This is a noir which takes place in the retro futuristic city of Libertopolis. In this world, there are robots and grit and mysteries to be solved by our main character, the private eye Rex Malone. The full story is available to our paid subscribers. If you want to become a subscriber, you can sign up right now for a 14-day free trial.
Without further ado, here is Chapter 1: The Electric Haze.
It was just another Tuesday in Libertopolis. City of the Future, built yesterday. They'd sold it to us as a utopia, a shining beacon powered by the miracle of fusion, a temperate haven from the scorched south. What they got was this. Gleaming towers for the corporate gods up in the Spire District. But down here in the canyons, it was just the same old hustle, now wrapped in chrome and drenched in acid rain.
The elevated monorail car hummed along. It was the same hum that permeated every inch of Libertopolis: a constant subliminal thrum of the fusion cores buried deep below the surface that churned out the power to keep the neon bleeding. Outside the rain-streaked window, the city slid by in a blur of rusting chrome and shadows, occasionally highlighted by bright, flickering advertisements. Art Deco facades of skyscrapers clawed at the perpetually gray sky.
Rex Malone felt something wet strike his cheek. He looked up and saw the ceiling over him was leaking. How old were these monorail cars? Yet already they seemed to have the same decay that everything in the city shared.
He got up and walked to another empty seat at the other end of the car. Out his window was a maintenance drone emblazoned with a logo of General Dynamics Fusion Services. Everywhere you looked, robots. Welding girders on unfinished bridges, sweeping streets with unnerving persistence, or serving drinks with synthesized smiles. Each one tagged with an RRA barcode, a constant reminder of who owned what, and what didn't even count as being owned. They were property. Another commodity in the urban machine.
The monorail slowed, its hum shifting pitch as it approached the Neon Canyon Junction. Malone shifted in his seat and pulled his trenchcoat tighter. Just another chilly, miserable day.
As the doors hissed open, Malone stood and walked towards the exit. But in his way was a man in a drab corporate suit who stood directly in front of the doors. He was staring straight ahead, oblivious.
"Excuse me," Malone grunted. No response. "Hey, move it. I gotta get off."
Still nothing. The man didn't even blink. Malone felt the familiar Libertopolis irritation bubble up. With a muttered curse, he put a hand flat on the man's back and shoved. It was like pushing against a sandbag, but the man gave way enough for Malone to squeeze through. He stepped onto the rainy platform and heard the train departing for the next stop. He didn't loo back. Just another obstruction in a city full of them.
As he went down the stairs, the drizzle turned into a full downpour. The noise of Neon Canyon grew louder. Rain pooled in uneven streets, reflecting the graish neon in fractured, shimmering patterns.
Heavy for February, Malone thought as he pulled his fedora lower. Guess we escaped climate change only for it to catch up to us.
As he dashed across the street, he stepped into a pothole and the water went up to his ankle. The constant weathering and cheap materials meant the city maintenance couldn't keep up. He reached the porch of his office building and shook off the water from his coat like he was a wet puppy. His drenched foot was getting cold now.
The hydraulic lift groaned as it led him up to the third floor. He stepped out into a dimly lit corridor that smelled faintly like mold and desperation. He keyed the lock on his office door, MALONE INVESTIGATIONS, and pushed it open.
The office was small and cramped, dominated by a battered metal desk and filing cabinets overflowing with letters and notes, surprisingly anachronistic in a city full of hyper-terminals. Out the window, whose blinds had already been drawn, the rain continued to pelt the large window overlooking the neon canyon below.
Malone shrugged off his soaked trenchcoat and hanged it on a hook where it dripped steadily onto the already-stained floorboards. He ran a hand through his damp hair. He was jaded, soaked, and back where he belonged.
"Morning, Rex. At least, I think the sun came up," cracked Agnes sarcastically.
His secretary sat hunched over her terminal surrounded by piles of physical mail, mostly bills. She was an institution unto herself, a sharp woman whose gray hair was always pulled into a severe bun. She was holding up a flimsy notification slip.
"Power bill came through," she said flatly. "Another fifteen percent jump. Fusion power was supposed to be cheap, remember? 'Too cheap to meter'? That's what they told us."
Malone collapsed into his desk chair and peeled off his moist sock.
"Yeah, and they also promised robot butlers and golf resorts on Mars. How's the grid holding up?"
"Probably all those new NexusCorp Harmony units everyone ran out and grabbed. Vacuuming robots, cooking robots, and ones that can read your kids bedtime stories. Bet they suck down juice like a Spire District exec. City can barely keep the streetlights from flickering while we need to pay for their fancy toys," she said bitterly.
"Just add it to the pile," Malone suggested. "We haven't even gotten to last month's."
Just as Malone was about to reach for the synthehol whiskey in his bottom drawer, there was a hesitant knocking from the office door. Agnes looked up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Walk-in clients weren't exactly common.
There was a shadowy figure on the other side of the frosted glass window.
"Yeah?" Malone called out, still fumbling with his desk.
The door opened slowly, revealing a young woman. She was dressed in a revealing purple dress, highlighting all her curves and her enticing olive skin. She had bright eyes and red lipstick that stole Malone's attention.
She had a nervous energy. Her eyes flickered back and forth in their cluttered office, taking in the overflowing filing cabinets and dripping coat. Clutched in her bosom was a small, battered data-slate.
"You are Mr. Malone?" she asked softly, as if she didn't quite believe her eyes. "Malone Investigations?"
"Depends on who's asking," Malone said, eyeing her carefully.
She stepped into the room and the door slammed closed behind her, causing her to flinch. She didn't seem to be herself that day. A beauty like her didn't normally come to a place like this. She had a story to tell, and Malone was all ears.
"My name is Diana Striker. I... I need your help."
"Help is what I sell. Sit down," he gestured towards the uncomfortable metal chair opposite his desk. "What's the trouble Miss Striker?"
Diana perched herself on the edge of the chair. She twisted the slate in her hands. Her nails had been painted red at one point, but there were large chips. Her nervousness had been going on for some time. Or perhaps she was really apprehensive about something.
Either way, the dame had found trouble. And now that trouble had found its way to him.
"It's my sister, Sophie. She's gone missing," her voice trembled. "She's... she's my older sister. She means so much to me. She's always been there. We both live over in the Residential Stacks, over in the Conduit Commons. But she's gone missing."
"Same apartment?"
"Different ones, but close. It's not the best part of town, but it's home."
"When did you see her last?"
"She didn't come back from her shift yesterday. Oh, she does data entry. It's not supposed to be dangerous, but pays rent. She's never done this before, Mr. Malone. Never."
Malone pulled out a notepad, real paper, and grabbed one of the pens scattered on the desk.
"Alright, tell me about Sophie. Routines? Friends?"
"She's quiet, keeps to herself mostly," Diana explained, her breath shaky. "Works the mid-shift. Just sorting and filing, nothing important. Comes straight home usually. Reads old print books from the library. Listens to synth-wave..."
"Anyone else notice she's missing?"
"Well, she did have this old utility bot. Found him deactivated in a junk pile years ago and fixed him up herself. 'Scrap' was the name she gave him. Used him to carry groceries and little things like that. But he's gone too. Completely vanished from her apartment."
A missing robot alongside a missing person often meant trouble related to the RRA. Or worse.
"Any old boyfriend? Trouble at work? Someone she might have trouble with?"
"No, nothing like that," she insisted. "Sophie avoids trouble. She just wants a quiet life."
She hesitantly placed her battered data-slate onto the desk. Malone stared at her chest as she dug into her purse.
"I brought her picture. And... this."
She slid two worn five dollar bills and small photograph towards him.
"It's all I have right now. For a retainer."
Malone grabbed the bills. Barely enough to cover expenses for a day, let alone compensate for his time. He looked up at Diana’s face. She was worried. The kind of worry that would make your hair fall out. He should turn her away, tell her to go to the police. She could file a standard report that would get buried under a mountain of other cases. But there was something in her eyes that he couldn't stop looking at.
"My rate is ten dollars an hour, plus expenses," he said gruffly. "This covers maybe an hour. If I find anything solid, we can talk some more. If I find nothing, you're out ten bucks. Deal?"
"Deal," Diana nodded quickly. "Thank you Mr. Malone. Thank you."
She gathered herself, looking now as if a huge weight was lifted from her shoulders. With one final nervous glance around the office, she slipped out the door as quietly as she'd entered.
Malone watched her figure leave and close the door, then looked down at the two crumpled bills on the desk. Ten dollars an hour, barely enough to keep Agnes paid and the lights on. Conduit Commons wasn't the worst place in Libertopolis, but it was close enough. A quiet data-entry clerk and her junk-pile robot vanished.
It already felt like a dead end, the kind of case that evaporated into the city's fog, leaving nothing behind but unpaid bills and maybe a chalk outline nobody bothered to wash away. Happy endings were rarer than a sunny day. Still, he'd taken her money.
A missing person was a common enough occurrence, but something in Diana’s genuine fear, the raw edge of panic in her voice, had piqued his personal interest. Maybe it was just another Tuesday. Or maybe things were about to hit the fan.
