Turncoat

by Megan Derr

  "Maybe your sci-fi bits, but I know firsthand that most of you is human standard." Greg waggled his eyebrows.

  "The nanomachines play private security," Dixie said, bucking enough in his seat to jostle Greg without messing up everything plugged or stuck into him. "What in the hell are you doing up here, anyway? Did you give Byron the slip?"

  Greg shrugged. "He wandered off muttering to himself the way he does when he's in plotting space. He said to leave you alone, but I had to come see for myself because, like I said, I thought he was fucking with me and you'd just be up here working on some fancy computers. I really didn't believe that you are the fancy computer." He leaned forward again, shifting slightly to straddle Dixie's lap more comfortably, hands once more resting on Dixie's chest. Like a damned cat making himself nice and comfy. "Are you okay? Does it hurt or anything? Can I do something to help?"

  "I'm fine. It would hurt if I wasn't numbed up," Dixie replied. "You really are like a damned stray cat. Showed up on my doorstep all scraggly, I was nice to you once, and now there's no getting rid of ya."

  To his astonishment, Greg recoiled as though struck, the happy look on his face turning to one of hurt before he muttered an apology and fled like his ass was on fire.

  "Damn it! Get back here!" Dixie called after him. "Don't—I didn't mean—" He broke off and huffed, then said, "Summon Byron."

  The computer system chimed an affirmative. A few minutes later, Byron came striding in, atrocious and beautiful all at once in a teal t-shirt and purple pants, his hair tied back with a pink ribbon, and gold and green spectacles perched on his nose. "What's wrong?"

  "Greg. Get him the hell back here. I hurt his feelings when I was only meaning to tease him."

  "He came up here?" Byron asked, pulling off his spectacles and tucking them into his shirt. "What in the world?"

  "You gave him something to poke at. What did you think he was going to do?" Dixie asked.

  Byron gave him an odd look. "Greg doesn't poke around unless he's working."

  "Aw, hell. Would you drag his ass up here? I don't want to sit around for another—" He glanced at the screens. "Seven and a half damned hours before I apologize."

  Frowning, Byron pulled his phone from a back pocket of his jeans. "Scan for Greg." After a few minutes, there was a soft series of chimes. Byron shook his head. "He's already gone."

  "Damn it!" Dixie bellowed.

  "Calm down," Byron said, going over to the bank of monitors and typing idly as the keyboard flared to life. "You know better than to get wound up while your system is rehauling. Greg will be back. He never sulks for very long. What did you say?"

  "I was teasing him about acting like cat, said I was nice once so now he's going to cling."

  Byron winced. "Yeah, I did something similar once. I have no idea why he reacts so badly, but he doesn't like being accused of being clingy and such."

  "Thanks for the damned warning," Dixie groused.

  "I didn't think of it, sorry." Byron gave him a look as he turned away from the monitors. "What do you care? You're not exactly a cold-hearted bastard, Dixie, but you do prefer to keep to yourself. Especially after you've fucked somebody."

  "I was zoned out," Dixie snapped. "He was the one who came up here and sprawled across my lap casual as you fucking please. Wasn't like I could put distance between us. Thanks for making sure he left me the fuck alone instead of wandering up here like he had an invitation."

  Wincing again, Byron replied, "Greg isn't normally the type to pry into someone else's business. He's curious, yeah, but not if it's going to intrude on someone else's privacy. At least in my experience. He must be really curious about you."

  Dixie heaved a sigh. "I guess I'll deal with it when I'm done here."

  Byron nodded. "Anything else you need?"

  "Naw, but thanks. I'll see you later."

  When he'd gone, Dixie said, "Dim lights," and settled back into his trance, though it was harder to do than he liked admitting with guilt over Greg gnawing at the edges of his mind.

  Nine hours later, cleaned up inside and out, a good hour of exercise to work out the kinks from laying still for half a day, he headed for the kitchen. Byron was there, but his only company was a bunch of maps and other papers scattered across the table, the island, and half the counter space. Dixie sighed. "Pizza for dinner, then?"

  "Mm-hmm," Byron replied absently around the pen in his mouth. "Do you know anything about Timothy Rekker that's not on file?"

  "One of the meanest bastards I ever saw, the kind that hangs back and coaxes everyone else into getting their hands dirty, like it was their idea all along and they're happy to do it for him. They're the worst ones. Wouldn't be surprised if he was the one that signed off on the order to kill my dad."

  Byron took the pen out of his mouth and said softly, "I see. Well, that is definitely not on file. Not sure why Greg went for such a dangerous fish when there are less dangerous options out there. Honestly, it would be better to hit someone outside the city. We don't want them crawling through here tooth and comb for us, and that's what they'll do the minute they realize a Mason Chip was taken."

  Dixie got a beer out of the fridge then went over to the table, pulled a chair and spun it, then straddled it and rested his arms on the back. "You got someone in mind already."

  "I haven't gotten quite that far," Byron replied. "I've compiled a list of options, but I wanted to make sure there wasn't some reason we should be sticking with the charming Timothy."

  "He's high-ranking. They probably thought the higher the rank, the better the access on the chip," Dixie replied, taking a pull on his beer before he read over the list. To be fair, that made perfect sense and was probably how it would work most places. But Mason Chips were all the same—access and other such things were determined by the person into whom the chip was placed. A chip could be taken out of one person, put in another, and all the information would immediately change and update, and access denied person A would be granted to person B.

  The bitch of it all was changing the master files where all that information was stored. With his father dead, Dixie and two top-ranking G.O.D. members were the only ones capable of accessing the master lists. They were desperate to get him back because as long as he had access to the Mason System, the G.O.D. could do nothing but wait and hope he never got his hands on a Mason Chip.

  So far, he'd had no luck. The only people who had them were all far too difficult to reach and smart enough not to make themselves vulnerable.

  But somebody who could go through walls… Well, that was a game changer if ever there was one.

  "You think Greg can do it? Where is he?" The need to apologize still itched at the back of Dixie's mind, rested uneasy at the bottom of his stomach.

  "He called earlier to say he'd picked up an unexpected job and wouldn't be back until tonight at best, more likely tomorrow," Byron replied, looking up from his notes. "I'm sorry."

  "Ain't nothing to do with you. Did he say anything about the job?"

  "No, but he rarely does when it's a freelance thing like this. Don't worry, he'll come back eventually. If nothing else, I'm the only place he can find the kind of wine he likes." Byron winked and went back to his notes.

  Mouth pinched, Dixie rose and set his beer on the island before going to the drawer where Byron kept a notebook with numbers and preferences for the various delivery places in the city. "Should I order something for pintsize?"

  "Yeah, get him a burger."

  "Sure." Dixie pulled out his phone and called up the delivery diner and put in the order.

  Byron finished scribbling something on his notebook then looked up. "How you feeling?"

  "Fine. Thanks for helping. Without you I'd be lying glitchy and nonsensical in an alley somewhere."

  "I doubt it," Byron said. "You're one of those, the harder you get knocked down the faster you get back up." He smirked. "At least now that you weigh more than ten pounds."

  "You weigh twelve, shut up."


  Byron snickered as he drifted back into his work.

  Dixie left him to it, knowing better than to get in his way too much without Byron first prompting.

  Wandering into the living room, he tapped the coffee table, made of the same black glass as the table in his maintenance room. It flared to life as he sat down, chimed softly once it had read his retina and fingerprints. "Scan newsfeeds for Michael Jones, Turncoat, and Dixie Mountebank."

  The screen flared into bright, sharp life as the computer pulled reports, video feeds, and high priority alerts pertaining to him. Dixie tapped one of the news videos, winced as the news caster breathlessly recounted that Michael Jones was really the notorious Turncoat. He half-thought the damned man was going to come, he seemed to have so much fun reciting Dixie's long list of crimes.

  The latest of which was conspiring with known thief Whisker. "Son of a bitch." Not that it really mattered. After a point the number of crimes they pinned on him became meaningless. One or one hundred, he was getting executed all the same. "Pull up bank accounts: Alias – Michael Jones. Master account – Dixon Mountebank. Transfer all funds from Jones to Mountebank."

  He settled back more comfortably on the couch as the computer breezed through the lockdowns put in place by the government like they were wet tissue and erased all traces. When it chimed everything was done, Dixie said, "Run delete program on Alias – Michael Jones."

  When that was up and running, he finished his beer and stood—right as the screen across the wall burst into life, flashing red and yellow around the edges. He frowned as a G.O.D. bulletin filled the screen, a high alert for Whisker and an unknown companion, suspected to be the zero-level hero known as Minder. "Byron!"

  "Saw it!" Byron called, even as he came running into the living room. "I've pinged out where they are, roughly. But Greg hasn't called, which concerns me."

  "Let's get a damn move on, then. Did you cancel the delivery on dinner?"

  "Doing it now."

  Dixie spun away into the small room off the living room, where he kept clothes and equipment ready to go at all times. Stripping off what he was wearing, he pulled on the special pants, shirt, and snug jacket, then tugged a ski-cap on his head before picking out weapons and tools to stow in various pockets on the pants.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, waking his system. "Lockdown mode, high alert for G.O.D. sweeps and interference." His left eye blurred briefly as the scanners woke up, a faint stinging spreading through his face.

  Returning to the living room, he followed Byron out of the apartment and down to the garage. They strode past Byron's Benz to a more innocuous white Honda Civic. Dixie climbed into the backseat and rolled the windows down.

  They'd reached the opposite end of the city, right at the edge of a private housing complex for rich folk, when Byron's phone started ringing. He snatched it up off the seat. "Where are—?" he broke off, and Dixie didn't need to see his scowl to know it was there. "Who is this? Fine." He hung up and dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, looked at Dixie in the rearview mirror. "They're holed up in a shed a couple blocks down from wherever Whisker was working. He's beat to hell and needs medical attention. The man on the phone, Minder I'm assuming, said he could keep people away, but only by giving away his presence, so we need to hurry the hell up. But I don't know how the fuck I'm supposed to get past a shit ton of cops and G.O.D. in this locked down, overblown complex. I'm really fucking smart, but I can't do everything."

  "Ain't nothing a distraction won't take care of," Dixie said. "I assume you're making like you live here?"

  "Yeah, but that will only get me so far since they're letting people in but not out."

  "Well, you drop me off after we're past them, I'll rustle up a distraction and ya'll can get the hell out of here. I'll find my own way out; you can meet me at the usual spot later. I'll call if that ain't possible." Dixie pulled off his ski-cap and reached into one of the pockets of his pants, pulled out a small bag which housed his nanomask. Carefully pulling it on, he connected it to his system and silently ordered it to mirror his face, then alter it in subtle ways that were more than enough to make him look like someone else.

  Byron nodded. "Copy that. Dare I ask what kind of distraction you're going to cause?"

  "There's enough cops around here, I think I can borrow something useful from one of them." Dixie winked.

  "Have fun," Byron replied with a chuckle. Then they were at the entry gate. Byron pulled a card from what Dixie often called his 'wallet of wonders' because it seemed to have damn near every access card they could ever hope to need.

  The police let him pass, barely paying any attention to Dixie in the back seat once they'd given him a onceover.

  "And they wonder why they're always struggling to catch us," Dixie drawled softly as Byron drove off, wending through the postcard perfect streets of the expensive-looking complex. The car slowed as they drove past the cluster of cops and G.O.D.

  Dixie looked over the crowd, discarding most of them, but picking out one or two at the fringes that looked promising. "Drop me here," he said when they'd turned the corner.

  "I'm headed for that blue house one down from the corner on the left," Byron said as he stopped the car. "I'll ping you when I'm ready for that distraction."

  "Copy that." Dixie nodded at him, then darted across the lawn of the house, grateful for the dark.

  He made his way quickly back to the hub of cops and G.O.D., checked them over carefully, left eye humming ever so faintly as it worked. Ah, that one would do. A young, whey-faced cop hanging out nervously by the edge of the house trying to look busy but mostly looking lost.

  About twenty minutes later, Dixie's left eye lit up as he received a text. Ready.

  Quietly stepping out of the towering shrubs he'd been hiding behind, Dixie strode up soundlessly behind the nervous cop, grabbed him around the throat with one arm and clapped his other hand over the man's mouth. Dragging him back to the shrubs, Dixie knocked him out.

  He pulled a special injector from one pocket of his pants and put the man to sleep. Next he pushed the man's sleeve up, saw the telltale scar, and quickly slit his wrist open. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out tweezers and scissors and gingerly fished out the special chip surgically implanted in the man's wrist.

  Dousing it in a cleaning solution pulled from another pocket, he pulled back the flap of artificial skin on the back of his neck and inserted the chip. Lantern City Police Department. Unknown User. Access Denied.

  Dixie snorted and silently ordered his programs to get to work. The chip wasn't mean to do more than give the cop quick and easy access to the files he'd need to write tickets and the like. Saved him the time of logging in, retinal scans, and so forth. They were still being tested, so only about a third of cops in the city currently had them. Stupid of them to give one to a newbie, but their stupidity was Dixie's advantage.

  It took him twenty-seven seconds to use the chip to gain all the access he wanted to the LCPD.

  Two minutes later, all hell broke loose as emergency alerts came from the far side of the city.

  Followed a second later by even more from a different part of the city. And still another a few beats after that.

  Once they were all focused on that mess, he switched to using police overrides to kill all the streetlights. Go he messaged Byron. You have about three minutes.

  No reply came, but he didn't expect one right then.

  Slipping away, he took a winding, back and forth route to the wall surrounding the community, east of the entrance and hopefully well away from where all eyes would be pointed.

  He hunched down by the wall, tucked behind more shrubs that framed a fancy little goldfish pond. A few minutes later, he got a text from Byron that they were safe. Reaching up to the back of his neck, he extracted the LCPD chip, snapped it in half, and threw the pieces into the fish pond. Turning, he quickly scaled the wall, dropped to the other side, and ran for the park beyond.

  Half an hour o
f slowly working through the dark park, he finally reached city streets. Hanging back in the dark, he deactivated his mask and stowed it, then pulled the ski-cap back on. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out a pair of chunky glasses and shoved them on his face. "Scan for law enforcement, media personnel, blacklist."

  The outer corner of his left eye flashed blue as it set to scanning. Going to another pocket, Dixie pulled out a packet and selected an ID at random. "Activate Alias – Chris VanDyke." His body thrummed as the identity was unpacked and released, syncing it with city systems to establish a false history and everything else he would need to pass muster should he be stopped.

  A hell of a lot of the money Byron gained robbing banks was spent on the numerous forged identities he built for all of them. Without Byron and his ridiculous connections and resources, staying one step ahead of the G.O.D. would be a lot more difficult, if not flat out impossible, no matter how much fancy tech was shoved into Dixie's body.

  He walked a couple of blocks to a major intersection and hailed a cab across town to the pub where he and Byron often met up after one bit of drama or another.

  Byron's Mercedes-Benz was parked at the curb. Dixie yanked open the passenger door and slid inside. "How'd it go?"

  "He's hurt pretty goddamn bad," Byron said as he pulled sharply into traffic and drove off, keeping to the speed limit but only barely. "I don't know what happened yet, but someone—probably a couple of someones at least—beat the ever living shit out of him. I've got him roughly treated and medicated. I'll do a better job once we're safe."

  "You should have told me to get back on my own, instead of leaving him, damn it," Dixie snapped. "What if something goes wrong while you're out here in traffic?"

  Byron glanced sideways at him. "He's stabilized and too heavily drugged to do himself harm. I wouldn't have come if I didn't absolutely believe he'd be fine. Chill. I wish I had a better medic to hand, but he will be okay."

  "You couldn't call in Oberon?"

  "No, Oberon's busy in England right now, and by this point, quite possibly France. Supposed to be back soon, and I can interfere if it really comes down to it…"