by Lyn Forester
Around them, the restaurant fills, and over the short wall, he sees a line of heads forming. The server comes back to check on them again, a small black pad in his hand. “Will there be anything else for the night?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Thank you for your patronage.” He sets the pad on the table, stacks their dirty dishes, and carries them away.
Drake lifts the bill, raising an eyebrow at Reagen. “We’re splitting this, right?”
She lifts a lazy middle finger at him, then covers her mouth to hide a tiny burp. He grins and flips the pad over to find the payment scanner on the back.
“Anywhere else you want to go before heading back to work?” He scans his datband and waits for the green light to confirm the funds transfer. The company can afford to cover this one.
“No. Anything I want up here I can’t afford.”
“I heard there’s a garden at the pleasure house, with real fruit trees.” He’d read an article about it while researching which fruits would be in highest demand during Summer-Cycle. Black Corp needed to start negotiations on exports with the end of the season coming soon.
She looks tempted, but shakes her head. “No, we need to get back to work.”
“No rest for the weary.” He stands and moves to the other side of the table, arm extended.
From the floor, she stares at his outstretched hand, then pulls her legs out from under the table and slides cool fingers into his grip. She allows herself to be pulled to her feet, and when he releases her, he notices she doesn’t wipe her hand on her pants.
Warmth fills his chest. He turns away before she sees his goofy smile. Maybe someday soon, he’ll ask her to ride out to the rim again.
~
“Where will we meet in the morning?” Drake asks as the lift begins to decelerate at Level 9.
“Message me in two hours with an update. We can decide then.” Reagen stares at his chin, squished close in the packed space. The safety rating for passenger weight has to have been exceeded at the last stop as more people packed in.
At Half-Light, they’d caught the tail end of the rush of citizens heading down to their lower-level living units.
The lift comes to a stop, and the doors open to a quiet cheer. Someone jostles hard against his shoulder, in a rush to exit. He throws an arm out against the plas-glass wall to stop himself from squashing Reagen.
After the immediate rush clears out, he steps back and thumps her on the shoulder. “Talk to you in a couple hours.”
“Just message me,” she hollers after him.
He waves a hand over his shoulder without looking back and dives through the doors before they can lock him inside.
Without Reagen to stop him, he beelines for the portal docks. The line there takes only a few minutes. Conductors in black hats keep the flow going. The public portals tether set points together, offering instant linear travel across the city level. Without the need to plug in coordinates, people disappear through the curved metal arches at a steady pace.
When the line splits, he chooses the one for Sector 2. Another two minutes, and he sucks in a breath before he steps through the shimmering wall. Ice coats his skin, and he stumbles out the other side in a plume of frigid air. The conductor on this end steadies him with a firm hand that keeps him walking so he doesn’t block the next traveler.
Shit, not doing that for a few days made him forget how uncomfortable it is. Reagen’s making him soft. He regains his bearings and nods to the helpful conductor. During the two-block walk to NuArc, the chill melts from his limbs, and he feels normal once more.
“Evening, Mr. Esten.” The doorman hurries to open the building’s door for him, and Drake strides though. In the lobby, the vase of flowers on the center podium seems lackluster after the water display on Level 11. The elevator doors are already open and waiting when he gets there, the usher waiting inside. “Top floor, Mr. Esten?”
“Yes.” He walks to the back of the box to lean casually, face forward, legs spread wide for balance. As soon as the usher steps off and the doors close, he slumps against the wall. Fatigue washes through him. The lack of sleep pulls at him now when he still has hours of work ahead.
He shouldn’t have spent so much time with Nate last night. But he’d needed the release after days of restraint. And Nate was an eager partner; round three had been especially athletic. Yeah, that alone was worth the energy drain now.
After a couple deep breaths, he gathers himself and straightens. He’ll have the night security bring up a cup of coffee from their break room. The black sludge should perk him up a bit.
The elevator slows its rapid ascent and opens onto his floor. Stepping off, he peers around at the quiet office. Even the few workers who were here this morning have since gone home. He turns left and heads down the hall, steps light on the low-pile carpet. After all of the walking they’d done the past few days, his feet ache. Maybe it wasn’t Reagen making him soft; maybe it was all the desk work.
When Mr. Black first proposed the idea of a Black Investigators team, he’d been resistant. But now, after pounding the streets again, he feels more open to the idea. He was getting bored with exports, and he’s already worked most of the other areas of the company. The investigation is fun, if frustrating at times. And working with a partner is keeping him on his toes, making him realize he still has a lot to learn.
He can even give up portal use. A shiver wracks his body at the most recent memory. Disc-bikes are definitely the way to travel.
At his office door, he spreads his hand over the palm reader. A brief flash of heat, and the door pops open. Floral stench slaps him in the face, and instant fury rushes through him. He storms inside, locking the door before he stomps to the trash can. Inside, the crumpled ball of paper rests against the edge, pure and innocent.
With effort, he restrains the urge to kick the can. How dare Victor send flowers to his office for Reagen. He couldn’t believe that it was intended as the apology the card said it was. Not with the way the man had stared at her. It was almost worth the paperwork to go back there and kill the man himself. The only thing that stopped him was that the flowers had come here and not to Reagen’s personal address. The manager of Penned didn’t know where she lived, and Drake would make sure it stayed that way.
At least she hadn’t seen the note.
He forces himself to sit down at the desk and taps his desk-port to life. Half of the files he asked Tim to compile sit in his non-emergent box. Conflicted emotions there. On the one hand, at least he got the work done. On the other hand, how hard was it to post the files to the correct inbox? The kid knew he was waiting on this information.
Stuffing his irritation into the back of his mind to deal with later, he opens the folder to find The Hut’s financial information. As he begins to sort through the columns of numbers, a clear stream of outgoing credits confirms that Troy’s wife has bad spending habits. They live way above their means. At their current rate, Troy will have to sell assets just to keep their home.
On his desk, the red light flashes on his communicator.
Surprised to see Mr. Black is still in the office, he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair to make sure he appears tidy.
“Answer, all.”
The screen lights up to show the disapproving face of Mr. Black’s secretary. Today, her shining, platinum hair hangs on either side of her head in two tight braids. The new style, and the pale hint of lipstick on her mouth, shows she’d been about to leave for the night. She’d swapped out her stiff business suit in favor of a less-formal, high-collared, light gray shirt with red bowtie. His arrival in the office must have disrupted her plans.
When he tries to imagine what the cold woman gets up to in her spare time, his imagination fails. “Yes, Ms. Slater?”
She glares down her narrow nose at him. “Mr. Black requests your presence in his parlor.”
“Right away.” His finger stops over the end button. “Did he say what the meeti
ng is about?”
She sniffs in disdain that he would dare to ask. “I believe it is in reference to that unsightly woman he met with on Friday. I’ll inform him you will arrive in five minutes.”
“I need ten.” Even he has to stop at security before they allow him into Mr. Black’s inner sanctum.
“Five should suffice. At least you are shaved today.” The screen flickers to black as she ends the call.
His stomach sinks as he leans back in the chair and scrubs a hand over his face. He’d pushed his side mission to the back of his brain, sure he’d discover all of Reagen’s secrets in the time they spent together. He hadn’t learned much, hadn’t really tried past the first day. So caught up in the case, he’d allowed himself to slide into an easy, if sometimes prickly, partnership.
He knew some things, small things, inconsequential things. But even those felt too personal. It would be an extreme act of betrayal to tell someone else that she panics in small spaces, counts exits before entering a room, loves riding fast, and is patient with him when his fear of heights kicks in.
Shoulders tight, he rises from his desk.
RELICS OF THE PAST
REAGEN
My tiny, timid neighbor steps off the elevator as I enter Blue Horizon’s lobby. The doors swish closed at my back as our eyes meet. In an instant, she straightens, smoothing out her peach-colored skirt as she peers past me in excited expectation. I brush past her and open the stairwell door, leaving her to the disappointment at my back. She’ll have to stalk my partner some other time. No love connection for her tonight.
I take the stairs two at a time, thighs burning as I run up and exit onto my floor. The beige carpet and walls greet me like an old friend as I walk the thirty-three steps to my living unit. I press my fingers into the cool gel of the palm reader, annoyed Drake’s people still haven’t fixed it. Keying in the code, I’m glad my other neighbor, the Hall Lurker, stays hidden. With the night I’ve had, I’m in no mood to deal with his aggressive overtures or body odor. If he makes an appearance now, I might be tempted to go with Drake’s permanent solution for him instead of my idea of bureaucratically-slow deportation.
Once inside, I take a deep breath of the chemical cinnamon air freshener as I bypass the couch in favor of my office at the back, glad no one new has invaded my private space today. After I got to shoot him, I might have forgiven Drake his asshole attempt to assert dominance in our working relationship on our first day together. But it will take longer to feel at ease in my home once more.
The low hum of electronics settles my nerves as I slide into my desk chair. After plugging in my palm-port, I transfer over Henly’s crude drawing. A few taps later, and my program starts to sift through every company logo registered in Roen in the last fifteen years, active or not.
It takes longer to hack through to the personal surveillance cameras around The Hut and to set up a secondary search to comb through them. With the sketchy image I have to go from, I don’t hold out much hope I’ll ping a match. At night, the video quality will be harder to use. Some companies don’t pay for the Lights-Out upgrade. It’s a safe gamble in the long run. Night pirates tend to leave businesses alone in favor of preying on the unfortunate souls who venture out once the city goes dark.
But nothing ventured, nothing found.
Programs chugging away, I turn to the goody box stashed beneath my desk. The glowing coils of scavenged portal parts make my fingers itch with the challenge. I want those halion suppression handcuffs Drake offered in trade.
But first comes Henly’s datband. The kid earned it.
With regret, I move the more exciting pieces out of the way to dig out the more mundane recycled datbands. Last year, I purchased them in bulk from the back room of a retail store that sells classy upgrades to its customers. The underpaid shop clerk eagerly bypassed company regulations, trading the datbands, originally intended for the incinerator, for an unregistered stick of credit.
It won’t be difficult to reprogram one and activate it. I can even load on food and clothing credits for the year. But before that, Henly needs an identity so he can move through the city levels and use the portals if he so chooses. The problem comes in his unregistered DNA status. As far as Roen is concerned, Henly isn’t a living entity. So first, he needs to exist.
Five years ago, I was Henly. I did not exist.
With time, I could have mirrored another citizen’s datband and cloned myself into reality. But that kind of life had limitations I was unwilling to accept. It was worth relinquishing half of my stolen credits for Black Corp to make me a person again.
Little did they know, once they put me in their system, they gave me access to all of Roen. One small DNA chip, in the right system, allows me to move through Blue Hall and Black Corp with impunity. What I couldn’t do for myself, I can do for Henly.
Technically, I’m stealing from Black Corp since new identities fall under their jurisdiction. But, also technically, I’m a seal-carrying, black market-approved employee of the mob. Whether I gave myself the stamp of approval is irrelevant. The paperwork for Henley’s existence will be deep within the file database. One hour after his new datband goes live, proof of the payment for his new identity will also exist.
It puts the kid in the shady zone of owing fealty to the mob if they ever come across his registration. But the risk is low as long as he keeps his nose clean.
I dig out an old folding desk-port from the stack and link one of the mid-level, generic datbands to it through a pair of wires. Then the fun part of designing the new Henly begins. I lose myself for a bit as I construct his profile. Not often I get to create a new person. The balance of middle ground takes a delicate hand. Average is far more difficult than people give it credit for. The key to anonymity is an extreme lack of variance in life.
A beep from my desk-port calls me from the mire of mid-level education reports. The muscles in my neck creak as I glance toward the monitor, a little confused at the company logo that the program shuffled to the left side of the monitor as it continues to hunt for other likely matches. The stylized sky skipper sits above a wavy cloud. Henley’s drawing is shockingly. He only missed the curved top of the sky skipper’s body.
I plug the new image into the program sifting through personal surveillance around the dens on Level 4, then tap a finger over the company’s image on my other screen to pull up the company’s history. A Level 11 exotic meat distributor. The company declared insolvency two years ago when the owner’s debt outweighed his income. Full liquidation of assets. The courts deported the owner down a couple levels when he failed to cover the fines levied against him for falsifying his product. News vids are linked to the file, and I skim through to check if any of them report where the owner ended up. But the short-lived scandal quickly lost the news channels’ interest.
Skimming back to the top, I run a search for the owner’s name. Landon Maine. His record ends after the trial. Either he left Roen to start over in one of the other cities, or he changed identities. A hunt through Black Corporation’s database pings zero hits.
I backtrack to the company file and run a search on the liquidation. The company had three delivery trucks. But the credit trail freezes at the auction house. An anonymous buyer used unregistered credits.
Palms pressed against my thighs, I lean back in the chair, gaze unfocused.
My pocket vibrates, pulling me from my thoughts. I pull out my palm-port to check the screen, expecting Drake. We were supposed to check in with each other a while ago. I’m surprised he hasn’t contacted me before now.
Instead of my partner’s name, the word Freezer glows across the surface. I brace myself before I answer. “Reagen speaking.”
Carmichael’s angry image pops up, bushy eyebrows crouched low over his goggles as he glares into the vid screen on his side. His eyes, ballooned to cartoonish proportions by the lenses, still manage to convey his outrage.
“Investigator Thorpe,” he barks. “Do you care to explain yourself?
”
“Not particularly.” I note his shoulders, halfway to his ears. Hermit mode in progress, but still open for discussion. “What can I do for you, Medic Carmichael?”
“You know why I’m calling.” His shoulders inch a little higher. “Tell me why I have a case of expensive wine in my freezer.”
“I came across it in my investigations today.” The search through the personal surveillance comes back negative, so I expand it to include the levels above and below the aphremore dens on Level 4. I glance back at the irritated man. “The wine is a counterfeit and laced with Ash.” In my periphery, images scroll across the screen in rapid succession.
His mouth twists with distaste. “Then why was it not reported to Blue Hall and sent through the proper channels?”
“Time is of the essence, and I’m running a blackout case. I’m certain it’s how Halrow was poisoned.” I curl my lips in a smile without teeth. Years of trial and error taught me Carmichael likes pleasantry, but becomes suspicious if I’m too pleasant. “Can you please test to see if it matches the Ash that killed the other victims? And send me the ingredient break down? I’d like to know where it came from.”
His shoulders drop an inch, but his eyes remain narrowed. “I’ll put it on the list.”
Not good enough. His list sits in the bottom of his lowest desk drawer. Things go there to die. Like Drake’s initial request for information that my partner is still waiting for. He never should have sent it on Black Corp letterhead. Carmichael hates Black Corp only slightly more than he hates Investigators, Inc.
Chin on one fist, I gaze down at the phone. “I visited an intriguing store the other day.”
“I don’t find your shopping habits interesting, Investigator Thorpe.” His nose wrinkles as his hand lifts toward the vid screen. “If you have nothing relevant to discuss, I’m busy.”
“They had some very unusual relics on display.”
