Black Marble (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 3)

by A. King Bradley

  “They're nixing all their contracts,” I say quietly, standing in the graveyard silence of a cryogenic storage room. “Flushing the pods. But what are they doing with the people? Just letting them die? Using them for something? Experiments, maybe?”

  “While you've been exploring, I've done some searching of my own,” Ana says. “Through their recent records. It seems they have contacted the nearest living relatives for every person they have stored here and offered them large sums of money for some undisclosed purpose. Each and every one of them has a signature on file, authorizing termination of the contracts.”

  “Just like Ilsa,” I say. “Now Ilsa's dead. And according to her, her signature was forged.”

  “They even went as far as to generate a convincing video,” Ana replies. “Either you, me, and Ilsa are all suicidally schizophrenic, or else someone is going to great lengths to...”

  At that moment, her voice suddenly breaks up. As though something is interfering with it. Her last syllable crackles and smears. For a moment, I'm seized by indescribable terror. I claw my omni out of my pocket, worried that I somehow damaged it. And thus damaged my closest link to the woman I still love.

  Finally, her voice comes back.

  “Rome,” she says. “They're running a pulse-check. I guess they detected my hack after all and now they're searching the building. Chances are they've already flagged your omni’s pulse, so they know you're here. You have to go.”

  “Got it,” I say, and beeline for the door.

  To my right, I see four armed guards storming toward me. Aiming, ready to shoot if they have to. Once again, it's too late for me.

  Out of reflex, I sort of hide myself behind the open door and watch them come, putting my hands out to show that I won't fight back. I sigh and shake my head, feeling a bit sorry for myself. This is about to be my third time getting roughed up by synths in one day. Not my worst record, but it's not my best either.

  I expect that they'll just grab me, maybe wrench my arms behind my back. Maybe hit me in the gut or let me trip and fall on my face a time or two while they're escorting me back outside. Just a little something to make sure I don't come back.

  So, I'm very surprised when triggers start getting pulled and the hallway fills with flying projectiles. I'm not sure what they are, pulse plasma charges or electrified flechettes or just plain old bullets. Any old thing will do against an organic boy like me.

  Their rounds pepper the door I'm hiding behind. I feel one split the air between my outstretched fingers, burning the skin and making my bones ache. I pull my hands back, tucking them safely away. Right now, I'm just reacting, trying to give myself as much time as possible.

  The synths realize they don't have a clear shot, and they aren't hitting anything. So, they stop firing, and continue running forward to close the distance.

  As soon as I hear the shooting stop, I make myself move. I dart out, take a sharp left turn, and sprint down the hall like my life depends on it. Because it does.

  There's an intersection just up ahead. A corner I can vanish behind. And I make it just in time to have my coattails shredded as I whip around that corner. A bit of shrapnel or something burns along the back of my right calf muscle, stinging like hell. I grit my teeth and keep moving.

  “Ana,” I say, between breaths. “Get me out of here!”

  “Keep going,” she says. “Keep going... Turn right!”

  I turn right. Projectiles scream down the hall and almost catch the back of my head. I smell burnt hair. These synth boys are fast. They're being slowed down by their shooting and the weight of their weapons. But still, they're gaining on me. They are going to catch up eventually. Sooner, rather than later.

  My only choice is to try and put some fear and caution into them. So, I throw my back against the wall, pull out my pistol, and quickly fire a few wild shots back around the corner. I hear the bullets pinging off walls. I hear the synths' voices, warning one another.

  Now they know I'm armed, too, and that I'm not afraid to shoot. That will slow them down just a bit. Make them check before they round any corners. They all know the wetware in their heads requires more than the standard patch job from their synth fluid’s nano machines. A synth isn't much afraid of a standard bullet—their skull cases, the most vulnerable thing on them, can take the hits from most conventional guns—but they don't enjoy having to go into surgery any more than the next guy.

  So, they'll slow down. Meanwhile, I'm still running like a bat out of hell. Ana tells me where to go. My feet pound the hard floor and the breath burns in my throat as I storm down dark hallways, leaving the sounds of pursuit further and further behind.

  Seems at first like I'm going to get lucky again. One day that luck will run out. But this isn't that day, thankfully.

  I round the last corner and smack straight into a synth guard who's waiting for me.

  The range is too close for either of us to get a shot off right away. And neither of us wants the other getting far enough away to take any shots. So, we launch into one another, grappling and elbowing, grunting and wrenching, trying to pull weapons out of each other's hands. This is life or death for me, but not for my synth pal. Not as far as he knows. I assume this will give me an edge, a bit of an adrenaline boost. But it's not enough. The synth is stronger. Smarter. He's winning the fight and it won't be long before he gets the chance to toast me.

  I'm a dead man, and I know it. And when death is staring you in the face, all bets are off.

  With one hand, I reach into my back pocket. I reach deep, and I grab hold of a cylindrical weapon that I haven’t had to use in a while. It's called an interrupter. Like a taser, except it does nothing against organics. Strictly for use against synths.

  I pull it out and deliver a hearty thump to my friend's metal rib cage. He jerks upright, letting out a noise like a dying frog. And suddenly his whole body starts jittering like a malfunctioning robot. I slip out of his grip, tripping and falling onto my ass. My desperate search for the interrupter has loosened up everything I keep in my pockets, and it all comes spilling out. Including my omni. I see it sliding away across the smooth floor. Out of reach.

  I try and go for it. But the synth has already started to recover from his shock. And he looks mad as hell.

  His hands close around my ankles and he drags me across the floor effortlessly. An elbow slams against the side of my head. Stars burst, and the back of my head hits the cold floor.

  From my position, I see the synth standing over me. He reaches up, touching an earpiece he's wearing, and listens for a moment.

  “Understood,” he says, a look of grim duty crossing over his features.

  At first, I assume he's going to turn my head to pudding with that gun of his. But it already seems like he's forgotten that I even exist. He steps away, walking over to pick my omni up off the floor. He's tense. His hands are balled into fists. He's going to destroy it. Along with Ana and all of her files.

  “Drop it,” I snarl, raising my weapon and taking aim as I angrily eye the synth.

  The synth stops, turning to look at me curiously. Unconcerned. His brethren are on their way, the sounds of their running feet echoing down the hall. They'll be here soon.

  With my thumb, I hit a sliding toggle on the side of the gun. A change in the firing mode. The mechanism slides into place with a loud click. As soon as the synth hears the click and the distinct whirring noise that follows, that cocky smile drops off his face.

  “Say goodnight, asshole,” I tell him.

  I pull the trigger, and out pops a blindingly fast charge, crackling in an invisible wavelength. Highly illegal. Black market. Originally designed by the US military as a means to even the odds during the Second War. These pulses are capable of completely wiping a synth, erasing the circuitry of its cyber brain in an instant, and reducing its cyber body to an inert shell.

  By the time the pulse hits my synth friend, I'm already up on my knees and scrambling across the floor.

  He
goes flying backward, limp and lifeless. He hits the wall and smears down it, crumpling in an awkward heap. His eyes, so full of intelligence a moment ago, now look like two bits of painted porcelain.

  I grab my omni, leap to my feet, and take off running. They'll chase me, I know. But first they'll stop and check out their buddy and see that he's been wiped. Then I'll be in even deeper trouble.

  There's no going back now. I just made sure of that.

  CHAPTER 10

  ◆◆◆

  I should be dead right now. Or else locked in a tiny box for the rest of my life. But, against all the odds, I'm still out here. Waiting. Watching. Hiding.

  I only move when it's dark. And I make sure to keep only to the most dismal organic ghettos, where no synth will ever set foot. Before long, the authorities will narrow their focus. They'll have no choice but to delve into these dark, sparsely populated wastes. But the city is huge. There are limitless hiding places. And I'm on full alert. Ready to run at the drop of a pin. I have no intention of letting them grab me.

  But what can I do?

  I'm the most wanted man in history, according to a segment of the population. The only segment that matters: the synths.

  I lay here in the dark of an old parking garage. A huge open window above me. Doors and holes in every direction. No matter which side they come in at, I can get out.

  The synths are sweeping the city. I can hear them in the distance. Voices booming over loudspeakers. Silent copters slicing through the sky, sweeping the streets with bands of light. Each time a light hits my hiding spot, I cringe and shrink against the ground. But they don't see me. Not yet.

  My greatest ally is Ana. My greatest enemy is my omni in which she resides because the synths can detect it. It's a very simple procedure; you just look for pulses. If they catch a pulse coming out of an otherwise empty building, they'll know someone's inside.

  But I can't turn it off. If I turn it off, I'll lose her. Not like I can go back to my apartment to get the other copy, now. I bet it's already been destroyed. Crushed underfoot, just like that dipshit was trying to do to my omni before I zapped him out of existence. I don't really consider it a murder, more of a necessity, and I don't feel the least bit bad about it... but the rest of the world doesn't seem to agree.

  They're saying it’s the first murder of a synth since the Second War. As far as I know, it's true. And that sounds really bad, doesn't it? Like a return to hostilities. Like yet another display of horrible ignorance and hate by the barbaric organics. Never mind that I have evidence that certain synths have potentially been systematically murdering organics by the thousands. And a strong suspicion that Adriana Graves and Ilsa Namara were both murdered to cover it up.

  Just as I'll be murdered, if they find me.

  It's been three days since the incident at Future Solutions Inc. I'm scared. Terrified to be honest. I haven't slept much. Haven't eaten much either. I just find a dark place and lay in it for a while. Then I move on to the next place. I have to keep moving, just to stay sane.

  And now, I'm in this parking garage. Maybe I'll stay here for a while, make a little home for myself. There's a basement and plenty of little corners to tuck myself in to. My plan now is just to wait. Maybe the fervor of the search will die down. I'll never be safe in this city ever again, but perhaps I can at least move around.

  You can get used to anything. And I'm starting to get used to this. The parking garage, drafty and full of old smells. It's almost nice. Like a distant memory. Basically, like a dream...

  CHAPTER 11

  ◆◆◆

  I don't realize I've fallen asleep until I wake up from a dream of making love to Ana. The comfortable bed, and the warmth of her body, is replaced by the cold hard concrete of the garage floor. And the silence of five AM in the least populated sector of the city.

  I have no doubt that there are still people prowling around. They move silently in the dark, going about their strange business. Their hunt for drugs, or their insane nocturnal ramblings.

  In fact, I hear one of them now. Or so it seems. It's more like a faint rustling sound, just at the edge of hearing. Even as I try and focus on it, it stops. And the night is silent as a graveyard yet again.

  Slowly, I sit up and look around, trying to force my eyes to adjust. The synth patrols have gone by, and there's not a single source of light around. I can't see anything. Not at first.

  Then, my eyes pick up on a faint ghostly glow. It creeps closer, widening and brightening, and I finally realize that it's real and not just an optical illusion. Its source rounds a corner, flashing up the ramp of the garage and slicing along the wall a few feet to my left. I grunt in surprise, tensing up in preparation of running.

  A silhouette rises into view, turning to face me. Without a sound, I hop up and slide through the window.

  Something nips against my hand. A sharp pain rises, followed by a spreading warmth. My nose catches a distinctive smell. Cigar smoke. And then my brain is swimming, my head is spinning. I feel faint. My strength fails, and I fall loosely to the ground six feet below.

  I land feet first, crumpling and folding over. The pain comes, but not the response to the pain. I can't move. My brain is screaming at me to move, and so is Ana, but I can't. I'm on my back, eyes wide, staring up as a head pokes out through the window and looks down at me.

  The end of his cigar glows in the night as he takes in a puff of smoke. His hair is long and shaggy, his beard a gray wisp, his eyes bright and predatory. A tattoo rises up one side of his neck. And immediately I know who he is.

  Karkoff. The best bounty hunter in the business. So good, and so secretive, that only about ten organics even know he exists. I happen to be one of them.

  “It's alright,” Ana whispers to me. “He just hit your hand. Just glanced it. Only a bit of the toxin got into your blood. It will begin to break down soon. You'll be back up in a moment...”

  Karkoff's head withdraws, and the light from his headlamp fades as he starts down the ramp. Coming to get me. Coming to put me in cuffs and drag me off to face justice.

  I want to scream, but I don't dare. Instead I pull in a deep breath and slowly let it hiss out through my teeth as I rock my limp body back and forth. I gather enough momentum and flop onto my belly. My arms start to move, tingling with pins and needles, and I crawl slowly and painfully forward. Toward the street.

  Dust tickles my nose, and I sneeze. And it's like a switch has been flipped in my body. I can suddenly move again. Without looking back, I get to my feet and stumble dumbly forward. My feet scrape loudly on the pavement at first, and my arms flop bonelessly at my sides. But within ten seconds I'm sprinting at top speed, the last of the numbness falling away behind me.

  Karkoff doesn't yell after me. He doesn't shoot at me again, though I know he must have a projectile weapon and a clear shot. His orders, it seems, are to take me alive.

  But I know he's back there, following me like a dog. Someone wants to interrogate me. To figure out how much I know.

  If possible, I feel even more vulnerable than before.

  Karkoff is a professional. He works alone, taking contracts and striking out by himself to fulfill them. I'm not at all surprised that he was the first to find me. The man is supernaturally good when it comes to tracking, better even than most synths. He's like the highest form of human, genius-level at everything and motivated solely by greed.

  I wonder briefly how much money he's going to get off me. Because if I'm going to get caught, I at least want a fellow organic to benefit from it.

  Then I put my head down and keep running.

  Things have changed again. I can no longer rely on my own expertise to keep me alive. The time has come to seek help.

  That's not a position I ever like to be in, but unfortunately, I have no choice.

  CHAPTER 12

  ◆◆◆

  If Ana was still alive, she would help shelter me in a heartbeat. And not just because of our history. No. There's a certain unspoken
, unwritten agreement between us private eyes. We're the last remaining organics-only profession. We're any dead organic's best hope of justice. And none of us do it for the money. It can be lucrative, especially murder cases, but it's such a bastard of a job, unsafe and agonizing and exhausting, that the only people who do it are those with a certain level of passion.

  We look out for each other. Or at least we try to, at every opportunity. We're kind of like a family, scattered through the city. A lot of times we can pick each other out by sight, just based off the way we dress or walk.

  My best hope is to find a fellow PI who's willing to stick out their neck for my sake. And, luckily for me, I know where some of them live.

  I run through the night. What's left of it, anyway. The sun is starting to come up when I finally reach my destination. I'm sore and aching. My body is poisoned by fear toxins and whatever crap Karkoff hit me with. I feel like dirt as I approach the back steps of a rundown apartment building. Worse than dirt, as a matter of fact.

  The building is a dark, old, low-tech place. No security, no synths on watch. I duck into its shadows and scrape my way up, sliding along the wall, grunting and cursing to myself as I push myself forward. Feeling like the unluckiest guy in the world. Dead ex-girlfriend in my pocket, deadly bounty hunter on my trail. Not to mention all of synth-kind. By all accounts, I should have been dead a hundred times over by now. Maybe I am lucky, after all.

  Halfway up, I see a snubbed out, half-smoked cigar lying on the steps and for a moment I have to breathe deeply to keep the panic at bay. It isn't Karkoff. He's good, but he's not psychic. He wouldn't know I was coming here.

  My friend, and longtime colleague, Abdo lives on the top level. Right near the roof access, as a matter of fact. That comforts me. It's a chance for a quick getaway. The fire escapes run up and down the outside of this building. They're rickety, coming out of the walls in some places, but who am I to judge? This whole city is falling apart, and so am I.