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Chapter Twenty-One

“A brothel?” Susan asked doubtfully.

“I know,” Isaac said. “Doesn’t make sense, but there it is.”

“I looked over Made-For-You’s pricing,” Cephalie said, her avatar seated on Isaac’s shoulder. “Fat Man wasn’t kidding about them being expensive.”

The counter-grav shaft deposited them near the bottom level of the Nose Concourse. Level after level extended out from a bulbous structural dome to press against a clear view of the Saturn night sky. An obstacle loop hovered near them, and v-wings streaked through in a blur of lights. Abstract displays updated the race’s leading positions, and crowds along the giant window cheered for their favorites.

Isaac opened a resort map over his palm, then guided them to the right along the level’s curve. They passed storefronts displaying Oortan goods, marquees listing the racing and arena odds, and advertisements for restaurants, hotels, and brothels.

“What a…colorful place,” Susan remarked.

“Locations like these exist outside SysGov law,” Isaac explained. “And the Oortans are a highly distributed society. Very little central control, which translates into limited regulation, and even what they have is difficult to enforce over such vast distances. The lack of a central authority was one of the key problems with their application for statehood.”

“How so?”

“Who exactly does SysGov coordinate with in a society that decentralized? And there were other issues. During the application process, the Oortans tried to take a census three times in order to determine how many representatives they’d receive in the House, but they came up with three vastly different numbers. That doesn’t exactly bode well for them in a representative democracy.”

“I see.”

Susan eyeballed an advertisement for the Tender Arms brothel featuring a naked woman wrapped in the strategically placed tentacles of an Oortan squidform. She shuddered as they walked on.

“Is most of this illegal on Janus?” she asked.

“Some of it. Depends on the local ordinance,” Isaac said. “What are the Oortans like in your universe?”

“They don’t run gambling resorts, that’s for sure. Some of them are upstanding members of society, but their settlements are notorious hangouts for anti-Admin terrorists and criminal cabals.”

“There seem to be a lot of ‘anti-Admin’ groups over there.”

“That’s why we must remain ever vigilant.” An alert chimed in Susan’s periphery, and she slowed down and opened it. “Oh, neat.”

“What is it?”

“Silver Slash won the match, and the resort credited me with a generous chunk of Esteem. It’s nice to have some spending money after everything I dumped into Free Gate.”

“We can celebrate later,” Isaac said dryly.

The entrance to Made-For-You stood in a discreet corner at the far end of the level’s curve. Sheer white curtains covered the outer walls, and suggestive shadows writhed behind them. A tall woman stood at the podium by the door and looked up attentively as they approached. Her long, golden hair and the subtle points of her ears gave her an elven air, and her flowing white dress hinted at the sumptuous curves underneath.

“Yuck,” Cephalie said. “Call me if you need me.”

She vanished from Isaac’s shoulder.

The woman at the podium waited patiently for them to approach. Then, and only then, did she acknowledge their arrival with a curt dip of her head.

“Greetings,” she began in a light, ethereal voice, “and welcome to Made-For-You, the last word in personalized sensual experiences.” She placed a hand against her bosom. “I’m Mistress Succulent, and may I say, you’ve arrived at the perfect time! We’re having a special on all our couples-themed services. Pay once, come twice.”

She winked at Isaac, and he suppressed the desire to groan at her joke.

“Oh, we’re not a couple.” Susan sidestepped away from Isaac for emphasis. “We only work together.”

“That’s quite all right, miss. Whether you’re romantically involved or simply curious, we provide ample services for all our customers. From soft, loving scenarios for those with sensitive tastes to wild adventures the most daring minds can scarcely imagine. With us, you can experience everything from baseline roleplays to limitless fantasies impossible in the physical. Whether you wish to dive into a custom abstraction or experience your pleasure in the flesh, we’ll cater to your every desire.”

“Could you be more specific about the services you provide?” Isaac asked.

“Of course, sir.” Succulent leaned forward on the podium, providing Isaac with a deep view of her cleavage. “Every experience is handcrafted by our award-winning team of experts, be they abstractionists for your virtual pleasures or cyberneticists behind the designs of your synthoid partners. It says it all in our name. Every experience, down to the last glistening drop of sweat, is made especially for you.

“And if that sort of handcrafting isn’t to your liking, we offer more”—she flashed a sultry smile—“immediate relief in the form of our most popular scenarios, all expertly crafted with the same loving care and attention to detail.”

Isaac frowned. What could Delacroix have possibly wanted here, other than the obvious?

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” Isaac asked.

“Yes, sir. That I am.”

“And if we were to place an order, would you be the one to handle the specifics?”

“Initially, yes,” Succulent said, “though I’d place you in the care of one of our specialists once we’ve narrowed down the services you desire.”

“And do you handle all customer orders that way?”

“Most of them, yes, sir. I’m not here all the time, of course, but I make it a point to check in with every customer at least once to ensure they’re being serviced to our high, exacting standards.”

Isaac paused before his next question.

There’s no good way to ask this, he thought. Might as well go for it and see what happens.

“What if I wanted to purchase the same scenario you provided someone else? Would that be possible?”

“Sir, please.” She smiled sweetly at him. “We operate at our customers’ pleasure. And their discretion. I couldn’t possibly reveal that kind of sensitive, confidential information, unless this other customer you mentioned gave me explicit permission to do so.”

“Unfortunately, the other customer has passed away. Permanently. Would confidentially still be an issue?”

“Oh, I see now! I was wondering about all your questions.” Succulent grinned at him and folded her arms under her breasts. “You two are cops, aren’t you?”

Isaac grimaced.

“Called it!” Succulent said brightly.

“Well,” Susan sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

“Mistress Succulent,” Isaac began, “my name is Detective Isaac Cho, SysPol Themis, and this is Agent Susan Cantrell. We’re in pursuit of a cop killer; the victim made extensive use of your services in the past, and we would greatly appreciate any assistance you can provide.”

“Hmm.” Succulent tapped her lips. “Cop killer you say. Show me who the victim is, and I’ll think about it. No promises, though.”

Isaac offered her Delacroix’s profile over an open palm.

“‘Delacroix. Joachim,’” Succulent read, entering the name into an interface fuzzed behind a privacy filter. “Yes, here he is.” Her eyes scrolled through the entry, but then stopped suddenly. She paused, fixated by some unseen fact, then she composed herself and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to help you. You’re right that Delacroix and his boyfriend spent some quality time with us, but I simply can’t in good conscience share the details with you. I’m very sorry, Detective, but that’s the way it has to be.”

His boyfriend? Isaac thought. He wasn’t sure if Succulent had made a genuine slip or if she’d provided him with a tidbit on the sly, but either way, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I understand,” he said stiffly. “Thank you for your time, then.”

He and Susan left the brothel and headed back toward the counter-grav shafts.

“His boyfriend?” Susan asked under her breath and in security chat.

“I caught that, too. What’s going on here?” Isaac looked around. “Cephalie?”

She appeared on his shoulder. “You done talking about yucky stuff?”

“We are. I need you to check Delacroix’s files again. Look for any indicators he might have been bisexual.”

“Will do, though I doubt I’ll turn up anything,” Cephalie said.

* * *

“As far as I can tell, Delacroix’s as hetero as they come,” Cephalie reported from the small coffee table.

“Figured.” Isaac took another sip from his coffee. He and Susan sat next to the concourse window outside Supercharged, which advertised itself as “The Best Brain Fuel Around.”

“This coffee is a little on the strong side,” Susan complained, setting her cup down.

“Really?” Isaac swirled his own cup and gazed into it. “Seems just right to me.”

“You think Stade is the ‘boyfriend’?”

“That seems the most likely explanation. Stade was here at the same time Delacroix was two months ago.”

“And then Stade came back three weeks ago, right after their argument in Free Gate.”

“Mmhmm.”

“But why?” Susan wondered.

“Don’t know.” Isaac drummed his fingers on the coffee table. “What could they possibly want in a brothel?”

In SysGov, the answers would have been a search warrant away. He’d have access to all the resort’s records, and he’d sit down and interview all the key players. The mechanisms of SysPol would grind forward, churning out the truth piece by piece.

But not here.

Which is why they did whatever they did at the resort and not on Janus, he thought. But what did they do here? Why did they argue about it in Free Gate? Why was Delacroix killed on the way back to Saturn?

“Something on your mind?” Susan asked.

“Just trying to figure out where we go next.”

“The way I see it,” she began, “there are two people who know what we need to know: Fat Man and Succulent.”

“And neither of them will give us what we want.”

“Perhaps…” Susan said slyly, and Isaac looked up at her. “You’re right they won’t give us the information.” She gazed out as the v-wings raced past in another circuit. “But that’s not how this place works.”

“Are you suggesting we purchase what we need?”

“In a sense.”

“I don’t know,” Isaac said. “It’ll take a lot of Esteem to make Fat Man budge, assuming it’s even possible, and I doubt Succulent’s business is doing poorly either. Sex sells, as they say.” He blew out a breath. “But I also don’t know where to go next. Tell you what. I’ll give Raviv a call after we finish our coffee. Let’s see if he’ll free up some funds for us to try buttering them up with.”

“Actually”—Susan’s eyes twinkled with mischief—“I had something else in mind.”

* * *

“Detective Cho!” Fat Man bellowed boisterously. “And Agent Cantrell! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you back so soon?”

“Hello, Fat Man.” Susan leaned against the railing and glanced down at the arena, now modeled after a sweltering bog with twisted, diseased trees rising from the muck. Two teams of three synthoids each battled it out across the swamp, engaging in quick bursts of melee combat before breaking off and circling each other again.

“Care to make another wager, my dear?” Fat Man gestured to the arena. “The combatants are just getting warmed up. I’d love to hear what your young, insightful eye sees this time.”

“That can wait.” Susan crossed her arms. “Tell me, do you hold exhibition matches here?”

“I have on occasion.” He regarded her with a guarded expression. “Why do you ask?”

Susan held up an abstract image of a Peacekeeper-blue synthoid with white racing stripes, festooned with weapons.

“What’s this?” Fat Man took the image into his palms, and Thorn elongated four “foot” tentacles to peer over his master’s shoulder. Fat Man spun the model around and opened the weapon and performance specifications. “Oh my! What a beauty!”

“What you’re looking at is a Peacekeeper Type-99 STAND combat frame,” Susan announced with glee. “My combat frame. Top-of-the-line Admin technology. It’s fast, tough, and deadly.” She pointed a thumb at the arena. “Got anyone you think could hold their own against me?”

“A military synthoid!” His eyes sparkled with the possibilities. “A military synthoid from another universe! In my arena? No one else can claim that! We’ll be the talk of Janus for years!”

“This is worth something to you?”

“Oh, I knew you were something special from the moment I met you!” Fat Man turned to Thorn. “Didn’t I just tell you that?”

“I don’t seem to recall—”

Fat Man clunked the top of the squidform’s head.

“Oh wait,” Thorn added dryly. “Now I remember.”

“Agent Cantrell—or, Susan. Can I call you Susan?” He took her delicate hands into his fat-fingered hams. “We’re going to make a mint off this idea of yours! But there are a few issues, I fear. First, some of those weapons won’t work in my arena—they’d blow holes clean through the walls.”

“Not a problem. All the weapon systems are modular.”

“Fantastic. The incinerator can stay, but the rail-rifle and grenade launcher need to go. We can provide you with a selection of weaponry to replace them. And with that, there’s only one other teeny, tiny problem left to consider.”

“Which is?”

“Who are you going to fight? I can’t throw any old riffraff at you! No, this needs to be something grand. Something special!” He turned to Thorn.

“Do I get a say in this?” the squidform asked.

“No.”

“I thought not.” Thorn said, and his tentacles drooped sadly.

“Oh, I can see it now!” Fat Man gazed up and spread a hand over an imagined future. “Thorn the Destroyer, Champion of the Arena, versus…” He paused as he tried to come up with something suitable, then: “The Thug from the Admin!”

Excuse me?” Susan asked crossly.

“Or something else,” Fat Man assured her. “We can figure out your arena name later. What matters is we’re both going to be swimming in Esteem over this deal!”

“That’s all fine,” Susan said, leaning toward him, “but Esteem doesn’t interest me. I’m not from around here, so it might as well be play money you’re offering. I want something else. Something of far more value to me and the detective.”

“Name it, my dear!”

“I want your full record of both Joachim Delacroix’s and Thomas Stade’s activities on the Atomic Resort.”

“Oh ho!” Fat Man chuckled. “I should have known. I see what you did there.” He put a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. “You see what she did there?”

“I saw.”

“I’m expecting complete access,” Susan stressed. “No holding back.”

“Of course, you are.” Fat Man ran a finger down his many chins. “In that case, I’ll want some extra assurance. Let’s say, an exclusivity clause in the contract. A guarantee you won’t fight in any arenas but mine for one year.”

“Done.”

“Then it seems we have a tentative deal?”

“We do.”

“Well then, I’ll get started on the contract.” He rubbed his hands together, fat jiggling under his forearms. “And after that, all that’s left is to set the date and start advertising.”

“The sooner the better,” Susan stressed. “We have a killer to chase down.”

“Of course, I understand you have other commitments. With an event like this, an advertising blitz across all concourses should only take a day to saturate.”

“That should work for us as well,” Isaac chimed in. “We need time to collect her combat frame out of Kronos storage.”

“Wonderful. Let’s all meet later today and finalize the details over dinner. In the meantime”—he offered Susan a keycode—“please accept this complimentary room for use while you stay. It’s for the Ring Suites penthouse atop the Starboard Concourse. I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking, but if anything is wrong, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Ring Suites?” Susan noted with a frown. “Will it be furnished?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Fat Man replied, brow furrowed with confusion.

* * *

“Furniture,” Susan said with a smile, surveying the lavish furnishings in the penthouse’s central space.

“Speak for yourself.” Cephalie conjured a miniature recliner atop the kitchenette counter and leaped into it.

Isaac peeked in one of the bedrooms.

“And they already have my favorite bed printed out,” he said. “Nice.”

Susan walked up to the window and watched the Saturnite dawn.

“Am I breaking any rules by doing this?” she asked suddenly.

“A little late for that, don’t you think?”

“But am I?”

“Eh.” Isaac shrugged. “You might be bending them uncomfortably. I don’t think SysPol detectives as Oortan gladiators is the preferred look.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No, no,” he clarified. “By all means, please continue. Raviv might complain, but we can sell him your idea easily enough. All we have to say is we’re trying to crack this case as fast as possible, like he told us. ‘Innovative out-of-the-box thinking.’ That’s how I’ll word it. At worst, he might scold us.” He joined her at the window. “What about your government? Are they going to be fine with this?”

“They’re the ones who sent me over with the combat frame. I assume they intended for me to use it.”

“Fair enough. I’ll call it over, then.” Isaac opened a comm window. “Dispatch.”

“Themis Dispatch here. We read you, Detective Cho. How can we help?”

“I had a storage crate consigned to the station’s logistics centers a few days ago, and I need it retrieved and brought to my location at the Atomic Resort. Sending my case number now.”

“Case number received. Give me a moment, sir,” the dispatcher replied. “Ah, here we are. Seems there were additional instructions attached to the storage order. Pulling it out may take longer than usual.”

“Oh? What seems to be the problem?”

“You tell me, Detective. I have a message here to, and I quote, ‘Shove this thing into the deepest, darkest pit of the station’s logistics centers, never to see the light of day again,’ unquote.”

Susan raised an eyebrow at him, and his face reddened.

“I…don’t remember saying that.” He cleared his throat and glanced over at Cephalie. “Did I say that?”

She held up a sign that read: YOU DID.

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

“Detective, I see there’s an audio file attached to the note. I could replay it for you, if you like.”

“Uh, no.” He made a point of avoiding Susan’s gaze. “That, umm, won’t be necessary.”

“Fortunately, it seems the crate has yet to be shifted to long-term storage. There. I’ve halted the deep storage order and will queue a new one for delivery to your location. You should have it in about three hours. Will that be sufficient, or do you need expedited delivery?”

“No, that’ll work. Thank you, Dispatch. That’s all for now.”

“You’re welcome, Detective.”

The comm window closed.

“‘Deepest, darkest pit?’” Susan asked, a quirky smile on her lips. “‘Never to see the light of day again?’”

“I’m sure I didn’t mean it like that.”

Cephalie held up a new sign that read: HE MEANT EVERY WORD.

You”—he pointed at the avatar—“are not helping!”

* * *

Thorn sat down at the square, steel table in the center of the bland abstraction. Six of his eight tentacles folded like baseline human legs, and he placed two of his tentacles on the table, contracted and bent like human arms. His head revolved in quick jerks, regarding the figure seated on the opposite side through various inputs. None of them elucidated the mysterious individual’s identity, since the person’s avatar was a black silhouette with a thick white border.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he demanded.

The response took eight seconds to arrive, which made Thorn suspect the signal came from one of Saturn’s moons.

“Like my message said, just think of me as a fan,” the figure replied in a synthesized voice as fake as its avatar. “Though if you insist on a name, you can call me Ōdachi.”

Thorn wondered at the wisdom of meeting this anonymous individual, but the message he’d received had piqued his interest. The exhibition match was unusual in and of itself, his opponent was unlike anyone he’d ever faced, and then a mysterious “fan” sends him a carefully worded message an hour after the first advertisement aired.

I KNOW HER WEAKNESS, the title had read.

And so, curious to learn more, he found himself here, seated in an encrypted abstract domain across from a shadowy “fan.”

“Whatever,” Thorn said at last. “Keep your real name to yourself. Just get to the point. What is it you want?”

“To help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You think you can take that Admin killing machine on your own?”

“She’s never fought in the arena before. That gives me the advantage.”

“She’s an Admin Peacekeeper. A STAND. A synthetic soldier on the front lines of her universe’s hottest conflicts.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Ōdachi said confidently. “It’s worse.”

Thorn leaned back. He was Fat Man’s champion, and he enjoyed the benefits of the old synthoid’s patronage. Would their relationship change if he lost? Would he start to lose some of his luster? Would Fat Man seek out another champion to stand at the top of his roster? This was an exhibition match, sure, but that meant little to Thorn. He fought to win, always. The audience deserved no less than his best.

“Do you think she understands the etiquette of the arena?” Ōdachi asked. “The unspoken rules of engagement you and the other gladiators live by? Of course not. She’s going to come at you with everything she’s got, because that’s all she understands.”

The same thought had occurred to Thorn as well, and it worried him. Dueling this agent of the Admin would be unlike any match he’d ever fought. Would a little extra help—a little insurance—really injure his pride that much?

“What are you offering?”

“This.” A glowing file appeared between them.

“What is it?”

“The Gordian Division’s tactical analysis for the Peacekeeper Type-92 combat frame,” Ōdachi said.

“Where did you get this?” Thorn asked.

“I have my sources.”

“Few people have access to the Gordian Division’s databanks.”

“Yes,” Ōdachi said in an oily tone. “Few people do.”

“Why give it to me?”

“Let’s just say I’m not a fan of hers and leave it at that.”

“Fine. Keep your secrets.” He leaned closer and scrutinized the schematic. “Type-92?”

“It’s not an exact match for the Type-99 Agent Cantrell is using, but you should find the information valuable, nonetheless.”

Ōdachi opened the file, and the outline of a skeletal machine appeared. Its malmetal armor turned to glass, revealing the locations of actuators, power cells, booster fuel, infosystems, structural joins. It was all there.

But it was all for the wrong frame.

“Worthless,” Thorn concluded.

“Don’t be so hasty,” Ōdachi urged. “You’re missing the one critical difference between this combat frame and gladiator synthoids.”

“And what’s that?”

Ōdachi highlighted a single component in the heavily shielded center of the STAND combat frame.

“This. The connectome case.”

“Case?”

“The Admin doesn’t allow wireless transmission of connectomes, so the minds of their STAND agents inhabit a singular case, and this case must be transferred manually from one synthoid to the next.”

“So what?”

“Susan Cantrell has no backup save of her connectome. She only exists within that case.”

A chill of realization ran through Thorn’s mind. Susan Cantrell could die in the arena? No gladiator would take such a risk! Every last one of them knew the infosystems in their synthoids could be wrecked beyond repair, and he personally created a connectome backup before each match because of the danger.

“This location is in the most heavily shielded part of the chassis,” Thorn said.

“How you deal with that problem is up to you.”

“How I deal with it?” he spat back.

“You want to win, don’t you?” Ōdachi replied with smarmy confidence.

“Don’t pretend like you know me.”

“Oh, I don’t need to pretend. You’re an easy man to read, if ‘man’ even applies to you anymore,” Ōdachi said. “Born Tyrone Hoag in orbit around the dwarf planet of Makemake twenty-three years ago. Received his wetware implants at the age of four and left his organic body behind at the age of fifteen. Look at all you’ve given up in the pursuit of your gladiatorial dream. Not only your flesh, but your humanity as well. You crave victory, and because of that hunger, you’ll take this, whether you like it or not.”

Thorn’s temper flared and he almost closed out of the abstraction right then and there, but he hesitated. The file hung over the table, tempting him, seducing him with the promise of victory.

He was afraid; he admitted that to himself. Afraid of losing. Afraid of no longer being “The Champion.” Afraid of Cantrell and her military synthoid humiliating him. And this mysterious person was right; Cantrell was going to hit him with everything she had. Shouldn’t he do the same? Shouldn’t he press every advantage, exploit every weakness.

Yes, but…

He hesitated.

Hesitated.

Hesitated.

And then he snatched the file up and left the abstraction without saying another word.


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