On Impact, page 2
“Confirmed, Agent Wright. I’m directing backup and a medical transpo to you now. Be advised, estimated arrival time is five minutes.”
He ended the comm. “Change of plans. Singh, check the victim. Sinclair, see if you can flank the suspect.” Wright twisted the power dial on the top of his blaster. “Set your blasters on low. We can’t risk hitting a civilian with anything stronger.”
I adjusted my setting and heard the soft, high-pitched whine, signaling a full charge for my blaster.
“Ready?” Wright asked.
Ravi and I nodded.
“Go.”
Wright gave me a few seconds to get clear of our table so I wouldn’t be noticed, then stood up. “This is the D-E-C-A. Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air.”
The shooter spun toward Wright, slack-jawed and shaking. Confusion and panic widened his eyes until the whites showed all around. Not the face of a hardened criminal, but that only made him unpredictable. People did crazy shit when they were scared.
I eased around the edge of the dance floor as quickly as I dared. Most of the dancers had dropped to the floor after the gunshot, and I had to move slowly to avoid drawing the shooter’s attention.
Wright continued talking, keeping the shooter focused on him. “We can talk this out, but the first thing you need to do is put down the weapon.”
“I… I…” The old man looked down at the other man lying on the floor. “What happened?”
“We’ll sort it all out,” Wright said, taking one step forward. His voice was calm and measured. “But first you have to put down the gun.”
The shooter lowered his arm and looked at the weapon, as if he didn’t understand how it got there. Then he must have spotted me, because he took off at a fast shuffle toward the rear exit on the far side of the stage.
Of all of us, DeAjamae was the closest. She took a running leap off the stage but missed tackling him by centimeters. Her foot got tangled in a pile of the band’s equipment bags, and she fell. The shooter made it to the door, waved his cuff across the door reader to open it, and hurried out to the back parking lot.
“I got him!” I yelled to Wright and Ravi as I sprinted across the floor.
People stayed crouched with their hands over their heads, forcing me to hurdle over the ones I couldn’t avoid. I reached out with my Intell, letting it latch onto the network signal of the door reader and triggering it to open before I got there.
Cool spring air greeted me as soon as I ran outside. The temperature had dropped several degrees while I’d been listening to the band, and the coolness cleared my head of the dull pain forming behind my eyes.
Even this early in the evening, the low altitude vehicle lot was well lit. The old man was nowhere in sight, but he couldn’t have gone far. I listened for the sound of running footsteps or a LAV’s engine firing up. Nothing.
Cautiously, I walked down the aisle and expanded my Intell’s notification viewscreen, looking for any electronic signal that could indicate his location. The first dozen LAVs were stone cold and silent. The next one was still running through its cool-down cycle.
My Intell chewed through its privacy protocols in seconds and presented me with a list of basic information: owner’s name, address, and pilot’s license, registration, and insurance policy. When it pulled up the latest system diagnostic report, I made the barest of swiping motions with my middle finger to clear the screen from my vision. Once the Intell got its hacking teeth into something, it didn’t know when to stop.
A whirling noise from behind startled me. I spun in time to see a personal hoverchair zip by the front of the row. It was a deep maroon color, had a cushy padded seat, and twin neon-orange slow-moving vehicle flags flapping above the shooter’s head. The man’s blue-tipped hair whipped in the wind as he pushed the hoverchair’s thrusters to the max.
Shit. My bike was three blocks in the other direction. I sprinted after him, wishing I’d worn more comfortable shoes.
I opened a shared comm to the team. “Sinclair here. I have the suspect in sight and am in pursuit. He’s in a maroon hoverchair.”
Someone snickered on the other end of the comm. It sounded suspiciously like DeAjamae. Then Ravi’s voice came on. “I’m sorry, can you repeat? It sounded like you said he was in a hoverchair.”
I clenched my teeth. “That’s because I did. Suspect is heading west on Hyssop Ave.”
“Do you want backup?”
He didn’t laugh, but I imagined it was only through great effort. And I got it. I was running down an old man in a flying mobility chair, but void-be-damned, that thing was faster than it looked.
My feet splashed through a puddle, soaking my shoes and the bottom edges of my pants. My next few steps felt squishy. “No, I got him. You stay with the victim.”
I disconnected, and the headache I’d had earlier came back with a vengeance as I continued to use the Intell. A sharp pain shot from the middle of my brain to the back of my eyeballs.
Two blocks ahead, the shooter turned right at the intersection onto 34th Street and almost crashed into a couple walking their dog. It barked and strained at the end of its leash, trying to chase after him.
I looked down and to the left to activate the voice commands. “Show me a map of Salin with my geo location marked.”
A new window popped up, obscuring half my field of vision. My toe snagged on something. I tripped and stumbled but recovered my stride. I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to having the Intell’s information displayed inside my head.
It only took me a moment to orient myself on the map. 34th Street was a hilly, winding pedestrian thoroughfare lined with shops. There weren’t any crossroads for several blocks. Unless he ducked into a building, he would have to come out near Jasmine Avenue.
“Access program Minotaur. Set to transparency mode and overlay my coordinates. Plot the fastest course to intersection of 34th and Jasmine by foot.”
At first, I didn’t see anything. Then I slowed to a stop and did a complete one-eighty. The white line showing the recommended route ran behind me, back the way I had come.
Something wet tickled my upper lip. I swiped at it and my hand came back smeared with blood. “Fantastic. Just what I need.”
Bloody noses were one of the side effects of using the Intell, and they’d become more common. Nothing I could do about that now, though.
The Minotaur program was designed for corporate espionage by plotting courses around guards and security measures, but it worked just as well for chasing criminals as for being one. I doubled back, following the line by cutting diagonally through the LAV parking lot. My thighs burned—still sore from that morning’s run—and my stomach regretted eating so many bacon-and-cheese crispers. At least the rain had cooled the air, so it didn’t burn my lungs.
I ducked under the wing of the last six-person LAV. The white line blinked, signaling I should go off the path. A small embankment ran along the rear of the lot. I scrambled to the top, my feet slipping on the wet grass.
On the other side of the hill was a two-meter vertical retaining wall that dropped straight down to 34th Street. Apparently, the Minotaur program didn’t take into account elevation changes.
I leaned over the edge searching for stairs but didn’t find anything helpful. I did, however, see the suspect rocketing down the path. Blue-gray smoke trailed behind the hoverchair. One flag had torn free and the other bent backward at a near ninety-degree angle from the force of the wind. His spiky, blue-tipped hair had blown out to a pale-blue fuzz.
He beelined straight down the path. Pedestrians scrambled to get out of his way.
I raised my blaster and leveled the sights at the hoverchair. It wobbled in and out of focus. The headache from using my Intell had grown to the point of distraction. My right eye felt as if a hot needle were pressing into it from inside my skull. I pulled my head back, blinked my eyes clear, and tried again. With one eye closed, I forced myself to concentrate and took aim.
My hand shook, wobbling the sights. I couldn’t get a good fix on the shooter.
Stars! Not now!
There were too many people down there to risk a stray energy bolt, even if it was set on low. The hoverchair was almost to me. I shoved the blaster into the back of my waistband and sprinted along the embankment, running in the same direction.
Right before he drew level with me, I leaped from the retaining wall.
My momentum carried me forward, and then I fell. Fast.
The hoverchair flew about five decimeters above the ground. I slammed into it with a bone-jarring thud. My torso hit the handlebar. Something pointy and ungiving jammed into my diaphragm. The altitude regulator, maybe. All the air whooshed from my lungs, but I wrapped one arm around the steering column while my feet dangled over the edge.
The old guy yelped, startled by my dropping from the sky. He threw himself back, and—combined with my jump—sent the hoverchair spinning. I gripped on tight as my legs flung out from the centrifugal force. We made it three full rotations before the hoverchair finally teetered off its axis and deposited us both onto the ground. It bucked and thrashed like a wild beast until it slammed into the retaining wall.
Luckily for the shooter, my body cushioned his fall. I took a bony knee to the gut before rolling him off to the side. He didn’t look injured, but he took his time climbing to his feet.
The combustion gun landed a meter away. I picked it up and shoved it into my waistband next to my blaster. It wasn’t secure, but it would do until I got it into an evidence bag.
“Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You are under arrest for the unlawful discharge of a combustion gun, public disturbance, and resisting arrest. Additional charges may be added, including but not limited to, murder. You may remain silent if you so choose. If you choose to speak, your words may be entered as evidence in trial. You have the right to an appointed attorney or one of your own employment.”
“I don’t know what happened. One minute I was getting drinks for Moxie and me. Joe, he’s always had an eye for Moxie, and when I saw them dancing, I guess I thought he’d gone too far. I remember taking out my gun, but only to scare him a little. Let him know to back off. Then Joe was lying on the ground. I … I don’t remember shooting him.”
“You’re going to have to come with me,” I told him.
I didn’t have a pair of restraints, so I walked him back to The Brackish Bar in a come-along hold with his arm twisted behind his back. It was either that or wait for Dispatch to send a Department LAV for a pickup. Between the headache, bloody nose, and shaking hands, I wasn’t in the mood to wait.
It took about ten minutes to walk back. Neither of us were moving too fast. If the shooter had been any younger or even a little bit spryer, this night would have gone so much worse. As it was, I barely kept a tight hold on his arm.
I handed the suspect off to a waiting officer. She’d take him to the precinct, record his statement, and book him.
My leather cross-body bag was where I left it by the high-top table. I grabbed two migraine tabs and placed them on my tongue to dissolve. They provided little relief from Intell-induced headaches, but they took the edge off. Then I used a cleansing wipe I kept in a side pocket to clean any traces of my bloody nose.
DeAjamae stood with Ravi in the center of the dance floor, talking and pointing straight up. She had her spotlight drone aimed at the ceiling. It shone a light on a small hole.
“Hey,” I said, walking over to them.
She stopped talking long enough to give me a quick once-over. “Are those grass stains?”
We all looked at my light-blue jeans.
“Ugh,” I said, brushing at the loose bits of grass. “This is why DECA issues black pants and shirts.”
Ravi picked a piece of something I didn’t want to name out of my purple hair. “DECA has hats, too.”
“Hilarious.” I looked up to the place the spotlight shone on. “What’s going on here?”
“Bullet hole,” Ravi said.
“In the ceiling? Not it for going up there to retrieve it. I don’t care if I’m the newbie.”
“Turns out Mister Hot-to-Trot wasn’t shot.” DeAjamae snorted. “That rhymed. Anyway, the medics think he had a heart attack, likely triggered by a combination of his aerobic workout and his scare at hearing the gunshot. They took him to the hospital, but he should be fine.”
“So it wasn’t murder?”
“Not even attempted murder.” DeAjamae aerial scribed a command into her holoscreen. The spotlight drone shut off its light and flew back to her pile of stuff beside the stage.
“That’s so much less paperwork,” Ravi said.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” DeAjamae asked me.
I looked around at the orderly chaos. Things were wrapping up and with any luck I’d be out of here within the next hour. “I don’t see why not.”
“Great! I have a new idea I want to test.”
Ravi picked up one of the microphone scarves that had been trampled on the floor and handed it to DeAjamae. “Too bad about your show, though.”
She tied the sparkly fabric around her waist like a belt. “Eh, this will probably get the band some good press.”
“A weapon discharge and bar evacuation is good press?”
She grinned. “In the entertainment business, all press is good press.”
Chapter 3
I swiped my hand across the wall console in the common area of my ship to shut off the holocast. “I can’t believe the city attorney let Aurelian Tazza off with a fine!”
DeAjamae pulled a cable from her ever-present backpack, then plugged one end into her cuff and the other into a data port on the side of the console. Code scrolled on the screen. She’d stopped over to the spaceship park where I lived on the Soteria to deliver the news and help me with a project.
“Her assistant contacted me right before I came over to give us a heads-up. Sounds like Tazza Industries transferred the credits for the fine this afternoon. The slimeball’s already on his way back to Brione-2. That’s got to be some kind of record.”
My friends were dead, and the man responsible just bought his way out of punishment. A handful of credits to a man worth billions. He might even consider it a tax write-off. Just the cost of doing business.
Visions of my friends’ lifeless bodies still haunted me when I closed my eyes. Neither had had an easy death. Jarrett had been brutally tortured for information. Fax—who’d received the same experimental neural implant as me—had died when Doctor Kandall Lourde ripped it out of his brain to prevent the authorities from discovering its existence.
“Hey,” DeAjamae said, squeezing my shoulder. “At least Lourde got forty years. It might as well be life at his age.”
“Tazza orchestrated and funded the experiments. He should be rotting in prison alongside Lourde. What was the city attorney thinking?”
Her hand dropped to her side. “Don’t blame her. Six months of combing through his business records, and we didn’t find anything to counter his argument that Lourde had gone rogue and acted on his own. Plus, Fax’s homicide was outside our jurisdiction, and we knew going in that the evidence tying Tazza to Jarrett’s murder was weak. He made sure none of the paperwork traced back to him. Everything was in Lourde’s name. She weighed the odds of winning at trial and figured this was the best deal to ensure he received some kind of punishment. The plea bargain was her best option.”
I blew out a breath and sat down on one of the fixed stools beside the small kitchen island. “Yeah, Tazza’s good at covering his tracks.”
His tech company was one of the largest in the galaxy. For a man that wealthy, it was a slap on the wrist. Void-damned attorneys.
“We’ll find another way to get him. It’ll just take more time,” DeAjamae said.
I sighed. “I know, but it still sucks. It puts that much more pressure on the bionic weapons investigation.”
“The lieutenant is getting antsy for us to show some progress, but you didn’t hear that from me. I overheard her tear Wright a new one yesterday.”
Our boss wouldn’t be happy about that. “Anything new from the material we recovered from the lab?”
“Not much. Lourde’s lackeys did a pretty thorough job shredding the hard drives, and the server we confiscated from Lourde was damaged in the LAV crash.”
“Did you find anything on the medication he gave Fax and me?” I tried to make the question sound nonchalant, but judging by the look she shot me, I hadn’t succeeded.
“No, I haven’t been looking for that. Should I be?”
I shrugged, hating myself for lying to her. DeAjamae had a knack for anything related to computers. We’d spent the last six months testing my new capabilities. I’d learned a lot about coping with the Intell, but it hadn’t come without complications.
Last night’s headache and nosebleed were just the latest in a string of increasingly bad side effects I experienced when pushing the use of my Intell. The hand tremors were new, though, and they concerned me. How could I do my job if I couldn’t hold a blaster?
“Just curious. It’d be nice to know what was in it.”
“Probably the crushed souls of little children,” DeAjamae grumbled. “That man is pure evil.”
“No argument here. Isn’t that right, Walnut?”
Walnut, the guinea pig I’d rescued from Lourde’s research laboratory, gave a sharp wheek in solidarity before investigating the starting area of the new maze we’d built for him. It sat on the floor and took up most of the free space in the living room section. The base covered the access hatch to the engine room below, but since we were parked planetside, it didn’t matter.
The little potato butt was a short-haired guinea pig with light-brown fur and a white stripe running from his forehead to his belly. He had shiny black eyes, and the cutest pink nose and little feet that made me want to squeeze him until he squeaked. I didn’t, but cute aggression was a real problem around him.
The first time I’d seen him was in Lourde’s bionic weapons lab, and my implant chip had connected with his implant chip. It told me when he was happy or hungry based on the biochemical information his chip collected. I could even elicit responses from him, like hide from danger or it’s safe to come out by triggering his brain to release certain chemicals.
