"No sense feeling glum, old chap," Woodwick said, trying to sound reassuring. "There's always another race..."
Groen muttered something unintelligible before changing the subject, "So, is your niece joining us today?"
"Candice?" Woodwick replied. "Dear me, no. She's off with Devlin Maycare I'm sure. Poor girl's in love, I think."
"Hmmm."
"Devlin almost killed himself at the hypersleds a few days ago," Woodwick went on. "Candy nearly had kittens, I dare say."
"He's too old to be racing," Groen remarked. "He should marry her and get it over with."
Woodwick could tell his friend was in the doldrums. He was considering what to do to cheer him up when a voice from the crowd rang out, "Winnie!"
A man about their age, wearing a white suit and panama hat, climbed the stairs between the private boxes. He carried a drink of his own, nearly spilling it as he waved.
"Ducky!" Woodwick replied loudly.
The man's name was Eugene Davenport but everybody called him Ducky for reasons nobody was entirely sure of. Ducky waddled slightly as he arrived at the box and sat down. Removing his hat, he wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
"It's a scorcher!" he said, replacing his hat and popping the handkerchief into a pocket.
Woodwick twirled his parasol.
"Indeed," he replied. "How are you?"
"Never better!" Ducky said before noticing Groen's demeanor. "What's wrong with you, Radford?"
"The usual," he replied.
"Lucky at cards, unlucky in love as I always say," Ducky said.
"I'm neither," Groen said gloomily.
Ducky thought a moment.
"You know," he said, "I may have just the ticket."
Groen again peered down at the pile of torn paper around his feet. "I'm done with tickets for a while."
"Not at all!" Ducky said with a laugh. "You just need a good night's sleep, and I've got just the thing."
From an inside pocket, he removed a container the size of a snuff box. Flicking open the lid with his thumb, Ducky presented it to Groen, reaching over Woodwick in the middle. In the process, Woodwick got a glimpse inside the box and saw a neat stack of pink tabs, each the shape of a flower petal.
Jessica Doric and Henry Riff were puttering around her office on the Maycare estate, just down the hall from the family library where they did most of their work. While Lord Maycare was the founder, Doric ran the Maycare Institute of Xeno Studies which included herself and her assistant Henry Riff, and it was their research into xeno artifacts that gave the institute substance.
Henry was doing his best to balance himself on the back legs of his chair while Doric scanned through a book about the lost Dahlvish Empire.
Lady Candice Woodwick poked her head through the doorway.
"Oh, hello," she said. "By chance, have you seen Devlin about?"
In her mid-twenties with glamorous blond hair and dark eyebrows, Lady Woodwick wore a bright pink pantsuit.
Although the flash of hot pink drew much of Doric's attention, from the corner of her eye she saw Henry's arms flailing as he and his chair were in the process of falling. With a loud clatter, he and the chair landed on their backs.
"My goodness!" Candy squealed, coming to Henry's aid. She bent over him, her long eyelashes batting above large bluish-gray eyes. "Are you alright?"
He stared at her as if mesmerized. "I'm Henry."
Candy smiled. "I know, dear. We've met several times."
She helped him up and righted the chair so Henry could sit down again.
Doric shook her head.
"You're going to crack your head open one of these days, Henry," she scolded.
He tried unsuccessfully to straighten his thatch-like mat of hair. "Sorry."
Doric addressed Lady Woodwick, "I'm afraid we haven't seen Lord Maycare."
"Well, that's alright," Candice said. "If you see Devlin, please tell him I'm in the parlor."
"Will do!" Henry replied.
Once they were alone again, Doric could feel Henry's eyes on her.
"What?" she asked.
"Why don't you like Candy?" he said.
Doric cringed at the nickname. "Her name is Lady Woodwick."
"Maycare calls her Candy."
"I don't care," Doric replied, "and who says I don't like her?"
"It's pretty obvious," Henry said.
Doric closed her book, giving Henry a hard stare. "I think he could do better."
"Really? I think she's great!"
Doric rolled her eyes. "Of course you do."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Well, for one," Doric said, "she's too young."
"They're both legal adults..."
"Oh, please!" Doric replied. "Lord Maycare is over twenty years older."
Henry shrugged. "Love is love..."
Doric scowled. "Shut up, Henry."
As if on cue, which seemed his habit, Lord Maycare appeared in the doorway.
"Have you two seen Candy?" he asked.
"She's in the parlor," Henry replied helpfully.
Maycare, as if something was on his mind, stepped farther into the office.
"Don't tell Candy," he said in a low tone, "but my hypersled crash wasn't an accident."
"What?" Doric asked, her eyes widening.
"Someone put a bomb in the engine," Maycare replied. "It was just a matter of time before it exploded."
"Who would do such a thing?" Doric asked.
"Who knows?" Maycare said. "But my mechanic said there were definite signs of sabotage. At any rate, I don't want Candy to know about it. She'd only worry about me."
"Well, she certainly seems different than your previous girlfriends," Doric remarked.
Maycare grinned, his manly face practically glowing.
"Yes, she is," he said.
"I think she's great!" Henry remarked.
"Shut up, Henry," Doric said.
Chapter Three
The Griefer gang controlled over twenty square blocks of Ashetown real estate, including dozens of apartment buildings, shops, and warehouses. Their primary source of income came from protection money and the traffic of illegal, often stolen, goods. While lesser gangs might have kept a loose record of the money that went in and out of their collective pockets, Kid Vicious was not the leader of a lesser gang. His spreadsheets, stored on a computer at his desk, were the stuff of legend.
"Munge," Kid said, giving his enforcer a stern look over the top of his computer screen, "did you use my braZos Prime account to buy a hundred pounds of cat litter?"
Munge shifted his large feet awkwardly. "Munge like kitties."
Kid pursed his lips in frustration.
"We've all seen your cat videos," he replied, "but that doesn't mean the Griefers should pay for your cats’ upkeep!"
Munge's square shoulders slouched. "Munge sorry."
"It's coming out of your next paycheck," Kid said. "Now go downstairs and bring up the man who's been waiting there. And for god's sake, make sure you take his gun away before you do. I don't want him walking in with that cannon of his!"
Munge obeyed, returning a few minutes later with Thomas Martel. In Munge's sizable hand was the detective's sizable handgun, Maxwell. He placed it on Kid's desk.
"You could take down an elephant with that thing," the gang leader remarked.
A sly smirk appeared at the corner of Martel's mouth. "Don't be jealous."
"Guns don't kill people," Kid replied, "people kill people, and I've got a lot of people with guns..."
Martel's smirk disappeared.
"So," Kid went on, "why are you here?"
"Louis Rion wants me to trade his debt with my services," Martel said.
"Oh, really?"
"I ran up my tab, so Louis thinks he can kill two birds with one stone."
"I should kill him with one stone," Kid replied.
"Louis is alright," Martel said, "money is tight for everybody in Ashetown."
Kid snorted. "Not everybody."
"Yeah?" Martel replied.
"Big G is as rich as ever," Kid said, "although I think there's a new player in town."
"Another syndicate?" Martel asked.
Kid shrugged. "Hell if I know, but there's money changing hands and mine remain empty."
"Must be rough."
"Gregor Ivanovich has always been a pain in my side," Kid said, "but lately he's been flush with cash and he's been using it to hire more goons. It's becoming a problem..."
"The Cyberpunk gang?" Martel asked. "I thought you guys kept a respectable distance."
Kid scoffed bitterly. "Not anymore! Gregor's been making moves on my territory and I need to send him a message."
A thought occurred to him like a shot in the dark.
"You know," Kid said, "maybe we can make a deal after all."
"How?" Martel replied.
Kid eyed his enforcer who had remained silent in the background.
"Munge," Kid said, "take Mister Martel here with you and pay the Cyberpunks a visit. I'll give you the address."
"I'm a detective, not a killer..." Martel said.
"You were a cop in Ashetown," Kid replied. "That's close enough."
"I left that life behind..."
"Fine," Kid said. "Munge will do all the heavy lifting. You can go along in case he needs a little help. Oh, and take this monster with you."
Munge growled.
"I'm talking about the gun," Kid clarified. "Don't be so sensitive!"
Martel and Munge made their way down one of the main thoroughfares of Ashetown, passing an ANDIs supermarket along the way. Run with Prussian efficiency, ANDIs was a chain found throughout the Imperium. While Martel liked their German chocolates, he resented having to bring a credit coin to use their hovercarts.
Moving on, they ignored the burned-out shell of a Polish delicatessen next door and walked another few blocks before Munge stopped at the entrance to a dark alley.
"Is this it?" Martel asked.
Munge grunted.
"You don't say much, do you?" Martel remarked.
The enforcer glared at him and stomped into the alley without a word.
Martel followed, satisfied with letting the big guy take the lead. The detective had been down his fair share of alleys. Dark, narrow, and smelling of garbage, they were the sink trap of the streets, catching all the crud that washed through.
Instinctively, Martel pressed his hand against his coat, but it wasn't his heart he was checking. He felt the unforgiving hardness of Maxwell beneath the cloth. The revolver gave him cold comfort, the only kind he expected to get.
The alleyway wound behind buildings, the back doors mostly barred and chained. Fire escapes loomed above, the metal railings blocking out the sunlight. Rats and other vermin scattered between garbage cans as Munge's heavy feet clomped along. Stealth was not one of the enforcer's strengths, Martel realized. Only somebody deaf as a board would fail to hear them coming.
Reaching one particular fire escape, they found the ladder had been retracted about eight feet off the ground. Munge stretched his arms above his head and easily pulled the ladder down to street level. Martel had to admit he was impressed.
"You first," Martel said with false courtesy.
Munge growled but placed his foot on the first rung. The fire escape creaked under the added weight. Martel took a step back, unsure if the whole thing would come crashing down. Even so, Munge put one hand after the other and climbed to a window on the third floor. Despite his better judgment, Martel joined him.
The windows were taped up with cardboard, preventing Martel from seeing inside.
"You sure this is the right place?" he asked his hulking companion.
Munge ignored the question and walked directly through the window, taking both glass and part of the masonry with him. Dust and bricks fell around Martel's feet.
I guess so, Martel thought and pulled his gun from its holster.
Even before the detective entered the apartment, he could smell chemicals. He could also hear screaming as Munge began tearing people apart with his bare hands. Technically, he was merely ripping peoples' limbs from their sockets, but when your arm is hanging loosely from the shoulder, these technicalities are largely moot.
Martel nearly tripped over a man writhing in pain. The detective pointed Maxwell at the man, but he was already in his not-so-happy place and no longer a threat.
Martel followed the trail of injuries until he found Munge in a large room filled with tables and chemistry equipment. He was no scientist, but Martel recognized some of the equipment from his days on the police force. This was a chem lab without a doubt. As for what they were making here, the detective wasn't sure.
Munge, playing to his strengths, began smashing whatever he could get his hands on.
"You sure this stuff isn't explosive?" Martel asked, but he knew immediately he was wasting his breath.
Containers, tubing, and glass beakers flew through the air, ending in pieces against the walls and even the ceiling. Ducking behind an armchair for self-preservation, Martel found a few items on the floor. Among the broken glass, little tabs shaped like flower petals were scattered about. From his pocket, Martel produced a small evidence bag and scooped up a sample of the petals, stuffing the bag back into his pocket.
Martel noted a strange quiet and peeked over the chair. Breathing heavily, Munge stood in the center of the chaos.
"Are you done now?" Martel asked.
Munge stared at the detective, but without his previous scowl. Martel couldn't be sure, but he thought Munge was smiling.
When the bandages came off his eyes, Gregor Ivanovich found himself face to face with a woman. Her skin was a deep emerald, circuits sewn across her hairless scalp. A respirator covered her nose and mouth, and only the brilliant blue eyes of her face were visible, fixed on him like a mad scientist staring at a lab rat.
Gregor was sitting upright in a surgical chair, his legs extended in front of him. Like the woman, his head was bald, but his skin was a pale white. From ancient Slavic stock, Gregor had thick lips and dark, deep-set eyes. He watched the woman closely.
Wearing black robes like a priestess, she loosened the arm restraints, allowing Gregor to touch his face.
"There's no scarring," the woman assured him.
"Good," he said, "but everything looks the same..."
"One moment," she replied, moving to a table where she retrieved a datapad. Returning to the chair, she touched the screen of the pad several times.
Suddenly, Gregor could see through her like an X-ray, her body riddled with implants.
"See anything you like?" she asked, and Gregor remembered she was a telepath and could read his mind.
"Amazing," Gregor replied, turning his head to scan the room. Objects in the circular chamber stood out, highlighted by colors denoting their function. Most were surgical devices, but a few remained unidentified, their purpose unknown.
"It may take a few days to fully get used to your ocular implants," the woman said, "but given time they'll become second nature."
"Do they look normal?" Gregor asked.
"They are completely undetectable," she said. "You shouldn't have any trouble with the authorities."
"What about communications?"
"Vid calls and text messages will appear in your line of vision, off to one side," she replied. "Simply focus on them and think clearly and you'll be able to answer without speaking aloud."
"I'm impressed," Gregor said.
"You should be," a new voice replied.
A man in a dark robe with gold trim and circuits running across his head stepped into the room. Gregor knew him as Kanet Solan.
"Thank you, Demona," Solan said to the woman. "You may leave now."
Her back to him, she rolled her blue eyes before turning and leaving the surgery chamber. Solan smiled at the patient.
"I trust you're satisfied with her work?" Solan asked.
Gregor nod
ded. "Well worth the money."
"She was originally with the Augmentor Sisterhood before I stole her away," Solan remarked with a hint of pride, "although surgical implants are only one of her many talents."
Gregor got to his feet. He still felt weak and a little nauseous from the anesthesia.
"Before you leave," Solan continued, "I hope you'll remember the rest of our deal?"
Gregor glared.
"Yes," he said with annoyance, "I'll alert you if anyone of note visits one of our chem dens."
"See that you do," Solan replied. "Dreams are a wonderful way to learn about a person, don't you think?"
Gregor did not reply, choosing to depart in silence. Once outside, a concealed door closed behind him. On the wall beside the door, nearly lost among a sea of graffiti, the symbol of a tribal mask was painted in indigo ink.
Lotus was not the first drug to hit the streets of Ashetown. While still a cop, Martel had encountered many chems, each used by the local denizens to drown their misery, but only managing to make things worse. Mad Hatter got junkies high, but was laced with mercury, causing insanity. LSV was a hallucinogen, but left addicts swearing uncontrollably and with a propensity toward sex and violence. Lotus was the latest in a long line of Johnny-come-latelies, but in the back of Martel's mind, he knew it was somehow different.
After reaching the bottom of the fire escape, Munge and Martel headed back toward Griefer territory. However, they soon encountered two men in a section where the narrow alley widened.
The man on the left wore heavy boots and a long, sleeveless jacket in black. The other was dressed much the same except for a leather coat that covered his arms. The man in the sleeveless number carried a plasma lance, a metal staff about four feet long with a blue flame at one end. The other appeared unarmed.
As before, Munge took the lead and Martel was thankful. He had hoped they could get away without encountering any of the Cyberpunk gang, but Martel's luck was never as good as his hopes.
"Out of the way!" Munge shouted, but instead the seemingly unarmed gangster raised his right hand. A bolt of lightning erupted from his palm, arcing directly into Munge's chest. Tendrils of electricity crawled across the enforcer's body before dissipating into the air. Stunned, Munge fell to one knee.
The Dreams of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 4) Page 3