Felix gave what seemed to be a weak, comforting smile, obviously having detected a hint of fear that Romulus wished he had disguised better. "I said cut up, not shredded. As I understand it, the attacker's intent was to kill, not to torture. Not much more comforting, though, I suppose."
Romulus nodded, finding it to be at least a little more comforting.
"Cut apart with what?" Diomedes asked. The subject did not seem to bother him. "Knife? Sword? Slashers?"
"You have to remember that we're still dealing primarily with rumor yet, but most talk I've heard indicates the cuts were made by some type of slasher, yeah."
Romulus grimaced. Slashers were any of the number of various types of blades implanted in a hand. Some ran along the palm and inside of the fingers, others on the backside, and still others could extend from the base of the knuckle. All types were concealable to at least some degree, and nearly all were illegal. From what Romulus knew, they usually required a cybernetic hand into which they could be hidden and anchored, but he had heard of small versions being expensively installed into actual flesh. Someone with slashers had once attacked Diomedes. He hadn't shared the details, but Romulus had seen the scar: a particularly nasty looking gouge. The pattern made it seem as if some hideous animal had clawed him.
"What's more," Felix continued, "is that the accompanying beatings were done by either an exceptionally strong person, or by someone who definitely had cybernetics. Given the existence of the slashers, I'd go with the latter option."
"Kicks or punches?" Diomedes asked. It took Romulus a moment to realize the relevance of the question. He was trying to determine which limbs were artificial.
Felix chuckled and shook his head. "You'll have to introduce me to some of these people you know that do autopsies on every street punk they find dead. You're asking for information that's pushing the limit of what you get from mere rumor. We could probably find out with a little checking, but for now I can't say for certain." Felix paused again, considering. "Though if I had to make a guess," he added, "I'd be inclined to say both. It might explain a bit about his behavior."
"Stop being vague, Hiatt."
Felix looked at Diomedes with a flicker of mock surprise that Romulus barely caught. "Why, Dio, one would think that you of all people would know what I mean."
Diomedes slammed his fist down on the table. Romulus thought he saw it crack and that Felix would see the same fury that his roommate had shown to their current employer. "Don't call me Dio," he whispered through clenched teeth.
Felix had not moved. For a moment there was something in his eyes that could have been anger before his previous demeanor washed it away. The smaller man only waited. Romulus looked down at the table as Diomedes brought his arm back up slowly. He had indeed cracked the tabletop.
"Fine," Felix said finally. His tone was calm. A moment later he turned to Romulus. "Ever heard of cyberpsychosis, kid?" he asked, cheerless. "That's what I was getting at."
Romulus nodded and wished Felix would stop calling him "kid." He chose not to mention that, while he had heard of cyberpsychosis, he didn't know nearly as much as he wanted to. It was some type of mental instability, a psychological abnormality that seemed to result in some way from artificial augmentations or replacements to the body. Romulus tried to dredge up all he had on it in an effort to give a better response to the question than merely a simple yes, but little was forthcoming. He could recall that most cases were different in some way, and he thought he'd heard that more conspicuous implants had a greater influence, but he wasn't sure about the last part. He had no idea what caused it. The question had once been a curiosity that had since been overshadowed by more pressing concerns, but the current discussion opened up the topic anew. Would asking about it only make him seem like more of a kid? It was too late anyway. Felix had already accepted his nod and moved on.
"If it turns out that that's the case, that your friend is suffering from some form of cyberpsychosis, then it's a fair bet CPMC has a file on him." Felix's smile returned. "But I'd also bet that the name on the file is not 'Mr. Wraith.' Call me crazy."
Romulus recognized the name of the cybernetics watchdog agency, but couldn't remember what the 'CPMC' stood for. Maybe there was time still to ask about it all.
"Even if they do, they're not just going to show it to us." Diomedes had spoken first. "You said you'd say something more about the arsons. What is it?"
"I was going to say that we should try to discover more about them. How they were started, what was burned, and so forth."
"Something makes you think that would help?"
"Maybe he did them for a specific purpose. Knowing that purpose might help us know where to look."
"What's he need a purpose for? He's a freak," Diomedes shot. Romulus couldn't help but agree with him. Didn't it stand to reason that whatever caused him to do the killing had simply flowed into the arena of arson?
"I won't argue the possibility, but you shouldn't discount what I'm saying, either. It's worth checking out. Besides, even if he doesn't have a specific purpose, does it make sense to you that after three warehouses he'd suddenly go for an apartment?"
"A Dirge apartment is easier to get into than a warehouse." The thought sprung from Romulus's mouth even as it was formed. "Maybe he didn't want to keep risking so much?"
"Not a bad point, kid," Felix said. Romulus couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride. "But my gut's still telling me there's another reason." Felix watched him a moment more, still thinking, before he broke into a grin. "Then again, maybe apartments are just lighter in calories. At any rate, I think there might be someone I could talk with to find out. Later, of course." Felix took the last sip of his water.
"So what do we do now?" Romulus asked. Both he and his roommate awaited Felix's answer.
The small man put his empty glass down. "Now," he began, "we take a quick break while I get more water." He slipped out of the booth, taking his glass with him. "Always drink eight glasses a day, kid. Kidney stones are a bitch." With a wink, he left for the bar.
"My uncle had a kidney stone once—"
"Never volunteer information like that," Diomedes whispered harshly. Romulus looked up, truly not knowing what he meant. "The screen, the synthetic skin, he didn't need to know that. This joker makes a living off selling information. We don't give him anything he doesn't need to know for free. No one's going to hand anything to us."
As the all-too-familiar feeling of naiveté settled upon him once again, Romulus nodded. He sat back to await Felix's return and resolved to keep quiet for the rest of the discussion.
Felix walked the short distance back to the bar, glass in hand. As the droning sounds of industrial rock continued to blanket the establishment, he overheard Diomedes whisper to his younger roommate, "Never volunteer information like that." Felix shook his head. Diomedes didn't change. He didn't give Romulus enough credit. The kid was smart, although he didn't seem to fully realize it himself.
Felix approached the bar and motioned for Lars, deciding he should probably stop calling him "kid." But he was already resolved not to perpetuate "Romulus."
Lars slid down his way. "More o' the same?" Felix nodded and handed him the glass, which the bartender quickly filled with ice water and returned. "Diomedes's gettin' a little excited over there. Wanna do me a favor and tell him to ease up on that table? We're runnin' low as it is."
Felix chuckled. "Tell him yourself. Just, ah, don't call him Dio."
The bartender snickered. Felix headed back to the booth, passing a younger, slightly uncomfortable looking red-haired man who took his place at the bar. Sipping again on his water, he pondered their options. A moment later he was back with the others.
"Something's just occurred to me," he began. "There's a cybernetics convention here in just over a month. Aegis Security's rumored to be working on something that they plan to unveil then. I've been mildly interested to find out what they've got cooking, but I haven't turned up much that you can't find throug
h regular channels."
"Get to the point, Hiatt," Diomedes said.
"I am. Be patient. What I do know is that it's something to do with keeping the peace in more violent sections of a city. 'Urban Control' is what they're calling the project. Aegis doesn't do much technological design on their own, but it's been known to happen. It's more probable that the project is in conjunction with someone else. The point is that, maybe, the guy we're looking for is that project."
"You think the killing and the arsons are part of some damned field test?" Diomedes appeared to consider the idea.
"Like I said before, there's not many people who'll miss a few gangers. Maybe they're taking advantage of that. Additionally, it is compatible with Aegis's usual approach to their products, based off individuals and trained manpower. It might explain this 'Wraith' person."
"Doesn't explain my building."
"Maybe whatever they've created doesn't know it's own strength?" Felix shrugged. "It's just an idea. Might be completely wrong. Maybe we'll have an answer when we find out more on the arsons. It gives us a direction to go in at any rate." Felix glanced over at Romulus, who returned his gaze without comment. He hadn't said a word yet—a fact that Felix quickly attributed to Diomedes's scolding of him a few minutes ago. Perhaps it was better that he just listened; it was a skill often overlooked and misunderstood, in Felix's opinion.
"Nosferatu," Diomedes said suddenly. Felix recognized the name and guessed what the freelancer was getting at. It was an interesting idea, but if Diomedes meant what he thought he did, Felix didn't put much faith in it.
"I take it you think this might have something to do with them?" Felix asked.
"You said he used slashers. Any evidence that some of the cuts were from fangs instead?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny that statement," Felix replied with a grin. "Sorry, I like saying that for some reason. But it's true. They might've been, but it's impossible for me to tell you for sure from what I know."
"So it could be them."
"I don't know." Felix shook his head. "I'm not sure it's quite their style."
Diomedes looked at him, incredulous. "Slashers, fangs," he listed. "If that's not their style then I'd sure as hell like to know what is!"
Felix was about to answer when he noticed the confusion in Romulus's eyes. "Know who we're talking about—?" He caught himself as he almost said 'kid,' leaving the question to hang awkwardly in the air.
"Nosferatu?" Romulus asked. "Um, well, I know I've heard the word, I think, but I don't know who it refers to." Felix considered for a moment the possibility that he was feigning ignorance based on Diomedes's last words to him, but dismissed the idea swiftly. He truly didn't know.
"Nosferatu comes from an Old Slavonic term for, well, vampires. I assume you've heard of those. Big teeth, got a thing for blood, dangerously prone to sunburn, etc."
Romulus nodded. "Stakes through the heart."
"Yeah. But just make sure it's a wooden stake—tossing a T-bone at 'em only makes 'em mad—if you believe that sort of thing."
"Which you shouldn't," Diomedes added.
"I don't."
"Well, there's some that do—or they at least think they do, and here in our fair city there's sort of a cult—I'd personally hesitate to call them a gang—who are pretty into that sort of thing. Fascinated by vampires to the point of acting like them. And I mean really acting like them, twenty-four-seven. Some even think they are vampires, or at least they put on a good show of it." Felix leaned back in the booth. "I'll admit to being personally intrigued by vampire legends and lore, but these people are on an entirely different level."
"Fanatical maniacs is what they are," Diomedes spat.
"On the other hand, they are snappy dressers," joked Felix. Romulus grinned slightly. "One thing they are not, however, is homicidal maniacs, ironically."
"That you know of," Diomedes said. To Felix it sounded like he had already made up his mind on the subject.
"It's my job to know these things. It is what you're paying me for, isn't it?" He considered pointing out that he didn't tell the freelancer how to kill people—but he wasn't sure of the reaction he'd get, and he didn't want to go down that road. "I know they're suspected in their share of assaults, and, yes, the occasional death, but nothing along the lines we're talking about. Usually with the Nosferatu, you leave them alone and they'll do likewise. The 'Wraith' attacks are all around the city. And those warehouses that burned aren't even near where the Nosferatu usually are found."
Diomedes continued to press the idea. "Full moon last week. They're usually more active then, yes?"
Felix sighed. "Yes," he begrudgingly admitted, "but you're not listening. We're talking vandalism and minor property destruction, not mass hunting of other gangs."
"Arson?"
"It's been known to happen," he was forced to admit. "But I have to warn you: I really think this is a dead lead, no pun intended. It's just not them. Call it a gut feeling. There are other options. We still haven't talked about seeing what we can find out from CPMC."
"We're through discussing it," Diomedes declared. "We won't know who's right by sitting here. We're finding some Nosferatu." He slid out of the booth and stood up.
Knowing it was pointless to try to change the stubborn freelancer's mind once he had made it, Felix moved out of the booth as well. "These aren't just some kids out having a role-play," he warned as he stood. "They've got a nasty territorial streak. Don't expect them to be good hosts if you drop in unannounced."
Diomedes ignored the comment and looked down at Romulus, who quickly got out of the booth behind Felix. "Let's go," he said, and turned towards the door. Romulus followed, and Felix fell in beside the younger man.
"What's your last name," he asked of Romulus, "if you don't mind my asking?"
The kid hesitated for a moment before replying. "Flynn."
"Flynn," Felix repeated, listening to the sound of the name. "Flynn," he said again. "I like it." He gave the kid a pat on the back. "Let's go learn a few things, Flynn."
From his seat at the bar, the redheaded man Felix had passed earlier watched the three men leave.
Two days ago, Brian Savagewood had balked at his assignment to find the truth behind the Wraith rumors. It was goose-chasing fluff, a junk assignment designed to keep him busy until his boss could find a good enough reason to fire him from the junior investigative reporter position his father had gotten him at the network. He'd have gotten the position on his own merit, of course, if he'd been given the chance. His name might have gotten him noticed, but he'd deserved the job for his credentials alone. He was sure that no one else at the network thought so, however. He could feel it in the way they looked at him. The assignment was just another sign of that.
Yet he wasn't going to let it stop him from doing the best damn job on it as possible. Find out about The Wraith? Hell, he'd do more than that. He'd get a damned interview with the man. But just the effort wasn't going to be enough, he'd realized. He'd have to dig something up or risk making a credulous ass of himself like some guy who believes that the word "gullible" isn't in the dictionary.
Two days of scant progress had led him to the 'Pyre. He had sensed more than a few haughty stares in his direction as he, a mere scrawny nobody by their standards, walked in the door of the dangerous establishment. The decision to come there had not been altogether easy, but he couldn't let something as childish as fear stop him.
Brian almost couldn't believe his luck when he'd overheard the group speaking about The Wraith so soon after entering. The aural enhancements he'd let his dad buy him had paid off, and, pleased at his skill and good fortune, he'd focused in on their conversation. It was as if fate had brought him here, as if some omnipotent force had guided him to this spot. He knew that it was, in truth, his own decision—his own deduction—that someone with the apparent cybernetics and violent behavior exhibited by The Wraith stood a good chance of being a freelancer—or at least somehow connected to one.
But "fate" sounded a lot more dramatic.
He slipped off his stool, hurried to the door, and followed the men.
V
The waning gibbous moon existed in the clear, black sky above the city, sharing the dark expanse with the few stars bright enough to be seen through the city's own unrelenting light. While the ever-present amber and neon glow of streetlights and billboards lit the busier districts, the Moon itself was indiscriminate, bathing even the darkest parts of the urban landscape.
Felix watched it through the window of the floater with his usual appreciation. He had never actually been to the Moon, though he hoped to change that one day. For as long as he could remember—a span of time longer than he had a right to—he had always been amazed by its simple beauty. He wondered if that would change if he actually went there. Would it cease to be a white orb of placidity if he ever tread upon it the same way as he did upon this sometimes depressing and misdirected planet? He remembered the descriptions the first humans to walk on the Moon gave of the Earth, floating beautifully amongst the stars. It occurred to Felix that perhaps it was not his vision of the Moon that might change.
Flynn, Diomedes and he were soaring towards the stadium at an altitude of about five hundred feet. Earlier, they had walked from the bar to a public storage facility a short distance away. Diomedes had stored some additional equipment there and intended to get it before going any further. It didn't surprise Felix that the freelancer would have such a cache; it was a practice that made sense, even without being as paranoid as Diomedes. There was paranoid, and then there was prepared. What had surprised him was the size of the cache, its main component being a van-sized floater. Floaters were the common term for any number of typically boxy craft that hovered and maneuvered on a combination of vectored thrust engines and stabilizing electromagnetic repulsion lifts. Felix didn't bother to ask where he'd acquired it. Floaters were usually parts of a corporate fleet and used for limousines, for shipping, or by hospitals and the better-funded police departments. Private floaters were far from unheard of, but not so widespread that it would seem usual for Diomedes to have access to one. Regardless of how he'd come by it, Felix was certain the freelancer wouldn't offer any details.
A Shadow in the Flames (The New Aeneid Cycle) Page 5