Unfortunately, they could not crack the box quickly, since Langley hadn’t left the code or been forced to give it up before his death. They tried exploits on it, but none of them worked. Exploits rarely did on blackboxes. Officers all over the galaxy had tried to get various bills passed to force people to keep their blackbox encryption keys in a central repository, but all of those bills had failed except in the most backwards and repressive regimes.
It took almost twenty years to break through the encryption.
Most people forgot about it, except for Venadrik’s young cop, who checked in on it almost every week religiously for those twenty years.
When they finally cracked it, what they found shocked them and nearly brought the financial systems of multiple star systems to their knees.
Langley had been Ripley in his youth. He had also been different personalities for the better part of the last 300 years. He’d been Jansen Murdock, a doctor with a fake series of degrees from the famed Titan Biomechanics and Energy who’d performed hundreds of surgeries, many of them horribly botched. He’d been a VC, a vet, a soccer player, a school teacher, a pilot, an author. He’d been so many different people.
None of them existed.
He’d invented all of them. Ripley had mastered everything from ID creation to handwriting forgery to hacking to make his various incarnations. When he got into trouble with one, he simply left it behind. Cold cases for hundreds of different lives were closed that day. He’d pioneered identity creation techniques that few had even thought possible.
It was the police who got the relife order in before the family, so they could put him on trial. With the codes cracked, the cops slotted Ripley’s blackbox into a temporary body. It didn’t take long for a judge to give him a thousand years in stasis with no possibility of relife.
What was amazing to Venadrik was how well Langley’s identity creation techniques were documented by the police. There was so much detail to dig into. Langley had crafted extensive backstories for everyone. He brought his IDs to life like characters in a book. He’d even experimented with memory implants to make his fake lives more real, though those had proved unworkable and unstable. After only a few days of study, Venadrik was sure he’d improved on all of them.
And he realized that he could be anyone at all.
The Ship Graveyard
2458 Orthodox Western Calendar
5156 Universal Chinese Calendar, Year of the Dragon
Bubbling Well Blvd., Durham Way, Snowstorm Clan Roving Starship Settlement
Hoskin got there two hours early. Sakura was late and she showed up with people following her.
“Shhhh,” said Hoskin, his finger pressed to his lips. “Come on. You were followed.”
He took the girl gently by the arm, feeling a surge of warmth when they connected. He sensed that the people coming for her didn’t just want her back, they wanted her dead.
Everywhere on Durham Way the hovering glowglobes sputtered and flickered, spraying weak, scattered light. He waved his hand and three dragonfly cameras buzzed out of his wrists.
“In here,” he said, darting left.
They hustled into a building and up three flights of stairs. The dragonfly cameras funneled images of the streets behind them into his eyes.
Men still followed, hulking shapes, augmented, sniffing for her, their faces hidden behind hideous biomech masks. They moved like lions hunting in the long grasses of the veldt. One of them caught a dragonfly camera and smashed it.
Hoskin and Sakura stood in a dark and rotting hallway, filled with old fashioned security paintings that glared at them. The eyes used to send video streams to pattern matching AIs that recognized crimes instantly, but who knew if they did anything anymore? Hoskin could feel Sakura close to him, her body heat radiating.
They rushed through to the back of the building. Hoskin pushed open a decaying, old gate and his hand came away from it wet with gooey fungus. He wiped it off on the move. They ran, the buildings all around them panting and coughing, spraying phlegm from their vents. The ground felt greasy and they slipped and slid as they hustled through the narrow, winding alley. They hurried into another building. It was dark, dark like having your eyes poked out. They heard whispering. The building was talking to itself, mumbling like a madman.
“What’s happening?” said Sakura, her eyes big like a terrified cat’s.
“Don’t worry. I can see in the dark,” Hoskin whispered. “Don’t say anything.”
They moved softly through two more alleys, strewn with waste that pulped and melted into rancid piles. Then they pushed through an old energy gate that evaporated to let them through. He could smell the sea and hear it lapping against the wharf. They’d entered the old ship graveyard. They stood on the dock, the rain misting their faces.
Old, dilapidated, organic-ship factories stood around a huge, flat open area where the husks of dead starships lay like slaughtered whales, their muscles and twisted white innards exposed and splattered on the street. They were big ships, but they were like tiny pebbles compared to the continent-sized starship that contained everything around them.
Hoskin knew the place well. He had grown up only blocks away. At night he and his sister could hear the screaming as the giant craft crawled from the bellies of their factory wombs. The ships came out in pieces and self-assembled in the sky as they watched, faces pressed against the fences.
For ten minutes his mites streamed from his pores and scanned. Nothing. They’d lost them.
“I think we’re okay,” said Hoskin. “Just over here. Come on.”
He nudged her behind the husk of a starliner where there was a bench. They heard the sound of the waves licking the walls of the artificial seashore. Far across the waters, they could see New Diamond City shimmering like a celestial metropolis seen from Purgatory.
“I always wanted to go there as a kid,” Sakura said. “Grew up in the ghettos. Couldn’t wait to get out. Told my mom I wanted to go with my friend once, but she wasn’t too fond of my friends.”
“And now?” said Hoskin.
She looked at him, her eyes weary. “Now? Now I wish I’d never seen the place. The whole city can burn, for all I care.”
“There’s always somethin’ worth saving,” said Hoskin.
She looked at him. “Surprised you’d say that. Bet you’re a lot like me. The things you’ve seen, nobody should have.”
“Yeah. But it won’t stop me.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause it’s not my choice. The right thing to do is always the right thing to do. Doesn’t change for me just because everyone else can’t see it.”
“I wish I felt that way.”
She said nothing for a minute.
“You did the right thing coming to me,” said Hoskin.
“I did? We’ll see.”
She pulled out a cigarette. Hoskin touched the tip of it and it ignited. She let out a long stream of red smoke. Hoskin’s backbrain IDed the smoke as some kind of stimulant, probably Red Jack or Crystal Red.
“Thanks,” she said, puffing quietly, staring out to sea.
Hoskin said nothing, waiting patiently. He fixed his eyes on her, letting her know he would pay close attention.
“That girl who died. My friend. Mariliece. They made her do it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But they had her sister or said they did. She came crying to me a few nights before. Her sister was the only thing she cared about. Her parents were gone.”
Hoskin tried to imagine the girl with her sister, playing in the ruins of whatever failed city-state they’d snatched her from without warning. A flash of bright brown eyes and tears filled his mind’s eye for a moment.
“Who was she? We can’t find anything—”
“You won’t. They brought her in like six months ago. One of the ones who got tricked. I knew what I was getting into. Thought it was exciting when I was still stupid.
Most of the girls don’t. They come from off-ship. They have beauty contests or modeling test-shoots. Offer them surgery, gene-splicing, designer clothes, a free place to live, gourmet food, shopping sprees. And they get it,” she said, snorting. “Just not the same way they were expecting.”
“Yeah, I already know how this story goes. Then they’re stuck,” said Hoskin. “They got ‘em in a foreign place, far from home. No money, no ID, no friends. Same as it ever was.”
“The gang breaks in the girls themselves—all of them, starting with the top guys first and going down the line by rank. Then they gotta screw like six times a night to make up the ‘debt’ they suddenly owe the gang for bringing them in. A few girls kill themselves, but most just cry their eyes out the first few weeks. Lots never even had sex before. Management’s gotta sedate ‘em.
“But Mariliece, she never cried. Just took it. She didn’t talk to anyone ‘til I talked to her. I liked that. But management didn’t. They like ‘em to cry. Some guys pay more for that.”
A hierarchy of Triad bosses and soldiers, linked by strings of light, appeared as a projected hologram that only Hoskin could see: articles; profiles; video; sound bites; a constellation of collected information.
“What about the mods?” said Hoskin. “What was on her stomach?”
“You mean like these?” she said, unbuttoning her silk top slowly, without shame. On her stomach were seven dark assholes. Hoskin pulled her blouse closed, gently.
“Only the richest guys. They like it sick. Pay for everything. It hurts like hell. Dangerous too. I gotta rub gel on my stomach twice a day, or I’ll get infected. I’m running low too. Shoulda took more when I broke out. Wasn’t thinking. Barely took anything.”
“We’ll get you more.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll get me before that. The ones that like it sick, we call them Kingfish. Get whatever they want. Do whatever they want. Nobody makes ‘em pay. The ones that live up there,” she said pointing to the sky, where the richest and most powerful lived, multi-trillionaires in fifteen mile long orbital mansions, hidden in the clouds using holostealth.
Hoskin heard something behind them.
“Shhhh,” hissed Hoskin. “Back here. Don’t move. Stay down.” He grabbed a huge chunk of ship flesh and pushed it in front of her.
Something moved, not far off. His ears rezzed up and he could hear shuffling through the rain. Something slithered.
An explosion hit just next to him and he fell back, dizzied, his backbrain functions kicking in quick, slowing things down, filling his system with a blast of adrenaline. He scanned the grounds: two men, firing on him. It was the two guys who’d followed them. The girl had fallen too, but she got up and started running. One of the men took off after her. Hoskin let his gun hand rip. A massive chunk of the guy’s shoulder tore off in a brilliant explosion of bone and blood. He tumbled, screaming.
The girl was running and then she just...vanished…before she was about to turn the corner. Hoskin just had time to think holostealth and then the other one was right on him, moving too fast, even in slow motion. The guy delivered a vicious elbow across Hoskin’s face. Hoskin stumbled but managed to stab his fingers into the man’s throat. He fell back holding his neck and Hoskin was on him, pounding him and then wrenching him into a Chin Na lock that caused pain no matter what direction he tried to move. Glue cuffs oozed from Hoskin’s pores and coagulated over the man’s hands. Hoskin stood up, making a point to put his knee in the guy’s back, hard. He was panting. Out of shape. His backbrain had already called for prowlers and an ambulance and he could hear their rhythmic hum in the distance.
Hoskin rushed over to the other guy, gun hand out in front of him. The guy was still screaming, rolling around, arm hanging loose from his devastated shoulder. Hoskin waved his other hand over the guy’s face and a purple mist streamed out. The guy took two huge gulps of air and went slack. He stopped screaming a minute later and just lay there. Hoskin stooped and yanked off the mask.
It was a woman. He thought he recognized her, but he couldn’t place her face. His backbrain ran an ID match. It tagged her as a suspected Mountain Snake Triad enforcer. Metadata said she was suspected in at least two other homicides.
Hoskin flashed a priority to the ME, Azusa. She popped on his innervision.
“What happened?” she flashed.
“Someone shot at me. Looks like Mountain Snakes,” flashed Hoskin.
“My God. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” flashed Hoskin. “I need you to go over the footage my eyes caught. Something’s not right—”
“I’m on it.”
“I’m gonna pay a visit to the club. We get anything back from that deep scan?”
“Yeah. We found traces of amelytic acid on the girl’s clothes and carbodyne in the room.”
“So she dissolved the blackbox?”
“Looks like it.”
“All right. Get moving on the footage. Hold on, Quinlin’s flashing—”
Hoskin flipped over to Quinlin who appeared on his innervision.
“What’s going on? Need you to get down here—”
“It’ll have to wait. Get your ass to this address,” said Quinlin. An address flashed into Hoskin’s eyes. “We’ve got another murder.”
Where Do Monsters Come From
2399 Orthodox Western Calendar
5097 Universal Chinese Calendar, Year of the Snake
Edgelands Ghettos, Snowstorm Clan Roving Starship Settlement
“Momma?” said an eight year old Venadrik, smiling brightly.
She had her back to him.
“Momma?” he said again.
His mind still pulsed with thoughts of the day. A friend. An actual friend! He felt like his feet were made of clouds. His school bag hovered to the corner and set itself down.
She stood at the stove stirring something in a huge black pot in long, slow strokes. Her hair was wound into a tight bun. Her shoulders looked like stone.
“Hey momma.”
She said nothing, only continued to stir, using a heavy spoon.
“Momma?” he said, softer now.
The light in the kitchen was low. A single buzzglobe hovered nearby, but it hadn’t flickered on yet. The sunken evening sun cast a pale, flat, platinum glow over the kitchen walls. He could smell the sharp cheddar and the macaroni cooking in the pot.
“Why can’t we get a food synth like everyone else?” he said.
She stirred. He stood there, not knowing what to say next. Slowly she stirred the wonderful smelling macaroni. It saturated the air. He loved that smell. Macaroni was his favorite.
“Your teacher called today. She said you talked to another boy. She was very excited because you never talk to the other children. Is that true?” she said.
“Yeah momma. I found a friend! He’s great. He likes—”
He stopped, realizing his mistake too late. He was so stupid. He’d never learn. He wanted to run his head into the wall, because he was too stupid to remember never to tell the truth.
She put down her spoon quietly on the spoon rest. He could see it was caked with delicious melted cheese. He couldn’t wait to lick it.
“And what have I told you about friends?”
“I—” he stopped.
She said nothing for a minute. She still didn’t turn around, and he could see her long neck and the thin white scar that cut across it. The kitchen was utterly soundless.
“What have I told you about talking to other children?”
She pulled on Cool-Skin gloves, blue and bright, and waved her hand over the stove so the heat cranked up high.
“I just wanted a friend is all. All the other kids have friends. I just, um, want one too.”
He started to rock back and forth, hugging himself. He couldn’t stop himself. He was so stupid. So stupid. Just stop talking. But he wanted a friend. He wanted one. Everyone had friends and he wanted one too and he would
have one and he would tell her and so what, what was she gonna do about it? No. He stopped rocking. No. She was not going to stop him this time. It was good to have friends. And he would say exactly what he wanted to say. He felt suddenly bold and strong and powerful.
The macaroni started to sizzle, in spurts at first and then it crackled in the massive black pot. For a minute it was the only sound in the room. The smell changed. He didn’t like it. It was burning.
“You’re ruining it,” he said.
“Sit,” she said. “Sit right there on the floor.”
“Why can’t I sit in the chair?”
“You will sit where I tell you to sit, young man.”
When he heard her voice, he suddenly didn’t feel so strong anymore. All his courage just withered. He sat on the floor.
“What have I told you about talking to other children?”
“I just wanted a friend is all—” he said, with his last bits of courage, looking down at the floor, afraid to look up.
She picked up the burning pot with the cool gloves and wheeled around.
“I’ve told you that other children are wicked,” she screamed.
Her face was hideous, scrunched up, wrinkled. Venadrik hated it. She came towards him quickly and stood over him. She looked as tall as a mountain from the kitchen floor. Steam poured from the giant pot.
“Put out your arms,” she said.
“What?” he said.
She slammed the pot down on the floor, then reached out and wrenched his arms in front of him.
“Hold them just like that,” she said, her eyes blazing.
She yanked the pot up, spilling a slew of the precious macaroni. She jammed it down into his lap and pressed his arms to it. He screamed as the pot seared the sensitive skin of his forearms. He pulled his arms away fast, tearing off melted bits of skin and tried to scramble up, the pot crashing off his lap, but she was on him. She grabbed his hair and pushed him back into the wall. He couldn’t get up. She slammed him down into a sitting position again.
The Scorpion Game Page 4
