Dead Zone POC

         
         

Dead Zone

         In an era where the vastness of space has been fully charted, and the age of exploration has given way to omnipresent surveillance, the galaxy finds itself under the panoptic order of the Republic of Democracy (RoD), an end-state with Earth at its centre.
         Within RoD lies an anomaly, the Dead Zone, an asteroid belt cloaked in darkness on every map. It is because of solipsis--a mysterious ore that defies the empire, swallowing all wavelengths, rendering the galaxy's electronic surveillance useless.
         It is for this reason the Dead Zone is the last bastion of human freedom. A place untouched by law, order, and big government. A last frontier for those with the capital to escape the monitored universe, and those unfortunate enough to be born there.
         It is a lawless haven, where millions of residents--from ex-pats to speciated natives and meti--try to coexist, faced with the same near-forgotten questions and fates as their pre-galactic ancestors.
         Pirates sail black tides, engaging in terror, defiant of RoD's sheriff-led attempts at satellite order. It cannot be said whose side justice is on, though that may be irrelevant. In the Dead Zone, by god or probability, the fate of freedom is left in the hands of a few, and this story fumbles between them.

Prologue:

         Ships sail black tides. I watch them pass with my wife. Blips in the night. It reminds us of before. Back in RoD. Only these are ordinary lights -of neighbourhood watch cruisers.
         Our estate's on Meteor 2. Evergreens. The safest most developed asteroid in the DZ. Tonight, no asteroids block our view of the stars. Without pollutants in the air we can see more than back home. Newer oxocycles keep the air fresh.
         Salin lies on my chest, on our cot hung between two palms. I tear open her blouse, reminding her why we're here. She slaps my hand and covers up. I laugh heartily, making a show of it. There's no one watching us. She doesn't get it yet. We're absolutely free.
         Still she clings to me. I remove her grip and stand from the cot. I walk to the pool, where I left the bourbon. Lights make the water emerald blue, and give the bottle an orange hue. I squat for it. The Traffeks gave us the bottle as a landing gesture. It's tied with a white ribbon.
         This is what freedom looks like. Not tonight, but tomorrow, I'll come out here naked. Maybe buy that pistol. Drive the buggy out the gate. Race it duneward -have it hoisted by locals. Have a cigar. Invite them back for drinks. Let them gawk at Salin, and the house. Hand them instruments late in the night...
         Freedom. So many possibilities. I see why it's priceless. And why it's so pricey. I miss my Mastiff. Max was a good boy. I know Ma and Pa will take good care of him. If I could afford it he'd be here. Sadly, Traffek makes no distinction. All cargo's the same. We all cost the same. Salin got pregnant, so we had to cut Max out of the picture. That's the way of it.


         I wish I left my parents a letter. I didn't get to say goodbye or explain myself. For all they know, I went missing. But there was no time. It was too high risk.
         I invested two years ago. Half up front. 200qil in options. The stock tanked the next day, as it was supposed to. Until two weeks ago, I begrudged the gamble. Then, one day, at my wife's favourite cafe, a woman approached her. She whispered in her ear. Our tickets had arrived.
         We had a week's notice to attend the Cambrian Lunar Festival. The Boralean event of the galaxy, on a resort planet bordering the far side of the belt. Once a year, the Borealis filled the sky, reflecting across the ocean world. I'd seen it a couple times in my youth. It lost its spectacle.
         Finding a hotel was difficult. We settled for a hostel, costing an arm and a leg. We cruise-shuttled to the planet, pinching for a taxi on the way down.
         Before we had a chance to check in, the woman from the cafe met us outside. We were tired and unprepared for the four days by cargo ship. There were no windows in the 'suite,' the bay was made to look like a 3-star hotel, and no fresh food. Just freeze-tubed nutrients.
         Like with the suite, the outwardly dingy cargo ship was outfitted with boosters. Hidden under the rigging in case of chase. From the smooth cruise, it appeared they were unneeded.
         At some point, we ditched the speedway towards the belt -a direct RoD violation, only possible during the worst traffic of the year, the Lunar Festival. Most of the time, it was impossible to go unnoticed by RoD. Even if we were discovered, a pursuit vehicle could only chase us so far toward the DZ without a death wish.
         Salins sedatives disappeared. I counted them the night before and placed them in my suitcase. She promised she didn't take them, and accused me of losing them. Without them she was a mess. So much so that I questioned if I really loved the woman, without the purple pills. Landing, getting a breath of fresh air, I realized we persevered. It wasn't just the cost that made us deserve this.
         With this in mind, I handled the realtor they brought with little skepticism. I didn't mili-pinch, though I knew bartering the norm, unlike at home where everything was SCP, giving him his initial proposed commission on the first property shown, an up-sell. I saw this as a chance to appease the locals, assuming with his thick accent it was split among them. One big sum to get them out of our hair. I made this clear in my disposition. Crumbs leave a stray dog coming back for more. A flank, and they go elsewhere.
         As we arrived up the newly paved road, I felt this was where we ought to be. No more damn surveillance. Just me, Salin and the child, on new horizons. The only frontier left in the universe. There was no better time to go. No chance I'd raise a kid back home. They're robbed by the state. Propaganda at schools makes weak men like my brother. I refuse to have a 'son' like that.
         The people here appear livelier, In a wild way. On the night we arrived, I saw a bit of the strip. Buggied Porches and Mustangs parked out the Thunder Dome. Ticas in denim short-shorts smoking vaporizers. I'll pay the place a visit on a night Salin's too sedated. I wonder how little they cost.


         Salin's finally asleep. I know by her twitching.
         I hold the bourbon to my eyes, watching the consistency. The ribbon glimmers on its surface. Revealing what's remaining. Whatever it's cut with is affecting me.
         I don't know what's to come. I'm glad she's asleep.
         I hear the sound of a watch cruiser coming closer than it should. Pop. It enters our bubble. I turn to see a hovercraft, not a cruiser. It lands in the garden, near the palms, slow and steady. Salin doesn't stir.
         A figure leaps off, wearing an oxygen mask with a red-tinted visor and black leather vest. I cannot see the face but I can tell it's a man. He handles something in his pocket as he approaches me.
         "Salutations!" I say. Acting unperturbed by the whole thing, holding the bottle. He gets within arms reach of me and pulls out a ray gun. Points it at my head. Either he's bluffing, or that's jailbroken pre-exodus. If not for the light on the ribbon, and the tincture in the bottle, the latter would be unlikely. However, if he works with Traffek...
         I planned on buying a pistol the night we arrived. Making a show of it. But Salin was too tired. Damn it. Would it have made a difference on the night I went swimming? I would have grabbed it once I started feeling funny. Once I realized they spiked the bourbon.
         "Put that thing down! Unless you want to alert the watch!" I yell authoritatively. Yelling won't do anything. Sound doesn't travel in space. I yell to make him flinch. He doesn't.
         Through his visor comes a muffled voice. Cold, yet playful. "When was the last time you saw a blip?" He was right. The watch ran 5-minute rounds. I hadn't seen a blip in some time. Just stars. Whatever they slipped me made me lose focus. Let me grow too comfortable. The house was also pitch black. We'd left the lights on. I was really out of it.
         "It's been some time, I guess." I can only guess: Devils Breath? I'd learned to recognize the effects of Scopolamine. Though I don't believe in shots, I should have taken some drug-deflectors pre-exodus. I thought only RoD had liquid Scopolamine. Luckily I didn't drink the entire bottle. If I act disoriented, he might buy my con. Let his guard down.
         "No one's coming for you, Paul."
         The pool light casts waves over his visor. I focus on this. When one reaches his eyes, or where I expect them to be, I'll strike with the bottle in my hand. Regardless of whether he knows my name and works with Traffek, he won't know about my insider upgrades. My arm has an off-market spring. Bolts quicker than an olympian. It would take less than a second...
         "The vaults, and we leave you for Bent. Elsewhise, we excavate the place. And you die." We? Another bluff? Where? If I lose eye contact with him, he'll know the Scopolamine hasn't taken full effect. As well, being left for Bent was as good as being dead. He's playing with his prey. That means he's let his guard down. I have to act quick. The light hits his eyes.
         "The code is-" -I send a signal to my arm: Swing the bottle!- It jerks out the socket, squirting blood. I feel violent pain as it hangs limp. Contorting inward. I try my other inserts. They're all fried.
         "What is this?"
         "Something not yet off-market."
         He kicks me in the shin and I fall to the floor. He puts the gun to the side of my head.
         "The code is-?"
         There's little chance I leave here alive.
         "You don't even need the damn code, do you?"
         He removes his mask, and I stare up at him. He's young and handsome. Not an ounce of local blood in him. He pries the bottle loose from my torn hand.
         "I picked this for you, you know? It's my favourite, though I don't get it too often. Needed a mission to justify the expense. Costs more with no SCP, a markup in conversions. I thought we might have something in common, though you barely made a dent. I guess, in a way, I appreciate that. More for me. It also goes to show the good things in life are beneath you. You were always unfit for your bearings."
         Only a little swig is left. He pours it over my head, then throws the bottle in the pool. Water splashes in my face. My eyes burn. I taste bitter chlorine mixed with maple. I spit it out. "Freedom comes at a cost, doesn't it?"
         He pauses. Through my blurred vision, I see him lower the gun in his lap. After a moment, he sighs and puts it back to my head.
         "Not one you'll ever get to understand."

*

         Ray guns don't make a sound.
         Something splashed in the pool. Too light to be my husband. Then, more words. Just silence after that. Not even the sound of footsteps.
         I pretend to sleep from the sedatives. Has Paul won? If a hand caresses my arm, will I know it to be him? I need to remain still, but I can't help but shake. Is a gun pointed at my head? Will I be used first?
         I hear our sliding door. If it were Paul, he'd have said something. They leave the door open. They know it can lock from the outside. It must be as Paul said, they don't need the code. The vault is in the basement, and they are headed straight there. The door is automatic but slides slowly; Maybe I'll hear it and have a chance.
         Do I have time? How far can I get? Not far... Unless I take his hovercraft. Did he leave the keys in it? I'd take the buggy, but it's in the garage. I'm running out of time, I have to act fast.
         But... the locals and the watch, what if they're in on it? If I try to run, they might get more violent. They didn't kill me right away like Paul. I'm better off pretending to sleep. If I run, and they catch me, I'll yell Baby and point at my stomach. They must know that word -they wouldn't harm someone who's pregnant. They aren't complete savages.
         I hear footsteps ascending the stairs. I've waited too long. My eyes are open. My husband lies dead, a puddle around his head forming a stream towards the pool, dripping into it, making the blue-lit pool water pink. I see the stranger ascending the stairs. My hands melt into the cot. Something's in his hands...

*

         Finally, the sedatives worked. Damnit Neal, I told you to wait. I could tell she wasn't asleep, but you got impatient. What if you'd noticed? Or she pulled something? Would I shoot you, or her? Some pregnant rich bitch or my good friend? You may have brought it on yourself, and had it for a long time coming, but that would be my ass too. So I'd shoot her, and get vengeance on you later. You don't just make someone's hands more unclean than they already are because you're impatient. That's just uncivil. Uncivil and inconsiderate.
         The pregnant lady is a dim shadow by the now pink pool light. Pretty. My finger twitches on the trigger. It's like standing on a cliff, holding a knife, or saying a bad word. Some odd force on the precipice.
         I see you ascend the stairs, and I lay down my sniper. I breathe a sigh of relief. You're carrying a lot of cargo. A load and a half. I'd call you greedy, but it's for the cause. Had it not been for the stage, we could have taken it all earlier. I'm supposed to keep watch, but the show's over. Went without a hitch. I place the gun in its padded case with the gentlest care. In case it gets a mind of its own. A little shake and a stray bullet.
         I lay back on the captured cruiser, taking a pull from your vaporizer. I'd have brought cigarettes, but 'they could give us away.' That, or that's something you made up to get me off 'em. Asshole. I feel weightless now, as I usually do, after Judge is tucked away.


         The man had to die. I feel no sympathy for him. Cross gave us the rundown. 1. Entitled brat. 2. trust fund trash. I could go on. Good riddance. She was too. Not trust fund, but money enough. Private school, vacation, fancy dinners, her skin... Only her father went bankrupt. She knew the feeling of slipping down the drain. Could've set her straight.
         Instead, she married him. Weasled her way in. Left her father in the mud. Anything to not work a day. Her life was even more padded than her husband's. Sedation, the neurological warmth of an electric blanket. Some 'generalized anxiety disorder,' GAD. It should be FoE. Fear of effort. Gave us an easy solution, though. Tranquillizers in the pills. Stole 'em from the husband's suitcase. Cut 'em, then placed them upfront at the market. Would've handed 'em straight back after the flight, but they were too smart for that. Cut 'em with enough to knock out an elephant. Surprised it took so long to kick. She was resilient in one way, at least.
         But the way she clung to her husband made me sick. You'd think she actually loved him. She was fine being a pet, for a plush life. Didn't even mind his stares passing Thunder Dome -short shorted Tica ass. I gawk too. She didn't tip at the cafe... That's what ground my gears. She was a regular there, and she didn't tip? If not for the baby...
         When I pulled out Judge, I knew her well. My thoughts were spot on. She thought herself a cattle dog. But she lacked cattle. She clung to her master. She deserved to have her prim illusions shattered. She was the herd animal.


         Neal lands the hovercraft on the cruiser. He drops one suitcase and opens the other. Beer! The crew's tied up, but gently so. They didn't mind being 'captured' for a good price. The ropes stand as their contingency. They 'struggled valiantly'.
         The homeowner's board brought it on themselves. The watch's wage costs less each month than amenities. Didn't matter they were paid more than inner city security. The wealth gets to ya. Seeing the homes. Living next to 'em. Being part of somethin' you don't own a cent of. One develops a sense of entitlement. Rightfully so.
         It's something Paul, sprawled by the pool, seemed to get. I noticed the stingy man's generosity -doesn't mean he's justified in it, though. The locals won't give a damn for scraps. Nor will anybody else. They are either one of us or one of you. And they've been hungry far too long.
         The men say, "Gachos," as they are handed Imperials -you can't get 'em in RoD. Besides that, they are silent. One makes a forced, awkward chuckle. Despite being privy, there's a line that separates us from them. From these men who look -and are paid for their looks- more gruff than we do. A gringo may think all locals are killers, but only a select few are. The locals distance themselves from us. Despite being aware of our existence and grateful for it, they are spiteful.
         We are a necessary evil. We protect the pack. But will never be a part of it. When things aren't up to snuff, they'll blame us -they probably already do. It's how they wash their hands, with the water we've secured.
         Neal's more hopeful despite not being one of 'em. He has to know there's no point. Hand 'em a baton, and they run. It's not condemnation to suggest this, just fact. How could one expect otherwise?
         He offers me a beer after the Ticos, yet to grab his own.
         "I don't drink."
         "Yes you do."
         "Not anymore."
         "Not for tonight?"
         "Not anymore."
         "Then tonight's your last one."
         "I'll pass. It gives me a headache." I really want a beer.
         "Finally tasting your own medicine?"
         "He did." I say dryly. We can't be blunt with our words. Bent will investigate the watch. Better they know as little as possible.
         "You should've said you were drowsy." He knew she was awake? Since when did you grow a heart Neal?
         "You should have served me first," I nod towards the roped men, "I could have been finished by now, and we are in a hurry."
         I won't drink with the Ticos. Neal, had you heard what they muttered when you weren't here... I barely look Meti, so no one expects I have local ears. Least somethin' close to 'em. They think us the fools in the grand scheme of things. I won't bother telling you because it's just what you'd expect.
         "You're right."


         We leave the watch cruiser by the stream near the house, with the lights off so it's found in the morning. Neal chucks the beers in the ravine. I get sad watching 'em plop away. There was a spray on his gloved thumb. Used it to open the Imperials. Mine of course was offered left-handed. The men are out cold. Salins pills had triple the dose, and she took three.
         Had I told Neal about before, the ticos muttering, he'd of drowned 'em in the 'moat.' Instead, I spared the assholes. Don't need more blood today. Blood that'd do us a disservice. They have to think we're on their side. We are, just not them specifically.
         With my oxygen mask on, I hop on the back of the hovercraft with the cargo. Neals gripping the handles, revving it up. Had we bribed another cruiser, there'd be no hurry at all. But that was more risk than it was worth. No point seeing double the Ticos mawed. Oh, Bent'll get to them.
         As far as nights go, this one was uneventful, at least in the scale of bad deeds. It will, however, make big waves. After all, it takes just one dead rich man in a gated community, Cross says, for the community to question what it is without a gate.

*

         I had such a nice dream. I was leading cattle across an endless field. I woke on a stone slab, drool on my face, in a constabulary cell. A futon and sheets were folded next to me, as if asleep I'd make them myself.
         Then I remembered everything--the puddle, the visored man, the suitcase in his hands. I screamed. All our money, everything, gone! I didn't even want to come here. It was Paul's idea. I liked RoD! I missed Max, the coffee shop, and palates! Everything I loved, gone.
         Being here in this cell only meant one thing: Bent.
         I'm going to see Bent. He's RoD's law around here. I'm sure he'll set things straight. Free me from this place. Return me to Max and my father... He'll forgive me once his savings are returned. When they catch the murderer and those associated with him. Slaughter them.
         That's what I thought initially. Then I wondered, why am I on this side of the cell and not the other? Across from nannies, street urchins, locals... all seen before me. They looked at me like the caged animal. As if I was the one less than them.


         It's been two days. I need a shower. Again, freeze-tubed food. No sedatives. They were 'confiscated,' or so Inspector Veracruz told me. She was really just a secretary. She was the only one wearing a nametag. Typed faster than a digi-texter. No visible implants, though. Directed those who came in without looking up from her monitor.
         She hadn't taken a break since I got here. Did she ever rest? Snail, the only other officer, brought her coffee every hour. Like a clock, I'd hear, "Thank you, Snail." He was an older man, paced the room like his name. Half the time, he napped by the door. He only woke for coffee, or when someone opened it.
         I tried talking to Veracruz. Partly out of boredom, mostly because I needed sedatives. She ignored me at first. Only responded when I said I needed the restroom, then not even for that. Not even for compliments.
         "You have such nice nails." Her fingers were burlier than Paul's, though she wasn't unattractive. Another type of flattery, maybe.
         "You are quite skilled at your work."
         "Why thank you."
         "Don't you ever need a break?"
         "No."
         "How can a lady get some rest around here?"
         "Lie down."
         "Oh! I need something to calm the nerves."
         A couple attempts and she got frustrated. Let slip the sedatives were laced with tranquillizers. How I'd not noticed, she said, was beyond her. Fine by me, I'd taken worse things in the past.


         "Salin, get up. You're seeing the Inquisitor."
         Ah, finally! Snail unlocked the cell. I wanted to hug the old bag of bones. I couldn't stand small spaces, especially grimy ones. Walking towards Bent's office, I looked at those in the cells. Caged animals! They all stared at me. Their glares, for some reason, felt deeply personal.

*

         
         I'd have given her the sedatives to shut her up -if not for her snores. It must have been the tranquillizers. No man would marry a woman like that; he'd die of restlessness. Even Snail, who could barely hear, was against giving them to her. Finally, I could take a break. Bent promised we'd get a breakroom years ago, yet here I am at my desk -and I can't nap on it when Snail's out cold.
         Part of me thought I should let her cellmates do her in. None were violent, but her snoring could drive them to it. A bread thief was in the cell beside her, and she slept within arms reach. He stared hesitantly, questioning a life sentence. I questioned if giving him the green flag would get me probation.
         Bent made her wait a long time on purpose. He'd not said so clearly, but I could tell. She'd caused quite a mess with her privileged stupidity. For once, she'd wait on instead of being waited on. Though with her husband dead, part of me thought he should give her a break. But, that's Bent. Even when we need something from someone, he can't help but treat them the way they deserve. It's like he's giving me a challenge on the desk work. Sometimes, I think he does it intentionally, trying to get me back in the field.
         I don't care if they're short-badged, I opted for this position on purpose. I no longer want to be an investigator. It's tiring and predictably petty. Even when it's not, Bent steps in and does it by the book. There's no fun to be had. However, case filing... my documentation is the closest thing here to a court of law. The magic of legal interpretation, it's all there, just retrospectively. Think a ribbon over a pile of shit. Making it make sense is far more interesting. There's more between the lines. I'm also tasked with invoices... which are never audited... that explains it.
         Still, what Bent intends for this girl is beyond me. This case is a dead end. And for whatever he's brewing, I don't expect a smile on her face when she comes out of that office.

*

         "Miss Salin Norma!"
         "Bent, I presume?"
         Bent was a bald, pudgy man. He wore a navy suit. On it was a brass sheriff's badge with the symbol of RoD: a ring with a star to the right, where the earth was inside.
         "Mhm, Indeed. Feel free to sit down, but we will not be here long." He had a scone, two muffins, and some tea in front of him.
         "You've caught the man?"
         "Not quite."
         "Searching?"
         "No, the opposite."
         "What do you mean?"
         "Well, they left without a trace."
         "The watch didn't see anything?"
         "No, they did. The two of them hijacked a cruiser. A female and a man who wasn't local. They were both armed. Subdued and tranquillized the men. Escaped by hovercraft."
         "So nothing?"
         "Correct!"
         "But the watch runs in five-minute intervals, and a hovercraft can only leave gate-side... there has to be something?"
         "For a price, anything's possible." He pauses, sipping some tea, "We already squeezed the information from the watch, and it was not forthcoming. For the rest, we'll assume opportune timing and inside knowledge. That gives a sufficient explanation." A bite from the scone.
         "But if you pursue them further you might find an answer!"
         "Miss Norma," he pushes back his chair to open a drawer and throws a bag of teeth on the table, "the locals can be very difficult. I did not see it worth pursuing further."
         "But my husband is dead! Our wealth stolen! Why's it so hard? Don't they understand? It's better for their community. Who the hell will invest here if they behave like that? They're supposed to deal with their people, the ones who prey on us. We bring them opportunity!"
         "Did your husband tell you that?"
         "What?"
         "Well, it's what they teach the Quistadors. I learned it too. It's rubbish. These people don't want what we have. They don't want your wealth. They want to be left alone. After all, you can understand. Isn't that partly why you came here?"
         "My husband. I never wanted to come here."
         "Then why'd you rob your father? His savings, all in cash, were in that suitcase. Paul told you pulling large amounts from his accounts would be suspect, and he'd already paid for the tickets, right?"
         "He said he arranged to reimburse my father."
         "Well, he didn't. An investigation for the two of you began the day after you left when your father saw his savings were gone."
         "Then how'd I end up here?"
         "As in, why weren't you caught earlier?"
         "Yes."
         "The answer to that question might be the best-kept secret in the galaxy, but I'll let you in on it..." Bent leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Frankly, most of the time, no one is watching you."
         "...But they want me back now, right?"
         "I reiterate, no one is watching you. They don't know where you are. They don't know what happened to you. And, if I'm to be honest, they've already forgotten about you."
         "My father?"
         "You robbed him blind, Salin! And even if he does forgive you, he has no capital to make it worth RoD's time to find you! How much do you think it costs to send a ship here to the Argentine and back? The waste of resources, people, the threat of pirates, all for you: a criminal? You've committed thievery against your father and treason against the state. Are you worth all the effort just to put in a cell, where they pay for your room and board?"
         "...There has to be some passage. I can return the money as a debt. Any kind of debt."
         "Why are you so desperate? Have I not made it clear to you? You got what you paid for. Sure, your husband is dead, but you still have the house. He paid a lump sum, right? Find a job with the locals on Evergreens, maybe the watch. They have their own food trucks that stop by--local prices. You'll need that with the cost of utilities."
         "But I don't want to be here."
         "Good! You're starting to get the picture."

*

         The Salin leaving Bent's office was a different person- a shell, dragging her feet slower than Snail. Suffice it to say her husband dying wasn't enough to break her; it was whatever Bent said in that room.
         "Veracruz!" He calls me into his office.
         Passing by the woman, I see she's forced to see me as a person for the first time. I walk by her quickly as if to say I don't have any answers for you. I think I hear her pause.
         I enter Bents office.
         "Yes, sir?"
         "Oh, it's one of those days?" Formalities are for when I disagree with his approach.
         "The ship's still here, sir."
         "And?"
         "It's here for a reason."
         "They got what they need."
         "What they need is outside that door."
         "Veracruz, that woman has more in her than you think."
         "I beg to disagree."
         "I understand this is touchy for you."
         "Why?"
         "I don't want to say."
         "Because I can't be a mother?"
         Bent kept eye contact. His point was clear, yet so unlike him. She spends her life in a cell or has a chance to raise her child here. Sure, to her it seems like a cruel fate. A hard stop on RoDs sedatives and pacifier. The fear of the unknown.
         "I see your point," I say.
         "That wasn't the point at all, actually. She'll probably end up some junkie, an exotic whore, or both. Self-reliance is far beyond that woman, and right now, I've just robbed that child of a life with some wealthy grandparents. The real reason, Veracruz, is I don't think Valance is done with her, and he doesn't even know it yet." Oh Bent, you cold asshole. You never disappoint.
         "What reason can he have... wait, Pauls parents?"
         "Maybe my gut, but word should arrive in a couple days. Unlike her father, I assume they weren't told about the pregnancy, and considering Paul was the only male-identifying heir..."
         "Valance wouldn't have that data?"
         "The vessel brought an updated report of his brother's transition to sister. Though Valance is thorough, them letting her go shows they missed this."
         "The parents' psychographic reports support this too?"
         Bent nods.
         "Adjacent viewing preferences in discovery recommendation engine... 60% likelihood they desire a grandchild."
         All RoD citizen-related cases in the Zone are handled with this level of care. Retrieval vessels arrive with a USB, with all potentially relevant datasets related to the case, some more secure than Valance' Traffik can scrape real-time in RoD. Psychographics, informed by interactions, are far more secure than demographics, as the mind is deemed a more valuable asset.
         "Who would you like watching her?"
         "Mobilize Snail. It's time we bloody their noses."