Slab City Blues: The Collected Stories

  “Use of false credentials to cross international boundaries,” she went on. “Illegal transport of a firearm across said boundaries…”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t killed anyone yet,” I said. “And I’m guessing you have some reason not to think I’m a paranoid nut-bar ‘cause we’ve been here for an hour and I’m not in cuffs.”

  She sat perched on the arm of her couch, a towel around her neck, her gun and mine on the coffee table between us. “We got shut down,” she said after a long pause. “A bunch of Fed Sec suits turned up with a UN mandated order not long after I spoke to you. Took all our evidence, including Schiffler’s body. Left me in no doubt this was their case now.”

  “Did they give you the slightest impression they’d actually do anything with it?”

  “‘Course they fucking didn’t. Thirteen of my people dead and no one will ever know why.”

  “You OK with that?”

  She glanced at the window as a shoal of brightly coloured fish darted past. “This is a good place, y’know. People here made me welcome, never called me a freak or an abomination before the lord. That isn’t always the case down here. Different where you’re from, I guess.”

  “We have our problems, but we mostly just rub along as best we can.”

  She nodded. “There isn’t much I can give you. Like I said, Fed Sec took all the evidence.”

  “The victims,” I said. “Them you can give me.”

  Thirteen names. Five men, eight women. The oldest an eighty-three year old grandfather of six, the youngest a seventeen year old girl from Copenhagen who’d come to visit with her great-aunt. There were also two young men in their twenties, a married couple from Brazil here to compete in an upcoming sub-aquatic sports tournament. Just people, going about their lives, their stories forever caught in the amber of this atrocity.

  “No links,” Phaedra said, now dressed in a less distracting police uniform. She’d cooked whilst I read, whisking up a mushroom broth from fresh produce grown in Salacia’s hydroponics farm. Apparently, self-sufficiency was part of the sub-aquatic ethos, insurance against the day the world above the waves finally went to complete shit. “No links to Schiffler. Most didn’t know each other, those that did only in passing. No one rich, more than the average I mean. No one famous.”

  “Who was first?” I asked.

  “There’s a mo-capped multi-angle re-creation in the vids folder, all victims tagged and events time-lined.”

  I called up the file and ran it through, watching the stick figures fall one by one as Schiffler made an unhurried progress across the concourse, speargun jerking a little as he fired. It seemed entirely random, even typical for this kind of tragedy. Solitary loser blows a brain-gasket and seeks notoriety via mass murder. Psychologically speaking the victims were irrelevant, just extras in the movie playing in Schiffler’s head. I ran the sequence again at slower speed, freezing it just as Schiffler made his first kill. The victim’s tag named them as Roderico Lomos Vivar, one half of the Brazilian couple. I noticed Roderico had been shot in the back whilst in motion, he seemed to be diving to the side, arms reaching out to another figure. I advanced frame by frame, watching Roderico collapse as the spear skewered him. The figure he had been reaching for stood stock still as Schiffler lined up for another shot, making no effort to evade the killing spear. The name tag read Lisabet Holstrom, aged fifty-four, Salacia resident for just under eight months.

  I reran the vid from the moment Schiffler first stepped onto the concourse, speargun held at his side in a relaxed grip, like he was carrying a fishing rod. Switching to a top-down view I saw that his initial approach contrasted with the latter part of the spree. Instead of wandering and picking off targets of opportunity he made a direct line for where Lisabet Holstrom sat at a cafe reading a book. He paused twelve feet away for several seconds. I watched Holstrom look up from her book, hesitate for a second then slowly get to her feet, standing in immobile expectation.

  “That’s when he first said it,” I said to Phaedra. “Wasn’t it?”

  “The ‘from light’ thing? Yeah.”

  The ghastly cartoon played out, Schiffler raising his speargun, Roderico rising from the neighbouring table and diving towards the woman he saw was about to be murdered. “You might want to tell this Jed’s family he died a hero,” I said, freezing the playback and tapping Roderico’s body. “Holstrom was the target. Everyone else was just cover.”

  “Biographical details are pretty thin,” Phaedra said a short while later. She’d accessed the Salacia mainframe and downloaded all data relating to Lisabet Holstrom. “Our investigation was only getting started by the time Fed Sec shut us down, so the victim profiles are kinda bare bones. Also, the sub-aquatic community is big on privacy and personal freedom. When someone applies to join a hab there’s a basic background check to ensure they don’t have a criminal record, plus confirmation their finances are in order, but not much else. Holstrom came up clean on all checks and paid the full amount for a ten year lease on a lower level apartment. Lower levels have the best views so they command a premium. Lived alone, no significant others. She did join a book group though, met every Wednesday in a neighbour’s apartment.”

  “Open sources?”

  Phaedra did some scrolling. “Doesn’t seem to have made any headlines, all hits are on corporate personnel sites. Seems she was an engineer, astronautics. Born in Norway, but spent much of her working life up the well.”

  “Employer?”

  “Most recent was…” She trailed off, looked up with a small grin. “Hephaestus Propulsion Systems, a division of Astravista Industries. Guess we’re not chasing shadows after all.”

  I rose from the table, holstering my Colt and looking at her expectantly.

  “What?”

  “Police work one-oh-one,” I said. “Let’s go knock on someone’s door.”

  There were only three apartments on Salacia’s lowest level. One was temporarily unoccupied and the other belonged to the organiser of Holstrom’s book group. The man who answered the door was clearly a fan of rejuve treatments, the face and body of a thirty year old with the hands and eyes of someone who probably remembered the first Titan landing. “Chief!” he greeted Phaedra with a broad smile, coming close to air-kiss both cheeks. “It’s been too long. You look even more marvellous.”

  He stood aside and beckoned us inside. It took me a moment to fully appreciate the size and luxury of the apartment, putting even Oksana’s place to shame. The wall was one big window, curving around in a 120 degree arc to encompass a broad sweep of the coral reef surrounding Salacia’s tethers.

  “Thank you for talking to us, Theodore,” Phaedra said then nodded at me. “This is Mr Cross, a private investigator. He’d like to talk about Ms Holstrom.”

  Theodore’s face fell abruptly, raising a shaky hand to his lips. “Oh, that terrible business. I thought it was over. The hab-feed said your investigation was concluded.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Sorry to cause any upset, but the firm handling Ms Holstrom’s estate have asked me to look into the events surrounding her demise.”

  Theodore stiffened a little, eyes taking on a judgemental cast. “Vultures gathering, are they?”

  “We’re just trying to make sure the settlement is fair and equitable. But, yes, some of Ms Holstrom’s relatives are contesting the will.” I gave a reluctant wince, lowering my voice to a confiding murmur. “There are claims Ms Holstrom may have been suicidal. Even that she might have had something to do with the massacre.”

  “That’s utterly ridiculous.” Theodore stiffened further. “To think that dear lady would ever hurt another soul. Preposterous.” I could tell he believed what he said, but I also detected a small tick of uncertainty amongst the outrage.

  “How well did you know her?” I asked.

  His face softened and he moved to take a seat at the breakfast bar. “Not as well as I’d have liked. She was an interesting person. I like interesting people, like our dear Phaedra here.
Lisabet was well read, multi-lingual and highly intelligent, but also… very sad. Not suicidally so, but still, I could see her pain, though she did her best to hide it. There was one time, though, during a book group get-together. We were discussing Bleak House, her pick for the week. She so loved Dickens. In the middle of the discussion, she just burst into tears. I asked her what was wrong but she wouldn’t say, just kept on crying and saying she was sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I have no idea. But it was strange, like she was personally apologising to all of us, saying sorry to each one of us. I got her a brandy and she calmed down, eventually. I think that was the last book group she came to. Three weeks later…” He shuddered. “Well, you know about that.”

  “Did she ever talk about her work?”

  “Not particularly. I remember her saying her retirement had come earlier than expected, though from what remained somewhat vague. I could tell from her accent she’d spent some years in orbit, though not as many as you, I’d guess.”

  “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 callin
g 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.”