A Toaster on Mars (5 page)

Blake rubbed his unshaven chin. ‘This whole extortion gig is new for Badde,' he said, thoughtfully. ‘It's the one thing I don't understand. Why do it? It's not his style.'

‘Do you think he'll really use the Super-EMP?'

‘I don't know. The Earth might never recover if he does.'

‘What would people do without power?'

Blake shrugged. ‘It could be a good thing,' he said. ‘They would do what people used to do in olden times.'

‘Like what? Die from leprosy?'

‘People would get to know their families. Start talking to their neighbours. Read books. Be active in their communities.'

‘That's the biggest load of sprot I've ever heard,' Nicki said. ‘It's pure nostalgia, like that song from the Sunbarrows.'

‘Who?'

‘They're a retro group. They write new lyrics to old songs, add a drumbeat and synthesiser. Their song ‘What's So Good About Now?' is sung to the ancient tune of ‘Oh, You Beautiful Doll'.'

‘I don't know it.'

‘It goes like this,' Nicki said, and sang it:

Blake sighed.

Exactly what I needed
, he thought.
A singing toaster.

6

Nicki was relieved to see Blake navigating through the traffic without crashing. He had one or two near misses, but he was a surprisingly good driver considering he didn't use the onboard AI.

Once they'd arrived at PBI headquarters, Blake and Nicki took the elevator to the main concourse, which was crammed with members of the public wanting to file reports. Blake pointed to a statue at one end of the service desk. It was a heavily bearded three-breasted woman with a blaster in one hand and handcuffs in the other, set on a three-foot-high pedestal.

‘Simone de Chargette,' he said. ‘The PBI's first—'

‘—Commissioner of Police. Born 2232, died 2274
in a gun battle against the lunar mafia.'

‘You know your history.'

‘I'm familiar with the entire history of the PBI. Actually, I'm familiar with the history of almost everything.'

‘You know what that makes you sound like?'

‘A smart cyborg?'

‘Something like that.'

They managed to push their way through the crowds until they finally reached the staff entrance at the far end.

‘You got a badge?' Blake asked Nicki.

‘Of course I've got a badge.'
When will this guy get with the program?
she wondered.

Nicki had come across prejudice every day of her life. Everyone she met thought she was a robot, but it couldn't be that way with Blake. She had to work with him.

A guard held up a hand as they approached the barriers.

‘What is it?' Nicki demanded. ‘You're going to point out that I'm carrying metal?'

‘Robots have their own entrance.'

‘I'm not a robot,' Nicki said, showing him her ID. ‘I'm a cyborg.'

‘What's that? A religion?'

Sighing, she explained that she was, in fact, nine per cent human.

‘I don't know,' the guard said. ‘I don't think that counts.'

‘How much does it take to be human?'

‘Beats me. Robots use the basement entrance.'

Blake looked pointedly at the badge in her hand. ‘She's got the badge,' he told the guard. ‘That means she comes through here.'

The guard backed off.

‘Thanks,' Nicki said to Blake as they entered another elevator.

‘It doesn't make us pals. If you've got the badge, you use the same entrance as everyone else.'

They stepped out into a room filled with hundreds of office cubicles. It was almost a duplicate of Nicki's office in the south-west. The ceiling was lined with old-style flat bulbs that cast a faint nicotine-stained light over everything. The booths were big enough to swing a cat, but not much else. Most of the agents had picture vids on their desks or walls. The computers were standard: thirty-six-inch semicircular screens with 3D projection.

Some bright spark in personnel had decided to decorate the other walls with a mural of a forest setting. It was probably a good idea in the beginning, but agents had made adjustments to suit themselves. Video cut-outs of dinosaurs, monsters and ghosts peered from behind trees. Agents used them for target practice when they were bored.

‘Where's Pomphrey?' Blake asked an agent as they passed.

‘In a meeting with the bigwigs on level 700,' the agent said. ‘Who's your girlfriend?'

‘None of your business,' Blake said, and turned to Nicki. ‘A lot of the guys here don't get out of the office much,' he explained. ‘If in doubt, check for a pulse.'

Nicki glanced around the room at the other agents. Most were at their computers, taking calls or speaking to criminal informants, whose images were silhouetted on the screens to protect their identities. A few agents were displaying pictures of the Elbow.

Blake led her down a corridor.

‘You're not in here?' she said, in surprise.

‘I've got my own office,' Blake said. ‘An advantage of seniority.'

Or the rest of the team can't stand working with you
, Nicki thought.

The office wasn't big, but it had a window, which was almost unheard of in the PBI. A mechanical pigeon with three eyes had huddled outside the glass, but flew off when it spotted them.

The room contained two desks and two chairs, a pair of computers and half a dozen filing cabinets. Nicki hadn't seen filing cabinets before, so she checked her datapad—a tablet with lightning fast access to the Hypernet—to see what they were.

‘You still need one of those?' Blake asked, nodding to the datapad. ‘I thought you had a super-brain.'

‘I do,' Nicki said. ‘I don't like to clog it up with rubbish.'

The computers were ancient, probably not from this century, and buried in stacks of paperwork—another anomaly in most offices.

One of the desks was grimy, but the other was pristine.

Nice to see it isn't a complete dump
, Nicki thought.

Unexpected items hung off the walls, including a giant rubber hammer, a plastic ostrich, three purple eggs the size of footballs and a piano accordion.

Nicki could recall the homes of five serial killers that had looked similar.

‘So this is your office,' she said, trying not to sound offensive.

‘This is it, tin girl.'

‘Nicki.'

As Blake sat down, Nicki noticed his chair was made of leather and timber.
Where does a person find junk like this?
The chair creaked under his weight.

‘This is where justice is served,' he said. ‘Where the pieces of the puzzle get put together. Where I while away the lonely hours between cases.'

Nicki pointed to a life-sized dummy jammed into a corner wearing a serene smile and nothing else.

‘Friend of yours?'

‘That's a memento from a very famous job I worked on,
The Case of the Gorgeous Girlfriend
.'

‘
The Gorgeous Girlfriend
,' Nicki mused, searching her memory. ‘I recall hearing about it.' She picked up a three-foot-long key. ‘And this?'

‘
The Case of the Killer Key.
'

She nodded to a locked bag. ‘And this?'

‘That's just a case.'

‘I see.'

‘I'll get you started on the Badde files,' Blake said. ‘Reggie will help you.'

Blake pushed a button on his computer. Nicki soon realised it was a G9000. It made a sound not unlike a merry-go-round coming to life. Nicki half expected it to start playing fairground music. A few lights flashed and a green blinking cursor finally appeared on the screen. In front of the computer sat a flat board decorated with letters of the alphabet.

Good grief
, she thought.
It has a keyboard.

‘Hey, Blake!' Reggie's tinny AI voice rang out from
a loudspeaker on the front. ‘Who's the funky lady with you? Nice curves!'

‘Down, boy,' Blake said.

He introduced Nicki to the computer, then said, ‘Reggie, bring up everything on Badde. Every crime, every putrid detail.'

A stream of information appeared on the screen.

Blake glanced at his wristcomm. ‘It's 4pm,' he said, heading for the door. ‘The case is all yours, seeing as how Pomphrey doesn't want me working it, Agent Steel.'

‘Call me Nicki,' she said. ‘And where are you going?'

‘Following a lead.'

‘So you're not going to a bar to drink Plutonium Supernovas? The medical report at the hospital said your liver looked like it was used to mop the floor.'

‘You must have been checking someone else's file.'

Blake disappeared out the door, leaving Nicki in the silent office. She sighed and turned her attention to the computer.

‘Looks like it's you and me,' she said to Reggie.

‘Nice,' he said. ‘You doing anything Friday night?'

7

Blake was halfway across town when his phone rang.

‘Blake? It's Astrid.'

Astrid.

‘Uh,' he managed. ‘Hey.'

‘Hey, yourself,' Astrid said.

‘What's up? Has your broom broken down? Or is your cauldron on the blink?'

‘Normally I wouldn't call you—'

‘I hadn't noticed.'

‘—but Lisa hasn't come home.'

Lisa.

The sound of his daughter's name produced a twinge in Blake's heart. The worst part of his divorce three years ago hadn't been the loss of his wife—although that had been painful—but the separation from his daughter. He had not spoken to Lisa since the breakup, but he would sometimes visit her school at the end of the day just to watch her leave.

Whoever it was that said love hurts was right.

He was worried, but now he had to think like a PBI agent and not like a father. Most missing persons turned up within twenty-four hours. Lisa was twelve, just the right age to start causing problems.

‘Have you rung her friends?' Blake asked.

‘What do you think?'

‘If you don't want my help—'