Fallen

by Claire Delacroix

  Maybe not even breathing.

  The moonlight touched the small figure, the spaces on either side of the stairs left in impenetrable shadows.

  Lilia had a very bad feeling, but there was only one way to be sure. She'd come this far, and she wasn't coming back. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a line of yellow eyes closing into the shadows behind her.

  So much for her luck.

  She left the bike running and leapt down the stairs. Under the weight of Gid's pseudoskin, she felt as if it took half of forever to get to the bottom. The wolves, she knew, were moving faster.

  Lilia was sweating furiously when she turned on the external speaker in her helm. "Y654892?"

  Big surprise—he didn't answer. Lilia glanced back and found eyes glinting at the top of the steps. The wolves were drawing closer to the idling bike than she'd expected.

  Hunger made them brave.

  "Y654892?" Lilia shook his shoulder, because there was an off-chance that he'd settled for a doze while waiting for her.

  At her touch, he rolled to his back. Even though she'd not expected anything good, Lilia screamed at what she saw.

  The visor on his helm was open, as if to deliberately display the "third eye" right in the middle of his forehead. His normal eyes were staring back at Lilia, their blue irises glassy and lifeless. His skin was already puffing from the radiation exposure, his face mottled and red.

  Lilia didn't scream because he was dead.

  She screamed because he had been eviscerated.

  Y654892 had been cut open from gullet to groin, then sliced crosswise from shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. His skin was pulled open, like the doors to a secret chamber, the four corners pinned fastidiously to his patched and ancient pseudoskin. What Lilia had thought was shadow and rainwater beneath his body was actually guts and blood.

  She retched when the first whiff made it through her filters. He hadn't been dead long. Lilia fought her gag reflex, having learned that hurling in one's helm is never the best choice.

  She managed to control herself, then looked again. In case she'd had any doubt as to his identity, his pseudoskin had also been cut away to display the tattoo on the inside of his left forearm.

  Y654892.

  Point taken. He was never going to tell Lilia, or anyone else, anything about Gideon Fitzgerald.

  Somehow Lilia snagged images of Y654892's mutilated body. Some routine kicked in, a learned response to document and catalog. She could thank the Institute for Radiation Studies for that much.

  The wolves howled behind her, probably salivating in anticipation of the special du jour, but she tried to ignore them. She had a few moments, no more, to look for clues.

  Where had the shade come from? There was no sign of his transport, which could have told Lilia a lot. She didn't have time to search for it, not with her radiation patch glowing so hot.

  Y654892's bootleg palm was the best source of information. It would have been easiest to datashare with him, but Lilia couldn't bring herself to do it.

  Not with a corpse.

  She rationalized that she'd have to expose her own skin to release her probe and that sounded persuasive. Either way, it was infinitely preferable to use the camera in her helm to grab images of the last dozen things he'd pulled up himself, in the hope one of them was what he'd planned to share with her.

  She still had to touch him to operate his palm, and that was bad enough. Standing in his blood and guts, even in the rain, just about finished her.

  Lilia didn't really see the images she captured—she was too busy fighting the urge to vomit. His palm faded to nothing after she snagged the sixth image.

  That was that. The last spark of electricity in his nervous system had died. The only option was to datashare, letting his palm borrow the power of hers.

  Fat chance.

  Time to go.

  Lilia pivoted to find the first wolf descending the steps.

  The big shaggy leader eyed her, and his manner couldn't have been called friendly. She held his gaze, meeting canine challenge with one of her own. He snarled. Lilia walked toward the stairs with deliberate steps, removing her cloak as she walked. She also pulled her laze.

  As she climbed the stairs, he growled. The others hung back, waiting to share the spoils, or letting him do their dirty work.

  Maybe wolves weren't so different from humans.

  He was a mangy-looking beast, a few open sores on his back, his fur matted. He was so emaciated that Lilia could see his ribs. All he had left was determination and she felt a certain respect for that. She could have fried him, but it didn't seem fair.

  They'd negotiate this the old way.

  Lilia climbed another step and he descended another one. He was completely on the steps, front paws two steps lower than his hinds. It was likely to be the only advantage Lilia got.

  She moved very slowly, as if hesitant, and he crouched to leap, assuming he had time on his side. Wrong. As soon as he was bent, Lilia flung her cloak over his head. She fired the laze into the pack surrounding the bike. They scattered.

  Lilia ran to the bike.

  The big male was faster than Lilia had expected— older and wiser, or maybe someone had played this trick on him before. He tore through her cloak in record time. He lunged and snapped at her leg, only missing because Lilia was a bit faster.

  Or a bit luckier.

  "So, it's true that no good deed goes unpunished." Lilia kicked him square in the chops. He stumbled, growled, and came up to fight, blood running from his chin. He leapt toward her, fangs bared.

  To hell with respect. Lilia fired right into his chest.

  He fell, whimpered, and shuddered one last time. There was a smell of cooked meat and another little puddle of blood on the stone, both of which she could have done without.

  The other wolves retreated to the shadows ringing the plaza, growling with dissatisfaction. Lilia lunged for the bike, her heart pounding that it took so long to get there. She didn't dare waste an instant of the pack's uncertainty.

  When she rode out of the plaza, she looked back. The rest of the wolves had gotten over the shock of losing their leader: they were slipping down the stairs to partake of the feast. There wouldn't be much left of Y654892 soon.

  Would they eat their leader too?

  Better not to think about that.

  She had one beat to feel relief and turn the bike toward the tunnel before she heard deep laughter, right in between her own ears. It came from everywhere and nowhere; it echoed inside her own thoughts.

  Lilia tried to tell herself that she had picked up a stray signal, and that the frequency had somehow resonated with the speakers embedded in her helmet, producing an apparent echo in her own thoughts, but even she knew that was crap.

  It was as impossible to bullshit a bullshitter as she'd always believed. What had just happened was impossible.

  Alone in the old city—or maybe not quite as alone as she'd thought—Lilia panicked. She rode carelessly, pushing the bike to its max speed, intent only on getting her butt out of Gotham ASAP.

  Then she went straight to the police station in New Gotham to report Y654892's murder. She was in the door of the precinct before she realized her mistake.

  By then it was too late.

  REPUBLIC OF THE UNITED STATES OF THE AMERICAS LAW CODE 201/8-349

  Section IV: Determinants for Positive

  Designation of Sub-Human Atomic Deviant

  Evaluation (S.H.A.D.E.)

  Any individual within the geographic boundaries of the Republic, or any individual coming under the geographic boundaries of the Republic by dint of Republican expansion, will be evaluated to be a Sub-Human Atomic Deviant if any of the following criteria manifest in his or her physical person, and that individual can be documented to have been exposed to radiation:

  i) Microcephaly-being a head circumference of less than two standard deviations below the age- and sex-specific mean;

  ii) Keloids-being the presence of
irregularly-shaped three-dimensional scar tissue, most characteristically in the shape of a crab and copper-red in color;

  iii) Ocular lesions;

  iv) Other visible birth defects-being inclusive but not limited to: Brachycephaly; Oxycephaly; Scaphocephaly; Megacephaly; Strabismus; Narrow Palpabral Fissure; Radiation-Induced Cataract; Corneal Opacity; Abnormality of Iris; Epicanthus; Mongoloidism; Saddle Nose; Curved Concha; Gothic Palate; Odontoloxia; Harelip; Cleft Palate; Uvula Bifida; Micrognathia; Megaloglossia; Vascular Engorgement; Digitus Varus of the Fifth Finger; Brachy-dactylia; Arachnodactylia; Poiydactylia; Syndactylia; Adactylia; Simian Crease; Axial Triradius; Cubitus Valgus; Cubitus Vaurs; Heart Murmurs; Pigeon Breast; Funnel Chest; Umbilical Hernia; Accessory Mamma; Pterygoid Neck; Leukoplakia; Hypertrichosis; Hemangioma; Skin Sinus; Cryptorchidism; Hypospodias; Vaginal Fistula; Aproctia; Hermaphroditism.

  In addition, possessing two or more of the following chronic conditions-which may or may not result in outward physical manifestation-when caused by radiation exposure, will designate a positive evaluation:

  i) Thyroid cancer;

  ii) Leukemia and other radiation-specific blood disorders including, Multiple Myeloma, Malignant Lymphoma, Polycythemia Vera, Myelofibrosis, and Aplastic Anemia;

  iii) Mental Retardation in any child that was in utero, particularly during the third and fourth month of gestation, when the biological mother was exposed.

  First passed in New D.C., May 2025, with major amendments in 2034, 2056, and 2078.

  II

  Montgomery was in a foul mood.

  Again.

  He'd argued with Rachel.

  Again.

  Her refusal to share information was a persistent sore point. He felt as if he had no role and no objective. She was adamant that he should watch for abnormalities from his post at New Gotham Police Department. Her belief in the divine plan was getting to him.

  Probably because he couldn't see any plan at work at all. The mortal world was a mess and getting worse. He hadn't volunteered just to have it disintegrate while he watched.

  Montgomery took foot patrol duty as often as possible, in the hope that he might see something. He scanned records and reviewed cold cases, under the guise of learning the workings of his new precinct. He haunted the pleasure fringe of New Gotham, certain that it would be the first place he would hear gossip from the underworld. No luck. It felt futile and ineffective.

  Rachel insisted that good would inevitably triumph over evil.

  It looked to Montgomery as if evil had good on the run.

  Maybe he'd made a mistake in volunteering.

  Maybe it was too late for second thoughts. The only way back to the world he knew was through this one—he had to complete his mission to regain his wings.

  He didn't have to like it.

  Montgomery took the broad stone steps to the precinct three at a time, knowing he was late. He fabricated an excuse about walking patrol, knowing that it was only a matter of time before his disguise was destroyed.

  He automatically removed his helm and bent his head as he crossed the threshold, granting an urtobscured view of his identification bead to the reader installed overhead. He wasn't surprised to see Thompson on desk duty again—the rookie was about as incompetent as was humanly possible, but the computers managed most of the functions of reception. It was comparatively risk-free to leave Thompson loose on the reception desk.

  Montgomery was surprised to find a woman waiting there.

  She wearing a tight pseudoskin that left little to the imagination and defied every line item on the Sumptuary & Decency Code. She was tall and slender, as athletically built as he'd expect given that she was wearing such a heavy-gauge pseudoskin. She was wearing black biker boots, much like his own, and had black gauntlets hooked into her belt. Her helm was tucked under her arm and her dark braid fell down her back almost to her knees.

  She was dressed for active duty in a hot zone, but women were never dispatched to hot zones. She was waiting on Thompson, her impatience evident in her tapping toe, and as yet unaware of Montgomery's presence.

  He noticed the datachip that she moved between her fingers. She was agitated, not just impatient, and he wondered why.

  The answer, he would bet, was on that chip.

  She took a step away from the desk, her gaze on Thompson. Montgomery realized that she'd reconsidered. She was going to leave, without sharing the reason she had come in the first place.

  He decided that was sufficiently strange to merit his attention.

  Thompson frowned at his display, bending over the desktop, and the woman made her move. She spun and bolted for the door. It was a small foyer and she moved so quickly that she nearly collided with Montgomery.

  She would have, if he hadn't caught her shoulders in his hands.

  She looked up in surprise and he was shocked by her beauty. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes blue and thickly lashed. There was intelligence in her gaze and defiance in the set of her lips.

  Something quickened within him, something that had never yet been awakened by the whores in the pleasure fringe. He recognized her, though he couldn't have said why, and that surprise kept him from hiding his attraction.

  The spark was reciprocal: she looked him up and down with appreciation. Montgomery felt a very natural response to this bold show of female interest, then suspicion clouded her eyes again.

  "Excuse me," she said, frost in her tone. "I was just leaving."

  When she shrugged off his hands and made to step around him, Montgomery blocked her passage. He saw the flash of anger in her eyes.

  The lady liked to have her way. He'd have to remember that.

  Thompson glanced up and cleared his throat. "Detective, I was just looking for you. Weren't you supposed to be in your cube?"

  "No. Patrol." Montgomery didn't imagine the way the lady's eyes narrowed when Thompson used his title.

  "But the database says ..."

  Montgomery spoke dismissively. "Then it must be wrong."

  Only Thompson would believe that and he did.

  The woman hesitated, pausing to consider Montgomery through her lashes. Interesting. So few people questioned the databanks of the Republic that it was refreshing to find one who thought it possible.

  Meanwhile Thompson leaned over the desk. "I was looking for you because this, um, lady says she's witnessed a murder."

  Montgomery ignored the younger cop's implication and met the lady's gaze. "Is that correct?"

  Her lips tightened as she tried to step past him again. If nothing else, he could be a formidable obstacle. He moved to block her again and almost smiled at her visible irritation. "No, it's not. I made a mistake."

  "A mistake?" He kept his tone mild. "About a murder?"

  "Things happen," she said darkly, looking daggers at both him and Thompson. She and Montgomery stepped sideways in unison again. "You're starting to annoy me," she muttered and Montgomery couldn't stifle his smile. She stared at him for a heartbeat, then a touch of color stained her cheeks as she averted her gaze.

  Montgomery felt hot.

  "It was probably in the pleasure fringe," Thompson said with a snicker. "Some kinky game. You know how it is down there."

  "Do I?"

  "That's what the boys say, that Montgomery knows his way around the pleasure fringes better than most."

  Montgomery ignored that bit of innuendo too.

  The lady, though, studied Montgomery with new interest.

  "Maybe we should ask the witness what she observed instead of speculating on what she saw and where she saw it." Montgomery spoke with smooth authority. Thompson had the grace to flush.

  She frowned. "I'm not a witness because I didn't see anything."

  "Then why are you here?" Montgomery asked.

  She glared at him for this reasonable question. "Because I made a mistake. Let's forget I even said anything." She tried to step around him one more time.

  "No. Let's not." Montgomery blocked
her path again. "What did you see where?"

  "It doesn't matter," she said, steel in her tone.

  "This says it does." Montgomery tapped a single finger on the radiation patch on her sternum, which was glowing from recent exposure, and she jumped slightly. "Where?"

  She grimaced then, betrayed as she was by her own equipment. Still, she didn't back down and he admired that. "You shouldn't be standing so close, not if you know I'm hot."

  Thompson snickered. "Montgomery prefers the glow girls."

  Montgomery held her gaze. "I'll take my chances."

  "What did he say your name was?"

  "Detective Sergeant Adam Montgomery, New Gotham Homicide." He offered his hand to her. "And you are?"

  "Leaving," she said flatly, her manner hostile. This time she put a hand on his arm to push him aside.

  Montgomery glanced toward Thompson, who peered at his display. "Lilia Desjardins," he supplied and Montgomery felt his eyes widen.

  That was why she looked familiar. She was Fitzgerald's widow.

  What was she doing here, so far from her home on the Frontier?

  Witnessing a murder that she didn't want to talk about.

  Montgomery had been part of the team that had brought her bad news, so he couldn't blame her for being angry. She probably recognized his name. He hadn't been happy with the resolution of Fitzgerald's case himself. It had smelled like a cover-up to him and Rachel had been very interested in the details.

  He dared to hope that Lilia knew something Fitzgerald had known.

  Lilia's gaze slid over his shoulder and her lips tightened. "Damn government databanks," she muttered.

  "The eyes of the Republic are everywhere," he said, when he really wanted to agree with her. He offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

  She looked down at his outstretched hand as if surprised that he offered to shake hands with her. Because she was a woman? Or because she was hot? She put her hand in his with some reluctance. "I can't say it's reciprocal."

  Her fingers felt slender within his grip, and he was surprised by the strength of his protective urge. Worse, the brush of her skin against his own distracted him in a very earthy way.