by Rachel Aaron
“No kitchen,” my AI replied. “According to the blueprints, it’s just this room, the bedroom, and the bathroom.”
“Well, it’s gotta be coming from somewhere,” I said, breathing through my mouth, which actually made it worse since I could taste the stench now instead of just smelling it. “Let’s check the bedroom.”
According to Sibyl, the bedroom was to my left, but there were so many boxes in my way that I couldn’t even see the door. After much pushing and one really awful encounter with a spider web that I don’t want to talk about, I eventually spotted my target: a flimsy wooden door with yet another ward etched into its pressboard frame. Unlike the ward on the front door, though, this one was dark. No magic answered me when I poked it, which meant it was either not active or someone wanted me to think it wasn’t active so I’d go through and get fried.
Hoping it was the former rather than the latter, I squeezed through the last of the boxes and grabbed the doorknob, which turned easily. But while the door opened, it didn’t go more than a foot before hitting something. The obvious guess was more boxes, but this didn’t feel like a box. It had too much give, and it made a strange clunk when the door hit it. Curious, I pushed harder, shoving whatever it was back until the crack in the door was wide enough for me to squeeze my head through…
And see what was left of the dead body lying face down on the carpet.
***
“God dammit, Broker!” I yelled into my phone. I was stalking back and forth in the mysteriously wet stairwell, too mad to care that my boots were splashing the unknown liquid up onto my legs. “You sold me a coffin!”
“Calm down, Opal,” Broker said, his drawling voice soothing, like a rancher trying to sweet-talk a sheep off a cliff. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“Not a big deal? There’s a dead guy rotting in my unit! Collections is supposed to check for this sort of thing!”
“They did check,” Broker said. “It says right here on the unit’s record that they tried multiple times to contact the occupant. They even sent someone over to check in person, but he didn’t answer.”
“Of course he didn’t answer,” I snapped. “He’s dead! From the smell, I’d say he’s been dead the whole thirty days his account’s been delinquent. But that’s not my problem. My problem is that you sold me a unit full of stuff that I can’t sell. The DFZ might not have much in the way of laws, but inheritance is still a thing. I bid on that unit because it was small and I needed the money today. Now I can’t touch anything until the city makes three good-faith attempts to contact dead dude’s next of kin, which will take another month at least. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with a unit I can’t use, and it’s your fault!”
“No need to get snippy,” Broker grumbled. “We’ll refund your bid, of course. Just give it a week to get through accounting and another fifteen business days for processing, and the full amount will be transferred back to your bank account, no problem.”
My scowl deepened. “How is it that you can take my payment instantly, but when I need it back, it suddenly takes fifteen business days?”
“Hey, I just work here, sweetheart. I don’t make the rules. But if you don’t want to wait, you can go ahead and take your payment out of what’s in the apartment.”
I frowned. “Is that legal?”
“It’s legal-ish,” Broker said slyly. “Dead or not, he’s still delinquent on his rent. The city has a right to that money whatever his next of kin says, and since we already recouped it when we sold the unit to you, I don’t see why you couldn’t take your share of the debt out of his heir’s inheritance. We’ll just write the whole thing up as a property lien. It’s not like anyone’s going to challenge it. I mean, the guy’s been dead for a month and no one noticed. If he does have an heir, they clearly don’t care. The unit will probably be put right back up for sale next month when Collections fails to find the next of kin, so think of this as your chance to get the good stuff early. Or wait for the refund. Makes no difference to me.”
From the tone of his voice, it clearly made a huge difference to Broker which one I picked. Approving a refund meant formally admitting that someone had messed up. Collection officers were supposed to verify if a unit was still occupied—or had a dead body in it—before putting it up for auction. Obviously, whoever had checked this unit had dropped the ball, which meant Broker had dropped the ball since it was his job as auctioneer to guarantee the units he sold.
Sweeping those failures under the rug was undoubtedly why he was so willing to bend the usually intractable Cleaning rules into origami for me. A properly ruthless Cleaner would have held that over his head, but I had a debt payment due at the end of the week, and I needed my money. If Broker was going to let me pillage the best parts out of this unit without actually cleaning it for resale—the only work Cleaners were legally obligated to do after they won a unit—I was happy to oblige. I just hoped there was something in all those boxes that was worth the three hundred bucks I’d paid for the privilege of walking in on that horror show.
“All right,” I grumbled. “I’ll take the unit.”
“Glad you see it my way,” Broker said cheerfully. “I’m sending someone over to take care of the body right now. Go ahead and start digging through his stuff. Just do me a favor and don’t touch anything that looks personal. You know, just in case they do manage to find someone who cares.”
I shrugged. “Fine with me. Not like there’s a market for family photos.”
“You’re a gem, Opal. See you at the next auction.”
I rolled my eyes at the tired old “gem” compliment and hit the End Call button.
“So what now?” Sibyl asked as I lifted my poncho to slip my phone back into my jeans pocket. “Wait for the disposal team to come for the body?”
“That could take hours,” I said, walking back through the door I’d blown off on my way in. “If I had that kind of time to waste, I’d have made Broker give me a legit refund. No.” I pulled my gloves back on. “We’re going to get to work.”
Technically, AIs don’t have actual emotions, but Sibyl was a top-of-the-line social companion bot, and she did a good job of sounding legitimately horrified. “You can’t start digging through a dead guy’s stuff while he’s still lying on the floor!”
“Why not?” I asked. “It’s not as if he’s going to complain, and I have a deadline.”
A hard one. I owed a very nasty individual a lot of money, and he wasn’t flexible about payments. If I didn’t have the cash by Friday, bad things were going to happen.
“At least we have a lot to work with,” I said, pointing at the wall of boxes. “There’s so much here, some of it has to be good.”
“By what logic?” Sibyl asked.
None, I admitted silently, but my AI already knew she was right, so I didn’t bother bumming myself out by admitting the truth aloud. I just grabbed a box off the top of the pile and started ripping it open, peeling off the packing tape with a silent prayer to the living soul of the DFZ that something good was going to come out.
***
Suffice it to say, my prayers were not answered. Two hours later—a hundred and twenty disgusting, sweaty, putrid minutes of digging through dusty boxes in a dead man’s living room while said corpse was rotting not ten feet away—I had exactly zero to show for it. The best I could say was that at least it was interesting. Most of the boxes turned out to be full of scholarly books about ancient magical methodologies. Primarily different styles of alchemy, but there were several boxes on ancient Egyptian sorcery, plus a whole stack of books about extinct magical animals. Clearly, whoever our dead man had been, he’d been a fan of historical magic.
I could relate. Before my life had gone to hell, I’d gotten my master’s degree in magical art history and anthropology, which was a long-winded way of saying I studied old magical stuff left behind by ancient cultures. There was a surprising amount of it. In ancient times, the world had been very magical, even more magical than it was now. Then, for reasons only the M
erlins knew, all that power had vanished.
For nearly eleven centuries, roughly 1000 to 2035 CE, the world had been completely unmagical, a period we now called the Drought. During that dark time, all of those magical treasures—the enchanted swords and religious relics and other venerated items of power crafted by ancient sorcerers and priests using techniques modern magic still didn’t fully understand—lost their power and became merely pretty things. Some were preserved, coveted by various cultures and collectors as sacred objects even if they didn’t actually work anymore, but countless more were lost to time.
Time and ignorance. We’d never know how many precious treasures had been destroyed by people who couldn’t tell the difference between an enchanted hammer of the gods and a hammer you used to build houses. Those objects that did survive regained their power just like everything else when magic had suddenly returned eighty years ago, but so many more were gone forever.
Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who found that heartbreaking. Our dead guy didn’t have any actual relics, much to my dismay, but he had a truly impressive collection of archival photo prints. There were some very detailed pictures of ancient Persian alchemical tools in the boxes that even I hadn’t seen before. They were all mass-produced prints, which meant they weren’t worth the paper they were printed on, but it was still a lovely collection, and I ended up slipping several photos into my bag for myself.
But while I couldn’t fault the dead man’s taste, books and photos didn’t sell. After opening every single one of the three hundred and twenty boxes crammed into the basement apartment’s tiny living room, I estimated the entire collection at around a hundred bucks, which was two hundred short of what I needed just to break even. There was nothing in the bathroom, either, so I was forced to move on to the only room I hadn’t touched yet.
The bedroom.
“Excuse me,” I said to the dead man as I squeezed inside. “Just here to look around.”
It was a stupid thing to say and more than a bit macabre, but dead or not, barging into someone’s bedroom felt unspeakably rude. Rude and cold, because after two hours of digging through his collection, I felt like I knew the guy. He was a fellow historian, or at least an enthusiastic collector, and that deserved respect. Not “I’m not going to dig through your drawers looking for hidden lockboxes” levels of respect, but I felt I should acknowledge his presence at least.
“What do you think he died of?” I asked Sibyl as I started going through the stuff on top of his bureau. “The front door was intact, so I don’t think he was killed in a robbery.”
“I bet it was something internal,” my AI replied, zooming my cameras in on the corpse’s face, which was black and sunken with decomposition. “There’s no obvious evidence of—”
“Could you not?” I snapped, yanking the cameras back. “This is creepy enough without you going for the close-up!”
“I was just answering your question,” Sibyl said defensively. “As I was trying to say, there’s no obvious evidence of violence. No blood splatters or bullet holes or anything like that. Add in the way he collapsed face forward on the ground, and a health crisis seem most likely. Stroke, heart attack, aneurysm, something like that.”
I glanced at the mini fridge in the corner, which was sitting with its door wide open to reveal the melted—but otherwise completely undecayed—stack of microwave burritos inside. “Going by what he ate, my money’s on heart attack.” I shook my head. “Poor bastard.”
“At least this room’s not filled with boxes,” Sybil said cheerfully. “If I have to look up resale prices for one more stack of dusty old books that don’t have proper QR codes, I’m going to log myself out.”
I was likewise sick of digging through outdated scholarly paperbacks, but the relative emptiness of this room meant that my chances of earning out on this unit were lower than they’d ever been. Biting my lip, I glanced over my shoulder at the dead guy. It was hard to tell since his clothes were so stained with decomposition, but he didn’t look rich. He had none of the flashy jewelry or talismans you normally saw on underworld mages. He wasn’t even wearing warded clothes. Other than being dead, the only actually remarkable thing about him was the fact that he had a cybernetic hand.
That wasn’t unusual in the DFZ. Unlike other countries with their pesky safety regulations, anything you wanted to do to your body was perfectly legal here, even the really crazy stuff. Implants were cheap, too, since the DFZ also didn’t require a medical license to install or build cybernetics. Hell, I’d seen homeless guys with camera eyes, but you didn’t usually see augs on mages since cybernetics interfered with the flow of magic through the body.
Given the custom wards on his door and his obsession with ancient magic, I would’ve thought this guy would rather go handless than give up some of his magic to a machine, but clearly that wasn’t the case. Who knew? Maybe he liked having a piece of him that was better than human more than he cared about absolute magical efficiency. Either way, that hand was worth a pretty penny. It didn’t look like a high-end model, but you could always sell cybernetics. That said, Broker had only okayed me to loot the unit. He hadn’t given me carte blanche to steal from the dead. No one could, not anymore.
Since the return of magic, the world had filled with gods. The first to rise had been Algonquin, Lady of the Great Lakes. The very night magic returned, she’d come out of her lakes in a tidal wave to punish humanity for polluting her waters. The resulting flood had devastated the entire Great Lakes region, but nowhere was hit harder than Detroit. Since it had been one of the greatest polluters, Algonquin’s hatred for the Motor City was special, and her wave had wiped it off the map. When she’d finished hammering it into the ground, Algonquin built a new city on Detroit’s ruins—the first Detroit Free Zone—and claimed it for herself. The United States of America didn’t even fight her over it. They were too busy dealing with the sudden return of mages and dragons and everything else to care about losing a troublesome, bankrupt city.
For the next sixty years, Algonquin had ruled the DFZ like an empress, forging it into a magical nexus of unbridled human greed. But the magic wasn’t done coming back. The first night had been the most explosive, but the background magic kept creeping up slowly as the decades rolled on. Eventually, the ambient power got so high that it birthed a new god: the Spirit of the DFZ itself.
The ensuing battle for control of the city had leveled Detroit yet again. In the end, Algonquin got booted back to her lakes, and the new goddess claimed control. That was twenty years ago. The DFZ had rebuilt herself bigger than ever in the years since, and she wasn’t alone. The tipping point of rising power that had created her—now known as the Second Crash—brought many other gods as well. Some were old, like Algonquin, and some were new, like the DFZ, but they were all powerful, and an inordinate number of them were gods of death.
No one knew how many death gods there were exactly, but their presence meant that doing anything disrespectful to a dead body, especially stealing, was a very bad idea. Death gods weren’t forgiving as a rule, and here in the DFZ, the most magical city in the world, they were at their strongest. That cybernetic hand might be worth a thousand at auction, but the curse I’d get for taking it would cost me a lot more, so I left the hand where it lay and focused on digging through the dead man’s underwear drawer, hoping against hope that he’d hidden something of value beneath all his tighty whities. I’d just moved on to his shirts when I heard someone say my name.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Thankfully, Sibyl was on it, swirling my cameras to give me eyes in the back of my head just in time to see a young black man with a rather sketchy-looking tomcat on his shoulder walk through the bedroom door.
“Peter!” I gasped, clutching my poor chest. “Don’t do that to me!”
“Sorry, Opal,” he said apologetically. “I tried to knock, but the front door was gone.” A smirk spread over his face. “Not that I should have expected anything less, seeing it was you.”
; “Hey, I don’t always take the door off,” I said grumpily, eyeing the folding stretcher he was carrying under his left arm. “But what are you doing here? Broker said he was sending a disposal detail.”
“He called in for one,” Peter said. “But when I heard that the victim had been dead in his apartment for a month and no one noticed, I volunteered to take care of him.” He reached up to pet his rangy cat. “He seemed like our kind of fellow.”
When he put it that way, it made sense. Peter was a priest for one of those new death gods. Specifically, he’d dedicated himself to the Empty Wind, Spirit of the Forgotten Dead, which definitely included our guy.
“Do you need help getting him out?”
“I can manage, thanks,” Peter said, leaning over to let his cat jump down. “Once we commit the body, he’ll get a lot easier to move. The Empty Wind takes care of his own.”
From anyone else, that would have been a cryptic thing to say, but Peter made it sound like a blessing. That was how he always talked, though. He came to the Cleaner auctions sometimes to buy up units he claimed belonged to the Forgotten Dead. Auctions were always a circus, but even when everyone else was shouting, Peter never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. The moment he bid, everyone else shut up. Broker claimed it was all superstition and rallied us to bid higher, but he made his living taking a cut off the top of our auctions. He also didn’t understand. I hadn’t either before I’d started Cleaning. I’d thought the DFZ was just a crazy city with a mind of its own, but get down in the Underground where people are really desperate, and you see things. I didn’t worship the Empty Wind like Peter did, but I didn’t doubt for a moment that he was real, and spooky as that was, I was happy our dead guy had a god to care about him, since no one else seemed to.
“I’ll just keep going, then,” I said, turning back to the drawers. “Let me know if you need help.”
“I will,” Peter said. “Thank you, Opal.”