Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1) Page 10

  He's not comfortable, but he's making an effort. Calm washes through me. I step over his legs and crouch down next to the kitchen sink to open the icebox beneath the counter.

  "I have GoGoNow, Cherry Flavored." The cold can against my palm adds to my calm. I smile back at the happy face imprinted into the aluminum.

  "Ugh, no!" Drake leans his head against the back of the couch. "That stuff's gross. Got any water?"

  "Buy your own water!" I'm not made of credits.

  "Comp it to Black Corp as part of the investigation expense." He leans forward to peer inside the icebox.

  "You doing that with the mesuki?" I move a couple cans aside to reveal two precious jars of purified water. They're my special treat. I don't want to give him one.

  "Of course." He reaches a hand out, fingers fluttering. With a sigh, I pass him one.

  I shut the icebox and stand to lean against the counter. The GoGoNow can makes a quiet pop as I open it and take a deep swallow of tart, sugary, tin-flavored minerals.

  Heaven.

  "How can you drink that stuff?" Drake peels back the plastic seal on the jar top far enough to leave a gap and takes a small sip.

  His pleased smile annoys me. I'm comping a whole case of purified water.

  "What's wrong with GoGoNow?" I take a large gulp and smack my red-stained lips. "It's GoGolecious." I hum a couple bars of the jingle and grin when Drake groans.

  "You ever had a cherry before? You sure seem to like the flavor."

  I take another sip, remembering the time I stole one of the shiny, red fruits. My best friend and I cut it in half to share. We were shocked to find the stone inside, and he kept it in his pocket for good luck.

  I lower the can and glance at Drake. "No, you?"

  "Naw." He sips from the jar, swishing the water around his cheeks before swallowing. At least he savors it. "Real fruit is too expensive. What part of the flavor do you think is cherry?"

  "Probably the metallic part. It's in the Bell-E Up bars, too." Five years later, I can still taste the tart sweetness of the little, red fruit. A sense memory no amount of artificial flavor can dilute.

  "You gonna try the apple flavor?"

  This conversation is stupid. Is this what strangers talk about? It's weird. No wonder I'm not a people person.

  "Maybe when it goes on sale." I have zero interest in finding out what fake apple tastes like.

  Drake runs his finger around the rim of his jar to press the plastic back down. He leans forward again and sets it on the dinette table. He only drank half. Unobtrusively, I glance at it, then away. I'll sneak it back into the icebox when he forgets about it.

  "You wanna go over the case in your office?" He gives the back room a doubtful glance. There's only enough room for one chair among the desks and electronic gadgets.

  No way we'll both fit. "I'll pull a port out here. We can project it onto the wall."

  He looks a little too relieved.

  Not like I want to cuddle with him, either.

  ~

  “Okay, I’m caught up on the files.” Drake’s hand drops to his lap, palm-port cradled in long fingers, as he leans his head back on the couch.

  “Yeah, me too.” I rub the burn from my eyes, a byproduct from peering at a bright screen for too long. Pushing away from the counter, I’m glad we're past the whole reading in silence part. That’s a unique experience I don't want to relive. All the breathing, shifting around, and tapping out notes. My place fills with our combined scents, and I find it unpleasant. Like cookies made with dead grass. I kick the scent box next to the couch, and chemical cinnamon puffs out. It helps burn his stink out of my nose.

  His empty jar of water mocks me from the sink.

  Earlier, we rearranged my living space to clear the dining room wall. My small dinette set, shoved to the back of the unit, blocks the office a little. I should just throw it out. It came with the apartment, and I never use it. It will fit in the incinerator if I break it into enough pieces.

  That might be fun.

  Desk-port positioned on the kitchen counter, I project sky views of Roen Levels 4, 5, and 11 onto the wall. The aerial view shows the levels as disks, the streets like spokes on a wheel.

  "Halrow's body was found here." I click a button, and a red dot appears on Level 11, on the outer edge near the rim. A real upscale area. "Burgus was found early the next morning, not far from the first site." Another red dot pops up on Level 11, only two blocks away from the first.

  "Clark was found here." A red dot appears on Level 5, in the middle of Sector 5. "And Evans here." A red dot near Level 4's Central Plaza.

  Drake taps the screen on his palm-port. "These are the aphremore dens on Levels 4 and 5, and approved distributors for Level 11."

  Level 4 floods with yellow lights, one every few blocks. The lights on Level 5 decrease by half, and there’s only one per sector on Level 11. They almost drown out my little dead-man dots.

  "What's the likelihood it's coming from one of Black Corporation’s businesses?"

  "I don't know." He sounds pained to admit it, but he’s only worked the case for one day.

  Guy needs to cut himself some slack.

  "The money trail would say no. You went deep on your reports." His eyes widen, startled, and I frown at the wall. I'm not trying to save his pride. Facts are facts.

  Big baby.

  He gives a slow nod. "Yeah, there's only three dens that caught my attention, but I'm not sure they’re related to our case."

  "These here?" I point at three yellow dots on Level 4 within a block of each other. Their abnormal placement makes them stand out from the map. The rest of the yellow dots are spaced more evenly throughout the city, with multiple blocks between locations.

  "Yeah. At least one shouldn't be in business. A sub is pulling their licenses for review. I should have them soon."

  I pull up Drake's file on my palm-port.

  "They're all bringing in the correct income for that level." I check the dens a couple blocks around them. "Shouldn't they be lower, splitting the clients three ways for the block?"

  "That's why I want to go there first. There should be a profit decrease somewhere in that block's radius."

  The coroner's file includes headshots of the bodies, and I project them on the wall, too.

  All human except for Halrow. He doesn't make sense. No halion would use Ash. "Do you recognize any of them?"

  Drake moves closer to the wall to inspect the images. Two of the humans are men, one young and one middle aged. The woman looks both young and old. She probably uses skin enhancers, not uncommon for Level 11 where blue guards found her body.

  "Only Halrow." Drake points to the woman. “Clark works in a Black Corporation delicacy store, but she's not directly employed by us. I requested her file from the company."

  Black Corporation's structure becomes a hindrance sometimes with all their checkpoints. On my own, I'd hack the servers for the info I need.

  Drake's presence ties my hands, and I tamp down my annoyance. I wouldn't be working this case if Mr. Black hadn’t insisted. Not Drake's fault his employer organizes to the point of road blocking us.

  The old guy's image gives me the creeps. Despite the 2D projection, his eyes seem to stare at me. I walk around Drake, go to his other side, and the old guy's eyes follow.

  With a frown, I shove Drake out of the way.

  He flops back on the couch to give me space. "I would have moved."

  I wipe the Drake-feel off my hand and step right up to the image. He's in shape for an old dude, with his hair combed off to the side. Head tilted, I picture him without glasses and naked.

  "I saw him the night he died." I stab a finger into the wall for emphasis, right over his left eye.

  "Yeah?" Drake's lack of enthusiasm surprises me. I turn to find him making himself comfortable again. Sprawled out, I almost trip on his feet. He rubs his stomach and glances around.

  I pull a Bell-E Up bar from my pocket and throw it at him. It smacks
into his chest. Zero reflexes. "Focus, junior!"

  "You know I'm older than you, right?" He scowls at the energy bar, but unwraps it. He knows there's no food in my place.

  Invasive bastard. I unwrap an energy bar for myself and stuff it in my mouth. I'm getting cranky.

  "So you recognize…" He reads his palm-port. "Clark?"

  "He was at Tony's Delicatessen at the same time as Mr. Laundreman." If he can talk with his mouth full, so can I.

  "Yeah?" He sounds perkier now. As he should. Bell-E Ups make me happier, too. "You have any video feed? All we got was the Laundreman footage."

  Guilt flickers across his face a second later. At least he realizes he just poked a sore spot.

  "I powered off the cameras and left them behind. As long as the shop’s auto-check system didn’t detect them, they should still have the footage. But if the weather crafters have run a cleaning cycle in the last two days, the exterior ones will be toast.” I pull up the weather cycle for Level 5. On a twice-a-week cleaning regime, it's scheduled for rain tomorrow evening.

  "We can't go tonight," Drake says. "We have to leave soon to catch the den managers in the office."

  I glance at the clock on my palm-port. "We should leave now. The lifts will be packed at Half-Light. We'll retrieve the cameras in the morning."

  With a few taps, I transfer the case files from the desk-port onto my palm-port and make a note to investigate Clark's background.

  From the couch, Drake's gaze drifts over my body. "You should change."

  I take in his black pants and tight t-shirt. "We're wearing the same thing."

  He raises his eyebrows. "Have you been to an aphremore den?"

  "No. Why would I go someplace that can kill me?"

  "You're gonna stick out. People dress up for the den, even on Level 4." He gestures at my black pants and t-shirt. The short jacket covers my psy-gun's holster. Nothing wrong with what I'm wearing.

  "What are you suggesting?" I'm calm, Zen in my garden.

  "Dress and heels?" At least he doesn't sound hopeful.

  I fold my arms over my chest. "Where are your dress and heels?"

  "I'm a guy. I don't need to dress up."

  "Fuck you." I pat myself on the back for not shooting him.

  RED LIGHT, GREEN LIGHT

  The holo-sky switches over to Half-Light before they get off the lifts on Level 4. They had shared the domed disc with a small crowd of people in business attire on their way home for the day.

  As they walk toward the exit, relief washes through Drake that they won’t head back up for a while. The line for upper levels loops around the lift five times, with more gathering on the street. Company people stuff in among the glittered-up, spangled-out, how-can-they-breath-in-such-tight-clothing crowd that’s heading up for a night at the clubs.

  It won’t thin out until after midnight.

  “Gr8 Games is in Sector 9, Row 4.” Drake cranes his neck to search for the public portal platform. He spots it at the same moment Reagen strides off in the opposite direction. He calls after her, “Hey, the portal pads are over here.”

  She keeps walking, and he runs to catch up.

  Drake jumps in front of her and points. “Portal pads.”

  She sidesteps around him, heading toward the entrance into Quarter 3 on the opposite side of the plaza. “I’m not portaling.”

  “It’ll take too long.” He moves in front of her again, and she comes to a stop, eyes narrowed with irritation.

  “I’m not walking. I have a disc-bike.” She pats the clunky disc at her hip. The size of a plate, it drags at her belt and pulls her pants down far enough to show skin. “You can sit bitch if you don’t have one with you.”

  She makes the offer through clenched teeth, forcing out the kindness. Like him sitting close to her offends her on a personal level.

  “I have a disc-bike, thanks.” He ignores the relief on her face. If he didn’t get laid so often, she’d be giving him a complex right now.

  “So what’s the problem?” She steps to the left; he moves right to block her.

  “The portals are still faster.” He steps to the left as she moves right.

  “You portal. I’ll meet you there.” She folds her arms across her chest, chin up.

  “What do you have against portals?” He mirrors her pose, arms folded. He can be obstinate, too.

  “They malfunction.” Gaze lowering to his chest, her arms drop, hands loose at her sides.

  “That’s a one in thirty million chance.”

  “One in twenty-nine point four million chance.”

  “It’s virtually impossible.”

  “It’s one in twenty-nine point four million possible.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “We could have been halfway there already.”

  Drake glances back at the portal pad. If they hurry, they can still make it before the line gets any longer. His gaze shifts back to find Reagen gone, again. He spins around and spots her inky black head as she slips through the crowd. Another look back at the portal pad with its lengthening line, then back at Reagen nearing the exit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He runs to catch up.

  ~

  Level 4’s tall buildings crowd close together to block out the dimmed holo-sky. The plas-glass windows reflect light poorly, made from subpar material full of ripples and dust clouds. Building materials unsuitable for higher levels. It makes the buildings look flat, absorbing the glow from the streetlights.

  Bad maintenance means the level has fewer cleaning robots. Regular sweeps can’t be made throughout the day, and trash litters the streets. Drake spies an incinerator across the road in need of repair, combustible material overflowing the container.

  He feels dirty by association.

  Reagen doesn’t give the place a second glance as she unclips her disc-bike and begins the tedious process of unfolding it. With a press of the top button, the plate pops open. From inside, she extends a telescoping bar about three feet long, then bends the top up with a click and unfolds handlebars. From the bottom of the disc, stirrups drop down on thin rods. A seat fans out from the top, just big enough for her skinny ass.

  No way he can sit bitch on that thing.

  She holds it at waist height and presses a button. With a quiet whir, three rings buzz into glowing orange life. She swings a leg over and locks her heels into the stirrups. The bike dips under her weight, then levels back out. She glances over at him and frowns to see him still standing at the curb.

  He smirks and slides the small disc from the back of his belt where its holster keeps it discreet and out of the way. It fits in the palm of his hand. He depresses the silver button in the center of the disc and tosses it a foot away.

  With a metallic snick, it auto unfolds mid-air. The seat fans out, the body and lever clicking into place. A single ring of vibrant yellow light hums to life, almost inaudible. He mounts up and grips both hands around the directional shaft, appreciating the subtle resistance that will give way to high speeds with a slight forward push.

  He casts Reagen a smug grin. She probably hasn’t seen this model yet.

  Her eyes drift down and she smirks. He follows her gaze to his hands wrapped around the directional lever.

  Shit. He doesn’t care what that looks like. His bike is still better than hers.

  He ignores the look and its implications. “Ready?”

  She lifts her eyebrows. “Looks like you are.”

  He lets his bike answer, zipping forward in a light ruffle of air. After a block, though, he slows down to let her older bike catch up.

  She pulls alongside him and pops her bike’s thrusters. He shrugs and increases the speed. Somehow she keeps up. Who modded her bike? Only a top mechanic can pull these speeds out of a tri-ring.

  Exhilaration rushes through him as wind tugs at his hair and burns his eyes. At the turn, he goes into it fast. The bike dips close to the ground, and his heart thunders with adrenaline. He rights him
self and presses the lever forward just a little more, just a little faster. Tears form at the edges of his eyes, and he squints. He can’t remember the last time he rode his disc-bike. Too busy with work, in too much of a hurry, portaling became the easier option. He’d forgotten how free it makes him feel.

  It even makes Level 4 less depressing as it blurs by in monotone gray.

  He zips around other disc-bikes, quad-rings that take up too much space and lumber more than zoom. A quick glance to his right shows Reagen grinning, her face manic in the orange lights of her bike. When he shoots past the turn to Row 4, she follows without hesitation.

  They ride out to the fence and zip alongside it. Drake catches the stench of the animals raised down here for the upper levels to consume. The lights from their bikes reflect off the chain links and, beyond that, the gas masks the workers wear.

  They reach the end of the block and turn back toward Central. Pace slower, Drake reads the row markers, small and reflective, counting down to the end of their fun.

  ~

  Larger than the door it overhangs, the neon sign for Gr8 Games splashes the sidewalk a vibrant emerald hue. The eight in the name flickers, either from intention or a bad connection. No bouncer at the door or line of customers waiting for entry. Surprising, even for early evening. Aphremore dens always boast a crowd, and this one reports average earnings every quarter, so it shouldn’t be slow tonight.

  When Drake pushes the door, it sticks. With a hard shove, they walk inside. The low rumble of voices comes from further back in the den. Sounds crowded.

  Inside the door, in a small foyer, two people lean against the right wall. Thin and twitchy, with hyper-aware eyes in otherwise exhausted faces. One customer, a gaunt man with dark bags under his eyes, checks his watch. The few wisps of hair left on his head shine with grease and lay flat on his skull. Deep wrinkles crease his stained shirt. He checks the clock on the opposite wall, then his watch again, the action repetitive. He’s caught in a loop, too hyped up on aphremore.