“Charge,” I tell it.
It floats down to its station next to the TV, and I toss my wallet and phone onto the bed, then replace the torn jeans with some dark slacks, and exchange the sneakers for a pair of boots I can run in. In the bathroom I throw on some mascara, then consider doing something with my hair, but find I don’t have the energy. I run my fingers through it to work out the bigger knots, but in the end pull on a wide-brimmed boho hat.
I stick my knife into my boot. A black lockback that can still remove a fingerprint ten years later. Then I readjust my watches: on the left wrist, my security watch, which gives me swipe access to every door in this place. On my right wrist, the silver and black chronograph watch I got for graduating from the TEA. This one I rotate so the face is on the inside of my wrist.
So you never forget the importance of time, the proctor said to me, his voice heavy with sincerity, as he handed it to me along with my diploma.
Yeah, until you forget to replace the battery, I said, and he did not laugh at my funny joke.
I load the pockets of my blazer with cherry lollipops out of the plastic industrial bin under the desk, then hear a faint rattle in the bathroom. It takes me a second to figure out what it is: the pill bottle.
It’s still sitting on the corner of the sink, where I put it.
I must have heard the sound of putting it down a few moments ago.
Part of being this far Unstuck is that sounds will sometimes be out of sync, or I’ll catch random snippets of conversation in empty rooms, shortly before or after they happen. I’ve gotten used to it, but it’s proof I’m slipping today a lot more than usual. Plus the weirdness with the body.
I haven’t taken my pill today. That must be it. I pop one and slide another into my breast pocket. I can have up to three in a day, right? I add a third, just in case.
Then I check myself in the mirror and decide I look presentable enough to meet my low standards. Now I need to find leather daddy. A murder might mess with proceedings. I’ll get myself pretty later.
I open the door and see movement down the hallway.
The wings curve slightly, so you can’t see the ends of the halls. A cool effect from a design standpoint, an absolute nightmare from a security perspective. There’s a figure all the way at the end of the viewable space, peeking around the bend. It takes me a moment to figure out what it is.
A girl, I think, long dark hair obscuring her face. She’s wearing a green shirt and dark jeans and battered sneakers, which seem slightly out of step with the hotel’s fashion trends. My heart stutters in my chest, because there is nothing on this green earth creepier than a little girl with dark hair hanging in her face. But the fear is quickly replaced by frustration.
I hate when parents let their kids run wild in this place, like we’re a bunch of babysitters. I’m a goddamn law enforcement official. I turn to Ruby and tell it to follow, then make my way down the hallway, ready to wrangle the kid and send them back to their room—with a stern talking-to for the parents.
Then I pass room 526, and I get the same toothache feeling.
Which…should not be happening.
The body should be gone. This was a stage one slip. The longest one I ever had lasted maybe a minute. It’s been at least ten. I step closer to the door. Put my ear against it. Give it a knock. No one answers so I swipe my way into the room.
Motorcycle boots. Crimson blood. Limbs stretched out. Staring at the ceiling.
The body shouldn’t still be there. And slips move. But as I lean down close to the body I see something I didn’t notice before: a fat bead of blood suspended in midair, in the inch or so of space between his neck and the bedspread.
This isn’t a slip. I’m not seeing a past or future event.
It looks like a moment frozen in time.
I’ve never seen anything like this before.
And that’s a problem.
SCHR?DINGER’S CORPSE
“January?”
I turn to Ruby, who is floating on the other side of the room. I forgot it was here.
“Why are we in an empty room?” it asks.
“So the room is empty?”
It makes a lazy loop around the perimeter, probably running an array of scans. I hold my breath, hoping it comes back with something, anything, but then it stops and says, “Is this a new way for you to mess with me? Because I don’t quite understand it.”
“Wait in the hallway.”
“What?”
“I need a minute.”
It hovers for another moment, then silently floats away. I close the door behind it and put my hands against the frame. Breathe deep. Can’t tell Ruby. Can’t tell anyone. Not until I figure out what this is.
I return to the bed and brush my fingers against the dead man’s shoulder and meet no resistance. I push my hand in and it slides through, coming to a stop against the bedspread. But I can feel something around my hand. It reminds me of being in a pool, when the temperature of the water is so close to that of my skin, it’s hard to tell it’s there. Just the slightest bit of drag.
That’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
It says to me this is not an outright hallucination.
So I can’t interact with the body. Which means I can’t go through his pockets to find something that will ID him. No markings on his neck. No visible scars. He’s wearing long sleeves. It would have been nice to see his arms. But the sleeve on his right arm is pushed up a little, and there are tendrils of ink on the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist. Some green, a bit of purple. Maybe a petal? Something to add to Ruby’s search algorithm to help narrow this down.
With my half-ass examination of the body done, I comb the room for anything around the bed or on the floor that might be useful, but considering the room was being serviced when I got here, and oh right, this is some weird quantum phenomenon, I don’t get too upset when I end up with nothing.
So I sit back on the carpet, against the other bed. The man’s face is tilted toward me, his eyes vacant, his mouth hanging open. I shuffle myself a little to the side so he’s staring right at me. The toilet flushes, though the buzz in my brain tells me it’s a slip.
“Who are you, dude?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
Oh well. Could have saved me some trouble.
Ruby is hovering so close to the door when I open it that it startles me.
“What were you doing in there?” it asks.
“Working.”
“It’s my responsibility to say that your behavior is making it very clear you’re hiding something from me, and…”
“You are a flying toaster. Save the commentary.”
It doesn’t respond. I hope I hurt its feelings. Does it have feelings? Should I program in some feelings so I can hurt them?
A project for another day.
* * *
—
Nik is where I left him, pinching and pulling at the schematic of the hotel. He doesn’t notice when I enter the room, so I give it a second and clear my throat.