The last count seals the deal... he figures a little exercise might avoid deep vein thrombosis. “Yeah?” He leans against the door and squints at the screen displaying his block’s front door. There’s a woman there, Fedtech lettering on a fallball cap and a uniform to match.
“Federal Environmental. I’d like a few words,” she says.
He licks his lips and looks back at his video game, paused but looking mighty tempting. “Look, I’m kind of busy. Can’t we do this some other time?”
“Afraid not. Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. Strictly informal.”
He knows she’s not going to go away. Feds never do. He buzzes her into the block, unlocks his door and goes back to Tempest 2000. It’s only some indeterminate time later when the Game Over legend flashes up that he looks away and notices every space in his apartments is taken up with bodies. She’s standing there in her uniform. The half dozen others have folding stock assault rifles and flexible ballistic vests hidden by trench coats and oversized combat jackets.
“We need to talk, Simon,” says Kirsty.
He smiles, a big, dumb, lopsided one. “Dude...” he says, “this is your idea of informal?”
Kirsty shares his couch, waving her hand in a futile attempt to shift sixteen hours of stacked-up smoke. “How can you even breathe in here?” she coughs.
“Well, I am a little behind on the cleaning,” says Simon. “Thing is, I wasn’t expecting a private army to crash my pad.” Hemblen’s crew can’t help sniggering and even though he doesn’t understand why, Simon sniggers too. He double-takes when he sees Hemblen, smiling despite two black eyes and scarred lips and his face all taped up. “Wow… Who did you piss off?” he asks.
“Since you ask, pretty much everyone,” says Hemblen.
“I can see that,” nods Simon. “What happened?”
“Someone shot me in the head.”
“Hardcore. You get him back?”
“Still time yet,” says Hemblen.
Simon nods, slow and stoned, then turns to Kirsty. “And why d’you bring his ugly face to my place?”
“Arclights, Simon,” she says. “You were there. I need to know more.”
“Yeah, thought so.” He shrugs a little. “Nuthin’ to say. They’re redecorating so I’m wastin’ time on half pay until they re-open.” He leans forward and stirs the crud on his coffee table looking for his Zig Zags. “You mind if I roll one?”
“Go ahead, knock yourself out,” she says.
“That’s pretty much the plan,” he grins.
She talks as he rolls. “I know everything, more or less. I was at Arclights after the event. I’ve seen partial remains of victims, so I know people died. They’ve paid everyone off and have been trying to kill me ever since, so I know Meat4 Power are behind it. I even know your best friend Kenny Sossamon was the killer but what I don’t know is why he did it. I need you for that, Simon.”
He scratches his nose and coughs and looks down and shifts his weight and is an open textbook of unconscious behavior in people who are lying. “Sossamon, you say? Sure I know the guy, he works at Arclights. Stretching the point to say he’s a friend though.”
She holds Slate up, blank-screened and on stand by. “I cross-matched Kenny’s credit against other Arclights employees. Co-workers don’t split bar tabs, work out at the same gym five mornings a week, take their girlfriends to the same restaurant every pay day. You two were tight as it gets.”
He looks surprised. “You Feds can do that? Just look through anyone’s lives?”
“Anyone and everyone.”
“Isn’t that like, a violation of my privacy or something?”
“You preferred the old way? Talk to a judge, get a warrant, stake out your bank for transaction details? Fuck that. I’m with the simple, streamlined, straightforward solution every time.”
“Okay, so if you know everything, you’ll know M4 paid me off. I signed a non-disclosure. I don’t have to say nothing.” He holds out his blunt. “You want some?”
She passes but one of Hemblen’s crew takes a hit and hands it round the room. “Kenny killed people. Don’t you want to know what made him do it?”
“I can’t say nothin’.”
“But I can,” she says. “Look, I’m not after your testimony. I can keep your name out of this so you can keep your pay-off. But Kenny shouldn’t be remembered as a killer. He’s a victim in this, I’m certain. Just talk to me.”
“But I don’t know nothin’.”
“I do. I know Meat4 Power changed him. I know they somehow turned a twenty two year old dishwasher into some kind of superman. And you know how I know this?”
She thumbs Slate and the screen lights, cued up with eight windows showing synched slow-mo angles of Kenny’s BASErace. Simon watches his friend hitting the concrete at the foot of Scotia Plaza and when Kenny emerges smiling from under his barely-deployed parachute, Simon smiles too.
“Damn, that’s cool,” he says. “But those visual are only on the internet. That’s a naughty place for a Fed to be looking.”
“I didn’t download them, my janitor did,” she says. “He showed me this the morning after Arclights but it took me all this time to realize its significance.”
Simon watches the visual loop and start again. “That’s poetry in motion, man. That’s true grit.”
“That’s impossible,” she says. “You realize a landing that hard should have killed him, don’t you? Anyone as strong as Kenny must have been to survive that could rip sheet metal. Anyone that strong could...”
“...tear people limb from limb?” Simon’s grin fades and his temples throb visibly and he looks around the soldiers for his smoke.
“Is that what you saw, Simon?”
“Kenny slicing people up? Certain events do tend to stick in your mind.”
“I don’t need you to make this case but I’m desperate to find the link between Kenny and M4. If you think you can help...”
Simon gets his blunt back and takes a last drag before pointing at the Slate on Kirsty’s lap. “Turn that thing off,” he says, “and I’ll tell you about it...”
He recounts his whole day up until the attack, from waving Kenny off as he started to cross the Hub on a stolen Tramtrax pass to gathering in Arclight’s kitchen to watch the live transmission on an illegal internet hookup. He says he and Taki went nuts when Kenny won but the kitchen staff immediately clammed up and said no way they’d pay up the full six grand on the bet.
He describes how Kenny made it back mid-shift, limping and bruised and mad as hell when he heard about the bet going sour. Simon swallows hard as he says he’d tried to reason with Kenny. His voice gets croaky when he recalls the service elevator coming apart like a bomb and seeing Kenny one last time, a blur of motion thrashing in the smoke of the burning kitchen.
“When you say a blur...” says Kirsty.
“Sounds an exaggeration, don’t it?” says Simon. But he was like... Road Runner fast. When I saw him go down those stairs to ask for his cash, he was mad but he was still Kenny. When he came up again, he was something else.”
“Now that I know what happened, I need to know why it happened, Simon,” she says. “Jude here tells me that Meat4 Power are rolling out a new product soon so I think they might have been testing it at Arclights. Did you ever see M4 personnel in the club?”
“All the time,” he says. “The same faces were in and out every few days. When the shit hit the fan, they came right back and stripped out all the livedrives too.”
She minimizes Slate’s BASErace footage and brings up a window with a couple of dozen head and shoulder shots. “Do you recognize anyone?” she says and Simon squints a moment.
“This guy I’ve seen maybe half a dozen times,” he says, tapping the screen.
“Starting from when?”
“Maybe four months ago,” says Simon. “It’s funny because one time, Kenny asked him about what he was doing and he made like it was all top secret but said it was importan
t work to improve the livedrives. The very next day, they all powered down and gave shitty output for the rest of the week. That’s progress, right?”
“When was that?”
“Three weeks back,” he replies. “I remember because it was the same week Kenny got the flu and freaked out that he’d be too sick to do the jump.”
Kirsty points at Slate. “And it was definitely this guy?”
He nods. “No doubt.”
Kirsty flags the shot of Professor Jeffrey Chang and shows it to Hemblen. “What do you think?” she asks.
“I think we visit this guy next,” says Hemblen. “I think he’d be able to say why Kenny caught a cold off the livedrives.”
“That was just a coincidence,” said Simon.
“Was it?” asked Kirsty. “Okay,” she continues, “you weight-trained at the gym to get Kenny in shape. Did he ever show abnormal speed or strength before that night?”
“Define abnormal, shrugs Simon. He could beat me on bench presses and could run a mean mile. But I always thought that was ’cos he trained more.”
“Has he always been fitter than you?”
“No way. A year ago, Kenny did nothing but sit and smoke and play video games. Then me and him and Taki started bungee jumping at the Playdium and saved up for a Fallball experience. You know the thing – you jump from a tethered airship with a chute that opens automatically. That was too much for me and Taki, real scary shit. But it was Kenny’s wake-up call.”
“So he started BASEracing.”
“Ain’t that easy, lady. He trained hard, got me into spotting weights for him and running a little. After that, he slid into the whole BASErace scene. The clothes, the bars, the tats, the music. But Scotia Plaza the other night... that was his first actual BASErace.”
“Was he working out too hard? Was he popping pills, spiking steroids, smoking or snorting any kind of junk?”
“I asked him about it straight up, because his temper was getting worse the closer he got to race day,” says Simon. “But he put it down to nerves. Like I said, he got the flu the week before and spent a week sweating in his apartment and worrying.”
Kirsty shakes her head and looks up at Hemblen. “So Jude, what more do we know?”
Hemblen rubs a blackened eye and scratches his chin where stubble pokes through the scabs. “You said Kenny got tats,” he says. “BASEracers don’t use regular ink do they?”
“Regular ink, panda boy?” Simon shakes his head. “Sissies get inked plain. Clave kids who are pissed at their moms get inked plain. Like I said, Kenny embraced the BASEracer lifestyle.”
Kirsty’s heart skips a beat. “He got a thrilltat?”
“Sure he did. He dug scagband music so he got the thrilltat to match. A big, fat monkey on his back, right at the center of this half angel, half devil dude design. Very slick. Very cool...”
She reaches for Slate. “Can you remember where he got it punched?”
“Yeah, I went with him,” he says. “It’s a place called Murder Ink on 17th and Meyrick. The place reeked of disinfectant and Kenny said it hurt like hell.”
Kirsty types in the address and pulls the store’s ad off a directory that announces how they’re proud to implant only Arm Garbage thrilltats. She runs a background check on the name and it’s just a cool brand name designed to appeal to a specific demographic. The tissue in Kenny’s thrilltat came straight from Meat4 Power.
“That what you came for?” says Simon, watching Kirsty’s stern face struggling with the start of a smile.
“Well, there’s what I think and there’s what I can prove and you’ve moved the two closer than ever. Thanks, Simon.” She stands to leave.
“You said partial remains,” says Simon.
She stops. “Partial remains of what?”
“The victims. When you came in, you said you’d seen partial remains of the victims. What happened to the rest of them?”
“Transplants,” she says. “Hands, feet, organs, tissue. You know how nothing gets wasted.”
“My friend Taki. MedAssist hauled him out breathing but M4 said he died later. Did you see him?”
“I recognize the name, so yes, I think I did.”
“The three of us, we were best friends. Kenny would never have hurt him. What killed Taki couldn’t have been Kenny any more. You can see that, can’t you?”
“I’ve seen the BASEracing clip, Simon. The Kenny you knew died before he jumped off that building.”
“So when you catch up with him... because that’s what you’re going to do, right?”
“I’ve got to. He’s primary evidence.”
“So when you find him, finish him.” He points at the soldiers. “Get one of these angry-looking motherfuckers to cap him and lay the old Kenny to rest.”
Then he turns back to the screen, picks up a controller and lies back on the couch. “And if you’re done bugging me, Officer, close the door on your way out. I’m going to bust one million on this game or die trying…”
Saturday 22 March
07:28 pm
JUST ANOTHER QUIET night on the Lakeside Heights gated enclave, Toronto District 03. From his main gate office, warm and safe, sub-warden Ryan Pollack can’t see Lake Ontario and doesn’t suppose any of the Clavers can either but what’s in a name?
Ryan’s eating a cherry danish and watching cable access since it’s dark now and, Clavers being Clavers, there’s no out-going traffic. Clavers know the mallsprawl’s a bad place to be after dark – the Lakeside Heights promotional literature tells them so. He slouches, bored out of his mind. He chews open-mouthed and doesn’t know that Pope’s three hundred meters away lying prone under decorative roadside foliage. Ryan can’t see Pope. He doesn’t detect his unwavering gaze through low light optics. He doesn’t know that the moment he lifts his flabby white ass off his seat, Pope will send a subsonic hollow-point round crashing through his skull. If he did, chances are Ryan’s cherry danish wouldn’t taste so sweet.
George Melrose is four and too young to understand that he should ignore livedrives the way the grown-ups do. Every night, his mommy and daddy think it’s cute to let him creep into the heated garage to say goodnight to their BurbBuggy as it slurps water and foodfuel through hookups. Every night, George feels the warm grassy dampness of its breath through the front grill and hears the bass lub-lub thrum of its heart. George calls it Mr Moocar.
Tonight, daddy got home late and has left Mr Moocar on the street. Mommy says it’s okay for George to go out alone in his slippers and jimmies and put his pudgy pink face to the vent so he can whisper his good-nights. Tonight, as he pads out alone, George is surprised to see a man in black lying behind Mr Moocar.
George walks round and stands over him. He’s got a black ski mask on so George can only see his eyes. He’s pointing a big gun like the ones George sees on cable access. “Hey…” whispers George. Then a little bit louder, “Hey!”
The man glances over his shoulder at him. “Hush a second, fella. I’ll be right with you.” And the next moment, George gasps as the street’s full of men and women, all of them running as quiet as they can, all of them in ski masks and black clothing, all of them pointing their big black guns at buildings.
Seconds later, they’ve all gone down the street and melted away behind well-trimmed hedges and low walls. It’s just George and Mr Moocar and the man, who gets up into a crouch and raises a finger to where his mouth would be if he had a face. He goes “Shh…”
He says “Okay, little man, this needs to stay our secret. If you tell anyone, you’ll spoil the surprise, okay?” He ruffles George’s hair then turns and runs off after his friends.
George brushes his teeth and goes to bed and doesn’t tell mommy or daddy. Because if he’s learned one thing in his first four years, it’s to always do what grown-ups tell him.
Jeffrey Chang peers through his front door peephole and sees a Fedtech holding her Slate’s ID screen up next to her face. “Who is it, honey?” shouts his wife from the kitche
n, sharing bedtime milk and cookies with their daughter.
“Who is it?” he asks through the door as he puts the chain on.
“Federal Environmental” says the Fedtech. “I’m running random viral containment checks in this area. I need a minute to swab your Boiler.”
Chang nervously glances at the panic button on the wall and the door stays locked. “Not in this street, Officer,” he says. “All residences here are protected by a research ordinance obtained by the Meat4 Power corporation. I suggest you check with your superiors.”
“Damn” says the Fedtech. “That’s the third void work detail this week. I’ll still need you to sign to say I called, Mr Chang.”
“How do you know my name?” says Chang. “How did you get past gate security?” She starts to explain as Chang reaches for the panic button but a rifle barrel pushes coldly into the back of his neck. “Step away from the door,” says the trigger man. “Let’s go sit with your family.”
Jeffrey Chang turns slowly and sees men and women with guns already swarming through his house, moving furniture so they can sit behind his blinds and cover the street outside. They push him into the kitchen, where his wife and kid are hugging each other tightly, watching a stranger in a ski mask closing the back door they’ve just pried open.
Kirsty waits at the front door until the chain rattles and Hemblen lets her in. He closes the door as she steps in but keeps the hallway blocked by his other arm. “This bit you don’t have to do,” he says. “Give us the word and we’ll beat this guy until he gives up whatever you want.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve spent years dealing with morons who can’t put food in one end of a system or deal with waste coming out the other. I’ve got enough people skills to be mean as I need to be, believe me.” All the same, she’s pale as she looks towards the kitchen. “Did you get what I asked for?”
He draws her Jericho pistol out out of a pack on his thigh, tapped now with a brushed aluminum suppressor. “You’re not going to cap him, are you?”
B-spine Page 30