Mirrors in the Sky

The air is thin at the peak of the Sky City. I slip on a mask before I step out onto the balcony. Out into sunshine, away from the murky apartment, and the corpse.

Winds break through the geo-shield, fussing with my jacket. Shut my eyes, imagine I'm hovering twenty-thousand feet above ground. It's not a stretch. Sky City has a triad of ion repulsors keeping her high above the Wasted World. Nothing but fire and craters down there; this is the new world. Fresh start. Safe, secure...yet there it is: the body, propped up in its seat, looking out at me with eyes that had long glazed over, its jaw slack, as if to say:

Why me? What'd I do?

"Wrong place, wrong time, buddy," I murmur through my mask. My voice is odd to my own ears. The corpse says nothing, just stares.

Did it move?

I blink, rub my nose. No. Still there, watching the clouds roll out onto the horizon, watching the empty blue sky, and watching me.

I step back inside. Damn near fall down when a young face jumps out at me. "Jesus--knock or something!" I throw the mask away. "What is it?"

The face beams, barely out of his teens, wearing a suit double-worth mine, thanks to Daddy Mayor. "COD, Detective. Cause of death verified: Laser-line."

Years of experience unfurl across my thoughts; I'd been planetside before the Burn. Saw crimes go unhindered; saw the victims, scattered and splattered. Laser-lines were common back then: perfect for long-distance. Back when there were buildings and streets, and people on the ground. Not all of us clustered in one giant hub in the heavens. And not when we're monitored and scanned. Every action recorded; every kill prevented. Until now.

"Laser-lines belong back in the twenties," I inform him, feeling smug and sour at the same time. The apartment's big, wide, full of tech and art I couldn't dream of acquiring. The dead guy, in his forties, chest torn open like bag of crisps. Bowels at ankles; scorch-marks orbiting the tear. Consistent with laser-lines, sure. What else? Oh. I lean in. Should retch--been ages since I sniffed a cavader; yet the old instinct--breathe through mouth in short, shallow breaths--serves its purpose. Nose-to-nose with the dead thing in the chair, and in the eyes I see writing.

Words. Scrawled perfectly around the irises. I read them.

"Boss?"

Re-read them. "Get the chief."

"On the pod?"

I give him a look that rivalled laser-lines for ferocity. "Get him here. Now."

The young guy yelps a little, mutters Rightaway something, and falls into the horizontube. Whisked away, the gush of air easing off, leaving me alone in that gorgeous pad, staring into the dead eyes, the words leaving scars in my soul:

This man is a clone, says Left Eye.

Right Eye: And so are you, Detective.