“K1987-1″ (A Piecemeal Future, No. 1)

written by Kyle Brady, edited by Taylor Nelson, cover art by Jack Wong
copyright © 2009 Intuitive Industries LLC
do not reprint, publish, or distribute in other locations, in whole or in part, without permission
also available in PDF format

This story is “K1987-1″, No. 1 in A Piecemeal Future, a science fiction short story series.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

How easy I fall for that dark, attractive scent – the aroma of mischief – with a satiny feel and a copper taste.  That explains why I’m down here in the permadusk buying stims again instead of looking out from high over the smog, contemplating the intricacies of a higher order social life.

Money passes between our hands, the goods are delivered.

I make my way back to the flotrans, an older model, and wind my way upwards to find home – fast enough to placate my newly burning desires, but well-paced as to not attract undue attention.  Reaching my apartment on the southern wall of the stratosplex, I dock the trans and can barely control myself.  The door slides upwards and open, but I never leave.

Euphoria.

A personal utopia unimaginable.

“Deitel?  Policazar Zacharias Deitel…  Zachary… HoloID K1987-1!”  The voice in my head won’t go away, and I know it’s not a hallucination.  The haze still hangs, but slowly lifts as I realize that I never left the flotrans – and it’s now probably turns later.

“What?” I reply, my voice choked and full of the haggard pains of sleep.

“The dayshift started a full turn ago, and there’s trouble.” It’s Angelika.

“The usual?” I ask, “I’m on my way in. Brief me when I get there.”

“No.” She sounds agitated, tense.  “This is different, because….”

I don’t want to hear it, so I cut her off.  “Angelika, I’ll be in soon. Brief me then.”  I touch the knot on the back of my jawbone, terminating the commline.  The only bad part about using is the comedown and waking up afterwards.  I need to clean up before making an appearance at the Polirev.

Using the sanutil is always fast, but I have no time for more than a ‘flash and go’ – the suit for the day is on just as quickly as the old clothes came off.  Breakfast is a few pills to help with the stimcloud around my head and a mug of hotcaff for the trans.

Pulling out of the transdock, I join the flow of multilevel morning traffic.  The city is beautiful this far from the ground: it exists in an angelic cloudy realm where space is much closer than terra firma, the sunlight gleaming on every surface.  Rounded corners, exotic buildings, and colors of all kinds entertain me as the navcomputer autopilots.

Finally, I arrive at the Polirev and let the autodock system swallow my flotrans after I exit.  A transport tube brings me to my department’s floor where Angelika is waiting.

“Finally!” Again with the nervousness. “Zachary, there’s a Code 72.  That’s what I was trying to tell you before. Murder! Can you believe it?”

Of course there is – I only just arrived and put away my flotrans.

“There aren’t many any more, not since commlink implanting at birth. Do you think it was a drifter?”

Or a non-human. What a day for a Code 72.

I just ignore her attempts at conversation like usual. “Guess I’ll be leaving then.  Send the coordinates to the cruiser, and comm me in a quarter turn.”  I enter the transport tube I’ve just left and key in the department’s cruiser storage level – official trans for official business.

I pick a cruiser from the selection.  Although they are supposed to be all the same, I prefer Cruiser ZX12. Today is no different.

“Hello, Policazar Deitel.” The cruiser has a rich, precise voice, but friendly.  “I have received destination coordinates from your assistant, Ms. Angelika.  Would you like to proceed there?”

“Yes.” The sooner the better.

“Wonderful.” The voice sounds educated too.  “Travel time will be approximately half a turn.  Please do enjoy your ride.”

The gleaming, glittering scenery streams by in a blur, interspersed with clouds. But my head is elsewhere. It’s full of random images I don’t understand. Blurry, disjointed, nonsense images. Like I’m seeing someone else’s thoughts.

A commlink connection from Angelika brings me out of the reverie.  “Zachary.  You said half a turn, and here I am.  Do you want the full details, or just the standard brief?”

“Standard brief.” I surprise myself by actually speaking.  “Send the full file to my cruiser, I’ll review it on my own.”

“Sent.” She never fails. “This is a Code 72, down in the permadusk, Temne-Duse sector.  Victim is female, method and motive unknown.  She HoloID’s, and clears as a lower-tier citizen living not far from the site. The scene is pretty gruesome, so be prepared – the other information isn’t important right now, and it’s in the file. Good luck.”

I sign off the link without saying anything, she knows me well enough to expect this by now.

I’m still turning over the details in my head when the flotrans’ system notifies me we’ve arrived – I should have noticed since the sunlight dimmed and the noise of the city has disappeared. I tell the system to open the door, and it slides back to a thick layer of smog and dirt that makes my lungs immediately hurt. I feel like I was just here, turns ago.

The bridge. The old, decrepit bridge with its two half-functioning street lamps – I was here last night. This is where the meetup always is. Wonderful.

I glance around at the scene marked off in holoscroll tape and see two fellow suits, lower ranking. I approach one for details. “How old is the body?”

“A few turns, Policazar.” The suit is young. “Hard to say until the topsybots take a go at the vic at the Polirev’s cold storage, but the call came two turns ago. Caller said they found the body, so at least that old.” He looks at me for a response, or maybe even a conversation – laughable.

I go over to the body – female, as expected, but Angelika didn’t mention the vic was beautiful. Long, full red hair and a body that many upper-tier citizens pay to emulate. The clothes are elegant, but probably cheap if she’s HoloID’d as lower-tier – unless they were a gift. Or payment.

She’s splayed out in the classic body-on-the-ground position seen in the Hollyworld holofilms, as if she fell forward and twisted slightly at the last second, flailing her arms and legs in their own directions. Blood is pooled around her head in a natural manner – no prints, no wipe marks. Her pale skin seems undamaged except for the fall, no reason to expect domestic violence.

Crime scenes always intrigue me, but this one is more complicated because of my presence here last night. Was I involved? Did I witness this? If anyone catches on, the stim use will be discovered. Bad times.

“Were there any holovids from any nearby security systems or passersby?” The suit looks around, just as naive as before, unsure if I’m addressing him. “Were there, or not?”

“Sir, one, sir.” Must have decided I was speaking to him. “An artist was imaging something for a project from on top of the bridge, and says he caught something. Haven’t seen it yet, but I have his commlink if you want it.”

“Yes.” At least he’s useful. “Call for the cart, I want the body in the office and checked.”

He hands me a memcard and I turn to walk in the other direction as I connect to the artist.

The line buzzes only once before a voice answers. “Hello?” Deep, slow, and sensually effeminate, but still a man’s voice.

“This is Policazar Deitel, HoloID K1987-1.” I try to sound official. “Are you the artist with a potential imaging of our crime scene in the Temne-Duse sector?”

“Yes. Would you like to see it?” Ah, smooth too. “I can send a copy to the Polirev, if you’d like.”

“No, I’d like to visit in person. Send me your coordinates.” My link beeps and a light on my thumb glows blue. “Don’t leave.”

Sighing, I walk back to the cruiser, and instruct it to take me to the artist. My head is still hazy and I’m trying to piece together a potential murder. As the cruiser leaves the ground and pivots towards the layer of smog overhead, the topsybots arrive with the bodycart – the young suit is again useful. Surprising.

A few turns have passed since the hazy wakeup, but my head is still cloudy as the sun sits in its midday position. My body is yelling, screaming, trying for more stims. But I can’t and won’t – not while on the clock. Later, if I’m still desperate, I might give in. Good that I’m exempt from bloodxams, my days as a suit are long gone. Being Policazar has its perks.

The trip is uneventful and quick – the artist doesn’t live far from where the girl lays on the aged pavement, which says a lot about the quality of the neighborhood. Plascrete is used these days. The flotrans lands on the ground, terra firma, since the entryway is on the first floor. Primitive.

I exit and notice a tenant listing outside the transport tube. The artist said he was on the top floor – five stories isn’t very high for an apartment building, and he’s the only resident listed. Interesting.

The tube deposits me at the fifth floor, and Renot Sergui is there to greet me.

“Policazar!” More smooth in person. “Welcome, please come in. I’m glad to help however possible.” His appearance matches his voice: large but soft, with clothes that let everyone know he’s an artist. As if he would be mistaken for a scientist with long, jagged, multi-colored hair like that.

I cut to the chase. “Where’s the recording?” The apartment is large, and appears to cover the whole floor. An artist’s loft. Either this guy likes cliches or has a big ego. Maybe both.

He frowns, not amused with my lack of pleasantries. A hand goes in his robe’s pocket, returning with a memcard. “Here is your video. The only copy.”

“The only one?” An imaging of this doesn’t need to be floating around. “Is there somewhere I can watch this here?” Verifying leads as legitimate is a hobby of mine.

He smiles voraciously. “But of course! Follow me.” We move into an adjacent room, set up with a large liquidisplay.

“No holoprojector?” I ask, unable to find it in the room.

“Never! Too realistic and not enough room for creative freedom! The older liquidisplays are better for this.” He smiles like I should know. “Here, insert the card into the side slot.” I do as told and wait for the picture to come up.

The picture’s dark, grainy, monochrome, and a little jerky – like an old, bad horror vid. A figure is visible in the bottom left corner, distant and standing in a small pool of light. Probably the dead girl. A bright flash from the right, and a flotrans takes to the air as she crumples to the ground. Falling into the position she’s still in. The image cuts off.

Surprised it ended that quick. “That’s it?”

“Yes, Policazar. I was stunned and stopped imaging – I ran down to see if I could help her.” Are those tears in his eyes? “I had no idea she was dead until I got there, and I went to find someone to ping the Polirev for help.” He actually seems sad. “By the time I returned, your office had begun arriving.”

Interesting. “You couldn’t link us yourself from your commlink?”

“No – it only works for voicecomm inside my apartment, here. I don’t like being bothered when I’m working.” He smiles again, wet face not ruining the beseeching smile.

“I see. And what exactly were you working on that you got the girl dying on imager?” If you can call it work.

He’s nervous now. “I need some gloomy shots for the vidproject I’m working on now, and that bridge is nearby. If you’d like to contact my purchaser for the project description….”

“No.” I pocket the memcard. “Do whatever you do normally. Don’t go very far. I’ll be in touch.” The tube takes me down again.

Strange case – a girl gets murdered by someone in a flotrans, in the permadusk, and someone else catches it on an imager. In the Temne-Duse sector. I wonder what Angelika will make of all this.

I make it back to the office before realizing I still haven’t read the full file. I don’t even know the dead girl’s name. Once again, Angelika greets me at the floor entrance.

“The topsybots have a report for the case. It’s in your desk’s commqueue, Zachary.”

I grunt, annoyed that she’s so efficient. I make my way to my desk quickly so I don’t have to talk to anyone.

Case O2P9KH-3: Posmord Report

Subject: Crisiandra Halburn

HoloID: N1990-6

Birthdate: 2112.53.15|21|07

Deathdate: 2134.25.03|00|00

Status: Deceased

Race: Human, modified

Cause of Death: Combinatory weapon, suspected to be a electromagnetic pulse / disruptor beam.

Comments: Subject has no external wounds, all injuries internal. Was a heavily modified Human, HoloID lists her as a known member of “EvoHumanoid”, a group interested in the evolution of Humans into cybernetic organisms. List of modifications available in attachment. -TB9X14

A self-created cyborg gets murdered, if you want to call it that, by an EMP and a scrambler – it’s almost ironic. Young and full of idealistic nonsense. At least I know her name now. Crisiandra.

The modifications list reads like the latest in human gadgetry from Human Packages: quantum memory disks, holovisual aids, nanite muscle enhancements – the girl had it all. Now that it’s probably murder, suspects need to be found and examined.

Wait. Time of death was the third turn last night – right about when I was there for the stims. Damn me to Furidian Hell! I need to find out whose flotrans that was, the imager didn’t get a good shot. Hopefully not mine.

I grab my polyflex coat and leave my desk as quickly as I arrived. Angelika appears, of course. I need to be left alone. “I’m leaving, home for the day – lunch with an offsite meeting afterward. Don’t link me to anyone until tomorrow.” She looks curious, but nods without questioning.

The tube takes me to the autodock recovery floor, and my flotrans arrives fast. I want to check it now, but it’s too public – people may be watching. Need to go home, to the transdock, where there are no windows, no prying eyes, no cameras.

The navcomputer starts its way home, and I’m consumed with worry: did I kill her? Why did I kill her? How do I act if I did? Many questions, no answers. Not yet.

The dock’s bay door slides shut, and I start sweating. Anxious. Nervous.

I queue the flotrans’s interaction system. “Vehicle location record, this morning, between first and third turns.”

“Hello, sir, yes sir. One moment please.” Silence for a few milliturns. “The record from the first through third turns this morning contains only two unique entries, sir. Would you like to hear them?”

Annoying computer. “Yes.”

“Home until 1|50|21.” It sounds cheerful. “Arrival at the ground-level Fourth Street bridge in Old York – commonly referred to as the Temne-Duse sector – at 2|24|37. That location was left at 2|58|05, and arrived here at 3|23|40.”

I need more information. “Access my commlink geocaching, and compare datasets with this record – Polirev access, authorization K1987-1 Alpha Viertoch.”

“Yes, sir.” A moment passes. “Completed. What would you like to know?”

“Did I leave the flotrans?”

“No, sir, you didn’t.”

“What?” I had gotten out and walked to the bridge, like always. Face-to-face deals.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand your query.” Now it sounds confused. “However, it’s worth noting that you were at the same location twice in just a few turns.”

This is getting out of hand. “When?”

“Just after the day turned over, sir.” At least it has information. “At 00|12|04 you left the flotrans for a short period, and returned home immediately afterward.”

That must have been the stims – but what was I doing back there two turns later? I must have gone to the bridge earlier than I’d thought, not unusual though.

Time to act. “Wipe all location caching, both local and commlink. Immediately.”

“Sir, that is illegal, and I am forbidden to do so!” Its voice is mournful.

“Use the same Polirev authorization. Do it!” I have to clean this up, fast. Tonight. I link my dealer.

“Hello?” He responded fast.

“This is Ruben. We have to meet again.” Hopefully I don’t sound nervous.

“Ok. Tonight, not now – it is still light out.” He doesn’t seem to notice. “Same place, at the turnover.” He disconnects. I need to rest – a nap for a few turns should make up for not sleeping last night.

Darkness.

Screaming.

A flash.

Silence.

I wake up with a start on the unicouch in my stratosplex unit. Nightmares, I hate them. A quick glance at the wall chrono shows I have just enough time to meet the dealer in the permadusk without being late. I throw on some clothes, get in the flotrans, and leave.

The ride is uneventful and the flotrans lands. I call to be let out and the door slides up and out. Nervously, I take a breath and exit, striding purposefully towards the bridge. Hopefully I seem normal – these sorts of people don’t appreciate the extraordinary.

It seems I’m the first to arrive, but it’s hard to tell. The smog and darkness of night combine in an obfuscating fashion – the pathetic artificial lighting only enhances it. I take up a spot against the wall, under the bridge’s overhang, and prepare to wait.

Except that I won’t be waiting – a figure steps out of the darkness to my right, and I recognize the dealer. He comes closer and announces himself with “Ruben.” I nod in return. “More stims tonight?”

“No.” I try to keep my voice neutral. “I need to know something. When did I see you last night?”

His face is obscured by the darkness. “Immediately after the turnover, earlier than usual. Why?” Suspicion creeps into his voice.

“Something disturbing may have happened.” Understatement. “Did I see you again after the first meeting?”

“No.” He pauses. “Is something wrong, Ruben?” His oily-slick voice becomes creepier.

Unsure of how much to tell, I decide on the truth. “There was a murder here last night. A young girl. I may have been involved.”

“Oh, is that so?” He’s faking surprise. “Did you check your location records?”

Clever, this one. “Yes and they say I was here twice. I don’t remember anything after meeting you and going home to use.”

“Well, stims sometimes make people do crazy things.” It sounds like he’s smiling. “This wouldn’t be good for your Polirev career, would it, Policazar Deitel?”

I leap from the wall and grab him by the throat, slamming him to the ground. “How do you know who I am?!” I’m roaring.

He’s laughing. “I know who all my clients are, Zachary. Even those who do not wish to be known. It is merely business.”

“If you so much as think about exposing me….” I let the threat linger.

“Oh, do not worry, my loyal customer! I have no intention of exposing you as a user or murderer. That would not be good business sense.”

“Good.” Wait. “Murderer?”

“But of course.”

The anger is flowing fast – I’m becoming unstable. “Explain!”

He’s laughing. Again. “Those were not ordinary stims that you have become so fond of, Zachary. After the accident, I made sure to run into you – I knew you could be useful. And useful you have been!”

Confusion. “What were the drugs?” There’s a disruptor in my hand, shoved against his temple.

“Stims, of course, but mixed with nanites – nanites with a specific mission. You became my own little soldier after you used, doing whatever I wanted, without the hassle of remembering!” Very confident. “Last night’s murder is merely one in a long string of missions.”

Unbelievable. How am I going to get out of this? Do I kill him? I have to. “Why! Why me?”

“Because you have training, access, and knowledge – why else?” He’s not afraid. Why? “Are you going to kill me, Policazar Deitel?”

I should. I have to – there’s no choice. “Yes. I cannot be brought down by you!” I press the charge button on the side of the disruptor with my thumb.

Somehow, I’m flying through the air. On my back, looking up at the underside of the bridge. “I do not think so, Zachary.” Dizziness helps time move more slowly. He has a device in his hand. “This little toy is so useful! Those EvoHumanoids are so clever – local gravity control is just the tip of their icerock.”

I struggle to my feet – proper balance is impossible. Concussion is probable, since I feel drunk.

“What you’re feeling now is a low-level scrambler applied to your brain – the lovely result is the same as too much alcodep.” He’s smiling again. “So I can clean this up.”

Even though I’m unable to fully control myself, I turn and try to run. Maniacal laughing follows from behind. “Futile, Zachary, futile. It really is too bad you discovered yourself.” He sounds almost sad.

I’ve made it to the other side of the bridge. If I can just get around the corner in time.

There’s a flash in the darkness, coupled with shooting pain throughout my body. A thunderous crack ripples through the silence.

Darkness.

Swimming reality.

A pinpoint of light.

I’m dying, and I know it. Time to discover the fabled Furidian Hell.

After all, I’m dead.

The saga will continue in “A Piecemeal Future” No. 2 – “N1990-6”.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

This story is “K1987-1″, No. 1 in A Piecemeal Future, a science fiction short story series.

written by Kyle Brady, edited by Taylor Nelson, cover art by Jack Wong
copyright © 2009 Intuitive Industries LLC
do not reprint, publish, or distribute in other locations, in whole or in part, without permission
also available in PDF format