“She RAPED my wife! Lucinda’s at home crying, the naive, stupid, stupid girl! She can’t even get out of bed. My child is traumatized!” howled Fossbender. “We should notify family services! There’s a predator loose!”
“I understand your concerns, ma’am,” returned the sheriff. “However, as I was going to say, there is no evidence, at least not on that file you brought in, to suggest a sex crime.”
Nurse Fossbender’s mouth fell open, causing the folds of skin under her chin to jiggle, “No sex crime?!”
The sheriff gestured towards the back, “Ms. Fossbender, maybe you’d care to continue this conversation in a more private location?”
She wagged a thick finger at his face, “Maybe you’d care to suck my lips?”
Proudstar visibly swallowed his anger, “Very well. What I see on that flash drive is our alleged perpetrator being invited into your home. Then, within five seconds, your wife drops trow, grabs the betty in question and starts sucking her face. Looks mighty consensual to me.”
Nurse Fossbender reeled back and released an inhuman yowl that caused everyone in the lobby to cringe, “Sexist! You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman! Lucinda’s the most upstanding citizen in Lawrence. She would never consent to unwed relations! Especially not with that skinny little streetwalker!”
I’d take the streetwalker, personally, thought Danny Everquist as he watched his flatscreen with rapt attention.
Sheriff Proudstar did not budge.
He crossed his muscular arms over his chest, “Mrs. Fossbender, those are the facts as we have them. When we arrest a citizen, how we charge them and with what crime is our determination, not yours. Your frustration is noted. We appreciate the surveillance vid. But if you want to log formal charges on anything besides trespassing, you’re going to need to come back in and provide a statement to one of my officers. This is the lobby, ma’am.”
“A statement!?!” screamed Nurse Fossbender. “What statement do you need? You haven’t arrested her because you don’t want to! There’s gonna be a fat tab to pay! Not just for you, Proudstar! But for this whole department!” she said, pointing a chubby index finger adorned with a gaudy gold ring at the deputies and even the horrified receptionist, Maybelle.
At this, the sheriff stepped closer, snarling, his gravelly voice filling the lobby with ominous disdain, “Now you listen here, Free Willy. Every one of these officers have put their lives on the line more than once for the citizens of this county. So I’ll be damned to dark sky if you’re going to waddle in here and dress down my crew. Ping Director Adams if you want. Frank and I hunt deer on the weekends. Tell him Dale Proudstar personally told you to shit or get off the pot, and you chose the latter.”
Nurse Fossbender’s eyes burned with outrage.
The sheriff didn’t miss a beat, “In the meantime, until you do get me fired, you best walk your walrus-chinned, orange Spandex wearin’ ass the sky outta my HQ and go tend to that Christian wife of yours before I throw you in a cell at the bottom of a sewer and forget the passcode.” He bared his teeth, centimeters from her face, “Got it?”
Nurse Fossbender’s eyes welled as big as bloodshot golf balls, “There will be an investigation, sheriff! This is a criminal conspiracy! You’ll all be working as janitors by the weekend!”
She doubled the strap on her purse, turned with surprising speed and marched out of the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department lobby, pink clogs banging angrily on the tiles.
As soon as she was gone, Brick Talboy let out an ebullient sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath for two days, “Sir! That was amazing!”
Proudstar wheeled on his deputy, “Amazing? You know what would be amazing? If you clean the spit off Maybelle’s window, that’ll be amazing. You know what else would be amazing, Talboy? If in the next five seconds I don’t put my boot so far up your ass you have to lace your teeth to smile!”
Thirty Two Minutes Earlier – The Other Side of Downtown.
“I have little taste for lesbians, Julie.”
“I will reserve comment on that, sir,” said the girl’s distressed voice at the other end of the com.
“Especially obese ones. I mean all women are lesbians to a certain extent,” continued Slopes chattily. “But all women are also busy-bodies to a certain extent, aren’t they?”
“Sir…?” the voice quavered, “Shall I tell Mrs. Fossbender you will see her? Or shall I try to send her to Sergeant Dorina again? She’s made it clear she’s going to wait here all day until you see her in person.”
Chief Narcotics Detective Dennis Slopes gazed quickly at his vintage, 2037 model Rolex watch. The band was adjusted to its smallest setting. Still the silver edges slid and spun against his red-skinned wrist bones with every motion.
It was 8:17 am. He had awoken at 6:30. As with every weekday, he had his coffee, a cherry flavored stym-pack and a pancake smothered in protein cheese and chocolate hemp-syrup. He swiped through the Lawrence Journal World’s holopages, rodent-quick eyes efficiently absorbing any relevant details as he skimmed the text and images for deviant clues of any kind. By 8 am, he was floating comfortably in the back of his Kia SedonaHov, onboard set to full autopilot. Operating vehicles was for the small-minded. If citizens wanted to pretend that they still lived in a world where people needed to physically pilot a vehicle themselves, that was their loss. Slopes, for one, appreciated the more productive ways transit time could be utilized.
That was the problem, it was a free nation. Freedom of choice, freedom of speech, freedom from warrant-less invasion of privacy, blah-blek! If there were fewer freedoms, people like Marlene Fossbender would not be allowed to storm the police department waiting room!
“Julie?”
“The com has been green for two minutes, detective. Please just tell me what to say? This lady’s quite aggravated.”
Dennis Slopes leaned closer to his holoscreen as he spoke, raising his tattooed eyebrows, “Julie, tell her that I have an infectious cold. She can holoconference with me from a kiosk.”
“She wants to see you in person, sir.”
“And I really want to be at home with Mrs. Kitters,” he said, gazing absently at a just begun, 3,000 piece puzzle of the New Miami skyline. The Chinese Board of Trade building had an especially repetitive architectural pattern that he knew would be challenging. “In fact, Julie, I want to write a 5,000 page thesis detailing the cultural benefits of socialism today. I want to have a chocolate stym-cream sandwich delivered to my…”
Julie the network operator closed her eyes and rubbed her temple in a slow circle, “I understand.”
“You do!? Then why are we having this conversation!?”
“Sir, I literally just work here.”
Dennis Slopes gave up, though he did relish his ability to agitate the department’s com drivers, “Tell Mrs. Fossbender she can either holo with me from kiosk A or…” he rubbed his osseous palms together with glee at the thought, “Tell her she can walk down the street and express her concerns to Sheriff Proudstar. This is technically a county issue and doesn’t have a whole lot to do with narcotics either.”
“Yes sir,” said Julie quickly, thankful to have a response to give the raging woman pacing back and forth in the civilian waiting area.
Dennis Slopes eyed his New Miami puzzle, picking up a piece for a second, then putting it down.
He burbled to himself, counting his ribs, eyes scanning the surface of his puzzle desk, “Sheriff Dale Proudstar… Hah! Let’s see you get an answer out of that neanderthal, Fossbender. Can’t be trusted… registered Traditionalist. Probably a drunk himself… probably…”
The com klaxon rang, shaking him from his thoughts.
His computer said, “Incoming holoconference, Mrs. Marlene Fossbender requesting audiovisual access from virtual kiosk A. Open stream?”
Slopes sighed more dramatically than was necessary and popped a hemp-truffle down his gaunt food hole, “Put her on, Simon.”
Five Minutes Later.
“Simon, get me a letter-size SkyDrop©.”
“On the way, sir,” said the computerized male voice.
Dennis Slopes’ heart was racing.
The fugitive whore is still here!
“Simon!”
“Yes, Detective Slopes?”
“Are there any FR pings, even false positives, for citizen fugitive Tara A. Dean over the last two years?”
“Tara A. Dean is on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. There are outstanding warrants issued for this individual by the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, the Douglas Count…”
“Simon!” screamed Slopes, turning maroon. “Are you malfunctioning?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Then why did I ask a simple question, and you respond by giving me a defrag of this scamp’s rap file?”
“Had there been any FR pings on the suspect, numerous law enforcement agencies, including ours, would have been notified,” said the computer.
Dennis Slopes drew his lips back like an animal, exposing rows of crooked, stym-yellowed teeth, “You’re a very stupid computer, Simon.”
“Yes sir.”
“I ought to have you replaced.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m very disappointed.”
“Yes sir. As always, I am at your service until you choose to decommission me. Is there anything else you require at this time?”
“Simon, what I need right now is a piece of paper and a pen.”
The computer remained silent.
After a few seconds, Dennis Slopes flung his arms apart, nearly knocking a half empty glass of chocolate soymilk across his desk, “Simon!?!?”
“Yes sir?”
“I need a pen and a piece of paper! No, two pieces of paper!”
“My apologies, sir. I processed your request as sarcasm. As you know, I am incapable of providing physical objects. However, I am ready to take your dictation at any time. Proceed at your leisure.”
Through gulps of mouth-air, Slopes yipped, “Simon, just put Julie on com.”
“Yes sir.”
The com beeped, “Yes, Detective Slopes?”
He made sure to say the words slowly and clearly, button eyes knitted shut as he spoke, “Julie, I need you to bring me a pen and two pieces of paper.”
There was an extended pause, “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what that means.”
“Meow-meow, I’m a cow, don’t peek yet…” huffed Slopes, frantically trying to control his breathing. His triangle-shaped face had turned the hue of a smashed cherry, “Is everyone in the entire police department retarded? A pen, a writing pen, and a piece of paper! Did you take history in school, Julie?”
Another pause, “You want to write on paper, sir? Like a letter?”
The detective’s tongue quivered in his half open mouth, eyes rolling back to the whites, “Cor-rect.”
“Uhh, okay. I’m not… let me call the sketch artist and see what she has. Okay…? Hello? Sir?”
“Yes!” he squealed, exhaling all at once, “Yes! Get me something to write an actual note with. I don’t care if it comes from the natural history museum!”
He pushed back from his side-by-side desks and stared punitively at the brass plaque hanging on his wall which read, Drinking isn’t a crime. It’s just against the law.
But it was a crime! It was a blight on society. The entire NAUS would be better off if everyone who even thought about drinking alcohol was forced to visit a slaughterhouse.
Where the old man can see to your deviance for good.
At least he could arrest the worst of the worst. Yet… Tara Dean was the worst of the worst.
A California girl…
The thought made his kneecaps sweat. If it was up to him, she would have been flushed early on. What was needed was a way to determine during fetal development if a baby would grow up to be an addict. In the last 70 years, science had rooted out the gene for Alzheimer’s, leukemia, type 1 diabetes… why couldn’t they root out the gene for being an arsonist, cunt whore? If only he had…
The com beeped, “Sir, I’ve got two sheets of what they said was Bristol board paper and an ink pen from the art department. They said it should be easy to write on, but it’s kinda thick. Are you sure you don’t just want me to type up a holodoc?”
“Julie, the time to stop thinking in your case was about twenty years ago. Just put the writing implements under the door. And don’t bother me anymore today unless it’s an emergency.”
The com remained silent. Dead silent. Forty five seconds later, two sheets of paper and a pen appeared under his office door. He sighed. The thought of unfolding his body from the chair seemed onerous, but it had to be done. He guffawed over and grabbed the sheets of paper and pencil, brought them back to his work desk.
“No typing. No computers or com dictation,” he huffed as he arranged the two cottony thick sheets neatly on top of each other.
It had been a long time since Slopes had actually written the printed word. The pen felt diminutive, even in his fingers, light and breakable. Slowly, carefully, stopping at the end of every sentence to eat another hemp-truffle, he eventually had scribbled the following:
Sapet, Why does Nurse Fossbender know of our association? Are you dense? Or just chronically stupid? NEVER tell a civilian where you get your intel. Don’t forget who makes the digidollars rain! I want you to hand-write, I repeat, HAND-WRITE any future correspondence relating to Tara Dean / my suspicions on super-still locale. She is here. In Lawrence! Shagged your nurse’s wife! Reason unknown. Regardless: paper notes will be our own version of a closed circuit. Continue to scan east of the city, float-by visual sweeps only. Attempting to acquire centibots, FYI. Believe I can persuade Proudstar to use his Fort Riley connections and “lend” us a couple for research. Again, respond ONLY on paper. Send response via drone, possibly retain same drone. Send updated intel. We are close. Slopes
He dropped the pen and massaged his hand, then tapped his combud eagerly, “Julie, do you have ETA on that SkyDrop© drone?”
“Yes, Detective Slopes. Drone is preparing to dock.”
He’d barely a chance to sip his soymilk and laboriously roll his chair back over to the New Miami puzzle when the com chimed. The ten centimeter access port in his office wall opened, and a mud brown, cylindrical drone bearing the SkyDrop© logo hovered through, deployed its insect-like landing gear and alighted on the surface of his desk. Slopes swiped his holotab in front of the drone’s nose and it chimed, accepting credit. Gull wing doors on the tiny drone’s chassis opened, revealing a cargo bay large enough for 25 sheets of tightly rolled office paper.
Slopes rolled the Bristol board, put a rubber band around it and watched with sweating anticipation as the drone closed its cargo doors, engaged antigrav and hovered off his desk back through the access port and into the outside world. The drone was nearly silent save the hum of its micro-propulsion fan.
The 2D holo of Tara Dean remained on his flatscreen.
He spoke to it, coughing up bits of truffle dust, “Nothing can stop the law, girl. It’s better than you. Every shiner pays the Great Dog in the Sky eventually. I think it’s your turn to pay the doggie, honey,” he sniggered, eyes pouring over the woefully unfinished puzzle of New Miami.
Its unplaced pieces taunted him. They beckoned silently. Like fugitives.
Thirty Nine Seconds Later.
Joan disengaged from the electroencephalogram terminals with a light whip of her tail and disappeared into one of the openings of her cave habitat. She came out the opposite side in a flash of bubbles as a school of cod swam by. She snatched up a pale fish and swallowed it in three bites, donning a larger than usual dolphin smile. Then she vanished once again back into the rocks. The waters grew silent and still. The SimulSun© lights began to dim. Their illumination faded steadily until the aquarium and surrounding control room had descended into blackness.
Excerpt from the North American Institute on Drug Abuse article “Conclusions Regarding
the Effects of Alcohol on the Average North American Citizen” ©2061
“…Research clearly demonstrates that alcohol has the potential to cause problems in daily life or make a person’s existing problems worse. In fact, heavy alcohol users generally report lower life satisfaction, poorer mental and physical health, relationship problems and less academic and career success compared to their peers who came from similar backgrounds. For example, alcohol use is associated with a higher likelihood of dropping out from school. Several studies also associate workers’ alcohol consumption with increased absences, tardiness, accidents, workers’ compensation claims and job turnover…”
Chapter 3.3 – Upon the River’s Edge
September 4, 2082 – One Month Thirteen Days Before Event.
At last he found her, smoking one of Hugo’s antique rollers on the northwestern edge of the land. They called the place the delta, where the huge cottonwoods and oaks at last gave way to smaller sumacs spiraling towards the sky along the brown clay banks of the Kaw. The river reeds and cattails grew in abundance, creating a hidden glen, and with the sun nearing a seven pm horizon, the scene looked almost tropical. She sat cross-legged with her face to the clouds at the very tip of a sandbar. A mason jar of Father Tom McTone’s porter sat in the sand beside her thigh. Her raven hair flowed, free and splendid in the breeze as though she were a visage of the old nation superhero Jessica Jones.
Upriver, a great blue heron spread its wings and dove into the sunset as William approached. Trotting behind him, SIEGFRIED’s head followed the heron’s flight path, scanning, then dismissed the creature as organic. The cyborg refocused his attention on the Coyotes surrounding Tara.
The pack of seven was curled about her, a grand, waving wreath of heather and alabaster fur. The Coyote nearest raised its head, blue-black daylight eyes processing their approach. The small creature’s oversized ears rotated, filtering the sound of their steps from the background noise of the environment, instinctively seeking hidden dangers.
SIEGFRIED brushed past the Remington 30-06 in William’s right hand and trotted swiftly to the nearest Coyote. They touched noses. It was not Coyote One, who lay still on the other side of the pack directly in front of Tara. But any Coyote would do. The Rottweiler muscled a couple of the smaller borgs out of the way so he could lay directly in front of Tara and demand a bit of petting, which was promptly given.
Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 3
