silver lighter was a relic from another time, it had a stainless cap that flipped open and a gear that had to be spun to light the flame. I couldn't find the fuel it used to take and now I used diluted explosive gel, it changed the color of the flame to blue instead of orange.
I took a drag off my cigarette and sipped at my cup of grain alcohol. The highway far below me was moving with rows of crystal blue headlights that looked like a string of shining beads in the dark. I looked over the tag from the laundry again and wondered if it would lead me to anyone.
There was little else I could do tonight. Even though the night would last another three days, the local businesses would keep their normal hours. I ground out the stub of the cigarette and dropped it into a metal lock box. When it was full, I would empty it in a dumpster away from my apartment building. I flopped down in my unmade bed and fell asleep in my clothes.
I dreamt of flame and shadow, breaking glass and a woman's scream. Sharing an umbrella in the rain.
I woke up on my stomach in bed, tangled in sheets, pointing my gun at the window in my bedroom. The lights of the city outside throbbed and the smoke billowed, lit amber in the night by searchlights. I put the rail pistol down next to my pillow and checked the time on my mobile. Five fifty-eight in the morning. I didn't think the laundry would be open for a few more hours, so I pulled the blankets over my head. I laid in bed another twenty minutes before deciding I couldn't sleep. My arm was sore—the arm I didn't have.
I stripped off yesterday's clothes and stood naked in front of my shower. I let the fingertips of my right hand rest at the shoulder of the left, the place where the machine met the flesh. It took a few seconds for the sensors to recognize my fingerprints. I twisted the shoulder and the machine arm came off, little servos whirring into their sockets. It felt better, the pain was down to a dull ache.
After a shower, I put everything back on and found my sidearm where I had left it. It had a long heavy barrel with vents down its length, the handle was thick and ribbed to fit my hand. I checked that the magazine was full—which it was. The shiny black finish on the rail pistol was unmistakable, this had been my service pistol in the Marines. It had been one of the first prototype weapons to use Zero Black to conceal it from scans. It contained a tracking chip that I had hacked to stop transmitting. Anyone could find the gun with a low-tech physical search of my person.
I decided to check the refrigerator for food and immediately wished I hadn't. There was a pitcher of reconstituted milk that seemed solid with whatever was living in it now. I dropped the pitcher into the garbage chute. Next, was a paper takeout box from Yoshi's, noodles with sliced pork and fried tofu, didn't smell too bad. I ate it cold with chopsticks even though the pork was a little spongy. The meat had been grown in a lab. I could taste it.
I found my hacked clearance card where I had left it, taped to the frame underneath my couch. I had changed the authorization code to allow access up to level twenty, after that the security checkpoints use retina scans. The card used an old clearance code, but it wouldn't look suspicious if I used it sparingly.
I left my apartment and found my way back to the tram platform. The rail took me to a shopping center where the laundry appeared on the schematics for the sector. I found a stall selling synthetic coffee and passed him a cred stick. I added sugar until he told me I couldn't have any more, still tasting like the wrong end of a tube rat.
The lift up to level fourteen had glass along its back wall, the view looking down on the city. A security checkpoint was stationed at the entrance to another mall, staffed with a handful of armed Agents. These wore the typical gray and black jumpsuit with a vest of reinforced rigid body armor. I approached the scanning gate as one of them turned to watch me, face hidden under the helmet's reflective visor. Two of them had their usual sidearms, a pistol with a square barrel that sat in a hip holster. The two flanking the gate had rifles slung over their shoulders. I slid the card through the receiver and a monotone voice told me that clearance was accepted.
The animated sign for Whistle Cleaners was an old-fashioned train whistle that blew steam once every ten seconds or so. I watched it and finished my coffee, getting a thick syrupy clump of sugar at the bottom. After a few more minutes, a light-up sign came on that read OPEN in English before showing Japanese kanji and Arabic script. I stepped through the glass door.
A smooth-faced man with skin the color of copper regarded me from behind the counter. The flashing open sign reflected light over the lenses of his wide sunglasses, making them turn white every few seconds in the otherwise fluorescent light. His expression was easy and relaxed, a hand absently fixed a gelled spike from his cherry-colored hair.
I approached the counter, showing my ID badge, “I'm Adrian Shetler, an Investigator looking into a petty theft, can I ask you a few questions?”
When the clerk seemed happy with the placement of his hair, he looked at me over the rim of the glasses, “What do you want to know?”
“I need to track down the owner of a shirt that was recently cleaned at this laundry,” I put my badge back into my pocket and rested my hands on the counter.
“We clean a lot of shirts here, not sure I can help.”
I handed him the slip from the jacket's pocket. He accepted it with a sigh and opened a holographic screen on the counter. It took a moment to scan the digital symbol on the tag and search the resulting grid that showed on the display.
He highlighted an address with his finger and tapped it to enlarge the text, “The account is registered to Devin Cowan, he asked that we deliver to this address.”
I copied the address onto my mobile and thanked the clerk for his time. He asked me to repay him by sending my trench coat in to be cleaned. I told him I wouldn't.
I took the tram to another cluster of highrise buildings and found that Devin's address was on the twelfth level near a rent-a-coffin hotel. His door was a polished steel slab in a corridor of other polished steel slabs. I knocked loudly and let the camera over the door scan my identity. No answer. I knocked again and pressed my ear to the cool steel surface. No sound from inside.
I moved to the wall, clearing myself from the camera's range and thumbed the screen of my mobile open. The wireless signal for the camera contained the number for Devin's apartment, it was easy to pick out from the other signals near me. I ran a routine that showed me photos of everyone the door had opened for in the last week. The blonde woman's photo was time stamped from three days ago. The camera had captured her standing in the hall, glancing over her shoulder at someone off frame and smiling. I thumbed back to the most recent photo and sent it back to the camera's processor. The light changed from red to green and the door slid open. I passed through the open door and waited for it to slide closed before I drew my rail pistol.
I searched the small kitchen and found it empty, except for an overflowing garbage chute. Behind a door was a little bedroom with a screen projector that was turned off. It was near a lumpy mattress that sat on the floor without a frame. The living room had a futon and a glass coffee table that faced a screen mounted on the wall. I found the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain open, but it was also empty.
Footsteps sounded heavily against the corridor floor outside. I kept to the bathroom while the door slid into the wall, squealing on its track. A man's voice came muffled through the bathroom door, the opening just wide enough to see the living room.
Devin was a shorter man with a gut that showed through his tee shirt. He wore a pair of thick cloth pants and a black canvas coat that was unbuttoned. He spoke into a mobile that he pressed to his ear, “Look, I already took care of it. If you don't believe me you can check the serial number for yourself.”
As he recited a number and letter chain that was about twelve digits long, I clicked open my mobile and typed it into a note file. It looked like a serial number.
He sat on the futon and started kicking his shoes off, “Just put the
creds in the account I gave you earlier. Yeah, nice doing business with ya.”
I stepped out of the bathroom with my weapon trained on him just as he was putting his mobile away, “Stand up and turn around.”
Devin flinched and pulled away from the sound of my voice, bringing a fist near his ear and starting to turn from the hip like a boxer. He released his fist and thrust his hands up as his eyes met the weapon, “What's with you people? It's done, I just told—”
“I'm not here about that,” With my other hand I showed him the screen on my mobile with the blonde woman's picture, “Tell me about her.”
Devin's eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw, “I don't know her.”
“Don't lie to me. I pulled this photo from your door camera—who is she?” I put my mobile away and kept the gun leveled at his sternum.
He cast his eyes down and the corners of his mouth sank, “Her name is Tara Alexander, she's a—a friend. Look, I'll tell you more if you put the gun away.”
I kept the weapon on him for a moment longer, then tucked the rail pistol into my pocket, “Did you know that she died last night?”
He put his hands down and crossed to the bar in his kitchen, “I'd heard some chatter about a dead woman in the slums last night. I wondered if it was