Dhata Mays: Prequel to the Synth Crisis
Author: Greg Dragon
Date: 2018-01-26 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thriller; Science Fiction; Mystery Thriller
Description: In a war between man and machine, he must find a way to protect them all... After a devastating war forced humans to rely on synths for survival, the two have learned to coexist peacefully.Until now...When detective Dhata Mays is called in to investigate a homicide, what he uncovers threatens the serenity of this futuristic society. The gruesome murder means only one thing: someone is ready to incite another war. Now, it's up to Dhata to ensure that the truth stays hidden--to protect both sides of the battle. But can he be unbiased in a black and white world that forces him to take sides?

DHATA MAYS

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations,
places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2018

Thirsty Bird Productions

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recorded or otherwise, without written
permission of the publisher.

For more books by the author

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‡Contents‡

Chapter 1 – Mutant Food

Chapter 2 – Blue-Haired Fox

Chapter 3 – Chevy’s Lament

Chapter 4 – Mud and Blood

Chapter 5 – Visiting Death

Chapter 6 – Madame Jae

Chapter 7 – Jack the Ripper

Chapter 8 – The Loneliest Monk

Chapter 9 – A Flower in the Park

Chapter 10 – Deadly Throwback

Chapter 11 – Dueling Legends

Chapter 12 – Toxic Bourbon

Chapter 13 – Donuts and Cigars

Chapter 14 – Lucky Break

Chapter 15 – Bloody Sunday

Chapter 16 – Burning Love

Chapter 17 – Miles and Miles

Chapter 18 – Dhata Mays

Glossary

‡Chapter 1‡

Mutant Food

On a dark dirt road forgotten by time, a lone white vehicle with piercing cobalt headlights rolled by slowly. The driver, dark, the mood, light, he bopped his head to an old jazz tune.

There were so many things out of place with this scene that the criminals of Tampa Bay should have sensed it coming. He turned the corner, past a bombed out subdivision, and maneuvered skillfully by a deep sinkhole. As the road carried him up and over a rather steep hill, he began to see the flashing lights of the Johns’ blue and whites.

Here we go, he thought. He pulled up to the perimeter where the other cars were, then exited the vehicle and straightened his duster. There were five figures in the distance looking down at a bush, and he walked up to join them, curious as to what they were looking at so closely.

“Dhata,” said one of the men. He waved him closer; he was crouched next to the other Johns. There was a bare foot sticking out from the tall bushes, and so much blood that the grass was red.

“What’s up, Jason? What we got here, homicide?”

“Homicide,” Jason repeated, then cocked his head as if to think. “Well, if you consider a mangled android to be homicide. Hey, Bill, what’s the standard designation for this?”

“It’s an android?” Bill said, looking at Jason, confused. “Are you kidding me or what? This guy isn’t human?”

“First one you’ve dealt with?” Dhata said, smiling as he knelt next to them. “Take a look right there.” He aimed the flashlight at the man’s missing leg. “Those aren’t veins, my man, those are wires. Soft, bendable, manufactured wires. I’m surprised at the lot of you; this should be obvious.”

“Well I’m surprised that they have us here wasting our time,” Bill said, and Dhata forced himself to stay quiet.

Jason looked at him with tired eyes and shook his head as if to say, “let it go.” Bill grunted his displeasure, then made up an excuse for why he needed to go. Dhata didn’t hear it. He was examining the body, trying to replay the violence through his mind’s eye. His Internal Contact Lens (ICL) helped him to see more of the evidence. It made the blood on the grass glow, and he ran a search to identify the android.

“Things would be so much easier if the synths would stay connected to the network,” he said.

“Yeah, I tried to ID him too, but came up with nothing. This one was either a hool, purposefully ghosted from the system, or some sort of unregistered model that was brought into this country.”

“Damn, you going deep with the assumptions, Jay. Let’s assume he’s one of ours before we bring up slavery rings.” Dhata looked over the body once more, checking the hands and seeing that the synth bore no marks of a physical laborer. “This one may be a sex worker. His hands are soft and smooth.” He shifted the man’s head to expose his neck, then sat back with a sigh.

There was a gash on the side of his neck, which was responsible for all of the blood. Dhata looked over at his partner. “What are you thinking, Jay? I’m thinking this is a hate crime. Same shit, different day. They tried to take his head off, here. It’s an unplanned cut, because they hit him here, and here as well,” he said, moving the flashlight to show the wounds. “The part that keeps confusing me is why they’d take his leg and run off.”

He looked around for Bill who had wandered off to where they were parked. Worthless, he thought. He touched the implanted node near his ear, opening the interface of his internal CPU to take notes on what he was seeing.

“You think Chevy did this?” Jason said all of a sudden, and Dhata blinked hard to close the augmented desktop and give his friend a hard look.

“Yeah, he could have, sure. It’s similar to his work, except Chevy’s in the wind and our victim’s the wrong sex. There’s also the fact that Chevy killed Marys in the city. This man was dragged out here; you can see the marks in the dirt. Our boy isn’t even big enough to move a dude this big. Nah, this is something else, something passionate and angry. Maybe he had a human lover who, I don’t know, got upset or something.”

“What the hell are they going to do with an android’s leg?” Jason said, laughing.

“Come on, man, what the hell were they going to do with his head?” Dhata said. “That’s why I’m going with passion; none of these cuts were done with precision. This was an amateur, a new killer, someone who went off the deep end and just wanted this man dead. I’ve seen some freaky stuff, brother, but this is not just a hate crime. This is something else altogether. Anyway, I made the long drive here so I can finish up. I’ll record the cause of death and put it up on the network. Maybe this man had someone that loved him, or a friend in the human sector who’d want to bury him.”

The air was thick and hot, the standard for Tampa Bay when it wasn’t trying to drown everyone with rain. “You see that?” Jason said, glancing over his shoulder as the other squad cars sped off.

“See what, exactly?” Dhata said, looking around.

“The way those chimps booked it when you announced that this person was an android. What do they do, can you tell me that? I see them at HQ, and I see them when something like this gets called in, but I’m beginning to think that we’re the only idiots working.”

“Don’t let it get to you, Jay,” Dhata said. “They did their job. They came out to the scene, reported it to us, and now we’re here to make sense of it. Just because we give a shit doesn’t mean that everyone has to, and with this poor bastard being synthetic, well, they couldn't care less. How much canvassing did they do—do you know? It looks like all they did was outline the body.”

“They marked off the perimeter but said that they didn’t find anything beyond here,” Jason said.

Dhata looked around with his ICLs, tracing the freshest footprints, but he couldn’t see any that went beyond twenty yards. “My crime scene is corrupt, Jay. There’s no forensics sniffer and they didn’t go past a few yards. That Bill asshole, I want his ass. Can you handle that for me tomorrow?”

“You got it, Dhata.”

“Johns like Bill are why we have cold cases; it’s why Chevy Williams is still at large. They get a nice check to half-ass my crime scenes and ignore any slight that is done to the synths. They can go wherever they want—the badge helps with that—and if they want to bust some hot Mary rust, it’s right there for them to do it. Synths are paranoid of Johns and for good reason. Nobody gives a damn.”

Jason nodded, “We give a damn, Dee, and we’re making a difference, believe it or not, big man. Don’t worry, Billy’s about to have one hell of a week. I’ll make sure of that. As to rusting with Marys, you talking about yourself?” He laughed. “What do you plan to do with this synthetic’s corpse?”

“You’re just full of jokes tonight, aren’t you?” Dhata said. “I just got here so I’m going to take my time. There’s a lot of trees here, and I don’t know the area, so I’m curious if the murderer lives around here somewhere.”

“You know,” Jason said as he stood up, dusting off his hands. “Don’t stay out here long. There’s something’s off about this place. I can’t figure it out, but it makes my skin crawl, like there’s something in the air.”

“Maybe it’s all that toxic Tampa rain getting inside your head,” Dhata said. “I’ve been telling you to wear a hat, but it’s—wait, are you being serious?” We’re in the badlands, brother, nobody knows what lives out here. You superstitious, Jay? You think that ghosts will come for you?”

Jason rolled his eyes and made to walk off, waving his goodbye. “If I don’t hear from you tomorrow, I’ll tell the captain that the mutants made you a part of their meal,” he said.

“Mutants?” Dhata said, looking around. It was the last thing that he expected to hear.

After doing a full examination of the body, he looked around for the markers that the police should have dropped. Are you kidding me, you lazy idiots, you didn’t even canvass the area? he thought. He hated negligence, he found it unforgivable, and although it was a dead synth, they hadn’t known that until he and Jason showed up.

The police had tools for preliminary forensics that they should have deployed as soon as they arrived. “You all didn’t do jack; that’s a little shady,” he said. I wonder which one of those fine officers is on the mafia’s payroll, he wondered. Dropping the forensics bot was standard operating procedure; it allowed the forensics team to make key assertions before sending someone out to a crime scene. It also helped the detectives to make better decisions, but none of it was possible now that he was left with a cold corpse and no details.

Standing up, he cursed when he saw the dirt marks on his knees. He blinked slowly and moved his eyes around, looking for the right setting to see in the misty atmosphere. He settled on a mode that picked up on depressions, and shone his flashlight at the ground near the body. Several footprints registered immediately, and he ruled out the ones that were from the police.

“Three of you cowards came out here and killed him,” he muttered, tracing the steps backwards as they led him into the woods. “The android was a big boy, heavier footprints, being pushed or coaxed to walk ahead of them. This is evident by the dragging motion you see here from his steps. The other three walked staggered. This one here is the leader.”

He unclipped his pistol and held it up as he pushed past the first line of trees. Every tree in the vicinity was a burned out husk, but they still stood tall as if life was still running through their trunks. It made the place look eerie, like a nightmare world, though Dhata was used to it as a post-war child.

Live trees were almost as rare as live animals in Tampa Bay. The bombs had done that to them, but it was what he knew. Meat was factory-created, trees were dead, and pets were bioengineered android replicas. This was life in the 22nd century, though Dhata was very aware that humanity had done this to themselves.

It was dark and quiet, but there was no signs of life, only the footprints that were getting harder to read as they led him off into the distance. When he emerged from the trees it was to another bombed out area. The ground was muddy, soft, and showed more footprints from other people.

He laughed when he saw it, the feint burns on the grass. “So you drove him out here in a hovercraft and then marched him off to execute him,” he said. “Three of you did, but the rest waited for you to return when it was done. Was this an execution? He didn’t look like a hool.”

Something here does not smell right, he thought. But it’s dark, and this is unfamiliar territory. “Let’s hope that this was a one-time thing, and please don’t let it be Chevy.” He pushed through the wooded area, beating a different path, but keeping his pistol at the ready in case of mutants. Mutants, he thought. What the hell is wrong with me?

He laughed at the fact that Jason had gotten into his head, but then a dark blur dashed in front of him. His pistol came up, but he restrained himself from firing, choosing instead to chase after it.

The man was fast, but there was something off about the way he was moving. He ran as if there was no destination, switching directions sporadically. It was also hard to follow his path since it was so dark that Dhata’s ICLs were taking some time to adjust.

Dhata was fast for his size, and he kept his body in spectacular shape. As he closed in on the man, he saw that he was holding his arm, which hung limply to his side. “Stop,” Dhata announced, and the man slowed down, then stopped and turned around slowly.

Dhata lifted his pistol and pointed it at his chest. “Hands where I can see them,” he said. “What are you doing out here, running like that, and who did that to your arm?”

The man was naked down to his white underwear, which was so wet with sweat that it seemed ready to fall off. He looked the way an addict looked, like a zombie surviving on stims: dark circles around the eyes of a thin, pallid face, and matted black hair that was caked up with blood.

“I was heading home, officer. I was heading home to, to, to—where is my home? Oh my, I—I—do I live in Ybor City? Yes, Ybor City, I was heading home.” The man was doused in sweat and blood, but he smelled like a pasture. As Dhata stepped closer his ICLs cleared, and he saw that the man was a synth.

“Running home to Ybor?” Dhata said, regarding him curiously. “You’re out here in your skivvies, running like an Olympian, and I’m supposed to believe that you’re going home? Ybor is over sixty miles away. Do you know that? What are you doing out here, and who did this to you?”

He gestured towards the bloody arm that the synth was holding together with his good hand, then pointed the flashlight up to his head where another cut sat above his ear. How the hell is he still alive with a cut like that? he thought, fighting to check his sympathy in order to remain objective.

“Humes, no, wait—yes, a hume—no, humes cut us,” he stammered.

“Us?” Dhata said, looking around. “Wait, were you with the other synth that got killed?”

“I—I can’t recall. They drove us out here. I do not understand why they would do such a thing,” the man said.

Dhata looked around to make sure he wasn’t being set up. Two synths hacked up in the badlands, far away from civilization. I wonder who would go through this trouble just to be a psychopath, he thought.

“Try to concentrate,” Dhata said. “Who drove you out here?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I—yes, two days of hell for me and Leo.”

Tracks were still fresh and so is his blood. Two days? No. His wiring’s jacked up. “You sure that you boys weren’t out here fighting for money?” Dhata said. “I’ve seen the aftermath of fight clubs, and it’s no less brutal than what I’ve seen here. Let me guess. You happened to win and your ‘manager’ stole all the money. If you’re way out here doing it then it was something illegal.”

“No!” shouted the man, snapping Dhata out of his thoughts. He looked as if he was about to pass out. “That is not me, us, we do not fight! Would I be running, if that was the—”

He toppled forward and lay motionless as Dhata rushed forward to check his vitals. The wound in his head was a substantial cut, and he’d manage to keep himself alive by running. Synths looked like humans but they were still machines, and this one had figured out a way to extend his life. “Good job, idiot,” Dhata said to himself. “Now this one is on you.”

He lifted the man’s corpse and walked it back to his vehicle where he laid him down next to the one he assumed was Leo. It started to rain then, a light, warm drizzling accompanied by thunder, and Dhata Mays stood above the two synths, trying to piece it all together. As the rain picked up he looked at the time and decided that being alone in this area was in the realm of stupid.

He put away his Glock and walked past the bodies, back to the road where he’d parked his vehicle. He drove an off-white Buick, one of the last of its kind, modified with enough police-issued gadgetry to make it practically priceless. It had been an ongoing project throughout his career as a police officer, but now as a detective, it was his office on wheels.

He uploaded the photos he’d taken and the footage from his Internal Contact Lens. He made sure to edit out the conversation about mutants, but the footage he had was good enough for the rack to develop a simulated copy in three dimensions. This part was especially important for an investigation. Though the police did not spend much time on synth crimes, he still took notes and gathered info—for him and Jason.

He touched the steering wheel and the Buick came alive with tones and a variety of dancing lights. As the dashboard lit up with cobalt icons, a musical tone played, and then a voice said, “Hello, Dhata, where would you like to go?”

‡Chapter 2‡

Blue-Haired Fox

If someone were to ask Dhata what three words described his work, he would probably reply with, blood, lies, and booze. The night had started with the body of that synth, then came the lies or confused attempts at the truth by the synth with the gash on his arm. Now he was running through it all as he sat at the bar, nursing a shot of whisky as hools argued in the background.

His phone rang. It was Jason, inquiring about the synth. “You all are sloppy,” Dhata said. “There's a good chance that our synth is connected to an underground fighting scene.”

“So what?” said Jason. “We have android—I mean, synth bouts going on all over the city.”

“We do, but what if this particular group is putting humans in there with the synths? I have no evidence to back that, but it's what I'm using to start.”

“Start what, an investigation? Dee, we have real cases to solve. What makes you want to go chasing after an android murder, now? Did you find something else? I admit, I didn’t do much out there when I saw that it was an android. I was under the impression that you gathered your evidence and left.”

“Yeah, but then I found another synth running for his life,” Dhata said. He smiled at Jason's silence, knowing that he was panicking. They had half-assed a crime scene and it was turning out to be real.

“Another synth?” he said, as if something was caught in his throat. “An android, though, not one of us … or did you find something to do with us?”

Dhata sipped his drink and let Jason wait for him to finish. “Yup, another android with cuts, talking as if his brain was scrambled. All he knew was that we are the enemy—that’s what made me think that he was fighting humans.”

“Alright, Dee, I owe you one,” Jason said. “This whole ‘ignore synth crimes’ thing is not really working, is it?”

“I never listened to that idiot when she put out that mandate; this is why I get things done. I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can talk about it then. Right now I’m trying to relax.”

He got off the phone and rubbed at his chin, thinking about the events of the night. There was something about the body that wasn’t sitting well with him. It was the way they killed him, hacking off his leg and then attempting to remove the head. Jason had asked who would do a thing like that, and it was a valid question.

All of the synth killers that they'd known did it quickly and effectively. Something to do with making a dent in the vast number throughout the city. If you're going to commit mechanocide, you didn't do it by hacking them up one by one.

Dhata wondered if there would be more bodies popping up, brutalized in the same fashion as the one from tonight. The signs were there. This could very well be a serial killer, and what if he or she didn't know that this victim was an android? The Johns who were examining the body weren’t able to tell, so this could be the beginning of something terrible.

“Don't think too hard or you might break something,” the bartender said. She’d been flirting with him the entire night.

“This old skull? It’s too thick to break, so don’t you worry about me thinking,” he said.

She was about as well put together as a human gutter rat could be, and her tattoos told a story of a long and experienced twenties. There were war stamps and gang tats, crossed out and written over with newer ones. Names of people, an eagle insignia, and one that looked like a cog. This last tattoo caught his eye, since it was the universal sign for a synth-sympathizer.

She poured her drinks like a juggler juggled, and treated her stunts as if her life depended on it. All eyes were on her, and her eyes were on Dhata, which he was beginning to notice. Synth-sympathizer. I wonder if she’d know something, he thought, then drained the last bit of liquor from the glass.

“You visit Ybor much?” he said when she filled his glass. She held up a finger for him to wait. After tending to a new patron who sat at the end of the bar, she bounced back over and leaned in close to him.

“All the time. I have a part time job down there. I dance and serve drinks at a bar named Mulder’s. You should come see me sometime. I make a mean rust bucket. Two parts whisky with a little stimulant added in.” She winked.

“That sounds like a bad idea,” Dhata said, laughing. “I’m a peace officer. We can drink but we can’t be caught doing stims.”

She shrugged. “You know better than that, Detective. I have more Johns in there than synths some nights.”

“Speaking of our android neighbors—”

“Synths, Detective. They aren’t androids, they are synths. An android is built by one of us, and can only do what you program it to do. A synth has life and is a citizen just like you. They wouldn’t appreciate you confusing them.”

He liked this girl. There were more angles to her than what he was seeing. “Synth fight clubs: do you know of any where they take on humans in the ring?” he said.

“Would you be able to tell the difference between a synth and a human if two of them were fighting in front of you?” she said.

“No, no-one can. Isn’t that the point to them blending in so well within society?”

“So think about what you’re asking me, and how hard it would be to prove: that the person that a synth was fighting in a ring is a human and not a synth. I go to the fights, and I know for a fact that they try any sort of gimmick to put asses in the seats. Humans and synths on a fight card is illegal. I know it, I had a friend get in trouble for advertising one of those, but it still happens, you all just don’t know. Like I said, how would you know the difference if you’re watching from a distance?”

The tattooed bartender had managed to destroy the one motive he swore was the reasoning behind the butchered synths. He was back to square one, seeking out the why, and knowing that his one chance for answers had escaped into the woods when he let him go.

“You should be a detective,” he said with a smile, and she touched his nose playfully.

He sent a message to Jason. “Fight club’s a dead theory, just forget it. I’ll turn in the evidence and we can move on with our lives.”

The liquor was starting to take effect, and he looked around the room at the people there. Some were seated, enjoying the booze and the conversation, while others were milling about, dancing or engaging one another. He was one of several losers planted on a stool watching the televisions. There was sports on the augmented vids, with sound accessible if you synched your implant, but he was too focused on the bartender.

When she looked over at him, the way she’d been looking the entire night, he beckoned her over once more. “Damn, you finished already?” she said, and he shook his head.

“What time do you get off?” he said.

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

His eyes opened first, then his ICLs came on displaying the digital readout of the time. He could feel her against him—Tiffany, yeah that’s her name, he thought, as the strong scent of the shampoo in her hair did a number on his nose. He was holding her against him the way a child held a blanket. He raised his head, a brief escape from the jungle of hair, and saw that she was awake and smiling.

Dhata found it funny that after a night like they’d had, that they would be bashful to give each other eye contact. He rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes, and saw that the time read 7:55 a.m.

Christ, I’m late, he thought, then cycled through the excuses he could make for his tardiness. Three messages flashed across his field of view, and he didn’t have to guess that they were from Jason.

“What time do you start?” he said, rolling over to look at Tiffany.

She shifted to her side and regarded him. “I normally go down around three, to help with the prep since we open at five. Why, you want to hang out, get some breakfast? There’s a nice restaurant next door that sells bacon and eggs.”

“That does sound good, but I was just curious. You’re all smiles and curling up in bed while the rest of us wage slaves have to be at work,” he said.

“My work is nocturnal; you know how it is. A girl has to get her rest whenever she can.” Dhata touched her cheek and smiled. He liked the way she talked. There was an accent with enough of a vocal fry to make her a lot more interesting.

“You get that rest, beautiful. You deserve every minute of it,” he said. As he got up to find his clothes, he felt her warm hand on the small of his back.

“Are we cool?” she said, and he turned to face her.

“Better than cool,” Dhata said, reaching for her hand. He brought it up to his face and kissed the back of it, causing her to giggle. If you removed the gang tattoos you could easily forget that she was dangerous. He wanted to get back in bed but those messages were flashing fast and making him anxious. “I noticed your tat,” he said, finally standing up.

“Which one?” she said, laughing, then withdrew her hand as if she expected a lecture.

“The cog on your shoulder. Pretty hard to miss. Seems like you’re going way out of your way to show that you’re one of their allies.”

“Of course. It’s not just the synths why I got this ink. It’s for anybody stuck on this rock getting a daily dose from the man. I hate bullies, do you know what I mean? Unless you’re a bully. Dhata, are you a bully?”

Dhata shrugged, not bothering to answer.

“Shit, I should’ve asked you that before I slept with you,” she said, laughing. “Now I’m wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

As if she doesn’t make mistakes every night with different potential mistakes every time, Dhata thought. “I’m not that kind of John,” he said. “You did alright. Just pretend I have a big cog tattooed right here.” He pointed to his chest.

“Righteous, yeah, you know I can dig it. You’re like a John, but a good John, y’know? You’re actually out to help us. Well alright, because I’m into you, I really dug last night, y’know?” she said, grinning. “Was kind of hoping that we can party again some time. Maybe tonight when you’re done busting hools?”

His phone rang, and the display showed Jason, so he pulled up the interface and took the call. “Jason, what’s up?” he said, leaning forward to caress her neck and kiss her lips goodbye. He held the kiss long enough to let her know that they were good, and when their eyes met she smiled. As he walked out to the balcony, she rolled over onto her side, and he glanced back to take one more look.

“Hey, Dhata,” Jason said. “We have a situation. I got a tip on the Williams case. He’s in a house on Channelside.”

“Chevy Williams, the Mary killer? I thought that case was ice,” Dhata said.

“I thought so too, but he’s been hiding out there in an old house near the water. We could score a lot of points catching up with that hool,” Jason said. “The bird that told me about it gave me a call just this morning. Says she heard screams coming from the house. Sounds like our boy is killing again.”

Dhata sighed. “That’s bounty hunter territory. No John with a brain goes out there. But Chevy Williams, that would be one hell of a bust. We’d be damn near stupid to pass on it. Alright, check this out, I’m not at my apartment. You remember a bar called The Underworld?”

‡Chapter 3‡

Chevy’s Lament

“Do you know how you look right now, Detective?” Jason said as he pulled up to the Buick and wound his window down.

“Like a man getting ready to go do his work,” Dhata said.

“No, you look like a mess, rolling out of a bar at nine o'clock. Not to mention you’re wearing the same outfit you had on yesterday. Tell me, did you pass out face first in a glass full of whisky or between the gams of a certain blue-haired bartender?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Dhata said, smiling, winding his window up slowly for effect. Jason sped off in front of him and he followed closely behind, using water from a bottle to wash his face.

Jason took him down to Channelside, which used to be a promising entertainment complex. After years of pumping money into this dead end prospect, the city of Tampa grew tired and let it decay. Now it was one of the known criminal areas, second only to Ybor City. Bounty hunters ran the place, kept outsiders at bay, and paid off any police officer that poked his nose into their business.

As Dhata drove it felt as if the city was aging and going backwards into time. The old roads—complete with painted lines—were still intact out here, and the landscape flattened out unlike the booming high-rises just north of there. This was definitely no man’s land, and Dhata felt his skin crawl, but Jason didn’t seem to care as he led them deep into the neighborhood.

It was late morning, but the clouds were dark, and the broad road made him feel vulnerable as he drove into the square. All around him was a filthy slum of squat, ugly buildings painted in every shade of pastel. The streets were bare, with the exception of a hool or two, and he could feel the eyes upon his vehicle as he drove over a section of railroad tracks.

In the distance was a large billboard resplendent in neon lights. It read Welcome to Channelside, which Dhata took as a warning.

Parking the Buick on the curb near a house, Dhata stepped out and walked over to Jason’s car. He was dressed immaculately, in a clean black duster and hat. Even the small armored vest that he wore over his shirt was a dark burgundy color that matched his pants.

Dhata whistled. “Boy, look at you. No wonder you had so much opinion about me wearing the same thing today.”

Jason put a finger to his lips and led him up the stairs to an old two-story house. He unclipped the shotgun from his leg and Dhata pulled out the Glock that he carried on his waist.

As they got close to the door, Jason jumped back. “Gun,” he shouted, and fell to the ground. Dhata jumped the railing on the side of the porch as shots rang out from ballistics firearms. Several shouts came from the inside and he could hear the thunder from Jason’s shotgun.

Dhata slipped to the back, keeping his eyes on the neighboring building, then hopped a fence and crept up to one of the windows. More shouts and the back door flew open as a giant of a man ran out with a rifle.

There was a pool in the backyard, filled with trash, and the water was an oily, brownish color. All around the perimeter were discarded pieces of furniture, and an old wooden fence hanging on for dear life. When the man ran out, Dhata’s hands were a blur, placing one shot in his leg and a second in his arm, forcing him to lose the rifle.

“No,” shouted the man, wincing in pain and holding up an arm as if it could shield him. Dhata stayed where he was but chanced a glance through a window. He had heard two voices when he ran to the back, but now the place was eerily quiet.

He blinked rapidly to bring up his implant’s interface, gestured for his phone application in order to make a call. There was no need for his hands; it was the beauty of his enhancements. The augmented computer screen was shown on his ICL, and controlling its programs was done with the mind. He found Jason’s contact and connected the call, all while keeping his pistol steady in case the giant got brave.

Jason came on the line, breathing hard, and Dhata could tell that he was inside. “I have one suspect down, Jay. What’s the situation in there?”

“Got our guy in here, recently deceased, and it looks like they beat him to death. You’re gonna want to come in here,” he said. “There’s something else I think you need to see.”

Dhata walked up to the injured man with the pistol ready to fire, then slapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. He cuffed his legs, then grabbed the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he crept to the back door and slipped inside.

The place was a dump, filthy enough to embarrass roaches, and every sort of fast food container had its place on the floor. There was an old monitor, barely holding onto the wall, and a leather couch in front of it where Jason stood over an emaciated man. The elusive Chevy Williams, Dhata thought. He remembered hearing the shotgun and he saw what had been hit. In front of the door, covered in splinters, was another man. A large blood stain covered his chest and his mouth hung open in surprise.

Jason may seem green because of his looks, but they always learn the hard way that the boy can fight, Dhata thought. When he made eye contact, Jason glanced up at the stairs, and Dhata nodded once and climbed them slowly to the top floor. He checked his corners, not wanting to take any chances, but what he found upstairs was a large empty room.

The only thing besides the walls and the rug was an augmented photograph of a man. He was dressed in white decorative robes, with a thin gold necklace around his neck. Something about the photo intrigued Dhata as he holstered his pistol and stepped closer to look. It was the eyes that grabbed him. They were an interesting oddity, regular green eyes, but they bore right through you. The smile on his face was warm and welcoming enough, but the eyes revealed something that was far more sinister.

“What is this?” Dhata said, looking around. He saw a set of closet doors, but where was the furniture?

“You see it,” Jason said in his ear. He forgot that he was on the phone.

“Who is this man, Jay? He gives me the creeps.”

“That is none other than Manton Paradise,” Jason said. “You’ve seen him before, you just didn’t care enough to remember. He’s the weirdo who started his own religion. Love, peace, happiness, and all that jazz.”

“Yeah, so does he require his followers to devote a room to his honor? This place is a toilet but I come up here and the freaking room is spotless.” He slid open the closet, raising his pistol, but all he saw were white robes, sandals, and a stack of books. “Gets weirder up here. These two idiots follow this guy? I have a stack of books, all written by his highness here, and an odd textbook that deals with robotics. I’m coming down Jay, this is weirding me out, and this green eye prophet is staring lasers through my skull.”

As he descended the stairs he could hear sirens and he saw red and blue lights coming through the hole in the door. “Looks like the boys are here, “Jason said, as he pulled back a makeshift curtain from the window. “This is out of my league, Dee. I don’t even know if it’s related—”

“What, the holy man in that photo and these two murdering freaks? Hell, yes, it’s connected, but what I don’t get is why here in bounty hunter town? I don’t see anything indicating that these two belong. Look at this,” Dhata said, pointing to the battered man’s clothes. “Those are his night clothes, and the other two are fully dressed. The robes upstairs were a medium size, and the one I shot is bigger than me, and yours is even bigger than him. If I wager a guess, they came early this morning, roused old Chevy and slapped him around. Your CI heard it, put in a call, and here we come running, but he’s already dead.”

“Yeah, I figured as much but what threw me off was the state of this place. It’s a sty. No way in hell Chevy was living like this; it doesn’t match the files we have on him. The dude was a neat freak. You saw upstairs, now that was more his speed. If you were to tell me the three of them operated down here and decided to keep a little temple upstairs, that would make sense. See where I’m going? This isn’t a house … well it’s a house, but I don’t think anyone lives here.”

Dhata looked around to decide if he was right, but when he looked at the couch he shook his head. “No, Jay, I think our records were wrong. Chevy definitely lived here. Neat freak aside, I think he was a hoarder who lived on this couch full time. Look at that depression; he spent all his time here. Evil fuck must have turned over a new leaf to commit to this prophet while he was hiding out here.”

The door flew open and several police filed in, nodding at Dhata and Jason as they made to canvass the place. “Got one cuffed out back,” Dhata said. “He ran outside armed with this.” He unslung the rifle and handed it to one of the officers, then turned back to Jason who was still looking over Chevy.

“Take a look at this,” Jason said as he lifted one of the dead man’s hands. “He’s missing both of his pinkies, like someone cut them off.”

“Those look like they’ve been missing for a while, though. Maybe he was a former gang member,” Dhata said.

“You thinking, Young Yakuza or the Cat Skinners?” Jason said.

“Yeah, something Japanese; you know how these Florida gangs get down. I don’t think former though, you don’t leave either of those sects alive. Blood in and blood out, remember? I wonder if that is what this is about.” He walked over to the dead man at the door and examined his body for tattoos. “No tattoos on this one, now how odd is that? Bounty hunters and gangsters are always flooded with ink. What do you say, Jay, you think it’s something to do with one of his victims? Maybe one of their family members come to take revenge?”

“I hope not, bro. I killed one of them, and I don’t need to hear any of that. The only thing I know is that this doesn’t feel right. Let’s record our statement. We were defending ourselves, right? Then we can take a ride with your boy down to the station. I’m sure that after a few hours of painful persuasion, he will free us both from having to guess—”

“Hey, Detective,” said a policeman as he ran inside from the back. “Are these yours?” He dangled a pair of handcuffs from his finger.

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

When they found the wounded giant, he was dead in the middle of the street. No one had an answer as to why, and no evidence in terms of what had killed him. This was bounty hunter town, and now police were everywhere, which meant that the rats would be deep inside their holes.

Dhata knelt over the body, scanning for a wound, but nothing came up as a cause of death. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to find Jason. He was scanning the area, looking concerned. “I say we call it a day, Dee; we been out here too long. You damn sure ain’t gonna learn something new by staring at that corpse. He probably popped a capsule, but let forensics figure it out. As far as I’m concerned, we came out here for Chevy, and we were attacked and defended ourselves.”

“What did we walk into though, Jay? What were these two hools doing to him?” Dhata said.

“Let’s try to forget it until we get something to eat. Come on, Dhata, I feel like I’m being watched.”

Jason drove them west to a prominent area of Tampa, a place by the water known as Sunset Park. They parked by the pier and found a nearby bar where the menu offered more than just beer and liquor. The place was littered with older people, retired or wealthy, and it didn’t take long for Dhata to feel out of place.

“What can I get you, officer?” said the woman behind the bar. She was dressed like a sailor with a ton of makeup on her face. Hanging above her was an old sign which read, “Androids are not welcome here.” It made sense. Why would an android need liquor?

Bar owners hated synths because they would take up space and didn’t need to drink. The same could be said of restaurant owners, but that wasn’t the reason for the sign. While the androids were considered sentient and were given rights, many of the rich elite went out of their way to avoid their company. Due to this, the more affluent areas of the city were prone to having signs that were hostile towards synths.

“I’ll have your bacon avocado sandwich, with grilled chicken not fried,” he said. “Sub the fries out for the smothered corn on the cob, and I’ll take a mojito to drink.”

She nodded, then turned to Jason and took his order, which was a bison burger with fries.

When she made to walk back to the kitchen to alert the cook on the order, Dhata grabbed her attention and motioned her over. “Sorry, but I have a question on my order. Is the chicken fomeal or is it real?” he said.

“We only have fomeal here,” she said, smiling. “Don’t worry, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

Dhata looked over at Jason as he put his face into his hands. “Hey, I figured I’d ask. This is Sunset Park, after all. Would you not think they’d have the real thing here?”

Since the war placed most animals on the endangered species list, fomeal—a putty-like meat substitute—was what most restaurants served. Fomeal was cheap and came in a can, but with the right tool you could sculpt it into any shape or color you wanted. A chef would load a program that would mold the fomeal into an exact replica of a rib eye steak, or whatever meat you desired. Real meat was afforded to the rich, but the price was normally astronomical.

Dhata knew it would be fomeal, but he always liked to ask, just to see if the server or bartender would lie about it.

“Had a nightmare last night about that body we found,” Jason said. “We were there and then he got up, and I took off running.”

“I did some searching when you left, found all sorts of evidence. Turns out that there were a number of people in the woods past where he was dead,” Dhata said. “I think that they had a fight club out there in the cut. Best way to avoid us so that we don’t disturb their fun.”

“Disturb who, the androids? They have arenas right there in Ybor. We don’t care if they kill themselves. Why take a fight out there?” Jason said.

“We would care if the android was made to fight a human being, right? This is just me guessing, but I think that they had a fight club, where they put one synth up against two or three guys.”

“You got all this from the crime scene?”

“Yeah, there was another clearing near where we were. They could have come in by hover copter, set up containment rods for the ring, then all the people with money on the bets would gather around the perimeter and watch. When our synth got hacked up, they walked him to that spot. Mark my words, it will happen again. This could be a new hustle for the gangs.”

The bartender placed a tall mojito in front of Dhata and a soda in front of Jason. “You drinking already, Detective?” he said. “It’s not even noon.”

“Listen, a little bit of spice never hurt nobody, and it’s a damn mojito. I can swallow fifty of these and still shoot straighter than you,” Dhata said.

“Hey, check it,” Jason said. “It’s our guy.”

Dhata looked up at the floating visual, augmented from a SAR in the ceiling. He put down his mojito and stared up at the man on the screen. It was him, Manton Paradise, Chevy’s green-eyed prophet, walking through tall grass with clear skies behind him. Graphics displaying all manner of words began popping out as he walked, words like love, peace, and unity.

“Could you turn this up?” Jason said, apparently finding it amusing, but when she did, Dhata quickly understood why people bought into Paradise’s rhetoric. The eloquence of the man’s speech was like nothing he’d heard before, and his voice was like silk blowing gently in the wind.

He spoke of the world and how things used to be, painting a utopia that never existed. “Are you two Children of Paradise?” the bartender said as she placed their food in front of them.

Dhata looked at her the way you would look at a hole in your socks. “Turn it off,” he said. “My partner was just curious. What about you?”—he glanced at her nameplate—“Tamera, do you follow the teachings of Paradise?”

The woman laughed but then proceeded to tell them about her sister’s friend. This friend had disowned her family and became a “Child of Paradise.” She wasn’t allowed to talk to her old friends but would sneak messages to her, telling her about the cult and how she should come and join. “There are rumors,” she said. “They say Manton has enough followers to make a run for the presidency. Soon we all will become the Children of Paradise.”

“That’s enough,” Dhata said. “You’re having way too much fun with this.” Jason started to laugh and Tamera joined in, which prompted Dhata to smile. “You both need help, do you know that?” he started to say, but then Jason cursed out loud and hopped off the stool.

“You see the chatter going on the network?” he said.

Dhata flipped through numerous screens of police reports until he found the one Jason had seen. All over the Global Network were reports on Chevy’s death, which now complicated their chances of investigating further.

“What are you going to do?” Dhata said.

“I guess I’ll finish my meal and think,” Jason said. “Emerson’s head is going to spin, and she’ll want answers immediately. You took the last pie in the face so I figure it’s my turn … I’ll explain why we’re out here and why the three men are dead.” He looked at the bartender, then pointed at a bottle of rum. “What are you going to do now, Dee? I wouldn’t advise you to go anywhere near the station.”

“Station? Are you kidding me? I bet its packed thick with reporters. No, I’m going to take a trip to visit a couple synth-killing characters.”

“The squall,” Jason mumbled. “Is your day not exciting enough already?”

‡Chapter 4‡

Mud and Blood

The lower slums of downtown Tampa Bay were built on a corroded piece of land. It was one of the only areas in the city that still had buildings less than five stories high. The government wanting to provide something for the millions of homeless, set up areas like this as free property. If you planted a house there, you could live rent-free, just figure out your plumbing and connect to the network.

It was a wonderful gift that started off well, until the gangsters made themselves into unofficial landlords. Now it was a vice-run ghetto with a high murder rate. The city wanted to reclaim it but the motion was denied, so it became a frequent job for detectives like Dhata Mays.

Police that came down to the area were either corrupt and on a gangster’s payroll or too dumb to realize the danger. Dhata, after leading enough busts and raids, had become well acquainted with the residents. He knew which areas could get him killed and which areas were considered neutral.

If he wasn’t there to look at a body, he was there to question the murderer. This was how he knew ‘the squall’ as it was dubbed by its tenants. Recently there had been a string of cases where squall residents were terrorizing their neighbors, the synths.

It was an unofficial rule between Tampa’s underclass, synths lived in Ybor and humans in the squall. Dhata was one of the rare lawmen to know residents in both cities. Now he needed to take advantage of this pass in order to find some answers.

After parking the Buick backwards near the bordering fence, Dhata trudged through the wet grass and what he hoped was mud. On the outskirts of the squall were mountains of trash, wet and slick from the constant Tampa rain. There were weekly pickups for trash around the city, but the squall kept their mountains smelly and high. It was insanitary, but it added to the legend. If the murderers didn’t keep you out, the smell surely would.

Once he was through the fence the road cleared to become a concrete path between the buildings. There were lines of fabric stretched across it on the upper floors, and stacked shacks on the corners, manmade and dangerously unstable. Dark alleys between the buildings kept his nerves on edge, and everyone he walked past had something to say.

Some recognized him as a detective, but most regarded him as fresh meat. He kept his hand near his pistol and his hat low, walking intently, as if he owned the place. Most of the bosses knew him and a few of the hools did too, so most knew better than to try him.

One man had died trying a few years back when he came to arrest a car thief. It was a magnificent show of reflexes and gunfire, and the people who witnessed it sung his legend.

But time had passed and he was one of many police officers, most who relied on threats and payoffs so the hools considered them kin. Dhata was an anomaly, gun skills or not, and the ones who grew to respect him were now grown-ups. The new generation of criminals barely knew who he was, and they were the ones he saw circulating as he marched through their hood.

As he made his way towards a set of stairs, three men stepped out across his path. They all looked him in the face and the last one flashed a smile. “Woo-wee,” he said and stopped right in front of Dhata. “Blackened bacon, the sweetest kind. I wonder if it’s real or made out of fomeal.”

Dhata shifted his jacket to show the butt of his pistol, and leaned into the young hool’s face. “You counting coup on me, you narrow piece of shit? Bigger hools have tried, so what’s it going to be?”

“Excuse me officer,” he said, backing away, then smiling at his friends as if it was all a big joke.

Just give me an excuse, Dhata thought, as he watched them walk away. He hated this dump, and hated the inhabitants. It was a cesspool training ground for future criminals.

He got to the door he was looking for and pounded his fist into it. The sky was overcast, but there was so much going on above the squall that it already looked like night time. When the door slid open, Dhata pulled out the pistol and backed a man into the small living space. He was there alone but the television was blasting and there was the sizzling sound of meat in a skillet.

“Hello, Pete,” Dhata said. “Sorry for popping in like this. Are you back to your old tricks, kicking it with Chevy? Wait, is that son-of-a-bitch hiding in here?” He pretended to look for a hidden person, lifting up the pillows on his couch and moving around some papers.

Peter Harte was an ex-con, an extremely dangerous ex-con. He was almost seven feet tall and had the girth to match but he shrank away from Dhata. Peter was a friend of a man Dhata shot, and had experienced a wicked pistol-whipping after trying to interfere. Since that incident he was on Dhata’s radar, and functioned as an unofficial criminal informant.

When Dhata had questions he would shake Peter down, and in return the swarthy hool was allowed to stay out of jail—as long as his crimes remained petty, that is, though Dhata kept him on a leash for another reason. Peter had been partners with the man named Chevy Williams, the deceased serial killer that he and Jason had discovered earlier. It was all over the news, Chevy’s death, but Dhata played ignorant just in case Peter hadn’t heard.

“This is getting old, John, you busting up in here. What if I had a lady friend over, how would I explain that? What’s this about Chevy? I ain’t seen that man in years. Get the fuck out of here, this can’t be legal, man, come on, no – that couch is new.”

Dhata stopped tossing the man’s apartment and walked up to stand across from him. “Two synth bodies were found last night, bearing the textbook amateur cuts that your buddy Chevy was known for. I kept you out of the pokey, stayed off of your back, and this is how you repay me, you disgusting slob?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I ain’t murdered no synth, and I ain’t seen Chevy, that’s the truth. I got one of them whatchamacallit, an, um, yeah, one of them alibis. I was down at the fights, losing my money. I wouldn’t have time to leave from out of there to go shorting out a robot.”

“Who else saw you at the fights? Is any of it recorded?” Dhata said. “Because if you didn’t do this, then Chevy damn sure did. Either way it has the squall’s stink all over it. I’m not letting this one go, Pete. I don’t need a war between you all and the synths. After Chevy’s run we were almost there. They were this close to riding down on this shithole. Do you know what prevented that? Me and Officer Dale. We’re your only friends downtown, Pete. You need to talk to me.”

“Dhata,” he said, standing up straight, “I said it wasn’t me. Now, if I hear anything, I’ll do my job and you will be the first to know.”

“Anything,” Dhata said, standing with his eyes still locked into him. “Don’t let me investigate only to find out it came from here, because I’ll be back with the cuffs, Pete, and I won’t be coming alone.”

He marched out of the apartment and visited several more, delivering his hard threats to keep his informants on edge. It was an old tactic. One of them would talk, but if it happened to remain quiet he would know that it was something else. More youngsters tried him, but he established dominance, the same tired song and dance that he’d mastered in the squall. By the time he was finished it was actually night, and he made his way back to his car.

“CINI, it’s jazz night. Take me to Orizon,” Dhata said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs. He loved jazz, especially the classics that were over 100 years old. Winding down to a strong drink and real music would be ideal. Orizon had live performers and was deep in Saint Petersburg, so he wouldn’t have to worry about running into his fellow Johns.

It was a tall building, dark against an aura of emerald mist that it generated from light bulbs installed on its rooftop. The lights moved ever so slightly, and it gave it the illusion of having an aurora borealis behind the building.

The signage was neon—which was unfortunate since it looked out of place on what could easily be described as a stone palace. It was truly a Tampa Bay treasure, and Dhata had been going there monthly for over three years now.

He parked the Buick near the entrance, removed his badge and slipped it into his pocket, then shifted his pistol to the small of his back. There were people milling around near the entrance, but all of them were dressed well and he didn’t want to stick out. Dhata sniffed himself curiously. He was due a shower, and the stench of the squall was on him.

As he neared the door, the synth attendant recognized him and flashed him a friendly smile. “Detective,” he said, extending a hand, and Dhata shook it and brought him in for a hug.

“How’s it going, Lou? Anyone giving you trouble?” he said.

“Not tonight, but now that you’re here, things are looking up,” Lou said. He was an older man—by human standards—and wore a tuxedo that looked way overdue for the cleaners. But synths were paid meager wages across the board, so Dhata understood his plight. This was further evidenced by the UCC chip that he placed in his hand when he shook it.

He liked Lou. He was a hardworking man, and tipping him heavily was just his way of showing appreciation. “You a true treasure, Dee,” he said, letting him in, and Dhata touched his shoulder reassuringly.

Inside was a lobby that had a few tables and a bar where quite a number of people were hanging around drinking. Dhata waded through them to the large double doors and pulled them open to a hurricane of horns and drums going crazy as a saxophonist summoned the soul from a dazed audience, high on stims and booze. This was heaven. He slipped inside and shut the doors, then stood off to one side, watching the man make his instrument scream.

He felt a nudging at his elbow and he looked down to see a tiny waitress gesturing towards a table. The inside of Orizon was just as impressive as the outside, with streaming lights running between the tables on invisible lines, pulsing with every beat of the drum. Behind the performers was even more neon, portraying a horizon awash in yellows. The place was packed but you couldn’t make out features, just shadowy heads smoking or chatting, taking in the music.

Dhata sat at the table that she picked out for him and ordered an Old Fashioned. The sax settled down and then it was the drummer’s turn, followed by an actual song. This was when the songstress of the hour took to the stage and grabbed the microphone. Dhata expected a cover of one of the old classics, but what she sang was original. A deep, dark bluesy number of oppression in the Tampa slums, she mentioned Ybor, and injustice, and that was when it clicked.

She’s a synth, Dhata thought. Who would’ve guessed, a synth with that voice?

He was feeling the atmosphere and it brought a smile to his face, the stress of the squall now gone. One drink turned into five, and soon he was slumped in his chair, singing along to an Etta James cover.

As the night went on he tried to see if he could spot which of the people at the neighboring tables were synth. He had a hard time with this and it dawned on him that this was a sign of progression. Here inside Orizon, everybody got along. There had been places like this throughout history, safe bars and clubs where the rebels of society could rub elbows with the unwanted.

Dhata felt proud to be patronizing this modern hub of tolerance. Him, a detective John from the inner city of Tampa, listening to a synthetic songstress crooning along to an old-styled human band. It was a poetic reality, and he swam deep inside it, letting the alcohol take him to the deep end.

A call was coming in, and he saw that it was Jason, so he slid his finger on the panel to pay for his drinks. Jason calling at this time of hour meant that it was an emergency, so he gathered his duster and slid past the tables to make his way outside. “Jay, what’s the emergency?” he said, trying in vain to focus.

“Hey, sorry to disturb you, Dee, sounds like you’re at a party, but I was about to turn off my stream when something caught my eye. There’s been a murder in the squall—yeah, I know, big surprise, but they're saying that this one was done by a synth.”

Dhata cursed. “Are you serious? Looks like we're up to our necks in casualties. Is it anybody we know?” he said.

“No, just some punk ass kid. He was running his yap to the wrong woman and she cut his throat in the alley. They need us to get down there as soon as possible but you're in no shape to work. You're worrying me, Dhata. You drink more than my old man.”

“Not all the time, mom, but today I needed it. I was there, earlier, in the squall. I didn't see any synths, didn't know that they lived there.”

“That's the thing. They don't. This was a professional with a vendetta. Maybe the kid killed somebody that she knew.”

Dhata thought about the body out in the badlands, and how the runaway synth had mentioned that humans did it to him. The squall harbored synth haters of the worst kind so it would make sense that the murderer would wind up there.

“Jason, you called the killer a professional,” Dhata said as he marched back to his Buick to sit inside. “What did you see to convince you that a hired assassin did this?”

“Grant me access to your car’s rack and I'll share the details,” Jason said.

Dhata gave him access and received a file, which he opened up on the augmented interface. It showed an image of the victim and it was “Black Bacon,” the same arrogant troublemaker that he'd scared off earlier. He had two cuts on his neck which looked to have been made by a knife, and the expression on his face was one of surprise.

Did I cause this? he wondered. “How do we know a synth did this? It’s the squall; they blame everything on the synths.”

“Well, the murderer announced herself as she wiped the bloody sword on his pants,” Jason said. “You’re always down there, what does this mean? It sounds like a hit from the Young Yakuza. This is their calling card.”

“It would be, Jay, but two things make that theory impossible. First, the killer announced herself. Second, she did it inside the squall. Young Yakuza is under a peace treaty with the Cat Skinners. The Skinners run the squall, so this wouldn’t make—oh, are you thinking a declaration of war?” Dhata said.

“Yes, Dee. If not that, then there is a copycat pretending that she is samurai,” Jason said.

“If that’s the case then we can relax. The Yakuza would off her before we got a chance. They don’t take too well to non-members using their name, or katana swords, or any part of their brand. Criminals know this; there are enough of them walking around maimed for the message to be loud and clear. This is either them declaring war, or a soon-to-be dead hool.”

“Well I hope so, brother,” Jason said, his voice dripping with regret. “There’s surveillance on you arguing with him, and now a synth assassin cut his throat. Your name was mentioned a few times; it’s why I called. You may want to avoid going down there for a while … the squall suspects that you did this.”

‡Chapter 5‡

Visiting Death

A loud beeping woke Dhata up and he struggled to remember where he was. His vision cleared and his ICLs came alive, showing the time and his unopened messages. With one blink it was gone and so was the beeping from the alarm. He rubbed his face and looked around. He had fallen asleep on the couch.

Shit, he thought, late again, and he scrambled to the sink to splash water on his face.  “Good morning,” came a voice from the direction of the bedroom. He looked around. It was his apartment, but he couldn’t remember having company when he stumbled home last night.

He fumbled for his pistol. “Looking for this?” the voice said. Dhata turned to face whomever it was.

Seated on the counter was a woman in red. She was dressed like a racer in form-fitting leather. She had a thick crop of hair, with knives behind her ears, a minute detail that Dhata spotted instantly. Kunoichi, he thought. I am dead. She dangled his Glock between slender brown fingers.

“Did you bring me here?” he said, looking around for another weapon.

“We did,” said the woman with a slight accent. He saw that her eyes danced around like an untethered cursor on a vehicle’s dash.

Synth Kunoichi. I’m screwed, he thought. I wonder which gangster but a number on my name. “I’m alive, which is obvious, so I’m guessing you're here to interrogate me,” Dhata said. “What do you need to know?”

She hopped off the counter like a cat, all speed and silence. He saw blood marks on her steel-toed boots, and her pants were torn above the knee. “I’m not here to question you or to kill you. I am your angel wings, Mr. Mays.” The accent was Indian and she was tall, near six feet in height with her killer boots adding more. She walked up to him, close enough for him to smell her, and that’s when he saw that she was definitely a synth.

“Angel wings hint at death,” he said. “Are you playing with your food? Drag me home, wait me out so you can kick me with those boots and watch me bleed out on the carpet?”

She stepped in so close he expected a knife in the gut, or a kiss from her dark red lips tainted with some sort of toxin. But she merely hovered, reveling in her intimidation. “They told me you were dangerous,” she said. “Are you dangerous?”

“Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here,” he said.

“I’ve been hired by someone to protect you, Mr. Mays. The investigation that you are on is very important to us.”

“By us you mean what exactly? The assassin’s guild? Synths? You speak to me as if my intuition can pick up what’s inside your head. Who is your employer, and why does he care? Also, I have a ton of cases so exactly which one are you supposedly guarding me from?”

“I can’t say much but my employer asks that you continue your work on the synth murders. There is evil but it is a mystery. People end up missing, but nobody knows why. You are good at what you do and we”—she gestured to herself—“We believe in you. Believe that you will find out who is doing these things.”

“Alright,” Dhata said. “You got it, lady, but who says that I need protection?”

“Last night I watched you and there was a man following you. A human man, an assassin. I dispatched him while you were drunk. Do not drink while you investigate, Detective, it makes you slow and careless. Continue to work and I will watch. Like I said before, your angel wings.”

The thought of being so drunk that he missed an attempt on his life made Dhata feel embarrassed. Just like that he could have been dead, at least if this kunoichi was to be believed. “Tell your employer that I will stay on this case even if the other Johns won’t. There’s something foul going on and I’m almost there. What I don’t need, and I mean no disrespect, but I don’t need a ninja babysitter.”

The woman placed a hand on his shoulder, then gave him a smile right before turning around and walking towards his door. “That isn’t up to you, Mr. Mays. Just know that your wings will remain behind you,” she said.

Yeah, and I wonder how fast those wings will cut my throat if I take too long, he thought. She was gone just as fast as she had appeared on his counter and Dhata stood contemplating what to do next.

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

All day long Dhata struggled with whether or not he should tell Jason about his visitor. He was sure that this deadly angel was the same one who had killed the hool in the squall. But what if telling him placed his life in danger? The kunoichi would want to make sure that Jason wouldn’t interfere. She could easily kill him, or threaten one of his family. This was why Dhata chose to keep it to himself for now.

What do you do about a deadly assassin that has become your shadow, invading your privacy and doing whatever she wants? he thought. He felt cursed, as if someone from his past had cursed him with a gift that made anyone who argued with him end up dead. As a detective he was prone to having a stiff conversation or two with hools, but now he worried that anyone who crossed him would end up with their throat cut.

What about his sex life? Would his new shadow be privy to everything? She said that she wanted him to stay on the synth case, but how was he supposed to work like this?

He pulled up to the Tampa Bay police station. It was a two-level building with a sleek exterior, newly renovated by the city. Behind it stretched the harbor, misty water whose black surface hid god knew how many dark secrets. It was scenic, especially when it rained heavily and the sky took on a charcoal color. The station would look silver in the neon light, silver like the badge they all wore, a gleaming beacon against crime.

As Dhata crossed the parking lot he stole a glance behind him. How is this girl following me? he wondered. Can she disappear? No, she probably planted a tracker on me sometime after I found that body. It was there before I took the trip down to the squall. Her employer would be a synth boss, someone who knew about the killings. Someone who cared something for the victims.

When he walked into the station he was met with a standing ovation and he paused, looking around, confused. “Good to see you up and about, Detective,” Jason said, and that was when he realized that he had been set up.

He knew what he wanted to say but he stood there looking about, biting his tongue mentally from speaking his mind. He wanted to say, “Clap it up, assholes. You should feel lucky that I chose to come in at all, being that I'm the only one around here that actually works. What do you have going on, Bill. You got a damsel in distress to extort? Mike, nice suit. Who paid for it? The Fischer mob, or was it the Garcias?”

As for Jason, he wanted to remind him that they had a caseload the size of a bible. He wanted to say this, to get it off his chest, but all they got was, “I wasn’t expecting this kind of reception. Good afternoon, you bunch of jokers.”

He went into his office and closed the door, sitting down in front of his rack and brushing the dust off the top of it. The building had been renovated but the equipment was still the same old junk it had always been. This rack was three generations old and still relied on an external monitor or SAR in order to interface properly. For speed’s sake, Dhata synched it to his ICLs and used them to augment the image out in front of him.

He located his files from the synth murder and took a deeper look at his notes. Initially he thought that it was standard, another victim from the underground arenas brought to the wilderness to dump. There was money being made pitting synths against one another, unsanctioned fights setup in the ghetto. He and Jason had raided enough to know how popular they were, and the gangsters who ran them had tightened things up.

Finding this body in the location where it was and seeing the amount of people that dragged it out there … it was open and shut, almost a sure thing. But now this assassin gave him doubts. Was it a hate crime like Jason suggested?

Nothing was concrete about the evidence, and the secondary synth still made him assume it was a fight.

His door opened. It was Jason, so he blinked off the sync and sat back staring at him. “How’d it go with the captain?” he said.

“About as well as you could expect. Thought she would ask for my badge and toss me in a cell. You know how she is with attention, and those vultures at Channel Nine gave her a ton of it. Dee, she played me some of the so-called reporting they did, and you would think that Chevy was an American hero or something.”

“Typical nonsense. Are you surprised?” Dhata said.

“You seem a bit too calm,” Jason said, falling onto the couch near the door and kicking up his feet. “A-ha, you know something! You went to the squall and looked into the synth from last night.”

“No, after your warning I knew better than to go back there. That assassin visited me, and the only reason I’m alive is because I promised I’d see synth case through.”

Jason leaned forward, showing concern. He began to wring his hands. “Visited you, like, at your apartment?”

“Broke in and waited all night to catch me when I woke up,” Dhata said. “Damn near pissed my pants when I saw all that red with the bladed boots.” He exhaled and Jason whistled.

“That’s some scary shit. I would have died, right there—not from her blades or whatever, but from a heart attack. I always said you had nine lives, my friend, but you being alive after meeting one of them … I think you’re proving me right. Now as to your question as to why you’re alive, an assassin tapping your shoulder only means one thing. She has no clue as to who to kill, so she wants you to find her mark. Now you and I both know that you can’t do that. We’re Johns first so whatever you find would need to go through the system.”

“You serious?” Dhata said, rolling his eyes. “I know that, Jay, but what does that really mean to me? She’s got me bugged. Whatever I find will be dead long before I can report it. That newsfeed you told me about with the hool dead in the squall … I had an argument with him earlier, I think, which my kuno misunderstood.”

“She killed that kid for arguing with you? Why didn’t you say something before?” Jason said. “There’s something about this whole sexy assassin thing … you gotta admit, it’s kind of hot.”

“Yeah, hot like acid being poured into my eyes. Keep your fantasies in check, Jay, I have real problems over here. I’m going to need to get her off me sooner rather than later or anything we do will run the risk of her interfering. Think you can hold things down and cover for me?” Dhata said. “I have a hunch who hired this kunoichi and I’m about to go and ask.”

“Young Yakuzas?” Jason said.

“Man, you are obsessed. I’m actually talking about Janae. None of the gangs would hire ninjas, especially on the basis of justice. I assumed it was her once I met the kuno and put all the pieces together. If this is anything less than an accident she will bring hell down on the squall. Are you getting it now, why I need to do this? Our little synth problem can become a much bigger thing.”

“Madame Jae,” Jason whispered. “You sure you want to do that, Dhata? It wasn’t that long ago that—”

“Christ, man, will you give me a break?” Dhata said. “Trust me, I’m a human being, not the mindless sex- machine that you make me out to be. It’s not really helpful, bro, and you more than anyone else knows how hard it is for me to go back down there.”

“So why do it?” Jason said.

“Do I need to remind you of what will happen if I don’t?” Dhata said.

“Well, good luck with that,” Jason said. “I’ll be sure to pick out a nice urn for your ashes.”

‡Chapter 6‡

Madame Jae

Madame Janae Beauchamp was one of the most dangerous synths the state of Florida had never heard of. The only people who knew her were hools, or detectives like Dhata, that had a history with her. The once-Mary operated out of one of the oldest buildings in Ybor City. It was an old hotel, now half in ruins, but everybody knew it as one of the most popular brothels.

Janae ran her synth Marys like a regimented army, granting pleasure to powerful people willing to pay and death to anyone that she sentenced. The prostitutes were trained in assassination as well as the lovemaking arts, and they were proficient at both, which helped to solidify Madame Janae’s legend.

When she walked out to greet Dhata she was pure elegance, and he remembered immediately how he was once in love with her. She was a goddess, powerful and beautiful in every way, and her bedroom eyes froze him as she gave him a smile. Her skin and lipstick were raspberry jam spread deliciously on medium toast. Hold it together, Dhata, he thought. Remember why you’re here.

“Dhata, my favorite lawman, how long has it been?” she said.

Not long enough, Dhata thought. “About a year. How you been?”

She closed the gap between them and spread her arms to invite him in. Taking the cue, he gave her a hug, kissing her on both sides of her dimpled cheeks. “Just like old times,” she whispered, then sat down in one of the chairs. A slender girl hurried over and placed a cup of tea in her hands.

When Dhata sat down next to Janae, the girl offered him tea as well. He accepted it out of politeness but held it only until she turned around. He wouldn't drink it; it was laced with stims, a lesson he learned years ago when he'd taken a sip and wound up high.

“You’ve been busy,” Dhata said once the girl left the room. “I came to ask you to take the kunoichi off me. No, don't pretend to not know. I'm way past games and you and I know each other a lot better than that.”

“You need her, Dhata. You are in great danger,” she said.

“Danger from whom, and why?” Dhata said, seeing for the first time that the kunoichi was behind him. “Only danger I feel is from you and red back there, cutting my throat when I am asleep.”

“Deshna is my weapon, and not against you. You injure me Dhata, suggesting such a thing.”

“So, why is she breaking into my apartment and scaring the hell out of me early in the morning?” Dhata said.

“You forget our history, my love? I have the pass code to your apartment. Deshna did not have to break in. I sent her to protect you while you look for the truth. The murderers of those two men are not just some hools. I fear that they are organized, these new killers of synths—”

“How do you know this after one, I mean, two murders?” Dhata said.

“Two that you found, but there have been forty. They have been coming in to Ybor, slaughtering us, and your Johns are just letting it happen.”

“You mean to tell me that this is an ongoing thing? Why hasn't anyone called the police?”

Janae started laughing, a loud, chest heavy laugh, and it went on so long that he became uncomfortable. “Okay, dumb question? Then how about this. How do you know about the synths in the badlands, and the fact that I was in the squall? Did you bug me and I've been tracked for all of these months, or is your organization involved in this?”

“Don't insult me, Dhata, you know better than that. I would never violate our trust by planting a bug on you. The hume that confronted you in the squall was a well-known terrorist, delighting in butchering plenty of my people. You being there that night was just a bad coincidence. But I did take the initiative when I saw you, to tell my hand to follow you.”

“You know, we're investigating the murder of that punk,” Dhata said. “You will need to offer someone up, or Deshna will bring you attention. She stood in front of a lot of people and proclaimed herself a synth. She did this after cutting his throat. They all saw her face.”

“She did what I told her to do, and I appreciate your loyalty, but the Johns will not be given an innocent synth to blame.”

Dhata put down his teacup and rubbed at his forehead. “And how exactly will that help me, Janae? You know that they'll put me on the case. And if not me, then my partner Jason, which is the same thing.”

“You worry too much, Detective. I will give you a body. You went to arrest the murderer and she forced you to shoot,” she said, spreading her arms out wide.

“Alright, but only if you keep Deshna home. I don't want her on me, do you understand? I'm willing to fight you on this, Janae. I don't need her kind of help.”

Janae put up her hands as if in surrender. “If you end up hurt, I will not forgive myself. But it's your call, my friend, and I will respect it. I know that you can defend yourself. You forget that I met you when you shot down the animal that terrorized me. But the butchers of my people, I worry for you. While we need you to find them, they may be too much.”

“You talk as if you knew who they are, Janae. Why not just tell me and I'll make an arrest?”

“I don't know who they are; none of it makes sense. Random humes commit the murders, but they all seem to do it the same way. Machetes and knives, they maim and they kill. It's organized, Dhata, but it isn't a gang.”

“We'll see about that,” said Dhata, “but you need to trust me. No more kunoichis, and no interference. Once I have something concrete I'll let you know. Then you and your girls can do whatever you want.”

She smiled, nodding, and when Dhata looked around, he noticed that Deshna was gone. “You want to spend the night here? It will be like old times,” she said. “It's late. What else do you have to do?”

“I'd stay, but we're trouble together. That part I remember too well,” he said.

“Was I that bad?” she said slowly. He felt her hand on top of his. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember their past – the setups, the shootouts, and how she nearly corrupted him. He stood up suddenly and held her hand, leaning over to kiss it.

“You know how I feel about you. Don’t reduce me to this. How about we keep it professional and I go find your synth killer? Maybe we can celebrate once I'm done. It will give me something to work hard for.”

“Still the charmer but I always know when you’re lying. As soon as you leave here you will run far away from me,” she said. “It’s okay though, Detective, I still have my memories. I will let you out of my spider’s web, this time. Now, when you find out who did this, you give me a call, okay? If the Johns won’t do what needs to be done, you know that Janae will.”

He made to stand up and she rose with him. They were alone in the room and he wondered how it was that Deshna was able to disappear the way she did. “One more question,” he said as he reached down to collect his hat. “The ‘I am synth’ speech that your assassin made after doing that hool. Was that a declaration of war?”

“It depends,” Janae said. “Is this my friend asking me this out of concern for my safety, or is this Detective Dhata Mays worried that hume bodies are about to be found all over Tampa?’

“Can it be both? But you pretty much answered me. Why the kuno and forcing me to investigate if you plan to go to the mattresses anyway?”

She slid smoothly over to him and placed her hands behind his neck. His hands in turn instinctively found their way to her narrow waist. “It wasn’t a call to war, it was a warning, and you need to find who it is or the warning will turn into war. I have enough bitches out there to burn down the squall, and if they aren’t the ones doing it, I can burn Tampa too.”

“You’re really going to stand here and make that threat to me? You must really think highly of where you stand,” he said. “Look, what we had was special, we both can acknowledge that, but don’t forget what I am, and why we’re no longer together.”

“Did you think that I was just going to let you come down here and make demands on me without giving something up?” she said. “You know me better than that, so you might as well relax. I still haven’t told you what I want.”

“You want me to continue investigating the synths. I think I got that message earlier when your girl let herself into my room,” he said.

Janae caressed his head, then stared into his eyes, drawing a nail down the side of his face as if she meant to open up the skin. “You were going to investigate them regardless,” she said. “But I wanted to see you, to make sure we’re good. I want to know who is doing these killings. I want a name, address – the whole thing. The bosses want blood. There are too many dying for the person responsible to end up in court.”

“Fine by me. If you’ll stay off my ass, I’ll deliver your killer, and you’ll owe me a favor,” Dhata said. He normally wouldn’t make a deal with a murdering queen pin, but considering the alternative—a light sentence for killing synths—he knew that this was the only way to get justice.

Killing synths carried a maximum sentence of five years in the system. No judge saw them as more than androids, so the “murders” would result in a slap on the wrist. The only reason they had wanted Chevy was because he’d made the mistake of killing a human being.

When he left the hotel it was near midnight, and he felt lower than he’d felt in a long time. It wasn’t just because he’d let Janae take control the way she always did, but in meeting with her he knew that he too could be considered a dirty police officer. She was a criminal of the worst kind, and he held power in the department. Technically there shouldn’t be a friendship, and there definitely shouldn’t be intimacy.

She was like alcohol after a hard day, a sweet poison he knew he shouldn’t consume, but he was lonely and had missed her, so he found himself tormented. There was a time when he considered making her his, going for something deeper than this connection they had. But how soon after making that commitment would she have him murdering for her? She was a pimp and a criminal, with hundreds of conspiracies to commit murder. How would it work, one of Tampa’s finest sharing his heart with her?

As he drove west, he wound down the window and let the wet air come in. It was raining again—it always seemed to rain—but aside from the wetness he welcomed it.

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

Tiffany grinned when she saw him walk in, and he in turn gave her a wave. The awkwardness was gone but there was a hesitation since he wasn’t quite sure what they were doing. He found an empty seat at the bar and she walked over to greet him. She smelled like lavender and her hair was different, pinned up high with twelve-inch needles.

“You came back,” she said, bouncing, and he smiled at her and winked.

“Hell of a day, but all I kept thinking about was that smile of yours,” he said.

“Only my smile?”

“That’s what I remember. You loaded me up plenty the other night,” he said.

“I got you, Detective, I know what you need. Enough to forget the day, but not enough to forget the night. Any preference?”

“Honey Bourbon, neat. Don’t think you have to entertain me either. Just don’t forget about me.”

She flipped a glass acrobatically across her shoulders and caught it in her left hand. A bottle appeared in her right and she poured a generous shot. “I can dig it, handsome. I’ll leave you alone, but when you need a refill I’ll be here.”

Dhata liked her. She was off, but in a good way. Normally when a woman was into him like this one was it was tempting to run the other way. Though he had remained single for over a year he couldn’t shake how he’d felt that morning. There was something normalizing about waking up to a familiar face and he really liked it.

Waking up next to Tiffany had reminded him of what he used to have. He touched her hand as she made to go, and she stopped and stood still, waiting.

“Listen, Tiffany, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I came back here for you. I felt something. Do you know what I mean? You said that you felt something too. But, I work crazy hours, I’ve been divorced, and I can be cranky—it comes with the job. But all that to say, if you want to—I mean, we can hang out, like really hang out, you understand?”

She leaned over and grabbed his head, pulling him in for a kiss. “I can dig it, Dhata, and yeah, I feel the same way.” She spoke with the slang of a post-war slum dweller, and he wanted to know her story. Which of the poverty-stricken areas had she been raised in, and what had she sacrificed to get out of there? Her lips felt good, so he brought her in deeper, but she pushed herself away after a time. “Later,” she said, placing a hand on her chest. He lifted the drink to his lips.

There was a news report on one of the televisions showing Chevy’s house. It was followed by several aerial shots of he and Jason kneeling over one of the bodies. They flashed an info card with his face, all mean, dark, and menacing, then another of Jason—a terrible photo—with his clothes disheveled and a five o’clock shadow.

“Yeah, that will help us, you friggin vultures,” he mumbled under his breath. “Show us as monsters who raided the home of a serial killer. Because that’s what we need, people sympathizing with the trash while bodies stack up in their backyards.”

He synched his implant to the television by using the controls on the bar, then listened to the reporter as she spoke about Chevy. Just about everything she was saying was false, conjecture invented to explain the unknown. It was a long news story that went into the specifics of Chevy Williams. They called him the modern day Jack the Ripper who targeted synths, then expanded his murders into the human sex trade.

The body count of the synth Marys was a little under thirty, but he’d killed a human woman, mistaking her for a synth. This was his undoing since the police got involved, and the scruffy detectives, Dhata Mays and Jason Dale, had forced the killer into hiding. There was even speculation that one of the detectives had a vendetta: they hinted strongly at Dhata, who was known to be a synth-sympathizer.

The screen froze and Dhata looked around, wondering what had happened. “Hey, it’s happy time now, not this manipulative piss,” Tiffany said. “I don’t need Jennifer what’s-her-name undoing what my liquor is supposed to do.”

Dhata laughed. “You know, you’re right. I can’t believe they’re allowed to just lie like that, but yeah, it was pissing me off and I did come here to relax.”

“The rain is back,” she said, frowning. “Dry times didn’t last too long. I was hoping that I’d be able to close up a little early tonight.”

“Do you own this place?” he said, taking a look around. “It has your touch, a little bit of everything, and I don’t see anyone else working but those two synths.”

“They’re Josie and Raul; they work for me. I don’t own The Underground, but I manage it during the week. The owner’s a businessman who lives in New York, so I guess you could say I’m the owner when the owner isn’t here,” she said.

“I come here a lot and that owner’s never here, so as far as I’m concerned, Tiffany Wu runs this joint. If you wanted to close up, let’s say, two hours early, citing a malfunction in the building’s rack … think anyone would object?”

“Yeah, the regulars who are only halfway plastered,” she said. “But I see your point, Detective Mays, though I’m surprised at the law suggesting something so … bad.”

“Stick around long enough and you’ll learn a thing or two, Ms. Wu. The best detectives walk the grey in order to solve complex crimes. Boy Scouts get eaten in my line of work, and the truly corrupt die in time. So, close up early and come home with me, so we can pick up where we left off.”

Tiffany did just that, and was quite the actress, feigning frustration with her register. She then went to the backroom to “work on the rack,” then came out apologizing to the guests. It was almost midnight, and the place wasn’t full, so it wasn’t as big of a spectacle as it could have been. She paid the synths extra to go along with the ruse—via one hefty tip from Dhata—and in twenty minutes the place was empty and she was ready to go.

Dhata lived in Temple Terrace, a few miles from the neighborhood he was raised in. There weren’t many fond memories of his childhood so he avoided going back despite the proximity. Since his immediate family was deceased he had no reason to go, and Temple Terrace was notoriously anti-synth.

The apartment was on the first floor of a twenty-story convert. It was built well, one of many additions that littered the landscape of the once flat land. People were multiplying so builders built upwards, stacking homes in multilevel buildings and connecting them with bridges.

As he exited the Buick, Tiffany held his hand and he walked her past several hools, stoned out of their minds on stims. When he got to his door, he looked both ways down the hallway to make sure no one had followed them, then placed his palm on the door plate. It recognized him and the door slid open.

“Dig the apartment. This is wild. It’s like another side of you,” she said.

He slipped out of his coat and collected hers, then threw them on the table. “What do you mean?” he said as he took off the badge and pistol.

“I mean, you live on the bottom floor of a government riser, but inside it’s all neat and fancy. Look at this,” she said, stepping past him to explore the place. “You have SAR augments and a large-format screen. If someone were to meet you, they wouldn’t expect a home like this, you know what I mean?”

He wondered if she had missed the part where he’d told her that he was married, but it was four in the morning and she was looking good, so he approached her slowly and took her hands. They kissed playfully, building up the heat, and her hands slipped from his and worked their way up to his shoulders. “I really like your apartment,” she said as he laid her down on the bed.

‡Chapter 7‡

Jack the Ripper

In post-war Tampa Bay it was not hard to miss the relics from the war that once tore the city apart. Most people made the best out of them, painting old warheads and converting barracks into community centers. What the synths hadn't discarded during the rebuilding efforts, the humans fancied up and used.

Dhata was no different. He had a private project of converting a disabled zeppelin into a home. Every weekend he'd drive out to West Tampa, set up camp, and work. He would scrub, clean, paint and vacuum whenever he wasn't in the engine soldering wires or connecting racks.

He'd found the old warbird when he was called out to a crime scene and did his typical routine of surveying the area. It had crashed into a forest, leaving a large burned out perimeter, which over time had sprouted grass and flowers. There was no easy way in, but Dhata fixed that, cutting down a section of dead trees leading to an old road.

It was a long project, but it was his therapy, the grounding a detective needed after a week like the one he just had. There was no thought needed to cut down bushes and pave a new road to his future home. He'd used his life's savings to purchase the property, as well, so all he needed now was to finish.

Nobody knew about the zeppelin, since he feared that it could easily be taken away from him. In its prime it was worth millions, like the ones that flew above them now, hosting parties for celebrities.

He left his apartment early in the morning, drove Tiffany home, and then drove west to start working on the zeppelin. It was a Saturday and he welcomed the escape, to make some sense of the crime wave. Janae was clueless, just like he was, inventing a reason that wasn’t grounded in evidence. She assumed the killers to be organized but she was a gangster so naturally her first instinct would be to assume something gang-related.

His fight club theory was just a theory, so he decided that it would be best if he just started from scratch. He looked at the time. It was 11:04 a.m. and he had been so focused on wiring the unit that he hadn’t bothered to stop to eat. His phone buzzed and he saw that it was Jason. Normally they didn’t call each other on the weekends.

I wonder who died now, he thought as he connected the call. “Jason, what’s up?” he said, steeling himself for bad news.

“Hey, bro, I’m just checking on you. How did things go with Madame Jae?” he said.

“Not bad. She actually listened and pulled that kuno off of me. Hey, about the hool in the squall, she’s going to be working with us on that, alright?”

Jason was laughing on the other end. “I see she got you again. All she has to do is bat those synthetic brown eyes and all of your training goes right out the door. This is why I was worried about you going there. I don’t care about the dead hool. Hell, the synth did us a favor. We can work with your queen to mark this off, but if Emerson finds out, we’re done. So … the reason for my call … we found another synth that’s missing an arm.”

“Is he dead?” Dhata said.

“She. And yeah, she’s dead. Her body was found in a dumpster off of Kennedy.”

“Time of death?”

“It happened last night sometime,” Jason said. “We believe it’s retaliation for our hool in the squall.”

“Or it could be another victim of our serial killer. You sure it isn’t connected to the synths we found out in the woods?” Dhata said.

“That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t want to take any chances. How soon do you think you can come down here and check things out for yourself?”

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The first thing that caught Dhata’s eye was the laser tape that bordered the crime scene. It consisted of four-foot rods standing several feet apart with an augmented marquee running between them with the words “crime scene do not cross” running between them at intervals.

Anyone not branded as a police officer or CSI would be paralyzed temporarily if they crossed that line. It was the barrier he’d expected to see when he drove out for the first synth body, and it made him wonder what was so different that they’d followed procedure this time.

He was still in his casual clothes when he walked up, a compression shirt and jogging pants. He had his pistol in the small of his back, and his badge pinned to the front of his pants, but other than that he looked nothing like a detective.

Jason met him as he stepped through the laser tape and took him over to the body. He gestured towards Bill who was in uniform and working the scene, and Dhata couldn’t help but smile at the fact that he was out there. “You know this neighborhood?” he said as they walked, stepping over the markers as they made their way back to the corpse.

“Yeah, this is a no-synth zone. I didn’t miss the signs coming in. Silver-spooned brats live here, along with their worthless children. The future of Tampa, who keep the Marys active while lying to their wives that they are out buying more toys for little Johnny. Of course I know the place. I avoid it like the plague, and I’m really surprised as to why a synth was here.”

“This one’s a Mary,” Jason said as he stopped in front of the body. It was a fair-skinned synth with her right arm missing and a bullet wound in the middle of her head. Dhata knelt to examine her, his augmented ICLs recording his notes as he gestured erratically with his right hand. This is a club girl from Ybor, property of the Garcias. She was picked up and brought here where they fooled around and he killed her, he wrote.

“Any ID or anything?” he said to the crime scene investigator, who walked up to talk to Jason.

“Just this,” she said, and showed him a UCC chip that was inside of a plastic bag. “She had it in her fist, holding on to it when she died. Everything else is as you see it. They hacked her up right here, then took off on foot.”

“This is wrong,” Dhata said. “This is a copycat or something. How were the first ones so well covered-up and this one so sloppy and out in the open? Did any of the people standing around witness our killer in the act? I wonder if they’re still around,” Dhata said, scanning the crowd that had gathered beyond the tape. “Something like this, here, in the rich area of Tampa … the copycat wanted us to see it, so I believe that he’s watching.”

“As to a witness, no-ones talking,” Jason said. “They all claim that they didn’t see it.”

“What’s the stats on our killer?” Dhata said, looking at the crime scene investigator.

“He was a brute, and large.” She gestured with her hands. “I’m thinking a big guy around your size. Wore size thirteens.” She waved her hand around a footprint that she had outlined. “And he used a meat cleaver to take off the android’s arm.”

“A cleaver? Who carries around a cleaver?” Jason said.

Dhata shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe he’s a chef? A paranoid chef. Based on the way he killed this girl I’m going to say he’s afraid of synths. He cut her arm—”

“No,” said the CSI, cutting him off. “He shot her in the head before he removed her arm.”

“A boy that big was scared of this little tiny Mary?” Jason said. “Why? He could have lifted her with one arm—if we’re saying he was your size. What could she possibly have done to make him so afraid?”

“All she had to do was exist; that’s how bigotry works. He probably heard all sorts of noise about how ‘the androids’ had super strength. Rather than tempt it, he brought her back here, zipped down his pants, and let her commence. Having her off guard like, that he put a bullet in her head. A bullet, Jay. This guy has an old firearm. How many people do you know still pack ballistic weapons?”

Jason rubbed his chin as if in deep thought, then moved a lock of the dead woman’s hair to get a better look at her bullet wound. “I know, you, the captain, and a handful of gangsters. But how did he discharge that weapon without the noise sending up signals to our dispatch?”

“If he’s packing, he knows the law—as in the illegality of his weapon—so I’m going to go out on a limb and say he had it suppressed.”

“Unless he’s one of us, that’s fifteen years right there,” Jason said.

“Yup, five for the kill stick, ten for the suppressor, and the additional charges for cornering a citizen and murdering her in cold blood. Synth or not, he’s looking at some time if one of the gangsters don’t catch up to him first,” Dhata said. “We need to find him, Jay. Facing time like this, I bet he sings. If there’s more than one of them, we can collect them all.”

“Sounds like we have no choice but to catch him before the synths,” Jason said.

Dhata scanned the crowd gathered around the tape, trying to see if anyone stood out. None of them seemed unique, so he scanned the buildings for a camera. Where are you, you bastard? he thought. I know you’re out there somewhere.

“Someone my size isn’t hard to miss. Someone saw them come in here,” he said. “Just think about it, a big dude with a woman like this, dressed like an outsider. They would have spotted them as soon as they stepped foot downtown. I wish I had gotten here earlier. I would have told you all to lie and tell them that the vic is a human girl. Now we have to think outside of the box, especially since there’s no cameras around here.”

“Sounds like our killer knows this place well enough to kill her here,” Jason said. “He either lives here or he frequents the area so it won’t be hard to find out who matches that profile.”

“Why don’t we take a walk around, see what sort of food spots they got around here?” Dhata said. “Big man has to eat, right? What do you think, Jay?” He stood up. He had been squatting the entire morning and his legs were beginning to hurt.

“You know, there’s a fuel station in front of that building over there. If he spent enough time down here to know the place, he may have filled up his vehicle.”

“Why don’t you see if anyone knows anything, and I’ll start looking around,” Dhata said.

He started with the crowd, trying random people, then gave up on them and walked out of the alley to scan the busy street. It was Dale Mabry Blvd., one of the more popular roads in Tampa. There were businesses everywhere, stacked up several levels high. The upper highway for hover vehicles was busier than the actual road, so Dhata knew that if they pressed enough people, someone was bound to talk.

For hours they met with store owners to talk about their patrons, taking notes on who they considered big, shady, or strange. When they compared notes they came up with a profile. It was a man named Monk Sandberg, who lived in Bayshore and frequented the area.

According to the people who knew Monk, he was a gentle giant who even had a tattoo of a flower on his shoulder. He was a contractor who owned a company that utilized human muscle over synthetic hires. He had dark hair and a beard, and some said he spoke with an accent that was either from the Northeast or somewhere out in Europe.

Monk worked weekends on some local contracts and would frequent the local eateries with a few men from his crew. Dhata recorded the details and sent them over the Global Network to the CSI team. With his descriptions and everything they’d learned from the crime scene they rendered a composite sketch. Now Monk would be on the radar as a person of interest and all they had to do was wait.

‡Chapter 8‡

The Loneliest Monk

One of Dhata’s least favorite things to do was to sit on a rack researching information. It was a major part of the job, especially in the techno-heavy age that his post-war reality was. Everything and everyone was connected, so when it came time to making an identity, your best bet was to consult the grid.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t good at it. He was as thorough as anyone else, but he preferred the traditional aspects of his job, like talking to people, busting heads, and looking around for clues. Camping out in the zeppelin gave him the peace and quiet that he needed to think, so he took advantage of the time to work.

He hovered over the rack, using a pile of his clothes as a seat cushion. Dhata connected to the global network, and his ICLs synched in order to provide a visual as he flipped through a number of mugshots. His goal was to find something on the men that he and Jason had fought when they went for Chevy Williams.

It was odd that they were ghosts; not even the forensics team could ID them beyond their implants. Their teeth were false—which was a common cosmetic upgrade—and like most professional hools, their fingerprints had been surgically removed. Those signs pointed to two very dangerous men, though they’d made the ultimate sacrifice just to remove Chevy from the Earth.

Dhata thought on his earlier theory, that they were involved with one of Chevy’s victims, but calls to the family of the human woman he killed had not come with a confirmation. “Who are you fools?” he whispered as he scrolled, knowing that it was futile to look through thousands of faces. But he was desperate, and all he had was time, so he sipped his hot powdered coffee and swiped his fingers to keep scrolling.

Tiffany had made a comment that he was obsessed with his job, but how could he expect a hustling bartender to understand a detective’s work? It was more than a job; if it wasn’t, he’d be Bill or one of the other terrible Johns. He didn’t have weekends off like everyone else, especially now that they were in the middle of a crime wave. Synths were dying and it was on his watch, so despite it being a weekend, he had to take advantage of the quiet.

Out there in the wilderness, camped out next to his zeppelin, he didn’t have to worry about interruptions. People could call him or message him, but it was up to him to answer them. Being out there in a place that no one knew about allowed him a chance to truly unplug.

The man that Jason shot and killed had fired on him first, which was the sign of a hool who cared little for the law. The type of men who shot at police were desperate and extremely dangerous. One didn’t just become one of these men; it took a hardening that came from effort. There was no way he would believe that this man was not in the system for a former crime.

Dhata reasoned that someone in forensics had tampered to cover up their identities, or the two men had somehow had their implants replaced. Career hools were good for getting black market surgeries done. A surgeon would dig into their skulls, pull out their implant, and replace it with another’s. Your implant was your identity, so a criminal would happily change theirs.

This was a sinister operation because a new implant would be needed … one didn’t just get an implant from the manufacturer; they were government-made and tracked. To change an implant required a fresh corpse or an unwilling volunteer. It took a truly wicked and desperate person to do something like this, since the donor would always end up dead and success was not guaranteed.

The name that came up when they scanned his implant had been Cornelius Goss, a law-abiding father of two. Nothing about the man and his actions lined up with that identity, but there had been no missing persons file on Mr. Goss. Dhata recalled the room with the picture of Paradise, and how he and Jason argued as to whether they all were members. Chevy was—that was substantiated—but Cornelius and the other ghost was still a mystery.

He wondered if cults had a registry where he could look for Cornelius’s name, so he slid to another session on the rack and searched for ‘The Children of Paradise.’ Dhata chuckled when he saw that they had a website. It was a virtual experience but he hesitated on entering it. Did he want them to know that he was looking in on them? He was sure they tracked everything, especially potential members, and if they were in any way guilty, this would send a warning.

Though tempting, he avoided it. No church would broadcast its members on a website. He went back to the mugshots, scrolling through as before, and then he saw a call coming in from Jason. Wow, I made it two whole hours before being summoned, he thought. He closed out the interface, climbed to his feet, and then accepted the call.

“Who the fuck died now?” he said impatiently, and Jason took a moment to answer.

“I know, it’s crazy, but, hey, I just got a call about our Mary-murdering construction worker.”

“Monk Sandberg?” Dhata said, scrambling back to his tent to grab his clothes.

“The one and only. I’m already on the road. Where should I pick you up?”

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

Monk had been spotted in south Tampa. He was having lunch at one of his regular eateries. Dhata rode with Jason out to the location, expecting him to run as soon as they showed up. He left the Glock behind and brought an electroshock tube which had a mode for stun, since they wanted to capture him alive.

Jason drove a Tsuba, which was a police-issued sports car, but most hools didn’t know its origins and only a handful of Tampa detectives owned one.

Dhata didn’t think that Monk would know who they were when they pulled up in front of the building and parked. Through the window they could see him eating. He was in a tank top so they saw the flower on his arm. “That’s some sort of brand, ain’t it?” Jason said. “Though I don’t know a gang that has a flower as their tag.”

“Could be something new,” said Dhata. “We get transplants all the time. Guys inside organize, come up with cute names, then come out here and start recruiting the weak and the gullible. His swagger speaks volumes, to be honest with you. Dude’s a boss, or at the very least some high level associate.”

“Did you see that?” said Jason. “I think we’ve been made. The server just whispered something to him while he was looking over here.”

“Just keep your cool. He has to come out this way regardless. What’s he gonna do, go out the back door? That alley has no exit except out to here.”

They watched as Monk’s demeanor changed from relaxed to worrisome as he played with his food. Dhata kept an eye on him, studying his every move. If he got on a phone call he’d tell Jason to move. The last thing he wanted was to fall victim to a drive-by, and if this hool was a boss like he thought, one call could make it happen. He gripped his tube. “Maybe I should have brought my pistol,” he said.

“No, if you brought it you would use it, and how would you explain that?” Jason said. “Let’s just shock this guy, slap him in cuffs, and see how well he sings soprano.”

Suddenly they saw Monk get up. He was through the door faster than they believed possible. Dhata opened his door to run after him and sprinted as Jason pulled out of the plaza to try and cut him off. It had been a while since Dhata had to run like this and it was murder on his lungs.

He felt the tube on his waist and unclipped it as he ran, hoping to get close enough to fire off a shot. They passed several buildings, and Jason pulled ahead of them but Monk spotted the car and hopped over a fence. Cursing loudly, Dhata followed him over, his temper starting to heat up as he closed the gap on Monk.

He went over a wall, and then another, taking Dhata away from his partner and deeper into the alleys of south Tampa. Now it was all darkness and trash as they ran down the back roads and Dhata wasn’t getting any closer to him. If I had my pistol, he thought, one shot to the leg and this nonsense would be over. But all he had was the tube and a pair of strong legs, so he focused on Monk and ran.

It went on forever and he was falling behind until he saw Monk hang a left and was gone. When he followed him out the alley opened up to the street where he was running across several lanes of traffic. Dhata threw caution to the wind and followed him out as drivers laid into their horns to show their objection.

Monk was almost to the far side when Jason’s Tsuba hopped the median. It slid dangerously past a parked vehicle and nearly ran him over. Jason hopped out and caught Monk’s arm, slamming him into the asphalt, and by that time Dhata had caught up. He took a second to catch his breath.

“Don’t hurt me, you got me,” Monk said, as Jason twisted his arms to handcuff him.

As he read him his rights, Dhata saw the pistol that was barely hanging on to one of his pockets. He stepped forward and grabbed it. “Wow, a Sig P320. You a fan of the ballistics, huh, big man? You know that this comes with time, don’t you? This is an old police weapon. What the hell are you doing with this?” He popped out the clip, checked the rounds, then cleared the chamber and examined the bullet.

“Listen, I’ll tell you what you want to know but I can’t go to jail,” he said as Jason brought him up and walked him over to the car.

“Where’s the suppressor?” Dhata said as he pocketed the SIG Sauer. “Come on, where is it? Don’t make me have to find it on you.”

“What suppressor?” said Monk. “You think I have that sort of money? Look, you got me. I shot the synth and she wasn’t my first one.”

Dhata sat in the passenger seat and looked back at the man that had outrun him. He was bigger, faster, and had a deadly weapon, yet they had been able to catch him and now he was talking. “What is this?” Dhata said. “Why are you talking like you expect us to spring you? I have three dead synths in the last week, and one of them was killed by you.”

“I killed all of them. It was me,” Monk said, and Dhata stared at him to read what it was he was up to.

“What do you expect from us?” he said. “You confess to the murders and we what, let you go with a promise that you will never do it again?”

“No, I need you to kill me. I confess and you kill me, deal? I cannot be arrested. You have to understand. I need you to take my confession and kill me, alright?” he said.

“What are you afraid of? What is all this?” Dhata said. “You’re sweating as if the devil himself is waiting for you in the cell.”

“I did it for him, you understand? I did it for us. This world is a human world, and the abomination must be culled. Men like you call yourself police, but who are you really serving and protecting? The tin men, the golems in our city? We built them to serve our needs, don’t you understand? Now they’re working to take everything over.”

“It was only a matter of time before the crazy came out,” Jason said. “What we have here is a class A, standard model of android hater. So you want to cull the synths, Monk? Wipe them out, one kill after another. It took you a week to take out three. How much of a dent did you think you made in their numbers? Synth manufacturers spit out hundreds every year … but you think that killing Marys will slow down that production.”

“The culling is our call; it has nothing to do with wiping them out. The more believers come to the light, the closer we will come to reclaiming our greatness. My time is over,” Monk said. He uttered a hysterical laugh. “I’ve acted for my father, and now he calls me home. You put me in a box and I won’t last till trial. I did the killings, all of it. Make your judgment, kill me now.”

“What’s the tattoo symbolize?” Dhata said, trying to see if he could accelerate the interrogation process.

“It’s us, brother, life on this Earth, true life, organic life, not the mechanical constructs that the Capitalists built. It reminds us that life is born and it grows; it isn’t built and programmed to emulate us. Don’t you see the irony in this job you serve? You are charging me with shutting down a dangerous machine. Think about it for just one minute. Does it make any sense to you?”

It took a lot of mental strength for Dhata not to reach back and slap him. “That’s enough, why don’t you be quiet? You’re going to get booked and locked up. Now, if your magical father who hates all the synths wants to show up and post your bail, he’s welcome to do it. Even if he does though, I have your scent and I’ll be keeping you close. Now shut your mouth unless we ask you something else.”

They took him back to the station and made good on their word, booking him and closing the chapter on the synth killing crime wave. “Think he’s the one who killed the others?” Jason said when he was back in the car with Dhata.

“No, but we should pretend he did just to keep the rest of them asleep,” Dhata said. “There’s something weird going on, some sort of ritualistic killings. You see the maiming, and the similar patterns. If he was doing all of it I want to know why. Where does he take the body parts, and why go through the trouble of dumping them way out of town? I think that this man is out of his mind, and while he shot and cut that Mary, he isn’t the one who offed the other two.”

‡Chapter 9‡

A Flower in the Park

After booking Monk and salvaging whatever was left of the weekend, Dhata hoped that the following week would be quiet enough for him to put the pieces together. He came in early on Monday and booked a room to interrogate him. Jason would watch from an adjoining room, suggesting questions in his ear, while he sat with the man, looking to get some answers.

“State your name for the record,” Dhata said.

“My name is Monk Sandberg,” he said.

“Did you sleep well, Monk? Have you been treated okay here?”

The big man shrugged and said, “Well enough.”

He started with an easy question. “Have you lived in Tampa your whole life?”

“Born and raised, grew up in Lutz. What about you, you from here?” he said.

“Born and raised, Temple Terrace area. So was Miriam Lowry the first synth that you killed?”

He seemed stunned by the question, or perhaps he was confused. He stared at Dhata, wringing his hands as if he didn’t know what to say. Dhata continued. “Sorry, that’s the Mary’s name. You probably didn’t know that since you only knew her for what, a few minutes? Yeah, Miriam Lowry. She turned tricks on the side, but her main job was waitressing at a restaurant down in Ybor. Believe it or not, Miriam knew lots of people. You would think that an android wouldn’t be missed, am I right?”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” he said, mumbling under his breath. “I killed her in self-defense. The bitch was going to kill me.”

“The waitress who needed money so badly that she went to a restricted area to turn her tricks? You’re what, six foot and about seven inches, about three hundred pounds, brick?” Dhata said. He made to look him over as if assessing his size. “Yeah, you’re a pretty big boy. Why’d you shoot her? Actually, here’s a better question. Why do you have an illegal firearm? That SIG is banned under the new law. You know that though, don’t you, yet you wore it to go pick up a Mary. Why would you do that, Monk? Did you want to see how it felt? You wanted to shoot up an android, see if they bled like we do?”

“No, I didn’t go out there looking to hurt anyone,” he said.

“The gunshot wound says different, Monk. You shot her when she had you in her mouth. Did she bite you or something? Because your examination showed no evidence of that. Did she insult your size, maybe? Big man with a little—”

“I said no, but you aren’t listening. You just want to lock me away for them. You and the suits, you’re all the same, guardians for the unnatural that walk this Earth. I will not be talking to you, sir. You are with them and so you won’t hear. You intend to trap me, force me to lie, all so that you can honor your robot masters.”

“What?” Dhata said, laughing. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Robot masters, unnatural guardians … what the hell are you going on about?”

“Hey, Dee,” said Jason, speaking through the node connected to his ear. “I was just on the network and it says they found a body.” He sighed. “It's another synth, reported by a jogger in the Wesley Chapel area. One of us needs to get out there as soon as possible. I’m assuming that like before they didn’t bother to secure the area.”

“I'll do it,” Dhata said. “I'm not getting anywhere with this hool. Maybe you’ll have better luck?”

“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot after I leave him on ice for an hour or two,” Jason said.

Dhata glanced at Monk who was looking at him strangely, probably wondering why he was talking to himself. “Thank you, Mr. Sandberg, I appreciate your candor,” he said. “My partner will continue speaking with you.”

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

The drive was long, longer than he anticipated, and with the scenery being little more than dead trees he began to doze off and eventually fell asleep. The Buick’s navigation kept it going, and when Dhata woke up they had stopped. It was late now and the sun was setting so he took some time to gather his thoughts. There had been another body found, a mutilated synth, and the police had come out, and left it.

He didn’t know what he expected to find in this old wooded area, but the reports made it seem similar to the one from before. An anonymous person reported the body, and the police were called in. They saw that it wasn’t human, so they abandoned their efforts and left to take care of “real cases.” Dhata wanted to know what was behind these killings, so he took it upon himself to come out alone.

He parked in front of a burned out clearing where glowing markers revealed where the body was. He pushed open the Buick’s door and stretched his limbs, looking around for anyone else. The place was quiet and unsettling; not even the wind was blowing through the trees. Death is welcome here, he thought as he took it all in. Dead trees, dead synth, and the smell of death in the air.

He walked over to the markers surrounding the blood and looked down at the android’s corpse. The head was missing but that wasn’t what killed him. There was a gaping wound in his chest. He squatted down and checked the footprints. “One set of boots here, police issue. They marked the crime scene but again, no forensics. What the hell?”

He thought about the speed in which the police had shown up at Chevy’s home. This is not cool. This was done on purpose, one John and no sign of forensics. Looks like our boys and girls are completely ignoring the synths. “I got you, buddy,” he said to the headless corpse, then began his process of searching for clues.

It was the same as before. There was evidence that he had been dropped off, and that several others chased him down and then removed his head. He kept following the footprints down into a swampy recess, where it became obvious that several people had run through. The water was stagnant, but he could make out the synthetic blood. He pulled up short when he found the murder weapon.

There was a six-foot pole with a sharpened end, sticky with blood and half-buried in the mud. He recorded it as evidence and continued to look. This time there were no burn marks or tire treads from a vehicle, only footprints leading off deep into the woods. Dhata pulled out his pistol and raised his flashlight as he pushed on past the trees, following the trail. After ten minutes of this the trees opened into another clearing, where the burn marks from the hover car could be seen.

He touched his temple and brought up his CPU. He pulled up a map of the area and found his location. Gesturing with his fingers to maneuver the map, he found a path leading into the city, then placed a pin where that road ended. Next he located the area where he found the first body, then did the same from where he’d found the burn marks. The paths didn’t meet at the same spot on the map, but they both did lead back to the same park.

“Bingo,” he whispered, and made a note of the location. “Something’s going on inside this park.”

By the time he made it back to his car it was raining and it began to thunder and lightning as well. Still, he was focused. He wanted answers, so he set a course to Flatwoods Park. He sent a message to Jason to let him know where he was going, just in case he needed backup. He didn’t know what to expect, so he was cautious, unclipping the shotgun from its station near the door.

Dhata drove the path that the hover car would have used to bring the synths out to the clearing. It was a bumpy road, filled with obstacles, and he understood why they’d chosen a hover. Still, his car wasn’t standard and was built to chase bad guys, so it stuck to the path, only taking detours when it had to.

By the time they reached the park, it was dark and wet from the rain. Dhata pulled on his hat and duster, grabbed the shotgun, and stepped outside. The place must have seen a lot of the war since the trunks of the trees were black and twisted. There were spent shells half-buried in the mud, and graffiti on all of the standing walls.

The place creeped him out more than the wilderness had, so he placed two hands on his shotgun. He was here alone, as far as he could tell, and the rain had washed away all of the footprints.

He looked around for any surveillance that may have been set up after the war. He couldn’t see anything, and it only made sense that people would avoid a bombed out area like this. All around him were blackened trees with roads winding off into the distance. He chose one at random and began to walk as the cool droplets of rain fell straight down.

“Angel’s tears,” he muttered, looking up into the sky. Rain had been a permanent resident in Tampa since the war so he had grown to expect it. He tried to imagine people running on this road. It used to be a trail for joggers, but when the war came stateside, it took the worst of the attacks. The military had used the park for a counter operation and in the end were overrun by hunter-seeker mechanicals.

The divots in the road that became large puddles reminded Dhata of how lucky they’d been. The United States had prevailed, but one could argue, barely. Their world had been twisted into a shadow of its former self, and he was one of the children born inside of that eternal fallout. Synths rebuilt the cities and most of the immediate atmosphere, but organic growth had been replaced with metal and wires, bringing in a new age of interconnectivity.

Dhata liked his world, and he liked the synths, having grown up alongside a few. He became a police officer to help those people that society chose to step on. These were the poor that lived in segments of the ghetto, and it was also the synths who the police all but ignored. If the butchers were stationed somewhere in the park, he was intent on finding them.

Half an hour into his trek and he came upon a building. It had once been a small restroom with water, but now it was a set of ruins decorated in graffiti art. He walked over to it and began to examine the rubble. The rooms were intact for the most part, and the roof was mostly still there. He stepped inside and brought up his flashlight, checking the dark corners for trouble.

His eyes focused on a set of rings that seemed out of place for being inside of a bathroom. There were three in total, installed at eye level, and as he rubbed his gloved fingers along their surface, he saw that a chain once ran through them. “Wish I had a camera to install in here,” he said, looking around for the ideal place to plant the surveillance.

As he turned to leave, something caught his eye. It was graffiti, but unlike the rest—which were names and sloppy attempts at artwork—this picture was done with a lot of care. It was a flower, a hibiscus, with the center faded to show a scene. There was green grass, trees, and people, with words written around it in a language he didn’t know. Dhata took a photo and placed it in his records. It was just too odd to ignore.

He walked up to it and examined it close. It seemed fresh, as if it had been painted recently. He looked around expectantly for other similar tags, but it was the only one there. The wind was chilly but stale, and he got a slight whiff of something like an animal had died close by.

Dhata followed the scent, tweaking his ICLs for tracks, but nothing was out of the ordinary. He knelt down near a wall where he saw the outline of dried up liquid, and on closer examination he saw that it was blood. “This is from a synth,” he muttered. “They brought them here, chained them up to those rings, and cut them open.” He recorded his findings and searched around, looking for more evidence of this synthetic blood.

Once he found the first one he started finding them everywhere, on the stalks of grass, and the lower areas of the walls. Someone had done a poor job of wiping it off and assumed that the rain would take care of the rest. But Dhata knew synths and that their blood was hard to cover up; it had an oily consistency that didn’t mix well with water. Through his enhanced vision it looked like a slaughter had happened there, and he saw where the droplets moved off towards the road.

He followed the evidence as it went down the path but when he came to a clearing they seemed to disappear. This is where they loaded the bodies into a car or hovercraft, he thought. This is an abandoned park, so they knew that they could come here and do their evil work.

Retracing his steps, he returned to the bathroom, put his vision back to normal, and walked around the place. “There were a bunch of you and the synths would have been unconscious. I don’t see any evidence of a fight,” he said. He thought about surveillance and whether or not they would use the area again. There had been two separate killings which led him back to here, so he reasoned that a third would be coming sooner than later.

“Alright, let’s call it a day,” he said. “I’ve done enough. Maybe I can make more sense of all of this tomorrow.”

‡Chapter 10‡

Deadly Throwback

Monk Sandberg had been found dead inside of his cell. He had died from the same mysterious toxin that had killed Chester Raul, the hool that escaped his handcuffs at Chevy’s house. Dhata came in late and expected the normal razzing from his fellow officers but they were all busy huddled around a rack.

On the display it showed Monk in sharp detail, pacing his cell frantically as if he expected something bad. Then he kept rubbing at his face and hitting his head against the wall. Moments later he went to his cot, laid on top of it, and closed his eyes. The surveillance skipped forward a few hours and the guards rushed in to check on him.

“Did we not check him thoroughly for any contraband?” Dhata said after watching the video several times.

“We did. He was clean,” Jason said. “I told the team how suicidal he was on the ride over. We checked every nook and cranny of that guy to make sure he was clean. You see the cell, there’s nothing in there. Where would he come up with the poison? I watched the tapes a bunch of times, Dee. He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. He would joke with his guards, read a few books, and pray right before he went to bed.”

Jason was frazzled and panicked, and Dhata saw why: the captain, Britta Emerson, was in attendance. She had called them in to show them the video, but she hadn’t said a word since Dhata came in. “This is the second man that you and Detective Dale have encountered that took his own life, Dhata. You’ve been busier than usual. Care to tell us your thoughts as to why he killed himself?” she said.

“Well it’s obvious they’re connected,” Dhata said. “But without going through Monk’s personal possessions, I can’t think of one thing he had in common with Raul. They were both big men, there is that, and they were both killers—though Monk’s was a synth Mary. I need to have a look at Monk’s place and—”

“That’s not going to happen,” she said. “With this stunt he pulled, internal affairs will be all over our collective asses. We’re on borrowed time, detectives. I need a solid answer for this suicide. I need it yesterday, do you understand me? And I need to know which gang they are with, and why they’d rather die than do their time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dhata said, looking over at Jason, who had rewound the video to the day before.

“Maybe he broke pattern and we missed it,” he said, playing the video at three times its speed to watch every hour of Monk’s day. At one point—on the video—a police officer approached his cell. Dhata zoomed in on his face since he didn’t recognize the man.

“Who’s that?” someone said. “Does anyone know who that is?” No one answered and Dhata felt his insides sink.

On the surveillance video the officer walked up to Monk and seemed to utter a few words. Monk nodded and made several gesture towards his face. When they zoomed in on the video, he was rubbing his eyes. Jason rewound the video several times trying to make sense of it, but without any audio, they were back to guessing.

“He’s not one of us,” Jason said as he rewound it for the tenth time, and Dhata looked around at all the frightened faces. It wasn’t every day that you saw an assassin at work, and they were still in awe at what they were watching. “Anybody get an ID on who this guy is?” Jason said, as he looked over at the captain who was staring at the video.

“That man walked in here past the whole lot of you and nobody said a thing,” she said. “How does a stranger invade our headquarters and execute a man inside of my jail?”

“There’s something about that guy. I almost recognize him, but I don’t know any assassins like that,” Dhata said. “Pause right there, Jason. See, he spat poison in his face, that’s why you see Monk reach up to wipe his eyes. It’s a nasty trick and that’s what killed him. I doubt we’ll be able to ID this man.”

“Mays, office,” the captain said. She looked as if she was about to explode. Jason gave him a glance and shrugged helplessly but Dhata didn’t feel the least bit concerned.

He followed her into her office and closed the door, standing with his back to it as she turned slowly to face him. She was a box of dynamite suppressed inside of a squat 5’3” frame. In his years as a detective she had grown to respect him—at least he read it as respect—though she was not his favorite person.

Britta Emerson was a good police officer who had fought to get to where she was, though now she controlled a precinct that was as corrupt as it was useless. Deep down somewhere, Dhata knew that she was aware of the type of police that served under her, and that he and Jason were part of the exception. Still, she rode them hard like a drill instructor, but countered it by granting them autonomy. He and Jason didn’t punch a clock like everyone else, but they were expected to solve cases.

“What do you know?” she said. “Come on, out with it. That cute play at being an expert at assassins may have fooled those idiots but it didn’t work on me.”

Dhata had to think fast. She had him by the throat, and if his lie was obvious she would force it out of him. “You see the footage from last week?” he said. “The execution down in the squall? Well, it’s simple math. Somebody killed some synths and the assassin cut the man’s throat as a message. When we busted Monk, it probably got picked up by the media, or someone here made a phone call.” He watched her face after he made this suggestion and exhaled slowly when he saw her look off to the side.

“So let me get this straight. A synth did this? A synth with enough power to pay for a professional?” she said. “That’s Madame Jae. Shit, who would be working with her? I can only think of two officers that a synth would trust.”

“Don’t look at me like that, and it damn sure wasn’t Jay. We busted the hool, remember? If we wanted him dead there were a million opportunities, yet we chased him down and did things right.”

“Calm down, Detective, I wasn’t questioning your honor. I just find it interesting that one of these men would tip off a synth. You see where I’m going with this?”

“Yeah, I’ll consider myself warned,” Dhata said.

“What did I just say? This is not about you, but you are the one that seems to have all the answers. What are you into, Mays? Why are you investigating synths? There are tons of cases on your desk right now, yet you’re running around looking for a synth killer? Where’s the info on the men who killed Chevy? Did you forget about him? He killed enough synth Marys to open up a brand new brothel in hell. Yet my two top detectives are in south Tampa chasing down Monk Sandberg.”

“Listen Captain, let me explain. This is not just some synth killer. There’s a possible link to something bigger going on. Multiple bodies are showing up; they are all synths, but it’s a lot. Most have been hidden so we don’t find them, but I have witnesses saying as much. I know you don’t care about synth deaths—”

“When have I ever said that?” she said. “Watch yourself, Dhata, you’re on thin ice. Do not put that sort of nonsense on me. Do you understand?”

“No, I do understand. I understand that none of you give a shit. This is why we got infiltrated; nobody’s watching the synths. If a body shows up and it’s an android, our Johns don’t bother to follow procedure. Do they get reprimanded? Nah, it’s an android, right? Do you seriously think that we haven’t noticed?”

The captain cracked a smile and stepped closer to him. Her eyes were burning hot coals of fire. “You’re a good detective, Mays, so I’ll let you get this one. Accuse me of something illegal again, and you can go find new work with those synths.”

Dhata felt like tearing off his badge and handing it in right there, but letting his temper get in the way wouldn’t help the situation. There was still a killer on the loose that he needed to catch before Janae stepped in to do it herself, and he would have an easier time investigating it with his badge.

“Apologies,” he said. “I got a little defensive back there. I told you what I know. Can I go? Like you said, there’s a lot of cases that I need to get to.”

“Fuck the cases, I was just making a point. Your priority, Detective, is to solve this murder. I want to know who that man is, and I want him in handcuffs in front of me. You have 24 hours to make it happen, or I swear that I’ll hang you out to dry.”

She waved him off and he walked out, gesturing to Jason as he sat by the rack. “We gotta go,” he said. “She’s issuing threats, and while I don’t like it, she has a point.”

“Yeah, figured she would, but give me a second, will you?” His head was so close to the monitor that Dhata expected it to pull him in. He rewound it again and this time Dhata focused on the officer. There was something off about his uniform but he didn’t know what it was.

After coming down from that tense conversation, he thought about the likelihood of Janae being responsible. They’d booked Monk on the weekend and he’d called her that night, but how likely was it that a synth assassin could sneak into the station and kill that man?

How would he know which cell Monk was staying in? Plus, Janae worked exclusively with female assassins. He stared at the screen, at the way the assassin moved. He knew exactly where to go and what to do. “I was wrong,” he said suddenly. “He’s one of us. That isn’t a stranger. I recognized him earlier, but I couldn’t remember from where. Pause it right there, Jay. Isn’t that Tony York?”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Jason said, covering his mouth suddenly. “But he’s retired on a farm, living the good life. No, I think this guy just looks like him.”

“What came up when you pulled the records on who came in that day?” Dhata said. He looked around, but all he saw were blank faces, so he twisted his lips in disappointment. “A guy dies in our jail and none of you bothered to look at the IDs for the day? Come on, folks, we do track that stuff. How is that not step number one?”

Dhata felt a presence next to him and he was surprised to see the captain. She slipped to his side and placed her hand on his back. It was a subtle gesture to let him know that she was still in his corner.

She leaned in closer to look at the officer’s features, then glanced up at him. “As much as I don’t want you to be right, I think that is Tony,” she said. “Let me pull the IDs and see what comes up, but I’m pretty sure that’s him.” She walked back into her office and got on her rack. Dhata looked at Jason and shrugged.

“I forgot about the IDs,” he started to say, then got up and walked over to Emerson’s door. He stood there for a while, watching her work, and Dhata went back to looking at the screen. After a few minutes he heard Emerson curse, then she walked back out with Jason in tow.

“Son of a bitch, he retired with honors,” she said. “Why would he do something like this? Actually, before we get to the why, I want to know how an old retiree walks in and no one notices. Are you all that blind, or are we that busy? We all work together as a team; you should have noticed a strange face walking through the building. Step your shit up, people. This is inexcusable. How are we going to explain this? Alright, Dhata, you have your suspect, now get to working on bringing him in.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, then walked back to her office, cursing.

The Johns in attendance grumbled their disapproval and went their separate ways back to their desks. Dhata looked over at Jason whose face was flush with anger, and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Want to bet that old Tony has the same flower tattoo?” he said.

“I’m not making a bet that I’m sure to lose,” he said.

‡Chapter 11‡

Dueling Legends

After looking through their records and cross-referencing it with the city’s matrix. Dhata and Jason learned that Tony York lived on a farm outside of Brandon. His family had been farmers since decades before the war, and since he chose the life of a police officer he had a small house on a large piece of property. His reputation was that of a marksman and a very good police officer.

He’d taken down bosses and was a legend to the people who knew him, but to Dhata Mays and Jason, he was an extremely dangerous adversary. “You have a family, Jason. Why don’t you let me take care of this?” Dhata said as he pushed the Buick across 301 Highway. He had been driving for a while, stalling while Jason looked up the address, but now that they knew he feared for his friend’s safety.

“Because I’m a detective just like you, and there is absolutely no way I’m letting you go in alone. You’re a great shot, Dee, and you’re one hell of a warrior, but Tony York did things we can only dream about. The minute you underestimate him is the minute you die, and we’ll have a better chance of getting him if we do this together.”

Dhata knew he was right, but it still felt wrong to have a husband and father risk his life for something he could do alone. “Alright, man, you’re right, but you have to promise me one thing,” he said. “If it comes to one of us facing him down, you need to step aside and let me do it. He’s an old school dude and he might call us out. He’ll kill himself if we don’t respect it.”

“So you what? You’ll accept the duel, then aim for his pistol to disable it?” Jason joked.

“You have jokes as usual, but I’m serious,” Dhata said. “He calls us out, you let me answer it.”

As he pulled up to the farm, he knew immediately that they were in trouble. It was an expansive piece of property that stretched on for acres, and the house in the center was dark.

“This is hostile territory, and he expects us,” Jason said. “I’ll call for backup so that we have numbers when we go in.”

Dhata ignored him and parked beneath a tree, a healthy living tree. He stepped out and touched it, admiring its resilience, then looked at his partner who was waiting for him. “You call an army of Johns and he'll eat his gun. With just us two he'll assume he has it. Same tactics, Jay. We've done it before, right? Let's just swoop down on this guy and pull him out.”

“Alright, Dee, but at the very least, let's kill his surveillance immediately.” Jason made a call and they saw the electricity go out. It was one of the perks of having the entire city connected to the grid. “Okay, it's done. Let's go,” he said. Dhata pulled his Glock and walked with Jason past the fence, down towards the dark house.

It was raining and the ground was so soft that the mud was up to Dhata’s ankles. He wore a bulletproof poncho with a hood to keep the water off his skin and kept the pistol near his body where it could remain dry. He and Jason started their descent on the house, taking turns as they darted from tree to tree.

“Tune your ICLs for booby traps. Don't take any chances,” he said, and as soon as he did it he did his own and saw glowing patches on the ground.

“Glad you said something,” Jason said. “All sorts of nastiness out here.”

“Check for tripwires too. Those don't come up on the scans. If you see trees near the road, watch your legs,” Dhata said.

“Looks like our boy Tony is set up for a war,” Jason said.

“You know what I don’t get?” Dhata said as he slipped in beside him next to a burned out cypress. “If these guys are part of something, why do they operate alone? Monk killed that woman in the alley, and we were able to catch him solo at that café. Tony here comes in alone to the station, kills Monk, and now we’re here. There should be a crew of these synth killers defending their guy, right?”

“I don’t know, Dee, maybe it’s not that sort of organization,” Jason said.

A whistling sound brought them around as shots began to come from the direction of the house. Dhata realized that they were in a spot where the trees would not provide much cover. He sunk to a squatting position, shrinking himself into a smaller target, then went flat on the ground to crawl out and see where the shots were coming from. There was a small window at the end of the house that Tony pulled open to fire at them. Dhata’s enhanced ICLs outlined him in red, and would keep him tracked as long as he moved.

Tools like this gave the police an edge, but Dhata was aware that Tony had them too. When they retired police, they were allowed to keep their enhancements. It was one of the reasons that many retirees went on to become bodyguards or spies for the government.

Dhata took aim and fired several times, forcing Tony to back away from the window. “I have a lock on Tony, so count to three and run for the house, Jay,” he said. Before Jason could argue, Dhata saw the red outline shift to another window with a bigger weapon. “Hold,” he said. “Get low and stay behind the tree.”

The menacing sound of an assault rifle became their reality as bullets shredded the trunk of the tree and kicked up mud and rocks. Dhata became disoriented as bullets fell all around him, then one struck his shoulder and he panicked, crawling for cover behind another tree. Another shot hit him in the chest, then in his side as he made it to the cypress. If not for the poncho he would have been dead but the impact of the bullets did tremendous damage.

“Dee” Jason whispered, as Dhata rolled on to his back. He was convinced that a bullet had pushed through the poncho and he was on his way to another life. He closed his eyes as the crack of the assault weapon seemed to go on forever. It had only been a few seconds, but it felt like it lasted a lifetime until he felt Jason’s grip shaking him awake.

“I’m good, I’m good, the—the poncho saved my ass.” He was out of breath and his heart was pounding, but he didn’t need Jason playing at nurse. “Cover you, I’ll cover you, but man—you gotta run like you’ve never run before,” Dhata said. “Watch for—”

“I got it, I’m ready. I have an outline on that bastard and I’m ready to go,” Jason said.

Dhata stayed on his back as he popped the clip on his weapon to gauge the rounds that were left. He reached into his pocket for the spare clip and held it close, then slammed the old one back into the pistol. From his upside down vantage point he peeked out at the house again. His ICLs picked up the movement, and he aimed and struck his target.

Jason was gone like a sprinter on the last leg of a race and Dhata rolled to his stomach and kept firing at the outline. Tony must have seen Jason because he slipped back into the house. Dhata scrambled to his feet to run, shooting as he went.

Before long they were at the house and standing on the porch. Dhata felt as if he’d been beaten with a sledgehammer, and he could taste blood in his mouth. He gestured to Jason to go and find the back door, and when he did, Dhata broke one of the windows with the butt of his pistol. He heard movement inside, so he ran after Jason as more shots flew through the broken window.

They scurried to the back door of the massive ranch-style home, and while Tony kept on firing from the front, they prepared to breech the door. Jason gave Dhata a look that he read as either pity or grief, and he knew that he was in bad shape. “I got it, buddy,” he whispered, then kicked open the old wooden door.

Slipping inside, they moved as they were trained, checking the spaces where Tony could hide. The house was pitch black from the lights being out, but their ICLs had night vision so that they could see. The back door led into a nice kitchen that opened up to a living room with adjacent walls. They stayed to the hallways, ready for anything, and in time made their way to the front.

“Is that Dhata Mays?” Tony shouted. He sounded out of breath, as if he had been running.

Dhata remembered that one of his shots had struck him. “What’s up, Tony? It’s me,” he said.

“Figured that was you. Nice shooting.” He started to laugh. “Did that bulldog Emerson send you?”

Dhata looked over at his partner, who was sweating too much for him to be fooled that it was rain. Tony was talking, which he knew could be a stalling tactic, so he decided to take control of the conversation. “Why did you put on your old uniform and sneak into the precinct to poison Monk, Tony?” he said, then gestured with his head to Jason, telling him to change his position.

“Uh-uh-uh, we’ll have none of that,” Tony said. “Stay where you are, Detective.” It was hard to pinpoint exactly where he was. “I been doing this way longer than the two of you combined. Why don’t you just stay right where you are and we won’t have any accidents, alright? As to old Monk, he was a good guy. We had some good times in the past, but our rules say you don’t get caught, and if you get caught, well, there are repercussions.”

“Our rules, Tony? Who is this our?” Dhata said, but there was no answer. He sensed movement and dove into the hallway just in time to avoid the gunshot. Touching an area near his ear, he called up Jason as he breathed slowly to regulate his nerves. “Jay, you alright?” he whispered.

“Yeah, he’s moving around but I saw where he went,” Jason said. Two more shots went off and Dhata recognized them as his partner’s. He was using the SIG, compliments of their late friend, Monk Sandberg. “Shit, he’s moving again,” he said, and then there was a spray of bullets that punched holes in the wall above Dhata. Had he not been prone, he would have been done, and something about that angered him.

“Do you have an outline on him, Jay?” Dhata whispered as he got up into a crouch and placed his face against the wall. He felt sick to his stomach, and it was as hot as a swamp inside the house. The poncho was a lifesaver but it was meant for outside, and it felt as if it were cooking him slowly.

“Dhata!” Jason yelled, as Tony slipped into the hallway, and for a split second their eyes met before instinct made him move. Tony had aimed for his head but his shot went wild, striking the wall next to him. Jason answered with his own shots, forcing him to move, and that was when Dhata reacted.

He pulled the trigger twice and caught Tony in the chest, thinking that would be enough to put him down. The old man’s knees buckled but he lifted his pistol. “Failsafe,” Jason said in his ear and Dhata put a final round in his head.

“Figured he’d be in a vest, so none of our shots would stop him,” Jason said as he walked up to look down at the legend. “Look at that. He’s in a robe and slippers. What did he think would happen?”

Dhata holstered his pistol as he stared down at Tony. It felt like looking down inside of a distorted well. One day he would retire and be forced to fit into the world. Without the badge and gun at his side, he wondered how well he’d handle it. Tony was one of his superiors when he started, and he’d looked up to him as a hero. He’d gone after gangs and made arrests that many of the lesser humans thought was impossible.

Dhata had done as much, being part of the newer generation, but he didn’t forget the men and women who taught him everything he knew. Killing one of your heroes in combat was only an honor for samurai and cowboys. As a detective his hope was to help the community and share a beer with his heroes when it was time for retirement. Shooting Tony left him numb, and his mind was working overtime trying to understand.

What could have made you do something like this, he thought as he looked over the old man, and that was when he saw the fourth bullet wound. He’d clipped him on the shootout, prior to entering the house. He saw the hole and the blood in his shoulder, separate from the three shots that ended up killing him.

“You were a tough S.O.B., Tony, that’s for damn sure,” he said. He felt a hand on his shoulder and it made him flinch, but it was just Jason reading his mind as he always did.

“He forced your hand, Dhata. Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he said.

Nice words that should have been reassuring, but Dhata was already too down to accept it. “Let’s get the power back on and search the place,” he said. “Hopefully something turns up. Emerson won’t get to question him now, so the least we can do is provide answers. We can’t leave here without finding a connection between him and Monk, Jay. If we show up empty-handed our ass is grass.”

They got the power back by calling it in and then proceeded to search Tony’s home. He was a lover of music, with records displayed on the walls, and Dhata reasoned that he was also a musician. One thing that stuck out almost immediately was the lack of technology in the house. The art on his walls were real: canvas and wood, not the SAR projections that were in most homes.

He was raw and tender from the shots but Dhata dared not call it quits before finding what he came for. Jason took to one side of the house and he took to another. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he’d know when he saw it.

The house was old and offline, even with the power being on. Dhata reasoned that Tony York chose to keep it that way in order to stay undercover for whatever he was into. He had scoured all corners of the living room before taking on a bathroom, and now he was working on the master bedroom. It was dusty and sad, the bed showing no sign of use. “You were living like a guest inside your own house,” Dhata said. “Now, what would make a man do that?”

There was a photograph next to the bed, of a young woman smiling warmly. Numerous thoughts went through his head. Was she his daughter, sister, or girlfriend? He didn’t remember Tony wearing a ring or making any mention of a wife.

“How’re you doing, big guy?” Jason said as he walked into the room.

“Better, but I don’t know how I’ll feel once I’m inside of a med-pod.”

“You got shot with high caliber rounds, bro. You’re going to see a doctor, not a med-pod. Hey, it’s been an hour and they’re lighting me up for a status. Emerson won’t hold off if she thinks we’re hurt.”

Dhata ignored him and walked past the bed. He hoisted the frame and examined the photo. He used his ICLs to take a snapshot, then motioned Jason over. “Who do you think she is?” he said.

Jason picked it up and stared at it. “She doesn’t look like him or his family, and this shot is taken from something else,” he said. “Maybe she’s a celebrity that he had a thing for—she does have the looks—but I don’t know. I searched every corner of the east side of the house, and he has photos in every room. Some are of his family, others with Johns, but I didn’t find anything that would connect him with Monk.”

“There’s one more room after this one,” Dhata said. “I’ve just been mesmerized by this photo.” It wasn’t the complete truth. He was tired, and the soreness in his chest made it hard to move.

Jason tapped him on the shoulder and opened the door, then froze and turned to look at him. “Dee, come over here,” he said. “You’re going to get a kick out of this … I don’t know if I should be amused or scared.”

Dhata limped over, curious as to what he was seeing, but in the back of his mind he had an idea. When he got to the door and peered inside he understood why Jason would feel the way he felt. It was a walk-in closet, void of anything but a framed photograph of Manton Paradise.

‡Chapter 12‡

Toxic Bourbon

After the shootout with Tony things were a blur. Dhata got his wounds treated and was given leave for a couple of days. This did not mean that he would stop investigating, but it meant that he had to stay home while Jason did the heavy lifting of answering questions and filling out the reports.

The media jumped on the story immediately and it became the news of the hour. Decorated ex-police officer caught up in a shootout with Tampa Bay’s finest. Emerson hadn’t given them anything, so they broadcast the mystery as an alleged drug bust.

Dhata spent the next day glued to the television, trying to see if the media knew anything substantial. Tiffany came bearing gifts, some cream for his wounds and a large bottle of Bourbon. The media didn’t know who shot Tony York, so he put it out of his mind and focused on his beautiful friend. One glass led to another and the pain went away, replaced by her sweet lips and healing hands.

He woke up late the next day, his head spinning from the drink, and from the smell he could tell that Tiffany was making coffee. He sat up in the bed and rubbed at his eyes as he fought against the regret he felt for drinking the way he did. “I think I’m an alcoholic,” he said, “or maybe just a light weight.”

“Nah, you’re just a big guy who doesn’t know how to take care of himself,” Tiffany said. She was wearing his duster to cover her nakedness, but he couldn’t figure out why she was wearing his hat.

“You pretending to be me, Detective Tiffany Wu?” he said, and she covered her mouth and began to laugh. “I’ll admit it’s cute, but you’re swimming in that thing. Reminds me of just how tiny you are.”

“Hey don’t underestimate me. I can drink you under the table,” she said.

“I know you can. Look at me, I have a hangover from the few drinks I had last night.” He threw his legs off the side of the bed and forced himself to stand. He could still feel the areas where the bullets had struck him, and he had an urge to throw up, but he maintained control.

“There’s water right there, sugar, make sure you drink all of it. If you need to hurl, do it in the bathroom, but this is your apartment, so your rules.” She was sipping her coffee from one of his mugs, an anniversary gift from the department. It added to her costume since it had the police seal on the side, and as she stood there drinking, he wanted to laugh.

Assuming that she knew better than him about treating a hangover, he followed her instructions and gulped down the water. He then went to the bathroom to hover over the sink. “What sort of Bourbon was that?” he said. “The other night I drank way more than this.”

“Yeah, well it was the same drink, believe it or not, but you weren’t recovering back then. Dhata, you’re a big tough guy, but you need to accept that you’re not invincible. You were shot, dear, and while the bullets didn’t penetrate skin, you have three bruises that look pretty bad. On top of that you hadn’t eaten. I tried to get food but you wouldn’t let me go.”

She came into the bathroom and handed him a glass of something that smelled of ginger. “Drink this,” she said. “We can go get breakfast after. What do you have going on today, more hools to bust? You look like you should take the day off, seriously.”

“Work never stops, pretty brown eyes. I’m yours but I could get a call anytime. We’re not in a good spot after this shootout, so more than likely I’ll be getting a call.”

“Not before you eat, though. You’re in no shape to run out. Come on, I know a funky spot. They’ll fix you eggs with a little something on the side.”

The place she spoke of was a restaurant near the bar. It was the type of place Dhata would have never chosen on his own. There were families inside and elderly church-going individuals, and only one television screen, which was showing a nature show, and soft music that didn’t have any lyrics. They stuck out so much that he could feel his skin crawl: the big, hulking law man and his tiny, tattooed girl. His shiny bald head and her neo Tampa blue locks were oddities in a place where everything was plain.

Despite his feelings on the atmosphere, the food was absolutely amazing. Tiffany coaxed him to eat and then eat some more, reassuring him that throwing it up was quite okay in her book. “You know, you’re far more nurturing than you let on,” Dhata said. “You’re wearing false advertising for the sweetheart that you are.”

“Sweetheart to you because we’re sharing beds, my dear, but trust me, there is nothing sweet about me.”

“You have an edge, it’s evident, but I’m talking about the real you underneath that tattooed armor. I read people for a living; you don’t have to convince me. It’s cool, it’s why I like you,” he said.

“Like me, huh? How much?” she said, smiling while she chewed on a pancake.

“Like you enough to not jerk you around, or avoid you because all I wanted was to sleep with you. It’s tough to be a regular cat when you work a job like mine. Well, my partner, he’s married and it manages to work, but anything normal for me only falls apart.”

“Good thing I’m not normal,” she said. “But don’t think that I’m your girl. I like you, don’t get me wrong, but you and me? I think that’s trouble.”

“You’re just scared,” Dhata said, smiling as he reached forward and took her hand. “But you won’t get rid of me easily. I know your type too well.”

“Oh, yeah?” she said, sarcastically.

“Yeah,” he said. “You come on strong, and then get bored and run away. Funny thing about that is it works for someone like me. I can’t be reliable, not with what I have going on, but at the very least I can be consistent.”

“Aren’t you the charmer,” she said, rolling her eyes. She pulled her hand away from his. “So since we’re bonding, tell me, why did you choose to become a John? You seem to give a shit, and that don’t vibe, does it?” She laughed over her coffee cup. “I figured it was an act till I let you sleep with me. But here you are, a wounded, burned out cowboy.”

“Hey, if I offended you, it wasn’t my intent, alright? You’ve been cool, and you don’t deserve that. I can just be too forward sometimes. Tiffany, after work these days, I look forward to spending my time with you. Have you seen yourself?” he said, and he knew his compliment worked, since she started to blush immediately.

“Stop with the gas, my head is already big. I know that you’re just trying to make me smile. Now answer the question, mister. Why are you a John? I want to know how they recruited someone like you.”

“This will probably sound cheesy but my father was a John, a pretty damn good one too. But if I'm being honest, that's not what made me join up. I grew up around the time when knocking androids—I mean synths, yeah, knocking synths off was considered cool. Gangs would roll around our neighborhood looking for synths to drag and pull apart. Law wasn’t doing anything about it; hell, they may as well encouraged it. Saw a new breed of psychopath emerge from the same place where I was raised.

“I was like everybody else, ignoring it and trying to help out the synths when I could. Then one day they got a woman who worked for my family. I hate people who take advantage of the weak—know what I mean? Yeah, well after that day I decided to let my hands do the talking. What was funny is that while I beat their brains into the pavement, there was always someone there to pull me off.”

He rubbed his head and looked off to the side, not wanting to have too long an explanation. “Yeah,” he said, “I figured that as a John I could go after these bullies and not have to worry about someone pulling me off.”

“Wow,” Tiffany said. “Look at you.” Her eyes were saucers as she stared at him. “Man, you came alive during that story, like scary alive, and it’s something. Wouldn’t want to be on the opposite side of Detective Mays.”

“It turn you on?” he said.

“It did. We may need to go back to my apartment,” she said. “Seriously though, I can dig it. Yeah, we're more alike than you know. The cog on my arm, it’s not just about caring. I ran with gangs who teamed up with synths to go after the people who terrorized them. I’ve done some really messed up stuff, but it was all for everything you just said.”

“Yeah, you got stripes, baby. Think I don’t know that? You have a whole novel written on that fabulous body.”

They finished their meal, and he drove her back to the bar that doubled as her home. He walked her upstairs and she pulled him inside, not allowing him any chance of escaping. That was where he saw it in all its splendor, a painting that reminded him of the graffiti in the park.

It was framed and hanging over Tiffany’s table, and Dhata stepped past her to stand in front of it. It was a hibiscus flower with a scene in the center, though the graffiti had been someone’s rough attempt to copy it.

“Dhata, are you cool?” Tiffany said, but he could only nod as he focused on the details. There were people in white, walking in tall grass, and the trees had green leaves draped over brown trunks. It reminded him of old paintings that depicted paradise, and as the words formed inside of his mind, he recognized one of the people.

It was Manton Paradise, from Tony’s and Chevy’s house, his robes magnificent compared to the rest. This was not just a painting. It was a symbol of the church, and that was when he finally turned to look at Tiffany.

“Are you a Child of Paradise, Tiff?” he said, whispering the words.

“No, but my ex was. I just kept his painting. There’s something about it, right? Creeps me out. But that’s what makes it cool and ironic, right?”

Dhata looked at her as if she was crazy and the smile melted off her face. “You kidding me, Dhata, you thought I was one of them? I guess you don’t know too much about those people. First of all, if I was one of his children, there would be no me and you.”

He removed his coat and took a seat at the table. “All I know about them is that their prophet, or whatever he is, makes weird commercials and poses with his face set like this.” He slackened his jaws and lidded his eyes.

Tiffany shook her head. “You won’t be making jokes after I tell you what I know, but it’s scary to even talk about them. Paradise has control on pretty much all of his members. They swear off their families and some move to his temple where they worship him.”

“They worship him? Paradise, this guy right here?” he said, pointing to the painting.

“They do. Like I said, he does something to them. When my ex converted, I got caught up, even went as far as joining his cause. If you hear him speak, you’d understand. It’s the same sort of speech you gave to me at the restaurant earlier. He wants to crush the powerful who prey on the weak, and bring about a utopia on Earth. He has crazy ideas, like first of all a utopia, really? But some of the other stuff he talks about gives you hope.”

“You should see yourself,” Dhata said. “I would think that he has you under his spell.”

“He did, and I went there. I was ready to join up. After meeting the brothers who would bring me in the following day, I ran into my ex, who I hadn’t seen in a week. He got so excited that I was joining them that he started rambling on about some ritual.” She closed her mouth and stared hard at him, shaking her head. “He killed a synth for Paradise!”

Dhata stared at the table, no longer listening to her as he put the pieces together starting with the graffiti. All of the synth murders had been amateurish hack jobs, all involving primitive weapons. He thought about Monk and the flower on his arm, which he could see in his mind’s eye was a hibiscus as well.

“This man is having people kill synths as part of some ritual entry?” he said. “Why?”

“To help cull unnatural life from the potential paradise. Like I said before, Dhata, he has some wild, out there ideas, but when he kept talking about the unnatural life, I assumed he meant people with hate in their hearts. Can you imagine how I felt, learning that I was about to join these murderers? Me, who’s gone out of my way to hurt people like that.”

“So you keep the ugly painting to remind yourself of what you almost became,” he said. “You’re strong like that, I guess. Me? I would have set that thing on fire. Man, this is too much, Tiffany. I don’t know where to start.”

“I’m sorry, sugar, but they’re the reason I got out. I still fear for my life because I turned them down.”

“Did they threaten you?” Dhata said, and Tiffany shook her head.

“They didn’t have to,” she said.

Dhata thought about Tony sneaking into the jail and he closed his eyes against his frustration. “When exactly were you going to tell me you were in danger? I’ll get you some surveillance … do you have a piece? I can—”

“No, stop it, Dhata. I can take care of myself.” She stood up abruptly and teased her hair, then looked down at where he was sitting. “Is this what we’re going to do? Talk about murderers and my stupid naïve youth? You had me hot in the restaurant and now you’re working at cooling me off.”

He stood up and kissed her, and she took his hand and led him into the bedroom. “Okay, I’m still a little warm,” she whispered in between kisses, and he couldn’t help but smile.

‡Chapter 13‡

Donuts and Cigars

“Maybe we were all supposed to die after the war,” Dhata said, as he sat on the hood of his car overlooking Tampa’s metropolis. “Doesn’t it feel unnatural, all of this? Step out of your police shoes for a second and really look at the city.”

Jason’s Tsuba was parked next to his Buick. It was a sleek black speedster modified for law enforcement. He was laying on top of it, staring up at the sky, holding a cigar in his right hand, and juggling a lighter in his left. He looked over at Dhata, then tried to shrug. “It looks the way it’s supposed to look. What should I be seeing?”

“Hypocrisy, that’s what. We live in a city full of lies. Synths gave us life after we blew up everything yet we get shit when we investigate their murders. Human men pay for so much android tail that Marys make a killing, and people put up ‘no androids allowed’ on buildings that those same synths built. Look at those floating zeppelins.” He pointed at the sky. “Even the rich elite want nothing to do with our mess.”

“They have the money to pay for fuel, so let them float. Think I’d be down here in this radiation if I had a choice?” Jason said. “We’re all hypocrites in one way or another, right, so why are you getting so bent?”

“Tony York, that’s why. He’s making me question this job. I did some digging to see who the woman in the photograph was. Turns out he did in fact have a wife. She was on the street during a drive-by and was killed by a stray bullet. When they caught the hools that were responsible it turned out that they were synths. This was early in his career, back when he was still on the beat.”

“Christ, no wonder he hated them so much,” Jason said.

“Yeah, it explains why he’d become a part of a synth-hating organization. There was a machete inside of his tool shed with synthetic blood inside the grooves.”

“I know, I’m the one that told you about it, remember?” Jason said, pulling slowly on his cigar. “How do you feel? You alright? You should have taken another day off.”

“I’m good. I had a great nurse, so don’t you worry about it,” Dhata said, annoyed at the inference that something was wrong with his memory.

Jason sat up on the trunk. “You two getting serious, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.” He looked around at the cars parked next to them. “While you were out getting ‘healed’ or whatever you want to call it, I was back at the station digging around. I found several cases that involve the Children of Paradise, all of them unsolved.”

“It’s all connected, Jay, even the Chevy case. Can’t prove it quite yet, but we found that photograph upstairs, and Chevy murdered enough synths to curry favor with the man. I think he was a top-level disciple, carrying out his master’s orders. Maybe they had a falling out, or he violated somehow, and our two hools were sent to murder him. I would think that it was coincidence if not for Raul eating the same poison that Monk had. I don’t know, man. I’m just talking. Maybe that was coincidence too.”

Jason looked back at Dhata with sorrow in his eyes. “Were we wrong to go in the way we did?” he said.

At first Dhata was going to say yes, thinking he was talking about Tony York, but when he looked at his eyes, he knew that he was talking about Chevy.

“If it was all about ideals, then I would say yes, but all we have is instinct, and you acted on yours. Had we not gone in the case would still be cold with us thinking that Chevy’s alive. His death meant closure to all of the families that he destroyed. Don’t second guess yourself, Jay. They shot at us first. That little detail the media seemed to forget.”

Jason gave him a long hard look as if to see if he was joking, then turned to look out at the skyline again. “Well they have crap luck,” he said. “Now that we’re on their trail. The main temple is downtown in Saint Petersburg. It’s a twelve-story building with their logo on the front.”

“I’ll go there tomorrow, if you don’t mind following up on the hools.” Dhata said.

“Dee, I think that maybe we should switch jobs: have you look into the hools while I go question the church. We’re already in a vice for the shooting at Chevy’s house, and I know that you are going to end up killing one of them. You’re going to walk in that place and see a synth being tortured, then bam, there goes a human life … and Dhata Mays’ career.”

Dhata made a face and shook his head. “Always with the jokes, aren’t you? I can restrain myself. Trust me, I know when I’m being played. This is a big deal, Jason, these people are murderers—”

“And you say I have the jokes. Do you listen to yourself? Is killing a synth considered murder, or is it more like vandalism? Look, I know it sounds racist, but that’s how the rest of those guys think. You take that to the FBI as if you expect them to act and they’ll look at you like you’re out of your mind.”

“So, what is the point of us pursuing this then, Jay? How am I going to prove that they pose a threat to humanity?” Dhata said.

“Chevy, that’s how. They ate one of their own. If we can prove Chevy was executed for abandoning them or something, then it’s a wrap for old green-eyed holy man.”

“Back to Chevy again I see, but I like that angle. If I can make it about him it will force the department to back me up. Looks like I have a long weekend of work ahead of me, but I’ll give you a call if something sticks,” Dhata said. “Oh, one more thing, Jay. I need a unit outside of The Underground. Can you make up something to get the approval to have some of the boys keep an eye on the place? Tiffany was my source but she says that they could be coming for her. Once I start asking questions, I’m sure her life will be in danger.”

“Oh, she is the source. Now it’s all making sense,” Jason said.

“Keep your snark to yourself. I found out purely on accident. But hey, I like this girl, and she’s a survivor. I don’t want our investigation to make things dangerous for her.”

“I hear you, Dee, it’ll be done. It’s the least I can do for you taking charge of this Chevy case.” He put out his cigar and threw it into a puddle. “Where you off to now? Back to see your future wife?”

“No, I’m going to get to work on Chevy. I don’t think time is on our side. Hey, Jay, when you go down there, make sure you go heavy. I don’t trust any of those people.”

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

After leaving the garage, Dhata decided that the best place to start was with Chester Raul, the man who had killed himself to avoid arrest outside of Chevy’s house. He searched the system for an address and learned that he was homeless, but that he had spent the majority of his time in the squall.

How was a boy that big and healthy remotely homeless? he thought. How did we not see this red flag as soon as we ran his ID? He had been warned about returning to the squall after Janae’s kunoichi had killed a man, but he didn’t see a choice in the matter. It’s still daytime out, so only a few would try me. He hoped he was right but chose not to dwell on it, since his only priority was to get answers.

If he thought the refuse around the human slums was bad before, he learned quickly what rain did to amplify that smell. He was several blocks out when he first caught a whiff, and as he grew closer he considered turning around. Slick, black, oil-like liquid mixed with the mud as he walked in, and he decided against trying to figure out what was its source. This time he dressed down, hiding his badge, but he kept his Glock in its holster for all to see.

He didn’t look much different from the hools that he passed in the smelly alleys. He was in all black and wore a scowl to match, so most mistook him for one of the residents. He found his way to the shelter, which turned out to be a series of trailers wedged inside of a mountain of dirt.

They had installed tarps on poles above them to block out most of the rain since many of the tenants lived in tents and lean-tos. It was sad to see the condition of the people; they were filthy and looked diseased. As he walked amongst them, they gave him hard looks, but he ignored the cold shoulder and pressed on deeper into their camp.

“Hey, do you have something to eat?” a gruff voice said, bringing him around. It was an old man with missing teeth, whose leathery skin spoke volumes.

“Yeah, but I have some questions, if you don’t mind,” Dhata said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.

The old man nodded and Dhata reached into his duster. He pulled out two protein supplements and handed him one. Without any hesitation the man tore open the package, bent back the brown bar and stuffed it into his mouth. It took a long time for him to chew the food, but in time he did and Dhata handed him some water.

“Man, that was so good,” he mumbled. “Haven’t had one of those in years. Do you have anymore? I haven’t eaten in days.”

“Got a few,” said Dhata. He handed him three more. “Now about those questions.”

“Yeah, sure.” The man motioned him over to a crate. It stood next to a cardboard lean-to which Dhata realized was his home. “Sit there,” he said. “You a John, am I right?”

“Something like that,” Dhata said. “But I’m not the kind you’re used to seeing around here. I’m actually here to investigate someone’s disappearance. Chester Raul, you ever heard of him?”

The old man shook his head, no. “My son was a John, but that’s up in Boston somewhere,” he said, and Dhata sat down on the crate to listen to the man’s story. “The Johns here, they are wicked, wicked to us. One day, Mikey, h-he’s a friend of mine you see, Mikey he asks a John for some food and the guy gives him a sandwich.”

“Alright,” Dhata said, fearing where the story was going.

“He had gone out and come back with one of them restaurant containers,” he said. “The rest of us, we’re like wow, what a nice guy he is. But good thing Mikey checked the thing before putting it in his mouth. This John, he actually found some crap—hell, maybe it was his own, but he’d smashed it up in between two perfectly good slices of bread.”

Dhata scanned the dugout where they were seated, watching the other residents walk by eyeing him curiously as he sat with the man. He continued eating the supplements that Dhata had given him, chuckling between bites at his story. “The John who did this, do you remember his name?” he said.

“No, but he was down here a lot, messing with the Marys, know what I mean? Tall skinny guy with a moustache, walks with sort of a limp. He’s here a lot but we avoid him. He has a real chip for us lows.”

Ryan Jacobs, Dhata thought. Emerson would flip if she knew what he did. “Unfortunately there’s a lot of Johns like that, but I’m not one of those. This Chester guy that I’m looking for, he got his implant taken away, and the hool who did it committed a serious crime under his name. Anyone you know around here wind up missing or taken away?” Dhata said.

“Yeah, Chuck,” the man whispered. “Chuck was my partner for many years, until they offered him a hundred UCCs to do an implant switch.”

Just a hundred, to risk his life? No wonder it’s happening so often, Dhata thought. “Chuck, you say? Where is he now?” he said, but from the way the man grimaced he knew the answer. “Sorry for opening those old wounds, Pops. I appreciate you talking to me today,” he said. “My name’s Dhata, what’s your name?”

“Name’s Gary but they call me Lucky. Hey, Dhata, I’m in a real bad way, and I know you’ve given me a lot already, but you’re a John, maybe you can do something about—” His voice trailed off.

Dhata looked up to see a man walk by. He was dressed like a soldier and a line of men were trailing him. “You scared of that man, Lucky?” Dhata said when he was gone, and the old man shrugged but his eyes said it all, so Dhata became curious. “The city sends food here to the squall, and it should be enough to provide for all. Why are you all down here in the mud when there are empty rooms in the trailers and buildings? It’s supposed to all be free for everyone, yet what I’m seeing says different.”

“I’m probably already gonna get it for talking to you, Dhata, but nothing here is free. I had a gambling problem. That’s what forced me to the squall, and when I showed up they took everything else away from me. Marv is the Skinner that runs this place. He gave us a home, but when Chuck left I couldn’t pay the rent so I went back to playing in card games.”

“What were you going to say before that man walked by?” Dhata said, getting up to stretch his limbs.

“He’s down here with us, but he takes everything. It’s the reason why so many of us are starving and cold. I’m sure if you get rid of him everyone will help you. I will let them know how you did right by me,” he said.

This old man’s a gamer, Dhata thought, using me to clear his debts. But if it gets me the answers I need, who am I to question the direction?

‡Chapter 14‡

Lucky Break

The biggest mistake that Marv could make was to confuse Dhata Mays with one of the many corrupt Johns who frequented the squall. First he took a long time to open the trailer door, then when he finally opened it, he offered the detective some pills. This showed Dhata just how bad it had become, that this hool would so brazenly offer him stims.

Dhata pushed him inside and followed him in, not bothering to close the door. “Are you stupid or new?” Marv said, with a look of confusion. He adjusted his clothes, puffed out his chest, and squared up with him.

Here we go, thought Dhata. He jabbed Marv the forehead and caught his arm to ease him down to the floor. He knew that the blow would have knocked him down and he didn’t want to risk him hitting his head. “I know who you’re with, hool, but I’m real police, not one of the traitors that deal here. So, Marv, are you stealing from these people?” Dhata said as he stood over his crumpled form.

“No man, I’m just surviving,” he said. “But your friend Lucky is dead!”

Dhata pulled him to his feet and punched him again, following it up with a kick to the ribs. Several men ran in as he made to mount him and Dhata pulled his pistol and turned on them. “Is he worth it, you hools?” he said to them and they turned around and walked out.

“Alright, you got it. I’ll do whatever you say,” Marv said.

Dhata holstered his weapon and allowed the man to stand up. “You got a nice setup here, Marv, lots of food, and I understand you do this for your boss. But what’s the benefit to having so many people starving? I honestly don’t see the point.”

“Hungry people are always open to suggestions,” Marv said as he wiped blood from his mouth. “Your friend Lucky is where he is because he owes a lot of money to us. He tell you that part, how he’s a degenerate piece of shit? Or did he sing you a sad song about how we took his home and threw him out?”

“Something like that,” Dhata said. “But I think that I’ll take his story over yours. Want me out of your hair, you do what I say. I’m not too needy, I promise. First, you and your hools are not to lay a single finger on that old man. You do and I’ll find you and throw you in a cell, as well as your boss and your boss’s boss. How do you think they’ll take it when they find out that you’re the reason for the heat?”

He could tell by Marv’s expression that his threat had worked. He ran his hand through his hair and cursed silently. “Yeah, yeah, the usual threats. I get it, big man. What do you want from me?” he said.

“Chester Raul. You heard of him?”

“No,” Marv said. “Never heard that name in my life.”

“Then you better find me someone who knew the man. I’m not leaving until I get that information,” Dhata said.

Marv left for an hour and Dhata sat at his table. He took the time to call Jason while he waited.

“Ryan Jacobs really did that?” Jason said to Dhata when he told him the story about the sandwich.

“Are you really surprised?” Dhata said, which prompted Jason to laugh. He in turn told Dhata how he’d gone to the temple and they wouldn’t let him get past the reception area. They had pamphlets and programs on Paradise’s teachings, but acted ignorant when asked about synths. Jason said that he would go there again tomorrow, but wouldn’t hold his breath on any of them talking to him.

When Dhata hung up, Marv appeared with a woman. She was a prostitute who claimed to have known Chester Raul. “Give us some privacy,” Dhata said. “Why don’t you go take a walk and come back?”

The woman said that her name was Violet, and she looked to be in her fifties. She looked to have had work done to try and tighten her skin, but it turned her complexion slightly grey. Dhata motioned her over to the small dining table where he was sitting in the trailer’s kitchen. Marv didn’t leave like he was told but went to the other side, closing the door on what Dhata assumed was his bedroom.

“Chester Raul. Did you know him?” Dhata said.

“Yes, Chester was my boyfriend,” she said. Her voice sounded like rocks inside of a blender. She started to cough and Dhata looked her over to make sure that she was okay.

“You stimmed up?” he said, leaning forward. He noticed that she smiled but averted her gaze. Most stim addicts did this so that you couldn’t see that their pupils were dilated, but he had already seen it when she sat down. “You won’t get in trouble if you tell me, Violet. You stimmed up?” he said again.

“Yeah,” she said, laughing.

“Do you really know Chester, or did Marv force you in here to lie to me?” he said. He saw the truth reflected in her eyes.

He stood up and marched into the room where he saw Marv vanish into. He found him there watching the feed of him interviewing Violet. It was delayed so he hadn’t seen him get up from the table. He kicked him in the side, slamming him against the trailer’s wall, which caused a dent in the metal.

“You think that I’m playing with you, you worthless cockroach?” Dhata said. He stepped forward and kicked him again.

“Alright man, enough, I’ll talk,” he said, but Dhata kicked him again.

“You think that I’m a John that’s held to our rules and that you can play games with me?” he said. “Thing is, I don’t care, and if I have to kill your ass, I will. Now one last time, hool, where is Chester Raul? Tell me if you know him or I’ll turn you inside out.”

Marv started to talk, slowly at first, but like all hesitant singers when the crowd cheered them on, his voice grew stronger with time. Chester had been a resident in the squall who was behind on his payments, and thus became currency for the Cat Skinner gang. Someone needed an implant and they needed a body, so they stabbed him in his tent and ripped it out.

Though Marv was in charge of delivering the bodies, he didn’t know who the buyer was. That portion of the business was reserved for the captains, primarily a man named Lorne. Getting to this man would take days and a lot of help so Dhata reasoned that he’d have to utilize some underground help.

“Thanks for your help, Marv,” he said. “But we’re not done. I’m pinging every John I know to keep an eye on my new friend, Lucky. If anything happens to either him or this Mary, Violet, we’re going to cut you up slow … man, I wish I was joking. You think you regret meeting me tonight? Touch one of them and we can shift this thing to a higher gear.”

He walked past Violet out into the night and made a stop by Lucky’s home. “You need to get out of the squall and start over,” he said. “Try Ybor City. The synths really aren’t that bad.”

He deposited a UCC chip in the man’s palm that had 200 credits left on it. He had crossed the line with Marv, but it gave him answers and due to that he felt no remorse.

When he left the squall he took a detour to Ybor City where he visited the house of Janae. She had a rule about contracts—she only took them in person, and to get at Lorne, he would need a skilled assassin or two. He felt tired and drained after losing his temper, and he recognized that he had gone too far. He was one of them now, one of the many dirty Johns in the squall, but what was he to do with time running out?

The longer it took to ID Chevy’s killers, the less likely it was that they’d get the truth. It was after eight o’clock now, and the streets were busy as he approached the brick construct that was Janae’s business. There was a layered sign above the sliding glass doors that displayed different women dancing, and above it were the words, “Madame Jae’s Playpen.”

Normally he would come in through the side door where friends of the owner would be welcomed, but he wanted a drink before he spoke to her.

The place was a high-tech beauty with neon everywhere, and several floors of men and women entertaining guests. It was a paradise for humans who loved having sex with synths, and she had every model of Mary walking up and down the floors.

When Dhata walked in he was greeted by a woman, but she scurried off when he mentioned Janae’s name and that he was asking for an audience. While she went to find her owner, Dhata walked up to the bar. He found an empty seat and ordered a shot of whisky. On the screens above him were videos of naked people. It was supposed to turn him on but he thought that it looked silly.

“Can you turn that to the news?” he said, but the bartender shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but we have strict rules about the screens,” she said.

Dhata raised his hand in mock surrender, and pushed his glass forward for a refill. The smell of perfume caught his nostrils as he felt a presence on his right. Janae slipped into the seat next to his, and leaned over so that he could kiss her cheek.

“Detective,” she said, acting surprised. ” What are you doing down here? I give you a key to my house and you still prefer to drink with the help?” She gestured to the bartender with her fingers and he nodded, then placed a glass of something red in front of her.

Dhata saw how frightened everyone was of her presence. It was obvious that her being down there was out of the ordinary. She leaned into him, giggling as she sipped her drink. “Is it the blue-haired bartender that you're screwing? She the jealous type? You afraid she'll leave you if you come up and see me alone?”

“Maybe,” Dhata said. “But that's not why I am down here. You're a busy woman, and I respect that, so I wanted to get my drinking out of the way.”

“Hard day at the job?” she said. “You smell like you went swimming inside of a sewer.”

“The squall,” he said, shrugging dismissively. “I'm going to need your girls to get to someone that’s untouchable.”

“Slow your roll,” Janae said as she adjusted herself to sit up straight. “You know my rules. We don't talk business down here, unless said business involves sex and money.”

“Hey, you came to me, remember? I just wanted a drink. Was going to come up there later to tug on your fancy coat.”

“Well, you're here now, so who and why? If it's too hot I'll have to charge you, but you know my rate.”

“Let's go upstairs,” he said, annoyed that he didn't get some time to himself. He noticed that she smiled when she got up and he wondered at her motive for coming down.

She led him to an elevator that was behind the stairs and he could feel the numerous eyes on him as he followed her through the room. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?” he said as he caught up to her.

“What, you looking like a customer? I'm loving it. They're probably wondering where you got the 100,000 UCCs to get between my legs. They'll probably call your captain tomorrow to ask her how a John could afford Madame Jae.” She laughed loudly.” I want to see the look on Miss Wu’s face when she finds out. Her pining for you every night, and you come down to Ybor to pay.”

“Glad you find it funny because I don't. How do you know so much about her anyway? I thought I told you to take the kuno off me.”

“No, you told me to take Deshna off of you, which I did. You're too important, so I will always have my eyes on you, Dhata.”

Dhata thought about the times he was intimate with Tiffany and the multiple shootouts he’d had. He couldn't imagine someone watching all of this; it was a violation that bothered him deeply. “I don't believe you,” he said as they got on the elevator. “I think you put cameras on the bar but you respected my wishes. I've had a chase, been shot, and no kuno swooped in, so while you have information, there's no shadow on me.”

“You were shot?” she said, finally serious. She took his hand and turned him to face her. She was small in stature despite her station but she had made her name destroying powerful men. He turned to face her and she touched his cheek. “Who hurt you, Dhata?” she said, but then the elevator opened, distracting her.

Leading the way out, he rubbed his head. “I'm not hurt, I had on armor, but it's been crazy these last few days. Jae, I didn't come here to report or complicate things, if you know what I mean. I have a high-level target that I want squeezed. He's a Skinner boss who goes by the name Lorne.”

They were in the plush meeting room where they had met before, back when he was trying to shake his shadow. Janae took a seat and then called him over. He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She touched his hand. “What do you need from this hume?” she said.

“I need to know about an implant exchange. This is for the case, Jae, so I need him to talk. I need him to tell you everything. There's a man named Chester Raul who they chose as a donor. They took him from the squall and killed him. I want to know the full name of this client, and how much the Cat Skinners were paid.”

“Cat Skinners, huh? Well this will be more sport than work, Dhata. Do you care if he dies?”

“Not particularly,” he said. “At this point, I am over playing nice with these fools. It's the Children of Paradise, Jae, that's who's killing the synths. But I need you to exercise patience so that we can shut them down for good.”

“Exercise patience,” she repeated, as if it was a novel concept. “I don’t know how much patience I can have when those butchers are killing my people, Dhata. I trust you, however, that’s why you’re up here with me. I’ll put a girl on your Lorde and tell her to keep him breathing.”

‡Chapter 15‡

Bloody Sunday

After leaving Madame Jae’s, Dhata drove straight home to wash off the stink of the squall. He knew that Janae would get all the answers before killing Lorne. He was a Cat Skinner boss so letting him live meant more Cat Skinners attacking Ybor City.

The assassin would torture him to get the information and then he would simply disappear. They would find a way to make it appear that it was a rival human gang that got him. Dhata worried about Marv. Would he come forward with what he had done? Would he tell his bosses that a John had come through the night before and threatened to kill him?

Not if he values his life, Dhata thought. He’d have to admit to giving up Lorne, and there would be no forgiving that. When he was clean and settled in, he made a pathetic dinner of canned fomeal meatloaf, bread, and two old apples. He hoped that Lucky made it out alright and would make the right choices. He had been in law enforcement long enough to know his chances were slim to none. Still, anything was better for him than staying in Marv’s cesspool. He would’ve eventually been hurt, and Dhata would find out, and then he’d have to make good on his threat.

He got a message from Tiffany. She was worried that after her Paradise story he no longer wanted to see her. It made him smile. She was falling for him, and no matter how much she denied her feelings he could see right through it.

Relationships complicated detective work, but so did sleeping around with random women. With the hools he dealt with he would often worry that the hot girl he took home could be an assassin. Tiffany had nothing to worry about and he told her as much, sending her a message from his bed.

Dhata had a hard time falling asleep so he got up and turned on his rack. It was a little past midnight and he felt fatigued. As he perused his case files he heard a commotion outside the door, but this was nothing new so he worked at ignoring it. Is someone trying my lock? he thought, then switched the rack to show the feed from the camera outside.

He expected Tiffany, but what he saw was a man. He was dressed in black with a hooded sweater and was working on the door. Dhata picked up the Glock and slid over to the door. He waited in the shadows, listening. The noise grew silent and he glanced over to the rack to see if the man was still there. The hallway was clear.

“What in the hell?” he whispered, then went back to the rack to check the footage.

The man at the door had fled seconds before, and Dhata wondered if he had heard him get up. He went back to his door, slid it open and looked around, but there was nothing in the hallway except trash and bad graffiti.

It was the first time that he’d seen the place empty since he’d moved in over a year ago. There were always stim heads floating around, or the dealers looking for new clientele. The emptiness made him uneasy and he glanced down at his pistol. He probed the hall, following the footprints, and saw that the would-be burglar was gone.

When he turned to go back inside, he saw red splotches on his door. It was an attempt at an X drawn in blood. Below it was what appeared to be a finger, and he stooped down to verify that it was.

“What is this,” he whispered as he examined it close. “Is this some sort of threat meant to scare me?”

It was a well-manicured finger with black fingernail polish and his mind went to regions of panic. It was too dark to be Tiffany’s and it was missing a tattoo, but he couldn’t think of anyone else that it could belong to. Emerson, he thought. No, she would never color her nails. Then he rotated the finger and examined the cut and he saw that it belonged to a synth.

Janae? No, her nails were long. Maybe it belongs to one of her kunoichis? He wanted to call her but that wouldn’t help, because she would insist he tell her why he was asking. The finger could have come from anyone, but the message was a warning. This sent his mind back to Chevy and the Paradise church that he was a part of.

Dhata went back inside and reported the crime, then moved into action, packing his things. He placed the finger inside a bag and put it in his freezer, then he went to his room and found some clothes. When he was finished packing, he sat facing the door with a shotgun in his lap.

He couldn’t think of another time when he as a police officer had been threatened at his home. Hools would utter threats when under duress, but nothing as brazen as this. Someone had not only risked painting his door with blood, but had managed to run off all the stim heads in order to do it.

Everything about it read Paradise, though he reasoned it could be the Skinners. Whomever it was didn’t work alone, and had this planned for when he came home. It could be a neighbor of his who knew his schedule, and both Paradise and the Cat Skinners had members everywhere.

“I can’t be here,” he whispered, his body all nerves. He grabbed his bag and jogged out to the Buick. His intent was to drive out to the zeppelin, camp out inside, and catch his breath. He had not been this angry for a long time. The violation had him seeing red and he needed to catch the punk who did it. The footage on the feed was too poor to see the face, and even if he could, the person had worn a hood to make identification more difficult.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he noticed a crowd of people coming in from off the street. He recognized many of them as his neighbors, so he slammed on the brake and stepped out of his car.

“Hey, you, come over here,” he said to one stim junkie. The tall man limped over to where Dhata was standing. “Where are you all coming from this late? Was there a party next door?”

“No, man, ain’t you up? They was giving out UCCs at the church,” he said.

“The church down there on 56th?” Dhata said.

“Yeah,” said a woman who had been eavesdropping, “They put up flyers earlier in the day.”

Dhata thanked them and drove to the church, where he saw more of his neighbors mulling around in the yard. Grabbing his pistol, he pulled on his coat and walked up to the building to see who was in charge. As he climbed the stairs to the building, the doors slammed in his face, and that was when the threads of his patience finally gave way.

Charging up the stairs like a bull, he put his shoulder into the door, but it was solid wood and didn’t give, so he backed up and kicked it open. Several people gasped in horror—probably mistaking him for a robber—but he was riding on rage, leaving logic behind. All he wanted was a target and he found it on the inside, as two people in robes rushed to the back door.

Dhata ran to catch up with them, noticing that the church was a Paradise temple. He had been unable to tell from the outside. When he got to the stage and pushed open the door, he entered a meeting room full of old music equipment, and another set of doors leading out. He was through them in three strides to see a white car driving off. He aimed his pistol but then stopped himself.

Having failed his mission, he walked back inside and took careful inventory of the place. In the low light, the place looked clean and well-maintained, with photos of Paradise on every wall. There were murals of hibiscus plants all over the place, and no technology connecting it to the grid.

“Right under our noses,” Dhata said as he walked around examining the place. He turned on the recorder through his ICLs and walked the length of the entire building.

It was similar in layout to a Christian church, if all of the crosses were flowers. One wall that really grabbed Dhata’s focus was one where there were photographs of all the members. He studied each of the mugshots there to see if Chevy’s killers were present. When he didn’t find him he exhaled with frustration, thought about the fact that he was now trespassing, and walked back to his car.

The stim head from before had walked back to the property to see what Dhata had done. When he saw him emerge, probably looking like death incarnate, he made to run but Dhata caught him before he could get far. “What’re you doing back here? Are you part of this church?”

“No, but I know some of the brothers. They feed us once in a while,” he said.

“So the brother who gave out the UCCs tonight, was he one of the ones that you know?” Dhata said.

“Oh, yeah, Brother Miles, he is good people, y’know? I even asked him if I could join, but he told me that I don’t qualify. See, we have to have a clean vessel to accept Paradise,” he said. “The vessel is the body, and you see, I like to party, right?

Dhata thought that he wanted to be sick listening to the way this man was talking. He hated this new wave of slang with the y’knows, and the ‘rights,’ though for some reason with Tiffany he considered it cute. He waited for the man to finish talking about the honor of joining the church, then he led him inside and took him to the wall.

“So, which one of these is Brother Miles?” Dhata said, forcing himself to give the man a smile.

“No, no, man, I s-saw you chase him out just now. You’re trying to hurt him, ain’t you? I can’t help you hurt my friend,” he said.

“I’m a police officer. How much harm can I do to your friend? He’s running because of my outfit; he may not know that I’m police. If you can identify him to me, I can come back dressed differently and engage the brother in peace. Plus I have twenty UCCs for you, considering that you’ve been a great help.”

The money was what brought him around as he pointed out Miles, and Dhata reached out and took the picture. He reached inside of his pocket for a UCC card, then placed his finger on it. He synched his implant, logged into his bank and deposited twenty credits on it. When he gave it to the man he looked ready to hug him, but Dhata quickly walked out to get back into the Buick.

Blue and red lights from the police vehicles were all over the street. “Looks like the cavalry’s finally here,” he said. He thought about going to them and letting them know that Paradise was at fault, but he decided against it and took the car west.

He had a photograph of his conspirator, and a recording of the interior of one of their temples. He wasn’t sure how he would use them, but at least it was something.

When he woke up the next morning it was after ten o’clock and his interface was flooded with messages. There were notes from Jason, and some from Tiffany. He even saw a missed call from Captain Emerson.

He’d slept on the dirty metal floor with his duffle bag as his pillow. Though he had slept like a stone, when he woke up his body felt stiff and broken. Stretching his limbs, he tried not cry out as a lifetime of wounds screamed out at him. But once they were stretched he could get up and move, so he happily weathered the pain.

He called up Jason and they spoke about the incident. He asked if they’d learned anything about the finger.

“No, but you’ll be happy to know that Emerson has made it our primary objective. Every badge in the city is looking for a match for that finger. She figures if she finds the victim, she can find the perp. No John gets threatened under my report, she said.” Jason made a little laugh. “It’s as if she doesn’t hate us, right?”

“That’s big of her, but I already know who did it,” Dhata said. “I just want to know whose finger they cut. I keep thinking it’s someone I know, but I just don’t know who. Look, Jay, we’re both on this case so you need to be careful. They found out where I lived which means you could be next. We need to get moving on this thing, get an arrest on Paradise or something. The longer we stay on this case the more desperate he will get.”

“But to come to your apartment with it though, Dhata, that’s crossing the line. Does he really think that he’s some sort of god or something?” Jason said. “The guy’s a pimp, preying on weak minds. It’s what all of these cult leaders do. They’re masters of psychology and manipulation, and they know what people like.”

“I wouldn’t call him a pimp. That implies money is the motive, but if you listen to this guy talk it’s all about the ego. I would call him a gangster, a self-important one. He has silly ideas, which becomes his follower’s ideas, and anyone not playing along become his enemies.”

“I can agree with that, Dee, but I have to call you later,” he said.

When he got off the call, Dhata decided that work on the zeppelin would not be happening for a while. He needed more evidence on Paradise, and Flatwoods Park was a good place to start. He kept a small reservoir tank near the zeppelin to collect the toxic rain and purify it. Since he spent a lot of time out here he needed to have running water, and since it rained constantly, this was a reliable source.

He dressed for action and got back on the road, calling Tiffany from the car. He planned to spend the night at her place, and he wanted to make sure it was okay to do so. She chided him for not getting back to her after she had called earlier. Apparently Jason had tipped her off about the attack, since he called her assuming Dhata was at her place.

“You had me up early worrying about you,” she said. “I thought that you were actually hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Tiff, it’s been a crazy morning. I’m just now able to call you. How are you doing, you feeling alright?” he said.

“I am now that I know that you’re safe,” she said.

“Look, I’m running a few errands that need to get done, then I wanted to see if you’re able to hang out. My apartment will be busy with the Johns doing their thing so I can’t go home, just yet.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m not doing anything. Finish up and come hang out with me.”

“Hey, I had another question about Paradise, if you don’t mind. Have they made any new threats since we’ve been together?” he said.

“Threats, to me? No, but they made a lot of them when I lived downtown. I had an apartment like yours in a government riser, and it was the cutest thing—I had it decked out, you would have loved it. Anyway, I was there when I joined and changed my mind, and every week something different would happen. Someone threw paint on my car, I got fired for no reason, and things just started happening to me. Didn’t take me long to realize that it was them, so I broke my lease and found work here, and asked the owner if I could get the apartment upstairs.”

“That sounds horrible,” Dhata said. “How long was that going on?”

“A little over two years before I moved. For some reason they haven’t bothered me here, but I hoped that they had moved on. Now I hear that you are getting the treatment and I feel so bad,” Tiffany said.

“Don’t be mad. They don’t realize that they chose the wrong one to threaten. I’m bringing the heat back to them, and I won’t stop until they’re toast. I just wanted to make sure you’re not being targeted,” Dhata said.

“Go do what you need to do and stop worrying about me,” she said.

“I know, I know, you can take care of yourself. But I’m a John, my first instinct is to protect.”

When he got off the phone he stopped by an electronics kiosk to purchase some surveillance equipment. He drove out to Flatwoods Park and made the long walk to the bathroom where he’d seen the graffiti. He didn’t know what would come from installing a camera there, but at this point he was desperate for answers.

The sky was bright, though dark clouds were beginning to gather, and his ICLs warned of rain. He reached the building and readied his pistol, then checked the rooms to make sure he was alone. For the next few minutes he looked for places to stick the tiny cameras where they couldn’t be seen. He had purchased five of them and synched them to his rack so that he would be alerted whenever someone showed up.

Without any sort of warning the rain began to fall, a warm drizzle that forced Dhata to hurry. When the cameras were set, he triggered an augmented visual through his ICLs. Synching his implant to the rack in the Buick, he pulled up separate screens from each camera. When he was satisfied that they were enough to get a full view of the bathroom and its surroundings, he pulled his coat tight and left.

As he walked back towards his car, he thought of Tiffany’s story and the fact that so many members of the organization had murdered synths. Every day a synth went missing, and no-one seemed to care. Humanity needed them, mostly for their ingenuity, but also to renovate buildings that had been destroyed in the war.

This Paradise cult and its murderous entry fee alluded to a bigger plan to eliminate the synth. There were only three companies in the world that manufactured them, producing random citizens to meld into society. Development was slow, taking years, and this was why Paradise believed it possible to wipe them out. Tiffany had confirmed it, and as Dhata walked, he thought about the possibility of this deeper, darker plot.

Was the government protecting them? Were they the ones behind Paradise’s rise? Rumors had been circulating that Manton was more than a religious leader. He had grown his membership to the point where he could influence votes. With numbers like that, what’s to stop him from running for a government seat? Dhata thought.

He made a call to Tiffany to let her know that he was on his way. He’d spend the weekend with her but then it was time to go to war.

‡Chapter 16‡

Burning Love

Tiffany’s apartment was normally quiet, which made it easier for Dhata to sleep there. His apartment was one of the government buildings, so the tenants cared little for keeping the noise down. There was always a domestic fight followed by sirens, and if it wasn’t that then there were gunshots—despite ballistic weapons being illegal.

Though Dhata had grown accustomed to sleeping through the chaos, he found her apartment to be a welcome escape. So when his eye came open at 4:00 a.m. he knew that something was wrong. Tiffany was fast asleep, purring lightly, and all of the lights were off.

Switching his ICLs to night vision, he scanned the room, but nothing was out of place. He was tempted to close his eyes, but instinct urged him on, so he slid off the bed and picked up his pistol. The smell hit him first. Something was burning, so he ran to the window to see what was going on. Several people were below them, tossing what appeared to be Molotov cocktails, and the bar below was consumed in flames.

Dhata ran back to Tiffany and shook her awake, but she was really under and wouldn’t rouse. He scooped her up into his arms and found the porch door, slid it open to the balcony and took her outside. By now he could feel the flames as they worked their way up to the apartment. The arsonists saw him and scattered, running towards a car, and Dhata looked below where the awning still hadn’t caught fire.

Where is the unit to protect Tiff that was supposed to be out there? he thought. He knew the answer. They’d been paid off. While it disappointed him, it didn’t come as a surprise. He shook Tiffany violently until she woke up, and though she objected angrily he pointed towards the awning.

“The bar is on fire. We need to jump,” he said. “There is no choice, we have to jump.”

She looked ready to cry and at first he thought that she was frightened, but he quickly realized that she was worried about the bar. Dhata needed her to hurry as he watched the four men speed off in a van. He read its plates, then made a call to the police, citing that an officer had been attacked.

As he got off the call he was surprised to see Tiffany climb over the railing and then glance at him. “You’re coming too, right?” she said, and he nodded and touched her cheek. Then she let go, bouncing on the awning before falling clumsily onto the street.

Dhata vaulted the railing and landed the same way, but as he bounced he steadied himself and landed on his feet. The wound on his side screamed and forced him to gasp but he was more concerned for Tiffany. She’d hit her head and seemed to be in a daze, so he picked her up and ran her over to the Buick.

“Hold on, brown eyes, let me do my thing and then we’ll get this looked at, okay?” he said.

Tiffany nodded from the passenger seat and then closed her eyes and looked away.

Dhata synched his implant to his vehicle and marked the van, urging the AI to follow it. “CINI,” he said, “we need to catch that van. Override your tethers and get after that thing.” As the motor came to life and they sped off, he saw Tiffany look back at her place with tears in her eyes.

“The apartment is connected to the grid,” she said. “So the fire department should be on their way. I just don’t know what I’m going to do without that bar. I’m sure Jacob has insurance but he’s going to be pissed.”

“You’re not alone,” Dhata said. “We’ll figure something out.” He reached over and took her hand. “Ride’s about to get bumpy as we chase these hools, but I need to know who they are and why they attacked your bar.”

“If that’s what you’re after, sugar, there’s no need to chase. Paradise is feeling the pressure, so he put his wolves on me,” Tiffany said.

“You, or me?” Dhata said. “I’m the one doing the investigation.”

“Yeah, but he’s well connected, and I’m sure he knows that you and I are a thing,” she said. “Now he can kill two birds with one stone. The defector who left them, and the snoop threatening to expose them.”

“If that’s the case then he just signed his death warrant. Nobody threatens me and mine,” Dhata said. He took back his hand and did a check on his pistol, then he reached behind him and pulled a shotgun up from the floor. “I’m off the reservation right now, Tiff, but I have no time or choice. I want to get you to safety, but that would take me off their scent, and I—”

“Do what you need to do,” she said. “I will be okay. I would rather have answers than be stuck with just a burned up building. My head is killing me, but I’m alright. Don’t lose these assholes, okay?”

He touched the dashboard and selected an icon that looked like a police shield. Instantly the interface changed from a cobalt color to a menacing red. The radio came on. There were Johns looking for the van, but Dhata wasn’t hearing anyone say that they’d caught up to it.

Being that he had seen the vehicle and synched the ID up with the Buick, CINI tapped into the city’s surveillance and was using that to track. He uploaded this information to the police grid so that the other officers could use it, but by the time he was finished with the sequence, he had eyes on the van.

He switched the controls to manual and got on the accelerator, jumping over a median to close the gap. They had just made a turn so he attempted a pit maneuver, gunning the Buick towards the rear region of the van. The driver adjusted well, however, and managed to still get out, and that was when two squad cars came off the highway to pursue them.

“What’s up, boys,” Dhata said, and resumed his chase behind them, but the van’s back tire was in trouble, and the driver couldn’t maintain control. He spun out in front of them and then pushed it back the opposite way. Dhata cursed as they drove past him and made the U-turn to pursue. He looked over at Tiffany and her face was white, but he could see that she was trying her best to be brave.

The van’s system fixed its tire and it was back speeding down a residential neighborhood. The Buick was fast, and took the lead from the squad cars, so Dhata sent in his ID to let them know that it was him. When he grew close again he got the pit to work, and the van hit a pole and stopped in its tracks.

Dhata was out with his pistol and so were the other Johns, but the arsonists seemed content with sitting inside.

“They’re going to try to suicide,” Dhata shouted.

But when he ran up to the rear and busted out the window, three of them were already dead. The other policemen came up and they worked at opening the door, but by the time they got inside all but one was dead. This last man was young and had been too frightened to take his life, so they slapped him in handcuffs and put him inside one of the squad cars.

When they opened the van they could here Manton Paradise talking. They had been listening to one of his speeches. He turned the reins over to another detective, then took Tiffany to the nearest med-pod. It was an egg-shaped portable station with room for one person to sit inside.

Med-pods were government funded medical stations that were emergency rooms for desperate people. Advanced AI analyzed your injuries, then administered aid via robotic arms. While the pod was occupied the door would shut, sealing in the patient to keep everything sanitary. It was a versatile machine, and it was quick, recommending a real doctor if your injuries surpassed its functions.

Dhata left Tiffany inside of it and drove back to the van, where he could answer the necessary questions and give a report. The survivor was rambling and revealing a lot, including being told to go after Tiffany Wu. He had been promised gifts as a soldier of Paradise, like all of the other warriors chosen to carry out the prophet’s wishes.

“We need to get him in protective custody immediately,” Dhata said. “You see what they’re willing to do to protect their guy. Get him somewhere where they can’t know how to reach him, and let Emerson know immediately.”

When he picked up Tiffany she was waiting by the pod, but despite him being gone over an hour, she didn’t look as if she’d been waiting for long. “What’s the diagnosis?” he said.

“Just a slight concussion. It gave me some pills and wrapped my head.”

He opened the passenger door and helped her inside, then went around to the driver’s side and got them back on the road. “Hell of a morning, huh?” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I wish it was over but we’re not out of the muck yet. With those four idiots failing, Paradise is likely to double down. That is, if we don’t get to him first to make an arrest.”

“Have you gone to the temple?” she said.

“No, it’s in the hands of the FBI. We were going to take care of it ourselves, but there’s rules, if you know what I mean. My main concern is getting you to safety so that they can’t put their crosshairs on you. There are other bars, Tiff, but you only have one life. Don’t let this nonsense kill your light.”

“Okay, so where do we go now?” she said, closing her eyes.

“Ybor City to Madame Jae. She’s a friend of mine. I just need you to get some rest there while I report what happened. Between this and other evidence I’ve collected, we should be able to make an arrest.”

“On what grounds?” she said.

“Multiple counts of conspiracy, not to mention racketeering and murder by proxy. Arson, attempted murder, and kidnapping is possible, along with terrorist activity. His mark is on everything, and now we have one of his members. Trust me when I say that their time is almost up. As to Ybor, I need you to stay there. It’s the only place where you’ll be safe.”

“What about the police station?” she said. “They wouldn’t dare come in there.”

“Yeah, well they executed one of their own while he was in one of our cells, and I’m pretty sure that one of our Johns is a member of their church. Just sit tight. It will only be a day, and Madame Jae has everything you’ll need.”

He drove her to the brothel and helped her out of the car since she still seemed to be dazed after hitting her head. There were a number of hools on the stairs of the building and they made to stop him upon approach. One recognized him and shoved the others to the side, and helped him to bring Tiffany inside.

This time Dhata elected to take the guest entrance, and alerted Janae that he was there. She bade him to wait for her in the elevator’s lobby, and he sat with Tiffany on one of the couches. “They’re getting ready for war,” Tiffany said. “Did you see the weapons they had?”

“Yeah, tubes and old rifles. If Emerson knew she’d flip her wig. I guess Janae is preparing for something, and I don’t really like it.”

“Dhata,” Janae said as the elevator opened and she emerged with two armed kunoichis dressed all in black. “Oh, you brought Miss Wu, and she seems to be injured. I hope you have a good explanation for this.”

Dhata stood up and approached her, letting his hands slide into his pockets. He realized that this looked menacing, so he dared not move an inch. “Something happening outside for you to be building an army?” he said, and the two kunoichis walked silently to either side of him. Dhata glanced at the two of them and then at Janae. “Do you have a problem with me, Jae?”

She began to laugh. “Did you see his face, girls? No, I have no problem with you, Dhata. How can I have a problem with you when the two of us go back so far?” She glanced down at Tiffany, and Dhata rolled his eyes and stepped in closer to her.

“Janae, focus. What is going on?” he said.

“How about we get Miss Wu to somewhere safe before the two of us talk business?” she said.

As the kunoichis helped Tiffany to her feet, she shot Dhata a glance of pain and confusion. He walked up to her and took her into his arms, but when he made to kiss her she looked away. “Jae and I have history,” he said. “But now we’re merely good friends. I didn’t lie to you about anything, but I’m desperate and she can help.”

“Just be careful,” Tiffany said, and she reached up and rubbed his head. “Everything’s going crazy all of a sudden and you’re like right in the middle of it.”

“I’ll come for you in a day or two but call me if you need anything,” he said. She let him kiss her, and then they took her away and he fell in next to Janae. She took him inside a smaller room.

“Lorne had some sort of tracker on him, Detective,” Janae said. “We did as you said and got the information out of him, but when we put out his lights, I got a message from the Skinners. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? They dared to threaten me.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the Johns on the Skinners. I won’t let them lay a finger on you,” Dhata said. “As to the Paradise freaks, they’re about to feel the pain. I have enough evidence to drown their leader. Just keep Tiffany safe because they’ll want to use her against me.”

“They won’t be able to get to her, not if she’s with me,” Janae said. “Why didn’t you call before you brought her here? You know my rules. If it wasn’t you, she’d be dead.”

“They attacked me twice, and this time they burned down her place,” Dhata said.

“They, as in the Paradise freaks?”

“Yes, it’s why I rushed Tiffany over here. You know me, Janae. Do you think I wanted her to meet you?” Dhata said, and the synth boss began to laugh as if he said the funniest thing ever. “I know you get a kick out of making me uncomfortable, but what you did earlier, hinting that we’re still a thing? That was just dirty and you know it.”

Janae shrugged. “It’s my house. I do what I want, and you chose to bring your princess here. But I’ll play nice. I owe you that much. But I’ll have to ask that next time you give me a warning. Don’t you know a girl gets jealous, especially when it’s you?” she said, reaching forward to touch his cheek.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you? Now, Lorne, what did he tell you?” Dhata said. “Please tell me he gave you a name.”

“Yes, he talked, but man, was he stubborn. We had to put out an eye before he gave up the name. Horacio Calabrese is the name of the man who came to them for the implant. But the interesting part according to Lorne is that the money did not come from him. He said a member of the Paradise cult came to visit them with enough money for that implant and many more to come. They’re in bed with those freaks, my love, which makes them an enemy to my people.”

“Yeah, I can dig it,” Dhata said. “They’re my enemy too. Thanks for everything, Jae, I owe you big. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to put an end to this.”

‡Chapter 17‡

Miles and Miles

It was late Sunday night when Dhata woke up to the shriek of the alarm from his surveillance cameras. He jumped up abruptly and fumbled for the rack, but he had purposefully set it outside of his range. He was in a hotel and had fallen asleep earlier than he normally would, but he was exhausted and the warm, firm bed had put him out.

When he was awake enough to open his eyes to find the source of the annoying sound, he saw the augmented screen above it showing the five feeds from the cameras. He rubbed his eyes and ran over to the desk to see what they were capturing. There were four men, pulling a fifth after them, and Dhata could see that he was bound and gagged.

They brought him over to the old bathroom and chained him up to the rings and then backed away as a fifth man walked up and began to speak. Dhata recognized the man as the one from the photo: not Manton Paradise, but Miles Holiday. He was shouting at one of them. Miles handed the man a machete, and he held the weapon but wouldn’t move.

After a long series of shouting and goading him on, the armed man swung and chopped their captive in his arm. Blood curdling screams ensued but he just kept on hacking, and when he was through the arm, Miles shouted at him again.

The dismembering of their captive went on for quite some time, but when they were satisfied with their work, they took him down and carried his parts off camera. When they had finished removing the body, one came back to wash away the blood. He didn’t see the cameras, so he took his time, and eventually the evidence was gone.

Dhata felt sick to his stomach after watching the murder in detail, but he finally had the evidence needed to bring down Manton Paradise. He couldn’t trust the police or the FBI, since a Paradise member would destroy the evidence. He saved the footage and combined it with the photo of Miles, then wrote a note and sent it anonymously to one of the media outlets.

His hope was that the expose would do what Emerson couldn’t. It would trigger the public to call for action, and then the government would apply the necessary pressure. The FBI would take over, and Paradise would be up on charges, and then they’d reach out to him and Jason to get what they needed. With his evidence on Chevy’s killers, Monk Sandberg, and Tony York, it would be an open and shut case on the Children of Paradise.

As he closed the rack he wondered if he was doing the right thing. A good police officer would have taken this surveillance back to headquarters and used it to get a warrant to pick up Miles. But they were butchering a synth, which meant blockers and delays were inevitable. He was at his wits end, now that they’d come for Tiffany, and he was well past wanting to do the right thing.

He thought of the poor synth screaming and how they’d strung him up like meat. Miles was also the man responsible for the blood on his door and the threats. He was moving before he could think better of it, pulling on his pants and boots. Then came the vest and the duster, followed by his hat and gun.

It took him a little over thirty minutes to make it out to the park, but when he did he noticed that another car was parked near the entrance. Dhata went across the street to a fueling station and parked the Buick on the far side of the building. Jogging back to where he’d seen the vehicle, he kept to the shadows to avoid detection.

When he got to the park he hopped the fence and stood behind one of the trees, watching the vehicle. He couldn’t see anyone inside, or any sign of an alarm, so after a while he tiptoed across the lot and placed a tracker beneath the rear bumper.

It was an old Cadillac, a ghostly white, and he recognized it as the same vehicle that they had used to escape him at the church. Once he planted the tracker he went back to the fueling station, purchased a caffeine supplement, and sat inside his car.

It was a waiting game now, but as a detective he was used to it. They would take the body via hovercraft to some remote location, and then when they were finished, Brother Miles would take them back to the church. The fool who hacked the synth up would be made into a full member, and the synth would just end up missing to those who loved and cared for him.

“Not tonight,” Dhata said to himself. “Somebody’s going to answer for this.” He chewed on the tablets and touched the dashboard to bring up a map with the tracker’s location. After doing this he flipped the interface to music and searched through his endless library. He chose a classic jazz album, A Love Supreme by John Coltrane, and let it play as he sat back and watched the green blip of the tracker.

It was three hours later when they finally pulled off, and Dhata was awakened for the second time. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep but when he heard the chime he moved. Pulling out onto the road, he augmented the map and a green line outlined itself on the road in front of him. “CINI, take over,” he said, talking to his car as “Resolution” blasted over the airwaves.

As they drove down the highway he was surprised to see that they were not heading to the church but to somewhere else. They stopped several times on the way—he assumed to let the other members off—and he recorded every single stop to add to his report.

After the fourth stop the car picked up speed, taking them to the bluffs. This was a nice neighborhood, rich with low-level homes and clean streets. The Cadillac stopped near the curb of one of these fancy gated homes and Miles got out and went inside.

Do you live here, or does your god live here? Dhata wondered as he watched him go up to the door to let himself inside. He parked by the curb so he’s a visitor. This is probably where Paradise lives.

He considered following him inside to slap them both in handcuffs but he knew that it wouldn’t be that easy. The nap he took earlier was a blessing in disguise since he felt alert sitting there watching the house. Nothing was happening, though some of the lights went out. He dared not approach, knowing that there would be surveillance.

Somehow he dozed off again and was awakened by a call coming in from none other than Emerson. He looked up at the sky and saw that hours had passed, but the white Cadillac was still parked in front of him. “Mays, I need you to turn on your television and look at the news with the focus, Flatwoods Park. You may not even have to search. It’s all over the network and I need answers, now.”

“I know about the video, and yeah it looks bad since it’s the same synth killers that you gave me shit for,” Dhata said.

“Can’t help yourself, can you? You have to get the final word. Well, the mayor is pissed and I need some answers. Who are these men on the video? You’ve sent me files but I just don’t—” She paused and went into a fit of sneezing.

“Allergies?” Dhata said.

“Yeah, every morning the same old thing. Anyway, tell me what you know so that I can get ahead of this thing,” she said.

It took everything for Dhata not to blow her off. She did not deserve the hard work that he and Jason had put in. She, their Captain, who wanted them to ignore the synths in order to stick to human cases that she could brag about. Now that the media was broadcasting the footage, she was worried about the public’s unease. The footage wasn’t telling them that the man being butchered on the video was one of the ‘androids’ that they hated. It just looked like violent crime.

“Listen, I’m here in front of the house of Miles Holiday. He’s the one who put blood on my door with the severed synth finger. He’s also the man on that video that’s barking orders. I’m sending you the address if you want to come pick him up.”

“I won’t ask you why, Mays. I’m going to trust that you’re doing things right. Are you sure that’s the right guy?” Emerson said. She sounded ready to sneeze again.

“Positive. Here, I’m sending you over a photo. You tell me if it’s not the same person on your video.”

“I don’t understand, Mays. Why didn’t you report this earlier? The Church of Paradise is threatening our police officers? Why are they doing this? There’s been nonstop synth killing for weeks. Has it been them the whole time? Was Tony—my god. I need you tell me everything so that I make the right call.”

Dhata told her about the evidence they had concerning the Children of Paradise. He told her how the murders were connected, the photographs in their houses, and the man she had in custody who tried to burn Tiffany alive. He also spared no words in telling her how she had dropped the ball. How he and Jason had to do things on their own because of her stance on synths.

Emerson shouted several expletives out of frustration, then told him to stay put as she dispatched backup. He hung up the phone and gripped the steering wheel, hopeful that things were about to come to an end. The task force would show up and make the arrest and he would go home and get some sleep. He wished that Jason had been in on this part, but he’d been forced to act in a hurry.

Had he not leaked the video they would be stuck collecting evidence on a group that was too big to tackle. Now bigger stations would be looking at Paradise, who would be picked up for questioning and then his lawyers would move in. The combat after that would be inside of a courtroom and aside from testifying there wasn’t much that they could do.

On the upside he’d be free, no longer worrying about Tiffany’s safety, and things would return to normal. The Chevy case would be closed, as well as this new synth killing spree, and he would be back to regular detective work.

A light came on inside the house and there was a lot of activity. Then he saw Miles open the door and make a run for his car. Another set of people followed and jumped into a hovercraft, but Dhata waited to see if Manton Paradise would emerge. “Shit, he’s not even in there,” he said, as he started the Buick’s engine. He slammed on the accelerator to go after Miles, who seemed to be trying to escape.

Someone in our unit must have tipped him off, Dhata thought, so he made a call to Jason. It was after six o’clock now, and his partner would be up, so he touched the icon on the dash and initiated the call.

“Dhata, are you alright?” he said, sounding wide awake.

“I’m good, Jay. Tired, but I called to see where you’re at,” he said. Miles was driving erratically, jumping over medians, and trying to shake Dhata by making sudden turns. He was obviously an amateur at high speed chases, and Dhata, like most Johns, was a veteran of the chase.

“I got the message from Emerson to arrest Holiday, but did you see this video on the network? This has to be one of the biggest breaks that we could ask for. But anyway, you on your way out there? I can’t wait to see this guy’s face,” Jason said.

“That’s the thing, why I called you, Jay. Someone tipped him off, but I’m on his ass, going north on Florida. Don’t come out here with the rest. I need you to look into the leak. If we have a Paradise tool behind a badge, then anyone we arrest will just die.”

“I’m on it. You alone? Does Emerson know that he sprung?” Jason said.

“No, and don’t tell her jack. She could very well be the leak,” Dhata said.

The line got quiet on the other end, and Dhata knew that Jason was thinking. If their captain was corrupt, it meant bigger problems for them, starting with evidence disappearing and the two of them getting set up. “I’m going to hope and pray that the captain is with us, Dee. Anything else and we’re pretty much done. I’ll do some digging, but you look out for yourself. If he flies, let him go. The video is pretty much his death sentence anyway.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want him to kill himself. If he keeps thinking that he can beat me then he’ll hold onto his life. I’m just following him long enough for CINI to pick up a pattern. I have a tracker on the car, so he’s not going to get far, but I want to catch him off guard before he thinks that there’s no escape.”

It took another twenty minutes of driving for the computer to pick up his pattern, then the Buick veered off the main road and hopped onto the highway. Dhata opened the center console and pulled out his electroshock tube. Since Miles liked to run, he would have to shoot him, and he couldn’t afford for it to be fatal.

After driving at top speed for several minutes, CINI got back onto the main road, this time going south. Warning lights flashed all across the Buick’s dash and the seats sucked Dhata in as it prepared for impact. A few seconds later the Buick jumped the grassy media into incoming traffic, catching the Cadillac at an angle and sending it crashing into an old building.

Dhata jumped out and ran across to the wreck and yanked the door open. Miles was reaching for his mouth but Dhata’s hand caught his throat and squeezed it tightly as he pulled him from the car. “No, you don’t, you son of a bitch. You don’t get off this easy.” He took his head and slammed it into the glass, then twisted his arm violently until he dropped the pill.

Reaching behind him, he grabbed his handcuffs and cuffed Miles in a way where he could barely move. He then dragged him to the Buick and secured him in the back, using the seatbelts to tie him down. “Man, this hurts like hell,” he said.

“Good. Be glad I didn’t cut off your arm,” Dhata said. They were holding up traffic and people were out recording his actions, but by this time he no longer cared. He walked outside to look over the damage that had been done to his Buick from the crash. It wasn’t too bad, so he got back into the driver’s seat and took the quickest route back to the station.

‡Chapter 18‡

Dhata Mays

“You ever notice how smoke sort of looks like it’s dancing?” Dhata said, as he watched the tendrils of smoke from Jason’s electronic cigarette. He took a drag from his own cigar and held it for a second before allowing it to escape slowly from his mouth.

“I guess you could say it looks like dancing. It’s all random in the way it moves,” he said. They were in the corner of a bar on the second floor of Madame Jae’s Playpen. It was empty inside, except for the bartender who served them, a friendly human woman with blue-dyed hair. She was new to this bar, but a veteran at the art, and the two officers liked her so it all worked out.

“Tiffany, does Janae know that you’re pouring us her liquor?” Jason said.

“Yes. She doesn’t care. She said that we can have this place tonight,” she said.

“Jae is pretty happy that we’ve stopped the synth killings,” Dhata said. “She did give us this floor, as long as we don’t tear up the place. She’d be here drinking with us if she didn’t have business to attend to.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Jason. “I just feel weird drinking a synth boss’s liquor. That woman taxes for everything, so I don’t know what to think. A part of me feels like she’s going to send a kuno in with the bill.”

Dhata laughed. “And you call me paranoid. Jae appreciates what we did, so enjoy that cigarette and sip your drink. Not to mention you’re being served by the sexiest bartender in Tampa Bay.”

Tiffany smiled when he said this and flipped a bottle, catching it behind her neck. “Relax, Jason, you’re in good hands,” she said. “Janae told Dhata that the floor is his. Oh wait, hold on. I found the station with the report,” she said. She pointed up to one of the television screens where she had been surfing through the network.

Suddenly the screen changed to a reporter who was standing in front of several squad cars. They were parked outside of a large building, with lights flashing everywhere. The logo on the front of the building and its unique shape immediately registered as the Church of Paradise. Along with the police and the reporters there was a large crowd of people milling about.

“Looks like they got him,” Jason said, mellowed out from his cigarette smoke.

“They better have,” said Dhata. “Or I’ll go kill him myself. Did you see all the reports on Miles Holiday and what he was doing to his members? Killing synths was the tip of the iceberg. That dude deserves to rot in hell.”

Before Jason could reply the reporter was talking and Tiffany turned up the volume. She came around and stood by Dhata and he put his arm around her waist. As they watched the news report the events of the past two weeks began to feel surreal for him. The shootouts, the numerous bodies; it had been too much in too short a time.

“In today’s news,” said the reporter, an attractive woman in a smart blue suit, “A religious leader in our own Tampa Bay has been accused of some serious crimes.

“Just this morning, at 4:30 a.m., more than 60 members of law enforcement descended upon the Church of Paradise in downtown St. Pete. Armed with all manner of ballistic weapons, they went in prepared, but made an arrest without a fight.

“Manton Paradise of the Church of Paradise was charged with over thirty counts of conspiracy to commit murder. This includes five synth deaths from the past week, and several others from before. In a thirty-page indictment against Paradise, there were several other charges against him, including the firebombing of a bar known as The Underworld and threats to the life of a police officer.

“The task force included more than 30 FBI agents, along with members of SWAT and Tampa Bay’s police department. Several members of the church have been arrested, as well, and are working with the police in exchange for lighter sentences.”

Jason lifted his glass and proposed a toast, and he and Dhata touched glasses. “Got that son of a bitch, Dee. That was one hell of a job. Man, the amount of stuff you collected … there’s no way he gets out of prison. That was just scratching the surface too. Paradise is up for some serious time. Miles has been talking and if what he’s telling Emerson is true … we’re talking racketeering, kidnapping, torture, and coerced sexual favors.”

“What sort of sexual favors?” Tiffany said, and Dhata exchanged a glance with Jason.

“You dodged a bullet not joining. It was worse than you thought,” Dhata said. “The synth murders were the key to entering his Thorns of Paradise sect. But for members who wouldn’t kill synths there were other means to please him. This including having sex with not only him but members of his thorns.”

“They would have had to kill me,” Tiffany said.

“Yeah, well, I’m glad they didn’t,” Dhata said. He pulled her in and kissed her.

She tried some of his drink, smiling at how good it was. “I must say that I make one hell of an old-fashioned,” she said.

“Didn’t I call you the best bartender in Tampa Bay?” Dhata said.

“No, you called me the sexiest,” Tiffany said.

“Let’s toast to both,” Jason said, and Dhata wondered if he was drunk.

“Are we still in danger?” Tiffany said. “It’s not like they arrested every member, and if they believe that he’s their god, won’t they take their revenge?”

“Paradise is done,” said Dhata. “He’s not thinking about us right now. With all the damning evidence and no access to the pill, Miles was open to making deals. He was big in the church; I’m talking Paradise’s number two. And in exchange for a shorter sentence he gave up all the goods.”

“What if they kill him before he testifies?” Tiffany said.

“They will try, but we’ll be ready. Plus, the FBI moved him to a place where they can’t reach him. They have his testimony and a few others, including the man we arrested who burned up the bar. They’re all in custody and it’s out of our hands, so like I said, we’re the least of Paradise’s problems. Best part about Miles for me was that he gave up all of the members that were a part of the police.”

“That damn Bill Waltz. I can’t believe that guy,” Jason said.

“No wonder our crime scenes were always a mess,” Dhata said. “This whole time he was one of them so he’d corrupt the evidence and blow it off. I’m willing to bet he helped Tony get inside, and gave up my address to Miles.”

“Where’s Bill Waltz now?” said Tiffany, who took a seat next to Dhata and began to sip from his drink.

“FBI has him too. He will have to testify. That’s going to be the trial of the century. They may call you up there, Tiff, since he burned down your business,” Dhata said.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Jason said. “Wife’s seen the story, wants me home immediately.” He finished off his drink and grabbed his duster, then said his goodbyes and headed out.

“What now, Mr. Mays?” Tiffany said when they were alone.

He stood up and took her into his arms. “Well, we’ve got a full bar, and carte blanche to use it, and I don’t have anywhere to go,” Dhata said.

0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

The moonlight shone through the tall windows, defiant in its brilliance as it pushed past the clouds. Blue light accentuated the shape of Tiffany’s form as she lay sleeping on the bed. They had drank themselves stupid, which led to kissing, which led to fumbling around for a bed.

They’d chosen one at random—since there were many bedrooms—and had clumsy sex beneath the sheets. Now he watched her as she slept since insomnia reared its ugly head. He’d drank more than his limit, but he felt fine, and he wondered why he felt so restless.

Eventually he got up, crossed the room, and stood in front of the window. Before him was the expanse of Ybor City, the ghetto that had been gifted to the synths. Standing there in the moonlight, naked and uncaring, reminded him of earlier days when Janae was his Tiffany. He couldn’t appreciate the city’s beauty then like he did now, and the appreciation of being alive.

Manton Paradise and the whole ordeal had brought home the reality of the people he worked for. The police, and the people in general, did not care much for the synths. He placed his hand on the glass. It was cold and refreshing as he stared out at the ruins in the distance.

He believed in the synth people; even more, he believed that they were the future. Looking out at Ybor reminded him of why he had become a police officer, despite the corruption and the mess. He was Dhata Mays, a friend to the synth, a proven detective of the Tampa Bay Police Department. There would be other Mantons that he would tackle, and other traitors like Bill Waltz, but he would be ready for them.

He loved the city for all its flaws, and this was why he did what he did. There was a noise behind him and he turned to see Tiffany sitting up, the moon accentuating her numerous tattoos. “What you doing over there?” she said, slurring, still under the influence of the drink.

“Looking at Ybor,” he said. “No, actually, I was looking at Tampa. I just needed a reminder of who I am.”

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Read on for an excerpt from, The Judas Cypher, the next adventure in, The Synth Crisis.

‡The Judas Cypher‡

Synthetic Mary

Moonlight illuminated the parking lot like heaven’s judgment, exposing the sins of any hool foolish enough to do his dirt out in the open. The night was damp, cold and miserable. Cold for Tampa Bay, and cold for Dhata Mays as he leaned against his off-white Buick looking down at the naked body with a face frozen in an expression of surprise.

“Gon ‘head and roll it over, Jason,” he said, and the detective’s eyes flicked up to meet his. The flashing lights of the squad cars were like a disco ball on the corpse, and they gave his friend’s eyes a look of fire coming alive. “Sorry, Jason, I mean, roll him over … if you please.”

Jason Dale rolled the body onto its stomach, and sat back on his haunches staring at the pale, white back, and the neat fissure that ran from his head all the way down to the top of his buttocks. Jason looked exhausted. It had been a long night since he arrived to examine the body.

Typically when Jason called Dhata out on crime scenes it was the same old, same old: a synth being murdered for body parts, or just for simply existing. Jason would call him out, he would make his statement, then do a little investigation on which gang or hate group committed the assault. That part was easy as well, since he knew just about every gang or hate group. He would crack a few skulls, then someone would confess and he’d get paid.

Dhata’s job wasn’t something that people even knew existed. He was a police officer’s bounty hunter, a skiptracer, an ex-detective who had taken up the charge in policing society’s robotic neighbors.

Ever since the integration of synthetic people into the population, there had been a significant rise in crime—much of it having to do with the recycling of parts. Dhata, who was a detective and a friend to synths, quit the force to work for his good friend Jason. It allowed him to be involved with police work without the corruption and the miles of red tape.

“What do you think killed him?” Jason asked. “Gimme a theory and I’ll work out the science, but that man is missing his spine.”

Dhata spit through his teeth—a disgusting habit—then wiped away the excess spittle with the arm of his jacket. “That ain’t a human, he’s a synth, and he lost his spine to somebody looking to get paid.”

“So it’s a synthetic-person? Ah.” Jason perked up with excitement. “Man, they are getting really hard to detect.”

“Synth… person? Listen to you, being all politically correct. Just put this one in as a black market robbery, Jay. It’s sad that he’s dead, but do you know how many synths I’ve seen in this position?”

Jason fanned him off. “Go hound for Marys, you monger. I know how badly you need to scratch that itch. I’ll call you tomorrow if we need you down at the lab,” he said. “The rest of us real Johns will finish up here.”

“Real Johns,” Dhata mumbled and hopped into his car. He swung it around, then jabbed his finger on a red icon that would trigger the car’s heater. He held it till the gauge reached the middle—the car’s heat was always too damned hot—then switched to a jazz selection for the long ride home.

The streets were extra lively despite it being a Tuesday night. He sped down Fowler Avenue, then jumped onto the highway, mimicking the sound of the radio’s saxophone, moaning at the top of his lungs.

His phone vibrated in his ear and the screen on the Buick’s dash flashed blue. A phone icon grew from cubes of light, then dissipated to repeat the transformation again. Dhata released the steering wheel and his GPS display came alive. He slid through two screens, selected a restaurant, then released his seatbelt and leaned back.

The car accelerated and took on a life of its own, following the path toward Empire’s Tavern. “CINI, answer,” he announced and the Buick’s A.I. confirmed audibly. There was some rustling, and then it got quiet before Jason’s voice was coming through.

“Jason, what’s up? Did I drop something on the ground out there?”

“Yeah, your wits; it must be the cold. Dhata, this man is a human being.”

“WHAT?” His legs flew up and then hit the floor, forcing the back of his seat erect. “A human being? Bro, are you sure? You mean to tell me that someone snatched the spine out of one of us?”

“Yeah, but it gets better. They used a Kuroki knife, the same kind they use to extract spines from synths. The hot edges of the blade sealed it up so we wouldn’t know. Dhata, this guy was a popular judge. Man, it’s going to be all over the waves.”

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‡Glossary‡

Skiptracer – A bounty hunter and private investigator that works exclusively for the police

Cypher – What used to be known as a “hacker”

John – Police officer (A play on the French pronunciation of Gendarme)

Mary – A prostitute

Hool – A criminal or thug (The word hooligan shortened into street slang)

Grid – Computer matrix (This is a very generic term used interchangeably with “cyberspace”)

Synth – Synthetic person or Android – a sentient machine built to look and act the way a human being does.

Snoop – Detective

Global Network – The Internet according to the world of Dhata Mays

Virtual Village (ViVi) – A small world inside the global network, accessed through virtual reality

SAR – Spatial Augmented Reality

ICL – Internal Contact Lens – Built into the eyes of most human beings, the ICL is used to access personal computers and sync with external SAR units

Augment – Objects that seem real but are projected in three dimensions by an SAR

Rack – A powerful piece of computer hardware that grants access to the Grid

Fomeal – Government-issued meat substitute

Hume – A derogatory term for humans

Zeppelin – A hovering fortress used in war for bombing

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Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Glossary