by Dave Gordon
He turned down a darkened street. The street got darker as he walked, the mood became ominous, the stores less shiny. The air was heavy with tense anticipation, as if danger lurked in the shadows. The earthy aroma of coffee shops and leather clothing did not hold sway here. Here the dank air hinted at foul places hidden just under a thin veneer of civility. He turned down an even more foreboding street. He ducked into a narrow door after glancing quickly both ways. He shut the door behind him and peered out of a corner of the glass. Satisfied no one was on his tail; he mounted the narrow steps and began the three-flight ascent to his office. A single naked light bulb hung five stories above him lighting the stairway. The bulb swinging in a two-inch arc caused the shadows to shift. The staircase had an unwholesome smell. No one smell stood out, but an odor speaking of neglect hung thick in the air. Old shoes, bare wood, dust and grime, sweat, fear, failed hopes, desperation; it was a rich blend all right. He slowed as he neared the third floor and put his hand under his jacket feeling for the butt of the snub nose thirty-eight-caliber revolver he carried. He made the last few steps slowly, quietly. He took off his hat and held it a foot over his head. He pounded out the last five steps with his hat held aloft by an outstretched hand. He put his hat back on when his eyes were level with the floor. Seeing no one, he walked quickly to an unmarked door and threw back the lock while looking over his shoulder. Quickly ducking in, he waited until he was sure it was quiet.
Dorn slumped against the door and threw his fedora at the sorry green couch, missing by a foot. He stripped off the long raincoat. His disguise, an invisible man in a raincoat, he thought. Too bad it didn't fool the lady in white.
Bremmer didn't take off his gun, he seldom did. He scuffed across the wood floor and sat in his tired old chair. The wood desk had so many scratches that it looked like the engraved stone tablet in the museum downtown.
The etchings on his desk told the sorrowful story of his life. The promising career, the fall from grace, the descent into the deadly purgatory he now inhabited. A purgatory he would inhabit until he was absolved of his sins by death.
He had been a detective. It had taken years to rise from the rank of beat cop to detective. His partner, Detective Pryman, was as dirty as they came. He shook down drug dealers. He coerced prostitutes into lewd acts. He took cuts from bookies. He collected protection. Bremmer had turned his back on it for over a year. That sort of thing was common among the ranks of the vice detectives, but Dorn hadn't wanted any part of it. That wasn't the reason he had become a cop, victimizing the very people he had sworn to protect. Who did these people have, if not him? Nobody cared about street life. It was dog eat dog and the biggest dog won. He wasn't going to let that happen. He was the biggest dog.
He finally reached the breaking point. He spilled his guts to his Captain. He was flattened when the Captain told him to forget about it. He didn't know what to do. The Captain ... dirty? How? He took his allegations over the Captain's head. One night his partner disappeared in the middle of their shift. Several thugs cornered him in an alley and took turns working him over until he was a limp rag. They told him nobody cared about his story. The force didn't need it, the Commissioner didn't need it, and most of all, the Mayor didn't need it.
The Captain called him into the office the next day. The Commissioner and the Lieutenant were there. The Lieutenant said, “We know you're dirty. We're going to give you a pass on this one. Turn in your badge and gun, you're fired.”
Bremmer saw it all in a flash. All the filth of the street going right up to the top. How far? The Governor? The Senator? He saw how completely naïve he had been. How he had been living in a rose garden where people acted out of duty when in fact it was a garden of thorns.
He was not safe anywhere after that. Any cop that could get a shot off at him took it. The street turned against him. Anybody that stuck up for him got beaten down in a hurry. He was lowest of the low, the bottom dog.
He jerked the open middle drawer on the right side of his desk to reveal a bottle of whiskey. He retrieved it and spun the cap off as he turned his chair around to stare out the filthy window at the gray apartment building across the street. There were people inside living their lives. They might be hard lives full of tough luck, love gone bad, but they were a life none the less. He took a long, hard pull from the bottle. For a brief moment he forgot everything, all he knew was the taste and smell of the cheap whiskey. He laid his hands in his lap wishing it would last. What would you call this, he wondered? A life?
He swung the chair around and tossed the bottle into the drawer then kicked the drawer shut with a slam. He grabbed for the butt of his .38. Kicking that drawer shut was careless, he thought. Careless means dead. He turned on the battered desk light with the torn shade when he was satisfied no one was near. A manila folder lay open on the desk. He leaned over it thinking aloud, “Now what about the lady in white?”
* * * *
“Hey, you going to eat that? You've been sitting there all night.” Siln tossed the plate of half-eaten polycarb into the refuse processor. “What the heck is that stuff in the cup?” she asked, eyeing the brownish liquid suspiciously.
The shreds of fantasy melted slowly away. The dirty office strewn with paper became a gleaming space ship with not a single piece of paper aboard.
“I can tell you what it's not ... it's not coffee,” Van said.
“Yeah? Well, you can forget about coffee. That's an Alpha One thing. I had some once when my mother was alive.”
Siln fell quiet. Just the mention of her mother hurt. She stood staring at the wall with her fists clenched. She fought to contain the bitterness rising in her throat. She was afraid her voice would betray her feelings if she spoke. Showing her feelings was something she had learned to fight against. There were too many vultures looking for a weak spot. Too many germs waiting to attack an exposed nerve. She swallowed hard as she turned to Van and saw him staring at her.
“What are you looking at?” she snapped.
“My mother is dead, too. Everyone I've ever known is dead. I lost them all at once when I woke up a few years ago. I don't think I would hang around with me, if I were you. Everybody I get to know dies.” I would sell my left index finger for some opiates right now, Van thought. His mind began to work on the problem.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn't be here at all except for getting my credentials restored. You're lucky they did yours, you would have been royally screwed.”
“What is that all about?” Van asked.
“What is what all about?”
“The credential thing, why is that so important?”
Siln let loose a belly laugh. When she recovered, she saw that the confused man in front of her was serious. She tried to sort out the answer. It was such an obvious thing that she could not find the words. It was like trying to answer the question why does two plus two equal four. She walked to the table and sat down beside him.
“When you are born, you are given a genetic sequence that identifies you. Usually everyone gets a full set when they are born, but sometimes they get a partial set or maybe none at all. That is what happened to me. My mom had bad credentials. Her mom and dad were on the run. They got caught and she escaped, but she didn't have credentials after that. Since she didn't have any credentials, then I couldn't either. If I had credentials, then she could have accessed services through me.” Siln stopped to gauge how well Van was keeping up.
“So what does that mean, when you have bad credentials?” Van asked. He still didn't understand what the big deal was.
Siln stood up abruptly. “It means you can't do anything!” she blurted out pounding her fists on the table and causing Van to jump back. She lurched to the opposite wall, her clenched fists held to her chest. “You can't go anywhere because they are always watching. You can't have a nice little life in a nice little house,” Siln shouted pounding the walls with both fists for emphasis. “You're nothing,” she said as she slumped into the panel, arms limp, eyes unfocused. “You c
an't survive without credentials. It is their way of weeding out undesirables. They do not kill them outright. Executions are too expensive. They let them starve and rot, scrounging in the garbage with the rats until they die.” Siln sagged against the wall feeling empty of emotions ... numb.
Van could read the history of defeat in her. He knew she wouldn't talk about it but he plunged ahead anyway. “Is that what happened to your mother?” he asked hoping she wouldn't turn on him.
Siln's expression didn't change. “Yeah.”
“I'm sorry,” Van said.
“Me too,” Siln replied. She pushed herself away from the wall with great effort. “She ran until she couldn't run no more. She got thrown out like so much garbage.”
Siln reeled over to the food processing station. “Honberry juice in a gallon bowl with a lid, yogurt and corn,” she said, casting a sly glance in Van's direction. She carried the food to the table. Van wondered at the quart of juice in the over-sized bowl. Siln went to the arms locker. She retrieved what looked to be a handgun. “Ok, check this out,” she said as she poured the corn and yogurt into the honberry juice. She stirred the bowl until the mixture took on a sickly color that smelled terrible. Van wondered if she actually meant to consume the obnoxious mixture. She fiddled with the insides of the gun with a look of great concentration stirring the contents again Siln put the lid on the bowl. She took careful aim at the bowl and fired the weapon. Van recoiled but instead of a blast, the gun emitted a soft beam.
Seeing Van's look of wonder, Siln said, “Honberry has the highest sugar content of anything in the processor, corn has starch and the yogurt has yeast.”
Van immediately understood. He had several years of distilling experience. “How are you going to ferment it?” he asked hopefully.
“That's the cool part,” Siln exclaimed. She was clearly enjoying herself. “Setting the blaster at the lowest setting and disabling all but the up phase emitter, you get a frequency that stimulates yeast.”
Siln stood with a look of intense concentration as she held the gun on the bowl. The ruddy liquid in the bowl began to change color. It became opaque, then it slowly turned a muddy red. “There, done,” she said with a flourish.
She dipped two small glasses of the mixture out of the bowl. Van took the offered glass apprehensively. “Behold the wonder of the modern age,” she cried, “Rocket fuel.” She swallowed the contents in two gulps. She struggled to maintain composure while waiting for Van to follow suit.
He obliged by tipping his head back and tossing down the drink. He was suddenly wracked by convulsive gagging. His face turned bright red and his eyes filled with tears. He looked as though he was going to fall out of the chair.
Siln was laughing hysterically. She danced around him giggling madly.
Van wiped the drool from his cheek after he could control himself. He eyed the cavorting devil before him. “Oh yeah, that was really funny. What the hell was that?”
Siln reeled over to the wall holding her midsection. “Oh, God. That was funny. You should have seen yourself,” she said still chuckling. “That beautiful concoction is the only combination of materials on board which will produce alcohol. It's too bad the blaster energy corrupts the flavor. Nobody has ever been able to counteract that. On some ships they won't even let you order honberry juice and corn in the same week.”
That sounded like a challenge well suited to Van's skills. He had turned food processor modifications into an art form. He resolved to set about fixing that problem. He dipped his glass it the bowl again.
“Whoa, space boy!” Siln exclaimed. “Not that much. That's the secret. Only take as much as you can swallow in one gulp without it touching your tongue.”
“But you took more, it was a couple of swallows,” Van said.
“Yeah, but I knew what was coming. I did it so you would take a big drink. That was funny!”
“That's just plain mean,” Van said trying to stare down the sickly red liquid. He poured a bit back into the bowl. He carefully tipped the glass back letting the liquid fall onto the back of his throat. It was much less disgusting than the first drink. He tried to put a name to the taste but there was not anything like it. There was a burnt taste, like maybe burnt cabbage but nastier. A bitter, acrid after taste followed. The room suddenly blurred. He almost fell out of the chair. “Wow, that stuff's powerful,” he said slurring his words.
Siln looked considerably more relaxed than before the drink. “That's the other thing. The alcohol gets changed too. It's like super-booze. This is enough to last for days,” she said waving a languid arm through the air. “It wears off quick, though. We'll be straight in fifteen minutes.”
“So you and me got credentials? That's good, right?” Van was enjoying the numbing effect of the drink.
“Yeah, oh yeah. Credentials are good. Oh yeah, we can do anything, go anywhere,” Siln said, tipping her head back and holding on to the forward bulkhead. She swung back and forth singing, “I'm a real girl, oh, a real girl now. I'm a real girl.”
Van stared at the swaying Siln as if in a dream. His eyes would not stay focused. He said, “Wha a heck's in this tuff?” trying to focus on the ruddy concoction he held.
“Stardust and pixie wings, magic beans and slimy things, lollipops and bugs,” Siln sang to the ceiling, her head tipped back. She let go of the bulkhead, executed a wobbly spin, and landed against the counter.
Van felt the beginnings of an unpleasant sensation in the back of his head. He realized he was sobering up as he concentrated on the growing pain. The pain grew like a seed of corruption sprouting in his head. It suddenly overwhelmed him. His head fell onto the table with a thud.
Van rolled back and forth holding his head with both arms. Siln said, “Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that part. It will only last about ten minutes.” Siln slid to the floor with her back against the lower storage bins, neither one speaking for several minutes.
Van lifted his head off the table. “You are just plain evil, you know that?” he said.
Siln didn't move from her disheveled position. “Uh huh, yep. Everyone knows that ... mom knew it, Forces knew it, and the farmer knew it. Mom lost her credentials before I was born, she never said how. I was born without credentials. I mean, if I got sick and had credentials, I could have gone to a regular doctor, but since my mom, my legal guardian, couldn't go too, neither could I.”
“What do you mean your mom couldn't have gone too?” Van asked.
“When you don't have credentials, you are persona nongrata,” Siln said, etching the quotes into the air with two fingers. “You can't go into any business that is credentialed, and no business without credentials can exist out in the open. So, everybody goes underground. If you get caught topside,” she said pointing up, “they detain you. Sometimes they keep you. Sometimes nobody ever knows what happened. Without credentials you are dirt, living in the sewers. Eating crap and drinking mud. Sometimes we would go topside to run some scam mom would dream up. I would see all these kids coming out of nice little houses all clean with nice clothes. We would end up running like hell, one step ahead of the Forces, so we could get back to the sewer. Freezing, dark, scary as hell. What did I do to deserve that?” she shouted, looking at Van for an answer. “I was just a kid. Why did I have to live like that?”
Her voice trailed off as she sat leaning against the wall staring at nothing, hands laying on the deck with her palms facing up as if in prayer. Van tried to imagine a ten-year old Siln crouching in the cold darkness scrounging for food. “I'm very sorry Siln,” he said. He considered patting her back but didn't.
“Yeah? Well, nothing you could have done about it. I guess I'm lucky you came along.” She wiped her eyes with her shirt as she drew herself up off the deck.
The pounding in her head was easing a bit. A gnawing compulsion drove her out of the mess and into the operator station. She plopped down in the comfy contoured seat and surveyed the star chart. They were not heading anywhere. She had just picked a direction
without any thought of a destination when they left. As she sat staring at the brightly-colored displays wondering if the time had come. She feared she could not stand the consequences. She made a decision. It was probably not a very good decision. It was something she had wanted for a very long time.
Van entered the cabin and sat next to her. “What's up?” he asked.
Siln fought to keep the emotions that were washing over her from showing. She said, “We're going to go get you some coffee.”
* * * *
Ty is the first syllable of her name and that is what I call her. I finally convinced her that having a name would make my life better. Elves do not shorten names but she allows me this liberty. I have convinced her to come to town with me. She usually waits outside of town while I conduct my business. She appears out of nowhere when I return. She says there is no such place as nowhere. I told her that seeing her standing alone while I traveled to town is heartbreaking. She says the brief moment she waits is of no consequence to her. I explained that even that brief moment of parting is significant in my short life. She can understand that.
I obtained some poor clothes hoping to make her less conspicuous by dressing her plainly. She is still a rare beauty even in the coarse clothing I have given her. She holds her bow to her chest underneath the drab, hooded smock. Her quiver is slung across her neck and hangs nestled between her breasts. I instruct her to keep her face down. Anyone who lays eyes on her will be struck dumb by the sight. That she endures these indignities is a wonder, for she is proud and majestic. I told her that she must be a princess among her people to account for her regal bearing. She says that she is no such thing. I don't think she would tell me even if I were right.