Miss Brandymoon's Device: a novel of sex, nanotech, and a sentient lava lamp (Divided Man Book 1)

by Skelley, Rune

  “The world’s a scary place,” she concluded.

  “You ever think it might be aliens invading our dreams? In their spaceship?”

  She looked at him like he’d grown an extra head. “What on Earth for?”

  “You think it’s more likely Buckminster’s got a space fleet?”

  She thought for a moment before replying. “What I think is, the University is a lot more accessible to us.” She pulled her laptop out of her pack and booted it up. “I want to make a few notes here, then we’ll get going.”

  “Going where?”

  “Campus.” She typed as she talked. “I have a contact in Fuller lab. A technician. I’m nice to him when I need a quote from a scientist.”

  “You have contacts?”

  “I have sources everywhere.” More typing. “I take my work seriously.”

  Something she said gave Fin pause. “Oh shit! I was supposed to work last night!”

  “You have a job?” She sounded more surprised than he would have liked.

  “Yeah. I do graphics.” He tried not to sound too apologetic about his employer. “For Sycamore.”

  “Graphics. Cool. Are you gonna get fired?”

  “Nah. I’ll do some work at home today and upload it.”

  She typed for a while. “I didn’t notice a computer.”

  “I keep it in the closet. That way I don’t spill beer on it.”

  She smiled. A few minutes later she shut down the computer and handed it to Fin. “I want you to wait for me in the library. You can write a firsthand account of your experience in the drug trials. I’ll go talk to Steve.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No offense, Muffin, but it’ll be kinda hard to flirt with you along.”

  Desperate to keep her, Fin blurted, “The other day, I was trying to avoid a coworker and I ended up in this weird basement office below Dogstar.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Well, they had a model of the spaceship. From the dream.”

  “What?”

  “And this place is almost impossible to get to. I found a way in from Olaf’s, entirely by accident. Well, I was looking around in their basement...”

  “Fin.”

  “Huh?”

  “The spaceship?”

  “Right! They had it hanging over the one guy’s desk. I thought they were hapless telemarketing geeks until I saw it. Cue Rod Serling. And they had a map. With pins in it. Some kind of color-coded geographic voodoo...”

  Rook glanced at her wrist, where there was no watch. Fin paused. She said, “I really need you to write this down for me.”

  “I think you’d get a kick out of these guys. I mean, you should see the way they dress—”

  “Fin,” she interrupted. “I’m on a deadline. If there’s time, maybe you can show me. After I talk to Steve.”

  Fin gave in. They’d had enough tension this morning. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Must sleep.”

  “As soon as you’re done typing.”

  “Just no more pet names, okay? I’m not Muffin.”

  Rook winked at him.

  They gulped the remains of their coffee and paid at the front. Fin was exhausted. Why was the cute waitress with the crew-cut shooting him dirty looks? He’d left a tip.

  Rook slung her backpack over her left shoulder and picked up her skateboard by the trucks. Hand in hand they walked outside.

  Traffic looked heavy on Linden Avenue, the one-way main drag. Getting across would take a minute or so. They stood on the curb, waiting for a chance to jaywalk.

  There came an unexpected lull. Fin glanced to his right and saw a forest green mini-van double-parked in front of the bakery, its driver’s side sliding door open. Quicker to take advantage of the break, Rook hurried between two parked cars. As Fin stepped out to catch up, the van leapt forward with a squeal of rubber. A dark-haired man in a green cardigan reached out and grabbed Rook. Her board skittered across the pavement as she yelled, “HEY!” and was hauled inside. The door slammed as the van sped off.

  Too late, the adrenaline reached Fin’s muscles. He lurched into the street. The van turned left on Beech Street and was gone.

  She was gone.

  “Hey shithead! Get the hell outta the road!”

  Fin looked around dumbly, then scooped up Rook’s pack from where it landed. He retrieved her skateboard from under a car.

  Hunched over on the sidewalk, he stared at her belongings for several minutes, numb, playing the scene over in his head.

  Green sweater. The guy who’d grabbed her wore an ugly green sweater.

  Chapter Six

  CINEMOPOLIS

  Citation - Drunk & Disorderly

  Dec. 19, 1999, 4:20 A.M.

  Fin Tanner

  Happily provided urine “sample,” some of which did go in the cup. Defied me to figure out what all is in it. Lab gave us four unknowns, nothing matching a controlled substance. Had to release him. Ninth time this year. Merry fuckin’ Christmas.

  from the notebook of Webster Police Officer Larry Campbell

  Fin looked like hell when he arrived at Cinemopolis, carrying a skateboard and backpack Bishop recognized as Rook’s. He also had a bag from the liquor store which he opened immediately. Bishop was the sole projectionist at the old two-screen theatre, so they were alone in the booth. Good thing, since Fin had already puked in the garbage can and now slumped against the projection booth’s steel lining, swigging ‘Comfort but not feeling any.

  Bishop could tell this was not the usual bullshit and monitored his friend while threading the film for the left house. The previews were running on the right side, so shortly both shows would be in progress and there would be no real demands on Bishop for almost two hours. So long as Fin wasn’t sliding too steeply toward coma, they could talk then.

  Fin opened the backpack and started to cry before he even reached inside. He pulled out a small mass of shiny red fabric and buried his sobs in it.

  Bishop kept about his job until the projector was ready, then sat beside Fin and gently took the party dress away so they could talk.

  “Should there be police involved with this?” Bishop knew Fin didn’t want to think about that, and could see the panic flare up in his friend’s eyes. He spoke quickly to head off the torrent of objectionable words. “Is that what normal people would do?”

  Fin broke down again and could only nod. Bishop sighed. Fin had a reputation with the police, had been taken into custody several times. Probably more traumatic for the officers than for Fin. Bishop took a sip of the liquor himself and said, “Tell me everything.”

  “They yanked her off the street, right in front of me. Dragged her into the van and bugged out. I don’t know what they want.”

  “How could you?”

  Fin blinked at him. “There was this place,” he started, but it was too much. “I think it’s me they want.”

  “Back up. Where was this place? Who are they?”

  Fin told him about the hidden stairway and the office. Talking his way out. Rook. Breakfast at The Shamrock. Recognizing the man in the van.

  Bishop stayed silent for the entire story. He said a case could be made it was Fin they wanted, except for the simple fact it was Rook they’d taken. Not knowing what they wanted with her made any further guesswork problematic.

  Fin didn’t agree. “They either want something from me in exchange for Rook, or it really is Rook they want. In either case, she’s what they have. If they want her, she needs help. If this is about me, they think they know what I’ll do. They don’t think I’ll try anything stupid or heroic.”

  “I gather,” said Bishop, “they’re wrong.”

  Fin smirked, then grew solemn.

  Bishop pursued. “What do they think you’ll do? What will they expect?”

  Fin had to reflect a moment. “I’ll avoid the police. They know that. Wait for demands?”

  “Did you give somebody somewhere the impression you own sports teams and oil fields?”r />
  “No,” Fin said defensively.

  “Then these people are not in the kidnapping business. They’re blackmailers.”

  “Either way, they want something. Don’t they?”

  Bishop waited a three-count before continuing. “You were the audience for their little show, grabbing your girlfriend. It could be a threat. They might expect you to stop doing something, and if you don’t stop they’ll think you’re calling their bluff.”

  Fin was destroyed. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he wailed. “I don’t do anything! How can I stop?”

  Bishop had been less than tactful there, he realized.

  Fin stood and ranted. “What if somebody else is doing something they don’t like? How the fuck should I know?” Bishop reached up and dragged him down by his waistband.

  “Please don’t get me fired today. I don’t want to have any conflicts over helping you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “S’alright. We still don’t know what this has to do with you.”

  Fin looked at the floor.

  “Do we?” Bishop prompted.

  “It doesn’t make much sense.”

  “I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

  Fin opened his mouth, then grimaced. He shook violently with suppressed sobs.

  “I want to help. You have to tell me.”

  “My fault!” Fin croaked.

  “We haven’t established anything of the sort.”

  “But I told her. I told her I saw it. She told me about the dreams, and I told her about the place, the men...”

  Bishop waited a full minute, but Fin didn’t say anything further. Standing, Bishop crossed to the projector for the left house, and said, “You’re right, it doesn’t make much sense.”

  Fin looked hopelessly at him.

  Bishop started the projector. “So, you obviously need help. I’m in.” He walked back to Fin and sat. “First, we’ll need to make a plan.”

  As he spoke, he watched the wheels spinning to a blur in Fin’s mind.

  Fin said, “I know where there’s a gun.”

  *** *** ***

  From the business card Rook gave him, Fin knew Talisman was closed Thursdays. He had her keys, so there wasn’t a large amount of planning involved in the mission. Bishop took a sentry station at the top of the steps while Fin unlocked the door. He opened it and slipped inside saying, “Be right back.”

  The place was even darker than it had been during business hours.

  Fin leaned over the counter and reached underneath for the shotgun. It was heavier than expected, and he was afraid he might drop it.

  He did, because Marcus landed on his back. The gun clattered to the floor behind the counter as Fin and Marcus collapsed in front of it. The attack startled Fin far more than it hurt.

  “Shit! Take a day off!” he grunted, grinding his middle knuckle into Marcus’s sternum and shoving — the only fighting maneuver he knew.

  It dislodged Marcus enough for Fin to throw a few kicks and start getting up. Marcus retreated out of reach, got his balance in a squat, and landed a jab. Fin managed to kind of roll with it, since he’d already begun a sloppy shoulder roll to his left. The added momentum sent him completely over and onto all fours. Marcus stood. Fin charged ahead without bothering to rise.

  He caught the larger man around his knees, toppling him into the ponderous door. Marcus landed a clubbing blow with both hands and continued to fall, as the door drifted shut. Fin scrambled to get into a more advantageous position, clambering up his opponent’s body and trying to pummel it at the same time.

  A forceful knee to the ribs stunned Fin, followed by a driving blow to the nose. His head rocked back, and an elaborate bouquet of agony unfolded through his face.

  Marcus caught Fin by his hair and left arm and dashed his head against the front of the counter, leaving him to fall to the floor. Fin heard rather than felt his jaw striking the cement. A spray of red stippled the baseboards in front of his face as Marcus kicked him in the stomach.

  Fin was quivering and barely conscious with pain, but could tell another boot was coming. He convulsed his body where he lay, swinging his legs toward Marcus as he wound up for the kick. Marcus fell again, swearing. He attacked Fin with both fists, cursing and hammering.

  The door swung open. Marcus sprang up to go over the counter for the gun, but Fin tangled him up and he fell.

  Bishop loomed like a bear. He nearly stepped on Fin’s head as he lunged into Marcus with a right to the body.

  Fin dragged himself around the counter to where the shotgun lay. He heard dull thuds, labored breathing, and occasional grunts. Marcus’s boots scuffled, Bishop’s squeaked. As Fin sat up holding the gun all the noise stopped.

  He sat trembling in the dark for several seconds.

  “Let’s get moving,” Bishop said at last.

  Keeping to the alleys, they quickly covered the three blocks to the mystery office.

  Fin leaned against the cyclone fence and tried to push all thought of his spectacular near-failure at Talisman from his mind. He leveled the barrel of the shotgun and waited for Bishop to kick in the door.

  His nose had stopped bleeding, but Fin couldn’t breathe through it anyway. Breathing itself hurt like hell and he assumed he’d cracked some ribs. Or, rather, Marcus did the cracking, but they were definitely Fin’s ribs.

  Blood from a gash near his hairline trickled into his right eye as Bishop landed his kick and the door flew inward with a bang, almost closing again on the rebound. Ignoring the impulse to wipe away the blood, Fin lurched into the opening and swept the room with the muzzle of the gun and his good eye.

  Empty.

  The momentary relief Fin felt gave way to helplessness and fury. He stomped into the room, roaring in frustration and overturning the nearest desk, kicking it repeatedly.

  *** *** ***

  Bishop followed Fin inside and closed the crumpled metal door behind him as best he could. It shrieked in protest and didn’t latch properly. It was imperative to calm Fin down. Bishop didn’t want a passerby or someone upstairs to be drawn by the racket.

  “Fin.”

  It took several tries, but Fin finally ceased his attack on the desk and looked over. In his rage, the wound on his forehead started bleeding again, raining drops of blood on the dark gray carpet.

  “Let’s see if they left anything behind. Then we can get you to a doctor. You look like shit.” Bishop knew Fin would object to medical intervention, seeing it as a needless delay as well as a sign of weakness. He wouldn’t have brought it up at all, except he was certain Fin needed it.

  “No doctors!”

  “I think you have a concussion,” Bishop said. And a broken nose, and a cut that needs stitches.

  “Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. Not if I can’t find her.” Fin’s naturally low voice came out rumbling and choked. He coughed, spat some blood on the carpet and wiped his eye on the sleeve of his trench coat, wincing. After setting the shotgun down on one of the other desks, he started yanking open drawers. Bishop sighed and began to help. The quicker they got out of there, the better. Bishop was prepared to use his knowledge of pressure points to get Fin to the hospital if necessary, but the threat alone should be adequate persuasion.

  The room was cleaned out. The filing cabinets were empty, even the drawers gone. The desk chairs were missing, the desks bare. Nothing on the walls except four matching coat hooks.

  Bishop pulled the drawers from the desks and checked the bottoms. Fin climbed up on a desk and moved aside a couple of ceiling tiles, tried to hoist himself up. The framework buckled and he had to settle for poking his head in and looking around. They came up empty except for a roll of heavy-duty aluminum foil Bishop found in the bottom drawer of the desk Fin attacked.

  Bishop could tell Fin was about to lose his temper again and tried to think of something to say that would calm him, but it was pointless.

  “Trash the place.” He picked up the gun and stepped back
. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”

  Fin punched the wall, discovering he’d injured at least one finger in the fight. Howling, he kicked instead until his boot went through the plaster. He knocked over two of the filing cabinets and started stomping on them, all the while cursing gutturally.

  Bishop watched for signs of fatigue. He planned to stop Fin before he needed to be carried home.

  In the four years they’d been housemates, Fin had never reacted this strongly, even to Kyle. Bishop was ill-prepared to handle this situation with his usual grace and it bothered him. He would need to find a way to make it up to Fin.

  Then he did.

  Bishop crossed the wreckage-strewn office to the back wall. In the spot once occupied by the pair of filing cabinets, he knelt and picked up a CD-ROM that lay flush against the off-white molding behind the left cabinet.

  Fin stopped rampaging when he noticed what Bishop held.

  Bishop turned the CD over, but there was nothing written on either side. He handed it to Fin.

  Fin grabbed it and checked for a label himself, but didn’t find one either.

  “Well, it’s not much to look at, but there might be something interesting on it,” Bishop suggested.

  “I’m not sure it was theirs,” Fin said. “They didn’t have any computers. Now that I think about it, that’s really strange. They were doing some kind of telemarketing thing. I don’t know. They were all wearing headset phones anyway. But there was no computer.”

  “Maybe one of them had a laptop?” Bishop asked.

  Fin brightened a bit, his scowl now less likely to peel paint. “Yeah. That could be it.”

  Together they moved the last filing cabinet away from the wall and found three green pushpins and a single paper clip.

  The cyclone fencing outside rattled. Fin shoved the CD into his inside jacket pocket and reached for the shotgun. Bishop saw Fin’s green eyes darken and the little hope he’d had fade as if someone flipped a switch.

  “We’re too late,” a man’s voice said through the mangled front door, followed by the sound of automatic weapons being readied, a sound Bishop knew well from his six years as projectionist at Cinemopolis. Fin, perhaps, didn’t watch enough movies, because he didn’t register the sound as a threat.