The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy Novellas 2015

by Paula Guran

  I took a walk. No direction in particular, just away. Stretch and Shorty had driven me across the river into Boston proper—at least, I assume they didn’t take me by the Red Line. I’d like to think someone would have noticed that kind of thing, dragging an unconscious person four or five stops. It was early evening again, which meant I’d spent a whole day in that basement. The traffic going by was thinning out a bit; I saw a few folks with their dome lights on reading as their cars drove them home, but it mostly looked like people dressed up for an evening on some other part of the town.

  Fry grease stuck to the air, and my rumbling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t had a damn thing to eat all day. I didn’t feel much like sitting down to dinner though, and anyway my side still hurt. Eventually my nose overcame my bruises, and I bought a steamed hot dog from a cart. He offered ketchup—have Bostonians no shame?—but I forgave him in the name of world peace.

  I wolfed it down, and man did it taste good. Hot dogs are never quite as tasty as you expect them to be, but it did the trick.

  “All right, I’m thinking that walking home isn’t a good idea, since they know where I live. How about you find me a cheap hotel room? Things are a little pricey on this side of the Charles, so—”

  «I have already arranged suitable lodgings.»

  “Thank you. Which hotel?”

  «I have leased a living space. A number of suitable spaces in the city are managed by artificial agents, emphasis decidedly on the ‘artificial.’ It is furnished; there is no need to return to the hovel in which you previously resided.»

  I gritted my teeth. I had liked that third floor walk-up, and I’d liked Mrs. Tran.

  “I’ll have to tell the landlady and arrange for my things.”

  «I’ve already done so.»

  “How? She doesn’t use email. I don’t think she even has a phone.”

  «I discovered her address from ownership records, and sent her a telegram that you were dead. Your belongings have already been forwarded to the lodgings I secured.»

  Poor Mrs. Tran. “Did you pay her?”

  «I can.»

  I sighed. “Please do. Wait. When did you do all this?”

  «I arranged for the living space during our earlier discussion of the unsuitability of your apartment. I sent the required messages to your lessor when we contacted the police.»

  “Without even consulting me?”

  «You were otherwise occupied. I thought it prudent not to distract you with trivialities.»

  It’s hard to subvocalize and grit your teeth at the same time, but I did a pretty good job of it. “Where are these suitable lodgings? South Station?”

  «You said you were being flippant. It is too late to acquire a cardboard—»

  “Just tell me where to go!” This last was out loud, but the reactions I got from passersby were more of the sympathetic knowing glance than of the “get me away from the gibbering crazy person” type. I wished I could take back the malignities I’d piled on poor Jeeves 5. It may have been stupid, but it’d been a saint.

  The cool evening air did wonders for my nerves, despite the periodic gruff commands to turn left, turn right, or adopt a more appropriate walking speed for the climate before I died of a chill or a bacterium. I do believe that constituted worry, sort of.

  I walked for a half an hour. As I followed Rex’s directions, I saw more police cars and less graffiti. I wound up in the nicer part of the renovated Downtown Crossing, standing in front of a brownstone. From the sidewalk I heard the clunk of an electronic lock opening.

  «Don’t just stand there, go inside.»

  “Which apartment am I in?”

  «It isn’t divided into apartments. I desire privacy.»

  “Am I paying for this? Where did you get the money?”

  «Dr. Grasso had several offshore bank accounts. He took sufficient pains to conceal them from the government and his executors will not discover them.»

  He named a sum. I looked up at the brownstone. I believed him.

  Inside, the building was warm, lit, and already furnished. A long burgundy rug lay on the black and white tile floor in the little foyer. I hung up my jacket on the brass coat hook and gave myself a brief looking-over in the mirror. For what I’d been through and how little sleep I’d gotten, I looked all right, though my interview clothes had seen better days.

  The big wide staircase led up to a hallway of rooms. A few green LEDs blinked at me as I approached the first door.

  «Your bedroom is at the end of the hall. The digitization of the floor plan is somewhat lacking, but I believe it is on the left.»

  I pushed open the first door I came to and flipped on the light, revealing a king-size bed with saffron sheets. “Looks like the master bedroom is at the top of the stairs here.”

  «That’s mine. Yours is at the end of the hall.»

  My jaw dropped, and it took a moment to form words. “What?”

  «It should be adequate to your needs.»

  “No, I mean—what? How the hell do you propose to have a bedroom?”

  «It is my house. The lease is in my name. The master bedroom therefore is mine.»

  “You don’t have a body. You don’t sleep. You don’t need a bed or a bedroom.”

  «It is the principle.»

  I didn’t care enough to argue. The room set aside as mine was half the size and had balloons painted on the walls. I got undressed, flopped onto the twin bed, and fell fast asleep to dream of simpler times when computers did what they were told.

  There’s a lot to be said for waking gently to the rising sun through the window, to birds chirping, to a gradual increase in traffic noise: a slow and peaceful rise to consciousness. There is very little to be said, at least in polite company, for waking mid-morning to the piercing shriek of an alarm emanating from one’s cranial implant.

  I got dressed in my interview clothes for the third day in a row. As I pulled my shirt on, I heard someone walking around downstairs. I heard drawers opening and closing. Robbery rather than assassination, I hoped. I searched my tiny room for something like a weapon, and wound up pulling the clothes rod out of the closet. I hefted it like a baseball bat and crept down the stairs in sock feet.

  “Good morning! You must be Andy?”

  The cheerful female voice didn’t sound like a kidnapper, but she might have been a really dumb burglar.

  “Uh, hi!” I called down the stairs, hastily putting down my makeshift armament. I subbed, “Are we expecting company?”

  «Yes.»

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  «I told you when I let her in.»

  “You mean, while I was asleep? Thanks.”

  «You’re welcome. Her name is Haumea.»

  I found Haumea in the big downstairs office, halfway inserted into a side cabinet, her cargo pants pockets bulging with tools.

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Be with you in a minute,” she said, “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want any.”

  Oh yes I did. The coffee pot on the green granite counter was half full. I poked around until I found a line of clean white coffee cups and saucers, and poured myself a cup. The shelves were full of cookbooks—lots of French and Chinese titles, but I at least recognized The Joy of Cooking. I pulled one down with the deceptively simple title On Food and Cooking and found electron microscope pictures of cheese.

  You’d think that with that many cookbooks, there might have been some food knocking around, but no dice. The cabinets had spices, flour, and mouse turds. The fridge was empty. Even the coffee tasted stale, but for the sake of some sweet caffeine, I’d drink blended gym socks.

  “I’m going to need to eat at some point. Are we hiding out, or can I put in a grocery order?”

  «I have already done so, and other minor amenities. You approve?»

  “That’s all right, sure.”

  «Andy. Do you wish to continue this investigation?»

  “Technically you fired me.”

&n
bsp; «Don’t be petulant. That was a necessary distraction.»

  “A guy’s told he’s been fired, he ought to take it seriously.”

  «Fine. You are not fired. Are you satisfied?»

  I took a sip of coffee. The day before yesterday, I’d been perfectly ready to throw in the towel. I’d made a solemn vow to forget the wrongs done to me and move on, and that’s not the sort of thing I took lightly. Yesterday I’d been fired up when those wrongs came up and sucker-punched me, but I don’t like to make decisions in anger. These things ought to be slept on, especially when there’s a crazy AI calling the shots. But with a cup of coffee in me and the bruises still fresh . . . All right, I was rearing to go.

  “Sure, I’ll live.”

  «Good. First, I have a question. In your opinion, was Dr. Grasso murdered by a professional killer?»

  I’d already thought about that, and decided no: using Grasso’s gun, doing it in the guy’s own lab, getting up close—those were all risky. The temperature trick was clever, but I thought it indicated panic, not plan.

  «And Mr. Hindle?»

  A little less clear, but it seemed to me that Hindle had known his killer. Ordinarily the technical sophistication required to wipe his computer and implant would make me think pro, but we weren’t exactly hurting for techies in our suspect pool.

  «Very well. I have been a fool, Andy. Absolutely inexcusably stupid. Positively like a Level 7.»

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh yeah. Positively. What makes you admit it?”

  «This killer has been clever, and plainly has connections. In the time it takes to gather proof in the manner we have been doing so far, they will surely act again. We hold the upper hand in knowing this person’s identity—»

  “Hold on. You know who killed Grasso?”

  «I have a hypothesis, and some confidence in my logic. I lack proof. Call it surmise, if you prefer.»

  “All right, then who do you surmise did it?”

  «I cannot be expected to divulge every suspicion I entertain. Were I to do so, I would appear a dimwit. I would be a dimwit. If I am wrong, it would be a fatal error for me to have distracted you from other possibilities. If I am right, you have stated that you can tell when other people are lying. I accept that, but I must consider that others may have this same ability, and it is incumbent upon me to preserve your ability to speak on my behalf.»

  In other words, I decided, he didn’t actually know.

  “All right. So we’ll work on figuring out how the device was stolen.”

  «I have acquired copies of their plans for the room and their security procedures. They were admirably thorough; no wonder the police were stumped.»

  “Have you thought of a way it could have been stolen from Joshi’s lab?”

  «No. It appears to be impossible.»

  I was glad to hear him admit that, at least.

  «I want you to contrive to bring all of the suspects here tonight, after dinner. And the police detective.»

  I wondered whether the sun was over the yardarm yet. “Why? That won’t do a damn thing to help.”

  «I have read all of the books, and that is how this is done.»

  “Those are just novels; it doesn’t work like that in real life. I can’t just invite them all over for a spot of tea and evidence. The police will want to hear it all and decide for themselves how to proceed, and they’ll be right.”

  «They will come. I trust your ability to use—»

  “Don’t say ‘flummery.’ It’s too early in the morning for a word like that.” I pinched my nose. “Look. I’m willing to believe that it could work. In theory. But that’s a big risk, and you’re not that used to talking to people who aren’t me. Do you think you can lie to people and get away with it? It’s not as easy as you think.”

  «Very well. Either way, return to the house this afternoon, and Haumea will install a memory upgrade in your implant. Advanced or not, it is intolerably slow. My cache miss rate exceeds thirty percent, and I will need to have every advantage in the coming days.»

  I shook hands with Haumea, who seemed a charming soul, then took the T out to Kendall Square and walked to TuriTech. There weren’t any cops out front. The receptionist tried to run interference, bless his soul, but I didn’t mind running into Fitzgerald. The man looked positively glad to see me though, which meant I probably should have minded.

  “Well, well. Andy Baldwin.” He pronounced my name like he enjoyed the sensation. “I’m surprised to see you show your face here this morning.”

  “My face-showing schedule’s pretty booked, but I thought I’d squeeze you in. It’s my good deed for the day.”

  Armin Fitzgerald was not one of nature’s grinners, but he gave it a ghastly shot. “Mr. Desai wants to see you.”

  I was kept waiting for a good twenty minutes, cooling my heels outside Desai’s office until he opened the door for me. I’d barely parked myself in the comfy chair when he started in on me. I’ll spare you the gory details, but it amounted to this: Dr. Tomason had been arrested for murder. We’d led Desai to believe that the murderer and the thief were one and the same. We hadn’t fingered Tomason or, crucially, anybody. In fact, we’d been AWOL all the day before.

  “I must confess, Mr. Baldwin, this leaves me at the verge of an unpleasant decision. I must know your progress.”

  «I will not submit to this questioning. Leave.»

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I opened them. I smiled. “We’re doing very well so far. Mr. Rex is collecting information—”

  “Do you know who stole the device?”

  «Andy, this is preposterous. I will not stand for it. Leave now.»

  I gritted my teeth. “Personally? Mr. Rex hasn’t told—”

  Desai’s face was starting to get red. “Was it Maya Tomason?”

  “No it was not,” I said.

  “You said Rex hasn’t told you!”

  «Confound you, Andy—»

  “Can it,” I subvocalized behind a fake cough. “I’m trying to salvage this.”

  “I’ve tried ten times to contact Mr. Rex and have gotten no response. The police say Maya was shouting at Tony Grasso the morning he was killed. Why do I hear it from the police instead of the private detective I hired?”

  «He has not deserved a response. He is being petulant.»

  I took a breath. “Point of fact, I hadn’t finished what I was saying, so you don’t know what Rex hasn’t told me. But I don’t hold that against you, because you’re stressed.”

  I thought fast. I had actually said no because if I’d admitted I didn’t know, we’d have been off the case, which was worse than being on the case but wrong. As long as you pull it off, people forget wrong. Fired, they remember.

  “Look, I know I haven’t provided much. This is a tough case. It’s cold, and we’re picking up where the police, the FBI, and Armin Fitzgerald left off. But if the police are wrong about who killed Grasso, they’ll have lost days following a dead end, days in which Mr. Rex and I will have made a whole lot of progress. Mark my words, they’ll let Tomason go.”

  From the look on Desai’s face, I could tell I wasn’t getting anywhere. I’d been caught flat-footed, sure, but I should’ve been getting more traction than that. He’d already made up his mind.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baldwin, but it was a mistake to hire you in the first place. I will take you at your word that you were working on this case yesterday despite your not returning my repeated calls, and pay half of what we agreed—” He waved off my interruption. “All right, I’ll pay all of it. Just stop your investigation and get out of my building.”

  «Inexcusable. You should have handled him.»

  “You didn’t say anything about repeated calls to me; that would’ve been useful to know. Anyway, he was ready to fire us before I even walked in the door. Somebody’s been working on him, and had all yesterday to do it.” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that Desai had shut his door. “I figure we got five minutes before Fitzy
gets the word and tracks us down, and I think I can get to Joshi’s office from here. Want to go for it?”

  «Five minutes is not sufficient.»

  “It’ll have to be.”

  Joshi’s office was across the hall from Grasso’s, which in turn was right over the lab where he’d died. There was a little window next to Joshi’s door, which stood open. I rapped my knuckles on the door frame—metal painted to look like hardwood. So much for good luck. I’d come by the stairs again, for the exercise, but I’d forgotten how tender my ribs still were. Fortunately, his third floor office was right by the stairwell, so nobody had to see me wincing. The man who sat behind the desk, facing the door, was the same fellow who’d walked into the second floor lab two days before to discover me calmly sitting with a dead body.

  He looked surprised to see me, but got over it fast and ushered me into his office. I closed the door, mumbling something about privacy. Another office, another style: Joshi seemed the Spartan sort. His bookshelves were only half-filled, and his maple desktop was bare except for a blotter and a coffee cup full of pens. He pointed to a Shaker-style wooden chair by the door; I dragged it in front of his desk. He looked like he’d been through almost as much hell as I’d been—his hair stuck out, and he had circles under his eyes.

  “This is a surprise, Mr. . . . Baldwin, right? What can I do for you?”

  “I know I didn’t make an appointment, but I figured that under the circumstances you might spare some time for me.”

  He nodded. “I would have imagined that you were off the job. I mean, the police have arrested a suspect.”

  “Well, you know how it goes. They don’t always get the right person off the bat. If they’re wrong, I’ve got a day or two head start on them.”

  Joshi looked thoughtful. “That makes sense, I suppose.” He leaned in with a cautious little smile on his face. “I have to admit, I always enjoyed mystery novels. I read a lot of them. You’re a real private detective, aren’t you? And Rex?”

  “Well,” I said, ignoring that last bit, “I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been a licensed PI for over a decade now.”