The Shadow Fixer Read online

Page 26


  In him, she had finally encountered something scarier than the worry Mother would find her if she returned to the city above.

  Kirsten squeezed her hands into fists, stuck trying to figure out how she’d react to running into him again. I’m way too damn nice. I’d only arrest him. Bleh. Captain Eze is right. Being down there is already prison. Besides, he’s gotta be dead by now.

  Another beep came from the NetMini.

  Kirsten paused in front of a collapsing hundred-story former residence tower. According to the red triangle on her NetMini, she’d arrived at the place where Plasmahawk waited for her. Telepathy wasn’t her strongest ability, though she rated higher in it than Mind Blast. Granted, she hadn’t gone through a re-evaluation after the fiasco at Konstantin’s mansion where she’d gone on a Mind Blasting spree. She closed her eyes and opened her thoughts, searching via Telepathy for any living minds within whatever range she had.

  Astral Sense let her pick up the presence of ghosts out to a few hundred meters in all directions. Using it frequently from age six to ten, and damn near constantly from ten to twelve, resulted in it testing at a high rating when Division 0 first found her. After years of handling haunting cases, she’d only gotten better. Psionic powers grew like muscles. The more one used them, the stronger they became.

  She’d never tested the limits of her telepathic range but assumed it far shorter than her astral. It ought to at least be enough to check the first room inside the building for an ambush. Sensing no one alive, she rested her hand on the E-90 and approached the entrance.

  The lobby of the old apartment building appeared to be the site of a bomb blast. No sign of any desk remained, the entire space charred black. Someone had painted a twelve-foot-wide pentagram in the middle of the room, circumscribing it with unusual symbols. She recognized a few of them in the sense of having seen them before, but not what they meant. The remains of candles, dead rats, and a few human bones lay in the center of the five-pointed star.

  If the room had a paranormal presence, it lacked the energy to be noticeable over her ambient nervousness. Despite having confidence in her Suggestion ability, she didn’t enjoy being alone in a disavowed sector. Most cops dreaded black zones due to heavily augmented, insane people who would laugh off most department-issued sidearms. Cyborgs didn’t worry her. Androids, on the other hand, did. They didn’t have biological brains to use Suggestion on. On the plus side, the chances of encountering an AI robot in a black zone amounted to nothing. Such beings didn’t have any need to hide from the law in slums.

  She cautiously approached the ritual circle. “Wonder if this is why the ghost is avoiding the place. It’s definitely not sanctified ground.”

  “Heh. This place is more like the opposite of sanctified,” said Plasmahawk, his voice the same as what had come out of her NetMini earlier.

  Kirsten looked up and left at the hallway going deeper into the building.

  A mid-twenties guy leaned against the wall, hands in the pockets of loose lavender slacks. He wore a strange coat, much longer in back than front, made of blinding, sparkly purple-pink material likely visible from low-Earth orbit in the right lighting conditions. Other than his bizarre outfit, he looked unremarkable. Late twenties, brown hair, pale like he rarely went outside. A few blinking lights behind his left ear flickered between blue and green. Dark circles under his eyes indicated he’d not been sleeping well recently.

  “You’re younger than I expected,” said Kirsten.

  “Hah. What were you hoping to see?”

  “Dunno. Bird made out of plasma?” She shrugged.

  “We’re not online. My avatar is a beautiful hawk.” He un-leaned from the wall and approached her. “I appreciate you taking the risk of coming out here.”

  She dove into his surface thoughts, still suspecting a trick. Surprisingly, he had no intention to do anything to her at all and genuinely appeared frightened of a spirit. He did, alas, wonder if she might be fifteen and felt guilty for dragging her out to a black zone. The concern didn’t impress her, not after meeting Tamsen who he’d been responsible for trapping in an autoshower tube for most of a day, never mind likely thousands of other people.

  “Yeah, so I have no idea why the damn thing didn’t follow me here.” He kicked at the circle. “Think it’s this?”

  “Might be, but this circle doesn’t have much energy to it.”

  Plasmahawk pointed back over his shoulder. “Maybe down the hallway then. It’s quite creepy in the courtyard.”

  “This place has a courtyard?”

  “Yeah. The building’s a square, open shaft up the middle. Probably did it so more apartments had outside windows.”

  Curious, Kirsten approached the hallway, advancing about halfway down toward a set of smashed metal-framed doors, beyond which lay an overgrown mass of bushes and trees—a giant flower box left out of control. As soon as she saw the enclosed garden, a familiar heavy sense of gloom settled over her. Something out there stared back at her.

  Not something… the Abyss.

  “Oh. Now I understand.”

  “Are you mind-reading the trees?” asked Plasmahawk with a bit of a chuckle.

  “No. There’s a breach out in the courtyard. It’s a place where Harbingers come across.” And probably other things if they can find it or have the power to. Kirsten backed up. “The spirit going after you is pretty dark if it’s afraid to get close to a breach.”

  “Damn thing sure seemed evil.” Plasmahawk whistled. “I mean, do nice ghosts try to stick a 48-kilovolt wire up a man’s nose?”

  Yeah, said Dorian’s voice in her imagination. The mean ones aim for other openings.

  Kirsten shuddered. “I wouldn’t imagine so. Unless you killed them. Desire for revenge can twist a person, or ghost.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I deal with data and credits. Violence isn’t my thing.”

  “Right. So, where’s the ghost?”

  “Not here. Doesn’t come here.”

  “Yes, we’ve established that. Unless you want to spend the rest of however long the spirit’s going to be after you hiding in here, we should go to where the spirit is so I can deal with it.”

  Plasmahawk scratched his head, then spent a moment fussing at his long hair. “All right. You’re sure you can handle it?”

  “Assuming you haven’t managed to summon and annoy an elder demon, yes.”

  He stared open mouthed. “Are you telling me demons are real?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Actual occultists call them ‘They Who Always Were’ to avoid unwanted associations to religious mythology, though, classical descriptions of demons are close enough to the truth.”

  “You’ve seen these things?” He continued gawking.

  “Twice.”

  “And you beat them?”

  “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”

  He whistled. “But you’re so small.”

  “Physical size doesn’t matter. The absolute biggest, strongest human alive would have better chances punching a power loader unconscious than surviving a fistfight with one of those things.”

  “I don’t think I’m being chased by something that… horrible.” He smiled.

  “Good. What’s he or she look like? Did you see it?”

  “Just a shadow. Seemed like a man. Saw it out of the corner of my eye a few times right before something heavy went flying at my head.”

  Mendoza seems to have been targeted by a ghostly assassin. This guy set off the Credit Sudzer virus. I’m sure it pissed off some people in high—or low—places enough to put out a hit on this guy. Could it be the same ghost?

  “So, Plaz…”

  He smirked.

  “How many times did the spirit attack you, and were all the attacks in the same place?”

  “Umm, over a dozen. Maybe twenty. And the damn thing chased me halfway across West City.”

  Wow. “Did you get the feeling he’s specifically coming after you?”

  Plasmahaw
k made a pinchy gesture. “Just a little. I’d make a joke about a greedy ex-wife’s lawyer, but I’ve never been married and aren’t rich enough to bother with. But you get the picture. Guarantee we’re away from this place less than fifteen minutes and he’s going to be trying to kill me again.”

  “All right.” She opened her armband terminal and created an Inquest record. “What’s your real name?”

  His surface thoughts gave away the answer as soon as she asked: Anson Edwards.

  “Daz Raines.”

  She typed both names into the file. “Okay, Daz. If you want to be rid of this spirit, you’ll have to dangle yourself as bait.”

  “What if it won’t come after me while you’re around?”

  “If this spirit is as dedicated to killing you as you think, he won’t hesitate. Unless they take the time to hunt down someone capable of helping them, most spirits are pretty shocked to run into someone who can see them.”

  “Hope you can do more than see them.”

  She smiled. “Yes. I can keep you safe.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  Kirsten nodded, focused on his thoughts. He’d become nervous having such close contact with the police, so wanted to return to his place, grab his hacking gear and a few credsticks, then burn out his less portable computers to destroy evidence. If she succeeded in getting rid of the ghost, he planned to hop on the first shuttle to Mars and lay low for a while.

  Dorian entered via the street-facing door, stopping short a few steps in, wide-eyed. “This building is definitely something unusual.”

  “Breach in the courtyard,” said Kirsten.

  “Yes, I mentioned.” Plasmahawk—aka Anson—smiled.

  “No wonder this guy is safe here.” Dorian clenched his jaw, steeling himself.

  “Talking to my partner. He’s a ghost, too.”

  Anson eyed the room warily. “In here? Why’s this place not keeping him out?”

  “He’s not dark enough to be afraid of the entities who might emerge from the breach.”

  Dorian held a finger up. “I’m dim enough to be mildly concerned about the entities who may emerge from the breach. Still not completely convinced they’ve forgotten about me.”

  “Well, stop feeling so satisfied about those summaries you carried out.”

  “K… remember the spirit who threw the two little kids off the fifth floor at 29P?”

  She glowered at the far wall. “What about him?”

  “How you felt when you blasted him out of existence? Same thing. I only summaried bastards who hurt kids… or women. The Harbingers are the ones who need to revisit their policy. Some people should be killed.”

  “Maybe, but you came too close to enjoying it.”

  “I enjoyed taking people like that off the street so they couldn’t hurt anyone else. Wasn’t the killing I liked. I’m thinking they’re confused. Notice how they always give me this look like they aren’t sure what to make of me?”

  “True…”

  Anson puffed air past his lips. “Whoa. You sound pretty close to nuts. Or are you on an implant call?”

  “Ghost. Right next to me.” Kirsten rested her hands on her hips. “Should I recall my car?”

  “Nah. My place isn’t too much of a walk. C’mon.” Anson went over to a door marked ‘employees only.’

  “Are we going to regret this?” asked Dorian.

  “Nah.” Kirsten followed him. “But I might go through a stimpak or two.”

  20

  Spirit in Black

  Anson cut across the maintenance office to a stairwell, taking it down to a room of old electrical equipment.

  Rats scurried for cover as he entered an aisle between hundred-year-old capacitors and electrical boxes. Kirsten followed, gingerly stepping past accumulated junk and broken tech parts. Anson opened a submarine-hatch style door at the rear end of the room, entering the city plate. Kirsten concentrated on Darksight, pushing her visual perception halfway into the Astral Realm. The darkness around her brightened to a wavering sepia-toned version of reality. In a place like this, rarely disturbed by people, even the random junk sat in the same place long enough to develop an astral echo.

  “Just like a hacker to ignore the law,” said Dorian. “The door is clearly marked ‘official use only.’”

  She stifled a chuckle.

  Due to the city plates’ interior holding the city’s sensitive parts—fiberoptic data cables, power lines, water and sewer lines, and so on—only authorized personnel were supposed to have access below the surface. This explained why the official entry hatches all had code locks. However, many buildings, especially older ones, had doors out of their basement levels like this where anyone could enter the plate interior.

  Almost makes it pointless to lock the hatches. Anyone who really wanted to get down here to tap a data line or do bad stuff is going to get down here.

  “Don’t worry about all the stories,” said Anson in an overly confident tone. “No mutants here. Just BS to scare people.”

  Seriously, he thinks I’m going to be afraid of the basement? “Did you know thousands of ghosts live in the Beneath? There are also numerous feral villages as well as roving bands of brain-damaged crazies, The Discarded. Rumor has it they’re cannibalistic.”

  Anson stumbled over a piece of scrap. “Did you say cannibals?”

  “Never spent enough time near Discarded to ask them. They usually ran away from me.”

  “Afraid of you?” He chuckled. “Why?”

  “Look back.”

  He peered over his shoulder—and walked straight into a support column while staring at her eyes.

  Dorian laughed.

  Anson swung around the pole, clinging to it—almost hiding behind it—staring at her. “Why are your eyes glowing?”

  “Relax. It’s a simple trick to see in the dark. Discarded run away from anyone with light coming from their eyes, even cybernetic ones, too. Something in their mythology about the great destroyer.”

  “Probably androids or whatever the government sent down there to clear out the Beneath years ago, ran out of funding, and never got around to doing again.”

  She grumbled. Discarded might be dangerous and crazy, but they didn’t deserve to be exterminated like roaches. Underneath the tattered rags and face-wraps were humans—more or less. Anson resumed walking, glancing back at her every so often to marvel at her glowing eyes. He eventually reached a crossing passage half the width of a standard corridor. Pipes ranging from one to six inches in diameter ran along both sides, as well as under the metal gridding serving as a walkway. They followed it for a few minutes before Anson took a left into a short alcove.

  He crawled into a hole in the side of a huge pipe at the end.

  “Are you sure we couldn’t have taken a car here?”

  “Yes. It’s not much farther, and there’s no good place to land near my apartment. A whole bunch of not-very-nice people around it.”

  Kirsten crawled into the pipe. Thankfully, it didn’t contain any muck, merely dust. “You’re clothing is kind of loud for someone who lives in a grey zone.”

  “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” said Anson, his voice echoing. “Eventually, I will have a fancy apartment in a fancy part of the city.”

  “I’m sure,” muttered Dorian.

  Kirsten grinned.

  She could’ve done without the view of Anson’s sparkling ass for sixteen minutes, though considering a crawl down a pipe below the city surface could easily have resulted in an encounter with ‘the muck,’ she tolerated an excessive amount of fake plastic gemstones.

  One of these days, I’m going to take a sample of that crap to the lab and figure out what it is.

  Merely thinking about the black, sticky, tar-like substance made her skin crawl. It somehow turned whatever fabric it touched permanently purple, took forever to scrub off skin, and smelled like a mixture of chemicals, fermented raspberries, and poop. Her last encounter with it involved full submersion
in a pit she didn’t notice until stepping into it, mistaking it for solid ground. Peeling her uniform off ripped out most of her body hair, perhaps the least fun thing she’d ever done to herself.

  Anson reached another hole in the pipe, this one on the top, and stood before climbing out. Kirsten hurried after him, pulling herself up into a room loaded with trash, mostly one-gallon white plastic canisters and random papers.

  Wow. This is like a slum version of a ball pit.

  Anson waded through the shin-deep garbage to the only door, going through it into a large room containing tools, workbenches, and four non-functional multi-armed robots dangling from the ceiling. Half-built food reassemblers and dishwashers piled up in one corner. Anson strode across the repair room to another stairwell, which led up one level to a barren plastisteel hallway. No longer in the darkness of the city plate interior, Kirsten shut off Darksight.

  While he headed left, she paused to glance in the other direction. The end of the corridor on the right opened into a lobby where grimy windows looked out on a street. They’d likely emerged in another apartment building out of the black zone, but still deep in the grey.

  “Almost there.”

  She turned to the left again, noting Anson had gone most of the way down a relatively long corridor past various doors. She hurried after him to a rightward bend. The instant she rounded the corner, a strong residual paranormal energy washed over her. “Whoa.”

  Anson paused to look back. “Whoa? I hope that’s a good ‘whoa.’”

  “I’m feeling energy left behind by the spirit who tried to hurt you.” She opened her mind to astral energies, searching around, but only picked up Dorian as an active haunt in the vicinity of her range. “And it’s not the same ghost as Mendoza.”

  “Who the heck is Mendoza?” asked Anson.

  “Another case. I was talking to my partner.”