by Jean Rabe
All of it too much, she dropped to her knees and felt the shadows cast by the gawkers reach up and pull her under.
Fourteen
Doctor Tarr
She sported stark white hair, gelled in short spikes and ringing a gleaming, tonsure-like bald spot. Elaborate cornrows beneath that were woven with colorful wires attached to ports on the sides of her thick neck. An aging dwarf with skin the color of just-washed coal, Ninn suspected the good doctor had Aboriginal rather than cosmetic roots—confirmed when Barega talked to the doc in his native singsong dialect.
And the “good doctor” wasn’t really a doctor. Doctor Tarr was a former runner who had worked part-time at a street clinic, and parlayed that experience into hanging out her own discreet shingle in the heart of the Cross, operating out of the basement of a tea shop across from the park and the El Alamein fountain.
Ninn had met Tarr while running with Talon and his friends. They’d turned to the dwarf for various secondhand enhancements and to have bullets removed and cuts stitched up when they’d crossed paths with local gangbangers. Talon had used the doc so often he got an automatic discount.
Ninn didn’t wholly trust Tarr, who’d installed recycled subdermal speakers in one of her chums. The electronics, which hadn’t been properly sterilized, shorted out, and in the end resulted in a resistant staph infection and an agonizing death. Ninn had heard other assorted complaints about the street doc, and so had never actually used her services, but tonight she made an exception. Her wounds from the heater were too serious to ignore, and going elsewhere was not a viable option.
She’d mumbled the address to Barega, and somehow the old Aborigine got her here.
Ninn couldn’t risk a visit to an emergency room or legal walk-in clinic since AISE considered her good for the arson fire, and by extension Talon’s death—when they eventually discovered his body—plus whatever else they were going to pin on her.
At least Tarr’s office smelled cleaner than she’d remembered, antiseptic tinged with pine-scented cleaner. The stainless steel table she stretched out on gleamed under an outdated fluorescent light. She’d also not remembered the floor-to-ceiling shelves with real and artificial organs floating in jars of fluid, another shelf with bins labeled for various “pre-owned” cyberware, including that nose-filter she’d been coveting. She did remember the big refrigerator/freezer where the bioware was kept. It looked like the doctor had significantly expanded her clinic since Ninn had last been here.
Doctor Tarr poked and prodded, scanned the places where the Slayer had stabbed Ninn, and made a nervous tsk-tsking sound. “Deep muscle damage, some tendons cut all the way through. No wonder you can’t make a fist or bend your elbow. Problem with these heat-blades, they cauterize, but they also burn. Very hot. The heat is so intense it warps the muscle. You’ve got some third-degree burns on the inside, not counting—”
“Can you fix it?”
“That’s what I’m doing.” Tarr leaned close. Nin swore there was spiced rum on the dwarf’s breath. “But it will cost you. How are you going to pay for this?”
“I can pay.”
“I don’t let people run tabs anymore—”
“I said I’ll—” Ninn swallowed the thought as whatever Tarr had used to put her under took effect.
Ninn floated, hearing whispers swirl around her like bees. She swam toward the loudest voices and concentrated, discarded high, thin, nonsensical chatter and found two people speaking in an Aboriginal dialect. It was one her encephalon could manage, and so it translated the conversation.
“I am from Djangadi,” Tarr said.
“The New South Wales flatland,” Barega said. “I am familiar with it. I am from Yuungai—”
“Buy the new Terracotta Arms Pup with optional silencer,” a silky-voiced man interrupted. “Lightweight, packs a punch.”
“Of the same people, you and I,” Tarr said. “We share the same tongue, our tribes’ grounds practically touching. Kindred, you and I, fate brought us together under the gaze of goddess Kamilaroi.”
“Under the coils of the Rainbow Serpent,” Barega said.
“The Pup features a blue smartlink and advanced safety. Your rounds are more likely to hit the intended target,” the silky voice interjected.
“I have not seen my people in nearly thirty years,” Doctor Tarr said. “My parents are not dwarfs, and they did not understand what I’d become. But in this city, it doesn’t matter what I am.”
“All of us become something,” Barega said. “Differences unite us. It is when we embrace those unique—”
Ninn wasn’t in the mood to listen to Aboriginal philosophy or the commercial of some arms dealer. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath of pine-scented, recirculated air.
According to the chrono on the wall, it was 10 p.m. She’d been out a little more than two hours. Tarr and Barega were watching a news program, a sportscaster droning about playoff soccer matches.
Mordred chattered too, she’d missed part of it, but he said something about Cadigal’s Corner.
“Shush,” she told him.
“Keebs, you really need to know—”
She made a motion to turn off the smartlink.
“Fine. Fine. Fine. Shushing.”
Ninn eased up, swung her legs over the side of the table and sat, gripped the edge for support. She was woozy from whatever the doc had administered, her arms cold, but most of the pain gone. Her left arm was swathed in a fog-gray wrap bandage from shoulder to wrist…she felt the bandage; that was a good sign. Her right upper arm had a thick wound patch taped to it, another patch on her chest. She could curl the fingers of her left hand, the muscles obviously reconnected, sensations returned. She bent her left arm at the elbow, rolled her shoulder. Maybe Tarr wasn’t so bad after all.
“Pleased to see that you are well, Nininiru Tossinn.” Barega had been sitting cross-legged on the floor. He got up and handed Ninn a clean scrub shirt that was three sizes too big and a size too short—no doubt one of the dwarf’s. She didn’t see the tunic she’d worn in here. She still had the leggings, but they were in tatters. The pocket was intact, though, and it still had the opals in it. “I waited to make sure you would survive. Now I will return to the hostel for some sleep. An old man like me, I seem to tire easy these days. Late tomorrow morning I can see Adoni’s body, the coroner said. I would be pleased if you accompany me.”
“I’ve been meaning to discuss Ella…your brother…Adoni.” Ninn eased herself to the floor and tested her legs. She closed her eyes, searching in the darkness for a way to approach this, mentally kicking herself for not going over everything when Barega came into her office a half-dozen hours ago. But she’d been in a bad state then, waking up after an over-indulgence coma, nervy, not herself. She realized the itchy sensation of going too long without a slip was gone. Must have been something really good in whatever Tarr had dosed her with; maybe she could buy some of it. “About your brother, Barega—”
“Cue music,” Mordred whispered in her head. “Your tone is ominous, Keebs.”
Ninn growled softly.
“Shushing again,” Mordred said.
“I don’t doubt that you’re related, were related, you and Adoni…Ella. I don’t question it,” Ninn continued. She did question it, but her client didn’t need to know that right now. “And I should have asked you about this right away.” But those opals got in the way. “Adoni…Ella…she could be your son, grandson, maybe, but—”
“Adoni…Ella Gance…was my older brother, Nininiru Tossinn. I told you before. I told you—”
“You’re talking about Miss Ella Gance, right?” Doctor Tarr clicked down the volume, turned her back on the sports announcer, and faced Ninn. “Saw her perform just last week. Amazing. Amazing voice. Was terrible about her death. The Cross Slayer, right? The Slayer got her. My favorite singer, the best tawdry house in the neighborhood, and now it’ll close.”
Ninn and Barega looked at the dwarf.
“Cadigal Hamf
yst dead, Ella Gance dead, who is there to keep it open any more and—”
“Cadi’s dead? The Slayer—” Ninn felt like someone punched her in the stomach. Her knees were pudding and threatened to buckle. She gripped the edge of the table harder. “That can’t—”
“I was trying to tell you about that, Keebs,” Mordred cut in. “But you told me to shut up. Shut the Frag Up, 2019, low-budget horror flick.”
“Slashed with a heater, just like the others,” Tarr said. “It was on the local, right before the soccer scores, came on right after footage of the fire. Big old troll face splayed across the screen. Apparently geeked while everyone was watching the buildings burn.”
“Cadigal…” Ninn was stunned. She’d seen him just a little while ago. In the hallway of his tawdry house. She’d talked to him, told him the Slayer had been in his basement, and then she went out the back exit and discovered her own building burning.
“Some lumper mouthpiece said Cadigal Hamfyst was Victim Number Six,” Tarr continued.
“With Six You Get Eggroll,” Mordred whispered. “Except you’re sure he’d be Number Seven. Furious 7, 2015, Vin Diesel. Se7en, 1995, Morgan Freeman.”
“Victim Eight, Mordred. Summer Peacock was seven. Cadigal—”
“Hamfyst,” Tarr said. “You knew him?”
“A friend. Yeah, I knew him,” Ninn said. “And a client.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out four opals, and offered them to Tarr. “Will this cover all my repairs?” She hated to part with the stones, but the repair was far cheaper than a cyberarm.
Tarr’s dark eyes widened. “Yeah, I s’pose that’ll work.”
“Gotta go,” Ninn said. “Gotta—”
“Go where?” Barega looked frustrated. “To your office? It’s not there any more. To Cadigal’s Corner? He’s not there anymore. To your flat?”
“I don’t have one anymore.” Ninn said. She’d been living in her office.
“The coroner said I could see my brother’s body late tomorrow morning. I will go claim it. Will you come with me then? Adoni can still give us clues, even in death. I told you that before, too. We can find justice for my brother and for your troll friend. You can find yourself.”
The Aborigine had not been privy to Draye’s conversation with the AISE lieutenant on the street, didn’t know Ninn was the suspect for the arson fire, and thereby couldn’t show her face in a public place like the coroner’s office until the real firebug was found…something she’d have to tackle very soon. She’d have to clear herself.
Cadigal dead.
She’d liked Cadi. Two fewer friends now…Talon and the troll. Her fault Talon was dead; she should have never allowed him in her office, should have passed him some nuyen and sent him away last night. Maybe her fault Cadi was dead, too. If she’d stopped the Slayer, if he hadn’t gotten the jump on her, the troll would still be breathing.
Had the Slayer been waiting in the basement to take down another one of Cadi’s girls when Ninn accidentally discovered him? Had he later come back through another tunnel? Had Cadi run afoul of him while looking at the damage from the basement fire? Had Cadi saved one of his girls, and the Slayer had killed him for that?
“Lumpers are probably still at Cadigal’s Corner,” Tarr said. “If you need to talk to—”
Ninn shook her head. She did need to go there, tell AISE about her run in with the Slayer in the basement. Her information—direct contact with the Slayer—would help their investigation. Maybe they could enhance the image she’d recorded. But if she showed up around any AISE officers, they’d lock her up for the arson, at least until she could prove her innocence. Hell, maybe she couldn’t prove that she was innocent. That’d be just her luck, eh? Never have to worry about going back to Chicago.
So, she couldn’t risk going back to Cadigal’s basement…and she had two guns and an expensive comm unit she’d like to retrieve and that maybe could be traced back to her. A credstick in the pocket of the longcoat she’d shrugged out of. Maybe AISE would blame Cadi’s basement fire on her, too, while they were at it. That’d be just her luck.
“No, I can’t go there. I’ve some things—”
Tarr chortled, the wires hooked to her neck wriggling like worms. “Yeah, that might be risky. Saw your face on the screen too, but you looked a helluva lot better in that shot than you do now. Lumpers say you’re wanted for the building blast down the street. Three buildings lost in the fire, a half-dozen dead. You didn’t do it, did you? Not that it matters to me so long as you pay for—”
“No, I didn’t do it.” Ninn saw Barega glancing back and forth between her and the dwarf. So awesome that she’d been fingered on the news about the big fire. Barega must have watched the news too, so he knew she was wanted. “I didn’t set any fire. I hate fire. I was set up, the RighteousRight I think. I irritated a couple of—”
“Ugh, the Double-Rs.” Tarr made a face like she’d eaten something sour. “I hate ’em, I do. They keep dropping their hate lit in my mail slot. The New Amish are so old-fashioned they rely on paper. They give me the full-on creeps.”
The sportscaster gave way to the weatherman, who was predicting a fifty percent chance of a mana storm tomorrow. There always was a fifty percent chance.
Barega’s eyes were sad and weary. “I believe you, Nininiru Tossinn. I dreamed of flames, and you were not a part of that. In my dream, two men started the big fire. I will tell the lawmen what I dreamed. Perhaps I can describe the men if I dream again, but they were dark, in the shadows. My dream was dark. Sometimes dreams are like that. It will be difficult to explain, but—”
“Yeah, you going to AISE will help buckets. That and a couple nuyen will get us a spring roll to split. Guilty until proven innocent with AISE, at least in my case.” Ninn caught sight of herself in a long, narrow mirror. She looked like hell. Hair singed on one side of her head like she’d slept on a barbecue grill. “AISE’ll need proof I didn’t do it…not proof that I did. And I’ll have to worry about that later. Dreams aren’t going to matter to them, Barega. Dreams aren’t real.”
“One is never truly awake until one dreams,” Barega said.
“How about nightmares? This whole thing is a nightmare.”
“My brother then,” Barega persisted. “I must be about that.” He headed toward the door. “Will you be with me in the morning, Nininiru Tossinn? I dreamed that you would join me with the dead.”
“You don’t get it.” The Aborigine was clueless about society, Ninn realized. He apparently thought she could strut around out in the open with an arson claim hanging over her head. Murder, too, if six people died, Talon one of them. They’d blame her for all of that. “If I show my face, and there’s any lumpers around, I’m gonna be grabbed.”
“Maybe,” Tarr said. “Maybe not. But it’ll cost you.”
A half hour later Ninn stood in front of the narrow mirror, hardly recognizing herself. The doc hadn’t done any cosmetic surgery, but she’d shaved Ninn’s head until it gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, shaved her eyebrows, fashioned big hoop earrings out of spare wire. She had added nanotattoos. Spotted green snakes arched where her eyebrows had been. A kangaroo bounced on Ninn’s left cheek in shades of brown and olive. The artwork was an Aboriginal design comprised of thick lines, dots, and hash marks. As Ninn watched, the kangaroo straightened and morphed into a lizard that stretched and darkened, the tip of its tail resting on the center of her chin, the crest on its head reaching to the top of her bald crown, the claws of one leg dangled down to touch the bridge of her nose.
On her right cheek was a simple design, a black circle the size of golf ball with eight small circles ringing it—an Aboriginal sun symbol. It transformed into three wavy diagonal lines—the symbol for smoke and fire, then shifted to become a sun again. She could pass for a gogogo, or maybe a joygirl. She needed to find something different to wear to complete the facade; the scrub shirt looked like a shapeless bag. She spotted her singed and bloody tunic in the garbage can and decided
to leave it there.
“People will see your tattoos. They won’t really see you. Hide in plain sight, ya ken? You don’t look anything like the elf whose sorry ass was dragged in here a few hours ago,” Doctor Tarr pronounced. “Five thousand nuyen. It has the added benefit of monitoring your blood sugar.”
It wouldn’t bear up to close scrutiny with sophisticated scanners, Ninn knew. But she could avoid that kind of equipment, avoid AISE, go to the morgue with Barega, and get the nanites removed after all of this was done. The hair would grow back, or maybe she’d go for fiber optic implants like some of Cadi’s girls had.
“Four thousand,” Ninn countered.
“Five. Before I change my mind and make it six.”
“With Six You Get Eggroll,” Mordred whispered.
She reached into her leggings pocket and retrieved four opals. “Will this do?”
“Make it one more,” the dwarf said.
“Fine.” A thought flickered as she handed the stones over. “Adoni was SINless, Barega, no records. I got that much from AISE and Cadi. Do you have identification, anything to show you’re related to him? Even an electronic image or a physical family photo might help.”
The old man tugged on his beard. “Nininiru Tossinn, my word is good.”
“Not good enough for the coroner.” Ninn held out her hand. “My gun?”
Barega passed Mordred over.
Mordred sighed. “Together Again, 1944—”
“About your brother. You don’t have ID, you have no way to prove you and Adoni are related, or that you have a legal right to claim the body.”
“But, my brother. I must—”
“They’re not going to buy that Adoni is your brother. Grandson…maybe. I don’t know what your funeral practices are. But here’s what’s gonna happen.” Ninn knew this from experience; from AISE and dealing with the coroner’s office and working a few independent PI cases. It was also standard practice in Chicago. “The morgue attendants will strip out any potentially useful bioware, and Ella had some expensive stuff, Cadi told me about it. They’ll sell all of that to cyberleggers or street docs like Tarr here. Maybe they have an arrangement with a local ghoul community, where bodies are sold as…meat.” The last part came out softly. “If it goes the legal route, there are companies that come in and take remains, cremate or pulp them for fertilizer. Sometimes it all goes through a centrifuge first, siphon out any heavy metals for resale. SINless corpses are often targeted for research, partnering with DocWagon, a med corp. Recycle is the key here. Only the rich can bury someone. Cremation? Anyone can do that…if you have the right ID. But you’re SINless too, right?”