Fresh

Detective Garvey shook his head in disgust as he surveyed the grisly scene. Another body with three neat, clean entry wounds on one side and exit wounds the size of grapefruits on the other. The unmistakable signature of the Trinity gang. The booth’s vinyl seatback was festooned with gore.

He already knew that ballistics would be no use because there were no bullets. The Trinity network used ammunition made from frozen mercury. He also knew that the autopsy report would reveal that the victim was a mod, short for modifier.

Modifiers were usually the scions of corporate overlords, the only ones who could afford the expensive procedure that involved growing new opiate receptors that have been modified so that they’re not activated by opiates, endogenous or otherwise, but by distinctive peptides found in vegetables like kale or broccoli. When a mod ate the vegetable that their receptor was modified for, it would send signals to the brain to initiate the opioid effect which blocks pain, slows breathing and has a generally calming and euphoric effect.

The main drawback to the procedure was that a mod could no longer enjoy the benefits of their body’s natural endorphins, so they had to have constant access to their vegetable of choice. That’s why sleazy all-night salad bars, like “Fresh,” where Detective Garvey now stood, had opened up all over the city.

The Trinity gang’s origins went back fifty years to when they were the principal officers of America’s three biggest pharmaceutical companies. Even though most opiate addicts could never afford to get the modification surgery, the Trinity gang made examples of the mods to make sure the bedrock of their multi-billion dollar empire would never be threatened.

Garvey’s partner, an A.I. Drone that had been retired from military service, streamed its forensic report into his contact lens feed. There were no surprises. Everyone who had been ambulatory had exited immediately following the slaying. Those who remained were either completely unconscious or simply unable to provide any sort of lucid testimony. One patron was face-down in a half-empty plate of asparagus spears.

Garvey double-blinked to freeze the stream of data from Adam 53 that had been scrolling in his near-vision. Minute temperature differentials on the seat next to, and across from, the victim indicated that he had not been alone. There was also a negative differential on the table across from the victim where the release of the compressed propellant in the gun had chilled the surface, indicating that the gun had been resting on the table when it was fired.

“Adam,” Garvey queried, “give me an atmospheric analysis of the area on the table where the cold spot was detected. See if you can get me an ID on the propellant.”

While Adam deployed his analytic sensors, Garvey turned his attention to the waitstaff. They were steel trap amnesiacs, simple service module robots that recorded the patron’s order in a capacitor where the data was erased as soon as the food was delivered. Their onboard cameras had not only been disabled, but completely removed. The arrangement was de rigeur in establishments such as these.

Garvey heard a snorting sound followed by a low moan and turned to see the man stirring and slowly raise his head from the asparagus. Once the mod’s forehead came up from the plate, Garvey knew that his luck had changed. He had the eye of the oracle tattooed between his brows. He must have already been passed out when the hit took place because if the assassins had known that a seer had been present, he would not have been suffered to live.

“He’s a material witness,” Garvey barked at one of the uniforms. “Do your best to get him back to the station house alive.” The uni ordered an armed transport drone on his contact lens while the mod started shaking his head.

“No! Please, no!” he pleaded. “They gonna disconnect me from this side. Jailbreak me. I was in sleep mode. I didn’t scan no data. If they see me leave in a cop drone, they’re going to fucking brick me.”

“What can you tell me about the stream of consciousness you sent to the Akashic?” Garvey demanded. “If you give me something I can use, you can just cover up your tattoo and walk home.”

“What? I can’t decrypt that. It’s a violation of my holy order.”

“So, is alcohol, drugs and being modified,” Garvey spat back. “It’s all the same to me, I’ve got a ride waiting for you outside.”

“What about my IPA rights?” Garvey shook his head.

“The Interdimensional Privacy Act of 2044 protects seers from being compelled to disclose information about future events or cosmic conundrums such as life after death. The murder you witnessed is not a protected category of information. You can either tell me what you know or we can make a big show of putting you in the Police drone and see if you make it to the station. You’re a seer. You tell me how this is going to play out.”

“Okay, but you can’t cast nobody where you cloned this information. And it’s a little hard to reconcile the data. That wasn’t my first plate of asparagus.”

“I just need enough to make a positive ID.”

The seer rubbed his temples and his eyes rolled back in his head. His voice emerged in a strangled monotone.

“Two men. Anchored in desire. Identities bound to the Trinity. Masato Marumo. Haku O’Reilly. Haku seduced. Masato sent the consciousness back to its source.”

Garvey shut down Adam 53’s recording sensors, withdrew his service shocker, a 440-volt Smith and Wesson, and discharged it into the seer’s right ear before carefully placing the weapon in the seer’s right hand. Garvey’s consciousness had been corrupted by a Trinity virus when it had been uploaded to a fresh body in 2064, an honor afforded to good cops grievously injured in the line of duty.