Harsh Lessons, page 11
Her eyes met his. 'James, what happened after we sat down to order dinner? All I remember is killing Jennifer, then kind of waking up as we left the opera house.'
James stared at her. She sounded honestly puzzled. The trouble was, she was getting to be such an accomplished actress. 'What do you mean, "killing Jennifer"?' he asked, cautiously.
She stared ahead into the night, hugging herself. 'I don't know. It was kind of like climbing out of a dark hole, except there wasn't any me climbing out. I think I killed Jennifer, and then I was back.'
'What are you talking about? You are Jennifer. Or, you were, for tonight. And clearly, you're still alive.'
The look she turned on him was dark, and as close to scared as he'd ever seen from her. She shivered and looked away.
James re-engaged manual drive, needing the distraction. Trying to ignore the thought that she would not survive the night.
-
Nelson's analysis noted a violent erasure of his experimental neural programming. The Doctor reported a similar destruction of his reinforcing magical Suggestions.
Despite this, Mother's opinion remained firm. 'The girl is unstable and unsuitable: a danger to everyone around her. She should be Retired.'
Father called up a section of James's report, highlighting a sentence. "My impression is the Jennifer persona had taken a position of complete control."
Mother scrolled back, stabbing at the section to highlight it. 'After returning from the Ladies. Who knows what she was taking in there?'
'Our own tests and those of the opera's security personnel were negative. And the Doctor says he raised her to consider any drug use as an admission of weakness.'
In the end, lacking sufficient evidence to convince Eagle, Mother accepted the Doctor's analysis. Although she insisted on noting it was an unproven hypothesis, and that some unreported activity on Leeth's part remained an alternative explanation.
The remaining exercises, however, were restricted to simply dining out at the opera house restaurant.
The strange intruder was considered irrelevant.
Chapter 16
Newly-minted Special Agent Adam Garland of the Bureau for Internal Development dismissed his notes on the megacorp, Tik Tek. Still uneasy. With their new creepily-lifelike Mark VII androids and gynoids, it made a kind of sense for the Corp to be acquiring bio-med companies. Even moribund ones like CyclonalMT, ruined by the '38 Moratorium. Probably just wanted to clone skin cells for the Mark VIIIs they must be developing….
With an effort, he put the technology giant out of mind and moved to the next item on his "bud list." Spending an hour a week on niggling concerns before they could flower into disasters was a large part of the secret behind his "remarkable intuitions."
Yeah, and how it got me noticed by Eagle and "promoted" to the BID. He grimaced. That girl, and her guardian, Harmon, were still there on his list, too. They'd pop back onto his radar, he knew, sooner or later.
He shook his head.
Okay: next was "The Breaker." He pulled up the map of possible incidents, color-coded by the degree of the match with the perp's pattern.
On a hunch, he switched to a 3D visualization, showing the date of each murder-assault.
Ah, shit. He reviewed a sample of the cases.
Yeah, the torture motif had evolved, crystallizing into its current fixity only in recent months. And the assaults now occurred only in New Francisco, though shifting into the poorer areas. And growing less frequent.
Or less reported, more likely.
Ah, no! He zoomed in, expanding his map. There, tracking the Lincoln Highway across the country: a series of unsolved, pointless murders, a day or two apart, buried in the larger set of homicides. But following that trail backwards became harder and harder, as the earlier pattern of the killer's murders became less unique; less identifiable. Making it impossible to say where the first death had occurred. Especially if it was New York, with its homicide rate.
He made a note in the file, but set aside the question of the origin point for now. It'd probably be better to follow up on the disturbing magical angle. Like that first weird experience in the Golden Gate Park – after questioning Sara and her "uncle" Harmon, come to think of it….
But, yeah, that summoning had been just bizarre. His then-partner, Berlusconi, had been as freaked-out as the shaman, Lucas. And Lucas had grown more and more reluctant to assist each time.
He'd worried, in fact, that Lucas was losing it. Going off the rails, as so many shamans did, down their traditional drug route to altered states of consciousness. Especially when they struck difficulties.
Lucas, last time they'd met, had been distracted and jumpy; paranoid that "something was after him." It made him wonder whether there even was a weird magical effect, or just Lucas, burning out. But the… dead magic zones, or whatever the fuck they were, and the, shit, vaguely robotic spirits? They'd freaked out the other shamans he'd called in at least as badly as they'd freaked out Lucas and Berlusconi.
Yeah, "the shaman test" looked like an excellent litmus test for a Breaker murder or torture. Survivors always described the same large man with dead eyes. Half of them thought he was a robot, not human at all: a failed AI experiment running in a military combot unit. But that wouldn't explain the magic angle: how it seemed to screw up the shamans. Shit, he hadn't even been able to find Lucas, last time he'd needed him. Not even his squat-mates seemed to know where he was.
Yeah, his instincts were screaming at him over this Breaker guy. As if a major calamity was brewing.
Chapter 17
Leeth danced into the rec room where some guy on the trid was droning on about something. Her eyes lit up when she saw James, and scampered over. Before she could speak, though, he held up a hand to silence her.
She flounced heavily into the seat by his side and pouted up at him, but he paid no attention. Gradually she noticed the strange expression on his face: blank but tight. He seemed really absorbed by the boring guy, so she reluctantly spun around in her seat to see what was so interesting about whatever he was lecturing on about.
'Then he said if I didn't cut off her finger he'd blind her.' The man didn't shrug, but it would have matched his toneless voice.
Leeth frowned, and sat up. Cut off her finger?
'I tried to cut him again with the knife but the chain didn't reach that far. Then he pulled her head back and pulled out one eye. My daughter started screaming and so did my wife.'
James's face looked pale. And as the monotone description of torture continued, Leeth hunched in on herself. It was far worse than anything Uncle had done to her, she realized, as the recitation went on. Despite herself, she tried to imagine her uncle hurting her without even caring about what he was doing. Just bored. Even at his worst, when he was so mad his face sort of clamped solid and his speech got really precise and cold, he was there, thinking about her. But doing it the way this guy had…. She shuddered violently. It'd be so much worse. Like a nightmare.
She came to herself to see Nina Summers now interviewing some expert explaining how sometimes the brutality of the lives of non-CID'd people sank them into the worst kind of primitive savagery. That the "demon" the murderer had described, who had made him torture his own family to death, was a classic schizophrenic projection.
'But professor, there have been examples of real demons returning-'
'No, Nina, there have been powerful magicians, somehow preserving themselves to reawaken when the magic once more Unfolded. People so corrupted by their own power they thought they were demons-'
The man continued, but Leeth had stopped listening. 'I think it was a demon!'
James shook his head.
'Why not? It's possible!'
'No, Leeth. That kind of horror is something all too human, even if from the very darkest part of ourselves.'
'So you're saying this guy was evil and stuff, and did all that to his wife and daughter for no reason?'
James looked tired. 'No. And I'm not the only one to think there was someone there, just as he said. Some of the media are calling the thing behind these incidents "The Breaker." About a week ago someone found a couple in their apartment not too far from here. The ’sheets said they'd tortured each other to death.'
Tortured? Leeth's eyes fell to her own arms. But there weren't even any scars: he was always very careful in his healing afterwards. 'I'd never torture someone to death. I'd just kill him.'
James searched her face. 'You have someone specific in mind?'
Her mouth opened, and James waited for her to speak, but no words came. 'Leeth, are you all right?'
It had happened again. She knew. She recognized the empty confusion. James was looking at her like he thought she was something fragile, or stupid. She shook her head. 'What were we talking about?'
He frowned. 'The couple who tortured each other to death. Under some sort of twisted duress. Tortured, I suspect, just like this guy tonight. I think someone out there is subjecting people to the most disgusting mental and physical cruelty I've ever heard of.'
'We should stop it! I could Hunt him! It'd be awesome: me against The Breaker!'
He shook his head, tiredly. 'It's not something for us. It's too small. Not important enough. But we have contacts. I've passed on my thoughts, and some people will look into it.'
Chapter 18
The interior of the squad car was dark and warm, the smell of Henderson's cinnamon donuts and espresso making Detective Marta Sanchez's stomach rumble.
'Go on, Marta, your body just outvoted you. I heard it. There's still one left.' He held it out. 'No?'
With difficulty, Sanchez ignored him.
'Best damn money I ever spent, that FatBurner genemorph,' he rumbled, as half the remaining donut disappeared into his large mouth. Henderson was large all over – and thanks to the genetic modification and bacterial tuning, very little of it was fat.
'Yeah, dumbass, and escaping all the possible side-effects from your illegal gene work has probably used up your entire life's luck quota.'
Henderson just grinned at the dark-haired woman beside him. Draining the last of his coffee, he crushed the rubbish into a ball and tossed it without looking into the cardboard box on the floor behind.
Sanchez raised one heavy eyebrow.
He nodded, and the playfulness fell away. He was ready, now.
The two were pretty much everything cops were always supposed to have been – tough, smart and dedicated. If they'd also cared less about the street people and more about those who "mattered," they’d have been stationed somewhere other than the massively sprawling "Dumpyard Precinct." The Dumps covered pretty much everything south of Sixteenth Street and east of the inverted wreckage that formed the now-appropriately named heights of the Noe Valley. No valley any more.
The entire precinct consisted of just Sanchez, Henderson, sixteen security bots on automated patrol routes, and two ancient Tik Tek arthrobot cleaners. Plus the all-terrain Asgard CrawlTank – surplus from the Brazilian Eco-wars and lovingly maintained by their permanently-stoned mechanic, Josh Taverner. In Sanchez's opinion the tank was too dangerous to ever deploy. God help the mostly CID-less residents of this human wilderness.
'I just wish I'd picked up on what was happening sooner,' Sanchez said for the fourth time that night. They were parked in a side street off the main road, giving them a clear view of the alley. The soup kitchen was seven blocks away.
'Stop hammering yourself, Marta. At least you did spot it.'
Sanchez wanted to admit the truth: that it had been a tip-off, but… She and Henderson were colleagues. Workmates. Sure, she liked him, but that's as far as it went. And if she mentioned her contact, Henderson'd start digging. And for some reason, she didn't want to tell him about the other man.
'And they're not dead. Maybe they'll recover.'
'Sh'yeah, right. No one even understands what exactly’s wrong with them! These people depend on us, Henderson. You ever think, if we didn't take the time to talk to people like Old Joe, how long this would've kept on before anyone noticed?' That, and my tip-off, she thought. ‘I just wished we'd happened to talk to Joe on Sunday.'
'When there was no pattern, just a single chica zombied?'
The discussion died mid-breath as three people headed toward the alley. The woman was wearing old, threadbare clothes, and held the hand of a small, thin boy. The man was solidly built, but his tailored suit had seen better days. When they reached the alleyway where the last girl had been found, the man stopped them.
The two detectives tensed, ready to move.
The man said something and the woman shook her head, pulling the boy tight to her side. The man spoke again, and the woman's shoulders slumped. She looked torn as the man gestured for her to enter the alley; perhaps wondering if it would be kinder to leave the boy briefly alone on the street corner.
Sanchez swore under her breath as all three moved off down the disused alley. Henderson was already on the comm, ordering one of the security bots to meet them here as he and Sanchez exited the car and raced across the street.
At the end of the alley, the three figures disappeared to the left. The two citycops pounded down after them, guns drawn.
Things happened very quickly as they rounded the corner. Their quarry stood waiting, facing them from five meters away, the boy and the woman on either side. The man's face registered nothing as Henderson shouted for him to freeze.
He moved, shockingly fast. Jerking the boy, screaming, into the air. The child arced high before hurtling down towards Henderson.
Cursing, he slammed his weapon into his holster as he raced forward to try to break the child's fall.
With inhuman speed the man bore down on Detective Marta Sanchez, the woman held in front of him, a screaming shield.
Sanchez tried to dodge to the side, tried to risk a shot… then the woman's skull slammed into hers, and blackness claimed her.
Chapter 19
For long seconds, Miss Leeth lost herself in admiration of the sky. So blue. She'd never seen the sky so blue. So very blue. The warmth of the sun, so warm; the wind so breezy. Even their progress along the winding country road: so speedy. Everything was just so… very. She looked at the man seated beside her as he drove. On her right. It seemed strange, yet so normal. So very normal. It made her uneasy. He smiled back at her, his dark eyes sparkling. She did love the way they crinkled up at the corners.
She knew him so well. Her dear colleague.
'Keep an eye peeled, Miss Leeth.'
Miss Leeth. It sounded wrong, but somehow comforted her.
'What are we supposed to be looking for?' Her own voice sounded odd: her vowels all… rounded, every syllable perfectly enunciated.
'I'm not entirely sure. Something odd about the people. Anyway, we'll see for ourselves, shortly. The village is just around this bend. We'll stop at a charming little pub for lunch, and then take a stroll and see what we can uncover.'
English. He spoke with an English accent.
So did she.
The road dipped down as it curved under a verdant tunnel of interlacing branches.
And then, abruptly, they were passing a field on their left so deeply green it made her heart ache. The smell of the cut grass was intoxicating, overpowering her senses.
The car cruised into a village square. Ancient, low houses enclosed a small pond. Miss Leeth saw whitewashed walls and a lot of dark wood. Aged wood. Teak. Briefly, she wondered how she knew that.
A sign sticking out from the front of the pub drew her attention: "The Elephant and Castle." The flowery script of the lettering was carved deep, and filled with gold paint.
The man steered them past, and parked. Picking up his umbrella and his funny rounded hat with its stiff brim, he strolled round to her side. Smiling, he opened the door for her, holding out the crook of his arm. For a moment she bristled – did he think she couldn't get down from the vehicle by herself? But an odd compliance settled over her, damping her annoyance. Taking his arm, she stepped down onto the… running board. The car looked very old, yet gleamed like something new. Together, they entered the pub.
Her vague unease grew. Apart from the unnaturally pure birdsong, the village was eerily silent. She herself felt strange.
Inside, the room was dark. More of the same black wood. Exposed, roughly hewn beams supported a low ceiling, and the furniture was all dark, heavy wood. She felt a rising panic. Threat seemed to hang like a miasma in the gloomy interior, and she couldn't hear anything from outside! She swallowed against a throat suddenly dry. Something else was wrong – the darkness wasn't clearing properly: her eyes weren't working right. What was wrong with her?
A man at the bar, silently polishing glasses stared at them blankly, and with a shock she realized she couldn't hear him, either! Not his breathing, not even the rustle of his clothing – what was wrong with her?
Eyes wide, she gripped the arm of the man beside her for reassurance. He watched her in growing concern.
'Miss Leeth? Are you all right? Whatever is the matter?'
And with a shocking chill that started at her scalp and raced down to her feet, she realized she couldn't hear him breathing, either. Dropping his arm, she backed away from him, toward the door..
It was like a nightmare. As though this one room was all there was, and everything else no longer existed. Outside would be nothingness, the car and village swallowed up. And she was trapped in here with two robots that looked like human beings.
A nightmare.
The face seemed to swim, the room wavered.
Stimsense.
Abruptly, she remembered the helmet going over her head. Remembered asking Nelson about his "special" work with Emma. It was like a kind of game, he'd said, and kind of like training, at the same time. She'd done interactive stimsense, right? It was kind of like that.
She never had, but she wasn't going to admit that.
