Slab City Blues: The Collected Stories

  “I’d coded the mainframe to respond to my voice and told it to perform a hab-wide emergency decompression. I was prepared for it. My sisters weren’t. I held onto a support beam whilst they were dragged away and flushed out. I imagine they burned up on re-entry. When atmosphere was restored I discovered Father Ra had managed to save himself by sealing the doors to the inner temple, but I had the override codes.

  “The facade had gone by the time I got to him, on his knees, sobbing and flailing about in his silly robes. He begged, pleaded, said he was sick, needed help. I took his hand and led him outside, he tottered along like an obedient child. The hab had a UV screened glass dome over the main concourse, the sun was up and shining bright beyond the glass. I told him to look up then ordered the mainframe to switch off the UV protection. Father didn’t so much burn as… disintegrate.”

  She shrugged. “There isn’t much else to say. I found a shuttle in the docking bay and set off for the nearest hab. Father’s preparations had provided plenty of IDs capable of fooling a basic police check. I moved around, got an education, volunteered for a med-station when the war started. Not too brave I know, but I felt I’d seen and done enough violence already. Eventually I moved to the Slab where I was just another vampire.”

  “What happened to the hab?” I asked.

  “When I left I ordered the mainframe to purge its memory and discontinue orbit. A military patrol blew it to pieces when it started to skim the atmosphere, worried it might not burn up I guess.”

  “The name of the Korean lab?”

  “Haunai Genetics. They were dissolved over a decade ago, but I guess the former employees could still be around somewhere, happy to sell off some old research.”

  Or had no choice when Fed Sec came calling.

  “Why Janet Vaughn?” I asked.

  “The hab’s mainframe had extensive files on the women who donated their eggs to the cause. The donor with the closest match to my DNA was called Janet. Vaughn was the name of the lab supervisor.” She gave an empty smile. “Mommy and daddy.”

  Joe stirred a little, rumbling out a groan. We moved to stand on either side of the bed as he snarled a couple of times, the readout on his monitor spiking before slowly returning to normal as a fresh dose of sedative was automatically pushed through his IV.

  “Mr Mac,” I said to Janet. “Have you thought about it?”

  “Sure. Have you thought about helping me with my research?”

  “Riviera’s gone back to the shipping trade. I can probably wangle an interview. You won’t find many vets with a more interesting story.”

  She nodded. “I can tell how badly you want Mr Mac, Alex. If I do this you promise me he’ll make it to trial. I won’t help you commit murder.”

  “Can’t promise the impossible. He’s not the surrendering type.”

  “Even so.”

  She stared into my eyes and I knew she was looking for something, some sign that whatever we were starting here wasn’t going to lead her down a path she’d turned her back on years ago. She wanted to know if I was worth the risk.

  “He’ll break out of any gaol long before he makes it to trial,” I said and she laughed.

  “Then we’ll just catch him again.”

  Chapter 6

  The hospital staff kicked us out somewhere close to midnight. We lingered on the street outside for a time, me not wanting to push it and she enjoying my discomfort. “You’ll, uh, find the Mr Mac case file on your smart in the morning,” I said. “I’ll be briefing my squad around noon. Attendance is optional.”

  “Professional distance?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “Today has been kinda nuts. I just… It seems like the wrong time…”

  “Relax.” She leaned in and kissed me, letting it linger before drawing back. “You’re right. Baby steps until we put Don Corleone in the slammer.” She laughed at my bafflement. “Seriously, when this is done we are having the mother of all vid-binges.”

  I went home. Since my return I’d signed over the Heavenly Garden to Marco and leased the upstairs apartment. He made for a surprisingly good barkeep, I suspected mainly because the patrons mistook his patient reticence for a sympathetic ear. In reality, the lobotomy had left him incapable of boredom. Although the closed sign was on I found a customer at the bar, a tall, slim man in a surprisingly inexpensive raincoat. His long dark hair shifted to reveal aquiline features as he turned to greet me with an apologetic smile. “Chief Inspector. Sorry for the intrusion, and the lateness of the hour.”

  “Mr Vargold.” I moved to the bar, shaking my head as Marco pointed to the Kentucky Red, a long conditioned habit he’d yet to break. “Ginger and lime,” I said. “Then get to bed. I’ll lock up.”

  When he had gone I sipped my booze-free drink and glanced around at the empty bar. “I see you share Mr Rybak’s aversion to personal security.”

  “Actually, thanks to Chief Mordecai I was obliged to double the size of my close-protection detail today. They’re maintaining a discreet distance. I wanted to talk in private.”

  “I don’t do off the record. You should know that.”

  “Noted, and accepted. Nevertheless, I believe I have pertinent information to share.”

  “My boss has already handed the case off to CAOS Defence. It’s not my province anymore.”

  “And is that really going to stop you?”

  Five seconds in and already he knows me too well. “What’s on your mind?”

  “The man who killed Craig, and your colleagues, it’s a fair assumption that he wasn’t alone. There may well be others just like him, all waiting for a signal to wreak havoc. But I’d guess you already figured that out. It was one of Fed Sec’s favourite tactics in the war, as I recall. Long-term infiltration with a view to striking a sufficiently fatal blow at the heart of the resistance. Now it’s starting all over again.”

  “The war’s over. At least the real one. Now it’s all strictly cold war. It’s hardly bloodless, but the UN knows the consequences if the stakes are raised too high. We hold the high ground after all.”

  “Whilst they hold most of the money.” He turned back to the bar, face sombre as he tapped fingers against a shot-glass of bourbon and ice. “And let us not forget the governance of the planet beneath us is in the hands of those who have never baulked at murder. Nor have they always been so discriminating. We went to war for a reason, as I’m sure you recall.” He lifted the shot glass. “Sure you won’t join me?”

  “Haven’t touched the stuff for almost a year, and I find I don’t miss it.” I paused as he drank, looking close to gauge his reaction. “From light we are born to light we return.”

  He gave me a blank look before glancing around the bar. “Is that a recognition code I’m supposed to know?” he asked in a mock conspiratorial whisper.

  “Rybak’s last words. Wondered if it meant anything.”

  “Very little of what Craig said over the last few weeks made much sense at all.” He took another sip before setting his glass down. “You’re wondering why he was targeted. I mean, why go to the bother of killing a mentally ill man whose days as an active part of Astravista were clearly numbered?” He took a smart from the pocket of his raincoat and placed it on the bar. “Craig’s comms data for the past year. My security people flagged an issue a few days ago. Sadly, thanks to the Ad Astra project, I hadn’t had time to look over the report before today. The relevant messages are highlighted.”

  I picked up the smart and called up the two messages outlined in red. The first was dated seven months ago and read:

  From: Sal Morely - Univek PLC

  To: Craig Rybak, H.O. Astravista

  Subject: Cayman Structure

  Craig,

  Happy to report the Cayman structure is close to completion. Let me know if you need to discuss.

  Best,

  Sal

  The second message was from the same source, with an identical subject line and dated six weeks later, reading simply: ‘Structur
e now live. Best, Sal.’

  “Cayman structure?” I asked Vargold.

  “Corporate accountancy term,” he said. “The Cayman Islands have a long-standing and widely appreciated attitude to international tax law. Comes in handy when you want to shift funds between various subsidiaries without troubling the major Downside revenue authorities. It was the kind of thing Craig dealt with all the time.”

  “So where’s the problem?”

  “Univek PLC, which I must admit I’d never heard of before today, is one of several companies established by Craig purely for the purposes of handling our Downside financial arrangements. It has no real assets, just a company registration in the Caymans and a short list of employees, Sal Morely being the registered Director. The problem is that I issued a company directive two years ago forbidding any further use of Downside tax havens like the Caymans. We were getting a lot of grief in the media about our relatively small contribution to the global economy. Since the majority of Astravista’s profits are generated in the orbital sector, I didn’t see throwing a few billion at the various tax authorities as a steep price to pay for some positive publicity.”

  “So Rybak was acting against your orders.”

  “It seems so. He may have had a good reason, some unexpected cash flow issue maybe. But it doesn’t gel with the way he did business. Craig was all about the audit. Then there’s the mysterious Mr Morley. After looking this over I placed a call to the offices of Univek PLC. The young lady who picked up was very upset. Seems Mr Morely perished in a para-gliding accident only yesterday. There’s a police report on the smart if you’d care to take a look.”

  “Fed Sec,” I said, thumbing through the stills of a portly middle-aged corpse being pulled from the ocean. “Cleaning house.”

  “Or a massively unfortunate coincidence.”

  “You think Rybak was selling you out?”

  “No. I think they got to him somehow. Blackmail, threat, I don’t know. But the Craig Rybak I knew would never have willingly betrayed me. We practically grew up together.”

  Vargold set his drink aside and turned to face me, all business now. “I’ve dealt with CAOS Defence many times, and they don’t particularly impress me. Not the way you do. Three hours in and you take down Craig’s assassin. It’s nice to have my faith vindicated.”

  “I have another case…”

  “I’m sure you do. But I’m also sure you’re used to working more than one investigation at a time. I know your superiors have handed this on, and I also know you have no intention of letting it drop. I am here merely to restate what I told you this morning; the resources of my company are at your disposal.”

  He got down from the barstool and nodded at the smart. “Keep that. It has my private contact ID, something known to only four other people in the solar system, so use it well.” He started towards the door then stopped. “I’ve chosen a name, by the way. For the ship. The Astravista Jason Alpha.”

  “Jason?”

  “As in the argonauts.”

  “Oh right. Medea’s boyfriend.”

  “Amongst other things. I’m sure Dr Vaughn can enlighten you.” He smiled and made his exit.

  My gaze went to the drink he left on the bar. A gift, or a test? I went behind the bar and carefully poured the remaining bourbon back into the bottle. Marco couldn’t afford the wastage. Before going to bed I ran a search for Rybak’s last words through the comms data on the smart Vargold had given me. It came up not found.

  Chapter 7

  “Our target’s name is John Cameron McAllister.” Mr Mac’s handsome head revolved in the centre of the squad room, the hol shimmering a little as I walked through it, eyes intent on the assembled Demons and analysts. “Aged forty-one. Graduated aged twenty-three with first class honours in Business Studies from Lorenzo City University, Yin Faculty. Aged twenty-nine he turned his back on a life of privilege and luxury to join Covert Ops during the war. Three commendations for bravery and thirty-two confirmed kills. Deserted shortly before the Langley Raid. These days he’s better known as Mr Mac, and if any of you haven’t heard of him you’re in the wrong job. I won’t list the known and suspected offences, since we don’t have all day. Suffice to say, chances are this is the biggest case you will ever work. This piece of shit has been allowed to run free for way too long. I want him, and you better want him too because none of us will rest until he’s in a cage.”

  I turned and pointed to Janet. She gave a tentative wave as all eyes swung to her. “This is Dr Vaughn, our Special Investigator. She answers only to me and has full access to all case records. Anything she wants, she gets. I hope that’s understood because I’m not fond of repeating myself.” I scanned the audience, searching for any sign of anti-splice prejudice, finding none which probably just meant most of them were good at concealing their bigotry.

  “OK,” I went on, replacing Mr Mac’s head with a scrolling time-line. “Intel on Mr Mac slowed to a trickle eight months ago. We know he spent much of the preceding year winning a war against the Arturo Cartel which consolidated his grip on the Upside Bliss trade. Since then all we have are rumours, which may indicate he’s enjoying the fruits of victory. Luckily the war gave us an in. Don Arturo’s body still hasn’t been found but rumour has it he was nailed to a recently harvested asteroid and thrown into a smelter still alive. After that his organisation went to pieces. Some capos tried to settle the hatchet with Mr Mac, which turned out to be a fatal miscalculation. He doesn’t do peace treaties. We know a few capos are still around and in hiding. Mr Mac will be looking for them which means we are too. Leyla, Timor, I want you working this angle. There’s a list of surviving Arturo goons on your smarts. When you find a live one, sit on him. We’ll put a subtle but enticing clue to his locale through the snitch network and grab whoever Mr Mac sends to finish the job.”

  Leyla nodded, gaze bright and keen with anticipation. Promise of involvement in a major case like this was how I’d lured her away from the Robbery Squad. “Will do, boss. But whoever we grab isn’t going to talk. Mr Mac’s people never do.”

  I glanced at Janet who gave an uncertain grin. “Hopefully, that won’t be an issue anymore,” I said. “The rest of you, it’s time to start grinding. Every intel report ever filed on Mr Mac will need to be re-examined. I want every bank account, address, contact ID mapped and cross-reffed. Look for nexus points, times when his people got sloppy and used the same smart twice. Mr Mac’s careful, but no one is infallible. Find me a way in.” I paused, making sure I met every pair of eyes in turn. “What happens to lazy Demons?” I asked.

  “Lazy Demons fuck off and find another job,” they all intoned as one.

  “You’ll find assignments on your stations. Get to it.”

  “He likes old stuff,” I told Janet as she scribbled notes on a pad, using an actual pen and actual paper. I wondered why since she seemed incapable of forgetting anything. “Art, antiques, old books. Every time he moves base he takes his collection with him. I thought maybe this was something for you. The past is more your thing than mine.”

  “Classical history isn’t art history,” she said. “But there is some crossover, and I have plenty of academic friends who can help. Does he have a favourite period? Renaissance, Romantic, Expressionist?” I saw her suppress a sigh at my baffled expression. “How old would you say his collection is?”

  “Dunno. Only saw it once. Looked pretty old. Downside stuff, paintings and sculptures.”

  “I’ll need details. Describe one thing as best you can.”

  I thought back to the last time I’d been face to face with Mr Mac, in his office on Yang Thirty-Three when he set me on the path that ended in Choi’s death. The memory had a tendency to stir dark impulses and it was a few moments before I suppressed them enough to form a clear image of the various objets d’art.

  “There was a statue on his desk,” I said. “Bronze. Some Jed in rags with a noose around his neck. Think he was holding something.”

  Janet blinked and pulled
her aged smart from the pocket of her combats. “Can’t be,” she muttered, running a hasty search. “This it?” she asked, holding out the smart to display a 2D.

  “Looks the same,” I said, peering at the shiny figure. I could see that the object in his hands was a large key. “You know it?”

  “The Jean d’Aire Second Maquette,” she said. “One of Rodin’s early studies for the Burghers of Calais. Stolen from the Brooklyn Museum of Art half a century ago. The UN Arts Council has a three million UA reward for information on its whereabouts.”

  “Then I guess it fits the bill. Somewhere to start at least.”

  “I’ll get on it.” She rose and went to the door. “Oh, your lady Demon, Leyla something Irish.”

  “O’Keefe. What about her?”

  “She’s in love with you.” She smiled as she closed the door. “Thought you should know.”

  The analyst seemed tiny next to Joe, her head barely reaching his bicep, and depressingly young into the bargain. “This is Athena,” Joe said and I noticed how he had to usher her into the office. “From Imaging Analysis.”

  “Sir,” she said, clearly fighting a stammer. “Chief Inspector, I mean. Uh, boss,” she added, voice dropping into a whisper.

  “What have you got?” I asked. We were five hours in without much to show. I’d been replaying every vid and still capture of Mr Mac, a visual record that lasted all of six minutes and thirty-two seconds. An ability to avoid surveillance was one of his more aggravating gifts.

  “Um, a sister,” she blurted, thrusting her smart at me. “Mr Mac’s sister.”

  “He doesn’t have any siblings,” I said.

  “He does. I think… I know. I mean, I’m pretty certain.”