Division Zero: Lex De Mortuis

by Matthew S. Cox

  A dry rasping chuckle settled through the entire floor, thinning Kirsten’s blood. It had no focus, no direction, reverberating from everywhere. Then she saw it―a shadow crept along the far side of the room between columns and patches of still-standing wall. Large, like Nicole said, maybe seven feet tall. Malice replaced the fear in the air.

  Something hated her.

  Nicole screamed. Kirsten whirled, finding her friend staring aghast at Dorian. He had moved closer, six feet away from the edge of the silver circle. His hair shifted as if wind blew through it; faint transparency meant he was visible.

  Pain.

  Kirsten howled, losing her E-90 and falling on all fours. Someone had poured gasoline on her back and lit it. No, someone shot her with a laser. No, burning iron spikes had rammed themselves into her kidneys and twisted. She scrabbled at the ground, crawling forward. Her knee bumped the weapon, she remembered it, and put one hand on it. Cold sweat, the pain in her back increased to the point it did not hurt anymore.

  Blue dots glowed in the dark, the holographic gunsight drifted side to side in her trembling grasp. Nicole slid to a halt behind her, weapon out as well. Kirsten caught her breath and got angrier. Standing with Nicole’s help, she stowed the weapon and forced her eyes into the astral world. Her left arm was tucked against her chest, paralyzed from the pain all along that side of her body. If not for Nicole holding her up, she would have fallen. The lash unfurled to the floor from her right hand. Kirsten squinted at the darkness. Shadows slid across the ground as if the moon fast-forwarded across the sky. The mood lightened. Wind no longer made the slightest sound.

  Whatever it was had left, and taken fear with it.

  “Holy shit, that noodly thing is so pretty.” Nicole, back to her old self, shook her shoulder. “Are you okay? What was that scream?”

  Kirsten relaxed her mind; the lash evaporated, her eyes returned to the mortal world. “I don’t know.” She swooned off her feet.

  Nicole held on, easing her to sit on a toppled filing cabinet. She grunted. The pain returned, weaker this time, as though someone held a single candle too close to her back. Dorian jogged over, shaking his head.

  “I saw something move. It came out from behind the post, shot over to you, and went back so fast it was a blur.”

  “Wraith? Maybe it’s pissed off I got its little brother.” She grimaced. “Dammit, my back is burning.”

  Nicole pulled Kirsten’s shirt out of her pants, and gasped. The helmet-mounted tactical lights turned Kirsten’s back luminous, the color of new fallen snow. Kirsten’s armband chimed. Email from Nicole.

  “Look at that… And damn, girl, get some sun.”

  Kirsten glanced up at her friend, and then opened the message. A photo of her from behind, milk-white skin marred red by three vertical scratches about six inches long over the left kidney. The skin was welted, angry and red, looking every bit as hot as it felt. It did not bleed much, the depth little different from what one might expect from a petulant housecat.

  “Just a scratch.” Nicole patted her on the shoulder. “The way you screamed I thought you’d been stabbed.”

  Kirsten shuddered as she forced herself to sit up straight. “It hurts a shitload more than it looks. You like peeking into my head, check this bad boy out.”

  Dorian chuckled. “I wouldn’t recommend you do that.”

  “Yeah.” Nicole shook her head. “I won… What the fuck? Did I just hear Dorian again?”

  “Hey, Dorian… Help me out here?” grunted Kirsten.

  He stooped and put a hand into her back through the wound.

  “Ahh.” She closed her eyes. “Nice and cold.”

  “Sergeant Icepack, reporting for duty.” He saluted with his other hand, then got serious. “I feel something. There’s a taint in the wound.”

  Nicole, feeling helpful, applied a stimpak to her friend.

  Kirsten belted out every known swear word, and made a few new ones up on the spot. The scratches faded away and came back, in a repeating cycle resembling strips of bacon floating in milk. When it stopped, the marks remained as before. She could not help but cry from how bad that hurt.

  “Maybe you need a priest?” Dorian cocked a grin.

  A minute or so later, she unclenched her jaw enough to speak. “Priest my ass. That’s all mind over matter stuff. Only works if you believe it, and you know my opinion.”

  “I’m not sure you know your opinion anymore.” He put his hand back into the wound.

  “This is kinda freaky.” Nicole giggled. “I’m not astrally sensitive. I shouldn’t be hearing him. I’m gonna go take pictures and stuff of the weird silver crap.”

  Out. Kirsten closed her eyes. Get out of me. Whatever you are, get out of me.

  Kirsten focused her psionic energy inward, searching for a trace of any presence. This was a new experience. Something had left dark energy behind. The miasma felt slimy, unclean. Just like the crazy doctor’s dominion over the door at the asylum.

  Out! She demanded, her mind-voice screaming at the top of its non-lungs.

  She pictured her energy wrapping around a thing that squirmed and fought back. Pain plucked at her back as though scabs peeled out of the claw marks. She clenched the psionic fist and crushed, pulled. A flash of pain came on as if someone ripped a strip of duct tape away from her skin, followed by a sense of a tiny oblivion. Kirsten’s eyes snapped open, she lurched forward and grabbed a charred column, panting.

  Cool air over her back reminded her of three scratches.

  After a few breaths, she straightened up and slipped a stimpak out of her belt case. Thumbnail flicked the yellow safety cap off the end.

  Dorian’s hand moved to her shoulder. “You sure you want to do that to yourself again?”

  “Yeah.” She eyed the shiny metal tip. “Don’t want it to get infected.”

  ity Road 1804 and Morris Avenue showed as the property of Kukla Investments, LTD, after purchase via government auction seven months ago. The original owner, Westmoreland Properties, lost it amid a legal battle involving unpaid insurance premiums and a tax snarl. Kukla got a hold of it for about a hundredth of its value.

  Kirsten tapped her fingers on the side of her head; two coffees and a strawberry-filled crepe had almost cured the memory of the horrible pain. The financials had the appearance of some kind of fraud, but she could not put it together. Westmoreland collected no money on the deal, not to mention being under lawsuit for back taxes. Kukla bought it from the government at a price so cheap it verged on criminal, but had done not a damn thing with it since they acquired it. Surprising, since no one else even bid at the auction. After licking a bit of strawberry from the rim of her cup, she drained the last of the now-tepid brew.

  “Any luck?” Nicole slid her chair over.

  Seeing Nicole act like a normal person and not a sugared-up tween worried Kirsten. “You okay? You seem a bit off.”

  “I guess I’m still a bit scared. I kind of felt something follow us out of there.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” said Dorian.

  Nicole did not bat an eyelash at his voice. That felt normal enough to let Kirsten smile.

  “Dorian didn’t see anything,” she whispered. “Please don’t go yakking about him. Even here, talking about ghosts can get you looked at weird.”

  “I believe you… I mean, before an hour ago I…” Head scratching and a forced grin changed the subject. “Got some info on the hamburger.”

  “Lunch?”

  Dorian rolled his eyes. “I believe she means the victims of the demolition work.”

  “Oh. Good, I’m sick and tired of chasing an accounting trail. It looks so suspicious but makes no sense.”

  “What does?”

  “Place goes boom. Owner has no insurance, so no one is willing to pay for the repairs. Tenants leave, holding company can’t pay taxes, government takes the building and sells it at auction. Only one outfit bids on it, not a single other person or business tries. They get it at bare mini
mum, but then do nothing with it.” She waved at the screen. “They just let it sit there.”

  “That’s weird,” Nicole said with a nod of finality, as if her statement answered everything.

  That’s why you’re tactical, sweetie.

  Kirsten reclined, breathing warm coffee-air through icy fingers. “Maybe they wanted to do something with the property but the proximity to the grey zone scared off potential tenants?”

  “I bet people got freaked out by the hit squad.”

  Wow, that almost sounded useful. “What hit squad?”

  Nicole kicked off Kirsten’s desk, gliding back to her own. A second later, Kirsten’s chair propelled itself to join her. The unexpected motion caused a yelp and flailing arms, then a glower.

  Kirsten stalled her acceleration with two hands on Nicole’s desk, squinting. “Little warning, please.”

  “Check this out.” Nicole pointed. “Forensics went over the scene for more than two hundred work-hours. They managed to piece together a grand total of four point two victims.”

  “Point two?”

  “That must have been a big bomb.” Dorian grinned.

  “DNA said dog.” Nicole sighed. “Poor thing.” Her sadness evaporated with the next intense thought to enter her mind. “Four people, three of which they traced back to the employ of the Lyris Corporation. Seems like they were enforcers or assassins or something.” Nicole sniffed. “Is that strawberry?”

  “The crepes. You don’t remember?”

  “Oh, right. I was too freaked to eat.” She turned away from the terminal and flipped out her NetMini to order food.

  “What about the enforcers?”

  “Oh. Yeah. There were three of them, plus the poor shithead they were sent to kill. Their leader went by the name Seneschal. Guess that’s a nickname or something. Who names their kid that?”

  The image of a man in his later thirties with mixed Asian-white features filled her screen. Black hair slicked tight to his head, sunglasses, a high-necked black wool trenchcoat.

  Kirsten studied him. “Call sign, maybe? Was he military? Kinda looks it. Has cold eyes.”

  Nicole picked through the file. “Dalton Chen, according to their HR department. Not much info on his background, I couldn’t find a face match in any military records. Lyris records have him as that team’s squad leader, with the official title of ‘issue resolution manager.’”

  “Sometimes they don’t even try to hide it,” said Dorian.

  “Next guy called himself Icarus; his real name was Michael Coley.”

  The screen shifted, a muscular black man, early thirties, appeared. A thick mass of dreadlocks cascaded over the shoulders of a shiny black coat. His eyes hid behind wraparound silver glasses, though he wore enough of a confident grin for Kirsten to guess the look he gave the camera.

  “This guy was ex-military. Had some infantry training; his record has a lot of transfers in and out of auxiliary logistics, whatever that is.”

  Dorian looked up. “Covert ops would be my guess. He’s probably the one that set up the demolition charges.”

  “Dorian says he might be covert ops.”

  “Good thing he’s already dead; he could be dangerous.” Nicole flashed a cheesy grin. “Okay, so we got a question mark and a military assassin. You’re gonna love the last one.”

  “Dare I ask?” Kirsten stretched.

  The face of a twenty-something Asian woman appeared, staring at the camera as if she plotted six different ways to kill it in the span of two seconds. Something about the look made Kirsten uneasy, as if the eyes had no soul behind them.

  “She looks deader than I feel,” said Dorian.

  “Mariko Moriyama. Could be a trade from a Japanese company to Lyris Corporation. Says she was a ninja.” Nicole waved her arms in a mock of martial arts so feeble even Kirsten felt skilled by comparison.

  “You know they still use them.” Kirsten mourned her empty coffee cup. “Real crap storm, if you ask me. Corporations over there just kill each other out in the open, it’s all ritualized and legal somehow. I don’t understand it.”

  “It’s all about honor, prestige, and profit,” added Dorian.

  “Okay. Remind me never to go there.” Nicole jumped when her NetMini chimed. “Crap, food’s here. Be right back.”

  Kirsten scooted back to her terminal, poring over the financials as Nicole ran off. She poked around a bit more to no avail, and then placed a vid call. Within a moment, the bust of a bland-looking man with eastern European features floated atop her desk.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, I’m Agent Wren of the Division 0 police, West City. I have some questions about a property your company owns. The building at CR 1804 and Morris Ave. It is a high-rise office tower, involved in an incident a few months ago.”

  His face remained unreadable. “Kukla Investments owns many properties in both cities. We primarily hold titles while leaving the management of each facility to local entities on a contractual basis. We are a financial services company, and do not deal with the day-to-days.”

  “I see.” She swiped her hand through holograms, changing files. “Can you tell me what local entity handles this address, please? It’s a bit odd to me that only Kukla submitted a bid on it, and nothing has been done with it yet. The damage from the explosion has not even been fixed.”

  “Please hold one moment.”

  The floating head turned into a shifting geometric screensaver. Kirsten drummed her fingers on the desk, staring over the top of blue cubes and catching Morelli giving her the evil eye. Kirsten stretched her arms up, enjoying the shuddering release of tension, and picked at her eye with a middle finger. He squinted and sank back over his desk, averting his gaze. When the blue cubes exploded into individual pixels that reformed into the man from Kukla, she raised her eyebrows a little―just enough to say she expected a smokescreen answer.

  “Agent Wren. According to my research, the property is currently on retainer to a holovid production agency planning to use it in the recording of a big-budget feature. The blown-out floor is ideal for their needs. Renovations are scheduled to begin once filming is complete. Unfortunately, I do not have specific dates.”

  Crap, that sounds almost plausible. “I see. I don’t suppose you have any idea why no one else bid on the place?”

  “Miss Wren, you seem like a nice enough young woman. Are you naïve to the point of believing government auctions are above manipulation?”

  “You admit you fixed the sale? A bribe?”

  “I admit no such thing. I merely suggest certain parties who may convey the appearance of being beyond reproach might in fact be far from such a state. It may also be that the mechanism of action by which the building’s fall into government ownership came about―an assassination if I must be so indelicate―frightened other investors away. Of course, there is always its proximity to an undesirable patch of real estate. A… what is the term… seraya zona, I believe you call it?”

  The words Detected Russian: grey zone scrolled across the lower edge of the terminal.

  Crap squared. Well, this was a wild goose chase. “Yes. All right, that does make sense. Thank you for your time, sorry to bother you.”

  “Always a pleasure to help the authorities.”

  Kirsten leaned back in her chair, rubbing the frustration out of her eyes. The suit made sense on the surface, but the answers came too fast, without hesitation, scripted. Something was not adding up.

  Nicole glided by, returning to her seat. A small cup of coffee floated away from her bundle of plastic bags and landed in front of Kirsten.

  “Saw you looking at your empty like you wanted to tongue kiss it.” Nicole winked.

  Slurp. Strawberry latte, just what she had been thinking about.

  She sent a dire look at the back of Nicole’s head as she started on what appeared to be salmon on a salad. The girl had boundary issues with skimming surface thoughts. After a moment, Kirsten sighed; anger never quite formed
at her friend. Are you that desperate to endear yourself to everyone? The thought came without thinking. Kirsten cringed, regretting it right away, but then relaxed. Even master telepaths could not eavesdrop without looking at someone. Despite having two living and loving parents, the divorce had not been easy on Nicole.

  “Thanks, it’s just what I wanted.” Kirsten kicked off, rolling her chair alongside the other desk. “Did you find anything about their target?”

  “Mmm?” Nicole turned with a fork in her mouth, blinking. She removed it, chewed twice, and swallowed. “Uhh”―blushing―“you’re welcome.” Nicole cringed.

  Kirsten patted her on the arm. “It’s okay.”

  “Yeah.” The redhead let the fork fall into the salad. “I did. Sorry for peeking.”

  “It’s okay; I should just accept it by now. Oh, the maître’d at Grimaldi’s carded me.”

  Nicole giggled, a mood change on a dime. Kirsten embellished the story of her rotten date, making Armando/Brian/Douchebag sound like Armando/Brian/Asshole. A few minutes, and most of the salad later, Nicole unlocked her terminal and the face of a twenty-something Indian man appeared.

  Short hair, straight and neat, framed a face mixed with confidence and paranoia. The image shifted to profile, making his protruding nose seem bigger. Text scrolled in on the adjacent panel: empty criminal record, a few traffic citations, and a few minor cyberspace infractions.

  Nicole mumbled through a mouthful of lettuce. “Vikram Medhi, twenty-four. He graduated from Victoria University with a bachelor’s in virtual security construct design and counter-intrusion. According to this, he worked for Unicostal as a network protection agent.”

  “He had to be moonlighting,” said Dorian. “Hit squads don’t usually make a habit of going after defensemen.”

  Kirsten slouched. “Could be.”

  “He did work for Uni”―Nicole glanced at the empty desk―“oh, you were talking to…”

  She reached over Nicole’s arm, pawing through a few screens of holographic text. “The crime scene techs had a theory that Vikram had been in cyberspace for some hours prior to the detonation, and a dead-man switch triggered when they assassinated him.”