did what you did. I do not think less of you for it.” He kept silent a moment as three more vagrants shuffled by, bowing with gratitude for their meals. “I’m sure He would forgive you.”
Kirsten handed another bowl of food to a grungy middle-aged woman, and smiled at the priest. “Thank you, Father.”
orian returned a half-hour later. His gait was unhurried, his smile confident. Kirsten excused herself from behind the table and walked over to him. A few of the vagrant men checked her out as she passed, distracted from their free meal. The smell of the beef stew carried less shame than before, but still she wanted to avoid it. She met him just outside the door.
“I know that grin; you found something, didn’t you?”
“Yep.” He motioned to the east. “They went about two miles and a block or two south. There’s another street church there. According to the sign, run by a Reverend B.G. Wallis. All three of our friends went through a side entrance from an adjacent alley.”
Kirsten squinted in that direction. “They went into another church? So much for the holy ground theory.”
“Well, just because the word church is on the front door, doesn’t mean it is one.”
Whatever she had been about to say stalled in the back of her throat, turning into a sigh as she glanced from Dorian to Father Villera. “This is so confusing. No wonder it’s such a mess.” Staring over the crowd, it occurred to her that all of the people eating had been watching her the entire time. She skirted the table, past the end of the line. “I have a lead on the punks who roughed you up, Father. I’m going to go follow up on it before this uniform chases away more people in need of food.”
Villera muttered something, waving his hand at her. “ Vaya con Dios, mi hermana .”
Kirsten smiled. “ Gracias, Padre.”
Dorian’s grin irritated her to the point of blurting halfway to the car. “What?”
“ I’m just not used to seeing you being so pleasant to a religious person.”
She poked at her forearm guard. The patrol craft’s door was open by the time she reached it. “Didn’t you spend the better part of the last six months trying to convince me it wasn’t the belief, it was the person?”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be amused.”
The frown in her reflection mocked her from the polished black roof. Dorian sank into the passenger seat through the closed door, leaving her to grumble at the smog overhead. The noise of exasperation stalled to a curious squeak. Two blocks down, another newsbot had a familiar face on it―the man from Konstantin’s reception a few days ago.
She fell into the car and patched into the news feed. Kimberly Brightman was in mid interview, discussing the recent acquisition of EnMesh Bionetics by Kukla Investment Corporation. Scrolling text along a red stripe at the bottom of the screen identified the man as Yevgeniy Suvorin, Majordomo of Kukla. The image came up a few seconds before it cut to Kimberly in the studio; lemon-blonde hair aglow from off-camera lights.
“With me here in the studio is Dante Howell, West City Financial correspondent.”
The image shifted to a dark-skinned man in his later thirties. His iridescent grey suit gave him the look of a shark that sprouted a human head.
“The recent acquisition of cybernetics giant EnMesh by Kukla Investments has turned many heads in the financial world today. As one of the United Coalition Front’s leading producers of so-called ‘fusion’ components intended to bridge the gap between biological and mechanical, the transaction has many concerned. Graeme McCullough, CEO of EnMesh, who has been notoriously cagey about corporate mergers, did not have any comment for the press. As you may know, Mr. McCullough has refused no less than fourteen separate buyout offers. Most of these came from other, larger, biomedical firms seeking to incorporate a cybernetic division. Many analysts, myself included, find it bizarre he should agree to sell controlling interest to what is primarily a real estate holding company.”
Kirsten swiped at the screen, muting the volume. What little she had heard already had her wanting a pillow. She looked at Dorian and frowned.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you had stock in EnMesh? Since when did you care about financial news?”
“That woman they found dead this morning worked for EnMesh, didn’t she?”
“I think you’re right.” He rubbed his chin. “Still, corporate issues aren’t your neck of the woods. I’m quite sure the CCTF has it under control. Look, they’re talking about it now. The merger is stuck pending regulatory approval.” He grinned at the face she made. “Lip reading.”
She glared.
“Okay, fine.” He pointed at the scrolling comment text she had failed to notice. “Corp Crimes is auditing it.”
Her head hit the seat hard enough to knock her hair clip out. “Ugh, what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I getting so wound up?”
“That man on the news appears to be an associate of Konstantin. Perhaps you are worried some legal troubles may come his way?”
A giant Monarch butterfly got into a boxing match with a moth somewhere in her stomach. “Konstantin wouldn’t do that!” she snapped, glaring.
Dorian blinked, too stunned by her reproachful tone to say anything.
Guilt flashed over her, chasing away the spike of irrational anger that had come on out of nowhere. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I yelled at you. It’s like I’m fourteen again and defending whatever that singer’s name was. Konstantin can’t be involved with anything illegal.”
“Can’t? Or you’re terrified he mig
ht be?” Dorian waited a moment. “And by the way, that boy couldn’t sing without his electronics.”
“He wasn’t bad.” Kirsten pouted at the console.
Dorian hummed. “Yes, he had so much talent he vanished when he wasn’t a teenager anymore.”
She fidgeted with the gold snake bracelet, spinning it around her wrist. “I…” The moth tried to escape the Monarch. Kirsten covered her mouth with a hand, trying to will away the nausea. “Konstantin is a sweet man who has too much money and wastes some of it on me. Whenever I’m with him…”
“You feel like you’ll make one wrong move and wake up.” Dorian eyed the glittering ruby eyes in the bit of jewelry. “Seems as though you’re quite attached to at least some of the credits he spent on you.”
“I think about his smile whenever I see it.” She stared off at the endless train of ad-bots passing overhead.
Dorian shifted, unable to find a way to sit that satisfied him. “Shall we check out that other church then?”
“Yeah.”
Two miles later, Kirsten landed in front of a decaying building that looked as though it had once been a small factory. White paint flaked in large slabs from the plastisteel panel wall, worse around small barred windows done over with multicolored dyes in an attempt to recreate the image of stained glass. A holographic sign above the door displayed a golden cross surrounded by shimmering wisps of cartoony fire next to the words “Faith Pentecostal Baptist Ministries – Hon. Rev. B.G. Wallis. Come find the Holy Spirit!”
Aside from the colorful windows and the sign, the building seemed like the sort of place a person would not want to walk into alone at night. A group of young men propped up against the wall gave her the eye as she crossed the sidewalk and went up the stairs to the front door. To the right, three loading dock rolling gates appeared to be welded shut.
“I get the feeling no one comes here for a free meal―unless they’ve got an appetite for bullshit.”
“Now there’s the Kirsten I know and love,” said Dorian, following her through the door.
The inside held a strong scent of damp carpet with a hint of mold. Brown Epoxil panels, with simulated wood grain finish, cozied up an area full of old-fashioned pews. Free-standing partitions flanked a small altar, folding murals of stained glass depicted blotches of random pastel colors around more crosses.
“Feel anything?”
“Nope.” Dorian shook his head. “You?”
“Nothing.”
A low wooden creak worthy of a cheap horror vid emanated from a hallway beyond the area that resembled a stage dressing of a church. Kirsten moved along the back row of pews, entering a gap in the wood panels which led to a corridor dripping with leaky pipes and buckets positioned to catch water. Two large men in suits, both muscular and dark as the night, came to a halt when they spotted her. A few yards behind them, the yellow rectangle of an open door glowed with light from an office.
“Can I help you?” asked the one closer.
Nothing feels paranormal about him. “I’m looking for a couple of punks that mugged an old man. They were seen fleeing into this building.”
“Maybe we should’ve tried the side door?” offered Dorian.
“There is no one here but Julius and myself, and the Reverend Wallis. Our services are on Sunday only.”
“So what are you doing here on a Thursday? Does the Reverend live here?”
Neither of the men seemed to find her tone amusing. “I’m afraid we must ask you to respect the sanctity of these grounds.”
Kirsten squinted. “Your Reverend Wallis has advert bots cruising around the Five Hundredth Street Sanctuary trying to poach Father Villera’s faithful. Then, a couple of guys decide to beat the hell out of the guy and come running back here. I don’t know about you two gentlemen, but I find that a bit suspicious.”
The other man slid to the side of his companion, their bulk blocking the hallway from wall to wall. He glared hard, as if weighing the odds of getting away with manhandling her out the door, or worse. “You badmouthin’ the Rev, we gonna have words.”
Julius raised a hand. “Easy, Daryl. Look, officer. My cousin here’s quite protective of Reverend Wallis’s reputation. Casting aspersions as to the integrity of his character has put him in a bad way.”
“Not as bad a way as he’ll be in if he doesn’t get out of my way. You two do realize I have the authority to pursue a suspect anywhere outside of military jurisdictional zones. If your reverend is so benevolent, and he has nothing to do with ordering the attack on Father Villera, then I shouldn’t find anything to ruin his reputation.”
For a moment, the dripping water was thunderous.
Daryl’s nostrils flared as he fought to contain rage. Kirsten squinted at him.
“Come on, Daryl. You want to twist my head off? Take a step. See what happens.”
“Surface thoughts?” asked Dorian.
“Yep,” she muttered, hand on the E-90. “What are you hiding, Daryl? Do you know those three?”
“Whoa, shit.” Julius put a hand on Daryl’s chest. “Please forgive my associate, he has anger management issues.”
Kirsten glared for a moment. “Very good, Julius. You’re right, I am Division 0. Most people don’t recognize the uniform. Now, please, before your ‘associate’ winds up sucking his thumb in the corner, get out of my way.”
“Is there a problem out here?” asked a velvety voice from a doorway behind the two men.
A skeletal-thin figure, just as dark, emerged from the open door, clad in a violet suit and black-and-white shoes that looked as if he had stolen them from a gravslide lane―the special ones they make people wear not to ruin the smooth, Epoxil-board floors. Not much in stature, he stood only an inch taller than Kirsten, which became apparent as he slid between the two behemoths and stopped with an extended hand.
“I am Reverend B. G. Wallis, what can I help you with, officer?”
She permitted a half-hearted handshake, mesmerized by the sheen of light on top of his smooth, bald scalp. A trace of a salt-and-pepper gaotee ringed his mouth. Ridge lines defined the absence of long-worn eyeglasses just behind his ears. Wrinkles broke the glass-like sheen of his forehead as he lifted both eyebrows with an expression of concern.
Kirsten shot a challenging glance at Daryl, before shifting it to Wallis. “I was wondering how stiff the competition is between you and Father Villera’s sanctuary. A couple of punks attacked him earlier today and ran back here after I confronted them.”
“I see.” He leaned back, left arm across his chest holding his right elbow while he rubbed one finger over his lips. “Your first assumption is that members of Faith Pentecostal participated in an act of violence?”
Kirsten made it a point to stare at Daryl. “Oh, violence was the last thing I’d ever suspect from a religious person. These two looked about ready to throw me through a window.”
“Please forgive them their doubts. I’m sure you hear this quite often, but police usually wear armor, blue armor, and don’t show up alone. My associates mistook your intentions.” He closed his eyes, gesturing at her with open palms. “You say these individuals are hiding in my church. Perhaps, even if they did come here, they are hiding not from you but from some malevolent force which compelled them to violence against a fellow man of God.”
“If they wanted a church to hide in, they were right outside one. Why run all the way here?”
Reverend Wallis overacted a look of being insulted. “Oh, my. Are you insinuating my church is any less holy than Father Villera’s? You know I tire of those who think our faith is any less genuine because we spice it up with energetic hymns.” His voice took on the cadence of a preacher as he paced about the narrow hallway. “How a man communes with his Lord is a matter between him and the divine.” He gestured at the ceiling. “Who sits in a place of judgment that can say where one dwells within a place of sanctity and another, by virtue of his difference of opinion, does not?” He leaned toward her. “Tell me, officer, do
you have faith? Are you redeemed?”
Her porcelain features flashed rouge. “I’ve seen the silver doors souls take to get to the afterlife. There’s no fat man in a white robe waiting with a checklist. I don’t claim to know what happens on the other side, but I do think that this”―she waved her arm at the fancy room behind her― “is all meant to save people from having too many credits.”
“A lost soul.” Reverend Wallis sucked in a long breath as he brought his hands together over his heart. “Clearly you have been tainted by the society in which we live, a society that rejects God for trappings of the material world. I would enjoy the opportunity to speak to you about Him, though you have to be ready to listen. I’m sure you know what it’s like to be persecuted. People with your”―he pursed his lips, searching for words― “special talents are often the victim of hatred based on superstition and misleading information. As such, I’m fairly certain Division 0 would not react well to the public perception they foment discrimination based on religious observance.”
“Yeah,” said Julius. “This one ain’t got no respect for the works of the Lord. She’s just here to give us a hard time.”
“This guy’s good.” Dorian pointed at Wallis. “He’s going to keep you talking while the three idiots run out the back door. I’ll try and catch them.”
Dorian sprinted off, turning himself just solid enough to knock Daryl into the wall as he went through him.
“What the…” Wallis gawked at Daryl, as the big man floundered and crashed to the ground in a mass of mop handles and upended buckets.
Julius leapt away from a splash of dirty collected drip-water. Wallis grabbed on to the bodyguard’s arm and chanted prayers in a loud wail.
“Cast aside the evil one, trust your salvation to Him!”
Kirsten grumbled. Oh, give me a damn break. This guy’s faker than Trinity Barber’s tits. She left behind the screaming reverend, sensing no abnormal energy in the air and having nothing solid enough to risk getting into a PR war with someone who has had a lot of practice smiling at holo-cams.
Division Zero: Thrall Page 13
