“Less folks know about this, the better,” the chief says. “Sorry, captain. No offense meant.”
“None taken, chief.” Sam gets up, gulping down the last of the wine. “I’ll pay Kelly, then. See you at A to Z.”
During the ride to the morgue Bates tells Lacey that he’s going to send the police hypnotist to do a trance interview on Little Joe, just in case he remembers some detail about Sally on the night of Ka Gren’s murder, then fills her in on his conversation with Akeli and the long string of chained threats. Her sudden burst of fury takes Lacey by surprise; she thought she was long past outrage at the doings of the government.
“Bloody bitch,” she remarks of the president.
“Yeah, I had thoughts that way myself. Look, I dint want to say anything back at Kelly’s, but something real sickening happened to Sally. If you dunt want to look at her corpse, you dunt have to.”
“Somehow I think I better. Hey, man, I’ve been in battles, remember? You lose the pressure in a turret, it’s no so pretty either, seeing some guy spread over the walls like strawberry jam.”
Once they’re standing in the long cold echoing room and looking down at the special gurney, sealed away from the rest of the universe in a plastic bubble, Lacey can understand the chief’s concern. Only the battle experiences she spoke of could have hardened her enough to look on calmly; even the med tech seems to be gut-twisting sick, and he’s probably seen twenty murder victims in his career as well as a hundred corpses pulled out of skimmer crashes. Yet in her disgust there’s barely any grief, because her mind simply can’t accept that this thing was ever Sally. Like the other victims, the corpse’s throat was cut from ear to ear, and blood spilled all down its chest, which now, however, is a crusted, seething mass of silver-gray threads tangled deep in the flesh. The upper arms, too, have been eaten through, exposing the bone; the face is just barely recognizable, as if someone had tried to make a sculpture of Sally’s face using gray clay that was far too wet to hold a defined image. Lacey nearly gags; she would like to curse but can find no words strong enough.
“I warned you,” Bates says softly.
“Oh yeah. Looks like that stuff is worse where there’s fresh blood.”
“The coroner said the same thing. He’s filing a report with Doctor Carol. It has to be that Outworld bacteria, he said, in a second stage of development, maybe. He no savvy nada for sure.”
“Yeah? Where is Carol now?”
“Quaker Hospital, last I heard, checking up on Little Joe Walker. If the stuff turns into this—” He pauses for an eloquent gesture at the corpse. “He’s going to end up with a bionic arm.”
Lacey puffs out a mouthful of breath and turns away.
“Well, one thing, chief. If the army tries to take over Polar City, y’know? You just let this story leak. Bet your butt they’d desert rather than get near this town.”
“A couple of pictures on the sunset news’d do it, yeah. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You got a warrant for Sally’s flat?”
“Yeah. You look worried. Why? Is there dope there?”
“What in hell makes you say that?”
“My turn for the logic and the confirmed guess. Don’t worry, I no can bust the dead, hey? Come along if you want.”
oOo
The apartment is a mess from the tiny entrance way all through to the kitchen down the hall. All of Sally’s knick-knacks lie broken and scattered over the living room floor, and an armchair is overturned, lying on its side by the window. Clothing, data cubes, music cubes, kitchenware, old take-out food cartons—everything Sally owns is strewn around, it seems, except her three-dee viewer, the sonic oven, and her brand-new, very expensive accounts-comp unit. The old dustbot, bought second-hand years ago, lies dead in a corner, its neck broken.
“Real clever,” Lacey says aloud. “I bet Sally’s jewelry’s been taken from the bedroom, too. A nice el fako robbery, but I wonder why he took the trouble?”
Bates shrugs, as puzzled as she is. The disorder leads like a trail down the hall to the bedroom, and Lacey suddenly realizes that they’re meant to follow it. She has a heart-numbing feeling that she knows what they’ll find.
“You bastard,” she says. “I’m going to get you for this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on, el jefe.”
In the bedroom, as she expected, Ibrahim lies sprawled on the bed with a neat hole in the back of his skull, poor old fat Ibrahim in a torn undershirt and a pair of blood-stained walking shorts.
“Yeah, sure,” Lacey bursts out. “It just happens that they get robbed on the very same day she dies—real believable coincidence, man. Ibrahim, hell, he must’ve seen or heard something, so he had to die, too. Suppose this was supposed to look like he got killed by the burglars?”
“I sure do. Check out how he got killed, with a different weapon from the other cases and everything, but it’s all clumsy, a real case of overkill—I dint mean that for a joke, sorry.”
Lying in front of the closet are the bag of dope, the jeans and lavender pleated number she remembers and of which Buddy has a carefully stored image. The blouse, however, is now heavily stained with blood, possibly Ibrahim’s, possibly the assassin’s.
“He never should’ve left that behind,” Bates says. “Either this dude thinks I’m a fool or he’s getting so desperate he’s no thinking right.”
“I got to agree. It’s real dumb of him to leave all that dope behind, too, cause any legit burglar would’ve taken it for sure. Unless—jeez, unless he dint even realize how valuable it is. If that’s the case, then he’s an Outworlder for sure.”
“You’re right about that. Our psychic assassin, maybe?”
“Maybe.” The idea makes her shudder. “But say, chief? Don’t let anyone touch this stuff without plastofilm gloves, will you?”
“Huh?”
“Sally was covered with the Outworld disease, and I bet this dude is in one bad way, too. He no could kill Sally unless he grabbed her, and Sally was strong. She had a black belt, man. The bacteria were bound to get spread around.”
“Christ, you’re right! By the way, we’ve had the news on the video all night now, telling people to call us if they saw something weird. This dude must’ve been dripping blood. Someone had to notice him.”
“You’d sure as hell think so, yeah.”
“I’ll call Burglary. We’d better get things started here. You going to go back to A to Z?”
“Soon, yeah, but you can always reach me on the comp. Say, chief, that dope? That one bag was never opened, and I bet the little packs inside are safe to touch. Think you could sign me off for some of the evidence? I need something to spread around to get us some answers.”
“Sure. Better’n cash, huh? Take what you need.”
Lacey stashes about a hecto in various pockets, then starts to leave. As she goes down the hall, she just happens to look into the bathroom.
“Oh jeez. Chief, come look at this. Someone took a bath here, and I bet it no was Ibrahim from the way he smelled. Look—all kind of soap and lotion bottles lying round.”
“There sure are. Say, Lacey, it looks like you’re right about that Outworld disease.”
oOo
Mulligan is working in the garden, weeding a row of bread ferns, one of the few plants from Sarah’s temperate belt that will grow on Hagar. Even though in the drier climate the bluish-green fronds reach only one meter rather than six, the edible tubers still weigh in at a couple of kilos of high-grade starch and vegetable protein, well worth the water it takes to grow them. Mulligan likes weeding; ferreting out tiny plants and fungi is just demanding enough to keep his mind off his troubles while at the same time requiring no mental effort. Yet no matter how hard he tries to dim down his consciousness, always in one part of his mind he’s aware of Nunks, fretting with impatience and worry both as he chews over plans for rescuing their mysterious psychic out in the Rat Yard. Even though he feels very sorry for Mrs. Bug, M
ulligan has no intention of rushing out there after her, especially when he considers that a psionic assassin is most likely hunting him down. When the time comes, he plans on finding some good excuse to stay behind the locked doors of A to Z Enterprises.
He has just finished the first long row when Nunks contacts him to say that someone who claims to be a friend of Lacey’s is standing at the gate. Mulligan can feel his mentor’s distrust like a crawling down his spine.
Big brother, I not-feel a liar.
I also feel/he speaks true. BUT| Distrust still now/ talk of assassins with psi. Go ask Buddy/do scan>
Reluctantly Mulligan goes up to Lacey’s office. The comp unit is quiescent, his screen glowing a soft gray, until Mulligan comes in. Then the sensor lights wink on, and the scan unit swivels his way.
“There is someone at the gate, Buddy. Nunks has asked me to ask you to scan him for an ID check.”
“I have already done so, Mulligan unit. Is Nunks accusing me of being lax?”
“No. How's he going to... I mean, how should he know what you bringing down...are doing?”
Buddy makes a clacking sound that seems to be contemptuous.
“Well,” Mulligan snaps. “Is he who he says he is or not?”
“The unit is Sam Bailey, captain of the RSS Montana, and a very old friend of Lacey’s. ID is positive to the fourth degree: palm print, retinal scan, infrared patterning, and most conclusive of all, my memory.”
“Okay, thanks. I’d better go tell Nunks.”
“Oh, Mulligan unit? You had best mind your manners around Captain Bailey. Lacey is very fond of him, if you take my meaning. You will want to make a good impression.”
If Buddy were flesh and blood, Mulligan would be able to tell he’s—not lying, of course—but bending the truth by implication, but as it is, the comp unit’s words hit him so hard that for a moment he finds it hard to move or even breathe. As he goes downstairs, very slowly, feeling as if he’s crawling rather than walking, he is thinking that he should have known, that of course Lacey would have some glamorous lover, maybe even more than one, that he himself has nothing he could possibly offer a woman like her, and other such thoughts that all make him wish he could get blind drunk and stay that way. His first sight of Sam, black, lithe, and handsome, only darkens his despair further.
“Mulligan, right?” Sam smiles pleasantly and holds out his hand. “Lacey mentioned you to me. Pleased to meet you.”
As he shakes hands, Mulligan is deciding that he hates this dude who won’t even condescend to be jealous of him. He can feel Nunks’ irritation pressing at the edge of his mind.
Little brother, ask him: Lacey come homenot come home?
“Captain Bailey, you know if Lacey’s coming straight home?”
“Hey, man, call me Sam. I get enough of the captain shit up in deep sky. But she went off with the gordo jefe, Bates.” Sam suddenly turns subdued. “Say, was a donna name of Sally Pharis a friend of yours? I’m afraid she’s dead, man.”
Although Mulligan barely knew Sally, any death hits him hard. All too vividly he can imagine the terror she must have felt as the long knife swung down. He takes a step, then sways. Sam catches him by the shoulders to steady him.
“Get your hands off me!”
“Oh hey.” Bailey steps back sharply. “I was only trying to help. Dint mean nothing by it.”
Mulligan snarls and turns blindly to Nunks, who is radiating more confusion than the sun does infrared. Nunks puts one furry, comforting arm around him and pulls him close while Sam watches with a hastily arranged aloofness.
Little brother! [sympathy] [irritation] Be strong now. Must> help Mrs. Bug>
Here is the juncture where Mulligan was planning to bow out of this crazy adventure, and he has several excuses at the ready. But Lacey doesn’t love him; Sam doubtless would never back out of something just because it was dangerous; life isn’t worth living, anyway, since he can’t play in the major leagues.
I drive. You are correct now >>we go>> right away.
[relief]
“Say, Bailey?” Mulligan says. “Look, hate to run and all that, but we’ve got a big job on our hands. You know where the Rat Yard is? Yeah? Well, a friend of ours is trapped out there. Got to go get her out. Mind waiting upstairs for Lacey?”
“Course not, but say, amigo, if you need help, I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, no necessario.” Mulligan shrugs in what he hopes is a properly cavalier manner. “Nunks and me can handle it.”
Little brother, you crazy!!! >>We ought: take this guy>
No!!! Explain later.
While Nunks searches his rooms for the spare set of skimmer keys, Mulligan shows Sam up to the office and relays Nunks’ orders to Rick: keep Maria in the office, tell Buddy to put all his sensors on automatic alarm, and stay there no matter what’s happening at the gate or in the garden. If it seems that an assassin is trying to break in, he is to call the police and not attempt heroics, even with Sam to back him up. Since Mulligan makes Rick repeat all this back in front of Buddy, he’s fairly sure that Nunks’ orders will be carried out.
“One thing, though, Mulligan unit,” Buddy says at last. “You have no comm link on your belt. How will I be able to trace your movements?”
“Who says I, like, want you to?”
“You may encounter danger in the Rat Yard.”
“Oh yeah? Well, if we do, it no going to be nothing a plastic plug-sucker like you can help with anyway!” Mulligan turns and strides dramatically out of the room.
“Hey, kid!” Sam calls after him. “The AIs right, y’know.”
As he pounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time, Mulligan has a brief thought that he’d be rather damned than listen to Sam. Besides, at the moment he hates Buddy so much that he never wants to hear that brisk artificial voice again.
oOo
With a hecto of Sarahian weed secreted about her person, Lacey takes the Metro back to Porttown on the Fourth Street line. Since it’s still a couple of hours before the late-night rush, she has the car to herself except for one teenage Blanca with magenta hair who is crunching and smacking her way through a particularly redolent order of slice’n’fry, heavy on the onions and vinegar. Although eating is forbidden on the Metro, Lacey decides against meddling; the kid is wearing a knife in an ankle-sheath, and although Lacey could take it from her without half trying, the effort seems a waste. Instead she opens the window next to her and lets in the dusty though ionized air from the tunnel. The air conditioning generally works on none of the cars that run through Porttown, because—or so the Metro authorities say—the Blanco kids stuff litter into the vents.
Lacey needs the fresh air, anyway. Her short day’s sleep is beginning to tell on her; only the adrenalin rush of fear and cold rage is keeping her awake. Yet, even though thinking is a little more difficult than usual, she’s beginning to get a plan clear in her head. Bates could call out every cop and vigilante-minded citizen in Polar City and still never find the assassin if she (or he, she reminds herself) has taken refuge in the Outworld Bazaar. On the other hand, Sally’s death has given her a weapon. Murders happen all the time in the Bazaar—dope deals go wrong, sexual jealousies run high, druggies rob each other with violent results—but murder by an outsider is a very different thing than murder among, as it were, friends. She’s sure that the news is spreading already, and that Al, for one, is going to be heartsick when he hears it. If only she can convince the Bizarros that the assassin is as much their enemy as he or she is the cops’, the Outworlder will find himself delivered to Bates’ doorstep, most likely in a sack.
If, of course, the usual channels can even find a psychic sentient who also happens to be a highly-trained assassin, a major-league killer in the minor-league world of the Bazaar. No doubt he (or she—Lacey reminds herself that they’ve been making too many assumptions about this killer) has enough false IDs and well-rehe
arsed cover stories to change identities every day for a week. All at once, something hits her leg, and before she can stop herself Lacey’s on her feet with her laser pistol half-drawn. The magenta-haired kid shrinks back into her seat with a whine.
“Dint mean nada, man.”
With a stab of embarrassment Lacey realizes that the thing that touched her was the empty crumpled carton from the slice’n’fry, tossed onto the floor to slide and roll where it would. Before she sits down she kicks it back into the aisle, but mingled with the kIDs flower-sweet perfume a sharp odor lingers.
“Jeezus and madre de dios!” Lacey slaps her thigh in exultation. “Of course.”
The kid slews round in her seat and stares straight ahead, maybe thinking Lacey is a crazy. Lacey gives her a brilliant smile and decides against telling her that the reek of her ill-considered lunch may just have saved Polar City from martial law. If this assassin’s been infected with the bacterium, as seems more than likely, her (or his) flesh is going to smell like sour vinegar. Even though perfume will cover a lot, tracking her down now looks possible, no matter how many fake passports he (or she) has, if Lacey can only enlist the right help. As she gets off at the Fourth and J Street stop, Lacey is feeling an old, familiar, and rather tiresome dread, heavily laced with guilt. She is going to have to visit the man they call the Mayor of Porttown. More than ever she’s glad she hit Bates up for the dope; she’s going to need it to bribe the Mayor’s various doormen and bodyguards.
Before she takes the grav platform up to the street, she finds herself a dark corner of the station and sends out a comm call on Carol’s private number. Although she’s expecting to wait for some time, Carol herself, not her comp unit, answers promptly.
“Oh, it’s you, Lacey. Look, I no can talk long. I put a call through to Epidemiology Center on Sarah. The twelve minute delay’s almost up.”
“All I want to know is how Little Joe’s doing.”
“No savvy. I mean, the Goddamn stuff’s spreading, but it no is killing him or anything. Look, the poor bastard took a leak earlier, right? Well, now our little friend’s working on his genital area, eating off his body hair, making him nice and shiny and kind of leathery. He’s real sick about it, but I told him it’s something new for the donnas—textural interest. He no liked the joke.”
Pet Noir Page 14
