Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

  With the near empty glass in one hand, he grabbed the bottle with the other as he got up from the “kitchen” table to move over to the chair in front of the display. Two long strides and he flopped into the autoform chair. It moved immediately to his preferred alignment, lifting his legs and adjusting to a perfect spinal position. These days, it was well beyond his paycheck to find old-fashioned furniture that could fit a person over six foot four, so he’d had to make a minor compromise to his preferred aesthetic.

  The chair was the only thing he had that could be considered “modern.” Artificial Intelligence had made some major leaps in the last hundred years, but Slade just couldn’t bring himself to trust it. Only one more thing to break, or make a mess of things, as far as he was concerned. The less complicated and intrusive, the better. Even his vid unit was an old 3D version with no voice command.

  He’d stopped using his military implant the second he was discharged, declining the offer to upgrade to the civilian spec version for free. He’d gone so far as to have it removed with his last check, effectively segregating himself from the majority of the world’s tech. “Off the grid” was difficult these days—practically impossible—but in his mind, every little bit helped.

  Slade knew his atavistic nature made him an oddball in this day and age, but he also knew just how much humanity was stripped away by modern tech. As “connected” as everyone was, they seemed more and more distant. Modern interactions seemed to have no soul to them. Not his style at all.

  He put down the bottle, finished what was left in the glass, set it next to the bottle and picked up the remote from the table by the chair and turned on the display.

  Maybe it’s time for a little R and R. Catch the shuttle over to a geosync and take the elevator down Earthside and get some real gravity under my feet. See a beach, walk on some sand, talk to women in bikinis.

  A few seconds into his fantasy, he realized his display was still blank.

  “What the hell?”

  He stared at it, trying to figure out what was happening. Signal but no feed. He switched to another channel, then another. Nothing.

  “Great. Another glitch,” he said, mentally adding another bullet point to his list of things he didn’t like about technology.

  Finally, he got something—a local feed. Station news mostly, but at least it was coming in.

  “…behind the continuing glitches,” the announcer said. “The unprecedented interruptions of operations is puzzling engineers and techs stationwide. We’ve not been able to get a direct answer from Lagrange Analytic on the cause.”

  “The glitches are blamed in at least one death. Lagrange Analytic’s Senior Vice President and Chief Operations Officer Salome Deveraux, died earlier today. Head of security, Damian Rains, told Station One News the preliminary exam suggests the death was caused by a catastrophic failure of her access node implant at ten a.m. station time, when the glitches began…”

  Slade leapt out of the chair, still holding the remote.

  “Salome?” he whispered.

  He needed to go to the office. He grabbed his fedora from the hook by the door and rushed out.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  Slade lifted the brim of his hat slightly as Dennis Collier walked into the office. His friend, carefully juggling his lunch and a small package, kicked the door closed behind him. Shifting slightly, he tossed the parcel on the desk they shared.

  “Where you been?” Slade said, looking up from the slate. He’d been going through what little there was about Salome while he’d waited.

  “A man’s gotta eat. Came for you today,” Collier said, sitting down and nodding at the package. The smells from the lunch bag suggested something laced heavily with saffron. Again. “You’re in my seat.”

  At just under six feet tall, and especially with his leaner frame, Collier didn’t have the same issues as Slade when it came to furniture. Slade felt no remorse over taking his partner’s chair.

  Slade didn’t answer as he opened the package, carefully sliding his knife along the top edge. Turning it upside down, he eased the contents into his palm. A smile flickered unbidden, but unashamedly, across his lips. He’d get back to Salome momentarily, right now he just wanted to enjoy the moment.

  “I don’t get it, man,” Collier said, tucking into the couscous mixture, “We have vids, slates, etc., available. What is it about books?”

  Slade ignored him, breathing in the scent of the yellowed paper.

  “It’s just…” he said, placing the book on his desk after a moment, “it’s just that it feels more real, you know? The pages have weight, smell, texture. Like you’re a part of the story, not just reading it.”

  “Whatever, man,” Collier said, pointing at Slade’s hat. “You don’t see me wearing a fez, do you? Seems too much like you’re living in the past.”

  “Ah, but the past was cool,” Slade said, smiling. “The style, the panache, the way things were done.”

  “We live on a station that we flew to in a spaceship, bud. How can you possibly say that’s not cool?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, ain’t nothin’ wrong with progress, and I got no hassle with where I am,” Slade said. “But c’mon—you have to admit, the sense of adventure, the thrill, it’s missin’.”

  “That’s another thing—listen to yourself. And don’t give me that ‘poor black sharecropper ancestor’ crap. ‘Ain’t nothing.’ ‘Got no hassle.’ You are a college-educated man, not some hayseed hick from East Texas. Why try to sound like that?”

  Slade’s grin grew, causing his partner to roll his eyes.

  “Like I said, man. Panache.” He picked up the book, turning it so Collier could see the cover. Slate tapped the picture. “Easy Rawlins was a smooth talkin’, tough walkin’ sonofabitch. I like his style.”

  “Whatever you say, Slade. I’m not gonna argue with you.” Collier pushed back from his meal. “So what was so urgent that you actually came into the office? I figured you’d be taking some R and I by now.”

  “Rest and Intoxication? Yeah, that was put on hold,” Slade said, getting his mind back on task. “Remember me talking about a woman named Salome when we were in the service?

  “We were friends back in the day,” he said, not waiting for an answer. He carefully placed the book on the desk. “Came up together before I enlisted. Went to the same college and all. Well…she’s dead. Died this morning. They’re saying it’s part of these weird glitches we’ve been having.”

  “I think I heard something about that on the local feeds. Nothing coming in from outside. Salome Deveraux, right?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.”What of it? Sounds like a tragic accident to me.”

  “I can smell something is wrong, and it’s not just your damned curry. I feel it deep down—just can’t shake it. The same way I felt when something was hinky on patrol. This whole thing’s not on the up and up.”

  “So what do you want to do about it?” Collier said, giving him his “you gotta be kidding me” look.

  “I think we need to go see Rains.”

  “Great! I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  “Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rains said. He stood and walked around the large desk to greet them before they could walk further into the office. “I don’t believe we have an appointment.”

  “As if you’re booked solid,” Slade said as he pushed past the smaller man to flop into one of the four chairs. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Look, Damien,” Collier said. Rains raised an eyebrow slightly before Collier continued, mollified. “Inspector, my partner here thinks all these glitches and interruptions the station is going through might not be wholly responsible for the demise of Ms. Deveraux.”

  “Oh?” Rains said, eyebrow shooting higher. The expression, coupled with Rains’ small, dark eyes, somehow made the man look even more ratlike to Slade, if that were possible.

  No, rat is wrong. he thought. Weasel.

  “I know wh
at you think.” Slade leaned forward. “Just give me something to go sniff around and I’ll be out of your hair so you can get back to…inspecting.”

  “Well, I suppose I can let you see the prelim autopsy report.” Rains went back to his desk and lifted the clear rectangle of his tablet. “Would you like me to send a temporary link to your implants?”

  Slade gave a sharp wave of his hand.

  “Ain’t got one. Just hand me the tablet, will you?”

  Rains glanced at Collier before tapping instructions on the tablet and handing it to Slade.

  Slade felt the frown take over his face as he studied the words and images on the tablet, brow furrowing involuntarily. Since it was clear, Collier would be able to see the same thing, only in reverse. Slade shifted to let him have a better view.

  “Well?” Collier said, gesturing.

  “I’m no expert, but it seems the damage is very localized,” Slade said, handing the tablet to his partner. “Not like frying from a glitch—I’d think that should have taken out more of the neuroelectronics. This looks like a controlled overload, like blowing a fuse.”

  “You’re right about one thing, Slade.” Rains looked disgusted, snatching the tablet from Collier before huffing back to his chair. “You’re not an expert. Not to mention this report is preliminary. Come back when you have a doctorate in medical tech.”

  Rains looked back and forth at the two men, finally throwing his hands up in a helpless gesture.

  “I don’t believe anything untoward caused Ms. Deveraux’s death,” he said. “This is an old station—the oldest in the system. The retrofits are not going as planned. Typically overbudget and delayed. Something about scarce rare metals.”

  He paused, looking between them again. Slade kept his expression neutral. Rains sighed dramatically before continuing.

  “Fine. If you feel you must duplicate effort, then you should probably seek out Ms. Deveraux’s heir apparent at Lagrange Analytic. A Ms.”—his eyes became distant for a moment as he checked his implant—“ah yes, a Ms. Lydia Vadinov.”

  That got Slade’s attention, setting off a myriad of emotions. Some good but most not so much. Lydia, Salome, and Slade’s complicated past made this case more compelling and personal.

  “Yes. Judging by your reaction, I take it you know her,” Rains said. “She was in charge of the day-to-day for the retrofit. Though, I suppose, now she’ll be in charge of the entire project.”

  Slade nodded at Collier, then jerked his head toward the door.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Slade said as they turned to leave. “We’ll keep you in the loop if we find anything new.”

  “While you’re at it,” Rains’ voice came from behind them. “You might want to speak with Samantha Deveraux, the victim’s sister. She handled the procurement.”

  As they left Rains’ office, Collier pulled Slade off to the side of the corridor out of the way of the foot traffic. There was more than the usual amount of people in the corridor, likely due to issues with the transit pods.

  “Look, Slade, we should split up to save time,” Collier said. “You take this Vadinov woman and I’ll go see Deveraux.”

  He held up a hand before Slade could speak.

  “I know you know them both, but Samantha just lost her sister. I’m thinking a stranger might be easier to deal with than a friend”—he gave a knowing look—“especially one that had history with the deceased.”

  Collier was right. Slade felt his emotions ebb, argument dying on his lips. He nodded.

  “Yeah, I feel ya. I’ll give her a heads-up you’re coming by. Let her know you’re okay, dig?” Slade gave a slight grin as he said the last, enjoying the pained expression on his friend’s face. “I tried to reach her on the way to the office but I couldn’t get hold of her. I still want to see how’s she doing. Give my condolences, you know?”

  “Understood. We’ll meet up afterwards to compare notes.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  As Collier walked off, Slade went to the nearest com corridor to give her the heads-up about the visit.

  Little Sunny Deveraux, all grown up and putting all her nerdiness into the station retrofit. Slade had to admit he hadn’t been a very good friend to her since he returned from the “policing action” on Callisto. For that matter, he hadn’t seen much of Samantha or Salome. He’d have to make an effort to visit more, now that Salome was gone.

  He placed his thumb on the com’s “call” button, a picture of an old-fashioned rotary telephone, activating the screen. One of the original pieces of tech from the station’s early days, he found it comforting in its relative obscurity.

  Name and number? the screen read.

  “Samantha Deveraux, 92647.” He appreciated the little hourglass icon as well. An atavistic hanger-on from an earlier time. How many people would even know what that is these days?

  “Hello?” said a female voice he recognized. Audio only, no video. Either the gremlins were still running rampant, or Samantha was being cautious.

  “Sunny, it’s me—Slade.” The screen came to life. Not gremlins then. Deveraux’s upper torso filled the screen, a deep blue satin robe drawn tightly around her shoulders. He took a second to examine her face.

  She had been crying, it seemed, and had hastily prepared herself for a video call. Her hair spilled out of a top bun, stray dark brown locks cascading down her neck. Her nose and eyes were rimmed in red, and both were running.

  “What do you want?” she said, sniffling.

  “Sunny, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss. I wouldn’t be bothering you right now if it wasn’t important.”

  “Save your sorrow for someone you care about, Slade. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in months.” She shook her head slightly, dislodging more hair from the bun. “The only time I see you is when you’re sniffing around Salome. If she wasn’t dead, you’d still be a stranger.”

  “I know I haven’t been a very good friend of late,” he said. She wiped her nose with a tissue and tossed it to the side. He imagined the floor piled with snotty, tear-soaked tissues, and repressed a shiver. “I get busy with stuff and forget to do the real things I should pay attention to. It’ll be different, you’ll see. I’m here to support you, Sunny, I swear.”

  “It’s Samantha. Only people close to me get to call me ‘Sunny.’” If she saw Slade wince, she ignored it. “What’s so important? I’m sure you didn’t call just to explain what a lousy asshole you are.”

  “Right.” He gave up on trying to convince her of his sincerity for the moment. “Look, my partner is on his way to talk with you about Salome. His name is Dennis Collier. We don’t think it was an accident. We’re working a couple of leads and could use anything you’ve got. He’ll be there shortly.”

  “Not an accident? You think she was killed?” Her voice dropped. “Murdered?”

  “I think it’s possible. You should get yourself cleaned up enough to have company.” Snotty, tear-soaked…

  “I have a right to wallow as much as I want,” she said, eyes becoming hard under the tears. “If he can’t understand why I look this way, then tell him to piss off and leave me alone!”

  “Fine. I’m sorry I said anything.” He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Staying calm was key.

  “I didn’t ask for this, Zac. I’m not paying a private investigator to look into ‘It’s possible.’ Rains told me it was a closed case.”

  “No. This is on me. I’m the one that’s kicking up all this mess, and I owe her—you—this much,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “Just, please, talk to Denny when he gets there. Tell him anything you can think of that might have been out of the ordinary or caught your attention as odd. In the meantime, I’m on my way to see Lydia Vadinov.”

  “That prime bitch!” she snarled, features twisting. “If it is murder, I’d put her at the top of my list. She hated Salome for parachuting into that position over her.”

  “Sam, let’s not jump to any conclusions…”
>
  She ignored him. “Lydia thought she was next in line. She never had a chance and the chip on her shoulder was so big it made her walk funny.” The anger fell away as she teared up again. “Well, I guess she finally beat Salome.”

  “I’ll suss out what’s really going on, Sam. I have a nose for such things. There will be justice for you and Salome.” His eyes narrowed. “I promise.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  Lydia Vadinov. She had been one corner of a sexually tense triangle back in college, with he and Salome as the other two. Both women were fiercely competitive in nature, and it permeated into all aspects of their lives. Each was always ready to throw down, in order to outdo the other, no matter the subject. Grades, fashion, bedroom games, it didn’t matter. Kept him on his toes—not to mention exhausted and happy.

  He and Lydia had parted on strained but civil terms way back then. Since he’d been on station, they’d met up a few times, but it didn’t feel right. Since then, he’d done his best to avoid her. Not difficult to do, considering the social and literally physical rings they moved through. She and Salome, being rich, socialite businesswomen, wouldn’t have had that luxury.

  He snorted at the irony.

  Could it be that she was jealous enough to take things a step too far? It didn’t feel right, but yet, the stakes were much higher than before. He’d reveled in it at the time—two smart, white-collar women fighting over his blue-collar ass—but it hadn’t been healthy for any of them. Perhaps Lydia took the competition a little too seriously?

  With the pods all jacked up, he figured he would take a maintenance belt ladder upspoke to the .75g area where Lagrange Analytic had offices.

  He had been a station rat back before the Marines. Fresh out of college and looking for adventure, he came to L5 because it was the most affordable space habitat. He quickly discovered why.

  It was old, very old. The first large space station ever built, it was state-of-the-art at the time. Now, it was mostly a tenement. A lofty version of its inner-city ancestors, locked into geosynchronous orbit.