"The Transgenic Falcon"
Chapter Sixteen

Never, ever think things can’t get worse. An old sci-fi writer my Dad liked had a Law that said perversity in the Universe tends to the maximum. It was a cute idea at the time, but my life seems designed to be the definitive proof.

I’m not a huge drinker, but after today, I figured I owed myself one. After elbowing the lights on in my place, I went to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whisky. I snagged a tumbler and took both of them into the living room, dropped down into my leather recliner and poured myself a good belt.

I took a long pull. It tasted like paint-thinner mixed with caramel syrup. I looked at the glass and thought longingly about the Scotch I’d had with Otho. Angrily I slammed down the rest of the glass. This is why you shouldn’t sample expensive vices. Once you’ve had a taste of the ultra-premium, nothing you could have in your normal life was going to compare. Damn Otho Johnson and damn Gen-Tech with all its perks and lures! No wonder he had people lining up to give away their self-respect and self-control. All it took was the promise of a nice, comfy, clean place to live, and some high level booze. Johnson sure knew his fellow humans.

The smart thing would have been to just bag everything and turn in, think about it all tomorrow, when there might be a new perspective or new information from the quants and the scientists. Even knowing that was the smart play, it wasn’t what I was going to do.

I poured myself another big glass of the crappy whisky, and fished the holo crystal I’d stolen from Cho’s apartment out of my pocket. I spent a couple of minutes thinking about what Johnny Round might have done to me if he knew I had it. Then feeling superior, I found my remote and fitted the crystal into the reader on the side. I don’t have a holo-set, their still too new and way to expensive for me, but my media player could convert three-dee to flat screen.

When the crystal opened it displayed a long list of files with names and dates next to them, long enough that I’d have to scroll down to see the whole thing. Being pretty sure what they were I punched up the first one and had another sip or two while the file was converted.

When the image came on the screen it showed Cho standing naked in his bedroom with a shapely red-head on her knees in front of him. She was naked too and was giving a world class blow job, if the expression on Cho’s face and her bobbing head were any indication. I flipped back to the file list and started pressing the button to highlight one file after the next.

As expected, Cho not only liked to get his freak on with some light bondage and toy play, he was a fan of documenting it. If nothing else nicking this crystal opened up a whole list of new suspects. Oh joy. I’d have to have Delfor and the quants run them down. I’m sure there are plenty of folks who don’t really care if they are recorded having sex, after all amateur porn is and has been a huge category. Still if, as I suspected, none of the women on this crystal knew and then found out, odds were good at least one of them would be pissed enough to consider murder.

There were repeat files for a lot of the women; it seemed that Cho liked to get a few scenes in before he was on the next skirt. I flicked down toward the bottom of the list, getting concerned about exactly how many women would be on it. Then it popped up, green letters and numbers, surrounded by a purple box; B. Morris, 7/2044

It hit me like a bucket of ice water, shocking my mind and chilling my skin. Oh, shit. Shit!

A million questions formed a whirlwind in my mind. How could she? Did Belinda know about the recordings? Why hadn’t she told me? Could I exclude her as a suspect? If so, could I actually trust anything she said or did about the case from this point on? That one stung. A bunch. I might have been unwilling to bend when we had our massive fight and consequent break up, but I could always trust Belinda. Now? Who the hell knew?

Of course I watched it. Based on the two reasons to act philosophy I all but had to. Yeah, I know that’s an excuse, but it’s also a true excuse. I won’t bother to describe the scene in detail. Set your imagination for medium kinky, select the toys used by and on both option and you won’t be too far off the mark.

Why did I watch it? Well, reason one was in the hope that I’d see that Belinda didn’t want to be there; that she had been coerced somehow into playing these games with Cho. I was destined to be severely disappointed. If anything she was joyfully and uninhibitedly taking part in the events, not even a hint that she didn’t want to be there.

The other reason was a lot darker and sicker, if you must know. Part of me felt like I should watch every second of it as penance for letting her go. Frame by frame and act by act little cuts scored my soul. It wasn’t jealously; it was masochism. That little part of us who loves to loathe ourselves and takes great joy in making us endure self-inflicted pain. She’d left because I couldn’t be flexible enough about her priorities to make it work. Now I got to see, way too graphically, what I’d given up other than a person who knew and loved me. Don’t be shocked, I told you it was a twisted reason.

Mercifully it wasn’t that long. When the file ended in a freeze frame of the two of them laying on their backs, sweaty and panting, I switched it back to the index screen. On auto-pilot I scrolled past the five or six other files with Belinda’s name on them and on to other more recent files. I wasn’t really seeing them, I noticed that Tara O’Neil was in the mix, then another woman, and then a surprise, Simone Ferguson rounded out the last six, with one more guest appearance by O’Neil sandwiched in.

My curiosity was pricked by seeing the formidable Dr. Ferguson in the list of conquests. Or maybe I only wanted another set of images to dull what I’d just seared into my brain. In either case, I hit play on the first file with her name.

It was different right from the start. In the scene with the red head, and with Belinda, Cho had clearly been in charge, basically directing how the evening (if it was evening) went. The first thing you saw in this recording was Simone Ferguson standing over the big bed, wearing thigh-high leather boots and matching bustier, with the front of the bra cups open to expose angry looking nipples, and a holding a riding crop.

On the bed was Cho, spread eagle, his hands and legs retrained. She was telling him how worthless he was and flicking various tender spots with the riding crop by way of emphasis. I didn’t know Cho at all, but the look on his face said he was enjoying it, a lot.

I turned it off. My brain was sloshing at this point, aided and abetted by a bit of amazing Scotch and a lot of crappy whisky. I turned off the media player and then sat and brooded while having a bunch more drinks.

In the course of about twelve hours I’d been reunited (sort of) with my old flame, got myself involved with dangerous and powerful people, lost a friend, been threatened by the same, and had my face rub very thoroughly in the fact that Belinda not only had not been pining away for me for a decade, but had a full and varied sex life. All of which had brought me to a place where I felt betrayed, isolated and lost.

What do you know? It was a normal day after all.