Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow)

by Grafton, Jon Lee

  “Bad girl!” squealed Slopes. “Go to your spot!”

  The luxurious Burmese cyborg scoffed and retreated to the backrest of a La-Z-Boy holovision couch. It was the only other seat in the large living room aside from the biomorphic, synthleather desk chair that Slopes was presently perched in.

  Privately, Mrs. Kitters was disgusted. Slopes had been home far too much. It had gone on for weeks. The expensive but undecorated apartment was crowded not by his willowed, mantis form, but rather by the girth of his obsessive self dialogue. A high-end Felix like Mrs. Kitters needed time alone, to reflect. This was unacceptable.

  Dennis Slopes found it to be unacceptable as well. It was the fourth time in six days that Mrs. Kitters had upset his puzzle.

  “This is why I have two desks at the office,” he said, recovering from the sneeze. “A desk desk, and a puzzle desk.”

  He momentarily wondered if he was allergic to cats, then remembered BIOSKIN© contained no allergens.

  I loathe my nose.

  Slopes returned his attention to the holoscreen. The home unit he had been forced to use since going into hiding was frustratingly small. It could only simulcast four projections at a time, and two of the four had to be 2D holographs. He delicately swished the mangled tip of his tongue against the backs of his new dental inserts. He knew they were supposed to feel like real teeth, but they didn’t. His blunted, damaged tongue still ached horribly, and he refused to let the doctors spray him with nanos to speed the healing.

  I would prefer to eat blended Twinkies through a straw. Meow, meow…

  He cracked his neck and corralled his focus. The display before him showed various pieces of information, including the reason he needed new teeth in the first place; a nearly three year old file holo of the fugitive, prostitute, cunt-whore, arsonist named Tara Dean.

  “Hello, little Miss Nasty,” Slopes said impishly.

  He again ran the sequence of events.

  There was the original escape, the pursuit and the crash. The terminated, mangled chassis of a Darkpool Coyote is found, followed by a spate of CNED hunters who disappear, their bodies never discovered. In at least two of those cases, there were verbal confirmations of an intent to hunt east of the city limits. In all cases there were corrupted transit logs, and hovercraft that auto-floated to last known docking coordinates every direction but east.

  Slopes turned to his Felix, “All right, Kitters, return to my lap, come and be touched. You know I can only be without you for so long. I am blinded by your love.”

  The Burmese stretched methodically, then sauntered over and jumped into Slopes’ lap, purring ferociously as he stroked her with greasy nail tips.

  “That’s a good girl. Do you know what’s very strange, Mrs. Kitters?” He nodded at the cyborg as though waiting for her reply, then exclaimed, “That’s right! There was nearly two years of relative calm. No mystical Coyotes, no impossible whores escaping hospitals. The singular constant over time, you ask? That’s right! We have kept losing CNED agents at a rate of approximately one every other month. Nobody misses a humdroid, do they, Kitters?”

  The Felix meowed in clear agreement.

  “True, true,” said Slopes. “But when you lose more than any other county nationally… and then when a deviant like Tara Dean reappears, in Nurse Fossbender’s house, with yet another mystical Coyote… what do you think, Mrs. Kitters?”

  Mrs. Kitters meowed inquisitively.

  “Oh?” said Slopes with surprise, petting the cyborg’s soft, chocolate fur, “You think that Tara Dean is a scurrilous, criminal skank?”

  Kitters mewled affirmation.

  “Well, I do too. I also think it means something else is about to happen. And we want to find her before it does.” Slopes began talking like a baby and blustering his presently bloodless porcelain colored cheeks, “And are we going to find her to the north?”

  Mrs. Kitters hissed in protest.

  “Are we going to find her to the west?”

  Kitters hissed again.

  “No? Then she must be to the south?”

  Kitters let out an especially loud hiss.

  “Watch your tongue, young lady!” said Slopes reproachfully. “I may be blinded by your love, but that doesn’t mean you can get sassy! Though I suppose you’re right. That means we’ll have to start paying even more attention to the…” He gave the cyborg’s head a final, passionate stroke, “Thank you, Mrs. Kitters. Now be a good little lady and go away. I don’t want to touch you too much!” he squeaked.

  The slinky, yellow-eyed Felix mewled one more objection, then returned to her perch on the La-Z-Boy couch and began licking herself. Slopes began unconsciously counting his ribs and popped a cherry stym pak in his mouth. This was it. He was ready to let Sapet and his CNED goons start kicking down doors.

  There can be no pesky trails connecting me to Sapet. If only I could trust people the way I trust Kitters. Blinded by her love… I am.

  Despite Mrs. Kitters’ emotional outbursts of late, not to mention general carelessness with her tail, the reassembled puzzle of the New Miami skyline was nearly finished. The puzzle took up over 75% of the real estate on his home desk, but its presence was crucial. He idly reorganized the Felix-scattered pieces by color tone as the wispy facts surrounding the whereabouts of Tara Dean pulsed behind his bloodshot eyes. He breathed with heaviness.

  The answer is right in front of you.

  Rotate the puzzle.

  Who benefits from Tara Dean’s presence?

  Fold the logic.

  Who becomes more powerful?

  Fold it, until no more folds can be made.

  “It has to be… meow meow,” he bobbed, biting his leathery lower lip.

  He popped a piece into place, completing the visage of a cloud where it met the edge of a building. He was quite satisfied with how tightly the piece fit.

  “Nicely done.”

  Tara Dean had forced him into four weeks of hiding with her vulgarity.

  No citizen should have that much confidence.

  Vulgarity was a symbol of her belief that she was above the law. It was not the stark naked image of her rear end that bothered him. He kept the printed holograph in a folder beneath three antique books at the very bottom of his desk drawer. There was no need to look at it ever again.

  At least not with Kitters in the room.

  In the holograph, Ms. Dean was bent over, nude, flipping off the camera upside down with a smile. It was clearly the same woman in the security file from Marlene Fossbender’s sexual home invasion.

  The audacity.

  To top it off, in the upper right hand corner of the holograph, Tara Dean had written, Looking for my ass? It’s right here, fucker… complete with a carefully illustrated arrow pointing directly to her well exposed… intestinal terminus.

  Slopes began to sweat. He had never encountered such gall! It made him nervous, which made him furious, which made him hungry for a boost, fructose or amphetamine, it did not matter. The terrorist whore had gained access to his encrypted comstream with Ken Sapet!

  How?

  Yesterday’s holoconference with the Police Department’s IT specialist had proven useless.

  “It can’t happen, sir,” the sullen, droopy-eyed IT driver on the other end of the holo had said.

  “Well, what if it did happen?” Slopes demanded.

  “Someone would need not only your personal keycode, but also the entire department’s algorithm set. Those rotate every 24 hours, sir.” The sallow fellow scratched his head, speaking almost like a drone himself, “It’s totally a top tier hack. You really want my advice?”

  Slopes knitted his sunken eyes at the lad, “What other possible reason would I have to voluntarily interact with you, Snively?! Of course I need your advice! Is my system secure or not?!”

  The driver looked at his workstation, then back at the holoscreen with a sniffle after taking a sip of raspberry Mountain Dew, “According to my terminal, everything is locked down, detectiv
e. I’d say LED’s are golden. If you’re still feeling paranoid, I’d talk to Danny Everquist. Carrot Top rules the stream in Lawrence. The whole Metroplex really.”

  Slopes pinched his eyes even tighter, “Talk to Proudstar’s people? I’d rather eat tofu, Snively! Dismissed! Holoconference ended!”

  Marijuana addicts and fools.

  He was surrounded by them all. Even the sheriff’s prodigal son programmer, the one the county had seen fit to hire at twice the salary of a locally educated chap, was useless! Slopes had long since shown the image to the sheriff. The sheriff had shown it to this Daniel Everquist, who had no explanation.

  One of the disadvantages of being totally anti-social was the fact that no one had come to Slopes’ office to check on him the day of his accident. He had been unconscious for 43 minutes, knocked out four front teeth and snipped off the end of his tongue. Revenge drove him now. The solution was out there.

  Dennis Slopes prided himself on a lifetime of solving the most cunning drug criminal’s evasion techniques. Basement stills, stills hidden in walls, hidden compartments and hijacked water lines. It was all so obvious. And even though this was technically a county and state investigation, the pyromaniac trollop with the mole on her left gluteal orb had made it personal. And unless it involved Mrs. Kitters, Slopes wanted no part of anything personal.

  His eyes bulged from his face.

  Personal. Kitters!!

  For the old man… it’s…

  That’s why he’s on this himself, not one of the men in hoods.

  Slopes suddenly trembled with fear. He craned his head around the apartment, suspiciously processing every detail. Kitters purring. The sink dripping. HEPA filter turning the air.

  “Kitters, we don’t have any unwanted guests, do we?”

  The Felix raised its head, scanning, then blinked and meowed once demurely.

  If the old man was listening, I would be dead already.

  Fold the logic.

  Examine every angle.

  Find the pattern.

  I’ll need proof before I make contact. No mistakes. Sapet will go stack some bodies. When he’s finished, one will belong to the Architect’s son. The other will be the whore. It is Abner! He owns the coffee bar… and below that coffee bar might be… tangible holoflage projectors? It’s a perfect location. Too much! Focus on the farm.

  He tapped his combud, waiting, waiting, waiting until Sapet’s glossy, deep voice answered, “Hello, detective. Are we back onstream? No more letters?”

  Slopes scowled, “My IT driver assures me we’re locked down. Besides, there’s no time.” He drummed his nails loudly, “We need to have another walk around CHR 1500. Tomorrow, first thing. The river too. Something’s happening out there.”

  “The Coyote crash site again? What kinda something?”

  “I have a feeling about that pumpkin farm.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “New information has presented itself.”

  “You sure?”

  Slopes enlarged the holograph of Tara until her face nearly filled his holoscreen, “Positive,” he said. “Absolutely positive.”

  “Just have some agents float around?”

  “No, walk it. Go east from Oak Hill Cemetery. Canvas that farmland from the river under cover of the trees. You see anything even remotely suspicious…” Slopes licked his lips, “eradicate it.”

  “Outside city limits,” replied Sapet coolly. “Private property.”

  “I won’t respond to that, though of course the river trail is public domain.”

  “What exactly should I brief my agents to look for?”

  Slopes nearly pounded the surface of his desk but controlled himself, “You’re the city CNED Director, Kenneth. A giant, spinning holosign that says, get booze here! A naked brunette, you know the one!”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Sapet?”

  “Yes?”

  “No com traffic. If these agents see something before contact is made, I want them to relay it verbally.”

  Sapet frowned, “Like over an encrypted stream?”

  Slopes’ kneecaps began to itch.

  “No! I mean in person. Send your teams out combud dark. GPS only. Any field intel, they walk it back on their feet and tell you to your face.”

  “I got it…” said Sapet’s dubious voice. “But I don’t understand. We can put a 128 bit encryption on each packet and rotate…”

  “Just do it!”

  Sapet’s patience finally broke, face reddening and he barked back at Slopes, “I don’t appreciate your tone, detective!”

  Slopes tilted his head with calculation, like a lizard hunting a dragonfly, “How long do you think your pack of apes would last without me? Agent Howler raped a teenage girl last month. Then shipped her off to the loving care of Nurse Fossbender. And got a commission for it. I made that go away!” Slopes hissed through his painfully cut tongue, “So… do you now have a better appreciation for the exceptionally understanding nature of my tone, Sapet?” Slopes falsely brightened, “Or… I can let you express your dissatisfaction directly to The Office of the Architect.”

  Sapet’s voice was ice, but the reply conciliatory, “Very sorry, sir, my mistake. Face to face communication only, absolutely. Anything else?”

  “Did I say anything else?”

  “No… sir.”

  “Then get the sky off and rally your hunters! You float at dawn!”

  Slopes cut the stream and popped a hemp truffle beneath his tongue. Then both he and Mrs. Kitters let out an protracted sigh. He had no more doubts.

  Old man… old man… come yourself, or send one of your hooded freaks. Soon I’ll have something to show you.

  Friday, October 15, 2082 9:07 pm – Fifteen Hours Before Event.

  Tara swung her long, black hair dramatically as she spoke to Dorothy, “I get it! Nanogear hinges handle recoil.” The music was so loud she had to halfway shout, even though Dory was right by her side, “It’s still a throat cannon! I mean…”

  Dorothy finished her vodka and dropped her tumbler on the table, “I agree. They could have made it a tail cannon. Or a shoulder cannon? Poor FREYA. Talk about a mouthful.”

  Tara punched her shoulder, “Ewww. You say I’m gross.”

  “You are gross.”

  Unlike Dax, Tara preferred to be seated in The Lady’s VIP booth against the back wall in the main room. The private alcove was too secluded.

  Daphne swung around from the wait station, “Hello, ladies.” she sang. “Everyone good?”

  “Daphne, you’re a doll!” said Tara. “Feeling fab. We need another round!” She knocked a shot glass on the oak table four times, pointing at Dorothy, “Two vodkas, beers back!”

  “You got it, girls…” said Daphne.

  Dorothy shook her head as she watched Tara’s eyes follow the waitress’ cute sashay towards the bar. Tara spun back, drunk, and knocked a mason off the table. It broke on the floor but nobody noticed. The bar was crowded, even for a Friday, with lucky, well-heeled Lawrence citizens who knew somebody who knew somebody. There were few, if any, students in the basement club. The chairs and tables had been cleared and the space in front of them was packed with professors, doctors, artists, software engineers, ganja farmers and any other sort of hipster in between with the digis to pay for a clean speakeasy hack. They were all turned out for the light music. Plus the other two items on menu at The Green Lady Lounge, vodka and beer. Until the beer ran out. There was always enough vodka.

  Jane vapor and smoke filled the room with a hazy, melodious vibe that jived nicely with the deep sounds of DJ Lobe’s psychedelic house.

  “We should pick up that glass before someone cuts themselves,” said Dorothy.

  Tara smiled at Dorothy and leaned to kiss her, “You’re so adorbs. Always worrying about other people.”

  “Don’t!” said Dorothy, turning her head. “You said you wouldn’t.”

  Tara gave her friend a peck on the cheek, sett
ling for rubbing Dorothy’s thigh instead, “Boring…”

  Daphne returned to the table with a fresh round of preacher’s beer and two more shots of vodka, setting the drinks on the table with a button smile, not trying to yell over the music. She knelt and picked up the biggest shards of broken glass, putting them on her tray. Dorothy had met Daphne numerous times over the years and was always taken aback by how placid, yet beguiling, the girl was. It was especially apparent when she smiled, as she did then, frozen by Tara’s gaze.

  Dorothy pinched Tara, “Don’t! That shit’s not cool.”

  Tara burped without covering her mouth, keeping Daphne locked with her eyes on the other side of the table.

  “I bet Daphne isn’t afraid to kiss me,” she said.

  Daphne swayed in place, smiling dreamily as though morphine had begun pumping through her veins.

  “Please stop,” Dorothy implored.

  Tara kept her eyes on Daphne, “Only a kiss can set her free…”

  Daphne looked like she might fall over.

  “Fine, brat.”

  Dorothy grabbed Tara’s face and kissed her.

  Daphne snapped to and blinked dizzily, “Whew, that was weird. Just got a little light-headed. I’m gonna go back to the bar now!” She picked up her tray and disappeared as though nothing had happened.

  A stout, red-haired man, sitting one booth over with his wife, stared at the kissing betties, mesmerized. Tara and Dorothy pulled apart slowly and Dorothy blushed, wiping Tara’s lipstick off. The burly man grinned like a well fed gorilla, then cowed as his wife yanked his ear.

  Tara’s olive cheeks were flushed.

  She kept her hand on Dorothy’s thigh as she picked up her shot glass, “Cheers to that.”

  “Cheers,” said Dorothy quietly, hiding an annoyed smile.

  They knocked down the liquor, chasing it with the bitter beer.

  “Ahhh!” said Tara, effusive. “This vodka tastes like it was distilled in a fucking boot!”

  Dorothy laughed, “Don’t let Goran hear you say that.”