Perspective

The bright red smear on the wall was so subtle that if viewed from a certain angle, it could be interpreted as merely a reflection of the crisp light on the pristine white walls. Or it could be seen as some prism effect of the lighting in the subterranean Tube.

Out of place in the immaculate, almost sterile tunnel, I couldn’t stop staring at it, couldn’t stop thinking about the questions that burned into my brain, similar to the blood and tissue embedded into the wall. Preliminary test showed the material was human.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen the grisly sight. They were always just to the left or the right of one of the small evacuation ports. Someone or something had been caught in the Tube when the alarms sounded, and the air was removed from the tunnel. Whatever biological material was in the Tube would be sucked with incredible force into the closest evacuation port, which was nothing more than a beveled circle, measuring just over twenty-five centimeters in diameter, not nearly large enough to accommodate an adult human body.

A person would be sucked into the port and then quickly compacted, folded up like some marionette, as tendons and bones snapped to allow the fleshy mass entry. Of course, not all of the body would be able to fit through the hole instantly, as there was a composite grate that would further separate the biological material, soft from the hard, small from the large.

Despite the tremendous force, some of the flesh often became stuck, lodged in the port, with limbs or heads sticking above the level of the outer wall. The victim would most likely be dead at this point, if not from the compaction, then from the lack of oxygen. If by some statistical oddity they were still alive, the oncoming Bullet would put an immediate end to any life. 

The last Bullet had traveled west, and whatever parts of our latest victim had been sticking above the wall line had been instantly snapped westward and smeared across the wall several meters away, the biological material now more of an abstraction than any recognizable part of a human. 

“What makes you think this wasn’t an accident?” Lencho Furah, the Junior Undercover Investigator, said.

“Looking at it, nothing tells me it was or wasn’t an accident,” I replied.

“What does it remind you of?” Lencho asked.

“Why would it strike me as anything?” I looked at Lencho, wanting to understand the reason for his conceptual curiosity. “If you are considering the representational quality of the scene, I would gently remind you that artistic expression is Forbidden.”

“I didn’t mean—

“Intent isn’t necessary for a violation to have occurred,” I reminded him.

Quickly reframing his curiosity, aware that he had misspoken, Lencho quickly shifted his rationale. “I just thought your reaction to it might provide insight into the origin. That’s all. I abhor artistic types. I’ve arrested several in the past few weeks alone.”

I inspected the wall around the exhaust port. The questions pressed down on me, the empty space devoid of answers, the way the tube had been devoid of air just a short time ago. 

“There are several other cases, in nearby Districts. The different patterns seem to correlate with the different exhaust ports. The deeper the port, the less of the body is exposed to the oncoming vactrain.”

The more…subtle the effect, I thought. 

“How long before the next bullet arrives?” Lencho looked down each end of the Tube. “I don’t like being down here, system shutdown or not.”

“We have nineteen minutes before the air is evacuated. Plenty of time to gather what we need,” I assured him.

“You think this could be connected to Deceivers?” Lencho asked. 

“You’ve heard the rumors,” I said.

“Rumors are not...Approved,” he said, hesitant to make the same mistake twice. 

“To spread them—no. But to report them, to use them to aid in an investigation is completely legitimate.”

“I’ve heard about them, yes,” he said.

“I think Sympathizers may be using these tubes and old service tunnels to pass information and maybe even human assets to OutZone areas.”

“Do you think Deceivers could survive so close to the City?”

“I think the enemy is more enterprising and robust than some would have us believe.” I inspected Lencho’s face. “I also think they are far more cunning than Citizens credit them. And far more brazen.”

The Forensics Mech arrived. It hovered over the floor of the Tube and then slid up the wall, over the exhaust port like some pleco in a marine observation tank. 

Underneath the mech, invisible to the Investigators, was the collection of biological material, as well as any other elements embedded in the wall. The flat, low-profile unit hovered over the exhaust port for several minutes. Then it moved further along the wall, following the smears in the direction of the last Bullet.

I thought about the moments before death. What did the heap of flesh look like when it became stuck? Legs and arms sticking out of the port at odd angles. Was the victim's head exposed to the Bullet or was it the arms and legs? What was going through the mind of the victim as they were trapped in the port? From the packed flesh and bone stuck inside the grate it appeared the victim entered the port headfirst. Was the victim aware of the approaching Bullet?

Those questions intrigued me, but there were much more pressing ones on my mind, ones that needed immediate answers.

“Who are the other victims?” Lencho asked.

“Residents. Citizens. Some with pristine records. Some with blemishes,” I said. A quick eye movement and I shared the file with Lencho on his retina screen. 

“What's your theory?” Lencho asked.

“I think someone may be sending these people to their deaths,” I said.

A short period of silence. “Who could it be?” he asked.

“Someone with access to these areas. It’s not a large number,” I said.

“I’m down here all the time, but I don’t recall seeing anyone suspicious,” Lencho said. “Mechs do most of the maintenance. As you know, SubNine runs the security down here,” he said of the CrimeOrg. “But they use mostly surveillance tech and drones. Not people.”

“Let’s get our hands on those security feeds.” The different CrimeOrgs in New World City usually cooperated with official requests, after they screened out any transgressions on their part, of course.

The Forensics Mech stopped and transmitted a preliminary report, which I inspected and forwarded to Lencho.

“We’ve got an ID. Kayin Dola,” I said. The ret screen readout was nondescript. [Kye-in, Doh-lah] Security Threat Level: Green. Status: Resident. Occupation: Researcher (Department of Societal Regulation).

“He spied on people for a living,” Lencho said. 

“Could have found out something about the wrong person,” I posited. “Or could be a cleanup job. Sometimes department heads will have subordinates complete a sensitive job, something specific, and then eliminate all evidence of complicity.”

Lencho thought about that possibility. “Why don’t we mark this one a self-term and be done with it?”

The questions pressed down harder on me, and I tried to massage the answers out of my head. 

“What is it, Mosaba?” Lencho asked.

Still rubbing my hands over my smooth scalp, I gave him a hard look. 

Apologies, Investigator Onai,” he said.

“It’s nothing. I’m just trying to make sense of this,” I told him.

The mech quickly exited the Tube, and Lencho tracked its path. “I think we should get out of here.”

I looked at the back of his head, fingered the pulse weapon holstered on my hip, and rubbed my other hand over my face. “Sometimes the answers to our questions are right in front of us,” I said.

“I don’t want to know the answers," Lencho said. "If this guy’s boss termed him, that’s enough reason for me to not get involved. I don’t want to look like a coward, but...”

“Forget about your outward appearance, Lencho,” I said.

I had my suspicions, but now, I was certain about the first question—Was Lencho the one? Yes. He was the one I’d been looking for.

But the second question still burned, hotter than before, an internal heat trapped inside my neck, head and face, intensifying, the scorching sensation only to dissipate with the answer.

What did Lencho look like on the inside?