Cold Reboot (Shadow Decade Book 1)

by Michael Coorlim

  The strike plate.

  —the strike plate, so that the door wouldn't latch. My printed shoes were too flexible, so I cast about the apartment for anything heavy enough to use to hammer it flat again.

  God, everything was so flimsy. So fragile. I didn't actually own anything solid enough, heavy enough, to flatten even hard metal.

  Except the pistol.

  Don't.

  Ignoring that inner voice, I pulled the gun out of my purse and, holding it by the barrel, used the grip to pound the strike plate flat.

  That was stupid, girl. You're lucky you didn't blow your hand off.

  Shut up.

  It wasn't perfect, but I was able to push the door shut and, with effort, pull it open again. The locking mechanism was still broken — no power to it — but I felt safer after dragging the futon over in front of it. The barricade wouldn't keep anyone out if they were determined to come in, but their attempts would give me time to wake up and react.

  I lay on the ruins of my mattress, the long rent stuffed with clothes to protect me from the exposed springs. Should I have filed a police report about this? It honestly hadn't occurred to me at the time. Was it too late? Should I do it now?

  Don't bother, my inner voice answered. Cops don't come out to the Blocks at the best of times. Even if they do make the trip, the most you can hope for is empty promises and probing questions.

  That sounded like it was probably right.

  I lay on my back, staring through the dark at the ceiling. The painkillers were still working, so I wasn't hurting, but my ribs and back felt wrong. Out of place. Not quite itchy, but definitely making themselves known. I turned onto my side, but that only made it worse.

  After a few minutes' worth of tossing I sat up, put on my AR shades, grabbed the ChicagoCard, and began doing some research into the stem cells I'd found at the warehouse. If I couldn't sleep, the least I could do was be productive.

  A cursory search revealed to me that, for most of the world, stem-cell based medical procedures had offered miracle cures and rejection-proof tissues that had improved quality of life for millions of people. Diabetes, osteoarthritis, Crohn's, Parkinson's... there were stem cell treatments for all of them, and had been back in my own day.

  In 2025 they could grow entire complex organs like hearts, lungs, livers, and spleens, eliminating the need for external donors at all, with more developments every other week. Stem cell clinics were as common as pharmacies. In Europe, at least.

  In the US, however, conservative faith-based politics had not only kept such life-saving treatments from American citizens, but put a hold on research to develop those techniques. Medical tourism to Brazil was quite common for those that could afford it, while those who couldn't were relegated to a "dark industry" of black market stem cell providers.

  Was that what this was all about? Was Yeong involved in the smuggling of stem cells from Canada? Was he operating a secret black clinic?

  It didn't make sense. The warehouse was full of refrigeration units, not a medical facility. He wasn't using the cells, he was hoarding them. But why?

  I dug deeper, looking for connections to Novabio Medica, Yeong, or even Greg himself.

  Novabio had been lobbying Congress to ease restrictions on stem-cell treatments for well over a year, planning fundraisers and creating promotional videos. They were co-sponsors of a bill that would enable the use of already-harvested stem-cells in expensive medical treatments that was coming up before congress, but the votes seemed split down the middle. It was going to be close.

  My mind spun. I took off my AR shades.

  What if Yeong somehow knew which way the vote was going to go? What if Novabio did? It would explain why they'd built up a supply of stem-cells. The profits to be had from a large supply, gathered carefully, were well worth the risk in hiding them. If the vote passed, they'd have a jump on developing stem-cell based treatments. If it failed, they'd have a large stock for under-the-table procedures.

  Was it Novabio Medica, or just Yeong? What did Greg know? Should I confront him?

  My inner voice was silent, not offering any answers, possibly because I was so exhausted. My adrenaline was wearing off, and I was crashing. Hard.

  Answers would have to wait until the morning.

  ***

  I woke into agony. The painkiller Ruamano had sold me had started to wear off, leaving me feeling every one of my broken ribs, bruised bones, torn muscles. I'd put my body through a lot in its injured state, and now I was paying the price.

  It hurt, but it also felt distant, almost intellectual. The pain was a fact I was aware of, but as a curiosity rather than something I was experiencing. Thank God for depersonalization.

  I rolled out of bed slowly, in stages, testing the range of each motion to find the limits of my pain. I didn't have a lot of wiggle-room.

  I staggered my way into the bathroom, buffeted by waves of pain whenever I lifted a leg too high or moved my head too quickly, riding a wave of steady nausea. Did my business. Was relieved to see no signs of internal bleeding, then stepped into the shower.

  The cold water was like a rain of needles on my sensitive skin, but I withstood it for the clarity of thought it gifted me with. I was barely functional. If my unknown enemy came at me now, if he sent killers to strike me down, I wouldn't be able to fight back, wouldn't be able to defend myself. Fuck, I'd let them kill me, get this all over with.

  My unknown enemy. Yeong, or whomever he was working with. Was it related to these stem cells? Some high level political bullshit regarding regulatory legislation? How high up the chain did it go? Was Greg involved? And why did they think me a threat?

  I turned off the water and toweled off as gingerly as I could. More importantly, how was I a threat? I knew about the warehouse now, had taken a canister of cells as evidence, but that was after they'd tried to kill me twice. Whatever was going on, somehow just meeting with Greg had spooked them.

  Maybe he wasn't involved. Maybe he was involved, but against his will. Somehow my relationship with my old mentor was a threat. How? I had no idea.

  I needed more information.

  My knees buckled as I left the shower, and I grabbed the stall's frame for support. I caught sight of myself in the mirror – ragged wet hair, hollow eyes, bruised face, haggard expression. I didn't look good. I needed medical treatment.

  Maybe there was a way I could get some, and the information I needed.

  CHAPTER 22: CLINIC HOURS

  The street doc Ruamano told me about wasn't far from 500 Block, though my injuries made the walk slow going. His corner of the neighborhood was nicer, with multi-unit brownstones replacing the monolithic concrete blocks. One of the last bastions of middle-class America circa 2025.

  I stopped before a small multi-unit apartment and, glancing up and down the street, hastened along the side behind a privacy fence. There, next to a dumpster, right where Ruamano had said it would be, was a gated passage leading to a door.

  I thumbed the buzzer next to the gate.

  There was a pause, then an elderly male voice spoke. "Look up into the camera, please."

  I tilted my head back and spotted a CCTV camera above the gate. I pulled the hoodie back from my face.

  The gate unlatched.

  A short tunnel led under the apartment building, and I stopped by the first door, brown-painted wood, otherwise featureless.

  It was opened by a thin man in his late forties, balding, clean shaven. Doc Kozlow. Ruamano had said that he was a good dude who didn't ask questions.

  He'd have to bend on the 'no questions' front. I needed more than medical care.

  The door was opened by a thin man in his late forties, balding, with a drawn expression on his clean-shaven face. "Yes?"

  "Erica. Ruamano sent me?"

  He nodded and turned away, allowing me into a cement-floored basement. One quarter of it was cordoned off by hanging plastic strips that didn't quite conceal some sort of operating theater: a reclining chair an
d an articulated medical machine, with an overhead light and many spindled arms ending in everything from hypodermic needles to bone saw blades. The smell of antiseptic was a sharp contrast to the rotten stench of the trash outside.

  Kozlow nodded curtly and gestured me to a chair. "You can pay, yes?"

  I winced, settling into the seat offered. "I can trade."

  "Drugs? Benzos?"

  "Better." I pulled the still-cold canister from under my hoodie. Its display still read a frosty -80 degrees.

  He hastened over and took the canister from me. "What is—"

  "Stem cells. Hemopoietic."

  Shock was evident on his face. "Where did you get—"

  "My business. But they're viable." A guess, but I doubted Yeong would be storing them otherwise. "You patch me up, you answer my questions, and they're yours."

  His eyes narrowed, but he nodded, once. "Very well. Let's have a look at you." He wheeled a metal table over. "Take off your jacket and sit on the table, please."

  I did as he asked as carefully as I could manage.

  He returned wearing a pair of blue plastic gloves and a surgical mask. "Where are you hurt?"

  "Everywhere," I said. "I was in an elevator accident yesterday. Arms, legs, ribs, head..."

  "Lift your arms, please?"

  I managed to raise them level with my shoulders. "This is the best I can do."

  "Let's start with a chest X-ray." He pulled the many-armed apparatus over, sliding out two opaque plastic screens. "You're not dead yet, so we can rule out airway obstruction, tension pneumothorax, hemothorax, flail chest, or cardiac tamponade."

  "Hemothorax—"

  "Please don't talk." He adjusted his machine, and I stared at its large-bore hypodermics. There was a short whine, and Doctor Kozlow adjusted the machine's display. "Heart doesn't look bruised. Nothing looks torn. Good. You're in little danger of keeling over."

  "That's good."

  "Please don't talk." He adjusted his panels. "Quick spine and pelvic x-rays... you're lucky. No fractures or dislocations. How's your abdomen?"

  I didn't speak.

  He looked up at me. "Well?"

  "Fine."

  "No soreness?"

  "No. It hurts in my chest."

  "Okay, then. No need for peritoneal lavage."

  "What's that?"

  "Please don't speak."

  It progressed that way for almost an hour, various tests, occasionally questions, and stern warnings not to speak. In the end, it turns out that aside from contusions and a few broken ribs, I was relatively fine.

  "You are a very stupid woman." He gave his prognosis in a clipped and emotionless tenor. "Walking around with broken ribs like that. You're lucky you didn't shred yourself up inside."

  But I needed more than his medical expertise.

  "Doctor," I said, a bit forcefully.

  He frowned, stopping mid-exam. "You had questions?"

  "Ruamano tells me that you're one of the best unlicensed doctors in the city. That people who need treatment but don't want to leave a trail... they go to you."

  "Or one of my colleagues. I'm not the only one, you know."

  "But you get a lot of business."

  He drew back and narrowed his eyes. "Enough. Where is this going?"

  "I'm looking for someone."

  "I don't talk about my patients. It's the only reason any of them come to me."

  "Someone tried to kill me."

  "And you'll no doubt return the favor. But not with my help."

  "I respect that. Let me ask you something else. Stem cells. Hard to come by?"

  He glanced over at the canister I'd brought, still sitting on his table. "Very. In this country, at any rate."

  "But stem-cell treatments are in high demand."

  He nodded and folded his arms. "It's the path modern medicine has taken."

  "But if you can't offer them, where do people go?"

  "Mexico." He shrugged. "Canada. Europe. The cartels smuggle some north, but a steady supply would require associations that come with... additional complications."

  "What if I could supply you with more?"

  He grew very carefully still. "You have more?"

  "I can get more. On a regular basis. What could you do with them?"

  His voice was slow, his word choices deliberate. "I could offer the South Side vital services that currently aren't even available through the city's hospitals. Lives would be saved."

  "Getting these canisters isn't trivial, Doctor Kozlow."

  "I imagine it wouldn't be."

  "What kind of compensation could you offer me?"

  He looked away, then back at me. "Canisters like this? Two thousand."

  I had no idea whether or not he was ripping me off. "Two thousand. And you answer my questions—"

  "You cannot hold hostage the medical needs of an entire city—"

  "—or I take this offer to one of your rivals."

  He stopped, face darkening, then slowly nodded. "I cannot promise I know the men you seek, but I will answer you honestly."

  "I'm looking for a man," I said. "A killer for hire."

  "And you think I would know such a man."

  "I think such a man would come to you when he needed to."

  "Perhaps," Kozlow said. "But I do not pry."

  I thought back to the man in the parking garage. At the time it was all happening so fast, I didn't really think about it, but my snapshot memories were crystal clear, even of details I hadn't taken note of at the time. "He's tall. Six feet at least. Broad shouldered, but not particularly heavy. Caucasian, maybe Eastern European, with thick brows, dark brown eyes, black hair."

  "Anything else?"

  I couldn't remember much about how the fight had gone, but the sudden image of slamming his hand in the car door came to mind. "He would have broken his right wrist two days ago. Might have a few more injuries. Bruising, at least."

  Kozlow turned away, nodding. "Daniel Barsamian. If you are willing to supply me with stem cells on a monthly basis, I can tell you how to find him."

  Monthly. I could do monthly. "Deal."

  He turned back. "But first, we must see to your injuries. Please, take off your shirt and lie back on the table."

  I did as he asked, settling back with my bare skin against the cold steel. The thought that this was the first man — the first person — who'd seen my new fit body since the hospital flitted across my mind, but he was a doctor, right? Sort of? It didn't matter. I felt like I should be self conscious, but the idea of modesty was academic, insignificant. People were trying to kill me. I'd been stealing illegal medical supplies. I was planning to track down the man behind the attempts on my life. Embarrassment over having my tits out in front of a stranger seemed petty.

  I had more important shit to worry about.

  CHAPTER 23: TURKISH STAKEOUT

  Barsamian lived in a tenement just one economic step above one of the Blocks, west of the Loop, a few streets past the Dan Ryan Expressway. I parked myself in the Gövde Cafe, a little Turkish crepe place across the street where I could sit and watch his place all day through their broad shop windows as long as I kept buying coffee.

  That was the nice thing about Gövde — it was an inexpensive little family-run place with a friendly staff of real people. It was... nice... to be served by an actual human being. The crepes they offered weren't bad either.

  I watched him for two days straight, learning his habits, waiting for a chance to get him alone. He lived in an apartment with two other men who might have been his brothers, being of the same build and sharing similar facial features. The only time he ever left seemed to be to grab take-out from the Thai place next door.

  I had to be patient. I had to wait until either his brothers left, or until Barsamian himself went off alone.

  Sitting and waiting suited me fine, for now. The chest brace Doctor Kozlow had fitted me with was restrictive, and unlike the flats I got from Ruamano the pain meds he'd given me left my he
ad feeling dull. Fortunately plenty of fine Turkish coffee gave me back my edge. It was bitter and dark, but very delicious, much better than the sludge they served at Starbucks.

  Take your time, Barsamian. I'll be waiting. I'll be ready.

  ***

  On the evening of the second night, just before Gövde closed for the night, Barsamian surprised me by leaving and walking right past the Thai place. I hurriedly paid my bill, left a generous tip, and hustled out the door after him.

  It was disconcerting, how normal and natural following him felt. I'd picked up some new outfits with the money I'd gotten selling the stem cells, and was wearing something that approached middle class without standing out, a darker jacket and jeans, with a scarf that concealed the lower part of my face.

  I didn't look poor. I didn't look rich. I didn't stick out.

  I let him go along a block ahead of me, using the zoom on my shades to track him... or more accurately, the network hub label floating above his head. I'd spent the last day sitting in the cafe learning how to adjust the settings of my glasses, adjusting the range at which people's identifications appeared. Most people, it shut them out after a few yards. Barsamian, though, I could see his name for blocks.

  Another trick I'd picked up was setting a username to display publicly. Shutting my personal network hub identifier off completely would have been conspicuous as hell, so I'd set up an account with some bass-fishing forum and chosen the nickname K8IsGr8. Now, when people scoped me out in augmented reality, that was the name above my head. It wouldn't stand up to scrutiny... if someone dug deeper the name was tied to my city Internet account... but it'd do to keep him from figuring out it was me shadowing him.

  Why K8? I didn't know. Not at first. I thought it was random. But as I sat there, eating crepes and drinking Turkish coffee, I came to realize that 'Kate' was the name I'd been giving that other side of me. The person I couldn't remember being. She sure as hell wasn't Erica. So I dubbed her Kate.