Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1)

by Lyn Forester

  I glance back toward Penned, only a couple stores away. We haven't drawn the security guards’ attention yet, but they're bound to notice if we stay here much longer. The guy on the ground groans again and tries to pull his knees beneath his body, flops around for a minute, and stays down.

  "Hey, hug the asphalt some other time." Drake holsters his psy-gun, bends, and grips the other man at the belt and shirt collar. He lifts him and whistles in appreciation. "That's gonna leave a mark if you don't go to a halion doctor."

  "Fucking bitch," the dealer slurs as he attempts to remain on his feet without support. "I'll sue you."

  I circle around to see his face. Raw scrapes cover the right side, blood seeping from the wounds. Black specks are scattered throughout the wound where small pebbles have embedded into the flesh. His arms show similar damage, and blood seeps into his thin t-shirt, evidence of further damage.

  "You shouldn't have run." My gaze drops to the ground, where a smear of fluids reflects the Star-Light.

  "Or you should have run faster." Drake, hand still fisted in the man's collar, marches him off the main street toward the sidewalk.

  No disc-bikes have cruised by since we came out here, but better safe than run over.

  "Tell us about the Ash you're selling." I step up onto the curb. We're almost back to where we started. Across the street, the incinerator glows a dull orange at the base.

  "Don't know what you're talkin' about." The dealer stumbles when Drake releases him. He slumps next to the alley he strolled out of only moments ago.

  "Who's your distributor?" I position myself to his right as Drake boxes him in from the left. No room to run this time.

  "Like I said, bitch.” He glares at me through the bloody mess of his face, half his eyebrow missing. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

  "No need to be rude." Drake grips his bicep, fingers digging into the torn flesh.

  "Fuck, man, quit it!" He lunges sideways with a pained squeal. "I got rights. You can't do this!"

  I throw an arm out to block his path, worried the blood will make Drake's hold slippery. A quick glance back verifies we haven't drawn attention, yet. I lean close and breathe through the metallic tang of blood. "You don't have the right to anything."

  "What're you talkin' about?" he demands. "I'm Black Corp protected. They'll kill your asses for messing with their product."

  "I am Black Corp,” Drake growls. His fingers tighten on the other man until he groans in agony. "What you're selling isn't one of our products. You're not protected by us or by Blue Hall.”

  "What?" He pushes his shoulders into the wall at his back, body shaking. His glazed eyes swing between us. "What're you talkin' about?"

  "He's saying you're operating outside of any protective law." I fold my arms over my chest as I assess him. "You're meat for the grinders and don't even know it."

  Drake releases him with a nod. "Completely compostable."

  "No, no way. I didn't know." He steps away from the wall, hands up in supplication. "He told me this was a legit job. You gotta believe me."

  "Who hired you?" Drake rubs at his ear and glances around.

  "Okay, so I don't know his name."

  "We should just shoot him now." I reach back to unholster my psy-gun. "The street sweepers can collect the body at Lights-Out."

  The dealer waves his hands, frantic. "No, no! I can take you to him. And I'll give you what I have on me. That'll help, right? I thought I was working for Black Corp. I never would have taken the job otherwise. You gotta believe me."

  “Drugs first, then your supplier.” Drake shakes his head and frowns at me. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” I focus on the dealer to watch for a hidden weapon in his pocket.

  “A high-pitched buzz.” Drake glances around.

  “No, I don’t.” The dealer reaches into his pocket, and the datband on his wrist winks.

  I dive at Drake, hook a foot around his ankle to make sure I take him down with me. My arms wrap around his head to cushion the impact as I tuck my face close to his. The blast throws us sideways into the street where we bounce and roll together in a jumble of limbs.

  The concussive whomp takes out my hearing, but Drake pushes at my shoulders. Painfully, slowly, I untangle myself and roll off him. Warmth coats my back. Steaming globs of meat slide from my body as I stumble to my feet. I reach a bloody hand down to help Drake stand.

  His mouth moves, and from the veins bulging in his neck, I know he’s shouting. But I can’t hear him. I point a finger at my ear and slash my hand through the air. He shuts his mouth and points over my shoulder.

  I turn and see a pair of empty shoes sitting on the sidewalk. A man-shaped spray of blood streaks the wall where the dealer stood only seconds ago.

  My ears pop, and sound rushes back with a high-pitched shriek. I turn toward Penned in time to see Madam Healani topple on her high heels into the arms of a security guard. She doesn’t faint, though, as the shrieking continues. If the explosion doesn’t draw a crowd, her wails will.

  I turn to Drake. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He rubs at his shoulder. “How’d you know about the bomb?”

  “You heard the buzzing.” The shrieks cut off, and I sigh with relief.

  “But how’d you know it was a bomb?”

  “I saw something flash on his datband.” I shrug my shoulders and feel the slow slide of something long and sticky slip off my back.

  “But how’d you know?” He drags out the last word.

  “I guessed.”

  “Lucky guess.” I blink at him, face expressionless, and he sighs. He glances down at a smudge of blood on his boot, the only part of him that took a hit. I shake my arms and fling more goop to either side. Looks like I’m the super lucky winner of viscera tonight. He wrinkles his nose at me. “Ugh, this whole street smells like blood.”

  I blink, startled. “It does.”

  “Yeah, I know.” His gaze rakes over me with concern. "Did you hit your head in the blast?"

  “It smelled like blood earlier, too.”

  “Well, yeah, you beat the dealer up pretty bad on that slide down the street.”

  “No, earlier.” I frown toward the drug dealer’s alley. Either my eyes are playing tricks on me, or I see a shift in the shadows. After a moment, I hear the scuffle of shoes sliding across concrete.

  I reach for my psy-gun as a swaying figure steps out, bony hands brushing at dark splotches on her cream-colored skirt. Margie wavers to a stop, then turns her feet left and stumbles away.

  “Drake.”

  He darts across the street, already beelining to cut her off.

  I aim for the alley, trusting him to catch the half-starved addict. Darkness closes over me, the Star-Light blocked by leaning buildings. The metallic richness of blood fills this space, too. Fainter and overlaid with the sharp sting of urine and excrement. The undignified scent of death.

  Wiping my hand on a clean area of pant leg, I reach into my pocket and pull out my palm-port. I activate the light, and it forms a three-foot bubble of illumination around me. I press the small record button too, just in case. My psy-gun feels slippery as I press the button on the handle. The quiet whine lowers into the octaves of a three-hour stun.

  I pull in another breath and choke on the taste of feces. It drowns out all other scents, and makes me feel blind. Without my nose, I’m left to rely on only my eyes to know if someone hides ahead. With the poor lighting, it makes me want to turn back. I creep forward, close to the wall, cautious.

  Legs come into view first, sprawled out, motionless. Large shoes, pointed at the tips, with swirls of glitter. Leggings of silver mesh cover masculine calves, knees, thighs. The blouse ruffles are matted down, heavy with blood. Dark liquid sweeps from beneath the body, steam rising from the mini pool of escaping life. A hand rests in the warm liquid, stark against the vivid red, opal-painted fingernails cracked at the tips.

  I raise my palm-port higher. White cake makeu
p stands out against the pink circle of his mouth, frozen in a grimace of shock and pain.

  “Reagen, you okay in there?” Drake yells from the entrance.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I step closer to the body. Beneath the hand, a corner of plastic reflects the light. “You catch her?”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t look good.”

  Careful to stay out of the blood, I bend and pinch the material between my fingernails and pull it free. Blood smears one side, but the other side is clean. A clear, square packet, with a black stamp that might have spelt out Fortune. Gray dust shifts inside.

  “You need me to come in there?” He sounds concerned, but his hands are full with his captive.

  “No, I’ll be right out.” I stand, pull an empty Bell-E Up wrapper from my pocket, and slip the packet inside, blood and all. A quick swing, and the palm-port’s light bounces off the walls, the shadow of a trash bin. It looks clean, no obvious footsteps or convenient murder weapon lying around. I can’t see any other immediate evidence with my small light.

  I backtrack to the entrance, where Drake supports a sagging Margie against the opposite wall from the blood splatter. Looks like she scored another hit before her time limit was up.

  “She’s burning up with blood fever.” He snaps his fingers in her face, and she flinches up, head swinging in confusion. Bloodshot, bulging eyes roll around, unfocused. The thin skin of her eyelids stretches tight, blackened at the edges. Her lips, too, crack and blacken over gray-dyed gums. A thick tongue pokes out of her mouth, dry and swollen, black veins bleeding back into her mouth. I’m surprised she can still breathe.

  “She won't last without a doctor.” We need her. Our only other lead just blew up.

  “Yeah.” He lets go of her shoulder, and she slides to the ground, limp. “What did you find?”

  “Lollipop man.” He blinks at me in confusion. “The cashier from The Hut.”

  “Does he need help?” He frowns down at Margie in her bloody skirt.

  “No.” I tap at the screen of my palm-port and scroll through the contacts to pull up the name I need.

  Across the street, a crowd converges on the sidewalk in front of Penned. Whispers carry to us across the short distance and palm-ports flash. In my ear, the line rings once and opens.

  “Hello?” He sounds groggy. I guess his day ended before ours.

  “Blue Guard Rinehart, I have a murder to report.”

  ~

  “We saw Margie come out of the alley as we were passing,” I state for the fifth time. I regret calling in the crime scene, but too many voyeurs witnessed the explosion.

  Above, a polygon-shaped panel of sky floods the alley in stark white light. Washed out faces with shadowed eyes comb the scene in search of evidence. Guards in dark blue uniforms go to the businesses nearby, in search of witnesses. Grunts in pale blue crawl on the ground, pinching up items of interest to be sealed in plastic bags and marked with location stickers. A pair stand off to the side, vacuum hose ready for the final collection sweep.

  Lollipop man’s body was lifted into a black bag and moved off scene an hour ago. It should be at the Freezer by now. Margie lies on a portable table, an IV pumping glowing fluids into her arm. That kind of treatment will put her in debt, on the fast track to Level 3 deportation if she can’t pay the medical bill.

  She’d probably prefer we let her try to ride out the blood fever alone. But suspects don’t get that luxury.

  “How do you know Margie?” The woman taking my statement looks bored, reading down a list of pre-programmed questions. Her wrinkled uniform and crooked badge show she dressed in a hurry. The four black triangles on Blue Guard Allred’s left breast pocket rank her high enough in the guard that she should take more time in her appearance. Junior guards will emulate her behavior.

  “She made a scene at Gr8 Games earlier. She stood out.” A glance to the right shows Drake a few yards away, talking to his own blue guard. As soon as the crime scene processors arrived, they separated us. They’ll cross-reference our stories later, check for differences that prove we’re lying.

  He gestures down the street, blond hair ruffled from multiple passes of his hand. Annoyance pinches his eyebrows together, with every right. I showed my Investigators, Inc. badge when the crime team first arrived. They should have taken our statements once and allowed us to leave. We’re being punished for waking them up.

  “What were you doing at Gr8 Games?”

  I shiver as a breeze cuts through the back of my damp clothes. They haven’t processed me for evidence yet, and the stench of decomposing blood turns my stomach. Metal and meat are all that I smell right now, which doesn’t improve my mood.

  A pair of grunts set up a particle extraction booth a while ago, but Blue Guard Allred refuses to let me go clean up. I narrow my eyes at her. “As I said before, it’s a locked case. I can’t discuss the details.”

  Here we go again. She keeps circling back to questions I refuse to answer. Blue guards hate locked cases, makes them suspicious. They think hidden means illegal, and sometimes they’re right. But mostly, locked cases exist to maintain citizen privacy, since all blue guard cases are open to public scrutiny. The law keeps these cases locked unless justifiable cause can be proven to have them opened.

  “You’re withholding information that can help solve the case.”

  “You can ask Mr. Newland what we discussed.”

  She goes shifty again, teeth pulling at her lip as she peers down the street to the glowing Gr8 Games sign. The same look from when I suggested she talk to Troy. To disturb the den owners could risk her bribe money, so she’ll harass me instead.

  “How did you recognize William Chattle?” She gestures to the pool of blood inside the alley. Under the high beam, it appears black.

  “He was the cashier at The Hut.”

  “Why did you visit so many aphremore dens tonight? It’s not normal for your kind.”

  “Where’s Blue Guard Rinehart?” I’m about to walk out and risk the fine for being uncooperative. It’ll set me back a month in pay until I can file the paperwork to have it reversed, but I’m tired and annoyed. Drake has his arms folded over his chest, shaking his head. Looks like he’s reached the same conclusion.

  Maybe we can comp the fine as an investigation expense.

  Above, the sky shuts off, the stars flickering out of existence. Our patch of light becomes the only piece of sky left active on the level. Lights-Out doesn’t come until 0200. Either we’ve been here longer than I think, or the Time Wardens are shutting the level down early. And me without my night goggles.

  “What’s going on with the lights?” Drake stomps over. His questioner trails behind, palm-port still out to take notes.

  Blue Guard Allred shifts her gaze to him. “Level’s locked down for the night. Don’t want people wandering into the crime scene.”

  “That’s not standard procedure.” He says it like he has the manual memorized. Probably does, with little check marks next to each code.

  “Are you finished with your interrogation?” she barks at the girl who stands behind Drake, shifting on her feet and looking lost.

  “Not yet, ma’am. He’s not being cooperative.” Narrowed eyes glare at Drake’s back, angry for making her look bad in front of her boss.

  “Yeah, mine’s not being cooperative, either.” Blue Guard Allred’s gaze rakes over me. “We might need to write a couple of fines here.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You willing to risk Investigators, Inc. filing a sanction against your team?”

  “We’ve followed protocol here.” Her shoulders draw back in affront.

  “I identified myself as soon as you arrived and stated we were working a locked case. You’ve broken five protocols, and we’ve been more than tolerant.”

  “It would be a blue guard’s word against an I.I. agent.” She smirks at us. “The tribunal’s not fond of your kind.”

  I pull out my palm-port and show the active recorder. Drake does the same with his pal
m-port. Not our fault they didn’t check for them before beginning the interrogation.

  “It’s illegal to record a blue guard without their knowledge. I’ll be confiscating those.” She holds out a hand, expecting us to hand them over.

  “We started the recording as soon as we called in the crime scene, to document our observations for the processing team. Standard protocol for Investigators, Inc. and Blue Hall. The files are being streamed to headquarters directly. It logged active at 2300.” I point to the time stamp, just in case she has trouble seeing it.

  Yeah, I’ve memorized the manual, too.

  Down the street, a whirl of lights breaks the darkness as a disc-bike comes around the corner. Bright blue discs announce more blue guards.

  I tuck my palm-port back into my pocket during the distraction. I don’t want to lose it for evidence. Then I’d have to file paperwork, and it would take days to get back.

  The new arrivals pull up to the scene and dismount, leaving their bikes active at the curb. Two break away to join the group in the alley, taking control of the evidence bags. Blue Guard Rinehart surveys the street, hands on trim hips and feet braced wide as he notes each guards’ position. His uniform looks freshly pressed, and his hair, parted off-center, smooths away from his face. No sign I woke him with my call. As professional now as when we met this morning.

  He turns his gaze to the crime scene, taking in the techs in their plastic jumpsuits, crawling on the ground with flashlights. His eyes land on our small group, and he frowns. A musky, clean scent precedes him as he joins us. He showered before coming down.

  “Ms. Thorpe. I’m surprised to see you still here. Is there a problem with your statement?” His gaze drifts over me with gentle concern. A sweet man.

  “We were just finishing up.” Blue Guard Allred steps up, overeager to have us on our way now that the upper level guards have arrived.

  “Let me walk you out of the scene, then.” Rinehart gestures me toward the curb, then stops in his tracks, back stiff as he inspects my clothes. “Is that blood?”

  “Among other body parts,” Drake chimes in. Rinehart’s eyes widen in surprise at Drake. Guess he didn’t notice him.