City of Games

by Jeff Deck

  I attended a succession of funerals. Patricia Gagnon did leave behind a husband and two kids, just as she told me. Special Agent Mike McGuinness was ruled a suicide and buried without honors. He was a good man and deserved better. I stopped by Ilana Stein’s and Hector Ferreira’s funerals, too, though I hung back and left early. Ferreira’s grieving family will never know how he ended up on that island. Detective Ben Ulrich remains a missing person case.

  Part of the Avariccians’ cleanup detail involved them shoving Scott Shaughnessy’s body back through the Port. The official story is that Shaughnessy and Ilana got into a fight of unknown origin and killed each other. It doesn’t hold up if one looks at the rather definitive wounds each of them suffered, but the Portsmouth police don’t trouble themselves to mention inconsistencies to the media.

  On leave from the force, Milly unfortunately couldn’t help me much with building a case against the dirty Portsmouth cops. Happily, I received a boost from beyond the grave thanks to Patricia. With Sandy Grieg under arrest, Ethan and I got the excuse we needed to go through the lawyer’s office. We found the files about Jill Haven and Eddie Barndollar that Patricia had put together—both overdose deaths involved Officer Mike Prince making the initial discovery of the bodies. And we found the records of two payments from one Heritage Preservation Initiative, LLC, to Prince, each payment a few days after one of the deaths. The LLC had also paid Gomez and Lewis, though it’s not clear yet which deaths or disappearances they’re implicated in.

  (We also took the opportunity, while we were there, to rip off the upstairs wallpaper and confiscate it.)

  The suspicious payments, combined with some missing opioids from the PD’s evidence storage, resulted in the suspension and investigation of Mike Prince. They’re still investigating, but it doesn’t look good for Prince.

  To my frustration and disillusionment, however, Attorney Sandy Grieg has slipped out of justice’s grasp. Questions Grieg and his own lawyer raised about false imprisonment, and breaches of protocol out on Round Island that SSA Jeong was hard pressed to explain, resulted in the charges against him falling apart. Now Jeong himself is under review by the Bureau and in danger of losing his supervisory status, the latest victim of their aggressive CYA policy. The FBI couldn’t connect the dead gunman on the island to Grieg, either, though I’m sure the guy was Grieg’s hired muscle until Shaughnessy brainwashed him.

  Meanwhile, Grace Stone doesn’t seem to be tied to Heritage Preservation Initiative, LLC, at all. I know she must have ordered Grieg to kill the cultists, but no records exist. And the LLC doesn’t look to have paid anyone in the several days following your death.

  It’s hard for me to admit, but clearly law enforcement isn’t the avenue to pursue justice for you. I’ll need to take Stone and her cronies to task in my own way. And I’ll need to do it soon, now that they’ve been stirred up by our aborted efforts to punish them through official channels.

  There is, however, one item on my to-do list I’ve been neglecting. That’s how I find myself, on this hot evening in early July, standing in front of the Tenacious Trainers gym. The place is supposed to be open 24 hours a day, but tonight the machines are all still, and the front door is locked. I press the buzzer, and when a voice answers, I say:

  “I’m ready for my tour.”

  17

  The menu at the most celebrated restaurant in Stroyer’s Axle is, predictably, heavy on seafood. I’m eyeing the grasper, which Nadia has assured me is a close cousin to octopus, in fanlin sauce. “But what is fanlin sauce?”

  “Spicy, creamy. You’ll love it. Take a gamble.”

  “I don’t want to do that ever again,” I say, but I do order the dish.

  Nadia and I are sitting at a table near the window, where I can goggle at the streets far below and the towers curving away from us. The view of this city in a bubble is stunning, as is the greenish-blue sea beyond the protective membrane. I see no indications the surface of the sea is anywhere close by, and yet light suffuses the water, making for a constant daytime in the city.

  I wriggle in the tight-fitting cerulean bodysuit I’m wearing, still feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. Both the color and the fit look much better on Nadia, who was the one who insisted on us wearing them to blend in with the current fashions in the Axle. I’m thinking maybe she wanted to see me squirm. I must look like a pipsqueak sausage in this. There are ridiculous flowing silk edges on the arms and legs, like fins on a fish.

  We’ve spent hours together in this strange submerged city, starting with running across the park holding the mighty Axle itself in its dome, glorying in the extra leaping height and distance that the gravity here lends us. For a minute there I felt like a kid again. Nadia wanted to take me to meet the Navigator of the city, but the guards in azure stationed outside the Axle’s dome told us he was busy. We visited a museum about the history and culture of the city instead.

  Now Nadia catches me looking down at the Axle dome. The Axle is adorned with brass machinery connected to at least two brass pipes that jut out of the dome and disappear into the grass. Similar-looking pipes extending from the tops of two of the tallest buildings in the cityscape to run through the bubble to huge cannon-like things on the outside. The pipework must snake underneath and through huge portions of the city.

  “The rotation of the Axle controls the positions of the water-jet thrusters and allows the city to steer through the world sea,” says Nadia. “So as you can imagine, the hierarchy of who gets to navigate is central to the culture of this whole place.”

  “Because being able to get away from the giant sea monsters is the difference between survival and extinction.” I gulp some more of my coan, a local wine that incorporates seawater and somehow gets away with it. It’s only a little salty and has a rich, full flavor.

  “The ‘politicians’ here are much more practical than you may be used to. The leader of Stroyer’s Axle is called Navigator, which is an active role, not an honorary title. It may be helpful to think of this whole city as a ship, with everyone ultimately answering to the Navigator and his crew. That’s why I wanted you to meet Ashmael, but… another time, I suppose.”

  “Ashmael. On a first-name basis with the Navigator?” I ask.

  “Jealous?” she says with a teasing smile.

  I ignore her and look around at our fellow diners again. They’re strange and yet familiar at the same time. By now I can look past the differences in their appearance—the pointed ears, their impressive average height, the fluidly uncanny way they move—and recognize all the emotions and personality tics in common with humanity. The Stroyer’s folk are just people. It’s a relief after the profoundly alien culture of the Avariccians.

  We do need earpieces to understand what they’re saying and communicate back to them; Nadia was kind enough to lend me one. I finger mine now absently, wondering what you would say if you saw me here, getting to know the locals, palling around with your fearless leader. Would you be jealous?

  “Did you like the museum?” Nadia asks. “I know it was geared toward, um, younger visitors.”

  “I appreciated that, actually,” I say. With all its brightly colored displays and interactive exhibits, the museum made it easy to learn about the history and engineering of Stroyer’s Axle.

  What most interested me was learning how integrated the wrist devices—what the museum called Compasses—are in the city’s culture. I don’t know how much about this you got the chance to learn before you died, but having a Compass implanted is a rite of passage for every teenager in Stroyer’s Axle. The people of the city are nomads, but they haven’t always been this way, and they don’t intend to stay this way either. People from Stroyer’s Axle have been visiting Earth in secret for years, since before I was born. They use Portsmouth to explore other worlds, too. They work to help the Trainers because they want to find a new home, one where they wouldn’t be constantly on the run from leviathans in the sea.

  Partway through our meal—the grasper is t
ender and delicious, though the sauce makes my eyes water—Nadia says, “Allard, I have a present for you.”

  She digs in her bag and brings out an object. I belatedly recognize it as a wrist device, unimplanted. A Compass.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it, but—I’m not sticking that thing in my wrist. This is my last Port journey… I’ve had enough of the damn things for one lifetime. All I want to do is figure out how to get justice for Hannah.”

  “Oh…” says Nadia softly. “I think you want more than that. You don’t see yourself like I do. I see someone who did more than survive her adventures in Avariccia—she thrived. Have you ever considered the fact you’re more yourself in other worlds than our homeworld?”

  “That’s… fucking ridiculous,” I say. “I’m the most me on Earth.”

  “Chasing Hannah’s ghost. Yes, that may be who you think you are—the relentless investigator, the pursuer of revenge—but you are so much more than that, Divya. You’re an explorer. A traveler. Take today. You opened up in a way I haven’t seen before. You actually smiled, for one thing.”

  “I smile. I smile sometimes.”

  She places her hand over mine, and I don’t pull back. “You’re in your element right now. These journeys have changed you, but not into someone else; they’re changing you into the person you were meant to be. You draw strength from other worlds, don’t you? It’s a thrill you can feel—deep inside you.”

  “No,” I say. The denial comes out weak.

  “I’ve felt it too,” she whispers. “But you’re better than me. You’re a hero, Divya. And the multiverse needs heroes. It’s not just the people in my organization who are in danger. It’s everyone: the people here in Stroyer’s Axle, the Avariccians, the innocent folks in a hundred other worlds that connect to Portsmouth. Shaughnessy was only the beginning: the city council breeds killers.”

  “Keep all the Ports closed, then,” I say. “Destroy all records of where they are and how to access them. Take out all your Compasses. Isn’t that the way to keep the other worlds safe?”

  “The Council wants you to think that,” Nadia says. “That once all the Ports are closed, they’ll leave us in peace. But there’ll always be another Shaughnessy tempted to open one up for his own ends. Councilor Grieg is well on his way there—do you think he’ll stop at stolen wallpaper?”

  She sips her glass of coan. “And how about the FBI? I believe that Agent Jeong is a good man. But he can only hold off his superiors’ desire for power for so long.”

  I take my hand back. “Okay, I get it. There are a lot of power-crazed lunatics in play. That doesn’t mean I can stop them all, nor does it mean that I want to. I’m… I’m sorry, but I’m not a hero.”

  “Please,” she says. She pushes the Compass across the table to me. “Take this. It won’t be fully effective without implantation—you won’t feel Ports in your bones, like I and Sol and the rest of our members can—but you’ll still get certain benefits. You’ll be able to find me, wherever I am, in whichever world I am, just by asking the Compass. Same with Sol. And you may still experience very limited Port sensitivity by holding it.”

  Suspicion jumps into my mind immediately. “Will you be able to track me in return?”

  Nadia gives me a gentle look. “I can turn that feature off if you’d like.”

  “Turn it off. Turn off the ability to find you, too, if you want.”

  “No, I’ll only do the first part,” Nadia says, and fiddles with the Compass. “There. You remain undetectable, Detective.”

  “Okay,” I say, and I take the blasted little thing and slip it into my purse. “Um… thanks. I appreciate the trust you have in me. I’ll try not to lose it.”

  Nadia bites her lip. “You know, I’ve felt … close to you ever since we first met. First I thought it was because you were Hannah’s lover, and Hannah was dear to me. But—now I’m certain it’s something else.”

  “Um. Thanks.” I know my face is so red right now. “That’s … well …”

  “You have a light in you,” she goes on. “It makes other people seek you out… even if they’re not conscious of doing so. Detective Ulrich knew you were the person to go to when Milly Fragonard needed help. Sol would do anything for you. Even Ethan Jeong is, I believe, drawn to defy the FBI because of you. I could go on, but surely you know what I mean.”

  “First I’m a hero, now I have a light too?” I say, hiding my shaking hands under the table. “If you’re trying to get into my pants, Nadia, you’re way overdoing it.”

  Nadia laughs and cups my chin gently with her fingers. I don’t pull away. “I’m serious,” she says. “That light that you’re radiating, Divya—I want it inside me, too.”

  She leans forward and gives me a deep, full kiss on the lips.

  My senses explode with confusion and chaos and my heart’s thumping at a dangerous rate. Her lips are soft and her scent is surprisingly delicate for someone who could bench-press me. I open my mouth to hers and our tongues meet. Forgetting myself in the moment, I hungrily embrace her, until my consciousness finally intrudes and I pull away.

  “Wow,” I say, panting. “Whoa. I don’t think… this is a good idea. I’m sorry, Nadia.”

  She smiles. “I have no regrets. I’ve wanted to do that ever since I met you that day of the 3P protest. I… well.” She pauses. “Thank you.”

  “You’re—welcome?” I say, feeling extremely awkward. And extremely turned on. I bolt up from the table, distrusting myself. “Can we—can you get the check? I need, need to…”

  I flee the restaurant and fumble my way into the elevator. My head is spinning with otherworldly wine and doubts and fears and other… thoughts. I don’t date cultists. I have a strict policy.

  I don’t date—anyone. I haven’t, since you. I’ve had a couple of hookups, but that is in no wise the same thing as opening up to someone, someone who says …

  I have a light? I’m a hero?

  No. She’s trying to manipulate me. She won’t stop until I’m saluting the Bloody Swarm and paying thirty dollars a month to use the Tenacious Trainers elliptical. Hell of a recruitment tactic.

  God, she is gorgeous.

  The golden doors slide open. Still breathing hard, I hurry across the tiled lobby floor. It feels like everyone must be looking at me, and maybe they are. Out on the street, lively downtown activity surrounds me, and I think of Ulrich planting his feet to make the Market Street tourists go around him. Not my circus, not my monkeys…

  I lean against the cool steel of the building. A few minutes later, Nadia comes out and touches my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

  I nod.

  We return to the spherical temple dedicated to the Bloody Swarm. I chart a course across the sphere that will keep me well away from the creepy statue in the center. But I hear a muttering deep in my brain as I sail across the sphere:

  …swarm…

  I frown as I touch down. I think that was my own internal voice, but if it wasn’t, then was that the Hand? Don’t tell me it was jealous of me spending time in a water world?

  “Worry not, baby, you’re the only god for me,” I mutter to myself.

  Nadia looks up. “What was that?”

  Best not to tell her about the advanced alien intelligence riding shotgun in my consciousness. “Sorry, it was nothing.”

  Nadia and I go back through the Port and give each other a quick hug back on Earth before parting ways. I return to my apartment, attempting to focus on my rational brain rather than other parts of me that are clamoring for a little “me time” right now. Right as I’m starting to relax, I get a phone call from Agent Jeong.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but can we make it quick? I’m head-swimmy tonight.”

  “I’ve got bad news,” he says. “I’ve got a reliable source in the Boston office. They have plans we need to worry about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Remember how I assured you that your doppelganger—”

  �
�Benazir.”

  “Fine, that Benazir was going to be okay down there? Safe? Well…” He clears his throat. “Looks like that’s no longer the case. Ivanov’s received approval from his boss—the Boston SAC—to perform a more invasive investigation into the nature of your twin.”

  I tense. “They’re going to cut her open.”

  “I guess they’ve run every test they can run while still keeping her alive and intact. There’s a demand for more information. From the higher echelons. They’re quite taken with what Benazir represents.”

  “As opposed to the person she actually is,” I say. “Well, fuck. You’ve got to stop them.”

  “I don’t have enough pull for that. I’m a couple of rungs too low, Allard.”

  “Then I will.”

  END OF BOOK 2

  Coming Summer 2019 (hopefully!)

  City of Notions

  The Shadow Over Portsmouth Book 3

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks so much to Abree Murch, Kerry Doherty, and Kali Moulton for all your help reviewing chapters of this book in our speculative fiction critique group. Thank you to my constant writing buddy and morale booster, Cassie Gustafson, and to the Tuesday gang at the Works. And thanks to Damonza for another amazing book cover, and to Marcelo Gallegos, Bryan Thompson, and Kali Moulton for providing illustrations of certain key figures in The Shadow Over Portsmouth mythos that helped me to better picture them in my own head.

  This book is dedicated to Masheri Chappelle both for the insights she shared with me about the main character in this series during a conversation years ago, and the work that she does in the New Hampshire Writers’ Project (NHWP) to support and encourage writers at a level unparalleled anywhere else in the state. Thank you for all you do, Masheri. The NHWP offers many valuable programs and assets for writers in New Hampshire and beyond: their website is www.nhwritersproject.org.

  Much of this story was written and revised at the following New Hampshire cafes: Adelle’s Coffeehouse and Flight Coffee in Dover, Cup of Joe and the Portsmouth Book & Bar in Portsmouth, and the Works in Durham. I’m also grateful for the support I’ve received from the Portsmouth Writers’ Night Out community that meets monthly at the aforementioned Book & Bar.