Kirsten stared at him. He grinned, waved, and kissed his NetMini. A holographic lip print hung in midair for a few seconds before he hung up.
Dorian raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t look at me, I have no idea.” He let her walk past him toward the door. “Wow, that Sam guy… He’s really smitten with you.”
She shook her head. “So are most techies. What the hell is a ‘high elf’ anyway?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“First time I ever went into the RTC, one of the network boys asked me if I was really one of them.”
Dorian chuckled. “I’m pretty sure he just thought you were pretty, if not a little thin and on the short side.”
She smirked. “I shouldn’t lead him on. I’m going to wind up marrying Konstantin.”
He followed her into the hallway headed to the parking deck, walking through the wall and three people to stay alongside her. “You’re so sure of that? I’ve been keeping quiet up till now, but I gotta say there’s something not right about him. I swear he saw me when we first went to the Archives.”
Kirsten stopped, whirling on him. “All these months you’ve been telling me not to worry, telling me I’ll find someone out there who will love me and not care I’m psionic. Now, I find someone and you’re telling me you don’t like him?” A collision between anger and wanting to cry turned her face red. “I had a thing for you, Dorian, I really did. I”―she flashed a coy smile― “still kind of do. But, as you keep reminding me, you’re dead.”
A few people stopped what they were doing to look at her.
He sucked in a large breath and put a hand over his mouth for a moment. “I’m not jealous, Kirsten. I’m worried.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Eze.” With sudden acute awareness of all the eyes on her, she lowered her voice to a mousy squeak and speed-walked into the parking deck. “He’s the perfect man, and for some stupid reason I can’t even begin to understand, he chose me. Why can’t you let me be happy for once in my damn miserable life?”
When she stopped at the side of the car, he stood in silence, sadness on his face.
“I”―she felt queasy― “I’m sorry, Dorian. I’m stressed out, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” What’s gotten into me? “You just saved my life…” She willed herself solid to spirits and held on to him, whispering, “I’m scared, Dorian. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
He patted her back. “I asked you to promise me you wouldn’t do anything stupid just to get a man.” Dorian put his hands on her shoulders, pausing until she looked into his eyes. “All I ask is for you be careful. Maybe I’m overreacting, but after eighteen years as a cop, I tend to trust my instincts when I’m suspicious of someone. Something isn’t right.”
She stared at the wall, trying to swallow the nausea.
Plastisteel Dreamz occupied the first four floors of a century tower at the approximate center of Sector 1105. Polished white walls gleamed in wobbling blurs as ten-foot-tall holographic people modeled about the entire way around it. All of the images had cybernetic enhancements: arms, legs, full-body conversions, tails. Some danced, some engaged in choreographed martial arts displays using implanted blades, and some showed off work-enhancing parts designed to boost white-collar productivity.
The two floors above the shop composed a parking deck, while the remaining ninety-four stories appeared to be run-of-the-mill offices. She eased the car through a gap in the wall and settled into a marked space. Still feeling guilty about snapping at Dorian, she ignored a number of cheerful ad-bots on her way to the elevator, which she took to the ground level.
Loud music made her cringe as she walked into a haze of brilliant light. Aside from the dull blue floor, everything in the place was hospital-white. Shelves held model cybernetics and strange sculptures that reconfigured themselves every several seconds in an endless arrangement of stacked geometric shapes. Kirsten was about to ignore a smiling woman in a skimpy dress composed of bands of cloth: one around the neck, one around the breasts, and a strap running down the center to a tiny skirt. About to ignore, that is, until she picked up surface thoughts.
“Wow, you’re alive?” Kirsten blushed. “Sorry, the outfit and that smile, I thought you were a subsent. Only a doll could stay upright on heels so extreme.”
The woman’s smile broadened; her eyes grew intense.
Kirsten stopped, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re right. It was bitchy of me. I’m sorry. I’ve been having a rough week, and I guess I am a bitch right now.”
The smile flattened into a line.
“Yes,” said Kirsten extending a hand. “I’m with Division Zero. I did just hear your thoughts. I’m sorry. Again, it’s been a horrible week for me, and I’m just not in the mood for the usual corporate nose-to-ass dog circle.”
Dorian put a hand on her back. “Rein it in, K. Cripes, what’s wrong with you?”
“Uhh.” The saleswoman fussed at her hair, glancing to her right at a white-haired woman behind the counter; the last two inches of the hair cycled through various shades of glowing blue. “Can I help you, officer?”
“Agent. I’m basically a detective. Look, I’m not here to buy anything. I’m trying to track down a component I believe was sold here. I don’t want to take time away from you that you could be using to earn a commission, so if you could point me at a manager or something…”
The smile returned, genuine. “Mirabella will be able to help you.”
“White hair?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“You know, Kirsten. Half of our job is to make people at ease with psionics, not freak them out.”
She put on a normal, pleasant face while walking to the counter. “She’ll be fine; I just caught her off guard. I would have let it go, but she called me a bitch.” Kirsten glanced up at him. “Don’t say it―I know I was being one.”
“Hi, are you Mirabella?” Kirsten stopped by the counter with her right hand on her belt, perhaps a little too close to the E-90.
The white-haired woman stared in shocked silence, and shivered. “Uhh, I’m sorry. It was just a little Flowerbasket.”
“Relax, I’m not here about anything you did. You haven’t committed any major crimes have you?”
“No…”
“Good.” Kirsten held her left arm up, accessing the data from Sam. “I’m trying to find out who purchased an Intera Iron Claw cybernetic arm with this serial number. More specifically, I’d like to know how he got it without any record of it being added to his medical file. Even better would be if you could tell me if he has scheduled an appointment for a replacement.”
Mirabella leaned over the counter to read Kirsten’s armband display. A wire slipped off her shoulder, connecting her head to the terminal at her left. As the woman read the serial number, it appeared on-screen. In a few seconds, a long list of red text appeared with several bits of it flashing.
“I’m sorry, Agent. The arm you’re looking for was part of a shipment of parts we reported stolen.”
Kirsten squinted. “It was not reported stolen. There’s nothing in our system about a theft report.”
Mirabella swiveled the ethereal screen around so Kirsten could see it. “I don’t know. It says here the entire shipment was flagged stolen-in-transit. It never arrived at the store. Our computer should automatically transmit the loss report to the police after the insurance claim is generated.”
“When did it go missing?” Kirsten looked around the room for any unusual reaction to her presence. All seemed normal.
“Two, no three weeks ago.”
“That report should have hit our system by now. Dammit.” She poked at her arm until Sam Chang appeared. He looked thrilled to see her again so soon. “Sam, can you do me another favor?”
“Yes, of course!”
Dorian gestured at him. “See…”
he schematics of a PGM Model 14 long-haul cargo transport bathed the patrol craft in a c
alming shade of cyan. Hovering next to the NavMap console, the image of a sixty-foot long truck rotated to face her and then to profile―an animation it had been doing for the past fifteen minutes. Text nearby gave details about the maximum load capacity, turning radius, armor thickness, and top speed of the vehicle. The only stat Kirsten cared about was the transponder value.
“Damn nice of Sam to hack into Intera’s system and find the transponder code for you.”
Kirsten felt an upwelling of indignant rage as she glanced at Dorian, but also sensed its abnormality. Rather than blurt at him, she settled for a giant moth in her gut. “Yeah.”
“You’re sweating. You never worried this much about armor before.”
“It’s not the armor.” She banked the patrol craft into a rightward descending turn. “It’s the stress. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me or how much more I can take this case. You’d think after what Mother did to me, a little stress wouldn’t change my personality so much. I feel so guilty for how I’ve been acting to you.”
“Can I say something at risk of starting an argument?”
She flicked the control to deploy the ground wheels. “Sure.”
“I think you don’t feel like you are part of Konstantin’s world. Sam is closer to your societal comfort zone. He doesn’t make you feel like part of the upper crust you have so much contempt for.”
The glare he expected happened, but rather than scream at him, she started crying and holding her stomach. Dorian reached over and gripped her shoulder. The tears subsided in less than a minute, leaving her gasping.
“Ow. I might be getting a stomach bug or something. I’m getting so sick all the time. Feels like I have a little monster clawing me up inside.”
“It hurt enough to make you cry?” He shook his head. “That’s not good. The doctors didn’t find anything when you were in the tank.”
She got angry, but not at Dorian this time. “I keep having this sense something is following me. There’s gotta be a spirit somewhere messing with me.”
He glanced through the back seat. “Yeah, I feel it too sometimes.”
“Figures,” she grumbled, staring at the NavMap. “Ditched in a grey zone.”
“Well it’s not like whoever stole the transport is going to park it where we’d just trip over it. They did not want it to be found.”
“Good point. I’m gonna stash the car out of sight.”
A Nippy-Nom convenience store occupied the entire ground level of a four-story building on the corner. One face abutted the grey area and had the bullet holes to prove it. She set down on the roof and jogged the fire escape to the street level. Bathing in the garish pink and orange light of the sign made her hungry for an instant burrito, her old staple. It remained an appetizing thought for several more seconds until worry about the case took over.
Her armband display relayed the tracking information from the patrol craft’s computer. A yellow thread traced its way through the dark blue wireframe model of the city, leading her toward the transponder.
“Keep alert, this is still a grey zone,” said Dorian.
She did not look up from the map. “Evan said I’d be fine.”
Dorian tugged at her shoulder until she glanced up. “Kirsten, even if he is a precog, it is far from infallible. They see a most-likely future that assumes you proceed with due diligence. If you go carelessly stumbling around and inviting trouble…” he grumbled.
Kirsten bit her knuckle, glaring down the street. “I’m terrified he might be a precog. So far, when it seems like he’s seen the future, it’s always been something happening to me. Not even himself.”
“Maybe it was more than chance he happened to be astrally wandering the alley that night.” Dorian grinned.
“I don’t wanna start talking about that. If I start throwing the word ‘precog’ around, C-Branch is going to interview him and test him, and…”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. He might have a little bit of precognitive ability, but remember. Something on the order of one percent of psionic individuals do. Of the one percent, only three percent of precogs receive untagged visions.”
“Yeah.” She exhaled.
“All of Evan’s supposed bouts of pre-sight have been tagged to you. There is a strong emotional bond.” Dorian interlaced his fingers in front of his chest, tugging as if he could not pull his hands apart. “He hasn’t seen acts of random violence or anything regarding total strangers. If all he can see is your future, they won’t be interested in him. Plus, he seems to be getting visions in real-time. He freaks out when you’re in danger.”
Beep.
Kirsten had walked off-route, distracted by the conversation. She doubled back and jogged around a corner to find the street blocked off by destroyed ground cars. Thirty yards past the barrier, the lower floor of an old parking garage flickered orange in the glow of several fires and thrummed with heavy techno music. Enough of a gap in the impromptu wall remained for a person to slip through; it gave her the impression the locals created it to bar vehicles. Dark buildings walled in the street to her left and right. Two blocks ahead, the road ended at a T where an enormous statue of a stylized metal hawk flew through a ring of circuit-inscribed metal. Firelight glimmered over the wet street surface, brighter in patches of silvery plastisteel where the traction coating had peeled away.
With a hand on her weapon, she crept through the flickering shadows toward the source of the light and noise. A ramp wide enough for three cars abreast led from the street level down to a basement garage. Repetitious bass thrummed through the poured concrete walls, using the large open space as a great resonance chamber. Kirsten looked up as she descended, wondering if the vibrations would threaten the integrity of the building.
At the bottom of the ramp, she stopped at the edge of the wall and peered around at an assembled crowd. Ten men, ranging in age from later teens through early thirties, arranged themselves around a number of metal cargo boxes filled with fire. Most of them held containers of synthbeer and dressed in the uncoordinated manner of street toughs who could not agree on a common theme. Their hair represented every shade of color imaginable. They bobbed their heads in time with the beat; one guy with black and red streaked hair shouted over it asking about someone they had sent off for food. Dark grey metal horns, about an inch long, jutted out from his temples.
A little further away, a group of four women sat around a table―rather, a repurposed industrial wire spool―cleaning rifles and pistols. The oldest, maybe twenty, held a partially disassembled rifle up to the light with a metal arm. The limb’s contours, defined in shiny grey plastisteel, were no larger than a woman’s normal musculature. It struck Kirsten as creepy, like the skin had been removed to reveal metal underneath. Engravings of winding ivy covered the entire limb from shoulder to fingertip.
The missing cargo transport took up the remainder of the ground floor beyond them, parked sideways along the rear of their encampment. Cloth fluttered from the open trailer like a shy spirit peeking around the edge. Kirsten took a deep breath and walked toward the group. Acrid fumes rolled by in clouds from whatever they burned for heat. Plastic sheeting scratched at the walls up at street level to her left, a somewhat futile effort to make the area more habitable.
One by one, the fringers took notice of her. Kirsten stopped as the awareness of her presence spread back through the crowd, an impulse racing along a nerve to their collective brain. One of the women at the table grabbed two pieces of rifle; the metal-armed one held her hand down and gave her a shake of the head.
Kirsten waited until a fat man in a long coat cut the music. “I’m not here to give anyone a hard time. I’m just trying to track down what was on that cargo transport.”
She weathered appraising stares, while the off-gridders appeared to search for a wordless consensus on how to deal with a solitary police officer. The man with the red/black striped hair slid off the hood of a wrecked car, tugged a crimson leather jacket tight to his shoulders over a
dark turtleneck, and sauntered over.
“You got some set on you, chica, coming here alone.” A slow hand reached up and picked at the strip of black plastisteel on her chest with her name and rank etched on it. His roundish face and short hair made him seem boyish. “Wren… That’s a little bird, isn’t it? What’s the zero for?”
The thought Dorian could appear and likely scare the room empty in seconds brought a smile to her lips.
“Careful, Ink, them is psionic cops,” said a voice from the crowd. “Gonna melt your brain.”
“How bout it, chica? You gonna melt my brain.” He touched his fingers to his jacket and flicked his arms to the sides.
“Ink? You must have a lot of tats.” Kirsten kept an unimpressed face.
“Short for Incubus.” He winked, a trace of red light glowed from his eyes.
Kirsten swiped the lash through him from crotch to face. His reaction was a mere shiver. All the bravado fled from his face at the glowing energy strand. A few of the fringers dove behind stacked boxes or destroyed cars.
“Fuckwazat?” he squeaked, body motionless, eyes locked on the white light trailing from her hand.
“I’m also trying to send a couple of demons back where they belong. Incubus is a kind of demon. I didn’t want to take a chance. Did that hurt?”
He swallowed, still frozen. “No. Little cold actually.”
The lash receded as she stopped concentrating. “Good, that means you’re just a poser with cybereyes and not a real demon. We can be friends.” She patted him on the shoulder, and stepped around him. “Look, people. Barring Lace, I really do not care what drugs you have stashed around here or what small-time bullshit skimmers you’re running.”
Dorian stifled a chuckle.
Incubus faced her with a slow turn, cybernetic vampire fangs retracting out of sight as he smiled. “Uhh, yeah. So, about that. She said it was fine. Was supposed to be out of the system and empty. We wanted the truck not what was in it.”
“Who is she?”
Division Zero: Thrall Page 30