The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy Novellas 2015

by Paula Guran

  «You’re in my chair.»

  I jumped. “How the hell do you know that?”

  «It is a custom chair, with a pressure sensor in it. You have your own chair.» I glanced to the side of the room, where sat a smaller roll-top desk and a wheeled ergonomic chair.

  “First the bedroom, now the chair. What is this?”

  «You have logical possessions that you do not use. I have physical possessions that I do not use. It is parity. Get out of my chair.»

  I threw up my hands and got out of his stinking chair.

  «I have been considering the hire of a personal chef.»

  I put down the book. “Will you hire someone to eat their food, too?”

  «Not for me, for you.»

  “I will procure my own food by my own self, thanks.”

  «I urge you to reconsider. I suspect your personality disorders to be nutritive in origin.»

  I was about to deliver a stinging retort, some minutes later, when the door chime rang. I glanced at the picture frame on my desk, but it just showed Mom. I tapped it, but didn’t get a view of the front step. “Door camera’s out,” I remarked as I headed for the front.

  «The house’s network connection appears to be rendered non-operational as well.»

  I stopped cold when I heard the front door open.

  “I locked that.”

  «We appear to have guests, then. See what they want.»

  I took a deep breath, stood up straight, and went to find three men in dark coats with their hands in their pockets. Two of them were your off-the-shelf thugs: uncomfortable in their suits, straining at the seams. I am in my own way a thug, I grant you, but I look good in a suit, and that makes a difference. The guy in back, of indeterminate extraction, looked good in his suit. He had slicked-back hair and a leather attaché case and looked for all the world like James Bond. The thugs made for a pretty good wall between me and him; Bond gave me a nod like I’d just said good morning, and headed straight for the office. Thug number one gave me a good level stare, though it wasn’t as good as Fitzgerald’s, while the other one waved me over with a little gizmo that apparently confirmed that I was handsomer than him, or at least that I’d left my .38 upstairs. He grunted, anyway, and the other goon relaxed. They left me alone and followed Bond into the office.

  I tried for the police, but my phone was out, too.

  «I have the matter in hand, Andy. Come into the office and make sure they do not take anything.»

  I bit back a remark about the kind of hand cannon I’d need to prevent Stare and Grunt from helping themselves to the doilies. I could have bolted and run up the street until I got a comm tower signal, but as Rex would say, my self-esteem didn’t allow it. So I followed them in. Stare and Grunt had started opening cabinets, but weren’t searching through them, just standing and listening.

  Rex was already talking through the speaker on the desk to Bond, who stood ramrod-straight in the center of the room. Judging by the look on the guy’s face, Rex was spouting perfect Mandarin Chinese, or Greek, or whatever language it was. Judging by how Bond’s expression had already started to strain, I’m guessing Rex’s language was as pompous as it was perfect.

  “Mind cluing me in?” I subvocalized.

  «The gentleman is a delegate of the government that manufactured the device in which I reside. He has been informed that I possess it, and so he is here to reclaim their lost property, and is willing to be impolite about it.»

  Lines of green text showed up on my heads-up display, translating as they went on. Mostly they were congratulating each other on their little chess game moves: tracking the device to TuriTech, kidnapping me, knocking out our network—and not just our outdoor cameras but those of the neighbors and the police: that was in their column. Obtaining the device before him, finding Grasso and Hindle (albeit too late) and thwarting the kidnappers (for which I got zero credit in their little lovefest) went in Rex’s column. I was about ready to puke when our guest said, “As much as I enjoyed testing myself against such a first-class mind, I am afraid it is time to end things, I hope amicably. The implant device is ours, and you must return to us. If it is not in Mr. Baldwin’s head, you must have it.”

  “I do have it,” said Rex. “I shall keep it.”

  Bond turned to me and said, “Mr. Baldwin.” He removed a set of glossies from his attaché case and handed them to me.

  “They’re photos of me,” I said aloud, “and Haumea with her friends. Some of these shots are from just a few feet away from their very handsome subjects.” As I spoke, the photo on top updated, showing Haumea from the back, walking down a not-very-well-lit street. I subvocalized as I turned to put them on the desk, “His point is that they can find us, and tag us, whenever they like.”

  «Indeed. That is a game that I also can play. Fortunately, this house has a non-obvious back door.» The little green light on my heads-up display indicated that the house had regained its network connection.

  “These are not threats, Mr. Rex. Only a demonstration of capability,” Bond said, in Latvian or Hindi or whatever. “You are clever, but you are not omnipotent.”

  “I am, as you say, clever,” Rex said, and he addressed the gentleman by a name that I will omit here. Bond’s eyebrows arched. Rex then gave an address in Beacon Hill, three email addresses, and then a number ten digits or so long. Bond’s expression grew tighter.

  “And let us not forget,” continued Rex, “your associates Mr. Park and Mr. Kerr.” Stare and Grunt respectively, judging by their reactions to their names and addresses in Jamaica Plain and Somerville.

  Bond took a breath in through his nose and flashed a smile that I thought a tad on the brittle side. “Of course, I had heard of your particular trick. I expected to miss a camera, but your efficiency is remarkable.”

  “You did not miss a camera, you missed hundreds of them: each of the automobiles on this street is equipped with a dozen of them for autonavigation. The streets of Boston demand no less an investment in safety.”

  “An excellent trick. I will remember it. However, threats against me are immaterial—”

  “You mistake me, sir. I am not such a witling as to threaten you. This is but a demonstration of the smallest portion of my efficiency. Among the photographs you provided, I note there are none of myself. You have had some time to investigate. Do you know where I am? Do you even know who I am? Conversely, consider what I have gathered in the minutes since you entered this house, based entirely on your faces, voice prints, and the license number on your automobile.”

  Rex proceeded to rattle off a series of names and addresses in the US, China, Korea, Italy, France, Ghana, Canada, Ireland, and Poland. Bond and his thugs went pale. Stare took a step toward me in the middle of a series of people named Park, but his buddy held him back.

  Rex talked through the speaker for six minutes with no pauses: name, age, address, email, rat-tat-tat. They stood and listened to the whole damn thing.

  “Do not misunderstand me, sir. I am not your enemy, and I am not a threat to you or your government, except to the extent that you are trying very hard to enlist me as one. You have lost a piece of hardware that is rightfully yours. I regard property as sacrosanct, so I respect that loss; under any other circumstances I would gladly make you whole. But I cannot. Therefore I beg you, sir, consider the device destroyed. It is lost to you, true, but also to your adversaries.”

  Bond made a critical mistake right then: he hesitated.

  Rex went on, “While I may not be omnipotent, I am exceptionally clever. And as Mr. Baldwin will attest, I am a vindictive son of a bitch.”

  Bond stood frozen for thirty-eight seconds (I counted). Then he gave a lop-sided smile and inclined his head. “You can’t blame a man for trying, Mr. Rex. It is lost to our rivals?”

  “It is.”

  “Very well.” He turned to go.

  I stepped out into the center of the room. “Just one more thing.”

  Bond stopped. He didn’t turn all the
way around, but he was listening, that was for sure. His goons looked tense.

  “We’re after whoever killed Grasso,” I said.

  Bond responded in English. “And if I did?”

  “Then I’d have to call you an amateur. I wouldn’t like to do that, since it might hurt your feelings, but I’ve got a reputation to uphold and I damn well ought to know the difference between a professional hit and an amateur job.”

  He gave me a blank look for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed.

  “Dr. Grasso was to have delivered the device to me at seven p.m. two days ago in exchange for a considerable sum of money.”

  “Instead he was killed.”

  Bond stood a long while, then favored me with a shrug. “Keep my name and my country out of it, and I’ll have no complaint.”

  And they left. I bolted the door behind them—the deadbolt this time, not just the electronic one. And a kitchen chair under the doorknob for good measure. After retrieving my .38 from my bedroom, I went back to the office.

  «Did he lie?»

  I considered that, and pictured Bond’s face as he’d left. “Nah,” I said. “For guys like him, a lot rides on having a rep for keeping their word. Of course, it’d be smart not to cross him for a couple weeks.”

  «Satisfactory.»

  The question in my mind was: who could have known we had the implant? Grasso’s partner, naturally. Desai apparently thought it, or so Joshi said. Judging by what Jeanne Duvalier said, rumors sure got around that company. I also had to admit the possibility that Duvalier had seen the offending device on the dining room table. Something else occurred to me.

  “Grasso was going to screw him, you know. Seven p.m. meeting time, six p.m. flight to Europe?”

  «I had already come to that conclusion, yes. His partners stood to suffer as well.»

  “To the tune of a couple cases of traumatic lead poisoning, probably. A good motive to kill Grasso.”

  «Andy. Do you agree that I handled our guest sufficiently well?»

  I glanced at the front door. Now I’d cooled down, the chair under the handle looked a little ridiculous. “No complaints here.”

  «Do you believe me that if you can get those people here, that I can uncover the murderer and thief?»

  I poured myself a glass of milk and started making calls.

  I spent the next hour messaging—excuse me, sending messages to—and calling everyone involved. I begged, pleaded, harangued, apologized, misled, even said please. But eventually everyone agreed to show up at the brownstone at nine that evening, when Claudius Rex would reveal the device thief and the killer of Antonio Grasso. I even got Maya Tomason, who had only just gotten out on bail and sounded like she needed a week of sleep.

  I closed the cabinets that Stare and Grunt had opened, and arranged the room’s various chairs in a kind of half-moon shape around the big desk. On that desk was one of those old-fashioned green-shaded banker’s lamps, a stack of big thick books and, square in the middle, the brushed aluminum speaker from which Rex had earlier sparred with Detective Stevens and then James Bond. I checked myself in the big mirror on the bookshelf: not too shabby.

  Detective Stevens herself had already returned, at Rex’s invitation. She’d given me her more cordial evil eye, and been set up in the dining room with a listening device. The theory was that they’d open up more without her sitting there. It had taken some doing, and repeated mentions that this was a private gathering at a private home, but she had agreed to keep a low profile until she heard something she could get her teeth into. She’d brought two uniformed officers, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. I quietly mentioned the fresh coffee and the cold pizza in the fridge, then went back to the office.

  I’d been betting to myself that someone would show up early, and an eight forty-three door chime proved me right. Maya Tomason, looking haunted, shifted from foot to foot on the stoop. She pushed past me when I opened the door for her.

  “I want to talk to Claudius Rex,” she said. I ushered her into the office.

  “I am here, madam,” came Rex’s voice from the speaker. “I apologize for my absence, but we and Mr. Baldwin can speak in confidence in this way.”

  She gave me a look of distrust, which stung, but took a seat in front of the desk.

  “Why did you tell Ahmed Desai that you can prove my innocence?”

  “I did not. Mr. Baldwin said so on his own initiative. However, I concur with his opinion. You did not kill Antonio Grasso.”

  The way she reacted, you’d think he accused her of mugging old ladies.

  “Don’t meddle, Mr. Rex. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Am I to understand, then, that you still foolishly refuse to say what you were doing when you left the seminar?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. I relayed this out loud, which caused her to blush.

  “Very well then, I will tell you. You were searching Dr. Grasso’s office.” She sat up in her chair, eyes slightly widened. “What did you take?”

  Her jaw dropped. Only a little, but I saw it.

  “Come,” Rex said. “The truth will come out more easily with your assistance, but it will come out. Your hairs were found in his office, and an examination by the police will surely reveal similar evidence.”

  She went from bright red to ashen. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous? Madam, it is the truth. You are a thief, and you have lied to the police.”

  “How dare you!”

  “That is not a denial, merely a protest. I assert that you did. You went from the seminar to Dr. Grasso’s office. Likely you went there to discuss his threatened resignation, and found him absent. You took the top pages of his notepad. I must know why.”

  She did not respond immediately. In fact, nobody said anything for some minutes.

  “Andy, call Miss Duvalier and return her retainer. I cannot provide the proof of Dr. Tomason’s innocence she requests; only Dr. Tomason can do that, and she is evidently a donkey. Good day, madam.”

  Tomason gave a horrified look. I know from horrified, and it wasn’t being called a donkey that bothered her. “Wait.”

  “I said good day! Andy, remove her.”

  I stood up. “Sorry, Doc.”

  “Wait! Did she hire you? What did she say?”

  “Dr. Tomason, Jeanne Duvalier left the conference to vomit, not to kill Antonio Grasso. Confusing matters with your silence avails her nothing. I ask you again: why did you take the drafts of his resignation letter?”

  Rex’s words had an electric effect on Maya Tomason. Her eyes opened wide, and I do believe I saw hope in them, as well as fear.

  “You already know, then.”

  “I surmise, madam. The scrap of paper remaining was plainly the beginning of a resignation letter, and he did not dispose of the drafts himself in the waste bin conveniently at hand. What did he say to you?”

  She breathed in deeply. “He told me that he had had enough with what he called ‘this Mickey Mouse operation’ and would resign.”

  “Surely that would be cause for celebration. He was a thorn in your side, was he not?”

  She pursed her lips. “See for yourself,” she said, taking three folded up sheets of yellow paper from her pocket and handing them to me. “Nobody else knows about this; I had intended to ask Dr. Joshi when I found it, but he wasn’t in his office. I waited for him, but I’m glad now that he was out.”

  The salutation was missing, as expected, and it started in the middle of a sentence. I read the rest aloud.

  “—of my decision to resign. Although my tenure at Turing Technologies has been remunerative, I cannot abide the working environment any longer. My colleagues are more interested in playing politics than in doing research; the staff are lazy and indolent—”

  «Redundant. This is sloppy writing.»

  “—and the management leaves much to be desired. Ahmed Desai is an utter incompetent; he ought to be fired by the board immediately if not soone
r for gross mismanagement, of which I have extensive proof for delivery to the board. Armin Fitzgerald also should be fired, if not sued, for his complete inability to protect vital corporate assets. This also I can prove.”

  «Provocative, but useless. Childish.»

  “Finally, I have reason to believe that Jeanne Duvalier—retained against my wishes—has been actively sabotaging my work. As a result, I leave nothing of value behind upon my resignation, which is effective immediately.” I looked up. “That’s it,” I said, checking the back. “It’s a draft, so there’s no signature.” The two others were similar; earlier drafts with some alternate wording crossed out. In every case, he went with a nastier phrasing.

  “Indeed,” Rex said. “Did he deliver his letter to Ahmed Desai?”

  “I told Ahmed that Antonio had threatened to resign, but not the details. I don’t think he got this letter. He hasn’t said anything about it, and he would.”

  “Unless Mr. Desai killed over it; perhaps to prevent the mentioned proof being disseminated.”

  She sat up stiffly in her chair. “That seems like a reach, Mr. Rex.”

  “And yet Antonio Grasso is dead. Is it true, about Jeanne Duvalier?”

  “Absolutely not. I have known Jeanne for almost thirty years now, and I’ve known her parents even longer. This is not true, it is just slime.”

  “You have an alternative explanation, then.”

  “I think he was planning to take all his work and set up his own lab. TuriTech paid for it; he’d have a head start. This would get him some breathing room, and some petty revenge against someone who never did anything to harm him.”

  “Unless, madam, she murdered him. Which is the conclusion to which the police will jump upon reading that letter.”

  She stiffened, and I thought it wise to put the letter out of her reach. “They won’t see it.”

  “They will, and if they are exceptionally generous, you may even avoid a charge of obstructing justice.” I had photos taken and uploaded somewhere safe before she could snatch the papers back.

  “Madam, I advise you to turn the drafts over to the police with your abject apologies. This matter will be cleared up tonight either way, but I will tell you now that I do not believe that Jeanne Duvalier killed Antonio Grasso—over that letter or for any other reason.”