Slab City Blues - The Collected Stories: All Five Stories in One Volume (33 page)

“Very astute, sir. Did she have many visitors?”

He gave a sombre grimace and shook his head. “Not one that I ever saw. And, come to think of it, I can’t remember her calling anyone. I did suggest she put a profile up on the sub-aqua dating net but she just laughed.”

I asked a few more questions, all of which continued to paint a picture of a private woman with few if any links to the outside world and no desire for that to change. “I think that covers it, sir,” I said. “Thanks for your time. Chief Diallo, I think we should check Ms Holstrom’s apartment now.”

Theodore showed us to the door, hesitating as we stepped out into the foyer. “Something else?” I asked.

“There was another time,” he said, “when I found her crying. Not sobbing like before, just standing at her window looking out over the reef. I asked her what was the matter and she just shook her head. I was going to leave her alone but she said something.” He closed his eyes to summon the memory. “‘The boiling point of sea water at the levels of salinity found in these waters is 100.65 degrees Celsius. Did you know that, Theo?’”

“Impressive recall, sir,” I said.

He gave a modest shrug and winked as the door slid closed. “I used to be an actor.”

Lisabet Holstrom’s apartment was identical to Theodore’s in every respect but decor. No designer luxury here, just functional furniture and a whole wall of books. “Must’ve been a collector,” Phaedra mused, running a finger along the library before extracting a volume. “Proust, in the original French. This looks pretty old.”

I followed the age-old detective practice of checking the bathroom first, specifically the medicine cabinet. “That’s a lotta pills,” Phaedra observed from the doorway.

I extracted a few bottles for closer inspection, finding most were close to empty. “Anti-depressants, sleep-aids, anxiety meds. Lady with a lot on her mind, I guess.”

I checked Holstrom’s terminal next, blinking in surprise when it went straight to the main interface without requesting a password. “Either she had nothing to hide or she was beyond caring.” I checked her contacts folder first, finding it empty but for a single outgoing message from seven days ago:

To: Craig Rybak, H.O. Astravista

Subject: I can’t do this.

That was all. Nothing in the body of the message sent to a man who died four days later. “Nothing in the cloud,” I said, digging down through the folders. “Nothing on the solid-state. This is a purged system apart from that one message.”

“What couldn’t she do?” Phaedra wondered.

“Whatever it was I’m guessing both she and Rybak died for it. He was apparently targeted by a Fed Sec sleeper agent and she’s the random victim of a spree killer. Both credible scenarios at face value.”

“There are quieter ways to kill people.”

“I don’t think Vargold wants it quiet. I think he’s sending a message. Neither killing can be directly attributable to him, but both are loud and messy enough to attract attention. Question is from who?”

“Somebody who might be next.”

I reclined in Holstrom’s desk chair, swivelling around to take in the view. Clouds of fish darted across the coral and, in the distance, I could see lights blinking and the dim figures of divers.

“Spear hunters,” Phaedra explained, then gave a humourless laugh. “Just like Schiffler.”

“Who is now our only lead,” I said. “So what’ve you got?”

“The portrait of a complete loser.” She took out her smart and called up Schiffler’s profile. “Rich kid gone bad. In and out of rehab since he was fifteen, no employment history, living off mommy and daddy’s trust-fund and waiting for them to die. Arrested for beating up his girlfriend eighteen months ago.”

I turned away from the window as something clicked in my head.
Corvin, released from corrective immersion five days before he killed Rybak. Blair, recidivist wicky waver. Corrective immersion is mandatory for sex offenders.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Sentenced to corrective immersion.”

She shook her head. “Close, but you don’t get the big teddy bear. Thanks to the vast fee his parents paid to the best law-firm in the hemisphere, and a sizeable personal injury settlement for the girlfriend, the charges were dropped on condition he undertake intensive therapy at a private rehab facility. That’s why there was no criminal record on his background check. He got discharged four months ago with a clean bill of health and remained a model citizen until he decided to take his speargun for a walk.”

“What have you got on the rehab facility?”

She ran a quick search and called up the clinic’s site, white palatial buildings in a tropical landscape of waving palms and azure seas. ‘Welcome to Renewal,’ the blurb intoned in soothing female tones, ‘the world’s leading treatment provider for addiction-related illnesses. Here at Renewal we pride ourselves on our holistic approach to recovery, our treatment regimen combining counselling, pharmacology and technology to produce an 86% success rate in treating addiction. Renewal remains the foremost innovator in the field of immersion assisted recovery…’

“Where is this dump?” I asked.

“St Barthélemy. A day’s sub-ride north. Or I can call in a seaplane if you want to get there quicker.”

“No.” I fought down a wave of nausea provoked by the thought of another flight so soon. “Sub’s fine.”

Chapter 19

Before boarding the
sub, I called Mr Mac and told him I needed a new ID.

“This is a tall order,” he said. “Given the time frame.”

“I doubt the Renewal management will talk to a PI or a small town cop.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The sub was a midget compared to the passenger transport that brought me to Salacia, a maintenance workhorse with articulated limbs and bubble canopies that made it resemble a giant mutant crab. The captain and sole crew member was a splice with similar mods to Phaedra, white pupils in black eyes and grey skin, though his had a touch of cobalt blue. “This is Erik,” Phaedra said as we clambered aboard. “Commanding Officer Salacia Military.”

“You have a military?” I asked.

“Sure,” Erik told me, white teeth shining in his blue-grey face. “Gotta have a military or the UN don’t recognise you.” He raised his hands to encompass the sub’s interior. “How’d you like our flagship?”

We disengaged from Salacia a few minutes later, Erik steering a northerly course at an impressive thirty knots. “Hydro-jets instead of propellers,” Phaedra explained. “Some of the bigger boats can do over a hundred knots.”

I settled into the nose bubble, watching the seabed speed by for a time before turning about and trying to catch up on some sleep. It came eventually, a brief fitful slumber in which I saw Joe’s death play out more than once, except this time he survived the blast, his still living head attached to the mangled mess of his body by a tendril of flesh. He spoke to me but the words were lost, like someone calling to me from the far end of a long tunnel. I took some comfort from his expression, open, accepting, if a little sad.
At least he doesn’t hate
me…

I came awake with a soft groan and a headache, blurred vision eventually focusing on Phaedra’s legs. She’d changed back into her swimsuit for the journey and her bare, toned limbs were stretched out towards me as she lay on a narrow bunk below the pilot’s station. My eyes tracked along the silvery flesh, hard-wired if guilt tinged heterosexuality making me wonder what skin like that would feel like.

“Why don’t you just ask?”

My gaze snapped to Phaedra’s face, fully awake and more than slightly amused.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just… There’s no one like you back home.”

“It’s hydro-dynamic,” she said, sitting up and running a hand along her thigh. “Based on shark-skin, but much more finely grained. I also have a super-efficient cardiovascular system and can swim fifty metres underwater three seconds faster than the most recent Olympic gold medallist can on the surface.”

“The eyes?” I asked.

“Adapted for sub-aquatic light conditions. My ears are also tuned for echo location.”

“Guess you really must love the water.”

“I do. But my parents loved it more. Erik’s parents too. The Aqua-Utopian Movement, ever hear of it?”

I shook my head.

“Hardly surprising, it didn’t last very long. A grand design to return humanity to the bosom of mother ocean from whence all life sprang. Why bother ascending to the heavens when the seas offer all the space and resources we need? To be honest it was more a cult than a movement. Kids like Erik and me were supposed to be the first generation of homo-aquatus, the dawn of the oceanic master race. Then the anti-splice backlash kicked in and the UN shut the whole thing down. The kids grew up in care homes then got pushed out to fend for ourselves. We spent a few years in the fishing trade off the Gulf of Mexico but the locals started getting restless, we were too successful and they didn’t like the competition. Luckily, the aquatic hab community saw the wisdom of taking us in.”

Erik climbed down from the pilot’s station, pausing on the ladder. “We’re fifteen minutes from docking, Phae.”

She nodded and turned to me. “We good? Should be in range of a smart node by now.”

I checked my smart, finding a new ID had been uploaded: Hubert Plympton, Special Agent, UN Federal Security - Criminal Investigation Division.
Hubert? Fucking Mr Mac.
“Yeah, we’re good.”

Renewal’s Medical Director was named Dr Julieta Perales, a handsome and elegant woman who probably spent just as much on rejuve as Theodore, the retired actor. She was also a lot less pleasant to deal with. “I really can’t see how we can help you, Agent Plympton,” she told me, apparently relaxed and unruffled behind her desk. “Naturally, when we heard the news and realised one of our former patients was responsible we conducted a thorough review of his time here. However, I can assure you there were absolutely no indications anything like this would occur. Our ethical code would have dictated that any warning signs be notified to the relevant authorities.” She gave a tight, professional smile. “There really isn’t much else to tell you, and I’m sure you’re familiar with the statutes regarding disclosure of medical records, even after death.”

“Exemptions apply in cases of Global Security,” I told her. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

She maintained her smile, giving a smooth and evidently rehearsed reply, “I’m aware of the exemptions and if you can show me a warrant from the Security Council…”

“Over half your patients are aquatic hab residents,” Phaedra said. “Referred as per your contract with the community justice system. Right?”

Perales’ smile flickered, just a little. “Quite right.”

“The justice minister is very fond of me. Kind’ve a surrogate daughter thing. I’d hate to have to call him.”

I saw the doctor’s face darken as pragmatism warred with innate medical bureaucracy. I decided Phaedra had poked her a little too hard and said, “We don’t need full access, in any case. I’m more interested in the treatment Schiffler received here, specifically the immersion element.”

“I assure you our immersion therapy meets the highest industry standards and is subject to regular independent review.”

I gave her a smile of my own. “Then let’s just call this a surprise inspection, shall we?”

“There wasn’t anything unusual in Mr Schiffler’s treatment profile,” Perales told us a short while later. We stood around an immersion couch in one of the clinic’s treatment rooms as she called up various holo-stills from Schiffler’s sessions. “Relaxation scenarios alternated with situations that forced him to confront the damage his behaviour inflicted on himself and those around him.” She tapped a finger to the hypodermic armature fixed to the side of the couch. “The procedure is pharmalogically assisted to enhance the realism.”

“So they’re high as a kite when they’re in there?” Phaedra asked.

“Mild hallucinogens only, no opioids or stimulants.”

Phaedra squinted at a still of several naked female bodies in mid-cavort. “That looks pretty stimulating.”

“We find a reward-based structure to be the most effective. A carrot-and-stick approach, if you will.”

“Put him through something shitty and then ease the pain with porn.” Phaedra shrugged. “I can see that.”

I watched the stills roll: A young man behind a dumpster bleeding out from a stomach wound. A hot-tub blow-job from a model just dissimilar enough from a famous actress to avoid a lawsuit. A middle-aged woman screaming in maternal anguish as tears streaked down her face. A mountain-top looking out over a sunlit valley that resembled something from an old fantasy flick. I was about to let it slide by when I noticed a structure in the foreground; white marble pillars arranged in a circle.

“Stop it there,” I said. “That doesn’t seem to fit with everything else.”

“Ah, yes,” Perales said. “A recent addition, but an effective one. It’s called the Temple of Serenity. The specifics of the design vary according to the subject, but it’s intended to enable the patient to connect with their spiritual side, provided they have one, of course. In this case, Schiffler being vaguely paganistic in his beliefs, a Greco-Roman style was deemed the best choice.”

“How exactly do you connect someone with their spirituality?”

“Well.” Perales crossed her arms, getting defensive. “You don’t. Not really. But there are particular centres of the brain that respond to certain stimuli and convey the… impression of what Bhuddists like to call ‘enlightenment’.”

“You mean, you dope them up and trick them into thinking they’ve seen the face of god in an immersion sim?”

“The path to recovery is never a straight one, Agent Plympton. And the subject invariably realises on waking that the experience was a simulated one. However, the sensation of a spiritual awakening persists in the memory. An awareness of the wider universe is important when combating addiction.”

I studied the image a moment longer. It seemed a slender lead, but it was the only indication of a connection to cult-like behaviour. “Fire it up, Doctor,” I told Perales, taking off my jacket and climbing onto the couch. “Just the serene temple thing, and hold the drugs.”

I’ve never been a fan of Immersion. It was too expensive pre-war and all that time spent with Consuela’s increasingly embittered consciousness had soured me on the whole thing. But I’d never doubted the power of it, the insertion of a new reality into the brain with sufficient accuracy that you just don’t question it. Compelling for some, addictive for others, and I’d recently come to terms with the fact that I had an addictive nature. So I did my best not to enjoy the feel of a sun-warmed breeze on my skin, or drink in the fresh mountain air as I marvelled at the impossibly beautiful valley below.
Don’t forget, it’s all a
lie.

I walked across a field of long, green grass towards the temple, marble pillars shining white in the late afternoon sun, the breeze blowing autumnal leaves from a nearby copse of maple across my path. The temple itself held no secrets that I could see, just a circle of paving stones surrounded by seven pillars. I dimly recalled seven pillars having some kind of religious significance but couldn’t place it. Otherwise, I found nothing. No vaguely worded inscriptions inviting a close examination of the soul, no mysterious symbols in need of interpretation. Just the pillars and the view.

Maybe it’s supposed to teach the virtues of patience,
I wondered as the minutes ticked by and nothing happened. The sun’s rays shimmered like multiple searchlights through the drifting clouds, painting the valley below an enchanting range of colours, and nothing happened.
You really need to be stoned to appreciate this.
I opened my mouth to speak the end-sim codeword Perales had given me, then hesitated as I noticed the clouds had stopped drifting. In fact, it had all stopped. The maple leaves were frozen in the air, the swaying grass now stiffened like spikes. But the air, the air was definitely getting colder.

Something flashed in the sky, bright enough to make me turn away, tears streaming from my eyes. When I looked again the clouds were gone and the sky had turned black but for a small pinprick of light. It started to pulse as I watched, flaring then diminishing in a regular rhythm that I realised matched the beat of my heart. It grew bigger with every pulse, the light varying in colour from white to red, to blue, then green. The effect was mesmerising, even without the drugs.

The pulsing abruptly stopped, the light now a single transcendent star commanding every facet of my attention. I heard the voice then, female, un-inflected but somehow utterly compelling. “From light…” The light began to swell, shimmering as it did so. “…we are born.” The light burst apart, birthing a massive spider’s web of glowing gas that surrounded me on all sides. “To light we return,” the voice continued as the gaseous web began to coalesce. My physics was pretty limited but I’d seen enough pop-science docs to know this was a representation of the birth of the universe, a single massive release of energy coalescing into physical reality under the pressure of gravity. Stars began to ignite a second later, thousands, millions, every colour and shade. The effect was impressive, even emotional, and I could only imagine what it felt like for a long-term junkie stoned on hallucinogens.

“From light we are born to light we return,” the voice repeated, once, then twice, then again and again, the words overlapping until it became a discordant babbling mantra, maddeningly inescapable.

Then silence.

After the babbling silence was a shock, leaving me stunned as I floated in my new born universe.

“Your light, Randall,” the voice said, returned to its previous emotionless but compelling cadence. The stars began to shift around me, slowly at first, then clumping together with increasing rapidity, the sky becoming black as it formed a single shimmering image in the void. A woman’s face. A woman in her fifties with a very sad smile: Lisabet Holstom. “Your light resides in her, Randall,” the voice told me, its previously empty tone now stern and commanding, a high priest sending a supplicant on a holy mission. “Set it free. Set all of them free…”

Holstrom’s face began to glow brighter as the voice spoke on, strident and booming now: “FROM LIGHT WE ARE BORN TO LIGHT WE RETURN!”

I tried to close my eyes against the now blinding glare of Holstrom’s image but found I couldn’t. The sim had evidently been coded to prevent Randall averting his gaze at this moment. Holstrom’s face began to flicker, a thrumming migraine inducing pulse that seemed to pry its way into my brain as the voice boomed on and on.

“FROM LIGHT WE ARE BORN….”

“Bolero!” I shouted out the end-sim code word. “Bolero! Get me the fuck out of here!”

I surfaced with a hammering heart and what felt like a pick-axe buried in my skull. The tremble in my limbs was so severe it took a few seconds for me to drag myself into a sitting position.

“I didn’t know!” Perales was backed up against the wall with Phaedra’s gun pressed into her cheek, hands raised and all composure vanished. “I swear!”

“Your vitals went haywire,” Phaedra told me, keeping her eyes locked on Perales. “Near fatal levels. Looked like this bitch was trying to kill you.”

I looked down at my hands, making fists until the tremble faded enough that I felt capable of standing. “The temple,” I said, advancing towards Perales. “Did you come up with it yourself?”