It Sometimes Snows In May: A B.E.A.N. Police Novella (3 page)

The third heavy enters behind Ryles and immediately the elevator glides downward. After about a minute, the door on the opposite side from the direction Ryles entered, slides open with hiss.

Ryles recoils as she is greeted by a grated path of flames, ahead of a foyer. “This is new,” Ryles says. The third heavy waves Ryles ahead. “You turn down the heat, and I’ll be happy to take the lead.” The third heavy shoves Ryles out of the elevator. Ryles, sees the flames recede into the grating as she stumbles over the first few grates. When she hears the elevator door hiss closed behind her, she turns around, then looks about her surroundings. “Thanks,” Ryles says.

At the clearing ahead is a throne room of concrete. In the center of the room is a robust man in a hover-chair, wearing a peach tunic. He is backing Ryles and addressing three robed figures in stone and metal thrones on net-paper, while the woman directly in front of him concentrates her gazes intensely.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Ryles says.

The man on the throne to the left of the woman raises his head from the man in the hover-chair. “Silence!” Third-Thirty booms.

Ryles opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Second-Thirty, on the throne to the left turns his attention on Ryles. Thank you Third-Thirty. After all, a
daiswright
ought to know her place. Director of Protocol (DOP), please receive it at your leisure.

After moments of scribbling, Director of Protocol swivels around and hovers in front of Ryles. He taps on his net-paper. “Permission to end this session, and begin to receive company, First-Thirty!” Director of Protocol hails.

The woman in the center throne is garbed in a gold embroidered tunic, with matching headdress. She gazes down at Ryles, her eyes a vacant black abyss. Ryles still hasn’t gotten used to the sensation of wanting to vomit when making eyes contact with any of the Triad. “Permission...granted. Proceed with receiving new company,” the First Thirty replies.

The Director of Protocol looks down at the net-paper. “First-Thirty, I..I show no guest on the schedule for today.”

“I know. She’s tardy by exactly forty-eight hours, twenty-two minutes,” Third-Thirty replies. “What is that Ryles?” Ryles attempts to respond, but no sound comes out of her mouth. Third-Thirty rolls his eyes. “Speak!” He flicks his fingers.

“I’m trying!” Ryles blurts out. Oh...better. I know I’m late, but I have what you asked for.”

“You will address the excellencies from the circle.” Director of Protocol hovers back towards the front of the throne room, while pointing to a raised, metal circle embedded in the concrete where he just left. Ryles limps into the circle about a meter in diameter.

“It seems, Ryles, that you have forgotten your place. Has it really been that long? The contract is clear, the seller must appear at the appointed time. No earlier, and no later. This would classify as later don’t you think?” First-Thirty says.

“Yeah, I’m late,” Ryles continues. “The seller and I had some trouble on the way here, but I have the ware.”

“Unfortunately, per the terms of the contract the seller automatically forfeits twenty percent. I am sure you’ll communicate that, in the event there is any dispute.”

Ryles lowers her eyes in annoyance, and pulls the band on her wrist off. It’s straighten out, and she passes it to Director of Protocol. He in turns inserts it into a slot in his hover chair. A screen materializes downward from the ceiling and icons and text begin to scroll by, first indicating a virus scan, and then a integrity scan. Ryles watches the duration icon fills in and the processing continues. About a two-thirds of the way through, “MEDIA ERROR” appears on the screen. Ryles swears under her breath.

“We are displeased,” Thirty-Third says.

“Probably just some dust on the reader,” Ryles says. “Just a..a...technical speed bump, I’m sure.”

“I will attempt to correct the...technical speed bump, as you call it,” Director of Protocol responds.

Director of Protocol clicks and drags on his net-paper, and a, “Repairing...” message pops up on the display. The processing duration icon increase to about 95 percent this time, before it freezes. “MEDIA FAILURE” appears on the display, followed by, “UNABLE TO REPAIR.”

“Try it again,” Ryles says firmly.

“The media is flawed. The files are inaccessible,” Director of Protocol says.

“Do it anyway!” Ryles counters.

Director of Protocol hovers to face Ryles, “It is...”

First-Thirty raises her hand, cutting off Director of Protocol. “It seems you have failed to bring us the ware intact. This too is a violation of the contract, of which the remedies include...death.”

“The ware is on there,” Ryles snaps. “I saw it myself!”

“That may be factual, but is in dispute if we cannot view the ware, now,” Second-Thirty says.

“Perhaps you would like to invoke the half-double-or-nothing clause. It appears to be your only remaining option,” Third-Thirty says.

“Excuse me?” Ryles asks with a frown.

Director of Protocol reads from his net-paper, “To preclude

default, the seller or agent representing seller, may request an extension to deliver the ware for a fifty percent discount of the selling price, or dispute the finding of the Triad.”

“Fifty percent!” Ryles yells

The Director of Protocol continues, “If the dispute is successful, the Triad will pay double the selling price. If the dispute is unsuccessful, the contract and the seller or agent representing the seller shall be terminated.”

“This ain’t right. It wasn’t...” Ryles begins.

“Do you dare question the integrity of the TRIAD!” The First-Thirty balls her fist which begins to glow yellow. Ryles becomes engulfed by the same yellow glow, and is then dragged forward while she struggles, towards First-Thirty. She grimaces in pain the most she resists.

“I would recommend you choose quickly, but wisely,” Director of Protocol advises.

“Wh...Wh...what are my choices again?” Ryles stutters.

“Request an extension, or request double or nothing,” Director of Protocol says.

The Second-Thirty grins. “You are not a
dulcet
, Ryles, so I do not imagine you a gambler. Although, I would enjoy you attempting to disprove this.”

The Third-Thirty smirks. “She may want to ask the seller first. Unless, of course, that isn’t an option because we are going to exercise our right in the contract not to allow it.”

“Choose!” First-Thirty booms. His eyes glow yellow to orange, then Ryles grabs the sides of her head and screams.

The afternoon sun brings a haze over Ispari gate at the DMZ. Emergency medical personnel race back and forth moving passengers, that aren’t already dead, from the carnage of a crashed hover-shuttle.

             
Armored state police-guards hold back the throng of onlookers, including the media, enabling fire department personnel to work on opening the metal grave that is the shuttle, still holding half-a-dozen corpses prisoner.

              National guardsmen from New Mass assist in securing the DMZ bridge between Ispari and New Mass, and redirecting traffic.

              A tall, lean state police guard, Monavo Morefishco, walks through his subordinate guardsmen at the Ispari gate, and then through the armored riot guardsman closest to the wreckage. He is recognized by everyone he passes with either a nod, or a wave.

              “Tell me you caught all the bad guys, nobody died, and I just wasted my time coming here,” Morefishco says.

A younger female guard, Practice, nods to Morefishco. “Sorry sir. All the assailants are dead, and so are fourteen of the twenty passengers.”

“Oh well. I supposed I should earn my day’s pay. What do we got?” Morefishco asks.

“The tower received a distress call this morning about surface-to-air attacks. According to witnesses, the hover-shuttle was shot down, crashed, or both,” Practice replied.

“Any of the perps dead?” Morefishco asks.

“We don’t have confirmation yet sir,” Practice says. “The surveillance video from the tower show two figures boarding the hover-shuttle, but we haven’t identified all the remains yet.” She shows Morefishco net-paper with an image of the hover-shuttle. She then presses the play icon over the image.

“Body bandits. It looks like they got in over their heads,” Morefishco says.

“Sir?” Practice asks.

“They weren’t after the hover-shuttle,” Morefishco says. “Any cargo missing?”

“Yes sir. Please, follow me.” Practice steps through the debris into the belly of the hover-shuttle amidst the twisted metal, blood, and dust. Morefishco steps through a large tear in the port side of the hover-craft after Practice, and stares at the men, women, and children charred into their protective positions. Morefishco follows Practice, then walks to the rear of the hover-shuttle. She motions for two firemen to open the cargo door. Inside there are just burnt luggage, with the exception of one perfectly intact rectangular, metal box.

“Whatever it was they were after, the were willing to sacrifice a lot for it,” Morefishco says.

“I’ll ask one of the firemen to open it,” Practice says.

Morefishco walked next to the box and notices it is cool to his touch, with blinking lights on one end. “Quickly!”

Practice runs to the front of the wreckage and return with a squat, balding man in a light armored fire suit. It’s coated with the dent, dings, and scrapes of veteran use. They each take places around the box, dragging it out into what used to be the passenger area of the hover-shuttle.

“What is this?” Morefishco asked.

“It’s an industrial refrigerator; used to move meat, fish, ‘n stuff,” the firefighter replies. Morefishco glances at Practice, and then crouches down to attempt to open the fridge, when he see a biometric access panel below the blinking lights.

Practice looks to the firefighter. “Can you open it?”

“Sure...with a torch.” He giggles a bit.

“Get a torch then,” Morefishco says.

About fifteen minutes later, the firefighter runs the white hot blast of a laser-torch along the edge of the refrigerator. He’s surrounded now by Morefishco, Practice, and the EMTs.

When the firefighter stops the torch, Practice lifts off the dismembered cover, with the help of the EMTs. Inside they see the body of a skinny, middle-aged man, bloodied and bruised. Practice places her fingers along the side of his neck. “I can’t feel anything,” Practice says.

After tapping some buttons on the device, one muscular EMT places a med-scanner just above where Practice had touched. “I gotta pulse! Very faint!” he says.

“Let’s roll,” Morefishco replies.

At Zota’s residence the following night, a truck stands on the street corner while a torrent of rain beats down on it’s metallic black shell. Female fingernails type on a sliver of net-paper furiously. The woman picks up a pair of binoculars from the dashboard. She can see in the magnified view, a luxury sedan parked in front of the garage.

She switches to thermographic view, and her perspective shifts to a globs of red and orange, surrounded by dark blue.

“That didn’t take long,” Ryles says. She continues typing and an image of a radio antenna appears, along with the message, “Searching for wireless networks...” When “Z-man” appears on the returned list, she selects it with a tap of her finger. “Let’s hope I’m luckier than you were Zota.”

Ryles taps an icon on the screen with a key on it, and the message, “Attempting to connect...” fades in across the screen. The n, “1st attempted failed.” Ryles taps the icon again, and after a few moments receives, “2nd attempt failed.” “Retry” and “Cancel” buttons appear on screen as well. “Dang!” Ryles hits the dashboard with the base of her fist.