The Liquidation Order

by Jett Lang

  “Definitely a credit chit.” He magnified his finding. The window showed the hawkish man bending in front of a rust-flecked grate and extracting a brown paper bag. The bag disappeared into the man’s sleeve and he continued down the sidewalk. Every movement was performed nonchalantly. No shivering or shaking, or any sign of a brush with Queen’s particular brand of death. This man was conditioned.

  Murdoc maximized another window.

  It was the same man, now among the thrum and bustle of the Entertainment District, weaving between shoppers with more money than concerns. Clinical smiles and unwavering holographics spanned tiers of elevated and railed concourses. He eyed the crowd, his disinterest practiced. Against the vibrant styles of the pedestrians, he blended poorly. A mistake, Queen thought. That is, until Murdoc sped the reel toward the man’s destination.

  “He entered this medical parlor exactly ten minutes ago.” The feed unfolded like a bad dream, the man pulling out the aforementioned credit chit, and a static card. Murdoc froze the image, zoomed.

  She wanted to slam her fist right through the monitor. “Face swap,” she said. “Why can’t I see his CID card?”

  “Interference strip. They’re illegal in all city-states, but where there’s a need, there’s a market.” Murdoc brought the video back to real time. “He’s still in there, if my ex-wife’s facelifts are a fair barometer. You have an hour, roughly.” When Murdoc regarded her, she was halfway to the frosted glass exit.

  She flipped her hood up and waited at the locked doors. Murdoc keyed the red light over the sliding doors to green. “Thanks,” Queen said, unsmiling.

  “I’ll be watching.”

  ※

  The medical parlor was designed for customer satisfaction, or so the neon cursive under the name MIRACLE MAN MICHEAL claimed. The interior was checkered blue and white linoleum scrubbed to a shine and the employees were glossy-eyed teens with cheat sheets and faded blue scrubs. Though the waiting room was large, the uneven arrangement of oval memory foam chairs made it seem cramped. Humanity and disinfectant were the odors of the day.

  Queen strolled by customers engrossed in anatomical holograms. The young girl manning the sign-in booth saw her coming and slouched. Her hair and eyes were acid green. A triple-bolted autodoor flanked her on both sides – entrances to the operation and recovery wings.

  “Can I help you?” Acid Girl’s voice was metallic through the microphone.

  “Yes,” Queen said. “My boyfriend came in here about half an hour ago.” She slid the hawkish man’s photo through a narrow swoop in the counter.

  Acid Girl examined the print halfheartedly and shrugged. “A lot of people come in here.”

  “I can see that. As fetching as my guy, though?” Queen said in her best imitation of a submissive clinger-on.

  The girl sighed dramatically. “I remember him.”

  “I need to see him about this surgery.” She wrung her hands. “We had an argument over what he wanted done, and he stormed out on me, said he was going to do it anyway.”

  “Yeah, well, are you married? ‘Cause I can’t let you in if you’re not. Policy.” She returned the photo. There was a technical university tattoo under her palm, a rattlesnake coiled around a mechanical arm.

  “Policy,” Queen said. “They pay you well here? Enough for tuition?”

  Acid Girl glanced at her tattoo. “As if. This is just my morning gig.”

  “Working girl. I understand that.” She lowered her head to the layer of perforated glass separating them. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Yeah?” The girl bent the tapered microphone aside.

  “Yeah. A donation to your cause.” Queen withdrew a stack of plastic cards. She unwound the elastic band holding them together, laid them down on the counter.

  “How do I know how much that is?” The girl had the tip of her nose against the barrier, fogging it up. Her breath was tinged with peppermint.

  “You can check for yourself,” Queen said tenderly. “Good for a semester anywhere.” It was an overpayment, but she had money spare and no time to haggle. She rewrapped her leftover cards and stuffed them back into the front zipper pouch of her hoodie.

  “Nice,” the girl said, bronzed hand extending.

  Queen raked the stack out of reach. “The door and his room number first.”

  Acid Girl jumped into gear, referring to the flat display beside her. “Looks like the doc is keeping him . . . in twenty-two, A wing. That’s the one to your left. His room’s on the right side of the hall, all the way at the end. ” The tri-bolted door on Queen’s left unlatched with a snap. Gingerly, the girl added, “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay? Last thing I need is to get canned.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Queen pushed the credits forward. They disappeared behind the other side of the counter.

  ※

  The corridor matched the color scheme of the waiting room exactly. The aluminum doors on either side were eggshell white with rectangular glass centers, pale blue blinds covering each. The ceiling here was low and stained with water damage. Small LED numbers were attached above the doorways, and she could make out the quiet hum of medical equipment within. No light was visible around the frame of the entrances. At the terminus of the hall, between Room ‘21’ and ’22,’ a faux redwood mirror hung upon the wall, framed by two bizarrely emerald sago palms.

  Closed in on her target, silence permeated.

  She watched her doppelganger in the mirror withdraw a micro halo knife and click out the blade. She turned. ‘22’ blinked uncertainly overhead, the fluttering silhouette of a moth caught inside the rightmost number. After pulling the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand, she gripped the doorknob, tensed. It felt loose, wrong. Could be a bad install, she thought.

  Or something else.

  She tested Room ’21,’ and found the knob firmly attached. She backtracked and did the same for Rooms ‘15’ through ’20.’ They were regulation. She walked back to where she had entered the hallway, glancing over her shoulder. Around a corner there was a red emergency exit, but the alarm was set to ‘on’ and could not be switched off as far as she observed.

  She returned to the main corridor. The hawkish man was standing at the far end, the door to Room ‘21’ open beside him.

  He did not attempt to move as she approached, and when she was close enough to make out his features, she was perplexed by his lack of change – he was, in fact, unaltered in the slightest. He held a scalpel, which dripped blood onto the linoleum tiles. His other hand was behind his back, but she heard droplets patter at the heels of his black sneakers. The top of his desert robe was soaked and carmine.

  There was not a scratch on him.

  “I’m surprised at you, Liquidationist,” the hawkish man said, his serenity absolute. Something beeped behind him.

  She slowed but did not halt. Her cutting hand was poised in front of her, her arms assuming a knife fighter’s stance. “Why’s that?”

  “You didn’t account for my insanity.”

  He tossed the severed head of Miracle Man Michael at her with a smooth underhand. From the gaping mouth, a red light blinked in rapid succession. Bloody contrails glimmered.

  Queen inhaled sharply, ducked. The twirling head of the blonde surgeon rained red over her. She sprinted the last two yards to her target. He almost shut Room ’21,’ but she kicked the door open directly beside the handle. It hit him on the bridge of his nose and sent him stumbling against a raised articulated chair.

  He rebounded, his nose crooked and bleeding. He slashed at her with the scalpel, but she was ready, back-stepped with a boxer’s grace and came back at him, thumb held to the dull side of her blade. She jabbed the heel of her hand up into his broken nose, and stabbed him through the abdomen. He screamed.

  The final beep issued.

  The explosion rocked the corridor; a storm of dust and debris pouring inward. An alarm kicked in, bleating. The hawkish man attempted to bite at Queen’s palm, was rewarded with a sl
ap to the face. He kneed her stomach and punched her in the jaw before she could twist her knife out. She rolled with the blow, sprung to her feet, her Winnow already in her hand and set to ‘Burst-Fire.’ He dove into the hallway clutching his stomach. Queen’s molten volley took the metal door off its hinges in his wake.

  She was out and on his tail as he staggered among the black smoke. Dust cloaked his passage, but his labored breathing gave him away.

  She fired again and took out a plaster partition. The white rupture heralded her approach.

  Miracle Man Michael’s head had landed nearer to the first half of patient rooms; their numbered LEDs glittered in a crater upon the floor. Electric teardrops sparked above the doorframes, showering down. Her distorted shadow marched onward. She trampled plaster and glass underfoot, stabilized her aim with both hands.

  She was going to have this bastard.

  A curl of her finger, another white spray, and then the alarm pitch rose. Looped. Frantic cries from the waiting room. A suave, authoritative voice gave safety instructions over the sound system.

  Common sense during a crisis. How novel.

  A sliver of yellow light punctured the gloom. She rounded the corner as the emergency door slammed shut. She rammed it open with her shoulder.

  The sun glared, beating down on her through a complex rat cage of black steel, ladders and catwalks – a crisscross-approximation of order. Her target was straight ahead, struggling along the shaking catwalk. She vaulted over a railing and landed with nimble ease, balanced perfectly. The hawkish man tripped forward, his face barely missing a second redecoration courtesy of the fire escape rail guard. He grasped the metal bars for purchase, and heaved himself up to the fire escape.

  He stood and faced her. In his left hand he held a deadman trigger. If he removed his thumb from that trigger, well . . .

  Still tranquil, his face was sheened with sweat. Blood darkened the knife-tear in his robe and dribbled out onto the grating at his feet.

  Every drop of his blood rung in her head, echoed within. Her gun felt heavy.

  She lifted it. His mouth moved, formed a word she did not catch.

  Her muzzle flared as he let go of the trigger. His upper body disintegrated into red mist. Then she was falling, falling beneath an explosive wind. Concrete and metal sliced her arms and legs. Blackened rungs sped along her descent, an impossibly intricate metalscape whistle-whining for her destruction and blotting out an amplified sun.

  ※

  Queen opened her eyes.

  She was in a windowless white room. An IV was taped against her wrist and both her legs were slung in bulky casts. The material was temper-soft, rigid within, her bedding similar. Recycled air washed over her, neither hot nor cold. A numb pain coursed throughout.

  “My Queen finally wakes,” her boss said, sitting beside her on a steel stool. At the upper end of middle age, his auburn hair was the only thing still young about him, and that was likely aided by heavy use of dye. He wore a dark three-piece suit. His amber gaze was appraising, bordering on judgmental – a familiar gaze. There was something else in that stare as well, and it was the worst of all: melancholy. She hadn’t seen that before, hadn’t even known it existed beneath his pallid surface.

  “Did you come here to deliver my pink slip?” she said, dry-mouthed. She eased back into her pillow, stared at a ceiling composed of alabaster-diamond. When she lifted her hand up to scratch her ear, she was unsurprised to find it mended.

  “Ten people are dead, fourteen injured. Among the former was a prominent public figure. He had many connections, and now those connections seek retribution, a scapegoat.” He put his hand over hers. “I am truly sorry.”

  She clenched her jaw. “So what did you work out?”

  “I had to fire you, obviously. The company’s professional image is priority one.”

  “You realize the targets had help,” she hissed. “Inside help. Not to mention they were augmented.”

  “I am aware. A man named Murdoc sent the videos to my office. He was also the one who dispatched a medical team to retrieve you. You took a nasty plunge.” He contemplated one of the four white walls. Then, “It does not matter. Major players in both the private and public sectors are incensed. This city is not a safe place anymore. Not for you.”

  “Do I have options, or is this a non-negotiation?”

  He smiled his ten thousand credit smile, but it did not last. “I have secured a moderate severance package for you. One of my pilots will transport you out of the city tonight. The eastern coast is your destination: Angel Bay. You will stay there until this mess is swept under the rug.”

  “Is this where I make some telling quip and thank you for your magnanimity?”

  “No. This is where I get up and leave for a meeting, while you recover.” He got up, but when he came to the autodoor leading out of the room, he stopped.

  “Why am I still here? I shouldn’t be alive; that’s the rule for failure, isn’t it?”

  “I would not stare too deeply into the gift horse’s mouth, Queen.”

  “Don’t want me to find the cavities?”

  He laughed quietly, still turned away from her. “Funny. Though, I pegged you as less a comedian and more a poet. Or did I misread your file?”

  “Can’t pay the bills with poems, now can I?” Queen said. “Fame is an ephemeral currency.”

  “Are we getting a few things off our chest?”

  “No. This is what I was meant to do, what I was trained to do. I don’t regret it, and I certainly don’t regret killing the target.”

  “Then, it seems, I am the only one who has any regrets.” Melancholy in his voice.

  “What happens when this is ‘swept under the rug’?”

  He slipped one well-manicured hand over the panel beside the door, and it slid upward, open to the pale murmur of the lobby. “Think about getting better, Queen.”

  The door resealed behind him.

  She didn’t want to think; she wanted to scream. Scream like the hawkish man screamed when she tore into him. She wanted every person in New Paradise to hear it: the cry of a jobless woman.

  She sat up and listened to the confluence of voices inside of her, each one raging, unheard. Though she felt no regret over her target’s death, she envied the certainty of his future.

  In Transit

  The pilot introduced himself as Jack. He was clean-shaven and creatively foul, which made him an excellent conversationalist.

  “Those nano-pricked bureaucrats don’t know how the fuck the world works,” Jack said, his gloved hand cranking the AC. His voice had a West Talon twang, mixed with the normal New Paradise dialect. She’d asked him about his accent when they first met, and he said he had picked it up from his mother.

  Corporate propaganda frowned upon the coupling of partners from different city-states. As it stood, the need for manpower had states scrambling to keep people within city limits. Workers were too busy to form a contrary opinion, much less actually locate and seduce a mythical foreigner, whom they glimpsed only in caricatured holo-flyers.

  For those higher up, it was a different story. Intercity-state affairs were by no means uncommon among the movers and shakers of New Paradise. Anyone with the means to travel quickly and discreetly between the thousands of miles that separated the city territories could do so. That meant jetcrafts or hovercrafts, and those were the resources of the middle class and wealthy.

  By that logic, Jack was someone’s dirty little secret. Queen colored herself intrigued.

  “How the fuck does the world work, Jack?” She was snugly positioned across the black leather seating in the back, her encased legs hung up in slings that were themselves hooked to the ceiling. The nurse had traded her hospital gown for a white polyester undershirt and a pair of grey cargoes. On the floor mats, a duffle bag sporting glow-in-the-dark zigzags – the package portion of her severance. The flight out of the city had been hassle-free and Jack’s piloting thereafter proved seamless; she experienced
zero turbulence. Good news for her legs.

  “I’ll tell ya how it works, sister: brute fuckin’ strength. Techno-Human Synergy ain’t a real thing like they’d have you believe in university, no ma’am. You start with a shit batch of genes, no amount of upgrades is gonna get you lookin’ pretty, inside or out. Those people got themselves killed in your crossfire, they’re a shit batch. I read their profiles, you know, for a chuckle, and guess what I found?”

  She smiled. “What?”

  “Lawyers, accountants, and salesmen. Every one of them was a dud. A professional cul-de-sac. The fuck do we need them for? Have these politicians and CEOs takin’ a stroll outside their dome lately? Desertification on a massive scale, a flood of refugees, escalated raids on our solar farms, and these brainiacs think a bunch of sad-assed suits are gonna solve the problem? With what? A good quarterly report? A well-worded argument? Please. Meanwhile, they cut the defense budget and enrich the pissants. And shit like this? Sendin’ you off to the coast for an early retirement is just proof that they’re scared. Scared of people who got a pair. Figuratively, of course.”

  “Of course.” The stars rushed past the sunroof, became her fixation.

  “All we’ve been doin’ for the last two hundred years is slurpin’ in tribal cast-offs for cheap labor and boxing ourselves in. The other states have opened up, started expandin’. Hell, Angel Bay and West Talon got themselves miles of outdoor farmland now. What do we have? Underground hydroponics? We need to start cultivatin’ the land or we’re going to be trapped in with a bunch of underpaid and overworked tribesmen. Class warfare in the street, sister. They’ll be hangin’ those businessmen up by their ties.”

  “We’re loaning a lot and not leaving much for ourselves.”

  “Right,” Jack said with a pointed slap to the dashboard. “We need to use our inventions on ourselves, not lease them out. I mean, it’s good that we’re makin’ money hand-over-fist in licensin’ fees, but you cannot sit there and tell me people want to remain cooped up with old tech, in a bubble their whole life, wealthy or not.”