Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “The rising water threatens the cat, too,” I say, returning my attention to Connor. “Could be he needs the rat to show him the way off the ship.”

  Connor smiles and pours himself another shot. “Quite a dilemma for vermin and vermin-catcher alike. Only thing is,” he says, downing his shot before leaning forward to seethe in a low voice, “if the fucking boat goes down, no one’s getting off alive.”

  Seems Patton was right about this place being wired with explosives, but to what end? Connor here, if I’m reading him right, isn’t the fatalistic sort – he’s a fighter, no doubt a shrewd one. The explosives must be his ace in the hole in case he’s hit by an enemy he can’t defeat. A deterrent. But a deterrent is meaningless unless the enemy knows you have it. And if they know he has it, they know he’s here, so why haven’t they already hit the place like Evans suggested? Hell, they could send in a single detonation drone to take Connor out. So why… Ah.

  Connor leans back and smiles, intuiting that I’ve figured it out. He must have some dirt on the conspirators, something valuable enough that they can’t afford to kill him for risk of it getting out upon his death. Precisely the sort of intel that I’m looking for.

  I lean forward. “What do you have on them?”

  He tips his head at me. “Recordings, mostly – even tight-lipped cocksuckers can’t help boasting about their plans – but also a bit of dirt I found when vetting them. I’m always careful about who I do business with, it’s the secret to a long, successful life.”

  “Only you didn’t do your due diligence well enough.”

  He grabs the half-full bottle of whiskey and stares at its contents. “As they say, mistakes were made.” He cuts his eyes back at me. “What are you offering?”

  “Did you know the bombing would take place?”

  “No,” he says. “I was played. Killing off customers is bad business. And killing kids – well, I’m a rat bastard, sure, but even rat bastards have some lines they won’t cross.”

  I believe him. “Immunity, in exchange for what you know. Work with me against our common enemy and, if you help us bring them down, me and mine will leave you and yours alone when the music stops. We’ll part as strangers.” I down my second shot and bang the glass down on the table. “Or don’t, though you won’t find any mercy from other quarters.”

  Connor appraises me squinty-eyed across the table. You can hear the breeze whistling through gaps in the armory exterior. “Well,” he finally says, “that’s quite an offer, Redeemer. I assume you’ve gotten our mutual friend in the constabulary to go along with this?”

  “The chief will do what I tell him to.”

  “Got him by the balls, do you? And that prick Henrikson?”

  “He’s in lockstep with us.”

  “What about the enforcers?”

  “Which ones?”

  Connor leans forward, his voice low with lethality. “Don’t fuck with me. I’ve got a policy – anyone who does doesn’t get the chance to do it a second time.”

  “I have a similar policy. But what does it matter since we’ll both be dead, right?”

  “Right. Yes, I believe you have scented the brimstone on the wind and are still keen to chase the dragon’s tail. You are a fucking hero, after all.” He pours us another shot. “I admire a man with big balls. Here’s hoping you don’t suffer the same fate as most of those cocksuckers.”

  “So, we have a deal?”

  “We do.” He extends a hand across the table.

  A burst of static sounds from my commset, followed by a garbled transmission. I look to Evans and she shakes her head at me, eyes darting rapidly about.

  I hold up a hand at Connor. Patton, I thoughtspeak, status?

  First… effect… position. That’s all I make out, his transmission riddled with distortion.

  I get on the comm: “Storm cloud, what’s your status, over?”

  A garbled transmission of Henrikson’s voice gets through: “…in?…unknown… down…”

  “Storm cloud, come in.” Nothing. Returning my attention to Connor, I note the confusion on his face. “You said there’d be open comms.”

  “It’s not me.” He turns to address Fashion Police. “Danilo, what’s going on?”

  Fashion Police speaks urgently in Spanish into his own comm. Shouting questions by the sound of it. Finally, he looks over and says, “Negativo. Comms are down.”

  Everyone looks around at everyone, weapons clutched tight. Evans shifts a step down the bar, eyes on the mercs, while they watch her and me and the shadows, rifle barrels raised. Cutting eyes at Connor, I see him staring at me with a look of resignation on his face. Like he knows exactly what’s going to happen next.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Take a wild guess, hero.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Silenced small-arms fire sounds nearby. I whip my head around and see two of the mercs go down. Pushing back my chair, I drop to a knee and draw my pistol as Connor remains in his seat, expression unchanging. Fashion Police reaches behind the bar and extracts a pump-action shotgun. Evans drops to her haunches between two bar stools while pulling her pistol to menace one of the two surviving mercs. The other whips his head about, eyes wide, rifle clutched to his chest, before a laser sight finds his head a moment before the bullet does. Spinning toward the passageway where the shot originated, I’m about to fire at the three figures there when I notice the red beam emanating from one, a laser sight red-dotting me. Shit. Dead to rights.

  “Drop the weapons, all of you,” says a familiar voice.

  “You first,” I say, sighting down the barrel. “We can all sit down for a nice talk.”

  The middle of the three armored figures steps forward, gray eyes shining from the slits of his black balaclava. The eyes match the voice: it’s the asshole who tried to recruit me, the one who disabled Patton.

  A shotgun blast from behind jerks my head around to see the last merc stumble back and fall. Fashion Police works the slide and then points the barrel at me. What the hell?

  “You’ve got five seconds,” says the gray-eyed bastard.

  Patton, I thoughtspeak. Patton! Are you there?

  Nothing but distortion for reply. We’re on our own. For now.

  I hold up my hands and stand. “Weapons down!” I shout.

  “A wise choice,” says my adversary, waving his men forward.

  As the two mercs clad in black combat armor move up and divest me of my sidearm and knives, I look over to see Evans receiving the same treatment from Fashion Police. Connor also gets stood up and patted down, a device taken from his pocket. Peering out the stadium box windows, I note two figures in black combat armor moving along the walkways in the metal rafters, rifles extended, the cartel guards up there already neutralized.

  Fuck, this was well coordinated.

  Using thoughtspeak, I activate the predetermined signal to initiate our raid. I can’t tell whether it got through or not. Probably not. Somehow, they’ve got heavy scrambling in place, nullifying our comms. And, I’d guess, precision jamming to prevent any activation signals from the detonator taken from Connor’s pocket. Noting the stuffed backpacks worn by the mercs, I’d guess those contain the gear they’ve brought to make that possible.

  “Take a seat, redeemer,” says my adversary.

  I catch Evans’ eye, her hands raised as she leans back against the bar, giving a subtle head shake so she doesn’t try anything stupid, then reseat myself at the table. Connor still sits where he was, expression indolent, looking bored with the proceedings. It's a good act, I do my best to follow it. Our adversary pulls over another chair, hangs his rifle over it, and takes a seat.

  Fashion Police walks over with another bottle, this one rum. Connor stares cold hatred at him, then shrugs and pours while my adversary watches with gray, plague-bearer eyes.

  “To your health,” says Connor, “may it only be as good as my own.”

  Connor drinks, but he’s the only one.

  “I wa
s beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” I say.

  “You didn’t give me a choice,” says our adversary, his grave, rumbling voice laced with regret. “What comes next is on you.”

  “Where’s Krayge?”

  “You’ll see him soon enough,” he says.

  A burst of static comes in over my comm, then a garbled transmission from Henrikson. I catch the word attack amidst the distortion. A moment later, the sounds of fire exchanging outside the armory reach us through the intervening darkness. It’s begun.

  I run eyes over his tactical gear, body armor pieces and a vest strapped over a black bodysuit, the same loadout as his men. “What, no hard suit?” I ask.

  “I don’t need one.”

  “You seem sure about that for a man with your track record. You didn’t expect to see me again, did you? And you don’t seem as happy to see me as last time.”

  “No, because I may have to kill you.” He sighs and cracks his neck. “The hovership? Not my call. Killing you didn’t make my list back then. Today, it does.”

  “What about your offer? Or is that no longer on the table?”

  “It would be, if you wanted it, but you don’t. I’ve had you under surveillance since our last meeting – your actions answered for you.” He shakes his head. “It was a longshot, anyway. Malcolm, you’re a victim of your own competence. The leak to the press, the fire, getting to Connor here. You just had to force my hand.”

  I lean back and smile. “I thought you’d enjoy the chance to pay me back.”

  “My mission leaves little room for personal reprisals.”

  “You sound like John Monroe.”

  “A worthy comparison,” he says. “I respect the first sentinel, but he and I travel in different circles. I’m glad you didn’t invite him to this meeting.”

  “I thought that was your job.”

  “You’re a poor fisherman.”

  The sounds of fire being exchanged outside escalate. More scrambled chatter sounds in my ear, Henrikson communicating with his men. Gypsy, tasked with guarding him, jumps on the channel too. It’s all I can do to sit still while my allies engage outside, not that I’ve any choice, but Henrikson’s got plenty of support from our reclaimer squads and tacticals. We planned for this contingency, open action by our adversaries, but if hard-pressed, it could nullify our ability to carry out our own raid. And that’s the point, isn’t it? Their attack is a distraction to keep my guys busy. Otherwise, they’d be storming the place by know.

  Connor says, “So who was it? I knew Danilo was a bigger cocksucker than he let on, but you needed someone downstairs to get your crew inside. What’d it cost you?”

  “Two more, cheaply bought,” says our adversary. “I don’t recall their names. Danilo, though, his ambition was expensive to sate.”

  Connor stares at Fashion Police, eyes filled with dark promises.

  I give our adversary the look reserved for interrogations. “Who do you work for?”

  “The most powerful man in the country,” he states. “I’m not referring to the man pretending to be President Maxwell.”

  Pretending? And I thought I was the conspiracy theorist. “What do I call you?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  Connor says, “Revenant.” He smiles and raises an eyebrow at our adversary. “That was the name you gave me. A codename, I know, but it still counts. Beats the one I chose for you.”

  Revenant stares hard at Connor – did that strike a nerve? – before turning his attention back to me. “I’m the last guardian at the gate, answerable to no man save one.”

  “He must be a saint, your boss. When do I get to meet him?”

  “You don’t. My superior would prefer to turn you, but men like you have no place in the world to come. You would rather be ruined than changed, would rather die in your dread, than climb the cross of the moment and let your illusions die.”

  A quote? Alright: “Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”

  “You defend the indefensible,” he says. “Reclamation is a noble goal, but insufficient. Your efforts have only delayed the inevitable. The old world was in its death throes long before the nuclear strikes – it should be allowed to die. A far better world will be built on its bones, one free from the threat of humanity’s self-destruction.”

  I sigh. “Really? Progress at the cost of innocent lives is about as old world as it gets.”

  A bright burst of light from outside flashes through the gaps in the armory exterior, revealing a pair of sentry drones reinforcing the two mercs up in the steel rafters. A roar follows, the facility shaking in the shockwave of the causal explosion. Our side, or theirs?

  Revenant turns to Connor. “You violated our deal and nearly compromised our mission. I could kill you now and suffer whatever consequences result from the release of your recordings – assuming they exist – but I’m prepared to offer you one final deal instead.”

  Connor gives him a sardonic smile. “Well, by all means, let’s hear it.”

  “Give me all copies of the recordings and any other information you have on us. In return, I’ll get you out of here and established somewhere else. Another country, of course, perhaps El Salvador? You could never return, never speak to anyone about what happened, but you’d have your life, your freedom, and a chance to start fresh.”

  Connor shrugs. “Sounds like a nice vacation. What about torture? That not in the cards?”

  “If you cooperate, we’ll debrief you, but it won’t rise to the level of torture.”

  Connor cuts his eyes between the two of us, calculating. “Kind of hard to pass up given the circumstances. Still, it’s a big decision. Let me think on it.”

  Revenant’s eyes glow with amusement. Just a quick pulse, the gray irises luminescing, then it’s gone. “Think fast, you’ve got one minute.” Then he gets to his feet, walking over to the pool table and laying his rifle on it before leaning his fists on the purple velvet, back turned to us. He stares off into space, attention elsewhere.

  Two more mercs enter the stadium box from the connecting corridor, both dressed in black tactical gear like the others. One steps over next to Connor, ATAC rifle pointed casually at me, before pulling his balaclava off, black eyes glittering with coiled interest. Krayge.

  “Did you miss me?” he says with chill resonance. “Oh, wait, you did.”

  “I knew you’d show,” I say.

  “You knew I couldn’t pass this up,” he concedes, nodding. “Just like I knew you’d be here. For all your sanctimonious bullshit, you’ve got balls. I get to stomp on them tonight.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask: was all that NDL chest-thumping in LA just a load of crap? Or did you switch sides when the price was right?”

  “You’re asking me?” he says. “Your ties to those assholes are stronger than mine.”

  “I’m not the one with terrorist friends.”

  He smiles coldly. “You are in the dark, aren’t you?”

  “By the way, your boss there offered me your job,” I say, nodding at Revenant, “had your head wrapped up with a bow for me. So who is he? Seems like a real slave driver.”

  “You’re boring me.” Krayge looks down at Connor and purses his lips before poniarding me with those unforgiving eyes. “You implied some rather unkind things about my character.” A spasm passes over his face. “And you’ve caused me so much fucking trouble.” His grip on his rifle tightens. “That has to stop.”

  Anyone with eyes can see he’s about to shoot me. Oh God…

  Suddenly, he gasps and leans forward, rifle dangling from one hand while his other clutches at his head. Guttural growls escape his lips as he lifts his head to stare naked hatred at me from across the table, face contorted in pain. Then, just as abruptly, he blinks and straightens, panting for breath, bitterness twisting his lips.

  What the hell was that? Connor looks wide-eyed at him, also baffled. If I had to guess, Krayge just g
ot slapped down by pain induction via a neural interface device. I’ve seen a similar reaction produced by our field trackers. A glance over at Revenant confirms it, his head turned sidelong, one hoary eye gleaming at Krayge.

  “Stay on plan,” orders Revenant.

  Long pause as Krayge gives him a look filled with resentment. “Understood.”

  “I’ll do it,” says Connor. “Fuck me, I’ll do it.”

  Krayge leans over him. “Where are the recordings?”

  “In the basement. A hidden safe. I’ll have to show you.”

  Krayge stares a question at Revenant, who spends a long moment staring at me before replying with a slow nod.

  Krayge grins at me. “Well, asshole, this’s been fun. I’d say we should do this again sometime, but you have other plans.” Then he pulls a pistol and sets it on the table in front of Connor. He puts his mouth to Connor’s ear and says, “To seal the deal. Make it quick.” He steps back and to one side, pulling out a pad and pointing it to get video of the execution.

  My execution. Bloody hell, this is not the direction I expected this negotiation to go.

  Connor locks eyes with me from across the table, expression neutral save for the eyes, intense with predatory calculations. Then he slowly reaches out and picks up the pistol. He checks the counter, pushes his chair back, and stands.

  I push back my own chair and get on my feet, unwilling to die otherwise. Cutting my eyes about, I note Krayge to one side with his pad ready. One merc has his weapon on Evans, her hands still raised, nothing she can do. The other two watch me, rifles readied to end me if I try anything. Revenant also looks on, hands clasped behind his back.

  I lock eyes with him. “Are you in such a hurry to die?”

  “I already did,” he says. “Coming back is not an option for you, though.”

  I focus on Connor. “It’s not too late. Remember your policy.”

  “We all do what’s necessary to survive, hero. It’s nothing personal, understand?” Connor points the pistol at me from across the table. “Looks like the rat gets to drown the cat. What a strange world we live in.”

  Peering past the muzzle aimed at my forehead, I meet the circling-shark eyes of my killer, black with intent. This is it. I look to Evans and meet her eyes, see the naked fear there.