Blue Cab Company

By Steve C. Gingolaski

Living in near-future Philadelphia, Blue Cab Company mercenary Richard Vandercar's religious beliefs begin and end with "In God We Trust," and then only when the words are printed on cold hard cash. So when he learns Jeannie Aiken has a price on her head, his course of action should be clear: hand her over, collect the bounty, and move on.

If only it were so simple. Ripped lifeless from his mother's womb and revived, Vandercar developed an unusual talent. He can see an individual's lifeline and judge the time of their death. He's never been wrong, which makes Jeannie an enigma. Her lifeline terminated three months ago.

Motivated partially by curiosity and partly by guilt for the sister he couldn't save, Vandercar decides to help Jeannie, at least until he can figure out why she's still breathing. With her image plastered across the media and not one, but two bounties on her head, Jeannie's going to need protecting from most of Philadelphia, and especially from Vandercar's colleagues in Blue Cab Company.

Author Steve C. Gingolaski tells a gritty, noir tale combining elements of Raymond Chandler with the dystopia of Blade Runner, suffused with his own dark, cynical sense of humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve C. Gingolaski
• Release date: Nov 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370220366

Book preview

Steve C. Gingolaski Blue Cab Company

Blue Cab Company

Steve C. Gingolaski

Copyright © 2017 Steve C. Gingolaski

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1493767968

ISBN 13: 9781493767960

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921051

LCCN Imprint Name: City and State (If applicable)

Chapter 1

Show pity for the devil, my sweet old grandmother always said, for he did his job so well that man no longer needed him. The year is 2084, the place is Philadelphia, and my sweet old grandmother had no idea just how right she was.

***

Nearly thirty-four hours ago, two less-than-upper-echelon members of the Mensa society, jacked up to their eyeballs on some shit made mostly out of household cleaning products, decided to make some easy scratch. Instead of doing things the upright and honest way, like a paper route or a bake sale, they decided to snatch a girl on her way home from school and demand a huge ransom for her release. The parents, upscale Philadelphia socialites, immediately took out two citywide contracts. One was for the death of the guys who grabbed their girl—a standard vermin termination contract, and the other for the return of their child—a standard search-and-rescue contract.

So here I was circling in a holding pattern over downtown Center City with approximately fifty-five other Company cabs some fifteen to twenty stories above William Penn's head, waiting for any clue as to the whereabouts of the parasites and their prisoner. The contracts were citywide. It didn't matter who fulfilled them, only that they were completed within the proper time frame.

The streets were already jammed with people scouring the city for any clue that might help them cash in, and the voice streams were flooded with reports from local law officials of unlawful interrogations and new corpses being discovered in alleyways throughout the city. It was the irrational sort of chaos that would soon lead to riots and the electric smell of Taser fire as the local uniforms responded.

A light on my console flashed deep amber—a secure channel was being requested. A single voice command caused a grinning face to fill the display. The grinner was happy with himself as always.

I take it from your facial expression that you found something, Dee? I knew he had. He never bothers calling unless there is money to be made.

Got 'em located. They just placed a second call to the parents demanding to know where the money was. Whatever they were on is starting to wear off. The stress level in the caller's voice was extremely high. I didn't even need to run the analyzer on it.

I looked out at the lights twinkling down in the city and then at all the red lights on the back ends of the Company cabs in front of me. If a call came in on a public line, then why is all my competition still in a holding pattern with me?

Dee grinned even deeper. Here it came: a technological feat of piracy that wouldn't make any sense to me even after he explained it. It was part of what he lived for. That's because I picked the signal off at the public switch. I was monitoring incoming traffic with a destination of certain high-level Philadelphia families from unusual sources and captured a call coming in from Castlerook Confectionaries. I spoofed the source address of the call and released it but put a few blockers and reroutes on the path. The local police should be finished tracing it in a minute or two, so wait until everyone leaves. I gave them a bogus address somewhere up north. You should have a nice head start.

I'll take your word for it. Nice job, but the contract isn't open-ended payment. How much is this going to cost me?

It's reasonably priced, he assured me. My sniffer is always up and coursing through the public switches. This was just a simple job tacked onto a list of others.

Of course Dee would be listening in on and taking note of who was calling whom and what dirty little secrets were being passed over supposedly secure and impenetrable lines. In his line of business, being well informed was almost as important as being well armed.

So, who are my vermin and who is my hostage?

The family chose to remain anonymous on the contract. It makes everything much harder but protects the social dignity and honor of the inconvenienced family. In the past, quite a few missing family members were explained away by having a sudden and serious desire to go abroad.

Rat number one is a Mr. Jeffrey Meyer, Dee said. An image materialized quickly on the screen. It showed an average-looking kid in his early to mid twenties with a long, sallow face and hollow, almost-dead eyes. A slight chill along the back of my neck caused my head to briefly twitch, and I felt it coming. The chill enveloped my brain, and the stench of rot and decay assaulted my nostrils. I looked back at the image in front of me and saw that Jeffery's lifeline ran out at 11:48 p.m. A quick glance at the system time displayed on the console and a bit of fast math gave Jeffrey another forty-nine minutes of free breathing.

Rat number two is a Mr. Kalid Cord. A new image appeared on the display. It was of another young kid but this one with bright, blue eyes and a quirky smirk. He looked like the kind of kid that was able to find and harness humor out of everyday life. His lifeline ran out four minutes after his friend's.

What about the girl? I asked.

The family name is Jensen. That's Harry and Martha Jensen. Harry Jensen is the owner and head architect of Pinnacle Creations, said Dee as his face once again filled the display. You've heard of them. They're the company that redesigned the Philly Art Museum so that it changes shape once a month. If you haven't been there yet, I would highly suggest it. The systems in place there are truly state of the art.

I'm glad it has your personal stamp of approval, I said. But what is the name of the girl?

Can't tell you. There are three Jensen family sisters, and since this began the other two have all but disappeared. To tell you the truth, I don't even think that our two geniuses know. They just kept referring to her as the bitch.

There was a sudden disruption in the circle as all cabs but mine powered up and took off going north over Broad Street. I waited until they were out of sight and headed southeast toward the Delaware River.

I'm uploading the blueprints of the complex to your onboard. Make your way to the network operations room in the central command complex. That is where the call originated from, so that's where I would expect them to be hiding out.

Thanks for the help, Dee, I said. Send me your bill.

I've already deducted my fee from your account, he said, grinning again. Just in case you don't survive.

You're a real sweetheart, I said.

Stay safe, he returned. There's no money in your death.

***

Castlerook Confectionaries stood empty. It was the brainchild of Francis Chessman, whose untamable sweet tooth and uncanny business sense created a sugar-and-chocolate empire that survived for almost 150 years. When ninety-five-year-old Francis Chessman died quite messily in a multivehicle gore fest, ownership passed down to his eldest son, who ran the business for several profitable decades before quietly slipping off into a diabetic coma behind his father's perfectly preserved oak desk with gold inlay. The next several decades were spent above water but with little fanfare until ownership was passed once again down the double-helix slide and onto the shoulders of Francis Chessman IV.

Around the end of 2073 Castlerook Confectionaries was streaming toward stellar new highs on the profit scoreboard, and the company Christmas party was catered with all the best stuff money could buy. Francis, described by many as a well-documented human resources nightmare, ended his revelries by chasing one of his female weights-and-measurements engineers throughout the production facilities. His blurry eyes and puckered lips met passionately with the meaty fist of the five-foot-seven-inch, 205-pound engineer, and their brief but spectacular union caused Francis to sink quickly, albeit noisily, beneath the molten-chocolate surface of the number three vat.

Ask any high school kid the reason for the closure of Castlerook Confectionaries and with wide, implacable eyes and hushed voices they'll immediately spin a fantastic yarn about some guy their best friend knows who actually talked to the girl who bit into a Castlerook bar and found old man Chessman's eyeball staring back at them. Kids today, huh? It wasn't an eyeball. It was his testicle—the left one to be precise. I got the straight shit from Tommy Morrison back in fourth-period study hall. His uncle delivered bagels and donuts for a living to the fifteenth precinct of the Philly PD. He scanned the hard copy right off some lieutenant's desk when the guy ducked out to hit the head.

Castlerook Confectionaries had spent the better part of the last twenty years in a state of total lockdown. The judges were still trying to decide what to do with the property. Now, with the courts inhabiting the third generation of the Judicial System Websphere, counselors could VR in from home and have their pixelated dopplegängers file motions and countermotions faster than ever before. It caused massive slowdowns in decision making. Ain't technology wonderful?

***

I dropped from several stories and engaged landing thrusters hard, causing my cab to hover slightly above the decrepit roof. A flash scan confirmed my suspicions that the roof was too unstable for a landing, so I popped the door, attached my grapple to the winch behind my head, and slid out and down through a hole in the roof into the darkness below.

I landed softly in several inches of dust that covered the large, open expanse of space like a light snow. A sharp tug on the cable caused the winch to reverse directions, and the cable quickly disappeared back up through the roof. A soft voice command, transmitted through my personal link to the onboard central core, caused my cab to shift to possum and play dead. It would continue to hover, but all electronics were powered down. Someone might be able to spot it with a thermal sweep, but that would be a lucky shot.

Optic shades, tuned to illuminate without blinding, amplified the ambient light—translated as outside city light reflecting through the shattered windows—to a comfortable level. Although it refused to permeate every dark, shadowy recess, it displayed enough to allow me to relax my professional paranoia. A quick glance around told me that this section of the plant wasn't a heavy-traffic area. The lack of telltale footprints in the dust signified that if anyone had visited here lately, it was most likely the ghost of Francis Chessman IV haunting the dust bunnies on his eternal quest for his missing walnut.

I crossed the floor quickly and climbed up a short ladder to a catwalk that spanned the length of the room. Stepping quietly, I tried to be just another shadow as I moved steadily toward the center of the complex, where the control center was stationed. The blueprints that Dee had uploaded to my onboard sat faintly visible about a foot and a half off my left eye in the form of a 3-D holomap. It switched from top-down to first person at the slightest touch on the corner of the optic specs. It had taken a while before I got used to the map, but soon enough it became a valuable resource whenever it was available.

I moved quickly down empty hallways and through rooms with broken pieces of furniture scattered violently about. The air was thick with the smell of mold and heavy with particles of dust. As I went on, the thick air caused my breathing to become somewhat labored, or maybe I was just getting out of shape. I stopped a few times to consult the floating guide, listened for anything that sounded human, and jumped ahead to another safe spot.

A steel door separated me from the central command complex, but with two panes of missing plate glass, couldn't quite stifle the voices inside. Dee had been right. It sounded like my future pair of toe tags were indeed coming down. One wanted to cut and run. He didn't care about the money. Continued breathing seemed to be of more importance. The other was a true disciple though. He was the calmer of the two and tried to extend that aura by describing all the possibilities that this money would make come true. His voice carried a sliver of rage as if accusing the other of spoiling his dreams.

I put my hands on the door and gave it a soft, steady shove and grit my teeth hard enough to cause my jaws to ache. Worst fears realized, the damn thing screeched like a wounded animal. With weapon in hand and a curse set firmly on my lips, I crossed the threshold and made my way inside the complex.

Luck or something closely akin to it was solidly on my side as I slinked my way through the lower section of the complex, making as little as noise as possible. The hollowed-out structure of the command center seemed to amplify the shouting that raged above me and helped me gauge their position. I moved quickly up one staircase after another until I had reached the upper level of the command center and entered a cavernous room.

When the Castlerook Confectionaries was still in the confectionary business, this massive room would have been filled with analysts monitoring the endless streams of data that come with every manufacturing, warehousing, and distribution company. The tables were still here, some of them even in their original positions. Most were tossed about the room, however, as if a tornado had touched down and then suddenly evaporated. The high-end video screens filled with production and marketing data that should have covered most of the walls were missing and had most likely been resold by a guy who camped out in alleyways and started every conversation with, Psst. Yo. Over here.

My toe tags were off in a smaller side room standing on either side of a large, heavily scarred table. An equally beaten-up credenza stood next to the far wall. The girl was not in sight.

The two never stopped shouting at one another, each of them trying to deliver the rational side of the argument through high volume and frantic arm gestures in a futile attempt to win over the rambling idiocies of his partner.

The redecorator had done a nice job of scattering the tables. They provided ample cover and allowed me to move into range without the hassle of being spotted. Confusion came only when I looked at my watch. Jeffery Meyer's lifeline ended at 11:48, which was almost seven minutes from now. I briefly wondered what would have happened if I had tried to take them down now, but it was an old and familiar puzzle that I was still too scared to solve. Instead, I looked for a nice place to settle down and wait. I mean, who am I to fuck with fate?

My rest was short lived, as a roar from behind me added a new and unexpected level of excitement to the game. It dominated every other noise in the complex. I spun, ducked, cursed, and tried to aim all at the same time, and only the curse was executed properly. A flash of light glinted off the metal bar that smashed down on the spot that my head had occupied only a split second before. A loud thud partially deafened me as solid wood met solid metal. I had to admit, they really made quality furniture back in the day. The table had taken the blow without cracking in half as my head would certainly have done.

Scrambling to my feet, I jumped the table that I had been using as cover only moments before and ran straight at the objects of my contract. A sharp pain caught me in the side and spun me to the floor. My hand collided awkwardly with the ground, and my gun went skittering to the far side of the room.

A quick glance at my attacker and I knew what I faced. Red jacket with silver buckles, black shirt, red pants with a thick black belt, and soft, black boots. It was either Santa Claus or an employee of Red Cab Company. Someone was out to steal my contract, and it wasn't a jolly old elf. Whether he had been here first or followed me all the way in, I had missed him. Damn sloppy.

From my position on the floor, he looked almost like a mountain that had learned to walk. Very tall, very strong, and very hairy, he was the perfect caveman, and for such a large man, he moved fast. Of course, the size of the contract was a great motivator for speed.

He feinted my way and then jumped at Kalid Cord who, in a moment of sobering terror, had tried to run past him. Kalid changed directions almost in midair as the bar connected solidly with his chest and sent him flying backward over the table.

My competition turned quickly back to me, sensing that I was probably the second most dangerous guy in the room. I had to admit that I pretty much felt the same way about him. Bar raised high over his head, he swung down with both hands in an attempt to plant that piece of steel solidly between my eyes. I waited and rolled up on to my left shoulder at the last minute. When the bar met the floor in a high-pitched, audible kiss, I rolled back on top of it, stomped down on both his hands with my right foot, causing him to lean further forward, and lashed out with my left foot connecting with the side of his head.

I almost screamed as pain radiated up my ankle and into my shin. He grunted and dropped the bar. I spun with the motion and climbed clumsily to my feet while bringing the bar up to shoulder height. Swining upwards at a steep pitch, I caught him fully on the side of the head. The look on his face made me wonder if he even noticed my feeble attempt to brain him. He answered my unspoken question with a shot to my chest that sent me reeling backward.

Ignoring the bar that now lay at his feet, the caveman must have decided to finish me off in the manner of his people. Two thick, powerful hands grabbed me by the neck and lifted me off the floor.

My dad always said that there were two types of fighters—those without honor and those who enjoyed lavish funerals. Dad was always a realist who believed in survival first.

Employing the wisdom of my father, I lashed out viciously with my foot and caught the caveman in the smaller of his two heads. Two or three more attempts to communicate my point finally convinced him to put me down. Diving to the floor, I grabbed my fallen weapon and employed yet another of dad’s canons of wisdom: Live enemies are future headaches. Each squeeze of the trigger resulted in a clap of thunder that deafened the room. The caveman dropped and bled out on the floor.

I spun quickly and moved to the center of the room, blocking escape for everyone but me. Kalid was sitting on the floor struggling to stand. Jeffrey Meyer had never moved a muscle. He had stood through the entire show like his feet had grown roots. I wasn't even sure if he had blinked.

Nobody move, I wheezed. My throat was on fire, and even breathing hurt. But I said it again just to make sure that someone had heard me.

Kalid stopped trying to stand and just sat there crying. He had figured it out first. Jeffrey was a bit slower. He must not have been completely down yet. He looked first at the bleeding caveman and then at me. Synapses starting to fire again through whatever gray matter he had left, finally clued him in to just what the hell was happening. Seeing that neither the caveman nor I had come bearing an attaché full of cash, Jeffrey checked his hand, decided to throw down, go all in, and hope that the cards fate had dealt him were strong enough to ride.

His hand disappeared behind his back and then flashed back into view holding a wicked-looking knife. Eight inches of double-edged steel with a half-serrated tip and hand guard dotted with twelve tiny spikes—the kind used to tenderize your opponent's face when up close and personal—glistened in his hand. He thrust it up high and charged.

I stepped back, shifted my weight, and adjusted my aim. The air around me seemed to suddenly grow cold. It was coming, and I could feel it. The numbers on my watch changed slowly and grew brighter at the same time. The light illuminated the Tekklar 88 in my hand—13 mm, explosive-tipped semiautomatic with extended clip.

Jeffrey arched his back, bellowed a deep battle cry, and thrust forward, intending to slice me in half. His cards hit the table and came up suicide kings. I was flush with aces and released the thunderclap that punched a fist-sized hole through his chest, folded him in half, and sent him flying backward into the conference room. The time on my watch was 11:48.

Kalid screamed and hid his face in his hands. I moved over to him and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him to his feet.

Where is the girl, I demanded. He tried to say something, but his words were drowned out by his sobs. I shook him again, and this time he pointed to the scarred credenza at the end of the room. I tossed him against the table and left him to try and stand by himself.

Opening the top of the credenza was like reaching the end of a horror book you had read countless times before. The surprise was gone and all that was left was the gore. Half my contract had already been rendered invalid, and from the looks of it, it had been that way even before the ink on the electronic signature had dried. Since the girl was already dead, they must have planned on killing the person that delivered the money and trying to make a run for it. What a waste. There was no money in her death.

I turned to Kalid. He was half leaning, half standing against the table with his hands out in front of him and caught in an infinite verbal loop of confessing and pleading. In one long, monosyllabic word he accounted for the last two days of his life and what Jeffrey had done to the girl even though he pleaded with him not to do it.

Another thunderclap echoed, and the half of my contract that was still valid was sealed. I felt no sympathy for either of them. Besides, with the fee that I had incurred by using Dee, the night would probably prove to be a wash. What a waste.

***

I remotely powered up my cab and had it meet me down by the main gates of the factory. After that, I called a friend in the local precinct and waited for uniforms to arrive with the coroner and the documents that would eventually get me paid. I reloaded the Tekklar 88 and stashed it in the cab. It was a military-grade weapon and no civilian, even in my line of work, was allowed to possess one. Dee had given it to me on my ten-year anniversary with Blue Cab Company. He laughed as I unwrapped it and assured me that it was registered to me and completely legal. He followed that up