“Sometimes I wonder why your generation built Bricktown in the first place. I mean, what was the sales pitch to have a whole sector of this huge city made into low-quality, mass residences? Was it an afterthought? Was there any long-term plan to deal with the population boom that your parents started and your generation made even worse? Don’t tell me it was just a temporary solution until the border could be expanded, because the Drake has never kept that empty promise.”
I take a breath to get back on topic, “I’ve slept on the streets and in lock-up. I’ve been sentenced to “community service” sweatshops making new toys or meds that I’d never be able to afford. At least that system worked as advertised. I learned lots of important skills, and not just the tools. I learned how to network, smuggle, make fake IDs, run a con, all kinds of useful things. So now, when someone on the street is looking for something, they ask around and they find me. I’m pretty affordable these days. I’m not all about the Scales either, I can work in favors, information, barter, that kind of thing.”
Sylvia’s head snaps up as if she’d been nodding off. She brings the gun back in line, and shakes it at me, “Who is it? Who sent you? Is one of the board members trying to kill me before I take his position?”
Artwork by Leon Tukker.
“Nobody sent me,” I reply calmly. “This job is for me, and every other kid that had to go through what I did. The ones that were ignored and starved until they formed gangs. Gangs that pooled resources to survive, mainly by stealing from others. Every person they killed in order to get what they needed to survive left blood on your hands. Your paper-pushing helped build Bricktown. You ended up owning a lot of real estate at the end of it. Made yourself a landlady of several blocks, a regular slumlady. Then you started adjusting the numbers, ignoring the effect on people’s lives.
“I recently met some folks who were put in the line of fire because of you. They found evidence of your rent manipulation. They discovered proof of you paying gangs to lean on certain blocks even harder, to encourage complaining tenants to move out. Sometimes feet first. We’ve tracked some of the survivors to other blocks, or found them crammed in with their relatives. We lost track of several people when they went to Undertown.”
Sylvia’s eyes are huge, as she realizes what I’m saying. She doesn’t deny it, but her reaction confesses everything. She looks exhausted, and can’t stand up anymore. She slumps into one of her expensive, comfortable chairs, the gun slips out of her numb hands. Regret? More likely that DerMed patch I slipped onto her back finally kicked in. I can’t pronounce the name of the drug, but it doesn’t mix well with alcohol. She’ll be dead soon, and a tox report won’t show a thing.
I walk over to the chair, bending over so our faces are inches apart. I can hear her breathing starting to wheeze. “We’re not letting you get away with this. So, to answer your original question, I’m looking for your Reclamations, Inc. post-mortem contract. Sorry, you’d call it a “will and testament.” We can’t have your blood money passed along to someone of your choice. We’ll make sure it gets somewhere it’s needed more, like the halfway homes hosting the people you forced onto the streets.”
I reach around behind her, carefully removing the DerMed patch. I’m going to have a lot of cleaning up to do, but I was prepared for that too. Then I find her hidden hard drive, use her biometrics to unlock it, then some creative accounting.
First things first, get my pants back on.