by John Zakour
She picked her glass and held it up. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘Impressive,’’ I told her. Lots of psis can do the brute force action, but the subtle moves take a lot of control.
‘‘It’s impolite not to return the cheers,’’ she told me.
I touched my glass to hers. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘You’re probably the only normal in the world I feel comfortable doing that in front of.’’
I took a sip, it was smooth with four oohs . . . ‘‘Let’s just say I’m not that normal.’’
She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. ‘‘Good point. At least there are thousands of us psis. You’re the only person in the world sharing his brain with a supercomputer.’’ She took a sip.
This was about all HARV could stand. He appeared before Desma, transmitting himself from my eye lens. (He didn’t seem to mind that he had a table between his top and bottom sections.) ‘‘What about me?’’ HARV asked. ‘‘I’m the only supercomputer in the world forced to share its processing power with a human. It’s like I’m a fine race car, capable of exceptional speed, power, and precision, except I’m saddled with an amateur driver.’’ HARV spun his head toward me. ‘‘No offense, Zach.’’
‘‘Taken,’’ I said, though I was ignored.
‘‘Yes, HARV. I can only begin to imagine the suffering he’s caused you,’’ Desma said.
HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Oh, the stories I could tell ...’’
‘‘Do you mind if we get to the case?’’ I asked.
HARV turned the top half of his body toward me. ‘‘You know, Zach, some of us are capable of doing more than one thing at once.’’
‘‘Well, I’m not,’’ I said. I looked through HARV, literally. ‘‘Shannon Cannon was a student here. Correct?’’
Desma nodded. ‘‘Yes, she was a fine, devoted student. A great mix of mutant and natural psi.’’
‘‘I know she’s capable of killing, but would she turn on her charge?’’ I asked.
‘‘No,’’ Desma said without hesitation. ‘‘She was totally loyal to Sexy. She even listened to her music.’’
‘‘Wow, that is going beyond the call of duty,’’ I said, scratching my head.
HARV chimed in. ‘‘I’ve looked at Shannon’s online psych profile and I agree . . . Shannon would never harm Sexy.’’
‘‘I assume the police are treating this like an open and shut case,’’ Desma said. ‘‘Just blame the crazy mutant psi . . .’’
I thought about the situation. I tried to put myself in the police’s shoes. ‘‘It’s convenient and fitting and easy. So you can’t blame ’em.’’
‘‘And the evidence does point to a superassassin who knew the building,’’ HARV added.
Desma shook her head. ‘‘The assassin would be near impossible to find if they had a massive man, woman, or bot hunt, but they aren’t even looking.’’
Yeah, the future didn’t look bright for Shannon. She had nobody in her corner and everybody lining up to chain her, toss her in a cell, and erase the key codes. I was her only hope. Lucky for her I was good at what I do.
I stood up. ‘‘Looks like I better find the police a couple of other suspects . . .’’
Chapter 12
I left Desma’s and hit the open road. HARV informed me that it would be twenty-four more hours before my office was repaired so for now, the road was my office.
I knew in my gut that Shannon wasn’t the one who offed Sexy and the others. But, as HARV always liked to point out, no judge in their right mind would listen to my gut.
The police wouldn’t be out looking for other potential killers. They had a perfectly good suspect in custody. She had the means, she had the power, she had the motive. At least, according to my buddy Tony. Shannon did it to protest the three council members voting against the Moon’s freedom. She was a mutant psi killer who snapped. The media was eating it up. No way the police would upset the apple cart here.
If anybody was going to find the true killer that anybody would be me. All I needed was a viable suspect.
‘‘HARV, put me in contact with Threa,’’ I said driving through the countryside.
‘‘Threa is in Incognito,’’ HARV said. ‘‘Quite literally.That’s what she calls her fairy realm. She is not accepting calls or visitors.’’
I needed to track Threa down, STASAP (sooner than as soon as possible). ‘‘Connect me with Ona,’’ I ordered HARV.
Ona Thompson may have been the richest, most powerful, most sexy woman in the world, but she was still an ex-client who owed me. She should be able to get me in contact with Threa.
It wasn’t long before Ona’s picture filled my dash viewscreen. She was in some sort of dojo, wearing a scantily cut karate uniform. Ona was surrounded by at least twenty angry-looking people, all also wearing karate uniforms.
Ona glanced up at the camera. ‘‘Oh, hi, Zach. You caught me during my midday workout. I will be with you in a nano.’’
‘‘Don’t hurry on my account,’’ I said, even though I really wanted her to hurry. My experience with Ona had taught me it’s best not to push her.
I watched with great anticipation as the karate people swarmed her, engulfing her in a sea of white uniforms and kicks and punches. The twenty of them just whaled away on their foil for a good minute. Suddenly, they all stopped cold. Their eyes rolled to the back of their heads. They all spun around 360 degrees. They all fell over on their backs, but with their legs up. They weren’t knocked out, they were whimpering. They reminded me of beaten puppies. Ona was, of course, standing in the middle of them, without a hair out of place.
Ona looked at me. ‘‘I promised them a bonus if any of them could last two minutes with me. I wanted to give them a sporting chance.’’
‘‘How nice of you,’’ I said.
‘‘I feel it’s important to treat my employees with respect,’’ Ona said, wiping the tiniest bit of sweat from her brow. ‘‘It builds morale.’’
‘‘Now what can I do for you, Zach?’’
‘‘I need to find your sister Threa.’’
Ona grimaced. ‘‘Now, why would anybody with half a brain, even a tenth of brain, seek out Threa?’’ She thought for a nano. ‘‘This involves Sexy and the Council murders, doesn’t it?’’
‘‘She’s a person of interest,’’ I said.
‘‘Not to the police,’’ Ona replied.
‘‘To me.’’
‘‘Zach, you should forget about Threa,’’ Ona warned. ‘‘She may be crazy but she’d never harm anybody. Or at least not kill them.’’
‘‘Yesterday I fought some of her ogres that she sent after Sexy.’’
Ona lowered her eyes. It was a subtle sign but I caught it nevertheless. ‘‘Yes, that does seem like Threa’s style.’’
‘‘So I need to talk to her.’’
Ona turned away from the camera, I assume to look at a clock. ‘‘Fine, I’ll take it under advisement.’’
‘‘What does that mean?’’
My screen went blank. HARV’s face filled the void.
‘‘When she wants to talk, she’ll find you,’’ he said.
‘‘What the DOS does that mean?’’ I said.
‘‘You have bigger potential problems right now,’’ HARV said.
‘‘Why?’’
HARV pointed behind me, ‘‘There’s been a black sedan following you for the last two kilometers.’’
I turned and looked over my shoulder. (I didn’t have to keep my eyes on the road since HARV was driving.) There it was, bearing down on me, a big black box of a sedan. It looked like a coffin on wheels with a dome on top. The holo-license read: PIS4U. It was DickCo.
The Dicks at DickCo were my archrivals. They stand for everything I can’t stand: big business, glitz, and sizzle over steak. They are a corporation of Dicks for hire. They have a low price tag and lower morals. There’s no job they won’t take and broadcast it over their own reality network.
‘‘Should I outrun them?’’ HARV asked.
I shook my head and pointed to the side of the road. ‘‘Can’t risk a speeding violation. I need the police to like me right now,’’ I said.
HARV slanted his head. ‘‘Not possible.’’
‘‘Hate me less then.’’
‘‘I’m pulling over.’’
HARV pulled the car over to the side. The black coffinlike sedan slid in behind us. I sighed and got out of the car.
The dome on the sedan popped up. Four people, three men and one woman, slid out. I recognized the man, sort of. He was Sidney Whoop, one of DickCo’s top guns. But the Sidney I knew was clean shaven, except for a little mustache, and a fancy dresser. He considered himself a class act. This Sidney had long hair and a scruffy beard. His normal custom-made suit and jacket had been replaced by a ripped T-shirt and a leather jacket. He was flanked by two goons with bald heads who might as well have been the same guy. They were backup muscle, nothing more, nothing less. They were in T-shirts and torn blue jeans and had chains and handcuffs hanging over their belts.
Bringing up the rear was a blond-haired babe. I could see the ambition in her cold blue eyes. She was dressed in tight black leather. This lady had more curves than the last geometry test I had taken. Only her curves looked a lot more fun. I was betting she was a psi.
‘‘Nice outfit,’’ I said to Sidney as he moved toward me.
He held up his arms, modeling for me as he walked. ‘‘Like it? We’re doing bounty hunter month . . .’’
Sidney was good. We’ve tangled on a few occasions. The scoreboard reads in my favor but it’s far from a blowout.
‘‘So to what do I owe the pleasure?’’ I asked.
‘‘Just here to talk, Zach. I promise.’’ Sidney said with his hand on his heart.
‘‘What?’’ one of the goons squawked. ‘‘Talk? This is Zachary Nixon Johnson. This guy is our claim to fame.’’
Sidney shook his head. ‘‘The boss just wants to talk.’’
The two goons moved forward. ‘‘Talk is for patsies! This is Zachary Nixon Johnson,’’ one of them repeated.
‘‘Let’s IRS him over,’’ the other said.
They both started heading toward me. I looked at Sidney. His brows were raised and his mouth quivering some. He wasn’t expecting this. I glanced at the girl. One perfectly shaped eyebrow was raised and she was smiling. She was behind this.
‘‘I’ve got a message coming into your brain,’’ HARV said. ‘‘It’s from the blonde, Stacy; she says, ‘Have fun.’ ’’
So, the blonde was pulling the strings and the goons were just performing chimps. Two hover-cams rose from the sedan, their lights blinking red, indicating they were recording.
The goons pulled their chains and approached. Sidney made a step forward in protest but Stacy touched him on his shoulder and he stopped. This was going to be just me and the big boys.
They each pounded a meaty fist into an open hand. They smirked as they drew nearer.
‘‘This is going to be fun,’’ they both grumbled. (Two thugs, one brain—DickCo probably got them at a discount rate. That’s the thing about DickCo—they don’t really care about solving the case, just making a buck.)
I slid slightly to the left, stationing myself right between them. I had quite the surprise up my sleeve for them.
‘‘You boys are going to fight fair now, aren’t you?’’ I asked more as a distraction than anything else.
‘‘We got you outmuscled and outnumbered. You’re old and slow. We don’t need to cheat,’’ one of them laughed.
‘‘We just need to break a few bones, gain us some rep points,’’ the other said. He slid a barely visible neck side to side, making a crunching noise.
‘‘Your moms must be so proud,’’ I said.
They were so close to me I could smell their breath. It was much more pleasant than I would have thought. Still, pleasant breath or not, I was going to have to put them down, hard and fast. I didn’t like the idea of two one-bit goons thinking I was ripe for the picking.
I played it coy, bending down to feign tying my shoe, like I didn’t notice their advance on me. I wasn’t looking at the goons, but HARV was tracking them via my wrist communicator so I knew exactly when they would be in striking distance. I grabbed a handful of dirt and gravel as the thugs closed to within striking distance. I needed to make sure I was the one who would be doing the striking. I straightened slowly as they advanced quickly. I tossed the dirt in their faces.
They halted their attack and starting rubbing their eyes frantically while mumbling something about how dirty outfits look poor on camera. I flicked my wrist in just that right way to make my trusty Colt 2062 pop into my hand. I didn’t shoot though, no fun or flair in that. Instead, I spun the weapon in my hand so I was gripping it in the middle. I punched forward with my gun hand aiming for the spot right between the now befuddled goons. As my fist approached them the sides of the weapon expanded outward, turning my firearm into a staff—a very hard staff. I clocked both the offending thugs in the jaw, one with the right side of the staff the other with the left.
They both buckled over backward, smashing into the roadside. I held GUS with both hands ready to use it as a bat if needed. It wasn’t. The two were out colder than New Moscow in mid February. Fooled by the age-old fake tie-your-shoe, dirt-in-the-face trick. DOS, my old third grade teacher Sister D wouldn’t even fall for that—Gates knows I tried. It just goes to show that DickCo was really trolling the bottom the barrel for their talent.
‘‘Sorry, Johnson,’’ Sidney said. ‘‘They’re nonunion workers. The union thugs are just so pricey. We have to cut corners these days.’’
I looked past Sidney to Stacy the psi. ‘‘Happy?’’ I said.
‘‘Not really,’’ Sidney said not knowing I wasn’t talking to him. ‘‘Is it too much to ask for backups who are happy being backups? None of these new guys are team players anymore. They don’t know how to take orders.’’
‘‘They were taking orders, just not from you,’’ I said.
Sidney turned to Stacy. ‘‘Stacy, what the freaking DOS were you doing?’’
Stacy had a subtle smile on her face. She pointed to the thugs. They lifted off the ground and started floating to the hover. ‘‘You have your orders . . . I have mine,’’ she said. ‘‘The boss lady wanted some clips we can use in a training video on how not to approach Zachary Nixon Johnson.’’
Yes, this was an ambitious woman. I was going to have to watch out for her in the future.
‘‘So what’s the message, Sidney?’’
‘‘The boss lady wants to meet you in one hour at Madam Ti Chi’s Restaurant on Arnold Ave.’’
‘‘The boss lady?’’
‘‘Ona Thompson,’’ HARV said in my brain.
‘‘Ona Thompson,’’ Sidney and Stacy both said.
‘‘Oh, that’s right, Ona’s EnterCorp owns you guys,’’ I said thinking out loud. ‘‘Why didn’t Ona just tell me that herself?’’
‘‘She’s so rich and powerful she never does anything herself,’’ Stacy said.
‘‘And when she says jump, we jump and jump and jump,’’ Sidney said. He pointed at me. ‘‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be there.’’
I arrived at Madam Ti Chi’s during the heart of the lunch hour. I had never eaten there but I heard the food was great. It must have been as the place held at least three hundred and if there was an empty seat in the house it was hard to find.
An older Asian woman, who I assumed was Madam Ti Chi, greeted me at the door with a polite bow. She was short and slightly wrinkled; she could have been anywhere from 60 to 160. She had a tiny microphone next to her mouth and an earpiece clipped to her left ear lobe. At first I thought it was PIHI-Pod then I realized it had to be a translational computer.
The women spoke in the microphone and the words ‘‘Greetings, Mr. Johnson,’’ came out of the microphone. She motioned to the back of the room. ‘
‘Follow me,’’ she said.
She led. I followed. ‘‘Please pardon the use of a translator computer,’’ the woman said through the translator as we weaved through the crowd. ‘‘I have so many customers from so many places I find it only fair that I speak to them all through my translator.’’
‘‘Not a problem,’’ I said.
She stopped at a small table for two near the back corner. There was already food on the table. One place setting had chicken and broccoli and rice, the other sushi of some sort. The woman pointed to a chair next to the chicken dish.
‘‘You sit here,’’ she said. ‘‘The other will be here soon.’’
I looked at the place setting. Chicken and broccoli was my favorite. This had certainly been arranged. I sat down.
‘‘Hmm,’’ HARV said inside my head. ‘‘I’m detecting an energy surge.’’
‘‘A good surge or a bad one?’’ I thought.
‘‘Energy is neither good nor bad,’’ HARV said.
‘‘Is it dangerous?’’ I thought.
‘‘Depends,’’ HARV snickered. I absolutely hate it when he snickers.
There was a commotion in the restaurant. I looked around and every other person, whether they be patron, waitress, or even kitchen staff, had stood up and were filing out of the building. It was like a weird zombie Chinese fire drill.
‘‘Should I leave?’’ I asked HARV.
‘‘No,’’ said a nearby voice. I turned toward that voice to see Ona had materialized in the chair opposite me in all her splendor. Ona stood over two meters tall and had golden skin with just a hint of purple in it. You would have thought it would be unappealing, but instead it was oh-so-sensual. Her platinum blond hair was draped just over her shoulders. She had a body to make a goddess envious. She was wearing a clothlike miniskirt that looked like she borrowed it from Betty Rubble. On anybody else it would have been silly but on her, stunning. I had no idea what color her eyes were, as rumor was that anybody who looked her in the eyes was instantly transfixed.
