Shyft Read online

  “Sure,” I answer, without thinking. Before my brain can list the half-dozen reasons it’s a bad idea. I know I shouldn’t be getting close to her, but with everything else in my life in such a shambles, I need something positive to look forward to. “I’m on nights so how, but about Thursday, after lunch? We can meet back in the Hall of Eras, see what interests us.“

  “Sounds lovely,” she arches up on her tiptoes and gives me a peck on the cheek, then turns and hails a passing Sküte. She rides away and I start walking toward the station, butterflies trilling in my stomach, fluttering about in a pool of guilt.

  StatUS-ID

  [fdaa:9afe:17e6:a2ef::Gage/-//GIBSON]

  SysDate

  [19:14:18. Saturday, January 18, 2059]

  Karin Yellowbird isn’t surprised when I pop up on her tab. She gives me shit for not calling her sooner, and agrees to meet me at a diner on King Street after her shift without asking why.

  I get there early, find a booth in the back and wait, wondering whether she’ll come alone or if Agent Wiser will be with her.

  When she does arrive, just a few minutes after I sit down, she isn’t alone. But it isn’t Wiser that follows her in. It’s a tall black guy, bundled for the weather—the Forensic Tech from Dub’s crime scene.

  Yellowbird spots me and throws back her hood, stamps her boots on the entrance mat, struts down the narrow aisle and slides in across from me. The Tech pulls off his toque and gloves and stows them in the large pocket of his parka.

  “I thought you’d never call,” she says with a grin.

  “You brought a friend,” I say, looking at the Tech. He’s standing beside the table, smiling down at me, his eyes wide with delight.

  “That really you, Fin?” The Tech says then reaches out and touches my cheeks, runs his hands down my neck and squeezes my shoulders. I pull away and he grins, turns to Yellowbird. “Now he's wondering if we used to make out." Yellowbird rolls her eyes and he sits back, whistles, long and low. “You were right, K. He is pretty.”

  Yellowbird laughs. “Fin, this is Sam Omondi,” she says as he slides in beside her. “We all used to be one big happy team.”

  “Some more happy than others,” Omondi says, glaring at me, eyes bugged out.

  “It’s Gage now,” I correct to him. “Gage Gibson.”

  Yellowbird rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You’re still you inside that skin-cream model, right?”

  “I’m not sure I know anymore.”

  “Jesus,” Yellowbird snorts. “Fin—Gage—whatever the fuck you’re calling yourself these days. Knock off the morose identity crisis bullshit already.”

  “Fine,” I say, a smile dragging on my cheeks in spite of myself. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Was that so hard?” she says, reaches across the narrow table and shoves me back into the padding. “It’s good to see you.”

  “So we used to be friends?” I ask.

  “In spite of yourself, yeah,” she says. “You think we’d be risking a suspension by talking to you otherwise?”

  “Right.” I didn’t even think about the risk they’d have in meeting me. “Thanks for coming. Did Agent Wiser give you any trouble?”

  “Galvan?” Yellowbird says and rolls her eyes. “He’s harmless. I don’t report to him anyway. He moved over to Standards with everyone else when they came in and took over Fifty-Seven. I’m talking about Inspector Chaddah. She’d shit a peach if she knew we were here. She took it personally when you buggered off and got yourself killed. But enough about us,” Yellowbird says. “What’s going on with you?”

  I don’t even know where to begin. “Things have been…difficult.”

  “Difficult?” Yellowbird snickers. “No shit. Things were difficult for you the last time around. Now you have a whole load of new trouble dumped on top of all that.”

  Yellowbird stops talking as the server arrives with three big mugs of beer and places them on the table. Both she and Omondi stare at me until I pull out my tab and wave payment.

  Omondi picks up his mug and drinks half of it in three big gulps, sighs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then signals for three more before the server can walk away.

  “Agent Wiser and I,” I say, once the server is out of earshot, “what was our relationship like?”

  Yellowbird scrunches her small chin and Omondi lifts his beer to his lips and keeps it there.

  “You were working well together, mostly,” Yellowbird says. “There was some tension at the end. You were running pretty hot. But then he got hurt pretty bad, and after that…”

  “How'd he get hurt?”

  “You’d tracked some of Xiao’s men to a drone yard and he was injured in the arrest.”

  “He blames me for it.”

  “It wasn't your fault,” she says. Then adds, “Not officially, anyway.”

  “Unofficially?”

  She shrugs. “It was a firefight. Chain of command was in flux. He got unlucky. A step further back and he'd have walked away with a headache.”

  “But he blames me?”

  “Oh yes,” she says. “He’d be right pissed if he knew we were here.”

  They both came, even though it could cost them. This thing that happened between Galvan and I, maybe we can get past it. For both our sake’s. If there really is a superintelligence after me, I sure as hell could use Standards on my side.

  “You think he'll make peace with it?” I ask.

  “You'll have to prove we're right to be here, trusting you,” Omondi says, and slides something across the table to me. A small data key.

  I take it and hold it up. It’s featureless, just a thin slice of plastic. “What’s on it?”

  “Security feed from the Fāngzhōu,” Omondi says. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Hell yes I’ll find it interesting. “What’s on it?”

  “You and Galvan had been working a case,” Omondi says. “Xiao.”

  Fireworks ignite in my skull. That’s who Petra was shooting at.

  “I’ve heard of him,” I say, downplaying all the times I’ve heard his name in the past few days. I want to, but I’m still not sure this isn't one big set up. Wiser could be behind all of this.

  “You had him on the run. You were close, too. He’s been in the wind since that night,” Yellowbird adds. “Guess who just happened to be at the Fāngzhōu last night?”

  “Xiao,” I say.

  He was there. I missed him. I have the Mayor to thank for that, although I also have her to thank for my skyn not being filled with holes right now, so I guess we’re even.

  “Got it in one,” Omondi says. “Know who else was there?”

  This one’s easy. “Elder Raahmaan.”

  “Two for two,” Yellowbird says. “You’re pretty well-informed for a disgraced ex-cop.”

  Omondi continues. “Now for the bonus round. Where else was Elder spotted recently?”

  This one I can’t answer, and shrug. He opens his mouth and leans forward, drawing out the suspense.

  “Well?” I say.

  “Leaving the scene of your friend Dub’s suicide,” Omondi says, sits back and watches my reaction.

  “How?” I ask, my head buzzing. But it makes sense. If Eka’s fragment had inhabited Elder, he could probably have persuaded Dub to shyft. Opened Dub’s head to infection.

  Omondi pulls out his tab, spreads it and calls up a file. “We pulled this from the train that killed Dub. Ten point one seconds of video from the forward camera. One thousand two hundred and twelve frames.” He steps through the video, narrating. “As the train starts crossing the bridge two figures emerge from the trees alongside the tracks. What are they doing? It’s so mysterious.” One’s huge and underdressed for the weather, obviously Dub. The other is smaller, wearing a black jacket and hat, calf-high boots, collar pulled up against the cold. Omondi taps the screen and continues. “They walk together to the tracks as the train approaches, what will happen next?” On the video the train’s horn sounds as the d
uo moves toward the tracks, and the sound blares through the quiet restaurant.

  Omondi cranks the volume on his tab down. “Sorry,” he says, raising his hand and looking around at the other customers who have turned at the noise. “My fault.”

  A cable hangs between Dub and Elder, joining them by the backs of their necks. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the screen. The train’s brakes squeal as Dub reaches the tracks and kneels, lays his head against the rail.

  Omondi pauses the playback. “As far as we can figure, it’s a SenShare cable.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, looking back and forth between Omondi and Yellowbird.

  “A SenShare cable,” Yellowbird repeats. “You’ve never seen one? Reszos use ‘em to share physical sensations, feel what the other person is feeling. Sex stuff, mostly.”

  “So they were sharing each other’s feelings?” I ask, confused.

  Omondi shrugs. “At this point, we don’t know. I’m thinking they were lovers.”

  “I doubt it,” I say as Omondi resumes playback and the train skids into Dub’s face.

  “You’re sure that was Elder?” I ask.

  “Bio/kin isn’t enough for a match,” Omondi says. “But ImageRec is 84% on it.”

  “Elder just watched as Dub walked in front of a train?”

  “Looks like,” Omondi says.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “That,” Yellowbird replies, “is what we’re hoping you can figure out.”

  StatUS-ID

  [a646:d17e:8670:511f::Finsbury/D//GAGE]

  SysDate

  [15:43:32. Thursday, April 25, 2058]

  Dora took my hand as we balanced in silk shoes on the slippery rocks, watching milky water cascade over the Bakyeon waterfalls. I squeezed hers in return and held it as we walked back through the distance-condensed countryside to the high green hill overlooking Gaeseong, the capital city of Middle-Ages Korea where we sat on the grass and watched the sun sink until, one by one, lanterns lit the windows of the wooden, slant-roofed houses surrounding the city-centre temple.

  During our walk she told me about her childhood fascination with Korean history—the Goryeo era especially, when the Three Kingdoms had been united into what would eventually become modern Korea. Her father had gotten her started when she was very young, telling her bedtime stories of the rise and fall of Kingdoms, people united by war and conquered by invaders.

  One year she had been given a book of classic Korean poetry for her birthday, and she had read and re-read it, pouring over each description of those distant people and places until the pages had come loose from their bindings and had to be secured with a clip.

  In the real world, Gaeseong had been cut off from South Korea when the Korean War ended. It was under North rule when she left the country with her parents, and even though it had been named a national historical site after Reunification, one of the best-preserved examples of ancient Korean architecture on the entire peninsula, she’d never been able to visit.

  When she discovered that someone had created an virtual Era devoted to the Goryeo capital city, she said she knew immediately she wanted to take me. She’d had Aspects ready for the both of us and we spent the balmy afternoon strolling around Korea circa 1010 AD while she pointed out details of the recreation—and what the author had got wrong: the intricately beaded Hanbok worn by the noble women were incorrectly modelled after fashion from the Joseon Dynasty, a later period in Korean history; the casserole and beef tripe soup the locals were eating was accurate, though they wouldn’t have had the umegi in the summer—the delicate sweet dough balls were reserved for holiday meals.

  She’s been beside herself with excitement all afternoon, dancing from one detail to another, marvelling at the sounds and the smells emerging from the windows. It’s easy to forget this is all taking place on a computer somewhere. That everything, the town, the forest beyond, the villagers shuffling about their lives, even Dora and I, are nothing but ones and zeroes imitating the real world. Imitating real people.

  I’m happy to be lead along and let her do most of the talking, to just enjoy her company. She doesn’t say anything about the problems with her husband. I don’t mention Connie.

  It’s easy, relaxed. Fun.

  It also doesn’t hurt that there seems to be progress, however slight, in other areas of my life as well. Last night, I tied a stolen shipment of organic precursors to the DNA of one of the cyphers the strike teams brought back. That’ll give us more avenues of investigation, more potential charges. Not bad, considering I couldn’t leave the station.

  xYvYx should have my ReCog soon and I’ll be one step closer to finding Connie’s killer.

  I’ve been doing double-duty at work, running down leads, making the most of my desk-bound situation. Playing as a team. I’m not off Chaddah’s shitlist yet, but hopefully it won’t be long until I’m back out on the street.

  All in all, a good afternoon.

  “I should get back,” she says, once the sun has dipped behind the mountains and the stars have fully bloomed, brilliant diamond pixel dust in the carbon-black sky.

  She stands and brushes the damp from her skirt. I rise beside her and put my arm around her waist, rest my fingers in the small of her back. She closes her eyes, leans up and into me, tilting her lips to mine. Her mouth is smooth and firm, like I’m kissing warmed silicone, but it doesn’t matter. We press together, clinging to each other in the artificial night, the real world and our real selves forgotten, then she steps back and slips her hands inside the folds of her wide sleeves.

  “See you soon,&lrdquo; I say.

  She seems embarrassed but rolls forward for another brief kiss, flashes me a happy half-smile, then turns away, takes a step and vanishes back into her head.

  I wait a moment and follow her out, slip into my headspace.

  There’s a message waiting when I get there. From Inspector Chaddah, marked urgent.

  I open it and my stomach immediately grows tight. I’m back into my body as fast as I can and head straight for the station. It’s all hands on deck.

  Kalifa Daar and her whole strike team have just been killed.

  Standards will be taking over.

  Now, for sure, Chaddah will have to let me off the leash.

  ***

  SysDate

  [09:17:53. Saturday, April 27, 2058]

  It all happened fast. Daar’s strike team had pinged a cypher, tracked it to a condo complex in the north of the city. The team went in after it, with Standards as back up, expecting the suspect to be alone.

  They were wrong.

  Four superhuman cyphers were waiting for them.

  We watched the playback through the TAC team’s body cams. They went in hard, following procedure, but still Daar and the strike team were slaughtered before any of them got a shot off.

  Now I know how Galvan must have felt at the arKade, watching me kill with a sickening, casual grace. The cyphers moved the same way. An economy of motion. Every action deliberate, every shot precise.

  Standards came in after, guns hot, and a single cypher held them off while the others escaped out the window—leapt across an alley to a neighbouring roof and bounced into the night. Then the last cypher ate a bullet instead of letting himself be captured.

  All that hardware, all that training and superior attitude, and Standards still let three deadly weapons get away.

  We're all intimidated by these guys. But under all that fancy armour and expensive training they’re still only human.

  If I had been there— I could have helped. With what I’m carrying around in my pocket, I could have saved everyone.

  Or at least made the fight a hell of a lot closer.

  When I got the news, I went straight into the office to help maintain the strike teams, to show Standards we could still handle our jobs, to convince Chaddah I’m wasted on a desk, and didn’t leave for nearly two days.

  This morning, the Inspector finally told me to take a break, go home
and get some ‘sleep,’ but what am I supposed to do, go watch the feeds while these monsters are still out there, plotting to kill again?

  No. I need to be doing something, and if Chaddah won’t let me work at the station, I’ll work on my own.

  I go down to my locker, change into my running gear, pack a small bag containing my weapon and my cuff and the Revv shyft, strap my tab around my wrist and head out at a jog, watching the sweep app for potential bad guys.

  I run for hours, well into the afternoon, zig-zagging through the city from one side to the other, with no luck. I have nothing else to do and I’m not tired, have barely broken a sweat after a half-day of constant running, so I keep going, let my mind go blank as I put one foot in front of the other until finally, when my stomach starts complaining and I’m thinking about finding dinner, a red dot pops on my tab.

  I clamp down on a cheer. Can’t get ahead of myself, I have to be sure.

  I get within sight of him but stay across the street, hang back and observe. The target’s olive skinned and muscular under a short jacket and tight pants. He’s moving with purpose but doesn’t look particularly dangerous, doesn’t meet the description of any of the cyphers who murdered Daar and her team. But he’ll do.

  I raise my tab and his silhouette glows deep red. Text appears on the screen next to him:

  StatUS-ID: Unknown.

  CYPHER PROBABILITY: 98.5%.

  RECOMMENDED ACTION: Detain Subject. Proceed with caution.

  Finally, some action.

  He continues along Danforth Ave. and crosses the viaduct to the cluster of century-old apartment buildings in St. James Town. Two-dozen high-rises packed with one of the highest population densities in North America. Mayors and City Councils have repeatedly tried to redevelop the neighbourhood, but the prospect of relocating thirty thousand low-income residents made the prospect a non-starter, and no one’s so much as floated the idea since the Bot Crash.