Chapter Sixteen
Isaac climbed out of their car and surveyed the Crystal Falls apartment complex, which inhabited the midsection of a teardrop-shaped tower near the leading edge of Ballast Heights. Clear triple-layered walls held the frigid Saturn atmosphere at bay, and seven white apartment buildings formed a ring within a lush parkland with a lake at its center. The buildings all rose up to meet and support the tower’s upper reaches, which formed a metal sky fifteen stories above, and a waterfall poured down from the ceiling into the central lake.
“Swanky,” Susan said.
“Mmhmm.” Isaac rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d grabbed a few extra winks during the train ride up, but he didn’t feel fully awake yet.
The LENS floated out of the car and hovered to his side.
“I’ve cleared us with the apartment staff,” Cephalie reported. “They were kind enough to provide his keycode without complaint. Caravaggio lives in Building 3, Floor 2B.”
“How many apartments per level?” Susan asked.
“Three.”
“He has a whole third of a floor to himself?” Susan asked. “Damn. Guy must be a big deal somewhere.”
Night had fallen outside, but Ballast Heights refused to yield to the rhythm of Saturn’s ten hour and forty-two minute days, and the city glowed with activity outside the tower’s thick, transparent walls.
“Let’s see what we find.”
Isaac led the way into Building 3 and took the counter-grav shaft up a level to a circular waiting area with three doors. He palmed open the one marked 2B and walked in. A short corridor with black walls and a white floor and ceiling ended in a junction with an abstract diorama.
Isaac stepped up to the diorama, hands clasped behind his back. A party of adventurers atop an open-deck airship fought against a dragon in an endless animated loop. Little flickers of arcane light flew across the diorama, and the dragon drew in a deep breath and bellowed fire.
“Caravaggio’s art?” Susan asked.
“I would assume so.” Isaac turned to the LENS. “Cephalie, search the infostructure. Susan, with me. We’ll look around, room by room.”
He took a left and followed the hall down to a large master bedroom. A small bed with
black-and-white-striped sheets sat in the corner of an otherwise empty living space with a pair of storage caskets built into the far wall.
Isaac palmed the first casket open, found it empty, then palmed the second open.
A bald synthoid rested back in the casket at a slight angle. His skin was powder white, his open eyes were black from end to end, and he wore black lipstick. His black suit sported a line of white faux buttons down the front, and a white streamer ran down from a white sash across his waist.
Isaac snapped his fingers in front of the synthoid, but he didn’t react.
“Caravaggio?” Susan asked.
“Maybe. Cephalie?”
“Synthoid’s empty.”
Isaac glanced to the bed, then back to the empty casket next to Caravaggio’s inert synthoid.
“Something on your mind?” Susan asked.
“The bed’s too small for two people, but he has two synthoid caskets.”
“And one’s empty.”
“Yeah.” Isaac looked into the synthoid’s eyes. The empty husk stared blankly at the far wall. He grimaced and palmed the casket shut. “Let’s keep looking.”
The bedroom led to a wide studio with abstract art lining the walls. Real lights turned on and an abstract workspace activated around what appeared to be an incomplete sketch. Isaac recognized a few characters and locations from games like Solar Descent and Sky Pirates of Venus, though combined or repurposed in ways not found in the originals, such as a buxom sky pirate in star seer armor from Solar Descent or a cyber-lich and his necro-drones dressed as pirates.
They circled around to a spotless dining area with a black glass table.
And only one chair.
Isaac rested a hand on the chairback and pulled it out.
“Hmm.” He walked over to the food printer, opened its menu, and found it chock full of expensive, luxury patterns.
“I take it those aren’t public domain?” Susan asked.
“Nope.” Isaac closed the menu and looked back at the table. “He spent a lot of Esteem stocking this printer, but what kind of guy only prints one chair out?”
“An aloof artist?” Susan suggested.
“Then why the two caskets?”
“Do people keep spares in SysGov? Or swap bodies? Sort of like me and my combat frame?”
Isaac gave her a cross look.
“Minus the weapons, I mean,” she added quickly.
“Sometimes, though they’re supposed to be registered, and I didn’t see two bodies on Caravaggio’s file. Cephalie?”
“You rang?” The LENS floated into the dining room.
“I’m getting the impression this guy has an unregistered second body.”
“You could be right. I’m seeing hints of a second ID in use, though I’m not sure who it’s for.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m up to my eyeballs in hostile encryption. I’ve only been able to touch the infostructure’s periphery.”
“Come across any illegal software?”
“Not yet. I’d guess the encryption comes from a Stalwart’n’Steadfast home defense package. Expensive, but perfectly legit. I can crack it, but it’ll take some time.”
“Focus on that second ID. See if you can pull a name.”
“Give me a moment. That shouldn’t be too hard to grab.”
“And if Caravaggio does have an unregistered synthoid?” Susan asked.
“Then he may also have a fake ID for it,” Isaac said.
“Done,” Cephalie said. “Got a name for you.”
“And?”
“Second ID belongs to Grunt-Zero.”
“That sounds like a Numbers name,” Susan said.
“It does,” Isaac agreed. “Run it through the SSP database.”
“Checking…and we have a match. Grunt-Zero, former member of the Numbers. Real name is Douglas Chowder. Saturnite.”
“Not Lunarian?” Isaac asked.
“Not according to SSP. Says he was born in the Howling Bow. How about that? He could be an old friend of yours. Right, Isaac?”
“Doubt it,” he replied gruffly. “What else?”
“Doug Chowder, aka Grunt-Zero, has had multiple run-ins with the law. Several counts of pattern theft, illegal replication and sale, and a few assault charges related to gang violence. All while underaged. He spent some time in a panopticosm for those.”
“And afterwards?”
“Oh, you’ll love this,” Cephalie declared. “The Trinh Syndicate hired him.”
“You’re kidding!” Isaac exclaimed.
“Another connection,” Susan said.
“Yeah.” Isaac scratched his chin. “I wasn’t expecting this. Anything else?”
“Nope. Chowder has led a law-abiding life since hiring on with Trinh.”
“And, let me guess.” Isaac crossed his arms. “Chowder transitioned shortly after leaving prison, and Caravaggio starts making public appearances around the same time.”
“Hey, no fair,” Cephalie pouted. “You beat me to it.”
“Then Trinh may have set up his ‘artist’ identity,” Isaac said.
“If they did, you know how this’ll go down,” Cephalie said. “They’ll have an excuse on hand for why the alias isn’t properly connected to the original. At worst, they’d get a slap on the wrist.”
“Maybe so,” Isaac said with a grin, “but this is the best lead we’ve found so far, and we’re going to tug it hard! It looks like Caravaggio has switched to his original ID and gone dark. We need to mobilize SSP to hunt him down, but we also need to get a dedicated forensics team in here to tear his home’s infostructure apart, bit by bit. And then—”
The front door chimed and split open.
Isaac and Susan glanced to each other.
“SSP?” she whispered.
“No,” he whispered back. “We’re the only ones who should be here.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed with intense focus.
“Stay put!” She drew her sidearm and headed for the front door.
“Wait!” Isaac hissed under his breath.
Susan zipped around the corner with synthoid-enhanced speed, and Isaac hurried after her. He rounded the same corner, but Susan pressed a hand to his chest and held him back. He tried to push through, but her arm wouldn’t budge.
“Stay back!” she whispered. “I’ll handle this!”
“But—”
She swung out into the open and aimed her anti-synthoid hand cannon over the diorama near the entrance. A shadowed figure dressed all in black emerged from the short hallway.
“Freeze! Police!” Susan shouted, pinging everyone nearby with her virtual badge.
“Ack!” The man backed up against the wall. He held a thick, dark bundle in his hands. “Who are—”
“Drop the weapon!”
“But I don’t—”
“Drop it or I will end you!”
“Eep!” He let go of the bundle, and it fell to the floor in a heap.
“Back away!” Susan ordered, advancing on the suspect. “Back away, I said! Hands where I can see them!”
The man raised both hands and backed away.
“Please don’t shoot!” he begged.
Susan made her way to the pile and poked it with her foot.
“What the hell is this crap?” she demanded.
“It’s—”
“You be quiet!” she snapped. “Cephalie, can you tell what the hell he was packing?”
“Sure thing.” The LENS floated out behind her, descended to the dark pile on the floor, and extended a lone pseudopod. It lifted a cloth flap and peered inside.
“Well?” Susan asked, never taking her eyes or pistol off the suspect. “What kind of weapon is it?”
“It’s a pile of shirts.”
* * *
The tea saucer shook in Doug Chowder’s trembling hands. He sank into the dining room table’s lone chair, raised the shuddering teacup to his mouth, and took a loud, slurping sip. The bundle of shirts sat in an unruly pile on the table, and Susan stood near the wall, frowning at the floor.
“Mister Caravaggio,” Isaac said.
“Please. Call me Doug,” the man replied, looking up with dark eyes. His features resembled the Caravaggio synthoid with a bald head and a somewhat lumpy physique. “I only use my professional alias while in public.”
“Mister Chowder,” Isaac said.
Doug cringed with a sour expression. He raised the shaking teacup, took another sip, then set it down. Spilt tea pooled in the saucer.
“I’m sorry for what just happened,” Isaac continued, “but both SysPol and SSP attempted to contact you earlier regarding an ongoing investigation, and when you failed to respond to calls and couldn’t be located, we came to search your apartment.”
“I see,” Doug muttered sadly. “I’m sure someone somewhere thinks this is funny. I have anxiety problems on good days, you see. Even had my connectome modified to reduce my stress level. Didn’t work out.” He made a vague painting gesture. “My art became mediocre, so I had the edit removed. Wish I’d kept it, at least as a toggle. Would have made her shoving a gun in my face a little easier to bear.”
“Mister Chowder, I’m sorry my deputy shoved a gun in your face”—behind Isaac, Susan drooped her head even lower—“but we’re here on official business, and I have several questions I need to ask you.”
“I’m sorry,” Doug groaned.
“What for?”
“I don’t know. There are cops in my home. Whatever’s going on is serious enough for her to point a gun at me. I figure apologizing is a good place to start.” He looked up at Isaac with mournful eyes. “Did it help?”
“I suppose it hasn’t hurt any,” Isaac said guardedly.
“Am I going back to jail?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Well, I told him it was a bad idea.” Doug shook his head. “But, no. He wouldn’t listen.”
“He?” Isaac asked.
“My manager at the Trinh Syndicate. Gordon Russo. He kept telling me no one’ll buy art from Doug Chowder. He pushed me to develop an artist persona, and I came up with Neon Caravaggio, eccentric Lunarian artiste.” He flourished his hand haughtily. “Russo said he could work with that, and he set up my alias.”
“And?” Isaac urged.
“Trinh handles all my marketing, and they take thirty percent of my profits as compensation. It didn’t work out too badly, I suppose. Except for the legal gray area.” Doug smiled sadly. “Sorry about that, but Russo insisted. Can you imagine how people would laugh if they found out Caravaggio was actually some loser named Doug Chowder. I mean seriously! What were my parents thinking?
“And that’s not the only time I’ve had bad luck with names. The main reason I joined the Numbers was for the gang name. Well, that and me bowing to peer pressure. Anyway, I thought it’d be a cool replacement for ‘Doug Chowder.’ I was so excited at the time. And do you know what happened? My turn with the deacon comes, and he rolls a zero. A zero!” Doug rested his chin in both hands. “I didn’t even know that was possible! Obviously, I used my reroll, knowing I would have to live with the second result. And you know what that toss came up as?”
“Another zero,” Isaac said dryly.
“Another [BLEEP]ing zero! When I saw it, I let out this long grumble, so you know what the deacon did? He dubbed me ‘Grunt-Zero’ right then and there!” Doug took a deep, shuddering breath. “I hate my life.”
Isaac paused and regarded the man curiously.
“Did you just censor yourself?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He took another sip of tea, his hands somewhat steady now. “My girlfriend hates it when I swear, so I edited my speech to make her happy. This way, ‘mother[BLEEP]ing [BLEEP] humpers’ comes out like that. It’s automatic, and it makes her laugh. I can turn it off if it bothers you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Isaac felt off-balance questioning Doug Chowder. He’d been truly excited at what they’d found in the apartment, like a bloodhound sniffing out the trail, but now that he saw the man and heard useless information spill from his mouth, he sensed this lead transforming into another dead end.
“Mister Chowder, why isn’t your alias properly registered?” Isaac asked.
“You mean how it has no official connection to ‘Doug Chowder’?”
“Yes. That.”
“I already told you. Who’d want to buy art from a loser like me? And if someone found out Neon Caravaggio was actually Doug Chowder, then the alias would lose its purpose.” He gazed into his tea. “Honestly, I just did what Russo told me to do.”
“After we’re done here, we’ll notify the Ministry of Citizen Services. They’ll contact you to clear up this discrepancy.”
“Will I go to jail?”
“For this? No, but there will likely be a fine.”
“Oh. Okay then.” Doug let out a relieved sigh. “I guess that’s not too bad. Perhaps I’ve worried about being found out too much. I have a habit of worrying unduly.”
“However, there are other matters I’m far more interested in.”
“Of course. Ask away.”
“You’re being awfully forthcoming.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Doug asked. “You’re a SysPol detective. You’ll get what you want out of me one way or another, even if I keep my mouth shut. There’s no point in resisting; I learned that lesson when I was with the Numbers. Might as well just spill it all, save both of us the time and trouble. So, ask me anything.”
“Very well. We’ll start with your most recent trip. Why did you transmit down to Titan?”
“For AbyssCon. It’s a small Solar Descent–themed convention in Promise City. The con chair asked me to judge the cosplay pageant.”
“Then why did you leave Titan almost immediately?”
“Because AbyssCon can go [BLEEP] my [BLEEP]ing [BLEEP]!” Doug rose halfway out of his seat, then frowned as if realizing what he’d done. He sat back down and stirred his tea. “Uhh, I mean I had a disagreement with the con chair concerning my duties, which were a lot more than we initially agreed, and my compensation, which was nothing like what we agreed. In short, he was trying to take advantage of me and my brand, so I left.”
“Both SysPol and SSP tried and failed to contact you afterwards.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Where were you and why didn’t you respond?”
“I don’t check my Caravaggio mail too often, and I was with my girlfriend Tomoe. Ito Tomoe.” He looked up. “I suppose you’ll want to confirm this?”
“Yes, we will.”
“I figured.” Doug sent them a contact string. “There you go. I needed to unwind after my aborted trip, so I spent some time with Tomoe. She’s nice. Helps me recharge when I get down.” He picked up one of the shirts. “She’s not a fan of my work, though. I printed her some of my new artshirts, but she only kept one, just to be nice. That’s why I came back with these. Honestly, it’s less stressful that way. She doesn’t pressure me to produce like other people do.”
“I’d like your AbyssCon contacts as well.”
“Sure thing.” Doug sent them over. “There you go.”
“We’ll need to verify your story.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” He smoothed out one of the shirts. “My latest series has been doing quite well. I’m most well-known for my ‘critical fail’ posters as well as mixing elements from Solar Descent, Sky Pirates of Venus, RealmBuilder, and a few others, but I’ve tried a more traditional approach recently.” He offered the shirt to Isaac. “Here.”
“Here, what?”
“For you.”
Isaac took the shirt tentatively. It featured Singularity, one of the abyssal gods of Solar Descent, checking his virtual schedule with a come-hither smirk. The caption read: WANNA BE THE EVENT ON MY HORIZON? The artwork winked at him.
He suppressed a strong desire to groan.
“And you, too.” Doug picked up another shirt and unfurled it for Susan.
“Me?” she asked, pointing to herself.
“Sure. Here you go.”
Susan took hold of a shirt featuring a voluptuous blue-skinned woman in a bodysuit, the front unzipped to reveal a lot of impressive cleavage. She levitated in a fiery, animated aura, with the words HOT DATE placed above her.
“Who is she?” Susan asked. She held the shirt up with the slightest hint of a smile on her lips.
“Natli Klynn,” Isaac explained. “She’s a prominent star seer in Solar Descent lore.”
“Oh, are you a fan, too?” Doug’s eyes lit up. “Did you hear the developers hinted they might kill her off this season? They mentioned it at their DescentCon Saturn panel. Were you at DescentCon this year?”
“No.” Isaac tossed his shirt to the LENS, which caught it, folded it, and stashed it away in one fluid motion. The more Doug talked, the more Isaac felt like he was wasting his time with the man.
But perhaps I can still figure out where he contracted the virus, he thought.
“I can load some more images into your shirts, if you like,” Doug offered. “I normally charge for that, but I’ll make an exception for you two. Can I interest you in some critical fails? Or perhaps—”
“Mister Chowder,” Isaac interrupted, “we still have a job to do.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
“Where were you before your trip to Titan?”
“DescentCon Saturn, obviously.”
Isaac grimaced, sensing where this line of questioning was headed.
“And did you have a table in one of the artist halls?”
“Naturally. I’m such a regular nowadays, they set one up for me for free, and they always give me a great location. Lots of foot traffic.”
“A high-traffic area,” Isaac noted. “With thousands of people passing close by your table?”
“Oh, tens of thousands! Maybe even hundreds of thousands! The hall I was in was packed the whole time. There were so many people stuffed together, I had to call for an escort to my panels. I hear the con broke another attendance record this year.”
“And did anyone know of your travel plans to Titan?”
“I would assume so. AbyssCon was advertising my appearance.” Doug grumbled something under his breath, then said, “Without my permission.”
Then literally anyone at the convention could have passed the virus to you, Isaac thought. They knew where to find you, and they knew where you were going next and when.
“Have you ever interacted with Melody Quang?”
“Who?”
“A junior manager at the Trinh Syndicate.”
“No, I don’t think so. Like I said, I deal almost exclusively with Gordon Russo.”
“Have you ever been to New Frontier?”
“Where’s that?”
“Bottom of the Shark Fin.”
“No. I’ve been down as far as the Epimethean Divide, but that was years ago.”
“Did anyone interact with you in a suspicious manner at DescentCon?”
“Suspicious, how? I deal with a lot of weirdos at these conventions.”
“Someone trying to stay close to you. Perhaps to pass a virus to your synthoid.”
“A virus!” he squeaked. “What sort of virus?”
“One that infected the LifeBeam tower and killed two police officers.”
“What?” Doug’s eyes grew wide with horror. “I was carrying around a virus that killed two cops? Is that why you’re here?”
“It is.”
“But that’s horrible!” he cried. “Who would do such a thing?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“To think I was used to murder someone!” His eyes misted up. He grabbed the last shirt on the table and balled it up in his arms. “I’m so sorry! If there’s anything I can do to help, I will!”
“I appreciate your cooperation, but unless—”
“Would you like another shirt?” He offered the garment.
“No,” Isaac snapped.
“Okay.” Doug cradled the shirt against his chest. “I suppose it’s a rather lame way to apologize. I’m sorry.”
“Again, did you witness any suspicious activity at the con?”
“No, none that I recall.” Doug shook his head. “Nothing but the usual quirky customers one finds at conventions. Wish I can help, but…” He shrugged.
“Mister Chowder, you will need to notify SysPol of any travel plans while the investigation is underway. Furthermore, I advise you to contact Kronos Station and arrange for both your synthoids to be examined, for your safety as well as those around you.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.” Doug nodded. “I’ll take care of that right away.”
“Also, if you recall anything unusual from DescentCon, you’re to contact me immediately.” Isaac provided his contact string to the artist.
“I will. You can count on me, Detective!”
* * *
“Well, that didn’t go the way I expected,” Isaac grumbled once they were back in the car.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said, wringing her hands.
“As you should be. What were you—”
Susan’s face tensed up, and her eyes moistened to the cusp of tears.
“Look.” Isaac shook his head and let out a sigh. “Cephalie and I have handled violent people before. That’s why we have the LENS, okay?”
“Okay,” Susan replied softly.
“Your gun is a last resort. Please try to remember that.”
“I know.”
“That said…”
She raised her gaze.
“I couldn’t help but notice how your first reaction was to shield me from danger.” He gave her a slim smile. “Thanks.”
“That’s what STANDs do,” she said, her eyes brightening.
“Yeah, I see that. Nervous artists beware.”
She chuckled, but then cut herself off.
“I’ll try harder from now on.”
“I know you will.” He turned to Cephalie’s avatar next to the LENS. “Ask SSP to keep an eye on Mister Chowder, just in case.”
“Will do.”
“And contact the DescentCon staff. See if you can get security video that includes his table and panels.”
“Do you really plan to hunt through the tens of thousands of possible suspects who could have given him the virus?”
“Only if we have no other choice,” Isaac groused. “Until then, let’s head back to New Frontier. Maybe there’s something we missed. Vehicle, take us to the Pillar Station.”