DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 13: “Crosses to Bear”
Ben Garrison stood on the third story of a building overlooking the Capitol tech ghetto. The building had been partially razed, leaving three levels of ruin that retained just enough structure to provide cover for his snipers. The snipers had already left their positions, however. The raid on the illegal surgical facility — which sat in the shadow of the Augment District among countless abandoned homes — had gone off without a hitch and with no loss of life. Turbofan interceptor craft stirred up whirlwinds of grit and debris on the filthy street below. Through his binoculars, he swept the windows of the target building, making sure there was nothing moving now that his men were clearing out. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Ogs to hide during a raid and then come creeping out of the woodwork when the heat was off. The smaller models could fit where no human being could go.
He felt the disc of his phone vibrate in his pocket. He tapped the stud implanted behind his right ear. “Garrison,” he said.
“This is Harold Moxley calling for Commander Ben Garrison.”
“Commander,” said Garrison. “I, uh, haven’t answered to that rank for thirty years, Mister… Moxley? Why does that sound familiar?”
“We served together, Commander,” said Moxley. “I was a supply sergeant—”
“Oh,” said Garrison. “Right. That Moxley.”
The statement hung between them for a few moments. When Garrison didn’t comment further, Moxley apparently decided to stumble forward. “I’m calling you, Commander, because you’re the only person I know in Human Services.”
“That might be overselling it a bit, don’t you think?” Garrison asked. He had not yet decided, himself, if Moxley was digging a hole.
“Fair enough, sir,” said Moxley. “But what I’m bringing to you isn’t, strictly, speaking, something I could raise through channels. For one, there’s my status. I’m a private detective in Hongkongtown, where Human Services does not even maintain a field office.”
“We’ve been busy enough there nonetheless,” said Garrison. “As you probably know.”
“I’m aware,” said Moxley. “The official word is there’s a much larger Og presence in Honkongtown than anyone realized. I know there’s some talk on the mainland of government intervention, but the politics of our free-trade status is an obstacle.”
“You assess the situation correctly,” said Garrison. “So why this call, Mister Moxley?”
The detective did not react to Garrison’s refusal to use either his current title or his past rank. Garrison gave the man points for that. “I’ve got something strange. Something that isn’t an Og, but isn’t a robot like we’re used to seeing them. It’s some kind of synthetic organism. I need to have it analyzed but, to be honest, I need to know someone I can trust knows about it, too. It would be awfully easy to disappear me and cover this up. It’s that big. At least, I think so.”
“You could go through channels.”
“The synthetic tried to kill me, Commander. I don’t know who I can trust, but it sure isn’t the Hongkongtown authorities. Too many holes.”
Garrison had to admit that this was sound reasoning. Moxley wasn’t stupid, whatever else he was. “I can send you a team,” he said. “Cory Jenson and Erica Detweiler. Two of my better agents, young and hungry. They’ll assess the situation and, if warranted, transport your captured sample back to Human Services here in the Capital.”
“How are things in Central—”
“We don’t get to call it that anymore,” said Garrison. “Haven’t you heard, Mister Moxley? Prime Minister Nguin’s administration abhors that unofficial nickname. We are officially The Capital. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably a subversive.”
“I guess that tells me how things are.”
“We all have our political crosses to bear,” said Garrison. “But as I’m doing you a favor, Mister Moxley, perhaps you can return it.”
“I’m listening,” said Moxley.
“I’ve kept up on the raids in your area,” said Garrison, “because we’ve been tracking a network of Og terrorists whose roots go pretty deep into Hongkongtown. I’ve heard rumors. I was wondering if maybe you could offer me any insight.”
“Go ahead,” said Moxley.
“What can you tell me about an Og named Montauk?”
Moxley paused for longer than Garrison would have liked. Finally, the detective said, “I’ve met him. Apparently he was active around here for quite a while. He got mixed up with some local trouble we had out here, involving an escaped prisoner.”
“I haven’t seen any data on that,” said Garrison. “It wasn’t mentioned in any of the files.”
“Yeah, sure. I guess it wouldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“That’s complicated,” said Moxley. “And it’s probably not relevant. At least I hope not. But the upshot is that Montauk hasn’t been seen around here since. Blew town and stayed blown. I can say with confidence I know nothing about any Og freedom-fighting activities in Hongkongtown.”
“Curious.”
“Commander?”
“Curious that you would use that term,” said Garrison. “These aren’t freedom fighters, Mister Moxley. I know it may be tempting to see them that way, removed as you are from the day to day threat of the Ogs. Here in Central… Here in the Capital, we cope with their depredations every day. I’m standing in the shadow of the wall of our Augment District right now. These are dangerous creatures who cannot be trusted. Their activities are no more a fight for political freedom than a home invader’s are a fight for financial freedom.”
“Duly noted,” said Moxley. “Look, Commander, I got nothing against the guy. I never had any detailed information about what he was doing here. But I know Hongkongtown. I know what goes on here. If he was active, I’d hear something. There’s been nothing. As far as I know, he left town when the Peytons did, and for the same reasons.”
“The Peytons?”
“The escaped prisoner,” said Moxley. “A bag-job named Ian Peyton and his daughter, Annika. They were mixed up with Government Intelligence somehow. It’s all been hushed up. I’d say you didn’t hear it from me, but smarter folks than I am have already erased it from the computers. I might as well be whistling show tunes into your ear, for all the confirmation you’ll find.”
Garrison had no idea what to make of that. “If you do hear of anything regarding Montauk or his Og network,” he said, “I will expect a call.”
“Yeah,” said Moxley. “Right.”
“I’ve logged your contact data,” Garrison told him. “Expect agents Jensen and Detweiler shortly. And Mister Moxley?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“Sure, Commander. Thank you too.”
The connection closed. Garrison shook his head and brought his binoculars back up to his face. He still had a lot of work left to do.
It occurred to him, as he focused once more on the building below, that Detective Harold Moxley was an excellent liar.