“Jackson Bell?”
“Y-yes, ma’am?” I stuttered.
“You got an aunt named Louise?”
I lowered my hands a degree. “You know my Aunt Lou?”
“Boy, get your skinny butt back on that elevator. I’ll bring you up here so we can talk proper.”
I looked at Cassdan to get my client’s approval. “Might as well,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe she’s got a better idea than looking through a hundred corpses.”
Chapter 19
Despite sitting atop a giant morgue, the top floor of the building was quite homey. A worn, red couch sat against the wall to our right, flanked by wooden end tables. Copper lamps gave off a warm, yellow glow, while lace doilies kept them from scuffing the polished shine of the tables. Two tall bookshelves stood only a few feet away, each one thick with paper books, all with cracked and damaged spines. Even the bank of monitors in the corner to our left had embroidered curtains covering the windows behind it and a crocheted blanket laying across the desk in front of it. It was almost comforting enough to let me forget the three additional floors of steel cabinets we had passed to get there.
At the center of the room, an elderly woman sat in a wheelchair, her dark brown skin beginning to show through the tight white curls of her short hair. She barely glanced at us as she poured tea into three cups sitting atop a clawfoot dining table. She waved us over, and we wasted no time accepting the seats left pulled out for us.
“Sorry if I was rude before,” she said, passing me a cup. “An old woman’s got to be careful. My name’s Geraldine Walker. It’s good to meet you, Jackson. Your aunt’s told me a lot about you.”
I squeezed a bit of honey into my cup, asking, “How do you know Aunt Lou?”
“Oh, my trucks deliver sorted materials to her junkyard three times a day. We’ve developed a bit of a friendship over the years.” She passed Cassdan his cup. “In fact, it was seeds from this farm that helped her set up those subsistence gardens of hers.” She paused, her eyes fixed on me for a moment. “You have seen the gardens, haven’t you? She’s mentioned you don’t visit her often enough.”
“Yes, ma’am. The gardens are beautiful, and doing very well. I really think you’ve made a difference for her ‘tenants.’”
“Don’t give me too much credit. Real change takes a lot of people, a lot of cooperation. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned her attention to Cassdan. “Introduce yourself, son.”
“Cassdan, uh, ma’am. I hired Jackson to watch my back while I looked into the death of a friend of mine.”
“And you were looking for your friend here?” Her tone was more sad than surprised.
“No. Um, it’s all kind of complicated. She was working for a company that’s connected to another company that’s doing something really bad. Forced prison labor, covering up prisoner abuse, that sort of thing. She may have gotten some evidence to prove it, but then somebody threw her out of her penthouse window.” He rotated his cup back and forth in his fingertips. “The cops ruled it a suicide, but there’s no way that’s true.”
“So, how does that bring you here, sorting through cold bodies?”
“Well, we figured the conditions are so bad for these workers that some people have to be dying, but there’s no record of deaths, which means they have to be disposing of the bodies.”
“And you think they’re ending up here, where nobody’s gonna notice?”
“That’s right.”
She sat back in her wheelchair, tapping a single finger on her chin as she thought over the situation. “There’s a lot of people here, down in my cold storage cabinets. I keep some basic records, including a database of pictures of their faces, but we’re going to need something to compare it to.” She pointed a finger toward the computer peeking out of Cassdan’s jacket sleeve. “Any chance you can get access to the city’s prisoner database?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a predatory smile. “I think I can manage that, but remote access is difficult this far out.”
“Feel free to jack into my work station,” she said, waving a hand toward the computer system in the corner, “but make sure you cover your tracks. I don’t want any cops knocking on my door.” Cassdan was already stripping off his long jacket, throwing it across the computer desk, when Geraldine added, “And stay out of my porn files. You’re too young for some of the stuff I have in there.” Not a twitch on her face gave an indication that she was joking.
“It could take him a few minutes,” I said. “Prisoner files are supposed to be public, but they’re still city files. The details are never published.”
“I’ve got time, young man, and this is the best company I’ve had in awhile.”
I took a slow drink my tea, taking a moment to enjoy the way it warmed me from the inside. “So, you run this place by yourself?”
“Oh, I don’t just run it. I designed the whole place.” She sipped from her cup. “It was my dream. Had it since I was young. I thought I was going to be the next George Washington Carver. The next Robyn Van En. Hell, maybe even the next Norman Borlaug. The intention was to make a farm that could live inside a city, something that could thrive even in the heart of all of that industry. There'd be almost no fuel wasted on transporting the food, and every single person would have access to inexpensive fresh fruits and vegetables. Food deserts would be a thing of the past. But, things never really go like you think they should.
“I gave a big presentation in front of the city council, and they approved me for a grant to build the prototype out here on government property. It was a grand experiment, more efficient than traditional farms, able to channel minimal sunlight throughout the complex to make a fifty story, fully automated greenhouse. I even had big plans to give the crops from the experimental phase to the most underfunded schools in the city, to help out the most at risk youth.”
“Sounds like a beautiful idea,” I said.
“Sounds like a deal with the devil,” Cassdan called back over his shoulder.
“You’re both right,” Geraldine responded, “but don’t get ahead of me.” She took another sip of her tea. “The minute the place came online, the city council sold it out from under me. They used eminent domain laws to sell the complex and the land under it to MesaChem Agricultural, claiming it would be better for the city in the long run.”
I finished my tea and set the cup down. “Better for the city than feeding kids?”
“Of course,” she said, raising her volume to amplify the sarcasm. “Big businesses bring revenue into the city, raise the city’s profile, and, most importantly, create all kinds of new jobs.” She leaned an elbow on the table, dropping the sarcastic tone. “As you can see, I’m still the only one working here.”
“That’s a real shame.”
“It was,” she continued, while refilling my cup, “but we work with the world we have. They kept me on, knowing I had a vested interest in keeping my baby running, and I used their ignorance to push my own goals. While they use a floor or two to experiment with this month’s new gene spliced designer fruit for the city’s Uppers, I convinced them that the best way to keep the soil rich and useful was to keep rotating crops through it.” She sat back in her chair, a smile spreading across her face. “And should some of those fresh crops end up delivered to certain underfunded schools, no one really notices, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
I had to smile at that, too. “So, when did the sweepers come into this?”
“Oh, they were a part of the design from the start. The streets needed cleaning, and a lot of what’s out there is compostable, so why bother wasting the resource? It wasn’t my idea to switch the trucks over to full automation, but they still do their job well enough, and it doesn’t hurt that I have more control over them this way. My first degree was in engineering, so it was easy enough to adapt the basement level systems.”
“Speaking of which, wouldn’t it be more effic
ient to keep the bodies below ground level?”
“It would have been, yes, but people weren’t laying bodies out in the streets when I designed this place. When the first one came in, I called the police. It turned out it was just some poor homeless fellow that had died and fallen into the street. With no body heat, the freshly automated sweeper hadn’t been able to differentiate it from any other refuse in the road.” She sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “I suppose someone must have seen him get picked up, because word definitely got around. Pretty soon, they started coming in regularly.
“I took pictures of all of them as they came in, filling out a police report for each and emailing them in. Most were just John Does, homeless people who fell out of the system a long time ago. Few of them had any family that was willing to claim them, so nobody ever came to pick them up, and I was told to do what I like with the remains. Eventually, the cops stopped responding to my emails altogether. As more came in, I built more coolers to hold them, and when those filled up, I just decided to start recycling them. Might as well get some use out of ‘em, right?”
“How exactly do you recycle them?”
“Most go into the soil. Some go to the crickets.”
I felt my brow tighten. “Sorry, crickets?”
“Level thirty-seven is a cricket farm. Those little fellas will eat just about anything you put in front of ‘em.”
“Crickets are useful in farming?”
“Oh!” she said, her eyes opening with genuine surprise. “I thought everybody knew by now. The crickets are raised as livestock. When they’re harvested, they’re ground up into cricket flour. It’s added to dough made from grains, legumes, and chestnuts to give it some extra protein. There’s also a mealworm farm on thirty-eight, but those guys don’t eat meat. Oh, and there’s sago grubs on level five. The grubs have a compound in them that’s important for getting the flavor of artificial bacon right. On several of the other levels, I rotate out other critters. You never know when you’ll find a new staple.”
I was certain the thought of that would probably disgust most people, but I just burst out laughing. “You know,” I said between fits, “if my cat knew there were crickets in our morning biscuits she might actually eat the pieces I give her.”
Geraldine smiled and laughed quietly, the creases framing her eyes deepening. “It’s been years since I’ve had a pet. Nothing but robots keeping me company up here in my glass tower.”
I took a gulp of my cooling tea. “If you like, I can get you in touch with some people I know that rescue strays.”
“That might not be a bad idea. I certainly have plenty of room.”
“So, this place seems like it’s doing really well. How come one of these never got built inside the city perimeter? Is this one place enough to feed the whole city?”
“This farm is doing well, but it does have some design flaws, and it certainly doesn’t feed the whole city. The building does fine in low light, but not in no light. That city just keeps getting taller and wider, letting less and less light in. On top of that, the city’s got a bad habit of trapping in the storm clouds and growing them with its heat and humidity.”
“It’s like we’ve been having the same storm for the last five years,” I agreed.
“So, most of the city’s food still comes from traditional farms, big sprawling fields of crops, taking up too much land, every bit of it corporation owned. Drones do most of the manual labor, but each of the farms still has an overseer or two to make sure things don’t catch on fire. Most of the fresh fruits and vegetables are sent to the upper half of the city, sold to the people that can afford it, while anything that can be turned into usable mush and crammed into a cartridge is sold for use in the food printers.” Her eyes lit up as the smile came back to her face. “Speaking of which, there’s this stuff they make from wheat called ‘seitan’ that’s got a look and texture very similar to meat. Mixed with my cricket flour and the right spices, it makes for a damn good fried steak you can’t hardly tell from the real thing.
“Oh, and speaking of meat, there’s an entire complex north of the city that makes animal-free meat paste.” She chuckled with a wide smile. “Funny story about that, by the way. They spent decades trying to grow the perfect steaks, pork chops, and chicken breasts in the lab, only to realize they could get a lot more profit from the slimy meat paste they started with. Once it was crammed into cartridges and plugged into a food printer, the machine could just manufacture it right in front of you, cooked to perfection, with all the nutritional content of the real thing.” She sighed as she let out the final laugh.
“Funny how things circle around like that.”
“That it is. People like me have been working for years to get rid of the old livestock industry. The whole thing was too cruel and made too much pollution. The methane alone was doing a world of damage, and then there were the forests being cut down and all manner of wildlife that just went extinct when their habitats were stolen away from them. This place, my upright farm, it was supposed to be more efficient, a way for the city to sustain itself. It didn’t quite accomplish that, but it’s made a difference, and some of the techniques used here are able to be used inside the city. Did you know that lettuce can be grown in foam, instead of soil? It uses much less water and LED lights make the crop grow twice as fast.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table as her voice fell conspiratorially quiet. “I don’t mind saying that I don’t agree with how most corporations run themselves, but let me tell you, when capitalism and science really work together, toward the same goals, that’s when you find yourself shaking hands with the future.”
I don’t think I had ever heard truer words in my life.
“I’ve got it,” Cassdan called from the workstation. “I downloaded the whole prisoner database, and I’ve already narrowed it down to just the people assigned to work in the Ultramarine building.”
Geraldine raised her eyebrows at me. “Looks like it’s showtime.”
With a light touch on her control pad, our host pulled her wheelchair up beside Cassdan, while I gave them room to work. Skeletal fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, bringing up the database of post-mortem photographs. On one screen, her records whizzed by at lightning speed, while on the monitor next to it mugshots slowly ticked through. A grid pattern drew itself across each of the faces, highlighting the details and important features for analysis and comparison. We didn’t have to wait long for results.
Lucas King was the first match. In his mugshot he seemed stubborn, defiant. His square jaw and bald head made him seem like the kind of person that was used to facing resistance, while the poor line work of the spider web tattoo at his temple said this wasn’t his first visit behind bars. The death picture didn’t match the mugshot well. In it, his nose was broken, his jaw was cocked at the wrong angle, and a large head injury had destroyed his tattoo. The man had obviously died in the middle of a beating.
The two photos paired up and moved over to a third monitor, where they were soon joined by pictures of Eduardo Cosas. The short paragraph accompanying his mugshot said he had originally been locked up for minor drug dealing charges, but a prison yard fight had gone wrong, and Eduardo was charged with murder. Being born in Chile, there was little doubt that his lack of local family ties was what had made him a perfect candidate for the forced labor program.
Chris Loch was the next to join Lucas and Eduardo. He had been born in a juvenile detention center to a pregnant teenager and immediately been given to the foster care system. That was all I could read before the pictures of Shawn Crowley and Daniel Reyes joined the collection.
I took a step back, the reality of the situation sinking into my mind. These people might have been in prison for legitimate reasons, but they were still people, still owed a modicum of respect and basic human decency. Instead, they were worked or beaten to death in a forced labor camp contained within the bottom floors of a corporate building, currently being guarded by a small army of police. Just yester
day, I had been only a few feet away from where these people had been pressed into a gruesome modern twist on old slavery practices.
I bent forward, placing my hands on my knees. It suddenly seemed warm in the room, and I felt like I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I had to focus my mind on my right hand to keep if from squeezing my knee too tightly. A fractured joint wasn’t going to help the situation.
“All downloaded,” Cassdan said, unplugging his computer from Geraldine’s workstation.
“What are you gonna do now?” she asked.
“This alone won’t be enough,” Cassdan answered. “This is evidence that Ultramarine has been ripping off the city, keeping prisoners on the books who are already dead, but it doesn’t prove the company killed them or that someone in the company ordered the death of my friend.”
“And,” Geraldine added, “it’s not illegal to put the deceased out for the sweepers.”
“What we need is something big and bold, something so undeniable that the people will take notice and the city council won’t be able to ignore it.”
I stood upright, taking a deep breath, the plastic fingers of my hand squeaking slightly in my tensing fist. “Real change takes a lot of people,” I said, “a lot of cooperation. We’ve got a plan to do exactly that.”
Geraldine Walker gave me a wide smile and a sharp nod of approval. “Get to it, son.”
Chapter 20
Thomas Tomlinson stood outside the armored bus of the Free Information Resistance Network, leaning against it as he pulled his ponytail tight with both hands. Out there, at the edge of the city, the surrounding buildings were shorter and mostly empty. Old factories quietly rotted as squatters made what lives they could in crumbling apartments.
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