by Piers Platt
He disarmed the boy first, twisting the knife out of his hand and knocking him to the ground in one fluid movement. Rath held on to the boy’s knife arm, and wrenched it cruelly as he held the boy in place, face pressed to the asphalt. The boy screamed.
“Bad idea, kid,” Rath told him.
“Okay, okay, stop – you’re breaking my arm!”
“No, I’m dislocating your shoulder,” Rath corrected. “Your arm will break if I keep extending it … this way.”
“Ow! Stop! What do you want, man?”
Rath was about to let the boy go, but he stopped. “Where can I find Nicholai’s gang?” he asked.
“Who? Ain’t no Nicholai round here.”
“He used to run drugs in this neighborhood – his gang owned this territory, from 158th to Asiana Boulevard.”
“That’s Diablo territory now,” the boy told him. “I never heard of no Nicholai.”
Rath considered for a moment. “What about Despino? Ever hear that name?”
“No,” the boy said, grimacing with pain. “Wait, Despino? I know a guy named ‘Spino.’ He’s a bouncer at a strip club over on 132nd Street.”
That turned out to be a lie – there were no strip clubs on 132nd Street, and the bars on neighboring streets had never heard of anyone going by the name “Spino.” Rath considered trying to find the boy again to teach him a lesson, but figured that would be nearly as difficult as finding Nicholai had proved to be. Instead, he caught a bus back to his hotel.
Rath spent another three days searching the streets, his tired legs complaining at the prolonged abuse. He was running out of time – after the expensive flight, he only had enough money for another few nights at the budget hotel, and though he knew he could survive on the streets with no money indefinitely, he could not sleep outside in his simulator suit. Instead, he resorted to questioning more gang members – feigning weakness, luring them into an alley, and then disarming them as he had the first. His legs failed him during one confrontation, and he got a nasty cut on his arm for his trouble, but he persisted, widening his net to try to catch members of different gangs. Without fail, each claimed to have never heard of Nicholai or Despino. Then, finally, his luck turned.
The boy was in his mid-twenties, just like Rath, and freshly paroled out of prison, Rath discovered.
“Despino? I did time with a guy called Despino a few years ago,” he told Rath.
“Is he still in jail?” Rath asked.
“What do I look like, the fucking prison clerk? I don’t know, man – go check for yourself.”
Rath let him go, and then caught a bus over to the local courthouse. The first office he tried was the wrong one, but they directed him to the Records Department, where he waited in line for twenty minutes until a harried female clerk called his number. He winced at the pain in his leg as he sat down across from her.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Trying to find the criminal record for a man called Despino. He was incarcerated a few years ago; I’d like to know if he’s still there.” Rath had a private investigator cover story ready to use if she asked, but she simply turned to her computer and began searching.
“I have three records tagged with that name,” she told him curtly, turning her monitor so he could see it. “Which one?”
Rath’s target was the second on the list, convicted of armed robbery five years prior. He pointed at the screen.
“That’s him.”
“Do you want an electronic or paper copy?” she asked.
“Paper, please. Do you know where he is?” Rath asked.
“He was released a year ago. We don’t track them after they get out.”
Back out on the street, Rath found an empty bench and sat, reading through the file. Despino’s home address wasn’t included in the public record, but a parole officer was listed. Rath looked up the address for the parole officer, then headed back into the courthouse to the bathroom, where he used the Forge to make an ID card with his face and Despino’s last name. Then he rode the bus back across town.
The parole office was busy, so Rath had to wait nearly three hours until Despino’s officer had time free on his schedule. He waved Rath into his office and stifled a yawn.
“Sorry – long day. Are you one of Beale’s guys?” he asked Rath.
Rath frowned. “No …?”
“Oh. He’s another parole officer, got killed the other day, I’m supposed to be covering his parolees until they find a replacement. Never mind. What do you want?”
Rath smiled. “I just got back from a colonization contract off-planet; I was hoping you could help me find my uncle, Despino?”
“Despino? Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Rath pushed Despino’s picture across the desk. “Oh, him – yeah, he’s one of mine. But regardless, I can’t help you. I’m not supposed to give out addresses of my parolees. It’s a security thing.”
Rath looked crestfallen. “Oh, man. Not even to family? I was really hoping to find him, and surprise him – he doesn’t know I’m back.”
The parole officer sighed and sat down heavily behind his desk. “Sorry,” he shrugged. “You could be anyone. How would I know you’re his nephew, and not just some guy he owes money to?”
Rath’s eyes lit up. “We’re family, we have the same last name!” He pulled out the fake ID card and slid it across the desk. The parole officer glanced at it, then at Rath, and finally handed it back to him.
“Alright, listen: I’m not going to give you his address … but you might be able to find him at one of the bars over on thirty-eighth avenue, I think it’s called ‘The Parking Garage.’ ”
“Thanks,” Rath told him.
The bar was nearly as run-down as Rath’s hotel. A flashing neon arrow pointed to the door, with what was left of the words PARK HERE running across the building’s façade. Rath limped inside, scanning the room as he stepped through the door. A handful of patrons sat at tables around the walls, but Rath’s eye fell on a tall man sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, sipping a drink in silence. The tall man looked up when Rath came in, but gave no indication that he recognized Rath.
I remember you, Despino.
Rath walked to the end of the bar. As he passed Despino, he reached up, grabbed him by the collar of his coat, and threw him to the floor. He followed it with a savage kick to the face that sent a jolt of pain through Rath’s sore leg. He spun to face the rest of the bar’s patrons, stun pistol slowly scanning the room.
“My friend and I need to chat,” he told them. “We’d appreciate some privacy.”
Everyone hustled out the door. Despino cursed and spit out blood, so Rath shot him with a stun dart and shocked him for thirty seconds, then leaned him up against the bar stool and knelt in front of him, ignoring his protesting leg.
“That was a thirty second shock,” Rath said. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and each time you lie to me or refuse to answer, I’m going to shock you again. And each time, I’m going to add another thirty seconds. Ready to talk?”
Despino spat again, the blood staining his shirt, and fingered his broken nose. “Yes,” he said.
“Good. Where can I find Nicholai?”
“Who?”
Rath frowned, and let loose a minute’s worth of shock. He watched the timer on his heads-up display and wondered how long the bar’s owner would take to call the cops. When the minute was over, Despino threw up, narrowly missing Rath’s left knee.
“Thirteen years ago you worked as an enforcer for a drug dealer called Nicholai. Where can I find him?”
Despino held up his hands. “I’ll play ball, okay? It’s been a long time, that’s all – I didn’t remember at first. Nicholai’s been out of the game for years.”
“Where is he now?” Rath persisted.
“Good question,” Despino said. Rath held the stun pistol up, threatening another shock. “No, wait – let me finish. One day he just disappeared without a word – all the money was gone, n
o sign of him. Then about a year later, one of the boys ran into him a couple districts over, he swears it was him, but Nicholai pretended he didn’t know him. He was working in a mobile kitchen or something ridiculous like that.”
“Why would Nicholai be working in a mobile kitchen?”
“Search me,” Despino said.
“Where?” Rath asked.
“Over by the stadium, I think? I never went to check it out. That’s all I know.”
“Who found him?”
“Relaquez, I think it was,” Despino said.
“Where can I find Relaquez?”
“Jail,” Despino told him.
Rath nodded. The knife flashed in his hand, a quick cut that opened a wide slit across Despino’s throat.
“That’s for my brother.”
There was no surprise in Despino’s eyes, just fatigue and resignation. Rath had seen the same expression in the mirror all too often. He washed his hands and knife at the sink, then left the bar.
* * *
Rath didn’t bother trying to find Relaquez, he just went straight to the stadium and began searching the mobile kitchens. He found Nicholai in the third one he checked. Rath picked up a tray and stood in line with the other lower level denizens, and when it was his turn, Nicholai spooned stew into his bowl with a warm smile, just like he had for every other person in line. Rath sat and ate his stew, and then left. He found a day-old newspaper in a trash can outside, pulled it out, and sat on a stoop up the street from the kitchen, pretending to read.
Nicholai’s shift ended late in the evening, and Rath followed him as he walked nearly fifteen blocks to an apartment, which turned out to be on the tenth floor of a warehouse that now served as a night club. Rath could hear the throbbing bass of the dance music from across the street, so he assumed that it was nearly as loud up in Nicholai’s apartment. The apartment entrance had a rudimentary keypad lock, so after Nicholai entered, Rath switched to thermal vision and inspected the keypad – the numbers two, five, eight, and nine still had some residual heat from Nicholai’s finger. Rath figured out the correct sequence on the third try. Then he went back to his hotel to sleep.
He had expected sleep to come easier with Despino dead, Nicholai located, and the end in sight, but he dreamed as always, and woke shouting in alarm in the middle of the night. He tried to go back to sleep but found he could not, whether because of the fear of dreaming, or nervous anticipation for the next night’s activities, he was not sure. Instead he sat watching the nighttime activities of the street through his hotel window, and when the dawn came, napped for a brief while in the chair, his head leaning against the glass.
In the afternoon, he spent some time in the simulator with Rebecca. She noticed he seemed more distant than normal, and asked if everything was alright. He felt a pang of regret as he packed up the simulator kit for the last time – he had not said goodbye to her. In the evening, Rath took an air taxi to the upper levels, and ate at the steakhouse the detective had taken him to on the day he was first recruited. The food was not as good as he had remembered. Rath caught a final taxi ride back down to the lower levels.
The sun had recently set, but the night club was already thumping with music when he stepped out of the cab. Rath walked straight to the apartment entrance and keyed in the code, then took the elevator up to the tenth floor. There were four apartments, and Rath realized he didn’t know which was Nicholai’s, so he took note of the locking mechanism on the apartment doors, and then rode the elevator back down to the lobby to search the mail boxes. Two were empty, but the junk mail in the third and fourth suggested they were both elderly women. Rath used his Forge to build a small lock-picking device and an empty cardboard box, and then he placed the device into the box and rode back up to the tenth floor.
He went to the apartment of one of the women first, ringing the bell and stepping back. The camera over the door zoomed in on his face.
“Yes?” the intercom inquired, after a moment.
“Hi.” Rath smiled at the camera. “One of my coworkers from the mobile kitchen lives here, I’m just dropping this package off for him while he’s at work. Do you mind telling me where he lives? He just told me the tenth floor, but not which apartment. We call him Nicholai at work.”
“Don’t know a Nicholai, sorry.” Rath heard the intercom turn off. He pushed the bell again and waited.
“What?”
“Sorry.” Rath smiled sheepishly. “It’s just, I have to get back to my daughter, she’s with the babysitter, and I don’t want to leave this by the wrong door. He’s a middle-aged guy, brown hair and beard?”
“10C,” the voice told him.
“Thanks,” Rath said.
He walked down the hall, put the box down on the floor, and knelt by the door to 10C. He took the device out of the box and set it over the fingerprint scanner by the door handle, and then waited while it went to work. It took just under four minutes to simulate a valid fingerprint, and open the lock. Rath heard the deadbolt slide back. He stuffed the machine back inside the box, turned the handle, and pushed the door open.
Rath froze in the doorframe, cardboard box under his arm. An elderly woman and two small children were staring at him from the apartment’s kitchen, surprised and confused.
Shit. Did that woman give me the wrong apartment?
Rath stepped inside the apartment and quickly closed the door behind him. The woman was still assessing him, but he could see the alarm spreading over her face, so he shifted his coat to show the stun pistol in its holster, and put a finger to his lips. One of the children, a girl, asked her a question.
Rath accessed his translator program and called up a phonetic translation.
“I’m not going to harm you or the children,” Rath read from the display. “Why don’t you give me your phone, and then take them into the living room and watch a little TV?”
The woman nodded, placing a holophone on the counter and then hustling the children out of the kitchen. Rath pulled the battery out of the phone and then followed. He saw them take seats on the couch and turn on a viewscreen, so he hurried to check the rest of the cramped apartment. He found two bedrooms – one that was clearly the children’s room – and a single bathroom, but no other people. He went back to the living room.
“Who else lives here?” he asked the woman.
Rath frowned. “Which apartment does Nicholai live in? Middle-aged man, he has a beard and brown hair?”
, she told him.
Rath sighed. Fucking wrong apartment.
He turned to leave, but as he did, he caught sight of a pair of boots by the front door – work boots, a man’s boots. He changed course and looked into the children’s room again, noting this time that there was an adult-sized spare mattress tucked behind their bunk bed. Rath ducked into the bathroom, and pulled open the mirror over the sink, where he found men’s shaving cream and a disposable razor. Rath picked them up and put them on the coffee table in front of the old woman.
“I’m going to wait here,” he told her, “Until he comes back.”
She looked up from the shaving kit, glaring at him.
Rath ignored her and walked back to the kitchen, where he took a seat behind the front door, stun pistol in his lap. The old woman began to cry.
* * *
Rath heard the deadbolt click back, and a man walked through the door. The old woman shouted a warning, but Rath was already on his feet, slamming the door and holding the pistol to Nicholai’s head. Nicholai stayed stock still while Rath frisked him, one-handed.
“Whatever you want, you can take,” Nicholai told him, his voice quiet.
“I’m going to,” Rath assured him.
“Just please don’t hurt Mrs. Wen or
her grandchildren,” Nicholai said.
“Mrs. Wen, listen to me,” Rath called in Mandarin. “I’m taking this man with me, along with your phone. I’m attaching a motion-sensitive grenade to the door – if you try to open the door, it will explode and kill you and your grandchildren. It will deactivate itself in one hour. So please, stay away from the door for the next hour. Do you understand?”
She sobbed, but nodded assent.
“What are you doing?” Nicholai asked, watching Rath set the grenade in place.
“Ensuring we have privacy for a little while,” Rath replied. He checked that the grenade was set to Stun, and then activated the motion-sensor on a ten second delay. Next he opened the door and pushed Nicholai back out into the hallway, locking the door behind them.
“Will that explode if they try to open the door?” Nicholai persisted.
Rath motioned toward the end of the corridor. “Relax, it’s only a stun grenade. I don’t kill innocent people,” Rath assured him.
“But you do kill people,” Nicholai observed. “How do you know who is innocent, and who is not?” Nicholai asked, pushing open the door to the fire stairs.
“Up,” Rath directed, ignoring the question.
Someone had planted a small kitchen garden on the building’s roof, but otherwise it was deserted. Rath could hear the street traffic rushing by below, and the music from the club, still pounding. It was a hot, windless night, the air moist and heavy with the feel of a storm brewing. Rath pointed to the front edge of the building, keeping the pistol pointed at Nicholai. Nicholai obediently walked over and stood with his back to the low wall, hands held out from his sides.
“You can put your hands down,” Rath told him. Nicholai did so. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“Revenge,” Nicholai said.
“So you remember me?” Rath asked.