A Dank Place

The world was a dank place down here. Here, in the poor parts of the Mall. The drainage pipes and water reservoirs were rarely ever maintained, and desalination systems malfunctioned more than operated. That meant water seeped everywhere, here, puddling in the cracked streets, grimy bathrooms and broken-down playgrounds.

Once, Sector Z-26 had been a clean, sterile exemplar of what the New England Mall was supposed to be; a huge, domed society built at the bottom of drained Boston Harbor, replete with perilous high apartment blocks and the most chic shopping outlets. The only reason Officer Dackory knew that were all the old posters declaring “A New Tomorrow, Today!” amidst glistening cityscapes. No one had ever had the heart to take those down apparently, and their washed-out optimism barely showed through thick graffiti. Too bad even that does, he thought bitterly.

Dackory eyed one poster in particular, featuring families happily frequenting eateries, except now crude speech bubbles had them spewing obscenities at passersby. Possibly this had been done recently. Officer Dack quickly glanced all round, fingering the brass badge signifying he was a Sergeant of Mall Security Services. Although it did not mention he firmly believed this place was going to consume his soul.

The huge man strolling alongside him down this alleyway was similarly accoutered as a security employee; blue fatigues covered by grey Kevlar, a helmet with bulletproof tinted visor flipped up. He laid a big, meaty hand on Dack’s shoulder, grinning toothily. His way of being reassuring, Dack figured, but it hardly soothed the soul. All around them the stink of corruption lingered; it came from backed up sanitation and infrequent garbage pickup. The night was young yet by Dack's watch, but the Sector’s great overhead lights – dim at the best of times – had already been completely shut off to let the place wallow in gloom. The Mall never wasted power to keep Z-26 lit.

Crude and often fanciful graffiti covered every surface. Not just old posters, but everywhere, even the concrete floor. Why do they even bother with the ground? It's just going to be washed away by the leaks. Thick pipes wrapped over the buildings on both sides, most of them with streams of seawater trickling out, and he could just trace their ascent into the murky air where they married with the main duct suspended over the streets. Those were everywhere too. Both graffiti and pipes were testaments to the folly of building a city below sea level, when the site chosen was supposed to be in the sea. Dack wondered what kind of bravado it took to build a city in a natural harbour. Because he could use some to get his moonbase project off the ground...

“Nice night,” said his partner. Dackory glanced at him; the man had spoke without a hint of sarcasm. Sergeant Else was like that, though. A six foot three negro security officer with dreadlocks, most people were surprised that he was not some kind of government ogre, and it had become a never-ending source of amusement for Dack.

“Of course, it’s never a moist, smelly night down here, oh no,” mumbled Dackory. Else did not notice – or perhaps ignored – his tone, and nodded agreement. Sighing, Dack went back to watching everything, fingering his stun stick. They were searching for any signs of gang activity – aside from the rampant vandalism – off an anonymous tip that had come into SecCon about an hour ago, at seven thirty p.m.

Gang activity, and two men are sent. Dack’s grip tightened around his baton. The stun sticks were two foot long retractable rods, whose internal battery delivered a non-lethal charge to anyone struck. They supposedly incapacitated most people with one swipe, but Dack had seen officers deliver multiple blows to suspects and get wrestled to the ground afterwards. He sighed again, louder than before.

Turning to speak to Else on impulse, he found his partner was not there. Stopping dead, Dack pulled out his baton and activated the weapon; an audible crackle and one blue arc of electricity followed. Dack scanned the alleyway nervously, finally working up the courage to hiss into the night, “Else! Where’d you go, good buddy?” Death could often creep up on security officers very quietly - and very suddenly - in this part of the Mall.

Nothing. Then, from right behind him: “Hey! Look at this!” Dack screamed and spun to face his assailant, stun stick sizzling with energy – it increased charge as its bearer's heart rate picked up. The supposed attacker was just Else though, impassively staring at the little man with a fizzy metal twig. Feeling quite the idiot, Dack put up the weapon and cleared his throat.

“Else, don’t wander off like that; we need to stick together.” The man can move silent as a cat for how big he is!

“I just went right over there,” said Else, pointing toward a small alcove. His face took on a concerned look, which frightened Dackory on such an imposing man. “You’re acting highly erratic, Sergeant. Perhaps breathing exercises will help…”

“Shut up, Corporal,” snapped Dack, pushing past his partner and walking up to the alcove. Of course I’m erratic! He would be too if he knew this assignment was suicide! But he immediately spotted what Else had already; a dark stain on a pool of water. Blood. His knees quaked involuntarily and the grip he held on his truncheon would have crumpled softer metal.

“Corporal, call into SecCon for an Investigatory Unit. I’ll check over the scene.” Else activated his helmet radio and moved off to give Dack some room. Not that he needed much; there was only the puddle, no other evidence of a struggle or what might have happened. And a pen, half-submerged. He squatted down next to the water for a better look; the utensil was caked with gore, as if it had been stabbed into somebody. There was some barely legible writing still visible on it, though, so Dack activated his helmet’s light. “Markwick Industries, Inc,” he read aloud.

“Sergeant, Control doesn’t want to hear about it until you’ve either got a body or a gangbanger, in the flesh.” Dack jerked at Else’s voice, clicking off the light.

He allowed a few moments to pass for his night vision to return before responding. “Of course they don’t. We’re just a show, you and me; they’ve given up on this place, Else.” Dack straightened up, flashing a smile at his partner, who stood in a shadow so deep he could not make out his face. “But I think I’ve found something. It may even be the murder weapon. Ever heard of Markwick Industries?”

Else shrugged. “Sounds like a corporation. Do they still have those around here?”

“A few manufacturing or construction firms. They operate here because it’s cheap. Alright, hold on while I check it out.” Dack put a finger to helmet and depressed the invisible slot over his temple, which flipped back to reveal a miniature interface. He put down his visor, which had already brought up the browser HUD. Quickly typing ‘Markwick Industries’ into the database search box, results popped up instantly. Selecting the first one – the helmet tracked his eye movements to shift the cursor – a company profile splashed across Dack’s vision; Markwick Industries, Inc, primarily involved in skycrane production for modular transportation. A global company. Located at Five Seven Eight Jamboree Avenue, Sector Z-26. Hours of operation: variable. Dack deactivated the browser and put his visor back up to find Else taking a sample of the bloody water. “Ran it through yet?”

Else shook his head. “This stuff’s too corrupted for positive identification, but if we do find another sample there could be sufficient material for fruitful comparison.”

“Sounds good,” Dack said. “Alright, we’re heading to Jamboree Street; apparently our victim, or attacker, worked at making cranes.”

His partner stood up to his full, colossal height, slipping the sample vial into the evidence pouch. Else’s eyes were zeroed in on the end of the alley, though. Dack hesitated, not really wanting to see, but turned. Four shapes were lurking down there, obscured by shadow. He pulled out his baton and extended the steel to its full length. This was probably the gang activity they had been called for. Slowly, he approached the group. “MSS on official investigation. Tell me, have you seen anything suspicious around here recently?”

“Man, we ain’t seen nothin,” said one of the shadows, “and you ain’t neither. Ain’t that right, crew?”

The other shadows chorused in agreement amidst much popping of knuckles and rasping of what were probably knives. “Well, unfortunately we have seen something. There’s a lot of blood down there. Are you saying your crew was not responsible?”

Else’s helmet light clicked on, and the gangbangers shied back from the sudden illumination. Most of them blinked rapidly, a few covered their eyes. The lead speaker stepped forward though, and Dackory saw he was dressed all in baggy black sweater and pants. Typical. His teeth sparkled silver when he spoke. “I tol’ you man, we ain’t seen nothin. And neither have you, or else there is gonna be some blood right here, ya hear?”

Dack grimaced. Else lifted his arm up, a snub pistol shape in hand, and Dack nodded to him. There was a slight buzz, and the silver-toothed homie was instantly sprawled on the ground, screeching and clawing at his skin like it was on fire. Dack switched on his stun stick and waved it menacingly, growling at the other three staring dumbstruck at their tortured leader. “Does anybody else want to hang around? No? Get out of here then, or you’re all gonna beg like he is!”

The three men took one more look at their writhing companion - who was gibbering incoherently for the pain to end by now - then ran. Else switched off his nerve ray and the buzzing ceased, although their suspect took some time to realize the pain had indeed ended. After a few minutes he had quieted down, and Else propped him up against a leaky pipe. His breathing was ragged, but Dack knew there was no lasting damage; nerve rays were an old and proven tech. They caused debilitating pain, like your skin was being dissolved by acid, but left no damage. Unless you count mental anguish.

They slapped him across the face a few times to get his attention, but even when he came to his eyes were hazy and unfocused. “All right hombre,” began Dack, “you tell us why you attempted to waylay MSS Officers. You tell us your name, what you saw here, where that blood came from.”

“B-big man…what the fuck did you to me?” The silver teeth flashed. Dack wondered how some street crawler had managed to afford those; Z-26ers had no money, even the drug dealers.

Else leaned down and pushed the blunt nose of his nerve ray against the gangbanger’s throat. “This is not a question you need to be asking. The question you should be asking is – Do I want to piss off this man by not answering the questions? A man who just put me through a world of agony, and would do it again without even thinking.”

A sob ripped from Silver Tooth’s throat and he tried to pull away from the implement, but Dack got a hold on him and forced his frantic, flickering eyes to lock with his. “I’m not sure what my partner would do if you refused your cooperation much longer. And I very much doubt I could stop him.”

“Okay, Okay!” His voice was shrill with fright. “My name’s Pelido Rojas. Somebody came by our crib, said Jose knew him, and hired us for the job.”

“What job?” asked Dack quietly. “Killing somebody?”

“No man,” said Pelido, pleading, “we never woulda killed nobody man. We were jus’ supposed to keep watch and make sure no noses were stuck where they weren’t wanted. He paid good money man! We didn’t see nothin, we jus’ keep watch for him!”

“What’d he look like, how did he talk?”

Pelido shook his head slightly, as much as Dack’s grasp would allow. “He had a voice distorter man, like you see in spy movies. And there weren’t no way to tell what he looked like; that cat had no skin showing. He wore a nice suit, and a hockey mask.”

Dackory groaned. A well-to-do murderer in suit and hockey mask, the day could not get much better. “Do you know what happened to the body?”

“No. This hombre drove a nice Cassiola A8 though, he coulda put it in there.” Silver Tooth froze then, realizing what he had said.

“So there was a body?” Dack said impassively. “You did see something. Trust me, you don’t want to lie to us, Pelido. What my big man friend here did to you? That was low power.” Else grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

Pelido did not need much convincing though. “Okay, fuck, okay. We waited across the street when the hombre pulled up and got out with some lady and took her down the alley. He wasn’t wearing his mask then but we couldn’t get a look at him. They started kissing while she tried to open up one o’ them side doors, then he…he took something out of her pocket, right, and jammed it into her eye. While he was tonguing her! Fucking gross man, but I gotta say, I admired such a stone cold mother–”

The gangster’s nose was knocked crooked by Dack’s swinging fist, and he was drawing back for another blow when Else seized him in a huge bear hug. “Hold on, Sarge. We need this slime.”

Pelido struggled to his feet and turned to run, but Else let go of Dack and delivered a three second burst with the ray. More screams split the night, a little more nasal than before. This time when they propped him up, Dack chained him to the pipe with force-cuffs. The metal bracelets were attracted to each other by tiny electromagnets, and could only be pried apart by ten tons of force or more. With the blood streaming down his face like Niagara, Pelido sputtered answering questions.

“Then he put the body into his trunk and drove away. That was an hour and a half ago; I ain’t seen shit of him since. But Jose...he told us to keep watch for dumbass cops.”

“Right, who is this Jose?” said Else. He had taken over the interrogation, with Dack standing off a ways, breathing heavily.

“Local kingpin drug dealer, his hands are in everything around here,” Pelido replied bitterly. “If you want a job around here, then you get it from him. Trust me though, you’ll never bring him down, or even see him. He’s untouchable.”

Else nodded to Dack. “I remember a background file from when I was transferred to this department. Jose Murceva. He’s got a hundred guys like this one watching his back, and MSS still hasn’t found any tangible proof against him.”

“Maybe this is why,” mused Dack, “maybe this killer of ours has some connections that keep Jose out of trouble. It's the only reason a guy like him would risk giving his cronies a job like this, with the cops so likely to get involved.”

“That’s…a pretty big leap,” said Else hesitantly, but Dack shook his head.

“You don’t know this place like I do, Else. MSS doesn’t care. So long as the statistics don’t run out of control they don’t have to do anything to clean it up, and there are lots of important people with interests in not cleaning it up. It explains why some suit would be able to use a drug dealer’s protection for murdering his mistress.”

Else did not look convinced, but fuck him, I know I'm right! “Alright, you get ID on this building, see if there’s anything significant there, then call in and tell Control there’s some trash that needs to be picked up. We can file our report tomorrow, after we investigate Markwick.”

Not waiting for confirmation of his orders, Dack exited the mouth of the alley, keeping a sharp eye out for Pelido’s friends sneaking back. There was nobody, however, and he reached their patrol hoverer without incident. It was a square two-seater with broad anti-grav pods and a single emergency light on the white cabin. The craft could attain sixty miles an hour tops, but Dack never expected more.

Within a few minutes Else had joined him inside the cruiser, reporting the building was an abandoned property of Markwick Industries when they had been interested in residential projects and a collection van was coming for Pelido. The hoverer’s engine whirred loudly as Dack engaged the grav pods, and the whole thing lurched two feet off the ground.



Half an hour later they stood in the waiting room of Markwick Industry’s office building with Else carrying a nondescript MSS travel case, waiting for the secretary to admit them into a Mr. Tourval’s office. He was on the phone she said, and had not budged an inch when Dack told her the company might have a murdered employee on its hands. He took it as an opportunity to check out his environs. Stark was the word; there no plants or paintings, and a sad little loveseat was all the furniture, discounting the secretary’s plain desk and chair. There was no paint on the walls, just the bare steel from when this building had first been assembled. Else commented on Markwick operating at nine o’clock at night, but Dack waved it off. “This company contracts worldwide; their file said it was global. Businesses like that often have to keep weird hours, at least at headquarters, teleconferencing with foreign investors and clients in other time zones. So in and of itself, this isn't too strange.”

A few minutes passed. The intercom buzzed for the secretary, and a thin voice told her to let them in. She led them down a blank hallway with a couple other offices branching off it, opening an old-fashioned oak door at its terminus; the first sign of personality the company had displayed so far. Inside, a pale, wrinkly man sat behind a modest wood desk which bore the nameplate ‘S. Tourval, CEO.’ Mr. Tourval smiled frailly and his gray hair looked primed to fall out, but his eyes darted from Else to Dack and back again without the sloth of old age. His voice was thin when he spoke, but it had an undercurrent to it that did not telegraph through the intercom. “How may I help you gentlemen? Sorry about the wait; there was miscommunication with our Japanese retailer that I just had to take care of.” It sounded like there was a steel wire beneath his speech, a kind of hidden strength belying his advanced years.

“We’re here about the possible murder of one of your employees, Mr. Tourval. Have you received any word about a missing worker, sir? We know that she had some kind of access to your property on Fortland Road,” said Dack.

“Fortland?” Tourval said, clearly a little perplexed. “What would somebody have been doing over there? We haven’t even had that site open in ten years. Wait…have you found one of my employees? Dead?”

Dack shifted uncomfortably; he was not a real investigator, and interacting with sources like this made him nervous. “We believe she may have been expecting a romantic encounter, Mr. Tourval, and went to the building for privacy. Please, do you have any information?”

“Well,” the man said, shifting in his seat. The wire backing to his voice quavered, as if Dack had twanged it with his question. “Only a few people had keycards to the Fortland site; myself, my son, and Ellen Dietrich, our Chief Financial Officer. She was in charge of selling the place when we finally got the chance.”

“How long has it been since you last saw Ms. Dietrich?” interjected Else, looming up Tourval suddenly. He had taken off his helmet, saying the dreadlocks gave him a psychological edge.

“Maybe six hours ago,” Tourval said, visibly shrinking away from Else and staring at his hair. “Ellen comes in early most days and checks out early, so that’s nothing odd.”

"Please bring up her DNA records." Else did not make it a request. Tourval swallowed as he accessed his desktop, bringing up Ellen Dietrich's employee file. The law dictated that every employee had to submit to DNA sampling, and that every business had to have their genetic information on hand for verification.

Else set the MSS case he carried onto the desk, unzipping it to reveal a mobile DNA-testing station. He quickly connected the station to Tourval's computer and then placed the vial of blood they had recovered at the crime scene in the tester. Within seconds, it beeped, and a green light came on. Else bent down to check the small display, and looked grimly up at Mr. Tourval. "Forty-two percent match. Not too good, but it's enough."

Dack, meanwhile, had been looking over Ms. Dietrich's file, and noticed a discrepancy. "Mr. Tourval, there is no mention on this database of Ellen Dietrich's residency. None at all."

The old man shrugged, glancing fearfully at Else. "I...I don't know. There are lots of people with access to the database; it might have just been a glitch when they were updating her file. Impossible to determine, I'm afraid."

“Where does she live, sir?” pressed Else doggedly. “We need to know so we can verify if she’s gone missing.”

Tourval was practically writhing in his seat now. “I could harldy tell you where she lives.”

Dack leaned over his desk, fists clenched as he laid them down as the polished surface. “Sir, lying to MSS officers is a serious crime. Now, I ask you again, where does Ellen Dietrich live?”

“With me, actually.”

Dack and Else both spun on their heels to face the new voice’s source, while Tourval shouted shrilly.

“Shut up, boy! She’s gone missing, that’s what they’re here about!”

Standing in the doorway was a slim, handsome man of middling years. Black hair was smoothed back in the current style, and he wore a tasteful grey suit which was obviously tailored. Little nuggets of coal for eyes calmly regarded Dack as he addressed the arrival. “And who are you, sir?”

“Champlain Tourval. Mr. Tourval’s son.” His voice was sleek and confident. “Is what he said true? Is Ellen dead?”

Dack could smell lies and feigned concern from a mile distant, and there was a reeking odor of it here. “Yes, Mr. Tourval’s son. Tell me, where were you approximately four hours ago?”

Champlain shrugged carelessly. “Having a glass of wine with some friends at Windlass Bar in C-09.”

“I see.” Dack’s voice had gone cold. “Well I’m going to have to bring you in for a little while, Mr. Tourval, while we verify your story. If you would please turn around and let me put the cuffs on…”

The coal black eyes never changed, but the smile that spread across Champlain’s face like molasses could only be described as wolfish. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Officer.”

Dack cocked an eyebrow at him and reached for his baton, but Tourval moved with no warning and uncanny speed. He had crossed the room before either Dack or Else could react and slammed something sharp into Dack’s unprotected throat. Crimson spurted out onto Champlain’s face, staining the teeth he bared like a starving animal. Then he was gone somehow, but Dack slumped against Mr. Tourval’s desk, trying but unable to draw any kind of air into his lungs. Instead warm, salty liquid flowed down his windpipe, and filled his mouth; he tried to cough to get it out, but nothing came.


The last coherent thought he had was…why?