Fin tried to step past her, but Clayborn stopped him.
“Down, boy,” he said. “Sorry about that, Jan. Blue’s like a damned bloodhound once he gets the scent. We just have a few questions for the kid. OK by you?”
“I take it Mayor Colson sent you?”
“That’s right. One dead mayor’s son wins you SIA’s finest and his little blue sidekick. We’ll try not to step on any toes. Fair enough?”
“Just let me know if you get anything useful out of him. We didn’t have any luck.”
“You got it.”
In the room, they found a sullen teenager lying in bed, watching a show on the vidscreen. One of his muscular arms was bandaged at the shoulder. Both arms bore faded tattoos. He didn’t look up when they entered.
Clayborn turned the vidscreen off. “Andy Grasso, I’m Agent Clayborn. This is Agent Fin. We have a few questions for you.”
“What kind of agent?” the boy asked, glaring at Fin.
Clayborn flashed his badge. “The kind that gets answers. And yeah, he’s with me, he’s a Blue, and it’s none of your damn business.”
“I already answered their questions.”
“Then you won’t mind answering mine. What were you doing at the factory?”
“Messing around.”
“The mayor’s son, too?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“He wasn’t with you? Think hard, kid. His name was Ricky Colson.”
“I told you I don’t know anything about that.”
Clayborn noticed an old scar on the boy’s neck. “You get that playing hopscotch, Junior?”
“My old man liked to play around with kitchen knives.” Grasso focused on Fin. “What’s he doing?”
Fin looked up from his Commlink. “Verifying your statements against the facts, Mr. Grasso. According to school records, you and Richard Colson had two classes together.”
“So what? I have classes with a lot of losers.”
“The records also show that the two of you were caught together and disciplined several times for various infractions, once for destruction of public property, a felony for which all charges were summarily dropped.”
“Sounds to me like your buddy Ricky was your ‘get out of jail free’ card,” said Clayborn. “Is that why you kept him around?”
“No.”
“Why was he at the factory that night?”
“How should I know?”
“You don’t know, or you’re not saying?”
“I don’t know.”
Fin bent over the bed and examined the boy’s bandaged arm.
Grasso pulled away. “Get away from me, freak.”
“The skin discoloration around the edges of your bandage was caused by intense heat. You were shot with a laser at close range.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were lucky the blast didn’t sever your arm.”
“If you say so.”
“You saw who did this, didn’t you?” said Clayborn.
“It was dark.”
“How dark?”
“Too dark.”
“I would like you to take a look at some photos,” said Fin. “Perhaps you can identify the perpetrators.”
“Who cares what you want, Cy?”
Clayborn held his ID badge up to the Lawspeaker. “Disable all functions.”
It flashed amber. All functions disabled, it responded.
Clayborn squeezed the boy’s arm. “Now, how about I ask you nicely, you little prick?”
Grasso cried out in pain. “I know my rights.”
“In case you hadn't noticed, I just shut off your rights."
“You can’t do this.”
Clayborn let go. “No problem, tough guy. You have the right not to cooperate. You also have the right to be charged as an accessory to murder, and if you’re lucky, you have the right to get life in prison instead of being blasted into a pile of dust and fed to the Cys.” He nodded to Fin. “Come on, Blue. We’re done here.”
“Wait,” said the boy.
“What’s the matter? Change your mind?” said Clayborn.
“That thing really off?” he pointed to the Lawspeaker.
“You bet.”
“If I look at the pictures, you’ll let me go?”
“Tell me what you were doing there, Andy.”
“I told you I was messing around.”
“With Ricky?”
“No.”
Clayborn shrugged. “Then I can’t help you.”
“All right, all right. The dumb shit followed me there. He was always following me around.”
“Because he wanted to be a tough guy like you?”
“Yeah. The punk was a real pain in the ass.”
“But you let him tag along once in a while?”
“Not this time. He wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“What were you really doing there, Andy? And no bullshit.”
“I heard there was going to be a heist. I wanted to see it. That’s all.”
“Heard from who?”
“Just around, you know?”
“From who, Andy?”
“A friend’s dealer.”
“I want a name.”
The boy hesitated.
“How about I beat it out of you?” Clayborn said.
“Unnecessary, sir,” said Fin.
Clayborn glared at him.
“We can determine that information readily enough from other sources. I am already working on it.”
“How?” said the boy.
“I am afraid that’s classified, Mr. Grasso,” Fin said.
Clayborn grabbed Grasso by the shirt. “So you thought it would be a kick to see a real robbery. Is that it, Andy?”
“Yeah.”
“Picking up a few pointers?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Come on. Lay off. I’m cooperating, aren’t I?”
“Don’t worry, you little shit. We’re not here for you, not this time. Show him the mug shots, Blue.”
One by one, Fin showed the photos to the boy, each time asking the same questions and letting the Commlink record the answers. Grasso positively identified one man as the shooter and several others as accomplices. When Clayborn and Fin had finished, they gave what information they had obtained to the detective outside the room and left the hospital.
When they were on the street, Fin asked, “Sir, why are humans so reluctant to shake hands with me?”
“As smart as you are, you can’t figure it out?”
“I suppose I was hoping for some factual explanation, but by definition prejudice involves a judgment before obtaining the facts.”
“Whatever. Now I’ve got a question for you, Blue. Why the hell did you want me to back off on getting the name of that drug dealer? Whoever gave the kid the info on that robbery could be connected to the perps.”
A nearby Lawspeaker flashed. One-credit fine for bad-chatter. So Council has decreed.
Clayborn poked Fin in the arm. “That’s coming out of your pay. Now, answer the question.”
“Because Mr. Grasso was lying.”
“How so?”
“He said it was dark.”
“Yeah? And?”
“The sky in Periculum is reduced to half power at night to satisfy the human need for a circadian rhythm, but it is never really dark in the city. In this case it was far from it.” Fin showed Clayborn his Commlink. On its screen was an image of the factory fire. “This was taken by a bystander. It appeared in this morning’s reports. Note the yard lights that are all functioning. For security purposes, they are designed to eliminate any shadows on the factory grounds.”
“So what? He lied because he didn’t want to get involved. In case you hadn't noticed, yours truly convinced him otherwise.”
“I am sorry to contradict you, sir, but he lied because he was attempting to mislead us.”
“What makes
you say that?”
“None of those he identified is suspected of belonging to the Death’s Door gang.”
“I noticed. So what? Maybe we were wrong about who pulled it off.”
“I do not think so. Every suspect he identified belongs to a rival gang not known for the distribution of Creep.”
“So?”
“So, I believe Mr. Grasso identified them to divert suspicion from the DDs.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“A very large kid, sir, with battle scars and a troubled past, and he belongs to the Death’s Door gang.”
“You have proof of that?”
“I was not examining the burn marks at the edges Mr. Grasso’s bandage out of curiosity, sir. There were ink stains on his shoulder under that bandage from a tattoo that I believe he went to some trouble to remove.”
“By shooting himself with a laser pistol?”
“According to his medical chart, the wound was superficial, deep enough to remove several layers of skin, but hardly life-threatening. According to the police reports, Mr. Grasso stated that the perpetrators left him for dead after shooting him. Those two facts seem contradictory to me.”
“You’re saying the perps meant to leave the little punk for us to question?”
“To throw us off the trail by implicating a rival gang, or to get revenge on them, or both.” Fin showed Clayborn his Commlink again. “I took a close-up of Mr. Grasso’s arm and sent the results back to the lab. Spectrum analysis shows these six distinct points to be tattoo ink. Granted, that is not much with which to reconstruct an image, but if I remove the bandage from the photograph and run this simulation that matches what remains to a database of common tattoos, it will fill in what was most likely removed.”
Clayborn watched as the image transformed. “That’s the DD gang sign,” he said. “What’s your take on the mayor’s son being there?”
“I wondered at first if Mr. Grasso were telling the truth about Ricky Colson, that he simply got in the way. Then I remembered that one of the promises made by Mayor Colson during his reelection campaign was to stamp out the violent gangs in Cytown that were disrupting the flow of Cybernite labor and slowing construction on several key projects in Periculum. He specifically mentioned Death’s Door in one of his speeches, promising to stamp them out. Ricky’s death was a rather blunt response to that threat.”
“The Grasso kid was playing us?”
“I believe that to be the case.”
“Why didn’t you say that before? I’m going back in there to beat the truth out of the little shit.”
The Lawspeaker assessed another one-credit fine for bad-chatter.
“That’s coming out of your pay, too,” Clayborn said as he started back inside.
Fin stopped him. “Sir, wait.”
Clayborn stared at Fin’s hand until he removed it. “What have I told you about touching me, Blue?”
“I am sorry, sir, but I did not say anything in the boy’s presence because the alternative of letting them think they tricked us might be more productive.”
Clayborn reconsidered. “OK. Fine. We’ll do it your way this time, but he's on a short leash. Understand? Now, I’ve got a few ideas of my own, starting with how about we pay a little visit to some of your friends in Cytown?”
“Which friends would that be, sir?”
“The ones pushing Creep for the DDs. You won’t object if I knock a few of their heads around, will you?” Clayborn’s Commlink chimed. He answered it, “Clayborn. Yes, sir. Another one? I’ll be right there. What’s that? Yeah, I’ll let him know.” He disconnected the call. “There’s been another breach at the agency. Commander Roberts called a meeting of all seniors in twenty minutes.”
“What was taken this time?”
“The identities of three more undercover agents working inside the Eastern Bloc.”
“Have they checked the Central Stores security footage?"
“Erased, just like all the other times. Backups, too.”
“This makes no sense. Is the commander recalling the agents?”
“He can’t. They’re in the middle of a shooting war over there.”
“I should get back to the office while the trail is fresh,” said Fin.
“The commander told me to tell you that after we get back to HQ, you’re to change into civvies and go home.”
“But this is my case. These leaks are the reason I am at the SIA. I should be there.”
“You’re not listening. He said to take the rest of the day off.”
“Am I being relieved of duty, sir?”
“I’m just telling you what the man said.”
“Sir, that’s not fair.”
“Fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair: me having to put up you. That’s what’s not fair. Who do you think has to take all the ribbing and the flak for having a robot as a partner?”
“And who do you think has had to put up with the resentment and hatred of his fellow agents who think he has been inserted into their ranks as an experiment to replace them? I have been living a lie for you, sir. You have no idea how difficult this has been for me.”
Clayborn jammed a meaty finger into Fin’s chest. “That's the kind of bad-chatter that will get you recycled.”
“I apologize, sir.” Fin bowed. “I do not know what came over me.”
“Listen up. You were designed for one thing, one damn thing—finding the mole in our ranks who has been leaking information like a sieve. That’s why Doc Shepherd sent you to us. That was it. And you blew it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.” The unchanging sky held no answers. “This is the end for me, isn’t it, Agent Clayborn?”
“I don’t know, Blue. And frankly, right now I don’t give a shit. This damn knee is killing me and I need a drink.”
One-credit fine for bad-chatter. So Council has decreed.
Clayborn lit up a cigarette.
“But I am a good cop, sir," said Fin. "You have said so many times.”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”
“Please, sir, ask the commander to give me more time.”
“You’ve had a year already.”
A group of hospital workers brushed past them, gawking at the strange Blue, whispering under their breath about this curiosity that was on their walkway. And what did it think it was, talking to a human like that? It wasn’t supposed to do that, was it? They should call the authorities and report it, but they were already late for lunch. They crossed the street and went into a restaurant.
“We will never be more than machines to you, will we, sir?” Fin said.
Clayborn took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled in Fin’s face. Periculum’s atmospheric controllers pulled the smoke upward and removed the harmful chemicals before returning purified air to the beautiful sky above. A nearby atomizer spritzed a hint of pine, the scent of the month in that sector, to mask the tobacco odor. Clayborn flicked the butt onto the walkway. A cleaning-bot spun across the pavement and sucked up the debris. A one-credit fine for littering appeared on Clayborn’s Commlink. “Shit,” he said. Another one-credit bad-chatter fine was tacked on. He stuffed his Commlink into his jacket pocket. “I’ll have a word with the commander, but no guarantees. Now let’s go.”
Chapter 4
You are not born hating those around you because they are different from you. You are not born a bigot, intolerant of the opinions of those whose thoughts are so unlike your own. You are not born with prejudice or malice in your heart. You are born a creature of God with only a boundless wonder at this adventure you call life. Hatred, bigotry, and prejudice are learned through experience and passed down from parent to child and generation to generation. Do not sow these seeds in your children’s hearts, for their fruits are war and destruction.
Fin paused the playback and stared out the window at the graffiti-covered tunnel wall. The Northend train was packed with weary Greens and Yellows—clerks, domestics, waiters, prostitutes—all going h
ome after their shifts to rest for a few hours before resuming work for the Man. Their world was not humanity’s paradise of endless beautiful days. It was a venomous, deadly creature that stalked the ruins of the old city, an insidious parasite that spread its tendrils into every corner of Cytown, sucking the life from everything and everyone it touched. And the rain. Always the rain.
A Green, high on Creep, was pacing up and down the aisle, alternately proselytizing and jabbering on from one sentence to the next. "Repent,” he said, “for the end is near. Oh my God, somebody help me. The worms are everywhere. He will judge us just as surely as he will judge the Man, and his judgment will be swift and show no mercy to the wicked. Wick me a credit. Buy me a slam. Repent before it’s too late.” As the train passed through the gates of Hell, an amber light flashed, the air sizzled, and the Green was gone, his final eulogy a crackle of static from the Lawspeaker.
The doors opened at the last stop. The train emptied. The train filled. That’s the way it was every day for Fin, for over a year, the same ritual every day. He stayed behind on the platform while those heading to work boarded the cars and those getting off trudged toward the exit. They had homes to return to, friends to greet along the way or have a drink with, families to hold, spouses to love. They had reasons to go to work and reasons to come home again. He had neither friends nor family. They were security risks. Dr. Shepherd had explained that to him. He had also told him that his job at the SIA was his sole purpose in life. He was an experiment, a hyper-intelligent being designed to find the one destroying the agency from within and threatening the security of the entire city. He was unique, special; but he was to remain alone, to keep to himself and focus on the one and only reason for which he was created. Those were his orders. That was his life. But if they took that life away, his reason for living . . . when they took it away . . . when they tossed him out on the street like so much garbage, what would remain?
As the last of the Cybernites ran the gauntlet of panhandlers, the train began its journey back to the city. Fin stood alone on the platform, staring into the darkness of his soul. Somewhere down the tunnel toward the track’s end where water was always dripping, voices were whispering. He walked to the end of the platform and shined his Commlink light down the tracks to get a better look. A Death’s Door gang sign was spray-painted on the wall beneath a single feckless bulb that dangled from the ceiling at the bend in the tracks. Agent Clayborn had told him that the DDs dealt in the shadows and hid in the tunnels like the rats they were.
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