Shyft Page 7

  “By Shelt, AKA Austen Abercrombie.”

  “Didn’t know that was his real name.”

  “And Doralai Wi?”

  “She’s in love with me. Finsbury. The other me. She’s also terrified, thinks someone is out to get her.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s why I was talking to Petra. Trying to find out. Maybe you can help me, you seem to know what’s what.” He doesn’t say ‘no,’ so I continue. “What do you know about Elder Raahmaan?”

  “Like I said, he’s disappeared. No rep-hits. Nothing on SecNet.”

  He’s been watching too. “You have access to SecNet?”

  He just blinks at me. If he has SecNet access, Petra is even more connected than I thought. Military, maybe. Or government. “So how did you miss him at the club tonight?” I say.

  His stillness becomes complete, I can’t even hear him breathing. A second later he’s out the door.

  Doesn’t know everything after all.

  I’m left to wait for another fifteen minutes or so, then I hear someone clear her throat behind me. Without the door ever opening.

  I whirl around and out of my chair and see Michaela Anders, the Mayor of Toronto, standing behind me.

  The Mayor now?

  What’s the Mayor got to do with this?

  She’s wearing a slim red suit with gold seams and award show-worthy make-up, but she isn’t really here, just a projection in my eyes. I'd met her once. She was shorter in person.

  Still my stomach clenches. If Michaels works for the Mayor, then whatever it is Finsbury got me into is even more serious than life or death. It’s political.

  Mayor Anders considers me a moment, like she’s staring down unwelcome news from the city’s budget director. “Mr. Gage, I tell you this not as a courtesy,” she says, looking me in the eye, in here somehow as tall as I am. “I believe you are a pragmatic man. You can feel the tension in this city. Federal agents patrol my streets. Crime is rampant. Crimes so new, they’ve only recently been named.” She puts her hands behind her back. “I tell you this simply so you know the stakes. I will not permit my city to deteriorate into a haven for those who believe they can defy the law. And I will pursue those who bring crime and violence to my city with the fullest extent of my capabilities.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” I say to the projection. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Your culpability remains to be seen, Mr. Gage. But be that as it may, it is clear you are a potential liability. You cause problems.”

  “What probl—”

  “You are to stay away from Pete—Petra. Anderson. If any harm comes to her, I’ll have your rep dragged so far into the low, you’ll think Freecyclers have it good.”

  Petra Anderson is Peter Anders, the Mayor’s son. He’d been tabloid feed for years, parties and drug, affairs with men and women, then quietly went away. It was a bit of a mystery what happened to him. Peter went bit-head. And female.

  That’s what this is about. This isn’t political at all. It’s maternal.

  I have to be careful. “I have no intention of—”

  “I’m not interested in your intentions,” she says, waving my words away. “You’re involved in something dangerous.” There’s no argument. I am. “If anything happens to—her—I’m holding you accountable.”

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  Che cocks her head at me, opens her mouth to speak but freezes, then her face grows pained and winks away.

  I figure that’ll be all, that the threats are done and they’ll let me go. They leave me to stew instead. Time ticks by and I guess they’ve forgotten about me and I’m about ready to start pounding on the door when it slides open.

  Michaels waits in the hall, his face grim, jaw set. He looks like a sleepless day has passed since I last saw him. He turns without a word and leads me back through the control room and down another hall, up two flights of stairs, and opens a door onto the blue glow of a residential night.

  “Look, Michaels,” I say as I walk out, “You and I are on the same side here. I’ll watch out for Petra.”

  “Little late for that,” Michaels says, his voice quiet. “Forty five minutes ago, she killed two of my men, seven bystanders, including that friend of hers, then turned the gun on herself.”

  He steps back and the door slides between us, leaving me with a bitter silence and a sudden body-wide exhaustion.

  StatUS-ID

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

  SysDate

  [10:12:28:17. Sunday, April 21, 2058]

  Inspector Chaddah has Galvan and I sitting on display outside her office while she links with Mayor Anders, the Service Commissioner, the Police Services Board, the local head of Standards and a suite of lawyers. I can't see inside, the opaques are pulled, but the rattling windows tell me all I need to know.

  We’re in trouble.

  Galvan isn’t talking to me and I don’t blame him. I blasted us into a dangerous situation, my head full of code and selfish bravado. I half-assed his safety, had no idea what I’d do when we got in there.

  Or what would happen when we flipped the rock on the arKade and exposed the truly fucked-up aspects of restored culture. There’s a large group of people in the world, both loud and quiet, who don’t think Reszos deserve to call themselves human—and here’s more proof. Sub-human dance parties. Live-action torture porn. Cannibalism.

  Even I’m starting to agree with them.

  A downtown office tower under siege and the surrounding buildings evacuated. Privacy shrouds over the roof and every entrance. Standards in combat armour on the streets. White UAVs on a loop in and out of the underground parking, probably ferrying out skyns in medpods—inhuman, Past-Standard skyns operated by remote control.

  The link’s already working itself into a growing frenzy as each new detail is reported. There’s more drones at the scene than a royal wedding. Enough to support a tru-D virtual recreation. There’s been a Hereafter spike at the location, people virtual rubbernecking. Two hundred feeds are coving the news in some way or another, all trading pixels and speculation for attention.

  The city has exploded. Anti-Reszo tensions are escalating, politicians are calling for new restrictions on Reszos’ ability to freely move around.

  That we’re too dangerous to exist.

  The feeds know my name. And Galvan’s. Kade’s too, though no mention of the fur.

  And it’s all our fault.

  My fault.

  If I’d called Chaddah—we had time. We could have contained it.

  Maybe.

  This time.

  Galvan was right the other day, when he said humanity wasn’t ready for the realities of immortality. We can’t handle power like this.

  Not as individuals.

  Not as a species.

  But Galvan and Chaddah, all those politicians, they don’t realize we’ve already lost. Laws are only as strong as our ability to enforce them. A Revved team of two in disposable bodies could slaughter everyone in this building.

  A squad could stroll into the White House and kill everyone they met on the way to the President.

  Who makes the laws then?

  We can’t fight a war we’ve already lost.

  It’s adapt or die.

  Though evolution isn’t without its own pain. I don’t know how much longer this Revv hit has in it, but it can’t be long. The effects are beginning to wane, and I’m already going through preemptive withdrawal. It’s been only been twelve hours since I Revved and already I’m dreading the thought if living life in real-time. Everything so slow. So imprecise.

  So vulnerable.

  It’s going to happen. Probably another hour and the Revv will drop and I’ll be just like everyone else.

  Not that I have an option. I only had the one hit. I can’t get any more.

  Except I know that’s not true. There are others. Thousands more. Locked away in the evidence room.

  I can feel them down there. All those
tiny vials of forever. The things I could do with them.

  What if?

  What if I had another Revv, would I use it?

  Would it help find Connie’s killer?

  And once I started, would I ever stop?

  I shake my head, reach up and run my hands over my short hair. Galvan shifts in his seat beside me.

  I can’t think about it. Can’t let myself fall down that hole.

  If I do I’ll never crawl back out.

  The rumble in Chaddah’s office quiets and Galvan’s chest heaves.

  “This is on me,” I say, but Galvan doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at me.

  A moment later the opaques drop and Chaddah beckons us in with a sharp snap of her wrist. Galvan enters first, and the opaques congeal as the door seals behind me.

  Chaddah’s sitting at her desk, eyes closed, massaging the crooked bridge of her nose with a well-manicured finger and thumb. “Sit,” she says without looking up.

  I settle in on the hard-backed chair next to Galvan and wait.

  We sit in silence until she draws her hand down her face and looks up, eyes heavy under her thick eyebrows. She looks beat. Already spent the past twelve hours on the receiving end of the bureaucratic fuck stick. Her Cortex could whir on indefinitely, but her body’s only human.

  “You had five hours notice,” she finally says, looking at me. “Five. We could have prepared. Surveillance. Tactical. Tracked the skyns’ origins. Monitored the airspace. Consulted Standards. Informed the Mayor—” She pauses, moistens her lips. “You made us look like amateurs.“

  There they are, the final results of my short-sighted bravado. I’m the one fucking up the leads now.

  Galvan drops his head.

  “Yes, ma'am,” I say.

  “You disregarded procedure. You put your life at risk. You put Detective Wiser's life at risk.”

  “He was never in any real danger—”

  “You don't know that,” she says, her voice tight, no higher than a whisper, but her glare sears. She takes a breath, and continues. “You had no idea what you were walking into. You're lucky things went as well as they did.”

  “I take complete responsibility,” I say. “For the lack of back-up, for not running things up the chain. I have no excuse. Galvan wanted to follow procedure, insisted on it, but I ordered him not to. This is my responsibility and mine alone.”

  She considers for a moment. Then another. “I want to be clear—under any other circumstances, I’d have your badge.“

  I wait for the shock to come, for the shame at being hauled into the Principal’s office to seize me, flush over my cheeks. But this isn't why I joined the Service.

  I used to help people. Bring closure to victim’s families. Occasionally find some small justice.

  Now? I’m scrambling around after the misplaced memories of the idle rich and arresting people for fucking with their heads in ways that, if their brains weren't store-bought, wouldn’t be any worse than having a beer or a pill.

  While living weapons walk the streets.

  We’re focused on the wrong things, wasting our time.

  Yeah, I should have called it in, but if she had given me Xiao’s case in the first place, I wouldn’t have been afraid Daar and Brewer would mess it up. She’s responsible for this too.

  “You handed the Anti-Restored movement a gift,” she says. “The criminal activities of a fringe element to inflate and demonize. A banner to wave as they work to rescind COPA. We’ve had six Reszo assault cases since six AM. Second Skyn has had to double their security—all in half a day. Who knows what else we have to look forward to? All because you wanted to show Kalifa up.”

  Wasn’t the only reason.

  She continues. “The reality is, your names are already front and centre and we need to spin this as a positive. So as far as anyone outside this office is concerned, you're to be commended. Acting on a last-minute tip, you infiltrated an illicit operation and, under fire, delivered Standards the single largest investigation in the history of their organization. You're heroes—but don't you for a second believe it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Galvan and I answer together, but the Inspector continues to watch us.

  She doesn’t have to worry. I don’t believe I’m a hero. I’m well aware I’m a hypocrite. I know what I did was wrong—but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again.

  Yeah, I broke the law. Yeah, I ignored procedure, but it’s not me that needs to change. The Service does. The people we’re fighting don’t concern themselves with the limitations set by laws and regulations, with rules that have us acting on the scales of hours instead of minutes.

  We’ll never win if we don’t play on their level. We can’t even compete.

  If I see something that needs to be done, that will keep people safer, I’m going to do it. Whether the Service says I can or not.

  Chaddah sits back in her chair. “I have scheduled a media briefing in thirty minutes,” she announces. “Where I will be naming Detective Wiser as the new head of our Cypher Task Force, dedicated to tracking down and apprehending all unregistered restored.”

  This raises Galvan’s head. His eyes are wet with relief and surprise, like he’s just gone from the firing squad to the Presidential Palace.

  “Ma’am?” Galvan says. Really? and Why me? and Are you sure? all wrapped up in a single syllable.

  “You’ve already shown great promise, Detective Wiser. Your insight and knowledge have produced results, and I accept Detective Gage’s claim of responsibility for the mishandling of last night's operation. I need you on this. But I need you to follow your training. Standards and regulations must be enforced at all times. No more cutting corners. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Galvan almost yells.

  “Good. You and Detective Gage will both be present to accept your accolades and smile for the cameras. I’ll make a formal announcement. This is your chance, Galvan. Don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t, ma’am,” he says.

  “Inspector—” I say before Galvan can rise. “One question.”

  She narrows her eyes. “One.”

  “Were any Lost Time complaints called in the vicinity of the arKade last night?”

  She crosses her arms. “No.”

  “So we stopped it. Three arKades, three psyphonings. But not last night.”

  “Absence of evidence is not evidence,” she says.

  “It’s good enough for me,” I answer.

  “But not nearly good enough for the law,” Chaddah states and jabs her finger onto her desk. “Galvan, I have high hopes for you.” She rises, offers her hand to him. Galvan shakes it, glances quickly at me and hurries from the office.

  The Inspector sits back down and we watch each other while the bustle of the office rises and falls with the opening and closing door. Her features soften. She calls up something on the display in front of her, swipes through it.

  “I expected better from you, Finsbury,” she finally says. ‘Your record is glowing. Orders of merit. Commendations. A Medal of Valour. You were a model officer, before your restoration.” It comes out half question, half accusation.

  What does she want to hear? That I’ve secretly dug through my head to find my wife’s killer? That I’ve pocketed evidence? Shyfted? That I was revved when we hit the arKade? She'd have my badge for sure, hero cop or not.

  “I'm fine, ma’am. It was an error in judgment, won't happen again.”

  She nods but her face is skeptical. “My primary goal is maintaining law and order in this division, and to be effective this department must project a positive image. You and I, we don't have the luxury of making mistakes. Not anymore. Everything we do is under a lens.”

  She goes quiet, contemplating. Nothing I can say will make things any better so I keep my mouth shut.

  “Do you know I came to be restored?” she asks.

  I shake my head. I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that.

  “
There aren’t many who do.” She leans back in her chair, takes a breath and tells me how she died. “No one would admit it now, but there was a time I was to be the first female Director of the Dairat al-Mukhabarat al-Ammah—”

  “The Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate?” I say, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.

  She nods.

  The GID Director holds one of the most powerful positions in the entirety of the Arab League. How’d she end up here?

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I—” she starts, parts her lips and closes them again, takes a deep breath through her nose. I wonder if she’s ever said this out loud before. “I trusted the wrong person. I was an intelligence agent. A damn good one. I saw the hidden patterns in behaviour, could tease meaning from days of mundane communication. I had established a network of contacts across the world…but I was unable to see what was right in front of me: my partner, slipping away. I never considered he’d turn on us, that he’d smuggle an explosive into the GID Headquarters. I couldn’t stop him from detonating it. From killing three hundred and seventy-two men and women, including me.”

  I open my mouth but she quiets me with a shake of her head.

  “I knew this man for six years. Spent Eid with his family. My love for him blinded me to the signs that should have been obvious.” Her eyes harden. “I have no such love for you.”

  She’s got her trauma, same as me. Her core of pain and loss. She knows what it’s like to lose someone. To die. She’s just better at hiding it than I am.

  “I’m not about to walk in here with a bomb—”

  “No, you could do much, much worse. What we do here reflects not only on the Service, but on each and every restored. We need to prove that we deserve to be here, that we're the same as anyone else.” She pauses, studies my face. “You are letting your personal life affect your work.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t humiliate us both by denying it. You’ve been using Service resources to investigate your wife’s death.”

  A twinge of fear snags me. She knows.

  Of course she knows. I’ve been using time on the AMP. Her knowing isn't the problem. It’s what happens now. What if she orders me to stop?