Black Marble (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 3)

by A. King Bradley

  “How long have they been operating?” I ask.

  Abdo shrugs. “Since before the Big Wipe, at least.”

  I rub my chin now, hearing the rasp of stubble. “How is it I've never heard of them, then?”

  Abdo smiles apologetically. “No offense, Roman, but I obviously have access to wider circles of intel than you do, and even I have barely heard of these people. And that's sort of the point, right? If everyone knew about them, what good would they be? They're extremely secretive and they are probably also extremely choosy with the work they take. The last I heard of them was, I don't know, two… maybe three years ago. Are you saying they’re active again?”

  I'm about to answer, but then I flash back to a time when I was stuck in a tiny, sound-proofed room, wracked by nightmares that I would get my good friend killed. So, I just put out my hand and make a ‘maybe, maybe not’ kind of gesture.

  “You know what I always say, Abdo,” I tell him, “knowledge can be dangerous. Maybe I'll keep this one to myself.”

  “Understood.”

  “I do have one other question though,” I add.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Do you know of a way to contact them? Cronus and their… cronies I guess…”

  Abdo holds up a hand, then gets up and goes into the tiny side room again. He comes back with two cups of very strong, almost sludgy coffee. I take a deep breath of steam, and even that is powerful enough to knock the weariness of travel out of me. It's not natural coffee. Been a while since I’ve tasted the real deal. But even this synthetic crap isn’t too bad on a day like this.

  “I know a guy who reached out and got a response. They ended up ghosting him though once they discovered he couldn’t cover their retainer,” Abdo says, taking a big slug of coffee and making a face like he scalded a whole layer off of his esophagus. “You wouldn’t believe how much they asked for. Half a million just to meet.”

  “Damn. I guess you weren’t kidding when you said ‘high dollar’,” I say, suddenly wishing the OUSP Commander had given me more credits for my case expenses. “Any idea of how he made contact?”

  “Yes, but you have to take it with a grain of salt, in that the information could be stale at this point. The guy I know reached out about three years ago so the info could be outdated by now.”

  “That's more than I expected to get,” I say.

  “In that case, I’ll forward my contact’s info to your omni. He may still have the contact info for Cronus.”

  “Thanks, Abdo. I'll get out of your hair and let you get back to sleep.”

  He flashes me a sarcastic smile and waves as I step out into the hall and shut the door behind me. I'm still holding my coffee. I've barely touched it, but it's not like Abdo won't get his cup back. We see each other just about every other week, nowadays.

  “Now what?” Ana asks, through my earpiece.

  “Now it’s time for you to use that big brain of yours to figure out our next step,” I tell her.

  “There’s actually a pretty weak correlation between brain size and overall intelligence,” she says, and I can tell that she’s smiling.

  “Only a big brained know-it-all would know that. So, you’ve basically made my point,” I quip as I check the time on my omni and then tuck it back into my coat pocket.

  “I hate you Roman Ibarra,” she jokes.

  “I love you too, Ana,” I say, sipping my dark cup of coffee as I pull the hood of my coat over my head and blend perfectly into the herd of oligarchy citizens that litter the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER 5

  ◆◆◆

  The Oligarchy’s capital is a good place to stretch your legs. A very ‘walkable’ city, not unlike the pre-war metropolises that were once home for a vast majority of the US population. That said, it’s still important to know what places to avoid. Unlike the OUSP, the streets here are not heavily patrolled by security squads and military hardasses armed to the teeth. The streets here feel... free, for lack of a better word. You're free to go where you want and do what you like. You're even free to run up behind someone, jab a stunner into their neck, and demand all their valuables. But it doesn’t stop there, considering the fact that the victim would be equally free to hunt your ass down and put you in the dirt.

  But that's mostly in the worst parts of town. The Oligarchs are about two things; preparing for the future, and partying. Both of those objectives call for a certain level of optimistic energy, and any level of crime or violence in the streets just doesn't feed into that. The main cause of crime, throughout history, has been poverty. If people can't get what they need through any other means, theft is the natural last resort. So the solution is very simple. You make sure everyone has what they need, and they'll have no reason to go around stealing. That's what the Oligarchy hopes to eventually accomplish, but to a far less extent than their socialist counterparts. Of course, you still have the psychos who steal and kill just for the joy of it. But there isn't much you can do about them. Anyway, I keep my weapon close at hand just in case.

  Ana and I are still drawing a blank on what we should do next in the case, so I decide to take us on a tour of one of the commercial districts where there's always something fun to see.

  We soon pass by one of the android shops, where different models are on display in a window. Front and center, in the most well-lit display, is a curvy female model. I catch myself staring after a moment and I feel guilty because Ana is right inside my pocket. It wasn’t intentional or meant to be disrespectful. Just a basic response on a chemical level; but I feel like crap anyway.

  On first and second glance, it's impossible to tell that Lady Vangelina’s latest model of sex droid isn’t real. You can start seeing it, the longer you stand and stare though. You start to realize how completely and unnaturally motionless she is. Like a corpse, but even more uncanny than that. But as soon as the thing gets a persona, and powers on, the illusion will be perfect.

  “You find what you’re looking for?” Ana suddenly says in my ear.

  “Are you spying on me, love?” I ask.

  “I’ve got eyes everywhere, Rome. Just happened to notice you gawking,” Ana replies.

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Of that husk? No. I'm just a voice in an omni and I still have more pull over you than she does,” she replies with a giggle.

  The giggle relaxes me a bit because up to that point I wasn’t quite sure if she was serious or not.

  I laugh and move along, heading back to my apartment.

  “Go ahead and call the number Abdo gave us,” I tell Ana as my place comes into view down the crowded street. “Let’s see what this guy has to say.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ◆◆◆

  “Okay!” I say to Ana, setting my empty coffee cup on my kitchen counter and flopping down onto a barstool. Behind me, my own pot is already working up a fresh batch. “What do we know? What sort of conclusions can we reach?”

  I take my omni out of my pocket and set it down next to the coffee cup. Ana's projected in miniature size, standing there like an ultra-realistic kid's doll.

  “We know Cronus runs a highly expensive and highly effective hit squad,” she says, “and that they've carried out at least fifty-six hits to date. Abdo’s contact claims they charge a minimum of half a million credits just as a retainer.”

  Right. Abdo’s contact. The guy was willing enough to help. Mostly, everything he said was the same as what Abdo already told us. Except he was also able to give us a potential way of making contact.

  “This minimum half a million is subject to change according to the complexity of the job and the preparation required to make the hit,” Ana goes on. “Who knows what variables they have? But it doesn't matter a whole lot. Even if we assume a figure of half a million for each person to be killed, that can still add up very quickly. How many people are there in the world, Roman, who can afford that? Who can afford that fifty-six times?”

  “The Oligarchs,” I say. “Either one of them
could swing it. And if they're working together, there's no end to what they could do. Hell, they could probably pay to have a quarter of the population assassinated with all that H2O dough they have lying around.”

  Ana nods. “I’ve narrowed our optimal next steps down to two options.”

  “What have you got?” I ask.

  “We could feel out the Oligarchs. Figure out how much they know about the assassinations, see if we can't at least shake a suspicion loose. Or, we could make our own attempt at contacting Cronus.”

  “Let’s start with the Oligarchs,” I say.

  “In that case I suggest we start with Plunkett,” Ana replies.

  Her suggestion makes sense. Plunkett is the lowest-profile Oligarch. The least in the public eye, the ‘least wealthy’ of the five, though he's, of course, still insanely rich compared to everyone else. It also makes sense to start with him from a purely social standpoint. I've worked a case for him before, and he was impressed with my work.

  “Hopefully his omni code is still the same,” I say.

  I try to ping Plunkett’s omni three times. No luck. He's not picking up. I’m disappointed but a part of me gets it. I’m just a lowly PI who cleaned up a little mess for him once upon a time. And he's one of the richest people in the world. Not like we’re lifelong friends or anything.

  “I can check the sphere,” Ana says. “See if he's been uploading files. Just a second...”

  She ventures forth, part of her consciousness extending past my omni into the invisible, intangible cloud that is the global data sphere. It's not as busy a place as it once was, with the synths gone. In the OUSP’s territory it's a bit busier, but here in the local sphere of the Oligarchy it's a bit of a ghost town—mostly abandoned in favor of private data networks that only share small bits of information with the main sphere.

  “Got something,” Ana says, returning after a few moments. “I found his schedule. Looks like Plunkett has a penchant for massages. Gets one three times a week.”

  “Could be an in,” I say. “Do you think you could hack into one of Vangelina's androids to pose as the massage therapist? Maybe even that one with the huge knockers we saw earlier?” I jokingly suggest.

  Ana clears her throat. “Sorry, Rome, but I’m afraid you’re the one who’s going to have to get his hands dirty.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Plunkett’s file indicates that he prefers a male therapist,” Ana chimes.

  That triggers a sudden series of flashbacks. They play out in my mind, and my mouth falls open in a sudden revelation.

  “Damn,” I say.

  “What?” asks Ana.

  “I just realized that Plunkett was hitting on me the last time I worked a job for him.”

  She grins. “I thought you were supposed to be this great detective, Mr. Ibarra. It took you this long to realize that Plunkett was gay? What happened to those finely tuned senses you’re always talking about?”

  “I don’t analyze my clients, Ana. It’d be rude to do so. Kinda like reading a person’s mind without permission,” I explain. “I’d only do something like that if I had reason to believe the client was lying to me.”

  “Does it bother you that he hit on you last time? We can take a different approach if you want.”

  “Hell no. I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “If it doesn’t bother you, why’d you say ‘damn’ when you realized he was hitting on you?” Ana asks. “Just curious.”

  “I’m mad I missed my chance,” I joke, prompting a giggle from Ana. “What do you suppose we do about his regular therapist?” I continue.

  “You could sedate him, steal his uniform, and stuff him in a broom closet,” Ana jokingly suggests.

  “Got any suggestions that don’t require the luck of an action movie protagonist?” I ask.

  “I suppose you could bribe him. I’ve already found his contact information.”

  “Yeah, let’s go with the bribe,” I say, smirking.

  “How much should I offer?”

  “The Commander gave us a pretty sizable expense budget. Better make it worthwhile. Can’t take the risk of lowballing the guy and having him spill the beans.”

  “Got it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ◆◆◆

  The bribe works. The therapist is more than happy to take it. Probably tired of cranking out happy endings and looking for a break, to be honest.

  The guy's a contractor, and he works for a small firm of ‘physical care instructors’. There are tons of them on the staff, so it isn't too hard to blend in. I just get the therapist to hand over his coded entry badge and his uniform, and I'm off to the races.

  I take a public tram up one of the Oligarchy mountains, through a winding terraced town where the best and brightest live and work. I ride past laboratories and proving grounds, facilities and bunkers whose purposes I can only guess at. Finally, at the top of the mountain I get off the tram and cross a wide plaza thronged with people and enter Plunkett's main compound. It's a mansion without windows, made out of blast-proof material. Plunkett likes to call himself a realist, and it's his opinion that another war is inevitable and that he would very much like to survive it.

  Immediately upon entering the compound, I'm assailed by two beefy security guys. They're both tanned, and well-built. Same height as me, with even more chiseled jaw lines. Something tells me Plunkett didn't hire them based solely on their credentials.

  But they're also quite jovial chaps, and they don't give me trouble beyond what their job description requires. As soon as I show them my badge, one of them winces and purses his lips.

  “The usual guy is sick,” I say.

  “Not sure if the boss’ll be happy about that, but you’d better go on in. He can be a little impatient.”

  I nod and rush off. Whispering in my ear, Ana tells me which way to go. But her advice isn't strictly necessary. I have a good memory, for places especially, and I find my way to the basement without issue.

  I step through a door into a steamy room lit only by tea candles and a single muted bulb high up on the ceiling. In the center of the space, a man lies face down on a padded massage table. It's Plunkett. From the looks of it, he's been hitting the gym even harder than usual lately. He looks like he's chiseled out of granite. Could be a new workout routine or some kind of injected shortcut. Whatever the case, I dismiss the urge to analyze it any further because, frankly, that would be rude. He’s not a suspect. At least not at the moment.

  I pad up to the table without saying a word. The therapist told me that Plunkett prefers not to converse at all during these sessions, because it ruins his “immersion” in the experience. I can see that. Nothing worse than getting distracted with talk and forgetting to enjoy your massage.

  There's a little cart next to the massage table. On the top is an oil warmer. I get some of the warm, drippy oil and coat my hands in it. Then, trying not to laugh to myself, I start rubbing up and down on Plunkett's back. He doesn't react, doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. I assume that maybe I'm not pressing hard enough, so I start digging in.

  Immediately, Plunkett grunts and jerks. His whole body tenses up, then he starts turning his head to try and look at me. I quickly move around to the other side of the table, cursing my lack of skill.

  Plunkett swivels his head the other way. There's no dancing aside this time. He stares at me for a second, a look of horror growing on his face as he twists and pushes himself up and realizes I’m not his regular guy.

  “It's okay!” I quickly say. “I'm a detective! A private investigator.”

  Plunkett narrows his eyes and licks his lips. “Roman? Roman Ibarra? Heavens, Roman, you frightened me!” he says, placing his right hand on his cartoonishly muscular chest. “If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked. For you, I would have made time.”

  “I tried to ping your omni but you didn’t answer,” I say quickly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Desperate times, desperate measures. You know the deal.”
/>
  “Desperate, indeed…” Plunkett says, giving me an appraising sort of look. “That was both the shortest and the worst massage I've ever gotten,” Plunket says, now sitting up straighter and apparently not worried about the fact that his junk is visible. “A bit of advice for next time, Roman. Avoid the spinal column. It really isn't nice having someone playing xylophone on your vertebrae.”

  Next time? I think to myself, holding in a laugh. “I’m sorry,” I finally say to him.

  Plunkett waves a hand. “Of course, you are. Anyway… What's brought you here today, Roman? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I finally spot a towel, rolled up on the bottom shelf of the cart. I grab it, unfurl it, and toss it over Plunkett's nether regions.

  “Not what you're probably hoping for,” I say.

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Roman. I like having a piece of eye candy around as much as the next guy, but I can control myself. Just let me know what I can do for you.”

  “Right. Actually, I need to ask you about something serious. And I'd rather it didn't leave this room...”

  Plunkett puts up his hands. “On my honor, Roman.”

  I scan the room again, looking for hidden cameras. Microphones. Omnis. I even step back and glance under the table. Looks pretty clean but I know I could have missed something. I’m as thorough as they come but I don’t exactly have enough time to properly sweep the room. Unfortunately, I have to throw caution to the wind. I need answers.

  “Are you aware of any kind of plot against the OUSP? Involving their high-ranking party members, specifically?”

  Plunkett's face is blank. “There are always plots, Roman. It just depends on what sort of plot you're talking about. And how far it's gone.”