Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1) Page 2

  The danger keeps me awake, an adrenaline rush to stave off the boredom of solo surveillance. But even these drastic measures won’t last forever. I pull a Bell-E Up bar from the pocket on my pant leg. Maybe the protein and vitamins will help perk me up. I should have brought more energy drinks with me.

  Usually, I run cases with more activity, but the credits were too good to pass up. It had come through a private request line, a blackout case restricted from public view. A rich wife checking up on her politician husband.

  Hacking into Mr. Laundreman’s accounts was easy. From there, tracking his portal travel had revealed an incongruity with his spending patterns. Finding his second datband posed zero problems.

  The nights he “works late” correlate with large payments to Tony’s Delicatessen. A quick search revealed it to be a five-star dessert lounge with an exclusive waiting list. His visits happen weekly, but he likes to change up the night, making my life more difficult.

  So I checked myself into the Pink Skirt Motel across from the shop to wait him out. Fifty-two hours so far, in a place that rents in thirty-minute blocks. When I shift, the metal against my spine curves outward, and I lean forward instead. I don’t want to fall five stories.

  Though the red-light district never lacks business, the street looks especially crowded for a Thursday night. The popularity of the delicatessen must lure hopeful customers who think they may have a chance at a table, it being the middle of the week.

  “Silly people, you won't get in that way,” I holler at the masses.

  My call to the shop had gotten me a snappish host that informed me they were booking out into Summer-Cycle. Then my public registration as an employee for Investigators, Inc. must have pinged their system, because the line dropped. A redial sent me straight to their message box. Blacklisted in under one minute.

  I stand and stretch, vertebrae popping back into place.

  At first, the high-priced desserts were confusing. The credit withdrawals from Laundreman’s secret datband were in the four-figure range. But during the Day-Light cycle, I snuck into the shop and everything became clear.

  In back rooms, past the employee lounge and the manager’s office, away from the kitchen, a short hallway leads to the side alley. Before the glowing exit sign are two unassuming doors. A peek inside the first door revealed a bedroom, or rather, a bed. Large and custom made, with plush coverings. The space smelled of fruit with an undertone of sex. Through the next door, a room that mirrors its neighbor.

  Ding, ding, ding.

  I set up my surveillance, snapped pictures of the rooms and the special black menu I found in the hostess booth, before I got out of there. Thankfully, a complete lack of daytime security made infiltration into the delicatessen easy. But now, fifty-two and a half hours later, I worry about how often their system runs an auto-check for foreign devices. The old-tech cameras are hard to detect, and I’ve been lucky so far.

  I pace the balcony. Three steps to the right railing, three steps to the left. So not satisfying.

  A dark town car pulls up in front of the dessert shop and the driver gets out. He hurries around to the curbside to open the rear passenger door, and Mr. Laundreman heaves his considerable girth out of the vehicle.

  “There you are, you beautiful man.”

  I hurry back into the room, feet silent against the threadbare pink carpet. The scent of musk, mold, and other less sanitary things, assaults my nose. Dim lighting helps hide the dust that collects in the pink ruffles around the bed and the stains on the comforter. I’d napped in one of the hard chairs positioned to face the large mattress.

  A tap against the keyboard causes the consul table beneath to wobble as the folding desk-port comes to life. Another button activates the cameras to stream as Laundreman waddles his way past the waiting line and into the Delicatessen.

  Little holos appear on my folding desk-port, with six video feeds to show the restaurant from different angles. In the bottom left display, a tiny Mr. Laundreman squeezes into the booth at the back of the shop and picks up a menu.

  An hour later, I think I might never eat again.

  Watching the man devour plate after plate of decadent treats has put a serious curb on my growling stomach.

  My interest reengages when the restaurant’s proprietor brings out the special black menu. Mr. Laundreman takes a brief glance at it and makes another dessert selection for the evening. I make sure the cameras catch every step he takes toward the back rooms.

  When he enters the Cherry Pie room, I activate the camera feed and try not to vomit as he has his way with the flexible redhead. Gotta give the girl some credit; she’s a limber one.

  I keep the recorder running until he pays his bill, then cut the signal. I consider recovering the electronics but reject the idea.

  Mrs. Laundreman can cover the cost of losing them when I give her the evidence she needs to prove her husband broke their nuptial agreement. A couple thousand credits added to the invoice will be nothing to the millions she’ll save in the divorce.

  I love cases like this.

  Easy, well paid, with a clear bad guy to vanquish.

  Mission accomplished, the return home can't come fast enough. I want a shower that doesn't involve straddling a toilet.

  It takes no time to pack up and leave. Mr. Laundreman only took up half the night, so the lines are still thick when I reach the nearest elevator off Level 5. Most of the people in line wear flashy clothes, waiting to take their party up a level or two. Clubs on upper city levels will be more expensive. They also offer the chance to rub elbows with potential partners that already live where they want to be. Everyone wants a way to move up.

  It had taken special thought on my part when I bought a living unit on Level 7. It places me one city level above the shadow line of the wall, dead center of Roen. It offers a certain amount of respectability for clients that want to hire someone who can be sensitive to their wealthy problems. But it allows me to be available to the less fortunate who can't pay as much and need more help.

  Once I settled on Level 7, it came down to location. Every level has two areas in high demand, the inner ring and the rim.

  The rim has views and access to shipping docks. The inner ring has Central Plaza, with the government spires and public portals linking to anywhere on the level. I splurged and purchased a unit in the inner ring. I need to be near the elevators going both directions, and within walking distance to the Halls of Justice, where I receive most of my work.

  Cases like Mrs. Laundreman’s are special contract. Unregistered with the Peace Keepers. But most of my clients register their requests in the Halls of Justice. There, I can plug into one of the many ports accessible only by badge-carrying members of Investigators, Inc.

  A private gym offers another bonus to the purchased unit. As an investigator, I sometimes face situations where I need to run toward, or away from, danger.

  I keep up on my running.

  Usually, after a long case, I’ll hit the gym first thing to work off some built up energy. But the Pink Skirt Motel sucked the life out of me. I force myself to take the stairs to the twelfth floor, calling myself a wuss the entire way up.

  My thighs burn. It hurts. I need to do this more often.

  My hallway looks like every other one in the building. Beige walls and beige doors that have gold plaques with little numbers glued on. No couches or tables with flowers here. Clean uniformity. When I first purchased the unit, I walked past my new living space several times. Now it’s all muscle memory.

  Thirty-three steps to home.

  I place my hand over the palm reader and the cool gel warms beneath my skin. The lock light flashes green and the door slides open. I take a deep breath as I step into my little slice of home and smile to the empty space.

  In the low lighting from the hall, the loveseat beckons me with soft invitation. Another step inside and the door swishes closed. Plunged into darkness, I kick off my shoes, aim my body at the couch, and free fall toward s
leep.

  ~

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  The reverberating shock of feet meeting hard ground shivers up my calves in time to the music blaring in my ears. Scenery whizzes by, a blur of green leaves and blue sky. Fifteen minutes ago, the burn numbed out and now my legs feel weightless.

  I keep pushing.

  This is my time. Here I can plug in my earbuds and let my brain fuzz out with white nose. My form of meditation.

  I don’t have to worry about anything when I run. There are no bills to pay, no cases to solve, no problems that can’t wait. My sanctuary, self-contained in a seven-foot sphere that auto rotates.

  I hate the high beeps and fading scenery that notify me my time is up. My stats flash green at me before everything morphs back to the blank, gray slate of holo screens. Over the past year, my speed hasn't improved. I don’t like that I've topped out.

  A shake of my shoulders dispels the negative mood forming. If I push myself harder, I'll be able to go farther, faster.

  Neon lights curl across the screen, telling me to vacate the exercise sphere so the next person can put it to use. I grab my towel and bottle of water and get my butt moving again. No way I’m getting charged double for dawdling.

  Thick, cushy, black mats cover the floor, bouncing my steps and furthering the floaty sensation that runs through my body. The unobtrusive gym matches the rest of Blue Horizon Living Spaces. Light grays and dull chromes, with scattered mirrors and stretching bars. I make my way over to one and start my post run cooldown.

  Artificial air wafts over my hot face, cooling the sweat and sticking my short, black hair to my cheeks. I ignore the over-muscled brute who flexes his pecs in my direction.

  Lots of people use the gym to hook up. With my indecent short shorts and sweaty tank that clings to my ribs and chest, I know what impression I give. A better person might consider buying less revealing clothes. But I’m not a better person. I have no shame and flaunt my excellent assets with zero intention to deliver.

  Not that the guy has worked up the nerve to ask me out yet.

  On the way back to my unit, I can’t help the extra bounce in my step or the smile on my face. Today will be a good day. I have enough time before I file my report to get in a shower and grab a cold GoGoNow energy drink from the convenience store on my way to Central Plaza.

  As I exit the stairwell onto my floor, my happy vibes evaporate.

  Two men loiter down the hall, at about the right distance to put them in front of my doorway. Big and bulky, they fill their suits to bust the seams. Halfbreeds made extra strong with enhancers. I don’t recognize them, but I have a sinking idea I know who they work for.

  I pull the earbuds out and drag myself back to reality.

  “Ms. Thorpe.”

  Not a question, so it doesn't need an answer. I stop in front of them and try not to stare too hard at the single, bushy eyebrow that stretches across the speaker’s forehead. Several seconds pass before they get the hint to move the conversation along.

  “Mr. Black would like to see you.”

  Sigh.

  Yeah, I figured. But really, Mr. Black pays enough for a salon visit to take care of that unfortunate thing. I eye the other one who stands back a few steps, playing the silent menace. Maybe the unibrow equals good goon.

  “I need a minute to change.” I wave my sweaty towel to emphasize my current condition.

  “We’ve already waited for over an hour.” The two tighten up ranks, creating a wall of suits that block my door. “You shouldn't keep Mr. Black waiting.”

  “I'll change fast.” They don’t move and it becomes clear a shower isn’t in my immediate future. Neither are less revealing clothes. Or deodorant.

  Fuck. Short shorts aren’t my idea of a good way to meet the boss.

  I sigh the most beleaguered sigh I can manage, with full on shoulder slump, before allowing them to shuffle me toward the elevator.

  “How about we take the stairs down?” Silence from them as they bypass the stairwell door and hustle me into the metal box of doom. Smooshed in with the goons, the tight confines grate against my nerves. It doesn’t help that the damp scent of my sweat fills up the smallest space known in existence.

  I tug at the towel draped around my neck and try to ignore the nauseating lurch in my stomach as the elevator plummets toward the ground.

  When the doors finally ding open, I resist leaping to freedom. The goons block my way. Freaking polyester wall.

  A quick glance around the foyer shows comforting beige from floor to ceiling, with a desk off to the side for visitors to check in and out. The goons don’t stop, and the receptionist keeps her head down, oblivious. It’s obvious who they work for, and my deposit doesn’t include protection from mob kidnappings.

  I don’t blame her that much. The mob’s a functioning part of the government, and only politicians like to mess with the government.

  I have to pause and admire the glossy, white car parked illegally at the curb. Portals make cars virtually obsolete, so only the super rich own them. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in one. I don’t even care that the goons stand off to the side and wait for me to open my own door.

  Guilt pings through me, though, when I slide my damp butt across the butter-soft seats.

  “Is this real leather?” The door closes with a soft thump that cuts off the outside noise. Bet I could scream in the car and someone standing next to it wouldn’t hear a thing.

  “No,” Unibrow rumbles from the driver’s seat.

  “Really? I thought Mr. Black would own the real thing.” I pet the seat. It doesn’t feel like faux.

  “Real leather’s illegal.”

  “Hmmm.” I run my fingers across the supple material. Yeah, it’s real. “I like the extravagance, but we could have walked to Two Worlds Financial.”

  “Mr. Black requested you at the NuArc Towers today.” The car powers on with a quiet whirring and a slight lift. The Silent Menace frowns over his shoulder at me before pressing a button on the dash.

  A black screen rises to block my view of the front as the car pulls away from the curb. Oh well, they aren’t stimulating conversationalists anyway.

  I plug my earbuds back in and content myself with watching Level 7 pass by. It takes fifteen minutes to drive from the inner ring to the rim. I haven’t been out this way in a while. It’s exciting to watch as the buildings drop away and the edge come into view.

  Level 7 just crests the city wall, so driving towards the rim is like speeding towards open air. A poisonous jungle waits below, its toxic fumes rising in an orange haze that stretches five city levels high.

  Hundreds of lives were lost, human and halion alike, in the efforts to fight back the poisonous trees. It had taken years to clear enough space to build the first stack of cities. Only the thick wall that surrounds Roen keeps its citizens safe from a slow death of lung disintegration.

  Air ships cruise the skies, with skilled pilots flying below the upper atmosphere where clear tentacles drift down from the clouds. Dangerous storm bringers live in the clouds, attracted to the electricity given off by the ships. Too close, and a storm bringer will latch onto the metal crafts, syphoning off the power and then releasing the useless craft into free fall.

  A mesh curtain hangs from the holo-sky, an attempt to keep their smaller brethren, cloud skippers, from invading the city. But their gelatinous bodies can squeeze through the smallest spaces and wreak havoc. Workers pace the edge with nets to catch the ones that get through, long steel lines looped at their belts and attached to support pillars. The first defense against the electricity-sucking invaders.

  A short line of cars waits for the heavy lifts, most of them work vehicles. Their drivers register varying levels of annoyance and resignation as the conductor, wearing his shiny hat and breathing mask, waves us into the waiting elevator. Mob: Most Obnoxious Bastards.

  THE ETIQUETTE OF DOORS

  The coffee burns as Drake chugs d
own the cup left by an early morning security guard. He doesn't think the thick sludge will wake him up, not after twenty-four hours on the job, but it never hurts to take proper steps to be fully caffeinated.

  And the burnt flavor kind of feels nice on the sides of his tongue.

  The bottom of the cup comes too soon. He sets it on the desk with a heavy thunk, leans his head back, and shuts his eyes against the persistent throb that took up residence around hour ten when the alert came in.

  One of Black Corporation's employees managed to kill himself with an aphremore overdose. Notice of his death didn’t concern Drake. Employment by the mob comes with a higher than average mortality rate, and a low-level hotel entertainment procurer won’t be missed for long. Applications flood the company on a daily basis.

  Super easy to replace.

  The root of Drake's pain comes from the type of aphremore the asshole ingested. Black Corporation's beautiful, tariff-approved, liquid drug transformed into powdered Ash for easy distribution and consumption. Dirty and strictly illegal, even under mob law.

  Without the need for vaporizers, the drug becomes hard to regulate and keep away from citizens with halion blood. Their agreement with Blue Hall hinges on the aphremore dens’ tight control of the drug. Not to mention, potential tithes go down the drain every time someone buys Ash instead of patronizing a government-sanctioned den.

  He blinks and stares at the round light on the ceiling for a moment. Maybe the added pain will have the reverse effect and cure his headache. When that fails to work, he straightens, rolls his shoulders a couple times, and refocuses on the task at hand.

  A quick tap of the screen keeps it from sleep mode as he reviews the inventory logs already open. So far, all the shipments and deliveries match up. Which leaves either one of the dens or unsanctioned smugglers as the distributor. Both possibilities have far-reaching consequences.