A Ballad of Wayward Spectres: Day 2, Page 3
William B Hill
waiting. She had to avoid them. She had to avoid him.
She circled the table, watched the customers, and deflected a “is there something I can help you with” by shaking her head while looking for the current top-of-the-line device. Everything seemed pale, weak, and useless next to her old, faithful, and familiar friend. She hadn’t been aware that it was officially released.
“Excuse me, ma’am; I need to get into that cabinet.”
The frail white man adorned in a Pages polo with spiky black hair held a key out and waited as Alyson stepped aside. Behind him stood a shorter man with olive skin, dressed in dark gray linen pants and a sky blue shirt, unbuttoned and exposing a free-with-purchase-of MetroNet t-shirt. His head was a shining dome pockmarked by stubble. Alyson thought he looked like he slept as well as she had.
“P&V 220?” the associate asked.
“That’s right. Do you have two in, or am I still out of luck?” he asked. His voice was lower soprano, vaguely Europe, yet distilled by southern slackness.
“No, we got a shipment in late last night,” the attendant responded. “You actually want two?”
“Yeah.”
“Even with a service plan, that’s going to cost about eight hundred bucks,” the associate said, shocked by his customer. Alyson watched the look of astonishment grow on his face when the customer arched his eyebrows, dropped his jaw, and nodded with a sour “uh-huh. I guess my wallet is in serious trouble, because I don’t need service plan for either of them.”
Alyson left the building in a hurry, fishing the S6 mobile from her pocket. She snapped it open, and pressed it to her ear. Rain water still dripped from the awning. Alyson leaned against the wall, as close to the rain as she could, and waited. She muttered yes’s and maybes into the sleeping mobile, and glanced at the exit every few seconds. The water tapped on her shoulder.
She saw him carrying the two boxes out under his arms, taking hasty strides into the parking lot. He didn’t seem like he was walking towards a car. Alyson followed him as he approached the edge of the lot.
He wove through a pair of ’27 sedans and pressed on, parallel to the street, taking a moment to stare at the menacing sky every few seconds.
Alyson wondered why anyone would need two P&V mobiles. She recalled the immense power the prototype had before she modified it with a collection of wasted parts found in a case of returned modules that had “fallen off the truck”. It grew another set of wings when she used Penelope Ceres’ accounts for a night at a cheap hotel, and ordered a pair of high end RAM cards to install. There was no reason why this gentleman should have both of those mobiles, Alyson figured. He’d be fine with the one. Starting with a boxed unit would be hard, but it was more than she had at the moment. Time and healing were her goals. Shaking the ghost of Marina Dekare was the key to those goals, and that P&V 220 could be the the wellspring for such desires.
The man who carried her new mobile climbed the stairs to a dark blue stone building, pressed a button, swiped a key card, and walked in. A loud buzzer sounded before a series of clicks and metal crackling signaled that the door was secure. Alyson dropped her multi-tool into her hand, and flipped open a knife. She knew she could open the door. She knew that a cheap box of wires could always be breached.
Alyson checked inside the hall through the trio of diamond shaped windows in the door, glanced at the street, and then at the steadiness of her hands with the knife sticking out from her curled up fingers. The sliver edge trembled. She tightened her grip, and it became worse. She took a deep breath, and passed the anxiousness off to the growing void in her stomach, deepening from where breakfast was already a memory.
She started by inserting the blade into the gap, and counting the bolts in the lock; the door jamb, and two dead bolts. It was simple enough, she figured. She drew the knife back, and moved it over to the scanner pad. She couldn’t find any screws on the unit, and there didn’t seem to be an opening where it was attached. Next she tried to open a space between the unit and the door itself; she couldn’t fit anything between to pry it open.
A key on the key pad popped. Alyson examined the pad. The four key stuck out further than the others.
She pressed it, and it held in place. Nothing happened.
“Dammit,” she whimpered. She closed the knife, and slid it back into her wristband. She hovered around the door for a moment, splashing in shallow puddles on the uneven stone landing. She stared into the sky, and took a breath for patience and resolve. She stomped down the stairs, and strolled around the building.
The complex was nine stories tall, maybe six apartments to a floor, based on the positions of each group of windows in relation to the corners of the building. She circled the building, measuring distances from building to building. A single fire escape was secured to the back wall, feeding into an alley behind a strip mall. The ladder was still locked at the second floor. Alyson thought about trying to move a dumpster over, and climb up, but she knew she wasn’t tall enough to reach it despite with the boost, and jumping on a rolling metal container was sure to draw unwanted attention.
The neighboring buildings seemed similarly impenetrable, with windows reaching from the ground up to the third floor before being broken up by shafts of masonry beneath a flat, windowless top layer.
A dead lead, she decided, and walked towards the mouth of the alley again. She kicked a stone down the path, shuffling it between her feet, considering the return to Pages to track down another mark, trying her hand at pickpocketing, or anything to distract her from losing an hour.
Instead, she just bit her lip, and stopped a few feet away from the sidewalk, and looked up at an uncaring sky, void of concerned for the damp young woman and her sudden deficiencies. A sprinkle of rain splashed her forehead, and she unleashed a defeated chuckle while wiping the fresh moisture away.
Maybe spending another night in a rooftop puddle wouldn’t be so bad, she thought. A dry day would bring more people out, and the weekend approached. More marks, more mistakes from impatient people who would leave an expensive mobile sitting on top of a counter while dealing with their insolent kids. Time wasn’t on her side, but if she could stay hidden, it would mean opportunity, and the appropriate second chance.
“Hell of a morning,” she heard a man say. The voice was close enough that it broke her from her trance. She spun on her heel, as he fell in line beside her, throwing an arm around her shoulders. Another arm sleeved in a black windbreaker was braced across his belly, pressing the tip of a knife into her side.
“Don’t make a noise,” he whispered. He led her back down the alley, pulling the knife a centimeter away. “Let’s go.”
III
Marina gained an hour in Alabama. She saw the clock flip back to 9AM for a second time, and hammered the gas pedal to pass a dirty unmarked eighteen wheeler before draining the contents of another iced coffee drink. She threw the bottle into the floor, and drew another from the plastic sack in the passenger seat.
She’d been astonished that the car rental agency was more helpful than the airport. They’d allowed her to use her Four Nations account in conjunction with her red flag covered ID to rent a Ford sedan with 93,000 miles on it. Driving for over twelve hours wasn’t how she liked to travel, but it beat waiting for the government to return control of her life to her.
Marina hadn’t taken a second to weep for Tomas’ death. Between calling the USIPA and reciting her social security number a dozen times, arranging the rental car, and filing a complaint with the airport staff over her gross mistreatment in the situation, she’d blocked every thought that he wouldn’t be waiting at the house when she got there. She would never wait for him to get off of work again, visit an art gallery with him and answer any of hundreds of questions for him, or go dancing in the café on the roof of the Coventry Center to lounge jazz and piano bar standards. They would never have children together, and build the family he promised for when they were settled. It was over, and she hadn’t had a say in any of it.
Marina wanted to be angry. She wanted to rage and wreak revenge, but she couldn’t. All that filled her heart was frosty despair, and it ran to her fingertips, her feet, and the crest of her skull.
Her mobile rang; she didn’t recognize the number. She pressed the button to answer with caution, and didn’t say anything.
“Marina?”
“Marcus?”
“Hi, Marina. How are you?” he responded. His voice was flat. She could hear in his tone that he was about to tell her about the murder, that they were looking into it. Standard corporate bullshit, she thought.
“What do you want, Marcus?”
“I called to ask how you’re doing. We’ve been trying to contact you,” he responded, still emotionless.
She said nothing, and considered ending the call.
“We all really liked Tomas. I don’t know why anyone would do what they did to him. It’s terrible.”
Silence.
“Look, Marina, I know this is a hard time, but I’m afraid we need you to come back to Houston. I’m aware that you were on a trip to see your sister. We even tried to catch you in Atlanta, but they said that you didn’t answer your page. Did you catch your flight?”
“No.”
“Really? Booked a hotel then?”
“No.”
“Well, where are you?” he asked, forcing a laugh.
“What happened to my husband,
She circled the table, watched the customers, and deflected a “is there something I can help you with” by shaking her head while looking for the current top-of-the-line device. Everything seemed pale, weak, and useless next to her old, faithful, and familiar friend. She hadn’t been aware that it was officially released.
“Excuse me, ma’am; I need to get into that cabinet.”
The frail white man adorned in a Pages polo with spiky black hair held a key out and waited as Alyson stepped aside. Behind him stood a shorter man with olive skin, dressed in dark gray linen pants and a sky blue shirt, unbuttoned and exposing a free-with-purchase-of MetroNet t-shirt. His head was a shining dome pockmarked by stubble. Alyson thought he looked like he slept as well as she had.
“P&V 220?” the associate asked.
“That’s right. Do you have two in, or am I still out of luck?” he asked. His voice was lower soprano, vaguely Europe, yet distilled by southern slackness.
“No, we got a shipment in late last night,” the attendant responded. “You actually want two?”
“Yeah.”
“Even with a service plan, that’s going to cost about eight hundred bucks,” the associate said, shocked by his customer. Alyson watched the look of astonishment grow on his face when the customer arched his eyebrows, dropped his jaw, and nodded with a sour “uh-huh. I guess my wallet is in serious trouble, because I don’t need service plan for either of them.”
Alyson left the building in a hurry, fishing the S6 mobile from her pocket. She snapped it open, and pressed it to her ear. Rain water still dripped from the awning. Alyson leaned against the wall, as close to the rain as she could, and waited. She muttered yes’s and maybes into the sleeping mobile, and glanced at the exit every few seconds. The water tapped on her shoulder.
She saw him carrying the two boxes out under his arms, taking hasty strides into the parking lot. He didn’t seem like he was walking towards a car. Alyson followed him as he approached the edge of the lot.
He wove through a pair of ’27 sedans and pressed on, parallel to the street, taking a moment to stare at the menacing sky every few seconds.
Alyson wondered why anyone would need two P&V mobiles. She recalled the immense power the prototype had before she modified it with a collection of wasted parts found in a case of returned modules that had “fallen off the truck”. It grew another set of wings when she used Penelope Ceres’ accounts for a night at a cheap hotel, and ordered a pair of high end RAM cards to install. There was no reason why this gentleman should have both of those mobiles, Alyson figured. He’d be fine with the one. Starting with a boxed unit would be hard, but it was more than she had at the moment. Time and healing were her goals. Shaking the ghost of Marina Dekare was the key to those goals, and that P&V 220 could be the the wellspring for such desires.
The man who carried her new mobile climbed the stairs to a dark blue stone building, pressed a button, swiped a key card, and walked in. A loud buzzer sounded before a series of clicks and metal crackling signaled that the door was secure. Alyson dropped her multi-tool into her hand, and flipped open a knife. She knew she could open the door. She knew that a cheap box of wires could always be breached.
Alyson checked inside the hall through the trio of diamond shaped windows in the door, glanced at the street, and then at the steadiness of her hands with the knife sticking out from her curled up fingers. The sliver edge trembled. She tightened her grip, and it became worse. She took a deep breath, and passed the anxiousness off to the growing void in her stomach, deepening from where breakfast was already a memory.
She started by inserting the blade into the gap, and counting the bolts in the lock; the door jamb, and two dead bolts. It was simple enough, she figured. She drew the knife back, and moved it over to the scanner pad. She couldn’t find any screws on the unit, and there didn’t seem to be an opening where it was attached. Next she tried to open a space between the unit and the door itself; she couldn’t fit anything between to pry it open.
A key on the key pad popped. Alyson examined the pad. The four key stuck out further than the others.
She pressed it, and it held in place. Nothing happened.
“Dammit,” she whimpered. She closed the knife, and slid it back into her wristband. She hovered around the door for a moment, splashing in shallow puddles on the uneven stone landing. She stared into the sky, and took a breath for patience and resolve. She stomped down the stairs, and strolled around the building.
The complex was nine stories tall, maybe six apartments to a floor, based on the positions of each group of windows in relation to the corners of the building. She circled the building, measuring distances from building to building. A single fire escape was secured to the back wall, feeding into an alley behind a strip mall. The ladder was still locked at the second floor. Alyson thought about trying to move a dumpster over, and climb up, but she knew she wasn’t tall enough to reach it despite with the boost, and jumping on a rolling metal container was sure to draw unwanted attention.
The neighboring buildings seemed similarly impenetrable, with windows reaching from the ground up to the third floor before being broken up by shafts of masonry beneath a flat, windowless top layer.
A dead lead, she decided, and walked towards the mouth of the alley again. She kicked a stone down the path, shuffling it between her feet, considering the return to Pages to track down another mark, trying her hand at pickpocketing, or anything to distract her from losing an hour.
Instead, she just bit her lip, and stopped a few feet away from the sidewalk, and looked up at an uncaring sky, void of concerned for the damp young woman and her sudden deficiencies. A sprinkle of rain splashed her forehead, and she unleashed a defeated chuckle while wiping the fresh moisture away.
Maybe spending another night in a rooftop puddle wouldn’t be so bad, she thought. A dry day would bring more people out, and the weekend approached. More marks, more mistakes from impatient people who would leave an expensive mobile sitting on top of a counter while dealing with their insolent kids. Time wasn’t on her side, but if she could stay hidden, it would mean opportunity, and the appropriate second chance.
“Hell of a morning,” she heard a man say. The voice was close enough that it broke her from her trance. She spun on her heel, as he fell in line beside her, throwing an arm around her shoulders. Another arm sleeved in a black windbreaker was braced across his belly, pressing the tip of a knife into her side.
“Don’t make a noise,” he whispered. He led her back down the alley, pulling the knife a centimeter away. “Let’s go.”
III
Marina gained an hour in Alabama. She saw the clock flip back to 9AM for a second time, and hammered the gas pedal to pass a dirty unmarked eighteen wheeler before draining the contents of another iced coffee drink. She threw the bottle into the floor, and drew another from the plastic sack in the passenger seat.
She’d been astonished that the car rental agency was more helpful than the airport. They’d allowed her to use her Four Nations account in conjunction with her red flag covered ID to rent a Ford sedan with 93,000 miles on it. Driving for over twelve hours wasn’t how she liked to travel, but it beat waiting for the government to return control of her life to her.
Marina hadn’t taken a second to weep for Tomas’ death. Between calling the USIPA and reciting her social security number a dozen times, arranging the rental car, and filing a complaint with the airport staff over her gross mistreatment in the situation, she’d blocked every thought that he wouldn’t be waiting at the house when she got there. She would never wait for him to get off of work again, visit an art gallery with him and answer any of hundreds of questions for him, or go dancing in the café on the roof of the Coventry Center to lounge jazz and piano bar standards. They would never have children together, and build the family he promised for when they were settled. It was over, and she hadn’t had a say in any of it.
Marina wanted to be angry. She wanted to rage and wreak revenge, but she couldn’t. All that filled her heart was frosty despair, and it ran to her fingertips, her feet, and the crest of her skull.
Her mobile rang; she didn’t recognize the number. She pressed the button to answer with caution, and didn’t say anything.
“Marina?”
“Marcus?”
“Hi, Marina. How are you?” he responded. His voice was flat. She could hear in his tone that he was about to tell her about the murder, that they were looking into it. Standard corporate bullshit, she thought.
“What do you want, Marcus?”
“I called to ask how you’re doing. We’ve been trying to contact you,” he responded, still emotionless.
She said nothing, and considered ending the call.
“We all really liked Tomas. I don’t know why anyone would do what they did to him. It’s terrible.”
Silence.
“Look, Marina, I know this is a hard time, but I’m afraid we need you to come back to Houston. I’m aware that you were on a trip to see your sister. We even tried to catch you in Atlanta, but they said that you didn’t answer your page. Did you catch your flight?”
“No.”
“Really? Booked a hotel then?”
“No.”
“Well, where are you?” he asked, forcing a laugh.
“What happened to my husband,
