Fletcher (12 page)

The attachment was a redacted resignation. The name had been covered in black, but it looked like it would fit ‘John Rourke’. The reply was curt and familiar.

“Will be handled. –ECSH”

It was a simple level of obfuscation designed to prevent direct text searches. I wrote some names onto a piece of paper and it became rapidly apparent what produced the codes: first and last letters of their first and last names. Eric Strauch became ECSH and John Rourke became JNRE. MECT didn’t take long to find: RailTech had her listed on their website under their human resources division: Marlene Croft.

Just like that, the infinite became finite. The link between Rourke and 429 was apparent and the motive behind his death, clear. John had disagreed with something about 429 and RailTech had...

Forced him to kill his wife and himself?

Killed his wife and triggered his suicide?

Staged the whole thing?

The picture was still a fuzzy monochrome, but it was getting sharper. I needed Valerie’s input, and I needed to give Vincent what I had. I checked the upload—eighteen percent—and blinked at the length of time that had passed. I was hungry again.

I made another burner omelette and ate it on toast. My mind was electrified by the revelations. The biggest risk was to get lost in the infinites. All else aside, speculation was exciting. I couldn’t get caught up in excitement. Dealing with RailTech was serious business. I kept digging, looking for more tags. My own code returned no results, but ARCT—Alastor Cartwright—brought up a requisition form, notarised and signed off by ECSH, for a magnetic bolt-gun: the Gaussian Perforator. This weapon was in its early stages. RailTech hadn’t passed up the opportunity for a live test.

Infinite, meet finite. Finite, infinite. Try to play nicely.

#0346

“Jesus. Stuffing someone in a wall and bricking it up again is not worth the hassle. There’s the weight and the angles and it never fits quite-right, no matter how you position the limbs. There’s the brick mortar which is a total bitch to mix and lay, and the bricks which are heavy as hell on their own.

“It’s even worse when the victim is thrashing and screaming and begging you to stop.”

15: How’s That For Stylish?

A day later, Vincent called as the upload hit ninety-nine percent.

Uncanny.

“You don’t write, you barely call... Are we breaking up?” I kept my tone playful.

“Cute. What happened to subtlety?”

“I made no such assurances. Plans changed.”

“And Zephyr?”

“Zachary, apparently. He didn’t make it. Didn’t RailTech mention him?”

“Nope. They’re playing hard to get right now. Claimed that someone stole data and made off with it after turfing grenades around the fourth floor. It seems like they want our assistance, but they don’t want us to know anything else.”

“Sounds like RailTech.”

“The joke’s on them, for now. Have you got the stuff?”

“Check your mail, sweetheart. See? If you’d taken a minute to write, you’d not have to ask.”

“Hush with the sweet talk. How much?”

I wondered whether I should tell Vincent what I’d found, or let him search the data himself.

“Got a bit on Rourke. Nothing on Cartwright. Spent the last few days recovering.”

“Bullshit. You couldn’t sit on that much data if your ass was stitched to the seat. Anyhow, I don’t care about your case, I’m asking how much you got in total.”

“Ah. Just over fifty gigs, compressed. It’s distributed all over the internet in encrypted archives. You still have our shared key?”

He did. I had a final question for him.

“Oh, one last thing. How many were killed in the shoot-out?”

“I figured that was your work. You crafty scoundrel.”

“So?”

“Twenty-three casualties in total.”

“At least four dead. I counted the captain—you should have seen him bounce—and three guards on the fourth floor. Who else?”

“Cheers, K.”

He hung up, leaving me without an answer. That bastard and his button-pressing. I decided against calling back. He deserved a little victory.

The fact that he’d been pulled in was expected, but slightly worrying. My breathing space was getting smaller and smaller. He wouldn’t name me directly—he’d consider it cheating—but sooner or later he’d get a photograph of me with red writing on the back. I’d normally look forward to it, but I was stretched out as it was.

I opened a bottle of vodka and toasted as the last percentile of data scurried onto the internet. I had some degree of insurance, now: RailTech wouldn’t want to kill me while I had the key to the data. Probably.

***

I took a walk through the gutterage in the late afternoon, enjoying the heat from the sun. A plane rattled overhead. The lightest breeze pushed my fringe over my eyes, but the weather was mild and pleasant. I spent the trip scouting out hidey-holes, places I could shore up and disappear to when Eric Strauch brought his full power to bear. No one except Vincent and Valerie knew of my residence in the Helix, but it’s always good to have a plan B, as my mother used to say. There’s a joke in here about divorce and/or abandonment, but it would lack authenticity coming from me.

I finished marking locations as the sun dipped, and turned towards the Midnight Hour. If I got there early, I’d catch Valerie before things heated up.

***

She was spinning her chair around an empty ward when I arrived. I watched her whoop and skitter for a few minutes, wondering what she was on. Possibly nothing. Possibly a lot of things. One of the wheels caught on a power cord and she pitched to the floor. Her head met the corner of a steel cabinet and she sprawled on the floor, giggling. I cleared my throat and she shot to her feet, going a bright red.

It wasn’t a good idea. The dizziness hit her and she staggered back into the cabinet. The laughter started up again. I helped her to her feet and steadied her by the waist.

“What’s the occasion, Miss Gravewood?”

She didn’t answer until the laughing fit had passed completely.

“Just a good mood, is all.”

“Ah. Sounds suspect.”

She locked her arms behind my back and tried to step me into a waltz. There was no alcohol on her breath, nor were there any tell-tale signs of any of the usual designers.

“Really?” I was a little incredulous. Also, not a great ballroom dancer.

“Really truly. It’s been a nice day.”

“No patients?”

She nodded. “And you know what that means.”

I did. I disengaged from the dance and pulled out the flash drive.

“It’s good that you’re so pleased with life. I need science-eyes.”

The science-eyes gleamed happily.

“I’m glad you called Vincent.”

“You didn’t have to do it first, you know.”

“Only looking out for you.”

“Shall we?”

Valerie hopped through the passageway. Her mood wasn’t infectious, but I found myself smiling reluctantly. Maybe it was a little infectious. I followed her into her room and continued to talk as she plugged the flash stick into her laptop.

“I need someone to tell me what Rourke was up to. Pay attention to anything involving project 429—that folder—but if you could look at everything that would be great.”

“Aren’t you going to stay?”

“I can’t. I have plants to water. And feed. Also got more digging to do. Lots of records. This is just a fraction.”

Valerie pulled out a notebook. “And what do I get out of this?”

“I’m not offering anything. This is a gift in itself. Don’t you want to see what RailTech’s been up to?”

“Yeah, because nothing gets me hard in the morning like—let’s see—Advanced Crystal Lattice Preparation for High-Throughput Production.  Oh yes, K. Give me some of that.”

“There’s biochemistry too.”

“I see. Addition of Flanking Hydrophilic Serine-Glycine Chains Significantly Increases Molecule Solubility. Yeah. I’m enthralled.”

She was messing around with me. I decided to appease her.

“I’ll owe you?”

“I’ll owe you,
Doctor Gravewood
.
And don’t you forg—”

There was a little yelp as I pricked her back. The scalpel glinted in my hand.

“Don’t push your luck.”

She swivelled and ran fingers down my side. “Got another one coming?”

“Only if you play nice.”

“Hf. Alright, then. I’ll take a look. Go water your plants. See you tomorrow?”

A bit of time to blow off steam sounded like exactly what I needed. I jabbed her again, lightly. One for the road.

“See you tomorrow.”

***

I walked back in the dark. The gutterage felt coiled and tensed tonight, for some reason. A gnawing pit was forming in my stomach, and a sense of unease clouded my head. I felt slightly psychic when the gunfire broke out.

The street lit up ahead of me. Two groups—maybe fifteen people in total—were skirmishing from two opposing buildings. I couldn’t make out figures in the murk, but I counted muzzle-flashes. From the sound of the shots I guessed that most of the weapons were in a state of disrepair. This wasn’t RailTech or the military, just a spat between two gutterage gangs. A kerfuffle.

Chunks exploded from the walls and fell into the street as bullets were spent with reckless abandon. A burst of gunfire lit up a window, and I froze.

Platinum blond hair.

The open spaces were dangerous, but I found myself crawling forward to get a better vantage point. Another flash of light illuminated the shooter. It was the boy.

I had trouble breathing. He seemed to be a part of the outmatched group. He was going to die. Of course he was. Staying low, I skirted the road and slipped up the emergency stairwell. “In Case of Fire.” Someone had already graffitied ‘Fire’ into ‘Firefight’. I giggled, in spite of myself. It seemed appropriate.

I checked myself and continued scrambling up stairs. It struck me, halfway up, that the party might take unkindly to my arrival. The fight raged on, showing no signs of slowing down. I paused at the top of the stairs and peeked around the corner.

I pulled back a millisecond later, fragments of brickwork bursting around me. Someone shouted about being flanked. I wished that I’d been a bit quieter.

I’d just shafted the group completely. Dividing their attention left them stretched thin. Screams of pain followed gunshots with increasing regularity. I tried shouting “Friendly”, but they weren’t taking chances. Opportunity arrived when someone charged around my corner, screaming and shooting wildly. I pushed his weapon to the side with my left hand and powered my right fist into his solar plexus. He crumpled into my arms, and I stood at the doorway.

“Trying to help here!” I shouted from behind my new shield. Three faces turned to me, but no words were forthcoming. I scanned for the blond hair. It was nowhere to be seen. The gunshots had died down as both sides recovered and reloaded.

“Just! Trying! To help!”

I stepped into the doorway. It was a bad idea. A burst of red soaked me, in concert with the sound of the shot from across the road. My hostage went limp, and I was forced to dive back into cover.

Fuck this.

I pulled out my pistol. If they were going to treat me like a hostile, I was going to act like a hostile. Three—ouch, make that two—remained. It was easy work.

I searched the bodies for the boy. A corpse slumped over the window I’d spotted him from, but it was a woman with a deep tan. Not him, not even close. I swore, quietly. A flash of white hair caught the breath in my throat, but it wasn’t him either. I could hear movement downstairs. I rubbed my eyes and slid into a cupboard, waiting for the other group to close in for the spoils. I didn’t have to wait long.

There were six. Some might have remained across the road, tending to the wounded. They weren’t my concern, however. These six were armed and on edge. I stared through the gap as they passed within reaching distance. The pistol twitched in my hand, and I unclipped the strap on my knife belt.

It was an incredibly poor time for my phone to ring.

Please switch to silent, you colossal cockalope.

I jettisoned from my hiding spot, wrapped my arms around the first body I came into contact with and shot her once in the back of the head. I scanned the area, located the nearest threat, and dropped him with a double-tap to the chest. The remaining four reacted over the space of a few seconds as another two fell. Tonight, my aim was flawless. My phone continued to ring.

Somebody stop me!

Using the corpse as a counterweight I threw myself to the right and rolled behind cover. The first burst of responding fire sent chips of brick flying by my ear. I found myself reloading with a fresh magazine out of instinct. I flapped the corner of my coat out from cover and triggered another reaction.

“Want to talk about it?” I shouted into the darkness.

The only response was another shower of debris.

Apparently not.

It was a wise choice from them. I’d have shot them the moment they lowered their weapons, and made briskets from any survivors. We remained, stalemated, for another minute—me throwing comments out and getting bullets in return. These two weren’t particularly talkative.

Glass broke underfoot nearby. They were getting closer. I eased myself to my feet and took my coat off. I waited until I could hear their breathing, and steadied myself.

I tossed the coat out from behind cover at eye level and dived underneath it, sliding across shards and tearing my arms open. My distraction worked; gunfire chased the coat as I took aim and dispensed lead from below. The foremost took one to the face, but I managed to shoot the last survivor in the arm. He screamed as his weapon fell out of his grip, and I brought the lower half of my body around and swept him to the floor.

“How’s that for stylish?” I screamed, pouncing onto his chest and jamming the barrel into his mouth. I forgot myself in the moment and let loose, squeezing the trigger several times. The
click-click-click
of an empty magazine brought me back to reality. With it came a roiling wave of pain, fresh from my arms. I had just ground-surfed on three metres of sharp rubble and broken glass, and I was bleeding profusely. I tore strips of cloth from the shirts of the dead and bound myself tightly. Not the cleanest of bandages by any stretch, but they’d do until I got home.

Out of the danger zone, I checked my phone. One missed call, number unknown. It seemed Vinscented. Trust him to screw me over in a delicate situation.

I plundered the corpses—to the victor, the spoils. The weapons were universally shoddy. I took the ammunition, and whichever small valuables I could find. A golden locket sat around the neck of a woman. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Inside was a family photograph, worn and tattered.

“We’ll always be your guardian angels—Mum & Dad”

And you did a sterling job of it.

I flicked the image into the street and watched it spiral in the air. I wasn’t sure Dad would have been much use in a gunfight. He seemed a bit pudgy around the edges. I guess he could have been a meat-shield.