Black Marble (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 3)
A. King Bradley
BLACK MARBLE
By A. King Bradley
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by A. King Bradley
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For more information visit: www.kingbradley.com & www.twitter.com/akingbradley
To Monica, Karol Christine, Audrey, and Aaron.
And also in joyful memory of
my dear friend and mentor
Dr. Dawn DeVeaux.
SOUNDTRACK
◆◆◆
For the most complete experience be sure to download a copy of the Darkside Dreams Original Soundtrack:
APPLE MUSIC
GOOGLE PLAY MUSIC
Contents
Title Page
SOUNDTRACK
PART 1
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
EPILOGUE
PART 2
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
CHAPTER 19
EPILOGUE
WHAT’S NEXT?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TWITTER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART 1
PROLOGUE
◆◆◆
Los Angeles, California…
– June 5, 2530
Adriana Graves was her name. Ana to all her friends. I suppose I still fit in that category… all things considered. The fact that she's dead weighs heavily on my heart, but I try not to let that grim reality slow me down. I do my best to remain focused on the task at hand, but my gut keeps doing that thing it does when it knows something's not right.
Ana's dead, but I'm on my way to speak with her right this second. And this won't be the first time I've visited one of these facilities. You see them all over the place nowadays. Look like parking garages from the outside—they're so big. They have to be that size, for future-proofing, but they always seem so empty once you step inside. And the nicer ones are cold. Cold as a refrigerator, if you ask me. Their deep storage solutions require a low temperature for optimal performance... for indefinite retention and all that other technical bullshit they talk about in the brochures. In the right conditions, the personas they store in these places can last for centuries. Hell, maybe even millennia. No degradation whatsoever. It's been eight years since Ana and I last visited this joint and I can't help but hope their tech is as good as they advertised.
Ana was never a vain person. She had her pride, but never her vanity... her beauty and grace were effortless though, just a natural side effect of what I always chalked up to seemingly perfect genetics. Sometimes, she couldn't see that about herself. But I always could. Probably didn't mention it as often as I should have...
I hope no one else ever has to experience what I'm feeling. The confusion. The anger at myself for letting us grow apart. For letting her think she meant less to me than she really did because I wasn’t sure of how she really felt about me. This hurts. More than anything I've ever felt to be completely honest. And I know it will hurt a lot more, before the end.
CHAPTER 1
◆◆◆
We were both private detectives when we initially met, and in our line of work you really have to look for people you can trust. Good luck finding them though. But every now and then you get lucky. Lucky enough to find a character or two that you can actually depend on. And when that happens, it's important for all parties to know that you've got each other's backs.
But it's also equally important not to get too close. That was the mistake I made with Ana, but even though her death has permanently clouded my judgement, I still consider our relationship to be the greatest thing that's ever happened to me.
But the better something feels, the quicker it dies. Maybe that wasn't true for all of history, but it's sure true now. Especially after the Second War against the synths.
We don't resent each other, Ana and I. We just came to a grim realization at the same time. This wasn't going to work out. It could only end in heartbreak, so the smart decision would be to minimize that inevitable pain by nipping the relationship in the bud. That's what we did. We went our separate ways, licking our wounds, trying to put ourselves back together. Truth be told, I took it a lot harder than she did, although I didn't let her know it. Probably the dumbest thing I've ever done. Not fighting for her. Just letting her walk away because I was too dammed proud to admit that I was head over heels whenever she was around—the happiest I'd felt in years, maybe ever.
Once we finally came down from that high, we had a long discussion. It went into the early morning. And it was probably the heaviest conversation I had ever taken part in. We covered the gamut, from the meaning of life to the future of the species. Or, more realistically, the lack of a future now that the Synths controlled the planet. In that conversation we planted the seeds for the eventual end of our romance. But we also laid the groundwork for a lasting partnership. We made a pact that night, Ana and I, and I'll be dammed if I don't see it through.
We agreed that if anything bad ever happened to one of us—if we were murdered, say—then the survivor would do their best to make things right.
I liked the idea of it. It felt good to have someone watching over me for once. I was so used to being alone. Being a PI is a lonely gig, you know. You meet a client or two every now and then, but the rest of the time you're skulking around where you don't belong. Sometimes in places where you'd be killed if you got caught.
The second part of the pact was simple enough. We visited a joint like this one and we each had a digital copy of our consciousness made. That way if either one of us died, the other could simply “resurrect” the deceased, after the fact. Not as a permanent thing, but just to help with figuring out what happened. Truth be told it was completely Ana's plan. In the moment this part of the pact felt kind of silly, but ultimately, I’m glad she convinced me to say yes—not that she ever struggled in that department.
I remember something I said. A joke, or maybe more of an offhand comment.
“What if we both die on the same day?” I asked.
“Then I hope they store our personas side by side,” she replied, nudging my ribs as she beamed that high voltage smile of hers at me.
Always positive. That’s my Ana. Or at least that was how she was eight years ago, when we made those copies of ourselves.
But now she's dead. They say it happened four days ago. The real bastard was how I heard about it. I get it thou
gh. It made sense that no one alerted me right away because Ana and I never made our relationship public and we never talked about each other to our respective friends and colleagues. Most people, synths included, who knew Ana probably had no idea I even existed. I was just a street-smart detective working homicide cases in the shadiest parts of this desolate city. But her… she was something more. Something higher. An angel on Earth. Whether she knew it or not.
CHAPTER 2
◆◆◆
Day before yesterday, I got a pip on my omni. I was asleep. Only had been down for two hours. It was nine in the morning and I had been out all night watching this guy who might have killed this other guy, according to another guy. I was waiting for the person of interest to drop something with his DNA on it. A napkin, a spoon, whatever. As long as he dropped it in public, I could snatch it up and use it for my case.
Truth be told, I didn't really think the guy I was following did it. Just needed a bit of his DNA to potentially cross him off the list. People like to romanticize about the PI profession because they only ever hear about the exciting parts. The gunfights, that big rush you get when you finally uncover that last clue. But no one ever talks about the hours and hours of watching and waiting. Waiting for some dope to drop his snot rag so you can eliminate him as a potential suspect.
Still, despite the boredom, my work is my passion, but that passion swings both ways. Up, to heavenly glee, and down to the darkest pits of despair.
I was groggy and a little out of it when I woke up. I grabbed my omni and held it up toward my face, closing one eye to try and focus on the image it was beaming out. A small hologram of a person's face. Synth, by the look of it. You can usually tell a synth, because they are always impossibly well-groomed, neat, and good looking. I'm talking statuesque. Like they're too pretty to even be pretty, if you know what I mean. It's hard to relate to that degree of perfection.
Some organics put a ridiculous amount of effort into making themselves look like synths. Sometimes, they even get surgery if they can’t afford to go cyborg. I'm not sure what the point is. Not like they get any special treatment for it. They can fool the unwary organic, but they will never fool a synth. They can tell an organic apart just as easily as I can tell a six-year-old girl from a sixty-year-old man.
It's the voice that gives them away. Synths have a certain way of talking. Almost like an accent, a perfect set of inflections and a complete lack of verbal tics. Organics, no matter how hard they try, cannot completely eliminate tics from their speech pattern. Things like “uh” and “um.” Even a full body cyborg—an FBC—will have trouble cutting these things out of their speech. On the flip side, I’ve worked some cases where synths tried to pass as organic by modulating their voices to make them seem less perfect. Easy to fool the average Joe, but not me. I can always tell. I guess I just have an ear for it. Attention to detail has always been my strong suit.
As soon as the guy on my omni started talking, I could tell he was a synth. And I realized that he was vaguely familiar. An acquaintance, or someone I worked with a long time ago. That didn't make a lot of sense at first, because I rarely associate with synths. Mostly because they don't often get themselves killed.
Everything became clear as I let his lilting voice fill me in on the details.
“Good morning, Mr. Ibarra,” he said. “Roman Ibarra. That is who I'm talking to, yes?”
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my face. “That's me. What do you want?”
“I've called to inform you that a transference of ownership has been triggered. You were listed as the beneficiary of one stored persona, in the event of the death of the original.”
At that point, I wasn't considering that Ana might be dead. To tell the truth, when I made that pact with her, I fully expected that she would be the one to follow up on the circumstances of my death. It didn't cross my mind that the reverse could happen.
“No,” I told the guy. “There's been a mistake, I guess...”
“I'm afraid we don't make mistakes,” the man said, with such ease and tenderness that I couldn't even accuse him of being smug. “The originator, one Adriana Graves, has been confirmed deceased and thus her stored persona belongs to you. You must collect it within one week, otherwise it will be turned over to care of the Horizon Group. Have a good day, Mr. Ibarra.”
The guy cut the call, and I was left sitting there with my mouth hanging open.
An hour later, I got a knock on the door. The guy on the other side, obviously a law officer and a synth, stepped inside my apartment without asking and began to look around as though he expected to find a puddle of blood on the floor.
He introduced himself as Milton Hawney. I wanted to make fun of his name, but I refrained. He said he was in charge of the investigation into Ms. Graves' death. And, for all his suspicion, he was already convinced as to the cause of her demise.
“Poisoned,” he told me. “We found a capsule of a powerful compound on the ground next to her. Her prints were on it, no one else's. And there were traces on her lips and tongue. I'm confident that the full examination will confirm a presence in her brain, her blood supply, and other soft tissues.”
“Compound?” I asked.
“Inhydrin Ipitate,” Hawney replied. “It's used to temporarily freeze all brain function. It's necessary for the proper transfer of an organic mind into a cybernetic brain. Correct dosage depends on the individual. It's a very sensitive affair.”
Right. Too little and the brain would still be working away like a rat in a maze. Transfer would be incomplete, corrupted. The personality would be broken and irretrievable. The organic body would be alive but brain-dead, and the cyber brain would be highly dysfunctional.
Too much and brain function would permanently cease. A transfer could still be enacted, if done fast enough. If not, the person would die.
Apparently, that was what had happened to Ana. Or at least, that's what someone wanted me to believe.
“What are you going with?” I demanded of Hawney. “How can I help?”
“This has every appearance of a suicide,” he said. “But it also could have been an accidental overdose. We've been getting increasing reports of Ipitate abuse among the organic population. It's a drug that can effectively turn your brain off for a duration, which as I see it is quite a coveted state among certain… individuals. The smart ones only take a tiny bit, just to slow themselves down.”
He saw his own implication before I did. That Ana was not one of the smart people. That she was, in fact, one of the dumb ones. Which especially pissed me off because Ana Graves was by far the sharpest person I knew. Whether he meant to say it or not, I don't know. But, quite smartly, he took a step away from me. Just out of arm's reach.
“As far as help,” Hawney continued, “there's nothing you can do at the moment. I just thought I would stop by and let you know. A professional courtesy.”
He bowed his head at me and walked out, shutting the door behind him. I couldn't decide whether I hated the guy or not. But I definitely distrusted his opinion.
There's no way Ana Graves killed herself. No way in hell.
And it looked like it was gonna be up to me to make sure the world knew it.
CHAPTER 3
◆◆◆
It's never a good idea to take public transit when you're traveling in this city, particularly if you'd rather keep your movements secret. The shuttles that flit around the cities, dodging about, scraping within a hair's breadth of each other but never hitting... they're the fastest way to move. But they're all run by synthetic intelligence. Non-bodied cyber brains that act as a vast computer network to keep the post-war civilization working. And, secondarily, to keep a close eye on organic affairs. I never use the shuttles unless it's an emergency.
And as much of an emergency as this feels like, it really isn't one. The synth who called my omni said I had a week.
So, I took to the low roads. The lesser used, crumbling thoroughfares that still run through the shadows bene
ath the shuttle bridges. You can't get any large vehicles down the low roads, because the bridge support pylons block the way every fifty feet. But you can use anything small. In my case, a twin-jet hoverbike that's as old as dirt and coughs like an old man whenever I get anywhere near sixty miles an hour. I usually try not to think about how old it is, how it could go out at any moment. Doesn't help that I never wear a helmet. Ana used to wonder if I had some kind of death wish. Back then it was just a joke, but today she'd be absolutely right. Can't think about that now though. Gotta stay alert. Gotta make sure I live long enough to get the son-of-a-bitch who killed my girl.
I ride through the streets, passing through a few checkpoints along the way. This city is more than half organic, which makes it the densest organic population in the world these days. But the synths still have plenty of fingers in it. They have locked down many small areas of the city. They're like miniature cities themselves, islands of perfection in the crumbling, entropy-ridden ocean.
There's one thing to say for the synth authorities. They don't usually bother you unless you give them a reason to. Just keep your head down, don't act like a jerk, and you'll get through their checkpoints just fine. You can even wander around inside their sprawling vertical enclaves and be so distracted by the practical beauty that it will take you a while to notice there are no children. Or old people. And that you're the ugliest, smelliest creature in the place.
Persona storage facilities are just about all housed in synth enclaves. Some very low-end ones are positioned in organic areas, but they usually only store you for three years or so before they toss you in a bin to make way for new, paying customers.
In Enclave 902, I finally roll my ancient bike to a stop and strut up a set of stairs. There's a storage rack for personal vehicles near the door. With the press of a quick sequence of buttons on the virtual display, I collapse my piece of junk bike into storage mode and then I shove it in with a bunch of tiny, hourglass shaped doodads that are most likely the latest in conveyance technology.
