He exited the abandoned highway on the other side of the river, turning left on Manufacturers Road. When that intersected Cherokee Boulevard, he found the first signs of commerce other than the City Café. A few desultory businesses clung to life here—fix-it shops, fast food robots, and a government welfare office. While he waited for a light, a police car cruised by. It was modern and well-maintained, unlike the other cars. He nodded to the cop behind the wheel, who nodded back. A scanner was on the roof, mounted next to the light bar. The cop didn’t hit the brakes or turn on his lights. No facial recognition out on him yet. Sloppy.
When the light changed, he crossed the intersection where Manufacturers turned into Velma, took a right, went a few blocks, took a left, and quickly lost himself in side streets. He drove slowly, just under the speed limit to avoid drawing undue attention. There were quite a few bikes about, and many were better than his. Despite how many credits he’d gone through, it was a good choice.
It took ten minutes of zigzagging to reach his destination. Zeke waved to the groundskeeper as he pulled into the information spot at the Chattanooga Memorial Park and looked up what he needed, then he was back on the bike and driving around the twists and turns of the old cemetery. He found the grave in only a few minutes.
“Jenifer Avander,” the gravestone read. He knew the birthdate of his daughter well. The date of her death was there for him, too—over 60 years ago. She’d died young, only 43 years old. There was no indication of why on the grave, and the Aethernet hadn’t had anything on her. She was born before it was established, and the public records for Chattanooga were a wreck, just like the city.
Zeke took out a fresh cigar and lit it. Next to Jenifer’s grave was another labeled, “Molly Greene.” His ex-wife had returned to her maiden name at some point after he’d left. A simple marker, just like their daughter’s. The date of her death was only a year later. The sound of a leaf crunching in the fall grass made him slip a hand under his coat.
“I’m not armed,” an older voice said. Zeke turned his head to see the gardener standing in the trees a short distance away. “I was just watching. Not a lot of people come here anymore. You looked a little rough, and we’ve had some try digging up bodies for loot.”
“Grave robbers?” Zeke asked, a big puff of smoke billowing in the chill breeze. The old man nodded, though Zeke realized the guy was probably young enough to be his grandson. He looked at the cigar and gave an almost sly grin, like he was seeing something that he had fond memories of.
“You kin to them?” the man asked. Zeke nodded and looked back. “I know the family.” That brought his head around quickly.
“Tell me,” Zeke said.
“Well, things was looking pretty good around here when I was in grade school, oh 75 years ago. Molly Greene there owned the City Café Diner, just off downtown. Nice place, still there as a matter of fact. I went there with my family every Sunday for breakfast. She was nice. Well, she was never happy after her husband went and died in them first merc wars, so she eventually sold the diner. She went to work at the Sequoyah fusion test plant, up where the nuclear reactor was before them protestors got it shut down in the twenties.”
“They wanted to put one of the really big plants there, only it ended up being put in Atlanta instead.” He shrugged. “Politicians and stuff. Business flocked down thereabouts, not here. Businesses started to dry up. All that merc money started making people lazy. Government had money to give people stuff. Why work? Free food, free cars, free TVs; you name it! It was the durned lottery every day! Only then it starts getting expensive to buy stuff, and the government cuts back. All the jobs moved away. Some not even to other countries, either, but to other planets! I hear tell we used to fuss about Mexican aliens. Shit, that ain’t nothing compared to a talking ten-foot-wide spider!”
He cackled at his own joke and shook his head. Zeke thought the geezer wouldn’t be laughing if he’d ever met a Tortantula in person. The alien spiders had particularly poor dispositions.
“So our town slowly died,” the gardener continued. “Most people left, only wasn’t no place to go, was there? It wasn’t just Chattanooga going down the drain, but the whole country. Shoot, darn near the whole planet!” The man shook his head, then spit in the grass. “All that money, and the government just shoveled it out to people for junk. Then the magnetic train went through without stopping, and things really went to shit. That damned TVG gang uses the city as a base, no one wants to live here, cops is workin’ for them…it’s just never ending—”
“What happened to Molly?” Zeke asked. The man shook his head and seemed to remember Zeke was there.
“Huh? Oh, well her daughter took up with some nefarious character from Atlanta ‘bouts. Had a kid I think. Anyway, there was a turf war, and she died in the gun battle when her scummy husband tried to shoot it out. I think the kid was killed too. Molly couldn’t handle it. She hung herself about a year later.”
Zeke sighed. That filled in one of the pieces he was missing. It also started a small fire in the pit of his stomach. He knew what he needed to do now before he left for good. He glanced at the third grave for a long moment as the gardener went back to rambling about welfare and aliens. Finally, he interrupted him.
“Thanks for the information,” Zeke said and headed for the road nearby where his bike rested.
“Hey mister,” the gardener called after him. “What’s your name, and why you wanna know about them Avanders?”
“Zeke,” he said over his shoulder, answering the first question but not the second. He brought the bike to life and rode off without another word. The gardener walked up and examined the two graves the stranger had been standing in front of. The sound of his motorcycle was fading in the distance as he looked at the third grave. “Dr. Ezekiel Avander,” it said; he had died almost 90 years ago. “Lost in the Alpha Contracts under the employ of mercenary company Whitewater Intl.”
“Ezekiel…” the old man mused. He turned to catch a glimpse of the departing stranger, but the bike was long gone.
Part II
Loose Ends
Zeke lay in his cell with no arms or legs, lying in his own filth, trying to eat some of the half-rotten garbage his masters had slid under the door with a shovel. He hadn’t been able to clean himself for a week, and he knew he was in danger of becoming seriously sick, but calling out only earned him a beating. When the door flew open, he only barely got his head out of the way. A huge reptilian creature looked down at him in disgust.
“Work now,” it said.
“I need to clean,” he said, not looking his keeper in the eye.
“Work now,” it insisted.
“If I don’t clean up, I’m going to be too sick to work,” he persisted, taking a chance. But if they didn’t let him clean himself now, they never would once the work started. He could eat in there without his arms or legs, but relieving himself had negative side effects he loathed. The jailer examined him for a minute, its wide nostrils flaring, then snapping closed at the putrid stench. “If you left me an arm I wouldn’t fucking stink like this,” he snarled, and instantly regretted it.
“Cho-to!” the jailer barked, and his assistant shambled down. Another slave like Zeke, Cho-to enjoyed his captivity, because he oversaw the other slaves. He liked hurting people. The four-armed humanoid Lumar was seven feet tall, and about as smart as a nine-year-old Human. Almost. He stared down at Zeke with malevolence in his eyes. “Clean it, give it limbs, dress it, and deliver it to the labs.”
“Master,” the Lumar said, bowing deeply in order to be shorter than the five-and-a-half-foot tall reptilian. When the jailer walked away, Cho-to’s grin got even bigger. “I clean,” he said, showing teeth filed to points. Cho-to had started his illustrious career in the exciting field of slavery as a pit fighter. The Lumar disappeared and returned with a firehose.
“You sadistic fuck,” Zeke said in the alien’s language. Cho-to’s face turned to rage, and the hose blasted out at its full, skin-
burning power. Zeke screamed and tried to breathe.
Zeke sat up in bed with a strangled cry, gasping for breath and covered in so much sweat he almost thought he was back in that cell. He struggled to control his breathing, putting his head between his legs. The last time he had that nightmare was at least a month ago, shortly before returning home. A sign of anxiety, he thought, as he got up to shower.
An hour later, he sipped coffee and watched as a police cruiser hummed by. It was the third one in 20 minutes. In the two weeks since his incident at the City Café Diner, the heat had turned up an order of magnitude. The cops finally realized his Yack was a forgery when they back-checked on Randy Snyder, who had died when a tsunami hit Laem Chabang five years ago. He’d tossed the Yack in the Tennessee River after draining the account.
He watched through the flop’s cracked window as the police car slid past. Its scanner mast was extended, and that meant they knew he was in the area. They’d been closing in as sightings came in. Not a lot of old drifter types riding motorcycles. He had been through three bikes so far. He’d ditched the first a day later. The second when he’d come out of a bar to see cops examining it. His third one was a block away, and there it would remain until found.
He’d used them to finish his reconnaissance and learn more about his home town as it existed today. The only two employers were the fusion plant, which provided power for most of Tennessee and Kentucky, though just barely, and the FedMart distribution center. The first had a hundred workers, mostly professional, the latter employed a couple thousand people and twice that many robots to move entitlements around the region. TVG hijacked about one in fifty robotic transports, by his best estimate. The police caught the hijackers, maybe twice a year. It was a big news story, but it never seemed to lead to bigger catches.
The other thing he found was an alien-made manufactory, a huge one-piece robotic factory which took raw materials and produced finished goods. It had been purchased by a local consortium which went out of business before the group could bring it online. They’d wanted to build fliers in the manufactory. He’d gotten through the pathetic security at the bankrupt facility and had figured out the problem in only an hour. Another piece of the plan fell into place.
He went about making sure there was no physical evidence to link him to this place. After years of dealing with highly advanced Galactic Union tech, it wasn’t hard. As he worked he thought about the leader of this gang, the TVG. Last night he’d verified who it was. No one knew the leader’s real name…but Zeke did.
Zeke shouldered his bag and headed down the back stairs. An old Dodge pickup truck sat there idling, a curl of smoke from the exhaust.
“Hey Zeke,” the driver said.
“Hey,” he said as he slung the bag into the cab and climbed up. The Binnig mechanic, Joe Brown, had proved quite helpful, and amazingly willing to break the law. “What’s the word?”
“Came in today.” Zeke looked at him hard. “No kidding. Boss messaged me.” Zeke grunted, but Joe saw the little grin. “Shit’s gonna hit the fan, ain’t it?” The grin got bigger. “Let me help.”
“No,” Zeke said.
“I can drive a—”
“I said ‘no,’” Zeke said, glaring at the kid, “and I meant, ‘no.’”
“Cool, fine,” Joe said and put the wheezing truck into gear. It was made over a century before and preferred actual gasoline, not the synthetic alcohol mix. As the kid drove, Zeke slid the mask over his face. He was Asian today. He had been black yesterday, and if needed, he would be American Indian tomorrow. The masks cost almost a thousand US each, but were well worth it, as they were undetectable by the tech the local cops were using.
The masks were so good he’d used one two days ago to masquerade as a Binnig deliveryman to drop off a package at the police loading dock. He did it late at night, when only the automatic systems were there to greet him. The mask’s synthetic retinal pattern defeated the sentry, and he’d delivered the box. He grinned when he thought about the look on the receiving clerk’s face when the man came in the next day to find an empty box. Of course, it wasn’t empty when Zeke dropped it there.
The drive only took ten minutes. Like most days, there was only minimal traffic on the Chattanooga streets. Most people were on foot or on bikes, even with snow flurries in the forecast. There were a few barely-functioning gas-powered vehicles, like Joe’s ancient Dodge, and a few more electric vehicles, all of Human design, humming along. They passed three police cruisers. None turned in pursuit, so the mask did its job. Halfway there, Joe pointed up to where a pair of police fliers were patrolling a route over the dying city.
“More of those every day,” Joe said. “You kicked over a hornet’s nest.” Zeke just nodded. He fished a cigar out of his pocket as they approached the Binnig dealership, and Joe parked behind it, next to the shop door. Zeke climbed out and lit the cigar. It was only two steps from the truck to the door, which opened as he approached.
“Zeke-san,” the man who was holding the door for him said, bowing slightly.
“Tokuzumi-san,” Zeke said, bowing in return as he entered. The other man had learned to tolerate the cigars. “It is here?”
“Hai! Arrived late last night.” Joe came in, locked the door, and led the way into the pre-delivery service shop. Crates were lined up along the far wall, opposite the big roll-up delivery door. They all bore the logo of Binnig Industries and had “Industrial Robotics” painted on their grey plastic sides. “I am amazed you could arrange this,” Tokuzumi said when they reached a crate next to a work bench.
“Galactic Union credits can do amazing things,” he said. “Can I see?” Tokuzumi gave a little bow again, and he worked the release, pivoting the plastic door of the container upwards. The object inside just barely fit, with heavy padding on all sides so it couldn’t move. A note was taped to the front. The Japanese technician took the note and handed it to Zeke.
“Zeke, I hope this does the trick. Best I could arrange on short notice. Serial number is null, so it can’t be traced. Could only send it bare, just as you see. But I suspect you can do a lot with it, just the same. For old times.” It was signed Sansar Enkh, with a stylized “GH” written next to the signature.
Zeke spent a few minutes removing the packaging and examining what his credits had purchased. It was both better than, and less than, what he’d hoped.
“And your intentions with this, Zeke-san?” Tokuzumi asked.
“I think you know full well what my intensions are.”
The man looked at him critically. “You understand my concern,” Tokuzumi said; “my business, my company’s business here is at stake. Binnig’s reputation as well. It is a risk.”
“It is,” Zeke acknowledged. “Were the extra parts in the other containers?” He gestured at the other identical boxes.
“Yes,” Tokuzumi confirmed, “enough to build a robot that would fit in here. A piece in each one so the weight would not be noticed.” Zeke nodded. “I would guess it is not possible then to stop you.”
“No,” Zeke said, “and frankly, you shouldn’t want to.”
They backed the pickup into the shop, loaded the cargo into the back, and covered it with old tarps Zeke had found in alleys over the last two weeks. It would look like just another beater carrying trash. When they were done, he went to his duffel bag and gave Tokuzumi a five thousand credit chit.
“For your risk.” The man bowed and accepted it. It was more than he’d promised, because Tokuzumi didn’t know about the delivery Zeke made in the man’s delivery truck. He’d need it for lawyers, if things didn’t work out. Zeke next held out a thousand-credit chit for Joe. “For the truck.” Joe laughed and shook his head.
“Shit, I done took enough of your money. That truck ain’t worth fifty credits.” He held out his hand. “Good luck.” Zeke shook it and left, tossing the cigar into the ditch and putting the mask back on as he got in the truck. They watched him pull out in the street before closing the roll-up door.
/> * * *
Zeke spent the afternoon working. He stopped at the anonymously-rented storage unit where he’d had his personal container shipped. The modular facility had installed the unit in an empty space, and it opened to his retinal scan. There wasn’t room inside for the truck, so he backed the bed of the truck inside to work. It was starting to get dark when he finished and pulled out of the storage facility. He dropped his cargo at the planned location and headed downtown.
He parked the truck two blocks from the police station in an alley, but within view of the big, modern building. He pulled a shade over the windows that mimicked an empty truck and started opening boxes. As the sun was setting, he was ready.
Zeke didn’t use his pinplants—implants in his brain that allowed him to access computer networks and store data—very much. He’d never liked them, but they were a requirement of service with the Golden Horde, so he’d gotten them. The problem was his expertise with them wasn’t the best, and inside the Aethernet, you were vulnerable. The police usually had the best hackers in their employ. This time, though, he was ready.
He loaded a high-end scrambler program and accessed a local node of the Aethernet. The program informed him he had about ten minutes. More than enough. He used the pinplants to dial a number.
“Chief Forrest,” the voice answered.
“Chief, my name is Zeke.” There was a pause.
“Why do I care who you are? And how did you get this number?”
“You care because your officers only know me by the name Randy Snyder, and I got it from a friend.”
“You’re a wanted man,” Forrest said. “You killed four citizens, and maimed two others.”
“Technically, they killed themselves,” Zeke pointed out. “I did maim those two, though. All me.” The line was silent for a moment. “I know you’re attempting to trace this, so let’s be brief.”
A Fistful of Credits: Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 5) Page 3
