Division Zero: Lex De Mortuis (17 page)

A hovering droid the size of a shoebox came within an inch of the armored panel, the source of the jingle.

“Your food’s here.” Dorian smiled. “Good morning for the second time.”

The window went opaque black as the view-through screen powered off an instant before it motored down. A small mechanical arm waved at her and the droid’s front end opened. She took a clear plastic box of steam out of the delivery bot, tossing it back and forth between her hands to manage the heat. With a smooth mechanical droning, the inch-thick panel slid back up, flickered with static, and then once more took on the appearance of a clear window.

She popped the carton open, cradling an egg burrito.

“Well that smells a lot better than the crap you get from the Nippy-Nom. Egg? Smells a little odd.”

“Jalapeños. Got it by accident once, kinda like it now.” She took a bite. “You wanna taste it? You can hop in if you want.”

“That’s okay.”

“Right, boobs.”

He looked to the side. “So what are we doing at the National Archives?”

She wagged her head back and forth trying to finish chewing faster. “Computer finally spat out a hit on the silver circle. It tagged some of the pictographs as ancient Sumerian. There’s a philanthropist here who supposedly has experience in that sort of thing. I’m hoping to pick his brain.”

Chomp
.

“Either that’s rather tasty, or you forgot to eat dinner last night.”

“Boaf,” she muttered, through a mouthful. “Actually, I couldn’t eat; Rush got to me.”

“You’re not going to start moping about being alone and unloved again, are you?”

“No. Just upset at those two idiots for being such callous dicks about it.”

Dorian’s eyebrows went up as he nodded. “Jaded. Sometimes the ones that see too much too fast just detach from it all. It’s how they cope. I guess it makes it easier to think of them as road kill than as people.” He turned to face her. “Oh, turns out that they have been looking for that guy for quite a while now, almost two years. Killed a cop last April; over a year now.”

Kirsten set the burrito down and got to work thumbing a message out of her NetMini.

“Found something?”

“No.” She sent it and grabbed what was left of her food. “Just passing along the info to someone I think might want to know.”

After stuffing the last of her breakfast in her mouth, she stepped out into the rain and jogged up a long, steep stairway to the outer courtyard of the West City National Archives. Part museum, part records hall, the vast structure occupied about two square miles. Shimmering aqua-colored blobs of light danced in the air over the primary atrium as rain died a sizzling death upon a dome-shaped energy field. Out of the downpour, she slowed to a casual walk past several statues of historical figures from the late 2200s: Takeshi Nomura, the inventor of the first practical ion drives, followed by the team that developed faster than light systems, a diorama of cyberspace pioneers, and a mess of truly ancient ones who had something to do with pre-war history.

“So who is this philanthropist?” Dorian ceased bothering to avoid people, walking through anyone that got in his way.

A few shivered; most did not notice.

“Konstantin Dobrynin. Old money. His family’s been prominent in Europe for many generations. He emigrated from the ACC a couple of months ago, apparently had enough cash to buy his way out. Or they didn’t want him around.”

“Or he’s a spy.” Dorian shook his head. “Did he apply for residency, or is he just visiting?”

“The file didn’t say either way.”

“Hey…” A young man in a security uniform blurted as she ducked around the weapon scanner. “You can’t―”

“Is something wrong?”

He looked at her uniform, wearing a face hinting something was not quite right. Fear spread over him as he spotted the zero on her rank badge, and understanding of the black uniform crept in. He shook his head, mute.

She turned away with a scowl. “I didn’t think so.”

“Uhh,” he warbled, offering a clumsy salute. “Sorry, ma’am, the black caught me off guard, is all.”

I’m bitchy today.
Kirsten slowed, tilted her head at him. “It’s okay. I’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

Dorian cracked his wry grin. “It’s nice when they’re just terrified of the rank, not the brain, eh?”

She went through a grand concourse full of holographic reproductions of ancient artwork hanging among dusty curtains of artificial sunlight. “Why does mankind always have to isolate some group for scorn? Religion, skin tone, gender, sexual preference, psionics… why do we seem to
need
people to hate?”

“It’s 2418; except for psionics, you’re talking about ancient history. Most people don’t even remember that.” He paused to admire flecks of dust drifting through a holographic reproduction. The name Rembrandt was engraved on the emitter. “Two hundred years ago, people made a big deal about being proud to belong to a vilified group. Now it just kind of is, and no one notices. I’m not sure anyone even remembers.”

“There’re still some pockets of it.” She turned a corner, now past rows of statues. “Some of the East City gangs have adopted pseudo-religious ideals and attack anyone who doesn’t agree with them. Others go after non-whites. How damn stupid can you be?”

Dorian laughed. “Yeah, especially since you can change your skin with a trip to Reinventions.”

Kirsten waved him off. “Not everyone has a million credits to waste for a DNA rebuild.”

Marble, bronze, and stone reproductions of people and things crept by. The high vault ceiling divided into sections, each with a moving hologram depicting some point in the past. Biplanes in one, soldiers from an ancient war in another, political faces, the first starship launch, the ribbon cutting of the first Moon colony, and others.

“You can’t judge humanity based on a few dozen morons.”

“Yeah.” She shoved a heavy faux-wood door out of her way. “They have psionics to pick on now.”

Opulence bathed the office beyond it; wooden everything surrounded her, real from the scent of it. Paneled walls held shelves of books interspersed with oddities including silver skulls, bronze spheres, and a stuffed raven or two. Her boots made no sound over the sand colored carpeting on the way to an immense U-shaped desk. The grey marble slab top deviated from the theme of wood, covered by an orderly array of the usual desk techno-gadgetry as well as bits of ancient history. At the right corner, a head-sized green marble sphere perched on the tail of a two-foot-tall bronze fish.

“Do you have an appointment?” A transparent older woman in a blue dress appeared seated at the desk.

Kirsten took a step back, hand on her weapon.

“Grabbed the gun this time, not your chest.” Dorian laughed. “You’re almost a cop.”

I don’t feel anything, gotta be a hologram.
“Yes. I called about thirty minutes ago. Kirsten Wren, Division 0.”

“One moment, officer.”

The elderly simulacrum sat idle, a pleasant smile on her face as if watching unseen birds. After a minute, the gestures looped.

“I think I’m on hold,” Kirsten whispered.

One of the shelves wobbled, and then opened into the wall, revealing a hidden door to another, even larger, office. The man who opened it smiled; his teeth bright against skin accustomed to the outdoors. At a glance, she took him for about thirty, but had the feeling he was perhaps an older man with a young face or a young man with an old soul. A suit of shiny blue silk gave just enough of a glimpse at his physique to convey his interests did not lie solely within the annals of a library.

A coral-hued cuff peeked out from the sleeve of his jacket as he gestured for her to enter. She cocked an eyebrow at the fluffy white ascot beneath his neck, amused by the anachronistic touch it lent to his overall appearance. Two silver rings glimmered with sapphires on the hand holding the door, three carved gold serpents coiled about the fingers of the one waving her in.

“Good morning, Miss Wren. The VidPhone hardly does you justice.” Konstantin Dobrynin gazed into her eyes. “Such perfect, deep shades of blue often render poorly in hologram.”

He brought his hand back, as if to shake, but drew hers up to place a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. The warmth of his breath swam over her skin, his eyes half-closed. Her arm fell back to her side like a hunk of firewood.
I’m still back in the car, I’m still napping, this isn’t real. This is what happens when you skip breakfast.

Her uniform seemed a little too form-fitting as she slid through the narrow opening.
At least on this side it’s an obvious door.
She watched it swing closed, unable to decide if she felt trapped or welcome. Her nerves brought the essence of jalapeño to the back of her throat. She coughed, patting herself on the chest.
Okay, maybe I didn’t dream about eating.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“I’m on duty, and it’s not even nine in the morning.”

“Water, then; you look like you could use it. Are you fond of coffee?”

“All right.”

He gestured at a chair, and went to a bar on the far end of the room. She glanced around, more shelves, more books. Old ones, loaded with dust. Atmospheric retention fields over the shelves charged the air with electricity. Kirsten stopped as the floor went from hard to soft, finding a large Oriental rug set at a diagonal through the center of the room. Gold fringe on both sides had enough of a metallic sheen to make her wonder if it was real. The wood shelving in this inner sanctum held a deep reddish tint; leering gargoyles mounted to the bookshelf behind the main chair seemed to stare at her, a feeling beyond that of simple carved eyes. She sat at the edge of one of the cream-colored guest seats facing the desk, not comfortable enough to relax into it.

“Do you take cream?” He glanced over his shoulder, tiny ceramic pitcher in his hand.

His eyes seemed to take on the same burnished color as the rosewood shelves, somewhere between brown and red.

“A little.”

Dorian wandered the edge of the chamber. The clink of spoons rattled about before Konstantin pivoted with a tray in hand. He paused to sniff the contents of the cups as if letting Dorian walk past him. Approving the fragrance, he smiled over the delicate things at her, and moved to her side where he set it on a small floating platform table between the two guest chairs. The aroma, overwhelming, filled her senses. He let her choose a cup, then took the remaining one, holding it up as a toast.

Kirsten had all she could do not to cough at how strong it was. “Espresso?”

“Turkish.” He took a calm sip. “They still grow actual plants there, in the
ground
. So, what can I do for such a beautiful lady on this dismal rainy day?”

“Real coffee? He’s showing off. That’s only about two hundred credits you’re drinking.” Dorian poked her in the back.

He’s not walking around the desk to sit. He’s staying close to me.

“Miss Wren?”

She shook off her daydream. “Yes, umm.”
Subtle, K.
“I’m investigating a paranormal event and found some things I can’t explain. The database spat out something about ancient Sumerian. I’ve never heard of it, but when I tried to look it up I kept seeing your name attached to articles.”

“Ahh, so you were one of the six people that bothered to read it? I have somewhat esoteric hobbies. I like beautiful things as well as ancient things.” He set his cup on the desk, tilting his head a notch to the side. “I’m rather fond of things which appear delicate on the surface but are, in fact, quite dangerous.”

Her gaze ran over his chest, eyebrow climbing as a pectoral ridge swelled prominent through his shirt. She fumbled with a datapad, before holding it out to him. Konstantin took it in a manner that caused his fingers to brush over her hand in a lingering departure.

“The image scans we took are in there.” She could not look at him anymore.

“His desk is large enough, the walls are thick, and no one would hear anything.” Dorian stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back. “What are you waiting for?”

Crimson.
This isn’t right. I want a relationship; I’m not a cat in heat.

Konstantin tapped the screen, and lowered himself into the other guest chair. Images of the silver circle appeared in midair, enlarged as he pinched and stretched at the intangible light. He studied one for quite some time, and then flipped to the next. Kirsten sipped her coffee, still refusing to look at him.

“I have not seen anything resembling this since my arrival in the UCF. This appears to be an attempt at constructing an intraplanar bridge.”

“A what? Like a portal?” She looked. “Seriously?”

“Well,” he said, lips parting into a confident grin. “Some people believe in this sort of thing. Cults, mostly; societies that died out quite a long time before the Corporate War.”

Transfixed, she let him gaze straight through her. Her heart beat at the back of her consciousness; the light in here made him seem younger, as if he only had her by four years.

“Have you been here very long, Konstantin?” She absentmindedly tried to sip from an empty cup, putting it back in the saucer and feeling foolish. “I didn’t see any emigration documents.”

“Fascinating.” He held his hand to his chin. “I am here on a journey of information sharing, for the Archives. I don’t have a political agenda; I operate in societal circles that don’t have time for pettiness of that nature.”

“So he
is
a foreigner.” Dorian resumed his wander.

“Let’s suppose this stuff you’re talking about is real. I’ve seen ghosts. I guess I’d be a bit of a hypocrite to discount anything at this point.” When she made eye contact with him, she caught him glancing out of the corner of his eye. “What would something like this circle do, assuming it was real?”

Can he see Dorian?

His glance flicked back to her, and then to the images. “From this, it appears as if someone attempted to contact an entity on the other side, from an alternate world. These ancient sects thought it was possible to channel the energies that flow between and divide different planes of existence by using a combination of force of will and patterns traced in precious materials.”