Copyright (c) 2016,   madvlad.  ALL Rights Reserved

Date of first publication in Mr Double's Palisade :
Thursday, March 17, 2016

This story may be downloaded by Palisade members uniquely for their private use, and 
may not be distributed for profit or posted to newsgroups or other websites.  Mr Double 
may be contacted by emailing mrdouble@mrdouble.com.


A Palisade Author story from MrDouble's archive, 
Filename: reldeliv.txt
http://www.mrdouble.com




story_codes: MMM/g(10), semi-cons, cons

story_intro: In the totalitarian future, a private detective takes a case that looks like easy money but quickly gets complicated. Once of the complications is a little girl who is a sex worker at a club where he is investigating for his latest assignment. 


story_language: English




REL - Deliverance in Blue

Written by madvlad


	A brief explanation for those who haven't read other REL stories:

	The Replicated Enhanced Lifeform, or REL, is a laboratory grown human used for a variety of tasks - some mundane and other more exotic. Aside from their brains, REL bodies are completely human except for the ability to self-generate (and potentially live forever) and heal rapidly - a desirable thing for a quality product - and other customizable features. Their brains are a mix of cybernetics and human tissue.

	About five years after the first RELs came onto the market, a phenomenon occurred in which some RELs were developing personalities beyond their programmed parameters. After a few years of experiencing life and the world around them, they developed likes and dislikes (for anything from food and drink to other people) and other aesthetic features in their behaviors. 
The manufacturer had an easy fix - a brain wipe that would erase these uncomfortably human features but retain the basic original programming.

	Some RELs have been made as children. Although they might age chronologically, they will always remain their original age in physical, mental, and emotional maturity. 

	Society has become divided over whether RELs deserve human rights or are simply property. Legally, they are only property and are at the mercy of their owners.

	Arcs of electric red and blue from the flashing police cruisers paint the night rain like a casino marquee. And someone has cashed in his chips.

	On the ground, slumped against a wall is the vic. The blood he's sitting in - his own - won't be spreading much more now that his heart has stopped. Another body and it won't be the last by far this night - much like any other.

	My name is Phil Decker and this is my life.

	The cooling body in this case was a mid-level insurance executive who decided to have a mid-life crisis with some dancer with plenty of tits and ass and not much else. His wife suspected something and invested a small part of her future divorce settlement in to hiring me to find out where he was playing.

	It was a standard case of follow and video the target. Pretty easy and it would have ended a lot less messier if his little plaything didn't have a jealous ex who was probably addicted to a couple or three of the usual street narcs. According to some yammering witnesses, the jilted loser jumped my guy a block away from the "gentleman's club" where Miss Honey Tits shook her things professionally. For a guy with a long rap sheet of petty crimes and criminal possessions, he was damned good with a knife.

	Anyway, I was waiting near the entrance of the club to catch the guy on video going in and planned to follow him in to record him and the piece of ass less than half his age so I showed up just as the ex-boyfriend was running off. The way my guy was carved up, there was no need for first aid as it only would have prolonged his agony for another minute or two. 

	So it looked like my night would be short. Too bad as I charged by the hour and the view inside the club would have been better than looking at coils of intestines popping out of the poor slob here.

	"Decker, I'm sure you're here to assist the investigation like the upstanding citizen you wish you were."

	The wise-ass tone could only belong to one Detective Sergeant Willis of the illustrious (beneath the grime) Fourteenth Precinct. I turned to the familiar figure and greeted him in turn.

	"You need all the assistance you can get, Wet Foot."

	As we exchanged smirks and short grunts of tired amusement, I noticed the younger guy next to him, the overcoat covering his undoubtedly immaculate suit was also neatly pressed and holding up almost supernaturally well in the light rain. He was clean cut and had an air about him of superiority uncomfortably coupled with inexperience. 

	I pegged him as a Fed, freshly minted from the academy and assigned to local cops for a month or two in an "advisory capacity". What it really was meant for was to break these guys in on the streets. But the cops also had to be careful around these snot-noses. The kids wouldn't think twice about reporting the police for any myriad of harmless yet criminal violations of any number of criminal codes. Poor Wet Foot - no sugar-loaded donuts (four different violations there if they were frosted and jelly-filled) for him.

	"Decker, this is Federal Inspector, Junior Grade, Roberts," Willis drawled.

	Yeah, I can spot 'em.

	"Nice to meet you, Inspector," I replied. "Who did you piss off to get stuck babysitting Wet Foot, here?"

	The kid's eyebrows rose.

	"Wet Foot?"

	"Yeah, on account of him being in the Fourteenth. He has to take one shoe off to count that high and sometimes he forgets to put it back on. Then he steps in a puddle...Wet Foot."

	It was an old joke, but Willis, ever the good sport, still grinned. Roberts, though, still had a regulation broomstick jammed up his as - no doubt to regulation depth.

	"Show me your identification," he said.

	"Hey, relax," Willis interjected. "I can vouch for him. He's-"

	"He's a possible witness or suspect in a homicide," Roberts finished. "Standard procedure is to verify all identification and cross-check it against tax databases, detaining the individual if he's adversely connected to the crime or in arrears on any outstanding fines or quarterly returns."

	Willis rolled his eyes while I shrugged. I took out my wallet and flipped open the ID pocket which Roberts promptly read with a hand scanner. He read the scrolling data on the scanner's screen.

	"Decker, Phillip M.," he recited. "Unusual - there should be the full middle name displayed. What does the M stand for?"

	Now Willis was chuckling. I had passed a few bucks and a bottle of primo tequila to a clerk at the ID Bureau to have the default display only show the middle initial. Fat lot of good it did me with this guy, who probably jacked off to a regulation book - while using the precise amount of grip strength and stroke as put out by the Department of Masturbation (never heard of it, but wouldn't be surprised if it did exist).

	I looked Roberts straight in the eyes and answered.

	"Marion."

	Willis lost it and let out a guffaw.

	"Marion," Roberts repeated, looking to see if I was joking and determined that I was not. Satisfied, he went on. "What is your relation to this crime here?"

	I told them the vic's name ("victim", Roberts fussily corrected) and the identity of the cutter. Then I explained my involvement as a private investigator. That part made Roberts look as if I was something he needed to scrape from the bottom of his polished shoe. Without a word, he walked over to the officers near the body, taking care to keep his feet away from the red puddle.

	Willis patted me on the shoulder, thanking me for the information which would certainly help speed up his investigation (for which Roberts would assume all credit, no doubt). 

	"I guess I owe you one," he mumbled.

	"Aw, shucks. A medal will do," I retorted.

	He gave me a sly grin.

	"I'll make sure they put your full name on the citation, Mari-"

	"Fuck you."

	Willis laughed louder as he went to join Roberts at the grisly scene.

	Marion.

	Yeah, I might was well explain that one to you before you figure you shouldn't waste your time reading a story by a guy named Marion.

	It's my Uncle Bill's fault. No, he didn't give me the name, but I still hold him responsible. He was the only son among five children in a family with the last name of Marion. That's not so bad as a family name, but Uncle Bill never married. My mother was the youngest as she always looked up to her brother. In a little show to memorialize the family name, I was given Marion as my middle name.

	As soon as I was aware of that name, I hated it. It didn't help that Uncle Bill, who wasn't a bad sort at all, really, tried to persuade me that it was a tough name. As an example, he mentioned Marion Morrison, one of the icons of the twentieth century and the quintessential tough guy.

	Yeah, he was so tough that he changed his name from Marion Morrison to John Wayne.

	So that's it, okay? Just leave it alone now.

	Fucking John Wayne.

	After collecting an abbreviated payment (fewer hours than expected after last night's meat carving demonstration) from the not-so-grieving widow, I was left to go looking for another case as my virtual in-box was free of entrants. I nosed around the couple of the usual bars where people looking for problems to be solved could pass the word with the bartenders. 

	At the Anchor Drop, which was nowhere near the harbor (go, figure) I scored with Annie, a luscious blonde with a bust that defied gravity. I scored a lead, that is. I might have scored with her in the sack, too, but that would be a perfect way to fuck up a friendship and a working relationship. Still, the thought ran through my head often enough - both heads, in fact.

	"Guy's name is Edgar Wisnewski," Annie told me as a she slid a frosty mug my way, bending forward to show why she kept the top three buttons on her blouse undone. "He needs to find some lost information and said he'd be waiting at Abner's at 2 a.m. I heard what happened to that guy you were tailing and told him you'd be free."

	"But never cheap," I replied as a slid the notes for the beer across to her - with a couple of fifties tucked underneath.

	There was a natural inclination to tuck the bills into the fleshy crevice bulging at the top of Annie's shirt, but I wouldn't do that with her - too much respect. I did see one guy do that about six months ago. She made her point back to him, short and sweet. I understand his jaw looks almost normal now.

	Annie put the beer money in the till and glanced at the rest before pocketing it. 

	"Just cash? I thought you'd make an honest girl of me this time, Phil," she said in a flirtatious tone.

	"I had a dose of honesty, once," I replied. "But one shot at the clinic cured me."

	Annie laughed - not the chuckle used in the usual banter with customers but a full-throated laugh that made certain parts of her bounce to the beat.

	"That's good," she said. "'Cause I only want a man who's clean where it counts."

	Annie was a good sort - brassy but classy. And she never asked me about my middle name.

	Like many speakeasies of its kind, Abner's was located in a basement. In this case, it was accessed by going down a ramp to a metal door that looked like the kind that secured a storeroom. I rang the buzzer and waited two minutes. If I had rung again, no one would have answered at all. But right at the one hundred and twenty-second mark, I heard the sound of metal on metal and a small rectangular view hole opened up in the door. 

	"We're closed," said the gravelly voice that went with the pair of dark eyes glaring from the inside.

	"Good to the last drop," I responded, using an old advertising slogan from more than a century ago.

	A bolt clacked and the door opened. I stepped inside and looked around. He was easy to spot. Not that he stood out in appearance, but people who are waiting for someone are noticeable to me. 

	"Mr. Wisnewski," I said as I sat down across from him, giving him a casual nod as if we were old friends in case anyone was watching. "Missing information" as Annie had mentioned usually meant corporate espionage and who knew how many other eyes were on the lookout.

	"Mr. Decker," he replied. "You've come highly recommended."

	I nodded, not saying anything else as a waiter approached and delivered a steaming cup as saucer to Wisnewski.

	"What will you have?" the server asked me.

	It was more of an order than a question. You don't come to Abner's for the atmosphere. And with their risk, you have to pay. Wisnewski told the waiter to put it on his tab, so I didn't hold back. 

	"I'll take a coffee, cream and sugar."

	The waiter nodded and left, not writing anything down. Of course not - why create more evidence?

	Wisnewski leaned toward the middle of the table and I did the same.

	"A colleague of mine was murdered two nights ago," he said.

	"Was he in the insurance business?" I asked, thinking of my last case.

	Wisnewski looked at me curiously and shook his head. 

	"He had certain files with him but they were never found on his body."

	"So his killer lifted them."

	"No, he was being pursued and called me. All he said was 'sky blue' and then the call ended."

	"Kind of vague."

	Wisnewski was about to reply when the waiter returned with my coffee. Real coffee with caffeine. And real cream. And real sugar. A cup of contraband that would get me six months for possession. I sipped at the evidence while my new client explained his problem.

	"My colleague, who went by Davis, must have passed the files along to someone. We know he was at the Rumble Club shortly before then. I'd go myself, but I may under surveillance, too."

	The Rumble Club was one of those anything-goes sex clubs. Well, this Davis guy may have died happy, or was happy shortly before he was whacked.

	"So I go there, figure out the sky blue connection, and get your info."

	"Yes, you can call me with this."

	Wisnewski slid a phone across the table - one with no markings. Cute - real spy stuff. He followed with an envelope of money.

	"Some advance for your expenses," he said.

	I thumbed the cash in appreciation. No telling what kind of expenses I'd run up at the Rumble Club. After finishing my coffee, I left and hailed a cab to go "rumbling".

	There was plenty to look at inside the Rumble Club. And for extra dough, you could do more than just look. Since everything was properly taxed, it was all legal. Made me wonder, though, when the feds would start taxing by the orgasm. You had to know that some genius in the halls of bureaucracy was cooking that up. They'd hook some meter to your balls and...it made me think of becoming a monk.

	Anyway, I generously greased a few palms to get a good table in the club, barely making a dent in the envelope of dough Wisnewski had passed my way. It was a mighty fine way to burn house money, as PI's sometimes refer to customer-fronted expenses. The view was great, the action hot, and the liquor better than the usual I can afford. Of course, I milked out the drinks as I wanted to stay clear-headed. One thing, though, is that when you're buying the prime stuff, the wait staff and management don't get pissy about you taking up table space and I was never rushed to buy the next glass.

	Ah, the night life of the refined gentleman.

	Try as I might, I didn't see anything that screamed "sky blue" among the varied colors that moved, shimmied, and sometimes got a little sticky. There were private rooms where you could take your action and there was plenty of it for sale, but a lot of folks just got down and dirty with it on the tables or anywhere else they could assume the position (and what positions they were!).

	For a while, I locked onto a chick (maybe, could have been a guy or someone in between) with these long, dangling turquoise earrings who was working the place. He or she or whatever sure stood out. I can't say I was looking forward to engaging in conversation but I had to since I was drinking Wisnewski's money, I had to come through.

	Miss Turquoise (for lack of a better name), was getting close to my table and I prepared to approach her when an androgynous-looking couple called out to my target. 

	"Freddie! You awful tease! Where have you been?"

	"I just got in from a to-do in Vegas, darlings," Miss Turquoise answered in a throaty voice that went no further in helping me determine the gender. "It was a smashing time but it's good to be back on my feet and off of my hands and knees after a week."

	A week. So she(?) wasn't Davis's contact. Lousy break. But lucky for me.

	Maybe a half hour later, I saw sky blue. It was a dress - some shiny material against milk white skin. The figure was short with long dark hair. When she turned, I saw eyes to match the hair in a slightly rounded face. Damn, she looked like a little kid. Maybe that was the attraction. 

	When she moved, I got a clearer view, seeing her in profile. The dress may as well have been sprayed on as it looked very thin and transitioned seamlessly into her skin. It hugged her body snugly, pulling flat across her chest. I can say that because there was no flesh to push out in front. Jesus, what was a kid doing in a place like this? There was no doubt she was dressed to work but she was what, nine or ten?

	The funny thing about laws these days is that they've become more restrictive, there are greater loopholes for those with connections and collateral. What kinds of pull did the owner of the Rumble Club have for this?

	Looking back, my doom came at the moment she turned away from me. That ass didn't belong to a kid. I mean it was small enough - a tight little package of rump - but the way it moved beneath that stretched, micro-thin dress, the round globes shifting and poking at the material when she walked was making part of me hammer at my fly.

	This had to be the one. Why the hell Davis chose to give valuable info to someone who should be playing with dolls was beyond me, but I had to get her into a private room - to talk.

	Before I could reach her, these two big guys intercepted her. They looked like well-muscled rich boys that might have played college football if the sport hadn't been banned twenty years ago. The kid didn't look too happy when they approached her but when one of them happily waved a chit of some sort, she stopped and seemed to deflate a little.

	They must have bought some time with her - that chit was probably a receipt from the club. The blonde guy was in front of her and yanked the hem of her dress up. I could see her little buttocks pop free as she was now sideways to me again. They curved in pert little arcs, defying gravity with not a crease where they grew out from the backs of her thighs.

	The guy was well-hung - not a monster, but he had some bragging rights. He'd have given a woman a good stuffing and he picked up the kid and brought her down onto his dick while he was standing upright. She grimaced when he entered her and he twisted her back and forth while he brought her down as she kicked her legs in evident discomfort. 

	The guy yelled something, sounding proud of himself. I noticed she was all the way down on him. Shit, what kind of experience did she have to take that all in her child's body?

	Now the brown-haired guy had his prick at the ready, rubbing it between those ripe, snowy ass cheeks. I'm not proud to say I was envious, but I plead guilty to having a pulse for crying out loud.

	The girl did cry out loud and when he punched into her. He was about the same size as his friend (I'm estimating - do think I was going to go over there with a calipers and take measurements?) and the girl bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood as she was penetrated. Some people were stunned silent like me while others were cheering the two guys on.

	The girl struggled weakly, pressed between the two guys while a second helping of meat got jammed up her lovely little backside. Then they started going at her, humping together and pounding the poor little girl's inhumanly stretched orifices.

	Ah, there's the word - inhumanly. 

	Things made more sense. Plenty of women would have been badly hurt with two of these guys at once, let alone a small girl. But if she was a REL - she could take a lot more stretching inside and could withstand way more damage, healing in a matter of days. I never really gave a shit about RELs one way or another - they were part of the background - never a suspect and never a paying customer. 

	Now I was going to have to deal with one once the other customers were done. Whatever they paid, they were getting their money's worth. Their cocks rammed in and out of that slender body and you could hear the meaty sounds of those little holes getting pounded with hard meat. The guy in the front had his dick all nice and polished from the juices in that tight preteen twat he was banging. Even if the kid didn't like it, her body was reacting to the friction inside.

	The guy reaming that gorgeous little ass was having a hell of a time, too. She must have been oiled back there because he was plugging away and making those tiny ass cheeks quiver as he powered his way between them. I swear he was trying to turn that girl's bottom inside out, the way he was working at it.

	With loud, frat-party bellows, they came together. The girl moaned as they shot their loads inside of her. She squirmed uncomfortably on the twin poles impaling her, unable to stop the jism from getting injected into her.

	Once they were done, they pulled her loose from them - not easy to do even though they were deflating. She was still a very close fit.

	"Thanks, Elise," one of them said as she tugged her dress down and staggered to lean on a table.

	"Hell, she should be thanking us!" the other one laughed.

	I know she was hurting but I had to talk to her before someone else fucked her speechless. I signaled a waiter and pointed to her. One of the floor managers came over, not caring how she was feeling and took cash payment for use of the girl and a small private room. The girl limped a little as she followed me with the residue of the two men trickling down her legs.

	Once the door was closed, I told her she could clean herself. She looked relieved - probably for being able to wash and getting a break before the next penis went inside her. When she was finished, I patted the bed beside me. When she sat, I started.

	"How old are you, Elise?"

	"Ten."

	"And how long have you been ten?"

	"I'm ten."

	She looked at me steadily. I knew the facts - RELs remained the same age in their minds, bodies, and personalities regardless of how many years passed. But a lot of them started to become self-aware after five years or so. Some owners didn't mind but if it became a problem, they could just have the REL brain-wiped. It was kind of a reset back to the default programming with any knowledge required for tasks or for knowing people, etc. could be added back without the issues of emerging sentience.

	It was described pretty clinically in the media, but the idea of getting my brain reformatted was as appealing as the idea of having tax collector sensors wired to my balls for cum tax. But these were RELs so that was that. 

	Anyway, this kid didn't seem to have any personality beyond her original design, so this was going to be straightforward.

	"What would you like me to do?" she asked.

	"Just talk."

	She looked relived and I got straight to business.

	"Two nights ago, you had a customer. He gave you something - maybe to hold for him or maybe as a tip for all I know. It was probably some kind of data - a chip, disk, flash stick, p-crystal. You know what I'm saying?"

	"All extra compensation goes straight to management," she said mechanically, obviously repeating one of her base commands.

	I tried to get any hint from her, but she didn't understand why someone would give her anything that wasn't meant for her owners. Shit, this was a good reason why I should never have a REL involved in a case. 

	Before our hour was up, I left the room, telling her she could take it easy until the sixty minutes played out. Nursing another high-priced drink, I pondered my next move. The girl should have been the answer. If she did get anything, she would have turned it over to a manager and then...well, then Wisnewski was at a dead end and my expense-paid high life was done in one evening.

	I paid my bill and was getting ready to leave when I saw Elise emerge from our room. Freddie, the andro-couple, and three more people converged on her, leading her upstairs to one of the more plush suites where obviously she was going to be a featured player in whatever the hell was going to happen. 

	Poor kid - REL or not - I thought for a moment. But then I had my own problems, too.

	It was probably a dead end, but I wanted to track down any potential leads before giving Wisnewski the tough news and the remainder of his up-front money. As Willis owed me a favor from the other night, I called it in and asked for access to any personal affects Davis had on him when he got popped after his night at the Rumble Club.

	Willis was there when I arrived, telling me that access to Davis' evidence box was restricted.

	"What was he smuggling?" I joked. "Sounds like you guys need time to impound the evidence in your homes to skim the good shit, right?"

	"No shit, this is federal grade stuff," Willis whispered. 

	"Is your boy scout, Roberts, involved?"

	Willis shrugged.

	"Who knows? But I'm not looking to attract attention."

	"Yeah," I said, not terribly broken up over the final nail in this loser of a case's coffin.

	"But they didn't seal the evidence photos," Willis added, handing me a thin stack of print-outs.

	"You're alright," I replied. "I just might take back two or three bad things I've said about you before."

	He snorted while I went through the pictures. There was really nothing there that attracted attention. Again, he either had ditched the stolen information or whoever whacked him lifted it before the cops arrived. The only things that caught my eye were the accessories to his iMod Retro. It was one of those personal entertainment devices designed to look like the iPods they made decades ago. 

	Those original ones had wires to audio inputs only. This one, of course, was wireless. The earbuds and contact lenses I got. But there were some small adhesive bandages with little metal foil dots on them.

	"What the hell?" I muttered as Willis looked at where my finger was pointing.

	"Who knows? They're probably something you can stick on your dick and the iMod does its thing - whatever it is. Some sort of masturbation app, maybe."

	"Guy spends the fucking night at the Rumble Club and he needs a jack-off toy?" I laughed. 

	Willis laughed, too and took the photos back I handed him.

	I phoned Wisnewski to tell him the bad news. While the connecting tone chirped, I froze. Those bandages...the foil dots...three in a row on each one.

	"Shit!" I spat.

	"Excuse me?" a voice said over the phone.

	"What? Oh, it's me, Decker. I've located your info but it's in a package I can't open."

	"I can meet you right away."

	"No, it will have to be tonight, say midnight. Can you park somewhere near the Rumble Club?"

	"Yes, hold on...."

	I could hear a keyboard tapping on the other end as he was probably pulling up a map.

	"Okay, there's an alley two blocks south...by the closed Duffy's ice cream plant."

	"Fine. There will be two of us."

	I hung up and walked a while to clear my head and make sure I had a plan. 

	That lying little bitch.

	Elise was in the same sky blue dress. Of course she was. The lip she had bit last night was completely healed - no surprise there. It was ten o'clock when I managed to pay for three hours and a private room.

	Once we were inside, I started interrogating her.

	"How old are you?"

	"Ten," she said, perplexed that I was asking again.

	"And for how long - and don't give me the brainless 'I'm ten' bullshit, either."

	Now there was fear in those deep brown eyes - deep enough to have a soul.

	"E-eight years," she admitted. 

	"Yeah, you're self-aware."

	"Please don't say that! They'll brain-wipe me and I'll be...gone."

	"Then be more careful," I admonished. "I figured it out today and it made sense. You looked really grateful last night when I said I wasn't going to fuck you after those other two gave you two scoops of cock meat. That means you're thinking beyond your programming."

	Her already fair-skinned face got a little whiter. But I wasn't done.

	"Puzzle Piece Number Two," I continued. "I saw the iMod that Davis was carrying. You know him - he's the guy you never met and who never gave you anything. But he did, after all. And it all went right through here."

	I reached behind one of her ears, running a finger along three small bumps under the skin that each REL had. They were a program port - matching the same row of three dots on those bandages Davis had. This info was in her head.

	Elise nodded. 

	"He said the people he was with would take me out of here. I'd go out West where other RELs have been hidden. There's a password I have to think when I'm connected to a device - that will let the information download to it."

	"What's the stuff all about?" I asked.

	"Government stuff - their secret projects and passcodes. He was some kind of Resistance guy."

	One time, I had solved an embezzling scheme at a high class restaurant. The thief was the head chef and he had me pinned to the wall with a carving fork - the kind with two long and pointy tines - pressed against my crotch. Fortunately, Willis arrived just before my unplanned and unwanted vasectomy but those fifteen seconds seemed to last for hours.

	Now I was caught up with some Resistance shit. How I longed for more carefree times like when I had a fork wielded by a pissed-off Frenchman jabbing me in the balls. 

	"Alright," I said. "We'll just sit tight in here. I have you rented until one, but we'll sneak out just before midnight."

	But Elise shook her head.

	"They monitor these rooms," she said. "When you only talked before, they were kind of suspicious. Some men in suits came in today asking questions about anyone meeting with any of the workers for anything other than sex."

	Men in suits. Oh happy day.

	"Okay," I muttered. "Let me think of something."

	But Elise was thinking ahead of me. She peeled off her dress (there couldn't have been any other way to get it off except maybe with paint solvent). Kicking off her shoes, she laid naked on the bed.

	"You have to have sex with me," she said.

	She was kid. Maybe grown in a lab, but she was still just a kid. 

	So why did I want her so badly then?

	I suppose I could claim I was just keeping my cover as a customer, but I couldn't fake my reactions. Maybe it was her innocence. It was just an illusion because she was never innocent - never had the chance.  But if not in body, she still had some in her character, in her soul. Yeah, that. 

	Do RELs have souls? I've heard the question make the rounds on talk shows and in debates. Shit, I was never sure if I had one.

	But now was not the time for introspection. Elise's dress, which looked even smaller when it wasn't stretched over her body, was quickly covered by my own clothing as I tossed it to the floor. She drew her legs up and opened them, inviting me.

	Her slit was so small, gracing her hairless mound. When I made contact, she seemed impossibly soft and she opened for me. Despite my suddenly urgent need, I was careful with her, entering her slowly. Her breathing quickened, making her flat chest rise and fall in a shallow cadence. 

	She was like oiled satin inside, her walls taut around me. I took my time penetrating the ten year-old, not just for her but to prolong the discovery of her snug channel. She gave a small exclamation and I could go no further. She had taken all of me and then she brought her legs around my waist, silently telling me to proceed.

	The coupling was also slow but intense as I stroked inside her girlish sex. Her body undulated with each thrust, pressing back on my member as she moved, the wet grip of her tunnel taking me as much as I was taking her. Her grunts were low and long, the accompanying exhalations warm against my throat.

	"Please...please," she whispered, biting her lower lip again - but this time in need. 

	She was working her pelvis in a magnificent way and I understood. I held off cumming, keeping my rhythm steady for her to work with. The response inside of her was an unending series of sopping clenches in the heated little confines of her prepubescent tunnel. A short cry signaled her success, followed by even tighter constrictions of her passage, crushing me as I kept moving inside of her. I followed with an eruption, pumping my seed furiously into this child. She threw her head back, accepting it and then remained still as I collapsed on top of her.

	"Thank you."

	Her soft voice was like a prayer in my ear, making me want to believe in better things.

	I'd like to say we slipped out of the Rumble Club thanks to brilliant subterfuge on my part. In actuality, we left through the kitchen's back door. The kitchen itself was staffed by RELs who probably didn't care if one of their own was possibly escaping. It was kind of a stirring thought but Elise told me that customers often liked doing kinky things with kitchen ingredients and using the alley out back to add some seediness to their sexual escapades. 

	Sure, pay top price for some vegetable oil and doing it in a filthy alley. Despite the taxes, some people just have too much money to piss away.

	We arrived a few minutes before midnight and I saw what must have been Wisnewski's car parked where he said he'd be. But I never take a parked car at face value. Taking a pair of not-quite-legal night vision glasses from my coat, I put them on to peer inside the car from an angle in front. 

	It was him, looking expressionless and wearing a baseball cap that looked kind of goofy with the suit he had on. For someone waiting for a big Resistance package, he didn't seem excited or even a little edgy. Motioning Elise to remain hidden, I carefully entered the alley on the far side across from the car, staying in the shadows as I checked to see if anyone else was waiting to lower the boom.

	Nothing. I looked inside the car again, this time from the side. Maybe there was someone in the back seat, but I couldn't see anyone but Wisnewski. I checked him out again and realized everything had gone to shit. 

	In profile, the back of his head looked ragged. That would explain the ball cap - it was hiding the entry wound, probably on his forehead, from the bullet that sent the contents of his skull into the back seat. Quickly, I scuttled away, back to the street corner where the girl was hiding.

	"Change of plans," I whispered to Elise as I took her hand and get us the hell out of there. 

	"What are we going to do?" she asked tearfully.

	"I'm working on it."

	Taking inventory: A dead client, unknown killers maybe after me, possible federal implications, stolen information, and I'm running around in the middle of the night with a scantily clad little girl that just might draw even more attention. 

	Contaminated waste handling looked like more of a promising career choice at the moment. 

	While any long range plans were still a blank, I knew of a 24-hour pawn shop not far away where I kept a drop. What that meant was that they held a boxed item for me, ostensibly as collateral for a loan. The monthly payments I made were for safekeeping, not debt. Places like this did things of this sort, stashing items among the legitimate inventory in their back rooms. I had a few drops like this in the city.

	The night guy looked bored - completely oblivious to my anxiety - and I envied him. After I gave him my claim number, he went to the back and took his time before returning with a long box.

	Once outside, I collected Elise and opened the box. It was a riot gun - a nasty type of shotgun that launched heavy slugs in the general direction where you aimed. It may have not been the most efficient weapon out there, but people instinctively ducked if one was pointed their way and I was looking to escape, not to collect trophies so it suited me just fine.

	Of course, it was illegal - like so many other things. But that didn't make my list of worries at the moment. Right then, I was weighing the pros and cons between lying low and getting out of the city. I was so deep in thought that I nearly leapt out of my shoes when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number but I answered it, holding the phone gingerly as if it might burn me.

	"Is this Decker?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

	"Possibly."

	"Listen, Wisnewski may be compromised."

	"Oh, he was compromised, all right."

	The voice went quiet for a moment.

	"He was part of our cell and was retrieving the information that Davis was carrying. Do you have the package?"

	"Yeah. It's in her head."

	"You know about the iMod?"

	"Hey, I'm an investigator. I solve shit."

	"Good. You weren't our first choice, but we still had confidence you could get the job done."

	"Nice, do I get a prize for that?"

	Whoever I was speaking with was all business and ignored my comment. Probably for the best as the clock was ticking with the hunters probably closing in.

	"Can you be at the light rail station at Moorhead and 82nd street in twenty minutes?"

	"Yes, but you can't be serious. The feds or their goons are hot on the trail. A train will be easy pickings."

	"We have an unscheduled stop between stations and private transportation arranged. We know Davis's contact worked in a sex club. Male or female - we'll have a change of clothes for them - something inconspicuous in case they are wearing something more...noticeable."

	Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help stealing an admiring glance at Elise's butt. Yes - certainly noticeable.

	"Good idea. I hope you have something for kids - she's only ten."

	I heard the voice talking to someone else before coming back to me.

	"Done. And we'll have something for you, too, if you want to leave with us. We don't know if your cover's been blown."

	Me? Out west? I'm a lifelong city boy. What the fuck was I going to do out there? Wear a cowboy hat and solve the puzzling Case of the Missing Horseshoe?

	A few raindrops broke into my brief reverie. I told the guy we'd be there and got moving with the girl.

	The light rail station was easy to find. A building right by it had one of those huge video billboards that ran garish advertisements twenty-four seven. I told Elise to stay back while I scoped the place out. There were stairs that zigzagged up to the train platform and I wanted to make sure there was no one lurking there. The billboard was a blessing and a curse, illuminating the stairs but also blinding me somewhat. 

	I was pretty sure it was clear when a gunshot corrected my assumption. Fire seared my left shoulder and I went down with a series of curses, falling back against the wall of another building as I landed.

	"Decker, Phillip Marion," announced a voice from the second landing up on the stairs. 

	Through the light rain, I saw Roberts - that fucking kid who was foisted on Willis standing there, lit by a video image of a blonde lady who seemed entirely too overjoyed with her automobile insurance. He looked pretty pleased himself - no doubt looking at a very quick promotion after just graduating from the academy.

	"Where's the girl?" he asked.

	"I traded her in for a case of good scotch."

	"Funny," he answered with a smirk. "You turn her over right now and you'll get a light sentence in an easy-duty prison for cooperating."

	"That doesn't sound like much of a deal."

	"I'm not dealing, I'm dictating terms."

	He was a smug son of a bitch, I'll give him that. And shooting me was part of the job - a smart move, really - disabling the target. But bringing up my middle name?

	Now, Marion Morrison had taken a few shots to the shoulder on screen. Then he used the same arm to raise a pistol and send the bad guys to their eternal reward. But this wasn't a fucking movie and my shoulder wasn't about to be heroic.

	I swung the riot gun up with my other arm, making Roberts flinch and step back for a moment. It was a long shot to hit him - if I had been aiming at him. But I chose a better and easier target.

	The video board didn't take kindly to a large bore, high velocity slug hitting it. There were dancing porcupines on it, advertising laundry detergent when my shot impacted. The porcupine quills may have been images, but the shards of exploding glass were quite real as they slashed Roberts all over.

	He screamed shrilly (who sounds like a Marion now, ass clown?), staggering to the railing. I hoped he'd fall over it, but he opted to lose his footing and tumble down the stairs instead. Whatever, he could do little than moan and thrash once he reached the bottom.

	Looking up at the train platform, I saw three people looking down, waving hurriedly as the electronic whistle of the approaching train sounded. I called to Elise, who ran to my side, crying when she saw the blood from my wound. 

	"Hey, it's just a shoulder wound," I said. "It happens in the movies all the time."

	"Get up," she pleaded. "We have to go."

	"You go. I'll be alright."

	"But...but..."

	"Look, this is my city. I know it inside and out and no one is going to be messing with me, I promise."

	I knew the rain wasn't the only thing wetting her face when she kissed my cheek. At my repeated order, she hurried up the stairs, gingerly stepping around Roberts, who in his agony was in no condition to stop her. 

	The train was at the platform and I saw the girl waving down at me before the others led her away. I gave her a nod in return; the touch of her lips on my cheek still warm despite the thickening downpour.

	Do RELs have souls? Why not? People have souls, I figured that out, now, although I don't know if God has any claim on them. I don't know where the kid is going but helping her out of here made me feel like I had something besides organic material in me. And if I have something, the girl had to as well. In fact, I was much surer about her than even me. And maybe this Resistance stuff might work. It was a hope and it's not all that bad. And this is coming from a guy who always thought hope was a losing bet for suckers.

	I looked at my shoulder and thought about Marion Morrison and his wounded shooting skills. Yeah, it worked great in the movies and looked pretty cool, too. In real life, shoulder wounds are more problematic. They hurt like hell and you can't move without getting daggers of fire moving inside you. Another problem is all the blood vessels in the shoulder. 

	There are way too many of them.

	Arcs of electric red and blue from the flashing police cruisers paint the night rain like a casino marquee. And someone has cashed in his chips.

	On the ground, slumped against a wall is the vic. The blood he's sitting in - his own - won't be spreading much more now that his heart has stopped. Another body and it won't be the last by far this night - much like any other.

	My name is Phil Decker and this was my life.



madvlad@mrdouble.com
http://www.mrdouble.bz/htm/authors/madvlad.htm






















This story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


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