I could see about fifty nude bodies, scattered through the warehouse, lying on gurneys, and covered in wires, tubes, and electrodes. Winding my way through the maze, I looked for the gurney numbers. A white-smocked technician in the middle of the operation ignored me and banged a portable machine with his fist. The whole room, the size of a basketball court, pinged and jingled like a huge arcade machine.
Suki was number 13.
I found her gurney and then shouted up at a guy on a catwalk, riding a desk. He spied me and nodded, and then tapped a few buttons on a consol. Suki’s gurney hummed and bleeped. Her small, naked body seemed protean, unmade. She looked very skinny—very dead. Which she was. She’d committed legal suicide two years ago; it was all the rage, even in Vancouver. The Feds called it Dormancy but everyone else called it Deadland. So, now she looked like a test-tube zombie. Anemic, with dark, skid-mark brows. Roughly shaved head with chestnut colored fuzz. Pert nose, small mouth sucking on a big tube. But it was better than final suicide. Which I guess was the point.
The floor technician moved to the gurney and tapped a keyboard, causing graph levels on a screen to rise and fall. Suki jerked, rattled, and moaned. This lasted about three minutes, during which I checked the messages on my pocket pod—business was business. But no one had any private investigation gigs for me; just a few insults. Also, one holo greeting from my bank manager, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sticking up a foot tall from my pod, smiling and bowing. He could have been a real Hawaiian leprechaun, standing in my hand, they were making holos so life-like now. But my bank balance was still just a ghost.
I watched Suki’s bare chest and small breasts rising and falling. Then the techie pulled out the mouth hose and Suki threw up or spit up—I couldn’t tell which. Her breath sucked in and out, eyes still closed. A long whine rippled from her throat.
The techie injected something into one of her intravenous tubes and she screamed in pain and rattled some more. He pulled open her eyes and squirted fluid in them, then wiped her face and nose. He jotted down some figures as Suki groaned and panted. Her dark, filmy eyes blinked open and roamed. Finally, she settled on me. Her face contorted and she gurgled, which I took to be interrogative.
I said, “It’s me, Gabe. They’re reviving you. And they’re kicking you out.”
***
The lady behind the desk had great facial art. Like whorled sea-waves. Very Japanese—the waves. (I didn’t use tattoos; my scars were my art.) Her name was Person Carroll. Very professional—young, but confident. Bored, but hiding it well. A huge window overlooked the bustle of the eastern half of Burrard Inlet from twenty stories up.
“You were Suki Hannah, age twenty-eight at time of suicide,” said Person Carroll. “Your maximum term hasn’t been completed. You signed on for five years.”
Suki fidgeted in a two-piece black leather jacket and pants, that accentuated her skinniness. She rasped, “I didn’t want you to chop my hair off.” Her vocal cords hadn’t returned to normal yet.
“Noted. And this person—Mister Gabriel Sam—is your contact.”
“Yes,” growled Suki.
“No next of kin.”
“No.”
I’d known Suki since we were kids. I worked for her father as an investigator until he and his wife exed in an auto accident. But two years ago, Suki had gone crackers when her husband left her for another woman. He’d also taken most of Suki’s assets and disappeared, but not before dropping a divorce on her through their pre-nup.
“I see we have revived you early,” said Person Carroll, “for refusal of payment. Your payments stopped months ago.”
“What happened to my money?” moaned Suki. “It was my account.”
“I’ll find out,” I said.
“There’s one other problem,” said Person Carol, apologetically. “Given your debt to the Federal Government, any and all of your assets have been frozen. Including your current persona, and your retinal scans.”
“Girl of a bitch!” said Suki.
I said, “Are you blanking her?”
“We don’t use that term. We’re holding her persona until payment is made. That’s standard. All bank accounts, government services, known identity numbers, and her retinal scans will be frozen, including the right to her name, for official purposes.”
“How much does she owe?”
“Eleven thousand, one hundred and forty dollars. And thirty-five cents.”
I dropped thirty-five cents on her desk. “We’ll be back with the rest.”
“Thankyou,” said Person Carroll. “But in the meantime, I need Person Suki to sign some forms. Have you read these forms, and do you understand the nature of these forms?”
“Are you kidding?” said Suki.
“Let’s put it this way,” said Person Carroll. “If you don’t sign them, we have no obligation to return your persona when you do make payment.”
“I could buy another persona.”
“Yes. But it’s cheaper to pay us for the previous one. Besides, without signing these forms, you’re still considered dormant, technically. And believe me, that’s bad. But this clears you of a lot of red tape, and you can get out of here right away. And otherwise, you won’t get any follow up treatment. And that’s bad.”
Suki grabbed the forms and scrawled on them. “I’ve got nothing anyway.”
I asked, “How long do we have to pay?”
Carroll shrugged. “Indefinitely. Unless we sue. But the State has the right to sell her persona after a reasonable period of time.”
“And how long is that?”
“The minimum wait is one month.”
“One month. Then she’ll really be a ghost. She’ll be effectively dead.”
“Well…not exactly…
“Just three quarters worth.”
The bureaucrat shrugged.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll be back before that.”
But Suki wasn’t listening. She sat up straight and her eyes bugged out. She said, “Do you see that elephant?”
“What elephant? No, I don’t.”
“Ohmigod, it’s…it’s…” Suki drooped forward, her eyes staring at nothing. Her mouth went slack.
“What the hell?” I said and pushed her back into her seat.
Person Carroll sighed. “You’ll need to talk to a specialist. There’s one in this building. Bottom floor.”
***
Suki slept open-mouthed on a divan in Doctor Ottoman’s office, like a dead fish. Her head bristled with wires and electrodes, from a machine. Some of the wires stuck right into Suki’s brain.
“It’s a combination,” said the Doc, rubbing his thick mustache and adjusting his black glasses. His only tattoo was a snake on his chin—none on his bald head. His office was small but expensively furnished.
“Depression and psychosis,” he continued. “It affects some a lot more than others. Part of her is pulling herself back. She wants to stay dead. And she’ll probably die all the way.”
“But this is rehab.”
“Unfortunately, Person Hannah’s subsidy is frozen. Her persona is frozen.”
“But she signed for it. She was told—”
“The Federal program doesn’t apply, I’m afraid. Not in this case. And the rehab’s much more expensive now, ever since Mersanto took over the rehab system. But it’s not like it’s not available. They—we—still offer it.”
“Meaning it will cost…?”
“Maybe ten thousand.”
“And without it? How long—?”
“Maybe a month. Maybe less. And then she’ll slip back into the dream world, and then the brain just stops. You can only induce a coma for so long, and then you get psychosis problems when you re-animate. You see, the brain fills in the gaps of what it expects. If it expects the freedom to conjure up deep rooted visions, and if nothing stops it, then it’ll persist. They had to push her brain into extended rem sleep to keep it from atrophying during the long suicide.”
“Can’t she take anything?”
“She needs sleep to satisfy the subconscious. But that’ll only go so far. I can’t give her anti-psychotic drugs because it’s not a chemical imbalance. And the side-effects will soon make it worse.”
“There must be something else.”
“Just deep electrode stimulation. That’s the only clinical cure. We lost a lot of patients in the early days—just in the suicide—until we forced their brains to ramp up during the coma.” The Doc pulled out a form. “If money’s a problem, she can always sell one of her organs. Look, I’ll show you–”
“No thanks, Doc. How long can you keep her hooked up to that thing?”
“For free?”
“I guess.”
“The office closes at 4:30 sharp.”
***
I spent a few hours on some errands before the Doc woke Suki up. Then we embarked on the trail of Suki’s life—or death. I didn’t tell her what the Doc said.
After leaving the Doc’s office we went to the new CNR station off Main Street and stood in the lobby like pigeons watching the humans go about their business. But we were after the contents of a locker—the last remaining papers and photos of a ghost’s life.
“It should be right over here,” said Suki.
We edged through the crowded terminal to a bank of lockers, where one of them corresponded to her key: number 89910. Except it had a G at the end now. Suki put the key to the slot, but there wasn’t any.
“Bitchtown,” she said.
A man beside us put his eye up to a locker and it cracked open. He took out a bag, closed the locker, and disappeared into the crowded station.
“Let’s talk to a guy,” I said.
After a five-minute search for authority, we sat in a cramped office, talking to Major Smithson, a jovial, plump, middle-aged manager, munching a cinnamon bun.
“We don’t have keys anymore, Person Hannah. Not since the overhaul. That was a year ago.”
“The key doesn’t matter. My stuff does.”
“Sure, but this number, I don’t know…” He tapped on his computer. “That exact number doesn’t exist anymore. We use individual passwords or retinal passes. The passwords change constantly. Ever since Gentran bought the station—it’s a whole new system. And systems come and go fast—you never know what’s happening. And everything’s for sale now it seems. The government needs taxes you know. We gotta buy and sell to out-do China.”
“My stuff was guaranteed for five years.”
“Not with Gentran. Sorry.”
I asked, “Where is her stuff? She had a lot of records in there.”
“I don’t know. You could try Gentran.”
Suki steamed. “My lawyers are gonna cut off your lawyers’ balls.”
Smithson shrugged. “Good luck. They’re all eunuchs.”
And we were just pigeons, so I didn’t hold out much hope.
We’d hit a dead-end, so we left the station. Suki was panting and swooning. I took her to a bug-juice bar and tried to pick up her spirits. She ordered spider. The juice gave her a boost. I said, “Listen, Suki, I’m going to help you all I can, but this might not be a job for a private detective.”
“Is finding my life a thing?”
“Maybe. What do you have?”
Suki dumped the contents of a carry-bag on the table. “This is what I had with me in Deadland.” There were address books, cosmetics, credit cards, business cards, keys, cash, a Pod, and a few photos, among other knick-knacks.
“Harry was sneaky,” said Suki. “He grabbed everything before he dropped the pre-nup order on me. He’d put the houses, and the cars in his name, and sold them off, under my nose. Then he just took off. I don’t know where.”
“He was always a rogue.”
“Mmm. I had some assets of my own and I put them in my savings account, and then chopped him out of it—all our accounts were joint—or had been. Then I went batty, and I couldn’t take it. So, I checked into Deadland. But not before I sent him a nasty hologram—if he ever got it.”
“Of you? I’d like to see that.”
“I deleted it; they take up enormous data space. And I also hated myself, so…”
“Yeah. So, listen, I looked into that—the money. It turns out that Harry petitioned the courts while you were dead and got himself reinstated into your account. Then he just sucked it all out. And disappeared again.”
“The bastard. I never understood any of it. He said he was upgrading.”
“He was a fool.”
“Thanks.” She slumped. “Gabe, I can’t pay you anything right now. I was a high shine woman once. But not after Harry left me.”
“That’s alright. And I’m not forgetting that you once saved my life.”
“I don’t hold you to anything.”
“Maybe I do,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to die, but an overdose makes an easy death. I never asked you: how is it you had a hypo of Narcan when you dropped by?”
“My husband was also an addict. He was impulsive. I wanted to keep him alive.”
“Ironic.”
“Of course it is, Bandit.”
She liked to call me Bandit because I looked like a raccoon—dark thick hair, dark eyes and large teeth. “Well,” I said, “what’s billed is billed. I think I owe you a new life—or at least your old one.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you think of any other source of money?”
“Maybe.” She picked up a thin address book and flipped through it hungrily. “Here it is!” But her eager face fell. “It probably won’t matter. You see, when my parents died, their estate went into probate. They had dual citizenship—US and Canada—the probate was in the US. It was still going on, two years ago, but it should be finished now. But the account I gave the probate court was also joint, with Harry. He’s probably got everything now.”
“But you’ve got all the numbers for it.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s try it.”
“Now?”
“Why not? We have to know, don’t we? Your pod still works—you paid for five years.”
She gulped. “The ghost in the machine. Alright.” She tapped in the bank’s codes, and then the account number. “They’re asking for my eyes.”
“Go ahead.”
She held her breath and put her eyes up to the pod. We heard some bleeps, and then a flat note.
“Rejected,” said Suki, with a sigh. “I’m ghosted there too.”
“Or maybe your retinas have changed too much.”
“Boogerville.”
“How much money is supposed to be in there?”
“They told me it might be as much as 500,000 dollars.”
“Maybe Harry doesn’t know how much either. Maybe he doesn’t even know it exists. Maybe…this is a case for a private detective. Because I’ll tell you one thing: we need to find Harry.”
“You have a plan?”
“Yes. But more than that, I have one lead; I looked into something else: it appears that Harry might also be dead.”
***
The office of Forever Estates, in Burnaby, was as sterile as a boiled egg. The funeral director, Wong, also resembled an egg, with large head and yolk-like eyes. Green dragons entwined his neck.
“I’m a friend of the family,” I said, at the counter. Director Wong eyed me suspiciously, and droned, “Of course. My condolences. The services will be tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“Three a.m.”
“Kind of early.”
“I have my instructions.”
“Of course. Director Wong, is Harry Hannah actually in there?”
He hesitated.
I said, “I mean is he plaster or real bone?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
I pulled out some bills. “How much would it cost to know?”
“Too much, I think, for you, Person Sam.”
“I’d like the name of the consignor.”
“All I can tell, you,” continued Wong, “is the death notice. It’s in the paper.”
“Yes, I know.”
Wong peered at the bills I’d put on the counter. “These are coupons,” he said.
“Yes. Gentran coupons. Good almost everywhere.”
“Almost,” he said sourly.
I left Wong and found Suki outside the building. She handed me back the skeleton key-card with a sheepish but sly grin.
I asked, “Did you get in?”
“Not quite. I got through the main inner door, but no further. I saw something through another door window though. Five empty coffins.”
“No bodies on slabs?”
“No bodies at all.”
“Good.”
I took Suki back to the car. I drove a 2025 Super-Track—one of the outmoded few that still existed after most had short-circuited. But I couldn’t afford anything new.
“Harry,” I said, “is probably killing his Persona. Just a legal identity-death at this point, but he doesn’t want anyone to know. Director Wong is all spooked, and what you saw, that all leads to substitute ashes—they use plaster in most cases. But the kicker is the time—3:00 a.m. There’s usually a service before or after the roast, but who’s gonna show up at 3:00 a.m.? They have to give legal notice of the death, but they didn’t want relatives showing up. Even the time wasn’t in the notice.”
“What was in the notice?”
“Name, Harry R. Hannah. Date of death, the city—we’re lucky it’s Vancouver—and the funeral home for the service. That’s it.”
“So, you think it’s Harry?”
“Maybe. But before I find him I might have to find someone else.”
***
At 2:30 a.m. the street outside Forever Estates looked very dark. A few streetlights offered a grey film of shadows.
I walked past the flat, rectangular building, approached a large, skulking tree, and pulled out a small package of vid-chips. I stuck one of the chips, shaped like an octagonal cup, in a crook of the tree. Then I placed chips in other trees, and in one concrete fence. I also twisted the side mirror of an empty parked car to a sharp angle on the street.
Then, returning to my Super-Track, parked a block away, in a partially hidden driveway, I waited, watching the street.
I listened to some soothing whale rock from the Done Dicks and took out a snack: a cheap Norwegian rat. I pulled out the gnarled, headless body on a stick and began chewing. This one came from the riverfront, where the Fraser River had expanded from global ocean rise, while driving the rats further from the shore—according to my rat-man. I’d developed a taste for a well-roasted rat.
I shifted the Colt squirty on my belt. Non-lethal. Compressed air only shot a liquid pulse—a globule—about twenty feet but when you get hit with a burst of chloroform, in the face or a chest splatter—it didn’t really matter—you blacked out in a couple of seconds.
Soon a car pulled up and two men got out. I recorded with my night-vision binoculars. Director Wong was leading another man—an assistant? They entered the building. Wong had to be there for the roasting ceremony.
Fifteen minutes later another car pulled up, on the opposite side of the street, to my left, but no one got out. I recorded again. I got the license plate, then I started the vid-chips with my remote. I checked each angle from the remote and zoomed in on the driver—a young woman with blond hair and chrome-lensed glasses. She was sleek—dressed in silver lame—with a long chin and high cheek bones. But her eyes told no tales behind the chrome.
I watched her for fifteen minutes—watching the building. She didn’t eat; she drank from a take-out coffee cup. At 3:16 she raised a pod and dialed. I zoomed in on her hands, but the angles weren’t good. She spoke into the pod. Then she clicked on her engine. The car took off and I ducked as it went past me.
When her car reached the end of a block, I started mine, pulling into the street. Following for two blocks, I reached a new set of very bright streetlights, and my car lost power. It whined to a stop as I swore. A message scrolled across the dash terminal: “You have entered an Amazon-Corp roadway. Please insert Amazon credits.”
I ripped an Amazon credit from my pocket, shoving it into the required slot. But it took fifteen seconds for the sensor to blink green. I twisted the starter and sent the car up the road again, but in half a minute I knew I’d lost the girl.
***
Back in my apartment I uploaded all my information from the vid-chips and the binoculars. It was 4:30 a.m. I clicked and squinted until a hand came around my neck with a knife. But butter knives weren’t much of a threat. Suki pulled away the knife and swatted me on the head with it.
I asked, “You still alive?”
“How would I know? Idiot.” She placed the knife in her mouth sideways and chomped on it. “You found something?”
“And someone. A woman showed up at the funeral home. She saw no mourners and then took off. But I couldn’t record the number she called.”
I placed the vid-captures around the computer. The night vision images looked good, but the angles weren’t. I zoomed in as far as I could on her hands.
“I have her license number, of course, but that’s probably a blue herring. We can trace her later if we have to.”
“Wait a minute,” said Suki. “What’s that one there?”
“That’s a view of the other car—the parked car. There’s nobody—”
“There’s a reflection in that little mirror. Isn’t that the woman’s face in the car’s mirror?”
I punched it up. “Well, I’ll be a rattus-domesticus.” I zoomed in and saw a fuzzy view of the face and hands, and her smart pod. It was a mirror opposite, but she was dialing a number. I froze a still shot of the glowing number on her tiny black pod, but it was unreadable, so I sucked it all up using holographic particle rearrangement, creating 3-dimensional rendering of the numbers which the computer then evaluated.
“996-741-8293,” I said. “Good work, agent Suki.”
“Thanks. Now if we only knew what she said.”
“I already know. Reading lips as I do. Blondie said, ‘It’s Phoenix, Mr. Rodriguez. No one showed up. You’re all clear. Yes Sir.’ That was it.”
“Impressive.”
“Well, nothing’s a hundred per cent in lip reading. She might have said, ‘I’d like to order a large pizza, all cheese. For pick-up.’”
“Great. Now we have to check out every pizzeria. Or…what else do we do?”
“We dig some more.”
“Why don’t we call the number?”
“And say what?”
“I don’t know, tell them we have their pizza. Do you think Rodriguez is Harry?”
“Yes, I do. He’s got a new Persona now. It costs a lot of money, but it’s all legal and gives him camouflage.”
“And do you think this ‘Phoenix’ is his new wife?”
“No. She called him Mr. Rodriguez. But we need more background. Anyway, I’m exhausted. I need sleep. And so do you.”
Suki exhaled hard. “I don’t want to.”
“You have to.”
She tensed up. “You don’t understand what it’s like. It’s like dying again. And I don’t know if I’m going to wake up. And when I do wake up, I feel like I’m morphing from the grave.”
“So, it’s like a big hangover.”
She slapped my face hard. “Nooo!”
I stared at her, feeling the sting. “That’s it,” I said. “Do it again. That’s reality.”
She hesitated, then slapped me again.
“Again,” I said.
She slapped me again. Then she burst into tears. I picked her up in my arms and took her into my bedroom and laid her on the bed. I pulled up the cover. “Think about that,” I said. “And when I wake you up, come out of it swinging.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Alright. Thanks Bandit.”
“No sweat.”
I left her and flopped onto my couch, in the dark, pulling up my spare sheets. Doctor Bandit. But I wasn’t too optimistic because mostly I had a degree in failure. And I hadn’t told Suki about the Doc’s prognosis.
***
When I tried to wake Suki I thought she’d already scragged.
“Suki! Suki!” Her face felt squishy. I hated it, but I slapped her a couple of times. Then I wrenched her nose. She shifted and moaned. I growled again, “Suki! Get up! Wake up you piece of crap! You piece of—” she writhed and her eyes flipped open. Gurgling, she reached up and grabbed at me, anger boiling.
“Hit me!” I said. “Hit me!”
She pummeled me. Her eyes shot open, wildly. Then she lurched up on her elbows, taking huge breaths, blinking.
“That’s it,” I said. “You’re alive, Sucker.”
“Thanks,” she rasped.
“Breakfast is ready. Then I have something to show you.”
“Pink elephants?”
“No. Just gray.”
We had pancakes and syrup. Fried rat strips–crispy. Coffee. After that we pulled up a bunch of data on my computer.
“This,” I said, “is a file of dormant bank accounts. The U.S. and Canada issues these every year. Lots of accounts go lost or forgotten. They make these lists for guys like me to find the rightful owners before the accounts go back to the central bank for good. I make part of my dough this way. Let’s take one example.” I highlighted a line.
Suki squinted. “Ray-O-Van holdings.”
“Right. There’s over 50,000 dollars in there, untouched for three years. It gives the bank, the account number, the power of retina, and the city. When I’m on the job I find the rightful owner and let him know the money is out there. Then I make a deal and I give him the information. And he gives me the percentage we agreed on. So…here’s the thing. Your probate account could be just sitting there too. Now, it’s not on this list. But it could be eventually. It could be accessed. In any case, the power of retina is either you or Harry. But of course, yours won’t work. So that leaves Harry.”
“But he’s probably already got it.”
“I don’t think so. He took over your assets really fast. He could have missed something, easily. Are you sure he even knows this account exists?”
“I…I just assumed. When I made the account, I automatically put in Harry’s information and his retina scan, like a dutiful wife. It was on a thumb drive. But I don’t remember actually telling him.”
“You don’t have that drive.”
“No.”
“Well, we still we have a chance to get that money, or some of it.”
“Are you saying you want Harry—or Rodriguez—to go in and get it?”
“Yeah. It’s the only way we’re going to get any of that money.”
“But Harry could do that without us…”
“Not if he’s unaware of the account. I can make him think it’s part of my job—that he needs us. And he actually does. Or…we hope he does. We can make a deal. Share the money. He owes you that, doesn’t he? We give him the info and he goes in and siphons it out.”
Suki took a deep breath and wandered in a circle. She said, “Gabe, we can’t trust my husband. And we don’t even know it’s him.”
“Well, we have a number. If it’s him he’ll listen—if he hasn’t already rifled the account. We have to try. It’s all we’ve got. We need the dough and there’s not much time. I mean, we need the dough…”
“Wait a minute. What did you mean there’s not much time?”
“Nothing.”
Suki put the butter knife to my throat. “You know something,” she hissed. “What do you know? Did the Doctor tell you something?”
“Yes.”
Suki sat on the couch, holding her head. “How much time did he give me?”
I sighed. “Maybe a month. Maybe less.”
She rubbed her face. “Okay. Let’s make that call.”
I dialed. After three rings a man answered.
“Yeah?” It was a low but smooth voice. It gave me a chill. I put my phone on speaker.
“Mister Rodriguez?” I didn’t use Person because the blonde Phoenix had called him Mister.
“Who is this?”
“A friend. You don’t have to say anything, Mister Rodriguez. My name’s Gabriel Sam. I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case involving some people’s accounts. I came across an account with a lot of money in it, and…well, it’s basically yours, Mister Rodriguez. It’s about five hundred thousand dollars.”
We heard a grunt.
I continued. “It’s just sitting there, and for a small percentage I can help you turn the key. I can’t give you the name of the account, until we have a deal. That’s what I do—that’s my business. It’s called heir location. You can think about it and call me back at this number—I assume it’s on your phone. I’ll hang up now unless you want to hablo.”
Silence.
“Alright,” I said, “I’ll wait for your call.” Then I clicked off.
Suki was breathing heavily.
I said, “Was that him?”
“I think so. It could be. But Gabe—he knows your number now. And your name. That’s dangerous.”
“Yeah. But this number will show I’m a private detective. I’m not just some crank trying to fleece him. I have a legitimate business. I have to be…real. Or he won’t play. He’ll look me up now.”
“You think he’ll call back?”
“I would. Wouldn’t you?”
“Me? I’m a zombie. I might just eat your brains.”
“Now you tell me. Look, I’ll keep looking for Rodriguez online. But the best thing for you is sleep. We have to get your system used to waking up. So, you go to sleep for an hour, and I’ll wake you up.”
She dreaded it but she went back to the bedroom. My therapy was probably worthless, but we had to keep trying.
I found hundreds of possible Rodriguez’s. I had several photographs of him—of Harry—from before, but facial recognition only works when the face doesn’t change. Most people with facial art change it every week and that screws up algorithms—purposely.
I woke Suki up, over and over. It sucked each time. Finally, about 6:00 p.m. she screamed at me, declaring she needed a walk. Also, she hated the sight of me. Also, she wanted to buy some things. I let her go, off into the setting sun. The mall was close. Maybe that was a mistake. But maybe her mind needed what she said she needed. I just hoped she wouldn’t drop into a coma on the street. But I had to let her go.
She must have left the door unlocked because three guys walked into my apartment without knocking, ringing or singing summer Christmas carols.
My hand went for my squirty on my belt, but Rodriguez pointed his own at my face. His two goons pushed me down to my chair and handcuffed my hands behind my back. They looked like cartoon characters—long faces, dark slicked hair, sunglasses. Facial art covered their cheeks and forehead like a bad case of eczema.
Rodriguez—or Harry, looked very dashing. Suave. Sinuous. Expensive suit. His facial art curled down from his slicked black hair, surrounding his black brows and eyes.
“Let’s make this quick,” he crooned.
“Mister Rodriguez? I’m impressed.”
“Yeah. You have some information for me, Supe-man.”
“Well, I’m offering you a lot of shine.”
“Or it’s a shakedown because I have a lot of shine.” Rodriguez twitched, reminding me he was a drug addict.
My heart was thumping. “No. I give you the account name, number and bank. You go in with your retinal scan and transfer the funds.”
“I know all of my accounts. The idea is ridiculous.”
“The account is in New York. It’s in the name of Harry Hannah. And a Mrs. Hannah.”
He paused. “Ah, the death notice. But how did you get my number? Did Mrs. Hannah give it to you?”
“It’s not relevant.”
“Your balls are relevant. Now more than ever.”
I smiled. Hey—it was humour. “Look, I triggered an alarm. The police are on their way.”
“I doubt it. But I want that information now. So, talk fast, or we’ll cut something off and take your computer. We’ll find what we want.”
I let out some air. “Wrong and wrong. My door frame will demagnetize my computer. And I don’t think Hekyl and Jekyl here are gonna like what happens to them after they cut me.”
He thought. “Hekyl might.”
“Look, Rodriguez, this is all unnecessary. You were Harry Hannah until recently. And you had some assets you didn’t know about. It happens all the time. Especially if a wife deposited the money. I’m giving you those assets on a silver platter.”
“And just where is this wife?”
“I don’t know. I went with you first. I assumed your wife is dead. But if we can’t make a deal, I’ll try to find her. What did happen to her?”
He shrugged. “We’re divorced. Maybe she’s on welfare. That’s her problem. All I kept is her hologram. For kicks.”
Nice. I then explained how the retinal scan might still be accessed on the dormant account.
He thought about that, pacing, waving the squirty. “But legally you can only have one identity at a time; you are your retinal scan.”
“So? You just go into Harry Hannah’s old account, using the old retinal access, because it says it’s still active, and make the transfer—to whatever account you want.”
“But for a minute I’ll be legally Harry Hannah, not my present Persona.”
“Just seconds. There’s a billion transactions a day. Who’s gonna notice? You have your own current account standing by. Then you go into the old Harry Hannah account with the same retinas and transfer the money into your new account. It should work. Like I said your retinas are probably still the same—or close enough—and they haven’t changed the power of retina. It’s all technically legal.”
“Maybe.”
“Just use your retina on something else right after, to reinforce your current identity back again.”
“You have all the answers. But,” he said, grinning, “we could just get the information and then figure all this out. So, like I said, I want the information. Now!”
I took in a breath.
Then we heard a gruff, muffled voice from outside, coming from a police radio.
“Suspects located. 259 Dunlevy. Requesting backup. Repeat, requesting backup.”
Rodriguez’s face dropped. They all went stiff.
The radio outside continued, “Roger that Beta-twelve. Confirming backup dispatched. 259 Dunlevy.”
Rodriguez ordered Hekyl to unlock my handcuffs. Then they lurched into the bedroom, opened the window and jumped onto the fire escape. All three of them clanked down it like a looney tunes cartoon.
I got up, swallowed down some bile, and went to the door. In the corridor I saw Suki’s perky face, peering around a corner.
“Alright?” she said.
“Yeah.”
She approached and picked up her pod from the floor. “It’s a cool Ap. It’s called Lampoon. I chose Dragnet and said some stuff. Then it all comes out like Joe Friday.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pulled Suki inside. She was shivering, and not from the cold.
She put her arms around me, and I held her.
“Was that Harry?” I asked.
She nodded. “I couldn’t see him. But I heard him. It was him. Oh Gabe.” She started to cry. I decided I didn’t like Harry.
“You’ve got great timing,” I said, “for a dead girl. Maybe you’re not so dead.”
“Maybe. Did we blow it?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t know about the account. And if he wants the money, he needs us.”
“Does he know about me?”
“Not that you’re involved. Let’s keep it that way. By the way, he kept your hologram.”
She shook her head. “He’s crazy.” Then her eyes widened, and she went limp, hanging off my arms like a rag doll. I wondered what her brain saw. But I picked her up again and took her into the bedroom. I tucked her in and closed her eyes. Then I tried to find Rodriguez in some other internet connection. Maybe from Person Phoenix? We needed a chance to put pressure on him if he never called again. But I was praying he would call.
***
It was nine a.m. when my pod buzzed.
I woke with my head on my desk, and a sore neck.
“Hello,” I croaked.
“I’ll give you ten per cent,” said Rodriguez.
“Twenty,” I said instinctively.
“Twelve.”
“Eighteen.”
“Fifteen.”
“Sold,” I said.
“We’ll need somewhere safe to make the transfer.”
“Yeah. I don’t want any of your haunts.”
“Or yours. It has to be without eyes or ears.”
“What about an abandoned building along the Fraser inlet? There’s some spots they didn’t put up concrete to stop the tides. It’s just garbage and a few soggy abandoned buildings. Pods still work, but there’s no cameras, no one around.”
“Uncouth. I like it.”
“Under the Oak Street Bridge. Seventy-Seventh and Oak. We can meet right there and walk to any old building.”
“Which I’ll choose. Alright, let’s do this fast. Now.”
“Ten o’clock?”
“Good.”
“Alright. I’ll be there.”
“And Supe-Man—come alone. Or I’ll jack you.”
“I don’t get two goons?”
“No.” He hung up.
Now that, I thought, was not billed.
I couldn’t leave Suki behind; she might die on me. I took out my cattle-prod from the old days when I bounced people in bars, and when I couldn’t coax Suki awake, I set the cattle-prod on low and pressed it to her temple. Her head jerked to the side, and she gurgled. Then I shook her and swore, and she struggled to pull herself out of the sleep. She came awake crying.
“What the hell!?” she moaned.
“It’s Rodriguez. He bit. We have to meet him. I have to meet him.”
She nodded, still moaning.
I forced Suki to eat something and drink coffee. She used the bathroom. Then we left the apartment and drove out to the river.
I parked far away from Seventy-Seventh and Oak and ordered Suki to stay in the car. Then I walked down to the waterfront.
Rodriguez was waiting for me. So was Hekyl and Jekyl, still wearing dark glasses and stony expressions. Still with eczema.
Rodriguez led the way. It was all industrial, but most of the riverfront had concrete breakers. We walked over a dirt road and reached a circular open space with muddy earth, littered with a few small abandoned and forlorn buildings given no hope of rescue. The water lapped against one, while garbage decorated the ground in great heaps. The buildings were all slated for demolition, before reclaiming the land.
“Jesus, it stinks,” said Rodriguez. He twitched. “It’s perfect.”
We stopped in front of the soggiest building. It was deserted, except for the rising tide and some skittering rats. They searched me, taking my gun. Then Rodriguez found a broken side door of the building, opened it, and stepped inside. I followed. The goons stayed outside. In the dark, rancid room a few shafts of light stabbed through some broken windows. The furniture had been replaced with more garbage. A thick layer of dark muck covered the tile floor, smelling like a sickened sea, and the tide was oozing in.
“So,” said Rodriguez, squinting, “let’s make this quick.”
I handed him a piece of paper. “That’s the bank branch URL, the transit number, and the account number. My own bank and account number is on the bottom. I want you to make my cut right after you transfer everything to yours.”
He nodded and took out his pod. His fingers flashed and plunked. In a moment he said, “I’m into the bank. And…now the account. Once I give it my retinals, we’ll see.” He placed his eyes up to the pod one at a time. It bleeped twice. Then it kept on bleeping.
We both held our breath and then it stopped bleeping and a little green light came on.
“I’m in!” said Rodriguez. “And…there’s the shine. Beauty. You were right, Supe-Man. Five hundred and twenty thousand.”
I nodded with relief.
Rodriguez tapped some more numbers. “And…there it goes. Right into my little pony.” He grinned and sniffed.
“And into mine,” I said.
“Yes, well, that depends. It all has to go down right. So, I’ll just hang onto it for now.”
My head got a lot hotter. “Look, Rodriguez—”
He pulled out his squirty. “Back up,” he growled.
Then a burst of something hit his head, and he staggered forward, dropping the pod. He swore and fired behind him as he stumbled, wiping his face. The spray of chloroform went everywhere. I lunged backward, wiping my face and holding my breath, crouching against the wall. Rodriguez went to his knees, coughing. A figure ran forward and kicked the squirty from Rodriguez’s hand, and then we all balanced together in a swirling room.
Rodriguez looked up. “Suki?”
“That’s right, Harry,” she rasped. She held my spare squirty from the glove compartment—I assumed.
Suki panted, “Gabe I told you we couldn’t trust him.”
“Yeah. Where’s Hekyl and Jekyl?”
“I put them to sleep. I came down…I couldn’t just stay in the car.”
Rodriguez tried to drag himself forward. “What the hell?” he mumbled. “I thought you were dead.”
“Maybe I still am,” said Suki. “Maybe I’m a ghost.”
“Should have stayed dead, sweetheart. I’m not done.”
Tears came to her eyes. “I loved you. I died for you.”
“Then leave my money alone.”
“I can’t. I’ll die for good.”
“You got that right.”
Rodriguez pulled out a real revolver. I threw a rock and hit him in the head as he fired. The sound boomed around the walls, and Suki stumbled, holding her arm. Rodriguez collapsed, unconscious, his face in the muck. I staggered over and pulled the gun out of his hand, then slipped to the ground. But I picked up the pod, then forced myself up, and wobbled back to Suki, holding her.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
She grimaced. “I don’t know.”
“I think it’s just a graze. Hold your hand on it, tight.”
Time was slipping and something needed to happen.
“We could transfer his funds to my account,” I said. “But he needed to punch in his password to do that, and I don’t know it. Do you?”
“No.” Her breath came hard. Her eyes were big.
I was breathing hard too, and sweating. “I have an idea. It probably won’t work.” “What?”
“Just wait. I’m putting the money back into your probate account—he left that open too.” I fiddled with the pod’s tabs furiously.
“But we can’t get it out.”
“You can’t because your retinas don’t work. But maybe somebody else can. Okay the money’s back in the probate account. Now we close it on Harry’s end.”
“But—”
“Hold on! Now we start again.” I switched to my pod and tapped the numbers into the probate account. “And one more piece of the puzzle.” I put Harry’s pod over near the wall, where it was drier. Then I pressed several tabs on it, and a huge hologram sprang up, life-sized. I stepped back and we gaped at the eerie figure, talking, but on mute. It was Suki. With more hair, and fatter cheeks.
“It’s my holo,” said Suki.
“Yeah. But she’s more alive than you are, to the bank, to its systems. You were more officially alive when you made the holo. And your retinas were too.” I put my pod up to the holo’s gleaming eyes, one at a time. We heard one bleep, then two. Then a longer one. And then we were in.
“It worked,” I said, breathless.
“Oh my God.”
“Do you remember the password for transfers?”
“Yes, yes!” She gave me her account’s password and I transferred the funds out quickly into my account.
“Sometimes you have to be lucky,” I said, panting. “And a little crazy.” I picked up Harry’s pod and turned off the hologram, sucking it down to nothing.
The tide was bubbling in fast now, sloshing our feet, and pooling around Harry’s face. I kept his pod—we might need the holo again.
Suki said, “He’ll come after me. I know him.”
“Maybe not. Rodriguez went into the account as Harry Hannah and came out that way. Harry never used his retinas again—after taking out the money. So, he is Harry Hannah, and he’s already dead, legally.”
Suki winced and wheezed, holding her arm as the blood oozed.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, pulling her.
So, yeah, it was a crappy thing to do, leaving Harry there—or Rodriguez. But it was a legal death. And he would only be coming after Suki, and the money. And without the money she would die for good anyway. So, it was him or Suki.
And I didn’t like Harry.
This story previously appeared in Mystery Magazine, 2022.
Edited by Marie Ginga
Craig has a Bfa in creative writing and film from the University of British Columbia. He’s also spent many years studying under other notable teachers and writers, such as William Deverell, the veteran crime writer, and winner of the Dashiell Hammett Prize.
Craig won the 2024 Crime Writers of Canada Award of Excellence for best unpublished manuscript for his novel, “Requiem for a Lotus.” In 2023 Craig also won the Crime Writers of Canada Award of Excellence for his near-future detective short story, “The Girl Who Was Only Three Quarters Dead,” previously published in Mystery Magazine in April 2022.
Craig’s short story, “Bota and the Swarm”, was previously published online by MetaStellar, and in print by the Megan Survival anthology, published by Reality Skimming Press.