Titan's Day

by Dan Stout

  “Look.” Guyer tried to offer words of comfort. “Back in the first industrial revolution, the old manna cars ran like champs. Hells, they ran all the time. People just put them into park, locked the doors, and topped off the manna tank. The engine would keep going forever as long as the central motor at the car plant stayed in operation. There’s no reason to think you might . . . you know.”

  I shook my head. “I’m saying I could feel a web of—”

  “I don’t care what you felt,” she said, her note of sympathy evaporating. “I don’t care about your hunches or guesses. We’re trying to find out what happened. You know how this works, right?” She paused long enough for me to bow my head in acknowledgment. “So do us both a favor and stop yapping about imaginary itchy cobwebs, and focus on the facts.”

  There was pressure around my temples, a headache settling in for a long stay.

  “If I knew why it happened, I’d tell you. I tried to show you, but . . .” I gestured at the baton helplessly.

  “Okay,” she said. “Whatever you were trying to pull didn’t work. Happens to all the best smartasses from time to time.” She raised the brooch and the baton hovered over the table. She narrowed her eyes and murmured, and the baton fell from the air, landing in her waiting palm.

  “Now,” she said, “let’s start back at the beginning. You and Detective Ajax were on the street . . .”

  I fought the impulse to shove the condescending words down her throat. I knew what I’d seen—what I’d done—in that alley. It had to be tied to magic, but it didn’t seem to have any consistency. I started to tick off the places and times I’d encountered the tingles, starting with—

  “Carter!”

  Guyer glared at me. “Stop daydreaming. The faster we finish here, the faster you can get on with figuring out who’s out there cutting the jaws off people.”

  “Someone might,” I said. “It won’t be me.”

  She pursed her lips like a disappointed teacher. “Carter, I know you care more than anyone, even if this guy turns out to be a dealer or a thug.”

  I slung an arm across the back of my chair. “Not my case.”

  Guyer tossed her head, confused. “But you were first on scene. It’s clearly a homicide, even if the ME doesn’t have a ruling yet.”

  “OCU,” I said. “Requisition paperwork already came in.”

  “They’re taking your case?”

  “They’re taking all my cases.” One arm still hooked on my chair back, I leaned closer. “And how much time do you think they’ll spend on a few dead newcomers in alleyways?”

  She sat back, apparently pondering this development. “Has Bryyh—” She looked in the direction of the captain’s office, then stood and paced around the table. “No, don’t tell me. Because no one’s told me about any transfers. So as far as I know, you’re still lead on this case.” Guyer patted her pile of paperwork. “And I’ve got the forms to prove it.”

  I stared at her, and after a heartbeat or two I was able to piece together a semi-coherent thought. “And so . . .”

  “So I’m officially inviting you to come along.”

  I stood. Anywhere was better than sitting in that meeting room another minute.

  “To do what?”

  “What I’m paid to do,” she said. “I’m going to go interview the victim.”

  24

  GUYER AND I WALKED SIDE-BY-SIDE down the halls of the Bunker, making our way to the Medical Examiner’s offices. It was still early, the mist-swirled darkness of morning turning the hallway windows into dark mirrors.

  At that hour Doc Mumphrey wasn’t in. We were greeted by another pathologist, a stocky, slightly bowlegged Mollenkampi named Dilla who peered through a pair of recently repaired glasses as Guyer filled out the paperwork for our nameless victim.

  “I wondered when one of you folks was going to come take a look at that fella.” Dilla turned without giving us a chance to respond, grabbing an empty gurney as she escorted us into the body stacks.

  Space is always at a premium in Titanshade, and considering the number of people who suffer investigation-worthy deaths, the ME’s office didn’t have much choice but to find a compact storage solution. The body stacks were past the offices and examination rooms, an immense room that was nothing more than a walkway and stack after stack of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Each shelf touched the next, and only the first had space for the gurney. The end of each shelf had a hand crank, and when Dilla turned the first, the entire shelf slid to the side, gliding along recessed tracks in the floor and ceiling, until it occupied the open space. Then she moved to the next shelf in line and repeated the process, until a lane was opened up in the middle of the stacks.

  Dilla wheeled the gurney down the newly opened aisle and pulled an expanding metal stick from its side. Consulting the checkout card, she positioned the gurney and began pumping a foot pedal, activating a hydraulic press that raised the gurney to slightly beyond head height, lining it up with a refrigerated cubby. She used the telescoping metal pole to hook the end of the metal body tray within the cubby and slid the entire tray and body out onto the gurney. The pathologist released the hydraulics and rolled our John Doe out of the stacks and into the examination room.

  She unzipped the body bag but didn’t open it. “I need to observe,” she said to Guyer. “I’ll be in the next room, so don’t close the door.”

  Guyer walked a slow lap around the table and pulled back the sides of the body bag. Then, under the fluorescent lights, I got the first good look at him since the alley. I’d remembered his dead eye correctly, and the fact that he had one arm in a sling. Some of the deep facial bruising also appeared partially healed, though it was difficult to tell amid all the additional damage and resultant gore. Still, the guy had gotten his ass kicked something fierce not too long before he was killed. Guyer fidgeted with the bandaging on the side of his head, pulling it away and revealing that one ear was twisted off. The poor bastard was a mess.

  But all the old wounds were mundane things that someone might suffer, and they paled in comparison to the damage to his face and hands. The latter had swollen so large that a single fist was larger than his entire head. The skin was horribly scarred and torn, and it was hard to believe that the missing teeth and tongue might not have been the worst pain he was in as he died.

  “I did this to him.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I was speaking.

  Guyer was stooped over John Doe, examining the damage to his mouth and jaw. She glanced up, holding my gaze for the briefest of moments, before turning back to the victim’s body.

  “No, you didn’t. And the fact that you couldn’t move this,” she patted the baton on her hip, “is proof of that.”

  I didn’t argue, just turned and walked to the door. Dilla sat in the other room, radio playing as she tackled a crossword. I stood in the doorway and caught my breath. A somber-voiced news anchor announced that a Barekusu caravan had been spotted heading in the direction of Titanshade.

  The oldest of the Eight Families, the Barekusu had welcomed each of the other sibling Families as they awoke, teaching them the ways of the Path and how to live in Eyjan safely. Humanity had been the last Family to appear, a boisterous younger sibling that the others tolerated. Maybe we were expected. Eight is a sacred number in the Path, after all.

  I hovered in the door a few seconds too long, causing Dilla to look up from her pencil-smudged newsprint and clack her jaws.

  “Unless you can think of a seven-letter word for someone who interrupts me when I’m busy, I’m not interested.”

  “Sorry.” I held up my hands. “Needed to catch my breath, is all.” I turned back to face Guyer and the body.

  “Hey!” Her voice stopped me. “You want to, you can wait out here. No rule that says detectives gotta see that stuff firsthand.”

  True. But then, most detectives didn’t ha
ve a matter of hours before they were removed from the case. I nodded my thanks, and crossed back into the examination room.

  Guyer stood beside the body, rolling her shoulders like a prizefighter. “You ready?”

  I gave a thumbs-up. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Stay out of the way and take notes.” Guyer reached into her cloak. She pulled out a vial of manna, identical to the one she’d used at the medical check-in to animate the shadows of the ice plains animals. I knew it was different, though—at the end of every shift, DOs had to turn over their manna for weighing and calibration to ensure not a single drop had been used without authorization. One more practice that might become antiquated if the manna strike proved to be as deep and fruitful as the public hoped.

  Guyer hooked a thumb in the dead man’s jaw and pulled down, exposing the ragged stub of his tongue. She sprayed a fine mist of manna on the damaged flesh, as well as the missing tooth sockets and exposed jawbone. She peered at his face, creasing her lips into a slight frown. Then, seemingly satisfied, she released the victim and took one long step backward. She spritzed her own tongue, teeth, and jaw. Her thumb had a streak of congealed blood from the inside of the victim’s mouth, and she wiped it along the length of her own jaw, on the side that reflected his wound. Returning the vial to its inner pocket, she began to mutter, the words indistinct at first, then becoming clearer.

  “Wanderer of the Path,” she said, “share a traveler’s tale with me. Tell of your last thoughts, sights, and experiences. Tell the story of the injustice done to you.” The runes on her cloak, normally indistinct, began to glow with an eerie radiance as she tied the bond between herself and the corpse. Their iridescent shimmer intensified, becoming apparent even in the flickering, deathly yellow of the examination room’s lights.

  Guyer lengthened her breath, and with each inhale and exhale her mouth worked erratically, as if she were having a spasm localized to the lower half of her face. Her eyes began to roll back and then, just as it had started, she appeared normal once more.

  I relaxed my grip on my notepad and glanced at the clock. It had only been a few seconds. Guyer blinked and narrowed her eyes as she studied the corpse on the gurney. She muttered again, running her hands through a series of positions with the formality of a martial artist stepping through forms. Suddenly she halted and began pacing around the body, muttering to herself and adjusting her cloak.

  I hazarded a question. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone else is talking to the victim’s echo.” She scratched her nose, then crouched, viewing the body from a different angle.

  I crossed my arms. “You mean whoever killed him is trying to work divination magic.”

  “Most likely.”

  “Wait a minute . . .” I rocked back and forth, thinking through the motivation. “If the killer needed to talk to this guy, why would they kill him in the first place?”

  Guyer examined the man’s previous wounds, the bruises, broken arm, and missing ear. “Sorcery’s expensive, but kidnapping is complicated, and definitely riskier than running around with a few body parts. I mean, you have to be okay with killing whoever it is you want to talk to, but that bit doesn’t seem to be a problem for your guy.”

  “No,” I said. “It doesn’t.” I hesitated. “Can you get around whatever it is they’re doing?”

  “Of course I can. It’s just . . .” She rolled her wrist. “It’s tricky.”

  “Tricky how?”

  “What I’m doing is like trying to talk to someone at a party, when they’re already in a conversation with someone else.”

  I grunted, thinking of getting Gellica’s attention while Tenebrae was committed to charming her.

  “Plus,” she said, “rigor mortis sets in a little earlier in the jaw.”

  “Oh.”

  “Happily, we have an advantage. Your killer has bits and pieces of this guy. But we’ve got the rest of the body!”

  I shivered. “Yeah, happy.”

  She brought out the vial and pulled back the corpse’s clothes, this time letting a fine mist fall over his entire torso.

  “You’re approved for this much use?” I said.

  “Are you kidding? Look at his hands.” She grimaced. “Whatever happened to this guy, we need to know about it.”

  I got another chill. I knew what had happened to him. Carter had happened.

  “Now.” She tucked away the vial. “Let’s try this again. You’ll need to ask the questions.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be occupied.” Guyer dragged a finger down the length of the dead man’s torso, collecting a thin film of manna. She used the same finger to circle her face, tracing her jaw, forehead, and temple, as well as the sides of her throat. When she started her chant once more, she spoke faster and louder, moving crisply through the hand positions. I didn’t know how much of it mattered and how much was to help her focus, so I kept my mouth shut and waited.

  When the body sat up with a jerk, I almost dropped my notepad. The dead man stared blindly ahead, his face going through the motions of speech, but with no tongue, a partial jaw, and no air in his lungs, there was no sound beyond the slosh of his torn flesh dragging across itself. I didn’t let myself think what would have happened to the body if he’d been in full rigor during the ritual. I wondered if that had even occurred to Guyer. In a way, both she and Baelen were like Handsome Hanford’s absurd conspiracies about otherworldly visitors—they all toyed with abductees for their own bizarre purposes. Behind me the door snapped shut; Dilla had abandoned any pretense of involvement.

  A moment later Guyer began speaking, lower and raspy. On the gurney, the dead man, tongueless, breathless, mouthed the words as Guyer gave them voice.

  “She’s . . . hitting me . . .”

  I remembered that I was supposed to be asking questions. “Who?” I said. “Who is?”

  “New boss . . . hitting all of us. So strong . . .”

  Katie CaCuri was in charge. Thomas was strong.

  “She’s . . . HITTING ME!” The victim’s torso jerked, and his wounded arm slipped from its sling. Flopping at an unnatural angle, it had clearly been broken and badly tended to, as a ridge of bone pressed out of the forearm, ready to pop through the skin. I looked away and managed to ask my next question.

  “In the alley,” I said. “Who is in the alley with you?”

  “The alley,” Guyer spoke, her voice rattling. “There was someone . . . someone who knew . . .”

  The man tilted his head, as if listening to a different voice. His shredded lips twitched, and Guyer spoke again.

  “No . . . Sssseed tearssss . . . all gone.”

  Seed tears? What did that mean? I risked a glance at Guyer. Her eyes were white, rolled back into her head, and she swayed back and forth, her face contorted to be a match for his, giving him a voice even as his killer fought to wrest control away. Seeing the powerful magical connection, I couldn’t help myself—I stepped closer, and put my hand between her and the victim’s body. I felt nothing but empty air, no tingle, no threads. More evidence that I didn’t know what the Hells was going on.

  “No more sssssna . . .”

  “No more what?” I said. “What is it?”

  “So ssstrong. Please, make. . . make her sstop!”

  The dead man’s torso slammed back onto the steel support tray. Guyer staggered forward, steadying herself against the edge of the dead man’s gurney. I tucked an arm under her shoulder, supporting her as much as I could. We were silent, staring at the corpse and listening to one another breathe.

  When we gathered ourselves, we left Dilla to replace the body and headed back to the Bullpen. We didn’t speak as we walked. Both of us were exhausted, and I was processing what we’d learned from the victim. He’d talked about a new boss, maybe a gang leader taking out her anger on him? And seed tears, what did that
mean? The obvious connection would be to angel tears, but . . .

  “Watch out.” Guyer’s muttered warning brought me out of my reverie.

  Dr. Baelen stormed down the hall, clipboard clutched to her chest. Her face erupted with disapproval when her gaze lit on me, head fin rising to attention as her eyes widened and buccal openings flared to display the pink-tinged gills beneath.

  “You’re late for the medical,” she snapped, grabbing for my arm. I batted her hand away, but the delicate claws skated over my hand, raising hair-thin scratches.

  I stepped away, swearing. “What are you doing?”

  Baelen backed up and reapproached, as if she were starting the conversation over in her head. Her immaculately starched shirt was misbuttoned, leaving it skewed and awkward.

  “You had an outside experience with unknown magic,” she said. “Possibly next gen manna tainted with psychotropics. We need to check your measurements against your chart—”

  “Detective Carter had nothing to do with the events of last night.” Guyer’s tone was firm. “I’ve already conducted a thorough—”

  “You’ve conducted?” Baelen threw her hands in the air. “What possible qualifications do you possess to conduct anything?”

  Guyer’s face darkened, and I slid back another step. It never pays to get in an angry sorcerer’s line of fire.

  Baelen, however, didn’t seem to notice. Her voice gained momentum with each sentence. “Can’t you see?” She looked from me to Guyer. “This is a possibility to establish a real connection between altered next gen manna and a site survivor. Are you blind to what this means?”

  Finally, someone believed me, and it was the one person who had the power to hold me for indefinite observation. I could be locked down as thoroughly as the oil wells, if Baelen convinced her superiors it was in the national interest.

  “There is a room full of participants in this building, ready for their exam, and the two of you are sabotaging it.” Baelen crossed her arms and huffed loudly. “I insist that Carter come for immediate testing.”