by Jason LaPier
“If you don’t mind me saying so, RJ,” Dava said, “this seems over the top for a legful of stolen Delirium.”
“Hey, this is D-K,” he said, waving the false limb, causing the fake hair sprouting from the rubbery skin to flex in the breeze. “You know what the street value of this amount of D-K is?”
Dava huffed. “Street value?” She looked at Eyeball.
“Drugs.” He chewed through the word with disdain. “Good for morale. Shit for tactical value. And we don’t do street.”
“Okay, right.” Jansen let the leg drop to his side. “You’ve got a point. But let me ask you something. Mr. Sandiego. Mr. Joshi. Mr. Hill.”
“Was there a question in there?” Dava said, unwilling to back away from the clean-cut man as he leaned in too close.
“Do you know them?”
“No. Do you?”
“Not those names specifically,” he said. “But I know the Misters.”
Eyeball laughed suddenly and heartily, causing Jansen to flinch and take a step back. “The Misters? The fuck?”
“The Misters are a new outfit.” Jansen straightened up, puffing up his chest, holding up his pride. “They’ve been on the down low for about a year or so. Building a network. This,” he said, shaking the leg. “This is them knocking on our door.”
“How do you know about these guys?” Dava said.
“I know things,” Jansen said firmly. “And I know people who know things. That’s why I’m here. Now pack it up. We’re moving.”
“To hunt Misters?” Eyeball said, grinning.
“No. We’ll pick up that trail on Terroneous later. Sandiego said he wasn’t supposed to contact Hill beforehand, so our best bet is to check out Sunderville in six months when the superliner makes it up that way.”
“And you have something planned for the meantime,” Dava guessed.
“We have another target in the Sirius system,” Jansen said. He turned and slapped a fist against Eyeball’s chest, clad in his shiny new shirt. “A target with tactical value. Now let’s move out.”
CHAPTER 3
Stanford Runstom was lost.
It wasn’t that today was the first day of his new job; no, he didn’t allow himself to feel lost in the metaphorical sense, lost because of the uncertain, unplanned path of his career. He was the normal kind of lost.
“Can I help you, officer?”
A baby-faced, blue-haired woman sat behind a wide, circular desk in the center of the building. Only it wasn’t the center of the building. There were three corridors extending from the space in directions equidistant from each other, which certainly gave the impression of centralization, but Runstom knew better, having wandered the building for over an hour. This was the third such center he’d encountered since entering the Modern Policing and Peacekeeping Universal Headquarters and Outreach Center.
“Please tell me this is B-deck.”
“I’m afraid not, officer,” the young woman beamed. “This is C-deck.”
“What? I came into A-deck. Did I somehow pass B-deck?” The piece of paper that Runstom had jotted down the office number onto was becoming thin from being scrunched into his hand for so long.
“Would you like a map?” The receptionist held out a small, gray stick. When he reflexively reached for it, she pulled back. “I’m sorry, officer. Where is your mate?”
“My mate? Excuse me?”
She cocked her head, then lifted her wrist. She pointed at the four-inch-wide black band that went around her forearm. “You know, your WrappiMate. I need to upload the map to it.”
“I don’t have one of those. You can’t just give me a paper map?”
She stared at him for a few seconds, her eyes narrowing slightly, her jaw slowly sliding from one side to the other, and he got the sense she was trying to work out whether or not he was pulling her leg. “We don’t have any paper maps, officer.”
“Stanford.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My name is Stanford. Stanford Runstom. Look, can you just point me in the direction of B-deck?”
She pointed at him. “Back the way you came. Look for a lavender hallway.”
“Lavender?”
“You know,” she said. “Kind of purple.”
* * *
The changing of the colors in the ModPol HQ hallways was not abrupt; in fact, they changed at such a mild gradient over such a long distance, he hadn’t noticed the difference until the receptionist had called attention to it. The walls didn’t come down to the floor at nice, neat, ninety-degree angles, but instead just curved, as they did at the ceiling. The whole experience was very disorienting for Runstom.
Likewise, the different sections of the building were named “decks”, as though it was a ship, and this made no sense to Runstom whatsoever. They were more like wings, and it wasn’t until he was deep into the B-deck wing that he found an elevator that took him to the 97th floor.
When the elevator doors opened, a pale, squat woman – an obvious resident of the strong gravity of Sirius-5 – in a bright-green suit stood before him.
“Stanford Runstom!” she belted, thrusting a broad hand forward. “Victoria Horus. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Runstom took the hand and shook it firmly. “Yes, nice to meet you, ma’am.” He glanced at the elevator. “Are you on your way out? I apologize if I missed our meeting. I couldn’t seem to find—”
“No, of course not.” She took a step back and looked Runstom up and down. “I’m here to show you to your office. Come with me, Stan. Is it okay if I call you Stan? Or do you like Stanley?”
“Not Stanley. Stanford. Please. Sir. Ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Stan is fine.”
“Great.” Horus smiled, putting a hand on Runstom’s shoulder. “Stan. And you can call me Vicky – to my face. Behind my back, you’ll want to call me Big Vicky if you want to fit in with the rest of these clowns!” she said, her voice burbling into a laugh.
Horus led Runstom down another bizarrely curved hallway for a minute, then stopped at an open door. “This is your new office,” she said, gesturing.
The room was sparse, to say the least. An empty coat rack, a desk, and a terminal, and that was about it. No footlocker, no holovid, no receptacle to charge stun sticks or pistols. There was a window that stretched fully across the back wall, but all that could be seen were thick, white clouds. Their oppressive presence made him look for curtains or blinds, but he saw none.
“It’s … great,” he said, causing Horus to squeeze him across the shoulders.
“Ain’t it though? A beautiful view. But no time to take it in.” She tugged Runstom away from the blank office. “I need you to come into my office so that we can talk about your first mission.”
Horus’s office was just down the hall and much more densely furnished. The walls were lined with fully-stocked bookshelves, and her window was garnished with velvety, lavender-colored drapes. There was a thick, spiraling red-and-brown carpet, a feature Runstom hadn’t noticed was missing from his own office until he stepped onto it in Horus’s. And finally, the desk was a dark, slick wood – or wood-like substance – that was punctuated by a gold-lettered, glowing placard that read, Victoria “Big Vicky” Horus, Director of Market Strategy Management.
“It’s real wood,” Horus said, slipping into the chair behind her desk and looking up at Runstom, who had unconsciously put his hands on the surface. “Imported. Have a seat, Stanford.”
Runstom sat in one of the chairs that faced the desk. “I’m glad you have time to talk,” he said, trying to build courage. “I just have some questions—”
“Hey,” Horus said, leaning forward and pointing. “How’s the apartment, huh? Right in downtown Grovenham, I understand. In the Pearl District. Very nice, is it?”
“Well, yes, it’s nice.” It had been nice. Runstom had only stepped inside it for the first time yesterday. It felt too nice for it to be his own. It felt like a hotel room – albeit a very large one, more l
ike a suite – and he found sleep very difficult.
“Well, don’t worry too much about getting hung up in our gravity here,” she said. “We’ll have you out and about on assignment. It won’t be that different from your last position, in that sense.”
“Yes, about that,” Runstom said, fumbling for words. “I’m still – I uh – I’m sorry. It’s an honor to have received the promotion.”
“You’re welcome,” Horus said with a big smile.
“Right, thank you. I just don’t understand.” Runstom looked at his hands, then back at Horus. “Why me, ma’am?”
“Vicky.”
He stared at his new superior for a moment, finding it difficult to be so informal. “It’s just that this job, it’s not like anything I’ve done before.”
“Let me show you something, Stanford.” Horus tapped at her console and a nondescript cabinet against one wall folded away, and a small holovid unit extended from it. When it winked to life, the image quality was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and the sound was clear and radiated throughout the room.
“And now onto our next story: Corruption within Modern Policing and Peacekeeping, our continuing coverage of the scandal that rocked the known universe. The scandal that Mark Xavier Phonson, a one-time lieutenant and later high-level administrator for ModPol, and his cronies perpetrated—”
The video sped up as Horus tapped at her console. “Ahem,” she grunted with a smile. “Let’s just skip to the important part. Ah, here we go.”
“Now let’s go to Missla Hanchorkif, who is talking to ModPol Officer Stanford Runstom, widely recognized as the hero who blew apart this conspiracy.”
“Thank you, Jerry. And thank you, Officer Runstom, for taking the time to answer some questions for us.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Han— Handkerchief. Thank you for having me.”
Runstom remembered the interview, but had never gone back and watched the recording afterward. He’d done several and never watched any of them. He felt a mix of displeasure at hearing his own awkward voice played back to him and pride at having been brave enough to talk to the press. He shamefully admired how much better he looked in holo; the four months of mandatory paid vacation since then had not done his physique any favors.
“Now, Officer – let’s start from the beginning. When did you first suspect something was amiss? Was it during the investigation on Barnard-4?”
“Um, well, yes, I suppose I was – concerned – at that time.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, the investigation – the crime was on such a massive scale —”
“Thirty-two dead at the scene.”
“Right. And yet the investigation was over so quickly.”
“Ah, more morbid details,” Horus said, once again tapping the controls. “Oh, here we go. This is my favorite bit.”
“It’s incredible that you, a low-ranking ModPol officer, were able to turn your dedication and loyalty to the job into a full-blown mass murder investigation that took you from Barnard-4 to a Royal Starways Superliner, where you tracked down a corrupt politician who had been blackmailed into transmitting the signal that opened that dome, and from there to the moon Terroneous where you tracked down the cryptographer who encrypted the original deadly code, and from there to Sirius-5 where you found the original programmer of that code.
“I mean, this is a level of commitment that’s unheard of, no matter what the job!”
At the last statement, the interviewer turned to face the camera, to show the viewers her sense of awe. Horus paused the recording, and the reporter perpetually stared at them in wonderment.
“I’ve got dozens of files like this, Stanford,” Horus said, leaning over her desk. “Dozens. This whole mess was a media storm. It could have been bad – real bad – for ModPol. Maybe you don’t understand how badly it could have spun, maybe you do. But the fact of the matter is, every time your face showed up on a holovid, people stopped seeing a corrupt organization and started seeing a hero.”
“Well, I don’t,” Runstom started, unable to find the words. Those so-called morbid details she’d skipped over were the most important parts to him. Take away the details, and what else was there?
“A hero that neatly served up all the conspirators on a plate,” Horus said, as if mind-reading his question. She stood up and came around the desk to lean against it, her legs crossing at the ankles. “Do you see? Not everyone loves Modern Policing and Peacekeeping, Stanford. There are people out there that do not like us. They would have loved to turn this story the other way, to present ModPol as having a culture of corruption. But you were at the center of it all. The media loved you. You’re honest – a straight-talker. And you’ve always believed in the ModPol mission, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Runstom said quietly, again looking at his hands. Then he braced himself, looked Horus in the eyes. “Ma’am. I just believe I would serve ModPol best as a detective.”
“Stan, I know that becoming a detective was a lifelong goal for you. But sometimes what we want is just not what we’re best at. Sometimes we don’t know we’re going to be really good at something until it happens. I’m telling you, Stan: this is what you’re meant to do.”
“I’m just not sure—”
“Now I also know that you’ve always wanted to follow in your mother’s footsteps – maybe even go undercover, like she did. Believe me, I understand, and it’s admirable, but we aren’t our parents. Hell, my mother was a chemist. Worked in a lab all day long. She wanted me to go into science. Nearly flipped when I moved into the marketing world. And my father was a terraform engineer. Can you imagine how boring that work would be? How long it would take to see the results of your work?”
“I don’t know who my father is,” Stanford said flatly.
Horus sighed. “You have to trust me, Stanford. This is the right thing for you. This is where you’re going to excel. Think of it this way: instead of sitting around waiting for crimes to happen and then investigating them after the fact, you get to be proactive.”
“It feels like a sales position.”
“No, no. It’s not sales, not at all. It’s furthering the ModPol mission. When the human race started colonizing these systems outside of Sol, we had a chance to start things fresh. We came out here with Utopian ideas, you know? And we deserved that – hell, we’d mastered interstellar flight. It’s just unfortunate that there will always be a fringe element. And that’s why ModPol is here. We take care of the ugly things that ordinary civilians pretend don’t exist. It’s not because they’re ignorant. It’s because they deserve to live worry-free. They’re the ones playing by the rules, being civilized. I know you believe that. Tell me you believe in the ModPol vision.”
“Of course I do,” Runstom replied, louder than he’d expected. He took a breath and controlled his voice. “I just don’t know the first thing about public relations.”
Horus looked slightly up and away, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Did you know that I started with ModPol just last year?”
“Okay.” Runstom knew nothing about his new boss. Didn’t know he had one until the transfer order had come in less than a week previously.
“I was with ZebraCorp.” She stared at Runstom as though expecting a reply.
“Consumer electronics,” Runstom said. “Pads and whatnot.”
This caused Horus to lose just a touch of her smile. “Yes, if by ‘pads’ you mean the highly successful HandiMate. The WrappiMate was the last launch I worked on.” She stuck out her arm to indicate the device wrapped around her left forearm. “Everyone has one. It’s the pinnacle of Mate technology. You can operate it like this, but it can also be extended,” she said, pulling the flexible screen out of its sheath to form a flag-like handypad that unfurled from the band.
“Yes, I’ve seen all the advertisements,” Runstom said. He had, but hadn’t actually paid attention to them enough to know what the damn thing looked like, until now.
“You don’t have one? We’ll make sure you get one.”
“Thanks. But—”
“The point is, Stan,” Horus continued, “at ZebraCorp, our products were everywhere. Every market, in every economic class. I worked there for ten years, for the last three as the VP of Marketing. Zebra went from a guy working out of his garage in some suburbs here on Sirius-5 to a multi-stellar operation with factories on three planetoids.”
After a pause, Runstom said, “So why did you come to ModPol?”
Horus pointed at him and he knew he’d taken the bait. “Why did I come to ModPol: an excellent question. Stan, I’d done it all. The WrappiMate had the most successful launch of any product in the history of mankind. We made more money in one month than OrbitBurner, Royal Starways, and even ModPol make in a year, combined. There were no more worlds to conquer at ZebraCorp. So why did I come here?”
Runstom scowled. He hated being led along in a conversation, but this was his new boss. “For the challenge?” he guessed.
“For the challenge,” Horus repeated, then went silent for a moment. Finally she pointed to the device on her arm again. “It’s a marvelous piece of technology. But in the end, it’s just a tool. A product. ModPol is not a product. It’s a service. What service does ModPol provide?”
He squinted at the Sirius-fiver woman. “Law enforcement and defense.”
“Freedom,” Horus said with the point of a thick finger. “We handle the ugliness of police-work and defense, and the civilized worlds have the freedom to live in peace.”
Runstom sighed. He thought he’d better agree or the speechmaking would continue. “Okay, well … you said I’m not going to be selling anything. So what am I doing?”
Horus leaned back and tented her fingers against her lips thoughtfully, her brow creasing. “Listen, Stan. I wasn’t entirely truthful before, when we watched that interview clip. There’s no denying how much you helped ModPol save face by getting out there and telling the truth of what happened. Regardless, our name has been tarnished. Now I know as an officer, you’ve been aware of our operational reach. We’re solid in the domes on the inner planets, but our other contracts have always been tenuous at best. This whole catastrophe has really hurt those positions.”
