Luck and Death at the Edge of the World

Twelve: A Plan of Last Resort

I call Felon as I head back to Cloud City, activating my kaikki by voice command.

“Fellows, L.A.P.D.”

“It's Gat,” I say, forcing myself to sound friendly. I need him, after all. On the other hand, in my heart of hearts, part of me would rather cut my own guts out and try to eat them before I died.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I’ve got news on our UIF.”

“Been out there playing detective?”

“I am a detective, got a license and everything.”

“No shit? So what’s the news?”

“We’re looking for shells.”

“How do you figure?”

“Trust me, it’s my life.”

He mulls it over for a moment.

“Well, that’ll cut down the I.D. time. I’ll have the techs compare the DNA scrape to the shells on file. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll call you back.”

By the time I’m winding up the final stretch of road to Cloud City, my kaikki chirps and Dave’s badge number and the L.A.P.D. logo appear in the upper right corner of my visor.

“Gat here Dave. What’s up.”

“The dead UIF is no longer UI.”

“Praise God.”

“And pass the ammunition,” he says, completing the phrase and laughing. It’s making me a little sick, buttering him up with this Forces chatter, but he’s got what I need.

“You want to ride along while I track it down?”

I want nothing less than to spend time with him, but I need information and I don’t want him screwing things up – I want to be there to supervise.

“Sure. You got the vat?”

“Oh yeah, DNA traces back to an outfit called Body Work Inc.”

“Where should I meet you?”

I’m almost at Cloud City now, slowing the bike.

“I gotta do a few things. Whyn’t you meet me there?” He rattles off the address, knowing full well that my Forces training will ensure that I remember it.

“Okay. Is an hour all right?”

“Sure, sure, whatever. They’re not going anywhere.”

“Sooner, Dave,” I say, not meaning it.

“See you in the zone,” he says, hanging up. The drop zone. Still a trooper after all these years.

I don’t even bother entering the grounds of Cloud City, just turn the bike around and head out. The address that Felon’s given me is north of Pacific Palisades, near the waterfront. Vat outfits need a lot of water for their operations and ocean water’s just fine once you desalinate it and filter it about a thousand times.

The building sits, squat and low, spread over acres of rocky land. The driveway approaches from the east side of the building and opens into a small parking lot with about ten cars in it. The plant is huge, but if it’s like most vats it’s largely automated, so there won’t be a large staff. Yellow brick walls stretch north and south in an unbroken line for hundreds of meters. Dead center is a pair of doors and over that is a small sign: Body Work Inc.

No doubt they have a corporate office downtown for the clients – the kind of place that’s redecorated by a different brand name artist every six months just to stay chic – with demonstration tanks, plush carpeting, and a gorgeous receptionist. Out here is the business end; there’s no need to get elaborate.