Synthetic Sea

By Franklyn S. Newton

In the distant future of planet cracking, VR distraction, and corporate greed, grieving private detective Ryoma LeBeau takes what seems to be a simple job on the opulent casino planetoid of Scylla. Captivated by a chance meeting with the cybernetic musician Guin, he finds himself drawn to the smoky anachronistic lounge bar where they perform. But it seems there's a lot more to both Guin and this case and Ryoma can't help but pull at the threads of mystery leading him to the depths of conspiracy and memory.

 

Inspired by Philip K Dick novels and Ghost in the Shell, Synthetic Sea is a cyberpunk noir entwined with queer romance. 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hazeldine Books
• Release date: Apr 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224832361

Franklyn S. Newton

Franklyn (They/She) has been writing on and off since their teens, largely inspired by the sci-fi & horror movies that wormed into their brain when they left the tv on at night. They enjoy writing about transhumanism, the struggle for bodily autonomy and finding love. They're based in the south of England and run a two person book club with their partner, reading brick sized sci-fi novels and comparing notes. 

Book preview

Chapter One

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, quietly pattering on the rooftops above. Ryoma LeBeau stood and listened to the white noise for just a moment more, reminding him as it did of the grey evenings listening to the frequent thunderstorms on his long gone home world. Opening his eyes, he made a move from the doorway he’d sheltered under, aware he’d been lingering in one spot for too long. It was a good vantage point for seeing inside the bar he’d been observing, but anyone with a lookout would surely have noticed that too.

A fine, greasy mist clung to every surface, making the neon lit street look smeared, impressionistic, and the roughly terraformed air feel grubby. It left Ryoma with the impulse to wash his hands just one more time.

The bar in front of him was The Satellite according to the sign above the door, tucked away from the packed main concourse of Scylla. Looking inside, it seemed to be frequented more by the locals - if you could call them that - than tourists. From what he had gathered, the workers here were largely on contracts that cut them loose after a few seasons, no more than that. The constant churn of people stopped anyone getting comfortable enough to talk about unions, at least by Ryoma’s reckoning.

It was much quieter in this part of the city, mainly worker housing and bars on the cheaper side, as well as the less legitimate gambling dens. It was more to Ryoma’s liking back here, and perhaps his target thought he wouldn't be spotted.

The case seemed straightforward enough. Elise Rearden, a mining heiress as far as he could tell, suspected her partner Dayne was either wasting away her fortune or spending it on someone else's affection. Either way it set her up for a clean settlement. Dayne had been taking a lot of short notice ‘work trips’ to Scylla, which was less of a colony, and more of a cluster of clubs and casinos situated between the two major systems. According to his citizens’ profile, he was a researcher for a synthetics firm, nothing Ryoma recognised, but his workplace had him closely monitored. A couple of corporate security types followed him everywhere, but they wouldn't say a word to her about his activities. Not uncommon for people working in research and development, but it made her suspicious nonetheless.

Ryoma had taken the case with barely a thought, things like this were a credit a dozen, just another for a pile. Suspicious spouses were the basis of private investigation, but over time the cases began to blur and it made him feel like a sleaze, hanging around outside cheap hourly hotels. But it was easy money for straight forward work, people were never as clever as they thought they were. Of course there was no guarantee he’d find anything, but he got paid either way. At least it got him out of his cluttered apartment on Polaris, moping and drinking, maybe it was just the trip he needed.

He’d spent the first couple of days getting to know the area, keeping himself busy in the bars and waiting for Dayne to surface from the glitzy hotel he’d been holed up in on the main strip. Ryoma wasn’t even able to get a foot in the door, it seemed they were installed with a scanner that could clock whether you had a booking or the money to walk in. There was an override for exceptions it seemed, he spotted a handsome young thing being led in by a woman wearing more diamonds than anything else, after she’d had a quiet word with the door staff. The thought had briefly flitted to mind, but he felt a little too run down to play at being a honey pot these days. Besides, from what he could gather Mr. Rearden didn’t seem to swing that way. Instead, Ryoma opted to stay in a motel near the spaceport, cheap and cheerful, although clean air cost extra if you wanted it pumped through instead of the stagnant crap that hung heavily in the atmosphere.

He crushed his cigarette butt underfoot, feeling restless. Holding his rain-slick jacket closed against the breeze, Ryoma crossed the road to enter the bar, the warm light inside pulling him in. He scanned the cosy interior; coated polymer walls modified to look like a deep-mahogany, non-existent this far from Terra. It was a busy night, the tables were mostly occupied by off-duty casino staff, workers between shifts, some alone, some paired off. Tucked at the back of the room, he saw his target sitting in a booth. Judging by his loose shirt and jacket, Rearden was trying to look casual and fit in with the usual clientele but the way he sat, stiff and bolt upright - like he didn’t want the fabric to touch him - made him stand out. Ryoma smirked as he made his way through the bustling crowd around the front of the bar, not a master of subtlety, this one. He looked around uncomfortably. Whether that was anxiety at getting caught or being around so many people outside of his usual circle, Ryoma could only guess. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

He sat down at the bar, between an exhausted croupier who looked about ready to fall into their drink, and a sickly sweet couple getting drunk and handsy, careful to keep the target in his peripheral vision.

Might as well get a drink while I’m here.

To fit in, of course. There were plenty of others drinking alone, probably burnt out from making nice with wealthy customers who didn’t tip. Making himself comfortable, he flexed his right arm, clenching his fist stiffly a few times. The golden light rippled on the silver surface, catching on the engraving that began at his wrist and disappeared up his sleeve. Weather like this made his synthetic arm seize up, an extra level of effort was needed just to keep it moving some days. A newer model would probably be far more reliable, but parting with it wasn’t an option, not for him.

Can I get you anything, sir? A dulcet voice broke through, and Ryoma snapped to attention. The bartender approached with a practised silence, dressed far more formally than this dive deserved, shirt sleeves crisply rolled to the elbow and waistcoat accentuating a narrow waist that Ryoma’s eye clung to for a beat too long. What can I get you?

Whiskey, no ice, he croaked after a second, his voice slightly hoarse from under-use, he’d barely spoken more than a few words all day. His shaggy damp hair clung to his forehead, and in pushing it back he noticed a few greys creeping into the sun-bleached chestnut.

Time for work, old man.

Blinking three times in a sequence, he activated the contact lens in his right eye. Glancing back across the room, he blinked again, as naturally as he could, triggering the shutter a few times, and sending the images back to the server running from his motel room. It used to be that his sister would run the search, she’d had a better eye for it. He watched the bartender nimbly pour a few drinks for customers further up the bar, until the interface over his iris flickered silently to confirm the man's identity. There you are.

Dayne Rearden was sitting across from a woman in a powder blue suit, her hair coloured to match hung loose at her shoulders. She seemed to be reassuring him about something, hand reaching across the table, trying to seem friendly but there was a cold formality about her. He blinked again to run a search for her, and waited for the system to feed back.

Nothing at all, not even an ID. Odd.

With a muted clink, his drink was placed in front of him, a napkin folded underneath to catch the condensation. He’d spent most evenings on Scylla pretending to read something on his watch to escape interacting with people, but the barman's curious smile loosened his lips. Busy night?

Yeah, a lot of people on their way through to the Inner System, a lot of prospectors heading back to Terra this time of year. They leave good tips though. He paused for a second to evaluate the new customer. First time on Scylla? Don’t think I’ve seen you around.

Ryoma nodded; it wasn’t a complete lie, he’d spent a couple of days in a noisy windowless casino the previous year, but all he could remember was being not-so-politely asked to leave when his credits ran out. Besides, the naive tourist thing seemed to work in his favour when he was scouting. People liked to talk if you let them.

The bartender pushed the drink across the bar, their fingers touching briefly as Ryoma took it.

What do you think of the city so far? Pretty right?

It’s certainly something, he mulled it over. Ain’t quite to my taste, the locals seem friendly though.

He couldn’t help himself.

The barman leaned across the bar toward Ryoma just a touch, voiced hushed. Maybe you haven’t seen the best this place can offer. Are you staying here long?

Just a few days on business, then back to Polaris. Maybe you can show me around. Ryoma grinned wolfishly, trying his luck, mainly out of habit.

The barman smiled back at the attention, caramel eyes lingering on Ryoma's. There was a single diamond on one of his ears; perfectly clear the only way lab-grown can be. I know a few good spots, might be more to your taste.

I’m sure you do. Get yourself a drink, huh? Ryoma slid a few loose credits across the bar, he always kept a little physical money on hand, for staying off the radar, amongst other things. The bartender smiled sweetly; he was a distraction, but at least he was a pretty distraction. Something sweet.

Hey, can I get some fucking service here? A voice barked, shattering the syrupy tension. The pair looked to the other end of the bar in unison, where a red-faced man was glaring at them both.

Looks like he’s had enough. The detective murmured without thinking, and noticed his new friend’s lip twitch with a barely suppressed laugh. Sorry to keep you, darling.

Just a moment sir. The bartender straightened his waistcoat and nodded in thanks at Ryoma. His face shifted from a genuine to a perfectly artificial customer-service smile as he moved along to attend to the waiting public.

Ryoma gazed into his drink wondering how else to pass the time, when there was a loud, nervous laugh from across the room, abruptly reminding him why he was there in the first place.

Keep it in your pants, asshole. Back to work.

Back in the corner, Dayne was now holding the woman's hand, but in a crooked unnatural way. His contact lens flickered and adjusted focus to get a better look. Something was being exchanged between the two, the edges of a glossy plastic harddrive were being passed between them, the woman subtly palming it. His enhanced eye just barely caught the split second where what he thought was an organic hand, split cleanly open at the palm and the drive disappeared into a hidden compartment. Clever.

Maybe this business rather than pleasure after all, or both. Blackmail? Insider trading? Couldn’t be particularly legal to be conducting it in a dive bar, on an independent colony. More than enough for Elise Rearden to get what she wanted, and more importantly, pay up. The expenses on this case had been hefty, Scylla was by no means cheap. The contact shuttered a few more times sending the images back to the server. On the next table he clocked a brick wall of a man, obviously sitting alone. Not so clever.

Reluctantly, Ryoma reasoned he should probably go back to his room and type up his case notes, at least before he spent the night out and was too hungover to do it in the morning. He finished his drink, hoping the weather was a little better outside.

Leaving already? The bartender's voice was tinged with disappointment as he paid up. My shift finishes at one, if you’d like to see the sights.

Maybe I'll see you later, he said, taking the hint. Feeling a little smug, he pulled on his jacket and sauntered out.

Taking the leisurely route back to the motel, he wandered with his own thoughts for a while. With a few hours to kill, he'd have time to file his report with the soon to be Ms. Rearden, and head back later on, maybe that bartender would show him a decent time. Some company for the night couldn’t hurt.

Somewhere behind him there was a click of footsteps, not uncommon, but they were oddly quiet, purposeful. He took a breath and focussed as he continued to walk; judging by the number and pace they were walking there were at least three people behind him. He sped up slightly and they matched his pace. He walked even faster and so did they.

Shit.

He took a sharp turn and ducked around a corner. The old bar district was a labyrinth of narrow alleys that was always threatened with being torn down but never quite happened. The streets were just wide enough for two people to walk through shoulder to shoulder; either side was a mix of bars, gambling dens, and apartments for the workers, in various stages of open, closed, shut down, or derelict. It was set far back from the shining casinos and clubs the colony prided itself on. Trying not to look back, Ryoma turned a couple of corners, doubling back once or twice in the hope it would fool them or at least get them turned around. He’d hoped to duck into another bar but everything around this area seemed closed, in various stages of decay tourists weren’t meant to be back here. Another tight corner and the street seemed to narrow even further. Almost all of the buildings were boarded up now, and he felt his stomach twist with the realisation he’d lost his bearings. This was unfamiliar territory.

Suddenly, the footsteps behind him seemed to dissipate, perhaps they were lost too. Turning back to retrace his steps Ryoma turned a corner, walking straight into a man much taller and broader than himself. He began to half mumble an apology when he recognised the man. It was the angry customer from the bar, who’d interrupted his flirtation with the barman - Did he ever catch his name? Aaron? Olive? He’d already forgotten.

The man must have been spotting for Rearden, and noticed Ryoma lurking, or clocked his contact lens. Either way he’d ruined his cover; he cursed himself for making such a clumsy mistake and turned to run but the man grabbed Ryoma’s shoulder with a powerful grip that could only be synthetic. He tried to shake himself free, using his own synthetic hand, and sprinted back around the corner. The half-lit alley was occupied by two other people of similar size blocking the way, bringing him to a stand still. Both seemed to have exposed synthetics of varying degrees, arms, eye implants, likely the brainwork that went with it. That much visible metal was showing off, it was likely private security, probably corporate.

Outnumbered, he looked around for a way out. Most of the apartments around appeared empty, maybe he could pop the lock and hide out in one of them until they passed, but the window of escape was small and closing. He could make it, maybe, slither away and hide, but his pride started to get the better of him. Ryoma’s body had softened with the years but he retained the conviction that he could still put up a reasonable fight, when pushed. And pushed he was.

The pair in front of him reached out to grab him but he leapt back just in time, landing a blow on the taller of the pair’s face, breaking his nose, blood splattering on the cracked concrete.

So you’re not full-bodies at least.

The rush of landing a successful blow, was abruptly cut off when a steel fist met his synthetic shoulder, jerking him violently backward. Something dislodged internally, and as he regained balance he felt a sinking terror that his arm was numb. Before he could react, he was pinned to the wall, and a sharp impact knocked the air out of him. He spat blood, the copper taste was a familiar one. Looking down the alley, it was almost completely dark, a handful of windows were lit but no people were in sight. He wondered if that bartender would be waiting for him, if anyone would look for him, he had no family left at this point and friends were scarce. A powerful hand grabbed his jaw and forced him to look up, examining Ryoma's eye.

Where does the feed for this go? The taller of the men asked, a face like granite. Ryoma didn’t respond, just glared up at the hired goon, leading to another smack. He felt warmth spill down his face, blood stinging his eye, his vision blurred. I said, where does this fucking go?

Ryoma's chest was thumping with panic, but he looked up at the men defiantly with a bloody smirk. Like I’d tell you, jackass.

It was foolhardy, he knew they’d only hurt him more, but he didn’t feel like giving in so easily. Not to shitheads like this. The man growled in frustration, punching Ryoma in the gut again. He fell to his knees, head swimming, wondering if this was how he'd die, over nothing. He wondered if Serena would be disappointed. He tried to stand, he wasn’t built like he’d once been, but he could still try.

A boot on his back firmly pushed him down onto the rough patchworked street, his strength leaving him even as he continued to fight. There was a sudden shout in the distance, echoing footsteps running towards them. The voices overlapped with urgency, but Ryoma couldn’t make out anything, too distracted by the nausea that churned in his gut.

Shit... just take it.

An impact cracked into his skull, sending everything dark.

Chapter Two

Slowly, Ryoma regained consciousness; his ears ringing and his body screaming at him in a multitude of ways. It seemed they’d left him alone for now. He’d gotten off lightly, he supposed. His lungs burned, his head spun, right arm fully unresponsive, but he was alive and that was a start. Slumped on the ground, he tried to work out which need was the strongest. He blinked to try and reactivate the contact, but nothing happened. His eye stung, felt gritty. He tried again, still nothing. It was gone. Shit.

At the edge of his mind, he thought he heard a muffled click of footsteps approaching. Someone stood over him, casting him into further shadow. Maybe those men had come back to finish the job, but the next expected beating never came.

Sir? A voice broke through the white noise. If this guy was here to kill him, they were taking their time, toying with him. Slow and calm,