by T. C. Edge
Ragan thanked the guard and moved off, his I.D. card given a temporary code that would let him move around unhindered. He had to give it to Doc. The man could really make Ragan into just about anyone if he put his mind to it.
Heading for the bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby, Ragan swiftly made his way down through the sub-tower, heading for sub-level 39. The lift creaked and groaned, a far cry from the sleek, push designs he was used to back at CID HQ, before opening up at his destination.
Stepping out into a small hall, he searched the network of corridors stretching away from the lift, finding the appropriate passage where Chloe’s old apartment lay. The buzz of energy was enough to swiftly draw him there without direction, the distinct hum of a gathering of people sounding from a particular passage.
Ragan followed the route, and came upon Chloe’s apartment soon enough. He was immediately accosted by a man arranging the flow of people in and out of the box.
A brief exchange between the two told Ragan he was set to wait a little while to get access to Chloe’s apartment. He bit his lip in frustration. Knowing the bumbling fools of the WSA, the site would be badly contaminated by the time he had his go.
Still, there was little he could do but wait, taking the time to explore a little of the sub-tower and heading for the core. It was a musty, unpleasant place, and would only be worse further down. Ragan reached the central heart of the building and spread his gaze over the gallery, looking down the dozens of floors towards the deepest recesses of the pit.
Through the rising steam and smog, he could see the shapes of bodies moving about on the galleries below, going about their morning’s work in the industrial levels at the bottom half of the building. He mused on Chloe’s desperation, coming here to live and work. She was a girl of high birth, of wealth, hailing from a great family of innovators and leaders. And yet, here she’d been for three long months, following several years of evading the authorities. It wasn’t a befitting life for the last Phantom.
As he stood in thought, Ragan considered the option of speaking with some of Chloe’s colleagues at the factory she’d worked in down on sub-level 75. He knew her, perhaps as well as anyone could, and yet was quite certain that no one here would have learned anything of the girl hiding in their midst. Her latest alias, Layla Trayfoot, was well crafted and came with all the necessary documents and records to allow her to form a new life, albeit briefly, here in this industrial earthscraper. Anyone here would have learned only of this false identity, and nothing of the true girl behind the mask.
Of course, she’d be seeking a new one now, a new identity to help her slip back into the shadows. It was obvious enough to Ragan and anyone else on her trail that she was getting help, though as yet no one at the CID had been able to work out just who was providing it. There were many possibilities on that account, numerous parties who engaged in such blackmarket dealings. It was quite possible, even probable, that whoever it was had been interviewed on the subject before, only to give nothing away.
It frustrated Ragan no end. The hunt for Chloe Phantom had consumed him for some time now, and he’d grown quite obsessed with finding her. He had a darkly competitive streak in him that made the idea of anyone else discovering her whereabouts entirely intolerable. He would do it as part of his duty to the cause, absolutely. But, beyond that, he’d do it for himself too.
A voice broke his train of thought, spreading from behind him down the passage.
“Mr Smith, you’re next in line at the investigation site. You have an allotted time of three minutes to inspect the scene.”
Ragan nodded, and followed the official back towards Chloe’s apartment. He was asked to put on a pair of latex gloves and told to touch nothing, the instructions passed on with some scorn. It seemed to Ragan that insurance agents and risk analysts weren’t exactly thought about in favourable terms around here. He was an insect to these people, just another finance lackey who had no business interfering with an investigation of such importance.
Yet, he had to be accommodated, at least partially so. The insurance firm he was falsely representing was far too influential here to be cast aside, a fact well known by Doc when he designed this false pretence. Still, Ragan was on the clock, not only in his hunt for Chloe, but in getting out of dodge before any real insurance agents for Marshall and Blake turned up.
So, ignoring the curt words and snide sneers of the various government officials and agency men in the corridor, Ragan swept into Chloe’s apartment with a smile. The door was shut behind him, giving him total privacy.
He checked his watch and tapped a dial - three minutes and counting.
Setting to work, his first thought was of the smell, and size, of the room. The unpleasant scent that filled the building barely dissipated here, and the allowance of space was meagre to say the least. It was as far from homely as you could get, the floor, ceiling, and walls made from corrugated metal, and only sparsely covered here and there in any decorative elements like a tiny welcome mat by the door, and a bit of wallpaper that had long since given up its hold on the rusting wall by the bed.
Ragan wondered briefly if Chloe will have added her own decorative elements, only taking them down and packing them up upon leaving. Surely living in a tin can like this would get anyone down? It needed some life, some colour. This entire place was devoid of any warmth at all.
Still, his brief moment of pity speedily abandoned him in his need for haste. He had a single prerogative now - to find a usable DNA sample. Chloe was notoriously skilled at leaving no trace of her presence anywhere she went, and any workable samples of her DNA were hard to come by. For a man like Ragan Hunt, with the skill set his nanobots and CID tech gave him, a bit of DNA could go a hell of a long way…
Reaching a single finger to his left eye, he lightly pressed against his eyeball. The clear contact lens that covered it sprung swiftly to life, activated by the unique print of Ragan’s right index finger. The single tap altered his vision, allowing him to discover heat signatures via infrared. A double tap turned the lens into a scanner, seeking out anything that had any form of living property, sifting through all the inanimate objects around the room and quickly searching for just what Ragan was looking for - DNA.
The lenses were an advanced tech developed by the CID, and had other properties too, such as night-vision. Right now, however, a double tap was all that was required.
The room changed colour as the lens activated, a light shade of blue overtaking the murky, dull grey. Little scanners began their search as Ragan turned his gaze to all corners. The primary function, in this case, of the lens was to scan specifically for DNA signatures, and Ragan just had to hope that the many people coming in and out of the apartment so far that morning hadn’t caused too much interference and contamination.
Immediately, several floating bits of debris caught the attention of the scanner, drifting lightly and otherwise invisibly upon the air. As the scanning lens in Ragan’s left eye did its work, the lens covering his right eye began conveying the information. Details began falling across his vision like credits after a movie, relaying all cogent data the scanning lens was picking up, and all the while the lenses began interfacing with the nanites in Ragan’s blood, storing the information to be inspected and analysed for later use.
The floating particles were immediately translated for Ragan. Some were tiny flecks of skin, dead cells scratched off a nose or ear, forearm or hand. Others were particles of dandruff, removed from the scalp of someone afflicted with the condition. There were even small bits of mucus floating within the air, held up by the light currents filtering from below. Ragan was immediately aware that someone who’d been in here earlier had sneezed, releasing his own DNA into the room as a result.
All such particles, however, were going to be inconclusive. Ragan was fully aware that contamination on this scale was always likely to be a problem, and that the room would be filled with minor traces of DNA from a number of people.
He need
ed something more usable, and his time was swiftly running out. Searching every nook and cranny in the room, be worked at a rush, his focus primarily on the head of the bed, the basin, and the wardrobe. Given Chloe’s track record, he imagined that she probably would have done a sweep for samples before leaving, and no doubt had her own nanobot augmentations to help her in that task. To that end, even Ragan wasn’t sure of the extent of just what Chloe Phantom could do.
Still, he had to maintain some hope, and as he entered his final minute of privacy there in the box, finally came upon something of value. Tucked away at the back of the wardrobe, caught in the thinest thread of a spider’s web, his scanner lens picked up a single strand of hair, most likely fallen off a piece of clothing and settling here in the dark. He reached forward quickly, and took the hair delicately. The scanner continued its work, and a hopeful smile rose on Ragan’s face.
The hair was intact, not just the shaft itself but the follicle too, where most of the juicy goodness was found. Immediately, the scanner picked up the DNA within, and though Ragan couldn’t be completely certain of its owner, he felt pretty confident of who it belonged to.
“I’ve caught your scent now, Chloe,” he whispered, just as the door knocked.
And walking towards it, he opened it up.
“All yours, gentlemen,” he said.
11
“So, how about that reward then? Have you been told anything about that?”
Matt and Derik sat together in an office right up on sub-level 1, a place usually occupied by the building manager, but temporarily handed over for the purpose of conducting interviews. Over the course of the previous night, and through the morning, the two men had been subjected to a host of interrogations, firstly by government agents and now, rather mercifully, by members of the press, whose questions were delivered with a little more warmth.
Any sighting of Chloe Phantom always came with a great deal of fanfare, and though the two men couldn’t really contribute much of any real value in the hunt for her, they could certainly add to the story and drama from the media’s perspective. To the news outlets, Chloe was a hit magnet, and thus Derik and Matt were set to become overnight stars.
The latest question had been directed by a gorgeous news reporter with sultry brunette locks, green eyes, and a playful expression that was surely intended to keep any interviewees off their guard. It worked with Derik and Matt, the two men entirely enamoured. Neither had ever been smiled at like that by a woman of such allure.
“Er, the reward?” asked Matt, frowning. “She hasn’t been caught, so…”
“Not yet,” returned the reporter breezily. “But, if she is, then surely you’ll be in for quite a windfall. I believe any hot tip that leads to her capture is good for at least a while, as long as it’s directly related to her arrest.”
“Is that so?” said Derik, pursing his lips and nodding pensively.
“As far as I know, yes,” smiled the reporter. She leaned in, speaking to the two men as if they were children. “I’ll bet you two are on the edges of your seats, hoping she’s taken in!”
Truthfully, they weren’t. Though the reward remained a tantalising prospect, they were too tired right now to give it much thought. But more than that, neither had much hope that Chloe would actually be found. From what they’d heard over the last few hours, she’d completely disappeared after leaving the sub-tower, and hadn’t been seen since.
So, the same as always.
Then again, their security clearance wasn’t particularly high, so if there had been some development, it wasn’t as if they’d know it.
By now, however, after enduring all this questioning, both were ready for bed. Or a strong drink of some kind at least. Even amid the company of this beautiful young woman, neither of them were particularly invested.
“Soooo, tell me gentlemen, what are you going to spend the money on when it comes your way?” The reporter’s line of questioning made it clear her slant on the story. Clearly some form of lifestyle journalism, a necessary counter to the more serious topics of war, impending economic disaster, unemployment, and crime. In such times, people needed the levity.
With a bit of coaxing, the reporter managed to draw some half-hearted answers out of her subjects. She seemed disappointed with their lack of animation and excitement, a fact made clear by her heavy sighs and regular, exasperated, shakes of the head. Eventually, she relented in her questioning, telling the two men that she’d try again when they were ‘better rested’.
It sounded like a fair deal.
After the lady had left, a man of opposite appearance stepped in. He was similarly attractive, tall and broad, with a strong, stubbled chin and piercing blue eyes, though lacked the warmth and smile the woman had portrayed. He stepped forward hastily, wearing a black suit and white shirt, and swiftly perused the two men.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Ragan Smith, and I’m here to talk about insurance.”
Ragan wasn’t there to talk about insurance.
He had, in fact, a single matter to clear up before he sped off on his way. After leaving Chloe’s box apartment, he needed to try to narrow down the possible DNA matches for the hair he’d discovered, and do so as quickly as he could. Though he was quite certain the hair belonged to Chloe, he wasn’t going to go rushing off until he was sure.
To do so, he needed to eliminate other possible matches. That meant checking the investigators outside of the apartment on sub-level 39, as well as those up in the lobby who’d already been in her room that day. Using his contact lens scanner, therefore, he’d set about secretly scanning each person for their DNA signature, hoping each time that he didn’t find a match for the hair.
He hadn’t.
Now, he had one final person to see and scan - Matthew Lindon. As the reports had said, the young guard had been the only other person to venture towards Chloe’s room recently. Whether he’d gone inside or not, Ragan didn’t actually know. He was about to find out.
Stepping into the room, the label of insurance remained his cover. He took in the sight of the two weary men before him, their eyes half glazed over and their interest in all of this flagging, and began firing off a few questions to act as cover as his scanning lens worked its magic once again.
The men gave short, mumbled replies as he spoke of liability and risk and the need for a review of all security measures in the building. It was basic jargon, but did the job. Within no time at all, his work was done.
Upon his right contact lens, the information picked up by the scanning lens was being listed before Ragan’s eye. Mostly, it was superfluous. Only two words were relevant.
NO MATCH…
Ragan, seeing the information appear before him, stopped mid-sentence and smiled. It probably looked rather odd to the two men, but he hardly cared.
“Right, thank you gentlemen,” he said hastily. “I’m sure Marshall and Blake will be in touch with you soon.”
With that, he turned on the spot and headed straight for the door, certain now beyond all reasonable doubt that the hair can only have come from Chloe’s head.
Speeding from the room, he moved straight back for the lobby on the floor above, and prepared to leave the building. As he did, he noted the presence of more suited men who held the appearance of business and finance men, rather than the government officials and soldiers swarming the place. He smiled at the timing. They could very well be real representatives of Marshall and Blake.
Cutting it close there, Ragan, he thought.
Moving out into the smoggy morning air, he drew his right thumb and index finger to his right ear, and squeezed on his earlobe. Hidden away inside his aural cavity, a tiny communication device came to life. Operating seamlessly alongside his nanotech augmentations, he dialled in via secure line to the CID.
As if by magic, a voice appeared in his head.
“Ragan, this is Wexley. Have you caught her scent?”
Ragan made sure he was out of earshot of
anyone nearby.
“Yes, Commander. I have her DNA, scanning now for nearby signatures. I’ll be on her trail shortly, sir. Any further news?”
“Actually, yes. It appears there’s been no sighting yet, and no clear breach through the security lines around the city. That leaves two possibilities - either she managed to get through without alerting anyone, perhaps with aid. Or…”
“Or she’s still in the city,” nodded Ragan.
“Exactly.”
“Does that make any sense?”
“Not much makes sense with that girl,” grunted Wexley. “She’s notoriously unpredictable, as you know. But if you’re asking me, I’d say she’s got a contact in the city. She needs a new identity, and must have had a backup plan in case she was found out in Sub-Tower 12. I’ve had Doc run a search for known forgers and black-market info-traffickers living and operating in LA.”
“And?”
“You know LA, Ragan. Half the city’s a criminal mecca, run by underground gangs. Forgery is common practice, and there are plenty of practitioners of that particular art. We can narrow the search if we get a hit on your scan. How’s it coming?”
Ragan’s scanning lens was still working at full capacity, skimming through all the signals and signatures ahead and searching for a hit nearby. He had Chloe’s DNA now. If she was close, or there was any hint or trace of her DNA anywhere in the vicinity, it should flag up, giving him a direction to follow at the very least.
The range, of course, was a problem. With such a quantity of data to sift through, stronger signals would be more speedily picked up. If Chloe herself was nearby, within say a few hundred metres of where he now stood, he’d know it. If she was more than a couple of miles away, he’d be very lucky to track her down in a city as vast and overly populated as this.
He didn’t expect to get a direct hit, of course. What he was really hoping for was a trace element. Another strand of hair. A bead of sweat, or saliva. If he was really lucky, a drop of blood would be good. Essentially, any element like that found in her apartment would flag up on his scanner, and give him something to follow. It was like following a trail of breadcrumbs, and in order to give him some direction to work with, the first was the most vital.