by J. N. Chaney
“They seem ridiculously happy in the background,” X-37 said.
“Good for them. Skinned knuckles and broken bones are all I remember from childhood,” I said with a sideways smile. “I was a rough kid with rough friends.”
“Of course,” X-37 said, then got down to business. “I see nothing dangerous to you or your mission. Your friend is waiting, I think.”
Frank leaned against a chain-link fence six inches from the wall of a building. I thought, from looking at it, that someone had put up the fence in hopes of keeping graffiti artists from painting on the wall. This had, of course, failed miserably.
The fence and the wall were in disrepair and covered with brightly colored street art. I didn’t mind the look of it, except for the deterioration beneath the stunning images. I always thought that if the city was going to put up a fence, then they had an obligation to maintain it and fix it when people cut holes in it or chopped off the tops of the posts to be salvaged.
There were cracks in the concrete and overflowing trash bins in the nearest alleyway. High above, there were office windows that shined like polished mirrors.
People came and went along the street, most seeming to be on their way to or from work. There were a lot of delivery people on bicycles or wheel boards. The public transport vehicles were noisy and stopped frequently. Most were electric and stank of something like burning ozone, but some were actually combustion engines.
Frank saw what I was looking at and shrugged. He smoked one cigarette after another, which made me not want to light up a cigar. Cigarettes weren’t really my thing and I didn’t want to seem like I was one upping him or that I was mimicking him. It was a dumb thing, but it was there.
I crossed my arms and studied the people. Passive surveillance was an important part of any reaper mission, one that most operators neglected. It was necessary to get the lay of the land and to learn to predict how bystanders would react when things got a bit crazy.
“Midday in Zag City can be bright, but don’t count on it,” Frank said as we walked, talking to mitigate his nervousness. His eyes went to my augmentations when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Steel gray clouds stretched across the sky above the crater city. Lights reflected back down, giving the place both a vibrant and gloomy feel at the same time. It was hard to explain but very real.
Zag City was hundreds of times more complex than Gronic—more people, more industry, and more problems. Crowds were full of energy, sometimes positive and sometimes dangerous and tense.
“The upper level lights hurt my eyes,” Frank said.
“Have you ever been to the top levels?” I asked.
“Why would I want to go there?” His answer seemed bitter and evasive. He took a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling. “We’re almost to the bus roundabout.”
I nodded. We walked. The city thrived around us. Far above, there was an entire layer of activity, but it seemed untouchable from here.
“That one there, the one with the yellow stripe, is a school bus. Last I checked, she was still in high school but was taking college credits. Not sure what kind of student she is, but that seemed promising,” Frank said, then dug in his pocket for another cigarette.
“Did you help her get the emancipation papers? That can be tricky when you’re trying to hide your identity, especially as a juvenile,” I asked.
Frank shrugged, eyes still on the people moving near the micro park. “It’s pretty easy here. There are a lot of runaways and petty criminals and people from other worlds trying to make a new start. The system’s overloaded. Nice neighborhoods have the best of everything, everywhere else at least tries to look nice. It is Greendale after all. Our planet has a reputation to protect.” He paused. “And she’s smart. Like really smart. A couple of times, she almost scared me with her insights.”
I waited for more.
“That’s another reason she’s not living with us, to be honest. She didn’t really fit in. Made my wife nervous. The kids love her, but that’s how kids are,” he said, then stood away from the wall. “That’s her bus there. Zag School District 2188.”
Students climbed off the bus. Most were teenagers, but I saw younger kids as well. They wore uniforms and carried backpacks. Seconds after they emerged, they divided themselves into dozens of small groups that dashed away in different directions.
“Is that everyone on the bus?” I asked X-37.
Frank looked at me strangely.
“According to their passenger count, the bus is now empty except for the driver,” X-37 said.
I motioned for Frank to come with me and we left. My Reaper AI had limitations, but one thing it was good at was hacking into minor systems for low-level data like that. Raw facts—passenger counts, payment information, or mundane activities like who was paying the electricity or water bill at a residence—could be extremely useful when conducting surveillance or trying to locate an individual.
“I forgot, you talk to yourself,” Frank said. He was either too polite or too cautious to refer to my Reaper nerve-ware.
“It comes in handy,” I said.
“I knew the direction your career went, but always kind of hoped those were just rumors,” he said. “People say things about Reapers I don’t want to believe.”
“Take what you heard about me and multiply it by ten,” I said. “I’m a bad person who’s done bad things. You’re doing me a solid by watching Elise. I owe you enough that I’ll stay away from you and your family as much as possible.”
He nodded, looked at his cigarette, then flicked away the stub. “Much appreciated. I’ll do anything I can for you, but I’ll tell you upfront that my family comes first for me.”
“That’s more than enough,” I said. “That’s why I trusted you to babysit Elise.”
I left Frank, heading into the crowd that only grew busier. Night fell quickly, shadows from the rim of the crater around Zag City crawling over buildings like the effect of time lapse photography. Walkways and monorail systems cast their shadows on everything below them during the day. At night, it was a different story. Neon signs sprang up from the ground-level building fronts. People talked louder. I heard music from a dance club and drivers of cars honking their horns at pretty girls.
The slate gray clouds of winter were decorated with jigsaw puzzles of light reflecting from the ground level across the tallest buildings and their support structures.
“You’re pretty quiet, X,” I said.
“There is a lot of data to manage on Greendale.” X-37’s voice was weak. “The digital infrastructure is the most complex I’ve seen in the Deadlands. I expected as much, but this is quite impressive. So many data points. A full AI could become entranced.”
“Is it Friday or something?”
X-37 made a clicking sound then answered, “Confirmed. It is the end of a work week. Pedestrian traffic between bar districts will triple over the next several hours and disorderly conduct arrests will increase. Hospital emergency rooms will have an average wait time of fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”
“Check the contract killers board,” I said, thinking of the reason I was here. Someone, probably the Union, was offering big money for an individual target on Greendale.”
“What will you do if you confirm Elise to be the target?” X-37 asked.
“I’ll bid on the contract and use the Intel package to find her,” I said, adjusting my course to avoid a noisy bachelorette party. “They’re starting early. The sun just went down.”
“We have a problem. It seems the Greendale contract killer’s board is now controlled by an assassins’ guild.”
I pulled out one of my few cigars, muttering through my clenched teeth as I nursed the ember to life. “Don’t care.”
“This one is apparently more influential than others of the name we have encountered over the years,” X-37 said.
The Union didn’t tolerate criminal organizations, which meant they were everywhere. Using the term “assass
ins’ guild” was a felony on most Union planets. The Deadlands was different, but followed many of the same conventions subconsciously. I’d found that even in the most remote regions, it was bad manners to use the term.
I’d had to order X-37 to incorporate it into its vocabulary, because in my opinion, if something walked like a duck, it was probably a duck.
Greendale was a thriving metropolis compared to most places in the Deadlands. I wasn’t surprised that it was overpopulated, poorly designed, and on the verge of a technological and social meltdown no one saw coming.
“They require in-person interviews to view the contract killers board,” X-37 explained.
“Which is the way it should be,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d run into amateur competitors who had taken a job without being properly qualified. “But I don’t believe it. That type of thing looks good on somebody’s organizational charter, but it’s impossible to enforce without some real muscle.”
“It seems Greendale has become an increasingly dangerous place over the last several years. I can explain the politics if you like,” X-37 said.
“No thanks.” I moved along the brightly lit street, studying the way the neon signs and skyward-pointed search lights complemented the narrow swatch of stars visible over the crater city. The place wasn’t entirely without aesthetics.
“Shall I schedule an appointment?” X-37 asked.
“Sure. Tell me the rest. I feel like you’re holding back,” I said, suspecting the limited AI was being difficult for one of his obscure, in-human reasons.
“They require a background check,” X-37 advised.
I cursed. “Then you better get to work on a fake dossier.”
“That will limit the amount of assistance I can provide at the street level. Given the unsuspected complexity of the criminal underworld, I will need to proceed more slowly. Unless you want to get caught. Is that part of your plan?” X-37 asked.
“Not this time,” I said. There had been missions where planned failure had benefits. Becoming a prisoner was a good way to get through enemy lines. I had tried about every infiltration tactic in the book. My preferred method was to simply remain unnoticed and strike when I was ready. That wasn’t always possible with cybernetic components that could never be completely hidden, not even with the cleverest disguise.
Sleight of hand and misdirection went a long way, but it was only one tool among many. People saw what they wanted to see, unless they were elite guards who’d sworn their lives to protect a corrupt senator.
“I have submitted your application for a temporary work permit to the assassins’ guild. By the time they respond, I should have a decent cover story in place,” X-37 updated me.
“Decent?”
“If you want perfect, it will take a week, with the time invested compounded for each percentage point of improvement,” X-37 explained.
“Fine. I’ll just do all the real work like always,” I muttered, moving toward a location X-37 had sent to my heads-up-display.
“You always do, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said. “Or so you say.”
“Oh, great. Sarcasm. I thought I was going to cruise through this mission without it,” I said, watching a parking cop who was eyeing my cigar.
“I try, Reaper Cain,” X said.
“Is there a problem, officer?” I asked.
“Seriously?” he asked. “I’ve got a quota and you’re going to walk right in front of me and light one up?”
This made me think of Frank and his frantic smoking ritual. It made more sense knowing that the tobacco police were out and about. He probably chain smoked when he knew the coast was clear.
I filed information about the local ordinance for future reference. It wouldn’t do to draw the attention of a police officer at the wrong time just because of my vice.
“Are you going to write me a ticket?”
He shook his head. “I’m on my way in. Not feeling it today. But you’re not making my life easy. If my supervisor checks my body cam and realizes I gave you a break, there will be an inquiry and I’ll probably get a day off.”
“That sounds harsh,” I said.
He laughed. “Rules are rules. You really should quit. It will kill you.”
“So will a bullet through my face,” I said.
He laughed awkwardly.
“Thanks for the warning, officer,” I said, closing the pocket where I kept my cheap cigars. “Tell your supervisor I was properly chastised and promise to reform.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, but his tone suggested he meant “thanks, you prick.”
“What do you think, X?” I asked when the cop was out of earshot.
“That explains a lot of the network congestion,” X-37 said. “Their police department is storing a huge amount of video data and only purging it after manual review.”
11
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked.
“With certainty,” X-37 said. “What were you expecting?”
The building wasn’t much wider than the safety-glass door that led into it. It had been constructed from solid concrete, a style I hadn’t seen for a while but assumed was a hat tip to some ancient architect.
Massive buildings flanked it like a pair of steel and chrome leviathans devouring the smaller building between them. The effect was a funnel-like approach to the smaller, older building.
The windows to the middle building were too small for my taste, barely allowing light into the foyer. A bell chimed when I went through the doorway. Noise from the street vanished when the front door shut behind me.
“That’s interesting,” I observed.
“It is,” X-37 said. “I believe this area can be sealed against gas attacks. The concrete walls may be reinforced with steel. I measured an unusual thickness to the walls when we passed through the front door.”
“The landlord must be paranoid,” I said.
“Or well prepared for any contingency,” X-37 said.
“I was being sarcastic,” I said.
X-37 responded sarcastically as seemed to be his new normal on this planet. “I didn’t notice.”
Turning slowly, I gave my Reaper LAI a chance to record the floor plan. “Looks pretty shabby on the inside. They must have blown their budget on the blast-proof front door.”
The white and green tiled floor was grimy down the middle and dusty near corners where the efforts of a single janitor made a token effort to do his job for the last thirty or forty years.
The old man eyed me but seemed too defeated to challenge my presence, even if he wanted to.
I stepped into the rickety elevator and thought about holding my breath as the stainless steel doors closed, trapping me in with generations of body odor.
“Was that man actually a janitor or one of their agents?” I asked.
“He doesn’t seem to be skilled at cleaning,” X-37 observed.
“I can barely hear you, X.” Lack of contact with X gave me a bad feeling I didn’t want to think about.
“My connection is weak but steady,” my Reaper interface promised. “You know as well as anyone that in a place like this, a harmless old man can reveal themselves to be assassins. The truth is rarely what the eye implies.”
I laughed. “Sure, X. But there are limits.”
“Agreed. I’ve heard Reapers also have their limitations,” X-37 said.
“Fair enough.” I watched the levels pass and realized the display had been at the lowest level for some time, but we were still moving downward.
“Especially when said Reaper has nothing but malfunctioning gear, no way to repair damage, and numerous addictions and bad habits,” X-37 said.
“All true.” I laughed. Diving into a lair of assassins and underworld crime bosses felt more natural than roaming the streets of Greendale. The prospect of a violent confrontation improved my mood tenfold.
“Are you going to put that cancer stick in your mouth before meeting the assassins’ guild representative?” X-37 asked
. “It might make you look tough and intimidating.”
“Ha, ha, ha, X. You’re fucking hilarious,” I said dryly. “And for the record, I’m not confident in my continued supply of recreational carcinogens because someone hasn’t found me a decent smoke shop on the last three worlds we’ve visited.”
“I’ll put it on my list of things to do,” X-37 said. “Do you wish me to suspend work on your fake background to search for Starbrand cigars?”
“You’re not done with my background?” I demanded.
“Not quite. Give me some credit. We’ll be ready.” X-37 beeped several times, something he only did when nearly overloaded or trying to get my attention during a gun battle.
“We damn well better be,” I warned. “I didn’t come all this way to get shanked by local enforcers.”
The door opened to a long, dark hallway. The ceiling felt low and the walls close together.
“That looks like emergency lighting,” I said. “Is that normal?”
“I’m unable to access the utility bill for this location and have no way to determine if there has been an emergency or if this is how they normally keep their lighting. My suspicion, however, is that the gloomy atmosphere is the ambience they’re looking for,” X-37 said.
“Well, they nailed it,” I said.
"We have a problem," X-37 announced.
"Give it to me," I said, more than a bit annoyed at the timing. The hallway looked like it led to a torture chamber. I started forward, not wanting to be trapped in the elevator and hoping to expand my options by locating other rooms and hallways.
The small, heavily reinforced door at the end of the hallway looked daunting.
"It's not a problem, actually, but a recommendation based on my current analysis," X-37 said.
"You're about to tell me you haven't completed my first background," I said.
"What I have managed so far should be sufficient to deceive ninety-nine percent of investigators, be they working for the Union or a criminal enterprise," X-37 said. "Unfortunately, I discovered the local assassins guild has already issued an alert about a Reaper on Greendale."
