Windswept

by Adam Rakunas

  The plant depicted on the clock face was the old one, before we’d punched holes in the pourform walls and installed caneplas windows and verandas. The figures of WalWa people in their stiff-collared company coats stood at the doorway, about to be overwhelmed by a thunderhead made of Brushhead residents. Everyone who’d marched on the plant had donated a little memento to Jens Odoyai, the artist who’d made the clock face. The images of the plant and the WalWa figures were all fashioned from bits and bobs from the plant, but the thunderhead was made from stuff that mattered to us. I’d given up my shop steward badge, a little fist made from recycled glass. It had been a long, brutal day, but I still smiled when I looked up at that clock and remembered how satisfying it had been to take that plant apart.

  The clock said it was five-fifteen, and my entire body suddenly ached at once. I’d been running around all day and wanted to crawl under a desk and sleep for a week, but I knew first I had to get home for six o’clock. “OK,” I said, “we’re just gonna stop off here quickly, then get dinner. No, a massive dinner.”

  We rounded the corner, and there was the Hall. It was a simple square building made of recycled concrete and ironpalm, but it had a dignity and quiet power I’d always liked. If every structure in Thronehill looked like a marker, some way for WalWa to say to the world they had come, saw and conquered the living shit out of the place, then the Hall looked and felt like a home. It was a refuge during hurricanes, a place for the neighborhood to celebrate weddings, and the site of more debates than I cared to remember. It was solid, it was safe, and, as we walked toward Koothrapalli, it was surrounded by a wall of cops. They all wore their patrol uniforms, forming a neat yellow-and-black line that blocked the way out.

  “Stay here,” I said to Banks, and approached the police. The cops were all familiar faces, women and men from the local precincts. I pinged Soni. “What’s going on?” I said when she picked up. “My money’s no good?”

  “It is,” said Soni, both in my head and in front of me. She stepped out of the row, wearing that I’m-really-not-happy smile that cops wore when they were about to arrest someone. “Can we talk?”

  I looked at Banks, then nodded. We stepped down the sidewalk.

  “What can you tell me about the body in the freezer?” she said, her voice low.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said.

  “Padma, this is not the time to joke around,” said Soni. “I had patrol over at the office on Handel and Reigert this morning to answer a call about a chemical spill, and they came back with pictures of a corpse on ice. What do you know about it?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I said. “I’m going to take care of it later.”

  Soni straightened up. “Then you do know about it.”

  “Sure. I helped put him there.”

  Soni grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, pinning me against the hood of a parked lorry. “Padma Mehta, you’re under arrest.”

  “Oh, come on!” I said as she cuffed me. “What the hell for?”

  “Murder.”

  “Soni, he was dead when we found him!”

  “Really?” said Soni, spinning me around and waving to the cops. “Because you were seen with him last evening, threatening to kill him.”

  “What? Who are we talking about?” I said.

  “Who do you think?” she said, blinking me a picture. “Evanrute Saarien.”

  It was the walk-in freezer at the Union office, and there was a body in the corner, but it wasn’t Mimi’s late husband. It was a bigger man, his hands bound and his face beaten beyond recognition. His tongue lolled out of his purpled mouth, like a dog that had choked on its owner’s lipstick. Under the blood and gore, the corpse’s suit was white.

  “I have no idea how he came to be there,” I said. “Lots of people use that office.”

  “Yes, and you were seen leaving it last night around ten,” said Soni, “about thirty minutes before Evanrute Saarien’s pai pinged a Public terminal on Reigert.”

  “Oh, you are kidding me,” I said.

  “His teeth were bashed out, his fingerprints burned off, but his DNA and pai ID match,” said Soni.

  “And you can tell from everyone else’s buffers that I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Except I don’t,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You were with a bunch of people who haven’t gotten their pais reburned. Whatever they saw can’t be used in court. I have to follow procedure and put you under arrest.

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Maybe, but it’s how it’s going to be. You want to sing along as I read you your rights?”

  “No, I already know the words,” I said, then closed my mouth. She hustled me toward a waiting bumblecar, and I blinked a text to Banks: Get out of here NOW.

  Banks gave me a small wave, just before Soni slammed the door shut.

  Chapter 14

  The cells at Santee City Jail were quite pleasant: bright colors, soft surfaces, not much crowding. It was a nice contrast from the WalWa facilities with their harsh lights, sharp corners and hidden truncheon practice. You could have turned the place into a cheap hotel if you swapped the bars for walls.

  It was still a horrible place to spend the night.

  Not that I slept much. By the time I’d gone through booking, six o’clock had come and gone, and there was no way I could convince the cops to get me a shot of Old Windswept and a candle. Well, the rum, maybe, but open flames in a jail cell? Even I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  Soni had been professional about the whole thing: marching me to the front desk, making me spit into the register, then turning off my pai with a wave of a red lightstick. That was the killer: I could’ve gotten through a long night if I’d been in contact with the outside world. Without my pai, I could do nothing but listen to the drunks trying to one up each other with their tales: about the work they’d done, about the work they planned to do, about how they Breached, about how bad they were, about how bad things were. I started drifting in and out, my head filled with horror stories about people seeing bodies getting torn open, about masked figures flitting in and out of bar fights. People were disappearing all over the city, even from the kampong, they said. Ghosts had landed on Santee, they said. The Big Three were going to abandon the planet, let us die, they said. I let it all wash over me, all the babbling and whining and whimpering, and I kept to myself on my bench.

  Though I wasn’t completely on my own.

  The Fear hissed and whispered and chuckled as I lay down, keeping my eyes shut so tight my face hurt. The Fear mocked me, called me a fool, then started to monkey with my fingers and toes, taking away the sensation in some while making the others feel like they were hooked up to tuk-tuk batteries. The Fear talked and talked as I did my best to stay calm and in control and failed. I could feel the paralysis creeping up my spine, feel the icy fingers reaching out to shut off my body and turn me into a catatonic statue. At one point, I must have curled up in a ball, because, when I clawed my way out to consciousness, I found my knees tucked under my chin and a Freeborn woman sitting at my feet.

  I looked down at her as a cloud of something awful washed over me. At first, I thought a rat had died in the cell’s air vents, but then I saw a snoring Union woman thrash around on her cot before settling down. Then the Freeborn woman coughed and shifted in her seat. The smell got worse.

  At first sniff, I thought it was the classic combination of body odor and booze, but there was an ugly sharpness to their smell, like they’d been splashed with chemical runoff. Their clothes were also spattered with bleach spots, and, as I watched, the spots spread. A thought clicked in the back of my head, and I wished I could pull up my pai’s buffer. I’d just seen something that stained like that. What was it?

  “What?” said the Freeborn woman.

  “Your clothes,” I said, clearing my throat, trying to cover up from my staring.

  “What about them?” she said, huddlin
g up on the bench. “They not good enough?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I said, shaking the cotton out of my head. “You really want to pull that class warfare crap now? When I’m in the same cell as you? What made the spots on your clothes?”

  “She did,” said the Freeborn woman, jerking a thumb at our sleeping cellie. “I was just trying to get a drink last night, and she started squawking about how my type shouldn’t have been in the bar, telling me my kind was killing her business, and how dare I try to reap what she sowed or something crazy like that.” She snorted. “Then some other Ink tries to calm her down, some skinny thing, looked like she would blow away on a breeze.”

  I cocked my head. “What then?”

  The woman nodded. “She starts talking, this real high voice, about how she’s just lost her man, and how she’s lost, and can I help her. Real pitiful, right? I was going to tell her to go away, but then these two old ladies show up, one on either side of me, right? They look even weaker than this first lady, but they grab my arms and it hurts.”

  I snorted. “You picked the wrong little old ladies to cross.”

  “Don’t I know it?” said the Freeborn woman. “I was just about to tell them to fuck off, when that one there” –she nods at the unconscious Union woman–“she grabs a bottle, smashes it on the bar like she was to cut me, and then this horrible smell just filled the place. She got a faceful of splashed rum, and the rest got on me. Ruined my clothes, would’ve got me if the stink hadn’t driven us out into the street.”

  “And then what?”

  She shrugged. “Police came, rounded us all up. She screamed some more in the bumblecar, then just passed out. Her drink caught up with her, in her gut and up her nose.”

  “Do you remember what kind of rum it was?” I asked.

  She snorted and shook her head. “The kind that was supposed to cost a lot.”

  Another skunked bottle. What the hell was the Co-Op doing with quality control? I hoped Tonggow wasn’t going to let that happen to Old Windswept. I didn’t know what I’d do if it all started to go bad...

  “–was supposed to be safer in the city,” said the Freeborn woman. “Instead, I get this abuse. I got to deal with cane rats and crops rotting on the stalk, and then I come here, and what do I get? You Inks talk about us coming to the city, getting drunk and starting fights. I work hard, I deserve to sit at a bar like anyone else.”

  “I completely agree,” I said. “And when I get out of here, I’ll make sure it happens.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “If you were someone who could do that, you wouldn’t be in here with us.”

  Soni walked into the cellblock, her patrol cap tucked into her uniform’s epaulet. Her head, like every other cop’s, was shaved to stubble. It was supposed to be intimidating, but it made her look like a freshly husked coconut. “Making friends?” she asked me.

  “I like your haircut,” I said.

  She gave me a sour look as she unlocked my cell. “One of these days, your compliments are going to get you beaten to a pulp.”

  “As long as I keep making donations to the Widows and Orphans Fund, I expect the beatings to be quick and professional.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, clanging the door open.

  “What happened?” I said. “You realized you arrested the wrong woman?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “You made bail. Look at me.”

  Soni waved a red lightstick at my face; it beeped, and the Univoice reeled off my name and Union ID number. “You’re tagged for city limits only,” said Soni. “Go on the water or into the kampong, and you’ll forfeit your bond and get locked up until trial. Plus I’ll be able to do horrible things to your head.”

  “I know how bail tags work, thanks,” I said.

  “Not from this end,” she said. “And don’t try to make another smartass remark, unless you want it to show up in court.”

  I looked at the Freeborn woman, who sat on her bench, her arms crossed. “When you get out,” I said, “you ask around this neighborhood for Padma Mehta.”

  “That you?”

  “That is,” I said. “I meant what I said about helping.”

  “You want to help?” said the woman. “You let me get a drink where I want, when I want.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You lining up future customers?” said Soni as we filed out to the front desk.

  I mimed zipping my mouth shut. She signed and buzzed us through a series of doors, each taking us into better-lighted rooms. When we entered a lobby with skylights, I figured I was almost home free. A sleepy-eyed desk sergeant handed me a clipboard and a bag of my stuff. Soni stood in front of the last door to the lobby. “Before you go, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re behind this. But you know I have to follow through on every lead, right?”

  I gave her a blank face.

  She cleared her throat. “All the same, I got pai logs that say you went to the office and stayed there all night. The signal winks in and out, and then I got Saarien arriving and staying there. What happened, Padma?”

  I crossed my arms and tapped my clamped mouth.

  Soni sighed. “We’ll be in touch.” She buzzed me through the last door into the lobby.

  Estella Tonggow sat in a chair, a smile on her inked and lined face. “Well!” she said, patting her lap with gloved hands. “I don’t think either of us thought we’d be keeping our appointment in such an interesting place.”

  “Madame Tonggow, what are you doing here?” I said, bowing and stuffing everything back in my pockets.

  “Bailing your ass out, it would seem,” she said, standing up and smoothing her skirts in one deft move. “You wouldn’t believe the size of the bond I had to post. Ridiculous. Just like the charges.”

  “My point exactly!” I said, pasting a smile on my face. “There’s no way I could have–”

  “Ah-ah-ah,” she said, holding up a hand. “You don’t say another word until we are out of here, yes?”

  I nodded and walked for the door.

  Outside, a green limousine straight out of an executive’s wet dream materialized out of the traffic and hummed to a halt in front of us. The door glided open, and Tonggow floated into the limo, leaving a trail of cinnamon and clove perfume behind her. “Let’s go for a ride, shall we?” she said. She smiled, but from the way her eyes crinkled, I knew it wasn’t a suggestion. I bowed and climbed in after her.

  The limo was austere, all spotless leather and hard edges. “I bought this off a derelict MacDonald Heavy ship,” said Tonggow as the door whispered shut. “Ugly as hell, but it drives smoothly. You can hardly tell you’re moving.”

  I looked out the window; the streets of Santee City flashed by without a hint of acceleration. “Any idea who it was meant for?”

  She shrugged. ”Someone with a massive paycheck and no taste. By the way, did you get my gift?”

  I patted the flask on my thigh pocket. “I did. Thank you.”

  She pushed the wall, and a panel clicked open. Inside was a pair of hand-blown rum tasting glasses and a fifth of Old Windswept. Tonggow cracked the cap, and the scent – oh, the heavenly scent of the rum filled the limo, sending my head swimming. The Fear ran screaming to the front of my mind, smashing against every bit of control I could muster. I swallowed, trying not to look desperate. It didn’t work, because Tonggow poured a finger in each glass and said, “Care for a drink?”

  “Not when I’m on the clock,” I said, putting my hands beneath my legs so she wouldn’t see me clench them into white-knuckled fists.

  “A good policy,” she said, knocking back her glass with one swallow. She took a quick breath in, sucking the air through her teeth. ”Oh, I will never get over that feeling. A little kick, a lot of velvet, and then the warmth. Makes me wish we had a serious winter here, just so I could appreciate it that much more.”

  “That’s why I like a bit at night,” I said. ”You sit on your lanai, you get the breeze off the ocean with that chill, and then a l
ittle bit of rum to round off the evening.”

  “Agreed,” said Tonggow, reaching for the second glass. “One of the many reasons why I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Miss Mehta. You sense a bit of the romance.”

  “A bit.”

  She took a sip, holding it in her mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. I just looked out the window again. We were in a neighborhood of new rowhouses off Cheswell Boulevard. This was striver territory, second- or third- generation Shareholders who had investing in all the non-Union and non-Co-Op parts of Santee. I’d met a few strivers in the aftermath of the last Contract; they were starry-eyed and optimistic as hell. I couldn’t stand them.

  Tonggow put down the glass, and a tiny droplet of rum splashed onto her hand. She licked it away, then said, “I’m sure you realize that every romance includes danger.”

  “Is that why we’re having this meeting in a fancy-looking armored car?” I glanced at the bottle again. It would be so easy to take a casual pour and sip. I blinked up the time: barely nine in the morning. Christ.

  “Partly,” she said, smiling. “But we’re also nicely shielded from prying eyes and ears.” She tapped her temple. “No pai signals get in or out. No tracking, no tracing. And what I’m going to talk to you about could quite likely get us killed, so it’s probably a good idea to keep it just between us.”

  I blinked away the time and looked at her. Tonggow’s face was stone, her eyes half-closed. “I’m listening.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because you’re going to have to remember this without making a recording, and I’m only going to tell you once. I know, Miss Mehta, that you didn’t make your number, that you were counting on those miners. I know you’re worried that someone else will make a bid for my distillery, and I want you to know that no one else but you is going to get her grubby hands on the place... provided you do two things for me.”

  “Whatever you say,” I said, hoping she didn’t want me to kill someone. I’d managed to avoid that for twelve years, and wasn’t in the mood to break my streak.