The Scorpion Game by Daniel Jeffries

Author:Daniel Jeffries [Jeffries, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cyberpunk, biopunk, nanopunk, noir, crime, thriller, science fiction, sci-fi
Publisher: My Muse Machine, LLC
Published: 2013-12-13T08:00:00+00:00

When Sirens Sing

When everyone cleared out of the Situation Room, Hoskin talked to Quinlin.

“Hey, let me ask you something. What’s this?” said Hoskin, as a holo of the Deos amulet he’d found flared over his hand.

“Oh man, where did you find that?”

“Your desk, when I was up in your office.”

“I ain’t seen it in years. It was in the drawer? Which one?”

“Bottom one.”

“Been looking for that. It was my mom’s. She wore that thing every day. I got it when she died and then lost it. Felt bad. I thought about her a bunch recently, started looking for it.”

Hoskin knew that Quinlin’s mom had killed herself. He remembered the first time Quinlin told him the story. It had come out of nowhere after drinks. They hadn’t talked about it since.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up—”

“Nah, it’s fine. Like I said, been thinking about her a lot more recently. Why ask?”

“Just ‘cause you said you didn’t know the symbol the other day. So I thought—”

Quinlin laughed. “That all? I remembered not long after I said that. Couldn’t believe I forgot it actually. Probably just blocked it out. Mom made me go to that fuckin’ church every Saturday. Fuckin’ Saturday of all days. Why religions always got to pick the best days to give back to the man upstairs? I ever start a religion, God’s gettin’ Monday.”

“Probably get a lot more people that way. Come on. We got shit to do.”

Hoskin and Quinlin spent the day going over thousands and thousands of files. Even with smartcore analysis it was slow and tedious, old-fashioned police work.

“Can’t trust all the work to the machines. Gotta look at everything ourselves,” said Hoskin, earlier that day.

“Machine’ll probably do a better job,” said Quinlin.

“Probably, but not always,” said Hoskin.

Hoskin and Quinlin started with the most likely suspects delivered by the smartcore and worked their way down. They worked in Hoskin’s disheveled office for the next seven hours.

“What are we looking for again?” said Quinlin.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” said Hoskin.

“Great. And how the fuck will I know it when I see it? And when are you gonna clean up this shit hole?”

Quinlin jabbed a designer cigarette to his lips. It was Haji brand paper and genesculpted, chemical-free tobacco, laced with the boiled down chemical essence of “focus,” making boring work easy. Its smoke filled the room with a subtle cinnamon scent.

“When I get around to it. Look for the obvious first and the not so obvious second. Find anyone with lots of complaints on his jacket, even if they were dismissed, anyone investigated for any reason,” said Hoskin.

“That’s ninety percent of the department and includes us, in case you forgot. Unless you’re on desk duty, you’ve got complaints.”

“Yeah, look for the guy with the most. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“Once again, that includes us, and you make that up yourself?” said Quinlin with a grin, the smoke spilling from his lips slowly.

“Then put us on the list. After that,” said Hoskin, “look for the not so obvious, like people with perfect records, who’ve been around a long time.

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