Division Zero: Lex De Mortuis

by Matthew S. Cox

  Dorian fixed him with a hard glare, which sent him wandering back towards the car. “Ungrateful little bastard, isn’t he?” He gave her a plaintive stare. “Please don’t do anything silly. Listen to the Captain, stay away from Sector 187.”

  She pulled threads of wind-tossed blonde away from her face. “Rene tried to kill me, too. Maybe if he succeeds, they’ll actually go after him.”

  “I tracked the bastard for eight months. I know him. If you rattled him enough to chance an attack like that, sooner or later the arrogant son of a bitch will make a mistake.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.” Dorian moved toward the car, staring down. “Just don’t make a mistake before he does.”

  She shivered.

  irsten draped herself over the counter of a small coffee shop, her eyebrows scrunched together and flat. She stared at the machine processing her order, spewing brown liquid and beige foam together with a squirt of chocolate syrup at the end. She wanted it so much the cup tilted a hair towards her. The synthetic stuff would have taken half the time and cost a quarter of what this one would. Still, forty credits for her once (now twice) a month splurge seemed a small price to pay for the little escape.

  “Easy.” Dorian patted through her back. “Don’t yank it off the machine or you’ll spill it.”

  “My TK is too weak to lift a cup of coffee.”

  Dorian grinned. “You shouldn’t have ordered one big enough to swim in.”

  She let her head fall on her arms, the tip of her nose touched false jade. “Vikram is going to drive me nuts. He was up all damn night bitching and moaning about me doing nothing. He doesn’t have to sleep anymore, so he doesn’t think I do, either.” She stopped, staring bleary-eyed at the wall. “Bathe in… bathtub full of coffee… mmm.” Head down.

  Dorian peered out the window at Vikram, still in the back seat of the car, glaring into the coffee shop as if he was late for work.

  Kirsten straightened out, rubbing her back. “It’s not like we can do much else but wait for Seneschal to try again. If they have some way to sniff him out, the best chance we have to find them is to use him as bait.”

  “Sore?”

  “Evan crawled into bed with me last night; something spooked him. For a little kid, he takes up a lot of space.” Stretch over, she crumpled over the counter again.

  “I had a dog like that once,” said Dorian, chuckling.

  The hollow plastic sound of a cup skiffing into the acrylic made her head snap up. The wonderful fragrance of coffee and chocolate met her senses as she gathered it and supped of the nectar of the gods.

  “Any man would kill to be that cup,” quipped Dorian. “Except maybe Armando.”

  She snarfed foam, giggling. The clerk gave her an odd look; the sort of odd look one reserves for odd people who burst out laughing for no apparent reason in quiet places. He kept giving her the same incredulous squint as she grinned, waved, and went outside to the car.

  Ten minutes later, the coffee was three quarters gone, and they sat seventy stories up by the side of an office building. Kirsten glanced at the mirrored glass; the reflection showed the car as everyone else saw it―her alone.

  Riotous sounds came around the corner, projected from a billboard-sized advert droid bearing a Newsnet feed. On its screen, a small cadre of people waved metal poles projecting holographic signs with fear-mongering slogans regarding psionics. A frazzled middle-aged man with wild white hair and a tan coat rasped an interview with reporter Kimberly Brightman.

  “So, Reverend Harris, why is your congregation here today?”

  “The Lord says suffer not the presence of Satan in your midst. Society has become blind, my dear. The minions of The Devil walk amongst us and yet they are welcomed! They are welcomed by those too afraid of offending people to speak out. The Dark One has poisoned the minds of our people such that those who speak the True Word are shunned as bearers of hate.”

  Kirsten’s glare could have cracked glass. Damn droid is lucky this car doesn’t have a Starburst pod.

  “Most scientists believe psionic abilities are the result of natural evolution. Reverend, what do you have to say to those who believe you are on the fringe? That you and your”―Kimberly leaned around him, looking over the sign-wavers―“dozen or so followers are perhaps paranoid?”

  “Scientists are under the spell of Lucifer. It is part of the plan, you see. If they succeed, and convince us to accept psionics as normal, society is dooming itself to Hell!”

  The immense droid lumbered past, so big it had flashing lights like a shuttlecraft. Kirsten scowled, a low growl rumbled in her throat.

  “Don’t pay them any attention,” said Dorian. “Even the reporter thinks he’s a kook. He’s so far out in left field he makes fun of himself every time he opens his mouth.”

  She closed her eyes, releasing all the air in her lungs in a controlled meditative breath. “Yeah.”

  “Command, this is Officer Nila Assad, I’m under”―a shriek crackled over the comm―“ediate backup at my home”―gunshots in the background―“I’m hit…” Agonized screaming lasted two seconds before the comm cut out.

  Kirsten spun the patrol craft and stomped on it, lightbar on and siren blaring. “Son of a bitch.”

  Dorian’s face darkened. “Rene.”

  “Responding, unit IO-44 en route. I’m close.”

  “Copy that 44. Attention all Division 0 personnel, officer down at…”

  Kirsten tuned out the rest of the announcement, focused on driving; she knew the address already. Ad-bots whistled past as she spun the car up on its side to slip around another slow-mover. Dorian’s lack of protest at her rough driving was an obvious clue how he felt about the situation. Vikram remained in the back seat, smirking at them and kneading his hands. His head moved as if on a swivel, expecting attack at any moment.

  Three minutes later, and with the parking area full, Kirsten circled around the building and brought the car in over the recreation deck. Sunbathers clambered away, some screaming, some yelling. A cushion of cloud filled the area beneath the black patrol craft; mist fumed out of the water, following the hovercar across the pool, dissipating almost as fast as it appeared. The rush of air as she reversed to a hard stop shoved four lounge chairs, and their occupants, into the water. As soon as wheels hit metal, she was out the door and running, armband held to her mouth.

  “Implement police override. Lock down elevators and outer doors. Send an express.”

  The armband emitted a pleasant female voice. “Processing.”

  Red lights flashed in the hallway as a recorded male voice announced a police lockdown in progress, and asked all citizens to stay calm and remain in their apartments. One elevator waited for her in the hallway between the parking deck and the pool. She jumped in. It accepted her Police ID and whirred towards Nila’s floor.

  She looked at Dorian. “Where’s Vik?”

  “With the car.”

  “Shit, if they come for him now. Will you please go get him?”

  Dorian glared; worry for his former partner boiled out of his eyes.

  “I can’t fly through walls, and you can’t do much to help her.”

  “Fine.”

  He zipped through the ceiling, as if he stopped and the elevator kept going. Seconds later, it chugged to a halt on the thirty-ninth floor. She sprinted; wall-mounted lights streaked past. The door to Nila’s apartment was partially open, the panel shot out. Kirsten took her E-90 in a two-handed grip as she edged up to the twitching slab of Epoxil. A brief peek past the edge revealed little more than a quiet room and the fragrance of ballistic propellant; sharp, acrid, and laced with carbon. Beneath that awful smell, the aroma of pancakes wafted by.

  She clasped her left hand around the sliding door and pulled, attempting to force it open into the wall. The dead actuators offered a substantial amount of resistance. Kirsten managed to shove it an inch or two before it was evident her one-armed strength was short of the mark. One
leg made it through the gap, but even with her slight build, she could not fit.

  The snivel of a terrified child drifted through the silence.

  The E-90 went back into its holster and she put both hands on the door. Kirsten grunted and shoved, overpowering the hydraulics just enough to slip through. Stumbling two paces in, Kirsten gasped a few breaths, readied her sidearm, and advanced. On the far side of the couch, Shani cowered in the corner of the living room. Still in her nightgown, she trembled. The child’s hands clasped to her chest, toes digging into the carpet. She looked unhurt, but terrified.

  Kirsten ran to her, lowering her gun. “Are you hurt?” she whispered.

  The girl shook her head no; terror faded to calm, and then to suspicion, then to accusation. Several seconds passed as they locked eyes, and then the child pointed. Kirsten whirled about, gasping at the sight of the kitchen floor. With one hand over her service weapon, Nila lay face down in a puddle of blood oozing from her thigh. A few steps past her, a man in a long black coat slumped against the cabinets, dead. Small candle flames on his back still wisped the scent of burned flesh into the air.

  She got him.

  “Nila!” Kirsten rushed over, examining her.

  A nimbus of green light wavered on the white tiles around Nila’s E-86 as the ready light swept back and forth along the barrel; the indicator read 59.

  She only got one shot off.

  Sweat pants molded tight, darkened by blood. The woman’s breathing came in labored gasps, at the edge of consciousness. Kirsten tore at the fabric, exposing skin around a clean through-and-through. Nila’s shaking hand flew up and grabbed hers. She wheezed, fighting for air.

  Kirsten fumbled with a stimpak. “Nila, shh. I’m here. Don’t try to talk.”

  Nila tried to sit up, eyes searched for focus. “K…”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be okay. Just relax.”

  Another stimpak hissed. Bleeding lessened; pink foam exuded from entry and exit wound.

  “No… K…” The woman struggled to raise a hand, as if trying to point toward the living room.

  “What? Is there another one?” Kirsten shifted her right hand onto the grip of her weapon.

  The chirp of a ballistic firearm’s arming circuit came from behind. Kirsten froze for a second, a slow turn bringing her gaze upon Shani standing in the archway separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. She looked adorable in her knee-length pink nightgown, bare feet, and disheveled black hair―the quivering gun in her tiny hands was a nice touch.

  Kirsten’s arm moved on instinct, a reluctant weapon aimed at the girl. “Shani… What are you doing? Please put that down.”

  Small hands adjusted their grip; she almost smiled. “You wanna kill my mommy. The nice man says I have to shoot you.”

  No. She’s gonna do it. She can’t help herself. Kirsten’s finger tensed. She stared at the seven-year-old pointing death at her. Guilt swam over her before she even did anything. One tear crawled down her cheek.

  Bang.

  Kirsten lurched backward as a slug winged across the outside of her left shoulder. The recoil bounced the gun off Shani’s forehead and knocked her back a step. Dorian sailed in through the ceiling and whirled about, taking in the scene. Left hand braced on frigid tile, Kirsten wanted to cry at the little pink target on the other end of her gunsights.

  “Shani, drop the gun.”

  The girl raised it. Kirsten hesitated.

  Click.

  Dorian dropped his hand; wisps of electrical energy threaded through the air to him from the pistol. The exertion in his face from flying through so many solid floors seemed to lessen as he absorbed it. The girl pulled the trigger again, frowning. Vikram covered his mouth with a hand, mirth in his eyes.

  “Shani, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Kirsten, she shot me…” Nila rasped.

  Shani threw the dead weapon to the ground with a childish snarl of contempt.

  Kirsten gawked. Rene, you motherf―

  The E-90 leapt out of her grip, as if someone Templeton’s size had grabbed it and yanked. Kirsten blinked at the child as she caught it in both hands; the strength of its flight forced the seven-year-old back another step. The little girl grinned with delight at the silver weapon, fascinated by the dots of azure light that moved in a constant sweep on each side of the barrel.

  “This one’s shiny. I like this one more.” She aimed.

  “Shani, don’t! It’ll―”

  Sparks crackled around the girl’s arms when she pulled the trigger. The gun emitted a disharmonic squawking buzz. Shani’s thigh-length hair stood straight out, forming a giant sphere coated in flickering lightning for an instant. She sailed into the air, away from the weapon, and landed on the couch a few yards behind her. The E-90 clattered to the floor.

  Vikram laughed into his hand. Dorian grabbed a fistful of his collar, fist cocked.

  “Sorry, I know it’s a kid, but you have to admit that looked funny.”

  Dorian hit him. The dead cyberspace pirate staggered to the side, holding his nose, raising his hands in surrender against further assault―but still snickering.

  Nila moaned and sat up, helping herself to two more stimpaks from Kirsten’s belt. Dorian ran to her side, trying to be comforting and reassuring to a woman who could not hear him. Kirsten clutched the gash in her shoulder and staggered into the living room, blood leaking between her fingers. As she neared, Shani came into view past the arm of the couch. The tiny body suffered sporadic twitches; smoke pooled in her gaping mouth. A smear of blood ran down the cushions from where a tiny, burned trigger finger brushed it.

  Kirsten put a hand on the girl’s neck, beginning to breathe again when she felt a pulse.

  “Rene, you son of a bitch, to hell with Eze’s order… I’m gonna nail you.”

  Sparks burst from the wall as a man in Division 0 tactical armor forced his way through. One handed, he slammed the door open hard enough to fry the console. Three more entered behind him, one woman. The lead officer approached Kirsten while the others set about clearing the apartment.

  “Agent.” He saluted, and then noticed Shani. “Oh, no, what happened?”

  Kirsten relaxed. “She’s alive… but could be dangerous. A suggestive got to her; it’s not her fault. One dead in the kitchen, Officer Assad is hurt.”

  “So are you, Agent.” A square of light appeared on his visor as his armor scanned her wounded shoulder.

  “It’s just a nick,” she said, pausing to read his chest. “Parker, it can wait.”

  irsten lifted Shani off the couch, easing her onto the carpet. Straddling the girl, she gathered the child’s hands together and held on. Officer Parker offered flexi-cuffs, but she waved him off.

  “If I can’t overpower a seven-year-old without those, I should stay behind a desk.”

  Parker laughed. “Any idea what to expect?”

  “Telekinesis, at least.” Kirsten found the girl’s surface thoughts scrambled, likely an aftereffect of the zap. “Nila never brought her in for assessment.”

  He shook his head. “That’ll be a write up. Cortez, need you here.”

  One of the other armored men emerged from the back hallway. “Corporal?”

  “Kid’s a TK. You got containment.”

  Officer Cortez nodded.

  “I have cause to believe she was programmed to attack by a wanted psi suggestive. I don’t think it’s her fault. She was terrified of anyone in black.” Kirsten looked down at the girl, gripping little arms tighter. “Okay, do it.”

  Parker pressed a stimpak into Shani’s exposed shoulder. A faint hiss, and the kid’s eyes snapped back to focus. She snarled, then thrashed. Cortez shuddered, engaged in a battle of wills. Kirsten felt telekinetic force pushing at her, trying to peel her fingers off slender wrists, and an equal force opposing it. Shani shrieked like a wild thing, squirming and kicking. When it became clear her TK could not brute-force its way past the more experienced officer,
she bawled and screamed. The perfectly age-appropriate reaction to frustration was reassuring.

  “Stop.” Kirsten’s eyes flared with luminosity.

  Shani went still, her caramel skin greyed with fear. Cortez relaxed. Kirsten focused on the girl’s eyes, mental fingers reaching through her head for the telltale signs of psionic programming. Sure enough, she found them.

  Whispers, faces, ideas, and nightmares swirled in a milieu of color and sound. Sweat beaded on Shani’s face as her upper lip curled; a snarl that never finished. The child went limp, gaze unfocused, mouth agape like a corpse. Only the feel of her breathing kept Kirsten from panic. Forcing her way deeper into the girl’s mind, she found a smear of intent. Protect Rene. Warn him if someone comes.

  Nila didn’t call him… you did. With me in the damn apartment. That’s what you were hiding under the stuffed animals.

  When the bad man failed to kill her mother, Rene’s order made her do it. She took the man’s gun from the kitchen floor when Nila’s back was turned, but she fought the compulsion to kill. Love had taken the form of trembling, not enough to overpower the suggestive urge all the way, but it changed a shot through the heart into a perforated thigh. The sight of her mother’s blood shocked her free and she ran to hide from what she had done.

  Kirsten, she already did not like. The woman in black would take her mother away to the place that would kill her. It was Kirsten’s fault Rene forced her to shoot her own mother; pulling the trigger on her was easy. She was protecting her family.

  A tunnel of shifting blue light rushed past Kirsten’s vision from behind. At the end, reality awaited. Kirsten sat back on her boot heels, gasping for air. Like the girl, she was soaked in sweat from the effort of undoing the suggestive influence.

  Shani’s face contorted, and she bawled. Kirsten lifted her into a hug, patting her on the back.

  “It’s okay, Shani. Your mommy’s just fine.”

  The presence of medics came as a surprise, as did the lack of damage to the girl’s finger or her own shoulder. Kirsten glanced at Cortez since Parker had wandered off. “How long was I in there?”