After clearing the cache of all the Sherry Bracken traces, I was low. Washed out. Now the Censors were making me work with that Haxel Rod? I felt resistance in my tendons, my ligaments, my very bones. Swagger and shine meant nothing when you were trying to chase down a Fact. He had none of the predator patience necessary to wait in shadow, follow a lead’s sleight of hand as it bounced off satellite signals. And none of this helped me solve the only case I cared about.
Some of this feeling was doubt and suspicion. Doubt of my own inputs, suspicion of my own conclusions. Sherry had seemed so real. I still felt her breath in my ear, pleading with me to investigate her cheating husband. Was distress really all it took to wake the fool in me? Make me a knight propped up on a dummy horse, riding down every dark alley? Well, it wasn’t dark anymore. The Censors had seen to that. Megawatting their spots into everyone’s encrypted registers, rolling every tumbler, cracking private digits, private transactions. Jamming Newsflashes across our screens day and night.
And Haxel a private citizen? Please. Former major who still acted like a general, war hero, hailed on the streets, recognized wherever he went. Loud showboat when I was just trying to slip beneath the waves of the Stream.
Generic computer chime.
NEWSFLASH: CENSORS WORK DAY AND NIGHT TO PROTECT THE FACTS. WEB OF INSURGENT HUMAN TRAFFICKERS BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. Grainy footage of three men in handcuffs, bombed out shoe factory in the background.
I brought up the data. 28-years-old waif last seen in an external port. Listed as a Survivor, privately hailed for perpetuating the Gene War Controversy, tagged for memory scams, sought by Censors “for her own safety, protection and rehabilitation”. Designated by the government for immediate removal so that they could null their own interface in the war.
This Fact was like something stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I just wanted to scrap it off and forget it, but I needed her to get the Censors out of my buffer. I needed her to redirect them back to their own crimes. Then I could shed Haxel and continue my hunt. Not everyone was a hero at the end of the war, I knew this myself. But my own data gathering had put a target on my head. If I didn’t get enough of the right kind of evidence, I too would become a Fact in need of “rehabilitation”.
It was getting light outside my window. Another seasonless Stream day. It was going to be pointless to try to squeeze in a few cycles of investigating before this Fact B.S. was sorted. Eyeballs were on me now, no chance to obscure the code.
Computer personal incoming chime.
Here we go.
“Alright.”
“Viktor, we’re going to coordinate our efforts and grab this Fact before the weekend. Ida Chantilly is joining the revue Saturday and I have a table reserved.”
I felt my jaw clenching already. I was used to working alone, not with some blowhard more interested in being seen than fixing the crumbling walls of the past and building a future for humans.
“I was just reading up on the Fact-”
“Dolly Drury, I know already. My feeds say she frequents the Greyhound Portal. Why don’t you go there and see if you can catch any traces and I’ll swing by the Chit Chat Room and put out some feelers.”
“Wow, nice cooperation. If I find her at the Greyhound, I’ll bring her to the Censors myself. But I suppose you’ll jump right in for the credit.”
“Oh, need a hug? Suck it. We aren’t spending all day making sure you feel tucked in. Check your stoop— there’s a package there with a burner in it. Use that to call me from the Portal and give me an update. I’ll be on club comms.”
The screen went dark. So that’s how it was going to be. Haxel still acting like a general, ordering me around. Just like working by myself, but with random and annoying interruptions. Fighting back would only prolong this toothache. Best to rip the problem out by its roots and leave this whole interaction a gap in the memory code.
Generic computer chime.
NEWSFLASH: LIBERATION REGENERATION, THE CENTER FOR FACT PROTECTION, OPENS IN WASHINGTON. Hyper pixilated, enhanced shot of General Dine shaking hands with the President in front of a huge ribbon, Madam Secretary holding up a giant pair of scissors, newly poured windowless cement bunker in the background.
The burner was right where he said it would be. I slipped it into my pocket and took the bus downtown. Greyhound Portal was the last stop. Cracked pavement, crumpled beer cans, butts, used gear in the gutters, and WTF, an old sock with the foot still in it. The light over the entrance flickered, the door hung on one hinge. It said “Push”, but the only way to widen the gap was to pull hard, then jam it with a shoulder and sidle in before it creaked closed again.
The place was a shrine to shit and snot. Linoleum flooring that might once have been a real color, but was now dingy tan with worrisome brown stains here and there. The benches were all occupied, a few with actual passengers waiting for the next bus, but most by derelicts sprawled out, shopping bags of crap piled up around their heads. The schedule board was old-fashioned, with individual letters that had to be arranged into city names, individual numbers that had to be pushed in to indicate the platforms and times. Most were missing. The public restrooms on the righthand wall had a wide berth of emptiness in front of them. I found out why when I cased the perimeter: the smell emanating from the open doors rivaled the La Brea Tar Pits filled with rotting dinosaurs.
Public monitor chime.
NEWSFLASH: FIRST FACT GRANTED CITIZENSHIP. Rail thin young man teetered in front of a judge, his right hand raised. He mouthed words with no expression on his face. Beaming officials stood before a wall of flags.
An improbably dapper looking ticket agent sat behind glass at a kiosk in the center, I circled ‘round and headed over.
“Seen this girl?” I held up a screenshot.
“Where’s your badge?” The crispness ended at the uniform: pure jaded local, pissed at being interrupted from the pirate broadcast jammed under the counter.
I worked to keep my voice even. “Private detective, working for the Censors. Seen her?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. For sure I’ve heard that tired line, though. You need this girl,” he gave me a quick, distasteful up-and-down, “for something, that’s not my concern. Buy a ticket like everyone else.”
I made a show of looking around, lingering at all the passed out clientele while I gripped the shiv in my pocket. “Everyone has a ticket, huh? Well-” the burner chirped out an incongruous disco beat in my pocket. Ticket man raised his eyebrows in a sure-you’re-working-for-the-Censors look. My head boiled with rage. This was just the kind of situation I put effort in avoiding. There was no win here: I couldn’t explain how this stupid ring was coming from my pocket, how hard I was working not to reach in and gut him where he sat. I didn’t even want to find this Fact. I was going to be Haxel’s bitch until someone kicked out some kind of lead I could use.
“Wait here,” I hissed, trying to sound as menacing as I could from my depleted state.
“What is it?”
“Guess who’s at the Chit Chat, sitting in a booth with some other bird? Pick up your snail pace or I’ll flush her out myself.”
“Stand down, I’m on my way.”
“I’m not holding my breath. But how about a two-fer? This other feather reads as a Fact, too. I don’t give a rat’s either way, but it’d be an easy way to pick up more bits.”
My anger flared again. It was bad enough to have to bring a Fact to the Censors, what, now we were going to be their whippers-in? I’d be damned. I wondered at Haxel. True, I didn’t know him outside or behind his public hero persona, but word running through the Stream was he ran the Chit Chat Room and the Blunderbuss like military operations. Didn’t clock with this sudden generosity toward helping Censors. He knew we weren’t going to get paid. This had to be the Level Boss. Wondered what she had over him.
“You might not have taken in the order when you were playing patty-cake with the Censor while the other was Mac 10-ing my face, but they did say get the Fact—singular. That’s what I intend to do: follow their rules to the letter. They want another? Let them scuff their soles for it. I’m going to dress up Dolly and ship her out, that’s it.”
“Oh, deep thinker. That sums up your political career nicely.” He snorted into the phone. “I’ll keep eyes on, don’t dawdle.”
He had the burner rigged to switch to dial tone after he hung up. Very effective, “General.” I pocketed it and headed toward the exit without looking back at the ticket booth. It was enough of an attention drain to have to watch the floor and not step in anything lingering. Even so, one of the brown stains that looked like part of the unfortunate floor pattern ended up being “fresh” enough to leave a goopy muck on the bottom of my shoe. Every step through the rest of the lobby was accompanied by a slurping, sticky sound. The diesel fumes outside the entrance were a relief to breathe in. I grabbed the uptown and kicked out at the Chit Chat Room.
The neon sign cycled through the club letters, spelling them out in a garish red. The puddle out front reflected the lights, all else was after-hours dark.
The entrance opened onto a big room, oak bar in the middle with stools surrounding it, booths against the walls, cocktail tables spread out before the stage. A dark hallway to the left of the stage led to private rooms. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung from the ceiling.
He was up on a stool, facing out toward the rest of the club, elbows jutting back to the bar to prop himself up, a drink on the rocks at his back, burning cigarette propped in an ashtray next to it. The connector for mandatory public Censor broadcasts hung from a blank screen, it’s plug snaked ‘round a Guinness tap, the end was pinned down with a bowl of lime slices on the pickup station. I sidled up to Haxel without making eye contact.
“There he is, the private dick,” he said under his breath.
“Let’s wrap it.” I stared at the beer taps.
“They’re in pretty tight, been huddled up over the same drinks since I called you. Must have been just underground seedlings 20 years ago. Too young for combat.”
“The war wasn’t just for soldiers,” he had touched a sore subject. “Lots of ‘seedlings’ were just collateral. They had quite a view and could torpedo a lot of propaganda if they chirped.”
“Alright, bleeder, call the Profilists on your own time to set up the feel goods. Right now we need to bag this bird and let the Censors do their jobs.” He glanced over at a tart hanging off the other side of the bar. “I have important things to do.”
I was ashamed of myself for lashing out with real feelings. This was treading too close to my case, forcing me into a lane I had worked hard to stay out of. Hand the Fact over now, and I had lost a day, maybe a day-and-a-half of real work. Time to cut my losses and wash my hands of this mess.
“Ping the Censors, they like you. I’ll keep the birds in their cage.”
Haxel stood, rubbing his chest where the Censor’s knees had dug in. “Can’t wait to show them the same admiration someday. I’ll be on the office phone.” He walked off toward the back.
I turned my attention to the booth. Dolly Drury hunched over a pint glass, her black bangs skimming down into the foam. Across from her was a young woman, I’d guess early twenties, thin, bleached job spiked up, hollowed out eyes. Her trench coat was a few sizes too big, military patches ripped off the collar and sleeves, only two buttons left. She was lost in it, shivering. Her eyes darted around the place, seeing nothing. Chisel cut cheekbones and the pouting lip, now where had I seen that before? A memory flashed in and out like the neon sign over the club entrance. In focus, important, then gone.
“Five minutes. Let’s invite them to the back office. I don’t want the Censors putting crators in my floor.” His voice startled me with its bitterness.
“Alright, why don’t I-”
“You stay here, cover the door in case this gets active.” He moved toward the booth with outstretched arms.
“Ladies, ladies, welcome to the Chit Chat Room. I’m Haxel Rod, the proprietor. I’d love five minutes of your time to ask how we could make our offerings more inviting for you and your friends. A few questions, my associate records your answers, and drinks are on the house for the rest of the evening, what do you say?”
I watched their faces, gauging if they would fall for this horseshit line or not. A flash of fear ricocheted off the woman across from Dolly as Haxel said his name, or it could have been a reflection from the neon. I couldn’t be certain.
“Well, we were just about to leave-” Dolly’s voice was soft, as though she were convincing herself, not answering Haxel.
“A quick detour to my private office on your way out, then. You can come back anytime for your complementary evening. Whatever fits your schedule better.”
Dolly had picked up her glass to slide the coaster out and was worrying it in her hands now, turning it over and over. Spiky across from her looked like she had shaken her head no as she cowered in her seat, but it was too fast for me to be certain.
“That’s really nice of you, but-”
“Look, I wasn’t going to tell you,” Haxel leaned over the table dropping his voice, “but Ida Chantilly is coming by in a half hour for a sound check for Friday’s show. Of course, I told her I’d have the place empty, but you can come right back to this booth — she won’t notice. Just five minutes, then drinks and your own private show. C’mon, only a fugitive would pass up that kind of deal.”
“Well…” Dolly looked over at her friend. Spiky’s face was like a statue. She was not nodding yes or shaking her head no, but stared intently at Dolly, holding her breath, waiting for Dolly to tell her what she was going to do. Haxel really had them backed into a corner. “I guess for a few minutes, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to watch a show…”
Spiky was still holding her breath. They both stood up.
“It’s just behind the bar,” Haxel was conjuring them out of the booth in his infuriating, magnanimous all-this-is-mine tone. They stood, wafting uncertainly until he offered each an arm and began walking them toward his office.
Haxel had almost skirted the bar with them when he stopped by the pickup station and turned to me.
“Oh right. Girls, this is my amanuensis, Viktor Romeo.” He said it as an afterthought, gesturing to me with a wave of his hand as though he were dismissing a waiter. He slid the Censor Broadcast plug back in when they looked over at me. Dolly nodded without making eye contact and gave a tight-lipped half-smile. Spiky froze.
Her mouth dropped open in shock. Her inhaled with her whole body—she was going to scream, or say something to Dolly, but the Censor Broadcast kicked in, flooding the place in a solar flare flash, drowning us all in its emergency alarm blaring out at maximum decibel levels.
WARNING: FACT PROTECTION ALERT: SHELTER IN PLACE, SHELTER IN PLACE, FACT PROTECTION: ALERT, SHELTER IN PLACE UNTIL CENSORS HAVE SECURED THE FACTS. WARNING, WARNING, SHELTER IN PLACE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Dolly doubled over at the roar of sound. Spiky made the same motion, but then continued to the floor and rolled back up in a fighting stance.
She looked up at me. I felt the edge of a memory nudge me, then disappear.
I shook my head. Don’t. Her eyes searched my face, comparing what she saw in front of her to some mental image. Then she shoved a stool at me and ran toward the street.
The stool overturned and bounced off my shin. Pain brighter than the Censor Broadcast flare flashed before me. I squelched it. Haxel was yelling something at me, but I couldn’t hear him over the broadcast alarm. He hands gripped Dolly’s shoulders as though he were shielding her from the sound and lights. His mouth moved in anger as he dragged her away.
Spiky was almost at the door. Once outside, the darkness would protect her. She was small and scared, I could have reached her in seconds without breaking a sweat, grabbed her by the scruff of her coat and turned her back. I heard the Censor’s voice echo in my ear and it anchored my feet.
“You work with Haxel. Do as he says. Bring the Fact to us.”
She looked back in panic. I stayed where I was. She was opening the door. Her foot stepped out onto the sidewalk. The door closed. She was gone.
I let her go.
Haxel and Dolly were already in the office when I caught up to them. The sound dropped to tolerable with the door shut behind me. Dolly sat in a chair before a massive steel desk, her head cradled in her hands. Haxel was standing behind the desk.
“Where is she?”
“I guess she was too fast for me.” I threw him a challenging scowl. Try me.
Haxel glared.
Dolly looked up at us, confusion in her brow.
“What’s going on?”
“Sit tight and this will be cleared up quick.” Haxel’s voice was hard, the gregarious proprietor facade cracking.
“I need to go,” Dolly said without moving.
Two sharp raps from outside, then the door was kicked in. The Censors strode in and slammed the door behind them. One had his gun raised, the other was reading from the digi-screen embedded in his forearm.
“Gentleman,” Haxel’s facade was back up, “so good of you to stop by. May I present Dolly Drury, all the way from-”
“We’ll take it from here.” The Censor flipped the lid over the digi-screen. The other still brandished his weapon. “Dolly Drury, we are taking you in protective custody. You will be brought to Liberation Regeneration where you will stay at the Government’s behest until it is safe for you to return.”
“But I don’t want to go, what did I do? I-”
“It’s simply too dangerous for you to be in the open. You will come with us and we will ensure your safe arrival.”
The Censor with the weapon stood next to her now. The other blocked the door. The broadcast alarm made the door vibrate behind him.
“But I don’t want-”
The Censor dropped her with a Mac 10 shot to the face. She was still twitching as they carted her out of the club. The alarm stopped a few minutes later.
Haxel pulled a bottle and glass from a desk drawer and poured himself a drink.
“Jesus, what a day. Glad that’s done. Don’t stay up all night waiting for the commendation from the Level Boss.”
“I just want my name off her list.” The way Spiky moved had rattled me. A rock in my shoe. I had missed something, I was sure of it.
Haxel just sunk into his chair and drank.
I showed myself out.
The coffee cup was cold as a corpse on my desk. What a day. I pulled up my case files and combed through them. Mostly newspaper prints from the archives, articles from the war and its aftermath. Lots on the heroic Major Haxel Rod, profiles of him and other Liberators, a brief mention of Oppressors.
I nodded off over a short article on the Clone Factory. I awoke to weak morning light, still in yesterday’s clothes, complete with the brown muck on my shoe from Greyhound Portal. I sat up, rolling my head to work out a kink in my neck.
Generic computer chime.
NEWSFLASH: LONG SOUGHT FACT DOLLY DRURY DIES AT LIBERATION REGENERATION. CENSORS SAY SHE KILLED HERSELF IN DESPAIR OVER A FAILED ROMANCE. CENSORS LAMENT NOT GETTING TO HER SOONER. REMEMBER: FACTS CAN BE PROTECTED UNTIL THEY ARE SAFE TO RETURN. The words dissolved into an old photograph of a young Dolly Drury. She was standing in front of the Clone Factory next to other youngsters and their Liberator Major Haxel Rod in full uniform.
I hit print just as the screen faded to black. The machine hummed and whirred while I frantically paced about the room. Had I caught it in time?
Finally finally it started printing. I grabbed it, wrenching it free of the tray. There was the photograph. There was Dolly Drury, and next to her a girl who would grow up to dye her hair blond, spike it and have drinks in the Chit Chat Room. Lila Poole.
I thought they had both died in the Clone War. I thought I was the only one to have made it out of the factory before the missile strike. But Lila was still alive. So she knew who else had made it out, she might even know which Oppressor had authorized the brain harvests. My entire investigation. Could have been solved if only I had recognized her. But I just let her go.
I had to find her.
Just the Fact