by Mel Odom
I didn’t want anything in common with Thomas Haas. The young man was a social predator, judging from his arrest record.
“The man I was with, the one that was killed? He was the one believed to have murdered Rachel Giacomin.”
“Sounds like someone should have given you a medal.”
“I didn’t kill him. Other people did.”
“I heard they were after you and he just got in the way. Or so a little birdie at Haas-Bioroid says in her report…”
I shook my head. “They were after him. I got in the way.”
“They tried to kill you, too.”
“I was just collateral damage.”
Thomas smiled. “Maybe you’re wrong about that.”
“I’m not.” I thought about telling Thomas Haas that Dwight Taylor had been Malcolm Gardener and that Gardener was supposed to be dead and gone, but I didn’t want to give him everything. If his search of his mother’s files had revealed that, I was confident that he would have said something.
Thomas shook his head, dropped the narc-stick butt to the floor, and crushed it out underfoot. “Nope. That’s not why she’s interested in you. There’s something else.” He grimaced. “Probably something you don’t even know you know. My mother has a habit of doing things like that. She creates her own walking data banks in bioroids. That way, her files are constantly moving and people can’t find out all her secrets. She just ferrets away data in the backs of some androids’ minds. I’m thinking that you’re one of those.”
I sat there, not knowing what to do. I was curious about what Thomas Haas planned to do to scratch the itch he had.
He looked at the bodyguards and nodded. “Do it.”
They approached me as a unit, surrounding me immediately and giving me no chance to escape except by hurting them. Since they weren’t doing anything illegal and hadn’t stated an intent to destroy me, the Three Directives were firmly in place and I couldn’t do anything.
They bound me to the chair with zip-strips at my wrists and my ankles. As I sat there, Thomas Haas tossed an external computer drive to one of them. The bodyguard slapped the matchbook-sized device to my forehead and powered it up.
Vertigo fell over me like a tidal wave. I could no longer access the Net and I was cut off from most of my senses. My vision remained hazy and was shot through with images of the last few days. Dwight Taylor died in my arms again. Shelly fell over the side of the building. Cartman Dawes lay torn and bloody on his hotel room floor. Lieutenant Ormond yelled at me.
None of the images were from Mars. Somehow, those stayed locked away. I was curious about why that was so when the rest of my life was an open file to the external drive.
Nothing that was mine was safe. My memories of visits to Shelly’s house, my time with her children, the conversations we’d had about casework and little things she’d wanted to discuss all got sucked into the device.
Finally, it was over. My vision returned, and I watched as the bodyguard took the external drive from my forehead and tossed it back to Thomas Haas. They removed the cuffs.
I sat there in the chair and felt more like a thing than I had in a long time. What Thomas Haas had done to me was invasive and demeaning. I knew the definitions of those words, but I had never felt them before. Now…I did. And that surprised me because I didn’t think I would ever know emotion like that.
I remembered Dwight Taylor’s words on Mars. “I told you that Haas-Bioroid would turn on you. You can’t play hardball with that corp unless you’re holding a lot more than we have.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it was true. And somehow I’d gotten looped into something the corp was trying to keep secret.
Thomas Haas pocketed the drive and smiled at me. “It was good meeting you, Drake 3GI2RC. If I don’t find what I’m looking for on this drive, I’ll probably be back.” He winked. “And then I’m going to take you apart until I do.” He turned toward the door.
One of the bodyguards stepped in front of him to lead the way, and the other two flanked him. They didn’t even bother to close the door after they departed. I was just left there, alone and vulnerable.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Are you just going to sit there?”
I glanced over to my right and saw Shelly standing against the wall. She looked calm and competent as always. “No.”
“Then, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s an investigation, Drake. You know how to investigate, so do it. Walk me through it. What are you investigating?”
I organized my thoughts the way she had taught me. “Cartman Dawes’s murder. Brock Thurman’s place in that. Your death.”
I expected her to have some kind of reaction. She didn’t.
“The attack on me that ended up getting Adrian Graham killed. Dwight Taylor’s murder. And evidently the murder of Rachel Giacomin is involved.”
“Good. Now, what ties all of that together?”
The answer was obvious. “The military history that Brock Thurman had. The chimera tattoo.”
“Fine. The military—mercs—are involved. Where are you going to find those guys?”
I thought about it. There was one sure place I could find them, and perhaps get information on a military group that had once worn, or maybe still wore, the chimera tattoo.
Base de Cayambe.
Shelly smiled and nodded. “That’s good thinking, partner.”
I looked at her, and hesitated about asking her the question that was most on my mind. I didn’t know if my asking it would cause problems, or, worst of all, banish her entirely. “Why can I see you?”
The corners of her mouth turned up and her eyes softened the way I’d seen them do so many times. “Maybe because you need to.”
I accepted that. I didn’t want to lose her, but I had. “I don’t hallucinate.”
“I’m not a hallucination.”
“Then what?”
“I’m that part of you that remembers me, Drake. Do you remember how I told you when I look at my kids, I still see the babies I brought home from the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“I think this is the same thing. You’ve gotten used to talking to someone during an investigation, working through the twists and turns. I come from that need.”
For the moment, I accepted that because I couldn’t fathom any other reason she was there. “Who is the black-haired woman I see?”
Shelly shook her head. “I don’t know all your secrets.”
“I never kept anything from you.”
“I know, but maybe there are things you kept from yourself.” She only gave me a moment to mull that over. “Now, get going. If you don’t gain some traction on this investigation while you’re suspended, you can bet Ormond isn’t going to give you time when you get back.”
I got up and got moving. I locked the flat door behind me, but I didn’t feel very comforted by the security system. After all, apparently anyone could get in if they wanted to.
*
Base de Cayambe was the district that lay around the bottom of the third-highest mountain in Ecuador, on top of which was the Root, the beginning station of the Beanstalk heading from New Angeles up-Stalk. The district was a slice of confection and corruption. Everything that was good about New Angeles could be found there, and everything that was bad could be found there as well. Along with excellent restaurants, entertainment venues, and shopping, there were elements of drug running, neural patch dealers selling twisted and perverse memories, and prostitution.
Every port city in the old days—whether on the coast or near a large airport—had the same kind of environment. The Port Authority of New York, New Jersey, Seattle, and the like had the same problems. And since the Beanstalk was the most used port in the world, now, it had cultivated the natural port environment. As Shelly had once said, although the Root at the top of Cayambe was a high-security location more like the interior of an airport, in the shadows of
the base of the mountain, corruption grew in the everyday petri dishes of drugs, alcohol, and sex.
I went scouting through the bars that I knew from police intelligence catered to the ex-military and mercenary types. For hours I interviewed bartenders, patrons, and working girls, showing them a 3D reconstruction of the chimera tattoo. Person after person turned me down, stating that they hadn’t seen any such tattoo.
Most investigation was grueling work. It was endless questions in places where people didn’t like to be questioned; people hated being interviewed at home and at work. Police involvement was viewed as invasive and insufferable. People who considered themselves persons of interest in an investigation, or that were told they were such, often lawyered up.
The effort was redundant and mind-numbing for humans. When we got stuck on a particularly difficult case, Shelly had always griped. I didn’t mind the repetition of working the leads. Redundancy was something I understood intimately. As long as there was work to do, I kept at it.
I tried to narrow my focus as I went, getting information where I could.
Ormond had neglected one thing when he’d stripped me of my gun and shield. No matter where I went, I could only be one thing: Drake 3GI2RC, a Haas-Bioroid unit assigned to the New Angeles Police Homicide Department. That was hardwired into my chip ID. Everyone that scanned that chip had no choice but to recognize my authority.
I took advantage of that. I also took advantage of the fact that I performed like a homicide detective. That was ingrained into me, honed by Detective First Grade Shelly Nolan, and she had been a thorough taskmaster.
At 2407, I entered the Red Pearls. As usual, I drew attention at once. That response was one I wanted. Getting noticed would work to my advantage in drawing out the people I was looking for, but it would also put me at considerable risk. The risk was acceptable. Not being able to pursue the investigation into Shelly’s death was not.
She had been my partner. And when a man’s partner is killed, he’s supposed to do something about it.
The tavern held a number of peace-bonded weapons—rifles and pistols that no longer worked. 3D of military excursions into other countries played in loops on the walls. Explosions and strobe lights lit up the darkness that filled the establishment, mixing in with the narc-stick and cigarette haze. The idea of setting off strobe lights around men who’d been in combat and who might suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder was illogical.
As I scanned the faces and the facial recognition database booted up, I realized these weren’t mercenaries. They were conmen and hustlers, and perhaps some of them were reps for true mercenaries.
I walked through the flashes of light and the cascades of explosions. Smoke swirled through the 3D images. Some of the men tried to give me hard looks, then they saw what I was, and guessed at who I was, and looked elsewhere.
The bartender stood behind the scarred bar and rinsed out shot glasses by hand. She was of medium height and underweight. Neon tattoos blinked up and down her arms and on the sides of her neck.
Her voice was coarse from nico addiction. She squinted through the smoke of the cigarette between her teeth. Ash dropped into the glass she was working on. Without missing a beat, she simply wiped the glass apparently clean.
“You’re not here for a drink or the ambience.”
“No.” I waved a hand in front of the cred e-reader pane set into the bar counter. Instantly the screen identified me as DETECTIVE DRAKE OF THE NEW ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT.
She took a hit off the cigarette. “Big deal. You’re a cop. I didn’t need the e-reader to tell me that. I can smell guys like you coming.” She took another look at me, then shook her head. “Maybe not like you.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m working. My boss doesn’t like me to deal with personal issues while I’m on the clock.”
I scanned her and ran her through the facial recognition database. I got a hit almost at once. Her name was Jynx Gould, twice divorced with a rap sheet involving illegal weapons and an outstanding warrant for a drug charge that was accompanied by an FTA—Failure To Appear.
“Maybe your boss will be even more upset if I take you in with me to talk.”
“For what?” She put on a brave front, but I knew she was aware of what I was referring to.
“You’ve got a bench warrant and an FTA issued in your name. I should probably take you in with me anyway.”
Jynx put down the glass she’d been cleaning and tossed the towel over her shoulder. “If you take me in tonight, I’m not gonna be able to make bail till morning. I’ll be all night in lockup.”
That was true and we both knew it, and there was no guarantee she’d find a bail bondsman willing to deal with her. She had a couple outstanding settlements with bail bondsmen that hadn’t been taken care of.
“I could pretend I never saw you tonight.”
“Yeah, sure. That would be cool.” She dragged her fingers through her hair and hooked it back from her face. Her neon tattoos scaled her arms. “What do you want to know?”
I held out my hand, palm up, and broadcast the chimera tattoo. “I was told that a group of mercenaries chose this tattoo as their identification. Have you seen anyone wearing this tattoo?”
She hesitated just long enough to let me know she’d thought about lying to me. She breathed out a sigh, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it out underfoot. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.” She held out an arm. “I got a thing for tattoos, so something like that I’d notice. They keep it understated, though.”
I blanked the 3D. “Do they come in here often?”
She frowned and shook her head. “Those guys? They wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. This is just a place for the wannabes and hustlers to hang out. Maybe con a line of cred out of somebody for some kind of military engagement that’s never going to happen.”
“Then where did you see them?”
“Couple of places. They move around. Any of these professional teams? The guys who really do that kind of work? They move around.”
“What places?”
“Bars called Owney’s and Red Line. I’ve seen them in both of those.”
“Thank you for your time.”
“Sure.”
“If you turn yourself in to take care of those tickets, you might get some leniency.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t see that happening.”
“And if you don’t turn yourself in tomorrow morning to get this cleared up, I’ll be back tomorrow night.” I turned and left, and she hurled curses in my wake. In the long run, turning herself in was the right thing to do. Things would be easier. They just wouldn’t be easy.
*
I walked along the sidewalk in the shadow of Cayambe and the Beanstalk. The long, vertical tube stayed in constant motion, ferrying people off-planet and bringing them back to Earth. Hoppers hovered around the city, remaining on the go.
I felt like everything in New Angeles was going somewhere but me. It was a curious feeling. It made me uncomfortable.
With my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I observed the traffic around me. I also kept track of all the reflective surfaces I passed. Somewhere along the way, I’d picked up a tail. So far I’d noticed three men, but they kept their faces obscured by breathing masks. Sometimes those were necessary in this district; too much industrial waste from the old manufacturing areas, and from the constant traffic flowing through the Beanstalk.
The breathing masks filtered out some of the air pollution that seemed to have settled like a never-ending fog at the base of the mountain. Usually, the masks were worn by people who lived most of their lives on the Moon or on Mars. The air was cleaner in those places, kept scrubbed and watched over because there was so little of it. Air pollution on the Moon or on Mars could mean a death sentence.
Unfortunately, the breathing masks also meant features could be concealed. I was sure the three men following me trusted that I wouldn’t be able to identify them.
I kept going. According to the map of the area I’d downloaded from the Net, both Owney’s and Red Line were a half-klick away. I didn’t proceed immediately there. The woman bartender would have had plenty of time to comm ahead and warn the group, if she was connected to them.
“She doesn’t have to be connected.” Shelly matched me stride for stride at my side. “You get down in the Base, business isn’t measured in cred. It’s measured in what you know and who you know, and the coin of the realm is favors you can give or trade in on.”
She’d told me that early on in our partnership. I hadn’t forgotten, but it was good to hear her say it again.
“Just keep your head on straight, partner. You’re out here alone.” Then, just like that, she was gone.
Only a few minutes later, a large, older model hopper pulled up in the street beside me. It was in the wrong lane, only a few meters from me. I stopped and turned toward it because it was causing a potential traffic disaster and I wanted to know why. If the driver was inebriated, I intended to make a citizen’s arrest and call it in. Even though Ormond might tag me then, the First Directive would compel me.
The transplas cleared and allowed me to see inside. The occupant’s identity surprised me. I recognized Sergeant Louis Blaine immediately. Shelly had warned me about him, about the fact that he’d probably gotten his partner killed, and that he sold his badge out on the street to anyone that had the cred.
That hadn’t made sense to me. Logically, if Blaine was doing that, Internal Affairs would have busted him and he’d no longer have been a detective, much less a sergeant. Shelly had said that the rumors were probably elevated, but all a cop had to do to be dirty was to sell out once.
In Louis Blaine’s case, that had never been proven, and he had a good track record as a case closer. The rest of the detectives in the homicide division believed that Blaine’s ability to close those cases was the only reason the commissioner provided some protection for him. Until Blaine was proven guilty beyond a doubt, Commissioner Dawn wouldn’t let anyone touch him.
