“The LoC clinics send them here?”
“Often times,” he said, “Denver and Fort Collins clinics are pretty small. Both’re owned by the same hospital company. Even still, notta lotta profit bein’ made treatin’ shitheads. Sometimes they’ll send ‘em here through official channels. Other times border patrol picks up people dropped off like old garbage. Usually by family members that can’t afford LoC clinics. Problem is, no for-profit insurance company wants’ta cover Shift addiction.”
“They have facilities to help Shift addicts,” I said, “even in Cortez.”
“But not the infrastructure for an epidemic,” Mikasi said, “especially with as many people as there are migragin’ into the LoC. And you gotta understand Shift addiction. It ain’t always a choice. There’s newer versions that’re sexually transmitted.” He shook his head, “Shift gangs’ll use prostitutes to spread it…like the kids you guys rescued.”
“Christ…”
“Yeah,” he said, “you should see the quarantine they got in Kansas City. They send an awful lot there from Nebraska, too.”
“Isn’t Nebraska contested by the CSA and PRA governments?”
“Sure is,” he said, “but neither of ‘em’re eager to take on shitheads if they don’t have to.”
I turned my head to look back out the window, watching the unseemly fence go by. The streets in the enclosure stood empty, the yards surrounding houses long and unkempt. A sense of foreboding hovered over the desolate neighborhood sent a chill through me.
When we got past the fence, the veneer of cheeriness returned. A veneer covering a city divided, where only a heavy police presence kept it from boiling over.
“You run into any trouble gettin’ here?” Mikasi asked after we finished driving his beat.
“No,” I said, “most of the checkpoints weren’t manned. The ones around cities that were we went around.”
Mikasi grunted, “Someone may’uh noticed that. You might’ve been better off drivin’ through.”
“Does the CSA worry much about the LoC?” I asked.
“They worry more about the PRA,” Mikasi said, “although news about the LoC harborin’ terrorists worries ‘em a little. Releasin’ that dirt on their connection to human trafficking rings don’t sit well with Mitchell’s coterie of religious thugs.”
“Keme says you’re part of the secessionist movement here?” I asked.
“The CSA calls it a secessionist movement,” he said, “but it’s more of an anti-CSA movement.”
“So, not much difference to them,” I said.
He grunted, “you can say that.” He sighed, “I’m told your people’re here to help us out with this situation?”
“Director Mitchell is pretty much a shoe-in at this point, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Mikasi said, disgusted, “not that they’re givin’ anyone in Kansas a vote.”
“The Wichita police are pretty against this, then,” I said.
“Half of us’ll probably lose our jobs,” he said, “other half might get to start from the bottom, so some are buyin’ into their shit.”
“You’re aware that Tory Goodwin is being held in Topeka,” I said.
“I am,” Mikasi said, “we’ve been ‘informed’ not to talk about it. Especially with places like India and Brazil makin’ a big stink about it.”
“I see,” I said, “and now he’s in sort of a limbo, being illegally detained.”
“I know exactly where he’s bein’ detained,” Mikasi said, seeming to pick up on where I was going.
“Would you be able to get him transferred to Wichita by July fourth?” I asked.
“Not sure how.”
“You can raise security concerns,” I said, “in both Topeka and Kansas City. I already have people posing as private security contractors looking for work here in Wichita.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, “I know some people out there I can trust.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“Why July fourth?”
“Going to be anti-CSA protests then, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, “But there’s gonna be a counter-protest by pro-CSA folks, too. Probly half of ‘em paid to be there. But it means they’re callin’ everyone in to make sure it don’t get outta hand.”
“It’s going to get out of hand,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re plannin’ a distraction to bust that old coot outta detention, eh?”
“I’ll let you know what you need to know,” I said, “once we’ve worked it all out.”
“Long as you don’t make it get too outta hand,” he said, looking unhappy about this arrangement. “We’re a few blocks from that Van der Meer fella’s place.”
“Ok,” I said, “drop me off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
I strolled through a narrow parking lot past two CSA agents. They paid me no attention. The stone building, fifteen stories high, seemed to glow in the midday sun. The front entrance was a large, wooden porch built in the Doric order and painted white.
Richard Van der Meer lived in a high-class apartment complex, one of many erected in Wichita since the devolution act. The status of Kansas as somewhat of a CSA protectorate had afforded interesting opportunities for the biotech industry, especially in agriculture. Scientists were not restricted from ‘playing God’ the way people often were within the CSA and everything wasn’t owned by Benecorp like in the southwest. They also weren’t sanctioned the way the LoC or the Republic were, while also being protected from Benecorp’s aggressive buyouts. As a result, a lot of smaller entrepreneurs and venture capitalists moved into these border states. Richard Van der Meer was one such entrepreneur.
The number of police officers, CSA agents, hired protection, and building security in the area made it appear that getting in would be impossible. Mikasi assured me that my suspicions were correct – all of these different people working at cross purposes turned security into a clusterfuck. There were rivalries between each faction, a terrible lack of communication, and untold political ambitions.
“I need to get in,” I said, approaching the building security guard.
“You don’t live here,” he said, eyes only focusing on me for a moment before refocusing on his AR display.
“I was hired by the CSA,” I said, “they want me to-”
“You a mercenary?” he said, attention now fully on me.
“I wouldn’t use that word,” I said, “I prefer contractor. I’m supposed to-”
“Goddamit,” he said, his eyes looking back into his ARs, “I told those bastards to send us merc profiles before bringin’ ‘em here.”
“This is kind of an emergency,” I said, “I’m here to upgrade the local CSA mesh network-”
“Everything’s a fuckin’ emergency with you people,” he said, “I’m gettin’ on the line with- hello? Agent Ryan? Yeah, this is David Kaine. I got one of your- no, this ain’t about- will you listen a minute? I got one of your mercs here, a Dylan Fr- yes. Says he’s one of yours. Says it’s an emergency and he’s gotta- Fine. Whatever.” His eyes looked back to me. With a sigh he signaled for me to go in and sarcastically remarked, “must be nice workin’ for such auspicious masters.”
I gave a small shrug and walked past him into the building. Cold air swept over me as I stepped out of the midday heat. As I approached the front desk, the woman pretended not to see me for several minutes, looking into her ARs. Finally, she turned around, giving me and impatient look.
“I need to find Richard Van der Meer’s apartment,” I said.
“Who’re you?” she asked curtly.
“I was hired by the CSA,” I said, “David Kaine let me in. I have to-”
“More of you here for Richard?” she asked, “he’s been on vacation for over a month. Is he up to somethin’ we oughtta know about?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Course not,” she said, “we could have a pedophile livin’ here and you guys wouldn’t tel
l us.”
She may not be that far off.
“Can you let me into his room?” I asked.
“Should I even bother askin’ for a warrant or anything?”
“This is sort of covert,” I said in a quiet voice.
“Sure,” she said, exasperated, “as long as I can avoid gettin’ yelled at by a hundred different CSA superiors.”
The attendant signaled for one of the cleaning ladies – a heavyset black woman – to come escort me upstairs to the fifth floor. She walked slow, obvious resentment in her gaze.
“How can you work for ‘em?” she asked in a hushed voice while on the elevator, “those CSA men a buncha racists.”
I didn’t respond. She sighed loudly when the elevator reached Van der Meer’s floor and began slowly walking down the hall. Every door had a camera above it and a pad to scan fingerprints to the side. We passed by a Wichita policeman walking the other way. The cleaning lady gave him a knowing nod, as if to say ‘we got another one of these asshole CSA interlopers here’ but the officer was focused on his ARs.
“How long you gonna be?” she asked after stopping in front of a door.
“Shouldn’t be too long,” I said.
“That’s what they always say,” she said, putting her thumb on the pad and looking up into the camera. A moment later the door beeped and she opened it. “You can find your way back down, right?”
“I think so,” I said.
The cleaning lady walked away without saying anything else. I opened the door and entered Richard Van der Meer’s apartment. It wasn’t very big, maybe twelve hundred square feet. The inside had an aesthetic of someone who loves Japanese culture but doesn’t know much about it. The walls were decorated with copies of Japanese paintings and two knockoff Katana hanging on the walls in the living room. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.
Maybe he was living in his car…why? Was he afraid of something?
I made my way down the short hallway, seeing a bathroom on one side and a bedroom converted into an office on the other. Walking into the office, I spotted anime posters pinned up to the walls surrounding the desk in the middle. My eyes went to the only poster I recognized – the brother and sister duo from Mukankaku.
Not sure if Masaru would be happy to know Van der Meer is a fan, or horrified.
I walked around back of the desk, kneeling to look beneath it. The five-by-five-inch router winked at me with its single green light. Next to it was the tower for Van der Meer’s computer that-
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
The tower was the same box I found in the trafficking house. I saved some images of it with my bionic eye before continuing. The router light turned red and started blinking when I unhooked the Wi-Fi antenna. I plugged the tiny antenna into the LAN turtle I had in my pocket and then plugged the LAN turtle into the router. It took thirty seconds for the red light to turn green.
One down, two to go.
Sweat trickled down my face as I walked the suburban sidewalk. Shade provided by neat rows of trees afforded welcome relief from the unrelenting June sun. Modest houses were lined up behind the trees. Square, one-story bungalows painted off-white, almost no yard to speak of, an unconnected single stall garage, and a small outdoor front porch. They were probably not much older than Van der Meer’s apartment, built during the Kansas biotech boom after the devolution.
I finally came upon the house I was looking for. The address of Susan Dewitt. I couldn’t tell if it was my own projecting, but her house somehow appeared more sinister than the exact replicas surrounding it. Finding that same server type in Van der Meer’s apartment from trafficking house only further confirmed my suspicion that NexBioGen had to be involved in the human trafficking ring. What I was really after, though, was what they knew about the reincarnation molecule.
The rescued kids mean nothing to you now, do they? Evita asked, they served their purpose for the bigger picture, is that it?
I ignored her, focusing on my target. Dewitt’s windows were closed and the blinds drawn. The lawn was nicely mowed and edged, well-manicured flowers blooming on either side of the steps leading up to the front porch. A large central cooling unit sat opposite the driveway, humming loudly, indicating someone was home.
“Shit,” I muttered, stopping in front of the driveway.
“You lookin’ for Miss Dewitt?” someone asked.
A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, peered over the picket fence.
“Yeah,” I said, “do you know where she is?”
“No,” he said, “why are so many people lookin’ for her?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “do you know when she’ll be home?”
He shook his head, “She’s hardly ever home. She pays me to cut her lawn every Saturday, but I never see her.”
“Her AC is on,” I said.
“Yeah, it always is,” the kid said, “but she’s hardly ever home. The woman that comes and cleans her house every Monday always pays me for her.”
“I see.”
“Sorry,” the kid said, shrugging and walking away from the fence.
I approached the front door, spotting a camera above it looking down onto the front porch. I purposefully made eye contact with it – hoping the facial implants and contact lenses would keep me from being recognized – and then pressed the doorbell. After thirty seconds, there was no indication anyone was coming, so I tried the doorbell again. Another minute and I still didn’t hear anyone, so I tried knocking, looking up at the camera again. Nothing.
I looked both ways, making sure nobody was watching, before kneeling down and examining at the lock. It was a standard deadbolt. Not too difficult for an expert lock picker, but I was an amateur at best. I pulled the tools out and started working on the lock, looking over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure I wasn’t being watched. All the other houses loomed over me, too close for comfort. People could easily be spying through the blinds, but I had to-
“The hell?”
I stood back up, looking around again, and then tried the doorknob. The door opened right up. It was already unlocked. I looked around again, then back to the camera for a moment, before stepping into the house.
All the lights were off, the air inside cold from the central air. There was a familiar smell inside, like hot plastic, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on where I smelled it before. The living room was minimalist, with just a reclining chair in one corner and an end table with a vase of artificial flowers on the other side of the room. The walls were bare – no pictures, shelves of nick-knacks, mirrors – and the carpet clean as new.
I stepped through the dark living room into a small dining area and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. The central air continued humming. The thermostat near the light switch said it was sixty degrees Fahrenheit. I stepped through the doorway into the kitchen, finding the appliances spotless. The oven looked like it was-
A clanging startled me. I froze, trying to listen. Only my heartbeat thumping sounded over the central air’s droning hum. I looked down at the linoleum. The sound came from below. The basement.
Is that where Dewitt’s office is?
It didn’t matter. I had to get out before I was caught. When I started back toward the front door, more sounds came from below. Footsteps. Coming up the stairs.
Shit, I mouthed, breaking into a sprint. A door opened behind me, footsteps running toward me. My hands scrambled for the door knob. Someone grabbed me, pulling my shoulder. I turned around.
“Who are you?” my assailant demanded, “are you CSA?”
I glanced down at the embroidering on my shirt – the CSA emblem – and then back up at my accoster. She had the same mixture of old and new features I had noticed in Calvin Lind in Tokyo eighteen years earlier – the smooth skin and light brown hair of someone around thirty mixed with the receding gums and worn eyes of someone around sixty. The result of anti-aging interventions.
“Catherine Landon?” I said aloud.
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“Who are you?” she insisted angrily, “what are you doing in Dewitt’s house?”
I shook my head, “I…work for the CSA. Miss Dewitt called to have me check on her internet connection. I found the door already-”
“Bullshit,” Landon hissed, “you’re one of their secret police, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said, “I swear, I’m here to look at her internet connection. She called us to-”
“How old are you?” Landon asked, taking a step back to look at me.
“Eighteen,” I said, “I just started working here.”
“You’re good with computers then?” Landon asked.
“Um, yeah. I guess.”
She pursed her lips and nodded slowly, “great. Maybe you can help me out.”
Shit.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“Come,” she said, turning and heading back for the basement door.
I stood and watched her take a few steps before she turned and signaled for me to follow. I went down the stairs behind her, feeling heat coming up from the basement. Landon reached the bottom and turned around, waiting for me to catch up. When I reached the bottom, I looked into what must have been the laundry room, although it was difficult to tell with all of the servers. The same kind Van der Meer and the traffickers had, but more. A lot more. Rows of them lining the room, which had been emptied of anything else. The warm plastic smell was much stronger – it was coming from heat generated by the rows of servers.
“Wh-what the hell is this?” I said.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Landon said, “you’re the one here to ‘fix the internet’ for Dewitt.”
I opened my mouth, hoping another lie would come out to continue my cover, but nothing came out.
“I didn’t think so,” Landon said, “Dewitt would never use CSA people. So, who are you, really? PRA spy? Benecorp? Wait, no,” she shook her head, “you look like you could be Brazilian. Are the Brazilians sending spies here now, too?”
“I’m…”
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