by Raya Jones
X killed Indigo.
X found out that Rinzler was on the case, and wanted to prevent him from learning the truth.
X hired or manipulated April to take Rinzler to the crime scene and to tell him that Kendall had stalked Indigo.
X planted Kendall’s single hair in Indigo’s place.
X killed Kendall and made it look as if Kendall confessed.
X then made it look as if Rinzler had killed Kendall.
X tried to kill Rinzler so that he wouldn’t be able to deny killing Kendall.
At this point the logic failed. Why didn’t X try again after the first attempt failed? Perhaps there was no need anymore, since Kendall couldn’t be found. Why eliminate the body so thoroughly?
Monday removed Kendall’s body and Monday was at Indigo’s door with a gun. If X is manipulating April, Y is manipulating Monday. Perhaps Y had planted Kendall’s hair to mock X. Was it a reality game played by two people using androids as surrogates?
Jan has suggested that the trespasser was someone Indigo had met in a game. Why should the woman claim to be Indigo?
It could be an ET Act gone wrong, Rinzler reflected. ET are OK’s rivals in the entertainment industry. Their competitive edge has always been their ‘actual realities’, or Acts, which involve a temporary personality graft. It was technically possible that the trespasser was under the influence of an ‘Indigo’ Act. If such an Act existed, Indigo must have had an ET experience-gatherer implanted in her brain. That would be a criminal breach of contract for any OK citizen. But if Indigo was a spy and let herself be compromised like that, her own mother would kill her, Rinzler reflected.
Recalling his encounter with Jan, he didn’t find it too hard to entertain this hypothesis.
If Jan is Y, operating through Monday, why should she get rid of Kendall’s body? It would be better for her to have Rinzler framed for the murder. And who is X operating through April? If Jan had killed her daughter, in whose interest besides Jan was it to stop Rinzler from finding out? Is Jan X too?
Then he entered ‘Everild’ into the picture — and the Jan-Did-It storyline disintegrated before his mind’s eyes.
He double-checked 1Step logs. The woman who trespassed into Jan’s cubicle was Indigo. The pattern registered as genuinely hers. An ET Act wouldn’t have had that effect. A skilled hacker could fake a teleport ID, but it would take someone of mythical ability to make the actual pattern appear genuine. You’d expect such miracles from a legendary ronin.
Jan could lie about the trespasser not being him, and Samurai Sunrise aka Schmidt could lie to Rinzler about not delivering the message to Indigo. Perhaps he didn’t deliver it at the Galleria, and went to her workplace the next day.
‘No, you’ve made sure you have an alibi, mister,’ Rinzler told Samurai Sunrise in his head. His inner Schmidt was becoming separated from the sinister man who had checked into the inn as Sherlock Holmes at the precise moment that Everild checked into the capsule hotel. When the mystery woman appeared in Jan’s cubicle, Samurai Sunrise was giving Rinzler a headache with Narayana physics.
At least this scenario was straightforward: Indigo opens her door to Monday, who shoots her dead, while the unknown woman is indoors. Let’s call her Everild. Everild picks up the orange-streaked Vesuvian and makes her way to Cardiff. She meets Louis Huang, tells him she’s Indigo, and he comes to P-7 to collect the rest of the Vesuvians. But why take a single Vesuvian, knowing that the creature couldn’t survive alone?
Rinzler let it drop.
Fact: Everild is missing. Missing persons were Rinzler’s bread-and-butter.
Being officially hired for the job authorised him to contact Cardiff in pursuit of his inquires.
It took 24 hours to get nowhere. To start with, his inquiries bounced back with automated messages informing him that only official business communications were dealt with. When the system finally recognised ‘Rinzler Investigations’ as a licensed company, it shunted him through several Select-The-Nature-Of-Your-Inquiry menus that didn’t list the nature of his inquiry, and redirected him to menus that had rejected him earlier. When he decided to travel to Cardiff in person, he suddenly got somewhere by clicking on ‘Immigration inquiry’. His inquiry was routed to Cardiff Gate.
Several hours later he received an anonymous text message saying that they didn’t know whether any Everild had entered Cardiff. They don’t collect personal data from outsiders. ‘People come here to find their True Essence. We give them Authentic Names to signify their Spiritual Birth,’ wrote the anonymous clerk with a liberal use of capital letters.
Rinzler wrote back that some people might go to Cardiff to hide from their corporation. He was textually informed that fugitives were not let in. Rinzler asked whether a female fugitive tried to get in sixteen days ago.
He got an affirmative reply. She was let in but the next day they discovered that she was wanted by OK and sent her back. Rinzler asked who had processed her deportation to OK.
They didn’t deport her, was the reply. They invited her to leave, and she did.
‘Did she contact Louis Huang?’ wrote Rinzler.
An hour later he got a reply. She stayed overnight in Louis Huang’s place of residence. When Rinzler asked to contact Louis, he was informed that Louis was away from Cardiff. Rinzler already knew that Louis was not at the Only Hotel anymore.
By now Rinzler had been cooped up in the inn for two days, eating food brought in, and it felt as if the cell-like room had shrunk to the size of a grave. Staying there was convenient for working uninterrupted, even though the salvaged deck kept malfunctioning. Having to repair it took his mind off things for short bursts.
Between waiting for Cardiff to reply and fixing the deck, he contacted Cerise’s childhood chums one by one. They told him old gossip about Indigo, which corroborated Cerise’s account. He crossed those inquiries off the obvious-things-to-do list.
He set up a search to identify everyone that Indigo had contact with in public places, going back several weeks before her death.
He set up a search for any ‘Everild’ in P-7.
He didn’t bother fixing the deck the next time it crashed. He needed food. The thought of eating in again was unbearable. He walked out.
The inn was almost as near the surface as was possible to get in P-7. Higher still was only the spaceport terminal. Most sites at this level were industrial, and between factories and warehouses were the Greys. Rinzler followed graffiti arrows through gaps and cracks, and presently picked up the hubbub of human sounds — dogs barking, snatches of music, and children’s playful squeals.
A busy yard opened up before him.
The place was illuminated with makeshift lanterns and lamps that cast weird shadows on stalls that sold everything and on workshops where people tinkered with anything salvageable from scavenged trash. Children ran around playing, dogs chased them barking, and adults went about daily routines. Overhead was honeycombed manmade nooks and crannies where families lived, spilling out to precariously narrow balconies with loud music, washing-lines and potted plants. Yet despite the liveliness of the place, it felt oddly sedate to Rinzler. There was no ambient virtual reality.
Rinzler bought steamed buns from an ancient oriental man who was cooking them in a pot, and ate as he strolled through the marketplace. Then he bought paella from a young black girl who operated a food replicator, and ate it all up by the time he reached a stall that sold fruit grown by the vendor in glass boxes. He bought an apple.
Eating the apple, he paused near a stall that sold candy and perts. A pale middle-aged woman worked on a dismantled pert. She glanced up. ‘It’s homemade toffee. No? I can do you an ID.’
‘What for?’
‘Teleporting,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to open a 1Step account. It will be legit. Only your ID will be whatever you want me to do.’
‘Can you write me an OK identity?’ Rinzler asked, curious.
‘Sure, I can do all the corporations. It’s your own risk if they
catch you.’
‘What’s the point of a fake ID for teleporting? My pattern will be the same.’
‘Yes, but who checks.’
People like me, Rinzler thought back at her, and shook his head.
She carried on working.
He walked on. Nobody bothered him, but he was aware of being watched. It made him nervous although he couldn’t spot anyone who knew him. He realised that he was drawing attention by not making his purpose clear. He turned to a young man standing next to a stall that sold mostly biosuits. Rinzler couldn’t tell whether the lad was the vendor or a customer. ‘Good day, I’m looking for a bar.’
The lad stared at him flummoxed.
‘A place to sit down and have a drink, you know? I could really do with a beer.’
‘Real beer?’ Asked the lad, still perplexed.
‘From a real replicator will do.’
Three men drew near. They were not hostile but not friendly either. Rinzler could imagine them thinking: this citizen didn’t come here for a beer out of a replicator, and nobody expects to find real beer in a place like this.
One of them hazarded a guess. ‘If you’re after a replicator, mister, my sister has got just the one for you in her workshop. A brand new Ichiban Domestic.’ Rinzler told him that it sounded like a bargain but he, Rinzler, couldn’t use a domestic replicator right now on account of being between domiciles at the moment.
‘Rinzler,’ said a voice behind him. Rinzler turned sharply and faced a grey-bearded man whose presence created a hush. ‘Are you looking for my niece?’
It sounded to Rinzler like an improper proposition. Prostitution was part of the alternative economy. He checked cautiously, ‘Do I know your niece?’
‘Latifah has told me about you.’
Rinzler felt his heart quicken. ‘Is she around?’ His eyes darted around past people’s heads, seeking her.
‘Not anymore.’
Her uncle, Bin Abdullah, led Rinzler to a sitting area behind a stall that sold drinks out of a replicator. Rinzler got his beer. Bin Abdullah ordered nothing for himself. He sat opposite Rinzler across a rickety table, stroking his beard thoughtfully as if in judgment of Rinzler. He probably knew about the ‘misunderstanding’ Rinzler had with some of the tribe’s people a couple of years ago. Nervous, Rinzler asked about Latifah’s whereabouts.
‘Somewhere in P-7 probably looking for you,’ said her uncle.
‘Looking for me?’ echoed Rinzler.
‘You’re a private detective. She wants to hire you.’
‘She can step into my Main Street office. Or aren’t they allowed to do that?’
‘You mean essencists? They can visit Spectrum as long as it doesn’t involve teleporting. She can do it from there,’ Bin Abdullah indicated a workstation propped against the wall in an alcove at the back. ‘But when she tried your office, all she got was a goldfish.’
‘Oh. Sorry about that. There was a glitch in my system for a few days. It’s back online now. You can tell her.’ Rinzler kept his eyes on the empty workstation, imagining Latifah sitting there trying to contact him.
Bin Abdullah said, ‘I can’t contact her.’
‘Can’t contact her?’ echoed Rinzler. He forced himself to look away from the workstation. ‘Why? Aren’t they allowed to use pads or phones?’
‘She has a phone.’ Bin Abdullah pulled out a state-of-the-art pad. Rinzler was impressed. Bin Abdullah keyed LATIFAH and got only crackle. ‘Still link-dead,’ he stated the obvious. ‘It’s been a couple of days.’
‘What does she want me for?’
She wouldn’t tell her uncle. Bin Abdullah sounded annoyed about that. He knew only that it was something to do with her friend from Cardiff, Louis Huang.
It would be ironic if Louis Huang wants me to find Everild, thought Rinzler, his eyes drawn to the alcove.
Bin Abdullah couldn’t contact Louis either. Now he tried LOUIS HUANG just in case, got the crackle, then closed the pad and put it away. ‘Can you find them?’
More missing persons — and that pair don’t teleport. Rinzler sipped his beer broodingly. Misinterpreting his silence for reluctance, Bin Abdullah stressed that he’d pay. Rinzler assured him, ‘No need, I’m already paid by someone to track down someone that Louis Huang might know. That’s why I’ve come here, to find Louis. I’ll invoice my client.’
Two men walked up to the table with airs of urgency, and agitatedly spoke to Bin Abdullah in Arabic. It looked as if settling their dispute, or whatever it was, would take a while. Rinzler walked over to the alcove to have a closer look.
He returned to the table when the men were gone and picked up his beer. ‘That workstation is blocking an emergency exit.’
‘He can knock it down if he wants to leave.’
‘You know that the exit has an OK seal. They might object to the obstruction. My map puts this place right next to their HQ.’
‘An executive of theirs lives there. He’s asked me to hide his exit.’
‘An executive, eh? Wouldn’t it be Cordova by any chance?’
‘All OK executives are Cordova.’
‘Of course, they are. Right you are,’ agreed Rinzler. He knew that. He also knew that Jeremiah was the only Cordova in P-7. He took out his own pad, embarrassed to be in possession of such a dated model, and brought up a picture of the woman he had nicknamed Everild. ‘This is the person I’m hired to find. Is she people by any chance?’
She wasn’t. At least, Bin Abdullah didn’t know her.
Rinzler drank up his beer and bought another one.
Bin Abdullah talked. Louis was born essencist like Latifah. Her parents had converted on Earth, where the movement started. Bin Abdullah didn’t approve. Rinzler agreed with him that it was suicidal to ban nano-wear in environments where a biosuit could save your life. He agreed that the argument of dying-every-time-you-teleport is ridiculous, and that their prejudice against androids is misguided. He politely listened as Bin Abdullah told him with passion, ‘Androids are good technology! My family has made a living out of androids for three generations. My workshop,’ he proudly pointed in the direction of the open yard.
Rinzler turned around obligingly. Disassembled androids were piled at a corner of the yard, just about visible between nearby stalls.
None of that was furthering his investigation but he didn’t finish his beer yet, so he sympathetically said between sips, ‘I guess the Gen-5 has made it difficult for you.’
The fashion had swung away from owning domestic androids when it became possible to hire an andronet unit on demand. It wasn’t exactly news. Gen-5 came on the market in Rinzler’s childhood.
Bin Abdullah shook his head. ‘You’ll be surprised how many people want non-networked units and what they want them for.’ Suddenly seeing something past Rinzler, his face darkened. ‘Here comes trouble.’ He jumped to his feet and rushed out there.
Rinzler turned to look. Whatever Bin Abdullah had seen wasn’t immediately apparent, so he stayed to finish his drink. But he glanced back again — and saw trouble happening. He jumped to his feet, beer abandoned, and rushed out there.
He reached the pile of androids just as Angerford started to compare data projected from his ring with a partially dismantled April unit. Rinzler exclaimed breathlessly, ‘You’re out of your mind!’
Angerford gazed at him, and then glanced around, surprised to see half a dozen men strategically positioning themselves around. Rinzler called out to them, ‘He’s okay!’
‘No, he’s Cyboratics,’ corrected Bin Abdullah, his hand in a pocket that could be concealing a gun.
‘Yes, but he fixed Juke’s waiter out of the goodness of his heart. He’s not here to…’ Rinzler stopped himself. He had no idea why Angerford was there. ‘He’s leaving anyway!’ He pulled out his pert and urged Angerford to come with him right away.
Angerford shook his head. ‘I’ve come here for a reason.’
‘That’s the impression you’re giving them. You should’ve come in
civilian clothes.’
‘I don’t have another biosuit.’
‘Then you should’ve come with armed bodyguards. It would be a good idea to leave now.’
Angerford looked around, unperturbed, and inquired whether anyone had Teletek interfaces.
Nobody replied. Their silence hung like a thick heavy cloud.
Nervous, Rinzler muttered, ‘Why don’t you get it online?’ Angerford pointed out that it was illegal for him to install an interface used by another corporation.
Bin Abdullah was getting impatient. ‘Is he a friend of yours, Rinzler? Can you vouch for him?’
Rinzler translated his question: Are you prepared to go down with the Cyboratics man? Aloud, he reasoned, ‘He’s new in town, Bin Abdullah, only a couple of days off the ship.’
‘Three weeks,’ corrected Bin Abdullah.
‘Give or take. But he’s fresh from Earth.’
‘Mars,’ corrected Bin Abdullah. ‘He’s the new Chief Analyst for April. Do you even know him?’
Rinzler opened his mouth, but Angerford beat him to it. ‘How do you know all that about me?’ he calmly asked Bin Abdullah.
It was obvious to Rinzler that Bin Abdullah wasn’t going to divulge his source, and that the situation didn’t bode well. Men were shuffling their feet restlessly. More men had congregated, and overhead on balconies women were hurrying children indoors to safety. This was precisely the kind of situation that Rinzler used to be good at avoiding. His survival instinct yelled at him to abandon Angerford. He desperately whispered to Angerford, ‘Citizens disappear here to become body parts for cyborgs.’ He held out his own pert conspicuously to demonstrate to Bin Abdullah that he was leaving right away.
Angerford made no signs of reaching for his pert.
Ditch him, urged the instinct, and Rinzler heard himself blurt out to Bin Abdullah, ‘The man who told you about Angerford, did he mention that Angerford too is under his protection?’
‘What man?’
Schmidt? Yojimbo? Al? What do these people call him? Many people in the yard wore the hinode patch. It occurred to Rinzler that Schmidt had incorporated the Chinese characters into the samurai’s image in case he, Rinzler, needed to know about this connection. Thank you, Rinzler thought at him. He pointed to the patch on Bin Abdullah’s sleeve, ‘The man who’s given you the immunity marker.’