Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series) (8 page)

18. News Item:
Space salvage deaths soar

Dateline: 22nd of August, 2446;
New Rome, EurAfrica, Earth

This
morning the Warlord Syndicate Underwriting Cartel reported an alarming rise in
losses in the space salvage industry. Cartel spokesman Ludwig Tanaka released
statistics for the last twelve months about the most perilous of human
occupations at the Underwriting Cartel's headquarters in New Rome.

Long
considered one of the deadliest professions, space salvage recently eclipsed
both asteroid mining and the Bering Sea fishing trade in claims per policy.

Tanaka
pointedly warned the salvage industry that it must improve operations to reduce
claims from damaged equipment, injuries and loss of life. The Cartel may soon
require all salvage operators to replace high-risk employees such as Retrieval
Specialists and Wreckage Wranglers with expendable slaves and serfs. Since the Cartel
does not offer insurance for unpaid workers, their loss would not warrant
compensation.

Outside
of the headquarters, a noisy and begrimed group of Enlightenment Crusaders
rallied in support of slave and serf rights. Many of the Crusader crackpots demanded
that servitude and slavery be abolished in EurAfrica as was done long ago in
Free City.

New
Roman police dispersed the protesters at 3 PM without incident.

It was
just past 6 AM.

Ryo
trudged down the long hallway towards his apartment.

Lieutenant
Zmuda and the Coroner's Assistant had dropped him off in front of his building
in the Ballaghaderreen District of Free City and now the bleary Investigator
just wanted to get a few hours of sleep.

As Ryo
fumbled with the lock he realized that at least
he
could take the
morning off and recover. The equally hardworking Zmuda had planned to turn over
Nate Briggs' body to the Special Investigations Pathologist and then dash over
to Free City University for a long day's labor as Professor Malcolm Evans.

Ryo
pushed open the door.

The
flickery overhead light in his minuscule kitchen was on. He frowned at the
anomaly. Had he left it lit when he departed three days ago?

A
short and full-figured young woman wrapped in a yellow terry cloth bathrobe
with a half-dozen long braidings of honey-brown hair smiled at him from the
stove.

Was he
dreaming or perhaps in the wrong apartment?

He
stared dumbly at the winsome cook. Who was she?

“Oh
good, you're back,” the woman said. “Your wee tyke will be so happy to see you
before she sets off for school.”

Ryo
nodded with long-delayed recognition; it was Sabra MacFarland, Dilma's new
nanny.

• • •

Unfortunately,
Jasper realized with some exasperation, he had no idea of where Lieutenant
Zmuda was just now. He glanced at the message that Mixion had just decoded
from the contact in Tunis. The Lieutenant would certainly want to study it as
soon as possible; but where was he?

Unlike
Mixion who seemed to know with almost spooky accuracy where their elusive boss
was at any particular time, the big Australian often struggled for hours to
find him.

Zmuda
rarely answered his communication device and often didn't even carry the unit
with him.

He
frequently neglected to tell his CRAMP sidekicks about his plans for the day,
and if he did, he seldom followed his own agenda.

Jasper
passed a few students in the 12th floor hallway on their way to early morning
classes.

The
big man produced a ring of keys and let himself into the little faculty office
that Zmuda sometimes used as Professor Malcolm Evans.

The
cramped room was piled high with scientific journals, long-lost student papers,
misplaced biology projects and a disturbing number of abandoned coffee cups;
but no Zmuda.

Jasper
rolled his eyes at the messy workroom before locking the door. Perhaps the head
spy was in the basement lab or maybe at the Student Union.

• • •

Nearly
four hundred thousand kilometers away, it was well past midnight in the sleazy
bar at the Tycho Crater Outpost on the Moon.

“HAH!”
Rollo scoffed at the tall tale “You are SUCH a lying bastard!”

Bowie
leered a bit at his bar mate before downing his fourth shot of Serengeti
whiskey. “Alright, you friggin' caught me.”

Schleim
and Wolfe both burst into laughter.

Rollo
beamed at his drunken pals, “So how did you kill that thieving low-life?”

Bowie
glanced around the crowded tavern before answering, “I shot him in the neck
with my badassed new weapon. Wolfe's got one too.” He smiled menacingly, “It
makes a tiny hole on one side and a fist-sized crater on the other.”

Schleim
squinted thickly at the others.

Rollo
drunkenly poked his grimy fingertips into one of the empty shot glasses.

“It
don't kill 'em,” Bowie sloshed unsteadily about under the influence of the
liquor, “it just makes 'em stop movin'. After that, you can do whatever you
want to them.”

Rollo
looked like he was going to puke, “Where'd you boneheads get these guns?”

“A
military jerk from Tunis. He pays us ten grand for each job.” Bowie waved to
the waitress for another round; “He's got a killing for old Wolfie coming up
in New Rome. Maybe he'll take you along...”

“I
said it before,” Rollo roared in reply, “you are SUCH a lying bastard!”

• • •

Dilma
bounded out of her bedroom attired in her pink pajamas just after Sabra had
tiptoed into the girl's room to awaken her for breakfast.

The
merry twelve-year-old gleefully wrapped her spindly arms around Ryo's neck and
favored him with a wet and sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Hi
Daddy, welcome back!”

The
bone-weary detective found it hard to resist the energetic lovefest supplied by
his exuberant charge. “Good morning, kitten. I really missed you.”

She
stared appraisingly into his dark eyes for several seconds, “You look
so
tired!” She tilted her head a bit, “And rather worried about something, I
think.”

Ryo
kissed her forehead, “It's just work, nothing important.”

Sabra
stood quietly in the background and admired how the man and the girl seemed to
effortlessly bring out the best in each other.

Ryo
glanced up at Sabra, “What have you two been doing with your time together?”

“Well;”
Dilma started, “two days ago we walked around the district for awhile and Sabra
let me try on some really pretty clothes at
Plumage and Baubles
on
Fitzroy Street.”

“And
how did you look?”

“Sabra
said just like a Crusader,” Dilma reported in earnest.

“What
about yesterday?”

Sabra
silently ducked back into the girl's room.

“We
went to the park!” Dilma's eyes lit up, “I got my face painted like a butterfly
and I ate a bunch of really good food. Have you ever had Thai/Martian food
before?”

Ryo
thought for a minute, “Thai/Martian, I think so. It's very spicy, right?”

The
girl nodded.

Sabra
reappeared with Dilma's new headband and blue-feathered boa, “Would you like to
show these off to Ryo before you eat and head off to school?”

Dilma
eagerly donned the treasured garb.

The
threesome enjoyed a happy breakfast of pancakes together.

When
Dilma finished up, Ryo sent the girl off to change into her school clothes.

As
Sabra scooped the last of the pancakes from her plate, she grinned at the
reinvigorated man, “She really adores you.”

“And
you, as well,” he returned her smile.

“She
wanted me to ask you,” Sabra ventured, “if it would be alright if I bought her
some new clothes?”

“Certainly,
would a hundred Units cover the cost?”

“That
will be more than enough, thank you,” Sabra nodded. “Would a few Enlightenment
Crusade outfits be alright?”

“Of
course.”

“Great,
she'll be so happy about that,” the woman reported.

Ryo's
face darkened, “I afraid that I'll have to travel more than I thought for a few
weeks. Will you be able to look after Dilma while I'm away?”

Sabra
felt a surprising surge of excitement at the question, “I'd
love
to.”

• • •

He'd
been searching around the University for Zmuda for nearly two hours.

As
Jasper strolled past the 3rd floor Lecture Hall, he suddenly heard the booming
disembodied voice of the missing man.

“...as
you can see in the image on the screen...Chlorarachniophyte algae contains two
distinctly different nuclei.”

Jasper
stopped and peeked into the crowded hall. There at the lectern was the
Lieutenant in his day job as a Biology professor.

Zmuda
continued,
“Your assignment for next week will be to read chapters 20
through 24. I will greatly favor anyone who mentions other cells that contain
multiple nuclei during the Monday class.”

The
professor gathered up his papers.

A
throng of departing students filed past Jasper. He pressed his way into the
exiting mob and approached the lectern.

An
attractive young woman queried the haggard professor about a missed assignment.

Jasper
waited quietly for the student to finish.

The
woman wandered off a few minutes later and the two men were alone in the
lecture hall.

“Professor;”
Jasper produced the sheet of paper that Mixion had given him earlier in the
CRAMP office, “you might be interested in this.”

After
several seconds of dogged study, Zmuda scowled at the string of numbers and
letters, “What does it mean?”

Jasper
grinned at his befuddled boss, “It's an ancient coordinates system used in
twenty-first century maps.”

The
Lieutenant's shoulders sagged, “I'm too tired for games, Jasper.”

“I'm
sure you'll like this one,” the burly Australian laughed, “it's the precise
location of some remote ruins in the Saharan Desert inexplicably guarded by two
men with guns. Our pal in Tunis thought that you could use this information.”

“OH!”
Zmuda stared at the note with sudden interest, “Alright then, let's get back to
the office and see what we can uncover about this place.”

“WAKE
UP
OLD MAN!”

Seamus
gasped under the crushing pressure on his chest.

“I'll
friggin'
kill you if I don't get answers!” the husky young goon growled.

Seamus's
thin old ribs were fracturing one by one under the weight; if one should pierce
his lungs, he would bleed to death in short order. The old man warily opened
his eyes. “Wha...what...do you want?” he gasped.

The
punk backhanded Seamus's craggy face, which caused the old man to briefly black
out.

“No...more..,”
Seamus finally rasped, “I'll...talk.”

The
thug lifted his knee from the old man's chest. “I knew you would, you bastard!”

Seamus
struggled to catch his breath.

“What
the hell where you doing on the
Billikin?”
the mysterious assailant
sneered as he withdrew a long and slender knife from the sheath on this belt.

“I...haven't
been on...the ship for years.”

“Lies!”

The
thug slowly lowered the razor sharp tip of the weapon towards Seamus's face.

The
old man cringed, “The Inquisitor's Office...they told me I had to go. They
needed someone to identify the bodies.”

The
goon swung around and pounded the tip of the dagger into the top of the
nightstand. “You talked too much to the News people, old man!”

“I..,”
the trauma of the late night attack caused Seamus's head to spin, “...they were
my friends.”

The
attacker pulled the knife free and ever-so-slowly slid the tip towards the old
man's throat, “Who are they looking for?”

“I
don't know,” Seamus whimpered, “they don't have any suspects.”

“That's
NOT what I heard,” the thug flicked the tip back and nicked the old man's chin.

Seamus
was now quite certain that the punk would kill him.

A
curious and rather soft squeaking sound caught the attention of both the old
man and the young criminal. It was a common sound that people hear with such
regularity that most ignore it. The barely audible noise was that of a door
hinge in need of oil as it slowly opened.

Both
men turned towards the closet door.

A
sinister purple flash and crackling retort filled the tiny bedroom.

The attacker
stiffened and briefly convulsed in wide-eyed terror. He lurched heavily to the
floor and twitched several times.

“Are
you alright?” the almost angelic voice of a young woman cut through the eerie
blue haze that smelled of singed flesh. A petite redhead stepped over the
glassy-eyed punk and stood next to the badly injured old man. She was still
clutched the General Issue Police Stunner that had put an end to the assault.

“Yes;”
he gasped, “who...are you?”

She
smiled coyly, “A friend who was sent to guard over you.” The mysterious woman's
fingertips glided lightly over Seamus's craggy face.

“Thank
you,” he whispered.

“Certainly,
sweetie.” She turned and spitefully kicked the crumbled thug in the ribs.

“Ah
crap! It seems that I may have used a bit too much force in the process.” The
woman prodded the motionless attacker with the tip of her black knee-high boot,
“Unfortunately I killed the punk.”

• • •

Twenty
minutes later Ryo and Lieutenant Zmuda stood over the carcass.

“Sorry
Boss,” the woman apologized.

“Well;”
Zmuda snapped with frustration, “I wish that you’d been more careful.”

“Twenty-fifth
century Police weapons are fairly new to me,” the redhead grimaced.

“At
least Seamus survived,” Ryo noted as he studied the singed corpse of the punk.

The
woman knelt over the dead man and twisted the head of the slowly stiffening
body, “Any idea of who this goon is?”

“No,”
Ryo replied, “we can run his DNA through the Crime Lab Database but we don't
always get a match. Meanwhile Seamus is still in danger until we can find out
who sent this guy over here to rough him up.”

Seamus
followed the discussion with dismay.

“What
if,” Zmuda bit his lip, “we stage this to look like a double murder?”

Ryo
stroked his stubbly chin, “That would take Seamus out of the picture and give
us some time to figure out more about our dead friend.”

Zmuda
and the woman both nodded.

While
Ryo contacted the Coroner's Office for yet another late night pickup, the
Lieutenant summoned Mixion from the CRAMP office with a satchel of medical
supplies.

When
she arrived, Zmuda readied a syringe filled with a pale yellow fluid.

Seamus
stared warily at the Lieutenant, “What is that?”

Zmuda
twitched a bit as he injected the substance into the old man's thin arm, “It's
a particularly strong sedative that will make it seem as if you are dead. We'll
make a big show when we haul you out of here and everyone will assume that you
were killed during a burglary.”

Seamus's
eyes fluttered, “What happens...next?”

The
Lieutenant withdrew the needle, “You will wake up in a better place.”