Lunatic City

by T. Allen Diaz

  He turned and held it out before me. “She ain’t pretty, but I’ve shot her a few times. She’ll kill who needs killing.”

  I nodded and took the beast into my hands. The top was a massive barrel, two centimeters in diameter and almost fifteen long. There was some kind of slide in the top that appeared to be a loading point. The underside had a second barrel. It was smaller in diameter. It looked like a ten-mil. The pistol handle sloped at a forty-five degree angle.

  It was clumsy, ungainly, and I loved it. “Looks like you could put a hole in someone with this thing.”

  “I told you: it’ll kill who needs killing.”

  I nodded in approval. “How much?”

  “Three hundred even.”

  I shook my head. “You said yourself you been holding on to this one a while. No one wants her.”

  Don smiled. “Damn cops. I said, three hundred.”

  I didn’t smile. “And I said no. Two even.”

  “Two seventy-five.”

  I was beginning to get a little pissed. “My employment status is in question. Two-thirty-five, cash money. Say no and I walk and drop those files on someone’s desk.”

  “So now I’m a derelict?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “You serious about the job?”

  I nodded.

  He rubbed his chin with the tips of his outstretched fingers. It sounded like sandpaper.

  “Same business that has you in deep with the Loonies?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “You give me three hundred, I give you the ole girl and a lead on a job.”

  I regarded him for several long seconds. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need no damned job, but who was I kidding? “Yeah? And what happens to my sixty-five bills when the position is filled?”

  “What am I, labor pool? I don’t guarantee you’ll get that job any more than your aim with that thing. You miss with either one, don’t come back here looking for a refund.”

  I looked at the back of the wall and pretended to be weighing options I didn’t have. I drew the money and put it on the counter. “This little package include rounds?”

  “You’re a funny guy, detective.”

  I growled and reached into my pocket.

  *******

  I didn’t hang around outside Harold’s for two very good reasons. One: this was prime Lunatic real estate and getting caught down here dead was the only way they wouldn’t kill me. And two: I didn’t want The Lunatics to link us. I might need Don another day.

  There was only one place in The Lower City I could go. The Third Level rail line was protected by the Tycho City Transit Authority Police, a hybrid of sworn law enforcement officers and private security mercenaries. They patrolled for pickpockets and loiterers. They broke up fights and investigated crimes on the railway. But, their main focus was gangs.

  I stared at a cartoonish poster depicting a blue-and-white tattooed Lunatic with piercings and magenta spiked hair. He was holding his hands up next to his head, index fingers pointing up, thumbs at a ninety-degree angle. They looked like two pistols pointed at the sky with the left hand making an ‘L’, the symbol of The Lunatics. He had been crossed out. ‘No gang colors or tats beyond this point,’ was inscribed across the top.

  Meaty, armored brutes carrying heavy weaponry stood at the gates beyond the poster to emphasize the point. The rail was the one place in The Lower City that you didn’t have to worry about paying Lunatic protection. Of course, here you served a different master.

  “Next.” The man was tall and lean. His sleek blue-black uniform held tight to chiseled muscles. He wore black body armor and a black poly carbon belt that would have been at home on a comic book superhero. It was half bandolier, half utility belt. A Midas 10mm caseless hung on his hip and a RR over/under was slung across his back.

  I held out my wrist for him to scan. He looked at it and glared back at me. I suppose it was intended to intimidate. “Where are you headed?”

  “Jake’s has the best coffee south of The Street,” I said with a forced smile.

  “Anything you wanna declare?” he said, scanning my ID with a pistol-gripped scanner. I saw the low light from the pReC flash in the contact lens HUD he was wearing. He looked at me in a way that suggested I’d just spiced up his day. “Well, well, Virgil. Got us an O-fficial member of the TCPD!”

  Virgil was his partner, and Virgil would have to drop a few kilos to be considered a monster. He wore the same sleek jumpsuit uniform and body armor that his partner did, but his primary weapon was an LFA-360 combo. It housed a 10mm assault rifle atop a 10 gauge shotgun/grenade launcher. It was a mean weapon unsuited for smaller operators. Virgil looked like he could double fist a pair of them and clear a room all by himself.

  He looked down at me and smiled. “Well, hello there, officer.”

  “Says detective,” said the first guard.

  “Detective,” said Virgil. “Well, what brings you to TA territory?”

  “Just looking for a little coffee.”

  The first cop leaned into me. “You carrying?”

  “It’s a restricted area, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve caught more than a few of your brethren trying to smuggle their pieces in here. That carries some hefty discipline, you know.”

  I tried not to laugh in his face and held up my locker key. “Just wantin’ a cup of coffee.”

  The first cop stepped aside and let me pass through the scanner. A third, scrawnier fella ran the machine and gave a nod.

  The first cop handed me my ID. “And, don’t forget: this is TA private property, no investigations without a liaison.”

  I grunted and stepped past.

  I ducked into the coffee house in the Number Four train station. I ordered coffee with money I couldn’t spare, but five bills wasn’t going to make or break my shattered budget, and I wanted to give something back to the people providing me with a safe haven.

  The corner seat was open, and I was able to sit there with my back to the wall. I left the sweetener and a chalky wannabe dried milk on the counter for the civilians. Those things only took up space in my cup better used to hold the black elixir that had kept me going for the last two decades. It wasn’t double brewed, but my splurge had to have its limits.

  I took the card Don gave me and looked it over. It made the hair on my investigator’s neck stand up. There was no name, no business, nothing but a number. It was trouble.

  I looked at my five-bill coffee and thought about April Natora. “Close of business Friday.” My pReC was dialing before I lost my courage.

  It was halfway through the second ring when a man’s voice answered.

  I hesitated a moment and cursed my weakness. Whatever this job was, they weren’t interested in a grown man who acted like a shy schoolboy calling Betty Shortskirt.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound every bit of the street-wise cop I considered myself to be. “I hear you’re looking for someone with my talents.”

  “Oh,” said the man. “What kind of talent is that?”

  I paused another moment. What kind of job was this? What talents were these people looking for? It was a good question, and I didn’t have any answers. “Your man didn’t say. I have more than one.”

  The man broke the connection.

  I closed my eyes and looked at the coffee that seemed more money than it was worth. Goddammit! I was tempted to throw the mug against the wall. I could. I’d done stupid shit like that before, but not this time. I leaned my head against the wall behind me and tried to breathe through the swirling knots in my chest. What was I gonna do now?

  The pReC broke my bout of self-pity. The display was blank, no return number. “Hello.”

  “Francis Derrik Parker, born thirteen February, twenty-two twelve in transit to the Lunar Colony. Your mom was a daring one. Married to Su
zanne Meredith Parker, one child, a daughter Matilda Rene Parker. Member of the Tycho City Police Department, commissioned detective fifteen August, twenty-two forty-four. Oooh, IAB has you on misconduct. Looks like that’s former Detective Parker.”

  “Ok,” I said. “You made your point. Where do you want me to meet you?”

  “Who says I wanna meet you?”

  “You didn’t do all that work to call me up in a lame attempt to either impress or intimidate me if you weren’t interested. So, where?”

  I heard a grunt. I couldn’t tell if it was out of irritation or approval. “Take the twelve o’clock to Karis Mission. I’ve cleared you for ascent under the name of Francis Harper. A young lady will have your temporary ID. She’ll be in the lift lobby. Sit on one of the benches by the food court. She’ll find you.”

  He was gone. I looked at my watch. It was eleven fifteen, plenty of time. I tried to make sense of this guy. What was his angle? It was obvious that he, or more likely, his employer was a man of means.

  It was clear that they were looking for someone they didn’t want tied to their organization, but why slum around for any Tom, Dick or Harry? There were hundreds if not thousands of well-trained, hungry ex-military-types who’d be happy to do some dirty deed third or fourth hand, people of questionable character, people who wouldn’t ask questions.

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t really fathom what they would want with me, and that made me nervous. Somewhere deep inside a voice cried for me to stay off that train. It told me I would be sorry, that whatever pieces were missing couldn’t bear good tidings.

  The train’s deceleration jogged me back to the here and now. I let the passengers funnel off ahead of me and pondered staying. But, I couldn’t. It’s one job. I can listen and walk if I don’t like it. Yeah, sure I could.

  The Karis Mission was right in the center of Tycho. The main rail station was not only the central hub of The Lower City, but also the last legitimate link to The Street. There used to be many passages, but, eight months ago, the daughter of a prominent topsider was accosted by men with bright tatoos and bejeweled faces.

  The media made a lot out of what amounted to armed robbery and aggravated assault. I’m sure she was scared and traumatized, but people get beaten and robbed in this town every day, and the press doesn’t stir. The thugs got away with her purse and jewelry and the peace of mind every victim of crime loses. I guess the difference between her and all the others getting mugged was that the media saw hers as worth taking. Mayor John Ramirez launched a program to rid The Upper City of all gang activity.

  Special enforcers from Third Region Security Incorporated, the same security company that ran Pandrom prison, were contracted to supplement the police presence on The Street. The gangs were driven into the Lower City, but the campaign wasn’t extended down there. Instead, Ramirez declared victory and called a halt to the program. He spent an outrageous amount of public money on The Net, a steel fence segregating the Upper City from the Lower and to contract TRS as the hybrid Tycho City Transit Authority Police to patrol that fence and to shield the Upper City from the riff-raff below.

  The Lower City had never been a happy-to-lucky place, but now it was relegated to being free-roam prison for street gangs denied access to the land-of-milk-and-honey. And, anyone from the Lower City wanting to commute to his or her topside service jobs had to funnel though this single point and the TRS hybrid officers. It was a fact not lost on TCPD personnel and it bred a lot of resentment.

  I pushed through the throng and looked for my contact. The man had given me no information. I didn’t know if she was tall, short, skinny—well, most people down here were short a meal or two. But, that didn’t help me figure out which of these hundreds or thousands of people she was.

  She appeared out of nowhere and sat. I could see a little of her form in the reflection of a nearby café window. She was wearing one of those cocktail waitress outfits. Her top and shorts were blue with sparkly silver. They clung to a figure that was pleasing to my eyes. I could see her long legs in my peripheral vision. I might have allowed myself a carnal thought or two in a less stressful situation. Distant admiration was the best I could manage.

  “Mr. Parker,” she said without even looking at me.

  “Yes.”

  “I was told to give you this.” She never looked at me. Something slipped under my thigh and she was gone.

  I stood and took the woman’s gift with me. It was pistol-gripped computer, like the one the TAPD thugs had used at the checkpoint. I held it over my wrist and uploaded a boarding pass for the mag lift into my temporary file. I stood and moved towards the gate. The ‘lift’ was a giant ring built around a rail that ran through a tube that had been cut through the decks above. The tube constituted a railroad easement and was technically the turf of the TAPD, more insult to the injury. I took my seat by the window and waited to be taken upward.

  The ride was short. The topside station was nicer than the Karis Mission. It was better lit and had better trappings. Air scrubbers and maintenance bots kept the air and surfaces clear of dust. Polished stone and fountains took the place of bare concrete and dirty footprints. Ornamental light fixtures hung from the ceiling and lined the walls. There were even a few pictures on the walls. Most of them depicted scenes of the Moon settlement and showed the Tycho skyline rising out of the crater in stages.

  I didn’t pay it much mind. I really had no idea where to go from here, but, like before, I didn’t have to worry. He stood right outside the gate. He wore a suit. It was clean and modern, but more uniform than style. His features were soft and delicate. The sign in his hand read ‘Francis Harper’.

  “I’m Harper.”

  The man nodded and led the way. He didn’t speak. Neither did I. This guy wasn’t going to give me any answers. I doubted he had any.

  We took an elevator to the roof of the station and stepped out into a valley illuminated by neon-dressed mountains of concrete and glass. I had been here just hours ago during my desperate attempt to save my marriage, but it was still enough to take away this bottom-dweller’s breath.

  Air cars passed meters above our head in streams of organized chaos. Their sporty whirring and rumbling echoed through the manmade ravines. The buildings were clean with crisp lines and a wide-open skyline. There were no decks between the levels here, just open sky all the way to the lip of the crater and the translucent seal that kept our breathable air in and most of the sun’s harsh radiation out.

  “Coming?”

  I looked at my host. My face must have been blank with wonder.

  “I said, ‘are you coming’?’”

  I nodded and followed him to the nearest landing pad. A sleek-looking black beauty stood on it. I stopped before it and allowed myself another moment of awe.

  “Cardinal Industries Raven 1125, a twenty-two-fifty,” said my host.

  “She sure is pretty,” I said.

  “She’d better be,” said my host. “My boss accepts nothing less than perfection. You’ll see.”

  I frowned and strode up the gangway into the plush interior. A drink was waiting for me, something brown and smooth. I took a long, deep gulp and settled into one of the comfortable chairs by a window.

  I was almost to the bottom of my glass by the time the whirring engines reached their crescendo and the Raven lifted off the deck. The craft skirted over a couple of low-rise buildings and ascended into the flow of traffic. I’d never flown, not once in all my forty years. It was exhilarating.

  The blazing signs and bright lights streaked past my window. I watched the air traffic with child-like fascination. I leaned as close to the window as I could and looked towards the sky. It was hard to see anything beyond the bright lights. The street below was getting farther and farther away. We were still climbing.

  The car circled the roof of a building. A massive holographic sign took up the whole side of its g
lass and steel frame broadcasting its name: The Olympian. The craft descended towards the landing pad. It sat on a two-part roof. Half of the building reached up towards the heavens in the form of a white and glass pyramid, the other lay before the tower, a garden of shrubs, grasses and concrete.

  I didn’t feel the Raven touch down, but the whirring of the engines ebbed and the hatch opened. I left my empty drink and strode down the gangway. I’d seen The Upper City from below several times. I’d even seen it from our hotel room, ten stories up, but we were over a hundred stories in the air. The whole glorious city radiated vivacious colors and streaming holograms.

  I stepped to the edge of the roof and gazed down at the view. It was magnificent, but then I looked up. Earth hung in the sky above me. Its oceans reflected the harsh light of the sun. Swirls of massive clouds embraced the planet, contrasting with the blues and greens of the oceans and land mass below. My jaw went slack.

  None of us extraterrestrials (as the Earthers sometimes called us) could resist imagining what it must be like to stand on its surface: cold winters, warm summers, rain, sunshine, snow. What it must be like to have seasons, to be surrounded by something other than some built-up cityscape and Moon rocks!

  You could walk around on the surface of Earth and breathe the air, air that wouldn’t blow out into the empty void of space if the lid on your city failed. There was wildlife, real wildlife, not just some drug-crazed Lunatic. You could swim and go to the beach or mountains, even the very cradle of humanity.

  And the food! My stomach growled at me.

  The spell was broken by a voice I recognized very well. “He’s waiting.”

  I turned. A man stood at the edge of the garden. He had dark skin and a shorn head. His suit was sleek and stylish. It complemented his athletic form. There was a bulge on the left side of his chest, just in front of the arm pit. I don’t know what he was carrying, but a machine pistol of some kind would have been a good bet.

  His eyes scowled at me through squinted slits. I didn’t think he liked me. That was ok. I knew I didn’t like him.