DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 11: “Policy”
The car picked up speed as the thing with Sheb’s face drove them through the entrance to the slideways beneath the Gulf Bridge. The hole in the creature’s abdomen wept a viscous fluid that looked like petroleum jelly. Moxley kept his seat, his mind racing, trying to logic out what was happening to him and failing utterly. It was insane. He actually wondered, genuinely asked himself, if perhaps none of this was real. Could it be a hallucination? Was he lying in an alley or the back of a medical wagon, seeing things that did not exist?
The thought that he might actually have taken leave of his senses was no more comforting than the reality of his abduction. What worried him most of all was that “Sheb” had made no attempt to take Moxley’s revolver. If this being, whoever and whatever he was, had no fear of explosive-tipped projectiles, what were Moxley’s options? What had Weber taught him? When in doubt, observe. Find a data point you’ve missed. There’s always something.
“What did Ray tell you?” asked the creature that wasn’t Sheb.
Moxley blinked. “What?” he said.
“Ray Neiring,”said not-Sheb. “What did he tell you?”
“About what?”
Not-Sheb turned to look at Moxley. His grip on the steering wheel did not waiver, but he he said, “About what? About anything. Auto-drive.”
“Auto-drive, acknowledged,” said the car’s fluid AI.
“Nice car,” said Moxley.
“Nice car,” said the creature. “Yes, it is. Now tell me what Ray Neiring told you.”
“Are you an Augment or something?” asked Moxley. “An epidermis mod? You know, new face, new grafts, maybe a full suite of organs to keep you partying for a hundred years?”
“I am not an Augment or something,” said the creature. “Detective Moxley, if you don’t tell me what Ray Neiring told you, I am going to torture you when we reach our destination.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where’s that?”said the creature. “That’s really not your concern. Your more immediate concern should be what I will do to extract the information. If you would like a clean death, and not one that is merely the culmination of hours of permanent maiming, you will tell me what Ray Neiring told you.”
“You’re not leaving me a lot of options,” said Moxley. “You really oughtta learn to negotiate. Is the real Sheb dead?”
“Dead? No,” said the creature. “Your concern for his welfare is surpising.”
“This isn’t concern,” said Moxley. “It’s curiosity.”
“Curiosity.”
“That’s kind of a thing with you, isn’t it?”said Moxley. “I should have picked up on it before. Override.”
“Override?” said the creature.
“Auto-drive override, acknowledge,” said the car, as Moxley reached out and jerked the steering wheel as hard as he could.
* * *
“I have references,” said Moxley. “Good ones.”
The clerk did not glance up from the tab on his wrist. He continued to tap in data with his index finger, a process slow enough that Moxley was ready to chew through the tabletop. Trying to sound casual, he added, “I really need this job.”
“Everybody does,” said the clerk, who was easily 60 years old. A fog bank of indifference hung low about him, seeping from his pours and written into every line on his face. The corroded nameplate on the table-turned-desk identified the clerk as Weber, D. Weber’s fingers were stained a yellow that matched his greasy, half-mast necktie. It also matched the ring around the open collar of his shirt.
Moxley could feel himself starting to crack. “If there’s anything I can offer by way of… by way of mitigating circumstances–“
That brought the old man’s head up. He fixed Moxley with a look the younger man couldn’t place. “You’re talking about your military record.”
Mox slumped in his seat. “Forget it,” he said. “Just forget it. You’ve got a policy. Everybody’s got a policy.” He put his hands on the armrests and started to push himself up.
“We don’t,”said Weber.
Moxley froze. “What?”
“Policy. Don’t have one,”said Weber. The man spoke as if every word cost him money. “You scored 98 percent on the logic test. You’re not a cripple, a shrimp, or a chick. You’re hired.”
Moxley blinked, still half in and half out of his chair. “It’s just…”he said. “I’ve been to so many interviews where they said–“
“Don’t care,”said Weber. “This is insurance investigations, not the Seminary. Eight tomorrow morning. Be on time.”
“Sure. Okay. Yeah. I’ll be here. Eight o’clock.”
“Moxley,”said Weber as Mox turned to go. “You got a gun?”
Moxley froze again. “No,” he said.
“Get one,” said Weber.
* * *
Moxley opened his eyes.
“System failure,”said a voice. “System failure.”
It wasn’t the car. As he struggled to disengage the automatic crash harness, Moxley realized the synthesized voice, so close to that of the car’s AI, was coming from the creature. Both of them had been held fast by the padded harnesses that deployed when the vehicle flipped over, but the windshield had been pierced by a reinforcing spar built into the guard walls of the roadway. It had taken a chunk of not-Sheb’s seat and also a sizable portion of his skull. What was visible was a riot of electronics and conductive goo.
Moxley’s hand ached. He looked down and discovered he had somehow managed a death grip on the pistol. Switching the weapon to his left hand, he flexed his right. It went right on hurting. His shoulders and ribs were throbbbing. His head hurt, too. The various telgraph stations across his body were beginning to report in and none of the news was good.
“System failure,”said not-Sheb. “System failure. System–“
“Shaddap,”said Moxley. He shoved the barrel of the gun in the creature’s mouth and pulled the trigger twice.
“This is Transportation Control,” said the wrecked car around him. “I’m showing a deployment of automated safety features. Can I have your subscriber identification, please?”
“Wow,” said Moxley. “This really was a nice car.”
“Can I have your subscriber identification, sir?” asked the voice. “I’m not authorized to contact emergency services if you’re not paying for our service.”
Moxley might have laughed harder, but he thought his ribs might be cracked.