Ash in the Blood

by Lyn Forester

  “Are you serious?” He glances at Reagen. “Is he serious?”

  “Tell me about the truck.” She sighs and uses two fingers to massage her temple.

  “Not that big, maybe a ten-footer cube truck. Dark gray. There was a logo on the side. They tried to smear it out with dirt.” He taps at the pocket with his monocle. “But the white paint glows with the goggle on.”

  Drake snaps to attention. This could help break their case open. “Did you get a picture of it?”

  “With what?” Henly blinks at him, eyebrows raised in confusion.

  “The palm-port you called from.” Drake draws out the sentence, not understanding why the kid’s so slow. “They all have cameras.”

  “I ain’t a fool.” His hands go to his hips, the excess material of his shirt bunching up to define the malnourished width of his body. “I don’t have tech to break the trackers in those things. I sold it to scrubbers as soon as I made the call. Same with the second one I nipped to call you from.”

  “You get at least ten credits for each device?” Reagen pulls out a Bell-E Up bar, holding it out to the kid.

  “Yeah. Asshole tried to give me five, but I know what I’m about.” He snatches it from her fingers and rips into the wrapper, shoving the pink-colored bar into his mouth.

  “Good.” Her hand hovers over the pocket on her pant leg as she eyes the snacks in Drake’s grip before she smooths the top of the pocket closed over her food supply.

  “Can you describe the logo?” Drake demands.

  “Yeah.” Paste gums up his mouth, and he swallows convulsively to clear his throat. “It had a circle with these lines in it. A squiggle at the bottom, like a wave.” Henly’s hands move through the air as he describes the shapes.

  “You get that?” Reagen directs the question at Drake.

  “Not even a little.” He removes the palm-port from his pocket and taps at the screen before passing it to the kid. Henly looks at it in confusion.

  “Use your finger to draw what you saw.” He swipes a finger across the screen to demonstrate, then taps the bottom to clear it.

  Henly cradles the device in his right hand and, with the tip of one grime-encrusted nail, begins to draw. He squints at the screen, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Twice, he clears the screen before he hands the device back, satisfied with his work.

  Drake glances at the image, then shows it to Reagen. “Yep, that’s how he described it.”

  “Here, send it to mine.” Reagen pulls out her palm-port and holds it next to Drake’s. “I’ll run a search for it when I get back to my place.”

  Drake presses the send button and bumps the edge of his phone against hers. The image jumps onto her screen.

  Henly watches as they put their devices away, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “This enough to get me the datband?”

  “It’s a good lead.” Reagen pulls a card from inside her jacket and hands it to Henly. “Here’s my contact info. Call me if something else comes up. I’ll get you the datband when this is over.”

  “How long?” He stares at the card in his hands. “How you gonna find me?”

  “Keep the card on you, and I’ll find you.”

  “This some kind of tracking thing?” He turns the piece of plastic over, searching for a bug implant.

  “You want me to find you, right?”

  “Yeah.” He sticks the card in the pocket with his monocle. Must be where he keeps all his important items.

  Ringing comes from Drake’s pocket, and he pulls his palm-port back out. “It’s Gr8 Games.”

  “Nice to see it works sometimes,” Henly snipes.

  He frowns at the kid’s attitude and presses the answer button, raising it to his ear. “This is Drake.”

  “Mr. Esten?” A throaty voice warbles into his ear.

  “Nate? Are you okay?” Concern flares through him. They should have made the doctor stay with him.

  “Steve never showed up, and the doctor said not to ride the disc-bike alone.” A heavy sigh. “Are you still on Level 4? Can you take me home?”

  “Yeah.” Heat fills him at the thought of Nate’s body pressed against him on his disc-bike. “I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.”

  “Everything okay?” Reagen and Henly stare at him as he hangs up.

  “Nate needs help getting home. We good here?”

  “Sure.” Her mouth twitches, doesn’t quite form the smile. “We’ll meet at your place in the morning.”

  “Cool, I’ll send you the coordinates.” He shoves the snacks onto the nearest shelf and turns to leave.

  “No need,” she calls to his retreating back. “I know where you live.”

  “Don’t be creepy, stalker.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  PROGRAM FUNTIME

  REAGEN

  “Show me playlist four,” I whisper to the rectangular black box. Song titles scrolls across the front. More ambient ocean sounds. Drake has zero variation in his musical interests so far. “Show me playlist five.”

  I lift a glass jar to my lips and take a deep swallow of water, tipping it to catch the last drops. It makes a quiet click against the faux marble countertop when I set it down among its predecessors. With a fingertip, I nudge it to line up with the other four empties near the curved edge.

  A glance back at the robot butler shows a list of tranquil waves across the screen. This can’t be left alone. I shift on my stool, a comfortable piece of metal with a padded seat, to pull my satchel off the ground and onto my lap. A quick rummage inside and I find the spare palm-port I keep on hand for emergencies.

  Setting the bag aside, I snuggle up to the black box to coo at it. “Don’t worry, you’ll be so much better when I’m done.”

  Through the archway, a large pair of bare feet shifts on the bed, pulling back under the covers. After letting myself into Drake’s apartment, I’d done a quick snoop through his front room, but found it boring beyond belief. No personal items decorate the main room, the walls all long expanses of white with the occasional tasteful abstract painting of complimentary colors. The cabinets in the kitchen have an eight-piece cookware set and neat stacks of plates and bowls. No junk drawer or cubby of stashed knickknacks. Boring. Like he’d hired a decorator to make the place look nice and hadn’t changed it since.

  I took one peek in the bedroom and decided to wait in the dining area. It sports a high table with stools that match the kitchen, most likely intended as an extra prep space. Despite the super comfy seat and shiny surface of the countertop, boredom set in fast.

  Another twenty minutes and I’ll be annoyed. Hope his alarm wakes him up before that happens.

  I run a wire link between the spare palm-port and the butler, then start the data transfer for software FunTime. I’ve always wanted to build one of these things, but it’s extravagant for my tiny living unit. In my downtime, though, writing programs for them has staved off boredom.

  So excited to see one of my programs implemented.

  While the software installs, I hop off the stool and wander to the kitchen. The long countertop wouldn’t fit within the length of my entire apartment. Its faux marble surface gleams beneath under-cabinet lighting, a realistic swirl of gray and white with dark speckles that can’t be purchased in lower levels. It goes with the glossy black cabinetry and brushed chrome handles. A full-size cooktop and oven sit like treasured jewels among the darkness.

  With Drake’s food obsession, I might have made the mistake of assuming he could cook. But the large fridge holds water and empty shelves. Also, the room lacks the mingled odors of cooking. Instead, it has a pleasant, clean scent that goes a long way toward masking the musk of sex.

  White couches, set up in front of a large vid screen, show deep indents in the cushions from extended lounge time. His second-favorite room in the apartment.

  A rustle of sheets comes from the bedroom, and a hand flops off the side of the bed, vibrant red nails curled inward. Not needing an
other eyeful of nakedness, I hurry back to the dining area and hop up on the stool. Looks like the program finished installing. I unhook the palm-port and stow it away, then reboot Butler. The black surface turns neon pink.

  Murmurs and a soft chuckle float out of the bedroom, followed by the sound of skin against skin and a quiet giggle.

  Oh, fuck no. No way I’m sitting through that.

  “Butler.”

  “Yes, Supreme Fancy Pants?” A feminine voice purrs from the rectangle. Rainbow lights flash on the top. I might have been super bored when I set this one up.

  “Drake, I think someone’s in here.” Sheets rustle, and a meaty thunk sounds as someone falls off the bed.

  “Butler, play track thirty-five.”

  The happy, hopping jingle of GoGoNow floods the apartment.

  “Shit! That better be you, Reagen!” Drake yells over the song. He stomps out of the bedroom, psy-gun in hand. After a quick scan of the room, he turns to face me.

  “Ugh, I don’t want to see you naked again!” A hand flies up to cover my eyes. I’d just gotten the image of his body piercing out of my memory.

  “Then stop walking in on me!” Heavy steps reverberate through the ground and up the metal legs of my stool. “What did you do to Butler?”

  “I improved her!” I part the fingers over one eye, a sliver just large enough to see him halt in front of the neon pink rectangle, lower body hidden by the countertop. Cautious, I drop my hand, ready to hide my eyes again. He could spring into the open in an instant.

  The psy-gun clicks onto the counter, and he picks up the small robot. “Butler, turn off music.”

  The jingle comes to its natural end and loops. I dance in my seat, singing along.

  Nate shuffles out of the bedroom, auburn hair in loose waves down his back. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and tucks the fiery strands behind one delicate ear. The bruise on his face looks better today, a mottled light-green shade on its way to being fully healed. Draped in an oversize burgundy robe, he carries another one over his arm. He passes it to Drake when he reaches the dining table, and my grumpy partner thumps the robot down to shrug into the black kimono.

  “Butler, turn off music,” I command. The room drops into silence. “Is that made of silk?”

  “Silk’s illegal on Level 9.” Drake wraps the thick belt around his waist twice and tucks the ends so they disappear.

  The material ripples with his movements, light and airy, with subtle shadows of darker black. Real silk. I want to touch it, feel the slick fibers against my skin.

  Drake raises an eyebrow. “Stop looking at me like that, stalker. No touching.”

  “Eww, gross.” I make gagging sounds, a hand over my mouth.

  “How’d you get in here, anyway?”

  “We’re supposed to meet this morning. Why aren’t you ready?”

  He glances at the clock on the wall. “It’s still Half-Light outside. How’d you get past the security guards?”

  “I’m awesome.” As if those muscle-bound behemoths could stop me.

  “That means nothing.”

  “It means everything.”

  Nate’s head swivels back and forth between us, eyes wide. “How many years have you guys worked together?”

  “Huh?” We say in unison, turning to look at him in confusion.

  “You guys just seem comfortable with each other.” The bathrobe slides off one shoulder when he shrugs, revealing the graceful ridge of a collarbone and streamlined muscles. “You must have been partners for a while.”

  Drake reaches for the other man, fusses with the collar of his robe to cover him. I sit back, stunned. We’re not comfortable. We don’t even like each other.

  But I’m in his home, messing with his stuff like we’re friends. I stare at the rainbow lights still flashing on Butler. What am I doing?

  Did he Dratex me?

  I glance at him from the corner of my eye in time to catch him steal a kiss from a blushing Nate. Ugh, no pull toward that. I fiddle with the glasses on the counter, rearranging them into a pyramid.

  “Are those from my fridge?” Drake demands.

  Hmm, I need one more for the top. My pyramid doesn’t work with only five. I hop off the stool and go to the enormous fridge to grab another. Liquid sloshes in my stomach as I move, but I’m determined. I crack the plastic seal and chug as I resume my seat.

  “Is this revenge?”

  I glare at him as I swallow. So going to need to pee soon.

  “You know I can have the lobby send up refills, right?”

  I carefully set the now-empty glass at the top of my pyramid. “Are you mocking my revenge?”

  “It’s a bit subpar.”

  “Butler.” I pick up the neon pink robot.

  “Yes, Supreme Fancy Pants?” Butler purrs.

  Drake snorts out a laugh; I ignore him. “Butler, play track thirty-five, fancy-pants edition.”

  The lights in the apartment switch off, the rainbow dots on the robot the only illumination. The pinpricks morph into happy faces and strobe to the beat of the GoGoNow theme song as it blares to life.

  “I take it back!” Drake shouts, hands over his ears. “Your revenge is above par!”

  “Go get ready!” I point my finger toward the bathroom.

  “I will! Just turn it off!”

  “Never!”

  “I have Cherry Flavored GoGoNow!”

  “Butler, off.” The music shuts off as the lights revert to normal. “I already searched your fridge.”

  “We got them last night.” Nate turns back toward the bedroom, bare feet shushing across the floor. “Drake said you get grumpy if you don’t have a specific flavor.”

  “Do not.” Affronted, I straighten on my stool.

  “I’m gonna hop in the sanitizer.” Drake heads to the bathroom as Nate returns carrying a plastic sack. He sets it before me like an offering and glances at Drake’s retreating form. The other man waves his fingers at him in invitation. “Join me.”

  Poor sanitizer. They’re going to make it run double time.

  The two disappear as I stand to peek into the bag at the four cans of energy drink. I pull one out and crack it open, not caring that it’s room temperature. The metallic scent of cherry fills my nose. I breathe deep to drown out the warmth that tries to wiggle its way through my barriers.

  This is not a friendship.

  ~

  “Call me later,” Natasha whispers as she leans in for yet another kiss.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels, ready to leave. The two have been saying goodbye in front of Drake’s apartment for five minutes now.

  “You look so good, babe.” Drake squeezes her waist, crushing the soft, sleeveless blue sweater beneath his fingers. The outfit arrived while they were sanitizing together and included a khaki-colored skirt and flat-heeled ankle boots. With a dab of lipstick and a swish of the hairbrush, no one would guess Natasha’s doing the walk of shame right now.

  “Thanks for taking care of me last night.” She winds slim, muscular arms around his neck, scrapes red nails against his scalp.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Ugh. I’m leaving.” I turn away with disgust and start walking.

  “Gotta go, babe,” Drake grumbles from behind me. I hear a flat-palmed slap, followed by a giggling yelp, and Drake jogs up to my side. “You’re such a mood killer.”

  “You have lipstick on your face.”

  He scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth until the red gloss disappears. “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry.”

  “I want Picadio’s.”

  “What’s Picadio’s?” We reach a street corner, and Drake edges toward me until I turn down the cross street. “This isn’t on our way.”

  “There’s a portal a block over that will take us straight to Central Plaza.”

  “Not happening.”

  “It’s an irrational fear.”

  “It’s a completely rational fe
ar.” Mr. Acrophobia has no room to talk.

  Up ahead, I see a striped, red and white awning with a round sign that juts out over the sidewalk, the name Picadio’s written in curling black letters. Above, smiles a chubby-faced man with an impressive mustache.

  Despite the early Sunday morning, a line already waits at the street window. As we get closer, the aroma of Italian spices fills the air, the sweet bloom of oregano and rosemary, the spice of red pepper and the burn of onion. Grilled meat and tomato sauce mingle for a savory combination.

  Drake cuts to the front, aiming a smoldering smile at the woman next in line. She frowns at him, arms crossed over her chest, unimpressed. He shrugs and leans an elbow against the counter. “Hey, Terry.”

  “Mr. Esten!” A cheerful voice calls out. “You want your usual?”

  “That would be great.”

  I lean against the side of the window and glance inside. A round-faced young man moves behind a prep counter, knife slicing through a hoagie. He scoops meatballs from a steaming vat and piles them onto the open roll.

  He glances up with a broad smile. “Oh, you brought a friend today! I’ll make it for two!”

  “No, thanks.” I wave my hand in refusal.

  The server’s eyes widen. “The only person who turns down a Picadio sandwich is someone who’s never had one.”

  “She already ate.” Drake shares a mournful look with the server before accepting the foil-wrapped package. “You’re the best, Terry.”

  “Tell Mr. Black, Picadio’s says hello!” he calls as we step away from the window, and the disgruntled woman takes Drake’s place.

  “You didn’t pay.”

  “He thinks I’m in charge of importing their mozzarella from Level 10. It makes their subs famous.” Drake unwraps the sandwich to expose hot strings of cheese with fragrant red sauce. “But the real star is the bread. It’s the perfect carrier, soft but hardy enough to not disintegrate under the toppings. Picadio’s gets it shipped up from a shop on Level 8.”

  “You have a weird obsession.”

  “You have no room to talk.” He lifts the sandwich and inhales, eyes closed. I tug his arm to keep him from tripping over an incinerator in his distraction. He follows my lead, dodges the hazard, and opens his eyes.