The Shadow Fixer Page 27

  Okay, so different spirits. Not an assassin ghost taking contracts. She continued looking around while following him past first floor apartments.

  Anson stopped by a pair of Epoxil faux wood doors etched in ornate dragon carvings at the end of the corridor. Despite being on the ground floor, it looked like an expensive apartment, or maybe an event space. Two seconds after he typed a code into a panel on the wall, the doors gave a loud click. He pulled them open and stepped past them.

  “Behold my palace.” Anson held his arms out to either side, gesturing at marble columns, half-size statues of men and women posing in the manner of Greek nudes, multiple long cafeteria tables loaded with dozens of strange machines, all connected via glowing blue fiberoptic wiring. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves encircled the room. The back corner, walled off by teal medical privacy screens, contained a bed. A small kitchenette near the barrier had a reassembler, small table, and industrial-sized refrigerator.

  “What is all this?”

  “Ninety-year-old computers.” He laughed, patting one of the devices, about the size of a double-thickness briefcase. “I’ve got fifty of them interconnected into one processing unit. They run software so antiquated modern defenses can’t counteract it. “These machines pre-date holographic display screens. Fairly remarkable.”

  “That’s a word for it.” She whistled.

  “I mean, old tech isn’t remarkable on its own… old tech in pristine condition working perfectly is.” He gestured at the ceiling, made to look like an ancient ‘tin ceiling’ covered in decorative patterns. “This entire building is mine. Impressive, right?”

  Dorian poked at a glowing fiberoptic cable sticking up from a computer box. “Considering anyone might kick in the door at any time and shoot him… if he’s squatting here, he’s overpaying rent.”

  “Anson?” Kirsten trotted up behind him as he prepared to sit at a workstation.

  “Hmm?” He peered at her, casually at first, then went wide-eyed upon realizing she’d used his real name.

  “Don’t delete anything.” Her eyes flared white for a second.

  He stared into space.

  Leaving him to chew on her Suggestion, she walked around the outer edge of the room, between bookshelves and the tables of computers. It had to be an event hall. No apartments consisted of a single windowless space this large. Whoever designed this building went out of their way to make it look old as hell. Computers aside, the décor reminded her of an old holovid she’d watched as a teen in the dorms, supposedly set in the year 1940. Especially the creepy cherub-angels on the ceiling.

  “Thought he was under constant attack,” said Dorian. “Suppose it’s Murphy’s law.”

  “Oh, the ghost will be here soon. I just have to… Umm…” Anson stared at the keyboard. “Wanted to do something, but… oh, hell. Am I having a stroke?”

  “No.” Kirsten smiled to herself. I’m preserving evidence.

  A few minutes later, the corner of the room across from the only door in or out took on a sinister feeling. It somewhat reminded her of the dread Harbingers cloaked themselves in, only much weaker. The fancy Epoxil doors slammed.

  “Shit!” shouted Anson. “It’s here!”

  “I know.” Kirsten focused on the corner radiating bad energy. “Stay close to me and don’t panic.”

  Anson scrambled out of his chair and ran up behind her. “Too late. Already sorta panicking.”

  A muscular, bare-chested man emerged from the wall in the corner, his skin black as ink, his eyes glowing crimson. Waist-length black hair and baggy pants lent an almost samurai-like quality to his appearance, though he didn’t carry any visible weapons. Thin dark red lines, tribal tattoos, decorated his arms and chest. The ‘dread’ definitely came from him, but he didn’t give off abyssal energy.

  Other than a general building panic, Anson didn’t react to the man’s appearance, continuing to look around at the entire room, on guard for something to go flying at him. Dorian tilted his head in the manner of a confused dog.

  Just a ghost… but fairly dark—or he’s using something like telempathic fear.

  “Hello, tall, dark and shirtless,” said Kirsten. “Any chance you feel like talking here or are we going straight to the bad part?”

  The spirit walked out of the corner, drifting to his left, approaching the end of one of the long tables, his stare fixed on Anson.

  “Huh?” Anson looked around nervously. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Your ghostly friend.” Kirsten edged to the right, keeping herself between the ghost and Anson.

  Dorian circled around behind the spirit. “I don’t think he’s in the mood to talk.”

  “Why are you trying to hurt this man?” asked Kirsten, in as forceful a tone as she could manage without yelling.

  The ghost picked up an electric screwdriver.

  At the sight of the apparently free-floating tool, Anson screamed and ducked under the other end of the long table.

  “Don’t.” Kirsten summoned the lash.

  He shifted his gaze onto her.

  “Tell me why you want to hurt him.” She advanced. “There is no need for us to do anything more than talk. Maybe I can help you.”

  No trace of emotion showed on the spirit’s face. They stared at each other for a few seconds before his glowing red eyes brightened. He threw the screwdriver at her face. Kirsten expected the throw, not the speed. A slightly too-slow duck saved her from having a screwdriver impaled in her cheek, but the spinning tool hit broadside over the top of her head. Dazed, she fell on her ass, rolling onto her back, cradling her skull in both hands.

  Ow! Crap, that hurt!

  The odd pew sound of Dorian’s ‘E-86’ went off twice before the pain in her scalp lessened enough she could uncurl and move. Anson screamed an instant before a heavy, jangling crash shook the floor. Fortunately, her vision didn’t blur, nor did she feel overly dizzy. Kirsten shifted to her knees, grasped the table edge, and pulled herself upright.

  Dorian fired another spectral bolt from his E-86, which passed less than a foot away from Kirsten’s face.

  She whirled to watch where it went; the projectile narrowly missed the red-and-black spirit who retaliated by launching an apparent fireball from his palm. Though it looked like magic, his attack amounted to the same ghostly ability Dorian used to simulate a laser pistol. The phantom white fireball whizzed by her at roughly the same distance as the false laser bolt.

  “Eep!” Kirsten scrambled to the side, running at the spirit. “Okay, this guy’s into Monwyn a little too much.”

  He pivoted and threw another fireball at her.

  She dodged left, but the head-sized orb of ghostly flames swerved after her, hitting her in the gut hard enough to lift her off the ground and throw her over the table. Kirsten somehow managed to land on her feet, staggering two steps before swooning down on one knee, unable to breathe.

  Regardless of what a spirit’s attack looked like, they almost always hit as a blunt impact. Dorian’s ‘laser,’ this spirit’s ‘fireball,’ a ghost she ran into her fourth week on active duty who threw ‘knives’… all felt as if she had an Intera enforcer tenderizing her with his knuckles.

  This ghost’s fireball packed a wallop, about how she expected it might feel to get run over by a pro gee-ball player. One good thing—the phantasmal nature of the attack softened the blow. Had a physical fist hit her, something vital inside would likely be bruised or bleeding.

  Dorian shot at the spirit, forcing him to run around the outside of the room to stay ahead of successive shots.

  “Ooh, I’m really not liking this guy.” Kirsten wheezed, coughed, and forced herself upright.

  The dark spirit stopped running long enough to grab one of the nude statues and hurl it at Anson. The hacker saw it coming and fast-crawled deeper under the table, avoiding the several-hundred-pound artificial rock smashing one end of the table. The other end kicked upward, flinging three computer cases a short distance into the air. They crashed
down in a heap, somehow not breaking.

  Kirsten ran around the tables, circling toward the spirit, lash held high.

  He threw another spectral fireball at her.

  Rather than try dodging a guided missile again, she stopped short and focused her astral power on it, opposing the incoming spirit energy. With a grunt, she shoved the fake fireball to the side, blasting a computer case to bits as if it had been shot by a cannon.

  Damn, this one’s on the old side, too.

  She ran at him again.

  Evidently deciding she got too close, he ran—way faster than any human could hope to move without speedware. Grr. Not fair. He doesn’t weigh anything. She pumped her arms, trying to squeeze as much power as she could out of her leg muscles.

  Dorian clipped him with a well-aimed leading shot, knocking the ghost into a sideways stumble. He spun into a fireball throw at Dorian. She swung the lash; he zipped out of the way a second before the tip made contact. Kirsten chased him around the room for several minutes, unable to get close enough to swing again. She deflected three more ghostly fireballs, each one tearing up bookshelves where she redirected them. Dorian dodged about half of the ones the spirit threw at him. Despite both ghosts suffering numerous hits, all the computer equipment in the room offered a ready source of energy. Compared to the lash, the ghosts’ attacks in a room with so much electricity amounted to two men beating each other over the head with pillows in a stimpak factory.

  Again, the spirit projected a sphere of spectral flame at her. Kirsten focused on it, stopping the projectile in midair twenty feet away, anger and frustration giving her the edge. She shoved it back at him, throwing it a bit wide and high to the right. His shock at her stopping the attack dead halfway between them gave Dorian a clear shot.

  The ‘laser’ blast hit the ghost like a hard punch, knocking his face to the side.

  Kirsten sprinted hard, trying to get close enough to hit him.

  Snarling, the spirit launched another fireball at her.

  Desperate to end this before her legs melted into jelly, Kirsten fell into a slide, trying to go under the ghostly orb while rounding the lash over her head. The fireball missed her by an inch or two, dissipating into the floor the same instant the energy tendril sliced across the spirit’s chest. Her extreme frustration manifested as a significant power boost, setting off a loud boom when the lash made contact.

  The strike launched the ghost backward into the air. He flew most of the room’s length in under a second before smashing into the crumbling wall beside the fridge. The force of his impact knocked over the privacy screens surrounding Anson’s ‘bedroom’ and lofted a billowing dust cloud. Two points of red light flickered within the haze. Kirsten held her breath and ran at him, starting another swing before she got close, hoping to catch him again before he zoomed away.

  “Wait,” rasped a startlingly deep voice. The dark spirit emerged from the fog, hunched over, one hand up in a defensive gesture. Glowing spectral blood dribbled from his mouth.

  She aborted her attack, but kept the lash poised.

  “Careful…” Dorian ran over to stand beside her, tiny sparks crawling over him.

  “Talk.” The ghost struggled to straighten his posture. His cold, glowering demeanor had softened to a more human expression, less like a killer android.

  Oh, sure. Now he wants to talk. She didn’t bother trying to pretend she’d run herself nearly out of breath. “What are you?”

  “I am Dacre,” said the spirit in a faint French accent.

  She blinked. “Never heard of them.”

  “It is my name.” Dacre gave a wheezy chuckle. “I am a spirit, like the one next to you.”

  “Did you take tattooing a bit too far in life?” asked Dorian.

  Dacre smiled. “No. I made myself like this in death because it looks cool.”

  Whoa. Unusual for a ghost to alter their appearance cosmetically. He really is into Mon—no, he died long before they made it. “Okay, so you’re kinda old as a spirit. I was pretty frustrated, but one swipe of the lash shouldn’t have hammered you so hard your entire personality changed.”

  “My mind is now clear.” Dacre attempted to smile, though glowing red eyes made the gesture sinister.

  “Why are you trying to kill Anson?”

  “Did he trap you in a shower tube, too?” asked Dorian.

  Dacre gestured at her. “Another person who can see me forced me to hunt this man.”

  “What?” Kirsten blinked. “Forced you?”

  “Yes. And now, I hunt them instead.” Dacre bowed his head—and vanished.

  “Grr!” Kirsten looked around, sweeping the area psionically for any signs of spirits. She sensed a few loitering on the upper floors of the building, but none potent enough to be Dacre. “Why do they do that?”

  “Do what?” asked Dorian.

  She whirled to face him, allowing the lash to retract into her hand. “Say something important and shocking, then disappear before I can ask them more questions.”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re a ghost.”

  “Have I ever done the cryptic poof to you?”

  She folded her arms, grumbling. “No.”

  “The man dresses up like a wizard from the game your boy likes. He probably loves acting mysterious.”

  “Not helping.” Kirsten strode over to where Anson hid under a heavy desk. He hadn’t connected any interface cables to his M3 port, so she felt reasonably confident her suggestion—plus his terror during the ghostly attack—stopped him from wiping out his files. “The ghost is gone. He won’t be back.”

  Anson crawled out, stood, and dusted himself off. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed his arm and threw him forward, bending him over the table while plucking binders from her belt. “Anson Edwards, you are under arrest for data crimes. You have the right to remain sil—”

  “Are you serious?” yelled Anson, a bit of a laugh in his voice, pulling away from her.

  “Don’t resist.” She locked his hands behind his back while he lay motionless. “Quite serious. Your virus got my shower, trapped my son in a tube, too… and you almost killed a little girl.”

  “Not that little.” Dorian tilted his hand back and forth. “Most eleven-year-olds would hate being called ‘little girls.’”

  She gave him side eye.

  “What? No way. It can’t possibly hurt anyone. Not even from starvation. If they don’t pay in twenty-four hours, it gives up and unlocks.”

  “To be fair, a ghost made it worse.” Dorian held up a finger. “Tamsen wouldn’t have been in any danger if the tube hadn’t flooded.”

  “Still,” muttered Kirsten.

  “Exactly how did my virus almost kill a child?” Anson struggled at the binders.

  “The autoshower she was trapped in flooded and she couldn’t get out.”

  “Impossible. They can’t flood. No autoshower tube made has a drain block feature.” Anson shook his head, struggling harder. “Are you seriously arresting me after I called you for help?”

  “I am. We’re already here and I can’t simply not arrest a fugitive.”

  “But this is a black zone.” Anson flashed a weak smile.

  “The law doesn’t stop working here because it’s not on the Nav. It just takes way more motivation for the police to come after someone.”

  He rolled his eyes. “But you’re ignoring the spirit of it. Rules, yanno. Unwritten code between cops and people who bend the law.”

  Dorian shrugged. “You might have been able to talk her out of it if not for the kid almost drowning in a tube.”

  She sighed at him. “Plenty of kids, and adults, got trapped in shower tubes due to his virus.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t see them all in person. Seeing a terrified child gets you.”

  “What?” Anson looked back and forth between her and Dorian’s general location. “What is your ghost friend saying?”

  “He’s overestimating my willi
ngness to let people who break the law get away with it. We found a child stuck in a tube who almost drowned in it after being trapped for nine damn hours. Do you have any idea how scary it is for a kid to be trapped in a confined space for hours?”

  Anson threw his head back in a dramatic sigh. “Oh, please. I didn’t target children.”

  “You didn’t program the virus to skip them either.” She tugged at his arm. “Come on.”

  He set his heels, not moving. “Autoshowers do not have cameras here.”

  “Huh? Here?” She stopped pulling on his arm and stared, aghast. “Saying ‘here’ implies they have cameras somewhere.”

  Anson shrugged. “Japan.”

  Dorian chuckled.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why is that funny?”

  He patted her on the head. “You are too sweet.”

  “It’s a fetish thing.” Anson twisted his right hand around, trying to slip out of the cuffs. “People set up GlobeNet channels and sell videos of themselves in the tube.”

  “I don’t wanna know.” Kirsten pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Anson grinned. “Want to hear the weirdest part?”

  “No, but you’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

  “The ones with the least—or no—sexual overtones make the most money. Vids of people showering like they’re not being recorded sell the best.”

  She sent a ‘help me’ look at her partner.

  Dorian grimaced. “Weird, but quite tame compared to what people could be into.”

  “Okay, enough.” Kirsten again tried to drag Anson toward the door.

  “It’s illegal for manufacturers to put cameras in autoshower units here,” said Anson.

  “Damn right it is. Stop resisting.” She tugged on his arm again.

  “No way for me to tell who the occupant is. I thought about hooking into the weight sensor, but only the expensive ones actually measure the user’s weight. Most simply return an ‘occupied’ code over forty pounds.”

  “They’re not going to send a crime scene team out here.” Dorian looked around. “You’re going to need to lug all this stuff out of here yourself.”

  “Not everything. Only evidence. The electronics.”