Cog by K. Ceres Wright

a recent prostate infection, most likely caused by a prior case of c hlamydia.
    “Ah, I have a friend from North Carolina. How was the traffic coming up?”
    “There was an accident on ninety-five, so I cut over to three-oh-one down by Richmond. Figured I could take ninety-seven up to Baltimore.” People became suspicious of those who refused to engage in small talk, so it was a skill Thia learned early on. The more details offered, the more believable the story.
    “Oh, yes. Baltimore is just up the road.”
    “Yeah, well, I was just about to fall asleep, so I figured I’d best stay the night somewhere. Better safe than sorry.”
    “Oh, no question. Okay, just give me your national ID card, please, and sign the screen.” He turned the monitor toward her, proffering a stylus.
    Thia did as she was bidden.
    “Okie dokie. I have you in room number seven.”
    “Ah, my lucky number.”
    Shiloham grinned. “Mine, too.” He winked at Thia, who did her best to maintain her composure as she took the key card. He had some nerve, she thought. The door banged shut as she left the rancid lobby.
    The pungent tang of stale sweat accosted her as she entered her room. She tossed her travel bag on the bed, then went to each window and opened it. A small ceiling fan hung over the bed and she turned it on full blast.
    The modest room held a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser that looked as if it might fall in on itself. The bathroom boasted a toilet and a sonic cleaner so tiny she would have to kneel inside it. What were motels coming to now? In a few more years, guests would probably have to stay in coffin-sized rooms. They were already being offered at airports for those who missed their flights, or were snowed in.
    Thia didn’t turn on the lights, but let her eyes grow accustomed to the dark. She sat on the bed and spiraled into Cog. Needles of color—red, purple, chartreuse—shot away from her, then coalesced into a helical whorl.
    “Welcome to Cognition,” sounded in her head. She grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her bag, lit one, and sat down on the bed. Smoke spiraled and hung in the dark room within the translucent red menu. She took a drag and blew the spiral into an aura.
    Nicholle hung out with the jet set, sometimes reported on in the society pages, usually seen with some designer or her man of the month. She seemed to change mates like she changed hairstyles. Like her brother.
    Thia didn’t have to look far. The front recto of the Ynquirer featured a dazzling picture of Nicholle in a red beaded evening gown, leaving the Kennedy Center. Stock photo, had to be. She was at least ten pounds heavier the last time Thia saw her. The headlines blared the news: A Family Affair! Company President Makes Off With $20 B! Brother Made Off With $50 B!
    Thia scanned the article and found Nicholle had eluded the authorities, that the company techru was missing, and that she was once linked with the Quatrocellini heir, Marc.
    “I remember him,” Thia said to herself.
    So Nicholle was on the run, most likely with Chris Kappert, and not likely to turn up at any of her residences, knowing the boys in blue would be hounding her. Which meant she had gone underground. Thia tried to imagine Nicholle living anywhere that didn’t have golden faucets and fawning servants. She was probably driving Kappert crazy, poor guy.
    But where were they? They could be anywhere, in some rundown building in the suburbs, a basement in the purlieus, a downtown apartment. If she could track Nicholle’s financial transactions, it would make it a hell of a lot easier. Thia punched up the DOI database and entered Nicholle’s name. The recto flooded with information, psychological profile—ENFP; employer—National Gallery of Art; places frequented—work, restaurants, designer stores, friends’ houses; bank, credit, investment accounts—zero balances. Zero balances? What the—?
    She must have drawn down her accounts. Maybe Kappert had transferred the money