Rusted Lies, a Dalton Rust P.I. Novel: Dalton Rust, P.I., #1

By Jacob Klop

You'd think being a detective is a pretty good gig, but when Dalton Rust gets roped into his newest case he can't help but wonder why he ever got into the business. The Royals are looking for blood, the Harpers won't stop badgering him, and even his own cat, Thatch, keeps tripping him up.

 

The news doesn't get any better when Rust discovers a cybermancer who's capable of turning invisible and tossing people around like paper plates is protecting the document he needs to retrieve. But it's not all bad. His coffee maker still works like a dream.

 

Now if only Rust could figure out why a bunch of high powered families from the Hill are so interested in an average crank like him...but no one wants to talk, and time is running short.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jacob Klop
• Release date: Oct 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393046554

Jacob Klop

Jacob Klop was born in Montreal, but now lives just outside Toronto, Canada with his wife, two kids and a fat Maine coon. He tends to think of his best story ideas while abed, but sadly, can't write in his sleep or he would spend his waking hours watching hockey, reading books, and playing video games. When the writing bug bites all the other interests in his life do tend to get neglected. You'll find him typing away in front of the computer on most nights.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – A Jaunt Through Psychlone

Being a detective is pretty sweet. I work when I want, play when I want, and the money’s alright, but sometimes this job can be a giant pain in the ass.

I duck as a brass pipe whistles overhead, slamming into the wall. The cyber enhanced bouncer grins and his arm whirrs as he pulls it back for another swing. I don’t know what he’s smiling about. Yeah, he’s got Hyper Max 2 mods and cantaloupe sized muscles busting out of an under-sized t-shirt, but I’ve seen a thousand tin men no different than him. He’s nothing special. I could take him out in a second if I wanted to.

The pipe crashes down, and I dodge left, narrowly avoiding the blow.

The bar crowd gathers around in a close circle, eager to see the action. Stupid scuts. If I keep slipping this cyber bouncer’s wild swings, he’s gonna hit one of the bystanders sooner or later. The tin creep might even kill someone with the careless way he’s whirling that pipe around. Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to protect the customers, not murder them?

I move in tight and snap a sharp jab against his nose. A stream of blood starts trickling from the left nostril down to his mouth. Quick as an adder, I follow the jab with a slap to his bloody upper lip. He roars, yeah, he actually roars, like he thinks he’s a goddamn lion or something, then he clenches his weapon tight and pulls it back. I’m pretty sure he wants to knock my head into another dimension.

Whatever. I have what I came for. Now for the not so fun part. I let my defenses drop and pop my head forward, supplying a target even that dumbass can’t miss. The big galoot doesn’t disappoint, smacking the pipe against my noggin with every ounce of his cantaloupe muscles. I shift my head, just enough to make sure his blow hits me on the temple where I’d been gifted a metal plate during the Outback Wars. A dull clank rings out through the bar. It hurts like hell, but that plate’s ultra-reinforced steel, and his little brass piece doesn’t have a chance to do any real damage. I put on a good show, toppling to the floor, as if unconscious, but I make sure to keep one eye cracked open just in case the tin creep decides to give me a few kicks for good measure.

Lucky for me, he doesn’t. The bouncer proceeds to pick me up like I’m an oversized bean bag then tosses me through the bar’s front door and into the neon lighted street. I tumble like a marionette until a streetlamp steps in front of my path. It cracks against my head, but not the side with the plate. Ouch. Little white lights dance in front of me, and I realize he’s done some damage, but I keep my eyes closed until he stomps back into the bar.

I crack open my eyes and start massaging my head. Me and my stupid ideas. I guarantee there’s easier ways to get DNA samples, but I’m just not that bright. It seems like I always end up zigging when I should be zagging. I’d thought picking a fight was a sure-fire way to avoid drawing suspicion, but now my head aches so much that I kinda wish I’d snuck up behind him and plucked a hair from his scalp. Keck. What’s done is done. I wipe the cyber bouncer’s blood off my hand and onto a napkin then pocket the evidence.

With the help of the lamppost that smacked my head, I manage to pull myself to my feet. A few passersby look at me curiously as I weave unsteadily, but no one sticks around. They probably saw me get tossed from the bar, and had little interest in helping the drunken fool I appeared to be. I gotta admit, the fool part is accurate, but I’m not drunk...yet.

Speak of the devil. Across the street, a purple neon sign with a cocktail emblazoned in yellow beckons me. It’s tempting, but this is the Psychlone district, and by the time midnight rolls around it’ll be one of the nastiest zones in Typhon City. Even a tough guy like me has no interest in sticking around. I turn away from the lure of booze and start limping down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for autocabs as I pick my way along the dirty pavement.

Tracking down a wanted cyber really hasn’t turned out to be one of my smarter ideas. By the time I account for the money I’ve spent on bribes, autocab rides, and the coming medical bill to get my bruised noggin checked out, the reward money from the Brass Union is barely gonna cover a couple rotisserie chicken dinners at my local deli.

I pick up the pace and try to ignore my throbbing temples. Psychlone is the wrong district to look like a victim, and walking like a toddler with one hand massaging my head is sure to draw unwanted attention. Fortunately, the cool night air is rejuvenating and I start to feel a bit better. I pull up my collar and try to look menacing as I stride down the sidewalk.

The stores on either side are little more than dirty holes in the wall. Thin neon signs advertise their wares. Bars, sex grottos, and mod shops dominate the street. Any fool that purchases gear in Psychlone is asking for trouble. At best, the shoddy hardware would malfunction in a few days. More likely, you’d do permanent nerve damage. But people are desperate and stupid, especially down on their luck scuts. The lure of cheap mods has no end of suckers begging to snap them up.

From dark alcoves in the sex shops scantily clad men and women beckon me with come hither hands and throaty calls. I hurry past. Phizz. I’d rather take a chance on a Psychlone mod than stop for their wares. I look away from the stores and scan the streets.

I haven’t seen an autocab yet, and it doesn’t look like I’m going to. It’s late. At this time of night any autocab drifting into Psychlone is gonna get disabled and stripped for parts within minutes. The pedestrians gradually melt away and soon it’s just me trotting along the pavement. It’s a nasty area, even for Psychlone. The only neon in sight sputters from broken signs that shop owners don’t have the credits to repair.

Every time I pass a dark alley it feels like a bunch of scuts are watching me from the shadows. It takes all my nerve not to whip my head around like a frightened lamb from the Hill. There’s nothing irrational about my fear either. I’ve got a creeping sensation at the back of my skull. I know that feeling. I’m pretty sure I’ve been marked. It’s just a matter of time before some nasty bruisers make an appearance.

I decide to up the ante. I take off my jacket and roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt to reveal a set of shiny Ultra Max 4 mods embedded in my forearms. Most of the scuts in Psychlone haven’t seen advanced tech like this in their entire lives. It should be enough to keep them off my back. But just in case, I make my message crystal clear.

Holding forth a hand, I snap my fingers as I walk. Little bolts of electricity dance between the tips of my fingers with every snap. Some of the watching scuts might think the mods are causing an electrical reaction, which is fine with me, but the smarter ones know the truth. I can do a bit of cybermancy, and on occasions like this, I like to show it off.

The shops lining the streets keep deteriorating and a bunch of scut beggars make an appearance. They’re lined along a bunch of vacant alcoves and holding their ID chipped wrists out as I pass, hoping I’ll send a few credits their way. I don’t. It isn’t that I’m a mean piece of keck, but if I give one of those sad scuts a handout, the rest of them will be draped over me like a blanket of moths in about three seconds flat.

Fortunately, my snazzy cybermancy display manages to keep both the dangerous and desperate scuts away. The storefronts start brightening up before I step into the Martinic district with a sigh of relief. That’s not a stroll I want to try on a nightly basis.

A uniformed ironhat glances at me from a nearby street corner. I can tell he’s keeping an eye on the unmarked border with Psychlone. The badge turns away. I guess he’s decided I’m harmless. Nice to see I don’t look like one of the Psychlone scum.

Three autocabs drift close. Is it possible for a car to sense desperation, because they start circling me like wolves around a wounded deer? Most cranks in Typhon City wouldn’t get the reference, but I watch a lot of nature vids.

I approach the closest cab and let it scan the chip embedded in my wrist. The door clicks open and I slide inside. The tension in my shoulders eases as I melt onto the seat. That walk through Psychlone has me strung up tight as a banker in The Grand. I shake my head, kind of ashamed. Thirty years old and a little trip through Psychlone’s rattled me. The younger version of me wouldn’t have given a damn about a late-night jaunt through any district in Typhon City.

190 Tanterec Street, Bulwark District, I instruct then close my eyes and let the autocab do its job. The motor hums and the seat vibrates gently. Nice. Kind of like a back massage. I wonder if there’s a way to live in one of these cabs permanently. It’s my last thought before drifting off.

We have arrived at your destination, a robotic voice announces.

Groaning, I inch open my eyes. The pain in my noggin seems to have increased during my nap. Both sides of my head are throbbing, but the one without the metal plate is particularly bad. I gently touch a good-sized egg on my temple. Phizz. I’ll need to get some ice on that lump. I scoot outside.

Have a good night. The door slides shut and the cab hums away.

Chapter 2 – Dalton Rust, P.I.

Y ou’re up late, handsome .

I know the owner of the smooth voice. Maxine. She’s leaning against the brownstone wall beside my front door. Silky black hair hangs across her bare shoulder, and her green eyes glitter with amusement. Maxine is a local cherry, and I’m not ashamed to say I’ve used her services myself. Of course I’d never call Maxine a cherry to her face. I know she hates the term, so let’s just say she’s one of Bulwark’s finest working ladies.

My gaze fades down. She’s wearing a tight red skirt that shows off her long, shapely legs. The memories of our ‘dates’ shoot back in a heartbeat. My breath quickens, and it takes a supreme effort to pull my eyes up to hers, but looking into Maxine’s green soul suckers sure doesn’t help me relax.

I was just working a case. I try to sound nonchalant. How ‘bout you? Slow night.

She shrugs. There’s always work...if I want it. Sometimes I like to hang out and see whether one of my favorites makes an appearance.

I cock my head. That sounds kinda like an invitation, but I’ve never thought of myself as anyone’s favorite.

I play it cool. And have they?

Maxine laughs and looks at my forearms. Your mods are showing.

Flushing, I pull my sleeves down. She sure knows how to get me off balance. It’s not like there’s anything embarrassing about them. Just the opposite. Mods like mine are the envy of every scut, crank, and most of the tin men in Typhon City, but sometimes people wonder what kind of nefarious deed I must have pulled off to afford the tech, so I prefer to keep them concealed. I’m pretty sure Maxine doesn’t care. She’s seen my mods in private before, and she didn’t even blink. I’d bet a million credits that some of her high end Hill clients are decked out in shinier stuff than me.

Maxine leans back and shifts her legs. Wow. It takes all my willpower not to ogle.

Someone was lookin’ for you a few hours ago, she comments.

Oh yeah. What’d they want? I get clients at all kinds of weird hours, but not normally this late...unless they’re trouble.

I don’t know. He looked hoity toity. I think it was someone from the Hill. He said he’d be back tomorrow.

Yeah, thanks for letting me know. I step up to my door and hold my palm against the scanner.

No problem. Have a good night. She leans close and a waft of perfume washes over me.

My knees wobble like my head just hit the lamppost again. I don’t know if she wants me to invite her in, or she’s just naturally alluring, but there’s no way I can handle Maxine in my condition, so I don’t take the bait.

I slip into my house and close the door. Through the frosted glass rectangle I see Maxine’s shapely form shift back into position against the brownstone wall.

Dalton Rust, Private Investigator. The reverse black lettering etched into the glass catches my eye. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at that sign and thinking about my life when things were quiet. Fortunately, it’s never quiet for long in Typhon City.

Chapter 3 – Gotta Hate the Rust Corporation

One step inside and I trip, spreading all six feet of my ugliness across the carpet. It’s not my fault. The culprit of my clumsiness has four legs, black fur, and loves nothing better than snaking his way between my feet. Thatch. Damn cat. That creature’s more dangerous than a squad of Zenith Mod 5 augmented tin men. Slowly, I rise to my feet as my head pounds like a Psychlone techno bar. Keck . I head to the kitchen for an ice pack.

Thatch follows, meowing. I glance down to see him staring at his empty food bowl.

Yeah, yeah. I get the message.

First the cat, then the ice. His yowling is ten times worse than any headache I’ve ever had. I dump some pellets into his bowl, give him some fresh water, then pull open the freezer door. No ice. Of course. I should have known. It is my refrigerator after all, not that I ever look in the damn thing. I pull out a pack of frozen mixed vegetables and press it against the larger of the two eggs on my head. Still unsteady, I weave my way back to the living room.

I call it a living room, but it isn’t like one you’d find in most houses. I’ve set it up to be more like an office than personal space. A giant oak desk dominates the centre of the room and a couple of grey wingback visitor chairs are in front of the desk. I’d pushed a faux leather couch against the far wall, but it’s more decorative than practical. I got it for the fancy appearance. It wasn’t until I came home late and too lazy to go up the stairs to my bedroom when I discovered how uncomfortable the damn thing is.

Taking a seat in my fat leather office chair, I gaze toward the frosted glass nameplate on the front door; my usual thinking position. I’ve fallen asleep like this a million times, and I’d probably do it again tonight if I wasn’t holding a bag of frozen vegetables against my head.

I flick on the vid screen. I’d hooked it up high on one wall, so the monitor didn’t look out of place with my office furniture. There are only three things I’ll watch. News, sports, and nature shows, though I don’t know how long that nature station’s gonna last, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m their only viewer. I start with the news channel.

...price war rages on. The Royal family has moved forward with their plan to implement heavy tax increases on imported mod chips and flexible steel. Privately owned manufacturers are fighting them in court, but it seems likely the dispute will last for years. The Rust Corporation has been a particularly loud opponent to the taxes, stating that The Royals are only punishing this sector of the economy so heavily because they have limited ownership interests in the mod tech industry.

I scowl and change stations. I hate hearing about the Rust Corporation. Yeah, that Rust name isn’t a coincidence. The Rust Corporation is my family’s business, but just ‘cause my family runs the show doesn’t mean I have to give them any attention. We have an unspoken agreement. They leave me alone, and I return the favor. It’s a deal that works for both of us. Though I do have to admit the tax dispute between most of the Hill families and the Royals is getting interesting. Some people even think the families in the Hill are looking to depose the Royals. It’s a ridiculous theory. The Royals have been in power for hundreds of years, and they’ve got a stranglehold on Typhon City.

Flicking through the sports channels, I find a replay of last year’s Typhon City 500 auto race. I’ve always been a fan of cars. I watch the circling vehicles, mesmerized, until my eyes start to droop. My head’s still booming like a mortar, but hopefully the frozen veggies helped the swelling. I toss them in the trash and stumble upstairs for a well earned sleep.

Chapter 4 – Sanford Driscoe, of Driscoe, Dollis and Associates

Ijerk awake to loud pounding. It takes a few seconds to realize it isn’t my injured head that’s booming, but someone banging on my front door. I groan and look at the clock on my nightstand. 8:00 am. Phizz . Don’t people have any consideration? Detectives work late hours. I close my eyes and pray the pounder gets bored and goes away. It’s not likely. Every client I’ve ever met thinks their problem is the most important thing in the city, though I’ve yet to encounter one that is.

As expected, the pounding doesn’t let up.

I’m coming. Gimme a second, I shout, then wince as a roaring pain shoots through my head.

Whoever’s knocking doesn’t hear my response...or they don’t care. They start rapping on the frosted glass. Unholy bastard. That’s even worse.

I throw on a pair of pants and dress shirt. Much as I’d love to yell down from my window in nothing but an undershirt, it just isn’t a good look from a professional business perspective.

The rapping continues, and my fee for the moron rises with every bang. This better be important, ‘cause business or not, I’m ready to give my visitor a serious tongue lashing. I hurry down the steps and fling open the door.

A thin man in a snazzy dark grey suit is standing on my porch. Short silver hair, immaculately parted to the left is plastered flat against his head. He’s wearing a pair of Ultra Max 4 augmented super peepers and carrying a thin, leather briefcase. I don’t need to hear a word from his narrow lips to realize this guy’s a lawyer for someone with deep pockets.

Good morning, Mr. Rust. I’m Sanford Driscoe of Driscoe, Dollis and Associates. He pushes up his super peepers and studies me with a slight sneer. His voice whines like a broken buzz top toy. Between that, and the obnoxious knocking, I already want to kick Sanford Driscoe to the curb, but he clearly represents some big credits, and I’m not above swallowing my pride for a chance to make good dough.

What can I do for you, Mr. Driscoe? I do my best not to let my annoyance show.

May we talk inside?

I nod and hold the door open. Driscoe slips past me. He surveys my home/office like a finicky cat. The longer he looks, the sourer his face gets, and I’m pretty sure if it were up to him, he’d do a quick about face and march, but he’s obviously on someone else’s dime. No way that a lamb like Sanford Driscoe of Driscoe, Dollis and Associates has made his way to my mediocre detective agency by choice.

Have a seat. I point toward the wingbacks in front of my desk.

Driscoe carefully sits on the edge of a chair, then folds his legs while doing his best to avoid touching the armrests.

I grit my teeth as I watch the performance. My place is no dump.

Can I get you some coffee? I offer. It’s not my usual routine, but Driscoe looks like he needs some pampering.

No, thank you. Driscoe pulls his briefcase onto his lap and snaps it open. My employer would like to make use of your services. He withdraws a heavy, stapled document and drops it onto my desk. It lands with an annoying slap. Yeah, Driscoe has talent. He can even make paper irritating.

The document looks to be at least twenty-five pages long. I glance at the cover page. This agreement is made as of... I skim ahead...and is between corporate entity X103R695 of Typhon City and Dalton Rust, hereby known as...

I push the document toward Driscoe and massage one of my temples. At the best of times, reading simple contracts gives me a headache. This is no simple contract, and I’m nowhere near my best.

Look, Mr. Driscoe, why don’t you tell me why you’re here, and we can go over the mumbo jumbo after you give me the short version.

It’s all quite clear in the contract. He nods at me encouragingly, as if I’m a pet dog being taught to sit.

I get it. One of his lackeys has spent a lot of time dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s for my benefit, but one thing I trust is my instincts. And right now, they’re telling me this guy needs me more than I need him. I decide to give Driscoe a push to see how much he bends.

"I’ll be blunt with you Mr. Driscoe. I haven’t signed anything that long in my life, and I’m not about to start today. You tell me