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The last night of July had brought the worst heat of the season to Slummer Paradise, and Talitha Manchand was beginning to regret accepting a bounty that required her to enter the district after sunset.
Avenue B was crowded with petty consignees conducting business beneath the sickly glow of failing holographic advertisements. Organ brokers, prosthetic surgeons, boosterware dealers, gambling houses, and barter firms competed for the attention of customers whose needs often exceeded their purchasing power. From the entrance of a DNA bank came the antiseptic odor of chemical disinfectants, fighting a losing battle against the street’s accumulated sewage, industrial exhaust, and human perspiration.
Talitha guided her ’13 GeoPlymouth Cloudburst through the congestion, narrowly avoiding a delivery drone that descended without warning in front of her windshield. She swore at the machine, received a burst of electronic profanity from its operator, and maneuvered into a narrower side street where the commercial traffic thinned.
The Forgotten Realm Hotel stood three-quarters of the way down the block, its upper floors disappearing into the smog beneath the containment dome. Twenty-three stories of patched concrete, salvaged steel, and windows so thoroughly stained that it was difficult to determine whether anyone occupied the rooms behind them. A vertical sign had once illuminated the building’s name, but most of its letters had gone dark years ago.
Talitha made a left turn into the alley behind the hotel and eased the Cloudburst between a pair of overflowing dumpsters. Its lasertracking system negotiated the final few feet without assistance, the hovercar settling onto its flexible skirt as the engines powered down.
She switched on the dome light and retrieved the Glock 19 from its compartment beneath the dashboard.
The magazine was full. She chambered a round, performed a final check, and secured the pistol in her advantage belt before extinguishing the interior light. The weapon would be her last resort, although she suspected that particular resolution might be unavoidable.
Marv Quinton had killed thirty-five slamtrackers.
Thirty-five trained professionals who had presumably approached the assignment with the same confidence she was trying to manufacture for herself.
Talitha considered the number while examining the hotel’s rear entrance. The information attached to the bounty described Quinton as a terrorist, cybercriminal, murderer, and member of an international organization responsible for attacking corporate installations throughout the Eurasian Alliance. Accompanying the description were photographs of dead trackers, destroyed security equipment, and the aftermath of several encounters attributed to him.
She had accepted dangerous assignments before, but the file contained an unusual amount of information about what Quinton had done and remarkably little about how he’d managed to do it.
For the money being offered, someone wanted him badly.
And the money was very good.
Talitha stepped out into the alley, checked the surrounding windows, and approached the rear entrance. The sonic padlock was an antique, its protective housing cracked and repaired with mismatched screws. She extracted a high-frequency whistle from her belt, adjusted its output, and directed a sustained pulse toward the locking mechanism.
The padlock clicked.
She entered the Forgotten Realm through a service stairwell that smelled of urine, mildew, and the stale chemical residue of industrial cleaning compounds. A broken service trolley lay overturned beside the stairs, its contents long since scavenged. Somewhere overhead, an ancient ventilation unit made a noise resembling a man clearing his throat.
Talitha followed a passage into the lobby.
The room was crowded, although few of its occupants appeared to have any particular business with the hotel. Small groups occupied the corners, conducting private transactions beneath malfunctioning fluorescent panels. A pair of jonniegirls argued over the contents of a shopping bag while three neurobikers shared a smoking apparatus fashioned from automobile exhaust components.
Nobody paid Talitha much attention.
She preferred it that way.
Near the reception desk, a rail-thin stimfella in an offensively bright green leisure suit was conducting a transaction with a customer who looked incapable of standing without assistance. The customer had the hollow cheeks and trembling hands of someone in advanced chemical dependency, and he kept pressing a palm against the left side of his abdomen.
Talitha noticed the bloodstain spreading beneath his shirt.
The man had recently undergone surgery. Considering the neighborhood, she’d have wagered he had sold something he couldn’t afford to lose.
The dealer pocketed the customer’s money and began walking away.
“Hey, Trent! What about my stash?” the customer demanded, lurching after him. “You took my cash, man. I paid you.”
The dealer ignored him.
The customer grabbed his sleeve.
Two heavily built men emerged from the shadows beside the reception desk. One struck the customer across the mouth, sending him backward into a chair. Before he could recover, the second man caught him by the shirt and drove a fist into his abdomen.
The customer’s scream was thin and desperate.
Talitha watched him collapse, curling around the fresh surgical wound while both men continued kicking him. Around the lobby, conversations resumed at a slightly higher volume. Nobody wanted to become involved.
She couldn’t particularly blame them.
Still, she disliked watching somebody get beaten after paying for the privilege.
Trent noticed her attention.
“Something interesting, jodie?”
Talitha continued toward the elevators, hoping he would interpret her silence as a lack of interest.
He didn’t.
“You deaf? I’m talking to you.”
She stopped several feet away and faced him.
Trent was tall, narrow-shouldered, and possessed of the restless confidence that came from having two large men available to enforce his opinions. His blond hair hung across his forehead in greasy strands, and a raised blemish occupied one side of his nose. The lime-green suit appeared to have been tailored for someone with a considerably broader chest.
“I heard you,” Talitha said. “I’m trying to decide whether there’s anything worth answering.”
His smile thinned.
He moved closer, looking her over with a familiarity he had done nothing to earn.
“You don’t look like you belong around here. Pretty little thing like you ought to have somebody looking after her.”
“I’ve managed so far.”
“Maybe your luck’s about to improve.” Trent glanced toward his companions, inviting their amusement. “I could show you a good time, provided you know how to behave.”
Talitha glanced at the elevator doors. An OUT OF ORDER sign hung crookedly across the controls.
Naturally.
She would have to take the stairs.
“Move,” she said.
Trent’s amusement disappeared.
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a yellow inhaler, administering two sharp bursts of stimulant into his nostrils. His pupils expanded, and he rolled his shoulders while the drug circulated. He passed the inhaler backward, allowing his companions to share what remained.
Talitha watched their reactions. The nearest man flexed his hands and began breathing more rapidly. The other shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, readying himself for movement.
They were preparing to hurt her.
And they believed they would enjoy it.
Trent reached toward her face, his open hand swinging in a contemptuous slap.
Talitha intercepted his wrist before the blow landed.
She stepped inside his reach, twisted his arm across his body, and drove her palm against the outside of his elbow. The joint gave with a wet pop. Trent screamed and folded toward the floor, clutching an arm that no longer bent in the proper direction.
The first billyboy lunged from behind.
Talitha heard the movement too late to turn fully. His forearm caught her across the throat, and he pulled her backward, trying to secure a chokehold. She drove her heel down onto his instep, then snapped her head backward into his face.
Cartilage cracked against the back of her skull.
The man grunted and loosened his grip.
Talitha hooked her foot behind his knee, twisted, and used his momentum to bring them both down. They struck the floor hard enough to scatter the contents of a nearby table. Her shoulder absorbed much of the impact, sending a sharp pain into her collarbone, but the man’s head struck the tiles.
He released her.
She rolled clear before he could recover.
The third attacker came toward her with a heavy, swinging kick. Talitha shifted inside its arc and drove the heel of her palm beneath his ribs. He folded forward, and she struck him again, lower this time, putting her full weight behind the blow.
He dropped beside Trent, struggling to breathe.
Talitha rose and backed away, bringing her Glock clear of the holster.
The fight had lasted only seconds.
Her shoulder hurt, the back of her head throbbed, and the narrow space between her thumb and forefinger had begun to swell. She maintained her aim while checking that the three men were no longer capable of continuing.
Trent lay on his side, whimpering over the ruined elbow.
The second man had blood pouring from his nose.
The third remained curled near the overturned table, both hands pressed against his abdomen.
Talitha’s breathing was louder than she liked.
Nobody in the lobby moved.
She looked around, searching for another attack, and saw the realization spreading across the faces of the onlookers. The precise movements, the advantage belt, the speed with which she had incapacitated three opponents.
They knew what she was.
A slamtracker.
Several people collected their belongings and headed for the door.
Talitha holstered the Glock.
“Anybody else?”
Nobody answered.
“Wonderful.”
She turned toward the reception desk.
A voice emerged from behind its cracked security partition.
“That was impressive. Stupid, considering where you are, but impressive.”
The desk clerk regarded her with an expression that suggested the altercation had been the evening’s most entertaining diversion. A plastic nametag identified the clerk as ADEL.
“Those three have friends,” Adel continued. “You’ll probably meet them if you’re foolish enough to use the front entrance when you leave.”
“Then I’ll use the back.”
“Very sensible.”
Behind Talitha, the injured customer had managed to regain his feet. He approached Trent’s body and began searching the pockets of the green leisure suit. The dealer made a weak attempt to resist, earning a vicious stomp against his broken arm.
Talitha considered intervening.
The customer extracted a fistful of currency and several packets of stimulants, then hobbled toward the exit. Blood continued seeping through his shirt, but his expression had acquired a satisfaction that Talitha suspected would last only until his next dose wore off.
She returned her attention to Adel.
“I’m looking for Marv Quinton.”
Adel’s amusement vanished.
“I figured you were. You lot never come here for the accommodations.”
Talitha withdrew her credentials and positioned them where the clerk could see.
“The information your office provided had better be accurate. I’m not interested in climbing this building for somebody who checked out last week.”
“He hasn’t checked out.”
“How certain are you?”
Adel reached beneath the desk and retrieved a folded slip of paper.
“Certain enough to call in a bounty on him.”
The clerk slid the paper across the counter.
Talitha read the room number.
“Twenty-third floor?”
“You expected the penthouse?”
“I expected an elevator that worked.”
“We all have dreams.”
She pocketed the paper.
Adel leaned forward.
“Before you start making assumptions, I needed that finder’s fee for an emergency. I don’t usually sell out the people staying here.”
Talitha glanced toward the wounded customer disappearing through the front entrance.
“Everybody’s got an emergency.”
The clerk’s face hardened.
“Some of us have more than one.”
Talitha considered asking what the money was needed for, then decided she didn’t want to know. A justification wouldn’t change the information she had purchased.
She started toward the stairs.
“One more thing,” Adel called.
Talitha turned.
“Nobody’s heard from Quinton since he took the room, but he makes a hell of a racket some nights. I thought he was beating somebody in there until I realized he never had visitors.”
“What sort of racket?”
“Furniture dragging. Things falling over. Sometimes screaming. Not the usual sort of screaming you get in a place like this.”
Talitha studied the clerk.
“Did you check on him?”
“People come here because they don’t want anyone checking on them.”
That was apparently the end of the matter.
Talitha entered the stairwell.
Twenty-three flights.
The Forgotten Realm had evidently been constructed by people who regarded ventilation as an extravagance. The stairwell trapped the day’s heat, and each successive landing seemed warmer than the one below it. By the tenth floor, Talitha had loosened her collar. By the fifteenth, sweat had soaked the back of her shirt.
She maintained a steady pace, resisting the temptation to rush.
Quinton’s file indicated that he rarely remained in one location for long, and the bounty had already attracted other interested parties. If he had learned that someone had discovered his hiding place, the entire climb might prove pointless.
Yet the clerk had been confident he was still upstairs.
That bothered her.
Marv Quinton had survived years of pursuit by remaining unpredictable. He’d killed trackers in environments where they had superior weapons, greater numbers, and the advantage of knowing the terrain.
A man like that didn’t hide in a single room for three weeks unless he had a very good reason.
Or unless something prevented him from leaving.
By the nineteenth floor, she could hear a faint thumping through the stairwell walls.
She stopped to listen.
The noise continued for several seconds, followed by a scraping sound and a dull impact.
It seemed to originate somewhere above her.
Talitha rested a hand on the Glock.
Another impact.
Then silence.
She resumed climbing.
At the twenty-third floor, she paused to recover her breathing and examine the hallway through the narrow window in the fire door. A row of aging fluorescent tubes illuminated the passage, leaving alternating stretches of dirty yellow light and shadow.
There was nobody outside.
She eased the door open and stepped into the hall.
The worn floorboards shifted beneath her weight, producing a faint creak that seemed indecently loud after the relative quiet of the stairwell. Several doors bore additional locks installed by their occupants, and two had security cameras wired directly into the frames.
Quinton’s room stood near the far end.
Talitha approached carefully, avoiding the center of the passage. Her right hand rested against the Glock, and she kept her left free to operate the equipment in her advantage belt.
The hallway smelled of cigarettes, boiled cabbage, and the chemical tang of overheated circuitry.
Outside Quinton’s door, she noticed a faint noise coming from within.
Breathing.
Someone was drawing air in short, irregular bursts.
Then came a scraping sound, followed by what might have been a chair leg moving across the floor.
Talitha examined the door.
Three electronic finger-ident locks had been installed around the pneumatic mechanism. Their casings were old but serviceable, and the lock status indicators showed that all three were engaged.
No additional security devices were visible.
That didn’t reassure her.
A hacker with Quinton’s reputation could have concealed surveillance equipment inside the woodwork. He could have wired the controls to an explosive device, configured the door to discharge current into an intruder, or arranged any number of unpleasant surprises for someone foolish enough to approach without caution.
She stepped to one side of the frame and pressed the bell.
The chime sounded inside.
No answer.
She waited, listening for movement.
“Marv Quinton?”
Her voice carried through the intercom.
There was a slight rustling sound behind the door.
Talitha held her position.
“My name is Talitha Manchand. I need to speak with you.”
Silence.
She tried again.
“Mr. Quinton, I have authorization to take you into custody. I would prefer to do this without damaging your door or anybody attached to it.”
A faint metallic click came from inside.
She couldn’t identify it.
The sound might have been a piece of furniture shifting.
It might also have been a weapon being prepared.
Talitha extracted a small electronic override from her belt and fitted it to the upper finger-ident panel. The device resembled a miniature calculator, its tiny display flickering through combinations faster than she could follow.
The first lock disengaged.
She moved the override to the second panel.
A scrape sounded from inside the room.
Talitha paused, listening.
The noise continued for several seconds, then ceased.
The second lock opened.
She positioned the device against the final panel, her free hand settling around the Glock’s grip.
Fifteen seconds after she’d started, all three locks were disengaged.
Talitha stepped away from the doorway and allowed the pneumatic mechanism to retract the door into its housing.
Hot air rolled into the hallway.
The room beyond was completely dark.
“Mr. Quinton?”
No response.
She moved through the entrance, keeping her weapon low but ready, and allowed the door to close behind her.
The locks engaged automatically.
The darkness seemed unusually complete.
Even the weak hallway illumination disappeared, leaving Talitha with no reliable sense of the room’s size or the placement of its furniture.
She could smell cigarettes, spilled alcohol, and something sharper beneath them.
Blood.
A bead of sweat traveled down the side of her face.
“Lights on.”
Nothing happened.
She repeated the command, then realized she was probably wasting her breath. The building’s remaining systems looked decades beyond their recommended service life. Voice-activated lighting might never have been installed.
She reached toward her belt for a portable light.
A match scraped across the floorboards somewhere to her left.
The sudden flare illuminated a narrow section of the room.
Talitha swung the Glock toward it, extending her arms and setting her feet apart.
A man sat on a stool near the wall.
He held the match between trembling fingers, allowing its flame to illuminate the cigarette clamped between his lips. The light touched his cheek, revealing a streak of dried blood and the faint glimmer of chrome beside one temple.
His face was otherwise concealed.
The man watched her without moving.
Then he laughed.
The sound was rough and exhausted, and it ended in a brief fit of coughing that made him bend forward.
Talitha maintained her aim.
“Hands where I can see them.”
He raised the hand holding the match, followed by the other, which shook more noticeably. A thin red line crossed his knuckles, and his sleeve bore a dark stain.
“You’re going to make a terrible mess if you shoot me in here,” he said. “The management’s very particular about cleaning charges.”
“You Marv Quinton?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“Talitha Manchand. ‘Rinth police.”
He drew on the cigarette, the ember brightening beneath his nose.
“You’re a slamtracker. The ‘Rinth police don’t come this far into the Paradise unless somebody’s paying a local to do the walking.”
Talitha adjusted her grip.
“Call me whatever you want. I’m authorized to bring you in, and you’ve already made the procedure more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
He extinguished the match.
Darkness reclaimed the room, leaving only the small orange point of his cigarette.
Talitha moved sideways to change her position. The floor creaked beneath her boot, producing a low, prolonged complaint.
The cigarette ember tilted toward the sound.
“Be careful,” Quinton said. “There’s broken glass near the table. A couple of other things you probably don’t want to step on, either.”
“Then turn on the lights.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Talitha heard his breathing change, becoming shallow and strained. The cigarette ember shifted toward the floor, and the stool creaked beneath his weight.
Something struck the wooden boards.
A small object, perhaps.
Then came a sound like a shoe scraping against a wall.
“Mr. Quinton?”
“I’m here.”
“I can hear that. I want the lights on so I can see whether you’re doing something stupid.”
A faint chuckle came from the corner.
“I’ve already done something stupid. Several somethings, actually. At the moment I’m trying very hard not to add to the collection.”
Talitha considered activating her own light, but the prospect of briefly illuminating herself while Quinton remained familiar with the room was unappealing. She knew he had access to firearms. The file suggested he would use them without hesitation.
Yet the man seated in front of her was behaving strangely.
She had expected defiance. Violence, perhaps. The confident insolence of someone accustomed to surviving encounters with the authorities.
Quinton sounded like a man desperately attempting to remain awake.
He shifted on the stool again.
The movement was followed by an involuntary gasp.
Talitha tightened her grip on the Glock.
“Are you injured?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’ve been having some trouble keeping track.”
She waited for an explanation.
None came.
A cigarette ember could reveal very little, but she had noticed the trembling of his hands and the dried blood on his face. The man’s breathing was irregular, and every few seconds his muscles seemed to tighten against some unseen pressure.
Withdrawal, perhaps.
Or neurological damage.
The bounty file mentioned altered metabolism and extensive cybernetic modifications. A ‘Rinthjock living alone in a sweltering room with an aging cybermodem could develop any number of unpleasant conditions.
Then Quinton spoke again.
“Tell me something, Ms. Manchand. When you came through the door, did you notice anything unusual about the room?”
Talitha felt the hairs rise along her forearms.
“Besides the temperature and the fact that I can’t see a damned thing?”
“The walls.”
“What about them?”
He took another drag on his cigarette.
“Never mind. Forget I asked.”
Talitha stared into the dark corner.
She had encountered people suffering from severe implant malfunction before. Their symptoms ranged from involuntary movements and auditory distortions to prolonged hallucinations. Some became violent when they lost the ability to distinguish perceived threats from actual ones.
Quinton’s posture suddenly seemed less like deliberate intimidation.
His head was tilted to one side, and the hand holding the cigarette remained unnaturally still. The other hand moved slowly against his thigh, feeling along the fabric as if he were checking that something remained where it belonged.
She heard a faint, mechanical ticking.
Then she recognized the sound.
A cybermodem.
It was operating somewhere in the room, although its owner had apparently disconnected from it.
Talitha remembered Adel’s description of the noises coming from upstairs.
Furniture scraping.
Things falling.
Screaming.
A man who rarely left the room.
Something had happened to Marv Quinton.
She couldn’t afford to let that realization make her careless.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “I’m going to give you one opportunity to make this easy. Switch on the lights, keep your hands visible, and follow my instructions. If you reach for anything without telling me first, I’ll assume you’re reaching for a weapon.”
Quinton’s cigarette glowed briefly.
“There’s a weapon here already.”
Talitha’s finger remained clear of the trigger, but every muscle in her arms tightened.
“Where?”
“Close enough that I could’ve used it when you came through the door.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He shifted forward on the stool.
The sound that escaped him was almost a groan.
“Because I wasn’t certain what I was looking at.”
Talitha frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve had a very unpleasant evening, and when you came through that door, I couldn’t be certain you were actually there.”
The words troubled her.
A moment passed before she responded.
“Are you telling me you’re hallucinating?”
“I’d be a damned sight happier if that were the whole problem.”
He laughed again, although there was little amusement in it.
Then his breath caught.
Talitha heard his heel scrape across the floorboards.
For several seconds, he made no sound at all.
“Mr. Quinton?”
He inhaled sharply.
“I’m still here. Just give me a second.”
She heard the stool shift.
The man appeared to be struggling against something, although there was no corresponding noise from another person. His breathing became rapid, and he made a strained, frustrated sound before forcing himself into silence.
Talitha considered whether she should call for medical assistance.
A prisoner with malfunctioning implants could die before reaching a holding facility, leaving her to explain why she’d ignored obvious signs of neurological distress. She had little desire to add that complication to the evening.
“Do you need a medic?”
Quinton’s cigarette ember moved.
“Wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Why?”
“Depends who’s paying the medic.”
Talitha almost smiled.
Whatever else was happening to him, his paranoia remained fully operational.
She glanced toward the darkened doorway, considering the locks that had engaged behind her. She could reopen them with her override, but doing so would require removing one hand from the Glock.
She had entered the room voluntarily.
Quinton had been sitting inside it for weeks.
And the more she listened to him, the less certain she became that he had been free to leave.
“Mr. Quinton, I need to see your face.”
“I don’t think you’ll enjoy the experience.”
“I’ll manage.”
“The years haven’t been particularly generous.”
“I’m not here to judge your appearance. I’m here to make sure you’re who you’re supposed to be and that you aren’t about to do something dangerous.”
He drew in another breath.
“You’re standing there with a pistol aimed at me, Ms. Manchand. I’m sitting on a stool trying to finish a cigarette. I’d say our definitions of dangerous are somewhat different.”
“Thirty-five dead trackers would disagree with you.”
For the first time, he offered no immediate response.
Talitha listened to the faint ticking of the cybermodem.
Then Quinton spoke.
“Yeah. I suppose they would.”
There was something in his tone that disturbed her more than his earlier laughter. She had expected him to dismiss the killings, to offer the customary justifications that appeared in the statements of so many captured fugitives.
Instead, he sounded tired.
Almost defeated.
She refused to mistake exhaustion for harmlessness.
“Turn on the lights.”
Quinton shifted on the stool, and his silhouette appeared briefly as the cigarette ember passed near his face.
“Look, I have reasons for keeping them off. The light makes certain things worse.”
“What things?”
He reached toward his temple.
Talitha raised the Glock.
“Hands away from your head.”
His arm froze.
“All right.”
He lowered his hand.
A muscle jumped along his jaw.
Talitha waited while he collected himself.
“How about this?” he said. “I’ll stand up, move two steps to my left, and switch on the overheads. You keep your weapon aimed at me if that’s what makes you comfortable. Fair arrangement?”
“Provided you move slowly.”
“I don’t think moving quickly is much of an option right now.”
He placed the cigarette between his lips and braced his palms against the stool.
Talitha heard the wood creak as he pushed himself upright.
His first attempt failed.
He lowered himself again, breathing heavily.
She considered ordering him to remain seated, but the darkness had become intolerable. Every additional second inside the room gave him another opportunity to use its layout against her.
Quinton tried again.
This time he managed to stand.
He swayed slightly, one hand reaching toward the wall for support.
Talitha adjusted her aim.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I’m reaching for the switch.”
“Then tell me before you move.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Understood.”
The cigarette ember traveled slowly through the darkness as Quinton moved along the wall.
His footsteps were hesitant.
At one point he flinched violently and ducked, as though something had passed just above his head. His shoulder struck the plaster, and he cursed beneath his breath.
Talitha watched the movement with growing unease.
There had been nothing above him.
Nothing she could see, at any rate.
He remained pressed against the wall for several seconds before straightening.
“Nearly there,” he said.
A click sounded beneath his fingers.
Two dusty fluorescent rings flickered overhead.
Talitha squinted as the sudden light flooded the room, the glare stabbing at eyes that had grown accustomed to darkness.
She blinked repeatedly, struggling to bring the figure before her into focus.
Then she saw Marv Quinton.
©2002 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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