by Phoenix Ward
Beth waited in silence while her partner went through the relevant data. She peered over his desk to see if he’d forgotten any chips, but to her disappointment, he had eaten his entire lunch.
“There we are. Sorry,” Marcus said, breaking the silence, “some of these records are harder to find than others.”
Beth dismissed his apology with a wave. “Go on,” she urged.
“Well, it seems like Simon was an active member of the Liberators for several years, participating in a number of brutal slayings and terror attacks. He was one of the few Liberators who escaped after that failed plot of theirs to cut off the water supply in the Mojave region.”
“I remember that,” the woman said, scanning the relevant news story that appeared on her display. “One of their biggest bungles, if I remember right.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t good for them at all, but they maintained steady recruitment after that, somehow,” Marcus said.
“So Simon is still killing humans for the Liberators, it seems,” Beth thought aloud.
“Actually, that’s where it gets interesting,” Marcus countered. “I just found this police report from earlier this week. Here.”
The text filled Beth’s eyes, and she mentally focused on bits and pieces at a time. Marcus didn’t wait for her to read it herself.
“Now, I’ve only just found this, but it seems to me that some Liberators caught in a recent bust have mentioned Simon by name,” he said.
Beth had just gotten to that part in the report. She looked up at Marcus with surprised eyes.
“They say he’s ‘gone rogue’?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
“He’s fled the Liberators,” Marcus answered. “The terrorist group that he’s been a prominent member of for years is now trying to hunt him down.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know,” Marcus said. “At least, not yet. But it seems he royally pissed them off. Their leader is calling on all Liberators in the area to stop what they’re doing and bring Simon in, or delete him. They want this guy dead. I wonder what he did.”
“Does it matter?” Beth asked. “He sounds like our guy. Rogue or not, he’s the leading suspect in a double murder. It’s our job to bring him in.”
“Then we better get to work,” Marcus observed. “If we want to find him before the Liberators do, that is.”
But where to start? Beth wondered.
6
Trishilan
Beth frowned as she looked over her files. She wondered how Marcus was able to compile so much information on Simon and access it with such ease.
Organization’s just one of those adult things I’ve yet to master, she thought.
She scrolled for what felt like ages, trying to get any records on the suspect’s social life. Everything came back so cluttered, even returning results for other Simon Mendez, Jr.s around the world.
Maybe it’s the neural implant, Beth thought. That’s what makes record-keeping so damn easy for everyone else. And here I am stuck with this outdated C.C.
She had spent all last night trying to create and index a list of Simon’s social contacts. She didn’t sleep. It took her over eight and a half hours to find a single person who was both alive and out of prison that she could meet with. Even the incarcerated ones had turned down her invitation to get together, claiming they didn’t know Simon any better than a commuter might know his bus driver. This was the only contact she could make, but she kept searching.
Beth was nervous that there would be no other person she could interview and they would just have to rely on the police to catch Simon doing something other than murder. She knew the chances of that were slim, if the suspect had any wit about him.
The hyperloop tube she was in turned gradually towards the downtown part of Seattle, but she couldn’t sense the change. It was a small compartment, not much larger than the back seat of a taxi, and since that’s essentially all it was, that’s all the space it required. There was no driver, of course. Like all other forms of transit that shot people from point A to point B, hyperloop tubes were automated. They dart through the hollow tubes that sprawled through, under, and between most major cities at speeds of over four-hundred miles per hour. Magnets propelled the cart through the hyperloop, managing the forces of acceleration and friction with such precision that one’s arrival could be determined up to one-tenth of a second, without error. It was cheap and made navigating the denser urban areas more feasible, though Beth was too distracted by her research to appreciate the convenience.
It had taken her a moment, but she found the file on her contact. Just after leaving high school, Simon had started dating a young college student named Andrea Colm. They were together for about four months, with him staying over at her place, before they broke up. It wasn’t clear why, but based on the timeline Marcus drew up, it would be around the time Simon started going full-time into Fog manufacturing.
That had been over fourteen years ago, Beth observed sourly. It’s not like they’d still be in touch, but it’s my only lead for now.
Not only had they been separated for so many years, but new relationships had come and gone, likely eroding any meaningful chance that Simon would reach out to Andrea. It wasn’t unheard of for people on the run from the law to get into touch with people they’d not spoken to in decades, but this case was different. Mostly because Andrea was not Andrea anymore.
Her current name was Trishilan, although Beth wasn’t sure ‘her’ was the appropriate term. According to her social media and personal records, this Trishilan was an ‘entity’.
Beth had only ever heard of the term in passing, but never encountered one personally. As far as she understood it, an entity was an intimate mindshare relationship composed of two or more human consciousnesses. These individuals then take on a communal identity of sorts, essentially becoming a new individual. It didn’t make much sense to Beth because all she could gather about entities came from Trishilan’s social media and a few cursory articles for the layman reader.
I wonder if it’s offensive to refer to her life before — as Andrea, Beth thought. Maybe she — or they — won’t answer my questions.
She dismissed the concerns as she felt the telltale lurch of the cart arriving at the right station. It was gentle, but stirred up a few butterflies in her stomach.
She wouldn’t have agreed to meet if she wasn’t willing to share what she knows, Beth thought.
It was a block and an intersection between the hyperloop station and the restaurant Trishilan had told Beth to come to. A light drizzle fell from a cloud-roofed sky, but it didn’t bother the detective at all.
She walked through the front door of the Ten Shilling Restaurant and Bar. It took a moment for the ocular filters connected to her C.C. to adapt to the dim interior. The only light inside the place seemed to come from individual lamps placed as the centerpiece of each table. There were even a few lining the bar, which two men drank at with an empty stool between them.
Beth looked around for any sign of Trishilan. She knew roughly what the entity looked like, though almost all of the photos Trishilan posted online featured heavy costume makeup or large, obscuring hats. Still, Beth could tell that the entity was not in the restaurant yet. Aside from the two at the bar, there were only two couples and a party of four. None of them looked like the images she’d seen.
She noticed a HELP YOURSELF TO A SEAT sign projected by the cash register and obliged. She pulled off her damp jacket before taking a seat at a booth near the front.
She waited there for a few minutes, thumbing through the menu tablet they had at each table. Nothing really stood out to her, but then again, she didn’t come with a full appetite. She was there on business, not to gawk at some prime rib or to have a few cocktails.
“Can I start you off with something?” a man said from her right.
She looked up and saw a young man, no older than seventeen, wearing an all black serving uniform.
“Coffee, please,” she
replied. “And a cup of water.”
“You got it,” the waiter said before slipping away.
She appreciated his shortness. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Didn’t want anything to distract her from getting the right answers.
A woman entered the restaurant, a chime going off when the door slammed shut behind her. She looked around for a moment before locking eyes with Beth and approaching her table.
“Ms. Dylan?” the newcomer asked.
“That’s right,” the detective said. “And you must be Ms. Trishilan.”
“Please, just Trishilan,” the woman replied before taking the seat opposite Beth. “I don’t really have a formal address.”
“Very well,” Beth said. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Well, you caught me at a lucky lull between shows,” Trishilan said. “You see, the fall time is perfect for theater, but most people aren’t interested in the dead of winter. No, they’re all too comfortable watching T.V. on their implants, slack-jawed on a sofa somewhere. What I’m saying is that you caught me with some free time.”
“Either way, it’s very helpful,” Beth replied. “I don’t know if I was able to explain why I wanted to meet you over our call too well.”
“Yes, I was a bit distracted, I apologize,” the entity said. “Though I knew if a homicide detective was calling me, it must be important. Tell me — was it Giancarlo? I haven’t heard from him in days.”
“No, I don’t believe you know the deceased,” Beth answered. “However, you may know one of our suspects.”
“Oh dear,” Trishilan replied. “I could only guess Craig or that Reemis kid. Though I don’t imagine they’d ever stoop to something so foul as murder.”
“No, it wasn’t any of them,” Beth said. She was getting a little frustrated at being interrupted. “It’s Simon Mendez, Jr. that we’re looking for.”
Beth waited a moment, staring at the other person’s face and trying to gauge her reaction. There didn’t seem to be even a flicker of memory at the name. Instead, Trishilan’s eyes squinted in confusion.
“Sorry,” the entity said. “Who?”
“Simon Mendez?” Beth repeated. “According to my information, you used to date about fourteen years ago.”
“That doesn’t sound right to me,” Trishilan said. “I haven’t even been around for that long.”
Beth paused for a moment, thrown off from her usual investigative momentum. She furrowed her brow a little, unsure if Trishilan was being deliberately unhelpful or if there was something she was missing.
“One of your ‘parts,’ ” Beth started, unsure if that was the right term, “used to date Simon.”
“Oh dear, there are no parts — not anymore,” the entity replied. “There is only Trishilan.”
Beth was confused. “I thought that entities still retained the individual identities of their components,” she said. “Or am I mistaken?”
“I’m sorry to say that you are incorrect, detective,” Trishilan said. “I believe you are thinking of a ‘unit’, which is another form of mindshare. You see, a ‘unit’ merely shares a body, yet each individual component lives their own lives, as separate consciousnesses.”
“Forgive my bluntness, then,” Beth said as she sipped on her water, “but what is an entity?”
Trishilan seemed more delighted than annoyed at the question, which Beth was not expecting.
“Oh, my dear, there is nothing to forgive!” they said. “I am more than happy to educate people about L.G.B.T.Q.U.E. lifestyles. You see, where a unit is a collection of identities that share a body, an entity is a body that shares a collection of identities.”
Beth frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Well, I am an individual, basically,” Trishilan said. “Units are groups, but I am one. I used to identify as three separate consciousnesses, Philip, Trish, and Andrea. Yet they came together one day and decided to cooperate on a single life rather than lead three separate ones. Thus, I was born. In a way, they are like my parents. Do you retain your parents’ memories, as well?”
“No,” Beth replied. She was taken aback and didn’t know how to lead her questioning from here.
“Then you see why I am unable to help you,” Trishilan said.
Beth was at a loss. She knew that Trishilan’s logic was sound and there was nothing she could do about it, but a more emotional side of her felt like the entity was hiding something.
Maybe they’re covering for Simon, she thought.
Before she was about to speak and say something accusatory, the more logical part of her brain flared up.
Or maybe this is a dead end, she wondered.
“If Andrea’s individuality is gone, then it’s like she’s dead,” Beth said.
“That’s a naive way of looking at it,” Trishilan replied. “That’s like saying that once a caterpillar has turned into a butterfly, it is gone. It’s the same, but different. Tell me, have you stopped to ask a butterfly if it remembers being a caterpillar?”
“No,” Beth said plainly.
“Then I suppose we will never know,” the entity said. “However, in my case, I cannot help you. Not for a lack of desire, though, and it’d please me if you remembered that. I have no reason to hold anything back from you.”
Unless you’re covering for Simon, Beth thought. But there’s no way I can prove that.
Beth did her best to give Trishilan a warm smile. She folded up her napkin and placed it on her unfinished dish.
“Thank you so much for your time,” she started, “but if you’re unable to help me further, I should leave. I have many leads to follow and not much time to do so, so if you don’t mind…”
“Not at all,” Trishilan said, still nibbling on their food. “I do hope you have better luck with the investigation than you had from me. I don’t personally know this suspect, but I hope whoever committed this murder is held responsible for his crimes.”
Sure you do, Beth thought sourly as she stood up. She left the table a generous tip using her C.C., then strode to the door.
“Oh, detective!” Trishilan yelled louder than Beth would have liked. “Feel free to educate others about us entities!”
Beth left the restaurant without replying.
7
Coffee
The sun caught Beth in the eye as she strode down the sidewalk. She blinked a bit, trying to maintain her confident demeanor, but she had to raise a hand and make some shade. One of the passing autocars reflected the light at her, but she didn’t slow her stride.
She made this walk at least once a week. Only two blocks from her apartment in Seattle was a coffee shop that still did things the old fashioned way. It had a human barista, hand-operated machines, and a taste that still had her coming back for more every few days.
The sun was out, breaking a long rainy streak that had turned the snow on the ground into slush. Still, Beth liked the little squish each moist ball of precipitation made when she stomped on it.
Once the coffee shop was in view, Beth could see Dave standing outside, looking as disheveled as ever. He looked over and saw her approaching, and a sort of calmness came to his face. The wrinkles that sought to overtake his features softened as they locked eyes and he smiled. She pulled her purse a little closer to her, but returned the smile.
Dave was a Fog burnout who liked to hang out in front of the cafe and try to beg customers out of their change. Beth was convinced that his implant was rigged to only take donations and show him conspiracy videos online. Like many beggars, he had adapted to the modern economy and set himself up with a digital transfer account, so no one could refuse him money on the basis of having no cash.
“Beth!” Dave exclaimed once the detective was in earshot. “I gotta talk to you, man!”
The detective took in a deep sigh, then approached the junkie.
“Hey, Dave,” she greeted him.
“Hey yourself,” he replied, looking over his
shoulder with fearful eyes. “Did you hear what they’re doing to us now, man?”
“Who?” she asked.
“The government, of course!” Dave said as though Beth had asked what color the sky was. “They’re starting to get us through the radio frequencies in our head. You haven’t heard?”
“I haven’t,” Beth replied.
“All the signals we get,” Dave started to explain. “The government is using it to see how much porn we’re watching! They want to see what we beat off to, you see, and they want to use it against us.”
“You don’t say?” Beth asked uninterestedly.
“That’s right!” Dave said, scratching his scalp like his life depended on it. “I think they’re using all that to blackmail us. Maybe some sinister plan in the future? What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to get a coffee, Dave,” Beth replied. Then she transferred him a dollar. “There you go.”
“Aww, thanks Beth,” the junkie said. “But just remember, be careful where you watch your porn!”
“Alright, buddy,” she said before opening the door to the coffee shop and removing herself from Dave’s drug-fueled paranoia.
She felt for the junkie. In a sad way, he reminded her of her own brother, Nathan. He was about four years older than Beth and became addicted to Fog just after their father’s organic death. Being the older sibling, he had taken his death harder and was even less resistant to accept their dad’s I.I. as a member of the family. There had been some fights, and the two of them vowed to never speak to each other again. Nathan had considered his father dead when his heart stopped beating one spring morning. After a particularly heated argument, Nathan fled the country and set out to see the world.
Unfortunately, Beth thought, Nathan discovered Fog more than any culture he came across. He became infatuated with the drug and spent his free time traveling between countries in Oceania and Southeast Asia, occasionally calling Beth to cuss her out and blame her for the family’s unhappiness. She did her best to ignore him and shrug all the cruelness off as a terrible side-effect of Fog.
