Division Zero: Lex De Mortuis

by Matthew S. Cox

  “You’re improving.” He helped her out of the chair. “Starting to feel more like a sparring match now instead of just me stealing your lunch money.”

  She let herself fall into him, taking in the scent of his exertion. Despite the fight happening within a dedicated cyberspace segment, the training had worked them both to the point of needing a shower.

  “Thanks for staying late; I really appreciate it.”

  He grinned, leaning back far enough to grab a towel from a nearby tray. “Your captain was concerned enough to make the request after the incident with the mercenaries.”

  Arms folded over her ribs, she shivered at the memory of clinging to an ad-bot. “I’m not sure this would have helped; that bastard had vibro claws.”

  “It’s not much different from a knife, to be honest; the major point being you can’t disarm them.”

  Kirsten took hold of his wrist, spinning in a slow-motion jiu-jitsu maneuver so her back was up against him. “So what’s the best way to defend against them?”

  “Shoot him before he gets close.”

  She poked a teasing elbow into his ribs.

  “Oof.” He wobbled with her, a playful attempt to “claw” her with his hand. As she controlled it, he grabbed her belly with his left and tickled.

  Peals of laughter came out of her as she leapt away, doubled over.

  “Most mercs who install claws do both hands. The best you can do is stay away from them or use a weapon with better reach.”

  “Like a sword?” She caught her breath.

  “Yeah, that could work, but most police don’t carry them.”

  The chair creaked as she leaned into it. “Some of ours do. They’re easier to use on astrals. Bullets don’t have much effect, not a lot of surface area to bind them. How much reach do you get with a sword?” She blushed before he caught the innuendo.

  “K, he’s married.” Dorian the Dream-Killer appeared through the wall.

  Picking at her ear with her middle finger, she sighed at her teacher.

  Gabriel Silva, martial arts instructor for Division 1 training academy. Of course, you’re married. You’re too damn perfect.

  “You okay? Looks as if you just got some bad news.” He patted her on the shoulder.

  His ring had been obvious the whole time.

  “Nothing I’m not used to. I guess I’m just tired.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you on Thursday, right? You’re taking to the jiu-jitsu pretty well so far; we can see how you handle some Wushu sword forms next week if you want.”

  “Sounds awesome,” she muttered, trudging for the door to the showers.

  Dorian winced. “Sorry, I know how you are about getting things out of the way sooner rather than later.”

  She slammed the locker open. “He knows I’m psionic.”

  “You’ll find someone.”

  Kirsten let her arm dangle on the tiny door. “I hope you’re feeling better. I haven’t seen you for two days… Was starting to worry.”

  He grinned, holding his arms out. “Like new. Just took a long nap.” The smile fell flat. “Thanks for… umm.”

  “I don’t think they’d listen to me about that. Did you ever consider that you’re not on their list after all?” She slipped out of the rubbery, blue training room shoes and put them in the locker.

  Dorian gave her his usual big-brother smile. “I find it more comforting to think they listened to you.”

  Kirsten pinched the nanomesh clasp at the top of the neck, looking over her shoulder at him as she peeled it open from throat to hip. “Gonna watch me shower, too?”

  He held his hands up, shook his head, and wandered off through the wall.

  Damn. She let the wet garment hit the ground and stepped out of it. Lonely and a bitch today.

  rimaldi’s was the kind of place most people went to in order to make a good impression on whomever they took with them. Armando, or whatever his real name was, suggested the place after a brief chat in a virtual nightclub.

  He doesn’t look like an Armando.

  Kirsten was not sure what to feel more foolish about: resorting to cyberspace dating, or spending six thousand credits on a shimmering emerald gown that left her shoulders and most of her back bare, and stopped just short of the middle of her thigh. When he turned away, she slipped a hand under it and cradled her chest.

  Damn, two days and my boob still hurts. I hate wraiths.

  She fidgeted at the hem the whole time she sat; it was longer on the left, with some purposeless strip of cloth trailing to the floor. A few strands of hair that escaped the clip tickled at the nape of her neck, every so often making her grab for a nonexistent insect. Awkwardness pervaded her being; she could not remember the last time she had worn a dress, much less one so short. Most of her effort went toward keeping tabs of how she positioned herself. Lean too far forward, the room got a show; too far back and she remembered how cold the chair was.

  Armando seemed nice enough, but she had yet to come clean with him. Every time she thought about it, the silver finish of her high-heeled shoes became quite fascinating. She smiled and nodded at his attempts at conversation. At least he was not the type to drone on and on about his success, or money, or other such trite things. He did mention he worked in technology, some manner of investor or engineer; she had not been paying enough attention when it came up. He had gone over it out front while they waited for a table and she focused too much on feeling stared at.

  “… and that’s when I told him we’d have to start over from scratch. The system infrastructure was too… are you all right? Is your foot bothering you?”

  Her face grew warm, red. “I’m okay, I’m second-guessing this gown… It’s a bit, um…”

  “It’s radiant, matches the woman wearing it. The green sets off your hair.”

  More warmth came to her cheeks. “It’s a bit open, not my usual sort of thing…”

  You’ll have to show a living man the goods sooner or later. Theodore’s voice mocked her from memory.

  “It is fine, Kirsten. You should see some of the trash in Paris these days. They might as well not even bother. Sometimes you wonder how it even stays on.” He sipped his wine, leaning back. “Of course, it’s cyclical. In two years, there won’t be a scrap of skin showing; floppy bags on their heads or some such nonsense.”

  She laughed, though could not hide her nerves. A waiter arrived, setting a small bowl of shrimp cocktail in front of each of them, flecked with scallions and shaved cucumber. Kirsten fumbled to get a grip on her fork, again fascinated by the reflection on her shoes.

  “You’ve the look of a guilty conscience. Don’t tell me you’re having doubts this early on?” His concern seemed genuine. “Was this an unfortunate choice of location?”

  “It’s…” She sighed, losing a staring contest with her shoes.

  “Are you sick? Dying?”

  “No… it’s―”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You prefer women?”

  She giggled, looking up. “No.” Taking a bite of shrimp delayed her having to keep talking.

  “Dangerous ex?” He followed suit, lifting an eyebrow. “Rather good food here. I hear they ship it in from a colony.”

  “Pointlessly expensive.” She poked at the next shrimp. “It tastes the same as vat-grown.”

  He chuckled. “It tastes a lot better if you have it fresh, loses something in shipping. Have you ever been to a colony settlement? It’s adventurous.”

  “No.” Fascinating shoes. “I get enough adventure down here.”

  “So what’s got you all mopey?”

  She looked into his hazel eyes. “You don’t give me the feeling you’re just trying to get in my pants for a night.”

  He coughed, gathering a napkin over his reddening face.

  “No… I’m not saying…” She blushed. “That’s what I want. I’m looking for more than a one-nighter.” She lowered her volume when a few people nearby turned. “I want something real, but…”

/>   Armando swallowed, taking a few sips of water to clear his throat. “What’s wrong? Can’t have kids? Leaving the country soon?”

  “Is your name really Armando?”

  He laughed. “Is that all? It actually is… I changed it a few years ago. I was born Brian, if you want to know. Not very sexy.”

  “You’re kind of pale for an Armando; Brian is cute.”

  He smirked, finding her assay of him as “cute” a bit deflating.

  “I like you, Brian, Armando, whatever. I’ve had a damnable time finding a guy I can trust.” She stared deep into the woven tablecloth, as if some secret to love hid among the threads. “I have to tell you something.”

  He tensed. “All right.”

  “I have a son.”

  The cringe was nigh imperceptible.

  “I didn’t have him as a baby. I took him in, a special situation.”

  Brian/Armando relaxed. “Oh, well, perhaps I should meet him soon. That isn’t such a big issue.”

  “There’s more.” She picked at the shrimp. “I never did tell you about my job.”

  He squinted. “Something less than legal?”

  Her laugh startled half the room. When the din returned to normal, and her cheeks to normal color, she gazed at him as her last threads of whimsy mixed with sadness. “I’m with the police.”

  “Oh.” He bit his lip, shifting in the chair.

  Two strikes. Kid, cop. Great. Dammit.

  “Well, I suppose… You don’t really seem to be the type of woman involved in that sort of thing.”

  So help me, if he says delicate flower… “I’m not a beat cop, I’m with investigations.”

  “Oh, well that’s better, I think? You don’t get shot at so much?” He took a sip of wine. “I’m not sure I would be able to cope with wondering if you came home each night.”

  She lifted her glass to her lip, enough to smell the wine, but hesitated. No, I just get blown off the eleventh story of parking garages. “Not so often. I usually deal with people after they’re dead.” Damn it, K, just spit it out.

  Last shrimp gone, he had another sip of wine, and smiled while dabbing at his lip with the napkin. “So you’re a homicide detective? You must have some stories.”

  Kirsten stared at her appetizer shrimp cocktail, compliments of the house. She took in a deep breath. Better now than after I get attached. “I’m with Division 0.”

  The expected cough, the same chest patting, the usual lifted brow. “There’s a zero?”

  “Yeah, it’s small, there’s not many of us. I’m ps―” A well, or ill, as the case may be, timed shrimp muffled the last bit.

  “Pardon?”

  She chewed it like gum. The longer it took to swallow, the longer she could entertain the fantasy this one would be different. He wouldn’t be the same as all others. Adventurous. “I’m psionic.”

  “I see.” Color drained out of his face.

  The lip bite, the shift in posture, interest became trepidation.

  Figures. What would his family think if he brought a psionic girl home?

  “I don’t mess with people; I just see ghosts and such.” She flashed a hopeful smile, trying to look as innocent as she could. A cat hoping its owner adored a dead mouse.

  Lips twisted into the bastard child of a grimace and a smile. He gazed off at the windows.

  Great. Too innocent, now he’s looking at me like I’m jailbait. Cop, has a kid, psionic, three strikes.

  “Do your parents know you’re one of… those?” He slipped a hand into his pocket, trying to be subtle.

  “Yeah. Dad’s okay with it, Mom… not so much. She won’t be a problem, but I have a feeling it’s a bit late for that.” She gave up on her last shrimp. “You don’t have to fake the emergency call; you can just run away screaming now if you want.” Adventurous my ass.

  Hand came out. “Look, Kirsten, it’s not…” He fidgeted. “You said you have a child to look after and that’s important, and you’re a cop… My dad’s not big on government, the whole nanny state thing, you two wouldn’t get along.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me. We are not all dangerous… I mean―”

  Armando/Brian/Douchebag stood up. “I’m sorry, Kirsten. You are really very pretty and… I just don’t see any kind of future mingling genes with a psionic. I’m sorry for wasting your night.”

  As if it’s a damn choice… Go to hell, Armando/Brian/Asshole.

  She watched his blur slide over the toe of her silver shoes as he went for the door without looking back. Warmth came to her face as she bristled with yet another rejection. Why do people hate us so much? I did not choose to be born this way. She could pick into his brain, find some embarrassing tidbit and scream it at the room to get him back for how he made her feel. No, that would prove him right. That was what they were all afraid of―no secrets.

  The host gave her departing date a strange frown, and looked in her direction. He appeared to be paying particular attention to Kirsten’s half-empty wine glass. By the time he arrived at the side of the table, she had her ID out.

  “I’m twenty-two, and a cop.”

  He bowed. “My apologies, miss. You―”

  “Have a young face, yeah… I know. Is it too late to cancel one entrée?”

  After a glance at his datapad, a pained grimace. “I’m afraid your meals are already being plated.”

  Of course. Now I have two dinners I don’t want to eat.

  “Can you please just wrap it to go?”

  The man drew a breath, shifting side to side. “Our presentation is exquisite, miss. Our food does not travel well and we would rather not sully our reputation with a substandard experience. We are not a take-out establishment. If―”

  “Fine, whatever.” Kirsten lacked the energy to get angry at his fluffed-up offense. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  He bowed, backing away as she stood. She wobbled halfway across the dining area, firm in her regret about wearing high-heeled shoes. Most of the room watched her rendition of an ostrich on ice, trying to balance on the alien torture devices. Humiliation piled on top of indignation and depression, a three-way wrestling match to determine how she felt at being dumped again. The added weight was too much for the ungainly footwear, and she wound up on the floor.

  The dining public turned away, affording her a tiny bit of reclaimed dignity. Anger swirled, and she tugged the straps off her ankles and stood, barefoot, with the damnable things tucked under her arm. The frosted glass door to the ladies’ room slid out of her way, and once inside the protective shell of a private area, tears came out in force. Before anyone else could find her, she ducked into a stall and locked the door.

  A few minutes later, the sobbing passed. She looked up from mascara-covered hands at the impressionistic watercolor beach painted on the partition, wondering if anyone heard her. A few deep breaths helped regain her composure, and she got up and went to the sinks. The autoflush startled a shriek out of her. Mascara dabbed away, she glared at herself in the mirror.

  “Screw him. I don’t need an idiot like that.” A few passes of her fingers got her hair back to rights. There was no need to replace the eyeliner. “Someday I’ll―”

  A familiar smell, flannel and cheap cologne.

  “Dad?”

  His face came through the door with a tentative peek. Seeing no one else inside, and his daughter decent, he walked up to her and put an arm through her.

  “Oh, dammit.” She closed her eyes, and made herself solid to ghosts. “You are still around…”

  Her father rubbed her back. “Are you okay, hon?”

  “Nothing I haven’t been through already.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the towel. “I don’t give a crap about him. It’s just…” Kirsten leaned both hands on the counter, staring down at her toes. “…I’m so tired of being hated for what I am. I didn’t ask to be different.”

  “You’ll find someone, and I’ll be here for you until you do.”

  She hug
ged him, letting his presence dispel her building self-pity. For a few minutes, she lost herself in his company. If I was normal, he would not have run away from me, spent so much time traveling. Just as self-pity tainted the moment, the faint chirp of the outer door made her stand upright. She held his hand, attempting not to look too strange as two women entered. She fumbled at the sink, hoping they did not notice her holding thin air. They paid her no attention and went toward the back stalls. She gathered her shoes, purse, and father, and padded back to the table.

  The food had arrived in her absence. She fell into the round white cushion of her seat, dumped the shoes unceremoniously in a heap, and smirked at the orecchiette pasta dish she had, up until a few minutes ago, thought looked amazing. She picked at it while her father sat in the abandoned chair on the other side.

  “What the devil did that idiot order?”

  She shrugged. “No idea, something with little squid. Sorry I gave you a hard time about the PubTran.”

  “It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere till you don’t need me anymore.” He glanced at the door. “Why don’t you call that Templeton fellow? He didn’t seem very worried about your gift.”

  A few people turned to look at her sudden bout of coughing. Most attributed the redness on her face to issues involving lack of air. The host returned to check on her. She nodded and waved him off.

  “Dad… he’s… just…”

  “What?”

  She wiped her chin. “I dunno, a little… old. He’s thirty-six.”

  Her father laughed. “You looked at his file?”

  Now Kirsten could not maintain eye contact. “No… Yes… but, he showed me his ID, I already knew.” Her eyes lifted until she pouted at him. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to.”

  “Nonsense, hon. It’s the least I can do.” He reached across the table, squeezing her hand as soon as she made herself tangible again. “No guilt, Kirsten. You’re not keeping me here. I want to be here for you.”

  “I should have tried to call you, but I was afraid of Mom.”

  “Shame about that Dorian fellow.”

  She stared at her toes, finding them far less mesmerizing than a silver shoe. “Yeah… I” ―she waved at the waiter―“You just gave me an idea.”