A/N  Written for a smackdown contest, this was my first (and so far, only) attempt at incorporating romance and/or crime into a sci-fi story—scary.  Just over 4000 words.

December 19th 2165

They say cops shouldn't keep diaries. Well, 'they' can just pucker up and kiss my ass. Who else I'm I going to tell all this shit to? Besides, when it's encoded and encrypted to hell and back with all that military-grade shit the IT department is always crapping on about, it's not like anybody's going to read the thing. Especially given I keep it in my head. It's about time I got something out of all the tech the force installed in there.

The shrink at work says to me, "You should talk to your spouse or significant other." Yeah, sounds nice in theory, but when your spouse is banging someone significantly other than yourself, it's a little harder in practice.

I could talk things out with my partner, I guess. Only thing is, first I'd have to wait for him to finish banging my wife.

So, single, messed-up and no-one to talk to except my diary. It's practically high school all over again.

Here we go. Dear Diary. Today I get the call to attend a homicide. Not that surprising, I'll grant you, given I'm a homicide detective. But what a homicide. After fifteen years in the job, I thought I'd seen it all. Brother, did I think wrong. Not even those lame-ass virtual-immersion training runs at the academy were anything like this.

The first interesting thing about the case is the body. To be more specific, the lack of a body. Or most of the body, anyway. There's a head, a leg and a foot (ie, two feet altogether and one leg (just to be clear (because I hate being vague (which must be the cop in me (and you've no idea how sick that thought makes me feel (and now I've got to waste a minute of my life counting how many closing brackets I need)))))).

You know, my wife tells me that's the kind of pedantic crap that made her leave. Go figure.

Anyway, so the first question about the body is the obvious one—where's the rest of it? Cue forensics. And, I'm sorry to say, it turns out the rest of it is everywhere: on the walls, on the ceiling, floating in the air, in our hair, etc. I think you get the picture. This guy was just atomised. According to ballistics, only a fusion-pulse weapon could do that kind of damage. So, not only do we have dead guy up our noses and who the hell knows where else, we also got a perp running around with military-grade firepower. And that's one of my absolute least favourite kinds of perp.

The second interesting thing is the identity of the victim. You see, this stiff isn't just any brain-hacked, cyber-wastoid junkie. Oh no. This is Eric Vanguard. Yeah, you heard me. Eric Freakin' Vanguard. When the CEO and biggest shareholder of the FantasyLand empire gets whacked in his own office, that's a big deal. The rest of my caseload just got a bad case of irrelevance-itis.

The third interesting thing is that the victim gives me a description of the killer. Which is not something you get a lot in murder investigations, believe me. Particularly the ones where the victim is in pieces.

See, being on the jaw-dropping end of the filthy-rich spectrum, Vanguard had some pretty advanced enhancements installed in that head of his. Memory expanders, neural boosters, cognitive enhancers, all that crap. Hell, the bastard probably had climate control and a maid service in there.  Anyway, the tech is so good it keeps running for a while, even after Vanguard's body bites the dust. Or, I guess, becomes the dust.

Which is how I come to find myself chatting to a disembodied head. Just a regular day in the life of a big-city detective.

Well, not chatting, exactly. No lungs kinda equals no talking. So, Vanguard's head can't vocalise, but the implants in his head can text his replies to one of the holo-displays in his office. Weirdest conversation I've had for a while. And it's got some competition, I can tell you.

Weird, and as it turns out, not all that useful. Most of what Vanguard has to say is along the lines of, "Oh crap, I'm gonna die," "Help me, please," and "Ouch." Understandable, but not really helpful. All I get before his lights go out is that the killer wore body-armour and a mask, and came in through the window. Which is impressive, given Vanguard's office is on the 240th floor. But then, we already figured that part out for ourselves—it was pretty hard to miss the cabling running from a nearby skyscraper to the ledge just outside the office.

Apart from Vanguard-dust, forensics turns up zip in the office. So, we have the body-less corpse of one of the best-loved guys in the world, a perp running around with enough firepower to take out a tank, and we're looking for a guy who's not afraid of heights. No motive, no evidence and no suspects. I should have listened to ma and been an accountant.

December 20 2165

We have a motive. Turns out even squeaky-clean, do-gooder types like Vanguard have enemies. From the outside, FantasyLand is all theme parks and movies about princesses, but seems like it's a hotbed of corporate backstabbing on the inside. A bit of digging reveals profits are down, 'cause the kids these days are mostly getting their thrills from jacking into whatever virtual craze is doing the rounds. Roller-coasters and cinemas are so 21st century.

So, Vanguard had been under pressure from the board to shift the company into the high-tech virtual entertainment market. But the old man wasn't having a bar of it. Told the board he'd rather die than go that way. And it seems like somebody took him up on the offer.

Which gives us some suspects. Namely, the non-atomised members of the FantasyLand board. Which fortunately only comprises three people. And one of those three isn't really a suspect, seeing as how she sided with Vanguard in the boardroom debate.

Not to mention, she's his daughter.

Jane Vanguard. Spent an hour interviewing her today. Seems like your typical rich-bitch—wound up tighter than a drum. Gucci, Armani, all that crap. You'd think it's her goldfish that died, for all the emotion she shows. Anyway, I offer her police protection, given she sided with her old man against the rest of the board, and might be the next target. But she tells me that with the death of her father, his voting rights got distributed equally among the remaining board members. Meaning it doesn't matter how she votes now, the other two have the majority. Which takes the target off her back, but also seems to really piss her off. Or that might have been me. I tend to have that effect on people.

And then we have the other two board members. First up is Masaaki Sakai—CEO of the Asian division of FantasyLand. Based in New Beijing, but in town at the moment for the launch of their latest film about princesses. Or mermaids. Or whatever other glitter-soaked, pink-hued trope is flavour of the month at the moment and will let them flog the maximum amount of merch to all the glazed-eyed tweens out there.

Secondly, there's Barry Gunston. Australian, former special forces soldier, made it big in investment banking before buying his way into FantasyLand. Runs the European operation, but also here for the premiere.

A guy with military connections, and probably handy with a cable. Coincidence? Well, you never know.

Needless to say, Gunston is first in line to help us with our inquiries. We just need to get through his lawyers first.

December 21 2165

The plot stiffens. Wait, that doesn't sound right. The plot turns? No, I think that's the worm. Maybe it's the worm that stiffens?

Anyway, more weird shit is going down.

Sakai's lawyer-fu isn't as quite up to the level of Gunston's, so I manage to score an interview with him today. But he's not coming down to the station. Oh no, CEOs of multinational corporations don't work that way. So off to FantasyLand I go. Hi-fucking-ho.

Sakai is overseeing the opening of their newest roller-coaster. Apparently Vanguard had been slated for the job, but now he doesn't have the stomach for it. Or the heart. Or the liver.

Yeah, that's right. That's what passes for a sense of humour in homicide.

I turn up, only to find that Sakai is about to take the first ride on the new coaster. Rather than sit in his office and go crazy listening to his office-muzak crap, I wander down for a look.

The ride is huge. Ten stories high, multiple loops, inverted sections, corkscrews, you name it. And with Vanguard's demise, Sakai has decided to trial a little enhancement of his own. Cyber-ports in each carriage. So,  anybody with the right hardware in their heads can jack in for a little excitement upgrade.

The ride starts, and I feel sick just watching. What the kids see in these things, I have no idea. But anyway, a few minutes later it's done, the workers are cheering, and the carriages are rolling back into the base-station.

And Sakai is dead. Not a mark on him, but dead as a doornail. I call it in and when forensics arrive they run all the scans. Neural overload. The safeties on the cyber-port failed and his excitement got jacked up so high it fried his brain. I'm sure there's some irony in there somewhere.

The upside? One less suspect to worry about. The downside? Now I need to find a new motive.

December 22nd 2165

And just a day later, I've got one. How's that for kick-ass policing? Sad to say, I can't take too much credit (although the Chief doesn't have to know that). Nope, the kudos for this little development goes to Jane Vanguard.

I'm sitting in my office, just finishing my second glass of lunch, when she gives me a call. Wants to meet at her apartment. I'm not exactly drowning in leads, and three glasses are probably a bit much for a weekday, so I head on over.

'Apartment' is a bit of an understatement. Massive luxury penthouse is more like it. As for Jane, I hardly recognise her. No Gucci in sight. T-shirt and jeans, hair down—she looks practically human. And upset—red eyes, like she's been crying.

Turns out she and Sakai were close—no, not like that. Just friends. Actually, more like father and daughter. Apparently, Eric Vanguard had more time for the kids who went to his theme-parks than he did for his own. Sakai took Jane under his wing and acted as a mentor. She's devastated by his death.

And she suspects Gunston. I remind her that Gunston has no reason to kill Sakai, because with Eric Vanguard dead, the impediment to his plans for the company has been removed. Killing Sakai isn't necessary.

Or so I thought. Apparently, Gunston recently offered to buy out Sakai—he wanted to make a play for sole ownership of FantasyLand. He swore Sakai to secrecy, but after Vanguard's death, Sakai told Jane about the offer. And a day later, winds up dead.

After her father's death, Jane couldn't quite bring herself to believe that Gunston is a murderer. But with Sakai dead, her suspicions are confirmed. And she's worried she's next.

Sounds like an open and shut case, doesn't it? But on paper, it's awfully thin. There's no physical evidence of Gunston's involvement in Vanguard's murder, and Sakai's death is still officially an accident. Plus, the only record of his offer to buy out Sakai is Jane's verbal testimony.

I call it in and just like I figured, the Chief is sceptical, but I at least convince him to try a little harder to bring Gunston in for questioning. I also tell him I want Jane to have police protection. He actually laughs at that one. Tells me his cops have better things to do than baby-sit a paranoid heiress.

So, it looks like protection is up to yours truly. All I've got waiting for me back at the station is a bottle and an empty evidence file, so I offer to stay with Jane. On the couch, of course. Seriously, she's not my type.

December 23rd 2165

The worm is positively rock-hard now. Gunston is missing. Not a trace of him. I call the station to see whether he's been brought in yet, and that's the news I get. Disappeared from his home last night. No signs of a struggle or forced entry. So, either he's been abducted by some seriously accomplished criminals.

Or he's done a runner.

Jane doesn't take it well. To nobody's surprise, she's been pretty tense the whole time I've been with her, and this news nearly pushes her over the edge. So, I give her a hug. Purely innocent, the girl clearly needs one. But there's a moment, just when I let her go—our eyes meet. And there's something there. I don't know what, exactly. But something.

Shit, now this really does read like a high-school diary. Probably my imagination, anyway. Beautiful socialites don't go making eyes at two-bit cops.

Anyway, the moment passes. And I decide we need to get out of there. If Gunston's after Jane, then her apartment isn't secure. And given the Chief's won't stump up for a safe-house, then the only other option is my place.

Which is a bit of a come-down after a multi-million dollar penthouse. But it's clean (yes, even cops know how to use a vacuum cleaner), it's comfortable and most importantly, it's safe.

And I realise, I actually care whether she's safe. This woman I didn't even know a few days ago, this Armani-clad rich-bitch, this person who could buy and sell me a million times over. I care about her. Not just the case. Her. Despite all the money, the power and the clothes, there's a sort of vulnerability about her. Maybe it's just the hell of a week she's having. I don't know. All I know is that I want her to be safe. For the first time in a long time I'm remembering why I became a cop. To help people. To protect those who can't protect themselves.

Did I just write that? Pardon me while I go and puke.

Anyway, we set up camp. Order some takeaway and a couple of bottles of wine, and settle in to watch a few classics on my crappy old 50-inch holo-vid. This is work, I tell myself. This girl needs protection and it's up to me to provide it.

I didn't plan to sleep with her. Honest.

Hours later, I look down at her sleeping beside me, lit only by the flickering light of the holo-vid. Naked and beautiful. And natural. She must have enhancements, everyone does these days, but hers are nowhere to be seen. I'm glad. She doesn't need any enhancing.

December 24th 2165

The stakes have now been raised. I don't know exactly what this thing with Jane is, but I know I want to find out. I want the chance to see what we could become. My life has been shit for so long that I'd started to believe that it couldn't be anything else. Jane has changed that. Maybe it's stupid—hell, I know it's stupid. But I don't care. It feels like she's given me my life back.

So now I need to save hers.

Lying in each other's arms, with the morning sun somehow finding its way into my cramped little bedroom, through all the skyscrapers and the smog, we make our plans.

My primary concern is to put some distance between Gunston and Jane. We don't know where he is, but I figure the further we go, the better our chances. My vote is we leave the country and lay low for a while. I tell Jane I've got a little money saved, enough to get us on a plane. She laughs at me. Money, she says, is not a problem.

Five hours later we're sitting in first-class seats, watching the Cayman Islands rapidly grow in size as we come in to land. Being filthy rich definitely has it's perks. Half an hour after that we're poolside, with cocktails. Another half an hour and we decide it's time to check out our bedroom. Being on the run is tiring work. Or at least, it's about to be.

December 25th 2165

I wake up late the next morning. It's hard to believe it's Christmas, with the brilliant sunshine streaming through the windows. No skyscrapers or smog here.

It's also hard to believe I'm on satin sheets, in a luxury hotel, in the Cayman Islands, lying next to the woman I love. No doubt there'll be an absolute shitstorm to face the second I go home, but that doesn't worry me now. Hell, maybe we won't go home. I roll over to put this to Jane, only to discover she's gone. I panic—until I see the note.

She wanted to stretch her legs, so she's gone for a walk to the Bluff, one of the local sightseeing spots. There's a map on the back of the note, with instructions to meet her there, and she's arranged a picnic hamper for me to pick up from reception. I groan. We didn't get a lot of sleep last night, and I'd been looking forward to a lazy day. Then I finish reading the note—she hasn't ordered any dessert, so apparently we're going to have find some other way to occupy ourselves after we eat.

Feeling suddenly energetic, I hit the showers.

The walk is steep and long enough to take the edge off my ardour, but the views are some compensation. I really should have run off with a rich girl years ago. The azure waters of the Caribbean stretch off to the horizon, and the sky overhead is a perfect bowl of blue.

I exchange Merry Christmases with plenty of tourists along the way, but Jane's hand-drawn map soon takes me off the beaten path. After negotiating a steep switchback path and a short rock scramble, I arrive at the destination marked on the map.

And what a destination. A small, grassy clearing, walled on three sides by rocky bluffs, with the fourth open to the ocean. Beautiful. But not half as beautiful as the girl waiting for me in the clearing.

She starts to undress as I walk towards her, and I force myself not to hurry, savouring the sight. She's naked by the time I get to her, and we come together under that flawless blue sky. She's every bit as perfect. We kiss.

And that's the last thing I remember for a while.

When I come to, the sun is considerably lower in the sky. I'm a little groggy and my hands and feet are bound. I look up to find Jane standing over me. She's dressed, and she's not alone.

It takes me a few seconds to recognise the figure standing beside her. Gunston. I shake my head, and the detective in me tries to make sense of it all, to put two and two together. Unfortunately, I keep coming up with seven.

"You can stop trying to figure it out," says Jane. "You look like you're about to strain something."

I look up at Gunston, massive and brooding, standing impassively beside her. "How did he find us?" I ask. "What's he doing here?"

And Jane laughs. Throws back her head and laughs, like I just said the funniest damn thing in the world.

"Oh, you poor idiot. I don't have any crayons with me, but I'll try to explain it in language you might understand. We're framing you."

"Framing me? Framing me for what?"

"Why, for the murders of my father and Masaaki Sakai, of course."

I can't believe my ears. There's no evidence linking anybody to those murders, let alone me. I tell Jane this, still hoping against all reason this is somehow some kind of sick joke, or a tragic mistake, or something—anything other than betrayal.

"Oh, but that's where you wrong. The other night, I planted a cute, little device in your apartment. A device designed to remotely switch off the safety circuits on the cyber-ports of our new roller-coaster. That's how you were so cleverly able to murder Sakai. After all, you were there when it happened."

I try to think of something to say. I have nothing.

"My father was a little trickier. But after we left for the airport, I had Barry here hide the fusion-pulse rifle used to kill him in your garage. Along with the armour and mask you wore to do the deed. Of course, it was Barry who actually did it, but that will have to be our little secret."

"But, why?" Perhaps not the most brilliant question of my police career, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances.

"Money, of course. Isn't it always about money? FantasyLand is finished. We've been repaying loans with other loans for so long we'll never clear the debt. So I decided to walk away and let the liquidators clean up the mess. I'm the beneficiary of some very substantial life-insurance policies on both my father and Sakai, and here in the Cayman Islands the IRS can't touch a cent of it. I'll be set for life."

"We'll be set," growls Gunston.

Jane frowns at this. She almost seems to have forgotten Gunston's presence. Calmly, she draws a gun and places the silenced barrel between his bulging eyes. "We? I don't think so, Barry. I'm afraid your usefulness has come to an end." Without waiting for a reply, she fires, and Gunston slumps to the ground. For the first time, I notice she's wearing gloves.

Seeing the direction of my gaze, Jane smiles and holds the gun out for me to see. "And the final piece of evidence. While you were taking a nap I put your fingerprints all over the murder weapon here. That's three board members you've now killed. Before abducting me and bringing me here. You have been a busy boy."

"How did you knock me out?"

Jane blinks. "That's what you're wondering about? You're an even worse detective than I thought. If you must know, it was a neural-pulse, from an implant in my tongue. You've been the beneficiary of it over the last few days, but today you got the thorns."

I knew there had to be some enhancements in there somewhere.

I decide to make a move. "You should know, I've recorded everything you've just said. I have implants of my own. Cerebral audio and video recording—standard police issue. Even if you kill me, they'll be able to retrieve the data out of my head."

Jane laughs again. "That's why I'm going to throw you off the cliff. The Cayman sharks will make short work of any remains."

I didn't say it was a good move. But I still have one last card to play. My wife-banging partner wasn't good for much, but he did teach me one thing. One little rule to live by. The gospel according to the asshole. Namely, that a cop should always be armed. No matter what, no matter when. And I am. I have a highly illegal, black-market, single-shot pulse-gun installed in my left ring finger (yeah, I'm aware of the irony). My hands are tied but I can still move my fingers. I tap the unlock sequence on my palm and the gun is armed. And my ring finger is pointing right at Jane's lying, treacherous head.

I should be glad to kill the bitch. But I'm not. As crazy as it sounds, the thought of killing her is breaking my heart. So much so that a swim with the sharks doesn't sound like such a bad option. But I can't let that happen. The paper-pusher in me won't have it. Think of all those reports filed with incorrect evidence.

I fire. The pulse takes the end of my finger clean off, then hits its mark, right between those gloating eyes. I always was a pretty fair shot, and the booze hasn't changed that yet. She goes down, dead before she even realises she's lost.

And here I am. Tied up in a field besides two corpses, watching the sun set over the Caribbean. Down a finger, but it's not my hand that hurts.

She lost.  So, I guess that means I won.

It sure as hell doesn't feel like it.