Children of a Dead Earth Book One

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  “Um…”

  She slinked up to him until her body hovered over his legs, then placed a delicate finger on his lips. When she pulled it away, her puckered lips replaced it and kissed him deeply. For just a moment, Benson forgot what he was doing and slipped back into old habits. She smelled like apple blossoms.

  A wandering hand settled on his crotch and broke the spell. Benson broke free of the kiss and pushed her back gently, but firmly. Undeterred, she sat back and slipped one dress strap off her shoulder, then the other.

  Fighting mightily against the base instinct to let her finish undressing, Benson moved up and put the straps back on her shoulders.

  “That’s not why I’m here. You can keep it on, please.”

  The girl looked at him uncomprehendingly, then withdrew to chew on a fingernail.

  “You no like me?” she asked, in a heavy accent. Her eyes darted back and forth to the shadows.

  “Oh, sweetie, no. You’re lovely.” Benson ran a hand down her arm, trying to comfort her. “But I didn’t come down here for… love.”

  “I in trouble?” Her eyes went back to a particular patch of darkness, hunting for approval. Benson wasn’t even sure she had addressed the question to him.

  “No, no trouble,” he said, as softly as he could. Then he turned to face the shadow she kept looking at. “No trouble,” he repeated more loudly.

  Benson drew himself to his full height, then slid a foot back into a solid, defensive stance. His heart raced in his ears, more aware than ever of the danger he was in. He looked down at the girl. With her predatory confidence stripped away, she looked like the confused, vulnerable adolescent she really was. She shivered, ever so slightly. Despite the cold, Benson took off his jacket and draped it over her narrow shoulders.

  At the edge of his vision, the darkness moved. He turned to face it head-on.

  “May as well come out, I know you’re there.”

  As an answer, not one, but four men stepped out of their hiding places and moved towards Benson with a slow, deliberate gait. Their hands were empty of weapons, fortunately. They were skinny, verging on malnourished, but looked no less menacing for it. The quartet closed around Benson like a pack of hungry wolves, but a raised hand from one of them halted their advance. The girl glanced up at him, but looked away just as quickly.

  That’s the leader, Benson thought. The man was scarcely taller than the girl trembling at his feet. He looked to be around twenty, maybe twenty-five, but the others were younger still. If Benson’s size intimidated the younger man, his face showed no trace of it. Then again, why would he? He had Benson outnumbered five to one.

  Benson really hoped Sal was right.

  The ringleader held a hand down to the girl to help her up, then hugged her.

  “You not here for love?” His tone was more accusatory than questioning.

  Benson shook his head. “Not today, no.”

  “Then you not welcome.” He snapped his fingers and they all turned around to fade back into the darkness.

  No one touched the small pile of barter.

  “Wait!” Benson knelt down and grabbed the protein bars and broken tablet before jogging after the retreating leader. “I want to trade with you.”

  “For?” the leader called back over his shoulder.

  “Information. There’s been a murder. I’m a… a constable.”

  “We know you, Benson-san.”

  That caught him off guard. He hadn’t been down here since he was eight. “Wait, how can you know me?”

  “We see in the dark,” the leader said.

  The implied meaning forced Benson to adjust his estimation of these people. On the surface, nearly everyone spoke English. It had long been the language of international science, business, aviation, exactly the sorts of disciplines so many of the original pilgrims had been drawn from. It was rare to come across someone who wasn’t fluent. But these people didn’t have the advantage of the formal education everyone on the surface took for granted. And uneducated wasn’t the same thing as unintelligent.

  Still, they were all too young to be the Unbound’s founders if Sal’s twenty year estimate was right. Not unless the man standing before him had been the world’s most cynical and ambitious five year-old.

  “Whoever did this, I don’t think they had an implant. I would like to ask your, ah, elders, for help.”

  “No,” the leader said flatly. So his guess had been right; others were down here, maybe even the movement’s founders.

  “You speak for them, do you?”

  Whispers stirred between the others. The question had obviously struck a nerve.

  “Look, I came down here alone to talk. But if I have to come back, I won’t be alone, and it won’t be to talk.”

  Speaking in an unfamiliar language, the leader raised his voice at one of the others, but they didn’t back down. Benson decided to call him Lefty. Like most people from Avalon, Benson spoke Mandarin passably himself, but this wasn’t it. The vowel sounds, syntax and structure was completely different. Japanese? He decided to let the private little argument play itself out.

  Lefty threw up his hands in surrender and shouted something that probably translated to “Fine, be my guest!” He turned his back on the rest of them and disappeared into the shadows. One of the men who remained nudged the girl on the shoulder. She walked up to Benson with more caution than the first time. She bowed with her arms at her sides, then held out her hands and waved them to her chest in a “give me” gesture. Benson figured she meant his barter, so he turned it over.

  “Wait here,” she instructed.

  “And you’ll bring your elders?” he asked hopefully.

  “And I will ask.” Cradling the tablet and bars in her arms, the young girl bowed again, then left. The three other men stayed behind, but they retreated to a less threatening distance and simply watched to make sure he stayed put. Benson obliged and sat back down. He wondered just how long he’d be waiting for the elders’ decision.

  He looked around at the gaunt faces eying him with suspicion, and decided to make the best of it.

  “Anybody got a deck of cards?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As it happened, they didn’t, but one of them did have a bag of Mahjong tiles. After a brief struggle, they agreed to the Old Hong Kong rules to give Benson a fighting chance, then proceeded to embarrass him in successive games anyway. It was just as well the Ark didn’t use hard currency, because they would have cleaned him out.

  “I think you three are ganging up on me.”

  They all flashed their best “who, us?” looks and laughed. One of them even slapped Benson on the back.

  “No, you just bad player.”

  “Maybe, but I’d wipe the floor with you at cribbage.”

  On cue, one of them reached into a backpack and pulled out a small cribbage board and a deck of cards.

  “You know cribbage?”

  The man shrugged. “Lot of time to kill.”

  “Wait, you said you didn’t have any cards!”

  This was met by another round of laughter. They were enjoying jerking the foreigner around.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Benson set up the board. “Which one of you jokers am I going to beat first?”

  He’d just started to shuffle the cards when the phone rang in his head. It was Doctor Russell.

 

  She didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in her voice.

 

 

  Benson smirked as he dealt the cards.

 

 

  , along with most of his dermal layer. I can already see some bruising and other signs of physical struggle.>

 

 

  The man who had volunteered to play slapped him on the hand, pulling him back to the scene in front of him. Benson glanced down and realized he’d misdealt the hand. He picked up the cards and reshuffled, then dealt them properly.

 

 

 

 

  Benson’s excitement almost boiled over.

 

  Benson mentally blurted out.

 

 

 

 

  It probably wouldn’t be enough, Benson knew. Everything about the case was being monitored, he was sure of that. Whatever advantage surprise could have given him was gone. Still, saving a copy offline should keep it from being altered or deleted, provided Jeanine was quick enough. It would have to do.

 

 

 

  Benson looked around at the dust and decay surrounding him.

 

  Benson cut the link and picked up his hand, and smiled. Four, six, jack of spades, a two, and a pair of fives. It was a good start. He picked out the jack and two to throw in his crib. He’d be giving up points no matter what he threw down, but the crib had nobs at the very least, and a good chance of–

  “Agong will speak with you.”

  The girl’s voice gave Benson a start. He’d been so focused on his conversation with Jeanine and dealing the cards right, he hadn’t heard her approach.

  Benson looked down at his hand and sighed at the lost chance for retribution. He stood up and turned it over to the man sitting next to him. “Here, play for me until I get back.” The man looked at the cards, then gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

  Benson followed the young lady as she led him deeper into the darkened basement level. The third man not playing cribbage fell into formation behind him, but kept a respectful distance.

  “Agong.” He knew the term. It meant “grandfather” in Mandarin in a generic sense, but it was more an informal title than a direct family association. They walked for a few minutes at least, weaving back and forth through the labyrinth of pipes that formed Shangri-La’s circulatory system. Benson wasn’t sure, but he got the feeling they’d circled back at least once, probably to confuse him and make it that much harder to find their hideout if he should ever try to return with ill intentions.

  These people were as clever as they were cautious. Then again, you’d have to be to spend decades hiding right under the nose of what was probably the most invasive surveillance state in human history.

  “What’s your name?” Benson asked the young lady leading him.

  She pointed to herself. “Mei.”

  “Yes, you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, Mei.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Have you always lived here, Mei?”

  “Agong will talk to you.”

  “Yes, I know, but I want to talk to you as well.”

  “Agong says not to.”

  And that was the end of the conversation. Ahead, light shone through a bramble of pipes. The air took on the distinct odor of ammonia the closer they came to the… settlement. The smell came from stacks of trays from floor to ceiling, tended by young members. Benson stepped off to take a look. The trays slid out to reveal a layer of dirt and perfectly white, round–

  “Mushrooms.” Morel, shitake, and a half dozen other varieties poked up out of the rich, dark soil. He picked a small button mushroom from the bed and snapped off the stem, then popped it in his mouth. “Can’t beat farm fresh.”

  The youth tending the stack of mushrooms looked up at him with a mix of terror and impotent rage. Mei came over and calmed the boy, then gently herded Benson back down the path. They passed more racks of mushroom beds, something that looked like a large, multi-stage still cobbled together from spares, and even small shacks and lean-tos complete with beds, reclaimed tables, and patchwork rugs made from carpet remnants.

  It felt just like a refugee camp from the vids on old Earth. Except the people here didn’t look desperate and hopeless. They seemed earnest, yet determined. The few children around pointed and laughed at the strange man passing through their village.

  Then Mei stopped at the foot of what looked like a small chapel built into the pipes and bowed. A chill trickled down Benson’s spine like a bead of ice water. Staring back through eyeless sockets, nine human skulls sat in three rows of three. Ever the detective, Benson reached out and scratched one of them with a fingernail to see if it was genuine bone, but Mei’s hand shot out and slapped him as though he was a child reaching for the cookie jar.

  “Don’t. Touch. Anything.” She poked him in the chest with each period to accentuate the point.

  Benson held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

  She mumbled something unflattering about his possible ancestry in Japanese, then continued walking. They came to the source of the lights; trellises of tomatoes, squash, and grapes glowed brightly under strips of grow lights, exactly the same sort he’d helped to maintain years ago working in the aeroponics farm, solving the mystery of why some of the units they’d sent in for refurbishment had never returned from the shop.

  At the epicenter of the farms and shacks stood a… something or other. To call it a building would be an insult to many centuries of architects. Its walls were a patchwork of sheet metal and plastic laminate built in and around the pipes and ductwork. It looked like an angular beehive with tree branches sticking out of it at right angles.

  A worn shower curtain served as a door. Mei pulled it aside and beckoned him to follow. Inside, an old man leaned over a bonsai tree. Several others in varying sizes sat in tiny pots on a shelf to the left of his small workspace. He wore thinning gray hair tied back in a ponytail. On the other side of the large room, Lefty regarded him with a scowl. Next to him, a young girl no more than eight or nine chatted excitedly while she worked on her own project. Before Benson could see what it was, the old man stood up and approached him.

  “Thank you for coming, Chief Benson. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Benson took his outstretched hand and shook it firmly. Something about the man’s face cried out for attention. Benson studied his eyes, cheekbones and jawline, trying to look past the wrinkles and liver spots to the foundation of the man. A flash of recognition burst into Benson’s mind as he realized he was shaking hands with a dead man.

  “Ah, now you see me,” David Kimura said.

  Benson blinked twice, dumbstruck. It wasn’t often he found himself at a loss for words, but shaking hands with a genuine ghost was enoug
h to paralyze his tongue. David Kimura had been dead for thirty years. Longer. He was a legend, and his untimely death had been interpreted as a subtle warning to the cattle not to push too hard against their fences. But here he was, in the flesh, which didn’t appear to be reanimated.

  “You’re David Kimura?” Benson asked. The older man nodded. “But you’re dead.”

  Kimura raised an untrimmed eyebrow, then patted himself on the chest. “I don’t feel particularly dead. I do hope your deductive skills are usually better than that, my son.”

  “I mean,” Benson struggled to regain his mental balance. “I mean, you’re supposed to be dead.”

  The older man smiled. “And that is what you were, until this very moment, supposed to believe. Let’s just say that reports of my death were deliberately exaggerated and leave it at that for now. You’re a long way from home, detective. What brings you down here?”

  “I’m investigating a murder.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard. First one in years, thanks in no small part to your performance at the helm of the constables.” He placed an odd inflection on “performance”.

  “Was that a slight, Mr Kimura?”

  “No, not at all. You’ve proven well suited to the role.” The inflection again, on “role” this time. “But it does beg the question of what you’re doing here in Shangri-La’s basement. Aren’t you outside your jurisdiction?”

  Benson shrugged. “Yes, but because of that, I can be more… selective in the sorts of things I remember to report when I get back.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Mei stood at the doorway. “And it’s a good thing, too.”

  Kimura saw the disapproval in Benson’s eyes. He waved to Lefty and Mei, then asked them to leave them in private for a few minutes. Lefty, whose real name was apparently Huang, stared a couple of daggers at Benson as he passed, but said nothing. Mei bowed deeply and let the shower curtain fall closed.

  Kimura put a hand on Benson’s shoulder and gently turned him towards the work station where he’d been pruning the tiny tree. He picked it up, delicately, reverently.