Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow)

by Grafton, Jon Lee

  “Then why do I got Virgil Benedict in a coma in the hospital, who before shooting himself and murdering a girl, wrote the man’s name on a piece of paper.”

  “It is suspicious, sir.”

  “On the same day, Red, your Snively tipped us off about Slopes and his recent misadventures. When I grilled Slopes, he too mentions Abner to me, the fugitive Tara Dean, and lastly a speakeasy we’ve heard rumors of more or less since the time Abner appeared in our fair city. Yet it’s a speakeasy which the most advanced spy drones in the world say is inside a hunk of limestone the size of a city block. We’ll have to do a physical ASAP. Tell me about this Bill Angevine?”

  Deputy Everquist typed feverishly for a moment, then returned to his holotab, “The name got light because he’s on a CNED watch list in Oklahoma. He’s a gun guy, used to be a cyberhunting guide, not much other history. Now he works as a security guard.”

  “Local? Or in KC?”

  Danny looked up from his holotab, “For Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd, sir.”

  Both men paused.

  “Hmmph,” said the sheriff. “Even if you say there’s no man on Earth capable of hacking your systems… we gotta fly some ducks over that pumpkin farm, priority one.” The com remained quiet. The sheriff looked up, tweaking his mustache, “Everquist?”

  The deputy’s expression had frozen, his mouth hanging open like a hungry baby bird.

  After another moment Danny’s eyes got wide and he looked at the sheriff, “What did you say?”

  “What the sky you mean?”

  “About hacking our systems?”

  “I said, even if you say there’s no man on Eart…”

  “That’s it, sir!” interrupted the deputy, grabbing two fistfulls of his patchy red hair. “Oh my Dog. I can’t…” a rubbery smile stretched across Deputy Everquist’s face, “The Pansy is a dolphin!”

  The sheriff took a resolute sip of coffee before responding, “Everquist, I may need to get some of the weed you’re vaping. Did you say a dolphin…?”

  “Yes!”

  Proudstar sneered, “That’s science fiction, Red. Not one person has confirmed the presence of a dolphin-driven computer. Ever.”

  Deputy Everquist was typing furiously now, reading and slugging hits from a can of Mountain Dew as he spoke, “Sir, in my world, on the stream, we hear rumors.”

  “Rumors are wind.”

  “I know,” Danny paused, “but among hackers, there are reports of these legendary code events that go back fifty years since our holographic datastream replaced the antique internet! Sensors, drone networks going black, manipulation of financial markets, hack events that are literally beyond the ability of any human being, all followed by ultimate darkness.”

  “Say what, now?”

  “Ultimate darkness, a return to normalcy. Hackers, we’ve, I’ve, I mean they’ve gotten close in the past. The legend goes, any hacker who gets too close to exposing a dolphin based system initiates ultimate darkness. The dolphin, the abnormal stream phenomena, everything vanishes. Within days or even hours the holostream returns to typical function – ultimate darkness – where the black market again hides in plain sight.”

  Proudstar shook his head, not convinced, “Legends don’t go to prison, Everquist. I need evidence. And how does this pertain to Dax Abner potentially running a super still?”

  Danny Everquist looked like he might leap from his chair as he pounded the last of his Mountain Dew and hurled the can aside, “Think about it, sir! Let’s just say, hypothetically, that a dolphin is behind this. The most advanced hacker in the world, working for a fusion based still, interfaced with a quantum class mainframe. The Coyote carcass was recovered where? Bill Angevine is a security guard where? Think about all our normally solid-state equipment that has malfunctioned since Tara Dean escaped from Greystone Behavioral, CNED agents vanishing into thin air. Even your old commander at the Army Reserve, sir. The experiences he reported…”

  “Marcus…” the sheriff closed his eyes and shook his head. “But a dolphin? An aquarium? That would require a huge facility build out. The cost alone would be…”

  “A fortune, sir. An open piece of land with a nearby water source that could be accessed on a subterranean level…”

  Proudstar scowled, “The river.”

  “Oh my Dog!” exclaimed Everquist.

  “Stop saying oh my Dog!”

  “Sorry sir. But it has to be a dolphin!” Deputy Everquist was spinning in his chair, “Hah! I’m not crazy! In fact, I…”

  Proudstar cut him off, “Everquist, shut it. Another day when I got the time you can send me a dissertation on how every law enforcement agency in the state of Kansas has been getting its ass kicked by a fish…”

  “Dolphins are mammals, sir.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a fucking kangaroo in a scuba tank!”

  “Sorry sir.”

  The sheriff laced his fingers together and cracked his hefty knuckles, “Far as I’m concerned, we’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to detain anyone within a kilometer of that farm. But I’ll have no more mistakes. Before I drop boots, I want recon. How many avian drones we got?”

  “Sweet!” said Deputy Everquist dreamily. “We’ve got four, sheriff. Canadian geese camodrones. I can have one in the air inside thirty!”

  “I want all four in the air in half that.”

  “Even better!” said the deputy, typing command lines like a madman.

  “Can you put these birds on a dedicated stream, Everquist?”

  “No problem.”

  “Have each scan a single parameter. No cycles. One on gravotemporal, one on HLIR, one on infrared, and the last I want on standard visual.”

  “I can make that happen, sheriff. But I can’t guarantee…”

  “Everquist! If you’re fighting a fish, get a net! Figure it out. I need recon yesterday. And someone assemble my SWAT team.”

  The sheriff cut the com. He leaned forward on his desk and laid his head on the backs of his forearms, letting out a long sigh. When he sat up, his bloodshot eyes landed on the image of Earl Proudstar hanging above his desk.

  He pursed his lips and spoke with a soft nod, “Does it ever end?” Then he tapped his combud, “Private stream, Marcus Apollo,” he covered his eyes with his hand and waited.

  A voice gruff as his own soon answered, “LC?”

  “Who the hell else is gonna ping you at eight on a Saturday?”

  Colonel Apollo chuckled, “Shit, I already had a protein shake and logged nine kilos on the treadmill. What’s your excuse, hippie?”

  “Retirement. Next month, in fact.”

  The voice on the other end of the com responded affably, “Fair enough. So to what do I owe the pleasure, you old pogue?”

  “You at the fort this weekend?”

  “This weekend and every weekend. Someone’s gotta teach these green horns how to push a borg into the trees.”

  “Remember when we did battle with guns instead of joysticks?”

  Colonel Smith chuckled, “Sure do. We were both in Venezuela, LC. Those are some long gone decades, say? Something tells me you didn’t ping to reminisce.”

  Sheriff Proudstar gave up on his mustache and scratched the stubble on his chin, “All I recall about Venezuela is mean cyborgs and meaner whores. Remember when you got bushwhacked by those mules on I-70 last year?”

  Colonel Apollo growled. He activated the visual relay, appearing on the monitor on the sheriff’s desk. The men nodded at each another abrasively.

  “I work three days outta seven,” continued Apollo. “One day a week for Hovway Patrol and I get grifted by some civvies. How could I forget? I gave your tech marvel all the data I had, which wasn’t much. Streamed you then, I’ll stream you now… last thing I remember is that little piece o’ pie swallowing my mind with her eyeballs. It was like black ops shit.”

  “Well, I may have found them,” said Proudstar. “On a farm just east of town.”

  “Ya don’t say?”
the colonel’s bald, ebony head gleamed with a pristine shine. “You realize that’s the only demerit on my record since I started that Hovway Patrol gig? Every other time I just spend eight hours gettin’ well paid to float around watching the sun set.”

  “I know it, Marc.”

  The colonel’s expression turned grim, “One Dogdamn day a week… and I get jumped!”

  “I know it, Marc,” repeated the sheriff. “Listen, could be some serious tech out there. I may need you.”

  “I told you, someone was cloaking those shiners. Not a day goes by I don’t think about it. Remember when they trained us against those Israeli mind manipulators in Ranger school? Part of interrogation resistance?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s the only reason I remember a damn thing.”

  “You said the borg you saw was MIL class?”

  “For sure. Ripped through my pups.”

  “How many battle-ready critters you got on base?”

  “Sixty RIOT 2.0 battborgs, badass Dobermans, every one. Got full BIOSKIN© wraps and are mean as snake piss. Five second OS spool and they can be 100% paired with a driver.” The colonel smirked evilly, “In other words, I gotta enough borg muscle to take over Wichita. What you up against?”

  Proudstar shook his head, “Hell, I dunno. Might just be a couple good ol’ boys steamin’ shine in the hickories. Or it might be King Kong. For now we’ll call this a social ping? If needs, can you fly some trained drivers and borgs this way?”

  “You know the drill. Declare a state of emergency and hell…” Colonel Smith snorted, “this is the National Guard. As acting commander, I got no choice but to respond.” The colonel lowered his voice, “Nowhere does it say how I gotta respond. You light the holo, I’ll have two C17’s floatin’ over city hall inside three zero.”

  Proudstar exhaled, looked Marcus Apollo in the eye, “If it is the same bunch, figured you’d want first tap.”

  “Pussy or pecker… I’ll tap it. Up to more than just mulein’ booze. There was something wrong with that girl.”

  “We’re in agreement then.”

  “Ain’t you got some borgs?” the colonel clucked.

  “Yeah, twelve MARX dogs. My gunny, Talboy drives them. Should be plenty to pin down any Fidos or organics on guard duty. Just in case, keep your ear on?”

  The colonel laughed, “Ping me.”

  “Colonel.”

  He tapped his combud to end the stream. Apollo’s image faded, but the sheriff’s combud malfunctioned, echoing strangely with the sound of their last words.

  “Hmmph,” he grumbled. Dogdamn tech.”

  He tapped his combud again. This time it went dark.

  Dennis Slopes collapsed the CarbonStream app.

  I’m excited. Too excited.

  He opened the desk drawer and popped a morning cherry stym, smacking his lips. His eyes were greedy and unusually beady, flickering with sallow delight as the last of the sheriff’s private combud transcript spilled across his holoscreen. He let his fingers drift hungrily through Mrs. Kitter’s chestnut fur, the Felix perched slumbering on his lap.

  Proudstar has an obvious mind.

  The man had not changed his personal Govcloud password in four years. He asked for it.

  “You record every communication to protect your honor, sheriff,” Slopes said snidely. He rhythmically beat his fingernails against his lower lip, “In case anyone ever questions you.” He snapped a finger, “If only I could see what you chat about with that little capitalist, Daniel Everquist. Your unbeatable code-monkey! Arrfk!”

  His face snarled into a vicious, bat-like shape. He huffed at the screen and put his fingers in his mouth. The digits were greasy.

  “Go to your spot, Kitters. Daddy is disgusting.”

  The Felix came to life, leapt across the floor and scaled the purple La-Z-Boy. Mrs. Kitters promptly began licking her fur clean, repeating the methodical feline function as she intermittently eyed Slopes with dismay.

  Slopes snatched a strip of hempbacon from a platter, inhaling the last of breakfast. The synthesized pork and plant matter was unnecessarily salty. He was salivating and sweating profusely. Whether this effect was caused by excess sodium or the excitement of a successful hack, he did not care. The devious nature of spying just felt… appropriate to Slopes. He imagined it was what sex must be like. Though the thought of two bodies exchanging fluids… reprehensible!

  Kitters…

  He had been working so obsessively over the last 48 hours that he’d had no time to give a list to the Dillons Grocery drone.

  Kitters ran out of catnip three days ago!

  “I’m a bad daddy.”

  Kitters refused to even acknowledge him. He was a bad daddy. She turned her back to him and continued her fastidious grooming regimen.

  Slopes folded over the sleeve of his white, government issue office shirt one more time, using it as a napkin. A hempbacon crumb was lodged, unnoticed in a wrinkle at the corner of his mouth. His lips mouthed the words on the transcript as he read them, grinning as his nose searched for a clean place to expel its goo.

  The second he finished reading the exchange between Colonel Apollo and the sheriff, he clapped his palms together three times, then tapped his com, holoconferencing Sapet.

  A 2.5d image of the CNED director’s clean-shaven face soon appeared. Sapet looked as though he had just stepped off the splash page of Drone-Golfer’s Digest. His chin and forehead glistened. The taxidermied heads of black bears, cougars and wolverines, all stuffed in varying expressions of malice, adorned the walls of his home study. He wore a blue, polyhemp athletic shirt and his platinum hair was quaffed into a perfect West Lawrence yuppie wave.

  Slopes missed no detail. He turned his nose to the ceiling as his eyes crossed a rotating holocalendar mounted beneath the stuffed head of a snarling red fox. The top half of the calendar projected various college girls clad only in minikinis. Each of the betties propped their assets in the air whilst busily sudsing up early generation, North American hovcars from the 40’s.

  Slopes looked over his shoulder reproachfully, “Kitters, bless the Dog, cover your eyes and don’t look at the screen.”

  He much preferred to holo Sapet when the man was at work. Just knowing the holocalendar of young girls was in the background made Slopes want to eat inappropriate amounts of dairy.

  “Sapet!”

  “Good morning, Detective Slopes. Did you hear about the officer suicide last night?” said Sapet, his voice slithering with calculation.

  “A terrible shame,” Slopes clucked. “I can’t imagine who tipped The Journal World.”

  “It sounds dirty, detective,” Sapet said quietly. “The eye-witness accounts are…”

  “Stop talking. We’ve got her. How many agents can you float in the hour?” said Slopes eagerly, carefully drumming his desk so as to not upset the puzzle pieces.

  A spurious smile lit Sapet’s face, “CNED is always ready to kick boozer ass. Especially on a golden Saturday. I’d say fifty at the least, detective. Who’s her?”

  Slopes looked like he might explode.

  His fingers balled into gray, bony fists, “Tara Dean!” He began ticking off points and snorting, “The only successful escapee from Greystone Bmod! The hovcar arsonist, fugitive jezebel from the Coyote crash who made Lucinda Fossbender bark like a randy Beagle in her own living room! The promiscuous Traditionalist who sent me a pornographic holograph, causing me to lose consciousness, bite off my tongue and fear for my life!”

  Ken Sapet’s eyebrow twitched, “I didn’t see the part where she barked like a Beagle…”

  Slopes’ voice got so high it whistled, “That’s not the point! This woman is associated with what may be the largest alcohol lab the Union has ever seen! End of story, it’s time to fly. Be sure to prepare yourselves for… unexpected tech.”

  “Are you saying we could be running into borgs?”

  Slopes was pensive, “From everything I’ve seen, I’d say you’re going
to be up against dogs at the least, probably security Fidos. If the old man is involved, cyborgs are never far behind.”

  “A sonic shotgun is best for dogs, borg or blood. But especially borgs.”

  Slopes rolled his eyes, “I’m sure… Listen, Sapet, if your agents pull this off ahead of the sheriff, everyone in your office will have enough money to retire.”

  Sapet nodded his shiny face, “Heard, sir. Sounds like we got us a twenty kilo fish to fry.”

  “Oh for Dog’s sake,” Slopes’ tone was filled with sufferance. “Sapet?”

  “Yes, detective?”

  “If you screw this up, I’m a ghost. I can’t cover for you.”

  Sapet winked, “No problem, sir. I got it. We’re gonna bag these hens, drop ’em at Greystone and be at the bar drinkin’ janebeers before lunch.”

  Dennis Slopes winced on the inside, “Fine, that’s fine. Stream me a secure Ipv7 when you have it.”

  He cut the stream and exhaled long and hard. His eyes glanced over the puzzle of downtown New Miami, worked on little of late, then shifted to a small holograph of Tara Dean being projected in the corner of his monitor. Dennis Slopes felt his pulse quicken.

  “Kitters, come to me.”

  Saturday, October 16, 2082 8:09 am – Three Hours Fifty One Minutes Before Event.

  Courtezans got drunk. But they never got hangovers, never blacked out. They never forgot. If everyone realized as much, she knew there would be no excusing her behavior. But since only one truly knew the innermost details of her mind, it was easy for Tara to spring out of bed feeling a tad dehydrated and yawny, but otherwise refreshed.

  The summons hit as soon as she stood.

  “I am the moon, you are the Earth. Yes sir,” she said sarcastically, eyeing her dirty bare toes on the hardwoods.

  She padded to the dresser and pulled on a sports bra and one of Dax’s white undershirts and a pair of sweats, then tip-toed lightly down the old oak stairs into the farmhouse. A pang of guilt rose as she passed William and Dorothy’s apartment. So it often was when she had misbehaved the night before. Her fingers trailed across the door as she walked by. Closing her eyes, she could hear Dorothy dreaming. They were dreams of her; fury mixed with seduction mixed with something else she could not quite bring to focus. How much angrier would they be if they knew she could hear them dreaming about her? Tara knew their deepest convictions. Their private desires.