Division Zero: Lex De Mortuis

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Mom?”

  They both looked at Shani, who showed no obvious reaction to the strangeness that had occurred around her.

  “Can we go swimming now?”

  t took a moment for Kirsten’s eyes to adjust to the abrupt darkness that followed her terminal shutdown. Two hours’ worth of staring at images left them pulsing. On the far end of the squad room, Morelli and Simons chatted about a dust up they had gotten into with a telekinetic shoplifter. Through the blinds, she watched Captain Eze gathering his things into a briefcase in preparation to go home for the night. Morelli wandered off, saying something about an anniversary dinner with his wife. Simons laughed, eager to get home to her husband.

  Mind Blast, they think I’ll roast them if they piss me off. As if I couldn’t control myself. She pouted at her terminal. Kirsten brushed off the feeling of isolation even among her own squad and glanced at Dorian for a while. He did not look up from his screen.

  “You shouldn’t torture yourself, Kirsten. I’m flattered, though.”

  She looked at Nicole, in the office late due to being absorbed in a video game. She slurped purple tea through a straw, her frantic poking finger trying to guide a screaming cartoon squirrel through a burning city. Kirsten laughed; that so fit her personality. Nicole paused the game long enough to nibble at her dinner, and sent an eye-smile at Kirsten while sucking small gummy globs through the straw.

  Maybe I’m going about this wrong. I wonder if I should try dating a woman instead. I could ask Nicole.

  The redhead gagged and coughed tea, which ran out of her nose as the holo-terminal flashed red with the death of her virtual rodent. She whacked herself in the chest twice, trying to breathe, and gawked at Kirsten.

  “Serves you right for peeking.” Kirsten winked. “That’s not what I was going to ask you about, though. I found a lead on our friend Vikram. I kind of got the idea forensics might have been played.”

  Nikki does have a cute butt.

  Choking, sputtering, and more coughing. Her friend’s face matched her hair.

  “Oh, come on, I’m messing with you.”

  After blowing her nose, she wiped her eyes. “What do you mean about forensics?”

  “What if Vikram set the whole thing up? Maybe the bomb wasn’t a dead-man switch. I didn’t see him haunting the place, most murder victims linger around the scene of their death. What if he got away and just set a trap for the hitters?”

  Dorian sounded bored. “If he killed the people who murdered him there’s no unfinished business to keep him here.”

  “Ooo. That’s an idea,” chirped Nicole. “So how do we find out? Did you get that net-pin I sent you? New dating site opened up.”

  “I found a record of someone that did―”

  “It’s just guys though, no girls.”

  “―some private work for Vikram.” Kirsten massaged the bridge of her nose.

  Dorian winked. “You’re wasting your time trying to tease that one. One thought at a time, hon.”

  “What did he do?” Nicole swiveled in the chair, facing her.

  “The guy seems to be a member of a hoverbike gang that lurks near the piers around Sector 313. I found some money going from Vikram’s PID to this guy, umm, Ronnie’s account. Only thing I can think of is either he’s buying a lot of drugs or hiring muscle.”

  “So what’s that have to do with our Vik?” Nicole giggled at her own joke. When she ran out of air, she grinned. “I guess if he’s not dead, he’s not a vic.”

  “I’m not sure if he survived; that’s why I wanted to talk to this Ronnie. It’s kind of a bad part of town. I’d rather not go alone. You up for a ride?”

  Nicole jumped up, wearing an exaggerated, closed-mouth smile. “Need protection?”

  “Yeah.” Kirsten grabbed her gear. “You know I’m afraid of living people.”

  Sector 313 sat on the coast, a wharf district once busy with international shipping before shuttles replaced ocean-going vessels for heavy transport. Trade left the domain of the sea to pleasure cruises, scientific research vessels, and warships. No one bothered fishing anymore; even if they caught something, it either belonged to a protected group or was tainted to the point of inedibility.

  The warehouses and docks, abandoned for about ninety years, experienced a brief rush of activity during a charged political campaign about a decade ago. Sheila R. Burke ran for the Senate on a platform of providing affordable housing by repurposing unused commercial properties. Her smiling mocha face still clung all over the area on tattered plasfilm panels. Several detached from the walls as the car glided past; thrown into a frenetic spiral before they followed lazy eddies to the ground.

  “What are we looking for?” Nicole asked, forehead pressed to the passenger side window.

  “Bunch of guys standing around hoverbikes, I think they call themselves the Skorpions. With a k.”

  “That’s stupid. Why do they always have to use mean things? Why doesn’t some gang call themselves the chinchillas or something?”

  Dorian cracked up. “I’d think twice about messing with a gang with the balls to call themselves that.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I dunno,” Kirsten said, half paying attention.

  She set the car down by a row of hoverbikes parked in front of a long, one-story building. It resembled an afterthought erected out of scrap metal and set up in the parking lot of a shipping warehouse. Closer inspection revealed a construction of welded cargo containers. A handful of people outside propped up the front wall. Their attire ranged from light, civilian-grade, bullet-resistant armor to tattered scraps of gang couture. The most extreme example, one of the women, pranced about bare-chested and wearing sheer pants that left most of the outside of her legs exposed. A shifting NanoLED tattoo of a scorpion glowed over her sternum; its twin tails coiled outward, circling beneath one breast each. Fluorescent green lipstick curled into a frown as she saw the police lights on the car.

  “How can she walk around like that?” Kirsten averted her eyes, blushing.

  “I know, right?” Nicole muttered, putting her helmet on. “That’s gotta be damn cold. You should’ve grabbed a set of tac armor for this.”

  Kirsten gaped, deciding against saying anything more. Dorian slid out of the car, walking between them. Conversation simmered out to the silence of a faint whistling breeze, too weak to hide the electronic firing circuit chirp from a few weapons turning on. At the sound, Kirsten put one hand on her E-90 and the other in the air.

  “I’m not here to bust anyone’s balls. I just want information. Where can I find Ronnie?”

  “Hah.” A sienna-skinned man, blue vest over his bare chest, stepped down off the porch wearing a massive grin. “You guys shouldn’t have. Cop strippers, nice.”

  “Happy birthday, Sicario.” A pudgy Asian in an armored vest raised a beer in salute.

  The big guy sauntered over, stopping a few paces away.

  “That’s close enough. We’re not strippers, jackass.”

  Scorpion-tits sashayed over, still frowning. “The police don’t send young chick-meat out to a grey zone.” Kirsten’s face reddened, but she did not break her cop-face. “Cops also wear blue. So who are you?”

  The one called Sicario put an arm around her, cupping her right breast and flicking the gold barbell through the nipple. Kirsten suppressed the urge to cringe as her brain took a guess at what such a piercing would feel like.

  “Back up, hands where we can see them.” Nicole had her gun out now, waving it at them.

  More than half of them noticed it was a laser, and seemed confused. One man tilted his head at her as blades slid out through his fingers and locked in place with a click. Seconds later, the high-pitched presence of vibro inducers rattled Kirsten’s teeth.

  Kirsten’s E-90 whipped out of the holster, aimed right at him. “You take one step; it’ll be your last.” She sounded too frightened to make idle threats.

  Scared enough to where they believed she would shoot.

  “I just w
ant to talk to Ronnie about some side work he did.” Kirsten reinforced her grip with her left hand, keeping the weapon aimed at vibro-claw man.

  “Yo, Rampart. Some funny cops are lookin’ for you.” Sicario yelled over his shoulder.

  Glass shattered from inside the building.

  “He’s gonna run,” said Dorian.

  “Fuckin kill ̓em!” A deep voice boomed from inside.

  Sicario went for a pistol on his belt, which leapt out of the holster and skittered to the ground at Nicole’s feet. A tiny camera flash from the side of her helmet confirmed another addition to the wall. The scorpion turned blue.

  “Mood boobs?” Nicole asked. “That’s kinda neat.”

  Six others reached for guns. Kirsten scorched a hole through the thigh of the man with the claws; his panic-stricken attempt to grab the wound did more damage to his leg than the laser. He fell out of sight on the porch, screaming.

  A huge man burst through a window on the far side of the bar; almost seven feet tall with a build like a combat cyborg made of meat. He took off running, no intention of participating in any fight. Others drew weapons as Sicario gawked at his empty holster. Wild with panic, he charged Nicole while the bare-chested woman ran through Dorian towards Kirsten, emitting a banshee wail.

  Dorian drew in a non-breath. A pulse of energy wafted from him and the bar windows glimmered with spectral light. His reflection appeared, his skull glowing from within. Men screamed, dropped guns, and ran. Another woman, short with black hair, raised both eyebrows.

  “That’s awesome…” She gawked, stepping closer. “Are you really there?”

  Kirsten focused on the charging woman reaching for a belt knife. Nicole’s laser spat a streak of green light through the periphery of her awareness. It was second to the glint of a blade catching the red glow of a scorpion and swinging breasts. Kirsten should have fired, but felt too guilty about laser on knife to do it; too close to murder.

  She stepped back with her right leg, turning ninety degrees and letting the knife slide past her chest without contact. The woman’s momentum carried her forward. Kirsten hooked a leg, put a hand on the woman’s back, and shoved her face-first into the hood of the patrol craft with a meaty smack. Unlike a normal car, the military plating had zero give. The windshield and windows, from the outside, were opaque―armor plates with tiny camera holes. The knife bounced out of the woman’s grip. The E-90 went back in its holster. Before Kirsten could advance to contain her, she pushed off the hood and swung with a wild right hook.

  Ducked.

  Second punch.

  Leaned.

  On the third punch, Kirsten caught the wrist and spun the woman’s arm around behind the back in a chicken wing on her way to the hood again.

  Whap.

  Bare chest squeaked on icy Indirium-alloy plating. Kirsten leaned all her weight on top of the struggling body, grinding her into the car. A loud whack turned her head, in time to see Sicario staggering away from a roundhouse kick from Nicole. The redhead bounced her stance back and forth like a boxer, grinning. He had a laser wound to the shoulder; his left arm was out of the fight. Kirsten fumbled for binders.

  The woman growled through clenched teeth. She almost stood straight up with Kirsten on her back, but collapsed again over the hood, sliding. “Ow, fucking bitch, you’re gonna rip my nips off.”

  “Not my fault you’re not wearing a damn shirt. Should have thought of that before you pulled a knife on a police officer.” Kirsten grabbed a handful of hair and smacked the woman’s head into the armor plating twice. “I could have shot you. I’m trying to be nice here. Stop resisting arrest.”

  Kirsten’s uncharacteristic aggression shocked Nicole’s attention off Sicario. He yanked a bootstrap gun off his leg and shot her in the chest, the loud snap of the slug bouncing away from her tactical vest whip-cracked off nearby buildings. With one hand pinning the woman’s wrist between her shoulders, the other crushing the back of her head into the car, Kirsten could only gawk as Nicole got pissed off.

  The gun rocketed out of his hand before he could fire it again, tearing the trigger finger off at the first knuckle as it flew.

  Nicole held her arm out, growling. “You motherfucker.”

  Sicario’s legs swept out from under him, as if he lay on his stomach, suspended eight feet in the air. Nicole’s arm went down, as did Sicario, smashing into the ground hard enough to crack a rib. Still growling, Nicole sidestepped and telekinetically launched him headfirst into the front passenger wheel-guard. The impact to the armored shroud knocked him cold.

  “Son of a god-damned bitch, you’re so fucking lucky Kirsten’s here, or I would have shot your ass.” Nicole took a running two-step and drove her boot into the side of his unconscious head.

  Seeing her boyfriend fly took the fight out of the shirtless woman. Kirsten cuffed her and hauled her around to the back seat. Propping her chest-first against the car, she patted down the cloth-covered areas in search of other weapons.

  “Are you going to admit to hiding anything in any body cavities, or do I have to go digging,” asked Kirsten, listening to surface thoughts.

  “I’m sure you’d love that.” The woman growled.

  “Sorry to disappoint. Got a feeling you’re clean.” Kirsten shoved her in and slammed the door.

  Nicole picked at a scratch in her breastplate.

  “You okay? That was… umm.”

  Nicole panted, lifting her visor. “You’ve never seen me in the field before, have you? I hate asshats that shoot at cops. No respect.” She pointed her weapon at Sicario’s back. “Bastard.” Her eyes lightened back to their usual sky blue as they shifted to Kirsten. “Relax, I’m just fantasizing. Hey, where’d all the others go?”

  “Dorian made a face at them. They ran, except for that one chick making goo-eyes at thin air.”

  “They all ran,” said Kirsten.

  “Oh.” Nicole cringed and put binders on Sicario.

  She tried to lift him to his feet but could not move him. After a second try, and a mousy grunt, she gave up and searched him on the ground. A few drug injectors, two knives, another leg-gun, and a few mags of ammo gathered in a pile. “Damn, this guy was ready for a war.” The helmet cam recorded the search, and evidence.

  While Kirsten called for backup, Nicole opened the other rear door and focused on Sicario with an intense stare. He floated again, toes dragging across the dirty metal ground. Screams came from the back seat as the unconscious man levitated into the car. When his weight settled down, Nicole sagged as if a great burden had been lifted from her. Kirsten punted the door closed.

  “Backup’s on the way. I’m going after Ronnie.”

  “Rampart.” The topless woman yelled. “His name is Rampart. What the hell are you people?”

  Kirsten cringed at the question. “Division 0. We usually deal with psionic crime.”

  “Psionics?” Her terror almost made the hovercar shake.

  Consider yourself lucky. Ordinary cops would have just shot you the second you pulled a knife.

  The telepathic voice slapped her still. Kirsten shook her head at the dirt-smeared breasts and the matching pattern of clean on the hood.

  “Nikki, can you watch these two, I’m going after Ram-whatever.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Over here,” Dorian yelled, about two blocks away.

  She jogged after him, around the warehouse and away from the shore. He led her down one alley, around another corner and into a trash-strewn strip between two buildings. She waded knee-deep in old plastic cartons, empty cans, and unidentifiable scraps.

  “He’s in the trash box at the end, the blue one with the white rose painted on it.” Dorian pointed.

  “Thanks.” She paused. “Hey, you’re more than two hundred yards away from the car.”

  Dorian gasped, looked in that direction, and bit his knuckle. After a moment, he stopped faking fear and laughed. “I guess it’s not such a big deal.”

  Kirsten’s chuckle
stalled at the sound of a soft feminine sob. “Ugh, what now?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  She trudged a few dozen meters toward the noise, arriving at another passage too narrow for the term alley; even a one-seat Jian Feng would be hard-pressed to fit down it. A mangled mass of woman paced back and forth, clutching entrails dangling over an emerald miniskirt. One blue high-heeled shoe danced around her left ankle, held on by one strap; the other was missing. No trace of a shirt remained, or much of anything else inside her chest. Her hands worked in an endless battle to put her insides, inside.

  They kept slipping out.

  Kirsten sagged, staring at the ground. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, my.” Dorian cringed.

  “I’ll come back; she’s not going to get any deader. Please stay with her?”

  “Sure.” He nodded, put on his cop face, and strode toward the dead woman.

  The trek through the sea of trash back to the dumpster proved arduous; she worked up a sweat.

  “Rampart? I know you’re in the blue refuse storage unit. I’m not here for you; I just want to talk about Vikram Medhi.”

  She jumped at a sudden loud boom. The initial thought was gunshot, but as her heart got going again, she figured he had just startled and banged his knee into the side.

  “All I want to do is talk.”

  A belabored groan echoed from inside the trash box as a dull green industrial canister, the type often used to hold volatile gas, rose into view. Trash slipped off the top as it wobbled higher, supported on the massive arms of a man closer to eight feet tall than seven. Veins bulged out of his biceps, forearms, and forehead. He might have been Caucasian, but had turned bright red. Breaths came in struggled gasps as he strained to hold it in while supporting such weight.

  E-90 came out, aimed. “Do not throw that at me.” Her eyes glowed for a second.

  He blinked, making a disappointed face like a little boy told to go to his room. She half expected his response to be, “But I wanna.”