Slab City Blues: The Collected Stories

  “She’s still pissed, huh?”

  “Not as much as she should be. We’re meeting up again tonight.”

  My smart started buzzing, loud and strident, the ID reading as ‘Mayor’s Office.’ Shit. “Be out in a second,” I told Joe. “Close the door.”

  “Chief Inspector McLeod?” the female voice asked as I hit the call icon.

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my temples.

  “Please hold for Othin Vargold.”

  What the hell? “Erm, OK.”

  A short delay then a male voice, cultured and even with a slight nordic lilt. “Chief Inspector, thank you for taking my call.”

  “I was expecting Mayor Arnaud.”

  “Yes. Forgive the subterfuge. The mayor indicated you might not pick up if I called directly.”

  He was right. “Guess you’re calling to emphasise your personal connection to the victim and encourage my best efforts.”

  “I’m aware of your history, so I know your best efforts are already guaranteed. Your appointment to this case was in fact made at my insistence. I merely wish to offer the assistance of my company. Any and all resources within my power are at your disposal.”

  “Including a list of Mr Rybak’s enemies?”

  A short pause and a faint sigh. “You may not believe this, Inspector, but Craig didn’t have any enemies. The more cut and thrust aspects of business were always within my purview. Craig ran the company and I ran off the competition.”

  I got up from the desk and leaned close to the glass, squinting through the muck at the main display. Joe had already started the playback: Rybak entering the room with the two girls. A big man, moving in a hunched shuffle, face drawn and haggard like he hadn’t slept in a good while.

  “And his mental state recently?” I asked Vargold, watching Rybak slough off his clothes with the girls’ assistance. His frame was broad across the shoulders but flabby elsewhere, a former athlete gone to seed.

  Another pause from the smart, another barely heard sigh. “I guess you’ve already ascertained that Craig’s recent behaviour had been somewhat… erratic.”

  “A multi-millionaire visiting a Yang-side brothel three or four times a week whilst cultivating a Blues addiction seems pretty erratic, yeah.”

  “Clinical depression knows no favourites and can strike any of us. Craig stopped working, distanced himself from friends and colleagues. He even started giving his possessions away. I had been doing my best to help, but… Well, if you watch the news feeds you’ll understand the demands on my time at present.”

  “Sure. You chosen a name for the big tamale yet?”

  Vargold’s tone took on a puzzled note. “Not quite. Though we do have a short-list. Is that relevant?”

  “Your company’s about to complete construction of the first starship in human history. Major historical events tend to attract all manner of weirdness.”

  “Craig’s involvement in the Ad Astra project was peripheral at best, mainly limited to oversight of the funding and accountancy structure.”

  “Seem to be a lot of people angry about the whole thing. Vast waste of resources, some say. Seeking to spread an imperfect species across the galaxy, according to others. Then there’s all the religious nuts.”

  “Any major advance is bound to cause a certain amount of societal upheaval. However, I take your point. I’ll have my security people compile a breakdown of the most serious threats. You’ll have it within the hour.”

  “Look forward to it.” Rybak was slumped on the bed now, propped against the wall and staring into space with dull eyes, apparently oblivious to the two girls stroking and caressing his sagging flesh. I knew the look: a man awaiting death.

  “Depression often leads to suicide,” I said to Vargold. “Had he ever tried it?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He stopped going to therapy some weeks ago.”

  “It’d help if I had access to his medical records. Save a lot of time if I didn’t have to go through the whole court order procedure.”

  “I’ll see to it. I’m also posting a reward for information, one million UA.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. At least not yet. That kind of money will be a magnet for every freak and con-artist on the Slab. Sorting through every report will use up time and resources best employed elsewhere.”

  I watched the girls draw back from Rybak and turn to the door, presumably in response to the door buzzer. He said something and they opened it, pausing then standing aside to admit a diminutive young man in nondescript clothing. Time for the main event.

  “If there’s nothing else,” I said to Vargold. “I need to get back to work. The Mayor’s office will keep you updated on progress.”

  “Of course. I’ll hold off on the reward until you say otherwise.” Another pause. “Inspector, you asked about enemies. There is one enemy we all share, as I’m sure you know. Astravista is the main arms supplier to CAOS Defence.”

  “This is way too messy for Fed Sec.”

  “Unless they wanted to send a message. This is a secure line so I can tell you. Thanks to Astravista’s military contracts I was granted high-level clearance some time ago. I know about Ceres.”

  “Really? Where’s that?”

  A faintly amused sigh. “Quite. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Not all wars end when the treaty is signed.”

  The girls left the room and the young man closed the door, turning to Rybak. They stared at each other for a full minute, saying nothing.

  “Not ruling anything out at this stage,” I told Vargold, the ancient police response to the amateur detective. “I really have to go now.” My finger hovered over the end-call icon. “Sorry for your loss,” I added before cutting him off.

  One of the civilian analysts was the first to bolt, white faced and retching as he held a desk bin under his chin. The rest followed in quick succession leaving only us jaded detectives to watch as Rybak’s killer tossed aside his dismembered head.

  “Splice,” said Leyla O’Keefe. “Gotta be.”

  “Racist,” said Timor Briganti, like Joe one of the few Splices in the department, though his heritage was a lot more obvious. Ash-black skin, white hair and pointy ears, second-generation morphology based on some genre fiction anti-hero from two centuries ago. I always wondered how much he must hate his parents.

  “Look at him.” Leyla froze the vid, stepping close to the screen to form an elaborate pose, like a gameshow assistant showing off the prizes. Visually speaking she was Timor’s opposite, pale skin, black hair and only an inch and a half over five feet. She also had the confidence that came from multi-generation Irish-cop lineage, claiming one of her ancestors had been immortalised in the French Connection, whatever that was.

  “That, folks,” she said, small hands framing the hairy and fanged face on the screen, “is a werewolf.”

  “Not enough hair,” Timor insisted. “And his snout’s too small. More Lon Chaney than The Howling.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Joe rumbled.

  “He’s a wolfman. Not a werewolf.”

  “In either case,” I said. “He was neither when he came in. He’s a shifter.”

  “Thought they were a myth,” Leyla said.

  “Evidently not. Run it back.”

  She rewound to the point where the perp had entered the room, transforming him from ravening, fanged dismemberment machine to unremarkable young man. The manager hadn’t bothered to set up his module to record sound, perhaps as a somewhat redundant sop to Rybak’s privacy, but it was clear victim and killer had exchanged words. The perp’s back was to the camera but I could see the slight bob of his head as he said something and Rybak’s lips moving in reply.

  “Run phoneme interpretation,” I said. Leyla’s hands danced over the icons to call up the lip-reader, the result playing a few seconds later in toneless, stilted computer-speak. “From light… we are… born to light we… return.”

  “Mean anything to anyone?” I asked
to a parade of baffled shrugs.

  “Sounds culty, whatever it is,” Timor said.

  “Run a search when we’re done here. Play around with the wording, see if it cross-refs with any known groups. Include both political and religious.”

  I gestured for Leyla to restart playback and watched as the perp moved to the centre of the room, partly obscuring Rybak’s hunched bulk. The young man undressed slowly, casting his clothes aside and standing naked, arms raised, waiting. The transformation happened in seconds, muscles bulging, limbs extending. My gaze inevitably lingered on his hands, blurring as they spasmed into claws and reminding me of something I’d seen only once before. When it was done a five-foot three inch man of slender build had become a six foot monster with a thin pelt of grey fur.

  “OK, that’s enough,” I said, seeing the thing’s fisted claw lash down at Rybak’s forehead and not relishing a second helping of what came next. “The camera got a good profile shot when he came through the door. Cap it and run it through facial recognition.”

  “On it, boss,” Leyla said.

  “Timor, when you’re done researching that phrase I want you to recheck Harry Redwing’s canvas results. Wouldn’t put it past him to miss something obvious. Joe, get the analysts out of the crapper and put them to work on open sources. We need a profile on Rybak: every news item, piece of gossip or smart-ping relating to him in the past six months. We’ll also be getting a hefty package from Astravista security…”

  “Uh, boss,” Leyla said, gesturing at the display where the word ‘MATCH’ was flashing on the perp’s profile alongside an ID summary:

  Name: Khristopher Corvin

  DOB: 06/04/2195

  Criminal Ident: O10987-FL

  Custodial History: Six months corrective immersion, Lorenzo City Municipal Penitentiary

  Date of release: 03/04/2215

  Current domicile: Apt. 4C, Dunelm Court, Quad Delta, Yang Sixteen.

  “Well that was easy,” Timor said.

  I returned to my office, gesturing for Joe to follow. “Scramble SWAT to meet us there,” I told him, opening a drawer to extract a new department-issue Colt 5mm. “Covert approach. And clear a Pipe route to Yang Sixteen. Sherry’ll authorise it.”

  Chapter 4

  “FL,” I murmured, reading through Corvin’s record on the pipe. The four of us were alone in the carriage as it blasted through the network towards Yang Sixteen, all chafing a little at the body-armour under our clothes. No matter how flexible and lightweight they make it, armour always itches.

  “Boss?” Leyla asked.

  “Fraud and larceny,” I said. “Corvin does his six months, gets released five days ago, somehow gets himself spliced into shifter mode in the interim, then decides to kill Rybak.”

  “Guess the corrective immersion didn’t take,” Joe said.

  “Still seems way out of character.” I scrolled through Corvin’s history, finding numerous counts of fraud but no violence. “He was a short-con grifter. Glomming onto wealthy Yin-siders, selling bogus investments. Pretty good at it too, they seized over three million from his accounts when he went away. Post-immersion psyche report has him as a changed man. Keen to repay his debt, planning on volunteering for hardship relief missions to Downside war-zones.”

  “Never lasts,” Timor said. “Immersion straightens them out for a while but they always revert to type.”

  “Except Rybak wasn’t his type.”

  “The vid was pretty unambiguous, boss.”

  I drew the Colt and flipped the selector to non-lethal. “Tasers only,” I told them. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Like many Slab levels Yang Sixteen had undergone something of an economic boom recently. More shops, more markets, less garbage. I found Quad Delta a cleaner, graffiti-free version of the slum I remembered from only a year before. Arrogant ass he may be, I thought as we passed a playground that had once been a haunt for Blues-heads but now boasted a cluster of children. But at least Arnaud keeps his promises.

  Dunelm Court was a three storey, donut-shaped apartment complex surrounding a central swimming pool where I was dismayed to find about a dozen residents at play.

  “He’s on the top floor,” the SWAT Commander told me. His team were posted around the main entrance, dressed in plain-clothes that wouldn’t fool anyone with Corvin’s experience. I’d have much preferred to take him down myself with just Joe for back-up, but the vid of Rybak’s murder demanded caution.

  “Inward facing apartment,” the Commander went on. “Building security-net confirms he’s in residence.”

  “He alone?” I asked.

  “Looks that way.” He held up his smart, displaying a feed from the building’s cams and switching to thermal imaging. Corvin was a yellow-red splodge on the black silhouette of a couch. He sat straight-backed and still, hands resting on his knees.

  “Any audio?” I said.

  “None we can pick up, so I guess his entertainment hub’s off and if there’s anyone else at home, they aren’t talking. See the way he’s just sitting there? Makes me think he’s expecting visitors.”

  I couldn’t argue with his logic. There was definitely something unnatural about Corvin’s posture. I’d have taken him for dead but for the heat signature and slight rise and fall of his chest. He knows we’re coming. “Your entry-team ready?”

  “Got four operators inside disguised as custodial staff. We go the moment they breach.”

  “Expect resistance, but I need him alive.”

  “Noted.”

  “Wait for my go.” I beckoned Leyla and Timor over. “As soon as SWAT goes in you two clear those people from the pool. Joe and me will cover.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  I nodded to the commander who turned to the entrance, drawing a carbine from under his jacket. “This is Gold One,” he said, his words conveyed via sub-dermal smart to his operators. “We are a go. Perimeter-team activate containment protocol. Entry-team proceed to breach. Non-lethals only.”

  A two-second pause then the faint thud of a door being blown in by a compressed air ram followed almost instantly by the flat crump of a stun-grenade. I followed the commander into the inner courtyard as a chorus of warnings came over the comms.

  “Police! Do not move!”

  The pool lounging residents were staring in blank amazement at the twenty or more armed Demons now running through their sanctum. “Lorenzo City PD, folks!” I told them, holding up my ID. “Nothing to worry about. But I need you to vacate this pool. NOW!” I added for emphasis as they continued to stare, provoking one of the kids into a fit of frightened squalling. They started to move when Leyla and Timor began to haul people from the water.

  I saw the commander take the stairs at a run with two operators close on his heels. I tracked his course to the top floor where he disappeared into a smoking doorway. “Suspect compliant and in custody,” he reported in short order. “Bringing him down now.”

  “Roger that,” I said, turning to Joe with raised eyebrows.

  “Less than three hours from start to finish,” he said. “Must be a record.”

  “Here’s hoping it makes Sherry more amenable to signing off on the budget for Mr Mac. That’ll tie us up for a damn sight longer.”

  “Maybe not if Dr Vaughn comes on board. There’s a lady with some serious insight.”

  And a few secrets, I added inwardly. It had been nagging me since viewing Rybak’s murder. The way Corvin had transformed, particularly the way his hands morphed into claws. I was mentally rehearsing how to bring it up with her when something landed in the pool with a soft splosh. Something round and pale that bobbed momentarily on the surface before sinking amidst a thick red cloud. I had time to register the commander’s face before it disappeared completely.

  I looked up in time to dodge the rest of him, stepping aside as the truncated corpse landed on the poolside with a wet slap. Not a sound on the comms, I realised, aiming the Colt up at the third floor. How fast can he be?


  Another body came sailing over the third floor balustrade. One of the entry team judging by the janitorial overalls, a large man trailing blood from the hole where his face had been.

  “Code Black-Alpha!” I said into my smart, the call-sign for a Demon fatality. “Multiple Code Black-Alphas at Dunelm Court, Yang Sixteen. All available units…”

  Shattering glass dragged my gaze back to Corvin’s apartment in time to see a third body flying through the window. Another entry-team operator, tumbling end over end in a tangle of her own entrails. She came down in the pool, incredibly still alive, hand waving as she sank beneath the red water. Leyla and Timor immediately jumped in to drag her out.

  I stared up at the shattered window as the comms shrieked in my ears, both hands firm on the butt of the Colt. Nothing. No movement. Just the last few shards of glass falling from the window frame.

  “He’s still in there,” Joe said, displaying the security cam feed on his smart. “Changed a bit though.”

  Corvin’s heat-form now appeared to be twice its former size, standing in his living room, massive shoulders heaving and claws twitching with predatory anticipation. I could see two bodies cooling on the floor behind him.

  A gargling shriek drew my gaze back to the pool. Timor and Leyla had dragged the operator clear onto the poolside, though a length of her guts still trailed in the water from a rent in her body-armour. Her face was bleached of colour and she jerked in regular spasms of diminishing intensity. The death-clock, we used to call it. Ticking down. She’s not going to make it.

  A howl came peeling down from above, jarring in its sheer exultant savagery. I returned my gaze to the window, a fraction too late as a grey streak flashed through it, my burst of taser-darts missing by a wide margin. Corvin’s howl ended as he impacted on the pool-side, tiles shattering under the force. He crouched, glaring at me with yellow eyes set in a leathery, thinly furred face, teeth bared in a hungry growl. His clothes hung from him in rags, shredded by the change to reveal the kind of muscle mass that no un-spliced human could ever aspire to. Bloodied flesh dangled from his claws and a thick tangle of red-tinged drool hung from his mouth. I could see nothing resembling reason in his eyes.