Timecaster (6 page)

He gave me a small, frightened nod.

“Do you love my wife, Neil?”

Neil swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling. “Uh . . . no.”

Untruth.

I made a fist, and he cowered away, covering his face. While hitting him would have felt pretty good, it wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Of course he loved Vicki. All men who met Vicki fell in love with her. Guys like Neil were the reason I drove a Corvette.

Guys like Neil were also the reason my wife had a dozen more orgasms a week than I did.

My shoulder muscles bunched and I threw the punch, feeling the solid connection when my fist hit its target.

Neil screamed and scurried away. I stared at the hole I made in the plasterboard wall, and glanced at my knuckles, already beginning to swell.

Nice one, Talon. Hitting walls was about as mature as jealousy. Pretty lame coming from a man who helped rid Chicago of crime.

I glanced at the refrigerator. Apparently I hadn’t done a good enough job in the crime department.

A feeling somewhere between panic and despair began to take root in my head. I seriously considered grabbing a bottle of rum, and some of Aunt Zelda’s LSD, and zoning out for the rest of the day.

Instead I pressed my earlobe to activate my headphone. I wanted to call Vicki. Wanted to apologize for being a dick.

“Service not available.”

Shit. Neil’s collar must have been jamming my phone as well.

The rum and hallucinogens called, but I decided to man up and do my damn job. I couldn’t hide the evidence of this murder forever. And once the news broke, I’d be arrested and convicted within an hour. With so few criminals these days, trials were often faster than the time it took to get dressed for them.

I still had no idea how the TEV showed me committing the murder.

But I did know someone who might be able to figure it out.

“Neil, there’s some food in the cabinets when you get hungry,” I said, heading for the front door. “Remember to stay out of the refrigerator. I’ll BRB.”

Then I left the apartment and went to see Michio Sata.

EIGHT

Outside the building, I called Vicki from my headphone as I walked to my car. She didn’t pick up. Probably blocking my calls because I had acted like a cretin. I left her a message.

“Look, babe, I’m sorry I was an asshat. It’s just that I love you so much, I can’t stand thinking about you with other guys. Call me old-fashioned, but the only man you should be with is me. When I picture some tool like Neil . . .”

No. That wasn’t an apology. That was continuing the fight.

“Erase. Restart. Vicki? I’m sorry. I knew when I married an SLP that you would spread your legs for other men . . .”

That didn’t sound good either.

“Erase. Restart. Vicki, I’m sorry, but how can I help feeling jealous knowing you’re sucking some other guy’s . . . Shit. Erase. Restart.”

“This isn’t working, Talon.”

Uh-oh.

“Vicki? Were you listening to that?”

“If you’re not mature enough to accept what I do for a living, maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

I felt my heart stop. “Vicki . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“I’ve been discussing this with my therapist. She doesn’t feel like this marriage is healthy for either of us.”

I leaned against the hood of my Corvette. My Corvette, paid for because she boffed other men. “You discuss this with your therapist?”

“Don’t you discuss it with your therapist?”

Both of our jobs required us to see therapists once a week, Vicki to retain her SLP license, me to remain a peace officer.

“No. We don’t discuss anything. We spend the session watching hyperbaseball.”

“My therapist thinks it’s unhealthy for me to feel guilty about my profession because you’re too insecure—”

“Insecure? I’m always one hundred percent sure of myself! Aren’t I?”

“—too insecure to realize sex is simply a biological need that is completely wholesome and natural and impersonal. It’s no more intimate than a massage.”

“Then why can’t you become a masseuse?”

“Dammit, Talon, you’re acting so twentieth century. Other animals don’t get jealous. This is your hang-up, and it’s ruining our marriage.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was heading.

“Ruining? I thought our marriage was solid. We rarely ever fight about this.”

“You mention it at least once a week.”

“That’s not a lot. Is it? Do you really think I’m insecure?”

“Maybe we need to take a break from each other for a while.”

I thought about Aunt Zelda, and the speedy conviction that awaited me. “Maybe we’ll get a break, whether we want one or not.”

“So you agree with me?”

“What? No. I don’t agree at all. But something came up at work that may—”

“Is it Neil? Did you help him? Is he okay?”

“You sound awfully concerned about Neil, babe.”

“There you go again. He’s just a sad, lonely little man.”

A sad, lonely little man who nailed my wife today, while I was mowing our lawn.

“He’s in love with you,” I said.

“He’s just got a crush. That’s all.”

“No. It’s love. I asked him.”

“You had no right to do that!”

“You say sex is harmless, but this tool would jump off a building for you. Is that harmless?”

“Where is Neil? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

“Can you give me a little credit, maybe?”

“I’m calling him.”

“Vicki . . .”

She hung up.

“That went well,” I said to my car. I stared out into the urban jungle, green buildings scraping the sky, thousands of anonymous biofuel scooters flooding the roads. My city. Vibrant, alive, and beautiful in its way.

The thought of living here without Vicki was unbearable.

The thought of living anywhere without Vicki was unbearable.

I climbed in the Vette and plotted a route to Sata’s house. One crisis at a time.

Michio Sata lived in the northwest suburbs, in the city of Schaumburg. The twelve-lane highway was predictably stop-and-go, bikes clogging everything. Even the frog-leg lane was full, the kermits going slightly slower than the rest of traffic, probably because they enjoyed stopping every so often and bouncing around like idiots.

I glanced longingly at the cargo train alongside the road—used to move goods since trucks were outlawed—and not for the first time wished I was a bag of grain, which undoubtedly traveled faster than I did. Or maybe a hobo. Dangerous business, hopping onto trains, but at least those who survived reached their destinations on time.

To kill some time I linked my DT to the car stereo and listened to some blues, but every damn song seemed to be about cheating women and jealous men. So I asked it to filter the content for infidelity, and listened to eight straight songs about drinking, which made me want to turn around and grab that rum from Aunt Zelda’s cabinet. After that I switched to laser radio and drummed my steering wheel to mc chris, Ice Cube, and Pink, but I tired of oldies pretty quick and went back to blues.

I managed to make it to Sata’s neighborhood within an hour. Unlike Chicago, where ivy-draped buildings dominated the scenery, Schaumburg’s architecture was placed far enough apart to turn it into a giant bamboo maze. Six-foot stalks sprouted from every bit of free land space, making it look like many of the shops and houses were sinking in a swamp, only their roofs visible from the street.

My GPS led me to Sata’s driveway, a green clover road being squeezed on either side by overgrown hemp. The size of his lawn was commensurate with his wealth. Sata’s patent rights in timecasting tech had made him a rich man. I parked next to a fountain—two concrete mermaids spitting water on each other—then grabbed my TEV and rang his videobell.

Sata’s face appeared on the monitor. His long gray hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and I saw he was wearing a
keikogi
. He nodded when he saw me.

“Talon. I was hoping you’d come by. Enter.”

At his voice command, the door unlocked. I walked into his home and slipped off my shoes, setting them in a cubbyhole of the
getabako
he kept in the foyer. Then I made my way to the gym.

Unlike Aunt Zelda, whose small apartment was light on greenery and heavy on contraband, Sata’s wealth was apparent only by the size of his home and land. Every wall had ivy growing on it, and the tile floors were bracketed by dirt patches growing sunflowers. The high ceilings were inlaid with magnifying windows and solar lights, so no matter the time of day his home was always bright. Every few meters was a Doric pedestal supporting a bonsai tree. According to Sata, some of them were more than a hundred years old.

The house smelled of plant life, of greenery and humid oxygen and lavender that grew from hanging pots. The odor changed when I opened the doors to the training room. The gym smelled like sweat and determination.

Sata was barefoot in the center of the faux-wooden floor, wearing a blue
keikogi
—the traditional long-sleeved shirt—and black
hakama
—the baggy black pants that looked like a skirt. In his hands was a bamboo sword, a
shinai
. He was beating the absolute shit out of a faux-wooden training dummy, his strikes as loud as thunder, but coming in such rapid succession that they sounded more like a group of people wildly applauding.

When he noticed my entrance he yelled out a terrifying cry of, “
Ki-ai!
” and ran straight at me, his sword raised.

NINE

He swung the sword down, and just as I lifted up my forearm to block he switched from an attack to a hug.

“Great to see you, Talon-kun!”

I hugged him back. Then he held me at arm’s length, his eyes twinkling as he looked me over. I felt a surge of affection, and a pang of guilt because I hadn’t visited him in so long.

“Great to see you as well, Sata-san.”

His
keikogi
wasn’t tied, and it revealed a sweaty, bare chest cut with muscles. At sixty-four years old, Sata was built like a bodybuilder. He’d gotten even bigger since the last time I’d seen him, two years ago. While some of his appearance was the result of training, I knew Sata took various roids and hormones to stay so big. It looked like he’d been upping his dosage lately.

“There are clothes and
bō̄gu
in the closet there.” He pointed over my shoulder. “Get dressed and we’ll train.”

“I would love to, sensei. But I’m really pressed for time, and I need your help.”

“And I need yours as well, old friend. Ralph there is a terrible training partner.” He pointed to the wooden dummy. “His
kakari-geiko
is woefully predictable, and his blocking is lackluster at best. Suit up. After a quick match, I’ll be at your disposal.”

I couldn’t say no to Sata. “You’re going to beat me.”

“Of course I’m going to beat you. You seem distracted, and you’re thinner than I remember.”

“I’m the same I’ve always been. A hundred and ninety pounds soaking wet. You’ve just gotten huge. What are you, two hundred thirty?”

“Two fifty. The wonders of modern chemistry. I’m thinking of gaining another twenty pounds, competing as a hyperheavyweight in the next nationals. Now, suit up. Let’s see if you can last longer than eight seconds this time.”

I pursed my lips. The only reason he’d beaten me that quickly was because I’d tied my
hakama
too loosely and had tripped over the cuffs. Sata knew this, but it tickled him to bring it up every time he saw me.

I dropped the TEV and stripped down to my boxer briefs, dressing quickly. Sata helped me put on the
bō̄gu
. Kendo armor consisted of a padded chest plate, called a
dô
, padded gloves that covered the forearms, called
kote
, a padded belt with five hanging panels called a
tare
, and the instantly recognizable helmet with the metal grill faceplate, known as the
men
.

When fully suited up, you felt kind of invincible. Like a medieval Japanese robot. If given the choice of combat wearing
bō̄gu
or hyperfootball gear, I’d pick the kendo armor every time.

But there was a reason the armor was so protective. The kendo sword—the
shinai
—was more than a meter long, made of four slats of bamboo lashed together. A ninth-
dan kendoka
, like Sata, could kill someone with one thrust of his bamboo sword.

This was not a sport for wimps.

I quit practicing kendo on a regular basis seven years ago, when Sata retired from the peace force. At the time, I was a capable
sho-dan
—eight
dan
s below Sata. But what I lacked in experience I made up for in speed. All of his chiding aside, I knew Sata respected my skills.

“Where is your armor, sensei?” I asked.

“It isn’t worth the time it will take me to put it on to go against you, Eight Seconds.”

Cocky bastard.

I grabbed a sword and we walked to the middle of the training room. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and already my hands had begun to sweat inside my gloves.

On first glance, kendo rules were simple. The first person to land two strikes wins. The only strikes that counted were to the head, sides, and wrists.

But scoring was complicated by something called
ki-ken-tai-itchi
. It translated roughly as
spirit
. Simply tapping your opponent’s target zones wasn’t enough to score. You had to hit them hard, and your leading foot had to slap the floor the same moment contact was made. You also had to scream out, “
Ki-ai!
” with feeling.

The first time you did it, it felt silly. But in the heat of a match, swords swinging with full force, each man trying to cream the other, the
ki-ais
came naturally.

Sata faced me on the floor and bowed. I bowed back. Then we raised our
shinai
, and the whoop-ass began.

For the first match, I lasted longer than eight seconds, but not by much. After circling each other, I managed to block twice before Sata slapped me upside the head, rocking me backward. To show it wasn’t a fluke, he won his second point by hitting me in the exact same spot. The armor protected me from most of the pain, but it still felt like my head was inside a large bell, being rung.