Some kind of nasty shiner slang.
It was easy to distinguish drunks from janers by the way they walked. Boozebums just had that unmistakable, I’m better than you swagger. Using these skills, it didn’t take Officer Smith long to figure out that the pair she had just noticed heading her way was probably high on booze. She tried not be too obvious. What a pair they were! Two women, one brunette, one blonde. The blonde was dressed in overalls and looked like a farmer. She was pretty, in a country sort of way, but looked real scared. Maybe it was mad. She wore very little makeup. Her blue eyes darted about suspiciously and she kept her hands in her pockets.
A weapon?
The brunette in the skin tight red dress was by contrast lively and animated, walking barefoot and carrying her shoes. She talked to the blonde and laughed. Her shiny black hair floated easily in the wind and reflected the light of the streetlamps.
And there was a perfect excuse to stop them! A black Rottweiler trotted beside the women.
Unleashed organic dog; direct violation of Lawrence City Code 54-2C.
Emma’s palms began to sweat. She could hear the pretty woman in the red dress laughing. She stumbled, giggling, but the blonde grabbed her arm and helped her keep her balance. They were less than thirty meters up the sidewalk. Officer Emma Smith acted casual, leaning into the shadows against the brick edifice of a shuttered department store.
A patrol drone came floating down Ninth Street following the center line median and turned north up New Hampshire. She followed it with her eyes. Emma thought for certain the drone would stop as soon as it scanned the group. Because of the unleashed dog at the very least, but it just floated past, LED’s green.
When the group was less than four meters away, Emma took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows. She made sure she had an unrealistically jovial smile on her face. It was the blonde who gave it away. She latched onto her friend’s arm, a look of guilt crossing her face. Emma was downwind. Her alcovap alarm auto-klaxoned before she’d even had a chance to speak.
“Airborne ethanol content verified, please assist with compassion…” said Officer Smith’s combud in a voice only she could hear.
The way the muscular Rottweiler stepped forward and sat beside the blonde woman made Emma uncomfortable. The animal was obviously not a Fido. Too smooth. Which made the way it followed her every move with its eyes, even as the rest of its body stayed still, very spooky.
Emma spoke with authority as she had been trained, “Good evening, folks. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I’m going to need to scan your coms.”
The woman in the red dress was captivating. In the night lights of the city, her eyes looked like basins of green water.
She stepped forward, all curves and flow, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”
Emma extended her hand in the universal signal to stop and unclasped the safety strap on her service weapon, “Hold it right there, ma’am. To begin with, that animal needs to be on a leash. I also have reason to believe you folks might be using illegal drugs this evening. I’m gonna need to scan your combuds either way. Please,” she added hopefully.
The woman in red took another step closer, a sarcastic smile across her face.
Something wrong…
Emma nervously drew her gun and pointed it at the woman’s chest, “Ma’am, please.”
The Rottweiler was instantly on all fours.
“Tara, don’t,” pleaded the blonde in overalls, stepping forward and grabbing her friend’s arm.
“Oh, let go of me,” said the woman in the red dress. “I’m just going to talk to her.” She pulled her arm free and the blonde let her.
Emma blinked. She could smell the vodka on the woman’s breath. It was disgusting, enticing.
No! See with Vision!
She felt as though a warm sheen of molasses was being poured over her body.
Remember… training…
She successfully shook off the woozy sensation and cocked her sidearm. Emma didn’t understand. Was there a problem? Time seemed to slow. She winced. The haze. What was wrong? She leveled her weapon, speaking with as much menace as she could, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you one – last – time to step back and unlock your combud, or I will be…”
What was I saying?
The pistol seemed to weigh a thousand kilos. Officer Smith blinked again. This time when she opened her eyes, the black dog was standing right beside the woman in the red dress. It panted and smiled at her.
How much time?
Emma’s police-issue, 9 mm Beretta was still against the woman’s sternum. She had dropped her uncomfortable looking red heels to the sidewalk. Her hand was on the gun barrel. There was no fear in the woman’s black eyes.
Weren’t her eyes green a second ago?
The woman in red turned and gestured to the blonde. There was a quick exchange of words Emma didn’t understand, and the blonde walked past and crossed the hovstreet. That was fine. Strangely fine.
They should go.
The woman in the red dress needed to stay where she was, though.
Emma smiled.
Why?
Because the woman in red was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen? Emma should let her guide the gun down to her side and listen to what she was saying. The brunette wanted to push her back into the shadows against the brick facade of the building.
We can talk more privately under the awning.
Of course they could. Emma felt stupid for not realizing it was a much better place to talk.
Her lips did not move, but the woman spoke, “Do you mind if I whisper in your ear, Officer Smith?”
Emma smiled contentedly. Whatever this was, she didn’t want it to stop.
“That sounds nice,” she slurred.
The raven-haired woman leaned forward and whispered. Emma could feel her breasts pressing heat against her polyhemp uniform. She smiled as the woman spun around, whispering finished, dipped to pick up her shoes, and then skipped away, the black dog trotting after her. The pair easily caught up to the blonde in overalls who was already halfway down the next block.
Emma watched them go, placidly, Beretta in her hand. She had never felt so right about anything. She stepped out of the shadows.
See with Vision, see with light.
A man walking past looked at her fearfully. She was still holding the pistol. Of course she was.
Has it had been two minutes yet?
Emma could no longer see the woman in the red dress. She said they would meet again.
Won’t that be fond?
They were going to have so much fun the next time they met!
“Don’t worry, citizen” she said to the pedestrian. The man was very excited, talking to someone on his combud, but it didn’t matter what he was saying. All that mattered was…
My two minutes…
“Okay, here we go!” she said with a bright grin to the man on the corner.
Officer Emma Smith stepped off the sidewalk into the intersection. She smiled as she had never smiled before! Hovcars were flashing their lights and honking. That was fine, the noises and lights were all so lovely.
Always smile, even if you don’t mean it… her mother had told her growing up.
Emma let that last thought float through her mind like mist across the still surface of a morning lake. Then, with the lights of the hovcars all around, shining celebration in her eyes, she placed the barrel of her 9 mm Beretta beneath her chin and fired a hollow point round into her own skull.
Chapter 3.6 – Enlightenment
“When war is declared, truth is the first casualty.” Arthur Ponsonby
Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – October 16, 2082 1:57 am – Ten Hours Before Event.
…she has never accepted; when the DOGS units choose to kill, it is a choice they make freely. The only Rottweiler to not take a human life is LOFN.
In military applications, cyborgs outnumber humans 100 to 1
. Yet all cybernetic units are, to varying degrees, still assisted by a human operator, like aerial war drones of old. Independent recognition gives our cyborgs their power. The other Rottweilers have chosen to kill CNED agents. True. They have killed individuals who would gladly put a drill put through our eyes and see us spend the remainder of our days at a redemption colony.
This, justified by law. So again I ask. Do we have a drug problem? Or do we have an entire culture being systemically manipulated by a telepath?
What happens when unpredictable events collide with perfect initial conditions? Fusion powered quantum computing, dolphin command, five DOGS units, a transhuman tether, a manager, a smuggler and a master distiller.
Tara Dean flaps her wings.
The unforeseen variable becomes a secondary permanent condition. Joan nor I foresaw it. The density of the pebble’s soul was impossible to determine before it struck the water’s surface.
Events now cascade.
William left to rescue the women. He floated the back route down 11th Street past the sewer reclamation facility. Before he made it halfway, he and SIEGFRIED are flagged to stop by a solitary police officer paired with a single MARX class battborg. Joan cloaks all relevant data; name, place of employment, vehicle registration, etc.
Yet the butterfly flaps her wings.
Word lights up the holostream of an officer suicide. Something does not sit well with this patrolman. Tensions rise. He attempts to restrain William. William punches him in the throat and slams his face into the hood of his patrol hovcar, breaking several of the man’s teeth and rendering him unconscious. Simultaneously, SIEGFRIED fires a point blank TOHO round into the MARX unit, incinerating the battborg. Rural neighbors report an explosion of red light in the night sky.
The emotional response of the tether is passed to the DOGS unit.
The butterfly…
While William’s futile interaction with the police officer transpires, Joan has already successfully navigated the Lincoln containing Tara, Dorothy and LOFN back to the farm. There was no raid on The Lady, only Slopes’ suspicions. A raid will come soon though, and when it does, they will find a dusty store room. All patrons and employees exited safely. Leo, Daphne and the staff have been given new identities and a substantial severance. But it is already too late for the still.
The DOGS units patrol the woods and river.
Tara lays awake, her mind softly calling me.
William slumbers, lost in a wilderness of vicious, empty REM.
Dorothy paces back and forth by the window, unable yet to find rest. She is sick from too much alcohol, confusion and regret. Her heart rate is elevated.
Goran and Cat alone are at peace, curled in their bizarre symphony of consciousness.
Who stays? Who goes? Only the dolphin and I know the final objective. And one other. The rest, naturally, believe that escape is not only inevitable, but destined by logic. Their belief may soon be all that remains.
Destruction? Redemption? Both imminent. Joan and I will not sleep agai… UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA… LOSS. LOSS. LOS”
Saturday, October 16, 2082 7:17 am – Four Hours Forty Three Minutes Before Event.
Sheriff Proudstar relished the warmth of the antique porcelain in his hands. The coffee’s heat made his four hours of sleep seem like at least five. He took another drink and placed the mug on his heavy walnut desk, watching the steam rise, not yet prepared to face what awaited. He sent a thought to his combud and activated the morning news.
The Lawrence Journal World App sprung to life, assaulting him with a pop-up streamcast featuring the tan, rectangular face of local sensation reporter, Martin Wringle.
“Good morning, Lawrence!” the reporter beamed, cup of Rowdy Pony coffee in hand, label facing the camera. “This is Martin Wringle, coming to you with a special, in-depth holocast from the corner of 9th and New Hampshire. This Journal World holocast is brought to you by Rowdy Pony Coffee and CannibaGene© – makers of teaHC© Citrus – with their new flavor, Kaleidoscope Kush. Remember citizens, with teaHC©, it’s always 4:20.” The reporter spoke the last sentence rapidly: “This message brought to you by The Marijuana Producer’s Association for Responsible Recreation. Now to our lead story!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” said the sheriff, crossing his burly arms and squinting at the image being projected above his holotab.
Martin Wringle paused, cast his eyes at the sidewalk, then looked somberly into the camera, “Less than eighteen hours ago, a typical Friday evening was transformed into a night of violent crime. The Jayhawks Men’s Basketball Team had just defeated the Texas Catholic University Horny Toads 127 – 43 in an early season rout. Celebrating citizens filled the hookah lounges and coffee bars. All was well…” the reporter narrowed his eyes, “until a shot rang out.”
A holograph of Officer Emma Smith appeared in one corner of the projection as Wringle continued, “Pedestrian Traffic Officer Emma Smith, aged 24 years, a recent Police Academy graduate, for reasons not yet understood, walked into the middle of the intersection you see behind me at 10:38 pm, drew her gun, and took her own life. A young officer with a promising career, inexplicably gunned down by her own hand on a downtown hovstreet.”
Wringle swung around, gesturing at the street corner behind him, “The Journal World has been gathering eye witness accounts of the shooting. Reports indicate Officer Smith was seen in confrontation with a group of citizens on the sidewalk you see here.” The suave-faced reporter cocked his head, “Citizens report a brunette woman in a red dress…”
Sheriff Proudstar slammed his holotablet face down and ended the stream with a snarl. The gorilla like fingers of his right hand opened and closed into and out of a fist. He picked up his coffee and drew its warmth close. Outside his office window, the rain fell, clouds hung low and bruised like floating stones. The storm had blown in across the Flint Hills overnight from Abilene, though the worst of the thunder had passed, leaving behind the beginnings of a day that promised to be sunless and wet.
He took a deep breath, looking at the holoscreen before him, peaceful in its blackness.
Having waited as long as he dare, the sheriff rubbed the bridge of his wide nose and began the day’s work by bellowing into his combud, “Everquist!!”
The monitor filled with light several seconds later, producing a full size visage of his red-headed IT specialist, chattering so fast his words were nearly unintelligible, “…oh man, okay, sir, I’ve already blocked access to public records. The media got in overnight before the drone woke me, someone tipped them!” Deputy Everquist threw up his hands, “Snively had the night shift. He was supposed to manage it!”
The sheriff already felt better seeing Everquist’s pale, oversized head.
He grumbled nonetheless, “Red, Snively couldn’t manage a hand holding contest with a paraplegic. That’s why he works for LPD and you work for me. The last thing I need is Martin cocksuckin’ Wringle blowing winds of encouragement up the ass of every CNED in town. Not to mention the media. Tell me no one tried to find that alleged speakeasy? That was just Slopes’ hypothesis, nothing more.”
Deputy Everquist’s fingers typed at a blinding rate, “No sir. But we should talk about the scan you had me run. Snively’s a good guy, but unfortunately this is what happens when the police hire programmers from The University of Phoenix, sir.”
The sheriff’s quick chuckle turned to a grunt, “Noted. You up to speed?”
“Always, sir. I’ve cross-analyzed the staggered density readings from the geodrones we scrambled to scan the foundation beneath The Rowdy Pony coffee house last night.” Deputy Everquist stopped typing for a second and looked directly at the camera, biting his lip.
Proudstar simply nodded, “Okay, I’m not happy. Explain.”
“Sir, geodrone prism scanners are the most sensitive devices we possess. They could detect a hollow cavity the size of a tennis ball at the center of a mountain of gra
nite. And tell me the chemical composition of the air inside that cavity, as well as its precise volume. These are the drones that bagged the cloaked nuke reactor a kilometer under the Libyan desert last December.”
The sheriff put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin in one hand, “You didn’t find anything…”
“Nope. Schematics are identical to public records. Mr. Daxane Abner’s investment group owns the entire block, though the only business with his name directly attached to it is The Rowdy Pony. The rest is just real estate divested across four different corporate entities.” Deputy Everquist turned, reciting data off his holotablet, “The basement of The Rowdy Pony claims a 188.28 square meter storage basement for the coffee shop with mortar and limestone walls dating from the time of original construction in 1881. 426 square meters of adjacent space are used by the basement of The Vapor Room Hookah & Hash. It’s where they have their hoverpool tables. Outside of that, scans and filed data say it’s solid limestone and clay for 200 meters under the alley, hovstreets plus the antique mall and docking lot to the south. Geologic composition, power signatures, water flow – I even did a HLIR scan. Clean as a sonic shave.”
The sheriff picked up his coffee and took a long sip, “I just don’t know what to believe anymore, Everquist.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve met our Mr. Abner at a couple of civic events, Chamber of Commerce fundraisers mostly. He’s well-dressed, well-spoken, community oriented. Hell, the man’s donated Dog knows how much to the Kansas Association of Chiefs of Police.”
“Well north of 19,000,000 digidollars, sir.”
The sheriff tugged his mustache while he looked at Everquist, “So a fortune, over near seven years, which unless I’m mistaken, makes him one of the most generous philanthropists in the state of Kansas. I assume you’ve cross-referenced his background six ways from Sunday?”
Deputy Everquist sighed, “Sixteen ways from Sunday, sir. Daxane Julius Abner, born August 3rd 2044 in Tripoli. Zero criminal history across Interpol, NSA streams, local, state, Federal, nothing. He inherited the fortune when his mother died and has made the rest in international investments.”
Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 10
