Lee Doty - Out of the Black

Prologue: Out of Time The impact spread slowly across his back, straining his tightly set muscles and driving the air from his lungs in a long, slow groan. Then, the sound of success- the sound of the end- like a large boot in deep, wet snow, the crunch of parting glass broke out all around him and he kicked out hard one last time. The window crumbled away around him and he flew backwards, away from the death in the hallway and into the night air high above Chicagos deserted streets. Then his world was a tumbling storm of rain, glass and the wind of increasing velocity. The gathering roar of the air around him promised that this would end badly eighty-two floors down. Hed made his choices, fought hard, and would now die on his own terms. Small consolation, considering that he was only about a second and a half into the fall and hed already had enough time to count to infinity twice and take a nap. It would be a few more seconds before he stopped accelerating, then a few more before the final splat. He wished in passing hed brought a good book. He was all for the idea of having time to meditate and ponder the eternities or whatever people were supposed to do in their final moments, but hed only need the time a bullet took from barrel to brain for that kind of thing. He watched the light from the buildings windows bend and refract through the rain and the shards of the broken window tumbling around him and tried to Zen out for a bit. It was really a beautiful scene, now that he took the time to look. From time to time, the glass would tick off his clothes or skin, pressing then fading like tentative teeth in the chill of the embracing rain. He was going out in style. Going out in style maybe, but he was the last one off the stage. Everyone hed cared about was dead or worse, and when he finally hit the concrete in a handful of seconds at his own, personal terminal velocity, the stage would go dark. Then the world around it would go dark, too- apocalyptically dark. Hed failed his family and theyd died. Now, because hed failed again, it was going to be everyone elses turn. He fell through the hollow air, remorse and inadequacy burning through his ancient heart. And then a dull radiance below drew his eye. As he watched, a few random points of light pierced the mist, then grew and elaborated into the familiar lattice of the citys streets. Then he tumbled from the low clouds and the city erupted around him. There, feeling small and naked before the blazing urban panorama that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, he had his epiphany. The black would always be there, hesitating at the edges of the light, but it would never win. Without the light, the black wasnt anything at all. The storm would rage and bluster, but it would eventually pass from the city, and then from memory. Sure, it was over for him. Sure, his was a brutal, bad end, but these desperate moments were only the last page of his long and satisfying biography. Death stung only because hed lived so bright. Loss hurt only because hed loved deep and true. In some insane way, the sheer unstoppable momentum of his unfolding tragedy suddenly made him feel grateful. Work to do. With a mental shrug and a mood swing that would make any psychiatrist reach eagerly for the prescription pad, he got back to work. Precious time had passed in reverie, and more passed as his limbs slid into position. Air flowed and tugged at him, and his legs finally extended below him, his arms stretched wide. He wasnt going to survive this no matter what he did, but he was going to get a 9.5 from the East German judge if it killed him. He passed the twenty-ninth floor positioned like an Olympic gymnast and grinning like an idiot. He cocked his head slightly and scanned the ground, not knowing exactly what he was looking for, maybe a flatbed truck loaded with mattresses or a large bucket of water. Three people were on the rain-swept street below, but none of them looked burly or quick enough to catch him. A heavy woman in a blue sweater walked almost directly below him, head raised and eyes squinting into the downpour. Being a human of a more normal variety, she couldnt yet see him, but he could see her just fine. Her mouth was partially open, lips stretched, her teeth slightly exposed- though there was sadness in her eyes and frustration pinching her brow, she was laughing. He wondered in passing what was so funny, but he knew that whatever it was, neither of them would remember it in a few more seconds. Not too far off, two men in improbably white clothes stood, looking expectant, like they were waiting for a very white bus. Though he couldnt see their faces from this angle, the men in white were apparently engaged in an energetic conversation. One was gesturing in the direction of the dark car parked at the edge of the street just ahead of the laughing woman. Looking at the woman again, he realized that without further adjustments, hed land directly in front of her. Blood linkage echoed from his recent memory and a desperate plan began to pull at his mind. Then he decided- he was going to go out fighting, right on through the final second. He might have saved the world when he went out that window a few seconds back, but he really didnt think so. He was pretty sure his enemies could get their precious key from his corpse. Eighteenth floor: Geometry and aerodynamics blazed through his diamond-hard mind, his sluggish limbs moved, and he rode the altered slipstream into the air over the car just ahead of the woman. With luck, the cars roof would deform enough to allow him to live for at least a few seconds after the splat. Luck, he thought with the first tightness of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, the way things were going tonight, that car was probably packed with dynamite and rusty nails. Sixth floor: His legs were bent slightly, his muscles tensed for the landing. He was as ready as he was going to get. Below him, the woman had taken another step toward the car, her weight slowly shifting from left to right foot as she slogged through the rain at what looked like her best speed. With a start, the falling man realized that now she was alone on the street. His eyes flicked around quickly- the two men in white had disappeared. Impossible. It had only been about three quarters of a second since hed seen them last, and they hadnt looked like they were in a hurry. If he had time, he would have shrugged. Hed seen so many impossible things in his ninety-one years that a couple of disappearing strangers didnt even rate an exclamation point in his diary, especially not on a night like tonight. Second floor: nothing to do now but wait and think about the shape of the stain hed make. Hanging in the air a meter above the car, he wondered if he shouldnt just give up and let the ground have its way with him quickly. At the speed of his focused thought, he knew the next second would draw out before and behind him forever. Hed already lost everything, so why should he force himself to experience every crunching, bursting instant of his death? Why strain and compensate as bone shattered and muscle and tendon were torn apart? Why experience every nanosecond of the coming impact, just for a chance at a few seconds of consciousness afterward? And then he saw them again, the two men in white, maybe only four meters away now, they were staring directly at him. Their familiar faces were filled with something between joy and sorrow, between grief and pride. Their eyes burned with an intensity that reached past the pain and loss, finally piercing his heart. They knew he could do this, and so did he. Right through that last second. With only centimeters left, he tried to yell, just to relieve the tension. He tried for more of a skydiving woohooo! than the aaaaaaaaagh! of final misadventure, but there was no time for sound before the violence of the impact consumed him.
1. DARKNESS Aftermath With a sigh of resignation, Ping Bannon opened the sedans door and stepped out into the night air. The sandy-fresh smell of the newly departed rain on the concrete pushed his grim agenda aside and brought a small, unexpected smile to his face. Sometimes in the conditioned air of the car, in the heart of the city, it was easy to forget the simple pleasures of nature. He breathed it in, gazing up at the dim stars resolving out of the clearing sky. Clarity. His job demanded it, and sometimes moments like this could bring it. He had never mastered the professional detachment that made some in his line of work seem cold. Though he liked to think of himself as a tough guy, his mom liked to remind him that he was too sweet to be a cop. Mothers, he thought, shaking his head. Shorter than average and slight of build, Ping wasnt an imposing figure. Kind eyes and a thoughtful manner didnt add to his intimidation factor. Though he excelled at most aspects of his job, and sheer intensity could, on occasion, bring a sort of hardness to his face, hed never played a successful bad cop role in an interrogation. He winced as he thought about his last attempt- hed been the last to start laughing. His partner and the murder suspect had laughed harder though. Perhaps it was a holdover from his first career, but he was much better at putting people at ease than trying to frighten them. He had to admit that he preferred it that way. His on-the-job suit was a crisp featureless black and though clean and comfortable, it wouldnt get him any dates. His clunky black shoes looked like grandpaware, but were built for support, agility, and traction. They were the preferred footwear of beat cops, but most other detectives had moved on to more stylish shoes. His only jewelry was a platinum holo watch on his left thumb and matching titanium lock rings on his index fingers. Hidden beneath the suit he wore the tools of his trade: detectives badge in his left lapel pocket, secure tablet collapsed in a minimal holster at the small of his back, and matching 2mm issue needle guns in shoulder holsters. The lock rings on his fingers unlocked the guns when he held them, which was mostly on the shooting range these days. Finally admitting that the time for reasonable stalling was long past, he closed the car door and heard the lock tone as he stepped away. Moving around the back of the car, he saw the red-blue corona of flickering light over the guardrail at the edge of the road. A few reluctant steps brought him to the edge of the downward slope behind the rail, and to his first view of the crime scene. The police cruiser waited about forty meters away, silently spilling red and blue strobes across the damp street. It was parked near the ruins of a dark luxury car, which had apparently crashed into the wall at the edge of the highway underpass. Ping stopped and spent a few seconds examining what was left of the luxury car- though the frame looked, largely intact; the top of the car was completely gone. Twisted fingers of metal and glass jutted from the points where the roof had once been attached. Around the car, the pavement glittered with broken glass and was littered with larger debris. Maybe someone in the back seat hadnt listened to mom about playing with the pin in the family grenade. Curious, he moved nimbly down the embankment through the shin-high Otu weeds. The Otu smelled greener and fresher than plants should. They had been engineered to create oxygen and eat carbon dioxide at phenomenal rates, but he wasnt sure if the fresh smell was intended, or just a pleasant side effect. About halfway down the embankment, one of the two officers on the scene spotted Ping. The officer was huge, perhaps two meters tall and a hundred twenty kilos, with a florid face and bright red hair beneath his patrol cap. The redhead spoke quickly to his partner without taking his eyes off of the new arrival. Ping was acutely aware that the officer was probably wondering what an Asian kid in a suit was doing skipping down from the freeway at this time of night. This gave him a nearly imperceptible flash of annoyance, followed by a much larger sense of amusement. He looked far younger than his thirty-nine years, and he loved to whip out the badge for officers he didnt know. Without slowing down, he fished the badge out of his lapel pocket. As he approached the edge of the sidewalk, still about ten meters away from the police tape that enclosed the crime scene, he noticed the redheads hand on his weapon. Ping couldnt tell from this distance if the holster was still locked to the weapon, but from the cops body language, he guessed not in fact the guy seemed tense enough to draw on him with little or no provocation. The other cop was also giving Ping his full attention from a position just behind the patrol car. Ping couldnt see his hands, but he could read his face- these guys were spooked and ready to get decisive about resolving their fear. Not a good sign. Ping muttered, putting on his smile. He crossed the street and approached the redhead at an easy pace. Lieutenant Bannon, homicide. Whatve we got here? he said smoothly, attaching his badge to his jackets exterior pocket. The officers apprehension didnt dissipate immediately. Instead of the embarrassed relief Ping expected, the redhead raised his tablet and entered a few commands. The cop continued his hard appraisal of Ping until the tablet chirped, verifying his credentials. Then the officers face softened into a mix of poorly concealed relief and more than a little professional embarrassment. Though the big cops delayed reaction was both expected and somewhat satisfying, Ping could tell that this guy was not used to letting his game face slip, certainly not to reveal fear. The cops game face now portrayed amusement: Bannon eh? And a solid Irish cop too. As a social ritual, Ping had always been intrigued by the relationship between fear and banter. I prefer the term Chirish American. he said affably. Whyd you drop the O Mr. OBannon? The officer continued with an easy, likable smile crossing his weathered face. Yknow, ya cant hide the Irish its written all over your face. Ping had heard all this before. Though he looked entirely Chinese, he was one quarter Irish. His Irish granddad had met grandma in Hong Kong while attending school. The school had grown into a way of life for him and hed stayed. Dad met mom at another school in Beijing. Ping had heard all the Irish cop jokes. My parents Americanized the name when we immigrated from China didnt want to sound too ethnic, I guess. he said with his most serious face. The officers smile widened, Sergeant Malloy OFlannahan at your service Youre kidding. The sergeant raised an eyebrow and hooked a thumb at his nametag. Still smiling, he turned toward the destroyed car. Come on, lets get the unpleasant part over with and we can get back to discussin the green isle of our heritage. Ping followed. Is that music? The sergeant nodded without turning. They moved closer and the rhythms of Bob Marley began to shift and flow around them through the cool night air. You like reggae, Detective Bannon? I prefer the modern stuff better produced. Uh-huh. What weve got here are two extremely dead bodies in the car, eight to twelve more on the street under the bridge, and Eight to twelve? How many potatoes go into a bowl of stew? Ping was still chewing on that when he saw the first potato. It was part of an arm, lying at the end of a bloody radius that emanated from the car. It looked as if it had been burnt black. Suppressing a What the, he bent to examine it. He noticed that the arm looked more than burnt; it was the color of a deep pond on a moonless midnight- shiny and wet. When he was fifteen, hed gone to camp with his brother somewhere in Virginia. After theyd gone canoeing, the camp counselors had surprised them by checking their feet for leaches. The real shock was the black, oily flesh they discovered between Pings toes. The counselor had used a smoldering punk to burn the leech off. It didnt hurt, but it was unbearably gross to his 15-year-old mind: sharing a bloodstream with that thing . Now, 24 years later he stared down at the same oily flesh in the shape of an arm. What the Yep, said Malloy, interrupting from above. Come on. The funs just begun. As Ping stood to follow, he couldnt completely shake free of his walk down memory lane. He found himself thinking about how the world had shivered and lost focus as all his thought compressed to the glistening dark spot between his toes. Hed woken later to the teasing laughter of his brother. You okay kid? the camp counselor had asked through the fog of returning reality. Malloy was staring expectantly at him. You okay? he repeated. Sorry. Just thinking. Malloy gave him a resolute nod Weve done a lot of that, too. All the bodies like that? Ping asked, glancing back over his shoulder. No two alike. Any ID? We havent touched anything, Malloy checked his tablet, forensics should be here in fifteen. The other officer joined them as they reached the front of the destroyed car. He was an efficient looking black man in his twenties. An ugly pale scar crawled from the bottom of his left ear to his collarbone- Ping wondered how hed survived whatever had caused that, and why he hadnt had the scar removed. The patrolmans arms were so corded with muscles that he looked like he could crush the black maglite he held. Black points and curves mostly hidden by collar and short sleeves suggested a hidden mosaic of tattoo beneath his shirt. Rodriguez was on his nametag. Like his partner, he didnt look like he was used to being afraid. He glanced at Pings badge and gave a nod of recognition. Welcome to the twilight zone, he said with a tight grin. I hear its a dimension of mind, Ping said, glancing at the strings of interlacing automatic weapon craters in the concrete wall behind the car. Bob Marley continued to wail from the damaged cars powerful speakers. The music seemed to resonate in every molecule of the chilled night air. It filled any pause in the conversation, slid around each word. Lets get together and feel all right. You notice this? Rodriguez used the maglite to illuminate a spot on the overpass above the car. What Ping could make out looked like pieces of the cars roof, mangled and fused to the infrastructure of the bridge. Dark viscous liquid dripped from several protrusions. Thats not He stopped as he made out the shape of a twisted leg protruding from the wreckage above him. Its black shoe was untouched by the destruction. They moved through the minefield of physical evidence, skirting piles of biology and destroyed metal. At last, they reached the car, approaching the drivers door from the front. The roof had been blown off from the back, but about ten centimeters of damaged metal clung to the windshields upper frame. The windshield was spider-webbed with cracks, most of which emanated from the roughly horizontal cigar shaped hole directly in front of the driver. Jagged shards at the bottom of the frame were all that remained of the cars side and rear windows. At the drivers door, the interior of the car appeared for the first time. The first glance revealed two bodies: the driver and a passenger in the back seat. The driver was buckled in, but the passenger was on the floor of the back seat, mostly hidden from view. Whats wrong with this picture? Malloy asked with a sideways glance. What isnt? Ping answered, but then he noticed: This wasnt an explosion. Something blew off the top without destroying the interior of the car, Rodriguez said. There were several slashes in the seats and blood everywhere, but no burn or shrapnel damage. The passenger side airbag had deployed and now lay spent over the empty passenger seat. The drivers airbag hadnt deployed, but that was likely because the steering wheel was gone. The driver was indeed extremely dead- slumped forward and to the right in his harness, his head was mostly missing. From the pattern of tissue on the passengers door but not the deployed airbag, it appeared that he had died before the car hit the wall. In his left hand, the driver clutched the detached steering wheel. Upon closer inspection, the wheel was deformed as if it had been wrenched off. Ping blinked and shook his head, Looks like the driver died before the car hit the bridge. Malloy nodded, The shot probably came through the window. What do you make of the steering wheel? Souvenir? Rodriguez said around abbreviated breaths. The air was tinged with the smell of the butcher shop. Ping blunted his visceral reaction to the carnage by pulling his tablet from its holster and getting to work. He expanded it to notepad size and switched it out of standby. He detached the stylus and brought up a new incident report. He used the tablets three-dimensional scanners to record the contents of the car. He paused occasionally to scratch notes and diagrams, linking them with the images. Ill need a download of your raw reports. The two officers entered the necessary commands on their tablets. Pings tablet chirped twice in acknowledgment of the inbound data feeds. He would review and incorporate them into his report later. We already did the full survey, Rodriguez said. Ping nodded absently from behind the shelter of his tablet as he finished surveying the front seat and moved on to the rear. When looking from the front, he hadnt noticed the damage to the back seat- four holes in a tight configuration at about chest level- definitely bullet holes. They were probably fired from outside the drivers door, from about where he was now standing. On a hunch Ping turned around and looked down. He stood at one end of another bloody skid mark radiating away from the car. At the far end was what might have once been a body- so much for the shooter. He snapped some images and turned his attention to the cars second occupant. Not much to see there; at least not much to want to see. Patterns of blood on the seats implied that the victim had probably been standing when he was killed, but whoever had done it had stopped to make very, very sure that he was dead. Ping gritted his teeth and documented. He hoped that he would never get used to stuff like this. When his tablet contained all the information he could get about the car, he turned toward the bullet-pocked wall. He was documenting the placement of the shots when Malloy spoke. We got here bout twenty minutes ago. Traffic dispatched us to check out the intersections Big Brother. It went offline about an hour before and wouldnt respond to remote diagnostics. Ping nodded, Just coincidence, Im sure. Yeah Someone didnt want to show up in the background of a traffic violation video. The Bro took a round powerful enough to scrap it. Youll find a link to its logs and a scan of the scrap in the feed I gave you. Witnesses? Ping asked, knowing the answer. Malloy bit his lip, shook his head. We saw something Rodriguez said, eyes lingering on the cars interior, something fast. Ping looked up from his work, giving Rodriguez his full attention; he left the question unasked. After a pause, Rodriguez continued, I didnt get a good look Just a good scare, hey? Malloy interrupted, looking amused, his game face nearly impenetrable. With an effort, Rodriguez looked away from the car and faced his partner. You know, your terror squeak was quite distracting. His game face was back too. I got a touch of the asthma, Junior! Malloy came back. Children Ping eased into the friendly sparring with the patient-but-firm voice hed perfected while counseling troubled families. His gaze settled on Rodriguez. Yeah well, wed found the bodies there, Rodriguez said, pointing to a ragged crater in the concrete behind the patrol car. Mortar round? Ping said, staring at the raised lip around the destroyed concrete. Rodriguez shrugged, but his eyes better conveyed the extent of his confusion. Not unless the mortar fired people, Malloy said, shaking his head. Ping was about to ask him what he meant, but Rodriguez continued, So we were already concerned, you know? I had the flashlight and pistol out- sort of easing up on the back of the car. Then theres this sound and like a blur of motion, and something explodes out from behind the car. Explodes? Ping stopped scribbling on his tablet in mid-note, What exploded? Not like boom, Malloy said, but moving like itd been shot out of a cannon It really freaked him out. He pointed to the overpass, Rod here took a shot at it- see the hole way up there in the bridge? What freaked me out was that asthma of yours. Rodriguez said as if re-explaining a math problem to an eight-year-old, I thought maybe you were dyin. You sure that wasnt the terror squeak? Asthma. Malloy droned. Terror squeak. Rodriguezs smile broadened. So this guy flew up to the bridge? Ping asked, unimpressed. Nah, Malloy smirked, he went off south. Rod here just shot up. Rodriguez shook his head, It was between the car and the wall. It bolted out just as I looked down into the car. Im seeing all this blood, and theres this blast of sound like a flag in high wind, and I see something jet out from behind the car, out of the corner of my eye. I bring my gun up quick, but then theres this really unsettling asthma coming from the chief here, he gave Malloy a mischievous glance, Anyway, I lost my footing on some kind of stuff I really dont want to think about and the bridge gets whats coming to it. Malloy gave a knowing nod. You keep saying it and something, Ping said, do you mean he or she? All I saw was a blur. Rodriguez shook his head. I just saw a blink, Malloy said, dark and fast. It coulda been a man Except men dont move like that. Rodriguez finished. Untouched, Unknown The storm was coming. Face turned down against the light rain, Anne plodded homeward under a black canopy of lowering clouds. The tops of the surrounding buildings were already lost in the lowering sky and light showers had darkened the pavement. Natures latest prank at Annes expense was all set up and it was almost time for the big, wet punch line. When she woke late in the afternoon, the day had been cool and bright, but deep clouds had moved in with the night. By the time she arrived at work, the sky was filled with the promise of rain. Now, walking home in the fulfillment of that promise, Anne trudged through the thousand small aches that any exertion cost her. Her blue sweater, though perfect for the early evening chill, was completely ineffective against the early morning rain. Socks wet, feet itching, she felt just a little sorry for herself. Usually she tried to be positive, but sometimes the funk crept in and ruined her day. Normally she didnt waste a lot of time focusing on her long-term issues: like being single at thirty-nine, like having a face only a mother could love- not her mother, but maybe someone elses mother- like tipping the scales at two hundred forty pounds with her lungs full of helium. Thank heaven for metrics! A hundred and ten kilos sounded positively slim compared to her imperial weight. Ok, so maybe she thought about the big issues a bit, but right now her most pressing problems were the five blocks between her and the train station, and the sky full of water above her. On the bright side, she didnt have to worry about the rain smearing her makeup- she just didnt wear the stuff. One time in college shed made an abortive try, but the sight of her round face staring back at her from the mirror with the first hint of blush inexpertly applied made her feel like an inexpertly polished turd. Makeup and designer clothes were for some jet set, days-of-wine-and-roses, dating, frolicking-in-front-of-the-cameras subphylum of humanity to which she did not belong. Hospital scrubs and a clean face- this was her lot in life. She grinned, part humor, part exasperation. She was big enough to admit her life sucked, but tonight had been something truly special. It had started out as usual with an over-snoozed alarm. Shed missed her train and been late to work, but the most unpleasant part of the commute was the grizzled eastern European cabby that had hurled a stream of poorly assembled insults at her for crossing the street legally in his presence. The part that stuck with her was something like, box be on your family- box? Shed probably be dreaming about the box tonight. She rolled her eyes and let the smile spread across her face as she considered the hundred small frustrations in the workday of a professional vampire. Seriously, she couldnt see how Count Chocula had done it all these years without getting fed up and taking a stroll in the sun- that cartoon bloodsucker had the heart of a champion. Despite her most bubbly bedside manner, every patient at the hospital was not happy to see Anne and her little tray of needles and tubes. She had it worse than most phlebotomists since she worked the graveyard shift. No one liked to be in the hospital, no one liked to have blood drawn, but it really got personal when they had to wake up for their bloodletting. Then there was her main occupational hazard: the plague of Harms that started showing up around eleven every night. The ER got between five and ten a night. They were restrained by the time they reached the hospital, but their incoherent verbal assault was always a treat. Eyes dilated before an incomprehensible hallucinoscape, they shrieked and cursed and wept. They were unpredictable, moving from pathetic sobs to merciless violence seamlessly. The police and paramedics who brought them in required first aid as often as not. The ironic part was that Harmony was sold as a mood-elevator with mild hallucinogenic effects. It was the first and most effective connectivity drug on the illicit market. Though there was still debate on the subject, the prevailing wisdom was that connectivity drugs affected the areas of the brain that governed empathy and the sense of community. Many starry-eyed psychedelic types believed Harmony was the first scientific step toward telepathy, but Anne knew that speech, writing, and television had already blazed the pre-telepathy trail. Harmony had been hot among the party crowd for maybe a decade now, gaining wide popularity with the post-psychedelic subculture. The psychotic incidents hadnt started until a few months ago in New York, but within three weeks, Harms had made their Chicago debut. In another two weeks, there were Harms in every major city in the world. Anne understood the desire to escape, to feel like you belonged in a group of strangers, but she was completely mystified why anyone would continue to take a drug once it started leaving people in a state that came in second only to demonic possession in the creepy Olympics. From the number of Harms she saw at the hospital, she didnt need to see any disturbing statistics to know Harmony was a serious problem. Drawing the blood of these nuts was the most unsettling part of her job. She usually got to wait until they were sedated, but even pumped full of sedatives powerful enough to tranquilize a carload of game show hosts, a Harm might still wake up cranky. A properly motivated Harm could even break the unbreakable plastic cuffs cops used. A month ago, the hospital had received new restraints just for the Harms, but she still didnt feel safe. The crown jewel in her work night came at three this morning. Shed been relieved to take a break from the ER and its swarm of Harms to draw blood from a slightly disoriented 84-year-old inpatient on anticoagulants. Carol was the archetypal granny: thin and fragile, with an easy disposition and plenty of stories of kids and grandkids. When Anne woke her up, she had been sweet, You just do whatever you need, Dearie. As Anne applied the tourniquet and sterilized Carols arm, theyd had a pleasant conversation about Carols grandkids. As Anne prepared the needle, she was smiling and laughing. She never saw it coming. When the needle went into Carols arm, she made a small surprised sound. Annes next clue that something was amiss was the clutch purse that smashed into the top of her head. The old hag was screaming incoherently and repeatedly bludgeoning Anne cross-body with the purse. Anne got the blood sample, but it cost her both bruises and pride. Expect the unexpected - this should be the phlebotomists credo. It made her want to start a support group for the vocationally unloved. She could picture it now: listening supportively in the company of depressed IRS agents and dentists. Hi, Im Anne, and people hate my job, she mumbled as she trudged through the threatening sprinkle of rain. Humor had always been her shield. When things got tough, shed go for the cheap laughs. She was starting to feel better when the rain came down like a tidal wave. Aw crapola. was all the disappointment she could muster before the uncontrollable laughter started. She was still splashing and waddling, laughing and crying when she noticed the music- first like the tinkle of an elaborate crystal wind chime, but getting louder with the urgency of an approaching freight train. She didnt have time to process this information before the world exploded. Her startled scream came out in a rather embarrassing squeak when the car parked to her left had a Wile E. Coyote moment. It seemed as if an anvil had dropped from some hidden mesa high above. The cars roof crumpled and the windows closest to Anne exploded outwards. A storm of broken glass showered down from above, exploding on the ground around her, tugging at her left arm and back, stinging her right cheek. Not an anvil! Her mind locked, hitched, locked- stuttered between knowledge and denial. The body rebounded sideways off the car and continued its impact on the sidewalk with a horrifying prolonged bursting sound. It seemed as if the impact went on and on as time lengthened, or perhaps replayed, with the onset of shock. Then the body was a lifeless rag-doll on the sidewalk before her, shattered legs twisted at impossible angles, face partially covered by one arm. Numb, she stared for a few seconds before becoming aware that she was standing on one foot with her arms crossed above her head, hands on elbows. The arm-head-cover she got, but what was the one-leg-stand for? She would never understand her reflexes. She was a Darwinian counterexample of the first order- but then she wouldnt be reproducing anytime soon, so maybe not exactly a counterexample. Weeded out of the gene pool, or maybe She died that we all might have better children, would mark her tombstone someday. She put her foot down and rushed forward with a hopeless desire to help. She knelt and actually said, Are you okay? Yeah, she was sure he was probably fine! A quick glance above showed her buildings with more stories of unblemished glass than she could count, ascending up into the clouds high above. No. she mumbled, realizing this wasnt a worker fallen from a ladder or a low balcony. She knew that she shouldnt move the body, so she sat helpless, her strained mind completely oblivious to her tablet and its emergency links. After a few more seconds, she looked about for help- nothing. The rain was her only companion on the dark street. The sound of it was static in her ears; its caress was a wet, tingling static on her skin; the sight of it was gray static in her eyes. The world was a fuzzy place getting darker and slower. From the corner of her eye, she noticed something dark and serpentine slithering on the ground around her. She looked down and saw dark tendrils washing around her hands and knees- blood! She tore her right hand out of a puddle of bloody water and watched in horror as the falling rain did its best to rinse it clean. Her eyes lost focus on her red-tinged hand as she noticed that, behind it, the dead mans arm had fallen aside, exposing his face. Her first impression was of a child, broken and lost. Fringed by short dark hair, his face was round and gentle. His closed eyes were small and narrowly spaced. The bridge of the nose was broad and slipped down into a small round nose. The upper lip was pronounced and looked even more so because the mouth hung slack. The chin and jaw were delicate. Her throat constricted with pity. She didnt know this poor guy, but she could tell hed been kind. She knew he didnt deserve to die like this. She reached out her hand to touch his shoulder, muttering inane apologies. The rains static drone crackled all around, setting them apart from the rest of the world. They were together on the only remaining channel of a damaged television satellite floating through empty space. The blood continued to pool, continued to dissipate, she touched his cheek, her tears lost in the rain. His eyes opened. Unformed, powerful emotion covered her skin like a shorting electric blanket and every hair seemed to strain away from her skin. Her mouth dropped open as his closed. His eyes were incredibly blue; they held her like gentle hands, shutting out everything else, no more blood, no more rain- no more reason. This was not real. His lips stirred. Woohoo. he gurgled from partially collapsed lungs. Not real. What? she sputtered as he struggled for breath. Its going to be all right. Dont move. She stammered. Help is on the realizing her oversight, she clawed in her pockets for her tablet. No. Got to tell he whispered, quieter than before. As his mind reasserted control over his face, the softness became less obvious. Though the innocence didnt disappear, it was surrounded by strength. Even broken, he was beautiful. Something stirred within her. It was built on pity, formed of hope, but she wasnt sure at all what it was. Mesmerized, she leaned closer, straining to hear him above the sizzle of the rain. Sorry sorry, he said so softly she craned closer to hear. His eyes never left hers. As she drew close to his face, it occurred to her that he was actually going to kiss her. Of course, this was nuts- she wasnt the kind of girl that dying folks kissed impulsively. With an effort, she turned her face from him and brought her ear close to his mouth. Sorry. his lip touched her ear causing the most unexpected shock. With a gasp, she realized that his left arm was over her shoulder, across her back, and holding her close with surprising strength. No thoughts came through her confusion until she felt his lips on her neck, and even then they werent really thoughts: shock, fear of moving, distaste at being joined to someone so horribly hurt- but the weirdest and most prevalent feeling was the most embarrassing kind of excitement. Uhhh? she got out before the pain blew through her. It shot from her neck inward to the center of her chest, where it seemed to ricochet around unchecked. Her throat closed, allowing no air or sound passage. Hot oily lightning filled her, deep-frying nerves, knotting every muscle. The inner lightning pulsed, its rhythm filling every cell, blossoming and fading with her hearts beating. It slipped and pulsed like blood through her, synchronizing with the pulsing sparks that filled her vision, with the muted gong that filled her ears. Her legs kicked out, but his arm held her tight, leaving her prostrate on top of him. The muscles around her lungs overcame the muscles around her throat and the air groaned out of her. Through the sparkling haze, she could now see her face reflected in a pool of watery blood behind his shoulder. She wondered what percentage of the blood was hers as she examined her contorted reflection. She hoped she didnt still look like this when the coroner arrived or hed guess death by constipation for sure. The fog thickened behind her reflected image. Burning and fading, she seemed to slip away from him, from the pain, from herself. She drifted through thickening white fog until she was at last alone. Thunderstruck and hazy, she stood in white mists, rubbing her neck absently, and wondering if Angels or Devils were next. She grinned, thinking it funny that twice in one day her carelessness had opened her to the cruel klonk of lifes clutch purse. Hi! a cheerful voice sounded behind her, startling her so badly she was glad her ghost didnt have a bladder. The mists seemed to quiver in response to the voice. She jumped and spun around. Where was she anyway? Against an unbroken backdrop of brightness, he stood smiling. Not hurt, not helpless, not weak- not innocent. He shrugged, I did say I was sorry, right? He gave a self-conscious chuckle with an apologetic smile and a twinkle in his eye. And then he started talking. She saw his hands gesturing for her patience, saw the urgent look in his eyes- but mostly she saw his lips move. She could hear the buzz of his words, but she wouldnt understand. She wasnt listening because she was too busy watching the teeth behind his moving lips. They were fierce, sharp, and curved like sharks teeth. They were red with her blood. She turned to run, but the foggy brightness went black. Rules of Evidence The team of two forensic techs had arrived about twenty minutes ago in a van packed with impressive looking equipment. Another uniformed patrol team had arrived while the techs were still unpacking. The forensics guys poured over the car with their equipment while Ping went over the general area of the car, scanning and scratching notes. Malloy and Rodriguez had joined the other two uniforms in broadening the search/scan to the surrounding area. Finally, one of the techs at the car waved Ping over. As Ping approached him, the tech held up a pair of clear plastic evidence bags the size of dinner plates. Were done with the car- touch what you like. The tech held out the first bag. Its been through the scanner, so its all yours. The tech continued, His Uni says the guy in the front was Peter Sieberg, field tests agree, but I wont have a DNA match until the judge signs off on the test. Ping took the bag and gave the contents a quick glance: the smallest piece of equipment was the card-sized flexible plastic Universal ID. The Uni was nestled against a sleek looking glasses case or flashlight and a tablet. These objects were surrounded by some simple jewelry. Who was the passenger? Ping asked, glancing at the other bag. The tech handed it over, Dr. Ivo Lutine professor over at Rosemont. Professor of what? Ping looked up from his examination of the professors personal effects. Yeah, I know, the tech said leaning in slightly, I was expecting some kind of foreign dictator or organized crime boss with a hit like this. What makes you think it was a hit? Ping asked with a perfectly straight face. Oh, you mean like the high velocity shell through the drivers ear, or the fourteen holes and two slashes in the professor there? And Ive got three things to say about those slashes He held up his hand and counted off on three fingers, whatthehell? He waved the three extended fingers for emphasis as he continued. From cross sections, we know the weapons blade was at least twenty-five centimeters long, but my guess is it was probably closer to a meter. And sharp! It sliced the bones didnt crack them- actually left them smooth. One of those hacks cut through the clavicle, the scapula, four ribs in back, five in front and bisected the heart! So you think were looking for ninja hit men? Ping held desperately to his straight face- he thought it was still working. Ninja hit The tech broke off, exasperated, At this point I cant rule out psychotic cartoons, imaginary friends, or little green men. Am I not impressing you with this stuff? Yep, the straight face had held. Ping let it go and laughed, Sorry, its just been a very impressive day. Now that I understand. The tech turned back toward his partner. One more thing. Ping called after him. Yeah? the tech said over his shoulder. Whats the likely origin on the shot that hit the driver? That ones hard. He was definitely hit while the car was still moving, but I cant be sure where the car was, so I cant trace the shot back- not until we finish the area scan anyway. My best guess says youve got the uniforms looking in the right area. Thanks. he turned away to check on the uniformed officers progress. Half an hour later, Ping climbed the hill and approached his car. Hed left the forensics team to finish their tedious work- now he had his own tedious work to do. His tablet was full of data to slog through. He had the raw reports from Malloy and Rodriguez, as well as the area scans. Then there was his raw report, and the data held in the tablets of the victims. None of the bodies outside the car had a Uni or other easily recognizable equipment, though it would take the lab some time to assemble the list of their possessions from the remaining bits of metal, ceramic and plastic mixed in with all the meat. Without a working Uni or DNA tests, the bodies would not be identifiable. He had the forensics teams incident key, which he used to program his tablet to notify him when the test results became available. He swiped his finger over the lock plate on the drivers side door and heard the click as the lock disengaged. He pulled the door open and dropped into the seat. He closed the door and was dropped like a smooth stone into a pool of absolute silence. Outside, the nighttime city hadnt been noisy, even with the nearby hiss of highways traffic, but the difference between that quiet and the cars insulated silence was still striking. He paused to let it soak into him. As the seconds passed, new sounds emerged from the quiet: first his regular and slowing breathing, then the calm beating of his heart. Of all the things that Ping had learned from his father, by far the most frequently used was effective meditation. He leaned forward, reached behind him and unholstered his tablet. He extended it to full size and propped it against the steering wheel. Where to start? Sometimes there were too many questions to approach systematically. He had poked at mysteries long enough to know that it mattered where he started poking. Each line of inquiry had its own set of built-in assumptions that could color the investigation. At times like this, he liked to start purely from inspiration- let fate, chance, intuition, or God guide his first steps. If evidence (or further inspiration) led him in another direction later, it would be easier to let go of his initial assumptions since he hadnt invested heavily in them. Eyes closed, he let his mind wander back through his experiences at the underpass, hoping something would jump out at him. He saw the Otu weeds, Malloys strained face, the leech-flesh arm, blood and glass. He remembered scanning into the bridge wall to get holos of the shells buried inside, the plastic bags filled with the victims possessions, almost going down when he slipped on a small patch of eviscerata near the car- not a proud moment. Concentration broken by the memory of his brush with blood and gravity, he resolved to start with the victims personal effects. He grabbed his tablets stylus and brought the machine out of standby. With a few taps, he forged the data-link to the professors tablet that still lay in the unopened evidence bag on the passenger seat. The data in its solid-state drive was encrypted of course. Hed have to request a warrant key from a judge to gain access. He quickly opened the roster of on-duty judges and winced as he saw Hatch, Jenna highlighted. Jenna the hatchet Hatch had an unhealthy love of her own voice, and a general intolerance for the voice of others. A call to her yielded a warrant sometimes, but without fail, it yielded a little soapbox speech on something she termed freedom to privacy- like no one else understood the delicate balance between the public and private good. Sheesh. He steeled himself for the patronizing he was about to take and touched the messaging link with his stylus. Nearly a minute passed and he became impatient. He opened the tablets calculator and started to enter numbers with the stylus: 5 + 5, 10 + 10 after another 15 seconds, a window opened on his screen bearing the Hatchets sleep-puffy countenance. She didnt say a word, preferring to stare at him, radiating sleepy annoyance. He could play this game. He continued to poke away at the calculator with a gravely determined look on his face. He was working on multiplying the powers of ten now. Fifteen more seconds passed twenty. Ping had plenty of numbers left. What is it, detective? she finally gave up. Victory! Oh! Hi! Ping said with real enthusiasm. Counter-annoyance was a blast. I didnt hear you pick up! I was just preparing a report on a particularly grim case. She grunted. He continued, Ive got ten to thirteen corpses and only two working tablets between the lot of them Ten to thirteen? the judge interrupted. How many potatoes in a bowl of stew? Ping asked with a conspiratorial look. What does that mean, detective? Her voice was a drone encumbered with scorn. Lots of pieces. Not sure how many they add up to yet- forensics will be able to give a more accurate number after DNA-typing the remains. I need warrant keys for the two tablets so I can continue And you think these tablets owners are dead? I wouldnt want to inadvertently violate his or her freedom to Definitely. he attempted to knock her from the soapbox before she got settled in. Are you really so sure? she looked more annoyed. She was quicker in her next attempt. Without evidence of death or compelling public interest, I cant authorize such an invasion of their fundamental freedom to privacy there it was. I mean, you dont even have a clear account of whos dead yet. Sure we do all of them. He attached a photo of the corpse in the back seat to the outbound data stream and saw her flinch. He used his stylus to indicate the area of the corpse where the tablet was found. It was here. He said, tapping on the image and transmitting the marker. The judges eyes moved to her tablet with its replica of the image and annotations, then retreated back toward the camera. What if its not his tablet? she said, voice weary. He pretended to think about that carefully while he reinforced his outer appearance of calm helpfulness. Pretending to carefully check, as if he hadnt already, he tried multiplying a few numbers on the calculator application. Hmm The tablets registry says the owner is a Dr. Ivo Lutine. The Uni found on the body was Dr. Lutines dramatic pause while he multiplied some more numbers, then he put on a face of excited discovery. Yep, the Unis vascular scan matches the hand on the seat over there- , he touched the image again, indicating a spot on the seat maybe 40 centimeters from the rest of the body. it was Dr. Lutines! And since the hand looks like it fits on the arm over here He cut an image of the arm and used his stylus to try to fit it together with the picture of the hand, sharing the process through the link. And now you need a warrant key. She interrupted, as satisfied as the petulant ever get. Ping nodded. I think time is of the essence here. And why is that? she said in the attitude of infinite patience. Weve got a cross between a mob hit, a military operation, and ritual killing, he said in the attitude of infinite helpfulness. Two risks: these guys are crazy enough to strike again quickly, or they are professional enough to vanish into the ether. Either way, we need to move quickly. And the warrant key is crucial to this quick movement? She said with a thoughtful finger on her chin. One, two, three, four, slow inhale, five, six, seven, keep smiling, eight, nine, ten. Exhale and Yes, absolutely crucial. She paused again. He thought it was more an assertion of conversational control than time for her to weigh facts. Finally, she spoke. Okay, Ill authorize one key for Mr. Lushions tablet Two keys, Judge. he cut in ever so reasonably- he would definitely need to hit the gym for a good long while before he would be able to sleep tonight. Weve got two bodies in the same car. He attached an image of the drivers remains to the data stream. Again, her eyes flinched away from her tablet. He continued, This was Mr. Peter Sieberg. There is the same tablet-Universal ID-vascular scan-corpse chain of identification evidence. I think its safe to say that the tablets owner is dead. Ill be the judge of that. She snapped. Wow. It was like trying to tread water in a pool of stupid. Stupid, of course, has the consistency of hot tar. This wasnt a Labrea tar-pit kind of naturally occurring stupid either, this was a swimming pool of smoking hot stupid purposefully created to service the swimming needs of the judges ego. Maybe he could try another tactic. Oh, hold on! I forgot to mention these guys- he said in mock inspiration as he sent high-resolution images of the piles and pieces of the other bodies over the connection. At least we dont need any warrant keys for these folks- if they had tablets, we werent able to tell which pieces might have come from them. He continued in the attitude of someone excited by the challenges of his work: I mean, even if we could find all the pieces and get them together, the blood and otherfluids would be enough to mess up the electronics. Here, look at this one, he marked a nearly indistinguishable piece of smooth metal protruding from an unidentifiable piece of ravaged flesh, what do you think that stain on the metal is? My guess is gastro-intestinal, but the forensics guy, well he was pretty sure Two warrant keys for Mr. Lootan and Mr. Sieger. She said with a drawn face and eyes that never approached her tablets screen. Ping sent the globally unique IDs of the two tablets over the connection, and seconds later, received the two warrant keys tuned for them. Thanks again judge Hatch! Ping said to the broken connection. Union Deep, hazy waters seemed to surround Anne and the child in her arms. At some level she knew this wasnt exactly real- probably because the cute little guy she clung to so desperately had told her no less than ten times that she was dreaming- but somehow that didnt make the situation any less tragic in her mind. The little boy was perhaps eight years old, his legs were somehow malformed and she remembered seeing him with crutches earlier. He looked up at her though cracked coke-bottle glasses with intensity and intelligence that was beyond his years and should have been beyond his ability. Despite her best efforts, he was slipping away from her. Let go! he shouted again, still clinging to her waist, Youve got to wake up and get away! His voice was urgent, but his grip on her was desperate. They hung in a dark void, clinging to each other as the depths tugged at him and the shimmering light above beckoned to her. You arent listening to me! he shouted, exasperated. But she could see the darkness below and she wasnt letting go. Somehow, if she could hold on long enough, they might both reach the surface together. If she could just hold on, she could save him- she could make a difference. The unfamiliar warmth of purpose tugged at her heart and tightened her grip. Neither are you! she yelled back, already reflecting on her confusing retort. Right! he laughed, Well, I guess its time. Then, with a smile twisted by the war between courage and fear, he let go. No! she shrieked as his small body slipped from her embrace. His fall was slower than shed expected, as if through thick water. A few meters away, he shouted again, Run, Anne! Run! Despite his frail body, his voice held a deep power. It was the pressure of deep water, pressing inward, forcing her upward like a bubble. Dont go! she shouted, feeling the emptiness around them both. Lower, slower- almost out of sight, the boy noticed something below and turned to look. When he turned back to her, his face was alive with excitement. His crutches were nowhere to be seen now and hed lost the thick glasses. He looked somehow bigger, stronger, older- more familiar. He cupped his hands and shouted to her, but she could only hear the sound of rushing water. He gestured with enthusiasm toward something in the darkness beneath him. Then a strange inversion happened. Her perspective shifted and he was ascending as she fell upside down toward an uncertain end. The darkness he approached was now the bright morning sky; the murk that engulfed him became a bright enfolding haze. The light of the surface that Anne approached was now harsh, like a distant shiver of lightning and fire. As the boy moved further into the light, she thought she glimpsed two men in white clothes reaching out to embrace him. Then all she saw was the blackness around her as she broke through the surface and into the rain. Dont go. She croaked, aloud this time, mouth full of rainwater. She lifted her head and opened her eyes onto a scene that cemented her grim memories. Reflections of her bloodshot eyes and puffy face filled her vision. Her image rippled as raindrops disturbed the dirty puddle. Her head was the first part of her body to register with her complaints department. Behind that splitting pain was a long line of other aches and agonies jostling for their turn. They washed over and through her wet blackness. Her eyes opened again and were reflected back pink tinged and dark in the rain-rippled water. What was she lying on? Memory paralyzed her. Fear took her away. Run! Like a carelessly encountered landmine, the force of the word blew her up and out of the blackness. Her eyes snapped open, cramping and unresponsive arms pushed her up. Terror filled her mind, stars filled her head- and he again filled her vision. Not strong him- broken him. Not deadly him- innocent him, dead him. As she levered herself onto her hands, his arm fell slack from behind her neck and landed with a wet slap on the sidewalk. She knew he was dead. His face held none of the conviction, strength or intelligence that were so evident before. Run! Her vision shimmered with the resonance of the word, her bones vibrated with it. Terror was cold black milk filling her heart, chilling her toward inaction, but she knew that inaction would be death for her, though she couldnt remember why. She attempted to surge to her feet, but ended up going over backwards surging to her butt instead, hands slapping heavily on the wet pavement. Desperate, she scrabbled away backwards on hands and feet. He didnt move: legs still twisted, mouth again slack, lifeless eyes half-lidded. The rain was lighter now, but it had removed much of the blood from his skin, leaving a red-black dissolute bloom on the pavement around the corpse. The glass that littered the ground cut into her palms, but fear wouldnt let her stop her desperate flight. At last her shaky right arm gave way and she fell on her back. Her neck flared with pain and her head connected with the pavement. Her vision narrowed as if she was looking through a short, dark tunnel. Half conscious, she blinked up into the sprinkle of falling rain. The pain was exquisite, but one thought forced it aside: She couldnt see him . She knew he was dead, but she had known that once before. She imagined his eyes opening again, a wicked smile stretching over curved teeth, limbs like bags of shattered bones reaching for her. She saw innocent eyes, soft and apologetic. Run! The voice seemed to come from deep beneath her, rumbling into her bones through the ground. The voice was a chorus of two speakers: young and old, sweet and hard, tender and terrible, imploring and imperative. Before she could regain the air knocked out of her by her short fall, she was over on her stomach and pushing up. And there it was, right before her, sticking out of the cracked sidewalk like a severe steel flower. Though it was immediately clear what it was, she spent a few seconds staring as her mind refused to accept this, the evenings newest impossibility. It was a sword, buried nearly to the hilt in the sidewalk. The hilt was a marvel of ergonomic curves that seemed to beg for her hand, the crossbar was angled slightly forward; its ends seeming to reach for the ground. The small section of exposed blade shimmered, even in the darkness of the stormy street. Even in the chaos of her fear, this implement of death spoke an odd peace to her. Staring into its elegance, she felt her heart pulled to a place of peace and discipline, from the present darkness back into a time of light, reason and learning. It occurred to her that if she could pull it from the concrete, she might be the next king of England. Of course, the last thing she wanted to do right now was to have another strange experience. Fear reasserted itself and she pressed up from the ground. She tried to run before her legs were fully beneath her and fell painfully again; her hands, elbows, belly, then face plowing to the pavement like a foundering dirigible. Oh the humanity, she thought hazily as she mostly choked the scream of pain, which came out as a thin, pathetic sound. The rain fell on her back and splashed off the street around her as she raised herself to hands and knees and began a frantic crawl. After another two meters of desperate hand and knee damage, she pulled her knees up under her and made a successful lurch to her feet. She stumbled forward, swinging her arms stiffly to counterbalance her shifting weight. She risked a glance behind her and saw him lying there still, dead as ever- well, more dead than before- really dead? He looked small, helpless and horribly broken, but hed looked like that before. She realized that she was still making the plaintive ohhohhh sound that shed started the second time she fell. She didnt try to stop it. Instead she ran, embracing its shallow comfort, letting it elongate into sobs which too soon turned into wracking gasps of physical and emotional overexertion. She had to stop. She rumbled to a halt at the near side of an intersection. Panting, she leaned against the rough stone of a building, trying to regain her breath. When she closed her eyes, his face filled her vision and waves of vertigo crashed around. Her eyes jerked open- shed almost gone out again. Around her, phantoms of her fear filled the night air, skulking in the shadows, lingering at the edges of the lights influence. She glanced back to the fallen man to gauge her progress: shed gone a block. One stinking block? She felt like she was going to have some kind of exercise-related rupture and she had only run one block; so much for her track and field aspirations. The occasional bark of hysterical laughter mixed with her panting and sobbing. Behind her, not far from the crumpled car and the crumpled man, a door opened. Light flooded out into the street and a dark shadow fell across the sidewalk. She cut her lip on a piece of glass embedded in her palm as she pressed it over her mouth to squelch her desperate sounds. She stumbled around the corner and peered cautiously back as a well-dressed man staggered out the door. He looked normal enough, no horns or tail or flaming eyes. His clothes made Anne think of an investment banker or some other near-north-side success story. He was maybe fifty and bald with a close-cropped fringe of metallic gray hair. He carried an umbrella in his right hand, which he deployed as he stepped from the shelter of the building. His left hand was held against his body as if hed hurt the arm in a recent fall. He scanned the street, looking for something- maybe he had heard the commotion outside and came to investigate. Maybe he was looking for witnesses- maybe he was looking for her. Time to go. She withdrew behind the corner and made her best speed away. She didnt see the man approach the crumpled car. She didnt see the umbrella fall to the street as the man fell to his knees beside the corpse, heedless of the rain and broken glass. As she approached the next intersection, she looked back, terrified of pursuit. She wasnt sure, but she thought she saw a flicker of light, like a softer and more localized cousin of lightening. It came from around the corner where she had been standing. It was subtle, and on any other day she might have been able to convince herself that it was her imagination. On any other day she wouldnt have turned and ran flat out. Half a block later, distant but plain, she heard a piercing cry. A man screamed, long and desolate. She wondered if she had screamed when the dead man ripped into her neck. She definitely wanted to now. Ten minutes later she approached Union Station. She became acutely aware that she was a conspicuous mess. She always felt conspicuous- ugly, fat, the clueless hairstyle- but this was different. Not only was she gone-swimming-wet, but she had several small cuts on her face and larger ones on her hands. Her pants were ripped and bloody at the knees, but that was nothing compared to the dark blood stains that went from her neck across most of her light blue sweater. During her flight, she had considered calling the police several times. If anyone needed help, she did, but there was an unreasoning fear to deal with. Some things you just dont want to get involved with, even if you already are. To call the police would be to admit that it had happened- it would be like asking to be in on the rest of the story. She wanted out. Like always, she wanted to disappear almost as desperately as she wanted to be found. She pushed through the revolving doors and into the station. Thankfully, there werent many people in sight due to the pre-dawn hour. Before long, the station would be bustling with morning commuters. But for now there would be only a few security guards and the homeless trying to escape the rain. She pushed her way through the door. Head down, she headed directly to the washroom. She still had ten minutes before her train and she was hoping to at least partially compose herself before the ride home. Good morning! a hard voice said from near her left shoulder. She had a hard time admitting this later, but she freaked all the way out- strangled yelp, arms jerking up, stumbling a few steps away, head turned away and arms flailing to keep him off of her- all the way out. Cool out lady! Whoa! The unseen voice still sounded hard, but was tempered with something between pity and professionalism. His feet appeared in her peripheral vision as he stepped closer. Its okay, but you cant stay here if you dont have a ticket. Aw crap. She looked up from beneath her upraised arms and saw his legs, his jacket, his badge, and then finally the clean lines of his concerned face. She swallowed hard. Sorry whoo way too much coffee. She said shakily You kinda freaked me out. That was kinda? He said, somewhat relieved that he probably wouldnt have to call for backup. Sorry, its been one of those nights. Fell down twice while I was running to get out of the rain. She gave him an embarrassed smile. Both deceptive and true, she was impressed with herself. Sure. He stared at her clothes with clear doubt. Really. She said, fishing for her Uni. She finally fumbled it out, and sent him her monthly train pass and ID. He checked his tablet and nodded. Sorry to bother you then. I thought he paused. What vagrant could afford this much dessert? She made an expansive gesture bracketing her thighs. It caught him off guard and he smiled. Do you need help? He was looking at her neck, uh oh. Ive got a first aid kit in the Im fine just going to check out the cuts in the bathroom, then head home for a long bath and some serious sleep. He nodded thoughtfully before pointing a stern finger at her. Decaf. Yes sir. She hurried toward the bathroom. *** Ping sat in the silence of his car, staring at the professors decrypt-proof tablet, trying to make sense of this new development. By law all electronic data had to be decryptable. Even military and governmental computers had to yield their data to an appropriately authorized warrant key. Of course, it took a federal court or an act of congress to issue a warrant key for those systems. The encryption was nearly perfect too. Partly because the technology was nearly unbreakable, but mostly because the best defense is a good offense: attempting to crack a computers encryption was an offense that led to jail time even for minors. Warrant keys were issued carefully and infrequently, and oversight of the issuing judges was strict. Abuses of the warrant system were rare, and dealt with harshly. When a warrant key was issued, it was tuned to a specific computer. When the key was used, the decrypted data would be copied aside and the key would expire. That was how it was supposed to work. A few mob accountants might have computers with non-compliant encryption, but usually not history professors. Why would a college professor risk serious jail time just to hide his data? Not usually the kind of thing you do to protect ungraded papers or pre-publication research on the Boston Tea Party. Ping packaged a copy of Dr. Lutines decrypt-resistant data in a secure message and sent it to the FBI for cracking. He didnt have much hope of getting the data back in less than a month, if ever. Non-standard encryption was subtle, and often reactive. Even the Feds had a less than fifty percent recovery rate. He slipped the Doctors tablet back into its evidence bag and reached for the drivers tablet. As he fished in the plastic evidence bag, his hand closed on the flashlight/glasses case first. He pulled it out, mildly curious. It felt comfortable in his hand, like it had been made just for him so not a glasses case. On closer inspection, he found an activating stud in a recess near his thumb on the grip. He pressed it, but heard only a small electronic lock rejection tone. A locked flashlight? Ping turned it over in his hands. Other than the thumb stud and the comfortable grip, there was no further hint of its purpose. Maybe it was some kind of stun gun, but it didnt look like anything he had seen before. There were no electrodes on the end, nor any visible holes for projectiles. The business end of the assumed gun was smooth and featureless. On the other end, there was some kind of etched glyph. He accessed the forensic scans on the item. He cut the glyph from the scan and kicked off a global search. While the search ran, he turned his attention to the internal scan of the object. There was a small amount of solid state connected to the activating stud, but no other complexity inside the object. The scanner showed the internals of the object to be solid, with no structures or mechanisms. The solid state, though unmapped as yet, wasnt enough for much more than key recognition. The preliminary forensics tag classified the object as inert-green: useless and harmless. There were no interesting mechanics, electronics, or chemicals. The scan registered the composition of the object as the same ceramic alloy used to make most firearms, with traces of tungsten and platinum. He rummaged around in the drivers evidence bag and came away with two rings. Each ring was made of what looked like platinum, an odd choice for a lock ring, but not unheard-of. He checked the window that held the search results for the glyph- nothing. He opened another window and brought up the forensic teams detailed scan of the rings. He checked the composition: platinum. No surprise there. He checked for any surface marks. None bore any manufacturers identification marks, but each bore a small replica of the glyph that adorned the bottom of the maybe-gun. The mark was scrawled lightly and less than a millimeter in diameter. They would have been too small for him to notice if he were examining the rings physically, but the scanner saw them clearly. He slipped one of the rings on his finger, and with the end of the couldnt-be-a-stun-gun carefully pointed away, up at the roof of the car, pushed the stud- nothing but the lock-fail tone. That was expected, since the thing was basically a solid metal bar with a button. He removed the ring and tried the other, carefully aimed the not-stunner at the roof, and pressed the stud. The results were well, stunning. A long blade exploded from the formerly featureless end of the device with the ringing sound of a swiftly drawn sword. The impact of the blade with the roof drove the hilt, along with his unprepared hand, down into his groin. His breath sucked in between clenched teeth. Shock ate the pain for now, but he was left with a sickening feeling in his guts that promised plenty of regret later. Pinned to the seat by the hilt of the sword, he struggled to dislodge the sword from either the roof or his pants. Releasing only the smallest whimper, which he liked to think of more in terms of a manly groan, his fingers searched desperately for the stud on the hilt. Through the starbursts that filled his vision, hoping that another press wouldnt double the blades size, he pressed the stud again. With a small shriek of metal as the blade pulled from the roof, the blade snapped back into the hilt. Relief- then pain that doubled him over. After a few moments of manly writhing- during which he slammed his forehead into the steering wheel at least three times for distraction- he was able to regain his faculties sufficiently to drop the retractable sword onto the passenger seat. He stumbled out of the car and hobbled around in a circle for a while. After a few minutes, he was able to do so without the limp. Finally, he leaned on the cars roof and tried to collect his thoughts. Macho. If only his father could see him now. He hoped that the other officers wouldnt come up the hill looking for him. He could imagine the enjoyment that Malloy and Rodriguez would derive from his little incident. That part would definitely not go into his report. He examined the clean, four-centimeter gash in the roof of his car. He ran his finger along the smooth edges and thought about the sharp mystery weapon that had been used to hack Dr. Lutine apart. He opened the door, reached across to the passenger seat, and retrieved the collapsed sword. He checked the end again. It was still solid with no hint of how or from where the blade emerged. Back outside the car, he pointed both ends of it carefully away from his groin and pressed the stud again. With the same metallic ringing, the sword shot from the hilt. Extended, the straight double-edged blade was just less than a meter long and perhaps four centimeters wide. Two secondary blades extended out and snapped back sideways to form a crossbar of about three centimeters on each side. He turned the blade and looked at it edge-on. Its thickest point was perhaps two millimeters. The edges glittered with the nights few stars. Where have you been all my life? He said, wondering. Though his guts were still knotted, all was forgiven. He held the sword comfortably in both hands, then swung it easily through the most interesting parts of the third form for mid-range weapons. Its weight was comfortable, its mass seemed perfectly balanced. If the blade flexed at all, it wasnt evident. Perfect! He held up the blade again and examined it, attempting to discover how it folded or disassembled to fit within the hilt. He found nothing. It was a solid, inflexible segment of elegantly forged metal. He watched closely as he pressed the stud again. In a fraction of a second, the crossbar and blade retracted. It appeared that the blade simply slid back into the handle. Of course, this wasnt possible as the handle was perhaps one-fifth the size of the blade. He pocketed the sword and gingerly lowered himself back into the seat. He was careful, but it still hurt. When he finished with the wincing, he picked up his tablet, which still displayed the empty internal scan of the sword. Someone had found a way around the rules of evidence established in 2032. Since then, physical evidence was not entered in court. Forensic scans were easier to present, more detailed, and harder to fake than the actual physical objects. Generally, evidence that was not deemed illegal was never confiscated, just scanned and returned. One of his responsibilities in this investigation would have been to give these objects to the victims next of kin. Of course, now the sword would have to go to the lock-up for illegal or dangerous evidence eventually. He hoped hed have time to drop this thing by his fathers place before then. He wanted to know if Dad had heard of anything like this before and he wanted to see his face when he extended the sword for the first time. He picked up the drivers evidence bag and fished out the tablet. He used his own tablet to administer the warrant key, then copied out the data. A quick examination of the data showed that the decryption had worked. There was a sparse calendar, a few entries in the address book, two novels, and five videos. The novels were romances; filled with protagonists with long, thin fingers and creamy skin, no doubt. The movies were recent romantic comedies, with the only oldie, Blade Runner- The Directors Cut departing from that genre. On a whim, he pulled up the tablets theater and checked the logs. The other movies had been recently leased and most had been watched, but Blade Runner had been watched about once a month since the tablet had been initially configured three years ago. He checked the file histories, which showed that the film had been in the initial transfer of data from Mr. Siebergs previous tablet. So it was an old and enduring favorite. The movie obsession felt like a clue. In fact, Ping would have been a lot more suspicious if he hadnt seen Blade Runner in the last year himself. Solid film, but only the directors cut was really worth watching more than twenty or thirty times. He had first been exposed to it in an ethics class in graduate school while training for his first career as a family counselor. The movie takes place in a dark future (circa 2019 before Ping was born) where genetically engineered artificial people called Replicants are created to serve as soldiers and slaves. The story revolved around Deckard, a reluctant policeman who hunts rogue Replicants. In the movie, a ruthless band of three-year-old Replicants fought to find their creator in order to force him to give them more life than the four years written into their DNA. During the course of the investigation, Deckard falls in love with another Replicant who has been implanted with false memories and thinks shes human. The end of the directors cut was surprising in its implications. In the class, the movie had been the basis for conversations on the nature of reality, about what happens when the assumptions on which we base our lives are ripped away. For Ping, the movie had been about alienation about lost children. He couldnt help but feel for the Replicants. He smiled, remembering how at the time hed wanted to help the poor doomed Replicants. Of course, it had turned out he wasnt so good at helping anyone. Too bad she wont live. But then again, who does ? echoed from his memory of the film like an accusation. Ping wondered how many other family counselors careers had a body count. He realized just how bitter his smile had grown and did his best to pack it away- work to do. He moved on to the computers address book. ***
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