The Immortality Virus

by Christine Amsden

  “And if not?” Grace asked.

  “Then he’ll join the ranks of the nameless, faceless dead. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Grace didn’t move.

  “Look, before the day’s out we’ll handle a dozen more like this. We don’t have time to ask questions or take statements. We don’t have time to properly examine the body or the area for clues–most of which have been taken away by other unfortunates.”

  It took her a moment to find her voice. When she did, her words dripped out like acid. “Would we have had time if he’d had an ID bracelet?”

  “We would not have. We’d have called in the homicide team and they’d decide. Get in the car.”

  This time, Grace complied, but she sat in stony silence as McMillan lifted off and began circling the area anew.

  “It helps if you don’t think of them as human,” McMillan said after awhile. “More than one officer has called this job pest control.”

  “What do you call it?” Grace asked.

  “Me?” McMillan seemed to consider the question for a while. “I call it necessary evil. And I also call it over. As soon as I’m done training you, I’m moving on to investigations. Six more months of this shit, and I wash my hands of the whole thing. Maybe I can make a difference there.” After a long pause he said. “Probably not, though. There’s a lot of pressure to only spend city resources investigating crimes that affect ‘real’ people.”

  “How much money do you have to have to be considered real?” Grace asked. “Do I count?”

  “Police protect their own,” McMillan assured her. “We’re the right hand of the KC Governor, and in return he protects us.”

  “Don’t I feel special,” Grace said. “What about everyone else?”

  “Depends if we’ve done a good enough job protecting everyone who’s got more money. If so, and if we’ve got time left over, then yeah.”

  The excitement Grace had felt earlier that day evaporated in an instant. She stared out the window at the crowds below, so tiny from this height. They did look a bit like ants from up here.

  Pest control. Somehow, she couldn’t make herself believe it.

  * * *

  She played the game for almost a year, bending the rules when she could, but not breaking them. She would work late (off the clock) if she could find out about the murder victims (and they were almost always murder victims) before the cleanup crew arrived. Maybe one time in fifty she’d even find the murderer. Not that she could arrest them–she’d tried that once only to receive an earful about how crowded prisons were–but she cold dish out street justice. This usually involved disarming the perpetrator and handing them over to the friends and family of the victim.

  It definitely wasn’t a glamorous or exciting job. McMillan had that right.

  On the one-year anniversary of that day, Captain Marcus Flint called Grace into his office for a chat. Captain Flint had something that Grace liked to call presence–a force that surrounded him and gave him power over others. Physically, he was only a little taller and broader than the average man, his hair a little darker than the average brown, and his eyes a little bluer than a sunny day. When he looked at you, though, he seemed to see into your soul.

  “I’ve been watching you for a while,” Flint said without preamble. “I’ve been keeping what I’ve seen from my superiors. They wouldn’t like it.”

  “Wouldn’t like what, exactly?” Grace asked.

  Flint smiled. The expression sent daggers of ice through her. “Let’s not play games. Your new partner is a little uncomfortable around you and has asked for reassignment. I’m granting it. You’ll be on your own for a while.”

  “Good,” Grace said. In truth, her new partner couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He probably wouldn’t have said anything to the captain if she hadn’t broken his finger the last time he’d patted her ass. At least he’d been intelligent enough to call the broken finger an accident.

  Captain Flint sat down across his desk from her and folded his hands together. “Can I be honest for a minute?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like you, Grace. You’ve got spunk and idealism. As long as you don’t hurt anyone, I don’t want to stand in the way of that. But we need to set a few ground rules. First, your vagrant investigations come out of your own time. I won’t pay you overtime for it.”

  “That’s the way it’s always been,” Grace said.

  “Second,” Flint’s voice rose in volume as he dismissed her protests. “You don’t bring any of your sidelines here.”

  “I haven’t since you told me off the first time.”

  “Third,” Captain Flint said, raising his voice still more, “and most importantly, stay away from The Establishment. Make sure your investigations and your form of personal justice don’t come anywhere near them. I can’t protect you if they do.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. She wasn’t even sure how truthful Flint was being. After all, he almost qualified as Establishment himself. He certainly worked closely with the governor, city council, and local businessmen.

  “You don’t understand,” Captain Flint said. “Whatever you’ve been told, this is their police department. We may answer to the voters on paper, but in reality, everyone answers to them.”

  She did understand that, actually, but she didn’t say so. “Anything else?”

  Captain Flint stood up. “Get out of here. And don’t forget what I said.”

  * * *

  She didn’t forget. Not exactly.

  The last day she would ever spend on the force began like any other. She started her beat at four in the afternoon, not a bad shift in late spring, when the sun lit the city past eight o’clock. Spring also had a tendency to take the edge off the violence. A strange sort of warm glow seemed to settle down over everyone. It put people in good spirits and even made them more generous.

  That day, one of the wealthiest citizens of the city arranged a nutri-bar drop around dinnertime. Thousands of shiny wrappers filled with sustenance showered the heads of the people below.

  It wasn’t a rare treat or anything. It happened at least twice a week in an attempt to keep the violent acts of hungry, desperate people to a minimum. Usually, there was quite a bit of fighting that went on over the food, but something about spring seemed to keep the anger at bay. Grace even spotted a man handing a nutri-bar to a child who had been unable to catch one for herself.

  As the sun began to set and the people headed for their favorite patches of earth to settle in for the night, Grace turned on the spotlights and headed north across her beat. She landed several times to break up a few fights, but only called the cleanup crew for one death between eight and ten o’clock, that one apparently self-inflicted.

  She felt good as she neared the northern border of her beat. She was just about to swing around and head back south when her searchlight fell across some kind of frenzied action or brawl that rippled through the crowd like a serpent. It looked suspiciously like a chase in progress.

  She landed her hovercar just ahead of the movement, readied her sidearm, and stepped out of the vehicle. That’s when she heard a muffled cry and saw the three figures who had caused the disturbance, two of them dragging the third.

  Grace didn’t even stop to think. She ran after them, down a dark alleyway between two warehouses. She had to jump over a few people sprawled in the narrow space, mostly trying to get some sleep and pretend not to see or hear anything from the other end.

  A shrill scream from the end of the alley made Grace quicken her pace. She could scarcely see anything now, away from the streetlights. All she could make out was a figure being pinned to the ground–female by the sound of her voice–one figure straddling her, and another nearby, holding a disruptor.

  Vagrants didn’t usually carry disruptors. That should have been her first clue.

  “Stop!” Grace ordered. “I want to see your hands in the air or I’ll shoot!”

  Their heads turned towards her, but they did not move to o
bey. The woman on the ground began to plead. “Help me, please!”

  “Shut up!” came the deep voice of the man straddling her.

  “Get out of here,” said the man with the disruptor. “You don’t have any clue who you’re dealing with.”

  “I’m dealing with criminals,” Grace said, a little more confidently than she felt.

  The man with the disruptor raised the weapon. Grace fired hers with scarcely a moment’s indecision, then rushed forward to disarm him, though she needn’t have bothered to act so quickly. He was dead, and his friend was too stunned to react.

  “I said get your hands in the air!” Grace ordered the other.

  He complied, shaking as he stood. She smelled alcohol on his breath.

  Alcohol? Vagrants definitely couldn’t afford alcohol.

  She tried not to think about that as she slapped cuffs on his wrists and called for backup. The woman got to her feet and brushed off her ragged clothes, panting heavily. “Thank you. Thank you. I had no idea when I took this job…”

  “You’re a whore?” Grace asked, suddenly wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake.

  “No, a reporter. I’m doing an undercover investigation of life on the streets.”

  Suddenly, her voice seemed familiar. Grace couldn’t dredge up the name from the back of her mind, but she could picture the face from one of the local news channels–thin and pale, with dangerously high cheekbones.

  “She’s a reporter?” the man asked. “I thought she was a tramp.”

  He had an ID bracelet. Grace scanned it, and her heart plummeted five stories. His name was Bradley Copeland. His name and address told her that this was the son of one of the wealthiest men in Kansas City.

  “When my father hears about this, you’re dead,” Bradley said. “You’re as dead as my brother.”

  Grace swallowed. Hard. She didn’t doubt it for a second. This was exactly what the captain had warned her about.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” the reporter chimed in. Unfortunately, Grace didn’t think she had much to say about it.

  * * *

  Bradley went home as soon as backup arrived. Grace spent the night in jail.

  She didn’t sleep. She didn’t just think she would die the next day, she knew it. She spent the hours before dawn thinking about her life, such as it was, and wondering if it had all been worth it. She thought of Sam, who would be crazy wondering where she was. She was supposed to go over to his place when her shift was over. He’d find out eventually. Would it be before or after she got a chance to say good bye to him? And things had been so rocky between them lately, with her sixtieth birthday approaching and her last remote chance of having babies almost gone.

  Her relationship with her mother had been rocky lately for much the same reason. Grace didn’t feel the need to patch things up with her before she died, though. Maybe she should say one last good bye to her sister, Charity.

  When you’re about to die, the strangest things go through your mind. Her rent was due the next day, and Grace wondered if her landlord would take all her furniture when she didn’t go to pay. She wondered if Sam would ever get a chance to go to France like he’d always wanted. She wondered if, unencumbered by her, he would have children with another woman.

  Her stomach twisted in knots at that thought.

  Finally, near dawn, she wondered if they would offer her one last meal, and if she could have something other than nutri-bars. She’d had bacon and eggs twice in her life, and her mouth watered at the thought.

  “Open cell door G-4!” called a guard.

  Grace closed her eyes. This was it. They were coming for her. She heard her cell door clank open, and she risked a peak.

  To her surprise, Captain Flint stood there with a scowl on his face. “Do you even understand the seriousness of what you’ve done?”

  “Of course I do,” Grace said. “You’re here to kill me, right?”

  Captain Flint growled at her.

  “Do I get a last meal or anything?” Grace asked, trying to sound braver than she felt.

  “You get to listen to me right now. Copeland is one of the richest men in the area and he doesn’t take kindly to one of his sons getting killed. Never mind that he has at least fifty sons and doesn’t give a damn about one of them. Never mind that the one you killed was trouble. There’s a principle here.”

  Grace felt her heart pounding. “Why are you saying all this to me? Why don’t you just get it over with?”

  “I’m coming to that. You see, the woman you saved was not a vagrant at all, but a reporter who hit the holos last night, before anyone could stop her, singing your praises and telling the city there are still decent cops in Kansas City.”

  Grace saw a tiny flicker of hope. “So it wouldn’t look very good for them to have me killed right now?”

  “They were willing to make it look like an accident,” Captain Flint said, “but I interceded. I called in every favor I had, Grace, but I got them to reconsider.”

  It took Grace a minute to understand. When she did, she looked at Captain Flint in an entirely different way. “Why did you do that?”

  The Captain grunted. “I’m crazy, that’s why, but don’t thank me yet. You’re officially blacklisted. You won’t get any legitimate work for any company owned by The Establishment or their subsidiaries. You won’t be able to work for the government. And I don’t just mean in Kansas City, either. If you head for another city-state, their national connections will make sure this follows you. They think you’re going to starve to death on the streets or head out to the farms. And that’s why they’re letting you off.”

  They were probably right. Grace felt suddenly cold. “What do you think?”

  Flint handed her a business card and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Give this guy a call. He’s a private detective. Might be able to work something out for you.” He stood back and stared Grace straight in the eyes. “Don’t draw attention to yourself, Grace. If we ever cross paths again, I will have to kill you.”

  Chapter 5

  Grace knew that if she didn’t open the door, the cops would break it down. She considered heading out the bedroom window and down the fire escape, but figured they would have that exit covered. Meanwhile, the attempt to escape would make things much worse for herself.

  “Open up or we’ll break the door down!”

  Grace unlocked the door, still gripping her weapon tightly. “Come in!” she yelled, standing back and ready to fire.

  She didn’t recognize the two cops who had come for her, but then again it had been almost seventy years, so that wasn’t unexpected. They both had their weapons drawn and seemed unsurprised to see hers trained on them.

  “Grace Harper, lower your weapon.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Are you going to kill me when I lower my weapon? It was what she really wanted to ask, but could not.

  “You have my word that we will not kill you if you lower your weapon and come with us.”

  Grace eyed the speaker warily. He was the smaller of the two, but he was still over six feet tall and at least two hundred pounds. “Why should I trust you?”

  “You also have my word that if you do not lower your weapon by the count of three, I will be forced to fire.

  “One…”

  Grace considered her odds. She could shoot him before he reached three, but the other cop would shoot her before she could turn her gun on him.

  “Two…”

  Even if she did survive this, the police department would no longer be all right with their “live and let live” approach.

  Grace lowered her weapon and shoved it in her holster.

  “Good choice.”

  The other cop took her sidearm and then patted her down, searching for other weapons that weren’t there. She didn’t conceal her weapons. They only served as a deterrent if people knew she had them.

  “She’s clean,” the searcher said. “Let’s take her in.”

  They led her o
ut her front door, down the stairs, and to a waiting hovercar surrounded by curious passers-by and several residents of the alley outside her apartment building. Unfortunately, they recognized her, which probably meant they’d try to break into her apartment while she was away. Not that she’d need any of her stuff if she died.

  If we ever cross paths again…

  He had meant it, but his officers hadn’t shot her on sight so maybe she had a chance. Maybe this had nothing to do with The Establishment or Matt Stanton.

  Yeah, right. And maybe they’d give back her badge and set her to work on her old beat.

  “What’s this about?” Grace asked the two cops in the front seat.

  “No questions,” said the driver–the one who had done most of the talking so far. The other one had his grubby fat fingers on Grace’s weapon.

  Grace settled back and watched the buildings fly by as they made their way to the downtown police department. She hadn’t been in a hovercar since she left the force. Normal people just couldn’t afford them. Most of the cars in the air either belonged to the police force or a few very rich people.

  The police department hadn’t changed in seventy years, at least not from the sky. The last time she had landed there, she had been in cuffs. They hadn’t cuffed her this time, but she didn’t let that get her hopes up.

  From the landing pad, they took the elevator down to the twentieth story, where Captain Flint’s office was–or at least, where it had been seventy years ago. As soon as the doors dinged open on the twentieth floor, they headed along the long corridor to the captain’s office.

  It all looked the same. Exactly the same. From the late twenty-third century wallpaper to the stains that had been there since two officers by the name of Greene and Yale had fought in the corridor and thrown hot coffee at one another.

  One of the cops pressed the buzzer by the door. A moment later, Grace heard a click, and the door swung open. The two cops pushed her inside.

  Captain Flint sat behind his desk, arms resting atop its smooth, uncluttered surface, his eyes locked on Grace’s. “Leave us,” he ordered the cops, who immediately obeyed.