Black Marion

11

Days passed in which Sasha held back the nausea in her head, feigning a lax comfort at home and a professional detachment at work. Slowly the name inside her palm faded, and as it vanished she realized that her memories were not in jeopardy. No longer tethered by this bird or that promise, she laid out the facts piece by piece and made her most dangerous conjectures.

It was Saturday when the opportunity came. Sasha hated to wait, to lie in bed each night with a kiss and pretend it was sweet, but too much was at risk. On Saturday, Vaughn left in the morning to attend to regular business, having missed several days to stay home with Sasha in the past two weeks. Sasha was left alone in the apartment. She flew down to 42 Eastern on her falcon.    

Midground in Sector 19 was made of broad bridges that hung over the caged hell below, and the bridges held up a gray clutter of infrastructure, the intestines of an elaborate machine without care for aesthetics. Floor 0 of the towers began here, each supported by thick nanotube pillars that ran down to the Ground in the image of a million pins. Above, there were only little speckles of sky through the thick weave of lanes and architecture.

Still, people made lives here. It was mostly Grounders who had worked their way up from the grime below, some unfortunate citizens of the Skyworld who'd lost their prosperity and status, rare few who chose to inhabit these parts for occupation. Residences were scattered in pockets, but the area was largely a commercial district of miscellaneous shops and locked warehouses.

Before Sasha ventured into 42 Eastern, she dropped her falcon off at a vehicle exchange store, leaving her connector inside in case it was traced. In exchange for 184 EC, the store merchant gave her a storage space and a slim rider. Unlike the falcons, these bikes couldn't be flown, but they were efficient for quick lane travel. Based on the timestamps of her notes from Wednesday, Sasha must have taken a rider for her midground travels—she remembered no such thing, but the merchant confirmed her suspicions with a familiar greeting.

At a little past ten, she reached the rim of 42 Eastern. It was an industrial district of the sector. Some transport vehicles shadowed over the bridges and smoke leaked from the fuel tunnels that led to the chemical filters. A few faces passed her by, not many at the morning hour. Most of these wore blue light dots upon the nape of their neck, imperfection in their unadulterated faces. Though tempted to question them about the events of June 16th, she forced herself to focus on her objective. She located the VSM factory of her notes and walked two blocks westward.

A grocery store came into view—a worn place with a smoke-dusted sign. A feeble bell rang when she opened the door. There were six aisles of goods in a small area, the pungent smell of spice and vegetation. An orange had been dropped on the floor. No customers, but to the far right, a woman with a hooked nose sat behind a counter. She saw Sasha and stopped filing her nails.

Sasha went to her. The woman dropped her nail file and leaned over the counter with a smile.

"Well, well. Back again, baby vulture?"

"Baby vulture?" she said, arriving at the counter.

The woman lifted an eyebrow. She pointed a finger to her head. "You're really sore up there, aren't you? Told you last time—it's what we call them wannabee gods flying around in the Sky." She reached under the cabinet then, pulling something out. It hit the plastic countertop with a hard clack. "You came for this, yeah?"

She reached for the object. It was a black rectangle, small enough to be hidden by a palm. An outdated communication device.

A burner.

"Who left this?" said Sasha. "When?"

"Don't know her name. Couple days ago? Picked you out on the surveillance footage and told me to give it to you next you came."