4

I awoke with a start to find morning light blazing through my window. The syncopated rhythm of street traffic echoed between my weathered office building and its twin across the alley. At first, I figured it had been an irate driver's horn or the squeal of impatient tires that had jolted me out of a deep sleep in my faux-leather desk chair. But no, that wasn't it at all. I'd gotten pretty good at tuning out the white noise of my urban jungle habitat. It would take more than the usual jangling symphony to wake me up.

Instead, it was something unexpected: the sounds of someone moving around in the small vestibule out front. I glanced at my watch. Too early for Wanda to be in. She usually gave me a chance to clean up a bit before reporting for duty. It was no secret that my office wore two hats, serving as home sweet home as well as my place of business. Times had been tough on everybody as of late, and I was no exception. The financial options presented to me were either to keep my apartment or keep my faithful assistant.

I was no fool. I knew which to let go.

Once my cash flow improved, I planned on moving into a rodent-free studio down the street. Walking distance from my office, central to most of the city's attempts at local culture, and somewhere in the middle of the cab companies' jet stream. But until I could afford a comfortable bed to rest my weary head, my chair served well enough. God knows it had cost plenty—a reward I splurged on after solving a rather difficult and remunerative case. At the time, I had no idea how worthwhile the investment would be. I just knew I'd been lucky to find a nearly identical replacement for its predecessor, which had perished in the fire.

Running a hand across the sandpaper that had sprung forth across my jaw line, I crept toward Wanda's office. The light was on in there, and through the frosted glass in my door, I followed the movements of a dark figure shuffling to and fro. One of my hands went casually for the snub-nosed .38 tucked into my shoulder holster. My other hand reached for the doorknob, turning it without a sound.

"Good morning."

Wanda jumped, stifling a squeal. "Good morning to you." She smoothed down her pleated charcoal-colored skirt as she took a seat behind her desk. "Hope I didn't wake you."

"Been up for a while." I smothered the lie with a yawn. "You're early." I tapped my watch.

She shrugged her slim shoulders through a silk floral blouse heavy on the turquoise. "You had a couple late-night visitors. Figured you might need me at the crack of dawn." She looked bright-eyed, ready for the day, and she already had a fresh wad of gum smacking away. "Or close to it."

I gave her a wink. "Now that you mention it..."

While I took a minute or two to wash my face, shave, and run a few fingers through my tangled hair in the public restroom down the hall, Wanda worked her magic on Junior's Slate, accessing his files and Link activity. By the time I returned to our front office, she'd already catalogued the kid's most recent online transgressions.

"He's got a real following, Charlie." She swiped the screen with her index finger, bringing up Junior's online profile. "Calls himself Chimera. Cute, huh?"

"He's a real cute kid." I didn't mention the time he spin-kicked me right in the gut. That hadn't been cute at all. I tightened my tie as I leaned over her shoulder. "What's he into these days? Multiplayer games, chat rooms—?"

"You're showing your age."

"Right." I buttoned my suit jacket. "How about I just listen."

She smiled—always the most beautiful part of my day—and continued, "He's an activist, no doubt about it. He's posted all kinds of videos on the Link railing against the Blackshirts, calling them fascist dictators and whatnot. The usual. But this is where it starts to get interesting." She tapped what appeared to be Junior's video log, updated three days ago. His last entry of any kind under the Chimera profile. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but I think he looks kinda scared here, Charlie."

The video wasn't long, no more than a minute tops. Junior faced a mirror with his vidLink eye implant doing the recording. The only light in the room glowed behind him, artificial, casting his features in silhouette. No way to tell if it was really him, not by appearance anyway. But I would have recognized his nasal voice anywhere.

"I don't have much time," he said in Japanese, out of breath like he'd run into the room and then halted to record himself. Subtitles in Common scrolled across the bottom of the screen. "I'm going to follow them, find out where they're being taken. Not political prisoners. This isn't because of the riots or protests. Our fascist oppressors have abducted them because of their gifts. Our community leaders do nothing while the Blackshirts kidnap these young people from their homes and take them out into the Wastes." He paused. "I will show you. You will see everything I see. The world must know what is going on!"

The screen went dark.

"That's it," Wanda said, handing me the Slate. "No online activity for the past three days."

"Is there any way to trace where he's taken this thing?" I tapped the tablet.

She nodded. "But no coordinates were logged outside of Little Tokyo until last night, when his uncle brought it here."

I set the Slate on Wanda's desk. "So three days ago, he decides to follow the Blackshirts into the Wastes."

"Assuming that's not all talk. Just for his fans."

"Right." Junior's bark had a tendency to be much bigger than his bite. "But let's say he did it. If he took his phone along, and if he synced his phone to his Slate—"

"Careful there, Charlie. I might start thinking your technophobia is just an act."

"No chance of that."

She smiled. "I checked his sync history. Nothing."

"He covered his tracks, in other words."

"More like he hasn't made any tracks recently—not online, anyway. No new videos. Nothing."

"He's gone dark."

"Looks that way. He's slipped completely off the grid. And judging from his previous online history, that's a major personality change."

"All right. Get me the ID's of as many of his fan club members as you can. He's got to have a second-in-command or something while he's away."

"Most Link users like to remain anonymous, but I'll see what I can do." She reached for the Slate. "Just as many tend to be chronic over-sharers."

I hoped Junior's buddies would fall into that second category—enough of them to be helpful, anyway.

"I'll be back in a few hours." Reaching for my coat and hat on the rack nearby, I paused, remembering something in my desk that could come in handy. A certain weapon my favorite Fed had given me a while back: an EMP gun. That's right, the thing fired electromagnetic pulse rounds. The last time I'd needed it, I hadn't taken it along and ended up sorely regretting that decision. Better to be over-prepared than under. I tucked the weapon into the back of my pants and gave Wanda a wink as I passed through her office, tugging on my coat mid-stride. "Thanks."

"Haven't done much of anything yet, Charlie." She glanced up from Junior's Slate as I stepped out into the hallway. "Where you off to?"

"Going to recruit a little help." I put on my hat and tugged down the brim. "Somebody's got to know where that detention facility is located."

"In the Wastes?" Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me that's where you're headed."

Sooner or later, I had an uneasy feeling I would be.