by Gregg Taylor
Assuming Felco had known about Marsland’s discovery, it wouldn’t have been that hard for him to have traced the girl’s call to me. And he would never have told me that whole story if he’d thought that I knew any of it already.
So if I was right about the way this had gone down, Drake Finn, private investigator and all-around swell fellow, receives a call in his palatial offices from a potential client in New Coast. He makes arrangements to represent her when she arrives in Bountiful. There is at least one other call with the flight arrangements, which may or may not have come after said Drake Finn is approached by an industrious scumbag with a hard-on for my answering machine and a fabulous offer to sell out my new client sight unseen. So what did I do? What was my take on this before my brains got scrambled? I shook my head as the blocks passed and the steady beat of the driver’s shoes pounded on the pavement.
What would I do under the same circumstances now? Act tough, play smarter than I was and hope that I figured it all out before I got dead. That felt oddly reassuring. So the odds are that’s exactly what I had been doing right before...
...before someone had nearly killed me. Suddenly this felt less reassuring. I decided that I knew all I needed to for the next half hour anyway, and pulled Murder, Sweet Murder out of my coat pocket and read the rest of the way to the Pad.
“Twenty credits, boss,” my driver said, just as cheerfully when we arrived. I thrust the paper money at him and watched his face fall. He started to protest and looked around for someone who might help him out, but he was up against it and he knew it. If he’d been a Guild driver, he could have called some of the boys over to help me find my pockets. But the Guild drivers were already staring at him darkly, and no cop in Bountiful was going to side with a Synth over a person, even a damned shady person like me.
His shoulders slumped as he realized all of this. Poor bastard. I felt for him in spite of myself. I pulled two more ten-credit notes off the stack and added them to the twenty-five in my hand. He nodded, but didn’t look directly at me. He’d have more trouble passing that crap than I was, but there was enough there to make it worth his time.
I pushed my way past the crowds into the terminal. I liked places like this – full of people all completely self-absorbed. If there was ever a place where you could be invisible without trying, it was a shuttle pad. I checked the arrivals board. Sure enough, the number in my pocket matched the 19:44 direct flight from New Coast Central Station.
I didn’t like that. I’d been bluffing when I told Felco that my client wasn’t on a direct flight because it would have been careless. I had just wanted to keep him or any other little helpers he might have from camping out at, say, 19:44 when the next flight got in. If I understood that now, why had I got it so wrong when Caire Marsland booked her flight? How could I have been this stupid? I settled onto a bench with a decent view of the whole arrivals concourse and pretended to read my book.
It took a while to get used to the ebb and flow of the crowd. Most people passing through the terminal were focused on a purpose, which often involved luggage, usually involved taxicabs and always centered on getting away from the Pad as quickly as they could. They came and went. A slightly slower moving tribe were waiting to meet various passengers. They arrived a few minutes early and soon disappeared after a flurry of hugs or handshakes, only to be replaced moments later by the next set.
Buried beneath these layers were the staff. Almost invisible at first glance, they moved at a pace that was comparatively glacial. They gave directions, sold magazines, swept up. They were used to the place and unaffected by its energy.
It took a few minutes to be able to see the different groups, get used to their patterns and learn to edit them out of my visual field. The fact that I was trying not to look like I was paying any attention slowed me down. It took a little while, but it came. And when it did, the giant room was, to me, empty but for three people. Me, supposedly buried in Murder, Sweet Murder, a Latino in a black windbreaker nursing a cup of coffee on the far side of the arrivals gate, and a big man with a brown sweater on the catwalk in the upper level. If you just saw him in passing he looked like an interested tourist, trying for a nice overhead shot with his camera. But he stayed too long and I spotted him. At this distance it was hard to be sure, but it looked for all the world like he saw me and acknowledged me with a nod.
Swell. The competition was well-mannered anyway. At least in a building with about three hundred John Laws in easy reach they were. They couldn’t have followed me. Did they have the terminal staked out? I could only assume that they were here for Claire Marsland, but since she was my next best hope in finding out what I was in the middle of, I’d be damned if they were going to get their hands on her before I did.
Which raised a problem.
My rat’s nest of an office had made it clear that I didn’t do a lot of my business face-to-face, and it was a fair assumption that I was about to meet Claire Marsland in the flesh for the first time. So how exactly was I supposed to know her? I could only assume that we’d covered this at some point, but as the PA announcer called the arrival of the 19:44, I could only sit stock-still and watch Black Windbreaker and Brown Sweater for any sign of movement. They didn’t budge.
The crowd thinned down as the arrivals broke for taxis or met their loved ones, and after forty or fifty seconds it was clear there was only one candidate. And what a candidate she was. At a distance I’d have said that she was maybe five-ten, five-eleven. Her hair was blonde, but not the harsh yellow or near-white that came from bottles these days. The locks fell down in a loose wave, as if her hair might be genuinely curly when it was wet. It hung down past her shoulders, but without giving her the look of a little girl. There was a neat grey cap upon her head which she adjusted slightly as she peered at the emptying concourse.
Windbreaker and Brown Sweater hadn’t moved. If anything, they seemed to be waiting for me, possibly so they could pinch us both at once. I stood and slid Murder, Sweet Murder back into the pocket of my coat. I heard the loose papers from my desk crumpling under the weight of the paperback like dried leaves. I walked towards the woman in the travelling suit that matched her cap perfectly, trying not to look like it was my intention to approach her, which is a hell of a foxtrot to try and do when you’re walking across a big, empty room in the general direction of the only human being.
I took in more detail as I got closer. The woman in grey was a knockout. She was athletic in build but not what you’d call muscular, or at least not mannish, not in the least. Her legs were long and her stance was confident, even if her clenched fingers betrayed the fact that she was anxious. She looked at me as I grew close. I couldn’t have told you what color her eyes were. Even now, after everything, I still couldn’t tell you. They seemed at times as grey as her outfit, other times a pale, reflective blue. There were flecks of gold in them that burned like sunlight when the light caught them, and I’ll fight the first man that says there wasn’t. In that instant they showed more than a little green as I approached, and full of fear in spite of herself.
“Miss Marsland?” I said as much as possible as if I was certain.
“Yes?” she said, fighting for calm and almost pulling it off.
“Drake Finn,” I said with what I hoped was a winning smile.
“Oh,” she said, without meaning to. Her voice carried the smallest hint of a purr buried somewhere down deep, and I tried not to let it excite me as much as it did.
“Is everything okay?” I deadpanned.
Her cheeks flushed and she covered her lips with her hand for a moment. “I’m sorry. You don’t look at all how I expected you would.”
I nodded. “You look just exactly as I expected you would.”
A smile played about her lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment if I may.”
“I wish you would.” I couldn’t see Brown Sweater from where I was, but Windbreaker hadn’t moved. I thought I could hear footsteps on the catwalk above and felt we should keep
things moving along. I reached for the small black suitcase beside her. “Just the one bag?” I asked.
“Um… yes,” she said, as if no one had ever carried her luggage before, which I found difficult to believe. She let me get away with it though, which did my male pride no end of good. She was still looking sideways at me as we started walking towards the main doors. “You said you would wear a red jacket.”
“What?” I said, my mind more on the possible location of Brown Sweater than on playing the game.
“So I’d know you.” She didn’t seem suspicious at all.
“It’s being cleaned,” I said smoothly. The Latino in the windbreaker still hadn’t moved, but I was sure he’d spotted me looking back. It was easily fifty meters to the main doors and I needed her to move more quickly.
“Ah,” was all she said.
I took her by the arms and pulled her along as casually as I could. “Is that all you have to say?” I said a little crossly. “This is Bountiful, Miss Marsland, it won’t help you to be that innocent. If I said I’d wear a red jacket I should be wearing a red jacket, shouldn’t I? Otherwise-”
“Mister Finn, I appreciate your concern, but your face is practically a business card. You look like a tough private eye right out of an old cinema.” The deeply subliminal purr was back when she said this and I was pleased in spite of myself.
“Well, we aim to please. Let’s go.”
“Where exactly are we going in such a hurry?” she asked, resisting my hand slightly for the first time.
“Without turning around,” I began jovially, “there is a man in a black windbreaker at the far end of the hall. He hasn’t moved, but he may or may not be waiting for another man in a brown sweater of whom I seem to have lost track.”
She was alarmed, and of course her head swung around in spite of herself. Almost to the doors now. Her head spun back around to me and she walked more quickly. “There is a man in a brown sweater coming down those stairs.” She looked back again. “And the man in the windbreaker is running now.”
“Yes,” I said without looking back and pulling her into a run, “this is why I suggested not turning around.”
“What do they want?”
“You tell me, peaches, they were here to meet your shuttle.”
We hit the doors at full stride. Luck was with us, most of the passengers from the 19:44 were gone and the taxi stand was clear. “Do you have any objection to hiring a very fast taxi to fly very high?” I asked as we ran.
“Do I have much choice?”
“Good girl.”
We passed by the first two Hovs for a sleek looking late model painted bright yellow. We pulled the door open and bundled in quickly.
“We’re going to the-,” she began.
“Up,” I said. “All the way. Now.” And closed the door.
The cab roared to the top lane. I gave directions to a corner in midtown I knew to be brightly lit and busy at all hours.
“But my hotel is-,” she protested.
“All in good time, angel,” I said with a slight nod in the direction of the cabby. I pushed the privacy button to elevate the sound shield quickly. “Rule number one in losing a tail: never say too much in front of anyone they might be able to find. We’ll get you to your hotel soon enough. Why don’t we get a drink and discuss your father’s case?”
“My father?” her voice went cold. The change felt like a slap. “I told you I was looking for my sister Katrin.” She looked ready to jump out of the cab in full flight.
Think fast, rabbit.
“You’re Claire Marsland, from New Coast Prefecture,” I deadpanned.
“Yes, but-”
“Your father was Viktor Marsland. A cybercypher for Omniframe Internal Security.”
“How could you possibly-?”
“He died last month, under mysterious circumstances.”
“There was nothing mysterious about it. It was cold-blooded murder!” she said in a sudden flash of fury.
I relaxed into the seat. “Then I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I believed the story about the little lost sister, would I?” I smiled. “Why don’t we get that drink?”
SEVEN
We changed cabs twice before settling in to a Pho stand with an exit at either side and tinted windows you couldn’t see into from the street, at least not in the haze of neon that was downtown. I stumbled upon the place by luck, but when it proved to be ideal from both a security and a gastronomical point of view, I tried to act like it was a second office. Finn the brilliant tactician.
My client sipped her soup quietly before looking up at me with eyes that were big and soft and doe-like. I suppose if a girl is inclined to be impressed with a private eye on the basis of jawline and stubble alone, then dodging a tail with a little cloak and dagger must have sealed the deal. Whatever her story proved to be, for the moment I was her knight in hard-boiled armor and it didn't seem like a bad role to play.
I’d learned my lesson in the cab and kept my fool mouth shut. It was Claire Marsland’s nickel, let her call the tune. A cloud passed over the warm embrace of her gaze as her brows knit momentarily.
“What happened to your head?” she asked. “That’s a nasty gash peeking out from under your hat.” Her hand reached out as if to lift the battered piece of felt.
“Cut myself shaving.” I dodged slightly and her hand withdrew, rebuked.
“What?”
“Bad joke.”
She smiled and returned to her broth. We both waited.
“So,” I said, breaking first.
“So,” she repeated softly. She placed her right elbow on the counter space between us and settled her head onto her hand, a funny kind of half-smile on her face. “Forgive me, Mister Finn. I don’t really know where to start. I had this speech all rehearsed on the shuttle, but since you clearly know some of this already, maybe you should lead.”
This was exactly what I did not want. “Don’t be afraid of telling me something I might already know, Miss Marsland. It’s always good to get a different perspective. Besides, it’s an interesting way to catch somebody in a lie.”
“I won’t lie to you,” she breathed.
I swallowed hard and tried not to show it. This one really knew how to push my buttons. We sat in silence for another moment.
“Those men at the shuttle pad...,” she began, “were they after me or after you?”
This was an excellent point, and I said so, mostly in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice that it wasn’t really an answer. “I think for the moment we have to assume that they’re involved with your business in Bountiful City. They might have been trying to sell us picture postcards, but I wouldn’t like to bet on it.”
She nodded and said nothing. The door opened and two teenaged girls came in giggling and ignoring us completely, which was just as it should be.
“Do you think they could have been ’Frame Security?” I asked quietly. Her face went pale, and her left hand played about her necklace for no reason I could see. It was a simple gold chain with something larger hanging from it, like a ring. Finally she shook her head.
“I don’t think that they know,” she said at last.
“Tough sometimes to know just what they know,” I said, “on account of the fact they’re supposed to know everything.”
She nodded and sighed. “Why should I be afraid of them?” she said, knowing full well what the answer was. “My father gave his life for the company.”
“And you’re certain that he didn’t also give his life to the company?”
She looked up at me quickly. This had not occurred to her before. I decided that I hated today.
She looked out the tinted window. “No, Mister Finn. No, I don’t think it’s as bad as that.”
“Basing that on anything other than an abiding faith in the power of dumb luck?”
She almost laughed. You could just see lines around her eyes and mouth when she smiled. She wouldn’t be any less beautiful in twenty years. Or
forty.
“If my father’s colleagues... or, at least, their watchdogs... knew of my errand, I doubt I would have made it this far,” she said with a glimmer in her eye. “And I’m not at all sure that changing cabs would have helped us that much.”
I nodded. It was an interesting point, and I said so. She smiled.
“So what can you tell me about this code your father developed?” I asked. The smile faded quickly and her eyes returned to the window. The clouds that had been rolling in all evening had settled in for the night and rain started pelting the window of the Pho stand, hard.
“E2-476,” she said quietly, and with a kind of reverence. “The Holy Grail of illegal interface. Since the day the Omniframe went online men have searched for it. It was thought to be impossible.”
“Because Omniframe said so?”
She nodded, unaware of the irony. I decided to take a different tactic.
“This code manipulates the Master Identity Records, yes?”
Her eyes looked at me with wonder again, but if there was a question behind the surprise, she never phrased it, but merely nodded.
“So why should that be worth killing for? Forgive me if the question seems a bit thick, but does it really matter? This is real.” I tapped the bowl in front of me. “You’re real. I’m real. The rain is real.”
She reached out with her right hand and steadied the bowl. “Mister Finn, do you know what would happen tomorrow if Omniframe decided there was no such thing as Pho?”
I didn't have to think long. This sort of thing had happened before. “Sure. The menu here would say Noodle Soup the next morning.”
“Yes, it would,” she smiled. “But what if the same thing happened to you?”
I had nothing to say to that, so I didn’t.
“You must know that there are people whose lives have become so hopeless that they pay enormous sums to have all traces of their profile erased from Omniframe,” she said, her eyes on the sky.