Aaron Conners
Under a Killing Moon
PROLOGUE:
In the moonlight, New San Francisco sparkles like a chunk of cubic zirconium, an island of hollow beauty surrounded by a red sea of radiation. Five million souls drowning in gamma rays.
It’s December 2042. Some optimistic visionaries predicted that this millennium would usher in a new age, where technology and enlightened minds would combine to create some kind of heaven on earth. Well, that isn’t how it turned out. We kicked things off with another “war to end all wars,” only this one may have lived up to its name. Half the planet took it on the chin, forests turned into ashtrays, oceans into cesspools, and a large minority of human beings into genetically disfigured casualties of war.
These unlucky souls are called Mutants. The effects of radioactive fallout added another check box to the census forms. Now, there’s a whole new form of discrimination. New San Francisco is one bad decision away from civil war.
Most of us got lucky, or at least our genes did. The lucky ones are classified as Norms.
I’m one of them. Most of them live in the new city, but I don’t. I live among the unfortunate souls, the Mutants and the destitute, in the wreckage of Old San Francisco.
My name is Tex Murphy. I’m a private detective — or at least I used to be. Since my marriage hit the rocks, I haven’t done much more than look for the bottom of a bourbon bottle. I haven’t had a case in weeks, or months, if I don’t count the ones I wasn’t paid for. In my book, this chapter’s titled “The Year I’d Like To Forget and Probably Will.”
I hand my hat in a dingy joint called the Ritz Hotel. My office on the third floor doubles as a studio apartment. Just like me, the Ritz used to be something. Now it’s just another grimy building in a rundown part of town. And I’m almost out of bourbon.
UAKM — CHAPTER ONE
Not a single pack of Lucky Strikes in all of Mexico City. I shook my head as my speeder glided through the clammy, grimy darkness that lay like a rotten blanket over the metropolis. From a quarter-mile up, I looked down on a sea of city lights, sparkling like sequins on a private dancer’s too-tight dress. Just above the horizon, the blood-red moon was a bullet wound in the night sky.
I’d spent most of the day scouring the city for a pack of Lucky Strikes, moving frantically from one tienda to another, like a high-school sophomore on a scavenger hunt. I’d run out of time and was forced to abandon my search for the cigarettes that meant fine tobacco. I glanced at the small red box of cigarillos festering on the passenger seat and exhaled through a grimace. It was at rare times such as these that I cursed my addiction. I cracked the window of my speeder, took a final, excruciating hit from a Marlboro rojo, and flicked the sizzling butt into the night. Below me, the red hot cherry ejected and burned out, leaving the charred filter to spiral softly down into the world’s largest ashtray.
Directly ahead, the Torre Latinoamericana, once the Mexican capital’s tallest building, stood forty-seven stories erect above a knuckled clump of runty buildings. Together, they strongly resembled a common hand gesture. Back at ya, pal.
I descended through the two-packs-a-day layer of atmosphere frosting and touched down on a street south of the Dulce Vida apartment building. There wasn’t a lot of luxury to be found in Central America’s largest capital, but the Dulce Vida had an aura that would pass for luxury in any civilized spot. This was the sort of residence inhabited by tasters of decay, rather than swallowers — people who liked the idea of living in Mexico City, but preferred to avoid the hands on experience.
I slumped down in the driver’s seat and peered up at the top floor of the Dulce Vida. The two windows on the far right were nice and dark. A less careful shamus would’ve made his move immediately. I, on the other hand, saved that kind of recklessness for conjugal minefields and offers of free liquor. The windows of the neighboring apartment were lined with Christmas lights and ablaze in holiday cheer. There was no reason to take unnecessary risks. A silhouetted figure passed by the window. I glanced at my watch: 8:29 P.M. It was Saturday night, and there were only twenty-one shopping days until Navidad. I figured the odds were fair to good that Eddie Ching’s neighbors would eventually go out for the evening. Fortunately, I wasn’t in a hurry… as long as I didn’t think about my lack of Lucky Strikes.
I settled in to wait. Out of sheer habit and a pathetic dependence on nicotine, I pulled a Rojo out of the pack and torched it. After a long drag and with renewed disgust, I removed the cigarillo from my mouth and inspected it closely. It certainly resembled the cigarettes I’d come to know and love — it even burned like the real thing. But it was an abomination, plain and simple. The kind of creation Sauron and his minions worked through the night creating in the foul-stench bowels of Barad-Dur.
But even a mutated distant cousin of nicotine had to be considered family. I leaned back, my eyes locked on the windows of the Dulce Vida and my mind idling in neutral. In the distance, Christmas music floated merrily through the polluted night air. What a way to spend the holidays. Could’ve been worse, I supposed. I could’ve been working as a mall Santa. That was a mistake I wouldn’t make twice.
A noisy, old-fashioned pickup truck roared past my speeder. I’d seen more four-wheeled vehicles after five days in Mexico City than I’d seen in New San Francisco in a year.
Being out of the States made me appreciate my lot in life. Personal airborne transportation was still a novelty to ninety percent of the world, and being among the other ten percent made me smile — until I inhaled again.
A few minutes later, a scraggly group of teenagers paused to check out my speeder.
Realizing that the vehicle was occupied, the apprentice lifers meandered off in search of fun and profit. Like the juvenile delinquents in New San Francisco, these hooligans were continuing the age-old tradition of cultivating a look that would be as incomprehensible and distasteful as possible to the preceding generation. The latest form of fashion rebellion was to shave a narrow strip of hair from the forehead to the back of the neck.
This was known as a racing stripe. The width, depth, and design of the racing stripe apparently indicated gang affiliations as clearly as the color of one’s socks had when I was growing up.
I sat in my speeder for almost an hour, smoking compost sticks and staring up at the Dulce Vida. At last, the lights in the Yule-filled apartment went out. I tossed most of the rojo out into the street and rolled up the window. There were four large, festively wrapped boxes in the trunk. After getting them out, I closed the hatch and activated the security system. Mexico City was notorious for its crime rate, and I, being a monolingual-and-damn-proud-of-it Yankee, wasn’t about to take a chance on finding myself speeder-less and at the mercy of 30 million capitalist-loathing Latinos.
I looked both ways to avoid getting run down by some local reveler filled with mucha tequila, and crossed the street toward the covered parking lot that nestled up against the ground floor of the Dulce Vida. At the far end of the parking lot, a nondescript door provided a private entry for tenants. The majority of foot traffic went through the front door, which was around the corner on the east side, inaccessible directly from the parking lot. Having cased the location several times over the past few days, I knew the back door had a lock that would open only to the magnetic-strip cards given to tenants.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a card. But I had something almost as good: a plan.
Peering out from behind my teetering stack of presents, I walked slowly into the parking lot. With any luck, someone would use the door in the next couple of minutes. If no one appeared, I would go to Step 2B of Plan A: intentionally drop the boxes, then stall until someone showed up. I’d seen plenty of Three Stooges movies while researching the technique and was confident I could pull it off.