Return to Blackberry Chapter One

Warning- UNEDITED, part of my attempt to force myself to Get On With It.

Feedback welcome




Chapter one --




The old man really was very weak, and it took all of Riley’s strength to help him out of bed and into some clothes. The trip down the stairs seemed to Riley to take an eternity, but he bit his lip, not wanting to give the old man any reason to back out now.

By the time they got outside to the truck the rain was spitting and the wind was whipping around them. Riley, for the first time since finding the note, was beginning to think that maybe this was not the best idea.

“Pawpaw!” he yelled over the wind as they shuffled to where the truck was parked. “Maybe we should do this after the storm, it’ll pass in half an hour I bet!” To his surprise the old man put his hand on Riley’s arm.

“No!” his grip was firm. “I think if we are going to do this, we have to go now!” Riley shrugged, opened the door to the truck and helped his great-grandfather into the passenger side.

It only took a few minutes, bouncing down the dirt road that led off from their house off the mountain, until they got to the large stand of bamboo near the main road. The long tall green grass was bending in the wind, the delicate tops buffeting back and forth. The movement, along with the sound of the wind and the creaking of the bamboo, made the forest seem alive. Riley felt a shiver go down his back as he helped the old man out of the truck.

The old man grabbed onto Riley’s arm to steady himself, but then let go, a resolute look in his eyes. “Riley, you head back now ok? No sense you getting caught up in anything, if there is anything…”

“Pawpaw, you won’t make it twenty feet. I don’t mind. Come on, it’ll be an adventure even if nothing happens…”

Riley reached back into the truck and pulled out his recursive bow and a quiver of arrows. The old many started to ask Riley what he was doing, but Riley shrugged. “Just in case, you know, this… works.”

Slowly the two made their way over the uneven pasture in front of the bamboo stand. The old man stumbled a few times, but Riley held him up. Soon enough, as the rain began to come down more heavily, they were at the edge of the bamboo. The old man stopped, turned and looked back for a moment at the old pick-up truck. The outline was blurred by the rain. Then he shuffled into the bamboo, with Riley close behind.

Very quickly the forest closed around them, the bamboo getting thicker and thicker the deeper they went, until it had encircled them completely, so thick it blocked any view of what was behind them or what lay ahead. It was slow going, trying to find a pathway wide enough for them to make their way through. Riley looked back for a second and realized that he could no longer see the pick-up truck, the field, or the mountain, or anything except for more bamboo. When he looked back ahead he had a sudden sense of being utterly lost and directionless. He was not even sure that they were still going forward. The rain, the sound of the wind and the dim light from the dark stormy sky only made things worse.

Then his foot slipped. He stopped, but the old man bumped into him. Before he could grab onto anything he felt himself fall down a steep bank and tumble into water… the stream! It was full and raging in the downpour. The skies had opened up, rain pouring out of it, and the water from the creek seemed to be rising by the second. He felt the old man land on top of him with a loud “oomph!” The bank they had fallen down was quickly dissolving into mud. He could barely see the other side of the creek which was flatter, and grass covered. With a huge effort Riley helped the old man get up. Weighed down by water and mud the old man seemed heavy that ever. Riley used every ounce of strength he has to pull the old man out of the creek and onto the flat bank on the other side. The old man fell to the earth and Riley, gasping for breath suddenly had the thought that the old man might have died. Riley sat down next to the still body, closed his eyes and fought for breath. The rain stopped, suddenly as if a spigot had been turned off.

He shook the old man’s leg, “Pawpaw? You ok?” No answer. Riley sat there afraid to look, to open his eyes. But then he was aware of changing light, and felt that the rain had stopped. He opened his eyes. He saw his bow and quiver lying on the bank, covered in mud. Above, the clouds had thinned considerably; it looked as if the storm has passed.

“See Pawpaw?” Riley said, still regaining his breath as he stood up, his back to the old man, “I told you we should have waited. It was just a summer thunderstorm.”

“No, it would have been too late” came a deep baritone voice from behind him. Riley swung around, looking up on the creek bank, but did not see anyone.

“Pawpaw!” he whispered, “Get up! Someone’s found us.”

The prone figure lying face down in the mud in front of Riley stirred. Riley felt relief wash over him. The old man got up and turned around.

As the sun light now filtered down, the clouds having cleared out, Riley could see that his great-grandfather was covered in mud. But there was something else. Riley took a step closer and squinted. Then he fell back, a look of terror on his face. The old man blinked and tilted in his head.

“What the hell is wrong with you boy?” he said, but even as the words left his mouth a look of shock came across his face too, “What on earth!?”

Riley scuttled back as best he could toward the top of the grassy bank.

“Oh God Pawpaw… what the hell happened to you…”



###

Posting Frenzy-Return to Blackberry Valley prolog

In December 2013... yes, 2013, I started writing the follow up to The Hare, The Girl and The Bow. Six years later I am still sitting on a complete draft (finished about two years ago) mainly because I need to find an editor.

As part of a project to get me off my butt and back to writing, I am going to post the follow up (Return to Blackberry) and the 3rd book (also complete).

I am going to try and post stuff five days a week for a while, really get this stuff out there.

So, get ready for a horrible mes of typos and bad grammar and punctuation.

D H





Return to Blackberry Valley


The Hare, The Queen, and the Boy


--- Prolog ---


Riley darted up the stairs two at a time, yelling at the top of his lungs the whole way.


“Pawpaw! Pawpaw!” He hopped up the last step and bounded into the small bedroom on the left side of the landing. Inside was a bed with a frail old man swaddled underneath the covers, despite it being August in Virginia. Only his weathered face peeked out from the covers. His once handsome face, now creased and dry, had a fierce look on it.


“Dammit boy!” he gasped, “the house had better be burning down!”


Riley, used to the taciturn old man, ignored him. Instead he waved a small piece of paper tied up with a red bow. The rolled paper made a tube about two inches long.


“Look, Pawpaw, look!”


The old man squinted.


“I got this… I was in the garden… and a rabbit…and it has writing on it…”


“Shut up!” the old man barked, although he was weak enough that it sounded more like a harsh whisper. “What on earth is wrong with you boy. Leave me in peace!”


Riley, still short of breath, stopped for a moment to collect himself. He found he was shaking, despite his best efforts to stop. His tall thin frame seemed like it could barely contain his excitement. He paused to brush his long black hair out of his eyes.


“Pawpaw, wait, listen. I’m sorry, I got excited, but listen! I was in the garden, weeding, like momma asked me too. Anyway, I’m sitting there and a rabbit hopped right up to me, just like it was nothing.” Riley noticed the old man’s eyes open wide, alert for the first time in weeks.


“And?...”


“And, well, the rabbit…” Riley wasn’t sure how to put it since he himself was not sure how it had happened. “Well, the rabbit ...gave me… gave me this.” He held up the tube of paper. The old man eyed it suspiciously.


“No mood for jokes boy” He rasped, but his eyes were focused, clearly interested.


Riley ignored him and brought the tube closer.


“Look Pawpaw, look at what is on the outside…writing…look at what it says.” The old man narrowed his eyes and looked at the tube in Riley’s hand. On neat print on the side were four letters , E-R-I-C. The old man’s eyes looked up, angry.


“This some sort of joke boy?”


“No sir…” Riley began to realize how it must look to the old man. “No sir… open it up and see what is inside.”


“Why? What is inside boy?”


“I-I don’t know! I haven’t opened it.”


“Open it yourself. I’m too weak.”


Riley, shaking, slid the red bow over the end of the tube and unfurled the yellowed thick paper. Inside was more neatly done writing.


“Well?”


“It has writing…”


The old men rolled his eyes, “Then get on with it boy, read it!”


Riley’s voice quivered. ”My Dearest Eric,” he began, his face going slightly pink, “Long ago, you and I made a promise, and now I must ask you to keep yours. Please come back, Walter will take you to Castle Mayblossom. I have tried to make things right, but now I must ask for your help. Still truly yours… Karn.”


With a painful grunt the old man pushed down the covers of his bed and tried to sit up. Riley put the note down on the bedside table and helped his great-grandfather sit up in the bed.


“Dammit boy, this your sick idea of a joke?”


“No, no sir. What is Mayblossom? Is that the town where…”


The old man looked at him with narrow eyes again, but then softened. And in a flash his eyes became very excited.


“That’s right! I never told you about that, did I?” The old man sat for a moment, his thoughts wandering back.


“What is it Pawpaw?”


The old man looked confused for a moment and then refocused his attention on Riley.


“It’s Karn’s mother’s old family house, way up north. She used to go there.. I never told you…I mean that… oh my God Riley, oh my God…” tears began to flow from his eyes, silently rolling down his cheeks. Riley took a step back; he had never seen the old man cry.


“Riley… who gave this to you?” He asked, his voice quivering.


“A … well, a rabbit. Really, I swear-“


“Was he grey, with black marks on his side?”


Riley took a sharp breath. The old man believed him…“I-I think so… I don’t- was that Walter!?”


“No, no, Path perhaps…” The old man fell silent, a faraway look on his face. After a moment Riley shuffled his feet.


“So what does this means Pawpaw? Is this really from that girl from the story… the princess?”


The old man looked at Riley with a look of sorrow so deep Riley felt ashamed and looked away.


“Yes” the old man finally said. “… I think so boy, I think so.”


“So, how do we go back then?”


“What?”


“It says, the letter says to come back, right?”


The old man sighed, and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. He stared out of the small window beside his bed.


“Riley,” he said, after a long pause, sounding again tired and weak, not angry. “We don’t go back. I ... can’t go back.”


“But if she is asking, and you promised. I think she needs your help-“


“Good lord boy, look at me! I am 96 years old. What use would I be to anyone? It’s been 75 years, if she hasn’t fixed things by now, what use would I be? I can barely get out of bed or even walk.”


For a long time neither Riley nor his great-grandfather said anything. Outside the light was fading as a large storm rolled over the mountain. The wind outside was picking up; the air was heavy with the expectation of rain.


“I could take you.”


“No.”


“I could. We could go now, take the truck down to the bamboo-“


“No.” The old man wasn’t yelling --- his voice was flat, resigned.


“I could help you cross the stream-“


“No. It won’t work. I’ve tried it. God knows how many times I tried Riley...” Another sigh.





“But this is different Pawpaw.” Riley said gently. “You have an invitation…”

First two chapters of  Levels:  A Talbot Singh Mystery for your reading pleasure
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Levels

Copyright 2015 D H Richards

The crime scene was pretty unremarkable. The dead man who lay behind the small counter, his neck blown out, blood splattered in an array behind him, had contracted with Talbot before, offering simple collection work for deadbeat credits.

The store was a small shop in the jewelry district. It was not more than ten feet wide and, with the back room, only about twenty feet deep. Two beat cops milled nervously around the dead man. The family must have called him right after they called the cops Talbot thought as took in the scene. No sign of break in, the dead man knew the shooter, the glass cases intact, nothing was stolen. It looked like a hit. Talbot was about to ask one of the regular protocol who was the detective assigned when she walked in the door.

Talbot knew she was a detective, you could always tell Protocol Dicks, they dressed better, had an air of simultaneous boredom and superiority about them. He could see right away she was not from level 29.. Her demeanor was all Protocol, she scanned the place and focused in on the beat guys. The woman conferred with one of the beat guys quickly. Then she turned around, scanned the room again.

"Ricky,” she said, offhandedly to the thin man, “Go get the kit from officer Kindermans mobile."

"Uh, that's Kinderweiss…"

She did not register the man’s objection. "And also have him call the coroner. And you, out, no civilians, this is a sealed area." The woman had turned to look at Talbot, who was standing to the left of the front door.

"I'm not a civilian Detective."

"Who are you then?"

"I represent the family of the, uh, deceased. I am here to make sure the department does its best to find the man’s kill-"

"You the Polish eh?"

Talbot smiled a wide grin. The Polish was not a 29 term.

"You're not local department are you?" he said, trying to sound casual, but inwardly bracing himself for a fight. "Upper levels I would say… 35? 36?"

"34. How did you know?"

Talbot smiled again; he had overestimated the level on purpose. No sense starting off on the wrong foot with the detective. He had guessed 33 or even 32 really, but was glad he'd overshot a little. Nothing like a little compliment to start things off.

"Down here we're called the Assist, the ‘Polish’ is upper level. Also, the clothes you're wearing…"

"What about them?" The woman momentarily looked concerned. Talbot filed that away, she was concerned with her appearance, but not vain, just wanted to be sure she looked the part. Talbot looked the woman up and down briefly. She was small, but not especially short, five feet six or seven he figured. She had the trim look of a women in her early thirties, not young anymore, but still able to clean up well. Her brown hair had been colored, but in a way that spoke of a quality salon. Her suit was crisp, but close fitting enough to show off the body but not too close to be suggestive or appear trampy. She was, in sum, a study in control and precision, this was someone who did not leave much to chance.  This, he could work with.

"They're a couple credits above what the average person round here can afford."

"Look, Mr…"

"Singh, Talbot Singh." He smiled, offered his hand. She shook it perfunctorily.

"Mr. Singh, you need to leave. Or at least go onto the street. I can assure you this case is in good hands."

"No doubt Detective…"

"Detective Orson."

"Orson, but I insist. I promise to not interfere-"

"It's not a request Mr. Singh, out, now."

"Detective-"

"If you don’t go I will ask Officer Kinderbody to escort you out-"

"Kinderweiss can vouch for me."

"Mr. Singh" Any attempts at civility had left her voice now. "Now."

"Ok, leaving. Only, don't be mad at me when you realize the huge mistake you’re about to make."

She opened her mouth and then closed it, a looked crossed her eyes. He had guessed correctly. Here was someone who hated to make mistakes and the lack of control mistakes presumed.

"What mistake is that, exactly?"

"The victim." I nodded toward the man slumped on the wall behind the counter. She turned to look at him too and then back to Talbot.

"Yes?"

"He's holding a playing card."

"OK."

"A gang hit."

"Which one? I thought 29 was pretty free of gang activity."

"Gangs, yes, activity, not so much. It's not this level, probably lower."

"Which one?"

Talbot smiled again, which drew a deep frown from the Detective.  "Ahhhh, well, you see that is where I can be of service. I have... I would not say friends, but people I know down in lower levels…"

"How low?"

"25, 24, 19 even."

“Great, thanks. I’ll take that into consideration. I can get our gang activity people to look it up-“

“How long will that take? A week, more?”

“Perhaps- not that it-“

“I can get it to you… tomorrow morning, latest.”

“Mr. Singh, you need to leave. Kinder… Kinder guy!”

“No need to blow Detective. I’ll go. Just be careful. I know this looks like just another hit…”

“And why wouldn’t it be?” The detective held her hand up to stop the incoming beat cop. Kinderweiss looked annoyed and then looked at Talbot. He rolled his eyes.

“Well, it looks like one, that’s for sure. Sloppy work, they broke the window and the lock, the victim was going for a weapon, everything checks out pretty normal-like, right down to this.”

Talbot picked up the playing card, turning it over in his hand.

“That’s evidence-“

“Yes, sure, all pointing to a perfectly normal crime scene… except… except…”

“What? What is wrong Mr. singh?”

Talbot stopped looking at the card and looked up at the posh detective from level 34.

“You. You, Detective, are all wrong.”

Detective Olsen tilted her head as if looking at a strange bird in a cage.

“Go on…” she smiled slightly.

“What are you doing here? All the way down on this level? My guy here, the dead guy? He’s good people. Been running this store for twenty years, never any problems. Probably because what he sells is low rate junk, but still. And now he gets hit and instead of some third shift Decker, they send Ms. Uptown herself. I’m not trying to make trouble Detective, but so far this whole thing just reeks of something…”

Detective Olsen did not say anything, she just held out her hand to take back the card. Talbot began to give it to her and held it back, his eyes asking “So…?” She sighed.

“Orders from above my pay grade Mr. Singh. Turns out the super’s daughter goes to school with his granddaughter or something. ”

“A climber huh? Who knew?”

“What’s wrong with climbing?” Olsen asked, bristling.

“Nothing, especially if it gets you upper level Deckers down on low level jobs like this.” Talbot replied absent mindedly, focusing instead on using his watch to scan the playing card’s back. He looked up to see Olsen with a question.

“Cards are coded, by gang, by time.” Talbot answered her look. “I should be able to tell you who left this, or at least the folks someone wants you to think left it.”

Olsen’s eyes narrowed. “You really can get that by tomorrow?”

“Sure, probably. Have to go down to 19, but, you know, might be a bit of fun sight-seeing down there.”

Olsen gave a small hollow laugh. “Braver than me. Here Mr. Singh-“

“Friends call me Talbot.”

“Yes, well, here. My card.” She tapped her watch. Talbot felt the small ding his watch gave, signaling receipt.  “Use it to come up tomorrow.”

“This’ll pay?”

“Yes, it’s a pass. One Time” she added the last part with a warning in her voice.

“What about my fare up from 19?”

“What about it? You want play with the big boys then pony up Mr. Singh” Olsen said.

“Right.”

“You ever been up beyond here?” Olsen said.

“Once, when I was.. .eight.  Family vacation to 32. It was about the same, if you ask me.”

Olsen looked around and shrugged. “Yeah, 34’s pretty much like this…”

“How far you been up Detective?”

“40, same as you, little vacation” she replied.

“They say there’s a park on 40-“

“Yes, went there.”

“And? Did you see any of it? The Sky?”

She shrugged. “Could have seen it, not sure. If I did it was very far away, maybe another… what… 10 levels?”

“I hear it’s up to 70 total now.”

Olsen made a noncommittal noise. “Well, Mr. Singh, if you find anything see me tomorrow. Don’t… call. Security, protocol, you know. And don’t bother coming if you can’t find anything. This is low priority.”

“Sure, ok.”

Olsen smiled a tight smile and then made a gesture towards the door.

“Oh, yeah, right. Pleasure Detective.” Talbot turned on his heel and left the small shop.

The little jewelry store did not sit on the street, but rather in a small collection of shops set back from the street. In the front of the shops was a glassed in area with tables and chairs, a small coffee stand stood by. Passersby could and did walk by, unobserving. But people from the neighborhood looked, and whispered to each other. They knew something had happened.  

The man in the jewelry store was Jay Mill. Mr. Mill was a fixture in the area, selling “affordable” jewelry in plain boxes. Although many people frequented his tiny shop, few wanted to boast they actually bought trinkets from him. He did not barter in the high end items. But he was friendly, outgoing and, importantly, unpretentious. Talbot knew that people around the area did not take well to climbers, people who pretended to be better than they were.

The area was officially known as Area 19 level 29, but most people called it Assembly. It’s what people did there, worked in large assembly plants that the level was known for. They would take parts made elsewhere, usually on lower levels, and put them together, everything from large elevator engines down to the small biostic  boxes takeout food was served up in.  The level was 6 stories tall, not luxurious, but tall enough. He knew from forays below that levels got shorter as you went down.

The level was well lit, reasonably clean and the air, to his mind at least, fresh enough. It helped that level 28 had multiple air handling factories. It was, in short, an unpretentious place, one that did not suffer pretentious people well.

Talbot had grown up on the level, part of a large extended family; extended in all directions except for his. His mother and father still lived in the apartment he grew up in, but they never had any more children after he came along. He had cousins upon cousins but his family was always the small 3 person unit.

Despite the six story buildings that rose all around him and that expanded outward for, as far as he could tell, miles, space was at a premium. Seventy Four million people give or take a few, lived on level 29. Mill’s Jewelry shop was small not just because what it was selling was small. Everywhere Talbot looked was crowded, crowded with people, goods, buildings but mostly people.  He liked it this way. He could lose himself quickly in the crowds or, just as quickly, find people he knew. He had honed this ability in the past ten years he had been a professional Assist. He had actually started out before that even, as a young teenager, helping a friend of the family, Mr. Hammaud, who had also been an Assist.

The job of an Assist was simple, to make sure that when things happened to family (who could afford to hire an Assist) that those things went as well as could be expected. He was not, strictly speaking, a lawyer or, to use a very old term, a fixer. Instead he, well, assisted. When a family had one of their own get picked up by the police, he would be there to make sure the police did their job, and that the family member kept their mouth shut. If there was a dispute, within the family or between families, he would act as the middleman, solving whatever issue had come up between them. He might have to help people get licenses to operate a business or help negotiate the purchase of an apartment, the latter always a tricky proposition.

Only rarely did he have to represent a family in the case of death. Natural death was handled by the funeral houses. Only twice before did he have to intercede for murder, and in both cases it was domestic violence. And in both cases he had represented the person who had done the killing.  Mr. Mills was a different case and Talbot had a small knot in the pit of his stomach because of it. He was in uncharted territory. One thing he had learned early on was, when facing the unknown, go slowly and carefully.  

As he wandered the streets of the Assembly’s shopping district he turned over in his head what he knew so far. Mr. Mills, a third rate jewelry man, had been gunned down in his shop. The killing had signs of a gang hit, down to the playing card left near Mr. Mills. Beyond these simple facts things began to fall apart quickly. Talbot had known Mr. Mills his whole life; the man had never caused even the smallest amount of trouble.  This, in and of itself was actually a problem. Jeweler’s were often known to fence goods or pass through dirty credits. The fact that Mr. Mill was so clean occurred to Talbot as remarkable in and of itself.

But the presence of the 34th level detective was what was sending off loud sirens in his head. He had never seen one come down, unless, and here his mind snagged, unless they were investigating a crime in which the perp was from 29, certainly not the victim. The connection that Olsen had offered rang hollow with Talbot. He made a mental note to speak with Mr. Mill’s widow as soon as he could. He would not have pegged them, or more specifically one of their children, as climbers.

Around noon, after grabbing a quick lunch of nasi, Talbot made his way towards the apartment he shared with his parents. He squeezed himself into the tiny elevator that rose up to the fifth floor. He smiled a wry smile each time he hit the number “5” on the elevator. His father had often told the story of how they had initially been offered an apartment on the sixth floor, but he had turned it down, fearing that people would accuse him of being a climber by trying to get as close as he could to the 30th level.

As Talbot made his way into the apartment the lights inside flickered on. The apartment was large and well kept. The main room was a standard ten by ten feet, with its entryway kitchen, the sofa bed where he slept and the large panel screen on the wall. At the end of the room was a doorway into another ten by ten space that housed a bathroom and his parent’s room, plus a small storage area. He grabbed a bottle of something fizzy and sweet from the fridge. He sat down at the small counter that separated the kitchen from the main room and punched up his father’s number. Seconds later a small grey haired man with a neatly trimmed white beard flickered into view on the small screen hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

“Tal! Such news. I heard about Mr. Mill. Was it a robbery?”

“Hey pops, not sure yet, looks weird. I wanted to tell you that I have to go down a few levels this afternoon, I may not be back until after dinner. “

The man on the screen, who was carefully pasting brightly colored paper into what seemed like a wooden book looked up.

“How many?”

“Uh, well, you know, a few.”

“How many?” His voice was steady but demanding.

“To 19 pop.”

“No.”

Talbot sighed and tried to smile. “Pop, I’m not ten, I can handle myself. I need to ask a few guys questions is all.”

“So this Mr. Mill was tied up in gangs?”

“I never said-“

“No reason to go to 19 unless it’s for gangs Tal.”

“Yeah, well, so anyway.”

“You tell your mom yet?”

“Of course not, that’s why I called you.”

The old man did not smile; instead he stared for a moment at the screen and then bent back over his work. “Don’t be a fool Tal. See you after dinner then.”

“Thanks Pop.”

Talbot ended the call and took a long sip of the drink.  He knew his father was only being protective, but sometimes he wondered how it would be to live on his own. He was almost 30. He figured if he got married he could move out, maybe. But that wasn’t on the horizon right then. He could never afford to rent a place on his own, assuming he could find one. His parents had spent 35 years paying down on the one they lived in now. Well, he could always dream. Or find a new girlfriend.

###

Later that afternoon, under the eternal orange-blue glow of the “day-lights” that tracked over each street, Talbot made his way to E-Station 1138. The E stood for Elevator, the main way around the city. Levels were connected by thousands of elevators. The system was pretty simple.  It was always free to ride down, it was the ride up that cost. And the further you went up, the higher the cost.  A ride up to 30 might cost the average person a day’s wage. To get to 34 might cost half a year’s wage. Vacation packages often helped to reduce the cost, but they also came with chip implants. When your vacation was done you had to ride back down, or the IIP, the Internal Immigration Protocol, would track you down within minutes.

And even if one saved up wages to ride implant free to the upper levels, living in the upper levels would be impossible. Not only was everything more expensive, jobs were impossible without the proper documents and scans. People did it, all the time, but it took a concentrated effort. Often families would pitch in to send one member, often the brightest or most talented son or daughter, to school a level up, hoping that that member could climb. Those left behind were almost always resentful, so the term “climber” was usually a term spat out of people’s mouths.

Going down, however, was free. Going down was easy, often too easy. Lose your job, gamble too much, run afoul of the protocols, and you could find yourself “settling down,” moving down a level, or more, to escape debt or to find easier, less skilled work. Branches of families that settled down often were erased from collective memory, forgotten about, never mentioned, as if they had died. Going down was free and too easy.

But, like the vacations up, going down was not just one way. Talbot loaded up a transit card with the credits he would need to come back from 19. For him the ten levels would cost about half the fee he was charging the Mill family. But he figured it was an investment. He could find out about the card and then zip up to 34 to see Olsen. After that, well, the future was a bit cloudier.  But he felt that the money spent would come back to him somehow. He chuckled to himself; it was thinking like this, he told himself, that was probably why he wasn’t able to save for his own place.

Talbot had picked the station on purpose. It was a little shabby, one of the older stations, but it bottomed out on 19 near where he needed to go. No sense landing blocks away and having to put himself out in those streets more than he needed too. No sense being a fool.

The doors to the elevator were open. It was a large open affair with large glass windows, easily able to hold a hundred people. It had about ten rows of benches in the middle and benches all along the outside. He never understood the reason for the large windows. The only view going down or up was the concrete tube that held the lift rails. He guessed the large windows made it seem less claustrophobic.

It was midafternoon so the compartment was almost empty. Large signs posted all around the station and in the compartment gave strict warnings about needing credits on the transit app to re-up. Talbot checked his watch for the 100th time, looking to make sure the transit balance was still loaded.

He chose a seat on the perimeter. He glanced up at the schedule. This particular lift was an express, only stopped at 24 before hitting 19. It was slowly filling with an assorted group of people. It was a midday crowd; Talbot knew that in the evening, when he hoped to return, the lift would be full of people coming back from work in the heavy metal factories on 19 and the heavy industry on 24. Most would be mid-level managers or salesmen checking up on production, few, if any, would be line workers.

The lift was not even a quarter full when the doors closed. The compartment shook slightly and began its descent. The ride down was almost comically anticlimactic for such a large moving “room.” It stopped with a small shudder at 24, where most people got out. The few people left studiously avoided making eye contact with each other. Within minutes they would dart out of the lift on 19 and make their way into a place few willingly went.

When Talbot left the lift and climbed up the short flight of stairs into the street he felt calm, almost at home. It was not his first time on 19. 19, while not the sort of place one would want to linger in, was not as bad as its reputation. Talbot knew this from many visits with his mentor Mr. Hammuad, who seemed to have frequent business on the level.

Talbot knew that 19 was home to smelting plants and chemical plants, the kind of dirty work that people on upper levels needed but did not want near them. Like those on 29, or 24, or any level really, most people lived their lives free from drama or much crime. But unlike a level like 29, the attitude of the protocols was a bit more… relaxed on 19. Although 19 was shrouded in myth, it was, indeed, home to several of the better organized gangs. These gangs were basically businesses that ran the goods that society wanted, craved, but that were not proper, if you believed the moral authorities. They supplied people on many levels, at least up to 29, from what Talbot knew. They provided the drugs, code, mechs and people that people who could afford them used.

But Talbot was not there to procure or even to judge, he just needed information and knew where to go. It was, not ironically, another jeweler. The man was ensconced in a store, if anything, smaller than that of the deceased Mr Mill. He was a large fleshy man with a wheezing cough. Talbot had been introduced to him about ten years earlier by Hammoud. Even then the man seemed as if he would seize up and die at any moment, but here he was ten year on, still wheezing and coughing, still alive.

Talbot pushed himself into the small store. He almost had to lean over the glass showcase in order to close the door behind him. The large man behind the case gave a hearty laugh, somewhat forced.

“Mr. Singh! What do I owe the pleasure? Come to shop for an engagement ring?” Talbot was not sure why the man winked. Still he forced out a smile, not wishing to get off on the wrong foot.

“Strictly business, sorry to say.” Talbot glanced down at the cheap and gaudy looking trinkets in the case below, he was not sorry really. “On a case.”

“You work too hard sir. This is why you are not here buying jewelry for some lucky bird no?”

Talbot smiled, but another glance down made him shake his head.

“These are the finest rings, I wish you would let me show some instead of being so dreary with all of your ‘business’ Mr Singh.”

“Yes, well… My uh, client, has been murdered.”

“No! Such a shame murder, never ends well for anyone involved does it? But why are you down here bothering me? Was it a crime of passion? Did I sell her lover jewelry?”

Talbot gave a small laugh; someone might be driven to murder if they got one of the rings in the store as a gift. “No, he was a jeweler himself. But I think it was a hit.”

“Ach, now that is bad, a hit? Why? Not a robbery?”

“This was left.” Talbot popped up a projection from his watch of the card. The image floated above the counter as the fleshy man leaned down to examine it.

“Huh, a calling card you think?” The man propped himself back up, his expression inscrutable.

“Seems like, seems like something one of the organizations from 19 might leave behind.”

“Now, what would one of our local businesses want with a jeweler from 29?”

“that is the first of many questions, so I wanted to see if you could tell me which, uhm, group, this is from? Can you tell by the markings on the back?”

“Yes. Very clear. But strange still. It is Treasure group, for sure, but…”

“Treasure…?” Talbot knew about them, but wanted to find out any information the jeweler might have on them.

“They move drugs mostly, narcs, alteragents, why worry with a jeweler. He a user?”

“Not that I know of, plus if he was, why hit him? If he owed money… that would be a local problem…”

“I am beginning to see why you have a lot of questions Mr. Singh. But this is a little out of my area. I will send you to a man I know. A man who can confirm the card and also, perhaps, read the details…”

“Oh yeah, I meant to ask…”

“I do not keep up enough to be able to read the backs, just the group signs.” The man pushed a small card across the counter. Talbot looked surprised, thinking the man would have just tapped the address to his wrist. The fleshy man smiled a wry smile.

“Some things are best left off the electrical Mr. Singh. This man, Mr. Geertz, should be able to help you. But, I have to warn you, he is the suspicious type. Show him my card, perhaps that will help.”

“Thank you.” Talbot took the card and scanned the address. It was not in a place where he would normally go. The man behind the counter saw his look.

“You’ll be ok there, with the factories around there will be many people in the streets. Now, when you do find that special lady, come back to me, I will give you a good price!”

Talbot left the small store with an uneasy feeling. It was already 3 in the afternoon. He knew that a level like 19 did not dim their lights, but still it would be unwise to stay too late, as workers drifted back home or to other levels, the streets would be emptier. So he took a deep breath and called up a projection map. It was another 10 blocks. A little far to walk, but Talbot did not mind, plus he felt safer in the streets than he would on a conduit line below.

As he walked he marveled at how different, yet similar this level was to 29. He knew, based on the somewhat hazy history he had learned in school, that 19 was, two hundred years ago, the top level of what was then only a city of less than a billion. City planners had built a gaudy, luxurious level to celebrate the ever burgeoning growth of their megacity. The only trouble was that within 25 years more levels had been added and the appeal of living on 19 faded quickly. The whole architecture of the city changed with 19. The level was only 4 stories high, giving a cramped oppressive feeling. After 19 planners built taller levels, with more stories for buildings. They also designed better lighting and better ventilation. The air in 19 was hot, sticky, the light overhead a sickly shade of yellow.

The buildings, faded and barely kept up, belied the levels once grand status. Ornate stone and plaster work, spacious entry ways, large front windows. Talbot wondered what the average apartment looked like. He had heard they were larger than those on 29. By the time the upper levels had been built it became more about packing people in than style. He often wondered what it would be like to try and get a place here, although he knew the tradeoff of having to live on 19 would not be worth the larger living space.

Most of the people he passed seemed threadbare and haggard. The bad air and pale light wore on people. Talbot knew the factories here were not as modern or pleasant, if that was the word, to work in as those on 29. The materials handled, heavy metals, caustic chemicals and a decided lack of the most up-to-date mechs, meant people came into contact with the killing material. Most people here lacked other opportunities, or rather, other legitimate opportunities. They could sink to even lower levels or they could turn to crime. Running illegal goods was dangerous but plausibly less deadly than handling deadly chemicals and poisonous metals.

Hustling down the dingy streets Talbot made good time to the address the man had given him. It was a grey building with large smoky windows and a curiously small entryway. Elaborate plaster sculpture graced each side of the door, the chipped and worn faces of long forgotten Hindi gods and goddesses. Equally chipped and faded gold lettering on the door announced it was the home of Cultural Imports and Exports, Inc. Talbot pushed his way in through the heavy glass door into a small foyer.  A small elevator sat to the side.

It made Talbot nervous that he had to go up to the third floor. He would be off the street, a quick exit denied. He took a mental note of where the stairs were. He wondered if they were blocked or not. No one was in the lobby area, another strange sign. The building almost seemed deserted and it was only around 4 pm. He pushed the elevator call button. The compartment was almost as small as the one in his apartment building. He felt trapped during the short trip up.

It was with some relief that he got out of the tiny space. But his relief was short lived. The building was getting increasingly strange. He began to realize the lack of people was no accident, few businesses would willingly set up shop here, he thought. The ceilings were low, barely above is 6 foot frame. The lights were low, making it difficult to see numbers on the doors that lined the short hallway.

He found the door he was looking for tried the handle. It was locked. Talbot was not surprised, he knocked.

A moment later the door opened a sliver. A tall, thin man with dark black hair and red eyes answered. He said nothing but looked Talbot up and down.  He began to close the door, Talbot stuck his foot in the frame.

“Are you Geertz? I have this card… I was told you might be able to help me?”

The man took the card, glanced at it and handed it back. His voice was just above a whisper.

“What is it you want?”
“Uh, I have a card… a playing card. I am told you might be able to tell me about the markings?”

The door swung open and Talbot cautiously eased in. The man was already walking away toward a small desk set against the window on the opposite wall. The room was large, cavernous even, and, aside from the desk and the chair, completely empty. Even the desk itself was bare. The man stopped at the desk and turned around. He was wearing a long black leather coat, buttoned up against a slight chill in the room. Talbot wondered why he didn’t just adjust the rooms conditioning.

“Show me what you have.”