You can read all installments published so far on this page.
Chapter 41: At the Armpit, Trask figures it out
Trask stopped his jog and bent over to catch his breath when they reached Upper Banking Street.
“Why don’t I go ahead,” said Joe. “If Jimmy’s at the Armpit, I’ll keep an eye on the delivery wagon and make sure nobody sets fire to it.”
Trask grunted in agreement.
By the time he stopped fighting for air and straightened up, Joe was gone.
“Take your own time, boss,” Matilda said. “There’s no rush.”
Trask knew she was right. But still, for some reason, he had the feeling he was racing against time. Maybe they’d be able to catch the griefer red-handed, he thought, and Matilda could shake the truth out of them.
Somebody out there was dead set on hurting Krim’s civilian population and businesses. If they could catch them, he’d finally know who it was. And would probably be able to do something to stop them. The worst thing was the not knowing, he thought. Someone was attacking his home and nobody knew who, or where the next attack would come from.
He finally caught his breath and set off running again. Soon, he turned the corner onto Lawless. The street, or, rather, a slightly wider alley, wasn’t lit, but they could see the faint light of Joe’s lantern up ahead.
The Krim’s Armpit itself had no lights, nor windows, not even a sign out front to tell people that it was there. Patrons used landmarks to find it. One of those landmarks was Boozy Beau, who was already passed out in the gutter a few feet away from the entrance. Trask slowed down to avoid tripping over her.
Then there was the smell of stale beer and fresh vomit and urine. That’s how all of Krim City smelled, but the stench was particularly strong on this stretch of Lawless Alley.
Joe was standing guard over a wagon that took up nearly the whole width of the street. There was barely enough room for people to walk past. Any vehicle would be out of luck.
“Jim’s still inside, finishing his dinner,” Joe said. “The newspapers are all there.” He held up his lantern so that they could see the oilcloth tied down over the top of the wagon.
Trask lifted up the edge and saw the stacks of paper, tied with twine. He glanced around, but didn’t see anyone holding a lit Molotov cocktail or a flaming arrow.
“I didn’t know the Armpit sold food,” Trask said, trying to reach in over the side of the wagon.
“They don’t,” said Joe. He passed Trask the lantern and pulled out one of the newspapers. “Here.”
Trask set the lantern down on the wagon’s corner and examined the paper. It was two large sheets of paper folded in half so that it was roughly the size of a tabloid newspaper. He was old enough to remember when those were still a thing back in the real world.
He remembered what the scribe said about the sports scores, but only glanced at the back page for a second before flipping the paper over to the front. If a sports fan wanted to get violent they probably wouldn’t be sneaky about it, he thought.
On the front page, the top news story was about the buildup to the war, by a journalist whose name Trask didn’t recognize. Probably a pen name, he thought, to avoid incurring the wrath of the mercenaries.
There were interviews with the military leaders from both sides, rumors about troop numbers and movement plans, and a story about the history of the northern kingdoms was continued on an inside page. There was also Cyril’s first-hand account of being taken prisoner by the Baron. He’d been kidnapped right on the steps of City Hall, Trask read.
Anything in those articles could have been enough to set someone off, Trask thought. But while they might go after the newspaper in retribution — or to prevent a story from going out — he didn’t see how it would relate to the griefing attacks, or the attempts on his own life.
The story about the Gracious Capital was on an inside page, and the headline proclaimed that the group was funded by the Humanists.
Cyril was the author here as well, and he quoted a research report by an off-world investigator. According to the article, Cyril had met the investigator while a prisoner at the Baron’s castle. That must have been Crewe, Trask thought. The process server must have talked to Cyril before the Baron killed the reporter.
And most of the fund’s money came from the Humanists. Not from the terrorists themselves, since that would be outright illegal, but from other related organizations, like the People’s Front of Judeo-Christian Humanity.
All of those groups were opposed to the very concept of virtual existence, of bringing people back who’d died a physical death, and of virtual worlds in general. They certainly wouldn’t be investing in Krim because they thought it had growth potential, Trask thought. Or, if they did think that Krim had that potential, they would want to nip that growth in the bud.
And they’d certainly want to stop the other would-be investors. Those were the Carlyle Foundation and Lifeworks, and they were both all about bringing people back from the dead. Specifically, bringing back people who had been dead for years, or even decades — and, potentially, centuries.
There was a picture of two people from Gracious Capital touring Krim, accompanied by an unnamed grid staffer. The investors had a misshapen, vampire-like look about them, Trask thought, and the staffer had jutting ears. He recognized the drawing style. Thomasin Bimbledeck, killed by the griefer on Monday night. And the picture of the grid employee was one he’d seen before.
It wasn’t at the wine-and-cheese gallery opening at Simond’s Fine Art. It wasn’t on the easels of the artists near the Central Plaza. But he felt he was getting closer.
Not outside City Hall. It was inside, he remembered. Those same ears were on the third-place archery contest winner in the City Hall lobby.
He went back to reading the article. One of the investors, Vladislav Antonov-Bathory-Novak, was quoted saying that Krim was too dangerous for organizations like Lifeworks.
“Any civilian on the grid is at constant risk of murder or mutilation,” he said, according to the paper. “Krim does have some potential for growth, but only by leaning into its core strengths. Still, that potential is small and there are other investment opportunities we’re looking at. Krim’s owners will need to come down quite a bit in their valuation estimates before we’d consider putting money into this risky project.”
So Gracious Capital wanted their competition gone, and they wanted to get a better deal, Trask thought. The griefing attacks would meet both those goals. And they certainly wouldn’t want this story to get out before the board vote.
He wondered how the board had missed the fact that Gracious Capital was a Humanist front. After all, Lockton said that he’d personally done background checks. Of course, the man was lazy, and had probably delegated it to someone else. Maybe the same person who’d created the printouts.
The printouts that showed that no grid employees were on the grid at the time of the attacks. Or had been anywhere else outside of City Hall all week.
Trask stopped reading and carefully folded up the paper and put it inside his overcoat.
Because there had been a Gully Labs employee outside of City Hall this week. Osgar had attended a merchant breakfast meeting Tuesday morning at the King’s Arms.
And there had definitely been a staffer there.
It always came down to Lockton, Trask thought. The merchant complaints that got lost — they went through Lockton. The investor background research — Lockton.
It was Lockton in the picture with the investors, Trask was sure of it. And that meant that Lockton was also the archer in the competition.
He looked around for Matilda. He needed to get to City Hall. The board was meeting right now, but maybe there was still time. Some meetings dragged on for hours. He just had to avoid getting killed while getting there.