by Jim Keen
“Where we going?” she asked.
The warden checked his phone and beckoned with his head, and they shuffled through endless canyons of soiled curtains and haunted faces. Spit and urine rained down, and Alice stared at her feet. This place was a trap for anyone who ended up here. They moved on, left, right, until they came to the end of another row. The warden knocked on the thin plastic frame of a box wedged at floor level then pulled back its threadbare curtain to reveal a small, chubby man with a bushy black beard squashed into the space.
“Is it time?”
“Not yet. We have a few questions before you go.”
The warden beckoned to Alice, and she looked at Xavi, tapped her ear, and stepped toward the crate.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
The man laughed, the noise alien in this context, and waved her forward. “Sure can. Should’ve called ahead though, coulda whipped us up some grub.” His voice was light and reedy with a thick Brooklyn accent.
Alice lowered herself to sit on the sharp plastic edge of the cot and swung her feet onto the thin foam bedding. Stokes scooted to the corner of the cramped space, allowing her room. He was small, but even so, they were both pressed uncomfortably together as she drew the small curtain across, giving them the illusion of privacy. Alice took in the space, the memory of her time in the Marines vivid.
She shifted on the mat and rested her head against the rear wall to look at Stokes. His head looked small and pale next to her huge boots, his wrinkled skin heavily lined in the dim light.
He smiled at her. “Got an escort from that jerk-warden, huh? This ain’t no social convo is it?”
Alice struggled in the confined space to reach her phone, then showed him her NYPD badge. He pulled down the drip tube and sipped its recycled water. A small fan whirred to life, blowing air over them.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked.
“Not at all. I just have a few questions as part of an ongoing investigation. The case does not involve you and has no impact on your transmittal status.”
“This won’t slow me, right? I’ve delayed enough, need to get gone. Business opportunities don’t wait ’til you’re ready, you gotta go get them.”
“I just need a few minutes. You’ll meet the upload schedule, don’t worry. To confirm, you are the John Stokes who operated Interzone Delivery?”
“Yep.”
“The records on file show it was in operation for two years. Can you tell me how it was set up and why it closed?”
“Sure, ain’t no secret. I used to drive rigs back in the day, worked my way up to be general manager for XPO Logistics and ran the ports. You know, shipping stuff from China all over the country. Then automation came in, and we were done; I still hung out with my driver buddies though. I mean, why not, right? We got nothing else to do. So anyways, one day, maybe three, four years ago, a guy from the docks asked if I was interested in overseeing a new fleet. Small time, maybe ninety trucks in all. So, I says sure, and he introduces me to this woman.”
“What was she like?”
“Real smart, you could tell that straight away. Formal but with a real sexy side. You know, like she’d be fun in the sack once she loosened up. What she wanted was easy. Find a site for a new warehouse, somewhere discreet like, and set it up to run like the old one I managed. The shipments would all be the same size and shape, and all going to the same location, so we could optimize the layout.”
“You meet her often?”
“Nah. More at the start when I needed money, and not at all the last year. Since we wrapped, it’s all been by video. She wasn’t interested in being involved anyhow, was more about the quick drive-by than looking over the books. Only time I ever saw her for more than ten minutes was when she brought this old guy to inspect the warehouse. You could tell she was nervous, spoke fast and all that. I guess he was an investor or something? Now he asked questions, was specific like. Wanted to make sure the trucks took different routes, that there were no cameras, that sort of stuff.”
“What were you moving for them?”
“This is just between us, yeah?”
“This has no impact upon your upload, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Okay. So, I dunno what we were shipping, and I didn’t ask. It was real clear that if I wanted the job I had to do what I was told and keep my mouth shut. What was I going to do? Say no? Gimme a break.”
Alice lay there and chewed her lip as she thought. She needed to know who these people were, but if she pushed too hard, he could shut down. She had to keep the conversation going with small questions, see where it headed. “What was the deal for you? Pay well?”
“Nah, not down here anyway. How educated do you have to be to load trucks? It was all about the afters.”
“Afters?”
“Yeah. They said they could get me and anyone who worked there priority transmission off planet. That’s worth ways more than cash these days.”
“Why?”
He shot her a stupefied look. “Look around you, lady. This world is done. If you want to make something of yourself, you gotta go somewhere they need you. Law says if you’re the first there, it’s yours. Go to Mars or Pluto and stick a flag in the ground, you own it. You build a business and no one will tax you either, no governments, see? It’s open for anyone with the get-up-and-go.”
“That why this place is so full?”
“Yep. It’s first come, first served, so getting out fast is a golden ticket.”
“Did everyone from Interzone go?”
“Sure. Why would you stay anyway?”
“How come you’re the last out?”
“I’m a family man. You have kids?”
“No.”
“Want some?”
“Yes.” It was the first time Alice had admitted that. She didn’t want money or power anymore, just wanted to be left alone to live her life free from the people who owned her.
“Me too,” Stokes said. “Growing up a single child made me that way I guess. My missus, Mary, she’s had two with me and was eight months gone with the third. You can’t scan and transmit a pregnant woman, way too much chance of corruption they says, so we had to wait ’til she popped the new one out. She did that last week, baby boy, that’s why the delay. Didn’t want to shoot off and miss that, did I?”
“They going with you?”
“Already gone, went yesterday; they had priority, all part of the deal. Wanted them ahead of me so I see a friendly face when I arrive. Well, apart from the boss, that is.”
“You mean the woman who hired you to set up the warehouse?”
“Yeah. She was the first to go I think.”
“Do you have a name or picture?” Alice’s heart thudded in her chest. If this lead died, she had nowhere left to go.
“Better than that. Got a video.”
“What?” Alice couldn’t believe it.
“Yep. She sent me a vid this morning from Mars, saying hurry. Typical that—no warm hugs, just work to be done.”
“Can I see it?”
Stokes rummaged for his phone, and Alice smelled stale sweat as the tight confines pushed in on her. It was silent outside—she had to trust Xavi was listening in via ear mic.
“Here it is.” Stokes pulled his phone free and slid it into a discreet slot under the screen. A vertical green line spread outward to show the numerical countdown of an intrasystem transmission. A video played when the numbers reached zero showing a woman wearing a breather suit, standing in front of a Martian drilling platform.
The woman was Julia.
She spoke. “Hello, John. It was wonderful to hear about the birth, I’m thrilled for you. So, no more delays I trust? As you can see, we’re up and running.” She turned to look at the structure behind. Alice saw creases in the suit’s heating element. Julia turned back to the camera. “But it’s taking longer than expected. I can deal with that, but I need help with the distribution system. Europa is online and ready for export, so it�
�s going to get busy fast. Hurry.” She gave a distracted wave and nodded to someone behind the camera. The video ended.
“There you go,” Stokes said. “Ain’t she the warm one? I can send you a copy if you want.”
“Please,” Alice said, her body frozen in place. She retrieved her phone and did a quick image search. “Is this the man you saw with her?” She gave the phone to Stokes.
“Nope.”
The picture had been of Julia and her father at a society event in their Hamptons compound. Alice slumped back.
“But that’s him.” Stokes pointed to a figure in the background.
Alice squinted at the screen. The man in the photo was Mark Rothmore, Julia’s uncle, advertising mogul and political advisor to the president.
28
“So, what do you think?” Alice turned to Xavi as the employment center dropped to a gray disk below them. He studied her, and she was struck once more by his presence; it was as if he were the only solid object in a world of fog.
“The video is a fake, or there are multiple reprints of Julia.”
“What’s your money on?”
“Faking a video is a damn sight easier.”
“I agree, there’s no way she’s on Mars. Still, it seems Julia’s hidden help was her uncle, in part at least.”
“What do you know about him?”
Alice shifted in her seat. “Just details. I backgrounded her whole family as part of the Five Points investigation, but they’re all high and mighty, so I couldn’t get close. He moved to DC when she was young to set up Insight.”
“He’s that Mark Rothmore?” It was the first time Alice had seen Xavi surprised. She enjoyed scratching his tough exterior.
“The one and only. He started the company and built it into the go-to for the rich and famous looking to rebrand themselves.” Insight was the largest, most-successful advertising company in the country. Rothmore had dated the president when she was younger, much to the joy of lifestyle magazines. “It could explain where Julia got the MI from; he’s still in tight with the government and military. We need to talk to him.”
The Hopper flew higher, the Dyson engines loud as the skies cleared. Alice removed her phone, turned on the speaker, and pressed the Four icon.
The MI answered instantly. “Hello, dear. I do hope your day has improved. How may I help?”
“Thanks, Four. Not better, longer. Can you tell me where Mark Rothmore is?”
“Right now, he’s in his DC house finishing a call with Charles. He’s scheduled to speak with the director of Homeland Security afterward.”
“What are the calls about?”
“I’m sorry, dear, I don’t know.”
Alice sighed with frustration. “Is he going to be there all day?”
“Yes. According to his schedule, he’ll remain in DC all this week. He normally works at Insight from nine to nine, busy man.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Did you like the musical?”
“Yeah, it was great. Goodbye, Four.”
“Don’t be a stranger, dear.”
Alice put away the phone. “We need to pay him a visit.”
“That machine knows more than it’s telling you,” Xavi said.
“No shit. Look, either it can’t or won’t tell us more, so we need to follow its breadcrumbs.”
Xavi grunted and rubbed the new flesh plugs embedded in his chest.
Alice typed messages on her phone as the minutes passed. “Okay, I requested a get-together with Rothmore. Guess what.”
“He’s busy,” Xavi said.
“Yeah, they can’t see us for a month.”
“They’ll make an exception for me.”
“Mark Rothmore isn’t just going to let us walk in for a chat.”
“So we don’t tell him we’re coming. Drop me here. I’ll pick up a car, meet you in an hour.”
“Just don’t get another piece of junk, we’ll be in it for days.” Alice dropped the Hopper into Brooklyn and fumbled for a cigarette.
It was time to go home.
29
Alice’s studio apartment was tucked away inside a brutalist concrete complex in Brooklyn’s South Slope. She landed the police Hopper on the roof, trash and black plastic bags whirling around her. She entered the old concrete stairwell and descended to her floor. The green paint of her battered metal door revealed a riot of ancient colors beneath. Taped to the door was a copy of the medical questionnaire with an official seal; she tore it off and looked for her key. On either side, additional steel doors segregated the bare concrete corridor. She shivered, cold to her bones.
Alice looked back to the building’s neglected atrium. It was quiet; somewhere an echoing TV played the news, the president talking about terror and strength while children shouted at each other. Food smells wafted from below while curling blue-gray smoke rose to collect beneath the yellowed roof light. She unlocked the door and entered.
Her room, small for the money she paid, had a wide corner window that brought a fresh breeze in the evenings. Sometimes, she could smell the cut grass from Greenwood Cemetery, a taste of countryside she never knew. Alice hadn’t been here in three days, and the blinds were closed, their thin white cloth giving the room a silvery sheen. The space was clean and tidy; her military routines so ingrained it was impossible to leave a mess. The kitchen, as it was, occupied the corner opposite the window with its tiny oven at one end, a battered and buzzing fridge at the other. A stained and scratched steel sink sat in the middle, empty apart from a dripping tap—something she meant to fix. A dark wooden table was tucked next to the fridge and held a clean vase filled with fresh sunflowers, a gift from Red, the street kid whose life she’d saved on the Bridge a few years back.
She slept on a thin blue futon rolled up against one wall, while a small bathroom stood to the side. It was quiet here, away from the road and traffic lanes, and with the door closed, the atrium’s echo was deadened. The room had a musty staleness but held no real smell; even the nicotine smoke faded in her absence.
She dropped her phone, keys, and questionnaire onto the table’s worn surface then opened the kitchen’s solitary cupboard and removed a can of coffee. She clicked the warming strip and thought about what to take with her; she had no idea how long the trip would last.
She stepped to the oven and with a grunt dragged it away from the wall. Taped to its rear was an oily rag that held a heavy, cold object. She took the package to the table, unwrapped the cloth, and spread out the parts. It was an obsolete Smith and Wesson .357 handgun, built before MIs appropriated weapon design. Its simplicity betrayed that fact; it was made from a few large metal pieces that clicked together with machined precision. It was reliable, deadly, and untraceable. Weapons these days were computers with bullets attached; this was a reminder of simpler times. She’d bought it in an antiques shop while undercover and filed off the serial and registration marks. At the time, she hadn’t known why she’d done it, but an inner voice told her one day she would need to protect herself in a way the NYPD wouldn’t approve of.
She had four ammunition clips, full and lubricated, along with a thin brown shoulder holster. She wrapped it around her arms, then secured the gun. It was heavier than a modern weapon, its steel cold and solid compared to composites. She needed to get used to it, so practiced drawing it a few times, old reflexes returning, slow at first but soon the gun was a blur. It smelled of oil and smoke and was designed to kill. She swapped it to her left hand; the plastic skin missed some of the finer detail, but it gripped well enough.
So, what are you going to do? Get a new hand from Hymann Boutique? Get a new brain from Cortex?
She’d ignored this question long enough, its size and consequences too much to bear. Since she’d left Cortex, her body had been stiff with tension, the enormity of Takamatsu’s offer overwhelming. The very idea of having an interlink, of leaving humanity behind, was repellent to her. She’d spent too much time in the filth of the streets to ever b
e able to leave that behind with a clear conscience; she couldn’t save humanity by turning her back on it. Where she had come from, and what she had been through, made her who she was. She needed nothing more, had no desire to be rich or a leader of men; she just wanted to live a life free of shortcuts. Her left hand was a piece of junk, but she would replace it herself. Takamatsu, Toko, the NYPD, and FBI could all go fuck themselves; she was nobody’s backup plan.
She sat at the table and opened a drawer to remove a sheet of yellowed paper and an old red ballpoint pen. It took a moment to get it working, then she bent to the task of scribbling everything that had happened and where she was headed. She didn’t have jurisdiction in DC, and she didn’t know how to speak with Mark Rothmore, but that was where her investigation led. Xavi was FBI, so he could force an interview, but due to his own personal reasons didn’t want to put his name to any search order. They would have to wing it, see where it led and smooth out any issues afterward.
She stopped writing for a moment, aware of what the letter was suggesting. She would only get her job back if she followed the rules and, somehow, helped find Julia’s killer. She could do one of those things but not both. Failing to help the investigation would get her nothing; this way there might be a chance to avoid trouble if she caught the killer.
She signed the letter, added her NYPD badge number, and sealed it with wax dripped from a spent candle. On the front, she wrote Toko’s home address; she didn’t want this sitting in the NYPD mailing room.
She looked at the sunflowers, their heads yellow in the dim light, and opened the front door.
“Red, you still here?” she shouted into the atrium.
A whistle echoed back from the hard walls.
“Second floor,” she said as footsteps ran across the space and up the stairs.
The boy who emerged was tall, thin, and scrubbed pink clean. He wore a heavy black leather jacket covered with hand-painted logos, and had long red hair molded into spikes.