The Dyson File, page 26
“I found where Fike came out,” Cephalie reported, sitting atop the LENS with a rubber gas mask modeled over her face. “His trail was easy enough to follow for about a hundred meters, then things get . . . muddled.”
“Take us there,” Isaac said.
Cephalie led them into the utility maze, guiding them through three different Y-junctions, then down a shallow decline ending in a short path that opened to a larger space two stories tall. She widened and brightened her beam, bathing the chamber in light.
A haphazard collection of chairs and tables crowded one corner, various brands of mattresses formed a barely organized grid in another, and a mishmash of appliances were jammed together in the closest corner. Isaac spotted high-performance infosystem towers, gaming recliners, and two small but flexible printers.
The fourth corner was sectioned off by an arc of paneling broken up by two swinging doors. Each door had a physical sign, one for showers and the other for toilets. The inhabitants had spliced into the local utilities with insulated cables or flexible pipes, providing power to their hardware and water to the restrooms.
At least when the utilities were on, Isaac thought.
Graffiti covered the walls near the four entrances, each picture animating a roiling storm cloud and streaks of vivid lightning. Some of the animation cycles appeared sluggish, indicating the smart paint was low on power.
“Gang symbols?” Susan asked.
“That’s right.” Isaac wagged a finger at one of the lightning bolts. “We’re in Streaks territory.”
“Who are the Streaks?”
“One of the smaller immigrant gangs. Mostly composed of Uranites with local Saturnites mixed in.”
“Dangerous?”
“All criminal gangs are dangerous.”
“I mean, should I have my gun drawn?”
“I don’t think so.” Isaac swept his gaze over their surroundings once more. “No one appears to be home. I’m guessing the Streaks left when the power was switched off.”
“This is where I lost Fike’s trail.” Cephalie overlaid a bent line onto their virtual senses. The path came in from a side entrance and curved into the shower stalls.
Isaac opened the shower’s swinging door and peered in. Cephalie shined a light over his shoulder.
A thin pipe stretched down at a diagonal from the wall on the second story, then branched out in five directions, each line ending in a different style showerhead. Water dripped from one of them, forming a shallow puddle below the head. Someone had installed a drain in the middle of the room, which only did a passable job of removing water, since the floor was flat.
“Fike came here and washed up,” Cephalie reported.
“Must have been some water backed up in the pipes,” Isaac said. “And after that?”
“No trail.”
“None?”
“Not one I can single out as Fike’s,” Cephalie explained. “The Streaks may have left, but other people are using this place. On top of that, I’m guessing Fike got his hands on a bottle of Grime-Away, because I’m finding traces of the brand’s microbots everywhere.”
“Which are actively cleaning up the evidence,” Isaac said, filling in the rest. He let the shower door swing shut.
“Exactly. Nina might be able to tell us more.”
“Or we could brute-force through this by having SSP—”
“Shh!” Susan placed an urgent hand on his shoulder. She drew her pistol and aimed it toward one of the side entrances.
Isaac strained his hearing and listened.
“Is that . . . singing?”
He heard what he thought was a man’s low, scratchy voice singing with operatic enthusiasm, though lacking in true talent or—more importantly—any sense of timing or tone. The noise grew more distinct, accompanied by the clicks of slow, leisurely footfalls. A dim, greenish light splashed out of the tunnel.
Susan kept her pistol leveled on the entrance.
Isaac put a finger on top of her barrel and gently nudged her aim down. She raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
“I don’t think we’ll need that,” he said quietly.
She frowned back at him but kept her weapon lowered.
The voice grew louder and more distinct, and Isaac could register snippets from the lyrics.
“ . . . ceiling fan . . . late for work . . . ”
“I think I know this song,” he whispered.
“You listen to this sort of music?” Susan whispered back.
“I’ve heard most of it by accident. It’s one of Nina’s favorites.”
“My pants are on the ceiling fan!” bellowed the newcomer, waddling into the chamber with his feet pointed to either side, giving Isaac the impression of an overweight duck. His impressive belly strained against what appeared at first glance to be body armor, but instead of a dynamic camouflage pattern, naked women fell across a clear blue sky, all while blowing kisses at the viewer. A glow tube cast pale green light from his shoulder, secured there by a strap. The greenish light imbued his skin with a sickly, blotched pallor, and his oily beard formed a knotted mat down his neck.
He carried a bundle of preprinted food tins in his arms, seemingly unaware of the obvious light from the LENS. Isaac cleared his throat as noisily as he could.
“And now I’m late for work!” the man cried with zero musical talent, head back, eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his brow as he shuffled toward the toilets. “Late for wo-ooooork!”
He stumbled when his foot caught on the upturned corner of an access grate. He staggered forward for a few steps, and a few of the food tins fell from his arms. He stared at them on the ground for long, confused seconds. Then, apparently deciding here was as good a place as any, he dropped the rest of his cargo with a loud clatter.
“Excuse me, sir,” Isaac said, stepping toward the man.
“Sup, y’all.” He shuffled past Isaac. “Help yourself if you’re hungry. There’s plenty.” His face pinched up but then the expression melted into a toothy grin, and he let rip a loud fart. Strangely enough, the flatulence proved more musical than his singing. He pushed his way through the toilet’s swinging door.
Isaac waved his hand to disperse the newly fouled air. He waited a few paces outside the stall for the man to finish.
“What did I just witness?” Susan asked quietly in security chat.
“One of the Esteemless,” Isaac explained. “People who refuse to participate in modern society, who shun the bare minimum required of them along with the basic shelter and sustenance provided to them as a matter of course. Job dodgers, petty criminals, addicts, and other undesirables.”
“Oh yeah!” groaned the man on the toilet, followed by a plop.
“I’m guessing addict for this one.”
“Mnnnrrrgh! Oh, hell yeah!”
“You all right in there?” Isaac asked in normal speech, not sure what else to say.
“Yeah, man! Yeah!”
“Just checking.” He shook his head and sighed.
“Thanks, man! Eeerrrrrggghhh!”
“You planning to question him?” Susan asked.
“Who else is there to talk to?”
“Want me to drag him out here for you?”
“Hnnnggghhh!”
“Let’s not interrupt him,” Isaac replied dryly. “This sounds important.”
Several minutes later, the man pushed through the stall door while hitching up his pants.
“Sup.” He waddled toward his spilled stash of food tins, but Susan placed a hand against his chest. He grumbled and tried to push past but failed to move her arm even a millimeter.
“Detective Cho, SysPol Themis.” Isaac transmitted his badge to the man’s wetware. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“You cops?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“I hate cops.”
“How charming.”
“Lady, why you gotta be like this?” He tried to shove Susan’s arm away, but once again failed to move her. “I’m hungry.”
“What’s your name?” Isaac asked.
“Trent.”
“Trent who?”
“What’s it to you? I’ve done nothing wrong. Just leave me be.”
“Answer our questions, and we will.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, coming down here, making demands?”
“All we’re after is information.”
“Like I owe you people anything!”
“I’d be careful if I were you.” Isaac crossed his arms. “That’s some nice body armor you’ve got there.”
“Yeah, it is.” He sneered. “But it’s mine, so piss off.”
“You have a permit for it?”
“Screw you.”
“No permit means I can reasonably assume the property is stolen.” Isaac motioned the LENS forward. “Cephalie, detain him.”
“What?!” Trent blurted, backing away. The LENS darted forward, its prog-steel shell expanding outward to form a silvery X. Each corner struck a separate limb, flowing like liquid mercury that solidified into cuffs on each limb. Trent slipped and fell backward, but the LENS slowed his fall and laid him down on his back. He struggled against the bonds, but to no avail.
“Check him for substance abuse,” Isaac ordered.
The LENS placed a new, thinner pseudopod against the inside of Trent’s elbow, and he flinched from the tiny prick.
“His blood’s steeped in Bliss medibots, with trace amounts of Trance and Melt.”
Isaac made a tsk-tsk sound as he knelt beside the addict’s head.
“Trent, you have two options. Either I arrest you for suspicion of theft, vagrancy, trespassing, vandalism, job dodging, controlled substance abuse, and probably a few others if I think hard enough. Or you can drop the attitude and answer what I assure you are very simple questions. After which, we leave you be. Now, which option sounds better to you?”
“The second! The second!”
“That’s what I thought.” Isaac stood up. “Cephalie, get the good man back on his feet, would you?”
The LENS lifted Trent up and placed him on the ground upright before releasing the restraints. He staggered forward half a step then steadied himself, rubbing the inside of his elbow.
“Now,” Isaac began, “shall we try this again? Where’d you get the armor?”
“A guy gave it to me. Pretty snazzy, ain’t it? I picked the camo pattern myself.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t give me his name. Stank like hell, though. I helped spray him down with Grime-Away.”
“Why’d he give you the armor?”
“He wanted to trade for my clothes. I thought why the hell not. The smell wasn’t too bad after I sprayed him down, and it washed out.” Trent gave them an indifferent shrug. “Eventually. I call that a win.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“I don’t know. Sort of average.”
“Height?”
“Average.”
“Weight?”
“Average.”
“Dark or light hair?”
“Sort of . . . halfway between.”
“Did he carry a weapon?”
“Oh, yeah!” Trent’s eyes gleamed. “He did!”
“What sort?”
“A big one. Looked impressive.”
“Did you trade for that, too?”
“Nah, he kept it. I was interested, but I could tell the answer would be no. Thought I might trade it to the Butt Brigade later, but he even took it into the shower with him. No way he’d part with it.”
“Excuse me?” Susan asked, brow creasing. “Did you say ‘Butt Brigade?’”
“It’s slang,” Isaac explained. “He means the Uranite gangsters.”
“Right on, man.” Trent chuckled. “They don’t like the name, but it fits. They’re always throwing their weight around, acting all tough. ‘Born on a butt, act like a butt,’ as the saying goes. I don’t miss those jerks one bit. How long you think the power’s going to be off? I could use more days like this.”
“Where’d he go next?” Isaac asked. “The man who traded you the armor?”
“Dunno.”
“Any ideas?”
“Not really. He was in the showers when I left and was gone next time I passed through.” Trent shrugged again. “Could be anywhere.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Not sure. It’s not like we have normal days down here.”
“Take a guess.”
“Yesterday, maybe?”
“Hmm.” Isaac glanced back at the showers, wondering if there was anything else to glean from this conversation. “All right. You can go.”
Trent hurried over to his spilled tins, gathered up most of them, and scurried out of the Streaks’ chamber.
“What now?” Susan asked.
“We need to let Hoopler know we have a new location for her to center the search on. Cephalie, can you raise her from here?”
“Nope. Too much metal and not enough live infostructure between us and her. We’ll need to head back to the car first.”
“All right. Lead the way. I doubt there’s much more we can do here. The rest is up to SSP.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Isaac briefed Hoopler shortly after they reconnected with the city’s infostructure.
“Anything else you need from us?” he asked once he’d passed on the critical details.
“Can’t think of anything,” Hoopler replied. “This is going to be a big help. The resources I have for this search have quadrupled since last we spoke, and now I can put them right on Fike’s trail. I appreciate the assist, but we can take it from here.”
“All right. In that case, we’re calling it a day. Contact me as soon as you find something.”
“Will do, Detective.”
After that, they boarded the rental, and it drove them back to the hotel. Isaac headed straight for his room and stripped down as soon as the door closed. He signaled his uniform to start a self-cleaning cycle, then hurried naked into the bathroom and searched through the hotel-provided toiletries. He settled on a small bottle of Spotless-brand Scrub-All, twisted the top off, and poured the bluish creamy contents all over his uniform. The microbots in the cleaning solution integrated with the uniform’s simplistic infostructure and joined in an epic, microscopic battle against horrible smells.
Next, Isaac grabbed the bottle of Spotless’ Gentle Body Wash. He stepped into the shower, jammed the bottle’s top into the receiver port, and selected the shower’s longest, most rigorous cleaning cycle from the menu.
He closed his eyes as jets of sudsy water blasted him from all angles. The suds moved up and down his body, propelled by microbot colonies integrated with both the shower and his own wetware.
“Aaaahhhh . . . ” he sighed while the microbots scrubbed the patina of sewage grime off his freshly pink skin. The cycle finished ten minutes later, and he immediately started a second one, not yet confident all the particulate feces had been removed.
He leaned against the glass door, eyes closed, relishing the heat and renewed sense of cleanliness. He was tempted to start a third cycle, but the back-to-back showers had made him a little dizzy, so he stepped out, dried off, then put on a pair of gray well-worn shorts and an equally venerable T-shirt.
He collapsed into the chair next to the hotel’s delivery port and slouched there for long minutes like a strip of boneless meat. A very relaxed strip of meat. When he finally mustered the mental fortitude to lift his head, he called up the Thrusters menu and perused it.
“Nah.” He dismissed the menu with a wave. “Nothing fancy tonight, I think.”
He ran a search for local restaurants that delivered to the hotel, and the nearest Meal Spigot drew his eye. He ordered a bacon cheeseburger with sides of fried pickles and seasoned potato wedges, then sent Esteem tips to both the restaurant and hotel staff for their trouble.
His order arrived at the delivery port in under five minutes. He grabbed the tray and plopped it on his lap, not even having to stand.
He picked one of the major news streams to watch while he ate. The Saturn Journal was doing a feature on the Toyoda’s arrival, complete with interviews of the captain and crew.
Once he’d finished devouring the meal, he tossed the remains down the reclamation chute and switched off the news stream. He shambled to the bathroom, rinsed his mouth out with Spotless’ Sensitive Dental Wash, then lumbered back to the bed where he quickly slipped under the sheets to form an Isaac-shaped cocoon under the self-warming covers.
He drifted off into peaceful sleep.
He dreamed of returning to Kronos, triumphant with Fike in jail, but his victory was short-lived. The stench from the utility maze had somehow clung to him, growing stronger and more malevolent, almost as if it were an insidious being of its own. It oozed out in a trail of brown smoke behind him and seeped into every part of the station, sickening those nearby and causing them to vomit.
The chime from an incoming call woke him up.
He opened an eye and glared at the alert in an attempt to will it away.
It continued to bleep next to him.
Not a dream, then, he thought, then sat up and acknowledged the call.
“Detective Cho?” Trooper Parks asked.
“Yes?” he croaked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“You all right?
Isaac checked the virtual clock by the bed.
“It’s two in the morning,” he groaned. “What did you expect?”
“Right. Sorry. I guess I didn’t realize what time it was.”
“You still working?”
“I am, sir. Extra shifts don’t bother me.”
“What do you need?”
“You left instructions to contact you if we found anything.”
“I did. What’d you find?”
“Fike, sir.”
The news jolted most of the torpor from Isaac’s system.
“We found Fike,” Parks repeated.
“He’s in custody?”
“Yes, sir. We’re bringing him back to the station now.”
“Excellent. We’ll head over immediately.”
“Umm . . . ” Parks frowned.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not really, but you might want to slow-foot it to the station.”
