by Lyn Forester
He freezes, finger next to the disconnect button. “How unusual?”
Carmichael has two weaknesses I’ve ferreted out over the years. Fine tea and Earth relics. I’d hoped to keep this for one of my bigger fuckups. Drake better be serious about his contacts in the black market. “Have you ever heard of the game Ball-In-Cup?”
Carmichael’s shoulders drop, his chin jutting out with eagerness as he leans forward. His face fills the small screen of my palm-port, and his eyes blink at me for a moment before he regains control of himself. He forces a casual tone. “I might know about it.”
“The yellow paint caught my attention. Barely any chips.”
He twitches with excitement. “I’d like the name of this store.”
“They only had one.” I sigh with quiet regret. “Oh. But isn’t your birthday coming up, Medic Carmichael?”
“Why, yes it is, Investigator Thorpe.”
“We should celebrate, when you’re free.” I keep the victory off my face. It’s rude to gloat. “About that wine. How soon can you have it tested?”
“I should have the results tomorrow night, no later than Quarter-Light.”
Longer than I’d like, but I can’t rush the machines. I glance up at my monitor as the images come to a stop. “A pleasure, Medic Carmichael. I look forward to our next conversation.”
I end the call before he can say more and focus on the new search results I ran for the one and a half-mile radius on the levels above and below The Hut and Penned. Owned by cousins, the two shops butt up to one another. Whoever had the technology to black out cameras in the area didn’t do it citywide every time. Two cycles ago, a personal surveillance camera caught a truck with Henly’s logo leaving a warehouse on Level 5.
Excitement pings through me as I pull up Drake’s contact info and dial. On the other end, the line pushes to his message box. “Drake, I have a lead. Found one of those delivery trucks Henly told us about. Call me back.”
Irritated, I disconnect and check the time. Almost the end of Half-Light. Star-Light, when the streetlights turn off and the level’s only illumination comes from the holo-stars projected overhead, would be the ideal time to stake out the place. Which means I need to leave soon to get down there. Already, I’ll have to make use of the Blue Hall elevators to bypass the nighttime congestion at the Central lifts.
Foot tapping, I go back to work on Henly’s datband, but it’s hard to focus.
Twenty minutes later, I call again. Message box.
“Drake, meet me on Level 5. I’m following a lead. My tracker will lead you the rest of the way.”
~
From my place on a fire escape across the street, the suspected building remains dark. Zero activity. When I first arrived, I took a quick lap through the neighboring alley, locating bay doors at the back large enough to drive a box truck through. Then I parked myself up in a corner, out of sight, but with a good vantage point.
The time on my palm-port says I have five minutes until Lights-Out. Still no sign of Drake. I double-check that my tracker is active and call him one more time. Message box. I hang up, shoot off a quick message, and return the palm-port to the safety of my inside jacket pocket.
If that asshole is off getting laid, I’ll throttle him.
From my satchel, I dig out my pair of night goggles as I prepare for the holo-sky to shut off. Night goggles, which allow me to see in pitch black, are a survival must. Once the level goes dark, the streets become pirate territory. Decent people stay inside. The rest of us tread lightly and carry psy-guns at the ready.
Overhead, the holo-sky clicks as the octagon panels wind down. The stars fade fast as I fit the night goggles over my face. Shades of green wash over the world.
I stand and check the psy-gun between my shoulder blades. With a couple adjustments to the satchel at my hip, I lash it to my body, allowing me free range of motion without the risk of it getting in my way. I’d like to leave it behind, but I might need one of the gadgets inside.
A quick scan verifies the street is empty. Silent, I slide down the fire escape and hop the last few feet to the ground. Twelve steps across the street, fully exposed, then into the alley. A smaller entrance next to the bay doors offers the best entry point, but has a high risk of discovery. On the second story, a window winks in invitation. More difficult to access, but it has a smaller chance of setting off an alarm. Low-budget security companies cut corners once they move up from the ground floor. Frequently, the windows are left alone since clients want to open and close them at will without the need to deactivate the system. Convenience makes people sloppy, and windows become the friends of burglars.
I run my fingers along the rough wall and find my first handhold. On tiptoes, I search for another crack to wedge my fingers into. Next, a toehold. Then it’s just a matter of step and repeat until I reach the small window one story up. I peek inside to find a dark office. No immediate signs of an alarm, but I take the time to check for wires anyway. My heart pounds, and I take deep, even breaths to calm it. Every second that I cling to the outer wall is a chance someone will walk through the alley and spot me. But sweaty palms and panic won’t hurry the situation along.
With every breath in, I spool the anxiety into a box in the back of my mind until my heartbeat evens out once more. I spot the thin wire next to the latch a moment later. It shines faintly, zero effort made to conceal it. A simple alert system. A kink forms at the end where impatient fingers have already bent it out of the way and didn’t quite get it reattached.
High likelihood it’s not even active, but I can’t take the chance.
I release the wall with one hand to dangle from three points as I reach into my satchel for a thin sliver of metal. It slides between the casings next to the latch. With little effort, I nudge the thin wire until it follows the pre-existing kink. Breath held, I wait for the sound of an alarm. After a moment, I release the pent up air and slide my metal tool next to the latch to pop it open.
On a higher level, with better construction materials, this wouldn’t even be an option. Thank goodness for old buildings.
The window sticks as I push it open. Too many layers of paint and a poor moisture barrier have warped the frame. I ease my weight to a better angle, half support my body on the window ledge, and jimmy it wider.
When it sticks again, refusing to go further, I take the chance and wiggle inside. The small opening scrapes against my shoulders and ass, catches at my satchel, before releasing me inside. Careful, I ease onto the floor next to a desk and tug the window closed. I reposition the wire, just in case someone comes to check on the room.
The office, looking small now that I’m inside, contains only a desk and chair. No desk-port, no bookcase, no lamp. I ease the single drawer open to find it empty. Maybe the room isn’t in use at the moment. It has an empty feel to it. Musty, with a hint of mildew. Like it’s been closed up and left forgotten.
I crouch to run a hand over the carpet, fingers sliding through years of dust buildup. No one uses this part of the building.
As I creep toward the door, dust sifts through the air. It rises to tickle against my nose. My eyes sting with the need to sneeze, and my nose waters. My sense of smell deadens, leaving me to feel half blind. I wipe my nose with my sleeve as I crack the door open onto a dark hallway and peer out. Black rectangles dot the wall. More doorways.
I stand and step out into the hall, body tight against the wall to limit my tracks. The soft carpet cushions my footfalls but if someone checks, my passage through here will be obvious. No way to avoid it.
At the next doorway, the texture of the floor changes, the carpet darker. The night goggles wash it all out, but I can see well enough to know I’m not the first person to have come this way recently. Along the wall, in the same path I follow, a larger set of feet has already stirred up the dust. I scrub a hand under my watery nose to fight back a sneeze as I study the tracks.
How soon after the first person have I arrived? The path is fresh enough t
hat new dust hasn’t had time to settle, so within the last twenty-four hours. But it could be fewer than that.
I pause in consideration. No one entered from the back alley after I took up surveillance. Were they already inside and waiting for Lights-Out like I was?
Cautious of running into an actual burglar, I make sure my emergency psy-gun is unencumbered at my wrist before I pull the one from between my shoulder blades. The cool metal brings with it a false sense of comfort. A weapon is only as good as my ability to be the first to use it.
At the end of the hall, the footprints lead to a door lined in soft light. I crouch next to it, tug the night goggles down to dangle around my neck, and hold my breath to listen. No shuffle of feet, no restless swish of cloth against cloth.
Slowly, I pull the lever handle down to ease the door open. No shouts of alarm. I push it to make a gap large enough to ease through onto a concrete catwalk. Only a few feet wide, a metal railing lines the platform’s outer edge. It overlooks a large open space below. When I crawl closer to the edge, I spot the gray delivery truck parked at the center. Empty tables line one side, with crates beside them. No personnel in sight.
I roll onto my back to peer up at the underside of another catwalk. With a roll of my head, I locate the stairs. Thin metal, out in the open. I’ll be exposed for thirty-six steps, up or down.
My fingers drum against my stomach for a moment. Do I go check what’s in the crates or go up another story in search of a desk-port? Down, and I could be trapped if someone comes. Up, equally trapped.
This is when a partner would come in handy. Stupid asshole Drake, flaking out just when he would come in handy.
I roll to my feet, and with smooth steps, I approach the staircase. When I ease a foot onto the bottom step, I’m grateful it doesn’t creak beneath my weight. Psy-gun ready, I walk up backwards, aim on the top step in case someone is up there already. The number of steps counts down in my head as I make it to the top without incident.
It makes me itchy. How easy this is so far.
If the Ash distributor uses this warehouse for his product, where are the guards? Hired muscle should swarm the place.
Only one door leads off the upper catwalk. A little plaque on the door, empty of nameplate, would be the old management office. I press an ear to the faux wood, cold against my skin, and hear a quiet hum from the other side. Computers. When I reach for the latch, it resists my effort to push it down.
Locked.
Crouching, I investigate the keyhole. Super simple. These people need to go back to criminal school. It takes five seconds to pick; I spend more time looking for an alarm that doesn’t exist.
I push the door open and slip inside. A quick sweep of the empty room, and I holster my psy-gun as I close the door, twisting the lock. A desk-port glows from a table pushed against the right wall. It illuminates the room enough to make out a crate next to it. Another dark doorway, inset into the back wall, should lead to a storage room.
My fingers itch as I sidle up to the desk-port. I tap on the screen to bring it to life. Password protected. I could hack it, but with security as shoddy as it’s been around the rest of the building, I get the impression I won’t need to bother. A quick search of the desk, and my fingers snag on a piece of plastic shoved between the tabletop and leg. When I pull it free, I find a single word written on it.
With a smile, I tap it into the desk-port, and the welcome sign splashes across the screen. I dig out the modded palm-port from my bag, attach it to the other device, and set it to create a mirror of the system.
While it works away, I move to the crate. Heavy metal latches lock down the lid, simple flip locks that don’t require a key. I snap them up and push the top open. The light from the desk-port isn’t bright enough to shine inside. I pull my everyday palm-port out of my pocket and thumb on the screen to give me extra light.
Stacks of dark fabric sit at the top. When I lift one, I discover it’s a delivery uniform. I dig deeper until an emblem on the breast pocket of one catches my attention. The symbol for the rim’s transportation conductors. Next to it, a shiny, black hat reflects back the light of my palm-port. I snap a picture of them for my records. If they have uniforms for all the major transport areas in the city, then that’s how they’ve been able to move the Ash between levels.
I refold the clothes and lock the container back up. In the desk drawers, I find a paper logbook. When I flip it open, I find pages filled with list of dates and times. Dozens of pictures later, I replace the book and return my palm-port to my pocket. On the desk, my other device flashes as it completes the copy.
Securing it back in my satchel, I relock the desk-port and put it back into sleep mode. My attention turns to the possible storage room at the back. I unholster my psy-gun once more as I venture toward it to crack open the door. A familiar scent makes its way past my dust-clogged nose. Pepper. Once more, I fight back the urge to sneeze.
Another scrub under my nose, and the sour tang of cherries comes through. I freeze, nostrils flaring, hand still on the lever. Uncertain, my fingers uncurl from the handle as I toe the door open wider, psy-gun leveled at chest height.
The scent increases as I peer inside.
A large window at the back gapes like a black hole onto darkness. The dim light from the desk-port stops long before it can be of use in this new area. Instinct says run—a primal urge that shakes my knees.
Licking dry lips, dust coats my tongue. I roll back onto my heel, moving back a step, and a figure lunges toward me.
My psy-gun fires. The figure ducks low, out of range, and sweeps in fast, too close for another shot. An arm slams down over my elbow, the impact ringing through my bones, and the weapon falls from my slack fingers.
I continue my backwards step into a crouch, leg sweeping out. The shadowed figure avoids the attack, all liquid grace as he leaps out of range. It’s a man, a large one. Broad shouldered and narrow hipped. I catch a brief impression of dark, shaggy hair before his body blocks the light from the desk-port.
He surges forward as I spring back to my feet, right arm flicking out to trigger my secret weapon. Hard fingers curl around my wrist, over my datband, as he slams me against the wall. My head snaps forward into his chin, and I see stars as his grip loosens for a second. Then a hard fist drives into my stomach, and I double over as air rushes out of me.
“Easy,” a warm voice whispers as I try to refill my lungs. His body crowds against mine to support my weight. “Don’t pass out.”
“You punch like a human.” I wheeze as I clutch his shirt in my fists.
“You’re slower in a fight.” Breath ruffles the top of my bent head. “Thought maybe you’d gone soft.”
“Fuck you. My skills are awesome.” My lungs inflate with the warm scent of pepper and burning leaves, the sour tang of cherry. For a moment, I allow myself to luxuriate in his scent. I missed this so much. Mouth open, I drag more of it in, recommitting it to memory. At last, I force myself to lean away, head against the wall. “What are you doing here, March?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Tuesday.”
“That’s not my name.”
“What do you go by these days? You’re not Raine Condon anymore.” His head ducks, warm air ruffling next to my ear.
A shiver rolls through my body, pleasure and heat from being so close to him. I shove the emotion away, into a box where it can’t affect me.
His grip on my arm tightens as he gives me a small shake. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I need my psy-gun and some distance between us. As I strain against his pureblood halion strength, my arm quivers but stays put.
He pushes hair away from my forehead with one hand, the motion casual as if it hasn’t been five years since I robbed his boss and fled the city. “Are you alone here?”
I try to duck away from his touch. “Are you?”
“Tammy’s with me.” His fingers tighten around my wrist, pressing the datband into my skin as h
e leans his forehead against mine. “I’m mad at you.”
I blink into the dark, wishing I could see his eyes. “Are you going to take me back?”
“I should.” His head turns toward the outer door, body tensing against mine. “Someone’s coming.”
He steps back, fingers still clamped around my wrist, and pulls me toward the back room. My toe taps against my psy-gun as we pass, and it spins across the floor.
As the storage room door closes with us inside, darkness surrounds us. A moment later, light floods around the seam of the door as someone turns on the light in the outer office.
“You sure you heard something from in here?” The deep rumble pings a memory as March and I back away from the door, toward the window at the back.
“Thought I did, but everything looks fine.” Shuffles sound as two men enter.
March pushes me back faster until we press up against the outer wall. With one hand, he unlocks the window and yanks it open. It creaks as it sticks in the frame before opening all the way.
“Did you hear something?” The first voice moves closer.
“Hey, what’s this?”
“What you got there?”
March’s hand slides from my wrist to my hand, and he moves it back in a flicking motion. My secret psy-gun pops out in a flash of white light. He catches it midair.
“What are you doing?” I hiss as his other hand moves to the center of my chest, over my thundering heart.
“Try to land in the dumpster.” He shoves me hard, right out the window.
I twist as I free fall toward the ground, two stories below. Wind whistles past my ears, and I shut my eyes against the sting. Without night goggles, I have no way to see how far it is before I hit. I drag in a deep breath, count to three.
Hard metal slams into my head.
~
I fall through darkness, a bright dot of blue a distant point below me. Unseen wings rustle, quiet flutters of memories. Fear slides off, unable to find purchase in my mind. No reason to fear. I know where I am.