Digital Venous (16 page)

Luhrman in Pursuit

THAT SAME DAY Mark Luhrman exited through the Stirling Gate with all the other real workers heading back underground for the day. He made his way as far south as he could, arranged accommodation in one of the many hydro communes, and started work the very next day. The work was tough and hot, but on the positive side, once a crop had been planted, tended, and harvested, workers had a certain amount of free time and Mark began scouring all the transdome bars, private drinking houses, from Blackwood to Belair, and then up to Stirling—some twenty-five in total.

He wasn’t the world’s most sociable or charismatic guy. Chatting with random people wasn’t his forte. But it didn’t matter where he went, everybody had an opinion on the bloody Napeans.

He got better at it.

His early attempts at espionage conversation were poor. He’d sidle up to someone and say, “How about those Napeans, eh?” He was usually met with a sideways glance or a vague nod of the head as someone waited to buy a drink. But soon Mark learned that it was better to raise certain specific issues.

“Rumour is, they’re leaving…” always worked well. Along with “Reminds me of my son…” Mark had a whole story about his “son” and the son’s tragic abduction, ready to reel-off on cue. Another good topic to drop into conversation was: “Yeah, well, if it keeps cooling down up there I guess we’ll have the planet back!”

Some were terrified of even talking aloud about the Napeans after the gassing in 2202, but most real people felt so removed from anything going on “up there” that it didn’t take much cider to be freely speaking what was on their minds.

Of course, being passionate and being completely drunk went hand-in-hand, and Mark had a number of times fuelled conversations about the Napeans and then had to leave the bar because it had all become too scary.

It was always better to be having a conversation rather than no conversation. Something was better than nothing; how people loved to talk! One such conversation led Mark exactly to where he wanted to go. He had been talking to a man who had clearly had five too many—but Mark knew that one person could lead to another and that perseverance was the key.

This particular man’s name was Byron. They’d been discussing the gas drop. Most real people found it too traumatic to talk about. The drunken man had been suggesting reprisals and getting excited at his own ideas. Mark hadn’t been showing a lot of interest, yet the drunken man continued suggesting increasingly extreme ways of exacting revenge on the Napeans, and then decided that it would be a good idea to involve the couple standing behind Mark.

“What d’you think?” said the drunk guy over Mark’s shoulder to an Athena of a woman, standing behind them. “I dn’t it about time we got even with those plastics up there?”

“Yeah, whatever, mate,” the tall woman yelled back at him. She was standing at the bar in quiet conversation with a guy with a shaved head and a three-day growth.

“So you’s would agree that we should…?” he persisted. The tall woman cut him off: “Sorry, I’m involved in another conversation here.” She feigned a polite nod and turned back to her friend.

“Well, iss not rocket science, love,” the drunk slurred. She ignored him.

“Oi!” The man started yelling at her. “We all live… here, together… you got no right to  act like you’re…” he forgot what he was saying and then moved toward the woman, putting his hand on her shoulder. Rather than intercede, Mark noticed the woman’s companion put his hand on his brow and start shaking his head.

The woman shrugged off the drunk’s hand and spun around to face him. She was slightly taller.

Astoundingly, the drunk then threw a punch at her. As his right “jab” came towards her,

half-mast though it was, with her left hand she slapped his fist in the direction it was already travelling but more downward, forcing the right arm to fold down over the left—all in one continuous movement. Her right hand, which had been hovering, slapped his face, hard.

“Oh fuuuck,” moaned the drunk, putting his hand up over his cheek and eye. He wandered off out the front door with everyone looking at him.

Mark was stunned by the woman’s striking qualities.

She looked bemused, shook her head, and then turned back to the bar, ordering more drinks. The bald man with her was pulling a face at Mark, cringing, and said, “She did say that she didn’t want a conversation…”

“I know,” said Mark. “Sorry, I don’t know the guy; I just came in for a quiet drink!” The bald guy gave a curt nod and turned to look for the woman at the bar. Mark was confident enough to override a little snub. He continued, “I’m not from around here… no, actually, it’s the anniversary of my son’s…” Mark stopped himself short, and then said, “I’m very sorry. Sorry to have bothered you.”

The bald man had turned back to face him, saying. “It’s okay—it’s fine…”

Mark chose to misinterpret the remark: “Oh, thank you, but I don’t want to intrude, really…” The tall woman arrived with the drinks and said to her friend, “Is this guy bothering you?” She smiled.

The bald man turned to her, saying under his breath, “Won’t take a hint.” Mark pretended not to hear and said, “Just lubricating the grieving process… anniversaries…” Mark closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly.

“Sorry to hear that,” said the bald man, exchanging a glance with the woman. They both stood there waiting for Mark to find some self-esteem and walk away, but he just stood there. The woman cracked first—she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Whose anniversary?” she asked with a little head wobble. Her friend, the bald man looked up at the roof in frustration, thinking,
Great!—now we’re stuck with him!

“Oh, my son. He was abducted on this day two years ago,” said Mark, trying to establish strong eye contact with both of them. “His mother and I have driven each other crazy ever since. I moved down here for a while. I guess you could say we split.”

“Is that right?” said the woman. “We were just talking about that, weren’t we, Wez?” The bald guy, Wez, didn’t respond.

“I’m Alia. This is Wez.”

“Mark.” They all shook hands. Wez faked a smile and gave a nod. Mark shuddered as he shook hands, realizing these were the people he’d been looking for. Momentarily, he was speechless.

“Sorry to hear all that,” said Alia. “We’ve both lost children.”

“You don’t say,” said Mark shaking his head, “I’m very sorry to have brought all this up…”

Wez, Realizing he couldn’t win, tried to make the best of the situation. “What was his name?”

Mark, somewhat stunned by the whole situation, said “Sorry? Who?”

“Your son. What was his name,” said Alia.

“Oh, er David,” said Mark.

“Well here’s to David,” said Alia. “May you be reunited, one day.” They clinked ceramic mugs and said “To David.”

“And yours?” said Mark, “What was your child’s name?”

“Wanda,” said Alia.

“To Wanda,” said Mark. They clinked again.

“Yep, Wanda…” said Alia wistfully, “she sure liked to Wander.”

“She did?” said Mark

“Seriously, the kid couldn’t keep still. I let her outa my sight for a minute—she took off;

I never saw her again.”

“And were you… I mean did you guys go through this together?” asked Mark. “Oh… no!” said Alia with a laugh. Wez looked at her.

“Wanda’s father died before she was born. Killed actually, by a Napean guard. And my daughter… when I say she wandered off…she was taken off, just like your son. Whoever the fuck stole her… I’ve got a pretty good idea where she ended up!” Alia cursed again, annoyed she’d become so upset so quickly.

“Yeah,” continued Mark, “since I’ve been out on my own I keep running into people who have had this experience. Something’s got to be done.”

“Don’t worry it is,” said Alia. Wez shot her a look which Mark pretended not to notice. “Hey.” said Wez to Alia. “Do we just talk like that?”

“No I guess we don’t.” said Alia, feeling reproached.

Mark pretended to zone back into the conversation and said “if there was something we could all do, I’d be up for it.”

“Y’know what,” said Wez, “sometimes a few of us get together. There are many people down here who would like answers too. Obviously we must be ultra careful. Are you trustworthy?” Wez, who up to this point had seemed to Mark like a pushover, suddenly straightened up and stared him straight in the eye.

Mark nodded to conceal his lie: “Yeah completely—I don’t even know anyone down this end of town.”

“Can I contact you?” asked Wez. “Yeah there’s a line at my co-op.”

Wez got Mark’s number. Mark couldn’t believe his luck. Sweet eternity was knocking on the door. 

Lone Wolf

“CAN WE JUST shoot them if we find them?” asked Charles, joking.

“Ah no.” said Shane. Although they were friends, Shane had always been highly competitive in their relationship and Charles knew that Shane thought himself slightly superior. Shane took great pride in letting Charles know that Belair security had a much better record than Crafers, which was under Charles’ command.

Shane would joke about anything, but when they were working together he suddenly became the responsible leader. This annoyed Charles so that any joke that might subvert his friend’s little power trip, was always worthwhile.

“Either SCID is being particularly useless, or this person’s got some other way out,” said Shane.

“Could be a false alarm,” said Charles hopefully, “and anyway, don’t pretend you give a damn…”

“I don’t have ‘real freeloaders on my turf…” said Shane stiffly.

Charles’ head moved side to side as he enunciated the words: “Uunless you’ve got them on the payroll.”

Shane ignored him and said, “None of these buildings should be here. I’ve told them to remove if not in use…”

“Yeah,” agreed Charles, “but people fall in love with their own stupid designs, even if they’ve moved they never seem to get rid of them.” He was referring to a series of apartments which had been built to look like natural landforms—mountains, mainly.

Shane activated his Iris bio-sensor, which showed him the location of anything that was alive.

“Scan and go,” said Charles. “There’s nothing here.”

“We’ve got to do the walls. Under stairs—everything. They burrow, y’know?” Shane was thorough. Charles, on the other hand, had served in the guard for nearly as long as Shane but had lost his desire for the hunt. “The edge of this bloody mountain comes right up against the city wall!” said Shane. “Go round the other side. There might be a trapdoor.” Charles walked through the building, looking for a doorway out on the other side. Finding a large opening where a window had been, he climbed through and out to near where the “mountain” edge connected with the city wall, yelling out to Shane: “They’re like fucking rats! In the walls, under the ground.”

They were now only a few meters apart, separated by the mountain building. “Oi! Keep it down!” whispered Shane.

Charles continued in a more subdued voice. “They say that before the floods, down in the old city, no person was ever further than six feet from a rat.”

“Rat?” said Shane. He hadn’t been listening as he checked lower sections of the wall for break-ins. “What do you mean rat?”

“Er… omnivore, big front teeth, long tail, related to a wolf.”

“Those big wild dogs?

“Yep.”

Finding the section clear, Shane looked around and asked, “I’ve heard they still exist…”

“Wolves?”

“No. Rats… down in the real world. I’ve heard Subs talk about them. How big are they?”

“Probably similar to a wolf. Pretty scary. People were terrified of them,” said Charles. “No wonder; bloody giant disease-bearing predators never further than six feet away!”

Shane climbed the mountain structure a small way, looking down along the edge of the city wall for irregularities.

Charles continued his musings. “Imagine how much a rat would have to eat! It’d be like, ‘Dad, where did Mum go?’ ‘Oh, she went outside to hang out the washing…’ ‘When?’ ‘Oh, about an hour ago…’”

Receiving no response from Shane, Charles noticed an irregularity on the ground in front of him. He tried to yell “Shane!” but cut himself short, almost choking on the word. He hissed, “There’s something here.”

“What?”

“Like a flat piece of…”

Shane scaled sideways across the mountain, down towards the wall, switching his scanner to magnetometer providing him with a three-dimensional image of exactly what was below the surface.

“Wow. It’s been excavated right underneath. There’s a tunnel…”

Shane felt a powerful blow smash him just under the collarbone. He thought something had fallen on him. He was sent careering backwards. As he fell he looked up and saw a man leaning, with his back against the mountainside of the building, with both hands around a crossbow. As Shane struggled to take cover, the man reloaded and let off another arrow at Charles who, in the dark, could barely see what was happening. In his attempt to move aside, Charles received an arrow through his bottom left rib and into his lung. He played no further part in the confrontation.

The man, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, swung the bow on to his back and then clambered around the edge of the “mountain” to fire another shot at the injured Shane. But then panicked when he saw that Shane was not where he was supposed to be.

Shane had crawled like a snake to the very base of the structure, out of the line of fire. He switched his lens back to bio and enabled a heat sensor.

Quietly the intruder slid down the side of the wall. He moved over to Charles’ inert body and availed himself of the state of the art bolt weapon. Being unfamiliar with the Napean gun, it took him several long seconds to work out how to prime the thing. He crouched, and then at full stretch, clasping with one hand, peered around the edge of the mountain. The man’s athleticism was impressive. But no sign of the Napean guard.

The intruder then noticed something glistening on the ground. He put his finger in it. A telltale sign of victory: white, oily Napean blood, a large smear of it.
Can’t be too far away
, he thought. The real man was a smuggler of some note and had survived a number of Napean skirmishes in the north. “Do the unexpected,” he coached himself, moving silently suddenly upward. Two meters, three meters; his foot quivered and scraped lightly against the structure, feeling for a hold.

Now inside the building, Shane was lensing with both temperature and movement—heat and sound waves lit up colorfully. Being in a quiet, dark area of Napea, he magnified the sensitivity. The tiniest scrape of a foot sounded like an avalanche.

Thin, light-blue brushstrokes lit up in his field of vision. Shane pointed the molten bolt gun at the hottest spot on the fugitive, decreasing bolt width for enhanced velocity. The man’s head was now three meters off the ground. Shane pulled the trigger, melting a tiny hole in the side of the apartment and almost simultaneously through the man’s brain.

No point checking him, thought Shane, who hobbled right around the far side of the building to where a paralyzed Charles lay in a pool of his own blood.

“C’mon, let’s get you to the hospital.”

“What ‘appenin’ to Robin Hood?” slurred Charles with his eyes closed. “Fell out of his tree.”