Chapter 5
“Are you surprised? They bought your building after all.”
“My God, I’m going to be rich. I am rich! I have five hundred thousand dollars in my account right now, I checked, oh my God!”
“You need to settle down, Saru, you haven’t done anything yet. Don’t think they’ll let you keep that money if you fail.”
“I don’t need to listen to you anymore! I’m rich!”
She grabbed Eugene's $900 bottle of Baron Foran scotch and tore out the cork. She took a deep, long swig, so long Eugene tried to grab the bottle away, but she pressed a stiletto heel into his thigh and he doubled over. Right after the briefing with ElilE she’d raced back to her apartment and thrown on the best clothes she had—she looked pretty good, she thought. Now she sat on the corner of Eugene’s desk, heels on his thighs, skirt flirting open and closed in front of him as she swayed her knees back and forth—damn, she couldn’t seem to keep them still, another swig’d do the trick. It touched and annoyed her that Eugene refused to look up her skirt, tilting his head uncomfortably in any direction but right in front of him.
“Jesus, what’s gotten into you?” he said. “You’ve got to get to work.”
“Work?” she said. This annoyed her. She kicked Eugene’s chair, pushing it back so it banged into the copper radiator behind it. She clamped her knees together. Fine then.
“I don’t need to work, Yoo Jeen, because I, am rich.”
Eugene sighed. He held out his hand for her to hand him the scotch. She held up a finger and took another long swig before handing it to him. He started to reach for a glass and then gave up and drank right from the bottle. It was like their lips were touching through scotch. Rich people scotch. How much money did Eugene have? Was he ten-million-dollars rich?
“Look, I’m thrilled you got this contract but it is serious business. I’m looking at this brief and you do not have a lot to go on.”
That annoyed her more. She found herself hating Eugene suddenly, lecturing her on work and responsibility. What did he know? All he did was shuffle papers around and take bribes.
“Don’t you mean ‘we’? We don’t have a lot to go on. You’re my partner after all,” she said.
“I’m your lawyer—that’s not quite the same thing.”
“Huh, I dunno, I thought you’d be a bit more supportive of me.”
He slapped his knees and threw his hands up in exasperation.
“No, I don’t know. What do you want? What do you want from me?”
Isn’t it obvious? she wanted to scream. I’m going to die out there you idiot and I just want one good screw before they cut my tits off! She just growled at him and the growl ended in a scream. She flipped herself backwards over the desk and landed in a pile. She picked herself up, grinning through her tangled hair, and threw a bunch of hundreds in the air.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Here’s for your trouble, sir.”
He put his head in his hand. Sissy came in, glaring daggers. Saru grabbed her by the waist and planted a sloppy kiss on her mouth, then pushed her away and stormed down the hallway, knocking over all the tables and ornaments she passed. She got to the street and puked on the sidewalk.
She dry swallowed two Claritol, and then two more—she’d grabbed about ten pounds of them from the Gaespora pharmacy. The familiar effervescent tingle washed over her brain, a bit more intense than usual, and all the fog and the joy and the delusion rolled out. All that was left was the terror. It wasn’t something she was used to—sure, fear, that was normal, that was the once-in-a-while, kick-in-the-pants, get-you-moving sensation that was just part of the job, part of life. But this was something else; this was fear even when there was nothing to be afraid of, no men with guns or hungry elzi or torture fetishist around the corner. It was stupid to be afraid of things that weren’t right in front of you, but she couldn't help it.
It was those damn Gaespora. That trick ElilE had pulled with the night and the Dracula voice. Way to go brother, way to psych out your star player before the big game. She’d always been able to trust her eyes, or at least some other sense. No matter how strong the drugs or how sophisticated the hack, there was always that nagging knowledge that something was amiss, that she was being played. But up there on the roof—that was real. It was night, everything felt right, but it wasn’t true. That was new. She was dealing with aliens, maybe, or people that thought they were aliens, which was just as bad in her book—especially if they could pull a trick like that. That was the problem—she didn’t know what she was up against. She needed to inject some logic and flush that doubt.
In the classifieds he was listed as Dr. Morgan Friar, Private Investigator, Wekba specialist. Huh, so everyone knew he was a doctor but her. She called him up on her brand-new player, which was a goddamn necessary expense for sure. He answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Saru,” he said. He was in what must have been his office, or maybe laboratory was a better word. She saw what looked like a missile in the background. “I was expecting your call.”
“Really?” she said, dumbly. Tiramisu.
“Yes. You’re the best in your field of course; it’s natural they should ask you after me.”
“I guess you know the word then.”
“Guess is correct, but I should have warned you—the Gaespora are very persuasive.”
“Yep. Well I took the case.”
“Ah,” he said. He looked sad, and that look was enough to bring back the terror. The reception wasn’t perfect, the image was a little choppy, but for the first time she realized how old he was.
“Are you going to tell me how stupid I am?”
“No, no. But I would advise you to reconsider.”
“I don’t think that’s an option.”
“No, maybe not. I hope you won’t take this as a critique of your professionalism, but perhaps you would allow me to offer some advice? Some information that may be of use?”
“That’s actually why I called. You’re the expert.”
“It would be better if we met in person. When are you free?”
“Now, if you like.”
“Very good, here is my address.”
He sent her the address and she hailed a cab. No walking for this rich bitch. She tipped the cabby a hundred—there you go bud, buy yourself a toothbrush—and he dropped her in front of a nondescript brownstone. There was no plaque announcing who lived there; even the number was tiny and hard to read. That was just like Friar—attention to detail, subtlety, discretion; he was like her polar opposite.
She knocked softly, noticing the door was not wood, as it appeared, but some sort of hard alloy. She guessed it was bullet proof and fire and acid resistant. She looked at the stone and wondered what was beneath—reinforced concrete? Steel micromesh? This wasn’t a house; it was a fortress. She wondered who the neighbors were. No neighbors of course, he would own the other two houses and they would be just as tricked. Interesting. Not a lot of crime in this part of the city, so what was he expecting? Enemies? Old scores? The apocalypse?
The door swung open and he was there, tit-height and grave-faced.
“Come in please,” he said, ushering her in with his hand. He wore the same tweed jacket that she now suspected was more than just tweed. She stepped inside. Yes, it was like she expected—the house of an old bachelor professor, a little dusty, full of knick-knacks and relics, artwork, carved wood furniture, globes, and other gilded trash. She would buy it all when she solved the case and cram it into her foyer so you’d have to shuffle sideways to get through the maze.
“This way please.” He guided her down the hall; she caught a glimpse of the living room with a grand piano and the dining room with a crystal chandelier. They passed the kitchen (“Would you like anything?” “No thanks”) and he lead her down to the basement. This was more like it. It was part workshop, part lab, part hospital room and—oh my God there was a man in a cage. No, not a man. An elzi, a once-man. That was a little shocking.
“Yes, you see my friend Jonathan.”
“You keep him locked up in here?”
“I do. It’s for his benefit.”
She could believe that. It was common knowledge the rehab centers were fancy crematoriums and she couldn’t see much difference between him roaming the streets and being locked in a cage in her colleague’s basement. At least he couldn’t take a chunk out of anyone this way. The elzi dozed, serene, fingers clenching and unclenching in typical stereotyped behavior. She approached the cage and saw that it was suspended from the ceiling by chains. The floor was actually a deck and the cage hung a few feet out from the railing. She looked down and was surprised to see that there was no ground below—it disappeared in darkness.
“How deep does that go?” she asked.
“It’s quite deep. Let me show you.”
Friar flicked a switch and harsh yellow lights popped on at regular intervals, going down what must have been eight stories. At the bottom they formed a circle around a hatch the size of an aboveground pool.
“Where does that lead?”
“To the under city, of course.”
“The under city?”
“Yes. The sewers, the abandoned Broad Street Line and all its stations. It is quite large, and grows larger. There are things down there, digging things, things that tunnel and carve and build.”
He was almost reverent as he spoke. She shivered.
“Why do you have this? How did you even build this?”
He smiled sadly.
“What did they offer you? A million? Five million? Ten million? Twenty?”
“Uh, it was ten.”
He nodded. “Yes, what they offered me. That was not the first job I have been offered, but it was the first I refused. As a younger man I thought them fools the way they tossed around their riches, that they did not understand human concepts of value and money. Now, wiser, perhaps, I see they understand it far better than we, that it is worthless compared to life—and sanity.”
“So that’s how you built this? Working for the Gaespora?”
“Indeed. A fascinating species, but too niggardly with their secrets. My curiosity is better rewarded by the UausuaU.”
“So you believe their spiel about being from another planet, or another universe, I guess? You don’t think they’re human?”
“Human? Yes, partly. And also other. They have touched the knowledge of a different existence and the idea of that existence has brought them closer to it.”
“Yeah…I think they mentioned something like that. They also drugged me and messed with my head or something.”
“Ah yes, I remember my first time. Nothing quite like it, is there? I guess the best word would be telepathy, but it’s purely physical, of course.”
“Okay.”
She did not like this. He was saying more and more and she was understanding less and less. The opposite was supposed to be happening. She’d come here to simplify things, not complicate them with dumb philosophical chatter. She went over to an operating table, which no longer seemed out of place. It was a hard metal slab, smeared with blood.
“And I’m guessing this is where you chop up the elzi?”
“Correct.”
He waddled over to a sink and donned two yellow gloves. He sprayed a rag with some solution and attacked the bloodstains.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said. “I was just conducting an experiment before you came.”
“What kind of experiment?”
“I’m trying to see if I can remove the elzi implants without killing the host.”
She laughed. He was insane, clearly. It wasn’t too surprising—he’d spent his life studying the Wekba and working around criminals and beasts. As far as madnesses went, Friar’s was pretty mild. But thinking he could cure the elzi, that was the kind of shit that would get him killed. Better to round them all up and burn them. Smash up every computer, car, and sentient vibrator and return to an agrarian utopia.
He smiled at her. “I know. It seems hopeless, but I must try. Actually, I have learned one neat trick. Let me show you.”
He went to a control panel, an old-fashioned analogue dealy with buttons and levers. It swung the cage around above the operating table and the bottom opened, dropping the elzi like a turd onto the table. He groaned a little and then curled up into a fetal position. Saru stepped back. She wasn’t afraid of the elzi—she’d zapped her share of the angry ones—but she didn’t trust this “trick” that Friar was about to perform. He fastened chains to the elzi’s wrists and ankles and then she noticed that Friar had pulled out the elzi’s teeth and chopped off his fingers. To declaw him? To make him less dangerous? Or was that part of the trick?
Friar went over to a machine that looked like a giant radio with a computer console sticking out like a pouty mouth. He tapped at it a bit and then went to a counter covered in strange tools, soldering irons, and what looked like medical instruments. He grabbed a syringe the size of a squirt gun, walked over to the elzi’s neck and then jammed it in. She saw a scaly rash of similar punctures and wondered how many elzi had sat on that table, and where they were coming from, and what happened when they were no longer useful. Did Friar just dump them down the hole? Why not?
The elzi hardly reacted to the syringe—could they feel pain? Its eyes opened and they were still human, not rotted, wormy holes, or white with cataracts. They looked at Friar accusatorially and then grew droopy and unfocused. The elzi’s jaw went slack and he drooled. Friar beamed.
“It’s different for everyone, but about a pint of zoloctepine is enough to disable the hate response of the typical elzi. Watch.”
He flicked the elzi’s implant. Saru’s hand shot to her prod. The elzi twitched but did nothing. Saru sucked in a breath.
“That’s not funny.”
“I assure you he’s quite harmless. The effect will last about twelve minutes before the implants discover a suitable counter. That’s what I couldn’t figure out before—almost lost a few fingers—you need to mix in different drugs every time or they counter it. And once one of them knows the counter, they all do. Fascinating.”
He went to the workbench and picked up what looked like a thumb-sized satellite, and then walked over to the operating table. She flinched when Friar clipped it onto the elzi’s neck, but the elzi didn’t react other than to twitch.
“Now, watch this,” Friar said. He leaned in close—closer than Saru would have liked—to the elzi’s, cracked, rashy ear. “Jonathan. Where is the girl?” Nothing happened. Saru realized suddenly that she was wasting her time here and that precious minutes in the hunt for ten million dollars were slipping away.
“Well, this has been fun…”
“Jonathan, where is the girl?”
“Caaan’t tell…”
She nearly pissed herself. The elzi spoke—it fucking spoke!—but not in any voice that a live person ever used. It was like someone squeezing his guts to force the air out of his throat.
“Please, Jonathan, we must know where the girl is.”
“How would he…”
Friar gave a look to silence her.
“Do you know where she is, Jonathan?”
“Yessss.”
“You must tell me Jonathan!”
“No…no!”
He screamed and his body tensed and he thrashed and tore against the chains. Friar jumped back, away from the flailing arms.
“Noooooo!” the elzi screamed. Lines appeared in his skin, like fat worms crawling beneath the surface. Bubbles formed and popped, splattering blood. There was the cracking of bones, over and over like kids throwing poppers on the ground, and they burst through the skin and ripped it apart. The elzi dissolved before them, torn apart from the inside. And then there was nothing left—a small pond of gore and viscera and the implants glinting evilly. The tiny satellite had melted.
“Thank you, Jonathan,” Friar said. He seemed shaken, but not as shaken as he should have been. Saru felt like she was going to barf again.
“You…sick fuck,” she said. “What did you do to him?”
“I? I did nothing, though I admit that was a likely outcome.”
“You knew that would happen?”
“Not that, exactly. It was very likely Jonathan would die helping us, but the manner of his death I did not know.”
“What…what…did you do to him?”
“I offered him a conduit, a moment’s escape from the Uau. Imagine a paper bag over your head and a single pinprick of light—that’s about as much as I can do to penetrate the spectrum. His mind belonged to the UausuaU; it was his price, you see, for the ecstasy, the knowing. I tried to steal that knowledge, appeal to his forgotten humanity.”
“What are you saying?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the bloodstain. “That some random elzi you clubbed and dragged into your torture chamber knows where this fucking girl is?”
“He knows what Uau know—and he knew where the girl was. That means the feasters know where she is, or have a good idea.”
“Well shit, that doesn’t help. I don’t know where to look even!”
“Yes, you do,” he said. He too was staring at the blood now. She looked at him and then back at the blood and then the skin on the back of her neck began to crawl. There was a sensation in the room, a feeling like she had had with ElilE when the day had gone suddenly to night.
“I…may…have gone too far this time,” Friar said. He hefted himself onto the operating table, right onto the pile of gore. It soaked into his pants, red stains climbing up the fabric. He unlocked the foot shackles, removing the scraps of flesh and fastening them around his own ankles.
“What are you doing?”
“I…have been…naughty.”
He tightened the shackles around his legs and then started on his arms; his neck bulged strangely. She saw under his earlobe where a player would be was another tiny satellite device identical to the first, its legs jammed into his skin. A spasm crossed his face and a sound like a hyena laugh squirted from his mouth. He tightened the shackles on his arms, and before she could even process what he was doing, he flicked the key down into the hole.
“No!” she screamed.
“Yes,” he said, calmly, and then there was another hyena laugh that set her skin crawling. “I’m afraid it is quite ne-necessary now. Please…if you have kindness in you, the syringe with the red label…please.”
She stood still. The spasms happened more quickly now, more hyena laughs; he was shuddering and then he looked at her and she felt again the feeling of the day going to night and a fear radiating from him like a wave. It forced her back and then she ran to the worktable and scrambled to find the syringe. There it was, in a special holster of its own, packed and ready. For a second she marveled at how neatly it had been placed, how ready amidst the clutter, how he had prepared for this inevitability while working through his experiments. She ran back to the table.
“The girl…” he said. The twisted smile was lasting longer on his face; his arms and legs were straining against the chains. She saw that if he was free he would hurt her now, hurt many people. “Look for the girl…in the fish.” His hand grabbed at her, stopped by the chains; she stabbed the syringe into his chest and pounded down the plunger, and then scrambled to the stairs. She stayed just long enough to make sure he was still, and then she flew up the stairs and out of the house.