by Dan Knight
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The Inspector scribbled furiously on his tablet as he absorbed the technician’s reports. Eventually, he finished with the last one. The knot of onlookers dissipated. The last of the investigators packed up their gear. Gumshoe broke away from the group and meandered towards the jetty where Jack and Shotgun waited. He answered questions and gave directions along the way.
“Gentlemen,” said Gumshoe. “What have you got for me?”
“Inspector,” Shotgun handed his tablet to Gumshoe. “All of the victims visited New Gem within the last couple of months. I’ve highlighted the updates. I’ve also sent you a copy for the record.”
“New Gem,” spat Gumshoe. He curled the brim of his fedora. “The chop shop must be their recruiter.” Nonplussed, the Inspector’s expression clouded over. “Why would the Black Dwarf slaughter sexually-repressed, synthetic servants?”
“Gene therapy defies the gods, Inspector,” said Shotgun. “They sell hope to the hopeless, and offer pipe dreams to the desperate. When they have a likely victim, they mesmerize them and turn them into zombies.”
“He’s nailed it, old man,” said Jack. “The Black Dwarf and his gang prey upon the lonely, naïve, and very, very shy. Their victims come to them. They minimize their exposure to witnesses. Biots have few if any friends, and often no relations. They can easily screen the synthetic from the naturally born.”
“Few dare tell anyone they’re going to a chop shop,” said Shotgun. “Humiliation is a powerful emotion. Fear of derision ensures silence.”
“Yes,” Gumshoe said. “You’re right. It’s a perfect front. Let’s go. I’ve got to get out of here. Plenty of work to do, and my missus is probably already wondering where I am. We’ll round up Wiggles and get down to East Moab Station.”
The Proconsul of Moab
Gumshoe engaged the autopilot and set the destination to east Moab. The cruiser followed Wiggle’s green and white, and they left the harbor. They passed through the Strand, and the cruiser took them into the Halls of Industry.
“I hope we’re not ambushed,” muttered Shotgun.
“Does give one a sense of déjà vu,” Jack said.
Terrified citizens fleeing the city lined Moab’s tunnels with moving vans. The cruisers crawled up an entrance ramp to the level-way.
“Should have anticipated this,” muttered Gumshoe. “Maybe we’ll have to take the surface streets home.”
On the level-way, they moved slowly. The driver of a cargo truck honked at a red ground-car. The offended driver stuck his arm out of the window and waved angrily. Gumshoe tapped his siren, and flashed the emergency lights. The whoop reverberated down the level-way. Cowed, the drivers fell silent and stewed in their private resentment.
“Stress will drive people crazy.” Gumshoe cut his emergency lights.
“When they reach Iron Mountain,” said Jack, “they’ll calm down.”
“Nice thought,” said Gumshoe. “Keep on thinking like that. We need optimists.”