It was an
hour later. The hardest part turned out to be breaking the door down.
The Gadian
had been using his own product. A haze of smoke almost hid the reptile amongst
the tall, waxy plants in the room. It wasn’t illegal to grow Ambrosia – you
needed a permit for more than a few plants, but it was the weakest drug you
could grow. The danger was if you mixed it with something else, and the
policeman found plenty of those things under the kitchen sink.
The Gadian
didn’t have a permit, and could at least be reprimanded for that. No way to
prove he was going hardcore. The policeman cuffed him and buzzed a drone over
to let the poor guy spend an afternoon in a cell. Not that he wanted to stay.
The apartment looked like it was turning into a trash heap.
Now they
were walking through one of the multi-tier markets that Ashringa Apartments
were famous for. The apartments were not one building, but a series of colossi
dedicated to keeping as many souls in one place as possible. Some Libertarian idea,
probably. It had monorails which the policeman never used. The markets were a
menagerie that sold anything and everything, but mostly counterfeit clothes and
souvenirs. His powered armor was in a mechanic's shop somewhere in here,
although he never used the same one twice in a row.
A stench of
grease, mechanical and fried, permeated the air. Piche's face crumpled more
than usual.
“Smell is
bad-bad,” the dog complained.
“It’s pretty
nasty, yeah.”
He fished in
his jeans pockets and hooked a few coins. A few dollars - not worth a lot in a
place where currency changed more than fashion. He trooped to a stall manned by
a tiny floating shark and bought a sandwich, a can of soda that tasted like syrup,
and a chocolate bar. The candy went to Piche.
“Isn’t
chocolate poisonous to you? No offense, but...”
“Piche has
strong stomach,” replied the dog, mouth full.
Some things
were mysteries.
He walked
through the market, eating the sandwich. It had reasonable approximations of
bacon and tomato in it. Around, above and below the catwalks came the calls and
voices of thousands, tens of thousands of people. Buying, selling, bartering,
singing. Compressed life.
Most people,
he'd learnt, were well-meaning but stupid. Many crimes were often explained by
the short phrase "I only wanted to." For example, I only wanted to
stop him messing around. Or, I only wanted to see what it was like. People
would do the stupidest, most hurtful things in good faith. The Gadian from earlier,
for instance. Then you had the low level offenders, filled with a stupid hate
that made animals of them. Easy to deal with, but hard to scrub out. You couldn’t
change their minds with a crowbar and a planet to brace yourself against.
Then you had
people who had woke up one morning, thought carefully about it, and decided
that they wanted to hurt other people. He'd only met one person like that.
His watch
beeped. He pressed a button and Officer Ramirez appeared. Ramirez was
half-Spanish, half-Asian. He was an okay guy, maybe.
“Hey, Big
C.” A blurt of static obscured the hologram for a moment. “Where you at?”
“Small time
shit, man. Same as always.”
Ramirez
didn’t grin this time. “We need you. Some stall owner's phoned in. Kid stole a
bunch of food from his junk. We last pinged the car on Botticelli and we need
someone to take it down."
"My
suit's in the shop, buddy. I'll have to take a jet rig."
"Well,
hurry up! Whoever's piloting that car is gonna break out of the cordon before
long. You'll need to -"
"A
fucking SBF, I know." The policeman pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'll be there in five, dig?"
"You
better, chingu." Ramirez' hologram snapped out of existance.
SBF. Suicide
By Falling. Intercepting a vehicle by jumping from a tall building and using
ancient jetpacks to try and land on top. No prizes for guessing where the name
came from. It wouldn't be so bad if he had his armor - he might only break a
few ribs.
"Sorry,
Piche," he said to the dog. "I'll try and not die."
"Good
luck." The alien scuttled off into the crowd.
