Division Zero: Lex De Mortuis (5 page)

“Is your name really Armando?”

He laughed. “Is that all? It actually is… I changed it a few years ago. I was born Brian, if you want to know. Not very sexy.”

“You’re kind of pale for an Armando; Brian is cute.”

He smirked, finding her assay of him as “cute” a bit deflating.

“I like you, Brian, Armando, whatever. I’ve had a damnable time finding a guy I can trust.” She stared deep into the woven tablecloth, as if some secret to love hid among the threads. “I have to tell you something.”

He tensed. “All right.”

“I have a son.”

The cringe was nigh imperceptible.

“I didn’t have him as a baby. I took him in, a special situation.”

Brian/Armando relaxed. “Oh, well, perhaps I should meet him soon. That isn’t such a big issue.”

“There’s more.” She picked at the shrimp. “I never did tell you about my job.”

He squinted. “Something less than legal?”

Her laugh startled half the room. When the din returned to normal, and her cheeks to normal color, she gazed at him as her last threads of whimsy mixed with sadness. “I’m with the police.”

“Oh.” He bit his lip, shifting in the chair.

Two strikes. Kid, cop. Great. Dammit.

“Well, I suppose… You don’t really seem to be the type of woman involved in that sort of thing.”

So help me, if he says delicate flower
… “I’m not a beat cop, I’m with investigations.”

“Oh, well that’s better, I think? You don’t get shot at so much?” He took a sip of wine. “I’m not sure I would be able to cope with wondering
if
you came home each night.”

She lifted her glass to her lip, enough to smell the wine, but hesitated.
No, I just get blown off the eleventh story of parking garages.
“Not so often. I usually deal with people after they’re dead.”
Damn it, K, just spit it out.

Last shrimp gone, he had another sip of wine, and smiled while dabbing at his lip with the napkin. “So you’re a homicide detective? You must have some stories.”

Kirsten stared at her appetizer shrimp cocktail, compliments of the house. She took in a deep breath.
Better now than after I get attached.
“I’m with Division 0.”

The expected cough, the same chest patting, the usual lifted brow. “There’s a zero?”

“Yeah, it’s small, there’s not many of us. I’m ps―” A well, or ill, as the case may be, timed shrimp muffled the last bit.

“Pardon?”

She chewed it like gum. The longer it took to swallow, the longer she could entertain the fantasy this one would be different. He wouldn’t be the same as all others.
Adventurous.
“I’m psionic.”

“I see.” Color drained out of his face.

The lip bite, the shift in posture, interest became trepidation.

Figures. What would his family think if he brought a psionic girl home?

“I don’t mess with people; I just see ghosts and such.” She flashed a hopeful smile, trying to look as innocent as she could. A cat hoping its owner adored a dead mouse.

Lips twisted into the bastard child of a grimace and a smile. He gazed off at the windows.

Great. Too innocent, now he’s looking at me like I’m jailbait. Cop, has a kid, psionic, three strikes.

“Do your parents know you’re one of… those?” He slipped a hand into his pocket, trying to be subtle.

“Yeah. Dad’s okay with it, Mom… not so much. She won’t be a problem, but I have a feeling it’s a bit late for that.” She gave up on her last shrimp. “You don’t have to fake the emergency call; you can just run away screaming now if you want.”
Adventurous my ass.

Hand came out. “Look, Kirsten, it’s not…” He fidgeted. “You said you have a child to look after and that’s important, and you’re a cop… My dad’s not big on government, the whole nanny state thing, you two wouldn’t get along.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. We are not all dangerous… I mean―”

Armando/Brian/Douchebag stood up. “I’m sorry, Kirsten. You are really very pretty and… I just don’t see any kind of future mingling genes with a psionic. I’m sorry for wasting your night.”

As if it’s a damn choice… Go to hell, Armando/Brian/Asshole.

She watched his blur slide over the toe of her silver shoes as he went for the door without looking back. Warmth came to her face as she bristled with yet another rejection.
Why do people hate us so much? I did not choose to be born this way.
She could pick into his brain, find some embarrassing tidbit and scream it at the room to get him back for how he made her feel. No, that would prove him right. That was what they were all afraid of―no secrets.

The host gave her departing date a strange frown, and looked in her direction. He appeared to be paying particular attention to Kirsten’s half-empty wine glass. By the time he arrived at the side of the table, she had her ID out.

“I’m twenty-two, and a cop.”

He bowed. “My apologies, miss. You―”

“Have a young face, yeah… I know. Is it too late to cancel one entrée?”

After a glance at his datapad, a pained grimace. “I’m afraid your meals are already being plated.”

Of course. Now I have
two
dinners I don’t want to eat.

“Can you please just wrap it to go?”

The man drew a breath, shifting side to side. “Our presentation is exquisite, miss. Our food does not travel well and we would rather not sully our reputation with a substandard experience. We are not a
take-out
establishment. If―”

“Fine, whatever.” Kirsten lacked the energy to get angry at his fluffed-up offense. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He bowed, backing away as she stood. She wobbled halfway across the dining area, firm in her regret about wearing high-heeled shoes. Most of the room watched her rendition of an ostrich on ice, trying to balance on the alien torture devices. Humiliation piled on top of indignation and depression, a three-way wrestling match to determine how she felt at being dumped again. The added weight was too much for the ungainly footwear, and she wound up on the floor.

The dining public turned away, affording her a tiny bit of reclaimed dignity. Anger swirled, and she tugged the straps off her ankles and stood, barefoot, with the damnable things tucked under her arm. The frosted glass door to the ladies’ room slid out of her way, and once inside the protective shell of a private area, tears came out in force. Before anyone else could find her, she ducked into a stall and locked the door.

A few minutes later, the sobbing passed. She looked up from mascara-covered hands at the impressionistic watercolor beach painted on the partition, wondering if anyone heard her. A few deep breaths helped regain her composure, and she got up and went to the sinks. The autoflush startled a shriek out of her. Mascara dabbed away, she glared at herself in the mirror.

“Screw him. I don’t need an idiot like that.” A few passes of her fingers got her hair back to rights. There was no need to replace the eyeliner. “Someday I’ll―”

A familiar smell, flannel and cheap cologne.

“Dad?”

His face came through the door with a tentative peek. Seeing no one else inside, and his daughter decent, he walked up to her and put an arm through her.

“Oh, dammit.” She closed her eyes, and made herself solid to ghosts. “You
are
still around…”

Her father rubbed her back. “Are you okay, hon?”

“Nothing I haven’t been through already.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the towel. “I don’t give a crap about him. It’s just…” Kirsten leaned both hands on the counter, staring down at her toes. “…I’m so tired of being hated for what I am. I didn’t ask to be different.”

“You’ll find someone, and I’ll be here for you until you do.”

She hugged him, letting his presence dispel her building self-pity. For a few minutes, she lost herself in his company.
If I was normal, he would not have run away from me, spent so much time traveling.
Just as self-pity tainted the moment, the faint chirp of the outer door made her stand upright. She held his hand, attempting not to look too strange as two women entered. She fumbled at the sink, hoping they did not notice her holding thin air. They paid her no attention and went toward the back stalls. She gathered her shoes, purse, and father, and padded back to the table.

The food had arrived in her absence. She fell into the round white cushion of her seat, dumped the shoes unceremoniously in a heap, and smirked at the orecchiette pasta dish she had, up until a few minutes ago, thought looked amazing. She picked at it while her father sat in the abandoned chair on the other side.

“What the devil did that idiot order?”

She shrugged. “No idea, something with little squid. Sorry I gave you a hard time about the PubTran.”

“It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere till you don’t need me anymore.” He glanced at the door. “Why don’t you call that Templeton fellow? He didn’t seem very worried about your gift.”

A few people turned to look at her sudden bout of coughing. Most attributed the redness on her face to issues involving lack of air. The host returned to check on her. She nodded and waved him off.

“Dad… he’s… just…”

“What?”

She wiped her chin. “I dunno, a little… old. He’s thirty-six.”

Her father laughed. “You looked at his file?”

Now Kirsten could not maintain eye contact. “No… Yes… but, he showed me his ID, I already knew.” Her eyes lifted until she pouted at him. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to.”

“Nonsense, hon. It’s the least I can do.” He reached across the table, squeezing her hand as soon as she made herself tangible again. “No guilt, Kirsten. You’re not
keeping
me here. I want to be here for you.”

“I should have tried to call you, but I was afraid of Mom.”

“Shame about that Dorian fellow.”

She stared at her toes, finding them far less mesmerizing than a silver shoe. “Yeah… I” ―she waved at the waiter―“You just gave me an idea.”

Her father tilted his head. “But he’s a spirit.”

“Please, can I get these wrapped, I have to leave.”

The waiter nodded.

“No, not with Dorian… about him.” She thumbed her NetMini and glared at the hateful shoes.

Ten minutes later, Kirsten waited at the curb with three hundred credits worth of high-end Italian take-out under one arm, and a hundred credits worth of cheap shoes below the other. Her father stood with her until the PubTran cab squeaked to a halt.

he driverless taxi rolled to a halt under a covered walkway. The main door of an apartment building, identical to a thousand others around it in almost every way except for the people inside, waited at the far end. She darted across a floor of cold plastisteel into the lobby, a somewhat-warmer arrangement of resin tiles decorated in an off-putting shade of pale maroon verging on puke.

From a distant hallway, small children yelled. The sounds of play brought a smile to her face and made her forget all about what’s-his-name. A Class 1 doll jerked upright in the only chair behind the reception desk, ready to interact with Kirsten should she approach. Cast in the image of a twenty-something brunette in a neat uniform, it pivoted to face her. Its rigid face molded in a permanent smile, mechanical eyes whirred wider in an effort to appear welcoming. Traces of light from the AI core in its skull leaked through seams behind the ears and gaps around the mouth. She found it creepy. The smoldering fragrance of dust baking off electrical contacts surrounded it.