Jove Brand is Near Death

by J. A. Crawford

  I sat in my car for a while, enjoying the air-conditioning while relearning how to use my arms and legs. Once I was able to work the pedals, I headed back the way I came.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to get out of the car—the gate opened for me when I pulled up. The drone guide was a lifesaver. In my current condition, I would have gotten lost in my own condo. Ray was waiting for me in the den.

  “Boy, you look like you got ran through a press.”

  I found my voice. “Changed my mind. If I’m going to play pretend, I might as well dress up.”

  7

  I was tempted to hunker down in Ray’s compound based on his bathtub alone. Calling it a tub really didn’t do it justice. Designed to emulate a natural grotto, it was as big as my bedroom. The waterfall vents generated a soothing white noise. The water was seasoned with a mineral mix that emulated how the ocean had been before humankind had had its way with it.

  Toweling off, I checked myself out in a mirror mounted on a fieldstone wall. A footprint was materializing under my ribs. My forearms were bruised from catching kicks and my knee swollen from slamming into the stage. Twin bite marks from the Taser shone on my back.

  Hell of a first day.

  If I lived anywhere but This Town, people would say I looked five, even ten years younger than my age. There I looked average, the product of six workouts a week and three cheat meals a year. Though I wasn’t on camera, my business was fitness and with it came a certain expectation. There was more to it, if I was being honest. I had been training like this since I was able to walk. If you took that away, who was I?

  I wrapped myself in a fur robe that could have used another six inches of hemline and followed the track lights back to my room, a cozy space that was largely bed. I had no idea how long I slept. Neither the sunshine nor moonlight were real. My old clothes were a lost cause. I abandoned them for a fresh set. Turns out sleuthing called for frequent wardrobe changes.

  I laced my boxing shoes up tight and said, “Ready when you are.”

  My door slid open to let me out. I followed the trail of lights down stone stairs into an armory stocked with prop weapons from a hundred imagined worlds. Ray was standing by the half wall bordering a shooting range.

  “Boy, have I got something for you,” he said.

  “I’m not licensed to carry a gun.”

  “Well, that depends on what the law defines as a gun, doesn’t it, Ken?” Ray set a metal case down on the half wall. “Latch works off your fingerprints.”

  “You got them from my coffee mug, didn’t you?”

  Ray answered with a twinkle of the eye.

  The case opened with a pressurized hiss. I waited for the lid to rise dramatically, as to not spoil Ray’s reveal. A light set into the underside of the lid flickered to life to reveal a Quarreler.

  King Arthur had Excalibur. Indiana Jones his whip, and Luke Skywalker his lightsaber. Jove Brand had the Quarreler.

  The Royal Gamesman didn’t wield a mere pistol with mundane bullets, oh no. The best way to describe the Quarreler would be to call it a dart gun, though that was oversimplifying. Since its debut in The Gamesman Afoot, the Quarreler had gone through many incarnations, each with different features.

  Ray was more excited than I was. “Go ahead. She ain’t loaded yet.”

  I withdrew the Quarreler from its foam bed, feeling its curves. It had no sharp edges, slightly bowing from the muzzle towards rear sight and trigger guard. It also had no hammer or sights. Combined with the short, sloping grip, its lines were more akin to a miniature shotgun than a pistol. I aimed it downrange, knowing enough to not point it at Ray, whether he said it was loaded or not. I had to admit, it felt good in my hand.

  Damn it.

  “Petite as I could make her, for concealability,” Ray said. “Gotta bigger behind than I like on my ladies, but there was no getting around it.”

  “You actually built a functional Quarreler.”

  “Sure did, and she uses fléchettes, same as in the books.” Ray held up a dart with a short point and a slim, steel-veined tail. “They’re saboted, sort of like shotgun shells.”

  Ray reached into the case and took out a metal cylinder that looked like the middle part of a revolver.

  “I color-coded the quivers so you’ll know what you’re getting at a glance. Standard are red. Yellow are shock rounds. Not much battery room in the dart but they’ll put a guy down long enough for him to think about what he did. Green are explosive. Black are smoke.”

  “Hold on, explosives?”

  “More like a concussion. Packs a decent wallop. Shock rounds are no good against body armor.”

  “By shock rounds you mean Tasers.”

  Ray snorted. “Sure, if by trebuchets you mean catapults. These little babies will make the Taser charge you took feel like licking a battery.”

  “But they won’t kill anyone?”

  “Only the reds are lethal,” Ray confirmed. “Extremely lethal. They’re built sort of like those Russian dolls with shells inside shells. Dumps all the energy in the target. They can’t penetrate for crap, but you also aren’t going to rack up collateral damage if you miss.”

  “Good to know.” I was a little overwhelmed. I’d only shot a gun a handful of times, all of them because I had a client who didn’t want to prep for a role by themselves.

  “Now, she’s no good outside of fifty feet,” Ray cautioned. “The Quarreler isn’t a traditional black powder weapon. She’s a hybrid: part electric, part compressed gas.”

  “A plug-in gun. Is there anything we don’t need to charge these days?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s standard USB. You should only have to top her off every hundred rounds or so, which is when you’ll need to change the gas cartridge anyway. If you need to recharge in a hurry, pop the entire grip off like so and slap another in. Fresh battery and canister in one package.”

  There were two replacement grips in the case. I dug out one of the yellow-coded quivers. “What’s the capacity?”

  Ray made a sour face. “Try as I might I couldn’t fit more than seven fléchettes in the damn quivers. Seventeen short of what the Quarreler from the books supposedly has.”

  The smooth cylinder was heavier than it looked. “Cramming seven shots into this thing is pretty good, if you ask me.”

  “Well, since she’s not a traditional firearm, I was able to keep the walls thin and use carbon fiber.” Ray studied the Quarreler like he could see through it. “See, the internal pressure is different. Rounds are subsonic, and there’s no percussion cap.”

  I did my best to pay attention, but Ray droned on about internal suppressors and gas compensators and other things I was clueless about. I tuned back in when he broke open the pistol to load the quiver. With a flick of the wrist, Ray snapped the Quarreler back together. There was a three-dimensional target not unlike a tackling dummy standing in the firing lane fifteen feet away.

  I remembered enough about shooting to recall using protective gear. “Don’t we need eyes and ears?”

  “You must already have ear plugs in, because I just explained you won’t,” Ray replied.

  The Quarreler issued a snap-hiss no louder than slamming a door. The fléchette hit the dummy center of mass, the veined fins spinning like a fan. Ray put the pistol down on the half wall and stepped back.

  “Your turn.”

  I copied Ray’s stance—decades of martial arts instruction had transformed me into a physical mimic on par with a professional dancer—while trying to recall the basics of shooting: when to breathe, to squeeze and not pull the trigger. I’d held babies that kicked harder than the Quarreler. The first round landed low.

  “It’s got a drop,” I said.

  Ray nodded. “Parabolic arc. Like a bow.”

  I worked through the rest of the standard quiver. I didn’t do too bad, but I was standing in a firing range, unwinded, with no one shooting back at me. When it struck a dry chamber, the Quarreler automatically broke open and ejected the qui
ver.

  Ray handed me a yellow cylinder. “Shock rounds next.”

  As I dropped the cylinder in, the Quarreler sucked it from my hand, locking it into place. “Magnets?”

  Ray had a flawless poker face.

  The shock rounds impacted harder than I expected, rocking the dummy as ozone filled the air. The explosive rounds made the dummy buck like a horse. The gas rounds made my eyes water and my nose run from fifteen feet away.

  Ray handed me a handkerchief. “With those you can miss a little and it still works out. Good for getting guys around corners.”

  In my second pass, Ray used his phone to move the dummy around. Outside of thirty feet, my accuracy was dicey. I tried not to think about how much the fléchette cartridges had to cost.

  After I had worked through the quivers in the case, Ray spread a stack of paperwork out on the wall.

  “Best part is, if you skip the red quivers, the Quarreler is technically not a firearm,” he said. “Though if she ever gets seized, I’m sure they’ll amend the statutes. Keep these papers in your glove box regardless. Seeing as you aren’t a felon yet, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  It was good news for me, because I had no intention of ever loading a red cylinder. I’d never gotten over the one death I had a hand in, nor forgotten my near misses. Not that it helped, being reminded of it every time I saw Yuen’s scar.

  I signed my way through the forms before tucking them into the leather pouch provided. “According to this, you’re a licensed firearm instructor.”

  “I’m a licensed everything. Now for your other goodies.”

  Ray opened a case containing a dozen textured rubber spheres, also color coded, each about the size of a golf ball.

  “Non-lethal grenades. Colors match the quivers. Yellow are flash-bangs, green are regurgitants, and black make smoke.”

  I was happy there were no red balls. I picked up a yellow one, feeling its jagged ridges.

  Ray picked up a smooth black ball. “Each has a different texture so you can find what you need without looking.” He tossed the ball a good fifty feet. When it hit the concrete it bounced up a foot, then stuck where it landed. A heartbeat later it exploded into an oily smoke. “Gel-based. Needs an impact to activate the agents. Throw ’em hard as you want, they’ll stop wherever they hit.”

  Ray broke out goggles and earmuffs for the grenades, making me throw each so I knew what to expect. It turned out a regurgitant made you puke.

  “There’s more,” Ray said with a grin.

  The next case held a smooth-banded watch with classic lines supporting a modern touch-screen face. It came with a companion Bluetooth earpiece, half a dozen pencil cameras, and the same number of quarter-sized microphones.

  My thumbprint brought the touch screen to life. “This is a heck of an upgrade from my old video watch. I didn’t know you were into this modern stuff.”

  “Bluetooth is paired to the watch, both cellular and wireless,” Ray replied, ignoring my ageism. “Switch between the cameras with this button and the mics with this one. Hit this button and the mics switch over to ultrasonics. Anyone close will get a raging headache, fast.”

  “Why would I want to give someone a headache?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Ray gestured to the Quarreler. “I couldn’t get the GPS and camera fléchettes working right. Maybe next time.”

  “Next time.” When I laughed, Ray didn’t join me. “You’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, haven’t you?”

  “Damn right I have,” Ray said, pulling out another case.

  “Man, you must keep your case guy busy.”

  Ray was clearly offended. “I am my case guy.”

  The next case had a crazy multi-tool with a vibrating lockpick. The one after that wasn’t a case. It was a suit bag and I knew what was in it.

  “Oh no way.”

  “Oh yes way.”

  The zipper got stuck more than once. I usually had steady hands, but after eighteen years of sporting a salmon jacket, I was finally going classic. Jove Brand had several iconic outfits, but this was my favorite.

  “The blue blazer,” I said. It wasn’t a solid blue but rather a weave of light blue and gray, tailored in a clubhouse cut. It looked like a summer jacket but was way heavier.

  Ray ran his fingers over the fabric. “I call it mimetic chainmail. Pliable, until it takes an impact. A layer of gel is sandwiched between the outer and inner protective weaves. Good for anything a trauma plate would stop. But remember, your chest isn’t protected. If you think you’re walking into trouble, button up.”

  The blazer wasn’t easy to slip on, but I managed to maneuver into it.

  “Don’t move,” Ray said. He blasted two hooks into my body, left-right, using his hips and pivoting like I taught him. Punches that should have cracked ribs landed with all the force of a pool noodle. “The gel disperses impact energy. And the jacket tends to keep its lines, no matter what you’re hiding under there. Little unintended bonus.”

  Inside the last case was a harness with a shoulder holster and a belt. The Quarreler hung upside down under my left arm. The quivers were mounted on the back right side of the belt, with the cylindrical ball dispensers on the back left.

  With the blazer on, you couldn’t tell there was anything underneath it, though I guess my shoulder-to-waist ratio helped. Still, I felt like I was wearing a radiation apron. The jacket looked good with the white short-sleeved shirt and linen pants, but my black boxing shoes stood out.

  “I didn’t have time to cobble up proper footwear.” Ray grimaced.

  “Don’t sweat it. I look like one of those hipster sneaker guys.”

  Ray shrugged it off but I could tell it bothered him. Next time I came by, I was getting rocket boots and fireproof underwear.

  Ray led me back over to the quiver case. “Let’s practice reloading. Break your Quarreler open and hover the breech over a quiver.”

  I did so, and the quiver jumped from my belt into the Quarreler’s chamber.

  “Presto!” Ray said with a flourish. “Practice a bit and you’ll find it’s actually faster to reload one-handed. Plus, you don’t have to look away from what you’re doing.”

  I got it down in no time. When Ray grudgingly admitted he was satisfied, he asked, “So who roughed you up?”

  “Who hasn’t? This time it was Chinese opera guys dressed like demons followed by some private security firm.”

  “You’re living a weird life there, Ken.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, loading shock rounds into the Quarreler.

  “These security guys leave a card or anything?”

  “Nope. They rolled full California-covert in unmarked Range Rovers.”

  “Any idea who they’re working for?”

  “Whoever suspects I’m following in Layne Lackey’s footsteps, I’d wager.” Talking about it shook something loose. “Shensei made me fight three times. The first guy was dressed like the ones that roughed me up. I think Shensei was trying to warn me what I was up against without breaking his nondisclosure agreement with the Calabrias. He wants me to get to the bottom of this while also keeping his hands clean.”

  Ray soaked it in, trying to look serious but barely able to contain his excitement. He’d spent his life building toys for people to play pretend with and now it was happening for real. My quest to prove my innocence was the ultimate tinkerer’s test.

  “So where you off to next?”

  I holstered my Quarreler and buttoned up. “It’s time I paid Jove Brand a visit.”

  8

  Lucky for me, Bryce Crisp was in the state, summering at his hobby vineyard in wine country. It was too hot, dry, and dusty for my car’s meager AC. After a half hour my shirt was soaked and the bulletproof blazer was laid out on the backseat. It didn’t breathe much. I tested out the Bluetooth earpiece catching Missy up.

  “So was Runshaw was giving you clues? Then why try to beat you up?”

  “To make sure I’m
ready for what poking around is going to bring down on me. Whatever is going on, Runshaw wants it stopped. He tried using Layne Lackey first, and it got Layne killed.”

  “It seems strange they talked to him at all.”

  It only seemed strange to Missy because she didn’t know the whole story behind Near Death. “Working with Lackey was a good way to find out what he was after. I might need to meet with Runshaw again, once I know more, which is why I held back a question. To force an audience.”

  “Will that work?” I could hear Missy chopping vegetables. She was always chopping vegetables. It was her lot in life, being a gluten-free vegan.

  “If he’s to preserve face, yes.”

  “Is that like honor?”

  “More like image. Think of it as maintaining a persona.”

  The sound Missy made told me she understood exactly what I was talking about. “So we need to figure out who these private, uh, contractors are.”

  I nodded, then remembered I was on the phone. The Bluetooth was darn convenient. “That would be good, but more important is who they work for. They came looking for me the day I got started. That’s a pretty big coincidence.”

  “I’ll ask around and see who people are using to discourage stalkers these days.”

  “You’re getting the hang of this faster than me.”

  “You’ll catch up,” Missy said.

  “I’d better. I’m almost there. Bye for now.”

  Bryce Crisp’s estate was a Frank Lloyd Wright dream built into a craggy, artificial hill complete with falls flowing into multilevel pools. Bryce could enjoy the fruits of seven successful Brand films from a master suite overlooking acres of vines and orchards. I went through the open gate and up a winding path to park in the multilevel garage built into the hill. Vehicles were another of Bryce’s passions. My old beater lowered the tone.

  As I was heading toward the elevator, I caught him out of the corner of my eye, standing proud among the six-figure classics. His majesty stopped me dead in my tracks.